After the movie, Shawn makes one of her efforts to lead a productive discussion.
“We spoke about ‘relief mechanisms,’ right? Well, the problem with alleviating your issue with kleptomania is that then it just needs to be activated again and again. So you have to sort out what’s causing your behavior in order to not need the behavior.”
Why does everything Shawn says sound like Latin? I wish it didn’t, because maybe I’d learn something.
“Yes, Gina?”
“I started smoking. Do you think that’s a good relief mechanism?” Gina asks.
“I need a relief mechanism to get me away from Gina,” Moe whispers.
I try not to laugh because Gina kind of reminds me of my mom in some weird way. Failed hopes and dreams and all that. She makes me a little sad.
“Okay, well, you have to be careful to not replace one addiction with another, but if you keep working on yourself and being honest about your issues, then you’re already heading in the right direction,” Shawn says. I’ve got to hand it to her: The woman can attempt to turn any inquiry into a Positive Learning Experience.
After class, I meet Elodie and Moe at the Pepsi machine in the hall.
“Dude, Gina’s gonna end up on crack before this is over,” Moe says.
“You think?” Elodie asks, worried.
“What else is there for her to do?” Moe says, taking a big swig of her soda. “Does anyone else think Mountain Dew is poisonous? I mean, it looks like cat pee.”
“Maybe you should give some to Gina,” Elodie offers just as Shawn walks up.
“Hey, girls,” she says, all smiles.
We all kind of mutter hello, and she says, “I think it’s great you guys are forming support for one another. It’s a really important part of the work.”
“Super,” Moe says, mocking her with a placid smile on her face. Elodie looks like she’s about to start laughing, and Shawn frowns. The last thing in the world I want is to have to take this whole program over again just because of Moe, so I jump in.
“I had to deal with my dad’s addiction for a while,” I say, “so I agree about the whole support-system thing.”
“Really?” Shawn looks intrigued.
I nod. “Definitely.”
“Well, thank you for sharing that.” She touches my elbow with compassion, looking highly pleased with this breakthrough. She gives us all a supportive nod and walks off down the hall, the fringe on her beaded vest jangling jauntily.
Elodie looks at me, curious.
“What’s your dad addicted to?”
I think for a second. “Uh, vaginas?”
“Jesus!” Moe coughs on her Mountain Dew.
“You can’t be addicted to that,” Elodie says. “Can you?”
“Dude, they have, like, Love and Sex Addicts Anonymous down the hall,” Moe says. “So obviously you can.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s in Screw Whoever He Wants All the Time Anonymous,” I say.
“So your parents are divorced?” Elodie asks tentatively.
“Nope. Happily married, according to my mom.”
“She doesn’t know he does it?” Elodie’s confused.
“Sure she does. She just doesn’t like to admit it to herself.”
The girls stare at me for a second, and finally Moe observes, “No wonder you’re so fucked up.”
Elodie shoots a look at her. “Moe!”
“No, she’s kind of right,” I say. It feels good to come clean. Secrets have power if they’re buried in a box, so sometimes it can be good to dig them up and take them out into the open.
“You guys want to come over to my house?” Moe asks. She looks at me. “My aunt says I should invite people over more. I think she thinks I’m as fucked up as you are.”
Spies Like Us
On our way out of class,
Moe joked maybe we are being
secretly recruited by the CIA,
and maybe Shawn is a top agent
sent to find new trainees,
and we are the chosen ones.
Maybe we will learn to carry state secrets
and smuggle microchips
and seduce bad guys.
Maybe we will save the world,
one trinket
at a time.
THE ASSIGNMENT
“So, did you have fun at Romeo and Juliet?” Elodie asks us. We’re walking downtown past Pioneer Courthouse Square, where all kinds of people are basking in the almost sunny day. Some dude is banging on plastic tubs like they’re drums.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Moe offers. “I hope Ms. H got that guy’s number. The erect one. I feel like he could have a positive impact on her life.” She makes a hip thrusting motion, and Elodie squeals.
“Did she assign you guys to write some stupid creative memoir about your family? Or was that just our class?” I ask.
“Yeah. Annoying. What’s there to say?” Moe shrugs, taking a piece of turkey jerky out of her bag and shoving it into her mouth.
“Trust me, I’ve got plenty to say about my parents,” I say. “I just don’t want to say it in an assignment in Ms. Hoberman’s class.”
“So, have you written it?” Elodie asks us both.
“No. And I don’t plan to.”
“The only writing I can seem to do is in my journal. When I go to write a paper, it reeks,” says Moe.
“I like writing poems,” Elodie says.
“You’re a total poetry type,” Moe teases, chasing down her jerky with a chug of Red Bull and swishing it around before she adds, “Poems are dorky.”
“They are not!” Elodie looks offended. “What do you think all great songs are? Poetry.”
“No, a great song is a great song. A poem is always going to be just a poem,” Moe retorts.
“I don’t know about poems, but I read blogs,” I say. “Have you been to the one run by some girl in Chicago who’s our age?”
