by Raziel Reid
The funeral scenes were tragic. It was always a gruesome death. Usually I killed him off in a car accident that left him decapitated like Jayne Mansfield. If I wanted real tears, I’d think of her. My father always came back from the dead like a Soap Star, so maybe that’s why I cried for Jayne, because she couldn’t. Her heart only beats on a screen in the dark.
When I stepped through the school doors, my fans went crazy. I had arrived just in time for the end of morning announcements. Our principal, Mr Callagher, was saying through the speaker that the school was throwing a Valentine’s dance, and if anyone wanted to help organize it, they should come to the office at lunch and shove their finger up his ass.
Everyone was busy talking about what they got for Christmas and how wasted they got on New Years. No one gave a shit about Mr Callagher. His voice boomed overhead like God’s, but no one was a believer. Hadn’t he seen the portraits of him scribbled on the tables in the caf? Pants down, hairy balls, pencil dick up Janitor Jim’s ass.
They made portraits of me, too. They were my graffiti tabloids. I was totally famous. I’d imagine that the drawing in the handicap stall of my alleged crotch with “Hermafrodite Jude/Judy” scribbled next to it was the cover of the National Enquirer. Misspelled headline included. I was addicted to them. I’d look all over the bathroom and on all the walls in the hallway, and if there wasn’t one waiting for me on my locker for Jim to paint over at the end of the day, I was crushed. I wanted them to hate me; hate was as close to love as I thought I’d ever be.
While Mr Callagher made his announcement, I stared at Luke, who had morning wood sticking out of his gym shorts. I couldn’t believe it. It made the crotch-shot on the dock seem amateur. I don’t think he even noticed; he was looking bored and tapping his foot on the floor. He was wearing the shoes with Madison’s lip print still smudged on the side. The shoes were his Christmas present. Of course, she had to give them to him on the last day of school, five days before Christmas, in front of everyone. Standing right in the middle of the hall, she took one of the white Nikes out of the box and kissed it. She wore a glossy red lipstick that made her lips look juicy, like she had just sucked on a tampon, which I’m pretty sure she did once just to get her YouTube channel more views. Luke seemed embarrassed as Madison passed him the lipsticked shoe. He was smiling, but it was like he was being forced to take a picture first thing in the morning before he’d even had a chance to rub one out or eat a Pop-Tart.
Mr Callagher was reminding everyone that smoking was forbidden on school property as Luke crossed his hands on his lap to hide his bulge—or rub against it. Probably both. He stared straight ahead and barely blinked. His thick eyelashes were so dark that it looked like he bought them at the drugstore, like I do. I fantasized about gluing them on his eyes and then ripping them off as he climaxed. I wondered what he was thinking about. I wanted to crawl into his head and see what I needed to be to become the thing that he was thinking about.
When Mr Callagher was done speaking, Brent Mackenzie asked Mrs Kennedy if she’d go to the Valentine’s dance with him, which made a few people laugh. The few who’d been lucky enough to wake ’n’ bake. Mrs Kennedy did her best to look unimpressed, but her cheeks were as red as a spanked ass in a BDSM porno. I would know. Angela and I watched all the DVDs in the box under her parents’ bed, like, twice.
3
The Set
My middle school was basically a movie set. No one was real. Especially me. We were all just playing our parts. You might be sort of real when you start school but you’re quickly typecast and learn all your lines by rote—mostly because you’ve written them in detention so many times.
Everyone fell into one of three categories:
1. The Crew: They made things happen. They took over the honour roll, sports teams, extracurricular activities, and clubs. They had the most volunteer credits and were first to raise their hands whenever the teacher asked a question. They weren’t necessarily the smartest, most talented, or prettiest, but they were involved. Without the crew, nothing would ever get done, and we’d all be wandering down the hallways in search of our marks.
2. The Extras: All the misfits, outcasts, and social rejects. If you were as chipped as my nail polish and didn’t belong, you were an extra—kind of the opposite of the Crew. They were there, but you didn’t really know it; they were just bodies in desks filling space, anonymous smiles in faded school photos on a boulevard of broken dreams.
