Positively Beautiful (8 page)

Well, maybe there is something else I'm looking forward to. I glance at Michael out of the corner of my eye. He's in jeans and a black T-shirt, with a dark blue bandanna over his hair. A tiny skull on a black cord hangs around his neck. The broody thing really works for him.

He must have sensed me looking at him, because he turns with a stare as dark as coal. “Chaz says your dad left you a '65 Mustang. You don't drive it?”

I like the way he doesn't do small talk. He says what he wants to say. “It's not running. It's pretty cruddy and Mom wants to sell it since it's taking up space in the garage.”

“Maybe I can help you with it. I like working on cars,” he says.

“Sure. I mean, yes. Anytime.” I'm flustered and he can tell. His lip does that upward quirk, and he turns to look out the window. I nurse the small glow inside me.

“Michael is a
genius
at cars. Michael is a genius at everything, the jerk,” Chaz says. “He'll be designing award-winning skyscrapers when he's twenty-five, watch.”

Michael shrugs.

I see Chaz's eyes in the rearview mirror and I can tell he's about to say something else, but decides not to.

Trina chatters away as the roads become increasingly desolate and the trees crowd close. Shadows flicker over the car, and I close my eyes, trying to tell myself,
This is going to be all right.
Just then, Chaz pulls off the side of the deserted road and jumps out of the car like the Energizer Bunny. Trina gives me a one-armed hug as I slowly get out.

“You going to be okay?” she whispers. Her breath smells like peppermint and I can tell she's just chewed a mint.
Someone is expecting a kiss.
I think about asking her for a mint, then decide not to.

I nod. No, I'm not sure I'm going to be fine, but once again, I'm here. I can't just sit in the car. Please, someone, next time, tell me to stay at home.

We walk down an overgrown road through the trees, and the squat prison buildings come into view. They're covered
with graffiti and kudzu, and surrounded by a parking lot that is almost completely overrun with grass and bushes.

“A giraffe and an elephant named Maude are buried here somewhere,” Chaz says, gesturing vaguely toward the rolling land around the crumbling remains of buildings. “This used to be the burying ground for circus animals that were too big to cremate.”

It's a warmer-than-normal evening, and the cicadas hum as the sun droops in the sky, the shine of its bloom dull and crimson. The faint roll of thunder in the distance vibrates gently in my chest and birds chirp merrily, at odds with the sincere need I feel to whisper.

Leaves crunch under my feet as I follow the others toward a long white building with barred windows and no roof on the second floor.

“Some bums caught it on fire a while back.” Chaz shakes his head, like anybody actually
cares
that half the decrepit old building burned down.

We enter the building through the front entrance, covered by a cheery portico that not only protects the front door but an abandoned old boat as well.

Nobody mentions the boat, so I don't either.

Inside are large open rooms, framed by banks of windows covered only with bars. Rusted pipes droop from the ceiling, and floor tiles slip and slide under our feet. A few small metal bunk beds lie on their sides and bloated water-stained paperbacks lie open as if waiting for someone to come back and finish reading them. The prison laundry is full of rusty washers and dryers, massive enough for me to crawl inside. A pile of
what must have been fifty seat cushions molders in a corner, and thousands of sheets of paper litter the floor.

I pick one up and read that Thomas West, born November 8, 1956, was admitted into the prison in 1987, in possession of “a wallet and one honest face.”

I let the paper flutter back to the floor.

“Check out the art,” Michael says, the first thing he's said since we entered the building.

It's hard to miss the street art. Colorful spray-can paintings cover every available wall, full of big bubble letters and vibrant blues, green, reds, and oranges. Faces peer at us from walls, and strange vivid paintings sprawl the length of entire rooms.

We stop at the entrance of a long narrow hallway, dark and dripping in the fading light. Someone has painted a man—boy?—dressed all in gray, crouching on the ground clutching his head in his hands. Above his head, it reads “I'm so ronery.”

“Ronery?” Trina says. “What's that mean?”

