by Johi Jenkins
She shivers long after the entire team has gone by. When she looks at the main doors again, a pair of red sneakers is sitting just inside. She runs and hides behind the lockers realizing someone has to be there, but she sees no one, hears no one. She doesn’t hear anything other than the dripping faucet.
Is she losing her mind, or is this evidence of a nightmarish dream? Even worse, it could have been a baited hook… from a human hunter. Whatever it is, wherever the damn shoes came from… she knows they weren’t there before.
She is truly alone, though. Paulie had left as soon as he heard the football team exit their locker room. After some time she gives in to her doubts and approaches the shoes. They seem alright. She has no socks, but screw it. She puts them on and realizes they are men’s size, but given her current streak of luck she is not about to start cursing. She just ties the shoes quickly and leaves the gym, trying to escape without being seen.
Luckily the hallways are empty. Her plan is to escape the back way, around the football field before practice starts. No way is she leaving through the front of the school. She reaches the doors that lead to the football field and peeks through.
Outside, the sunlight shines on the school grounds through the line of trees. She wants to sprint directly into the woods, but a large chain link fence acts as the bars of a cage. Margarette sticks her head through the edge of the door, and sees the field blessedly empty still. She pushes the door open and briskly walks out in her pleated cheerleading outfit, her borrowed red shoes flashing and flickering in the light. Seeing no one, she sprints across the open field, hoping to hide behind the field house. As she nears her goal she runs full on in a sprint and smacks into a girl who appears around the edge of the smaller building.
Shit! Both girls go down in a cartoon-like cloud of dust. Margarette’s butt smacks on the hard concrete walkway and she hears the other girl curse. Embarrassed, she looks at the girl and recognizes Sharon.
Sharon has never said a word to her the whole time Margarette has been at this school, but everyone knows who Sharon is. In contrast, up and until last week Margarette was an unknown. Margaret hops up and grabs Sharon’s arm to help her up, without thinking about who she was and what this could mean.
Sharon looks at her with annoyance and shakes off Margarette’s arm as she stands on her feet. “You stupid bitch.”
Margarette says, “I’m sorry, I….”
“Who the frick are you? You’re not a cheerleader. Whose uniform are you wearing?” Sharon looks at her up and down with disdain, and her eyes suddenly widen with recognition. She mouths the name Margarette, but it looks like she says Violet.
Sharon’s fierce eyes glimmer as her face changes to an angry twisted stare. Her long dark hair falls over her shoulders as if a stylist had just fixed it. Its color matches Margarette’s, but other than that Margarette has no clue how May could have mistaken her for Sharon. The shorts that Sharon wears are so short that they ride up higher than the fabric on her crotch, showing off the perfect tan on her long legs. She wears a black metal t-shirt, and her earlobes sparkle with the diamond earrings that Tommy gave her.
“You’re the little whore.” She pauses for dramatic influence, and Margarette freezes at the venom in the other girl’s voice.
“Nothing happened,” Margarette says quickly, not wanting to mention Tommy to further anger the other girl. She adds to herself, I wish I wasn’t here, I wish I wasn’t here…. The words ripple through her mind and echo as Sharon shakes her head.
“I didn’t even believe it until now. Those parties are full of little stories about little people like you.”
Margarette says nothing, still frozen.
“Tommy was mine. I can’t believe he stuck it in a little harlot like you. Your dirty little hole is puss-filled sore on his dick.”
“What the…? Where’d you get that? That’s fricking nasty weird.” Margarette’s nose scrunches as she tries to forget the visual.
“Frick that… you’re a freaking whore, accept it. Accept that you’re dirt for everyone to walk on.”
Margarette wonders if Sharon had rehearsed this conversation, possibly in front of a mirror, given the coordination in her hand gestures. Her previous embarrassment and surprise at meeting the other girl in these circumstances quickly dissipate, making room for dislike and revulsion.
“Quit calling me a whore you ignorant witch. I… never… touched him.”
Margarette’s eyes flash a beautiful soft golden brown, which would make anyone see the honesty in her words. But in this case her eyes make Sharon even angrier. “I can smell him on you,” the infuriated girl says.
Sharon pauses as if contemplating her statement, as Margarette squints knowing that that’s impossible. She literally just stepped out of the shower.
“Frick, even if what you say is true and you didn’t do anything, the whole school believes that you did,” Sharon adds.
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” Sharon snaps. “You know what this can do to me? Did you ever think about that?”
“Why would I? This is my life. I never really cared to be noticed by anyone.”
“I’m going to destroy you,” Sharon says, and it sounds freaky evil.
“What?”
“I will. I have to.”
“Just leave it alone. School’s almost out; there are only a few weeks left.”
“You won’t make it. Not in those shoes.”
As they talk, three girls walk up behind Sharon. To Margarette’s horror, she sees Alice and Julie with one other semi-popular girl named Becca. All are staring at Margarette.
“What is she wearing?” Julie asks.
They immediately surround her taking turns calling her a whore and slut as the entire football team jogs behind them in route to the field. Margarette tries to defend herself at first, and then ignore them, but she can’t even begin to challenge them as the four of them band together. She looks around for an escape.
