by Jancee Dunn
“You threw up in your bed?” Ginny said.
I nodded, pained. I had forgotten about that. “More than once, actually.”
“Cheryl was an unhappy girl. I think she was conflicted about her sexuality. Keep going,” she said. I flipped to another page:
I hate all of the boys in our sucky grade. I talk to them and stuff, but they’re all a bunch of conceited fags. All weekend they just hung out with each other. I ask you, is that normal? And I’m sick of my untrusting, slimy parents.
I just got back from Jack Meyer’s pool party and I hate myself. Deep hatred. Kurt and Cheryl and Craig and Sarah are all getting together after the party somewhere but I guess it’s private. I have no real friends at all. I never get enough nerve to talk to anyone. Face it, I am a loser. I noticed it in school, too. What’s the use. I am stupid, fat (118 pounds), too quiet, my nose is huge, I really suck royally at just about everything. I’m such a leech, and a scunge, people avoid me. I hate hate hate myself.
All I do is wait around for things to get better and they don’t. The only guy that calls me is Doug Muller, who takes track and wears Wranglers. My mother is such a tense, obnoxious shrew, screaming at me about the most pointless, shitty things. She says she is going to “change my attitude.” Oooh! I wish my mother was sent to jail. All she causes me is aggravation. I would love to punch her. I can’t wait to leave this house forever and this scum-hole of a town. I feel like if I died, no one would even care.
“Good Lord,” said Ginny, laughing uncomfortably. “This sounds like Charles Manson’s diary. Like you’re going to kill people and stack them like cordwood. Every other word is hate.”
“Yes, but when you’re a teenager, you’re never going to write ‘Boy, am I happy. It’s a beautiful day!’” Still, my stomach began to ache when I remembered that night at the party and my forlorn walk home.
I paged to another entry, the writing sloppy and smeared. “I was drunk here,” I said. “This must have been after a party.”
So it’s like 2 in the morning and the party is almost over and who starts talking to me but Chuck Monohan!!!! I’ve never talked to him in my life! He came in with the seniors but they mostly left after a while. We were both soo blasted, I had a bottle of Andre and then Sandy was pouring shots of “To Kill Ya” down my throat. So then I’m in Chuck’s car (he said he drove drunk well because he paid attention more) and we end up in his driveway and we’re making out! The funny thing was when I got up to leave he kept trying to trip me!
Ginny took the journal from my hands and read the rest. “‘Finally we both fell’—no, he tripped you and you fell—‘and he was pulling at my clothes, he’s so strong, it was funny, and then I think we did “everything but.”’”
My whole body had gone cold. My hazy recollection of the whole incident had been a triumphant make-out session with a football star. But then I had a brief, sickening flash of Chuck looming over me with unseeing eyes, holding me down and pulling off my clothes, his drunken dead weight pushing the breath out of me as he mechanically humped me on the gravel driveway. “I love you,” he muttered thickly, and I realized he didn’t know who I was. When he finished with a groan, he rolled off me and I sat up shakily, pulling down my shirt and pulling up my underwear.
Ginny kept reading. “‘Then I got sick and he said I should walk home to sober up, which was a good idea.’” She looked up, wonderingly. “He wouldn’t even take you home.”
She continued: “‘Now I have bruises and cuts all over me, wait until I show Kimmy and those guys. P.S. He just called, I don’t know how he got my number, and he said this was between us and Shauna can never find out! I can’t believe he called, what a nice guy!’”
Ginny and I looked at each other, stricken. “Even in your diary,” she said slowly, “which you thought no one else would read, you’re glossing over an ugly situation. I feel sorry for that sixteen-year-old girl. You were so excited that a big football star was paying attention to you that you couldn’t even see he was essentially just holding you down and masturbating on you.”
I hugged myself. “I can’t believe I would have forgotten that.”
She looked at me pityingly. “I can.” She picked up the journal and read another entry.
