by Lisa Yee
The second time Chessy and Sammy married I was convinced it would stick, and it did for three whole years, from when I was seven to ten. That’s when Sammy took that good photo of me. He also got Chessy to cut back on her drinking and promised her he’d look after me. Sammy had big plans. We were going to move to California and he was going to adopt me, but instead my mom and Sammy got divorced.
Did Sammy know, I wonder? Did any of them know what they were getting into, or how lucky they were to get out? There’s one man who’s not on that list but should be. Maybe the only man Chessy’s ever met who didn’t want to marry her. That would be my father. I guess he was smarter than the rest of them.
My mother has done an excellent job at erasing all traces of my biological father. She refuses to discuss him, although she has let a couple things slip. Like that he was some bigwig working on a television show based in Florida, and he thought she was beautiful. Once during one of our fights I yelled, “Well then, I’m going to go live with my real dad.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she said, laughing. “He doesn’t even know you’re alive.”
I was about to swat her in the head with a loaf of bread but stopped myself. “What?”
“I told him you died,” she said smugly. “Told him I had a miscarriage.”
“You told him I died?’ I hugged the bread so tight I flattened it.
She sobered up for a moment and with a voice thick with regret said, “Maybelline, he didn’t want me either. He made that clear when he went back to Los Angeles. Besides, he said he never wanted kids.”
That’s the closest mother-daughter-father bonding experience we’ve ever had.
I turn over in bed and face the wall in the Schneiders’ spare room. The ceiling fan is on. It chugs away like it wants me to know how hard it’s working. Still, I barely feel it.
I have a folder that I keep in my T-shirt drawer. It’s filled with magazine photos of movie and TV directors and producers. Who knows? One of them might be my father. I wonder what he’s doing right now?
I wonder who he is?
What he looks like?
What he does for a living?
I wonder if he’d want to know about me?
I’m sure he would. Imagine, going all this time not knowing you had a daughter.
Would he want to know?
I wonder.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s only been a week since I heard the news about my mother’s latest engagement, but I’m already starting to see disturbing changes. Bowling trophies compete with pageant trophies in the living room. A worn leather chair sprouting fluff from the armrest has been plopped down in the center of the room. It faces the giant television Jake installed in the corner. There’s a very complicated remote control, but it’s unnecessary. The TV stays on bowling 24/7.
Jake is over here now. His bowling shirt is open, revealing a beer belly. He looks pregnant. “Chessy darlin’, you’re a 300 if there ever was one,” Jake says, winking and raising his Bud Light. My mother eats this up. Tell her she’s pretty and she’ll marry you.
I take the cheese from the fridge and sniff it. It smells bad, but there’s not much else to eat. I slap it between two slices of bread.
“Who ate all the bologna?” I ask, looking back in the living room.
“Sorry, Daughter,” Jake says. I know my biological father is a thousand times classier than the man who’s about to become husband number seven.
“I’m not your daughter,” I inform him.
“Soon enough,” he says, this time winking at me. I try not to throw up.
Chessy ignores this whole exchange. She’s engrossed in the pages of BRIDES. My mom has a lifetime subscription to the magazine. As she turns the pages, she says to no one, “Ridgeway will create a Vera Wang—style wedding dress for me. Genuine Swarovski crystals will be nestled in my hair. The wedding cake will be nothing less than a four-tiered pumpkin chocolate chip with ivory fondant and butter cream icing. . . .”
Crazy as it sounds, this is nothing compared to her other weddings. The only thing stopping my mother from going overboard this time is the upcoming Miss Greater Osceola Area Outstanding Teen Pageant. Chessy approaches weddings and pageants with the same wild-eyed zeal, like a deranged animal on the hunt.
I can’t wait for both of them to be over—the pageant so I don’t have to hear about the ethnical competition anymore, and the wedding so she can hurry up and divorce Jake and get him out of my life. He’s creepy. The Fantastic Five come over every evening to practice for the pageant. Sometimes Jake watches them rehearse, never taking his eyes off them. He seems to enjoy this a little more than he should.
