Frenemy of the People

by Nora Olsen

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” I said.

  “Pleeeease?” wheedled Desi.

  “You have to tell me what it is first.”

  Desi put down her fork and pushed her plate to one side. She said, “I want to be homecoming queen. Like in Wendy Wu: Homecoming Warrior.”

  “You want to learn kung fu too?” I asked. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d been watching that movie over and over for months.

  “No. Just the homecoming queen part.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The homecoming court is the royalty of the school,” Desi said. “Everyone respects them. I want to make more friends and gain the adoration of the whole school.”

  “It’s kind of a popularity contest,” I told her. “Usually some really popular girl is homecoming queen. Most people don’t even know you.”

  “I don’t care,” Desi said. “I think it’s time for a homecoming queen with Down syndrome. And it shouldn’t be Shelley Ortiz because she is only fourteen. She’s just a baby.”

  “I don’t know if this is such a great idea,” I said.

  “It’s my dream. Mom always says I should follow my dreams.”

  Yeah, and she also told you that you should treat everyone you meet like Jesus, I thought. I had told Mom she had to talk to Desi about stranger danger, but she had just sighed and said she didn’t have time to deal with this right now, and maybe Dad would do it. Mom seemed to have no time for anything lately.

  How could I convince Desi not to do something that would disappoint her?

  “Have you thought about who your king would be?” I asked. “It can’t be Bryan because he doesn’t go to Parlington. Wouldn’t he be jealous?”

  Desi’s brow furrowed. Maybe this would be a deal breaker. It seemed like Desi and Bryan were attached at the hip. Sometimes they had dramatic fights, but they always got back together, usually in a matter of hours.

  “Could they make a special exception for him?” Desi asked.

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I’ll just have to explain to Bryan that he can’t be jealous. This is my last chance. I’m a senior.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Desi was twenty-one, and special-ed students could go to school until they were twenty-one. This was her last year. Now that I thought about it, a few times recently I had overheard Desi talking to herself and saying something about a queen. But everyone already knew the homecoming king and queen would be Ty Williams and Heather Barrington, the most popular seniors.

  “I need your help,” Desi said.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  She beamed as if I had promised the moon. “Thanks!”

  I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. But she’d already had such a hard time at Parlington. My mom had to fight with the school every year to make sure Desi could participate in everything. Ever since preschool, Desi did full inclusion, which meant she was in a regular classroom with all typical kids, although she sometimes had an aide or got pulled out for certain subjects. She basically never saw another person with a disability. Mom always said that Desi could do everything, so she didn’t want her in any special programs. But then about two years ago, Desi started coming home crying from school every day and saying she had no friends and people were mean to her. I think she had some friends, but they were getting volunteer credit to be her friend, not like real friends at all. She said she wanted to be around people who were like her, and she was tired of having to be the special one all the time. I thought she was a total drama queen, but Mom was shaken up by it. She signed Desi up for Special Olympics, and also the disco night where she met Bryan. Since then, Desi had stopped complaining about school, but why rock the boat in her senior year?

  Desi got up to bus her tray and got in line at the tray carts behind a tall boy dressed in black. I knew he was an arrogant theater dude, and I was pretty sure his name was Hector. After he put his tray on the cart, he deliberately bumped into Desi’s tray. Spaghetti sauce splashed up from her plate onto her white blouse. He brushed by her with a sneer. Desi must not have noticed the stains because she just calmly placed her tray in the cart. I wondered if it would be worth it to say something to Hector later or just let it go.

  “Hey, you,” a girl called to Desi. “Hey, come over here.” It was someone at a table full of freshman girls. Desi turned and walked over to the table. She warily kept her distance.

  “No, really, come here. We want to be your friends,” another girl said.

  Desi came a little bit closer.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Desiree Kirchendorfer.”

  “What??”

  “My name is Desiree. Desi, for short.”