Sharon leans in. “Watch this,” she whispers her petty intentions in Margarette’s ear, and then walks up to a football player named Mikey. She grabs him and presses her palm against his crotch almost aggressively.
Margarette flinches but then remembers he’s probably wearing a cup. Indeed he looks like he’s enjoying himself. He begins to talk as she pushes her bare leg against him and kisses his lips. A murmur erupts behind Margarette as the three other girls watch Sharon.
A random football guy calls out, “Whoa… frick. Do you see that?”
A slightly less random football guy replies, “Frick yeah. Tommy’s going to flip out.”
Margarette’s seen enough. She turns back to leave, hoping all eyes are on Sharon. As she does, she thinks she sees Alice look upset. What, from Sharon kissing Mikey? No time to figure it out. She wants to make a dash down the concrete path.
But Julie stands in her way, stopping Margarette in her tracks. “Are you done here?” Julie asks. “Ready to go home?”
“Get the frick out of my way,” warns Margarette.
“Don’t you want to watch what you did?”
“What I did? Like I’m going to feel responsible. Shut up. You have no idea what I’ll do to you.” She shakes and her emotions take over; she can barely control herself. Her nose flares red in anger.
“Are you crying?” Julie asks.
All of the girls turn back to look at Margarette except for Sharon who still has Mikey’s tongue in her mouth.
“Am I crying? Are you crying?”
“Why would I be crying?” Julie is lost. “I said are you crying?” she repeats.
“Am I crying? Are you crying?” Margarette returns, almost enjoying being this obnoxious.
“Wha…” Julie’s jaw drops. “No, I’m not crying.”
Alice fights to conceal a chuckle at Julie’s expense and Margarette’s ability to manipulate her.
“Why not?” Margarette asks. “I’d cry if I were you.”
“Why would I?” Julie asks a
s she starts to recant current events.
“I’d cry if I was born like you,” Margarette replies, and pushes Julie to the side, turning her around. Sharon finally pulls back from Mikey’s face and a line of spit drips from his mouth into hers.
“What the frick?” Margarette hears Julie call behind her, indignantly.
“Exactly,” she says over her shoulder.
But Julie reaches out and grabs Margarette’s arm, digging her claws into her.
“You’re just weird,” Julie says as she grips her arm. “No one will ever want you.”
Margarette shakes off Julie’s grip and smiles coldly. She fires into Julie’s ear, barely opening her gritted teeth. “Look at yourself. Look at Alice. Look at the way she looks down at you. If I was her, the only reason I’d keep you around is to make myself look better.”
Julie hisses, and takes a second to reply. “Is that why you’re with her?”
They lock eyes. Margarette says, “I’m not someone she’d use like she does you.”
“Just because you kind of got pretty this year doesn’t change a thing.” Julie slips an accidental compliment that explains much about her disdain and mistreatment.
Margarette smiles dismissively as Alice approaches them, and raises her voice to normal level. “And I… don’t care.”
Alice says suddenly, her voice a little pained, “Hey Margarette… I didn’t want to leave you at the party.”
“But you did,” Margarette reminds her.
Sharon walks up to Margarette, parting the girls. “Do you like my idea, you little whore? I’m going to have sex with everyone Tommy hates. He’s going to blame you and I don’t ever have to deal with him again.”
Margarette just blinks, a blank expression on her face.
“Everyone loves me and every guy wants to frick me,” Sharon muses.
“Cheap thrills draw crowds,” Margarette replies.
“Nothing I do is cheap,” says Sharon.
“There’s nothing to say to that,” Margarette shrugs, and again starts to walk away.
“You got that right, bitch,” Sharon ends as Margarette finally gets away from them, walking on the side of the football field.
As Margarette puts some distance between them, she mutters, “I fricking hate her.” Some weird repressed memory surfaces of Margarette’s grandmother, when she was still alive, telling Margarette not to hate. The thought shakes her and she doesn’t know if she wants to smile or cry. At least now that she’s alone she feels relief that she doesn’t have to perform for those bitches or live up to their expectations.
In spite of what the girls wanted, Margarette refuses to put her head down. Instead, she spins around in her short skirt, fanning out the pleats. She struts away as the other girls call her a whore and a slut, while the football players joke and call out asking for her number. Margarette smiles out of nowhere with an eerie delight, as she considers giving them her house number and imagining the whole team hooking up with her drunken mother. Her mood lifts, and even the red low tops seem to fit a little better as she passes the middle of the field.
The parking lot is just on the other side. Margarette walks right through the football field directly through the practice and the players start ignoring the coach.
“Damn it, Coyotes!” The coach screams.
Some of them remain distracted and the coach ultimately has to blow a whistle. Mikey gets sacked into the ground as the play goes off with one out-of-place cheerleader crossing the line of scrimmage.
Margarette makes it to the bleachers pretending nothing out of the ordinary is happening behind her. The guys stare as she sashays her way out of the field and into the parking lot. The boys on the field start howling like dogs until the coach turns and smacks one of them in the head with a clipboard. Then all of the players start clapping, except for Mikey, and only because he got the wind knocked out of him.
