Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  “Can’t decide,” she replied, smoothing her hair with a hand.

  “Come on, I need an answer. Yes or no?”

  “Then no. I don’t have the money. My cawr barely makes it to school and back. And the idea of crowding in with a bunch of stinking people is gross.” She crossed her arms. “And why you want to go and surround yourself with that is beyond me.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “You. Total embarrassment. I mean, freaking on stage one second and beating your baby bro the next? Everyone’s talking.”

  I blinked. “I know. It’s just—”

  “Whatever. Don’t you get it?” She glanced around. “I don’t want to be seen with you.”

  I gaped incredulously. What a bitch!

  “You know, I’ve paid for your gas, given you dope, and said nothing while you ragged on poor Russ.”

  “My boyfriend is my business.” She pointed an index finger. “And I give you fucking rides everywhere. You should be thanking me.”

  “You hijacked the keg for our birthday party.”

  “Well, if you and Lisa weren’t such freaks, people would have come.”

  It was like when Ronny had just punched my gut. It contracted and I stepped back, whispering, “How can you say that?”

  “What? I can’t hear you, Ms. Freak.”

  Shaking my head, I flipped her off. “Fuck you, Janice.” I walked away, keeping my middle finger raised until I turned a corner.

  Needless to say, Journalism was pretty awkward that afternoon. I thought of ditching, but the last thing I wanted was to get grounded before the concert. Instead, I sat on the opposite end of the class and ignored her. Or pretended to.

  While I kept my head down doing my work, Janice wore her fake smile and chatted up kids she’d made fun of lots of times before. She acted like Kenneth and Wanda were her besties as she complimented them on ideas for articles. “Acid-washed jeans. So stylin’. Great idear!” she exclaimed, giving me a smug look at the word stylin’.

  At least I’m not a callous, uncaring, bitch who wouldn’t know the meaning of loyalty if its definition were plastered on her forehead, I thought.

  I spent several minutes dreaming of the concert. Janice might not be going but nothing was going to stop me. I was going to rock out with head-banging kids and dance in swirling friggin’ circles. For a whole day I’d be somewhere amazing, where no one went off on you and everyone was grinning. A mind-blowing place.

  Suddenly, I remembered something I’d read. What was it? It had to be there somewhere. I rifled through my notes, making the crinkled pages from the disorganized folder crease and crumple even more.

  Then I saw it. The quote that would become the cornerstone of my article.

  And I got to work.

  Fifty-Two

  Joy

  Sometimes music vibrates at the oddest frequencies, its molecules of forced air surging into each ear in waves. These ripples move out in concentric circles that hum through a family in new and unfamiliar patterns. Their pulsing tempo never quickens, but maintains a steady rhythm that every member bobs his or her head to.

  No, I’m not high. Haven’t even taken a hit in four days. Got too much going on. And it might sound all dorky and shit, but I’ve been getting a sweet buzz on this writing.

  Did Mrs. Plante finally approve my finished article? Fuck, yeah. She gave me an A and put it on the front page of Wildcat Times. A few kids even gave me some props for it. Sweet.

  But the pulsation I’m talking about has nothing to do with Journalism class or even school. It came from the most surprising place.

  Ronny.

  Go figure, huh? Of course, he didn’t own up to the Kyle incident; instead, he acted like it was all my fault. Even made sure I knew it could happen again if I didn’t avoid the figurative eggshells on the floor. And I usually tread pretty lightly over them, stopping mid-step at the slightest crunch.

  One morning, after I left a towel on the bathroom floor, he balled it up in his fist and threw it at me. “Pick up your shit!” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “A towel. BFD.”

  In two seconds flat he was over me, fist raised, red face contorted and twisted. He drew his arm back and narrowed his gaze. Cringing, I covered my head and waited for the inevitable blow.

  Tremulous breath blew in millions of cycles per second, but Ronny didn’t strike. Instead, he lowered his arm and said, “Fuck.” Then he walked away.

