The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  It’s Valentine’s Day. Alma’s got like a hundred secret admirers, six stalkers, and more sorry suckers sweatin her than I can count.

  “You like Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand throw-downs.” Only instead of Paris, she’d be running off with me. Even the gods couldn’t stop me. We like two hands of the same clock. Always connected. Sometimes in our own space, but we always meet. Nothing without each other. At least I’m nothing without her.

  “Just load me up.” I’m her pack mule carting around piles of carnations, nasty giant solid milk chocolate hearts even I wouldn’t eat, crappy stuffed animals holding crappier balloons.

  “I wish it were that romantic,” Alma says. “Helen and all that. I mean—you know what I mean. It’s just—they’re gonna get mad.”

  By “they” she means her devoted following. “Beautiful” turns to “bitch” in a hot second. (See C for Clang.)

  We take a different bus route home to throw the stalkers off her scent. Alma is about to unlock her door, but her mom jerks it open.

  “Hey! Happy—” Her mom’s smile breaks like a dropped dish. “Hi, Macy. I’ll take those.”

  “I guess that means I better be on my way.”

  Alma motions for me to call her.

  When I get home my mother and a new guest are sitting on the couch eating a Supreme Meat pizza. (See H for Hydra.) The two lovebirds are going to eat sausage, ground beef, and bacon, and then bust open that box of Crunch and Munch sitting between my mother’s legs.

  “Oh my God,” my mother says between mouthfuls of cheese, “this is so good.”

  Mr. Guest: “Yeah, I knew you’d like extra meat. You like meat, Macy?”

  My mother: “Shut up, Nero.”

  Watching them, I understand why Alma does not eat meat. That’s what Mr. Guest looks like sitting in the TV light. A slab of sweaty pork. I wait for my mother to go to the bafroom and set her phone on the toilet tank like always. And as always, she’s so high she forgets it.

  In the bafroom with the door locked, I give Alma a ring.

  Me: “It’s me.”

  Alma: “Hey you. I was just saving you a boat load of chocolate. But I’m not going to give it to you all at once.”

  “Okay, Mami.” Sweet Tarts suck. They taste like sidewalk chalk. I hate roses. The only time I want to be handed dead flowers is when I’m actually dead. Pink makes me want to puke. I do have to admit, though, I’m a sucker for chocolate.

  Alma: “I gave all the stuffed animals to my babies. Gave my mom the flowers. So what’s—oh hey, hold on.”

  She hangs up on me. I call her back.

  Alma: “Sorry about that! Listen, can I call you later?”

  Me: “I guess.”

  Alma’s mom in the background: “Whisper whisper whisper NOW!”

  Me: “You gotta go.”

  Alma: “I love you.”

  Me: “I love you too.”

  I hang up, unlock and open the door. My mother is standing outside the door chewing Supreme Meat, sauce spilling out the corner of her mouth.

  Me: “Nice, Ma. Classy.”

  Time-Lapse/Speed Version of what happened next:

  My mother: “Who was that?” Me: “You know, who is it ever?” My mother: “You LOVE Alma? You fucking LOVE Alma? You never say you love me. Blah blah blah.”

  In con-fucking-clusion: I HATE Valentine’s Day.

  Next day, I see Alma in the hall.

  Me: “You didn’t call me back.”

  Alma huffs, “Sorry. My mom took away my phone.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted to know who I was talking to last night, and when I said it was you . . .”

  “She hates me.”

  Alma: “She hates not controlling me. She heard me say I love you. She wanted me to be talking to one of the guys who gave me chocolates.”

  Me: “Like you have time for that shit.”

  Alma: “How do you tell someone who works three jobs that there aren’t enough hours in the day? But she’s always wanted me to be the show pony and the race horse. One minute it’s keep the blinders on, stay focused, I’m our ticket out. The next it’s all the other neighbor girls are talking to someone . . .”

  “How long she keeping your phone?”

  “It could be a couple of days. She’s pissed. But even when she gives it back—”

  “You can’t talk to me? Is she for real?”

  “It’ll blow over. She’s gone too much to keep track of what I do. Here.” She gives me the bag of chocolate and splits. Just like that.

