My school outfit was ready and clean. The other clothes I had were not good enough to wear to school because they were stained or laden with holes. No, this was not my first-day-of-school outfit. This was my one-and-only school outfit. Yes, I was about to go on vacation and start second grade at a new school two weeks late, and I planned to wear the same dress to school every day. Back-to-school shopping was not a ritual my parents chose to take part in.
Fear was an emotion I knew well and was what I felt when I thought about my return to school. An accidental disappearance while on vacation started to appeal to me. Would it matter if I disappeared? Life would be a whole lot easier for me if I did not have to explain to others the reality I tried to escape. Only a poor person lives in an incomplete house, without water and electricity. Nobody would ever want to be friends with a girl who lived an uncommon lifestyle like mine.
My grandma once said, “If you can’t handle a situation on your own, give it to God.” The start of the new school year was the thing I couldn’t handle, so I prayed. I prayed for the other kids to like me. I prayed for just one of them to be my friend. If God could just unite me with one other kid who was as lonely as me, be them ugly, dirty, or smelly, I would be eternally grateful. Since I didn’t have the self-esteem to be choosy or even to approach another kid, I did what my grandma said and left it to God.
Janna, Jay Jay, me, and Gina
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two Weeks and Twenty-Eight Minutes
Some people have many friends. Some people have one friend. Some people have no friends. Once upon a time, I had no friends. But once upon a time never lasts forever.
Being popular and having many friends was something I always fantasized about, but I knew that would never happen for me. I was too socially awkward, and it seemed like too much work, primarily because I was afraid to talk and had no self-esteem or confidence. I have always only wanted just one friend. Through my life, I have had many “best friends.” I have traded in old ones for new ones here and there. I’m very difficult to become friends with if I already have a best friend; only the extraordinarily perseverant can take the place of the other friend. Some have tried; some have succeeded. Others have failed or have been traded in for new. I wish I wasn’t like this, but I know no other way. One friend at a time is all I can handle, and I would have one at most times.
TWO MONTHS AGO, I FOUND an antique desk at a thrift store. The reddish-brown tint of the desk is speckled with water stains and scratch marks that I know nothing about. It has eight legs, four on each side, to support the three drawers above them. Two of the legs are held on with duct tape because they broke when I moved it.
I’m in the “Big House” because the hot temperature outside is too severe to be in the treehouse today. There is a big window in front of me, with a view of the backyard. There are sheer, white curtains, with white twinkle lights peeking through them, but they are not on. The “Big House” boasts soft touches throughout, created by yours truly. The curtains are closed, but I can see Earth’s palette of colors beyond them. Dying roses, in a vase, hold real estate on the left side of the desk, along with a tall, white candlestick holder and a crooked, flaky, never-lit candlestick on top. A faded gold frame holds a postcard painting of a light-skinned, black man with an afro. He has a determined and accomplished look on him, but I have no idea who he is. On the right is a small succulent arrangement, a twine-wrapped, battery-operated vanilla candle, and three pomegranate-colored vintage books: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet, and Antony and Cleopatra. I created this show.
In the center are my hands and the black keys I push to translate the contents of my mind to you. I wear large earphones; they cover my entire ears. The music is loud. My head randomly sways to-and-fro. The sun shines brightly. I have never written like this before. There is no smoke and no wine. No vices are needed to take this trip back in time.
Two weeks late and going on twenty minutes now. The school year had begun, but this was my first day. Nervous couldn’t begin to explain the achy pit I felt in my stomach. My mom always had a way of talking to the Circle K employees about anything and everything. While doing so, time meant nothing to her. The day had begun, and kids came in with their moms or dads and then rushed off to make it to school on time. I noticed their beautiful clothes and became more petrified by their excitement to get to school. That probably meant they had friends. Eventually no more kids were coming into the convenience store.
