BELONGING CH 1

Chapter 1

             
 Chapter 1



          Don't listen to my parents. Or my teachers, or therapists, or even my birth certificate. My name is not Amanda Grace Cihlar. It's Melee Taria.
          There are only a few constants in my life, and that is one of them. The others are quite simple:
          1) I am plagued by dreams of death.  Including my death.

         2) I am different from those around me.

         3) Something horrible lives inside me.
          The room I sit in right now makes this clear. Millions of twelve-year-olds my age would find these peeling walls of this room familiar.  There are small torn-off bits of paper by the bin. The plastic blinds are half-cocked, revealing a dribbling slit of early morning sunlight. A plain-faced clock reads 7:30 a.m.   I can smell ink and steaming coffee. Several droopy-eyed adults sit around the oval table that fills up the space.

         We are in a school conference room and my parents border both sides of me. I have quickly learned that this is what my life consists of now: an endless stream of meetings with nameless adults who determine my future regardless of my input. Most students would find this normal. But refer back to number two:
          I am different from those around me. 
          Something vague and shapeless buzzes inside me just waiting for the right moment to sneak out. The problem is bad things seem to happen when it does. That's what this meeting is about.
          My parents have mistakenly enrolled me into a normal middle school.
          My pudgy stepfather sits on my right. It's hard to believe my mother married someone with a gut the size of a boulder when the rest of our family is athletic. My stepfather's enormous middle and thick cheeks make him look sad and wasted, as if his sorry auburn comb-over didn't complete the job. The most difficult thing my stepfather does during the day is lift a pen to sign loan document after loan document at his bank and harp at his accountants. After, he drives home to greedily demand dinner from my mother, the willowy woman on my left. She spends her day doing three things: cooking for the family, cleaning the house, and moping over my oldest sister's disappearance. My mother has ebony ringlets that frame her sagging eyes. We are both trim, but she is trim in a way that suggests a lack of eating.

         She sat in the chair with her shoulders hunched as though they weighed too much to hold straight. She twisted a mutilated tissue around her fingers under the table. As my stepfather talked, she bowed her head as though a wadded-up tissue mattered more than the teachers’ input.  If she’d been strong enough to hold together after my father’s death, I probably wouldn’t be in this room right now.

           Instead, thanks to her nervous breakdown, I had to learn to stick up for myself.  I am different from all of them because I keep my head high. My body is as straight and firm as a tree. I like to see these people, who are supposedly in charge of my future, squirm in their seats when I fix my piercing hazel gaze on them. 
          "I've actually been impressed with the quality of work Amanda has been producing considering her history," Mrs. McCullough, my English teacher, said. "She has a gift for language."
          "The psychologists encouraged her to keep a journal, so she writes frequently at home," my stepfather interjected. "Most of it is drivel."
          "I would say, based on what I've seen since the school year started, she's far past drivel," Mrs. McCullough said.
          "Oh, no, it's nonsense. Half of what she writes is in some other language--we think probably some kind of dialect from Africa that she's mutated into her own language. The therapists tried to have a linguist translate it once and they couldn't read it," he said. "But she seems to think it makes sense."  He jerked his head in my direction.
          Ten pairs of eyes looked at me for some kind of response. All those meetings with therapists and psychologists taught me a valuable lesson: keep your mouth shut. The ticking clock answered for me.

         Mrs. Wilson, the special education teacher, broke the silence.  "Well, we know that Amanda has made tremendous growth academically. Her tests from the alternative school show this. The concerns we have are more behaviorally and socially. Can she interact positively with her peers? Is she a danger to them? Is she capable of following school rules and procedures? That's what we truly need to determine." She looked over her glasses across the table towards me. I fixed her with my stoniest glare. I already knew what she had read from the inch-thick binding of papers sitting in front of her. 
          "Does she currently take any medications?"
          My stepfather bobbed his chin which made his head look like a ball bobbing on an inner tube. "We've tried all types of medications, but nothing seems to work to suppress her particular issues. If anything, all they've ever done is put her to sleep or cause screaming fits. Now she refuses to take anything."
          A mild shudder ran down my spine. I remembered my hours of relentless, drug-induced sleep too well. That's when the screams and the coppery smell of death are the most real. I quickly learned how to avoid taking the pills by stuffing them in my cheek or under my tongue.