  I drop my backpack at my desk and right then and there gobble chocolates like the fucking Cookie Monster. Miss Black looks at her clipboard like she isn’t looking at me and walks to my table.

  If this were Mr. This or Mrs. That, I would have heard: Now, Miss MYOFB, you know it is school policy that blahblahblahblah.

  This is Miss Black, though.

  She says: “Mmm, those look good, girl. My man is into those gluten-free sugar-free candies.” She reaches down and says, “May I?”

  I contemplate. I tap my finger against my chin. “You may.” She sticks her hand in the bag and takes out a peanut butter cup. It’s fine. I don’t like peanuts anydamnway. Then she sets three other pieces of candy on my desk. Ties a knot in the bag. Says: “Put those away before I eat them all, girlfriend.”

  I get it. “A’ight. I’m good.” I cut the shit and put the bag in my backpack.

  In first period, Miss Black dims the lights. Says: “I was going to end class with a record today, but it seems it might be better to start with one.”

  Miss Black only plays records. She always says, “CDs are too clean. I want gravy on the knife.”

  Random Kid 1: “Oh, no. She’s gonna play opera again.”

  Random Kid 2: “Is this gonna be on the test? Because—”

  Me to Random Kid 2: “This is a test. Multiple choice. If you don’t shut the hell up, then: A, will I—”

  Miss Black: “All right now. We get it. Heads down.”

  I put my head down after launching a chocolate at R2’s head. The solid ones are nasty anyway. Random Kid 2 says, “Ow!” George scoops up the chocolate before it hits the floor. He starts making a card for his mom and tapes the chocolate to the cover. I HEART George.

  Some kids joke that we’re going to play 7-Up and stick out their thumbs, but it settles down. Miss Black drops it like it’s hot. The needle hits the first track.

  It’s quiet.

  First comes the static. Enter some kind of horn. The horn makes me think of Alma yesterday . . . When she was thinking about who knows what—even I couldn’t tell. But for a minute I even forget about Alma. No shit.

  I’m going under. My leg jerks a little like the ground’s gone and I’m falling.

  I grab and grab but there’s nothing to hold onto. WTF? I don’t get it. I don’t know all of the instruments. Funny but whenever I don’t get something it’s math or reading or science. Never thought it could be music. I try. I try harder. I’ve been listening to music every minute of my life, so how the hell do I not know anything about it? I don’t know what to do with my body.

  I close my eyes. Would my body do some kind of ballet? Imagine my stupit ass doing that. I do.

  The horn fades out. In comes the bass.

  Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum

  That’s all.

  Bah Bum Bah Bum

  When the beat is damn good and ready, the words:

  A Love Supreme . . . A Love Supreme

  That’s all.

  It don’t say nothing about a girl and a guy. Don’t even say who loves who. It don’t say love what, love when, or why.

  And guess what: It has not a damn thing to do with meat pizza.

  Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum

  A Love Supreme . . . A Love Supreme

  Fade out to lunch . . .

  Alma can’t sit with me today because she’s catching up on assignments in the library. It’s all good though. I
hear that beat in my head all day.

  Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum

  Fade to after school . . .

  Alma is waiting for me by my locker. I can tell she is all stressed out. She’s doing that fist over her mouth thing and shifting from one foot to the other, tucking her hairs behind her ears.

  She starts: “You know I do lo—”

  I cover her mouth. I say: “A Love Supreme . . . A Love Supreme Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah Bum.”

  I keep doing it. I uncover her mouth. Cover it again when she tries to make excuses. I beat it on a locker. I sing it until Alma smiles and her fist unrolls. Until she says, “Macy, you can sing.”

  Then I smack my hand on her mouth again, hum it. Kiss my hand when it’s still against her mouth. Give her the peace-out sign. She flashes it back, looking at me with a smile I don’t recognize. I stare after her like the smile still hangs in the air.

  Grounding all done, she calls me two days later. We talk about nothing. Just when we’re about to hang up, Alma starts it up.

  Bah Bum Bah Bum Bah . . .

