I had never felt more hated than I did at that moment. I was appalled, overly shocked. Betty threw that sparkly jacket of doom straight into my face, and my jaw dropped. Which nobody saw, because it was covered by the glittery fabric.
I almost started crying then and there, but I knew I couldn’t. I bit my tongue and closed my eyes while I my nails and dug them into my forearms, my nervous habit. It didn’t hurt, but the pinch made me feel slightly uncomfortable on the inside that helped even out the feeling in my head. It’s like what cutters do, in a way. I guess that’s not a fair comparison.
A hand was placed on my shoulder as someone took the jacket off my face. Dorothea’s gentle voice asked “Are you okay?” Piper had the jacket in her hand by her side, with a concerned look on her face.
I wasn’t sad, per say, but the rush of emotions made water well up in my eyes. “No,” I told her.
Dorothea grabbed my hand, Piper handed that fucking jacket to some dude, and they led me to the bathroom. And all three of us sat on the bathroom floor, just sitting there.
“She’s a bitch for that,” Piper said, breaking the silence. I let out a small laugh. Dorothea smiled and nodded her head.
“Yeah,” Dorothea agreed.
I sighed. “I think I’m just gonna go home. I think my grandma’s still up, I can talk to her,” I told them.
“Are you sure?” Dorothea asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. And I don’t wanna third wheel you guys anymore,” I replied. Piper and Dorothea glanced at each other.
“We didn't mean for you to feel like you were third wheeling us, but if you’re sure that you wanna leave, that’s okay,'' Piper said.
“No, it’s fine, I promise. I’ll be okay. I’m tired, anyway,” I assured them.
“Okay then. Tell Miss Marjorie I said hi,” Dorothea told me.
“I will,” I said, getting up and walking out of the bathroom.
I checked out at the front door of the school and I went out to my car and drove home.
I pulled into our front driveway, where my dad’s car was missing. He was probably still at work or with his mistress. Well, my mom died, but the woman that he’s hooking up with is married, so I guess he’s the mistress. In a way.
I unlocked the front door and my grandma was sitting at the counter in her nightgown reading a book.
“Why, hello dear, you’re home early,” she said.
“Yeah, it kinda sucked,” I said, sitting down next to her.
My grandma tucked her bookmark that read ‘the bolter’ in her book before she closed it.
“What’s wrong honey? Did a boy do something to you? Did he touch you without permission? Because if he did, don’t be afraid to tell me, I’ll drive down to that school right now and beat him with my rolling pin,” she warned.
I help back a laugh. “No, I promise, it’s okay. I just wasn’t having fun, so I came home,” I told her.
She shrugged.
“Hey grandma, why do your friends call you the bolter?” I asked her after a brief moment of silence.
She sighed. “That’s a story. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” she replied.
I nodded. “I’m ready,” I told her.
“Well, when I was six years old, I fell through the ice into frigid waters in a lake I had in my backyard as a child. I almost drowned, until my father, God rest his soul, jumped in and saved me. And I remember the pain I felt in my chest from that freezing Vermont January to this day. So anytime I felt something remotely close to that, I ran.
“Back in my day, girls didn’t play sports the way y’all do now. But I ran track on the boys team at the high school, starting when I was 12 years old. I was still in junior high then, and it made me very unpopular. Especially because I was a lot better than most of the boys on the team.
“I still had a few close friends, who were girls. A lot of my peers made fun of me for any reason at all. The most common reason was because I was open about the fact that my lovely father was my best friend. I was always with him, talking about anything and everything. And my poor mother died during childbirth. I was gonna have a baby brother. That precious baby didn’t even get to see this world,” she told me.
“That’s terrible,” I whispered.
“Yes, it was, my dear. And those friends I had, they weren’t the nicest people. I later learned that they would make fun of me and say things behind my back. And it got even worse when I started going out with my first boyfriend. His name was Mark, and boy, was he a cutie. I was sixteen at the time, and he was eighteen. And man, if we had been older, I would have married him. At least, I thought that at the time.
