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Grace Chasity has a weak wrist. It cracks loudly when she moves it too quickly and it aches softly when it is cold.
In her eighteen years of life, she has broken her arm on three separate occasions. The first time was when she was five years old. The second time, she was eleven. The third time is yet to happen. Soon, her right wrist will snap, in the same place as twice before. A very unlucky and unlikely thing to happen. But it will happen.
-
Grace Chasity rises every morning at five thirty. She spends the first half hour of her day praying and studying the bible. Her bible is marked with countless tabs, highlighted beyond recognition, and annotated to an extent that on some pages, the original words are impossible to read (unless you are Grace and have memorised most of it anyway).
She has breakfast with her Mommy and Daddy. Grace says grace, Daddy beams with pride, Mommy encourages her to finish her breakfast. She gets a kiss on the cheek from both of them, says her goodbyes and cycles to school.
On November 3rd, Grace rises at seven. She sends a quick prayer to God (apologising profusely for her tardiness) and skims half a passage from her bible. She tries to reread the words that refuse to translate into coherent sentences, but her mind drifts and instead she stares at the wall with vacant eyes and an assortment of chaotic thoughts.
She dresses slowly, layering her sweater vest over her blouse without any contemplation. She buttons her jeans and pulls white frilly socks over her bare feet. Grace sits on her carpeted floor with her head in her hands.
Today is just a day. A normal day. Like every other day.
Grace sees herself in the mirror. She stretches her skin into a smile. The face in the mirror stares at her with a joy so false it stings.
She straps her Velcro shoes up and slowly descends the stairs.
Karen and Mark sit at the kitchen table.
“Morning Mommy! Morning Daddy!” Grace greets cordially. Her stretched smile hurts her cheeks. Her lips are dry and in the midst of cracking; seconds away from splitting and leaving a red, liquid mark that tastes like metal.
Mark Chasity smiles gently over his mug of coffee. Karen Chasity remains motionless. Her body has merged with the kitchen chair. She is melting into it. Her face is impassive. Her eyes are blank.
“Morning Gracie,” she says lethargically.
Grace swallows. She sits between the two of them. Today is just a day. A normal day. Like every other day. She reaches for each of their hands. Her Daddy slips his into hers. His hand is warm. Grace grasps for her Mommy’s hand. It is cold and limp.
Daddy looks at her in a way that coveys the words he cannot say. Mommy will be okay after the morning, Gracie. She needs time Gracie. She is fine Gracie.
Grace nods her head and ignores his silent words. She says grace, eats cold toast and leaves for school.
When she reaches for her bike, her right arm stiffens. Her Mommy is watching from the window. She has tears in her apathetic eyes and a hand pressed against the glass. Grace wraps her fingers slowly around the handlebars, her eyes never leaving her Mommy’s. Karen shakes her head. A stray tear drips diagonally across her face. Grace decides to walk to school.
She doesn’t want to be a nuisance. Not today. Today is about them. Whatever they want she will do. She will be the perfect daughter. Or she will disappear for twenty-four hours. Whatever they want. It is the least they deserve.
She is late to school for the first time since she was eleven.
-
Grace Chasity found God when she was eleven years old. He was sitting on her bed in her new house.
Her ‘new’ house was different. It was bigger, it smelled like her grandmother, and it was a shrine to Christianity.
Grace doesn’t like change. She never really had. Her house wasn’t supposed to be bigger. It was supposed to be small and squished. It was supposed to be cramped and it was supposed to have more people in it. Her grandmother was supposed to come over every Sunday and they were supposed to shove into their tiny kitchen and eat their roast dinner and they were supposed to be happy. It should not have smelled like her grandmother. It was not the right smell. It was her Granny; but it was stale. Stale and old and not right. She did not want to live in her Granny’s house, especially when her Granny was no longer in it.
Her family had always been religious. They went to church on Sundays and her dad told her to say her prayers before bed. They said grace before dinner and her Mommy read the bible to her every night. Grace went along with it all because that is what children do. When she was eleven, Grace stopped going along with it and started to truly believe in it.
The new house was a fresh start. The space was too big, and the dinner tables felt empty. Grace would reach her small hands across the table and clutch her mother’s cold ones. She asked to say grace instead of her father. (Grace your called Grace you should say grace because your Grace and your mother is dead inside).
Grace did not have any friends. After they moved house (when the other kids found out why they moved house), nobody wanted to be her friend. They were mean. They were cruel. Grace needed someone to talk to. God was someone to talk to.
Every night she would talk, and he would listen. She would beg him to make school better and she would beg him to fix her Mommy and she would beg him to bring Granny back (and bring Sammy back. Oh God please, you took Sammy much too soon). God didn’t like her pleading.
Grace read the bible because she no longer had anyone to play with. She had no friends in school (and no Sammy at home). Soon, Christianity comforted her more than either of her parents were capable of. She had something to fall back on. She had Jesus. She had God. And she had the knowledge that Granny and Sammy were in a better place. They weren’t suffocating under six feet of cold soil. They were in a better place.
-
Grace Chasity is a nerdy prude.
Grace Chasity is a Jesus Freak.
Grace Chasity is a fucking loser.
Grace Chasity, more like Grace Chastity.
Grace has heard it all before. Blasphemous phrases flung at her casually; small, whispered comments her peers think she can’t hear; louder whispered comments her peers know she can hear.
It doesn’t really hurt. They don’t expect it to hurt her. They think her God protects her. They think her blunt personality protects her. They think she’s too naïve to understand they are bullying her. They think she doesn’t care enough for the bullying to hurt.
It doesn’t hurt. Not really. But a little bit. Maybe just a little bit.
“Are you cheating?” Grace whispers to the girl next to her. Stephanie Lauter rolls her eyes and continues copying answers from the crumpled sheet of paper on her lap.
“Butt out, Chastity.”
Sometimes Grace thinks about friends. About what it would be like to have some. Contrary to what people think, Grace knows she has no friends. She used to have a friend. Stephanie Lauter used to be her friend.
“Okay,” Grace mutters. She turns back to her own test and easily ticks the correct boxes. Today is not the day for fighting back.
Stephanie used to be her friend. Grace is almost sure of that. When they were younger. Before Sammy-
“Yo, Chastity, is Jesus gonna bring you to homecoming. Are you gonna get your freak on with him. Because, because you’re a Jesus Freak so-”
Stephanie’s harsh laugh cuts Kyle off.
“Dude, you couldn’t think of anything better than that?”
“Stephanie, Kyle, do you have something to share with the class? Or would you rather complete your test. In silence,” Miss Mulberry says with a stern look on her face.
Grace bites her gums. Her face burns a deep red. She takes Miss Mulberry’s advice as if it was directed towards her and decides to remain silent.
Grace hands her test up silently. She leaves class silently. She listens to her classmates talk about her. She doesn’t interfere. She stays silent.
She was planning on protesting the devilish homec*ming at lunch. The protest seems to slip right from her grip. Her want to do it is gone. Let it happen. Let the devil have them. Let the devil take them all. Let the devil take her for all she cares.
It is not a good day. It was never going to be a good day. Grace thought that if she ignored it then it would be better. It is not better. It is a bad day.
Peter Spankoffski’s shoulder rams into Grace. She is slammed into a locker. Usually, Grace would say something. She would ignore the mumbled apology Peter gives and would insist on telling the boy everything that needs to be said. Normally, Grace would question why someone who should be in advanced calculus right now is sprinting through the hall. On a normal day, Grace would preach and question and do everything she is good at doing. Today is not a normal day. It is a bad day. Grace feels the stoic wall of denial she had built when she woke up this morning begin to crumble at the base.
She walks silently to the girl’s bathroom. She locks herself in the last stall, sits on the toilet and raises her legs so they can’t be seen beneath the stall. Grace eats her lunch in relative peace.
A tear splashes against the linoleum floor. Grace stares at it numbly. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried.
She can hear voices outside the stall. They are doing bad impressions of her.
She can see smudged graffiti on the stall door. It is about her.
Grace’s shoe slips of the toilet seat with a squeak. It slams against the tiles. The voices outside the stall stop. She rubs at the words on the wall with her shirt sleeve. The words don’t budge.
Chastity fucked Jagerman under the bleachers.
It isn’t true! it’s a lie!
Chasity is a freak in the sheets.
The entire stall is coated in words about her. Other people’s names are occasionally scribbled in, but the majority are false statements about her. She knows she has no friends. She knows she is not well liked. She had not realised she was hated.
Chasity gives the best head (repressed chicks and all that)
Chastity fucks Jesus
GRACE CHASITY KILLED HER BROTHER! WHO’S THE SINNER NOW, BITCH?
The writing is faded. It has probably been there for years. Grace has seen it in this specific stall multiple times. Today is a bad day to read it. Today is a bad day. It is just a bad day.
She swallows. Her throat is smaller than it used to be. Her sandwich squishes in her hands. Peanut butter leaks on to her shaking fingers.
She scrubs at the words with a strength she didn’t know she had. It doesn’t matter. They are a part of the door now.
Grace shakes her head. She just needs to reset. That is all. She is fine. She will be fine. The day just isn’t going the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to protest the homec*ming and instead she is eating a mushy sandwich in a bathroom stall.
GRACE CHASITY KILLED HER BROTHER! WHO’S THE SINNER NOW, BITCH?
The words stare at her. They taunt her. They are trapping her.
Grace’s sandwich falls from her hand. It makes a sloppy sound as it lands on the tiles. Peanut butter squirts out of it. She shakes her head again and stumbles out of the stall.
Grace Chasity killed her brother! Who’s the sinner now, bitch?
The tap doesn’t work properly. Cold water barely drips out of the faucet. She wipes the remaining peanut butter off her hands with toilet paper.
Her throat is still tight. Maybe she has gained a peanut allergy? That must be it. She isn’t breathing so that must be it.
Grace crashes back into the bathroom stall. She heaves in horrible breathes that get stuck in her mouth. The air refuses to travel to her lungs. The more she tries the worse it gets.
Her knee lands on her smushed sandwich. Peanut butter infects the denim of her jeans.
She isn’t sure when she crumpled to the ground, but at some point, she did. She is crying too. Maybe if she wasn’t crying it would be easier to breathe.
Grace tries to pray. Her prayer sounds more like pleading. Grace knows that God hates when she begs for help. Grace knows God is not listening to her pleading.
Looking up towards her lord and saviour means looking back towards the capital letters scrawled on the bathroom wall.
I’m sorry God. I’m sorry Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Grace has never skipped a class before. Is dying a good excuse for skipping class?
“Are you okay in there?”
Grace wants to reply. She is too busy crying. Why won’t God listen to her?
Just this once, God let me beg. I’ve been good, so let me beg. I want to be fixed. I don’t want to die. Let me beg. Fix me. God, please. I don’t want to die.
There is a single, cautious knock on the cubicle door. “Should I get someone?”
God, please let me answer. Let me be saved. I’m tired of doing all the saving. Let me be saved, please. I want to be saved. Save me.
A head peaks over the other stall. Ruth Fleming, of all people. Her headgear is balanced precariously on the stall. It squeaks horribly.
“Grace?”
Grace shakes her head. She has to go. It doesn’t matter if she is dying, she has to go. She grabs her bag and stumbles out of the stall. She tries to leave the bathroom, but Ruth’s hands clutch on to her shirt. Grace’s skin burns. What little control she previously had over her breathing has left completely.
Ruth lets go of her shirt. “Grace…” her voice is softer this time. As if she actually cares.
“You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay. You’re okay. Grace, look at me. Look at me.” She has a weird voice. Grace never noticed that before. Her headgear makes her sound funny.
She wants to look. She really does. But her eyes skirt around Ruth’s face. They won’t look in her eyes. It hurts to look in Ruth’s eyes.
Grace hates herself for it. She wishes she was normal.
Grace Chasity killed her brother! Who’s the sinner now, bitch?
“I’m dying,” it flies from her lips in a desperate wheeze. She doesn’t want Ruth to hear that, to know that. But she is scared. She is so gosh dang scared. Maybe you deserve it.
“Grace, you are not dying. You are not dying, I promise. I know you’re not dying.”
“Y-you don’t know. You, you, d-don’t-,”
“I have panic attacks too. You’re not dying.”
Grace has never cut class before. Sitting in Richie Lipshitz’s car with a worn, but comforting blanket wrapped around her, Grace begins to understand why people do.
They go to McDonalds Drive-Thru. Grace doesn’t say a word. She is breathing again. She is fine. She just can’t speak. She doesn’t want to. But also, she can’t. It is not the first time it has happened to her. When she was younger, there were times when she couldn’t speak for weeks on end. She hopes it won’t last that long this time. She doesn’t want her parents to try and banish the devil from her again.
Ruth tries to hand her food (junk food Gracie. Junk food. Junk food is junk and not supposed to be consumed by good girls. It is for bad girls. You’re not a bad girl, are you Gracie?), but Grace has wrapped herself up as tight as she can in the tartan blanket. She gives no indication of freeing her hands to help Ruth.
She knows this is not Ruth’s car. She has seen Richie drive it before. He speeds past her while she pedals tirelessly on her bike. Grace didn’t know Ruth could drive. The only thing she does know about Ruth is that she is a bisexual sex-fiend. Apparently, even bisexual sex-fiends can drive.
Grace has a fleeting thought about Richie and how he is going to get home from school without his car. How did Ruth get his keys anyway?
Ruth must figure out how to hold everything herself, because soon they are parked in the parking lot. Ruth sips on her chocolate milkshake. She took her headgear off to eat. She looks quite pretty without it.
Ruth Fleming is pretty. Grace closes her eyes.
The blanket is tight, but not tight enough. If it was tighter, if there was more pressure, Grace would be better. She knows she would be better. She would be fixed.
A tear slips from Grace’s eye and dampens a patch of the blanket. She is too tired to care.
“I don’t know what to do with you Grace. This isn’t really how I saw my day going,” Ruth says. She takes a bite of her burger. She chews for a minute, swallows and then continues speaking. “I mean, we aren’t really friends or anything, so it isn’t my place to say, but I don’t think you're okay to go back to school. And no offence or anything, but your parents would flip their shit if they saw you like this. I bet they’d think you’re on drugs or something.”
Grace doesn’t reply. Ruth is right, they are not friends. Not that Grace hasn’t tried. She would do anything right about now to have a friend. Her eyes are streaming now. Years of unshed tears flow freely.
Ruth looks at her as if she is a freak. She is a freak. Grace knows that. The worst part of being a freak is knowing you are a freak.
“We can go to my place,” Ruth announces. Grace can’t argue. She doesn’t think she wants to, either.
She doesn’t let go of the blanket. She can’t. it isn’t tight enough. It is supposed to hold her together. It isn’t holding her together.
She trails behind Ruth. Her stairs are wooden. Her shoes squeak against the planks. The sound hurts her teeth.
Ruth takes her shoes off for her. The sound of the Velcro ripping echoes in Ruth’s bedroom. The sound is bad. Grace wants to cry again.
