OPRAH, SALLY JESSY, JERRY, AND ME
My fever is 102.2. Sounds like a radio station. Mom calls to remind me to drink a lot of fluids. I say "Thank you," even though it hurts my throat. It's nice of her to call me. She promises to bring home Popsicles. I hang up and snuggle into my couch nest with the remote. Click. Click. Click.
If my life were a TV show, what would it be? If it were an After-School Special, I would speak in front of an auditorium of my peers on How Not to Lose Your Virginity. Or, Why Seniors Should Be Locked Up. Or, My Summer Vacation: A Drunken Party, Lies, and Rape.
Was I raped?
Oprah: "Let's explore that. You said no. He covered your mouth with his hand. You were thirteen years old. It doesn't matter that you were drunk. Honey, you were raped. What a horrible, horrible thing for you to live though. Didn't you ever think of telling anyone? You can't keep this inside forever. Can someone get her a tissue?"
Sally Jessy: "I want this boy held responsible. He is to blame for this attack. You do know it was an attack, don't you? It was not your fault. I want you to listen to me, listen to me, listen to me. It was not your fault. This boy was an animal."
Jerry: "Was it love? No. Was it lust? No. Was it tenderness, sweetness, the First Time they talk about in magazines? No, no, no, no, no! Speak up, Meatilda, ah, Melinda, I can't hear you!"
My head is killing me, my throat is killing me, my stomach bubbles with toxic waste. I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
I take two Tylenol and eat a bowl of pudding. Then I watch Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and fall asleep. A trip to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe would be nice. Maybe I could stay with Daniel Striped Tiger in his tree house.
May is finally here and it has stopped raining. Good thing, too—the mayor of Syracuse was about to put out a call for a guy named Noah. The sun appears butter-yellow and so warm it coaxes tulips out of the crusty mud. A miracle.
Our yard is a mess. All our neighbors have these great magazine-cover yards with flowers that match their shutters and expensive white rocks that border fresh mounds of mulch. Ours has green bushes that just about cover the front windows, and lots of dead leaves.
Mom is already gone. Saturday is the biggest selling day of the week at Effert's. Dad snores upstairs. I put on old jeans and unearth a rake from the back of the garage. I start on the leaves suffocating the bushes. I bet Dad hasn't cleaned them out for years. They look harmless and dry on top, but under that top layer they're wet and slimy. White mold snakes from one leaf to the next. The leaves stick together like floppy pages in a decomposing book. I rake a mountain into the front yard and there are still more, like the earth pukes up leaf gunk when I'm not looking. I have to fight the bushes. They snag the tines of the rake and hold them—they don't like me cleaning out all that rot.
It takes an hour. Finally, the rake scrapes its metal fingernails along damp brown dirt. I get down on my knees to reach behind and drag out the last leaves. Ms. Keen would be proud of me. I observe. Worms caught in the sun squirm for cover. Pale green shoots of something alive have been struggling under the leaves. As I watch, they straighten to face the sun. I swear I can see them grow.
The garage door opens and Dad backs out the Jeep. He stops in the driveway when he sees me. He turns off the engine and gets out. I stand up and brush the dirt off my jeans. My palms are blistered and my arms are already sore from the raking. I can't tell if he's angry or not. Maybe he likes the front of his house looking like crap.
Dad: "That's a lot of work."
Me:
Dad: "I'll get some leaf bags at the store."
Me:
We both stand there with our arms crossed, staring at the little baby plants trying to grow in the shade of the house-eating bushes. The sun goes behind a cloud and I shiver. I should have worn a sweatshirt. The wind rustles dead leaves still clinging to the oak branches by the street. All I can think of is that the rest of the leaves are going to drop and I'll have to keep raking.
Dad: "Looks a lot better. Cleaned out like that, I mean."
The wind blows again. The leaves tremble.
Dad: "I suppose I should trim back the bushes. Of course, then you'd see the shutters and they need paint. And if I paint these shutters, I'll have to paint all the shutters, and the trim needs work, too. And the front door."
Me:
Tree: "Hush rustle chitachita shhhh …"
Dad turns to listen to the tree. I'm not sure what to do.
Dad: "And that tree is sick. See how the branches on the left don't have any buds? I should call someone to take a look at it. Don't want it crashing into your room during a storm."
Thanks, Dad. Like I'm not already having a hard time sleeping. Worry #64: flying tree limbs. I shouldn't have raked anything . Look what I started. I shouldn't have tried something new. I should have stayed in the house. Watched cartoons with a double-sized bowl of Cheerios. Should have stayed in my room. Stayed in my head.
