The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  A little blue box sits on my desk with a silver shell for my bracelet. Missed you so much. Luv, N

  Sharon and the SS want to remove my eyeballs and bury me in an anthill but Rhonda scares them shitless. Her, “Hey, Appleton,” this morning has me thinking she might be in the market for a friend, but she always splits before I can discuss my Sadie O’Shaughnessy shortage.

  Babcia’s perogies dance a polka in my belly as I approach Rhonda’s door. The fact that inside, dogs bark like ravenous wolves reassures me somehow. I like dog people. She answers the door, holding back two boxers, shaking their back ends like Elvis.

  “Can they have a cookie?”

  “What? You’re a Girl Guide?”

  “No, I came to give you this.” I hand her a paper-wrapped present. “I just happen to have Milk Bones in my pocket.”

  “Knew I liked you, Appleton.” She squeezes the package. “What’s this for?”

  “For getting Sharon out of my teeth. She’s like a wad of tinfoil.”

  “Ditch the coat and the llamas.”

  I survey my boots. “I believe they’re caribou.”

  She rips off the paper. “Whoa, groovy bag.” She introduces a boy, midbite into a hamburger, as her boyfriend, Tyler.

  He talks with his mouth full. “Shirt’s cool, too.”

  I have on a Picasso batik, which I remove and toss in his direction.

  “I can keep it?”

  “Good advertisement. Tell people you got it at Aquarius on the Danforth.”

  “What if I said I wanted your tank?” I turn to see a McCartney-cute, brooding artist standing in the kitchen arch. He has a book in the cross of his arms, The Adventures of Augie March, dog-eared like he might actually be reading it.

  “Then you’d have to come to the store and I’ll give you one.”

  “Ari, my brother Chase. Chase, Ari.”

  “Chase Pace?”

  “Really, it’s Cecil, but if you tell anyone I’ll have to cut out your tongue.”

  I go right for his ear, whispering, “Mine’s really Hariet, and that’s a spectacular book.”

  “Where’s your store?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Appletons are still fathoms from revampment. Jillianne is incarcerated. Jory has some guy colouring her in with permanent inks. Since the birth of Arielle, Jacquie is having mind-twisting headaches. June is still running, and Jennah moves slow as she walks up the stairs.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Silly me, I fell off the deck. So what do you need for your date?”

  “Well, it’s Easter Sunday so I’m thinking an extra-holy look.”

  “A white dress will do it and I have this precious mauve cashmere sweater.”

  The Potters add sections to the dining room table to accommodate the multitudes. Nick’s brother, Dennis, home from Queens follows my plate setting with cutlery. “So you’re Nicky’s chickie. You sure don’t look like any fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met.” His finger creeps down my side like a spider.

  I contort away. “Well you’re acting like all the ones I’ve met.”

  “Easy. Nicky said you liked a good time.”

  “He also said you had brains, so I guess he lied on both counts.”

  Mercifully, I’m seated between the uncle whose dentures slip when he talks and the aunt more interested in eating than digging into my life. Two hunks of ham land on my plate. It’s the colour of ham that makes me gag. I camouflage it with potato while answering questions about faith in Jesus, life goals, and my opinion on Pierre Elliott Trudeau. Nick asks, “You feeling okay?”

  I shake no.

  Mrs. Potter sees Nick stab the meat off my plate. “You don’t like the ham, Ari?”

  “Everything is so spectacular. I kind of filled myself up. How do you make these biscuits so fluffy? I’ll have to get the recipe.”

  “Hope you have room for apple pie.”

  Dennis licks his fork. “Speaking of apples, you wouldn’t be related to Jory and Jillianne Appleton, now would you?”

  “Yes, they’re Ari’s sisters. Do you know them, Denny?”

  “Yeah, I know them. Heard Jillianne’s gone into law.”

  “Pharmacy, isn’t it, Ari?” Mrs. Potter starts stacking dishes.

  “She changed majors, ma’am. Are you finished with your plate, Uncle John? Aunt Nora? Grandma Potter?”

