So, this is going to be my unofficial journal. Just logging some stuff that I might one day reveal. All the names are changed, besides my own… but if anyone who knows me IRL finds this site, they’re gonna realize who’s who pretty damn quick, I’m a fan of the word association technique.
No one has to read this. Don’t feel pressured.
Night before last, I was at Jerry’s, with Ad and Inches. We were trying to think of memories of our three graduates, who are leaving in less than two weeks… it’s mind-shattering, really. I mean, Jet texted me last night to ask if I remembered the time we treated his parents to a Brittany Spears concert, complete with lip-synching and choreography. Hardcore, I know. And it doesn’t seem that long ago.
Seems like yesterday, I was a 6-year-old drama queen, crying over a 98 Degrees song that reminded me of my pre-school sweetheart.
Seems like yesterday, I was a 7-year-old, conducting a clandestine romance behind a ‘secret’ patch of seemingly unpenetrable brush.
Seems like yesterday, I was the pariah and not the centerfold of our little world. Christ, what a bittersweet time in the life of a young ‘un.
“Why do these heroes always have to be perfect?” I asked, perturbed. “What’s wrong with humans? I mean, call me a cynic, whatever, but every male character in a classic… ”
“Is perfect. Which is why we read them.” Beth laughed, a light, twittering sound. “There’s a reason you’ve read Pride and Prejudice a million times. You wish there was a way you could have Mr. Darcy. The only reason any girl reads Little Women is to admire their mental image of Laurie. And, well, I hate to break it to you, but there’s only one- maybe two- reasons why anyone has ever picked up Twilight. Edward Cullen.”
“Jacob Black,” I disagreed. “He got screwed.”
“That’s your opinion. A rare one it is, too. Everyone else-”
“Doesn’t care that Jacob’s love is all the more real because it’s unrequited?”
“No, I was going to say that everyone else-”
“Cares more to imagine a Grecian state than a real person?”
“In my opinion, Jacob Black’s hair is too long-”
“And he keeps it that way for Bella!” I paused my tirade, working to draw together my sudden train of thought . “Hey, I just… Laurie does that for Jo in Little Women, too. Remember?”
Beth, who was almost at an explosion level because of my tactful interruptions, calmed and also grew thoughtful. “Yeah, I think so,” she said slowly. “Yes- when he crops it for college!”
I nodded, satisfied, and uttered a triumphant laugh. “Stephanie Meyer isn’t that original.”
Beth, about to refute my statement, was arrested by a huge sneeze. Grinning broadly, I swept my hand across the grainy wooden table at which we sat. Dust swirled up, gathering around Beth’s face. I examined the swath of clear wood my movement had exposed, shaking dust clouds off my palm. She coughed loudly and exaggeratedly, pulling a face full of despair. I vainly tried to hide a smirk.
“You’ll be the death of me,” she informed me, fake coughing again.
“Then I’ve done you a service,” I said. She affixed me with a skeptical stare, eyebrow raised. “How do you figure that?”
“You know exactly how you’ve going to die,” I explained. “Millions of people would pay their weight in gold to have that question answered.” Beth opened her mouth to speak, but I ignored her and continued. “I’ve done you an incredible service. Aren’t you thankful?” Again I forestalled an answer. “You know, seeing as it’s you, I’ll give you that one on the house. But I think, in return, I’ll simply call on you to put up the books. I mean, it’s the least you can do.” As I spoke, I leapt up, gathering up my reading list, my purse, and a few novels.
“Cara Lynn McElroy,” she began threateningly, “I swear, if you walk out of this room…”
I didn’t hear the end. The door slammed behind me, echoing.
I strolled away, reveling in the cool breeze down the walkway, and chuckling inwardly. She’d have her revenge , I knew, but that was a consequence I was willing to take. This, I thought, was how I kept my head above water.
I loved reading. I knew all of the classics by heart, and my major was even literary- a study of contemporary fiction as it related to the classics. I couldn’t help comparing myself, my life, and my circumstances to those ask themselves what they would do in the situation. And- if they fancy themselves in love, or something of the heroines of old. I liked to think that I was as engaging as Elizabeth Bennet or as strong-willed as Jo March, but I knew that it wasn’t so. The beauty and call of stories is the reader’s tendency to place themselves in the brilliant situations created by the minds of authors. Readers love to of that sort, they naturally compare themselves to the characters that suffer the same affliction. Or, if they’re not and have never been in the situation, they wonder if it could possibly ever be as wondrous or horrific as the novel suggests. I know I, as an avid reader, have experienced every one of the above scenarios- some of which have continued for years. My best friend, Jerry, is as ridiculously impossible as one of the heroes in a classic novel. I hate it.
I’ve known Jerry- a few refer to him as Superman or Kryptonite- since when I was eight. He became my neighbor, and with that, altered my life forever. Even as a kid, Jerry had a ready smile and an easy laugh, a strong arm and a noble mien- an unfair combination. Along with his numerous aesthetic and athletic gifts, he was endowed with the potential to be great artistically and academically. He was unassuming and completely likeable, and his dogged determination to do every job to the utmost ability was fabled. He had perfect “typewriter” print, characters rolling out from under his pen uniform and neat, perfectly rounded and evenly spaced. His seemingly effortless signature was beautiful- the stuff of legends. His writing well-represented his character, which was anything anyone could ask for: kindness, strong will, and reputable ethical standards.
As he grew older- and us with him- his attributes became more marked. No one in school disliked him. Very few girls escaped without a sigh or two at his shrine, a fact which never ceased to amaze him. I laughed at his naivety. Very few guys escaped jealousy or straight-up worship of him. He still was oblivious. He was a starter on the varsity football team from his sophomore year, and easily the smallest kid on defense. He mourned this fact, eating masses of protein and fat- but to no avail. He remained perfectly proportioned. We assured him that he’d be fine; after all, hard work and hard knocks had earned him his position, and he retained and expanded on those attributes.
Jerry was 5’11” or so back in the day, with finely toned muscles and a heart of gold. His brown hair was straight through middle school, but decided to curl after one of Kryp’s experiments. He grew out his hair eleven inches so he could donate it to the charitable organization Locks of Love, who used real hair to create quality wigs for cancer patients and such. For a while, he was recognizable on the football field not only by his size, quickness and number, but by the beautiful shock of hair protruding from his helmet. As he was our safety, people called him Polamalu- a tribute to the Steelers’ amazing, dreadlocked Troy Polamalu and his high-school counterpart, as far as we were concerned. His deep green/hazel eyes were almost always lively and understanding. His faultlessly chiseled chest and abdomen were detrimental to almost everyone’s self-esteem, as were all of his qualities. If someone mentioned this fact, he laughed, making light of the situation, and named something that he was bad at that you had a knack for. He was infallibly kind, but if an occurrence called for firmness of temper, he was still your man.
There was another side to him, though. Everyone at school knew and loved him for all the reasons listed above. We in the ’hood- as our humble cul-de-sac was known- knew and loved him for all of his shortcomings as well, which he openly confessed. We knew when he had not let someone down as easily as he thought he ought; we were confided in when he was snappish with his younger siblings. We knew he was a human- he cursed, he reined in his temper, he was addicted to Pokemon- just like the rest of us. He knew more about the Hulk than anyone I have ever met- then or now- and when we watched Transformers, he paused the movie and described each to us as Marvel represented them. When we watched Déjà Vu or Shooter, we’d pause the movie and help him understand what was happening. He wasn’t perfect, but he was the closest I’ve seen anyone come.
We were sophomores now, and I’d watched him date now and again- always girls that were, although pretty and nice, not good enough for him. He had, by some awful chance of fate, affixed his affections on perhaps the one kid in school not likely to return them- an angel (as far as he was concerned) that was known by Ashley Parker. There were actually two Ashley Parkers in our class, and we differentiated in perhaps an unkind way; one we called “small” or “nice,” and the other was called “fat” or “bitchy.” In our defense, all epithets were true. Jerry had admired the “little” Ashley Parker, who was slightly short but well-developed and (reputedly; I can’t attest to this) had the best ass in our school. They had a few classes together, and although they spent time together as lab partners or homework buddies, Thomas’ advances were always shot down. He came to Ad and me for advice constantly, and although our advice was sound, he panicked in high-stress situations.
