365 Days Alone

by Nancy Isaak

  That was the situation between Agoura High and the Continuation School.

  While Agoura served the mostly affluent teens of the local area, the Continuation School brought in a variety of troubled and learning-challenged kids from the surrounding communities. These kids weren’t your usual batch of stoners and emos, however. Often the teens came from some of the most well-off and influential families in Southern California.

  The most famous (or infamous) of these were the ‘Bling Ring’—a group of kids who were subsequently immortalized in the Sophia Coppola movie (also called “The Bling Ring”). They got their kicks by breaking into famous people’s homes and stealing their clothes and shoes and stuff. Later, the gang would either wear their newly-stolen brand-name duds to school or simply sell them.

  While Cherry Winslette wasn’t old enough to be a member of the Bling Ring, she was definitely troubled, mouthy and—frankly—kind of weird. She was in the 11th Grade and it was rumored that she had an IQ that scraped the top of the 160’s. Her marks didn’t reflect her supposed smarts, however. She was usually barely making a C, rarely a B—and that was only when she actually deigned to turn up for school.

  * * * *

  Most kids said that they didn’t like Cherry because she was so different and annoyingly counter-culture. Personally, I think that the truth was far different.

  I think that the popular boys were annoyed with Cherry because she didn’t give them the attention they thought they deserved. And the popular girls—well, for people like the Foxes—being enrolled in the Continuation School, Cherry was slightly to one side of the Foxes’ territory.

  The other thing, Cherry—simply put—was impossible to control…period.

  * * * *

  I actually thought that Cherry was quite pretty—although it was sometimes difficult to tell under all the make-up she wore. She always looked pale (make-up, not natural), and she had thin, plucked eyebrows and large, Angelina Jolie-lips that she painted an almost opaque white.

  In her nose, Cherry wore a tiny gold hoop—not the kind that looped through one nostril. No, that would have been too conservative for Cherry. Instead, she wore her loop right through her columella (which is that tiny piece of skin at the bottom between the nostrils—and, yes, I found that out by Googling it).

  Brandon Kerestky, the big dumb football jock (the one who was dating Traynesha), used to call the hoop ‘Cherry’s bull-sh*t ring’. He meant that her hoop reminded him of the nose rings that ranchers used to control bulls.

  I expect that Brandon thought he was being especially witty by actually making a pun. Jay and I (and most everyone else with half a brain in our school) thought he was just being his usual douche-baggy self—making mean-spirited jokes at another person’s expense.

  But what could you expect from someone dating a Fox?

  * * * *

  The other thing that seemed to bother people about Cherry was her hair. It just couldn’t stay one color. One month it would be white-blond, the next a peacock blue, the next pitch-black.

  Jay told me once that some of the Agoura High teachers were upset about Cherry’s hair, because they thought it was distracting to the other students. However, nothing could be done about it because, let’s face it—Cherry might have walked the Agoura High campus—but she didn’t go there.

  Cherry Winslette went to the Continuation School and—at that school—your hair could be blue, green, or purple or a combination of all three. It simply didn’t matter as long as you did your work and managed to pass your grades. And even though she wasn’t getting the marks her high IQ deserved, Cherry still managed to just squeak by on all her courses.

  The final thing you need to know about Cherry Winslette was that she might have been weird and somewhat solitary, but she still had two very good friends. And together—if ever there was a group of girls that were the anti-Foxes—these Continuation girls were it.

  They were:

  Wandy Marken:

  The sad thing about Wandy was that, even though she had gone to the Continuation School (and been on the Agoura High campus) for almost three years, most students probably didn’t even know that she existed.

  Like all schools had a Jude-the-Rude, catty girls like the Foxes, and even all-American soccer girls like me, they also all seemed to have quiet, unassuming girls like Wandy—drab and washed-out, condemned to be, not so much ‘unpopular’ but, even worse…‘non-existent’…by high school standards.

  It wasn’t that Wandy was ugly or boring. It was just that she was so incredibly quiet that no one really took much notice of her. Wandy was that girl who kept to the side of the walkways—skulking toward class, head down, arms full of books. Her shoulder-length dirty-blond hair would inevitably be hanging down in front of her face and—while she wasn’t exactly fat—she was still carrying a sizeable roll around her middle.

  Now, perhaps—in the rest of the United States—being a chubby teenage girl didn’t mean all that much. But when you were going to school right next to Hollywood, where some of your classmates were the children of producers and directors and, in some cases, movies stars—then as horrible as it was to say—chubby girls simply didn’t exist. They were there, if anything, to be ignored and to make you feel better about your own shortcomings.

  Except for Cherry.

  Her friendship with Wandy was absolute and she never ignored her.

  Perhaps Cherry saw something in the quiet girl that the rest of us didn’t. When plodding Wandy would make her way across campus, Cherry’s nose-ringed face would burst into a magnificent smile and she would rush over, pulling Wandy in for a bone-crushing hug.

  Truthfully, I didn’t understand their friendship—the shy girl and the wild child.

