by Isobel Irons
Unfortunately, I neglected to calculate the fact that in high school, four months is a lifetime.
CHAPTER THREE
I roll up in front of Margot’s place in the coughing, piece of shit green station wagon that used to be my grandma’s—before she kicked it two years ago—and honk the horn.
It takes her about five minutes, but eventually she comes stumbling out her front door, hurriedly pulling her curly brown hair into a messy bun as she does. Unlike me, Margot is average height, so she gets to wear heels to school. Today, she’s rocking a pair of red wedges, which she trips over on her way to the car. I try not to laugh, but her face makes it impossible. If Margot had been born a dude, she would’ve made a kick-ass comedian. Sadly, we live in a day and age where only minorities and fat people are allowed to be professionally funny, if they’re born with a vagina. Since Margot is neither, she just comes off as a nerdy girl who says a lot of really bizarre shit that most high school kids aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate.
“A little rough on the dismount,” she huffs, dropping into the peeling vinyl seat next to me. “But I’m sleeping with the Russian judge, so I think I could still pull a solid six-point-five.”
“Inches, or marks?” I pull out of Margot’s driveway and burn rubber heading for the LA exit.
Margot laughs, but then frowns as she looks down at herself. “God, I overslept again. I barely had time to shower this morning, let alone put on any makeup. That’s why I’m wearing the heels, to try and compensate. I can’t have shit hair and clothes on the same day, right? Isn’t that what Cosmo says?”
I give her a sideways once-over, but I don’t say anything. She’s rocking her usual 1980’s throwback look—a baggy hipster sweater and flowered peasant skirt combo, which we both know isn’t fooling anyone. Around eighth grade Margot started getting really sensitive about her weight, even though she wasn’t remotely fat—just a little round-faced. So Margot did what any normal fourteen-year-old girl would do. She started puking on purpose, every day after fifth period. Of course now, she does more than puke. But we don’t talk about that. Because real friends don’t judge each other for what they do to survive in hell.
“So,” Margot says, after a few miles of silence. “What was the yearly guilt gift?”
“A sweater.”
“Ooh.” She rubs her hands together. “Anything I might like?”
“I seriously doubt it,” I say. “It was glittery, and pink.”
Margot’s expression is one of absolute horror. “Dear God, is she completely colorblind? You could never get away with that color. Pale as you are, it’d make you look like a suckling pig.”
“Hilarious.” I frown ahead at the pockmarked road, flicking my eyes to the old-fashioned metal alarm clock super-glued to the dashboard. “Actually, it gave me an idea. Let’s put hot pink streaks in my hair tonight, after I get off work. You want to?”
“Hell yes!” Margot does a little happy dance, but then she gasps loudly and slaps herself on the forehead. She’s the most bipolar person I know, and I love it. “Shit, I promised Nana we’d go with her to bingo tonight. Can we do it after, or will that be too late?”
Margot is something of a trailer park anomaly, having lost both of her parents at the same time. They split when she was in kindergarten, and now she lives with her grandma and her great aunt Dottie. Dottie is pretty blind and super deaf, but Nana is a barrel full of laughs, even at the ripe old age of 79. She’s also a gigantic pot head, courtesy of Dottie’s glaucoma and a very generous pharmacist. We hang out with the old broads a lot more than is probably good for us. But they’re entertaining as hell.
I shrug. “I ain’t got nothing but time. Besides, it’s my birthday.”
My best friend cackles evilly. “More like your emancipation day. We should try and talk Nana into buying us some wine coolers from the Mini Mart. I’ll bet she would, if you asked.”
“Yeah maybe,” I say, trying to sound excited. But my voice comes out flat, because we’ve just crested the hill and are now entering campus. “Let’s wait and see. I can’t shake the feeling it’s going to be a real shit storm of a day.”
“Well, you know what Nana says,” Margot sings it like it’s a chorus. “Whatever thought plant you water is the one that grows the tallest!”
