5. “Blister In The Sun”
Chapter 5
“Blister In The Sun”
Sascha - Age 11, 1981
R estlessness and boredom gnaw at me, making it hard to focus. My parents say it’s because I’m approaching my teenage years, hormones wreaking havoc on my emotions. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. The same boring routine day after day has grown tiresome. It’s like living in a never-ending loop.
Everything feels mundane, especially at school, where I used to find solace and excitement. I sit at the same lunch table with the same people, eating the same boring lunches while they chatter about the same people behind their backs.
I’m an outsider most of the time. I’m sure if I were to get up to use the bathroom, my so-called friends would take the opportunity to make fun of my clothes, hair, or lack of makeup. We may spend our time together at school, but our relationships are shallow and surface-level.
I haven’t had a best friend in a very long time. Not since kindergarten.
The start of middle school looms on the horizon. The thought of a new environment, filled with new faces and adventures, excites me.
Next to our table, a group of rowdy boys grab our attention with their loud antics. I guess this is how they flirt. It’s sad, but my friends eat it up while I bite my tongue. These are the type of boys who think snapping girls’ bra straps or grabbing their butts is funny and harmless. If one of them so much as tries it with me, it’s not going to be as funny.
My dad has always told me I have a finely tuned bullshit meter. “I feel sorry for anyone trying to pull one over on you, Sascha Bell,” he says. And he’s right. I can’t stand dishonesty or deception in any form. Growing up in a household that fosters kids, I’ve seen firsthand the struggles people face and what truly matters in life. Lies lead you down a dangerous path.
Maybe that’s why I don’t care about the same things my friends do. Shopping is fun, but it’s not like the mall is a magical wonderland or anything. My true passions lie in playing my flute, sketching in my art book, and getting lost in a good book. But since my friends are the only people I’ve always known, I go along with their interests, even if they aren’t mine.
As I glance around, my gaze falls upon a girl with a face full of acne. She sits alone, her nose in a book, her hopes and dreams unimportant to everyone else. But as I study her, I can’t help but wonder what hidden talents or interests she possesses. Maybe she’s a gifted poet, crafting beautiful words in secret? Or maybe she’s a chess master, strategizing and outwitting opponents silently? A sense of intrigue and empathy washes over me as I imagine all the possibilities waiting to be discovered if only someone took the time to get to know her.
I’m absent-mindedly jabbing at my sandwich with a straw from my Capri Sun; thoughts of the future swirl through my mind. It may be time for a change. Maybe I’ll reach out to new people and try to expand my social circle.
A sudden surge of frustration rises as I look down at my wavy brown hair. It’s the same style I’ve had since elementary school. My bangs are always teased back, and I wear my hair half up and half down in a scrunchie of varying colors, just like everyone else’s. Even my leggings, skirts, and jeans blend in with the crowd. It’s time for a reinvention, a chance to stand out. After all, what do I have to lose? I think I know just the person who can help.
Arriving home after school, I say hello to Mom and then make my way up the creaky stairs, each step echoing through the old house. My heart beats faster with nervous anticipation as I approach the closed door of the spare bedroom.
Lydia has been living with us for about two months. She’s a teenage girl on the brink of aging out of the system, having spent her entire life in and out of foster care due to her parents’ drug addictions. Despite her difficult past, she’s determined to succeed and support her younger siblings. She works at a local burger joint full-time and is getting ready to take her GED to earn her high school diploma.
I’ve only overheard snippets of her story from my parents. Lydia and I haven’t spoken much, but today, I feel bold and curious. With a deep breath, I rap on her door three times.
A medley of steady drum beats and pulsing bass guitar seep through the door, accompanied by a wistful melody that tugs at my heartstrings. This isn’t David Bowie or punk music like I’ve heard from Lydia before. It’s something new and intriguing. As I wait for a response, I can feel the music drawing me closer to the door.
After a few moments, the music fades to a lower volume, and Lydia appears at the door. Her dark hair falls in front of her face, partially masking her expression. “Was the music too loud?” she asks hesitantly.
“No, not at all,” I tell her. My voice is shaky, betraying my nerves. “I was, uh, wondering if I could talk to you?”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows raise into a curious expression. She steps out of the way, allowing me to enter her room.
