It was with great annoyance that Cornelia put on her least expensive pair of jeans and a purple t-shirt that read, “SRHS Cheerleading.” As she was tying her Nikes over a pair of ankle-length socks, she looked up at the Daruma doll sitting on the bookshelf between her desk and her vanity where she placed him after the trial. The second eye had still not been painted on, as Cornelia’s wish had not come true on that day in the courtroom. She thought it looked like Daruma was winking at her in a very sinister way. He was all red with some gold markings, except for his face. His face was white as a ghost with black outlining his eyes, eyebrows and cheeks, and red outlining his enormous nostrils and mouth. His big eyes had orange shading around the perimeter. Cornelia always swore that Daruma’s one good eye followed her around the room. The doll creeped her out, but what could she do? It was a gift from Chad and she couldn’t get rid of it. That would break his heart.
She wished Chad was coming with her. His tree-hugging family would be all about cleaning up graffiti, but she was still grounded from seeing him, so she could not ask him to come. She was sure the site coordinator would report it back to Mrs. Hakim and then the hours she put in would be for nothing. It made her angry to think that Mrs. Hakim, who Cornelia believed had gotten her into this mess in the first place, was her service coordinator.
Cornelia walked over to her vanity and sat down. It was a beautiful vanity; the kind some girls only see in storybooks. It was cherry wood with a fresh coat of varnish and gold accents trimming every drawer and edge. The mirror always reminded Cornelia of the mirror from Snow White. But she never had to ask, “Who is the fairest of them all?” She knew that was MacKenzie Phillips, the head cheerleader at Storm River High School.
Kenzie had all of the boys at Storm River High falling at her feet. She was the queen bee of the most popular clique at SRHS. Cornelia was right on the edge of that clique, but because she was a freshman she wasn’t quite in the inner circle yet. All of the popular girls at SRHS watched Kenzie’s every move; they noted every piece of clothing, every mannerism, and every hairstyle. They all copied her, careful not to imitate too closely. That could get you singled out as a poser and that would mean banishment from the popular clique forever. Cornelia found herself hoping that Kenzie would not drive by while she was carrying out any of her community service. “Don’t be silly,” Cornelia thought to herself, “Kenzie would never be caught dead in the valley.”
Cornelia put on some lip gloss, but opted out of any more elaborate make-up. She was headed for a day of manual labor, something to which she was completely unaccustomed. She didn’t want to waste her expensive make-up on that. Her mother started limiting her to two make-up purchases a month, so Cornelia had to make it last. When it came to her hair, she settled for a ponytail, something she never wore at school, except for cheerleading practice when she didn’t want her hair getting hot and sweaty. At the actual games it was different. There were boys there, so she had to let her hair down. She always looked her best at games.
Her uniform was always perfectly pressed. She was tan, with a little help from the tanning beds at Le Mieux Cheveux. Her make-up was always flawless. With her clear skin, she didn’t need to wear foundation, only some blush, lipstick and eye shadow. Eye liner always took the longest to apply. Cornelia had to have it perfect. She had to smudge it so it didn’t look like a straight drawn-on line like her mother, but she couldn’t smudge it too much because then she would look like a pirate. A nice, soft, smoky line was what she strived for, but not on this day. This day she looked like Plain Jane and that’s the way she wanted it. She was hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t see anyone she knew, or at the very least they wouldn’t recognize her looking so drab. She threw on a plain beige baseball cap, just in case, and pulled her ponytail through the hole in the back.
Veronica dropped Cornelia off at the service site around 9 a.m. It was an unusually warm day for October, but Cornelia tied a sweater around her waist just in case. “I’ll pick you up here at three,” Veronica told her. “Call my cell if you’re going to be late.”
“Late? God, I hope it doesn’t go past three,” Cornelia replied in a snotty voice.
“You’re lucky you’re here at all, young lady,” Veronica replied curtly.
“Whatever,” Cornelia said as she got out of her mom’s SUV, otherwise known as “the monster.” After a short drive down the hill into the valley, she stepped onto the curb at the corner of Glenway and Gilsey Streets and looked around for The Family Connection, the organization that was sponsoring the clean-up. All she saw was a run-down looking building with graffiti painted on the side. As Cornelia walked around to the front of the building she saw a small sign that said, “The Family Connection.” The windows were all boarded up; the place look abandoned. Cornelia knocked softly on the door. She could hear voices inside, but no one came to the door, so she knocked harder. The door opened by itself with the harder knock, so Cornelia pushed it the rest of the way open and went inside.
