The List

by Siobhan Vivian

  An itch crawls through Margo. The students waiting behind her impatiently shift their weight, and the whole hallway comes suddenly off balance. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. You know, people could think you’re making fun —”

  “Fine,” Rachel says and waves Margo away with a flick of her hand. “Whatever you want.”

  “Rachel, let me just —”

  “No, really. I guess I figured you’d want to clear your conscience more than anyone. But maybe you don’t feel you have anything to be sorry for.”

  It wasn’t like that. Margo knows there are things she should feel sorry for. But severing ties with Jennifer had been difficult enough the first time around. She was not ready to open up that door again, even a crack. And she definitely didn’t feel the need to concede the homecoming crown as penance. After all, Margo wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer was as much a part of the friendship ending as she’d been.

  Margo wants to defend herself. She wants to explain. But the sharp stares from her friends make her realize that anything she might say about Jennifer would be taken the wrong way. It wouldn’t be a defense; it would be Margo kicking the ugly girl while she’s down. So she backs away from the table and walks away without saying another word.

  It seems like everyone she passes has on a VOTE QUEEN JENNIFER sticker. Those kids check her chest, expecting to see one, too. And when they don’t find it, their expressions quickly change. They duck their heads and whisper to each other. About Margo, obviously.

  Margo had wondered about this last year, but now she knows for sure. Being the prettiest senior on the list isn’t always a blessing. Sometimes it’s a curse.

  By the time Maureen graduated, things had definitely gotten weird. There’d been so many fights with her longtime friends, too many to count. Maureen bailed on the senior trip to Whipple Beach, even though their parents had already paid for her hotel room. She’d dumped her boyfriend, Wayne, right before prom for no good reason — Wayne who was hot and whom she’d dated for two years and lost her virginity to (according to a love letter Margo had found in Maureen’s underwear drawer). None of Maureen’s friends showed up to her graduation party. Maureen got drunk and passed out in a pool chair in front of their grandparents, waking up every so often to burp.

  It felt reckless to Margo, as she watched her sister systematically dismantle everything she cared about. The end of high school was about holding on, but Maureen wanted to let it go.

  Maureen ended up selecting a college that was far away from Mount Washington. Margo had wanted to help her sister pack, but by then the two sisters were not getting along so well, so she just tried to stay out of Maureen’s way. There was always tension between them, tension Margo could only interpret as hatred. At Maureen’s good-bye dinner, before her mother flew with Maureen out to her college on the other side of the country, Maureen didn’t look at Margo once.

  It was almost a relief to see her go.

  After Maureen left, Margo went into her sister’s room. The pictures of Maureen’s friends, the ones that had once covered an entire wall, had been stuffed in the wastebasket.

  Margo sat on the floor, carefully unsticking the tape and flattening the ones that’d been bent. Some were of homecoming — Maureen, her tiara holding back waves of her brown hair, dancing with Wayne.

  It was hard to tell, because of how badly the picture had been crumpled. One fold went straight down Maureen’s face. But from what Margo could see, her sister had never looked so happy.

  On her way to homeroom, Margo spots Principal Colby. She’s watching the students pass though the hallway, her eyes darting about.

  What will Principal Colby think of this “Vote Queen Jennifer” charade? Either Margo participates, and she can be looked down upon. Or Margo doesn’t, and she’ll be viewed as even more suspicious.

  She doubles back the way she’s just come, avoiding Principal Colby altogether.

  he cramps are worse than the ones that come with her period.

  Bridget presses her lips together and concentrates on the jagged graffiti scratched into the almond paint on the bathroom door. She’s in the girls’ gym locker room on the toilet. Her body is pitched forward, her elbows pressing into her bare thighs, her chin in her hands. A half-empty water bottle stands on the floor between her sneakers, the liquid inside oily and separated.

  It is not a cleanse. It is a magic potion.

