The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  I pull my dictionary out of my backpack. Macy Cashmere’s Dictionary. What you are reading right now. (See D for Dear Reader.) I rest it on my lap. I don’t want no stains from Domino’s pizza oil on it. Now that Alma isn’t speaking to me, it’s the only part of me that isn’t stained. Messed up.

  Which is why I need Alma to forgive me. Alma knows who I be. It’s more than who I am.

  All about You

  Abstract noun. You Don’t Know My Life.

  For Alma’s birfday, she had a big party at her church hall. At the last minute I dropped the bomb I wasn’t gonna go. That’s why we ain’t talking.

  This was our argument:

  Me: “You know I’m not that girl.”

  Alma: “It’s my birthday. It’s not about you.”

  Me: “That’s why I’m not going.”

  Alma: “Damn it, Macy! Tell me my best friend is not skipping my party because of what she has to wear!”

  Me: “It’s one reason. Out of many.”

  Alma: “God, I think I’d be insulted if you came in a dress. Don’t you think I’m better than that?”

  Me: “I know you’re better than that.”

  Alma: “So you’re coming?”

  Me: “No.”

  Alma did not need some chick in a sweatsuit—AKA me—sitting in the shadows of her disco ball holding some crumpled card that should have money in it but don’t. (I did think about putting Monopoly money in the card. Alma would have laughed. But then I pictured her mother’s sour puss. The photos on Facebook—What’s Wrong with This Picture? being the caption for any photo with me in it.)

  “Alma. You deserve better.”

  “Don’t tell me what I deserve.”

  “Somebody has to. Because you have no idea.”

  For Alma it is ALWAYS about everybody else.

  But not this time. My gift to her was not to go. To make it all about her.

  Annoying

  Adjective. People who eat pizza with a knife and a fork. I mean fold that bitch and eat like a normal person.

  I stand outside and taste a snowflake. Last time I stood outside like this, Alma was with me. You sick of flashbacks already, motherfoe? If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. (See D for Dear Reader.)

  “Alma, ain’t you even gonna taste one flake?”

  She shakes her head. “Do you know how much car exhaust has been absorbed into those snowflakes? The—”

  “I never had no trouble digesting snowflakes.”

  “Well, that’s not saying much. God, I remember when you used to eat glue sticks. Lip balm like it was candy.”

  “The strawberry ones is the best. C’mon, Alma. Do just one.”

  Alma sticks her tongue out real fast like a frog striking a fly. “There. I’m freezing. Can we go now?”

  Alma proceeds to cross the street toward a construction site full of burly dudes before I grab her arm and steer her to the longer route.

  “Girl, you could see the danger in a snowflake, but not in what’s over there?” I flip the finger at the guys already constructing what Alma’s body looks like under her coat. She never seems to know it. When she’s being watched—which is all the time. I love that about her.

  “Look! Look at the fresh pile of snow right there. I bet you I could save it in my freezer and make something with it.”

  “Are you always hungry?”

  “Are you ever?”

  “I eat.”

  “You don’t eat meat. You don’t eat bread.”

  “It’s called vegan.”

  “It’s called annoying.”

  “It’s called self-control.”

  “Control THIS.” I lob one snowball after another and make her taste that damn snow. But she won’t retaliate. So I stop. Alma can be so annoying sometimes.

  I stick a snowball in my pocket.

  Am I hungry? ALWAYS.

  Any Day Now

  Preposition. Synonyms: That’ll be the day. Don’t hold ya breaf. When pigs . . .

  My mother is curled up on the couch not paying the bills. I’m sitting on the floor not doing my maf (math. MAF.) homework. “I’m having a guest over,” she says.

  Me: “Don’t you EVER want to be alone?”

  My mother: “With a face like this I don’t have to be.”

  “With a face like what? What do you even look like? The only time you’re not wearing all that shit”—I point to her makeup—“is in the shower.”

  “Take a look in the mirror, Macy. I’m not the one who looks like shit. Let me know when you’re ready for a makeover. I did make you so I’m in there”—she points to my face—“somewhere.”

  She flips to the news.