“Grace, you’re worrying me.”
She can’t cry.
-
Sammy was the favourite. Grace didn’t mind. He deserved to be the favourite. He was a good boy who said his prayers every night and volunteered for readings in church. He was only a few minutes older, yet he must have been six years brighter than her. He shared his toys (Grace didn’t). He let Mommy hug him (Grace wouldn’t). He cared about everyone and talked to grown-ups as if he was one too. He helped Grace in Sunday school (sometimes she got stuck on the big words in their beginner's bible. He never mocked her for not understanding. Sometimes she mocked herself though).
Sammy was a good boy. Sammy was a clever boy who skipped a grade in school and still had lots of friends. Sammy was never silly. Sammy always looked twice before crossing the road.
Grace was a naughty girl. Grace was not exceptionally clever. She didn’t skip any grades. She only had one friend. Grace was silly. Grace sometimes got impatient. Grace crossed the road without looking.
Grace crossed the road without looking rather frequently. Sammy always scolded her for it and she would promise to do it next time, but when that next time came around, she would always forget.
Her wrist still aches when it is cold. Her heart still pounds when she crosses the road (never without looking). She never tried to learn how to drive. Her bike is fine.
-
“I didn’t know what else to do! She was freaking out Richie. I don’t care that she’s-. I wasn’t just gonna leave her! Well, what would you have-. Yes, okay. I’m sorry for taking your car. Just walk faster, please. I don’t know what to do with her.”
Grace can hear Ruth’s phone conversation. Ruth thinks she is still asleep. The duvet is heavy on her body. It is perfect. The light shines through her eyelids. She turns her head into the pillow. It smells like Ruth. No, it smells better than Ruth. It smells like Ruth minus the sweat. A sweet scent. Like church on a Friday morning when no one else is there.
“She had like, a panic attack, but then she just shut down. She isn’t even talking. I know! It’s weird. All she does is preach and now she’s asleep. In my bed. No, I’m not-. It’s Grace we are talking about Richie. Grace chastity belt. But she’s in my bed Richard!”
Oh criminy! Grace bolts upright. Not only is she in Ruth’s bed…She is under the covers!
Ruth turns towards her. “I gotta go Richie.”
Grace throws the duvet away from her. She immediately misses the weight.
“You’re milkshake is in the fridge. I can get it for you.”
Grace stops trying to throw herself out of the bed. To tell the truth, she wants to crawl back into the comforting sheets of Ruth Fleming. She blinks, hard. The aggressive squint that Sammy made her stop doing. That’s weird Gracie. People will call you weird if you do that Gracie.
Grace rocks forward on the bed. She isn’t really sure what Ruth means by ‘her milkshake’, but she would like something to drink. Grace nods her head slightly.
Ruth smiles and leaves the room. Grace considers jumping out the window. She considers sprinting down the stairs and out the front door. She lies her head on Ruth’s pillow instead (safely above the sheets).
“I didn’t know what you liked, but I guessed strawberry.” Ruth hands Grace the drink. She sips shyly at the straw.
Her hands curl into a ball. Her thumbs rub against her fingers. She blinks harshly again (You look weird when you do that Gracie. People will think you are weird. I’m only trying to look out for you Gracie).
She wants to thank Ruth. She wants to scream at Ruth. She doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want to be perceived. She sips on the milkshake. Her parents had never let her have McDonalds before. It is nice. Sweet. Sweet like Ruth’s bed sheets. Sweet like Ruth.
Grace feels the bed dip as Ruth sits beside her. “Richie’s coming over to get his car.”
Grace’s lips move. Her mouth forms an ‘o’. The start of the word ‘what’ tries to escape, but can’t. She blinks again. Blinks that stupid blink.
Ruth looks at her with a weird expression on her face.
‘She thinks your weird Gracie. She thinks you’re a freak, Gracie,’ Sammy speaks to her. Sammy has always spoken to her. God and Sammy speak to her and tell her how to live. She needs someone to tell her how to live. After Sammy died, she no longer had someone looking out for her. She no longer had anyone to tell her when she was doing the wrong thing. When she was doing the ‘weird’ thing.
“You remind me of him. I didn’t see that before. But you are really similar to Richie. Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll kill me.”
“Because he thinks I’m weird, right?” Oh. There she goes. Her voice has been discovered. Her voice came back just so it could talk on its own.
“She speaks!” A voice utters from the door. “Ruth, you told me she wasn’t doing that anymore.”
“Hey Richie.”
“Hey Ruthie,” Richie replies while he saunters into the room. “Hi Grace.”
Grace stops rocking. She clenches her fists as hard as she can and she stops her thumbs from moving. Her breath hitches slightly, but she forces it to leave her body as casually as possible. She focuses her gaze on a specific spot on the carpet. She swallows even though her mouth is dry.
“Hello Richard.” A small smile tries its best to defeat the stone wall of her skin. She thinks she succeeds, even if it was just a little bit.
“I’m…I’ll be on my way now,” Grace continues. She does her weird blink again. She clenches her jaw when she realises that she did it. She knows she sounded weird. She isn’t thinking right and her speech is all wrong. But she stands up anyway.
“Thank you for having me, Ruth. I will see you in school tomorrow.”
Ruth stands up too. Grace takes a step backwards. Her back hits the cluttered desk behind her. She inhales sharply and closes her eyes.
She forgot the milkshake was in her hand. She squeezed it too hard, and the lid popped off. Thick, pink dairy pours down her arm. It stains her white shirt and makes her skin feel sticky. The sweet smell is sickly.
She drops the cup. The pale pink liquid slowly seeps from its cardboard prison, staining Ruth’s carpet and wafting an artificial strawberry scent into the room.
“I’m sorry!” Grace blubbers. She slams her body into the floor, knees first.
“I’m so sorry!”
Grace desperately scoops handfuls of strawberry goop back into the cup. It is a futile attempt.
“Grace, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” Ruth says calmly.
The milkshake coats Grace’s fingers. It drips from her hands back onto the carpet. She makes a frustrated sobbing noise and continues to scrape the carpet. Her nails dig into the wet mess. It is an awful sensation. She gags.
“Grace it’s fine! Stop…doing that!” Richie says while pulling her shoulders back.
Her hands are miserably sticky. The right sleeve of her white shirt is now a patchy pink sort of colour. Her vision swims.
Grace stands up. Her hands are shaking, and her face is sombre.
“Grace…don’t go-,” Ruth pleads while reaching for Grace’s sleeve. Richie swats her hand aside, preventing Ruth from stopping Grace.
“Goodbye,” Grace mutters as she practically jogs out the door.
She holds her hands up, like Lady Macbeth. Will they ever be clean?
Her socks slip on the top wooden step. She reaches for the banister, but her dirty hands are too slow, and she falls. Her knees clatter against the wood and her wrist bends incorrectly as it cracks against the stairs. Her arm covers her head, but it hits the floor anyway. She moans in a crumpled ball at the end of Ruth Fleming’s staircase.
“Grace!”
“Oh my God, Ruth, she’s-, fuck, Grace!”
Ruth and Richie bound (carefully) down the stairs. Grace crawls backwards. Her shoes are still upstairs, tucked neatly under Ruth’s bed. Grace gets to her feet, she mumbles something about being fine, ignores a questioned shout from Ruth Fleming’s mother and yanks the front door open. Her socks hit the cement. She can feel Ruth and Richie trailing behind her. They are yelling towards her, but her hearing is fuzzy. A sharp sound penetrates everything else. Like a radio on a lost frequency.
Her steps speed up and soon she is running. Running away from Ruthie and Richie and all of her problems. Running from the graffiti on the bathroom stall and the comments in the school halls. Running from her broken lungs that refused to breathe and running from her broken brain that refuses to understand her peers.
Her frilly socks are slipping down her feet. They scratch against the gravelly ground. Her right wrist throbs horribly. Grace clutches it to her chest, but the pain doesn’t stop pulsating through her bones.
Grace keeps running.
-
Grace was a difficult child. She cried often and threw tantrums. She was specific in what she wore and specific in what she ate. She got frustrated easily and sad often. Grace was an impatient child. She didn’t like waiting for things. Sammy was better at waiting. He waited for Grace to make a mistake and then he would politely correct her with a shake of his head. Silly Gracie. You’ll get it next time Gracie.
Sammy was always heard first. He was listened to first. Grace had to learn how to be heard, something that came so natural to Sammy. The only person who ever truly heard Grace was her Granny.
When Grace was nine years old, her Granny finally let her know that she was being heard.
“You know Grace, Sammy doesn’t always get to win. Sometimes it’s okay for you to win.”
Grace sat on her Granny’s lap, sucking her thumb. Sammy never sucked his thumb. Sammy was never going to get an overbite from doing something as silly as sucking his thumb. Grace could taste orange on her now pruned finger. She had had an orange for lunch.
“Sammy is great. Sammy is a good boy. But Sammy isn’t God. He’s just Sammy.”
“Then why does everyone treat him like he’s better? And why does everyone like him better?” Grace mumbled around her thumb.
Her Granny paused for a moment. That is something Grace loved about her Granny. She was always willing to pause. If she was unsure of her answer, she would consider her thoughts and then reply as best as she could. Grace liked the pause. The pause meant she was getting the truth.
“Sometimes…people treat those that are easier to understand better than more complex people. Just because Sammy is easy, doesn’t mean he is better.”
“Do you think…will people like me more if I was less…hard.”
She had heard her Mommy say it the night before. How she loved Gracie oh so much, but she only wished she wasn’t so hard.
“I like you just the way you are, Grace. Easy isn’t better. It’s just easy.”
-
Grace runs until she is in too much pain to continue. She is in a side of town she doesn’t know very well. The trailer park is around the corner and the edge of the woods is to the left of her. Her wrist aches and her head pounds.
Her feet leave her. She collapses to her already bruised knees. A deep-rooted nausea swirls inside her. A cough turns into a gag which turns into retching. She tastes acid and peanut butter. It burns her throat. She coughs again, her face contorts into something ugly. Her hand is white from grasping the sticks at her feet. She actively looks away from her other hand.
A girl on a bike peddles past her. The bike skids to a stop, gravel spewing from the wheels.
The girl on the bike looks at Grace openly. She is wearing denim dungarees and a yellow flannel shirt over it. Grace knows her face, but she is in too much pain to place it. It is only now that she has stopped running that she truly feels the pain. The skin on the bottom of her feet is raw. Blood spatters her tattered socks. Her throat is hoarse, and the acrid taste of vomit has made a home in her mouth. Grace has never been much of a runner. The sudden burst of exercise makes her want to keel over. But the pain in her wrist is ungodly. It is a dizzying pain that reminds her of Sammy.
“Can…can you help me please?” Grace asks the girl pathetically. She looks younger than Grace. Grace knows she is younger than her. She knows the girl! She does. She definitely does.
The girl on the bike nods her head cautiously. She doesn’t speak. Instead, she jerks her head to indicate that Grace should come closer. Grace does.
“Wrap your good hand around my waist and sit on the seat. I’ll cycle carefully.”
It was how Grace used to ride with Sammy.
Grace does as she is told. Her hurt wrist is squished between her chest and the girl’s back. She starts cycling slowly. At first, they wobble back and forth. Grace has to clamp her eyes closed. She groans quietly. Her cheeks warm with embarrassment.
Grace is sure they are going to fall. She clutches the girl – Hannah! Hannah Foster! She has grown exponentially! – as if her life depends on it. They tip dangerously to the left, before Hannah rights them, and suddenly they are flying through Witchwood forest.
Hannah swerves professionally around tree roots and stray twigs. The wind whips at Grace’s hair. It flows behind her like the river that flows through the forest. Tears stream down her cheeks, but only because she refuses to blink. The forest is too beautiful to miss. Greens and browns and dark reds. Dirt that isn’t dirty, just natural. The air is sharp and cold in the best way possible. The smell is how God intended the earth to smell. It is natural and potent. The different trees loom over them. The bright sun glows through the canopy above, lighting their way with stunning streams of natural light.
Nighthawks twitter above them. They fly and caw and exist.
Grace’s calves ache from holding them above the ground. Her knees pulsate from whacking them against the stairs. Her head hurts and her wrist screams. Low branches scratch her exposed ankles. She doesn’t mind too much.
She isn’t quite sure who laughs first, but soon Hannah’s youthful giggle intermingles with Grace’s slightly unhinged cackle.
She can feel every bone in her body; every muscle etched onto those bones; every inch of skin coating those muscles. All of her nerves are exposed. Pain and the pleasure of simply being mingle all the way to her very core. She feels sick in her tummy. It’s a mix of happy sick and horrible nausea. She might vomit or maybe she’ll just laugh some more.
They cycle through a muddy patch, and it splashes onto her jeans. Usually, she would yelp. Usually, her day would be ruined. She laughs.
Laughing hurts.
Hannah turns sharply, causing Grace to wobble on the seat. They cycle out of the woods. The bright sun shines directly into Grace’s teary eyes. She closes them and leans her face into Hannah’s back. Her shirt smells like lemons.
They leave the ground completely for at least two seconds (so much for Hannah’s careful cycling), but Grace simply keeps her face squished into Hannah’s shirt.
-
Grace learned how to ride a bike when she was eleven. She was a slow learner. Sammy learned when he was five.
Grace tried to learn when she was five. She almost succeeded as well. The training wheels were removed and her feet moved the right way. The bike moved too.
She was wobbly at first, but when she finally got the bike going, she was elated. In her very short life, Grace had never felt so free. Five years of suppression; five years of church and family dinners and smiles that she was trying really hard to get right (they were never right), just disappeared. Grace was free. She was free! Her little legs with her little knees bending only a little bit on her too big bike ached with the effort she was putting in them. Her face scrunched up so tightly, she no longer looked like a five-year-old girl, instead an eighty-year-old man. Grace pumped her legs harder and started to feel the wind on her face.
“Mommy! Mommy! I’m doing it!” she yelled. They were still cheering for Sammy.
“Mommy, look!” she tried again. “Daddy, Granny, look, I’m doing it! Are you looking?”
Grace turned her head behind her. They were clapping alright, but they had not even glanced in her direction. Daddy, Mommy and Granny, all standing in a line clapping for Sammy. Sammy was turning his bicycle. He was doing loops and he was going so fast! He wasn’t even sitting on his seat anymore! He was standing on the peddles and howling into the air. Her parents were laughing. Sammy always made them laugh.
Grace crashed into the neighbour’s wall. Her front wheel skidded, and she was thrown to the ground. Her daddy was still cheering. Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!
Grace watched the clouds change in the sky above her. The fluffy, white cloud that looked like a turtle was flying faster than all the other ones. Grace tried to laugh at the irony (she didn’t quite understand the concept of irony yet, however she knew that this was funny and deserved to be laughed at), but her throat was dry and nothing came out. Her helmet leant against the pavement, and it dug uncomfortably into the base of her skull. It hurt almost as much as her arm.
