Dear Rachel Maddow
Page 9
Lacey gave her skeptical chuckle.
Trust me, Rachel. I know these people. Lots of them will step up. You’ll be back on the air tomorrow, a bunch of people who know that Adam is a tool will try for the seat, all will be fine. Yes. I’m totally sure of it.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
November 19
Subject:
Wrong
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Well, shit. I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So complete was my wrongness that I have stomach cramps thinking about it. Maynard and Suarez, Principals of Doom, gave everyone a deadline to try for the superintendent selection seat by November 21, the day before break. All you had to do was put your name on a list to be considered. But Lacey’s aide heard in the office that no one had yet stepped up. Right now it was just Adam who wanted it. He must have known it, too, because the smug that surrounded his body was so thick you couldn’t even see the loser twat.
No. He defiles the good name of twats everywhere. Dude is a douchebag. No, wait. Actually, I’ve never noticed before, but all these insults have to do with the lady business. What’s with that? Adam is a slime mold ball sack.
There. I feel better.
Unfortunately, people apparently like slime mold ball sacks, because they don’t want to go up against him. Or at least the fifteen people I tried to talk into running against him sure didn’t.
“Dude,” I said to Rick, a yellow roomer, in art. “Don’t you want to make a difference? Don’t you want to engage?”
“I’d like to engage with Bianca.” He looked over at her and she snorted. “Do you think you can make that happen?”
She flipped him off.
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think you are taking this seriously. So no. I will not campaign for you to get in Bianca’s pants.”
Everyone was like that. Maybe they didn’t want to fuck Bianca (though several did—she gagged at the idea of high school boys), but they all had their own thing. Post-season. Pre-season. Scrapbooking. Probation. I heard it all.
“Honestly, I don’t get it,” I told Erin while I helped her rip open the flats of new underwear at work. “How does no one care?”
Erin took a box cutter to a flat. She sliced it with a deft, almost scary efficiency. “Because people don’t, Brynn. Not really. Until they do.”
I looked at her.
“I’m serious. Caring for caring’s sake isn’t typical. People only start to care when something affects them personally.”
“But this does affect them! The superintendent makes decisions that will affect stuff at school for years. They could have a voice! A small one maybe, but still.” I picked up a stack of bras.
“Maybe. But that’s hard to see. Only if something hurts them or makes them sad or pisses them off does it really sink it. And this new-superintendent thing seems far removed from their everyday lives. Probably won’t even meet the guy.”
“Or woman,” I said.
“Or woman,” she added. “And I know this person could make policies that will make life worse little by little, or even by a lot for students. And then maybe students will complain and say it’s so unfair that somebody somewhere did this. And then, if you’re lucky, maybe they’ll realize that they could have done something, but didn’t, so it’s kinda on them.”
Slash went the box cutter.
I stared at her. That was so … not what I wanted to hear. It was like a bad day on your show, when the bad news piled up.
“Well. There are a few more days. Maybe someone will step up,” I said.
“Maybe,” Erin said. She didn’t look convinced.
It’ll work out. Someone will go against Adam who won’t be me, and all will be well. Seriously. I’m 100 percent sure.
90 percent sure. 85 percent at the least.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
November 20
Subject:
Here goes nothing
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Since things seem to be taking a turn toward Brynn the Involved again, I had to take drastic steps. My heart lived in the journalism room, or at least it did when it maintained a 2.3 GPA. So I needed to do what needed to be done to get back there.
“Hello, Michaela. Might I speak with you, please?” I said when a certain curly-haired peer tutor arrived in my study hall.
“Sure, Brynn,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I need to get my grades up more. Like, yesterday.”
“Okay?”
“So maybe you can tutor me. Like, a lot.”
“Okay? I am here five times a week already, you know. I’m pretty sure Lacey doesn’t like me on her turf. Apparently I confused Lance. She basically said I should only work with you.”
Of course Lacey did. Freaking Lacey.
“Good. So, will you help me?” I kind of choked on my words.
“Sure.” She smiled.
“After school?”
“Sure.”
“How about in the evenings?”
“Uh…”
“Will you go out with me?” I blurted.
My brain was trying to shut my mouth, but my mouth had terminated its connection and was operating independently.
“Wait. Are you asking me out or asking for help with school work?”
“Both.” I shook my head in horror at myself. “Both. See, it’s the responsibility of the free press to inform people so that they can elect civically minded representatives! But I need higher grades for that. I still need a two-point-three to be on the paper, and idiot blowhards will win elections unless we try really hard.” I slumped in my desk, basically just puking words at that point.