  The need to go has hit at various times all morning, growing more and more pressing. This is the third time during gym class alone, and the urge was so intense that Bridget had to sprint off the volleyball court in the middle of a play, leaving her side down a setter. The cramps made it hard to walk, so she hobbled, her fingers pressing into her sides. She barely got her shorts down in time.

  If only she were home, able to go in private. Maybe with a magazine or book to take her mind off the pain. Oh, god. What if one of her teachers decided not to give her the bathroom pass? She worries about the cramping, too. It doesn’t feel right. Like appendicitis or something.

  No. It is nothing to worry about. The cleanse instructions had mentioned severe cramping as a possible side effect. It also said that she’d be crazy for food. Yesterday, it was madness how badly she wanted to eat. Not a craving for anything specific, just food in general. Way worse than the normal days. But the instructions promised that, if she could stick with it, if she could stand up to that voice inside her telling her to eat, she’d plateau and the hunger would disappear. And it has, pretty much.

  She needs to trust the process.

  Another flash of lightning strikes her abdomen. Splashing sounds bounce off the porcelain bowl. Each time, Bridget is sure that there can’t be anything left inside her. But she is always wrong.

  A distant whistle trills through the cinder-block walls. A few seconds later, the locker-room door swings open and the girls dash in to get changed before next period. Bridget quickly stands and looks down at the muddy water. As disgusting as the aftermath is, a strange sense of pride comes as she flushes away what had been clogging her, watching the toilet refresh itself with clear, cold water. She feels lighter, almost buoyant, despite her stomach being an overfilled water balloon.

  Isn’t it nice, never feeling hungry?

  It is. Honestly.

  After washing her hands, Bridget heads to her locker to change. Most of her friends are already back in their school clothes and have lined up along the rectangular mirror that runs the length of the locker room. They talk straight into the mirror, their confessions bouncing cruelly back in their faces.

  One girl groans. “I swear, I have the most disgusting skin in the whole school.”

  Another girl pushes the first girl playfully. “Are you kidding? Your skin is beautiful! You don’t have any blackheads.” This girl leans in close, like she’s about to sniff the mirror. “My entire nose is covered in blackheads.”

  “Shut up! Your nose is perfect. I’m begging my parents for a nose job for Christmas. Seriously. I don’t even want a car.”

  “If you went in for a nose job, the plastic surgeon would laugh you out of his office. But he’d probably write an academic paper on me. I mean, do you know of any other junior in the universe who has wrinkles this bad?” The girl takes her hair and yanks it up toward the ceiling, pulling the skin on her face tight. Bridget can see the ridges of her skull and blue veins.

  The last girl snarls at the mirror, peeling her lips back as far as they can go, baring wet flesh the color of chewed cinnamon gum. “I’d rather have your invisible wrinkles than my crooked teeth. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive my parents for not getting me braces. It’s, like, child abuse.”

  Bridget pulls her white sweater over her head. She does it slowly, hiding in the woolly softness for a few seconds. Her friends always one-up each other with invented flaws, seeing who can top the next with phony self-hatred.

  But she can top them all.

  She grabs her brush and heads to the mirror. “You guys are all craz
y,” she says, locking eyes with herself. “I’m the ugliest one here by far.”

  She’d said this sort of thing before, of course. It was her go-to put-down, because it didn’t leave out any of her flaws. It covered absolutely everything. And she means it. Bridget has known these girls since kindergarten. She’s grown up with them. Watched them trade boyfriends, try new hairstyles, attempt smoking, get drunk on whatever liquor they could get their hands on, choreograph dances to stupid pop songs. They’re practically women now. She thinks they’re all beautiful. She’s the one who doesn’t fit.

  Bridget lets her hair down from a ponytail and runs her comb through. Static sparkles like glitter in the black strands. She notices that the locker room has gone quiet. She turns and sees her friends staring at her.

  “Oh, shut up, Bridget,” one of the girls says with a heavy sigh.

  “Seriously,” someone else snarks.

  “What?” Bridget says, a nervous buzz in her chest.

  A collective eye roll spins in her direction.

  “Right. You’re the ugliest.”

