The Kitty Committee

by Kathryn Berla

  I soon had the answers to my questions as I jogged to catch up with him after class, when it was apparent he wouldn’t be waiting for me.

  “Umm,” I began, betraying my absolute lack of all confidence. “Umm . . . how should we do this?”

  I had to walk in double-time, every two steps of mine equaling one of his.

  “Do what? The project?”

  “Yeah. I mean . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it myself.”

  When I looked up at him with what he must have known was alarm, he said, “I’ll put your name on it with mine. First, if you want.”

  “But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why? There’s always one person who carries all the weight when it comes to working in groups or with partners. So why not dispense with the pretense? I’ll handle it. Make it much easier on the both of us.”

  Who was I to argue? I knew I had nothing to contribute.

  “And anyway,” he continued. “Group projects are stupid. They accomplish absolutely nothing, and I prefer working on my own.”

  So was this why he chose me? Because he knew he could work on his own without interference? Without some meddlesome partner interjecting ideas that he considered stupid?

  “Well, what should I do? I should at least do something.”

  “You can give the oral presentation,” he said without a glance over at me.

  I froze in my tracks, but when I realized he wasn’t going to stop, I rushed to catch up with him.

  “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” I said, my voice so small and shaky, I was embarrassed. “I’d rather write the whole thing than do the oral presentation.”

  Timothy must have heard the panic in my voice because he looked down at me as though only just then aware someone was at his side.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do everything. You can . . . proof the paper.”

  I seized on that, although by then I was fairly confident Timothy was indeed one of the smart kids and proofing the paper was just a bone he threw to get me off his back.

  “Deal!” I said triumphantly.

  Physical education was a new horror I’d been able to avoid the first two days. Whoever was in charge of providing me with a uniform either didn’t come through or perhaps had forgotten. I was allowed to sit on the bleachers and do homework while the other girls lined up in the gym to perform various aerobic exercises before divvying up into volleyball teams. In Guatemala, physical education meant swinging on a rope under the vivid purple canopy of a flowering guayacan tree or kicking a soccer ball with whoever happened to have one. Usually barefoot.

  My luck ran out on day three when Ms. Simms, the PE teacher, presented me with the requisite top and shorts stamped with the name and logo of our school. Since they were several sizes too big, and since I still didn’t wear a bra, I changed into my PE uniform by slipping my top over the blouse I wore to school, and rolling the sleeves of my blouse so they wouldn’t be visible. I cinched the waist of my shorts by drawing the cord tight and double-knotting it.

  Ms. Simms randomly assigned me to a group of girls with whom I was supposed to remain for the rest of the year, and with whom I was expected to bond in the spirit of all that was wonderful about team sports. Introductions were quick and were done by Ms. Simms. Not one girl had a follow-up question for me or anything beyond an obligatory “hi” shadowed by a disappearing smile. On the volleyball court, I mimicked my teammates’ actions but failed to serve the ball over the net a single time, missed every ball that came my way, and even succeeded in smacking a teammate in the nose with a wild backward swing. She was immediately excused to go to the nurse’s office to tend to the resulting bloody nose. So much for bonding. When all the girls had changed from their PE uniforms back into school clothes, I was still struggling with the double-knot on my shorts. Once again, I arrived five minutes late to English, and this time without a pass.

  Another week went by before oral presentations began in health class. They were scheduled so they’d all be done by the end of the week. As I listened to the other kids fumble and flush their way through their reports, I felt immense gratitude that I wouldn’t be put in that position. I’d proofed Timothy’s report and found it to be professionally written without a single mistake that I could find. But it was filled with embarrassing words and phrases like genital-to-genital, sores, and oozing. I returned the paper to Timothy without eye contact.

  I would be required to go to the front of the class when we were introduced, but after that I could take my seat. Even that was bad enough since I’d developed a cold sore at the corner of my mouth—a sore that always appeared when I was on the verge of coming down with a virus or hadn’t been getting enough sleep. It was Monday, and Timothy wasn’t there, but I wasn’t worried because he’d said we were scheduled for Friday. By then, I hoped my cold sore wouldn’t be so noticeable.

  I was totally unprepared when Mr. Janke called my name as the next presenter.

  “But . . .” I sputtered. “Timothy isn’t here today.”

  “You’re scheduled today,” Mr. Janke said. “And it wouldn’t be fair to put someone else in your place when they aren’t prepared.”

  “But I’m not prepared,” I gasped.

  Mr. Janke looked down as if to double-check the schedule.

  “Why not? Do you have the paper?’

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Did you not help write it and go over it?”

  “Yes,” I lied. But I had read over it.

  “Then proceed. This is a joint project so you’ll both receive the same grade regardless of Timothy’s attendance.”

  Every eye in the room was turned on me.

  I retrieved my copy of the paper from my backpack, all the while cursing myself for not lying and claiming I didn’t have it on me. I clutched it with one white-knuckled fist and made my way to the front of the classroom on legs that threatened to buckle.

