hesitation. A thick chunk of my wet hair wraps around my throat as I continue the race, making me feel nearly strangled by the combination of it and my obvious lack of conditioning.
A truck unloading a crate of boxes slows Mercedes’ steps down and brings her head to jerk in each direction twice before I catch up to her and pull her thin jacket tightly in my fist. Her head falls, her long hair protecting her like a shield as we move forward at a slower pace. My lungs are burning, working so hard to try to hold air that I can’t speak. It’s probably for the better—nothing running through my mind is appropriate for her ears.
My heartbeat is pumping in my ears; it along with my heavy breaths drowns out the sound of the traffic that’s becoming more congested with the late hour, and the slap of our footsteps on the wet sidewalk, until a sniffling sound mutes everything. I turn to get a better angle of her face, but her head is still down. My fingers begin to loosen with guilt, and my mind begins to wonder how to sound caring and authoritative at the same time.
“You can’t do that. You can’t run around downtown Portland, trying to get away from me. If you don’t want me to be your nanny or whatever, just talk to your dad. Getting hit by a car isn’t the right way to resolve this.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” Mercedes’ tone is verging on angry, but the vulnerable side of her has won, making her words quiet and hitched.
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Her seafoam-green eyes are rimmed with red as she flips her face toward me, and I shake my head, clueless and caught so off guard by how hard she’s working to conceal her pain that it squeezes that maternal need building inside of me once more. “They hate me. They all hate me .”
“The girls at the store?” I think back as I pose the question, seeing the way Mercedes had recoiled. I thought it was directed toward me but realize I had absolutely nothing to do with her reaction. “What happened?”
“They call me a boy. They tell me I’m gay because I ride bikes. And say I have two dads.”
My steps stop and my hand moves from her jacket to her wrist. I’m over a foot taller than Mercedes, and the thought of kneeling on the wet cement crosses my mind before I realize she will likely find the gesture demeaning. Instead, I shake my head again and rake a hand across my forehead until I feel a familiar purse of skin from a long-forgotten scar. “That’s bullshit, Mercedes. Complete and total bullshit.” My hand smoothes the hairs that fell while I was running, and I look across the street, focusing on a trail of leaves blowing. “I don’t know why the terrible things said to us are what we hear while we try to sleep, or what feed us when we’re struggling and starved for encouragement. I guess it’s because as much as we don’t want to care what others think, we do.” My eyes move back to her face and catch her gaze for a second before she drops it to my feet. “They’re trying to get a rise out of you because that’s how they feed their ugliness and insecurities. They’re likely so afraid to be the next target, and their victims are too concerned with wondering if the attacks hold any truth that no one sees that the person behind the hurtful words is the one with the problems.”
Her eyes look away from me. Either she has been told something similar, or she isn’t ready to believe my words.
“If you’re gay, that’s no one’s business but your own.”
“I’m not gay.”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that your sexual preferences are yours. God, what am I saying? You’re ten. You shouldn’t have sexual preferences.” Mercedes’ chin drops to the side, and she shoots a leveling look to me. “If riding bikes is something that you love, then you can’t let them ruin it for you. Being different doesn’t make you a freak; it makes you brave. And that bullshit about two dads? I
A truck unloading a crate of boxes slows Mercedes’ steps down and brings her head to jerk in each direction twice before I catch up to her and pull her thin jacket tightly in my fist. Her head falls, her long hair protecting her like a shield as we move forward at a slower pace. My lungs are burning, working so hard to try to hold air that I can’t speak. It’s probably for the better—nothing running through my mind is appropriate for her ears.
My heartbeat is pumping in my ears; it along with my heavy breaths drowns out the sound of the traffic that’s becoming more congested with the late hour, and the slap of our footsteps on the wet sidewalk, until a sniffling sound mutes everything. I turn to get a better angle of her face, but her head is still down. My fingers begin to loosen with guilt, and my mind begins to wonder how to sound caring and authoritative at the same time.
“You can’t do that. You can’t run around downtown Portland, trying to get away from me. If you don’t want me to be your nanny or whatever, just talk to your dad. Getting hit by a car isn’t the right way to resolve this.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” Mercedes’ tone is verging on angry, but the vulnerable side of her has won, making her words quiet and hitched.
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Her seafoam-green eyes are rimmed with red as she flips her face toward me, and I shake my head, clueless and caught so off guard by how hard she’s working to conceal her pain that it squeezes that maternal need building inside of me once more. “They hate me. They all hate me .”
“The girls at the store?” I think back as I pose the question, seeing the way Mercedes had recoiled. I thought it was directed toward me but realize I had absolutely nothing to do with her reaction. “What happened?”
“They call me a boy. They tell me I’m gay because I ride bikes. And say I have two dads.”
My steps stop and my hand moves from her jacket to her wrist. I’m over a foot taller than Mercedes, and the thought of kneeling on the wet cement crosses my mind before I realize she will likely find the gesture demeaning. Instead, I shake my head again and rake a hand across my forehead until I feel a familiar purse of skin from a long-forgotten scar. “That’s bullshit, Mercedes. Complete and total bullshit.” My hand smoothes the hairs that fell while I was running, and I look across the street, focusing on a trail of leaves blowing. “I don’t know why the terrible things said to us are what we hear while we try to sleep, or what feed us when we’re struggling and starved for encouragement. I guess it’s because as much as we don’t want to care what others think, we do.” My eyes move back to her face and catch her gaze for a second before she drops it to my feet. “They’re trying to get a rise out of you because that’s how they feed their ugliness and insecurities. They’re likely so afraid to be the next target, and their victims are too concerned with wondering if the attacks hold any truth that no one sees that the person behind the hurtful words is the one with the problems.”
Her eyes look away from me. Either she has been told something similar, or she isn’t ready to believe my words.
“If you’re gay, that’s no one’s business but your own.”
“I’m not gay.”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that your sexual preferences are yours. God, what am I saying? You’re ten. You shouldn’t have sexual preferences.” Mercedes’ chin drops to the side, and she shoots a leveling look to me. “If riding bikes is something that you love, then you can’t let them ruin it for you. Being different doesn’t make you a freak; it makes you brave. And that bullshit about two dads? I
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