Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks

by Lauren Myracle

  “Your mom sure has a lot of friends who’ve adopted babies,” I say.

  “—and this is really awful: she came home without the roof of her mouth.”

  “What?” Kendra says.

  “I know,” Lydia says. “The orphanage people said she was fine, everyone said she was fine, and then the parents got her and found out the whole top of her mouth was missing. She had to have, like, five zillion surgeries.”

  That is absolutely awful, to be without the roof of a mouth. I want Lydia to stop talking about it, and she does, only to move on to African orphans and how they’re left in their cribs for hours on end.

  The streetlights cast shadows on Lydia’s face as she twists in her seat to include me and Vonzelle in the conversation.

  “They don’t even have crib mattresses,” she says. “Just wooden boards. But if you sponsor one of those babies, you get to name it.”

  You get to name it? I’m horrified, and I’m also having one of those out-of-body moments where I can’t believe I’m actually participating—by simple virtue of existing—in this conversation.

  “That’s cool,” Kendra says. “Kind of like how you can buy a star and name it. I wish someone would name a star for me.”

  “But you know what’s really awful?” Lydia goes on. “And, like, I feel terrible for feeling this way?”

  “What?” Kendra says.

  “Even though it’s not their fault—those pagan babies, I mean—I would never adopt one, because they’d be so messed up by the time you got them. Like, with attachment disorder and stuff.”

  Those pagan babies?! Oh my God. I’m going to break out in hives. I do not and do not look at Vonzelle.

  “I’ve never thought about that,” Kendra says.

  Lydia nods. “But I totally admire the people who do—or who adopt black babies or Chinese babies or any little orphan babies. It’s so Christian of them.”

  Oh, no no no no no. I hate it when people say “that’s so Christian of them” or “that’s so Christian of you” or any sentence where the word “Christian” is thrown in to mean the way you should be. See, that is not the type of Christian I am.

  Also, Lydia’s making out like all those babies are broken or something. She’s lumping them together in one big broken pile.

  We keep passing hair-relaxer billboards, and billboards for malt liquor, and I feel massively uncomfortable with this whole outing—and especially how I accidentally made Vonzelle feel bad. So out of the blue I say, “You know, some people say Jesus was black.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Lydia says.

  “Because of where he was born. The people there are black, not white.”

  I’m not on solid footing here, because I can’t remember what country I’m talking about. Palestine? But in sixth grade, our Bible teacher showed us images of Jesus from around the world, and in one of the pictures, he was black. Her response, when the class guffawed, was something along the lines of “Now, children, let’s keep our tolerant hats on. A black Jesus may seem silly to us, but love comes in all shapes and colors.”

  Lydia does not have her tolerant hat on, nor is she wearing a “Love Is Color-Blind” shirt from Urban Outfitters.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Baby Jesus was not black.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say. Fragments of the lesson come back to me. “He was born in the Middle East, right? And there’s Bible verses about how his hair was like wool and his feet shone like bronze.”

  I’m fairly impressed with myself for pulling all this out of my brain. I think I deserve a pat on the back.

  Instead, I get a peeved look from Lydia, who says, “Bronze isn’t black.”

  “Bronze isn’t white,” I retort.

  “Obviously, he had a tan,” Lydia says haughtily. “They didn’t have sunscreen back then.”

  I look at her like she’s crazy. And then, one beat later, I laugh, because it’s actually the perfect comeback. Vonzelle presses her knuckles to her mouth to hide her smile, and a second later, Lydia laughs, too. Every so often she reminds me that she’s not completely irredeemable.

  “Well, they didn’t,” she insists.

  Kendra looks put out. “It’s possible he had an olive complexion,” she says, “but unlikely, because he had blue eyes. Blue-eyed people are usually fair. But it doesn’t matter where he was born, because God made Jesus in His own image, remember?”

  “And God’s white?” I say incredulously. I’ve got the giggles now for real, and so does Vonzelle.

  Kendra looks at me like, Well, duh.

  This makes Vonzelle and me laugh harder.

