Let someone else take over for a while.
Here we go.
XV
Tonight I am many people. You would be surprised.
Tonight I am Kali, Goddess of Destruction.
Who dares to stand before me? Who dares to feast upon my great and terrible beauty? Insolent dung beetle! Stinking canker! I am carnage made flesh! The very manifestation of rage! I am unending annihilation! Your ignorance of my catastrophic power angers me. You are nothing but pus and spew, rot and spoil! I am indestructible and infinite, ceaseless and measureless. I will vivisect you! I will lay you open, slice you into quarters, then feed your moldering carrion to the pigeons in the McDonald’s parking lot!
But first, can I tell you what I’m wearing?
I look really hot. My face is a molten shade of vermilion, buffed to a high gloss. My eyes are golden, and so are my lips. I have five pairs of number 201 eyelashes on each eye. I’m wearing a lovely set of horns, all curly and ramlike. I just had them glittered gold recently, and I think they look rather stunning. Especially jutting out from a waist-length black wig. Oh, and I’m wearing a stretchy gold cat suit from, I’m guessing, the seventies.
Anyway, where were we?
Oh, yeah. You clot! You blot! You less than senseless thing! What are you looking at? You are a worthless, foaming curd and a polluted tumor! I am numinous and all encompassing! Glory to Shiva!
Yes, yes, tonight I am many people.
Tonight I am also a Vengeance Demon called to this dimension for the simple reason that if people won’t punish THEMSELVES for their trespasses, then SOMEONE needs to do it for them. Otherwise the balance of the universe is thrown off-kilter, and eventually it will wobble off its axis. Last time that happened, Tony Danza got a talk show, Paris Hilton became a star, and Philip left Days of Our Lives. Those were three signs of the coming Apocalypse IN ONE WEEK. So we don’t want THAT to happen again.
Just so you know, Vengeance Demons and Destruction Gods look a lot alike. But the vengeance demon opts for a skullcap of silver scales instead of the wig and horns, and he sports a silver cape to facilitate balance during interdimensional flights.
Anyway. Hm. Hm. (Clears throat.)
Obviously, we have a situation on our hands. That’s why I was brought here. Regarding . . . (Shuffles through notes.) Yes, yes. Bernie Balch.
As a vengeance demon, my advice is to cover him with hundreds of blisters—painful, oozing, abscessed blisters—then roll him, naked, down a gravel road for a couple hundred years.
That’s Option A.
Option B is a little harsher. Okay—first you give him a TOTALLY FLAT FACE. Like a pounded veal cutlet. I mean FLAT. So his head is like a meat-loaf pan. Then. . . .
Hmmm?
Oh.
Huh?
I’ll be damned.
That’s the first time THAT’S ever happened.
Then, at the risk of sounding like a bleeding-heart demon, this boy is clearly suffering already. I’m not sure I can do much more.
With that, I was gone.
ALSO HERE TONIGHT:
Who’s this?
Look at me. Gaze upon my face. Do you not recognize me? I am Eve. I am the Fall of Man. (Not the UPN star.) Take. Eat. I bring you your downfall now in delicious turnover form.
Look at me now: I am Mary Magdalene, the only hooker in heaven. It pays to be connected.
I am Lilith; I am Delilah; I am Bathsheba; I am Salome dancing the dance of the seven veils. I am wicked and wanton, and I make my own destiny.
Who else might I be? I am every woman who has been picked on, beaten, or betrayed, who then rose up to smite her oppressor. I am Aileen Wuornos, but a prettier version, one that looks more like Charlize Theron, and who likes men, and wears nicer clothes.
I am every woman of power. I am Cleopatra, who totally ruled a third of the world in slutty, kohl-rimmed eyes, and drank pearls dissolved in wine for my complexion.
I am Lindsay Wagner, TV’s Bionic Woman, and I can hear you, bitch. I will crush you in slow-motion.
I am all the women whose wicked glamour is both terrifying and inspiring, whose rotting souls and taste for evil only make them MORE glamorous, MORE bewitching, and MORE compelling.
I am the White Witch from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe .
I am Cruella de Ville.
I am the Wicked Stepmother in Snow White.
