by Susan Juby
“That black stuff all over your cheeks … are your bruises running?”
My mother, wiping away her tears, said in this horrified voice, “Are you putting makeup on your bruises? Is that what I’ve been looking at all week?”
My parents were never going to understand why I liked the way my face looked. Besides, everybody was already a little overwrought with the wildebeest thing and all, so I lied.
“Actually, I wanted to start wearing makeup. School’s starting tomorrow and I thought if I looked better, I might, you know, get along better.”
It was shameless, I admit. But it worked.
Mom, who had been working herself up into an outrage, melted and got all tender and supportive. “Oh, honey. If you want to wear makeup, you should learn how to put it on. And probably it’s best to wait until your face is better.”
I assured her that I knew how to apply it, that it just looked strange because of the bruises. There was no way I was going to have my mother show me how to put it on. She only wore makeup for that short time in the seventies. I wasn’t born yet, but I’ve seen pictures.
So now I have to try to put the damn stuff on where it’s supposed to go. So much for my career in special effects.
Between the tragic nature documentaries and my return to school tomorrow, my parents are a mess. They are wandering around like ghosts, murmuring quietly to themselves and each other, pacing up and down the hallway and into the kitchen. MacGregor’s the only one who has any faith.
He asked if I wanted to walk together tomorrow. I told him no. It could be dangerous and I don’t want him becoming collateral damage, as they say in military circles.
TURN LEFT AT MIDDLE EARTH
September 2
I woke up at five o’clock so I’d have enough time to put on my makeup. I found this beauty magazine from 1984 in the basement and got some tips from it. I figured retro makeup would best suit my overall look. I’m coming from different decades and everything, but at least it’s all from the past.
Mom’s makeup was extremely old and crusty. I wonder if it’s possible to get poisoned through your facial skin. I just hope I don’t get salmonella or something. The magazine suggested heating the eyeliner to get it to go on evenly, so I held it up close to the old pink-handled curling iron, the one we can’t use on real hair since I tried to use it on Barbie and her plastic hair melted all over the barrel. I drew the softened liner all around my eyes—outside my top lashes and inside my bottom ones, and around in the inside corner of my eye. Boy, what a difference! The eyeliner was nice and black, and although it didn’t actually make my eyes look any bigger—in fact they actually looked sort of smaller—it sure drew attention to them.
Then I put some of that glittery green eye shadow on top of my eyelids, pink blusher on my cheeks (which went on a little bit clumpy because it wasn’t meltable—I know because I tried), and lots of pink lip gloss.
I couldn’t wear the mascara because it had dried up into powder.
The makeup really made a huge difference. It was almost like wearing a disguise. A very colorful disguise. I hardly looked fearful for my life at all.
My parents, on the other hand, looked quite rough this morning. Like they hadn’t slept at all. When they saw me and I asked what they thought of my eighties makeover, my mom’s face froze. Dad squeezed her hand, and they both forced their mouths into smiles and nodded.
Before I left, Mom told me to call if I wanted or needed anything. Dad said he could stop by and take me out for lunch if I wanted.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” I said, thinking if I sounded exasperated they might ease up.
“Have a good day,” they whispered in a hoarse duet as I walked out the door in my Italian housedress and nurse shoes, Flintstones lunch bucket in hand.
MacGregor caught up with me before I’d made it to the end of the block.
“It’s okay, Mac. I can make it to school on my own.”
“It’s on my way,” he said, even though we both knew it wasn’t. The high school and the Alternative are in the opposite direction from Muheim Elementary.
We arrived and I could see that the Alternative school is a portable that hunches up alongside the regular high school. The two buildings are supposed to be a sort of separate-but-equal approach to education. I assume we are segregated from the regular students due to emotional and social issues and, in my case, problems related to attempts at homeschooling. Rumor has it that things like attendance are lax, probably because school officials think we are too far gone to keep regular hours. How many classes we take in the regular school seems to depend on how disruptive we are, i.e., do we set fires or just dress funny? Being bright but socially retarded, and mainly just a danger to myself, I’ll have some choice in the matter. To be honest, one or two classes with the supposed normal people seems like more than enough.
