Just then, I hear the door open and I glance past Tiffany and her friendly thugs to see Laura Mitchell walk in. Now all I know about Laura is that she sits behind me in choir and has a pretty decent voice—in fact, she’s really quite good. But we’ve never had an actual conversation before today.
“What’s up?” she asks loudly, pushing her way past the cookie-cutter girls clogging the doorway. “You staging a fight in here or something?” She eyes me curiously then turns her attention to Tiffany. “Maybe I should go out in the hallway and announce to everyone that there’s going be a big cat fight in here. I’m sure they’d love to see you all scratching and screaming and pulling out hair—”
“Back off!” Tiffany hisses. Her attention has moved from me and is fully on Laura now.
“Hey …” Laura holds up her hands then lifts her brows as if she wants to remain neutral. “I just came in here to—”
“Why don’t you just take a hike, sistah?”
Now I didn’t mention that Laura is of African-American descent, but she definitely does not appear to appreciate Tiffany’s snide little sistah remark. And the next thing I know Laura squeezes in next to me, positioning herself directly in front of Tiffany. Then she narrows her eyes and speaks in a quiet but intense voice. “I am not your sister.”
Just as I’m bracing myself for everything ugly to break loose, the door opens again and Mrs. Langford, an elderly English teacher, walks in and looks curiously at our little throng. “Everything all right in here, girls?” she asks in her apple-pie voice.
This mercifully breaks the happy party up, and Tiffany and her monkeys slip out the door acting like the good little girls they want everyone to think they are. Everyone except for us unlucky ones—the ones they set their sights on — to search out and destroy. That always includes any of us who are willing to look or act or even think different. Because difference is not tolerated by people like Tiffany.
Laura and I spoke only briefly in the bathroom. I think I was more shaken than I wanted to admit. Besides, Mrs. Langford was probably listening from behind the stall door. I’m not sure what made her use the girls’ bathroom in the first place, since they have a special one for teachers, but maybe it was occupied. Just the same, I’m glad she did. And I promised myself that I’d put out more of an effort in my composition class with her.
“See ya ’round,” I said to Laura as I left.
She nodded. “Yeah, take it easy.”
And so I’m thinking, maybe i should try to get to know this girl better. But at the same time, I’m wondering why she’d want to know me. She seems to have a big group of friends already. And to be honest, they look a little too preppy for me. Okay, not as bad as Tiffany and her wannabes. But they definitely seem to be into labels and fashion and image and could be shallow. Although I could be all wrong too since I don’t really know them personally. They’re from a different middle school, and they seem pretty tight-knit. They probably have no interest in hanging with a white chick anyway. Besides, I’m sure they think I’m pretty weird. And that’s okay. I’m used to being alone. And I’m pretty good at acting as if I like it.
SAFETY IN NUMBERS
is there really safety in numbers
like telephone numbers?
or address numbers?
or IQ numbers?
or whole numbers like 3 or 5 or 7 or 101?
which number is the safest?
and what about the number one
which, like the cheese, stands alone?
alone, lone, lonely—all divisible by one
so do you know my number?
it’s easy to recall it’s easy to remember
you wanna give me a call?
cm
Sunday, September 8
Had a big fight with Mom tonight. What a surprise. She’s been on my case all week to clean up my room. But I think, hey, it’s my room. If I want to live like a pig, well, who’s it gonna hurt?
“It’s just like your life,” she said as she blocked my doorway so I couldn’t close it and couldn’t leave unless I wanted to jump out the window, which I only try to do when my parents aren’t looking.
“Yeah, well, it’s my life, isn’t it?” I flopped down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing she would just go away. These little confrontations don’t help anything. And my mom has this tendency to let things go for a long time, but then like a pot that’s been left on the stove too long, she boils over and burns whoever crosses her path. Usually, my dad intervenes about that time, but he was out of town on business.
“You live under our roof! And you are our daughter! You might think you’re all grown up, but you’re still a child, and there are certain things you have to do!”
“Duh.”
“Are you listening to me, Chloe?”
“How could I not be?” I sat up and looked at her. “You’re screaming so loud I’m sure everyone in our neighborhood is listening.”
Now this quieted her down a couple of decibels because despite everything else, she does care what the neighbors think. A lot.
“Look, Chloe,” she was softening now. “I try to be patient with you. I put up with your clothes, your hair, and your attitude, but there are some things I simply cannot put up with.”
“Such as?”
“Your room, for instance. I insist that you clean it at least once a week. It’s a—a health hazard. Look at the cereal bowl over there.” She pointed to a bowl on my dresser. “It’s turning green.”
“It’s a science experiment.”
“Chloe!”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, maybe I could clean up a little. But why do you have to come so unglued about such minor things?”
Okay, that was probably a mistake. My mom took that as some sort of an invitation to really bare her soul to me. Something I could’ve easily lived without tonight.
But being a somewhat dutiful although somewhat detached parent, she came over and sat on my bed. “It’s because I’m worried about you, Chloe.”
“Well, don’t be.”
“I can’t help it. You’re my daughter. And you don’t seem happy to me.”