  “I’m Grace Templeton,” I muttered to the pages. “And my project—our project . . . me and Timothy . . . it’s on herpes.”

  Cue the laughter. It’s not that our project was more or less embarrassing than any of the others by nature; it’s just that I was such a painfully pathetic and self-conscious orator.

  I blearily read the contents of the report that Timothy had written, the words squirming on the page like lethal viruses, waiting to invade my brain and render me a sobbing mess of mush. At one point, I froze, completely incapable of transforming the written word to the spoken one.

  “Go on,” Mr. Janke said. From the way he said it, I could tell he was already regretting his decision to make me go it alone. He was a kind man. He just didn’t want the clowns running the circus. But the gentleness in his voice gave me the courage to continue, and I tried to focus only on that.

  When it finally came to the part where I described the visual symptoms of genital herpes, a girl’s squeal cut through the funereal pall that had settled over the room.

  “Eeew! She has one on her lip.”

  To which everyone burst out laughing, and I couldn’t blame them. I was the perfect target in the perfectly comedic situation for a roomful of high-school students who’d rather be anywhere but there. Even I recognized it as a means to diffuse the tension, and it worked. I instinctively brought my hand up to cover the sore at the corner of my mouth.

  But Mr. Janke was furious, calling the girl from her seat and sending her to the office with a harsh rebuke.

  When I was done and had received a compassionate pat on my shoulder and a merciful “well done” from Mr. Janke, I took my seat and proceeded to die a thousand deaths.

  The next day, Timothy appeared at my desk before class.

  “How’d it go? I heard Janke screwed up the schedule and made you give the talk.”

  For a few seconds, I considered not replying. But m
y anger got the better of me.

  “Where were you?”

  “Taking the PSAT. Why weren’t you there?”

  I didn’t even know what a PSAT was.

  “Nice. I guess you got your way because it’s obvious you planned for me to give the talk all along. Hope you’re happy. I hope we get an F.”

  “We didn’t. We got an A.”

  “That’s a joke. Anyway . . .” I fumed at the memory of my public humiliation.

  “I told you; Janke screwed it up. We were supposed to present on Friday.”

  “Oookay. If you say so, I believe you. Wait. No, I don’t.”

  I opened my book and pretended to read.

  Timothy shook his head slowly and sighed. “Whatever.” He slouched over to his desk.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, allowing the tears to wet my eyelashes but not my cheeks.

  After that day, we never spoke in class again.

  There was a final memorable incident my sophomore year before we were released to the freedom of summer, toward which we all seemed to be racing those final weeks of school. I had a hall pass to go to the library, the purpose of which I no longer remember. The hallways were empty, a preview of their natural state soon to come. I walked slowly, taking advantage of my justified absence from class.

  The long hall leading to the library had double doors which opened to the gym. The part of the gym closest to the hall was connected to the boys’ locker room by another door. I was only steps away from the double doors when I heard a sudden commotion—voices, yelling, laughter, a slam, and finally pounding. I quickened my pace to witness the source of pandemonium.

  When I stared into the gloom of the empty gym, I saw a boy pounding on the door to the boys’ locker room. Stark naked, pale and thin, a thatch of dark hair between his legs from which protruded a ridiculous fleshy tube I understood immediately to be a penis. It flopped back and forth as the boy continued to pound on the door, demanding to be let in. His voice was cracked and sounded close to tears.

  My immediate thought was one of shock. Boys had hair down there? I thought only girls did. And the penis . . . disgusting. I know I stopped and stared. This was the first naked adult male body I’d seen and I was riveted, yet revolted. How is it we were the same species and so alike in so many ways when our clothes were on?

  Because I was focused on what was between his legs, it took me a few seconds to realize it was Timothy. Our eyes met and he turned his back to me, hanging his head, hunching his shoulders, and covering the crack of his butt with one hand. The door opened, and I could hear the teacher (Mr. Janke?) yelling at the tormentors responsible for Timothy’s disgrace.

  I walked away quickly, burning with shame for the thoughts in my head.

  My first thought was that Timothy was a victim, and I never wanted to be a victim. I decided right then to do everything in my power to make sure something like that never happened to me. Thoughts like this hadn’t occurred to me in the missionary schools I’d attended, but now I experienced a different reality. One less kind. One that required more strength.

  My second thought was that Timothy deserved it.

  The last day of school was a half-day basically devoted to standing in line to receive your yearbook and then getting people to sign it once it was in your possession.

  There were a few kids I’d met at the loser table where I’d spent every lunch since I first arrived at Indian Springs. The loser table—such a cliché. None of us thought of ourselves as losers, I’m sure. We were just the kids who wanted to blend in and didn’t have the means to pull it off. On the last day of school, we sought each other out to avoid the shame of an unsigned yearbook.

  After that, I found a quiet corner to sit where I could study the contents of this book. I’d arrived too late for a picture, but I was grateful for that. There would be no visual record of who I’d been my sophomore year. I knew I’d come back as a different girl after the summer. One more in tune with, at least, the fashion requirements necessary to blend in. One who wouldn’t wander accidentally into the wrong classroom on her first day. One who wouldn’t ever be a victim again.

