The Origin of Tinkerbell

So…I’m moving to the Balkans.

Record scratch

Yep, that’s me. I guess you’re wondering how I got here.

I do plan on telling that story. It’s being written…I’m looking at it, though, and I’m not ready to share it quite yet. However, I do have another piece of creative, um, writing that I will share with you.

Sometimes it’s best to start at the beginning.

CONTENT NOTIFICATION: DRUG USE, UNDERAGE SEX, GRAPHIC DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, AND BAD GUITAR PLAYING

 1991

Connor drove his Impala like a teenager in a horror movie would just before he crashed and burned and turned his passengers into vengeful ghosts. But if you closed your eyes and surfed on the tide of adrenaline, you could almost turn your fear into exhilaration.

I clutched the pitted vinyl of the back seat as we hurtled down the road, the engine bellowing like a horny bull. Brittney sat on the front passenger side,  showing her bravery and her overbite as she laughed. The cloying scent of pear blossoms tore through the open windows on gusts that ruffled Connor's mullet and tangled my triangle perm.

Next to me, a boy grinned ratlike, his curly dishwater hair spilling carelessly around his bony and freckled face. His name was Robbie. This was the first time I'd met him.

The car screamed up the hill to Lookout Point. We hit the parking lot at full speed, then Connor slammed on the brakes, laughing like a hyena as the Impala skidded to a halt with its nose all but hanging off the edge of the cliff.

The engine coughed to a stop. Around us the dust billowed, and I took a moment to let my heartbeat slow.

“Connor, you are such a dork,” Brittney said calmly, pulling a pack of Marlboros out of her purse. Connor turned around, his cold, green eyes finding mine.

“Awww, look at Gracie, she's scared. You gonna piss your pants, Gracie?” He smiled at Robbie. “Hope you don't mind the piss stains when you're peeling her shorts off, dude.”

Fuck you, you goldfish-looking shithole, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I never came out ahead in those sorts of exchanges, because my voice would squeak and my face would heat up, which ruined the effect.

Robbie snickered, then reached into his leather biker jacket and brought out a pint of Wild Turkey. He wore the jacket over tight, acid-wash cutoffs, which just made him look even skinnier, squaring his body off like a fudgesicle over his stick legs. He handed the bottle to me.

Connor high-fived him over the seatback. “Wild Turkey? No fucking way, dude. Where'd you get it?”

“My dad,” Robbie said.

“You steal it from his liquor cabinet?”

“No, he just got it for me when I went to visit him.”

Connor's bulgy eyes opened even wider.

“My mom totally lets me drink her vodka all the time,” I lied. “We sit around and party.”

Connor sneered. “Your mom likes to party, huh, Gracie? I'd get drunk with that bitch.”

I unscrewed the cap, my nose cringing back from the fumes. “Connor, can I have a drink of your Big Gulp for a chaser?”

Connor's lip curled up in mock disgust, and he thrust the cup at me, the icy slurry sloshing against the top. “Don't get your whore slime all over the straw.”

“God, Connor,” Brittney said mildly, her cigarette sending up curls of smoke around her fingers.

I took a glug of the alcohol and choked, quickly soothing my throat with Connor's drink.

“You blew snot all over my drink!” he yelped. “Did you see that? She blew her slut juice all over the place. Give me that.” He grabbed his soda back, and my hurt must have shown in my eyes, because he grinned. “Just teasing you, Gracie, Jesus, don't cry.”

“I'm not crying.”

The sun sank below the distant ridges as the bottle went around. Then it was empty, leaving my mouth tasting like kerosene and my head spinning. The last layers of red and green sunset were fading over the desert hills. Stars poked through the wide, inky sky, and the spread of city lights glimmered below, a huge platter of white and orange jewels. Connor and Brittney got out of the car to play a game of slap-grab-and-tickle.

Robbie's eyes gleamed in the low light. “You drunk?”

“A little.”

“I like your shirt. Megadeth is fucking rad. Did you hear they're coming out with a new album pretty soon?”

“Yeah, I think I heard,” I lied. I never knew things like that. Outside, Connor and Brittney’s flirting silhouettes flitted across the city lights.

