by Terri Cheney
I decided to put “The Game” to a test. If everyone really believed that the rules were absurd, then they wouldn’t mind breaking a few. For starters, Student Council elections. I’d been in student government for as long as I could remember, and it had always bothered me that there wasn’t equal representation on the Council. What we had was a group of the most popular kids ruling the school, as always. Who spoke for the untouchables, the invisibles, who didn’t hang out by the tiger?
For a week, I coolly canvassed the school. I checked out areas where the invisibles gathered: the dying shade tree by the gymnasium, the dirt field in back of the clock tower, the smelly old lockers near the bathrooms. I sauntered by as if on my way to more important places, but really I was eavesdropping furiously on their conversations, memorizing their appearances, sizing them up. I needed just the right accomplice.
Teena, cruelly nicknamed “Tiny Teena,” was it. She was in my advanced French class. I knew she was there not because we were friends but because you simply couldn’t miss her. She was, to put it politely, a big girl: big-boned and blubbery, with long, mousy brown hair that hung like curtains in front of her face. We’d never talked outside of class. We lived in totally different worlds—both torturous, no doubt, but at least mine had the advantage of surface acceptability.
Whenever I saw Tiny Teena on campus, she was by herself: sitting in a corner of the cafeteria with a heavily laden tray of food, munching steadily, seemingly oblivious to the stares and snickers directed her way. I admired her sangfroid, if that’s what it was, although I would never in a million years have traded places with her. Or even sat next to her in no-man’s-land.
But while Teena may have sat by herself, she was hardly alone. There were far more students like her than like me, or Elisa, or Rhonda, or any of the other kids on the Council. The only equitable solution seemed obvious: Tiny Teena should rule the school.
I approached her after French class. To my surprise, she spoke to me first. “I really loved that thing you wrote,” she said, a self-conscious blush suffusing her cheeks and making her look almost pretty. “It made me cry.”
“I’m glad it touched you,” I said. “Because I’ve got a proposition. I want to run you for Student Council.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she stammered, “But how—but why—”
“I’m going to resign as senator and back you as my successor. There will have to be an election, of course, but I’m sure that with my help you’ll win. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
I didn’t wait for her to say yes or even to take it all in. I reeled off a list of strategies: key people that we’d have to win over; things we’d have to prepare—banners, flyers, posters, pins. The Black Beast was so enthused by this plan that the words simply flew from my mouth. I knew I was talking way too fast when a bit of my spittle hit Teena in the cheek, and she didn’t even flinch. She just stared at me dumbfounded.
I tried to slow down but couldn’t. My mind was running at hyperspeed by then, seeing the obstacles and dodging them, ricocheting from idea to idea like an amped-up pinball machine.
“So then you’ll have to give your speech—”
“There’s got to be a speech?” Teena asked, her eyes widening in horror. I’d never noticed before: she had lovely blue eyes, the color and, at the moment, the size of Dresden teacups. Note to self: buy navy blue liner to accentuate them.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” I said. “I’ll write the speech myself. The message will be—what will it be? Wait, wait, don’t tell me, I know! We’ll use ‘The Game’ as our theme: ‘Tired of playing by the rules? Vote for Teena and make a cheerleader cry.’”
Teena’s face finally unfroze at that, and she laughed. “But you’re one of them. Why would you do that? And why pick me?”
The Black Beast spoke before I could soften the words. “Because I’m sick to death of the way things are. And you’re the last person in the world they’d ever expect to win.”
Understanding dawned in those china-blue eyes, and damn it, they misted over.
“Teena, wait. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes you did, and you’re right. I’m always the last person anyone ever thinks of.”
“Well, you won’t be after this. We’ll show them, Teena. We’ll show them all.”
Teena came over to my house the next night, and we set up camp out in the little shed behind the swimming pool. I’d decided to announce my resignation from the Council at the end of the week; that would give us several days of advance preparation to use to our advantage. I had lots of supplies left over from past elections—poster board, paper, balloons—so it was a breeze to churn out campaign materials. Except that Teena, perhaps befitting her size, moved slower than molasses. She did beautiful calligraphy, and while her posters outshone mine aesthetically, I did twenty to her one.
Granted, mine were slapdash affairs. As the evening wore on, I gave the Black Beast greater and greater artistic license. He favored crayons over poster paint because there was a better selection of colors. I swear, he must have used every single one in the deluxe-size pack. He didn’t care if the colors clashed—in fact, I think he preferred it that way. As opposed to Teena’s discreet and careful lettering, mine consisted of quick, bold slashes of wild hues piled one on top of the other for a vivid starburst effect. If van Gogh in one of his sunflower moods had ever painted Student Council posters, they might have looked something like this.
Teena was exhausted by ten o’clock, and I reluctantly let her go home. The Black Beast was just gearing up for the night. After my parents went to bed, I snuck back out and kept on painting feverishly by the eerie green light of the swimming pool. When dawn broke, I looked up and smiled. Its garish effects had nothing on me.
Teena came over the next night, and the next. We didn’t talk much—just slaved over our banners and flyers and pins. But I came to like her placid, quiet company. It was such a blessed contrast to the frenetic metronome that kept ticking in my brain: what next, what next, what next?
