by M-E Girard
“I don’t throw eggs at houses! I’m not the one who made the mess. I was at work and then I came home. That’s all I know.”
“I call police,” Dad says. He wants to file a report.
“It’s just eggs, Pai!”
“This my house!” he shouts, taking the cordless from Mom.
It’s everyone’s house but mine.
Mom drifts off to go sit by her Mary statue, probably to complain about me in prayer, and Dad changes his mind about the phone. He does this thing I hate, motioning for me to follow him with this pissy finger-curling motion, like I’m a seven-year-old about to get in trouble for leaving my toys out. He grabs his jacket, so I grab mine, then we’re back outside. He punches the combination to the garage door and it goes up. He comes back out with the hose, holding the end of it like a gun. It’s almost three in the morning, and Dad shoots water at my bedroom window. The sound breaks the night and now I’m sure the neighbors will come see what’s up. After a moment, my dad hands me the hose and says, “You stay here. You clean. You no come inside until everything everywhere is limpo!” He leaves me out here.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve managed to wash off most of the egg, leaving a couple smudges and streaks that are probably frozen. By the time I roll the hose back up in the garage, I’m shivering and my nose is leaking.
In my room, my Blake phone call is long gone, replaced by five texts from her wondering what’s happening. I dial, but not her.
“What happened?” Johnny says, sounding panicked through a sleepy haze.
“Colby egged my window. Mãe and Pai are awake and freaking on me.”
“Pen, man. What’s been going on?”
I didn’t get to fill him in on everything. This Colby stuff, though, I thought was handled already. What I want to tell Johnny is that everything’s blowing up around me. That Mom thinks I caused this by looking like a punk druggy dude, that she’s two seconds away from enrolling me in a makeup class and forcing me to wear a wig. That Dad will back her up now because I’ve caused enough trouble to pull him away from his TV and out of his sleep. And I feel like the only way I can keep everything from falling apart in my life is by making sure Olivia doesn’t fall apart—and those things don’t even go together.
“I sort of realized Colby’s an ass,” I tell Johnny. “And now the egg’s all frozen and it won’t come off, but Pai says it’ll ruin the windowsill.”
Johnny sighs and makes sounds like he’s getting up. “Listen, are you gonna be able to handle yourself with Colby?”
“Yeah.” No.
“Because I can’t ignore this kind of stuff for too long. If you can’t deal with Colby, I will.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll figure it out.”
Sitting here in the silence means I’m stuck thinking about what the guys did, which ends up making me feel like more and more of a douche. Pretty soon the darkness inside me stirs—the darkness that’s always hanging out in my gut but never gets me anywhere. I’m just mad as hell with no one to throw my anger at.
So I text Colby: u better watch yrself, douche—i’ll take u down—i swear—i don’t care what happens 2 u anymore
FORTY-TWO
MOM WAKES ME UP AT TEN THE NEXT MORNING by yelling my name over and over from wherever she is downstairs. I shuffle down barefoot where Mom throws a flowered apron at me.
“Busy busy,” she says. “Chop chop.”
She heads for the kitchen. When I get there, a bunch of cleaning products are lined up on the counter. Today is the day I learn how to clean an oven. She tells me to put on the apron, but I don’t want to. She gave me the one with the spring flowers while she’s wearing my dad’s barbecue apron, the black one with an image of a stack of hot dogs on a plate. I know it’s just an apron, but it’s like she gets off on making me feel like crap. I won’t put it on.
I help her scrub the grime off the grill, off the inner walls of the oven. Then we pull out the stove burners and soak them, replacing the little foil plates that catch all the spills. After that, it’s laundry, where she teaches me how to fold a bottom sheet. She makes me try twice but it’s all messed-up-looking.
I do all she asks, and I don’t say anything about it.
She won’t get a reaction from me anymore.
“Ma, I gotta leave for work by two,” I tell her, which is in an hour. I don’t have to work, but it sounds more legit than having plans with my friends.