She turned her head to the side. It flopped ungracefully and her ear throbbed against the plastic of her pink helmet.
Her arm was all wiggly. She couldn’t move her fingers. She couldn’t even feel them. She couldn’t really feel anything. But her right wrist was not supposed to look like that.
“Daddy?” she whispered.
“Yes, Sammy! Good job Sammy! You’re doing great!”
Then all of a sudden, she could feel it. Her wrist hurt. More than anything had ever hurt.
“Mommy?” her voice cracked and a tear slipped down her cheek and into her throbbing ear. Her Mommy was laughing. Sammy must have done something funny again.
Grace cried. Tears poured into her ear and silent sobs moved her body. Each movement made her arm hurt more which caused her to cry more which caused the pain to hurt more.
“Gracie, look at Sammy, he’s doing brilliantly!” her mother exclaimed.
Grace’s sobs stopped being silent. Her voice was hoarse and desperate and still it meant nothing.
Grace wheezed. Her young face, round with baby fat, compressed into a face of innocent distress. She cried and wheezed and tried her best to cry louder.
The clouds were still moving. Flying by too quickly. Maybe she could join them. Fly above everything else. Observe and not live. A painless life full of beauty. She could fly that quickly. She was going quickly on her bike. She was fast. Fast and free.
“Gracie!”
The clouds were so quick. Her eyes couldn’t keep up. She blinked heavily. The white clouds were becoming grey clouds. The pavement was cold. Her ear was warm.
“Gracie! Mommy, she’s hurt real bad!”
That’s Sammy’s voice. Sammy’s voice. But Grace couldn’t see Sammy. She could only see the turtle in the sky, flying away.
Grace didn’t try to cycle for another six years. Her parents sold her bike. Her Daddy would clap her on the back and tell her that everyone learns in their own time; but Grace could see the disappointment in his eyes. Every time she looked at Sammy’s bike, she would remember how itchy her cast was. She would remember the blank canvas that barely any one signed.
Sammy signed it in his tiny letters that were incredibly neat despite his young age. You couldn’t see it unless Grace spun her wrist all the way around. Daddy, Mommy and Granny offered to sign it, but the idea made her cheeks redden. She didn’t want to tell them that it would be embarrassing. She did not want to hurt their feelings. So, Grace did a very naughty thing and she lied. She told them that she liked having it empty. That was a lie. The emptiness was a sign of her loneliness. No five-year-old should be lonely.
Stephanie Lauter signed it the day before it got removed. She cornered Grace during recess.
Grace was alone for most of kindergarten. Her teacher liked her. That was about it. Grace would sit under a tree and watch and think. She tried to read the bible (Mommy would be so proud if she just able to read one passage), but the words were too difficult. So instead, she sat and stewed in her own thoughts.
Stephanie Lauter loomed over these thoughts. Stephanie Lauter had pretty hair. Pretty hair and fun clothes.
Sometimes she would spend a whole recess thinking about her. Well, thoughts of cartoons and school lessons would interject the Stephanie Lauter thoughts. But almost a whole recess, thinking about just one person? That’s crazy!
Stephanie Lauter never laughed at her when she fell or when she read a word wrong. Stephanie Lauter made sure she was included when they worked in groups. Stephanie Lauter knew her as more than Sammy Chasity’s sister.
“Grace!” Stephanie yelled while throwing herself beside her. She was sitting beside her. Under Grace’s tree.
“Hello Stephanie Lauter.”
“Your cast has nothing on it. It’s empty and boring. When my cousin broke his arm, lots of people wrote their names on it.”
Grace swallowed. Her lip jut out indignantly from her chin. “I…it’s not empty. Sammy signed it,” she whispered. Grace tried to turn her cast to let her see, but Stephanie wasn’t looking. “I’m-, I’m getting it taken off tomorrow anyway.”
Something Grace did not know, was that Stephanie Lauter had wanted to sign this cast, for weeks. She was trying to perfect her letters first. Every night she would scribble S T E P H, over and over again. She started with her whole name, but the longer the word was, the messier her writing got.
“Well, you can have one day with my name then.”
Grace whipped her head around. Her mouth opened widely, and she stared at Stephanie. “You want to sign, my cast?” she asked shyly, shock laced in each syllable.
“I took my dad’s marker. I’ll do it now.”
Grace didn’t know what to do. She didn’t move.
Stephanie took things into her own hands. She placed her hands on both of Grace’s shoulders and shoved her onto the ground. Stephanie physically loomed over her now. Grace could feel Stephanie’s breath on her cheeks.
Stephanie held Grace down with one hand on her left shoulder. Her other hand was focused on writing S T E P H in the biggest letters she could manage.
Grace didn’t sleep very well that night. She stared at her arm, begging her eyes to stay open. She tried to imprint the image of S T E P H into her mind. When the mind imprinting didn’t work, she snuck out of her bed, tip-toed past Sammy and slipped into the kitchen. She dug through four drawers before finding her Daddy’s polaroid camera. She took the picture and ran upstairs with it before it could develop.
She cried when they removed the cast. The saw was loud and the room was getting smelly. It cut right through Steph’s name.
While her Granny carefully scrubbed her frail wrist in the bath that night, Grace concluded that cars were better than bicycles anyway.
Grace didn’t try to ride a bicycle again until she was eleven years old, and Sammy was dead.
-
Hannah cycles through the whole trailer park. They stop near the back, next to a decrepit mobile home with bordered up windows. She helps Grace off the bike and guides her silently inside.
“Lexie?” she calls out as they enter the doorway.
Grace sits on the sofa. She closes her eyes. The bike ride was nice. Grace has never had a nice bike ride before. She cycled out of necessity. Grace did not want to learn how to drive. She had more control on her bike. She had control, not joy. Not elation. Not freedom.
Riding the bike with Hannah felt like freedom. But now that she was off it, all she felt was pain.
“Banana, is that you? Ethan’s on his way, he’s gonna bring me to work. I’ll make you a sandwich before I go and Ethan’s gonna drop you to Mr. Housten’s for dinner and then when we get home-,” Lex continues her one-sided conversation as she enters the room. She is wearing a toy zone uniform and trying to tie her shoes as she walks.
“When we get home, we’ll have to clean up a bit because I think Duke is coming tomorrow and-,”
“Lexie,” Hannah says.
“Pamela is still awol so we’re on our own for the social worker visit. Don’t worry it’ll be fine Banana,”
“Lexie,” Hannah tries again. This time, Lex looks her way. She is wearing a yellow beanie that has fallen halfway down her forehead. A granola bar hangs from her mouth and her hands struggle to tie her shoes.
“Banana, what did I say about bringing in strays,” she sighs, clearly exasperated. A smile plays on the corners of her lips.
Grace feels like a stray. She probably looks like one too. Her jeans are stained in multiple places. Peanut butter surrounds her left knee. Dried mud cakes the bottom third of her pant-legs. The seam has begun to unravel, and stringy threads of denim lay precariously on her once white sock. Said socks are useless pieces of cotton now. The little bit of fabric that remains on the bottom half of them are brown and red, a mix of dirt and blood. One sleeve of her blouse is stiff and pink. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind and her lips are cracked from the dry air. Her hand is actually flopping into her chest, where she cradles it.
Lex plucks the granola bar (still in its wrapper) out of her mouth and drops it on the rickety kitchen table. She gives up on tying her left shoe and instead wraps Hannah in her arms.
Hannah stays in the hug. Her head fits so perfectly on Lex’s chest. Grace can’t help but imagine them being her and Sammy. Sammy would be at least as tall Lex, probably much taller. And he used to take care of Grace. He was so good at that. Whenever she got upset, he would hold her and tell her it was alright. She wants him to hold her and tell her it will be alright.
Lex hugs Hannah tightly, but her eyes never leave Grace.
“Grace fuckin’ Chastity? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Grace winces at the foul language used. “I-,” she starts to say. Nothing else comes out.
Tears are pooling in her eyes again. She hates crying. She never cries. She has cried more in the last six hours than in the last six years.
“She’s hurt,” Hannah whispers.
“Why is that our problem?” Lex whispers back, not nearly as quiet as she should have been.
“Lexie.”
Sometimes Grace forgets that Alexandra Foster is the same age as her. She dropped out two years prior and had never been in any of Grace’s high school classes anyway (other than wood shop – and Grace hated shop. What a senselessly dangerous class).
Lex appears so much older. Sure, she isn’t totally organised, but she seems so grown. She has a fashion sense that fits her personality and a home that she can be herself in. Not that Grace isn’t herself at home or anything. She just thinks Lex’s jacket is cool. That is all.
Lex is cool. Effortlessly cool. Like Stephanie Lauter.
“Her arm is all wiggly.”
Grace had not truly looked at her arm. Her eyes automatically turn towards it after Hannah speaks.
“Oh heck. Oh, hecking heck!”
“Fall of your bike again, Chastity?” Lex asks.
“What?”
“In kindergarten. You broke your arm falling off your bike, right?” Lex says casually. Like it is such a casual thing to remember a detail about Grace’s life from over a decade ago.
“Yeah. You remember that?” Pain shoots up her arm and she grimaces while speaking. The room is fuzzy. She leans back and lets the couch absorb her.
Lex shrugs in response. “Okay, new plan. Ethan is on his way; he can bring you and Hannah to Mr. Houston’s house. His girlfriend is a nurse. I’m sure she’ll know what to do.”
Lex cautiously places a hand on Grace’s knee. “You’ll be fine Grace. Do you want aspirin or something?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
Lex glares at her. “Hannah, can you get Grace some water and an aspirin. Dude, you look like you’re about to faint.”
Lex awkwardly sits next to Grace. “Is this the third time you’ve broken that arm?”
“We don’t know that it’s broken,” Grace says. She wheezes slightly while exhaling.
“Grace, I’m no doctor, but that shit is broken. And purple, Jesus Christ,” Lex turns her body towards Grace and gently places the wrist into her hand. Despite the care Lex handles her arm with, Grace feels the blood rush from her head and the room start to spin. What is left of her peanut butter sandwich comes halfway up her throat. She yelps pitifully. Like a dog. Her cheeks grow warm.
“Jesus Grace, what the hell happened?” Lex asks softly. Grace has never heard her speak so softly before. Lex has never struck Grace as a soft-spoken girl.
“How d’you know I’ve broken it before?” Grace mumbles.
There is an awkward silence for a moment. Hannah returns with a glass of water and a small white pill. Grace does as she is told and swallows the pill. It is chalky and leaves a yucky residue in her mouth. She sips at the water. The sip turns into a gulp. Half the water spills down her chin, soaking her blue sweater vest. She had not realised how thirsty she was until water was placed in front of her. Her throat is raw, and the water soothes it. She only stops drinking when Lex takes the glass away from her. She drank most of what was in the glass, but her thirst is still here. It is unquenchable. An unquenchable thirst that will never leave no matter how much water she drinks.
Hannah silently leaves. She closes the front door gently behind her.
“Well…everyone knows about the second time.”
Grace closes her eyes.
“And I was there the first time.”
She opens them again. “What? No, you weren’t.”
Lex laughs. Loudly and uncaringly. She smiles after. Her smile is beautiful. Gentle and real. Reserved only for the people she cares about. And Grace.
“Uh, yeah, I was. I was over on a play date with Sa-, I was on a play date. You crashed into that wall, no one fuckin’ noticed,”
Grace frowns at her bluntness.
“Until eventually…someone did and then-,”
“You can say his name,” Grace interrupts. She is remembering it now. Lex is right. She was there. She was taking turns riding Sammy’s bike. Her parents were teaching Lex too.
They taught Lex how to ride a bike but couldn’t even watch their own kid long enough to see her fall. They picked a stranger’s daughter over you, Gracie. They like her better than you, Gracie.
Lex’s stoic face quivers. She adjusts her posture, clears her throat and continues. “Sam noticed. So, uh, he went over to you and got your mom and yeah…”
“I forgot you were there.”
“I was there a lot, Grace.”
“I forgot about that too,” she admits quietly.
It is not so much that she forgot Lex was around. It is more that she chose not to remember. Not to think. Her memories are cloudy, and the cloud lies heavily over Lex Foster, obscuring her from Graces life.
Lex grabs Grace’s good hand. She silently squeezes it. “I’m sorry. Today must be hard for you.”
The corner of Grace’s mouth trembles. Lex was there. Lex remembers.
Grace crumbles.
“I forgot you were there Lexie,” she sobs. Lex stops trying to be stoic. She stops trying to be brave. She puts her cool girl aesthetic aside and lets Grace cling to her like she is a lifeboat.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there after. I’m sorry, Grace. I’m so sorry.” The crack in Lex’s voice is enough to crack whatever remaining pride Grace had.
“Don’t let go. Please don’t let go,” she begs.
She is drowning. She has been drowning since she was eleven and has desperately been treading water ever since to try and keep afloat. Even when the waters are calm, she has to keep her arms moving and she is so tired. Her arms ache and her body protests at every second. Her brain begs her to just drown. Just drown it will be easier.
When the waters aren’t calm Grace has to fight even harder. Her head barely stays above the surface and sometimes it slips under. But then she fights harder and somehow, against all the odds, she drags herself up. Some days her parents are drowning too. They don’t help her. She has to help them. She holds them and lets them breathe and she sinks further and further until the idea of not drowning feels impossible.
Grace has never had a lifeboat. She has never had a person to hold her. To help her. To bare some of the pressure. To hold off the waves of misery. To hold her above the water, even for a second.
Lex holds her tighter. She holds her like Sammy could have.
“He was my best friend, Grace.”
“I know. How did I forget that? Why didn’t I remember you being there?” Her questions sound desperate and pathetic.
Grace moves back and forth. Lex moves with her, rocking her gently. Not judging her. Lex might have a hard exterior shell, but her insides are soft. She rocks Grace like she would rock Hannah.
Her lips slip into a sad smile. “Because I wasn’t there for you. I was there for Sam. He was my best friend, Grace. And then he died. Maybe he wouldn’t have been my best friend for much longer. Maybe he would have been my best friend forever. Who knows? But when I was a kid, he was my best friend. I wasn’t there for you. I guess I just assumed someone else would be.”
Grace cries childishly. Her face scrunches up and the sound is coming from somewhere that has been untouched for years. A five-year-old with a broken arm crying because no one noticed. It is deep and raw, and Grace can’t stop it. She tries to put up a dam. She tries to block the sounds slipping out. Her breath hitches over and over again. She isn’t breathing and the only way to breathe is to cry with each breath, so she does. She tastes salt and pain. She is a puddle, melting into nothing. Lex’s arms are the only thing keeping her together.
“I’m s-sorry,” Grace stutters. “I’m so sorry.”
Lex’s head crashes into Graces. Their foreheads touch. Lex holds Graces head against hers with an iron tight grip.
“Chastity, if you take one thing from this conversation it better be this: Sam died, because people fucking die. Not because you were a child acting like a child.”
