Frenemy of the People

by Nora Olsen

  “Mom!” I called into the cavernous hallway. Skippy, our golden retriever, bounded up to me, barking, and I rubbed his head. From the living room I could hear the TV. Desi was probably watching Wendy Wu: Homecoming Warrior again. She’d been obsessively watching this movie for weeks. It was driving me crazy, but it was better than the Jonas Brothers movies she was watching before.

  “I’m in the kitchen, bug,” Mom shouted back. Bug doesn’t sound very good, but it’s short for love bug, which she’s called me since I was a baby. She used to call my sister Desi bun for honeybun until Desi asked her to stop.

  The kitchen was my mom’s favorite place in the house. She really liked to cook. But I found her on the phone instead of cooking. Practically shouting. A red sauce was bubbling on the stove, so I stirred it.

  “I just talked to loss mitigation. They told me to call you, at imminent default. So why are you telling me I have to talk to them? I’ve been on the phone for—hello? Hello?” She sighed and hung up. “I keep going through the phone tree and getting someone at a call center in India, and then when I finally reach someone who can help me, they hang up on me. It’s about the stupid mortgage.”

  Mortgage was one of those boring grown-up things I didn’t even want to understand. Like episiotomy and French drains. When adults started gossiping about those things, I was so gone.

  “Oh, thank you, honey, but you should always wash your hands before you start messing with food,” my mom said.

  “Mom. I’m only touching the spoon. The handle of the spoon.”

  “Yeah, but you just came from the barn, didn’t you? You smell like horse. I don’t want any horse in my sauce.” She washed her own hands, which had been touching a filthy, contaminated phone, and then began messing around with her sauce.

  “Can I tell you something? I’m not sure if I want to do equestrian club this year.”

  I was pretty sure Mom would be mad about this. My sister Desi had been saying she wanted to join equestrian club. She rides in Special Olympics, and she has a good seat and handles the horse well. But I wasn’t sure how the other girls in equestrian would react, and I didn’t want to spend all my time running interference for Desi. I figured Mom would think that was why I was dropping equestrian.

  To my surprise, she seemed relieved. “That’s totally fine, bug. There are so many expenses with equestrian that add up. Why don’t you just skip it this year?”

  She took that well. “Can I tell you something else?” I asked.

  I like to get things off my chest. I don’t like having secrets from my parents. And I knew my mom wasn’t homophobic even though she’s religious. The pastor at our megachurch hated the gays, but Mom didn’t. She always said we might not agree with Reverend Stebbins, but we had to respect him.

  My mom gestured to go ahead.

  “I’m bisexual.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” she asked. She wasn’t kidding. She led a sheltered life.

  “That’s when you are romantically interested in both boys and girls. Like half-gay, half-straight. You know, like Natalie Portman in Black Swan? Only not necessarily crazy or a ballerina.”

  Mom sighed and stirred her sauce. “Bug, I don’t have time for any kind of drama.”

  “Way to be supportive, Mom.”

  “Look, just don’t tell your sister about this bisexual business. You know how impressionable she is. She’ll start saying she’s bisexual too.”

  “What if she is? You always say Desi can be anything she wants to be.”

  Actually, I didn’t think for even a second that my sister was bi. She was boy crazy like nobody’s business. And she had never displayed the slightest interest in a girl.

  “Come on, Clarissa,” Mom said. “Either help me with dinner or step out of my kitchen.”

  I stepped out of her kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  Lexie

  I hated everyone in school with the red-hot passion of a thousand suns. No one was exempt from my loathing. You know the part in the movie Clue where Madeline Kahn talks about flames on the side of her face to describe how much she hates the murder victim? That’s how I felt about all these people.

  I know how that makes me sound, but if you knew these people, you would despise them also. Don’t worry, I’m not a bring-a-gun-to-school type. I just hate silently.

  The thing is, they were all completely fake. No one had the slightest interest in anything real. All they cared about was themselves. Even when they were pretending to care about someone else, it was actually really about themselves. They only came alive for stuff like prom, homecoming, sports, making the honor roll, and drinking lots of beer. I’m utterly oblivious to such trivia.

  At least my ex-girlfriend Ramone cared about stuff. Like politics, and what’s going on in the world. We went to an Occupy Wall Street event in New York City together and slept overnight in the same sleeping bag in a dirty collective house. Even if it turned out she didn’t care about me at all, at least she cared about the world and inequality. And she was genuine. Genuine bitch, as it turned out, but not fake. Anyway, Ramone graduated last June, right before we broke up. This fall she was going to Wheaton College. So now it was just me stuck here.

  The first day of school was the worst. Because that’s when the greatest hypocrisy was on display. That’s when they have a special assembly where the different school clubs talk about what they do. Even the ones that seemed at first to be for a good cause, like the environmental club, are actually just about looking good on your college applications.

