by Julia Watts
The good thing about Mom is that she doesn’t force her taste on me. True, sometimes she’s tried to talk me into using the tanning bed, saying I’d look healthier if I wasn’t so “washed-out” (never mind that I’d be exposing myself to cancer-causing rays in order to “look healthier”). But she’s fine with my hair being brown, and she was happy to cut it in the shaggy, rock ’n’ roll style I saw in one of the hair magazines at the salon. She said yes when I asked if I could add a double piercing to my ears and yes again later when I asked if I could make it a triple. She says pastel colors never looked right on me, even when I was a baby, and that wearing black suits me just like wearing pink suits her. She accepts that we have different tastes. She’s cotton candy, and I’m licorice.
I bring Mom her plate and a glass of tea, and she gently stubs out her cigarette so she can smoke the rest of it after dinner. Once I’ve gotten my food and sat down across from her, she asks, “So how was your day?”
I play the details in my mind like scenes from the world’s dullest movie. I’m sitting on the school bus alone, watching people avoid the seat next to me like I have a contagious disease. Finally, when there are no other seats left, I’m joined by a country boy who smells like an entire barnyard. I notice something rusty red on his cowboy boots. He notices me noticing, grins, and says, “Chicken blood.” In biology class, I’m copying a diagram of a fish and its innards with colored pencils. I finish quickly and get so bored I spend the rest of the period drawing a plate around the fish, a nest of french fries, and a couple of hushpuppies. I’m labeling it “Fish and Chips” when Mr. Combover, the biology teacher, leans over my shoulder and tells me I have to do the diagram over “the right way” for homework. At lunch, I’m running into the cafeteria long enough to grab a chocolate milk and an apple, then shoving them into my bag and eating them in the restroom because I can’t stand another day of going up to different tables in the cafeteria just so people can tell me I can’t sit there.
“It was okay,” I say.
“Well, it was better than mine, then,” Mom says, and she launches into how Mrs. So-and-So wasn’t happy with her perm and how little old ladies always stiff her on tips.
When we’re done eating, Mom relights her cigarette and heads toward the TV in the living room, and I put the pans and plates in the sink and fill it with hot soapy water. Sometimes when I do this, Mom will notice the dishes later in the evening and wash them so I don’t have to. It works at least a couple of times a week, so it’s worth a shot.
“Sydney Jane, will you bring me a glass of that cherry Kool-Aid?” Mom hollers.
“You know I hate it when you call me that,” I yell back, opening the fridge. My middle name comes from my grandmother, but Mom got “Sydney” from some soap opera she watched when she was pregnant. She thinks it’s beautiful, but I don’t see how you can find beauty in a name that rhymes with “kidney.”
“I know I’m supposed to call you Syd so you’ll sound all tough,” Mom yells back. “But once you get a boyfriend, you’ll be dropping that nickname. No guy wants to say ‘Syd’ when he’s about to lock lips. It’d make him feel like he’s gay or something.”
My face burns, so it’s probably as red as the cherry Kool-Aid. I carry the glass to the living room. Mom has her pink-toenailed feet propped on the coffee table, on a pile of National Enquirers next to an ashtray that needs emptying. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be dropping the nickname anytime soon,” I say. “I’ve not even made a friend in this place, let alone a boyfriend.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says, taking the glass. “Maybe you ought to stop trying to make friends with girls and try to find a boyfriend instead. It’s easier to make boys like you than girls.” She takes a puff of her cigarette. “Especially with that cute little booty you got. Most girls are two-faced bitches anyway.”
My mom, the feminist role model. “I’ve got to do my homework,” I say, grabbing my backpack from its spot beside the front door.
