Rolling his eyes, Kyle shoved past me. With a low bow, he thrust his Mickey Mouse toothbrush in his mouth, flicked on the switch, and said, “Gwoorius day to joo,” between vibrating pulses.
“So mature,” I muttered, picking my new Scooby Doo lunchbox and Trapper Keeper binder up off the floor.
Nothing was going to get in the way of this day, not even annoying Kyle.
Mom sat at the kitchen table smoking a Virginia Slims while thumbing through a magazine. Their slogan was You’ve come a long way, baby, with pictures of the olden days when ladies wore long dresses. set next to today’s stylish tool-carrying women.
It reminded of the day I saw her open the latest Cosmo and whisper, “You’ve come a long way, Iris,” over and over. Her eyes had been fixed on the glossy page like one of the undead in the movies I’m not supposed to watch.
I’d tiptoed back down the hall and sat on my bed, rubbing my knotted stomach. My favorite book, The Call of the Wild, was lying open on the floral comforter to the chapter where Buck battles all odds in a frozen land. I tried to focus on the words, but my mind kept returning to Mom. In my imagination, she became Buck escaping a cruel master and trotting unbound in the Alaskan wilderness.
I wonder what she would look like with her teased hair flowing free, the snow lighting up her pretty face? She has the nose I wish I’d inherited and a wide smile that doesn’t come out much. She’s already one of the pretty mothers about the youngest of all my friends’ moms. But she’d be even prettier if she didn’t have that empty stare all the time. That I’m-somewhere-else look that makes me want to wave a hand in front of her and shout, “Wake up!”
Sometimes, when Ronny is going through a good phase and sales are up, he stops being like the master in The Call of the Wild and is actually pretty cool. Making jokes, slapping Mom on the butt, and kissing the top of her head.
Then I get to see her eyes light up like Christmas. That’s when I see the power her beauty has, why all the men in the stores are nice, and why some rumpled mothers make harrumph sounds when she walks by.
“Do you have everything?” she asked, never looking up from the page.
I waved my cool Scooby Doo lunch box. “Yep, made PB & J, got chips, milk in the thermos.”
She blew out a long column of smoke and watched it dissipate in the air. “Okay, get going or you’ll miss the bus.”
A dutiful kiss and a wave later, I was skipping down my street swinging Scooby’s gang in one hand. Right before the bus stop, I caught myself. “You’re in seventh grade. Be cool.”
A few kids had already gathered in front of mean old Mrs. Barton’s house, who throws rocks at you if you step on her lawn. I looked for my best friend Cheryl and when I didn’t see her, the butterflies in my stomach started to do loop-da-loops. I didn’t want to face those popular kids who sniggered when Shelly Mc Cormack played tag or when Cheryl and I wore matching rainbow socks. Not to mention those eighth graders I’d seen smoking in the park.
Scooby Dooby Doo, I almost said out loud, trying to remind myself how far I’d come this summer, growing my hair out, getting everyone to crack up during that Talent Show skit, and turning deep songs we sang around the campfire into poems in my journal.
The loop-da-loops became knots, so I bent down and pretended to rebuckle my Buster Browns. Chewing on my lower lip, I tried to look like I was concentrating on a crooked clasp but, after doing this five times, I thought it might look weird so I stood up.
Hugging my folder and lunchbox to my chest, I shuffled over to the end of the line. Thought about removing my barrette to hide behind my hair. Maybe if I acted invisible, they’d ignore me.
And it worked, for most of the day. Except when I got lost on the way to First Period and an eighth grader had to show me the way to English. Switching classes. Argh! Why couldn’t it be more like Sixth when we had nice Mrs. Wagner?
It was at lunch when it happened. After trying my locker combination seventeen times, I finally was able to put my books away and pull out my shining Scooby Doo lunch box.
I loved that thing. On the front, the Headless Horseman was chasing Scooby and Shaggy off a cliff under a spooky moon. The sides had the Mystery Machine, mummies, and even an escaped circus lion. And on the back, the gang stood facing a haunted house behind a wrought iron fence with a Danger Keep Out sign. Inside, the orange thermos was held in place by a piece of metal so your sandwich and corn chips didn’t get smooshed.