She saw a room full of teenagers who were mostly Hispanic and African-American. They were chatting amongst themselves. Cornelia noticed a few adults in the crowd; one was Hispanic, one African-American and one white. She approached the white woman. Doing so made her veins burn. She didn’t want anyone to think she was racist. “What if the Hispanic woman didn’t speak English?” she thought. “What if the African-American woman was from some African country and didn’t speak English well?” she rationalized. The truth was, Cornelia felt more comfortable speaking to the white woman because they were the same race. For the first time that day, Cornelia felt ashamed.
“Hello?” she said inquisitively to the young woman with the long brown hair.
“Yes, hello!” the woman replied with a huge smile. Cornelia noticed that the woman’s teeth were perfectly straight. She was pretty, and had a beauty mark on her right cheek. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and was dressed in just jeans, a t-shirt, and no-name tennis shoes.
“Are you Natalie?” Cornelia asked.
“Why, yes, I am,” Natalie replied.
“I’m Cornelia Drake. I’m supposed to report to you for community service duty,” Cornelia said softly, hoping no one around her could hear.
“Oh yes, welcome! We’re glad to have the help,” Natalie replied. Cornelia thought that despite her appearance, the woman was from a wealthy family. She was very well spoken and overly friendly. Cornelia didn’t think that poor people could be so happy. “You’re actually going to be working with Monica. She’s leading our troops today,” she said, pointing to the African-American woman. Monica was tall and overweight and Cornelia thought she looked mean. “Don’t forget to ask her to sign your paperwork later,” Natalie said.
“O.k.,” Cornelia replied as Natalie motioned for Monica to come over.
“Monica, I’d like you to meet Cornelia. She’s going to be working with the girls today.” Then Natalie began to whisper, “She’s the one I told you about earlier, so she’ll have a record for you to sign at the end of the day.” She winked at Cornelia as if to say her secret was safe with her, but Monica didn’t change her facial expression. She only held out her hand to shake Cornelia’s. Cornelia placed her hand in Monica’s but she winced in pain as the woman shook her hand. Cornelia thought Monica had the grip of a grizzly bear. Her hand felt smooshed by the time Monica let go.
“Alright ladies!” Monica yelled to the entire room, turning away from Cornelia. “Listen up,” she continued, but many of the girls kept chatting. Monica looked even more annoyed.
The Hispanic woman yelled, “¡Cállese!” Cornelia was shocked at how loud the woman’s voice was because she was such a tiny woman. She was probably five feet tall and very thin, but her voice bellowed throughout the room. It must have done the trick, because a hush fell over the girls. The Hispanic woman was also very pretty and wore no make-up. She had black curly hair that fell just above the shoulders. Her brown eyes had a twinkle to them and s
he had a bright, wide smile.
“Thank you, Isabella,” Monica said, tipping her head in the Hispanic woman’s direction. “Now that I have your attention, ladies, let’s get ready to head out.” After every sentence or two that Monica said, Isabella would repeat them in Spanish. This happened every time Monica addressed the group as a whole. At first Cornelia found it confusing, but after a while she could just tune Isabella out.
Monica went over the itinerary for the day, but Cornelia was distracted by a hang nail on the index finger of her left hand. Her perfect French manicure was now ruined and she didn’t bring her purse, so she had no tools to fix it. She pulled off the nail, but she didn’t have anything to file it down. She was trying to think of a substitute for a nail file.
“Cornelia, do I bore you?” Monica jostled Cornelia out of her reverie.
“What?” Cornelia said, accidentally.
“I said, am I boring you?” Monica had a little more irritated tone if that was possible.
“No,” Cornelia replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Then stop staring at your little French nails and get your bubble goose out to the bus, we’re on a schedule, girl,” Monica said, lightly tapping Cornelia on the behind with her clipboard. Cornelia had just noticed that the rest of the girls were already headed out the back door. Cornelia was wondering what in the world a “bubble goose” could be, but she adhered to Monica’s request and followed the rest of the girls out to the bus through the back door of the center.
