Why Me? Read online

  The longer I sat and stewed, the angrier I got. Finally, after what seemed like a million years, the first bell of the day rang. “Nice hair, Poodle,” said one of my classmates as we entered the building. That was the last straw. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around, and punched the little boy who had made the poodle remark as hard as I could. The hallway went quiet, and everyone turned around and stared at me.

  I felt shocked at what I’d done, but my small fist was still curled up, ready for round two. The little boy who had borne the brunt of my wrath was standing there with tears streaming down his face. I faintly whispered “I’m sorry” before I felt the enormous hands of the principal, Mr. Scott, on my shoulders and was led down to his office.

  “Sarah,” he said quietly, “you know better than to hit. I’m giving you a detention before school tomorrow.”

  My heart sank. The detention didn’t bother me, but taking the dreaded pink slip home to my mother was going to be horrible. I watched as Mr. Scott filled out the pink slip, my mind racing. “Maybe I can fake Mom’s signature; maybe I can run away . . .” Ideas flooded my head on how to avoid punishment for this, but none of them were any good. I would just have to go home after school and face whatever happened.

  I spent the rest of the day sulking in the back of the classroom, the pit in my stomach growing while everyone fawned over Rebecca and whispered and talked about me. When the last bell finally rang at 3:05, I waited until everyone had left the classroom and then approached her teacher, Mrs. Beamish . “I’m sorry for hitting Michael,” I said in a soft voice, looking up with eyes pleading her to please make this pink slip go away.

  Mrs. Beamish said, “I’m glad you’re sorry, Sarah, but you have to take responsibility for your actions, honey!”

  My eyes welled up with tears, and I nodded my head and turned around. Just as I was about to leave the room, Mrs. Beamish said, “Just remember, Sarah, tomorrow is another day, a fresh start.”

  For some reason, those words resonated in my mind and I felt a little better. Tomorrow would be a new day, a fresh start, and no matter what happened when I got home that afternoon, I would wake up tomorrow to a new day.

  I walked home twice as slowly as usual. Rebecca didn’t walk home with me that day; she was busy with her school friends, talking about how great her party was going to be that night. Oh, how I wished today was my birthday and I was the one looking forward to cake and presents and family time!

  I approached our apartment building, and my feet turned into lead. They didn’t want to go in, and who could blame them? Even my feet knew that what waited for me behind the door of our apartment couldn’t be good.

  I finally opened the apartment door. Mom was vacuuming the living room for what was probably the fifth or sixth time that day. I took off my shoes and walked into the living room. Mom turned off the vacuum.

  “So, I heard you had a bad day at school today,” she said in a calm voice.

  The voice threw me off; this was not my mother’s normal reaction. I felt a bit calmer.

  “I hit Michael,” I said meekly.

  “Why?” Mom asked.

  “I wanted it to be my birthday,” I replied.

  “We’ll talk about this when your father gets home,” Mom said, and she turned the vacuum back on and continued cleaning.

  I turned around and went to my room, relieved by the lack of reaction from Mom but also confused about why she wasn’t hitting or screaming at me right now. The comment Mom had made about my father made me bristle. The man Mom was referring to wasn’t my father; in fact, I wasn’t even sure who my biological father really was. This man, my stepfather, was someone Mom had met while waitressing. After a whirlwind romance, they were married and I was told to call him Dad. I had never felt comfortable around my stepdad. I didn’t know him well; he had just appeared out of the blue one day. While he hadn’t put his hands on me yet, he never argued with Mom or stopped her from hitting me all the time. For this reason, I didn’t trust my stepfather and never would.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom. As the minutes and hours ticked away, the pit in my stomach grew and grew. Something was wrong. Mom was never this calm. Or maybe something was right, and I was getting a fresh start like Mrs. Beamish had said. Maybe everything was going to be OK.

  Finally I heard my stepdad’s blue drywall truck pull up in front of the apartment building. My entire body started trembling. The room seemed to close in on me, and I lay down on the bed with my eyes squeezed shut. Then I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Sarah, come out and eat dinner. Your father is home.”

