by Susan Oloier
While Grace dreamed of celebrity, my future was more murky like one of those Rorschach ink blot images. Every time I attempted to decipher it, I came up with a different idea than the one before. Actor? Writer? Car mechanic? I didn’t know.
I dreamed my way past meticulously sculpted collections of Fairy Dusters and Cardinal Flowers on the way toward Grace’s house. When I reached the bottom of the driveway, the garage door stood open, and a bare-chested guy with toned muscles heaved boxes into the back of a Chevy Blazer. Jake! A surge of nervousness passed over me, and I froze, suddenly self-conscious of the way I looked, the way I walked, and the way I didn’t say anything at all. You’ll never be anything but Dr. Freckle, a voice chided inside my head. Her voice.
Another shirtless guy spotted me before I could cleverly duck into the bushes or use my magical powers to disappear. He was tall, extremely skinny, and in desperate need of a shirt. He definitely didn’t look good with it off.
“Hey Jake,” I heard him say as he motioned toward me.
Jake halted as he glanced up. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned his buddy. “Come on over, Noelle. We don’t bite. At least I don’t.”
I crept closer, searching for Grace.
“She’s out. Should be right back.”
Great. All alone with Jake...and this other guy. I finally reached the garage and stood in front of them with nothing to say.
“Want a Coke? Water?” Jake motioned to a metal bucket filled with ice and drinks.
I shook my head.
“You can help us load these boxes,” the friend chimed in.
“Noelle, this is Mike. You can ignore him if you want.”
I stood stupidly not knowing what to do with my hands. I looped them behind my back and stared at the grass, the sky, anywhere except at Jake. But the swell of his slender muscles hypnotized me. I felt sinful indulging in such un-Catholic-like behavior. I must have violated one or more of the Ten Commandments. Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Best Friend’s Brother was surely one of them.
“So Nole, you and Grace are friends, huh?”
“It’s Noelle, you idiot.” Jake gently slapped Mike on the back of the head while he proceeded to stack stray items into the vehicle. Mike sat on the edge of the truck, studying me. I felt uncomfortable.
“You have a lot of freckles.”
Dr. Freckle.
I covered them with my hands.
“No, they’re cool.” Mike’s thin lips opened into a smile that revealed a set of teeth too small for his face. Jake continued to move items, no longer concerned with Mike bothering me. “And such big blue eyes...”
I studied the browning fronds of the palm trees, the curve of the Blazer, the stray landscaping stones littering the driveway—anything to avoid meeting Mike’s eyes while he continued to stare. “I think I’d like a Coke now.”
“No problem.” He pushed through the bucket, not finding one. “Be right back.”
He scampered off, in search of my soft drink. As Mike entered the house, Jake emerged from it. He sat on the tailgate and patted the spot beside him. I studied that place for a moment. It was so near to him. Did I want to be that close? Maybe, so I positioned myself at his side. My neck burned with embarrassment.
“I think Mike has a crush on you.”
“When did Grace say she’d be back?” I asked to dodge the statement.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
My eyes finally met his. Neither of us looked away. Simple words failed me, so I smiled. Luckily, a car pulled into the driveway, breaking the uneasiness. It was Grace and her mom. As I hopped down to greet them, Jake said, “I’m sure you get that a lot.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to process what he was saying.
“Crushes.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.” Because I didn’t get that a lot. I didn’t get it at all. I headed toward Grace, too afraid to look back, too afraid of what Jake’s words meant.
Three
The school year trudged along. Things grew worse. Grace and I shared religion class and Sister Agnes, a short fireplug with hair who lectured from a podium at the front of the room. She draped herself in ungodly outfits. The colors, prints, and designs of the fabrics were inhuman. The geometric shapes of her blouses caused vertigo if you stared too long.