The buzzer goes off downstairs. Chessy quickly closes her magazine and rushes downstairs to her wards. I sit at the top of the stairs and peer down through the banister. No one can see me. For years I’ve sat up here and watched my mother and her girls.
As they await Ridgeway’s arrival, the Fantastic Five recite Chessy’s Seven Select Rules for Young Ladies:
1) Offer a fabulous first impression—for a lasting impression!
2) Strike a perfect pose—to keep you on your toes!
3) Train your talent—reap your rewards!
4) Develop magical makeup artistry—and make them look twice!
5) Wear a winning wardrobe—project a winning attitude!
6) Put forth savvy speech and presence—and create a sensational personality!
7) And so much more!
When they’re done, Chessy gushes, “You girls are amazing. I can only imagine how beautiful you will look in Ridgeway’s creations.”
On cue, Ridgeway makes his entrance, pushing a rack of gorgeous dresses. There is a chorus of oohs and aahs as everyone tries on the ethnical costumes he has custom-designed for them.
“Ladies, ladies, please stop jumping up and down like critters at the Gatorland Jump-a-Roo.” Ridgeway’s faux Australian accent drips with sarcasm. “How can I make sure these all fit properly?”
Ridgeway is the best. His gowns can fetch up to twelve hundred dollars each, but he always gives a deep discount to “Chessy’s Charmers,” as she’s branded them. I think they deserve to be branded, just like the cattle that graze near the Piggly Wiggly.
I wish my mom would marry Ridgeway. They share a love of old movies, bias-cut beaded gowns, and business. I’ve heard her say, “Ridgeway, you are my one true friend.” The only problem is, he’s got his heart set on Brock Rivers, the actor from that cheesy cowboy series set in Australia. “If it’s not Brock, then it’s nobody,” Ridgeway sighs.
So it’s nobody.
I have to go downstairs to get something from the office. As I brush past the Fantastic Five one of them says, “Look, it’s the beast!” Someone else adds, “Her hair is green today. She’s not a beast, she’s a troll.”
“You could use more concealer, Maybelline,” another one says. “Like over your entire body.”
As usual, my mother pretends not to hear them, even though their laughter echoes in the building.
Ridgeway jabs one of them with a straight pin as he adjusts her costume.
“Ouch!”
“Oh dear. So sorry,” he says, winking at me.
I smile and keep walking, face forward, head up high, and don’t stop until I get upstairs. I should be used to their abuse by now. It’s been going on forever. One time I thought my mother was going to reprimand them, but instead she said, “Maybelline, stop distracting everyone.”
There’s not much in the fridge. Some Slim Away shakes. Diet soda. Nail polish. Then I spy something I can use.
I head back downstairs. No one pays any attention to me. They’re too busy admiring themselves in their ethnical costumes. The Fantastic Five’s Pretty Pageant tote bags are all in one corner. One by one, I open each bag and squeeze mustard into them until I’ve run out. There will be hell to pay later, but it’ll be worth it.
CHAPTER SIX
Maybe, you’re a diabolical genius!” At lu
nch on Monday, Ted makes me tell him about the mustard over and over and laughs just as hard every time. “This rivals the time you painted ‘I am stoopid’ on their lockers,” he howls. “But not quite as good as that time you replaced their hairspray with bug spray.” He starts laughing all over again.
Hollywood comes over and sits with us. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say. Ted and I try not to crack up as we continue eating our spring rolls. Maah has even included a small container with homemade peanut sauce for dipping.
Hollywood opens a paper bag. “What’s in there?” Ted asks, pointing to a giant sandwich.
“Everything,” Hollywood says, taking a bite. “I just put in whatever I could find.” He talks with his mouth full. “See, some cheese, some chips, a fried egg.” Hollywood puts down his sandwich, picks up his camera, and starts filming.
When Hollywood first told me, “I want to make movies,” I thought he was delusional. Then he showed us some of his films.
