by Cat Bauer
“It's love at first sight,” I say. “They just know.”
“Ah, a romantic. They love each other so much that they kill themselves.”
“Because they can't live without each other.”
“I don't know, Miss Columba. Real love, mature love, takes years to develop, not a couple of days.”
“It's Shakespeare, it's not real time!” I am such a loudmouth in this class, I swear. I take a breath. “The few hours they spend together cannot be taken literally. A play is allowed a certain amount of poetic license.”
“My, my! Very convincing, Miss Columba.” Mr. Angelo sounds impressed. I am impressed myself.
I always eat lunch with Carla. We never eat in the school cafeteria because the food sucks. Some people bring sandwiches from home, which is what my mother wants me to do, because it's cheaper. I would rather die. Only losers eat in the cafeteria.
We go to Tony's Pizza or to the Deli, where everybody hangs out. I use my babysitting money, and I order something like soup. Carla gets five dollars a day for lunch. Her mother is sympathetic. No one knows where her father is. Rumor has it he disappeared from Lenape right before she was born and now he's a wild artist living in New York City. I am fascinated that Carla has this renegade dad, but she refuses to talk about him.
Sometimes Johnny Bruno eats at the Deli with his friends, which is another reason I like to go. To get to the Deli you have to walk down the steps on the side of the high school and cut through the Pond Hole. I guess the Pond Hole used to be filled with water, but now it's the town parking lot.
There's a bunch of elite who hang out on the Pond Hole steps and smoke. It's intimidating to walk through them, so a lot of people go all the way around and down this sloping driveway that the cars use. It's dangerous, and nearly every week someone almost gets nailed by a housewife in a minivan, but for punks and rah-rahs it's still safer than walking through the front line.
I walk right down the middle of the steps. I am not really part of that group, but I am not not part of it. I am independent. Carla would give anything to be standing there, smoking, with that crowd. She embarrasses me, the way she walks so slowly and looks around, hoping to be asked. Not too many freshman girls hang out on the steps, however. Only two that I know of: Debbie Nagle and Lisa Kowalski. They are wild.
I meet Carla by the gym. Together we walk toward the steps. There is a new guy there with long blond hair, smoking. He is adorable, in a tall, distracted kind of way. I don't usually like blonds, girls or guys, but this boy looks like a Nordic god.
Carla and I start down the steps. The blond guy smiles at me. His gray eyes look right into mine. “Hi.” His voice is shy but firm.
“Hi,” I say back to him, and I get a tingle. This is a surprise. I am behaving like Romeo when he saw Juliet, falling in love all over the place.
Carla and I continue down the steps. A couple of people nod at us. We nod and smile, being very cool. We cross the Pond Hole.
“Did you see that guy!” Carla is all gushy. “He must be new. I wonder who he is.”
I don't say anything. I am confused, thinking about the blond guy.
Guess who is at the Deli. Prudence Clarke. Guess who is sitting next to her. Johnny Bruno. There are two other people in their booth, Gail and Reed. They are Johnny and Prudence's best friends. They are a pack. Prudence has blond hair, which is another reason I don't like blonds. She always wears thick black glasses; I still haven't figured out what fashion statement she's trying to make. Johnny and Prudence are laughing, and she is hanging all over him. Give me a break.
“What a skank,” Carla sniffs, and pulls me over to the counter. If I concentrate, I can watch them out of the corner of my eye so it's not too obvious. They certainly look all lovey-dovey. My stomach is a fist.
“What are you getting? I'm getting a burger.” Carla pulls a compact out of her purse and powders her nose, right here at the counter. It's not even shiny or anything; it's a nervous habit she has.
“I'm not hungry. I'll just have a cup of soup.” There is no minimum at the counter. Old Man Ferguson gives me a dirty look anyway when he takes our order. Old Man Ferguson has a bald head and gnarly fingers. He hates kids, but he has to serve us, because we are all of his business. If we didn't come, he'd be putting up a For Lease sign like most of the stores around here. I swear, Lenape Lakes is turning into a ghost town. I think I am the only one who realizes this.
I get up and go to the rest room. On the way over, I glance at Johnny. When I pass, he looks up at me and says, “Hi!” like he's really glad to see me. I feel my face turn red. I say hi back, but it comes out like a whisper. Prudence Clarke punches Johnny in the side and giggles. I almost run to the rest room.