  “Do you honestly expect us to believe you?”

  Bridget is suddenly unsteady. This is a play that they’ve acted in a hundred times before, and now she suddenly can’t remember the words to her part.

  “I … I …” Bridget trails off. She has thought about telling her friends. Sharing with them the strange things that had happened to her this summer. She didn’t because she didn’t want them to worry. To think she was broken inside. She didn’t want them to panic. It was why she had chosen not to invite any of them down for the summer. There would have been too much explaining to do. And anyway, she had been doing better.

  “Everyone’s happy you made the list, but —”

  “We’d all kill to be you, Bridget.”

  “It’s kind of rude. You know. Because we’ve actually got things to complain about. You, well … everyone knows you’re pretty. It’s been, like, certified.”

  Another cramp swings through Bridget as the bell rings. Her friends walk out together to lunch, and Bridget ducks back to the bathroom stall.

  She’s about to undo her jeans when she notices that this urge is different. It is another sort of squeeze.

  The cleanse rises up in her throat.

  The sensation shocks her. Bridget has never, ever vomited. Counted calories, counted bites, counted swallows. But that’s it. And yet, the urge is twisting in on her. She feels the toxins bubbling up inside. Like it isn’t even her choice anymore.

  She backs out of the stall. She reaches for her water bottle, but thinks better of it and cups faucet water to her lips instead. It is not cold. Just lukewarm and tasting the tiniest bit like rust.

  Next period is lunch.

  Bridget goes to the library. On the way, she dumps the cleanse out in the water fountain. The bottle stinks, and Bridget can’t imagine the smell ever washing out, so she tosses that, too. She is not drinking it anymore. If there’s nothing inside her, she won’t throw up. And though her logic is terribly blurry, she knows that’s a line she doesn’t want to cross.

  t lunch, Lauren and her new friends sit at the sunniest lunch table in the cafeteria and make their own plans for the Spirit Caravan.

  The first half of the period is spent excitedly debating how to diplomatically proceed with the sharing of decorating ideas. They choose going in a circle over hand raising so everyone will be given the chance to pitch an idea without anyone having the responsibility to choose who gets to speak in what order. Someone makes the point that no ideas should be shot down in this initial brainstorming, that everyone’s input is welcome and valued. No suggestions would be called stupid or dumb or retarded.

  Nothing would be like it had been when Candace was around.

  For the first time, Lauren wonders if Candace might be as terrible as the girls had said. They all seem to be blossoming now that they’re out of Candace’s shadow. It is a feeling Lauren completely understands. The liberation. The autonomy. She used to feel guilty about coming to school, being away from her mother, wanting her own life. But no longer. These girls, her new friends, inspire her.

  And it is just so exciting to witness this new burgeoning utopia being forged. Someone produces Candace’s plans for the Spirit Caravan, and when she tears it up, all the girls cheer. It reminds her of the early revolutionaries who banded together to end Britain’s tyrannical rule.

  “I can be the secretary. I’ll write down everything in my notebook,” Lauren happily volunteers. “That way, we won’t lose anyone’s good ideas.”

  She has already made the decision that she will not participate in the brainstorming. It feels too early to start throwing out her opinions and thoughts about things she doesn’t really know, experiences she’s never had. She’s just so glad to be here, to be welcome at this table.

  Lauren readies her pencil on a fresh page.

  And waits.

  But though there was so much to discuss about how things should go, the actual ideas of what to do for Spirit Caravan don’t flow nearly as freely.

  After a few quiet seconds, one girl sighs and says, “I seriously don’t care what we do, so long as our idea is better than what Candace wanted us to do.”

  Lauren doesn’t want the girls to get discouraged. On the back of her fresh page, the grooves of her pen marks push up, like little ridges. She flips back to what she’d written last period.

  “Um, I made a few sketches during English, since I’ve read Ethan Frome like fifteen times.” The girls curl around her. Lauren’s sketch isn’t too detailed, so she explains it. “Mount Washington’s mascot is the Mountaineer, right? So what if we made cardboard mountains along the sides of the car? Like we’re mountain climbers?”