My old room back in Kentucky had been full of signs that I’d lived there all my life: pencil marks on the wall to show how I’d grown and Hello Kitty stickers I’d stuck on the door when I was seven and never bothered to peel off. Those little-girl things contrasted with my zebra-striped bedspread and the black-and-white posters of James Dean on a motorcycle and Elvis in Jailhouse Rock I’d found at a flea market. My room here has no sense of history. It doesn’t even feel like my room. My Elvis and J.D. posters are still here, but they’re a little worse for wear for getting rolled up and smooshed when we moved, and they’re taped up on the ugly fake-wood paneling that covers all the walls in this dumpy little rental house. I’ve tried to add touches to make it feel more like my room—an old paisley scarf draped over the lamp, some drippy candles in bottles. But it doesn’t work. The stuff is mine, but the room isn’t.
I take my fish and chips drawing and stick it on the wall next to Elvis in case he gets hungry. Then I open the bio textbook to the fish and start drawing it again but with no side dishes.
I wonder if Mom is right about the boyfriend thing. I’ve never had one, so I’m way behind Mom in this category. She claims she’d already run through a dozen by the time she was my age. She talks about boys like doughnuts. The truth is, a boyfriend has never been on the top of the list of things I want.
It’s not like I’m a girl of few wants. Sometimes I feel like all I am is a ball of want. I want to go to college even though I know Mom hasn’t saved a penny for it. I want to live in a city, and not a middling city like Lexington or Chattanooga, but a real city, the kind with skyscrapers and a subway and so much to do there’s no reason to ever be bored again. And while I’m at it, I also want a computer and an iPod and a pair of purple Doc Martens, which are way out of my price range. And I want a friend besides my mom because girls who grow up and still say “My mom is my best friend” creep me out. And I’m afraid I’m on my way to becoming one of those girls.
THIS MORNING after first period all of us juniors get herded into the auditorium for a special assembly. The auditorium, like the rest of Vermillion High School, looks like it hasn’t changed much since the 1950s. The moth-eaten crimson velvet curtain hanging over the stage was probably there back when Elvis was in his pelvis-shaking prime. I’m grateful for the assembly because it gets me out of class, but I know it’ll be lame. I’ve attended two other assemblies at Vermillion High. The first was about staying off drugs, and the second was about gun safety, which seems like an oxymoron. I guess according to the school’s powers that be, we should say no to drugs but yes to guns, as long as we’re “careful.”
In the cafeteria, people can refuse for me to sit next to them, but being herded in a line into an assembly, somebody is going to have no choice but to sit by me. I end up between a Holiness girl whose name I don’t know and this blonde princess type who’s one of the dozen girls in the junior class named Madison. The Holiness girl with her never-cut hair and her makeup-free face takes a quick look at my black eyeliner, thrift store bowling shirt, and skinny jeans and recoils like she’s sitting next to Beelzebub. On my right, Madison gives me a disdainful glance, then leans back over to her princessy pal on her other side and whispers something. They both giggle. I sink into my seat and try to ignore my neighbors.
It turns out the assembly is about sex. Not having it, that is. The speakers are this young married couple named Amanda and Matt. Apparently their idea of fun is to visit high schools all over Georgia and tell auditoriums full of kids how glad they are they waited until after they got married to “do it.” Amanda is a pretty brunette, but she’s one of those girls who opens her eyes so wide when she talks that they look like they’re about to pop out of her head. I hear Madison whisper to her friend that Matt is cute, and I guess he is if you like that short-haired, clean-shaven “Fellowship of Christian Athletes” look.
Right now Amanda has the microphone. “I just want to say a few words to you ladies out there,” she says. “When I was just a little younger than you, I was
part of a special ceremony. My daddy gave me a beautiful silver ring, and he and my pastor stood by me while I made a vow that I would stay pure until marriage. And years later, on my wedding night, I was able to give Matt my purity ring to show him I had waited for true love.” She reaches over and gives Matt’s hand a squeeze. “And it was soooo worth the wait. I’m sure if you girls talked to your daddies, a lot of them would be willing to give you a ring like my daddy gave me.” She crinkles her nose and grins. “And we girls do love our jewelry!”
I don’t even know who my daddy is. He could’ve been one of three guys my mom hooked up with over the course of a month. Two of them were high school guys, and one was older. I don’t believe I’ll be tracking any of them down and asking them to spring for a purity ring. And I guess I’m glad my mom wasn’t pure, because if she was, I wouldn’t exist.
