Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

Vickie picked up the glowing stick. “Ha! Some smoker you are.”

  I crossed my arms. “You try then.”

  She lifted it tentatively to her lips and inhaled, not breathing deeply like I had but blowing out a quick puff right away. Vickie gave me a superior look, but she was still choking when she said, “No, hem, problem.”

  When she passed it back to me, I copied her short drag. Sputtered and coughed again. But at least I didn’t drop it this time.

  Vickie rolled her eyes.

  Smoking was definitely going to take some practice.

  Ten

  Kyle

  Joy has been acting weird lately. Well, she’s always weird, but since around Christmas she’s been certifiable. I mean, why does a thirteen-year-old lock herself in her room so much?

  Not that I mind. I kind of like the silence. It’s better than hearing her have a cow every time I get the bathroom first. Or the hair torture.

  But she at least used to notice when I was popping wheelies. Even gave me advice on how to lean my Schwinn Stingray back so I wouldn’t fall over. I pretended to ignore her, of course, but when she was gone, I tried one of her tips. Actually worked.

  Now I barely see her. I wonder what she does in there hour after hour. Once, out of curiosity, I knocked and walked in before she could yell “Go away!” I found her curled around one of Mom’s books. The Exorcist.

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to read that,” I said.

  “Get out of my room, Kyle!”

  “I’m gonna tell Mom.”

  She sat up and gave me a dirty look. “Is that like your mission in life, or something? To be a tattletale, a narc?”

  That stung. “No. I don’t always tell. Not for you, but because I don’t want Dad to—”

  “Yeah, your Dad might get mad, huh? What about mine?”

  I tilted my head, confused. “Yours?”

  “You know I have one, right? A real dad. Not some fake one.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Just stared.

  “I bet you wanna know about my real dad, don’t you? You’re so freaking curious. Well, I’ll show you my real dad.” She sprang up and jerked a thumb at her closet. Joy slid the bypass door open and kicked away some of the shoes and dirty clothes on the floor. Under her pink robe was something shiny with a big silver bow on top. A red and green package. No, not one; actually, a few presents.

  I stepped closer and read the tag on the gift. “To Dad. Love, Joy.” I put my hands on my hips. “Christmas is way over. I don’t think Dad would want those now.”

  “They’re not for Ronny, dumb-ass.”

  “For…?” Then it hit me. That was a present for Joy’s real dad. But he hadn’t come around this Christmas or for a long time, ever since, I couldn’t even remember. Now I noticed the other gifts stacked under that one. I started to count, 2-3-4. Each was a little more faded than the one on top of it.

  “Your dad keeps mine away. His stupid temper,” Joy’s mouth said, but her eyes seemed to know it was a lie.

  Joy can be weird, but Christmas… I decided to pretend. “Okay, I won’t tell.”

  “Cool.” She didn’t look at me before closing the closet door, just slid down the wall and reopened her book. Started reading.

  I started to ask more, but her eyes were stuck to that book. I tiptoed out.

  Joy may be weird but I guess she knows that it’s easier to go into stories that never happened than be part of real Christmases that did.

  Eleven

  Joy

  In the quietest moments

  Comes the loudest voice of all.

  I learned three new chords! D7, A minor, and a barred E. The bar chord was the toughest ‘cause you gotta flatten your first finger over all the strings and then get your other fingers all spread out. And since mine are kind of short, it isn’t easy to stretch the pinkie all the way to the B string. It sounded a little dull, not ringing like Mr. Curry’s chords, but I managed to press down all my fingers at once.

  Guitar class is my favorite. An elective I was lucky to get into. In this class, we learn songs they play on the radio, get to go outside on the grass, and even share some things we write. It’s all because Mr. Curry is so cool. We call him Furry Curry because he has this big, bushy beard that is so thick, it makes you think of a fuzzy stuffed animal. I bet if you ever touched it, it’d tickle like feathers.

  Not that I ever would. Gross.

