I Am the Wallpaper

by Mark Peter Hughes

  “Do you really want me to tell you, or are you just going to make fun of me?”

  “I’m probably just going to make fun of you,” I admitted, falling back into my normal comfortable self with him, but only for a moment. Wind Ensemble Retreat. Sounded like some artsy musical thing. Very Wen.

  And then I had a moment of unhappy intuition. “Is … is Kim Swift going too?” Kim, I knew, played the flute.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She’s going.”

  Figures.

  Of course, I had Calvin now, sort of, but that didn’t mean that the Wen-and-Kim catastrophe didn’t still hurt. I thought of asking him what was going on between the two of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I guess I realized that once I heard the news directly from him, my real unhappiness would begin. I didn’t think I was ready for that. Not just yet. Besides, he wasn’t offering the information, so who was I to push him?

  “So,” I said. “When are you coming back?”

  “Thursday. Everybody needs to be back together by early Friday morning for the parade. You going to come watch?” Every year, the school band marches in Bristol for the Fourth of July.

  “I guess so.”

  Then there was a long silence during which I wanted to hang up. But eventually he broke the quiet with small talk. Very forced.

  “So, are you doing anything fun for the Fourth, after the parade?”

  “Not really. We’ll probably have a barbecue.” Actually, we have a block party before the fireworks every year with our neighbors. It’s a big deal on our street. But I didn’t want to get into it right then.

  “Yeah? Is Azra going?”

  “Maybe.”

  He waited for me to invite him, but I didn’t.

  “Well, maybe I’ll stop by too then. Would that be okay?”

  Oh, great. Was he thinking of showing up with Kim? Wouldn’t that be lovely.

  “Fine.”

  Suddenly, I’d had enough of torturing myself. The New Floey took over.

  “Okay, so out with it, Wendel. What’s going on with you and Kim? Is she your girlfriend now or what?”

  “Ahh … maybe,” he said. Now I realized that the embarrassed note in his voice had nothing to do with the fact that I liked him. He was absolutely oblivious about that, I was sure. He had already admitted to Azra and me that he had never had a real girlfriend before. Kim would be his first. “I mean yes. I think she is.”

  “You think she is? What does that mean?”

  “Well, we haven’t officially said it yet.”

  “So have you kissed her?”

  “Yes. Once.”

  “Then it’s official,” I said. “Good for you. Congratulations.”

  I was right—it was worse hearing it from him.

  He ignored me. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “And don’t get too down in the dumps. Whoever he was, he sounds like a real jerk.”

  Our conversation ended quickly after that.

  twisted broken flute

  lying in the muddy grass

  my pain knows no bounds

  Sunday, June 29, 1:50 p.m.

  Dear Experienced Me,

  What is the matter with that woman? How can she call herself a mother? Okay, so Wen was never really my boyfriend. So what? She doesn’t know that. In fact, I told her very clearly that he was. When is she going to even mention him? She seems to have no idea that I am deeply depressed. Doesn’t she notice all the moping around I’ve been doing? When will I enjoy some motherly sympathy? It’s been four whole days since Wen dumped me, and still she hasn’t even asked about him!

  The sad thing is, the longer she waits to ask, the guiltier she’s going to feel when she finds out. Until she does, though, I’m certainly not going to tell her!

  Okay, so I’m taking deep breaths and summoning a Zen calm. I need to meditate on ridding my system of Wen.

  More deep breaths.

  What would a real Zen master do?

  I need to channel myself toward Calvin and the new me. I need to release my negative energy and concentrate on the important task at hand.

  That afternoon, while my cousins were playing in our street with Billy Fishman and his friends, I scoured the newspaper. In the Happenings section I found what I was looking for: The Devil’s Coffeehouse. 826 Thayer Street, Providence. Monday, 7:30 p.m. Spoken Word Open-Mike Night.