  I was tempted to go over there, but then again, she was always telling me she didn’t want her little sister to fight her battles for her.

  “Well, Desi-for-short, we want to be your friends. We love your clothes.”

  “Thanks,” said Desi flatly. I could tell she was on to them, and I was glad.

  “Oh no, you know what? Actually, we don’t.”

  “Yeah, because you have tomato sauce all over you. What are you, a pig?”

  “You’re so bad,” hissed another girl. She was giggling, but she looked ashamed too. Another girl was focused on her food and wouldn’t look up. I reminded myself these girls had only been in high school for a few days and hardly knew each other. Maybe it was only natural to turn on and try to destroy someone they thought was weaker. Anyway, that’s what Ms. Crouch said last period about Lord of the Flies.

  “You’re just being mean,” Desi said.

  The girls giggled harder.

  “It’s not funny. I don’t know why you want to make me feel bad, but I’m going to ignore you. And you know what else? I’m going to tell the guidance counselor about you. So you’re going to get in trouble.”

  Okay, turn away and leave now, I urged my sister silently. But Desi continued to stand there and stare at them with a look of judgment in her eyes. Like she wanted to crush them with her quiet dignity. Was this part of treating everyone like they were Jesus?

  The girls looked worried for about maybe one second. Then the ringleader girl laughed and made an ooga-booga motion with her hands. “Oh, I’m so scared,” she said. “Did you hear? We’re going to get in twubble.”

  I couldn’t take this anymore. I hadn’t seen this kind of thing in a while. Abandoning my tray, I walked over to Desi. I put my arm around her, and she leaned her head against me. She came up to my armpit. I ignored the table of mean girls and acted like I hadn’t seen Desi all day, like we hadn’t just had lunch together.

  “Guess what?” I said. “I am going to help you with your campaign to be homecoming queen. What the hell?”

  At that moment my crazy ex-boyfriend Slobberin’ Robert walked by. With a flick of his hand he knocked over one of the freshman girls’ sodas. Either he had overheard the whole thing and wanted to take his revenge, or he himself was a total jerk. I knew him better than probably anyone else at Parlington, and I didn’t have the slightest idea. A brown stream dripped across the whole table and the girls all leaped up, exclaiming and wiping off their jeans.

  “Oops,” he said nonchalantly and walked away smiling.

  Chapter Six

  Lexie

  All night I had dreamed about Clarissa and Ramone kissing. It made me so furious that my previous anger at Clarissa seemed like nothing more than a tiny ember compared to a raging forest fire.

  All day at school I looked for Clarissa’s brown ponytail. I thought I saw her a couple times, but it was always some kind of look-alike. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Was it better to remain aloof and act like I was above it all? Or maybe just to call her a slut and dunk her head into the water fountain?

  Finally, right before the second-to-last period, I saw her in the stairwell, taping up a photocopied sign. She was wearing a pink fitted baby-doll tee with a picture of a
cowgirl on a horse and Yes, I Do Ride Like a Girl on the back. She actually looked kind of cute, and that pissed me off even more.

  “Clarissa Kirchendorfer,” I intoned. “Do you know now whether you’re really bisexual?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Clarissa perkily. “Thanks for asking. Guess what, Desi is running for homecoming queen. Definitely think about nominating Desi. Nominations will be next week in health class.”

  I wasn’t expecting that response. How can you insult someone who’s so thick she’s impervious to nuance of every kind? Playing for time, I examined the sign. It showed a photo of a girl with Down syndrome, and it was captioned Desi for Homecoming Queen.

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’ll vote for Desi. It’ll show what a stupid sham the homecoming concept really is if a retarded girl is homecoming queen.”

  Clarissa’s cheerful facade disappeared. Her eyes blazed at me with more emotion than I had ever seen on someone’s face in this wretched hive of banality called a school. Her hands balled into fists at her side.

