Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  I don’t get why Mrs. Plante loves everything Janice writes. She’s always praising that New Yorker’s ‘organization’, ‘ability to cite sources’, and friggin’ ‘voice’. Voice? I have a voice, too. But she says I am hiding it somewhere.

  She set my essay on my desk, red pen markings all over it and said, “Your writing seems detached, Joy. As if you are outside of yourself, observing. Don’t put a wall between the words and your voice. I want to hear you, not some robot mimicking what you think sounds intelligent.”

  I’m not a robot! My problem is I feel too much. The colors of life are so vibrant sometimes that I have to close my eyes to keep them from overwhelming me. And not just when I’m high. I can be totally straight and see it. I try to explain it to Janice and Lisa, but they don’t get it.

  I guess I was born too late. The hippies in the ‘60s understood about seeking the sublime and so have philosophers, rockers and poets in history. Like in English class last year Mr. Ramirez read to us from Walden Pond, about a rocking guy who went into the woods and just soaked up all this shit. He really saw it, man; the animals, sky, clouds, reflection on the water, even the veins on leaves in the trees.

  I could relate to old Henry David when he said, “A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”

  Every Catalina summer I felt the same way. For me, it wasn’t a lake, but the Pacific that whispered things to me that ended up in my journal. I wrote, Fuck yeah, Joy. There is wonder. Just look!

  I suppose that doesn’t sound all profound like Thoreau, but I don’t believe that life was meant to be just fine. We were born from love. It should be freaking sublime! Why couldn’t Mrs. Plante see that in my article? I was trying to convey it. Henry David Thoreau perceived something about society in the 1800s, but now guys like Cheech and Chong were our philosophers, a couple of the rare ones speaking for a generation.

  One guy on TV called them counterculture comedians. I liked that. Maybe I’d include that in the article. Another person I’d been reading a lot about lately was Timothy Leary. He believed that LSD was a way to open the mind, saying, “LSD is a psychedelic drug which occasionally causes psychotic behavior in people who have NOT taken it.”

  Ha!

  Many people throughout the 1960s believed that psychedelics provided glimpses into spirituality and increased connections to the universe. Some even thought taking the drug could reduce violence. One man, who’d robbed a Hollywood producer at gunpoint and then later taken acid, said he’d “renounced violence” and even returned what he stole. Hell, there was even this group called The Brotherhood of Eternal Love that believed LSD could help create a utopia.

  Friggin’ utopia. A place with no violence. Shit, yeah.

  Chewing on one lip, I read over Mrs. Plante’s notes, trying to decipher what the f—

  she wanted. Lost in thoughts of a world without people like Ronny, I scribbled several ideas in the margin. Then, the bell rang, and I jolted upright. With everyone shuffling toward the exit, I shook my head, and shoved my essay inside of my folder before stumbling out of my chair.

  “Hey Janice, wait up.”

  She was already at the door when she turned. “What?”

  “How about, hello Joy, how have you been?”

  She flipped her auburn hair and shrugged. “Hey, how awr ya?”

  I grinned as we strolled into the hall. “Full-on excited about the concert.”

  She looked at me as if confused. “Concert?”

  Was she kidding? “World Fest. You got your ticket, right? It’s only two months away.”

  Janice held up her hand like a stop sign and pointed down the hall. After pivoting away on one foot, she shouted through cupped hands, “Michelle, I want my sweater back! You’ve had it two months.”

  I opened and closed my mouth, but even if something had come out, it would have been too late. She’d already jogged into a clutch of giggling chicks.

  Forty-Five

  Joy

  .“Joy, over here!” someone called from across the quad.

  I squinted. Was that Lisa? She looked fuzzy and distorted like a messed-up TV. I stumbled toward her, trying to walk in a straight line, but for some reason my zig-zagging feet wouldn’t cooperate. They dragged over the concrete until I shoulder-bumped into some lump of a kid, mumbled “Sorry”, and then staggered toward the voice.

