My Francis

I didn't touch it because it was ugly. It was weird. It was interesting, but not so much that I wanted to put my fingers to it. I said, "Ew," and he slapped me. His hand hurt but it didn't stop me from giggling. My cheek was stinging when I ran down the stairs to the courtyard.

I always wanted a crisp white shirt. I never cared about the style. I wanted it to be so crisp that it cut into my neck skin and so white that my brother, Francis, the albino-boy, looked fresh from Florida. I knew I would never fuss with it and tug at it even if it caused me pain. I wanted it kind of snug against my swollen chest, my annoying achy t*****s. Maybe then Ryan would notice me. He likes b***s. He told Tim how much he loved them. I may not be pretty, but I have a huge chest. I'm pretty plain, actually--- straight brown hair, brown eyes, average average average, but huge boobies. It makes me different from the other nine-year-old girls. Even the P.E. teacher, Ms. Perez, has trouble looking me in the eyes when I change into gym clothes. And, I know all about the rumors, but I'm pretty sure she's straight.

I skipped over to Francis after gym class, rubbing his back because he's precious. He pushes me off but I know he likes some attention some times, even if it's from just his sister. He's so gentle so much, just with his standing and breathing that I get itchy and flip my hand toward and forth to scatter the gnats I figure must be around. When we got home from school, Francis said that bugs don't congregate with pale-folk. He says that the whiter your skin, the greasier and less-appealing your blood. When I question his logic, he says I don’t know anything about being translucent and should shut the hell up. He plays air guitar with the Clash and boils water for macaroni noodles while we’re talking, even though I tell him to study his algebra. I tell him we should put more sunscreen on him because the sun’s strong on the balcony and that’s where we’re eating. I protect Francis like a fragile feather pen or special paper made from papyrus. I know it's because he's so pale and somehow I think that his skin is thin and floaty like soap bubbles. I treat him like my special robot-brother.

After I was raped, Francis still tickled my back when we watched reruns and ate corn chips and bean dip. My Daddy stopped touching me all together, saying that it was inappropriate. I miss him scooping me up by my ribcage and us falling into the smelly green chair with the footrest, him laughing that big old laugh and me screeching like a crazy animal. He almost turned mean, like a stranger. He would hold my hand at church but like men who don't know each other shake hands. It was weird quick holding, without fingers as part of the palm, without an exchange of sweat, with just a, "Peace be with you," to tide everything over. And my Momma cries whenever her hands are within a foot of my body. A few weeks after the rape, or “incident” as Daddy calls it, I demanded privacy when I was taking a bath. I didn't just grow up and stop liking Momma squeezing the washcloth and letting the soapy water run down my back. I just hated watching her cry when she did it. I didn’t need to be by myself in the tub. I didn’t get embarrassed about being naked. I just didn’t need to see her crying anymore.

I like to think that maybe because Francis looks so different, that he is different in every way. Maybe Francis is a genius. Maybe Francis is some sort of savior. Maybe Francis can control things with his mind. He tells me that yes, he can and then squints his eyes and makes weird buzzing noises. I tell him he’s full of bull crap. He and I watch movies about different people all the time. Anyone who’s different, just to see if they’re different like him. There are a lot of movies with deaf people. When we watch those, he makes obnoxious loud sounds and pretends he can talk with his fingers. One time we watched a movie with that Marlee Matlin person who makes a lot of shows about deaf people and Francis jumped up and humped the screen like a dog. He said all of her yelling was making him horny. I didn’t really understand but it was funny. Francis told me that it was much easier to be a deaf actor than an albino. I told him it was much easier to be an albino rock star than a deaf one, so to count his blessings. I also told him that if he wanted, I could shove the cotton from Q-Tips into his eardrums and then he would be a deaf albino and what kind of star would he be then? He said that if he was those things as well as blind and Protestant, he could be President. I told him I’d vote for him. He was huddled underneath the scratchy blanket and told me to leave the room, because he needed "to stroke his opinion." I asked him what he was talking about and he yelled at me to get the f-bomb out.

When Mr. Saunders told my Momma that he needed my help tending to his garden, we had no idea he was going to rape me. His garden was so beautiful, I used to stop by every day during the summer. It had every color and size flower you could imagine. It looked like a kaleidoscope but nothing was blurry unless the winds were high. I wanted so badly to touch the flowers but was afraid they would break like little glass animals. When I started helping Mr. Saunders, he let me touch the petals and they were so soft, just like Francis’ skin. Mr. Saunders taught me the names of all the flowers and most of them I could say out loud, but spelling them was another story. He bought me a pad of paper and together we drew each flower and printed the name underneath the picture. I keep that notebook underneath my mattress because I’m pretty sure if my Daddy or Momma found it, they’d yell at me and throw it away. But the garden got torn down, so I just have the pictures left. And they’re still really pretty.