When she stepped onto the short bus, Cornelia saw a sea of faces staring at her. She looked for the only other white face she had seen that day, but Natalie had apparently stayed behind at the center. The bus was nearly full, so she didn’t know where to go to find a seat. The only empty seat was the first seat and her clique never sat in the first seat on a bus. Sensing her discomfort, Monica, who was climbing up the steps behind Cornelia, told her to stop where she was and sit in the first seat behind the driver. “You’re sitting with me, we have some paperwork to discuss,” Monica said in a hushed tone. Again, Cornelia obeyed.
After they sat down, Monica struck up a conversation with the driver, an older black man wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans. Cornelia began to think that Monica didn’t need to speak to her about the paperwork at all. She wondered why Monica had told her to sit in the front seat with her, but she didn’t mind sitting quietly and was relieved that she didn’t need to ask someone to move over. In fact, she was actually grateful. She didn’t know what she could possibly have in common with the other girls on the bus and she didn’t know what she could talk about with them. Plus, every minute on the air conditioned bus was one less minute spent out in the hot sun painting buildings.
Much to Cornelia’s chagrin, the bus didn’t travel very far before reaching its first stop. They had only traveled a few blocks to the corner of Beech and Latham Avenues. Monica stood up and told everyone to pile out. Isabella echoed in Spanish. Cornelia was the first off the bus. She looked around and saw decrepit houses with peeling paint, missing shingles and broken windows behind cracked sidewalks. It looked like a small tornado had hit a few years ago and no one ever bothered to clean up. Cornelia had never set foot in this part of town. She knew Price Valley was the poorer side of Storm River, but she had no idea it was anything like this. She suddenly felt self conscience in her Nike shoes and designer jeans.
Cornelia walked around the side of the bus and saw an old deli that looked like it had been built in the early part of the twentieth century. It had light blue aluminum siding that had some missing pieces and there was graffiti written all over it. Some of it was gibberish that didn’t make any sense to Cornelia and some of it contained profanity. The other girls were coming off the bus carrying supplies, but Cornelia was frozen. She was suddenly flooded with guilt over her own crime.
It was a few short weeks ago that she stood outside Storm River High School holding a can of silver spray paint. Chad had driven her there, just as Cornelia had told her mother, but he didn’t stay. He thought he was dropping her off for cheerleading practice. It struck him as odd that there would be cheerleading practice so late on a Sunday evening when the school was usually abandoned, but he trusted Cornelia and didn’t question her.
Anger coursed through Cornelia’s veins as she thought about the ‘D’ Mrs. Hakim had given her on her mid-term progress report on the previous Friday. She had spent her entire Saturday plotting her revenge. She thought about the many different terrible things she could do. She didn’t want to harm Mrs. Hakim, physically, only repay her for her treachery. She finally decided that humiliating her in front of the entire school was the best revenge.
Even though it was a bad grade that drove Cornelia to that moment of insanity, she found herself thinking about her parent’s divorce and the death of her grandmother as she scrawled Mrs. Hakim’s name across the front wall of Storm River High School. As she stood back to look at the beginning of her masterpiece, tears welled up in her eyes. It was almost as if she couldn’t control herself. She threw the first can down and grabbed another off the ground. Shaking the can with great force, Cornelia lunged toward the brick wall in a fit of rage. She started to write the most hateful, ugly thing she could possibly think of to say about Mrs. Hakim. It turned out to have nothing to do with Mrs. Hakim being a bad teacher, or being unfair, or even being mean. No, Cornelia had taken the lowest road she could possibly take.
“Cornelia!” Monica yelled, once again shocking Cornelia from a daydream. “Girl, would you stop daydreaming and try to keep up here?”
“Sorry,” Cornelia managed.
“Listen, Little Ms. Daydreamer, you’re gonna start on that end over there,” Monica said, pointing toward the back of the building. Then she turned in the other direction. “Admeta, could you come over here and show Miss Cornelia how we do things here?” Monica was talking to a Hispanic girl, about Cornelia’s age, who had been standing on the curb talking to Isabella in Spanish. The girl turned to face Monica. She hesitated before replying and Cornelia got the distinct impression that this girl did not want to show her the ropes.
“Yeah, o.k., Ms. M. I’ll be right there,” she said to Monica. Admeta then turned back to Isabella and said a few more things in Spanish before heading toward Cornelia. Monica went off to help some of the younger girls pour paint into pans and left Cornelia standing alone.
