We all live in separate worlds. And it pisses me off.
Ever since Charles Manson made ‘hippie’ a symbol of evil, kids have stopped hitting the streets to march for peace. Now we teens steal behind trees in parks or shut ourselves into the back of Chevy Vans, where we pass joints around and listen to Pink Floyd take us to the dark side of the moon.
On that side, no one cares when gang fights break out. Over there, it doesn’t matter if we are denying people of color their rights. We breathe in Columbian smoke and the guitar’s riffs fill our ears as we listen to Pink Floyd’s quiet desperation guiding us ever further from the light.
On the dark side of the moon, we are so high we don’t notice the rest of the world. Our vision is blurred and all we see are the twinkling stars in space.
Twenty-Nine
Kyle
Well, stupid Joy is home again. Making everything all uptight and stuff. And things were going so great while she was at camp. Dad and Mom sat close to each other on the couch and laughed at that funny alien in the Mork and Mindy show. One Saturday, we had a party and I got to invite Rick; we hung out in my room and played Dungeons and Dragons all night. It was awesome.
Two days later, we picked up Joy in Long Beach and everything changed. I don’t know why I had to come, anyhow. It’s not like she was happy to see me or anything. As soon as she got off the boat, her grin froze all weird and whatever she was saying to the girl next to her stopped. She barely said ‘hi’. She could have at least asked me what I’d been doing these eight weeks. But no! Ms. I’m-such-a-cool-teenager would never stoop so low as to have a conversation with her thirteen-year-old brother.
Dumb Joy.
The whole drive home, she barely said anything. Just mumbled answers to Mom and kept scratching her pen over that old journal of hers. Every time she looked my way, I thought she might be starting some sort of conversation. But it’s like she didn’t see me. Her eyes got all glassy like a baby doll’s and then she’d write something else.
Curious, I tried to peek over her shoulder.
“Get back on your own side, stupid head,” she said, slapping a hand over the page.
“I am.” I crossed my arms and looked out the window.
Three days have passed and she still isn’t talking to me, or anyone else for that matter. Just stays in her room strumming that guitar, or reading books she’s not supposed to, or, I don’t know what. Mom hasn’t said anything, and Dad says, “Children should be seen but not heard.”
Unless adults ask questions. Yesterday, Dad asked me about basketball try-outs. When I told him I made the freshman team, he punched my shoulder and said, “That’s my boy.”
Even though it hurt a little, I grinned, rubbing at it.
Yeah, maybe it’s better with Joy in her room.
Thirty
Joy
Well, I started my senior year. BFD. I thought it would be different. You know? Like the grass on the field would look greener than ever before. The sidewalks would be cleaned of the gray and black gum splotches, shining like a Wizard of Oz Yellow Brick Road. The gym would have bleachers so smooth you’d think they were made of mahogany. And every foxy guy that walked past would check me out and whistle long and low.
The reality didn’t quite match my expectations.
Yeah, it’s cool to be the oldest on campus. The sophomores try to sit with you at lunch and the freshmen look up to you with open-mouthed awe. Well, except my stupid little brother, who makes faces when I walk by, but I ignore him.
But Gym still sucks. I mean, why did I have to get a locker next to Barbara Perfect Boobs? Her rack is so big you could rest a whole pie on it. And when we dress out, she doesn’t hide it. Oh no. Instead, she slowly takes off her top like she’s doing a striptease in Vegas before slipping on a Glamorise sports bra. Then she sticks out her chest, telling us that’s how she will never get saggy boobs.
I hated to point out to her that no matter how hard you try, gravity wins.
Anyhow, whenever we change, she just stands there, hands on hips, letting those round D cups shine like headlights at every envious girl in the room. And no, I never grew, thank you very much. I’m still a double A and only wear bras because Ronny would have a tizzy fit if I didn’t. But I sure as shit don’t take it all off in Gym. Even in the shower, I only undress halfway and rinse off my bottom half before hiding under a towel.
I have to admit that I have okay legs. Not chubby and full of cellulite, but long and skinny like one of the models in Mom’s glamour magazines. Everyone says I look nice in shorts, so I’m cool with wearing them in P.E. Just wish I had something on top to match.
Sigh.
I’m trying to up my cool meter, but Angie and some other chicks in Algebra are giving me shit. Why did I have to get a class with that tormentor? She keeps whispering behind me. And it’s just loud enough for the kids around to hear but, of course, not quite loud enough for Mr. Welch to tell her to be quiet and pay attention.
“Why do they let such dogs in school?” Angie says, lifting her zitless chin in my direction.
Then some cheerleader princess next to her nods. “Yeah, they should be in the pound.”
“Woof,” adds a jarhead from the wrestling team.
I hate Algebra.
I was complaining to Lisa about it out on the Quad last week when a freakizoid came up to us. She said she’d overheard my problem and had a plan. We didn’t know whether to listen or not, so did a ‘talk to the hand’. But after a while, I started thinking about it, wondering if maybe her plan would make them shut up.
I didn’t tell Lisa, but I decided to chat up the Weirdo and see what she had to say.