  I opened the door to my room and walked into the tiny apartment dining room where my mother and stepdad were waiting. Tonight we were having stuffed green peppers, my favorite meal in the entire world! Maybe this day was going to end up OK! Why would Mom go to the effort of making my favorite dinner if I was in trouble? I sat down happily in my seat at the table and began to dig into my first green pepper.

  “So I heard you had a bad day today, Sarah,” my stepdad said.

  “I hit Michael, and I have a detention tomorrow morning,” I replied matter-of-factly, thinking that all was forgiven and I could dare to be a bit bold.

  My mom and stepdad looked at each other and continued to eat. The meal continued in silence. The silence lasted until the dishes were done and I was sitting in front of the television.

  Then my stepdad said in a quiet voice, “Sarah, go into our bedroom.”

  I got up from my seat in the living room and went back to Mom’s bedroom, which was pretty stark. The bed was neatly made, and there was a dresser on the far wall with a large mirror. When you sat on the bed, you could see yourself perfectly in the mirror, so I sat on the bed and watched myself bounce up and down in the mirror until my stepdad entered the room.

  “Take your pants off, Sarah,” he said, and he started to undo the belt on his work pants.

  I immediately curled up into a ball and started crying. “What are you going to do to me?” I cried out.

  “SHUT UP AND DO AS YOUR FATHER ASKS!” Mom bellowed from the kitchen.

  With tears streaming down my face, I slowly unbuttoned my pants, took them off, and laid them on the floor. “Pull your underwear down,” my stepdad instructed. I did so and then sat down on the bed, completely naked from the waist down and humiliated and scared at the same time.

  “Turn over” was the next calm instruction from my stepdad. Confused, I remained seated and turned my back to him on the bed. “No, face down,” he said.

  I buried my face in my mother’s pillow, smelling the faint scent of her perfume and shampoo. Then I turned my head and looked at myself in the mirror on the dresser. I couldn’t see my stepfather, but I heard the belt snap in his hands.

  “CRACK!” My naked rear end was immediately on fire. The hard leather belt had come cracking down on me with such force that I thought something had broken in my body. I screamed out in pain, and Mom came running into the room and put her hand over my mouth.

  My stepdad raised the belt again. I could see the reflection of his hand in the mirror as it started to come down, and I squirmed and fought my mother’s hand holding me down. Snot started dripping out of my nose. Mom took her hand away in disgust and smacked me on the side of the head before she wiped her hand on my shirt.

  “CRACK!” The belt came down again. Now my rear end felt like it was bleeding. I had wiggled too much, and that belt strike had hit me not only on the behind, but also across the backs of my legs. The pain was almost too much to bear. Mom resumed her grip on my mouth.

  “A detention, huh? This will teach you to get a detention, you little loser!”

  “CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!” After three more strikes with the belt, my stepdad left the room. Mom got up and followed him, leaving me motionless and shaking on the bed. I didn’t dare cry out or leave the room; my survival instincts said to just lie there and hope it was over.

  Soon my mom and stepdad reentered the
ir bedroom with two cold, wet washcloths. “Jesus Christ, we left marks,” my stepdad said to my mom. I remained motionless as they almost lovingly covered the welts on my rear end and legs with the cold rags.

  Eventually one of them told me to go to bed; then, finally, I was out of that room and away from them. My emotions were running wild; I didn’t know up from down or left from right. Lying on my stomach, I sobbed into my pillow. My legs were on fire and my rear end was numb. I felt betrayed. The night, which I had thought was going to be good, had turned into another night of terror.

  I gritted my teeth and bit down on my pillow to avoid screaming out in anger. Then my mind went to Rebecca and how happy she must be at that moment with her family. She was probably getting presents and hugs and kisses while I lay on the bed covered in welts.

