Leighatard (Get it? She hates that.)

There was a howling, an anguished unearthly wailing, coming from across the hall that sent me scurrying toward her door. The closet was slightly ajar, leaving strips of light across the otherwise darkened room. I absentmindedly patted the head of the worried dog as I made my way to the bed. She was curled in a tight ball around her pillow, her thin back shaking with the effort to control the shrieks that escaped between clenched teeth.

I sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair back from her face. “What’s wrong, honey...what’s going on?”

“I...can’t...c-c-c-can’t do it!” Her wailing got louder and she writhed in place as if in physical pain.

After a few minutes of petting and coaxing, I managed to figure out the source of the problem – that damn boy. Their relationship had been rocky for several months and he’d broken up with her a week before this meltdown. She seemed fine for awhile; she even turned him down when he came crawling back a day later. He wasn’t what she needed in her life, she said, his path was filled with trouble. And I wholeheartedly agreed.

As I watched my little sister’s heart break over a two year relationship I thanked God, or whoever was listening, that no man had ever broken me down that way. Not that I would even let them, I silently added. I held her, rocked her, told her everything was going to be ok, and finally left her when she was quiet and calm.

She had a few more episodes just like that over the following weeks. I became less patient, less kind, and more irritated with each one. During the last, I informed her that if she woke me with that noise again, I would punch her in the ovaries. I have a startlingly low threshold for handing out sympathy, though I often demand plenty of it from others.

We are polar opposites, my sister and I. Dark versus fair, common sense versus book smarts, earnest versus lackadaisical, right versus wrong,(though the lines on that last one are blurring more as she gets older) fire versus ice – she’s blazing a path, and I’m perpetually frozen.

I admit, she’s everything I wanted to be in high school – pretty, popular, thin, captain of the cheerleading squad (though that was a brief wish, and only in the darkest of hours), driven. She’s never once let me forget, be it intentional or not, that I was then, and am now, everything she aspires not to be. First – a nerdy, unpopular kid that started smoking and drinking to be cool. Now - a single parent, living at home, with no degree.

On my worst days I am bitter for all the opportunity she has laid out in front of her, all the positive attention she receives from our family, and all the scars I bear that she doesn’t. But on my good days, which I’m glad to say are more frequent, I’m proud of her, encouraging of her success, and thankful she wasn’t raised by the same parents. Besides, what aspiring writer isn’t tortured by their own bad choices, the choices of others, or in my case – both? My parents made this prolific bed, but I turned down the covers, fluffed the pillows, and crawled right in. (That smells like a book dedication...)

I also admit she’s everything I despise, and have always attempted to set myself apart from. Shallow, emotional, too accommodating...perfect. As much as I wanted what she had, I didn’t. I suppose the truth of the matter is that we both think we’re better than the other. I make fun of her reading; she makes fun of my clothes. I make fun of her enormous nostrils; she makes fun of my frizzy hair. I make fun of her spelling ability; she makes fun of my blogging.

She was a quiet, sensitive child and against all odds, a daddy’s girl. Why he decided to handle her with kid gloves, I’ll never really know. My mother had the same sensitive personality and he treated her terribly. Whatever the reason, she was spoiled and petted and nurtured into the smart, entitled young woman she is today.

I love my sister, but sometimes I feel as if we’re next door neighbors – waving to each other across the fence and wondering if one or the other is responsible for our missing Sunday papers, never exchanging more than is absolutely necessary. We’re only seven years apart, but sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Our relationship has improved in some ways, gotten worse in others. I keep waiting for that day when we’re old enough to be best friends – I want it (when I’m not imagining punching her), but I don’t think she does. Maybe it’s just her age, maybe one day she’ll want it too.

Each milestone she reaches is a bit of a shock for me, though that may be because they all started happening at once. The first time she got in trouble at school, had sex, did something incredibly stupid and dangerous and laughed about it, got drunk, had her heart broken, applied to colleges – all of that and more crammed into less than two years time. And I think I’ve struggled with it more than she has, more than our own mother.

She just turned 18 last week and she graduates in less than a year. I wonder if, when she leaves, I’ll be the one curled up in the bed wailing with a broken heart. I wonder if I’ll regret not walking across that hall to comfort her more often – for letting bitterness and jealousy shape a large portion of our relationship.

I wonder if she’ll call me – just to talk. Or if she’ll be like me at that age – walking out the door and never looking back until it was absolutely necessary. What bothers me and makes me happy all at once, is that I know, for her, it’ll likely never be necessary.

Suddenly I’m the sensitive one.

The VIP section

Several years ago I was in a gas station, minding my business, buying a forty and a pack of cigars. (Or maybe it was a pack of sour gummy worms and a Mountain Dew...whatever you need to tell yourself.)

I had the classic stoner (gummy worm addict) look going on – frizzy hair piled into a disheveled bird’s nest on top of my head, big sunglasses covering red eyes, and a t-shirt with a fraying decal on the back of a naked man and woman running under big letters spelling “Carolina Streaker”. Real jizz in your pants kind of stuff.