  Nobody I knew did.

  But what we did know, was that Wandy was under Cherry’s protection. Anyone from Agoura High went after Wandy, they were—in effect—going after Cherry.

  And not even the Foxes were willing to go there.

  So Wandy was left alone.

  Sophia Rojas:

  With black hair and dark, brown eyes, Sophia Rojas was an extremely pretty and friendly girl. She was unique among the Continuation School girls, because she could easily have fit in with the Agoura High students. I knew of any number of guys who had crushes on her.

  Sophia was just one of those girls who was always so full of life. When she walked by you, your eyes automatically followed her, taking in her happiness and positive energy.

  It was an open secret in our school that both Sophia and her mother were illegal immigrants. They came from one of the southern states of Mexico, so English was her second language.

  One time, Jay and I overheard Sophia talking to Cherry and Wandy about how her mother and she had snuck across the Texas border when she was 14-years old. They had hired coyotes to take them all the way into El Paso. But the men were rough and dishonest and had abandoned them (and fifteen other men, women, and children) just across the border.

  Sophia said that their group had walked for two days through the desert, the older members of the group carrying the smaller kids. At one place they had come across plastic jugs of water that had been left out by missionaries.

  It had been that simple kindness that had ultimately saved their group. Without that water, all of them—Sophia included—would probably have perished in those hot and desolate hills.

  * * * *

  I think that one of the reasons Cherry and Sophia were such good friends was that they had each other’s backs—academically. Both Jay and I had seen Cherry and Sophia on numerous occasions, sitting under the trees in Chumash Park, working together on each other’s homework.

  While Sophia would do Cherry’s math, Cherry would be writing Sophia’s essays. Even though it was essentially cheating—in a way—Jay and I always admired their loyalty to each other.

  * * * *

  No matter what anyone else thought, both Jay and I totally enjoyed having Cherry and her friends on campus—if only becau
se it drove the Foxes crazy.

  There were times when Orla, Peyton, and Tray would be eating lunch out in the football stands. They’d be watching Brandon and his buddies doing what big, doofus jocks do at football practice. At the same time, the Foxes would be making nasty comments about the younger grades as they walked by.

  But then Cherry and her anti-Foxes would show up.

  And—just because she could—Cherry would station her little gang a couple of rows behind the Foxes. It never failed to completely irritate Orla—especially the time that Cherry sat down with a head of newly-dyed red hair that, amazingly, exactly matched Orla’s hair color.

  I’m not really certain why Cherry had it in for the Foxes.

  Whatever the reason, however, it was a source of continued amusement for Jay and me.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #8

  It took us three good whacks of Jay’s cop-sock before we finally cracked open the small window in the center of the townhouse’s door. Immediately, the sound of a yipping pug erupted from the back of the unit.

  Using my own cop-sock to wipe away the remaining glass, I reached through the hole and unlocked the door.

  “Be careful,” Jay said. “Don’t let the dog get out until we’ve got a leash on it.”

  “It’s a pug,” I said. “They’re not the quickest dogs. I’m pretty sure we could catch it.”

  Jay frowned. “No pug-shaming, please. I find that offensive.”

  * * * *

  Considering that there had been young children in the townhouse—it was extremely neat and tidy. The living area consisted of a tiny couch, a reclining chair, and a coffee table with a ‘Kittens Playing Poker’ puzzle that was only six pieces away from being completed.

  “Oh, how sweet,” I said, picking up a framed photo from a side table. “Look at the little kids. I think they’re twins.”

  The picture (like at the Riker’s) was a professional family photo of a redheaded mom of about thirty and two little strawberry-blond children—a boy and a girl around seven or eight years of age. The family had been posed on a staircase, mom sitting on one stair, boy and girl sitting on the stairs below.

  In the little girl’s arms was a pug dog who was wearing, ironically, what appeared to be a Superpup cape.

  “Only a mom in the photo,” Jay said, looking over my shoulder. “Probably another single-parent family. Have you ever noticed how many single-moms there are in our complex?”

  “When we lived with my dad, I remember him saying once that, when a husband and wife divorce in Southern California, it’s the man who stays in the mansion at the beach and the woman who goes and lives in the townhouse in the Valley.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “That’s what happened to my mom,” I shrugged. “I’ll bet that’s what happened to a lot of the single-moms in this complex.”

  I put the photo back down. “Shall we go find our new dog?”

  “Ohmigod! I’m finally getting a pug!” Jay was practically vibrating with excitement.

  All her life, my best friend has wanted an animal. Unfortunately, in her culture (and her family), it’s considered unclean to have a dog living inside a house.

  Mrs. Sitipala actually has no objections to having a pet. The family, however, is led by the father.

  His word is law—and Mr. Sitipala does have objections.

  * * * *

  We had thought that the pug would be in the kitchen area. When we turned the corner, however, the room was empty.

  “It must have run upstairs when we came in,” said Jay. “Poor thing’s probably scared after all this time alone.”

