Dear Girls Above Me

by Charles McDowell

  “I understand. Well, I’m sorry, Mickey. Be safe. Take care now.” My dad hung up the phone. All eyes were on him, including my mother’s. She seemed just as shocked as we were. We awaited the verdict.

  “I have an announcement to make.” My dad paused to collect his thoughts, while a little bit of pee ran down my leg. “I hate to be the one to tell you this … but … it’s official. Disneyland has burned down.”

  “Noooo​ooooo​oooo!”

  THREE MONTHS LATER …

  I sat at a picnic table under a large oak tree with my best friend, Duncan Winecoff. I was enjoying his peanut butter and jelly sandwich as he scarfed down my ham and cheese. Lunchtime at elementary school is basically the NBA draft of packed brown bags, except much more intense. The strategy that went into planning my lunch for the week qualified me to be the GM of a professional sports team. I remember convincing my mom to make things I had no intention of eating, days in advance, just because I knew the trading leverage I’d acquire. People still talk about November 23, 1994, or as it’s been immortalized, “Thank-Charlie’s Day.” The day before Thanksgiving I was able to trade my Fruit Roll-Up for a half-drunk can of Dr Pepper. No big deal, you say? Well, I forgot to mention that the trade was with a teacher. Nuff said.

  Out of nowhere, into the snacking area walked the infamous Teddy Long. I had never seen a second grader wander into our quarters before. What was the purpose of his visit? Did some lucky bastard have Bubble Tape? I could only imagine the trouble that was brewing on the horizon. It soon became apparent that Teddy had his eyes set on one thing and one thing only: Annie Greynold.

  Annie Greynold was the Paris Hilton of kindergarten. Which meant she was smarter than Paris Hilton, but you get the idea. He approached Annie as if she were just another one of his AYSO soccer trophies. I noticed Teddy was wearing an odd-looking hat, but as he got closer, the outline of it became more clear. Two felt black circles protruding from the top.… Very similar to a certain mouse.

  Through my extensive research, I knew the only place to purchase one of these hats was at a kiosk at the late great Disneyland. I had seen Teddy get dropped off at school every single day, but not once had I seen him sporting a Mickey Mouse hat. Where did it come from? I needed answers.

  I have no idea where I mustered up the courage, but out of nowhere I stood up, Velcroed my shoes a little snugger, and headed off into the land of cooler kids. Duncan remained seated, mouth open in disbelief, with pieces of my mom’s ham and cheese sandwich still on his lips. As I got closer to Teddy, my knees began to quiver. Not only was I going to converse with a second grader, but Annie was going to hear me speak for the first time. I cleared my throat, making sure no hidden saliva would send my vocal cords into an even more girl-like pitch than normal. I swiped my hand along the ground, collecting dirt to rub on my shirt to match Teddy’s casual grunge. As I got closer, I felt the eyes of other kids staring at me. I could tell they all thought I was on a suicide mission. Maybe I was, but I had thought about Disneyland every single day since it had burned to the ground, and Teddy was the only hope I had for some answers.

  “Teddy?” My voice seemed to echo off of every single lunch box in the snacking area. He turned around, not pleased by my interruption. “Umm, where’d you get that hat?” I had felt somewhat self-assured, until I saw Annie’s “Are you fucking crazy-ah?” face. I looked up at Teddy, who weighed in at an impressive four foot five and fifty-seven pounds, ready to kill me at any moment.

  “Who wants to know?” he grunted.

  “Me,” I said while instinctively raising my hand. I quickly put it down, realizing we weren’t in Mrs. Shanel’s classroom.

  “Well, if you must know, I got it at Disneyland over the weekend.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Yeah-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Yeah-huh, yeah-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh, nuh-uh.”

  “Disneyland burned down months ago,” I shouted out for the entire snack-time-area population to hear. Everyone instantly erupted in laughter. I couldn’t believe it; these morons had no clue. Was I the only one who was privy to this information? It was possible. I mean, Mickey Mouse did call my father directly.

  “Whoever told you that is stupid. I went on Space Mountain yesterday. And it was awesome.” Jealousy and rage took over for rational thought. He had not only called my dad stupid, but he had supposedly just ridden on the very ride that started the fire. What was going on? What the hell was going on!?

  “I sat in the front cart on the Matterhorn and I didn’t even close my eyes once,” one kid yelled out.

  “My older brother said he touched a ghost’s wee-wee in the Haunted Mansion,” another said.

  “Yeah, I just went on the Jungle Cruise and I got out to feed the alligators. They’re real.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Had my dad completely fabricated a story about Disneyland burning to the ground just so he wouldn’t have to go? If so, then I was living with a monster. (Not one of Gaga’s.) How could I ever face that man again? Oh my God, and did that mean he wasn’t actually friends with Mickey Mouse?!

  I reluctantly glanced over at Annie. She had a look of empathy, which quickly dissolved into a look of repulsion. Then she got sucked into the vicious kindergarten peer pressure and laughed at me along with the rest of them.

