Lessons I Never Learned at Meadowbrook Academy

by Liz Maccie

  A very pale, thin boy with jet-black hair and terrible acne scurried past us.

  Annie gasped and leaned in toward Mervin. “Oh my God, there’s Aaron Schrimmer. I cannot believe he’s here. That’s just so creepy…”

  Mervin pushed his glasses up. “When I didn’t see him this morning, I just thought he decided to go to a different school. Why would he come here after what happened?”

  Annie shrugged. “Creepy-deepy.”

  “What happened?” I asked, totally curious.

  “You don’t know?” Annie seemed shocked.

  “No,” I said sheepishly, like I should know.

  “You don’t know about Warren Schrimmer?” Annie’s voice got quiet. “It was all over the papers and the internet, it was even on the news—”

  “Yeah,” Mervin said, nodding.

  I looked at them, still completely oblivious.

  Annie stopped walking and pushed herself up onto a window ledge. She looked around to make sure nobody else could hear and motioned for us to come in close. “Well, the Schrimmers live only a few blocks away from me and Mervin, and Aaron’s older brother, Warren, used to go to school here. He was a senior last year and was only a week away from graduating—”

  “No, it was actually the next day; he was graduating the next day, but go ahead,” Mervin said.

  Annie rapidly blinked. “Fine, Mervin, it was the next day…anyway, Warren was valedictorian and an all-state soccer player and, like, a prodigy on classical guitar. He was just this brilliant kid. And he was way hot, didn’t look anything like Aaron.”

  “And super nice,” Mervin added. “He always said hi to me when I rode my bike down his street.”

  “He even had some kind of full-ride academic scholarship to Harvard. Pre-med or something. His family’s loaded, so it’s not like they needed the money, but that’s how bad Harvard wanted him as a student,” Annie said as she crossed her arms.

  A short, fat, bald teacher with small eyeglasses waddled toward us. “Get off that ledge, Miss. We’re not animals, hanging out, grazing on a field.”

  Annie obediently slid off the ledge as Mervin and I backed up.

  “All of you, get to your next class; the halls aren’t for lounging.”

  He waddled away, scratching his shiny head. The minute he turned the corner, Annie hopped back up on the ledge.

  “Warren was at a party with some friends, and he told them he had to go because there was something he needed to do before graduation.”

  Mervin nodded again in agreement. “He drove back over here to Meadowbrook, parked his car in the faculty lot, and broke into the reservoir behind the school. Then he got totally naked and went swimming.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. “That’s weird and all, but why would that make the papers and the news?”

  “He drowned,” Annie said. “Suicide.”

  I looked from Annie to Mervin and back to Annie. “Really?”

  Mervin leaned with his backpack up against the wall. “Yeah, it’s true. They found a note in his jeans pocket, and his mom actually had it printed up in the paper because she thought maybe it could help another kid. God, I totally remember what it said—”

  “Me too.” Annie kicked the wall a few times with her dangling feet.

  The bell ending first period rang, and kids started flooding out of their classrooms. Immediate chatter filled the hallway, and two girls’ piercing laughter echoed down the corridor.

  The drab, pale, lifeless woman from earlier, Twiggy Finger, suddenly appeared from behind a gaggle of kids. She gestured toward Annie up on the ledge. “Inappropriate.”

  Annie immediately slid off and Twiggy walked away.

  “Stay clear of her,” Annie said, gesturing toward Twiggy. “Absolute nightmare. She gave me a week of detentions last year because I didn’t throw my Diet Coke can in the recycler.”

  The three of us meandered down the hall.

  To be honest, I was lost in my own thoughts about someone dying so young. Two years ago, my favorite cousin on my mom’s side, John, had passed away. I loved John because he would always save me the grape-flavored popsicle when our families would go down to the Jersey shore together. That’s just the kind of guy he was. He made me laugh, and he never made fun of my weight. Not ever.

  John was only seventeen when he died. I remember his dad had just given him a brand-new car for his birthday, which was in January. It was a red Ford Mustang. Convertible, I remember that too. John’s mom had died when he was just a little boy, and ever since then, he and his dad were inseparable.

