comics and catheters

cut and splice

2009-03-01T20:55:00.008-05:00

“You are not taking him to any dance.”

“But why?”

“Cause I said so.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“I’m your father. That’s the reason.”

“Just give me one real reason.”

“We don’t know this kid.”

“Sure you do. He’s been over here a bunch of times. Mom, tell him!”

“I’m not getting involved.”

“We don’t know his family, where he comes from.”

“He’s from Chicago. His parents are divorced.”

“Kids who come from divorce are always screwed up in the head.”

“How can you say that?”

“Cause it’s true.”

“Russell lives with his father. He’s a stockbroker. You can talk to him if you want.”

“I don’t need to talk to him.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He smokes.”

“Mom smokes!”

“And you mother’s stupid for smokin’.”

“Steve smoked. That didn’t seem to bother you.”

“Yeah, well last time this Russell kid came over here he smelled of beer. Your mother told me so.”

My head swiveled in my mother’s direction, but her eyes were studying the floor. I wanted to remind them both that my father drank , even driving us around after he had been drinking, but something told me to shut my mouth on that one.

“All of my friends drink. I’m the only one who doesn’t. You want me to just stay in the house and not have any friends?”

“You keep this up and that’s what’s gonna happen.”

“Is it because he’s black?”

“Noreen….”

“Is that the reason?”

“Don’t push it!”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It’s cause he’s black. You happy now?”

I wasn’t happy. I was the exact opposite of happy. I had never heard my parents use racial slurs against anyone. I heard plenty of racist names in the neighborhood: moolie, mook, spook, mick, spick, wetback, guinea, wop, polack. But none of those words were ever uttered at home. In fact, it was my father who had told me to stop calling Patrick Healy “Chink”.

I had known Patrick since I was seven. We met during a wiffle ball game.

“Who’s the new kid?” I had asked Billy.

“That’s my cousin, Chink.”

Chink was playing first base, and when I hit a grounder to third and made it to first, I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Noreen.”

“I’m Chink.”

“You’re Billy’s cousin?”

“Yep. We just moved here from Buffalo.”

“Cool.”

Then Thomas hit a line drive over the second baseman’s head and I made it all the way to third, leaving Chink at first with his glove in the air.

It wasn’t until I was 12 when Dad and I were driving past the park that Dad told me what I was saying was wrong.

“Hey, Chink!” I shouted out the window as Dad looked for a parking space.

“What’s up, Nor?” he waved back.

“Noreen! What did you just say?”

“What? I was just saying hi to my friend.”

“What did you just call him?”

“Chink.”

“What’s the matter with you? You don’t say a word like that.”

“I didn’t say a word. It’s his name.”

“I doubt that’s the name his mother gave him. I don’t ever want to hear you say that word again, you hear me?”

“But everyone calls him that.”

“I don’t care who calls him what. You call him by his real name.”

“I don’t know his real name.”

“You better find it out then.”

So that’s what I did. Billy told me that his father and Chink’s father were brothers. Chink’s father had married a Korean woman, so Chink was half Korean and half Irish. Billy said Chink didn’t mind everyone calling him “Chink”, since it was just a nickname like “lard ass” or “lefty”, but that I could call him by his real name of Patrick if I wanted.

“Hello, Patrick,” I said with great formality the next time I saw him.

“Hey, what’s up?’

“That’s a nice hat, Patrick.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Where did you buy that hat, Patrick?”

“I don’t know. My mom got it for me.”

“That was nice of your mom, Patrick.”

“I guess.”

Whenever I heard anyone else call him “Chink”, I immediately said his proper name and smiled at him. I wanted Patrick to know that I wasn’t like the rest – I wasn’t a racist.

“Chink, you going to the game tonight?”

“Yeah, Patrick, are you going?”

Patrick started to avoid me like a mud puddle, and then one day Billy came up to me.

“So what’s up with you and Chink?”

“You mean Patrick?”

“Yeah, I mean my cousin. What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have the hots for him or something?”

“No! Why?”

“Cause he said you keep saying his name all the time, and you look at him weird.”

“No, I don’t like him like that. He’s just my friend.”

“Whatever. He thinks you want him.”

I couldn’t seem to win no matter what I did. I decided to avoid saying his name at all, and I would certainly not be smiling at him again.

“But I don’t understand,” I whined to my father. “I have all kinds of friends and you’ve never said anything before. We even took Thomas to the Mets game that time, and he’s black.”

“That was different. He’s just a friend.”

“Russell is just my friend. I don’t want him to be my boyfriend. I just want to take him to my formal.”

It was true. I only wanted to take Russell because he was part of our group and I knew we’d have fun together. Plus, he was several inches taller than me. At 5’9, it was difficult for me to find a boy to slow dance with whose head wouldn’t look like my chinrest. If I didn’t take Russell, who else was there? I couldn’t ask Eric the Shadow because he was Steve’s best friend. Ricky was going with Melissa, though they’d probably spend the night fighting anyway. And Professor was pre-engaged to Lilith. So that left Russell.

I tried explaining this all to my father, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t care if you have black friends, but you are not to date one.”

“I’m not dating Russell!”

“That’s right, you’re not.”

“Why do you have a problem with blacks?”

“I don’t have a problem with them, but other people do.”

“I don’t care what other people think.”

“You better learn to start caring. We have to live in this house and in this town. People get the wrong idea of you and it can start a lot of trouble.”

“Like what?”

“Like we can be told we have to move out of here.”

I opened my mouth, then stopped to consider this. We lived in a four-family house that was owned and occupied by an old world Italian family. Three brothers and their families lived above and below us. They used racial slurs as easily as they named the ingredients to their sauce. But could they really evict us because of my choice of a dance date? Rents were skyrocketing all over town. Some of my friends who lived in rent-controlled tenements had already been burned out of their homes to make way for fancy new condos. Where would we end up if we got evicted?

“That can’t happen,” I said without conviction.

“It can happen.”

“I don’t care. I’m taking Russell to the dance. If we get evicted then we’ll get a lawyer or call the NAACP or the ACLU or whatever.”

“Jesus Christ Noreen! Don’t push me!” Dad pounded his fist on the table and I jumped. Wormy veins bulged in his neck and forehead. Mom swept imaginary crumbs off of the table.

“Keep this up and I’ll pull you all out of school and move you to Long Island. Is that what you want?”

Dad knew I had no response to this threat. It was his sole solution to any problem we had in school or in the neighborhood. My mother, equally opposed to the idea of moving to the suburbs, hinted that we shouldn’t tell my father certain details. So instead of telling Dad that my occasional black eyes and bruises had come from Butch, the town bully, we blamed baseball.
I couldn’t let Dad’s Long Island threat stop me this time. He was wrong. Russell was my friend, and I wanted to take him to the formal. I was trying to form an argument in my head that would persuade Dad that I was right and he was wrong, but I knew the words would never come out correctly. I felt angry tears building, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“You’re a racist jerk. I hate you!”

“Noreen!” Mom shouted.

My words landed like a smack. Dad’s face fell, the fight washed out of him. He looked old and tired and sick. I had defeated him. It was the last thing I had wanted to do.

Those words had never crossed my lips before. I had never even thought them. I wanted to take it back immediately. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t even me who had said it. It was the ugliest part of me, this thing inside that I hadn’t even known existed until that very second.

Hit me, I thought. Punish me. Send me to the convent or forbid me from going to the dance or move me to the suburbs. Just please say something!

Dad walked out of the room and out of the apartment without a sound. I wanted to make it better but I couldn’t. I wanted to run after him and hug him, tell him I loved him, that he wasn’t a jerk at all and I could never hate him, but we weren’t that kind of family.

Dad had always loved playing with his Super 8 camera when I was a kid. He taught me how to edit the film, cutting out portions and splicing the film together again. I wished I could splice out the hurtful words I had hurled at him. I didn’t want this scene replaying over and over in his head.

Russell was waiting for me on the corner the next morning. Ever since my break-up, Steve and Eric the Shadow had started taking the earlier bus, and Russell had walked me to the bus each morning. He comforted me with stories of girls who had broken his heart.

“This one girl told everyone that my breath smelled like sour milk.”

“In eighth grade, I caught my girlfriend and my best friend in my closet. His hands were up her shirt. I had dated her for two whole months, and she had never let me feel her up. That really hurt.”

“My last girlfriend is now a lesbian. I’m scarred for life.”

Russell’s stories, and his friendship, made the sting of my single status hurt a little less.
Sitting on the back of the bus with the group, the talk immediately turned to the formal.

“My mother thinks my dress is too slutty.”

“It is too slutty.”

“I know, but that’s what I was going for when I bought it.”

“I hope Josh doesn’t wear too much cologne that night. He smells like a car freshener.”

“Fred is threatening to wear sneakers with his suit. My father will kill him.”

“Who are you taking, Nor?”

“Yeah. Did you decide yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“It’s a week from tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Professor poked his head out from behind the Wall Street Journal.

“You know, I’ve never been to a dance at your school.”

“Do you want to go to the formal with me?” I blurted it out with no forethought. I was beginning to wonder if I had that disease that made you curse at old people and pigeons.

“Uh, you know I’m pre-engaged?” Professor said, a blush blooming beneath his five o’clock shadow.

I didn’t know what to say. I could play the invitation off as a joke, but that seemed lame. I had to play it cool and casual, like the whole thing was no big deal. Besides, I wasn’t at all attracted to Professor. That would be like having the hots for your history teacher. Not the young one with the bulging biceps, but the old guy who loved to talk about the Civil War and smelled as if he had been a first-hand witness to it.

“Yeah, I know you’re pre-engaged,” I responded coolly.

“To Lilith.”

“I know. But we could just go as friends, you know?”

I could not ignore the fact that Russell was shifting uncomfortably in his seat next to Professor.

“Uh, this is, uh, highly irregular. I, uh, I’m not sure what to make of this.”

“How about if you ask Lilith? She knows me. I’m sure she’d be okay with it.”

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting this very unusual offer. Yes. Let’s get Lilith’s take on the matter and I’ll get back to you.”

The boys got off at their stop and Russell left without a good-bye. The girls assaulted me with questions before the bus even pulled away.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you ask Professor?”

“He’s totally boring.”

“He doesn’t dance.”

“He looks like he smokes a pipe, for Christ’s sake.”

“And, he has an almost-fiance.”

“I know! I know! I don’t know what happened to me.”

“Why don’t you just ask Russell?”

“Yeah, he’d be a perfect date.”

“If I didn’t have Ricky I’d take him.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask him.”

“Want me to ask him for you?”

“No!”

“All right. Jeez. Relax a little.”

The bus quieted down, and a panic quickened my heart. What was I supposed to tell my friends – that my dad wouldn’t let me ask Russell because he was black? That my father still hadn’t looked at me since our fight? That I didn’t even want to go to the stupid dance anymore? I didn’t know how to explain any of it without sounding like a racist myself, so I let it slide and prayed that Liilth would take pity and allow Professor to act as my date for one lousy night.

Professor answered me loud and clear on the bus the next morning. Instead of assuming his regular seat at the back of the bus with us, he buried his head beneath the Wall Street Journal in the seat directly opposite the driver.

“Hey, Professor,” I said when I recognized the briefcase on the seat beside him.

Professor put his nose up against the paper in an effort to hide from me. I sighed heavily and made my way to the back of the bus. Great. Not only was Professor pretending I didn’t exist, but Russell hadn’t met me on the corner that morning and no one had heard from him. This stupid formal, and my father, were ruining my life.

I ended up taking Joseph to the formal. We had gone to grammar school together, and he had been dating a girl in my Algebra class until she dumped him five days before the formal. When I heard of the break-up, I swooped into action. Although Joseph was an inch shorter than me, he did have a suit and he was white, so I figured my father wouldn’t object.

I wore my satin polka-dotted dress, my hair piled on top of my head with bobby pins piercing my scalp. We slow-danced a few times, but Joseph kept stepping on my toes, which were already pinched in my pumps. We took pictures under the arch composed of blue and silver balloons, and went for dessert in a little café afterward. A mouse ran across our table and hopped over Melissa’s chocolate mousse. The boys then ate the desserts that we girls were too grossed out to touch. It was the most disappointing night of my young high school life.

I hadn’t seen Russell once the week leading up to the formal. Although Professor was keeping his distance and sitting at the front of the bus, he did reveal that Russell was in school but was taking a different bus. I didn’t know what was going on, but I suspected it had something to do with my not asking Russell to the formal. I figured that Russell was hurt and was avoiding me altogether. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I tell Russell that I had wanted to take him, but my father had forbidden it? Would he think it was a lie? Would he think that I agreed with my dad, that I was a racist?

