Stripes of Gehenna Read online

  Chapter One: Not Culturally Appropriate

  I’m glad the scars aren’t on my face. If they were, everyone would ask about them. Fortunately, people only stare if I’m in a swimsuit. Usually other teenagers or adults gawk. Little kids run up and ask about it while their parents hush them. I don’t really mind. I’m not ashamed of the scars, or the story behind them. But be warned that this story isn’t particularly happy. It doesn’t have a happy ending, but I wouldn’t go to far as to say that it’s a bad ending. It’s just that when things like this happen, there isn’t really a way to come out without some sadness. Some scars. Or in my situation, some stripes.

  It began with the stupid gold bangles I wore on the first day of my junior year.

  I marched into the high school with confidence and bright eyes knowing that these years of academia would determine where I’d spend my next years in college, undergrad, masters, or doctorate. Plans the size of the Atlantic sloshed around in my head, and here in the brick hallways and plaster-ceiling classrooms, is where those plans had to begin.

  Confident as a wild cat, I stalked down the hallway, finally feeling like an upperclassman. The green backpack I’d carried for the past three years would have to last for one more. Mom said she didn’t want to spend eighty dollars on a new one. I didn’t care about the backpack though--maybe it was my good luck charm that helped me maintain my 4.0 GPA. Maybe I just credited the backpack so I wouldn’t feel sad that I didn’t have a new one.

  I swung my arms at my sides. The bangles sang together as they rose up my arm and crashed into each other on the down stroke. Like Santa Claus, I drew all this attention with my bells.

  As my bangles crashed and chimed at my side, an equally confident, surprisingly handsome boy approached me. He stood almost a full foot taller than me, but was sort of skinny. Not that he looked malnourished, but he was lean. His skin was dark like he was from South America, but his accent gave him away. I'd seen enough Bollywood movies to recognize an Indian when I heard one.

  "Your bangles..." he noted. I thought it was an attempt at a compliment or a poorly phrased pick-up line. His English didn't seem very good.

  "Yeah, thanks," I said, making my words crisp so he was sure to understand.

  "No, they draw too much attention to you." I gave him another good look through narrow eyelids. His hair was a few inches long and poofy on top, but it hung down above his eyebrows in a way that I liked. A shadow of a beard was growing in. I wouldn’t have noticed it except that he was wearing a plain white v-neck. The shirt contrasted with his dark hair and eyebrows. "You're Kathryn Speer, yes?" he asked.

  "Yes, how did you-"

  "The guidance counselors directed me to you.” Then he went on. "You probably don't want to announce to the school that you come from a poor family. The way they chime, your bracelets, people can tell they are made of something cheap. Like tin or aluminum." No amount of foreign accent could make those words seem kind.

  I opened my mouth and shut it slowly. My cheeks grew hot. The metal under my fingernails clicked as I tapped my locker. This foreign student who hadn't mastered English, had the audacity to assume he knew how I should start my school year.

  "Oh, shut it!" I shouted. Immediately, my brash, unkind reply embarrassed me. I followed it up with, "If I wanna chime my way around the hallways, you’d better believe that I will."

  "You can chime your way around the hallways but just know that it won’t charm your way around them." He laughed, apparently feeling clever. Maybe he had mastered English.

  As he swaggered away, I was so perturbed I had to re-do my locker combination four times before finally getting into it. With my cheeks still red, I slipped the cheap bangles off, making sure the stupid bully wasn’t around to see his success, and set them on the top metal shelf before darting off to class.

  I entered with the bell and saw a swarm of students standing. The AP US History teacher assigned seats based on reverse alphabetical order of last name; not terribly original. "Kathryn Speer," she said, followed by "Shardul Padalkar." And then he came over, the bangle bully, and sat exactly behind me. I don’t have to look at him. I don’t have to talk to him, I said to myself.

  "Are you upset at me?" Shardul leaned forward and asked.

  "I just think it's weird that you want to tell me what I should wear." I turned around to look at him because class hadn't started yet. "Are you like, following me?"