         "The best thing to do is to not make her mad," My stepfather continued. Several of my teachers exchanged disbelieving looks as he kept speaking. "That seems to be when her more violent personality emerges."
          Mrs. Wilson's eyebrows touched her graying bangs. "The only way for that to happen would be to keep her at home," She responded coolly.
          My stepfather released a hoarse laugh. "Not really. Right Amanda?"
          "Don't call me Amanda. It's Melee Taria."
          "See what I mean?" He rolled his eyes. "We’ve already tried that once.  We can't educate her at home. My wife is too weak-willed to control her, much less teach her. This is our best option. All of the psychologists we’ve worked with think this is the best way to improve her social skills and apparently the alternative school isn't capable of giving her the academic rigor she seems to need.  Military schools won't accept her with her track record, which leaves this as our last option."
          "You could always send me back to Sha'Kai," I offered.
          "No," Stepdad said without looking at me. "You know that's not going to happen."
          "Mr. Watson," Mrs. Wilson piped up. She was as hard as the concrete walls in the room. "We have to keep the well being of all our students, not just your daughter, at the forefront. Already she's intimidated her fellow classmates. In the first week of school, she threatened two other students.  Two days ago she started a fight and knocked out a student’s tooth.  She ate crickets in gym class. She’s refused to follow school rules.  We have parents calling asking to remove their children from Amanda's classes. We simply can't shift the schedule of 200 seventh graders because the best thing to do is NOT to make one student MAD!"
          "Do you think I'm not aware of what she does?  You don't live with this girl twenty-four hours a day.  I've seen her twist the neck of a bird.  And see this—" He yanked back his sleeve to reveal a healing gash along his wrist. "Her nails! So how dare you lecture me—"

"Mr. Watson—" Mrs. Wilson began.

         "The bird was sick and injured. It would have died anyway. " I interrupted.

         "Be quiet—" he ordered. "It's not your turn to talk. "

         I glowered at him, but obeyed.

"It's only three weeks into the school year. It's a bit premature to be expelling her, especially when she hasn't done anything yet that truly warrants expulsion. To me, you're prejudiced against Amanda and her behavioral needs. Is that what you want? A lawsuit?"
          "You could solve all this if you sent me back to Sha'Kai."
          My stepfather whirled his beady blue eyes on me and latched a hand onto my wrist. Instantly, I felt the tension in my stomach. The edges of my vision began fade to black. I hissed air through my teeth in an attempt to hold back the foul feelings threatening to unleash themselves.  I barely focused enough to hear his growled answer.
          "You're not going back to that crazy old bat. She's part of the reason you're like this."
          "No. You're 100% of the reason," I growled. "I never had problems with living with Sha'Kai."
          "Who is Sha'Kai?"
          "My Grandmother," we answered together. Mrs. Wilson’s mouth dropped into a big 'O' that I could just make out through my fading sight. I tried to take a deep breath--if I lost control, I would black out. Horrible things always happened when I blacked out.
          A deafening silence hovered in the conference room. My stepfather realized half of my teachers were staring at his hand clenching my wrist. Blushing crimson, he let me go. Without his sweaty fat fingers on me, it became easier to control the wicked emotions bubbling inside me. Mrs. Wilson released the breath caught between her teeth. 
          "I think, Mr. Watson, that you and your wife should carefully consider if public school is the right place for Amanda given her special situation.  In the meantime, the key to making Amanda successful here is going to be a difficult road. She’s already distanced herself and become a target.  In the meantime, Amanda needs to know that there will be swift consequences for her actions," She eyeballed me yet again. "Expulsion is not that far away for her. Is that clear to you, Amanda?"
          "When I find Amanda, I'll ask her," I answered. 
          My mother sighed and buried her face into her hands. In her lap lay the destroyed ribbons of tissue. My stepfather glared at me--I should have counted the times he didn't, honestly--and asked me to leave the room. I was happy to oblige, although I kept my cool mask on. I feared if I stayed I would black out.

         My teachers filed out after the first bell. Only my English teacher cast a sad smile my way before clacking down the hallway. The bell came and went as I sat in the corner of the guidance office. I watched the clock tick and ignored the plump secretary who pretended not to watch me while she smacked away on her keyboard.
          About halfway into first period, my parents emerged with glowing cheeks and my mother's eyes were swollen wet rubies. She didn't glance at me but kept going through the door. My stepfather stopped with his hands on his hips.

         "You don't have many chances left," He said. "One toe out of line and you're going to be committed.  Permanently."

         His threat was nothing new. Countless times, I'd sat underneath their window in the twilight listening to them argue about what to do with me. Jeremiah, my proud, orange varsity jacket wearing brother, often asked them why they hadn't sent me off yet. This time I chose not to react. My stepdad waddled out.

         Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Wilson called me back to the conference room. I remained standing as she thrust a new schedule in my hands.