  Sunday, June 29, 4:50 p.m.

  beautiful calvin

  where are you going tonight?

  when will I find you?

  chapterfive: in which

  i attend the devil’s

  poetry reading

  “Floey,” whispered Tish from the other bed. “Are you asleep?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Fast asleep and having a dream. You woke me up.”

  “Sorry. I have a question for you.”

  I waited.

  “What’s it like when you have your period?”

  I opened my eyes again. “Tish, what kind of a question is that?”

  “It’s a perfectly normal one. I’m just curious.”

  “Tish, that’s a very personal question! Go to sleep.”

  We were quiet for a long time. Before she turned away she whispered, “I was just asking.”

  But I was pretending to be asleep.

  Monday, June 30, 6:40 a.m.

  Dear Floey of the (Hopefully) More Just and Peaceful Future,

  Tish snores like some large animal fighting for its life. Like an angry walrus, maybe, or a dying caribou. It wouldn’t be so bad if the rhythm were regular and predictable, but it’s not. Every now and then she goes totally quiet for a really long time, and then just when I’m wondering if she’s dead she suddenly gasps for air, so I practically jump out of bed. How am I supposed to get any rest through all that? It’s like medieval torture! Worst of all, at the unholy hour of six in the morning, just when I finally fall asleep, she hops out of bed and stomps around the room until she finds my nice comfortable robe, and then she puts it on. Then she heads out to watch TV. So now I’m awake again! Honestly, it’s unbearable!

  Typical! I can’t fall back asleep now. I keep trying to figure out how I can get to the Devil’s Coffeehouse tonight. Ma would never ever let me go alone. She would never understand.

  Oh, I just remembered the dream from my brief moment of sleep. Wen and Kim were in their band uniforms watching Richard hang copies of that terrible photograph all over town. They pointed and laughed. At the end of the dream Richard tried to suffocate me with a pillow, but I woke up and realized it was just Frank Sinatra sleeping on my face. (Note to self: IF THE PICTURE IS HERE, FIND IT ASAP!!)

  When I came out of my room, my cousins were playing computer games. Robot blood dripped all over the screen. Good. This would give me a chance to clean their stuff without them watching and gloating.

  It would also give me a chance to look through Richard’s things.

  I ran into the TV room (which had been transformed into a temporary bedroom for Richard) and closed the door behind me. Even though he’d been at our house for only one night, his room was a mess. He’d thrown his clothes all over the floor and his bed wasn’t made. I rifled through his duffel bag. More clothes, computer magazines, but no birthday picture. I checked under the stuff he’d already dumped on the floor. Nope. I looked all around the room and didn’t find the awful photograph anywhere.

  Nothing.

  That’s when the door opened and Richard came in.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  At that moment I’d just gone back to rummaging through his luggage and was holding a fistful of his underwear. Now I calmly put the clothes back into the bag and zipped it back up, as if it were a perfectly normal thing for me to be doing.

  “I’m cleaning up,” I said.

  He put his hands on his hips. “You’re lying. You’re looking through my stuff, aren’t you?”

  I kept a poker face and didn’t answer.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? Yesterday you told
us to stay out of your stuff, and here you are today going through mine. I’m going to go tell Aunt Grace.”

  “You never answered my question about the photograph,” I said. I grabbed his arm. “Where is it?”

  “Oh …” He pulled his arm away and turned around. He was in the doorway now, half in the room and half out. “So that’s what this is about?”

  I glared at him. “Is it here?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you have it or not?”

  He stepped back into the room and leaned thoughtfully against the door, closing it behind him. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  “Then give it to me.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You haven’t been very nice to me. If you want it back so much, I think you should be nicer.”

  What nerve! I hadn’t been nice to him? Who had locked me outside in the rain?

  “Nicer to you or what? Or you’ll put that picture up someplace where people can see it?”

  As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. His face changed as he thought about what was obviously a new idea I’d planted in his head. Slowly, he grinned at me.

  “Maybe,” he said. And then the supposed boy genius did the birthday-picture pose again, thrusting out his chest with his arms behind his head and his lips pursed. This time he also batted his eyes. He then left the room, swinging his hips as he went.