I am Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Colby Dexter Rowan.
I am Nicole Richie.
And . . . um . . . that’s it. I’m really tired.
XVI
OH! OH! I FORGOT! ONE LAST NOTE ABOUT THE HOUSE! VERY IMPORTANT! CRUCIAL TO THE PLOT! Strangely enough, as sprawling as the house is, every single room manages to overlook the river—an enviable thing, of course. Except when it isn’t.
The problem? You are always being watched, see. It’s life in a fishbowl.
And the worst offender? The bane of my existence? My arch nemesis? THE BLOODY JUNGLE QUEEN! GRRRRRRRRR!
The Jungle Queen, of course, is an old-fashioned, Mississippi-style paddleboat that tours the intercoastal rivers filled with approximately two hundred sunburned Yankee tourists.
Back and forth it goes. Back and forth. Six times a day. Each and every day. Rain or shine. Hell or high water.
And the captain always announces us, always blows the horn, and the passengers are always relentless in their enthusiasm. “On your left is the historic home of the Bloom family, one of the city’s founding families, who made their fortune in BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .” And then like clockwork, two hundred tourists in flamingo sunglasses and flip-flops begin snap-snap-snapping pictures of me picking my nose in my underwear. It never fails.
BLOOM FAMILY LAW: When that happens, when you have been spotted, whatever you are doing, you must stop and acknowledge the passing guests. Sit up, smile, and wave as if it were the most thrilling part of your day. NO MATTER WHAT. Smile and wave, smile and wave, SMILE and WAVE and stand still while two hundred people take your picture without fail. They are guests in our home, after all. It’s only polite.
This can lead to some awkward moments and racy photos, as you might well imagine.
Especially at night when I’m . . . oh, say . . . A NAKED GODDESS OF DESTRUCTION who is perhaps in the process of TAPING DOWN MY NETHER REGION! . . . Or taking the chicken cutlet from my bra! . . . or shaking my naked red booty to Hilary Duff!
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
People in glass houses, huh?
XVII
MORNING, SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL
I am lying under the bed and praying for a terrorist attack on the Everglades, please. Or maybe a natural disaster—any kind—earthquake, tidal wave. Either. Both. Just make it quick. Before nine A.M.
You don’t understand: I can’t go back there. I won’t. I’ll hide under here all year if I have to. I’ll grow old under this bed. I am NOT coming out.
“Billy!” Flossie yelled up. “Get out from under the bed now, and come down to breakfast!” Then in a rare moment of compassion, she added, “Who knows? Maybe today will be different.”
And, WHOA.
You don’t know.
From Flossie that’s ENORMOUS. She’s usually rather stingy in the support department. So if SHE has faith . . .
Then maybe there IS hope, after all!
Maybe today WILL be different!
Maybe it was just the outfit!
Sure! Maybe Vivienne Westwood just doesn’t play well in the South. Maybe if I was a bit more “region-appropriate.”
Of course!
Something less ironic. Less swashbuckling. With color! Yes! They seem to like color here.
I can do this!
I crawled out from under and threw open my closet doors.
Okay! Yes, yes! Here we go!
SO THE WATCHWORDS FOR TODAY ARE PREPPY AND CONSERVATIVE .
And the objective? To blend in. Yes. Blend! Blend, bitch, like you’ve never blended before. Blend like a daiquiri, like powder and base
combined, blend like honey-mustard, or “greige.” Blend it like Bleckham, baby!
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. YES!
Become your enemy!
Ask yourself: “What would Thurston Howell wear?”
I want the look to say: “I am one of you.” And: “Yesterday was just a misunderstanding. I don’t even LIKE pirates. I’m really ALL ABOUT fifties country-club culture. It’s true!”
So I’m thinking: give ’em the old Nantucket Fuckit! YES!
PREPPY 3000—NOW IRONY FREE!
Hair: side-parted, like so . . . feathered in a WHOOOSH . . . sprayed stiff, like Biff. . . .