I paid for my contraband, went out the door and back to my car. I was smoking a cigarette and staring at the front of a huge black bus when I reached for my drink and realized it wasn’t there. Cussing, I got out and headed back toward the gas station. But as I reached for the door handle, someone yelled and I glanced back.

WHAM!

I collided with a man coming out the door, dropped my cigarette, and, if my muddled memory serves, shouted “Fucking Christ”. He apologized and grudgingly so did I, still looking down and brushing the ashes off my pants leg. Then we did the dance. You know the one? Left, left, right, right, sorry, sorry, left, left, right, right, pause, um ok, I’m going to go this way while you...no I said this way...ok...goddamn it, just be still!

The whole thing probably only took 10 seconds, but in my memory it slows down to a crawl. I suppose it’s my subconscious way of torture. Because during that last pause, before we went our separate ways, I finally looked him full in the face and noticed...

I’d been door dancing with Edwin McCain. Cue open mouthed shock and staring at suddenly VERY visible side of black bus with his name in GIANT letters and, oh yeah, his FACE on it. *slow clap*

That was my first disastrous brush with a celebrity. I mean, unless you want to count the time before that when I got so drunk I made out with a guy in a bar because I thought he was the front man from that band. You know the one? With the tattoos and spiky hair? And the ripped arms and holey pants? That guy.

And maybe also a girl that looked exactly like Kerri Russell. If Kerri Russell wore fishnets and rubbed her nipples suggestively in bars, which I’m sure she doesn’t. Not classy, fake Kerri Russell.

Oh, wait, and there was that time two years ago when my favorite band in the entire world, Ludo, was playing at a local tavern. It was a small place that my best friend and I frequented so I was positive I’d finally get to meet their lead singer Andrew Volpe. I’d already gotten two of the members to sign a CD at their last show, but somehow I missed him. And don’t get me wrong, I love them all, but Andrew Volpe makes my nipples hard.

Anyway, while waiting for the first few bands to play I got epically hammered and left for a quickie with the fireman because he lived in an apartment right next to the bar. All I remember about that was showing up, bouncing around on top of him and laughing for what I thought was about 15 minutes but turned out to be a lot longer, and hauling ass out the door still pulling on clothes and screaming, “I’m gonna miss Ludo!”

By the time I got back they were almost through with their set. I wrapped my arms around a wooden post between the stage and the bar and sang along with my favorite song and one other and it was over. A little while after they packed up, Rachel had to pry my grasp open and half carry my ass out the back door. And while she was helping me stumble across the parking lot I was shouting, “FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO! WOOOOO! YEAH!”

“Hey...you know they’re standing RIGHT there”, she said, embarrassed and irritated I’m sure.

“FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO!”

There they were, Andrew Volpe and the lot of them, standing in a group outside by themselves loading up and witnessing my embarrassing drunken display. Rachel knew better than to take me over there and hurried us to the car.

So apparently I’m terrible with celebrities. So terrible, in fact, that when my stepsister Jess told me we’d gotten VIP passes to meet Kendra Wilkinson and sit in the holy grail of club seating, I was a tad nervous.

Every summer, while I’m vacationing in Oklahoma, we go out drinking and dancing at least one night. This year I spent almost the entire week ping-ponging between my bed and the pool so I was happy when she finally said, “Friday night we’re going out”.

Friday afternoon we went to a movie and then did a little browsing for shoes or maybe a new shirt to wear out that night. I was relaxed, full of Chili’s chicken crispers, and aimlessly wandering the aisles flicking through racks, when I heard Jess talking excitedly on the phone. I made my way over to her just as she was hanging up.

“My friend got us VIP passes in to hang out with Kendra Wilkinson tonight, but we’ve got to dress up and wear something with pink in it.”

My first reaction was excitement - Holy shit! VIP? Really? That’s fucking awesome! Ooooh, Dave is gonna be so jealous when I tell him I met her! Go Kendra! Go Kendra!

My second reaction was panic - Wait? Dress up? Ohmygawd, I’ve got nothing to wear to a VIP party! I have no clothes! Nothing pink! SHIT! Wait...all of the girls there are going to be a size two with gigantic fake breasts and wearing pink see-through Band-Aid with built in herpes repellent! I don’t know if I want to do this.

In reality, I had a suitcase with six and a half dresses shoved in among the t-shirts and shorts that say COCKS across the chest or ass, and a firm grasp on how to avoid anything herpes related. (What? It’s a college sports team. Scouts honor.) I say six and a half because one was actually a skirt that I briefly considered turning into a strapless dress in the event that I wanted the natives to see how tan my ass cheeks have gotten this year. (For the record, I now have the ass cheeks of a Mexican. Just like my boobs. Ole motherfuckers.)

We spent the next few hours frantically trying on dresses and shoes. I suppose it was a bit more frantic on my end because I’d found the most beautiful bright blue stilettos that I was sure I couldn’t live without...yet also sure there was no way I’d manage to pair them with anything pink without looking like Malibu Barbie – the cracked out version. Somehow knowing that didn’t stop me from trying anyway.

