ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former teacher of writing and literature, WAYNE SCHEER has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. He lives in Atlanta with his wife.
Prairie Flower
By Wayne Scheer
When I was six, I wanted to be like Mama and smoke cigarettes. Instead, I ended up setting the living room curtains on fire. The flames jumped to my hair and I had third and fourth degree burns over my face and body.
For the first couple of days in the hospital, it hurt so much I thought I would die. After that, it hurt so bad I wanted to die, especially when it started to blister. It felt like millions of fire ants stinging my flesh at the same time. Then came the worst part—the scars.
One eye is partly closed and the corner of my upper lip looks like I’m always snarling. Also, a brownish-red scar extends from my chest to my stomach. The first time I saw myself in the mirror, I screamed. Just one loud, horror movie scream.
This one nurse used to say, “It don’t matter how you look on the outside, sweetie. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
“Bullshit,” I said. I don’t know if she was more shocked that I contradicted her or that, at six, I knew a word like that.
My mother said, “When you get older, we’ll go to a doctor in Phoenix and get your face fixed. But God’s gonna love you just the same.”
I knew she was lying about the doctor and probably about God because I pretended to be asleep when old Dr. Flynn told her how much plastic surgery would cost. “Pray with her,” he said.
I remember praying to God, begging Him to just straighten my lip or open my eye. Whenever I saw my reflection, I knew my prayers were as empty as the words of people telling me how pretty I looked.
As time passed, I grew tired of being alone so much. I began playing with some of the girls I used to play with before the fire. I think playing with the freak was their way of being “good Christians”. But sometimes it wasn’t so bad, and we played with our dolls or giggled about boys. I tried desperately to convince myself I was just like them.
I remember the time Rita Robinson told me I had pretty hair—the one thing that made me feel normal. Dark and wavy, my hair hung down to the middle of my back.
“Can I brush it?”
“Sure,” I told her.
She brushed it back a few times and then pushed it to the side, trying to cover my bad eye. I grabbed the brush from her and hit her in the face with it.
She cried. “I only wanted to help you look normal, scarface.”
I knew they called me scarface behind my back, but no one had ever said it to my face before. She ran out of the room and I ran after her shouting, “How’d you like it if I called you fatbutt?”
The funny part was Rita was so skinny, I doubt she even had an ass.
Eventually, small breasts emerged from my scarred flesh and I’d stand in front of the mirror, naked, wondering if boys would like them. I was amazed how pink my nipples looked against the dark red scars. Once, I overheard mama say to a friend of hers, “You give a man some tit and he’s your friend for life.” Those words meant more to me than anything the preacher or my teachers had ever told me.
But I should have known better than to listen to my mother when it came to men. None of her male friends stuck around much, including my father. He did a disappearing act the day he found out I was growing in mama’s belly. Imagine how fast he would have run if he had known how I’d turn out?
There was this one boy, Eric Williams. He was fat and wore braces on his teeth. Sometimes, he’d walk me home after school, and tell me how the kids made fun of him.
“I know all about that,” I said.
He was shy and didn’t have many friends. To me, that made him perfect.
One day after school, I suggested we go to the abandoned car behind the old Potter Building on the edge of town. The car was notorious among the teenagers of our town. It was called the “cherry picker,” and even those of us who only guessed at what that meant, laughed knowingly whenever someone talked about it.
Eric took my hand, and I thought this must be what normal is like.
When we crawled into the back seat, and sprawled out on the dirty, ripped upholstery, he put his arm out and I put my head on his shoulder. We talked some and then we kissed. Although his braces rubbed the inside of my lips raw, I liked how moist and warm his lips felt. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to move around or do something with my tongue. My teeth tapped his braces, and I kept thinking: this can’t be right. But it still felt good—like I was growing up and everything was going to be all right.
Then I felt his hand touch the top of my shirt. That was my cue.
I was wearing a padded bra. This embarrassed me more than showing him my breasts and the pretty nipples I was so proud of. I made him turn his head while I took off my shirt and unsnapped my bra.
“You can turn around now,” I said, certain that he was going to see me as beautiful and want to marry me on the spot. Instead, I saw the same look in his eyes I’d seen most of my life. He tightened his lips and turned away like he was going to throw up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it was just your face.”
I got back into my clothes and ran home so fast I didn’t have time to cry, at least until I got home.
Published July 2007