  "Yes," he said and then smiled.

  "Wait--what? You're following me?" I verified, a hint of fear in my voice.

  "The guidance office said I should follow you, or shadow you. Our schedules coordinate well. They told me you’ll help me find my classes and adjust to American culture."

  I sighed and turned back around, all fear replaced by annoyance. I'd gone down to the guidance office and told them I could help anyone who was new and needed directions around the school. That sort of thing looks good on applications. Why did it have to be an attractive, bigoted guy? Had he been just attractive, it would be perfect. Had he been just bigoted, I could have been kind. But the combination of the two only made me mad.

  "I do not think you like me," Shardul said. At least he was perceptive.

  "I…I don't even know you," I muttered, skimming the syllabus.

  "People are not naturally either friends or enemies; friendship and enmity arise from circumstances." He quoted what sounded like a proverb to me. I ignored it and resisted the urge to counter with sarcasm. After that class, I ran off to the next, followed closely by my shadow Shardul. And he followed me. In each and every class, he was seated next to, in front of, or behind me.

  At the end of that first day of school, I was exhausted from trying to impress the teachers and memorize my new schedule. I stood at my locker and slipped the bangles back over my hand before I turned to leave. Shardul stood there and lifted my backpack off the floor. He cleared his throat and started talking like a fortune cookie again.

  "The genuine friend, who is affected with the joys and sorrows of another, is a medicinal cordial, the sanctuary of the heart, the delight of the eyes, and worthy of confidence," he said, using what I imagine was his best I'm-saying-something-wise voice.

  My fingers shook with irritation. I didn’t look at him. "Okay, Shardul, what are you talking about? You keep quoting these proverbs. Just say what you want to say," I said angrily, and shoved a few books inside my holey bag.

  "Okay." His lips were tight. “Look at me?” I turned to see him from the corner of my eyes. His eyes were wide and placid. "Why don't you want to be my friend?"

  "Because…" I hesitated speaking my mind. "Because you just came up to me and told me that my bangles were stupid."

  "I have difficulty believing that something so innocently intended could be perceived as bullying," he argued.

  "Well…I didn’t say you were a bully. I just said it was unkind. It was offensive!" I insisted.

  "Was I wrong?" he asked, and though his eyes gleamed with sincerity, I couldn't stand his impudence. "You heeded my advice. That must indicate that you found it to be of value."

  "You were…rude. You can't go up to a girl, or anyone, and tell them they are wrong or dumb or dressed weird and then think that a long-lasting friendship will ensue. It's not…it's not culturally appropriate," I hissed and slammed my locker shut.

  "You were in danger of ruining your first impression. He is a real friend who assists in time of danger."

  "Just stop," I said. Then, once he was a safe distance away, I muttered, “I’m not in danger. And if I was, you’re the last person I’d want help from.”

  It didn’t take long for me to learn that Shardul was a senior and his family had moved into an old house about four blocks from my house. It had been used as a
rental for as long as I could remember. He was only here for one year, and I decided I could handle just ONE year of him talking like a horoscope. It took a few days of exercising my cold shoulder before Shardul eventually caught on to my not-so-subtle clues that I didn’t particularly enjoy his company or Indian adages. To me, he was just competition.

  In fact, when Thanksgiving Break finally came, I relished the time away from him.

  ***

  There were several explanations for the frantic, heavy pounding at the door. My eyes shot open from my pre-dinner nap on the couch and my mind ran through the first three possibilities based solely on the urgency and volume of the knocking. It could be SWAT battering our door down. It could be a creature from above the giant beanstalk coming for a visit. It could be someone in distress, pounding on our door to escape from zombies or witches or saber-tooth tigers.

  But it wasn't. None of those options held any amount of logic. SWAT had no reason to be here. Beanstalks never grew tall enough to reach through the clouds to imaginary lands. Even Pole Beans stop at about 10 feet. And no one was desperate for safety or drowning in distress as they ran from fictional or extinct things.

