by Cyndy Etler
“And they would adopt me?”
Pam laughs. Her hair swings backward and forward in a perfect slice. “Well, for the school year, kind of, yes! Anytime you get homesick, you can go over for dinner, rent movies, whatever you and your family like. We have some girls who’ve graduated and gone on to big careers and still come back and visit their adopted families. It’s really sweet.”
I rub the green of the field as I think about that. Pam and I sit quiet for a minute; then she speaks again.
“Your guidance counselor reached out to me with your name because she knew you were interested in one of the all-girls’ schools in New England. It wasn’t Wellesley. It was—”
“Smith.”
“That’s right, Smith. Forgive me if you already know this, but Smith is a highly selective school. They let in only a handful of their applicants. And this year, for the first time, they used financial need as a criterion. Do you know what that means?”
“If you need financial aid, you’re not getting in?”
She laughs again. Like I’m funny.
“Not exactly, but it does narrow your chances. Do you know if you’ll be seeking financial aid for college?”
“Oh my God, yes.”
And again, Pam laughs. She’s so pretty, even when she’s laughing at me.
“Well. I don’t know if your guidance counselor mentioned this, Cyndy, but I’ve had a chance to look over your transcripts. And while I can’t put it into writing, I can all but guarantee that if you applied, you’d be welcomed at Randolph-Macon Woman’s College with open arms. And a generous aid package.”
“Are you serious? Me?”
“I am serious. You.”
“But why?”
This time when Pam laughs, she puts her hand on my arm. She’s got a ring on her middle finger, heavy gold wrapped around a black onyx oval. There are tiny letters pressed into the onyx, and it looks like they spell out Randolph-Macon Woman’s College.
“You are a firecracker, Miss Cyndy. I like you. I’ll answer your question if you promise to keep it between us.”
“Okay.” It takes work, but I stop myself from pushing my finger on that onyx oval, to see if it opens a magic portal or something.
“You’ve heard of affirmative action?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, it’s like that. We pull from the southern states, mostly—Texas, Alabama, the Carolinas. We need some Yankee girls to balance us out.”
“Oh, I get it. Can I ask you a question?”
“Absolutely! You can ask me twenty!”
“Well, I really want to be a writer. Do you guys have writing classes?”
“We have a wonderful English program. Our English professors are famous for their round-robin Sundays. The first Sunday of each month of the school year, an English professor hosts a dinner party for all of the English majors.”
“At their house?!”
“At their house. Randolph-Macon Woman’s is really more of a community, a family, than—”
“And where do I sign up?”
She leans her head back and does this laugh that sounds like river water. Then she goes, “Let me get you an application, Cyndy. Then you just come on down.”
38
JUNE 1990
THREE YEARS AND THREE MONTHS OUT
It feels weird to be in this hallway without my Dunkin’ mug. It’s like, a different kind of naked. But it doesn’t matter because there’s nobody around to stare or talk about me. The halls are fresh-waxed and empty. They only reason I’m here is because I promised Mrs. Skinner I’d come by when I was in my cap and gown. She’ll see me in the procession line with everybody else, but I guess she wanted to say an actual goodbye, just to me. Which is pretty awesome, if you think about it.
Me and my mother actually stopped by Dunkin’ on our way over to Masuk this morning. I wish I’d have thought to get Mrs. Skinner something. I probably would have, if I hadn’t been so distracted.
On our way in, my mother goes, “We came here the morning after your last graduation too. Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” I say. “After I seven stepped from Straight.”
“Do you remember what I bought you that day? My gift to you?”
“Of course: my Dunkin’ Donuts mug.”
“Yes, that, and a half-dozen chocolate donuts, which you ate every one of.”
There’s a laugh behind us. Then a voice says, “Excuse me, Mrs. Etler. If you wouldn’t mind, may I borrow your daughter for a moment?”
We both turn around, and my mother goes, “Cyndy, who is this charming young man?”
“I’m Doug, Mrs. Etler. Doug Bianchi.”
