Confessions of an Angry Girl

by Louise Rozett

  You would think that the actor playing Jason would become less attractive due to his character’s misdeeds rather than more attractive, but the Greek chorus could not get enough of Robert. Maybe the anachronistic biker jacket and leather boots he wore on stage canceled out the fact that he played a two-timing jerk.

  Sometimes Robert used the Greek-ettes to try to make me jealous. It never worked.

  In June, Robert came to my father’s memorial service. He sat right behind me and handed me a clean tissue every few minutes. My mother will always love him for that. I try to remind myself of that kindness every time I want to tell him to get lost. I usually end up telling him to get lost anyway.

  “You could have me, you know,” Robert repeats.

  “You’re just what I need, Robert. A convicted felon.”

  “Stealing from H&M is not a felony.”

  “You mean stealing from H&M twice is not a felony.”

  “Sure, that, too.”

  Robert has a crappy life, and sometimes he does bad things, like steal and lie. He lives with not one but two stepparents. His mother bailed and his father got remarried. Then his father bailed, and his stepmother remarried, and Robert ended up with her and her new husband. Is that even legal? I have no idea. But it definitely seems crappy to me. As annoying as Robert can be, even he doesn’t deserve that.

  He makes another big show of inhaling and exhaling, blowing the smoke through his nose. “Forta likes you.”

  “I am not the kind of girl he likes. He likes the Regina Deladdos of the world.”

  “Tracy said he carried your horn and opened the car door for you that time.”

  “Maybe he was raised well.”

  “He doesn’t look like it. He wears the same clothes to school every day.”

  “That’s the kind of thing a girl would say.”

  “Tracy said it,” he admitted.

  “She would notice.”

  “Robert and Rosie sounds better than Jamie and Rosie.”

  I look at him for a second, this guy I’ve known since I was eleven, and he looks hurt. To be honest, I like the sound of Jamie and Rosie. Robert and Rosie is too much alliteration for me. But I’m not going to say that. I’ve already been mean enough for one day, and it’s only seven-fifteen. Besides, I don’t feel like reminding him what alliteration is.

  “I’ve always aspired to select my relationships based on how they’ll sound inscribed on the wall in the lavatory,” I say.

  “Stop talking like that, AP English.” He grabs my coat to make me stop walking. “Will you go to homecoming with me?”

  I knew this was coming. And even though homecoming is two months away, I’m kind of surprised it took him this long, considering he’s been suspicious of Jamie since the first week of school, and also considering that everyone we know has already decided who they’re going with. Tracy’s going with Matt, who still isn’t speaking to me, which is fine, because I’m not speaking to him, either. Stephanie is going with the swim-team thug that Tracy and Matt set her up with this summer, Mike Darren. Everyone knows who they’re going with except me. And Robert.

  To be honest, I don’t want to go. I’m not in the mood for dancing these days—go figure. But I have to, or I’ll never hear the end of it from Tracy. Or my mother, for that matter. My mother expects me to go on living as if everything were still completely normal. She seems incapable of understanding why I might not feel like going to a dance right now. She seems incapable of understanding me in general.

  I look at Robert. “Do you promise not to lie to me ever again?” I ask, knowing full well that this is not a promise he’ll be able to keep.

  “I didn’t lie about anything!”

  “You told me Jamie Forta asked you to find out if I was going.”

  “That wasn’t a lie, that was a tactic.”

  “It was a lie.”

  He drops his cigarette and concentrates hard on putting it out with his thrift-store Doc Martens. I wonder if he paid for those boots or if he acquired them on one of his “excursions.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbles. “But I was only using it as a tactic. It wasn’t going to stay a lie.”

  I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I get the gist. I start walking again. He follows me.

  “Do I have to wear a dress?” I say.

  “It would be nice.”

  “Do I have to wear makeup?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “High heels?”

  “Rosie!”

  “Okay, I’ll go.”

  “Don’t sound so excited,” he says.

  “I don’t like dances.”

  “What are you talking about? You love dancing!”

  “Dances and dancing are two separate things.”

  He rolls his eyes. “But you’ll go?”

  “Yes, Robert. I’ll go.”

  “Okay,” he says, looking so happy it makes me regret saying yes.

  envenom (verb): to make bitter, to fill with bad feeling

  (see also: Regina’s specialty)

  6

  TRACY'S HALLOWEEN PARTY already sucks and it hasn’t even started. She decided to throw the thing as soon as she made cheerleading last month because apparently it’s important for the new girls to kiss up to the older girls. She doesn’t put it that way, though—she says the younger girls have to pay their dues by hosting parties and things like that.

  She keeps talking about how pretty the cheerleaders on “the squad” are, like being pretty is the most important thing in the world. When I roll my eyes, she just shakes her head like I couldn’t possibly understand how important all this stuff is. And she’s right—I don’t. I don’t think we should still have cheerleaders that prance around in short skirts repeating stupid rhymes, flashing their underwear to cheer on boys without doing so much as a cartwheel. It’s the twenty-first century—shouldn’t we be more evolved than this?

