by B S Steele
I looked at Emma, holding my nose and rolling my eyes. She looked away, her eyes amazingly still dry, and stared out the window, ignoring the muffled moans and watering eyes around her.
Once we got to the cabin, my brothers wrestled each other to be the first to get out of the stench-filled van.
“Move it, loser!” R.J. said, pushing me out of the way.
“I can’t take another second!” I whined.
“Anna, stop it.” My Mother said sternly. “Emma, go inside and get cleaned up in the bathroom.”
Emma minced stiffly to the bathroom, her Velcro shoes reflecting in the sun. I started to laugh but was stopped short.
“Anna!” My Mom chided. “Get inside and start helping your Dad put away the food.”
Our cabin was rustic with rough cut boards making up the floor, and a small woodstove to keep the northern wind at bay. Wet bathing suits lay out on the hearth, drying on the warm bricks. I felt like a pioneer girl, sleeping on a rickety cot while watching daddy long leg spiders crawl on the ceiling. Emma came out of the bathroom carrying her soiled underwear.
“Go rinse them in the lake, then throw them in the wash bucket,” Mom instructed.
“Ew! Now the fish are going to taste like poop.” I said, glaring at Emma.
She scurried past me, trying to hide the evidence, but it was too late.
“Are those MY underwear?!” I huffed. “MOM! Emma pooped in MY underwear!”
I dropped the can of Spam I’d been holding, rushing over to confirm the crime. I looked at her in disbelief.
“You didn’t?! Those are my favorite pair!” I screamed, wanting to hit her.
There was my hero, the beautiful Pocahontas, printed with her lovely flowing black hair, trimmed in purple ribbon, now stained with smelly, brown goo.
My sister had literally shit on my dreams.
Mom came out of the bathroom, trying not to laugh.
“Anna, it’ll be okay. There’s nothing that can be done now,” she said.
I snapped my mouth shut, realizing it’d been hanging open.
“I hate her,” I said passionately.
Turning my smoldering gaze back to Emma, I growled, “I hate you!” and stomped away as she burst into tears.
Chapter 11: Everything Changes
Church had been a major part of my childhood. My stepdad converted from Catholicism after meeting an old Parson who literally had a ‘little Church in the Wildwood.’ Pastor Fisher had a gray mustache, a thin horseshoe of white hair, and a pure heart. He had a special place in his heart for children, and every Sunday, without fail, he’d kneel, crumpling his freshly ironed suit, and gather us all in a crushing embrace. He loved all the children of our small congregation, and he took the time to speak to each of us, looking into our eyes, and listening carefully to our small concerns.
The church’s white steeple stuck out from its tucked away parking lot among a sparse pine forest. It felt like a second home for me, with its soft brown carpet that smelled of potluck dinners and rubber rain shoes. It was where I had my first Christmas play, where I learned about Jesus, and where my family was safe. My stepdad enrolled us in the church’s ‘Joy Club,’ and every Tuesday we’d pile in the van with our little red vests, hoping we’d learned our Bible verses well enough to earn a new patch.
It wasn’t long before my Mother stopped coming to church. Some Sunday’s she said she just needed to rest; a break from the chaos that often came with having several young children. I remember hiding behind my bedroom door, hoping my stepdad would get tired of searching for me, and leave me home as well. I was old enough to have to sit with the adults through Pastor Fisher’s sermon’s, and although they were heartfelt and passionate glimpses into the teachings of Christ, I bored easily.
The church clock was pretentiously placed out of view behind the congregation, daring me to glance and see if the second hand had moved anywhere closer to freedom.
Occasionally, we would have guest Missionaries from faraway places like the Azores Islands and Mexico. I loved holding the strange items the Missionaries would put on display for us. Drums and wooden toys would be laid out on a decorated table, hand crafted by the locals where the Missionaries preached the Gospel. Pastor Fisher would look proudly at me as I held them, starry-eyed and imagining the strange lands they came from.
“Maybe someday you will bring the Word of God to people just like the Missionaries!” He’d say, patting me on the head.
