Something Wiki

by Suzanne Sutherland

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

  Slut is a term applied to an individual who is considered to have loose sexual morals or who is sexually promiscuous or who has been prescribed birth control for a freaking medical condition. The term is generally pejorative and most often applied to women as an insult or offensive term of disparagement, meaning “dirty or slovenly.” my locker, with a big fat red permanent marker.

  For the second time in two months, it feels like I’ve died. Only this time I know exactly where I wound up.

  Chloe did it. She must have. I’m sure it was her.

  I tried so hard not to cry when I saw the writing on my locker. It was like each letter was yelling at me, telling me I’d done something wrong, even though I that know I haven’t.

  And everyone else had seen it too. They were talking about me, I was sure. Making up sick stories. Imagining the worst.

  I felt numb. I went to class and told Ms. Vilaney what had happened, and she went out into the hallway to see for herself. She told us all to remain in our seats, but when she walked past mine on her way back in she gave me the dirtiest look.

  I wanted to evaporate.

  Instead, I just curled up in my chair, trying to make myself as small as possible, which wasn’t easy.

  Vilaney called for the janitor to come paint over my locker. But the word still screamed at me, still stared at me like a painting with moving eyes in a museum. Even with a classroom wall between us.

  And I could tell Vilaney thought it was somehow my fault. The way she looked at me all day, half-afraid and half-fascinated. She was trying to work out what I’d done, maybe even who I’d done it with.

  How can I be a slut if no guy will even look at me? It doesn’t make sense.

  I told Trisha about the Pill.

  And Trisha must have told Stacey.

  And then Stacey must have told Chloe.

  And I know Chloe did it. I know.

  I tried so hard all morning not to cry, but ten minutes before lunch I completely cracked. Vilaney sent me off to the bathroom to clean myself up. To wash my face and try to make it look like my eyes weren’t as bright red as my cheeks, my zits, the marker, everything.

  Trisha tried to come with me to help, but Vilaney said that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

  What she meant was that I didn’t deserve the help.

  Vilaney carried on with her lesson, and I left.

  I couldn’t believe I’d broken down in class. I cried harder because I was so frustrated at myself for letting it get to me. I wanted so badly to be the girl who was too smart to care about any of this dumb stuff. Like J, knowing people might judge her for what she does, for who she is, but not giving them the satisfaction of feeling bad about herself.

  But I’m not Jen. Even with a funky haircut.

  I can’t believe I let Chloe see me cry.

  I know I should have called Mom and told her what happened. I almost did. But I knew she would have wanted to call Chloe’s parents. And Chloe’s parents wouldn’t have believed it, they’d have already heard their daughter’s perfectly rehearsed alibi.

  Nothing’s going to happen if I tell. Nothing’s going to get better.

  It’ll just make Chloe angrier, and that would make everything so much worse.

  I know Chloe’s the one. I’m positive.

  But I’m not going to tell.

  It’ll only make things worse.

  Could things actually get any worse?

  Is it possible — did Chloe write GINGER, too, on her own locker? Just to stir up trouble?

  I can’t think about this anymore, it’s giving me a headache.

  Where’s Mom’s tomato juice when you need it?

  The day finally ended and I got to go home. I’ve never been so glad to hear the three o’clock bell. I practically ran home, I was so desperate to get out of school and away from everyone. But, when I finally got there, home wasn’t relaxing or comforting or even quiet. Everyone was in their own little bubble, totally oblivious to the other soapy spheres in the house, and making a surprising amount of noise.

  Dad’s bubble was in the basement, the construction site. The rrrrgh, rrrrgh, rrrrgh of his power tools had been nearly constant for weeks, even though nothing ever seemed to change down there.

  Part of me thinks he’s just been hiding out, drinking Rolling Rock from his little cooler, and holding down the trigger on his electric drill.

  Z was busy trying to look busy in his bubble, putting on the appearance of a person looking for a job (he isn’t — I don’t think he’ll ever leave that record store), and putting on his music too loud. Very loud. Lots of bass. It practically shook my teeth.

  J was totally absorbed in the stack of books she had taken out of the library on pregnancy and babies and what to expect when you’re expecting an alien creature to jump out of your womb in seven months’ time. She had set herself up at the kitchen table and kept asking Mom what she thought about all the contradictory advice the books were giving.

  The last bubble, Mom, was so wrapped up in cooking that she wasn’t hearing half of J’s questions, but she was nodding along and trying to throw in as much advice as she could. It didn’t help that she had the radio on, tuned to her favourite station, the best of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s.

  I went up to my room, trying to find a pocket of noiselessness, but the noise was everywhere. There was no escaping the roar of my family. I lay down on my bed, trying to will my headache away, or at least to fall asleep for a few minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to be anyone but me.

  I’ve got another appointment with Dr. Mueller next month, but I’m starting to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off just wearing a bag over my head for the rest of my middle-school career.

  It might be nice, I could get a different bag for each day of the week and coordinate them with my outfits. Draw a nice big smile on each one so I could save myself the trouble. No one would have to know how miserable I really am.

  “Hey,” everyone would say, “there goes Bag Girl!”

