by Lisa Lim
I surveyed the school hallway for my posse and spotted Monica in the crowd. We gave each other the standard fist bumps and Monica tilted her chin. “Quien es tu pappi?”
Translation: Who’s your daddy?
I replied, “Yo soy tu pappi.”
Translation: I’m your daddy.
Monica is my Spanish tutor. In order to prep myself for the competitive job market and to gain a better perspective of the world, I’ve decided that I need to be bi-lingual. But so far, all I’ve learned is, “Quien es tu pappi . . . yo soy tu pappi.” Which would only be useful in the barrio. Or in a bordello.
The Lick-a-Like twins, Kylie and Keira, slithered past and stuck out their tongues, like lizards.
We cringed. This school is teeming with wannabe lezzers. Honestly, I have nothing against the real lesbians, the Shilohs of the world, or the girls who wear lots of plaid and flannel. But Kylie and Keira are just posers, mean girls, and they have this sense of entitlement that really irks me. Their power is the status quo and they’re the reason high school is deemed the prime suffering years. In short, they are prized bitches. Hateful bitches.
Anyway, where was I before I so rudely interrupted myself?
Oh yeah, and did I mention they were posers?
After the whole Britney and Madonna kissing brouhaha at the MTV music video awards, followed by Sandra B. and Scar Jo locking lips at the Oscars, Kylie and Keira announced that they were ‘lesbians.’ Which didn’t really jive with me since they publicly kept jock boyfriends on the side. But it worked! The twins’ popularity skyrocketed, reaching a zenith.
One of the evil twins stared at my nose and screeched, “HELLO KITTY MUST DIE!”
Then they carried on with their business, spewing hate dust everywhere.
I was surprised when Monica agreed with our archenemies. “What’s up with your Hello Kitty Band-Aid? How old are you? Five? And how come Hello Kitty doesn’t have a mouth?”
“Hello?” I did a zig-zag-finger-snap. “Hello Kitty does not have a mouth because Hello Kitty speaks from her heart. She is Sanrio’s reigning ambassador to the world and she isn’t bound to one language.”
Monica made a cuckoo sign at me.
My first class was English with Mr. Turner.
“Everybody listen up,” Mister T. called our attention, “today, we’re going have some fun with Shakespeare. For this exercise, I’d like you all to hurl Shakespearean insults at one another.”
Turning to face Monica, I addressed her in a frou-frou voice, “O’ how darest thou leave me hangeth! Gird thy loins, drink thee from a poison challis, clean thine waxy ears and grow unsightly warts, thou errant boil-brained barnacle.”
Monica fired back, “Forsooth say I, be those panties or pantaloons? Trip on thy sword, rip thy pansy pantaloons, swim with leeches and sit thee on a spit of blood, thou artless beetle-headed clotpole!”
“Phui! I say. What wanton debauchery!” Sun Li exclaimed, puffing out her chest. “At the King’s behest, I shall see thee hang’d! Thou treasonous, bawdy, besluberring flax wench.”
Zahara raised an imaginary sword. “Thou dost intrude. Get thee gone! Thou goatish, gorbellied, wayward flap-mouthed, fat-kidneyed maggot pie.”
Phwoar! Kiss my codpiece! Who knew Shakespeare could be so entertaining?
The cafeteria was utter chaos and mayhem. It was so loud—the cacophony of noise, the piercing chatter, the abrasive clatter of silverware and utensils. Truly deafening! I carried my tray to my usual table and sat down across from Monica. Sinking my teeth into a piece of chicken fried steak, I pulled a face. “YECH! This tastes like cat food.”
“How do you know?” Monica chomped down on her burger. “Have you ever tasted cat food?”
Sun Li singsonged, “I have.”
We stared at her, unblinking.
“It tastes like tuna,” Sun Li patiently explained.
Zahara gagged. “No wonder you smell like sushi all the time.”
At the mere mention of the word ‘sushi,’ the Lick-a-Like twins visibly perked up like a pair of blind lesbians lost in a Bengali fish market and leered at us from the next table. One of the twins, I was unable to ascertain if it was Kylie or Keira, but it was the twin with the larger Adam’s apple, sneered, “Oh, if it isn’t the Jolie-Pitt gang. The orphaned, adopted kids from third world countries.”