“Blogs by teenagers: also stupid,” Moe says.
“No, it’s good, trust me.” I don’t know why I am bothering to try to convince a person who is a known vandal about the validity of a well-known website, so I change the subject. “Let’s go get some stuff and meet back here.”
“In twenty minutes?” Elodie asks.
“What? That’s barely enough time,” whines Moe.
“Nut up,” Elodie fires back. Jesus, she’s got surprising balls. Then she blushes. “Sorry. Something my dad used to say.”
“See you then,” I say. Moe sighs and heads off in one direction, and Elodie and I go in another. If only poor Shawn knew that this particular 10 percent of the population was definitely not curbing its shoplifting tendencies but fanning their flames as much as possible.
Red
All right, let’s see what you got,
I say to Tabitha.
We’re waiting for Moe back at our meeting spot,
in front of the sculpture of a guy sitting on a bench.
People always freak out because even though he’s bronze,
they always think he’s real.
Tabitha opens her bag
and pulls out a red Prada dress from Mario’s.
You should get one of these, she says.
It’s not really my style, but I like red.
Red says sexy and mysterious
and dangerous
and everything that I used to not be
but am now totally becoming.
The Sprint
Moe runs up all out of breath: We gotta go!
She takes off in a sprint.
Shit! Tabitha says, and we bolt after Moe,
who races out of the square
and around the corner
and up the stairs into a parking garage,
until she drags us behind a Prius
covered in left-wing bumper stickers
like GO GREEN OR GO HOME
and UNFAIRIZONA.
We crouch down, panting,
and after a second Tabitha peeks
>
around the bumper
and says, Are they gone?
Who? Moe says.
Whoever was chasing us, Tabitha says, annoyed.
Oh, that. I was just seeing how fast you guys could run.
Tabitha looks at her.
Bitch!
Moe grins.
You know you love me.
Screech Crackle Pop
Screech crackle pop.
We are on the light rail going from Pioneer Place
to the Pearl,
a district of swishy shops built on the bones
of abandoned warehouses.
I wish we had a more dignified mode of transport.
Too bad we don’t know how to steal cars, Moe says.
She’s right.
Hot-wiring is probably far superior
to the plastic seats of the MAX
and the old guy in the beret
who looks more weirded out by us
than we do by him.
Screech crackle pop.
I snap a shot
of Moe as she turns and looks over her shoulder
flipping me the so-called bird.
I point the camera at Tabitha,
who smiles like a beautiful girl on autopilot.
No smile needed, I say
and she looks confused
so I click the shutter.
Better.
We’re almost there, Moe says.
I lean over to Old Beret Guy
and ask, Can you take a picture of us?
He takes the camera
and snaps us.
Screech crackle pop.
This photo will never be in a yearbook—
because who knows what the three of us
even look like together
and it wouldn’t make any sense to anyone—
but at least there’s proof
this moment existed.
This is us, Moe says
when we stop at SW Tenth.
I guess she’s right:
This is us,
whoever we are.
We scatter off
like birds flying free,
screech crackle pop
all in a flock.
LOSING FEATHERS
At Moe’s house, the first thing I notice is the orange-and-blue parrot in the kitchen. The poor thing is missing so many feathers, it’s downright bald in places.
“Does that parrot have alopecia or something?” I ask.
“My aunt says it’s because Marc got him high once and he starting picking out his feathers. But I think he was just born with ADD or OCD or something,” Moe explains.
“Maybe it’s a relief mechanism,” Elodie says.
“Thanks, Shawn. Your insight is super profound,” Moe says as she heads upstairs, gesturing for us to follow.
Moe’s room is surprisingly nice: a queen-size bed with a purple bedspread, and starry wallpaper, and a few framed photos on the dresser. One of them must be of her parents, who have big smiles on their faces as they stand with two little kids in front of a house. When Elodie asks her, she says, “They died when I was seven.”
“My mom’s dead,” Elodie says.
“Really?” Moe looks at her, surprised.
“Two years ago. It sucks. My dad got remarried.”
“Is she cool?” Moe asks.
“My stepmom, you mean?” Elodie says.
Moe nods and Elodie shrugs. “She’s okay. She’s really into being healthy. It’s kind of annoying.”
“What, did you want your dad marrying someone who’s unhealthy?” I say. “That seems weird.”
“It’s like she wants to rub it in my face that my mom had cancer. Like she’s saying, ‘I’ll never have cancer because I’m the poster girl for health.’ ”
“I think you might be overthinking it,” I say.
“Or,” Moe adds, “maybe your stepmom’s trying to take care of herself so her dad won’t lose another wife.”
“She’s twenty-nine,” Elodie says. “It’s not like she’s going to suddenly die of leukemia.”
“Just sayin’,” Moe says with a shrug. “Cut the bitch a break.”
Elodie rolls her eyes. “I just have no idea why my dad would go from her to that.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t want an exact replica,” Moe says. “And that would be fucked up if he did, right?”
