by T. Torrest
Chapter 6
WHERE THE HEART IS
I had absolutely nothing to wear. The thing was, from Monday to Friday, getting dressed for school was a no-brainer. Grab an Oxford, choose a skirt, out the door. I know the public school kids probably wondered how we could possibly wear uniforms every day without wanting to jump off a bridge. But the truth was, I kinda liked it. There was no fashion show to compete with from day to day. We all looked the same from our necks down to our ankles.
Until the weekend.
My entire annual school-clothes budget went toward replenishing Oxfords, maybe replacing a skirt or two and restocking my undies drawer. The rest went toward shoes.
When you wore a uniform every day, the only place left to express yourself was with your shoes. You’d be surprised how creative we could get with our footwear while still keeping within the guidelines of “hard soles, nothing above the ankle”. And trust me, there wasn’t a girl at St. Norman’s that didn’t push those parameters right to the edge.
But blowing the majority of my school-shopping allotment on shoes constantly left me scrambling on Saturday nights. After all, unlike the public school kids, I couldn’t very well hit a party in my weekday clothes.
I’d already torn through my closet, dismissing every garment I owned as unsuitable, more determined than ever to get a job and earn some wardrobe money.
My father had already left for the evening- poker at the VFW- so I took advantage of his absence and raided his closet.
The closet in his bedroom was a huge walk-in which I was normally forbidden to enter. Though I suspected it had less to do with my father’s desire for privacy and more to do with the indefensible fact that my mother’s side had remained virtually undisturbed since the day she left us.
One time in fifth grade, we took a class trip to Thomas Edison’s laboratory. It was so cool to see his workspace with all the long tables set up, awaiting his next stroke of genius.
I remember thinking that his office was so cool. All those books! And in the corner of the library, there was a cot for his erratic sleeping needs. The story was that he’d work for endless hours, pass out for ten minutes and then wake up and get right back to work again.
But what sticks with me most is his desk. A beautiful rolltop plunked right in the middle of the expansive room, fitted with a piece of plexiglass across the opening. Apparently, upon his death, his wife had the desk sealed up. Stopped in time, exactly as he last left it, posthumously honoring the work that would forever go unfinished.
That was my father’s closet.
Despite the fact that his side was crammed with clothes and shoes and boxes of godonlyknowswhat, my mother’s side was left completely untouched.
I ran my hand across the racks of clothes, the remnants of what she left behind, neatly aligned, undisturbed and awaiting an owner who would never release them to the light of day again. I pressed my face to a row of blouses and inhaled the familiar scent of my mother- Chanel No. 5 mixed with lemon- and it brought tears to my eyes for only the briefest second.
Sometimes, like at that moment, it was easier to make believe that my mother had died. It gave me permission to mourn her loss, appreciate the person she was while still allowing myself to be sad that she was gone. Because how was a person supposed to feel when their mother chose to leave? Was I supposed to love her less because of it?
I pushed those thoughts aside, again, and remembered why I was in there in the first place. Emotionless, I rifled through the hanging clothes, most of which were pretty outdated. My fingers grazed a butter-soft cotton, so I shoved the hangars aside to get a better look. I found myself staring at a flowery whisper of a blouse with flowing hippie sleeves. I stripped off my Bon Jovi T-shirt and slid the blouse over my head. I hopped up onto Dad’s bed to check myself out in his dresser mirror and felt a slight pang when I realized it fit like a glove. I’d finally grown into my mother’s body.
I had a brief glimpse of an alternate life- one in which my mother and I could have shared this moment, giggling about having just doubled our wardrobes- and then dismissed the thought realizing that that scenario was never going to happen. I wondered if she’d feel violated that instead, I was just swiping something out of her closet without her knowledge.
Screw her. I’m wearing it.
I blew my hair out poker straight, but braided a random strip down one side. I threw on some jeans and a pair of strappy sandals- thanking God for my awesome shoe collection- because the look wouldn’t have been complete without some hippie footwear.
