—Lila, the damned
When I finally got the nerve up to creep downstairs to face the music, about an hour or so later, there was a note from my dad on the kitchen table:
Lila—
I had to go into the office early, but you’re not off the hook. I will meet you here immediately after school Don’t be late, and I’m not kidding.
Love, Dad
I scoffed. What was with the LOVE, DAD ploy??? It sounded suspiciously like the grown-up version of the “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you” pre-spanking spiel parents spouted, to guilt you into believing (1) the punishment was for your own good and (2) you deserved it. PLEASE.
But hey, at least I had a school day reprieve.
WPHS has this interesting way of scheduling classes. Each student takes six classes a semester (some seniors take five), but they each only meet every other day, for ninety-five minutes each, so we have more immersion in our subjects. We also have a sixty-five-minute period called “access,” during which we can get extra help, or whatever, from our teachers. It’s kind of cool only having three classes a day, but it’s not all peaches and cream. If you like your classes, the day flies by. But, if you have a creep for a teacher or if you have no friends in class, it makes you yearn for the old, traditional fifty-minute period just to minimize the misery.
With my schedule, I had good days (aka classes with either Meryl or Caressa or both) and bad days (aka classes without anyone fun in them). Meryl was on the full advanced-placement track, whereas I only dabbled in AP (with science). Caressa, on the other hand, took a lot of creative electives in addition to the regular stuff, but we had a couple together.
Today, on one of the most stressful days of my high school career, it would only stand to reason that I had NO classes with either Meryl or Caressa. Who IS this Murphy guy, and why does he get to make up his own stupid laws?
We managed to converge at Meryl’s locker for a few rushed minutes in the morning. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and slamming lockers eddied around us like we were three boulders stuck in the middle of a rushing stream. The halls were a-buzz with post-homecoming gossip, which hopefully meant Dylan hadn’t had time to spread anything around about my so-called life. I checked a few faces but didn’t see any indications that I was the official WPHS verbal whipping post of the day.
“So? What did your dad do?” Caressa whispered, clutching her books to her chest. Her eyes were round and concerned-looking. Meryl, meanwhile, was busy putting her textbooks into class-and-day order. I kid you not—Meryl is positively ANAL about school.
“He left me a note.”
“Huh?” Meryl asked.
“He had to go to work early, so we didn’t get to talk.” I rolled my eyes, ever so slightly. “I have orders to meet him at home directly after school, though.”
“Gosh.” Caressa sighed. “I don’t know. The anticipation seems worse than the punishment.”
“You don’t know what the punishment is yet,” I countered.
“True. But, how bad can it be?”
I didn’t want to contemplate it. “About the dumb supper,” I started, hoping they’d both come to their senses in the light of day, “you guys don’t really think it worked, do you?”
They exchanged a nervous glance, and my stomach sank.
“Look,” Meryl said, in a tone I suppose was meant to console me, “the whole thing is about your intention. Maybe Caressa and I had stronger intentions, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think you’re stuck with Dylan Sebring if you don’t want to be.”
“Shhh! God, Mer!” I whipped a panicked glance at the faces around us. YEESH! I couldn’t believe she’d just uttered that sentence aloud within the walls of WPHS. Dylan Sebring and I are not STUCK with each other. He has a girlfriend, for one thing. If anyone got wind of the notion that I thought he and I had something between us, I’d be more than just the verbal whipping post. I’d be the object of intense peer-group pity.
Did you hear about Lila Moreno crushing on Dylan Sebring? Pathetic, isn’t it?
Ugh, ugh, ugh!
“Watch what you’re saying,” I rasped.
Meryl grimaced. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
I lowered my tone even more. “From now on, let’s refer to him as …”
“How about Hutch? As in, Starsky and,” suggested Caressa, sort of smiling.
“Hutch. That works.”
“Who are Starsky and Hutch?” Meryl asked, looking baffled.
Caressa and I both started laughing, but then the bell rang. We said hasty good-byes and ran off toward our separate classes.
