Miseducated Page 3

  While locked in our rooms, I got an idea from a kids’ TV show, but putting it into action would require a potentially perilous trip downstairs. I cracked the door enough to poke my head through. Barry’s room was to my immediate left and Sierra’s to the right. I crept down the stairs like they were beds of nails. Descending slowly, planting one foot at a time, I froze if I heard a creak. When I reached the final step, I could hear the television in the living room. I paused, reluctant and considering the danger. I took a deep breath and resolved that the risk was worth reuniting with my brother.

  Just as I leaned in to turn the corner, I heard Lucas shout, “Are you kidding me?” I jerked back quickly and closed my eyes. “Come on ref, that was bull!” he continued. My chest was pounding. I was scared to breathe because he might hear it. Finally, I just went for it.

  I walked quickly but not too fast because I didn’t want to appear a running target. My eyes were fixed on the kitchen but in my peripheral vision I could see him eating chips and jeering at his losing Steelers. I retrieved four red plastic cups from the cabinet and darted back toward the stairs. I made it safely, this time, courtesy of Monday Night Football.

  When I got back to my room, I poked a hole in the bottom of each cup and connected them with shoestrings. They were telephones, like the ones I had seen in the cartoon. I peeked my head in the hallway and tossed one pair to Barry’s door. I rushed to the wall that divided us, thrilled that I had devised a solution. I pressed one cup to the wall and the other to my mouth. “Barry, you there?” I whispered into the plastic. Then I held it to my ear anxiously awaiting his response. “I repeat, Barry are you there?” It did not work. After several minutes of silence passed, reality set in. Obviously, these cups must have been defective.

  When that plan fell short, we pushed boundaries by lying on the floor with our doors cracked and our heads barely peeping out like whack-a-moles. Sometimes we talked in whispers. Other times, we simply took comfort from being able to see each other. We made faces to see who would laugh first. Then we had staring contests, eyes watering while we squinted, trying desperately not to blink. Then we busted out in laughter and slapped our hands over our mouths, horrified that we’d made a sound. “Shut that noise up!” Lucas yelled from downstairs. Then we closed our doors and went back into hiding.

  Of our cells, Barry’s had the best view. His room was in the front and from his window he could see other kids playing outside. My window faced the vinyl siding of the house next door. Rarely did I get a chance to see the sun.

  There was one last hope before I’d give up. The wall that divided our rooms had a vent at the bottom. I crawled on my stomach to the foot of the wall and placed my ear against the vent. I thought I could hear sound from the other side. I put my mouth against the vent.

  “Pssst,” I whispered through the air duct. “Barry, can you hear me?”

  I was desperate to hear my big brother’s voice.

  “Barry? Barry, you there?” I said again. But I got nothing in return.

  I was saddened by another failed experiment. I retired to my bed to kick my feet up and watch the day fade away.

  Suddenly, I faintly heard something near the vent. I flopped back on my belly and crawled with lightning speed. I put my ear to the air vent to listen. “Barry, is that you?” I whispered into the air vent. But I heard nothing. “Barry, are you there?” I asked once more. Before I could crawl back to my bed with my face dragging on the floor, I heard his voice reach through the air duct and hold me the way he did when I was frustrated because he never let me win: “I’m here, little bro. I’m here.” Once we figured this out, it was how we communicated for years while in confinement.

  Barry has always been my best friend. Sierra has always been my protector. It didn’t matter that we had different fathers, though it often incited what we call “daddy wars.” During these lively disputes, Barry and Sierra—who shared a father—would tag-team against me, taunting, “Our daddy is better than yours.” But I would strike back, “No he isn’t!” and fervently defend my father. Ben, the youngest of us, was fathered by Lucas and was far too young for verbal jousting. But even if he could have joined in, his nefarious father’s drug use, domestic abuse, infidelity, and frequent abandonment would have left him nothing good to say.

  As a boy, I couldn’t have asked for a father more perfect. Mom had a unique type of “baby-daddy drama.” Instead of deadbeat men who skipped visits and missed child support payments, she had two overcommitted fathers and a series of custody battles where she and her former partners traded charges of unfit parenting. Failing to gain full custody, they fought incessantly over visiting rights. Lucas fought against them.