  No, I'd heard this sound before and it could only really mean one thing.

  Uncle Richy was here.

  The house echoed, drawing us all to attention as Richy pounded at the door. The sound echoed so loudly, that even though I knew it was just my uncle, my heart pounded rapidly. Still, I was relieved when my mother dried her hands on her hole-ridden, flowery apron and calmly opened the door, revealing an elated Richy, smiling as if he’d just won the lottery. My mother’s taut lips drew a line across her chin making it very obvious that she did not share his joy.

  "What are you doing here?" She scarcely attempted to conceal her surprise and irritation.

  "It’s Thanksgiving! It’s a time for family!" Richy laughed, easily making his way past her body barricade. He settled himself on the couch, leaving only enough room for a child beside him.

  "Yes, but where are Crissa and-" my mother began to ask.

  "Short version: divorce. The marriage is over and Amanda is all hers. Full custody." Richy scanned the three bookshelves that rested against the far wall.

  "But, who is going to take care of Amanda? You know…given her disa-" my mother moved in front of him, blocking his view of anything except her wide hips.

  Richy cleared his throat and loudly asserted in a commanding tone, "We won’t be discussing that over our turkey and gravy."

  "So, that’s all you’re going to say about it?" My mother’s eyes widened but her hands didn’t move from their place on her waist.

  "I will say one other thing. She decided to keep the name Douglass. I don’t want to be associated with them any more, so I have legally changed mine to Speer."

  My dad looked up, only now interested in the conversation. He placed his bookmark inside the worn, hardcover text and removed his glasses before speaking. "You took my name?" he questioned, in the tone that usually made me embarrassed for doing something foolish, yet it didn’t seem to make Richy embarrassed in the slightest.

  "It’s a good, strong name." Richy explained, standing. He reached to put his arm around my mom but she batted him away, looking much like a toddler attempting to escape from her father’s arms. "It brings me closer to you guys and you're the only family I have left now."

  Family–he always had a strange definition of the word. To me it was a word that, by nature, included trust, conversation, and some degree of frequency in visitation. Richy didn't meet any of those requirements.

  My mother walked back to the kitchen as the oven timer beeped. She wagged her finger as she went. "You know I can see straight through your bull-…bologna!” She glanced at me. “Don’t try to pull the family card on this, Richy. I know you better than that. You’re always sneaking around and pulling all sorts of crap! You should have at least asked for our opinion on the matter before-"

  "I’ll ask now out of courtesy but you oughta know that it’s already legal." He whipped out his driver’s license to show us. Mom was too far to see it and my dad just shook his head, disinterested. That left it up to me to take the thin plastic and read the print. Richard Speer. I read it aloud.

  Speechless with irritation, my mom threw her hands up and asked me to set another place at the table. I returned the driver’s license to his strong hands and moved the huge dish of candied yams to the center of the table before setting a place for him beside my dad.

  Not to my surprise, Richy was too busy arguing with my mom about the past, a possible ongoing drug addiction, and his new pets to enjoy the meal. His enormous body matched his appetite, leaving us with no leftovers and my mom with another thing to hold against him.

  Since the pies had already disappeared, I stood to excuse myself. The dates for the science fair fast approached, demanding my attention. Then, quite unexpectedly, Richy turned and gave me his full attention. My rear returned to the poorly padded dining room chair.

  "So, Kathryn, how do you like school? You're a sophomore this year?" His voice possessed the same qualities as a foghorn and when directed at me, I stuttered and flushed.

  "A—a junior," I said. I couldn’t decide if I should try to avoid his gaze, or be bold enough to meet it straight on.

  "Wow, you're sure growing up fast!" he said. Of course he would think that. My uncle Richy was somewhat of an enigma to me despite the frequency of his name mentioned in our fusty three-bedroom home. I had only met him half-a-dozen times and he had never taken the time to talk to me or get to know me. Never before today.

