Pt. 3

Fall came, and by this time, tensions arose at home. My grandmother, at this time, was now more than ever hell-bent on making my life hell. Being allowed to have a job and a life of my own triggered her in ways I couldn’t understand in my youth, but as an adult, I can understand. By her sixteenth birthday, my grandmother was pregnant and married, and her seeing me at sixteen with my whole life ahead of me made her jealous. It made her realize what she could have done had she not made the decisions she made with my grandfather, who would eventually begin physically abusing her after her father’s passing.

She couldn’t contain the jealousy; the green-eyed monster that lived in her had to let me know how far her jealousy could go to make my life hell.

She convinced herself that I was evil, but that wasn’t enough; what I’ve realized growing up and far into adulthood, no one wants to hate you alone; they need other people, and the more people enthralled in the hate against you, the better they feel and the more justified their reasoning is. After months of complaining about my “attitude,” the tension boiled over like milk on the stove; she was convinced I was trying to kill her. Her claim was that, in an angry rage, I attempted to knock her down the stairs. And again, she couldn’t believe this alone; she needed an army, aka the whole family. Once the slander from others against me filled her up, and she couldn’t convince my dad to hate me, she enrolled me in anger management, and my name changed to “that little hussy.”

I was mortified, but not because I had to go to anger management. It was the transportation to anger management. Three times per week, a dirty old 80’s kidnapper van would pick me up and haul me away to a run-down building that provided therapy services to some of Philadelphia’s most aggressive teens, some medicated and some non-medicated but all extremely dangerous. I always knew the van was coming because from blocks away, you could hear the van putter that sounded like rocks in a tin can rolling down the street; my grandmother got a kick out of this.

I soon realized what felt like a curse was a gift from the universe.

One particular day we had some researchers from a local college come to run a teen sexual health study for at-risk youth. They offered all sexually active participants fifty dollars for participation; though I wasn’t sexually active, I needed the money to put toward my cellphone fund, so of course, I lied.

The research study would be held on a Saturday, and now I had to figure out how to ask my dad permission to go without telling him what it was about. I knew the words “teens” and “sex” in the same sentence, especially regarding anything related to me, would have been an immediate disqualification. When pitching the idea, I convinced him it was a “girls’ event” where we would talk about girl stuff and mensural cycles. After going on and on about menstruation and how important it was to learn about the female body, my dad being the toxic masculine man he is, just gave in and said, “Alight, alright enough, you can go, now get the hell away from me.” The language was harsh, but it was still a victory in my book.

I spent the next couple of days at school listening to the girl’s bathroom sex talk in preparation for the event. It was fascinating to see how lustful and visceral they would get talking about it; like an unspoken rule among a wild pack of teens, each girl wanted to present herself as the most experienced and the god of sex. There was also always the sex soothsayer, a girl who would continuously apply the worst shade of lip gloss in the mirror while simultaneously rolling her eyes in cockiness brought on by her experience as the girls went back and forth. Though no one noticed, they were doing it to impress her, and in this social dynamic, she held all the power. She was the leader of the wild pack of sexed-up aggressive girls who would be foaming at the mouth by the end of the conversation.

By the time the event came, I knew enough to make myself a chameleon amongst these sexually active, aggressive teens. I recited everything I heard in the girl’s bathroom, and now the girls in the study looked at me as If I was the sex soothsayer and allowed me to do most of the talking. It was the first time in my life that a group of girls liked me, and of course, it wasn’t for doing anything good, but that was to be expected. I was so compelling that the researchers took notice and took a liking to me. After the study, they asked me to stay a while, and little did I know it was an interview. After a series of questions followed by my seemly well thought out answers, they offered me a job as a teen research assistant. They thought I could really connect with the youth and be an advocate for teens and safe sex; all I heard was my starting pay and my start date.

With excitement, I hurried home to tell my dad.

As I told my dad, his face looked shocked, and I was met with so many questions. From the series of questions, I could tell he doubted me, and from my grandmother’s reaction when she found out the news, I could tell she was about to become more volatile.

During the week, while I was in school, my work schedule was four days after school, 3pm-6pm, and during school breaks, 9am-5pm.

During this time, I was still talking to Seth on my school computer and avoiding any conversation that led to anything too progressive that would have made him take this “situation-ship” seriously enough to ask for my phone number. Though he would inquire why I didn’t message him back at night, I always found a cute but slick way to evade the question.

Once Vince found out I had a job, he offered to accompany me on my commute to work. Sitting next to me during the ride, he would share new music and watch my face in excitement. He would often even allow me to nap on his shoulder and wake me up before my stop; this was a true teenage love story, or so I thought.

After a month or so of Vince commuting with me to work, it dawned on me; the diabolical mission started to feel less important, but I now had feelings for him and Seth. I buried this and told myself I would handle it when the moment came for me to decide.