  The kitchen was basically a small counter that looked out over the living room area. Two stools were on the far side, both pulled out. On the counter in front of the stools were two Mickey Mouse plastic bowls. One was empty—the other was half-full of soggy cereal and curdled milk.

  “I guess they were having breakfast when it happened,” said Jay.

  “There’s the leash.” I reached out and grabbed a blue lead from a hook beside the fridge, handing it over to Jay. “You should do the honors.”

  “Do you think it might be dangerous?” asked Jay, starting to look a little nervous.

  “It’s a pug,” I said. “It’s got a mouth the size of your thumbnail. What’s it going to do—nibble you to death?”

  We started up the carpeted staircase to the second floor.

  All along the wall, there were photographs—primarily of the two kids—from birth through toddler-hood through kindergarten to 1st grade. They looked so happy in the photos, so loved; it was obvious their mother doted on them.

  * * * *

  The upper floor of the townhouse—like all the two-levels in our complex—consisted of a large bedroom that faced the front and a smaller bedroom that faced the back.

  At the top of the staircase, meanwhile, was the bathroom. The door was open and we could see inside—empty.

  “He’s got to be in one of the bedrooms,” I said. “You want to make a guess as to which one?”

  “Let’s try the big one first,” suggested Jay. “But close the back bedroom door, just in case he slips by us and heads downstairs.”

  * * * *

  Definitely a single-mom.

  The walls of her bedroom were covered with the school-art of her two children—splashes of wild watercolors, chalk drawings of stick figure families (always two kids and a mom), tiny ink handprints, and childish poems of love and devotion. The bed was a Bombay Company four-poster, with a gauzy canopy suspended from a hook in the ceiling; its duvet was all pink and coral, reminiscent of the geraniums in the window boxes outside.

  At the side of the bed was a small night table. It held a single photo in a silver frame.

  “Twins. No doubt.” I picked up the photo and showed it to Jay. “This must have been taken just after she had given birth.”

  It was a hospital photo—the redheaded woman, covered in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. But her face was one of joy and utter elation, her smile positively radiant, because—in each of her arms—she held one tiny, perfect baby.

  “I wonder if the dad took the photo,” said Jay.

  Before I could answer, we heard a noise from the other bedroom. It wasn’t much, just a swish of fabric and the tick-tick of toenails, as if someone (or something) had just squirmed under a bed.

  “Guess we know where the pug is,” I grinned.

  * * * *

  “We should open the door slowly,” Jay whispered. “Let’s not scare him.”

  “If he’s hiding under the bed, it’s a good bet he’s probably already scared.” I put my hand on the smaller bedroom’s doorknob. “Ready?”

  Jay nodded.

  “Here we are, puppy!” I opened the door slowly and Jay and I entered.

  * * * *

  It was obviously the children’s room—two single beds, one on each side.

  The left bed had a “Little Mermaid” duvet cover and the right had “Star Wars”. On the floor and along the walls were countless toys, books, and stuffed animals. There were ‘name-paintings’ above each bed—with little dolphins squirming their torpedo bodies into alphabet-shapes.

  The girl’s painting read ‘Lily’—the boy’s was ‘Ethan’.

  While the rest of the house had been spotless, this room was not just messy—it was downright filthy. There were empty food containers everywhere—potato chip bags, cookie crumbs, Halloween candy wrappings from dozens of different mini-chocolate bars.

  In one corner, a plastic bowl held a small amount of dried dog food. Another bowl nearby was half-full of dirty water.

  “Okay,” I said, surprised. “This is not exactly what I expected.”

  “Well, at least we know how the pug survived,” Jay said. “It’s been living on all this junk food.”

  “But this doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “All this mess and junk food and everything. You saw the pictures, the way the
rest of the house is. I just can’t believe that the mom we saw in those photos would let her kids live like this.”

  “You never know what goes on behind closed doors,” said Jay. “You know that.”

  “But it’s just…wrong.”

  A snuffle came from under the girl’s bed.

  Jay immediately dropped to her hands and knees, lifted up the “Little Mermaid” flounce, and looked under the bed. “There you are, baby,” she cooed.

  The dog came out easily—toddling straight into Jay’s outstretched arms. Like most pugs, it was a squishy thing—all round, wrinkled body with short, stumpy legs and a dark, mushed-up face.

  It immediately started licking Jay’s chin.

  “He’s so sweet,” she giggled. “Poor baby, it must have been so scary for him here all alone.”

  “I guess you were right about looking through all the townhouses. We probably should check the rest to make sure no pets are left inside.”

  “Let’s take him home first,” Jay suggested. “Get him some real food and fresh water. We can come back later and finish looking through the townhouses we missed.”

  Then—just as we turned to leave—I made the mistake of making a really dumb joke. “Well, if we ever run out of food,” I chuckled, “I guess we can always eat the dog.”

  The look Jay gave me was poisonous.

  I opened my mouth to burst into laughter but—suddenly—pain shot through the back of my head.