  A couple of days later, a quiver of change reverberated through the walls.

  “Joy,” Mom called down the hall. “Time to set the table.”

  No way was that lilting voice my mother’s. I cocked my head and dropped my notebook on the bed when she called for me again.

  I stuck my head through the crack in the doorway. “Coming!” Tentatively, I walked toward the kitchen to find Mom singing as she heaped mashed potatoes into a serving bowl.

  “Oh, there you are. Hurry up. Ronny will be back from his, uhm, appointment soon.”

  That was weird. No one had mentioned an appointment. “Is he sick?” I asked.

  “No, he’s good, healthy, better than…” Her eyes got a misty look. “Well, you wouldn’t remember.”

  Mom wasn’t usually so forthcoming about Ronny. In fact, she barely uttered his name when he wasn’t around, unless it was to tell us to do some undone chore so he wouldn’t get pissed off. I couldn’t remember a single time she’d mentioned him with a smile on her face.

  Figuring it was some business meeting that was going to bring in big bucks that Ronny’d announce at dinner, I dropped the subject. He loved bragging to a captive audience about scoring greenbacks. So, I got a fake smile ready and set the table.

  A few minutes later, we were all munching down Mom’s delicious round steak and gravy.

  “Oof, This is goob,” Kyle said, with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

  I glanced over at Ronny, sure he was going to slap the back of Kyle’s head for talking with his mouth full. Instead, he got this weird look on his face. You know the kind of look you have when a little puppy is tripping over its tail? It was like that. Ronny almost looked buzzed, his eyes all glazed and shit.

  Was he on acid?

  “Kyle, you know better. Now chew your food first,” he said, as gently as Grandma when she hadn’t seen us for a long time.

  “Sorry,” Kyle said quickly and then exchanged a bewildered glance with me.

  “It’s okay. Just pay more attention. Manners are important, you know.”

  Who was this stranger talking with Ronny’s mouth? Had aliens captured my stepfather and replaced him with a pod person?

  Mom didn’t seem to think anything was weird. Throughout dinner, she chittered away like some happy chipmunk that’d just found a cache of acorns. “And then I found this great pattern for Kyle’s room at the fabric store. I could take you there, sweetheart, if you’d like to see it. It’s navy blue and matches your comforter.”

  “Cool, Mom. And since I’m getting my cast off next week, I was thinking maybe we could look for basketball shoes?”

  “That’d be fun.” Mom continued her happy babbling, but Ronny didn’t tell her to shut up once.

  I narrowed my gaze and stared at him. Yep, he was either one of the pod people or had scored a huge business deal. Thinking it was the latter, I started to ask about his appointment, but then figured being quiet was the best course. I didn’t want to do anything to break this magical spell.

  With one final bite of pineapple upside-down cake, Ronny patted his tummy. “Iris, that was one hell of a meal.”

  “It was nothing.” Blushing, Mom looked up and batted her eyelashes.

  Ronny went over to the opposite side of the table and pulled Mom to a standing position. Then—and no, I’m not lying—he grabbed her other hand and, without music, started to dance her into the living room. After, like, five disco twirls, he bent one knee and dipped my giggling mother. He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Okay. Shower time.�
�

  You could have knocked me over with a ninth-grader’s joint. My parents, acting like Snow White and the Prince in some Disney cartoon? What the frick?

  I exchanged a bewildered glance with Kyle, who shook his head and shrugged. If it was anyone else, we might have joined in, but with Ronny we knew better. Both conditioned to sit at the table until given permission to get up, we sat in silence until Ronny retreated down the hallway.

  “Mom, can I be excused?” Kyle asked, when she glided back into the kitchen a few moments later.

  A smiling Mom nodded while scooping the leftover mashed potatoes into a Tupperware tub. She closed the lid with a snap, drummed her fingers over the top, and started to hum a soft song before putting it away in the fridge.

  Mom humming? What?