Lex’s nose rubs against Grace’s nose. Their foreheads become one. Sweat and oil sticks them to one another. It is messy and Grace is pretty sure snot is streaming from her nose like tears are streaming from her eyes, but it is working. It is grounding her. Lex is the lifeboat she has been begging for her entire life.
God doesn’t listen when you beg.
Lex has one hand against the back of Grace’s head, forcing their proximity. Her other hand is on Graces back. She can feel each breath Lex takes. Grace tries her best to copy it.
“God tried to take me away and Sammy didn’t let him. He should have let God take me,” Grace whispers so quietly it is as if she didn’t say a word. Maybe God didn’t hear. Maybe she was quiet enough for God to ignore what she said. He has ignored her before. Maybe he didn’t hear.
Lex heard.
“Grace-,”
A voice outside interrupts their conversation.
“What’s shakin’ Banana?”
“Ethan, wait,” Hannah begins to explain.
Ethan Greene slams the front door open. Lex moved her head from Grace’s so quickly, Grace loses her balance, and she slips backwards into to abyss of Lex Fosters couch.
“Change of plans, Ethan.”
-
The bullying of Grace Chasity began with exclusion. Her middle school years were lonely and full of a mix of self-loathing and anxiety. Nobody talked to her. They avoided her.
In high school, the childish rumours that began the cruel exclusion of Grace Chasity had been forgotten. However, the general contempt that lingers on a subject poisoned by exclusion was still present, despite the new building. High school was no different.
Stage two of the bullying of Grace Chasity included but was not limited to: crude words, cruel actions, mockery, sexual innuendos, blasphemous behaviour and on a rarer occasion, violence.
The bullying of Grace Chasity did not bother Grace Chasity nearly as much as it should have. That is why it continued. Guilt did not have to be felt if they were not harming her. The truth is, Grace didn’t mind the bullying until one particular incident during stage two, in Mr. Houston’s class.
Grace had mixed feelings about Tom Houston. She very quickly had to learn to separate him as a teacher and a person. As a teacher, she had a strong distaste for the man. She didn’t like wood shop and she didn’t like how easy it was to get an A. It was objectively the easiest class to get an A in, yet Grace (despite all of her efforts) could not get one. Max Jagerman even got an A! And Grace tried.
Truth be told, the machines scared her a little bit. They were loud. The electric saw sounded like getting her cast cut off (the second time. The second time was so much worse) and the constant clanging of the other machines were like engines.
Grace had never been great with loud noises, something that the jocks of school found out much too early in her high school career.
Fifteen-year-old Grace had thrown her heart and soul into the church. She prayed day and night and preached afternoon and evening. She tried to save those around her even if they didn’t want to be saved. She prayed for others more than she prayed for herself (praying for yourself sometimes seems like begging and God doesn’t like it when you beg, Gracie).
She gave herself paper cuts from consuming Christian literature. Her knees were a constant shade of purple from kneeling on the hard wood floors and praying in a way that was no longer comforting.
At eleven, God was Grace’s friend because no one else wanted to be. Now, he was her ruler.
Grace tried to make a cross in wood shop. Despite the horrible grating noises, she did her best. It turned our quite well. Grace liked the protective head gear they got to wear while in the room. She sometimes wished she could wear them outside the room.
Someone snatched the headphones off her head. A boy in a Letterman’s jacket. He threw it to another boy. They were throwing it around like a ball. The sudden infiltration of sounds made her want to die.
Mr. Houston was outside the classroom talking to Lex Foster about something.
The jocks noticed. They noticed how much it hurt her. They noticed her misery and they basked in it.
Stephanie Lauter watched. She did nothing.
It was Max Jagerman who snatched them back and placed them gently over her ears with a whispered apology.
The wooden cross cracked along with Grace’s resolve. The big, jagged line ran through all of her efforts.
Grace fell to her knees. It was an automatic gesture. She prayed.
“I’m sorry God. I tried. I’m so sorry.”
“Hear that God, she’s sorry,” Steph mimicked. People were watching now. Watching and snickering as Grace Chasity prayed for forgiveness. She was not completely sure what she wanted forgiveness for. For breaking the cross? For freaking out?
Steph looked down at Grace. Her standing position gave her the high ground. They were in the middle of the classroom. They were an exhibit to be watched. A horseshoe of people surrounded them. Steph looked her right in her teary eyes.
Grace saw the regret forming in Steph. She saw her eye flinch, her lip quiver, her body squirm.
“You just had to join in, didn’t you Stephie?” Grace whispered. Her ears were ringing beneath the protective head gear. “You always have to join in.”
“Chastity on her knees. Somebody take advantage while they can!” a male voice yelled. He was just one of the many boys yelling random insults.
Steph heard it too. Her eyes grew wider and then as small as they had ever been. She looked poisonous.
Grace slowly rose from her knees. Steph was arguing with someone. Max Jagerman was shoving someone against a wall.
Grace pushed through the crowd. The crowd had morphed into something else. Cheers and war cries echoed in the room. No one was working on their projects anymore. Somehow, everyone was involved.
Grace ran. She ran with the protective headphones sitting on her ears. She shoved past Steph, ignoring the stupid worried look on her face. Steph didn’t care. Steph never cared.
She opened the door and ran directly into Mr. Houston. He saw her distraught face. He saw the fight beginning behind her. He pushed past her.
Lex Foster followed Mr. Houston.
Grace left the broken cross behind and never attended a wood shop class again.
Leaving wood shop didn’t fix anything. It was too late. She was easy prey.
Kyle threw her books on the floor and laughed when she jumped at the noise. Brendan slammed her locker shut and scuttled away when Grace collapsed to the ground in shock. Six different boys jumped out at her with their ears covered, mocking her ruthlessly.
She covered her ears and ran to God. God was her solace. God was her friend. God was her master. God would protect her.
The football players prowled the halls, throwing their ball past Grace’s head. Mocking her actions. Shoving their hands into their ears. Pretending to cry. Grace was not crying.
God is my solace. God is my friend. God is my master. God will protect me.
They mocked her voice and mocked her body and mocked her and mocked her and mocked her and mocked her loudly. So loud it hurt her ears.
God is my solace. God is my friend. God is my master. God will protect me.
Like God protected Sammy?
Grace clamped her eyes closed, shoved her hands harder against her ears and let the torment continue.
The bullying that would continue through high school (and only get slightly better when Max Jagerman decided she was desirable enough to gain immunity), stemmed from wood shop with Mr. Houston. He never stopped it.
But Tom Houston went to church on Sundays with his son Tim. That is how she got her first job.
Although she was in the midst of a one-sided feud with Mr. Houston in school; he had no idea about their ongoing battle. Nor would he care if he did know. He needed a babysitter and Grace (secretly) wanted a source of income.
Grace needed more than just an income. She needed an activity to keep her busy. The weekends were lonely in Chasity household. Besides church and prayer, there was not much else in Grace’s life. And Tim was a nice boy, who needed a good influence. Grace could be that good influence.
Babysitting Tim was easy. He made it easy. He listened to Grace. They played outside together, and they read together. She would let him play his video games if he did an hour of bible study with her. He sometimes voluntarily did an hour and a half. Tim was a good boy.
Tim would not grow up to shove through a distraught fifteen-year-old to stop a fight. Tim would grow up to ban wood shop and to help crying girls and Tim would never be one of those boys who throw her books or slam her locker or say nasty sexual things about her. Tim was a good boy and he would grow up to be a good man.
Grace could not say the same about his father.
-
Mr. Houston’s house is bigger than her old house but smaller than her current house. The front door is bright red, matching his flashy car.
Lex opens the door without knocking.
“Mr. Houston, it’s Lex,” she calls while they all shuffle into the hallway.
Inside, the furniture is mismatched, but homey. A photograph of a young blonde boy, smiling widely sits on a dresser in the hall. Tim. Tim is a nice boy. Tim is a nice eleven-year-old boy who will always look before he crosses the road because if he has learned anything from Grace being his babysitter it is to look before crossing the dang road.
Grace leans backwards towards the front door. Lex’s hand lands on her shoulder. Grace jumps and inhales sharply.
“I think I’m okay. I think I should just go home,” Grace mumbles.
“Do you want to go home?” Lex asks. She asks the question, but she pushes Grace forward slightly, encouraging her to move further into the Houston’s home.
What would her parents think? She skipped school, she went to Ruth Flemings house (Mommy thinks the Fleming’s are devilish), she slept under Ruth’s covers…sure they were valid problems that her parents would be upset with, but the main issue Grace had with going home was a deep-rooted anxiety. A living anxiety, swirling horribly in her stomach. A heavy dread that made her want to vomit. Thinking about going home caused her breathing to stutter and her heart to hammer so loudly that Grace was sure it would go flying out of her chest and splatter blood all over the Houston’s house and all over the happy blonde boy in his picture and-
“Grace?” Lex asks gently.
Her biggest fear is that the anxiety would eat all her insides and she would return to her house as a shell of a person, and her parents would not even notice. Especially today. What if she goes home and they don’t even notice she is hurt? What if they don’t even see her? What if they don’t care?
“Grace?”
Grace heaves in deeply. It is loud and ugly and Hannah and Lex and Ethan are looking at her like she is a freak. Because she is a freak. But it worked. She is breathing again. Right? She’s breathing?
“Do it again Grace. A big breath again,” Lex asks her softly. “Do it again.”
Grace is guided past the hall and into the living room. A big green couch is in the centre of the room. A knitted rug covers the wooden floorboards and the blonde boy from the picture sits on it playing a video game on his Nintendo switch.
“Lex, I thought you were working today. And I thought you weren’t coming till later anyway-,” Tom Houston says as he enters the living room from the kitchen.
“Yes, I am working today. I’m going now. Is Becky here? Grace needs help. You know Grace, right?”
“Gracie!” Tim exclaims. He places his switch on the ground and stands up to greet her.
Grace feels dizzy. Like she stood up too fast, only she has been standing for quite some time. The colours in the room are mixing all together and the pain in her body are mingling too. It is only now, as she stares at her feet, she realises that she still has no shoes. Dried blood coats the tattered remains of her socks.
“Becky is in work. Of course, I know Grace. What’s uh, what’s going on Grace,” he asks awkwardly. He scratches the back of his neck and grimaces while speaking to her.
Grace blinks heavily. Her arm hurts worse than ever. It pulsates ferociously and her head pounds and her feet hurt and her knees hurt and everything needs to stop. Everything needs to just stop.
“She’s hurt,” Hannah supplies casually.
It needs to stop. Someone make it stop. She needs to close her eyes, to blink, to let it all be over, please. Please, God, are you even listening? Make it stop.
The last thing she remembers before everything finally does stop is Tim asking if she is okay. Tim will grow up to be a good boy who looks twice before crossing the road.
-
The hospital lights are as bright as last time. Grace holds her good hand up against it.
“Grace, we’ve called your parents. They’re on their way,” a voice tells her. The light blocks her face. She sounds kind though.
Grace moans pathetically. She closes her eyes and turns her face into the woeful, flat piece of foam someone has declared a pillow.
She is confused above all else. The ‘pillow’ smells clean in a horrible way. The light tears through her retinas, even with her face pressed into the plasticky bed. Something is sticking into her arm and someone is prodding at her other arm.
There is a rhythmic beeping playing somewhere behind her. It should be annoying. It is hypnotic.
“Grace, do you need anything?” that nice voice speaks again. Grace smiles at the voice but frowns at the implication. It is an interesting flip-flop of facial expressions. She tries to speak but finds that her voice has disappeared again.
Did she say her parents are coming? Did the nice lady say that? Karen Chasity and all her wrath storming the halls of St. Damiens –
St Damiens!
Grace bolts upright in the bed. Her eyes burst open and immediately grow watery from the influx of light. She tries to raise her hand to block it, but her right one is heavy and when she moves her left one, something pulls at the skin in her arm.
People mill about, hustling and bustling. Their business radiates off them.
“Grace, can you talk to me for a second?” the nice lady asks. Grace glances towards her. Light bounces from her perfect red hair. Red hair that has to be from a Pantene commercial or something. They don’t make hair that perfect that beautiful, naturally. God doesn’t do that-
Of course God does that! What are you thinking Gracie?
Grace is thinking about Becky Barnes’ luscious locks of hair. How soft they must be. How vibrant they are. How beautiful it is. How beautiful she is.
“Grace?”
Grace blinks. Her stupid, heavy blink. She nods her head enthusiastically. Maybe Becky will move her head too. Maybe her hair will flow like a river if she moves her head.
“Okay. We need to get you into surgery for your arm. Since you’re eighteen, you can give us permission by signing these few forms. We’ve given you an IV to keep you hydrated and-,”
“Why are you my nurse? I thought you were a paediatric nurse?” Grace asks softly. She didn’t mean to interrupt. But staring into Becky Barnes’ perfect blue eyes was too much, so she switched to staring at her perfect lips. They transfixed her. The little movements. The slight smile. The light colour. The way they crinkled in the corners. Grace had to make them stop moving. She had to make Becky stop talking.
Becky smiles. Her smile is wide. Wide and pure.
“I’m not supposed to be your nurse. Tom asked me to check in on you.” Becky pauses. She licks her lips (Grace is satiated by the trail of her tongue across her bottom lip. Her unquenchable thirst is briefly quenched. She has a moment of bliss in a lifetime of sorrow. A venom for herself begins to grow inside her. A place that used to be so pure is rotting. She can taste the rotting of her soul. She swallows the fermented taste and despite all of her efforts, enjoys Becky’s sensuous lips).
If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.
“Grace,” Becky starts again gently. “You came here with no shoes. And your socks are a little, tattered. Like you walked in them for a while. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
At the mention of her socks, Grace realises she is no longer wearing them. Instead, bright blue socks with white grippy lines cover her feet.
Grace forces her eyes away from Becky Barnes and her tempestuous lips. It is only now that she notices how groggy she feels. Like she is under a watery film of something.
“I don’t…am I on drugs?” Grace whispers fearfully.
Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you have been bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body.
“I need to…to glorify God. And I’m-,”
“Grace, we just gave you some pain medication. You were in a lot of pain. Nothing…sinful.”
Grace nods her head cautiously. She has been ignoring God’s word all day. Her best friend. A brief, but painful pang spasms in her heart. She is not sure if it is because of her sinning or because God is her best friend. Her only friend.
“My shoes are in Ruth Flemings home,” Grace says.
Becky gently takes Grace’s hand into her own. Her skin is soft. The beeping noise speeds up. Grace barely notices.
“I…I fell down her stairs. That’s what happened to my arm.”
“I know Grace. Ruth and Richie were here hours ago looking for you. They were very worried.”
Grace furrows her eyebrows. “Worried. About what?”
She can see the disappointment expel in waves from Becky. “About you, Grace. Why did you run off when you got hurt?”
Grace tries not to get angry about being tricked. If Becky Barnes knew all of these answers, then why the hecking heck did Grace have to tell the story!?