Dad: "I guess I'm going to the hardware store. Want to come?"
The hardware store. Seven acres of unshaven men and bright-eyed women in search of the perfect screwdriver, weed killer, volcanic gas grills. Noise. Lights. Kids running down the aisle with hatchets and axes and saw blades. People fighting about the right color to paint the bathroom. No thank you.
I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat.
Me: "Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?"
Our gym teacher, Ms. Connors, is teaching us to play tennis. Tennis is the only sport that comes close to not being a total waste of time. Basketball would be great if all you had to do was shoot foul shots, but most of the time you're on the court with nine other people bumping and shoving and running way too much. Tennis is more civilized. Only two people have to play, unless you play doubles, which I would never do. The rules are simple, you get to catch your breath every few minutes, and you can work on your tan.
I actually learned to play a couple of summers ago when my parents had a trial membership at a fitness club. Mom signed me up for lessons and I played with Dad a few times before they figured the monthly dues were too expensive. Since I'm not a total spaz with the racket, Ms. Connors pairs me off with Jock Goddess Nicole to demonstrate the game to the rest of the class.
I serve first, a nice shot with a little speed on it. Nicole hits it right back to me with a great backhand. We volley a bit back and forth. Then Ms. Connors blows her whistle to stop and explain the retarded scoring system in tennis where the numbers don't make sense and love doesn't count for anything.
Nicole serves next. She aces it, a perfect serve at about ninety miles an hour that kisses the court just inside the line before I can move. Ms. Connors tells Nicole she's awesome and Nicole smiles.
I do not smile.
I'm ready for her second serve and I hit it right back down her throat. Ms. Connors says something nice to me and Nicole adjusts the strings on her racket. My serve.
I bounce the ball a few times. Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet. She isn't fooling around anymore. Her pride is at stake, her womynhood. She is not about to be beat by some weirdo hushquiet delinquent who used to be her friend. Ms. Connors tells me to hit the ball.
I slam into the ball, sending it right to Nicole's mouth, grinning behind her custom purple mouth guard. She twists out of the way.
Ms. Connors: "Fault!" Giggles from the class.
A foot fault. Wrong foot forward, toe over the line. I get a second chance. Another civilized aspect of tennis.
I bounce the yellow ball, one two three. Up in the air like releasing a bird or an apple, then arcing my arm, rotate shoulder, bring down the power and the anger and don't forget to aim. My racket takes on a life of its own, a bolt of energy. It crashes down on the ball, bulleting it over the net. The ball explodes on the court, leaving a crater before Nicole can blink. It blows past her and hits the fence so hard it rattles. No one laughs.
No fault. I score a point. Nicole wins eventually, but not by much. Everybody else whines about their blisters. I have calluses on my hands from yard work. I'm tough enough to play and strong enough to win. Maybe I can get Dad to practice with me a few times. It would be the only glory of a really sucky year if I could beat someone at something.
The yearbooks have arrived. Everyone seems to understand this ritual but me. You hunt down every person who looks vaguely familiar and get them to write in your yearbook that the two of you are best friends and you'll never forget each other and remember class (fill in the blank) and have a great summer. Stay sweet.
I watch some kids ask the cafeteria ladies to sign their books. What do they write: "Hope your chicken patties never bleed?" Or, maybe, "May your Jell-O always wiggle?"
The cheerleaders have obtained some sort of special exemption to roam the hall in a pack with pens in hand to seek out autographs of staff and students. I catch a whiff of competitive juices when they float past me. They are counting signatures.
The appearance of the yearbook clears up another high school mystery—why all the popular girls put up with the disgusting habits of Todd Ryder. He is a pig. Greasy, sleazy, foul-mouthed, and unwashed, he'll make a great addition to a state college fraternity. But the popular kids kissed up to him all year. Why?
Todd Ryder is the yearbook photographer.
Flip through the pages and see who is in his favor. Be nice to Todd and he'll take pictures of you that should have a modeling agency calling your house any day now. Snub Todd and you'll look like a trailer-park refugee having a bad hair day.
If I ran a high school, I would include stuff like this in the first-day indoctrination. I hadn't understood the Power of Todd. He snapped one picture of me, walking away from the camera wearing my dumpy winter coat, my shoulders up around my ears.
I will not be buying a yearbook.