Chaz laughs, a sputtering hiccuping sound. “It's from
Team America: World Police
? He's trying to say ‘lonely.'
I'm so lonely
.”

Trina slips her hand in Chaz's, and he pulls her close. I busy myself with my camera. By the time I've snapped several shots, Trina and Chaz have moved off.

Michael is still near me, by a wall. I walk over to him and see the paint is peeling off the wall, erasing the painted squiggles on top and revealing an empty canvas underneath.

Without speaking, Michael heads down the dark narrow hallway and I follow. At one point, he stops and offers me his
hand over a large puddle. The feel of his warm hand sends tingles through me from head to feet.

We pass cell after cell, tiny rooms only big enough for one person. Each cell has a metal shelf attached to the wall for a bed and a rusty metal table, and some still have toilets.

Michael heads up a flight of steps, and I hesitate. It's getting darker, and the stairs look dicey. I debate turning on my flashlight, but instead hurry up after Michael, who is looking at a painting of a puffer fish in the stairwell.

Upstairs, we go down another hall and Michael stops in front of a cell door.

“This is my favorite,” he says.

I step inside the tiny cell. There's no door, but still it feels creepy. What grabs my attention right away is the picture someone has painted on the wall. It's a bearded man in an orange prison suit, and the artist has painted him sitting on the metal bunk with his elbows on his knees. Above him are several lines, crosshatched, as if he's been marking the days he's been imprisoned. A dialogue bubble reads “Mama Tried.”

“I know that one,” I say. “My dad and I used to listen to old country-western music all the time. That's from a Merle Haggard song. It's about a kid whose mom tried her best, but he still ended up in prison when he was twenty-one.”

Michael nods, looking faintly impressed. “I had to look it up. But yeah, that's what it's from.”

I pull out my camera, but the cell is so narrow I have to back up close to Michael to get the shot. He could have moved, but he doesn't, and I can feel the heat of him. I try to concentrate on the picture, but I'm distracted by his warm breath on
the back of my neck. I wish I got a mint from Trina. My skin buzzes from the closeness.

After taking several shots, I have no more excuse to stand so close to him so I walk over to the back of the cell and examine the green flaky paint that looks like some sort of surrealistic painting, all swirly and textured.

“My mom never tried one goddamn day in her life,” Michael says suddenly.

I turn to look at him, surprised by the bitterness in his voice.

“My mom never wanted me, I don't think. I mean, it was cool when I was a kid—I was like an accessory—but once I got older, all she cares about is shopping and drinking wine with her friends. I don't think she even cared that much when my dad died, 'cause she got to spend more time doing what
she
wanted.”

Michael looks away. I wonder what it would be like to have your dad commit suicide. I still feel guilty about my dad dying, and I know it wasn't my fault.
Logically
, I know that, but it still feels like maybe I did something wrong. But Michael's dad killed himself. How hard would that be to take?

“I'm going to get into a school as far away from here as possible, and after I graduate, I'm gone. I feel like that guy.” Michael points at the picture of the inmate. “I'm counting my time, waiting to get out of prison.”

I don't know what to say. I hate it when I can't think of anything to say. He's opening up to me and I got
nothing
.

He looks at me, and I can almost feel the touch of his eyes, like the tip of a dark feather drifting over me.

“I think it's cool you want to be an architect,” I say; “I'm sure you'll get into an awesome school.” God, “cool” and “awesome” in the same sentence. He must think I'm an idiot.

“What's your deal?” he asks. “What do you do?”

For a horrible moment, my mind is blank. What
do
I do? What could I possibly have to say that would interest him? My life is so boring, it's surprising it doesn't put
me
to sleep. “I write!” I blurt out. “I like to write.”

He nods slowly and then says, “Anyway, there's more to see. And I want a beer.” He leaves abruptly, and I scramble to keep up.

It's dark. Too dark. My breath is coming in quick pants as I follow after the shadow that used to be Michael. I can't even tell for sure if it's him or not anymore. My feet catch on planks of wood and metal bars, and an odd mewling sound comes from inside me. I stop and rummage in my bag for my flashlight. Once I flick it on I feel a whole lot better. Michael is at the top of the stairs by the puffer fish, waiting for me.