  “Why does it have to be me?” I sobbed. “What did I do to deserve this?” Then I remembered. “I got a detention.” Immediately I felt deep remorse for hitting Michael. I had made him hurt like I was hurting now. I understood why I’d gotten in trouble and wanted nothing more than to run to Michael’s house and apologize for being so mean.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I imagined that the next day was my birthday. I imagined waking up to a French toast and hot cocoa breakfast, and Mom dressing me up and combing my hair. I imagined a room full of friends and family, all there for me, happy for me, and loving me.

  “Happy Birthday, Rebecca,” I said quietly.

  Chapter 3

  We named the goat Indiana!

  Less than a year after they were married, my mother and stepfather had a child of their own, a daughter named RachelEmily. I loved RachelEmily, but I always felt jealous of her in a way. Mom was so nice to RachelEmily, really kind and caring at times. Mom would get mad at me and hold RachelEmily tight and say, “Well, at least I have one good daughter that I love so, SO much!” I began to grow quite resentful of RachelEmily and spent a lot of time distancing myself from her.

  A few months after the belt incident, I came home from school to find Mom sitting with RachelEmily at the kitchen table. Mom was on the phone, and there was a newspaper open on the kitchen table. I glanced over Mom’s shoulder and saw that the paper was open to the real estate section and Mom had a lot of places circled.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

  “We’re moving,” Mom said. “Some damn Mexicans are moving in next door, and we are out of here.”

  Whether that was the truth or not, I was taken aback by my mother’s surprise announcement. Since RachelEmily had been born, things had gotten worse for me at home but better at school. I had made a very good friend named Debbie, and we spent all our time together. I had met Debbie while I was wandering around the neighborhood one day. A little girl with a hula hoop called me over, and we spent the next two hours hula-hooping and dancing to our hearts’ content. Since that day, we had been inseparable.

  Debbie never made fun of me like the other kids did. I confided in Debbie the things that went on at home and didn’t spare details about the numerous beatings and other punishments I received. My mom and stepdad had moved on from the belt beatings to other weird forms of punishment. They still relied on the old liquid soap standby, but Mom moved on from slapping and whipping to choking and punching. There were many times that I wasn’t allowed to go to school because of fingernail marks and bruises around my neck. Mom had also purchased a horse right after RachelEmily was born, and she bought snappy little riding crops that she enjoyed smacking me around with. Talking to Debbie was my release—I could confide in her without worrying about someone calling the authorities on my mom and stepdad.

  My eyes welled up with tears and I said to Mom, “What do you mean we’re moving? What about my friends? Where are we going?” The questions wouldn’t stop pouring out of my mouth.

  RachelEmily was starting to get fussy, and Mom picked her up. “Don’t ask me questions I don’t know the answer to,” she replied. “When we know—you will know.”

  “Can I go to Debbie’s now?” I inquired. I had to get out of the house. I had to talk to Debbie and figure out a way that we could stay friends forever. Maybe I could live in Debbie’s basement and sleep on the pool table or something, or maybe we could pitch a tent in her backyard and just stay there.

  “I don’t care what you do. Just be back at 4:00 to set the table and get ready for dinner.”

  Mom had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when I was tearing out the door, running down the street, and cutting through backyards to get to Debbie’s house as soon as possible. It had been so hard for me to make a friend like Debbie; the prospect of starting over and finding someone else I could trust so completely scared me to death.

  Bang, bang, bang! I pounded on Debbie’s front door. A few seconds later, Debbie was there, eating a bag of Doritos.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked with a worried look on her face.

  I unloaded on her. I told Debbie that my family was moving, but I didn’t know where and I didn’t know when. All I knew was that it was inevitable—and that I couldn’t live without Debbie. If I didn’t have someone to talk to, I was sure I would lose my mind. Debbie cut me off and said, “You aren’t moved yet! Come on downstairs and let’s play dress-up.”

  Dress-up was our favorite game. Downstairs in Debbie’s basement were what seemed like thousands upon thousands of old dresses, shoes, and pieces of costume jewelry. I never wondered where they came from or why they were there. All I knew was that while I was at Debbie’s, I could be anything I wanted to be. Sometimes I pretended to be a beautiful princess like Cinderella, and other times I was a famous singer.

