Under the Light - By Laura Whitcomb Page 0,2

Words of protest stuck in my throat like clay.

“You can listen to appropriate music in the front room or the family room,” he said as he dropped my player in the trash bag, the wires of my earplugs flipping over the rim like spaghetti. “Not alone in your room.”

Where I dance naked? I wanted to ask, but I was weak and silent.

He looked at my tiny collection of CDs. Our house was a couple decades behind, when it came to electronics. My father said they were Satan’s playthings. The smaller, the more suspicious. So here was my only store of music. And he took everything—the ballet that helped me fall asleep, the Celtic dance music that got me going in the morning, the soundtrack that cheered me up when I closed my eyes and lay under my covers. The beautiful cases clattered into the swelling bag in my father’s hand. All my favorite things were being swallowed up.

In my bathroom, he opened the cabinet and started to pick up my mascara.

“She needs to be presentable.” My mother finally spoke up.

“She’s fifteen. She should not be trying to attract men.”

“She can’t wear coveralls and wash her hair with a bar of soap,” she said, and he must have believed her because he left my toiletries alone.

Again, he did not invite us to follow, but we did. He walked out of the bathroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, into the garage, and up to the garbage can. He lifted the lid, paused to tie a knot in the top of the bag, and gently lowered it into the can, letting the lid fall closed.

The product of my self-expression was not good enough for the Salvation Army. I was already scheming how to get my music back and hide it at school, but the game wasn’t over yet.

“Follow me.” He was ordering a dog to come. My mother and I sat down obediently in the Prayer Corner.

The spine of the diary crackled as he ripped out a handful of pages and thrust them in front of my face. “Read.” When I just stared at the papers he shook them under my nose. “Take them and read.”

The pages looked wounded, jagged paper teeth dangling from the left side. The writing at the top of the page started in midsentence so I began with the next paragraph. “I don’t know, but I don’t think God did that. Not the God I believe in. Could we really worship different Gods?”

My father reached down and tore the page from my grip, jabbed his finger at the next page down. I read out loud from the first line: “. . . dreamed I was walking down a staircase at school and a guy who looked like a guy from that movie we saw in history class walked right up to me and put his hand under my blouse . . .” I hesitated. I remembered the dream, but I couldn’t remember how many details I’d written down.

“Go on.” My father took his seat now, ready to be entertained. My mother sat with arms folded, legs folded, the foot that wasn’t on the floor vibrating as if she were wired to a socket. My vision blurred for a moment—my ears were ringing. I couldn’t look at my mother. Something bothered me about the way her foot suddenly stopped shaking.

That was the last thing I remember before I found myself far away: my mother’s shoe freezing in midair.

The world disappeared.

I wasn’t in the Prayer Corner anymore. I was sitting on something slanted—birds were chattering away. The shadow of a tree crossed over me . . . no, through me. Sunshine and little shadows moved in the breeze. I was sitting on the roof of a house, but not mine. Our roof was flat and covered with white painted gravel—I’d been up there to save a kite once. This roof was covered with brown shingles, the wood all dried out and warped. I recognized our street below. I’d landed two doors down from my house.

Stupidly, the first thing I did when I was free of my life was to fly back to it. When I left the neighbor’s roof, I didn’t climb down like a human. I floated down like a bird.

I’m dead! I thought. I was as light as smoke. I was sure I must be a ghost. The idea that I might have had a brain aneurysm right in the middle of the Prayer Corner panicked me—I rushed