  “CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES SHOULD BE UNDER INVESTIGATION!” a lady on TV shrieks into a microphone. “THEY SENT MY GIRLS TO FOSTER CARE AND NOW THEY’RE DEAD. YOU TELLING ME THAT’S BETTER OFF?!”

  Me: “How can you watch that? Turn it off, Ma.”

  The news reporter shakes her perfectly styled head at the lady, showing she gets it. The camera does a close-up: “The two girls drowned in a lake on a vacation with their foster parents,” the reporter says. “This is not the first death in the foster care system this past year. . . .”

  My mother lights up a joint. She exhales and says, “You know any day now, weed will be legal here. Then CPS can’t take away kids anymore just because a parent smokes a herbal cigarette.”

  Me: “I don’t know how you can just sit there like that.”

  My mother: “What else am I gonna do? It’s not like I even know where Zane is. I got no choice.”

  Me: “Didn’t CPS say you’re supposed to do parenting classes to get him back?”

  My mother, exhaling: “It ain’t never that simple, Macy. And I mean, I wasn’t good at school the first time.”

  Me, throwing my stuff into the backpack: “This is different. That was for you. This is for him.”

  My mother: “This from the girl who’s failing—I don’t know—everything?”

  Me: “I’m failing maf. And science. Maybe art. But I’m failing subjects. Not”—I lower my voice—“Zane.”

  My mother: “Oh, Miss Thang got all the answers now?”

  Me: “Did you even sign up?”

  My mother: “For what?”

  Me: “The class, Mom!”

  My mother: “I will. The paperwork’s on the table. In a minute.” A minute passes. Another. . . .

  Me: “Any day now, Ma.”

  My mother: “Okay. Anything to make you shut up.” She messes with her phone for a minute. Looks up. “There. It’s done.”

  Me: “When do you start?”

  My mother: “Tomorrow.”

  She goes back to flipping channels. I get up and go to the fridge that was supposed to be fixed “tomorrow.” We keep all our food in the freezer now because the fridge died. The freezer’s in a death spiral but is still cooling. I grab a orange juice carton I jacked from the school cafeteria. I chug it and throw the container in with the dishes that will be washed “tomorrow.” If we buy any soap. “Tomorrow.”

  A-W-A-Y

  Adverb. Synonyms: No way. No how.

  George and I are sitting outside the science lab waiting for class to start. We’re supposed to have our investigations written up. We’re working on experiments. At least everybody else is. My life is a experiment. Every time anything happens there’s a explosion. I’m supposed to be thinking about a big question. Why does this happen? Why does that happen?

  “Hell if I know,” I tell George. I carve A-W-A-Y in the wall. A bunch of kids edge farther down the hall. George edges closer to me until I feel his Chewbacca coat against my arm.

  “A-W-A-Y!” I shout.

  George burrows his head in his coat.

  “No, not you, George! Not ever.”

  He pops his head out. “A-W-A-Y.”

  “Want to know how it happens?” I ask George. (See E for Even You.)

  George’s head whips right to left, left to right. He thinks IT m
ight happen now. He tightens his helmet.

  Me: “You get called out of class. To the office. The stranger from CPS is waiting there and stands up and asks you to sit down. This isn’t the first time. They always try to touch you. They want to high-five or pat you on the back but it’s more than that. They come with promises. They come with candy. They ask you questions. They want to know how you’re feeling and all sudden you’re talking about feelings you never knew you had. They want to know what you eat and how you sleep. When you talk they write things down. They get you warmed up.”

  George rests his head on my shoulder.

  Me: “They’re here because somebody called. Somebody was worried. No, they can’t tell you who called. So now everybody is out to get you. Everybody that smiles is full of shit. Every adult that whispers is whispering about you, your clothes, your hair, or lack there-fucking-of. You start to notice the stank of your sneakers, even though it never bothered you before.”

  George smells his sneakers. Coughs. Takes them off. Throws them down the hall.

  “When they come to get you it could be any time,” I tell George. “Day or night. At home or at school. Right off the street. Once they get you in the car, there’s no turning back. They got you. There’s nowhere to run. Not to the police. They’ll take you right back no matter how much you scream.”

