Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

  She’d set those people up as measuring sticks, but they refused to cooperate in measuring her. Was she worthy or not?

  No. But I love you, anyway, said Jesus, said Dad, said Patrick.

  Okay, then—was she closer today than she was yesterday?

  Nope, not telling.

  Why shouldn’t she just say to hell with it and be done? She wouldn’t lose one fricking thing. Heaven would still be there—salvation didn’t depend on perfection, after all. She’d still have her bedroom in Dad’s house—she’d always be his pooky little angel. Patrick would still sit next to her, and love her, and tell her that they shouldn’t talk about his feelings because they would only screw her over.

  Marianne grabbed her cell phone and left a message at home that she had a sore throat and wouldn’t be coming for dinner that night. Then she called Sally. Marianne was in the mood for sterling silver vampire fangs.

  Marianne stood at the cream and sugar table of the Main Street coffee shop in a borrowed black corset and miniskirt. She wrapped her cup of black coffee with three napkins and smiled politely at the forty-something lecher that would not leave her alone. He was dressed in a cape—that’s right, a cape—with long greasy hair, and his belt was studded with collectible Disney pins. “Actually, I’ve got to go now to meet my friends,” she said.

  “You sure?” He growled out in his disturbingly gravelly voice. “Why don’t I give you my cell number, in case you change your mind and want to meet us later.”

  Apparently, dressing Goth had more disadvantages than she’d known about. She didn’t want this much attention. “Oh... that’s okay.” Marianne turned and headed for the door.

  “I’m a druid.”

  Marianne stopped dead and turned her head around slowly.

  “I’m a druid,” he repeated.

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” she said. She should have kept going and not responded, but geez. “Aren’t druids... extinct?”

  “Nah,” he said. “You should come with us to a vampire club.” He shrugged his meaty shoulders in an innocent, shy way. Wow. He hadn’t actually responded to her comment, but it only emphasized how nervous he was to be asking her out.

  Marianne was tempted to give him a kind reply, but then she remembered how old she was, and quickly became offended and almost nervous. He was old, and she was obviously not. Plus, it might have been just an urban legend, but she’d heard that those places had sex rooms with whips, and drinks called Embalming Fluid, and all sorts of nastiness. She didn’t reply and just bolted out the door.

  She speed-walked back to Fantasyland, checking behind her the whole way for lurking warlocks. She met Sally in the princess restroom where she’d left her. Sally, Georgia, and herself had been riding all the fairytale rides, but Georgia needed a cranberry juice break. Marianne was fully in with all the Goths now that she was dressing out. More than in; she was cool. And strangest of all, Georgia seemed to be campaigning to be her new sidekick, copying everything Marianne said and did.

  She found the girls camped out in the handicapped stall. Georgia let Marianne in and latched the door behind her. Georgia was punk tonight—blue hair, riveted bracelets, and squares of fabric with band logos pinned all over her jacket. “So, um, Marianne,” said Georgia. “We’re trying to decide what kinds of guys are hottest. Goth, Punk, Jocks...”

  Marianne sat down on the floor, ignoring the unseen filth, and sighed at Georgia. All the new friendliness aside, Georgia still drove her crazy sometimes. “Do you talk about anything but subculture?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, unruffled. “Just play.” Nothing Marianne did ruffled her tonight. Georgia was either really bigoted and only liked Marianne because she was weird like herself now, or she was really insecure and finally felt accepted by Marianne. Marianne knew which one it was, but she didn’t want to admit it. Then she might have to actually like Georgia.

  “Fine,” said Marianne, opening her coffee to cool. “What have you gone over, already?”

  Sally laughed her cute, bell-like laugh and smoothed down the ruffles of her flowing black and red gown. “I said gay guys. Hands down.”

  Marianne smiled. “Yeah, that’s just because you love pain. It doesn’t have anything to do with looks.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Sally, holding up a finger. “Have you seen that new guy, Jason, at school?”

  “Well, okay,” said Marianne. “He’s pretty cute, but come on.”

  Georgia was sitting on her legs and bounced once. “I said skaters.”

