Who We Are Instead, page 30
While we wait, we look through the portfolios. Eden picks out a small jewel-green hummingbird she wants on her ankle. “Hummingbirds are so adorable,” she sighs.
“I know, right?” I scan a row of dolphins in various diving and leaping poses.
“Did you know that during mating season, the long-billed hermit male hummingbirds use their needle-sharp beaks to stab their rivals in the throat?”
Simone stares at her. “Seriously? Hummingbirds whack each other to death with their face-knives?”
I punch Eden’s arm. “Thanks a lot. You’ve pretty much ruined every cute and cuddly creature in the animal kingdom for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
A pretty Asian lady walks out from the back room. She wears a frilly lemon-yellow dress and adjusts her pink-framed glasses. “I’m Mae.”
Another girl walks out then, a few years older than me and heavy-set. Thick blue-black hair dusts the tops of her shoulders. Her eyes are a stunning cobalt blue. “Hey,” she says, sticking out her hand.
“This is my new assistant, Sidney,” Mae says. “She’s working here for the summer, and she’s very talented.”
I squint at her. “You look familiar. Did you go to Brokewater High?”
“I graduated three years ago. You have a sister in my class?”
“Yeah, Lena. The red hair give it away?”
“Something like that.”
“Sidney attends the Art Institute of Chicago. Very prestigious.” Mae pulls up the sleeve of Sidney’s T-shirt, revealing a silvery blue, jewel-toned butterfly caught in mid-flight on her upper arm. “She came in with this glorious butterfly drawing a few years ago, wanted me to tattoo it on her. I said, ‘You this good? You work for me. So, trust me when I say you’re in good hands.”
“What’re you thinking of?” Sidney asks me.
“It’s gonna hurt!” Eden says in a singsong voice.
I hand Sidney the drawing. I need to do this. I need the pain. I will manufacture my own self. I will take up certain aspects of my past and discard others. I couldn’t choose my history, but I can choose my present. I can chart my future. I can map it out on my skin. “Let’s do this.”
I sit back on a reclined, padded chair. The white paper crinkles beneath me as I shift my weight. Sidney snaps on her disposable gloves. She gathers the ink, needles, a towel, then pulls up a rolling stool next to the tattoo machine. She slips the headband magnifier over her forehead and adjusts the flexible overhead light.
I listen to the buzz of the tattoo machine, focus on the first pinpricks of pain. The room smells like ink, disinfectant, and incense. Sidney doesn’t make inane small talk. She doesn’t say anything. After awhile, Simone and Eden make a run to the café next door for mochas and brownies and more diet Faygo for Eden.
The tattoo needle jabs into the skin on my forearm. Pain flashes behind my eyes. My whole arm burns as I watch the origami star take shape. The points slowly emerge, flaring out in each direction. The dark blue ink etches the shadows of the folds. Beneath the tattooed image, the words: “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
“Shakespeare, right?” Sidney says. “You made a good choice.” She’s quiet for a few minutes. “We all have our hard-won truths. It’s good to remember, to have it imprinted on your skin.”
Being me is like walking around with no skin. Skin is a boundary, a protection, armor from the toxins and the germs. Without skin, you’re raw. Exposed. Flayed. Your organs glisten. Your veins pulse.
I’m tired of being skinless.
Pain sears me. But it doesn’t matter. I can endure it. I will create my own skin, a skin within which I can bear to live. I will build it through hard work and unbearable pain and my own relentless will. I’ll build my skin with images, with words and colors and signs and messages that will remind me.
In the darkest dark, there is light inside me.
50
Lena
I sit on the bare floor in front of the living room window, staring out into the darkness. I can barely make out the shadowed cornfields stretching to the tree line in the distance. Lux isn’t home yet. It’s past midnight. Everything is silent and still. It feels like the whole world is sleeping.
On nights like tonight, the sky is a swath of black velvet studded with diamonds close enough to touch, close enough to believe in. The moon is a gleaming disk suspended above the house, moonlight splashing the trees and bushes in shades of pearl.
It’s Saturday night, our last day in Brokewater. Tomorrow, Lux and I leave for Tampa. We’re driving the bulldog on an eighteen-hour, twelve-hundred-mile road trip to our new life. The house we grew up in sold the first week it was on the market. It’s time to be rid of it, rid of the shadows and ghosts that live in the walls, that sleep beneath the floorboards. We’ll never be totally free until we leave.
I glance again at the time on my phone. Lux left at seven, agreeing to be back by eleven. Every minute that passes, my gut winds tighter and tighter. I lean my forehead against the cool glass. I sigh, my breath leaving a circle of fog. She hasn’t texted or called. She could be dead by the side of the road somewhere.
She’s fine. I know that. She always is. She just never thinks, just lets herself get caught up in the moment. It’s me who’s left to worry, me who stays up late, anxiously waiting for Lux to wander home in her own sweet time.
