I'm From Egypt

A knock tore Bastet from reading her beloved Marvels comics. She rolled her eyes and wheeled her desk chair away from the prized possession, calling “Come in!”                 

“I would like to discuss your antisocial behavior at school.” Bastet’s mother invited herself into her bedroom and swung it closed. Going around to her sky blue comforter and plopping down, she playfully swung Bastet’s chair so Bastet—and her downcast eyes and clasped hands—faced her.     

“Honey—I’m really concerned about your disinterest in making friends.” She pushed a strand of straightened orange hair out of her face. “Dance. Sing. Act on the stage. Those comic books are consuming your life!”                                            

“Mom!” Bastet jumped off her black leather chair and widened her eyes. “I can’t just ditch them! They are my life!”

“I’m merely wondering why you spend your lunch hour reading instead of inviting the girls over for a sleepover, or,” her mother shrugged, “I don’t know—go down the Slip-N-Slide during the summer. You have so many options—”

“But they’re boring!” Bastet grumbled, throwing herself back into it. “I don’t want to swim. I don’t want to ice skate. Mandy and Paula both do those things—and attend each other’s events. I don’t fit in with those girls.”   

“Just invite them for a movie or an outing with ice cream. I don’t see what’s so hard.”

“Mo-om!” Bastet whipped out a hand and grabbed the whole book, waving it in the air. “Why can’t we have fun together by reading my comic books? They can share my passions, too!” Bastet creased her forehead and tilted her head, hoping her mother would see her point. But no go.

“Bastet.” Her mother sighed and folded her hands. “Maybe it’s time for you to at least try. I received a call from your homeroom teacher—you refused to sit with the girls yesterday during a gym assembly.” She stood up and slapped her hands on her hips. “I just would like to see you at least try!”

“Kevin, Morgan and Salamander all—”

“Salamander?” Her mother cocked her head and stared at Bastet. “Bastet, who is Salamander?”

“Oh,” Bastet shrugged, dropping it onto the desk, “Just someone at school.”

Her mother scrunched her forehead even more, staring at her harder.

“What?” Bastet threw her hands up. “I just know that that’s her nickname. She’s Ms. Cool. Besides,” she reasoned with a small voice, “it’s not like I’m going to go get tattoos with her or something. We’re just ten.”

“Growing up is vital.” Her mother, interested in the photos decorating the light turquoise room, scanned the walls. “I mean, you have all these cool pictures of your trips to Africa, Europe and South America. And—look!” She threw a hand out at a picture of a pin-straight haired, very tan six-year-old atop an adult giraffe. “I mean, you can be taking these adventures down and showing those girls you just mentioned! Even that Salamander—whoever she is!”

“Um…” Bastet continued in a confessing tone. The woman plopped back onto her daughter’s bed with a huge grin.

“Honey, let’s fix this situation!”

“What if they don’t like those?” Bastet groaned, throwing a hand up to the cute picture. “What if they say, ‘Oh, I already rode an elephant last year!’ or ‘I went on this cruise, and there was this humongous whale. A giraffe is so ten years ago!’!”

“Honey.” Her mother put a comforting hand on Bastet’s dark blue jeans. “I know that it’s hard to fit in sometimes. You need to start breaking out—jumping out—of your books.”

Bastet looked at the orange-red ponytailed woman, a sincere red smile spread across her freckly face. She then studied her own pink toenails. “I...don’t know why I can’t tear myself away from those amazingly immersive pages.” She admitted. “I mean, I tried at a sleepover.”

“Great!” Her mother, she saw quickly, straightened up and raised her eyebrows. “What about it?”

“I was sitting with Charity and Breezy at Breezy’s sleepover. They didn’t really like me when I said ‘I have some comic books to show you!’ because Breezy just stared at me and then flicked her bangs out of the way while Charity half-smiled and told Breezy to turn around so they could both re-watch that cool video shown in school the other day. Before I know it, they started laughing at a little YouTube movie on Breezy’s iPad. I decided to go over to Niki and Salamander—whose real name is Karlie—but she asked Niki if she would like her to paint her toenails. They both immersed themselves in a music video while painting their toenails the same color as the singer’s hair’s three signature highlights.”  