  If Tracy weren’t my best friend, I wouldn’t be here hanging decorations for a “cheer party” while she and Stephanie finish putting on their costumes and looking for the key to Tracy’s parents’ liquor cabinet. I’d be home, probably, secretly wishing I were still allowed to go trick-or-treating and watching something on HBO without permission while my mom was locked away in her office writing up her notes on all the crazy kids she listened to that week. Or I’d be… I don’t know where else I’d be. I spend all my time with Tracy, so it’s kind of hard to know what I’d be doing if she weren’t my best friend.

  This is the first time Tracy’s parents have ever left her home alone, and I know it will be the last. I tried to tell her that this party is a bad idea and could get her into serious trouble, but I don’t think she actually hears me when words come out of my mouth anymore. Her house is beautiful and her parents collect antiques. Like, real antiques, shipped over from England and Portugal. When I mention this to Trace, she just says, “That’s why we’re having the party in the basement! There’s nothing valuable down there.”

  I refrain from asking her if she’s going to lock everyone in, making them come and go through the little windows that are high up near the ceiling.

  Something tells me that the two of us are not going to have an easy year.

  We had a big fight earlier, when we were making chocolate-chip freezer cookies for the party. She told me that she and Matt were going to do it tonight. I told her that I had finally decided that fifteen is too young. She didn’t like that at all. She changed the
subject, saying that I need to find an activity, or a group, or something so that people will know who I am. “Like, you know, I’m known as a cheerleader now,” she said. “What are they going to say about you? And don’t say, ‘She plays French horn in the orchestra’ because, I’m sorry, but that’s just lame.” I shoved some candy in my mouth to stop myself from saying, At least playing French horn takes some talent. Instead I said, “I’m a runner” to which she replied, “Not on a team, you’re not,” to which I replied, “Well at least running is a real sport, not like cheerleading,” to which she replied, “It’s good enough for Regina and she’s Jamie’s girlfriend.”

  I almost punched her.

  She hasn’t mentioned Jamie in a long time, probably because the last time she brought him up, I still wouldn’t tell her anything. That made her so mad that she started texting someone on her stupid phone right in the middle of our conversation, which she totally knows makes me crazy.

  Of course, what she doesn’t know is that there’s nothing to tell about Jamie. Except maybe that a few weeks ago he watched me run laps around the track during tryouts, according to Robert. But now that Jamie and I don’t have study hall together anymore, we never talk. If he makes eye contact with me in the hall, maybe he’ll give me a little nod, but that’s it. I wonder if he’s freaked out by our last conversation. I guess I can understand that—I mean, we don’t even know each other, and I basically asked him how many people he’s had sex with. Dumb.

  “Rosie, where’s your costume? It’s almost time,” Stephanie says, coming downstairs to the basement where I’m about to fall off a ladder, hanging fake spiders from the ceiling. She’s dressed as Lady Gaga. Or maybe Katy Perry. I’m not really sure which, since they both like crazy wigs, corsets and stupidly high heels.

  “Um, I don’t… I’m not dressing up this year.” As I hang the last spider, I notice the blue nail polish I put on in honor of Halloween is already chipped.

  “You have to! Oh, my god! Tracy will kill you if you don’t!”

  “I’m not staying, Steph. I’m not in the mood for a party.”

  Stephanie sort of shuffles her patent leather platforms around on the floor and then squints up at the orange-and-black streamers that run the length of the ceiling, twisting around each other with the spiders poking through. She takes a single blue M&M out of a bowl on the food table and pops it in her mouth.

  Stephanie is truly one of the nicest people I know, which means that she gets caught in the middle a lot. Tracy and I met her in middle school last year, when she moved from southern Illinois with her mom after her parents got divorced. She’s more Tracy’s friend than mine, especially since she started dating Mike over the summer. I’ve wanted to ask Tracy for a while now why she and Matt didn’t set me up with anyone this summer, but I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “Are you leaving because Tracy’s mad at you?” she asks.

  I have to think about that. Is that why I’m leaving? I think I’m leaving because I don’t feel like having Tracy flaunt her new friends in my face as if I’m not worth anything anymore. And because she’s making a big mistake by having sex with her stupid boyfriend when she barely even knows what sex is. And because he’s a jerk who is probably already doing it with half the girls’ swim team when she’s not looking.

  Matt morphed into something gross this past summer. Tracy didn’t notice. But I did.

  “Tracy’s mad because I told her I don’t think she should do it with Matt tonight.”

  Stephanie shuffles some more and yanks down her purple-and-black striped skirt, which rides up every time she inhales. Or exhales. Or moves. Or thinks about moving.

  Am I a prude? I wonder.

  “You told her that?”

  “I mean, Steph, isn’t fifteen, like, young to be worrying about this stuff?”

  “Not really. It seems like everyone has had sex already, except us.”

  “Everyone who? Who’s everyone?” I ask, a sick feeling flooding the pit of my stomach. Am I completely behind, and I don’t even know it? Am I totally out of the loop with no idea who’s doing it and who’s not? Part of me shrieks, Who cares? and the other part of me whispers, Chicken....

