Outcast

by Susan Oloier

  Trina strutted around the stage in the role of Corey. I watched for evidence of my design: strands of hair littering the stage like confetti, or chunks of it carpeting the floor in light shag. Everything seemed normal. I needed to be patient.

  When I turned to leave the wings, I saw Chad. I wondered how long he stood there. I had so much I wanted to say to him, but was certain he didn’t want to hear any of it.

  He recited his lines from offstage, catching my eye then releasing it like a child with an insect net. The flirtation that used to exist between us was no longer there.

  “Oh Paul darling,” Trina beckoned from the stage. Chad hesitated, then stepped toward the curtain.

  “Break a leg,” I murmured to him before he left.

  He seemed sad to hear the words he had uttered to me so many times before. Then he was gone. For a moment, I lost track of my revenge and it felt good. When it attached itself to me again, I couldn’t liberate it. It was too late.

  Grace skulked past me to make her entrance onstage. She jumped right into her role as Mother. I watched for a short time, but Trina’s hair seemed unaffected by the Nair solution. Patience. I decided to assist with the preparations for the second act. As a couple of us collected props, and others prepared for set adjustments, the production came to an abrupt halt.

  “What’s going on out there?” Dara asked.

  Christian sidled to the edge of the stage to observe. “I don’t remember that being part of the play?”

  “What?” My system got high on adrenaline as I moved to his side to watch.

  Clumps of hair littered the stage. But it wasn’t Trina’s. It was Grace’s.

  The play stalled as the devastation of what was happening registered on Grace’s face. Trina tried to stay in character, but Chad rushed to her side, leaving Paul a memory on the pages of the script.

  Father Dodd gaped from his seat. Years of hard work and dreams of reliving the production hit the stage floor as rapidly as Grace’s hair. He raced to the opposite side of the stage, badgering Les to close the curtain.

  Grace fled with handfuls of hair clutched between her fingers. Her head looked like the top of a dying palm tree as it shed its fronds. Her tears formed tracks through her makeup as they raced down her face. She pushed past me, darting for the dressing room.

  Father Dodd appeared frazzled. He questioned the collective group, asking us what happened and how this occurred. I remained silent while other members of the drama club speculated: Alopecia. Disease. Chemotherapy. Everyone talked around what the real reason for the incident was—an intentional, deliberate, and vengeful act that was meant for someone else. And that someone else once again escaped retaliation.

  How did this happen? The hair gel was meant for Trina. It was positioned at Trina’s dressing table. It was the brand of gel Trina used. To my knowledge, they never shared beauty products. Not a strand of Trina’s hair fell to the floor.

  Trina meandered backstage. She glowered at me, and a smirk alighted on her lips.

  Grace knew. Whether Trina told her or whether she pieced things together on her own, she knew. She showed up to school the following Monday on the last week of school. I spotted her in the hallway completely alone. Her head was covered in a bandana; she looked as though her weekend was comprised of tears.

  I wanted to say something, to apologize for what happened. But when she saw me, she turned away.

  Trina & Company, in turn, avoided her. They used her and received what they wanted: a single research paper and a destroyed friendship. I heard them laugh at the sight of her. Other students in the halls whispered about Grace behind her back. Some outwardly mocked her.

  “Look! She’s wearing a napkin on her head.”

  Laughs and jeers were accompanied by the words baldy and receding hairline. I even thought I heard Geek ‘N Stein escape the inner sanctum of Trina’s group. I hoped I only imagined it.

  I wanted to protect Grace from the assaults, but she didn’t want my help. I put the Nair in the hair gel. She knew nothing of the reason I did it or for whom the prank was intended. Even if she let me explain, Grace would believe what she wanted to believe. Despite our years of friendship, she would trust Trina’s words over mine. With that piercing reality, another layer of my naïveté was stripped away.

  Despite Trina’s claim that things would never change for us, they did. Only most of the changes were bad ones. The one constant in both of our lives was that, as before, we were still outcasts. However, now we experienced it alone instead of together. We had no one to buoy us, no one to draw strength from but ourselves.

  On Friday, the day before prom, I decided to help my mother move. Like me, she was virtually alone. My dad and Becca deserted her. I guess I did, too. She planned to relocate to her new apartment over the weekend. With the sale of the house, another crease was added to the pages of my life.

  In many ways my experiences seemed to mirror those of my mother. We both lost people we loved and we both were responsible for those losses. Aunt P held no sympathy for my mom. She subscribed to the cliché that my mother made her bed so she could lie in it. I wasn’t so sure.

  She and I both had made mistakes. I blamed her for a number of the things that went wrong with my life: she was too controlling, she dominated my father, she badgered my sister. Initially, I thought she should be held accountable for all the negative events that happened to our family and to me. But with each box I packed onto the truck, I realized that my mother paid dearly for her mistakes. I only hoped the price was worth her convictions.

  Between snippets of small talk, we loaded boxes into the U-Haul she rented. She mentioned that the movers she hired planned to transport the heavy items and furniture in the morning. She asked me courtesy questions about school and life at Aunt P’s house.

  “I saw Dad.”

  “Oh.” She fiddled with an open box of kitchenware.