“The first time I kissed him, we were hanging out with a few of my friends and their boyfriends, and I was pressured into kissing him by my friends. Before Mark, I had never kissed a boy or had a boyfriend or talked to a boy, really, any of that. And my friends would tease me for that. One of my friends, that stupid Mary, had told me that I was super behind because her and her boyfriend had had sex recently, and that Mark wanted that so I needed to hurry up.
“Needless to say, I was horrified and scared. I’m a good Catholic woman, I always have been, and I never looked at Mary the same time after that. I strongly believed that having intimacy before marriage was an offensable sin, and I was not ready to do that with Mark, or anybody anytime soon. So a few days after we kissed for the first time, I biked over to his house and I broke up with him. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him anymore, and that my daddy didn’t like him. Which I shouldn’t have said. Mark called me a whore and I slammed the door in his face. But when I left, it felt like I could actually breathe,” my grandma told me.
I shook my head.
“My friends didn’t like that at all. They nicknamed me ‘The Bolter’, saying I ran away from anything that was good to me. So I dropped out of high school, and my daddy moved us to this little town in Rhode Island. It was a good life, fairly simple. I worked for a few hours each day at the convenient store with my daddy, having fun and making some friends. Going out dancin’ on Friday nights, normal things for a young, pretty girl. Then one night while I was out with my girlfriends, I met Georgie,” she continued.
“That’s my grandpa,” I said.
“Yes it is, sweet girl. I was starstruck by Georgie, and he was in love with me, too. One weekend, we went to New York City and went in those little rowboats in Central Park Lake. We had been going out for two or three years at that point, and he proposed to me. I, of course, said yes, and we got married a few months later. A few girls that I used to go out dancing with were my bridesmaids. And nobody else but my dear daddy officiated the wedding. A year after the wedding, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy that we named William, after my daddy. Then we moved out to New York City. Then things took a turn for the worst.
“My daddy got sick unexpectedly and passed away in his sleep. I have never felt that much pain in my life. He was truly my best friend, and to this day I still feel pain and sadness when I think about the fact that we can’t be together right now. I know that I’ll see him again, and it will all be worth the wait. But Georgie, he couldn’t understand why I was so upset all the time after my daddy passed. He didn’t try to understand. And then we started fighting. All the time, we fought, and my poor baby had to hear it all. He loved us so much, and my small son had to hear us scream at each other constantly.
“And the pain was building up in my chest. The pain from when I fell through the ice all those years ago, it was back. And I knew my marriage was over. I had failed. So what did I do?” she said.
“You left,” I replied.
“Yes, I left. I took advantage of my nickname I’d been given by those cruel girls, and I bolted. In the middle of the night when Georgie was away on business, I packed my things, I took William and I left the city on a train, back to my daddy’s house on Watch Hill in Rhode Island. Again, it felt like breathing. And my little baby, only 10 years old, never asked where his daddy was or why we left the city. Deep down, I think he understood. And this is where we’ve been, this same house for the last 30 years. I’ve seen my dear baby boy get married here, you were born here, so many great memories in this house. And one day, my dear Augustine, this is gonna be your house. This house is in my will, and I’m leaving it to you. Your parents named you after my mother, Augustine Clara, and even if I’m not here no more, you better not ever sell this house. You keep it in the family for as long as you can, and tell them the exact same story I just shared with you. Got it?” my grandma said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I assured her.
She smiled. “Good. So I took the advantage of the nickname, I love being the Bolter now. Have you ever noticed how your daddy calls me ‘Bolt’ sometimes? That’s why. Now you know,” she said.
I smiled back at my dear grandma. “Now I know,” I said.
She kissed me on the cheek. “Good night, honey, I’m going to bed. Sleep tight, and don’t forget to pray before bed, dear,” she told me.
“I won’t. Love you, grandma. Thank you for the story,” I said.
“Oh, I got plenty more. Just ask me sometime and I’ll tell you another one. I love you more, sweet dreams child,” she said, winking at me as she went up the stairs to her room.
I always knew my grandmother was a remarkable woman. I feel connected to her on a whole new level now.
So, I did as she told me. I took off all my makeup and put on a t-shirt and pajama pants and I prayed before I got into bed.
And then I got out my notebook, and wrote a song, titled ‘The Bolter’, after my amazing grandma, Marjorie Park.
ns 15.158.61.55da2