We laughed with (and at) him, and helped him as much as we could. Josh, another ’hood member (and next to Jerry, my favorite,) also gave him his opinion.
“She just texted me!”
I locked gazes with Ad, and we both stifled laughs. “What does it say?” I asked.
He read out the text, quickly and agitatedly. “What do I say? I don’t know what to say!”
“Well, first, calm down. Don’t freak her out.” Adele sounded serious, but I knew she wasn’t- her eyes sparkled with unquenchable amusement. “Keep it cool, ok? When obsessions get out, even you could get made fun of.”
Jerry was everyone’s golden boy. He was the only kid I ever knew well that “caught ‘em all”- over 400 hours logged on his Pokemon cartridge- and he still didn’t get crap.
“Ok. Calm. I’m calm.”
“Tell her you want her. Rap her a song,” Josh suggested, easily leaning against a tree with his feet crossed. “Like ‘Cyclone‘.”
Jerry looked up from his phone just long enough to shoot him an exasperated glare. “Josh, man, I think that’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard.” He glanced back down to the digits on his phone as Josh cracked up. “It even beats the shit I heard this morning,” he added, causing Josh to spaz into breathless convulsions.
“What?” I asked. I looked from one to the other. “What happened this morning?”
“You got it, Josh,” Jerry said, somewhat absently, typing.
“Well, this morning we were at football workouts,” Joshn explained, flexing a ‘sore’ bicep. I was impressed in spite of myself. It was sophomore year, and Jerry and Josh had both made the Varsity team, bulking up considerably. “Drew McKnight was giving Jerry crap about not having a girlfriend, and Steven Jordan-”
“Asshole,” Jerry muttered.
“Yeah, but anyway, so Steven Jordan slapped Jerry on the ass and told him even Chandler Quillen could get a girl faster than J. Jerry started to say something, but-”
“I know what I want, you know? Chandler Quillen could get like-” Jerry started.
“Jesus, Jerry! What did you mean by you got it? I’m gonna interrupt you as much as I possibly can and be a pain in the ass?”
“Sorry,” Jerry said, not the least bit repentant.
“Can I go?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Ok. Shut up.” Josh took a deep breath. “Anyway, so Don Mote laughed and told him he should ask out-”
“Sydney Sims!” Jerry exploded. “Which is absolutely-”
“Why?” Josh asked no one in particular, staring upwards in a melancholy fashion. “Why doesn’t anyone care what I’m saying?”
“Disgusting!” Jerry continued, ignoring Josh’s lament completely. “She’s gross and… I mean, she probably would just USE me…”
“Eww. I hope you don’t mean that in the way I think you meant it,” Ad noted. I nodded in vehement agreement.
“No, I actually don’t for once,” Jerry grinned broadly. “I mean, she might try… but I personally believe that she’s saving herself for Josh.”
Josh was speechless and motionless for a brief second, his tan, Italian features darkening to red and then scarlet. Jerry took advantage of his temporarily paralyzed state and tore across the Jeter’s lawn, gaining a few precious seconds. Josh- as soon as he could force his limbs to move- took off after him, roaring. Ad and I collapsed onto the grass, wheezing and- in Adele’s case- snorting. We all knew Sydney Sims. Her mom worked with Ms. Michelle, Josh’s mom, and in her mind, that automatically made them best friends. Also, Josh was very handsome. We often joked that he should pursue a career as a hand model- his long, shapely fingers and seemingly manicured nails were a weak point with him. He played receiver and told us his hands needed to love him back and that that was why he kept them in such pristine condition. Josh was tall and lithe where Jerry was of medium height and more muscular in build, but his chocolate brown eyes had the same depth. Josh had no trouble being assertive at home, but once he got to school, his speech turned almost completely off. Anyway, Sydney Sims had been stalking him- no other word for it- since about sixth grade. And we gave him hell about it the entire time. Jerry particularly enjoyed nettling him. It got to where Josh forbade us to speak her name in his presence and threatened that he’d enforce his decree. He wouldn’t do anything to Ad and me, of course, but he would try to get back at Jerry.
Unfortunately, although Jerry and Josh were some of the most ‘eligible bachelors’ in our school, they remained single- not for lack of effort. They both made the choice to chase after some of the most worthy girls in our school. Who happened to be among the few that wouldn’t happily swoon into their arms. I’ve already mentioned that Thomas was lovesick for the star gymnast Ashley Parker. But I think that so far I’ve omitted that Josh was smitten with the tall, Columbian track runner Laura Aristazabal, who also happened to be Ashley’s best friend.
The fact that Jerry and Josh as best friends happened to fall for two best friends is purely coincidental. They began at about the same time- eighth grade, maybe?- and both confided in me before each other. I then happily suggested they work together. At the time, I didn’t tell Josh that Laura kinda/ sorta harbored some feelings for him. I revealed that the summer before tenth grade. He didn’t speak to me for a week. I’d done the same thing once before that I never did- and never will- tell him about. I didn’t approve of the match, and felt myself justified, because both parties were as close to me as siblings. I could tell it probably wouldn’t have ended well, and if it did, well, vomit in the mouth. (Plus, who wants to be in the middle of that? Not me.)
They were both laboring under the delusion that if one of them “got the girl,” it’d be easy for the other to follow. It could be true, I agreed, laughing, but how would they ever know? Josh had game, but it was hidden under layers of shyness. When he and Jerry talked within easy hearing, I was continuedly astonished by some of the plans he’d concocted. Often, Ad and I exchanged amazed glances.
Once, Jerry was about to go on a field trip with Ashley- dubbed “Tiger Cub” when nosy little siblings were within hearing range- and Josh was giving him advice. He outlined a surprisingly elaborate plan.
“Ok, what’s something she’s really interested in?” he asked, lounging on the grass.
“Alabama football?” Jerry replied, shrugging as he lay on a trampoline, spinning around to trip the frolicking little kids and keep them happily diverted .
“Well, listen. Here’s the deal.”
“Ok.”
“Alright, so you’re about to leave. Walk up to her. Mention that Javier Arenas is the top punt returner in the SEC.”
“What does that have to-”
“Shut up, ok? I’m not finished.”
Jerry grunted, which I knew wasn’t assent, but Josh continued. “Start talking about the game Saturday, right? You watched it, right? And that awesome return?” He paused for breath, making sure Jerry was still engrossed, and quickly began again so he couldn‘t be interrupted. “So, keep talking- about Nick Saban, about the Iron Bowl, about next week’s game.” He stopped again, this time to make sure Jerry had time to ask the question.
“What for?”
“So when you get on the bus…”
“Your conversation’s not done, and therefore you have an excuse to sit by her,” I finished, laughing. “Jesus, Joshua,” I continued, astounded. “I didn’t know you had it in you. That was… devious. It might actually work.” I would have continued, but he interrupted me.
“Why’d you say devious?” he asked. “Why can’t you just say ’sneaky’ like a normal person?”
“I’m not normal,” I reminded him. “And-”
Jerry boomed with infectious laughter. “Aww, come on, guys. I wanna hear more. Cut it out, ok?”
I arched a skeptical eyebrow at Joah, who shook his head morosely, neither of us serious. Josh and I were the best of friends, but we had like tempers. We were quick to rile, and both truly enjoyed a debate. I was born with a fair share- ok, lots- of stubbornness, but Joshua had me beat. He would argue on for days when he already knew he was hopelessly wrong. Once, he claimed he was over 5’8”. I maintained that he wasn’t, and we put it to the test. Shoes off, JB was five feet, seven-and-a-half inches. I claimed victory, but he refused to give in. He tried to tell me that he’d wagered that he was 5’8” “right now,” which meant with shoes. I told him honestly that I didn’t remember the exact terminology, but I knew when you measured people’s height, shoes didn’t count. He still won’t admit he lost.