  Lydia doesn’t get why, because she thinks God is white, too. I can see it on her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WHITE BOYS DON’T GIVE NOOGIES (TO ME)

  After we drop off our final stocking, we get on I-20 and head back into familiar territory. Vonzelle and I talk. The floodgates have been loosed or whatever, and chatting now comes easily.

  “So what’s up with your sister?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “With PE. With Coach Wanker.”

  I gave a loud ha and tell her that’s the most brilliant nickname ever. “All this time, I’ve been calling him Captain Awesome. Not as good, is it?”

  “Why does she keep coming to class?” Vonzelle says. “If I were her, and I knew I’d failed, I’d go to the library and at least get some work done.”

  “Huh,” I say, because this is a twist I haven’t considered. Why does Anna keep coming to PE? “It’s not fair that just because she failed the dive, she fails the whole class.”

  “The Wanker’s a sadist,” Vonzelle says.

  “And a racist,” I add, recalling his “those people” speech. Immediately I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Just when things were going well, I have to lead us back into treacherous waters?

  “A sadist and a racist,” Vonzelle says. She doesn’t seem terribly troubled, and I wonder if she doesn’t care. Although, no, because she was the first in our class to do the back dive off the high dive. The way she climbed the ladder and marched to the end of the board and just did it?

  She cares.

  “Did she ask if she could try again?” Vonzelle asks.

  “Uh . . . he said no,” I say. Didn’t he? On that particular day in class, he made it clear that Anna was done, finished, you fail, get off the board. But now I’m wondering why Anna didn’t push it further. I’m also wondering if a failing grade for fall semester equals a failing grade for the whole year, because PE is a yearlong class.

  Vonzelle purses her lips. “Mmm,” she says disapprovingly. “What’d your parents say?”

  “She never told them.”

  “She never told them? Well, they’re going to find out soon enough, aren’t they?”

  “Crap,” I say, because Anna’s grades are already a sore spot. Even my occasional A-minuses earn a disapproving arch of Dad’s eyebrows. Last week I brought home a math test I got a ninety-eight on, and his response was, “What happened to the other two points?”

  Vonzelle tilts her head, as if she’s willing to hear more if I’m willing to share. But we’re almost back at school, and she doesn’t pursue it.

  When we pull into Holy Redeemer’s parking lot, Pete’s Volvo is already there. Pete, Cole, and Trista are outside the car, leaning against it. I sit up and finger-brush my hair.

  “Hey, guys,” Pete says as we spill from Chuck’s Hummer. “How’d it go?”

  “Good times,” Chuck says. “You?”

  “Awesome,” Pete says. “We made those little kids’ day.”

  “I know,” Lydia says. “I was like, ‘This is what Christmas is about, giving those kids something to rejoice in.’”

  Trista beams. Her expression says, Yes, and I made it happen.

  I roll my eyes.

  “What?” she says, zeroing in on me.

  “Nothing.” I’m startled she noticed.

  “You rolled your e
yes. Do you not think it’s important, what we did?”

  “No, I do, it’s just—”

  “Just what?” Trista says. Her earrings are tiny bells. They jingle as she puts her hands on her hips.

  My eyes go to Cole, who’s regarding me as if he wants to know, too. Vonzelle is also listening.

  “It was good,” I say slowly. I think of Terrell and how he practically vibrated off the floor. But true Christmas spirit shouldn’t involve taking credit, should it? Especially if you’re a fancy prep-school kid who has more than enough already?

  “Shouldn’t we have given the stockings to the grown-ups, though?” I say. “Like . . . in private?”

  Trista is put out. “The adults don’t get stockings. They get hams, but not until later.”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, we could have given the kids’ stockings to their parents or grandparents or whoever, and then they could have put them out on Christmas morning.”

  “I don’t get it,” Trista says.

  “Oh,” Cole says. “Because of Santa Claus. You’re right, Carls.”

  “But we are Santa Claus,” Trista says.

  Cole hooks his arm around her and gives her a noogie, and she giggles.

  “What? We are!”

  I smile, but my smile is wooden and awful. Trista likes Cole, and Cole likes her back. There it is. Undeniable.

  “Come on,” Vonzelle says, taking my arm and leading me to the curb. She sits, and I lower myself dumbly beside her. The guys I like never like me back. Why? Am I not good enough? Will I never be good enough?

