Trigger warning: graphic physical and emotional abuse.
August, 1991
I sat in the backseat of the car, my heart scrabbling at my ribcage like a frightened rat. "I don't want him to move back in."
"Oh lordy," my mom said, flicking an ash out the window.
"Mom—"
"He has nowhere to go," she said. "Stop being a selfish little..." She muffled the last word by taking a drag of her cigarette.
Robbie's girlfriend had broken up with him, which gave me fierce satisfaction, but the thought of him moving back in made me feel like I'd been pounded flat into the earth with a giant hammer. "I won't live in the same house with him. I won't."
"It's not up to you," my dad said. He didn't know about the abortion. Mom had made me promise never to tell him—it was scary to think what he'd do, and what he'd think about me if he knew.
"It was your idea to take him in," Mom said. "We have an obligation to see this through and help him graduate. He's been dealt a pretty shitty hand in life. I know what it's like to have a fuckhead mom who smacks you around. If you had any idea what that's like, Grace, you wouldn't act like this."
I could see my dad's lips tighten in the rearview. "He's moving back in at the end of the summer." He drew a sharp line with his hands, signifying the end of the conversation, then quickly grabbed the wheel again before the car veered off the road.
***
A few days later, I told my parents I was staying with a friend and ran off to Seattle with a girl I'd met at a party I'd gone to with Patrick. We spent a couple days panhandling and sleeping on friends' couches, then hooked up with a van full of old hippies outside a Dead concert.
The day after the show, we headed for California. We hadn't even made it to Tacoma when the bus broke down.
We camped out in the parking lot of a Taco Bell. Two of the guys stood on the warped bumper with a chest full of rusty tools, knocking around in the giant engine. I sat against the wall of the restaurant by the Dumpsters with my friend and an old dude named Bob.
There was a shout over by the bus, and we all stood up to see what was happening.
One of the guys that had been fixing the bus was sprawled on the pavement, gasping and clutching his chest. The other mechanic knelt at his side, talking him through it and pounding on his sternum. I stared at the guy twitching and writing, frothing at the mouth, then ran for the payphone across the street. I was dialing 911 when one Bob ran over and snatched the phone from my hand.
He slammed it back in its cradle. "No, Gracie. No cops."
"Why?"
He rolled his eyes and tugged at his long, grizzled beard. "Because, girl. No cops."
I clutched my elbows, tears running down my face. I wasn't even sure why I was crying, except that I was exhausted from lack of food, sleep or a shower, and it was hard to process the fucked-upness of a world where it could ever be better to not call 911 when someone was sick.
Bob put his arms around me. He smelled like whiskey, unwashed clothing, and sandalwood oil. His whiskers scratched my face as he kissed my head. "Don't cry little girl."
I shook in his arms, unable to say anything. He stroked my back, and his hands slowly slid down to grab my ass.
I squirmed, and hated myself for not slapping him or telling him no. But it was so hard to tell anyone no; I was so gross that I should feel lucky to get felt up by some hobo in a Taco Bell parking lot.
His other hand slid up to squeeze my tits. My mouth went sour, and my body twisted away, saving itself when my mind wouldn't.
I found another payphone in a strip mall down the street and called my parents. I waited in a grass strip in front of a gas station for three hours while my dad drove all the way over the mountains to pick me up.
***
Robbie came back at the end of the summer. I tried to avoid him, but the first time my parents left us alone in the house he stepped in front of my bedroom door as I came back from the bathroom.
"I want to talk to you."
"What?"
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry things ended between us. You're a really special girl, but it was time for me to move on. You may lie about your age, Gracie, but I'm a lot older than you, you know."
I crossed my arms, my fists tight under my armpits.
He put a hand on my shoulder, and I tensed. "Anyway, I just wanted to say...I know what you're trying to do, hanging out with Rick and Patrick all the time."
"What exactly do you think I'm trying to do? I'm just hanging out with my friends."
His ratty little mustache twitched as he smiled patronizingly. "Those guys aren't really your friends. You're just desperate now that you don't have anyone else. They know what kind of reputation you have, and they're just trying to get an easy piece."