  “Oh my god, I love it,” someone says.

  “We can use my dad’s pickup truck,” another volunteers. “That way we can all fit!”

  Lauren adds, “And we can wear flannel shirts and have walking sticks and rope and stuff.”

  “Lauren! These are great ideas!”

  “I can’t believe we were just going to use shaving cream and streamers. This is … a concept!”

  “Hey, Lauren. You have to come with us after school and help us buy supplies.”

  Lauren smiles until she remembers. “I get picked up right after school. But I can help you make up a list of —”

  “Call your mom and tell her you need to stay late,” one girl says. “Here. Use my cell.” She glances over both her shoulders for the cafeteria monitors. “Just, like, don’t be obvious about it.”

  Lauren dials the house. Luckily, she gets voice mail. “Hi, Mommy. It’s me. Don’t worry about picking me up today. I’ve got a school project I need to stay late for. I’ll walk home when I’m done. Okay? Thanks, Mommy. See you later. Love you.”

  Lauren hangs up the cell phone and hands it back to its owner. That wasn’t so hard.

  And then, the cell phone buzzes to life. The girl checks the screen. “Lauren, I think it’s your mommy.” A couple of the other girls snicker.

  Lauren wrings her hands. “Um. Let her leave a message.”

  “Okay.”

  It is maybe a minute later that the phone buzzes again.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lauren says. “She’s a little crazy since I started school.”

  Someone looks up and says, “Shhh. Here comes Candace.”

  Lauren watches Candace walk up to the table. None of the girls make room for her. This makes Lauren feel uncomfortable, as if Lauren is in Candace’s seat. Lauren is about to get up, but one of the girls puts a hand on her lap underneath the table, silently telling her to stay put. Candace drops into a seat on the periphery.

  “You guys working on the Spirit Caravan?”

  “Yup.”

  “How’s it going?”

  None of the girls answer her, so Lauren turns her notebook around so Candace can see it. “Good. Do you want to see the plans?”

  “No,” Candace says flatly before flipping
her hair off her shoulder, but Lauren sees her eyes linger a bit on the notebook. “I can’t make the Spirit Caravan this year. I’m going to be busy setting up … which is actually why I came by.” Candace sighs a breezy, apathetic sigh. “I’m throwing a party on Saturday night, before the dance. Everyone can come over to my house and take pictures together. My mom’s getting me a couple bottles of rum, and there’ll be food and stuff.”

  Lauren perks up at this, but the other girls don’t seem impressed.

  “Cool,” one of them says, and pushes her food around with her fork.

  “Yeah, maybe,” another girl says.

  The corners of Candace’s smile sink. “Um, alright,” she says, backing up slowly. “Well, I hope you guys can make it.”

  As soon as Candace is out of sight, the girls at the table bow their heads and begin a whispered conference.

  “What does Candace think? That a party is going to make us like her again?”

  “Please. We’re already going to Andrew’s house after the dance. It’s not like we need her to get us booze like last summer.”

  “Maybe now Candace will realize that you can’t treat people like crap. There are consequences.”

  “Candace has been a bitch for practically her whole life. She’s never going to change. She’s always going to think she’s better than us.”

  Lauren goes back to her notebook. It is clear to her that Candace’s invitation was a peace offering to try to smooth things over. But the hurt Candace caused these girls obviously runs deep. Deeper, apparently, than a party can fix.

  One of the girls presses her lips together, deep in thought. And then she says, “But … it could be cool to have a buzz at the dance. It might make it more fun.”

  “Hey! We could go to Candace’s house for the rum, but, like, not have any fun.”

  “That’s true,” another girl says, nodding.

  Lauren bites her lip. She doesn’t like the idea of going to Candace’s party just for the free alcohol. But then again, maybe the girls are starting to see that Candace is sorry. Maybe they need to be in a room together to hash things out. Maybe at her party, Candace will offer up a better, more heartfelt apology.