It looks good for an exit, but she doesn’t leave. There are too many people in the parking lot for her to just walk out, so she hides under the bleachers. There she crawls through the bars supporting the seats and sits by the rows of empty fuel barrels that contain gas used for the lawnmowers. The field attendant keeps the barrels covered with faded blue tarps that are unraveling at the edges, wrapped in elastic cords, to protect them from the weather. They are placed at different heights, with old school banners on top, affording her some privacy.
She crumples hidden behind of two barrels set further back from the rest, under the bleachers. She feels almost safe tucked within the supporting structure and the barrels, and stays there for almost an hour as the field empties around her. Alone, the adrenaline wears off and she finally cries. She doesn’t make a sound as the drops stream down her face. Her hands grasp at the tears as if she could push them back in, but her eyes flood through her fingers.
Tommy walks up the bleachers and sits down right over Margarette’s hiding place unaware that she is there. She dips her head and drops even further down to the ground realizing it is him. Then to her utmost surprise, she hears what sounds like faint sobs. Tommy is crying.
Her heart sinks, crushing the air in her lungs. She slowly gets up and moves from the striped shadows of the stairs back from where she came. She knocks an unused paper cup next to her feet.
Margarette closes her eyes and grits her teeth; Tommy stops making noise. When she looks up again, the bench is empty. She quietly turns around and continues to move to the end of the bleachers. She twists her body around the edge of the structure to check the coast is clear, but there he is.
“It’s you,” Tommy says.
Chapter 6. Under the Bleachers
“Me?” Margarette asks.
Tommy advances on her, his eyes traveling down her body, noting her outfit. Their blue seems to reflect the cobalt of her stolen uniform and it disarms Margarette for a second. “How long have you been here?”
“I didn’t hear you crying.” She regrets saying that instantly.
Tommy looks away, but doesn’t say anything about that. Instead, after a pause he says, “I came to tell her we didn’t do anything.”
“Oh,” she whispers, assuming he means Sharon.
“Do you think she’d believe that we didn’t do anything?”
“I really don’t know how to answer that.”
Margarette thinks back about her little after-school encounter today. The way Sharon acted, there is no way anyone could tell if the promiscuous girl would understand, or even how she would react to whatever Tommy told her. Margarette isn’t sure how serious Sharon was with Mikey, so she decides not to even mention it. Telling him about her conversation with Sharon wouldn’t do much. If he knew Sharon was thinking of having sex with all of the boys, he wouldn’t know what to do about it. She looks in his eyes for a second, but can’t tell him a word. She changes tactics.
“Tommy, what if she doesn’t believe you? I mean, would you believe her if people said…?”
“They already have,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds far away. He moves under the bleachers with Margarette into the striped shadows.
There’s a long pause.
Finally Margarette says, “Maybe it’s not true.”
“I fricking walked up to her in his Jeep,” Tommy says, shaking. “People came and got me to go see it.”
Tommy closes his eyes and the scene flashes before his eyes.
Mikey’s black Jeep had barely provided concealment. “Suck, baby, suck,” Mikey had said.
Sharon had made a noise that sounded like, “Mmmf mmmmf.”
“What?” Mikey asked.
“Shut up,” Sharon said.
“Oh frick.”
Tommy had seen it all.
Margarette realizes that that’s why he was crying, and feels terrible for him. He seems like a nice guy.
They sit quietly under the bleachers in the shadows of the seats above, leaning against the fuel crates. Tommy moves next to her, so close that from the side it looks like they are holding hands.
>
At length, Margarette asks, “That just happened like right after practice?”
“Yeah… or no, Mikey must have left practice early.” His head lowers so she can’t see his eyes.
“I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”
Tommy puts his head down on Margarette’s shoulder and starts crying again, but so quietly that she doesn’t know he’s crying until a sob shakes his frame softly. She almost crumbles under his weight and sits against the tarp covering the barrels.
“I’m so sorry,” is all she can say.
“I don’t understand. I just drove you home.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a bad reputation, or a reputation for that matter. I was quiet. I never spoke. I think they needed to hear something. So they invented something.”
Tommy puts his hands on her shoulders and she feels a tear drop on her neck. She can’t tell who is holding the other up. His breath flickers like a child crying, and she feels sorry that all she has for him is pity. His arms are too heavy for her and they slide back onto the barrel before he catches his weight and stands back. She doesn’t know what to do or why he is so close to her. She feels like pushing him off of her, but the man is crying, and deep down a part of her is satisfied that he’s leaning on her for emotional support. Tommy Gallager, who Alice believes would never approach a girl like Margarette.
Margarette’s internal debate is going on full-rage.
He’s not exactly what she expected. Unfortunately, she didn’t expect much to begin with.
If she lets him have her, then she’s being used. If she doesn’t sleep with him, then she’s a scared chicken shit virgin.
If she fricks him she’s a true slut in a small town. Wait… that’s what everyone already thinks.
Better than not being known at all; better than dying a nobody.
No, that’s not right.
Besides, in a year no one will ever really remember her anyway.
Frick it. He can be mine for a while.