“Poe took it,” I offered.
“And he was certainly a picture of perfect mental health,” Lily said. How was I to know that Dr. Tert’s book Crying Too Hard to Be Scared would contain chapters on both Poe and me, though never making the absinthe connection? Which is odd, considering that Winnie Moprah not only focused on it in the episode about the Basic Eight but then had a separate show about absinthe abuse in teenagers, also starring Flora Habstat, once again talking about something she knew nothing about. What a bitch.
“You’re no fun,” Douglas said.
“Thanks a lot.” Lily looked at him sharply.
“Come on,” he said. “Flan’s up for it. Don’t you think it would be fun?”
“I feel like I’m in a bad TV movie about peer pressure,” she said. “I have to go somewhere and practice.”
“You have to practice going somewhere?” Douglas said, modifying V__’s mockery. Natasha and I couldn’t help it; we laughed. She stood up and stalked off, or as close to stalking off as you can do while dragging a cello case along with you.
“It seems you guys are always bickering lately,” Natasha said, stretching her legs out on the bench where Lily and her cello had sat.
Douglas sighed. “It’s not her fault. It’s mine. Hey, speaking of mine, do you have my hat, Flan? I think I left it at your house.”
“No,” I said, for no reason. “I mean, I’ll look, but I don’t think so.” I don’t know why I said that. Like a slowly dying engine, stuck underwater, my head gurgles along, waiting for all my sentences to end: the one that keeps me in high school, the one that keeps me in prison, and this one, which is a run-on. Actually, they’re all run-ons. I’m babbling, aren’t I?
LATER
Today is the day that my Advanced Bio report was due, and I think the fact that I’ve never mentioned it in this journal reflects my interest. Mine’s on sunburn. Just before class began, I went up to Carr’s desk to add my report to the little pile of reports. Carr was standing at the sink, behind the new teaching assistant who was washing out test tubes with a miniature toilet scrubber. His hand was on her ass, but when he heard someone at his desk he took it away. Then he saw it was me, looked right at me and put his hand back on her ass. I didn’t blink. I just stood there for a second and felt a chill like when you bite directly down on ice cream. Walking up to the bus stop, I saw the assistant sitting disconsolately at the bus stop again, alone. I just walked across the street and took the right bus. I’m on it now. Where is my life? Where is it interesting?
Wednesday September 29th
Natasha and I cut school all day today. Between Adam, Gabriel, Douglas and Carr there was scarcely an island in the Roewer Sea where this little castaway felt safe. And Natasha–well, Natasha wouldn’t worry about such trivial, earthly matters as attendance. We drove out of there, stopping briefly at Well-Kept Grounds for a latte to go, and went to the beach. We bundled together on a big rock, me sipping latte and Natasha sipping from her flask, and talked of more important things than the school we were missing. Talked about, I don’t know, books and love and what we were going to do after we left our hallowed halls. We made a date for Saturday night, just the two of us, seeing a revival of one of Natasha’s favorite non-Marlene movies, Way Down East. We made a standing date for any Saturday night when we didn’t have something absolutely fabulous to do–then the two of us would do something, just us. All we needed was each other, we decided. Flan and Natasha were all Flan and Natasha needed. Sure, the other Eight were wonderful people, but we, we were the stuff of kings. We hugged each other tight, and I suddenly pulled away and leaned out from her so I could see her face as she leaned her head back and took another sip, brushing her hair away from her face and wiping the dark lipstick off the neck of the flask when she was done. She caught me looking at her and rolled her eyes before putting the flask down on the rock and fluffing her hair with her hands, posing for my gaze in a mock pout. I love her. I miss her so much. I’m going to stop writing now.