Neat-o.
Grabbing it by the handle, I swung it in a circle as I bounced down the halls.
“Joy! Over here!” Cheryl called, waving me over to her empty table.
“I looked for you at the bus, but you never came.” I sat down and positioned my lunch box on the long grey tabletop so that Cheryl, or anyone else who might be passing by, could admire it.
“Yeah, my dad gave me a ride.” She paused and stared at me with horror before pointing. “What is that?”
“It’s my new lunch box. Pretty neat, huh? See how it’s just like the cartoo—”
“Put it away. Now!”
“Why? It’s Scooby Doo.”
“People are going to think you’re a baby. Look around. No one brings lunch boxes to junior high.”
That’s when I finally noticed. Brown bag, hot lunch, white bag, plastic bag. Oh no! I was the only kid in the cafeteria with a lunch box.
And I’d wanted to look so cool. It was bad enough being the youngest in my grade, thanks to my December birthday, and usually the smallest. Now they were going to think I was an absolute infant.
I snatched the food and threw it on the table. Gulping down my milk, I shoved the thermos inside and had just slid the lunchbox under my bench when Angie Van Gorman and her flock of nose-in-the-air brats swanned up.
“What’s this?” Angie sneered, picking up my lunchbox.
The blood drained from my face.
“Aw, how adorable. A cartoon lunchbox. Just like my preschool brother has.” She held it up for everyone to see.
I opened my mouth to protest but nothing came out.
“Give it back, Angie,” Cheryl said.
This villain ignored her. And now she started to wave my lunchbox like a baton. The girls behind her started to snigger.
The red crept up my cheeks into my scalp where my barrette hung limply by my ear. I raised a hand to it while Cheryl looked at me with an exasperated shrug.
The next thing I knew, Angie marched her line of populos between the tables as if she were the lead majorette in the Fourth of July parade. “Wook at me. I’m Joy Chapel and I bwought my Scooby Doo lunch box to school.”
I didn’t know what to do. At home, when Ron was on one of his fist-flyers, I either hid or, if it was real bad, ran all the way to the oak tree in the park, scrambling up those big branches as high as I could.
Nothing to climb here.
“Let’s go,” Cheryl said, scooping up what was left of her meatloaf sandwich.
All I could do was mumble “Yes.” My heart pounded so loud it hurt my brain.
I know. I should have done something, like demand it back. Slap it out of that brat’s hand. Or at least tell a teacher.
Instead, I followed Cheryl out of there and let them have their parade, trying to tell myself that I didn’t care about that stupid lunch box anyhow.
Cheryl gave me a sympathetic pat before heading to Fifth Period. Alone, the halls loomed but at least I was rid of that humiliating lunch pail. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. If I came home without it and Ronny found out… He was always going off about how I should take care of my stuff, turn off the lights and water since money didn’t grow on trees.
Which is a weird idea. I always imagined Dr. Seuss-y trees with dollar bills instead of leaves. I even put a penny in the ground when I was four to see if it’d grow. Used to pour my bedside water on it every morning and when nothing popped up, I figured it was probably because a penny isn’t enough. If I’d put in a quarter, a tree would’ve grown.
; I ducked in the bathroom and sat in a stall, praying that it’d still be there. As soon as the bell rang, I sprinted back into the cafeteria where a few hall monitors still patrolled.
“Hey, lunch is over. Get to class,” said a girl in a brown jumper and long brown braids.
“Lost something,” I mumbled. It wasn’t too hard to find. I scanned the food-littered tables for just a few seconds before finding it in the grey trash barrel, perched atop all of the apple cores, brown bags and banana peels. Without checking to make sure nothing was clinging to it, I snatched the handle, lifted it and splattered bright red Kool-Aid all over the front of my dress.
Now, not only did I have to carry this embarrassing thing to Fifth Period but I also had a blood red stain right in center of my chest, on the one outfit Mom said to be careful with because it came from Robinsons.