  One morning, my uncle came out to let their cat inside. It had been snowing all night, and he was afraid the cat might freeze to death. But when he called for the cat, it didn’t come. My uncle heard the sound of the car from inside their garage. So he followed the sound. And found John dead inside his brand-new red Ford Mustang.

  That’s all I really know about that story, and I was lucky enough to piece that much together by eavesdropping on my parents. They didn’t want to upset me or my brother by telling us the “full truth.” God, I hate it when adults do that. Do they honestly think it makes it better for us? To be lied to? It just makes everything worse.

  I never actually found out whether or not my cousin had killed himself. He never left a note or anything. I wished he had. I really do. Reportedly he had died of asphyxiation. People said it was an accident. That he was just warming up the car to beat the cold and that something faulty happened with the engine. But it was a brand-new car. And it was five in the morning.

  Sometimes secrets can be hidden in families so deep that the lie can literally become the truth.

  But in my heart, I feel I do know the real truth. I know it was suicide because on the day of John’s wake, his casket was closed. And to me, there was something so shameful and secretive about that, which admitted more than words ever could.

  Sometimes I have this reoccurring dream where I am at the beach and it is very crowded. There are kids making sand castles and people swimming in the ocean. I feel warm and then, out of nowhere, it gets very cold. I look up and see John sitting completely alone under the boardwalk. He is always covered with a towel. I run over to him and ask the same question each time.

  “Why?”

  And he never answers. He just holds on to his towel and never answers. It is then when I usually wake up. And I’m always left empty with this one grave concern: that wherever John is, I only hope he isn’t alone.

  A chill ran through me and I looked over at Mervin. “You said Warren left a note?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did it say?”

  Mervin fiddled with his book bag straps. “It was really weird because he addressed it to himself. It said, ‘Dear Warren, I’m sorry I never knew who you were because I was trying so hard to be who I’m not. Love Always, Warren.’”

  The three of us fell silent again as kids pushed around us.

  “That’s so terrible,” I finally said. And although I didn’t know Warren Schrimmer, I felt really sad.

  “Sometimes I wonder…what if Warren was supposed to be a brilliant scientist who was going to cure cancer or go to the Olympics or be, like, President of the United States? Nobody will ever know. It can drive you crazy if you think about it too much,” Mervin said.

  “You’re being a little dramatic, aren’t you, Mervin?” Annie turned to me. “Mervin likes to be dramatic.”

  “No, I don’t! Everything I’m saying is true.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe Warren is happier now. Did you ever think of that?” she asked with mounting anger.

  Mervin appeared shocked. “How can you say that? That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “I can say that because maybe he’s finally free of whatever it was that made him feel like he wasn’t free.”

  Mervin stared blankly back at Annie.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I have to go,” she said and walked away.

  It was like an atomic bomb had just exploded,
and Mervin and I were in the wave of aftershock.

  Mervin sighed. “Welcome to my life. Maybe she forgot her meds.”

  “Meds? Annie takes meds?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t? I’m on Prozac.”

  “You are?” I said, stunned.

  “Look, Roberta, I don’t know where you went to school before, but I can assure you it was nothing like Meadowbrook. The pressure to get perfect grades and get into Harvard and land an awesome job is suffocating, so yeah, I take Prozac to forget that I pretty much suck at everything.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “What’s your next class?” Mervin finally asked.

  I nervously looked down at my crinkled schedule. “English, room 202.”

  He pointed behind me. “You want to go that way.”

  “Okay, thanks. I didn’t mean to insult you or anything, you know, about the meds and all. I think that’s cool; it’s very progressive.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll see what I mean. Life is difficult. Sometimes.”

  I nodded. I could definitely understand that.

  “Annie and I have first period lunch, so you can sit with us if you want,” he said.

  I quickly looked back down at my schedule, which said First Period Lunch. Thank. God. I had people to sit with.