Elodie looks away, conceding.
“Besides,” Moe adds, “you didn’t want the guy to be alone forever, did you?”
I’m impressed at Moe’s powers of intuition. I pick up the photo to look at Moe’s parents, and as I reach for it, Elodie points at my triceps.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Yikes. Nasty,” Moe says.
They stare at the dark blue bruise on my arm. For a second I consider lying about it. Then I realize I’m enrolled in a rehab program, where telling the truth will help you curb your bad habits.
“I got into a thing with Brady.”
They stare at me for a minute before Elodie realizes. “He did that to you?”
“It was just a pinch. An accident.”
“I knew that guy was a fucking dick,” Moe says.
“How’d you know that?” I retort. “We don’t even have any of the same friends.”
Moe looks away and shrugs. “I know people.”
“Has he done that before?” Elodie asks, coming over and touching my arm. I don’t want to answer her, but I remember at the Homecoming Dance in the fall, Brady got hammered and accused me of flirting with Greg Devorian. I’d been talking to Greg about some rock-climbing trip in Wyoming he went on the year before. I’d been rock climbing once in Colorado with my family about six years ago, and it was one of the few times we’d all gotten along really well. My brother, Jake, would tell me ghost stories every night, and we’d do relay races on the hill outside our hotel. My mom and dad cuddled in the hotel room, and my dad taught Jake and me to fish. For once we were far away from everything, doing “family stuff,” and it was nice.
When Brady came out of the bathroom, he saw me talking to Greg and he walked up and yanked me away. He’d been jealous of Greg ever since the guys on the lacrosse team started calling Greg “Horse” for reasons involving anatomical size and scope. Boys and their fragile, fragile egos. For a second, I’d had a naive hope that Horse might step forward to defend me or something, but he quickly backed away, disappearing into the crowd of dancing students. That’s when the toxic heft of my reputation became clear. I was Brady’s girlfriend, and he could do whatever he wanted to me, even if it meant twisting my arm at a dance in front of half the school. Greg Devorian may have had a big dick, but at that moment his balls were nonexistent.
“That’s, like, abuse,” Elodie says softly after I tell them the story.
For once Moe is silent, appraising me with her big brown eyes encased in black liquid eyeliner. She abruptly leans over to her desk and fidgets with her iPod.
“I know what’s gonna cheer you up,” she says. The sound of a Katy Perry song suddenly comes blasting out of the speakers on her desk.
“Are you serious?” Elodie laughs.
“Why, yes, I am,” Moe says. She starts dancing, bumping and grinding in a hilariously rhythm-free manner, her cherry-red hair flying all over the place.
“Katy Perry sucks,” I offer.
“I beg your pardon?” Moe speaks with mock offense.
Elodie nods in agreement with me. “She’s pretty bubblegum.”
“What’s wrong with bubblegum?” Moe asks.
“Aren’t you friends with stoners and goths?” I ask. “I thought you guys listened to death punk or speed metal or grindcore.”
“Well, they do, but I love my pop music,” Moe says. “Can you blame me when you hear this jam?” She does another little shimmy. “C’mon! Dance!”
I look at Elodie, who shrugs and stands up, giving Moe a hip bump. And suddenly Moe and Elodie are dancing to bubblegum as it blasts around us.
Teenage Dream
Tabitha is cracking up
because Moe is doing the Jerk.
I break into the Dougie
and just then
a guy walks by the open door.
He is a few years older than us, maybe,
and he’s tall and has floppy hair
and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt
and endless brown eyes
and he looks right at me
and Moe yells,
Get outta here!
And he looks at me
and says, Nice Dougie,
and walks off.
Who was that? Tabitha asks.
My brother, Moe says,
and they keep dancing.
I try to move,
but I am frozen in place
because other than Brady Finch,
I’ve never seen
a guy that handsome in
in all my
teenage dreams.
JAMS
We bounce down the stairs, still singing that Katy Perry song. Without the music, Moe sounds more like a dying goat, but she doesn’t seem to care. It’s kind of amazing how she’s able to act like an idiot and be totally comfortable with it. I’ve been so caught up with needing my privacy that I felt like I couldn’t be myself. I had to be what everyone expected me to be. But here I don’t need privacy at all.
As I’m putting on my boots, Moe stops me.
“Wait. This is for you,” Moe says, handing me a CD. “I burned it for you while we were listening to it. You need your own copy.”
I look at the CD, which says BUBBLEGUM JAMS. It’s the first time anyone’s made me anything in a while. As a kid I had a rocking horse in my room that my dad made me, but I always had the sneaking suspicion he just bought it at a toy store. Maybe my mom said he made it to make me feel better. But I’m probably just paranoid.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t let anyone hear you listening to it, because they might think you have no taste.”
“Who cares?” I say. And it’s the truth.
MOE’S PLAYLIST: BUBBLEGUM JAMS
“Greatest American Hero (Believe It or Not)”—Joey Scarbury
Trinkets Page 7