I go toward him and he disappears down the dark stairway. By the time I get to the top, he's gone. How did he get down so fast?

The walls are crawling with mold and seem way too narrow. The stairs look unsafe. Did I really think it was a good idea to climb them?
Really?

Taking a deep breath, I start down. I hear a crack underneath my foot and throw myself sideways against the wall for support.

The flashlight falls from my fingers and goes out when it hits the ground.

It's dark. Pitch-dark.

I try not to scream.

Then I do.

Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I can sense the flashlight beam sweep over me, then I hear footsteps.

I stop screaming, but only because I've stuffed my fist in my mouth.

“Hey,” Michael says. “Hey, what's up? Are you okay?”

He crouches down near me, but not touching. I open my eyes, and I'm looking at an ant making its laborious way across a stretch of wall that must seem like a thousand miles to it. I stare at it, willing myself to calm down.

“Breathe,” he says. “In and out.”

I concentrate on breathing, in and out, and my heart begins to slow.

Michael sits down on the step below me, stretching his legs out in front of him. He studies me in the gloom.

“It's the dark?”

I nod, just barely.

He touches my hand lightly, a quick stroke of his fingers on my palm, and I somehow sense he gets it, what the dark feels like to me.

“What's going on?” Chaz and Trina appear at the bottom of the stairs.

“I thought she was right behind me, so I went on. I think she dropped the flashlight,” Michael says.

“Oh
no
.” Trina comes thundering up the stairs and kneels beside me, throwing her arms around me. “It's okay, honey, it's okay.”

I feel better, and stupid. I feel like a little kid, scared of the dark, but I've been like this since I was six. I sleep with the lights on, and even then it's hard, because I know the darkness is pressing hungrily against the windows. I do a lot of reading at night. It gets me through.

But this has never happened to me in front of other people, and my whole body is hot with embarrassment. I force myself to my feet, feeling Trina's arm around me like a protective cloak.

“I'm okay.” I try to laugh. Hollow and fake. “Sorry about that. I'm okay.”

But I'm not. And I haven't been for a long time.

“This must really suck for you,” Mr. Jarad says.

“Uh … okay?” I say.

“Wow. Hey, are you into baseball at all?”

I stare at him. My first session with the school counselor is not going at
all
the way I thought it would. I was expecting a woman in a sensible pantsuit and glasses taking lots of cryptic notes as she said profound things like,
And how did that make you feel?
Mr. Jarad, however, looks like he just came in from coaching football or baseball or something else sporty, and would rather have me do jumping jacks than talk.

He reaches over, grabs a baseball, and swings his legs up onto the coffee table between us. He throws the ball up and down. I watch, fascinated.

“No? Not into baseball? Okay, this kid, fresh from the minors, comes up to the big leagues. And to teach him a lesson,
the pitcher throws one at him. Hits him square in the arm. So the kid, he takes his walk to first, and then makes it all the way around to score one for the team. Then he passes out, because the ball shattered his elbow.”

Mr. Jarad stares at me expectantly. “Uh … bummer?”
What a waste of freaking time
is what I'm thinking but I try to look interested. This is getting me out of trig and I promised Mom.

“What I'm thinking is you might be feeling a little like that kid.” He tosses the baseball up and down, concentrating on it, not me. “Not a lot of time under your belt, and here comes this pitch out of nowhere that knocks you into next Wednesday. But you don't have much choice, do you? You have to keep on going, even though you're hurting bad inside.”

He stops.

I am quiet for a minute, and then the words spill out, like verbal vomit.

“Tomorrow is Mom's appointment to find out how bad the cancer is. Mom won't let me go with her to the appointment, and I don't understand why not. She's in a lot of pain, and you can tell she's just waiting to find out what happens next, that she can't think about anything else until she knows. It's been ten days, and all we've been doing is
waiting.
And she wants me to go to school and act like everything is A-OK.”