“I was already running away. I fell in the process,” she mumbles. Her cheeks immediately heat up. The feeling of her warm cheeks embarrasses her further and she forces her eyes away from Becky’s face. Beautiful Becky Barnes doesn’t want to look at her or her flaming red face. It is an ugly red. Not like her hair. Becky’s hair is a beautiful red. Red like roses. Grace feels like fire. Fire in the pits of hell. She is burning for her sins.
“Grace,” Becky begins. She releases Grace’s hand. Grace can see Becky in her peripheral vison, messing with an IV bag. “I want you to know that Tom and I, and Tim too…we can help if you need it. If you ever need a place to go…if anything is happening-,”
“Nothing is happening!” Grace shouts. A male nurse glances towards them. Becky gives him a thumbs up. Eyes from multiple people fixate on her. She shrinks. All of the broken pieces of Grace Chasity slide inwards, colliding with one another. They are still watching her. Someone whispers her name as a question to a different person.
All of a sudden, she is in school again. Whispers in the hallways. Chasity? Is that Grace Chasity? The Chasity’s kid? What’s that preacher doin’ here?
Grace squirms backwards until her hip hits the plastic headboard of the bed.
Becky slides the blue curtain closed.
“It’s just us Grace,” she says. She half-sits on the bed. “I just want to help you. In any way I can. You’re a good kid Grace. And people care about you.”
Becky places her hand back into Grace’s.
“Who?”
Becky’s face drops.
Grace is about to apologise for causing such a miserable shift in the atmosphere, when she hears something that causes her hand to contract in Becky’s. Her eyes widen and her posture straightens. She subconsciously moves her injured arm behind her, hiding the damage.
“Where is she? Gracie?”
Grace closes her eyes and enjoys her final moments of peace. She squeezes Becky’s hand again. Becky squeezes back.
Karen and Mark Chasity burst through the curtain.
-
The surgery goes well. Metal screws have been drilled into her bone.
Her left knee is swollen and her feet are awkwardly and uselessly bandaged. The tiny cuts mean nothing to her.
She is silent in the car on the drive home. It is dark outside. Her parents are silent too. This was their day, and she ruined it. What kind of daughter is she? How could she have ever thought she was a good girl?
The glow of the streetlamps warms the car in flashing spurts of light. Grace savours the light passages. For a few seconds she bathes in the orange glow. The glow disappears and they are back to darkness and silence.
She is tired. More tired than she has ever been. Today has felt like years. The longest day of her life, yet it ends with her in the exact same position as before: driving home from the hospital in desolate silence. Broken and bruised in all the same places. Sitting in the same seat; staring at the same empty seat. Seven years on and nothing has changed.
The orange glow of the streetlamp shines through her bedroom window. Grace is tired. So tired. She has been tired for years. She lies awake, staring at her ceiling. Her right arm is heavy. The cast is empty, just like before. It is a pristine white.
She has never felt less pristine.
-
Lex Foster is tired. She lies awake in her twin bed, listening to Hannah’s heavy breathing. Her usual guilt differs today. Hannah is alive and well. Pamela is nowhere to be seen. Ethan is happy. She feels little to no guilt to do with any of them. Grace Chasity plagues her thoughts. Grace Chasity’s tears and Grace Chasity’s pleas.
Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.
Lex turns from her side on to her back. She stares at the ceiling. Water damage creeps from the left corner.
God tried to take me away and Sammy didn’t let him. He should have let God take me.
Sammy. Sam. Samuel Chasity. Lex smiles subconsciously.
Lex met Sam in kindergarten. He shared his lunch with her. They were an unlikely duo that can only form at five years old. She loved Sam like a brother.
For a while, she was a part of a family. Lex and Sammy, and on occasion, Stephanie and Grace. Usually they played in pairs, but when the four of them played together, it was perfection in a time of imperfection.
Lex chews on her lip.
“Fuck,” she whispers. She leaves her shared bedroom as quietly as possible.
On the front step, wrapped in Ethan’s leather jacket and smoking a cigarette, Lex allows herself to feel the guilt swarming inside her. She holds her phone and contemplates.
-
Stephanie Lauter is tired. She lies awake in her queen-sized bed, scrolling through her phone. The blue light will surely keep her awake for hours longer in spite of her fatigue. She scrolls absentmindedly, until her phone begins to vibrate.
Stephanie hesitates. She has absolutely no idea who would be calling her at this time, but something pulls her to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Do you ever feel guilty?”
“What? Who is this?”
“Lex. Alexandra Foster.” The answer comes with its usual sarcastic flare. Steph can practically feel the eye roll.
“Why the hell do you have my number?”
“Why the hell did you delete mine!?” Lex retaliates. The last time they spoke was when they were fifteen. Fifteen and friends. Their friendship had briefly blossomed after their friend group fell apart. A beautiful, but flickering flame that blew out too early.
“Lovely catch-up Steph, now answer the question.” Lex’s bluntness is just as it was before. It is somewhat comforting.
“Guilty about what?” Steph replies absolutely baffled to what the hell they are talking about.
“Grace. She’s…Steph she came to my house today.”
“What? Why?” Steph asks quietly.
“It doesn’t matter why. I just…I wasn’t around after Sammy died. I thought you would be, but you weren’t either.”
Stephanie gulps like a character in a cartoon.
“I’m not blaming you. I just want to know; I need to know that I’m not the only one who feels like this.”
In truth, Stephanie has been actively avoiding her guilt for years.
“You’re not the only one,” she whispers.
Lex hangs up before Steph can further question her.
Steph does not need to question her. She sits cross-legged on her bed, tears pooling in her eyes, hands trembling, heart aching. The guilt has been at bay. Forgotten and cast away just like Grace. It comes back so quickly it shakes her foundation and threatens her very being.
-
Grace Chasity and Stephanie Lauter’s friendship was an all-encompassing lifestyle that lasted for six blissful years, from the ages of five to eleven.
Signing Grace’s cast was basically like signing her name in blood. Steph had permanently bonded the two of them. She enjoyed having a partner in life. Grace was her buddy in any and all activities. She was free six days of the week, with the exception of Sundays, and Steph could still play with her on Sundays as long as she went to Sunday school.
Steph’s Mom was already dead by the time she was five. Mrs. Chasity invited her and her father over for dinner quite often. It was nice food. Much better than what her cook made.
Grace enjoyed having something that Sammy did not have. Stephie was hers, not his. He already had Lexie.
Steph brought her out of her comfort zone. She dragged Grace to games of tag, and she encouraged Grace to answer questions in class if she knew the answer (Grace always knew the answer).
Steph was better at reading than Grace. She helped her out when the letters jumped to the wrong place.
Steph gave Grace her hand-me-down dresses. The labels were fancy. Grace felt fancy.
Steph stopped giving Grace her hand-me-downs when they realised Lex had worn the same pair of faded jeans for two weeks straight. Grace begrudgingly handed the clothes over to Lex.
On the first day of first grade, Grace could not find it in her to walk through the door. Hatchetfield kindergarten, elementary and middle school were all a part of one massive institution of various ugly, brick buildings. Although Grace did not have to change location, she did have to change building. There would also be a new classroom with a new teacher and a new curriculum. Sammy gripped one hand and Stephie gripped the other. They walked through together.
There was no seating plan, so Grace, Steph, Sammy, and Lexie all sat together on the yellow table. First Grade was a simple time of joyous companionship. At lunch they shared everything. Grace didn’t like to share, but Sammy explained that Lexie didn’t have a lot of lunch and they should share their food because that is what the Lord would do. Besides, Steph always had the best lunch. Grace and Sammy had the same lunch. Stephie had exotic lunch. Brand-named treats and full slices of pizza. They split everything fairly. Grace and Sammy’s fruit and Stephanie’s pizza. Sometimes Lex would shyly offer some stale crackers or a packet of raisins. They would accept them gratefully and add it to their meal. Their teacher found out they were sharing food and they were reprimanded. Grace had never been so frightened.
They continued to share their food anyway. Silently slipping pieces into each other’s lunchboxes. Grace struggled at first. No one forced her to share. But soon, she was placing half her peanut butter sandwich onto the desk in front of Lex. Steph squeezed her hand and called her brave.
Stephanie made Grace brave.
Steph and Grace played house during recess. Steph professed that she would be the husband and Grace could be the wife. Sammy was the pastor.
They stood under Grace’s tree. The tree Steph signed her cast under. Lex was much too cool to attend, but she did it anyway. She walked Grace up the ‘aisle’ (the painted hopscotch trail), and fixed her veil (a piece of toilet paper smuggled from the boy’s bathroom by Sammy). Sammy adjusted Stephanie’s tie (her shoelace, stripped from her shoe and tied loosely around her t-shirt).
“Now, let us humbly invoke God’s blessing upon this bride and groom, that in his kindness he may favour with his help those on whom he has bestowed the Sacrament of Matrimony.”
Steph, Grace, and Lex stared at Sammy with a joint look nothing short of bewilderment. The boy was exceptionally clever. Sometimes it left him isolated. He was smarter than his peers, but younger than those who understood him. His isolation was a short-lived struggle. He tried his best to mingle with people his age. Grace was the only reason he was able to do that. He viewed other people through her eyes. Grace had a way with others that she was not even aware she had. She always saw the true nature of everyone. She sometimes thought she was weird. What Grace didn’t know was that Sammy liked the way she saw things. Sometimes she acted weird, but in a Gracie way, not in a weirdo way. Once anyone gave her a chance, they realised that Grace was great! Sammy just had to make them give her a chance. He made friends in hopes that they would become friends with Grace. Sammy saw how lonely she was. How sad it made her.
Sammy had many friends. He didn’t understand a single one of them. He only understood Grace. Sometimes he thought he understood Lexie, but then she would go and do something surprising again. Sammy was good at pretending to understand. He accepted his role as an outsider and chose to be on the inside anyway.
“With his help those on whom has bestowed the Sacrament of Matrimony,” Sammy continued with a strained smile. “In the sight of God and the witness Lexie, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may now kiss!”
“Sammy we can’t do that!” Grace whispered, her bright cheeks contrasting greatly with her white toilet paper veil.
Steph settled for a handshake.
In second grade, Steph was the one who had to be forced in the door. She somehow became cooler over the summer and had officially declared that school sucked.
With Steph on one side of her and Sammy on the other side, they made it in the door and through the year.
There was a seating plan, separating Lex from them. They tried to argue with it, but the teacher threatened to separate the rest of them too.
They always snuck their lunch out at recess and shared it with her.
Third grade was when things got hard. Grace and Steph were closer than ever. Steph had started inviting Grace over for slumber parties (they weren’t real, Grace had to leave before six thirty, but they ate snacks and played boardgames as if it was real), and Steph came over after church on Sundays.
Sammy skipped third grade. He was too smart. Going to school without him caused butterflies to squirm in Grace’s stomach. Except, they weren’t butterflies, they were moths. Horribly dull moths who sucked all the colour out of the world.
Sammy grimaced and shrugged his shoulders as he left to join his fourth-grade class. How could he be so casual about something so world ending?
Steph was still on her left side, holding her hand.
“Ready?” She asked. She had her hair down. It was longer than it had ever been before. Passed her shoulders almost.
Grace felt Steph squeeze her hand. Maybe the world wasn’t ending.
In fourth grade, at the age of nine, Stephanie Lauter was sure of one thing and one thing only. It was a tragic conclusion that would surely ruin her life. Something that would burn all of her dreams and crush all of her hopes with a hammer. She wasn’t completely sure as to why it would ruin everything, but she knew it would.
Stephanie Lauter was in love with her best friend. And her best friend, was a girl.
It wasn’t the first time she had admired a girl. Her teacher in kindergarten had the prettiest blue eyes to ever exist. And when she went to Saint Damiens Hospital with appendicitis, there was a young nurse with the most beautiful, flowy, red hair. Deb Beatty had the coolest clothes and Alice Woodward had nice freckles.
Stephanie Lauter had admired girls forever. But she had never been in love.
Until now. Or maybe it started when she was five. When she practiced her signature over and over and over again, just so she could write it on Grace’s arm. When she changed her name from Stephanie to Steph to make that a possibility.
Or maybe it was when they were six and they got fake-married underneath Grace’s tree. How soft Grace’s skin was when they shook hands. How bright Grace’s smile was and how good she looked with toilet paper hanging from her head.
Maybe it was when they were seven and sitting across from each other instead of next to each other. Steph saw a new angle of Grace. A perfect one.
Maybe it was the year before, when Grace and Sammy were no longer attached at the hip, and Steph got to see who she was outside of her brother. She was funny.
Or maybe it was when she turned nine. At her ninth birthday party, when Grace presented her a hand-drawn picture of the two of them.
“I know me, and Sammy already got you a gift,” (it was a kid's bible, clearly picked out by Karen Chasity), “but I wanted to give you something just from me. Sorry it’s bad. I don’t have any money. I know it’s stupid.” Grace shook her head and looked at the floor.
Stephanie hugged Grace tighter than she hugged her father.
In fifth grade, Stephanie learned that being in love with Grace was in fact, not a good thing. They were not allowed to be in love. Their love was forbidden.
Grace’s tree was beginning to rot. No one had noticed and now it was too late to do anything about it. Grace sat there every day for the first month of fifth grade.
“Gracie, it will take years to die. It’s got time,” Steph said. She wanted to play tag, but Grace didn’t want to waste any of the limited time she had with her tree.
The tree was being digested; they just couldn’t see that. A fungus was eating the inside. Chewing it and leaving nothing but rot in its wake.
“It’s still dying. We have no idea how long it has left! It is rotting from the inside out!”
This memory played on repeat in Stephanie’s mind. It looped so many times, she was not completely sure if it was real or if she made it up.
The tree was an omen. A horribly decrepit thing that stood tall and pretended it was okay.
Grace and Steph cut through the bushes to emerge into the old Hatchetfield Playground. Sammy and Lex were already there. They were cowering in a corner.
Grace stomped over to them, her little shoes gripping to the astroturf. Sammy had a growth spurt the prior Summer. He was a whole three inches taller than Grace. Stephie was much taller than them both. Even Lex was taller than Grace!
Grace looked up towards her brother, questioning with just her eyes why they were hiding in a corner.
Sammy rolled his eyes (he had recently acquired that habit from Lex). “There are teenagers by the swings,” he mumbled while kicking his feet against the ground.
Sammy had begun wearing jeans instead of chinos and t-shirts instead of shirts. He also spiked his hair up with daddy’s gel (Grace had to keep this a secret). Grace didn’t understand why. She still wore her dresses and her sweater vests. He said she would understand when she got to sixth grade.
“Well, teenagers aren’t supposed to play in the playground,” Grace replied.
“Just leave it,” Lex sighed.
“But it’s Friday! We always go on the swings after school on Friday,” Grace said.
Lex shrugged and sipped from her can of coke. Grace had never drunk coke. Lex offered it to her sometimes, but her Mommy would be mad at her if she did. Coke is junk food Gracie. Junk food is for naughty girls. Are you a naughty girl?
