Dirty English

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  I snorted. If these people only knew the dirty truth about me. How weak I was. How I was dying a little bit every day in small doses. Would they look at me differently? Treat me like a pariah? Yes, my internal voice whispered.

  Shake it off and breathe, I ordered myself. I sucked in a long breath through my nose and exhaled through my mouth as I moved forward to Mr. Cairn, whom I’d privately nicknamed Mole, albeit a rather nice mole. With his gray hair and squinty eyes, he looked deceptively unassuming, but he also had keen instincts and even keener intelligence. Nothing much got past Mole. Even now, his beady gaze probed my expression, and I think maybe he could see my cracks. Automatically, my body went into beauty pageant mode, and I sashayed toward him robotically, the new sandals Mother hated clacking against the stage.

  It was time for the dog and pony show.

  Looking at me warily, Mr. Cairn politely moved aside and took a nearby seat on the stage, along with our second headmaster and various esteemed, contributing alumni who helped make BA one of the top private schools in Texas. I nodded, giving them my practiced fake smile and turned to face the audience. With the glare of the bright spotlight in my face, it was hard to see much past the first row, but I saw my parents and my best friend Mila, along with her parents.

  I also made out Drew Mansfield, my once secret crush since seventh grade—may he rot in hell for screwing me and then dumping me last year. He’d shattered my heart, and I dreaded seeing him and his crooked smile at school, day in and day out. In the cafeteria. In class. At debate.

  At least Finn was gone, his seat now unsurprisingly empty. It had always been hard for him to face me in the light of day. The night is where he reigned.

  The rest of the audience sat in darkness. Waiting.

  Watching the perfect girl.

  I’ve stood in front of the podium too long because I can see Mother glaring at me, covertly motioning with her hands for me to start. Dad’s lips have thinned, and I can see the impatience settling on his face. He probably had an important meeting at the courthouse to get to. Was that my future? To follow in his footsteps, blindly doing whatever society expected? Or would I turn out like Mother? Clawing my way to the top of the network ladder, reaching for stardom on national television.

  Is that what it took to be happy?

  The audience began murmuring, becoming antsy. After all, they expected me to deliver a rousing speech about the merits of BA, proving to them that the forty-two thousand dollars a year they paid was worth it. I couldn’t disappoint them, yet my mind went blank as I stared into that dark abyss, that giant hole of emptiness. Maybe I could have stood there all day, refusing to face my future, but it wasn’t permitted.

  I commanded myself to smile again and turn on the charm, but my body rebelled. Shit. That had never happened before. And stage fright wasn’t a possibility, not when I’d been in front of people and on display my entire life, just like Mother’s precious china. No, my body’s unwillingness to perform was entirely new. On edge, I tried again, digging deep inside the core of me, searching for the Nora they expected to see, for the girl people claimed was brilliant. Nothing. I licked my sudden dry lips, shocked by my body’s refusal to obey. Where was the girl who could win an Academy Award for her depiction of a well-adjusted person?

  I couldn’t let them see the real me, the one that was obscene and gross. They’d hate me; they’d be disgusted by me. As they say here in Texas, they’d ride me out of town on a rail.

  Panicked, I fiddled with my note cards, shuffling them around on the podium. I had to give this speech flawlessly, and if it wasn’t dazzling and worthy of the Blakely name, Mother would be mortified. She would punish me.

  I tried to smile for the third time but got nothing. Just nothing. Not even a facial tic. I began to wonder if I could move at all. I felt frozen in place, like someone had zapped me with a ray gun.

  Is this where it would all end? Was I going to break down and let this audience see my shame? God, please no. I hung my head, remembering my sins. My ruin.

  My now sweaty hands gripped the note cards as my heart pounded, so loud that I would swear the people sitting on the front row could hear the blood whooshing through my veins. They were all staring at me like I’d lost it. I had. I’d finally stepped off the razor’s edge I’d been walking for years.

  I closed my eyes and thought of Weissnichtwo, rolling the word around in my head, letting the syllables soothe me. My words always made me feel better. Only it didn’t work this time because I’d broken wide open. Like a cake that’s been baked too long, I was done.