In the end Jess threatened to leave me there, so I settled on buying two pairs of the same stilettos – one in black, one in silver – and waved a longing goodbye to their shiny blue sisters. I found a strapless dress with a tight teal bodice and a flowy skirt with swirls of different colors, including pink. It was a bit louder than my usual style. I’ve always been a bit of a solid colors, straight lines, lot of black type of girl. But it was crunch time and everyone else seemed to think it was perfect. (Or they were tired of my bitching and I actually looked like an over tropical, special needs tourist.)

We got ready at Jess’s house in record time, just taking quick showers and retouching makeup. I threw some mousse in my hair and decided to just let the afro go. By then I was less anxious and more resolved. I wasn’t going to suddenly get better looking. Best to just say fuck it and drink a lot.

We got to the club around 10:30, sat down in a booth and had a few drinks before making our way to the VIP area. And it was insane.

The tiny section was surrounded by people – baby hookers in skin tight dresses everywhere! There was a low wall around the area with two roped entrances guarded by men with their arms crossed in an imposing manner. Chases and couches with pillows and a few low tables were stragestically placed and men and women, dressed from skater pro to Las Vegas hooker, buzzed with anticipation. There was even one girl who had a dress cut down to her waist...and the boobs hanging almost as low to match.

It wasn’t what I expected and I was relieved. From the phone conversation with Jess’s friend, I thought it was supposed to be a more intimate affair. The word “table” was tossed around and I was afraid I’d be stuck next to some bunny with a double decker bus on her chest and a penchant for calling me “Excuse Me Peasant Please Move”.

Not at all. There were probably about 30 or so people in our little box and the rest of the hundreds were looking out from the balconies, the stage, and pressed up against the barriers like bloodhounds scenting a bitch in heat. They were salivating, I tell you. And from my perch on a low couch near the dividing wall, I could feel their hot breath on my neck. It was a little exciting. Not the hot breath part, that was kind of gross. I mean the atmosphere – knowing that I was sitting in a place they all wished they could be sitting.

When they announced her entrance the crowd went nuts. She went straight past the rope and stood on the lower deck of the VIP section, taking pictures with the people pressed against the edges and waving to those further out. I was proud of myself for not being all “WOOOOOO” or “Ohmyfreakinggawd you’re, like, so awesome” when she finally made it to the inner sanctum. I was actually completely calm and collected when we spoke, shook hands, and took a picture with her. And after having a bit to drink and going from past experiences, I’m thankful someone slipped me a chill pill. She was very down to earth and gracious, which made it easier I guess.

Even those people that say “If I ever meet a celebrity I’ll be totally cool and calm, unfazed...they’re just people” have those moments. Obviously. But maybe I’m finally growing out of my crazy fan stage.

Or maybe, three hours later and in a different club, I flew off a bar stool and busted my ass on the wet floor because I may or may not have heard someone say something about Ryan Reynolds being there and I was drunk enough to believe it AND attempt a gymnastic leap from a sitting position. Possibly. And maybe I blamed it on the slippery dress and a handsy skeezeball to my right wearing too much Axe.

The world may never know.

A moment like this

Today’s teenage girls, despite popular belief, aren’t that different from those of decades past. Sure there’s a lapse in manners and a higher pregnancy rate. The shorts are shorter, the piercings plentiful, and the sense of entitlement has reached awe inspiring heights. But the basics are still there: insecurity, vapidity, earnestness, the never ending battle to fit it, to be popular. At football games it’s still the old game of “see and be seen”. Whispering behind hands, passing notes, making out in secluded corners with boys best avoided – not much has changed at all. Even the most antiquated ritual remains largely intact: The Prom.

As a Junior I was excited about going to prom. I’d gone to several military balls with JROTC guys in previous years and the concept was exactly the same. Just exchange the uniform for a tux and there you go. But you couldn’t have told me that then. Because surely, with prom, it would be different. The decorations would be more beautiful, the music more wonderful, the punch sweeter – everything would be perfect. I would get all dressed up and make one of the best memories of my life.

I went dress shopping with my mom and godmother – a pastime that usually required a lot of tongue biting and eye rolling. But even though they irritated me a bit, I loved trying on the formal gowns in the huge dressing room with the curving stand of mirrors and raised, carpeted platform. The walls were papered in gold and there were mahogany side tables next to plush chairs and couches. I would usually take longer than necessary just to stay in the dressing area, but that year it went quickly.

It was the second dress I tried on. Black, made like an old timey dressing gown with three diamond buttons at the waist. It split above and below the buttons to reveal horizontal striped white cloth, the stripes alternately solid and sheer. The bodice was tight with thin straps and the black overcoat of sorts stood up in points on either side. It flared out at the waist, like a smaller scale version of something out of Gone with the Wind. I never wanted to take it off.

With two godmothers, one a hairdresser and one a makeup artist, I had an easier time of it than most. I was pampered for free and quite grateful about it. My love of makeup was in the beginning stages and sitting in the studio having glittery powder dusted over my face was probably my favorite part. I’ve never been very photogenic, but when I posed for pictures that afternoon with my date and my friends, I felt beautiful and confident. And it showed.