“Anyway,” Ad said cheerfully, “Keep going, Josh. Will I ever be able to use these tips?”
Josh laughed. “Ad, you could get any guy you wanted without my advice.” He looked at me. “Cara, I dunno about you…”
My mouth dropped open in surprise, and I quickly snapped it shut.
“Josh, that was really mean,” Jerry said, trying to be stern. But his twinkling eyes belied the effort.
“I was kidding!” he protested. “Promise.”
I was offended, and I covered it up by affecting offense. I continued to stare at him, acting hurt.
“Oh, come on,” Joshua pleaded, now ashamed. “You know I was just kidding.” I glared at him frostily. After a minute, as he anxiously watched my face, I allowed my countenance to soften slightly. He took it as a good sign.
“You’re just waiting for the one,” Josh suggested, casting about for a way to take the attention of his joke. “The rest of us, we’ll be trailer trash, and you’ll be a multi-billionaire. And married…to…” He glanced at Ad for continuance.
“Zac Efron,” she supplied.
“No, Cara’s not a Troy kind of girl,” Josh said, laughing. “He’s a pansy.”
“Yeah,” Jerry agreed. “I’m thinking she’s more of a Matthew McConaughey girl.” He looked at me appraisingly, waiting for confirmation. I nodded. I was a McConaughey kind of girl. That kind of strong, witty, rough n’ ready type guy appealed to me more than kids like Elijah Wood or Toby McGuire. Who were- as JB pointed out- absolute pansies.
Josh, attempting to take the spotlight off his faux pas, adopted a monster voice. He growled as he pretended to grow claws and twisted, arching his back and contorting his legs.
“Uh-oh!” Jerry exclaimed. “Watch out, Chad! Sydney, back up! He’s transforming!”
Josh growled- not particularly impressively, but sufficient for the little kids, who squealed with delight. This was one of their favorite games. He continued writhing as he kicked off his shoes, howling. “Looks like he’s getting on! Y’all better watch out!” The little kids- who in all fairness, weren’t THAT little- leapt off the trampoline as Jonathan ascended. Thomas bounded at him, laying him out. Joshua fought gamely back, and we all paused to watch the clash of the titans. They were about equally matched, but Jerry had gained the advantage with his sneak attack. He finally pinned Joshua, who continued to struggle. “Quick- Jack!” gasped Jerry, locking eyes with my little brother. “Get… me… the needle!” Jack dashed off, but as he ran, Josh- after pretending to relax- bucked his oppressor. Now they circled each other, breathing heavily, grinning inanely. Josh dove for Jerry, and, grappling at his legs, deftly twisted him down. They rolled around trying to gain an advantage.
“Here, Jerry!” my pre-pubescent brother squealed excitedly, tossing a twig into the trampoline. He grabbed it, jabbing it “into” Josh’s arm. Josh obediently lay still, twitching and shuddering as his ‘cure’ took effect. The little kids observed, spellbound. Suddenly, Josh sat up, scratching his head artistically.
“Wow, I’m dizzy,” he remarked, shaking his head. “What happened?”
“I’ll take care of you,” Jerry promised. “You forgot to take your cure again. One day, you’re gonna eat someone.” He shook his head in mock sadness.
I got up on the trampoline, laying peacefully and pensively. What are you gonna do with your life? I asked myself again. I was jealous of those people who come out of the womb knowing they just HAVE to be a neurosurgeon. What about those people like me, who wander around aimlessly, pretty good at most things but not absolutely excelling at anything? Those people who could probably get along fine whatever path they take but don’t know what to choose for life?
“What’s up?” Adele asked me, collapsing onto the trampoline beside me after doing a few athletic flips.
“Ah, not much,” I replied casually, not allowing the bitterness out of my system. “What about you? How’s life?”
“Oh, it’s ok,” she said. But I could tell it wasn’t; I could sense the problem in her voice as surely as if she’d publicly admitted it. I spun myself until we were face-to-face.
“Speak,” I commanded, smiling slightly. It was a smile that said, go for it, I’ll laugh if you like but I’m here to listen. It was one that had taken years to improve. Ad sighed deeply.
“How do you always know?”
“Well, in your case, you’re- how do I say it?” I pretended to ponder for a second. “Uhh, transparent?”
“Shut up, Cara,” Adele said, shaking her head. “I can hide stuff just fine.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I agreed immediately. “Just like the time you told me you DID NOT LIKE and WERE NOT DATING that kid. And-”
“Yeah, yeah, we were, you were right, you’re always right, why do I even try, et cetera,” Adele finished, feigning disgust.
“She’s not always right,” Josh objected.
“No, I’m not,” I agreed. “I’m only right approximately ninety-four point eight seven percent of the time. Which leads everyone to conclude I’m right. Which leads to my awesome B.S.ing skills. Which leads everyone to think I’m right.” I stretched languorously. “Vicious cycle, I’m telling you. Anyway, back to you, Libby.”
“Ok,” Adele started, beginning a lengthy rant about her best friend’s boyfriend hitting on her. Ad was nice, fine, and normal around us. But she acted too nice at school, causing a “push-over” label to be all but stamped on her forehead. She was also really pretty, although we teased he about being a “cake-face” on a regular basis. She didn’t think she was, and I didn’t really care, but Joshua and Jerry swore that with less make-up she’d be irresistible. I was surprised as always by their sentiment. But Josh and Jerry were unique and just short of perfect. I didn’t expect anything less.
I listened sympathetically to Adele’s problem, shaking my head and looking incredulous when it was expected of me. My mind was elsewhere. I hated my life.
Life just wasn’t fair. If I didn’t have school, I would have committed suicide due to inferiority complex long ago. When I went to school, among normal kids, I was the smartest, the problem-solver, the one everyone took advice from. When people were lost, confused, needed another explanation, or wanted to check (or receive) answers, I was the go-to gal. Here, in the “’hood,” as it was dubbed, I was nobody. I wasn’t the best at anything. Well, except for at reading and writing- and who cares about those skills anyway? Psh. I was constantly put down, told I was awful at this, that, or the other. When we went biking, I was the slowest. When we played basketball, I was last picked. When there was a story to be told, if I began, I was quickly interrupted with a – “You’re ruining it!” No one ever got where I was coming from, and although I could finish their sentences and list their hopes, fears, and motivations, no one could ever understand me. Recently, I’d gone through a bout of minor depression and near constant mood swings. I was almost constantly on the verge of tears. No one noticed.
When Adele is slow to stand up once, everyone mobs her with a chorus of questions. “Are you ok?” “Ad, what’s wrong?” “Hey, you all right?” They could leave me sobbing on the gutter and no one would notice. When Jerry needs to get something off of his chest, we are all all ears. When I’m deep in thought, bottling up my thoughts and fears and unable to talk through a lump in my throat approximately the size of Texas, not even a quizzical eyebrow arches in my direction. The reason is simple. No one has noticed.
Overall, I’ll survive. But sometimes, my worthlessness is just too noticeable, and I just feel like I’ll never surface.
IN Alabama, it was the month of the white trees.
As I rode along in my gray and aged minivan, I stared out of the window. Almost the entire landscape was smeared a mother-of-pearl white. It’s the annual Birmingham version of snow as the white-blossomed, decorative Bradford pears discard flowers left and right. It really is beautiful- petals swirl in the light spring breeze, coming to rest anywhere convenient, from the hood of a car to every afro within fifty miles. Unfortunately, along with the godly view comes the ungodly stench. It honestly smells like a rotting road kill corpse. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.
“Mom, roll up the window,” I complained loudly. “I’m gonna die.”
“Yeah!” Jack piped up. He was my little brother, a genuinely ADHD specimen of constant annoyance and Gameboy obsession. He characteristically focused on the screen, jabbing his stylus at the bottom half of his DS. I watched as his hand crept to the volume control and upped the decibels of the Pokemon theme song. I decided to step in.