Ted sat still without talking for the entire forty-five minutes—a new world record. When the lights came back on, Ted poked me and whispered, “Hollywood’s amazing.”
“Yeah,” I whispered back. “I had no idea he was so talented. He doesn’t belong here.”
I put my hand up in front of Hollywood’s camera. “Enough, college boy,” I tell him. “Why don’t you shoot someone else for a change?”
Hollywood sputters defensively, “I film other people too.”
“You could film me more,” Ted offers. “I’m very photogenic.”
The warning bell rings. I head to the bathroom. It’s empty. Good. I hate it when people are in there and I have to pee. Usually the bathroom is full of girls putting on their makeup, or doing their hair, or just hanging out. Who would want to hang out in a bathroom?
I flush the toilet and the lights go out. Just my luck. There are no windows so it’s totally dark. I open the stall door and step out. Someone laughs. I freak. The lights go on and I go down. I am fighting, but there are too many of them. I scream. Someone shoves something in my mouth and orders me to shut up. Several pin me to the floor, but I get some good kicks and punches in. I’m pretty strong for someone who never works out.
The second bell rings and they race out of the bathroom. The last one to leave turns off the lights. I am lying on the floor. My head hurts. I am having trouble breathing. I lie still and listen to students stampeding to class until there is silence. I shut my eyes. Maybe I’ll just stay here all day. No one will notice that I’m missing.
There are footsteps again. They are getting closer. The door opens. It’s the principal. She always checks the bathroom to make sure no one’s ditching class.
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Escobar yells. “Oh my God! Maybelline, what happened? Who did this to you?”
I remove the maxi pad from my mouth. She helps me up. I see myself in the mirror and start to scream.
“I’ll call 911,” she says, pulling out her walkie-talkie.
“No, no, it’s okay,” I assure her.
“But. . . but you’re all bloody,” she stammers.
“Lipstick,” I say. “It’s lipstick.”
“Lipstick?”
“Lipstick.”
As she escorts me to her office, I spy Hollywood across the courtyard with his camera. Shouldn’t he be in class?
I’ve been to the principal’s office many times before. For cutting school. For destroying public property. For my attitude. Only this time, Mrs. Escobar is being nice to me. Her brow is furrowed. She hands me her tissue box. I try wiping the lipstick off my face as Mrs. Escobar taps a pencil on her desk. Finally she asks, “Who did this to you, Maybelline?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“No I don’t.”
Mrs. Escobar lets out a long sigh. “You do know who did this, and I don’t know why you would protect them.”
“May I go? I don’t want to be late for English.”
I rise, but Mrs. Escobar signals for me to sit down. She opens up a file. “You’re a good student and you score well on tests,” she says as she flips through the pages. “If you clean up your act, I can get rid of this stuff on your record. Next year you’ll be a senior. Are you thinking of college?”
“I’m not college material,” I say dully, repeating something that Chessy’s told me many times.
A flicker of disapproval crosses her face. “I think you are. Mrs. Nese does too. She’s told me that you have potential. You should go. It’ll open doors for you.”
“I really don’t want to be late to class. . . .”
Mrs. Escobar sighs. “You’re excused, Maybelline.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s all over campus that I was attacked in the girls’ bathroom. The rumors range from kids from a rival school to the substitute biology teacher who wears a belt and suspenders.
“You have to turn them in,” Ted insists.
“Drop it. I’m not finking.”
“Why not? They’ll get suspended for sure. We have to do this!”
“We don’t have to do anything. There are only a couple days of school left, so suspension is no big deal. Besides, if I turn them in they may quit the Charm School, and then living with Chessy will be even more hell than it already is. Plus we need the money. There’s another wedding coming up, remember?”
“I thought your mom had money,” Ted says as we walk past the cafeteria. I try not to look at all the kids trying not to look at me.
“Had money, Ted. Had.”
