by Pamela Ribon
Dale jumped up and pointed at me. “You see? There! Right there! That’s why this is dangerous. Let him go.”
“I am letting him go.” I slumped down into the tub until my knees were at my chest. I held my stomach, opened my legs, leaned forward, and rested my chin on the edge of the porcelain. It was cool and I could feel the blood receding from my face. I hated how much Ian got to me. I hated how I always wanted to be one step ahead of him and how I never, ever was.
000008.
Independent Woman
(Song for a New Kid)
04 JULY
I once knew a girl that would huff Scotch Guard in class. In the sixth grade. She was hardcore, yo. I wonder what happened to those girls—the ones who didn’t talk to me. The ones who pushed past me. The ones who never saw me but who I studied, wondering how they got there. How did they get so cool? How did they decide one day that heavy black eyeliner was the way to go? I was fascinated with the ones who knew how to fray a denim jacket, who knew how to French-kiss when I hadn’t even held a hand yet. I studied them because they knew how to make someone look at them. They knew how to draw attention.
I also studied the Pure Girls. The Pure Girls only looked pure, but actually wanted to lose as much innocence as they could on a Wednesday afternoon between the bus ride home and curfew. They were the ones who looked good smoking cigarettes, who hated doing homework. Was I the freak for liking homework? I didn’t tell anyone that on summer vacations I gave myself assignments. My mother would buy me college textbooks in biology and English and I’d teach myself mitosis and molecular structures because I thought the more you knew, the sexier you were. How misled I was. How none of that helped that first terrible year of high school when I had no idea who I was or who these people were and they didn’t care who the fuck I was. I was in a small town with people who had known each other for years and I was on the outside looking in.
Hi, new kid. Welcome to loneliness.
You always end up getting invited to sit somewhere at lunch the first day. You sit down and quickly realize that you were asked to sit with the other outsiders. You hear your mother in your head telling you to be nice and make friends with these kids because they’re just as lonely and sad as you are and they really want friends and they’re probably nice, but you really, really want to be popular this time. You’ve never been popular and you’re starting over for the tenth time in another school and you thought maybe this time you’d get it right, but instead you’re sitting with kids who never have plans on the weekend and they know all of the television lineups from Friday to Sunday. They ask you if you need help with your algebra. You watch the popular kids when you look up from your hot-lunch plate and you realize that you have two choices: You can suddenly get all cool and tell these losers that you’ll smell them later, storm over to the popular table, declare a place, and say that you’re lucky you got out without a pocket protector tattoo. Or you can sit there like your mother would want you to and be good, be a nice girl, and meet these kids but still stay distant enough that you don’t really like them. It’s easier to not make friends. You’re going to be leaving soon anyway. You always do. Don’t get attached.
You keep feeling like you’re going to be sick. You sit in class and wonder if anyone will know it’s your birthday. You watch the birthday girl with the balloons tied to the back of her chair and realize you won’t have that because you haven’t had these friends for years. They’ve all got history. You’ll be the one without valentines again. No one will ask if you’re going to the dances. You will only be talked to when you forget to put on one of your socks, or if you accidentally make the chair fart when you lean over to get your pencil. You miss every school you ever went to, even when you hated those schools so much you’d cry yourself to sleep every single night.
The sound of a school bus will forever make your stomach drop. The smell of a pencil brings a lump to your throat. Line leaders. Fire drills. The tardy bell.
Then there’s that moment when you stop watching everyone else play Boys Chase Girls and decide to go inside and read instead. That moment when there is someone else inside reading, and you start talking to her about Ramona Quimby and Beezus. You suggest books for each other and at the end of the day you find out she rides your bus. Not only that, but she lives down the street! Suddenly you have a new friend and your mom is happy for you. (She stops asking when you’re going to make friends. She stops looking at you like you’re a broken child.) Everything is so much fun as you spend the night at each other’s houses watching scary movies and eating too much and talking about movies and music and you’ve finally found someone who understands you. She’s got some friends and she lets you in and suddenly you are a part of a group. You belong. You’ve got friends and you like the school and you can’t remember ever hating it, and then you go home one day and it’s time to move again.
You’re moving again and you have to pack up everything in your bedroom. Quickly. Again. There were things you hadn’t even unpacked yet. It’s happening again. That feeling again. You say good-bye again to your new friend who won’t remember you in three months when you are still wishing desperately to see her every day. You will remember her name long after you’ve become a faded memory to her.
You can’t sleep that last night in your room, when it’s all boxed up and dark and you don’t know where you’re going and you don’t know anyone where you’re going and you don’t know what to expect. You get mad at yourself. You promised you wouldn’t get attached to this place, and then you did. You went ahead and got attached, and now you have to go through all of that sad again. More sad again. Being new all over again.