  Mom was adamant about keeping her children together, so it pained her to see us whisked away in different directions for weekends or holidays. Barry and Sierra went with their dad in New York, Ben remained in his two-parent home, and I went with my dad to North Carolina, Arizona, or wherever the military had stationed him. Although he and my mother had never legally married, nothing could keep him away. He drove thousands of miles, survived accidents, and weathered storms to keep his promise to his little boy. He didn’t seem to care, at first, how poorly I fit into his second family. Anyone who knew him knew that there was nothing he treasured more than his only son.

  In the ’90s, Dad was what they called a “man’s man.” He stood five foot ten and was a star athlete with burly shoulders, veiny biceps, and a chiseled chest. His bald head was immaculate and glistened like bronze. He was a valiant soldier who had survived foreign wars and climbed military ranks. He was a competitive boxer who had contended with the best in Golden Gloves bouts. He was that and more. But above all, he was my hero. And together we turned every idle moment into a sport.

  When we visited my paternal grandmother in South Carolina, our roughhousing scared her. Lying on the floor, my dad with his legs bent and upraised, I planked on the soles of his feet. He grabbed hold of my hands, straightened his legs, and boosted me high into the air with my hands free and my arms outstretched. “Superman!” he yelled as Grandma closed her eyes and shrieked in fear.

  I woke him up in the mornings by turning the bed into a trampoline. He stretched the blanket over his drowsy face, no doubt wishing his hyperactive son had a snooze button. Then I flopped onto his belly, demanding that he come to life.

  We played football in the yard, where he’d allow my meager 85 pounds to topple his 200-pound mass with a tackle.

  In parking lots, he’d suddenly call out, “Bet you can’t beat me!” and take off running toward the car at far less than his actual speed. When I bolted past him, he’d yell, “Slow down! You’re too fast!” and he smiled as I left him trailing on the asphalt.

  We played one-on-one at the basketball court. I once delivered my best crossover combo to get around his wide frame when, suddenly, he grabbed me from behind and hoisted me on his shoulders for a slam dunk.

  We arm-wrestled at the dinner table, where his face would twist with anguish as he hissed through his gritted teeth, “I can’t win. You’re too strong.”

  And when we weren’t competing in some sport, he was affectionate. In private and public, he’d say, “Come here” and plant wet kisses on each cheek. I squirmed and wiped them off, but he wouldn’t stop until I allowed his love seal of saliva to dry on my face.

  Most vivid, however, are the scenes when our visits ended. The cross-country drives in his blue Dodge truck didn’t last long enough. He steered with one arm, and with the other he stretched his calloused hand to wipe the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. He sang to me until I fell asleep. And when I dozed off, or when he thought I had, I could hear soft sniffles as he cried, too.

  By the time I had awakened, I was home—back to the hellish place ruled by my demon stepfather. Dad knew something wasn’t right, but he lacked proof of what was happening to me inside that house. During custody hearings, the judge always asked for evidence of maltreatment. Dad would pull me aside and coach, “
Come on, son, it’s okay. Tell us what’s going on,” pushing me to validate his suspicions. But I couldn’t. At that age, I had no true concept of abuse. It was an abstract term that my ten-year-old brain could not yet comprehend, and an experience that my elementary vocabulary could not capture.

  Besides, the devil brainwashed me to believe that my beatings were deserved. I will not be the bad child that I am is what he made me write a thousand times a day, seven days a week, for nearly five years. That message was encoded in my mind. I dreaded coming home from school because I knew what awaited me. The sentences were top priority. Homework often went undone, and dinner was a luxury—permitted only if I had finished. I’d spend hours writing, legs crossed, hunched over on my bedroom floor. My neck cricked and my fingers would blister, bleed, and burn with splinters from shabby wooden pencils. The pain crippled my right hand and forced me to become ambidextrous. The labor begat “Wow, your writing is so neat” from schoolteachers who hadn’t a clue. But the cost wasn’t worth those fleeting moments of praise. And the writing was only the beginning of his rage.