I hate that bitch Jennifer. We were all in Science today and it was a substitute teacher and the guys were all trying to pull her pants down and she was screaming and pretending like it bothered her. It so didn’t. Mildew yanked them almost off and you could see her underwear.
Ginny and I looked at each other. With my adult memory I recalled Jennifer’s panicked face. She wasn’t squealing in delight, she was near tears, but I was still poisonously jealous of her because she was receiving the attention that eluded me. I suddenly remembered with nauseating clarity that in that moment I wanted more than anything to trade places with her, to be in the middle of that pack of leering boys.
Ginny shook her head. “Any attention was good attention. That’s how you saw it.” She ran her hands through her hair. “God. I’m dreading the day when Jordan becomes a teenager. You know, Mom used to constantly tell us how smart we were, how we could do anything. She was so big on those feminist messages of empowerment. And none of it matters because you have that pathological need for reassurance, in whatever form it takes.”
I grabbed the journal and flipped through the pages—some spotted with tears, others written in angry, traced-over block letters. Many passages had been scratched out later to cover embarrassment. Only a few pages expressed any form of happiness or even mild contentment. “I can’t believe that my memories are so different from all of this,” I said, my voice breaking. “I feel sick.”
Ginny hugged me. “I wish I had known about some of this stuff. I wish we had talked more. Maybe I could have helped, somehow.”
“You did help,” I said. Her face shimmered glassily as my eyes filled with tears. “I’m really sorry, Ginny.” I was sobbing.
“What? Why?”
“I have to tell you something. I read the poetry from your diary and sometimes I would recite it to my friends.” I cried harder.
Ginny stopped smoothing my hair and laughed. “This has been torturing you? Please. My poetry was pretty ghastly. You had every right to make fun of it.”
“I feel like an embarrassment to you,” I went on, gulping. “My life is such a mess right now, and I guess I just felt like going back was easier, somehow.”
She hugged me again. “Don’t be one of those people who peaked at eighteen. Take a page from your friend Vi. She’s, what—seventy-five?—and the last time I talked to her I got the ‘best is yet to come’ speech.”
Later that night when I was in bed, I opened my journal again and read the entire account, my heart beating queasily with the realization that I had forgotten fully half of the events of my teenage years. More likely I had buried them. The deviously inventive cruelty of teenage girls, the thuggish obliviousness of the boys! Each passage unlocked another memory that had been happy when I had originally tucked it away and had since rotted between the pages.
Other entries flooded me with shame:
So Dawn’s having one of her stupid Valentine’s Day parties again. Isn’t she a little old for this shit? A) there are no boys there, which was fun in eighth grade but come on, and B) it’s in her basement, which smells like a cat box and C) I haven’t even talked to her in like a year. She passed me an invite at lunch in front of everybody and when she turned around I pretended to crumple it up. Well then she turned back around and totally saw me.
And on the last page, I had written this:
It’s Friday night and all my friends are out. Christian was supposed to come get me two hours ago and he’s not here yet. Is he at the party already? Doesn’t he realize I’m not there? I shouldn’t have blown off Kimmy. And my parents keep asking where he is. We’ve been going out six months and he still won’t come in and meet them, he just beeps the horn in the driveway. Dad said he’s going to let the air out of his
tires next time and he’ll be forced to come in. Well, it’s only ten o’clock, maybe he’ll still call. Oops gotta go, there’s the phone.
P.S. It was for my parents.
chapter thirty-two
The next day I girded myself to make two phone calls. The first was to Vi. “Oh, dear,” she said worriedly. “Don’t tell me you’re not coming back on Monday.”
I swallowed. “Of course I am. But I have to tell you something that’s extremely difficult.” I took a breath. “I think I’m going to have to start looking for another job.”
She didn’t speak.
