Marisa, the Pitch Pine

Marisa pushed her star-shaped sunglasses to the top of her head and took a deep breath. She threw open the door to the guidance office, stepped inside, and pulled her shirt up past her navel. Three clear bruises festered in purple and dark red across her brown belly.

“Marisa, what have I told you about provoking them?”

Marisa grabbed the front edge of Mr. Garcia’s desk, like she could push the whole thing into the floor if she wanted. Three of his dusty mugs shook where they stood.

“When Paula started punching me in the locker room yesterday, she said it was for ‘being a chump-back whale.’ Your implication that my fatness is an invitation for abuse is very mainstream of you.” That was the only real shot she had, but Marisa always played like her pistol was full.

Mr. Garcia removed his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the glasses back on. They’d talked about the bullying before, but Marisa had never shown him bruised skin. She hoped it’d be enough to get him to actually help her.

“Two months left, Marisa. Then you get all of winter break away. Things are always calmer in the spring. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

Marisa looked at the ceiling. Its plaster had cracked into a streak of dry, jagged scales. Most of the building was peeling like this. No matter where moisture tried to hide, the desert heat hunted it down and cracked it open.

“I just want to see Paula, and maybe four of her friends, drawn and quartered in the Walmart parking lot,” Marisa said, still looking at the ceiling. Her eyes stung. She dug the nails of her right hand into the palm of her left. It would be stupid to cry here. “Maybe I could ride one of the horses.”

Every thread of Mr. Garcia looked tired. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Marisa, my purpose here is to keep our students in school, not find reasons to kick them out.” These were someone else’s words, delegated down. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Paula Vasquez is not on a college track. She is peaking in her education right now. The diploma she gets—and she will get it—may be the best thing that ever comes her way.”

He leaned back, talking more to himself than Marisa. “I have students stealing chemistry equipment for their parents’ meth labs, but at least those kids are coming to class. If Paula isn’t setting the school on fire at lunch—she’s not a problem.”

Marisa realized she was cradling her stomach and let it fall.

“She might! She’s full of rage, her and her friends.” The bruises weren’t enough. She looked back at the ceiling. “She’s a problem to me,” Marisa mumbled.

“Two more months, Marisa. You’re a smart girl. I—I know you can do it.” His eyes glazed over in a way that was supposed to signal soft encouragement. “Just lay low. Skip gym. Stay out of the way.”

They both knew it wouldn’t work. Marisa burned him with a silent stare and lowered the star-shaped sunglasses over her eyes. She clenched her body to keep her voice even and pulled a sheet of paper from her bag.

“I applied to three more places. Please send them my transcript.” She laid the paper on his desk.

“More?” He lit up, co-signing this new agreement to drop it. “What does that bring you to, thirty?”

“Something like that,” she said. Marisa opened the office door and turned to leave. “You’re out of my will,” she said, and closed the door gently behind her.

*

Marisa’s biology class was instructed to pick a long-standing organism they found interesting and present on how the species had survived so many years. They were told to “dress nice.” It was too hot for pants, so Marisa wore her “pencil skirt,” which was flared, knee-length, and printed with large colored pencils. She found the exact silk scarf her teacher had and wore it as an attempt at rapport.

There were twenty-eight lukewarm presentations, mostly about cats or sharks. Then Sophia Ramirez gave a good but rambling one on leopards. Sophia was the only other fat girl in school willing to wear a bold print and suffer the consequences. She and Marisa shared the back row of every classroom.

When Sophia remarked that leopards spend most of the day “laying on their backs,” the shark boys let out low, toxic snickers. Marisa thought it was pretty uncreative bullying. Then, she looked closer at Sophia’s visual aide and realized the wrong big cat was depicted.

“That’s a jaguar, not a leopard.”

Sophia paused, confused.

Marisa hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now everyone was looking at her, so she finished. “They both have circle rosette patterns on their fur, but only jaguars have a spot in the middle of the rosette.”

