Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  First period is a trip. I mean, imagine looking at a chalkboard with all these numbers and symbols that would confuse a kid on the best of days. Now add Ms. Glasses-On-Nose droning on in her put-you-to-sleep voice. Mix in a hazy view and you’ve got abstract art.

  I did try to copy the algebraic equations but somehow, what was on the board didn’t quite end up on my paper. And solving them? Right. With eighty-seven steps until you isolate the variable.

  No way. So, I faked it.

  By lunch, our buzz would be fading, so we headed out to the same place. And the rest of the day was this technicolor movie like I always read about.

  I know, you’re wondering does Angie Van Gorman’s crew still say things like, “Where did you get that outfit, Goodwill trash?” or “That girl’s so ugly I just threw up in my mouth.”

  And the answer was yes, they did, but it wasn’t so loud anymore, you know?

  It’s not like their words didn’t register any more, it’s more like when the volume on the radio is turned down and the song is forgettable. Kind of like that. And I was learning to evade them. I mean, in a school with one thousand four hundred kids, give or take, it’s not too hard to find routes to avoid certain people.

  The halls were still the worst, but Hillview High was so spread out that if I saw certain people coming, I could go another way.

  Usually.

  Until yesterday.

  Lisa and I had just crossed the street and were approaching the parking lot gate when a car full of Socials pulled over next to us. Even though I’d just smoked half a J, I still recognized that Camaro Z28. Everyone knew it. Light gold with mag wheels, it was the envy of every guy on campus and half the teachers. Brian May, a junior who hung out with both jocks and Aggies, was a richie with a dad that had some cattle yard or something.

  Anyhow, just about the time I put one foot on asphalt, Brian slowed his car to a stop and rolled the window down. He looked me up and down like Ronny did when he saw the camp counselors in short shorts.

  “Hey, Freshman,” he called.

  Lisa and I froze. I didn’t know what to do so I just stared. Brian May, talking to me?

  “Come here.”

  Lisa looked at me and shrugged. Might as well. He did have a rad car. It wasn’t until we drew close that I noticed who was sitting in the back. Yep, you guessed it. Frickin’ Angie Van Gorman, sneering with her perfect smile that’d never need braces.

  And who was in the front? Her sidekick, Shawn Gill, that freckled, tennis-playing… well, hate to say it but, bitch. Brian’s right arm was draped over her shoulder and she was snuggling into his shoulder.

  “Hi, Joy,” Angie said, when she rolled her window down.

  This wasn’t good. If my mouth wasn’t already so dry you’d think I was in the dentist’s chair with one of those suck-your-spit things, it was now. I opened and closed it. Nothing came out.

  “Oh, are you hungry?” she asked.

  If I’d been straight, I might have run. But I just stood there while Lisa giggled; from the high, or nervousness, I couldn’t tell.

  “What are you laughing about, narc?” Shawn asked, in a shut-the-fuck-up voice.

  “So that’s the bitch who got Lynette busted?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah, we should teach her about telling on friends,” Shawn added.

  “I-I…” Lisa stammered.

  Angie rifled in her McDonald’s bag and pulled out a fry. Biting down on it, she chewed slowly as she said, “She looks hungry, too.”

  “We can share,” Brian said, holding up a half-eaten hamburger.

  My mind said go, but my legs were all watery and wouldn’t cooperate. Lisa giggled again. Next thing I knew, half a Big Mac was stuck to my shirt and fries were peppering Lisa’s hair.

  “Freaks!” Angie cried, throwing a full ketchup cup.

  I watched it sail over my head and land at Lisa’s feet with a splat. Coagulated red splattered her flip-flops and toes. She leaped back, in a what looked like a slow-motion Alice in Wonderland reflex.

  The Camaro trio burst into hysterical laughter that rose so high in volume that I was sure it was coming through a Jensen Coax speakers. Waving two fingers, Brian revved the engine and peeled out, leaving dual black skid marks in the road.

  Lisa peeled the burger off my t-shirt and pointed at the greasy spot right between my tiny boobs.

