Until finally, there’s a loud pop and you know you’re free. You heave a sigh of relief and run down the hall to escape.
Or maybe look in the bathroom mirror.
I brushed my hair out of the way. There on the side of my neck was a perfect red circle. Yeah, it looked more like an extraterrestrial squid’s kiss than a love bite, but I didn’t care. I now had my first official, okay fake, hickey.
The next morning, I put on a scoop neck t-shirt and snapped my barrette extra high before making sure my choker was placed to hide the hickey from Mom and Ronny. With one last nonchalant eyebrow-raise, I headed out.
Wielding my angry red key of escape, the mark that would forever deliver me from freak prison, I marched down the street.
As I approached the bus stop, the usual jailers were there. Angie, Laurel, and eighth grade Mike Widdle. I’d already unsnapped my choker, bunched it into my leather purse and brushed my hair back. Now, all I had to do was wait for them to notice my glorious monkey bite.
But for once, they ignored me. Even Angie wasn’t turning her mouth into a head-crushing torture device.
I stepped a little closer, but not too close; I didn’t want to be full-on obvious. I heard a few snatches of the conversation they were into, something about Angie’s dad not coming home.
I don’t like to be mean, I full-on believe that kindness opens hearts like keys. But there’s an evil part of me that would like nothing more than to see Angie Van Gorman getting a little payback. I’ll admit it; I couldn’t help but gloat when I heard her agonizing over her dad storming out the night before.
I’m not always the hippie I want to be.
Okay, this group was busy. But the day had just begun, and I was brandishing the royal mark that was going to change everything.
Thinking my best friend was sure to be astounded and hoping to catch her before first period, I made a beeline for her locker as soon as I got off the bus.
“Notice anything about me?” I asked her, flipping my hair back with one hand.
She looked me up and down. “No.”
“Look closer.” I stretched my neck and raised my eyebrows knowingly, like I’d been practicing.
“Umm, new barrette?”
“Oh, Cheryl Silva, if you weren’t my best friend…” I shook my head and pointed.
She gasped and covered her mouth in horror. “You burned yourself?”
“No! It’s a hickey.”
“Doesn’t look like one. Looks like a curling iron burn. Anyhow, I happen to know that you are not that type.” She jerked her thumb toward the tough chicks down the hall.
My shoulders slumped. If it didn’t fool Cheryl, who was as gullible as a first grader, it wouldn’t fool anyone. My groaning explanation of how I’d used the vacuum cleaner only made her crack up, and then she said how someday, those mean girls were going to get theirs, so why try to impress them?
I wish I had her confidence. And invisibility power. For some reason, she never got teased like I did. It was as if Morgan le Fey had cast a spell, hiding Cheryl from invading eyes.
Shrugging, I shuffled off to first period, hoping that maybe someone would detect my majestic flag. But no dice in that class. Or the next.
Maybe at lunch? Head tilted to display my standard, I walked past Samuel Garcia. Even tried scratching my neck in a big motion to get his attention. He was too absorbed in his Twinkie to look my way. Not that I could blame him. That creamy filling is pretty delicious.
All afternoon my hands smoothed, wriggled and flapped. With as much spectacle as I could muster, I became a knight brandishing a sword, a prince wielding a rampant shield, and a dragon in mid-flight. Still, no amount of flourishes got a single kid to even jerk a thumb in my direction.
The bus ride home was the final hope of my noble quest. But even there no one noticed.
That’s when I realized.
Hickeys are completely overrated.
8th Grade.
I’m going to be popular, I’d decided. I’d had it with being a dog and a freak. No more Angie Van Gormans teasing me from the bus. Eighth grade was going to be different. I’d been planning it all summer. I grew my hair out and it got nice highlights from the summer at camp.
But to do this I had to make some changes. And some were freaking hard. I knew where to start, and which girls on the fringe of popularity might accept me. But to go forward, I had to leave some things, and maybe some people, behind. Unless I could get them to advance, too. Although I knew it was hopeless, I tried one more time to convince Cheryl.