I pulled my fists from my armpits and punched him in the jaw. He barely flinched, and shook his head slightly with a pitying frown. Tears blurred my eyes and I punched him again and again, wishing I had the strength of the Hulk, that I could beat his condescending face into bloody pulp.
He ducked past me, out of arm's reach. "I feel sorry for you, Gracie," he said, then turned and walked off.
I went into my room, slamming the door. I picked up the first thing I saw and threw it at the wall.
I stood panting, staring at what I'd thrown. My clarinet. It lay in pieces on the carpet, the mouthpiece shattered. I sobbed in remorse, and fell to my knees, examining it. I couldn't tell if it was fixable.
You're so weak. You can't deal with this shit without acting like a baby and destroying things. And you can't punch for shit.
I gently put the clarinet pieces back in their case, tears streaming down my cheeks. Then I started doing pushups.
***
That weekend, my friend Tamara called. "Hey. How you doing?" She snickered guiltily. "Sorry I flaked out on you the other day. Connor and I got into a fight."
"That's cool, it's alright."
"So..." She snickered again. "Uh, so, I know a guy that can get some LSD..."
I twirled the phone cord around my fingers, chewing the inside of my cheek. "I'd like to drop some acid." I didn't really feel like going out, but I couldn't stay in my room all day. Maybe a trip would help me get my head straight.
Tamara came to pick me up with Connor. They'd been dating for a while now. His buggy green eyes followed me as I climbed into the backseat, and his lip curled in disgust. Before I had my seatbelt fastened he revved the engine and peeled out of my parents' driveway, the back of the Impala fishtailing.
"Honey," Tamara wheedled over the roar of the engine. "Can we go to John's house?"
He shifted into second with a violent twitch of his arm. "Why the fuck do we need to go to John's house?"
Tamara rummaged in her purse, stirring the contents with her long, limp fingers. Connor shifted into third, and then fourth, tearing around the corners wildly, his eyes bugging wider and wider as Tamara pulled out a tube of lipstick, threw it back in, pulled out another.
"Well?" he screeched. "Why the fuck do you need to go to John's, honey?"
"Because I want to get some acid. Connor, slow down!"
We skidded around a sharp corner going around fifty-five. The wheels slipped on the gravel shoulder and the Impala's nose spun into the other lane. A car going the other way blared its horn. My shoulder slammed against the door as Connor yanked the wheel and straightened us out again. "I'm not taking you bitches to John's."
"Connor!" Tamara screeched. "Don't drive so fucking fast!"
He shifted into fifth. The orchards outside were a blur, and I clutched the upholstery and squeezed my eyes shut. Tamara and Connor screamed at each other for a few more minutes until we got down the hill into town and the radar detector on the dashboard beeped.
I heaved a sigh of relief as Connor hit the brakes, slowing to five over. Tamara pulled some eyeliner out of her purse, pulled down the visor, and started putting it on over the eyeliner she already wore.
"I don't see why you want to do acid with this slut, Tamara." Connor jerked his thumb in my direction and grinned over his shoulder at me.
"Honey, that's not nice," Tamara said, lining her bottom lids.
"Honey, that's not nice," he mocked.
They started screaming at one another again, and I slumped against the door, gazing out the window.
Despite all Connor's bitching, we ended up at John's. I sat in the car while they did the deal, picking the scabs on my knees and suffering little spine-skitters of nervousness. I'd had some pretty bleak acid trips before, but I'd also had some pretty good ones. I took a deep breath and tried to think Zen thoughts.
Fifteen minutes later, Tamara and Connor came back out, both of them scowling. They climbed in and Connor flicked a tiny square of blotter paper at me. I fished the tab off the floorboards and placed it on my tongue as we peeled out of the driveway.
Connor turned his bug eyes on Tamara as soon as we were back on the road. "What was all that bullshit with John? Why were you all touching his arm, and 'Oh, John, that was so funny!'?" He imitated her laugh. I wondered if I would survive if I jumped out the window, but I figured, at the speeds Connor drove, my chances weren't good.
