by Emily Asad
Chapter 6: The List
Statistic: Among teenage and adult populations of females, parental divorce has been associated with lower self-esteem, precocious sexual activity, greater delinquent-like behavior, and more difficulty establishing gratifying, lasting adult heterosexual relationships.
I was too depressed to read my book during the bus ride home. I doubt if Sara Crewe, the heroine of The Little Princess, would have read her precious books in my situation.
I dumped my book bag on my bed. I had no homework, because I had finished it all during study hour, so I checked the kitchen table for Mom’s daily chore list.
It was mercifully short. Most days, it included five or six various tasks that were supposed to be delegated to each child, but always ended up being done by me. Today I only had to prepare dinner, since the house had not yet had time to gather dust, or dirt, or need scrubbing, mopping, or sweeping.
After checking the refrigerator, I decided on chicken pot pie – my favorite, which might even put me in a better mood. I sautéed the chicken, diced the potatoes, carrots, and onions, and made a white sauce into which I blended the vegetable mix and chicken pieces. I kept reminding myself that I was now cooking for eight people, not five, so I was careful to add enough to feed everyone.
Kneading the pie crust dough was soothing. I pounded and poked, pretending it was Naomi and the unknown assailant from Chemistry. Eventually, I rolled it out and placed it in the pie tin, then poured my filling in and sealed it with a top crust. I put the two pies in the oven. They would need about an hour, which would coincide perfectly with the time the parents were due back home, so I headed out to the barn to explore.
As soon as I set my feet inside the barn, I knew it would be my sanctuary. It smelled of old, musty straw and rotting hay. Animals had not lived in it for several years, but I could still detect traces of manure. Who else would possibly want such a place? I just wanted some peace and quiet. I hoped that none of the other kids took a liking to it.
I found a corner that seemed reasonably dry and clean. I checked for spiders – I hate spiders – and then sat down.
It was hard to concentrate. I kept seeing Naomi’s perfect face and the little balls of crumpled-up insults. So I started to sing a few notes from our choir homework, but I heard my voice echo off the cement walls. I was ashamed of how it sounded. My song came to an abrupt halt.
I wallowed in self-pity for a few minutes. Finally, I took out the List and opened to the “When I Grow Up” section.
Now, I know; an author should stay out of her story, because it interrupts the action. But I have to explain something first so you’ll understand. I don’t really want to tell you about my List, but it’s important. You have to promise not to laugh.
My aunt discovered my List two years ago. She reacted so violently that I swore right then to never share it with anyone else. I was fourteen at the time, and I thought she would understand. Instead, she criticized me for being so unrealistic.
“Life is full of unexpected pains, and you can’t plan for them,” she had sneered. “You’re so self-righteous that you’re setting yourself up for failure. Nobody can live this perfectly. You’re going to be in debt and carry lots of burdens, and you’ll face a good deal of grief. So get used to it now.”
I had argued with her, trying to convince her of my wisdom, even though she was three times my age. “I don’t have to live in debt. And I don’t have to turn out like Mom. If I plan my reactions before I get stuck in the situation, then my chances of success are increased.”
“You’re too young to know what you’re talking about. I suggest you burn that list and quit thinking your foolish ideas.”
“How can I be too young to start thinking about my life?”
“You’re judging everyone who has made these mistakes. Including me. Look at this one,” and she pointed to my rule about dating. “If your mom ever reads this, you’ll send her into the deepest depression you’ve ever seen. You’re not living in the real world.”
But that was the whole point of the List! I didn’t want to live in the ‘real world,’ if it created cynical, bitter, sarcastic adults. If I could avoid making the big mistakes most other people make, maybe I could have a chance at a truly happy life.
After my discussion with my aunt, it became obvious that I could not share my ideals with folks who had already committed the serious mistakes. I knew I would only be able to record my thoughts in secret. So that’s why I’m so protective about sharing it with anyone, including you.
Enough explanation already, right? Back to my story.
I reviewed some of the offensive items in The List: When I grow up, I’m never using a credit card because people who use credit cards get themselves into debt and never get out again. I will pay cash, or go without… When I grow up, I will spend quality time with my kids. If they talk to me, I will stop what I’m doing and give them my complete attention, and make them feel special… When I grow up, I will ask my kids every year on their birthday what I can do to be a better mom, and then I will take their advice…When I grow up, when I grow up, when I grow up…
This morning, Peter said he wanted to be rich and never wear hand-me-downs. I decided I didn’t want to be rich, but I certainly didn’t want to be poor either. I wanted to have enough money to be comfortable, to pay all my bills, and to play with – but not so much that I grew lazy or careless. I wrote that into my List and turned the page.