  The kids are pretty cool here, too. The only chick from The Crowd is a new girl named Lynette who moved here from way down south, like Oxnard or L.A. or something. Somehow, she immediately got into Angie Van Gorman’s favor and everyone else just followed suit. Still, she never calls me names, just tells stories of how it was at her old house, with the station-wagon-driving surfers sporting boards on racks and the big malls and the freeways and stuff.

  I liked Lynette. And she was one of the better players in class. Not like me. I didn’t exactly suck, but I wasn’t the fastest learner, either. My stubby fingers just didn’t stretch like some kids.

  Now, Kent Freeman could play. I wondered why he was even taking class in junior high, he was so beyond the rest of us. He could play all the bar chords, plus notes, and even songs. Not just the rhythm but the melody. Kent had this ear. He could hear something and then pluck it out note by note, just like the real song.

  Once, Mr. Curry challenged Kent to show his stuff. With a smirk that made his fuzzy beard all cockeyed, he put on the song, Sunshine on my Shoulders, and asked Kent to memorize it.

  While the needle scratched over the black disc, Kent cocked his head to one side and his blond bangs fell over closed eyes. With the guitar cradled in his arms, his silent fingers moved up and down the neck in a quiet dance.

  When the record finished, Furry Curry strummed an intro to cue Kent. “Now, together,” he said.

  What happened next blew us all away. Kent started to play the song note for note!

  I gaped as Kent’s guitar became a high, clear voice. Our teacher accompanied him in a harmony that was so perfect, I could almost feel the sunshine on my shoulders.

  Kent could really make those strings sing.

  Sometimes, when I was home alone in my room, just me and my guitar, I’d try to pluck out a melody as sublime as I’d heard that day. Taking a deep breath, I’d hug the guitar to my chest and clutch the neck as if I could squeeze wonder from the strings. Then, a slightly out of tune rhythm would vibrate off the body and I’d go to a misty place.

  But it never quite came out like Kent’s.

  Although I wished I played better, it didn’t matter. When I was alone like this and creating something wonderful, I went to that land of notes where I just became. A place of peace where the mask I had to wear every day slipped off and fell to the floor.

  Have you ever experienced that? Found a place where you were one with the moment? Where it was just you and the music?

  I hope so, because times like these… well, you know.

  Twelve

  Joy

  April 22. After guitar class when Lynette asked me for gum! We went to the bathroom and shared spearmint while four of The Crowd came in. Two even talked to me. Tomorrow I’m going to go out to the field when Lynette does.

  ‘Gum’ was code for cigarettes in my journal so Mom or Kyle wouldn’t know that I was smoking if they read it. Pretty smart, if I do say so.

  After Vickie and I got the knack for how to inhale without coughing, our next step was to let everyone know. How? By hanging in the girls’ bathroom, of course. There, in the blue mist of Virginia Slims, we could be ready to show any of the popular girls who came in.

  The bummer part of this was that it put even more distance between Cheryl and me. She gave me pitying looks from across the cafeteria or in the halls. I tried to tell myself that I was better off without a goody-goody judging me, but deep down I missed my best friend.

  We planned it out for about three weeks. Since Vickie’s parents didn’t even drink wine at Christmas, much le
ss smoke, it was my job to sneak some cigs from Mom’s pack on the coffee table. Not exactly hard, since she left them there half the time and was always pacing from one room to the next in a constant cleaning bustle. Wouldn’t want Ronny to come home to a mess.

  When the coast was clear, I tapped three out, planting them under the Stay-Free pads in my purse. I figured that even if someone was suspicious, they wouldn’t look under girl-stuff but still, the first time was pretty scary. Mom came in just as I was closing my purse. I stumbled back, my heart pounding so hard I thought she might notice it pulsing off my t-shirt and ask me what was up.

  Couldn’t have been more wrong. She wandered into the living room, picked up the pack, and lit one as usual. Then she glanced at the clock and told me I better get going or I’d miss the bus.

  “Oh, okay,” I said, grabbing my brown bag on the counter.