  My earliest memory of Richy was from years ago, when I peeked out between my father’s legs at what I thought certain to be a real-life monster. I gasped as he bent down to hand me a birthday present. He was already enormous compared to any normal man, and in my child eyes, he was truly a creature from another realm.

  Nearly a decade had passed since then, but he was still--nearly literally--the elephant in the room. Despite my showy confidence in the classroom, around him I lost my words and became a deer; I’d run but I was caught in the headlights of his voice and attention.

  "Still winning all the science fairs?" Richy asked. My mother scowled at him, assuming that his interest in me was concealed self-interest, while she cleared the three empty pie tins that made a tiny tower in front his huge, folded arms.

  "Yeah," I'd won every science fair since fifth grade. "But I don't know if I will this year." My mom assumed that everything Richy did was out of selfishness. But this conversation with me seemed, well, not selfish at all.

  "What do you mean? You don't want to win anymore?" He leaned towards me and I swallowed the block that rose in my throat.

  Richy’s demeanor possessed the qualities of an interrogator and I hoped that if I started with the most vulnerable information first, our conversation would end sooner.

  "Oh, I want to. I just don't know. There's a new guy here now. Shardul. He's really smart. Almost like some tiger prodigy." I hated admitting that Shardul was smart. Smart was really putting it lightly. He was often brilliant. He always listened well, did his homework and group work quickly, laughed at my unoriginal puns and scored well on tests without bragging about it. Before he'd come, I'd been the big fish in a little pond and now there was another big fish; a potentially bigger fish. I blew a bit of my frizzy hair out of my eyes and told Richy a little more.

  "This kid from India turns up and all of a sudden I'm the second smartest at the school. I guess his dad is doing some contract work in the area. I don’t know." I scratched the back of my neck and fought the redness entering my cheeks. "Though it's possible his entire purpose is to humble me or humiliate me. He probably doesn't know the difference," I mumbled. “He makes me so mad I could just--”

  “Kiss him?” my mom said. Then she laughed. My face got red and I balled my hands into fists.

  “Stop it, mom,” I muttered. Thankfully Richy ignored her comment.

  “Tell me m
ore about this tiger-prodigy,” Richy said.

  Shardul. His intellect was the bane of my existence.

  “He’s doing a project on how cubs are affected by their environment. Guess he got permission from the zoo in town to work with their tigers. Seems a bit extreme for a high school science fair…” I trailed off, remembering when he’d asked me if I wanted to do his project together. As if I knew anything about tigers.

  "You think he will win the science fair?" Richy asked, licking some whipped cream from the side of his thumb.

  "I dunno. I hope not," I admitted.

  "Kathryn," my dad reached for my arm. "It's not all about winning science fairs. A little competition is okay, but it's also okay to let him be your friend."

  "I don't want Shardul to be my friend," I hissed. And I certainly didn’t want to kiss him.

  "Fine," my dad said and he patted my arm. "But you should let someone be your friend. Wasn’t there someone who wanted to go shopping with you? Melissa or Melinda or something?"

  "It was Melissa," I replied, stirring around the bits of crumbs on my plate.

  "You know I'm very proud of your academic success, but if you spend too much time studying and no time hanging out with friends, you're gonna end up successful but alone . . . like Richy." My dad chuckled but my face got warm. I ducked my head to avoid looking at Richy or my dad. Either my dad was brave, talking like that to Richy, or he was stupid. My mom's silence indicated agreement with my dad's comment.

  "Well, I'm not entirely alone. I've got a whole research lab of employees." Richy laughed and turned to my dad. As he sparked up a conversation about baseball and human potential, I tuned out.

  Here we were at Thanksgiving Break, just a few months into the year, and Shardul had been a real academic pain.

  Shardul proved himself to be better at English than I first assumed. He managed to maintain a 100% in all our classes, even Advanced Placement U.S. History, which makes no sense because he wasn’t even from America. It was maddening. Just maddening.

  I wished Richy hadn't brought it up on Thanksgiving. Hard to give thanks for Shardul, seeing as he caused such a whirlwind of emotions to storm inside me.