“Peace Sells was an awesome album.” Robbie broke into a sudden bout of vigorous headbanging, flipping his curls and playing air bass. “Bow-buh-bow buh-bow.”

I giggled nervously, picking at a hole in the vinyl seat. Robbie grinned wider, his little attempt at a moustache sticking out around his sharp nose. “You're a freshman, right? How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“I'll be sixteen in July,” I lied. It was an old lie, since the teasing had gotten ruthless in the fifth grade. I was actually turning fourteen in July. I’d skipped second grade, instead of being held back like I usually claimed. “How old are you?”

“I'll be sixteen in September,” he said.

“What school you go to?”

“I dropped out. My mom kicked me out of the house a few weeks ago, and it was a pain in the ass to get to class. I wanna get back in school though. Some parts of it are pretty rad. I always liked English class. Have you read Jack Kerouac?”

I blinked and smiled. “Yes. On the Road and Dharma Bums. I think On the Road is my favorite. Do you know he wrote that in just a few days? He actually had to, like, get a roll of paper so that he didn't have to stop writing to put new sheets in.”

“I think he was taking a lot of speed. His head was full of words all pouring out of him all like BLUH BLUH BLAB BLAB.”

We laughed. I picked at the vinyl some more. “You ever read Carlos Castaneda?”

“No, what's that about?”

“It's really trippy, it's a true story supposedly, about this guy who goes down and hangs out with this Yaqui Indian sorcerer in Mexico. He takes a lot of peyote and smokes mushrooms and learns how to do magic and stuff.”

“That sounds rock and roll. I want to read that. You ever do acid?”

“No. I'd like to, though.”

“Me, too. I know a guy who can get some.”

“Really?”

“Totally. We should drop together.”

A shiver of fear and excitement skittered down my spine. I wondered if LSD would help me see the Guardian or an Ally like Carlos Castaneda had.

Brittney and Connor's laughter floated through the cracked-open windows, and the end of Brittney's cigarette flared in the darkness.

My gaze flicked to Robbie. “You wanna go outside?”

We climbed out into the night. The air was cool and rich with the scent of blooming orchards. A chorus of frogs rose above the hiss of city traffic, the sound settling into my soul like a hymn.

“Hey Robbie, your dick wet yet?” Connor yelled from somewhere in the darkness. Brittney giggled as my heart crumpled.

“My dick's always wet,” Robbie replied.

I hugged myself and craned my neck up toward the stars, which spun through my drunken mind. “Somewhere up there, there's aliens. The universe is so big, there's just no way we're the only ones in it.”

“Rock and roll aliens!” Robbie howled. “Hey, you extraterrestrials, do you like to thrash?” His strutting feet crunched through gravel and broken glass as he started playing his air bass again. “BOW-BUH-BOW-BUH-BOW.” I shuffled my feet and hugged myself tighter.

“Hey, aliens,” Connor yelled. “Wanna come down and stick your knobby, weird dicks in Gracie's loose pussy?”

Brittney laughed. “Shut up, Connor, God.”

***

A couple days later I had my mom drop me at the park by the river so that Robbie and I could go for a walk. He wore his leather jacket again, his knobby knees showing between frayed cutoffs and dirty high-top sneakers, his hair corkscrewing all over the place. “He's quite the looker,” my mom drawled, and I heard an unspoken No wonder he's interested in you trailing after it.

My chin fell to my chest. “He's really nice.” I wasn't attracted to him, but at least he did seem interested. And he'd heard of Kerouac.

My mom smirked at me out the windshield as she turned the car around and left.

Robbie and I walked along the river. I plucked fragrant, sticky cottonwood buds from the branches. The spring sun was warm, and kingfishers skimmed and dove into the swirling pools. Robbie grinned at a passerby. “Hey, did you know your dog looks like Jabba the Hut?”

I ignored the stranger’s judgmental stare. “You still living with your grandparents?”

“Yeah, but they don't want me there.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, the zippers on his jacket clinking. “My mom is pissed at me, and she bitches at them for taking me in.”

“That sucks.” My hands were sticky with balsam from the cottonwood buds. A breeze fluttered my hair, bringing with it the rich, green river smell, reminding me of summer afternoons waterskiing behind boats piloted by drunken relatives.

Robbie gazed at me. “You're beautiful.”

