What It Means

For some reason, I didn't see Tony right after my class got out. I didn't even try to find him where I knew distinctively where he'd be--the art room was a much better salvation from the wrath. Although the stormy route was cause for more anger, I just wanted my own time to sit and think. Maybe I should go see him, I thought a little to myself before I had shaken myself from it, focusing once more on the clay being plied and jerked beneath my hands. He's probably with the jocks, who were fondling the preps while he waited for me. Hopefully. I didn't want to be found here, alone with Tony. Who knows in all reality how he'd react, even since he was already peeved off. I remember my last encounter with Tony on a bad day. My hands and the walls were the only ones to bear witness to the fury he let loose.

It was April, already making him short tempered since the cold and rain seemed to act as his eternal enemy. I had showed up to his house a little late from walking, but he had been waiting on me earlier than I expected. When I walked in the house, shaking off my jacket, he grabbed it from to only to throw it on the ground. Tony demanded to see my stomach, almost ripping off my sleeves a few minutes later in suspect that I had been with someone else and there would be marks to back him up. When his behavior pushed me to shove him, Antony threw me back. As I hit my head against the wall, he began to hit me with more than one kind of fury. He screamed things like 'I thought you loved me' and 'Who is he' as I began to cry under the pressure. Though I kept to my innocent plea, he left me for a few minutes so he could get his mother's car keys to track down whoever it was I would rather kiss. Since I had been cowering in front of the door, he had to see me crying once more before he dropped his keys, embraced me and kissed all the places he hit, mostly my stomach and ribs. After that, I can't remember. I blacked out.

With a gentle hand, I fixed the shoulders of the clay woman I was making, but it didn't seem right. It seemed ugly and deformed, just like the scars across my hands caused by self defense from Tony...I slammed my hand into the moist clay, jerking a hunk out of the figure, throwing it against a cardboard box. It splattered nicely. In a fit of rage, in anger and sickness from feeling worthless, I ripped apart more of the beige clay to hurl it against the cardboard. It was wonderful! I threw more bits, never missing the target I had made improvisational-style. Then I heard it. The class was on an upper level, so in the hallways the stairs echoed all footsteps, including the heavy careless ones that began to trek up to the class. My hands were frozen, my legs were in shock, my mind racing a million miles per hour. All in one swoop I grabbed my shoes and left the clay on the counter top, almost sprinting to the paint closet. It was small, dark, and I was scared of being caught as it was. In my bare feet as I clutched my shoes the closet door closed in on me before I heard the rusty hinges of the art class wearily swing as if they were groaning.

"Hello? Mrs. Davis?" someone called out. It was male, and deep. For an instant I imagined it was Tony, about to inquire when I recognized the voice from inside the fathomless area I hid in. Mr. Carver was coming closer to me, but I heard his tread-careful shoes stop around where my clay was resting. "Is anybody here?" sonorous and closer called Mr. Carver. My hand was clamped around my mouth, but I had forgotten why I was hiding. I wasn't going to get in trouble, was I? The sound of my heart almost broke the silence around me. Suddenly I screamed when the light hit my face, I threw myself back from it and into the mostly bare shelf when a few of them broke and hit me over the shoulders. "Stop!" I shouted, just before throwing a weak punch. Again, I forgot who I was fighting.

"Hey! Hey! Hold off!" Mr. Carver yelled, holding his hands out. As he did that, I ducked under his arms for a run in the opposite direction, but it's hard in socks. Mr. Carver reached just farther than I had ran, gripping my arms almost roughly. His shoes held onto the ground, the teacher held onto my biceps, and I was going nowhere as fear held onto me. "Stop, stop!" I repeated, but I was too scared to actually fight against him. In some way I was happy he found me from the center of the dark closet, in another way I was fearful of getting in some trouble.

"No! What are you doing here? What happened?" he asked, spinning me around until I saw my reflection in his gold-green stare. "Why are you so upset?" Mr. Carver pressed some more with words, yet relaxing with his hands. I flinched away from him, clenching my jaw until it hurt. Mr. Carver sighed, but he let go and stood straight up. He towered above me, now that I was standing right before him. "Spill it." he demanded, but I didn't want to! I wanted to get back to my clay and forget! My eyes watered, welled, then stopped all of a sudden when I remembered the clay. I rushed to it, picking it up again to throw more. "I'm so furious!" I shouted, my dark hair flying all around me as I flung it. Mr. Carver just stood like he was grounded, just observing. "Yeah?" he asked simply. I barked a harsh laugh.

"Yeah. I am. I'm sick of having to meet other people's expectations!" Thump. "I hate this school," Whack. "I hate being nothing," Whack. "I just--have so much hate!" I shouted more, throwing all the moist clay at once until it was all piled onto the dark brown poster board. It was all an unidentifiable heap, it was begging to be molded. I crossed to the cardboard, rubbing at it with my thumbs until I had smoothed it one way, then another, and I almost forgot Mr. Carver. But he had said nothing, which I took as my cue to keep going. My inspiration off the bat was the rock faces in 'Labyrinth', so I had made exaggerated features like lips and sunken in eyes. It was like a relief in Greece.

