“It’s fine,” I say, dully. “I’ll simply rewind today.”
Mom gives me a slight shove and laughs, but I can’t.
“Well, what movie is it?” I ask. Her suggestions have changed based on my moods and our interactions after school.
Mom slides the DVD case resting on the end table into my hands. On the cover is the iconic eighties gang of teenagers. She whispers in my ear, “The Breakfast Club.”
Obviously, she can’t remember watching it with me the first night I looped. I slide it back to her. “Sorry, Mom, but I saw this last year when it was streaming.”
Her face falls, but quickly recovers. “Well, you’re seeing it again with me. Right now.”
“It’s actually a little late to be starting a movie,” I say, but my mother acts like she’s deaf in one ear.
She aims the remote at the TV and says conspiratorially, “We’ll just watch the beginning.” Her familiar tactic to suck me into a film.
With a sigh, I slump down deeper into the pink leather. It may have taken me a bunch of tries to get to this point of social exile, but I certainly made it. And thanks to my first kiss, this could be my new reality.
If so, I might as well get used to sitting under a blanket on the sofa, rewatching old movies with my mom.
Onscreen, the five teenagers arrive at Saturday detention one by one, and I want to cry and tell Mom everything that’s been happening to me. But she looks utterly enthralled by the familiar film, so I snuggle down and allow the sharp dialogue to comfort me.
When Molly Ringwald’s Claire Standish greets her obvious social equal, the athletic Andrew—played by Emilio Estevez—I remember rooting for the two of them to get together the first time we watched this. Which I now see would’ve made for zero character arcs and a really super-boring, non-iconic movie.
The weird and crazy Allison must’ve been a fantastic role for the actress to play, and the geek, Brian, is so perfectly awkward, he’s almost painful to watch. I wonder for a moment why modern directors don’t use truly geeky adolescents to play adolescents anymore. Bender—the roughest character, and played by the actor who’s clearly the farthest from high school age—reminds me a bit of the goth guy I used to run into every day.
Mom and I silently watch as the social walls between the characters are taken down brick by brick. As the nerd and the athlete open up, and see that they both have similar pressures, they begin to change the way they view each other. We are not all so different. I think of the goth guy again.
And I get the tiniest seed of an idea.
It is obvious I’ve ruined my chances of getting in with the most popular kids at Punxsutawney High. In going after the hunkiest of the hunky boys, I have flown too close to the sun. But maybe I can infiltrate one of the other cliques and survive the rest of high school with some other group instead of as a friendless freak.
None of the other groups were at the party tonight. Maybe nobody else will remember me and I can reinvent myself. As soon as the movie ends, I tell Mom I want to watch just a few special features, and tell her goodnight.
“I knew you’d come around,” Mom says, smiling. “There are some good cast interviews on this one, but don’t stay up too late. It’s a school night.”
As soon as she disappears upstairs, I start digging through the bags of clothes beside the couch that hold her latest thrift store scores.
Mom must’ve already started preparing for her favorite holiday, Halloween, because I pull out a pure black dress fit for a witch. I hold it up to my front. Maybe just as Splenda-sweet Claire ends up with big, bad Bender, I’m meant to be with Goth Guy or someone equally misunderstood.
I immediately begin assembling an outfit. As well as a plan.
chapter 10
When I wake up on the couch with the Pretty in Pink DVD playing on the television screen, for the first time I feel relieved.
It’s nice that I won’t have to deal with being a social outcast, but erasing that awful first kiss with Colton is what makes me truly happy. Now that I’ve realized I don’t even like him, getting him to go away will be my first order of business this morning.
Thankfully, as soon as he sees my outfit, he nearly backs out the front door.
Mom gives him a commiserating nod. “I couldn’t talk her out of it. You must be Colton.”
I grin from underneath my mini black veil. I made it using a swatch from a layer of netting in one of Mom’s puffy fifties skirts. It’s very Winona Ryder circa Beetlejuice.