  “Well, like, Tracy says all of Matt’s friends, and, like, most of the cheerleaders—”

  “But they’re all—” I stop myself from saying, They’re all older, we’re just freshmen, because that argument has gotten me nowhere, especially in my conversations with Tracy. I guess I’m not supposed to be a freshman. I’m supposed to pretend to be older than I am at all times, I’m supposed to want to do things that don’t even make sense to me yet.

  “You know what?” I finally say. “I don’t care what Tracy or her new friends do.”

  “Come on, Rosie, Tracy’s your best friend. You don’t mean that.”

  “She should do it or not do it, but either way, it’d be great if she’d stop making such a huge thing out of it. Why is it such a big deal?” I listen to my voice falling flat in the unfinished cement basement and realize I sound like a whiny, jealous brat. What is wrong with me?

  When I hear Tracy trying to navigate the basement steps in her ridiculous spiked heels, I just know she’s been standing at the top of the stairs for the previous thirty seconds, listening. I’m suddenly very tired of myself. I need a lot more candy if I’m going to make it through this night.

  She appears, looking an awful lot like Stephanie. Maybe they’re both supposed to be Lady Gaga or Katy Perry—again, I can’t tell. She takes one look at the table covered with the “spooky” Halloween tablecloth I brought that suddenly looks like it’s for two-year-olds and starts rearranging everything to cover it. She turns, looks right through me and asks, “Steph, did you get the vodka?”

  “I almost forgot,” Stephanie says, practically running toward the stairs. Then the doorbell rings, and Stephanie stops in her tracks, screaming in unison with Tracy, “They’re here!” Tracy flies up the stairs behind Stephanie, yelling over her shoulder, “Get dressed, Rose! Now!”

  “I am dressed,” I shoot back, but she’s not listening to me. She never is.

  I hear the front door open. There’s a lot of high-pitched squealing that makes my ears hurt even though I’m still in the basement. The cheerleaders have arrived.

  I need to get out of here.

  I can practically hear Tracy’s voice in my head, calling me a snob. She’s always called me a snob, ever since we were five and I told her the Wiggles were dumb. I’m not a snob, I just don’t feel like spending the evening with Tracy’s new best friends.

  The entire squad starts making its way down to the basement, and my first instinct is to find a place to hide. But I freeze when I hear Regina’s nails-on-a-blackboard voice say, “Put the keg over there.”

  A familiar pair of construction boots descends the stairs behind the gaggle of pop-star wannabes in wigs and heels. Jamie appears, carrying a keg. It didn’t even occur to me that he would be here. I’m so happy to see him that I smile and wave before I actually think it through. Regina is standing two steps away, and I don’t want to give her any reason to ask why I’m waving at her boyfriend. My hand freezes in midwave, and he looks at me, slightly puzzled. I stop smiling and turn away as the girls coo over how great Jamie is for getting the keg with his fake ID.

  Matt comes down wearing a baseball hat with horns on it, carrying a tub of ice. He looks me up and down and says, “Scary costume. What are you supposed to be?”

 
I’m about to tell him to shove it when Stephanie runs in with a huge bottle of vodka and goes straight to Tracy, carrying it like it’s a beating heart needed for a transplant operation.

  “Here it is!” she squeals, jumping from one foot to the other, nearly falling over with excitement and balance problems, thanks to her shoes. Stephanie is an extremely enthusiastic person.

  Tracy takes the bottle and holds it up like a trophy while everyone in the basement—except Jamie and me—cheers like morons. I’m not sure why a bottle of vodka is so much more exciting than a keg, but then again, I’m not much of a drinker.

  Tracy unscrews the cap and starts pouring the vodka into a bowl of punch.

  “Don’t pour the whole thing in there, Trace—save some for later!” screeches Regina, slapping her hard on the arm. Tracy laughs her embarrassed laugh while rubbing her arm. Someone jams an iPod in a dock and the Crash Kings starts playing so loud that I can feel my skull vibrating. I stick my fingers in my ears and realize that I’m acting like an old lady.

  Regina screeches again, making some sort of weird, unearthly cheer call that reverberates off the concrete walls, and suddenly the cheerleaders turn on Tracy like a coven of witches who just happen to wear tight spandex skirts and push-up bras. They grab her, cackling as they pin her down on the table. Regina takes a plastic funnel from her bottomless bag. For a second, I can’t figure out what she’s going to do with it—at my house, we use funnels to transfer maple syrup from a huge tin canister into a carafe that looks a lot nicer on the breakfast table than the canister does. But there’s no maple syrup transfer going on here.

  Regina jams the funnel in Tracy’s mouth while Kristin, her evil little freshman protégé and kindred spirit, lifts up the punch bowl and starts pouring it into the funnel. It takes about two seconds before Tracy can’t swallow it fast enough, and it spills all over her face and costume. She starts choking, which makes the witches laugh even harder.