Sierra picked my chat name. She said that goddesses are tall too.
DulceD: the horror, the horror is from joseph conrad
She fancies herself head and shoulders smarter than the rest of us, a tower of intellect just because she’s taking a few AP classes.
Isis: joseph who? the hell cares
I meant to suck up to her so she would share all Eva’s secrets with me. Too late.
DulceD:
SkateGod: i’m trying out 4 orlando
DulceD: rosalind is perfect 4 u roz-alind . . .
Roz is short for Rosella, actually. What were Mom and Dad thinking when I was born? To be fair we should be allowed to rechristen our parents when we turn sixteen. I choose Gethsemane for Mom and Elmo for Dad.
DulceD: go for it!
Isis: ?????? isn’t rosalind the lead . . . ?
Most days Carmen would kill—or worse—for the lead, so she’s being sarcastic. Or is she? A theory pops into my mind—Theory X. Playing Rosalind won’t be good for Carmen’s new sexy image. Last year she dressed like a nun, but this year she does all her clothes shopping at Sluts-R-Us. And in the play Rosalind pretends to be a man in almost every scene. Carmen wants a role of the tight-bodice variety so that her boobs can look like pears on a platter offered up to the audience.
When I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror on my door, a darker theory suggests itself—Theory Y. Though I’m not exactly fat, the less tactful sort of person uses the word solid when referring to me. My waist is a straight line, to be honest. Carmen thinks that I can play a woman pretending to be a man more convincingly than she can.
So what? My lovely curves are more hidden than hers. Shedding a few pounds shouldn’t be difficult on the right diet. I’ve been thinking of going vegetarian, anyway, since reading a gory article on slaughterhouses. Bryan IMs me outside the chat.
Him: i need 2 talk 2u
Omigod. He loves me after all. I don’t want to appear as eager as I feel, so I leave him hanging.
Isis: carmen . . . dennis is perfect 4u . . . go for it
Dennis has two lines in the play.
DulceD: don’t b bitchy
DulceD: o, i forgot . . . u can’t help it
Poor girl can’t invent an original insult to save her life. I’ll show her how it’s done. Of course the Elizabethan curses from the generator I downloaded aren’t exactly original either, but no one has to know.
Isis: don’t be a hedge-born clack-dish . . . o, I forgot . . . u can’t help it
Hedge-born clack-dish means lowly blabbermouth. I can almost see Carmen sweating as she frantically checks Dictionary.com to figure out what I just called her. Before she can fire back another volley, I leave the chat. Our argument is pointless anyway. Eva always gets the lead. And it’s about time to answer Bryan’s private message to me.
Me: what about eva?
Him: what about her? call me.
After several heart-pounding, sweaty-palm minutes, I call his cell. No answer. My curiosity grows like a mosquito bite begging to be scratched. Does his message have anything to do with Eva liking girls?
Though I’m SO NOT New Age, Sierra introduced me to Ouija for answering life’s more pressing questions. I draw the curtains, light a candle, and sit cross-legged in front of the computer. The Ouija Web page cues me to begin.
“Is Eva a lesbian?” I chant, typing as I go.
Under the gentle pressure of my fingertips, the mouse stays put. I picture Eva with her arms around Angelina Jolie. The mouse drifts upward. I open my eyes. The cursor hovers between yes and no. I shut my eyes. My mental picture changes to Bryan in a yellow tank top with me leaning against his perfect pecs. The mouse jumps to yes.
There’s my answer.
My bed doubles as a trampoline, which is a good thing because my screechy nerves need some jump therapy right now. On the third bounce, my hair brushes the ceiling and a crunching noise starts up inside my mattress. I drop down onto my back and kick up my legs for a while. Eva is as familiar to me as the lines of overlapping plaster over my bed—BD that is—so it bothers me that I don’t understand her. We used to be a team. Well, almost.