  I pick it up:

  Bum Bah Bum . . .

  We hang up.

  A Love Supreme . . . A Love Supreme . . .

  Like the River

  Transitive verb. Sam Cooke: “I keep running . . .”

  Miss Black says she ain’t going to teach no more. Her husband got a job upstate that starts in a couple weeks, so they’re moving and she’s going into another field. I have many emotions. Okay, I have one emotion. I’m mad as hell. DUH.

  Everybody kind of is. Some of us, like me, have had her twice. Now she’s leaving in the middle of the semester. She makes a lesson out of it. Plays a record by the Beetles called “Let It Be.” David Bowie’s “Changes.” Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” All I see is another tombstone in the graveyard of people I’ve known in my life. All the social workers, the counselors, and their new fields stretch far past where the eye can see. (See I for I Don’t Want to Talk About It.)

  Monsters

  Noun. Sorry, Wally.

  I’m watching Alma fall asleep on the wall outside maf class. She actually snores a little. I mean the girl is standing there comatose.

  I tap her on the shoulder, soft so she don’t have a heart attack. “Alma!”

  “I’m coming, Wally! I checked. No monsters!”

  “Alma!” I whisper-yell.

  “Willy, did you drop Lambie?”

  “Girl, wake up!”

  Kids are walking past all up in our business. The bell rings.

  Alma gasps. “Oh my God, I’m late for school.” Her eyes pop open.

  “Alma!” I shake her. “You are in school. How long since you’ve slep?” Her eyes are bloodshot. Skin looks like cigarette ash.

  “Five days,” she says, her eyes closing again. “I’ve been eating coffee straight out of the can. Last night I sleepwalked. Just like you see in the movies. I walked with the baby for hours. Back and forth. Back and forth.” Alma shows me how she carried the baby back and forth. She drags her feet like a zombie.

  Teacher opens the door and gives Alma the kind of stink eye usually reserved for me. I pull Alma off the wall and point her in the direction of her class. “Shit,” I say. “I don’t want to leave you!”

  She makes a Grand Canyon–sized yawn. “Meet me in the restroom in five.”

  I’m waiting in the bafroom so long, I’m about to bust in Alma’s class and cause a ruckus.

  The door finally creaks open. “Hey! Sorry it took so long. The teacher had me—”

  “How you holding up? You okay?”

  “No. But I have something that might help.” She digs in her backpack and pulls out a bottle of pills. “My uncle gave me some of these.” She leans against the sink. “I looked them up on the Internet and a lot of people say they help. I need help, Macy.”

  I open my mouth but I don’t know what to say. Who am I to say anything? I picture her walking back and forth across the room hour after hour—her feet like matches, striking up flames. I mean, I had plenty of all-nighters with Zane, but there’s a big difference between one kid and seven. And I would just catch up on sleep in class.

  Then I picture Alma popping pills day after day. Who am I to tell her anything? I answer myself back: Her friend. You’re her friend, you asshole.

  I grab the bottle from her, then hold her back while I step into the bafroom stall. She fights me, hits me on the back. Cries into the toilet as the pills are flushed.

  We go back to our classes. Meet up at lunch. Don’t talk about what happened. I got some change so we take the bus after school. But the thing is, no matter how much time we spend together, we both go home alone.

  Maybe

  Adverb. It’s what your teacher tells you not to use. It isn’t a verb, and it knows it never will be. But it also knows it can mess with any verb. Imagine someone saying do you love me and imagine what a adverb like maybe can do.

  Maybe is one of my mom’s favorite words. I do not feel like writing a whole story about it. So Miss Black said I can write a poem:

  I should,

  but I won’t.

  I can,

  but I don’t.

  I would

  But it won’t do no good.

  Understood?

  Pink

  Adjective. The color of roses.

  Miss Black is gone and we have a new teacher. New Teacher Lady says we can all write Miss Black a letter. I’m not going to write her no letter. How’s Miss Black going to write twenty-nine letters back? The answer is she isn’t. She is going to write one letter for the class. I hate that shit. I voice my concern. New Teacher Lady says maybe I will need to write the letter in the office. I say, “Maybe?” I get up. I hit the buzzer myself and tell the office I’m coming. The office says: Uh, okay.