She does this annoyed sigh, pouring Pine-Sol into the mop bucket.
“I’m serious. I have to leave in an hour. I have to get ready soon.”
“What you want? You want the money? I give you the money. I buy you the clothes. I buy you the telephone.”
“I want to work and make my own money.”
“Why? Why you need the money?”
“Because.”
She tells me she and Dad talked and they’re in agreement: I don’t need to be working. My only job is to do well in school. “You pai he got the money for school. You do homework, Pai e Mãe pay for the nurse school.”
“I don’t wanna be a nurse. Is it you who wants to be a nurse?” The look she gives me—it’s like I dared to say something she wasn’t expecting. “I have to go now.”
She lets the mop fall into the bucket, hot water splashing around it. I’ve seen this look on her face a butt-load of times before. She’s fed up to the point of crying. So I turn around and leave, because I’m starting to think that maybe I’m reaching that point, too.
AFTER MY SHOWER, I find my baggy jeans and my red tee. Over that, I try on this new silky black button-down Mom had bought for Johnny, but it’s too tight around his biceps. It’s short-sleeved so my leather wristband shows. I put my silver chain on—the one Blake likes. In the mirror, I start to think maybe I’d look cool with a lip piercing, or a pierced labret. I can picture black lines etched up and down my arms, no colors like in Johnny’s tattoos, just tribal designs or something. I can see my hair going even a bit shorter, buzzed close to the scalp with a shorter fauxhawk. I can see so many things about me that I’d like to play around with.
People should just be allowed to look in the mirror and see all kinds of possibilities. Everyone should be able to feel nice when they look in the mirror. They should at least be able to see themselves reflected in there, even if they look all weird.
In the mirror, I see myself standing there and I think I’m all right. I think there’s no other way I could look, or should look. My mom must be blind if she thinks her vision of me would look normal. It wouldn’t. I know it wouldn’t.
I start pulling off my chain, my wristband, my belt. I put it all in a bag, then I head for my parents’ bedroom.
I TAKE THE STAIRS with this feeling that I could die before reaching the bottom. My mom’s heels are maybe a fifth of the height of Blake’s, but man, they’re still massive stilts that make it impossible for me to walk the way I usually do. And this skirt keeps trying to get caught under my left foot. The skirt is navy blue and I had to tuck it into my boxers because it would’ve fallen right to the floor otherwise. The blouse is one Mom’s never worn before; it’s the only one that was close to my size. It’s shiny white, with small buttons that are covered in the same material as the shirt. My boobs are there, just being all girly about it. On my ears are gold round earrings my mom must’ve worn before I was born, or maybe never. There’s this burgundy stuff on my lips, and I colored between the lines. I couldn’t put anything on my eyes because it made them water when I got too close.
I’m the lady from the perfume counter at the mall.
I reach the bottom of the stairs still upright. The shoes clack against the linoleum. I head for the living room, where I know my mom will be scowling at the TV.
“I’m going to work now, Ma.”
She doesn’t want to glance at me, but she has to. Then she has to look at it. This costume she’s been so desperate for me to wear. It’s all right here, covering me up. I don’t want to fight anymore, because I don’t
even know what kind of fight this is.
There’s no relief on her face. “You laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing,” I say.
I’m in drag right now. I’m a homo right now. This is worse than a Halloween costume because it’s not funny.
Mom’s chin quivers, and she puts a hand against her heart.
She’s looking at me with all kinds of bad feelings in her eyes, which is no different from the way she usually gazes at me; the only difference is that now I’m looking at myself the same way.
“I look nice, just like you wanted, right?” I say. “So can I go to work now?”
My eyes sting, but I don’t quit looking right at her. Not even when her face goes hard.
“Get outta here,” my mom says.
So I leave.
IN THE TRUCK, JOHNNY’S mouth hangs open. “What the hell, Pen? I’m gonna have nightmares about this.”