I assessed the final product of my work and was happy with the end result. Although, I was going out on a limb there with the retro duds. I figured I’d have to endure a few jabs from the guys, but nothing too traumatizing. I’d gotten used to their relentless ballbusting over the years. Growing up in a neighborhood full of boys helped me to form a thicker skin than most girls I knew. Hell, one night I saw Francine Mentozzi reduced to tears over a pair of zebra-print stretch jeans when Rymer took one look at her and suggested she head back to the zoo. She didn’t hang out too much after that.
That’s something I never understood. How anyone could feel “victimized” by “the cool kids” just because they weren’t a part of them. Unless someone was really asking for it, none of us went out of our way to pick on anyone. We were too busy doing our own thing to care.
But from the outside, did that seem excluding? Did our goofing around come across as bullying? Didn’t those kids know that we got our chops busted every day, too? Maybe that was the difference between the “cool kids” and the not-so-cool ones. Maybe we were just better able to laugh at ourselves and not take any negative comments so seriously. Maybe that was the only line separating the people who enjoyed their school years from the ones who were scarred by them.
I’ll give you an example: Junior year, Roger Vreeland and I were paired up on a science project. We’d meet at his or my house after school a couple times a week to work on it. Now Roger is someone I’d known since kindergarten, but never really hung out with or anything. He was kind of quiet and spent most of his time with the Audio/Visual crowd. But we actually hit it off fairly well during that project. We were surprised to find that I was smarter and he was funnier than we both had previously thought. We ended up getting some good work done in spite of a lot of joking around.
One day, I showed up to his house with a replacement bag of Munchos, because I had demolished the last of his during our previous work session. I mean, it’s just what you do, right? A person would have to be pretty rude not to at least replace a bag of Munchos.
But you know what he said? “Wow. Thanks. You know, it’s funny- I never realized you were nice before.”
I’m sure he meant it as a compliment, but I was all, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And he actually said, “Well, you know. You were always too cool to talk to me.”
Can you believe that? What the hell? I should have said that the reason we never talked was because he never opened his mouth in my direction, which was the truth. But did I go and jump to the conclusion that we never spoke because he was “too cool” to do so? No. I couldn’t imagine going through life with such a huge chip on my shoulder like that.
I mean, it’s not like we were such a mutually exclusive group who spent our days trying to find ways to torture and alienate our fellow classmates. If anyone ever wanted to be a part of things, all they ever had to do was show up.
That’s the thing about popularity that no one ever tells you. It’s all about confidence. That’s it. That’s the magic formula, boys and girls. Speaking as a person with experience on both sides of popularity, I can tell you that that’s all it takes. If you can mind the slight angular shift between holding your head up high and sticking your nose in the air... If you can strike the right balance between conformity and originality... If you can be friendly but not perky, optimistic yet unaffected, lead instead of follow... you’re in. It may seem like a tightrope-walk to
be sure, but you just gotta fake it until you make it. After a while, you won’t even be that conscious of the fine line you’re walking all the time.
I was anxious to get over to the party, but until I got my license, I was at the mercy of Lisa’s time schedule. I sat down at the top of the stairs where I’d have a good line of sight into the driveway. Not that I needed to keep watch for her. That girl normally started honking the horn from her house. This night was no exception.
I bolted out the front door, simultaneously fumbling with my keys to lock it behind me while flapping my hand down to shush Lisa, who started beeping even more incessantly upon my presence.
When I finally opened the passenger door, I snipped, “Shut up already! I have neighbors you know!”
Lisa just laughed and said, “I know! I’m one of them, Dippy!”
Chapter 7
HOUSE PARTY
Greg Rymer lived in Norman Hills- the “rich neighborhood”- on the northern side of town. Back in the seventies, the land developer who had the area bulldozed was eventually sent to prison for bribing a bunch of government officials in order to get the zoning rights. Prior to his arrest, however, he was responsible for building some gorgeous homes.
