“Don’t even pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I saw him follow you up the stairs at Tracy’s, and I saw him follow you outside at homecoming.”
I contemplate pointing out that he followed me, and that I don’t really have control over whether somebody follows me somewhere. But I decide to keep my mouth shut.
“If I see you near him again, I will kick your ass and get your little friend thrown off the squad. You hear me?”
I’ve seen those cheerleading movies—Tracy made me watch them over the summer—but I had no idea that they were true to life. Not only are some of these girls complete and total witches, but they honestly think that the world revolves around them, that they are at the top of the social hierarchy. They may have been at one point, like in the last century sometime, but not anymore. Now they seem like something left over from another era, like when Title IX was actually more than the name of a women’s sports clothing company. I’d laugh right in her mean face if my arm didn’t hurt so much. And if I didn’t think she’d come up with some evil plan to get Tracy booted off the team before I could even change out of my gym uniform. Tracy would never forgive me. Never.
If I thought I despised the Union High cheerleaders before, I had no idea what the meaning of the word despise is.
I look Regina straight in the eye and say, “Let go of my arm. Now.”
The door slams open behind us as Coach Morley comes in to get ready for her next class. We both freeze, and Morley goes into the fitness office without noticing us, writing something on her clipboard as she walks. Regina lets go of my arm, and though I’d like to think it’s because I told her to, I know it’s because she doesn’t want to deal with Morley.
“I’ll make your life a living hell if you come near Jamie again,” she whispers to me, sticking a manicured claw in my face before turning to leave. “I don’t care if your damn dad is dead.”
The rage hits me so quickly I almost have no say over my actions. It takes everything I have not to grab her by the hair and yank her backward as she stalks out of the locker room. My chest is tight, and I can’t get any air. The blood is rushing to my face. I hear my pulse in my head, and it’s racing like crazy. Breathe, I tell myself. She’s not worth it. She’s not worth anything. Breathe.
In some ways, I have to hand it to her—she’s good. The last thing I ever expected was for her to say something about my father. I’m surprised she even knows about him. She’s so obsessed with herself that I didn’t think she had room in her tiny little head for knowledge about anyone else.
Breathe.
I take another second to collect myself, then I round the corner to my locker. Usually I have trouble finding it because I never bother to memorize the number of the one I’ve chosen for that day, and almost all of us use the same kind of lock. But today it’s easy for me to find my locker because the words “Suck it, Stupid 911 Bitch” are painted on it in fuchsia nail polish.
At least now I know who the school’s nail-polish graffiti artist is.
I hear a little gasp behind me. I turn and see Morley standing there, her mouth agape.
“Rose, are you responsible for this?”
I shake my head.
“Is that your locker?” she asks.
I nod.
“It smells like it’s still drying,” she says, coming closer for inspection. “Who did this?”
I’d love to get Regina in big fat trouble for defacing school property. Nothing would make me happier. I could just open my mouth right now and get her suspended, and possibly even thrown off cheerleading. Who would she be if she couldn’t prance around and bully people with her pom-poms? Would she have any friends left? Would she still have Jamie?
As tempting as it is, I don’t want to jeopardize Tracy’s standing on her beloved squad, and I can’t do anything else to draw attention to myself. I already have a reputation for being a tattletale after this weekend, and nobody likes a tattletale—we all had that lesson drilled into our heads from the first time someone dumped sand on us in the sandbox.
“I don’t know who did it, Coach Morley,” I say, even though it nearly kills me.
* * *
The first person I see when I get to the main office is Tracy, who wasn’t in study hall or gym this morning. She’s curled up in a chair in the corner, crying underneath multiple red-and-green Christmas garlands that are dipping down into the room from the ceiling. Tracy is crying like something really terrible has happened, but I’ve seen her cry like this when she can’t get her hair the way she wants it. I sit down next to her and pull her into a big hug.
“Trace, what’s wrong? What happened?”
She cries even harder and can’t answer me. I just sit there with my arms around her, waiting until she can talk. When she finally catches her breath, she says only one word.
“YouTube.”
“What?” I ask, baffled.
“Ms. Gerren? Would you come in here please?” asks the principal, Mrs. Chen, from her office doorway. She’s wearing a green pantsuit and a red headband topped with glittery reindeer antlers. “Actually, Ms. Zarelli, why don’t you come, too. You can provide some moral support for your friend here.”
Despite the way she’s dressed, terror strikes as I look up at our principal, who I’ve never even met before. The only principals I’ve met were giving me awards or diplomas. This disciplinary thing is a first for me, especially since I’m not sure what I’m being disciplined for.
We walk into Mrs. Chen’s office. It looks like a Christmas emporium. The fake-wood paneling on the walls, which is stained from ceiling leaks, is draped in holiday bunting. There are poinsettias everywhere and a talking, dancing Santa on the windowsill. The only non-Christmasy thing in the office, aside from the token menorah next to the Santa, is the industrial orange carpeting.