My fears seemed to evaporate the Monday after the formal. Although Russell wasn’t waiting for me on the corner, I did find him sitting in the back of the bus with the girls. My shoulders relaxed and I exhaled my worries when I saw Russell’s warm smile.

“Hi,” I said as I approached tentatively.

“What’s up, Nor?” How was the formal?”

“Boring,” I shrugged, my cheeks coloring with guilt.

I sat opposite Russell, glad that he was back and talking to me again. The girls gossiped about our classmates’ dresses and dates, make-up and dance moves. Russell listened and laughed, looking over at me from time to time.

“I would have loved to have been there,” he commented.

“You didn’t miss anything,” I assured him.

“Sure I did. I missed you dancing.”

“What do you mean?”

Russell cackled and clapped his hands. The girls’ chatter quieted and my body went stiff. It was that old familiar feeling - bracing against an assault I knew was coming my way.

“You dance like you have a board shoved up your ass!” Russell said between bouts of laughter.

He then stood up on the moving bus and swayed stiffly side to side, jutting out his hips at odd angles. The girls tried to stifle their giggles as I sat there dumbly, watching Russell imitate my spastic dance moves.

“This is how you dance.”

Russell stood in front of me, hips swiveling and gyrating inches from my face. I bit my lip and looked away. A tiny part of me felt like I deserved it. I was a coward for not standing up to my father and fighting for what I knew was right. I should have found a way to take Russell to the dance, no matter what my father had said. But how could I have done that? If I had defied my father, we might have ended up on Long Island, and things would never be the same between us again. As it was now, my father and I barely said good night to each other. I had made a choice, and I chose to do as my father said. I just hadn’t realized at the time that my choice would mean losing Russell as a friend.

It continued each morning.

“Damn, Nor. Did you even brush your hair this morning?”

“What is that smell? Did something die? Oh wait, it’s just Nor.”

“Your legs are so skinny I could clean my teeth with you.”

“Could you please sit somewhere else? You’re too ugly to look at before I’ve had breakfast. My stomach can’t handle it.”

Some mornings Russell pelted me with wads of paper. Once he tripped me and I landed on an old man’s lap. I was starting to fear Russell, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else.
It went on and on. The girls didn’t laugh, but they didn’t exactly tell Russell to lay off either. I ignored his comments and taunts, concentrating on my homework or pretending to nap. I could have taken a different bus or moved my seat, but I wouldn’t give Russell the satisfaction. It was exhausting.

One morning, Russell wasn’t on the bus. I was so relieved that I actually slept during the whole ride and almost missed my stop. He didn’t show up the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. Ricky said he had stopped showing up in school too.

“What happened?” I asked Ricky, half out of curiosity and half out of concern.

“Nothin’. He just needed a break, I guess.”

Melissa was the one who finally told me.

“Russell’s under house arrest,” she whispered in the library one day.

“What? What for?”

“Drugs.”

“No way.”

“Uh huh. Ricky told me.”

“I don’t believe it. Russell doesn’t do drugs.”

“Not only does he do drugs, he was selling drugs. Where do you think Ricky got his shit from?”

“So what does this mean? Will he end up in jail?”

“Ricky said he has to do three months of house arrest at his dad’s, then he’s going back to his mom in Chicago. Turns out he’s in trouble there too. He got into a fight with some guy and the guy nearly lost an eye. That’s why his mom sent him here.”

My throat closed up and my heart did jumping jacks. How had I not known this? Russell had been my friend and he was in trouble, and I never knew anything about it. I couldn’t understand why he would be dealing drugs. His dad made plenty of money and Russell had everything he could possibly need. I wished I could call him and talk to him, tell him I was sorry for everything, that I wished I had taken him to the formal, even after everything that had happened. But we were no longer friends.

Little by little, our group broke apart and formed new groups. Melissa and Ricky continued to fight and make up, fight and make up, until Melissa found Roger and Ricky found a new dealer. Although she and Ricky were officially broken up, they sometimes hung out in her mom’s basement and played doctor. Tara became a cheerleader and got rides to school from one of her teammates. Kris joined the popular clique, the girls who could gut you with their words and look beautiful doing it. Jackie and I both made the softball team, but freshmen mainly rode the bench and carried the equipment. After a while, she and I stopped hanging out, too.

I tried my hand at different cliques, but nothing seemed to fit. I had spent most of my freshman year clinging to Steve and my Hoboken friends, and I had missed opportunities to hang out with new people. Now, approaching the end of my first year of high school, most cliques were solidly cemented and I had trouble fitting in anywhere. I froze in the bleachers during football games, repelled by the constant crunch of bodies against helmets. I doubted I would ever dance again after Russell’s interpretation of my convulsive moves. Fashion shows were a big social event, but what was I doing cheering and whistling for sickly thin boys and girls clomping up and down a runway to bad house music?

I felt like a fake and a phony and a liar. I didn’t know who I was or what I should do, but I knew that none of those things were me. I was the puzzle piece that had been bent and chipped, my edges too ragged to fit in anywhere.

Taking matters into my own hands, I decided to employ the editing skills Dad had taught me with his Super 8 camera. I cut out all the nasty bits – my fight with Dad, my decision to not ask Russell to the formal, the way he treated me after, and even the trouble he had gotten himself into. I cut all around the jagged parts, neatly splicing myself into a better life.

What I was left with were quick moments and memories that weren’t mine, snapshots of smiles and times I didn’t even own. It was like flipping through someone else’s photo album and pasting my face into another family’s trip to Disney World. It was all a lie, a fairy tale I told Erin to help her fall asleep at night. Russell was not a prince; he was just some kid in trouble who had a nasty temper. My father was no benevolent king, but he was trying to do right by me in his own 1950’s West Side Story kind of way.

I didn’t want the Hollywood version of life. I wanted to find my own starring role in a script that I had yet to write. The blank pages were ready, the pen poised in my hand. I stared down at all that blankness. And waited.

love bites

2009-02-07T09:49:00.017-05:00

“Oh my God!” Mom made a sound like a half a hiccup and began speaking in hushed tones. I floated up out of sleep, not knowing if it was night or day. My room was dark except for the glow of my alarm clock, which read 12:13. A cold fear traveled through my veins. I jumped out of the top bunk and ran out to Mom in the kitchen.

“Mom!” I tugged on her pajama sleeve as she was writing down an address on the back of a telephone bill. She waved me away.

“Mom? Is it Dad? Is he okay?”

“Shh, Noreen! I’m on the phone!”

Dad was out driving the cab. Any time our phone rang late at night while Dad was at work, I assumed it was the police calling to tell us that Dad had been chopped into pieces and thrown into the Hudson River by a demented customer in the back of his cab.

“Mom!” I pulled the phone cord taut and Mom swatted at my hand. Her hair was sticking up like a rooster’s from sleep.

“All right. See you there. Thanks for calling.”

Mom finally hung up the phone but continued to scribble notes.

“Mom!”

“What is it, Noreen?”

“Is Dad all right?”

“Of course he’s all right. What’s the matter with you?”

“I heard the phone.”

“It wasn’t your father. It’s your Uncle Ray. He died.”

“Oh,” I sighed with relief. “Who’s Uncle Ray?”

“He was my father’s brother.”

I barely remembered my grandfather. He had died when I was four. Some details still sat in my memory: the way I swung on his walker like a jungle gym, the tissue paper feel of his palm as he handed me a dollar bill from his bed, Mom collapsing at his funeral and being carried to one of the pews.

“Okay. I’m going back to bed,” I said, my body already heavy with sleep.

“Hold on a second. We need to go to the wake.”

“All right. Whatever.”

“Noreen,” Mom hesitated and I turned towards her. “It’s Friday.”

She waited as I let this information sink in.

“It can’t be! The dance is on Friday. I have to be there!”

I felt a tantrum fit for a two-year-old brewing in my chest. My hand slapped the kitchen table, sending a saltshaker on its side.

“Knock it off! There will be other dances.”

“Yeah, well other relatives will die. Can’t I go to one of their wakes?”

“Don’t get smart! Uncle Ray is the last relative on my father’s side. We have to pay our respects.”

“Maybe we should have paid our respects by visiting poor old Uncle Ray when he was still alive.”

Even though I hadn’t known that Uncle Ray existed, I didn’t like the man one bit.

“Get to bed!”

I stomped back to my room and into the top bunk, punching my mattress in frustration. I would wait until morning to break the news to Steve.

High school dances were not what I had hoped they’d be. There were no choreographed dance moves. Few, if any, slow songs played throughout the night. Where were the well-lit corners for intimate conversations?

The reality of dances was a stinking, wrinkled mess. House music pounded as my heart throbbed out of my chest. Pelvises grinded into me from all sides as random hands groped and tugged at my carefully chosen outfit. Body odor hung like onions in the air. The bathrooms were a haze of Aqua Net hairspray and cigarette smoke. A fog machine choked the air out of my lungs and the blur of strobe lights made me dizzy. We all crept out of the dances looking like drowned cats. Sleep refused to visit me afterward. My ears continued to pulse with the bass long after the music had stopped. Every cell in my body sashayed to the beat when all I wanted to do was close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

I hated high school dances.

This dance, however, was going to be different, special. I had already been to dances at Steve’s high school, but this was to be the first dance at my school. And, it was going to take place on our five-month anniversary. All of my classmates would get to watch as Steve gyrated against me and held my hand and kissed my neck, as he had been doing for a total of five months, without getting sick of me! They would see proof of the attentive boyfriend I was always bragging about. It was just one more step to prove to them, and myself, that I was a normal girl with a boyfriend who thought I was pretty enough to make out with. That was worth the sweat and the stench and the sleepless night.

“But it’s our anniversary!” Steve protested when I broke the news to him on our morning walk to the bus.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sorry about your uncle.”

Steve hugged me close and kissed the top of my head. An electric warmth spread down from my scalp, washed over my face and settled in my chest. I wondered how a peck on the head could give me shivers that an open-mouthed kiss couldn’t even touch.

“I won’t go to the dance either. I’ll stay home and watch television. Or practice guitar. But I’ll never go to the dance without you,” Steve vowed.

My insides lit up like lightning bugs and I felt a tickle in my toes.

“No. Go to the dance. Have fun. I wouldn’t want you to miss it because of me.”

I wanted him to miss it. I wanted him to miss any fun or dancing or music that I wouldn’t be a part of. But I couldn’t actually say it. I didn’t want to be that girlfriend.

“Well, only if you’re sure. I mean, I won’t have any fun or anything, but if that’s what you want I’ll go.”

“Uh, sure, I mean yeah. If you want to go….”

“Okay, I’ll go.”

Steve pecked me on the cheek and practiced his air guitar for the rest of the walk to the bus. I hoped dumb old dead Uncle Ray was happy.

I woke up the morning after the dance to the muffled ringing of the phone under my pillow. I had fallen asleep with the phone in my bed, waiting for the late-night call from Steve that never came. Rolling off of the phone, I picked up the receiver.

“Steve?”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe this happened to you. Are you okay? I mean, someone died! And he still did this to you. Oh. My. God!”

“Melissa?” Her voice hammered in my ear. I heard the words but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Let me be the first to tell you. She is an absolute dog. Woof! I don’t know what he saw in her. You’re way prettier than she is. Her nose looks like a ferret and her hair….”

“Wait. What are you talking about?” I jumped down from bed and began pacing the bedroom.

“Oh my God! You don’t know. He said he would call and tell you himself. I am so sorry. Forget everything I said. Forget I called. This conversation never happened, okay?”

The phone clicked in my ear and Melissa was gone. I hung up and called her right back, but the line was busy.

A bowling ball took up residence in my chest and squeezed all the air out of my lungs. I tried to tease out the words I had absorbed. Prettier than a ferret. Or a dog. Something about my hair. None of it made any sense. I had to go to whom I believed to be the source.

“Steve?” I whispered into the phone. I heard his heavy breathing on the other end as he stayed silent. I was afraid he was about to hang up on me, but I didn’t even know why.

“Steve? Please say something. What happened? Melissa called.”

“Yeah?” His voice had a rusty edge. “What’d she tell you?”

“I don’t know. Something about you and a ferret.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all. What else is there?”

I listened to Steve’s heavy breathing as I clutched the glass rose he had given me for Christmas.

“Steve?”

“Meet me at our swing in half an hour.” The line went dead but I still held the phone to my ear. I had been hung up on twice already, and I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet.

