PROLOGUE: SEWING SCISSORS
When Oscar was seven years old, he stole his mother’s sewing scissors and cut his bangs to the scalp. In that instant, Oscar understood that power could be a metal thing, cold and hard to the touch, filling his chest with warmth, his heart with joy. In the moments that followed, that power would be snatched right out of his hands by his screaming mother, leaving the pit in his chest cold and joyless.
His name hadn’t been Oscar then. But it was now.
“What have you done?” his mother had cried.
There was no way for him to know back then that this would become his brand, the slogan chanted out at the end of every big decision, his mother’s favorite words to spit in his face.
“It’s alright.” Or that this would be the balm for however long his father lasted. “I think it looks wicked.”
He had gentle hands, his father. Oscar remembered them on his shoulder, thumb rubbing the rough cotton of his T-shirt, soothing him, quieting the aching in his chest after his mother’s screams. She’d been so loud.
“There you go. Now I’m jealous.” His father’s laugh hadbeen the stuff of coziness, logs crackling in the fireplace on the coldest nights of winter, lentil soup simmering on the stove, a soft blanket on the couch.
Oscar remembered his own grin, stretching across his face as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His father had done a good job evening his hair out, cutting away the wisps that had brushed his neck and shoulders.
Maybe Papa had realized then, already, that Oscar was supposed to be Oscar.
“You look like a million dollars, Spike.” Maybe that was why he always called him Spike.
Oscar smiled, remembering the light in his father’s eyes, the lines at the corners, already there. He hadn’t marked them then. Maybe he’d filled them in now, altering the memory. Maybe Oscar had erased the weight that must have made his father’s shoulders sag. Maybe his ears had erased the words of the screaming match his parents had in the room next door late that night.
The next time his father fixed him up, it wasn’t just hair. Oscar was thirteen and quite done with it all. He’d been arguing with his mother all afternoon, throwing every curse word he knew her way, cussing her out as though this would make her unpurchase the monstrosity that hung on his bedroom door.
Had she never stepped into his room? Had she never taken a look at the posters on his wall? Maybe his mother pretended not to realize which of his clothes found their way to the laundry hamper. Oscar was quite sure she’d rifled through his closet, cutting the tags off the things she’d bought him over the years, the tops and skirts and dresses he never wore. Maybeit made her feel better. Maybe then she could pretend they had been worn.
“I’m not wearing that fucking thing.” Oscar didn’t particularly like that he’d started to cry, that his voice had grown hoarse, that his throat felt scratched by the end of it.
“You’re not going to the school dance in ripped jeans and a band T-shirt!” Maybe his mother’s throat was scratched, too.
Good. She deserved it. Oscar had scratched so many more parts of himself on her account.
“It’s alright, Spike. We’ll fix you right up.” His father’s throat wasn’t scratched, his voice smooth and soft as cotton, that low, deep croon Oscar couldn’t help but envy.
“Papa, I don’t want to wear that,” Oscar mumbled.
His father’s lips were tightly pressed to one another, but the line of his mouth was still curved into a smile. Oscar would ignore the tears that filled his father’s eyes. He’d pretend that he hadn’t seen his father blinking them away as he pressed wet toilet paper to the fresh cuts on Oscar’s wrist.
“You should never wear anything that makes you want to do this to yourself. We’ll go shopping tomorrow, you and me. How’s that, bud? And we’ll get you a proper haircut, better than what I can give you. It’ll be fun. Pancakes after.” His father had the deepest brown eyes Oscar had ever seen. He wished he’d inherited more from him than this. His kindness, maybe.
Except his father would never have called his mother a selfish bitch or told her to go fuck herself. He never would have screamed at her to fucking die. So maybe Oscar wasn’t as kind. He would be, when he got out of this place.
But Oscar didn’t really want to leave, not with Papa living in the house, not with his lentil-soup-fireplace-warmth blanketing Oscar from his mother’s harsh comments, keeping his hands tucked in so he wouldn’t reach for the sewing scissors.
It had been an ugly gash this time, andOscar couldn’t stop the bleeding. There was just so much of himself he wanted to cut, to shed, to remove.
“What do you say, Spike?” Papa fixed the end of the bandage around his arm.
Oscar had never wrapped himself up in bandages before. Maybe this was why it had always stung so badly beneath his long-sleeved shirts.
“I liked it when you gave me a haircut before.” Oscar gave Papa a smile, the first since his father had walked into the bathroom.
He’d knocked first. His father always asked for his permission before he did anything. He never bought him clothes he might not like. He never rummaged through his drawers while Oscar was at school.
“You were seven, Spike.” His father laughed. “But I can try and fix you up a little if you’d like.”
Oscarwouldlike. There was more hair on the floor now than there had been then. His mother had never really let him go to the hairdresser on his own after the incident with the sewing scissors, policing every trim and hovering around the stylist. Oscar wouldn’t be surprised if she started bringing a measuring tape along.
