The Story of Tinkerbell

Tinkerbell Graduates

Trigger warning: graphic physical and emotional abuse.

August, 1991

I sat in the backseat of the car, my heart scrabbling at my ribcage like a frightened rat. "I don't want him to move back in."

"Oh lordy," my mom said, flicking an ash out the window.

"Mom—"

"He has nowhere to go," she said. "Stop being a selfish little..." She muffled the last word by taking a drag of her cigarette.

Robbie's girlfriend had broken up with him, which gave me fierce satisfaction, but the thought of him moving back in made me feel like I'd been pounded flat into the earth with a giant hammer. "I won't live in the same house with him. I won't."

"It's not up to you," my dad said. He didn't know about the abortion. Mom had made me promise never to tell him—it was scary to think what he'd do, and what he'd think about me if he knew.

"It was your idea to take him in," Mom said. "We have an obligation to see this through and help him graduate. He's been dealt a pretty shitty hand in life. I know what it's like to have a fuckhead mom who smacks you around. If you had any idea what that's like, Grace, you wouldn't act like this."

I could see my dad's lips tighten in the rearview. "He's moving back in at the end of the summer." He drew a sharp line with his hands, signifying the end of the conversation, then quickly grabbed the wheel again before the car veered off the road.

***

A few days later, I told my parents I was staying with a friend and ran off to Seattle with a girl I'd met at a party I'd gone to with Patrick. We spent a couple days panhandling and sleeping on friends' couches, then hooked up with a van full of old hippies outside a Dead concert.

The day after the show, we headed for California. We hadn't even made it to Tacoma when the bus broke down.

We camped out in the parking lot of a Taco Bell. Two of the guys stood on the warped bumper with a chest full of rusty tools, knocking around in the giant engine. I sat against the wall of the restaurant by the Dumpsters with my friend and an old dude named Bob.

There was a shout over by the bus, and we all stood up to see what was happening.

One of the guys that had been fixing the bus was sprawled on the pavement, gasping and clutching his chest. The other mechanic knelt at his side, talking him through it and pounding on his sternum. I stared at the guy twitching and writing, frothing at the mouth, then ran for the payphone across the street. I was dialing 911 when one Bob ran over and snatched the phone from my hand.

He slammed it back in its cradle. "No, Gracie. No cops."

"Why?"

He rolled his eyes and tugged at his long, grizzled beard. "Because, girl. No cops."

I clutched my elbows, tears running down my face. I wasn't even sure why I was crying, except that I was exhausted from lack of food, sleep or a shower, and it was hard to process the fucked-upness of a world where it could ever be better to not call 911 when someone was sick.

Bob put his arms around me. He smelled like whiskey, unwashed clothing, and sandalwood oil. His whiskers scratched my face as he kissed my head. "Don't cry little girl."

I shook in his arms, unable to say anything. He stroked my back, and his hands slowly slid down to grab my ass.

I squirmed, and hated myself for not slapping him or telling him no. But it was so hard to tell anyone no; I was so gross that I should feel lucky to get felt up by some hobo in a Taco Bell parking lot.