In September, a school bus stopped in front of the house and took us to Albion Primary and Secondary schools. The driver was thick-featured and rarely moved from his cushioned perch, except on holidays, when he handed out treats from a plain brown bag—candy canes at Christmas, red wax lips on Halloween.
One day after leaving the bus, my oldest sister cried. While the rest of us bawled as needed, Lisa was more stone than girl, her face never crumpling to tears. I kept my eyes on her, and followed close. As we watched for cars and crossed the road to the house, I asked why. She walked away. Fast. Her face was hard and wet.
“Why are you crying?”
“The kids were picking on us,” she said, and pushed away. Lisa was mean, but my curiosity about what had broken her was bigger than my fear, so I followed.
“Why would they pick on us?” I asked. Why? Why? Why?
“Why do you think?” She lashed out like a whip of salted ocean spit. “Our house is ugly, our clothes are shit—they hate us because we’re poor!” She let it all out in one angry sob, then ran into the house.
Before that day, I’d been sent home with boxes of donated clothes from a teacher in the primary school a few times. I had always felt happy with my oversized loads, feeling proud to have been trusted with a special cargo. But after Lisa’s crying, I refused the boxes; I lied, made excuses.
I once opened one of those boxes. Back before my sister cried. Back when I still took them. During a slow ride on the school bus, I broke through a wide strip of tape and pushed my fingers into a small pot of solid perfume. I oiled my finger, rubbed the scent of jasmine blossoms onto my wrist and felt pretty.