“I guess that’s how you like it,” Carly concludes. “So you won’t care if I chop it up some more.” She shoves me down over the paper cutter. The side of my head slams against it so hard I hope my brain still works. “Let’s see.” Carly rips some pins out of my hair. “Which part is too long?”
“Stop it. Let me go.”
Carly has my arm pinned behind me. I can’t move. She pulls a section of my hair under the slicer. I hear the slicer being lifted and lowered, but not all the way. She lifts and lowers the slicer over and over.
The bell rings.
“Psych!” Carly yells. She lets go of me and heads for the door. In the doorway, she turns to me and says, “Thanks for playing, Rotten Egg. Let’s do it again sometime.”
Mother stopped doing my laundry in the winter of eighth grade. She never said she wasn’t going to do it anymore. She just stopped.
I didn’t realize this until one morning when I was getting ready for school. I’d thought mother was going to do laundry the night before. I was expecting to wake up and have clean clothes waiting.
But my dirty clothes were still in the hamper.
I panicked. I had nothing to wear. I only had a few long-sleeved shirts and it was really cold that morning. I often dealt with winter by wearing a tee under a cardigan while everyone else was all cozy in their cashmere sweaters. But I didn’t want to do that today. It was too cold. And I’d already worn my only decent sweater twice that week.
I lifted the lid off the hamper. Dirty-clothes smell wafted out. The arm of my turtleneck was wrapped around some pajama bottoms. I took out the turtleneck and sniffed it. It smelled like rotten eggs. There was a slight possibility that I could wash it in the sink, put it in the dryer until wearable, take the train to school, and still make it in time for second period. Only, I’d have to walk in the freezing wind all the way to the train station. And mother would be up by then. She’d yell at me for missing the bus.
I went to my closet to see if a new shirt had magically appeared.
It had not.
I returned to the bathroom and sniffed the turtleneck again. The rotten egg smell seemed to be dissipating. I waved it around a little. I sprayed some Sea Island Cotton body spray on it. If I didn’t get too close to anyone, maybe I could pull it off.
So I put the dirty turtleneck on.
Of course Carly came up to me when we got to school. She’d been taunting me at the bus stop. She wasn’t done.
I took my coat off and put it in my locker.
“You smell like rotten eggs,” Carly said.
“No, I don’t.”
“Did your nose stop working? Because you totally do.”
All I wanted to do was run out of there and take the train home and get in bed and hide under the covers for the rest of the day. But I didn’t. I went through the whole day smelling like rotten eggs.
When mother got home that night, I asked her when she was going to do laundry. She said that I was old enough to do my own laundry. She didn’t show me how to do it or anything. It was just another one of those things that I was expected to figure out on my own.
I read the directions on the box of Tide. They said to put the clothes in the washing machine, then put the detergent in, then start the wash. They didn’t say anything about separating colors from whites. They didn’t say anything about how if you use extra detergent because you want your clothes to be extra clean, the powder will streak all over your clothes and they’ll come out crusted with lumpy chunks of detergent all over them.
The next day, I went to school in jeans with detergent stains and a long-sleeved tee that used to be white but was now a dingy pinkish color. But at least I didn’t smell like rotten eggs. Since then, I’ve learned how to do laundry. I add detergent to the water before I put the clothes in. I separate the whites from the colors.
Another thing I’ve learned is that when one problem gets solved, another problem comes barging in right behind it, banging its big Problem Parade drum. Now I have clean clothes. But mother doesn’t let me take showers in the morning.
We have two bathrooms. You know your town is upscale when even the crappy apartments have two bathrooms. Mine only has a toilet (that likes to stop working at the worst times), a sink, and an ancient washer/dryer unit. The other bathroom is attached to mother’s room. Of course that’s the one with the shower. Mother’s argument is that when I take a shower while she’s sleeping, it wakes her up. Mother does not enjoy being woken up before 7:45. Which means I have to take showers at night.
I don’t want to take showers at night. I want to take showers before school like a normal person.
That time I smelled like rotten eggs was the end of smelling. I refuse to be dirty ever again. I’m obsessive about washing my sheets twice a week and doing laundry way before I run out of anything. And I have a new set of body sprays that Sherae gave me for my birthday, so I can go to school smelling like lavender or lily of the valley every day.
Some mornings I have a fleeting moment of courage. I’ll sneak into mother’s bathroom, start the shower, and get in real quick. She usually starts yelling at me to turn the water off. I’ll pretend I don’t hear her, scrubbing as quickly as I can. But most mornings, I grab a fresh washcloth and wash up at my sink.
There’s no way I’m going to gym after what Carly just did to me. I can’t stop shaking.
The tears come when I get to my locker. This time, I let them fall. I’m tired of holding everything in. What’s the difference? No one cares anyway. But then Sherae comes up to me. She doesn’t say anything. She just hugs me.
All it takes is that small gesture of caring to make me completely break down. I’m bawling like I’ll never be able to stop. Because I just realized something.
I didn’t run.
When I thought Audrey was going to shoot me with a real gun, I didn’t even try to save my life. I just stood there. The promise of relief that death would bring soothed me at that moment.