“If we get some make-up, blue eye shadow and eyeliner, then we offer to share it with Lisa W—”
“I don’t want to wear eye shadow. Anyhow, it’s against the rules. If my mom found out, she’d ground me for a month,” Cheryl protested, closing the door to her room.
“But she’ll never know. We’ll be sneaky and put it on in the bathroom by the gym.”
She shook her head. “Why do you even care what those dummies think? They were soooo mean last year. Or have you forgotten?”
As if I’d ever forget the hours of torture. “That’s just the point. If we were popular, it would all stop.”
“Not interested. Hey, I have the new David Cassidy album. It’s a live concert. Want to listen?”
I nodded and Cheryl opened the clasp on her Crosley portable record player, the kind that looked like a little suitcase, and propped the lid up against her frilly bed. Like most of her room, which was either newborn pink or other layette shades, it was baby blue with a shining white handle.
She lifted the needle onto the vinyl LP. First, there were just scratches but after a few seconds, there was a susurrating hush that transported us to a real concert. The rotating record bobbed over the turntable as screaming girls nearly drowned out David’s foxy voice. Cheryl propped the album cover against her bed and the two of us lay on our tummies, chins in hands, gazing at his handsome face. I was soon lost in the reverie of what it would be like to be his girlfriend.
In sixth grade, we’d imagined marrying Donny or Marco or David. But now that we were more mature and almost ready for eighth grade, we realized how silly that was. Rock stars like them would want girlfriends. Anyhow, twelve, almost thirteen, was too young to get married.
But girls ready to be teenagers should make major changes. And I didn’t care what it took, I was going to escape freakdom. If Cheryl wouldn’t listen, I’d find someone else who would. Someone with similar ambitions. (Like that phrase? I read it in a Stephen King book my Mom has.)
As Cheryl chattered on about her imaginary date with Bobby Sherman, I realized what I was going to have to do. And how hard it would be.
I knew it’d take time. The road to popularity couldn’t be built in a day. But I had a plan. In the first weeks of school, I’d hang with Cheryl, David and Wanda at the cafeteria table in the far corner. I’d lie low and try a few more times to get one of them to change with me, knowing its futility all the while. Because at the same time, I’d be keeping a lookout, seeking some seventh graders who might be willing to take this upward ride.
When I saw her with her arms crossed over her chest, I knew. She had my same look. Hiding behind her hair but all the while wishing the special people would accept her.
“Hi, I’m Joy. Eighth grade wannabe.”
She looked at me as if I was crazy. Stepped back and drew her brows together. “Huh?”
“Your name?”
“Oh, Vickie.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you talking to me?”
“You reminded me of someone.”
She tilted her head to one side.
“Someone that is going to disappear pretty soon, I think, with your help.”
Now she seemed intrigued. But I didn’t tell her my entire plan just then. Just that I wanted to be friends. Didn’t want to scare her away just yet.
Over the next few weeks, Vickie and I started hanging out more and more. As I got to know her, I could see why things were tough f
or her. She’d gone to some Christian private school up until sixth grade, so didn’t really know anyone at the junior high. Plus, her parents were mega strict and made her dress all churchy, in long jumpers and knee sox. Maybe she didn’t finish my sentences or understand why I dreamed of a different world, but she was pliable.
And that was what I needed.
At lunch, Cheryl had stopped waving me over. I guess she knew the score. I could see it in the way her face fell the last time I’d ignored that brace-faced smile.
One thing I’ll say about her is, she’s smart. Not only book-smart, but people-smart. Great grades, good flute player, even the ins and outs of popularity. But while she accepted things as they are, shrugging off the cruel comments, I wanted to change the whole friggin’ world. Including my status in it.
I did get a twinge of guilt when I passed by, and almost stopped to say hi. Until I heard the hiss of “Freak” from the popular table. That set my shoulders in determination. And the mask on my face.