I avoided his eyes, leaving brown balsam stains on my elbows as I clutched them. “No, I'm not.”

“You are, too. A lot of guys may not think so, but I see the beauty in you. I can see the beauty in any girl. You're like a wildflower, the wind blowing through your petals in a sunny meadow, free and natural. You look like a wildflower to me.”

I cringed inwardly, but still got a little warm burst of happiness. It was about the best compliment I could expect to get.

***

When my mom picked me up I told her Robbie didn't have a place to live. She frowned. “His parents kicked him out?”

“His mom did. His dad's a heroin addict so he can't live with him. He told me his mom beats the shit out of him when she's drunk.”

My grandma had been a bitch, too, who had beaten my mom fire pokers and hairbrushes. My mom emphasized with Robbie, and that summer he moved in with us. She enrolled him in school with me, also to start as a sophomore that coming fall even though he was two years older than me.

My family lived on ten acres of fruit trees, in an old farmhouse that had once belonged to my grandparents. There was a huge warehouse at the bottom of the hill, crammed to the dusty rafters with ancient furniture and farm equipment. It had an apartment in the front, rented to workers in bygone days but now standing empty. The irrigation ditch flowed by the front stoop, fringed by hollyhocks and tangles of tea roses. I vacuumed the threadbare carpets, scrubbed the horrifying nuggets from the fridge, and scraped out all the scary, dank corners with Pine Sol. When summer came, I moved in.

Robbie taped up a sign on the front door that said, “This is the House that Rock Built”. Kids walked miles to hang out there, because it was teenager heaven. They brought bottles of Boones Farm and garbage bags full of pot leaves they'd gleaned from their cousin's grow op. We'd get headaches from smoking that shit, then sit around listening to Slayer, eating uncooked ramen and Little Debbie snack cakes. I dyed my hair blonde in the green-toileted bathroom and attempted a tattoo of an inverted cross on my shoulder using a sewing needle and pen ink.

Meanwhile, up at the main house, my parents' marriage was disintegrating. My dad had gotten his music teaching degree but had trouble finding a job. When he finally did it was on the other side of the state, and he was making plans to live apart from us. But I hardly knew what was going on with them, nor they me; they had their lives, and I had mine.

One of the kids that came to hang at the House that Rock Built was named Steve. He had long, flowing blonde hair and really nice lips that curled up at the edges, as if he secretly found everything amusing. I'd sit next to him on the sagging, ancient couch and giggle at everything he said, feeding him pieces of snack cakes with my fingers. He'd pretend not to notice me when other people were around, but one afternoon we were alone behind the warehouse and he kissed me, his hands sliding up tentatively to squeeze my tits.

Robbie came around the corner and saw. Later, after everybody left, he turned on me, his eyes slightly askew, his shoulders tense. “You going to let that pretty boy Steve fuck you?”

His anger was like a force field pushing me back. “I...”

“He doesn't like you. He just wants his cock sucked by some slut. He doesn't understand you like I do. No one will ever love you like I do.”

My forehead scrunched up with hurt and happiness all at once. I kept sleeping with guys because I liked the closeness, the warmth of them beside me in bed. I liked knowing that, even if just for a moment, they were paying attention to me and cared about me. But no one had ever said they loved me before. No one had really given a shit.

That night, I let Robbie fuck me on one of the musty beds in the House that Rock Built. As we lay sprawled out afterwards, his pale and shiny-wet dick lying limp on his scrawny belly, I was embarrassed about it. But at least I didn't feel alone.

***

On the first day of school, Robbie strutted through the front doors like a prom queen, his tight curls flopping. He'd taken a Sharpie and written “Metallica” on the back of a jeans jacket, cut off the arms, and put it over his leather one like a vest. A group of jocks smirked openly as he walked by, and he grinned back. “Hi fellas! How are the balls dangling today?”

One of them cocked an eyebrow. “Low and lazy.”

My first class was junior AP English. Through a snafu my freshman year I'd been placed in the sophomore AP class, and since I'd gotten an A they let me keep on with it. Robbie backed me up against the wall by the doorway and kissed me before bouncing off to social studies. I ducked into class, hoping no one had seen.