My date and I drove to a downtown Japanese restaurant where they do the cooking in front of you. I’d always enjoyed watching their comical routine, but when the man was flipping his shrimp and teriyaki chicken into open mouths around the table, I shrank back. He turned to me, gesturing with his spatula, a piece of chicken balanced on the end. “No, no. I don’t want...” But it was too late, he let the saucy chicken fly and it missed my unready mouth, landing in my lap on the white striped part of my dress. I was horrified, then teary, then angry. No amount of cursing or scrubbing in the bathroom could get the small stain out of my dress.

When we left the restaurant my date passed me a conciliatory joint. We smoked it, got a bit giggly, and I felt better. But upon arrival I noticed that the decorations were crap. Why I’d expected anything else from a small country high school, I don’t know, but my fantasies of twirling around under a bunch of beautiful twinkling lights were brought to an abrupt halt. The walls of the facility were made of ugly brown panels and the floor was a smooth grey concrete. There were a few balloons here and there and one large banner telling us that we were indeed at the 2002 Junior/Senior Prom.

As it turned out my date was not a dancer, but rather a chain smoker who preferred the company of the tobacco chewers gathered on the outside steps. After a few fast dances with my friends and one coerced slow dance with him, I ruined his plans of a prom night conquest and demanded he take me to my friend’s house where I was to stay the night.

The 15 minute ride was mostly silent. I got out, grabbed my bag, and stalked past his outstretched arms to join the all female party that was already in full swing. I sat in my friend’s room, drinking wine coolers, and listening to the group gossip. And I fell asleep in my perfect dress with my perfectly done up curls and makeup well before the stroke of midnight, clutching a half empty Bacardi bottle in my hand.

I was so disappointed by my junior prom that I swore my senior year would be completely different, and it was. I picked out a dress I didn’t care a thing about, styled my recently cropped hair as best I could, and decided to go without a date. The one thing I didn’t skimp on was the makeup. I went back to the studio and let my godmom do the honors.

I went to dinner with a group of friends and made a 20 minute appearance at the dance before relocating to the nearest party. I remember standing alone at one point, watching my cousin and her seemingly perfect boyfriend pose for pictures under the balloon archway, and wondering what she’d remember most about that night, if being popular really made it that much better. I’ve never been able to go to dinner or a movie by myself, so looking back I’m a little bit in awe of the teenage girl that stuck her nose in the air and walked alone into that building full of judgmental kids.

The first party spanned several blocks. There were so many people crowded on lawns, passing weed and booze, dancing to the latest rap music. Prom dresses and tuxes blended with bathing suits and shorts. I’ve never seen a party to rival its scale. It was inevitable that the cops would show up, so before long we went back to my friend’s house and started up a smaller version.

The sinks and bathtubs were filled with PJ, a fruity mixed liquor drink that tastes lovely and mild, but sneaks up on you later. I drank and I danced and, as later evidenced by pictures and word of mouth, played a rousing game of Twister. At that time I just happened to be conveniently living with the friend whose house we were partying in and just as conveniently staying in her older brother’s room. Home for a rare visit, he decided that we could share his bed, no problem.

And indeed it wasn’t, because he was quite sexy and after an hour or so of talking, we spent the rest of the morning and well into the day going at it like rabbits. Unfortunately, my friend’s father came home a bit earlier than expected and opened the door to find his teenage houseguest sitting astride his adult son’s lap, doing her best to make her senior prom’s theme, “A Moment Like This”, live up to the hype.

Last weekend, as I worked the counter at my godmom’s makeup store and watched the parade of prom girls, I quietly reminisced and wondered what their night would be like. Would it end in disappointment, an irremovable stain on their dress and a date with better pot than manners? I hoped not. Because I saw the same thing in them that I saw in myself before my first prom: excitement.

The shy, smiling girl whose plain face and quiet nature seemed at odds with her anxious parents, hovering with a camera to capture her every move. The loud and obnoxious brat whose complaints elicited surprisingly strong words from the mild makeup artist, while her mother looked on in disinterest. The beautiful political fanatic, whose opinions and clothing sat on her like an often rehearsed, unbelievable speech lying atop a podium.

They were all different. Yet I could see the excitement in the tilt of their heads, the drumming of their fingers, and the looks in their eyes when they gazed at themselves in the mirror.

This coming weekend I’ll help my sister go through the same motions. We’ll go to the studio and I’ll put makeup on her face and help curl her hair. In the absence of our vacationing mother, I’ll take pictures and stay up late waiting on her to come home. She’ll be just another prom girl hoping for a memorable evening...and even though I think her boyfriend is a douche bag and manipulator of the first order, I’ll do my part to make it just that.

And as her big sister, I’ll do a bit more for her than I did for those other girls. I’ll give her a few words of wisdom:

Enjoy the preparation – it’s often as fun (or more fun) than the actual event.