MacGregor stood and waved as I went inside. I had to try several doors before I found one that was open.
I’m in the washroom right now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here yet except the janitor. So far, so good.
Later
I’d been instructed to go into the high school so the guidance counselor could show me around. Ms. Dean, the guidance counselor, a seemingly unflappable woman in an iron-gray crew cut and big shoes, met me at the office. We were going to tour the regular school before she took me next door to the Alternative. She informed me that I’ll be taking gym as well as English in the regular school. Everything else will be in the Alternative. As the halls began to fill, I had to fight off the urge to cling to her leg. Ms. Dean moved like a tank through the crowds of kids and teachers, all yelling and talking. I bet no prison guard out in the general population has ever been more freaked out than me. Any second I was going to end up with a shiv in my back. Ms. Dean seemed to sense my concern, because when she left me outside the gym, she told me that I would be fine. It sounded like a direct order, and for some reason it made me feel a lot better.
Gym class involved meeting a very frail teacher who had us play a rousing game of Name That Equipment. We worked in teams, and all the good spellers got picked first. Then we signed liability waivers and went over the phys-ed attire regulations: no thongs outside leotards, no Speedos, no halter tops, no cropped T-shirts, and no shorts so short that underwear could be seen from below. I will be dropping gym at the first opportunity.
During class the underutilized jock girls made it clear, in a bored way, that they hated the way I looked. Not surprising, considering that they all seemed pretty invested in the whole sportswear thing—everything they wore was littered with that swoosh symbol. They are probably worried that if people start recycling stretch wear from the seventies and housedresses from the fifties, there won’t be enough marketing dollars left for sponsorship deals when they hit the big time in Large Lumbering Girls’ Lacrosse or whatever. One of the more extroverted jock girls, who is clearly blessed with a winning personality, informed me that this wasn’t a retirement home and asked why I was wearing an old lady’s dress. A couple of her friends cleverly pointed out that I was early for Halloween. It’s nice to know that those sorts of comments don’t have the power over me they did back in first grade.
My walk through the hall to English class was instructive. I was able to pick out several social subcategories and make cultural observations about them. For instance, I doubt the head banger/rockers will be inviting me to join their posse any time soon. It’s sort of odd that people who wear white boots and perm their hair as a timeless fashion statement don’t like my retro look. They all laughed when I walked by them in the hallway, whinnying “nice makeup” and “nice clothes.” I found their attitude to my makeup strange given the war paint they had on. I guess the difference is that their makeup is heavy (like mine), but very artfully applied (unlike mine). They all seemed to be wearing foundation a good two shades lighter than their actual skin, with a good strong dividing line between the chin and the neck, and dark lip liner with really pale
lipstick inside, blue eyeliner, and at least three coats of mascara.
My makeup doesn’t have the practiced look theirs does. It has more of that first-time-at-the-dried-up-makeup-in-thesecond-drawer-in-the-bathroom look. Even so, they didn’t have to get so mean and call me a freak. I mean, we all have goobers in the corner of our eyes by lunchtime, right?
I didn’t get any reaction at all from the longhairs. Far as I could tell, they were all too busy playing Hacky Sack, handing out flyers for the free lunch program, and fundraising to send themselves and a few tons of tie-dyed clothing over to the unsuspecting poor in Latin America to notice or comment on me.
I know from my reading that every school has a popular group, but I haven’t yet identified them. It would be helpful if they would wear name tags, so I would know who to envy and be intimidated by.
English class had an interesting mix of students. And the teacher looked like a science fiction/fantasy fan who might be familiar with The Lord of the Rings. She had on knee-high boots, a tight, Federation-style tunic dress, and a newly invented hairstyle. I made a mental note to bring my copy of Fellowship to the next class so we can bond over shared literary tastes. I’ll just have to hope she doesn’t want to talk about anything past the Prologue.