One little imperfection got in the way of our perfection; it turns out that Eva is better than me at everything. I solved that by dropping out of choir, ballet, and tap. True, I could’ve taken up obscure activities—bassoon recitals or spelling bees—but why bother? Theater changed all that. I fell in love with the stage at first sight. Eva’s superior acting skills failed to diminish my passion for it. She could have Gretel as long as I could be the evil stepmother.
Then I beat her at something without even trying. One fine day I got breasts, and not the Ping-Pong ball variety. I thought I’d get my period first too, until I found a box of tampons in her room. “What are these for?” I asked.
“Guess,” she said.
“Just in case?” I asked.
She laughed and shook her head.
“For cleaning your ears?”
“Right on the second try.”
It was an obvious lie, even back then, when I wanted to believe her. I’ll ask her why someday . . . if we’re ever friends again.
By the morning of the next day, I need to talk to someone. Either that or commit myself to a home for girls with excessive and neurotic nervous mannerisms. I cross the gopher-infested field that separates my house from Sapphire’s. Sapphire is the coolest adult for miles around and my drama teacher. Though she’s the same age as Mom, they have nothing in common. Mom drives a Volvo, while Sapphire tools around in her lemon yellow VW bug. Sapphire chose a new name for herself when she became an adult. But when I suggested Gethsemane to Mom, she refused to consider it.
As I near Sapphire’s house, a Grateful Dead tune comes at me through the open window, along with an unpleasant smell. I let myself in. I find her standing in front of the stove stirring an enormous pot of soup, her bare feet on a patch of floor where the linoleum has worn through. A full stereo dominates the counter where ordinary people put their microwave.
“Stay for lunch,” she says, holding out a spoon for me to taste.
The odor—reminiscent of animal hair and toenails—convinces me that the time has come to adopt my new vegetarian diet. “I don’t eat meat,” I say.
“Groovy. Since when?”
“Since now,” I answer.
She laughs. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I sit at the kitchen table—a mint green Formica thing from the fifties. A small shelf above it serves as a makeshift altar where the Buddha and the Virgin Mary rub shoulders. Her kitchen has been my haven since forever. I spin the stool, kicking off from the table leg while exhaling slowly like I learned in the meditation class Sierra and I took together.
“So what’s the big secret?” Sapphire asks. She can read my mind but never judges. I confessed to her (and her only) when I cheated on a history test last year. She supported me through my kleptomania phase, too. I think of her as a sounding board for my new ideas, a focus group for my new product lines.
“Bryan,” I say. “He made a pass at me.”
Sapphire pats my hand. If she were Mom, she’d act like a squadron of fighter jets just buzzed the kitchen. “And what did you do?”
I take another deep breath. “Nothing. He’s Eva’s boyfriend.”
“Very mature,” she says.
Sigh. My test failed. Even free-spirited Sapphire believes that going for Bryan would be immature.
“I have the perfect balm for your aching heart,” she adds. She lowers the volume on the stereo and puts a finger to her lips. I catch guitar strumming from her back room.
“My sister’s son is visiting me,” she says. “Jonathan’s a senior and a hottie too.”
“You have a sister?”
Sapphire has never mentioned this before. The omission raises goose bumps on my arms. When Eva and I were little, I dreamed we would grow up and live together in the same house. Later on I accepted we would just be neighb
ors. Could we grow apart so profoundly that she wouldn’t mention me to her friends? I don’t respond well when people strip me of my delusions. Like the time my best friend in the second grade informed me that the Tooth Fairy didn’t exist. I hid under her bed and cut off the pink mane of her My Little Pony.
“Would you mind showing him around?” Sapphire asks. “How about tomorrow after tryouts?”
“If Jonathan’s a senior, why isn’t he in school?”
For a moment she looks like a person choosing between brands of laundry detergent. I’m guessing she’s deciding how much to tell me. “He got into a spot of trouble after an ugly split with his girlfriend. Nothing big, but there was talk of suspension. My sister worked it out so he could transfer here.”
“You want me to date some juvenile delinquent head case? What did he do?” My elbow collides with the vase of flowers on the table.
Sapphire rights it quickly and tosses a kitchen towel on the puddle. “Nothing terrible. And it’s not a date.” The guitar music stops. A small thud from the back room shakes the little house.
