Eventually, I spoke. “You don’t seriously think I’m the one who did it, do you?”
“Yeah,” she said, “I seriously do.”
Then she picked up her backpack from where it lay slumped on the floor next to her and left. As she turned to open the door, she said, “Oh yeah. And Stacey wanted me to tell you that she’s not having a party for her birthday on Friday. She said she was going to tell you herself but she was afraid you’d cry about it. And by the way? No guy’s ever going to like you with short hair.”
And then she was gone.
Had that really just happened?
I stood there for a while, totally shocked into stillness. Thinking about Chloe, and the absence of her fist. About Stacey and the absence of her birthday party. About boys and haircuts.
Had that really just happened? It was too awful to even wrap my head around.
The world had crashed out of orbit and into the sun.
Thirteen
Ulen Township, Clay County, Minnesota
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Ulen Township is a township in Clay County, Minnesota, United States. The population was 163 in 2000.
Ulen Township has nothing to do with anything. Ulen Township is so tiny I bet I’m only the 164th person in the world who’s ever heard of it. Today I clicked on the link marked Random article on my favourite online encyclopedia because my head is spinning so fast that I can’t think straight and don’t know where to go, even online. Why is all of this happening now? And why is it all happening to me?
I hope no one ever looks up Ulen Township again. I hope these words stay here untouched, forever.
But I know they won’t. Someone a million miles away is already waiting to erase them. To erase me.
I wish I knew how to disappear for real.
I wanted to call Stacey this morning to talk to her about everything that was happening, how out of control it all felt, and what she was planning on doing for her birthday (her thirteenth!) if she wasn’t going to have a party, but every time I picked up my phone, I couldn’t make myself do it.
I thought about sending her a text instead, about trying to explain what I thought was going on with Chloe, but I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I could just invite her to come over this weekend for a non-party birthday party? I didn’t even know if that was okay. Did she just not want to see me?
So I called Trisha instead. Her mom picked up on the second ring.
“Hi,” I said, “is Trisha there?”
“Is this Jo?”
Shoot, shoot, shoot. I hadn’t spoken to her since the embarrassing zit/swearing episode at Trisha’s sleepover. All of the sudden I remembered her face as I left the bathroom.
“Yeah. Hi, Mrs. Wynn.” My voice was meek, innocent, terrified.
“Hi, Jo.”
“Ummm.” I buzzed, waiting for Mrs. Wynn to go get Trisha. But she stayed silent on the line, waiting for me to finish my sentence. I took a breath, praying for dumb courage. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for what happened at the sleepover. I’m sorry I swore in the bathroom. I don’t usually talk like that. I was upset. I was, uh, having a problem.”
“A problem?”
“A zit, actually.”
“A zit.” She sounded kind of amused.
“Yeah, it was really, um, painful, and — and anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’m sorry.”
“All right. It’s not a big deal, but thank you for your apology. I used to have pretty bad acne when I was your age, too. It’s no fun.”
“You’re telling me. But, um, can I talk to Trisha now?”
“Of course. I’ll go get her.”
I breathed out a giant sigh of relief, like cartoon characters do when they’ve narrowly avoided having a giant anvil dropped on their head from the top of a cliff. Then Trisha picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, T.”
“My mom said you apologized.”
“Is that weird? I felt really bad about swearing at the sleepover.”
“It’s fine. But just keep a lid on it next time, okay?”
“I think I can manage that.”
“So when’s our first band practice?” Trisha asked.
“You mean Slush Puppies?”
“No, I mean the Flying Monkeys.”
“Oh, too bad,” I said. “I heard they broke up. The guitarist’s in a new band, though. They’re called Yeti Confetti.”
“Oh yeah? Well my new favourite is playing a concert next week. They’re called I Hate Mondays.”
“Yeah, they’re okay. I heard that Don’t Touch My Squash is opening.”
“Those guys know how to rock,” Trisha said.
“They practically know how to boulder.”
Trisha snorted.
“So can I come over?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “obviously. Bring Zim’s guitar.”
“Aye-aye, captain.”
It’s funny that Trisha and I don’t hang out more often, especially since we live so close to each other. I walked over to her house, and we spent most of the afternoon talking and listening to music in her room.
Trisha’s bedroom is kind of plain — still sort of babyish and pink, she hasn’t changed it around too much since she was little — except for a few posters she’s put up in the last couple of months. She’s been getting really into this band she heard about called Mainline, and she ordered one of their posters online. It looks kind of funny in her room compared to the rest of her decor, but it’s just another way that Trisha’s very quietly doing her own thing. Lately she’s been wearing weird tights to school, too — striped ones, or ones with cool designs on them. She changes into them in the bathroom, which is kind of weird because I’m sure her parents wouldn’t care. I think she just likes the idea of having a secret identity, like a superhero.
She put on the new Mainline album for me, playing it quietly enough that her parents couldn’t hear it downstairs.