“JACK!” As I sternly reprimanded him, his fingers shot towards the volume lever, turning it completely off. “What?” he asked, attempting to belie innocence.
“You know what,” I said, disgusted. “Freakin’ cut it out with the Pokemon music.”
The little rat stuck his tongue out at me. You would have believed he was six years old instead of his birth certificate authenticated thirteen. If I was old for my age, he was practically still unborn.
After a brief stare-down, Jack turned back to his Gameboy. I resumed my glazed gaze out the window, reaching back to pat my favorite family member, my middle-aged mutt. We didn’t know exactly what she was- her intelligence and shape suggested border collie, but her muzzle and color scheme screamed Australian shepard- but we called her Shelbie and loved and spoiled her. She licked my hand.
We were on our way down to our lake house, located on Lake Mitchell down in the peach-town of Clanton. It was mud-bottom but large and sparsely populated, which made for good fishing, tubing, and skiing. I really enjoyed it during the summer, but it was March 15, a Spring Break Saturday, and therefore the water would still be frigid. I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but Mom and Dad wanted to check out the construction of our new lake house- a replacement for our former residence, appropriately dubbed The Shack. The trip wasn’t awful, but a complete waste of time. Six hours later, we returned home. I decided- as we had no concrete plans but we might go see a movie later- that I was going to take a long bath.
I settled in, reading a book. A few chapters later, I heard a knock on the door. I listened closely. Jack answered the door. From upstairs, I couldn’t tell exactly who it was, but I knew it was a guy from the bass tenor of his voice. And- apparently because of octave difference- I could hear Jack.
“Is your mom home? Or your sister?” the deep voice inquired.
“Uhh… my sister’s upstairs.”
I groaned loudly. As far as I knew, my mom was in her bedroom, watching TV. Why couldn’t he sound her out?
“CARA! COME DOWN!”
I called back down. “I can’t come down right now.”
But he was persistent, yelling again. “CARA, COME DOWN!!!”
I shouted back. “I CAN’T COME DOWN RIGHT NOW!”
I heard Jack’s voice. “You can go upstairs.” I panicked slightly.
“No, you can’t come up!”
Jack’s feet pounded up the stairs; he slammed his fist on my door several times.
“JACK. I. CANNOT. COME. DOWN.” I furiously annunciated.
He ignored me, nearly busting down my door again. “Cara! Mr. Brady can’t wait around all day!” he sneered.
It’s a good thing I never was one for the fainting fits. If I was, there’s no doubt in my mind I would have swooned just then. I wasn’t well acquainted with Mr. Brady at all; I just took care of his dogs. If I hadn’t heard Jack tell him to go upstairs… I shoved the thought aside and concentrated on the mess at hand. Later, I would kill my problematic little brother. Now, I had to swallow my embarrassment. I reminded myself that it would be just as awkward for Mr. Brady, and decided to don a robe instead of just a towel wrap.
I did so, making my way down the stairs with my body encased in a robe and my towel turbaning my soaking hair. I looked sheepishly at a red-faced Mr. Brady as I accepted a key and my instructions for the next few daschund days. As soon as the door shut behind him, I flew into the living room where Jack was “multi-tasking,” playing his Gameboy and watching dumb Cartoon Network shows simultaneously. As my anger got the better of me and I burst into hysterical tears, I punched him twice- relatively hard- in the arm. He cowered into the recliner as I exploded.
“WHAT THE HELL!” I screamed, tears flooding down my cheeks and making me angrier. Why was I crying? “JACK, JESUS CHRIST! YOU DON’T TELL ANYONE TO JUST GO UPSTAIRS! I WAS IN THE SHOWER! WHAT IS YOUR DAMN PROBLEM!”
“What is going on?” I heard from my parent’s room. I stormed in, explaining what had just happening. Still leaking random, furious tears, I retreated to my room, sinking back into my bath and ridiculously angry- not only at Jack, but at myself.
I hated crying. Why evolution thought programming in an automatic weakness signal was such a brilliant idea had always been a mystery to me. I didn’t enjoy feeling inferior or weak, and that’s all crying was good for. Announcing to the world that now was the time to fuck with you. “Defenses are down! Attack now!”
And it wasn’t even just that. I was big on empathy; knowing and understanding what people are feeling and why they’re feeling it is an extremely valuable skill. Sympathy I didn’t appreciate the need for. Feeling sorry for someone usually only makes them feel worse and more vulnerable. Empathy, on the other hand, makes them feel stronger and less alone. At least, that’s the way I always felt. Sometimes I feel inhuman, though. Maybe it’s different for normal people.
I coughed a few times, forcing myself to swallow my tears. I had a brief struggle of willpower with myself. I took a few deep breaths, forcing myself into a calmer state. It’s not that big of a deal, I tried to convince myself. It’s not like he saw you naked. Then my thought train swerved, pulling a u-ie. Why did stuff like this make me so illogical? Stuff that would make other people have a nervous breakdown didn’t really overly affect me. Stuff that wouldn’t bother anyone at all send me off the edge. Like my brother pressing the lock button while I was still in the car. Big ass deal. I could just unlock the door. But for some ridiculous reason I didn’t even understand, after little things like that, I wanted to plunge a switch knife into his jugular.
I pondered life and my crappiness at it for a while. The girl in the book I was reading had it much harder than me- and easier at the same time. That seemed to be a trend. Every character in every book, it seemed, had endured more pain and been granted more pleasure than me. I wondered if the authors had gone through these things or if they were just hypothesizing. Well, I’ve been in this situation… and this one seems exponentially more depressing… I might react this way…
I doubted many authors had survived what their characters had. I wondered if their writing would be better or worse if they had. The point of a novel was to explore yourself and other people, for entertainment, for knowledge, for an escape. I wondered if people that read regularly were of a different temperament than their non-bibliophile equivalents. Did imagining other’s people’s bliss make them feel unfulfilled and insignificant, as a rule? Or did it just give them an ideal, a hope for a happier future? I wondered how reading had affected my frame of mind. Without reading, would I be more content, or less? Had anyone ever done a study? Would something that abstract be researchable? Sometimes I wished I’d picked neurology as a career. It would suit my insatiable curiosity.
I changed my train of thought to the recent band trip. The OMHS Spirit of Cahaba band had gone to Chicago, and to be honest, we were impressed. Not by the people- by numbers or quality, and certainly not by the food (which was to my taste terrible, with the exception of Chicago-style pizza.) It was the sprawling city, the huge neon lights, the ridiculous traffic in which we almost splattered a paraplegic. More than that, what held me in awe was- strangely enough- the windows.
It seemed every towering building was uniquely crafted with windows in mind. Every floor was swathed in windows. Huge, picturesque arches highlighted certain outfits. Ivy crept in and around pane-less circles of molten sand. Once, the entire charter bus full of ADD band kinds gaped in unison at a single shop, framed with thin bands of steel and otherwise immersed in glass. It was an architectural marvel, much of its looks derived from the fact that its walls were not purely vertical; rather, they jutted out or recessed suddenly, adding a mesmerizing pattern of light and shadow, glittering and transfixing.
It was a exhausting bus ride. Fifteen hours from Birmingham, Alabama, to the coast of Lake Michigan. But we were the lucky ones. One of my best friends, Anna Rose Abangan, was “slightly OCD,” as we used to tell her constantly. But I must admit, she saved my butt multiple times due to it, and made our bus ride infinitely more enjoyable. Mr. Duren- our band director- had told us he would post the bus lists on Tuesday morning, seven o’clock sharp. Sign ups would be strictly first come, first served. So on Monday night, Anna Rose typed up a list of everyone we wanted on our bus. She checked it a million and a half times, then sent it to Ashworth and me for our approval. She was the first to the bus lists, and took down the sheet for Bus One. With a purple pen, she proceeded to write- ridiculously neatly- every name on her list, with only one mistake. She wanted to ask Mr. Duren if he had any white-out, but I vetoed that notion. Our bus ended up all but perfect- no one wanted to scribble their obviously unwanted name on the end of the list with a crude pencil in a different hand than had penned the other thirty-eight names. How outcast would that look?