I felt a humanitarian glimmer of pride whenever I’d dig around in my little purse to drop a quarter or two into their offering plate. I would dream that one day, I’d visit these places, toting a box of Bibles and dipping out scoops of rice for the starving children who’d look back at me with dirty faces and large, sorrowful brown eyes.
(Chapter Break)
Things at home were becoming increasingly strange. Our elementary school had sent my Mother a notice that we had gotten head lice. I can remember my stepdad showing us the nasty little parasites after combing out a few into a bowl. They scurried around the rim, desperate to find flesh to suck on. Mom had us bag up all our pillows and stuffed animals, banning them to the garage for thirty days. We all held our noses while she scrubbed medicated shampoo into our scalps. I don’t remember when exactly she decided to burn our bunk beds, but one night, there they were, aflame in the back yard.
“They have to be burned, Ray. I’ve tried everything, I think the little vermin are in the wood,” she told my stepdad.
I was pretty sure lice didn’t live in wood, but what did I know? I was only eleven. I’ll never forget the night she brought us into the bathroom, the smell of kerosene permeating the air.
“Okay, Anna and Emma first,” she said, gesturing towards the bathtub, the water warm and low.
“What’s that smell?” I asked, eyeing a bottle of amber liquid in her hand, and plastic bags on the sink.
“It’s kerosene. . . you have to be careful not to get it in your eyes or it’ll burn,” she replied.
I thought for a second, and then asked, “Isn’t kerosene like gas?”
I must have had a worried tone in my voice.
She looked irritated, and said, “Yes, but this is the only way to kill the lice. I’ve tried everything. Next we are going to have to shave your heads.”
I looked at her with wide eyes.
She wouldn’t really shave my head, would she?
The kerosene dripped down my scalp, the plastic bag shielding my shoulders. Emma started to cry as the kerosene in the water scalded our lower bodies.
“Shh!” Mom hissed, “it’s almost over.”
Finally, we were rinsed off, our rears and legs bright pink and tingling. Days later, we all learned two things: kerosene doesn’t kill lice, and that yes, my Mom really would shave our heads.
“Anna, sit still!” She demanded, jerking my head to towards her.
“OW!” I screeched. “Well, if you’d sit still, I wouldn’t have to pull,” she insisted.
I sat still, pouting, daring the tears to fall. The buzz of the hair clippers choked as gobs of my hair fell to the floor. She’d told me that she’d try to keep some of it, shaving mostly the underside.
“We just need to get the bulk of you girls’ hair out. It will be easier to get rid of the lice that way,” she explained, as if that were a comfort.
When I went back to school with the underside of my head shaved, looking like the inspiration for Gollum from the movie Lord of the Rings, I thought kids would tease me. Even worse, I think they pitied me too much to make fun of me. Aside from the occasional snicker, everyone mainly just avoided looking at me. I didn’t like being pitied. It made me feel weak, and I’d learned that being weak made a person vulnerable. That same year I’d also gotten new glasses. Brown plastic soda bottle frames that were courtesy of my Mother’s interesting taste.
“Anna, we will buy these ones,” she had said, turning me toward the mirror at the eye doctor.
For a moment I didn’t sa
y anything, I just looked at her, my brow furrowed.
“Mom, these glasses are the ugliest things I have ever seen,” I said flatly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, they look fine,” she said, looking a little hurt.
I looked at my reflection. My hair had grown back, but I’d been forced to have it evened out into a short, boyish mullet that was feathered into what my sister and I had nick-named, ‘doughnut bangs.’
The glasses not only magnified my eyes but were a sickly brown plastic that reminded me of one of the Grandmas from church. I looked longingly at the pink and purple frames, delicate and glittery, knowing I didn’t have a choice.
“We’ll take these,” my Mom told the doctor confidently.
Two weeks later, my new glasses lay at the bottom of my school’s cafeteria garbage. I wasn’t taking any more bullshit, even it meant I was going to be nearly blind. Walking into my brother’s sixth grade classroom and being laughed at by twenty-five kids had made me re-think my life choices. I can’t exactly blame them for laughing, coming in there looking like something off Sesame Street, but something in me changed on that day.