Steph was not a part of the conversation. She was watching the teenagers. There were four of them. Three girls and a boy. The boy was pushing one of the girls in a swing. The girl on the swing was sipping something out of a brown paper bag and laughing wildly. Steph was not half as naïve as Grace. She knew exactly what was in the bag.
Although it usually would interest her (she and Lex would have probably hatched a plan – that would never come to fruition – about robbing it), Steph could not care less about the bag or the contents inside it. Stephanie was far too focused on the other two teenagers.
Two girls. One had long blonde hair, a short green dress that showed her…cleavage…and black sneakers that didn’t match her dress. The other girl had short brown hair, a green flannel shirt and black ripped jeans. Stephanie was entranced.
The girls were holding hands. Like she and Grace did sometimes!
The girls were laughing. Just like she and Grace did!
The girls kissed. Stephanie had never done that with Grace.
A warmth spread throughout her body. It started at her toes and rose all the way to the tips of her ears. Her tummy squirmed. Butterflies spun around and around in there.
The brunette with the green shirt slipped her hands into the blonde’s hair. The kiss continued. She must have been sucking air from the blonde. She was inhaling the blonde. Sucking her soul into her mouth and down to her tummy.
“Grace don’t look!” Sammy yelled. He threw his hands over his sister’s eyes and pulled her back. She stumbled backwards blindly.
“Sammy stop it!” Grace complained from beneath his hands. Her foot caught on Sammy’s and she fell onto her bottom.
“They-, they’re being blasphemous. That’s against the word of the Lord, Grace. It’s-, it’s disgusting!” Sammy spits.
Stephanie’s red cheeks turned a deep cherry. Her heart thwapped against her chest. She stumbled too, even though no one was dragging her. Blasphemous? Disgusting?
“Who told you that, Sam?” Lex asked casually. She clearly did not care about the conversation they were having. It meant nothing to her. It meant everything to Steph.
“Daddy. And Mommy. Pastor Ryan too. Everyone knows, two girls can’t…can’t kiss!” It was as if someone else slipped into the body of the ten-year-old. A nasty thing who spat venom and carried a deep hatred. He cowered over Grace, blocking her from viewing anything. Grace inspected her grazed hands with a pout. She hit Sammy’s hand away.
Lex rolled her eyes. “You didn’t seem to mind when Grace and Steph got married,” Lex said while picking dirt from her nails.
Grace swatted Sammy’s hands away again and pushed herself to her knees. A look of childish defiance was on her face.
It was Sammy’s turn to go red. His mouth tightened. “That wasn’t real. Stephie was playing as the boy. And we were kids!”
Lex shook her head, rolled her eyes, and gave up on the conversation.
“Mommy will not be happy that we saw…that.” He looked sickened. “Right Grace?” he encouraged.
Grace’s glare softened. She glanced at the two girls, happily laughing into each other.
Steph felt tears prick in her eyes. Her fists clenched. Her chin trembled.
Grace’s eyes briefly flit towards her before they made contact with Sammy. “Yeah. Disgusting,” she agrees half-heartedly.
Half of Steph’s heart deteriorates into a pile of ash in her chest. It burns.
When Grace Chasity was in sixth grade, she attended two funerals.
Samuel Chasity only made it to one of them.
If any old Hatchetfield resident was asked about it, they would say he died quickly. Grace thinks differently. She thinks he had been slowly dying for over a year.
Samuel was a happy boy. A happy boy who had the misfortune of being too clever. He thought too much. His head was bursting with information. The truth is things started to go wrong for him when he skipped third grade. He was always an outsider. Now it was clear.
Seventh grade was too easy. Sixth grade had been too. They wanted him to skip again. His teachers, his parents, his peers (they wanted him gone). Grace had been kept in the dark. Samuel wanted to tell her, but their parents thought it would be a bad idea. They always wanted her to be kept in the dark. They thought she couldn’t handle it. They were idiots. Grace had always been better at handling things than him; they just didn’t pay enough attention to realise it. He was clever, and therefore he was everything.
It took him eleven years to finally realise that he hated his parents. True hatred is hard to come by. It takes time. It needs time to brew. It needs time to grow and fester. The anger has to mingle with the disgust. The anger, frustration and disgust have to take over your brain until it hurts. The physical pain must press against the edge of your skull until it oozes from your ears. This new, potent mix of things needs to ferment into something ugly.
Samuel felt ugly. His parents were shells of humans who had no humanity to pass on to him. They made him like them. It was a disgusting piece of knowledge to hold.
Grace was the only one of them who was whole. She felt everything. And yet, they ignored her. She was still human enough to think they cared.
He was going to be eleven years old and in eighth grade. Samuel smiled and nodded and agreed to whatever the adults in his life wanted him to agree too. He did it with a sour taste that never left his mouth. His mother’s smile looked like that of a porcelain doll. Perfect and fake. His fathers was real and proud. That one was worse. He didn’t want to be the proud son anymore. Samuel wanted to be anything else. He wanted to be Sammy. He wanted to be Sam. He wanted to be more than an extension of his parents.
Samuel tried his best to be the happy boy his family knew him to be. Grace could tell he was not.
Samuel was told about Granny’s cancer before Grace. You’re our big, brave boy. You can handle it, son.
He could not handle it. His hatred putrefied. God was as angry with the Chasity’s as he was. They deserved punishment.
They told Grace three weeks later during breakfast.
They cycled to school every morning, Grace on the back of Sammy’s bicycle. Sometimes, if they were arguing, Grace would run beside him.
They were arguing.
Grace ran beside Sammy with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Gracie, slow down and talk to me. Please!” He begged. Although he was on the bike, she was ahead of him, running with all her might, trying to make him disappear.
She was beyond angry. He should have told her. Mommy and Daddy should have told her when they told him. Granny should have told her! Someone should have had the foresight to include her in the gosh dang conversation. Granny was dying and Grace was the last person to find out.
Her feet slapped the concrete. She heaved in deep breaths of air that tasted like rubber and petrol.
“Gracie, I’m sorry! Mommy said she would-,”
“Well Mommy didn’t! You should have told me,” Grace yelled behind her. She carried on, ignoring the pain in her knees.
They reached the edge of the footpath. Grace continued to run forward.
She did not look before crossing the road.
“GRACE!”
A car drove towards her. Grace froze. Frozen in space and time. The green car did not slow down. Grace did. She stared at the bright headlights with an open mouth. Her arms hung uselessly by her side.
The car swerved. Too late Mrs. Green Car, I’m already dead, aren’t I?
A bicycle rammed into the back of her, propelling her forward. She unfroze.
The car ploughed through the only part of her body that remained in its path. Her arm.
She crashed into the pavement beyond the car. Her back cracked and her arm crunched. The side of her head caught the edge of the road. It bounced upwards. She blinked blood into her eyes. It distorted her vision. A red haze coated the world.
The air smelled like rubber and petrol. Grace could not get up.
The car stopped. Sammy’s bicycle was bent. It looked like a unicycle. The bright sun reflected off of the blue metal.
His head lay against the tarmac. Cherry red blood seeped into the cracks of the dull grey pavement. It pooled around him. His neck was bent.
Her arm had snapped again. The same arm, in the same place. It changed colour, appearing as a sickly grey instead of its usual pale pink. Last time, she was quiet. She was silent. This time, her scream reverberated through Hatchetfield like a spell.
Sammy’s eyes remained open. The bright blood trickled across the street. It leaked in slivers over to Grace’s immobile fingers.
He was so close to her. His eyes were open. They had the same eyes. Cold hazel eyes stared into muddied-red hazel eyes.
Her voice cracked. Her screams were broken sounds of pain and despair.
A cloud lingered in the air. That stupid frickin’ turtle.
Grace tried to stretch her working hand over to Sammy. He was millimetres out of reach. His mouth was open. A dark sludge was pouring from it. Dark compared to the cherry red of the pool surrounding him.
“Sammy?” Grace called out.
Sammy did not answer.
Take twenty years from my life, Sammy, and get up again. God? Are you listening? Take twenty years from my life. Take more because I don’t know what I am going to do with the years I’ve got if you’re not a part of them.
She was not sure if she was talking to Sammy or praying to God. Neither would answer.
The wheel of Sammy’s mangled bicycle spun for longer than Grace could keep conscious.
Maybe she was a better person before her brother’s funeral. Maybe she was a much better person.
Something in her switched off. All of the handshakes and the hugs made her claustrophobic. The hands reaching towards her stopped feeling comforting and started feeling threatening. They could slap her at any moment. They could grab someone else from her. Grace Chasity was eleven years old, and she was tired of losing. She stretched a practiced smile across her face. She was clay to be moulded into the correct shape. She could become the correct shape.
After the tears and the speeches and the burial, only four members remained in Hatchetfield church. Grace was wearing a lacey black dress, with black tights and black shoes and a black hairband and a face so white you would assume she was the dead one. The cast on her arm was bright white and the wheelchair she temporarily resided in squeaked. Her left eye was bloodshot. The stitches above it left her eyebrow mangled.
Stephanie held her hand. She was wearing an expensive dress her father forced upon her. It was itchy.
Lex held Stephanie’s hand. She was wearing Stephanie’s hand me downs.
Sammy’s cold fingers brushed against the small fingers peeking out of Grace’s cast. They slid through the digits and the fibreglass as if they were not there. They were there.
The wooden pews were cold. Grace shivered.
They sat in silence, thinking thoughts much too profound for eleven-year-olds.
Lex had never believed in a God. She believed in herself. Her thoughts were for her and her alone.
She felt the wood beneath her legs. It was cold. She was cold. Her best friend was dead and all she felt was cold. Looking to her left, Steph’s 1000-yard stare conveyed the same thing. Lex had watched Grace contort her face into a smile so bright and fake it was deadly. She had overheard random adults talking about how well she was taking it. How grown-up Grace was being. Grace was not taking this well. Anyone with fucking eyes could see that. Grace was clay, conforming to what she needed to be in order to survive. Grace was as dead as Sam. We are dead children with no feelings.
Stephanie did not believe in God. She believed in Grace. But there was no longer a Grace to believe in. Grace was melting. She used to be so sturdy, so solid in herself. Now she had a piece missing from inside her. She was being poisoned by her own guilt. She has collapsed in on herself like a tree that is rotten inside.
Grace believed in God. At this point in time, only because she was supposed to. Because she was told to. You should have taken me you fucking asshole.
Sammy no longer had the ability to believe. His hand swept through his sisters again. It felt like nothing. Sammy no longer had the ability to cry; only the ability to move his transparent hand up and down and pass through everything. Never touching, never feeling, just observing glimpses of pain and suffering.
Sammy Chasity was dead.
Stephanie tried to visit the Chasity’s after the funeral. They were busy. They were caring for Grace’s Granny. They were grieving their son. They were dedicating their lives to a God who killed Grace’s brother and who was killing Grace’s Granny. They were throwing themselves into a vat of mind-numbing religion that poisoned their thoughts and gave them a false sense of security. It made them happy, but the happiness scared Stephanie. She could see the happiness cracking their porcelain features. Karen’s smile reminded her of the Joker. Mark’s casual ‘fatherly’ behaviour made Steph feel weak with terror. Panic surrounded her, like some dark fluid that would happily drown her brain if given the chance.
They were so happy with their tragic life.
And Grace, well on the outside, Grace was just like her parents. But on the inside, she was rotting. Sometimes the rot would spread like a fungus to her external features; a grimace, a tear, a snide remark. However, usually the rot remained and spread internally.
Just like Grace’s tree.
The couple in the park came to mind again. She thought about them often.
Rotting Grace had opinions on them too.
Stephanie moved on. She forced herself to move on. The Chasity house was scary, and her friend was not the same person anymore. Her friend was barely a person at all.
She adapted to her new personality quickly. A new defence of cruelty. She leant even harder into being cool and acted like she didn’t care about anything. Why would she? Why should she? Life had never given her anything to care about. In fact, it’s punished her for caring. She has lost Sammy. She had lost Grace. Cruelty was all she had left. She ditched her old friends and forced them to fend for themselves.
Lex was able to fend for herself.
Grace did not speak for three months. She sat underneath the dying tree at recess. The leaves were turning a sickly yellow. Not like during fall, when the colours change into bright oranges and soft yellows. This was a putrid neon yellow that was poisonous. If Grace leaned too hard against the trunk, it would sag inwards and a rancid smelling pus would sweat from the bark. When Grace returned to the classroom, a sour smell followed her.
It was the smell of death.
This new layer of malice protected Steph. She was mean but she was safe. She wouldn’t lose anymore. She couldn’t possibly lose anymore. Sammy was the glue that held them together. Without him, they were nothing.
She would watch out for Grace from afar. Protect her secretly, without her knowing.
There was only one problem with her cruelty: Stephanie Lauter cared. It is hard to be cruel when you care.
Her caring was wrong. She was not allowed to care about Grace Chasity the way she did.
Rumours of a ‘death touch’ spread.
Grace is back! Grace is back!
Don’t let her touch you! She’ll kill you like she killed her brother!
If she touches you, you’re dead!
Stephanie remained mute. Her secret protection failed. She had failed.
-
Time ticks by achingly slow. The red glow of her alarm clock screams 12:34. Hours past Grace’s bedtime.
She has been groggy since the hospital, but not sleepy.
Silence consumes her. The house is so quiet, Grace can actually hear the silence. It is a buzzing sound that infiltrate her ears like bees.
She lies on top of her duvet. She is shivering, but refuses to venture into her blanket. The comfort of warmth makes her mind wander to naughty places. Her teeth clatter. Goosebumps protrude from the skin of her left arm. Her right arm is warmed by the thick cast covering it, but it itches vehemently. Her feet are still wrapped in the blue socks with the sticky grips from the hospital. The hairs on her legs are raised. Grace’s nightdress goes past her knees. The fabric feels too thin.
She gets out of bed. She struggles to insert her right arm into her lilac cardigan (it is too tight). She throws it aside and slips her feet into her sneakers. The sling given to her in the hospital lies unused on her desk chair. She can’t tie her shoes with one hand. Her favourite shoes are still in Ruth’s house. They have been her favourite since she got them three years ago. The soles are peeling off them now. Maybe her sneakers are better.
Grace opens her bedroom door, cringing at the loud creak that echoes through the hall. She holds her breath and listens for her parent’s movements. At least a minute passes before she continues to walk.
Her heart hammers when she reaches the top of the stairs. A bubble of laughter comes halfway up her throat. She suppresses her laughter and slowly tiptoes down the stairs. How the heck did she break her arm falling down some stairs?
Grace drapes her daddy’s jacket over her body and leaves her home.
Is it her home? Home: The place where one lives permanently. Grace does live in her house permanently. She wakes up in the morning in her bedroom and she eats dinner in the kitchen and after school she goes home. Grace does all these things in her home. The problem isn’t the house, but instead herself. Is Grace really the one doing it? When she is at ‘home’, is she herself? When she is in school is she herself? When she is in church is she herself? Is she ever herself? Has she ever been herself?