Looking like the Sundance Kid after the big shoot-out, I slunk toward science class. God, I hoped there was an open desk in the back of the room. But when I tried the handle, it wouldn’t budge.
Please, no!
Maybe if I did a mouse knock, the teacher would be nice. Timidly, I curled my hand into a fist.
The door didn’t open.
I tried a slightly louder knock, rat-sized.
No one came.
Finally, in frustration, I started slamming my lunchbox against the wood and was mid-swing when the door flew open.
“What is it?” a tall man shouted.
“S-sorry. I-uh, umm, it…”
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I said but thought, I know that, but can you cut me some slack?
Of course, the only seat left in this huge class was in the first row facing the teacher’s desk. Hiding my lunch box behind my back, I scuffled to my seat.
“Rah roh,” said somebody in the back.
As soon as Mr. Gomez turned to write on the chalkboard, it started. Whispers. Snickers. Then passing a sketch of a dress-wearing Scooby from desk to desk.
It didn’t end there. Oh no. All afternoon, kids jeered. “Scooby Doo, where are you?” This quickly devolved into, “Rah roh, want a Scooby snack?” And “Zoinks, it’s a dog!”
By Sixth Period it was just, “Dog.”
Even though I ran to get in line for the bus so I could sit at the front, about a million kids were already there when I arrived. Making me the third person on the seat.
Do you know what that’s like, to ride a full bus when you have officially become the school geek? If not, let me tell you. First, you’ll have one butt cheek barely poised on the vinyl, your leg braced in the aisle for the impending shove that’s supposed to knock you on the floor. Then, a crumpled paper hits you on the head. Next, it’s every cuss word your parents ever shouted, with a few you don’t even know the meaning of, followed by spit wads in your hair and finger flicks from behind.
Don’t tell me I should have stood up to them. Don’t tell me I should have fought back. Because it never works. The best thing to do is to pretend it isn’t real, ignore it and stare out the window. Or go in your mind to another place.
If you squint hard enough, you might start to see in technicolor like in movies or TV. Once everything is blurry, you can leave your body and become a cartoon detective unmasking a crook who says, “I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling kids.”
For precious seconds, time will stop and you’ll be in that bright place where heroes win and shame-faced villains go to jail.
Anyhow, that’s what I did, until the rubber band welt started rising on my arm. As the sneering boy crowed his victory over me, I suddenly realized why Scooby Doo cartoons were so popular.
Every episode ends the same, showing us that the monster behind the mask is a person. Just like in real life.
I know what you’re thinking. One day of teasing does not turn someone into a stoner. You might even think it’s kind of funny for a junior high kid to bring a Scooby Doo lunchbox to school. And I’d agree with you, now.
But back then I wasn’t very good at laughing at myself or standing up to others. Hours later, I might invent witty retorts that’d shut those bullies down but, in the moment, I was too friggin’ scared to even think.
I took things all seriously and shit.
Then there was this belief in the peace I always heard about. I knew that someday hippie truth would rain down from every mountain as the tortured danced in circles with the bullies. I had so much faith in this that I refused to say anything mean to anyone. Pretty soon, all hearts were going to soften and open to the free love I heard on the radio.
Man, was I stupid.
Because that incident was just the beginning.
Nine
Joy
If you’ve never tried it, you might wonder how someone makes a conscious decision to smoke pot. Do they get tricked into it? Is it slipped to them in some brownie? Or what?
I know lots of experts call marijuana the ‘gateway’ drug and they may be right. I don’t know the motivations of all partiers. But for me, pot wasn’t the gateway to everything else.
Torture was.
Seventh Grade.
From the second I got on the bus in the morning to the drop-off in the afternoon, every day was the same. Angie Van Gorman and her crew would surround me and begin their torments.
Angie must have carried a How to Abuse 12-year-olds guide in her purse because she knew every mean way to make kids quiver and cry. Since I had the distinct honor of being her favorite, she saved the most brutal attacks for me. “Dog, ‘tard, freak, troll,” she’d bay, while her pack threw their heads back and howled. Even if I could have escaped, it only took seconds for the wolves to draw a tight circle around me, leaving me outnumbered. Trapped.