I cast a pitiful glance at their table and addressed her Adam’s apple calmly. “It could just be my trite observation, but your Adam’s apple seems to pop out even further when you’re being mean.”
“Watch what you say to my sister,” the other twin snapped. “If you’re not careful, I’ll punch you in the face, Maddox!”
“No need to get physical, Keira,” Monica said, regarding her glacially. “We’re all civilized adults here. I must say, though, it’s unfortunate that you’re here today; I believe you’re depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.”
Sun Li flipped her hair. “What village?”
Keira pointed an accusing finger at Sun Li. “Well there’s your idiot savant!”
“Leave Sun Li out of this!” Zahara’s voice rose. “Oh by the way, what do you call an Irish wannabe lezzie?” Zahara directed her piercing gaze at the Lick-a-Like twins and blurted, “A poser lezzie who can’t speak Gaylick!”
Rendered speechless, the Lick-a-Like twins glared at us with blistering scorn, much too stunned to retaliate.
Hah! Take that! And that! Bwarhahaha. Zahara had dealt a withering blow and impaled her unsuspecting foes!
I was down in my basement bunker, chillaxin with the A Team and a decade’s supply of food. Like most Mormons in this town, my dad insists on stockpiling food, and we have huge bags of grains and cans of beans stacked from floor to ceiling.
Using a bag of loose oats as a beanbag, Zahara commented, “Today, someone called me and Sun Li the Blasians. I guess ‘cause we’re black and Asian.”
Monica piped in, “Well, whenever Sun Li and I hang out, people call us Hispasians. And Hispanic is not even a race! Anyway, I’m from Puerto Rico and we come in every shade of the rainbow.”
“Oh!” Sun Lin exclaimed. “I had no idea you weren’t an American citizen.”
God. Sun Li can be so vapid at times.
Monica rolled her eyes. “Puerto Ricans are American citizens.”
“So . . .” I dragged a sack of Thai Jasmine rice over and plopped down next to Zahara. “What would that make me and Zahara?”
Monica considered this for a bit and replied, “Um, since your mom is Asian and your dad is Russian, I guess that would make the two of you Black Raisins?”
Moments later, I popped a DVD into the player and the Blasians, Hispasians and Black Raisins watched Twilight for the gazillionth time. Yes. We are Twi-hards.
Monica drooled, “Ohhhhh. I am so in lurve with RPattz.”
“Not me,” I fiercely protested. “Team Jacob all the way babe. And don’t you think RPattz looks like Butthead from Beavis and Butthead?”
The A Team clobbered me with packets of Military MREs.
“I take that back. I take that back,” I cried, half-laughing. “For I am The Great Cornholio. I need TP for my bunghole.”
Ding Dong
Saved by the bell.
Hastily, I made my escape and clambered up the stairs.
Throwing open the front door, my world came to a complete standstill.
Standing before me was a Taylor Lautner double; he was wolflicious in a nerdy sort of way. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the howl of the wolves.
As I drank in that perfect face, the white button down shirt, the black slacks and the black tie, the right part of my brain was screaming, “MORMON MISSIONARY!”
At the same time, the left part of my brain was suffering from a serious case of Taylor Lautner fever. This was not your run of the mill fever; this was full out dengue fever! I could feel my skin prickling and I’m quite certain my entire body broke out in red rashes.
Mosquito Missionary Man (the source
of my dengue fever) said in a distinctly British accent, “Hi, I’m Gabe.”
British accent? Sah-wooooooooon.
My heart went Bong Bong Bong like Big Ben. The clock.
Then he gestured to the pimply faced boy next to him. “And this is Elder Nigel.”
Elder? I’ve never understood why ze Mormons call each other “elder.” I’m pretty sure they can’t be the oldest in their community.
I tried to speak but my mouth had gone bone dry.
“We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Do you mind if we come in to share a brief message?” Gabe asked serenely.
In a hazy daze, I nodded.