The shark boys lost it. Sophia flushed red and scowled at her. Marisa’s hands went to her stomach. She balled her fists under the desk and hit her thighs, angry that she couldn’t turn it off—even for Sophia. Sophia crossed her arms and stared at the teacher.

“Yes, you may sit down. Thank you, Sophia.”

One of the stoners gave a quick, meandering presentation on how rocks are alive. Then Marisa was next.

“My subject today is Pinus rigida—the pitch pine,” she said to the teacher, then gave a decided nod and faced the class. “The pitch pine is a conifer. It grows slowly and with twisted wood, but finds success on unfavorable sites—mostly high-elevation, rocky outcrops.”

She spread her words over the crowd like an oscillating fan, making a point to speak to the blank stares in the back of the room as well as those in the front: disinterested jocks, mocking shark boys, disinterested girls, sleeping dude, angry Sophia, somewhat interested nerds, pretty white girl taking notes, guy carving into his desk, then all the way back.

“Because of their elevated placement, the trees are often struck by lightning. But the species has adapted to this.” She changed her slide to a picture of a lightning-filled sky and an exploding tree. She raised her voice. It pressed on the dense foreheads and echoed back. “Their sap is flammable. When a pitch pine is struck, it can burst into flame.” She waved her hands at ‘burst.’

“Under this extreme heat, the seed pods crack open, and the temperature stimulates epicormic shoots lying in wait under the tree’s bark, allowing new branches to sprout exactly where the tree was burned.” Next slide—a picture of a charred tree bursting with tender, green leaves.

Marisa smiled and took one step forward. She had them. “This cycle of using a damaging environment to strengthen the species’ population has led to its success in covering the mountaintops of the entire Northeastern United States!”

She raised her arms, victorious, awaiting applause. Sophia rolled her eyes. Another one of the jocks had fallen asleep. Marisa felt the slide remote get slippery in her hands.

She began desperately reading her bibliography. She wanted the students and teacher to know what she was saying was scientifically founded. It had to be true. Didn’t they get it? She was a pitch pine. She would win in the end.

Marisa cited source after source until the teacher waved and said, “Alright, thank you, Marisa. Next we have Sergio, who will tell us about pit bulls. Sergio.”

*

Marisa dragged a chair out behind the trailer and unfolded it beside her mother’s beer cooler. She spread a chemistry book across her lap. Marisa and her mom were close but only saw each other at dinner. While Rena stayed outside as much as possible, Marisa spent her time at home needling through a book or corner of the internet. She only joined for Rena’s sunset beer when she was feeling especially offset. Rena acted gracefully unaware.

Rena bred miniature Dachshunds. The Arizona sun kept the dogs inside most of the year. But by October, the heat relinquished enough that the evenings were bearable. The dogs were let outside to loll like sea lions in a cluster of baby pools and tarp canopies Rena built to keep them cool. On the first structure, a plywood sign declared “Hot Dog City” in Rena’s hand-painting.

She used to be a rancher. The breeding was a way to have a bit of a farm, while still being able to watch all her livestock from a lawn chair.

One wall of Hot Dog City had a row of placards that read like a spice cabinet. Rena named each new pup by its coat color. They were all the same shade of fried chicken. But she hadn’t run out of names yet, even though she’d finally admitted that “JIF Crunchy” was less likely to find a home now that he’d been named.

Every few pages, Marisa sighed deeply and looked up at Rena, who was busy working with Latte—an especially vicious ankle-biter. Latte had the purebred genes of a champion show bitch, but none of the decorum. She had to be quarantined because she almost bit off Cardamom’s ear when he tried to mount her. Marisa had never loved an animal more.

“Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong phylum.” 

“Alright, you win,” Rena said, throwing Latte a biscuit and leaving the bullpen. She noticed Marisa and smiled.