“How did you hear about these guys?” I asked.
“I found their Facebook page and checked out some of their music. They’re actually from around here, you know? They all grew up in Brampton, like an hour outside the city.”
“Oh wow, you think they ever play here? I mean, in Toronto, downtown?”
“Yup,” she said, drumming along to the music on her desk. “Their shows are always nineteen-plus, though. It sucks.”
“Oh, man.”
“I know. I’m never going to get to see them play live.”
“I guess not.”
We sat for a while, just listening to the record. The guitars were great, they wailed, but it wasn’t like the harsh distorted music they were playing at Dye, Dye. This was kind of, I don’t know, weirdly melodic? But tough; the singer was practically growling through the lyrics. She definitely wore combat boots.
“This is great,” I said.
“Yeah, I know” said Trisha, as she turned the volume up just a tiny bit. She smiled, and she looked like she was drinking in the music right through her skin. Trisha’s happiest when she’s listening to music, I could just tell. No wonder she plays the piano so well.
We got to the end of the album without saying much else, and then Trisha started playing it again from the beginning. I held Z’s guitar in my hands and pretended to play along, but it was tough since I didn’t actually know any chords.
“Hey, Trisha?” I said, when we were well into the third song for a second time around.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think it’s weird that Stacey cancelled her birthday party?”
“I don’t know. She told me her parents were going out of town so she couldn’t have us over. Something about how Becca had a modelling job in Montreal so they had to take her there for the weekend.”
“Oh. Chloe didn’t mention that.”
“Chloe told you the party was off?”
“Yeah. She said Stacey was afraid I was going to cry about it or something. She’s been acting
super weird lately.”
“Who, Chloe or Stacey?”
“Both of them. But I was talking about Chloe.”
“Uh-huh,” Trisha said. “Weird like how?”
“She thinks I’m the one who wrote on her locker.”
Trisha paused and looked at me hard. “You didn’t, right?”
“Of course not. You think I’d do that?”
“No,” she said. “Just checking.”
“I’d never do something to hurt her.”
“I guess she was pretty pissed about that glass.” Trisha got up to change the music on her computer.
“That’s what I don’t get,” I said, turning on the bed to face where Trisha was standing. “All this over one stupid glass of water? Isn’t that totally insane?”
“Yeah.” Trisha nodded. “Anyway, I’m sure Chloe will get over the whole locker thing. Maybe you should just tell her you did it?”
“But I didn’t, and she’s the one who’s acting totally weird.”
“I don’t know, Jo, you’ve been acting kind of weird the last couple of weeks, too. Spaced out, you know?” She found what she was looking for and put it on. Whatever the band was they were a lot more chilled out.
“So what?”
“I’m just saying.” She flopped down on the bed again. “If you and Chloe are in a fight, I’m not picking sides.”
“I’m not asking you to. There’s — there’s a lot going on right now.”
“Like what?” Trisha asked.
“You know Zim’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah, I remember you talking about her. You said she had green hair or something. What’s her name, Jess? She sounded cool.”
“Jen. She is. Her hair’s not green anymore, though, that was months ago.”
“What colour is it now?”
A trumpet joined in on the song. It sounded really good.
“Pink, but that’s not the point. The point is she’s pregnant. Zim’s going to be … he’s gonna be a dad, and the two of them are moving back home.”
“Whoa,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “I know.”
I told Trisha about everything that had happened. It felt good to tell someone how I was feeling, even if it wasn’t Stacey.
Trisha mostly just sat still and nodded, occasionally making a sympathetic face, as I described the family meeting and everything my parents had told me about what was going to happen next.
“What does Jen mean, she doesn’t talk to her family?” she asked when I had finished. “Like, at all? How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. Zim says it’s complicated.”
“I believe that.”
“I know. Man, I am going to be the most pizza-faced aunt who ever lived.”
“Why do you always talk about your face like that?” Trisha asked. “It’s not that bad.”
“Are you kidding? Do you know how many different kinds of creams and washes and oils and cover-ups I have to use to even look half-human? My skin is disgusting.”
“I’m just saying, it could be worse.”
“I guess,” I said. “It’s just pretty hard to imagine.”
“Don’t worry. Everyone loves a girl in a band.”
“I can’t believe you found an upside.”
“What can I say?” Trisha said, totally deadpan, “I’m an optimist.”
Trisha didn’t invite me to stay for dinner, so I walked back home around six.
Z and J were there when I arrived, with their first load of stuff for the big move. Dad was helping Z carry a futon frame up the stairs, and J was hauling a giant duffel bag toward the house.
“Do you want some help or something?” I asked.
“Hey, Jo!” She beamed at me. “Nah, don’t sweat it, I’ve got this.”
I wasn’t sure if pregnant women were supposed to lift heavy bags. I couldn’t remember if they’d said anything about it in health class. My mom certainly hadn’t been warned against it, though. She wasn’t anywhere around to help.
I found her later, upstairs reading a book.
