The Last Rites

I remember the day that The Changing began. It came as a shock even though I had been warned of its arrival since I was ten. Long conversations with ambiguous terms hinted at the approach of womanhood and the many responsibilities that accompanied it. There were endless TV commercials, forbidden aisles of grocery stores, and the cabinet beneath Mom’s sink which was off limits to little girls, which I am. Or which I was. There were also the times wherein Mom’s momfriends would watch me tug on her arm with all my might during an overly-long conversation or when I would show her the newest in a series of strange creatures that I had scraped up from the underside of the porch. They would roll their eyes and smirk knowingly at my Mom, “Just give it a few years. You’re going to miss this phase…”All of this gave me strange clues as to the metamorphosis that trailed me for years like a hungry dog. But no one warned me about the antennas.

When I woke up the day The Changing began, I had a distinct ache starting at the top of my skull and radiating outwards. My fingers wove through my scalp, discovering two knots seated above my ears, tiny volcanoes of heat and soreness. I thought I had bumped my head and Mom caught me prodding the lumps in the bathroom mirror, using a flashlight to determine the origin and consistency of these alien growths. But she only smiled knowingly and somewhat sadly. She grasped my shoulders and smiled at our reflection, “You’re becoming a woman.” The rest of the day, I took an ice pack to these growths and tried on a myriad of hats, headbands, and hoodies to try to obscure these unwelcome polyps. No luck. By the next morning, the inflamed skin had split and given way to two coiled bundles that unfurled weakly from their spot on my head. There was not much blood but when I looked in the mirror, I was disappointed by the limp black antennas that trailed meekly from their openings. Mom reassured me that everything would even out given time, but it was poor comfort given that tomorrow was Monday.

Monday, a school day. I tried desperately to cover my antennas with a beanie pulled down to my ears, except this was a balmy May and though the left coil had gained rigidity and remained upright, the right one still wilted awkwardly to the side. In the end, it did not matter. The second I arrived at school, Mr. Sutherland told me that hats were not permitted. When he saw my antennas spring forth from under the dislodged beanie, he stared at them for a moment before the color crept its way into his normally sallow cheeks. He muttered something about not being late to class and scurried away. As I walked to my homeroom, I thought about ripping out these prongs, excising them from their pores like ingrown hairs. I felt decidedly self-conscious and Mr. Sutherland’s strange reaction left me with a vague tinge of shame. Homeroom did nothing to rid me of this. Upon seeing my lopsided growths, the girls fell to giggles and excited whispers while the boys did nothing to hide their ridicule. At first, they only snorted loudly every time I tried to smooth down my antennas to blend in with my hair. Eventually, they became bolder and began to throw marker caps and eraser chunks at the one standing coil. Extra points if it lodged in my hair after meeting its mark, as evidenced by spasms of snickering behind me. Finally, Ms. Jensen dismissed the class early, having grown irritated by the attention that my new developments engaged in the classroom. One of the boys pinched the standing antenna as he left and she pretended not to have seen. Afterwards, after they all left, she pursed her lips in an attempt at a tolerant smile and crouched next to me. Ms. Jensen explained that some girls developed earlier than others, and that these changes may attract new attention from boys but that this should not disrupt classroom time. Although she told me all this with an indulgent smile, I felt guilty again. At the end of her speech, she gripped me by both shoulders and declared, “This is not your fault, you know.” Her sudden intensity scared me and I did not understand how it could be. But I still wondered what I had done to deserve all this and made some excuse to leave while the blush still smoldered on my cheeks.

Days passed like pills swallowed down a dry throat. I largely floated through the weeks in a haze, punctuated by painful moments of clarity and shame. The teachers, mostly the male ones, stopped looking me in the eye. They stared painfully through me or else focused on something slightly to the left or right of my ear. The boys largely grew tired of their games when they realized I did not respond to their pinches or crude remarks. The ridiculous tittering of my female classmates had gradually given way to curiosity and they began to ask me questions about The Changing. Did it hurt? Was there a lot of blood? Had I noticed any other changes? They regarded me as something of an oracle now, the “chosen one” who first walked the path that now loomed before them. Distantly, I began to hope that this awkward nightmare would fade meekly into the past or be eclipsed by the newest folly of another hapless classmate.