Matt has taken the mike from his bug-eyed wife and says, “And now a few words to the guys out there. I know it’s hard—”
He’s interrupted by laughter, hoots, and catcalls. He tries to rebound by saying, “I know it’s not easy,” but he’s already lost them, and his lecture on avoiding STDs by practicing abstinence might as well be a stand-up comedy routine. Matt and Amanda end their presentation by handing out commitment cards we’re supposed to fill out, saying we commit to a life of purity before marriage. Like anybody’s going to end up in a sexual situation and then think, “No, I can’t do it because I filled out that card at a school assembly one time.”
When I get mine, I write: I hereby commit myself to a life of utter debauchery. I entered this assembly a virgin, but I leave it planning to commence devirginization immediately.
Amanda is standing next to the door collecting cards, smiling like an especially addled beauty queen. When I hand her my card, she says, “God bless you,” and I fake sneeze on her—“Achoo!”—breaking her smile and making her eyes bulge out even more.
On my way to my locker, I pass enough NASCAR-loving mouth breathers to confirm that there’s really nobody here I’d want to devirginize me. That and I don’t want to end up in the same situation Mom did at my age. Even if I stay a virgin forever, I still love thinking about the looks on Amanda and Matt’s faces when they read what I wrote on my card. I wish there was somebody here I could tell about it. I guess I’ll just have to wait and tell Mom tonight when she gets home. She’ll think it’s hilarious.
Rufus
A SCHOOL day: I’m always full of dread.
It begins as they all begin—way too early, 7:00 a.m., with Daddy opening my bedroom door and whistling “Reveille.” I mean, could he have thought of a worse way to do it?—the high, piercing sound coupled with a military song! It’s enough to make you want to cover your head with the pillow and go back to sleep, which I sometimes do. But not this morning.
I get up and head straight into the shower, because Mama and Daddy won’t let me drink coffee. I have to sneak it when and where I can, which is usually at Mr. D’s downtown after school if Mama isn’t picking me up. I’ll even make up some excuse for her not to pick me up so I can have a cup of coffee. I like it black.
I shower and dress—I tend to favor button-fly Levi’s, white or black T-shirts, and Converse sneakers. For colder weather, I have a red jacket like the one James Dean wears in Rebel Without a Cause that I got at Goodwill. It’s waist-length and zips up the front. Not that I’m comparing myself to James Dean, especially since I consider myself a rebel with a cause, and that’s to get the hell out of Vermillion.
By the time I’m out of the shower and dressed, Daddy’s already left for work. I try to time it this way because for one thing I’m already mad at him about “Reveille,” but also because I find him much harder to deal with than Mama, especially first thing in the morning. He works at the aluminum factory.
Next comes breakfast. Something “healthy.” I’d really rather not. I’d really rather just have a cup of coffee. I’m kind of slow to warm up to the day, but Mama practically forces me to eat. She somehow always looks more vulnerable first thing in the morning, especially when Daddy’s not around, so I want to please her. Today it’s oatmeal, which I like as long as it’s the real stuff and not the instant, which this is, so maybe this will be a good day? It should be, given the last two. I tend to have one good day for every two or more bad days.
We don’t really talk that much, because it’s early morning, and Mama’s in the kitchen cleaning up, still wearing her housedress, and I’m slurping my oatmeal. At exactly 8:10 a.m., “because you never know about traffic,” Mama says, (like there’s ever any “traffic” in this town), we head out the door.
Now, can you think of anything much worse than being on the far side of tenth grade and being driven to school by your mother? I mean, it’s so embarrassing, right? But Mama insists. This started after several of what Mama likes to call “incidents” in which I was harassed by a group of guys after school, a black eye being the tipping point.
“Do you have your lunch?” Mama asks as she backs out of the driveway. I think this is how she expresses her worry about so many other things having to do with my going to school.
I nod, then ask, “What is it?”
“Tuna sandwich and an apple.”