Yes, that Doug Bianchi. Short little muscle guy. Popular kid.
“Well, Mr. Bianchi, you may borrow my daughter anytime you wish. Cyndy, would you like a coffee? I’ll treat, since it’s your graduation. Small, black, three Sweet’N Lows?”
“Yeah,” I say, then turn back to see why Doug Bianchi wants to “borrow” me.
“Come on,” he says, opening the door to the parking lot. Soon as we’re out there he goes, “DUNK’in FOCK’in DOnuts,” like it was a burp he could barely hold in.
“Yeah,” I say. “Dunkin’.”
“So, listen, congratulations,” he says, pointing at my gown.
“Yeah, you too. Where’s yours?”
“In the Rabbit. I’m not going to be seen in public in a frock.”
Which makes me laugh.
“Hey, listen,” Doug says. “Later. What are you doing?”
“Ummm…nothing?”
“Awesome. Want to come to a party?”
“Ummm…”
“Come on. It’s graduation. You can’t do nothing. Waddaya, a loser?”
Fuck that. “Where at?”
“Zack Fox’s house.”
“Zack Fox’s house?!” Zack Fox. Sexiest guy on the planet. Coolest kid in the school. “You sure he wants me there?”
“Dude, what? Of course! Zack knows you. You’re fine with Zack. It’s the girls you’ve gotta—”
The girls. The fucking popular girls. The cheerleaders. “Yeah, no. Thanks anyway.”
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding. I’ll pick you up. If you’re with me, you’ll be fine.”
A house party. At a kid like Zack Fox’s house. On the night of my graduation. That’s the ultimate mega-dream come true. It’s also the ultimate mega-threat to my sobriety. Because what do you do at a house party, other than drink and drug? Like, work on math problems?
But it’s my fucking graduation. I mean, I did this. I got here. I stayed alive. So maybe fuck what I’m supposed to do. Maybe fuck being a Straightling. Maybe fuck playing by the rules.
This is how a girl can win—by knowing what she wants, and saying yes to it.
“Okay, yeah.”
“Awesome! I’ll see you at three o’clock. Wear a bathing suit.”
And, fuck. A bathing suit?! No wonder I didn’t think to get Mrs. Skinner anything from fucking Dunkin’.
“Hi, Mrs. Skinner,” I say when I walk into her room. She looks up from her grade book. She has on frosty pink lipstick. There’s a flower behind her ear.
“Cyndy, look at you!” she says.
She comes around her desk and gives me a real hug. When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes.
“Some people need makeup to be beautiful,” she says. “You are one of those rarities who do not. You are beautiful, and you are wise. Now. Go out into the world and write.”
She hands me a purple envelope and turns away, blowing her nose into a hanky.
I open the envelope as I’m walking out of her room. The card inside is a painting of a girl on a rock. She’s got craggy red cliffs behind her and swirling purple clouds above. Her dress is b
lowing back and her hands are in her hair, and she’s looking upward with a private kind of smile. Inside the card it says, “You are going to be fine. In fact, you already are. Love, Polly Skinner.”
I slide the card back into its envelope and look up to check the big clock in the main office. But I can’t see it because the main office window is covered with stars. Cut-out paper stars. With people’s names on them.
“Our Graduating Superstars!” it says above the window in glitter letters. The names are arranged randomly, not alphabetically, because Tiffani Malta’s name is up on the left, and there’s Zack Fox’s, all the way at the bottom. Jack Pilgrim is right in the middle. Somebody drew a skull and crossbones on his. I hope I’m not late for graduation, but fuck it. Even though Deanna doesn’t call me anymore, she’s the best sober friend I’ll ever have. I’ve gotta find her star. I’ve gotta bring her with me.
I’m looking and looking—the stars are all jumbling together, and I’m starting to think about pulling the not-Dee stars off the window, to speed up my search—when it hits me. Deanna doesn’t have a star. She’s not graduating. She dropped out.
For some reason, that feels like the saddest thing ever. It feels like a penny dropped from a skyscraper. Some people don’t make it.