         “As a condition of your continued enrollment, your schedule has been changed to include a social-behavior class.  In addition, you will be pulled out of gym class from time to time for consulting time.  If you show any aggressive behavior at all, your teachers know to send you directly to my office.  Is that clear?”  I nodded.  Satisfied, she continued.  “If you can’t follow our rules, you will be removed from gym class and placed into a counseling period.  Your new schedule begins immediately and you may go when the next bell rings.  Sit in the office until then.” 

         I could read the expression in her eyes as she practically shoved me out the door. They hoped that I would be expelled very soon, probably for doing exactly what my inch-thick record attested to: memory blackouts paired with violent attacks.


                                *          *          *          *          *          *          *

         The blackouts have plagued me for as long as I can remember. Now that I'm older, I can sense them coming on. Sometimes I can hold them off; otherwise, they overwhelm me. They begin with the sizzling deep inside me building to a buzzing crescendo. The edge of my vision blurs then blackens until I can't see. My stomach boils and my mouth becomes dry and tastes like blood. Sometimes the buzzing invades my hearing, too, like a swarm of bees is alive in my head. The last sensation I have will be my muscles tensing as though I am preparing to spring. After that, my memory truly blacks out. I lose control of myself.

         I have awoken abruptly to find myself in all types of predicaments. The last one, the episode where I knocked the boy’s tooth out, happened during gym class. The coach wanted everyone to run the mile. My classmates began to whine about the sweltering heat that settled across the faded grey asphalt track and the distance. A sharp whistle put an end to their complaints.

         Despite the yellow rays of sun beating down on us, and the raw heat that caused even the corn growing in the agriculture field to pop in the stalks, I ran like the end of the world was coming. Heat, sun, and sweat rolled off me. They are more familiar to me than television, video games, and cell phones. As my feet devoured the asphalt, I navigated around a wide pack of reluctant joggers, gaggling girls gossiping at the back of the herd, and a huddle of soccer boys that always moved together. The crowd thinned the faster I sprinted to the front of the track.

         As I caught up to the front runners, the boys sped up to try and stay ahead of me. One even said, "let her go, she'll get tired soon," as I skirted around him and his friend. The very front runner, a tall boy with the first hint of stubble around his chin, kept pace with me as we passed the finish line the first time.

         By the time we crossed again, I had edged ahead of his labored breathing. Now I was flying across the pavement, and those same gossiping groups dodged out of my way.

         On the third lap, I barely noted the coach's joy in calling "four-oh-one" as I sprinted by.

         About that time, the boys decided to bring me down. I was catching up to the pack of soccer boys just before the last bend in the track. They looked over their shoulders to see me coming and shifted over a lane to let me by. Somewhere, in passing them, my foot connected against another warm ankle. I managed to splay my hands out in front of me before my face ate pavement. I rolled at least twice before stopping facedown. Laughter erupted behind me.

         The blackout descended. I heard a deep growl erupting from my throat as the edges of my vision blurred. One second I stared at gray pebbles, the next my fist was extended towards a kid who had clasped his hands to his mouth. Blood dribbled between his fingers and down his chin. There were shouts and looks mixed with awe and anger. I later learned that I apparently had flipped off the ground "kung-fu style" (words directly from the assistant principal's relaying of student witness accounts), demanded to know who tripped me.  Somehow, despite all the boys denying it, I actually selected the correct student and snapped my hand into his face before anyone saw it coming. I remember none of this.

         Unfortunately, my stepfather is right...making me angry tends to bring the blackouts on and they are always violent.  The time I almost strangled my brother? That happened after he caught me using his weight equipment and shoved me off his weight bench. When I smashed the front window with a brick? The day my stepfather decided I could no longer have any contact with Sha'Kai--not even letters.  The nick in the kitchen door?  Where I threw a knife after being told to act more like a normal human being.

         My parents try to blame my blackouts on Sha’Kai, or on my years living in Africa.  The only problem? There are home videos that show otherwise. I remember watching one tape from when I was barely walking during which I was told it was naptime. I refused and waggled my finger “No!” When Mom insisted that I was going to take a nap, I picked up the dishes around me and started smashing them on the ground. I snatched a smashed piece and ran at her, holding it like a weapon. I still have a faint scar line across my fingers from where the sharp edge cut into my skin.

         The only time the blackouts didn't seem to emerge was when I lived with my grandmother, Sha'Kai. I hold onto the memories of my time with her as happy memories. Sometimes thinking about them keeps the vile thing living inside me away.

         As horrible as the blackouts made my life, there still was something thing worse; one thing I’d give anything to not experience ever again.

         The nightmares.