Hairwoman got a buzz cut. Her hair is half an inch long, a new crop of head fur, short and spiky. It's black—no fake orange at all. And she got new glasses, purple-rimmed bifocals that hang from a beaded chain.
I don't know what caused this. Has she fallen in love? Did she get a divorce? Move out of her parents' basement? You never think about teachers having parents, but they must.
Some kids say she did it to confuse us while we are working on our final essay. I'm not sure. We have a choice. We can write about "Symbolism in the Comics" or "How Story Changed My Life." I think something else is going on. I'm thinking she found a good shrink, or maybe she published that novel she's been writing since the earth cooled. I wonder if she'll be teaching summer school.
Ivy is sitting at my art table with four uncapped colored markers sticking out of her bun. I stand up, she turns her head, and bingo—I've got a rainbow on my shirt. She apologizes a hundred million times. If it were anyone else, I would figure they did it on purpose. But Ivy and me have sort of been friendly the last few weeks. I don't think she was trying to be mean.
Mr. Freeman lets me go to the bathroom, where I try to scrub the stains. I must look like a dog chasing its tail, twisting and twirling, trying to see the stains on my back in the mirror. The door swings open. It's Ivy I raise my hand as she opens her mouth. "Don't say it anymore. I know you're sorry. It was an accident."
She points to the pens still stuck in her bun. "I put the caps on. Mr. Freeman made me. Then he sent me in here to see how you're doing."
"He's worried about me?"
"He wants to make sure you don't pull a disappearing act. You have been known to wander off."
"Not in the middle of class."
"There's a first time for everything. Go in the stall and hand over your shirt. You can't wash it while you're wearing it."
I think Principal Principal should have his office in the rest room. Maybe then he'd hire somebody to keep it clean, or an armed guard to stop people from plugging up the toilet, smoking, or writing on the walls.
"Who is Alexandra?" I ask.
"I don't know any Alexandras," Ivy's voice says above the rush of water in the sink. "There might be an Alexandra in tenth grade. Why?"
"According to this, she has pissed off a whole bunch of people. One person wrote in huge letters that she's a whore, and all these others added on little details. She slept with this guy, she slept with that guy, she slept with those guys all at the same time. For a tenth-grader, she sure gets around."
Ivy doesn't answer. I peer through the crack between the door and the wall. She opens the soap container and dips my shirt in it. Then she scrubs the stains. I shiver. I'm standing in a bra, not a terribly clean bra, and it is freezing in here. Ivy holds the shirt up to the light, frowns, and scrubs some more. I want to take a deep breath, but it smells too bad.
"Remember what you said about Andy Evans being big trouble?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you say that?"
She rinses the soap from the shirt. "He has such a reputation. He's only after one thing, and if you believe the rumors, he'll get it, no matter what." She wrings the water out of the shirt. The sound of dripping water echoes off the tiles.
"Rachel is going out with him," I say.
"I know. Just add that to the list of stupid things she's done this year. What does she say about him?"
"We don't really talk," I say.
"She's a bitch, that's what you mean. She thinks she's too good for the rest of us."
Ivy punches the silver button on the hand dryer and holds up the shirt. I reread the graffiti. "I luv Derek." "Mr. Neck bites." "I hate this place." "Syracuse rocks." "Syracuse sucks." Lists of hotties, lists of jerks, list of ski resorts in Colorado everyone dreams about. Phone numbers that have been scratched out with keys. Entire conversations scroll down the bathroom stall. It's like a community chat room, a metal newspaper.
I ask Ivy to hand over one of her pens. She does. "I think you're going to have to bleach this thing," she says and hands over the shirt as well. I pull it over my head. It's still damp. "What did you want the marker for?"
I hold the cap in my teeth. I start another subject thread on the wall: Guys to Stay Away From. The first entry is the Beast himself: Andy Evans.
I swing open the door with a flourish. "Ta-da!" I point to my handiwork.
Ivy grins.
The climax of mating season is nearly upon us—the Senior Prom. They should cancel school this week. The only things we're learning are who is going with who (whom? must ask Hairwoman), who bought a dress in Manhattan, which limo company won't tell if you drink, the most expensive tux place, and on and on and on. The gossip energy alone could power the building's electricity for the rest of the marking period. The teachers are pissed. Kids aren't handing in homework because they have appointments at the tanning salon.
Andy Beast asked Rachel to go with him. I can't believe her mother is letting her go, but maybe she agreed because they're going to double with Rachel's brother and his date. Rachel is one of the rare ninth-graders invited to the Senior Prom; her social stock has soared. She must not have gotten my note, or maybe she decided to ignore it. Maybe she showed it to Andy and they had a good laugh. Maybe she won't get in the trouble I did, maybe he'll listen to her. Maybe I had better stop thinking about it before I go nuts.