  “Hello.” I started to say more but then I noticed how amazing my tongue was. Soft and pliable. Wow! I twisted it from side to side before running it over the roof of my mouth, teeth, and lips.

  “Girl,” said Lisa, “you are fucked-up. What’d you take?”

  “Jus’ some Blue Heaven. Like that.” I pointed at the sky. “It’s beautiful!” I threw my head back and swiped at the diamond clouds that now sparkled overhead. One seemed so close, I tried to snatch it. The swirling gem dissipated into mist and I teetered.

  Lisa grabbed my arm. “Careful.”

  “Hey, wash your hands.”

  “You mean watch? Shit, we gotta get you outa here. You’re a full-on bust.” Lisa looked around, then said something over her shoulder. I think she was calling someone, but her voice was all echoey and I couldn’t tell what she was saying.

  Everything sounded so funny.

  I snorted and then started to giggle. Pitched forward. Felt hands under my arms jerking me upright. Next thing I knew, I was hobbling over undulating walkways, past blurry buildings, onto ground so vividly green it could have been a dayglo cartoon. When I bent to look at the amazing texture of each blade, I slipped on a clump, lurched forward and fell to my knees.

  I giggled. “My legs are water. Just like you said, Lisa. Look!”

  “Get up, idiot!” Lisa said.

  Shielding my eyes from the sun, I glanced up at a figure next to her. Dark hair blew back in slow motion like a romantic TV scene. I blinked as it changed into a black stallion with the wind through its mane. “Whoa,” I said.

  “Come on,” the horse said, as it faded into a familiar face.

  “Frankie? Zat you?”

  “Yes again, Joy. Just like I told you three times before.” Frankie and Lisa pulled me to my feet. “Now walk.”

  I tried but my legs didn’t want to cooperate. I shrugged and Frankie and Lisa half-dragged, half pushed me down the sidewalk toward some psychedelic flames.

  “Frankie’s van! Time to smoke a bowl!” I clapped my hands. Or tried to. For some reason they didn’t make a sound. Tried again. They flapped past each other, creating copies of themselves like handprints in air. I giggled again.

  “Yeah, as if you need to get higher,” said Lisa. She held me up while Frankie unlocked the side door and hopped inside.

  When I lifted a leg to get in, my shin bumped against the metal step, knocking me backwards. I would have fallen right onto the concrete if Lisa hadn’t had a death grip on me. I grinned. “Thanks.”

  “Come on. Get in.” She pushed from behind while Frankie grabbed my hands and hauled me up.

  The year before, Frankie had tricked out his Chevy van with wall-to-wall carpet, a booming sound system, mood lighting, cozy captain’s chairs, and a platform bed in the back. I guess he thought the rad interior would get him a lot of action, although I had trouble imagining Frankie naked. He was tiny, maybe five-two and so skinny you’d think he was one of Kyle’s friends.

  I landed on all fours, to find living shag carpet with undulating and wriggling fuzzy worms looking for a friend. “Hello,” I said as I petted the fibers. “Look, Lisa.”

  “Shh! Joy! You’re going to get us busted.” She hopped in and Frankie slid the side door closed.

  Ignoring her boring advice, I kept on stroking my new friends. They felt wonderful! I ran my hand over the floor three times until it snagged on something lumpy. Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, I scrutinized my prize, scrunching my face until I realized that I was holding onto the burned end of a j
oint that someone must have dropped. “A roach! Light it up.”

  “Yeah, right. Like you need to get higher,” Frankie said.

  “Higher! Fuck, yeah!”

  “Joy, what’s up with you? Every week it’s something,” Lisa said, hitting me with the back of her hand. “From running away to a freaking tree fort, to smoking a bowl in the girls restroom, to now doing acid at school. You’re out of control.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “No!” Frankie and Lisa said in unison.

  I cocked my head. Tried to focus, knowing there was a message in there somewhere. Out of control? I stared at the walls.

  I furrowed my brow and kept staring, but my thoughts were all jumbled and fractured. Then the bubble window caught my attention. Its tinted glass swelled ever larger until light beams like Fourth of July sparklers shot out. They extended past my head, glimmering in shades of silver, pink, and turquoise.