Now, my “Rules for Happy Living” are kind of like the “When I Grow Up” section, but it's more succinct. It has things like: There’s a way around everything… I make my own destiny… I am not a statistic… I didn’t have anything to add to that section, so I flipped past it to “Romance.”
You’ll probably think that I’m the strangest teenager you’ve ever met when I tell you what’s in my Romance section. I’m not crazy, and I’m not a prude. I just want to avoid all the heartache my mother went through - and put us through - so my little Rules for Romance seems to be sensible enough. Since I’ve never had a boyfriend, they might turn out to be unrealistic, but for now I can only base my wisdom on the experiences of others. Personally, I learn more about what not to do in a relationship from my mother than I learn what to do.
For example, my first rule is about kissing. No kissing until I get married. The logic behind this one is simple: Many of my friends stay friends with each other, or at least have sensible crushes, until they add the kissing factor. Once the kissing is introduced into a relationship, it usually goes downhill, fast. And for my mom, once she started kissing, she’s probably going to get married. Or pregnant. Whichever came first. Maybe it’s an extreme reaction, but I prefer to err on the side of prudishness than prostitution.
My second rule is "No rushes – analyze the prospect first." This is based on the fact that I’m too young to get married, which is the whole point behind dating, right? I mean, how many married sixteen-year-olds have you met? Very few, I bet. I figure that high school is a perfect training ground for becoming responsible adults. I’ve seen too many people – my own mother included – develop crushes on the most handsome, most athletic, most talented, or most popular guy, only to discover later that he was a complete loser. By then, it’s too late – they either continue with the relationship, thus hurting themselves, or go through intense grief when they break up.
As for me, I know exactly the kind of man I’m going to marry. Here it comes – and you have to remember your promise not to laugh.
The perfect man for me has to meet everything on my List in order for me to consider him. I haven’t met him yet, but I know he’s out there. He’ll be handsome, kind, even-tempered, intelligent, witty, athletic, musical, and gentle. He’ll adore his mother but not be dependent upon her. He’ll be well-educated and able to discuss anything in great detail. Of course, he’ll also speak three or four languages, at least, and he’ll be financially stable. (Not that I would marry for money, but I want to know that he can
handle our finances and not get us into debt.) He will be articulate and in touch with his feelings. And, most of all, he will understand that I'm just a diamond in the rough, if you will, in need of a good deal of polishing, but patient enough to bring it out of me. He’s going to be my hero, my equal, my savior, and my friend – all rolled into one perfect bundle. I’ve been thinking about him since I was ten, and I started writing qualities on my List when I was twelve.
So now you see my problem in the dating arena. Where am I to find such a man in high school? It’s ludicrous to believe he’s there, with all these qualities already all developed. Heck, I don’t even have a job yet; how can I expect someone my age to? So why put myself through unnecessary heartache with juvenile break-ups and make-ups? It is just more logical to wait.
Okay. So you'll say that maybe romance isn’t a logical thing that falls into nice, neat categories. And maybe, my high ideals and standards for romance will be shattered when I enter the ‘real world.' But I’ve been through my mother’s divorces, and I figure I’m about as qualified as anyone to decide what works and what doesn’t. And if it works for me, so much the better.
So now you know what I’ve tried to hide from others. You’ve discovered my heart on paper. I hope you’re not laughing.
“There you are,” said Matt, interrupting my thoughts.
I almost fell off the straw bale in my panic to hide my List. He still doesn’t know about it. And I’m not going to share with anyone else!
If he noticed, he did not say anything. That was Matt for you, tactful and considerate. “I wanted to see if your day had gotten any better.”
I shrugged and looked away. “Worse, actually. I hate school.”
“No, you don’t. You just hate the people in the school.”
“They hate me,” I corrected. “I don’t hate anyone. I’m nice to everyone, all the time. I don’t understand why people are so mean to me.”
“I told you why. You need to find a group.”
“Nobody wants me. I don’t even have any friends this year, Matt.”
He did not argue. He perched himself on the rail opposite me.
“How long do you think we’ll stay here, anyway?” I asked, to switch the topic.
“Assuming the marriage lasts? Maybe a few years. Couple of months, at least. It doesn’t matter – we’re graduating in a few years anyway.”
“I like this place. I really do. Look at these stalls – empty. I could buy a horse!”
“You can’t afford a horse.”
I licked my lips. “Yes, I can,” I confided, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’ve saved seven hundred dollars. That’s five hundred for the horse, and the leftovers will go toward food and tack.”
“You have seven hundred dollars?”
“Don’t tell Mom. You know she always raids my hoarding fund when she needs to pay the bills.”
“How on earth did you manage to hide seven hundred dollars?”
“I have a dummy box. I keep fifty in it, but the rest I put in a sock beneath my mattress. Just in case Mom asks. I don’t have to lie to her – I just give her what’s in the dummy box.”
