Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

  Why not post pictures with a statement of fact: Look at me. Look at me right now! I look AMAZEBALLS. Sidebar: I’m super-duper smart, right?

  I sigh. Linnie says my name suits me perfectly. Jade is jaded, yo. Maybe she’s right. Again. She also says I was born in the wrong century. While my friends consider their cell phones an extension of their hands, I use mine only to send my dad proof-of-life texts.

  To me the internet sucks. There are far too many trolls—fools who think cruelty is hilarious and their opinion is the only right one, who forget that the person they are calling terrible names has baggage, too. Cowards who think they are protected behind their screen, because the other person isn’t nearby to gut-punch and junk-slam.

  Linnie once posted a picture of us eating lunch together, and no joke, someone legit told us the world would be a better place without us, that we should just go ahead and kill ourselves.

  She cried for weeks, nothing I said was able to comfort her. Unlike me, she still loves the internet. If she’s not in class, she’s on her phone.

  “If Miss Baker will give me the honor of her attention,” Mr. Parton snaps, “I’ll explain the relation between sine and cosine.”

  All eyes zoom to Linnie. Her cheeks turn bright red as she shifts in her chair. I think she’ll die of some rare disease, but only after she’s traveled the world and left her mark.

  She sits several rows ahead of me, at the front of the class. At the beginning of the school year, Mr. Parton separated us so we couldn’t “plot the downfall of the world.” Yeah. He really used that phrase.

  I’m not surprised he’s singled her out today. He tends to focus all his negative energy on one of us each and every day.

  I don’t hate him, but I might cheer if Wolverine smashed through the door and gave him a prostate exam. When we ask questions, he sneers as if we’re dumb for not already understanding something we’ve never before studied.

  To draw attention away from her, I say, “You have my permission to continue, Mr. P.,” and give a royal wave of my hand. “Unless you don’t know the relation between a sine and a cosine?”

  A chorus of chuckles abounds.

  He scowls at me, a vein throbbing on his forehead. I think he secretly hopes I’ll cower in my seat. Too bad, so sad. Fear of him is as foreign to me as happiness and hatred.

  Mercedes raises her hand. She doesn’t wait to be called on but says, “If Jade insists on being disruptive in class, perhaps you should make her stand in the corner by herself. Except then we’d have to look at her, and everyone would probably lose their breakfast.”

  More chuckles abound.

  Mr. Parton smiles before masking his amusement with a stern expression. “That was beneath you, Miss Turner. We must be kind to others, even when our kindness isn’t deserved.”

  Barf. “You’d lose your breakfast? Really?” I ask her. “No wonder you look at me so much. No one enjoys losing a meal more than you, eh, Mer?”

  The color drains from her cheeks.

  “Enough.” Mr. Parton claps his hands once, twice. When I meet his gaze, his too-thin lips press together even as his eyes glow with triumph—as if he’s won some kind of war against me. Silly Mr. Parton. “We’re here to learn.”

  If that’s true, we need another teacher.

  Mercedes raises her hand a second time. “I have an equation, Mr. Parton. May I share it with the rest of the class?”

  “Of course.”

  She sneers at me. “You dress like a Goth to set yourself apart from others, to protest conformity, and yet you conform to the image of other Goths. Explain that.”

  Hello, stereotype. “Your equation is flawed,” I say. “You assume I am what I am as an act against some type of conformity. The truth is, I simply am what I am.”

  Most people are afraid of death. Not me. I’m curious about it. I know the body dies—does the soul die, as well? I accept the fact that we are all bound for the grave, and I find beauty in things other people consider doom and gloom. Like a withered tree, or a broken mirror. Even a pile of debris. In books and movies, I tend to sympathize with the villain.

  I’m not normal, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise.

  “You’re a freak, plain and simple,” Charlee Ann says.

  I meet her gaze, unwavering. “Again, there’s a flaw in your reasoning. There’s nothing wrong with being a freak. However, there is something wrong with being a fraud.”

  Her jaw drops. “I am not a fraud!”

  Linnie gives me an I adore you smile.