  “I have stood a lot of remarks from you, Lexie, because that’s how I was raised, but now you’ve gone too far. Do not make disparaging remarks about my sister.”

  “Your sister?” I said, surprised. But then not surprised. I’d been stuck in the same English class as Clarissa for three years running, and now I could remember that last year Clarissa had read an essay about having a sister with Down syndrome. It was insincere and nauseating, just like the rest of her shtick.

  “For your information, Miss Socialist Party-Pants, the word retarded is a slur and you should never, ever say it,” Clarissa said.

  “Miss Socialist Party-Pants?” I said and laughed. “What—?”

  “Not to mention everything you just said is degrading and offensive,” Clarissa shouted over me, stabbing her finger in front of my face. With a swirl of ponytail, she stormed off.

  “You are overly sensitive and crazy and a complete phony, you slag!” I shouted after her.

  “Ooh, catfight,” said a random boy passing by. But Clarissa didn’t look back, so I continued on my way to class, trying to act casual, but my heart was pounding hard and the blood was singing in my head.

  In my incredibly boring precalc class, I tried to sort out how I felt. I had wanted to get back at Clarissa, and I had done it. Was I happy now?

  No.

  I was having a hard time believing the word retarded was offensive. But Clarissa had been offended. And that wasn’t exactly how I had meant to get back at her, by insulting her sister. It seemed a bit low. I had only wanted to express my contempt for this overblown popularity contest and the concept of monarchy in high school.

  But…

  If I was going to be honest, I probably had remembered, on some unconscious level, that Desi was Clarissa’s sister. So then I had meant to personally offend her. And I had basically said that people with Down syndrome were worthless. That her sister was stupid and a good representative of how stupid high school was. That didn’t sound like what I really thought.

  While Ms. Cavendish talked about rational and irrational numbers, I surreptitiously took out my smartphone and, in a move I had perfected last year, hid it behind my math book. Without hardly looking at my phone, I Googled Is the word retarded offensive?

  All the sites that said no sounded kind of intellectually lazy. It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t mean anything bad by it. The ones who said yes sounded more on point. It hurts people with intellectual disabillities and the people who love them. It’s hate speech. It reinforces negative stereotypes. Apparently retarded wasn’t even the official word for this disability anymore, so the word existed only as an insult.

  It kind of reminded me of the way everyone said, That’s so gay. My almost-friend Slobberin’ Robert said that all the time. He kept saying it was in a completely different context and had nothing to do with actual gay people. Which made no sense. Would he go around saying, That’s so Chinese, and then not understand why a Chinese kid would get offended?

  I was presented with a puzzling ethical dilemma. I hated Clarissa. I wanted to insult her and make her miserable. But I didn’t want to be a bigoted person. What was the correct thing to do in this situation?

  In my notebook, I drafted the perfect apology. I thought it neither apologized too much nor too little.

  Clarissa,

  I’m sorry I called your sister that word. I didn’t know it was offensive but it turns out you are right. Also every time I think about homecoming or prom, I puke a little and die inside, so it was insulting to say your sister would be a fitting homecoming queen, and I take it back. My wish was to insult you, not your sister, because you are a slatternly strumpet.

  I got back on my phone and went on Facebook so I could send Clarissa the message.

  But I had pushed my luck too far. Ms. Cavendish came down the aisle unexpectedly and saw me pecking at my phone.

  “You know the rules,” she said, tearing an infraction sheet off her pad and handing it to me. “No phones in class. Go see the vice principal. Don’t come back to my class until you’re capable of learning something,” she said, leaning in close to my face in a menacing way.

  I thought that was a bit unfair. As I walked through the empty hallway to the vice principal’s office, I figured I was learning more than anyone else in the class. I was learning about humanity, and I was willing to humble myself to one of my worst enemies.

  There were a lot of other kids waiting for Mr. Viscount, so I returned to my phone while I waited. You weren’t supposed to use a phone in the VP’s anteroom either, but they had already busted me for it, so why not? I found Clarissa’s profile on Facebook. Her profile pic was her standing next to a brown horse. All her posts were about horses too. Obsessed much?