He clicked his tongue. “You held out.”
“I had to! Come on, Matt. You know we never have enough.”
“So how do you plan to approach the subject? She’ll be furious when she finds out you have seven hundred dollars!”
“Roger wants to be a good stepfather, doesn’t he? And he grew up on a farm. I’ll suggest it to him, and let him break the ice with Mom.”
“It’s a dangerous game,” he said. Then he chuckled. “Good for you.”
I changed the subject before he asked any more questions. “I’m tired of moving. Do you realize we’ve lived in fourteen houses? That’s like a house a year!”
“Well, there’s two salaries now. I doubt we’ll go anywhere for a while.” He threw a piece of straw at me. “Don’t worry! You worry too much. You wanna come hunting? I’m going after squirrels today.”
I glared at him. “You know I don’t kill innocent animals.”
“You’d better get used to it,” he said, folding his arms. “I heard Roger say something about filling this place with animals. Sheep, goats, rabbits… He even said something about making us butcher our own chickens.”
I shuddered. “I’m not killing anything,” I repeated.
“I’ll tan the hides for you, if we end up raising rabbits.”
I made a face. “Sure, Matt. That sounds just peachy. Real dandy.”
“See you around,” he said. He jumped off the railing, hiked his gun over his shoulder, and strolled away.
I lay back in the straw and stared up at the ceiling. There were cobwebs everywhere. I imagined how nice the barn would look if I cleaned it up.
That’s it! If I cleaned it up, it would be mine! I would be the one doing the labor, so I would have an automatic claim that I could defend if the parents questioned it. I searched for a broom, found one, and began sweeping out the first stall.
I heard a noise above me and glanced up, hoping there weren’t rats in the loft. It was worse – it was Erika. She climbed down the ladder. I wasn’t alone, after all.
“Hey, Cinderella,” she said, gesturing toward my broom. She strode past me toward the door.
So I wasn’t the only one seeking privacy. I was glad she was leaving. Still, I could be polite…
“There’s enough room for both of us,” I called.
“I don’t think so. You’re way too noisy, even when you’re trying to be quiet,” she replied. She stopped suddenly, and spun around. “You know what your problem is? You’re a loner. Easy target. You don’t have any friends to defend you, do you?”
I stopped sweeping, insulted and shocked by her bluntness. I was getting it from every direction today, it seemed.
“Fourteen houses, huh? That’s got to be a record of some kind.”
She had overheard my conversation! I wondered if she knew about the List. And my money!
She took a few steps in my direction, but kept her distance. “Fourteen houses, introvert, nerd, and divorced kid,” she said, holding up a finger with each label. “You probably suffer from detachment syndrome.”
“What?”
“Detachment syndrome. You’ve been ripped away from relationships one too many times. It means you don’t let anybody get to know the real you. See, you’re deeper than you let on, and just my telling you this is making you uncomfortable.” She sneered at me – or was it a grin? I couldn’t tell. “You appear friendly to others, and you even listen to their woes, but you could care less. You’re happy on your own, even though you crave friendship and attention.”
I began to blush as she analyzed me. It was highly uncomfortable. I couldn’t let her continue. “At least I don’t look like a Satanist. There are other ways to get attention, you know.”
“And being a goody two-shoes is working for you? Your mother ignores you as much as my dad ignores me. Parents don’t care, one way or the other. The sooner you learn that, the better you’ll be.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said in a quiet voice.
“They take everything away from you,” she continued. “First they destroy your nice, orderly little world. Then they fight over who’s the better parent. You’re the ammunition.”
“Not my parents. Maybe yours, but my mom isn’t like that.”
She leaned in so close that I could almost feel her breath on my cheeks. “Your mom doesn’t love you. She took your name away. You’re no longer you. Think about that.”
I stepped backwards. “I’ll never be cynical and bitter like you.”
“You say that now,” she laughed, and backed away, pointing her black-tipped finger at me, “but you’ll see.” She kicked the door open and let it slam behind her.
My solace was ruined. I was no longer in the mood to clean up the barn, even if it might eventually be my private refuge. I let the broom clatter to the floor. I had to check on
my pot pies anyway, before they burned.
You’re no longer you… You’re no longer you… Margaret Beverly White Shenton… I don’t know my own name… You’re no longer you… The thoughts whirled in my head as I marched back to the house. I could not stop them. They flooded over me, soaking my soul in desperation. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. You’re no longer you…
Who was I? It did matter! I wanted to be somebody! I stopped several yards from the porch. My fists balled tightly. I let out a primal scream that came from the bottom of my stomach. It ripped past my vocal chords. I knew they would be raw tomorrow, and I might not be able to sing. I didn’t care. If I couldn’t cry, then I would scream.
It didn’t make me feel any better, though. If anything, I felt worse.