And to wear: pink-and-green clamdiggers in a cabbage-rose chintz by Lilly Pulitzer (doesn’t get more country club than that!); pink espadrilles; two polo shirts, one a flamingo pink, the other a lizard green—collars UP; a belt with little pink whales on it; a daffodil-colored cardigan draped over my shoulders, like so! And a tennis racket for effect.
(I tell you, this closet is magical.)
I glimpsed into the mirror and MY GOD! I was one of them! It was TOO PERFECT! Why, I could just fag bash myself!
So, yes.
Today I will be part of the parade, not part of the pavement.
Why, they’ll probably apologize for their mistake and ask me to join them for lunch.
AND BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL, I WILL BE ACCEPTED!
Flossie just shook her head when she saw it, and asked if I was absolutely sure. (Flossie giveth, and Flossie taketh away.)
“Oh yes, I know what I’m doing.”
And we left for school.
Needless to say, there were no apologies, no luncheon invitations, and I was part of the pavement, not part of the parade. Apparently, my pink and green was the wrong pink and green. I don’t get it, either. When I walked through the door, cocky as can be, they hooted and stomped like I was in full Bree Van De Kamp drag.
And I was so sure of myself!
I JUST DON’T GET IT!
These howling hayseeds! These stinking savages! Who the hell are THEY to single ME out? Do they have fish chum for brains? Look around! There are others who should be singled out before me. Look at Bernie!
How does he fit in? How is it that this BULLDOG of a boy who looks as if he ran face-first into a Mack truck—how is HE rude to ME? How dare that creepy Clampett turn on me! I was nice to him! I offered him friendship! Told him his shirt was nice! And . . . um . . . it WASN’T!
Isn’t there a Department of Arbitrary Social Hierarchy I can appeal to?
And anyway, isn’t there someone else here MORE WORTHY of your homo-hysteria? YES! Look around! I’m talking about Mr. Reamer! HELLO! His name is REAMER, for God’s sake! You don’t see anything funny in THAT? Or haven’t you noticed? And then there’s that lisp! A lisping reamer! Do I have to draw you a map, people? And if that isn’t enough, I figured out what was odd about his hair. It’s a perm! He perms his goddamn hair! Oh! Oh! Grow up! Of course he does! He looks like Richard freaking Simmons!
And I’m the one you have a problem with?
TRUE CONFESSION: What troubles me the most about the Backseat Boys—well, besides the fact that they’re all raging, psychotic thugs—is that they ARE ALL SO BEAUTIFUL.
Yes!
God help me!
Each and every one of the boys in back is a total humpmuffin. Well, except for Flatsy McFlatface, of course. But the others! . . . My God! Why is evil always so damn sexy?
And while they are all slobber-worthy, there is one boy who’s in another league altogether. A boy whose wild, supernatural beauty is for the ages. That one, there, quick, with the white blond hair, and the flushed red cheeks, and the petal white skin—well, he’s just TOO BEAUTIFUL! Like Malibu Ken brought to life, but BETTER! He makes all the other beautiful boys look like Tom Arnold.
Seriously, it HURTS to look at him. It actually hurts HERE (Thump!) to look at him. I just want to chew on his lips. And lick him a little bit.
Oh, I’m such a masochist!
I think that’s the one they call Flip Kelly. The one that everyone acts all ga-ga around.
XVIII
RECAP
I just can’t do it. I can’t go on recounting every incident of abuse, every day. It’s too painful. Too emotionally scarring. So here, instead, is just a quick overview to keep you updated.
FIRST WEEK’S TALLY OF BALLISTIC WEAPONRY:
Rubber bands, erasers, paper clips, pennies, pencils, pens, Gummi bears, M&M’s, Tic Tacs, Yu-Gi-Oh pogs, maxi pads, mini pads, scrunchies, ketchup in a condom, cough drops, thumbtacks, a dead frog, birdseed pellets, food pellets, dirt clods, large and small rocks, swamp berries, golf balls, tennis balls, chewing tobacco, dog shit, bird shit, hamster shit, fish tank algae, and more booger balls than I care to count.
FOOD ITEMS FOUND IN HAIR AND, OCCASIONALLY, MY UNDERPANTS:
Tater Tots, peas, banana-fish-stick mash, peanut-butter-covered tofu balls, milk-meat-loaf-lima-bean paste.
