by Michelle Tea
I stripped off Kristy’s stupid clothes. I threw them — balled up and reeking of my brief time backstage at Clown in the Box, stained with the gritty sugar drool of my BabyMuffin — onto her bedroom floor. The force of my hurl created a wind that fluttered the rows of supermodels hung by drying tape from the walls. At least that was over. No more dressing in Kristy’s clothes. Back in my room I grabbed a pair of sweats and then a pair of scissors and I went to work chopping them into new summertime shorts. It wasn’t so easy, the scissors being wicked dull and the sweatpants material being pretty good quality, actually. I’d got them for Christmas. Every winter I get a brand-new pair of sweats and every summer I chop them into shorts. So autumn, for me, is a sweatsless season. I had to cut and cut the sweats with little chops, so the end result was pretty Frankenstein. Then I did the next leg and it was equally jagged but in a totally different manner. I pulled them on and then that Weight-Watchers T-shirt. I wondered what it meant that I went to work in a T-shirt that said BABY and after work put on a T-shirt that said I’M A LOSER. In the mirror above my dresser I looked at myself. I saw my darkish hair done up in that hairdo, and I dismantled it. It was scrunchy and stiff with product. I mussed it all up hard with my finger tips, and then I came at it with the dull blades of the scissors, chopping off an inch and then another inch and then another. I didn’t have much of a plan, it was an intuitive haircutting. I chopped at it until it was too short for Kristy to strangle it into a french braid or lasso it into some Audrey Hepburnish little cupcake of hair on the top of my skull, all anchored in place with a squad of clippies. My new hair swung thickly into my face at about chin level, jagged like my sweats. I thought that perhaps at a certain angle I might resemble a young prince from a children’s book. Or, like a girl forced by the circumstances of her time to take on the appearance of a young prince in order to carry out certain adventures. My face under my hair was the same. I didn’t much love it but there’s nothing to be done about a face. Kristy of course would argue with that but we’re of different persuasions when it comes to cosmetology. My eyes are sort of squinty and my cheeks a bit chubby. I guess my nose is okay. It harbors blackheads but the shape is fine. Same with my chin. It’s not an ugly face, just kind of boring.
With my new haircut and my new sweats, I felt pretty excellent. The can of beer had finally settled and I peeled the shiny tab away and took a hearty gulp. Maybe Ma was autistic. What did I know? Maybe there’s a type of autistic hypochondria she is in the midst of. I lay on my back in my bed, crunching upward to slurp at my beer, thinking about Ma’s health and feeling an excited trembling in my stomach, an anticipation of my coming hours with Rose plus the result of eating candy and shit that had had any nutritional value boiled away into a vat of oil. I thought about Rose at her home, wherever that was, somehow funneling power into Kim Porciatti’s cellular phone, sparking it alive, juicing it up. I tried to think about people in other places who I could call, but came up empty. Supposedly my Dad was in Louisiana, but there was no point in asking Ma about it. Maybe she threw his number away or maybe he had never left it with her. There was even a chance that he didn’t actually exist, that he was some lie she’d dreamed up and placed in the muggy South. And then there was the possibility that he was dead. People who shoot drugs die all the time. It seems like they either die or they stop, and if he’d stopped, wouldn’t the first thing he’d want to do be to find his family? I sat up on my bed, in my dreamy state I knocked a slug of beer out the window. It rained down in a pissy stream, sizzling on the hot concrete below, evaporating into the day. That’s For You, Dad, I said out loud. Then I sucked the rest of the can empty and flung the tin out the window too. Thinking of Dad could get me a little sad, but the beer made me feel light, pleasant, and full, my stomach settled. I felt ready. There was a rap at my sticky bedroom door, and then the pressure of what I figured was Kristy’s physique behind it. The door opened with a sucking pop. I burped a gust of beery breath into the air.