  “Well, have fun in English. I’m sure you’ll be reading something by Shakespeare. Why can’t people ever think of something original?” Mervin asked.

  “Beats me,” I said.

  “Hey, really quick…would you think of a number between one and ten? It’s just something I’ve been working on. You got one?”

  I nodded.

  Mervin wiggled his fingers across my face a few times. “Is the number…ten?”

  “Oh my God! How’d you know?”

  Mervin beamed. “It’s all part of the mysterious package. C’ya.” He held on to his backpack straps and walked away.

  I watched him as he dodged upperclassmen. He almost seemed invisible, weaving in and out of people. I smiled. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him I was thinking of the number four.

  English

  9:27 a.m.

  I was standing in front of Room 202 with about three minutes to spare. I noticed a girl’s restroom across the hall and figured I could make a quick pit stop before class. I needed to pee all morning, but my rising anxiety had made me focus on other things.

  I opened the door to the bathroom, and couldn’t believe what I saw. The sleek modern design looked like a photo in a magazine. I stopped to take it all in as the first bell rang. God, even Meadowbrook’s bathroom managed to make me feel inadequate. This was going to be a long day. A very long day.

  I balanced the sheets of paper and pen on the edge of the corner sink and ran into a stall. I neatly placed a toilet seat liner over the toilet. My mother was a complete neurotic when it came to public restrooms and had instilled the fear of God in me that my ass would fall off if I ever directly sat on the seat.

  I threw down my pants, yanked up my Kmart white button-down, and peed for what felt like an hour. Propping my chin up with my hands, I thought about Warren Schrimmer’s note again. I never knew who you were because I was trying so hard to be who I’m not.

  Deep in thought, I looked down at my underwear and for one split second saw…blood, just as the second bell rang. I blinked hard and looked again. Yep, there was definitely blood in my underwear.

  I started to panic. I didn’t know what to do, and I was already late for my next class. I sat frozen on the toilet, pants around my ankles and staring at my monthly curse, as my mother so affectionately called it.

  I quickly bent down over my knees and checked the outside of my pants for damage control. Thankfully the blood hadn’t seeped through yet. I grabbed some toilet paper and began rubbing my underwear. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Holding on to the waist of my pants, I peeked out of the stall to see if there were any tampon machines, but there were none. Frustrated, I slammed the door shut and sat back down on the toilet. The entire situation reminded me of the first time I had gotten my period.

  It was two years ago on December 24 at approximately 8:22 p.m. My family had been at my cousin (on my dad’s side) Rose Marie’s holiday tree trimming party. Rose Marie was the quintessential Italian woman: fat, hairy, and an amazing cook. Every Christmas, fifty or so Romanos, by birth or by marriage, would gather at Rose Marie’s house in Jersey City and decorate a gaudy white plastic tree with Italian knot cookies.

  I’d been upstairs in my second cousin Vito’s bedroom indulging my brother, Anthony, as he tried to get drunk off those little chocolate candies that have rum inside them. We heard a high-pitched scream, which was quickly followed by Rose Marie’s voice yelling, “Fire, Fire!” That, of course, was followed by billowing smoke and chaos. As it turned out, my second cousin Billy had been mad at my third cousin Theresa for spreading word around the neighborhood that he was a homosexual. In retaliation, he had torched the plastic holiday tree with his cigarette lighter.

  All fifty of us Romanos had run out in the freezing cold to the snow-covered front lawn just as three fire trucks and two police cars pulled up. Smoke poured out of the living room windows, and the burning tree smelled like rancid hot dogs. I could still hear Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “White Christmas” coming from the living room stereo. I hadn’t had time to grab my coat, so I was freezing in my maroon turtleneck and cream-colored skirt. Rubbing my arms to stay warm, I had felt a weird tingle in my stomach, almost like I had eaten something bad.

  My not-so-normal cousin from a previous marriage, Loretta, wearing tight black jeans and a hand-knit Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer sweater, had come over and offered me a cigarette. Loretta was forty-eight years old and had approximately twelve teeth, all of which were an unappetizing shade of yellow. There were numerous rumors as to why Loretta had lost most of her teeth, my favorite being that the mafia pulled them out, one by one, for an unpaid horse racing debt.

