But what did I expect? Awards? Accolades? Presidential Seals of Approval? Ha! Having my boyfriend and my best friend cheat on me while my other best friend knew it was going on wasn’t what I had in mind. When it happened, I ditched JosieRahRah and started JosieHatestheWorld. The irony being, I had so much more to say these days.
The good thing about starting JosieHatestheWorld was that I figured out what I want to do with my life. I always knew I wanted to be a reporter, but I used to think I’d be a TV news anchor or cover an art beat or something fluffy like that. But now I know that I want to be an investigative reporter. Like Graham Goren, a local journalist who’s always uncovering political scandals and blowing the whistle on greedy corporations. If I had asked more questions, dug deeper, and followed my instincts that something was fishy between Kevin and Madison, I would have found out about them long before Chloe spilled her guts and I would have saved myself a lot of heartache. I vowed after that experience to never have my head in the sand again and to use my writing abilities to expose the injustices of the world someday.
On my way back downstairs, I sang, “I love you, Mom,” and even though I might have sounded like a smart aleck, I meant it. I did love my mom. Even if she was annoying the crap out of me these days.
She looked up and nodded. “Much better,” she said. “Call if you’ll be late for dinner.”
Gladys took a few minutes to warm up. You would, too, if you were a 1984 poop brown Honda Civic hatchback. She wheezed and coughed like an emphysema patient then creaked and shuddered as I eased her out onto the streets of Broad Ripple, where even the squirrels were polite. “Come on, old girl,” I told Gladys, patting the dashboard. “You can do it, honey.”
My car was so old it still had a tape deck. Which, by the way, I loved. How totally retro and weird was that? Kev kept trying to get me to buy a fancy new stereo, like what he had in his vintage car, or at least buy one of those thingies that can convert the tape deck to play MP3s, but I was a purist. If Gladys had a tape deck, I would listen to tapes. Luckily my aunt JoJo (yep, I’m her namesake) was a packrat and she bequeathed all her mixes from college to me so Gladys could sing. I popped in a mixed tape called The Wall Came Tumbling Down from 1989 when JoJo spent her junior year of college in London and the Berlin Wall fell. I sang along to New Order and The Smiths as I cruised toward downtown Indianapolis to meet Atonia Babineaux, my newly assigned social worker.
Driving through the perfectly parallel streets of Indy-no-place always reminded me that there was not a single interesting thing happening here. Never a diagonal for this grid-town. It was like someone drew a giant X over the state and put the capitol building where the lines intersected. Drew a circle around that building and called it “The Circle.” Then radiated lines in ninety degree angles to one another from there. The streets were named after dead presidents (Washington, Jefferson, Madison) and states (Illinois, Michigan, Ohio). With the exception of Meridian Street, which bisects the city in half. Those street-namers were some creative geniuses.
Indianapolis is a poor excuse for a city, if you ask me, not that anybody did. Whenever I complained about Indiana, my dad liked to point out all the famous people who grew up here like James Whitcomb Riley, Tavis Smiley, and Garfield the Cat. Kurt Vonnegut being his favorite to harp on. But as I always pointed out to my dad, they all, even Garfield, left in the end. Which was exactly what I was planning to do as soon as I graduated. I’d blow this Popsicle stand and hightail it to the Windy City with Aunt JoJo where I’d go to University of Chicago (knock on wood that I got accepted) and study journalism. I couldn’t wait to move to Chi-town. It was a real city with interesting people. I was just biding my time until I got there because, let me assure you, Indy had not one single interesting person. Not one.
Okay, so maybe there might have been one interesting person in Indianapolis. Or at least one very strange person and she was sitting right across from me. Atonia Babineaux was small, skinny, and extremely pale with short, spiky black hair and eyes so dark I swore I could see the moon in their centers. She was also a huge space cadet.
“It must be here,” she mumbled, riffling through stacks and stacks of manila folders on her desk. “Somewhere. What did you say your name is again?”