Anyhow, today was the day. I was armed with an arsenal of blue eyeshadow, crème blush, and strawberry lip gloss. Vickie and I would eat fast and then head to the bathroom, where we’d slowly apply frosted blue to each other’s eyes and wait.
I was smearing a fourth coat on Vickie’s lids when Maria Wood and Karen Alanson walked in. Cool. These girls weren’t part of Angie’s mean crowd. They hung out with the popular kids, true, but never joined in when Angie started her taunts.
“Hi,” Karen said, approaching the mirror to scratch at a zit on her cheek.
I tried to act nonchalant as I said “Hey” back.
She started to ask about our make-up, so I offered to share. Lifting the wand, I said, “I think this color is perfect for you.”
And so it began. First with Maria and Karen. Then more girls. I was starting to be accepted. But for some reason, Angie’s crowd persisted in their mean words. God, I hated the bus!
One afternoon, still panting from running away from her and Shawn’s torment, I stared into the mirror, seeing green eyes so pale they nearly faded into my eye sockets. Two new pimples were threatening to erupt in the middle of my forehead and my frizzed hair was going in so many directions, it could have been used as a compass. I could see why they called me a dog.
I was one.
I started to remove the make-up still coloring my face when something stopped me. Instead, I applied a large swath of icy frost to each lid and rubbed a circle of rouge into each cheek.
No better.
Dejected, I picked up the soap and washcloth and began to lather my face. I scrubbed. Rub off those zits! Harder. Get rid of those stupid pale cheeks! I tugged at my mousy hair that now was losing its summer highlights. “Ugly dog.” I dug deeper into my skin with the washcloth. God, I hated that face! If I could have ripped it off, I would have.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Fists pounded on the door. “Hey, Joy, hurry up in there. You’re not the only one in the family, you know!”
“Shut up! I’m busy!” I cried.
When I looked back at the mirror, a macabre stranger with dripping soap on a bright red face stared back. She could have been one of those weird creatures in a Sunday afternoon horror movie.
“Full-on dog,” I said, wiping away the soap with a towel.
A few moments later, all traces of makeup and soap were gone. But my ugliness? That remained, hanging on like the string unraveling at the bottom of my fringed towel. Even if you pulled, the splitting weft would only get longer until finally ending up in tatters.
The only solution was to cut it all off.
I looked around. But I didn’t have any scissors. Or even a knife.
Hardened faces flash in and out.
While concrete barriers
Encase me
Well, my great plan isn’t turning out all that great. Some popular girls on the fringe are accepting Vickie and me but The Crowd is still as mean as ever. I don’t get it. What am I doing wrong? I’ve tried sharing my make-up, signed up for guitar class, and even put a little hydrogen peroxide in my hair to lighten it. But still it’s “dog” and “frr-eak” every day.
I tried going to the Winter Formal last month, but it was just like seventh grade. No one asked me to dance. And I was ready. Had been watching American Bandstand and Soul Train for moves. Learned this cool backbend floor slap, too.
Christmas was… just like last year. Oh, sure, I got what I asked for, a new Yamaha guitar with a black case, and we ate a lot yummy treats and, as usual, visited Grandma. I even made Dad a special present, a collage of places we’d visit together. I spent hours combing through magazines to find the right ones. Just like the Brady Bunch did, we’d go to all kinds of places—Hawaii, the Grand Canyon, maybe even New York City. I wrapped it carefully, too, tucking in the edges so the corners were smooth like Mom showed me. Best job ever.
Then I waited and waited.
Well, it’s good that I have a big closet.
I asked Mom why he didn’t come when he wrote he was going to. She said, “He’s just an asshole, a big asshole.” But I don’t agree. I think it’s me. Something repels people. Maybe it’s because I’m not adorable like Dad’s new kids. They’re little and cute. Or so he told me on the phone back in October when he said he might visit this Christmas.
I still haven’t met them.
