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Fiction Short Story

by Ann Hite

More Than Survive

Sharon decided the first day of school that Steve would be hers. Not only was he a brain, he was the star quarterback. All the cheerleaders fought for his attention.

"What you need is a good screwing." Steve laughed in Sharon's face.

"You're mine, understand, hot boy? I'll kill anyone who looks at you. Got it?"
       
Steve pushed past her. Sharon looked around at the kids in the hall. "Anyone, I mean anyone who messes with my boyfriend answers to me!" She walked away.

Sharon and her older sister Connie blew into our school the fall of 1971. Both had reputations. So rapid were the rumors surrounding the pair, the talk reached me weeks before the first day of school.

"She'll kill them." Tish whispered in my ear. Tish and I weren't really friends; she lived in the same apartment complex as me. "Her older sister, Connie, sleeps with every boy she meets. Her hair is bleached yellow with black roots. You know the type. She smokes one cigarette after another. And, she fights hard and dirty like a guy. Each school she's attended kicked her out for fighting. The last girl she fought went to the hospital, and Connie went to jail. She's sixteen."

I stood on the fringes of the crowd and tried to imagine Sharon, a softer version; maybe deep down she was an artist. No one was that bad. "How do you know all this stuff?"

"That's your problem, Ann. You question everything. Then, you write your stories. It's really stupid. That's why boys don't like you because you think you're so smart."

"I do not!"

I managed to stay clear of both sisters until two weeks after school began. It was raining and I ducked into the breezeway between buildings. Sharon stood square in front of me.

"What kind of shirt is that?" She pointed at my shirt. Her hair resembled her sister's and her jeans were at least two inches too short.

I had on my t-shirt with a bright yellow smiley face. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. "A stoned tennis ball."

Sharon's face contorted for a moment and a smile appeared. "Yeah, I like that. I thought you were one of those cheery cheerleader types. You know. Gross."

"Nope, not me."

"Me either." She crossed her arms over chest. "You write stories."

"Yeah." Damn Tish and her mouth.

"I paint. You know, like pictures. I guess that's stupid."

"No stupider than writing stories."

"Cool." She pushed past me. I watched her. Her sneakers had a hole, which exposed one red painted toenail.

If for some reason I was lulled into accepting Sharon, my mind changed two afternoons later when I witnessed the power of the two sisters. It was Connie's habit at each school—like the alpha dog claiming his territory—to challenge the toughest girl. In our school's case, it was Mel, known for her wildness, drug use, and her thick bushy black hair. News spread that the fight would take place outside of B building. This was as far as the offenders could get from the principal's office without leaving school grounds. Traditionally, a fight had to take place on school property to count as a real fight.

When sixth period bell rang, kids ran to reach the appointed place. Connie and Mel stood face to face, circling. I saw them as grown women eons ahead of me. Sharon stood on the edge of the crowd, watching. For a moment, each girl sized the other up. Fear in Mel's eyes brought Connie's wrath. Connie went for her throat and hair, clawing and punching, ripping clothes. Mel's breast was exposed to all the boys' delight. The fight was over in all of four minutes. A football coach stepped in the middle and held each girl by the hair of the head, guiding them to the office. After the crowd broke up, a wad of Mel's hair blew in the breeze, rolling across the dirt. Cold chills ran across my scalp.

Two days later in English class, Steve, macho quarterback, winked at me. My heart beat in my throat. Steve was winking at me, just plain old Ann. I kept my head and ignored him. The girls in class saw only the wink. By lunchtime the whole eighth grade class was buzzing.

"God, Ann! Are you stupid?" Tish grabbed her tray from the counter. "Flirting with Steve! You have a death wish!"

My lunch was always tasteless, but on that day, it seemed gummy and tough to swallow. Sharon stormed into the lunchroom still wearing the old sneakers. After scanning the room, her eyes came to rest on me. She came and stood right in front of me.

"You stupid little bitch! I should kill you right here, but my stepfather is picking me up early so meet me tomorrow behind B building." She stared me down.

I looked her in the eye as my fork shook in my fingers.

"If you're not there, I'll come find you. Got it?"

"I'll be there." My voice was strong and steady unlike the thoughts racing in my head. The lunchroom was silent until Sharon left.

"You might as well run away." Tish shook her head, gathered her tray, and left.

Yeah. I was dead.

I waited for Mother to come home to our dark, cramped apartment. Since Dad left—if the truth was told it made him leave—Mother had been unstable, nuts, insane. Each night held some new drama. If I washed the dishes, they were not clean enough and she dumped them all back into the sink. If a plate or glass broke in this process, she beat me. If I cleaned the floors, she screamed about a dust bunny found under the sofa. If my brother was late coming home from his friend's, I was punished because I was the oldest. On this evening, I just wanted help from her. I wanted her to protect me from Sharon. I wanted some magic.