“Why not introduce us now?” I ask.
The next thud suggests overturned furniture.
“Later,” she says, ignoring the racket. “I wouldn’t ask if I thought you couldn’t handle it.” She turns up the music again.
The noise from the back of the house stops. I launch the next test. “There’s something else going on . . . with Eva.”
Sapphire tilts her head to show she’s listening.
“I think she’s a lesbian.”
“That’s way far out,” Sapphire says. “And so cool she can talk to you about it.”
Freeze scene.
When I say, “I think she’s a lesbian,” Sapphire’s face darkens. Think computer screen when the hard drive crashes. Soup scum slides down the side of the pot and hisses in the fire. She stands up to lower the flame.
“It’s just a theory,” I add, faltering a little.
“It isn’t appropriate to talk like that about your sister’s personal life,” she says.
Appropriate? Sapphire sounds positively parental. I jump off the stool, and my hip accidentally bumps the table. The vase falls over again, rolls, and smashes to the floor.
Sapphire hands me a broom and dustpan. “You really had it in for that vase,” she says. “It wasn’t that ugly.”
I don’t laugh. Sierra would call it instant karma for talking about Eva behind her back. I call it bizarre.
Sapphire stirs turmeric and cumin into the soup as if nothing happened. I finish cleaning up the mess. “I’d better go,” I say. “You know, practice my lines one last time.”
“Are you okay?”
“A little nervous about tomorrow.”
“With your talent, Shakespeare will be a stroll in the park.”
“Thanks,” I say.
When I make it outside, I count up my losses—Sierra, Eva, and now Sapphire. That doesn’t even take into account the drought in Boyfriend Land. I see loneliness in my future. Except for a nondate with a quasi punk who probably hates girls based on a warped relationship with his evil ex-girlfriend. That’s when I notice strange objects strewn below the open window alongside the house—clothes, an empty suitcase, and an office chair. So he’s a performance artist too. I’d title his installation Life Sux Yolo Bluffs Sux More. At least my nondate with Jonathan won’t be dull.
Chapter
3
Back home Mom is out with Eva, and Dad is on the phone. After an unfulfilling lunch of raw broccoli and carrots, I log on to chat with someone. Sadly, it’s dead in Electron Land. Maybe everyone got boyfriends for Christmas. Anyway, I need more time to obsess about the incident at Sapphire’s house. I wish I could Google the inside of her head. Since that’s not possible, I Google gay teens. The first site features a coming-out story by Jaylee.
By the time I was eleven I knew I was different from other girls, and it scared me. So when my best friend chased me around the garden, I pretended my pounding heart was from running so hard. By high school I admitted (to myself) I was attracted to girls. The pressure kept building inside me, until one day my friends asked me a question about the prom, and I started to cry. When they freaked, I blurted out, “I think I’m a lesbian,” expecting that to be the end of everything. Instead they surprised me! They had guessed already and were glad I finally told them.
The story moves me so much, I devour a second one, and then another, and another—like Pringles until the tube is empty. Coming out doesn’t sound half bad. I’m even a little jealous of some of these girls. For one thing, I wonder if my so-called friends would be that supportive. For another, these girls get to be themselves for the first time in their lives, and it’s a joyous occasion for the most part. I print the best stories for Eva because they might give her courage to be true to herself.
In case she is a lesbian.
Auditions for the play are tomorrow after school. I should be practicing my lines, but Andie’s book calls to me with a siren’s song. Always put off till tomorrow what you can do tomorrow. I read the book to the end. After a few teary scenes, the other chess geeks come to their senses, embrace the lesbian lovebirds, and throw a dance party where they all dress as their favorite chess piece. I love happy endings.
Since I’m already in procrastination mode, I scour my closet for an outfit with good juju for tomorrow. Unfortunately, my most flattering ensemble—scoop-necked top, floral miniskirt, and velvet leggings—doesn’t say shepherdess. Then it hits me. I should take Carmen’s “advice” and try out for the lead. While Dad’s still on the phone, I borrow a casual button-down shirt and tie from among his work clothes. Then, standing in front of my mirror, I read the lines from the play where Rosalind dresses as a man.