  Finished.

  I released my note cards to the floor and watched as they fluttered down like frightened little birds, escaping at last. I raised my head and faced the audience. Clearing my throat, I leaned over the podium until my lips were right on the microphone and delivered my new opening remarks, “Fuck Briarcrest Academy, and fuck you all.”

  Finally, some of the pain and darkness that had been wrapped around my soul fell away.

  I smiled for real this time without even trying.

  It felt good to be bad.

  “I never met a girl I couldn’t say goodbye to.”

  –Leo Tate

  WHAT THE HELL just happened?

  One thing for sure, Little Miss Buttercup just blew my mind. When she’d first walked up there all prim and proper, looking like she’d just stepped out of a Gap ad, I’d expected to suffer through some boring speech about Briarcrest Academy. But, she’d surprised me. Amused, I watched the reactions of the country club audience, most with their mouths gaping open, staring at the girl who’d just dissed the elite of BA. Welcome to Highland Park, Texas, an affluent suburb of Dallas and home to conservative past Presidents and white-gloved debutantes.

  Nothing like my beloved Los Angeles, where I’d spent most of my life, first as a musician and then as a businessman. Yet, the move here was a good one. We had relatives in Dallas, a cousin or two. And supposedly, this school was the best and that’s all I wanted for Sebastian, the chances I never had.

  I checked out the girl on stage. She wasn’t a classically beautiful girl, or maybe just not the kind of pumped-up pretty I’m used to seeing at Club Vita, yet there was something compelling about her that had gotten my attention. From the moment she’d taken the stage, my eyes had followed her. Probably because she was tall and blonde and wealthy, a prime example of an American princess-type. I bet she was popular and the quarterback’s girlfriend. I bet she had a pet Chihuahua she carried around in her purse. No doubt, her parents gave her anything her heart desired. She was spoiled rotten and didn’t know shit about the real world.

  Nora Blakely was everything I avoided when it came to girls. Her kind expected love and commitments, two things I’d run away from a long time ago.

  But still I stared at her, now focused on her pouty, sexy mouth as it tilted up in a smile. Damn. I looked around guiltily, wondering where the hell that thought had sprung from. Bad, Leo. Buttercup was not sexy. A pretty piece of jail bait, definitely. And I wasn’t touching that. Ever.

  “Dude, she just said fuck,” my seventeen-year-old brother declared, grinning. “That’s what I call entertainment. Good choice on the new school, bro.”

  I smacked the back of his head. “Language, Sebastian.”

  He smirked.

  We both looked back to the stage-spectacle where Buttercup was still standing. I couldn’t seem to stop my eyes from running over her long-as-hell legs and curvy breasts and—I made myself stop right there. Why was I daydreaming about some school girl anyway? I knew plenty of girls my own age who were available. It was just too damn hot in here, that’s all. You’d think they’d have enough money to pay for better air conditioning, considering the price tag of this place. I picked at my collar and wished I was back at Club Vita. I wanted out of this suit and back in my jeans.

  Excited, Sebastian leaned forward to get a better view, whereas five minutes ago he’d been complaining about how bored he was. Now his ga
ze has lasered in on the girl like she was his prey.

  “Check her out, Leo. I mean, she’s got that smokin’ hot librarian look going on and that attitude of hers is a total turn-on,” he said, perusing her with a confident smile that was typical Sebastian. He was cocky, no doubt about that. “First day of school, she’s all mine. No one can resist the Tate charm when I crank it up.”

  I scowled, not happy with the idea of Sebastian hitting on Nora Blakely.

  We looked back at the stage and saw two faculty members and a man and woman who’d bolted up from the front row surround her. After some heated whispering and skillful maneuvering, they moved her toward the stage curtains. Nora seemed to be resisting their efforts, pulling and tugging to get away from them, but it was four against one and they were winning. I wondered what would happen to her now. Would she be denied registration or suspended before classes even started? I felt a bit sorry for her until I considered that in all likelihood, she was a brat who’d probably been pissed at someone and had wanted to spout off.