I started to get into trouble at school. Swearing, fighting with boys and snapping an annoying kindergartner in the face with my jacket were just the start. My poor bus driver got a full view of my little white moon and a swift and hateful bird waving in the wind as I ran for home one day after being scolded for misbehaving on the bus.
I was sick of people pushing me around, and that winter I was ‘King of the Hill,’ nearly every recess. I began collecting little minion “boyfriends,” that I’d send to do my dirty work while I stood at the top of the snow hill, sticking my tongue out at the loser boys that had been pushed to the bottom by my strongest meathead.
I’d even started to get noticed by the popular girls. The ones with long, shiny hair and who wore clothes from the mall instead of the local Salvation Army like I did. All it took was an activated mean streak and a pair of appliquéd jeans from the outlet, and I was in.
I’d been invited to one of their birthday parties, and since they lived relatively close, my Mom let me go. We played Ouija board, hopped up on Pepsi and delivery pizza, while Justin Timberlake and the Backstreet Boys played loudly from the birthday girl’s brand-new CD player.
“Olivia, I know you moved it,” a snotty redhead named Courtney remarked. Courtney was beautiful, which was the only reason she’d gotten in with the popular crowd. Her Mother was single, and they weren’t rich by any far stretch of the imagination. Courtney’s chin length strawberry blond hair made her eyes seem even bluer than they were. Her thick blonde eyelashes were coated with her Mother’s mascara, making her seem sophisticated.
“No, I’m not moving it, I swear,” Olivia replied.
At the time, I didn’t really like boys or girls, but I think Olivia was my first crush, if you could call it that. She had platinum blonde hair, always in a thick, wavy ponytail. Her eyes were green as sea glass and she was sweet, quiet, and a little shy. She always sat with her little pink lunch box, eating her Pringles one at a time. I thought Olivia’s Mother must love her, packing those well thought out, flashy lunches. All her clothes were always so tidy and new. When I finally was invited to sit with them, Olivia took one look at my greasy reduced lunch, and without a word, plopped down half her fruit roll up. She wrapped her half around her finger, showing me how to make it last.
Olivia was popular by circumstance, but at heart, she was hard-working and smart, always getting A’s and making the honor roll. I adored her, although I never let anyone know it.
Amy was our ringleader, and it was her birthday. Amy had long, beautiful brown hair and she was friends with all the popular boys. She was talented, talkative, and had a magnetism about her. Her best friend Lauren was a tomboy, and probably my favorite. Lauren and I had something in common: Mommy issues.
Lauren’s Dad was a busy dentist, while her Mother had climbed the local real estate market by slathering on lipstick in career red, clacking down the driveways of houses she sold in her business pumps.
She never seemed to understand her daughter’s love of rock music, nor her baggy cargo pants that she’d pair with a beanie hat, concealing her headphones from the eyes of nosy teachers.
Last but not least were Jasmine and the other Lauren. Jasmine was a wealthy and beautiful Asian girl who was the group gossip. She was a typical mean girl, jealous and stuck up. I always hated Jasmine, but I’m pretty sure she felt the same way about me. The other Lauren, whom we called Ren, was a wisp of a girl, whose parents owned a lake house. Ren would sit by me on the bus, not wanting to sit with the kids from the trailer park, or worse, alone.
Being popular had come with a price. I had to slowly let go of my old friends to join the world of the “populars”. My little oddball group just didn’t make the cut when it came to popularity, and as Jasmine so curtly reminded me, I had to make a choice. The losers, or the winners.
I tried to convince them that my friends were cool enough to join us, but as cliques go, they picked apart my friends. Insisting that Kayla was too nerdy, with her large glasses and collection of plaid shirts. Taylor was the sworn enemy of the populars and loved to sneer at them every chance she got. Samantha, my best friend of all, was against social hierarchies, not to mention she was chubby, and shunned by the boys who weirdly seemed to sway which girl was ‘in,’ and which of us were ‘out.’