  You’d think with all the people around I could steer clear of Dennis the Menace. He blocks me in the hall then bulldozes me into the bathroom. “So Nicky picked an Appleton tart.”

  Trapping an Appleton in a locked room with ham in her stomach can never come to any good. “Let me out.”

  “Be good and I won’t say a word. I just want a little of what you give Nicky.”

  “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  “Ooh yeah, a dirty mouth, too.”

  Usually I hate the ease with which my belly expels occupants, but I don’t mind the ham hurling onto the big swine.

  “You bitch.”

  I scramble out, exit the house, and hurry down the street.

  Nick nabs me halfway around the block. “Ari, what’s the matter?”

  “Me . . . my family. We’re freaks and losers.”

  “I love you. I don’t care what anyone says.” As much as puddles can be directed, he directs me, not to the blue house, but to Zodiac and Jacquie.

  She sits me near Iggy and plunks a basket of Arielle’s nappies between us. “Get folding. I’ll make tea.”

  “Once Dennis tells the Potters who I am Nick won’t even be allowed to talk to me.”

  Jacquie says, “None of them have a fucking clue who you are. How could they? You’re from the ocean deep, they know nothing but floating around in a pretty little swimming pool.”

  “I don’t want to be an Appleton.”

  Iggy folds a nappy with military precision. “You have emerged from Hariet into Ari. There is much more to come, corka. The clay of you is the most beautiful I have seen.”

  “To the Potters, I’m just dirt.”

  And so my first great love ends. Likely, he wants to be Romeo, but the parental hammer squashing the grad trip and basketball camp is just too weighty. He leaves a quote on my desk. I wonder how long it took him to find the pathetic thing. Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blam’d enough elsewhere, but strive in offices of love, how we may lighten each other’s burden, in our share of woe. —Milton

  My heart is breaking that I cannot see you anymore. Nick

  Miss Standish asks, “Is that today’s quote?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well let’s hear it.”

  Nick stifles a moan as his head sinks to his hands.

  My brain wades past the casualties floating near shore to my boatload of treasures. I pull one out; “Twenty years from now you’ll be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Mark Twain.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  May arrives, kicking winter to distant memory on its way in. I turn fourteen. Aunties M&N send a rock tumbler, addressed to Joy White and signed by Wabi-sabi. Sadie and the Butters tuck in notes to save on postage, but Jake spends the nickel and sends his own. Miss-yous weave through scribblings about jigging ’n rigging, and this one ends with fourteen xo’s shaped into a seahorse.

  Jory comes for dinner because she knows there will be cake. She weighs maybe ninety pounds, has a tattoo of a dove from shoulder to hand, and is a bona fide Jesus freak. I help her make a passel of shirts that say things like Jesus is my drug, Rock ’n’ Roll of Ages, Let the Son Shine In. Her church replaced the holy wine with divine pot and they have communion a lot. She believes in free love now, but says it never hurts to pass the collection plate.

  Nic
k shows up; walks right into the workroom. “I wanted to give you this.” The familiar little blue box slides across the press. “I didn’t get the chance on Easter and I know it’s your birthday.”

  “Give it to Sharon.”

  “I don’t give a fig about her. She just keeps my parents quiet.” He picks a tiny cross off the white cotton. “It’s for your bracelet. Like a secret vow between us. We could meet in the shed in your backyard.”

  Jasper pokes, Maybe Hariet would, but no Lioneagle cowers behind fertilizer.

  “Do I look like a garden shovel?” I fold an eagle batik. “Beat it before anyone sees you slumming with me.”

  “Ari. I love you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . help yourself to some socks for Sharon’s bra on the way out.”

  Jasper and I always perk up after a long soak in the old claw-foot tub. I dress in my gift from Babcia, an embroidered peasant blouse that folds like a waterfall.

  Len floats up behind, smiling at my mirror reflection and fastens on a necklace. “Happy birthday, corka. It’s the closest I could find to a lioneagle.”

  A fine silver chain holds a gryphon. “Thank you, Papa.”