  I stood frozen. What had I done?

  Monday, June 30, 1:30 p.m.

  To the Fabulous Floey of the Exciting Years Ahead,

  Guess what? Wen just called. Can you believe it? And why did he call, you ask? Just to make sure I’m okay! He said he’s worried that I’m depressed. He’s clueless but sweet, don’t you think? I told him I’m still on shaky ground. Anyway, he’s in a college dormitory and it sounds like they’re all having a great time. And the best news is that the girls (i.e., Kim) are staying in a different building altogether! (Big happy smile!!)

  What is going through that ferret’s head? I just caught him squirming in Richard’s lap, clucking happily. This from the animal that nips at anything that moves. It’s an absolute betrayal!

  Big news: I have a plan for how to get to the poetry reading tonight—where I’ll possibly see Calvin. Azra’s coming with me. I’ll meet her in front of the Y this afternoon to fill her in. Tonight is a WaterFire night in Providence so I’ll tell Ma that we’re going into the city to see the bonfires on the river with the JCs, and Azra will tell her parents she’s going with my mother and me. If Ma makes a fuss because I’m not spending the evening with Richard and Tish, I’ll say I hardly saw my friends at all this week and I want to see them. It’s not a lie. And if she says she wants to come along too and drag the little demons with her, I’ll say it’s a YMCA field trip and Azra had to get special permission just to bring me.

  It’s a perfect plan. Floey, you’re a genius.

  Okay, so maybe my plan wasn’t exactly perfect. There was a snag, but only one: Ma would only let me go if I absolutely promised to spend the entire next day, morning, noon and night, with my cousins.

  It was a big price to pay, but I made the promise.

  Other than that, my plan worked. Azra and I took the bus into Providence after dinner.

  The Devil’s Coffeehouse turned out to be a long, dark room at the back of a bunch of stores. The only window was at one end of the room next to the entrance, so the deeper inside you went, the darker it got, even though it was still pretty light outside.

  “Weird,” Azra said.

  I ordered coffee and she got a Coke. She stared at the walls, which were painted with all kinds of crazy graffiti and glow-in-the-dark scary faces. The Devil’s Coffeehouse was a good name for this place. It looked like a dungeon or something. I could tell from Azra’s expression that she didn’t get any of this at all.

  “Is he here?” she asked. When I’d met her at the Y, I’d sort of implied that there was a good chance we’d run into Calvin tonight.

  I looked around. The place was almost full. Poetry readings must be more popular than I’d realized. Everyone sat at the dark tables sipping from mugs. Some of them talked quietly, but most of them stared up at the front corner of the room. The majority looked pretty normal, except for one table where everyone was dressed all in black with their hair dyed neon colors like orange or green. At the front end of the room there was a spotlight on a serious-looking girl in a tight T-shirt reading a poem about a dead bird. But no Calvin.

  I shook my head.

  “Are you sure you want to hang out with a guy who lurks around in a place like this?”

  I ignored her. We took the only table left, which was against the wall, a couple of rows from the back. Even though smoking probably wasn’t allowed, I could smell clove cigarettes. Azra started coughing. She has asthma. “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  “I’m fine,” she said, reaching for her Coke.

  “You sure? Maybe we should go.”

  Still trying to control her coughing, she took a sip from her soda. “No, really. Let’s stay a little while. He might show up.” I watched her closely and a moment later she was better. She smiled. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  That’s what I love about Azra. Even though this wasn’t her kind of place, she put up with it because she knew it was important to me.

  So we agreed to stay, for now.

