The Black Rose

From the moment we enter this screwed up world, most slimy babies cry—I giggled. The delivery doctors were confounded by my behavior. They had never seen a baby take its first breath with laughter instead of tears, and as the days turned into weeks, I never cried, not once. Slam my finger in a door, I didn’t bat an eyelash. I just stared at the red throbbing nub with stunned curiosity as my parents looked at me with abject fear and disbelief. Was I human? Surely not.

To test this theory, they marched me back to the hospital, the first of many unscheduled doctor’s visits to come. Since I was only a wriggling fetus and couldn’t speak, the doctors hypothesized I had a high affinity for pain and, against my parents’ fervent doubts, was indeed human.

As the months passed and my evolution progressed from crawling to walking to sputtering my first word, my behavior only continued to baffle. While my young toddler friends found odd enjoyment in eating glue and glitter, pooping out abstract Christmas ornaments, I was coloring in the lines. I didn’t want to play with silly Barbies or dress up like a princess. Instead, I read picture books and watched my dad perform magic. Like a typical fan-girl, I would sit quietly in my little chair while he would make a flower appear, or a coin vanish and reappear in my pocket or behind my ear.

As a young kid, I was mesmerized by these tricks. I pleaded to watch them over and over again, my little brain working out, how it was possible for a coin to disappear, or how a flower could get misplaced behind my ear. By age four, however, I was finally capable of dissecting many of my father’s tricks. I soon graduated from captive audience to apprentice. I would practice with cards or the coin for hours on end.

It wasn’t long before I tested my newfound gifts on kids at school during recess or on the bus ride home. Since school hours afforded me zero cool points, this was my golden ticket to popularity. While most of my classmates struggled to learn and transcribe the alphabet, I had already mastered it. Adding numbers, check. Multiplication, had that mastered too. Division, well, I think you get the idea.

Magic was my bridge between awkward introversion and my social introduction to the world. My tricks baffled most kids, earning me at times the most popular kid on the playground award. Everyone wanted to sit next to me on the bus or at the lunch table, until the plump, rosy-cheeked Betty Andrews butted in. Tall, over-stuffed with Twinkies and Oreos, and loud, Betty made it her personal mission to ruin my life. She would hide my lunch or call me names on the bus. I guess in today’s world, you could call her a bully, but even though I was small and spindly, I couldn’t help but retaliate.

My revenge usually included “accidentally” tripping Betty on the bus or in the class hall, or playing strategically-timed pranks, which often landed me in trouble with the teacher or bus driver. Soon the magic stopped, my anger took over, and no one wanted to sit next to me anymore. I was an outcast, a loner. I ate my crust-less peanut butter and jelly sandwiches alone at lunch. I was picked last for any team sport, but what sucked most of all were the whispers. Little kids lack the refined nuances of an experienced bully. They said the abhorrent jokes to my face, instead of behind my back or in a passed note, which only heightened my anger and aggression.

My parents once again toiled over my anger, outbursts, and insufficient desire to make friends, dragging me back to the doctor. After performing a multitude of tests, the doctors concluded I not only had a high affinity for pain, but my personality testing was (for lack of a better term) unique. I scored admirably low for certain emotions, like empathy, sympathy, sadness, and normalized right and wrong, but very high for awareness, perception, and anger. On top of that, my cognitive functions, as well as my IQ, were off the charts for someone my age. In a nutshell, I was a bright, prime candidate for potential animal torturer or sociopath if not properly monitored and nurtured, but since the doctors couldn’t ethically say that out loud, they recommended medication and sports. And so, at six years old, I was forcibly signed up for gymnastics and t-ball.

Now, picture this, an already socially awkward, “unique,” child who was being bullied at school, thrown into summersaults, and swinging bats. I probably should’ve mentioned before that I wasn’t born with an athletic bone in my body. Needless to say, sports didn’t go well. Gymnastics ended when I fractured my wrist trying to do a back handspring. Why on earth anyone would want to contort their bodies for fun in those positions was beyond me. T-ball ended shortly after. Apparently, it’s not okay to throw a ball at someone’s face when they call you names.

Now, I had a wrist in a cast, no afterschool activities, and parents with even more gray hair. Left with little choice, they bought me my first computer and the latest games in hopes to not only expand my ever-inquisitive brain but to help with my social awkwardness. Most kids at school had a computer or at least access to one, so why shouldn’t I? Maybe that would help me fit in, or maybe they just did it as an excuse to spend less time with me?

Whatever the reason, at seven years old, my tiny fingers hammered a keyboard and moved a mouse for the first time. I have been addicted to that screen ever since. Even with the new multitude of games like Oregon Trail or Treasure Mountain, my behavior didn’t improve. I became aggressive to my supposed elementary school friends, even cruel. I would often disrupt class to correct the teacher or the principal, which was supposedly rude and disrespectful even though I was correct.

Eventually, the principal politely asked my parents for me to attend school elsewhere, but every school was the same, every grade the same. I learned that elementary school was merely a bullying precursor to middle school and, inevitably, high school, which left me even more isolated, angry, and alone.