  This is what I wrote. It’s about my first year with her. Maybe I’ll mail it to Miss Black one day before I die:

  She always smelled like roses. They were in the perfume she wore. She wore pink lipstick. Her cheeks turned pink when she was embarrassed. Once I went home and tried to make my cheeks pink like that. I pinched them super hard.

  My mother saw me and smacked me super hard. “What you trying to do? Get the social worker to take you away?”

  “You do it like this,” my mother said, dragging me to the bafroom. I watched my mother put her makeup on in the mirror. She always wore red blush and lipstick. (See L for Lips.) She turned her music as loud as her lipstick and started singing about a guy in love with a pole dancer. I swear there are more songs about pole dancers than Shakesbeer has odes. (What? You don’t think I know what a ode is, you stereotyping motherfoe?)

  My mother started gluing on fake eyelashes, which was scarier than the eyeball scene in Clockwork Orange. (Don’t Google it. No one should.) Thank God she forgot I was there. I left for the front window and pinched my cheeks in peace. Then, looking out at the gray skies, I had a lightbulb.

  Canada was super cold so if I moved there I would always have a blush. Miss Black said she went to a jazz festival at Toronto once. Miss Black always played jazz. She played Coltrane while we did work. (See L for Love Supreme.)

  One time when I had lunchtime detention, Miss Black left the room and I started digging through her trash looking for books. Instead I found her grocery list. At home, she ate mint M&M’s. Her purse was wide open. Eyes pinned to the door, my feet inched closer and closer to it. My hand slid next to it. To close it. Her perfume bottle was just sticking out.

  I sprinkled a few drops of her perfume on my sleeve. When I heard the class coming, I ran to my desk. Got out all my things. Miss Black started teaching her lesson. I listened real hard. But oh, every time I leaned on my hand, I could smell it.

  That day after school I felt different because I could smell different. My eyes saw a dumpster. My nose smelled roses. My eyes saw a dead dog. My nose smelled roses. My outer eyes saw a old lady puking in a trash can. My inner eye saw roses. I pressed my nose to my wr
ist and breathed in deep before I walked into my house. My brain knew the month-old laundry stink, but my nose smelled roses.

  I just had to get Miss Black M&M’s.

  Check it: When kids brought things in for Miss Black, she always handwrote them neat little notes on pink paper. Alma has some. The paper always smelled like roses too, right where her wrist rubbed against the page. I had to have one of those notes. People come and you count the days until they’re gonna go. People right near you are a million miles away. But a special note somebody takes the time to write just for you means you were in their head. That kind of shit you keep forever.

  The problem was the Super S, no matter how unsuper it was, cost money. And I didn’t have any. But I stood in front of the mirror and had a Lifetime Channel moment. Took a deep breaf. Whatever the cost, I was willing to pay it.

  I opened the door to the Super S and even the roses couldn’t combat the smell. The manager had a fan on but all it was doing was blowing the stank from one side of the store to the other. My skirt almost blew up but I caught it in time. The manager looked up from his magazine and then looked me up and down. I stepped over one of the many things in the store responsible for the stank and made my way to the candy aisle.

  I pretended like I reeeeeaaaaally couldn’t decide between Skittles and M&M’s. Like if I had to decide whether to stay on the Titanic or jump, that would have been a easier decision. I ran my hands across the shelves. The manager closed his magazine. He was getting suspicious.

  I grabbed the M&M’s, started toward the register to throw him off, then darted toward the door.

  “Hey! Hey, bitch! You pay for that! You pay!”

  I slipped on the nasty floor and caught myself. I held onto the M&M’s but not my dress. It blew up completely. And no, Marilyn Munroe never ever had a moment like this.

  The manager stopped yelling. I turned around and grabbed my dress. He looked at me and motioned at my legs.

  What happened next? (See I for I Don’t Want to Talk About It.)

  Afterward, I ducked into a alley, tore off my panties, bunched them up and threw them into a dumpster. Even in all that trash, they looked like a pink rose.