Rosie our cleaning woman used to walk the dogs but she doesn’t work here anymore. Mom said she quit to spend more time with her kids. Bubbie did that fake cough thing to let me know Mom was lying. Then Mom said: Really, Mother? and left the kitchen. Whatever. I don’t need to know why Rosie left. I just wish she was still here to clean the Tootsie Rolls. Mom makes me do it or I can’t play Wii.
Feeling = Over the rain.
Mom is calling me for real this time. We have a Jewish Sabbath dinner every Friday for Bubbie. Mandy used to complain about it because it messed up date night with Gardner. Dad and I weren’t into it because we like to get Italian takeout and watch sports. But Mom said Bubbie isn’t going to be around forever and we should do this for her. So we compromised. Mandy gets to bring Gardner and we still get the takeout. We just have to light special candles and eat at the table and not in the TV room, which is fine because there’s probably poop in there.
Feeling = Hungry.
I’m back. I’ve been writing a lot tonight cuz I have a lot to catch up on. Hud is already on page 40. He’s been writing about the girls in our grade and what he thinks they eat for breakfast. He says it can tell you a lot about a person. Like this super-smart girl Vanessa. Hud thinks she scarfs a chocolate donut and a Monster Energy drink. He wrote crayons for that girl Sheridan but that’s only because I told him about her lipstick tooth. He originally assigned her key lime pie flavored yogurt. The whole thing is kind of weird and kind of funny. So is Hud.
Feeling = Ha.
Coops is on page 63. That’s because his parents give him a dollar for every page he writes. They love paying him to do things no one should get paid for. Like making his bed or not choking his brother. He’s writing out the words to every Bruce Springsteen song and saving for an electric guitar.
Feeling = No fair.
Anyway, Sabbath dinner tonight was lame because Mom tried to cook. When I asked what happened to the Italian takeout, Bubbie Libby did that cough thing again. Mom and Dad looked at each other, then Mom said she wanted to try something different. She went on and on about how life is about new experiences and breaking routines. After like, ten minutes, I still had no clue what happened to the takeout. Why can’t girls just answer the question?
Feeling = Frustrated.
She microwaved frozen chicken nuggets with cheddar sauce and pasta Alfredo from a bag. Bubbie wouldn’t eat because she said it wasn’t kosher.
MOM: That’s because we’re not Jewish. Besides, Italian takeout isn’t kosher either.
BUBBIE: But it’s good so God makes an exception.
MANDY: We serve this to the homeless on Thanks-giving.
GARDNER: I think it’s delicious, Mrs. Duffy.
The guy will eat anything as long as it’s free. Probably because he wastes his money on slick designer clothes.
Dad and I fed the dogs under the table. Bubbie Libby saw what we were doing and started doing it too.
While we were clearing the table Dad asked me how Hudson’s parents are doing.
Dad and Mom sell commercial real estate. Stuff like malls and stores. Hudson’s dad does the same thing. They are competitors. But it’s all good.
ME: Fine, I guess.
DAD: Good.
That was it. Easy.
Feeling = Glad Dad’s a guy.
Sept. 8.
Finally, a break in the rain. The sky is greenish-black so it’s going to get worse.
I am sitting on a cement bench in Regal Park watching some guys shoot hoops.
They don’t seem to mind the puddles. It must be nice to love something enough not to mind the puddles.
Two of them are in my English class but don’t notice me. Maybe they’re pretending because my journal is wrapped in boxer shorts.
I hate the weekend.
Forty-eight hours of nothing to do.
No parents. No siblings. No DS. No TV. No sports. No sleepovers. No Boy Scouts. No cul-de-sac. No friends.
Maybe one day.
Noble is cool.
It’s all about achievements. Not mommy and daddy’s bank account or who’s dancing with who at so-and-so’s boy-girl party.
I’ve been invited to lunch nine different times this week. That’s nine times more than Sagewood, and I was sentenced to that place for two years.