  “So is that why you didn’t want to ride with me?” Vonzelle says. She motions with her chin to indicate Cole and Trista.

  “I didn’t not want to ride with you,” I say.

  “That’s what I’m saying. You weren’t like, ‘Ew, Vonzelle.’ You were, ‘Ooo, what’s-his-name.’”

  “Cole,” I say. I haven’t even admitted it to Peyton, the extent of my crush. But, yeah.

  Vonzelle props her head in her hands. “Pretty cute for a white boy.”

  I glance at her. “Pretty unavailable, too.”

  Trista glances at the curb where Vonzelle and I are sitting. She nestles against Cole’s chest and gives me a he’s-mine look from under a swoop of blond hair.

  “Did you see that?” I say, astounded.

  “I sure did.”

  “For real—the look she gave me.” I’ve never been given a look like that before, a look that so blatantly said hands off.

  “Guess she’s afraid you’re the other woman,” Vonzelle says.

  “Seriously?”

  Vonzelle snorts. “For a white girl, you sure are dumb.”

  “Can we stop with the black/white thing?” I say. “We’re all just people. We’re not that different, okay?”

  Her gaze floats over my hippie jeans and lumberjack hoodie. “And here I thought you wanted to be different, always wearing your crazy clothes.”

  I’m not sure whether to be offended or not. “You think my clothes are crazy?”

  “Heck yeah, ’cause you’re a crazy honky. Crazy honkies wear crazy honky clothes.”

  “You just called me a honky,” I say. I’m shocked, but kind of delighted.

  “I go to a honky school, don’t I? I think I know a honky when I see one.”

  “Shut up. I’m not a honky.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but you are.”

  “Nuh-uh. Lydia can be the honky. Or Trista! Trista can be the honky!” I say it more loudly than I intend, and Trista swivels her head.

  You did not just say what I think you did, her expression says.

  “Oh, crud,” I say.

  Vonzelle cracks up. “Keep calling people names, and Santa’s going to bring you a lump of coal.”

  It takes me a second, but I get it. A lump of coal . . . a lump of Cole? Clever girl, that Vonzelle.

  “I wish,” I say.

  She grins and leans back on her palms. “Or not. Word around town is that the best honkies are getting big ole cans of Campbell’s cream of Jesus.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHO CARES WHAT BRAND YOUR JEANS ARE IF YOU DON’T HAVE A BUTT?

  The next day, I fill Peyton in about the Trista/Cole situation. She’s disgusted.

  “Trista?” she says as we file into the auditorium for our Friday-morning assembly.

  “Yes, but hush,” I say. Lydia is behind us. I don’t want her knowing I care.

  Peyton scooches into a row. “Oh, that is just sad,” she whispers. “But maybe they were just flirting. Maybe it won’t stick.”

  I jerk my chin at Cole, who’s ten rows in front of us. Trista is sitting beside him. Cole leans his head toward hers and says something into her ear, and she smiles up at him in a sweet, scrunched-nose kind of way.

  “Dang,” Peyton says. “It stuck.”

  The assembly starts, and for the first ten minutes it’s all Yay, Christmas! Yay, Christmas break! And here are the five thousand things you need to do before the end of the day, like clean out your lockers and turn in your final papers and, oh yeah, be really really super grateful that Jesus was born all those years ago so He could die for your sins!

  Miss Potter, head of administration, has lots of announcements. Peyton and I switch to written communication.

  She needs a DYE JOB!!! Peyton scribbles on a notepad, meaning Trista.

  Does she? Her hair looks good to me. Maybe it’s not perfectly plopped like Peyton’s, but shiny, bouncy, and blond would be annoyingly appropriate adjectives to describe it.

  Maybe I need a dye job, I write back. And not from Jerr.

  Maybe Trista needs to go to Jerr, Peyton writes. She needs to be taken DOWN.

  I get inspired and sketch a line drawing of Peyton that looks like “What’s Her Face” from Teen Girl Squad, an extremely funny Web cartoon about high-school girls. The characters say things like,

  “Hey, gals! Let’s go get ready to LOOK SO GOOD!”