We’ve gone into debt every time Chessy’s gotten married. A couple of her husbands made a lot of money, like Sammy Wing, the photographer, and Jim Marshall, the banker. But when they left, so did the nice lifestyle. Upton Sinclair spent a ton of money on my mother. He even bought me my own TV. Later we found out the credit cards he used weren’t his. When Chessy kicked him out, not only did he take the TV back, he helped himself to her jewelry and did an excellent job at cleaning out her bank account.
Hollywood is walking toward us, his Super 8 aimed at me. “Maybe, can you tell me about the attack in the bathroom?”
“Shut that stupid thing off,” I bark.
Hollywood looks hurt. He’s always getting all emotional on me.
“Don’t feel bad,” Ted consoles him. “Maybe’s still humiliated that she got beat up. Plus she has raging PMS.”
I pinch Ted’s arm.
Hollywood shoves his camera into his beat-up backpack. “You guys want a ride home?” he asks.
“You know it, big guy!” Ted says. He has to jump to high-five Hollywood.
One of Hollywood’s most admirable traits is that he has a car. Whenever Ted and I want to go somewhere, we know we can count on him. The downside is that he has to come with us. Hollywood’s okay, I guess. He’s always around, sort of like a rash that you get used to after a while.
I ride shotgun. Ted stretches out in the backseat as Hollywood folds himself into the driver’s side. The car is an ancient Toyota. The green paint is peeling off and even the rust has seen better days. Hollywood’s named his car the Green Hornet, after some old television show. There’s no air conditioning and the radio only works some of the time. A laminated photo of James Dean is stapled to the dashboard.
“Rebel Without a Cause is one of the best films ever made,” Hollywood says. He tells us this every time we get into his car.
“Isn’t it kind of gay to have a photo of James Dean?” asks Ted.
Hollywood turns red. “No,” he says evenly. “James Dean’s a great actor. Very understated. Giant, Rebel, East of Eden, he only made three films, but each revealed his genius. . . .”
As he blabbers on, I wonder if Hollywood is gay. He’s never had a girlfriend, or even gone out with a girl, except for that disastrous blind date during spring break. But who am I to talk? I’ve only had one quasi boyfriend in my entire life. I met Ryan last summer at the Dairy Queen near his family’s vacation rental on Lake Tohopekaliga.
All we did was make out, but he left me after three weeks because I didn’t put out. I seriously considered it, but ultimately decided that I didn’t want Ryan to see my body. I was afraid he’d laugh.
Chessy’s always harping at me: “Maybelline, if you’d just lose some weight, wear proper makeup, stop coloring your hair with Kool-Aid, and shed those baggy Goth-boy clothes, you’d be able to snag a boyfriend.”
What makes her think I’d even want a boyfriend? There’s more to life than boys. Or men. Or husbands.
As the Green Hornet pulls up in front of CC’s Charm School, the car burps to a stop. Hollywood looks like he wants to say something.
“What?” I ask.
“I dunno. It’s just that I’m graduating tomorrow, and then I leave for California. I’m taking screenwriting at USC for summer school so I can get a jump on college.” He runs his fingers over James Dean’s photo and lets out a troubled sigh.
“I’d think you’d be happier,” Ted says from the backseat. “You’re graduating. You’re going to the school of your dreams. You’re getting out of Kissimmee.”
“I am happy,” Hollywood says unconvincingly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been out of Florida, and now I’m driving across the country to a place I’ve never been to before? I may never see you two again.” He looks right at me when he says this.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please, don’t go all drama queen on me.”
Hollywood is quiet. He gets moody. Last summer he wouldn’t even speak to me.
“Hello? There is such a thing as a telephone,” Ted says.
“You know I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Well, I do and you can call me on mine, okay?” Ted pats him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Anytime is fine with me. I never turn my phone off. Never.”
“The only person who ever calls you is your mother,” I point out.
“So,” Ted huffs. “That could change.”
“Hollywood, you gotta go,” I say. “My mother’s never left Florida and look what happened to her.”