  And I’d smile, even if I was having the world’s worst day.

  A slut? Really?

  How could I be a slut?

  Seventeen

  Angst

  From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

  Angst means fear or anxiety. The word angst was introduced into English from Danish via existentialist Søren Kierkegaard — thanks, Kierky. It is used in English to describe an intense feeling of apprehension, anxiety, or inner turmoil.

  Is twelve too young to have teenage angst? My teachers always said I was advanced for my age.

  These days, I just want to sleep. I’d be happy if I could sleep all day. I’d sleep all day, and I wouldn’t have to go to school, and my family could just keep going on with their lives like I’m not even here. I wouldn’t be dead, or anything. But I wouldn’t have to keep feeling so awful.

  It won’t work, though. I drool in my sleep.

  As if I needed to look any uglier.

  Chloe and Stacey are both officially not speaking to me. Trisha’s the one who delivered the news today after school. She kept squirming and fidgeting, which is totally unlike her.

  “This is so stupid,” she said. “They’re being so immature. They think your brother’s weird girlfriend is, like, rubbing off on you or something. They say you’ve been acting …”

  I could tell Trisha was trying to think of a nice way to say whatever it is they’d called me.

  “Well, different,” she said. “I guess since she and Zim moved into your house. The new haircut and stuff. I don’t know, I don’t get it.”

  “Right, like they haven’t been acting weird too. And the haircut wasn’t my fault. I told you, didn’t I? It was the weird salon we went to. I didn’t mean for it to be so short.”

  “I know. They think we’re not cool enough for them now or something. Ever since Stacey kissed Brad at Maylee’s birthday party.”

  “Since whe
n did Maylee even invite Stacey to her party?” I asked.

  Maylee had been in our class for the last two years, but it’s not like she ever talked to us brainers. She was definitely cool, and her parties were always a big deal. At her last birthday party she gave out loot bags with twenty-dollar bills in them. At least, that’s what I heard.

  Maylee existed in a whole other world, one with its own set of laws and customs that were completely foreign to me. I never thought about Maylee and her parties, the same way I never thought about packing up and moving to Kuala Lumpur. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  “Maylee invited Chloe too,” Trisha said. “But the party was like two weeks ago. How is it you haven’t heard about this?”

  “Because I’m being shunned?”

  “Could be. You have been kind of moody lately.”

  “Hey, I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am. But your side has been kind of moody lately, no offence.”

  “Ha ha. So what happened at Maylee’s? Stacey really kissed Brad?”

  Brad wasn’t quite the stereotypical teen movie jock, but he came pretty close. He was on the student government, which I think was mostly because he got to read the morning announcements. You could tell he was in love with his own voice. Like how he stretched out his vowels like he was trying to make each sentence last an hour. No one talks like that unless they’ve got a microphone in front of them. But Brad played on the basketball team, too. Tall, blond, athletic. Whatever. Total Kuala Lumpurian.

  “Yup,” Trisha said, “that’s it. Stacey wouldn’t stop talking about it. It was just some truth or dare thing, but apparently now they’re going out or something.”

  “Whoa.”

  Stacey had never even kissed a guy before. We used to tell each other everything, and now I was getting the news (her first kiss!) second hand, two weeks after the fact?

  “Mm-hmm,” Trisha said, “so I guess Stacey’s cool now or whatever.”

  “What about Chloe?”

  “Chloe’s the one who got them invited to Maylee’s. What do you think?”

  I’d been noticing that all the time the Linebacker was spending with Stacey was starting to rub off. In the last few months Chloe had started straightening her hair and was wearing more makeup. She’d been dressing more like Stacey, too, many thanks to Hollister and Abercrombie & Fitch. Of course I’d noticed all of these little things, but it hadn’t really sunk in.

  It all made sense now.

  Now that it was too late.

  “So where does that leave us?” I asked.

  “Band practice?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. At least the new cool girls are still speaking to you.”

  “Barely.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “I guess,” Trisha said.

  “You want to come over to my house?”

  “You sure Jen’s weirdness isn’t contagious? I don’t think my parents would be too happy if I came home with a shaved head.”

  “We’ll let you keep your locks this time. Besides, Jen’s pretty cool. I think you’ll like her. She told me she used to be really into Mainline. She’s seen them play a couple of times.”

  Trisha flashed a rare giant smile.

  “Okay. I’m in.”

  We walked to my house, and I was shocked to find it was almost quiet when I put my key in the front door. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and Dad only popped his head up from the basement long enough to tell us that Z was off at a job interview that Old Papa Bear had set up for him. Dad actually called himself that now — how embarrassing. At least he’d quit with the drilling.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed us a snack (some of the tofu jerky that J’s been stockpiling in the cupboard — she was craving it like mad last week, but says she can’t stand it right of it now) and led Trisha upstairs. J was in her and Z’s room down the hall, blasting her music and singing along.

  Trisha and I sat on my bed for a while, gnawing on our jerky and listening to J. Her voice wasn’t bad. I wondered if she’d ever sung in a band.

  “You want to go talk to her?” I asked.

  “Think we should?”

