But I was relieved when Mr. Thompson called on Tiffany next. I think he figured this was one way to shut them up. Well, Tiffany strutted down to the piano like she was the queen of the choir and started to sing. And I have to admit she was okay, but nothing to be particularly proud about. But when she returned to her seat, she looked at me as if to say, “Top that.” I just rolled my eyes and went back to doodling. Her three friends sang next, and one was okay but the other two were pretty hopeless.
Then Laura was called down, and I quit doodling and smiled at her as she took her place by the piano. I think she saw me too. And then she sang with a boldness and confidence that was totally cool. I started clapping as soon as she finished, and a number of other girls joined in. But of course not Tiffany and her monkeys.
Then it was my turn. Emboldened by Laura’s brave performance, I went down there and gave it my best shot too. And once again, applause followed. Mr. Thompson smiled and said, “That was great, Chloe.” And I felt pretty sure that I’d be picked. About that time I noticed Tiffany and her tribe getting up to leave.
“I’m hungry,” said Tiffany. “And my ears are starting to hurt.” I’m sure she was aiming this one at me, or maybe Laura. But bolstered by the applause and Mr. Thompson’s praise, I ignored her, staying behind to listen to the rest of the girls try out. And from then on out we clapped for everyone regardless of her performance.
“Good job, girls,” said Mr. Thompson as he closed the piano. “I’ll post the results on my office door, right after lunch.” Then as I was about to leave, he said, “Chloe, can I see you a minute?”
“Sure.” I walked back over. “What’s up?”
He smiled again. “You really have a fantastic voice. And I’m curious about how comfortable you’d be doing solos now and then?”
I grinned. “Are you kidding? I’d love to. Music is my life.”
“I thought so. Well, great then. I won’t keep you from missing all of lunch.”
So feeling as if I’d just won the lottery—or better yet a Grammy—I headed off toward the cafeteria, even though I didn’t feel hungry. But just as I turned the corner, I saw them: Tiffany and her thugs. I thought maybe I was overreacting at first, because I felt certain they were waiting for me. But then I countered that thought, thinking I was just being ridiculously paranoid—I mean, what were they going to do? Mug me for my lunch money? It’s a shame I didn’t go with my original instincts because I could’ve made a getaway if I’d tried. But I didn’t. Instead, I just kept walking.
“I don’t know what makes you think you’re so hot,” said Tiffany, coming right up beside me. Then she gave me a sharp shove.
“Hey!” I yelled, hoping someone down the next hall might hear me.
Then Tiffany’s friend Kerry pushed me from the other side. “You think you’re so tough!” she snarled in my face. And then in a blur that I can’t even completely remember—it was like a scene from a bad teen flick—the four of them had me up against the lockers. I can still feel the indentation of the lock imprinted into my spine.
“You are a loser, Miller!” Tiffany slapped me across the face.
“Yeah,” echoed Kerry, and then she actually punched me in the stomach.
I just glared at them, hating them all like I’ve never hated anyone or anything before. I even tasted the hate, or maybe it was just the blood from where my lip was cut, but it tasted like metal and it felt like pure hate.
“You’re a total misfit!” said Tiffany. “And this school would be better off without lowlifes like you slumming it up.” She gave me another hard shove, banging my head against the locker with a loud bang. They all backed away, laughing hysterically like a pack of hyenas. Then they ran out the door that led to the courtyard. I just stood there fighting back tears of rage.
Then I turned around and kicked the locker with my Doc Marten, and the sound echoed throughout the hallway, maybe throughout the entire school. Why hadn’t I thought to kick them or to defend myself? Why had I just stood there and allowed them to beat on me like that?
I marched over to the emergency exit, knowing full well that I would set off the alarm, and I walked out of there. Then I ran. I left that school determined to NEVER go back there again. Not ever! And for the first time I could actually understand why our school has a metal detector. Because right then and there, I felt certain that if for some reason I was forced to return, I would come back armed and ready to defend myself. And a life sentence in prison seemed like a small price to pay. At least I figured I might be in a cell all by myself.
A normal person would probably wonder if I told anyone about this little altercation—like my parents or someone at school or even the police. But what good would it really do? Naturally, Tiffany and her thugs would deny it. It would be their word against mine. And they look so sweet and innocent and “normal” in their little designer-of-the-week outfits. And of course I look like, well, like me. Besides, no one witnessed the crime.
Oh, maybe if I’d had a really good friend, I would’ve told her. But I strongly suspected it would do no good to tattle, and it would probably just increase my troubles. And as much as I hate those girls and as much as I wish they could get what they deserve (severe punishment and justice), I know that there’s nothing I can do to make this happen. And I suppose that makes me feel pretty helpless.
Perhaps that’s the reason I found myself finally, after all this resistance, actually talking to God. After ditching school, I walked all the way across town to the cemetery. I like to go there sometimes to think and to write poetry and songs. I know it’s weird so it’s not something I’ve ever told anyone about. But it’s quiet there and my mind can breathe.