There are two wooden stalls. I always go in the left one. Every girl in town has carved something into the doors, so they look like Indian cave paintings. I see my initials, H.C., with a bolt of lightning underneath. If I die tomorrow, I will have something left behind as long as the Deli is standing. I think about adding “& J.B.,” but everyone would know it was me.
When I come out, Prudence Clarke is standing next to the booth, putting on her white snow-bunny jacket. She is blocking the aisle, and I have to stand there, waiting. I'm sure she sees me and is going slow on purpose. Finally she steps aside and I pass. I feel a foot in front of my ankle and then I am in slow motion, falling into the sawdust on the floor. She tripped me! Prudence Clarke tripped me! I land smack on my hands and knees. Everybody in the Deli starts clapping and whistling and saying stuff like “Have a nice fall, see you in the spring.” I am so humiliated, my face is a beet.
“Are you okay?” Prudence acts all innocent. She does not offer me a hand.
I stand up and brush the sawdust off my clothes. “Fine.” I do not dare look at Johnny. I limp over to Carla at the counter, who scoops me under her wing like a mother duck. “She tripped me on purpose,” I inform Carla. “That bitch.”
“Come here.” Carla turns me around and plucks the sawdust off my sweater. I watch the back of Prudence Clarke's snow-bunny jacket as she waltzes out of the Deli on Johnny's arm. I make a silent vow: Prudence Clarke must die.
I think I am getting a C in algebra because I hate it so much. I can't grasp it. I used to try, but now I don't care anymore. Mr. Petranski has an I'd Rather Be Fishing bumper sticker on his Honda in the teachers' parking lot, and I'd rather he were fishing, too. He is the hairiest person I've ever seen, an ape in man's clothes. I sketch a big monkey in a suit and tie on the corner of my notebook. He drones on and on about if a equals b, and c equals d, then what does q equal? I mean, what use do I have for this brain drain? At least I'm not failing like everybody else. Maybe I can do something for extra credit and get a B. I have never gotten a C in my life. Roger is going to kill me. He loves math and science. Einstein is his hero.
Finally, study hall. I approach Miss Wrigley, the librarian. She's only at Lenape High on Mondays because we have to share her with two other schools since they keep cutting her budget. She looks sort of like Mary Poppins, complete with carpetbag and rosy cheeks. She's like a bloodhound when it comes to hunting for books. Nothing is impossible for her; she's always pulling exactly what you want out of her bag.
Last week I asked her for the New York City telephone book. Sure enough, before I even open my mouth, Miss Wrigley lugs this gigantic book over and drops it on the counter with a thud. “Is this what you were looking for, Harley?”
I've never seen such a huge telephone book: you could cram about five Lenapes into one New York City. I feel a little guilty that I made her drag it around half of New Jersey, but this is important. “Thanks, Miss Wrigley. You saved my life,” I say, and Miss Wrigley's cheeks get even rosier.
I carry the phone book over to an empty table and start at the beginning. Community Service Numbers. Amazingly, there is a category called Birth Certificates. I write down the phone number. I have been saving my quarters for this very day since I do not want to make this call from home.
>
There is a pay phone right outside the library door in the hallway of the school. I am all jittery, but I force myself to dial the number. I plop in the quarters. My hands are shaking. I am so nervous that I drop a quarter on the floor. I pick it up and jam it into the slot. Clink.
It rings. A recording clicks on from the Department of Health, Vital Records. Good, I don't have to deal with a human. “If you are requesting a birth certificate …” I scribble down the information. I throw in more quarters and listen again, then hang up. I take a breath and sway against the pay phone.
I am in heaven, and that is art class. I only have it twice a week. Miss Posey is the teacher, but she looks like one of the students, all dimples and bangs. I heard she was having an affair with a senior boy.
Today we are working in charcoal, sketching portraits of famous people. I have chosen John Lennon, surprise, surprise. I love doing portraits. They are easy for me; faces pour from the charcoal right onto the paper. Miss Posey comes over to check my work.