“Evenin’, Miss. Come to watch the stampede?” She crossed to the main kennel and threw biscuits in. The pack of dachshunds ran toward them, trailing a cloud of dust, and turned into a pile of vibrating sausages on top of the treats. Marisa scowled.

“What weakling wolf devolved into those?” Marisa asked. Rena pulled a Pacifico from the cooler, opened it off her belt buckle, and took a sip.

“I think it was more some clever mice that ‘volved up. And I can’t fault them—they’ve got a pretty good life.” Rena nodded to her empire.

“We should get them a wheel or some plastic tubes to get stuck in,” Marisa said, then went back to turning pages in her book.

“How’s school?” Rena was suspicious.

“Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong phylum.”

Rena nodded, took another sip. Was the sipping speeding up?

“Well, you can be any phy-thing you want,” Rena said, hoping for a smile to drift across Marisa’s face. Page turning. Nothing. Rena chuckled. “Am I ever gonna see you again after next year?”

Nothing. Marisa squinted at the horizon.

During the day, the sun poured from every scrap of sky. So there was something pleasurable about watching the light reduce to one definite pinpoint and finally wobble over the horizon. Once it set, the day’s heat drained away—like the sun was a tugboat, guiding its warmth somewhere that would appreciate it more.

Their small lot backed up against government land. They could see all the way to Interstate 17. Cooler wind breathed past the trailer and over them. If Marisa were inside, she’d open the small window above her bed and watch the curtain she sewed catch gulps of air.

Marisa turned another page.

“You okay?” Rena whispered.

“Just waiting for it to end.” Marisa nodded at the draining sun, pulling waves of color behind it. Marisa swore the final pull made a sound—crisp and soft as day transformed into night. A snarl broke their concentration.

“Well, look at that monster.” Rena laughed and pointed. Latte was running up and down her pen, snarling through the fence at the non-quarantined herd. “Do you know what Latte’s problem is?”

The dog foamed up a rage that bears would envy. The other dogs didn’t notice or stop eating.

“She’s a feminist,” Marisa said. Rena’s laugh came from her belt buckle and shot the clouds. Marisa smiled.

“Close!” Rena slapped Marisa’s shoulder. “She’s too smart.”

“Being smart is a good thing.”

“Dumb dogs are easier to train, hun. They mind. The smart ones just can’t get over that somebody caged ‘em up. Can’t settle till they break out and chase something new down.”

“Mom. I get it. I’ll come home on the breaks and stuff.”

Rena smiled and pointed at Marisa with her bottle. “Christmas is all I ask. And maybe sometime in the spring . . . and every weekend.”

Marisa went back to reading. Thirty transcripts. At least one would work.

*

Marisa slid her sunglasses over her eyes as she walked into the locker room. Paula looked up in surprise. Gina was with her today. Marisa hadn’t expected that, but kept walking.

“You actually came back,” Paula said, turning from the mirror. She and Gina passed a smile around.

“We’re graded on attendance.” Marisa shrugged and set her bag down.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Gina said.

“I’ve had worse.” Marisa sat on the cement bench.

“You stupid bitch,” Paula said.

“I’m not stupid.”

Gina hit Marisa in the back of the head. It wasn’t hard, but knocked her down toward her own lap. Marisa sat back up.

“You’re not gonna quit, are you?” Paula was both surprised and excited.

Marisa took off her glasses. “No.” Her eyes were already wet.

“Shit.” Paula paused, then smiled. “Okay.” She slapped Marisa hard across the face, knocking her ear so that it rang out.

All other noises became part of the ringing. Marisa looked past the girls, focusing on a jagged crack in the wall. It carved toward the ceiling like a lightning bolt, splitting the plaster and brick underneath.

Paula lifted Marisa’s shirt with one hand. Gina punched her stomach. Marisa kept crying, but couldn’t hear herself over the ringing. The cracks spread across the wall, so many fissures that it could bring the whole school down.

Marisa opened her arms and welcomed the blows like heat, like fire. All this pain had to force change. It was science. She was sure of it.

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