Page 11 of Tainted Love

Sascha - Age 11, 1981

Restlessness and boredom gnaw at me, making it hard to focus. My parents say it’s because I’m approaching my teenage years, hormones wreaking havoc on my emotions. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. The same boring routine day after day has grown tiresome. It’s like living in a never-ending loop.

Everything feels mundane, especially at school, where I used to find solace and excitement. I sit at the same lunch table with the same people, eating the same boring lunches while they chatter about the same people behind their backs.

I’m an outsider most of the time. I’m sure if I were to get up to use the bathroom, my so-called friends would take the opportunity to make fun of my clothes, hair, or lack of makeup. We may spend our time together at school, but our relationships are shallow and surface-level.

I haven’t had a best friend in a very long time. Not since kindergarten.

The start of middle school looms on the horizon. The thought of a new environment, filled with new faces and adventures, excites me.

Next to our table, a group of rowdy boys grab our attention with their loud antics. I guess this is how they flirt. It’s sad, but my friends eat it up while I bite my tongue. These are the type of boys who think snapping girls’ bra straps or grabbing their butts is funny and harmless. If one of them so much as tries it with me, it’s not going to be as funny.

My dad has always told me I have a finely tuned bullshit meter. “I feel sorry for anyone trying to pull one over on you, Sascha Bell,” he says. And he’s right. I can’t stand dishonesty or deception in any form. Growing up in a household that fosters kids, I’ve seen firsthand the struggles people face and what truly matters in life. Lies lead you down a dangerous path.

Maybe that’s why I don’t care about the same things my friends do. Shopping is fun, but it’s not like the mall is a magical wonderland or anything. My true passions lie in playing my flute, sketching in my art book, and getting lost in a good book. But since my friends are the only people I’ve always known, I go along with their interests, even if they aren’t mine.

As I glance around, my gaze falls upon a girl with a face full of acne. She sits alone, her nose in a book, her hopes and dreams unimportant to everyone else. But as I study her, I can’t help but wonder what hidden talents or interests she possesses. Maybe she’s a gifted poet, crafting beautiful words in secret? Or maybe she’s a chess master, strategizing and outwitting opponents silently? A sense of intrigue and empathy washes over me as I imagine all the possibilities waiting to be discovered if only someone took the time to get to know her.

I’m absent-mindedly jabbing at my sandwich with a straw from my Capri Sun; thoughts of the future swirl through my mind. It may be time for a change. Maybe I’ll reach out to new people and try to expand my social circle.

A sudden surge of frustration rises as I look down at my wavy brown hair. It’s the same style I’ve had since elementary school. My bangs are always teased back, and I wear my hair half up and half down in a scrunchie of varying colors, just like everyone else’s. Even my leggings, skirts, and jeans blend in with the crowd. It’s time for a reinvention, a chance to stand out. After all, what do I have to lose? I think I know just the person who can help.

Arriving home after school, I say hello to Mom and then make my way up the creaky stairs, each step echoing through the old house. My heart beats faster with nervous anticipation as I approach the closed door of the spare bedroom.

Lydia has been living with us for about two months. She’s a teenage girl on the brink of aging out of the system, having spent her entire life in and out of foster care due to her parents’ drug addictions. Despite her difficult past, she’s determined to succeed and support her younger siblings. She works at a local burger joint full-time and is getting ready to take her GED to earn her high school diploma.

I’ve only overheard snippets of her story from my parents. Lydia and I haven’t spoken much, but today, I feel bold and curious. With a deep breath, I rap on her door three times.

A medley of steady drum beats and pulsing bass guitar seep through the door, accompanied by a wistful melody that tugs at my heartstrings. This isn’t David Bowie or punk music like I’ve heard from Lydia before. It’s something new and intriguing. As I wait for a response, I can feel the music drawing me closer to the door.

After a few moments, the music fades to a lower volume, and Lydia appears at the door. Her dark hair falls in front of her face, partially masking her expression. “Was the music too loud?” she asks hesitantly.

“No, not at all,” I tell her. My voice is shaky, betraying my nerves. “I was, uh, wondering if I could talk to you?”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows raise into a curious expression. She steps out of the way, allowing me to enter her room.

As I step inside, I take a moment to look around. It’s always an interesting glimpse into the person who temporarily inhabits the space. The room never fails to surprise me with its transformation for each new tenant. The white walls remain the same, as do the baby blue bedspread and small chest of drawers. But it feels different depending on who is there. It’s as if the room itself adopts another personality.

I remember when Bobby lived here, he had boxing posters plastered on the walls and a stack of VHS tapes featuring his favorite matches. Chrissy was obsessed with Looney Tunes, and her Bugs Bunny stuffed animal never left her side.

But Lydia has transformed the room into something almost mystical. She draped a thin black fabric over the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows around the room. The air feels heavy with romance and intrigue. There are no posters taped to the walls or toys to be found, but instead, she has laid out albums on the bed and dresser, creating an intimate atmosphere. As I take in all of these details, I can’t help but feel drawn to Lydia’s personality and taste.

She lets me take in the room and satisfy my curiosity before speaking. “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asks.

“I really like the music you’re listening to,” I respond. Lame.

Lydia smiles before walking over to the night table and grabbing an album cover. She hands it to me, and I study it. It’s a white album with a drawing of a bear next to some sort of alien and a terrifying-looking man in a hat. In the right-hand corner is the band’s name. “Bauhaus,” I say, reading the band’s name. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’ve been around for a couple of years,” Lydia replies. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” I reply enthusiastically. “It’s different.”

She nods, a slight smile on her lips. “I appreciate it for those moments when I can just exist in my own thoughts.” Something about that simple sentence speaks to my soul.

I'm struck by Lydia’s unique style and unapologetic confidence. She exudes an air of nonchalance as if she couldn’t care less about societal expectations. It’s so refreshing.

Her jet-black hair falls effortlessly around her face, framing her intense brown eyes that she accentuates with bold, heavy eyeliner. In contrast to the vibrant neon colors that are all the rage, Lydia opts to wear darker colors, more evidence of her choice to opt for the rejection of conformity.