by Susan Oloier
“What are you talking about?” I woke her from her stupor.
“You know what I’m talking about. The abortion.”
“Yeah, but what do you know about it? How do you know what Becca went through?”
Aunt P grew nervous, a reaction I never saw surface in her before. She stuffed it down quickly. “Just make sure that boy uses a condom. God knows your mother won’t put you on the pill.”
I ignored her statement and moved on to another subject.
“Why don’t you and my mother get along?” I plunged more deeply into oceans I knew I might not be able to navigate.
“We don’t see eye to eye. We never have.”
“So you hate each other for having different opinions about the world?”
“What are you fishing for, Noelle?”
She’d stopped drinking her cappuccino long ago. Instead, she glanced at her watch, avoiding a discussion of anything real. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to school?”
“Not really.” My lunch hour had ended over a half an hour before she asked me about the time. Class was already in progress, and I was already considered truant. What was the harm in missing the rest?
“I’m not covering for you this time,” Aunt P threatened.
“Fine. I don’t need you to.”
She studied me like a Jackson Pollock, trying to see the person she once knew through the dribbles and splashes of color that masked me like a metaphor.
“Your mother hates everything about me. Everything I am and everything I’ve done clashes with what she holds dear. You want to know why we don’t get along? Ask your mother, the hypocrite.”
Aunt P stood up, abandoning her unfinished drink. She stormed toward the parking lot, leaving me alone with the chain-smoking man.
Every time I thought about confronting my mother, I dismissed the idea. She was unreceptive to questions about her personal life. I had to give Aunt P credit; she found a perfect method of avoidance. She knew I’d never broach the subject with my mother. However, I really wanted to know why Aunt P was ostracized, condemned by the family. I especially had a pounding interest in why she considered my mother a hypocrite. But I wasn’t curious enough to talk to my mother about it. So I let it go.
Saint Sebastian’s held a pep rally in the gym to bolster school spirit and to champion the baseball team during its season. Cassie and I gravitated toward the back of the bleachers to avoid being in the midst of the hoopla. Chad, a team member, paraded around the gym with his teammates. I noticed him searching the stands. But in a sea of people, I doubted he’d find me.
Grace sat with Trina & Company in the second-row bleachers. She was only part of their group by appearance. Liana, Jamie, and Trina barely spoke to her. Margaret was the only one to include her in any conversation. I felt a tinge of jealousy while I watched them together. Both of them were supposed to be my friends. Now they were teaming up against me. My rage welled.
“I want to get that bitch.”
Cassie followed my line of sight to where Trina sat, giggling with her associates.
“Ruining her party wasn’t enough?”
“No.” We both watched her. “I mean look at her.”
No matter what I did to get back at her, she came through shining more brilliantly than ever. She didn’t even allow the cancellation of her party or the absence from the play to affect her. On the other hand, every hurtful thing she did branded me in some way. She toilet-papered my house, and I was stuck with a limp for weeks; she spray painted my locker and the loser trademark was still visible. Now she was stealing Grace from me. I wondered what scars that would leave. Everything she did to me had negative repercussions. The things I did to her always worked in her favor. I wanted to create some scars of my own. She needed a good dose of humiliation.
“You have gym class with her, right?” Cassie asked. Clearly, she was hatching a new plan.
The air outside the PE locker room was humid with tepid pool water and laced heavily with chlorine. It was there that I decided to use my drama techniques and years of experience at feigning illness to my advantage. I waited until everyone was suited up for swimming and situated at the pool before I told Coach Childers I didn’t feel well. I asked her if I could run to the locker room. Thinking I was going to vomit in the pool, she easily dismissed me.
Cassie waited for me inside. She came equipped with a bolt cutter, conveniently stuffed into her backpack. She managed to negotiate the hallways with a stolen pass—one of many she had lifted from her geometry teacher.
I met her at Trina’s locker, keeping watch while she cut the combination lock. My hands sweated and my stomach knotted. Cassie broke the metal and rapidly removed all the clothing inside. She took everything, including Trina’s underwear. She wrapped them in a trash bag, stuffed them into her pack, and closed the locker door.
“You’re up.” She nodded, then took off.
I returned to the pool and sat out, feeling my stomach twist.
When swimming ended, most of the girls headed for the showers. Trina was one of them. I could count on her to wash and primp before going to English—an absolute given.
I didn’t know if I could handle my part of the task. My job was to steal Trina’s bathing suit when she showered, leaving her with nothing to wear. I waited until everyone was busy washing and shampooing before walking through the communal showers. I needed to make sure they were adequately distracted.
Too modest and embarrassed to shower after class, I merely noted where Trina placed her bathing suit. It was always on the bench behind her. It was the only purple one-piece suit in the class. Flashy. Not hard to miss.
As I made my ritualistic journey to my locker, I dropped a trial sized bottle of Suave. As I fumbled to pick it up, I grabbed the bathing suit, tucked it under my towel, and darted for the locker room.
I buried Trina’s swimming suit in a garbage bag at the back of my locker. After dressing, I waited for the bell to ring and Trina’s happiness to unravel.