Don’t eat teriyaki chicken or any other saucy food at dinner.

Always remember to lock doors.

And if the night turns out to be less than you thought, don’t worry about it. You’ve got one year left to get rid of that douche bag boyfriend and get it right. The after parties are always better when you’re a senior.

The Un-invention of Lying

Not too long ago I watched the movie “The Invention of Lying”.

It’s about the entire world being incapable of lying. There is no such thing as flattery or exaggeration. They can’t tell someone that they look nice when they really don’t think so, can’t blame work tardiness on traffic, or hide any thought, no matter how offensive or inappropriate. Until, that is, one man manages to somehow crack the code. He begins lying about everything and everyone simply has to believe him because to them, lying doesn’t exist.

Would that be so terrible? If we couldn’t lie? Some things are best kept to yourself and telling the absolute truth about everything at all times could be hurtful and awkward, right?

Let’s ignore the effect it would have on issues like crime and government, and focus on something more important: Me. What would a day be like if dishonesty didn’t exist for me or the people I encounter? If every single thought in my head was available to the public, simply by asking the right questions?

*****

My alarm goes off at 5am, but I doze intermittently until 5:30. I’ve been dreaming about sex again. I’d rather be late for work than end the only action I’m getting prematurely.

By the time I decide I’m going to get up, I can’t. My mom’s boyfriend is banging around the kitchen and I’m not wearing pants. I’m too lazy to pull them on before I go out. I resent not being able to walk around naked, even though I rarely do so – mostly just a dash here and there.

He’s finally gone. I stumble through the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. I poke my head in mom’s door. She’s still blissfully snoozing.

“It’s not time to get up yet”, I shout, “but I’m waking you anyway because it’ll piss you off. Last night you pissed me off. How does it feel?”

She jerks awake and mumbles “Go away."

My sister doesn’t have to go to school today because she’s been suspended. She was recently caught half naked in the school parking lot with her coma inducing boyfriend. She's supposed to be suffering. There’s no way I’m leaving her asleep. On my way out the door I stop by her room and turn on the light.

“Get up child whore. You’re supposed to be in trouble and there you are, lying on your back again. Your nostrils are enormous.”

“No one will date you because you're a shrew”, she replies turning her back to me.

“I told mom you had sex.”

“I have oral too.”

“You won’t get herpes and die, but you might get herpes and live, which is worse. Ask your cousin.”

On that note I head out the door.

When I arrive at work my boss beckons me into her office to tell me about her weekend. She sits behind her desk, waving her hands dramatically along with her monologue. The gesture most definitely doesn't fit the story. She pauses for my input, leaning back in her chair.

“I don’t care”, I say.

“I don’t care about yours either.”

"Good, because I wasn't going to tell you about it anyway." I'm relieved to be let off the hook and I retire to my office, happy.

Later she comes in to check on me. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing”, I reply. I've been staring at the horrendous blue wallpaper, making myself go crosseyed, which most definitely qualifies as nothing.

“Why not?”

“Because I can finish everything that needs to be done in one day and if I do it all now, I won’t have anything to make me look busy for the rest of the week.”

“Oh. That’s not good.” She can't punish me, I know, because she plays games and reads Danielle Steele novels in the afternoon when most everyone else has gone home.

“It’s fine. I like blogging better.”

“What’s blogging?”

“It’s where I write all of my personal business on the internet and some of yours too, and people laugh and leave comments about how awesome I am.”

“I don’t like that.”

I shrug. “I’m going to the dermatologist today. That one in the building down the street.”

“That doctor is a kiss ass. I’ll bet she’ll licky splity.” She makes a V with her fingers in front of her mouth and sticks out her tongue.

“When you say that phrase and make that motion it makes me want to fold my ears together, staple them shut and pour bleach in my eyes.”

“I know.” She grins on her way out the door.

I spend the rest of the day dicking off and not pretending to look busy. At 4:30 I leave for my dermatologist appointment. I know I read the map wrong but I’m too lazy to recheck. I make two wrong turns and almost cream a parked car. An old man, sitting in a dilapidated old lawn chair yells at me from his yard. My window is down, my left arm dangling out with a cigarette clutched in my fingers.

“You’d better slow it down, Missy!”

“You’d better stay on your lawn, old man”, I yell back, taking a drag.

“When I was your age I’d get my hide tanned for speaking to an elder that way.”

“When you were my age, people used hand signals and grunts.” I pull away before he can reply.

I finally arrive at the doctor’s office. The front lobby has a big wall of glass and there is more seating than is likely necessary. Wedged in with the regular chairs are two low, modern, grey leather sofas with leather throw pillows. They face each other and I have to pass between them to reach the check in window. I think they are ridiculous, but I want to sit on one anyway.

The girl at the counter has ugly, dyed blonde hair and a crooked smile. “Hello”, she says in a serious manner. I nod to her while I write my name on the clipboard. “What’s your name?”

“I just wrote it on the clipboard”, I say.

“I’m asking because I don’t always look at the clipboard. We only put it there for the people we don’t want to speak to. We can keep the glass shut while they sign, then open it when they walk away to check the name.”