“Wow, Harley. Great.” Miss Posey seems to like what I am doing. Even though John Lennon is smiling, I add a crack to one of his lenses to symbolize his murder. It is difficult to concentrate with her gazing over my shoulder, but I carry on. “I love what you've done to his glasses, Harley. It gives me the chills.” I grin. I adore Miss Posey.
“You know what, Harley? I'm gonna put on Imagine while you're working.” Miss Posey has an old record player she lugged here from home because she thinks scratches give the music more character. She brought in a whole bunch of her own albums and plays them all the time. “Anybody care if we hear a little John Lennon?” hollers Miss Posey.
“Who's he?” I swear, Bobby Brown is such a jock.
Miss Posey rolls her eyes. “Uh, duh. Who's he? Are you kidding, Bobby? Ever hear of the Beatles?” She places the needle on the record, all scratchy and hissy, and the music starts. It gets stuck on the word hell, and everybody laughs. “… hell … hell … hell …” Miss Posey rips the needle off the album, blows off some dust, and plops it down in the middle of the song. Now it jams on the word dreamer.
I am in band. I can feel Johnny sitting behind me. This is my dream that I dare not tell anyone for fear of jinxing it: Johnny Bruno asks me to the Spring Ball. I twist the pieces of my oboe together. I get to sit in the first chair, and the entire band tunes up from me. If I cared, it would be something. Carla is in band, too. She plays the flute, but she is a third chair. The flute makes me dizzy.
Mr. Michaels thinks he is Leonard Bernstein or something, the way he conducts with his face all scrunched up and his arms all berserk. I mean, really, it's only a high school marching band. I peek over my shoulder and steal a look at Johnny. He sees me watching him and winks. “The Stars and Stripes Forever” is a glorious song. I have these cool slurs and trills to play. Fortissimo!
The phone rings and it is Carla. “Did you smoke a cigarette yet?”
“No. Did you?”
“Not yet.”
“Harley, who is it?” Peppy hollers from the kitchen.
“It's for me, Ma.”
“Who is it?”
“None of your business,” I mutter. “It's CARLA!” I yell. “Can you believe this woman?” I say to Carla.
“What is her problem?” Carla giggles.
“Harley, come help set the table!” Peppy's voice could shatter glass, I swear.
“Oh, for God's sake. Carla, I've gotta go.”
“Call me later,” she says. “Send me a smoke signal.”
“HARLEY MARIE!”
“Talk to you later.” I hang up the phone. “COMING!”
“Would you like a drink, Rog?” my father asks himself. “AB-SO-LUTE-LY!” Roger sits in his Barcalounger, staring at Wheel of Fortune. I am alone in the kitchen, drying the dishes. I hear him get out of the chair, then the glub, glub, glub of the vodka as it trickles into the glass.
“Harley?” Roger's voice is already slurry.
I want to ignore him, but he knows I'm in here. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Get me a coupla ice cubes, will ya?”
I sigh and throw open the freezer and grab a tray of ice. I don't want to get the ice, but more than that, I don't want to argue about it. There are only two cubes left. Carla has an ice cube maker, and boy, we sure could use one in this house. I crack out the cubes, fill up the tray, and shove it deep in the freezer.
Roger is back in the Barcalounger with his feet up. I drop the ice cubes into his drink. I am a slave and he is the plantation master.
Roger smiles at me. He reaches for my hand. He squeezes it. “You're a good girl, Harley.”
I toss him a grin and try to leave. He won't let go of my hand. Not this game again. I tug. “Come on, Dad.” He squeezes hard. “Come on, Dad. Let go!” I try to yank my hand away. Roger laughs. He rolls my knuckles. It hurts. “Dad, let go! You're hurting me!” I tug as hard as I can. He lets go and I fly backward. I storm out of the room. He laughs again and punches the remote.
I am upstairs in the bathroom. I lock the door. I climb onto the edge of the tub and open the window. I pull my backpack out of the hamper. I take out the pack of Marlboro Lights.
I stare at my face in the mirror and my blue eyes blink back at me. I don't feel pretty, but I hope I am. Carla is allowed to wear makeup, but I am not. I wear it anyway. I sneaked some lipstick out of my mother's drawer and now I spread it across my lips.
I shake a cigarette out of the pack and put it between my red lips. I light it with shaky hands. I puff. Cough. Smoke pours out between my teeth and sails up toward the window.
