The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  Ho Ho: “Wow. My name is Velvet! My pimp chose it. How did you get yours?”

  Me: “Well. My mom found a Macy’s bag on a bus. She was fifteen and pregnant with me. Found a cashmere sweater in it. Thought it was good luck.”

  Velvet: “Was it?”

  Me: “Not for her. But for me—I think it’s too early to tell.”

  Velvet: “Yeah. You mind me asking what you’re doing out here?”

  Me: “It’s kind of a long story. My best friend’s mad at me. I’m trying to get muffins for her. And forgiveness. For me.” (I don’t know why I tell her all that.)

  I pull to the curb by the gas station. She starts taking off my sweatshirt.

  Me: “Nah. Keep it.” (Cooties code red.)

  She gets out and then sticks her head in the window. She is a lot younger than I thought.

  Velvet: “You go get those muffins no matter what. Against all odds, okay?” She sticks her hands in my sweatshirt pouch and hobbles into the store.

  Bye bye sweatshirt. Parting sucks ass (Shakesbeer).

  I go to school and park. “No matter what” better be over now.

  Against All Odds

  The Sequel.

  I stand outside. The janitor sees me from way down the hall and comes to let me in. It’s even earlier than I usually get here. But Pepe knows to look out for me. (See D for Disturbed.)

  “Good morning, Miss!” Pepe says. “You going for the gold again this year?”

  I nod. He knows I don’t smile. He don’t expect me to. The only award I’ve ever won is attendance. I like to see the teachers’ faces when I get the trophy every year. I hold it up like the Statue of Liberty. Alma claps. George cheers. Until he gets faint and has to go to the nurse. George has the anemia.

  The other thing I like about getting here early? (See D for Disturbed.) I get here before the principal pulls in. I know exactly what kind of car she drives. I know exactly what kind of car each teacher drives too. I like to say, “Hey, teacher, you just bought the Chevy Equinox, right?” I jingle my sharp, pointy house key when I say it. “Hey, Miss, you got your Dodge Caravan washed?” I like to watch them squirm.

  I wave to Pepe as I stroll into Miss Black’s room. Just at the moment when her record player needs to switch to the B side. (See L for Love Supreme and P for Pink.)

  Miss Black: “Macy! Take a load off. The muffins are on their way. My fiancé is dropping them off.” The B side drops. “So you know the deal is—”

  “I know the deal. I got me this.” I hold up my dictionary. (Which you are reading because I’ve been held for ransom by ISIS, or sold into slavery by Boko Haram as a undercover operative to rescue those girls they kidnapped like a century ago—because who else is going to?)

  Miss Black gives me the eye, and I start writing in my dictionary right away so she knows I mean business. I’ve had Miss Black before, and she don’t play.

  The smell of those muffins comes up the hall before Fiancé does. My hands shake. The counselor calls this Reptile Mind. When you’re all appetite and no brain.

  Miss Black tells Fiancé to lay three on my desk.

  Fiancé: “Here you go. I’ve heard a lot about you, Macy.”

  Those three fat, hot, buttery muffins he set in front of me—I’ll remember the smell till the day I die. I’m about to drool. “No!” I pound my desk, making the muffins jump.

  Everybody looks up, then back down at their homework. Miss Black shakes her head, and Fiancé moonwalks to the next desk.

  Me to my hand: “No I will not. Will not. Not! Not!”

  Then I don’t know what happens. Except that my tongue tastes it. My big fat mouth is to blame. One less muffin for Alma.

  Me slapping my hands: “No! No! No! Damn me!”

  Miss Black: “Macy. Girl.” She waves Fiancé off to safety. “Hello? You come with a warning label but not instructions. Start me off on step one.”

  Me: “Step one. These is for Alma.” I rip out a piece of paper from my dictionary and start to wrap up the muffins FOR ALMA.

  “Macy. Hold up. Take this.” Miss Black hands me a paper bag. I nod. Okay. One for me, two for Alma. That’s fair, right? I hold my breaf so I don’t smell the muffins. I stuff two into the bag and shove the bag into my sweatshirt pocket. Nothing Alma is going to eat should go into my backpack.