Sister Agnes had allegedly taught at Saint Sebastian’s since 1975, and she permanently resided in room 213. She was never seen outside of it, not even to go to the bathroom. No one was ever sure of the reason. Many speculated her legs were too short to make it to the other side of the school in time for the bell. Others assumed that she was a closet xenophobe. Nonetheless, the classroom housed her unending collection of wizards. They loomed in corners, reined over the windowsill, and resided in superior positions at the head of the class. Some were ceramic miniatures; others were elaborate, intricately woven dolls. No matter. I hated them.
I also hated the class. Sister Agnes droned on about the particulars of the Catholic religion. Even worse than Sister Agnes and her eccentricities was the fact that I had to sit next to Trina. Worse still, Sister Agnes forced us to pair up to brainstorm or answer questions with whomever she decided. As fate shined so brightly on me, Trina was my partner.
Loathing crawled across Trina’s face when Sister Agnes pointed at us to pair up. Most students pushed their desks head to head with their partner’s. Not Trina. She refused to address me. Instead, she worked silently by herself. I looked toward her, uncertain of what to do.
“I’ll do the evens if you do the odds,” I tried.
She looked at me like I was a used tampon.
“I’ll work on my own.”
I felt perfectly content doing my own work and letting Trina do hers. The last person in the entire school I wanted to share information with was her. However, Sister Agnes saw things a little differently.
“I don’t see a discussion taking place between the two of you.”
She hovered over us, arms crossed.
“Can I have a different partner?” Trina asked in a sickeningly sweet tone.
“No, you may not. Now push these desks together.”
She began doing it for us, while we still sat in them, until we were forced to stand and help.
Grace, at the other end of the classroom, watched.
“I’ll leave you two to expand on your thoughts and answer the questions posed on the worksheet.”
I glanced at Trina who feigned an interest in the discussion, but actually looked beyond me toward the windowsill. The wizards held her under their spell.
As Sister Agnes drifted away, Trina glowered at me. Hints of a smirk dusted the edges of her mouth.
“I’m not working with you. Got it?”
“It’s just an assignment.”
“And you’re just an outcast. And you can tell that little friend of yours to stop trying to be me.” She gestured toward Grace who happened to be staring at us with anticipation. “She gives me the creeps.” She looked me over quite severely. “You both give me the creeps.”
I paused. Should I say something? Should I not? In the end, I knew I had nothing to lose.
“What exactly do you have against us? You know, we have feelings, too.”
For a moment, she just glared. “How touching! The school losers have feelings.”
“We’re not losers,” I quietly choked.
“Wearing contact lenses doesn’t change anything.”
I wanted to say something, to tell her how much her words hurt like a knife filleting open my insides. But it would only give her more fuel, more reason to laugh.
At that moment, I hated Trina more than words could ever describe, not only because she was cruel, but also because she was right. No matter how much Grace and I altered our appearance, we would still be outcasts.
Tryouts for A Midsummer Night’s Dream were held in the auditorium after school. Trina & Company showed up. They hurled piercing glances like Chinese stars, and Grace remained clueless to it
all.
I didn’t know why I was there.
“I don’t think I’m going to audition,” I whispered to Grace, remembering the religion-class incident.
“You have to. You told me you’d come with me.”
“I am with you. I just don’t feel comfortable.” I glanced in Trina’s direction.
“I’m nervous, too,” she answered, unaware of the real meaning of my words.
“Yeah, why don’t we just picture them all in their underwear,” I jested.
“Gross, Noelle. Except for…”
Except for him. Right. But he wasn’t even there.
Truthfully, I wasn’t at all nervous. Reciting lines in front of people seemed like a mindless task. However, I’d rather have the stomach flu than share a stage with Trina or any of her witchy friends.
Turn by turn, students rattled off parts from Barefoot in the Park rather than A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Father Dodd was clearly smitten with the play.
I left my name off the list. It wasn’t wise to participate in a potentially lethal activity.
Father Dodd was the voice of the missing parts. He never used a script; all the lines were memorized.