As I step inside, I take a moment to look around. It’s always an interesting glimpse into the person who temporarily inhabits the space. The room never fails to surprise me with its transformation for each new tenant. The white walls remain the same, as do the baby blue bedspread and small chest of drawers. But it feels different depending on who is there. It’s as if the room itself adopts another personality.
I remember when Bobby lived here, he had boxing posters plastered on the walls and a stack of VHS tapes featuring his favorite matches. Chrissy was obsessed with Looney Tunes, and her Bugs Bunny stuffed animal never left her side.
But Lydia has transformed the room into something almost mystical. She draped a thin black fabric over the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows around the room. The air feels heavy with romance and intrigue. There are no posters taped to the walls or toys to be found, but instead, she has laid out albums on the bed and dresser, creating an intimate atmosphere. As I take in all of these details, I can’t help but feel drawn to Lydia’s personality and taste.
She lets me take in the room and satisfy my curiosity before speaking. “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asks.
“I really like the music you’re listening to,” I respond. Lame.
Lydia smiles before walking over to the night table and grabbing an album cover. She hands it to me, and I study it. It’s a white album with a drawing of a bear next to some sort of alien and a terrifying-looking man in a hat. In the right-hand corner is the band’s name. “Bauhaus,” I say, reading the band’s name. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’ve been around for a couple of years,” Lydia replies. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I reply enthusiastically. “It’s different.”
She nods, a slight smile on her lips. “I appreciate it for those moments when I can just exist in my own thoughts.” Something about that simple sentence speaks to my soul.
I'm struck by Lydia’s unique style and unapologetic confidence. She exudes an air of nonchalance as if she couldn’t care less about societal expectations. It’s so refreshing.
Her jet-black hair falls effortlessly around her face, framing her intense brown eyes that she accentuates with bold, heavy eyeliner. In contrast to the vibrant neon colors that are all the rage, Lydia opts to wear darker colors, more evidence of her choice to opt for the rejection of conformity.
“Is that your natural hair color?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me. A sense of apprehension washes over me as I wonder if I’m crossing a boundary with such a personal question.
She responds easily, “Nah,” and sits on her bed, making it creak slightly under her weight. “I have dark brown hair, darker than yours, but not black.” Her voice is smooth and confident.
A thought pops into my head, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “I think I would like to color my hair.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I realize how forward and impulsive I must sound.
“How old are you again?” she asks, her expression curious yet gentle.
“Almost twelve,” I reply, standing taller to exude confidence despite feeling small and inexperienced.
“You may be a bit young for that,” she advises. “You remind me of my sister,” she adds warmly.
Intrigued, I ask, “In what way?”
Her smile widens, dimples appearing on her cheeks. “You’re cute and curious.”
“I’d much rather be mysterious,” I reply, causing her to release a giggle that dances through the air like wind chimes. Lydia’s eyes sparkle with curiosity as she asks, “What do you think your parents would say about you coloring your hair?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “As long as it’s not permanent, I don’t think they’d mind.”
A mischievous grin spreads across her face as she leans in closer. “Tell you what,” she says. “If they say yes, I’ll take you to get some hair color, and we can do it before I leave.”
My heart races at the thought of changing my appearance with someone who is so inherently cool. “When do you turn eighteen?” I ask.
“End of summer,” she replies, mindlessly tracing the cover of one of her albums with her black-painted fingernail. “As long as I have a full-time job and can provide for them, I can try to get custody of my little brother and sister.”
“Are you mad at them?” I blurt out without thinking. “Your parents, I mean.”
She pauses, pursing her lips as if contemplating my question. “I used to be,” she admits. “But not anymore.”
“What changed?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I did,” she says firmly. “I was angry and resentful toward my parents when I was younger. I was heading down the same destructive path as them without realizing it. But then, one day, something sparked within me, and I realized I had a choice. I could continue down their path or make something more of myself. And I chose the latter.”
Feeling emboldened by Lydia’s openness and honesty, I blurt out something that surprises me. “I’m adopted,” I confess.
Her eyebrows raise in surprise, but there is no judgment in her expression. “Are you mad at your birth mom?” she asks softly.