My dreams of obscurity shattered a few mornings later when I woke in a small ringlet of blood. In horror, I peeled myself from the sodden sheets that clung to the skin of my back, which felt as though it had been beaten with an aluminum bat. Pain radiated dully from my shoulders blades down my lower back. Again, I made my way to the bathroom with the feeling of stupefied dread. Something clung thinly to my back like a wet tissue and smelled heavily of iron. Beyond my horrified eyes reflected back in the mirror, tissue-thin wings clung in a sodden mass to my back. I pinched the furthest corner of one wing and extended it slowly until my arms stood fully outstretched. The velvet gray patches stained red unfurled like a weather-beaten kite and I had just enough time to glance over them in disgust before vomiting fiercely into the sink. The sound of my retching brought my mother scrambling to the bathroom and I pleaded to stay home even as spittle still dangled from my lips. She only looked sad again and told me that I would still have to get it over with at some point. For the first time since The Changing began, I wept helplessly, even as she helped me into the bathtub and gently scrubbed the filth from my wings. I let my head sink between my knees as the warm water trickled down my sore back, almost low enough to touch the pink water. I sobbed quietly yet vigorously and let my tears drop directly from my eyes to the gentle surface below. This time, Mom offered no solace as to these violent rites of womanhood.

School days grew worse again. Any strides I had made with my peers were now eclipsed by my newest evolution. Whereas antennas were viewed with a certain amount of bemused fascination, my wings meant social excommunication. By this time, some of the other girls complained of painful tufts above their ears or even fully sprouted antennae, but none had wings. At first, I did my best to hide them again. I sported oversized clothing with thick fabric, ceaselessly running a finger along my shoulder to trace the outline of the wing stiffly folded beneath. I obsessed constantly as to whether my classmates could tell that I harbored great moth-like appendages. Then the day came that they were too large to conceal. Mom helped me cut holes in the back of my favorite t-shirts and assured me that everyone goes through it at some point.

But the teasing went on for quite a while. The teachers would now refuse to look up from their desk altogether when I approached them. The girls began chattering behind closed hands and made a game of running away when I tried to greet them. Yet my new developments inspired a violent streak in the boys. Where before they seemed almost wary of directly touching my antennas, my wings seemed to demand acts of brutality. They twisted, groped, pinched, pulled, and ripped at the fragile tissue. Entranced by the sinewy pattern of grey and black, they would tear at the wings with all their might, desperate to break off a piece to show to the others. I could never understand why my pained shrieks only seemed to excite them.

Finally, school ended for the year and I was released into the comfortable solitude of my own home. I welcomed it as even my regular excursions to the grocery store or around the neighborhood attracted odd searching glances from the grown men that I had never noticed before. Their gazes drank in my body from head to toe and made me reflect on Ms. Jensen’s words. I wondered if this was my fault, too.

Finally, I stopped going out at all except to go to the local park. The walk was often devoid of others and the warm breeze fluttered pleasantly off the ends of my wings. I liked to sit on the swings and flap my wings softly to propel its gentle rocking motion. There was one such afternoon in which the splendor of summer was on full display. The heat of the midday sun had sunken enough for long shadows to stretch across the overgrown grass, active with the buzz of pollinators. I watched their wings, indistinguishable blurs against the lawn and wondered if mine would ever serve such a purpose. My melancholic thoughts were interrupted by the chatter of a young girl approaching hand-in-hand with her mother. She was not much younger than I but she wore the wide-toothed grin of a life free from burden. I watched her eyes appraise the playground’s offerings before they settled on me, startling me out of my daydreams. The thought of being perceived at all electrified me with fear. The girl furrowed her eyebrows, squinting at something behind my shoulder and I reflexively clenched my wings behind my back. She turned her questioning eyes to her mother, who saw me as well, and asked a question while pointing at me. Her mother smiled reassuringly and shook her head at the girl. The only snippet I heard above the rattle of the late afternoon cicadas was, “No, not for a long time…”

A sourness had started to bubble in my stomach and pinpricks of angry energy spider-walked up by arms as I understood their conversation. Unknowingly, my eyes had been scanning the girl’s smooth scalp for any hints of those alien growths. Finding nothing, I realized with piercing lucidity that I hated her, too.