I can’t help but laugh. God, the girl was born to be an actress. And she will be, too, if she can survive the next four months. Then, it’ll be off to Los Angeles—the real LA, not the shitty trailer park version—for both of us.
At this point, I’m sure you’re thinking ‘Yeah right. Two impressionable young girls travel to LA to seek out fame and fortune and end up working the corner, strung out on coke, inside a few months.’
Well, aren’t you the Hollywood-trained optimist? For your information, dickhead, Margot already has a full-ride scholarship to UCLA for drama. I’ll be driving her down the day after graduation, and we’ll get an apartment together. I’ll wait tables or something, or flip burgers, whatever it takes. My grades aren’t really good enough to get into UCLA, but maybe I’ll apply to beauty school or something. Who knows? Honestly, my life plans have never really extended past getting the hell out of my hometown.
And by the way, smart ass. If there was ever a place where girls grow up way too fast, and dreams go to die? It ain’t Hollywood. It’s a mother fucking trailer park.
Margot and I know that better than most.
I troll through the roaming packs of students until I find a spot close enough to the entrance that we won’t be late, but far enough that no one will dick with my car. It might be a heap of scrap metal, but it’s also one of the only semi-valuable possessions that has my name on it. When I find a good place, I honk loudly to warn a cluster of freshmen that I’m about to run them the fuck over, and they scatter.
“Geez Tash,” Margot snorts. “I hope the Crapmobile comes with liability coverage. Accidental death and dismemberment, at least. Or, maybe not so accidental.”
“Fuck them,” I shake my head, pulling into the spot. “They need to learn their place.”
I shut the engine off, and we turn our heads in perfect unison to look across the lot toward our school. We don’t say anything, but I both know we’re basically thinking the same thing: Just four more months. One hundred and twelve days. Two-thousand and some odd hours, until freedom.
“Well, we aren’t going to make it any less shitty by staring at it,” I say. I crank hard on the rusted driver’s side door handle and shove my way free of the rust bucket, not caring whether or not I ding the car next to me. It’s a shitty old farm truck, anyway. Probably some 4H weirdo drives it. But as I stand up and turn to slam the door, I realize that Margot hasn’t moved. So I bend down and stick my head back inside.
“What’s the problem, Sally?” Sometimes I call her Sally, because she looks like a young Sally Field. Everyone says so, and by everyone I mean my mom and the other old ladies in the trailer park. Except Margot is a lot skinnier than Sally was back then, now that she’s an anorexia-bulimia double threat.
But Margot—regardless of my use of cutesy nickname—doesn’t smile or even look at me. Instead, she just sits there on the passenger side of my car, chewing on her bottom lip as she stares out the window at our school.
“Do you think Becca still remembers about last week?”
The childlike hopefulness in her voice almost breaks my heart. I wish I could tell her that letting the school bitch catch you chucking your cookies on purpose was a minor deal, but I can’t. So, I roll my eyes and pretend like her question is trivial, stupid even. “Does a bear shit in the woods? Is Coach Tailor secretly gay? Is Saddam Hussein eternal butt-buddies with Satan?”
Finally, I hit the right button. Margot giggles, visibly steering herself away from the looming panic attack. “Yeah, you’re right. Of course she remembers. She’s the queen of insignificant facts. Nothing escapes that vapid melon of hers, except basic geography and math.”
“Don’t forget grammar
,” I remind her. “And colors, and days of the week.”
“Oh, right.”
Finally climbing out of the car, Margot joins me on the short pilgrimage from the now packed student parking lot to the main entrance of our depressingly brown colored school, which is called Guthrie High, as I’m sure you are aware. It was apparently named for Herbert Guthrie, a prominent beet farmer in his day. Hence, we are awarded the most humiliating mascot of all time—the Guthrie Beet Diggers. The statue in front of our school is just a dude with overalls, with bare feet and a hoe. Thank god I’ve never participated in any school sport or activity that required me to wear that illiterate, cousin-fucking beet eater on a uniform.