  Once at school, Vickie acted as look-out while I headed for the girls’ bathroom to perch inside the empty stall at the end. Since no one was there yet, I decided to practice how I’d hold the stick between my fingers for the best effect. Then, when I heard two knocks, the signal from Vickie that someone cool was coming, I lit the cigarette and leaned back against the side of the stall. That way, whoever came in would see the smoke but not how hard I was trying.

  I was surprised that it actually worked. When Karen Alanson came in, she sniffed loudly and said, “Hey, who’s got a cancer stick?”

  Slowly, I stuck my head out of the stall and lifted a ‘hello’ chin her direction. “Want a drag?” I said, as nonchalantly as I could muster. What an act! In truth, I was sure that she’d say, “Who’d want to share a cig with dog-lips like yours?” I was scared totally shitless, but I think my act worked because she reached out a hand and took an expert puff that Greta Garbo would have been proud of.

  So that both of us would get to hang with the cool girls, every day either Vickie or I would stand sentinel while the other one went inside to smoke. That way, if a teacher or the principal was cruising the halls, someone could alert everyone inside.

  As the weeks went on, things got better. I mean some kids still called me dog, but there were a few who actually passed me notes asking for a cig to share, or if I liked a medium cute boy.

  One read, Do you want to go with Shane? He likes you. ‘Go’ was our shorthand for going out. It sounded more modern than going steady and basically meant that you said ‘hi’ to that boy during every break. Maybe even talked on the phone.

  Unless you were like that new girl in school, who came in wearing her bikini top under her shirt. I heard she lifted her tee at the guys and said, “I got a new suit. Do you like it?” before going out to the field behind the trees and, well, making-out. She always had hickeys up and down her neck. Way down, if you know what I mean.

  But not me. I still hadn’t even been kissed, except like from Mom. But that doesn’t count.

  I’d been three guys’ girlfriend and hadn’t even held any of their hands. I heard about it, though; how I was a being a baby for not making out. I thought of creating a fake hickey again but, after the vacuum failure, I decided it wasn’t worth it.

  Things were going pretty good so I decided to make my move. I knew Lynette hung with Angie Van Gorman’s elite crowd at lunch on the field and she usually stopped in for a smoke on the way. My plan was to tell her I had a whole pack to share with everyone and then keep following her as she walked out there.

  I gulped down my PB & J as fast as I could and rushed to what I thought of as my bathroom stall now. Didn’t even wait for Vickie to be look-out, just lit up as soon as I was there. If I had to wait through two, it was fine.

  Lynette came in laughing with Maria, hand ready to reach inside her bag for the cigarette she always carried.

  “Hey, I got one lit,” I said, motioning them over.

  We shared the Virginia Slim and then, before Lynette had a chance to say ‘later’, I told her how I had enough for everyone.

  Unsure, she eyed me up and down and exchanged a glance with Maria, who shrugged.

  She said yes!

  I felt like a hero just returned from war as we marched toward the field where Angie and her crowd were getting into a comfortable circle. Imagining ticker tape fluttering down from the school roof, I fought the urge to begin parade-waving to the kids in the halls.

  When my feet hit the grass, I fell in line behind the two of them. Lynette was so friggin’ confident. She walked ahead, her perfectly straight hair bouncing off her shoulders, chin held high like a queen or something. I take it back. She didn’t walk. She full-on strutted. And with Maria prancing alongside, you’d think they were on their way to a ceremonial ball.

  Was Joy Chapel really going out to the popular part of the field? Fighting the urge to pinch myself, I covered my mouth and giggled.

  Cooldom, here I come! A grin as big as the field split my buoyant face. I felt awesome.

  For about ten seconds.

  Then my heart started pounding and my tongue got all dry. I wanted to say something funny or avant-garde like in one of Mom’s books. Cool word, huh? Avant-garde. It’s French and means like the advanced, artsy group. I looked it up when I was reading a Cosmo article about modern styles and had been dying to use it in a sentence. Anyhow, when I opened my mouth nothing avant-garde came out. Instead, the words got all stuck in my throat.