Exactly twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the caterpillar swing, the site of my first kiss with Steve. I was wearing the gold hoop earrings that Steve had said made my neck look longer, and I swept my hair up into a banana clip to accentuate what he said was my best feature. I fidgeted on the swing, feeling like a kid playing grown-up in the park.

After a few minutes, Steve strode through the park and made his way over to me. His headphones were glued to his ears and his head bopped quickly to the music. From the scowl on his face, I assumed he was listening to Metallica.

Steve chose to sit on the bird swing, his second favorite after the caterpillar swing, leaving the squirrel swing between us. He stared straight ahead, lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply on it. The headphones stayed on his head, but I heard him click the tape off in his pocket.

“I went with Bertha. At the dance last night,” he exhaled gray smoke through his nostrils, pursing his lips tightly.

Bertha? Who was Bertha? My mind raced through my classmates’ faces, and her image suddenly popped into my head. Melissa was right. She did look like a ferret. Her front teeth were chiseled sharp, and there was a vague smell of zoo animal about her locker. I tasted bile in the back of my throat, wondering if Steve thought Bertha was a step above me.

“How could you go with Bertha? You were going with me!”

“I am going with you. I just went with Bertha.”

“What?” I began to get one of those migraines that only Algebraic equations could produce.

“Look, I’m really sorry. But Def Leppard was playing, and you know what that does to me.”

Def Leppard had ruined my life.

“Bertha and I were dancing,” Steve continued, “And then she was rubbing up against me, and her hair smelled like your shampoo, and it just happened.”

Does my shampoo smell like cattle? I panicked, trying to sniff my hair without Steve noticing. I would wash my hair with bacon grease before I ever used that shampoo again.

“What exactly happened?” I asked. The things I was imagining had happened were torturing me: Steve slipping his tongue into that ferret’s mouth, her tongue licking his earlobes, their arms intertwined as they laughed about me. I thought I was going to be sick.

“We kissed. Just once.”

“With tongue?”

“With tongue.”

“For how long?”

“About a minute. Maybe a minute and a half, tops.”

“Where were her hands?”

“What?”

“Her hands. Where were they?”

“When?”

“When you had your tongue in her mouth.”

“I don’t know.”

“Were they around your neck? In her pockets? In your pockets?”

“Around my neck, I guess.”

“And where were your hands?”

“Why do you want to know all this?”

“You don’t get to ask the questions. Just answer them.”

“Sorry.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Answer the question.”

“Sorry. I don’t remember the question.”

“Your hands. Where were they?”

“On her hips, I think.”

“Did you move them up and down, or did they just stay there?”

“No, I didn’t move my hands.”

“So you kissed her for a minute or a minute and a half?”

“Yes.”

“And in all that time, your hands didn’t move?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

“Is she prettier than me?” I asked, ashamed of the question.

“No, of course not! She’s a dog.”

A high, sharp sound escaped my lips. I imagined it to be the sound a ferret would make if something large and heavy crushed its head.

“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking for the first time.

“I’m telling you. It was the music and the dancing and the shampoo. And I just missed you so much!”

“I saw you right before the dance!”

“I know, but you should have been there with me. I felt really hurt that you didn’t come.” Steve pouted. “This never would have happened if you had been there.”

“Someone died!”

“I know. I know. Look, I’m really sorry. And I really love you. Can you forgive me? Please? It’ll never happen again. I promise, baby.”

There was that word again. Only this time, it didn’t make me feel special - it made me feel little and stupid.

Steve crossed his heart and kissed his fingers, waiting for my reply. My mind tumbled. The winter formal was coming up, and I had already bought my dress – black satin with tiny pink polka dots. Who would I take if not Steve? I was finally like all of the other girls, with a boyfriend who took me on dates and brought me flowers. I wasn’t ready to give that all up and go back to being the girl that was too ugly for anyone to ever love. But deep down, I knew it was wrong to say yes to Steve.

“Are you sure it will never happen again?” I asked meekly. My voice sounded small and insignificant. The voice that came out was not my own. A boulder of shame sat on my shoulders and hunched my back.

“Absolutely!” Steve quickly kissed me on my lying lips. “Just promise you’ll never make me go to another dance without you.”

“Promise.”

Steve stood and wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him with limp arms, wishing for that same jelly belly feeling that I had gotten whenever he held me close, but it was gone.

“Break up with him!”

“No! It was the first time. Give him another chance.”

“Once a cheat, always a cheat.”

I didn’t even know who was speaking. After my meeting with Steve, I had called Melissa for support. She then called Tara on three-way, who called Jackie, who called Kris, who called her sister the slut, who called her cousin in California, who called her friend the feminist, who called her mother and some other people I didn’t know. There were at least ten people on the line, each with a strong opinion of how I should handle the situation.

“If you accept a man back into your life who has broken your spirit, he will always own you. You will set the women’s movement back 40 years.”

“He’s not a man – he’s a guy. And we’re not women yet – we’re in ninth grade!”

“My mom’s been cheated on by all three of her husbands, and she said the sex is always better after they cheat.”

“Maybe because they’re learning new tricks from the other women.”

“Oh my God, are you and Steve having sex?”

“What? No!”

“How far have you gone?”

“None of your business!”

“Second base? I bet at least second base.”

“She’s either gone all the way or she hasn’t done anything yet. Girls who say ‘none of your business’ always fall into one of those two categories.”

“Ladies. I think we’re getting off track here. Your friend here needs your guidance and your support.”

That must have been the mom. Her voice was warm like tea with honey. I wanted her to brush my hair and bake me cookies.

“I think you should cheat back.”

“Let him see what it feels like.”

“Cheating is the first sign of an abuser. If you let him get away with this, he’ll think he can get away with anything.”

“Has he hit you?”

“Did he blame you for cheating?”

The conversation continued without me as I ran to the kitchen and gulped a tall glass of water. My head was swimming with all of these voices that knew me and didn’t know me. The one question I wanted to ask them would not make its way to my lips: Would anyone ever love me again?

“Cheating is the sign of an evolved relationship. If you feel comfortable enough to cheat, that’s just a sign that you and your partner trust one another completely.”

“Oh, shut up Mandy! You’re just saying that cause you’re a slut.”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

“Okay, could everybody just be quiet for a minute?” I finally interrupted.

“Thanks for all your advice, but I think I just need to figure this out on my own.”

“You should know something,” Jackie said.

“What?”

“He cried. The whole way home.”

“It’s true,” Tara added. “He was really sorry.”

“He does love you, Nor.”

“Winter formal’s coming up.”

“Think of the fun we all have together.”

“Don’t break up the group.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If Steve and I broke up, one of us would have to take a different bus to school. Would my girlfriends stay loyal to me, or did they prefer the group outings to movies and dances and parties too much?

“I gotta go. Talk to you guys later.”

“Stay strong, sister.”

“It’ll work out, honey.”

“Later.”

“Good luck!”

“Bye.”

Later that night, Steve and I were a tangled mess of limbs on his bed. Teeth gnashed into teeth. Tongues poked and prodded. Hands wandered into forbidden territories and were put back into their proper places. I let Steve press against my fully-clothed body. He wanted me, not that ferret from last night. I tried to relax into his arms, wanting him to feel that I had forgiven him.
Steve pulled away from me, panting. His eyes shone as if he had a fever, and his lips were watermelon red.

Nuzzling into my neck, he whispered, “Hey. Know what I want you to do?”

My body went rigid and my heart quickened with the fear of all he could ask me to do that I wouldn’t want to do, or wouldn’t be able to identify

.“What?” I croaked. His body pressed down on me, his belt digging into my belly.

“Rub your tongue across my lips. Like lipstick.”

“Huh?” After five months of dating and ten minutes of making out, I wasn’t ready for anything kinky.

Steve pulled me in close to him. I felt his whispery breath on my chin. He smelled like Root Beer and salt and vinegar potato chips.

“You know. Like this.”

Steve’s eyes closed and his tongue poked out of his mouth. He ran the tip of his tongue around and around my lips. It felt slimy and wet, like an eyeball. I fought the urge to pull away from him and roll off the bed to safety.

Cars passed by outside. More stars were visible in the winter sky. The moon crept from one corner of his window to the other. And still, it went on and on.

“Oh, yeth,” Steve lisped with his tongue between his lips. My eyes widened and rolled up to the ceiling. The man in the moon was laughing at me. My shoulders touched my ears as shivers of disgust shot up and down my spine. I was going to scream in agony if he didn’t stop soon.
Finally, I sensed him slowing down and tried to compose myself before he opened his eyes and saw the disgust on my face. When he finally pulled away from me, Steve beamed with pride. He didn’t realize that what he had just done felt like letting a slug parade back and forth over my lips. He was so pleased with himself I wanted to puke.

“You like?”

He was my boyfriend. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, even though he had just cheated on me with a creature I considered to be akin to a rodent.

My mother had told me that a woman had to make some sacrifices in a relationship. I thought she meant letting Dad have a fish tank in the living room.

Shrugging my shoulders, my face reddened as I gave my best ambiguous smile. Steve could barely contain himself.

“My turn!” he bounced up and down like a kid waiting to get on the ferris wheel. Closing his eyes, he puckered his already chapped lips and leaned in close.

My tongue poked out of my mouth, a turtle’s head reluctantly leaving its shell. I jabbed Steve’s lips with the tip of my tongue several times.

“Oh baby….”

Steve moaned and groaned and twisted on the bed. I continued pecking at his lips, pretending I was licking a stamp. My eyes scrunched shut and every muscle in my body tensed against him. I licked and pecked and poked until my tongue cramped and my jaw locked. I had nothing left to give. My mouth was dry and I needed a glass of Seven-Up.

“That was amazing! The best I’ve ever had.”

Steve and I had been exploring each others’ mouths for five months, and this was the first lip-licking session I had been invited to. Had the ferret introduced him to this technique last night, or had he been keeping this fantasy a secret from me? How many girls had licked the lips of my boyfriend, and had they liked it? I suddenly saw myself on a conveyor belt with a dozen other girls, our tongues poked out, waiting to lick Steve’s lips to his content.

I did not want to be a lip licker.

It was over two weeks later. We had started fighting about stupid things.

“Did you tell Jackie I was an octopus?” he accused.

“What? No!”

“You said you would call at eight,” I pouted on another occasion.

“It’s 8:15,” he defended.

“Exactly!”

Phone conversations were short. He replaced “I love you” with “love ya.” I no longer replied with “I love you more”, until he eventually stopped saying it at all, and I didn’t miss hearing it. He stopped calling me “baby” and I refused to lick his lips or even open my mouth for his kisses. We walked quietly and quickly to the bus each morning and didn’t let our thighs touch once on the ride to school.

I went to watch him play street hockey on a Saturday afternoon and was met with an icy glare. I hung around for a while, not wanting him to feel like he had chased me away, and I pretended to be deeply engrossed in the game. I casually walked away, taking this as the final sign that we had broken up.

Back at home, I piled all of the love notes and pictures and movie stubs into a shoebox. I listened to the mix tape of power ballads Steve had made me for one last time. When the tape abruptly clicked to an end, I ejected it and tossed it into the shoebox with the rest. Wrapping the box with enough duct tape to deter me from rummaging through the past, I buried it in the back of my closet, beneath my roller skates and Barbie’s Dream House.

That night, I cried into my pillow. My tears weren’t because I missed Steve; I would miss the girl I had become. A girlfriend. Someone whom a boy thought was pretty. Someone whom other boys noticed simply because she had a boyfriend.

I dreaded going into school on Monday and admitting that I was once again invisible me.

“What an ass hole!”

“He didn’t deserve you.”

“His ears were too big for his bony head.”

I reveled in the attention I was getting from my friends. Soon, I was surrounded by a cocoon of girls in the cafeteria, some of whom I didn’t even know.

“What happened?” Susie from Algebra class asked Jackie.

“Nor dumped her boyfriend.”

“He cheated on her.”

“Scumbag!”

That wasn’t how it happened. I didn’t break up with Steve because he cheated on me. I didn’t break up with him at all. We just stopped being us without even saying it.

“Good for you!”

“Never take a guy back after he cheats.”

“Yep. He’ll just do it again and again.”

I wanted to tell them the truth. My friends knew it – knew that I had allowed him to hold my hand and kiss my neck after he had been polluted by the ferret. But they weren’t telling, so neither did I. Their slant on the story was definitely preferable to the reality.

“Yeah, Nor heard that and she said ‘later!’”

“My ex cheated on me with his cousin.”

“I caught my ex taking pictures of my mom in the bathroom.”

“Gross.”

“Eww.”

