Next I took my doll out. She was a Japanese doll made of wood. She was very delicate. She had an intricate red kimono that had metallic gold and earthy green threads braided through it. She wore a matching saucer-shaped hat that partially covered her fine features. Her face was painted with pale shades of pink and peach. Her eyes were perfect, small, dark, and shaped like cat’s eyes. Her lips were stained red like the flesh of a beet. Her small delicate feet were adorned with tiny red shoes that were fixed to a shiny black base. Her feet were so small and flimsy that she could have never stood on her own so I’d glued a Popsicle stick along the back of the doll so that she could stand upright. As I performed a visual check-up of the doll, I flipped the black lacquered base over to find my name still scratched into the bottom. I’d used a pushpin to mark Astrid Starling on the bottom so that none of my sticky-fingered foster brothers and sisters would steal my stuff.
My father, a man I didn’t remember, brought this doll back for me from Korea when he was in the Navy. At least that’s what A— told me, I guessed that she probably wanted me to have something of my father, and I chose to believe her story, whether it was true or not. I guess I needed some part of what I thought was my father near me.
A— never really told me what had happened to my father. I would probably never know what truly happened, and frankly I didn’t think my mother was a reliable source, so I never asked. I wondered if he was out there somewhere. Was he successful, or was he like my mother, a number on a jumpsuit owned by the state. I thought the latter was probably more accurate. Surely, if he had been successful he wouldn’t have let me suffer as I did—especially when it came to one of my mother’s lonelier boyfriends, and one particular foster home with a violent foster mother.
As Audrey spoke, my mind snapped back to the present. “I bought this dresser for you at a garage sale.”
“Oh, it’s nice. I like it. Can I paint it?” I asked.
The dresser was old, brown and chipped. I could only imagine that Audrey had bought it off of some poor family who had just lost their elderly mother or grandmother, and were desperately trying to unload her junk at a garage sale. It smelled like mothballs, I thought as I drew the pungent air into my lungs.
“Are you hungry?” she said softly. “Would you like anything special?”
“Anything is fine with me,” I said.
“How about we order a pizza, that’s easy,” she said.
“That sounds fine.” Wishing she would just order the damn thing.
“What do you like on it,” she pressed.
“I like anything,” I said, wanting her to just leave me alone.
Audrey left the small confines of my room, and went into the kitchen to order the pizza. I continued to unload my clothes, mostly jeans and T-shirts. I was not much of a fashionista by any stretch of the imagination.
Next, I began to place my CDs on the shelf with my books and doll. I had an extremely eclectic music collection, mostly used CDs with a few old-fashioned vinyl albums that I’d bought at an old style record store. Unfortunately, iPods were out of my reach financially.
My music collection included the Violent Femmes, Black Flag, The Clash, Blue Foundation, Muse, The Replacements, The Cure, Jimi Hendrix, The Velvet Underground, Lucinda Williams, and some early Radiohead. I was an old soul when it came to some of my musical preferences. I couldn’t explain it—I just knew what I liked. I pulled out one of my favorite albums— London Calling. I loved the smell of black vinyl, and the crackle of it on the record player. It didn’t faze me that I hadn’t had a record player in quite some time. I was sure I could find one at the Salvation Army or Goodwill. You’d be surprised how many older people had held onto their useless crap that was now obsolete in light of the digital revolution.
As I surveyed the room once more, I reached down, and took out my guitar. I’d taught myself by watching lessons on PBS, and playing Guitar Hero. I wasn’t half bad, but definitely not the next Hendrix.
The doorbell rang, and Audrey hurried to the door checking her watch. “Yep, thirty minutes,” she declared to herself under her breath. She reached into her overstuffed wallet, and fumbled through all the receipts, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She handed it over to the pale, nearly translucent delivery boy. I didn’t know what it was about boys who delivered pizza, but they all seemed to have muffler issues, I thought as he puttered away. Audrey set the pizza down in the kitchen, and put out two plastic plates. It seemed as though she could have just skipped a step and put it straight on the coffee table.
I had successfully avoided any meaningful conversation up to this point, but now I knew that the inevitable getting to know you conversation would probably take place. I was surprised it hadn’t happened during the long drive from Kentucky to the Great White North. I made a slight attempt to disappear into my room as I headed for the door, but reconsidered, and thought, just get it over with!
As I picked off the vegetables that Audrey had included on the pizza (really any respectable pizza connoisseur would never put a vegetable on something meant to be wholly unhealthy for you) I sputtered, “So, um, when do I start school?”
“I registered you at Charlevoix High,” she said apprehensively, as if she didn’t know if she should have done it without my permission. “It’s a nice school,” she added.
“Yeah,” I said without much emotion. I habitually convinced myself not to get too twisted up about new schools. I’d found them to be entirely the same, no matter where they were located.
“I’ve been teaching at the Northwest Academy—the other high school in town for a couple of years, but I figured I’d give you some space,” she pronounced proudly.
Mmm, Audrey is a teacher. Well that certainly explains the lack of money. I could feel myself slipping into my sarcastic annoy the teacher mode. This seemed to be the natural pitch of my personality when confronted with any authority figure. Living with a teacher full time would make it difficult to keep up such a high level of sarcasm, I thought.