Hey, Kristy said. She was smiling, which meant she had no idea I’d been fired. I figured I wouldn’t tell her. She got me started on the lying track, anyway. Before this whole little job scam I’d never had cause to lie and so I never had lied. I’m serious. I know it’s probably hard to believe, but when you’re allowed to do anything you want, why lie? Lies are for people who are trapped and cornered. But after I’d spent the day wildly crafting lies and counter-lies and clean-up lies, why stop?
Tell me everything, Kristy demanded. She settled onto my bed. She seemed not to notice my new hairdo, or the aura of beer in the air. Kristy seemed preoccupied. Should I go first? she asked.
Yeah, You Go First, I said. I gathered my legs beneath me. My newly shorn sweats looked like they’d been chewed by a giant pit bull. They were my new favorite shorts.
Well, she began, Mercedes is — she’s great in a way, like she tells stories all day, she’s had this crazy life but — she’s really mean.
Yeah? I asked.
Yeah, she’s not just mean, she’s, like, cruel. She just insults the girls that work there. She told this one girl, after she’d done a perm on this old lady, that — oh, I can’t even say it.
Please, I said. I had no time for Kristy’s modesty dramatics. Spare Me. What Did She Say?
She said she’d made the lady’s head look like a poodle’s twat.
Wow, I said. That’s An Image For You.
And the girls just kiss her ass. And the girls are mean too. One went back into the trash can and pulled out a fistful of hair and threw it on the ground for me to sweep back up again.
Why?
She said I missed her area when I was sweeping. She said I was ignoring her on purpose.
She Must Be Really Insecure, I said.
That’s what I think! Kristy burst brightly. Maybe Kristy was a little manic, or hadn’t eaten properly today, either. Nobody in our house ate properly. I’m just going to be wicked sweet to them, all of them, until they like me. That’s my plan. She smiled. Kristy could tolerate the weird laws of the female jungle. Be nice to girls who are jerks to you until you’re all friends. I myself tend to avoid mean people, which is probably why I’ve spent the past fourteen years of life in my bedroom and have only just today made a friend. Now you, you’ve got to tell me, how did it go? She tugged at my trusty, perfectly worn Weight Watchers tee. Wait, you cut your hair! Oh my god. Kristy brought a horrified hand to her raspberry mouth. Trisha, she said. I would have. Oh, no. She reached out and grabbed a lock, examined the up-and-down of the ends, the multiple angles. I yanked my head away.
I Like It Like This, I said. I Did It On Purpose. Somehow I thought that if Kristy believed it was a style she’d leave me alone. It Matches My Sweats. I stuck my leg out, offering her my chopped shorts for inspection.
Oh, god, Kristy groaned. Trisha, I don’t know what I’m going to do with that. What about Ohmigod! —
Well, It Was Kind Of Fucked Up, I jumped in. I Mean, That Girl Kim’s Friends All Came In And They Know Something Screwed Up Is Going On And Seriously, They Might Want To Kick My Ass —
No, Kristy interrupted, solemnly shaking her head, swinging her hair. No way, they wouldn’t do that. They’re not like that.
Right, I said. Katie Adrienzen’s Not Like That. She Went To Anger Management Classes And Now She Deals With Her Rage By Kicking Homeless People While They’re Passed Out In The Street. I’m Sure I’m Totally Safe. I pulled a smile onto my face but it was more like a grimace. Aside From Their Visit It Was Great. Bernice Said I Did A Good Job. I Made Friends With This Girl Who Works In Another Store —
What store? Kristy was excited.
I Don’t Remember, I lied.
That kind of stuff is important! Kristy chastised.
I Know, I nodded. I’ll Get Back To You On It. And, Lastly, Ma Has Autism.
Kristy cocked her head like a curious dog. Autism? Is that, like, from eating bad food?
No. It’s Sort Of Like A Form Of Retardation. But More…Interesting. Autisti
c People Can Be Really Smart, Even Geniuses.
So Ma is like a retarded genius?
Maybe.
Are you fucking with me?
Go Talk To Her About It, I shrugged. And she did. But first she went into her bedroom to grab the video camera. I grabbed my backpack and left the house.