  This book could have served me well if it had been handed to me on my first day of school. I would have known who was who and what was what by carefully perusing its pages. Who was smart. Who was popular. What activities might possibly align with my interests. But I’d known none of that and was still relatively clueless after more than three months of fighting just to stay afloat.

  I found Timothy’s picture. He stared awkwardly at the camera, his mouth in an imitation of a comfortable smile. I found his name in the index: Chess Club, Honor Society, JV basketball, Debate Club, State Band, and more. I’d suspected, but not known, the extent of his successes.

  I ran my finger over row after row of sophomore class portraits until I stopped at the one I’d been looking for all along. There was the girl who had smiled at me on that first day, taking in my entirety as though I was a real person who was visible if you only bothered to look. Her hair and makeup were perfectly done, perhaps in anticipation of picture day. She looked into the camera, unafraid. She smiled but not in an ingratiating way—more in the manner of someone who knows what others don’t. I turned to the back to read her list of accomplishments and they were equally as impressive as Timothy’s. I flipped back to her picture and stared into her eyes as I had on my first day. But now I knew her name.

  Carly Sullivan.

  Chapter Three

  One of the first casualties of Dad’s accident and our resulting move to California was involvement in our church. Mom took a job as a nurse to support the family while Dad was literally on his back. Luke and I were mainly left to fend for ourselves and help Dad when Mom wasn’t around. She continued to attend church service on Sundays, taking me with her, but Luke was often absent due to sports and friends and his summer job as a lifeguard at the community pool. He would be leaving for Sacramento State University at the end of the summer, so my parents let him have his way.

  Mom did her best to cement our family to the church community, but there was only so much time in her week and I was losing interest by the day. This was no longer a church around which my entire existence revolved—social time, work time, the very purpose of our lives, or at least my parents’ lives. This was a characterless building twenty minutes away by car instead of the five-minute walk in Monte Verde, Guatemala. Many people attended this church and I could never know them all. I never felt the personal connection to God my parents led me to believe was a real and tangible thing. He never spoke directly to me. I felt God only through the bond with my parents. He spoke to me only through them.

  When I was younger, a voice did speak to me at night. My own voice. It said I hate God over and over while I lay in bed trying to sleep. The voice practically drove me mad, and I was sure it was only a matter of time before I was struck by a bolt of lightning for my blasphemy. After weeks of torment, I finally confided in Mom one night when she was tucking me in.

  “It’s just the Devil talking to you,” she said gently. “Tell him to go away and leave you alone.”

  Which I did.

  But he didn’t leave me alone. He continued to torment me until, one day, I realized I’d been suffering through this ritual for months with no adverse consequences. I reasoned that if the Devil and God were battling over my soul every night, neither one was winning. Once I reached that conclusion, I felt even more removed from the religion of my parents. The voice in my head went away, and I decided my soul hadn’t been worth fighting over, after all.

  An immediate benefit of my new church was my first friend, Alice. Alice was a year younger than me, not yet in high school. Summer had turned the hilly countryside the delicious color of butterscotch. Oleander bushes provided splashes of taffy pink. A honeysuckle vine in our backyard oozed a heady scent that teased my newly awakened hormones. Life was out there to be h
ad. The bees proclaimed it in their lazy droning. The scent of cut grass. The clacking of sprinklers. Alice and I were ready to venture out beyond our homes.

  Our favorite spot was the drugstore where we perused the cosmetics department. We thumbed through fashion magazines, studying the images we saw and putting them together with the objects on the shelves that somehow achieved the desired results. Eyebrow pencils, lip gloss, mascara, eyeliner, and so on. Neither of us wore makeup so we weren’t sure how to apply it, but we continued our due diligence. Occasionally, a store clerk would shoo us away.

  “This isn’t a library,” he’d say. “If you’re not going to buy it, don’t ruin it for someone who will.”

  But one day, a representative from a cosmetics company visited the store. We were enraptured while we watched her perform miraculous makeovers on willing participants who would then, hopefully, purchase products from the line she represented. We spent hours as wide-eyed voyeurs. Then, just as she was packing up to go, she seemed to take pity on us, or perhaps she saw a chance to influence the next generation.

  “You gals want me to make you pretty? Real quick . . . I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  Alice didn’t dare, but I flew to the seat she had set up for the occasion. With my eyes closed and my lips pooched out, I barely breathed for fear of interfering in my expected transformation.

  “Take a look,” she said at last, holding a mirror up in front of me.

  “Wow! You look amazing,” Alice exclaimed breathlessly.

  A stranger looked back at me from the mirror. But she was a stranger I loved. I made careful notes about each product the rep had used and, after wiping my face clean with tissues and makeup remover, Alice and I rushed to my house before returning with my entire savings from my allowance. At home, my stash of makeup remained hidden in the back of my closet inside one of my shoes. I practiced every night when everyone was in bed until I could paint a fairly decent face within a matter of minutes.