Rymer’s was a sprawling ranch nestled into a copse of trees, with huge sections of wall made up almost entirely of glass. I guess the secluded property allowed for them to live in a fishbowl without feeling like exhibitionists. Sometimes, it freaked me out to hang there at night, though. When just a few of us were there watching a movie or something, I always thought that there could be some murderer creeping around out in the woods spying on us. Seriously, the alienated house was the perfect backdrop for a slasher film. There wasn’t another home within earshot. No one would hear your screams.
On the other hand, that’s why it made such a perfect party house.
With the number of cars crammed around the front yard, I rest assured that any potential murderers would be outnumbered by party guests. Besides, all the real creeps were already inside.
I remember hearing once about the correct way to enter a room. A person should stroll in with confidence and head straight for a familiar face. The worst thing you could do was linger like an insecure little wallflower, fumphering around two steps inside the door. Lisa knew this, too, which is why we gave a quick knock before heading right on in. We kissed a few people hello on our beeline to the back deck where we knew the keg would be.
Cooper and Sargento were standing around the boombox, fighting over DJ duties. Rymer was sitting on the railing, using the keg as a footstool and holding a stack of red Solo cups.
He saw Lisa and me walk out and said, “Five bucks.”
I went for my wallet, but stopped when I heard Lisa say, “Rymer, you pantywaste. Are you seriously going to try and pull this shit again? Asking girls to kick in for the keg? No wonder you never get laid.”
The guys snickered into their sleeves which put Rymer in the position of having to retaliate. “Alright, DeSanto. I’ll give you and Janis Joplin here both a cup, no charge. But you’re gonna have to pay for it later, if you know what I mean.”
We all knew Rymer was full of shit, but the guys stopped laughing at the suggestive comment and turned toward us, waiting with anticipation to see how we’d respond.
Lisa didn’t disappoint. She got right up in his face and said, “Rymer, if I actually believed you even had a dick in those pants, we could talk. As it is-”
“Oh, you want to see it?” He hopped off the railing and started making a big, phony show of unbuttoning his jeans. We knew he was bluffing about dropping his drawers, but thankfully, we weren’t forced to test that notion. Because just then, Trip came out the door and stopped him in his tracks with, “Jesus, Rymer. Can’t you ever keep your damn pants on?”
We all started laughing as Trip made the rounds of hellos and handshakes.
Rymer gave Trip a high-five, then handed him a cup. Lisa just went ballistic. “Oh, so you give your buddies beer for free but charge the girls five bucks? Nice racket you’re running here.”
Trip was busy getting a beer from the keg as he said, “Dude. You can’t charge the girls for beer, man. That’s just stupid.”
Lisa chimed in, “I know, right?”
Trip handed her his filled cup and dug a fold of bills out of his pocket. Lisa and I tried to protest as he peeled off a twenty and slapped it on the railing before grabbing three more cups off the stack and filling them at the tap, passing the first off to me as he finished. Lisa and I shrugged at each other and started drinking.
Rymer tried to save face. “Trip- No way, man. Take this back. I wasn’t really gonna charge them and what kind of asshole would I be if I didn’t cover your cup?”
Lisa cut in with, “A huge one!”
Rymer shot her a dirty look, then turned and started jabbing the twenty back in Trip’s direction. “Seriously. It’s your first night hanging with us. Take it.”
By that time, Trip was almost finished filling the fourth cup. “Not gonna happen, dude. Just take it off my tab the next time.”
Then he clinked his cup against mine and gave me a wink which almost made me spit up my mouthful of beer.
“By the way,” he added, “Who the hell tapped this thing? They foamed the hell out of it.”
We all started laughing again because it was a great slam on Rymer, who obviously must have tapped his own keg. Poorly.