“Josephine Griffin,” I told her for the fourth time. “But I go by Josie.” If the next six weeks of my life weren’t in her hands, I might have found the whole scenario very amusing, but as it was, I was worried. “I had my court date last week. Maybe my file hasn’t made it here yet.”
She looked at me and blinked. I couldn’t tell if she was an old person who looked young or a young person who looked old. “You’re new,” she said, and I nodded. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Um, I did. When I first got here,” I told her, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. First impressions!
Atonia grabbed a stack of paper from her in-box and flipped through all the sheets, muttering. “Gretchen, Gretchen, Gretchen.”
“Excuse me,” I said, trying not to be obnoxious, but this lady was causing me some serious anxiety. “You do know that my name is Josephine, not Gretchen.”
She looked at me again as if I might be the one who was confused. “Really? Josephine?”
“Since I was born,” I said.
“Well now…” She went back to digging.
While she was shuffling papers I took a good look around. Not that I thought being a juvenile justice social worker would ever be glamorous, but I was expecting a little more. Maybe a few “Hang in There” posters with kittens clinging to branches or pictures of mountain climbers exhorting me to “Reach for the Sky.” This place was a dump. The green paint on the walls was peeling, the brown carpeting looked (and smelled) like vomit, and the one grimy window had a lovely view of a brick wall. Plus every surface overflowed with paper. I wondered what was in the filing cabinets—sandwiches?
Atonia slumped back in her chair. “I can’t find you.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m right here.”
“Don’t get cute, toots.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I realize it’s not your fault. Obviously somebody didn’t send you the paperwork, it’s just that I’m eager to get started with this whole community service and anger management thing so I can get it off my record. I’m about to start my senior year of high school and I don’t want it to interfere with getting into college.” See, Mom, I still had it. I could pander like a politician when I needed something. I leaned forward and gave her my best Josie-of-old smile. “Is there anything we can do to make this happen today?”
Maybe it was the khaki pants and the blouse or the way I was sweet-talking her, but whatever it was, Atonia shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She grabbed a pad of paper and a pen off her desk and opened a big directory. “Anger management. Really?” She looked me up and down. “You don’t look like the angry sort.”
I just shrugged.
“What’d you do?” she asked while she flipped the pages.
“Bashed someone’s windshield in with a baseball bat,” I told her.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “Naughty, naughty.” She copied down some info onto a slip of paper. “Here’s a group that meets this afternoon. Can you make it?”
Wait, let me check my social calendar. Right, I have no friends anymore and nothing better to do, so yeah, I guess I could make it. “Sure,” I said, taking the paper from her. I squinted at the letters, barely decipherable, and asked, “What about my community service?”
“Hmm.” She searched her desk again. She stuck her head under her desk and dug through a cardboard box full of junk. “Where did I put that directory?” I wondered if she’d ever heard of a fancy new contraption called a computer and that newfangled Internet they have now?
“Can’t I just pick my own place?” I asked, because I was ready to get the H out of her office.
She looked up at me from somewhere around her knees. “Like what?”
“I used to volunteer for Habitat for
Humanity. I could call them and see if they need my help.”
“Nope, the place must be approved.” She sat upright again and leaned back in her chair so far I thought she’d topple over. “Look, tell you what. You seem like a nice girl. I know a place that needs some extra help.” She madly scribbled on another piece of paper. “It’s a center called Helping American Girls.”
“Seriously?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard her right. “You mean like the dolls?”
She looked up at me. “Are you making a joke?”
“Are you?” I asked.
“It’s a shelter,” she told me. “For runaway teen girls. I know the person who runs it and one of her workers just took a”—she paused and thought—“leave of absence. She needs some extra help for about a month.” She shoved the paper at me. “Just make sure she signs this time sheet every week.”
I nodded and said, “Thank you.”
“You’d better hurry if you want to make that group,” she said, pointing to the clock with her pencil. Then she laid her head down on her desk like she was going to go to sleep. “Give the therapist my note and I’ll send the paperwork over later this week,” she muttered with her eyes half closed.