A boar spear in my hand; and—in my heart,
(I adopt a warrior’s pose.)
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,
(I thrust out my jaw.)
We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,
(Where did I leave my sword? I’m always forgetting it under the seat in some café.)
As many other mannish cowards have. . . .
I remove the tie, unbutton the shirt three notches, and layer with a cute vest. Better. Bryan won’t find me attractive if I’m too mannish on the outside. Still, I would do anything to play Rosalind. A tattoo on my lower back—a snake, maybe—or a strategic facial piercing would toughen my image without sacrificing sex appeal. Unfortunately, Mom flips whenever I mention needles and skin in the same sentence. My hair isn’t quite right, either. I test the blade of my sewing scissors against my thumb. Not salon quality, but good enough.
Mom suffers from classic bad timing. I wonder if showing up at the wrong moment is an innate talent or a skill she’s been developing. Just as the last of my long, auburn tresses hits the rug, she yells from the living room, “I’m home!”
My reflection sneers at me—“Got a little carried away, did we?” When I hear chhhh coming from the shower, I sneak past the kitchen with a towel around my head. Gethsemane spots me before I make the front door. Must be Elmo in the bathroom.
“Why are you wearing a turban?” she asks.
I can’t think of a good lie. “I joined a cult,” I say. “I’ll be home before dinner.”
“Not wearing that on your head,” she says. Parents should be required by law to listen to themselves so they can hear how condescending they sound.
I take off the towel as ordered. Her reaction deserves the horror movie hall of fame. If this were my cue, I would look behind me and discover a slimy monster of gigantic proportions, saliva dripping off its daggerlike teeth.
“Does this have anything to do with that thing between you and Eva?” she asks.
I swear Mom has barely glanced at me in the last two weeks. Where does she get this stuff? Maybe she really does have eyes in the back of her head. Maybe she bugged my room.
“What thing?” I say. “I was fooling around with a new look.�
��
Mom drives me to Hair Central, where styling guru Miranda does her best to even out what’s left. My hair ends up very short, except for a fringe in back that I insist upon based on a lesbian rocker hairdo I saw on the Net. I ask Miranda for some green highlights. She clicks her tongue at me.
“Earth tones are the style this year,” she says.
How would she know? Her tongue isn’t even pierced.
On the drive home, Mom brings up the topic we’ve both been avoiding.
“Why did you cut off your hair?”
“I felt like a change. And I’m a vegetarian now, too,” I say, employing a simple sleight of hand. Look at the egg. Now it’s gone. See the pretty silk handkerchief.
“What brought that on?”
I pinch the roll at my waist. “I’m tired of being fat.”
She shakes her head at me. “Your weight is healthy.”
I don’t want to be healthy; I want to be sexy. “Did you know that they raise pigs in pens so small they can’t turn around?” I say.
I can tell from the way she presses her lips together that she will say something reasonable, like we rarely eat pork anyway. We pull up to a red light, and she turns to look at me. I roll my eyes as a preliminary rebuttal to her future argument. She surprises me by saying something entirely different.
“I didn’t try vegetarianism till college,” she says. “You’re a little early.”
We get home and choose a recipe together for dinner. While I chop the veggies, she makes the sauce. After a while I admit to cutting off my hair for tryouts, neglecting to mention my new fascination with coming-out stories and how that may have influenced me. Nor do I say a word about my Eva-is-a-lesbian theory. She thinks I went too far cutting my hair for a role I haven’t gotten yet, but seems satisfied by the quarter truths I tell her.
“All’s well that ends with a cute haircut,” she says, and I laugh like a good daughter should.
I set the wok on the table in front of Dad. “Where’s Eva?” I ask.
“With Bryan,” Mom says.
Well, lah-di-dah.
She misinterprets the look on my face. “You’ll find a boyfriend like Bryan someday,” she says.
My Invented Life Page 2