“If you want to run ahead to school without me, Colt, I’m really fine with catching the bus. I’m sure you have friends to meet up with, and I need to add another layer of eyeliner anyway.” I blink my kohl-rimmed eyes at him. I’ve even trimmed my bangs into short spikes as a show of commitment to this new direction in my appearance.
Colton can’t seem to stop staring through the black veil at my bangs.
“It might not be a bad idea for you to learn the bus schedule,” he concedes. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” He already has his hand on the doorknob.
“I’m good.” I give a fake smile and wave energetically. I couldn’t be happier to watch him walk away. In fact, I don’t even bother watching him walk away.
As soon as the door closes behind Colton, Mom gives a growl. “What a jerk.”
“Guess he’s not a fan of Beetlejuice.” I shrug.
“Well, I may not love your outfit either, but I guess you’re better off discovering the guy’s a superficial creep now, before you invest a ton of time.”
I laugh so hard and so long that inky tears stream down my face and I fall onto the couch with the hiccups.
Mom looks like she’s ready to call upstairs for Dad to give me a quickie psych evaluation, so I pull it together. She asks, “Are you positive about that outfit?”
Wiping the black laughter tears from my eyes, I remind her, “You’re the one who said I could be anyone I want to be.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Repeatedly.” I smirk.
My dad makes his way down the steps and Mom hurries over to put one arm around his shoulder. She gestures to me with the other. “What do you think of our daughter’s new look?”
Dad lets out a long, low whistle. He hasn’t seen me since I went upstairs earlier to get ready. He grins. “She’s certainly making a statement, isn’t she?”
“Perhaps.” Mom wrinkles her nose. “But what is she really saying with this outfit?”
“I’m saying that my new favorite Breakfast Club member is Allison.” I hold out my arms dramatically, and add, “Premakeover, of course.”
“You watched that without me?” Mom looks stricken, and I realize my mistake. She doesn’t remember me watching The Breakfast Club with her twice now, because those nights never happened.
I let my arms drop to my sides and dip my head so I’m looking at her through the black tulle material. “It was streaming last year and I caught it after school one day. Sorry, once it started, I couldn’t stop watching it.”
Mom sighs. “Well, I suppose there are worse movies to draw inspiration from. But why couldn’t you have gone with something from the movie last night? Something maybe pretty or something pink?” She laughs, and I feel a tremor run up my spine.
“Mom, please don’t . . .”
“Oh yeah, what did you think of Pretty in Pink anyway?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “To be honest, Mom? I loved it at first, but after thinking the whole thing over a few times, I’m not a huge fan.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but before she can ask me any more questions I head upstairs to finish getting ready, mumbling quietly to myself, “Not a fan of that movie at all.”
The curdled looks I get while walking into the school remind me of my true first day when I wore the vintage pink polka dots. At least that time I was being seen with golden boy Colton, so people treated me like a human person. Now, I’m completely on my own.
I’m looking-acting
-sounding-feeling 100 percent goth, and it is oddly liberating. From the small nod the goth girl gave when I climbed onto the bus to the guy wearing eyeliner who held open the school’s front door, the only people making eye contact with me today are those dressed in all black.
The rest of the students I pass either avert their gaze or cringe the tiniest bit away from me. I stride down the familiar hallways with my head held high, proudly showing off my black fingerless gloves by pulling them up higher on my wrists.
When I nearly collide with my goth guy, he stops and greets me with a smirk. “Nice gloves.” He’s weaving his Sharpie between his fingers. “I’m Czyre. You must be new here.”
Grinning, I say, “Something like that.”
Czyre invites me to follow him with the gruff command, “Come on.”
I follow him to the space underneath the stairs, marveling at how much changing my look has changed our interaction. He usually seems vaguely horrified by me when we run into each other, although the worst time by far was that first day when I wore the pink polka dots.
Once my eyes adjust to the dim light, the goths’ lair isn’t nearly as scary as I imagined. And I finally get a closer look at the cartoons drawn on the back walls.