  “Your dad just got here,” my after-school teacher informed me as I stood in a corner brooding.

  Dad? What dad? I didn’t have a dad. A dad is an honest man who gets excited about taking a family trip to Disneyland. The gentleman who referred to himself as my father was a lying son of a grandma named Edna. And I knew for a fact she would not approve of his deceitful behavior.

  I entered his car (the scene of the crime) without speaking a word to him. I attempted to strap myself into the car seat. I admit I was having a bit of trouble as I was not confident enough to work this strange contraption on my own. My father tried to help.

  “I can do it myself!” I roared. I knew I couldn’t, but I was willing to live on the wild side for the seven-minute drive home. Plus, given the state I was in, my dad knew not to mess with me.

  We drove in silence. I was so infuriated. Everything I saw out the window was stupid. Stupid hair salon. Stupid metal gate. Stupid orange tree. Stupid running creek. Stupid person putting change in a homeless man’s stupid cup. The homeless man was the last straw; I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Why did you lie to me about Disneyland!?” My high-pitched voice echoed off of every windowpane in the car. My dad was so startled by the noise that he swerved into the lane next to us, almost crashing into the stupid guy in the stupid Porsche.

  “I did not lie to you,” he turned around and said directly to my face.

  “Yes you did! I know Disneyland didn’t burn down!”

  “Listen. Disneyland did burn down. But they recently rebuilt it!”

  “Really? Well, can we go?”

  “We can, although I heard it’s not even close to as good since the reopening. They don’t even have bathrooms anymore. Plus they had to replace the castle with a vegetable farm.”

  My father was very lucky that it was the eighties, ’cause if I’d had access to Google, I probably never would’ve spoken to him again. To this day, I’ve still never been to stupid Disneyland, nor do I have any desire to.…

  Especially now that it sucks since they’ve rebuilt it.

  THE GIRLS ON DIETING

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “Oh I get it. It’s called string cheese cause it comes off all stringy.” Next week we’ll tackle Push-Pops.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, can I just skip the others?” That might be healthier than throwing them up.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “How much did that gluten stuff in food cost before they made it free?”
Oh man, you don’t even wanna know.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I know this might sound stupid.” Not again, please no—“But does air have any fat calories in it?” 9-1-1.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “OMG! I lost three pounds from food poisoning! We’re so going back there.” Finally you found a place that does the vomiting for you.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “He’s taking me out to some restaurant in Koreatown. Oh great, I hate sushi!” Maybe they can whip you up some Korean food.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “If I eat half of the fries and then I bite those in half with only a little salt, will I get fat?” Your version of the SATs?

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I just realized it’s March! You know what that means …” March Madness tournament? “Girl scout cookie diet month!” Oh … right.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I said my good riddance to the Disney boys, then reclaimed the living room couch as my own. I could hear murmurs coming from the ceiling, but the girls weren’t speaking loudly enough for me to comprehend their topic of conversation. Normally, I would pray for this low decibel level, but I was bored and wanted someone to talk—I mean listen—to. I could hear the Jewish mother inside me saying, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Oy vey. And while I’m on the subject, how come you never call anymore?” If I had a choice in the matter, I would want them to be silent for the rest of my existence, except at that very moment. That’s not entirely unreasonable.

  I cracked open a window, hoping to boost the volume. I now had the ability to make out certain words, but their sentences were still a little fuzzy. So I grabbed my computer and went on an adventure to find the most clear listening spots. My apartment is only about seven hundred square feet, so the trek wasn’t that strenuous, but it took a while to pinpoint the perfect area to camp out. Here are my easy-listening results:

  Living room: Decent. If they were excited, drunk, or in a fight, I could hear them well from there, but otherwise it’s not ideal. Note: For reasons unknown, high heels are loudest here.

  My bedroom: Solid. The acoustics are phenomenal. Coldplay could perform unplugged. Because both our apartments share the same layout, daytime does not experience a lot of activity in this spot. Nighttime is hopping, though.

  Pat’s bedroom: Unknown. He and I have boundaries.

  Bathroom: Bad. Luckily for both parties, the bathroom remains private.

  Breakfast nook: Promising. Once I get screens for the windows, this spot holds a lot of potential.

  Kitchen: Good.

  Kitchen sink: Best. This was the sweet spot.

  I sat in the kitchen sink with my legs dangling. I attributed the optimized acoustics here to some quirk of our shared vent system. It was like a portal connecting our two very different worlds. “Hello?” I halfheartedly called out. I was curious about whether they were able to hear me through this particular vent, but at the same time, I didn’t want to get caught. No response. I tried again, this time a tad louder. Still nothing. So, I just listened.

  After a while I decided that I would write them another “letter.” When I logged on to my Twitter account this time, I learned that I now had nine followers! Who were these mysterious people? I clicked on one of them. Dahlia Stone. I had never seen her in my life. Her profile picture was of an angry-looking teenage girl. Dark eye shadow, jet-black hair, and a T-shirt that read DON’T LOOK AT ME. As I scrolled down her timeline, I noticed she had written to me:

  “I loathe girls who obsess over text messages. Post another letter or I’ll kill you … kidding, but still do it.”