The desks were arranged in a circle facing the center, and there was a boy sitting off to the side, his asymmetric-cut blonde hair hanging over his face as he drew in a notebook. His name was Patrick, and he was in a band called Hockaloogie that had played a cover of Love Buzz at the end-of-year assembly. It was the first time any of us had heard of Nirvana, and it had been epic. I screwed up my courage and sat next to him.

He glanced up with a daydreamy look when I put my book down, his eyes bright blue and friendly. He was pudgy like a teddy bear, his fingers thick and dexterous with callouses on the ends: guitar-player fingers. His notebook page was completely covered with an intricate pattern of swirling lines and bizarre smiley faces. He grinned. “Good morrow. You're that uber mega smarty pants girl, right?”

I ducked my head. “I...yeah. I'm Grace.”

“Grapes? Your mom must have been hungry when you were born.” He laughed, an infectious chuckle that came straight from his belly. “Or maybe she liked Steinbeck. Is your middle name Ofwrath?”

“How did you know? She was going to name me Cannery Row, but when I came out all purple, she named me Grapes instead.”

He laughed again. “I'm Patrick. Nice to meet you, Grapes.” The teacher came in, and he hunched over and resumed his doodling. I snuck peeks at his drawings, then opened my own notebook and copied him.

***

Robbie insisted on walking me to all of my classes. He was noisy and embarrassing, but he seemed to be making friends. A couple people said hi to him in the hallways after second period, and this kid named Kirk asked us to sit with him at lunch. Kirk had been a huge bully in grade school, the type who pushed other boys down into the dirt and laughed while he kicked them. He still had a thick neck and a cruel sense of humor, but he was an okay guy now.

I didn't want Robbie to go with me to my fourth period class after lunch. It was jazz choir and I knew Patrick would be there. I told him I had to go to the bathroom three minutes before the bell rang. “Don't worry about walking me to class,” I said. “I don't want you to be late to yours.”

“Don't get your panties all bunched. The magic math man will wait for me if I'm fashionably late.”

My chin fell between my hunched shoulders. “I can get to class on my own, Robbie.” But he stood like a sentry outside the bathroom until I had to give in or risk being late myself.

He kissed me at the choir classroom door just as a lanky boy with long, brown hair walked in, giving me laconic glance from the corner of his eye. His name was Rick, the bassist for Hockaloogie, and for the jazz choir. I broke away from Robbie and headed in.

In the choir room, Patrick was playing the drum set, bouncing in his seat as he worked the kick and high hat pedals. He kept an admirable beat, steady and strong. He messed up a fill and stopped, laughing. Then he picked it up again easily. I sat in a seat not far from him and watched.

Rick started sarcastic scat-singing along with the beat as he set up his bass cabinet. “Dooby-dooby BOW, BOW. Diddle-de-dee-dee-diddle.” Patrick, still drumming, joined in, his forehead scrunched up in an over-zealous jazz face. “Bugiggledy- ZOW, guh-booby booby ZING!” They kept on until Hunter, who was the drummer for their band (and also the jazz choir) came over and ordered Patrick out of his throne.

To my surprise, Patrick sat beside me. “It's Grapes! I didn't know you were in our lovely musical en-sambluh.”

I twisted the hem of my shirt. “Yeah, I tried out and got in.”

Rick leaned his bass against the cabinet and sat down on my other side. “Hey, I know you. You're the chick that takes guitar lessons at Talcott Music. You wear a Slayer shirt and always sit up playing the B.C. Rich guitars.” He had a half-smile, and I couldn't tell if he was making fun of me or not.

“Yeah, I've seen you there,” I said. “You take bass lessons from Bob?”

“Sure do.”

“Rick, this is Grapes,” Patrick said, and Rick snorted and smiled wryly at me.

“Grapes. My name is bananas. Wanna know why?” He pursed his lips and ground his crotch in Patrick's direction.

“Hey, we have a whole fruit salad!” Patrick said. “Delicioso!”

I giggled. “I'm Grace, but you can call me Grapes I guess.”

Then the choir director came in and made us sort into our vocal sections.

After class I managed to edge through the departing crowd and end up next to Patrick, Rick and Hunter. Patrick turned to me when we were outside the door. “Hey, Grapes, you ride the sixteen bus like I did, right? You live up in the Heights?”