Big mistake, but more about that later.
I made it into Journalism. My one saving grace. Most of my classes are so friggin’ boring, you have to be high to stay awake in them, but Journalism is a kick. Here, I get to be just Joy.
Our classroom is way down the hill past the gym, with windows that face the fields so even if Mrs. Plante were a drag, I’d have something pretty to look out at.
But Mrs. Plante is anything but boring. On the first day of school, she met each of us at the door with a dainty handshake, her bracelet-filled wrist tinkling like some sort of fairy in a story book.
“Welcome, writer of the future. What be thy name?”
“Uhh, Joy?”
“Enter a place of wonder and find your seat.”
When I walked in, every desk had a name tag just like in elementary school. But these weren’t ordinary name tags. Mrs. Plante must have really done her homework because below our calligraphed name was a resume of our English accomplishments. Mine had grades from freshman year, poetry I’d gotten in last year’s paper and her own opinion of one piece. Original similes and good imagery, she wrote about my Hills Like Shoulders poem. At the bottom of the name tag were upcoming months, with blank spaces next to them which she obviously expected us to fill in as the year progressed.
Once we were all settled and had read our name tags, Mrs. Plante walked around the room, silently placing a single sheet of paper in the center of our desks. We looked at each other, perplexed.
Where was the rule lecture? When would she start talking about all of her expectations? How would grades be assigned?
We didn’t have long to wonder because a moment later, she tiptoed to the front of the room on friggin’ ballet slippers no less and raised a glass vase overhead.
Then she threw it on the floor.
SLAM! CRASH!
The vase broke into a thousand pieces.
“Now, writers of the future. Tellers of tales. Wordsmiths. And Hunter Thompson wannabes. I want you to describe in as few words as possible what just occurred here. And please remember the 5 W’s and the H of journalism.”
She pointed at the chalk board where it said: Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How. Then she folded her hands over her paisley skirt belted with fringed macramé and gave us a nod to begin.
Senior year is going t
o rock!
Thirty-One
Iris
I slid the Lincoln into the slot and slammed on the brakes, almost hitting my head on the steering wheel in the process. They’re so touchy, it’ll take some getting used to. Got out to see if it was okay. Of course, I was crooked, so I tried backing up to straighten it out. It took three tries. Ronny says most women can barely drive but I am so bad, I must have showed someone my tits to get a license. And since the new Lincoln Continental is as big as the boat Ronny wants to buy, parking is a real pain in the ass.
“I won’t have my wife driving a crap car,” Ronny said, when he brought it home.
I thought the old Plymouth Coupe was fine, but I didn’t dare argue. “It’s pretty. I like the beige color.”
“Not beige, champagne, like my tastes.” He paused, shaking his head at me as if I were younger than Kyle. He ran a hand along the sleek exterior. “A vinyl hard top and oval opera windows. Three speed automatic. Rear wheel drive. V-8. A full-size luxury sedan. It’s about time you show a little class.”
I nodded, making sure to thank Ronny profusely. And vowed to be extra careful when I park.
Flipping the visor down, I checked my lipstick and patted my hair. Trying to come up with a lie to tell Ronny, I walked toward the Hillview High sign with the wildcat on the side. Then, I got a little turned around. But after asking a boy with hair so long, only close inspection would verify his sex, I was pointed in the right direction and managed to find the administration building.
Taking a deep breath, I approached the glass double doors which reflected the parking lot, a couple of shrubs, and a woman approaching behind me. I looked over my shoulder and blinked.
Where did she go?
I stood there for a couple of moments before realizing that I’d been looking at my own reflection. Unclenching my fists, I pulled open the door, which creaked so loudly I thought perhaps the Tin Man was nearby, providing sound effects. The rumpled secretary typing away at the front desk glanced up through cat-eyeglasses. “May I help you?”
I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Wright, here to see, Mr… Mr…” Why can’t I remember the principal’s name?
She looked me over from head to toe, apparently rating me on a respectability scale and finding me severely lacking. “Mayer?” she suggested.
Tucking one unbuttoned placket over the other to hide my cleavage, I nodded.
She picked up a phone and pressed one of the buttons. “Mr. Mayer, Joy Chapel’s mother is here,” she said in a superior voice, as if she and the principal shared a secret about me.
Even if I live to be a hundred, I do not believe I will ever feel at ease in a principal’s office. Too many hours spent there as a kid. Iris was caught cursing again. Iris pushed a girl in line. Iris violated dress code. Back then, they paddled you, which was nothing in comparison to what Dad would do when I got home.
I fought the urge to smooth my hair down again as I extended a shaking hand toward the balding man behind the cheap metal desk. I guess even principals don’t get real mahogany.
“Please, have a seat, Mrs. Wright.”
Clutching my purse in my lap, I lowered myself onto the wooden chair directly opposite him. I gave him an expectant look that he returned for long moments, before raising my eyebrows in the uncomfortable silence. I had just gotten up the courage to ask him why he’d called me in when he finished my thought.
“Have you noticed any changes in Joy lately?”
“No, not really. Why?”