Then again, if I had joined something like a team, maybe school wouldn’t seem quite so much like a POW camp. Maybe I’d feel like I actually belonged. But I guess we’ll never know now, will we?
As Margot and I enter the mildew-scented, brown and orange painted hallways of Guthrie High for the thousandth time, I straighten my neck, putting myself literally head and shoulders above most of the milling crowd.
When I started high school, I thought the answer was to go unnoticed. Wrong.
As much as I hate to beat the metaphorical dead horse—which, in this case, is also an overused metaphor, wrap your fucking brain around that one, why don't you—when it comes to keeping your head down, high school is a lot like...you guessed it: prison. Sure, you can try to shuffle your way quietly through the hallways, try not to make eye contact, try not to cause any trouble. But that's how you end up as someone's bitch.
Of course, if you asked my mom how to survive high school, she'd probably say something disgustingly sugary like "just be nice to everyone, and smile a lot, and people will like you." But I've seen a few kids try that method. And if they aren't getting their asses kicked on a quasi-daily basis, they're labeled as weirdoes and ostracized by anyone who doesn't want to feel like they're part of some kind of religious penance. Befriend a freak and get into heaven, that sort of thing. The Mormon kids are the most annoying culprits when it comes to this approach. You ask me, they're the freaks. What kind of kid says shit like "oh my goodness" anymore? Jesus freaks and pod people, that's what kind.
No, in high school, there's only one thing you can really do to keep the wolves at bay for any length of time. And that is: be tougher and nastier than anyone who might try to fuck with you.
That rule includes most guys, but to be extremely honest it's really the girls you've got to worry about. Guys might try to fight you, sure. They might throw a punch or stuff you in a locker. (Unless they're trying to bang you, of course. In which case they'll sweet talk you to a disgusting degree, and when you say no, they'll start acting like assholes—correction: bigger assholes—and if they're really big assholes they'll spread a bunch of rumors around school that they banged you but you were a shit lay, or covered in herpes or something. And that's if you DON'T sleep with them. If you do, the rumors are much more creative, with a lot more detail. Also pictures, if you’re especially unlucky.)
But even as bad as the guys are—and deep down they're all like that, trust me—they're practically fluffy little balls of sensitivity compared to the girls.
See, all that stuff the guys do? It'll suck, while it lasts. But sooner or later, they'll forget about you and move on. But the girls, the girls never forget. And they don't need any provocation, or even really a reason, to fuck up your life. For them, it's not a hobby or even a part time job. It doesn't end when school stops. They'll lose sleep just to fuck with you.
All you have to do is exist in a way they don’t appreciate.
Take Becca Foster, for example. She’s the reigning queen of the Guthrie High Bitches. I’m sure you’ve met someone like her before. Every four years, the leader’s name changes, but the bitches stay the same. Basically, they’re those girls who took the prison analogy to heart, and decided to adopt the ‘kill or be killed’ approach. They tend to travel in packs, and the only thing worse than being one of the lower members of this bitch pack, is being stuck in their crosshairs.
Unfortunately for Margot, Becca does not appreciate Margot’s existence. Not even slightly.
Why, you might ask? I’ve got lots of theories, but here’s my latest one. Suffice it to say, Becca does not look like a young Sally Field. She’s more of what you might call a ‘butterface.’ As in, her body is skinny and pert in all the right places, but her face…is one only a blind monkey could love. From behind. As a result of what I can only assume is some early teenage onset sociopathic tendencies on Becca’s part, she’s always had it out for Margot. But she started upping her game this year in a major way. It started with the new nickname. That was child’s play, by high school bitch standards. But then Becca and the rest of her bitch squad started stuffing boxes of laxatives into Margot’s locker. It got so bad last semester that I had to switch my first period photography class for gym, just to keep them off her. Though, all I usually end up doing is moving the target from Margot to myself.
But I don’t mind, not really. Because unlike Margot, I don’t give a shit what people think about me. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Sometimes, I even believe it.
