7. “She Sells Sanctuary”
Chapter 7
“She Sells Sanctuary”
Sascha - Age 13, 1983
M y new makeover was met with exactly the reaction I expected. On my first day of seventh grade, I felt comfortable and confident in myself, wearing a black skirt, mulberry-colored shirt, combat boots, and black velvet hair with straight bangs. The color contrasts sharply with my pale skin and jade green eyes, the black flecks standing out more than they used to. The look I had procured fitted me like a comfortable second skin.
My old friends from elementary school couldn’t hide their shocked expressions, but they were polite to my face. I expected to hear their laughter when my back was turned, and I did. They would say things like, “What happened to her? She used to be so pretty. She used to be so normal.” It didn’t faze me; if anything, it made me feel empowered. I had no regrets about stepping into the unknown.
Then something amazing happened. I made new friends. Do you remember Sarah, the girl with the pimples from elementary school? She’s still here, and she’s pretty incredible. We bonded over our love of reading and her talent for playing the clarinet. Turns out we’re both band geeks at heart.
My friend Darius is hands down the raddest person I know. He’s biracial and gay, two things that are not always accepted in the typical American high school. But he owns it and doesn’t let anyone bring him down.
And then there’s Landry, the hockey player I met in science class. His large build is intimidating, and he has this quiet intensity about him. It’s hard to read his thoughts, but I sense there is more to him than meets the eye. I’m determined to get to know him better and help him break out of his shell.
When all is said and done, my mantra is straightforward. If others are laid-back and easygoing, so am I. But if they choose to be a drag, I have no desire to associate with them. This philosophy guided me throughout the year, and I found happiness.
And so, we come to the first day of eighth grade. I turn the handle of my brand-new locker, which is now conveniently on the top row, and stuff my school supplies and lunch inside. Looking around, everything seems pretty much as it was last year. The new seventh graders are wide-eyed and slightly intimidated, struggling with their lockers and trembling hands. It’s a rite of passage that we all go through; I remind myself as I slam my locker shut and head to my first class.
Thankfully, the morning passes without any major mishaps and now I’m sitting across from Darius in the crowded lunchroom. Darius is our resident gossip king, keeping us up-to-date on all the latest news.
Excited chatter fills the crowded cafeteria as word spreads about some “cute new guys” who have joined the school today. I can’t help but roll my eyes at Darius’ description of them as, and I quote, “tasty.”
“Come on, Sash,” he urges. “Even your cold, black heart must feel something for hot hockey players.”
I shrug nonchalantly. Of course, I appreciate attractive guys. I’m not blind. But let’s be real. Most of the jocks at this school are not exactly known for their kindness toward others. Landry is an exception, though; he’s a good guy. Quiet and kind-hearted. I know it deep down. The rest of them? Not so much.
Sarah joins us at the lunch table as Darius is talking about the new arrivals. “They are both so cute, though. One is tall with this Billy Idol-looking bleached hair. Very 'Rebel Yell.' You know I love a bad boy.”
I bite my licorice whip, shake my head, and listen quietly. He’s obviously on a roll.
“The one with dark hair is so dreamy, in that clean-cut American boy way.”
“Who are we talking about?” Sarah asks, pushing her glasses up her face.
Darius rests his chin on his hand and gazes dreamily at the group of hockey players across the lunchroom. “Hockey boys,” he says with a lazy smile.
“Yeah, I know all about them,” Sarah replies.
“Wait? You know what?” Darius sits up straight, wide-eyed and interested.
“Well, the one with dark hair is sort of family,” Sarah shrugs.
Ever the dramatic diva, Darius launches into an interrogation. “What do you mean he’s sort of family, Sarah? Are you hiding this hot man in your closet? Spill.”
Sarah laughs. “His name is Corey, so we can stop calling him the ‘hot man.’ I’m begging you.”
“Whatever. Continue,” Darius urges.
“He moved here with his mom this past summer. She married my uncle. So we are like cousins or something.”
“Kissing cousins?” I joke, earning a giggle from Darius and a Dorito to the forehead from Sarah.
“Gross!” she says playfully. “I barely know him. He sulked through the entire wedding wearing his walkman and shoving hors d’oeuvres in his mouth to keep from having to speak to anyone.”
“So he’s also a bad boy? Color me intrigued,” Darius adds dramatically.
“I don’t think so,” Sarah corrects. “I think he just didn’t want to move here.”