Maybe next time you’ll be popular. Maybe people will think you’re pretty, or that you have the coolest clothes. Maybe they’ll have horses. Your friend Becky loved horses. You miss Becky. She never writes anymore. Maybe they’ll have braces. You like braces. You’ve never had them. Maybe they will love you immediately and take you right in. Or maybe they will hate you and make you sit at the fat-kid table again. Maybe they’ll have other boys pretend to like you and ask you out and wait until you say yes and then all start laughing in the cafeteria, and even the lunch lady laughs because there’s no way that boy was really asking you out and she has a sad and lonely life and her only entertainment now is watching young children be horrible to each other.
You can pretend to be blind in the new school. Or deaf. Pretend you don’t understand English. Or you can be British. Or in a wheelchair. Find some reason that they don’t have to talk to you, and even if they want to talk to you, you’ll act very noble and say you can’t talk to them. You’re too busy, or too important, or too British.
Maybe the new school will burn down on your first day and you’ll never have to go there again and you can sit at home with your college textbooks, apply to Harvard, get in, and be the youngest kid ever in college. People will throw words at you like “genius” and “charming.” You won’t have to remember that time everyone in class got a thesaurus and had to write words about you they had never learned before on a paper plate with your name on it. And since they didn’t know what they were saying and you did, your heart broke when you got your paper plate back and it said, “precocious,” “abnormal,” “freak,” “pretentious,” and “egotistic.” You turn to the kid in front of you as he studies his plate and asks you what corpulent means. You realize that maybe he’s better off not knowing. You hate everyone there and you hate the stupid teacher for giving such a dangerous assignment.
You’re going to start over and over and over. It’s always the same, but the faces are different. The names are different. The pain and the fear are the same.
Hey, new kid. Don’t get too attached.
Love until later,
Anna K
000009.
Subject: Sad.
Anna K,
I hope you don’t mind that I write to you so often, but every time you write something I find myself nodding my head excitedly becaus
e I’ve finally found someone who thinks the same things I do. I moved three times when I was in junior high and it was really hard every single time. I lost friends I thought I’d know forever, and I have no idea what happened to them. I’m always hoping I’ll find them on the Internet, though!
I hope you have a good Fourth of July tonight.
Later,
Tess
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Subject: re: Sad.
Tess,
Thanks for writing again. I always like to hear from you. Hope you have a good time tonight as well.
-Anna K
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Subject: Ramblings.
Anna K,
Earlier today I was washing my dishes and I started thinking about you. I had a strange feeling that you weren’t feeling well. Then I saw your latest entry. Now, the first question, of course, is why would I be thinking about a stranger while I washed my dishes? Why should I even care if you were well or not? But more importantly: How did I know you were feeling down? Maybe the answer to that last question is pure coincidence. But the other two questions are staying with me. Do you find yourself thinking about us, your readers? Your fans? I’ve written to you a few times, and you only wrote back once (something short and sweet like “Thanks for writing,” which is exactly what I assumed I’d receive since I’m both a total stranger and a “Potentially Scary Man.” I promise I’m not a scary man, and I don’t have to be a stranger unless you want to keep me that way. That last sentence makes me sound like a scary man with creepy overtones. I’m not. This letter isn’t turning out the way I wanted it to and my parenthetical aside has now taken on monstrous proportions. I’m going to end the parentheses and then continue, if you don’t mind, leaving inside these two parentheses all of the creepiness that somehow bled out here).
What I mean to say is that I was thinking about you, and I think you’re an amazing writer. Obviously you have to be for me to wonder about you like I do. I’m washing dishes thinking about a woman I don’t even know who lives somewhere in Texas with a man I don’t know. It’s his job to comfort you, not mine. What the hell right do I have to write to you, anyway? And by now I’m sure you’re thinking that I’ve overstepped some sort of writer/reader boundary, and maybe I have. But I wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t let you know that I was thinking about you. I think it’s important for you to know that what you do reaches people you might never meet in your entire life. And what you do is good. So, thanks for that.
You don’t have to write back, but if you do, know that I’ll sleep with a printout of your e-mail under my pillow for at least a week. I mean that in a completely nonstalker way (even though I’m pretty sure there’s no way to take that in a non-stalker way).
-LDobler
P.S. Maybe it’s finally time for me to buy a dishwasher so I no longer have these problems.
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Subject: Moving
Anna K,
My dad’s in the military, so I know what it’s like to move around all the time, always changing schools, wondering if the other kids are going to like you in the new place. Look at it this way: At least it’s made you this friendly, funny person. I’m the life of every party now. They just don’t know I’m scared they secretly hate me. Keep up the journal. I think it’s really great.
-doug
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Subject: re: re: Sad.
Anna K,
You wrote back so fast! You must still be on your computer from earlier. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I hope you and Ian have a great time together tonight, and I was wondering if you could give me some sort of P.O. box or address where I could send you a card. I collect stationery and I found this postcard that I think you’d love. It’s totally up to you and I understand if you don’t feel right sharing your address with me. That’s why I thought you might have a P.O. box. You really should get one, since I’m sure you get requests like this all the time. Anyway, Happy Fourth!