  When I was an ignorant first-year (the nonsexist term for freshman, if you didn’t know) I went to a meeting of HELP. I should have known from the name. It stands for Helping Everyone Less Privileged. How can you help everyone less privileged? That’s a lot of people! When the principal talks about it, he always calls it Helping Others Less Privileged. But that would spell HOLP. Anyway, what HELP or HOLP does is make cheese sandwiches and then take the train into NYC and hand out the sandwiches to homeless people in Grand Central. Sounds good, right? I tried it once. But the people in HOLP were so snotty, both to me and to the homeless people, that it was awful. One homeless woman asked what kind of sandwiches they were, and the leader of HOLP said, “If you’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat it.” Then afterward they were all like, Ugh I hate cheese sandwiches, let’s go to Two Boots and get something to eat. And then let’s do a little shopping before we go back. Will you be all right on the train alone, Lexie? So that was the end of my extracurricular involvement.

  I fumed in my spot at the end of the second-to-last bench in the back of the auditorium, as close to the exit as I could get, while HOLP gave their spiel about how rewarding it is to feed the homeless. A sophomore boy was kicking the back of my seat over and over. I yelled at him, but he didn’t stop.

  Then this girl Clarissa Kirchendorfer got up. That is a classic kind of name these people have. It tells you everything you need to know about her. She was all sunshine and light in a false way, and she was just kind of a Susie Creamcheese type who blurted out inappropriate things. I thought she was there to introduce the equestrian team, which was the activity she and her three clones do.

  “Hi there. I’m here to tell you some very special news, which is that Parlington High School has a brand-new club,” Clarissa Kirchendorfer said, flipping her brown hair behind her back. “This is the first year for our gay-straight alliance.”

  My mouth dropped open. Impossible. I had tried to start a GSA last year and I couldn’t find a faculty sponsor. I tried all the teachers who I knew were totally gay and in the closet, and they all said they were too busy.

  “Our faculty sponsor is Señora Modesto, who very kindly signed the form about five minutes ago,” Clarissa chirped, holding up a piece of paper and blowing on the signature. Pure stagecraft because I’m sure it was ballpoint pen.

  Señora Modesto was this fossilized Spanish teacher who wore a way-too-black wig that was sometimes on crooked. She
’d been here longer than any other teacher. Her class was really easy and kids always took advantage of her. I think she might honestly have early onset Alzheimer’s.

  I never ever thought of her as a faculty sponsor. Clarissa must be slightly smarter than she looked.

  “Now, the name gay-straight alliance implies it’s a club for gay and straight students, but actually that’s just a name! It’s also open to lesbian, bisexual, and transgender students. I’m not sure what transgender is yet, but I found a website that’s going to explain it to me.”

  I recoiled in horror at her benighted ignorance, bumping into the sleeping sophomore beside me. This was just so wrong. It was like a neo-Nazi student starting a Holocaust studies group.

  “So if you are transgender, you should totally come to our group. It’s for everybody. Including straight people, right? Like, it has the word straight in the name. It’s a safe space for students to talk about being gay or whatever, where there will be no teasing, bullying, or negativity of any kind. So you should totally sign up for the club. All the activities haven’t been planned yet, but I think we might do a car wash to raise money and candy grams for Valentine’s Day.”

  Nooo! A GSA was not about candy grams or car washes. This was my worst nightmare, except my unconscious mind could never have imagined anything this weird.

  “And if you sign up, don’t worry about people teasing you or anything, because remember this club is for everyone. And people should learn to be tolerant and respectful of people who are different. Thank you.”

  She stepped down. I was so shocked I didn’t even hear a word of what the next girl said. I think it was either a film club or possibly something to do with animals.

  After the assembly, Clarissa Kirchendorfer accosted me as I was leaving the auditorium. She actually grabbed my shoulder, which I considered an invasion of my personal space.

  “Lexie! I hope you’re going to join the GSA,” she said. She beamed at me expectantly.

  Now, look. Everyone in the school knows I’m a lesbian. It was the talk of the school last year when Ramone and I were dating. We never tried to hide it. But it’s just rude to go up to someone and out them by telling them they should join the gay club. That is not how some straight girl who decided for unfathomable reasons to start a GSA should behave. She needed sensitivity training already.

  “Why do you say that, Clarissa?” I said, staring at her blankly.

  “Well, you’re the only openly queer person I know of in the school,” she said. “That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? Queer?”

  “You have to be queer to get to say queer,” I told her. “If you don’t understand that, I can’t explain it to you.”

  “Oh, I’m totally queer,” she said. “I’m bisexual.”

  “Making out with another girl in front of your boyfriend to turn him on does not make you bisexual,” I told her.

  She turned beet red. “I never did anything like that. Who said that? Did Slobberin’ Robert say that? Don’t believe everything that guy says.”

  She used to date this guy Slobberin’ Robert, who was one of the few people I could tolerate, even though he was a moron.

  “No one said it. I’m just saying, just because you’re bi-curious does not mean you can start a GSA.”

  She blinked. “Actually, it does. I called GLSEN and talked to them. Anyone can. Did you know the first student in the whole world ever to start a GSA was straight? All you have to do at Parlington is fill out a form and get a faculty sponsor. I thought you’d be happy about this. GSAs are totally for bi-curious people, anyway. That’s q for questioning. But for your information, I’m not bi-curious. I’m the real thing. Like, I came out to my mom two days ago.”