By the end of the week, we had everything ready: enough paper to plaster the entire school. I went over and over the campaign in my mind and couldn’t think of anything I’d left out, except perhaps the most important thing: I’d forgotten to swear Teena to silence. I didn’t think I’d have to explain to her that our advantage lay in shock and surprise. And more truthfully, I didn’t think she had anyone to tell.
But even Tiny Teena had friends of a sort, or acquaintances, among the invisibles. She apparently told a few of these about our scheme, and as plankton will eventually find the whale, so the rumor floated up and up the social food chain until it finally reached the Mauna Loas’ ears.
Rhonda was the first to enlighten me. My father had to tear me away from the posters to answer the phone.
“Terri, I hate to tell you this, but . . .” Rhonda paused, and I steeled myself. “Everyone knows about the Tiny Teena thing.”
Another pause. I held my breath.
“And they’re all laughing at you.”
The world, which had been spinning in such delicious, dizzying circles, suddenly stopped. “But they loved ‘The Game,’” I said. “They told me so. I thought they were ready—no, eager—for change.”
“That was literature. This is real life.”
“But Elisa said—and Bobbie Brandon—”
“You’re poaching on their territory. Come on, they’re animals. We all are. Even you.”
I thought of the Black Beast and couldn’t disagree. I started to cry, quietly, so Rhonda couldn’t hear me. “What am I going to do?” I asked, in a voice so soft Rhonda had to ask me to repeat myself.
“I promised Teena,” I said. “She’s really nice. Maybe if you could just get to know her . . .”
“Unpromise her,” Rhonda said. “Tell her you’re sick. You’re always sick. She’ll believe you.”
I looked around me at the posters stacked up all over the den. “But everything’s done. We’ve worked so
hard, and she really thinks—”
“You don’t understand how serious this is,” Rhonda replied. “They’re talking about impeaching you as president of the Mauna Loas.”
The tears continued to flow down my face, my neck. I didn’t even bother to wipe them away. I was stunned by my response, or rather, the lack of it: where was the anger, where was the rage? Where was the Black Beast’s righteous indignation when I so justly needed it? It was nowhere to be found. All I felt was defeat and a desperate lethargy. Please God, anything but that.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I’d better go think.”
As I hung up the phone, I was aware of how heavy the receiver was; how difficult it was just to move my hand from my ear to the cradle. The air felt thick with betrayal. Without the Black Beast’s frantic energy to sustain me, I knew I could never pull off this stunt—it required a kind of antic wit and defiance that didn’t exist without him. I felt so frustrated, I wanted to scream. Why, when I most needed him, was he never there? Why couldn’t I just summon him up at will, like Aladdin with his omnipotent genie? But the Black Beast was no fairy-tale friend. He was real and therefore capricious.
I called up Teena. I knew I had to rip this moment off like a bandage, while I could still move. “Teena, I’m terribly sorry, but there’s been a hitch,” I said, making my voice hoarse and low. “I’m coming down with something—the flu, I think. I won’t be able to write your speech.”
“But how can I do it without you?” She sounded panicked, and I sank lower into the sludge of shame.
“I’m sure you can manage. You know all our critical arguments: it’s time for new blood, the world is ready, our school can stand as a shining example of fair representation . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t even convince myself.
Teena’s voice grew hoarse as my own. I could tell that she was crying. “I don’t want to do this if you’re not going to be at my side.”
“I can’t be at your side forever. If you won, you’d have to act alone.”
She was quiet for a minute. “I never really thought of that. I thought you’d always be there helping me, coaching me. I’m nothing when I’m alone.”
“You’re not nothing,” I said. “You’re the bravest girl I know.” And then there was silence between us; a silence that lasted so long I knew it was the end of all hope—for me, for Teena, for social change, for personal redemption.
Teena snuffled and blew her nose. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
It was my out, and I took it, knowing that I would despise myself forever, but unable to stop. I heard my words as if from far away. “Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right.” The nasty laughter that had been echoing in my ears finally stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we’ll still be friends,” I said. “You can come over anytime.” We both knew that would never happen. Teena graciously thanked me and said good-bye. I curled up on the couch and tried to stop the tide of painful thoughts. It was no use. The dam was cracked, and they came flooding in.
Was this the kind of friend I was? Unreliable? Untrustworthy? Would I always be at the mercy of the Black Beast, unable to show up as I’d promised unless he was in the right kind of mood? Most of the sorrow in my life had come from unreliability: my father’s failure to live up to my ideals, my mother’s unpredictable storms. Now here I was, as guilty as either one of them.
I looked ahead into my future and saw an endless string of failed relationships: friendships I would surely sabotage, love I couldn’t commit to. What in God’s name was wrong with me? It would be so easy just to blame it all on the Black Beast, but some speck of honor, some modicum of truth, wouldn’t let me do that. I truly didn’t know how much of it was him and how much was simply me—a tragic character flaw that kept me trapped in infidelity.
I fell asleep, wishing I was anyone else, even Tiny Teena.