I make the shape of a star with my finger in the splotch of fog. I wipe it away and breathe on the glass again. My eyes burn, but I won’t sleep until I know she’s safe. How many more times will I have to do this? Lux is still hurting. She’s wounded, battling a darkness stronger than I know. And when she slips, I’ll just have to be there.
It’s after one a.m. when Lux’s car finally squeals into the driveway. She gets out, stumbles and then steadies herself, and moves a few paces away from the car. She doesn’t come inside. She wraps her arms around herself and begins to dance in the moonlit yard. I remember watching her with my mother all those years ago. They danced in the rain, Lux standing on my mother’s toes, water dripping into their upturned faces as they spun round and round, laughing.
I place my hands on the window, cupping the image of my sister swaying on the grass, her hair dark and glistening in the moonlight, her gaze upturned toward the sky, starlight on her face.
We have both been scarred. We have both been blessed.
We have each other.
And in the end, this is enough.
The End
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Author’s Note
It takes great courage to fight our demons. It takes courage to recognize our triggers and our weaknesses and work toward self-care and mental health. But we can do it, for those we love and for ourselves. I do not have BPD, but I do have major depressive disorder. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re locked in a battle with your own mind. For every person struggling, know that you are not alone.
You are not defined by your mental health. You do not have to be trapped by the past. You can chart your own future. Please consider the following resources if you or a loved one needs help.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline–Please call the toll-free Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.
Crisis Text Line – Text NAMI to 741-741 Connect with a trained crisis counselor to receive free, 24/7 crisis support via text message.
National Domestic Violence Hotline – Call 800-799-SAFE (7233) Trained expert advocates are available 24/7 to provide confidential support to anyone experiencing domestic violence or seeking resources and information.
National Sexual Assault Hotline – Call 800-656-HOPE (4673) Connect with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area that offers access to a range of free services.
Acknowledgments
Although writing is a solitary pursuit, a book is never written in a complete vacuum. The advice and encouragement of several people helped shape and polish the final drafts of Who We Are Instead.
Deep thanks to my beta readers, who pointed out my authorial blind spots and offered amazing suggestions: Becca Cross, Mallory Burgey, Miranda Navarro, Katrina Carlson, Kay Karolyshyn, Elizabeth Oakes, Jazmin Cybulski, Miranda Russell, Jeremy Steinkraus, Jennifer Murphy, and my first reader, Leslie Spurrier. To Ashley Cotoy Ruiz, who called me out on an error and then graciously read the whole book for authenticity in the characters of Lux and Eve.
To my dear friend, Jim Chambers, who read the first raw version of this novel over a decade ago. Your perceptive feedback and wise and steadfast encouragement made this a stronger story—and warmed my heart.
To my developmental editor, Danita Mayer, for the time and attention you devoted to my characters and their journeys.
Deep gratitude to Dr. Rachel Harris, both a friend and an expert, who took the time to check my manuscript for medical errors. To Dr. Daniel Collins, who also offered his medical expertise and experience. And to Dave Nyce, for lending me his expertise in darkroom techniques and photography. Any mistakes are my own.
To my children, whose unconditional love keeps me going. And to my husband, Jeremy, whose unwavering support sometimes translates into taking over chores and grocery shopping while I write frantically to meet publication deadlines. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
About the Author
Kyla Stone is an emerging author of YA and crossover Women’s Fiction. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, two children, and two spoiled cats. When she’s not writing or spending time with her family, she loves to read, hike, draw, travel, and play board games. Her favorite food is dark chocolate.
Kyla loves to hear from her readers.
See more of her books at Author Central.
Contact her:
@KylaStoneBooks
KylaStoneBooks
kylastone@yahoo.com
One
“Sidney Shaw, please come to the principal’s office.” The intercom hiccups with static. “Sidney Shaw, you are needed immediately in the principal’s office.”
The whole AP Spanish III class stops mid verb conjugation and turns to stare at me.
My heart jolts in my chest. I didn’t really expect to get away with it, but I guess hope springs eternal, even for a diehard cynic. Until now, anyway. I stuff my book and papers into my backpack as Mr. Primero orders everyone to refocus.
I walk through the empty halls to the principal’s office, my stomach curdling with dread. The only sounds are the rustle and murmur of voices behind closed classroom doors and my sneakers scuffing the worn floor. The secretary buzzes me through the locked door into the office suite. She’s in her twenties but wears old lady glasses. She peers at me over her cat eye frames like she knows everything, as if she’s already formulating the gossip she’s going to spread in the teacher’s lounge during her next coffee break.
“Have a seat, Miss Shaw.” She pops her gum and gestures at the parallel waiting room sofas covered in some swirly, floral pattern from the 90s. A frizzy-haired freshman curls up on one of the couches, her face an unfortunate shade of green.