After a moment, Michaela said, “I’d go out with you, you know. Even if the fate of the free press or our democracy or whatever weren’t at stake.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Michaela smiled. “And I’d be happy to help you with school stuff.”
“Oh. Well, good, then. I really do need the help,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. She wrote her number on an index card and handed it to me.
“Okay.”
It was a sweet moment, Rachel. I don’t know if I’m helping the sisterhood advance in journalism or politics or not, but a girl can dream.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
November 21
Subject:
5:01 pm
Dear Rachel Maddow,
I stayed at school under the pretense of getting extra-credit assignments from Ms. Yee. And I did visit her briefly. But the minutes ticked by and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went to the principal’s office.
“Ah, Brynn, nothing like a deadline, huh?” Mr. Maynard greeted me as I walked in. He was standing at the secretary’s desk, collating. He smiled. “Esther is off today, traveling to see her family in Oregon. I couldn’t figure out how to get the copier to do this. I’m just finishing up.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”
“Um. Well, I was wondering if anyone decided to try. For the seat. To select the superintendent.”
“Just Mr. Graff.”
“Seriously, though. Just him?”
“Just him.” His eyes shone. “Couple of kids asked about it, but decided not to go for it.” He shrugged.
I was a blue roomer. He was supposed to ignore me until I went away. What the actual fuck? “Well. Then.” I cleared my th
roat. I fiddled with the lint in my coat pocket. I felt hot and cold all at the same time. “Then I would like to try for it. Too. For the seat. New superintendent, you know.” I was starting to babble. “I’m running. I’m getting extra help with schoolwork because I know there is a grade requirement for this sort of thing. For holding office.”
I had to do it. Adam was slimy. He’d ooze all over the committee and probably help them pick a school superintendent as slimy as he was. Even if he didn’t have any power, he’d find a way to make sure he came out ahead. That’s what slimy ball sack Adam always managed to do.
“Excellent. Have a great Thanksgiving, Brynn.”
I nodded. I walked out into the chill afternoon, twilight already settling around me.
So there it is, Rachel. I’m running. Against Adam.
Representative democracy help us all.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
November 22
Subject:
Giving Thanks
Dear Rachel Maddow,
On Wednesday night, Mom texted me from inside the house and said that I had better be at home for Thanksgiving dinner. This was not cool. I protested, saying I had to work Black Friday prep, but Mom said that we needed to have dinner together as a “family.”
I do not think that word means what she thinks it means.
So I was crushed around the saddest wooden table in the world, my knees practically touching Fart Weasel, the smell of his body odor matching the rank turkey. I breathed through my mouth for the eternity of their company. Fart Weasel got on me about grades, and Mom got on me about applying to college.
“Mom, that’s probably not in the cards for me, you know,” I said. I wasn’t even trying to be a dick. It was just the truth.
“Brynn, you need to consider your future,” she said.
When did she start caring again about my future? Or my present or past, for that matter.
“You ain’t staying here, kid, when you turn eighteen. You’ve had a free ride with a nice room and board and shit, and your momma doesn’t make you pay for nothin’. This gravy train is ending!”
The man likely knew a lot about gravy, I’ll give him that.
“Okay,” I said through clenching teeth.
You know when people say their blood started boiling? Does that actually happen? Is that an actual medical condition, or did someone just make that up? Remind me to do an Internet search for that, Rachel. Because it felt like my skin was starting to get a hot, prickling kind of sensation all over.
“Okay? That’s all you got to say, girl?”
“Yeah.”
Fart Weasel never had had much to say to me, in all these years. But whenever he did, I found it best not to engage.
“You are so stupid. Stupid and lazy. Just like your brother and just like your daddy. Your momma works so hard. How she ended up with you two shits I don’t know.”
“Funny. I wondered the same thing about you,” I said. I clenched my teeth together so hard I thought one might crack.
Heat began to bubble just under my skin’s surface. In two seconds flat, it was practically steaming out of my pores.
Keep it cool, Brynn. Keep it cool, I kept thinking. But he brought up Nick.
“Brynn! You apologize to your father!”
“He’s not here,” I said pointedly. “If you are referring to that”—I jutted my chin at Fart Weasel—“he can kiss my ass.”
I didn’t even see his hand coming. I’d never seen Fart Weasel violent before, even with Nick. He slapped me so hard, I fell backward in my flimsy chair and lay there on the floor for a few seconds, seeing stars. I gingerly touched my face. A little streak of blood from my nose pooled on my fingertip. I was too surprised to be in pain yet.