I know I'm supposed to inhale, but I cannot fathom doing it. This takes practice. I pose with the cigarette between my fingers. Now the white filter has red lips on its tip. I toss my hair into a lion's mane. “Sure, Johnny. I'd love to go to the ball with you,” I say to the mirror.
I take another puff and breathe in at the same time. The smoke fills my lungs. The bathroom starts spinning. A thousand tiny needles explode over my face, hot, then cold. Coughs erupt from my body. The smoke bursts out of my mouth. I am nauseous.
I throw the cigarette into the toilet bowl and flush. I think I'm going to throw up. I hang on to the edge of the sink. I fumble through the medicine cabinet and pull out a can of air freshener. I spray the room. The droplets mingle with the smoke in the air and I am in a toxic shower. I hack and retch and yank open the bathroom door. I run to my room and throw myself onto my bed, spread-eagled on my back. I am so sick, I want to die.
“Admit it, we made a mistake.”
“Shut up! Just shut …”
The voices are below me, raging. I hear the tap, tap, tap of Riley's paws as he walks across the linoleum floor. “Here, boy,” I call softly. Riley trots over to the foot of my bed. I pat my pillow. “Up, Riley, up.” Riley hesitates, confused. My parents won't allow him on the bed. “It's okay, boy,” I tell him. “I need you tonight.” Riley seems to understand, and jumps up next to my feet.
“No more, Roger. I can't.” The voices grow uglier. I have to make them stop. I cannot take one more night of this. I lean over and push my bedroom door shut. I bury my face in my pillow. I press it tight against my ears.
“Goddamn it, Peppy …” The voices start to fade away. I feel myself float up, up, up. I breathe and breathe until the world gets bright and quiet and I am far away, inside Strawberry Fields, painting trees and butterflies.
My brush flows with every color I imagine. I paint the grass green. I paint yellow daisies and pink tulips. I paint smiling parents walking their babies in polka-dot strollers. I paint fluffy white clouds….
Far below, back on earth, there is a shout, then something made of glass shatters. Paint, Harley, paint.
The clouds turn gray. It starts to drizzle. There is a flash of lightning, then a rumble of thunder. Now the rain pours down, and my colors start to smear. I struggle to paint against the rain but my paintbrush melts into a puddle of color and I am dissolving….
Riley barks.
I open my eyes and blink into the darkness. A tiny figure stands next to my bed. “God, Lily, you scared me!” I switch on my lamp.
Downstairs the voices still snarl. I hear a door slam, then a shout. “You call this a life?” I swear, one of these days they're going to kill each other.
Lily looks like she's been crying for hours. “Sorry, Harley.”
Poor kid. I brush the hair off her face. I lift up my covers. “Climb into my tent, Pocahontas.”
Lily tumbles in next to me. Riley raises his head and yawns. Lily's body is quivering. “You wanna see something cool?” I ask her. Lily nods her tiny head. She's got a head like a cantaloupe. “You have to promise not to tell anybody.”
She nods again, very solemnly. “I promise.”
“Okay. Close your eyes.” Lately I've been sleeping with my harlequin. I know it's stupid, but he makes me feel safe. I pull him out from under the covers. “Okay, open!”
Lily turns around, and I hand her the doll. She smiles. “Ooo, it's a clown.” She cradles the harlequin like a baby. “Where'd you get him?”
“A long time ago, when I was younger than you, my real daddy gave him to me for protection. It's a magic clown. He watches over me with his baton so no one can hurt me. See, it says, ‘Papa loves you, forever and a day.' Nice, huh?” I click off my lamp. I wrap Lily and the harlequin together in my arms. She weighs as much as a cobweb.
Lily kisses the harlequin. “Will he protect me, too?”
“Protect you from what?” Lily and I jump. Roger looms in the doorway. His victory downstairs was not enough to satisfy him. He has tasted blood and come upstairs to conquer the rest of the house. I feel thunder enter the room. I close my eyes and pray he is a nightmare. “Down, Riley,” says the thunder. The voice is real, not a dream. Riley doesn't move. Lily starts whimpering. “DOWN, Riley!” I feel Riley jump off the end of my bed. His paws patter down the hallway. He collapses in front of Bean's door.
“Get in your own bed, Lily.”