And then we’re silent for the rest of the trip, which takes less than fifteen minutes. Sometimes I’ll talk a blue streak on the ride to school, just to distract myself from where we’re going. I’ll ask Mama what she’s going to do on that particular day—because I really can’t imagine how she spends her days. I mean, I know she keeps the house clean and goes to the grocery store once a week and cooks supper and all that, but it seems like there would be a lot of time left over. She probably watches a lot of daytime TV, which is just about the worst if you ask me. Like being brain-dead. But Daddy doesn’t want her to get a job, which is too bad, because we’d be a lot better off with two incomes, but c’est la vie.
“Have a good day. Be good!” Mama says as I get out of the car, and now the school day officially begins, which means that my stomach turns into one big frozen ice cube—until it’s over. And for all I know the same is true for her.
I always try to time it so that I get to my first class just before it starts, not too early and not too late. It’s World History, which I actually like. We’re studying the Vietnam War now, and not just the US’s involvement either. I know it’s really important in terms of Mama and Daddy’s generation and all that. It seems that some people were radicalized in the ’60s, and others went in the opposite direction, a category that would include my parents. But the teacher, Mr. McHenry, is okay.
English and French are my other favorite subjects, but after that it’s all downhill—Earth Science, Algebra II, and gym, gym being by far the worst.
In case you haven’t noticed, I have a really hard time staying out of my head and in the present moment, and that’s probably because, let’s face it, the present moment sucks. But let me tell you about some of my classmates. I’m looking around the room now. Well, there, sitting up front, of course, is Ashley Jensen. She’s like a good student and a good girl—too good to be true, if you know what I mean, a real ass-kisser. Sitting next to her is her boyfriend, Justin Palmer. He’s a jock. But they’re not the stars, not the cheerleader and the football player. That would be Britney Marshall and Cody Johnston, and fortunately they’re not in this class. And really that’s a random sampling of my classmates, meaning that most of them seem more or less alike to me, except for a couple of people. Patrick is in here, but we always make sure to sit on opposite sides of the room and pretty much avoid eye contact. I may as well describe him for you, though. He’s short and compact, with black hair and green eyes. His parents come from Ireland, which always amazes me. I mean, why would anybody come to Vermillion, Georgia from Ireland, or from anywhere, for that matter? Patrick says it had something to do with family.
The other classmate of interest to me is Jimmie-Sue Rumbley, who’s already eighteen; she failed a couple of grades. She’s a bad girl
—like Amy Winehouse. I mean, she has tattoos on her arms, and her nose is pierced, and she smokes and drinks and who knows what all. I really like the way she looks: blond hair with dark roots and a lot of black makeup around her eyes. Mama says she looks “hard,” or sometimes she’ll say, “That girl looks like trash.” But Jimmie-Sue is different from all the white trash that’s around here. She’s something special. And what’s funny is that, even though we’re so different, I think she likes me too. Not that we really talk to each other, but I can just tell by the way she looks at me sometimes. Or when we do say a few words to each other, usually it’s something sarcastic, or we’ll just look at each other and roll our eyes. It’s kind of like we’re members of a very small club, which I guess we are, because we’re both misfits. But it’s not like we could ever be friends. I mean, she’s way out of my league.
From here I go to English and one of my favorite teachers of all time, Ms. Moreau.
“How are you today, Rufus?” she asks when I walk in the room, like she means it, and that ice cube in my stomach melts just a little bit. I smile at her.
I found out that her first name is Marguerite, and though alliterative names usually bug the hell out of me, I really like hers. It’s French. She’s probably the youngest teacher at Vermillion High, really beautiful, and she dresses like nobody else, really different and classy, like a model. She is yellow—hope and joy.
She asks if everybody has finished reading The Catcher in the Rye, which was the assignment for over the weekend. I think I probably read it in record time because it’s just about one of the best books I’ve ever read. I can really relate to Holden Caufield talking about all the phonies and everything, because there are so many phonies here at Vermillion High. Like Ashley Jensen, for example. She went to the principal and complained about Ms. Moreau wearing low-cut blouses. And you know it’s just because she’s jealous. What a phony bitch!