“I feel as though I need to do something different, and I realized that I’ve been at the job for so long because I’m so attached to you, and—”
She interrupted me. “Lillian. I’ve been waiting for this. Mind you, I’ve been dreading it, but I welcome it, too. It pains me to say it, but I think you’re ready to move on.” Her voice broke. “I’m glad. It means you’re feeling more optimistic about life. And I think Frank could replace you. Not that you can be replaced.”
“I want to stay friends,” I said miserably. “Like we always have been.”
“Why, Lillian,” she said with surprise. “We will always be the best of friends. Just try to separate us, Buster.” Vi often addressed an imaginary adversary who had the gall to try and hold her down. “What’s that Cole Porter song from Du Barry Was a Lady? She began to sing. “‘If you’re ever in a jam, here I am!’ Remember? ‘If you ever need a pal, I’m your gal!’ Gene Kelly was marvelous in that. In the meantime, where will you be looking for a job?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Well, what is your dream job? Don’t think about it, just tell me the answer.”
“Lots of things, I guess. Being a producer on the Food Network, or the Travel Channel.” I thought for a minute. “I would love to work on Sesame Street, or really, anything done by the Sesame Workshop, but then again, everyone in the United States of America wants those jobs.”
She frowned. “How do I put this delicately? You’re not exactly what I would call a kid person, Lillian.”
“I am, too. Anyway, this is different.” I ticked off the reasons. “They’ve won over a hundred Emmys, they have shows in Israel and Jordan and India; people who have worked there say you have unlimited creative license—”
“So send out résumés! And I will make some calls. I think Irv Cohen’s grandson is a producer on Sesame Street. I know everyone—or at least, everyone’s ancestors.”
“Thank you, Vi,” I said feelingly.
The next call was more difficult. After three false starts, I dialed Christian’s number. His voice was heavy with sleep even though it was nearly lunchtime.
“Hi, Christian.”
“Oh, hey, how are you?” he said. He seemed glad to hear from me. “I meant to call you. Are you coming down this weekend?”
“No, I can’t. Remember I told you I was moving into my new apartment? I can’t wait. I’m sure my parents can’t either. I think they have Costco champagne chilling in the fridge for the big moment when I’m out.” In actuality all three of us got a little choked up when my mother slowly packed away my ratty orange afghan for the next visit.
“Oh, right. Yeah. Well, maybe another weekend. Fortunately my folks never come down here, so at this point I think I have squatter’s rights. So what else is going on?”
“Well, I’m looking for another job. Vi’s actually been great about it. She’s calling around for me.”
He didn’t say anything. I heard him turn on a television.
“Well, give me a call when you’re settled,” he said after a minute.
I knew then that what Ginny said was true: My dreams that fluttered and wheeled around him were more exciting than he was. I had been doing the same thing I had done as a teenager, removing myself from my own life so I became an onlooker rather than a participant, endlessly chronicling and cataloguing.
I could have spent a perfectly pleasant year with Christian, perpetually Hanging Out, but suddenly I would rather have been alone.
“This next month will be pretty busy,” I said.
“Oh.” He sounded surprised. Then again, I would never know for sure what that “oh” meant, or what anything meant.
“Good-bye, Christian,” I said, and put down the phone.
Then, before I could change my mind, I began to dismantle my bedroom. Down came the Soloflex and Squeeze Singles posters, the photo collage that Sandy had made me, the prom pictures and the Robert Doisneau print. I dragged in a contractor bag from the basement and tossed in the old bottles of Anaïs Anaïs and Pavlova and Benetton Colors. They didn’t smell the same as they once did; they had turned from sweetness to rot.
I then put my old clothes from Esprit and Ocean Pacific into a bag for Goodwill. Some eighties-obsessed teen would snatch up those Gloria Vanderbilt and Sergio Valente jeans. With the last of my nerve, I gathered all of the artifacts from my dresser, dumped them into a big box, and had my father put it in the attic, with much sweating and cursing.