I hopped up from my chair, mumbled thanks again, and I hightailed it out of her office.
chapter 3
when I got outside, dark clouds had gathered in the sky and the air was thick and warm like a whopping thunderstorm was about to break. Did I have an umbrella? No, of course not. That was one of the downsides of New Josie, she was almost always unprepared. Old Josie was so over-prepared that she practically carried a tent and cookstove with her everywhere.
But here’s what I learned from being the one who always had my crap together: Everyone expects you to always have your crap together. Madison and Chloe always relied on me to make the plans—Josie will know the way. Josie will drive. Josie will make sure everyone gets where they need to go when they need to be there. Josie will have an umbrella. At some point, I got sick of always having the umbrella. Except for right then because big fat raindrops were falling on my head. I ran to Gladys and jumped inside before the torrential downpour began.
With the wipers squeeching and the defroster on, I drove around downtown Indy looking for the address scribbled on Atonia’s paper. Every time I turned a corner, it seemed like I came face-to-face with another one of those stupid Zombie Apparel billboards. The models, like broomsticks with wigs, stared blankly in their urban-apocalypse-meets-soft-core-porn clothes with the words Zombie Love Attack! screaming at me. “Jeez, they’re freakin’ everywhere,” I said.
The inside of my car was muggy, like the inside of somebody’s mouth, and it smelled like bad breath. I guess chucking empty chicken quesadilla wrappers in the backseat wasn’t the best idea if I wanted my car to smell like spring flowers. I pressed Ms. Babineaux’s paper against the dashboard and squinted at the info again. It appeared to say 858 Illin or maybe that was 85 Chillin or maybe it was 2551 Linus or maybe it was in Swahili. I had only fifteen minutes until the meeting started, and despite New Josie’s vow to never be early (that was an Old Josie habit) I didn’t want to walk in on the middle of the session because then everyone would stare at me and…oh crap. That’s when I remembered. Khaki pants! I was wearing flipping ugly khaki pants and a powder blue blouse like the cheerleader I used to be. Ugh. First impressions.
There was no way I was going into a room with a bunch of juvenile delinquents looking like a total goob. I’d be eaten alive in no time. I pulled over to a parking meter on Illinois Street, killed the engine, and dove in the backseat. Surely I’d stashed some clothes back there at some point in the last few months. Lord knew there was enough junk to start my own personal landfill. I tossed aside take-out sacks, rummaged through piles of papers and books, pushed away empty cans and bottles until I uncovered a gym bag. Eureka! Inside were a pair of dark jeans, a black and white striped boater shirt, and some beat-up red Chuck Taylor shoes. Not exactly the look I was hoping for when meeting a bunch of tough kids, but it would have to do. I glanced around outside the car. The rain had emptied the sidewalks and fogged up my windows, so I hunkered down on the backseat to change clothes.
The next time I peeked out the window, I saw a guy under a black umbrella cocking his head to see inside my car. I zipped up my jeans and scowled at him. He was pale with shaggy brown hair and gray circles under his dark eyes. “What?” I yelled, which startled him. He grinned then hurried away. I watched him disappear inside a building half a block away. As I climbed into the front seat, I saw more people hurrying out of the rain, into the same building. A tall blond guy moved so smoothly it was like he was floating. Another guy with short dreadlocks standing on end kicked up his skateboard and held open the door for a petite girl who flipped a mass of bright red curls over her shoulder and smiled at him. They all looked about my age. I grabbed Atonia’s paper from my dashboard and compared it to the address above the door. 2851 Illinois? Looked like I might be in the right place. I dashed out of my car, through the rain, and into the building.
The hallway was somber, like a morgue, the only noise the clicking of shoes somewhere ahead of me and the soft murmur of a few voices. I followed the sounds around a corner and saw the same group of kids filing into a room. My heart pounded and my stomach churned. I did not want to be there. I shouldn’t have been there. I didn’t have an anger problem. I could control my anger when I wanted to; I just didn’t want to that one time and look where it landed me. It was so unfair.