The day absolutely dragged, but I made it through relatively unscathed. I kept my ear perked for indications that any gossip about me had begun. By the end of the day, though, it became clear that my little problems weren’t even a blip on the WPHS radar screen.
Dylan almost destroyed that bit of anonymity by having the nerve to smile and say hi to me in the hallway between my third class and access period. Please! Talk about a giant red flag. I ignored him, putting my head down and shouldering my way through the crowds. Despite my impending doom at the hand of my father, it was a relief for the school day to end. I felt like I’d spent a decade on death row, and today was my final dinner.
I arrived home twenty minutes after the last bell, like the obedient daughter I am (when I want to be). Dad’s department vehicle was parked in the driveway, all somber and ominous-like. GLURK. Just like that, the nerves from the morning returned in a big rush. Deciding Caressa had been right, that it was better to KNOW my punishment than imagine it, I sucked it up and walked directly into the house.
Dad was sitting at the dining room table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, the picture of paternal casualness. I shrugged off my backpack and dropped it on the floor, all the while eyeing him beneath my lashes.
He didn’t look up, didn’t say anything.
Bad sign number one.
Finally, he glanced up, then aimed his chin toward the chair at the far end of the table from where he sat. “Take a load off, Lila Jane.”
Middle name. Bad sign number two.
I sat, slumped, then crossed my arms tightly over my torso. I wasn’t trying to look defiant. It’s just that my hands were shaking pretty badly, and I didn’t want him to see the evidence of my fear. I decided to try and get this hell session off on the right foot. “I’m sorry about last night,” I said, in a glum tone. Not as sorry as I was going to be in the next few minutes, probably.
Dad sighed, rubbing that worry line in between his brows. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I am.” Sorry I got busted, at least. I really didn’t think I’d done anything so wrong.
Dad just nodded, studying me through narrowed eyes. His expression looked more sad than angry, which made my stomach hurt. It’s one thing to piss your father off, but disappointing him feels a lot ickier. “I’ve thought a lot about your punishment, my dear daughter. Actually, about more than just that. I’ve thought about your behavior lately as a whole, and I’ve come to a few conclusions.”
“Like what?”
“Like, you don’t seem to respond too well when I restrict your actions or take away privileges.”
My heart jumped and so did my hope. This sounded positive! “So, what then?”
“You need to learn discipline. And how to follow rules.”
Did that mean he was going to enroll me in karate or something? My dad was a big fan of martial arts as an instructional tool on how to live life. Karate … how much would THAT rule? I decided to press for it. Heck, it was better than losing email privileges. “You’re right. I do need that.”
He nodded. “I want you to be involved in something that teaches you respect for yourself and others.”
Karate. Definitely karate. I smiled. “Okay.”
“Which is why you’ll be joining the Police Explorers.”
My brain shorted out, and for one long moment, I sat there with a vacant
stare and a frozen smile. “What about karate?”
My dad cocked his head to the side, looking utterly confused by my question. “Karate?”
Clearly, I’d misunderstood. Big, freakin’ joke on Lila.
Suddenly, my father’s despicable, unbelievable words lanced through my head like a machete, carving themselves onto the frontal lobe of my brain. Let me just say, in my WILDEST nightmares, I never would’ve imagined THIS punishment. The room seemed to tilt and roll, or maybe that was my stomach. I blinked convulsively at him, unable to wrap my brain around his words. Those awful words.
Had he ACTUALLY said I had to join the junior narc squad?!?!
KILL ME NOW!!
“W-wait a minute. What do you mean I have to join the nares?” I asked, instantly numb with horror. I couldn’t feel my hands, and my legs got so wobbly, I would’ve fallen had I not already been sitting.
“First of all, you need to stop referring to them as ‘the narcs,’ since you’re going to be one of them. I don’t want you to view this as a punishment really, Lila. Think of it as an opportunity for personal growth. It’ll be good for you. I bet you’ll even enjoy it,” he said, all cheery and jovial-like. “It’s a perfect and positive way for you to move away from some of your self-destructive behaviors.”