“What if the person signing the clipboard that you decide to talk to, doesn’t want to talk to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should think about that”, I say in monotone.

She grits her teeth in an unflattering manner. “I won’t. I need your insurance card and a picture ID.”

I hand them over. She glances at my ID then back at me. “You were thinner in this picture.”

“Your hair has probably always been ugly.”

"Funny you should say that, it has."

She copies my cards, returns them and I sit down to wait on one of the ridiculous sofas. There is a familiar looking girl sitting across from me on the matching seat. She looks up from her book and gives me a once over. I return her stare and she goes back to her novel. It’s a romance. She tries to hide the cover with her hand.

“He gives it to her good on page 78”, I say.

“I know. I’ve already read that part twice”, she says in embarrassment.

I nod knowingly.

They call my name before hers, even though she was on time and I was five minutes late.

“That pisses me off”, she says.

“I think it’s funny”, I reply with a grin as I head toward the inner door.

An assistant takes me to a room and asks me a list of medical questions. Then she hands me a folded paper placemat. “Strip down to your bra and underwear, cover yourself with the paper, and sit on the table with your legs to the side. The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

“Ok.”

I strip off my clothes and throw them in the visitor’s chair. Sitting down on the table as instructed, I notice there is a low mirror directly in front of me. I think it’s an odd place for a mirror, but I make use of it anyway. I make pouty faces and angry faces at myself. I swing my legs back and forth and watch my socked feet appear in the mirror. One, two, one two. My legs are ashy, but I can’t find any lotion in the room. I shrug. It’s a lady doctor. She won’t care.

There’s a brief knock at the door and a man comes in. He’s young and very good looking, wearing scrubs and an indifferent expression. “Hi”, I say brightly before I can stop myself. I thought it was the doctor. “Excuse me”, he says without looking at me directly. He grabs something off of the counter and backs out the door.

I am irritated. I find his intrusion rude and lacking in substance. I believe he might have just wanted to see me half naked. I smirk at myself in the mirror.

A few minutes later the doctor comes in, followed by the same man. She is short with a tight smile. They’re like wax figures in lab coats, stoic and off-puttingly professional. She introduces herself and shakes my hand.

“How are you”, she asks.

“Uncomfortable.” The papered table crackles as I wiggle to illistrate my statement.

“I don’t care”, she replies.

She starts going over my body, looking at my arms, legs, back, and chest. She finds two moles she wants to remove - one right above my ass and one on my right shoulder blade. I tell her about the one on my head and she decides to remove that as well. She instructs me to lie down on my side with my back to her. I clutch my paper placemat and turn, making a lot of crinkly racket.

“You’re going to feel a little sting.”

She inserts a needle in my back. “OW! FUCKER!”

“It’s only a little sting.”

“Maybe to you.” I look over my shoulder and the male assistant is looking at my ass. He’s chuckling under his breath. I suddenly realize that I’m wearing the most obnoxious underwear I own (other than the ones that aren’t really underwear at all). They are grey bikinis with pink, orange, and red lipstick prints all over them.

“You’re just jealous”, I say.

“I’m sleeping with her.” He smirks and jerks his head toward the doctor. She ignores this exchange.

“I’m glad I didn’t wear thongs”, I say with a sigh.

“So am I”, says the doctor.

She finishes the appointment, jabbing the other needles a bit harder then necessary without apology. After a few instructions and a handout, they leave the room and I get dressed. I pay my copay at the check out counter. The girl with the ugly hair has already left for the day. Shame.

On the drive home I’m suddenly very tired. My phone is dead, but I’m glad because my mom is probably calling me right at that moment. I’m saved from a bothersome conversation, if only for another hour.

When I get home my sister is standing in the kitchen. “You got a package in the mail today”, she says.

I pick up the small box she's referring to and rip it open. It's the CD upgrade I ordered for the internet so we can connect using my phone again.

"I want to use it when you're done with the upgrade."

"No."

"Why not", she says, glaring and crossing her arms.

“Because I’m probably having phone sex tonight.”

“Gross!”

“Your boyfriend asked me to butter his biscuit.”

She sighs. “I know.”

The evening routine goes by quickly. Soon my sister is curled up in her dark room, whispering disgusting words of teenage love into her phone. The kid is slack jawed and splayed across her bed. Ray is snoring on the living room floor, taking up the walkway. And Mom is deceptively still and quiet. I know she's awake, being nosy as only she can. As I walk by her room, turning off the last light, she confirms her consciousness by saying, "I know you're up to something."

I sigh. It's always the same suspicious sentence. I could be on my death bed, gasping for air, and she would be there - questioning my motives until, and perhaps beyond, the last wheezing breath. Her face, disturbingly identical to mine, would be scrunched up, sharp nose pointing down in disapproval and brow furrowed with irritation. Always waiting for an admission that just isn't there to give.

I turn from the dark doorway and reply in the tolerant tone I usually reserve for the kid. "Go to sleep, mother."