After a few months, I had enough money to buy a phone. I now had to remind my dad of his promise but also to ensure he didn’t change his mind in the realization that I had followed the steps he laid out; the efforts in his mind were impossible.

When I brought the conversation up, I could see in his eyes he was hoping that I had forgotten. His mind-bending conversation was an attempt to irritate me enough to outwardly express my frustration so he could have a reason to say “no” went nowhere; he was now out of chess moves. The moment went silent, and he said, “Okay, whatever, but don’t let me catch you doing anything stupid.”

Every day on my way to work, I passed by a RadioShack, and sometimes I would stop in to look at the phone selection and fantasize about walking out with one. I could just see myself, hair blowing in the wind, talking to Seth on my way to work. This, of course, was a far cry from what the moment actually was, but a good imagination never hurt anyone.

Now the time came to actually do it, and I was over the moon. Though I didn’t have my Paris Hilton moment with my new phone, I was still happy. I held on tightly to the phone and checked my bag every few minutes as if a mysterious hole had formed in my bag, and the phone vanished.

The weekend had come and gone, and now, back in school, I had taken the next step and gave Seth my number.

From that day on, Seth and I texted a day and almost night; my dad, to feel like he had some control, would have me turn over my phone to him by 8pm. In lieu of getting caught texting a boy and having my phone taken, I would delete the text message thread with Seth and put my phone on airplane mode before giving my phone to my dad. With my grandmother in his ear, I knew he would be waiting for the moment to strip me from my only source of freedom.

I noticed a shift in demeanor with Vince. He became passive-aggressive, started paying me less attention, and changed his seating in class. When trying to make conversation with him, he seemed disinterested, and though I was interested in Seth, this left me in my head, and my feelings were shattered. As the weeks passed, it became apparent what was happening; he had gotten a girlfriend.

Jalencia was a chubby Puerto Rican and Italian girl from Northeast Philly. She was about 5’4, with long black hair that she often wore with purple streaks, and with the most obnoxious nasally voice that could anger even a deaf person. This was Vince’s new focal point; I knew I had no right to be angry, but it didn’t stop the feelings of jealousy and heartbreak from surfacing. I thought to myself, how did this get past me? And between us almost having every class together, when did he find the time?

Time went by, and now he had completely forgotten about me, and their relationship was now the talk of the whole school. The kissing, hand holding accompanied by him bringing her gifts and balloons for her birthday was in my face, and I couldn’t escape it. Seth and I had gotten more serious by this time, and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I wanted so badly to be happy, but Vince and his relationship was now haunting me. Since my first week of school, everyone knew I liked Vince, and he was supposed to be off limits, and now there I was again, being rejected publicly and left behind.

Seth started questioning why I didn’t respond to his texts after 8pm and insisted on hanging out. Since he went to a different school, we hadn’t met in person, and now this relationship was taking a turn I didn’t anticipate. I had gotten comfortable just texting and talking on the phone, and in my naive mind, I thought he would be okay with that too. I neglected to realize that I was a virgin and stuck in what could’ve been perceived as a teenage prison run by my dad, with my grandmother playing the role of the prison guard. To an average teen, like Seth, with a relatively normal home structure, the next step would be hanging out at his house, and eventually, hanging out would lead to sex.

But I was now mortified; I wasn’t ready for sex, and how was I supposed to make time to hang out? I studied my schedule, and there was no way I could pull that off without getting caught. I knew he wouldn’t stay around long if I didn’t take those steps. Now I had to figure out yet another plan, I felt like I was in over my head, but I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t imagine watching Vince be happy, flaunting his new relationship, and not having something for myself. The only comfort I had in my daily humiliation with Vince was knowing Seth was around.

Vince was so much cuter, and though he was a little annoying, I still couldn’t help the longing for him. Seth was a Filipino and Cambodian guy with light brown skin. He was on the shorter end of the male height spectrum, a little chubby but dressed well. Seth wore his hair short and had dyed it blonde, the typical hipster/ Tumblr kid. What I liked most about him was his round race and kind smile, but… he wasn’t Vince.

The first lie he ever told me was about his height, and this lie would be the first of many.

As our conversations went on, he became more sexually charged. I knew not to entertain these conversations too much because it was impossible to see him, and I still needed to learn all I could about sex beyond the plethora of knowledge from the girl’s bathroom raunchy talk. Often, he would question why I avoided the sex talk, and I would laugh it off or blame my religious beliefs, but this still didn’t stop him. I knew I didn’t have much time before he became impatient and realized he could easily get someone willing and able to engage. Yet again, I had to form another plan; this time, it meant more, and the stakes were higher. If caught, I could lose all the freedom I had just gained, but of course, the teenage mind doesn’t care about consequences; back to the drawing board I went; it was time.