(This is not counting the gym socks in my mouth or the dead lizard up my nose.)
INJURIES SUSTAINED:
23 punches to the upper arm in EXACTLY the same place
6 donkey punches to the stomach
1 old-fashioned foot stomping
1 protractor stabbing, right calf
1 purple grid pattern on my right temple—the result of cleated golf shoes.
1 palm-frond whipping
MOST HUMILIATING INCIDENT:
Well, there was a chair leg that almost took my virginity, courtesy of the Takaberry twins . . . any number of wedgies, including the one that actually ripped the Underoos OFF MY BODY. . . . But the most humiliating was being forced by Bib Oberman to say “I’m a thilly faggot who loves it when you hit me” twenty times in front of the cheerleaders. As Bib hit me, of course. Twenty times. I just hate him so much. But he’s really hot, though. Have I mentioned that? I hate him, but he’s hot. It’s SO CONFUSING.
MEANEST GUY:
Bernie Balch has only a slight lead over Bib Oberman. But that’s sort of like saying Darth Vader is slightly meaner than Ming the Merciless. Or a great white shark is just slightly nastier than a polar bear. Why quibble when you’re the one being eaten alive?
MEANEST GIRL:
Hands down, Tiff Tarbell—her sunny good looks and coal black heart make her the Klaus Barbie doll of my darkest dreams. Why, when she smiles and goes in for the kill, it’s like being disemboweled by Jessica Simpson! YOU JUST NEVER EXPECT IT. Of course, that Lynnette Franz is a real piece of work, too. But she has that sharp and snarly look about her, anyway, so that you expect her to be a bit nastier.
XIX
POOR ME
I take the bus now.
Trusty number 12—The Eisenhower Express.
Flossie put down her foot—KER-CLOMP!—and told my dad: “Never again!” She said that driving me forty-five minutes there and back, every damn day, was just too much. By the time she got back to the house, there wasn’t time to lick the butter off a knife before she had to turn around and drive back to get me. Gave her a headache, she said. KER-CLOMP!
So now I’m a bus monkey. Yep. Ridin’ the big banana. Old Yeller.
Four sad-sack losers and me, and that’s it. We are the only five kids IN SCHOOL who do not have cars of our own.
Pretty pathetic, huh?
You’d think that would be a common bond that might bring us together. That we might even start our own little “Breakfast Club.” But, oh no. There is nothing even remotely fun about this ride. And why is that? Because even THESE geeks won’t have anything to do with me. Yes, I am rejected by the school rejects. Even among the friendless, I am friendless.
So every day I sit and stare out the window at the passing landscape. It’s not much to look at. Nothing but palm trees, meth labs, monster trucks, and boiled-peanut stands . . . then, IHOP after IHOP after IHOP. . . .
Terror mounts with each passing mile. What fresh hell awaits me today? A scream begins to build in my throat a
round the Bobblewood exit. Then when we pass Ezaline’s Laundry and Tacos, I quickly try and think happy thoughts: birthdays, rainbows, bunny rabbits, Super Hold Aqua Net, tap-dancing grannies, Cinnamon Pop-Tarts, warm summer breezes, meteor rocks falling on the back row of biology, obliterating everyone but Flip Kelly . . .
The bus stops. I exit. I walk the 148 steps it takes to get to biology class. The first spit wad hits my neck before I even sit down. It slides down my shirt and remains a wet, cold presence for the rest of the class.
AND THE BEAT GOES ON.
XX
NEWS FLASH!
I made a friend!
I know! Me!
A girl. Her name is Blah Blah Blah.
That’s what it sounded like, anyway. “My name is Blah Blah Blah,” she whispered to me in the hall, and motioned for me to follow her behind the lockers. “Quickly! Quickly!” she hissed. A friend maybe, but not one who would risk being seen with me, yet.
“It’s just TERRIBLE how they treat you,” she said. “I’m so AWFULLY sorry. It just makes me sick. What HORRIBLE beasts they are.” She was in a terrible rush, but we could meet in the library over lunch, where we could talk some more. “Not EVERYONE here is a jerk.”
Freak Show Page 5