  After making sure everyone else was out of earshot, I got up to clear the table and pulled Mom aside. “What is up with Ronny? Did he inherit a million dollars or something?”

  Mom’s voice was low, but it still sang when she said, “You have to keep this to yourself. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s seeing a counselor. And it’s helping with… everything.” She squeezed my shoulder, with vibrations so hopeful you’d think she was water and a magical pebble had just been dropped in her pond.

  “That’s great,” I said, trying not to shake my head. Here we go again. It’s what Ronny did. He’d get full-on asshole, a Sex Pistol guitar rift, then promise to be better by vomiting AM radio bullshit into the microphone. And Mom would sway to the rhythm until the beats quickened and turned on her.

  She gave me a squeeze.

  While I prayed Ronny would keep our radio tuned to the bubblegum sounds of the Bee Gees, Donny Osmond, and the Archies.

  Fifty-Three

  Joy

  There’s gotta be someone. Think, Joy. Think.

  I walked through the halls, scanning faces. Racking my brain to remember if any of them said they were going the fest. Lots of my friends had given me props for my article, saying the concert sounded epic, but when asked if they were going, the answer was always the same.

  A big fat no.

  “Hey, Frankie!” I waved and jogged to catch up with him.

  He turned. “How’s it going?”

  “Still looking,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Got nothing, chickee. And I asked. Sorry.”

  “Aww. It’s all good. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Maybe you could sell your ticket.”

  “To the event of the year? No friggin’ way!” I hit him with the back of my hand. “Do you know how long I saved for this? Hell or high water, I’m going.”

  “Okay.” He raised his hands in defeat. “Then you better start walking, or stowaway on some train. ‘Cause it’s tomorrow and LA is eighty miles away.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Lisa approached. “Friday! Party time.”

  Frankie did a power-to-the-people air punch and bobbed his head.

  She turned to me and scanned my face. “Still no ride, huh?”

  “Frankie says I should walk. Or make like a full-on Disney film and ride the rails.”

  “Boxcar stowaway, huh?” She guffawed and then tilted her head to one side. “Why not hitch?”

  I swallowed hard. “Alone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Frankie, shaking his head. “Remember that chick with no hands?”

  “Oh yeah, forgot about that.” Lisa chewed on one lip. “I think you’re just going to have to skip it, Joy.”

  While my face blanched, I stared at her incredulously. Opened and closed my mouth but nothing came out. How could she say that? She knew how much this meant to me.

  “Anniversary party mañana,” Frankie said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, at the club house. You’re still coming, right? Janice, being her usual bitchy self, bailed, so if you don’t come, it’s just my stupid little sister. And she is such a mini-me, copying everything I do. It drives me nutters.”

  “I’m there. Bought them a carburetor bong and everything.”

  “You what?”

  “Just working you.” He winked and forced out a laugh. “My gift will be appropriate for the older generation.”

  I knew what the two of them were trying to do. But it didn’t work. I gave them a half-hearted smile and waved two fingers. “I’m out.”

  “Hey Joy, don’t go,” Lisa said, reaching for my shoulder.

  “It’s all good. I got some notes to put together before Journalism. Wish your parents happy anniversary for me.” I gave her a sideways hug. “Later.”

  When I arrived in class, even Mrs. Plante wasn’t there. I plunked down in my seat and rested my chin in my hands as my teacher’s inspirational posters shouted clichés from the walls. A kitten held on for dear life with the caption, Hang in there, baby, next to a giant foot that said, Keep on Truckin’.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed, “The only place I’m trucking is this stupid, boring town.”

  Other posters reviewed the parts of speech and the five W’s and H of journalism, but the one that gave me pause featured a gull soaring through clouds with, You have the freedom, and nothing can stand in your way.

  Mrs. Plante was that in spades. She sure didn’t let anything stand in her way, as she’d explained back in October in the story of how she became an English teacher.