  When I’d finished the one thousandth line of the script, I delivered the stack to his bedroom. His chamber felt like the underworld, his bed a throne shrouded in darkness and despair. I’d hand over the parcel, eyes fixed on the discolored carpet as my body stiffened in fear. He’d examine the packet to verify the sentence count. I had tried to outsmart him a few times, but I did so at my own expense. So I employed other strategies, such as writing I a thousand times, then will, then not, and so on. After shuffling the pages for a few seconds, he’d shove the sheets into my chest and say, “Now rip it.” I’d begin tearing through the dense stack, but I never moved fast enough for him. His rage simmered, then boiled and rose into a violent eruption.

  “I said rip it!” he’d roar as he snatched the papers and angrily tore them to shreds. My hands would tremble as he stormed to the closet. He’d retrieve a wad of tangled belts and carefully study the weapons. When he couldn’t settle on one, he’d hold them all in the palm of his hand and grip them into a bundle. He’d examine it like a bullwhip—but, still, he was unsatisfied. He’d turn the belts upside down so the metal buckles dangled at the end, clanging like lepers’ bells. With one hand, he’d cock back the metal batch and then slash across my torso, rip across my legs, my head, or wherever the iron might land—until I’d crumple to the floor, swollen, bleeding, beyond reach of mercy. The gut-wrenching sounds of lashes and ghastly screams echoed through the hollow place that I called home. Helplessly I’d lay, my body mangled, my knees tucked into my chest, and my forearms frantically guarding my face. But he’d continue swinging the belt buckles, thrashing and striking me like I was his slave.

  One time when my father and I pulled into the driveway, there Lucas stood, guarding the gates of hell, looking far scarier to me than Maalik or a three-headed hound. But I wouldn’t get out of the truck. I couldn’t. Dad unloaded my luggage and stood impatiently, beckoning through the window. Sorrow gathered in my eyes and fell in a silent, steady stream. I hoped for divine intervention or for Dad to read the fear that drove my tears. He reached for the door, but I barred it shut. After a brief tug-of-war, he grappled me out of the truck. But I resisted. “No, Daddy! No! Please!” I yelled. He was so much stronger than me, but I kicked and hollered and roped my arms around the headrest. Half of my body dangled outside the vehicle. I held on tightly and screamed for my life. “Son, please, you have to stop,” he said, embarrassed as neighbors observed the dramatic scene. “No! Please! No!” I continued, hoping he would give in. I threw my weight to the ground, desperate to break free.

  “You need some help?” the devil said with an ominous grin as he watched us tussle. His evil chuckles portended the dark amusements he had in mind.

  “It’s okay, I got him,” Dad responded. He tugged on my legs, trying to drag me as gently as possible toward the house while I clawed and dug my fingernails into the earth, dirt filling in my cuticles.

  “Son, please. Don’t do this,” he begged.

  Eventually, I surrendered to exhaustion. When we finally made it to the door, Dad planted a last wet kiss on my cheek and said, “I love you, son” as I begged him not to go.

  I pressed my face against the screen door as I watched him fade into the distance. He was gone. My heart sank to my stomach and contracted in an agony so unbearable that I collapsed to the floor. I was fatigued—and stricken with grief. Suddenly, the devil yelled, “At ease!” He nearly yanked my arm out of its socket as he snatched me to my feet and barked, “Shut that noise up, boy!” This, I understood, was his sinister way of saying “Welcome back home.”

  Five years we survived him. And it might have been longer. Until one day, Sierra decided that enough was enough. She devised a plan to get rid of Lucas. He had to go. Even if it meant that he would die.

  It was a Saturday and Mom had to work. Most mornings like this, Sierra sat us down and fixed us breakfast like wheat toast and Cap’n Crunch, the cereal du jour. She loved pretending to be our mother. It was beautiful at times and embarrassing at others. Like when she once cut my eyelashes because she was jealous they were longer than hers. Or when Barry and I would be slap boxing or wrestling in our rooms and she would barge in to interrupt and force us to play house instead. She pretended we were her children. I was prettier than Barry, according to her, so I always had to play the daughter. She put the mouth of a white undershirt over my head and used the sleeves and body to make a single long braid. Then she chose the finest makeup from Mom’s bathroom to dash my lips with Ruby red and decorate my face with rosy blush. It was torture. But we had to comply because she was still bigger than us.