She seemed friendly enough, but very intense. She dispensed with the banter in just over a minute and then started reading a story by the guy who supposedly predicted the Internet. Bingo! I was right. She is a sci-fi fan. And a feminist. Our first reading assignment is The Handmaid’s Tale. Life Goals–wise, this woman and I are really in sync.
I noticed another group in the class—the nice, quiet people. They were the ones the teacher called on. I plan to watch out for them. They’re probably all so nice and quiet because they aren’t too sure about the whole fitting-in thing—something I’d imagine they are desperate to do. My homeschooled hostility and outrageous personal esthetic will probably be threatening to their whole get-along-at-all-costs worldview. It would be those quiet ones who’d kick you when you’re down, I bet. Or make the nastiest comments (which they’ve had time to think up in all that silence).
I was called to the office just as class was ending. The secretary handed me a sealed envelope.
Inside was a note from my dad. He was waiting outside in the car. He’d driven by a couple of times but hadn’t seen anything “untoward” going on. My father is so mental. I found him hunched down in the Wonderwagon in the teachers’ parking lot.
He rolled down the window and cautiously poked his face out.
“Dad, it’s fine.”
“So it’s okay then?”
“God, yes.”
He wanted to ask a hundred questions. I could see them spinning behind his eyes. But he held back.
“I’ll just wait here another minute,” he said. “Just another few minutes. Then I’ll go let your mother know how it’s going.”
I went back to the office so Ms. Dean could take me over to the Alternative. We were just leaving when Bob rushed in, black hair wild.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he panted.
Ms. Dean looked at him steadily.
“I was just taking Alice over to the Alternative.”
“Excellent. Excellent,” gasped Bob, bent over with hands on knees as he struggled to catch his breath.
Ms. Dean waited for Bob to recover. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Oh. Yes. No problem. No problem.”
Bob had turned into Mr. Say It Two Times. Interesting.
“You’re going to come with us then?” Ms. Dean asked Bob.
“I thought I’d oversee. I mean, you know, come along.”
Ms. Dean sort of smiled and rolled her eyes. “Okay then.”
“See, this isn’t so bad,” Bob counseled me, looking over with what was probably supposed to be a smile, that fled off his face, leaving a look of horror in its place.
“Your face,” he choked. “It’s—”
“It’s eighties,” Ms. Dean stated. “All the rage this year. Depeche Mode. Culture Club. Black lipstick. It’s all back.”
“Really?” Bob looked at her with pleading eyes.
“Oh yeah. Alice is right with the program, makeup-wise.”
Bob exhaled slowly and nodded.
Ms. Dean walked ahead of us, and Bob turned to me again.
“Well,” he stage-whispered, “how’s it going?”
I shrugged. “Okay. I guess.”
“So everything’s okay?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
“Good.” He straightened a bit and looked past me into the crowded foyer. He nodded to himself. “Good.”
I could tell right off that the Alternative school is supposed to be really unauthoritarian and everything. The teachers seemed nice but a bit too social-workerish. Take Mr. Richards, for example. He’s one of those fleece-wearing outdoorsy people who look so healthy that they don’t even look real. He looks like he should have something more adventurous to do with his life than teach misfits, like maybe he should be heli-skiing or hang gliding in the Andes. Maybe he does that stuff on weekends with some freckled, braided bombshell. But during the day Mr. Richards is sensitivity personified.
When we walked in, he and Bob greeted each other like they went way back, or at least back to the conference on conflict resolution techniques for youth workers they met at last month.
“Bob!” Mr. Richards made no effort to hide his enthusiasm.
“Doug!”
They gave each other hearty heterosexual hugs, men at ease with themselves and their masculinity.
They backslapped each other a few times and smiled broadly, looking each other right in the eyes. Finally, Ms. Dean cleared her throat.