  Doing my best impression of Charlee Ann, I flip my hair over my shoulder. “I’m so kind and compassionate. I love and support everyone always.” As she glares at me, I add, “What a person looks like isn’t what determines your treatment of them—the blackened state of your heart is.”

  Once again Mr. Parton claps his hands. “All right. That’s enough, Miss Leighton.”

  Me? I wait for him to call out Charlee Ann or Mercedes.

  Still waiting...

  Waiting...

  Wow. Okay, all right. “Here’s a problem I’d love for you to solve for the class.” I lift my chin, square my shoulders. “There are twenty-one kids in this room, and not one of them has learned anything but the consequences of having a bad teacher. How do you explain that?”

  Everyone snickers, even Mercedes and Charlee Ann.

  The vein in Mr. Parton’s forehead throbs faster. “One more word out of you, Miss Leighton, and you’ll spend a week in detention.”

  Is he kidding? I might have just won the lottery. Detention lasts for an hour after school. The longer I can avoid Fiona and a new lecture from my dad, the better.

  “Word,” I say.

  His eyes narrow to tiny slits and his face darkens to lobster red, clashing with his white button-down shirt and brown dress slacks. He’s so neat and tidy; he obviously prizes order.

  To him, I must look like chaos. My clothes are usually torn. I have a silver hoop in my nose and two eyebrow rings. One of my arms is sleeved in tattoos. My back is also covered.

  Part of my armor, my therapist says.

  He’s wrong. They are my memorials.

  Robb gave me my first tattoo—a broken heart on my wrist. Of course my dad flipped out. What he didn’t understand, then or now? The image reminds me of my mother, forever and always.

  I told him I would be getting other tattoos with or without his approval. Rather than “putting my health at risk,” Dad shocked me by hiring a professional to do the rest of the work. We had to travel out of state, and he had to sign paperwork to grant his permission, but each and every time he did it with only a handful of complaints.

  “If you want detention so badly, I’ll give it to you—for the rest of the month.” Mr. Parton crosses his arms, clearly expecting me to rush out an apology. “How does that sound?”

  When will he learn I’m not like other kids?

  “Mr. Parton,” I say, picking a fleck of black nail polish from my index finger. “Have you noticed you’re the one being disruptive, wasting everyone’s time? You offered detention. I accepted. Can we move on, please?”

  Rage detonates in his eyes as a chorus of “Oooh” and “Aaah” rings out.

  “That’s it! I want you gone.” He closes the distance to slap his hands against the sides of my desk. The metal legs vibrate. If he doesn’t learn to control his stress levels, that vein in his forehead is going to burst. “You are nothing but a nuisance. At this rate, you’re going to fail my class. Probably all your classes.”

  If I hadn’t taught myself to shut down emotionally, I might have erupted just then. He’s not supposed to discuss my private business with others. But all I feel is more nothingness. “You’re wrong about my grades,” I inform him. “I’m passing every class...that has a decent teacher.”

  He jerks a finger toward the door. �
�Get out of my classroom. Go straight to Principal Hatcher’s office. Do not talk to anyone along the way. Do not stop in the bathroom.”

  Tomb-like silence slithers through the room.

  “May I collect two hundred dollars for passing Go?” I say as I bend down to retrieve my books and bag from the floor.

  “Out!”

  “Happy to go just as soon as you write me a note.”

  His nostrils flare before he stomps to his desk, scribbles something and throws a piece of paper at my feet.

  I may be indifferent, but I’m not stupid. This is a power play. One of many. Mr. Parton has always enjoyed taking his frustrations out on his students. If he spills coffee on his shirt, we get a quiz. If he locks his keys in his car, we get ten pages of homework.

  I remain beside my desk, stiff as a board. I will not pick up that paper.

  On my sixteenth birthday, my dad gifted me with two of my mother’s journals. One she’d written before her marriage, the other she’d written after. I’ve read every precious word more times than I can count. One of my favorite passages plays through my mind.

  If I don’t stand up for myself, I will fall. I must be strong, and I must be brave. I must be me. If I fall, how will I ever have the strength to carry my little girl when she needs me most?