Trust me, I wished I could self-destruct right there. To my horror, my eyes welled up with tears. “But, Dad—”
He dipped his chin and pierced me with a warning stare. “Lila, understand this is not up for discussion. I’ve made the decision. You will remain an active member of the Police Explorers until the end of the school year at least. In light of your blatant disobedience, this punishment is mild.”
“Mild!?”
“Yes, mild. I could’ve taken your computer, your television privileges, your stereo—”
I shot to my feet and began crying in earnest. “You could take all that, shave my head, and send me to school buck naked. Even THAT wouldn’t be worse than this!” I spread my arms wide. “Dad, I don’t WANT to become a cop!”
“No one’s saying you have to become a cop.”
I didn’t want to hear his excuses, and his calm tone of voice made me want to flip out and have a meltdown like a toddler, lying on my back and kicking my legs around until I passed out. “You don’t have a clue! I’m already a pariah in my school because YOU’RE a cop,” I shrieked, threading my fingers into the front of my hair. “Not just a cop, but the chief! Can’t you see that? You’re destroying my life!”
He chuckled. He actually chuckled!“You certainly have a knack for overreacting, my dear daughter.”
“I’m not overreacting! Can’t you just send me to juvenile lockdown, or something? Sell me into slavery? Release me into the foster care system?”
That amused look stayed on his face, and he shook his head a little and sighed. “One day you’ll thank me for this.”
THANK him? The rant I wanted to spew was so virulent and overwhelming, I had to clamp a fist over my lips to keep it in. After a moment, I lowered my hand and asked, through a stuffy nose and clenched teeth, “I hope this counts as my community service, too.”
“It does.”
Thank God for small freakin’ favors. “Are we done, then?”
“For the moment, yes.” He checked his watch. “But you have about fifteen minutes to get ready.”
“For what, now?” I wailed, my seriously boogery nose making my voice sound all thick and stupid.
“To go get fitted for your uniform. Lt. Sebring said he’d be glad to help you get what you need.”
“Dylan?” I bug-eyed my dad. “Why HIM?”
“He’s in charge of new recruits.”
“I’m not a recruit! Recruit implies that someone talked you into WANTING to join. I’m doing this under extreme duress!”
Dad just ignored me. “Either way. Fm assigning you to work side by side with Lt. Sebring for the next several months. He’ll show you the ropes and give me weekly reports on your cooperation and progress. Now, skedaddle.” He winked. “We need to get you a uniform by next weekend.”
I was afraid to ask. “Why?”
Dad looked at me like I was completely obtuse. “Well, so you can work the White Peaks football game, of course.”
ACCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!
Not only was I a junior narc, but I was chained to Dylan from now until next year, or until my brain exploded, whichever came first. AND, I had to wear that heinous uniform in front of The Whole School at the next football game.
It was BEYOND the worst punishment I could have ever imagined. It was a life-destroying punishment. I’d have to seek THERAPY when I was thirty, thanks to this cruelness.
My ears felt clogged and my nose was running. The torrent of tears had swelled my eyes into fat little sausage slits. And now, Dylan Freakin’ Sebring would be at the front door in LESS than fifteen minutes. I spun on my heels, desperate to hit the makeup bag for some much-needed touch-ups, but my dad’s words stopped me:
“One more thing.”
What else? I thought. NOTHING he could tell me could be worse than the junior narc bomb he’d dropped. Feeling surly, I turned back to face him and cocked one eyebrow in question.
“You’re still grounded.”
“Shocker.”
“And … no spending time outside of school with Meryl and Caressa for two weeks.”
“Dad!”
“Their parents already know, so don’t try your sneaking-out scam again.”
Great, now I didn’t even have a support system, and my two best friends’ parents thought I was a hooligan. He might as well have killed me. No. On second thought, killing me would’ve been preferable to THIS.
It was official: My universe had come to a grinding, moaning halt … right on the proverbial railroad tracks.