That middle school was full of spoiled rich kids who couldn’t understand the heavy stuff going on in my life. Not that they ever tried. To them, heavy was an extra pound some cheerleader gained over Christmas vacation.
Do you know how many dog biscuits I eat to gain one pound?
Sixty-three.
Fattening up on Santa-shaped shortbread cookies would be a dream. Not an excuse to starve myself until Valentine’s Day.
But that’s where my parents had me.
Until they were arrested.
After that I was free to move to a new district and start fresh.
Not that I am any different at Noble. I’m used to keeping to myself so that’s how I am.
The one-name thing has been attracting a lot of attention, especially from girls.
They come up to me all squirmy and shoulder-to-shoulder and ask if “Moves Like Jagger” is about me.
Since that song came out last summer and I’m fifteen I invite them to do the math.
Next they ask if I’m trying to be famous and one-name-ish like Bono or Xzibit.
I look at them like a joke I don’t get.
I say I’m not trying to be famous at all. I’m trying to survive.
They laugh again but with less of a smile. There’s a bigger story here and they sense it might not be pretty. They peer down the hall, or around the classroom, or wherever we are, wanting out.
There’s always a brave one who asks what I mean by “survive.”
I tell her I’m legally separated from my parents because they’re in prison. Last names are for families. I live alone.
They ask me to lunch.
They ask me questions.
I answer them.
Q: Do you seriously live alone?
A: Yes.
Q: Like alone, alone?
A: Alone, alone.
Q: Where?
A: The back room of REP’s.
Q: Randy’s Exotic Pets?
A: Yup.
Q: Really?
A: Really.
Q: Why?
A: I feed the animals at night and Randy lets me sleep there for free.
Q: I was just there on Saturday! My brother got a skink.
A: They eat baby food, you know.
Q: And spiders. I didn’t see you there. Were you there?
A: I leave during store hours. Randy uses the back room, where I sleep, to meet with international pet dealers. Now, those are some shady dudes.
Q: Where do you go?
A: I visit my parents in jail. I hop a train to Manhattan sometimes. When it’s cold I read at the public library.
(Silence.)
Q (The Brave One): So, why exactly are your parents in jail?
A: Bully beating.
Q: You mean they beat up bullies?
A: Yup.
Q: Like bullies who were bullying you?
A: No. Not me. Do I look like the kind of guy who gets bullied?
Q: So…?
A: We lived next door to a kid who got picked on. Not in a regular way. This was really bad. Don’t ask me for details because I don’t like to talk about it. (The girls look at each other all creeped out and stuff.) The guy lived with his grandfather who was too old to do anything so he asked my parents if they would, you know, help out.
Q: Did they?
A: Yeah. They kind of overdelivered.
Q: Did you help them?
A: No. I had no clue.
Q: How did you find out?
A: The police came to the door while my mom was making pancakes. A social worker took me and… can we change the subject?
/> Q: Definitely.
Q: Totally.
Q: Let’s.
Q: So what’s jail like?
A: It’s bad. Really bad. I’d rather spend the day with Mr. Wiggons.
This kills them because Brit Lit is the most boring class at Noble. And Wiggons’s cockney accent makes it impossible to understand the boring things he’s saying.
Since we’re all laughing, everyone in the cafeteria checks us out. They wonder what could possibly be so funny. They wish they were in on it.
No one has actually told me this, but I know. I have seen a lot of things. Dark things. And I have read hundreds of crime novels. If there’s one thing I understand it’s human behavior.
It’s starting to rain again.
Maybe I’ll steal a bike.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Poor Duffy. You’re drenched. You are spinning a basketball on your finger as you walk to your front door. Come over here instead. Let me dry you. Let’s spend the afternoon together.
Hot chocolate and Chinese checkers? Fuzzy socks and footsie? Swap sections of the New York Times?
You just went in but then opened the door twenty seconds later and tossed the basketball onto the soggy lawn. You don’t know that my bedroom window faces the side of your house. You don’t know that I have been watching you since you moved next door last spring. I will wait ten minutes, scamper out in the rain, and claim my prize.