But I did. I’ve got a star up there.
I start searching again, for my star this time. And there it is, way up near the top. My name is spelled right, in black Magic Marker:
CYNDY ETLER
Right above my name, in pencil, somebody graffitied something. I step closer and squinch my eyes to make it out. It looks like a heart. I’m pretty sure it says—yeah, it does. That’s what it says.
I
CYNDY ETLER
39
STILL JUNE 1990
THREE YEARS, THREE MONTHS, AND FIFTEEN HOURS OUT
I’m sitting on the roof next to Doug Bianchi. Zack Fox is up here with us, on the other side of Doug. Doug’s talking wicked fast about some rude thing his brother did and how he’s gonna join the marines and show his brother, who’s only in the navy.
“ShaddAP, Dougie,” yells Ty.
I can’t believe Ty talked. Legends don’t talk. They do shit like float around the pool in a Styrofoam armchair, with their eyes closed and their paw gripping an uncracked beer. Doug, the un-legend, keeps yammering.
“Jeezus, kid. What’re you, on coke?” Ty yells, which makes Zack laugh, and Brent laugh, and Doug turn bright, bright red. I kinda laugh too, even though I’m not supposed to. I mean, without Doug, I wouldn’t be within a trillion miles of this place.
I’m here, though. At a popular party. Laughing at a joke about cocaine. If the people at Straight could see me now, I’d be on the firing line. Three hundred Straightlings would be gearing up to spit on me, screeching, Sobriety! Slippery slope!
But maybe…maybe I’m not a Straightling anymore. Maybe I’m something else. Maybe I’m just a kid, like everyone at the Haven, like everyone who graduated Masuk today. Maybe I’m not a fuckup or a druggie or a whore. Maybe I’m just another kid.
I hear the crack of the opening can at the same second Brent starts yelling. It sounds like the crack of a—
“Doug! Douggieee! Jump, Dougie! Jump!”
Brent’s splashing in the shallow end, curling his arms, to show Doug the path from roof to pool. There’s another crack, and Zack passes Doug one of the beers he must have had in his Levi’s back pockets. That’s twice today that beer has been within three feet of me. And I laughed at a cocaine joke.
What even is cocaine, though? Seriously. I’ve never seen it. I’ve never touched it. But I’m shitting my pants thinking about it, like a little kid with the boogeyman under his bed. We were forced to admit we were addicts in Straight. And then we were forced to believe it. But, really, was I? Addicted? I never wanted drugs or alcohol. What I wanted was the friends that came with them. I wanted to escape my mother’s husband. I wanted to not be alone.
And look. I’m not alone. I’m here, at this popular-kid party. I did this. I got here.
“Dougie baby! Come to mama!” goes Brent.
“Here,” Doug says, shoving his—his beer into my hand.
I hold it by two fingers like it burns. “Wait, I—”
Wait. I don’t have to freak out. I had beer in my mouth that night at the Haven, when Seth took a sip and then kissed me. In my mouth. It didn’t make me run out and pick up the first joint I saw. It didn’t make me snort coke off the floor of a truck stop men’s room. All it did was make me sip soda, to swish the nasty beer taste out of my mouth.
“Go ahead,” Doug says. “Take a sip.”
“Do it, Cyn,” Zack says.
“Douggieee!” Brent yells.
“Doug-ie! Doug-ie!” says Ty and the popular girls, through the cotton of the tank tops they’re pulling over their heads.
“You take a sip, and I jump,” Doug says to me.
Which should be terrifying, but it isn’t. Because it’s not beer that has power over me. Or drugs. Or my mother’s ex-husband. Or Straight. It’s me. I’ve got the power. To tell my mother to take me to the psychiatrist. To bring Seth back to my house. To stay alive.
A car is pulling up outside Zack Fox’s house. Windows down, stereo cranked. It’s so loud I can feel the rumble of the base. The song is one of the Club 12 party starters, where everybody crammed onto the dance floor. We’d all sing the lyrics, loud, because the song told the whole story. There is joy. There is pain. And then the sun shines, and then there’s rain. It all comes and goes. And you just…handle it.