  Sometimes, I believe in maybe. Dreamy thoughts, like maybe things will work out between Mum and Len. She’s come to the store, and in the evening window light she watches as Jacquie arranges the dozen love beads she just brought in. She’s sober and picture-pretty in a navy dress that Len bought on a trip to the States. The clatter of the bell has her moving in an easy step to the side without any wobbles as Chase walks in.

  “So, you finally came for your shirt. Take one, get dinner free.”

  Babcia calls for store closing.

  “We’re having pieczen siekena-klops.”

  “Say what?”

  “Meat loaf. And it’s my birthday so there will be quadruple-decker cake.”

  Chase has been apprised of the whole bushel of Appletons and thinks my life poetic, song material even. The Paces are their own can of mixed nuts and welcome a little fruit in the mix.

  A fresh audience makes Uncle Iggy dance in legless grace. Jory breaks bread with us sporting DIG GOD across her braless boobies. Babcia scolds Len for feeding Zodiac at the table then throws him more scraps. Mum stays and is full of nods, not shakes as Chase talks politics and anarchy and save the planet. Arielle sucks on my shoulder as I look at Len and the smile between us is maybe the best thing I’ve ever known.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Ari, wait.” Mr. West has on a black leather tie and he looks so good he ties my stomach in two half hitches. “I need your consent for the grad trip.”

  “I’ve seen Montreal more than I care to, sir.”

  “You’ll be our tour guide. I’ll see you’re roomed with Rhonda.”

  “Len can’t spare me from the store.”

  “It’ll be a disappointing grad trip without you. Let me talk to him.”

  “No, I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  I fork over seventy bucks when I’d rather have a root canal with a pocket knife. Two days before the trip Rhonda busts her knee surfing the hood of Tyler’s car. I climb on the bus and see a seat with a sign pinned on it, Reserved for Harriet Scariet. I stare at Nick. Out of all the brilliant quotes within my grasp I spit out, “Et tu, Brute? And there’s only one r.”

  “What?”

  “You spelled it wrong” I plunk beside Margaret Mink, the only person lower than me at Oakridge. And so begins a three-day descent into hell. The soulless rhymes are blackfly annoying: Hariet scariet big fat fairiet. Harry scary no one will marry. As the miles pass, the song inside my head, Hariet, get your chariot we’re going for a ride, becomes eardrum-piercing and I wish Sharon could out-chant the ghost of my father. Miss Standish cranks around. “Sharon Wilson, do I have to remind you that you are on probation?”

  “Least I got probation, not hard time.”

  I hope whatever Nick got for exposing my nuclear waste was worth it.

  I anticipated a Lord of the Flies trip and so I borrowed Chase’s Lord of the Rings. There’s nothing I can’t do while reading: walk, piss, eat. At the comfort stop, Nick offers a chocolate bar. “I’m really sorry. Sharon promised she wouldn’t say anything. Ari? Please don’t hate me.”

  I turn the page and re-board the bus.

  At the hotel I’m informed that my bunkmates are Margaret, Bernice, and Trixie, the three wusskateers. Randy Crawford whispers in my ear, “What say you and me have a little fun.” I catch sight of the joint in his hand. Taking the edge off would be bloody spectacular, but Randy would never betray Sharon, so I know plans are in the works to mess with me. I’m safer cuddling up with Trixie Lizaro, aka Lizard Girl.

  One minute into the room and Margaret whispers, “Don’t tell it was me who told, but I saw Randy put something in your pocket and I heard Sharon tell Wendy that they’re going to get you expelled.”

  I conduct a top-level security check of my person and backpack right down to my sanitary pads. Margaret looks on in awed wonder. “You have monthlies?”

  “Two years now.”

  “Wow.”

  I locate a joint in my pocket and a small baggie in my pack. I flush them, then pull a Sherlock on every crack and crevice. “Margaret, you are the queen of cool. I’m forever in your debt.” She fingers my bag of handwork as I reload my stuff. “Want to make some love beads?”

  I don’t mind sitting on the bed, eating everyone’s food stash, and making crafts. Kind of like the loser cabin at camp that actually likes making macaroni jewelry boxes. I’m expecting the thump on the door, but the bunkmates have forgotten and their beads go flying.