“Chad McCormick.” Father Dodd swept the theater with his eyes. Chad made his way to the stage. “Bottom of the page. The part of Paul.”
When did he sneak in? It was as if he was Spider-Man, suddenly appearing from nowhere. I instantly became absorbed in the angles of his face and the contrast between the blizzard white of his teeth and the darkness of his hair. There was something almost mystical about him.
When it was time for Trina to audition, I watched stubbornly, secretly hoping for a Phantom of the Opera moment where the chandelier falls on the diva’s head.
“She’s so pretty,” Grace quietly remarked. “I wish I looked like her.”
“No you don’t.” I instantly severed her wish. I mean, what was she thinking?
Grace’s turn. She bumbled miserably. I felt embarrassed for her, yet glad Trina & Company had already left.
“Noelle Stark,” Father Dodd called out. “Noelle…”
“Oh no, I’m not here to audition.”
Father Dodd found me and smiled. “Then why is your name on the list?” he inquired devilishly.
I looked around the emptied auditorium. Chad stood in the back, amused.
“Mistake, I guess.” I nudged Grace with my elbow.
“Give it a try, Miss Stark. No one’s around to hear you. What’s the harm in it?”
Grace prodded me, too.
I glanced back at Chad again, then toward Father Dodd. A part of me really wanted to audition; the other part knew the danger.
I inched toward the stage.
“The part of Corey, middle of the page.”
Lines such as I was going to cook you spaghetti in a bikini and I bought a black lace nightgown spilled from my lips. Rather than feeling embarrassed, I threw myself into the part. I imagined Paul actually existed. It wasn’t hard to do since he stood in the back of the auditorium.
That night, I disappeared into my room. I raced to my desk and pulled an unused journal from the dungeon of the desk drawer. I fished out a pen to pepper the sweet-cream pages of the book with words. Aunt P bought the journal for me when she stopped over at the airport in Vancouver. Monet’s water lilies decorated the cover and the paper inside was lined.
As I wrote, the words took on the form of a James Joyce stream of consciousness. The pen spewed hateful words. It moved with life and anger, creating scenarios where Trina encountered dragons and evil trolls. The ink trapped her in twisted fairy tales: the Seven Dwarfs threw her in a Siberian labor camp, making her wait hand and foot on them; the frog prince kissed her, and her face broke out in warts that could not be treated by the finest dermatologist in the nation.
Time ran away from me and all of my homework went undone. The hatred consumed me. I enjoyed it. It made me feel like God, like I controlled Trina and made her pay for things she’d done to me. I couldn’t stop. By the time I was done, my hand ached from clutching the pen so tightly.
When I looked at the clock, it read 9:45. I had written for over an hour, and I felt exhausted. I sifted through the pages of my art book for a short time. Then I turned out the light and pushed the untouched homework out of my mind before falling asleep.
When I woke up, it was almost midnight. I needed water, so I tiptoed out of my room. My parents slept, and the house was dark. Becca’s door was closed, but a dim light escaped from the crack at the bottom. I wondered what she did in there late at night. Certainly not studying.
I crept into the kitchen for water and returned to my room. I fell asleep earlier in the night with my clothes on, so I rummaged through the closet for pajamas: an old T-shirt and shorts.
Through the thin wall of the closet, I heard her muted voice.
“Homecoming night.” Pauses infused her conversation. “Well I’m sorry, but I want to wait until then.”
The conversations with her friends, too impregnated with importance, couldn’t wait until school the next day.
“Did you get them?”
Get what? A new pair of shoes? An assortment of nail colors? I didn’t choose to listen in. All I wanted to do was sleep, but how could I when all I could hear was the mumbling of her voice through my closet wall?
“I’ll tell my parents I’m spending the night at Gloria’s.”
Another pause.
“Of course they’ll believe me.”