  I glanced at the program, and it said her mom was an anchor woman for the show Good Morning, Dallas. I flicked my eyes back up to the stage, this time recognizing the lady from the crowd as the star of the number one morning show in Texas. Everyone watched the show, even me. As I sat there watching the family drama play out, the mother seemed to lose her cool a little bit, her claw-like hands grabbing Nora’s arm, forcing her backstage and away from the whispering crowd.

  Yeah, I predicted a hefty school contribution on behalf of the Blakely family.

  I glanced down at Sebastian. “I didn’t pay for this school so you could screw around with girls. You’re here to play football and get good grades so you can get into a decent university. Stay away from Buttercup,” I said, pointing my finger at him.

  He chuckled. “Buttercup? Oh, man, do you have a hard-on for the smartest girl at BA?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “No, asshole. I just meant she’s got all that blonde hair…” I drifted off, gesturing up toward the now empty stage, hoping I didn’t sound as stupid as I thought I did.

  “You’re lame, dude. And too old for her,” he told me, shaking his head and wearing a grin.

  “Shut it, baby brother.”

  He just snickered quietly.

  After the open house had resumed with several heartfelt apologies from the headmaster, I looked for her. I don’t know why. But she never came back to the folding chairs that had been set up in the gymnasium. We finished getting Sebastian registered for his honor classes and received a print out of his schedule. After talking to most of his new teachers, I met with the football coach, Mr. Hanford, who told an animated Sebastian he’d be starting the season as running back. I grinned at Sebastian, damn proud.

  As we walked out of the gym, he turned to me and said, “Hey. I don’t know if I ever said thank you for moving us here, but I am.” He stared at the ground and shrugged. “You gave up a lot to be with me.”

  “I didn’t give up shit,” I said but that wasn’t exactly true. I’d given up seven years of my life, and it hadn’t always been easy. Yeah, we’d had some rough patches after our parents had died, especially that lean year before the insurance money had kicked in.

  “I wish mom and dad were here to see you,” I said, reaching out to scrub his hair. I often wondered how much he remembered about them. My fear was that he’d forget them, forget what a great family we’d been. He’d only been ten when they were murdered right outside our house.

  “Hey, let’s order in a pizza tonight and maybe pull out some old family albums? We can make fun of dad and his Hawaiian shirts,” I said, chuckling.

  He nodded and we made our way through the parking lot to my black Escalade, the first big-ticket item I’d purchased when I sold my second health club in California. As we reached it, I glanced over at the car parked next to my driver’s side. Inside a dark-blue Mercedes sat Buttercup in the backseat, her head leaning against the window. Her eyes were closed, and I found myself wondering what color they were.

  As if she sensed me, her eyes opened, and when her green ones found mine, I swear, it felt like someone hit the pause button on the universe, and she was all I could see. Within that suspended piece of time, my gaze ate her up, trying to figure out who she was and why she fascinated me. Whatever it was, I felt the crazy urge to comfort her, to smooth her hair out of her face and tell her life would get better. I wanted to see her smile again. What the hell, I thought, shoving away unexpected feelings. Since when did I care about some random girl—who wasn’t even legal?

  Thankfully, the universe resumed when Sebastian honked the horn at me to get in the car. I jerked out of my trance and turned away from her, feeling disoriented. “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered at him, opening the door and sliding in the driver’s seat. I sat there for a few seconds, not looking back at her. Because no matter the strange pull I felt for her, I was letting it go. That girl was a forbidden fruit I could never taste.

  “What were you looking at?” Sebastian asked, his head nudging toward her car.

  I shrugged, acting like it was nothing. “Nora Blakely.”

  “Damn. I wanna see her,” he said in a rush, leaning over and straining to look out my window.

  I pushed him off, maybe a bit harder than I needed to. “Dude, ease up. She’s probably been kicked out of school. Give her a break,” I said.

  He shrugged and settled back in his seat, but not before giving me an odd look. “You stared at her for a long time, bro. Like, for a whole minute.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did,” he said, arching his brow at me.

  “Huh,” I said. It hadn’t seemed that long.