I stood there, eating a twenty-five-cent Ding Dong for breakfast. I liked to suck the cream out of the center and put my tongue where it used to be. I stared at the back of my mom’s head, occasionally speaking in a humdrum voice, “Mom, come on. I’m late.” She never listened to me. I cleared my throat and scuffed my shoe on the ground to try and get her attention. It was not until the Circle K employee said, “Oh. She’s gotta get to school,” that my mom even acknowledged I was there.
I arrived at school two weeks and twenty-eight minutes late. After a stop in the office, I walked to my modular classroom. Imagine a perfectly square classroom made out of wood. It was lifted so high off the ground that a ramp was needed for access. The closer I walked toward the small building, the more I wished the earth would open up and eat me alive.
Nausea overtook me; I felt ready to faint. Physical illness to the point of vomiting would have been welcomed in this situation. It would yield me freedom for being late or even a no-show. I had used the excuse before, but the illness never came naturally. Instead of being brave, I tried to make myself throw up. As I forced myself to burp over and over, I was so on edge that when a classroom door behind me slammed shut, I physically jumped. Cautiously, I crept up the ramp toward my class, staying just below the window so no one would anticipate my arrival.
My mouth felt gross, and I knew I had stinky chocolate breath. As I approached the door, I stopped and looked down at my dress and knee-high socks to make sure they looked acceptable. Like in any horror movie, my hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. I didn’t even manage to turn the knob on that first attempt. Instead, it had been as though I was checking the knob for heat, in case there was a roaring fire on the other side of the door. In a way, there was.
My hand retreated, and I prayed.
Reaching for the knob a second time triggered something like an out-of-body experience. I was coping by displacement so intensely that it briefly felt as though I had gone somewhere else. I wished I could stay there. My eyes squeezed tight, giving me the appearance of an untrained civilian who was trying to defuse a bomb.
Red wire? Or blue?
As the door opened, it seemed as though it was the only thing that was moving. I, along with the school and the rest of the world, seemed suspended in space and time.
The loud voices turned to silence, and I could feel thirty sets of third-grader eyes staring to see who had stepped in through the door. When I walked in, I did not look at them. I saw the teacher’s desk in front of me, so I headed straight to it with my head down but my eyes on her. I was uninteresting, and I was undoubtedly not a threat. The kids all began to talk and carry on again as I handed the teacher my note from the office.
My head lifted to look at the class after I was sure they weren’t looking at me. When I scanned the room, something caught my eye. A pretty girl smiled and waved at me. She looked like a mix of Laura Ingalls and an angel. I was in disbelief. I questioned if this was my imagination. A confused smile was all I could offer in return.
The teacher assigned me a seat and quieted the class down. She announced that I was new, and everyone chimed, “Hi, Jennifer.” I hated the attention and thought it was completely unnecessary. After I settled into my desk, I waited for an opportunity to examine the girl who waved. What is wrong with her? I asked myself. Surely no one pretty and normal would be interested in me. Maybe she thought I was someone else. I peered at her. She seemed normal, talking and laughing with the others. She was thin and had long, chestnut brown hair, thick like a horse, not
like my thin and stringy hair. She wore a clean dress, knee-high socks, and tennis shoes like me. I examined the rest of the kids to find that we were the only ones with this style. Why did she have knee-high socks on? Could she possess the same ugly legs as me?
Now and then, she would notice me staring. The fear of being caught red-handed was instantly disarmed when she actually returned my look with a smile. The positive turn of events threw me into a trance. The feeling was like standing outside in the winter cold, staring through foggy windows that framed the perfect image of some other family sitting around a fireplace, drinking hot cocoa. This was a recurring feeling that happened anytime I beheld friends enjoying each other’s company.
In this case, though, I just might have been welcomed inside that cozy home. I forgot where I was and got lost in the thought of where I could be. Involuntarily, my head cocked to the side, confused but delighted. Then came the unexpected sensation of a smile. Not hers, but mine. I even laughed out loud, but stifled it quickly, straightened my head, and stared at the chalkboard. While I outwardly pretended to be an attentive student, on the inside I began to question the imminent future. Positive thoughts were an elusive experience for me, though, and I soon began to think the worst. A slideshow of pre-enactments started to play out in my mind.