“Mmhm. And the blond? Tell me more, tell me more.” Darius starts singing the beginning of the Grease song, causing us to laugh.
“I haven’t met him yet. He’s friends with Corey. His name is Taz, I think,” Sarah says.
“Taz,” I repeat, rolling the word over in my mind a few times. It’s an interesting name that fits a hockey player perfectly. As we continue chatting about the new students at our school, I can’t help but daydream about a brooding artist who plays the guitar and writes deep lyrics. That’s the kind of guy I wish would move here.
The PE bell rings shrilly, signaling the end of lunch and the start of what would undoubtedly be a horribly lame class. I made my way to the gymnasium alone, none of my friends sharing this period with me. Some familiar faces from my past are in this period, but they pay me no mind, and I’m content with that.
Dressing out for Merrimack physical education is an exercise in humiliation. The shorts inch up my butt crack, and the shirt hugs my boobs too tightly. Thank goodness our school colors are black and blue—at least I can work with that.
A rebellious thought crosses my mind to wear combat boots instead of the required sneakers, but I quickly dismissed it and lace up my black Converse sneakers. Who knows what kind of physical activity this maniac teacher has planned for us today?
Impatiently tapping my foot on the immaculate grass, I stand on the field, anxiously waiting for class to start. My eyes scan the familiar surroundings, taking in the group of guys huddled by the bleachers. They toss a football back and forth, their loud laughs echoing across the field. I recognize one as Landry, so I’m sure most of these guys are on the hockey team.
My gaze shifts to a tall, lean figure with tousled brown hair. He exudes an air of cool indifference as he lazily jogs to retrieve a stray throw. He seems laid-back and unaffected by the numerous sets of eyes on him. I respect that. He must be Sarah’s cousin and Dar’s new husband if he has any say.
The other boy stands at a similar height, but his broad shoulders and muscular chest make him seem even larger. His bleached blond hair is styled into spiky tufts, giving off an intriguing air of rebelliousness. I mean, Darius is right. Who isn’t interested in a bad boy?
The coach’s voice booms across the field as he strides toward us with his ever-present clipboard. “Everyone form a line,” he commands. I’m relieved to see it’s Coach Rowe, a burly man with a no-nonsense attitude. I had him last year, and I know from experience that he gets squeamish about all things menstrual-related.
It was my secret weapon last year for getting out of running. I would mention clots, and Coach would turn ashen, swallow a gag, and shoo me away. It worked like a charm every time.
As I approach the forming line, a sudden whooshing sound fills the air as a football narrowly misses my right shoulder. A large, muscular body follows suit, almost knocking me out of my velcro shoes.
“Fumbling and bumbling much?” I yelp at the perpetrator.
“Oh, shit! Sorry about that!” he exclaims in response, flipping over to retrieve the ball and springing up to meet my gaze. “Are you alright?” His tone is filled with genuine concern.
A sudden burst of light blinds me, and I feel like I am being pulled into a dream-like state of consciousness. My mind is hazy, and I struggle to focus as the figure before me comes into view.
The eyes that meet mine are a mesmerizing mix of blue and green, captivating and mysterious. My heart races as adrenaline courses through my veins, making it difficult to swallow past the lump in my throat. I’m not one to swoon over a handsome guy, but this is different. He’s familiar, but that seems unlikely. He just moved here.
There’s a cocky smirk on his face as he looks at me, causing a similar spark of recognition to flare up in those aqua irises. He says something to me, but the fog in my mind makes it hard for me to process his words. I shake my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts.
“Hey, did I hurt you?” His voice is smooth like velvet, with a hint of concern laced within it.
“No, I’m completely fine,” I manage to say, but my eyes remain fixed on the stranger in front of me. His presence is like a magnet, pulling me toward him and making it hard to look away.
Suddenly, Landry appears at my side, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps from his run over to us. “Damn, Taz,” he says between gulps of air. “Good thing you play hockey and not football. You okay?”
I finally tear my gaze away from the stranger and turn to face Landry. “I’m fine, Landry. Thank you.” I quickly adjust my ponytail as Coach barks at us with impatience.
“If you’re not on the line, you will be marked tardy. You have five seconds.” The coach’s power trip is almost comical.