I took my pizza and slipped out onto the front porch, avoiding any more uncomfortable moments. I sat in an old glider that was covered with a gaudy olive green and blue cornflower pattern. I gently rocked myself back and forth as I devoured my pizza. I hoped that no one was watching me eat—it would be pretty embarrassing if someone saw me with pizza sauce and cheese strewn across my face like a three-year-old.
I looked at the houses on either side of me. They were all strikingly similar. I’d seen a World War II documentary on the History Channel, and I imagined that these houses might have been built for the returning soldiers after the war or something. They were all a chalky shade of white, and to differing degrees in some state of disrepair. Apparently, no one had ever heard of aluminum or vinyl siding, or brick for that matter. There were no brick houses the further north you went, which was strange because in Kentucky everything was made of brick, and anything else was considered by most to be a colossal waste of money.
As I looked down the street, many of the houses had the same rectangular shape with simple peaked roofs. Most had garages that were located in the backyard. I hated to admit it, but this was probably the nicest place I’d lived so far. Foster parents weren’t usually known for their wealth. The money they received from the state was their primary motivation for becoming foster parents. It was a scam, as far as I was concerned.
I let my mind drift away from the past as I shifted my thinking to the upcoming week, and my new school. I convinced myself that my new school would be fine. Besides, I kept telling myself, I wouldn’t be here that long anyway. I was always good at making myself think the exact opposite of what I was feeling. In the end, I figured it would be easy to avoid any attachments. If I’d learned anything, it was not to let people get too close, and most definitely not to have any expectations. People had always disappointed me, and I was sure that I had always disappointed them. It was a symbiotic arrangement.
Chapter Two
Audrey seemed to be a strange
mix of perkiness and perfection juxtaposed against a somberness that smoldered just below the surface. I thought it must have been very strenuous to pretend to be happy all the time. I’d assumed she was faking it. Most people do.
The best thing about Audrey was that she said the “F” word, a lot. That seemed to be the only evidence that somewhere buried deep inside her was someone who could cut loose. I often felt sorry for her. Funny thing was that I guess she felt sorry for me too.
Audrey was very tall and thin. She was attractive, but the years had taken their toll. She had saucer-shaped grayish green eyes that widened and danced around as she spoke. The distinctive lines around her mouth started from her nose and descended down to the corners of her lips, a false indication of a lifetime of laughing and joy. She must have spent a lot of time with a plastic smile plastered across her face, I thought. Her skin was fair and smooth with virtually no lines around her eyes—a dead giveaway of her fake smile. Her wardrobe consisted mainly of jeans and peasant blouses for home, and a flowing skirt coupled with the same peasant blouse for work. There must have been a deal on peasant blouses at the mall. Oh yeah, and the sandals. Birkenstocks. Really! Audrey unfortunately was a vegan. Her refrigerator was stocked with soy milk, soy chicken cut into the shape of a drumstick, soy beef made to look like crumbled beef, soy cheese pressed into individual slices, lots of edamame. What kind of fresh hell was this, I thought. I also knew the pizza she’d ordered the other night must have violated all of her vegan commandments. I hear they revoke your Birkenstocks for a thing like that. I now felt a little uncomfortable that she’d gone out of her way to try to please me, however I was grateful that I didn’t have to subject myself to a cheese less pizza.
It crossed my mind, as I sat on the front porch listening to the clanking of the old bench swing as I pushed myself back and forth, that Audrey must not have been able to have children, and that she was planning to use me to fill the void. I imagined that she’d realize, sooner rather than later, that a teenager was not what she’d bargained for and that she would give up.
That first weekend was awkward to say the least. Audrey seemed to hover a little too much, and I could feel the anxiety coming off of her like steam off of a fresh cup of coffee. My very first morning in Charlevoix, I awoke to a pristine blanket of snow on the ground. I’d been told that it had been sixty degrees two weeks ago. That seemed quite hard to believe now with the overcast gray clouds hovering close to the earth, and the lustrous white snow covering the lifeless ground.
Audrey had made French toast and vegan sausage. As she placed a few soggy slices of French toast on a plate one landed on the floor. She exclaimed with a slight modification, “Fuc—udge!”
Oddly enough, that made me feel closer to her than I had on the entire twelve-hour trip in the car. I cracked a restrained smile as I looked down at my plate, and said, “That’s an interesting version.”
She looked at me, her cheeks flushed, and apologized. “Sorry, I guess I need to reform my language now that there’s a teenager around.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like that’s the worst thing I ever heard.”
“Well, I shouldn’t curse anyway,” she said with a hint of regret in her voice.
I slowly picked at my French toast, trying to formulate a way to tell her I didn’t usually eat breakfast. Most days I drank a cup of coffee and ate a Snickers bar, but I understood that she would see this as unsuitable for me in her new role as guardian to a wayward teen.