Nineteen
At the bus stop bench across the street from Spritzie’s Spa I sat in the fading light and waited for Rose. The bus stop was a wooden bench with splinters so thick they poked through even the very nice, very thick material of my best sweats, harpooning me in the ass. Everytime I shifted I had to stand and pull a tiny wooden spear from my butt cheek. I wondered if I could get tetanus from bus stop splinters. Figured Ma would know and then decided to forget it. It would only result in Ma somehow having tetanus. I was a little embarrassed to be so early, so eager. I concentrated on looking aloof, like a loner, lost in my own deep thoughts. The world around me encouraged this by ignoring me completely. Man, what a difference it makes to not look like a giant girl. I know that any female is vulnerable to the occasional ass-flasher, but really, the amount of lousy shit I get when I walk around in Kristy’s clothes versus the relative peace and quiet when I scoot around clad in sweats is staggering. It’s like these dudes are programmed to scan for glitter or certain shades of pink, and as long as you’re wearing a trusty pair of sweats and some gender-ambiguous flops you don’t trip their radar. I leaned back against the bench, where a large ad for a real estate agent was plastered. Someone had carved Bitch across the woman’s forehead. The carving went through the plasticky ad and into the wood behind it, deep and precise, and I thought it probably took the person quite a while to complete. It took some time, a good tool, and strong hands. And a hatred for real estate agents. I ran my fingers in the grooves. A couple of little kids trotted by, their clothes deliberately swimming on them, huge pants hung low and baggy, netted sports shirts. They kept walking ’til they were out of sight. I spaced out at the blur of cars zooming by on Main Street, the bits of radio tossed from their cranked-down windows and evaporating at the curb. Then there was Rose across the street, coming out of Spritzie’s. She looked like some lost street kid who had wandered out of the house in her pajamas. The dress she wore was shapeless and gauzy and the palest blue. It looked like one of Ma’s more ragged, throwaway nighties. I watched through the strands of bang draped across my eyeballs. It for sure was her, that same weird strut, like a mean chicken. She wandered back into Spritzie’s and then wandered back out. A little electronic beep echoed in the humid street as she passed in and out of the shop. Rose! I hollered. I gave a wave from my bench, flopped my hair out of my face. She squinted and leaned forward and then trotted toward me.
Wow, man, you look totally different. She stood with her hands on her hips and stared at me. Rose looked different too. Without the hairnet plastering her hair flat and matted, it swung loose, a dark brown, thick and wavy and chopped off at the same place I’d just chopped mine. The front bits were pulled back from her face like curtains, stuck with bobby pins the color of rust. She had her eyebrows back on, delicate black arches crayoned across her forehead. Black ran in thin, wet circles around her eyes.
You cut your hair, she said, nodding. She reached out with her tiny fingers and plucked a chunk from my scalp, held it into the air for inspection. The past couple days of extreme preening with the hair had sort of messed up its texture. Hair spray and other concoctions had dried it out, it was wounded from the battery of Kristy’s heartless fingers, her pins and clamps, combs with rows of sharp little piranha teeth.
It sort of looks like mine, she commented, and gave her head a wet-dog shake. When ladies on shampoo commercials do a move like that their hair settles all layered and elegant on their shoulders. When Rose did it her hair ruffled and sank.
I Wasn’t Copying You, I said, quickly thinking that it looked like maybe I had. Like I was Single White Female-ing her or something. Trying to be her. I Couldn’t Even Tell What Your Hair Looked Like Today. ’Cause It Was All Up In That Thing.
The fucking hairnet, she said. The hairnet is evil. Customers were finding deep-fried hairs in their fry balls. There were complaints. So now we all have to wear them. She took her hand and scruffed the back of her neck with it, fluffing the hair around. Now my hair can breathe. She returned to looking at me. Just in general, you look really different, man. Like you got a twin sister you sent over. You looked like one of those Ohmigod! hos and now you hardly even look like a girl.