"We should go to Patrick's," I lisped loudly, trying not to disturb the hit on my tongue. Their squabbling died down a little. "His parents are out of town and he's having a party."
"Patrick, is he that tub of butter that plays in that shitty band?" Connor asked.
"His band is super cool, actually," Tamara said. I could see the reflection of her lips in the visor mirror as she spread on bright red lipstick.
"Oh, so this is some other little dipshit you want to fuck," Connor said. "Well, you want to get on his stubby little dick, you better act fast. I can smell Gracie heating up the tuna for him back there."
"Connor, Jesus Christ," Tamara said, tossing her lipstick back into her purse with a clatter.
I crossed my arms over my belly. "Turn here," I said. "His house is on the top of the hill." Connor jerked the wheel in the direction I'd indicated without pausing in his blistering critique of his girlfriend's personality and physical attributes.
There were cars parked in the driveway of Patrick's house and all along the road. Connor skid to a halt behind a rickety Toyota with a "Rush is Right" bumper sticker, with the "Right" crossed out and "Fat" written in.
He cut the engine. All the arguing had filed the cab of the car with noxious gas and I needed out of there fast. My skin was beginning to undulate and the world was sizzling with the beginning of my acid high.
Connor turned his wild goldfish eyes on me as I tried to dive out of the car. "Stop hanging out with my fucking girlfriend, you little bitch. You're trying to turn her into a whore like you. It's fucking gross. You're disgusting."
I cringed as his words washed over me, and I tried to keep the nastiness that formed the core of my soul from leaking out for everyone to see. Connor was an asshole, but he was right.
"Connor, shut the fuck up," Tamara said. "Don't talk to Grace like that. You're such a fucking dick."
"Fuck you." He brought his fist down on her head. She screamed and held her hands up, but he kept pounding, his fist tangling in her long, dark hair. Nausea seeped through me, my pores oozing sweat. I tried to say something, but my mouth was dry. Luckily Tamara managed to get the door open and flung herself out of the car.
I got out of the car in a hurry and ran to her side. "You alright?"
"Yeah," she said, sniffling. "I'm sorry about that. He's such a fucking asshole. Come over to the porch with me. I need to do my makeup."
Music thumped from the practice shed, and laughter came from the house. The door of the Impala slammed, and I glanced back to see Connor stalking toward the front door, giving us a wide berth.
I sat on the porch with Tamara while she fixed her makeup, turning her face this way and that to catch the fading evening light. "You' feeling it yet?" she asked, and I could hear the tears behind her false cheerfulness.
"Yeah, I said. "A little."
"Me too. It feels really heavy."
I watched her dab foundation over the tear tracks on her cheeks. "You should leave him," I said.
She winced. "I know, but he's really nice when he wants to be. He really does love me. I don't know why he gets like that sometimes."
I curled around my knees, the acid ringing in my ears. Was love always like that? Was that all I had to look forward to? It seemed like some people were happy in their relationships, but maybe they were just good actors.
Tamara finished her makeup, and I strolled toward the practice shed while she went into the house to see some friends of hers.
The music blasted me in the face, creating neon kaleidoscope patterns in the darkness around me as I went through the shed door. Patrick grinned at me from the drum throne, not missing a beat. Rick nodded at me, strumming the bass. A bunch of people sat around the edges of the room, passing a bong, banging on bongos or tambourines, playing slide whistles. A tall guy stood in the center playing guitar, his lank red hair falling over his face. His name was Gabe, and he played in a local band called Tenderizer. A girl I knew had dated him, so I knew way too much about his supposedly gargantuan penis. The image bloomed in my mind of this pale, scrawny ginger lugging a meaty sledgehammer between his thighs, and I shuddered uncontrollably with acid giggles.
I found another guitar leaning against the wall, and plugged it into an available amp. The music rumbled and twisted through me, teasing my soul out of all of its hiding places. I glanced up to find Gabe watching me with a little smile.
Then the door of the shed came open again, and Robbie came in with his friends Phil and Victor.