“Please, ladies, have a seat,” she says as she reaches back to shut off the “Ho ho ho!” Santa behind her.
We sit in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of her desk. They’re too big, so we either have to slide all the way back and have our legs sticking straight out in front of us like kindergartners, or we have to sit on the very edge of the chair as if we’re about to bolt at any second. Tracy is still sniffling. Mrs. Chen offers her the big box of tissues sitting on her desk, which Tracy accepts with a whispered “Thank you.” There is a jar of red and green Hershey’s Kisses on her desk, but she doesn’t offer us any of those, probably because she doesn’t bother offering candy to students she’s about to expel.
“First of all, Rose, I’d like to offer you my condolences, since I didn’t get to talk to you at the funeral. I met your father several times at hockey games. He was a lovely man. I’d also like to thank you for your courageous act on Saturday night,” she continues, “which, from what I understand, may have saved Stephanie’s life.”
I don’t know how to respond. I’ve been getting my butt kicked all morning for that “courageous act,” and I’m not exactly proud of what I did. “I didn’t save her life. She woke up right after I called for the ambulance.”
“Well, who knows what would have happened to her if someone less responsible had found her. I know it took courage to pick up that phone, so thank you for that.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing that isn’t an appropriate response but not exactly willing to accept her thank-you.
“The janitors are already working on removing the nail polish from the gym locker as well as your h
all locker.”
“It was on my hall locker, too?” I had no idea Regina was so observant. Or resourceful.
Tracy stops sniffling for a second and looks from me to Mrs. Chen and back, puzzled.
Mrs. Chen nods. “That’s why I called you down here. Do you have any idea who might have done that?”
“Someone who wears ugly hot-pink nail polish,” is as close as I can come to giving up Regina.
“Well, that narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Chen says. Was that a joke? Does our principal have a sense of humor?
“Now. Ms. Gerren, would you like to tell your friend why you’re here, which will explain why I invited her in to provide some moral support for you?”
I do not like the sound of this at all. She’s said the word “moral” too many times. Have I suddenly become some kind of ethical role model just because I didn’t want Stephanie to die on Saturday night?
Tracy sniffles a bit more and then takes a deep breath. “The ‘Single Ladies’ dance is on YouTube,” she says.
I don’t know why she’s telling me something I already know—she’s made me watch that Beyoncé video with her on YouTube a million times. And then it comes to me in a rush. In all the drama and trauma of Saturday night, I’d forgotten the “Single Ladies” striptease that Kristin and Tracy did in the parking lot for the benefit of everyone at the motel.
“Really?”
Tracy looks at me, misery in her eyes. “All of it.”
I actually don’t know what that means, since I didn’t stick around for the whole thing. In my mind I try to reconstruct who was there, who would have been mean enough to record it and put it on YouTube, but the possibilities are endless. For all I know, having it posted on YouTube is just a part of her stupid, endless initiation.
“Ms. Gerren, this is not conduct becoming of a young lady or a student of Union High School. You are aware of this, yes?” Mrs. Chen asks.
“But, Mrs. Chen, it’s initiation. If I want to be a cheerleader, I have to do whatever the older girls tell me to do. I don’t have a choice.”
“That’s exactly what Kristin said. And as I told her, there’s always a choice. You may not like the options, but there’s always a choice. Ms. Zarelli, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. How do you advise your friend to handle this situation?”
What I want to say is, Tracy should just quit the stupid team. But beyond that, I’m out of ideas and not interested in being the principal’s pet. Even though I do like her reindeer-antler headband, which adds a surreal element to this whole conversation. I just shrug.
Mrs. Chen looks disappointed, as if she expected me to whip out a PowerPoint presentation outlining the many ways that Tracy could rise up and rebel against cheerleaders who use their powers for evil instead of good.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she says. “I’m going to have a little sit-down with the captains of the athletic teams to discuss these so-called ‘initiation routines.’ Initiation will be banned from Union High, and any student found guilty of perpetrating or participating will be suspended or expelled, depending on the severity of the situation.”
I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty confident that there are plenty of ways for students to get around this new rule, such as no longer using the word initiation. But I don’t say anything, primarily because I don’t want to be late for French, and the bell is about to ring.
“Ms. Gerren, we’ve called your parents to inform them of the situation, and the video is being removed from YouTube. You and Kristin will be allowed to stay on the cheerleading team, but you are suspended for the next three games—unless you’d like to tell me right now who forced you into dancing in your underwear on Saturday night in the freezing cold.”
Tracy stares at the orange carpeting and doesn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ If there are any further incidents, you will be instantly removed from the squad. Is that clear?”