Sometimes kids in school make fun of Francis. That’s why I started fighting. At first I tried to explain that it wasn’t his fault and he just couldn’t make melanin like we could. They had no idea what melanin was and laughed and said, “Mela-who?” They’re idiots. I kept trying to explain pigmentation and how everyone has different levels but they called Francis a freak who belonged in the circus and that was it. I started kicking and punching and crying. I scratched Brittany on her face and she started bleeding and I yelled, “Well, we all bleed red, don’t we? Not so unique now, are you?” which I thought was pretty clever. Ms. Perez pulled on my shirt collar and dragged me kicking and screaming to the office. I wasn’t even scared to be there. They could call me any name in the book, but leave Francis alone. Francis is precious.

I was at Mr. Saunders house twice a week for five weeks before he raped me. I didn’t see it coming. He was always so nice to me and he never creeped me out like the man who stands in front of the convenience store all day. That guy gave me the heebie-jeebies. Every time I went into the store for taffy or an ice cream sandwich, he would stare at me and smile and say, “Well, aren’t you a pretty little girl? You’re going to be a very pretty young woman.” Yuck. Like I said, I’m not a very pretty girl, so I knew he was lying. And why would he tell me I was going to be a pretty woman? I’m nine! I’m a kid! I won’t be a woman forever! Mr. Saunders never treated me like an adult. When I said, “Bull crap” one time when a thorn poked my finger, he told me that little girls shouldn’t curse. He would never let me have soda to drink, only milk. And he told me to mind my Daddy and Momma, because they knew what was best for children.

I was so excited when Momma and Daddy got me a crisp white shirt for my birthday last month. It was perfect! I wasn’t allowed to play in it, but I could wear it to church with all the buttons up. I wanted to wear it everywhere. That Thursday when Mr. Saunders raped me, Momma had to go take Aunt Kay to the doctor. Instead of shorts and a top like I normally wore, I put on the crisp white shirt and my jeans with the pink swirls on the legs. I figured I’d get home before her and could change. Mr. Saunders said I looked too fancy for gardening so we had iced tea (not milk!) and cookies indoors. We must have sat there for a good hour looking at the flower notebook. When he reached up and punched me on the side of the head, I fell down quick and hard. I didn’t even know what was happening before he was on top of me. He was really heavy and I couldn’t breathe real well. I wasn’t really scared at first, just confused. Mr. Saunders swore at me, some words I didn’t even know, and told me to stay silent. At first I wanted to say, “Well, what else can I do? You’re smothering me!” But then I felt it. Something that felt like my whole insides were ripped in half. I stopped breathing then not because he was smothering me, but because it hurt so bad, I couldn’t get any air in. I started crying but remembered that he told me to stay silent, so I cried as quiet as I could. It was weird because it felt like forever but no time at all before he got off me. Mr. Saunders told me to get out. I grabbed my flower notebook and left. No one was home at my house. I went into my bedroom to change my clothes and it was then that I noticed blood on my crisp white shirt. I was so scared that Momma would come home and yell at me for wearing it somewhere other than church. I tried to scrub it out but the blood ran into the water and made more of the shirt red and in some parts, pink. I rolled it up in a ball and shoved it under the bed. Part of it was torn and hanging so I ripped that part off and put it under my mattress. When Momma came home, I tried to act all natural, just hanging out and watching television but my vagina burned like fire. I didn’t notice the blood seeping through my shorts.

“Oh Gawd!” Momma said. “Lord, she is too young to be getting her period! What are you doing to me, God?!”

When she took me into the bathroom to get me a pad and clean up, that’s when she noticed part of my vagina hanging off. I don’t mean to curse, but all hell broke loose after that. Daddy with a gun and the police and our priest and the hospital. It was pretty crazy. Francis sat in the smelly green chair and didn’t say much. All I really wanted was for it to stop hurting so bad so that Francis and me could watch a different people movie.

Everything settled down after awhile. But, like I said, Momma and Daddy acted sad and mad and I missed them cuddling me. When Francis tickled my back, it felt nice. He covered himself with the scratchy blanket and told me to snuggle with him. He pulled his penis out of his pants and showed it to me. It was pinker than the rest of him but still really pale. Like I said, it was ugly. He asked me if I wanted to find out what “stroking his opinion,” meant and pulled my hand toward it. That’s when I said, “Ew,” and he slapped me. I sat in the courtyard for a while pulling clovers from the grass and looking toward our window. I figured he’d be done soon and I could go back upstairs. All I really wanted to do was have a soda and look through my flower notebook.