Cold Fury

lessons, is power. Uncle Buddy adopted that philosophy and perverted it, trying to draw information from me. He listened sneakily, between the lines, hoping to learn things about my mom and dad that I didn’t know I was telling him; sometimes I wonder if I ever unknowingly gave something away that contributed to their disappearance. I have-correction, had-much to thank Uncle Buddy for, but now gratitude has been blotted out by deceit.

God, I really do hate him.

Actually, hate is not a big enough word.

I hate-fear-for-my-life-tremble-in-my-boots at the mention of his name.

I’m sure, or almost sure, or sure enough, that he viciously betrayed my family. Whether or not they’re alive, one thing is certain-everything changed forever on a recent rainy night, and so did I. Before my mom, dad, and little brother disappeared, I was someone who faded into the background-at school, with other kids, in the neighborhood-trying strenuously not to draw attention to myself. It’s who I was and how I was raised, which are basically the same thing.

Now it’s different.

Now I kick ass first and ask questions later. And if the tables turn and I’m the one getting her ass kicked, I find a place to hide, or way to escape. I have a lot of things to be grateful to Uncle Buddy for, but probably the last thing he taught me is the most valuable: when it comes to staying alive, I can trust only myself.

All forms of betrayal are poison.

Whether it’s being used as fresh meat in a boxing ring or violating the code of decency that dictates sidewalk behavior, it creates a bitter protective crust over a person’s soul. Having my secret fears and self-doubt used as currency against me as Uncle Buddy did was a transgression so deep that it has infested me with a true, pure hatred. It has sparked a flame of desire for vengeance that’s stronger than any silly, lingering feelings of affection I once felt for him.

That flame is lit in me now, and it’s burning blue and cold.

3

There was no doubt in my mind who I wanted to talk to after the earthquake of my first real kiss in the seventh grade.

It was exciting, traumatic, and so, so weird, all at the same time.

I knew Uncle Buddy would give me his undivided attention.

That milestone smooch was applied by Walter J. Thurber, who was known for his yo-dude-floppy-hair- skater-boy look. It should’ve occurred to me that any kid who dressed like that but never actually rode a skateboard might have issues. Then again, we were thirteen, and he was the most popular kid in school, and I was not. Even then, I sensed something inside myself that made me feel disconnected from the cliques inhabited by my classmates. I knew that if I put myself out there more, I could probably have just as wide a social circle as anyone else. But the overwhelming desire to be included and liked that operated the motors of most kids just wasn’t in me. I was content to sit back and let the world come to me; if it did, great, and if not, well, that was okay too.

Later, when I realized who my family really was, and what that cold blue flame in my gut really meant, I would begin to understand why I was so different.

My parents didn’t help the situation.

They were overprotective in a way that made me feel like I was made of glass.

They were so family oriented that chatting with neighbors over the picket fence was regarded as a waste of time.

We spent every holiday with my grandparents and Uncle Buddy. . and every non-holiday, and every weekend, and most weeknights. And the thing is, I loved being with my family because they were funnier and smarter and more interesting than most other kids’ families. It’s true that if I talked about a classmate’s parents-for example, what a kid’s dad did for a living-my own parents showed little interest, even wondering aloud why I cared about someone else’s personal business. But they weren’t being dismissive or rude. They were just being themselves, which was extremely private, and they encouraged Lou and me to be private, too. My dad was strict when it came to us talking about what he did for a living, which never made sense to me, since he and Grandpa Enzo and Uncle Buddy were bakers-there wasn’t much to tell about cookies, cakes, and pies. But my dad would just shrug and say, “You never know what means something to other people.” The result was that most of my time outside school was spent almost exclusively with my family.

In other words, a kiss from Walter J. Thurber was not to be taken lightly.

It happened at Gina’s thirteenth birthday party.

Gina was my best friend, but is much less of a friend now. Part of the reason for that is we simply drifted apart, and part of it was due to her inborn nature as a supergossip. One afternoon, shortly before that momentous first kiss, my mom overheard Gina reporting to me the loves, losses, and general scandals sweeping the neighborhood. After Gina left, my mom sat me down and gently explained why it was best that I put some distance between me and her-that if Gina so easily talked about other people, then she’d just as easily talk about me. She opened her arms and said, “This is our home, Sara Jane, and we all have to respect it. We don’t want it violated by idle chatter.” Of course I understood how my parents felt about our family’s privacy. But I have to admit, even though I’d never been friend-centric, the idea of not hanging around Gina bothered me. It was nice to be with someone who was bubbly and outgoing (my opposite), and besides, a challenge was part of the basis of our relationship-she knew I cared nothing about gossip and was determined to feed me that one golden nugget that would actually intrigue me. It was almost like a contest and it was fun. Still, my life was built around my family and their opinions mattered more than anything else. So, little by little, I drew away from Gina.

In the intervening years, she went on to achieve gossip superstardom, which equals popularity (kids love to talk about other kids), while I’ve retreated into the shadows, not talking much to anyone. She and I are still sort of friends, but I don’t tell her much. Gina trades classified information like a double agent, just like she did when she was thirteen.

Just like she did when I told her that Walter J. Thurber had just kissed me.

We were celebrating her birthday in a basement with streamers and balloons, a half-eaten cake and twenty other kids. A sugary pop song was playing with a guy half-whining, half-yodeling, “You’re Beautiful” over and over. It was all very seventh grade.

Walter materialized next to me and said, “You are, too.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and said, “What?”

“You. You’re beautiful.”

With my nose definitely taking on a life (and zip code) of its own, I’d begun to feel the complete opposite of beautiful. Also, although I’d forgone my usual attire of jeans and T-shirt (worn denim and anything soft bearing a Cubs or Bears logo; my mom told me I looked like a model in a secondhand sports store) for a new skirt and top, I was aware that I wasn’t exactly the best-dressed girl at the party. That’s why his praise was such a surprise, but also seemed suspicious. It just wasn’t in my nature to trust a compliment, and I leaned over and said, “What’s your point, Walter?”

“No point. You’re so quiet and I never see you at any parties or anywhere, and I always wanted to do this,” he said, and pressed his lips against mine. There was no mashing or movement like in a movie. It just sort of was-a long moment of moist facial proximity that smelled like spearmint gum-and then it was over. Instead of seeing stars or fireworks or whatever was supposed to happen, my truest feeling was gratitude. Walter had given me a small but important gift, opening the door just a crack to what it would someday be like to actually want to kiss someone and be kissed. I smiled and said, “Thanks, Walter.”

He smiled back, showing naturally straight teeth, and said, “You’re welcome. So, uh. . later,” and walked back to his friends like he’d conquered Mars single-handedly.

I made a beeline for Gina and told her what had happened.

Five minutes later, the room had broken into small groups of whispering kids.

Ten minutes later, everyone at the party knew Walter had kissed me.