  “You’ve got another tittie,” she giggled, shaking the French fries out of her hair.

  I tried to join her laughter, but this time the high didn’t fade everything to mist. This time, it only magnified every moment, in technicolor slow-motion. This time, I wished the high would end so that the stain didn’t look like it was flashing ‘freak’ over and over.

  I untied my sweatshirt from around my waist and wriggled into it.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to class.”

  Eighteen

  Kyle

  Joy has a new friend and then all they do is talk, talk, talk. They sound like elves in Santa’s toyshop. Hee-hee. Did you see the way he looked at me? Ho-ho, he totally was checking you out.

  At least this one is nicer than last year’s friend. Vickie used to whisper and roll her eyes at me all the time. This girl, Lisa, actually says ‘hi’ and asks me about sixth grade.

  Which is going amazingly, by the way. I made the basketball team and even got an award from the coach. Most Improved Player. Dad said, “That’s my boy,” when he saw it.

  Joy and Lisa came last week, too. They didn’t sit in the bleachers and cheer all that much, but I did hear, “Go Kyle!” once. They mostly giggled. I guess that’s the way ninth graders are.

  Last weekend, they laughed so much their eyes turned all red. Never saw that happen before. Weird.

  Anyhow, I’m playing second base and it’s okay. Coach says that the right side of the infield is second base’s domain. Anything hit between my base and the foul line is my responsibility. Plus, I have to help the first baseman, David Trundle, every time a ball is hit.

  Coach said he chose me because I’m light on my feet and can think fast. Also, I’m good at communicating, so the Short Stop and I never get in each other’s way. We’ve won our first two games and it feels great.

  Last night, Lisa stayed the night, the first-time Joy had had a sleepover in—jeez, I don’t know how long. I wished her room wasn’t right next to mine because all they do is whisper and giggle all night. Mom kept getting up to tell them to go to sleep and they’d be quiet for a while, but then a minute or seven later, they’d be right back at it again.

  Finally, Dad got up. And I put my head under my pillow expecting a lot of yelling. Or a slamming door.

  What happened next was weird. I kept my head under my pillow, but he didn’t yell. I lifted one corner and heard him tell them that Lisa’d have to sleep in the extra bedroom if they weren’t quiet.

  It worked.

  Oh, they still whispered over there, but only like the TV turned most of the way down. Not loud enough for Dad to hear.

  In the middle of the night I woke up to a funny smell. Like cooking spaghetti sauce or a weird candle. I got up and felt around for the doorknob. (I’m not a scaredy-cat so I don’t need a nightlight.) When I opened the door, the smell was stronger, but it wasn’t coming from the bedroom end of the house. More like the kitchen. Sniffing, I followed it down the hall to the kitchen, but even though the stink was strong, no one was there.

  I looked in the dining room. The family room. Peered outside, where the empty doghouse we planned to fill still stood. Was our house on fire?

  Then my stomach got that bad feeling, like when Joy said something stupid to Dad and he had to punish her. Maybe something was on fire. Should I wake everyone up?

  Don’t know why, but something made me open the door to the garage. Here, the smell was wow! And in the strange glow, I saw Joy and Lisa, heads bent together like some spooky movie.

  “What are you doing?”

  Joy jumped up, dropping whatever was glowing.
A cigarette? “Nothing,” she said.

  “You’re burning something. What is it?”

  “Kyle, it’s nothing. Just playing around,” Lisa said.

  “You shouldn’t be burning stuff. Or…” I paused. “Are you smoking?”

  “No way,” Joy said, then giggled.

  “Yeah, it’s against the rules,” Lisa snorted and then covered her mouth.

  Now they both were laughing as if they’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. I eyed them. “I should tell.”

  “Come on, we’re just burning some… some herbs from the kitchen,” Lisa said.

  “Yeah, just herbs,” Joy chimed in, with another snort.

  I started to argue, but then I remembered how they’d cheered at my game. Still….

  “What’ll you give me not to tell?” I asked, arms crossed over my chest.

  They looked at each other, shrugging.

  “I know, you do my chores for a week and I won’t tell.”

