Weird Girl and What’s His Name
A NOVEL
Meagan Brothers
THREE ROOMS PRESS
New York, NY
*This is not a spoiler-free book.
Weird Girl and What’s His Name
A NOVEL BY
Meagan Brothers
Copyright © 2015 by Meagan Brothers.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. For permissions, please write to address below or email [email protected]. Any members of education institutions wishing to photocopy or electronically reproduce part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Three Rooms Press, 561 Hudson Street, #33, New York NY 10014
ISBN 978-1-941110-27-0 (print)
ISBN 978-1-941110-28-7 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935226
COVER DESIGN:
Victoria Bellavia
www.victoriabellavia.com
INTERIOR DESIGN:
KG Design International
www.katgeorges.com
DISTRIBUTED BY:
PGW/Perseus
www.pgw.com
Three Rooms Press
New York, NY
www.threeroomspress.com
[email protected]
for JWB,
who believed
and
for Liz Eslami,
il miglior fabbro
Contents
Spring 2008: Spooky Kid
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
Summer-Fall 2008: Bloom Orphan
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Spring 2008
Spooky Kid
one
“RORY,” LULA SAID, QUITE GRAVELY, “I’VE just about had it up to here with all this horseshit alcoholic mumbo-jumbo nonsense.” Then, like punctuation, she threw her copy of The Sound and the Fury across the courtyard lawn. I laughed. We kept walking to class. I don’t know how she did on Mrs. Lidell’s William Faulkner test, but afterward I went back to the courtyard and plucked her book from the spot where it landed, fanned out in the low branches of a hedge. I kept thinking about what Lula said, wishing I had the nerve to say something like that whenever I would come home from school and see my mother had rearranged the furniture again. She did that when she drank. Put shit in the weirdest places. I wished I had the balls to say it to her just once. Patty, I’d say, quite gravely. I’ve just about had it up to here with all this horseshit alcoholic mumbo-jumbo nonsense. Then I’d take my sixth-grade soccer trophy out of the refrigerator and put it back on the shelf where it belonged.
NOT THAT LULA WAS THE TYPE to go around throwing books. She was actually really smart, and she read all the time. Just not books about decaying old Southern families. Lula was more likely re-reading one of the Hitchhiker’s Guide or Lord of the Rings books for the third or fourth time. This was part of why other kids at school called Lula “Weird Girl.” Or, sometimes just to change it up, “Queen Weird.” The other part was that she wasn’t from some old Southern family—in fact, she was born in LA, of all the crazy places. And she wasn’t even from LA. It was where her crazy mother just happened to be living at the time. (I can’t even say it without imagining a room full of Junior League ladies looking stricken.) In our tiny North Carolina town, and even at our school, people actually cared about stuff like this, once they got wind of it. Some kids’ families had been here since before the Civil War, even, and it was like all those families got together way back then and synchronized their secret decoder rings or something. No entry allowed into the Fortress of Southitude if you were from—heaven forbid!—California. (Me, personally? I occupied the weird limbo of a Hawthorne Lifer whose mom had the audacity to go off up north to a fancy college and marry a damn Yankee. She had the good sense to come back home, thank goodness, but she came home divorced and with clueless child. Also, my grandparents used to work in the mills that some of my classmates’ grandparents used to supervise or manage or even own. So they allowed me a strange sort of acceptance. They weren’t actively mean to me or anything, despite the fact that I was a big fat guy and therefore easily make-fun-of-able. For the most part, my classmates politely ignored the inconvenient fact that I kind of, you know. Existed.)