As a result, our bus was not only the least crowded, but stocked with the people I liked to be around most. Anna Rose and Sarah Ashworth, my best friends; Alana, Lindsay, Desi, and Christine, the Junior group that was us in a year; Kristen, Anne Marie, and Abby, Freshmen that resembled us to a ‘t,’ minus a year; and Prez and Ben, fellow sousaphones and two of my favorite people ever. Plus Jason, Jacob, and Andrew Adair, sophomores that were the other half of our group. Also including the roommates and “significant others” of those aforementioned. Also a group that was affiliated more with Anna Rose than me, and several random kids that we enjoyed to make sure that there wasn’t enough room for those we didn’t.
The bus ride really wasn’t that bad, for such a long time. We really got into Catch Phrase, briefly attacked Nathaniel and Andrew for stealing our seats, and Alana and I bought Prez Pokemon figurines for his birthday, wrapping them in napkins and decorating them in Sharpie before presenting them to him. He convulsed us with laughter by fighting with them. “Buisel, tail whip!” he announced, demonstrating. He adopted a different voice for the second Pokemon, Starly. “Oh no! My defense fell!”
We ate at Gino’s, a pizza parlor, and amused ourselves by considering different ways to freak out the waitress. Hicks from Alabama, right? Kyle picked up his fork, pretending to look bemused. “What is this?” he asked, puzzled, in a severely accentuated Southern drawl. “Yew cane’t pitch hardly any hay with this!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Sam politely addressed an imaginary waitress. “Do yew have any squirrel stew tonight? I’m purdy partial to it, myself, and it’s in season right naow…”
“What are yer huntin’ laws concernin’ pigeons, ma’am? I seen more o’ them creetures up’n here than I ever seen in Alabama.”
We (actually) informed our waitress on the sly that it was Jason Konscol’s birthday. We did it at every restaurant we visited, although his birthday had actually been three months prior to the trip. By the time we arrived back in Birmingham, Jason was “nineteen.”
We were all tired enough to collapse when something else happened. There was a reservation snafu at our Renaissance Hotel, somewhere like an hour from Chicago, out in the boondocks. They wouldn’t let us off of the foul-smelling, stuffy bus for more than two hours, although we were ten feet from the hotel. When we finally sorted ourselves out and were allowed off the bus, we received our card keys and trooped to our rooms. Kyle, an old neighbor and close friend, located his room, inserted his key, pulled open his door and entered his assigned room- only to meet the astonished faces of four girls, three scantily pajama-ed and one wearing only a towel. Kyle, blushing furiously, beat a quick retreat and muttered an apology.
We laughed heartily at his faux-pas, although we knew it wasn’t his fault at all. Next, a group of kids got stuck in the elevator, including Desi. She called Lindsey, just short of hysterical. As Lindsey calmed her down, I was sent to inform the chaperones. The chaperones called the fire department. The firefighters pried open the doors and hauled out the kids. The last disaster of the night came when Will Wimberly, jumping on the beds despite his height of six foot four, crashed and split open his head on a dresser. I couldn’t help thinking that not only did it serve him right, but- what the hell was he thinking? If I stood on top of my bed, at a hair less than 5’8”, the top of my head was only a good six inches away from the ceiling. How was he even jumping?
The next day, we visited the Sears Tower. We were greeted and given Sears Tower shaped pamphlets, including a flimsy pair of cardstock antennas attached to the top. Alana accidentally tore hers off.
“Oh, no!” she mourned, gazing at her antennae-less building.
“Ha, ha,” I snickered, holding up mine to display it in all its glory.
Alana stared at me for a second, and suddenly whipped out her hand. Although I reacted quickly, it was not fast enough. She caught the very end of mine and deftly ripped out my antennae. I laughed ruefully, and as we made eye contact, I could tell we had the same idea.
Every band kid we saw holding a complete pamphlet was visited with the same sad fate: we ripped off the antennas of their pamphlets. At last, only the chaperones and band directors were remaining. (We’d amputated Anna Rose’s Sears Tower three times; unable to stand an incomplete pamphlet, she’d traded with unsuspecting victims twice after we executed her first.) We quickly consulted.
“We’ve gotta try to get Duren.”
“Yeah, I think Owenby is with him.”
I laughed aloud as a thought occurred to me. “Just imagine Mr. Tucker’s face if we pulled his off!” Mr. Tucker was our student teacher, an odd kid who Anna Rose was busy sucking up to because he was in charge of drum major tryouts. Every time Alana, Lindsay, or I passed them, we would make loud vacuum noises. Mr. Tucker never got it, but Anna Rose always turned into a odd shade of crimson.
“Yeah, we gotta take his too,” Alana agreed wholeheartedly. Alana and I were eerily similar- Aryan, loud, intelligent, and easily laughing kids who thoroughly enjoyed Super Smash Brothers.
As we approached the band directors, our plan abruptly changed. Mr. Duren was absentmindedly chewing on his antennas. We noiselessly agreed that we’d let Duren keep his saliva-soaked pamphlet intact. We ambushed the other two- Alana snatching Owenby’s, and me seizing Mr. Tucker’s.
“Ka-what?” Mr. Tucker exclaimed, as I handed him back his crippled brochure. Mr. Owenby, who has remained completely still for his brochure’s quick surgery, protested loudly.
“Hey! What was that for?”
We explained our jihad, and they laughed along with us. “Why didn’t you steal Mr. Duren’s?” Mr. Tucker asked curiously, jabbing a thumb towards Duren, who was staring out the window just out of hearing range. Alana explained eloquently.
“He’s been slobbering all over it,” she said, pulling a face. Mr. Owenby, chuckling, walked over to Duren, and said something. Mr. Duren answered him, turning around to raise an eyebrow at us. We waved sheepishly. Mr. Duren slowly and deliberately raised his pamphlet, and pushed the antennae completely into his mouth, obviously daring us to take it now.
“S’okay, Mr. Duren!” I called cheerily. “We’ll take something later, when you’re not expecting it.”
Mr. Duren shook his balding head at us. He thought we were soo weird (which was definitely partially true.) We were just the kind of kids that would trudge through an awkward situation to get to the enjoyable story at the end. Easily amused and compulsive, we were interesting companions, and it seemed Mr. Duren only noticed us when we were doing something really strange. Once, we were having a war with shadow puppets, mine a pair of “vicious attack German Shepards” and Alana’s fused into pterodactyl. About four minutes in, Ben leaned down to us. “You do know Duren’s been watching you this whole time, right?” he asked.
We looked up, slowly and in unison. Mr. Duren was indeed watching us, a curious look of mingled amusement and disbelief on his face. (A sophomore and junior? Fighting with shadow puppets, with sound effects included?) We cracked up, losing air helplessly, and leaning against each other for support.
The sousaphone (marching tuba) section of our band was the most fun. Our section leaders didn’t care what we did, and almost all the kids were the fun to be around, crazy sort of kids that help you through the day. With Ben, Prez, Alana, Kevin Black, and me, I don’t think we every had a completely discernable conversation. At least to anyone but a sousaphone player. What other instrument could have an intense thirty minute debate on whether or not unicorns could indeed fly, and if so, what was the source of their propulsion?
On one memorable incident, we were warming up at band camp when a drum major began our shouting routine meant to doctor up our ‘attention’ positions.
“How are your feet?” she yelled.
“TOGETHER!” the band roared enthusiastically back.
“Shoulders?’
“BACK!”
“Stomach?”
“IN!”
Chest? Out. Chin? Up.
“How are your eyes?”
“WITH PRIDE!”
“How are your eyes?”
“WITH…PRIDE!” As loud as the two hundred plus assembled high-schoolers could scream. To make sure the neighbors are up when you’re working, as Mr. Duren put it.