Don’t be afraid. I’m not psycho. Just homeschooled. I’m still having a hard time getting used to being in the real world. Pub girls get so dressed up. The boys don’t sit still. Teachers are serious. Bells are loud. Changing classes is Penn Station on a Friday afternoon. And, worst of all, you have no idea who I am. Someday you will.
Until then…
9.9.12
INT. VANILLA-SCENTED BUBBLE BATH—AFTERNOON.
SHERIDAN rests her journal on a white towel in the corner of her bathtub. She opens to a fresh page, closes her eyes, and summons her muse.
Random images cyclone through her mind’s eye.… Chasing her brothers through Target… A red ballet flat stepping in tar… Biting a burning hot mozzarella stick… Audri feeding Skittles to Harry Styles… SHERIDAN opens her eyes, shakes the bubbles off her right hand, and begins.
I have flu-like symptoms. My body aches and I feel dizzy. I’m not sick, though. Just depressed. Not in a need-meds kind of way. More like I’m buried under a quilt of sadness. It’s so cumbersome I can barely lift my quill.
CUT.
Writing the word “quill” just made me smile. Audri always laughs when I call pens “quills.”
I miss Audri.
(Sigh.)
Sad again.
SHERIDAN’s JOURNAL ENTRY TAKE TWO.
ACTION.
Audri is visiting her dad in Montclair. This divorce is killing me. The good news is, with Audri gone and no rehearsals (yet) I had plenty of time to write my social studies essay this weekend. That’s my good news. Pathetic, right?
I had to spend the day with my family yesterday because Spencer BMW is selling Mini Coopers now so there was a big party. It was called the Big Mini. Dad made me watch Henry and Max so he and Mom could mingle. It would have been more fun if I had someone to hang out with.
H&M spent most of the day hiding in cars and were taken on three test drives by accident. When Dad found out, he dragged us into that office with all the keys and started lecturing us on respecting the family business. Then a flatbed truck pulled up and he bolted. Saved by the arrival of the BMW M3 GTR! Dad is the first dealer in the tristate area to get the new one and he’s been talking it up for, like, ever. So I guess something worked out for me. But that was about it.
(Heavy sigh.)
The bath is getting cold.
I seriously cannot believe no one has tried to friend me. I’m like Beemer, the balloon stick figure outside the dealership who spends his life alone, flapping in the breeze.
I could call the girls from my old drama club. We could see a movie or—
Nah.
They’ll ask how Noble is and I’ll have to lie and say I’ve made tons of friends. Then Beemer will flop back into my head and I’ll feel more pathetic than I already do. Besides, feeling sorry for myself is no way to honor Mrs. Levinsky. I need to act positive.
CUT.
SHERIDAN’s JOURNAL ENTRY TAKE THREE.
ACTION.
I just rolled back my shoulders and pulled the plug with renewed purpose. Water, soiled with self-pity, now drains from my bath. I’m getting cold. I could get out but I have decided to sit with this uncomfortable feeling. It reminds me that life isn’t always vanilla-scented and warm. And when it’s not we have to rise up from the bubbles and find new ways to smell like cupcakes.
So I shall…
(Freezing.)
Tomorrow I will shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!
(Shivering.)
I will channel a character of great strength and determination! One who refuses to lose or live life unnoticed… (The goose bumps on my legs have sprouted stubble.) A girl with the flair for fabulous and the drive to survive…
Shivering, SHERIDAN hurries from the bath and towels off. She moisturizes, wraps herself in a stolen Four Seasons robe, and contemplates Monday’s character.
Strength… Determination… Drive… Flair… Got it! I will wear a fashion-forward costume. I will stockpile witty comebacks. I will cast a Pretty Committee. I will over-gloss and under-smile.
I will channel Massie Block from that straight-to-DVD movie The Clique, and I will be ah-mazing.
To Be Continued…
END SCENE.