  Of course she did. Marianne turned to impale Sally with her eyes. She’d obviously spilled about Patrick.

  Sally winked at her and teased her orange ratted hair.

  Georgia took a drink of her vodka cranberry juice and set it down next to her. “Here, I brought extra,” she said, getting another two bottles from her bag. She handed a bottle to both Sally and Marianne.

  Marianne took it just to be nice. “Well, I think skaters are the hottest, of course. But you’ve gotta mention soldiers and cops.”

  “Oh, now who’s not in it for the looks?” said Sally. “I mean, they’re buff and heroic and all. But the haircuts, Marianne. Come on.”

  “Cop-staches are classic,” said Marianne. “You can’t judge classic. You’re right, though, it’s not about looks for me.”

  Georgia sighed. “Yeah. Me, neither.”

  Marianne wanted to roll her eyes so badly that she opened the cranberry juice and took a drink just for something to do. Plus, she was supposed to be kissing off the world tonight. Alcohol was a good way to do that.

  “Good, huh?” said Georgia.

  Marianne held up the bottle and looked at it. “Not bad at all. Better than I thought it would be, anyway.”

  “Here.” Sally tossed over her own bottle. “Go for it. I’ll drive.”

  “I...” Marianne started to shake her head and then stopped. Never mind. She downed half her bottle as fast as she could.

  “That bad, huh?” asked Sally.

  “What?” Marianne rasped out.

  “Did Patrick dump you or something?”

  “No.” Marianne shrugged. “He’s just out of town again and I’m insanely bored.”

  “Love jonesing!” said Georgia, in a gruff, manly voice.

  “Oh, Marianne doesn’t love him,” said Sally, wagging her finger at Georgia in a very teacher-ish way. “Don’t say that. She gets very irritated.”

  “You love him!” said Georgia, in that manly voice again.

  “Enough,” said Marianne, crossing her arms.

  Sally leaned over and picked up Marianne’s bottle. She put it in Marianne’s hand. “Drink the rest of that. Then we’ll talk.”

  Marianne shook her head and obeyed.

  An hour later, the girls had moved to the Frontierland smoking section, and Marianne had finished her second bottle of cranberry juice. They were sitting on wooden benches, surrounded by fake concrete rocks and stump-shaped ashtrays. Georgia had taken all the fabric squares off her jacket and pinned them all over Marianne’s skirt. Marianne was sober enough to know how stupid she looked and sober enough to appreciate how amazing it was that she didn’t care. “Vodka is my new boyfriend,” she said, snatching Sally’s clove away and taking it for herself.

  Sally pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “That’s fine. Just don’t marry him like Georgia.”

  “Nope,” said Marianne, smiling. “I’m going to marry Patrick Devlin. You know... if he doesn’t leave me.”

  Georgia giggled at the word “marry.” Her style made her look harsh, but she was actually a sap. “Are you gonna change your name to Marianne Devlin?”

  Marianne laughed and blew out her smoke. “Honey, I’d change my name to Patrick Devlin if they’d let me. Or if… you know… it wouldn’t be super confusing.”

  Georgia leaned forward in her seat—a little too far, though, so she must have been drunk, too. “But no, really. Is it, like, really serious? Does he love you?”


  “Yes.” Marianne looked at her cigarette and frowned. “No. Well, yes. I don’t know.”

  Sally choked on her smoke. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s private,” mumbled Marianne. She leaned forward in her seat and looked down at the concrete that was supposed to look like dirt. She sighed. “He says he loves me. He does love me,” she said more firmly. “I just don’t... I just don’t like it for some reason.”

  Georgia wrinkled her nose. “I know what you mean. Once you actually get them to love you it gets boring.”

  “No.” Marianne looked up in shock.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Georgia, shrugging. “I didn’t really think that; it’s just something I heard on a talk show.” She coughed. “So, is it scary, then?”

  “No, it’s good. It’s all good. It’s just not what I expected.” Marianne saw that Sally and Georgia didn’t understand at all, but they wanted to. Wow. Maybe she had friends after all. “He loves me, but he doesn’t act like he needs me. I mean, Patrick wants me around, but he isn’t affected by me.”