Then the head drum major shouted an unprecedented question, quietly planned and spread through the ranks the day before. One of the little things that made the unending foot-rolling bearable.
“Who’s yer daddy?”
“MR. DUREN!” we shouted gleefully, watching Duren out of the corners of our eyes to gauge his reaction. We shook with silent laughter. Unexpectedly, Kevin Black shouted his personalized answer to the drum major’s question.
“I don’t know!” he bellowed into the near silence. “The paternity tests haven’t come back yet!”
Every kid in the low brass, within fifteen yards, broke down in hysterical laughter. We sank to the ground, crushed by our sousaphones. The trombones dropped to their knees, some crying they were laughing so hard. Several trumpets had spasms, and the baritones pretended to pay homage to Kevin, who acted surprised and innocent, as if he’d never spoken. The comment was spread down to the saxophones and eventually down to the flutes, until almost the entire band was convulsed. We stayed that way for several minutes, as the drum majors were all too busy cracking up to call us back to order.
Anyway, we definitely had fun in Chicago. One night, at the combo Medieval Times and Awards Festival, I sat in between Prez and Alana. A waiter carelessly dumped soup into each bowl in turn. Just as he ladled in Prez’s portion, Prez protested.
“I can’t eat that,” he objected, but in a tone that clearly stated he wasn’t serious. “I’m Jewish!”
The waiter looked at him oddly, and continued his rounds. Next, the waiter came with Pepsi.
“I can’t drink this,” he informed the waiter. The waiter looked at him.
“Would you prefer water?” he asked.
“No, Jewish kids can’t drink water either,” he explained mournfully. “I guess I’ll take Pepsi.”
The hapless server returned with chicken, unfortunately dropping a half-chicken onto Alana’s sandaled feet. She leapt with shock, but quickly recovered, assuring the waiter it was no big deal. He gave her an entire chicken instead. About to drop Prez’s chicken onto his plate, the waiter attempted to forestall the inevitable comment.
“Jewish people can eat this,” the man said.
Prez looked up at him in surprise. “I’m Catholic!” he announced. After staring at Prez dumbfounded for a few long seconds, the waiter left, mumbling incoherently.
Just being in his company made my day. About halfway through the Medieval Times thing, I started copying him. I did mostly just the gestures, cheating slightly when he put his head in his arms and stuff like that. When I felt like copying what he said, I did. It was driving him insane. Naturally, I kept going.
He kept trying to dissuade me, doing things he imagined I’d never stoop to doing. How mistaken he was! I licked the table, hollered, emptied the contents of my glass on my own shirt. He had almost given up by the time it ended. On the contrary, Alana and I were still deeply amused. Prez, looking around for something to deter me, suddenly leapt up. I did the same.
He sprinted down the hallway, Alana and I hard on his heels. He skidded to a halt in front of a woman I didn’t recognize. He enveloped her in a giant hug and planted a kiss on her cheek, then silently challenged me to do the same. I realized it was his mom. Alana protested on my behalf.
“Prez, that’s not fair,” she said. “Cara’s mom isn’t here.”
I decided I might as well go the whole nine yards. Grabbing Alana by the shoulders, I spun her around, hugging her tightly. I swooped in, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Alana, Prez, and Mrs. Johnston stood in shock for a second, and then we all burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Prez yelled in false anguish.
“Geez!” he shouted. “Mom, she won’t give up!” He looked around wildly, dashing off madly. We took off in pursuit, still wheezing from laughter. As we passed a kid named Nathaniel Thomas, Prez reached over and snatched a flashing sword from Nathaniel’s bewildered hands. “I’ll give it back later!” Prez promised, hollering over his shoulder. I noticed another souvenir-type sword held by a friend, taking a slight detour to whip it out of his slack grip.
“Thanks!” I yelled, trusting him to work it out. He was a smart kid, and people were bound to have noticed the ridiculous things I was doing. I spun around, searching for Prez, and spotted him hacking away at his best friend, Drew Shelton. Alana overtook me and immediately nodded at me, beginning to imitate Drew. Grinning broadly, I swept the pulsating sword around and around, replicating Prez’s motions as closely as I could in the limited time allotted. Foiled yet again, he threw the sword at a random band member. I glanced around until I found a reasonably docile fellow- a good friend by the name of Andrew Adair- and did the same.
“My bad, Andrew! I’ll explain later!” I promised, tailing Drew and Prez back on to the fluorescently colored charter bus.
Oh, the shenanigans that we could get into… crazy. Pretty soon after that Alana and Prez started dating, which was fun-sucking and awkward for the rest of us. I wondered how long it would last, and realized I wasn’t sure what I wanted to happen. Did I really want them to break up? Wasn’t that really selfish and also dumb? If they broke it off, wouldn’t things go from bad to worse? I decided it hadn’t happened so I wouldn’t worry about it yet.
I was a good student, maintaining straight A’s and a consistently high scorer on standardized tests. If my teachers did mumble complaints, it was on the subject of my loquacious nature. I fraternized. I didn’t (usually) disrupt class, and I never “sassed” the teacher, but during busy work or group efforts, I chattered. I wasn’t a particularly cheerful or optimistic person, but I loved to laugh. Plus, people always felt they should repay the favor, since I was forever relating random anecdotes. Sure, I exaggerated a bit, but tell me, who doesn’t? Most teachers took it in stride… without me in their class, those that followed Socrates’ questioning method of teaching (almost all- think “And once the supply train was disrupted, what would happen?”) would have a silent, un-answering class to deal with. I alleviated that problem, and was stalwart and blunt enough in my answering opinion that it was often enough to spark a thoughtful if heated class discussion. Sometimes, when someone made an obviously untrue statement or uttered an absolutely ridiculous opinion, I felt obligated to contest them.
A good many of my stories were pretty pointless, the mundane with an unexpected twist I felt like someone should hear about. Most of the others were about random incidents in the ’hood. I’d moved when I was four, not a long distance (probably about a mile, as a crow flies) but it had made all the difference. I could talk about things with my neighbors that I’d never consider discussing with anyone else. We often had deep theoretical and theological discussions, arguments about government policy, or debates over Creation and human nature. We knew each other inside and out, and it made for some interesting conversations.
I was mostly a democratic supporter, a strong believer in freedom. My creed was Benjamin Franklin’s eloquent and accurate statement of fact: “Those who will give up a little freedom for a little security will deserve neither and lose both.” I also respected the beliefs of those in the Bible Belt, but I myself was a non-denominational Christian. I believe in God and Jesus, in their power and omniscience, but in a loose interpretation of the Bible. In my mind, although God inspired the Bible, He didn’t put the words to paper. Human beings did that, and no one should argue with the fact that humans are far from infallible. Also, if you’ve heard of the Council of Trent, you’ll understand my distrust. You know that part, in the end of the Bible, that warns against additions or omissions to God’s earthly word? What the hell is that if not hypocrisy at its finest, preaching against changing His words as they decide which books will be included in the religious novel?
On the other hand, Josh, my most vehement rival, was deeply conservative. He wasn’t extremely religious, and although he was a professed Christian, we could discuss the holes in faith without getting angry. To the unaware observer, I’m positive we would have looked and sounded bloodthirsty, but we both enjoyed the past-time and knew each other well enough to know that it was nothing but messing around. Josh was the sort of person that often announced things that obviously weren’t reasonable as valid options.
“We should just nuke the whole Middle East.”
“Joshua, that’s absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve heard you say all night. And, well, let’s face it: you’ve said some-”
“I’m not kidding,” he’d interrupt, waving his hands. “They’re all terrorists. We’d be a lot safer at night, in airports, whatever. Plus,” he grinned, “We’d get all the oil we needed.”
“Ok,” I agreed. “Let’s hit up a few other places, too.”
Joshua looked at me suspiciously. “What other places?”
I shrugged. “Dangerous ones.”