I know. I should have run, and I did try shoving through once, only to be met with, like, a million hands. They pushed back so friggin’ hard, I ended up on my rear.
Humiliating.
That Friday, in history, Angie strolled by my desk and snatched my lunch bag. Staring me down, she waved it in front of my face before turning away and doing something to it. I had resigned myself to going hungry that day when it plopped back down now, sporting a crude Scooby sketch with a long you-know-what hanging down. Then she said loudly, “Mr. Cavalli, Joy’s drawing nasty things!”
Next thing I knew, a detention slip was in my hand and my bag was in the trash. I had to charge that day. And it was Stew Surprise, a meat slop that strangely resembled the Alpo Grandma fed Toby. Yuck!
You’d think by the afternoon bus Angie would be tired, but by then she’d be so gorged on power, her brown eyes had a Night of the Living Dead sheen. When I saw her coming, I’d slink down on an empty seat, hoping to take cover before she found me.
As if there was anywhere to hide.
She plunked down in the seat behind me, rasping how ugly I was over and over again. Her words carved away pieces of me as if I were some fatted calf. But I was not about to completely go to slaughter. As soon as the bus doors opened, I ran. And ran, putting as much space between that yellow corral and myself as my skinny legs would allow.
One Sunday, as I was listening to deep songs like Wildfire and Seasons in the Sun, dreaming of how Samuel Garcia would brush the hair back from my face before he kissed me, I had an idea. A brainwave, actually. It was inspired and might just be a way to stop the mean words.
Now, I wasn’t totally inexperienced. I’d played doctor with my cousins when I was five and had watched plenty of Love, American Style episodes, but all of my experiences were more theoretical, not practical, if you know what I mean. And I’d heard Angie’s clique talk about making out, or razzing each other about French kisses and hickeys.
“What is that on your neck?” Laurel Wilson squealed last week in the cafeteria, her eyes peeled for whoever was listening.
“Nothing,” Angie replied, lifting up her collar with a cat-lapping smile.
“You and Craig Armstrong? Going?”
Angie raised her eyebrows and s
hrugged as The Clique fawned all over her.
Making out, it seemed, made you cool. But it wasn’t like I had any boys who I could ask, and to beg Cheryl for help would be gross. So, this one morning, after practicing nonchalant shrugs in the mirror, I decided that if there wasn’t anyone around to give me a hickey, I’d give myself one. How hard could it be?
I tried to bend my neck this way and that, only to discover that my lips could only reach as far as my shoulder. And even then, they were so slobbery I could barely bite down. Still, after twisting my neck this way and that and trying to suck as hard as I imagined The Crowd did, I had a red mark an eighth-grader would be proud of.
“Oh, this?” I said into the mirror, dropping the corner of my nightgown. “It’s nothing.”
“Joy, get dressed. I need you to vacuum the living room. The cushions, too. Quickly, before Ronny gets home,” Mom called through the bathroom door.
When I slipped my t-shirt over my head, I realized that no one would be able to see my wondrous monkey bite. I could have made another one on my hand, but that somehow didn’t seem very sexy. Another plan to escape geekdom destroyed.
A few minutes later, as I was using the hose attachment to get all of the gook out of the couch cracks, I noticed a round mark in the vinyl. With a blink, I stepped back and stared.
Smiling, I tried to recreate it on the orange throw pillow. Just about the right size.
I nodded. It just might work.
With a quick glance down the hall to make sure Mom was still in her room, I sat down. Then I aimed the screaming tube at my neck, and thrust.
The engine revved and cold metal dug into my throat. “Ow! Ow!” I cried, tugging on a machine that seemed to have a hold of me like skin-sucking aliens.
I stood up and yanked. The whirring creature wouldn’t let go.
I know. Why didn’t I turn it off? It’s so easy to flip a switch. Well, if you’ve ever had a vacuum hose attached to your neck sucking your skin off, you’d know that logical thinking goes out the window. You grab that metal snake, straining against its power. Tugging. Pulling. Battling.
Finding Joy Page 3