3. The Movie Stars: No one thinks they’re more special than they do, but everyone wants to be tagged in a Facebook picture with the stars and get their autographs in the yearbook. They’re selfish, spoiled, and overly sexed. There isn’t much beyond the surface of their flawlessly airbrushed skin, and everyone talks about them behind their backs. Their eyes light up when you can do something for them, and everything that comes out of their mouths is totally fake.
I didn’t fit into any category. I definitely wasn’t a part of the Crew; I wasn’t about to be involved in anything unless it was court-appointed. I wasn’t an Extra because the last thing I could ever be was anonymous. But I wasn’t a Movie Star either because, even though everyone knew my name, I wasn’t invited to the cool parties.
So there was me, the flamer that lit the set on fire.
I was usually in the spotlight, but every now and then I felt like Norma Desmond because the spotlight would fade, and I would be forgotten. That’s when I would wear the most makeup, or throw myself to the floor in the middle of the hallway, like I had just tumbled out of a limousine after snorting an eight ball.
When I was in the spotlight, they all stared. Matt asked, “New lipstick, Judy?” Even though it was the same one I always wore, which he already knew, because he was so desperate for me to leave a ring of it around his prodigious cock.
The studio renamed me Judy the day Matt added a “y” to my name on the attendance list. Mrs Kennedy said “Judy” during roll call, and everyone burst out laughing. Poor Mrs Kennedy. She was so clueless. She kept calling “Judy Rothesay?” and asking if we had a transfer student.
It became my official stage name when the media picked up on it. Every time I walked down a hall/red carpet, the reporters would call me “Judy” to try to get my attention, but I’d refuse to comment. I’d turn their dirty looks into camera flashes and make them my paparazzi. They’d scream my name, and I’d let them take a little piece of my soul with each flash. Why not? They were going to take it anyway. The flashes would dim, and then the fluorescent hallway lights would again illuminate pimples and the dark circles you get from all-nighters spent either reading a text book or doing lines off of one. Everything would become real again.
Even the teachers watched me, like they wanted to remember every detail so that one day they could tell People magazine “I knew him when” for a pay-out bigger than their measly salaries. I had a faculty fan club that wrote me love letters. I saw one on Mr Dawson’s desk. I was having lunch in his classroom, like I sometimes did when I felt like making him my Paula Strasberg. I’d refuse to step on set without him.
I liked Mr Dawson. He looked like an Old Hollywood movie star with finger waves and eyes that would still be beautiful in black and white. I had this weird thing for him. I wanted him to be my father, and I wanted to blow him.
Story of my life.
I saw the letter when he went to the teacher’s lounge to get another cup of coffee. I didn’t go looking for it or anything—it was just there. I got up to check out the books on the shelf behind his desk and my name jumped off the page. It was signed by Mr Callagher:
We have a student who has decided to express his sexuality by sometimes wearing makeup or girls’ clothing. As long as he isn’t breaking the dress code, this is permitted. Some students don’t seem bothered, while others have been more sensitive to the issue. We ask that you communicate with your class: they don’t have to like it, but they have to respect the student’s rights. Keep an eye on the situation for any problems, and please contact m
e with questions or concerns.
I was tempted to steal the letter and have it framed, but I wasn’t quick enough. Mr Dawson walked back into the room complaining about how weak the school’s coffee was. I just kept thinking: they don’t have to like “it.”
“It” was another one of my stage names. It was my JLo. People meant to be insulting, but I found It empowering. I always thought they were referring to the Stephen King novel because of my ability to shape-shift into their greatest fear. It’s amazing what a pair of heels can do.
When Angela still hadn’t shown up by English, I was worried that she had passed out in a ditch again. I checked my phone under my desk, but there were no messages. I went on Twitter and saw that @mmcmillan was trying to trend #WhyJudyShouldDie. Matt Macmillan. He was my number-one fan. @Madisonsmusings retweeted and wrote, “bcuz no one would miss him.” Madison Sinclair, a girl about as sweet as the blood that gushed out of the cuts in my arm every time I thought about her. @KennyRan tweeted, “so we can PARTY!!!!!” with five exclamation marks again. One for each of his brain cells.