Once I got there, I went straight to my favorite gravesite (in the old section) and sat by a headstone that reads: “Katherine Lucinda McCall, born June 11, 1880, died December 21, 1901. Kay she dance with the angels.” For some reason I liked that part about dancing with the angels. I don’t even know why. But it disturbed me that Katherine died just before Christmas, and when she was only twenty-one, just entering adulthood. And I’ve even written a song (a ballad really) about her life (as I imagine it anyway).
But there I was, just sitting there (not really thinking about Katherine) and feeling more down than I’ve ever felt before, when I looked up at the sky and thought: I feel like a piece of crud stuck to the bottom of God’s shoe.
And then I said, “So, why don’t you just wipe me off and get it over with?”—my first words to God since those grade-school days of reciting rhyming prayers from Sunday school. Pretty weird, huh? And then, as if something in me had just been unlocked, I kept on talking. Asking God all sorts of impossible and rebellious and irreverent questions. Like “Why do you let people like Tiffany Knight and her friends even breathe the air?” And “Why is this world so messed up that innocent children all over the globe are dying of AIDS and hunger and being used for pornography or prostitution?” And “Why does it hurt so much to be alive?” And “Did you really make me? And if you did, what could you have possibly been thinking?” And “Are you really even listening to me? Are you really there?” Stuff like that. And while I’m not exactly proud of the way I spoke to God, I’m thinking it’s better than nothing. Maybe it’s a start.
But here’s what’s got me thinking. I felt better afterward. Oh, I didn’t feel good or happy or like I could forgive and forget Tiffany and her monkeys. But somehow I felt better. Then I walked home and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank a tall glass of milk (my own personal form of comfort food). And then I went to bed and slept until noon today. I guess I was tired. Here’s the poem I wrote yesterday, after I first spoke to God, before I came home from the graveyard.
LOOKING FOR GOD
can you see him, Katherine Lucinda
as you dance with your angel friends up above?
can you hear him, Katherine Lucinda
can you look in his eyes and feel his love?
because i am looking
> looking for him
in all the wrong places
where chances are slim
looking for god
when i don’t even know
if he exists
if he will show
but i won’t give in
to the hope i can’t share
to think that he listens
to think that he cares
because i’ve no faith
and i’m stuck to his heel
like dirty, old gum
hey, god, are you real?
cm
Monday, September 16
Well, despite swearing I’d never return, I went back to school today. And incredibly, it wasn’t too bad. In fact, I almost think that Tiffany and her monkeys are feeling a little scared or guilty or something. But other than a dark glance from Tiffany during choir, none of them gave me any grief all day.
And I won’t waste any more diary time on them. Because something good happened. I saw Laura in the hall between first and second period, and I went over and asked if she’d seen the list last Friday for the small ensemble group.
“Didn’t you see it?”
“No, I—uh—had to leave.”
She looked slightly suspicious but then seemed to dismiss it. “Well, congratulations. You made it.”
“I’m sure you made it too.”
“But guess who didn’t?”
I shrugged.
“Tiffany Knight didn’t make the cut.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And neither did her friends.”
“Well, you’ve just made my day.”
She laughed. “You got that right.”
Then after choir, Laura caught up with me in the hall outside the lunchroom. “You know, you’ve really got a good voice, Chloe.”
“Thanks, but so do you.”
“Well, I was just wondering if you do any other kind of music.”
By the way Laura twisted the strap to her backpack, I realized that she was probably uncomfortable talking to me. Had I done anything to make her feel that way? So I smiled and said, “Yeah, I play guitar and piano and I like to write my own songs.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “I play bass.”
“You’re kidding? You play bass? How’d you get into that?”
“It’s my brother’s fault. He took it up a few years ago, even played with a band. He talked my mom into getting him all this stuff, then after a while he just gave it up. Before she had a chance to sell anything, I took it up myself.”
“Wow, maybe we can jam together sometime.”
“Yeah, that’d be cool.”
About that time some of Laura’s friends were coming up and, it seemed, eyeing me with curiosity or maybe even suspicion. Suddenly I felt as if I’d intruded into their space. “Well, I better go.”
“See ya, Chloe,” She turned to join her friends. They laughed and joked with her as if they were some exclusive society. And I must admit I felt jealous.
It seems everyone has a clique to belong to. I looked over to where Spencer and some of his friends were hanging. I suspected I’d be welcome there, but then I also knew they’re into drugs—at least he is—and that often means the rest are too. But somehow, in that instant, I just felt too lonely to care. Besides, I didn’t have any intention of snorting a line of coke right there in the lunchroom, or anywhere else for that matter. So I grabbed my regular salad and soda and went over to their table. “Mind if I join you?”
“That’s cool,” said Spencer, scooting over to make room.
“I’m Chloe,” I announced as I opened the dressing and squeezed it over my salad.
“Seen you around,” said a redheaded guy across the table. He had a tattoo of a dragon on his right arm and a pair of lip rings, one on each side, kind of like fangs. “I’m Jake.”
“Hey, Jake.” I smiled and took a bite of salad.
“I’m Allie,” said the small blond girl sitting next to him.