  Even if they let you go, they watch you. They’ll never stop till they take you A-W-A-Y.

  I’m tripping hard. (Not on drugs. I am drugs. Every disturbed girl is.) They took Zane away three weeks ago, but it didn’t hit me until now. It’s like I’ve had amnesia. It’s like what the soldiers get, only I haven’t been to war.

  “They took Zane from the hospital,” I tell George even though he already knows. (See G for Gas.) I tell him because I’m telling myself. “At the hospital, I saw some lady crying because her kid was dead. That’s how I felt walking out of there without Zane. Dead dead dead and it was all on my head. I should have done better.”

  “Dead dead dead,” George says, lying down on the floor and taking aim with a invisible gun.

  “The next day CPS came to get me.”

  George nods his head, hard, his helmet falling over his eyes.

  I see it in my mind.

  Me to my mother: “Mom, what should I do?”

  My mother: “Since when do you want to know what I think?”

  Me: “Not now, Ma. They’re coming.”

  My mother: “I don’t know what you should do. I know what I would do. But I had friends when I was your age.”

  “I grabbed my toothbrush,” I tell George. He nods. “I ran outside. Didn’t even think where I was going. Didn’t know where I was till you answered the door.”

  George clicks his teeth and whistles.

  A-W-A-Y. Daddy is A-W-A-Y. For three years. Zane is A-W-A-Y. Maybe forever. I’m so lonely I could die.

  They’re going to take me A-W-A-Y.

  Teacher sticks her head out the door. Sees George in sniper position. Sees me carving A-W-A-Y in the wall. She hits the office buzzer.

  They’re going to take us away—ha! They’re coming to take us away.

  Afraid

  Adjective. Synonyms: scaredy cat, chicken, punk-ass bitch. (No, not pussy. Vajayjays are like the Hulk, man. Why people always gotta say you got balls? Balls? Flick em with a pinky and a guy’s on his knees. Vaginas is fearless.)

  I’m lying on the couch. It’s 3 a.m. The walls are paper-thin, and Mr. Guest and my mother are loud. But the voices in my head are louder.

  There’s the voice of my daddy bursting in the door. He finds Mr. Guest with my mom and asks me, How long have you known?

  There’s the voice of Zane. The one I’ve always understood no matter if no one else does.

  What scares me the most right now, though—not the voices I hear, but the voice I don’t hear: Alma’s. That’s the only voice that drowns out the noise.

  I have to get Alma to forgive me before my head explodes.

  And I have a lightbulb. My English teacher, Miss Black, has started this thing she calls Muffin Mondays. She said, and I quote: “I understand many of you have difficulty doing homework at home, so I’m starting a breakfast club. You show up at seven, I’ll bring the muffins. I make them fresh.” As in, these are not from Sonic—or Pillsbury even.

  My lightbulb is to go get me some of those muffins. And not eat them. I will save them for Alma. She knows how much I been wanting those muffins. More than Tantalus wanted those grapes. Your ass ever heard of Tantalus? Google it, you ignorant motherfoe. Imagine Tantalus finally gets his ass ahold of those grapes he hasn’t been able to reach for a fucking eternity. Then instead of eating them he gives them to you? Alma will forgive me then.

  This is not my first try to get the muffins, though.

  My mother: “What the what? Drive you where? Get to school by fucking when?” (Cue my mother throwing the covers over her head.)

  So it’s up to me. And I have my best lightbulb yet.

  I will steal the car! Genius, right? If I wait until five in the morning, all I have to do is steal the keys from my mother’s room, take the car, get the muffins, make up with Alma, and bring the car back by lunchtime. Because my mother—AKA Sleeping Booty—don’t even wake up till noon anyway.

  Tick tock. Five o’clock. I crack the door. All the air rushes out and all the pot fumes rush in. I reach out to the door slo-mo and twist the knob. If Beyoncé belted out a tune, it would have been quieter. I stand there and wait for my mother to whip out the machete from under her bed and decapitate my ass. The keys wink at me in the dark.

  Keys. Not something you really want to be picking up when you’re trying to be quiet.

  “Bitch, you better back up!” my mother hisses.