  “But how do I explain that to Mom?”

  “That’s the deal. Figure it out.”

  So, for a whole week I didn’t have to do the dishes or clean the bathroom. Neat. But I still didn’t know what they were burning.

  Nineteen

  Joy

  After the darkness of the clearing storm

  The moon breaks through the parting clouds

  And the passing trees sway in silhouette

  Mom and Ronny are having another party tonight and it’s probably going to go on till late.

  Not that that was terrible. Some of the couples were bringing their kids, so, for once, Kyle and I wouldn’t be ordered to the family room to watch TV. We’d be allowed to hang out. That is, if we behaved and didn’t do anything embarrassing like chew with our mouths open, or forget to say thank-you. And if I kept an eye on the little kids.

  When Mom first told me about it, I groaned. But then she added that the Knox’s were coming from Santa Barbara with their sons and my eyes widened. Those boys were older, like seventeen or eighteen. One might even be in college. Cool!

  And terrifying.

  I mean, I wasn’t even fourteen. What would I have to say to guys like that? Couldn’t exactly ask them if they wanted to get high. They might be straight. They were last time I saw them, when we all met at Stern’s Wharf for dinner a couple of years back. And I heard they were jocks, one on the football team or some shit like that. Jocks didn’t toke much. At least not at my school.

  As usual, we spent all afternoon cleaning the house. “Joy, look at this pigsty! I don’t know how you can stand to live like this!” Mom yelled, picking a dirty pair of jeans up off the floor and tossing them at me.

  Shrugging, I carried them out to the growing pile next to the washer in the garage.

  It didn’t stop there, oh no. As soon as the clothes were picked up, there were nightstands to dust, a dresser to straighten up, poems on random slips of paper to shove into the desk, a floral bedspread to smooth out (forty-seven times until Mom was happy).

  And that was just my room.

  Next, it was the hall bathroom. I didn’t mind this so much. It was kind of nice to polish the Formica around the sink. I liked how the sparkling gold specks reminded me of palaces and movie star mansions. The hard part was the faucet; Mom insisted the clear plastic handles be spotless. Using an old toothbrush, it took forever to scrub all the grooves. Once the long mirror was streak-free, I was pretty proud of how nice it looked.

  “Okay, Mom?” I asked, waving a hand toward the bathroom.

  Hands on her hips, she strolled past me. Bent over, she looked for smudges or lingering mold. Tapped a long nail where I’d missed a spot. Then, after a million years, she finally said, “Fine.”

  Fine? I mean, compliments didn’t come easy from Iris Wright but I’d just spent over an hour breathing bleach fumes.

  Whatever. Used to it.

  Of course, the first to arrive were the Reneys with their toddler in tow and I became resident babysitter while their folks tossed back a couple of Seven and Sevens.

  “Hey, Amber. Want a piggy-back ride?” I said, getting down on all fours so the two-year old could climb on my back.

  Once she was safely on, I started galloping up and down the hallway. “Hee-haw!” I whinnied. “I’m a bucking bronco.”

  “More!” she squealed.

  Keeping one hand flat on the floor, I reached up with the other and grabbed her around the waist. With Amber secure, I reared my head and sprung into a little hop. Her infectious giggles spurred my bronco to buck again, this time with an arched back so it’d feel like a real rodeo stallion.

  “Yee-ha!” I froze.

  Glancing up, I blinked, sure I was watching a hair-blowing-slow-motion shampoo commercial. Standing over me, hands on hips, was a full-on hottie, and not just foxy like a surfer at Jalama, this tawny-haired guy was a total David Cassidy.

  “Joy, go!” Amber kicked my side.

  My knees started to buckle, and I felt the little girl teeter. Before she could fall and run crying to her mom, I dropped to my belly and gently detached her clinging legs.

  “So, resident pony, how much do you charge for a ride?” Mr. Hotness said.

  I cocked my head to one side, knowing there was something more to that question than the words. I’d read about exchanges like this in some of Mom’s books. But just then, I couldn’t think. I mean, those dark green eyes had friggin’ sunbursts around his pupils. Not real ones, of course, but wow, the center of each eye looked like a star going supernova.