He spun in a circle, to hyper to stand still. “Well, like North Korea?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “And while we’re at it, Phoenix, New York, Chicago, and Birmingham.”
“Why the hell would we do that?” he spluttered.
I shot a look at him. “We’re not safe with them around. Those are the cities with the highest crime and murder rates of American citizens.” I stopped to let that sink in and prepare myself for his inevitable retort. “And Miami,” I added as an afterthought. “I can’t believe I forgot Miami…” I muttered.
“Yeah, well, we couldn’t nuke ourselves.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “It makes perfect sense.”
“Because we’re the greatest country in the world.”
“What is a great country? One that rips away citizens’ fundamental rights?”
“Yeah, if necessary. If ya don’t do anything wrong, then you’re safe.”
“Um, yeah, in a 1984 scenario.”
“What the hell is that?”
I gave vent to in a long and exasperated sigh. “Joshua, inform yourself so I can prove you wrong!”
He made a face at me. “Yeah, let me sit inside and read for fun.” He snorted. “Yeah frickin’ right.”
“1984, by George Orwell,” I recited, looking at the sky. “Shows how war is the perfect state for the economy… and how easy it is to lapse into a FACIST GOVERNMENT.”
“Why’s it called 1984?”
I laughed. “He thought it would have happened by 1984, because of the way the Commies were rampaging.”
“Well, obviously he’s wrong about everything then.”
“Just like the Mayans.”
“The world is NOT going to end in 2012.”
I shrugged. “Strange creatures are already walking the Earth.”
He scowled unimpressively. “Yeah. People like you.”
That was about how it worked.
My house was a maelstrom of music.
My iTunes blasted Yellowcard as I bustled around putting my dirty clothes in the laundry basket. From downstairs, in the rare pause of song changes, I could hear Seal’s mellifluous Kiss by a Rose as my mom hurriedly prepped the den. Ryan’s advanced sound system was making my room shake, and I recognized the song as one by Linkin Park. Last time I’d seen my little brother, he’d been playing a CD I made for him. Four very different people, with a quad- Venn diagram of music tastes.
My brother’s girlfriend, Katherine Orme, was coming to stay with us for a week. She was from Ouchita, Kansas, and it wasn’t often I got to talk face-to-face with her. She and I were eerily alike- it was often we finished each other’s ideas or thought was the other was candid enough to say. Also slightly creepy- occasionally Ryan got our names mixed up.
“Ka- I mean Cara,” he’d begin. “Shit!”
“Ryan!” I’d yell in anguish. “Ugh! Will you stop that!”
“Damn it, I didn’t mean to!” he protested vehemently. “Your names both start with the ‘ka’ sound, and they’re the two names I probably say most often!”
I pretended to vomit.
“It’s not like that, man!” he tried again. “It’s not some creep-ass incestual Freudian slip, I swear.”
Kat, like me, played video games. That’s how she and Ryan had met- in a Halo clan for the PC. A lot of people thought that was weird, but I mean, they know each other extraordinarily well. Unlike most couples, they talk and spend time with each other for at least five hours a day- even if it’s not in the conventional sense. I liked her, and more importantly, Ryan was a lot more content and considerate when she was around. Win-win situation.
The neighborhood was, of course, curious. We all kind of visualized Ryan as a lost cause, a coarse would-be rebel, an intelligent cynic with no chance at actually carrying on a meaningful relationship– at least at this point in his life. In a way, we were right. The relationship with Kat was obviously untraditional. They sniped at each other constantly- and although it sounded like actual fighting, you could tell that was just the way things were between them, and that was how they wanted it to stay.
“Uhh… Kat, what the hell was that?”
“You know what, Ryan? I’m gonna slit your throat.”
“ Aww, Kat, c’mon. You know you love me.”
“That’s… debatable.”
A mutual friend, his tag Nailbomb, had created a soundboard for Ryan and Kat. The first we knew of it was a surprise while playing CounterStrike.
“Hooker!” Ryan’s voice accused.
“Who’s a hooker?” someone asked. There was a smattering of chuckles in the background.
There was no response.
“Hooker!” Ryan said again.
“Ryanman, quit it,” someone else said.
“Well fine, damn,” he replied. “Well fine, damn- Hooker!”
“I’m not sayin’ anything, man!” Ryan exploded, and was interrupted by his own voice.
“WHAT AM I DOING?!?!?!”
A particularly angry gamer snarled at him. “Dude, Ryanman, stop it before we voteban you.”
“I’m gonna slice your throat with a blunt razor,” Ryan threatened. “That’s not me, dude,” he tried to assure us. “Wait…”
I cycled through the names. “There are two people here named Ryanman,” I pointed out helpfully. “It’s gotta be… Flumpy and Nailbomb were just playing here and now they’re not. So one of them.”
“Nailbomb, you douche bag!” Ryan howled. “Gah, it was him, guys…but man, that wasn’t bad. Gimme a link to that shiz.”
The second Ryanman laughed drunkenly into his mike. Definitely Nailbomb. He was chuckling, but I wasn’t sure you could call it that, from the stupor he was in. The laugh was slow and plodding. “Ah… here ya go, man.” He giggled. “I… gotcha pretty good, didn’t I?”
“Wasn’t bad,” Ryan admitted.
My brother was an excellent speaker. He could come up with a random diatribe at the blink of an eye, and deliver it with emotion and just the right amount of anger. People tend not to argue with people for three major reasons: the speaker’s confidence level, vocabulary, and vehemence. Ryan had all of these qualities in abundance. Jet expressed it once:
“Dude, Ryan, even if you’re completely wrong, no one will say anything about it. They’re scared- someone that pissed obviously knows what they’re talking about. And then, they’re thinking, what the fuck did that word even mean?”
I also had the rare self-assurance and vocabulary to pull of some serious B.S.ing. Instead of Ryan’s anger, though, I took on an are-you-really-that-stupid voice that made people ashamed of their point of view. I spoke softly and slowly, and when I felt strongly about a subject, I lapsed into a Southern accent. People couldn’t make me back down by yelling, and couldn’t match my appearance of innocent rationality, immediately giving me the upper hand in a disagreement. Who are you going to tend to believe, someone emotionally unstable, or someone who’s cool, calm, and collected?
Of course, a select few had the power to push me out of my air of calm… most notably JB and Ryan. They both just had that indefinable skill of button-pushing, and it was good that they didn’t usually work together, which could have spelled disaster for me. I didn’t like being pushed out of my false demeanor at all, and was liable to snap at any moment once I was revealed- like a wounded dog, or so I’m told.
I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel, fighting the urge to break into song along with Bayside. I enjoy singing along, but I prefer just listening to the band. It drives me crazy when people try to sing along and they don’t know the words- a crime embodied by my little brother. He was also constantly guilty of humming discordantly, whistling, or various other forms of blasphemy.
Today was just one of those days. I completely and utterly fucked up my AP Bio test, along with the rest of my grade… with a few glaring exceptions. Ashworth got a 95 or something (class average: 59) while I got a 60, barely retaining my spotless record of never bringing down a class average. Luckily, Hines is a pushover who recognizes his ineptitude as a rookie teacher, and he removed several questions and then followed an odd but extremely helpful system of scaling, consisting of taking the square root of your grade and multiplying it by ten. I.E. with a original grade of 64, you’d come out with an 80. (Square 64 for eight, eight by ten is 80.) I ended up with an eighty-seven. Today was disheartening for another reason: I had the distinct displeasure of viewing my classmate’s reactions towards our new president-elect, a Barack Obama. I’d followed the race, if not zealously, and I leaned toward the over-idealistic Obama (“Hope You Can Believe In” and “Yes We Can” being his campaign slogans) over the senile and melanomic McCain. More importantly, a substantial fear took form in their selection of vice-presidents. McCain, while healthy, was old and thus in fear of death; Obama, though youthful, was perpetually in danger from neo-Nazis and white supremacists, as he was half-black. Naturally we took notice more closely than usual of the VP candidates. Obama’s choice was safe and reasonable, the forever-Senator Joe Biden. Regrettably, Biden waxed eloquent at unfortunate times, often letting his mouth run ahead of his reason and sticking his foot in his mouth. McCain’s choice was seemingly random, designed to create a buzz: Governor Sarah Palin from Alaska, a woman to balance Obama’s race, and a politician who- at least in my opinion- didn’t have much common sense. Palin also suffered for a reason completely out of her control: the first time I saw her, I thought of Tina Fey. Many others did the same- especially following Fey’s now-famous SNL spoofs of the ‘hockey mom.’ (Tina Fey, by the way, is my hero; from her hilarious renditions of Palin to her hysterical movie Mean Girls, everything she participates in knocks my socks off.)