By the time I had graduated from middle school, I had attended almost every public and private school in our district, which wasn’t many to begin with. I didn’t care. All I cared about was my world within the computer. The life of zeroes and ones, code eloquently, arranged to create worlds in which problems didn’t exist, or if they did, they could be fought and defeated with a click of a button. No emotion, no bullying, no surprises, just action. In this realm, I could play my games, I could unleash my anger, my frustration, I could test myself, but most of all I could cure my boredom.

As my school life slowly crumbled beneath me, so too did my relationship with my parents. I often felt as if I was a museum relic, locked in a glass case, only meant to ogle, point, and stare. They didn’t understand me, nor me, them. Years back, my father gave up on magic, and his menial attempts at finding common ground with computers ebbed as well. My mother cared only about her soap opera TV shows, the salon, and gossiping, all three of which I despised.

Most of the time, we ate separately, living in our own distinct worlds. Mine in my room with my computer, mother with her TV, and father with work and his phone. While most kids would yearn for something different, I just sank deeper. Morbid thoughts often flashed across my mind as I dealt with their day-to-day placations or feeble attempts at communication, because to me it was pointless. In the computer world, it didn’t matter, so why should it matter here? No one cared about your school life or home life. All that mattered was your skills and your mind, or your ability to fight and kill, and boy, was I good at that.

On my thirteenth birthday, my parents decided to gift wrap a bomb and have me open it at my birthday dinner.

“Honey, we’re getting a divorce,” my father lit the fuse almost too effortlessly.

Yep, on my thirteenth freaking birthday. While this news would crush most teenage girls into fine makeup powder, neatly disguised bombs detonating didn’t faze me. I had noticed for years the way my parents glided past one another with barely a glance. While I couldn’t feel much, I knew that wasn’t what love was supposed to be.

Then came the second bomb, my father had accepted a new position in Atlanta, Georgia, and finally the third long-range missile, I decided to follow him. Part of me felt as if my father cursed the skies for my decision to accompany him. All I was to them was trouble, an untimely growth that they could neither dispose of nor love unconditionally.

Now, I was a thirteen-year-old extreme introvert moving to a new city and dropped into a pool of hollow social piranhas, no cage, no floaties, just an anchor. I didn’t know what was worse, getting placed in a new high school with a sea of chattering teens who had a preconceived set of data points on the new girl, or actually getting eaten by a swarm of fish with sharp teeth.

The first week of school in Atlanta, I kept my head down, marching to class after class, which on that massive campus felt like a university. By the second week, I realized I had judged them wrong, they weren’t piranhas, they were sharks, and the tall, makeup-laden maneaters had zeroed in on my presence. I was a minnow in a feeding frenzy.

Sitting at the lunch table alone, book in hand, one approached, placing her tray down next to mine, she sighed. “What you reading, new girl?”

I glared up at her with the finest “piss off,” gaze I could muster.

“It’s what are you reading?” I corrected, probably not the right thing to say, but you didn’t try to swim away from a shark, you gauged their eyes until they were forced to let go.

“Rumor has it you and your father moved here because you killed someone,” she aired each word bubble wrapped in a thick southern drawl as if only stupid questions ever escaped her lips.

I sighed inward, the lengths to which gossip spread never ceased to amaze me.

“If I had killed someone, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” I scoffed. “Are you that dumb?”

The blonde skeleton’s nose curled in disdain as if she had never been called that before. “Listen you little skank, I run this school, this town, I can make your life a living hell.” She growled, popping her bubble gum in my face as she swaggered away, her cloud of perfume lingering.

After that day, I’m afraid to admit the great blonde shark was correct. She could and did make my life a living hell. If I wasn’t harassed in the lunchroom, she made sure I was teased in P.E. or in whatever class she had one of her minions in. For the most part, I ignored their menial attempts at bullying, but one day, I found a picture of me half-naked, my white pale pudge plastered to the lockers and walls of the main school hall. I didn’t even bother to take them down, I just stormed out of the school, the vision of laughing and jeering faces etched in my brain. I wanted to cry, yet tears never came, only rage. She would pay.

I spent that whole day of missed classes working feverishly on my home computer. By midnight, I had finally done it. I had not only hacked into Clara Dennis’ computer, but I had successfully hacked into the school’s website. With a few more lines of code, I had inserted a topless picture of Clara into where the school mascot’s picture should be. I hit enter. Backtracking, I did my best to erase any evidence of my tampering that I could. To this day, I don’t think they ever proved who was responsible for the hack. I was that awesome.

That next morning, I told Richard I wouldn’t be going back to that school or any school. If he wanted me to continue to learn, I would be homeschooled. My father, with whom I now refer to as Richard, and had seen little of me since our move to Atlanta, surprisingly agreed.

Thus, began my downward spiral towards total isolation and introversion. Richard hired the first teacher, with whom he could now afford, with his prestigious new position in day trading, but she only lasted a day. “I was rude and narcissistic.” The next teacher lasted a week and the next a couple of months. Eventually, Richard too had given up, affording me the luxury of finding, “my own damn teacher”. If I wanted to learn or to get into college, it was on me to figure it out.