Thursday September 30th
The transcripts I ordered from the Winnie Moprah Show finally arrived–both the one about the Basic Eight and the one on absinthe abuse. I snitched a crayon and am circling my favorite parts in a color V__ would have no trouble calling “flesh,” a pallid, pinkish shade that reminds me of really old gum, stuck on the street and pounded flat and dull. Speaking of which, here’s Winnie opening the show:
I’m glad you could join us today. The number eight has had a variety of historical meanings, but never one as sinister as what it now means to all Americans: the Basic Eight, the notorious gang of teenagers [as those horrible school pictures of us are flashed on the screen.] To look at them now, they look like any American teenagers, maybe ones in your hometown at home. But these teenagers–[shaking her head like she can’t believe it] children, actually–were on a rampage, a rampage of drugs, alcohol, substance abuse, Satanism and other alternative lifestyles, a rampage that went unnoticed by their parents and other school authorities until it ended in the tragic murder of Adam State. [As a photo of Adam is shown, the camera slowly zooming into his smile until all that is on the screen are his large, cute teeth] Adam was one of the most popular boys at Roewer High School in San Francisco, and at the time of his murder he was on the cusp of a dazzling future: college, and then undoubtedly a brilliant and lucrative career, perhaps raising children of his own. But Adam State’s dream is over, now. His life has been drastically cut short by the Basic Eight. Of course, the trial of Flannery Culp, ringleader of the Basic Eight, is still going on, so we cannot comment on her innocence or guilt, but here with us to discuss these murderous events are [as the camera panel-pans] Mrs. Stacy State, grieving mother of Adam and now president of the Adam State Memorial Anti-Satanic Teenage Murder Education and Prevention Council, the first national organization to have the courage to take on this tragic and complex issue; Peter Pusher, a nationally renowned expert on The Family, author of the book What’s the Matter with Kids Today?: Getting Back to Family Basics in a World Gone Wrong and president of the Peter Pusher Think Tank on National Reform; Dr. Eleanor Tert, nationally renowned teenage therapist and author of How Kids Tick (You Off) and the forthcoming Crying Too Hard to Be Scared, a profile history of the psychological torment behind famous Americans from Edgar Allan Poe to Marilyn Monroe to Flannery Culp; Flora Habstat, the member of the Basic Eight who pulled the whistle, currently in recovery under the auspices of a twelve-step program; and Rinona Wide, the twice-award-nominated actress who will be playing Flannery Culp in the upcoming television movie Basic Eight, Basic Hate: The Flannery Culp Story. Thank you for joining us, everyone.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: inaccuracy. I have so much commentary I’d better properly notate them. The offensive phrases will be in quotations, followed by the line number on which they appear for handy reference, followed by the corrections from the person who gave Winnie Moprah a much-needed boost in ratings.
1. “The number eight has had a variety of historical meanings…” (lines 1-5) What is the dear (honorary) Dr. Moprah talking about? Perhaps she’s thinking of the number of days in the week?
2. “…your hometown at home.” (lines 6-7) What boggles the mind is that she doesn’t say these things off the top of her head; her eyes clearly glide along cue cards just off-camera. So somebody drafted and wrote the phrase “your hometown at home” in big felt-tip letters, and nobody thought to think it was redundant.
3. “…other alternative lifestyles.” (line 10) Notice how she just slipped in Douglas’s homosexuality, as if that’s an abomination, too, on the par with me beating Adam to death. (Gosh, the gurgling is loud all of a sudden.) The nerve she has, to make such judgments.
4. “…cusp of a dazzling future.” (line 17) Grades weren’t even turned in when he died.
5. “…president of the Adam State Memorial Anti-Satanic Teenage Murder Education and Prevention Council.” (lines 25-26) Mrs. State is in fact Chairperson; the council has no pr
esidency. I know this because the ASMASTMEAPC regularly and pointedly sends me their monthly newsletter. (“Authorities estimate there are more than five hundred Flannery Culps in America, running around completely unchecked.” How difficult it must be for you citizens, not able to tell the Flannery Culp you know from the other unchecked 499.)
6. “…nationally renowned expert on The Family.” (line 28-29) Mr. Pusher’s renown, and indeed his expertise, is entirely the result of his almost-constant appearances on Winnie Moprah’s show. That isn’t fair.
7. “…nationally renowned teenage therapist.” (lines 32-33) See note 6.
8. “Flora Habstat…member of the Basic Eight.” (line 37) Lies, lies, lies. What a bitch.