When we get into the locker room, Margot makes a beeline for the handicapped bathroom stall. She likes to change in there, for obvious reasons. As usual, I head straight for my gym locker and curse a black streak as I make multiple tries to open the antique spinning lock, then open the locker door, which always sticks no matter how hard I kick it.
Stripping down to my sports bra—because with sweater melons like mine, wearing the typical push up bra favored by most teen girls would be dangerous overkill—I quickly change into the ugly and ill-fitting grey cotton shorts and white t-shirt combo undoubtedly mandated by some fashion-blind old dude, and then slip my red Converse back on before flinging everything else into my locker and slamming it shut. Before I go off in search of Margot, I give it an extra kick, for good measure.
When I round the last row of lockers and move into the shower/bathroom area, I see Margot’s feet under the door of the stall. She’s still wearing those tall red wedges that wrap around the ankles, the ones she bought secondhand on eBay. That’s weird, because she usually changes faster than I do. The less time she spends without clothes on, the better—at least in her warped way of thinking.
“Margot!” I go up and knock on the flimsy metal door. “What’s the hold up?”
The locker room is emptying, and I still haven’t seen Becca the Bitch, which is good. But if Margot doesn’t shake a leg we’re going to be late, which is not so good. Coach Tailor is almost as much of a bitch as Becca, but that’s probably mostly due to her frustration at being forced to closet her obvious homosexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, but try telling that to a bunch of narrow-minded parents with teenage daughters who play volleyball. In my opinion, being a female volleyball coach slash P.E. teacher should automatically negate any need for straight pretense. Alas, that isn’t the case at Guthrie, or at any of the other schools in District 10, as far as I know.
“Go ahead without me,” Margot finally says, in a very small voice.
Immediately, I know something is wrong. Or, more wrong than usual, at least.
“Fat chance,” I say, banging on the door even harder. “I’m not facing Coach Tailor and the Becca Brigade by myself. This early in the morning, I’m liable to cut a bitch. So are you going to man up and get dressed, or are you going to let me in and make me do it for you?”
After a few long seconds, the latch slides open. I push the door, but gently, because I don’t want it to swing too fast and hit my friend in the face. I shouldn’t have bothered, though, because Margot is all huddled up in the corner, pretty much as far away from the door as she can get. Her eyes are puffy, and her face is wet with tears.
As much as I’m worried about her, I can’t afford to let her feel sorry for herself, not when self-pity is the high school equivalent of slitting your wrists and
diving into a shark tank.
“What the fuck is wrong now?” I demand, with my hands on my hips. “Becca’s not even here today, as far as I can tell, and you’re already acting like that lame ass girl who kills herself in Hamlet.”
Margot hates it when I compare her to weak sauce heroines in her favorite plays—which she makes me watch on the BBC channel all the fucking time—and she hates it even more when I don’t get the names right. I figure if I can goad her into being annoyed, she’ll forget to be a total pussy for five minutes. But instead of telling me to fuck off, or angrily muttering ‘It’s Ophelia, you uncultured dip wad’ under her breath, she just points at the door.
Eyebrows raised, I step further into the stall and close the door behind me. When I get a good look, my face feels like it’s been lit on fire. There, on the inside of the door, in bright blue permanent marker are these words:
LARGE MARGE, YOU CAN HURL ALL YOU WANT BUT YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A HEIFER.
“I’m going to fucking kill her.” I reach for the door, planning to march out into the gym and rip out all of Becca Foster’s hair, in front of the entire aerobics class. In front of Coach Tailor. This is one of those moments when I really and truly do not give a single fuck what people think.
But Margot stops me with a hand clawing at my shoulder. Her voice is high with panic.
“Tash, please don’t do anything,” she pleads. “Please. You’ll only make it worse.”
I huff and puff murderously for a few more minutes, but deep down I know she’s probably right. It will only make things worse, and not just for me. Plus, Becca is the kind of girl who would totally pretend like her ass-ugly face is the result of my attack, then sue me for every penny I don’t have to pay for much-needed plastic surgery.