I sat there and swam in their stories. Some exes had bad breath. Others kissed wet and sloppy like grandfathers. One still asked his mother to rub his back to help him fall asleep.

“Who will you take to the formal, Nor?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find someone.”

“I should introduce you to my brother.”

“I know lots of guys in public school.”

“Here, let me do your algebra homework. You shouldn’t have to worry about that today.”

“You should be eating chocolate. Does anyone have some chocolate?”

“I’m going to fix your hair. A French braid always makes you feel better about yourself.”

Susie did my algebra homework while Tess French-braided my hair and Gigi fed me hunks of Hershey’s chocolate. My new friends and my old friends huddled around me.

A new warmth took up residence in my chest. It wasn’t better than the one that Steve’s kisses and caresses had produced, it was just different. Surrounded by this circle of girls who all had exes, I realized that I was not a no one. I was an “ex-girlfriend”. I had an “ex-boyfriend”. For the rest of his life, Steve would have to refer to me as his “ex”. Somehow, I felt there was a real power in those two little letters. E. X. I was now a girl with a past. I had a history.

And, I liked it.

tonsil hockey with my metal head

2009-01-15T16:28:00.003-05:00

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Let me just….”

“No, I can’t.”

“Not all the way. Just a little.”

“You feel so good.”

“Come on, Melissa.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Just half way.”

“Oh, God!”

“You will if you love me.”

“Not all the way.”

“No, just half way. I promise.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s not all the way.”

“Of course it doesn’t count.”

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Yes, baby.”

Steve and I listened as zippers slid open, followed by moaning and sucking and slurping. The noises were similar to those I had heard on forbidden late-night cable channels.

Melissa and Ricky were sealed away in her brother’s tent on the basement floor, while Steve and I were on the couch watching MTV. I concentrated intently on the television, trying to ignore the animal grunts and groans escaping from the tent. All of the muscles in Steve’s body tensed next to mine. I was a defenseless jackrabbit about to be pounced on by a salivating puma.

Steve’s lips lightly kissed my neck. My shoulders relaxed as I melted into the couch. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back as his soft kisses traveled up and down my neck. His fingers tugged at my shirt and tickled my belly button. I removed his hand and placed it safely on my knee. His fingers quickly crawled back up my belly and once again I swatted his hand from the forbidden land. It was a constant tug of war to keep his hands in their proper place. Eventually, I relented and found a compromise. Surely no damage could be done if I let him feel my boobs over my shirt.

I underestimated the power of my boobs. The minute I let Steve squeeze them over my shirt, he became a starving man sitting down to a feast. His teeth tore hungrily into my neck. Fearing the telltale sign of a hickey, I hunched my shoulders, limiting his access to my naked neck. He nibbled on my earlobe, licking up and down my chin, moaning and writhing against me, trying to get inside my skin. He pumped my breasts with his fists in time to Whitesnake’s “Is This Love?”. Even in the heat of passion, he still had rhythm. I was impressed.

It suddenly sounded as if the ocean were inside of my ear. A deafening vacuum noise consumed me, as I realized with horror that Steve’s tongue was burrowing into my brain like a slimy slug. It reminded me of trips to Aunt Eileen’s house in Massapequa. We would run around her yard barefoot, sometimes stepping on sticky slugs. Our remedy was to pour salt on the slugs and watch them melt into the grass. I wondered if I’d have to sprinkle salt on Steve to extract his tongue from my ear canal.

“Mf mff mff.”

Steve had finally pulled his tongue out of my ear, but I couldn’t make out the words he was whispering. Saliva was still floating in my ear, making it impossible to hear.

“What?” I asked, too loudly.

“Mf mff mff. Mff mf mff.”

I tugged on my ear and yawned, the way I would on an airplane. Finally, there was a popping sound and my hearing was restored.

“Say it again,” I whispered.

“I love you. You’re so hot,” Steve breathed into my ear.

“I love you, too,” I replied.

“I love you, Melissa.”

“I love you, Ricky.”

Declarations of love were lost in a sea of slurping and sucking and moaning and groaning. Steve’s tongue was an Olympic gymnast, somersaulting off my tongue and tickling the roof of my mouth. No tooth was left unexplored. I was mildly disgusted by the thought that his tongue, which was previously sucking my eardrum, was now tangoing with my tonsils.

Every molecule in my body was vibrating. My arms became heavy and fell to my lap. Steve’s hands traveled up my shirt and tugged at my bra, and I let it happen. I was sinking into a warm bath, letting Steve’s hands wash over me.

I felt a pull on my jeans and woke up from my make-out stupor. Steve was trying to unzip me. My hands shot back into action, protecting my zipper from Steve’s persistent fingers.

“No.”

“Come on. Just a little further,” Steve pleaded.

“No. This is far enough.”

“Melissa lets Ricky go further.”

My father’s voice, unwanted as it was in that moment, found its way into my head: “Don’t be one of the sheep. Be the herder.” I didn’t want to be a sheep. I especially didn’t want to be a pregnant sheep.

“I’m not a sheep,” I declared.

“What?”

“Nothing. I say how far is far enough.”

I crossed my arms in front on my chest. What kind of a house was this that left lusty teenagers, unattended, in a basement with a couch and a tent? We all knew exactly what kind of a house it was, which was the reason we wanted to hang out there every weekend.

Melissa’s parents were divorced. Her dad was rich and wore toupees. He didn’t visit very often, but he sent fat checks every month. Her mom insisted we call her “Alexandria”, but Melissa had confessed to me that her real name was Dolores. Alexandria wore too-tight jeans and Melissa’s tiny halter-tops, even in the dead of winter. She smoked with the boys, leaning over to light their cigarettes so they could drool into her cleavage. She showed us her diaphragm, explaining how it worked and urging us to get fitted for one as soon as possible. I marveled that her diaphragm was kept in a case identical to the one that housed my retainer.

“Ricky!”

A sudden slap sounded, and Steve and I strained to hear what was happening in the tent.

“What?”

“That was more than halfway.”

“It was not!”

“Yes it was!”

“How do you know? Did you measure it?”

Melissa burst through the tent flap. Her shirt was on backwards and her lips were Kool-Aid red. Several hickeys stained her neck like an island chain on a map.

Ricky poked his head out of the tent, panting like a puppy. Melissa stomped over to us, grabbing my hand and whisking me away from Steve. We settled into the corner, pretending to sulk, while Steve and Ricky smoked on the couch.

“They’re so disgusting.”

“Pigs.”

“They only want one thing.”

“Totally.”

“I’m so mad.”

“Me too.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Melissa asked.

It was true. I was smiling. And I couldn’t stop. Melissa wouldn’t understand. How could she? Boys had pawed at and pursued her since the fifth grade. The confident jiggle of her walk and the knowing glint in her eye told me so.

But this was all new to me. I was on a double date. I had just spent the better part of the night fighting my boyfriend off of my girlie parts. My boyfriend. He loved me. He thought I was hot. He had said so after taking his tongue out of my ear. What was there not to smile about?

Most days with Steve were like a photo shoot for Seventeen Magazine. We walked hand-in-hand through leaf-strewn parks and did our homework together on the bus. We carved pumpkins and decorated Christmas trees and kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. There were movies and snowball fights, ice-skating outings and touch football games.

All of our friends combined to form one large khaki-clad and loafered clique on the bus each morning. My friends – Tara, Kris, Jackie and Melissa, were joined by Steve’s group – Shadow, Professor, Russell, and of course, Ricky.

I secretly referred to Steve’s best friend Eric as “Shadow”. My sister openly called him “Elfman”. Shadow had pointy ears and a prominent chin. Pale peach fuzz clung to his chin and above his lip. He wanted to play drums in Steve’s metal band, but he sorely lacked any real rhythm or skill. He mimicked Steve’s every move, eating Steve’s favorite foods and singing his favorite tunes. He even accompanied us on dates, insisting that he needed to sit next to Steve in the movie theater.

Professor toted a briefcase in place of a school bag. He had a five o’clock shadow by seven in the morning, and he read The Wall Street Journal on the bus every day. He used words like “superfluous” and “decadent” in casual conversation. At 16, he had already presented his girlfriend Lilith with a promise ring, and they had a twenty-year life plan in place. Professor didn’t throw house parties – he gave dinner parties where proper attire was required.

Russell was still a mystery. He had recently moved to Hoboken from Chicago, where he had lived with his mother. He now lived with his father and his “uncle”, who shared a bedroom. Russell’s easy charm and sly smile made him a friend to everyone. He knew karate, and helped me with my algebra homework.

Ricky and Melissa spent most of the bus ride stuffing their tongues into each other’s mouths, or arguing loud enough for the bus driver to threaten them with a long walk to school.

Steve and my friends and his friends formed a protective barrier around me. I had somewhere I belonged, people I belonged to and with. It was the feeling I had always been chasing.

Each night in bed, I replayed the events of the day as Steve played guitar and sang me power ballads over the phone.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispered into the phone one night.

“What?”

“I really want to be in a metal band.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, but I think there’s something holding me back.”

“What is it?”

“I just don’t have the hair for it.”

It was true. Steve could wear all the tight spandex pants and torn t-shirts he could find. He could smoke a carton of Marlboros and practice air guitar, but his hair would never make the cut. The moment his corkscrew curls hit his collar, his mother insisted he get a haircut. He had the least metal hair of anyone I knew.

“Maybe you could wear a wig,” I suggested.

“Come on! Metal heads don’t wear wigs.”

“Sure they do.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know. Probably all of them. Their hair is way too perfect to be real.”

“You really think so?”

“Or course! They all have the same exact hair. I bet they even have their wigs made by the same guy. No one talks about it cause they’re all wearing wigs. I bet it’s true.”

“I never thought about that. Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Trust me. You can definitely be in a metal band. Your voice could shatter glass.”

“Thanks, baby. You always know what to say.”

There it was again! The hummingbird in my heart that took flight whenever Steve called me “baby”.

“Noreen! Off the phone.” Mom demanded.

“Just a sec!” I screamed back.

“I gotta go,” I sighed into the phone.

“Do you have to?”

“Yeah. My mom’s bitching.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“But I really love you.”

“I really love you, too.”

“Okay. You hang up first.”

“No. You hang up first.”

“You.”

“No – you!”

“Okay. We’ll both hang up on the count of three. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“One. Two. Three!”

Silence on both ends of the phone. Steve’s deep breathing broke the quiet.

“Are you still there?” I whispered.

“Yes!”

“You were supposed to hang up!”

“So were you!”

“Hang up!”

“Never. You hang up!”

“Okay, let’s try it again.”

“On the count of three.”

“One….”

“Two….”

“Oh for God’s sake Noreen. If you can’t hang up the phone I will!”

Mom pressed her finger down on the phone and the connection went dead.

“Mom! Why would you do that?”

“Your sister’s trying to sleep, and you’re making all this noise.”

“You’re the one screaming, not me!”

“Enough. You keep up this phone nonsense and I’ll yank the cord out of the wall.”

Mom clicked the light off and waited to see if I would answer her back while I sulked in the dark.

“Mommy!” Erin called out from the bottom bunk.

“What is it, Erin?”

“Noreen wants Steve to wear a wig.”

“Shut up!”

“What is your sister talking about?” Mom asked.

“And she really loves him!”

“I mean it, Erin.”

“That’s it. The two of you go to sleep. Now!”

Mom closed the door behind us as Erin and I breathed into the dark.

“I’ll get you back,” I promised Erin.

“I really really love you, Steve. I want to kiss your hair and wear a wig with you.”

“Shh. Erin. Did you hear that?”

“What?” Erin asked, her voice suddenly small.

“I don’t know. A scratching sound. Sort of like the boogey man trying to get out of the closet. I’m going to sleep before he gets out.”

“Mommy!” Erin screeched.

Satisfied that I had sufficiently terrorized Erin for the night, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. I dreamed of hair bands and spandex pants.

The sun had not yet risen over the Manhattan skyline. The sky was the color of a creamsicle. My scarf was wound tightly around my face, protecting my cheeks from the wind and the world from my skin.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” Steve asked as he approached me on the corner.

I burrowed deeper into my scarf, but I couldn’t keep from crying. I had begged Mom to let me stay home. I pleaded and kicked and threatened to run away, but she wouldn’t relent.

“We’re not paying all this tuition so you can stay home because of a pimple,” she said, packing me off to school.

But it wasn’t just a pimple. It was the single worst breakout I had had since coming off of Accutane. My hairline was littered with acne, and two persistent pimples jutted out of my chin like horns.

Steve kissed the spot between my eyes, the only skin not camouflaged by my scarf.