“So…why can’t you ask them some questions about comics?” When Bastet retorted that none of these girls ever liked comic books, her mother pursed her lips and then suggested, “Okay, but aren’t there any other girls with whom you can make friends?”  

Bastet shrugged. “Um…Camila and Sharon don’t like anyone but each other. Cameron and Sophia and Sophie and Candace are all friends. I—”

“How about them?”

“Remember that sleepover? Remember that birthday party back in kindergarten? They all ignored me. I was left to play with the worms and dirt, so I made little ant hill homes for the ants.” Bastet sagged and spun herself around in her chair. Letting her thin, light brown hair hit against the chair’s back, she grumbled, “Maybe no one likes me.”  

“Oh, honey!” Her mother ended the spinning with a rainbow socked foot. “The kids—”

“Ignore me, tell me I’m weird, splash milk on my comic books. They don’t care!” Bastet flung a hand back at her comic book tower, shaking it. They reminded her of miniature government buildings in a dystopian universe surrounded by nothing but rubble and dust—like Bastet’s life filled with nothing but comic books and ignorant, selfish, exclusive kids who don’t care about her individuality and taste for the “different.”

“Well, how about you use this open one for one of your school projects?” Her mother knuckled the semi-thick piles of pages spread yawningly before the two family members.  

“It’s due this Monday.”

“Hop on it. I’ll go fix dinner.”

While her footsteps made their way downstairs towards the kitchen, Bastet looked at the comic book exposed before her. An idea in her head, she whirled away from it. After looking over her project requirements, Bastet dropped the plastic pink folder and sat back, pretending she was sitting on an Egyptian throne. She closed her eyes and gripped the edges of her armrests, imagining mortal guards and servants loyally standing and bowing before her. Grinning, Bastet jutted her chin out and commanded her servants to go get her comic books and Marvels Avengers DVDs. When the vision faded, she snapped her eyes open and yelled down for her mother.         

“Yes? Getting that work done?” The answer called from amidst spitting, hissing grease.

“What?” Bastet yelled, running outside to the banister.

“I said, ‘Getting the work done?’!” She repeated.

“You’ll see!”

After pushing her door closed, Bastet again became an Egyptian queen on a throne, demanding servants obey her every whim. When she hopped off her chair, she smiled proudly to herself in her long, silver-rimmed mirror bolted to the wall in front of her. “I’m going to show this group of girls—loud and proud—that ‘different’ is not a disease.” Bastet whipped open her sliding closet door and began filling her arms with gold, black, white and silver bottles of sequins, cardboard masks slightly bent from being squashed from some piles of satin and gold belted shirts and pants. “These things will do the trick!” After she marched over to the bed and dumped the project materials on to it, she started organizing them, piling the clothes away from the decorations. The cardboard she twisted and turned, the folding-out arms of a long-ago Indian headdress being reshaped into a cat’s ears and head frame.

“This will hopefully save me from further torment in the lunchroom!” Bastet grinned, feeling her self-confidence rise as she glued and sprinkled sequins onto the headpiece. Holding it up and looking it over, she smiled at it and put it on. Over at the mirror, she threw her hands on her hips.

“How do I look?” Then Bastet giggled. “Oh wait—” She scrambled onto the chair and then sat like before, her hands outstretched on the armrests and a smug grin stretching her lips. “Now—do I look like her?” When her reflection didn’t answer, Bastet dashed out of her room and pounded down the stairs. Exclaiming she had made the best cat head ever to show her fifth-grade art class, Bastet pumped the air with waving fists and jumped up and down. “I’m going to win the art project for this grade! I’m going to be the best art designer in school!”