Robbie's and my eyes met. All the emotions from the past year that had pooled and stagnated in me bubbled up. All of the sudden it was like I was looking at him through a luminous tunnel, and our thoughts connected. A million-word conversation flew between us, too quickly for the words to form. Why did you treat me...? I'm just fucked up...Fuck you...You don't understand, Gracie...Do you even care? You shouldn't be with these other guys...
I broke eye contact with him, curling around my guitar and closing my eyes. The music pulled and tugged at me. I was warped down to the bass vibration of my being. I put the guitar down and ran out of the room.
I found a quiet bench in Patrick's back yard. The damp, limp leaves of the sycamore flapped in the wind and rustled at my feet. The moon stared at me through wisps of cloud. Presences flitted in and out of my peripheral vision, whispering. The landscape ebbed and flowed.
The music blasted louder, then grew muffled again as someone opened and shut the door to the shed. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, coming my direction, and I bit my gummy lip. If I had to talk to Robbie, I'd split in half. Maybe even more pieces than that.
A silhouette approached, haloed by the overhead lamp that lit the driveway. It was too tall to be Robbie. The presences around me whispered louder. "Who's out here?" a voice drawled with amicable sarcasm. "Is it a bear? A cop? A bear cop?"
"Me. Gracie. Who are you?"
"My name's Gabe." He sat down next to me on the bench. "You're that girl that plays guitar. That's awesome. You want a cigarette?"
I wrung my hands in my lap. "No, thank you. I don't smoke." He retrieved a pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his flannel shirt and started rolling a cigarette. "You dated my friend Alexa, right?" I asked. I peered at his crotch but it was too dark to see his bulge.
Gabe cackled, high and wild like a hyena. "Yeah, Alexa and I were together for a while. She's cool I guess." He lit his cigarette and regarded me through the sour smoke, the ghost of a smile on his face. "You got a boyfriend or anything?"
"No."
He grinned. I shuffled my feet in the leaves. The rustling it made carried on after I quit moving my legs, making noise patterns in the night all around us, like the footprints of tiny animals. I took a deep breath and let it out.
"You alright?" he asked.
I hugged myself. "I'm on acid."
He cackled again. "Viva la psychedelic revolution! Where'd you get acid?"
I shrugged. "Friend of mine."
"I love doing acid. It makes you see the world for what it really is." He smirked at me, encased in smoke like Pigpen in his cloud of dirt. "People are robots, but a lot of people don't realize it. It's really time for everyone to deprogram themselves and be human beings. It's time to join the revolution."
I blinked, my ears ringing. The acid spun my head around; it felt like being pulled under by an ocean wave and rolled and tossed until you didn't know which way was up. What Gabe was saying clicked into place, and I knew it was true. My heart pounded and what little moisture there was in my mouth dried up. I wanted to ask which people were robots, and which ones were human, and what the revolution was all about, but I didn't want to admit my ignorance, that I was one of the uninitiated. I nodded. "I want to join the revolution."
He grinned and gestured widely. "Let's gather in the hills and plan our guerilla attacks!"
I stared at the moon as he talked. I wasn't listening. I was wondering why it had taken me so long to realize that a large majority of people weren't actually human. Why else would people act the way they did? Robbie was a robot for sure, probably one programmed to destroy my spirit so that I'd be ripe for programming, too. And what about all these others, the people who slogged to work every day then dragged themselves back home, completely joyless, living a pointless existence? Why would they even bother, if they weren't robots? There were so many beautiful things you could do with your life, yet most people chose to spend their lives in misery.
"I won't let them turn me into one of them," I said. "I won't be a robot."
Gabe stopped mid-chatter. I'd forgotten he was talking. "Huh?" he asked.
I stood up. "I've got to go home. I have stuff to do to get ready for the revolution."
He giggled. "You can get ready for the revolution right here."
I shook my head. I wanted to get my notebooks in order and pack a backpack full of clothes. I couldn't stand another day at my parents' house with Robbie there. I was ready to start my new life. "Do they have food in the revolutionary camps?"