There was, of course, no election. No speech. I didn’t resign my seat on the Council. I showed up every week as usual, but something essential had been extinguished in me: that spark that really cared one way or the other how the school should be run.
My retreat from the world was longer this time and more subtle than before. I stayed home as much as possible, but not for such lengthy periods that anyone got really alarmed. The teachers were used to my frequent absences by then, as were my parents. So long as I turned in my homework and showed up for exams, I could basically do what I liked.
Which posed a significant problem for me: I didn’t know what I liked. Nothing appealed. It was verging on springtime, and I took long walks around the neighborhood, watching my favorite trees and flowers beginning to blossom back to life. I envied them their certain cycles. I had no idea how long this particular “spell” would last. A week? A month? Two months? Three? Graduation wasn’t all that far away, but I was incapable of looking forward to it with any semblance of joy. It was just another red mark on the calendar, another day to be endured.
I was cool and distant to my friends, and they eventually stopped calling. But Rhonda still checked in most nights to tell me who’d done what to whom. I avoided her calls as much as I could, except when my parents were home and made me pick up the phone.
“Elisa and Bob Greene broke up today,” Rhonda told me one early April evening. I’d been methodically picking the raisins out of the raisin bran, and this interested me just long enough to stop.
“How come?” I asked.
“A twist on what he did to you—except this time he told everyone how lousy Elisa was in bed.”
I wanted to chuckle, but my chuckle mechanism wasn’t working. My brain tugged at the corners of my mouth, trying to lift them into a smile; but that was just too much hard work, and so I sighed instead. Sighs came easily to me those days.
“What difference does it make now?” I said.
“Don’t you at least think it’s funny? The same exact thing, except backward? I laughed the whole way home.”
“It’s ironic funny, not ha-ha funny.”
“Nothing’s ha-ha funny to you anymore. I think there’s something wrong with you.”
There it was, my favorite phrase. I knew I should be mortified, even angry. But I listened dispassionately to Rhonda’s words, wondering why they, like everything else, just didn’t seem to matter.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I guess I’m tired.”
“Why? What did you do all day?”
“Slept.”
“That’s it?”
“And read some Sherlock Holmes.”
“Enough with the Sherlock Holmes already. You need to get out of the nineteenth century. Come party with me this weekend. Bob Greene’s throwing another bash, to celebrate his freedom.”
“Not interested,” I said.
This time Rhonda sighed. I could tell her patience was wearing thin, and to the extent that I could feel anything, it worried me. I had few enough friends left; I couldn’t afford to alienate her. But it never once occurred to me to tell her I was scared. If she was annoyed with me now, imagine how disgusted she’d be to learn that her best friend was nothing more than the weaksouled slave of a Beast.
A few days later, my mother called me into her room, an event that happened infrequently enough that I felt a faint stirring of curiosity. She was getting ready to go out with my father and had laid out her long string of pearls on the bed.
“Here,” she said, handing them to me. “Untangle those while I put on my stockings.”
It was just like old times, and there was just enough little girl left in me to be thrilled by the touch of the milky-white pearls, so smooth and silky in my hands. I deftly picked through the knots, then held them out to my mother.
“You can put them on me,” she said, which surprised me because she’d never let me do that before. I’d tried to, often enough, but she never seemed to like me touching the nape of her neck. “You’re tickling me,” she’d always say, then take the clasp out of my fingers and fasten it hersel
f.
She sat down at her vanity and started brushing her hair. Although she was nearing fifty by then, her hair was blonde and lustrous. She’d kept her figure too, and for maybe the hundredth time or so, I marveled at how her full breasts tapered into such a tiny wasp waist. Although I’d turned eighteen a few months back, I was still just a slip of a girl compared to her, with no real curves to speak of. And pale—so pale next to her lightly bronzed skin and vibrant lips, which still, after all these years, bloomed cherry-blossom red. I turned away from the mirror.
“No, look at me,” she said. Our eyes met in the glass, and she spoke to my reflection.
“Rhonda called me yesterday,” she said. “She told me she was concerned about you. I know you’ve missed a lot of school, but she said that even when you’re there, it’s like you’re not really present. She said you’re like a ghost. And I know that all you do around here is mope and read all day. What’s going on?”
Few enough honest words had been exchanged between me and my mother that I remember these all too well. I dropped my eyes down to my shoes—a brand new pair of cork-heeled sandals, which I could never bear to wear again—and answered her as best I could.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s like I’m numb. I can’t feel anything except the bad stuff.”
“Look at me,” she said again. “I think you may need to see someone.”
“You mean, like a doctor? But I’m not sick.”
“Not that kind of doctor.” Now it was her turn to drop her eyes. The Black Beast, which had been laying dormant, suddenly snarled to life. An electric tingle shot through my body, as if I’d touched an open socket. My face flushed, and I could feel the blood rush through my veins. The sensations were extreme and unpleasant, yet even in the midst of them, I thought how absolutely wonderful to feel alive again.
“You mean a shrink? You think I’m crazy?”
Anger has never looked good on me. My skin gets red and blotchy, and my eyes narrow into slits. I hated seeing myself like that, but my mother had lifted her eyes to mine, and I was trapped inside the mirror.