I studied her for a minute. “Did we go to middle school together?”
“Just during sixth grade,” she answered. “Then my folks moved out of state. They just moved back last summer. And now it’s like no one even remembers me.” She laughed. “Or at least they pretend not to.”
“I remember you. We had art together and you were really good.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Do you still do art?”
“Yeah, I try.” Then she peered more closely at me. “But you’ve changed. Didn’t you used to be one of those preppy chicks?”
Now I laughed. “Maybe, it’s hard to remember that far back. But I guess I got sick of the hypocrisy and decided to try just being myself for a change.”
“Cool,” said Spencer. That seems to be his favorite word.
“You used to be a preppy?” said a guy who’d been quiet until now. And I must admit I’d been observing him from the corner of my eye. His dark Latino looks were definitely attractive, and I liked how his thick, black hair was pulled back in a ponytail—very sophisticated.
“That’s Cesar,” said Allie. “He hates preppies.”
“Not totally.” Cesar stared at me. “It’s just hard to imagine you as a preppy.”
“Hey, it’s not something I’m especially proud of. It’s sort of a family curse, if you know what I mean.”
He laughed. “Yeah, like everyone assumes I speak Spanish.”
So I sat there and chatted with these kids who seemed pretty normal to me, but I’m sure everyone else assumes they are heavy into drugs. And maybe they are. I know Spencer uses. But I guess I couldn’t say for sure about the rest of them. But even if they do, does that mean I should shun them? I don’t think so.
SAKE BENEATH
beneath our layers of fashion
and hair and pretension
aren’t we really the same?
don’t we breathe the same air?
pump red blood through our veins?
aren’t we made up of bone and flesh
and DMA?
so what’s the big deal?
why go and differentiate?
why not simply celebrate
that we are really the same
the same underneath
and our differences are only skin deep
cm
Four
Friday, September 20
After a somewhat uneventful week—although Tiffany got in a few verbal jabs that I’m trying to ignore—I got up the nerve to go to the Paradiso Café (the new coffeehouse in town) to inquire about performing.
First I ordered a cappuccino and sat down then proceeded to carefully evaluate the joint. There’s a large coffee bar off to one side with all your typical espresso and coffee machines looking sturdy and impressive. This was surrounded by a long copper-topped counter where you can order your coffee as well as other things like pastry and bagels and juice. The floor was a checkerboard of large black and white tiles with small dark wood tables and mismatched chairs casually arranged. Two of the walls have nothing but windows, and the others have large, colorful European-type posters that look like old advertisements.
And then, here’s the important part, off in a back corner is a small stage, only about a foot higher than the floor and filled with stacks of chairs and stuff. Also there are a couple of large potted plants, palms as I recall. But all in all I’d have to describe the place as pretty cool. So finally, when no one was at the counter, I got up the nerve to introduce myself.
“Hi.” I forced a stiff smile. “My name is Chloe Miller; I’m a musician and this is my demo.” I held up the cassette that I’d recorded last week. I wanted to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible and to make my escape before anyone noticed me making a complete fool of myself.
The guy behind the counter looked at me as if he thought I was about twelve years old. “You have a demo?”
“Well, it’s just homemade, but I think it’ll give you the general idea.”
Then turning from me, he ran stea
m through the espresso machine to create a horrible hissing sound. “Have you ever performed?” he asked as he turned around.
“Sure.” Now this wasn’t a complete lie because I have played in front of people before, at least a few times anyway.
“What’s your style?”
“I do a variety of stuff, but the songs on this demo are kind of like Alanis Morissette or Sheryl Crow or Aimee Mann. Mind of the old stuff.”
“Old?” His brows lifted, then he nodded. “Yeah, well, we could probably handle something like that in here.” Then he leaned over the counter and peered at me. “But are you any good?”
“My choir teacher says I am.”
He laughed and held out his hand for the tape. “Okay then. My name is Mike, and I run this place. I’ll try to listen to your tape if I can find the time.” Then he set it into a basket full of other tapes and CDs at the end of the counter.
Trying not to stare at all of those tapes, I forced another smile. “Thanks, Mike.”
“But, hey, you look more like a punk rocker to me,” he said as I was turning to leave.
“Yeah, well, sometimes I play like that. But you really need a backup band to produce that kind of sound in a legitimate way.”
He nodded. “And this place is probably too small for all that kind of sound equipment any-way.”
So, despite the basket of tapes, I feel pretty good today. At least mine is on top now. Afterward I came home and actually cleaned my room and then practiced my music for a couple hours—just in case Mike called.
On another note, I’ve been kind of hanging with Spencer and Allie and the others lately. It’s mostly due to loneliness as well as an attempt to avoid being alone in case Tiffany and her monkeys get into the violent mode again. I usually just eat lunch and hang with them when I see them in the halls and stuff. But today, after the guys abandoned the lunch table to go outside and “get some fresh air” (I’m guessing to share a joint), Allie asked me what I was up to this week-end.
“I’m sure not going to the game tonight,” I said as I sipped my soda.
My Name Is Chloe Page 3