We quickly join the rest of the class on the line just as the roll call begins. Adams, Anderson, Athers, Bell. I say "here" and raise my hand when my name is called, continuing to scan the crowd for any reaction from Rebel Yell. But Landry is standing between us, blocking my view.
I fidget nervously, rubbing my thumb and forefinger against my earlobe—a dreaded habit when I’m anxious. And then I hear it - a name that nearly knocks me off my feet. “Tazman.”
My head whips to the left in surprise, searching for the owner of the familiar name. Dammit, Landry is still in the way. It’s like trying to peek around a building.
Frustrated, I rock forward on my toes and strain to catch another glimpse of the stranger with the unforgettable name. But once again, Landry blocks my view and I am left feeling disappointed and oddly drawn to this mysterious person who holds such a powerful effect on me.
“Here,” the intriguing stranger replies, sounding bored and slightly annoyed that he has to answer. His voice is deep and smooth, like dark chocolate melting in my ears.
Tazman. The name echoes in my mind as I roll it over on my tongue. Could it be Michael Tazman? It’s an unusual name, but the chances of it being my childhood friend are high. Memories flood back to me in a hazy movie montage: playing on the swings at the park, the distinct smell of rubber mats we used to nap on, digging in the sandbox for buried treasures, and our favorite snack—peanut butter, banana, and marshmallow fluff sandwiches. I can almost feel the hot tears that spilled down my cheeks when he had to move away.
Lost in my thoughts, I lean back this time, rocking back on my heels and craning my neck to catch a better glimpse of the stranger’s profile. But before I can get a good look, Landry shoves his big face in front of mine. “Whatcha doing, Sash?” he asks with a mischievous smirk. His interruption of my plan to discreetly stalk the new hockey player catches me off guard and causes me to lose my balance, nearly falling on my butt. But just in time, a large hand grabs hold of mine and pulls me back to steady ground.
“Dammit, Landry!” I scold, scanning the area to see if I’ve caused a scene.
“You are trippin’ today, Bell,” he says with his usual amount of enthusiasm.
“Whatever,” I say, shifting my legs to try to get rid of the wedgy that’s committing assault on my vulva.
Coach Lowe finishes the roll call and tells us to fan out to do some calisthenics. Great. That’s just what I need to be doing with no sports bra: jumping jacks.
He calls the members of the hockey team up to the front of the line to lead the stretches and exercises. Now I’m facing these guys, with this Taz character facing me just off to my right. At least I can get a better look at him from here.
We drop down into a runner’s stretch, and while his head is turned toward the guy next to him, I study his profile. It’s difficult to know for sure if it’s him. Age has sharpened his features, and the bleached hair doesn’t help, but those eyes…those eyes haven’t changed.
We go through our stretches and calisthenics, my boobs shimmying under my shirt like jello being jiggled back and forth in the car on the way to a family picnic. It manages to draw the attention of almost every guy in the vicinity. I even catch Landry looking at one point. That damn tree. I’m going to punch him later.
We finally completed our array of exercises thirty minutes later. I gave it about fifty percent effort, so I’m not a complete mess, but my bangs are matted to my forehead in gelled sweat.
Coach announces we have ten minutes to get back to the locker room and change, so we all move toward the gym. Suddenly and without any thought at all, I hear my voice ring out across the field. “Michael?” I yell. And then I want to die.
The guys he’s walking with keep going, but his step falters, and he looks over his shoulder curiously before turning on his heels and approaching me with his head tilted to the side.
Crap. I rub my sweaty hands on my ugly black gym shorts and meet him where he’s standing. His eyes look me up and down, but they’re emotionless. “I’m sorry,” he says, “Do we know each other?”
The air is sucked out of the space surrounding me. It’s him, and he doesn’t remember me. And why would he? That was so long ago. We’ve both changed so much in the past eight years. I do the only thing I can think of at the moment to let us both off the hook.
“You looked familiar, and I thought I did, but I guess not.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t know if he believes me or not. “How did you know my name?” he asks.
“Oh, I heard someone say it.” I lie. Again. All you have in this life is your integrity, Sascha Bell ; my mom’s voice rings in my head. Sorry, Mom.
“Huh,” he says, his tongue jutting out to lick his lower lip. “No one calls me Michael except my grandma. It’s Taz,” he says.
“Got it,” I nod. He stands for a moment, probably waiting for me to give him my name, but I’m embarrassed enough for one day, so I say, “See ya,” and trot off like I have somewhere to be. Lame.