After I had completely emptied my bedroom, I brought my mother upstairs for the unveiling. “Walla, as Dad says,” I said grandly, opening the door. “Your future guest room.”
“Oh, honey,” my mother said mistily.
“It’s time,” I said, as we looked around the bare room.
She nodded. “It’s time.”
chapter thirty-three
Two months later, Vi sat quietly in the waiting room of Sesame Workshop, her large white handbag on her lap. True to her word, she had secured an interview for me at Sesame Street with the show’s executive producer, a seasoned, Emmy-harvesting hotshot still known to Vi as “Irv Cohen’s little grandson.” She insisted on accompanying me to the interview, and when I emerged from the producer’s office she leapt up eagerly.
“How did it go?” she whispered. “You were in there for an hour and a half!”
“I’m trying to keep it together,” I said in a low voice as we made for the elevator. “But I think it went really well. He liked my ideas. I was worried that I brought too many, but he said most people don’t bring enough.”
She nodded. “That’s my girl.”
When the elevator doors had shut, I nearly collapsed on her birdlike shoulders. “Oh, Vi!” I said. “We really connected, and it was supposed to last for twenty minutes at most. He said he would let me know next week but that I shouldn’t worry. That’s good, right?”
“That is very good,” she said, grabbing both of my hands. “Shall I blow in another call to Irv?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “You’ve done enough.”
“Let’s see. Where are we?” she said distractedly. “The Upper West Side, right? We just have enough time to go to Sardi’s! It will be decorated for the holidays! We don’t have to be back at the studio until two. Shall we have a festive lunch?”
As we walked out the door, chattering excitedly, we passed a man who looked slightly familiar.
“Lillian,” he said, and I jumped. It was Andy Wells. I realized it was him at the same moment it occurred to me that after our Red Hook jaunt, I never followed up on his e-mail messages that said, Where are you? Everything okay?
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Oh,” I said, startled. “I just had a job interview.” I hastily looked over at Vi. “Andy, this is Vi Barbour, my boss—my friend. Vi, this is Andy. We went to high school together.”
“How do you do,” said Vi, looking at him with the bright curiosity of a robin.
“How do you do,” he said, shaking her hand. “I love your show. After I talked to Lillian at our reunion I started recording it, and now I’m completely addicted.”
“Well, then, you just brought our demographic down about ten years,” Vi returned.
“I especially liked the show with the veteran newscasters,” he said. “I think it was last Tuesday. And also the one with the star of all those World War II movies, what was his name�
�”
“You really do watch the show!” Vi said delightedly. “George McCord. Do you know, he just asked me on a date? His wife died a year ago.”
“Well, I think you should go for it, if I may be so bold,” said Andy. “He still looks great, don’t you think?”
“I do. I think he looks so much better now that he shaved his head. He was holding on to those three hairs for too long.”
Andy nodded. “He has a nice-shaped head, so it works. You have to have the right head.”
I looked at Vi. “You’re going on a date with George?”
She shrugged gaily. “Sure. Why not?”
“So, Andy,” I said quickly, to fill a looming silence. “Do you work here?”
“Yes, doing animation. Freelance, but it’s six months at least, so that’s good. I found out that I got the job on the day you came to Red Hook. I was going to tell you all about it, but then you got a phone call. Remember, where you jumped directly into a cab and left me standing on the street?”
Vi reached in her bag. “I’m going to return some phone calls,” she said, and edged away.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” I said. “I had such a great time that day, too. I was moving back into the city and I meant to e-mail you after I got settled.”
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Well, I was also caught up in…”
“Going out with Christian Somers,” he finished.
I smiled. “It’s over. It was a bit of a mistake. I guess I needed to go back one more time.”
He nodded, trying to comprehend. “Like a monkey in an experiment. You needed more food pellets. Maybe you just had to gorge yourself on pellets.”
“Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying. “So listen, why don’t we go out for a coffee sometime? Just something casual.” He shook his head.