  I write in my dictionary till seven forty. That’s when Alma gets to school. She got to make breakfast for all her kids so she can’t come earlier. I ask to go to the bafroom and grab the pass while Miss Black’s third eye crisps the back of my neck. I have to find Alma before it is too late. Reptile Mind feels the muffins against my belly and wants them inside.

  I make my way into the restroom for cover, then plan to head to Alma’s homeroom. Muffins accomplished!!!!!

  Animal

  Noun. Synonym: manimal.

  I step into the restroom. A second later, I hear a dude’s voice:

  “We been talking for a week, baby. C’mon. Just a little kiss.”

  I peek through the crack of the stall door. I can barely see. Some dude is standing over a girl. I hear heads crack. Teeth scrape.

  “Damn, girl. You got to do your lips like this.”

  Two heads press together again. Girl’s hands are at her sides. Boy wraps his arms around her. I’m about to check out of their hotel, but stop when Boy lifts the girl up and I hear something that makes my little hairs stand up.

  “What?” comes out all muffled from the girl, her face still pressed against his. “Wait! ST—”

  I know what ST— means. And I know that voice.

  I fling open the stall. Dude’s all up on her. His eyes are closed and he’s kissing up all over her neck. Her eyes are wide open. She tries to kick him in the nuts but he has her legs pinned good. “Yeah, baby,” he says, pretending she’s bucking because she’s into him.

  I shout: “This is your idea of a first date? A bafroom stall? That’s nasty. Ain’t you never heard of McDonald’s?”

  He opens his eyes. “What the fff—”

  I step aside and Alma runs out of the stall. I step back into the doorway. I’m her rapist-proof vest.

  Dude steps toward me. He is tall. On his pimply skin sprout his first scrubby hairs. But he’s not taller than any of my mother’s guests. I could take him.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I say: “Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck is you?”

  Alma whispers behind me, “Maybe you better go.” I can tell that she is crying.

  Me: “You hear that? She says maybe your punk ass better go.”

  He steps back and does a once-over on me. “What are you supposed to be?”

  “Her bodyguard. What is you supposed to be?”

  The conversation is getting what Miss Black calls repetitive.

  “Bitch, I don’t know what you talking about but you better get the fuck out of here!” He pushes me. I crash into Alma and she flies against the sink.

  I gain my ground and raise up my fists. “Bring it!”

  From the outside we all hear, “What is going on in there?”

  Dude’s eyes Jiffy Pop out his stupit crunchy-haired head. I punch him in the jaw and kick him in the stomach. (Didn’t I warn you that I’m a black belt in kick-ass? My dad taught me some skills.)

  He falls backward into the stall and one hand goes into the toilet. “FUCK!!!”

  I grab Alma. “Nothing, Teacher Lady!” I say as we run through the door past her. “Just some shit all over stall number three!” I drag Alma down the hall. “Better call Pepe!”

  Alone

  Adjective. The predictable AF conclusion.

  Alma and me head to Pepe’s closet for a conference.

  She closes the closet door and takes a deep breaf.

  First I hug her. This is not the first time this shit has happened. Actually, it’s how we met when we was twelve. The first time some dude tried to get up close and personal with her on the bus. He stuck his hand right up her skirt. I stuck my foot right up his
ass.

  Hug over. Now: “Really, Alma? What were you thinking even talking to that animal?”

  Alma: “He wasn’t like that a week ago.”

  Me: “They’re all like that.”

  Alma: “Macy, they are not all like that.”

  Me: “They are around here.”

  Alma: “What are you saying, Macy? That it’s my fault?”

  Me: “It’s his fault and his mother’s fault for him being a animal. It’s yours for not seeing it.”

  Alma: “My fault because I don’t see the ugly in everybody like you?”

  Me: “Look, Alma, I love that you see the good. But don’t see it when it’s not there. What would have happened if I wasn’t in the restroom?”

  Alma starts crying. Dabs her eyes with tissue.

  Me: “I’m sorry. Sorry about this. Sorry about everything.”

  We hug again. She lets me go.