“Why are you crying?”

“My skin,” I whispered into my scarf.

“What?”

“My skin,” I repeated.

Steve pulled my scarf down below my chin but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“My skin. It’s terrible!”

I buried my face into his shoulder and cried into his coat. Before I knew what I was doing, I spilled out the entire ugly story – the doctors and their treatments, the side effects and the names I was called. Humiliation burned like a fever throughout my body.

Steve squeezed me tight to his body. I assumed he was doing it to avoid looking at my face while he thought of a kind way to break up with me.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into my hair.

“You’re not grossed out by me?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No. Never.”

Steve bent down and kissed my cheek.

“I love this zit,” he assured me.

The word “zit” coming out of his mouth hurt like a jellyfish sting, but the pain dulled with each kiss.

“I love this zit and this zit and this zit,” he said as he pecked each and every pimple. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go before we miss the bus.”

Steve rested his arm over my shoulder and we walked to the bus together. The sun had come up, and with it, a little extra warmth.

falling in love with jesus and nancy reagan

2008-12-21T08:55:00.008-05:00

“Cottage cheese?”

“Yes.”

“Eww!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes, that is disgusting,” Mrs. Krause assured us. “But that, unfortunately, is one of the possible outcomes of sexual intercourse.”

Mrs. Krause had just informed us of a lesser-known consequence of sex – vaginal discharge that resembled cottage cheese. She had gone through the gruesome symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases: boils and oozing sores, burning and itching, creepy crawlies clinging to our pubic hair. We listened with mild interest, doodling in our notebooks and yawning off sleep.

Cottage cheese, however, was something half of my class ate every day for breakfast. It was a food product that we actually consumed. To associate a sexual side effect with a beloved breakfast food was just wrong. Was she trying to scare us off of sex or dairy products?

Mrs. Krause was our religion teacher. She was filling in for our health teacher, Nurse Ruby, who was out with the flu. Mrs. Krause seized this opportunity, holding us hostage and terrorizing us with her tales of possible genital woes.

Rumor had it that Mrs. Krause had once been a nun who hadn’t been able to keep her libido tucked neatly under her habit. She wore long, shapeless skirts that blended into the gray walls. Her blouses were loose and buttoned right up to her neck. Her lips were puckered as if she were holding pins between them, ready to sew scarlet letters onto our uniform sweaters.

“That’s right, girls. Sometimes you can get an infection from sex. And that infection will produce thick, chunky discharge, much like cottage cheese, that will be present in your underpants and all over your genitals.”

Our faces curled as if we were smelling spoiled milk. Mrs. Krause spread her legs and bent her knees, looking down and pointing at her own nether regions.

“Your genitals will become swollen and red. A burning itch will consume you. The only way to sooth the terrible itch is to take a bath in oatmeal.”

Great. That made two breakfast foods I would never eat again.

“You know how it is, girls. You’re alone in the basement with your boyfriend. You’re on the couch. It’s dark. Your eyes are closed.”

At this point, Mrs. Krause closed her eyes and traveled to her own basement memories. She swayed back and forth to some imaginary rhythm. The class perked up, leaning over desktops to see what would happen next.

“Things get hot and heavy. Your shirt’s still on, but your bra’s long gone. His hands are creeping up your stomach towards your….”

We all sucked in our breath, looking wordlessly at one another as Mrs. Krause began to pump her pelvis back and forth, hands traveling up her blouse. Her face flushed crimson as a sweat moustache appeared on her upper lip.

“Your privates start to tingle. Your mind is saying no, but your body is shouting yes!”

“Oh, baby. Yes!” Someone moaned from the back of the classroom.

We all snickered and giggled, and Mrs. Krause’s sexual spell was broken. Her eyes shot open. She looked the way I felt in those dreams where you’re giving a speech in front of your class, and you suddenly realize you’re naked.

“Enough, girls! This is not a laughing matter. This is your future we’re talking about here. One lustful night can ruin it all. Do you want your genitals to look like cottage cheese?”

“No, Mrs. Krause,” we responded solemnly.

“Remember what Nancy Reagan said, girls. Just say no!”

“Um, Mrs. Krause?”

“Yes, Jeannie. What is it?”

“Wasn’t she talking about drugs when she said that?”

“Nancy Reagan was referring to whatever is immoral, whatever will crush your soul.”

“I don’t remember her mentioning my soul.”

“Well, it was inferred. So when you are in that dark basement, when your body is begging you to give in to temptation, ask yourself – what would Jesus do?”

“Why would Jesus be in the basement with my boyfriend?”
Before Mrs. Krause’s neck veins could explode, the bell rang and we quickly got up and headed for the door.

“Girls. You are not alone on that couch. Jesus and Nancy Reagan are sitting beside you. Cottage cheese, girls. Remember!”

We filed out of class, one by one. In that instant, the entire class took a silent vow to abstain – from cottage cheese – forever.

“What does it feel like when a guy comes inside of you?’” Nurse Ruby read off of the slip of paper in her hand.

We fidgeted in our seats, desperate for the answer but not wanting to seem too interested. Now that Nurse Ruby was back, we returned to our regular routine. Health class always began this way. Nurse Ruby had each of us write an anonymous question about health or sex (the questions were always about sex), on a piece of paper and drop it in the question box. She would then answer a few questions honestly and openly. It was the best ten minutes of every day.

“Well, let me see. It doesn’t hurt or burn. A little squishy, maybe. Very quick, like a squirt. Warm and wet. I hope that answers it for you.”

Nurse Ruby was the mother we all wished for. She was patient and calm, never shocked or repulsed by our questions. She responded to each question as if she were simply telling us the time. Our own mothers would have dragged us to confession by the hair, showering us in holy water and demanding the demons be gone from our damned souls.

Most of our questions dealt with sex and how not to get pregnant. Would douching with Coca Cola after sex prevent pregnancy? (No.) Could you get pregnant if you jumped up and down after sex? (Yes.) Were you still a virgin if you had sex while on your period, and could you get pregnant while you had your period? (No, and yes.)

Nurse Ruby showed us our first actual illustration of a penis as if it were the periodic table. I had seen my fair share of penises – after all, I had a brother and three years worth of professional babysitting and diaper changing. But those were itty-bitty penises. These illustrations were of full-grown men, with wiry hair and bulging veins. It was like the difference between a Chihuahua and a Great Dane.

Nervous giggles sizzled through the room like electricity. Some girls covered their eyes while others strained to memorize every detail.

“That’s it?”

“It’s not what I expected.”

“It’s so ugly.”

“That thing’s not getting inside of me.”

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“The good ones are.”

“It’s not the size of the wave. It’s the motion of the ocean.”

“Ladies, calm down,” Nurse Ruby interjected. “The size of a man’s penis is no more important than the size of your breasts. It’s what a man does with his penis that matters.”

I had never been so confused. What did she mean? What was a man supposed to “do” with his penis? I thought it was simple, like those illustrations that showed how to put a model airplane together. Put Peg A into Slot 1. What else was Peg A supposed to do? Flip burgers? Change a light bulb? Shovel snow? How many different ways were there for Peg A to get into Slot 1 anyway?

“What’s the matter with you?” Mom asked when I dragged into the house that afternoon.

“Nothing,” I responded on my way to my room.

I had barely been able to look at Mom, or Dad, after what I had heard. It was horrible. I didn’t know if I could look either of them in the eye ever again.

One night a few weeks before, I had woken up, needing a drink of water. Just as I was about to get out of bed, I heard Dad groan the way he did when his back went out. I wondered if he would need the heating pad, which was buried under my bed. As I was searching for the heating pad, I heard Mom and Dad’s bed creak like Erin was bouncing on it. I froze, feeling my blood run cold throughout my body. Every hair on my head stood on end. The creaking became more insistent and Dad’s grunting became louder. And then, I heard it.

“Oh, John. It feels so good!”

Mom only ever sounded like that when she was eating cheesecake. I doubted she was eating cheesecake while Dad was jumping up and down on the bed.
Mom continued to moan as Dad grunted like he was pushing a Cadillac up a hill. I wished I could pound myself in the head with a hammer to cause amnesia, or pour acid into my ears so I wouldn’t hear those horrible noises anymore. I burrowed under my blankets and pinned two pillows over my head, humming the Star Spangled Banner to drown out the sounds.

I knew my parents had sex. Of course they had had sex – they had three children. But, up until that moment, I had honestly assumed that they had only had sex three times! I mean, they didn’t ever hug or hold hands. Dad didn’t even call Mom by name. He whistled at her whenever he needed to get her attention. I wasn’t naïve. I knew other parents had sex. My friends had told me stories about walking in on their parents, or finding secret books and tapes stashed under mattresses. But my own parents? Why did they have to have sex?

Coming home from school that day, I was still traumatized by knowing, and hearing, about my parents’ sex life. There was no way I could ask Mom the questions I had brewing in my head after Health class. She would automatically assume I had asked so I could put the answers to practice. No, that wouldn’t do. There was only one solution – I had to slip my question into Nurse Ruby’s question box.

I wrote and rewrote my question that night, trying to disguise my handwriting so Nurse Ruby wouldn’t know the question had come from me. I constructed big, fat letters with hearts over the i’s, unrecognizable from my usually neat and restrained penmanship. There was no way Nurse Ruby could identify the author of the note now.

The next day, I raced into Health class before any of the other students arrived. I placed my note on top of the others in the question box and ran to my seat. As the other students took their seats around me, I tried to slow my breathing and calm my pounding heart.

“Morning, girls,” Nurse Ruby smiled.

“Morning, Nurse Ruby,” the class responded. I moved my lips, but no sounds came out. My mouth was a parched desert.

“Let’s see what the question box has for us this morning.”

Nurse Ruby reached her hand into the box and pulled out a note – my note! I could tell it was mine: I could see the purple ink through the white paper. (I had used one of Erin’s purple pens to further cloak my identity.) My heart pulsated in my ears so loudly I was afraid I wouldn’t hear the answer to my question.

Nurse Ruby smiled as she unfolded my note. As she read my question, however, her face rearranged itself into a question mark. Creases folded over her forehead. Her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s. Her lower lip worked itself up and down as she scanned the question again and again.
Nurse Ruby flipped my purple-scripted paper over, staring at its blank back. She searched the classroom with her worried eyes, and then studied the question once again.

“What’s it say?” someone asked.

“Just read it. We can take it.”

“Yeah, we wanna know.”

I squeezed my hands together and sent up a fervent prayer: please God, don’t let her read my question out loud. Please send a 40-day flood or a plague of locusts or even a good old-fashioned fire drill, but don’t let Nurse Ruby read my question out loud!

“I’m sorry, girls. I’m just not understanding this question. I’m trying to think of a proper response, but I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe we can help.”

“Yeah, we can figure it out.”

“Just read the question!”

“All right, here goes.”

Nurse Ruby’s usually composed manner was crumbling somewhat. It was clear that I was an even bigger freak than I had feared.

“The question is: ‘what does a penis do?’”

“Like, what is its profession?” a girl asked.

“It gets you pregnant.”

“Gives you herpes.”

“Keeps you up all night.”

A wave of laughter rippled across the classroom. My own manic giggles swelled up and overpowered the voices around me. My cackles were louder and lasted longer than that of the girls around me. I had joined in so as not to be suspected as the author of the note, but now my uncontrollable outburst was drawing unwanted attention to me.

“Oh, that’s funny!” I gasped, tears pooling in my eyes. “What does it do? Who wrote that? Come on, ‘fess up!” I chuckled as the others’ laughter subsided.

“All right, Noreen. Settle down. We don’t want to embarrass whoever wrote the note. I would just ask that the girl who wrote it rethink the question and submit it again. Next question.”
I exhaled a mouthful of air, and my heart settled back into my chest. My relief at not having been found out was quickly replaced once again by my confusion over a penis’ capabilities. I decided that the question box was too risky to try again. I would just have to live with not knowing.

School wasn’t all about sex ed. I learned that cramps could get you out of Algebra and onto a cot with a hot water bottle and a mid-morning nap. Mr. Guerrero, our Spanish teacher, could be talked out of a quiz if asked questions about his family home in Spain. Cool Ranch Doritos on a Kaiser roll was the cheapest, and tastiest, meal in the cafeteria. Walking on the wrong side of the stairs would get you punched in the shoulder by a jaded upperclassman. Punching a jaded upperclassman in the gut after she punched you in the shoulder would get you both detention.
I made another discovery that I did not think was safe to share with anyone: I was absolutely, head over heels, running through a field of wild flowers in love - with high school. I cherished every several-hundred-page textbook that I lugged around each day. I daydreamed about the symbolism in The Great Gatsby the way other girls pictured their prom dresses. I loved cramming for exams on the bus and reading late into the night, knowing I would be exhausted in the morning from having done so much homework. I shined the pennies in my loafers and proudly wore my nametag. I was, in fact, a closeted nerd. And nothing could have made me happier.