  I was a little disappointed that Calvin wasn’t here, but mostly I was just nervous. Before we came I figured that as long as I was going to a poetry reading, I might as well read something. It would be an opportunity to be the new, visible Floey Packer. So I’d brought my haiku poems, including a new one:

  out of the cold air

  a tiny ray of sunlight

  come in, meet my soul

  All together, it wouldn’t take long to read every poem I’d written. Still, I’d put my name on the reading list when I’d bought the coffee. Dead Bird Girl was reader number six. I was number eleven. It was a giant step for me. Old Floey would never have signed up to read poems in public, exposed like a fish in an aquarium. But even though she was fading, I could still feel her—my stomach felt woozy, my palms were sweaty and my heart was pounding pretty hard. I had to stop myself from gripping the table.

  The girl finished her poem, everyone clapped, she sat down and somebody called out for the next reader. An old man with a big beer gut, number seven, stood up and ambled to the front of the room. I don’t really remember his poem—I think it was about being afraid of flying or something like that.

  I couldn’t concentrate. I kept imagining myself in the light where the beer-gut man was standing.

  waiting for my turn

  a deer staring at headlights

  fresh roadkill tonight

  “You don’t have to go up there,” Azra whispered. “Look at you. You’re a mess. Relax.”

  After the old man, the next one up was a young guy in a cowboy hat. I didn’t really pay much attention to him, either. I hardly even looked at him. I had to force myself to stay in the chair and not run out the door. No matter how panicky I felt, I was determined to make myself go up there when they called my number.

  Azra chewed on her straw.

  I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the voice reading the poem. The cowboy spoke with long, slow vowels. His voice was strong and emotional and strangely familiar. In fact, the more I listened to it, the more familiar it sounded. I opened my eyes to get a better look at him.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Oh my God, Azra,” I said. “It’s him.”

  “Him who?” she said. But then when she realized who I meant she practically sprained her neck trying to get a look.

  “He’s a cowboy? You didn’t tell me he’s a cowboy.”

  “Shhh!” I said. I was trying to watch and listen.

  Out of his suit, Calvin looked different. He was still cute, but in an uncombed, scruffy, western kind of way. And his poem definitely wasn’t haiku. I
have to admit I didn’t understand it, but it was full of loud dramatic parts and it seemed brilliant. It was long, and I remember he kept shaking his fist in the air and saying, “Am I in your dream or are you in mine, Mrs. Fauntleroy?” He said that a bunch of different times. The crowd seemed to love it because after the first few times they laughed and clapped whenever he repeated it. I didn’t know who Mrs. Fauntleroy was, so it didn’t mean anything to me.

  Except in a Zen kind of way.

  “Am I in your dream or are you in mine, Mrs. Fauntleroy?”

  Even though I didn’t know what it was supposed to be about, his poem really was good, much better than the one about the dead bird. I clapped and cheered along with everybody else.

  Azra smiled too, but she was looking around like everyone was crazy.

  Then I noticed that there was one other person who seemed particularly interested in what Calvin was saying. In fact, Calvin seemed to be reading directly to her. She was blond and pretty, and she was wearing a halter top and grinning proudly up at him.

  Just like me.

  Except for the blond and pretty part. And the halter top.

  From the way she and Calvin looked at each other, it struck me that this was probably his girlfriend. That idea hit me like a sharp smack to my head. I hadn’t thought of that possibility. Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to me that he might have been interested in anyone but me.

  “Am I in your dream or are you in mine, Mrs. Fauntleroy?”

  I took a good look at her. Miss Halter Top really was pretty. Fifteen, maybe even sixteen. Perfect nose.

  I hated her.

  Calvin’s poem got really dramatic now; his voice got louder and he waved his hand around even more than before. I watched him, my heart breaking.

  That’s when he paused in the middle of a sentence and I realized he was looking directly at me.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed, either. It felt like everybody in the whole room turned to see what had stopped Calvin in his tracks. For a second or two, everyone stared at me.

  And for one crazy, innocent, stupid moment, I was actually glad. I’m embarrassed to admit that for a split second the idea went through my mind that he might be happy to see me, that we’d talk after our readings and become good friends starting tonight. Eventually, I’d even be able to steal him away from Miss Halter Top. He’d fall madly in love with me—the kind of love you find in fairy tales.