  I’ve always planned on dying of natural causes; not at the hands of an emo teenager who will most likely grow up to become a banker. So I posted my next letter for Dahlia and my other followers:

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  Talking about how it’s raining for 37 minutes can be simplified to “Hey, it’s raining outside.”

  And another.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  Just because a guy looked at you funny on the street doesn’t mean you’re living in The Truman Show.

  And another.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  I’m sorry that you just came to realize there are no spring breaks in “real life.”

  Why not quote them one more time?

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “Did someone break in?! We didn’t leave the TV on CNN, right?” I’ve heard of these intelligent news-watching burglars. Be careful.

  By the time I was done posting my flurry of letters, I had gained six new followers. I was now up to fifteen people. More of them wrote to me:

  “These girls are such morons! Hilarious.”

  “Your letters are seriously making my day!”

  “How are you not chasing your brain out the door? I’d have gone upstairs and brutally murdered those girls by now.”

  I was a little creeped out by that last guy, but everyone else had given me a taste of what it must feel like to be a rock star. And I wanted more. I had heard Ashton Kutcher was considered the king of Twitter, so I looked up his profile to compare the number of followers we each had. I figured he couldn’t possibly have many more than me. Maybe just a few … million! Holy crap, I had a lot of letter writing to do.

  The next morning I awoke to Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart.” I eliminated Pat as the cause of this racket, knowing that he was at Disneyland, and also because the song didn’t have a “sassy” techno beat behind it. And as if I had cued the girls above me myself, they started singing along perfectly off-key. I tried burying my head in the pillows, but no amount of feathers could block their serenading. Half-asleep, I opened my computer and typed,

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “Shot Through the Heart” at 7:25 A.M. is not allowed.

  At this point, there was no hope of my sleeping any longer. The girls were excited for their party, which meant I was forced to be excited for their party, which made me even less excited for their party. On top of that, I needed to find a pastel-colored shirt to wear.

  I opened up my closet to an underwhelming amount of pigment. I turned on a light to illuminate the shadows but discovered that the shadows were actually my colorless clothes. Blacks, grays, browns, dark greens; this was my wardrobe. The only item that stood out was a pair of orange Crocs I bought one day when I was feeling particularly jaunty. I had a special distaste for these shoes, because I was 76 percent sure that I was dumped as a result of once wearing them. I had never noticed how somber my clothes were until I imagined them next to a soft-hued color, much like the one I would be forced to wear later that night. If my closet were in an animated movie, this is where the wisecracking bat voiced by Chris Rock would live and admonish me: “Ya gotta get out and live ya life, but before ya do, how ’bout stopping at Macy’s … JCPenney … the Gap.… Hell, I’ll even settle for a stroll through the Salvation Army. That way you can at least tell a bitch you’re wearing vintage; just please, I beg ya, buy some new shiiiiit.” (Sorry for that digression. In retrospect, perhaps my Chris Rock impression doesn’t translate to the written word, but vocalized it’s really good. Trust me.) Anyway, I sure as hell wasn’t going to find my costume in there.

  So I headed over to Urban Outfitters in search of a color I had never worn before. As I walked into the store, I was overwhelmingly soothed by an entire section of SweeTart-colored shirts. I had no idea they were so “hip.” I felt very bleak approaching such cheery colors, but I persevered. Even the names of these colors were cooler than I am. POWDER PINK, SEA FOAM, WEDGWOOD BLUE, MARIGOLD, CREAMSICLE ORANGE—

  “Sir, can I help you?” asked a skinny hipster whose dirty blond hair looked as if it were slapped across his forehead. His name tag read SUNSHINE.

  “Umm, yes. Are these all of your pastel shirts or do you have more in another section?” In the moment, I felt this would make me sound more discerning and trendy. “Sure,” he would undoubtedly respon
d as he ushered me into the special secret section of extra-super-cool pastels. “We like to keep this section closed off to all but our most discerning and trendy customers.” Unfortunately, I read that wrong.

  “No, I’m sorry, this is all we have in stock at the moment.”

  “Oh, bummer, well I guess I can make do with what’s here.” Sunshine looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Is there a particular color you’re interested in?”

  I pictured myself in every single one of those shirts and quickly realized that I was not going to look good in any pastel color. My pale skin and hairy arms were meant to be covered up forever. But I hadn’t come all this way to get another pair of Crocs. I thought back to my Crayola days and summoned the most interesting crayon shade I could think of to let Sunshine know I was not some color philistine.

  “Do you have a salmon-colored shirt? Like something Ryan Gosling might wear?” Don’t know why I threw that second part in. Sunshine stared at me through his fake prescription-less glasses.

  “I’m not exactly sure of Ryan Gosling’s color scheme, but we do have something similar to what you’re describing, called Peachy.” Well, his proclaimed ignorance of anything Gosling made him a liar, but he totally hooked me up, shirt-wise.