Later, Tess
P.S. I hope you write happy and funny stuff again soon, like the football stuff. You seem kinda down. Are you okay?
-----
Shannon and I wandered through the hundreds of people gathered at Lake Travis to watch the fireworks. We got there just in time for the sounds of the city’s orchestra to float down the grassy hill as the sun set and the sky settled into a beautiful deep blue. Dale, Jason, Becca, Mark, and a few people from Jason’s work were already on their backs, wiggling with anticipation. I could tell they had been there a while from the empty bags of chips and mostly empty gallons of water strewn about their blanket. I flopped down on a space beside Dale as I felt him watch me. Shannon took off her shoes and stretched her legs. I listened to Becca talk about a caterer she was thinking of hiring.
I felt the clumps of dirt and tiny rocks digging into the back of my hips and shoulders through the blanket, but I didn’t care. I welcomed the discomfort. This was the first time in a long time I wasn’t watching the fireworks from the cup of Ian’s lap. I wasn’t sad, but I could feel the absence, like riding a roller coaster without someone in the seat beside me. Who would I turn to with excitement, making sure the beautiful sights weren’t all just a dream?
When the fireworks started, I leaned forward to grab my disposable camera and saw a couple standing in front of me. They were holding hands and looking at the sky. He would whisper something in her ear as each pyrotechnic explosion faded and she’d giggle, throwing her body toward his. They’d bump into each other and stay closer with each crack in the sky. He held her around her waist, turned her at the chin, and kissed her.
As I looked down, Dale caught my eye. “Hey,” he said gently. “They’re probably on a first date and both very drunk. Don’t go romanticizing them.”
I shook my head. “No. See how her body fits into his?”
“This is a conversation I’m not going to win.”
I settled my head on his thigh. He put his hand on my forehead as we watched the fireworks above us. I looked over and saw his other hand was holding Jason’s. They looked at me like proud parents and then turned their gazes skyward.
I rolled until I was on my stomach. “I’m sorry we fought,” I said into Dale’s leg.
“What’s that, Muffly?”
I looked up at him. Catching his gaze, I felt tears pressing urgently against my face. “I’m sorry,” I said, miserably.
“Now that’s the reaction I’d been waiting for. Fights aren’t over until someone cries.”
“Well, then it’s over.”
“Your entry today was really good. Broke my heart.” I looked up and saw he was crying a little too. “I wish I was around when you were growing up so you didn’t feel so lonely.”
“Me, too, Dale. I’m glad you’re here now, though.”
He nodded and stroked my hair. I turned back around and watched the rest of the fireworks. When the last explosion hit the sky, I knew it was over, but I didn’t move just in case there was still one more that nobody saw coming.
000010.
Subject: re: Ramblings.
LDobler (LDobler like John Cusack in Say Anything, Lloyd Dobler?),
Hi. I’m not worried that you’re a creepy stalker boy. But I am wondering why you’d write so much to me when you hardly know anything about me. This is all sort of new to me, so I’m flattered. Anyway, I do remember your other letters, and I’m sorry that I didn’t write back more often. Sometimes it gets a little busy around here. Hope you had a good holiday weekend.
-Anna K
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I doubt LDobler would be as interested in me if he saw the five rough drafts of that letter. I was admittedly more interested in him because he was a man, but I also liked that he sounded older than most of my other fans. He sounded like a peer. My daily amount of e-mail was growing rapidly. I didn’t have time to write all of them back, but I did read them. People rarely asked a question or wrote something that begged a response anyway. It was more like they were just letting me know they were th
ere, which was a great comfort. Their excitement was infectious and kept me writing with a near daily frequency.
A few days later, as I drove to the grocery store to pick up kitty litter, I wondered if I came across as myself in my webpage. I didn’t know how obvious it was that there was a real person behind the stories, even if some of them were fabricated. Was it engaging enough that it didn’t matter? If I were someone else sitting in a cubicle, and I happened across the webpage, would I stay and read?
I was still completely absorbed in myself when I walked into the store. Maybe if I paid attention every once in a while I’d avoid the misery I continually fall into.
000011.
Seeing the Ex
(Or, Why I’m Never Shopping Again)
08 JULY
I had only stopped in the store to pick up kitty litter. I do it all the time. I go into that store all of the time. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I bumped into my ex in aisle seven.
I almost did, anyway. I would have if I had taken three steps more. I heard his voice as I was looking down and I snapped my head up fast enough that I could dodge behind a canned peas display before he saw me. Please never remind me when we’re old and gray that I once hid from my ex-boyfriend behind a peas display. Also, who needs a peas display? Are we all still buying peas?
He was standing there talking on his cell phone, just acting like he’d never dated me at all. Didn’t we divvy up the neighborhood after we broke up? I thought so. There’s a Chinese food restaurant that I still crave in the middle of the night that I won’t dare enter because it’s where we used to go. I could probably walk in there and order Moo Shu Pork, but my gigantic fear is that I’ll see him sitting there with another girl and he’ll be feeding her food and she’ll be laughing.