I saw her emerge with a towel wrapped around her. She muttered something about her missing bathing suit. Her locker was around the corner from mine. I overheard her ranting when she discovered someone had broken into it.
“What the hell! My clothes are gone.”
I stifled my laugh, reaping enormous satisfaction from her dilemma.
“I bet the loser did it,” I heard a voice on the other side declare.
Trina marched over with a yellowed, class-issued towel wrapped around her. “Where are my clothes?”
“What are you talking about?” I played the innocent, infusing my speech with a soured sweetness.
Trina tried to interrogate me, but I refused to allow her to brow beat me into submission.
“You’re not getting away with this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
She stared at me coldly. So did Liana. They then stormed off to the one person who could help, the one whom they recently made fun of and called a dyke: Coach Childers.
By the time the bell rang and I ventured to eighth period English, I left Trina half-dressed in the locker room, telling her troubles to the coach through a waterfall of crocodile tears.
While Ms. Walker explored the literary devices evident in Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms, I anxiously anticipated Trina’s arrival. I wondered if she’d even show up to class at all. With my ill fortune, she’d be allowed to go home early with an excused absence.
I was behind in the novel. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even started it. So I didn’t understand anything. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I devoted my life up to that moment to the study of Hemmingway, my thoughts were completely ensnared by the net Cassie and I had set afloat.
I heard the door open, and I turned in the hope of seeing Trina. I envisioned her in a hideous getup, wearing a used, plastic bag from the cafeteria, holes punched in it for the head and arms. Or drowning in boys’ khaki pants fastened by a mismatched brown belt, bl
ack shoes flopping on her feet, the remnants of a circus clown’s wardrobe. Underneath, a mortifying pair of boys’ Fruit of the Looms with skid marks.
But Trina didn’t enter the room. Mr. Pace did. The collective classroom stared at him. He marched to the head of the class with a slip of paper in hand.
“Noelle, collect your things.”
Mr. Pace loitered at the door. With an impatient fingertip, he guided his glasses along the bridge of his nose. All eyes fastened to me like ticks on bare skin. Students whispered and mumbled while some snickered. Retaliation came with a price.
Our plan backfired. Trina pointed the finger at me. They searched my locker and found the incriminating evidence: Trina’s bathing suit. I had forgotten to get rid of it.
As I slumped in the chair inside Mr. Pace’s office, I watched Trina through the glass door. She was draped in a new set of designer clothes. Where did she get them? I wondered. In hindsight, I should have put the bathing suit in the trash. But it was too late to second-guess myself.
“This is very serious. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”
The broken lock was displayed on his desk. It may as well have been in an evidence bag labeled exhibit 1.
“You don’t understand.” I attempted to defend myself. “She’s the one who wrote loser on my locker.”
Mr. Pace simply glared at me.
“This is so unfair,” I protested.
“Unfair?” Pace actually snickered. “You’ve been placed on academic probation. Lucky for you, your counselor, Ms. Sherwood, rallied on your behalf. You have her to thank for not receiving a far more serious punishment.”
“Academic probation?”
I watched as he rooted through his head for an adequate response. “Keep your nose clean.”
Ash Wednesday. A season of renewal and rebirth. The desert remained dry, thirsty from the absence of rain. I hadn’t seen Becca since she left the house on my birthday. It had been nearly three months. I had no idea where she was. Out of sheer stubbornness, my mother refused to mention her name. But I knew Becca was all she thought about.
Like every year before it and every year to come, we all went to church during school. Each one us was anointed with tar-colored ashes. After listening to a homily about our Lenten commitments, taking communion, and offering good will to our neighbors, mass was finally over.
Before Cassie and I took off for lunch, we headed to the girls’ bathroom to wash off the ashes. We didn’t want to be ostracized at the local Taco Bell. As soon as we stepped out the door, we sparked our cigarettes.
I finally owned my own lighter and purchased cigarettes from Cassie. She paid the landscapers to buy them for her. Underpaid, they were more than happy to accommodate. The habit was more expensive than I realized, but Cassie usually let my delinquent payments slide. I think she was simply grateful to finally have a smoking buddy. Soon, I started smoking around Chad.
“It’s like kissing an ashtray.”
“Please!” I protested while nursing a Camel.
“I’m serious. It’s absolutely disgusting. When did you start smoking anyway?”
I shrugged.
“It’s because of Cassie, isn’t it?” There was an edge of impatience to his voice that I hadn’t heard before.
“No,” I said. But my defense sounded weak.
“She’s…” Chad tried to find the right words.
“What?” I snarled. “She’s what?”
“I don’t like her, that’s all.”
“You think she’s a bad influence?” I asked without expecting an answer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Dad.”
Chad merely glared at me. I didn’t care. Who was he to talk? He was the one who was trying to get me to have sex. Compared to that, smoking was nothing.
“Can you try to stop?” he asked.
I think I rolled my eyes.
“If not for you, then for me?”
“God, Chad. It’s not like we always get what we want,” I snapped.
He appeared stunned by my reaction to his concern. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I only wanted him to stop pressing me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said, reaching out to him. But he backed away, offended by the smell of the smoke.