I loved Samantha, and she secretly remained my friend despite my new life. She was my one weakness that could get me in a very awkward social predicament if anyone challenged me. Samantha was full of ideas and she knew everything there was to know about lip-gloss, hair products, and fashion.
Her Mom was this amazing independent single Mother with a bread bakery she ran out of their house. Samantha’s Mom was totally opposite my own, with her New York City looks, her long-stemmed wine glasses and her dark red nails, she inspired and fascinated me.
“I was born right here, in this house,” Samantha would say proudly.
She told me how her Mom had given birth to her in the upstairs bedroom, cutting her umbilical cord with a pair of scissors. I couldn’t imagine a woman so fearless.
Samantha and I had spent many hours at the fish hatchery, owned by her Mother’s boyfriend, Jim. He’d show us the moving waterway where the baby trout were spawned.
“Look here girls!” He’d say, pointing to the waterway. “All these trout will grow up and go to the big pond and wait to be harvested.”
Jim and Samantha’s older brother Josh both had something in common: hidden porn stashes. Once when we were trying to cook soup to surprise her parents, we went looking for Jim in the basement. He had a whole collection of nude magazines on display.
“Well, at least he doesn’t shove them under his mattress like your brother,” I laughed.
We’d flip through a few of the pages, absorbing the mysterious world of sex. It was still gross to us, but we were getting to the age where we wondered what it’d be like to fall in love.
Leaving Samantha behind for the popular girls seemed like the ultimate betrayal, but I vowed that Samantha would always be my best friend. Here I was, playing Ouija board without her, the scrying glass moving eerily across the board, seemingly on its own.
“Maybe we shouldn’t play anymore,” someone said in a timid voice.
Suddenly, something thumped loudly in the ceiling. We all screamed and rushed to our sleeping bags. Giggling breathlessly, we were glad to have an excuse to stop playing. Amy’s Mom came down the steps, flipping on the light.
“Okay, girls, it’s time to quiet down and try to get some sleep.”
“Yes, Mrs. Villenhall,” we echoed in unison.
My sleeping bag was rolled out next to Lauren’s. She was listening to her headphones and offered them to me.
“It’s Greenday,” she said, as if I was supposed to know who that was.
What a weird name for a band. . . I thought, as I listened.
I
handed them back to her after a minute, shrugging.
“Never heard of them. . . so what’s up with your parents? They seem pretty cool.” I said nonchalantly.
She rolled over on her back, looking up at the ceiling. The other girls were laughing and whispering, not paying any attention to us.
“No, they aren’t cool. My Mom is literally never home, and my Dad doesn’t have time for me. Mostly it’s me and my brother at home a lot, that’s why we are so close, I guess.”
I saw a tear escape from her eyes, but she wiped it away quickly.
I tried to make her smile with a wry joke: “I’m close to my brother too, like close enough to smack him in the forehead.”
Lauren laughed loudly, piquing the interest of the other girls.
Courtney’s face darkened with jealousy.
“Real funny, Anna,” she glowered, tossing her strawberry locks. “Your jokes suck.”
I was still basically on my ninety-day trial, and my place with the girls was still on shaky ground. If I was going to survive, I had to squash out any doubt that I deserved to be here. I snickered at her comment, acting as if it didn’t bother me a bit. Everyone went silent, the tension building. I’d just laughed at Courtney, and she was basically third most popular.
I cleared my throat and said icily, “Maybe, but you know what’s really funny Courtney?” I asked, my voice dripping with sweetness. “You think you can hide it, but we all see you and those ‘ants’ in your pants at school,” I said, pausing for effect.
I let my words sink in, then busted out laughing.
The other girls snorted and snickered, trying to hold in their laughter. Courtney’s face turned crimson.
She chucked a pillow in my direction, her voice cracking as she screamed, “You’re such a BITCH!”
I laughed even harder, mocking her.
Up until this point, it had been taboo for anyone to challenge Courtney, but I had pointed out the one thing about her that everyone knew: she was a public masturbator.