“Yeah.” I glanced nervously down the hallway at Robbie, who was approaching.

“You need a ride after school?” Patrick asked.

I smiled. “Sure.” My smile fell as Robbie came up and took my hand. “But is there room for Robbie, too? He lives with me.”

Patrick blinked. “Yeah, there's room. The more the hairier. Not that you're hairy, Grapes, I'm talking about the rest of us hairy monkeys.”

***

After school, Robbie and I climbed into the backseat of Patrick's Toyota, which seemed to be held together with duct tape and spilled soda. Rick slouched in the front seat, his knees touching the glove box.

Patrick drove like he was playing Pole Position, his thick arms turning the steering wheel with frantic exuberance. “Do you two fine individuals partake of the marijuana weeds?”

“Hell, yeah,” Robbie squeaked, and Rick shot him a faint, appraising glance over the seat back, his lips curling up just slightly.

We went to Patrick's house on top of the hill. The band members had built a windowless box of plywood behind the yard and upholstered it with sagging egg carton foam and tie-die tapestries. It was crammed with musical equipment. I sat on the floor between an amp and a tangle of cords, picked up a guitar and strummed shyly at the strings, forming chords with my fingers. Patrick passed me the pipe and I pulled on it, my mouth filling with tangy smoke.

Rick turned on an amp as I passed the pipe to Robbie. My chords grew into robust existence as the tubes warmed up. Rick picked up his bass and Patrick climbed behind the drum set. Rick started playing a weird melody, pausing to take a hit off the pipe as it went around again. Patrick banged out a beat, and I played random notes and jazz chords, the fretboard seeming to melt like butter under my stoned fingers. It all came together somehow, and the music sucked me up in a whirlwind as Robbie leaned back against the wall, his face frozen in a beatific rictus.

***

Patrick dropped us off at home as the sun flamed up into a red ball on the horizon. As his car squealed off down the road in a shower of flying gravel, Robbie said, “Those guys are cool. I hope they'll be our friends.”

“Yeah. I hope so too, they're really nice.” My head was still crammed full of weed, and I figured my eyes must be glowing red. I wasn't ready to face my mom. “You want to go on a walk?”

We trudged up the hill to a section of land they'd recently cleared of orchards. The plywood shells of future McMansions rose out of the scraped and scabbed earth, their empty windows gaping towards the rugged, meandering sprawl of the valley. Our footsteps clomped hollowly on the bare subfloor. We sat in a framed-in whirlpool bathtub and gazed out at the sunset over the snowcapped Cascades, breathing in the sharp, pine smell of the exposed studs.

Robbie scooted close to me and gave me a kiss. His lips were bulbous and slimy and wrong, they tasted bad. I pulled away.

“What's your problem?” he asked.

I stared at my knees. “Robbie, I...”

“What?”

My heart pulsed in my throat, and I swallowed. “I don't want to go out with you anymore.”

His eyes snapped wide with lunatic fury, and I cringed away, my neck hitting the faucet. He brought down his fists, pounding the back of my head over and over again, each blow a dull thud in my ears. “Fuck you, you fucking slut.” He punctuated his words with his fists, hitting my shoulder, my ribs. “You just want to fuck Patrick and Rick.”

“No.” I curled up against the side of the tub, the fiberglass smacking into my cheek as he hit me again and again.

“Don't lie, you cunt. You want to fuck both of them. But neither of them would ever fuck a saggy-tit whore like you.”

I hunched over, sobs rising up in my throat. His words cut deeper than the physical pain.

The blows stopped, but I stayed curled up. Robbie was breathing hard. After a moment, I heard him crying. “You don't understand! My mom left me and you're all I have, Grace. You can't leave me, Grace. I love you.”

I uncurled slightly and looked up at him, hugging myself. Tears streaked his face, shining orange in the light of the sunset. Despair flowed out of the deepest part of me, flooding even beyond the contours of my body.

He was right. No one else would ever have me. Nice, cool boys like Patrick wouldn't touch me with thick gloves on.

“Okay,” I said. “I won't leave you. I'm sorry.”

Robbie gathered me up into his arms, and I put my cheek against his chest, letting his presence banish the hurt and loneliness.