Outcast

by Susan Oloier

  “Noelle, go and get ready.”

  As I shut the door behind me, I heard the words boyfriend and breakup. What a drama queen. No boy would ever have that kind of effect on me.

  Five

  November ushered in the holiday season. Nurseries bloomed with cadmium orange and yellow ochre. The heat quelled to the sixties and seventies, while department stores displayed decorated trees and plastic Santas.

  My ankle healed, and I no longer hobbled. Unfortunately, I limped long enough to receive the name Quasimodo, compliments of Trina & Company. I didn’t know which was worse: that or Doctor Freckle.

  In religion, I burrowed my eyes into Trina and cursed her. While sacred words flowed from the lips of the teacher, obscenities dammed in my head. I felt like a hypocrite. I wanted to inflict pain on her, but the only way to do it was to wrap Chad around my finger before she had him around hers. Except for the whole Grace liking him thing.

  Play rehearsal. I dreaded going. It was a glorified study hall. Grace—desperately wanting to belong—was part of the backstage production. She moonlighted in makeup.

  Grace slid beside me, and we watched Trina blatantly flirt with Chad on stage. She touched him a little too often, wore seductive expressions. It was sickening to watch. Grace mouthed all the words along with Trina; she could have been the understudy.

  “It’s not fair,” Grace silently uttered as Chad laid his hand on Trina’s arm. “Why is it that the people who have everything continue to get everything?”

  Chad, Trina, and Zach Peterson as Demetrius yakked away in Middle English.

  “I don’t know.”

  Trina spotted me and glared.

  “He said, ‘Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.’” Irritation rang in the syllables of her voice as she recited Demetrius’s lines, working hard to embarrass me.

  I dumped my books. “That’s my cue.”

  Chad smiled at me as I entered stage right.

  “You all right, Noelle?” Chad innocently chided as I approached. “Break a leg?”

  “Funny,” I said under my breath.

  He smiled that incredible smile again, and I found the courage to delve into the lines on my paper.

  But the memory of the smile dissolved as Chad gazed into Trina’s eyes—Lysander declaring his love for Helena. Pangs of jealousy swept over me. It was acting, but it seemed so real. Lysander’s love for Helena; Chad’s attraction to Trina. It was what it was. No amount of acting could deny that.

  My mother remained true to her word. The following Sunday, there was no escaping church.

  “Rebecca, hurry up. You’re going to make us late,” my mother bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m not going.” Becca was merely a voice from the corner of the house.

  “What do you mean you’re not going?”

  She finally appeared at the top of the staircase. She wore shorts and a spaghetti-strapped tank top; her hair was looped through a Scunci.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Change clothes and get down here this instant.”

  “No.” Becca stood defiantly with her hands on her hips.

  Scarlet rose to my mother’s cheeks as she glowered at my sister. “Don’t make me get your father.”

  “Oh, what’s he going to do? He just sits back and takes orders from you. If you think I’m going to do the same thing, you’re wrong.”

  My mother never set a foot closer to the steps. Secretly, I think she was intimidated by Becca, maybe even afraid of her.

  “I did not raise you to speak to me this way. Apologize right now.”

  “No.” Becca pivoted around and headed back to her room. I silently observed, listening in the background.

  “Rebecca, come back here.”

  She didn’t.

  “You will not defy me while you’re still living under my roof.”

  But, obviously, Becca did defy her. My mother turned away from the stairs as if the whole episode never transpired.

  “Your father’s waiting in the car. Let’s go.”

  “If Becca doesn’t have to go, why do I?”

  She answered with a single scowl. The debate was over.

  The ride to church was a silent one. My mother only said one thing: “After mass I want you to go to confession. I think it will do you some good.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it. It was one quiet ride.

  I sat inside a wooden box—like a wardrobe. Except there was no Narnia on the other side. Just Father Patrick.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been … about eight months since my last confession.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Let’s see, I … I can’t really think of any sins. My mom forced me to come today.”

  “Perhaps there’s something small that you’re overlooking.”

  “Well, I guess I’ve back-talked her a few times.”

  “That’s something.”

  “I hate some of the people at my school.”

  “Hate is a very destructive emotion.”

  Was this psychotherapy or confession?

  “Is there anything else?”

  I hesitated, remembering the damning thoughts I had about Trina: hiring a hit on her, tying her to the light rail tracks, throwing her into a tank of piranhas.

  “No, I guess that’s it.”

  “I need you to pray about your hatred. Ten Hail Marys and try to do something nice for those people who you claim to hate. It will free your heart.”

  Do something nice for Trina? Apparently, he didn’t know her. If so, he would have helped me form a diabolical plan to bring her down.

  I could do the ten Hail Marys. But as far as doing something nice for Trina, that was merely a suggestion.

