The Girl with the Masks and The Student Body President

We moved again. It was always the same; bills, nosy neighbours, new men, suspicious authorities, they made it difficult for us to settle in any one place for too long.

My little brother, Matt, hated it; he’d throw a fit every time we had to start packing and Mom would get him whatever he wanted to ease the transition. It became obvious, sometime after he turned eight, that he didn’t really hate the moves but loved getting the presents. After that, his tantrums only ever got worse, and Mother’s indulgence only served to encourage them further.

I never fussed.

In the beginning, my compliance was a result of my intricate understanding of the correlation that existed between my protests and my mother’s unbridled retribution. But, the older I got the more I found myself looking forward to each new place. It was always a chance to start fresh where no one knew me and I could be anyone I wanted to be.

            Once, I was a hard-core goth girl who fastidiously washed her face and changed her clothes before heading back home every day to avoid a beating. The constant washing damaged my skin, but it was preferred to my mother damaging me.

Another time, I joined a Christian club where I wore long skirts and kept my hair in neat braids. I was an athlete twice—once for track and another time for basketball but I was only ever good at the first one. Class clown, responsible class organiser, social recluse, school slut, you name it, I’d pretended to be it at least once.

            Exhausting as it often got, it was…nice being someone else for a little while. I liked forgetting about the girl who wasn’t worthy of love and throwing myself into a new role with a new background I could create. The more elaborate the story, the easier it was for me to forget my own. With the intricate world I’d created in my head, I didn’t need to spend too much time in reality.

There was too much pain there.

            “Kai! Hurry up or you’ll be walking to school!” Mom screamed from the bottom of the stairs.

            She always took me on the first day, if only to portray herself as the doting mother who was heavily involved in the lives of both her children. Set the right pace at the start and the rest would be smooth. It would make it harder for the teachers to suspect her when I started showing up with bruises. There would always have to be another explanation.

            I passed Matt’s room on the way down. He was still styling his hair, leisurely as he liked. It didn’t matter how long he ever took; Mom would wait for him. The title of favourite afforded him all the luxuries I’d never had. Sometimes it made me angry and left me with a bitterness in the back of my throat, but most times I didn’t feel anything anymore. I’d learned to turn it off, to turn it all off. I watched my mother shower my younger brother with her affection with mild indifference. I listened to her insults with an apathy that had taken years to hone.

Back before I learned to play different roles, I used to have a lot of anger in me. I used to think…I must have been the angriest girl in the entire world. I remember knocking three teeth out of a classmate’s mouth when I was seven for calling me dirty and smelly. My teacher back then told me words were like water rolling off a duck’s back. It took me a long time to understand what she meant, but once I did, things hurt a little less.

It only ever became a problem when my mother got physical. I had to learn to remain alert. I learned to react even when I didn’t know what I was reacting to. Sometimes, it made all the difference between a few scrapes and a trip to the emergency room.

            I spent the ride to school wondering who I would be. Did I want to try another preppy character? Was I feeling sullen enough to spend time with the social outcasts? The anticipation of the performance was nearly enough to make me look forward to it. Perhaps I’d get myself in with the band. The guitar could be quirky or edgy—no, I would play the drums if they let me. My parents would be amateur artistes who liked to travel around the country hoping for their big break even at their age. Keep their fame small enough and it would be hard to disapprove. This time, they’d both be alive. God knew I’d already killed my father three times and Mom had had everything from polio to cancer.

Two sisters would suffice; one would be a runaway we hadn’t seen since last spring. She’d have gotten into drugs with a man seven years older than her; a real disappointment to my parents, but they would’ve understood her misguided need to follow her heart—as we were all encouraged to do. The other…would desperately want to be like me despite being older and off at college. She would be scatter-brained and wishing she could make the grades that I did.

I would be the golden child…yeah…I liked the sound of that.

Would we have a dog? Cats? No, too common; those would never do. What sorts of animals did music enthusiasts like? An iguana—I’d never pretended to have one of those before. In that moment, I resolved to find the library at lunch and research what I could on such reptiles. It wouldn’t do to be caught in a lie too early. I’d already been the laughing stock of my peers at three schools—including the last—and felt I could use a break from that sort of attention.

This go around, I was on my way to musical stardom.

At school, the transfers were ushered into what could’ve been a small meeting room with a projector in the front and what looked like the beginning of what would soon be the biggest waste of time I’d been made to sit through since…well…the last time I switched schools. These miniature orientations were getting old but I could tell the others were excited. I suppose I was, too, but not enough to sit there for an hour listening to the merits of my “new home”.

Watching the others chatter away while the presentation got set up, I realised I’d never decided whether I’d be the chatty sort, or the brooding and mysterious band girl. One was infinitely more artistic and the aesthetic was easy to mimic but the other was a surer way to make friends that I’d abandon within the year.

Decisions, decisions.