“Mr Macmillan, eyes up please,” Mr Dawson said to Matt. “Don’t you think I know when you’re on your phone? Seriously, no one just looks down at their crotch and smiles.”
“Yeah?” Matt laughed. “You seen my crotch, Mr D?”
After English was gym, which was my favourite class because I got to see all the boys in their underwear. Plus, Mr Mead didn’t care if I participated; he actually seemed relieved when I didn’t, because if I didn’t have to change, he didn’t have to figure out which change room I should use. Not that his indecision stopped me from sneaking down to the boys’ room for my daily peep show.
I was sitting on the sidelines when Angela showed up. As soon as I saw her, I remembered about her doctor’s appointment. She told Mr Mead that she had cramps and came to sit next to me. She never changed into gym clothes either, but she wasn’t going to fail gym. Mr Mead knew how to deal with her heavy flow as well as with my painted nails.
“How’d it go this time?” I asked her.
“I asked the doctor if he could suck out some fat when he took the fetus, and the nurse looked at me like I was masturbating with a crucifix.”
“Why are crucifixes sexy?” I asked. “Because there’s a naked man on them!” A whistle blew, and everyone started running laps. “Mr Mead is such a sadist,” I said, admiring Luke as he ran past.
“Look at that tongue action,” Angela said. “It’s a whistle, not a clit!”
“You know you want me!” I yelled after Luke. He didn’t even flinch, but Madison flipped me off and called me a faggot.
“Go get date raped, bitch,” Angela yelled, and Mr Mead pretended not to hear. Madison just kept running, her bleach-out bouncing off her shoulders.
“Anyway,” Angela sighed, taking off her jacket. “Do I look skinnier?”
At lunch, we went to the Day-n-Nite and sat in our usual back booth. I didn’t bother opening the menu; I had it memorized. We always came to the Day-n-Nite, mostly to get away from everyone else who went to McDonald’s.
We’d made the back booth ours ever since Angela slept with her second cousin and started keeping a list under the table. We always sat there because she always had a new name to add.
“Alexis tweeted, ‘bcuz satan’s hungry,’ ” I told Angela, passing her my phone to show her the #WhyJudyShouldDie thread.
“Alexis is the one who’s hungry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You should tweet about her bulimia. Have you smelled her breath lately?”
“I sit behind her in Spanish.”
“They can’t get over you, can they?” Angela asked, like she was jealous. I swear, she was only happy if there was something nasty written about her behind a hashtag. Sometimes I thought she had shaved her head just so people would call her a dyke. When someone wrote “muffin muncher” on her locker, she just laughed and drew a muffin with a big smile and razor-sharp teeth. She claimed she shaved her head because she was a Buddhist, but the shave lasted only until her hair grew into a pixie-cut. I shaved my head once too, but just because I wanted to be like Britney Spears.
“Luke wrote something,” I said, looking down at my phone.
“Since when can that retard type?”
“He wrote, ‘so that the school doesn’t have to make him his own bathroom.’ ”
“Madison is deluding herself with him. Did I tell you he passed me a note asking if I can deep throat?”
“He really is a retard if he had to ask,” I said, maybe a little edgier than I intended.
“Don’t worry, dude,” she laughed. “I would never do that to you.”
Brooke, the Day-n-Nite’s waitress who hated us because we never tipped, but loved us because we didn’t squeeze her ass when she walked past like all the truckers at the bar, took our order. After she walked away, I turned to Angela and asked, “I wonder if anyone’s ever seen your list?”
“Probably some kids,” she shrugged. “Who else goes under tables?”
“You and number four,” I said. “And number twelve, if I remember correctly.”
When I got home from school at the end of the day, the house was empty.
I danced down the hall into my mom’s room. It smelled like perfume and sweaty sheets. I could see the imprint of Ray’s body in the lumpy mattress. I went straight for the closet. It was all my mom’s things; Ray used only two drawers in the dresser. The top and bottom of the closet were piled with shoes. There were so many that I kind of lost my breath every time I saw them. I took out the black dress that I tried on before because I knew it fit, and I wasn’t sure how much time I had. It was short, lacy, and you didn’t need boobs to fill it out. I got the dress on fast and picked through my mom’s hairpieces but decided not to put them on because it took too long to take them out, and I wasn’t sure how much time I had. Plus, her hair was dark, and I only wanted to be blond. Blonds have more.
