March Exclusive Tale - "Choosing" - Part 1

One

Blowing Rock, North Carolina

Emma and I graduated high school yesterday. And you know the kinds of cards you get, hopefully with some cash or a gift card inside?

You’re destined for success! Nothing can stand in your way!

Keep making us proud. We know you’re just getting started!

Know without a doubt that you were made for great things!

We didn’t get those kinds of cards. We didn’t get cards at all. It wasn’t that kind of graduation. Because we grew up in Blowing Rock.

We got a commencement ceremony and none of the girls were asked to speak. Instead, we stood up on stage in pretty dresses and smiled while our teachers said things like:

You’re a perfect ray of sunshine!

Your smile lights up the room!

You’re such a good helper!

And of course:

You’re going to be such a good mommy!

A single time, Emma and I exchanged looks during the ceremony – no one else would catch what we were telling each other with our eyes – and then we looked out from the stage, smiling and being perfect, and then smiling some more as the teachers presented us with bouquets of flowers.

Thing is, it’s not so hard, standing still with your mouth shut. Not when you’ve had a lifetime of practice. Most of our classmates were happy for real; they can’t wait to get married and pregnant.

Who knows why Emma and I turned out different? Maybe the wrong parents, maybe the right ones. But even after 12 years of school indoctrination, a lifetime of Sunday School where we were taught to know our place in the world – smile, look pretty, don’t ask any questions, let the men keep you safe – Emma and I both wanted more.

We both wanted out of Blowing Rock.

Of course, that’s not one of our choices. I remember meeting with the school counselor, last year. I remember asking if there was something else I could do.

“I think, maybe, I won’t be a good mother. So, I’m thinking I should do something else. Because it wouldn’t be right to start a family if I’m not…if I don’t think it’s the right thing.”

The counselor, a heavyset man whose own smile never seemed to reach his eyes, replied, “Sounds like you’re thinking too much!” And then he laughed, so I laughed as well. But all I could feel inside was a tight knot of frustration. Anxiety. Wanting.

“They can’t just stop us leaving,” Emma said two weeks later. In my room, both of us trying on commencement dresses picked out by our mothers, both hating the puffy sleeves and shiny bows.

“Girls don’t leave,” I replied.

“Women,” corrected Emma tersely. “We’re women, now.” She fussed with her hair in the full-length mirror. “There are no armed guards blocking our way. We can just go.” She turned to me and gestured at her dress. Something sized for an adult but surely designed for a 10-year-old; there was nothing that helped show our mature bodies, nothing that celebrated our shape. “You want this for the rest of your life?”

I shook my head.

“You want to find a nice boy and settle down?” she asked sarcastically. She knew full well the idea made me wake up in a cold sweat most nights.

“So, let’s go.” Emma took my hand. Gripped it. “Right after Commencement. We take those diplomas and we’re history.” She flutters a wave at the pink bedspread.

I shrugged. Of course, I wanted to go! Away from my crazy parents, this town and its crazy ideas. We’re the only ones who hadn’t fallen under its spell.

“I know there aren’t any armed guards,” I said, “But how exactly do we leave?”

Eighteen years old, we should have our drivers license, we should have a debit card. But we have neither.

I mention that, because you’re probably thinking, Grow a pair. Get in the car and drive.

But I didn’t know how. It’s been 18 years of being told all the things I didn’t like:

Stinky, dangerous cars

Boring, complicated jobs

Being naughty with our bodies

And all the things I was told to love:

Dresses and looking pretty

Looking after children

Jesus

When you’re told these things again and again, I guess you either end up believing it, or you go a little bit crazy. As it was, I had no confidence that I could drive a car, even if my parents had let me have one. Stinky, dangerous cars. Driving makes you sweat. Driving creases your dress.

I groaned. “We’re stuck here.” I stepped to my bedroom window, looked down into the street.

Emma joined me and pointed. “Look,” she said. There was two women walking down Chestnut Drive, holding ice cream cones. Both wearing outfits even more childish than our own. Dressed like toddlers and acting like them. There was another woman dressed in regular clothes. She was their shepherd.

I peered at them, could see ice-cream on their chins, could hear their gleeful babbling.

“Look,” said Emma again.

“I see them. So what? They’re special.”

Emma sniffed. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.”

I frowned. “It’s what we call them.”

Because we were kind. Because it wasn’t their fault. And it wasn’t that those women were broken, but rather that God had chosen them to be completely innocent, without a scrap of malice in their hearts.

“Yeah,” said Emma sarcastically. “And why are there so many ‘special’ women in Blowing Rock?”

I watched the women reach the end of the sidewalk and take the other woman’s hand before crossing the street. They seemed to do it automatically. I turned to Emma. “Because of the school, of course. It’s number one in the country.”

Emma shook her head at me. “Says who?”

“Says everyone,” I replied. I felt defensive. “You sound mad.”

My best friend laughed. “I am!” She poked a finger at me. “You should be too. Mad enough to find a way out.” Her expression softened. “We’re not helpless.” She looks towards my bedroom door and adds in a whisper, “No matter what they say, we’re not helpless.” She nods at me. “We’re not like the special girls, Cassie, we’re adult women. And if we’re serious about leaving, serious about having choices, then we’ll find a way to leave.”

Now, I look back at the look in her eyes. Determined. Focused. Standing in her dress with the puffy sleeves and shiny bow. And I knew it was true. We were adults, we were to have adult choices, and we were meant for something real. Something…not here.

And so, I made up my mind, right there and then. We would leave. Steal a car if we had to. Steal some money, at least, and a phone. We would get away.

But we didn’t.

And it’s too late.

So, now I have to choose.

To be continued...