“So. They’re really moving in,” I said, plunking myself down on my parents’ enormous king-size bed next to where she lay.
“They really are,” she said, putting her book down next to her and putting her reading glasses on top of her head.
“What are you reading?” I turned my head around to read the cover. It was an old book I recognized, one that had been on the old shelves in the basement forever. The Wind in the Willows.
“I used to read it to your brother when he was little.”
“Oh. How come you never read it to me?”
“Your brother had me read it to him so many times that by the time you came along, I didn’t want to hear about Mr. Toad of Toad Hall ever again.”
“And now?”
“I may have some love for these silly animals left in me after all.”
“Are you going to read it to the baby?”
“Yes,” she said tousling my short, short hair, “I think I might.”
Fourteen
Dermatology
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Dermatology is the branch of medicine dealing with the skin and its diseases. A dermatologist takes care of diseases, in the widest sense, and some cosmetic problems of the skin, scalp, hair, and nails and acne.
I guess it’s official. I have clinically awful skin.
Mom made an appointment with a dermatologist in the east end of the city, Dr. Mueller, and picked me up at school today to take me to my first appointment.
Dr. Mueller’s kind of cold — he didn’t smile once the whole time we were there. He told me my acne was “unusually complex for someone of my age.” Gee, thanks. He wrote me out a prescription for some super strong zit-banishing cream and told me to come back and see him in a month.
Oh boy, I can’t wait.
If I thought the cream that Dad brought home from the drugstore had bleached my pillowcase, it’s nothing compared to the awesome power of my new prescription-grade zit-zapper. Mom tried really hard to put on a patient smile when I wiped my face on one of her navy blue towels and left behind a pinkish-white smear, but I figured she was kind of upset that my face had spoiled her nice towels.
But seriously, if this stuff can strip the dye from a towel, is it really safe to be smearing it all over my face? What’s going to happen if I get it in my eyes?
I don’t want to think about it anymore.
My skin’s so dry from this new cream that it’s getting all nasty and flaky. But I can’t put moisturizer on my face because that’ll just block my pores — so says Dr. Mueller.
Acne is exhausting.
I should just let my greasy face be free. I almost wish I had the confidence to do that. To not try to cover up every single new spot I find, and to be proud to be the weirdo I am.
I wish.
Almost.
Z and J have now officially moved into the house, and J’s belly is starting to show, just a tiny little bit, that she has a tiny little fetus or whatever inside of her.
Great Things about Having My Cool Older Brother and His Cool Pregnant Girlfriend Staying in Our House:
I almost, almost, almost feel cool by association when Z and J talk about a place they’ve been to or a band they’ve seen play and they tell me I’d like them.
Z says he’s going to teach me how to play guitar sometime soon, which a) will be an amazing distraction and
b) will make my band with Trisha an actually possible possibility.
J had to stop dyeing her hair because apparently it’s bad for the baby, so she’s planning on shaving all her hair off soon and she says I can wield the clippers if I want to.
Less Than Great Things about Having My Cool Older Brother and His Cool Pregnant Girlfriend Staying In Our House:
Five people, one bathroom. Well, if you don’t count the one in the basement, which I don’t. Spider central. Eek.
Dad’s been bugging Z to find
a better job, and it’s completely irritating hearing them fight about it. Z’s been working at the same record store forever and he says that the staff are like a giant family. Dad says he needs to a) take parenthood seriously and maybe go back to school so he can make more money or
b) at least get a job that will give him (and J and the baby) health benefits.
Did I mention that we only have one non-spider-filled bathroom?
School hasn’t gotten much better. Stacey still acts like everything’s normal, but she never wants to hang out anymore. I found out that she spent her birthday with Chloe. They went shopping at the Eaton Centre and picked out more matching clothes at Hollister. For dinner they went to the Hard Rock Cafe, across the street from the mall. It was just the two of them, not even Stacey’s parents or Becca were there. I heard Chloe tell another girl in our class, Maylee, all about it.
It’s great spending more time with Trisha and everything, but sometimes she invites one of her friends from her church over instead of me so I have to find something else to do. It’s not that they’re not nice or anything — I could hang out with them if I really wanted to — they’re just kind of boring. And they make me really miss Stacey.
I’m not going to tell Chloe it was me who wrote on her locker; I totally refuse to give in to her paranoia. I’m still mad that she accused me in the first place. These days she and Stacey do everything together. They link arms in the hallway and walk to class and lunch together. They’re both so tall that it’s like a human fence roaming the school. Nobody can get past them.
I’m pretty sure they like it that way.
One thing I thought was going to be a pro about Z living at home again is that my dad is teaching him how to drive. Z’s had his learner’s permit since he was sixteen, but he never actually learned how to drive. He used to say that he didn’t drive for political reasons. Or, environmental, I guess. That the world didn’t need the pollution of one more car — he swore that he’d ride a bike or take public transit everywhere, his whole life.
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