  Beautiful.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Oh, hi.” Blushing, I stood up, brushed off the front of the split skirt Mom told me to wear. Tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound totally idiotic.

  Moments passed while Hottie looked me up and down. He thinks this outfit is juvenile. All baggy. I tucked in my blouse and stuck out my flat chest so my nubs would show. I should have stuffed my bra with T.P.

  Opened and closed my mouth. Nothing came out.

  The two-year-old saved me. “Want Mommy,” she wailed.

  “Okay, come on, Amber.” Barely able to tear my gaze from Mr. Foxy Guy, I smiled apologetically and pulled her away.

  Was it my imagination, or were his eyes boring into my back as I walked down the hallway? Probably shaking his head at what a full-on freak I was. Maybe he saw that zit on my cheek. Shit. Should have put on more tinted Clearasil to hide it.

  Ronny was throwing back his third Manhattan about the time I led little Amber into the party room at the back of the house. He’d already gone through Fleetwood Mac’s hits and was about to pull out the Hotel California album when somebody in the corner shouted, “Hustle!”

  “You all want to Disco?” Ronny called into the crowd.

  “I don’t know,” said a lady with frosted Farah Fawcett hair, approaching him. “Is it hard?”

  “Not yet, but come closer and let’s see what happens,” Ronny said, draping an arm over her shoulder.

  Everyone cracked up. Ronny was always making dirty jokes.

  I sucked in a quick breath. That’s what that boy had meant about charging for a ride. My face turned red again. God, was I stupid!

  Luckily, I didn’t have much time to think about it because the next thing I knew, Mom had me pushing furniture out of the way for a dance lesson.

  When we were all lined up in the middle of the room, Ronny got in front of us and thrust a finger in the air like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. More laughing. Even me. Ronny was pretty funny when he had an audience.

  With I’m-gonna-work-it flair, he started directing everyone in The Hustle’s steps. “First forward, four steps. Now back, two, three, four. That’s it. Left. Right. Clap. Point up. Oh yeah, Jane, you are hot. Roll and kick. Repeat.”

  My stepdad looked pretty smooth, while the rest of us bumbling klutzes tried to follow along. For once, Ronny didn’t get pissed or impatient. Instead, he re-explained the steps like that nice teacher I ha
d in sixth grade.

  I think Ronny being nice had something to do with how tight all the ladies’ tops were. That’s where his eyes stayed during the lesson, anyhow. I looked down at my chest thinking, I’m never going to grow.

  We bumped into each other a few more times but pretty soon got it. Then it was The Bump, Bus Stop and the Funky Chicken, until the Wright house was a full-on disco. Well, maybe not full-on, but still it was pretty cool. Little kids, grown-ups, Mr. Hotness and his younger brother Fox Junior, were all going forward and back, twirling around and pointing at the sky. We were almost in unison.

  While we were dancing, I forgot everything for a while. Wasn’t afraid of Ronny hurting Mom, or worried about what the mean kids said, or even if Dad would come visit. I was just Joy, regular teenaged kid. Smiling. Without even being high.

  Until the little kids got cranky and the Reneys and other families started to leave. Then Mr. Knox looked at his watch saying they had to get going, too and Kyle and I were waved to bed so “the adults could have fun”.

  I pulled out my journal right away and started to write about that amazing night. I started slowly at first, but then my hand sped up, skipping over the page until it looked like jive feet on that TV show, Soul Train. That didn’t stop me, though. My pen filled page after page, until my fingers cramped and the last car engine revved away.

  Now, with everything so quiet, I went to my window and stared at that big moon hanging over our empty street, recalling how all the cars had lined the curbs when the party was in full swing. Orb images reflecting on polished hoods like a light-up floor in a big city nightclub filled my mind. They grew as a poem took shape.

  I’d written lots of poetry before, but most of it sounded like a little kid copying Mother Goose. But this time I wanted to sound mature. This time, I’d use the tips my English teacher had given us. “Draw on all five senses,” she’d said.