Promptly at six, the door opened and Mother walked in the kitchen. The deep creases on her forehead told me her day was worse than most. I looked at the few dishes on the counter and cursed myself for not washing them.

"Damn, Ann! Couldn't you wash dishes and fix some supper?" She slammed her purse onto the square table. "One day you'll wish you had me around. You'll regret treating me this way. One day you'll be all alone."

"Mom?"

"Get a can of beans out of the pantry."

I took a deep breath. "Mom, I need to talk to you."

"What? I hope to hell you're not in trouble."

"No. I need your help."

"Get a pack of hotdogs out of the freezer."

"This tough girl wants to beat me up. I'm afraid. What can I do?"

"I'll tell you one thing, young lady, if you get in trouble at school, I'll beat your ass worse than any silly girl. Do you understand?" She plopped into a kitchen chair and pushed off her loafers. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes." Tears stung my eyes.

"I won't put up with those county people again. Do you want them to take you away? All it will take is one more thing. One more. They accused me of beating you. A mother has the right to discipline her child. If you do one more thing to get their attention, they'll take you."

Part of me wanted to scream. The bruises she left were proof of the wrong. What had she expected, my teachers were blind? "Forget it."

"Where is your brother?"

 So it was.

The next day I consider skipping school, but decided Mother's beating would be just as bad, maybe worse, and Sharon would just fight me when I returned. I had to face her. How bad could it be? I would be hurt, maybe go to the hospital, but I'd survive. All day people watched me like I had some kind of disease, and I guess in a weird way I did. At three I would be one of the most watched girls at the school. Somehow I never imagined popularity going to those extremes.

When the bell ran signaling the end of sixth period, I walked like a person going to meet her death, one slow step in front of the other. Tish stood up front for a good view. What a friend! Connie stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her sister and sneering at me. Sharon stood in the middle. Her eyes held no anger, only something that looked like resolve.

"Let's just do this!" Sharon growled.

For one crystal clear moment, I thought I would fight—just release all the pent-up feelings inside, but instead I spoke, "I'm not fighting." The words held no fear. I had decided to make some misguided stand. "You can't make me."

"What the hell are you trying to do?"

Connie balled her fists.

I spoke around the lump in my throat. "I'm not fighting."

"Then, I'll just beat your ass." Sharon stepped forward.

The purest form of insanity controlled my actions. "I guess so because I'm not fighting."

"What is it, against your religion or something?"

"I'm just not fighting."

"Just whip her ass, Sharon." Connie chided from her place.

Then I heard something like disgust reflected in her next words. "Shut up! I'm not beating this girl's ass if she won't fight back. You can't make me. I'm not that chicken shit!" Sharon looked at her sister and for just a second I thought the two of them would fight, but then she looked at me. "Come on. I want to talk to you." She pushed her way through the kids, and like some kind of fool, I followed. We walked across the street and kept walking.

"You made me look stupid."

"I'm not fighting."

"Why? Are you scared?"

"Yeah, but that's not my reason. I fight too much at home. Fighting sucks." For the first time, I realized I was totally alone. Mother was not capable or willing to stand up for me.

Sharon jammed her hands in her jean pockets. "My stepfather beats me everyday, has forever. But worst is, well..." She stammered. In her eyes, a path beckoned me to know more. "You know, he does stuff, bad stuff."

"You mean sex?" My stomach turned.

"Yeah. Two or three times a week. I hate him!" Her fists were balled. "I could kill him. I will kill him one day."

"I don't blame you, but what would it do? If you killed him, you'd go to jail, and he still wins."

She looked at me. "Why am I telling you this? I'll beat your ass if you tell anybody, and don't go writing a stupid story either. She wore the tough mask again.

I nodded. "Paint a picture. You said you like to paint."

It was her turn to nod.

We finished out the school year together. Friends? No. Kids like us couldn't afford to let our guard down long enough to be friends, but we did share life secrets.

In the ninth grade, I went to my high school's art show. By this time I was writing small witty articles for the school newspaper. Sharon's paintings were dark and shadowy, haunting, but clearly art. She stood near the refreshment table, wearing her jeans that were too short and a big sloppy shirt. Connie stood nearby with a baby on her hip and bruises on her face. I wanted to believe Sharon's stepfather never touched her again, but life would suggest that couldn't be true.

Sharon disappeared from my life in the tenth grade. One day she just didn't come back. After a week or so, I asked around, but no one knew, no one really cared.

Many times when I found myself pushing to succeed, I thought of Sharon; I hope wherever she landed she became successful, because girls like us were made to do more than survive.


About the Author
Ann Hite’s short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Dead Mule, Fiction Warehouse, The SiNk, Rocking Chair Reader, Moonwort Review, and Poor Mojo’s Almanac. Ann has a large family, over 1,000 books, a flower garden, and her laptop. Feel free to visit The Painted Door: http://home.bellsouth.net/p/pwp-painteddoor.