Charlotte

When you grow up on the crooked side of town, you become a sort of expert in the science of naming the alcohol on people's breath, determining a person's drug of choice just by their appearance, and deducing what kind of abuser someone'll be just by the way they look at you.  You learn that words are unreliable, and beatings on holidays inevitable; and eventually, you learn that heroes, despite all the stories you hear, don't exist.  They're just that:  stories.  Fiction.

Most importantly, growing up in the cyanide district, you develop a lot of foresight.  As it is with any art, practice makes perfect.  An artist will learn the right lines after drawing enough wrong ones; a mother will better raise her second child after making all her mistakes with the first one; and just like that, I learned, after being hurt enough times, to be able to tell when it's coming--when something bad's gonna happen.  And that, that's the reason I ran away.  No, that sounds too melodramatic.  Left.  I left.  Left cyanide district for Bloomington, Indiana, where dreams come true.  Well, my mom's dream, at least.  "I'm putting away some money to build a house there," she'd told me while making mushroom soup one Friday, "If there's one thing I'm gonna do before I die, it's build you a nice place to escape to.  Wouldn't you like that, Charley?"  Yes, I would.  But Mom, you spoke too soon.

Even though I saw the bank notes, I still don't know if my mom actually finished the house.  But I'd seen the way my dad had looked at Karen this morning.  And I know Karen--she doesn't back down.  I've got tar in my stomach, and the only way it's gonna disappear is if I disappear; get as far away from this town as I can.  I chose:  unrealistic dream house over Dad's midnight rage.  

It's not like it was hard.  All I had to do was hit Rickie up for some train tickets.  He's just about the only person I trust here, besides myself.  Rickie's the kid everyone here calls favors from.  He's the kid you can expect to fight your battles for you--literally.  He's always wearing combat scars and bragging about all the fights he's gotten into--fights he'd won, he claims, even though the looks of him state the opposite.  But we all laugh, because Rickie's laughing; because nothing gets to Rickie.  At least, that's what he wants everyone to believe.  The truth is, as I'd found out one September evening, Rickie's not any of that.  Rickie's just a good actor.     

I'm a coward, you see.  I didn't want to see Karen get bruises, so I shut the front door, murmured something about going to the library, and took a walk.  Except, there's no library for miles.  After about fifteen minutes of blind walking, I found myself at the park.  I plopped down on one of the swings and swung as hard as my legs would let me.  I started laughing, because it was either that, or crying.  But after a while, it started feeling as amazing as my laugh made it out to be.  The night was pitch black--as dark as it would've been if I'd closed my eyes, the temperature was just right, and when I swung hard enough, the air stopped smelling like smoke and started smelling like real air.  It was like falling in circles, if that makes any sense.  Eventually, I had to stop to catch my breath.  I let the swing slowly lose momentum, savoring the feeling of weightlessness.  Of not being.

I bent down and picked up a few of the cigarettes strewn in the bark, then got off the swing and walked towards the street.  I found a sewer and dropped them in, each cigarette into a different space between the bars.  That's when I noticed, amid the soft wails of the cigarettes as they met water, I wasn't alone.  I paused, unfurling the last stick in my hand.  It wasn't silent.  At first, I thought it was the leaves rustling.  The sound had that kind of soft, melodic pattern to it.  But no, this sound was more familiar.  It was the sound of someone crying.  I had half a mind to walk away--no use getting caught in someone else's problem--but I couldn't.  It was just too heartbreaking, you know?  So I, stumbling over my uneven limbs, found its source.  I almost walked into a tree.  Nevermind that, I almost walked into him.

I felt around for grass, and then steadily sat down.  I blinked a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.  Gradually, Rickie's face began coming into focus.  Except it wasn't Rickie.  Rickie's face couldn't crumple the way it was doing before me.  Rick didn't cry--Rickie never cried, especially not the way he was right now.  I shook my head, glancing at the streetlight a few blocks down.  When I looked back, his face was still there, just as it was before.

"A-Are you okay?"

For a fleeting second, the old Rickie came back.  His eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell into a silly smile.  "'Course I am, Charley.  I was just--I was laughing.  Yeah.  Laughing so hard I was crying.  You know that kind of laughing, right?  I mean, that was you earlier, wasn't it?"

Despite myself, I smiled.  That was all it took for pretend Rickie to go away.  He'd fooled me.  I'd smiled--accepted his lie.  He wasn't needed anymore.  

That left real Rickie, the Rickie I was only now beginning to know.  In a second he was back to crying.  I tried to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder, but he just flinched away.  I tried my words instead.  "Rickie, who did this to you?"

"Rickie's n-not allowed to tell."

"Rickie, what are you talking about?" I murmured, having to stop my hands from instinctively wrapping themselves around him.  

"He can't tell.  Dad'll hurt me if Rickie tells."

"But you're Rickie."

He just shook his head.  I kept on pleading for him to tell me what was wrong, so I could help him, but it was useless.  Because I already knew what was wrong; I already knew I couldn't help him.  It was just like my dad said, "You're just a stupid girl."  And just like I'm doing now, I ran away.  

What's ironic is that, staring out the train window, I'm seeing that it's Rickie again.  He's the last person I'm ever going to see from this place before going to Indiana and becoming another Charlotte.  A different Charlotte.  I'm leaving him again.

I look down at my ticket and run my fingers over its slippery surface.  "Beat up some rich kids to get 'em," he'd said, his swollen lips falling into a smirk.  

I'd smiled back.  Again.  To make him happy.  "Are you gonna be alright?"

"Why the hell wouldn't I be?" he laughed, "It's you you should be worried about."  He put a hand on my shoulder, "Let's see…don't do any drugs, aim for the crotch if anyone tries to take advantage of you, if you make any money don't spend it all on clothes--

"Okay, okay, I get it."  It's hard not to smile around Rickie.  

"Just take care of yourself, Charlotte."

"Promise you will, too?"

"Who do you think I am?"  It's hard not to give in to what Rickie wants you to believe.

"Alright, Rickie."

We stopped there, because we both didn't like goodbyes, me stepping onto the train with numb feet and Rickie staring after me, a stupid smile plastered on his face.  The worst part is that I know what he's hiding behind it.  No, the worst part is that I can't do anything about it--I chose not to do anything about it.

I could've waited till nighttime to take a train.  Nighttime Rickie would've come with me.  But I didn't.  I was selfish.  

I was right.  There are no heroes in this world.





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