  “So what happened to you over the summer? You dated a girl?” I was starting to get interested, despite myself. A lot of girls start out by saying they’re bi and ultimately come out as lesbian.

  “No. I just realized.” She still had a smile on her face, but it looked curdled.

  She was a phony after all. “You just realized? How do you really know? Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

  The curdled smile vanished. “Look, if you want to sign up for the GSA, there will be no negativity allowed in our meetings. It’s a safe space.” She turned on her heel.

  Whatever. She could keep her safe space. I would rather have my negativity. No way would I join a club run by her.

  The one good thing about the awful assembly was we had twenty minutes of free time afterward. The club representatives sat at tables in the cafeteria so you could sign up. The best part was there was free tea and hot chocolate, to lure you down there. I went to get some tea but steered well clear of the club tables. Even though I didn’t go near them, I spotted Clarissa Kirchendorfer’s distinctive pink-and-white Aeropostale polo shirt. People were clustered in front of other tables, but not hers. She was all alone. No one was signing up for her club.

  Chapter Three

  Clarissa

  What that girl Lexie said really bothered me. I knew she was just being mean-spirited and trying to hurt me, even though I was reaching out to her. She’s just like that, all sour and bitter every second for no reason. But what she said was nagging at me, the part about how did I really know I was bi if I hadn’t even kissed a girl.

  I thought I would like kissing a girl, but what if I was wrong? What if it wasn’t like I imagined? Like, I thought I would love the Great American Scream Machine at Six Flags. But actually I hated it and I threw up. In the souvenir picture, which was taken right after the first loop where you go upside down, you can even see the puke starting to come out of my mouth. A thin stream of it. Jenna was so amused, she bought the picture as a keychain even though it was seriously overpriced.

  I worried about this the whole drive home after school—the kissing thing, not the puking thing. Although when you think about it, it’s the same mouth that you puke with as you kiss with, which is gross. I worried some more when I got home. No one was home, so I could just pace around the house. Then Desi got home—she takes the cheese bus because she does some after-school thing and leaves later than me every day but Friday, when I drive us both home.

  “You have to take me to dance class,” she reminded me the second she walked in the door. “It’s written on my schedule.”

  “I know, I know. Get your dance bag.”

  It was Desi’s first time taking dance class. She was graduating in June, and Mom was a little freaked out that she wouldn’t be able to get a job and she wouldn’t have anything to do. So she and Desi planned all these activities that Desi can keep doing after she graduates.

  I drove Desi to the nearest Loop stop, which was right outside the Stop & Shop in Beekman. The Loop is the public bus around here. Only people who don’t have cars or can’t drive take the Loop, so it’s all kids, developmentally disabled adults, alcoholics who had their licenses taken away, and some other people who are kind of marginal. In this area, you have to be low income to be carless. We have three cars, but one of them is my dad’s classic Daimler, and he won’t let anyone use it but him. If he’s driving it and it starts to rain, he goes home so it won’t get wet. Yet he is constantly washing it. Sometimes he makes no sense.

  Desi took the Loop lots of places by herself, but this was her first time going to this dance class, so I had to go with her to make sure she learned her route and wouldn’t get lost. While we were waiting for the Loop, a smelly disheveled man staggered up to us.

  “Could you ladies spare a dollar?” he asked.

  I just looked away and muttered, “No.”

  But Desi smiled widely at him and said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. But I think you’re doing a wonderful thing. Good luck.”

  The man stopped paying attention to Desi as soon as she said, “I’m sorry,” and drifted on to an uptight-looking African American woman. I vaguely overheard them, but I was staring at Desi.

  “Desi,” I hissed, “why did you tell that man he was doing a wonder
ful thing?”

  She looked at me, puzzled. “Because he was raising money for UNICEF or another charity.”

  “No, Des, he was not.”

  “Yes, he was. That’s what people are doing when they ask for money. Like at football games or at church.”

  Ah. “Sometimes they are. But not this man. He was asking for money so he could buy beer. To get drunk.”

  She looked seriously shocked. Both her and my mom, and my dad too to some extent, live in this sheltered fantasy world. I could tell she didn’t really believe me.

  “Or drugs.”

  “No!” She was so scandalized she didn’t believe me.

  “Desiree, it’s true. So when you’re taking the Loop by yourself, or if you’re anywhere by yourself, if someone comes up to you and asks for money, don’t take your wallet out and—are you listening?—don’t start a conversation with them.”

  “It’s rude to just ignore someone,” Desi said. “How would you feel if you needed money and everyone pretended you were not there?”

  “You can say sorry. But that’s it. If they try to start a conversation, do not talk to them. This is for your safety. There are some bad people in the world.”

  Her bottom lip jutted out and she got that stubborn look on her face. “I’m not going to listen to you,” she said. “You’re wrong. Mom told me to treat everyone I meet as if he was Jesus.”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes,” I said and didn’t say anything else to her until the Loop came. Everyone in our family went to church, so I guess we were all pretty religious, but Desi and Mom were, like, extra religious. Someone needed to teach the girl about street safety, though. She clearly had no sense of stranger danger.