There’s one of a cheerleader that’s clearly supposed to be Tammy, standing in her cheer skirt and shouting with all her strength for onlookers to “CARE!”
The crowd is yelling back at her, “WE CAN’T!”
The other drawings consist of ironic observations about the various teachers and a few prominent students from the other cliques. I move in close to one that shows two circus freaks facing each other. They’re both wearing giant clown shoes and one is saying, “I thought it was my turn to wear big shoes today. Now everyone is going to look at us funny.”
They’re obviously drawn by the same artist who drew the stressed-out toddlers on the bleachers. I point to the cartoons and ask, “Who does these?”
A girl whose eyes are swimming in eyeliner looks me up and down. “They’re Czyre’s. But nobody can know he’s the artist.”
Czyre gives me a big grin and points to a knotted symbol at the bottom corner of one of the cartoons. “This is my signature.”
The girl pulls up the cuff of her tight black pants. Pointing to a small tattoo on her leg, she says, “He’s good. He designed this one for me.”
“Very cool.” I’m honestly impressed. I’ve never been much of a tattoo person, but the Celtic-looking knot peeking out from above her combat boot is small and artful.
“It’s a trinity symbol,” she says proudly, and Czyre looks embarrassed by all the compliments.
He grumbles, “Yeah, well, Bridget is a preacher’s kid, so of course she would choose the holy trinity symbol for her big act of teenage rebellion.”
Bridget gives Czyre a punch. “Seriously? That’s how you introduce me?” Turning my way, she says, “I like people to get to know me better before finding out about the whole PK thing. They always assume I’m going to shove a pamphlet in their hands or start flinging holy water on them or something just because I’m a Christian.”
Czyre rolls his eyes. “Bridge has a bit of a complex, but she’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” says a guy leaning against the back wall. “Her dad just happens to work for Jesus, that’s all.”
I laugh. “My dad’s a psychologist, and he devoted a whole chapter of a book he wrote to examining my behavior when I was younger,” I say. “It made me a little bit paranoid about being judged.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling.” Bridget smiles. “Like I’m part of an exhibit that’s open every Sunday.”
“Well, it’s safe here,” Czyre says. I glance up just in time to catch Colton peering into our lair. He does a double take when he sees me, but then heads up the stairs without giving any indication that the two of us know each other.
The guy leaning against the wall must have seen him too, because he says, “Just the usual zoo display here under the stairs at Punxsutawney High.”
Czyre says to me, “We’re not the mindless animals. They are.”
Everyone in this school seems to have a distrustful “us vs. them” mentality. I just want to figure out where the goths I’m speaking with fit into the whole picture of me and my never-ending first day here.
A girl in all black with matching black lips and a nose ring appears at the entryway. “Hey, guys,” she calls into our cave. “I can’t hang out this morning, need to get my schedule switched. But wanted to get this to you before I forget, Bridget.”
She reaches a hand into her bag, and I picture her pulling out cigarettes or drugs, and feel my whole body wince. I’m glad it’s too dark for anyone to notice, because when her hand emerges it’s holding a large can of bean soup.
“What do you guys do with those?” I ask, trying to remember the drug warnings I learned back in health class. I know people do stupid stuff like sniff glue and drink hand sanitizer, but I can’t think of anything they can do to get high using a can of bean soup.
I realize everyone is looking at me, and feel more claustrophobic than I did a moment ago.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Czyre asks.
Bridget laughs. “Leave her alone. You have to admit bean soup is a strange gift.” She gives the big can a mini toss in the air and tells me, “My dad runs a food pantry at the church, so people are constantly handing me nonperishable items.”
She thanks the girl, who is apparently named True, and shoves the big can into her black bag. “These guys right here are the most generous group in the entire school.” She looks around with obvious affection for her fellow goths.
“Oh,” is all I can think to say, because becoming one of them is not at all what I expected.