  “Sure. It’s cool. Come on.”

  I knocked on the bedroom door, even though it was mostly open. We could see J bopping her head to the beat, lightly tapping her belly like it was a drum kit.

  “Entrez!” J called.

  I pushed the door open the rest of the way and we stepped inside. Z’s old room was just a little bit bigger than mine, but with all of Z and J’s stuff crammed in, it looked about the size of a bathtub. J was sitting at the little desk in the corner with a battered laptop open to Facebook in front of her.

  “Hey,” I said, “this is my friend Trisha. Trisha, Jen.”

  “Great to meet you,” J said. “You’re the Mainline fan, right?”

  “Yeah,” Trisha said, “I love them.”

  “Totally,” said J. “They put on a great live show.”

  “Cool.”

  We all paused for a second, and Trisha caught herself staring at J’s stomach. “Sorry, I —” she started to say.

  “No biggie,” said J, “I’m enormous.”

  She wasn’t at all; she was still only showing a tiny little bit. But J was small to begin with, so I guess she feels like she’s really starting to get fat.

  “So can you feel the baby at all?” I asked. I’d been kind of curious for a while.

  “Sometimes I think I can feel it, but then it turns out to just be gas. Sorry, by the way,” J said, fanning the air around her, “that was me.”

  “Gross,” said Trisha.

  “Sorry, man,” said J, “this is my life.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Ha,” said J, “no, no, it’s cool. I know I’m not much fun these days. I used to be cool. I think.”

  “Then you’re doing better than we are,” I said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Trisha said.

  “Aw, just give it some time,” said J. “Smart is cool. It’s just going to take a while for everyone else around you to figure that out.”

  “Like how long?” I asked.

  “Definitely by the time you’re thirty,” J said, smiling huge.

  “So, by the time we’re old ladies?” Trisha said.

  “So helpful,” I said.

  “I know it’s not the advice you want to hear, but just wait. You guys are definitely doing middle school right. Don’t waste your time trying to fit in, it’s never going to happen. And I mean that as a compliment. A big one.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, “so we’re doomed to be outsiders forever?”

  “Outsiders Forever, live at the Sound Academy — tickets are completely sold out,” said Trisha.

  “Nope,” I said. “That name’ll never work.”

  “Oh, shoot,” Trisha said, looking at the old Mickey Mouse clock hanging on J and Z’s wall, “I’ve got to get home. I’m going to be late for dinner.”

  “You could eat here,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure the only thing in the cupboard right now is rice and beans.”

  “And you do not want to hang out with a pregnant lady after she’s had beans for dinner,” J said.

  “You guys are weird,” said Trisha.

  “We’ll take that as a compliment,” said J.

  “You mind if I use your bathroom to change?”

  “Why do you need to change?” J said. “Those outer-space leggings are amazing.”

  Trisha contemplated her legs, which were covered in miniature galaxies. “I know. But these are kind of just for me, you know? They’re like a secret.”

  “Are your parents, like, really strict?” J asked.

  “They’re all right.”

  “So why keep it a secret?”

  “I don’t know,” Trisha said, suddenly looking bashful. “I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

  J and I nodded, and Trisha took her bag from my room to change back into a slig
htly less stellar (get it?) outfit.

  I walked with Trisha back downstairs and gave her a hug as she left. Trisha’s not much of a hugger, but it felt right, even if we were both a little awkward about it.

  “Thanks,” I said, as we broke apart.

  “For what?”

  “For being the only person in my life who hasn’t completely changed who they are this year.”

  “I told you,” Trisha said, “there’s no way my parents would let me shave my head.”

  “How do you do it? Just stay so calm about everything.”

  “My dreams of rock and roll superstardom keep me grounded.”

  “Guess it’s about time I actually learned some chords then, huh?”

  “Obviously. No one would pay to see only one Slush Puppy.”

  “See? I knew you liked it!”

  “It has a certain ring to it.”

  “See you later, Slush Pup.”

  “Don’t ever call me that again.” Trisha’s thin little grin betrayed her fake toughness.

  “Since when did you become a hugger, anyway?”

  “Oh, you know, just practising for our adoring fans.”

  I waved at her through the living room window as she walked home.

  Mom came home not long after that and started making dinner. J and I set the table, and Dad and informed us that the basement was starting to look like an apartment — he’d have it ready for Z and J in a few days.

  “Maybe it’s time I quit my job and hired myself out as a contractor,” he said.

  “Thanks so much for all the work you’ve done,” J said. “It means, well, it means a lot that you guys have been so welcoming to me.”

  Mom smiled nervously. “Of course, dear,” she said. “You’re family now.”

  “You bet,” said Dad.

  “Duh,” I said.

  J reached over and tousled my hair. “Thanks, guys.”

  I grinned.

  It was almost seven and Z still hadn’t come back from his job interview.

  “Should we wait?” J asked.

  “Best to eat this stuff while it’s still hot,” Dad said. “I’m sure Zim won’t mind.”

  So the four of us dug into our mountains of kidney, navy, and fava. None of us said much. We’d almost cleared our plates when we finally heard Z at the door. J got up to greet him.