  “You know, class, I never thought I’d end up here. Wasn’t much of a reader as a kid. I actually struggled, barely making it through high school. But I loved stories. All kinds. On film. From my friends. And for some reason in newspapers.”

  “They had them back then?” Janice quipped.

  She winked at Janice. “Yes, even back in the Ice Age.” Mrs. Plante got a wistful look on her face and continued. “It started while I was waitressing the graveyard shift at Denny’s. Since it was pretty dead when the morning edition arrived, I could grab a cup of coffee and sit in one of the empty booths and read about our amazing world.”

  She paused here and grabbed the globe. Holding it aloft, she spun it and said, “Think of all the places you can go, kids! The world is waiting for you. I realized that back then. And waitressing was not going to get me there, so I signed up for an English course at the junior college. Reading still was hard and I had to get tutors just to pass. But one course turned into two, and four, and twenty, until I had enough units to transfer to the university.”

  She spun the world again and smiled lovingly at us. “And I’m so glad I did.”

  I glanced at the seagull poster again. Nothing can stand in your way.

  With a nod, it was decided. I would hitch. Alone.

  Fifty-Four

  Joy

  I turned off the alarm as soon as it clicked. Cocked an ear to see if I’d woken anyone. Worried that someone in my family would get up and discover my plan.

  I lay there for long moments. After I realized that no one had heard, I started drifting into dancing dreams. Then a bird outside my window twittered. I blinked, confused in the dark.

  Then I remembered. This was the day. It was going to be like what I’d read about in On the Road and The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. We’d dance circles in the sun and friggin’ transcend.

  Fuck yeah.

  After a quick shower, I combed my part into a perfect line before running a brush through my hair. Not bad. It’d finally grown to my waist and the blonde highlights were shining like the music I was about to hear. I snuggled into my peasant shirt, slipped on my pale-yellow overalls, and donned my abalone necklace.

  I had just grabbed my purse and was about to steal out the back door when a pit in my gut stopped me dead in my tracks. I’d never hitched this far before and even Frankie, who was no paranoid punk, had advised against it. On impulse, I glanced back into the kitchen at the wooden handles in the knife block. As usual, Mom had them all polished and stowed in their slots. Leaving a hole in the bottom row that reminded me oddly of a wound, I wrapped one in a napkin and shoved it in the bot
tom of my purse.

  My stomach’s strange twisting continued, but I dismissed it and was soon jogging down the hill toward the freeway. The sun’s shoulders still hadn’t rounded the hills but there was a faint glow to everything. Orange and surreal.

  When I got to the big cross-street, I almost turned toward Janice’s house. Maybe if I asked her one more time, she’d drive. I started to push the crosswalk button leading to her neighborhood when I shook my head.

  Yeah, right, I thought. She’s barely speaking to you. Probably would narc to your parents about hitching. And Joy Chapel, you are not going to miss the most epic concert of the decade. I did an about-face and dashed across the opposite street.

  I ran my hand over shrubs and tree trunks, the bark rough and comforting under my fingertips. I snapped off an oleander flower and tucked it in the bib pocket of my overalls. I knew it would fade quickly, but the red petals were shaped like dancers and gave me something to dream about while I waited.

  A few headlights shone in the distance; beat-up vans heading to the fields, Cadillacs off to business, or Love Bugs chugging south. Maybe one of them would be cool and give me a ride.

  Not yet.

  At the 101 South onramp, I found an elevated place on the grassy bank, adjusted my purse on my shoulder and stuck out a thumb. The quiet of an early morning was beginning to make way for Saturday’s bustle as cars whizzed past. I knew it’d be a while, but I thought at least the surfers with their boards sticking out the back of a station wagon would slow.

  No dice. Minutes passed. The sky brightened. Must be close to six-thirty and the opening band started at noon. If someone didn’t give me a ride soon, I might miss it. Shit.

  I eyed my spot, wondering if moving further back might make me more visible and had just taken a step when a construction truck stopped. The dad-aged guy in a paint-splattered t-shirt asked where I was going.