I shake my head, feeling a swell of gratitude for the woman who made the difficult choice to give me a chance at a better life. “No,” I reply. “I’m actually really grateful. Who knows where I'd be if she hadn’t given me up.”
Lydia nods in understanding, her voice gentle as she says, “That’s true. But it’s also okay to feel sad sometimes. All adoption, no matter how wonderful, starts with loss.”
I nod in agreement, a small smile forming on my lips.
“You’re a cool kid, Sascha,” Lydia says with genuine admiration, and I can’t help but beam under her praise.
Summer vacation slipped through our fingers like sand, leaving memories of lazy days and warm nights. I spent a lot of time with Lydia, talking to her about life, plans, family, art, music, boys, and everything else under the sun.
As the first day of middle school looms closer, anticipation and nerves churn in my stomach. Not only am I about to embark on a new adventure in middle school, but Lydia will be moving on, too. In four short days, she’ll turn eighteen and pack up her bags to start a new life on her terms.
My parents have repeatedly asked her if she wants to stay with us for a while longer, but she’s eager to get out on her own, even if that means couch surfing until she can get her own place. To be honest, I’d probably feel the same way if I grew up the way she did, with no freedom or independence, all of my choices taken away by my parents’ mistakes.
Excitement bubbles in my chest as I wait for her to come home from work. Today is the day I’ve been eagerly anticipating all summer. I finally got up the nerve to ask my parents about coloring my hair last month. After much consideration, they gave me their approval. Their only condition was that I wait until the end of summer to make sure it’s something I still want to do.
There have been changes in me over the past few months, some of them reflected in my room, where I spend most of my time. Posters of my new favorite bands, such as Bauhaus, Siouxsie & the Banshees, and Echo & the Bunnymen, adorn the walls. My musical tastes have shifted to darker, moodier tones—something my dad has jokingly noted.
My clothing choices are a bit darker as well. Lydia’s edgy style has rubbed off on me.
I’m not trying to change who I am, exactly. It’s more of an exploration, a journey to discover who I want to be since the person I used to be no longer interests me.
Restlessly, I pace back and forth in the kitchen, my shoes creating a rhythmic tapping on the linoleum floor. Suddenly, a warm hand covers mine, returning me to the present moment.
“Hi,” my mom’s voice breaks through my racing thoughts. Her gentle touch and presence ground me and ease my nerves. I realize I have been wearing a hole in the linoleum and unconsciously rubbing my ear in anticipation.
“Are you excited?” she asks with a smile.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s whatever,” I reply. But my mom knows better. She sees through my facade and knows that deep down, I’m more excited about this than I’ve been about anything in a long time.
Lydia said something a while back that has stuck with me. She said, “You have complete control over how you present yourself and express yourself. It’s one of the few things you can direct in life.” From that moment on, I’ve been sure I wanted to make a change.
Thirty minutes later, Lydia and I are walking through the aisle at Thrifty's, looking for the perfect color. We browse the hair color aisle, and I pick up the boxes, looking for the perfect raven shade. I want something bold and dynamic, something that will make my green eyes and pale skin stand out.
“Here’s the one,” Lydia says, handing me a box of color called “Black Velvet.” “This one will make you look like Susana Hoff from The Bangles.”
My eyes grow wide. “I love it.”
“Rad!” she exclaims. “Let’s grab some nail polish and make-up and get a scoop of ice cream on our way out.”
“Are you sure,” I ask. “I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”
“I want to,” she says sincerely. “Besides, a scoop of ice cream is thirty-five cents. I think I can cover it,” she says with a laugh.
We stay up late into the night coloring my hair, panicking when I dye several of my mom’s towels pitch black, and laughing about the latest Saturday Night Live episode. I cry when she leaves a few days later with the promise to call and write to me occasionally. Despite our age difference, she became my friend. I haven’t felt that close to anyone else since Michael Tazman.
It’s kind of crazy that I even remember him. But I do. I remember his sandy brown hair and not quite green but not quite blue eyes. I remember that he made me laugh. And for reasons I still can’t understand, I have a note taped on the edge of my mirror in my terrible first-grader cursive that says, “You owe Michael a Marathon bar.” I must have written it as a reminder. I don’t know why I never threw it away. I just didn’t. There’s got to be something to that, butI don’t have too much time to dwell on it with the start of the new school year.