  Lucas made breakfast this particular Saturday. He did this sometimes when he was in a decent mood. He yelled from the kitchen, “Get down here and eat!” We sat on stools at the kitchen counter, eating wordlessly, because we did not like to talk in his presence. He was steps away in the living room. Barry and Ben finished their food and went back upstairs, but I stayed for an extra bowl or two of cereal. This was a mistake.

  As soon as I took my bowl to the sink, he came back into the kitchen. I flinched and quickly moved out of his way, tightening my body as if he might swing at any moment. I wanted to run, but I did not want to leave my sister behind. I looked at her, trying to give a subtle signal for us to leave. But Sierra stayed on her stool. I scrambled to collect my spoon and cup. Still, Sierra did not move. She sat gracefully eating her meal. I looked at her in deep concern. She looked back at me like things were going to change today.

  I went and sat next to Sierra. As small as I was, I thought somehow I could protect her. I was terrified of him. We all were. But judging by Sierra’s expression, she was not scared this day.

  “That woman can’t do nothing right,” Lucas said as he slammed the fridge. “Not one damn thing.”

  I looked at Sierra, who was still looking at him, like something was getting ready to happen. My heart felt like it was beating two times its normal speed. I looked to my right at the hallway where I could run, considering the option once more. But I had to stay with my sister. I had to keep her safe.

  “She don’t know nothing. She can’t do nothing,” Lucas continued. “I gotta do everything for my goddamn self.”

  That’s when Sierra snapped.

  “Stop disrespecting my mother!” Sierra yelled, standing to her feet. My heart nearly stopped. Lucas turned his attention toward her. I looked at him and saw a fire burning in his eyes. I tried not to cry, looking at Sierra and thinking, No, what have you just done?

  “What you just say to me?” Lucas said, slowly closing the space between them.

  Sierra’s face was clenched as tight as her teeth.

  “I said stop disrespecting my mother!” she repeated.

  He rushed toward her and yoked her by the arm. “You better watch your goddamn mouth!” he growled and tossed her toward the back door.

  “Now go out there and get me a stick!” he said. He got great
satisfaction in watching us fetch weapons he would use on us. He’d send us back time and time again until we found one to his liking.

  Sierra screamed back into his face, “No!”

  He looked at her like she had lost her mind. I stood immobile, thinking the same thing. Lucas flung open the door with Hulk-like strength. He went outside and grabbed the first stick with a suitable girth. When he returned, Sierra stood there as fearless as I had ever seen. He swung the stick like a baseball bat, aiming toward her head. I heard a big CRACK! as it slammed against her neck and snapped in half. But Sierra did not budge. She tightened her hand into a fiery fist and struck him in the face. His glasses went flying as he stumbled backward. I could not believe my eyes. My sister had suddenly transformed into Amanirenas, the Queen of Kush. Then Sierra wound up and swung again. But this time, she missed. I covered my eyes and my stomach clenched because something terrible was about to happen. Lucas’s arm shot out and he palmed the entire left side of Sierra’s head and slammed it against the counter, pounding and smothering and smushing her face into the granite. I stood in shock as she struggled to yell, “Brandon, run! Go get help!” She was suffocating under his grip. Thick streams of blood were pouring from her nose and into her mouth as she tried to breathe. Her face was a paste of blood and tears as she choked out a scream: “Brandon, go!” But I could not move. I stood wide-eyed, and my entire body was frozen. My feet were bolted to the floor. My legs and arms were paralyzed. My sister’s face was being battered, bruised, and crushed under Satan’s claw. But I could not move. I could not save her.

  Sierra kicked her leg back. Lucas stumbled and she broke free. Her fearlessness had been replaced by terror that she would be killed. She bolted down the hall toward the front door, screaming, “Help! Help!” She made it halfway before Lucas clutched the back of her shirt and tugged her backward. She stretched both hands toward the door, pushing and lunging with all of her might. Her face was sweating blood. Suddenly, Sierra’s bra strap snapped under her shirt and Lucas lost his grip, allowing her to break free and charge ahead with all she had. She wrestled the lock and yanked the door open, but before she could thrust her head outside to call for help, Lucas jerked her back, slammed the door, and threw her to the ground. Then he stood, towering over her tattered body. Sierra had no fight left.