  Damn.

  “Joy’s got a present for everyone,” Lynette said, lowering herself into a cross-legged sitting position.

  “Yeah,” I croaked copying her yoga pose. “One for everyone.” While a cramp threatened to move from thigh to hip, I fumbled in my purse for the pack I’d stolen from Mom. Closing one eye, I tossed it across the circle, but it landed in the very center. Missed Jeff Widdle by a mile.

  I didn’t know what to do. Get up and hand it to Jeff? Ask Lynette to get it? I opened and closed my mouth but didn’t move.

  No one spoke. Time stretched, an invisible clock ticking each painful second. Meanwhile, that pack sat there like a flashing alarm blaring, Do something. Do something. Angie sniggered and I started playing with the buckle on my shoe, wondering how Buster Brown made them so strong.

  Maria looked over her shoulder before coming to the rescue. “This is a total bust,” she said, hopping to her feet. She snatched the pack and tossed it to Jeff, who passed it to a sneering Angie, who passed it to Mike, who immediately passed it to Cathy. None of them so much as opened the box. You’d think it was that gross Halloween candy that stays in the bottom of your bag for weeks until it’s so stale, Mom makes you throw it in the trash.

  Finally, one kid took a cig from the pack, passing it back to me almost full. It felt like my dead hamster Scuffles in my limp hand.

  “So, Jeff, you still going with Karen?” Cathy asked.

  He replied ‘yes’ while others around the group made jokes about coupling up in the park that I didn’t understand. I listened but didn’t dare say anything until the bell rang.

  Everyone stood, but by now I was quivering so much that I was sure I’d fall over just trying to get up. I couldn’t even tell if that was my body or the ground shaking below me. Fearing an earthquake, I got on my hands and knees and took three deep breaths. Lynette raised one eyebrow and then crinkled her nose.

  I am an idiot.

  Still on all fours, I started to explain, but she’d already strutted ahead. I staggered to my feet and jogged to catch up.

  God, I wished I hadn’t.

  Once in earshot, I heard Maria say, “Looks like Lynette has a shadow.”

  Lynette glanced from me to the crowd. She flipped her hair. “I do, I do.”

  Angie smirked. “A shadow shaped like a dog.”

  “Woof,” Jeff said.

  “Shadow, shadow, where’s my shadow?” Maria sniggered.

  The next thing I knew, several of them had linked arms and started chanting, “Shadow, shadow,” over and over again.

  A distorted silhouette rippled over the grass. I halted and shoo
k my head at the shrunken figure.

  Still a freak.

  Damn.

  Thirteen

  Joy

  The crumbling walls

  Fall all around

  While men draw

  Palaces in the dust

  It’s been raining all morning. I tried opening White Fang but my eyes kept blurring on the page. Guess I’ve read it too many times. Started looking through some of Mom’s books. She’s got some spooky ones like The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane.

  In it, there’s a girl around my age who lives all alone. She’s mega-smart, brave as shit, and independent. When her dad was dying, he said he never wanted her to lose her spirit, so he figured out a way for her to have money and a house until she grew up.

  That would be so amazing. To live by yourself. No school. No one telling you what to do. No mean kids on the bus.

  So this Saturday, I curled up in one corner of my room with my giant panda and read how this girl survived. When the lady with the long, cruel fingernails came to take her away, the Little Girl made her a special tea. The kind that tasted of almonds. The kind she had to serve with almond cookies to hide the flavor.

  I was just getting to the part when a creepy guy asks her if she has a boyfriend when I heard a soft knock on my door.

  “What is it, brat?” I asked when I saw Kyle standing there, hair combed all perfect even though it was Saturday.

  He put a finger to his lips. “Can I come in?”

  I eyed him for a sec to see if he was messing with me before opening the door all the way. Once inside, he beckoned me to the other side of the room. I closed it quietly and approached. Then he just stood there, searching my face, his long-lashed blue eyes everyone compliments him on blinking.

  I raised my arms, exasperated. “What? Just tell me!”