“I bet you are!” Her mother laughed and shook the frying pan some more. Then she started tossing what looked like onions into the air. “How about you take that mask off so you can see what you’re setting on the table?”

Bastet dropped her arms and threw her head back, whining. She trudged back through the hallway and up the stairs to part with her awesome headpiece. After placing two sets of silverware, plates and iced glasses across from each other at the table, Bastet ran to the refrigerator, yanked it open and grabbed the container, almost spilling it. Shutting the door, Bastet filled both glasses carefully and asked her mother why she had succumbed to disliking her daughter’s desire to read comics even before she had really seen her do so.  

“Bastet!” The woman chided, twisting the stove dial to Off and whizzing towards the young girl. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I want to know,” Bastet stated. “whether you really are interested in my comic book collection at all!”   

Her mother stared at her and then shook her head slowly. Then she pulled her lips in and looked sideways. “Honey,” she finally expressed. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Ever since Dad passed away, I don’t really see things as nearly as fun, memorable or exciting anymore. We would cycle through the grassy hills of Ireland, soar on the wind like eagles on our cool hang gliders and ride atop gigantic elephants through the jungles of Africa and India as a special treat from Dad—our world traveler, photojournalist and tour guide. We don’t do that anymore!”   

Bastet’s mother nodded quickly and went back to the stove. She snatched the spatula beside her on the blue marble counter and loaded two lettuce-filled bowls. Bastet ran over, grabbed the other frying pan and used her mother’s spatula to slide some hamburger meat into her own salad and the rest into her mother’s bowl. While Bastet and her mother devoured her salad, Bastet continued. “Sorry to bring Dad up. I… I really miss him. But,” she grinned excitedly, “I’m using my project to focus on more important things instead of comics!”

“Instead of comics?” Her mother looked at her suspiciously, mouth open. “Are you feeling alright, Bastet?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, continuing to eat. “Don’t just do it for me, sweetie. Do it—”

“Comics aren’t going to bring Dad back, make more memories or even take away the reality of his passing. But we can do something about our formally three-person family.”

“Like what?” Her mother snapped, struggling to fork a piece of lettuce.

Bastet sighed inwardly and looked down. She was just trying to help. Then she told her mother that she was doing her best to keep up with the family, doing her home—

“You’re reading comics.” Bastet’s sniffling mother stabbed the leaf. “Are you—”

“Mom! I’m ten years old.” Bastet escaped the table and dashed upstairs, slamming her door.  

“And I’ll be in my office, filling out some paperwork for a root canal appointment!” Her mother countered.

Bastet didn’t answer. After doing tomorrow’s homework well but quickly, Bastet whirled around. “How about a throne?” Searching in her closet, Bastet grabbed the chair out of the closet and then lunged for a box. “Hm,” she thought, looking around. “What could I use to sit on this thing?”

She collapsed onto all fours and scanned under her bed. “Nope—nothing under here!” Then she crawled around and opened another, much bigger, closet parallel to it. “Aha!” Bastet lifted a metal rectangle from the wooden floor while struggling to her feet to lug the heavy treasure chest over to her throne. After heaving and grunting the whole way, she let it drop onto the big metal chair with a loud, resounding clang.  

“Honey—everything going okay?” Her mother’s concerned voice rose from somewhere in the house.

“Yes—did my homework. Working on my project!”

“Okay.”         

Bastet decorated the makeshift throne more by gluing big sequins and sprinkling little ones onto little streams of fresh glue. She threaded gold and silver ribbons around the arms, winding them through the bars and holes. When she was all set, Bastet stepped back and studied her artwork.      

“I think it needs more…” She jogged to the open comic book and flipped through it. Failing to find an idea, Bastet tore herself away and formed two L’s with her hands, angling the project just right. For what seemed like the next hour, Bastet tried to decide what other materials would finalize this creation. Then she scampered downstairs, commanding her mother come see, as she said, her model of perfection. Her mother calmly climbed the stairs, apologizing to a beckoning Bastet about her attitude during dinner.

