Clinton, South Carolina, and: Purifier

Clinton, South Carolina

They gathered us into three battered whitevans and waited while we shifted in thosegray, worn-shiny seats, buckling our belts.I leaned against the window, attemptingsleep while the rough road vibrated my brain.The restaurant had been cleared for the morning(orphans get to eat before the mid-dayrush) so we were not allowed to forgetthat this was just another tool to dressus up as human. Inside there were barebeams, kitsch, a selection of worn saddlesmounted on the walls. We had hamburgers,identically cooked, and mugs of warm milk.Our houseparents ordered whatever theywished. We ate in the required silence,filling the long room with the high echoesof knives on cheap china and ill-timed burps.After our meal, three waitresses appearedwith trays of bright-painted, wooden lapelpins. We each could take one. I chose a redparrot because they can talk, and I wasfamished for words. I slipped it into mypocket and fondled the finish all theway back to the home. This was my first week.I was still allowed to make (supervised)phone calls. Red was still a colour of hope,and meals were guaranteed at regularintervals. I don't know where that pin went. Maybe I lost it in one of my moves.Maybe it was in the box of lettersFallon pissed on when I started fightingher fingers in the dark. I rememberthe taste of that hamburger; cheap, scorched meat,a dried-out bun; French fries the texture ofwet plaster; the waitresses' wide, frightenedeyes—as though what we had was contagious.As though we deserved to be so alone.

Purifier

For the first six weeks, I attended school—though rape quickly caused my grades to slip. Ispent science class distracted by the sightof the pair of human fetuses, stuckfast in Lucite, that the teacher kept asbookends. In math, I was seated besidethe girl who made my night-life hell; fractionshad no hope of holding my interest. I'dbeen banned from the library already(though Mrs. C had a habit of slipping mebooks), and the taunting I endured in gymmade the idea of sports unpalatable.It's difficult to be a team playerwhen the girls you face on the basketballcourt have a habit of cornering youin the locker room and rubbing fresh shitinto your face. All this stress added up.Right before I stopped trying, resigningmyself to a state of permanent janitorialdetention, the coach announced The PresidentialFitness Test. This was a contest composedof pull-ups, long-jump, and sit-ups. I was small (and getting smaller) but, by God,I was strong. And, boy, did I ever wantto beat all of them. Skeleton light, Ihauled myself up over the bar; reed thin,I flew across the sand pit. When the coachheld my feet and started counting, I leaptup over and over again untilhe lost his voice entirely and hisblond hair was matted brown with sweat. After,I walked back to the barracks feeling cleanand empty, remembering his white, innocentgrin. Almost to the door (which held nightmaresbehind it) a car pulled up to the curband honked its ducklike horn. It was the coach.He rolled down his window and called to me,holding out his huge fist. When I approached,he said, "You did good today, kid" and droppedfive sweaty M&M's into my palm.Grateful, a little disgusted, I tookthem into my mouth, savoring sweetness, and salt.