Tracy nods, and the principal dismisses us. We get to the door before Mrs. Chen adds, “Oh, Rose, I’d like you to keep me posted on any further harassment you experience. There are only two days left before break, of course, but it’s possible it could continue outside of school in some form.”
I can feel the look of horror on my face—it hadn’t occurred to me that this might keep going outside of school, especially since it’s peace-on-earth time. Mrs. Chen smiles sympathetically at me. “Get my email address from the secretary on the way out, okay? Don’t worry. This should all blow over soon.”
Sure, if you define soon as never.
quarantine (verb): to isolate or cut off from interaction
(see also: Christmas at the Zarellis’)
14
ON CHRISTMAS, WE don’t exactly rush to open our presents. My mother sits at the kitchen table reading the New York Times like it’s any other day while I uncharacteristically muster up every ounce of holiday spirit I can find and attempt to make Christmas pancakes with reindeer cookie cutters. Peter sits at the island near the stove, alternately trying to make conversation with me and making his weird new chuckling sound as he reads texts from his girlfriend. I can tell he wants me to ask what she’s texting him, so I don’t.
Finally, in the afternoon, when we can’t put it off anymore, the three of us go to the living room and sit down by the tree, which has a grand total of four ornaments hanging from its branches, no thanks to me. At least Peter draped some white lights on it so it doesn’t look completely pathetic.
There are just a few presents, but that’s enough, considering this whole thing feels like a fraud anyway.
Peter makes the biggest effort, filling in for Dad, who used to be the master of ceremonies. He reaches under the tree and pulls out each present with great fanfare. My mom watches him with a look on her face that’s half misery, half pride. I open my presents as quickly as possible—a sweater, a new iPod, a book—and then I stand up, ready to make my escape back upstairs.
“Hold up, Rosie, there’s another one for you,” says Peter as he practically crawls under the tree to grab the last present. He pulls out a small velvet jewelry box with a card attached.
“Oh! That came for you yesterday, special delivery,” says my mother. The way she’s smiling tells me that while she didn’t get it for me, she knows who did. I open the card. It says, “Rosie, I’m really sorry about the thing at homecoming. I hope your first Christmas without your dad goes okay. Love, Robert.”
The box holds a pretty silver pendant engraved with an “R.” I wonder if it stands for Rose or Robert.
“What is it?” Peter asks.
“It’s from Robert,” my mother answers, still smiling.
“A necklace,” I say flatly.
“You sound really thrilled about it,” Peter says.
I shake my head, not willing to explain that Robert’s Christmas gift is actually an apology for assuming that I was going to have lots and lots of sex with him at homecoming. If I told my mother that, I’d probably be grounded for all eternity, not just for Christmas break.
“Can we see it?” she asks.
I take the pendant out of the box and hold it up.
“It’s beautiful,” my mother says with way too much enthusiasm. “Why don’t you put it on?”
I shake my head again and put it back in the box.
“You can email him to thank him, if you’d like.”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to use my email,” I reply.
&
nbsp; “I’m willing to make an exception in this case,” she says as she starts to gather the wrapping paper off the floor. “It’s a lovely gift and you should thank him. You can use the computer in the kitchen.”
As much as I’d like to get on my email right now, Condom Boy’s thank-you can wait.
“What’s the deal with Robert these days?”
“Robert has developed a bit of a crush on your sister.”
“Mom, Robert has liked me since the sixth grade, which Peter already knows. Where have you been?” I snap.
“Rose,” Peter says, his voice full of warning.
I’m just about to tell Peter to shut up when the doorbell rings. We pause, looking at each other as if we’ve forgotten what to do about a ringing doorbell. Even though it’s nearly four o’clock, Peter and I are still in our pajamas, and Mom doesn’t look much better in her sweatpants. She gets up, tries to fix her hair in the coat closet mirror, then gives up and opens the door.
Tracy and Stephanie each hold a plate wrapped in foil with a red-and-green bow on top, snow landing on their winter hats, looking like a holiday postcard or a Gap ad. My mother does her best to greet them with appropriate cheer, but she looks like she might throw up. I know that, even though it’s snowy and cold, she has been transported right back to the summer—when people showed up at our door every hour with casserole dishes—because I have, too. I feel sorry for her, which, as usual, first makes me mad at her and then mad at myself.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Zarelli,” says Tracy. “Stephanie and I made cookies.”
“That’s so nice, girls. Come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Zarelli, but I want to apologize for, um, getting sick at homecoming.” By the way Stephanie just plunges in before she’s even made it across the threshold, I can tell she’s been nervous about apologizing and has practiced her speech, probably coached by Tracy. Stephanie looks at the floor as she talks, and the tips of her ears turn as red as her hair. “And I’m also so sorry for putting Rose in that situation. I feel real bad about it. I mean, Rose and I have talked but I just wanted to…you know.”
Confessions of an Angry Girl Page 14