Nothing, that is, except for having a boyfriend. For the first time in my life, I felt like a normal girl. I had a boyfriend who kissed me on the lips, with tongue, and it wasn’t on a dare. I had someone who actually thought I was pretty. All of the other girls seemed so Barbie doll perfect, with porcelain skin and lipstick that never seemed to smudge. I had seen girls reduced to puddles over a single little pimple visible only through the lens of a NASA telescope. What must they think of my toad-like complexion?

Making friends with girls had always been difficult for me. Boys were easy – I knew how to throw a baseball, catch a football and climb a tree. I might come home bruised and scraped after a day of roughhousing with the boys, but girls could gut you with their razor sharp tongues. I knew what I looked like, and no amount of eyeliner or blush could hide it. So, I looked for our common ground and stood firmly on it.

When meeting a girl for the first time, I brought up Steve almost immediately to seem (and feel) normal. I practically introduced myself by saying: “Hi, I’m Noreen-I-have-a-boyfriend-he’s-the-greatest.” Or, if a girl were talking about a movie she had just seen, I’d add, “Oh, my boyfriend Steve wants to see that.” A girl eating a slice of pizza would prompt me to say, “My boyfriend Steve just loves pizza. It’s his favorite food in the world.”

I felt like a fraud. I had become one of those girls, the ones I had always despised, the ones who only talked about their boyfriends. But surprisingly, it seemed to work. I rolled my eyes with the other girls who complained about their boyfriends’ disgusting habits and annoying taste in music. I could go on double dates, and rest my head on someone’s shoulder in a darkened movie theater. Slowly but surely, I settled into my pockmarked skin and walked a little taller in my penny loafers.

beware of cherry poppers

2008-11-15T19:03:00.011-05:00

We met on the corner – a permed and penny-loafered street gang. Khaki skirts hung uniformly to our knees. Brand new pennies shone in our loafers. Navy socks reached right up to our kneecaps. Powder-blue button down shirts were tucked dutifully into our skirts. Pressed blazers proudly displayed our school’s crest. We were ready for our first day of high school.

“Say cheese!” Tara’s mom demanded.

“Mom!” Tara grumbled, disgruntled that hers was the only mom to insist on showing up and snapping photos. The rest of us grunted along with her.

We shook out our hair and applied last-second lip-gloss. Insisting on tough girl poses, we scrunched up our faces and pumped our fists at the camera.

“Girls, please. At least one where you look like ladies.”

We complied, giving Tara’s mom one shot where we didn’t look like wayward Catholic school delinquents. Satisfied with the shot, Tara’s mom tucked her camera into her purse and headed over to the five of us.

“You girls, sit together on the front of the bus near the driver. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your legs crossed on the bus.”

“Why do we have to keep our legs crossed?” Kris challenged.

“So no one can see, that’s why. Behave like ladies, and you’ll be treated like ladies. Keep your purses on your laps. You know how those public school kids are. If anyone bothers you, just call the police. 911!”

“Mom! We know the number to the police. We’ll be fine,” Tara insisted.

“Do you want me to drive you? Maybe I should just drive you. Let me get the car….”

“No! We’re going now. Good-bye.”

“Okay,” Tara’s mom relented. “I guess it’s all right. I’m so proud of you girls!”

Tara’s mom squeezed us to her oversized bosom and suffocated us. She then made adjustments to our uniforms – tucking in Jackie’s shirt and straightening Melissa’s skirt.

“We’re going to miss the bus,” I warned, not wanting to be late on the very first day.

“Okay. Be good. Be careful. Remember everything I said. 911!”

We waved good-bye and made our way towards the bus station.

“No offense, but your mom’s a little nuts,” Kris said.

“I know. She thinks we’re all going to be raped or killed on the first day,” Tara said.

“I’d rather be killed than raped,” Jackie admitted.

“What?” Melissa asked.

“Yeah. I couldn’t live with that. Knowing someone stole my virginity. I’d rather be dead,” Jackie explained.

“Not me. I’d rather be raped. At least then you get it out of the way, and it’s not even your fault,” Kris reasoned.

“You’re sick,” Jackie said, looking disgusted.

“No, I’m not. If you do have sex before you get married, then you’re a slut. But if you get raped, it’s not your fault. So you’re not a virgin anymore, and you can start having sex for real whenever you want to. But no one can judge you, cause you got raped. Besides, once you start having sex you have to keep doing it. It’s just natural.” Kris explained.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“My sister. She’s been having sex for years,” Kris said.

“Yeah, but your sister’s a slut,” Melissa added.

“True. But that means she knows what she’s talking about,” Kris reasoned.

“Rape and sex are not the same thing,” Jackie admonished. “So if you have sex after you get
raped, before you get married, you’re still a slut.”

“You are such a prude!”

“Can we change the subject?” Tara suggested.

“Sure. Whatever. Jackie started it anyway.” Kris shrugged.

“Did not!” Jackie defended.

“Yeah you did. Miss ‘I’d rather be dead than raped’.”

“Let’s just forget it. Okay?” Tara looked about nervously. Her mother’s paranoia must have sunk in somewhat.

“Fine. Forgotten. Next subject.” Kris offered.

The truth was, we were all a little nervous. We had lived in Hoboken our entire lives. We knew the cracks in all of the streets and the kids in each school. Mothers were perched in windows watching our every move. If we committed any kind of sin, it was reported back to our mothers before we even got home.

This was our first time out of Hoboken without the supervision of parents. Our high school was in Jersey City, a dangerous bus ride away. In reality, Hoboken had more than its share of drugs and gangs and perverts. I had come home on several occasions bloodied and beaten from street fights, but at least I had always known the kids who had kicked my ass. Getting a black eye and a fat lip from a stranger seemed entirely more ominous.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Tara ventured.

“I heard all of the seniors drive Jaguars,’ I offered.

When Mom and I had attended the open house the previous year, we were both intimidated by the mothers in fur coats and their daughters wearing diamond earrings. I had said a prayer of gratitude for our uniforms. My Sears wardrobe could never compete with their designer duds.

“I heard the public school kids will shoot at us if we get too close to their campus,” Jackie nodded solemnly.

“That’s bullshit!” Melissa shot back.

“I heard the nuns check to see if you’re a virgin,” Kris cackled.

“What?”

“How?”

“You know, with their fingers. To see if you still have your cherry,” Kris explained.

“That’s sick!”

“I don’t get it. How do they know if you still have your cherry?”
“If you bleed when they stick their fingers up you, then they know you’re a virgin. If not, then you’re a slut,” Kris said.

A barbed knot of terror sat in my chest. I knew, for a fact, that I had already popped my cherry.
And it had had nothing to do with a boy.

I was riding Tony’s ten-speed up a steep hill, straining with the effort. My foot slipped off the pedal and I landed hard on the metal bar between my legs. A searing heat traveled from between my legs right up to my eyeballs. In that instant, I was certain that my spleen, or some other mysterious organ, had been dislodged.

Once I could finally move again, I walked the bike back to Tony as if I were straddling an elephant.

“What the hell happened to you?” he snorted.

I ignored him and wobbled on home. A throbbing wetness had settled in between my legs. I hobbled past Mom and into the bathroom, where I carefully lowered my pants and discovered that I was indeed dying.

“Mom!” I wiggled out of the bathroom with my pants still around my ankles. “I think I broke something inside. Look!”

I pointed to the bright red evidence on my underwear.

“Noreen! What is wrong with you? Pull up your pants! It’s just your period,” Mom chastised as I pulled my pants back up.

“It is not my period! I hurt myself,” I said, highly insulted. At 13, I had already had my period for a full four months. I knew what that looked like. This wasn’t it.

I explained the accident as quickly as I could, not sure when I would slip into unconsciousness from the blood loss. Mom listened silently to my story, then flipped through her phone book.

“What are you doing? Who are you calling? Don’t tell anyone!” I shouted as Mom picked up the phone.

Much to my horror, Mom explained the situation to some stranger on the other end of the phone. I wasn’t sure if I would die from blood loss or embarrassment.

Mom hung up the phone and grabbed her purse.

“Let’s go. The doctor said you can come in now.”

“Am I gonna die?”

“No, you’re not gonna die.”

“Then, I don’t think I really need to go. See? I feel better already,” I tried to convince Mom by tenderly walking across the kitchen.

“Come on. She just wants to check you.”

“She? Dr. Amato is not a ‘she’.”

“We’re not seeing Dr. Amato. We’re seeing Dr. Alice.”

“Who’s Dr. Alice?”

“My gynecologist.”

“Why do I need a gynecologist? I’m not having a baby!”

My voice mimicked the hysteria of a hyena. I never should have told my mother what had happened. I should have gone straight to bed, pulled the covers over my head and died quietly in my sleep.

“Gynecologists aren’t just for having babies. You hurt your private parts. That’s the doctor you see for that. Let’s go!”

I complied and followed Mom out the door, praying that no one would see my shuffle of shame.
We entered the waiting room, where pregnant women were marooned in plastic chairs, their big bellies anchoring them down. Mom checked in with the receptionist, who said we could go right in. Expectant mothers stared curiously at me.

“I’m not pregnant,” I explained. “I hurt my private parts,” I whispered, my hands resting over the throbbing area by way of explanation. I hoped that the babies they were carrying would never know the horror of this experience.

“Take everything off and put this gown on,” the receptionist instructed once we were inside the exam room.

“Everything?” I asked.

“Yes. Bra and panties off.”

“What about my socks? Can I please leave my socks on?” I pleaded, panic creeping into my voice and shaking my words. For some reason, it suddenly became very important that my socks not leave my feet. That way, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be completely naked in front of a total stranger.

“Yes, you can leave your socks on,” she nodded and left the room.

Mom sat in a corner chair as I crept into the bathroom to change. Once wearing my barely-there paper gown, I rejoined Mom and sat on the exam table. I shivered from the sub-zero temperature in the exam room, hoping that I wasn’t bleeding all over the crinkly white paper covering the exam table.

“What the hell’s that?” I asked Mom, pointing to two metal cups at the end of the exam table.

“Noreen! Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. What the heck is that?” I rephrased, pointing in horror.

“Those are the stirrups. You lay back on the table and put your feet in them while the doctor examines you.”

I didn’t have time to swoon from this information because the doctor burst into the room like a cyclone.

“Okay. Up on the table. Feet in the stirrups. Come on. You’ll be just fine. Let’s get in there and take a look.” Dr. Alice barked as she positioned me on the table.

I did as she asked, but I kept my knees crazy-glued together.

“Let’s not make this harder than it has to me. Open up your legs for me. Mom, maybe you can help out here.”

“Noreen, open your legs for the doctor. It won’t hurt,” Mom lied.

I cracked my knees apart slightly, and the doctor took this opportunity to spread them wide against my will. I heard the snap of latex gloves and the plop of something squishy being squeezed out of a tube. Holding my breath, I braced against the icy cold invasion of something wet sliding into me.

It felt like the doctor’s arm was inside of me elbow deep. The pressure was so great I expected an alien to rip through my abdomen and spit my guts out. I whimpered and squirmed, tiny tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes.

“Uh huh. Yep. Okay. That’s what I thought,” Dr. Alice nodded as her slimy gloved hand made a sucking sound pulling out of me.

“What? What is it? Am I okay?”

“Can she have children?” Mom worried.

“She’s fine. She just broke her hymen,” Dr. Alice explained.

“Oh,” Mom sighed.

“Oh my God! What do you do for that? Do I need surgery? Will I have to wear a cast?” I asked, unable to picture how a cast would fit around my girl parts. I had never broken anything before, though I had secretly wished to break my arm. I wanted to ask boys to carry my books and have all the girls sign my cast, decorating it with hearts and flowers. I didn’t think this would be the kind of cast anyone could sign.

“Oh, Noreen!” Mom snorted.

“What?” I asked, angry that Mom found this funny.

“Every girl breaks her hymen. Some girls break it during sports, like bike riding. Other girls break it during their first sexual experience,” Dr. Alice said as she prepared to leave the room.

“You mean, I popped my cherry?” I asked, finally understanding. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. For some reason, I had always expected to hear, well, a pop when my cherry popped. It had been strangely silent.