I sit down on the cushion closest to the principal’s office. I’m twitchy, jumpy. My fists clench and unclench in my lap.
Voices echo through the wooden door. Apparently, the meeting started without me.
“Honestly, I don’t know that another suspension is even going to get through to her,” the high-pitched voice of the principal, Mrs. Rittenburg, echoes through the door.
“Clearly, something must be done,” says the vice-principal, Mr. Adeyemi, in his deep baritone.
There’s a new voice, muffled, edgy, irate. “I’ve had enough! That girl is a menace to society. The seriousness of this offense warrants an arrest. I want her expelled.”
Mrs. Rittenburg clears her throat. “Yes, Mr. Cole. We’ll take your concern under advisement. Rest assured, we will take appropriate disciplinary action.”
I stare at my rings. Red splotches fleck the cheap metal and plastic. My knuckles still sting. It hurt more than I thought it would, the shock waves traveling all the way up my arm. And the sound of it, the soft squelch of my fist hitting flesh. I wince.
I try not to think about expulsion, a possibility that grows stronger with every passing moment. I’ve had plenty of detentions and a few suspensions. Frank will go nuclear if I get expelled. He’ll do more than that. Acid coats the back of my throat. I swallow hard.
My knee starts shaking. You can’t exactly put expulsion on your college applications. And I can’t stay here in this pathetic, Podunk town full of cornfields and morons. I can’t.
There’s a pause in the ranting through the door. I can barely hear a fourth voice. I tilt my head without overtly looking like I’m listening.
“. . . calm down for a second.”
“Calm down for a second?” Mr. Cole bellows.
“. . . heat of the moment . . . overreacting . . . look at this from another angle.”
The fourth voice belongs to the guidance counselor, Dr. Yang. I’ve had weekly appointments with him since October of junior year, when I decided to take a stand for feminism. I may have flipped off the P.E. teacher for forcing me to wear my too-short and too-tight uniform. I may have also suggested Coach Taylor was a pervert for insisting on required activewear for adolescent minors that showcased the female form. While I’ve been stuck with Dr. Yang for a year, I’m also allowed to wear my uniform sweatpants permanently.
I don’t think I’m getting my way this time. My knee shakes harder. Green-faced girl opens her eyes, glares at me for a second, then flips on her side and turns her back.
Dr. Yang is still talking. I’ve missed a large chunk of it. “. . . gifted student . . . shame to lose . . .”
“How dare you?” Mr. Cole cuts in. “What about the malicious assault of my son?”
“. . . not technically on school grounds . . . extenuating circumstances.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Mrs. Rittenburg says something too softly for me to hear, something about, “your responsibility.”
Mr. Cole slams opens the door and storms out. It’s been four years since I last saw him, since I hung out with his step-daughter and my ex-best friend, Jasmine Cole. He looks at me and curls his upper lip in a snarl of rage, but he keeps on walking.
Mrs. Rittenburg calls me in. She stands behind her massive desk, all five feet, two inches of her, hands fisted on her hips. Vice Principal Adeyemi towers next to her.
“Sidney, I’m sure we don’t need to tell you how upset Mr. Cole is.” Mrs. Rittenburg proceeds to lecture me, her voice grating my ears. “We have a zero-tolerance bullying policy, do you understand? You need to seriously consider your future, young lady.”
“Yes ma’am.” I nod, acting concerned and adequately contrite. My pulse pounds in my ears. The lights are too bright. I’m dizzy and sick to my stomach.
Then it comes.
They’re not going to expel me.
Relief floods through me, almost enough to wash the nausea away. Almost. I murmur, “Yes ma’am,” whenever the principal pauses, keeping my gaze glued to the faded orange carpet. If I let myself meet her gaze, she’ll realize I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all.
Dr. Yang taps my shoulder. “My office. Now.”
I follow him out of the principal’s office and down the hall without speaking. The counseling office is small and crowded with a laminate desk, some puke-green file cabinets, and a bulletin board stuffed with inspirational clichés like, “Genius is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration,” and, “Everyone is a Winner.” There’s a photo on his desk of a pretty Asian lady with a wide, laughing smile.
I sink into the navy blue La-Z-Boy across from his desk and cross my arms over my chest. "That guy has a major case of male PMS. Am I right?"
Dr. Yang clears his throat and smooths his slightly rumpled gray suit. He’s Korean and somewhere north of 40, the first strands of gray threading through the black hair combed across his forehead. He rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers under his chin. One finger taps against his jaw.
“Are you ready to talk?”
“What for?”
“You do realize you are teetering on the edge, don’t you?” He pauses as if I’m supposed to reply. “You were almost expelled today. Mr. Cole wanted to file an assault report. He still might.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “Yeah, I got that.”
