I didn’t have the luxury of dreaming like most kids my age. I didn’t waste my timethinking that one special day, prospective parents would come and adopt me. It waseasier to accept the truth. No one wanted me. And those who did were looking for apaycheck and not a burden. The last thing they wanted was to tuck me in at night wearinga straightjacket. I preferred this life more than those other orphans who were all caughtup in the system. There’s no stability in that. Besides, I ate a hell of a lot better, andnobody came within two feet of me because I was fucking crazy. It was just as well. Ididn’t want to be part of the revolving door. You know like prison. You did some time onthe inside, and then you spent the rest of it being pimped out on the outside. The buspulled up. I threw out my cigarette and climbed on. Immediately, I heard kids snickeringbehind me.
“Uh, look who just got on the bus.” “What does she have on?” “Something out of agarbage can.”
“You better shut up before she turns around and pulls a Carrie on your ass.”
There was laughter. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t believe that there’s actually apecking order amongst rejects. Unbelievable. I guess I would never catch a break. Iignored them. It was better to pretend that I didn’t hear them, that they didn’t exist. Theymade fun of me all the time. I was very thin, with knock-knees and kinky curly hair thatfell down my back. My hair was hard to manage, especially in the humidity when itfrizzed out and looked more like a Diana Ross wig. To make matters worse, I was a latebloomer with a flat chest and ass to boot. Many of the boys at the home often teased me.They couldn’t tell if I was coming or going because both sides looked exactly the same. Icouldn’t find any clothes that fit. So I had to cinch my pants with a huge belt that causedthe fabric to crease, like the wrinkles on an elephant’s butt. I stole a peek behind me andsaw a few kids leaning over the seats. They were talking and cursing loudly. I sat back inmy chair and wished that my brother were here to take up for me.
He never would have let those kids get away with treating me the way that they did.My brother was crazy too, but in a good way. He was the kind of crazy that was fearedand admired by other kids. Hey, it wasn’t always like that. He had to earn his title bytaking a lot of beatings. In fact, I remember a time when he wasn’t so tough. When hewas ten, he used to get chased by the boys in our neighborhood. Man, it was a sight tosee. My brother would run like a black man about to be lynched. Meanwhile, a riffraffposse of bandits was steady on his heels. Their faces were masked with anger. They heldsharp objects in their hands. There was one odd boy who took the whole thing a little tooseriously. He was the one who wore shoe polish as war paint and channeled rounds intohis father’s double barrel BB gun.
Ali would avoid them by taking detours that worked better than a GPS system.Sometimes, he made it home without as much as a scratch. Other times, he came in witha busted lip, a black eye, or other bruises that hurt so badly, the pain showed in his tearsoaked eyes. There was one day that changed his life forever. Maybe he just couldn’t takethe beatings anymore, but I think that everyone has their breaking point when they justget tired of being scared. I supposed it was a rite of passage from cowardliness tobravery. It all started when some of the boys were making off-color jokes about ourmom. They made obscene sexual gestures with their fingers pulsating in and out of theirmouths. We tried to ignore them, but this seemed to make them madder. They threwrocks first and then hard punches. I didn’t know what to do, so I fell to the ground andrested in the fetal position, covering my head. My brother protected me, while the boyskicked, punched and spit at us until they got tired.
Afterwards, they got up and began walking away, cheerily giving each other highfives and passing out illegal cigarettes to celebrate their victory. With their backs to him,my brother got up to his feet. I noticed a certain level of madness in his eyes. His bodyappeared to have transformed, like he developed this alter ego, much like a man who wasable to mutate into a green, muscle-ripped monster. He howled savagely. He then tackledthe biggest guy in the bunch. They tumbled around, until Ali pinned him and began toslam punches into his face.
I looked around. I was scared. We were all scared. The crowd yelled and screamedfor him to get off the boy, but my brother was in a zone. His eyes were glazed over; itwas like he was not even himself. Ali’s hands were molded with clots of blood. Mystomach was getting queasy. I ran over and jumped on his back and begged and pleadedfor him to stop. His arms collapsed by his sides, his chest heaved in and out, more fromexhaustion than from my scrawny embrace. The boy was sprawled out on the ground,lying motionless, like road-kill. We went home that day and never talked about Ali’s alterego. It was best to pretend that it never happened.
My mommy’s behavior didn’t help much. In fact, I think she was the one who kindacaused Ali to get ass whippings in the first place. Anyway, he went from zero to hero in amatter of years. Me, I was still a reject. I didn’t earn the title of being schizophrenic untilI was well into my teens. However, my mommy was doing a fantastic job of being themost hated, sluttiest