"Tell me some more, Jenna." I stopped when I heard my name, and even with chalky hands I pushed my hair back nervously. "It's just tiring, Mr. Carver. I don't expect you to understand." was all I said, and I turned so he could look me in the face. More than anything I just wanted today to be over. Mr. Carver nodded, letting his eyes drop to my hands that I were toying with, the nails and the clay encrusting them. "I do. I understand being tired. But even if I didn't you can talk to me. It seems like you have a lot on your plate." he mentioned a little more pointed to me opening up that second, which I wasn't ready for. Tony was supposed to be here for me to open up to, but he was down with the jocks.

 

This reminded me of that afternoon in April, that time when I was supposed to be somewhere yet I blew it. And look what it got me then, what if I was caught now? The fear came back with vengence and it seemed to whisper see what you get when you let your guard down? in my head, a shiver gripping my spine before shaking it up and down again. I stared at Mr. Carver, not wanting to speak any further. Mr. Carver sat down in the nearest chair, resting his arms atop his knee-caps.

 

"Ah. Do you know what Vincent means? It means Son Of The Dark One, and ironically, I know a lot about darkness. I know a lot about humanity, and how people are because they are dark as a whole. I can tell you've hoarded dark and secret things, under those big blue eyes. You hide. You lie, just to suffer. You let this darkness happen. What is it? What does your darkness mean?" he asked me. It was the first time anybody has ever pressed on the question "what's wrong" when most others just let it go. I sat on the floor, coldly staring at it.

 

"It means I'm weak, right? I'm unstable." I mumbled, and for some reason, he laughed! Honestly laughed like what I said was absurd. "Jenna, you're not weak. Atoms that are explosive are unstable. Gases that are in high heat are unstable. You're as stable as they come if you can hide so much so well." I wasn't sure if I was being insulted or complimented for being such a good liar/hider. It was a merge. I sat in front of him, just fiddling with the seam of my sock until I had to speak, because the silence was too strained.

 

"So, um...do you have a family?" I asked, trying to make polite conversation. But, of course, Mr. Carver had to hold up his hand. Ugh, what now? "Take for give. Me first. Which of the interrogatives applies to you? Who, what, why are you upset?" he probed, leaning forward a little. This was going to be a long lunch. "Who. Not enough when. I wish I knew why. What is a taboo subject. Where is here, in this town." I replied, though he smiled. "You missed one. How?" Mr. Carver reminded me, though I had purposely forgotten. "How is emotional and mental mostly." I said in a flat voice. I even sounded boring to myself.

 

"No family of my own. Bachelor. I moved from Virginia a year ago." He said it so nonchalant. I whistled. I've always heard Virginia was beautiful, why leave? "What's your family like?" he changed it around, and my mouth furrowed in a grimace. "Dad's always gone working, runway repairman, my brother is always at a girl's or friend's house. Mom left us a few years ago." I shrugged, trying to keep it in how mad that made me. What, did we always mean nothing?

"Why did you come to California? Modesto?" I asked, leaning my head on top of my knees. That must have hit a nerve, because his face froze in it's spot and he had to blink. "I just couldn't live around my family. They're...oppressive. They wanted me to work in accounting with them. My aunt can have that, she likes money." Vincent said like he was thinking of some nasty disease, and in all honesty, money was that kind of evil. It was his turn, but he wasn't saying anything.

"What are you most scared of?" he asked in a low voice. I didn't like that question, it made me very nervous. It was also a stupid fear, like I was some child and I hated that...But I wanted him to know me. To maybe, one day, understand me. "I hate being under the bed, or being in tight places, really. I never liked being swaddled by my mother." I closed my eyes, waiting for him to laugh at me. Vincent smiled when I opened my eyes, probably thinking it was funny he found me in the closet. Though I hadn't found it so funny.

"You know, that's reasonable. My uncle thought there was a nest of maggots under the porch once, and he got so upset he slept with a gun beside him like they'd attack him." he smiled, resting his head atop his hands, towers on his knee caps. That made me flicker a smile, since it was a silly fear. I leaned back until my back rested against the cabinets filled with art supplies. It was nice just sitting here, but I'd sort of like to ask his fear.

"Mr. Carver, sir, what are you afraid of?" I almost whispered, pushing back my long dark brown hair until it was fully away from my face so all my attention was on him. I didn't want to break my gaze away from his. Vincent blinked a few times. "Thunder and lightning storms. When I was seven my house collapsed in a storm that shook you to the bone and rattled your head with thunder. I was in the basement, and it flooded. I had to swim out an underwater window two feet wide. I was sure I was going to die." he said, and I didn't laugh, nor smile. I just nodded.

"Then you are the coolest teacher ever with a past like that." I replied softly. Mr. Carver snapped his head up with a hopeful look in his hazel irises that made them sparkle. Something in him changed. His shoulders twitched back, his face went flat and relaxed. Vincent Carver suddenly became fixated on me and my eyes. It was interesting, how my understanding changed him so much that his relief showed through that.

"You're a nice young lady Jenna." he said gently. I beamed, standing up as I stole a glance at the clock. I had to stay here for next period anyways, so I fixed my clay poster board on my desk for today's art project. Mr. Carver stood, closing the closet from where I had emerged, and I put his chair back. As we cleaned up our traces I felt calmer, more serene. There was no Casey or Tony or class. It was just this one moment with a person who didn't judge me. But that's nice. I just want that forever.