“Where did you hear such a thing?” Mom demanded.

“Yes. That’s another way to put it,” Dr. Alice admitted.

“So what do I do now?” I wondered.

“Nothing. Go home and rest if you feel sore. You’ll be fine by tomorrow. Anything else?” Dr. Alice asked with the door already opened.

“No. Thank you, doctor.” Mom said, as Dr. Alice flew out the door as quickly as she had blown in.

And just like that, my cherry was gone.

“Noreen! I asked you where you heard that term?” Mom demanded.

Though moments before I had prayed for my very survival, I began to wish that my condition had indeed been fatal.

“Well, can’t you lose your cherry in other ways?” I asked Kris tentatively.

“Like what?”

I don’t know. Riding a horse. Or, a bike.”

“That’s bullshit!” Kris shouted. “That’s what slutty girls say to cover up the fact that they’ve had sex. There’s only two ways to pop your cherry. A finger, or a big, fat penis!” Kris said with finality.

I could never let Kris know that I was without a cherry. She was very unpredictable, and there was no telling whom she might snitch to. If that information got into the wrong hands, my high school career could be over.

“So, the nuns pop our cherries,” Melissa clarified.

“Yup!”

“Perverts!”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Not to them,” Kris said. “They’re mostly lesbians anyway.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Jackie asked.

“Being a lesbian?”

“No! Popping kids’ cherries.”

“Nothing the nuns do is illegal. The pope has his own army for Christ’s sake. Nope. We’re on our own with the nuns,” Kris lamented.

We walked quietly the rest of the way, each pondering our fate at the hands of the lady-loving, cherry-popping nuns. From the worried looks on my friends’ faces, I suspected that I was not the only cherry-less girl in the group.

We boarded the half-empty bus and marched straight to the back, against the advice of Tara’s mother. There were no boys on the bus to distract us, and we let out a collective sigh of boredom.
Our first day of high school was a late opening, with orientation and a picnic. Seniors had been assigned to each of us to act as our big sisters, showing us around and answering any questions. They would also bring us lunch for our first day. I had been too nervous to eat breakfast, and I was weak with starvation. My stomach churned as the bus carried us into the mysterious unknown of Jersey City.

We rode in silence on the bus, staring out the windows and wondering what our first day would bring. As we neared school, we all jumped out of our seats and peered out the left side of the bus. There it was – the boys’ school! We gaped as if we were on safari, spying giraffes in their natural habitat.

“Oh my God! They’re so cute. I love their ties and blazers!”

“I didn’t know they could smoke right in front of school.”

“I wonder if we can smoke.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I’ll start if we can do it right in front of school.”

“Does anyone see Steve?” I asked, pushing my nose closer to the glass.

“Yeah. There he is.”

“Where? Where?”

“Right there. See? He’s sucking that blonde girl’s face off,” Kris said.

“What? Where?” I shouted frantically, ready to jump off the bus and rip both of their throats out. It took me ten whole seconds to realize that Kris was smirking and making kissy noises at me.

“Real funny,” I admitted.

We gathered our book bags and rang the bell to get off the bus. Walking in a tight knot, we headed down the block towards school. We immediately became lost in the throng of girls who had also been bussed in from all over the county. Swimming in a sea of estrogen and adrenaline, I allowed myself to be carried on the current and guided into school. I clung to my friends as if they were a life raft. I felt the reassuring pressure of their fingers on my arms and was comforted by our mutual terror.

I had fallen in love with the school the minute I had seen it. The building was a converted men’s club. It looked more like a large home than a school. The science labs sat in the sunken space of the former swimming pool. Madonna Hall, the teachers’ lounge, was off limits to students. Its velvety chairs and fireplace beckoned me from the hallway. There were no classroom numbers; each room had a name, such as Elan or Saint Aquinas. This did make navigating around the building more difficult, but what it lacked in practicality it made up for in charm.

The high-pitched squeals of teenaged girls in the packed cafeteria echoed like monkey chatter in the forest. One by one, my friends were sucked away and assigned to other groups of girls. I soon found myself alone in a circle of unfamiliar faces. My heart pounded against my immaculately ironed uniform shirt as sweat soaked my armpits. The cafeteria broiled with a hot desert heat, but I didn’t dare take my blazer off. I would rather melt into a puddle of my own perspiration than show any sign of nerves on the first day.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca. What’s your name? What college do you want to go to? I can’t decide between Harvard and Yale, but my parents say that’s okay I have time and they’re right so why worry about it right now, right? So who are you what’s your story where are you from? Did I mention my name is Rebecca? I think we should be friends. I can just tell about people. My mom says I have a gift for reading people. I got it from my Aunt Ida. She’s a sensitive. Do you know what sensitives are? They’re like, really in tune with the world around them, and they just know things. Anyway, my mom says I’m like that – a sensitive. Wow. You sure are quiet. Are you shy or something? I’m shy, too. It’s hard for me to open up to people. But like I said, I have a sense about you.”

“Uh, uh….” I stuttered as Rebecca stared expectantly into my frantic face. She was so petite I thought she would look perfect on the dashboard of my father’s car, right next to his St. Christopher statue.

“I’m from Hoboken,” I offered, not knowing where to start.

Rebecca’s words banged around my brain like marbles. Was I supposed to know my college preference on the first day of high school? Was I smart enough to be in school with girls who were smart enough to get into Harvard and Yale? What if Rebecca attached herself to me like a jellyfish, and I would be stuck with her as my only friend for the next four years? Did I want to be associated with someone as potentially popularity-killing as Rebecca? What if Rebecca was indeed a “sensitive” and she could read my thoughts this very second?

“Hoboken, huh? My dad took me to a dentist there and someone stole all of his hubcaps,” Rebecca stared at me accusingly.

Maybe Rebecca wasn’t that sensitive after all.

Before I could respond, a bell clanged in the cafeteria, and a teacher advised us to file out into the Senior Lot for our picnic. I turned quickly and dashed away from Rebecca, before she could start pointing me out as the girl who probably jacked her father’s hubcaps.

The Senior Lot was a sad little plot of dead grass that was forbidden to anyone but seniors. Freshman girls milled about like cattle waiting to be roped as our senior big sisters sought us out by our uniform nametags. I watched as one freshman after another was introduced to her big sister.

“Anna? I’m Liz, your big sister. Welcome!”

“Loretta? I hope you like baked ziti. My mom made it special.”

“Hi, Julie. I bought you this locket. It’s exactly like mine. Now we’ll be sisters forever!”

There were hugs and balloons, ham sandwiches and whole pizza pies. Girls who had been strangers seconds before were bonding over BLT’s and swapping make-up tips. My stomach
rumbled in neglect as I realized my own big sister was nowhere to be found.

“Mary? My name’s Mary, too! Wow, we look so much alike! We could be twins!”

Senior Mary and freshman Mary squealed in delight at their identically adorable appearances. Both had bouncy brown curls and big doe eyes. A smattering of freckles sat like constellations across their cheeks. Their perfectly pink lips looked like the bows on top of neatly wrapped presents.

“Mary, Mary, why you buggin’?”

Girls all around the Mary’s began singing the Run DMC lyrics over and over again. Mary and Mary giggled and joined in the chorus. By virtue of having the same names and identical appearances, they had each garnered the immediate affection of the entire freshman and senior classes. I hated them both, immediately and passionately, as they dug into their identical turkey and swiss on rye sandwiches.

I sat down on some dead leaves, drunk on the aromas around me. Melissa noticed my state of starvation, and came over with an offering.

“Want some banana bread? My big sister made it for me. Alexandria. Have you ever heard a name like that? Say it out loud.”

Melissa stared at me expectantly. I realized she was serious.

“Come on. Say it out loud. Alexandria,” Melissa rolled the name off her tongue as if it were chocolate.

“What? No!” I responded.

“Just say it. It’ll make you feel better. Alexandria.”

“Alexandria,” I said with a flourish.

“So exotic! I gotta get back. Alexandria’s going to tell me all about her summer in Greece. Greece! Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t believe it,” I murmured, munching on the moist banana bread Melissa had shoved into my hand before hopping back over to Alexandria who summers in Greece.

While scanning the crowd for my big sister, I noticed nuns perched like crows all around us. I shivered, wondering which were the cherry poppers in our midst.

“Oww!”

“You’re stepping in my potato salad!”

“Watch where you’re going!”

I strained my neck to see who, or what, was causing all the commotion. She was tall and rail-thin, with corkscrew curls that stood out from her head like the snakes on Medusa’s head. Coal-black eyeliner framed her absent eyes. Headphones were bolted to her heavily pierced ears, and their cord disappeared down her shirt. Her uniform was a tattered mess – untucked shirt, torn blazer and socks that were neither uniform nor touching her knees. Her combat boots stomped over the picnic lunches in her path. I recoiled in fear.

“Are you Noreen?” she asked, clearly bored with me already.

“Yeah.”

“Well, looks like I’m your big sister,” she huffed, plopping down next to me. She smelled like clove cigarettes.

“Oh, okay. That’s great. Really great. I’m so relieved. You should see some of the big sisters my friends got stuck with. Eww. But you’re great. I mean, I don’t know you, but you seem great.”

“Great.”

“Great. Um, what’s your name?” I ventured, sweat turning my uniform into a swamp.

“Trish.”

“Trish. Wow. What a great name. It’s really - great. My name’s Noreen.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I spied her empty hands and realized she had not brought a bag with her. She noticed that I noticed. I tried to look away but it was too late.

“Shit! This was supposed to be a lunch, right? I was supposed to bring you lunch,” she realized with mild irritation.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess,” I smiled and shrugged. My stomach chose that exact second to shout out the truth of its hunger.

“Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t bring you anything. I don’t really do lunch,” she explained.

“It’s cool. I don’t always do lunch either,” I lied. I hadn’t missed lunch since the week I had had strep throat in first grade.

Trish rummaged through her pockets and pulled out an assortment of items: wadded up tissues, two cassettes, a Zippo, and a melted mound of what once might have been candy.

“Here! I thought I might still have these. Want one?”

Trish offered me a handful of red and green and yellow balls, clinging together in a sticky mess. Navy lint dotted their surface.

“Um, what is it?”

“Life Savers, maybe? I’m not really sure. They’ve probably been in my blazer since last year.”

Trish dumped the mound into my palm and it stuck to me like fly paper. I kept my palm open and my hand outstretched, begging for a vulture to sweep down and steal it away from me.

“Thanks. Maybe later. I had a big breakfast. And some of Alexandria’s banana bread.”
Should I have mentioned that I had eaten the bread of another big sister? Had I already broken some code of big sister/little sister loyalty? Thou shalt not covet the baked goods of another big sister?

“Okay. Cool.”

We sat in unbearable silence while the girls around us shared secrets, complimented each other’s hair and licked the last crumbs of lunch off of their fingers. I wondered if I could scavenge the sun-damaged grass for any forgotten morsels.

Suddenly, it bubbled up in me and I struggled to swallow it down. This had happened to me before, in other equally tense situations, and it had always had disastrous consequences. A panic rose in me as I realized there was no stopping the eruption that was racing up my throat and out of my mouth. I was about to have what my father called “verbal diarrhea”.

“So, do you have a boyfriend? I have a boyfriend. His name’s Steve and he’s really sweet. He’s actually going to meet me at the bus stop after school. How do you like it here? It seems like a really great school. I love it here already. There are lots of opportunities here. Clubs, sports, stuff like that. What clubs are you in? Do you play any sports? I played softball and basketball in grammar school. I want to try out for softball here, but not basketball. Everyone thinks I’d be good at basketball because I’m tall. But I’m not. I mean, I’m tall, duh of course I’m tall, but I’m no good at basketball. I’m just tall.”

I talked and talked until my voice gave out. My speech was met with a wall of silence. Just a while ago, I had run from Rebecca in revulsion after her verbal tirade. Now, I found myself drowning in my own self-made tsunami of words.

“Look. I’m really not good at this. Making conversation, being a big sister. Do you mind if we just sit here and not talk?”

Before I could answer, Trish clicked on her tape cassette, and I detected the low buzz of music coming out of her headphones. At that moment, I realized that she would forget about my very existence exactly five minutes after our foodless farce of a picnic.

I took a second look at the candy piled in my palm. Against my survival instincts, I popped the mysterious clump into my mouth, and was pleasantly surprised. Once I got past the lint, the juicy sweetness filled up my mouth and quieted my hunger somewhat.

The big sisters and little sisters around me were exchanging phone numbers and making future lunch dates. Trish had failed to bring me a card or a balloon or even a breakfast muffin. There was only one thing I wanted from her. A single question had been burning in my brain all day. She had to answer it for me. She owed me that much.