  “Well, you must be misreading him then,” said Sally.

  “I’m not,” said Marianne, firmly. “He said it, even. He said that he’d love me no matter what I did. It really pisses me off.”

  Georgia blinked hard and stared at Marianne. “Why would that piss you off?”

  “I know it shouldn’t.” Marianne moaned pitifully and looked up at the trees above her. “I even yelled at him for it. I’m a dork.”

  Sally laughed. “I think you mean selfish twit.”

  “That’s rude,” said Marianne.

  Sally shrugged. “It’s true.”

  “Gosh,” said Georgia. She was working the rivet on her bracelet and looked truly worried about the end of this love story she was hearing. “What are you gonna do? Break up with him?”

  “No.” Sally leaned back on the railing behind her. “She’s going to stop being a twit, of course.”

  Marianne tsked and turned away. “Why should I? Since everyone loves me anyway, what the hell do I care? I’m gonna do what I want.”

  “Geez, Marianne!” said Sally.

  “I’m serious,” said Marianne. “I’m gonna smoke, and lie, and get drunk, and yell at him all I want. It doesn’t matter to him at all.”

  “You are seriously messed up. Do you know that?” Sally put out her cigarette and lit another. “And I know that he didn’t say it that way.”

  “Yeah? Were you listening in with your psychic powers or something?” Marianne leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Please tell me, O Mystic One. What did he really say?”

  Sally stared at her blankly for a moment and then turned to look at Georgia. “I need a better word than twit. I feel like that one’s getting old.”

  Georgia lifted her hands up helplessly. “Moron?”

  “No.” Sally shook her head. “That implies that she’s relatively innocent.”

  “Jackass?” offered Georgia.

  Sally shook her head and scratched her cheek—carefully, so she wouldn’t smudge her heavy makeup. “Nah, that’s too generic.”

  Georgia chewed on her nail. “Well, how about something simple, but strong? Like... a demon or a leech.”

  “Hmm...” said Sally. “Yeah, a leech could work. It helps illustrate my point, too.”

  “I’ve got one,” said Marianne.

  Sally waved Marianne off with her hand. “You don’t get to play this game, sweetheart. We’re going with leech. Marianne the Leech.”

  “Okay,” mumbled Marianne. “But you’re missing the obvious.”

  Sally cleared her throat. “Marianne, my darling, you’re a leech. Patrick is in love with you, but you’re still a leech.”

  “Amazing,” breathed Marianne. “You got all that with your psychic powers?”

  Sally threw her hands up. “Forget it. This place is closing, anyway. We should just go.”

  “You’re the one calling me a leech,” said Marianne. “That’s bound to make anybody cranky. Besides, aren’t we all Goth, tonight? You guys are using the wrong word.” Marianne stood up and had to stop talking. She was swaying a little. “Um,” she said through the sudden pressure in her throat. “You need a ride, Georgia?”

  Georgia looked all around her as if she’d find the answer printed on a sign somewhere and then seemed to signal something to Sally with the hand by her hip. Marianne turned to Sally in confusion. Sally was checking the time on the pocket watch hanging from her neck. “Georgia’s getting a ride, I think,” she said distractedly, almost like she wasn’t listening.

  “A secret ride?” said Marianne. She might be swaying, but she still had some of her brain working for her. Did they really think they were smooth enough for her not to notice when she was being played?

  Sally just bit her lip and stared at Marianne, like she was bound by a spell not to speak.

  “Are you guys ditching me?” cried Marianne. “You’ve got plans after this, huh? You’re ditching me!”

  “You know,” said Sally, her eyes boring into Marianne. “You can tell a lot about a person’s moral code by the things they assume other people are doing.”

  Oh, good. They weren’t ditching her after all. But Marianne still made a face. “Just shut up and tell me what that secret signal was about.”