  I draw Peyton with stick arms, swoopy hair, and a cute little swimsuit with cutouts. I draw me next to her. I take the role of the Ugly One, so I give myself a dumpy one-piece. Behind us, I sketch a swimming pool.

  Peyton tries to peek, but I shoo her away.

  “Patience, young grasshopper,” I say.

  Next I draw Trista, who of course gets to be Cheerleader. Boo. She gets perky pigtails, empty circle eyes, and a wide-open smile that looks manic. Oh, and a bikini. Since I’m in control of my pen, I employ artistic license and add a necklace with a huge, sparkly cross. Cheerleaders for Christ!

  Now it’s time for speech bubbles. I crib from the cartoon, but add my own touches. First I make Peyton say, “I like boys!”

  “Not my boy,” Trista says.

  In the next frame, I draw a giant squid coming out of the pool, wrapping its tentacles around Trista and pulling her under.

  “Uh-oh . . .” my cartoon Peyton says.

  “Let’s go to Starbucks!” says Ugly Girl, who is really me.

  “Yeah!” Peyton says. “I love coffee!!!!!”

  At the bottom, in big letters: THE END.

  I hand Peyton the notebook. She chortles. A teacher behind us leans forward and hisses, “Girls. You need to be listening.”

  Peyton faces forward and pretends to pay rapt attention to Headmaster Perkins, who’s taken over from Miss Potter. Headmaster Perkins introduces today’s speaker, a man in a wheelchair named Sergeant Franco. The Percolator tells us that Sergeant Franco was a paratrooper in the Iraq war (Operation Enduring Freedom), and he jumped out of a plane, and his parachute didn’t open all the way. Big-time suckage.

  So now Sergeant Franco has no legs, and his face is a misshapen, reconstructed mess. If you saw him on the street, you’d think, oh my God and look away. But because he’s our assembly speaker, we have to look at him.

  At first, I’m still distracted by Cole and Trista. But when the Percolator gives Sergeant Franco the mike and takes a seat at the back of the stage, I find myself drawn into Ser
geant Franco’s talk.

  “I’m no longer imprisoned by ego,” he tells us happily. His speech is slurred because when he landed, he bit off a chunk of his tongue. “Are my sunglasses the right brand? Who cares! Am I wearing the right jeans? Doesn’t matter! I’ve got nothing to put in them!”

  On the other side of Peyton, Lydia harrumphs. “Just because he’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean he shouldn’t care about how he looks,” she whispers.

  “Almost every part of my body is gone, damaged, or fake,” Sergeant Franco says. “I have to clean my stumps to prevent infection, and I wear a colostomy bag to collect intestinal waste.”

  “Eww,” Lydia says.

  Judging by Headmaster Perkins’s expression, he feels the same way. Likewise, Miss Potter. I get the sense that Sergeant Franco is not what they expected.

  “I know some of you find that unpleasant,” Sergeant Franco says, “and that’s okay. You see, that’s the gift I’ve been given: I see our earthly existence for what it is. Our bodies are impermanent. Beauty is impermanent. Every single one of us will die.”

  “He’s kind of being supernegative,” Peyton whispers.

  “I know,” Lydia whispers back. “Like, since he’s ugly, he wants to rub it in that everyone else is going to be ugly one day, too.”

  I lean over. “That is not what he’s saying.”

  “Anyway, they’re doing so much these days with laser surgery and chemical peels and stuff,” Lydia goes on.

  “My mom says there’s no reason not to look good all the way into your sixties,” Peyton replies.

  Grrrrr. Ten minutes ago, Peyton was fun, but in the blink of Sergeant Franco’s wounded eye, she’s gone all Lydia on me.

  I angle my body away from them and focus on Sergeant Franco. I feel like it matters, what he’s saying. Like, two minutes ago I was moaning and groaning about my stupid problems, and now here Sergeant Franco is, reminding me that there are more important things to care about than crushes and jealousies and dye jobs.

  “Does realizing that ‘this, too, shall pass’ mean life has no purpose?” Sergeant Franco asks. “No, exactly the opposite. It allows me to look past the surface, that’s all.”