“Right.” Bob stepped back. “Doug, I’d like you to meet Alice MacLeod. The new student I mentioned would be joining you.”
“Great!” Doug turned to me. “You can call me Doug. Or Mr. Richards. Whichever you prefer.”
I nodded, not nearly as comfortable with myself as Bob and Mr. Richards were.
Another teacher, with a zodiac chart on her oversized T-shirt, came over.
There was a pause, and finally Ms. Dean introduced her.
“And this is Ms. Swinke.”
“Right,” Mr. Richards agreed, without enthusiasm.
“Hello, Alice.” The woman’s voice was extremely gentle, as though she was speaking to someone about to jump off a ten-story ledge.
“Hi.”
With effort, Ms. Dean finally dragged Bob away, and Mr. Richards and Ms. Swinke invited me to sit down. Looking around, I would have described the crowd as more motley than eclectic. It was a lot like the Teens in Transition Club, only with more boys. There wasn’t even one athlete I could see, unless some of the kids competed in the Running from the Cops 500-meter event. I felt embarrassingly at home. I recognized several people from the Teen Club, including Violet and Llona and Jim.
We were just starting Life Skills class when in walked Kevin and Jack. Oh my God! Why hadn’t I realized that they would be in the Alternative? I had counted on them being kicked out by now, but they must not be as hardcore as Linda. I hadn’t seen them since the fight. I considered screaming and running to hide behind Mr. Richards but decided against it. That is exactly what everyone would expect from a home-based learner. I forced myself to stay seated.
The boys sat down at my table. There are no individual desks at the Alternative, probably because our antisocial tendencies are too pronounced already. Instead they make us sit at tables for four, which supposedly encourages group interaction and is handy for Family Studies, where we pretend we are teen parents trying to cope with the stress of a baby, played in our class by a hard-boiled egg instead of the raw one they apparently get in the regular school. Oddly enough, the Life Skills topic of the day was violence, where and why it happens, and what we can do about it. Mr. Richards asked us whether we had ever seen or experienced violence. Violet the Victim started in with a horror story. Jim started flexing his
biceps and talking about the time he kicked “that bastard Anthony Donatello’s ass.” Llona looked at him with big glazed doughnut eyes while he mimicked stomping Anthony’s head. Mr. Richards was eating it up. He seemed to love all this slice of life among the Alternative school behavior cases. Kevin had been shooting me the meaningful stare of death since he and Jack sat down. Jack looked down at his desk. When Mr. Richards sensed some of the more sensitive students about to get triggered, he stopped Jim’s flexing and grunting.
Mr. Richards was launching into a feel-good empowerment lecture when Kevin put up his hand to ask a question.
“Mr. Richards, if you knew that someone was going to get beat up, maybe even killed, should you tell them? Because someone in this class is in a lot of danger.”
Mr. Richards put an exaggeratedly puzzled and concerned look on his face, like he was coming face to face with inner-city gang violence and limited-opportunity structure or something.
“Yeah, sir. Someone in this class is going to get stomped. I’m not threatening or anything. It’s not like I hope it happens, ‘cause, like, I don’t. I hate violence, man.”
“Well, Kevin. I’m glad you told us that. You know, it’s important that everyone in this class feel safe. I hope that if anyone is in trouble, they will come see me or one of the other teachers.”
Kevin whispered over to me, “Hey, ugly. You better go see him. Before Linda kills you and your psycho mother. You were just lucky that hot dog guy stopped her from erasing your map the last time. Linda don’t forget stuff like that.”
His threat was interrupted by Violet, who trilled, “Violence against artists! Violence against artists!” in a voice so high-pitched that dogs from all over town probably headed for the classroom.
Everyone in the class turned. They followed her eyes to look at me, frozen at the table.
Llona elbowed Jim, who, with effort, put up his musclebound arm.
“Nobody’s touching nobody in this class. Not even if they dress funny and shit.”
Kevin looked around, surprised and angry.
