WINGS- Week 1 of Brigit's Flame- an Autobiographical Entry with Names and Details Changed.
The door burst open. A girl was looking at me. Her hair was brown and curly with a shock of startling white in front. One eye was blue, the other brown, and they were both a little too wide-set, as if they each wanted to wander off and do their own thing. She was in Goth uniform, clanking with chains, and her lip piercing protruded belligerently.
“Hi Amy,” I said.
“I need counseling,” she said. “I don’t want to work on that shit.”
The teacher was standing behind her, a little Japanese sparrow of a lady who makes delicious cream filled almond cookies, which is one of the things I admire about her. The other is how hard she tries with these tough kids at the alternative school. I was filling in for another counselor for the day.
“I don’t know,” she said, wringing her hands. “Amy needs to do her studying. That test is coming up soon.”
Amy crossed her arms over her chest. I could see cuts whipstitched up her arms even from where I sat.
“It’s okay, I think Amy’s time might be better spent working on whatever’s bothering her.” I smiled. Mrs. Tamaguchi withdrew, relieved, and I gestured to a nearby table.
“Have a seat, m’dear, and tell me all about it.”
“I haven’t seen you in awhile,” she said accusingly. I shrugged.
“I have another job. Just filling in today.”
“Oh.” This seemed to satisfy her. She fiddled with one of her string bracelets, the crystal blue eye watching me. I wasn’t sure where the brown eye was. She had some rare genetic syndrome that involved the eyes and hair; I Googled it but couldn’t find the name.
“So. You said you needed counseling. What’s up?”
“I don’t really. That study shit is just boring.” She tried a little glare. I laughed.
“Don’t blame you. Pretty bored myself. How about you catch me up on what you been doing since I saw you last… was it last year?” Actually I’ve known her since 6th grade, when bipolar disorder was beginning to manifest and she was doing her first stint in a foster home due to her drug addicted parents. I still remembered the social worker’s comment to me- “they were living like wolves in an abandoned car.”
She shrugged. Switched to the brown eye. I noticed it was a deep rich chocolate. I’ve learned to just say what I’m thinking with kids, so I did.
“God your eyes are amazing. It’s like they each came from another planet and decided to join your face, just to make it more interesting than the rest of us.”
She laughed, a rusty bark like it didn’t get out much.
“Yeah. My hair too.”
“I like it. I see you’ve decided to go with it as a look.”
“Might as well. Where I’ve been? In and out of the hospital. And I lived on the street for awhile.”
I knew this. Her mental health history was horrendous. She’d been in every program on the island, several on another island, and even a year on the mainland, all before the ripe old age of 17.
“How was that?”
“Scary.” She looked at me with both eyes now. The effect was intense. “Hawaii isn’t what people think it is. All kinds of shit happened. I got raped, and robbed, and had no food…” her voice trailed off. She looked down. It was like a searchlight moving past, an instant relief. “I’ll take the hospital or jail anytime instead, but really I’m sick of all the drama.”
“Seems like you figured something out through that,” I said.
“Yeah. Want to hear a song I wrote about it?”
“Sure.”
She dug in her backpack, pulled out a dog-eared composition book. Flipped through the pages to a poem, much crossed out and rewritten. Opened her mouth and sang.
The sweet strong purity of her voice, the incongruity of the situation, the total surprise of witnessing this froze me in my chair. The song was about running away, about longing for her mother, and about insanity. I don’t remember the words, just the spell of it. Tears sprang to my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
She closed the notebook. Looked at me.
“I want to be on American Idol,” she said. I sniffed, smacked the tears off my cheeks.
“Damn girl. That would show ‘em,” I said. She laughed again, patted my arm, comforting me. We didn’t need to clarify who “them” was… We both knew it was her parents, the system, the world.
After that she opened her notebook and showed me more poems and drawings. Hair raising stuff. Showed me her scars. Told me stories from the street and the hospital. Filled me in on the six years since I had been her counselor in junior high.
Finally Mrs. Tamaguchi stuck her head in.
“You ride’s here,” she said to Amy.
“Bummer,” we both said at the same time. I hugged her goodbye.
“I’ll see you again next school year,” I said. “I’m helping out with the program in the fall.”
“You better,” she said, and gave me a little poke. Kids take it personally when you leave. It still hurts me too, even after all these years. I walked her out to the car, a dilapidated Chrysler. Her father, recently out of jail, was behind the wheel. I saw where she got her unique coloring.
“Your daughter is amazing,” I said, after shaking his leathery hand.
“I know,” he said. “She wants to be a singer. We’re getting her lessons.”
“Awesome. She has a beautiful voice,” I said. No need to say anything about the snowball’s chance in hell she had of getting on American Idol; this was a kid who needed a dream to just survive.
Amy got in. A chunk of rust fell out of the door on my foot as she closed it. I wondered how much the singing lessons cost, how long she would have them. I waved goodbye as they pulled away, went back into the building. Mrs. Tamaguchi met me.
“She was so irritable,” she said. “What was the matter?”
“She just needed to tell her story,” I said. “I think she might be finding her wings.”