Lula didn’t seem to care about any of it, though. Which is one of the many things I liked about her. I mean, everybody cares what other people think about them, right? Especially in high school. But Lula didn’t care if other kids thought it was weird that she spent weekends golfing or playing tennis with her grandparents, or watching Clint Eastwood movies and DVDs of old comedy shows from the ‘60s with her granddad, or if the girls in our class whispered behind her back when she decided to show up for most of tenth grade wearing her grandmother’s cast-off dresses from the 1960s and ‘70s, all way out of style, all polyester in unbelievable shades. Because of her grandparents, Lula responded to our teachers with lines from Laugh-In like “You bet your bippy” and “Sock it to me,” and when other kids made fun of her, she always had a comeback, and it was usually pretty vulgar. You know that expression, “cusses like a sailor”? It might be relevant to note that Lula’s granddad spent most of his life in the Navy. Lula liked to drop the f-bomb, and she made no secret of being, as my own grandmother used to say, contrary. But, at our school, a lot of kids were pretty cavalier with the colorful expletives, so, even paired with the excessive reading, it wasn’t enough to get a person labeled “Queen Weird.” My personal theory as to why the other kids called Lula “Weird Girl” was that Lula didn’t seem to mind not having any other friends besides me.
The rest of the school may have known us as Weird Girl and What’s His Name, but we had already taken the liberty of renaming ourselves. When we first met in Mr. Boyd’s history class back in junior high, we were Teddy and Tallulah, which Lula said sounded like a bad lounge act or a couple of professional jugglers. She’d always hated her full name, hated all the variations we thought up—Lu, Lula, Tally—until we saw an old episode of The X-Files with this lady bank robber named Lula, and then all of a sudden she thought it was the coolest name ever. My mom was the one who always called me Teddy, for pretty much my entire life. Theodore was my dad’s grandfather’s name, apparently. But Lula said I didn’t look like a Theodore or a Teddy and rechristened me Rory.
That was back in seventh grade. The first time Lula called me on the phone—she called to ask me about our in-class presentation for Mr. Boyd—we ended up talking and laughing for something like two hours, until her phone died and she couldn’t find the charger. It was hard to believe we hadn’t been best friends our entire lives. And it all started because we got paired up for some stupid library research project way back when. It’s weird to think how random that kind of stuff is
—like how if Mr. Boyd had just paired me up with Stephanie Widdis or Mike Landy, Lula and I would’ve never become friends. Lula said we would have found each other, anyway. She said we have too much weird shit in common.
THIS YEAR, ELEVENTH GRADE, WE HAD two classes together. Advanced English in the mornings and Chemistry during seventh period. We both hated Chemistry and loved English, even when we had to read “alcoholic mumbo-jumbo nonsense.” We were obsessed with Mrs. Lidell, our English teacher, who was brilliant and sarcastic, just like we wanted to be. Using a mixture of diligent Internet research and personal-life recon during after-class tutorials, Lula and I found out that Mrs. Lidell had gone to college in France and lived in Paris after she graduated. She wrote movie reviews for a French magazine under her maiden name, Samantha Glassman. We of course looked up the articles online and tried to read them—even with only a year and a half of high school French between us, we could tell that Mrs. Lidell was not impressed by Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle. Mrs. Lidell drove a hybrid car—a Prius with an Obama bumper sticker—which might be okay for Raleigh or Asheville, but around here, you may as well have walked down Main Street with a six-inch-tall purple Mohawk. She also had a decal on her back window that said MOJO NIXON, and she smoked exotic cigarettes that her Parisian friends sent her in care packages. Lula told me they were called Gitanes. I asked her how she knew, and Lula told me that one day, when she had to stay after to do a makeup Chem lab, she’d run into Mrs. Lidell leaving late and asked her if she could bum a smoke. Mrs. Lidell just gave her one of those classic Mrs. Lidell raised- eyebrow looks, then told her that they came all the way from Paris. As if she would’ve actually given Lula a cigarette if they were just Marlboros from the Li’l Cricket store. Lula and I often speculated on what a wonderful guy Mr. Lidell must be, that she’d come all the way back from Paris to our charmingly podunk North Carolina town of Hawthorne just to end up teaching English to a bunch of ungrateful slobs like us. Lula thought Mr. Lidell must have, as she put it, “a gigantic dick.” But I liked to think it was something more romantic than that.