"Of course! What would a revolution be without food? You want to go to Denny's or something?"
My brow furrowed. "No, I've got to go home."
He considered me a moment, stubbing out his cigarette. "Okay. Want a ride?"
I agreed. We climbed into his gigantic Chevy Nova, which started up like a diesel tractor. "Which way?"
I pointed him toward my house. He spent the short drive talking about music: Built to Spill and Man is the Bastard and Drive Like Jehu. He told me he hated the Beatles, and I squinted at him, wondering if he was testing to see if I were a robot.
"Did you hear Fugazi is going to play here?" he asked. "Those guys are awesome. I mean, I'm not into the straightedge thing, but their philosophy is cool."
"Yeah, I think Patrick told me they're playing here." I pointed. "That's my house."
He pulled into the driveway, his engine idle causing a small earthquake as I climbed out. "You gonna be home tomorrow?" he asked. "You want to hang out?"
"Of course. I'm ready to go whenever you are."
He grinned. "Cool. You going to be okay here? You're still high, right? Sure you don't want to go to Denny's or something?"
The vision of an overly-pink slice of ham surrounded by the gelatinous, staring yolks of a pair of eggs over easy projected itself on the night sky, more real than the pinprick stars. "No, that's okay," I said. I just wanted to sit in my room and figure out life.
"Okay," Gabe said. "I'll come over around four tomorrow. Sound good?
I nodded. I headed up the steps as he pulled out of the driveway.
My dad was still up, watching TV in the living room. "Grace? That you?" he called.
"Yeah."
He stomped in on his bare, flat feet, wearing his bathrobe. His face looked odd in the dim light coming from the kitchen; twisted and monkeyish. I could see every pore on his face. I wondered if he were a robot. I didn't think so. "Where were you?" he asked. "Out with Patrick and Rick again?"
"Yeah. We were playing music." I turned and headed for my room.
"Good night. Love you."
"Love you, too."
I shut my door and flopped on my bed, turning on my clock radio. I thought about those waves of energy crackling through space until they picked up by my receiver. I spun the dial and landed on a talk station. The announcer's voice jabbered through the hiss of static. I caught the word "revolution" and leaned toward the speakers, listening closely.
"The rebels are gathering in camps in the hills, preparing to fight the government army. Will you join us and pit yourself against the machine?" He spoke about genetic programming of government soldiers, the installation of electronic brain interfaces, and the real human beings that had banded together to fight them. Did my parents know about this? Did Patrick? I wondered how long I'd been making a fool of myself by not knowing.
The night pressed against the walls of our little house. My mind flew out my window, gliding over the moonlit desert hills where the rebel army was camped, and then further, the dark horizon spreading out far around me. I wondered what else there was in this big world that I didn't know about.
***
When I woke up the next morning, I sat blinking at the ceiling for fifteen minutes, my brow furrowed. I could hardly believe what I'd discovered the night before. Was there really an army of genetically-programmed robot humans? Or had it just been an especially bizarre acid trip?
I heaved myself out of bed and went out to find my dad with his hairy knees sticking out of his bathrobe, watching the news and eating a bowl of cereal. The sun was cheery and bright, and everything looked normal. "Good morning," my dad said.
"Good morning," I muttered.
By the time Gabe came to pick me up that afternoon, I'd decided it had probably all been a strange dream.
***
I was never sure how I got through that year, or the next, but I did. I graduated at the age of sixteen, a member of the honor society. Robbie graduated in the same class. He strutted up to get his diploma, wearing his sunglasses, his curls flopping around his face. By then, he and I rarely spoke to one another.
My SAT scores hadn't been bad; Purdue had tried to recruit me to study biology. I'd been accepted at both places I'd actually applied: a music school in Seattle, and a small experimental college in Olympia. Patrick and Rick were going to the same college in Olympia, and Gabe was moving there, too—not for college, but for the music scene.
I'd had a grand dream of studying chemistry and learning how to make better drugs. But I didn't feel up to the task intellectually or emotionally of moving to the Midwest. I wanted to be close to my family and friends. So I went to Olympia.