"I love your sister more than you."

If there was an Oscar for best performance by a fat kid...I'd win.

Memories of my early childhood are sparse. The ones I have are like an old movie reel. Grainy, with barely legible subtitles and cheesy music.

I was about seven when things switched to glaring color. Pictures, people, and places – all thrown together like a discount movie bin, all at war with each other to be placed on the shelf and labeled: horror, romance, comedy, drama.

There are classics, pulled out and played again and again when I’m alone. There are low budget sequels...

And like every video library, there are those you lend out.


Title: Satan’s Birth
Genre: Horror
Released: September 1992

I’m no longer going to be an only child.

I’m the forgotten child, left standing in a bedroom at four in the morning while my mother is hustled out the door and to the hospital. Left with twin teenage babysitters that are too involved with themselves to care when I lock myself in my room and refuse to come out.

I’m taken to The Grandmother’s to wait and am slightly mollified when she plies me with cheetos and ice cream.

I haven’t seen my dad in days, but who cares? He’s the one at fault for this mess anyway. My cousin told me to check my new sister’s head for dents when she comes home. No one is amused when I repeat this information to my Nana’s Jehovah’s Witness friends. Nana threatens me with the yardstick.

Mom finally comes home. She’s tired and goes straight to bed, taking it with her. I watch them sleep and wonder what the big deal is anyway. It doesn’t even look like a girl, with a thick patch of black hair on its fat head and as far as I can tell, no neck. It wakes up and starts screaming. I might have poked it by accident.

I’ve never heard a sound like that in my life. My ears are ringing. “Shut up”, I tell it loudly. My mom is trying to quiet it, but then turns to me, angry. She tells me to go to my room. As I walk out I pick up a hand mirror from the dresser.

“Take it back”, I scream throwing the mirror to the floor. Glass shatters all over the kitchen and in the bedroom doorway. I see my dad heading toward me and I know it’s all over.

They’re going to kill me now. Kill me and feed it my snacks. Give it my room and my books.

As he drags me off down the hall, I pray they have cheetos in heaven. The puffs, not the crunchies.


Title: The Curious Case of Brian’s Bullying
Genre: Suspense, Drama
Released: September 1993

It’s not easy being the smart, fat kid. Being badly dressed doesn’t help either.

It’s the first day of third grade and I have to be at the bus stop early. My mom dressed me in kaki pants, white turtleneck, patterned vest, and Keds. I hate my outfit. I know I look like the kid that swallowed Nancy Drew, but agree to wear it when she presents me with a new lunch box. It’s full of my favorites: a snack pack, cheetos, and a ham sandwich. I stuff in another snack pack when she isn’t looking.

I hate the bus. Mine is the first stop in the morning and the last stop in the afternoon. It feels like I spend an eternity bouncing around on those hard black seats.

It’s too dark to read in the morning, but on the way home I stick my nose in a book. People usually leave me alone, but not today.

The normal ruckus is going on around me – kids screaming and jumping, tramping up and down the aisle. Sometime later a body falls into my seat, knocking my book from my hands. I look up and angrily shove them out, sending them across the aisle.

It’s a high school boy that lives down the road from me. His name is Brian and he’s a tall, beefy, red-faced asshole. His book bag has come open and papers are falling all over the floor as he tries to steady himself. I pick up my book.

He turns around and yells curse words in my face, spit flying from his lips. A drop lands on my cheek and I brush it off. “You’re disgusting”, I say with bookwormish dignity. “Fucking nerd”, he screams back. Snatching the book from my hands, he starts ripping out pages.

“Stop”, I yell, but he doesn’t. Furious, I do what my Nana told me to do when boys are being “sonsabitches”. I pull my leg up in the seat and kick him hard in the crotch. I’m amazed when he drops to the floor like a stone. While he moans and cries, I attempt to gather up the pages of my book. They’ve flown all over the place and I have to crawl around under seats to retrieve them.

It’s taking me a long time and I’ve practically forgotten about stupid Brian. But as I’m crawling under another seat, I’m yanked from behind. He’s gotten a hold of my legs and is dragging me down the aisle. I try to kick him loose. He picks me up by my shoulders, squeezing hard, and holds me as high as he can.

The bored bus driver finally decides to intervene. “Put her down. Now!”

Brian grins up at me and yells, “Ok!” Then he throws me down and away from him as hard as he can. I slam into the floor, my head striking a seat leg, and lie there stunned. Before I can get up the bus pulls up at Brian’s house. He laughs as he steps over me on his way out the door. The bus driver shakes her head, but doesn’t comment.

I’m hurting all over, but at least I’m almost home.

By the time I’m dropped off and make the long trek up the driveway, my face is swollen from crying. My mom is standing in the kitchen when I go in. I stand in the doorway, holding my shredded book in my hands, tears coursing down my cheeks. She immediately runs to me and asks question after question. She feels the knot on my head and surveys my dirty clothes while, in between sobs, I explain.

