“I’ve never seen them hang out before.”
“Spy?” Drake suggested.
We followed Vanessa and Damian out into the mall at a safe distance, stopping periodically to fake window shop. One of us would watch them while the other pretended to inspect a glass vase or gaze into a jewelry case.
“They’re stopping at the Orange Julius stand,” Drake reported from our position at the front window of the shoe store while I took a hard look at the soles on a pair of Mary Janes. “They look like they are negotiating payment. Super awkward.” I started to look up at them, but Drake said, “Don’t look!” so I accidentally dropped the shoe and bent down to pick it up.
“Okay,” Drake said, his lips barely moving, “they’re ordering the drinks and . . . yep, he paid for them. Definitely a date.”
It is such a relic of the past the way boys are expected to pay for your Orange Julius when you’re dating. It’s very 1950s America. Now that my mom and dad are separated, my dad sends a check every month. When we went out for our last meal together before he moved, they split the bill.
“Would you buy Japhy’s Orange Julius if you guys were dating?” I asked Drake, following Drake into the Hot Topic. We gave up on Damian and Vanessa when they went into the movie theatre.
“We don’t really have malls in Manhattan,” Drake said. “But when Japhy and I are dating, we will buy each other lots of beverages.”
We shopped through a row of fishnet stockings and studded wristbands. “Would Japhy like you in this?” I asked, pulling out a tank top made entirely out of zippers.
“Only if I wore it with these,” he said, grabbing a pair of purple metallic boots with yellow soles.
“Can I help you find something?” a salesgirl wearing blue lipstick and Cleopatra eyeliner asked in a monotone voice from behind the sales counter.
We both shook our heads, so she went back to talking to two girls who were chatting with her over the register.
“Did you see the movie where the aliens are zombies?” one of the girls asked.
Drake and I moved to look at the jewelry and lipstick bins near the counter.
“Ugh, that movie was stupid,” the other girl said.
“I know, everything is zombies now. That movie was so gay,” said the salesgirl.
“What did you say?” I asked.
The girls looked surprised, as if I had just walked over to their private table in a restaurant and asked to sit down. “We’re just talking about the movie with the zombie aliens,” the salesgirl said dismissively.
“But what did you call it?” I asked. I could feel Drake shift uncomfortably next to me and take a small step away.
“I said it was stupid, don’t bother seeing it,” said the girl.
“But you didn’t say ‘stupid,’” I said, my voice getting a little louder. “You said it was ‘gay.’”
“Oh yeah, whatever, I didn’t mean it literally.”
“No, you said ‘gay’ like that was another word for ‘stupid’ or ‘lame.’”
“A lot of people say that,” one of the other girls broke in, “she didn’t mean it in a mean way. She’s cool with gay people.”
“Well, if you’re cool with gay people, then why don’t you choose another word to use so you don’t offend anyone?”
The salesgirl’s eyes narrowed at me through her thick eyeliner, and her blue lips opened like they belonged to an exotic fish on a coral reef. But just then, an older woman, who could have been her manager, walked out of the stockroom. The salesgirl glanced at her.
“Sorry, miss,” she said in her flat voice with her eyes looking away. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“No thanks,” I said, dropping the cheap, anchor earrings I was holding back into their bin and spinning around to leave with Drake behind me.
“I cannot believe you just did that,” Drake said when we were back in the center of the mall.
“Can’t anyone just say a movie was bad anymore?” I shrugged.
Drake stopped, and his sneakers squeaked on the shiny mall flooring. He turned around to face me and then abruptly took hold of my hand and got down on one knee. Putting his other hand on top of his chest like he was about to propose right there under the vaulting skylights, next to the cell phone kiosk, he said, “Celia Door, will you be my best friend?”
A rose garden bloomed in my chest. The roses got as full as they could get and then started dropping their petals, which blew around my ribs in a gentle breeze. I didn’t say anything at first because I wanted to see how long those words could hang in the air. Best Friend. Best Friend. Best Friend.
“I will,” I said at last, pretending to hold a bridal bouquet and then closing my eyes to fling it behind me into the mall.
“Now that’s love,” the guy at the mobile kiosk said, clapping his hands. We stood up and bowed for him. “Hey, what mobile carrier are you kids using today?”
Drake laughed as he grabbed my hand and pulled me the other direction back toward the movies. “Come on, let’s get some clothes, and then I’ll buy you an Orange Julius.”
Drake started leading me toward a Zumiez store, both of us still laughing about the cell phone salesman, when something shocking plucked me right back out of the jaws of my happiness. Also walking toward the Orange Julius stand next to someone of the opposite sex was a person I never dreamed of running into at the mall.
Quicker than a snakebite, I grabbed Drake and pulled him into the closest hiding spot. We ducked behind a row of lace bras at Victoria’s Secret. Breathing heavily and trying to calm my heart rate, I whispered, “That was my mom.”
“Your mom! Is she following you?”
“She didn’t know I would be here.”
“So she’s just shopping.”