  People swarmed the mall. Some cruised its three tiers, occasionally ducking into Dillards or the Museum Store. Others remained spectators along the benches or indulged in the forbidden flavors of the Godiva Chocolate shop. The line for the Harkins Theater snaked around the food court; moviegoers pushed fistfuls of popcorn into their mouths with bated breath, sucking gallons of soda through plastic straws.

  My senses felt hyper-stimulated. The smells from Panda Express, Johnny Rockets, and Bath and Body Works mixed like a witch’s brew. The sound waves carried a cacophony of laughter and voices.

  I trailed behind Grace as we made our way into Nordstrom. She shot directly toward the junior’s department like a kid at Christmas.

  She pushed drop-waist shirts and Capri pants along the rack, fishing for the right size and the perfect color. She galloped into the fitting room, her arms filled with designer labels—all the things she couldn’t afford. She embraced a horrendous pallet of stripes, paisleys, and solids.

  Since I met Grace, she’d always had a need to belong. But that desire grew stronger all the time. I didn’t understand, didn’t want to. I especially despised the fact that she wanted to be a part of the group who picked on her and made a hobby of destroying her self-esteem. And they honed in on her vulnerability, knowing she wanted their acceptance. They preyed on that, used it against her. It was yet another reason why I wanted nothing to do with any of them. And I couldn’t understand why Grace put up with it anyway. She seemed so strong back in the seventh grade, standing up to Jerry Searfus, putting him in his place. Saving me. Why couldn’t she do the same with Trina? Stand up for herself this time? See Trina for the witch she was—a creep who in many ways was no different than Jerry Searfus.

  I browsed, shifting the strange, pleated dresses from side to side. When I looked up, there she was. Trina. She glared at me, then said something to the group, and they looked collectively in my direction. They pointed, and their laughter became audible. My heart pulsed and jumped, and the crease between my eyebrows pinched into a scowl. I squeezed the fabric of a dress between my fists, pretending it was her neck.

  “What do you think of this one?” Grace inched beside me and held up a purple shirt and a full skirt w
ith a graphic print. She, too, was the source of their ridicule, and she didn’t even know it.

  “I don’t think they go together.” I continued to dwell on Trina & Company, paying little attention to Grace.

  “No kidding, Noelle. The polo’s for school. The skirt is for—whenever.”

  I watched Trina ride the escalator down to the cosmetics department, wishing it would suck her under once she reached the bottom.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” I offered. There had to be a way to get back at her for all those years of torment. There just had to.

  Six

  I marked off the minutes until the end of the school day. Being there seemed too much to handle. I needed a Trina break.

  “I don’t feel very well. I think I’m going to go home early.”

  I barely consumed the fish sticks and instant mashed potatoes on my plate. The first and only bite I took tasted like rubber bands coated with corn flakes. Feeling sick during lunch was never much of a theatrical stretch.

  “Again?”

  Grace moped pathetically, but it didn’t influence my decision. I picked up my tray, dumped the contents into the trashcan, and headed for the office.

  I pretended to call home, receiving permission from my mother. The secretary confirmed the parental approval, and I waited at the front for my ride. I sat on the grass as the cranberry Mercedes pulled up.

  “Your mother isn’t going to be too happy with me.”

  “She isn’t happy with you anyway.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Aunt P swallowed a mouthful of Beringer White Zinfandel. It was the Macaroni Grill for lunch.

  “You know, you are awfully spoiled by me. Next time, I’m taking you to McDonalds. What’s the problem this time?”

  I set my fork down. “There’s this boy.”

  She raised a curious eyebrow.

  “He’s popular.”

  “And?” She took a Cosmopolitan sip of her wine.

  “Well, you know how it was last year. Why would he be interested in someone like me?”

  “Good God! Break out the violins,” she announced to an invisible third party. “Last year was last year. This year is this year.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” I scraped the cheese from one side of my plate to the other.

  “It means you don’t exactly look like the pimple-faced girl of yesteryear.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She ignored my sarcasm and thrust ahead. “Although, you could make a little more effort.” Her eyes drifted to my chest.

  “A boob job?”

  Aunt P did nothing to mask her intolerance. “No, but a little cleavage speaks volumes.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I think he may already be interested.”

  “If he seems interested, he probably is. Men are the simplest creatures on the face of the earth. They don’t bother to mask their feelings like women do. They wear them on their sleeves for everyone to see. It can be so embarrassing.”

  For a moment, it seemed as though she traveled back to her past in the time machine of her mind. She quickly recovered with a burst of giddiness.

  “I say go for it, babe.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It never is.”

  She looked deeply into her wine, watching the Super 8 film of her past experiences unravel at the bottom of her glass.

  “Grace likes him, too.”

  “When it comes to relationships, there are often casualties, Noelle. Consider Grace one of them.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t just throw away our friendship.”

  “Friendship is overrated.”

  There was no use arguing with her.

  “Anyway, remember Trina?” I continued.

  “How can I forget?”

  “Well, she also likes Chad—that’s his name.”

