Chapter Text
I’m in my second period class, Anatomy. I hate science; it’s a gross subject, even if it used to be my favorite. The day hasn’t been too terrible, but it hasn’t been just wonderful, either. I’m not on the class roll, which threw everyone off. Don’t worry, I was too. It makes me feel like I shouldn’t be here. I’d like to believe I’m not a bad kid, but this makes me feel otherwise.
Darrel is sitting with that Soc, Paul. I’m tired of him, Paul, at least. He keeps teasing me about being his little “Darling sweetheart.” I hate him, and only him. I hope he hates me, too. He intentionally keeps Darry busy and uses him for grades. I think it’s a bunch of bull, but Darry believes “Everyone can be great, even the most wicked of people.” I ain’t got any other friends, so Darry’s all I got. He knows he’s my only friend, and he likes that I can get along with at least one person.
Now, I gotta sit next to the other cheerleaders. I do cheer, too, but I’m not too serious about it. They talk about boys and other boring jargon. It’s not absolute hell, but I’d rather sit by Darrel since I know him better, of course.
I’m scared of gang fights now because of what happened to Gizmo. I’ve lost someone so sacred to myself that now I’m scared of something I used to be so excited for. Something that used to be the highlight of my week. All ruined ‘cause by the loss of the leader of a gang that isn’t NYC’s “fear” anymore, a loss that the fuzz was happy ‘bout. I still remember how that nice, young officer jumped up. Officers were always so respectful when they hurt someone, until the Brooklyn Slashers were vulnerable for just a moment.
I’m angry, but for what? For a hood that “didn’t matter to the world?” Gizmo was special; he was kind, good-natured, and smart. He had dreams too, ya know? He wanted to be the first hoodrat to unite all the gangs in New York. When the leader of The Hustlers beat us, he wasn’t mad. Gizmo was happy we even had the chance to be a part of something as important as that truce.
All he wanted was to make any mark he could, big or small. Now our gang graffiti is put in textbooks as a sign of disrespect, as a sign of a gang of hoods that must be dealt with. The Brooklyn Slashers started as a violent gang, but when Gizmo took charge, he knew we needed to be peaceful.
I followed along for protection. To feel protected and loved enough to be acknowledged. That’s my purpose: to love others with as much as I can give. To make everyone known, to love, to teach, and NOT just to get married and have children, as so many do. But to love others’ children too, especially when they don’t do it themselves.
That’s not too hot; it’s as wordy as the Bible itself. The girl next to me just said she has no clue where Delaware even is on the map. She’ll get there one day. “Dell-a-Where??” That's what Gizmo would’ve said. He was real smart, he was just more of a comedian, rather than a Scientist, or… Anyone, for that matter. I miss him, that’s all I miss about New York. New York City was where he got shot. Me and Dallas ran away from the fuzz when they tried to take us away from Hot-Shot. We came back together at that old, abandoned schoolhouse for the last time that night.
When the fuzz found me and Dallas asleep on the twin-sized mattress we shared, one of the officers blew out a sigh. “Wake them up, but be careful. I think these are the kids that’ve been missing. We just want to get them to the station, not hurt them, so do it, alright? One shone his flashlight at us. “They look like they’ve lost weight since the descriptions came out. You should be able to carry them.” The first officer said. The nice, young officer picked me up while I was pretending to sleep. I think he knew I was pretending, but he just acted like he didn’t notice. He saw from around the corner how devastated I was, crying like a baby, after Gizmo got shot.
Gizmo took me in and named me “Smiley,” since I was almost always smiling when I wasn’t sad or mad. I loved Gizmo. He was like an older brother; I don’t just miss him, though. I miss the other parts of my gang and my father; I miss him the most. He was a WWII vet, came home, and had me. He always made sure I was happy, so he always played with me. He’s the reason I still listen to Frank Sinatra; it comforts me.
My father was killed in the Bronx, and I can’t hear his favorite songs the same way anymore. I was nine, and my mother got into some bad stuff after he died. She was a pretty model, too. Now, she’s all skinny, lost her tan, and her hair doesn’t look all soft and pretty anymore. People hate me for saying “Good riddance,” but they never understood. She was a bad mother. Everyone sees the precious pictures of us depicted as a happy family. But no one saw the hurt we went through—all of us: my father, me, and my eldest sister. My older sister, Talia, had a kid at fifteen. When dad died, she dropped contact completely. She’ll write to me, now and again. She asks me how Tulsa is, and tells me how Mother has been trying to find out where the police have me.
Apparently, my mother found out I went to my godparents' house in Texas. She doesn’t know that, from there, we went to live with my father’s parents in Tulsa. Russian immigrants. They seem to know English well, but Dallas mocks their accent. He’s hateful, but that’s just Dallas. I learned to just tune out his disrespect, that is, unless it was a serious conversation or a real deep topic.
That’s mostly my story. Darry says to me that it’s tuff, but I ain’t gonna believe him. I got issues trusting others. Mrs Curtis, Darry’s mother, says she’s always worried ‘bout me. She’s a lot like those mommas in the movies me and Darry watch, or in the books we read. She’s real sweet. She says I’m real quiet, though, a lot like a mouse. She calls me “Mysh,” which is “mouse” in Russian—either that or just by my name. I typically have to remind her how to pronounce the name, but I don’t mind it.
Darry’s coming over here. I believe he’s putting up his and Paul’s books. He and Paul are insufferable together. Lucky for me, I’ve got Construction with Darry next, and I ain’t gotta deal with Paully-boy. He’s terrible, but I can get along with Darrel just fine.
“Something is rotten in the state of [Oklahoma],”
Maryann Brooks