  Loretta had stood there with her gargantuan fake orange nails and offered her open pack of Marlboro Reds to me.

  “No thanks,” I said, totally grossed out.

  “It’s good you don’t smoke. It’ll give ya cancer.” She grabbed a cigarette from the pack and took out a Bic lighter covered in pink flamingos.

  “Yep, that’s what I’ve heard.” I swayed back and forth, trying to keep warm.

  She lit her cigarette and took a long, luxurious drag. Then she dropped the pack and lighter back into her red leather chain-link purse. “Well, here.” She pulled out a tattered half-wrapped tampon. “Looks like Aunt Flow came to visit for the holidays.” She winked and let out a gravelly laugh.

  God, she was so weird, and her breath smelled like Morton’s Fish Sticks. I had been angry at Anthony for not coming to my rescue and was positive he was laughing at me from behind a tree. Trying my best to be polite, I said, “Sorry, Loretta, but I don’t know Flo Romano, and if she’s visiting, well, she’s not staying with us.”

  Loretta had stared at me with a puzzled look on her face.

  “What?” I said.

  “Oh my God, you just got it, didn’t you?”

  “Got what?” I asked. My tolerance for her weirdness was just about spent.

  With a twelve-tooth grin, Loretta had lifted the tattered tampon and shook it in front of my face. “This! This!” she said. Then she had turned in the direction of where my mother and father were standing and screamed, “VICKI! TONY! GET OVER HERE…ROBERTA JUST GOT HER PERIOD!”

  I had quickly looked down at my cream-colored skirt and saw a small patch of deep red blood. A significant number of Romanos, at least three firemen, and two police officers craned their heads to get a better look. My mother had come rushing over and my father had disappeared behind one of the fire trucks. I had then run back inside the burning house and locked myself in the bathroom until a fireman had to axe the door down.

  The big hand on the clock in the bathroom clicked over. I
was now running eight minutes late for English. I had managed to clean most of the blood off my underwear, but this didn’t completely solve my problem. I still had to figure out a way to stop more blood from coming through my pants. Focus, Roberta…focus. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper; I knew what had to be done.

  I started rolling and layering, rolling and layering, using the toilet paper to make my very own makeshift maxi-pad. As for being late to class, it would be far too embarrassing to admit the truth, but I could come up with an elaborate lie that no one would dare question.

  Perhaps I could say my mother fell down a flight of stairs and was rushed to the hospital. Or maybe I could pretend our house had been robbed. Or maybe I could squeeze out a few tears and say that my grandfather passed away. Being that he’s been dead already ten years, I figured he wouldn’t mind. I tossed the excuses around in my head. Yes, I’d have to say the dead grandfather story was my best bet. Sorry, Nonno.

  I looked at my maxi-pad and decided to add one more measure of protection. I grabbed two toilet seat liners and wrapped them around the log of toilet paper like it was a present. I squished the pad into my underwear and quickly pulled up my pants so that it wouldn’t fall out. I flushed any evidence down the toilet and left the stall to go wash my hands. Confident of my makeshift feminine hygiene and heart-wrenching excuse, I grabbed my sheets of paper and pen, took a deep breath, and waddled like a duck and crinkled like a bag of chips out into the hallway.

  The corridors were totally empty and completely silent. I peeked through the glass window of Room 202 and saw a beautiful, young, blonde woman wearing a black wraparound dress with black, open-toed high-heel shoes and writing something on the chalkboard. Her toenails were painted a pretty shade of pink. The class was set up in a semicircle and there was one open seat, which I assumed to be mine, right next to Thaddeus!

  His head was slightly bent, and he was using a pen to draw something on the palm of his left hand. A chunk of his dirty blond bangs fell across his face. His hair really did look dirty, kind of shiny and greasy, but I didn’t care. He pulled the pen away, and I caught a glimpse of the blue circle he had stained into his palm.