Heather has come bellycrawling for help. My mother can't believe it: a living, breathing friend on the front porch for her maladjusted daughter! I pry Heather out of Mom's claws and we retreat to my room. My stuffed rabbits crawl out of their burrows, noses awiggling, pink bunny, purple bunny, a gingham bunny from my grandma. They are as excited as my mother. Company! I can see the room through Heather's green-tinted contacts. She doesn't say anything, but I know she thinks it looks stupid—a baby room, all those toy rabbits; there must be a hundred of them. Mom knocks on the door. She has cookies for us. I want to ask if she's feeling sick. I hand the bag to Heather. She takes one cookie and nibbles at its edges. I snarf five, just to spite her. I lie on my bed, trapping the bunnies next to the wall. Heather delicately pushes a pile of dirty clothes off my chair and perches her skinny butt on it. I wait.
She launches into a sob story about how much she hates being a Marthadrone. Indentured servitude would be better. They are just taking advantage of her, bossing her around. Her grades are all the way down to Bs because of the time she has to spend waiting on her Senior Marthas. Her father is thinking about taking a job in Dallas and she wouldn't mind moving again, nope not one bit, because she's heard kids in the South aren't as stuck-up as they are here.
I eat more cookies. I'm fighting the shock of having a guest in my room. I almost kick her out because it's going to hurt too much when my room is empty again. Heather says I was smart, " … so smart, Mel, to blow off this stupid group. This whole year has been horrible—I hated every single day, but I didn't have the guts to get out like you did."
She completely ignores the fact that I was never in, and that she dumped me, banished me from even the shadows of Martha glory. I feel like any minute a guy in a lavender suit will burst into the room with a microphone and bellow, "Another alternate-reality moment brought to you by Adolescence!"
I still can't figure out why she's here. She licks a crumb off her cookie and gets to the point. She and the other Junior Marthas are required to decorate the Route 11 Holiday Inn ballroom for the prom. Meg 'n' Emily 'n' Siobhan can't assist, of course; they have to get their nails painted and their teeth whitened. The privileged, the few, the Junior Marthas have been laid waste by mononucleosis, leaving Heather all by herself. She is desperate.
Me: "You have to decorate the whole thing? By Saturday night?"
Heather: "Actually, we can't start until three o'clock Saturday afternoon because of some stupid meeting of Chrysler salesmen. But I know we can do it. I'm asking other kids, too. Do you know anyone who could help?"
Frankly, no I don't, but I chew and try to look thoughtful. Heather takes this to mean that yes, I'd be happy to help her. She bounces out of the chair.
Heather: "I knew you would help. You're great. Tell you what. I owe you, I owe you a big one. How about next week I come over and help you redecorate?"
Me:
Heather: "Didn't you tell me once how much you hated your room? Well, now I see why. It would be so depressing just to wake up here every morning. We'll clear out all this junk." She kicks a chenille bunny who was sleeping in my robe on the floor. "And get rid of those curtains. Maybe you could go shopping with me—can you get your mom's American Express?" She yanks my curtains to one side. "Let's not forget to wash those windows. Sea-foam green and sage, that's what you should look for, classic and feminine."
Me: "No."
Heather: "You want something richer, like an eggplant, or cobalt?"
Me: "No, I haven't decided on colors yet. That's not what I mean, I mean no, I won't help you."
She collapses into the chair again. "You have to help me."
Me: "No, I don't."
Heather: "But, whiii—iiiiy?"
I bite my lip. Does she want to know the truth, that she's self-centered and cold? That I hope all the seniors yell at her? That I hate sea-foam green, and besides, it's none of her business if my windows are dirty? I feel tiny button noses against my back. Bunnies say to be kind. Lie.
Me: "I have plans. The tree guy is coming to work on the oak out front, I have to dig in my garden, and besides, I know what I want to do in here and it doesn't include eggplant."
Most of it is half true, half planned. Heather scowls. I open the dirty window to let in fresh air. It brushes my hair back off my face. I tell Heather she has to leave. I need to clean. She crams her cookie in her mouth and does not say goodbye to my mother. What a snot.
I'm on a roll. I'm rocking. I don't know what it is; standing up to Heather, planting marigold seeds, or maybe the look on Mom's face when I asked if she would let me redecorate my room. The time has come to arm-wrestle some demons. Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.