LATER
I’m so burnt up by this that I can’t even remember what happened at school today. It’s not that I feel it personally, I’m just intellectually upset by the inaccuracy. Lily’s note to me is not just insulting but poorly devised. I mean, just read it:
Flannery,
I have to get some things off my chest that have really been bothering me. Maybe you’ll think it’s cowardly of me to write them down instead of talking to you in person, but I kept losing my nerve. You have to admit, Flannery, sometimes you can really be a really intimidating person. I know that’s not your fault, really, but I just wanted to tell you that, so you’d know why I’m writing this down instead of just talking to you.
You’ve probably guessed that I want to talk about Douglas. And before you jump to conclusions and think that I’m thinking that you and Douglas are back together, I’m not. Gabriel told me about you telling him about what Kate told him (Gabriel) about what her cousins told her about you and Douglas on the bridge, and I believe you. But it doesn’t really matter that nothing went on, because it’s irrelevant. What I’m trying to tell you is that when you spend time with Douglas alone it takes away from my relationship with him, even when nothing goes on. [This last sentence was crossed out, but only with a single line, so clearly I was supposed to read it without really being able to blame Lily for it.]
I’m not really trying to tell you that I don’t want you to be friends with Douglas, but I think you haven’t really been sensitive to how it makes me feel when the two of you spend so much time together. I think that my relationship with him is suffering because of whatever-it-is that he’s sharing with you, even if it’s just time.
We don’t have to mention this again. I’d just prefer it if the two of you [this, too, was crossed out, but repeatedly; I had to hold it up to the light and make out the letters carefully, one by one.]
Lily
OK, now before I do the notation thing again, I’d like to advertise a little contest. Guess how many times the word really is used in the note. Go on; guess. Eight, that’s how many, including the one that I wrote in brackets. Lily used the word really eight times in a one-page note. Eight times. Well, on to the notation:
1. “Flannery.” (line 1) Not even a Dear. Suddenly I’m not dear to her. The whole thing makes me angry.
2. “I have to get some things off my chest…” (line 2)
Oh, what’s the use. The whole letter just burns me up. But just one lucky event, and a small one. But crucial. Lily stared at me throughout Lit Mag meeting today, just looking at me and not talking, not even offering an opinion on the poem somebody wrote about a cat, for God’s sake. Then she left, early and significantly, looking at me directly before she shut the door behind her. My small bit of luck was sitting at the end of the table, where Lily had been. I lifted it up, and below it was the note, written on a piece of binder paper in bright black ink and folded in half, lengthwise, with FLANNERY on it in big letters. I read the note straightaway, ignoring what was on top of it, and rushed right home on the bus. But I hadn’t forgotten to slip them into my pocket.
Her tortoiseshell glasses, expensive and important, so much a part of Lily that it was unimaginable that she had actually forgotten to take them with her. They are emblematic of Lily–a sort of Lily Chandly talisman. Like Douglas’s hat, or Kate’s sweater in her trademark navy blue. I’ve moved these objects to a bare shelf in my closet, rather than on the chair in my room–can’t have anybody spotting them. Later, of course, they were bagged and numbered and shown to a jury of my peers, visiting the museum of my life, peering through it, ignoring the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH signs as easily as Mark Wallace did, just reaching out and groping me. They couldn’t see Kate’s brief, lazy imitation of the Headless Horseman as she eased into her sweater before heading outdoors, or the way Douglas’s hat perched on his head, looking both dorky and sexy, or the way Lily would put her glasses on whenever she needed to think hard about something, as if the lenses clarified things both inside and out. They just saw these things on display, as evidence. They couldn’t see the forest for the trees, or however that saying goes.
Friday October 1
Douglas came over in the morning today and rang the doorbell as I was drying my hair and humming “With You With You,” by Q.E.D. I heard it on the radio this morning. We had a full minute of sonic miscommunication like a suspense movie. I thought I heard the doorbell, over the hair dryer, but when I turned it off I didn’t hear anything. I turned it on again and swore I heard the doorbell. I turned it off again, etc., finally stomping downstairs and opening the door, knowing it would be Douglas.