  I stop, drop, and roll toward the door. See, Señor Health Teacher. I was paying attention.

  “Ay, Yasmin, shut up!” from Mr. Guest.

  Snores.

  My mother don’t even shut up in her sleep. She’s probably sleep-texting. From the floor I reach up, over, and clutch the keys.

  Score! The keys to getting back my bestie are in my hands.

  Against All Odds

  Adverb. IN A WORLD full of crackheads and stupit asses, Macy must . . .

  I lock the door behind me. Even with two sweatshirts on it’s cold as hell. As if I’m covered in steaks, a stray German shepherd gives me the eye. But nothing is going to keep me from those muffins. I will step on the gas and reverse on your ass, Cujo!

  I duck into the car and throw my backpack on the passenger side. My heart is beating so loud I swear I can hear it as I stick the keys in the ignition. The car roars. Dang it, so loud! I can’t gun it, though. I know to let her warm up first. I test out my skills switching between the gas and the brake like Daddy used to do when he’d make the car dance. I got this. I know to turn around when I back up so I don’t hit the washing machine or the toilet or the fridge in the front yard. Yes, we got more spare parts than the Jiffy Lube.

  The street is clear. YAAS!

  I pull out. Everywhere windows are dark. But I feel like every star is a cell phone aimed at me. Click! Send! CPS: Message received.

  Alma’s Voice in my Head: And you didn’t think of this before?

  Me: Uh. Before what?

  I decide to hunker way down in the seat.

  A car pulls up beside me. Shit! The car and me are driving parallel to each other. Mystery Machine in the left lane, me mostly in the right. I slow down. It slows down. I speed up. It speeds up. The car is following me? Shit, I can’t see but if I stick my head up it will see me. It stops. I stop. Because maybe there is a stop sign? I wouldn’t know because I can’t see jack.

  Whoever it is, their music is really loud and I can’t stand it. I stick my head up.

  “FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!” the guy in the Toyota screams.

  “FUUUUCK!” I scream.

  He guns it. I try to gun it. The car dies. Nooooooo! It’s rolling to a stop. I aim for the gutter. Park right in
front of a alley with a dumpster. Good. That way when my stupit ass gets murdered, the killer don’t have far to drag me.

  There’s a car rocking in front of me. I duck down. Out of the rocking car stumbles a girl in a blue wig and not much else. The car drives away. “Hey,” she screams. “Wait. My coat!”

  Shit. You got to be kidding me. Fucking Odysseus had less shit happen to him. (What the whaaat? Did I read Odysseus? Hell yeah. The comic. Okay, the back cover.)

  I don’t pray to God. Calling people just when you need shit is not my style. I do hunker under the steering wheel and mess with some wires. Bingo! The car revs up. The heat kicks on. I sit up.

  The blue-wigged woman looks straight at me. Walks right toward me, squinty-eyed. I know she can’t tell: Girl or boy? I also know that to her skank ass, it don’t matter. She steps up to my window, rubbing her shoulders to warm up. I shake my head NO. Skinderella shivers and turns away.

  What would Alma do? Yeah.

  I pull up and roll down the window. I say: “Yo. Here.” I pull off my sweatshirt and toss it to her.

  Ho Ho: “Are you wearing a sweatshirt under a sweatshirt?”

  Me: “Uh. You ain’t one to be talking about nobody’s wardrobe, lady.”

  “Sorry. Shit. Thank you. You don’t know—”

  “I don’t want to know.” I go to roll up my window.

  She runs beside me and raps on it.

  Me: “Don’t make me run over your skank ass. No offense.”

  Ho Ho: “None taken. But. Could you. Give me a ride. I got money.”

  Cootie money. “Nah.”

  Ho Ho: “Please! Just to the gas station.”

  Damn! What would Alma do? Almaaaaaaa! “Get in.”

  The smell climbs in my car before she do. I start driving.

  “You mind if I smoke?”

  Anything will smell better than she do. “I guess not.”

  She ashes out the window, which has never been opened before. Shit. I hope that window closes.

  Ho Ho: “What’s your name?”

  Me: “Uh. Macy Cashmere.”