Later she repeats the story to my dad. He’s just gotten home from work, but he’s had a “few beers” first. He is angry and irrational. He takes a gun from the cabinet and tells mom he’s going to go over there and shoot Brian’s dad. Unable to stop him, we wait. He doesn’t come back for hours.

I’m lying in my bed with a compress on my head when I hear him come through the door, singing. He’s drunker still and in good spirits. He and Brian’s dad have bonded over a bottle of Crown Royal.

I turn over and attempt to sleep off his betrayal. Goddamn rednecks.


Title: The Accidental Flashing
Genre: Comedy, Horror
Released: Summer 1995

I’m rarely indoors during the summer months. Every day is long and action packed. It’s the only time of year that an activity takes precedence over reading. I swim and I tube and I ski. My bathing suit is my skin for three months.

I eat less too. Not because I want to eat less, but because of the “no swimming for thirty minutes after you eat” rule. And I never break it. Not because I don’t want to break it, but because my Aunt once ate three pieces of birthday cake, “dove” in, got a cramp, and I had to help tow her in before she drowned. She’s at least 350lbs. People are lighter in the water, true, but I’m not a trainer at Sea World.

I’ve been trying to learn how to water ski with only one ski, but out of all the water sports I do, it’s my least favorite. This is most likely due to the traumatic way my family tried to teach me two years ago.

Flashback:

They hooked the rope to the Jet Ski and handed over the training skis. Brandishing a video camera from the dock, they called, “No matter what you do: DON’T LET GO OF THE ROPE!” Simple enough, right?

They started to go and I tried to pull myself up. I wobbled a bit, then crashed down, sliding beneath the surface. They continued to drive forward while I alternately sunk and rose, holding on to the rope for dear life. Probably around my third or forth time breaking the surface I heard them shouting, “LET GO OF THE ROPE! LET GO OF THE ROPE!” I did as they said. While the Jet Ski turned to come back for me I shouted indignantly back at the dock watchers, “BUT YOU SAID NOT TO!”

They play the video tape all the time. Even for guests.

Today my dad is going to ski. He uses one and he’s pretty good, but he only does it once a year. He’s sober so he probably won’t fall.

I climb in the boat with the rest of the onlookers while dad sits on the dock and straps on his life jacket. He lights a cigarette and climbs down the ladder so it doesn’t get wet. I roll my eyes and toss him the rope as we go by. He gives the driver a thumbs up, his cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.

He’s up immediately, though it takes him a minute to gain his full balance. On the straightaway he hooks an arm through the handlebar, takes one last puff of his cigarette, and tosses it away. He jumps waves and does a few spins while we clap.

I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming with my cousins. Except for the 10 minutes I stand with my nose to a post on the gazebo for punching Andy and pushing him off the dock. It’s no so bad though. Ben whispers “Andy’s a wiener” every time he passes by and I giggle.

It’s time to go home and we start the uphill walk. “You did good on the skis”, he says. He’s being nice today. Ben said it’s because he smoked pot behind the shed with his dad, but I already knew that. I like him better when he smokes pot. Not my uncle though because he laughs really weird and calls me “Ralph”. “I don’t get it”, I tell him, but he just laughs harder.

I go straight to my room to take off my bathing suit. I pull on the shorts my mom laid out for me, but I choose a different t-shirt. The one she picked has a picture of a pink cartoon elephant on the front. Once she put it in my soccer bag and I had to wear it to practice. That woman is on a mission to make me a laughing stock.

I head to the laundry room to put away my bathing suit. The folding door is partially open and I yank it back, coming face to naked crotch with my dad. For a minute we are both frozen with shock. He turns his back, but I’ve already seen it. I turn around quickly and go back to my room. I feel sick and embarrassed. I lie on the bed and press my pillow over my head. Maybe if I press hard enough the image will go away.

We avoid each other the rest of the night. My mom asks me why I’m acting weird, but I can’t tell her. When I go to bed I hear them talking in murmurs. I know it’s coming even before it happens.

She bursts out laughing and I hear her say the words “you” and “penis”, but that’s all I can make out. I’m horrified. Now she’s going to tell all her friends about it and they’re going to laugh too. It’s not like I wanted to see his nasty thing. Ugh!

I get up the next morning and peer out my door. I’ve decided that I’m going to peek and shout to announce my presence before going through any doors or around corners. It’ll be a pain, but it’s better than having to see that again. I’m convinced I’ll be scarred for life, like that kid at school that caught his parents doing it on his four-wheeler. Now he won’t ride it anymore and he wears dark sunglasses all the time. I’ll probably have to move in with my grandma if it gets too awkward. That thought cheers me up a bit though because she has better snacks at her house.

I make myself a bowl of cereal and turn on the TV. My sister wanders by in her footy pajamas, heading for my mom’s room. After a few minutes they come out and go to the kitchen. It’s demanding grits and eggs again. I figure I can eat twice.

My mom looks at me across the bar and grins. “Good morning.”

I glare at her then turn my face to the TV. She’s never going to let me live this one down, I know it. I plan to call grandma as soon as I finish watching my show and eating breakfast. And maybe a snack.