  When they began twisting into kaleidoscopic helixes, the forgotten roach fell back into the sea of worms. I reached out to grasp the brilliant shafts and my hands morphed into fractals with doppelganger trails. I swiped at the whirling light beams multiple times, but they all escaped my grasp.

  I turned to Lisa. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  She patted me on the back.

  “Shit,” I heard Frankie say. “We’re going to be here awhile.”

  Forty-Six

  Joy

  I can’t figure out what’s up. It’s like I suddenly have the clap or something. Janice just gives me the three-fingered wave whenever I approach. Frankie is totally MIA and Lisa, the one friend I thought I could count on, hasn’t returned my calls for eight days.

  Okay, Diary. I’ll admit it. After my acid trip two weeks ago, I decided to try a few white crosses before school and cruised onto the quad all hyped up, telling five stories at once. It felt so cool! No shyness at all. I was talking so fast, a couple of kids even patted me on the back. Don’t know why Lisa acted the way she did, with a head tilt and narrowed eyes. She seemed kind of judgey, and then walked away. But it’s not as if I was putting a heroin needle in my arm. Speed is no big deal.

  So now I’m hiding out here instead of the amphitheater for the pep rally. Feeling kind of quivery, thinking my personality repels like metal next to a reversed magnet. If I walked out there, my switched polarity might cleave the ra-ra crowds in two. Then I’d be a lone Moses parting a repulsed teenager sea.

  I chewed on the end of my ballpoint pen and looked over at the stacks of books in front of me. Déjà vu to freshman year when this was my hangout. Back to seeking something to fill the void. Returning to the emptiness.

  Sometimes I’d read for an escape. Go off to some world where heroes kicked butt or philosophers guided me toward the sublime. But I’ve been cruising the shelves for fifteen minute and none of the books have sparked the slightest interest. Anyhow, the crowd’s roar makes it hard to focus.

  “Go, Warriors! Fight, Warriors! Go fight, team!”

  I sighed. Thought about going out there and looking for Lisa. For all of five seconds. Then imagined her holding up her talk-to-the-hand gesture and turning away. It was hard enough dealing with the shit storms at home; I didn’t know if I could handle her rejection, too.

  Fucking Ronny.

  I shook my head and rubbed my hairline where a hidden bruise from four nights ago kept me from brushing too vigorously. Closed my eyes, trying to erase the image of his approaching fists. Hell of a lot of good that did. Instead, I saw it all etched on my lids.

  Shit.

  With a curt nod, I started to rummage in my purse. I knew the tiny yellow tablets were in here somewhere. Yesterday, I’d grabbed them from the master bathroom’s medicine cabinet and shoved them inside while Mom was getting laundry from the garage. Almost got busted, emerging from their bedroom only seconds before she returned with the laundry basket tucked under one arm.

  I’d planned to wait until Friday night to take them, but what the fuck. Anything is better that this suck-fest. Might as well.

  My fingers found a couple in the folds of the purse’s lining and I tossed them into my mouth. They tasted like bitter aspirin dissolving on my tongue, but I knew that in a few seconds, that sharp flavor would dull everything else.

  The Rolling Stones called them ‘Mother’s Little Helper’ and man, that’s the truth. Just like in their song, my mom goes running for the shelter of her little helper when things get too intense. I know Ronny is due home soon when she heads to her bathroom and I hear the medicine cabinet creak open. That same sound fills the silence after… Well, I don’t want to talk about that right now.

  I kept journaling.

  I just ate a couple. Waiting for the sugar change and a sweetened soft-focus world. Soon to blur into an old-fashioned photo.

  I paused, expecting honey-dripping light everywhere. Instead, the near empty room still had harsh fluorescents hanging over a few nose-booked kids, behaving for the grouchy librarian who was ready to shush them at any moment.