“Get. The fuck. Out,” bellowed Fart Weasel.
Mom now said nothing, but I could see through my own blurry eyes that she was crying. Red-faced, snot-nosed, bawling, in fact. Still mostly in shock, my brain wondered if he had ever hit her, and I’d just never been around or cared enough to notice.
“Out! I said out!” he screamed again. “See how you like it out on the streets!”
This time I got up and stumbled toward the door. I had on the one good pair of boots I owned already on, and I grabbed my coat on my way out.
I clutched my coat around me as the wind whipped my hair around. The bitter air stung and called attention to my face, which fucking hurt. It seemed to take twice as long to walk to Leigh and Erin’s place. It was dark and some of the back roads weren’t lit at all. My phone was dead, so I couldn’t even use that for light.
When I got to Leigh and Erin’s, I spilled through their door and landed in a heap next to the coat closet.
“Brynn?” I heard Erin call from the couch. “That you?” I didn’t get up right away.
“Did you hitch a ride over here on the back of a semi or something?” Leigh said.
“You okay?” Erin came over to me and lifted my chin to get a better look at my face.
My brain wasn’t working correctly. I couldn’t speak. I was too cold, and too dazed.
“My God, Brynn, what the hell happened? Who did this to you?”
Leigh came over then, and the two of them hoisted me up to my feet. I could only just keep shaking my head. The pain was real now, my nose and cheek throbbing. Then everything started shaking. They kind of dragged me over to a chair. Erin got me some Tylenol and some frozen peas wrapped in a towel. She handed the peas to Leigh, who sat on a chair arm and held them to my face.
“Ouch!” I said.
“Oh, thank God. You can speak,” Erin said.
“Yeah.”
“You get in a bar fight, kid?” asked Leigh.
“Something like that,” I said.
“Cool,” said Leigh, though I don’t think he meant it.
I flinched as he adjusted the ice. “Actually, I’m my stepfather’s new favorite punching bag.”
“Motherfucker,” said Leigh sympathetically. He raised his beer in salute to me. “Whatever you need, kid.”
“You should press charges,” said Erin half-heartedly. She knew I wouldn’t do that. The police in Westing knew the name Harper too well, and Fart Weasel had buddies at the station.
“Brynn, why don’t you sleep here tonight? Did you eat?” asked Erin.
The memory of Mom’s “turkey” puked all over my brain. I shuddered a little. “I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.” I started to get up. “I must look pretty pathetic,” I said.
“Nah, you’re badass,” said Erin. “And you still got all your teeth. You’re fine.”
“Motherfuckers.” Leigh raised his beer to me again.
I nodded at them and followed Erin to their spare bedroom. The throbbing turned to a dull ache, and I fell asleep thinking of ways I could harm Fart Weasel’s car. I hated the idea of going home again. But that house had never been a home to begin with, so maybe I wasn’t really? It was a holding pen until I turned eighteen. But at least at the moment I was somewhere safe, where no one hated me.
And if I’m being totally honest, Rachel, it wasn’t the worst Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
November 23
Subject:
Black Friday
Dear Rachel Maddow,
I woke up to find Erin standing over my bed.
“I’m not trying to be creepy, but Margie called in sick and it’s Black Friday, Brynn. Is your eye swollen shut?”
I blinked against the dim light coming through the curtains. I touched my face. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Come work. Wo
rk is good for the soul.”
Since I was a guest, I figured I should listen to her.
“I’ve seen worse from the dentist,” said Leigh. I think he meant the bruise that had formed over night.
Fortunately, Erin was able to hide everything with makeup. I felt painted, but if painted added to the funds that would get me out of Mom and Fart Weasel’s den of dickheadedness, then I was ready to sacrifice for the cause.
The mall was swarmed by ten in the morning, and I ran around like a chicken with her head chopped off by her stepfather all day. Afterward I went back to Erin and Leigh’s place. I had about fifteen texts and three calls from Mom.
“You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that,” one said.
“You do this to yourself,” said another.
“Why do you do this to me?” said another.
“Are you fucking dead?”
“I’m not dead,” I typed.
I watched the little dots of her reply blink on and then disappear. Blink, vanish, blink, vanish. Finally, one word. “Okay.”
That was it.
I lay in Erin and Leigh’s warm, comfortable extra bed. I stared at the chipping paint on the ceiling. It occurred to me that Nick might have stayed in this exact place. In this same bed. I rolled my face onto the pillow and flinched as my bruised face brushed against a scratchy, faded rose. I longed to smell his cologne one more time. But the comforter just smelled like detergent.