Audrey finished her breakfast and went outside to shovel the driveway. I watched her through the lace-covered kitchen window as she methodically scooped up the snow and gently laid it to the side. I stood and watched her, and thought, how am I going to get out of this hellhole. The entire length of the house could be walked in under thirty seconds. There would be no room for escape from each other in a house this small.
I retreated to my room to organize my things. I sat in the middle of the tiny room where there was only one small window covered with even more yellowed lace. On the other side of the window was another house exactly like Audrey’s. It was so close that I felt like I could reach out and touch the neighbor’s house with the tips of my fingers.
I took the clothes I’d brought and laid them meticulously out on the floor. Most of the time I dressed like a thrift shop blew up in my face—I called it thrift shop chic.
I placed my white T-shirts in one pile, then I continued my attempts at organization and put my black, blue, then purple T-shirts into separate piles. I organized my jeans into two groups. The first group consisted of jeans that had holes in them, and couldn’t be worn in public. The second group had jeans that had holes in them that I could actually wear outside of the house. Unfortunately, there were more in the first pile than the second. I then placed my nicer blouses (of which there were two) in a pile, and then my sweaters. Crap, only three of those. I would definitely need more sweaters, I thought indignantly as the idea of snow in the spring became less and less attractive.
I’d organized my things into three small dresser drawers. There was no closet in the room, so hanging up clothes was out of the question. I took my one and only skirt, neatly folded it and placed it in the nightstand beside my extra small Pepto pink bed. I’d always been a very precise person when it came to keeping my things together. When you’re a foster kid it’s important to keep track of your stuff, and it’s even more important to hide the really good stuff.
As I sat in the middle of the minuscule bedroom feeling like a giant, I thought about school on Monday. I usually loved Mondays—everyone still sleepy from the weekend. Mondays were always calm, and I floated through them without incident. I’d convinced myself that because I’d been the new girl at so many schools that starting at Charlevoix High didn’t especially bother me. The best I could hope for was to simply go unnoticed.
I got up off of the floor and ran my fingers along the makeshift bookshelf, trying to decide which book best fit my mood. Charlotte Gilman Perkins seemed to do the trick. I lay on the floor reading and thinking about when and how I could escape this winter hell before I was launched into insanity. Looking at the snow outside, I knew it wouldn’t take long before some version of Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” surfaced.
I already knew that I hated being cramped and indoors. My body was telling me it was spring, and that I should have on short sleeves while feeling the warm air against my skin. I never went to school on sunny days, opting to spend most of my time walking around, playing guitar, reading, or sneaking into Churchill Downs to bet on some races. It was easy to sneak in, one of my ex-foster brothers worked in the stables along the backside. My wager of choice was a three number exacta box. Sometimes I would get carried away and do a four number trifecta, and wheel the rest of the field. I surmised that I might be spending more time in school than I had originally anticipated. It was either school or the house—I could hardly believe school was winning out.
I could hear Audrey stomping the snow off of her boots at the back door, and I could smell the damp cold air as the distinct clean aroma of snow and ice filled the house. The frigid air filled my nostrils with a numbness that widened my eyes. I refocused on my book, and tried to ignore the cold air.
Audrey knocked on my door, and yelled, “Do you need anything?”
I quickly replied, “No.” I hoped the brevity of my response indicated to her that I wanted to be left alone.
I heard her switch on the TV in the main room, and I wondered why on earth she had come for me. Maybe one day I would have the nerve to ask, but for now I would just wait, wait it out until my eighteenth birthday. I was not obligated to stay beyond that.
Chapter Three
I didn’t sleep at all the night before my first day at Charlevoix High. I could hear the lumbering arms of the massive oak brushing along the fragile roof. I tossed and turned most of the night wishing for those lumbering arms to break through and lift me up—saving me from yet another high school.
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sp; I stared blankly at the yellowing wallpaper that covered the top half of the white paneled wall. It was a garish pattern of mustard yellow, gold and olive swirls—only interrupted in certain spots where the paper had peeled away. My eyes were fixed on the lines and planes of the shapes until they seemed like they were dancing, spinning and shifting in the moonlight. As I laid there on my side pulling my knees up and into my chest, I thought about the story I would tell tomorrow.
In the past, I’d usually gotten a few nosy questions from other students and teachers wondering where I’d come from, and why I was there. Most of the questions came from girls who wanted to size me up. They usually found out very quickly that they didn’t have much to worry about—their muscle head boyfriends were safe around me.
I’d found it was usually much easier to stick with a simple straightforward lie, rather than create fascinating stories with lots of intricate details; simple lies were the best lies. I’d found that if I kept it simple it kept them off of my back.
My story of choice (which I delivered with sincerity, and was really quite convincing) was that my parents were in the military, and that we moved around every six to nine months. Most people readily accepted the falsehood without question.
I continued to toss and turn in the tiny pink princess bed, and wondered if I should come up with a different story. This town was so incredibly small I figured that people would probably know that I was living with my aunt. I didn’t think I couldn’t pretend that she was in the army or anything. I would probably get caught in a lie, and then I’d become that weird lying girl from Kentucky. Crap! This was an unanticipated complication.
The Idyllic Chaos of My So-Called Life Page 2