  “I need to see this kid,” she swirled the wine in her glass. “He must be a real looker.”

  “Anyway, if Trina saw us together—”

  “It would be the perfect act of revenge.” She polished off her wine and beckoned the server over for another.

  I nodded, feeling guilty for even considering such an idea.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  P seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing. Didn’t she realize this was my life we were talking about? I needed an adult prospective, real insight, a bottle-feeding of advice.

  “I’m just so confused. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You asked for my input, I gave it, and you knocked it down. What more do you want from me? If you want to get back at this Trina person, then this seems like the perfect way. It can also serve a dual purpose, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” I searched my plate for better answers.

  “If you’re so against everything I say to you, why don’t you go to your mother for advice? I’m sure she’ll have an entirely different spin on things. If you’re lucky, she’ll send you to a convent.”

  Aunt P was right. She listened to me and offered realistic solutions to my problems, and I dismissed them.

  “I appreciate all the suggestions. There’s just more to it than that.”

  Aunt P suddenly seemed bored with the whole thing, but I continued anyway.

  “There’s another guy. Jake. Grace’s older brother.”

  Aunt P unleashed a cackle of pleasure, and then downed the remainder of her wine. “Two guys. How Cosmo, Noelle! You’re less like your mother than I thought.” She leaned forward in true Bette Davis fashion. “Well, now things are interesting. How old?”

  “Eighteen.”

  She grinned to herself.

  “You know, sex with him would be considered statutory rape.”

  I choked on my bread and whispered, “Who said anything about sex?”

  “Come on, Noelle. This is the twenty-first century. You’ve gone through puberty.”

  “I just think he’s cute. That’s all.”

  “Mmm hmm. What do you expect from him? Holding hands while you walk through the mall? Teenage boys want sex. There’s no way around it.”

  She must have noted the look of shock on my face because she continued. “It’s not as though I’m telling you something you wouldn’t find out for yourself later. I’m just saving you years of trouble and heartache.”

  “I just wanted someone to talk to. That’s all.”

  “Well, if that’s all you want, that’s all you’ll get. But I’ll just say this: jealously can work wonders when it comes to love.”

  She picked up the check and spoke into it. “I know you’re a sensitive person, Noelle. We’ll have to break you of that.” She almost spoke her last sentence as an aside. “But what Chad and Grace don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  I felt more confused than before my meeting with P.

  “Just consider it,” she lightly encouraged. “It’s a simple solution to all of your problems. When you need that additional advice, you know where to find me.” She glanced at her watch. “Better get you home before your mother sends out a search party.”

  As she stood to leave, she said, “By the way, I’m taking you to Chicago for winter break. Maybe that will cure you of your conscience.”

  Chicago? She didn’t even ask if I already had plans for the break. She simply assumed I would go with her. I wanted to be angry, but it was Chicago. How could I be upset with that?

  “What about mom?”

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  When I walked in the door, I was greeted with a scornful look from my mother. I felt sure she knew about my secret rendezvous with Aunt P and my skipping afternoon classes. Story lines raced through my head: Aunt P dated a German soldier and was helping me with a class project for German class. Or Aunt P took me to church and the service ran long; by the time we looked at the clock it was two forty-five.

  “A boy called.”

  She stood cross-armed with the message gripped tightly in her hand like a
found pregnancy test.

  “You know we have specific rules around here. No dating until you’re sixteen. Last time I checked, your birth certificate indicated you’re still fourteen.”

  “I’m not dating anyone.”

  “Then why does a boy have your phone number?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe for sex.” It slipped out. It was Aunt P’s influence. I never would have said it otherwise.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I was kidding.”

  “Go to your room.”

  “I said I was kidding.”

  “In this house, we do not kid about sex. Go to your room. And don’t bother coming down for dinner. Your father and I will discuss your punishment and notify you later.”

  I stood stubbornly, but didn’t move.

  “Now!”

  I turned toward the stairs, slogging upward. “At least I’m not the one actually having sex.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to Becca.”

  I walked up the stairs, not waiting for her response.

  As I moped in my bedroom, I hashed over the words of wisdom Aunt P imparted to me. I desperately wanted to get back at Trina, but I didn’t know if I cared to do it at the expense of Grace and Chad. They were innocent parties and there was something inherently wrong about playing friends like pawns. Besides, I liked Chad. He was nice. Cute. Sweet. I just could not, in any way, fall for him. The problem was, I was afraid I already had.

  I decided, for now, to wash away my hatred as though it was writing drawn in beach sand. I pulled out my journal and let my loathing for Trina vomit onto its pages.

  Grounded. Excessive, I thought. But that was my mother.

  “Noelle,” Chad chased me down in the hallway outside of homeroom.

  “Hey.” I tried to be elusive.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t call back.”

  “I’m grounded. Not allowed to use the phone.” My punishment served as the perfect excuse.

  He rushed behind me like a flood of water. “So I suppose you can’t go out this weekend?”