  Sally sighed and passed the job off to Georgia by gesturing toward her like a game show girl. Marianne hadn’t looked at Georgia since seeing the original signal, and Georgia was looking like she might pass out. How long had she been panicking over there on her bench? It wasn’t very bright here, but Marianne could see that Georgia’s neck was all flushed, and the pink color looked even worse with her blue hair than her normal skin tone. Marianne almost offered right then for Georgia to come down to the salon on Saturday to get her dye-job fixed up. She didn’t though, because Georgia was upset and it was no time to be calling out how gross she looked. “Okay,” said Marianne. “Somebody spill it.”

  Georgia sat up straight and crossed her ankles like the poised lady she wasn’t, and said in a dignified voice, “Alvin is going to drive me home.”

  Well, that was the lamest secret ever. Seriously, did they think Marianne was so bitter and petty that she’d be bothered by someone getting a ride from him? Unless... Oh, gross! Georgia was still hooking up with him. “You’re lying,” said Marianne.

  “What?” said Georgia, startled.

  Marianne shook her head, trying with all her heart to hold on to some faith in her new friend Georgia. “You’re over that, right? You can’t still be answering his booty calls.”

  Georgia took a little breath and looked down. “Not exactly,” she mumbled.

  Sally gave Marianne an impatient look.

  “Noooo,” said Marianne, leaning down toward Georgia. “You’re not actually dating him?”

  Georgia looked up, seeming like she might cry. “I’m sorry, Marianne. I should have asked you first. You’re not mad, right? It’s cool because you’re happy with Patrick, right?”

  “Whoa!” shouted Marianne. “That so has nothing to do with this. I’m not mad, only shocked. It’s just that...” Marianne stopped for a second to work out a tactful way to say it. There was no tactful way, though. “Georgia, don’t you know that Alvin is a total douche bag?”

  Georgia watched her with wide eyes. “Oh, of course I know that!” she cried with a smile. “But you really aren’t upset that I’m seeing him?”

  Sputter, sputter, sputter. “What?” Marianne finally managed. “If you know he’s a douche bag, then why are you doing it?”

  Georgia shrugged, the smile still on her face. “Oh, you know... better than nothing.”

  “No! No! No!” Marianne really thought she might be going crazy. She must have been really drunk, because staring at Georgia was starting to feel like looking in the mirror, even with the difference of hair color. “That’s a horrible reason. It’s false; it’s a waste of time. You can’t do that.”

  “I know,” said
Georgia, looking down. “I know it’s pathetic, but you know...”

  And Marianne did know. The alcohol shifted her reality again, and suddenly, she and Georgia were like sisters, but stronger. It was a funky, girly, soul mate connection. Even though Patrick had changed Marianne’s circumstances, she was still Georgia’s sister on the inside. She and Georgia were the children of the same mother, the spawn of Desperation. “It’s not pathetic,” said Marianne, sitting down next to her. “I understand what you mean.”

  Georgia smiled at her, not believing at all that Marianne understood. But it was true, man, it was so true. Marianne could spout opinions and judgments about how wrong it was to settle for Alvin, she could claim how she’d learned so much from her mistakes and it had all worked out for her, but anything she said would be a lie.

  Marianne bent down and snatched a little leafy twig off the pavement. No one was talking at the moment, and Marianne didn’t have anything to say, either. She fanned herself with the little twig—not that the twig was capable of actually fanning her—and she looked away from the other girls into the darkness. Now she had another item to add to her list of inadequacies. Marianne had already figured out that she was incapable of affecting Patrick. There was nothing in herself that she could point to and say, “That’s why he loves me. That’s why he chose me. That’s why he’ll stay.” She didn’t think it was possible to sink any lower in her own estimation, but here it was: She hadn’t even been rad enough to choose Patrick when she saw him.

  What the hell kind of idiot was she? A sensible girl would have been waiting patiently and watchfully for just the right guy to come along, but not Marianne! Just like Georgia, she’d been flailing around in desperation after greasy black slugs just to have something. Marianne hadn’t been broken up with Alvin for even twenty-four hours before she’d met Patrick—talk about luck. Geez, was there nowhere she could go to get away from her problems? Goth night was supposed to be a great break, but Patrick and Desperation had followed her there and ruined it.