Normally, having been shown up in front of his friends, Rymer would have gone on the rampage. I don’t know why Trip was given a free pass. Maybe Rymer was trying to be welcoming to the new kid. It’s possible he may have just realized he was being a jerk. Then again, maybe he thought he’d finally met his match and just didn’t want to get his ass kicked.
The thing was, Trip managed to put Rymer in his place without completely tearing him to shreds. Hell, Rymer actually had a smile on his face! I’d never seen anyone get away with that.
Just as we were pulling it together, Cooper pointed out Trip’s two beers and asked, “Yo. What’s with the double-fisting tonight?”
Trip didn’t miss a beat and answered him with, “Double fisting? What, is your sister around?”
We all lost our minds cracking up. Even Coop was forced to crack a smile as Rymer gave Trip another high-five. While we were catching our breath, Tess Valletti walked out onto the deck.
She walked right over to Trip, who handed her a drink in an unmistakable gesture that said they were together.
Unbelievable. The guy was in town for less than a week and he’d already managed to start dating Tess Valletti.
Here’s the 411 on Tess: She was a year older than us, so she’d graduated the previous June. During her four years at St. Norman’s, she was drooled over by every straight male in the vicinity. Tall, blonde and funny, she was not only gorgeous, but popular, too.
She used to only date college guys, much to the average high-school-girl’s relief. The fact that Trip- a senior in high school, mind you- was able to get her to go out with him was pretty impressive. The fact that she let him drag her to a high school party was nothing short of miraculous.
She and I were in the same typing class the year before, so we actually knew each other pretty well even though we didn’t really hang out too much or anything.
“Hey, Layla!” she said.
“Hi Tess. How’s it going?”
She took a sip of her beer. “Great. Really great. Well, you know, aside from the fact that I’m here at Rymer’s and all.”
Everyone thought that was just hysterical, of course.
Lisa would never admit it, but I knew she was euphoric once Tess finally graduated, giving her the chance to ascend to her rightful and long-awaited position as Queen Bee. Yet here she found herself back in Tess’s shadow only two weeks into her reign.
Lisa couldn’t allow herself to take a backseat any longer and decided to pipe in. “So, Tess... How the heck did you wind up here tonight?”
Tess shot Trip a sly loo
k and joked, “Oh, you know. The usual, boring old story. I was on my way to meet some girlfriends out tonight when I got hit on by some random guy at the convenience store.”
Trip threw an arm around her shoulders and added, “Yeah. Last time I was at the 7-11, all I picked up was a Slurpee.”
Lisa and I laughed, but I was feeling pretty torn up inside. Seeing the two of them together was just the slightest bit devastating. They looked like a page ripped out of a magazine, standing there with their dazzling good looks and their suggestive smiles. They gave off the vibe that they were part of some secret club the rest of us would never be asked to join. What, do beautiful people have radar or something for one another?
Chapter 8
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD
I spent the next couple of hours hanging out with some girls from my art class. Just as we decided to start a game of Quarters, Lisa grabbed my arm and pulled me over to a more private corner of the kitchen. “Oh my God, Pickford’s here!” she managed to whisper-scream in my ear.
Pickford was Penelope Redy’s twin brother, but I didn’t really know him too well. Lisa had been eyeing him up since the first day of school. He’d shot up about six inches and apparently spent the entire summer vacation lifting weights, because he showed up for senior year looking like a completely different person. Tall, dark and lean, with just enough muscle to not appear lanky. He wasn’t really my type- I’d recently been displaying a particular affinity for blondes- but he was definitely cute. It wasn’t easy to transition, but Pick was always a well-liked guy and with the new abs and attitude, Lisa figured it wouldn’t be long before he sidled on in to our group. That he’d shown up at Rymer’s was an encouraging start.
I asked, “Where is he?”
Lisa nodded her head in the direction of the living room. “In there, I think. Peek out casually and see if you can see him. But don’t be obvious!”