Those Were My Sister’s Clothes, I told her. I Was Just Wearing Them To Work. This Is What I Wear Normally. The whole story, about the lies and Kim Porciatti and my screwy family, seemed too overwhelming to tell. The thought of such a long story, with me at the center, sort of took my breath away.
Well you look better than earlier. For real.
I Wear These Exact Sweats And This Exact T-Shirt, I said proudly. And These Flops. I clapped the rubber against my heels. That’s It. I Don’t Think A Person Needs A Huge Wardrobe.
Hmmm, Rose nodded. She sat down next to me on the bench, then popped right up again. There’s Splinters, I told her, as she dug one from her rear and placed herself back down more gentle. Rose clutched in her hand the pink plastic purse I’d left behind at the Clown. Rose had crammed it full of stuff ’til you couldn’t pull the zipper shut. I saw a pack of cigarettes, a wad of dull green cash, and a Chapstick. Rose had a coating of the waxy goo across her lips. She would scrape a bit off with the tip of her tooth and chew it like a mouse. The Chapstick was cherry flavored. I smelled it in the air, along with a good, clean smell that seemed to be coming right off Rose. And the nice, leafy smell of the tree that hung above the bench. The smell of tree leaves that have been baking in the sun all day, all green stinking and pulpy.
You got beer? Rose asked. You smell like you have some.
I Drank It, I said, impressed with Rose’s nose-sleuthing. I Bummed One Off My — I paused. Who was Donnie to me? What was he? He’s Not My Anything, I said. He’s My Mom’s Boyfriend. I Don’t Know What To Call Him.
Probably “my mom’s boyfriend,” Rose nodded. I call my mom’s girlfriend “my mom’s girlfriend.” Her name is Irene.
Oh Yeah? I asked.
Yeah.
She’s The Person In Iraq?
Rose nodded. She’s in the war.
Is Your Mom Worried?
Rose nodded. They get to talk sometimes on the phone. That’s why I was psyched to get this — she tugged the phone from the purse, knocking cigarettes to the sidewalk. I took the cell from her while she scrambled around under the bench, fetching the tumbling smokes. The screen on the phone was lit up and alive, with little electronic fountains on either side shooting all the way to the top. Rose sat back up. But you can’t call Iraq with it. The plan’s not too good. It doesn’t matter, she shrugged. There’s no real phone number for Irene, anyway. She just calls when she calls. What do you think of the war?
I pulled my face away from the telephone. I thought about the war. I’d seen some of it on TV, everything a sandy color, people ducking as things exploded, crazy footage of people running. Mostly I thought of the newscasters who talked about it, the women with helmet hair and dudes like aged Ken dolls. How the dramatic music with the horns starts playing and giant words that look like metal swoop down and then there’s some image of like a flapping flag or a mean-looking eagle or something red with a tank on it. Those images that sit behind the newscaster when they yak. They say, Operation Desert Muck. Sand-Land Attack. Operation Freedumb What-What. It’s like the war was a cheesy television show I knew better than to watch. Not even Ma watched it. Ma kept the tube tuned to Dr. Phil. It was weird to think of having someone you knew in the war. It was like they were on TV but trapped inside it, the way I thought about the television when I was a kid. How I thought that all the little people on the screen were somehow caught behind the glass. Even though they didn’t seem to mind, it scared me. I wanted to smash the screen and free them. Having so
meone in the war seemed like they had gotten sucked into the television and far away to a place no one could see, the way that little girl in the Poltergeist movie did.
The War Seems Really Stupid, I said. No Offense To Irene. I Mean, My Mom’s Boyfriend Is All For It, Which Makes Me Think It’s Probably A Bad Idea. It Seems Like Everyone Who Likes It Is Kind Of The Wrong Sort Of Person. If You Know What I Mean.
Yeah, Rose said. She kept one cigarette out of the pack, and then climbed over the back of the bench and sat on the ground behind me, her feet stretched out onto the roots of the tree. The roots were busting through the sidewalk, pushing up chunks of cement like a tiny earthquake. I have to hide, she explained. I’m not supposed to smoke.