  Me: “I got something for you. A gift.”

  Alma: “No, don’t give it to me.”

  Me: “What? Why?”

  Alma sighs. “You’re my hero, Macy. But I don’t want a hero. A hero swoops down. Saves the day. Then leaves. I want a friend. A best friend. A friend who comes to my birthday party. Because what matters to me matters to her. No matter what.”

  Me to myself picturing Velvet’s stank head in my car window: No matter what.

  Alma: “A best friend isn’t only there when everything’s wrong. She’s there when everything’s right. She makes it right just by being there. Macy, I gotta go.”

  She leaves me in Pepe’s closet just like that. The fresh smell of her hair and skin is skunked out by Pine Sol and wet moldy mop heads. I’m alone with a pocket full of muffin crumbs.

  Answer

  Noun and verb. Example: “Ahnsuh me, bitch!”

  How will I get Alma back? No matter how many lightbulbs I get, they blow out. I don’t have the answer. But I have another pressing problem to think about for the time being: getting the car back home. I cut out during lunch break. Limbo past the principal’s office window, slip out the front doors, duck-walk to the car in the lot, and slip in. I wait for a police car to pass, then power up the car. While it warms up, I look all around. Coast clear. I pull the car out of the parking lot and onto the road.

  I park the car in my yard and slink out. I see the pipes outside my bafroom leaking, meaning someone is finally up using it and I got back just in time.

  Three stray dogs decide that because I have the smell of muffin on me, I must be a muffin. This is good motivation to run very fast. They chase my ass all the way back to school just in time for the bell.

  I spend the rest of the day not having answers for anybody about anything. Every place I am Alma isn’t. Every time I start coming up with a lightbulb some teacher asks me some stupit shit and I forget what I was thinking. George is out sick so I can’t run anything by him. If George honks his fake horn, that means my idea may invite too much police activity. If my idea is pretty good George hunkers down and accelerates. Damn it! I’m out of gas.

  When I get home there’s a after-school snack waiting for me and some hot cocoa. No, wait, that’s just the commercial on the TV.

  An hour after I get home my mother comes out the bedroom, connects her phone to the charger behind the couch, and looks up. “So, how was your day?”

  “The teacher told me it amazes her someone so smart could act like I do.”

  “People used to tell me I’m smart. But that was when I was little. Before I went to school. School makes everybody stupit.”

  “Really, Ma?”

  My mother sits on the couch and texts with one hand while flipping channels with the other. “Yeah,” she says, “teachers never called on me when I knew the answer. They would wait until I didn’t know nothing.”

  I stare out the window trying to think of a answer about Alma. A prostitute is in our driveway again. I check to see if it’s Velvet. No. She’s wearing some crazy Disney costume. Two dogs is doing the same thing the prostitute is doing with somebody’s dad. I change the channel. In my mind, I make it snow.

  The snow blankets everything, the gutted cars, the trash cans, the dogs, the prostitute and someone’s dad. Snow car looks like a boat. Snow trash can looks like a buoy. Snow dogs look like fish nobody discovered yet. Snow ho and somebody’s daddy look like a mermaid. One boat sails the wrong way down our one-way street. My favorite thing about snow is that it is silent.

  Bam! I blink and turn around.

  It’s the TV. My mother is watching a movie. I aim my finger at the TV like a remote and turn back to the window.

  But I can’t get a signal. I can’t bring back the snow. I can’t bring back the silence. Too many noises I don’t want to hear: from the dogs, from the man.

  Someone’s dad zips up and walks to his car. The prostitute is just a prostitute. The trash cans are just trash cans. The cars just cars. One dog is left. It’s got to be the bitch.

  I look at the bitch sniffing the wind. Looking right. Looking left. Wondering where the dog that did her was at. He probably said he’d be right back. He was just going to take a leak. Bitch looks at me.

  “What you looking at?” she says. “Answer me when I’m talking to you! Hello!”

  I blink and turn toward the bitch. Not the dog outside, the one on the couch.