“Happy?” I laughed sarcastically. “Is there any such thing?”
“Of course, there is. Lots of people are happy. Your father and I are happy. Josh is happy.”
I noticed she didn’t include Caleb on her little happy list, but thinking better of it, I didn’t mention it either. “Well, did it ever occur to you that some of us just aren’t meant to be happy?”
“But you used to be happy. At least I thought you were. You had friends and you went to slumber parties and you played soccer and acted, well, like a normal girl—”
I socked my pillow with my fist. “So that’s it. You want me to be a normal girl. You want me to dress and act and talk and think just like the rest of the superficial airhead girls that go to my creeped-out school. They’re all clawing and climbing to be among the elite, the best, the queens of the high school ball, willing to walk all over anyone who gets in their way as they fight their way to the top. That is, if they even can get to the top, and most can’t. You want me to be like that?”
Her eyebrows shot up and she pressed her lips together.
“That’s really it, isn’t it?” My voice was loud now. “You simply cannot stand that I’m not like that. That I’m not like you!”
“Oh, Chloe, I’m glad that you are your own individual—”
“No, you’re not, Mom! You wish and you probably even pray that I would be just like the others—what you call happy! If you could, you’d probably clone me into the spitting image of yourself back when you were in high school — Miss Rah-Rah Rally and Homecoming Queen. Well, you better get over it, Mom, ’cause it just ain’t gonna happen!”
Now I could see her getting all weepy—the second act of her annual “Be Like Everyone Else” show. “You’re just going through a difficult time—”
“You got that one right. Life is difficult. And high school is the
pits.”
“But things can change—”
“Don’t count on it, Mom. At least not if you’re thinking it’s me who’s going to do the changing. Because, like it or not, I am who I am.”
“But you’re unhappy.”
Despite myself I let a cuss word fly. But my mom just continued, pretending not to even notice. “I just want you to be happy, Chloe.”
If I heard that happy word one more time tonight, I might literally explode—go flying into a thousand pieces, splattering all over my room in a nasty bloody mess.
“Honey?” I could feel her looking at me now, and I swear I knew what she was about to ask. “You—uh—you’re not involved in drugs, are you?”
I sighed deeply and shook my head. Here we go again. “First of all, Mom, if I was doing drugs, do you really think I’d tell you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But we’re supposed to ask.”
“Secondly, I’m not. Not that I don’t consider it occasionally—like when people push me too hard to be happy. I mean, maybe it would be some kind of escape from all this—”
“Oh no, Chloe, it would only—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘It would only mess me up even more.’ I’ve heard the speeches. I saw what happened to Caleb. And I’m not really into self-destruction. Not today anyway. But you might check with me next week, Mom. Maybe on Thursday. Right now I have homework to do. And then, of course, I must clean my room.”
She stood and smoothed down her Liz Claiborne pants, every pleat in perfect place. “Okay, then. I’m glad we had this talk, dear.”
I tried to hide my exasperation. “Yeah, me too.”
Then I did my homework. But instead of cleaning my room, I’ve been sitting here venting into my diary. And now it’s late. Sorry, Mom, guess my room will have to wait. Besides, it’s not so bad, really. I mean, I can still make it from my bed to the door without tripping—if I’m careful. And tomorrow I might go through and take out all the rotting food items. That should make her feel better.
ROTTEN CHEERIOS
green little circles
adhered to a bowl
rejected, dejected, subject to decay
once soggy and wet
now rotting away
but oh you are changing
growing fuzzy and green
yet no appreciation
will ever be seen
for you are so worthless
so sorry so sad
you rotten old cheerios
you are very bad
now get outta ray room!
cm
Thursday, September 12
Being alone makes you think more. But sometimes too much thinking makes you feel as though you’re going crazy. But if you think you’re going crazy, maybe you’re not—since they always say the crazy ones are the last ones to know. But I’m not so sure about that.
I think I miss having Caitlin around. As Pollyanna-like as she is and as much as I dislike those perfect girls with their sugary smiles, Caitlin was sort of like good medicine to me. Usually after spending time with her, I would try harder to be a better person. I know that sounds completely moronic, but it’s the truth.
Today a guy came up to me and offered me some speed. I can’t even remember exactly how I responded, probably something like, “Hey, I’m going about as fast as I want to at the moment.”
And he just smiled and said, “Cool.” Then he introduced himself and we talked for a while. His name was Spencer Abbott and he seemed like a pretty nice guy, really. Oh, I know how some people think that anyone who takes drugs is really messed up and dangerous. But mostly I think they’re just searching, like me. At least I think of myself as a searcher. The problem is, I don’t seem to be finding whatever it is I’m looking for. Or maybe I’m just not sure what it is I’m looking for or where to even look.
If I were to be perfectly honest—and that’s what I’m trying to do in this diary. If you can’t be honest with your diary then who can you be honest with?—I suppose I’m looking for love. Oh wow. It’s not easy to write that down. First of all it sounds so completely cliche, and on top of that, it’s so lame and pitiful—all things I despise. It hurts my head to even read those words. But that, I think, is the sad ugly truth: Chloe Miller is looking for love. Barf!