The excitement I initially felt when I first noticed the girl diminished as I wondered what I would talk about with her. I couldn’t tell her about my living situation, my mom, or my brother. The teacher’s voice became the background jumble to my self-deprecating thoughts. Should I lie? Should I pretend to be rich? I can’t be myself; then she won’t like me. What happens when she sees me wear the same dress every day? What if she laughs at me? Just as my internal hyperventilation began, the bell rang. My heart stopped. The students bolted out the door to recess. I jumped up and walked fast. I headed to the restroom to take cover. I would rather avoid everything than face anything potentially harmful to my spirit. I was emotionally fragile and didn’t want to cry on my first day. I was nearly tripping over my shoes when I heard a sweet, winded voice from behind me.
“Jenny. Jenny. Wait up.”
It was obvious I was in a hurry. In disbelief, I turned as if I didn’t know she was talking to me. She was behind a few kids, trying to catch up to me.
“Wait. Don’t you remember me?”
I stopped until she caught up.
“From Desert Hot Springs School? I’m Tyler.”
So far, the only thing wrong with her was that she had an odd name, but that didn’t matter.
She continued as we walked: “I just moved here. I don’t know anyone either.” This was like Christmas to my ears. I didn’t want to speak because I had never heard anything so beautiful.
I heard her speak again. “Jenny, I know you from another school. I know you’re poor and sometimes dirty and you’re shy. But I have no friends. You are familiar to me. Do you want to be best friends?”
“Yes,” I said. There were no other words necessary. I was so happy. I felt like picking her up and spinning her around, but I had to pretend to be normal. We laughed and talked. I still had to act like I needed to use the restroom to justify my speedy exit from the classroom. In the stall, I folded my hands and looked to the sky and mouthed, “Thank you. Thank you.” Then I flew out of the bathroom without flushing the toilet or washing my hands, not because I was excited, but because that was not a habit I had grown accustomed to.
We made our way to the playground. Within moments, I was comfortable enough to share the real me with her. Tyler thought I was funny; she laughed at me several times. I loved that. No one ever thought I was funny. She was kind and understanding. I told her the truth about anything she asked. I wasn’t ashamed because it was all okay with her. There were times I thought this new friendship might be a dream, and I had to check myself with a pinch. Then I would laugh and look away with a massive smile on my face.
We bonded instantly. We apparently both developed our clothing style from our previous school. I didn’t remember Tyler from that school, but I just went along with this thought to have more in common with her. I recognized some of the names of other kids she mentioned to me. I thought I possibly remembered her from the monkey bars. I knew we were not in the same class because I didn’t know her name. I couldn’t see far; I was nearsighted. That is probably why I only remembered her from the monkey bars, but she remembered me a lot more. On the monkey bars, you see each other up close, but the playground was massive, and I never remembered seeing her there.
I WAS EXCITED TO GO to school with this new friendship to give me hope. Tyler never made fun of me for wearing the same dress to school every day. She didn’t care. She continued to wear the knee-high socks with tennis shoes as I did. Maybe she was so nice because she had “Cow-Legs” like mine? I figured I would find out one day, if she ever took her socks off in front of me. Until then, I would wait. I wouldn’t want to scare her by showing her my legs. What if she thought my spots were contagious?
One day, the teacher read notes from our parents stating what we were to bring to an upcoming class party. When she got to Tyler’s note from home, the teacher said, “Tyler: Yum Yums.” The entire class, including myself, burst with laughter. Tyler’s mom was supposed to write something specific, like chips or cupcakes, but she wrote “Yum Yums.” Tyler’s face turned bright red. She was so embarrassed. She looked at me; I tried to keep a straight face. The rest of that day, kids would walk by us and snicker and say, “Yum Yums.”