I must talk to Rachel. I can't do it in algebra, and the Beast waits for her outside English. But we have study hall at the same time. Bingo. I find her squinting at a book with small type in the library. She's too vain for glasses. I instruct my heart not to bolt down the hall, and sit next to her. No nuclear bombs detonate. A good start.
She looks at me without expression. I try on a smile, size medium. "Hey," I say. "Hmm," she responds. No lip curling, no rude hand gestures. So far, so good. I look at the book she's copying (word for word) from. It's about France.
Me: "Homework?"
Rachel: "Kind of." She taps her pencil on the table. "I'm going to France this summer with the International Club. We have to do a report to prove we're serious."
Me: "That's great. I mean, you've always talked about traveling, ever since we were kids. Remember when we were in fourth grade and we read Heidi and we tried to melt cheese in your fireplace?"
We laugh a little too loudly. It's not really that funny, but we're both nervous. A librarian points his finger at us. Bad students, bad bad students. No laughing. I look at her notes. They are lousy, a few facts about Paris decorated with an Eiffel Tower doodle, hearts, and the initials R.B. + A.E. Gack.
Me: "So, you're really going out with him. With Andy. I heard about the prom."
Rachel grins honey-slow. She stretches, like the mention of his name wakes her muscles and makes her tummy jump. "He's great," she, says. "He is just so awesome, and gorgeous, and yummy." She stops. She is talking to the village leper.
Me: "What are you going to do when he goes to college?"
Argh, an arrow to her soft spot. Clouds across the sun. "I can't think about that. It hurts too much. He said he was going to get his parents to let him transfer back here. He could go to La Salle or Syracuse. I'll wait for him."
Give me a break.
Me: "You've been going out for, like, what—two weeks? Three?"
A cold front blows across the library. She straightens up and snaps shut the cover of her notebook.
Rachel: "What do you want, anyway?"
Before I can answer, the librarian pounces. We are welcome to continue our conversation in the principal's office, or we can stay and be quiet. Our choice. I take out my notebook and write to Rachel.
It's nice to talk to you again. I'm sorry we couldn't be friends this year. I pass the notebook to her. She melts a bit around the edges and writes back.
Yeah, I know. So, who do you like?
No one, really. My lab partner is kinda nice, but like a friend-friend, not a boyfriend or anything.
Rachel nods wisely. She's dating a senior. She is so beyond these freshman "friend-friend" relationships. She's in charge again. Time for me to suck up.
Are you still mad at me? I write.
She doodles a quick lightning bolt.
No, I guess not. It was a long time ago. She stops and draws a spiraling circle. I stand on the edge and wonder if I'm going to fall in. The party was a little wild, she continues. But it was dumb to call the cops. We could have just left. She slides the notebook over to me.
I draw a spiraling circle in the opposite direction to Rachel's. I could leave it like this, stop in the middle of the highway. She's talking to me again. All I have to do is keep the dirt hidden and walk arm in arm with her into the sunset. She reaches back to fix her hair scrunchie. "R.B. + A.E." is written in red pen on the inside of her forearm. Breathe in, one-two-three. Breathe out, one-two-three. I force my hand to relax.
I didn't call the cops to break up the party, I write. I called—I put the pencil down. I pick it up again—them because some guy raped me. Under the trees. I didn't know what to do. She watches as I carve out the words. She leans closer to me. I write more. I was stupid and drunk and I didn't know what was happening and then he hurt—I scribble that out—raped me. When the police came, everyone was screaming, and I was just too scared, so I cut through some back yards and walked home.
I push the notebook back to her. She stares at the words. She pulls her chair around to my side of the table.
Oh my God, I am so sorry, she writes. Why didn't you tell me?
I couldn't tell anybody.
Does your mom know?
I shake my head. Tears pop up from some hidden spring. Damn. I sniff and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
Did you get pregnant? Did he have a disease? Oh my God, Are you OK?????????
No. I don't think so. Yes, I'm OK. Well, kinda.
Rachel writes in a heavy, fast hand. WHO DID IT???
I turn the page.
Andy Evans.
"Liar!" She stumbles out of her chair and grabs her books off the table. "I can't believe you. You're jealous. You're a twisted little freak and you're jealous that I'm popular and I'm going to the prom and so you lie to me like this. And you sent me that note, didn't you? You are so sick."
She spins to take on the librarian. "I'm going to the nurse," she states. "I think I'm going to throw up."