Grace walks casually through her neighbourhood. It is quiet. She can hear her breathing and her feet gently stepping forward. A small twinge of pain shoots into her feet with each step. Her left knee pulsates. It keeps her focused.
Grace strolls. She breathes in the cold air and she enjoys its taste. She stops under a streetlamp and accepts the orange glow that graces her face. Is the streetlamp her home?
The cold air bites at her bare legs. Her body trembles.
The whole day sits heavily on Grace’s mind. It started with a tension so dense inside her body, her ribs were in danger of collapsing. The tension fluctuated but remained until now. Now she feels okay. She feels loose. She feels free.
Grace turns back towards her house. She jimmies the side gate open and rolls her bike out. She zips her daddy’s coat up, not bothering to insert her right arm into the sleeve (the sleeve hangs uselessly). She tucks the laces into her shoes.
Grace rides her bike with one hand and no helmet. She goes slowly, worried that her laces might get caught in the peddles.
Grace Chasity cycles away from her ‘home’. Grace Chasity feels free.
She cycles aimlessly, her hair whipping around her, her hand gripping the handlebar. Her fingers are numb. Her lips are blue. She cycles on.
Grace finds herself in witch-wood forest for the second time in twelve hours. She struggles more than Hannah did. One handed and out of her element, Grace’s slow cycle is uncoordinated and risky. The bike flounders, tipping precariously to one side as she forces it over a tree root. Her swollen knee has a heart hammering inside it. It beats harder and harder. The pain is a nice kind of pain.
Grace feels the guidance of something pulling her out of the forest. She leans into the pull. She lets it happen. Someone is guiding her. Maybe God has decided to care.
The wind takes her back on to a footpath. A light mist of rain coats her. She recognises the area. The air is different here. Still cold, but lacking the scent of freedom. Grace is still free.
Her bare knees scrape against the handlebars. Her bike is too small for her. Every time they slap the metal, the purplish skin complains with a throb.
Grace stops outside a gated home. Home. Is this a home? Is this house more of a home than her cold and lonely home? Grace knows it is not. If anything, it is less of a home. The bars stretch upwards, locking the inhabitants inside. The driveway is long and uninviting. The house is three times the size of Grace’s house, despite only two people living inside it.
Grace carelessly drops her bike to the ground. She would usually use her bike stand. She would usually use her bicycle lock. Grace lets it fall.
Her feet crunch on the gravel. She would climb the gate if her arm was not broken. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
The gate is unnecessarily tall, built with fancy swirls and circles, made to look down on those who can’t afford swirls or circles.
Grace reaches into her back pocket for her phone, only to find that she does not have a back pocket in her night dress and she does not have her phone. The sudden realisation makes her cold cheeks warm. She is out, in the middle of the night in a flimsy night dress and her daddy’s jacket. Nothing else. She is being…promiscuous.
Grace blinks heavily. The gate is a wall. The gate is a barrier. She is supposed to be free. The gate cannot block her freedom.
Grace unzips the jacket and throws it on top of her bike. The hairs on her arms immediately raise. She places her feet into the bottom rung of the gate. The metal is wet. Her left-hand grasps frigid metal. Her fingers are slow to move. Her right arm hangs fruitlessly by her side.
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She raises her left foot and tries to push herself further up the gate. Her casted arm clangs against the metal. She wraps her full arm through a circular design in the gate. After a deep breath, Grace moves her left arm upwards.
The laces in her shoes untuck and soon dangle dangerously from them. She slowly crawls up the gate. The rain is barely a drizzle, yet her nightdress is soaked and her body trembles hard. The vertical crawl is tiring and painful. Grace’s feet slip at least once every five minutes. Each time it happens, she catches herself a second later.
She heaves in air only to cough out her own breath. She is almost at the top now. Her left foot rises, except apparently her right foot is standing on the left shoelace. Her feet don’t go where they were supposed to go and she loses her balance. Her heavy breathing ends and instead a cracked cry echoes into the quiet night. Grace crosses her casted right arm through a metal ring. The metal digs into her skin right above the cast. Her left arm clasps aimlessly at the top of the gate. She bangs her hand against the spiked top and clutches the spike. Her legs flounder like fish on dry land. Grace tries to shift her weight so her left hand can take more, but her broken right arm is doing all of the work.
What is she even doing here? She should be in bed, sleeping peacefully. What has she been doing all day? Making stupid decisions, one after the other.
Her throat is raw. Her nose is running. Her night dress is soaked and her cast that she is not – under any circumstances – supposed to get wet is getting very wet.
Warm liquid trickles down her numb left hand. She grits her teeth and tries to pull herself up. She throws her feet aimlessly forward, hoping to catch any of those stupid circles and swirls. Her right foot kicks the gate and her left foot goes through a ring. Pulling her left foot back, Grace manages to get her footing. After a few more minutes of struggle, Grace sits between two sharp spikes on top of the gate. She tries to catch her breath.
Her broken arm feels heavier than earlier and her not-broken hand is sticky with blood. What aims to be a cry comes out as a laugh. It disorientates her. Her maniacal laughter is the only sound in the world. Laughter and pain. Freedom and hurt.
After an attempt at composure, Grace climbs down the other side of the gate. In some ways, the descent is more difficult. However, she makes it down without any major incident.
Grace has no way of knowing what time it is. All she does know is that when she left her house it was dark outside and now there is a tiny hint of light coming from a gradually rising sun.
The pink bicycle and brown jacket are parked haphazardly on the other side of the fence. Grace wipes her eyes and her nose with her bleeding hand. Blood streaks across her cheeks. She turns towards Stephanie Lauter’s house.
She used to come her all the time. Playdates with boardgames and snacks and slumber parties that weren’t slumber parties because Grace had to go home at six-thirty. The light in Stephanie’s bedroom is on.
This is a bad idea.
God I’m sorry I’ve been so bad. I’m sorry I skipped school and I’m sorry I slept in Ruth Fleming’s bed and I’m sorry I had to go to the hospital. I’m sorry I admired Becky Barnes and I’m sorry I took whatever drugs they gave me. I’m sorry I snuck out in the middle of the night and I’m sorry I trespassed onto Mayor Lauters property. I’m sorry God. I’m sorry.
Grace turns back towards the gate. Climbing that thing again feels impossible. It probably is impossible. What is the likelihood of not falling if she does it a second time?
Grace picks up a pebble and flings it at Stephanie’s bedroom window. Her hand is shaking aggressively, and it is caked in blood. A severe amount of blood. She stops looking at it and instead chooses to be impressed that she hits the window on her first try with her non-dominant hand. She picks up another one and does it again. She misses. Her third pebble hits again.
The window slides open.
Steph squints her eyes. Her mouth hangs open comically.
“Grace? What the hell are you doing here? Jesus! Are you in a night dress?”
Grace smooths her hands down her thighs. She can feel the rough plaster through the material of her dress.
“Your arm. Fuck. One second, I’m coming down.”
Graced doesn’t say a word. The stone building overshadows everything. Ivy climbs up the walls. Huge bushes and trees line the property. Grace is a tiny being in a place made for inhumane monsters. This is Solomon Lauter’s home. He is larger than life. Stephanie Lauter is not an inhumane monster. She is just a teenager with a mean-streak. This is not her home. She, like Grace, does not have a home. Unless she is the inhumane monster that lurks in the back of Grace’s mind. Which Stephie is real? The five-year-old who signed her cast? The eleven-year-old who abandoned her?
The front door bangs open. Stephanie is wearing green flannel pyjama pants and a black hoodie. Her arms cross over her body. Grace’s eyes fall to her chest.
“Come inside. You’re shaking,” Steph offers. “How did you get passed the gate anyway?”
Grace shakes her head. She stands her ground, digging her feet into the shifting gravel.
Steph pauses for a moment. She looks at Grace. She takes in her broken arm and her bleeding hand. The lack of a jacket and her messy face.
“There is blood on your face,” she whispers.
Grace absentmindedly rubs her eye.
“Grace…why are you here?”
“Why’d you do it?” Grace asks. It is a hushed question in a cracked voice. The silence makes the question loud. The tension makes the cracked voice sound strong.
“Do what?” Steph is staring at her in awe. Her eyes are wide and green. So green. Like the trees surrounding her house. Her home.
Grace can tell she is barely listening to her and is instead trying to understand why she is here. Grace doesn’t want to be understood. She wants to be heard.
“Leave. After Sammy died. You stopped being friends with me. Why?”
Grace shifts on her feet. Stephanie falters. Her cool girl act (so similar to Lex) is beginning to unravel.
“I don’t,” she stutters. “I don’t know…I was a kid-,”
“I was a kid too,” Grace interrupts. Her mouth turns downwards. Her fist clenches by her side. Blood squeezes from her palm and drips in big red splotches onto the perfectly curated grey pebbles. “I was a kid whose brother was dead and who’s granny was dying and who needed a friend.”
“I was your friend. I was a good friend. don’t remember it wrong because it is easier. I was your friend.” Steph steps towards Grace. Her hand is raised and she gestures rapidly trying to explain herself. The explanation falls flat.
Grace shakes her head, stunned. A shocked croak slips out before she can stop it. “YOU LEFT!” Grace shouts, the volume shocking her more than Steph. She swallows and looks towards her feet. Her laces are sopping wet and a dirty brown colour. “You left. You decided I wasn’t ‘cool’ enough,” she gestures with her hands. The fingers on her right hand barely bend. “Were you bored of me? You left me and then you let everyone…you joined them.”
“Joined them? What? Joined who?”
“I was being… I was being bullied Stephanie. And you joined in. Yes, I did notice that. Yes, it did hurt. Did you want to rub it in? You left and I was pathetic and alone and bullyable and nothing without you. Was that it?” Grace scoffs and shakes her head. “Because guess what Stephie, I am nothing without you.”
A Pause. A breath from them both. Admittance from Grace and realisation from Stephanie. Pain permeates the air.
“Grace-,”
“No! No. I am sick of pretending like nothing hurts. IT ALL FREAKIN’ HURTS, STEPHANIE! My brother died. And I was okay…because they needed me to be okay because Sammy was dead. Sammy is dead.” Grace begins to pace. Her shoes are barely on her feet. Blue socks poke out. Her laces trail along the stones. “And then I had no friends because I was annoying…but that was fine because I had God. But guess what, Stephie?”
The way she says it is venomous. Stephie. It is mean. Grace Chasity is being mean.
“God wouldn’t help me. I was still different and broken and fine. I was fine. And everyone whispered about me but that doesn’t hurt her because she’s Grace Chasity and she’s FINE!”
Tears pool in her brown eyes as she mimics her bullies.
“And Lex left! And you left! And I prayed to have you back. I prayed and I asked God what I did wrong. Oh God, why did Sammy leave me? And why did Granny leave me? And why did Stephie leave me? But he never answered!” Her hands stretch outwards and she smiles maniacally, tears streaming down her bloody cheeks.
The sight frightens Stephanie more than anything else.
“Because He, like EVERYONE ELSE, doesn’t give a shit about me! What did I do that caused no one to care!”
Stephanie takes a final step forward. Her confession spews from her lips automatically. “I CARE! That was the problem Grace, I cared. And I was eleven and scared and I fucking cared. I didn’t want to care about you or your problems. I wanted to be happy and caring didn’t make me happy, it made me fucking miserable! I was miserable because I cared about you.”
Tears leak from the corners of Stephanie’s eyes. Everything she has been trying to hide, from Grace and herself escaped in a matter of seconds.
“What?” The quiet whisper is back. Shouting was easier.
“I fucking care.”
Steph is not quite sure what makes her do it. Grace Chasity is crying and bleeding and shaking and beautiful. Standing in front of her with a crazed look in her eyes. Steph grabs either side of her head and kisses her.
Grace Chasity is a good girl. She is supposed to be a good girl.
Good girls don’t acknowledge Ruth Fleming’s hidden beauty. Good girls don’t admire Becky Barnes’ hair. Good girls don’t think about Stephanie Lauter in the bath.
Good girls don’t taste Stephanie Lauter’s lips. They are salty from tears and soft from Chapstick. Trembling fingers hold Grace’s chin.
Grace pulls away. Her hand acts on its own accord. Grace slaps Steph. Beautifully damaged Steph. It hurts to hit her. Physically as well as internally. Her own blood is smudged across Steph’s skin.
“Heck you Steph.” Burning tears of anger slide down her face. They feel like fire.
Steph rolls her eyes, but there are tears in them. “Say it, Grace.” She laughs and it is mean. It is the cruel laugh of an observer watching someone get bullied.
Grace shakes her head so hard tears fly out of them. A sob starts and is immediately cut off. Grace holds her breath.
“Say. It. No ‘hecking’ bullshit. Say it. Say what you mean, Gracie.” Steph shoves Grace forward.
Grace doesn’t see it coming. She steps on her left shoelace again and falls backwards. The ground is hard and cold. Her broken arm whacks off the pavement. The fibreglass bounces comically upward. Maybe she should have worn the sling the doctor gave her. The world goes dark for half a second. She trembles so hard her teeth clatter.
“Fuck you.” It is a sin. It is blasphemous. It is against Gods word. She savours every syllable. She tastes the blasphemy. It is sweet. Like a strawberry McDonald’s milkshake.
Steph grabs her under the armpits and roughly pulls her up. It hurts. “Say it again. I deserve it.”
“Fuck you.” It comes out easier this time. Her spit flies with the aggression of her words. Steph moves her hands down. They fall to Grace’s hips.
“Again,” Steph whispers hoarsely. Her eyes drop to Grace’s lips.
Grace’s cheeks crinkle inwards. She cries. Tears flowing and a hitch in her chest that feels world ending.
“Fuck you,” she says. Her head shakes again. Her hair sways around her head like a halo.
“Again.”
“Fuck you.”
“Agai-,”
Fuck God.
Grace crashes her lips into Steph’s. It hurts. It’s all teeth. Lips scraping teeth. Lips scraping lips. Spit and tears. Grace’s working hand curls into Stephs hair. Her hand stings. A hiccupped cry briefly breaks the kiss. Grace isn’t sure which one of them did it.
Steph sucks on Grace’s bottom lip. Grace moans. She pushes Steph’s head further into her own. She wants them to combine. They should become one. If she can crack her own skull, maybe her brain will melt into Stephanie’s. A pool of liquid brain, intermingling and living together. Maybe Stephanie’s brain is her home.
Grace pushes her hips forward. She pushes her chest forward. She pushes all of her forward. She needs more of Steph. She needs to be with Steph. She needs to be a part of Steph.
“Grace.”
Steph tries to pull back. Grace croaks in anguish.
“Grace,” Steph whispers directly into her ear.