“I want you to see my artwork. It’ll cheer you up!”    

Her mother smiled a little and nodded. When she stepped into her room, her eyes widened in amazement, and a grin spread across her face like Bastet had already gotten an amazing grade on it already. “Oh, Bastet!” She gasped, leaning down and hugging her daughter tightly. “I’m so proud of you. It looks absolutely great!” Then she said, “Just make sure it leaves the room on Monday.” When Bastet bobbed her head, her mother thumped her on the back, flashed a wide grin and then left, telling her she was going to call her mother.     

“Tell her I made the best project ever!” Bastet told her dialing parent.

“I will!”  

Relaxing against the throne, Bastet pretended she was the Egyptian cat goddess looking lovingly down on all her people. When she came back to reality, she looked over at the tower of comics. “Comics are fine, but imagination is better!” Putting on her cat head, she told her reflection that the kids may jeer and roll their eyes, but she, Bastet, would look lovingly at them—because that was the right response. “And I’m going to just collect comics from now on.”      

While Bastet studied herself in the mirror, her door banged open and her mother jammed the receiver in her hand. “Bastet, we’re going to have to miss school Monday. Grandma’s very sick in the hospital, and we don’t know if she’ll survive this second stroke!” Wide eyes swimming with dread, Bastet hit Speaker, and words of love and unforgettable memories rushed out of her mouth like a waterfall. When the other end was silent, Bastet stared at her mother, and the woman snatched the phone.        

“Hello? Mom? Are you there?” She squeezed it.

No answer.

“Hello?” A woman’s calm voice replaced Grandma’s croaky, dry one.

“My mom. Is she there?”  

Silence, and then “She went back to sleep. She didn’t have the energy to tell you. She just slipped off.”

“I’m coming by with Bastet Monday.” She nodded understandingly a second later and then pressed Off, shrugging softly. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Do well!”

Bastet agreed, and zoomed into school, her backpack flying behind her. Skidding right next to her dropped off project, Bastet introduced her throne and then put on her cat head. Some students snickered.  

“Okay—so I made this awesome project—”

“Bastet.”

Bastet peered over at Ms. Browns. Eyebrows knitted together.

“I’m sorry, but since Brittany already presented the cat goddess Bastet, you can’t present yours—it’ll be copying. So…you have to redo your project. Pick the Nile crocodiles, perhaps!”      

“Well,” Bastet defended herself. “I wanted to make this art for my dad, really. He passed a while ago, so I thought of cheering myself up with—”

“But Bastet, I explicitly stated in the project guidelines—”  

“My project is really cool! You see this headpiece and this throne? It belongs to—”

“BASTET!” Her teacher roared.    

Bastet jolted and stared right at the wheelchair-bound woman. “Yes, ma’am.” She hung her head, cheeks heated, and went over to her desk, slumping down into it. After hearing that she now failed her assignment and she’d be going to the principal should she keep up her attitude, Bastet lunged out of her seat and actually went there herself.    

Maybe the principal will understand me. After all, nobody has, nor will they.

Marching right up to Ms. Henley’s office door, Bastet whipped it open and told the gaping woman she worked so hard on a project her teacher failed her. When Ms. Henley ordered her to return to class, Bastet firmly said that she didn’t deserve a failing grade.  

“Bastet,” Ms. Henley repeated patiently, “Get back to class.”

Bastet shook her head violently. When Ms. Henley asked a passing teacher to take Bastet to Ms. Browns, Bastet complied and then told her teacher she wasn’t being fair. Ms. Browns snorted. “Bastet, I already failed you for your rudeness.”

“But there’s a reason—” Bastet tried, wishing she was with Grandma.

“Bastet! Bastet!”

Her mother shook her. “Wake up! Project day.”

“Oh.” Bastet nodded as if today was not different anymore. “Yeah…”