I put on some jewellery instead, a couple of bracelets and a cubic zirconia ring with a rusted band. I tried on a few pairs of shoes, but my heart was already set on the thigh-high boots that made me look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Like I don’t kiss on the mouth.
Once I was all dressed, I lit a cigarette out of a pack on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing my legs as I posed in front of the mirror.
Smoke coiled above my head like a halo.
4
Child Star
My mother went off the deep end again. She was always going off the deep end. It was so annoying. Going crazy is never as glamorous as it looks on an E! True Hollywood Story.
Ray had disappeared. I didn’t know where he went, and I don’t think I wanted to, judging by how he looked when he eventually came home. I was just relieved that he had the decency to get lost every now and then. He was like an obnoxious commercial on TV that was louder than everything else and made you feel like you had just inhaled one too many whip-its.
I always knew when he was about to disappear because of all the little things: he’d tap his spoon against his bowl of cereal, stick his finger through the buttonholes in his shirt, and bite his lip like he was trying to chew it off. He’d be in the bathroom slicking back his black hair, and if there was one piece that had a mind of its own, he’d lose it. He’d go into a rage and break the comb or the mirror or anything stupid enough to get close to him.
“He’s hot, but I bet he has raisin nuts,” Angela said the first time she met him.
“He doesn’t have ’roid rage,” I told her. “He’s just a maniac.”
He did look like he was on steroids. He liked to show off his muscles and always wore wife-beaters. That was basically the extent of male fashion in my hometown. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.
Ray always pulled himself together for a few weeks, and then he’d fall apart again. He’d take the car, saying he was going to pick up some McDick’s. Keefer would jump up and down screaming about the toy he wanted in his Happy Meal. My mom wo
uld tell Ray to bring her a strawberry milkshake, but I could tell by the sound of her voice that she knew he wasn’t coming back.
When Ray was gone, my mom walked around with mascara-smudged eyes, drinking booze out of a coffee mug. Sometimes she’d even blow on it. She’d text him, but he’d never answer. Most of the time, he couldn’t reply even if he wanted to because he had already sold his phone. She’d paint her nails and then nervously chip off the polish. She’d chain smoke and watch chick flicks because they gave her an excuse to cry.
This time, my mom was extra-hysterical that Ray was M.I.A. because we were having dinner with “Satan in a Sunday hat.”
When we got to my grandma’s house and she saw that Ray wasn’t with us, she didn’t seem surprised. She probably just thought he’d been in another meth lab explosion.
I knew it was really bad when my mom got wasted at dinner. She had stopped drinking in front of my grandma after my grandma wrote to A&E, trying to get our family on an episode of Intervention. But that night, my mom drank almost an entire bottle of gin at dinner, plus the bottle she drank before we drove over, so she was pretty drunk.
When my grandma told her to go freshen up in the bathroom, Mom picked her head up off her plate and stumbled off. We could hear her puking all the way down the hall. Keefer laughed, and my grandma just turned to me and asked, “More potatoes?” My grandma may have played pretend for all the wrong reasons, but I always admired how dedicated she was to her craft.
That night back at home, I had a dream about Luke. But this dream wasn’t like all the others. He wasn’t inside me. We were at the dance and everything in the gym was pink, like the walls had been painted with my nail polish. There was a big streamer over the stage that said “Happy Valentine’s Day” and, even before I tasted it, I could tell by the way everyone was dancing that the punch had been spiked. I was wearing Glinda’s pink ball gown, the one I’d stolen from the wardrobe department of my school’s production of The Wizard of Oz. I took it as revenge when I didn’t get cast as Glinda. Sometimes, I wore the dress alone in my room. It matched the walls in my dream, and I slid across the gym floor in graceful sweeps. Everyone turned and stared like they wanted a piece of me. But even in my sleep, I felt the timer in my heart. I knew that when the clock struck twelve, I’d wake up, and it would all be over.