Grace’s hand moves downwards. She wraps her arm around Steph’s neck.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”
“Gracie, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
“Okay.” Her voice cracks. She inserts herself into Steph’s shoulder. They are veering forward. Steph takes a step backwards, trying to get her balance. Grace goes with her. Steph wraps her arms around her shoulders.
“What happened? Come on, let’s go inside. Your freezing.” Steph sounds confused. Her confusion hurts Grace more than anything else. Steph doesn’t understand her. If Stephie doesn’t understand her, no one will. Grace doesn't even understand herself. Grace has never understood a person less than herself. She thought she understood herself. She really did. And then today happened. Today happened and everything she knows about anything has ruptured into a cataclysmic explosion of rubble. Rubble of a fractured, lonely life that has never quite added up.
Grace sniffs against Steph’s shoulder. Her crying is futile. Her legs are weak. Stephanie is the only reason she is still standing.
Steph practically drags her inside. The stairs are difficult. Grace is panicking. It’s the bathroom with Ruth all over again. She is dizzy and shaky and so cold she is warm.
Soon, she finds herself in Stephanie’s bedroom. Clothes are placed on Steph’s bed and she leaves.
Grace shakes and hyperventilates and falls to the carpeted floor. She tries to breathe better. She tries to be okay. Her head nuzzles into the soft green carpet. She inhales dust and loves how it feels. It is real.
Steph is back by her side. She isn’t sure when she joined her or when she left.
“Grace, you have to change your clothes. You are soaked.”
Grace nods her head against the carpet. She doesn’t move.
God has given up on her. Grace feels freedom.
She wants God in her life. She wants her friend back. She wants the God who talked with her before bed. The God who kept her company. The God who helped her with her loneliness; who made her feel okay after Sammy and Granny died; who led her in a positive path of love and respect.
The God who ruled her was different. A new God who was in complete control. He says what is right. He says what is wrong. Who is wrong. God controls Grace. She is a puppet on his string. He has a rath and Grace must avoid it all costs. She must save others from his rath. She must help. All she wants to do is help. Everyone hates her for helping. And she feels free when she stops. When she lets people simply be. When she lets herself be. The guilt might eat her though. The guilt might chew her up and spit her out as a pathetic blob of religious remnants.
A hand lands on her back. It pushes the wet fabric further into her skin. She feels the handprint and she breathes.
Steph closes her eyes as she pulls Grace’s night dress over her head. Grace slowly dresses herself. She feels weird pulling men’s underwear up her legs, but Steph insists they are hers and do not belong to a strange boy.
Steph is turned around, looking diligently at her phone.
“Stephanie? Do you have…drugs?”
Grace yanks a pair of fluffy pyjama pants up her legs with one hand. There is dried blood on her hand.
“Like…weed?”
The tips of her ears burn red. “No. Like aspirin. My…my hand…wrist, I guess. It kinda hurts…a bit.” Her voice grows quieter the longer she speaks. Admitting her pain is more painful than the pain. Grace shakes her head. She tries to put the black hoodie Steph gave her on, but it gets stuck at the wrist. “I got…I think I need help. I-, I’m stuck.” The hoodie is big, but Grace is tired and her wrist is so sore it is genuinely scary. She is weak and dizzy and has cried so much in the last day she wants to sleep for at least a month.
Grace closes her eyes while Steph helps. Her embarrassment is monopolising.
“You’re good,” Steph whispers. “I’ll get you aspirin. Maybe we should clean your other hand too.”
Grace follows Steph to the bathroom. She sits on the edge of the bath and swallows the pill handed to her with a glass of water. Her head nods and her eyes close. She forces them open again.
Stephanie starts by towel drying Grace’s wet hair. It drips onto the clean tiles. She then wipes the blood smeared on her cheeks away. She is gentle.
Steph cleans her hand silently. There is a deep cut on the edge of her pinkie finger and a shallow slash across the top of her palm. Steph’s eyes sharpen as she look at it. Grace’s eyes close again. Her head tucks into her neck. Her hand hurts as Steph prods at it, but everything hurts right now. Her arm, her hand, her knees, her head. She is eighteen, but falling apart at the seams.
“Grace,” Steph murmurs while shaking her shoulders. Grace opens her eyes and throws her head upwards. Stephanie smiles. It is soft. It is gentle.
Her whole hand is wrapped crudely in a bandage. It wraps around her palm and then around her pinkie finger and the one beside it, tying them together. Grace wants to question why (it surely isn’t that bad), but she is simply too tired to ask.
“Bed?”
Grace lies on Stephanie’s chest. Steph’s hand slides through her hair. It is comforting. When was the last time she was comforted? Lex comforted her…was that still today? Was that yesterday?
The duvet over her legs is warm. She finally feels warmth.
“Gracie…what happened?” Steph’s words are a whisper. A question of concern over curiosity.
Grace is too tired to fight off honesty. “God doesn’t love me anymore.”
Grace can feel Steph’s chest move with each breath.
“Does God love anyone?”
“He’s supposed to. I want him too.”
Grace snuggles further into Steph. Steph pulls the duvet over both of them. She rubs Grace’s back and combs her finger through Grace’s hair. She has no idea what happened to Nerdy Prude Grace Chasity, but whatever did happen has forever altered her.
Stephanie Lauter does not believe in God. God does not give her the comfort he gives Grace. Something that does give Steph comfort is Grace’s belief in a higher power. Stephanie does not have to believe in God if someone like Grace does. Grace is the most die-hard Jesus freak out there; if God has failed her, if her faith has been shaken, then what is the point in anyone having faith in anything?
“I don’t…I don’t believe in God,” Steph starts. “But…If I did, I wouldn’t want to believe in a God that hates you for loving me.”
Grace tenses. “I never said I loved you,” she whispers. There is a catch in her throat.
“Is that really the point?”
There is silence for long enough for Steph to assume that the conversation is over.
“Can we just…can we sleep for now? I don’t…this is too much. Everything is too much right now.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry Grace. Let’s sleep.”
Grace sinks into Steph. Steph is warm. Her body is a pillow that was made for Grace Chasity. Despite her comfort, despite her fatigue, Grace can’t sleep. A jittery energy is flowing through her. A nervousness that makes her jaw tremble. She tries to close her eyes, but they are moving too. Fluttering open and closed.
“You’re still shaking.”
“I’m not cold. I think I’m scared.”
Steph ignores the crack in Grace’s voice. She slides her fingers back into Grace’s short hair and tries her best to comfort her.
-
Stephanie takes Grace back to Tom Houston’s home early the next morning. Lex Foster is there. She and Becky Barnes guide her into the living room.
“My parents,” Grace states in a daze. She forgot about them.
“Ruth called them. She gave some excuse about bible study, I think?” Steph says.
Ruth? When did Ruth get involved.
“Steph, you were right to call,” Becky mutters under her breath while she examines Grace’s hand. The not broken one.
“Grace, you might need stitches on your finger.”
Grace throws her head backwards on the couch. “Can’t we just wrap it up again. It’s not that bad.”
Becky shakes her head in disappointment. Her hair flies around her like a model’s hair does.
“Becky? Are you a woman of faith?”
Stephanie’s eyes widen imperceptibly. She squeezes Grace’s shoulder and stands up. She and Lex leave the living room with a vague excuse of helping Tom in the kitchen.
Becky waits until they are gone to answer. “Catholic,” she says.
“I’ll take that as a no then.”
Becky shakes her head again. There is a small smile on her face. She bites her lip and decides to appease Grace by reapplying a bandage to her mutilated hand. She is right, it is not that bad. But Becky would be more comfortable if they were in a hospital instead of a living room.
Grace stews in her thoughts. They are not really thoughts; they are memories that come to torment her in her weakness. Memories of church and memories of prayer. Memories of her parents and of her bible. Memories of her conversations with God and of her stifling ‘comfort’ with him. The memories put her into a strange mood.
“Do you…do you feel free? In Catholicism?” she asks shyly. Grace is not comfortable being shy. She used to be shy. Sammy dying stole that from her. You cannot be shy if no one is there to look out for you. God told her to be brave. God told her to be outspoken.
Becky finishes wrapping Grace’s hand. She looks like a mummy with all of her bandages. Becky rises from the ground and sits next to Grace.
“What do you mean by that?”
Grace swallows again. Her mouth is dry and tastes bitter. “I’ve done some bad things in the last, well, day I guess…and I regret some of it. But the things I regret aren’t the things I’m supposed to regret.”
Becky’s arm snakes around Grace’s shoulder. It surprises Grace. She leans into it. Her head hovers above Becky’s shoulder. She slowly lowers onto it. Becky ignores how tense Grace is. She rubs the teenager’s tight shoulder. They don’t look at each other. It is easier that way.
“What are you supposed to regret?”
Grace feels warmth all over. “Blasphemous things,” she whispers.
Becky nods. Her hair tickles Grace’s cheek.
“What do you regret?”
“Running away from Ruth and Richie, I guess. Breaking my wrist and impaling my hand on Steph’s gate. But if I didn’t do that…then I wouldn’t have seen Steph. So, I don’t even know if I regret that.”
Becky keeps quiet for longer than normal. After a few moments, she cautiously speaks. “Is Steph the thing you are supposed to regret?”
“I kissed her.”
Grace melts into Becky. Their side hug becomes all-consuming. Her legs are tucked upwards. She lies on Becky as if she is a baby. Becky wraps her arms around her.
“And you believe that is blasphemous?”
“It’s what I’ve been telling everyone else. Being…like that, is against the word of the Lord.”
“I think that the word of the Lord is up for interpretation.”
“Steph isn’t the only thing. I want…he used to be my friend. I want him to be my friend again. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that he will punish me. And I’m afraid that I deserve it. Not because I kissed Steph. But because somewhere deep inside my soul, I deserve to be punished for just being. Sometimes I think God made me by mistake. I know he doesn’t make mistakes but maybe he did, just this once. He made Sammy, and then I somehow slipped through as well. And then he tried to fix his mistake. And he made another mistake and killed Sammy instead of me. But I’m the reason why. I’m the problem. I deserve to be punished. But I’m scared. I’m a coward. I don’t want to die.”
Becky tightens her grip. Grace wants to be absorbed by her. She wants to be comforted. She needs to be comforted.
“You do not deserve to be punished. God is not going to punish you. You are not a mistake. You are not a coward. You are Grace Chasity. You are strong-willed and caring and-,”
“A nerdy prude.” Grace laughs at herself.
Becky holds Grace as if she is an orphan who has never witnessed parental comfort. She clutches her frail body; afraid Grace might slip away. She decides to try a new route in getting through to her.
“Why do you think you’re not free?”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been free to be myself. I don’t know if I even know who that is.”
Lex awkwardly knocks on the doorframe. She clears her throat. “Breakfast is ready.”
-
Breakfast is difficult. Grace holds her fork loosely in her left hand. Becky forced her to put her broken wrist in a sling. Using her thumb and forefinger, Grace picks clumsily at the pancakes on her plate. There is a sugary syrup coating them. It is sweet. It is nice.
Steph, Ethan, Hannah, Lex, Tim, Becky, and Tom surround Grace. It is silent. The silence is nice.
“Grace…do you want to say grace?” Tim asks suddenly. Syrup is smeared across his cheek. They have been eating for at least five minutes already.
The others stop eating. Forks clatter onto plates and thump against the table.
“I…I’d like that,” she whispers.
Tim holds the fingers peeking out from her cast. Steph carefully holds the fingers peeking out from her bandage. Steph holds Lex’s hand and Lex holds Hannah’s. Hannah holds Ethan’s hand, who holds Tom’s, who holds Becky’s, who holds Tim’s who holds Grace’s.
Fourteen eyes focus on her. Her mouth goes dry. She can’t do this. Why did she think she could do this? She wants this. She wants to talk to God. She wants to have a relationship with him. She wants to love him. She wants him to love her.
“Lord God,” she starts quietly. Her voice shakes. She clears her throat.
“Heavenly Father, b-bless us.” Grace pauses again. There are tears swarming in her eyes. She has to focus on the plate of half-eaten pancakes. They are all watching her. They are waiting. They are relying on her.
Tim’s hand readjusts on her fingers.
“And these Thy gifts which we receive.” Her voice wobbles. She furrows her eyebrows. She tries to clear her throat again, but a surprise whimper comes out instead. Tears stream down her red cheeks. She is dreadfully embarrassed. They are watching her. Scared for her. Concerned for her. She sits on the seat, wretched and helpless, horribly paralyzed and she can’t help it; tears and more tears are running down her face.
Grace can feel Tim’s troubled gaze.
“Uh, God. Thanks for the food. And um, thanks for um, thanks for Tom and Becky,” Steph interrupts.
“Thank you for Grace. She’s the best babysitter ever,” Tim continues.
“Thanks, God, for food,” Lex mumbles, clearly embarrassed. Her elbow digs into Ethan’s side.
“Thank you for everyone at this table,” he says with a grimace, rubbing his ribs dramatically.
“And these Thy gifts which we receive from Thy bountiful goodness, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen,” Grace finishes.
Steph squeezes her fingers.
Steph is holding her hand. She is not cringing or wiping her hand on her pants. She is not screaming death touch! death touch! like everyone in middle school did. She is holding her hand.
-
They kiss messily in a bathroom stall. It is a secret, but a happy one. Steph giggles and Grace smiles. Grace kisses Steph again. She is smiling while she does it. She is happy.
Her whole body curves into Steph’s. She can feel the friction between their clothes. She can feel the impact of Steph’s body hitting the cubicle wall.
Grace tries to wrap her hand into Steph’s hair, forgetting (and not for the first time) that her arm is broken. Stephanie smirks at her mistakes. Grace smiles too, even if heat is radiating from her cheeks, she smiles. Her white cast is scrawled on all over.
Ruth :)
Richie
lex
Tim!
Tom.
Becky <3
S T E P H
She doesn’t need to take a polaroid picture of the names this time. They are not going to slip out of her life. She took a picture anyway.
Steph pushes Grace gently by the shoulder. She fishes a marker out of her bag (the same one she had used to sign Grace’s new cast with huge black letters). Steph turns around (a difficult task in the tiny cubicle). She scribbles on the wall for a few seconds and then turns back to Grace. They kiss again.
When the bell rings and Grace insists they go to their next class, they exit the stall together.
Grace glances quickly behind her.
GRACE CHASITY KILLED HER BROTHER! WHO’S THE SINNER NOW, BITCH?
Tears well in her eyes. Good tears. She blinks them away. She inhales deeply and reaches for Steph’s hand. There is a red line across Grace’s palm. It has scabbed over. Her pinkie finger is still in a thick bandage. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
Steph carefully entwines her hand into Grace’s. She knows where to hold. She knows where it won’t hurt.
“Are you sure?” Steph asks quietly.
Grace nods her head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“If you’re not ready for people to see, that’s okay. We don’t have to-,”
“Stephie, I’m ready.”
They walk into the hall together.
Stephanie is holding her hand. It isn’t constricting. She isn’t holding Grace back; she is guiding her forward. It is freeing.
This is freedom.
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