Anyway, the racist, red-necked bastards in our grade caused a raucous. I can’t begin to count the number of times I heard “I’m moving to Canada.” At one point, I shouted at one of them: “GO to Canada, you asshat neo-Nazi! They’re socialist!”
When people walked into history class discussing assassinating the President-elect, I studiously ignored them, and was caught of guard by my teacher, Ms. Harris. I’d always suspected she was a closet racist- just some vibe I got, I dunno- but she screamed at the worst offender, and broke down crying. Good to get rid of some pent-up emotion, I suppose, but man, did it make things awkward for our class.
Ms. Harris blubbered for a few minutes about the beauty of our country, her feelings during Obama’s acceptance speech (to be fair, I was a little moved too,) and her disbelief towards the attitude of teenagers in the twenty-first century. She alluded to the problems of listening to figures in authority and at one point seemed to encourage the use of LSD. We listened closely.
Ms. Harris was one of my favorite teachers, one of those rare specimens that delivered sarcasm as easily as the weather. Her sense of humor was dry, and the only way you could avoid her “sass” was to shoot it right back- intelligently, of course. She despised the morons that decided to take her class simply for the quality point it afforded, as did we all. She was one of the Scholar’s Bowl sponsors as well, luckily for me. She got to know me before she judged me based on my brother, which was usually my misfortune.
The first day of my sophomore year was basically a nightmare come to life. My first period teacher began to call roll, and hesitated a fraction of a second at my name. She threw a fleeting glance in my direction, but it was enough; I easily read the look in her eyes. “Oh God,” her expression moaned. “Another McElroy.”
Second period, my new chemistry professor, Ms. Mills, paused conspicuously at my name. Ms. Mills, soon to become my favorite teacher, was bold as brass and an excellent teacher. She barked out my name, and scoped me out. She affixed me with a raptor’s gaze.
“So,” she shouted (Ms. Mills never just talked.) “You’d be… Ryan’s little sister.”
I gave a huge sigh as the class burst into laughter. Ms. Mills surveyed the room with a practiced eye.
“What?” she asked, quickly discerning the reason for our laughter. “This happen before?”
I nodded, grinning. “But,” I pleaded, “please don’t judge me. We’re not alike… I promise.”
Alex DeHaven, one of my buddies, leapt to my rescue. “They’re both smart,” he offered. “But Ryan’s kind of a douche- I mean, uh, kind of… uninspired, and Cara kind of does work. Occasionally.”
I made a face. “Gee, thanks for that ringing endorsement. Good to know you have my back.”
He gave a small, mock bow. “No problemo.”
But Ms. Mills did give me the benefit of the doubt, and by the end of the year, I was one of her favorite students. Unlike with Ms. Nolen.
Ms. Nolen was a skinny, weightless woman of almost undeterminable age. She had colorless blue eyes- it seemed to me like one day someone had just drained her irises. Deeply conservative and deeply religious, as well as a strong believer in discipline, she and I might have had problems eventually. Ryan expedited those issues.
One day, the year before, Ryan cursed at one of his friends. In front of Ms. Nolen. “FUCK, MEAT!” he screamed at Harshmet, one of his friends. She was shocked and appalled, and I never really got the chance to prove I was a rational, non-sacrilegious human being. Oh well. I never really liked Ms. Nolen anyway.
I’d plowed my way laboriously through more than halfway through my junior year, and I was tired. I’m one of those people that developed the dreaded case of senioritis around second grade, and I just couldn’t shake it. Of course, my apathy remained balanced with my unwillingness to lose, so I compromised: my general rule of thumb was to do EXACTLY what was necessary and no more. Why spend eight hours on a project and receive a 99 rather than spend two hours and get a 92? For me, the choice was clear.
My friends sighed and my rivals got angry. In history, once a week we had to read (and answer questions about) a chapter in our thick book. When we arrived at school the next day, we not only had to turn in the questions, but were forced to take a quiz on the subject matter. I did an outline instead of questions, because I could do a shitty job and keep the reading flowing. I also read faster than anyone in my grade, so I knocked out the chapter in maybe an hour. Slower workers or slower readers could take up to four hours on the same assignment, which caused a lot of resentment towards me.
I wasn’t so good at math, unfortunately; I was a decent student but certainly nothing special. Fortunately, my best (school) friend, Ashworth, was practically a prodigy. I was the better reader and analyst, but she basically taught me math and physics when I hadn’t been listening the day before. She worked hard, and schooled me grade-wise, but we remained pretty much equal. For example, our two PSAT tests were two points apart apiece. We both scored 33’s on our first ACT, although mine was the highest possible 33 and hers was the lowest possible. We were eerily like in some respects; my math teacher Ms. B got seriously creeped out one day.
“So that’d be…” I began.
“Forty-six?” she finished.
“Yep,” I replied, scribbling down the answer. Then I paused, uncertain. “Wait…”
“No,” we said in perfect unison. We glanced at each other- mirror images- and laughed, for almost the same duration of time. I flipped my pencil to the eraser side and took down the offending 46. Ashworth’s strokes matched mine, and when I finished, I brushed off the eraser shavings with two authoritative strokes. Unfortunately, Ashworth’s were in sync. We looked up.
“That was weird.”
Only that made it even stranger, because we’d again used the same phrase, with the same inflexion. We burst into laughter. Ms. B stood in front of my desk, gazing at us uncertainly. I stifled another giggle.
“Sorry about that, Ms. B,” I said, grinning broadly.
“We’re pretty good friends,” Sarah added.
Ms. B gave a little laugh. “Well, you must be,” she agreed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything like that.” She paused. “Well, except for…” And she was off. I don’t know anyone that can tell stories like Ms. B. She’s one of those teachers that’s comfortable talking with her students, and she’s one of those genuinely nice people that you can hardly imagine getting angry. But, if Ms. B ever got angry, you might be able to find me cowering in a cave about eight states away. We all had no doubt she’d be able to deal with any trouble that arose. For example, here’s a story she shared with us one day.
“Before I taught here,” she began slowly, her Southern accent enforcing rather than decreasing her intelligence, “I taught at an inner-city school in Pittsburg. Those kids were rough. When I got there, my colleagues warned me: if I didn’t get control the first day, I was as good as gone. And I needed that job.” She paused.
“So I marched down there, burst into the classroom, and stalked over to the board- and I had on SUCH a scowl. I glared around at the kids in that class, and I said, ‘Now you listen, and listen closely. I don’t know who you think you are, or what you’ve thought about the teachers before me, but I am the boss here. Before you even think about testing me, I need this job. And remember, I’m from Alabama… I can handle a weapon better than you can. I have no doubt.’ “ Ms. B laughed at the recollection. “One kid stood up, and started to step towards me, and I snatched the meter-stick up off the board, and I said, ‘I DARE you to take one more step.’ Well, he didn’t.”
We laughed, and Ms. B quieted us with a wave of her hands. “But what I didn’t know,” she said, “was the other teachers had told my kids that I was a member of the Klan, and they were all scared silly of me anyway.”
“Wait, like the KKK? That clan?” asked a none-too-bright student.
“Yes, the KKK, you dumb shit ,” a classmate answered him quietly.
We sniggered. Embarrassed, the boy tried to justify his answer, but was promptly shot down again.