  Upon reflection, my apology note could be improved. It lost its martyr-like perfection a little bit at the end when I called Clarissa a slattern. From a feminist perspective, did I really have a right to be so angry at Clarissa for kissing Ramone? Me and Ramone had broken up months ago. Sure, I was mad, that was only natural. But was it really the best idea to act all bitchy?

  Also, slatternly strumpet was kind of redundant.

  In the end, I took out the last sentence, and then sent it.

  Immediately, I felt like a million bucks. There was nothing like doing the right thing. My insides were cleansed and pure. When Mr. Viscount called me in and yelled at me, instead of vowing to see him strangled in Ms. Cavendish’s entrails, I merely floated above it all on a cloud of righteousness.

  “You are not living up to the social contract,” Mr. Viscount told me. “If you continue on this path in life, you will be a big failure. It doesn’t matter how rich your parents are. Why are you in my office when it’s only the second day of school?”

  No one can imprison me, I thought. My soul contains multitudes and flies beyond the choking bonds of this awful place.

  Mr. Viscount let me go in time for the next class. My phone vibrated on the way, since it hadn’t occurred to him to confiscate it. It was a reply from Clarissa, so I ducked into the bathroom to see what she had to say.

  It’s OK. Thx for ur apology. I appreciate u saying that. Not every1 can admit mistakes & Im glad u lurned something, not 2 B preachy. Im sorry I called you Lenin-Pants or whatev I said. Will you help me with Desi’s campaign?

  This girl was a whack job. I wrote back:

  I don’t know if you saw the part where I said every time I think about homecoming, I puke a little and die inside? So, no.

  She responded immediately:

  Frankly I am desperate. It’s OK if u think H.C. is sham as long as u don’t say that when u campaign 4 Desi. Ppl are not vy receptive and they just laugh at her campaign so I need help.

  I had been railroaded. What could I say? I had to say yes.

  Chapter Seven

  Clarissa

  After school, I headed straight for the barn. Desi’s homecoming queen campaign was causing m
e so much grief, but I knew riding Sassy and taking care of her would cure me.

  I even loved walking inside the barn. The smell of the hay, the light-colored wood of the floor, the sunshine streaming in, all those things cheered me up. Spending time with my horse always took my cares off my shoulders and made me feel like all was right in the world. I liked seeing all the horses peek out to see who was coming. I thought I heard Sassy’s distinctive nicker from the other end of the barn.

  Mrs. Astin, who owned the barn, was at the rack where the tack was kept, tidying up a tangle of bridles. I greeted her, but she seemed surprised to see me. Then she did a weird thing. She embraced me.

  What was going on? True, I was usually at the barn every day, and I’d missed the day before. Still.

  “I want you to know you can come visit Sassy anytime,” Mrs. Astin said.

  I laughed nervously. “I know it’s been a couple days,” I said. I took Sassy’s saddle off its hook.

  “But I’m afraid I can’t let you ride her,” Mrs. Astin said.

  “Why not?” I asked. My body jangled with alarm. Was Sassy ill?

  “No one said anything to you?” Mrs. Astin said. Now she looked nervous. “Your parents didn’t tell you?”

  I brushed past Mrs. Astin and ran to Sassy’s stall. I envisioned Sassy lying on her side in the straw, foam coming from her mouth. But Sassy was standing there waiting for me, like she always did. Her bright eyes looked inquisitive. She flicked her tail and snorted. I leaned over and blew into my horse’s nostrils. That sounds pretty weird, but horses really like it. Sassy made a happy whinnying sound.

  Mrs. Astin followed me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Sassy is totally fine,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But I do have some bad news for you. Your parents have sold Sassy. You should talk to your parents about this as soon as you can. I really would have expected them to tell you.”