He picked up a typed spreadsheet and replied, “To begin with, her grades. Her B average has dropped to a D.”
“What?”
“She’s, let’s see what her teachers say…” He scanned the document. “… not completing assignments, late to class on five occasions, passing notes, disrespect, and then yesterday…” He sighed.
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday, your daughter took another student’s purse, smeared red paint all over it, and threw it in the trash.”
“Joy? She’s got a heart bigger than this whole school. Always bringing home strays, feeling sorry for every sad-faced kid, begs me for money to give to hobos.”
“Let’s call her in and hear her side of the story.” He buzzed his secretary, requesting Joy’s presence.
I barely recognized the girl that shuffled through the door. Her hair was lighter than it used to be and hung down over most of her face. When did she bleach it? It still didn’t hide the heavy make-up on her eyes and cheeks. Where the hell she got that, I don’t know. In place of the cute jumper and neat skirt I’d set out for her the night before were an old sweatshirt and low-cut jeans that flared over platform shoes. Those shoes were for special occasions!
Even in the heels she looked smaller, as if she’d been growing backwards in some Alice in Wonderland fantasy. She was slumped over and wore the scowl usually reserved for Ronny.
Who was this girl?
“Now Joy,” Mr. Mayer began, “why don’t you tell us why you decided to deface Kourtney’s purse?”
Joy stared at her shoes and shrugged.
“Joy. Answer him.”
“She was going to make me do stuff.”
“Explain,” Mr. Mayer urged.
“She was going to make me join her gang. And I didn’t want to.”
“Now, no one can make you join a gang.”
“He’s right, Joy,” I added, absolutely perplexed.
“Uh-huh. She said that if I didn’t join her gang, she was going to get her boyfriend to beat me up.”
Mr. Mayer and I explained how that would never happen, that she should have come to an adult, and how it still didn’t give her the right to ruin a girl’s purse. All the while, Joy kept shaking her head as if neither of us knew what we were talking about.
“Regardless of your reasons, your actions were against the rules and have consequences.” Mr. Mayer turned to me. “Your daughter is going to be suspended for the next three days. During that time, I hope she reflects on her behavior. And if I were you, I’d think of getting her some help. I’ve seen this before and it’s best to nip it in the bud.”
Mouth opening and closing, I gaped at the man’s head. For some reason, I couldn’t help but stare at how the lights made his bald head shine. Almost shooting light beams around the room. Hot lasers that I knew would be coming when Ronny found out. And things have been so much better.
Damn.
Or maybe I could keep it from him.
I must have sat there staring for a long time, because the next thing I knew, Mr. Mayer was waving a pen and asking me to sign the suspension notice. In a fog, I rose from my chair and scribbled my name before leading Joy past the smug-faced secretary.
In my brand-new shiny Lincoln Continental, I placed shaking hands on the steering wheel and rested my head there.
“Why, Joy? Why?” I whispered to the silent sixteen-year-old next to me.
Refusing to answer, Joy crossed her arms and curled up against the door.
While I tried to figure out how to hide this from my husband.
Thirty-Two
Joy
The disembodied whisper
Their voices howling whips
And rattling chain mail
Their hearts beat with
The recurring thud
Of stocks encasing
Arms and skulls.
They lie
Shivering beneath
Coverlets
Cupping the ears
That are not there.
They long
To reach for the light
And put to rest
The incessant hauntings
But bedclothes
Hold them fast
In the dungeon
Of an imagined
Damnation
My parents think I’m nuts. Crazy. Bonkers. Off in La La Land. Fucking certifiable. So, they decided I needed to see some shrink. Well, they can make me go but they can’t make me tell him shit.
&
nbsp; I was sitting in some stupid office, all dark wood, with a sculpted head of a dead guy and more books than any dude could ever read, while this fatso with thick glasses looked me up and down and wrote notes in a spiral pad. Take a picture, why don’t you? Jeesh.
“Now, Joy, your mother shared a few things with me but now I’d like to get your perspective on what might be happening,” Dr. Bond, not James superspy, said.
“I don’t know.” You’re the doctor, figure it out.
“Let’s start with what happened at school.”
Oh, you mean that place where I’m humiliated day after day? That torture chamber where kids follow me around and call me dog? Where I get high just to deal? I thought, but said, “I got in trouble.”
“Yes, your mother told me that and your initial explanation, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”
“I messed up a girl’s purse.”
“Go on.”
“With blush, red blush.”
“I see.”
No, he didn’t. He didn’t know shit. He didn’t see how this girl was telling everyone that I was going to be in her gang, but she was more of a freak than I was. So now, in addition to being called dog, I’d also be labeled one of the Weirdos, member of an ostracized gang. I mean she wasn’t even Mexican, just some white girl like me, trying to find a way to keep The Crowd from teasing her. Only she really was weird, I mean like dumb, and wore these homemade dresses straight out of 1952. I couldn’t let anyone associate me with her.
“And then I got suspended.” I shrugged.
“Let’s try a different tack.” He sighed. “How did that make you feel?”
Fucking awesome. “I don’t know. Kind of bad.”
“In what way?”
Finding Joy Page 12