Lying to our parents! Thoughts raced through my mind. Maybe Becca planned to go to a college party at ASU where she’d drink and make out with every guy at the party. Or, maybe she was a spy for the Iranians, planning to exchange secret government documents for diamonds and cash.
“Me, too.”
Then she was off. I dozed off with CIA visions and thoughts of Chad McCormick in my head.
Friday. All the aspiring thespians flocked to the main bulletin board near the library. I watched as they climbed over one another like insects. Grace was fully immersed in the clambering.
Faces scattered from the area, and I drifted over. A few people remained, hoping to find their names hidden within the computer-printed letters. Grace sulked.
“Didn’t get a part?” I asked.
She shook her head, trying to hide the welling tears in her eyes.
She motioned to the list. I looked. Chad won the role of Lysander; Trina was cast as Helena. And there was my name: Noelle Stark as Hermia. The character in love with Lysander. My worst nightmare materialized.
A voice from behind breathed an almost inaudible congratulations. I turned around. It was Margaret Hosier, my long-ago friend who deserted for Trina & Company.
“Yeah, congratulations, Noelle.” Grace gave me a big hug, though there wasn’t a whole lot of feeling behind it.
“Maybe next time,” I told her.
“Yeah,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “See ya.”
When I turned back, it was as though Margaret had never been there or uttered a sound at all.
Margaret Hosier and I had been friends since the first grade. We did everything together; we saw each other through significant times as kids. We were there for each other’s birthdays, First Communion, and emergence into the preteen years. Our parents knew each other, went to movies together. They took turns having dinner parties where they played Pictionary or Trivial Pursuit. Margaret owned tons of Barbie dolls. We’d play in the dream house, camper, and sports car. Like clothing designers, we’d dress Malibu Barbie and Camping Skipper in gaudy outfits of stripes and plaids. Even Becca would take part, though mainly to make Barbie and Ken have sex. When Margaret and I grew bored, we’d sit on the stairs and spy on our parents, laughing as they mimed 90s TV shows characters in charades. They never knew we were there, or at least they pretended they didn’t.
During early elementary school we stuck to each other like adhesive. We spent weekends at the Polar Ice skating rink or at Margaret’s ho
use, telling ghost stories while we slept out in her backyard. Both of us went through an awkward period. Mine happened to last longer. Margaret grew prettier. She got contacts in sixth grade and paid for an acne miracle cure in seventh. But she always remained my friend. She never talked about being a part of Trina’s group, never expressed a desire to be popular.
When Margaret turned twelve, she was the first one in class to get her period. Girls who never knew she couldn’t make left turns on ice skates or that her cat’s name was Gemini suddenly liked her. She became an overnight success. Trina & Company inducted her into their group.
At first, Margaret fought the impulse to join, denied the instant celebrity. But, with time, it wove a spell over her. She could no longer resist. She continued to talk to me during the summer, but the slumber parties and weekends came to an end.
At the beginning of eighth grade, she still said hi to me, but I knew our friendship was over, and Grace had replaced her. I would never do to Grace what Margaret did to me. Never.
I rode the bus by myself because Grace didn’t show up. When I arrived home, I called
her.
“Where were you today?”
“Home.”
“You sick?”
“You could say that.”
She was such a drama queen. She could have used some of that ability during her audition. Anyone would have thought that she was snubbed by Hamlet or lamented murder like Lady Macbeth.
“I was worried.” I coiled the old-fashioned phone cord around my finger.
Grace said nothing.
“Sorry about today,” I said.
“I don’t care. You know me.”
I knew her all right. She was devastated. But Grace was my friend. As neurotic and crazed as she acted, she was still my friend. Plus, I owed her for what she did for me. I’d never forget it.
“I’m turning down Hermia. You know how much I hate chemistry and love potions and romance.”
Her tone suddenly changed; I knew that’s what she wanted to hear.
“Why?”
“You know I can’t work with her.”
There was a moment of silence as Grace schemed. “Noelle, you can’t quit.”