They plodded in with their black backpacks and bicycle helmets, like the Messiahs that they were.
After planting themselves on the sofa, Gabe said a short prayer. Then he gabbed on and on about Jesus Christ and God’s plan for us, punctuated with by the use of scriptures from both the Bible and The Book of Mormon.
It was all gobbledygook and gibberish to me. I was in a complete trance.
All I saw was Taylor hair.
Taylor eyes.
Taylor lips.
GAK! Tay Tay was in my house!
Minutes later, the A Team trudged up the stairs and flounced into the living room. Zahara took one look at Gabe and howled like a wolf. “It’s Jacob Black!”
Monica fibbed, “Quien es tu pappi ? Donde estas corazon?”
Gabe and Nigel rose ceremoniously to their feet and introduced themselves in a very formal manner. Nigel actually said he was ‘enchanted’ to meet them. Enchanted? ENCHANTED? Who says that?
The A Team just ogled like a bunch of groupies.
Five minutes later . . .
And ogled. At Gabe of course, not at Enchanted Nigel.
How shameless! Where was their pride? Have they no dignity?
Half an hour later . . .
The Messiahs hopped on their bicycles and rode off into the orange sunset, silhouetted against the red and yellow glows, like Chariots of Fire.
I hasten to add, before Gabe departed, he asked if he could see me again.
Bursting with joy, I almost leapt in the air. I must have swept Gabe away with my womanly charms. Hah! I am a man magnet. And he wanted my digits!
Well, actually, what he said was, “When can I share the Word of Jesus Christ with you again?”
“Worrrrd,” I said coolly and all thug-like. “Jesus is da man. Come by anytime. What about tomorrow?” I asked flippantly, in a non-eager, non-desperado manner.
Gabe whipped out a notebook and scribbled something down. Glancing up, a smile spread over his angelic face. “We’ll be back.”
“Hasta la vista,” I muttered under my breath.
After the A Team had slouched off home, Mom emerged from her ‘office.’ Mom works at home for Jet Blue, which means she sits in front of her PC, in her bedroom, wearing Pajama Jeans, fluffing and folding laundry, talking to folks on the phone. She books tickets, handles cancellations . . . um something like that.
“Wassup mammochka?”
Mom asked, “How was school?”
“Good. I’m thinking of joining the Mormon Tabernacle choir.” Then I displayed my amazing soprano tenor. Puffing out my chest, I busted out Ave Maria, Plácido Domingo style.
Mom simply chose to ignore my aria. She headed for the fridge and started preparing a margarita. “Honey,” she said absently, “what do you get when you play the Mormon Tabernacle Choir records backwards?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The Satanic Verses?”
Mom raised her margarita glass. “One thousand different recipes for non-alcoholic margaritas.”
“Is that a virgin margarita? Can I have a sip?” I asked, eyeing her bright amber drink.
“Of course not, but I can make you a Mormon Tequila Sunrise.”
“What’s that?”
“Coming right up,” Mom tinkled gaily.
Five minutes later, she handed me a cocktail glass. Sipping tentatively, I said, “It lacks a certain panache. Is this Kool-Aid?”
“Not just Kool-Aid. It’s Kool-Aid and orange juice. And there’s some sour gummy worms in the bottom.”
I drained my glass to the last drop and chewed up the gummy worms. “Seriously Mom, I’m going to join their choir. It’s my calling.”
She lifted an inquiring brow. “Which Mormon boy is it this time?”
Mothers . . . Pssh! They think they know us so well.
I promptly changed the subject. “What’s for dinner?”
Mom yanked open the freezer, pulled out a loaf of bread and slammed the door with deliberate force. Plopping the rock hard loaf onto the kitchen counter, she exclaimed, “Sandwiches! We’ve got fresh bread.”
After my dinner of stale bread and deli meat, I retired to my room. Firing up my laptop, I ripped open a bag of pretzels and searched for Gabe on Facebook.
Gosh. I felt like a stalker.
A Mormon stalker.
What is wrong with me?
Snacking on pretzels, I began scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed.
Suddenly, I stopped and gawped. My Aunt Marla was giving a blow-by-blow account of my cousin Jessica’s delivery of her baby.