  For the next 45 minutes, Debbie and I played to our hearts’ content. Then I heard the grandfather clock in Debbie’s living room strike four o’clock. “Oh, shoot—I have to go set the table for dinner,” I said.

  Debbie grabbed my hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sarah, I promise.”

  But I never saw Debbie again. Mom wasn’t kidding about moving; we were packed up and moved out so fast it almost made my head spin. Mom kept me home from school to help pack up the house, and we moved out in less than a week.

  I will never forget pulling up to the farmhouse for the first time. It had taken over two hours of driving to get there, followed by what seemed like an hour of driving down the long driveway, but finally my stepdad stopped the truck . I looked out the window and got my first glimpse of our new home. It was a large white house in the middle of two enormous farm fields. I had been in a barn before because of my mother’s interest in horses, but I had never been on a farm. There were about five barns on the property, most of which were full of old, rusty farm equipment and looked like they were going to fall down at any second. The house looked old and creaky, with no front porch steps and paint peeling off the sides. I could have made up a year’s worth of ghost stories to tell Debbie just based on my first impressions, but the thought that popped into my mind was “Oh, my God—there’s no one around to hear me scream.”

  It wasn’t long before Mom had the farm filled up with all the animals she had ever wanted. We had two horses, a coop full of chickens, and a number of geese and goats that wandered around in the pasture. With these animals came a lot of work. Every morning at five o’clock, rain or shine, snow or sleet, I was up hauling buckets of water to the horse troughs, mucking out stalls, and cleaning up the pasture. I didn’t mind the work, and I enjoyed spending time with the animals. They listened to me talk and vent about Mom, and the big quarter horse Buddy was a solid shoulder to cry on when I needed it the most. In a way, the farm animals were my replacement for Debbie.

  When I was about 10 years old I fell in love with Indiana Jones. I had seen my first Indiana Jones movie and was immediately lovestruck by this man in leather saving the damsel in distress from the dangerous Nazis. I adorned my room with Indiana Jones posters and decorated my notebooks with I love Indy. Right around this time, Mom and DaleRichard bought me my own goat. It was a sickly, ugly little thing, b
ut it was mine and that was all I cared about. I named the goat Indy, after my beloved Indiana Jones. Every morning when I went out to do the chores, Indy was waiting at the electric fence, bleating for me and ready to chase me around the pasture. Every afternoon when I got off the school bus, Indy would be waiting for me again. When I went riding, he would follow behind the horse. Indy might have been just a goat to most people, but to me, alone in the middle of a cornfield, he was one of my best friends.

  Although Mom had purchased the goat for me, she reminded me every day how much she hated that goat, how it ate her flowers and destroyed things in her garden. I would quickly defend Indy, using the argument “Well, he’s a goat! What do you expect?”

  Mom’s response was to go out and buy a BB gun. She shot it at Indy during the day while I was at school. I knew in my heart that it was only a matter of time before Mom really hurt Indy or got rid of him, so every morning I would get on my knees and beg Indy to be good and stay in the pasture.

  Indy would look up at me with his big eyes like he understood, but I could also see the glint in his eyes as he surveyed the yard around the farmhouse and decided what he was going to eat that day. And every day when I came home from school, Mom was at the door with the BB gun, aiming it and shooting at Indy when he got near.

  One morning, I had done my chores, given Indy his pep talk, and boarded the bus to school. Then I looked out the bus window and saw Mom pumping up the BB gun. My heart sank. “Indy, stay in the pasture today, PLEASE!” I whispered. As the bus pulled away, I saw Mom step outside and head toward the pasture.

  The entire day was a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about Indy and wondering if he was OK. Usually, Mom would just hit him a few times in the hindquarters and he would go away. But this morning something had been different with Mom. She had smacked me around a few times for not bringing down enough hay bales for the horses and paced through the kitchen muttering to herself about how much she hated me and her entire life. “Stick me out here on this goddamn farm with this little bitch? Not if I can help it,” she had muttered. So I knew Mom was not in the best mood, and without me there to knock around, she would turn to the next best thing, my animal.