I wish there was a way to show everyone else that surly first impressions aren’t always accurate. And that even a marginally horrible person (*cough* me *cough*) is capable of changing her perspective.
When I get to homeroom, Tom peeks under my little veil. “Andie? Is that you?”
“Hi, Tom.” I start rooting through my black leather bag. Not looking for anything in particular, just trying to maintain my aloof goth persona.
He asks, “Are you okay? I mean, your dress is great, but all summer at the theater, I never saw you wear eyeliner even once.”
I turn my kohl-rimmed eyes toward him, and he looks at me so earnestly, I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, sometimes I like to color outside the lines.” I bat my lashes at him.
He laughs. “This Tim Burton aesthetic isn’t really what I pictured when I was encouraging you to be creative.”
“Oh, I see,” I say. “You have something against Beetleju—”
His eyes go wide and he puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t say his name!” He holds in a smile as he looks around pretending to be paranoid.
I laugh. “Oh, what? You mean I shouldn’t say Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetle—”
He lunges across his desk and puts a hand over my mouth, and the two of us dissolve into laughter. In the movie, saying the name three times conjures up Michael Keaton’s wacky titular character (and if you haven’t seen the film, you might want to take a serious look at your own life’s priorities).
Tom is still grinning at me when he drops his hand from my mouth, and I realize too late that half the class has turned to watch us. We both disengage and face forward.
“I think I got lipstick on your hand,” I say quietly.
He pulls out a purple bandana and holds it out to me. “I think I smeared you a little there, sorry.”
I take out my phone and use it as a mirror to fix my lips. When I’m done, I say, “Nice hankie” as I toss it back to him. “Why purple?”
“Embrace the strange and unusual, Andie.” He wipes his hand on it and repeats, “Embrace the strange and unusual.”
Which, in case you didn’t already know, is from the movie. (And again, if you didn’t; take stock of your life.)
As I make my way through the morning
, I enjoy the anonymity of being invisible to most of the people I pass in the hallways. It’s a bit counterintuitive that I also like that instant connection I feel with the other goths when we cross paths with each other.
Every time I run into Tom, he starts miming the conga dance they do in Beetlejuice. I finally give in and join him right before English class, putting my hands on his hips and allowing him to lead me through the door. As we work our way around the classroom together, his movements get more and more exaggerated. Since I’m not participating in very goth-like behavior, I try to keep my head down so my veil covers my smile. But I can’t hide how much fun I’m having.
Finally, Mr. Demers enters the room. “Ah, how nice to see students so thrilled to be here,” he says. “Apollo would certainly enjoy this dance. We’ll be learning about Apollo shortly.” Louder, he calls out, “Can anyone guess what we’ll be studying this semester?”
Without raising my hand, I call out, “Mythology!” at the same moment Tom says, “The Greek gods.”
Mr. Demers chuckles and tells us to both please take a seat. Under his breath he says, “Looks like Cupid may have some easy targets.”
If Tom hears him, he pretends not to, which makes sense. Tom could never think of me romantically. He’s literally the only person who witnessed me throwing myself at Colton all summer long. I can erase every mistake I’ve made since school started, but I can never go back far enough to undo that. Though now I sort of wish I could.
At lunchtime, Bridget cuts in the food line beside me like we’ve been friends for ages. Once we’ve gotten our matching scoops of brown goo, she brings me out to the center courtyard, where the rest of the gang sits around a table.
They’re laughing and arguing in a way they probably wouldn’t if their table wasn’t situated behind a wall of bushes growing out of cement buckets. I never would’ve found them on my own, but now that I think about it, I vaguely remember hearing noise coming from this corner of the outdoor hexagon.
I suppose I was always so focused on Colton that I never even wondered who was making the ruckus behind the bushes. I kind of imagined it was some teachers letting off a little first-dayof-school steam. It’s almost comical how much more subdued and bored-seeming this group is in public. Here, they’re acting downright rowdy.
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