“YOU FORGOT THIS,” I HANDED LULA her book as we crossed the parking lot after school. She tossed it up into the air and caught it again, clapping it between her hands.
“Gee, thanks. Hey, are you coming over tonight?” Lula asked, walking me to my car. I drove this completely mortifying old Buick station wagon that had belonged to my grandmother before she died. Lula named it the Beast. She rode a Schwinn ten-speed. “It’s Tango Night at the Y.” Her grandparents were taking tango lessons, which meant we’d have the house to ourselves.
“Can’t. I have to work.” I had a part-time job at Andy’s Books & Coffee, the little bookstore/coffee shop on our refurbished Main Street. Part of the Revitalize West Side! project.
“Working, or working out?” Lula grinned, touching her tongue to her tooth. She was wearing her customary dark blue jeans, black T-shirt, and black Converse sneakers, which was this year’s fashion statement, after the year of vintage dresses.
“Working,” I said. “And don’t make fun of my gym membership. I’m fighting off childhood obesity.”
“You’re seventeen; that’s not childhood. And I don’t care if you’re a lardass.”
“Nobody asked you,” I said, trying out a withering glare à la Mrs. Lidell. “To comment on the state of my ass.” Lula busted out laughing.
“I’ll take a rain check until tomorrow,” she said.
LULA AND I TOLD EACH OTHER almost everything. The main thing we both had in common was our messed-up parent situation. My dad split so long ago, I can’t even remember him, and, like I mentioned, my mom’s kind of a boozehound. Lula never knew her dad, either, and her mom bailed on her, too. Lula lived with her grandparents in their condo at the retirement villa, right on the ninth hole of the golf course. They were the craziest old people I’d ever met. Her granddad flew helicopters in Vietnam and was now a retired Naval engineer. So, unlike most old people, he was a total tech head. Lula’s grandparents were the first people I ever knew with flat-screen TVs or Wi-Fi. And Lula’s grandmother was a former model, except that she only modeled certain body parts—mostly her legs and feet. She had a contract with the Nair people before she met Leo, she told me once. She still wore white lipstick and dressed like Nancy Sinatra, with puffed-up hair like Jane Fonda in Barbarella, and kept the whole house decorated in white, like the inside of a space capsule or something. White carpet, white furniture. They even drove a white Cadillac. I told Lula that she was probably lucky her mom ran off and left her with Janet and Leo (her grandparents), but Lula was more obsessed with her mom than she was with Mrs. Lidell, and that’s really saying something. She’d probably Googled her about ten thousand times.
When Lula’s mom split, the only thing she left behind was a little multicolored hippie backpack. Lula was about three when her mother took off. When Lula got older, right around the time we met, Janet sat her down and gave her the backpack. Lula said it was like this top-secret operation, because Leo refused to talk about Lula’s mom. According to Janet, Lula’s mom, Christine, and Leo had been on bad terms since she was a rebellious teenager and Leo’s temper was worse. But after Christine dumped Lula at their house and left, there was some big falling out between her and Leo that nobody in the family talked about. Leo made Janet take down all of Christine’s pictures—everything. Janet wasn’t even sure where Christine was anymore. She’d stopped writing and calling a few years back. So, one weekend when Leo was away with his Navy buddies at a reunion in Annapolis or wherever, Janet gave Lula the backpack and swore her to secrecy. Inside, there was a Polaroid of Lula’s mother in a black T-shirt and jeans in front of a marked wall, like somebody was measuring her height. Her eyes peered out of the blurry photograph with the same intensity as Lula’s. I thought it looked like a mug shot, but Lula said it was from a theater tryout. That was what her mother ran off to do, according to Janet. She went to LA, then to New York to be an actress. There was a blue-and-gold scarf in the knapsack, and a postcard from California with nothing written on it. There was also a cassette tape by a woman singer named Laura Nyro that Lula played endlessly, until her Walkman ate it. Now it stayed in the backpack, the broken tape-ends flittering out of the cassette box.