Something is wrong with me. Something is desperately wrong.
I pull away from Sherae, slamming back against my locker. I let myself sink down to the floor. I’m having one of those embarrassing crying fits where you’re clenched in the steel grip of a scary, convulsive attack. I can’t stop making these spastic hiccuping noises. I try taking shuddering breaths to slow down the crying, but it won’t stop.
People are staring. I don’t blame them. Anyone would stare at a crazy girl having a breakdown in the hall.
I hate that the crazy girl is me.
Who doesn’t run the other way when she thinks her life is being threatened? Who doesn’t fight to stay alive?
Every single day of my life is a fight. But yesterday, I gave up without even trying. I want to keep fighting. I really do. I’m just so tired of how nothing ever gets better.
When they have school shootings on shows or in movies, it’s always a boy with the gun.
What makes them think it could never be a girl?
I’m being kidnapped.
Well. Friendnapped is more accurate. After my breakdown, Sherae picked me up and swept me out of school.
“You should go back in,” I say. “You’re going to get in trouble.”
“Do I look like I care?” Sherae guides me out to the student parking lot through the side door. She puts me in her car. “Let’s go.”
“Seriously,” I tell her. “I’m fine. Don’t cut because of me.”
Sherae is not hearing that. She turns on her car.
“We’re going to my house,” she says. “Don’t bother trying to convince me otherwise.”
Mrs. Feldman is home when we get there. I look away so she can’t see my face.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“I’ll be right back,” Sherae tells her. She takes me to her room. She orders me to pick out pajamas. Then she goes to explain to her mom. I’m not sure what she’s saying. I swore her to secrecy. How could she possibly explain about Julian and Carly and Matt and Audrey and W
arner and mother and everything without specifics? Like, what, “We came home early because Noelle’s life sucks?”
All of the clothes in Sherae’s pajama drawer are soft and pretty. Yes, she has an entire pajama drawer. I have two pajama bottoms and some worn-out old tees. I select pale pink capris that are soft as butter and a thin white tank top. Then I get changed.
Sherae comes back to her room with provisions. She has an assortment of sweet and salty snacks.
“Here’s what we’re doing,” she says. “We’re going to pig out. We’re going to watch whatever you want. We are not going to waste our time talking about idiots who don’t deserve our attention. What is your viewing desire?”
I’ve seen every Freaks and Geeks ep a zillion times. Sherae lets me borrow her box set whenever I want. But that show always makes me feel better. So Sherae and I climb up on her massive bed and commence a Freaks and Geeks marathon.
I try not to think about Julian. I really do. But Daniel Desario reminds me of Matt and Nick Andopolis reminds me of Julian. Except Julian’s not a pothead like Nick is.
“Why did Matt pick Audrey?” I groan.
“Because he’s an idiot,” Sherae explains.
“But why didn’t he want me?”
“He did. He just didn’t want to choose.”
“I hate that I wasn’t enough for him.”
“I don’t. This just proves that Matt was totally wrong for you. The right guy would never make you feel this way.”
“Like I’ll ever meet anyone right for me.”
“Have you met Julian?”
“Julian thinks I’m a skank. Julian and the whole rest of the world.”
“No, he doesn’t. He wants to be with you. And he knows you want to be with him, even if you keep denying it.”
“You know it would never work out.”
“No, you think it would never work out. Julian obviously likes you. A lot. He’d understand.”
“He’d be grossed out.”
“Not if he wants to be with you. Which he does.”
I take another iced animal cookie from the bag.
“Why is it so hard to believe he actually likes you?” Sherae says. She grabs her hot-pink Uglydoll that resembles a possessed rabbit and smacks me with him. “Hello! He asked you out! Julian Porter wants to go out with you! How can you not see how major that is?”
I just shrug. Sherae would never understand.
We watch the scene where Nick sings for Lindsay. Life would be so much easier if fictional boys were real.
sixteen
friday, may 6
(30 days left)
Avoiding the cafeteria hasn’t only been necessary at lunch. I’ve been avoiding it before school, too. I do not want to be trapped in there the next time Julian comes in early. You’re not supposed to wait outside before school, but they don’t have the energy to herd us in this late in the year.
I sit against a tree and take my book out. I can never completely focus on reading at school. Or anything else, really. Part of me is watching out for Julian and Carly and Matt and Audrey and Sherae. Sherae’s coming in from the student parking lot. I wave her over.
“Thanks for yesterday,” I say. “I seriously needed that.”
“Anytime.”
“Are you sure your mom wasn’t mad?”
“No way! She loves having you over. Even in emergencies.”
The wind whips a chunk of my staircut out of its pin. I press my hair back and scrape the pin against my scalp, trying to smash my hair stair down.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“We have”—Sherae checks—“seven more minutes.”
“Let’s stay out here.”
Sherae sits down on the grass next to me and leans back against the tree. In between kids shouting and car doors slamming, I can hear tree leaves rustling. The warm wind feels good. I so don’t want to go in.
It’s almost time to go in when Hector comes over to us.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks Sherae.
“I don’t think so,” Sherae says.
“Just two seconds.”