“With a guy?” I felt like I might cry. “Shopping with a guy?”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, your parents are separated, right?”
“Trial separation.”
“Yeah right, trial.” Drake tried to peer around the corner of the underwear table toward the center of the mall. “A lot of my friends’ parents used the word trial.”
“Why do you mean?”
“Everyone knows that’s just a phase. Like, they aren’t ready to say divorce yet, so they do it in stages. Trial separation, separation, divorce,” he said matter-of-factly, still peeking out of the store.
The black hole started widening again. Drake turned back to me and noticed the look on my face.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. Well, I’m sure some people get back together. Probably lots do,” he corrected himself.
“Can I help you two with something?” A petite woman with intense blonde highlights peered at us over the bras.
“No,” I said in a Dark whisper.
Drake peeked around the corner again to make sure the coast was clear and then we walked as quickly as possible out of the mall.
CHAPTER
24
One thing I need to make as clear as a windowpane is that I do not write love poetry. Whenever a girl at my school writes poetry, like for an English class or for the school literary journal, it’s always about how much she loves her perfect boyfriend or about how much she hates her imperfect ex-boyfriend. That poetry makes me want to vomit until there is nothing left in my insides. In the spirit of female liberation, I, Celia the Dark, vow that I will never write love poetry.
Additionally, here is a list of the eight words that I believe should never be used in writing poetry: love, soul, heart, dream, sad (sadness), pain, awesome, and above all other words that should not ever be used in poetry, beautiful. Beautiful has been so overused in poems that it has no meaning anymore.
I call this my list of “Never Words.” A week before ninth grade started, I wrote them on my bedroom’s lavender wall in marker to make sure I would never use them by accident. My mom came in while I was writing them. I was kneeling on top of my writing desk, wearing a sweater, a plaid wool skirt, and knee socks.
I was halfwa
y through writing the word heart on the wall when she walked in. I had already written love and soul in letters two inches high. There I was caught red-handed with an H and an E on the wall. Usually my mother knocks, but that day she just walked right in, holding a stack of clean laundry.
I braced myself against my writing desk, sure that she was about to scream. That’s what a normal parent would do. I just kneeled there holding on to my desk, waiting to hear it.
Instead, she let out a deep sigh. That sigh seemed to come all the way up from her toes. Then she said, “Celia, I don’t allow you to write on the walls.” Ever since my mom got her therapist, I could practically hear her counting to ten whenever she gets angry: . . . 7, 8, 9, 10. . . . “You can write on the walls in the basement if you feel you need to.”
The reason I don’t use “Never Words” is that everyone uses them, and poetry should sound unique for each person who writes it. Whenever I’m tempted to use one of my “Never Words,” I just try to find another more interesting word to use in its place. For example, if I want to say
the rain made me sad
instead I might say
the rain washed all the color out of my day
It was raining on our bike ride home from the mall.
“Are you okay?” Drake yelled from under the hood of his jacket, cycling next to me.
“No,” I yelled back. My hands and feet were numb, but I didn’t appear to be bleeding from any visible wounds, so that was a good sign.
“Are you going to confront her?”
“I don’t know.”
Drake pointed to a sheltered bus stop along the side of the street. We pulled our bikes up, got off, and leaned them against the wall. Then we stood under the overhang while the rain kept pounding on the roof.
“I was stupid to say that,” Drake told me, wiping the wet hair from his forehead. “Lots of people have breaks and get back together.”
“No, you’re right, I—” I couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.
“Celia, I really think you need to start working on manifesting your own Dream. The more energy you put into yourself, the less you’ll worry about what your parents are doing.” Drake put a hand on my arm. “You Dream of being a famous poet. That’s what really matters. Promise me you will start on your list tonight.”
A surge of guilt pulsed through me. I finally had a best friend, and I was lying to him about my deepest desire. But I was in too far. What if I told him the truth now, and he didn’t want to be my best friend anymore? Plus, he was leaving soon, so why risk ruining the time we had together? “You’re right, I should work on my own Dream.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight, I promise.”
× × ×
It was still raining lightly when I came home to my motherless house. Drake and I had waited for the downpour to pass before finishing the ride home. I took off my wet shoes and jacket and walked around in circles, bedroom, kitchen, living room, hall. I tried hard not to think about my father, about how quiet the house sounded, about my mom and what she was doing at the mall. Instead, I decided to follow Drake’s suggestion and steady my mind on my Dream.
At school, I had created a dummy list of strategies to make myself into a famous poet. I had to start making progress so Drake would believe I was working on it. The first item on my to-do list for my fake Dream was to submit one of my poems to our school literary magazine, Nexus. So, I finally stopped pacing and put a frozen pizza in the oven, then went to my room and got online. I logged on to the Nexus website and sent in the poem about the whale.
WHALES ARE NOT FISHES BUT MAMMALS
when a whale gives birth, her vertebrate
back contracting toward her tail, blood
sending valentines to the sharks,
the ocean is her hospital.
she uses her body to
hold the baby up out
of the water so he can breathe.
his blowhole sounds like his first wail.