Then there were the three books. One was An Actor Prepares, written by this Russian guy, Stanislavski. Lula read it and told me it was just a story about actors putting on a play, but when we looked it up online, it turned out it was like this major acting manual that all the heavy gangster- movie guys like Brando and De Niro swore by. I read it and didn’t get it; but then, my only acting experience was playing a green bean in the fourth grade Health play, so what did I know? The other book was Changing by Liv Ullmann, an actress who, as we found out, was in all these boring Swedish movies. (Well, I thought they were boring, but I didn’t tell Lula.) The third book was called The Unseen Hand and Other Plays by Sam Shepard. That was the one Lula used to make up her email address. BloomOrphan. At first I thought she just came up with that name because she was proud of getting ditched by her mom or something. But then she told me about the play. There’s this one character in it, a drunk cowboy who lives in the back of a dead Chevy, but he’s the only one who can save this race of people from the future who are all having their thoughts controlled by the Unseen Hand. The only reason the cowboy can save them is because he’s still got his emotions, but everybody else has been taken over by technology. The cowboy’s name is Blue Morphan. The way Lula rearranged it, the play on words, I thought was pretty clever. Mine was just TKCallahan91. Except when I went on to the X-Files message boards, and then I went incognito. There, I was SpookyKid. Which probably fit me better than Rory or Teddy or anything else.
OVER AT ANDY’S BOOKS & COFFEE, I was left to work both the register and the coffee bar (which was basically just an espresso machine and two coffee pots in the nook where the graphic novels used to be) while Andy hooked up his new XM Satellite radio. Andy was ecstatic about it. They had
entire channels devoted to the music he loved, which was old 1960s pop—not just the main bands everybody’s heard of like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, but stuff like Herman’s Hermits, Dusty Springfield, Paul Revere & the Raiders, the Troggs, the Box Tops, the Dave Clark Five. Ever since the local oldies station changed to a hard-rock format, he’d been bummed out, because he only had that stuff on collector’s-item vinyl, and he didn’t want to have to keep flipping records in the store. I was happy to be manning the register—I preferred ringing up books to making coffee, which I never drank. I didn’t understand the allure—it didn’t make me feel more awake, just more unnerved. The coffee bar was a recent addition, anyway—something Andy thought would bring in more customers and make the store a cool nighttime hangout destination. But I’m not sure that my sloppy lattes and flat cappuccinos were much of an attraction.
Sometimes Lula came in to browse the Used Paperbacks shelves, or just to bug me by ordering the most complicated coffee she could think of, but she usually had to work. She had a job as a caddy at the golf course. Aside from her infrequent appearances, there weren’t that many customers in the afternoons. Most people got their books online and their coffee from the drive-thru Starbucks over by the mall. I sat there beneath the faded framed picture of Kurt Vonnegut and the yellowed Bloom County comics pinned to the wall and watched Andy’s thin, tanned arms installing the speakers. He was pretty handy with repairs around the shop, but he was really an outdoors guy. Always hiking and biking and kayaking. We’d been camping a couple of times together already that spring. I thought if we were characters in Tolkien, Andy would definitely be a ranger. Or maybe an elf. He would be totally happy just living in the woods, sleeping under the stars every night. Around town, Andy drove a Prius, like Mrs. Lidell. Unlike Mrs. Lidell, though, Andy’s gay, which would probably come as a surprise to most people. Considering that most people think that all gay men ever listen to is Judy Garland or disco or show tunes. With Andy, forget it. He’d been going on for days about how, with the satellite radio, he could finally listen to Bob Dylan’s radio show. Andy was probably a letdown if you were looking for some kind of stereotypical example of a gay guy. Like, he never cared about going to nightclubs or dissing everybody’s gowns during the Golden Globes pre-show. Andy was more like the kind of guy who would take you on a nature walk and teach you the scientific name for crawdads.
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