These kids were probably real delinquents, although they looked harmless enough. But you could never tell. Sometimes the most ordinary looking people end up being the sickest. Look at Kevin. Everyone thought he was such an all-around good guy, Mr. Basketball, Tennis Captain, Class VP, leader of the young men’s prayer circle by day. But by night, he was a total jerk. I knew for a fact that he and his friends would buy beer, shoplift snacks from a 7-Eleven, score some weed, and break in to empty houses to party, then they’d drive around harassing people or he’d end up at Madison’s house while I was home studying or making pep rally signs like a blinded fool. So maybe the so-called “bad kids” were just the ones who got caught.
My plan was to slip into the room, take a seat in the back, and listen like a journalist. Maybe I would even take notes and write about my experience on my blog. No matter what, I was going to keep my head down and do my best to make sure no one would notice me. Except that when I got inside I saw that a) the chairs were arranged in a circle and b) the only one not occupied was at the opposite end of the room and c) that chair was beside the creepy peeper guy who looked inside my car. Great. Of course, since I was the new girl, everybody stopped what they were doing and stared at me. I felt like a bunny hopping through a fox’s den. I walked quickly with my head down, hoping they’d lose interest in me if I appeared uninteresting.
When I got to the open seat, the creepy peeper looked up at me, raised an eyebrow, and flashed me a cheesy grin. I rolled my eyes at him and plopped down in the seat.
The last person through the door was clearly the therapist. He was probably my dad’s age with a full beard and short sandy gray hair. He wore pressed plaid pants and Hush Puppies shoes that were almost silent on the linoleum. He glanced around the circle, nodding to each person until he got to me and looked startled. “Ah, a new addition to our happy little group?”
Nothing like stating the obvious. I stood up and handed him the note from Atonia. “Ms. Babineaux said I could join you starting today.”
“Who?” he asked.
“My social worker. She’ll send over the rest of the paperwork later.”
He studied Atonia’s scrawl for a moment with a frown then he shrugged. “Okay, well then, I’m Charles, the facilitator of this group. Welcome, Josephine.”
“Josie,” I corrected him.
When I sat down the creepy peeper guy leaned way too close. He stared at me intensely as if he thought he could hypnotize me. “That’s a very sexy name,
Yosie,” he said. There was something so dorky about that guy. Maybe it was the haircut, a little too long in back and frizzy in the front. Or his clothes, a short satiny jacket with big shoulders over a paisley shirt, as if he’d stepped out of one of those bad 1980s movies Aunt JoJo loved so much. Or maybe it was his voice, annoying and nasally with a weird accent I couldn’t place. Russian or Slavic or something.
“A) it’s Josie,” I said, leveling my gaze at him. “With a J.”
“That’s what I said,” he told me with his eyebrow cocked again. “Yosie.” He locked eyes with me and seemed to anticipate something, like he was waiting for me to swoon.
But I was far from swooning. “And b),” I said, “ew.”
He turned away sheepishly and I heard someone snicker from across the room.
“Okay,” the therapist said. “Let’s jump right in. How’s the week been? Who wants to start?”
The dreadlock guy lifted his hand. “I’ll go,” he said. As I watched him talk, I realized he was seriously cute with piercing gray-blue eyes and dark skin under the layers of short red-tinted braids snaking from his head like tendrils from a plant. He was lean but I could tell he was muscular under his baggy jeans and tee. “It was a full moon, so you know, that made my week tougher,” he said, and I thought, Oh brother. The moon made his week hard? Sounded like Aunt JoJo when she went through her New Age Wicca stage ten years ago. She was always talking about how the mother moon’s ebb and flow dominated her cycle. Happily she no longer bought into that malarkey. I would have never pegged this guy for a New Age moon worshiper, though. Looked more like a skate rat to me.
“Can you share what happened, Avis?” Charles asked.
Josie Griffin Is Not a Vampire Page 2