I also checked my email. Unfortunately, there was one waiting from my dad.
Re: Hello, Celia
From: James Door ([email protected])
Sent: Sun 9/19 11:39 AM
To: Celia ([email protected])
Hi, Turtle,
I’m glad you asked about the trial part of our separation. I think we should talk about this in person. I’ll call your mom and see if we can arrange a weekend for me to come back to Hershey.
In the meantime, I want you to know that I’m doing okay down here in Atlanta, and I hope you and Mom are happy, too. I miss you, Turtle.
I Love You,
Dad
His email seemed to reinforce my worst suspicions, especially the part where he said he was doing okay in Atlanta. I didn’t reply. Instead, I wrote to Dorathea.
Re: Parents
From: Celia ([email protected])
Sent: Sun 9/19 6:59 PM
To: Dorathea Eberhardt ([email protected])
d,
i saw mom at the mall with another guy. does that mean she’s on a date? if she is on a date, and she and dad are in a trial separation, is she cheating? what if she’s only hanging out with this guy, but she likes him? is that cheating or do you have to be at least kissing the other person? what if dad is in atlanta and he’s happy and he doesn’t care if she’s on a date? then is it cheating?
c
I did my math and science homework and fell asleep. I didn’t even think about working on “We Real Cool.”
CHAPTER
25
“Did you know that the organized gay rights movement started in New York City?” Drake was riding his skateboard next to me on our way to school Monday morning. He was wearing skinny jeans and a bright green hoodie with white zipper and strings. I was wearing a plaid wool skirt and a blue sweater, along with my black hoodie and fingerless gloves. It was the third week in September, and the air was full of fall. “Police were harassing queer people in Greenwich Village until riots broke out at a bar called Stonewall. After that, gay people started organizing and demanding equal rights. Maybe I could take Japhy there.”
Drake’s skateboard made thumping noises every time he rolled over a crack in the sidewalk. “Also, the books I borrowed from the library say that the average age of people coming out now is sixteen,” Drake went on, “and that lots of people don’t come out immediately but wait until they feel like the time is right.”
“Did you read anything that will help you talk to Japhy?” I asked.
“Not yet.” Drake skated quietly for a minute, looking toward our school building a block away. “But I will.” We continued on to school.
I removed my hood and floated into first period, feeling like I had grown an exoskeleton over the last few days. I had a best friend and a paved, tree-lined avenue toward revenge. It was easier to table my anxiety over seeing my mom at the mall while I was at school. After all, my real Dream required my attention.
Sweeping gracefully into my seat behind Sandy, I saw her whispering to Mandy across the aisle. Mr. Pearson started class with a brief lecture on responsible use of prepositions and then asked us to write a paragraph about our homework reading assignment. I rushed through the paragraph and got out my poetry notebook to finish a poem I’ve been working on about Drake. I was so engrossed, I didn’t notice Sandy get up and walk to Mr. Pearson’s desk. I did notice Mr. Pearson standing over me.
“Hand it over,” he said, holding his palm below my chin.
I slapped my poetry book shut and reached for my backpack.
“I didn’t say put it away, I said, hand it over.” He snapped his finger and held out his palm again.
My mouth went dry and my hand shook. Not my poetry notebook. Anything but that.
“I’m sorry, I won’t get it out again,” I stammered.
“I didn’t say apologize, I said hand it to me.” He sounded like a monarch, irritated with one of his subjects.
I sat there like an ice sculpt
ure, not blinking.
“Now, Celia.”
Barely able to will my arm to do it, I handed him my notebook.
“I will keep this journal until you complete your assignment on ‘We Real Cool.’ Since it is now one full week late, instead of a three-page essay, you owe me a five-page essay, double-spaced, twelve-point font.” He stalked back to his desk, opened a large drawer, and dropped my notebook into it before slamming it shut. Then he sat down again, as if he hadn’t just stuffed my heart into a glass jar and sealed the lid.
I couldn’t breathe or think. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open when Sandy and Mandy both turned their heads to look at me. All they did was smile.
× × ×
“That guy’s a monster,” Drake said at lunch when I told him about Mr. Pearson. “Full Napoleon complex.”
I was sitting with a turkey sub in my lap, unable to eat it. I could feel the midday sun on my neck, but I didn’t bother pulling up my hood. Everything felt numb.
“You don’t think he’ll read it, do you?” Drake said.
Maybe I wasn’t entirely numb, since that sent another stabbing pain into my chest.
“Are you going to be okay if I go play in this game?” he asked gently.
I nodded heavily and drew the rest of my belongings around me like a little fortress as Drake walked over to the basketball court. I started to wrap up my lunch since it seemed unlikely that I would be eating any of it. Sandy must have been waiting for Drake to leave, because she and Mandy walked through the grass in their high heels just minutes after the game started. I saw them coming, but had no poetry notebook to use as a hiding place.
The Sweet Revenge of Celia Door Page 11