  At one time she was the head cheerleader, a position she lost when she got pregnant with me. My dad, the football star, had knocked her up.

  As soon as she hit her second trimester, she was kicked off the cheer squad. Kids called her a slut and a whore, and she lost many friends.

  Although I suppose they weren’t really friends. Arguably not even people worth knowing.

  I wish I could read Mom’s other journals and discover more pearls of wisdom from her, but my dad said the rest were lost when we moved out of my childhood home and into the one we now share with Fiona.

  “Miss Leighton!” Mr. Parton’s voice yanks me from my thoughts. “Pick up the pace. The sooner you’re gone, the sooner the rest of the class can enjoy the lesson.”

  I stand and adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “I don’t think you have to worry about anyone enjoying it.”

  I don’t mean the words as a taunt but a simple truth. Still, students laugh.

  He closes in on me once again, and he looks ready to snap—my neck, that is. I remain in place, forcing him to peer up at me. At five-ten, I’m two inches taller than Mr. Parton.

  When he realizes I can’t be intimidated, he balls his fists. “Don’t you dare come back in here. You do, and you’ll be punished. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course. Your lectures are always punishment.” I step past him, past the paper he threw, and nod goodbye to Linnie as I stroll into the hall.

  Chapter 2

  Sometimes you have to see yourself through

  someone else’s eyes in order to see the real you.

  —Miranda Leighton

  (formerly Miranda Beers)

  The next morning, I walk to school, as usual. My dad bought me a car, oh, about a year ago, but I refused to drive it so he finally sold it. I’m not afraid of cars, per se, but I’m not eager to sit behind the wheel of one either, responsible for the life of everyone on the road.

  I’m proactive, I guess. And I’m early again—as usual. I spot Mercedes’s car in the lot. Hard to miss it, considering it’s the only one here. She’s slumped over the wheel, her body heaving as if she’s sobbing.

  Well. That’s new. Nadine must have given her crap again. As a kid, when someone hurt her, Mercedes always waited until she was alone with me before she broke down. I calmed and defended her and, in return, she adored me. Now I perch under a tree, hidden in the shade, and watch her. Would other people feel sorry for her? Maybe wonder just how deep her internal wounds run?

  I can hear my therapist: Wounded animals lash out. This girl...her pain...it has made her an animal.

  I can even hear my response: Are you talking about Mercedes, Dr. Miller, or me?

  Why can’t I talk about you both, Miss Leighton?

  I don’t care if she’s wounded. If she insults my friends today, I won’t go easy on her.

  By the time the first car arrives, Mercedes has calmed and righted her makeup. She looks as perfect and snotty as always, and the transformation stuns me. I’d swear there are two Mercedes: Miss Vulnerable and Her Majesty the Witch of Hathaway High.

  I stay put until Kimberly, Linnie and Robb emerge from a rusty sedan.

  The rough, tough Kimberly is wearing a ripped black T-shirt with a matching tank underneath. And matching skinny jeans, I guess, since they are equally ripped. Those jeans might get her sent home for violating the school’s dress code. Not that she’ll care. The dark color complements her golden skin while the harshness of her clothing presents the perfect contrast to her fine-boned features. A metal belt circles her waist, a shiny silver skull and crossbones in the center. Rings decorate each of her fingers, and bracelets clink together on her wrists.

  Redheaded, freckled Linnie looks like a doll in a black shirt covered in ribbons and bows, a ruffled black skirt and a pair of lacy black hose. Her makeup is thick, giving her long-lashed Barbie eyes and bloodred heart-shaped lips and adding color to her porcelain skin. Her hair is anchored in twin pigtails with big, sweeping curls.

  Robb is tall and thin, with brown skin, black hair, and eyes a shade in between. He’s the only one wearing colors, and they look good on him. His hair is tipped in neon green, and his pants are red-and-black plaid. And yes, the rest of him is draped in black.

  Some people consider us “typical Goth.” Those same people think we worship Satan (no thanks), cut ourselves (ouch) or cast black magic spells (I’m fresh out of magic).