“Me too.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I put on my seat belt, fixing the skirt so I can let my legs hang loose. “Can we sneak in through the back door of your building or something? I need to take a shower and start over.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, little sister.”
“I’m not the one who picked the game.”
“I can’t look at you, man.” He drives and keeps stealing glances at me. “You look like Tia Jacinta.”
“Well, that’s just great. I look like an old lady.”
While we drive, I scroll through my cell but I keep going back to that text I sent Colby, which he never replied to. But he got it, there’s no doubt about that. Lying in the dark, I felt so sure that I could beat the crap out of him. But right now, my head’s somewhere else. I just never want to deal with Colby again. He could fade away, and that would be fine by me.
I have new friends, and Johnny and I are cool again. I feel all right. I’m still me.
I send Colby another text: u leave me & my friends alone, I leave u and yr friends alone—we don’t have 2 talk—we don’t even have 2 look @ each other—i’m over it—truce & walk away
I don’t get a reply.
FORTY-THREE
AFTER OUR MINI LUNCH MEETING WITH THE REST of the photo reps on Monday, Blake and I realize we’re way behind most of the others—and we have no excuse, because we’re the only ones with a third, silent partner. It almost makes me wish Tristan was on our team, because that guy just gets things done—which is why Colby’s always partnering up with him during group assignments.
“We can do this, right?” I ask Blake when we head off to eat lunch in the fifteen minutes left before the bell rings.
“Absolutely. We’re going to focus and plow through it.”
“You say that like it’s so simple.”
“It is,” she says. “We’ll just get together on nights we’re not scheduled at work and I don’t have practice. Or maybe you could come watch practice and we could work on things after the guys leave.”
I give her an awkward look. “Uh . . . I really doubt my mom’s going to be cool with me going out every night. Trying to get out of the house for work is already a pain in the ass.”
She stares back at me like I must be exaggerating. It’s not like I’m being held hostage, but Blake doesn’t get that the crap my mom dishes out—the looks, the sighs, the nagging, the threats—is sometimes just not worth dealing with every day.
“What if we work on it at school a lot?” I offer. “Maybe at lunch, and we can ask Mr. Middleton if we can get a pass to get out early a couple times. And maybe we can stick around here after school on nights I have to go to work? The mall is closer to here than it is to my house anyway.” Plus, it’ll save me from having to go home before work.
Blake squeezes my forearm. “Okay. Let’s do that.”
So for the next few days, every minute at school or after school is spent finishing up our photos and sorting our slide show.
Almost every minute. Some of my minutes are spent looking over my shoulder, making sure I know where Colby is at all times. In class, he’s with Garrett. At lunch, he takes off with his buddies. In between classes, when we cross paths, his slit-eyed expression is all he’s got for me. He got my text, I’m sure of it. So this is our truce. This is us walking away.
On Wednesday, Blake, Olivia, and I are in the computer lab at lunch. The photos are black and white because it makes the quotes pop more. In each picture, a student stands arms out, holding up a cardboard sign with a quote pasted onto it. In each of them, the quote doesn’t go with the person holding it. You see a face, a body, and you don’t even realize you’re assuming things about what you’re seeing. Then you take in the words of the quote, but they go against what you’d assume for what your eyes are seeing.
“Am I the only one who’s going to be in our project?” Blake asks Olivia and me.
We’re still trying to figure out how to add the quotes on the white signs. I’m doing the mouse-clicking, while Blake leans over to point at the screen. Olivia sits next to me, watching us go.
“You should at least put your truths in there. Something! This diary is going to be epic. I mean, do you guys realize that in two weeks, the mayor of Castlehill will be seeing these photos? We have a chance to really say something. They want the truth about what it’s like to be a high school student? Well, they’re going to get it—the amazingly messy, ridiculous, shocking truth,” Blake says. “You guys have to be a part of it. You have to put yourselves out there.”