  “Did you hear me?” my mother barks. “I got a email from your school. There’s some kind of family night. The drama department is putting on a play for free.” She holds up her phone so I can see the flyer of all the girls in big-ass dresses. “Stupit,” my mom says. “They should’ve told me a week ago. I don’t got enough gas.”

  Gas? I think. Yes. That could be a problem.

  “How do they expect us to get there now?” she says. “They should send a bus or something to pick us up.”

  When Yasmin says send a bus she means they should send a bus that has a stop right beside the couch. By “or something” I think she means a magic flying fucking carpet.

  Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind having one of those.

  When I grow up, I’m going to move to Canada. It snows there every day.

  Answer 2

  Noun. Sometimes there ain’t just one.

  I’m following my own footsteps like you do in the snow when you don’t want anyone to find you. Except I’m not in the snow, I’m in the living room and my mother is stabbing her heel into the floor because she hates it when I pace.

  “Stop it, Macy! You’re wrecking the floor!”

  “I’m wrecking the floor?” I point to the hole she is stabbing in the rug. “What are you wearing on your feet? Stilts?” Her heels are like a foot tall.

  “Shut up, Macy.”

  “Since when do you care about the floor? That’s like living in a dumpster and complaining about the smell. No offense.”

  “That’s my point, Macy. Let’s have a little class.”

  “Class? You could move a piano and a chandelier in here and—”

  “Macy, I don’t have time for this!”

  She runs to her room to change her shoes. I guess circus freak was not the fashion statement she was trying to make. I try to think about my problem and not my mother’s. But I can’t get a lightbulb. I feel like I do when the teacher blacks out the answer and I can just see it underneath the marker. I squint, I’m thinking so hard. Until . . .

  DING!

  I get a lightbulb and it has something to do with my mother’s outfit.

  I could break into the drama department and get a fancy dress to wear! I could sing Happy Birfday to Alma in the dress! Then Alma would reset and everything would be like it was before.

  My mother comes out her bedroom. Her heels are shorter but so is her dress. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I got me some ways to warm up.”

  “Ew.”

  “Dancing, Macy. Maybe a little nookie too.” She clips on a ponytail. “It’s natural.”

  “The nookie, not the ponytail, right?”
/>   “Shut up, Macy. I’m gonna superglue one of these things to your shaved head in your sleep.”

  “I’m gonna superglue some clothes on you in your sleep.”

  Both of us at once: “SHUT UP.”

  “Just remember to drink water, okay? So you don’t get hungover.”

  “Okay, Mom,” my mother says.

  “Hey,” I say, scoping out her dress. My lightbulb grows super bright: maybe I can achieve my goal without breaking and entering and theft!!! “You got any dresses my size?”

  “WHAAAT?”

  “Don’t get excited. I heard spandex makes a good slingshot.”

  My mother pulls out her spandex dress and snaps it against her booty before she flips me off.

  I wait for her girlfriends to pull up before I take my lightbulb to her closet. I slingshot a purple dress at a mouse, but then I get to business. I find a maternity dress in there from when my mother was pregnant with Zane. I try it on.

  I imagine Zane in my belly and what kind of mom I was to him when he was here, what kind of mom I would promise to be if he came back. He was a kicker, my mother said. By the time he got out of the womb he’d already earned a black belt. I had to know jiujitsu just to change his diapers.

  I stuff a maternity outfit into my backpack. I even find a fake fur. Operation No Matter What is a go!

  My mother and her guest get in around four. I hear the dude complaining that he can’t get her dress off. Miss Black says this shit is known as irony. I take my traumatized self and their leftover Chinese food to the car. But I can’t eat it because it’s full of bamboo shoots and also cooties. I offer the lo mein to the dogs. Shove a fortune cookie in my mouth. Pull the fortune out, all wet and half-chewed up.

  It says, You will go far if—

  Fucking figures. I put my backpack with the maternity dress in it behind my head, put the fur over me, and try to sleep for a while.

  I must’ve slept, because the sky is lighter. I hot-wire the car and let it warm up. I’ll sit up straight this time. I mean, what difference does it make? Around here fifteen-year-olds got kids. I’m gonna stand out just because I’m driving a car and not a stroller?