Dear Lila—
I’m going to make your life an utter cesspool of misery, but someday you’ll thank me for it.
Love, Dad
Riiiiiiiight. And someday I’ll thank my skin for zits, too.
Seven
Let me tell you a few things I’ve learned in the past week and a half about men’s double-knit, Dacron polyester cop pants:
(1) They feel like you have a garbage bag tangled around your legs. And they chafe. And they go swish, swish, swish between your thighs every time you take a freakin’ step, almost as if you have the fattest legs in the universe.
(2) No matter how many different sizes they sell at that creepy cop uniform store, none of them fit you exactly right. Hence, they either make you look like (a) you’re walking on a pair of overly plump, blue sausages (too small), or (b) you had an accident, and you’re walking around with a giant pantload (too big).
(3) Anyone who wears these repulsive pants and isn’t getting paid handsomely to do so is a major tool. (Apparently, myself included, even though I’m wearing them under duress.)
(4) They shouldn’t give weapons to the people forced to don these freak-show pants, because wearing them makes you instantly suicidal (or homicidal).
I swear, if I ever find out who invented double-knit Dacron polyester and then thought, Hmm, this would make a GREAT pair of pants, I will hunt him down and kill him. I may revive him just to have the pleasure of killing him twice. And, yes, it HAD to be a HIM. No woman would invent fabric this WRONG.
The very WORST thing about these Satanic, beastly, vomitous pants we junior nares are forced to wear is the fact that they actually make Dylan’s butt look BETTER than it does naturally. On me, though, they have that unappealing my-butt’s-so-huge-it-needs-its-own-zip-code effect. ARGH!!! Just when I thought life couldn’t get any worse, I’m officially a junior narc AND I have a HUGE ROUND ASS. Perfect.
And that’s JUST the result of the pants.
I have not even TOUCHED on the rest of this abhorrent eunuch-form. But since I’m on a fairly decent rant, here goes:
(1) Ugly, western-style, light blue polyester shirt with fake buttons hiding a ZIPPER, for God’s sake. It
’s on par with Velcro tennis shoes. I mean, really.
(2) Shiny, high-cut, Michelin Man parka, circa 1950, with a gigantic faux fur collar that would make an Eskimo cringe.
(3) Two-inch-wide, shiny, basketweave leather belt with a tacky “hi-ho!” pirate buckle.
The only good part of the uniform is the cool set of sh**kicker Rocky boots, but even THEY aren’t cool enough to make up for the rest.
1. Wanted. To. Die.
Truly.
Not only was I a rookie narc with a Big Giant Polyester-encased Ass, but I had to wear that grotesque get-up in front of The Whole School. In less than thirty minutes, as a matter of fact. And I thought I had trouble getting dates two WEEKS ago. HA!
So there I sat in the briefing area we’d set up in one of the classrooms, a miserable fashion violator draped in double-knit and defeat. I was barely listening as Dylan—whom I had to refer to as LIEUTENANT SEEKING when we worked (choke)—went over the evening’s “strategy” with me and the rest of the narc squad.
Gimmeafreakinbreak—strategy?
Everyone acted like we were pulling top-level security duty for the First Lady, or for Brad and Jennifer—important people like that. COME ON, it was a stupid football game! And the team sucked anyway. We were solidly LAST PLACE in the league.
Our entire purpose at the games is (1) to rip tickets at the gate and (2) narc on anyone who is having more fun than we are—which is basically EVERYONE. How could it not be? We’re charged with standing around looking like a bunch of geeky buttwipes, while at the same time alienating our peers. Woohoo! What a deal. I mean, let’s face it, even the MARCHING BAND has cooler uniforms and more peer support than we do.
Here’s the other thing I was cranked off about as I sat there in the bogus briefing: Dylan. I’d spent more time with the guy in the last ten days than he’d spent with his own girlfriend, and I wanted to despise him. I really did. But, he was making it verrrrry difficult, and that was supremo aggravating.
Who's Your Daddy? Page 7