  “His girlfriend…”

  I started to tell her about the baby, but stopped. It would have been so easy to hurt her with the news. Many times I wished to repay her for all the hurt she inflicted on me. Now that I possessed the opportunity, I couldn’t. The ache from the divorce was still new. Something in the way she stared at me told me that she still loved my dad after everything that happened. Much like I still loved Chad.

  “She’s not very bright,” I decided to dabble in small talk, too.

  Normally, my mother would have reprimanded me for criticizing someone based on a first impression. Instead, she prompted me for more information.

  “She likes tie-dye and cheap earrings. She even bought a dream catcher.”

  “I’m sorry, Noelle.”

  “It’s not your fault she’s an idiot who collects Kokopellis.”

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  “I know.”

  The crescendo of a siren undulated, and an ambulance turned onto our street, screaming past the house. It twisted onto the next road and came to an abrupt stop. Several neighbors filtered out of their homes. My mother shrugged her shoulders at me and continued to load the truck.

  I set a box of knickknacks down, tiny mementos of my life as it used to be, and followed the trickle of the crowd. I wandered down the street, but stopped abruptly when I saw the ambulance parked in front of Grace’s house.

  “What happened?” I asked as a sick feeling rose from the recesses of my stomach.

  It was Grace. No one had to tell me. I knew the ambulance was there for her.

  “The girl tried to kill herself,” a neighbor offered with a shake of the head. “I was waiting outside…”

  I walked away, not interested in hearing the details of how everything happened. I already knew how we all came to this day, a day that brought neighbors out of their homes to gawk.

  I watched the house from behind the totem of the palm tree. Only a few clouds lingered in the indigo sky. They seemed untouched by the events, which unfolded below. If anytime seemed appropriate for rain, it was this one. I summ
oned God from the edges of the clouds. I wanted Him to rain down on us and wash away the remnants of the past. I silently pleaded with Him. He pretended not to hear me, and everything stayed dry like the inner lining of a raincoat.

  Mrs. Hallaran moved around the driveway like a puppet on strings. The whole family peppered the front yard. I even thought I discerned the figure of Jake in the shadows of the chaos.

  The front door opened and two paramedics pulled a gurney outside. The Palo Verde cast a darkness over the scene and everyone looked like a silhouette. As the ambulance doors closed, the vehicle backed up and rolled out of the driveway. I should have walked over, but it was safer to remain in the shadows. Alone. Feeling nothing. After all, the whole thing was my fault.

  The hospital was compacted into a corner of the intersection. Its walls looked like cardboard foldouts that began an inward collapse.

  It was night, and the lights from the baseball stadium illuminated the block like a corona. Cheers escaped the field, becoming fugitives in the silence of the hospital.

  My mother volunteered to go inside with me, but I wanted to do it alone. A nurse pointed me in the right direction. Grace was in the emergency section of the hospital, but it was nothing like I imagined. The staff in the ER was calm. Maybe it was a slow night.

  As I rounded a corner, I saw the entire Hallaran family, including Jake. I stepped back behind the wall so they wouldn’t see me. I didn’t know why I was so afraid to approach them. I had known them for five years. I never intended to hurt Grace. Trina was the one who switched the hair gel. She was the person who caused Grace to suffer. Trina should have been lying in the emergency room. Not Grace. But the Hallarans didn’t know that. They merely listened to what Grace told them. And I was certain she told them it was my fault.

  I spent too much time hashing things over in my mind because, when I looked up, Jake was there. He looked at me, and there were hieroglyphics in his stare that I just couldn’t decode. He probably hoped he would never see me again.

  “She’s gone.”

  The tears teetered at the edge of his eyelids like bridge jumpers. He walked away, not wishing to share his grief. It was far too intimate.

  The rest of the family huddled together and cried. I felt detached like the body parts in a Picasso painting, so I left. Before returning to the car where my mother waited, I searched for a payphone. It still hadn’t registered with me. But I needed to say the words out loud before he answered the phone. Grace is gone. Grace is gone. Grace is … Grace … I needed to say it.

  “Grace is…”

  Noelle, is that you?” The sound of Chad’s voice caused me to choke on my tears. My tongue lassoed itself around my vocal cords so that I could no longer speak.

  “Noelle, are you all right?”

  “Grace is dead.”

  Speaking those three words brought the reality to life. God finally gave me the rain, the storm for which I longed. Except it wasn’t happening outside. It raged within.

  “What happened? Where are you?”

  “Scottsdale Memorial.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up the phone and struggled to keep myself together. When I turned around, my mother stood in the lobby. She looked at me, and she knew. My emotions spilled out. She took me in her arms and held me together. By the time Chad arrived, I would be gone.

  Twenty-Two

  I spent the night huddled alone in my old bedroom. All of the trinkets and books that infused the room with personality were gone. Only the bare furnishings remained in place until the arrival of the movers in the morning. Aside from the spitting noise of the sprinklers on the lawn, all was quiet.

  I draped myself over the twin bed like a wet blanket, staring at the pockets in the ceiling. I discerned shapes of animals and faces of people in the nuances of the paint, struggling to pluck out images.