This was posted on my Facebook newsfeed:
Yay! Woo Hoo! We’re all so excited! Jessica is dilated to almost three centimeters.
Now she’s four centimeters and fifty percent effaced.
Now she’s six centimeters.
Now she’s ten centimeters and getting ready to push.
Here we go!
WOW. Isn’t that just a blessing?
I practically choked on a pretzel. TMI!
Um, no it’s NOT a blessing. I did a George W., i.e., choked on a pretzel and almost died.
A self-administered Heimlich saved my life.
End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview?
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An exceprt from Fourteen Days Later by Sibel Hodge
Chapter 1
‘Fourteen days,’ said Ayshe. ‘That’s all it takes to change your life for the better.’
‘You are joking, right?’ I arched an eyebrow. ‘Nobody can change their life in fourteen days.’
‘That’s not what it says in here.’ Ayshe held up the magazine she’d been flicking through, her finger underlining one of the articles.
‘“Orgasms or Chocolate? What do women really want?”’ I read the headline aloud.
‘What?’ Ayshe looked at the magazine and adjusted her finger. ‘Not that. This. “Turn Your Life Around. The Simple Fourteen Day Plan Anyone Can Do”.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Tucking my legs underneath me on the sofa, I picked at my frayed jogging bottoms.
‘No, what’s ridiculous is you still moping about over Justin. It’s been six months since you split up with him. You need to move on with your life.’ She rose from her chair and flounced down next to me, resting her arm on my knees.
I wriggled away from her. ‘I’m having another iced coffee; want one?’
‘It’s too cold for iced coffee. It’s the middle of November for God’s sake,’ she called out as I clattered around in the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d promised to cut down on your caffeine intake.’
When I returned, I sank down onto the sofa. ‘I still haven’t managed to get a plumber out to fix the dishwasher. Either they don’t turn up when they say they will, or they won’t come out for anything less than a total bathroom refurb.’
Ayshe watched me in silence.
I sat it out for a while, her steady gaze drilling into me. ‘What?’
‘Trying to change the subject isn’t going to work. You can’t avoid this much longer.’
‘I’m not, it’s true. You can never get hold of a plumber these–’
She clamped her hand over my mouth. ‘You need to go out and do things – and don’t give me that rubbish about you’ll never meet another man – he was the right one – he was the
love of your life. I know four years together is a long time, but everybody always says that when they split up with people. You will get over him, but not if you keep refusing to move on with your life.’ She pushed me on the leg.
I wasn’t expecting the jolt and spilt my coffee all down my attractive jogging bottoms.
My thoughts drifted back to the time I’d discovered a size sixteen Agent Provocateur thong stuffed into the pocket of Justin’s best work trousers during the usual laundry run. I was pretty sure his company hadn’t suddenly changed their dress-code. I mean, smart trousers, shirt, and thong, wouldn’t sound too good in the staff handbook. I was also sure he couldn’t have picked it up innocently – as he’d told me – because he needed to dust the photocopier and thought it was a rag. And I knew it wasn’t mine because I’d never really fancied a piece of dental floss chafing my bits and bobs.
She lifted her hand away from my mouth.
‘So what else does it say then, this article?’ I feigned interest, rubbing at the coffee stain with my hand.
‘It’s about trying to get more interests in your life if you’re stuck in a rut. It was written by one of those new trendy life coaches who try and get you to organize your life better. Apparently, you have to set yourself challenges to have a brand new experience every day for fourteen days, to gain more confidence; something to do with re-evaluating things and re-balancing your yin and yang – or your Hong Kong Fuey – or whatever it is.’
I snorted. She ignored me and ploughed on regardless.
‘The more things you do, the more confidence you gain, and you become a more focused and better person. You need to be more proactive with your life, and I think this is just what you need.’
I heaved a dramatic sigh.
‘It’s not just about meeting a man. It’s about changing your perspective. Come on, what is there to lose? Worst case scenario, you might discover things that you never knew before, or find something new that you like doing. Best case scenario…’ She shrugged. ‘You might meet “the one”.’