“Go away,” I said. “I’ll take the bus to school.”
“What?” he said nervously, clearly saying it for no reason. He was looking around him like an escaped convict. Not that I would know. “Can’t we talk?”
“No,” I said. “Talk to Lily.”
“I can explain everything,” he said.
“You couldn’t possibly.” I started to shut the door. The Q.E.D. song had put me in such a peaceful mood, and now this.
“I’m gay!” he cried. I took my hand off the door but didn’t open it. Douglas’s face was in the half-opened door like something in a vise. His cheeks were splotched with red, suddenly, and beneath the brim of his hat I could see he was crying.
“What?” I said nervously, clearly saying it for no reason.
“I’m a homosexual,” he said medically.
We looked at each other for a second, and something about the silence cracked us both up a little. The door swung slowly open on its own accord and as it did I saw more and more of Douglas. Then it was open all the way and Douglas stepped in, rumpled and out of breath like he’d been somewhere cramped. Like, um, a closet.
“Homosexual?” I said. “Isn’t that what they do to milk?”
“I hope not,” he said, and started to sob. He just put his head down on my shoulder, plop, while still standing a few steps from me. His shoulders shook. It felt so literal: “crying on my shoulder.” I moved closer to him until we were actually embracing. I’d never heard anybody crying like that who wasn’t a little kid, lost or bleeding.
“You know, you’re right,” I said. I was amazed to find myself crying too, but just a little bit. “They steam milk. Look, I’ll show you.” I strode to the kitchen and got out the coffee filters. In a flash I remembered the first time I saw the love bite, my mouth so near his neck as I reached over him for the same box of filters. It had felt, then, for a second, like we were about to kiss, and in another flash it hit me: Douglas and I used to kiss, all the time, and now he was gay. And, a third flash–the first two still lingering in my eyes like flashbulbs–I realized what the hickey meant. He had reassured me that he wasn’t seeing another woman. I realized I was crumpling the box of filters into a ravaged building. I looked at it and felt like the storm had passed and I had come up from the storm cellar to see what had happened to the place where I lived.
I turned and looked at him. “Really?” I asked, and he nodded, wiping his eyes. He didn’t sound like he was crying now, and his shoulders were still, but the tears still ran freely down his face. He sat down on the couch, and I stood up straight and made the coffee. I stared into space as I steamed the milk and it scalded and
the smoke alarm went off, which was a relief, because Douglas had to run over and wave the smoke away from the screeching device with his hat, so we were in the same room again.
“I’ll take mine black,” he said. He opened the wrong cupboard, looking for mugs. My smile felt forced as I watched the smoky hiss of cold water hitting the scalded pot. I found the mugs; he poured the coffee. We sipped and said nothing.
“So is that where you got–” I said finally, touching my neck, and he nodded.
“Is it anyone I know?” I said, trying to keep from sounding gossipy.
Douglas snorted. He looked very tired. “It’s no one I know,” he said.
“Are you being careful?” I asked. “I don’t mean to sound like your mother, but you know–”
“My chosen lifestyle is a risky one?” he asked lightly.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I’m sorry, Douglas, it’s just taking me a while to adjust. I just heard about this.”
“You didn’t guess? You couldn’t tell?”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my friend Douglas, classical musician and actor, who dressed in linen suits, always brought flowers to dinner parties and cried during the sad parts of operas. When he and I had been going out, I’d had to spend a considerable amount of my time defending his sexuality to people at Roewer. Of course, when he and I had been going out would be the key part of that phrase. I don’t go out with gay men, as a general policy.
“It’s OK.”
“Did you know then, and not tell me? Come to think of it, does Lily know now?”
“No one knows now,” Douglas said. “I didn’t even mean to tell you. It just slipped out. And I don’t know how long I’ve known. I guess I don’t have to tell you that I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“Not even Lily?” I said. “Let me tell you one thing about women, Douglas, not that you’ll need to know, now. They generally assume that their boyfriends are heterosexual.”
The Basic Eight Page 13