Olivia meets my gaze, and it’s obvious she’s thinking what I’m thinking. Neither of us is interested in calling attention to ourselves. Blake’s badass; she’s used to putting herself out there, and that’s a big part of what makes her so damn hot. Not all of us are like that.
“So?” Blake says, smiling like she expects Olivia and me to throw a fist in the air after her passionate rant.
“We’ll think about it,” I say.
Blake sighs. “Well, I tried.” She puts her finger on the computer screen. “That font is righteous. Let’s keep it.”
Robyn comes in with this pissy expression. “You said you’d be ten minutes!”
“I know. I’m coming!” Blake says, before leaning super close to me. But she stops before our faces touch. Her perfume’s like a cloud around my head. My fingers curl around her shirt and I pull a little.
“You’re the hottest girl in the world,” I whisper in her ear. “I wish I could—”
“Can we go already!” Robyn shouts.
So I kiss Blake, right on the lips. I kiss her until I forget where I am. When she pulls away, her face is flushed and she rakes her fingers through her hair. I watch her go. When I get back to the computer screen, Olivia’s frozen in her seat, shoulders hunched.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“You guys are so cute!” she says, then she pushes my chair with her feet and I go rolling into the aisle. At the same time, she moves to take control of the computer. “My turn.”
The picture of Blake is one of the few we have left to design. Her sign says, I think all the guys on the basketball team are jerks. Even me.
“Look at her,” I say, running my hand against Blake’s photo up on the monitor. “Would you go gay for her?”
“I’d go gay for Elliott,” Olivia says.
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Your question was stupid,” she says.
“Hey, guys,” Tristan says. He collapses into a chair and rolls his way over to us.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Not much,” he says. “That’s a cool pic. Blake looks legit.”
It makes me smile.
“You wanna play Crypts later? Feels like we haven’t played that shizz in forever,” he says.
“Yeah, it has been a while,” I say.
“Do you game, too?” he asks Olivia.
“Not at all,” she says.
“Pen’s pretty legit. Have you seen her play?” Tristan says.
/> “I did give her this old Atari system and watched her play some of that,” Olivia says. “It wasn’t much fun.”
Tristan smacks my arm. “You have an Atari? She gave you one? That’s the shizz.”
“Yeah. All these games, too,” I tell him.
After a bit of silence while we watch Olivia prepare the next photo, cropping the edges and going through filters, Tristan hitches his chin up at me. “So you gonna invite me over to check out your new stuff or what?”
“Well, I just figured—you know, with Colby and all . . .”
“Figured what?” he asks.
“He’s not going to let you be friends with me,” I say, after a long pause. Olivia continues clicking away, not reacting to the conversation going on around her. “You know that, dude.”
“I’m not Colby’s peon,” he says.
“His what?”
“I might look like a spineless Colby minion, but I’m a free man,” Tristan says.
He says that now, but he’d know that’s bull the second he’d try walking away from Colby. Tristan can either be a minion, or he can leave the guys to hang out with a bunch of girls, and make an enemy of Colby in the process. Colby and his buddies wouldn’t hesitate to mess with him. The fact that I’m a girl is probably the only reason I’m not getting my ass kicked.
“You do remember you and me were friends first, right?” Tristan says.
“Yeah, I know.”
Olivia leans her head back against the chair and starts rolling back and forth. Tristan and I copy what she’s doing, and pretty soon we’re all zoned out, twirling around in our rolly chairs, staring up at the ceiling.
BY FRIDAY, WE’VE FINISHED up the thirty-five pictures that will be part of our diary. Before we send them to print for the album, we’re testing them out with a mini screening at lunch. Blake and I sign out a projector and take it to an empty classroom. Robyn comes along. Olivia shows up with a bag of popcorn, which we pass around.
“How’s it going?” I ask her.
She smiles and throws a popcorn kernel at my face. I flick one back and miss her completely.