So does this mean I think my parents don’t love me? No, I’m sure they do—in their own impaired way—but their love often seems dependent on me meeting their HIGH expectations. And unfortunately, I seem to do that less and less. Mostly it feels as though they ignore me or simply tolerate me—and then just barely. As if they’re counting the days until I finally grow up and graduate from high school and get outta their picture-perfect lives. That might be an unfair judgment on my part, but it’s just how I feel.
So am I looking for the love of a boyfriend? Someone to wrap his arms around me and pull me close and whisper sweet secrets in my ear? Well, maybe. Unfortunately, other than Spencer (who’s not bad looking) no one seems to be beating down my door. Would I get involved with Spencer? I’m not sure. And since I’m feeling desperate, who knows? But it would bother me that he’s so into drugs. And he is; I can tell. And I guess I’d be worried that I might get caught up in that world too—purely by association. I just don’t think I’m ready for that.
So what is it then? Maybe I just need a good friend or two. Someone who understands and accepts me—someone I can talk to. Caitlin was a little like that, but in some ways she always seemed “above” me. Not that she was snooty. Because despite that she hung with the cool crowd, like my brother, she was actually nice. Maybe the problem is that she’s so much older. And, yes, because she seems so perfect. Impossibly and impeccably perfect.
Oh, I know how she tells me about her flaws and her mistakes and regrets. Like yesterday, she e-mailed me about her horrible roommate in college, saying how she’d really like to just drop-kick her over the nearest goalpost, etc.—well, you get the picture. So, I suppose Caitlin’s not so perfect. But then she’s not here, either.
It has occurred to me—for some reason a lot this week—that I could try talking to God. (That’s what Caitlin calls it. She hardly ever says “praying” even though I know that’s what she means. But she calls it “talking to God.”) Still, like I’ve already said, this just feels really weird to me. And for a long time, I’ve had some sort of very real blockade that I can’t seem to get around. But now I find myself thinking about it—almost daily. But still I haven’t done it. I’m not sure that I even can. I mean, exactly how do you start something like that anyway? Do you just say, “Hey, God, I wanna talk?” It sounds so strange, demented even. And did I mention crazy? So maybe I am losing it. Maybe that’s just where I’m heading these days.
OFF TO CRAZYVILLE
there she goes again
off to crazyville
with her red balloon
and a fat baboon
she talks to herself
and says she talks to god
and that he’s listening
but all she really hears
is the ringing in her ears
and the singing in her brain
as she walks out in the rain
with no shoes on
there she goes again
off to crazyville
cm
Three
Saturday, September 14
Okay, here’s the latest weird flash. Chloe Miller is talking to God! Is she crazy? Losing her mind? I’m not sure, but here I am starting to write about myself in third person. That’s probably not so good either. Okay, chill, girl. Just chill.
It all started yesterday—on Friday the thirteenth even—I should’ve known better than to go to school on such an unlucky day. But I did. For at least half the day anyway. I ended up skipping the second half. Hey, I didn’t say I had suddenly become perfect or even a Christian—I only said that I’ve taken up talking to God. And I suspect he may not even like what I’m saying to him because frankly, he hasn’t talked
back. But I suppose I didn’t expect him to. Not really. The surprising thing is that I’m still doing it.
I went to school yesterday telling myself to be thankful that it was Friday and I’d have two whole days to recover from a seriously deranged week. I’ll spare you the details except to say that Tiffany Knight has targeted me for her whipping girl. She hardly allows a day to pass without some lame attempt at making my life miserable—as if I need any help in that particular area! But I was just minding my own business, thinking about a new song I’m working on and whether I have enough nerve to take my homemade audiocassette down to the new coffeehouse in town. Or maybe I should just see if I could get up there on that little stage and read a poem for starters. I’m still not sure. Isn’t it ironic that I try to escape such abuse and public humiliation at school, but then I’m willing to climb onto a live stage and actually invite even more? Sometimes I astound myself.
But back to Tiffany. It was fourth period, choir, and Mr. Thompson had just asked anyone who was interested in auditioning for a small girls’ ensemble (to start rehearsing some special songs for the Christmas concert) to stay afterward. Naturally, I stayed. So did Laura. And to my disappointment, Tiffany and several of her monkeys stayed as well.
Hey, it’s a free world, I told myself. Although I’ve never heard Tiffany sing, since she’s in the first soprano section and I’m in second soprano (although I can sing anything between alto and soprano). Still I couldn’t imagine how anyone as mean as Tiffany could possibly have a voice worth listening to.
So, I nonchalantly moved down to the front row, where we were supposed to wait our turns, and began doodling in my notebook. One by one the girls stepped up and sang a few bars from a song we’re working on right now called “The Falling Leaves.” Most of them were acting pretty self-conscious and seemed embarrassed about singing solo, and some were really messing up badly. Each time someone squeaked or hit a wrong note, Tiffany and her cohorts would break into giggles. Mr. Thompson warned them to be quiet, and I even tossed them a dark look. Okay, that was a mistake.
My Name Is Chloe Page 2