  Kimberly is rocking out to a song on her iPhone. In junior high, music brought her, Linnie and Robb together. My tastes are different. I prefer classical music. They love me, anyway.

  Linnie is chewing gum while typing fast as lightning on her phone, and Robb is picking up a book some girl dropped. The girl doesn’t thank him; she rushes off, her gaze darting around the parking lot, and it’s clear she hopes no one witnessed her interaction with the Goth boy.

  Next time I see her, I’m going to hurt her. Robb is one of the kindest people I know. He runs the website for a local food bank, free of charge. If ever he drives past a homeless person, he stops at the nearest gas station to buy the person whatever food and water he can afford. He rescues stray dogs and cats, too!

  He cares about the world around him and the people populating it. And some girl at our school looks at him as if he’s garbage?

  My blood begins to boil. My hands curl into fists.

  Inhale, exhale. Again. In, out. I shove, punch and kick the rage deep, deep inside a hidden corner of my heart where I’ve buried a thousand other emotions. My blood cools, and my hands uncurl. Out of sight, out of mind.

  No emotions, no problems.

  I suspect Robb will die in his sixties. He’ll get so wrapped up in a video game—because yes, the addiction is strong in this one—that he’ll forget to eat. Oh! Or maybe he’ll marry a guy totally devoted to him who remembers to feed him. Aww. I’m enamored of their relationship already.

  I notice a group of kids snickering as they draw closer to my friends. One of the kids even withdraws a key—to add another scratch to Linnie’s rust bucket of a car? Not on my watch.

  Their deaths: by my fists if they aren’t careful.

  My friends haven’t noticed me yet. That changes when I step in front of Keys and cant my head to the side. That’s it, that’s all I do. He loses his smile, and the rest of his group goes quiet.

  If he wants to take a swing at me, fine. Go for it. He won’t emerge unscathed.

  “Move along,” I command. “Now. Before I treat your face like you planned to treat her car.”

  He hesitates. Then one o
f his friends tugs on his shirt, and the group steps back. I think I hear one of them say, “They aren’t worth it.” Then they scramble away.

  My reputation precedes me. “You aren’t worth anything,” I call.

  Linnie bumps my shoulder, one of her bows tickling my skin. “You weigh...what? A buck two? Yet you can scare a boy who weighs three hundred pounds.”

  Robb pats the top of her head and offers her a sad smile. His smiles are always sad, and I don’t know why. I’ve never asked, and he’s never volunteered the info. “Look at the pretty, trying to math,” he says. “You, my dear, would have better luck growing a tail.”

  “Why add a tail to perfection?” She spreads her arms wide and twirls. “I’m amazing!” She’s also high as a kite, her pupils the size of saucers.

  “No, you’re embarrassing.” Kimberly is the mother hen of the group, always trying to keep her chicks in line. She flips her long, dark ponytail over her shoulder and studies me. “Sadly, you look as cheery as usual. Meaning not at all. Inform your face you’re with friends.”

  I take no offense. She believes in honesty at all costs.

  From what little she’s admitted about her past, I know her life has been rougher and tougher than most. She never knew her dad and lost her mom early on. For nearly ten years, she bounced between foster homes, some good, some really, really bad. At thirteen, she moved in with her aunt, where she’s lived ever since.

  “Don’t listen to her.” Linnie gives my shoulder another bump. “You look tragic but beautiful.”

  Tragic? Really? I’d use the word to describe her.

  Sometimes, when I peer deep enough, I see past her smile to the injured girl within. Not that I know why she’s injured or why she does some of the things she does. Again, I’ve never asked. Perhaps she lacks affection at home? She’s the richest girl at Hathaway High and lacks for nothing monetarily.

  For her sixteenth birthday, her parents gave her an Aston Martin. Has she driven it even once? Nope. She worked at a movie theater for a year and used her own money to buy the Rust Bucket.

  Every so often the plump redhead sleeps with a boy who shows interest in her, even though she suspects he’s pretending. The next day he calls her terrible names as if she made a mistake but he’s a god for nailing her.