Sometimes, I dream I do something so amazing that my homeliness doesn’t matter. Like save somebody. Like if I was biking past the park and there was this screech of tires and a crash of metal and I jumped the curb to find the victims inside burning cars and used my super thirteen-year-old strength to pry the doors open and rescue both families before the giant explosion. Then the reporters would come, and I’d be on TV, and the mean girls would stop calling me dog and Dad would have to come visit because parents have to attend the honoring ceremony.
I’ve biked all over, but in my neighborhood the cars go slow and obey the rules.
“We’re going to have to kick it up a notch, Vickie,” I said, when she came over to listen to 45’s in my room.
“I don’t know how. It’s like we’re locked out.”
“I think I have the key.” I reached under my bed and pulled out the pack of Virginia Slims I’d stolen from Mom’s cigarette case in the garage.
Vickie’s brown eyes widened. “I don’t know, Joy. If I get caught...”
“We’re not going to get caught. And you know it’s what they do.”
“Yeah, saw ‘em behind the stall in the bathroom. Sharing one.”
“But we’ll have to practice first. Come on, we’ll go out to the field.”
I shoved the pack into the bottom of my purse, and then tried to act all nonchalant when I asked Mom if Vickie and I could go for a walk.
“Thirteen-year-olds do need exercise, Mom,” I said, making my eyes so wide you’d think they were fried ostrich eggs.
“Yeah, Mrs. Wright. We are just working on our…” Vickie looked at me.
“Figures. Gotta keep slim, you know.”
Mom looked me up and down and tilted her head to one side. “Joy, that’s the last thing you have to worry about.”
“Actually, it’s for me, Mrs. Wright. Been trying to lose a few pounds. Joy’s just being nice.” Good save, Vickie. That was totally believable since she’s always complaining about the baby fat around her tummy.
Mom nodded and the two of us marched out the door doing high knee lifts in our best Jack LaLanne exercise show imitation. Thinking we might be watched, we kept it up until rounding the corner. Laughing, I draped an arm over Vickie’s shoulder and led her toward the fence edging our tract.
A minute later, were alone in the eucalyptus and oak fields where winter leaves carpeted the ground in brown feathers. Vickie kicked a pile and giggled when they fluttered onto my head.
“Hey, cool it!” I said.
“Like this?” She giggled again and launched a bigger heap my way.
After punting back, I said, “Come on, goof, we’re on a missio
n,” and began crunching through the littered branches and leaves. The rhythmic rustling of every step seemed to say, Soon, Joy, soon.
I began dreaming of a life beyond geekdom, where popularity’s pearly gates opened and shone down on my haloed head. “Oh, this? It’s just a cig,” I imagined saying to The Crowd as I blew a long column of smoke into the air and flicked ash like a glamorous movie star in an old black and white movie.
Meanwhile, all the popular kids would ooh and aah.
“Ready?”
Vickie nodded and leaped into a shallow ravine below. I followed and then we skirted along until we found a couple of trees to hide behind. After crouching down, I pulled out the magical charms that would soon cast our popularity spell.
The matches I’d brought were the kind they give away in restaurants and pretty cheap. I opened the book and tore one out before looking to Vickie for help.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Me neither. Even when they were teaching us how to make teepee or log cabin campfires on Catalina, the counselors lit them.” I tried scraping the match over the striker, but nothing happened. Pushed harder. Still no spark. Repeated it until the paper was all crinkled and torn. Threw that one in my purse. I am not a litterbug. I did this like seven times, until Vickie finally suggested folding the book in half with the scratch part inside and pulling the match through it.
It worked! She stuck the end of the cigarette into the flame and waited for something to happen. But it didn’t really catch. She tilted her head to one side and waved it around.
“I think you have to put it in your mouth and puff on it. That’s how my mom does it, anyhow.”
“How?”
I reached for the cigarette in her hand and set it on my lips. “Like this.” Acting like it was a straw, I sucked in.
“You try,” she said.
“’kay.” This time, Vickie lit the match and cupped a hand around the flame before lifting it toward me. As soon it reached the end I drew in a long breath. I immediately started coughing and dropped the cigarette.
Finding Joy Page 4