Sherae gets up. “We have to go in,” she tells Hector. She looks down at me for help.
I get up. We start walking. Hector walks with us.
“Can you leave me alone?” Sherae says.
“Can you let me talk to you?”
We keep walking.
“Hey.” Hector grabs Sherae’s bag, jerking her to a stop. “Don’t be such a bitch. I just want to talk.”
“Come on, Noelle.” Sherae grabs my hand. We dash ahead.
When Sherae called me that night after Hector left her house, she was crying so hard. It was the first time I’d ever heard her unhinged like that. I’d always assumed Sherae had everything under control. Her life seemed so perfect. Until Hector took it too far. He didn’t listen when she told him to stop.
You can’t violate someone’s trust and expect there to be no consequences.
Fridays aren’t just regular Fridays in physics. They’re Fun Fizzycks Fridays (aka FFF, aka Fun Fridays). Every Fun Fizzycks Friday, Ms. Scofield has a dork-off against her own corniness. On this particular FFF, Ms. Scofield is attempting to set a new world’s record for Corniest Physics Teacher Ever.
“Did you know that Roy G. Biv was an actual dude?” Ms. Scofield inquires.
“I don’t think that’s right,” Jolene says. Her hair is so shiny I need sunglasses.
“An actual dude,” Ms. Scofield insists, “who had a cat.”
“What was the cat’s name?” Warner asks.
“CAT.”
“He named his cat Cat?”
“Of course.” Ms. Scofield writes CAT on the board. “Colors All There. Get it?”
We stare.
“Because Roy G. Biv represents all colors of the visible light spectrum.”
We groan.
“Not your best effort, miss,” Jolene remarks snottily.
“Oh, am I extra corny today? My bad. It must be all the excitement of Fun Fizzycks Friday.”
Warner snorts.
“Moving on!” Ms. Scofield says, unfazed. “What color is Ali’s shirt?”
We all look at Ali. Ali turns red.
Darby says “pink” at the same time Simon says “magenta.”
“I’d say it’s magenta, too,” Ms. Scofield agrees. “But the wild thing is? None of us is seeing the exact shade of color as everyone else. We’re all seeing that shade of magenta a little bit differently. Depending on where you’re sitting and the way light is reflecting off Ali’s shirt, every other color in the visible spectrum is being absorbed except for that one particular wavelength of light that is magenta. It’s just that we’re all perceiving magenta differently.”
That’s so weird. I always thought everyone was seeing the same colors. I mean, sometimes I think about how I’m seeing things differently from everyone else because I’m the only one looking at everything from my eyes. Every other person in this room is seeing a different configuration of the room. They’re seeing me in a way I can’t. The more you think about perception like that, the weirder it gets. But I was hoping we could all count on colors to be the same.
“Which means!” Ms. Scofield tings Lloyd. “That no two people can see the world in the same way. No matter what you’re looking at, no one is seeing it the same way you are. Fascinating!”
So it’s not just about differences in personality and character and beliefs. We all see the world differently on a physical level. Is it such a stretch to conclude that everyone will always have differences and, therefore, we’ll never all agree on any one thing?
We have to do an activity in pairs. Ali and I scootch our desks together.
“Aren’t you happy you wore that shirt today?” I ask her.
“Extremely. I probably turned as magenta as my shirt.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say. Even though she kind of did.
I go over to the materials bench to get what we need. The activity i
s on reflection and refraction. I fill a clear carrying container with lenses, prisms, blocks, diffraction gratings, and some of those sample color strips from the paint store. Then I take everything back to Ali.
Working with her shouldn’t feel awkward. We’re a pair in here by choice and we’ve done stuff outside of school before. But as she reads the procedure out loud and I set up the materials, I feel guilty. Ali has asked me over a few times this year. But I always tell her I can’t. Ali gets bullied way worse than I do. Carly and Warner and those guys would make my life even more of a living nightmare if Ali and I became better friends.
We’re finishing the activity when Ms. Scofield yells over everyone that we have five minutes left. As I put our materials back in the container, I’m hoping Ali won’t ask me to come over.
“Do you want to do something after school?” she asks.
“I can’t. I have plans with Sherae.”
“She’s awesome. It would be fun to hang out with her sometime.”
I know how desperate Ali is for a friend. I know how much it would mean to her. And still I can’t go down that road to even more torture.
I really, really hate myself sometimes.
I get nervous when Sherae comes over. I’m always worried that she’ll see something I don’t want her to. But this is an emergency.
Hector went up to Sherae again after school. She still wouldn’t talk to him. He was like, “You can talk to me here or you can talk to me at your house, because that’s where I’m going to wait for you.” So I said she could come over and hide out for as long as she wanted. We have at least two hours before mother gets home. Even if Sherae is still here by then, it should be okay. Mother usually puts on her Normal Mom Act in front of other people.
My room is Humiliation Central compared to Sherae’s. But it’s not like we can hang out anywhere else. The living room is grungy and there’s a stack of overdue notices from bill collectors on the table. Sherae never cares about my dingy room, though. She gets on my bed and props my pillows up against the wall. I’m relieved that I saved my old floor pillow from when I was little so I have somewhere to sit.
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