The school year drew to a close. My grades dropped. I was taken off the Dean’s list and was no longer a member of the honors program. I didn’t know where I went wrong. Many students maintained excellent grades while participating in extracurricular activities. I considered my campaign against Trina a hobby like soccer or photography. There was no reason why my grades should have fallen so dramatically. The important thing was that I managed to pass all of my classes, including Driver’s Education. Summer brought with it two momentous occasions: the end of my junior year and the end of the driving simulator. It was the real thing now. By the close of summer and the start of my senior year, I’d be the proud owner of my very own driver’s license.
My mother was furious after viewing my midterm report card. She grounded me, but retracted it when she realized she wasn’t getting the results she had anticipated. Her passiveness in regard to my punishment was a direct reflection of her concern for Becca. She was consumed by it, she just never let my father or me know it. I hoped she’d remain equally passive when my final report card arrived in the mail sometime over the summer.
Trina seemed to back off after the incident in the locker room. Maybe it was a facade. I was sure she was concocting a plan. It bothered me that Trina still spent time with Grace. But she couldn’t keep up the charade for long. At some point, Trina’s puke green color would show through her translucent exterior and she would treat Grace the way she always did—with complete loathing. At that time, Grace would run back to me to recover our friendship.
With Jake it was different. It crossed my mind that he might flirt with Trina the way he did with me. He might conceivably invite her to Mill Avenue, stand alone with her against the edge of a building, and lean in closely to her. But with Trina it wouldn’t end there. In my mind, she had a reputation. She’d exploit the situation and take it as far as it could go.
I refused to torment myself any longer with the visions of the two of them engaged in romantic scenarios, which I previously pictured for myself. I thrust the thoughts from my mind. I was simply grateful that the semester ended and summer vacation began.
Fourteen
Summer was a time to earn money for a car—or at least a down payment for one. I applied to Macy’s and Old Navy, Red Lobster and T.G.I. Fridays. I even tried Target and Wal-Mart, but I waited too long—all the jobs were taken. I was the lucky recipient of a prestigious position at Mean Jean’s Wieners, center stage in the mall. I never thought I’d have to resort to a job at a fast food place. I was wrong.
I was less than thrilled to wear the standard uniform: a red polo shirt with a tall, hotdog-shaped hat. I immediately learned how to properly cook a Mean Jean wiener, received a crash course in operating the cash register, and was forced to memorize the Mean Jean greeting: Welcome to Mean Jean’s Wieners! Would you like to try our famous chili dog? I tried their dogs. Infamous was more like it.
Employment there was a completely humbling experience and did nothing to eliminate my loser status.
Stan, the second assistant manager, was cool. He wasn’t like a manager at all. Twenty-one, he attended film school at Scottsdale Community College and didn’t boss us like Lois, the assistant manager, and Carey, the manager, did. Lois and Carey yelled at peons like me when we were generous with the condiments or if we gave customers more soft drink than ice.
Even at sixteen, I wasn’t allowed to wear much makeup. So before each shift at the mall, I slid into the women’s restroom and rubbed on dark eyeliner and eye shadow. It made me look older and more appealing. Except for the hotdog hat, of course.
I was always on the front lines. While the tenured employees had the fortune of taking inventory in the back room—we called it the cl
oset—I stood out in front in my cardinal red outfit, drawing customers like hummingbirds. I was always afraid of seeing Trina & Company with their new mascot, Grace, traipsing through the mall. I didn’t want them to know I worked at the hotdog place. Grace and I hadn’t spoken since the last day of school, so there was no way they’d find out from her. But Mean Jean’s was located close to the Harkins Theater. Moviegoers had to pass through the food court to get there. If Trina and her friends decided to catch a show, there was a good chance they’d spot me, so I was always on guard. I was three weeks into the job before my anxiety started to wane.
Come to find out, my peace of mind was premature. I happened to glance up while making a chili cheese dog for a customer. That’s when I saw her thundering toward me from across the food court. She pushed her way through the crowds and forged a position at the start of the line.
“What the hell are you doing here?” It was Aunt P. She looked out of place at Mean Jean’s Wieners in her Donna Karan suit and Fendi handbag.
“I’m working.”
The customers scowled at her, mumbling foul words and obscenities. She didn’t care.
“I see that. But why are you here?” She made a broad sweep of the establishment with her silken arm and perfectly manicured nails. “This place is a dump.”
Lois, the manager on staff that day, looked like a walking stick as she stalked to the scene. She wiggled her bony finger at me, assuming I was the troublemaker in the scenario.
“Joelle,” she called. “What seems to be the problem here?” Her tone was accusatory.
“Listen, Swizzle Stick,” my Aunt P overpowered her. “I’m having a conversation with my niece. So bug off.”
Lois’s emaciated jaw fell open. She was the boss of teenagers and not accustomed to being spoken to in that manner.
“Take that hat off. You’re coming with me.” Aunt P showed no concern over causing a scene in the middle of the food court. I could almost see the customer willing me to finish her hotdog so she could move out of the war zone.