September 9th
Orange light lingers in the sky as another weekend sets with the sun.11
Instead of organizing binders and drafting my goals for the week ahead,12 I sit crisscross applesauce on the sloping roof of our modest Victorian home. I am wearing a pink racer-back tank and gray drawstring pajama bottoms. My arms are soothed by a mixture of cloves, juniper berries, and oatmeal. A hungry yellow-headed bird keeps trying to peck me. I am shooing it away with hands covered in dishwashing gloves.
If I wasn’t me and saw me, I would speed-dial Noble Psychiatric and have me committed. Ironically, this is all I can do to stay sane.13
They almost made it two days without a fight. Granted, Mom was in the city,14 Dad was at a software convention,15 and A.J. worked a double at the car wash.16 Still, I didn’t itch once. It was epidermal bliss.
Leena and Megan from Girl Scouts came over to see the prototype for my SWAP bracelet.17 It’s better than I imagined. Orphans follow direction really well. I could have all 500 sold by the end of the month. Especially since Leena and Megan go to different schools and they’ll be selling too.
I digress… the point is, everything was great until dinner, when A.J. announced he got fired.
Again.
He hacked into his boss’s computer and changed the wallpaper from a family picture in Nantucket to a naked girl lying on a gondola in Venice. The boss’s wife and kids stopped by to bring him lunch and were the first ones to notice it.
Everyone knew A.J. did it because he’s a genius with computers. So that was it. The fourth job he lost this year.
Mom blamed Dad for teaching A.J. how to hack. Dad blamed Mom for blaming him instead of A.J., and A.J. blamed his boss for not paying him on rain days. My skin blamed me for not putting myself up for adoption. I don’t blame it one bit.
Whatever relationships you have attracted in your life at this moment, are precisely the ones you need in your life at this moment.18
—Deepak Chopra
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Blake wanted to go to the mall today but I couldn’t. He really wanted an excuse to visit Mike, so I don’t feel guilty. Mike is the crazy-jealous guy Blake has been “hanging with” since July. He works at J.Crew and, with the help of his employee discount, dresses Blake like Ame
lia Earhart.
“It’s all leather bomber jackets and scarves this fall,” he claims.
I want to say, “Really, Mike? Get a J.Clue. Blake is a skater, not a Tuskegee Airman!” But I don’t. I once referred to him as Trike because he’s a third wheel. Blake went radio silent on me for an entire day. I’m glad Trike doesn’t live in our district or he’d be at Noble. And I’d become Lily, party of one.
Anyway, Mom and Dad wanted to go to ground zero to see the 9/11 memorial pools so we did that. I started crying when I saw the names of all the people who died. Which is weird because I was only five when it happened and I didn’t know any of them. Maybe I was born with the unique ability to love people I’ve never met. This would explain my deep feelings for Duffy.
Epiphany! This trait must run in our family. Aunt Iris has an entire basement full of Elvis memorabilia and she’s never met him either. She must have the same gene as I do. The one that makes me collect things Duffy has touched.
This is what I have so far:
Crushed Mountain Dew can.
Glow-in-the-dark Frisbee.
Mud-covered Nike Air Max basketball shoes with the swooshes covered in silver duct tape.
Reusable water bottle (blue).
3 used sparklers.
Nerf water pistol.
Purple-stained Popsicle stick.
Basketball.
9.10.12
INT. BATHROOM STALL—LAST PERIOD.
SHERIDAN had a choice to make: yawn through the last fifteen minutes of Algebra or put quill to paper and record her feelings while they were still raw. And ehmagawd, if you could smell what she’s smelling, you’d know what she chose. SHERIDAN inhales the expired Chanel No. 19 on her wrist and begins…
Today started off ah-mazing.
FLASHBACK.
Audri got in the back of the BMW, took one look at me, and gasped. I was wearing a purple scarf side-tied around my neck, yellow cami, Max’s gray church blazer, a pleated skirt, argyle knee socks, and sling-back wedges. My hair was reflective; my lips, glossed & found. She could not take her four eyes off me.
Pretenders Page 3