  Mr. West, Mr. Thorpe, and Miss Standish stand in a row. Mr. Thorpe knows I’m trash and is salivating to prove it. “Miss Appleton, we’ve received a report that you have drugs in your possession.” I step aside so the hall gawkers can have a better look.

  Miss Standish says, “Ari, step into the bathroom. We need to check your pockets.”

  I give over my sweater, then my jeans.

  “Ari! Into the bathroom, please.”

  I remove and toss my T-shirt.

  “Ari, stop this.”

  Ever since I was eight I pick only the nicest underwear. This pair has orange stripes and fits my butt perfectly. “You want me to bend over?”

  Mr. West turns to the window. Mr. Thorpe sounds like he has raw liver caught in his throat. Miss Standish nervous-shakes no.

  “I did discover some dope planted on me. I flushed it. Maybe you should ask the person who squealed how exactly it got there.” Mrs. Standish puts my sweater over my shoulder. Mr. Thorpe breaks up the freak show in the hall. I pull on my jeans. “I’m going to my aunt’s.”

  Miss Standish says, “Ari, you can’t. You’re under our supervision.”

  “Do you know how long I have to work to earn seventy bucks? I don’t need this shit.” My roommates, Tweedledee, Do, and Don’t, quake at swearing in front of a teacher.

  Mr. West makes for the door. “Bus tour. Downstairs. Fifteen minutes. That includes you, Ari.”

  Miss Standish can be a yeller but I’ve never heard a raised word from Mr. West. Sharon and Randy sit on the bus while the rivets vibrate and the rest of us wait outside. Then Mr. West exits, fake-chipper. “Okay, load ’em up. Mount Royal, here we come.” He forces a smile at me. “Enjoy yourself, Ari. No one’s going to bother you.”

  Oh, Mr. West, how little you know about a woman humiliated.

  Silence blares as we trudge around the city but I admit, at supper, we four losers have a spectacular time. No one at the other tables know why the waiter is flirting with me but it’s because he’s Ian MacLaren, one of the MacLaren boys. His brother, Toby, manages the place and we get the biggest complimentary sundaes God ever sanctified. And the cherry? Ian, a rugged first-year McGill student, gives me a hug as we leave. “Bye, Ari
. You have my number. Come along, too, Maggie and I’ll hook you up.”

  Mr. West waits for a hidden moment. “Fun’s fun, Ari, now hand over that number.”

  “Relax, sir. I grew up with them. He was just helping me mess with the SS.” I scrunch it up and toss it.

  The room-to-room phone calls start at ten with whispery warnings, “Someone is going to die . . . oooh . . . beware.”

  “Yeah, you are, you bleedin’ weenies.”

  The call sends Bernice digging for her breathing medication and Trixie for her psoriasis cream. I slide the ringer down then stuff it in a drawer, squashed under pillows.

  Trixie squeaks, “What if someone calls and they think we’ve snuck out?”

  “Then you’ll instantly be cool without having to do anything bad.” She sleeps, dreaming of the possibilities. Her liniment smells like Mrs. Butters and that’s enough to take the edge off.

  No tour of Montreal would be complete without Notre Dame. Whenever Mum was working on revampment, she’d bring us for a dose of our Catholic roots. The music still echoes in my brain, Thou canst save amid despair. Safe we sleep beneath thy care. Mum would breathe in the notes and lighten a little. Those remembrances soak in, leaving me waterlogged and foot-heavy. Not the best way to meet the river. Most good memories of my dad are here: watching boats, taking turns making up stories about what they carried and where they were going. “It’s loaded with jewels for the Princess of Siberia.”

  “No, pet, all the jewels in the world are right here with me.”

  We’d walk Jinx, eat greasy fries, fish off the pier, never catching a darn thing except once when Daddy snagged a pair of glasses. “Oh, dear, I’ve taken a dolphin’s spectacles.” He tossed them back. “Sorry, mate, didn’t do it on porpoise.”

  Mr. West fetches me lagging at the rear. “Move it, Ari. Picnic ahead.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on, don’t sulk.”

  I know better than to leave myself wide open, still I do. “My father died here.”