  Ignoring them, I started to fill more pages and was actually getting some pretty cool stuff when, a few minutes later, a strange thing happened. The air in the silent library changed. It grew heavier and thicker. Then the ticking wall clock’s second hand paused.

  “Huh?” Gaping, I dropped my pen. It rolled across the table and headed for the edge. My lids blinked slowly as a distant brain told me to grab it. But something seemed to be wrong with my muscles because, even though I was sure that I’d told my hand to reach out, it didn’t move for long moments. The pen tumbled off the table and fell on the tiled floor with a plastic clatter.

  The librarian looked my way and lifted an accusing eyebrow. With an apologetic wave, I bent down to pick it up and shove it in my bag. Better go. I thought. I gathered up my journal, hugged it to my chest, and slung a purse over my shoulder.

  Standing in the hallway, I looked right. I considered heading for the lockers and doing my usual ‘early to class and avoid people’ thing. But then I heard the crowd’s roar and glanced left, so instead made a beeline for the amphitheater.

  Big mistake.

  By now, my fuzzy head wasn’t communicating very well with the rest of me. Even though I ordered my legs to walk in a straight line, they didn’t cooperate very well. Tripping three times on sidewalk cracks, I weaved toward the pep rally.

  An echoey stereo sound filled the sunken arena. I looked down and saw kids up on their feet applauding the cheerleaders on the stage below. And of course, who would be in the front row but Angie, who went from cheering to hugging her boyfriend every two seconds. Angie of the perfect hair and curves in all the right places. Stupid Angie, who has spent the last five years coming up with ever more cruel ways to make my life misery.

  Teetering a bit, I stood on the top step and imagined all of the things I’d wished I’d said to Angie over the years. I’d return every barb with a witty comeback worthy of the worst bullies in history. Bitch.

  I hadn’t even stood there for a minute when Paul Janssen, super fox, approached. A spring breeze blew his long, dark hair back from his chiseled face. Then he halted a few feet away.

  Paul is half Chumash Indian and half Jewish and is six foot tall at least. He has dark, hooded eyes and a strong jaw topped with pouty lips that I was sure would be kissing heaven. I’d been watching him for years but, truth be told, had never even spoken to him.

  I bet he didn’t even know I was alive.

  “Let’s go! Go!” the cheerleaders chanted.

  I turned toward Paul and jerked my chin in a ‘hello’.

  Ignoring me, Paul stared at the perky adorables with a smile even my high brain got. He thought they were hot. And I was invisible.

  “Give me a G!”

  “G,” I muttered, wishing I was one of the girls he was drooling over.

  “Give me an O!”

  “O!” I chimed in, hopping down two steps. I giggled and covered my mouth.

  “What does that spell?”
>
  I joined the crowd. “Go!”

  I glanced back. Paul’s gaze was still fixed on the stage.

  The Paul-hypnotizing beauties cried, “Yes, let’s go, go, go!”

  He licked his lips.

  Go, Joy. Now’s your chance.

  Suddenly, there was this sensation as if someone had taken over my body. And maybe they did, because my arms lifted and dangled aloft as if a puppeteer had just jerked on attached strings. These invisible cords pulled me forward and, with flapping arms, I bounded down the aisle.

  I leapt up on stage. “Go, team!” I cried, with a karate kick.

  The cheerleader next to me pushed me and said, “Get off!”

  Fighting to stay upright, I fisted my hands and lifted my elbows. “To the G-G!” I slurred.

  Now the cheering crowd grew silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two teachers rush toward me. And the next few seconds were kind of blurred.

  I remember doing a leap and a twirl while grinning up to what I hoped was Paul Janssen’s admiring face. I had started to take a bow when adult hands locked on my arms and hurried me off the concrete stage.

  And straight to the principal’s office.

  Forty-Seven

  Joy

  Last night, Ronny was the worst I’d ever seen. I mean, he could be bad, a couple of punches here and there, but it was usually over in less than a minute. And in the last year he’d only been really rough with Mom three times, maybe four? I’d got a couple of black eyes, but only after getting in trouble or yelling that he couldn’t tell me what to do.