  He grinned. “Usually you let the girls chase you, not the other way around.”

  “I wasn’t hitting on her. I need a run, that’s all, so I can work off some of this pent-up energy.”

  “Uh-oh, here comes Mrs. Blakely,” Sebastian said, his attention caught by the anchor woman who was marching across the parking lot, her arms swinging from side to side. Her face appeared annoyed, and her hands were clenched into fists.

  “And she’s pissed,” I said, deciding to wait a minute to crank the car.

  The lady scanned the parking lot, her eyes seeming to skim right over my tinted windshield. She strode over to Nora’s door, flung it open it and went ballistic, a flood of obscenities pouring out of her mouth as Nora slinked back further into the car. It was messed up, seeing this pretty lady that was on TV, waving her hands about like windmills as she let loose with words I’d never use on Sebastian.

  The way she stood there cursing at Nora made my blood pressure shoot up. I put my hand on the door handle when Sebastian grabbed my arm. “I know you want to rescue her, but don’t do it, bro. Don’t make it worse for her when she gets home.”

  “Fine,” I muttered, easing back from the door. But I wasn’t leaving until things calmed down.

  Right about then, the mother shut up. She slammed Nora’s door and got into the front passenger side, her face now a polite mask, like she was getting ready for the cameras to start rolling. She opened up her purse and pulled out her phone, like nothing had ever happened. I kept waiting for her to turn around, maybe check on her daughter. She didn’t.

  And I couldn’t resist glancing back at Nora, and I think . . . I think she’d never stopped looking at me.

  Chills raced up my spine.

  Sebastian said, “It’s over. Let’s go, dude.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t move. It felt wrong to leave her here.

  “Yeah,” I said, finally tearing myself away from Nora’s eyes and starting the car. Yet, before I pulled away, something completely insane possessed me, and I kissed my first two fingers and sent the kiss to the lonely girl in the back of a Mercedes.

  “My secret hobbies include people watching, composing lists, and knife throwing.”

  –Nora Blakely

  AUNT PORTIA’S HEAD popped up from behind the pastry case she was c
leaning up front. “Nora, sweetie, you want a strawberry cupcake? Or a cinnamon roll? I got plenty left over,” she sang out, trying to tempt me as I sat at a booth inside her bakery, Portia’s Pastries.

  “You trying to fatten me up?” I smiled, eyeing the distance between us, not wanting her to see what I’d written in my journal. She would be angry with me if she read my list.

  She laughed, brushing her wispy gray hair out of her face. “Just wanna make you happy, that’s all,” she said.

  I blinked at her words. Happiness. I believed few people ever achieved it.

  But my Aunt Portia has, and if you watch her, like I love to do, you would see it. Right there on her content face when she smiles or hums a song as she works. She even has this peppy little walk, like she’s doing her own version of the jitterbug as she crosses the floor.

  I asked her once when I was around fourteen why she was always happy. I mean, she’d never married and, for as long as I’d known her, she’d just been my dad’s sister, the chubby lady who ran the pastry shop where I loved to visit. She replied that happiness is simply collecting and remembering all the good moments in your life, kinda like beads on a necklace.

  The analogy struck me. That day, I worked on picturing my own moments, trying to imagine them as these pretty glass beads I’d string onto a gold chain. Yet, here’s the thing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make those beads turn out right in my head. Because my beads were vile pieces of plastic shit that no one would want to wear around their neck.

  Because I had no happy moments.

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and cringed at the young girl looking back at me, hating the deceit and secrets I saw on her face. Who was Nora Blakely?

  Teachers and tests told me I was smart. My piano instructor said I had talent. Judges said I was pretty. I must be likeable since the students at BA had elected me their class president. And then there was the packaging, carefully designed by Mother so I’d fit in with all the other Parkie girls. She didn’t want people to know what a disappointment I was, so she controlled it by making all my decisions for me. She insisted on my hair being styled by Jerry Lamonte, owner of the top salon in Dallas; she demanded I wear two-hundred-dollar knit shirts from Neiman Marcus; she even chose my accessories and makeup. She dressed me up and paraded me around like a doll.