Doug’s right at the edge of the roof. He’s staring at me and shaking his fists up and down, like a baby banging on its tray.
The elite-level popular kids are all going, “Doug-ie! Doug-ie!”
“One sip,” Doug says, “and I jump. Ready, set, go.”
“Sunshine! R—” The car clicks off.
I put my lips on the beer.
I tip it back.
Doug jumps off the roof.
And the world explodes in cheers and splashing water.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
So about that sex thing.
I know there are people who wait for true love. That’s some powerful shit.
Then there are people who can’t wait another second for love. That’s some real shit.
If you’re like me—if you’ve been scraping and searching every day of your life to try to feel close to somebody—sex can seem like a decent trade for love. If you don’t feel cherished at home, if you don’t have a true group of friends, if you don’t have a place you just belong, sex can look like the safe, sweet everything you’ve always wanted.
Movies, ads, books, that frigging couple holding hands in the hallway—they all make it look like everybody has someone who loves them. Everybody but you. So when a cute guy or girl shows up and shows interest? Boom. You jump into taking off your clothes. Because finally you are gonna have love too.
And maybe you will—for like a minute. Maybe even five. People can be very persuasive, very flattering, when they have a goal. When that goal is you, well God damn, does that attention feel good. So maybe you roll with it. If you read this book, you know I did. But afterward, when the attention was gone and the boy was too? Man. That kind of alone was worse than anything, because it felt so much more personal. Like he actually knew me and then decided he didn’t like me.
It is totally not my objective to convince you to do, or not do, anything.1 But I would like to share what I’ve learned about how sex works, some stuff I don’t hear anyone else talking about. Maybe, if my ideas makes sense, you won’t have to deal with the pain that I did. Okay, so.
Remember Connie, who taught me I had to “kill my babies” to make my writing good? She also taught me this ancient wisdom about gender roles: “Men want. Women want to be wanted.” Like the best thing that can happen,
for a lot of guys, is to get sex. And the best thing that can happen, for lots of girls, is to get attention.
I know you’re like, “That’s so stupid!” But hold up. If that’s so stupid, why do so many girls work so hard to look Kardashian-sexy? If that’s so stupid, why are so many teen girls sending nude pictures of themselves to boys? Because still—I puke as I type this, but still—a girl’s value is in her sexiness. To feel valuable, girls make themselves look sexy.
But here’s another ancient truth that doesn’t get a lot of media attention: girls have pleasure receptors too. We all know boys enjoy sex stuff…but girls can too. Crazy, right?! The female body is built to feel pleasure, the same way the male body is. That pleasure just gets blocked by the brain, by the antique message that’s still kicking around, telling girls “your job is to look good and keep your legs closed.”
So. If you’re a girl, or if you’re a boy, there are probably things you’d like to do, and things you would not like to do, and things you won’t know if you want to do, until you try them. How about if you think about those things now, on your own, before you’re in a heated situation? If you know what you’re cool with ahead of time, in the moment it’s a simple yes or no. But if you don’t know what your basic yeses and nos are ahead of time, it’s tempting to roll with what the other person is suggesting…even if it’s good for them, but not for you.
When you’re in that heated situation, you can say no. And the other person might walk away. Also, you can say yes. And the other person still might walk away. Sometimes people use people for sex. For ego pump. For whatever the fuck. And then they ditch. And that shit hurts. But then…the hurt stops. Promise. When you find something else that lights up your brain, it stops hurting. The trick is knowing how to find that thing that will light your brain up.
Hint: Trying to get that person’s attention back will not light up your brain. It will slice up your soul. Seriously. If I had gone back to Grant’s store, would he have suddenly wanted to take me out on dates? Duh. How about if I had returned to Club 12 to ask Damien, again, if he wanted to go skating with me? Would he have changed his mind? No chance. It’s obvious in my story. It will work the same way in yours. Trust me. Find. Something. Kinder.