I am laughing so hard right now. The thought of that simple and silly moment has stuck in my mind for over thirty-five years, and it still has the same effect on me. It still packs enough emotion to bring not only laughter, but the tears that are currently rolling down my cheeks. Every time I think of this memory, I lose my composure all over again. I need to try and put myself together, but I keep imagining the look on Tyler’s red face. It was as if those words were a complete shock, a mystery that was not revealed until a mind-blowing plot twist. I’m sure her mom got an earful after school that day. I’m also sure that she had never imagined those two simple words would end up finding their way into a book over three decades later.
Tyler and I were inseparable. She invited me to spend the night at her house; I was thrilled. We walked to her home from school. She had no idea how happy I was to have a night away from the mountain. She lived near civilization and the town park. Her home was immaculate and brand-new. The air had a pleasant scent, and the furniture was decorous. Tyler told me her mom furnished the house with her “points” from working at AT&T. What a fantastic job to have, I thought. Her bedroom was small but clean. Two cozy twin beds, with colorful comforters that matched, were positioned side by side, about four feet from each other. Tyler was not spoiled by any means, but she did have fun toys and nice stuff. She had ninety-nine percent more than I did. Her large, white closet door was pushed open to one side, as if it welcomed us to enter. Inside, she had Cabbage Patch Kids, Rubik’s Cubes, Shrinky Dinks, and all kinds of other cool toys. We pulled out all of the closet’s contents, but never touched the cute clothes. We had so much fun that I prayed for time to stand still, but it never did.
Tyler and I went on many adventures together. We would crawl into the large, rusty flood pipe under the highway and listen to the traffic above us. I would often begin conversations with, “What if …” or “Pretend that …” Reality was a miserable existence I had learned to escape on my own, but I discovered it was more fun to escape with someone else—someone who encouraged my creativity and imagination, someone like Tyler.
I loved sleepovers at Tyler’s. I admired her but never wanted to be her, only because if I was her, I couldn’t be friends with her. With Tyler, I could be myself. Happiness filled me, and moments of fun were everywhere. Then, at around seven o’clock in the morning, my mom would show up with blasts from the car horn. My dad was at work, so I had guard duty.
Tyler’s dad always seemed a bit grumpy. He would bark at us: “Clos
e the door. Are you trying to cool the whole neighborhood?” When Tyler got us something to eat, he seemed to monitor everything. Tyler and I learned to avoid him. Tyler’s mom was more patient. She was pretty. She wore makeup, skirts, and high heels. She talked softly; she never yelled. I was not used to that. Her mom was loving; I secretly loved that. My mom wore old T-shirts, worn-out stretch pants, and water shoes. My mom did not care if her clothes were dirty, and she sometimes wore mismatched socks. I always thought Tyler’s dad and my mom would be perfect for each other.
Her mom would offer gentle reminders for us to “brush those teeth” or “put on jammies.” In my house, there were no toothbrushes, and we surely didn’t wear “jammies.” One of my favorite parts about spending the night was that I got to wear Tyler’s pajamas. And yes, I would sneak her toothbrush and use it in order to feel like a regular child, not to be deceitful.
“Normal” was what I often pretended to be. If people saw me in my natural habitat, they would view me differently—like some animal. An animal is not what I wanted to be. What if Tyler spent the night at my house? Would she ever want to talk to me again?
Tyler loved adventures. If I invited her over, she would view the lack of water and electricity as highly interesting. She would enjoy our goats, but would give the milk a pass. My maze of duct tape would have her wanting to walk the path from my room to the outhouse with her eyes closed. Even if she found our toilet situation strange, I knew she would love it. I would never know if she thought my home was peculiarly wonderful because I had never invited her over.
ELEMENTARY YEARS WERE ENJOYABLE, BUT probably not for anyone who got within three feet of me. I barely had any water to clean myself, and no clothes to change into. I always hid one jug of water for a quick wash, but “wash” might be an overstatement. I hardly ever got to clean my hair. It was stringy and greasy.
The Girl in the Treehouse Page 8