  I thought about life, death, and Grace. If she was no longer here, where was she? Had she found the acceptance that she had always craved? Or was she still an outcast in the afterlife?

  One question over all the others continued to surface. Why? Why did she do it? Why did Grace take such an extreme measure? No matter how much I hated the way Trina treated us through the years, it never once occurred to me to take my life. After so many people abandoned me, I never elected to take an easy way out.

  It turns out it was a combination of over-the-counter medications and pilfered whiskey from her parents’ liquor cabinet. It stirred within her system too long. People said that if it would have been caught sooner, the hospital staff could have poured a charcoal concoction down her throat or pumped her stomach. She would have survived. I thought that if I’d been a better friend to her, she also would have survived.

  As I held vigil over Grace’s memory that night, I tried not to be angry with her. It was difficult. Though our friendship had been strained, if not completely broken, I still cared about her and never wished for things to unfold the way they did.

  I filled my night of insomnia with tearful memories.

  Grace’s funeral was scheduled the day after the senior prom, prior to graduation. The school considered postponing it all, but in the end the dates remained. Graduation itself seemed to hold little appeal for Grace. But she would have done anything to go to the prom. I envisioned the gown she would have chosen. It definitely would have been purple, probably metallic, and strapless.

  It was hard to believe she was no longer here: walking around, talking, breathing, longing for acceptance. There was little difference between the humiliation that she and I felt, but there was enormous disparity in how we handled it. It was one thing when Grace shared her status as an outcast with me. But alone, she crumbled. When everyone appeared to be against her, including me, she couldn’t handle it. I should have been there for her even though she wasn’t there for me.

  Grace betrayed me. But I betrayed her, too. We were mutual culprits in the destruction of our friendship. Though Trina was a catalyst for its demise, Grace and I were the responsible parties. We allowed Trina to come between us. I always knew Trina dominated Grace’s actions and behavior. What I never noticed was that she consumed my life, as well. Somehow I permitted Trina to be a strong force in my life without ever realizing it. She wasn’t what came between Grace and me. Between Chad and me. My hatred for her was.

  I decided to go to the prom by myself as a tribute to Grace as well as an homage to myself. This time there’d be no fancy dress, no elaborate makeup, and no expensive hairstyle. I would leave the masks, smoke screens, and false fronts at home. It would be just me. It no longer mattered what other people thought. All that mattered was how I felt about myself.

  The gymnasium was decorated in a tropical theme. Artificial palm trees and Hawaiian flowers masked the gray, stone walls and metal bleachers. Everyone was dressed in sequined gowns and tailored suits. Everyone except me. My trip to the prom seemed like a lame attempt at redemption. The partygoers carried on as though nothing happened. Grace’s death had no effect on them. People continued to laugh, dance, and hold superficial conversations. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs Someone just died! How can you be having fun?

  Grace was dead. I kept repeating it in my head. Grace is dead. Grace is dead. I closed my eyes, hoping to press the tears back into place before they slid down my face. Tomorrow, the funeral. Today, the prom.

  I leaned against the pillar of the basketball hoop trying to remember Grace without tearing up. I thought of the time that she stormed off to the bathroom at Homecoming because of Trina’s cruel comments. I remembered her uninhibited optimism for each school year when I dreaded going back. And, of course, I remembered how we met—through her act of bravery. Somewhere along the way, she lost it. I wished I had been a better friend to her and encouraged her rather than squelched her enthusiasm.

  “Noelle?” A voice called me back to reality.

  It was Henry. He wore a black jacket and nice-fitting pants, and his hair was slicked back fifties-style. He
looked vintage—stylish. And I’d never noticed how pretty his blue eyes were before. Grace had seen the potential in him way before anyone else did.

  “I’m sorry. I almost didn’t come tonight, but…” he stopped, choking on his tears.

  I waved away any explanation he hoped to offer.

  After a moment of awkward silence he asked, “You want to dance?”

  “I don’t know.” I motioned to my jeans and T-shirt.

  “Who cares,” he offered.

  I willed away the tears again. “You’re right. Who cares?”

  I followed Henry to the dance floor. This time, Trina & Company looked away.

  “This is for you, Grace. This is for us.”

  Henry pulled back. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The funeral was held at Saint Sebastian’s church, and the burial at the Chaparral Cemetery. Very few people showed up to either one. Grace’s family shrouded themselves in shades of black. Jake hid behind his sunglasses. Mr. Hallaran’s fellow police officers attended, as well as several teachers and students. Henry and Chad were there in addition to a few other seniors who I only recognized by sight. I loomed in the background, not wishing to cause any more pain than I already had.

  When the service ended, Henry approached me.

  “I don’t think she would have liked it,” he offered. “Too much black.”

  “She always liked purple,” I added.

  “I know.”

  Without invitation, Henry wrapped his arms awkwardly around my neck. I hugged him back.

  “After graduation, let’s keep in touch,” Henry said.

  “People always say that, but they never do.”

  “We will.” He sounded confident.

  Chad inched toward us. The exchange of glances spoke all the words we had been unable to communicate. We were both sorry for the way everything turned out, but there was nothing we could do to change the outcome. All we could do was move forward.