For a couple of days, I contemplated teaching myself, taking the GED, and attempting to attend college as quickly as I could, but eventually logic took over. I needed a teacher. I needed to take courses, especially if I wanted to get into a proper school.

So, I plugged my nose and dove headfirst into the deep end of teacher biographies, MySpace pages, and Facebook. I didn’t realize how many teachers lived in the Atlanta area, and how many would jump at the chance to teach one student at home. I guess it made sense. If you could earn just as much, if not more, teaching one student at home versus teaching an angry mob of Clara Dennis’, I would take that deal.

Scrolling through profile after profile, I finally landed on one. Mrs. Greenwald. She was a petite, blonde-haired woman with dazzling green eyes in her late thirties. Her profile stated she just moved from New York with her husband, who was a writer, and that she loved to bake, act, and learn languages in her free time. I studied her face. She looked younger than her age professed. Her eyes kind, her smile real. I didn’t know what it was about her, but she was my choice. I sent her a message through the teacher portal and asked if she would be open to meeting tomorrow for the possibility of becoming my new teacher, then closed the window and went back to my light reading of biochemistry.

Ding.

The familiar noise of a notification message led me back to the profile window. Mrs. Greenwald said she would be delighted to meet. A slight grin spread across my face as I confirmed the time and closed the window. Instead of returning to my book, I rose from my desk and strode to the bathroom. Normally I spent the least amount of time in this room, especially in front of the mirror. I bit my lower lip slightly as I gazed long at my reflection.

My long brown hair frizzy from insufficient brushing, my pale skin oiled, with tiny red acne bumps on my chin and forehead. I moved closer. I studied my teeth, which were surprisingly straight, my full lips, long lashes, and gray-blue eyes. While I never thought so, many of the boys at my various schools made positive comments on my looks. I was a “looker, if only I cared about my appearance, dressed differently, or my personality didn’t “suck.” I didn’t think I was particularly attractive. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a teenage girl who did the bare minimum to look presentable, flat-chested, and who could stand to eat a few more vegetables and run a bit more and sit a bit less.

I grabbed the brush which rarely got used, and raked it across my scalp, pulling at the frizzy knots. Up and down, I combed my hair until the brush glided from root to scalp with zero snags. I then rummaged through my door for tweezers and found them at the back of the drawer. I zeroed in on my eyebrows. Pretty sure there were supposed to be two, so I started plucking a path through the center of my brow.

Standing back, I smiled. With just those two changes, I looked different, older. I moved to my room and searched through my closet. Through the sea of vintage t-shirts and jeans, I tried to find a top deemed “cool”. Finally, I settled on my vintage Star Wars t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. That would have to do.

Ding.

My phone lit up. I grabbed it and read the text.

Richard: I’ll be late again tonight, honey. You are on your own for dinner. Order pizza or something. Love you.

I groaned and threw my phone to the bed. Yet another night alone. My stomach growled. Outfit picked I trudged down the stairs to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and stared for an arduous five minutes as if what I wanted to eat would magically appear inside. I closed the door, my eyes falling on the Pizza Hut magnet and number. I think I had eaten pizza almost every night this week, which was exactly how many nights my father hadn’t been home for dinner. I dreaded the thought of eating more pizza, plus I doubted Mrs. Greenwald ate pizza every night for dinner. No, I would have a civilized meal.

I trudged through the pantry, pulling out a box of rice, some frozen vegetables from the freezer, I attempted to follow the stir-fry instructions on the back of the rice box. One hour later, I learned two things, one, cooking is nearly impossible, and two, how does anyone do this alone? This was probably the first time in my life that I wished I had someone to help, or even cook with. While the ensemble definitely didn’t look like the picture, I had to admit, it tasted pretty good.

Leaving the dishes in the sink, I carried my steaming bowl of home-cooked food to my lair, and while I ate, I stalked my soon-to-be new teacher. I scrolled through photo after photo of her on Facebook. She and her husband seemed to travel extensively, courtesy of his families’ money it appeared. They had lived in Paris and London, and most recently New York, I frowned. Not much to go on. I clicked back to her page. It seemed as if Mrs. Greenwald had tried her hand at acting for several years after graduating from Oxford, but it didn’t seem to pan out. In her spare time, she taught classes online for Chinese or Japanese students, teaching English. She liked to take photographs of food that she cooked or ordered at restaurants, and in every photo of hers, she smiled wide and bright, as if her world shone from the inside out. I gulped. I had never smiled like that. How does one smile like that?

Ding.

Angela: Hey Dani, just checking up on you. Hope you are adjusting to school well. I just want you to know none of this has anything to do with you. Your father and I just couldn’t make our love last. I hope you will visit me soon. Love, Mom.

My brow furrowed. My mother never texts me stuff like this. What could she possibly want?

I sat my phone down without responding and continued my stalking. I stalked for another few hours, until my eyes grew heavy and my lids no longer remained open. Sleep had finally made it through my firewall and infected my senses.