She heard Monica’s words trail off as she walked away, “Girls, you’re not doing that right!”
Cornelia looked once again at the wall. Some of the graffiti was quite colorful, almost pretty. The colorful ones were mostly what Cornelia surmised to be the initials of the artist. There were a lot of initials. It looked like a war zone where one set of initials was fighting to defeat the previous set. It was all overlapping, so much so that you couldn’t really make most of it out anymore. Then Cornelia came across a word that she was familiar with. It was one of the words she had written on the wall at school. Unlike most of the graffiti, this word wasn’t painted; it was written with a black permanent marker. The thick, cursive letters were smeared and difficult to read, but Cornelia knew full well what it said and it made her feel ashamed.
“Hey, Cornelia,” Admeta said, almost as a question.
“Hey,” Cornelia replied. Admeta as wearing an old blue t-shirt with different colored paint stains and ripped jeans that were frayed at the bottom and had holes in the knees. Her gym shoes weren’t any brand Cornelia had heard of before. They were plain white, but the leather was beyond worn and the shoe strings were coming apart. Admeta’s long, dark hair was pulled up in a bun on the back of her head, except for the short bangs that hung loose over the top of her big brown eyes. The girl looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but there in that moment and Cornelia thought she might have found common ground.
“So, this sucks, huh?” Cornelia asked.
“What did you say?” Snapped Admeta, as she pointed her index finger i
n the air.
“I said, ‘Doesn’t this suck?’ ” Cornelia said, thinking Admeta just hadn’t heard her.
“Actually, you didn’t ‘say,’ you ‘asked.’ And no, it doesn’t suck. What sucks is being stuck with you, Cornelia, when I could be with my friends, but that’s what Ms. M. wants me to do, so that’s what I’m going to do,” Admeta said with what Cornelia thought was a Mexican accent.
Offended, Cornelia replied, “Well I’m sorry to throw such a wrench in your works.”
“What?” the girl replied.
“Never mind, you wouldn’t understand,” Cornelia responded.
“Oh now I know you’d better repeat what you said, mi amiga,” Admeta replied, with one hand on her right hip and the other hand still waving in the air. Cornelia thought her accent sounded thicker all of the sudden.
“Fine! I said ‘I’m sorry to throw such a wrench in your works.’ There, are you happy?” Cornelia snapped.
“So…what? You didn’t think I would understand your big metaphor, Princess Cornelia?” Admeta asked.
“You don’t know me,” Cornelia said indignantly, “how dare you call me that.” Cornelia was puzzled by the girl’s familiarity with her.
“I know you,” Admeta replied. When Cornelia didn’t say anything, the girl put both of her hands on her hips and continued. “This is unbelievable,” she said, and then paused. “You seriously don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked with an indignant laugh.
Cornelia looked at the girl more closely. She was pretty, but Cornelia thought she could stand to lose a few pounds. Cornelia was appalled by her clothes, of course, but she was appalled by her own clothes that day too, so that didn’t really mean much.
“Should I?” Cornelia finally asked.
“I’m Admeta Vasquez,” the girl responded, waiting for a reaction. “Oh my God,” she continued, pointing her index finger in the air once again. “You seriously do not know who I am?” Cornelia was confused. Admeta continued, “I’m in your English class, Blondie. I sit two rows behind you. You are unbelievable.”
“You go to Storm River High?” Cornelia asked.
“Duh. Do you have a problem with that?” Admeta asked.
“No. You just don’t look…” Cornelia didn’t finish her sentence before being interrupted.
“Look…what? Look like someone who could go to a snotty school like Storm River? Is that what you think? Don’t I look good enough for your precious richie school?” Admeta asked, growing angrier.
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was going to say that you don’t look familiar is all,” Cornelia said, defensively, placing both of her hands on her hips.
“We’ve been in the same English class for over two months and I don’t look familiar to you? Do all Hispanics look alike to you or something?” Admeta snapped.
“No, of course not,” Cornelia continued her defense. She crossed her arms over her chest and started to continue, but she was interrupted.
“Yeah, right,” Admeta replied. “I know you, Cornelia Drake,” she paused. “And I know what you did.” At that, Cornelia knew she was fighting a losing battle. Her arms dropped to her sides. She didn’t know what to say.
Chapter 3
Service Learning
Writers on the Storm Page 2