I tapped her on the shoulder, and she reluctantly pried the headphones from her ears.

“So, Trish.” I began. “Which nuns are the cherry poppers?”

how second base led to my first boyfriend

2008-10-25T08:24:00.007-04:00

The air was thick with pollen suspended in the rays of the setting sun. The sweet smell of barbecue settled inside my nose. Fireworks fizzled and popped around the neighborhood. Summer was coming to a close.

“Guys, guess what?” RJ cackled, his voice a rusty razor.

“What?” Alex asked.

“Last week, in the pool, Noreen let me feel her up!”

“Did not!” I defended, smacking at RJ’s face but only grazing his grime-encrusted neck.

“You know you did. You sat on my lap in the kiddie pool and I reached up and tweaked your nipples.”

“Cool!” Alex pumped his fist at RJ in approval.

“Liar!” I screeched.

“Nuh uh! I pinched ‘em, and you let me.” RJ maneuvered his fingers like he was turning the dial on a car radio.

“They’re big and hard like dice. And then you let me squeeze your boobs. They felt smooshy like a roll of Charmin. Oh, man….” He opened and closed his fists just inches in front of my breasts.

“Stop it!” I shouted, swatting away his sweaty palms.

“Come on. Gimme another squeeze!”

As RJ lurched at my chest, Steve stepped in front of me and pushed RJ’s pudgy little frame into a parked car.

“Ow!”

“Leave her alone, fuck face,” Steve commanded as he saddled up to me.

“You okay?” he asked, flashing deep dimples at me. I wanted to push my pinky into them and see how far in I’d get.

“Uh huh,” I squeaked, as Steve slid his arm around my shoulder. Was this really happening? The only other time a boy had put his arm around me was in a football huddle.

Warmth spread out through my shoulders and oozed down my body like melting chocolate.

Steve pulled me closer to him, and I cuddled into the crook of his arm. I had to suppress a giggle of glee as I realized how perfectly we fit together. He was just the right height for me to comfortably rest my head on his shoulder. Should I do that now? Would it be weird to walk that way? How about my arms? Should I throw my right arm behind his back and let it rest on his hip? I scanned the streets for couples, hoping for a clue as to what to do next. But we weren’t a couple, were we?

Moisture collected on my skin like the sweat from a soda can. Could he feel it? Would he pull away in disgust? I began to breathe like a woman in labor, keeping my arms rigid at my sides so I didn’t screw this up.

“You’re a liar, and you know it!” RJ’s Doritos breath was back in my face. I huddled closer to Steve’s chest.

“I’m not gonna tell you again. Leave her alone.”

Steve grabbed RJ’s collar with his free hand and shook it hard. He didn’t even break his stride or lessen the pressure of his arm on my now-soaked shoulder. RJ sulked and mumbled, dropping back behind us and snickering to Alex, who was enjoying the spectacle.

I glanced at Steve, reassured by his wide smile and the heat of his body against mine, making me feel feverish. I knew, in that instant, that he would be my first boyfriend.

The thing is, I had let RJ feel my boobs in the pool. I don’t know why. I hadn’t even kissed a boy, and yet I had let this crusty little creeton feel me up. RJ was almost two years younger than me, and a whole head shorter. Did that make me a pervert? If word got around that I had let RJ touch me, I feared that mothers everywhere would clutch their young sons to them, terrified of the dangerous older lady who wanted to look at their sons’ boy parts. I had to keep this under wraps.

It had started innocently enough. RJ and I were wrestling in the kiddie pool, and he suddenly pulled me onto his lap. I could hear a wheeze in his chest, and I asked if he needed his inhaler.
“Nah. I’m cool,” he insisted, taking a deep breath. “Let’s just rest for a minute.”

We floated like that for a while, and I felt the weight of his hands like pockets on my hips. His fingers slowly inched their way towards my waist and waited there. I rested my palms over his hands, wondering where they would go next. His fingers crawled up my ribcage like caterpillars, and my hands went limp and floated lifeless to the surface of the pool. I stared straight ahead and held my breath, blinking away the blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the water. I pretended it wasn’t happening, waiting to see how far RJ would go, and wondering why I wasn’t stopping him.

A little girl drifted by on a raft that looked like a dragon. Wet pigtails dripped above both of her ears, and she flashed a wide grin at me. I flushed with shame. Did she suspect our underwater activity? How could I set such a horrible example for the children in the kiddie pool? I should be banned from the pool forever. What was wrong with me? My Catholic school training had been complete. At this stage, I should be screaming rape and bending RJ’s fingers backwards while chanting Hail Mary’s. But a burning sensation below my belly button said, wait. Now, just what is this?

RJ’s fingertips grazed over my nipples, almost accidentally. I felt something poking me in the back like a billy club, and realized it was his erection. When I didn’t react by wrenching off his penis and tossing it into the deep end of the pool, RJ became more brazen. He poked my nipples with his fingertips, as if checking to see if they would bite. The sounds of splashing and laughter faded into the distance. My heart thump-thump-thumped in my ears as electricity rippled through me.

My nipples fought against the fabric of my bathing suit as RJ pinched them. It hurt, almost, but in a way that wasn’t quite pain. He finally cupped both of my breasts in his pudgy bear claws and pulled me tighter towards him. A tormented moan escaped his lips. My brain felt like cotton candy and I had trouble focusing my eyes. I was certainly destined for hell.

And that’s when I saw him. The lifeguard was poised in his tower, biting his whistle between his teeth. He was glaring directly at us and reaching for his megaphone. His toned and tanned chest glistened with sweat. Bicep muscles bulged as he slowly brought the megaphone to his sun-chapped lips. My sexual deviance was about to be broadcast to everyone. I would be chased out of the pool, pelted with nose plugs and goggles, while mothers covered their children’s eyes from my hardened-nipple shame. I tried to pry RJ’s hands off of my breasts, but they were crazy-glued to my bathing suit.

Three sharp whistles assaulted my ears as a sudden wave knocked me off RJ’s lap. I slipped underneath the surface, sucking in chlorinated water and sputtering like Dad’s old Chevy. A bony elbow rammed into my throat as a talon-like toenail tore into my shin. Not knowing which death would be worse – one of shame or the other of drowning in a four-foot deep kiddie pool – I resurfaced and greedily sucked in air, ready for my public execution.

“Out of the pool! Now!” the lifeguard barked, pointing angrily. I shielded my eyes from the white sun spots dancing in front of me and stared at RJ’s mammoth back.

“No cannonballs in the kiddie pool. You three – out now!”

I looked to my right and saw three sunburned boys holding their reddened bellies and spitting water at one another. RJ waded breathlessly in the water, his chest rising and falling with effort, waiting for me to return.

What had I done? I awoke from my nipple-pinching stupor, doggie paddled my way over to the ladder and pulled myself out of the pool. My legs felt like licorice as I sprinted to the shaded safety of my towel. I hid behind my wet bangs, waiting for the revving of my heart to slow down and settle back into my chest.

RJ shifted uncomfortably in the kiddie pool, surveying his surroundings. When he was finally able to get out of the pool, he lumbered over to his mother and huddled close to her lounge chair. I watched as she patted his back and handed him his inhaler. RJ shook his inhaler and took two long pulls from it, waiting for the air to enter his lungs. His mother looked concerned, as the inhaler didn’t seem to be working.

“Come on, breathe!” I whispered from my towel, wondering if I had just killed RJ. Could the excitement of fondling real breasts have caused his lungs to seize up? Having just had my first remotely sensual encounter, I wasn’t certain of my own power.

Finally, the color returned to RJ’s cheeks and I sighed a deep breath of relief. His mother handed him a soda and a sandwich, and he bit into the bread greedily. I was happy to see that my breasts had not produced fatal effects.

It happened a week after Steve had defended my honor against RJ. Steve and I walked to the playground in the bright midday sun. His arm brushed up against mine. It felt like a thousand ladybugs crawling up and down my arms.

“Wanna sit on the swings?” he suggested.

“Okay.”

We approached the swings in the shapes of animals that I had been riding on since birth. There were four – the caterpillar, the squirrel, the bird and the skunk. As kids, we would race to the swings, trying to reach our favorite animal first. No one ever wanted to sit on the skunk. It was always empty, unless some unsuspecting new kid came to the park and made the mistake of sitting on it. Then, the rest of us would shun the new kid, insisting he smelled like farts for having sat on the stinky skunk.

“Which one’s your favorite?” Steve asked as we approached the swings.
“The caterpillar,” I responded reflexively, wishing I could suck the syllables back down my throat the minute they reached the air. I was 14! I wasn’t supposed to have a favorite swing. Was this a trick question? Was Steve trying to decide if I was mature enough to be girlfriend material?

“Mine too!” he responded.

Steve was 15, and was about to be a sophomore at the boys’ prep school a few blocks from my high school. He knew about cool – he smoked and played guitar. If the caterpillar was good with him, then I was in.

“Yeah, caterpillars are cool. Cause they change, you know? Become something beautiful,” he explained.

“Butterflies,” I nodded, blushing at having stated the obvious.

“Exactly! Wow. We have so much in common. We really think alike.” He smiled into my face and his dimples deepened.

Steve held onto the chain of the caterpillar swing and helped me onto it. I straddled the caterpillar and rocked it back and forth, unsure of what else to do.

“The bird is my second favorite, but I’ll sit on the squirrel to be close to you,” Steve said as he lowered himself onto the squirrel. The eyes of the caterpillar seemed to wink at the squirrel. I wondered how many times they had witnessed this.

Steve licked his lips and leaned off of his squirrel towards my caterpillar. This was it! He was about to give me my first kiss. My body tensed as questions ricocheted around my brain: When was I supposed to close my eyes? How was my breath? What did I do with my hands? Was I supposed to make any sounds, like the moaning and grunting on late-night cable movies? And what was I supposed to do with my tongue? I closed my eyes as the warmth of Steve’s breath floated out to me.

For years, I had daydreamed about my first kiss. It went like this: a faceless boy and I were walking alone in the woods. It was fall. Apple-colored leaves were drifting down from the trees, crunching under our feet. Birds chirped and butterflies flitted about. A cool breeze rocked the branches, and I shivered with a chill. The boy removed his heather-gray wool sweater, and slipped it over my head. It smelled like wood shavings, and I snuggled into its warmth. My hair was bouncy and perfect. My skin shone like porcelain. He rested his hands on my shapely hips and drew me in to him. His lips were soft and his mouth was juicy like a plum. His hands cradled my face, and my fingers met behind his neck. We kissed in the middle of the woods for an eternity, until a park ranger came and told us to mosey on along. It was perfection.

Steve’s teeth bouncing off my own brought me back into my body.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It was my fault. Let’s try again,” Steve offered as my heart drag-raced inside my chest.

I opened my mouth wide as if I were about to have my teeth cleaned. His cold tongue poked around the inside of my dry mouth, testing the water. It felt like a giant wad of bubblegum. Steve tasted like watermelon jolly ranchers, sticky sweet. His head rolled back and forth as his tongue searched out my tonsils.

I tried to keep my tongue and my teeth to myself, afraid I’d accidentally bite the tip of his tongue off. Steve’s hands were resting on my thighs. My palms ached from gripping the chain of the caterpillar. Holding my breath, I counted the seconds and tried hard not to laugh at what suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Kissing was no longer a mystery. And I wasn’t even sure if I liked it.

I was grateful for my first kiss to be out of the way, but I had expected more. Steve’s tongue jamming past my teeth felt like an invasion of privacy. There was no ripple in my belly and no music in the trees. It was just me, sitting on a caterpillar waiting for the oral excursion to be over.

Mister Softee’s ice cream truck rumbled up the street, manic music blaring out of his speaker. Children shouted and begged for money from their mothers, feet pounding the pavement as they raced toward the truck. For the first time, I realized we were not alone in the playground, and I pulled free of the suction from Steve’s vacuum kiss.

Steve’s lips made a wet smacking sound. He nodded his head with confidence, waiting to hear what I had to say.

“Thanks?” I offered, not sure what the proper response was to my first actual kiss.

“No. Thank you!”

Steve wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, nuzzled into my neck and kissed me softly. There it was! The tingle in my tummy that I had been craving all along. I wondered if there was something wrong with me. What if my mouth was desensitized and the only way I ever got the ripple feeling was to convince Steve to nibble on my neck? That is, assuming Steve wanted any part of my anatomy ever again.

Steve took out a pack of Marlboro Lights and shook a cigarette free.

“You want?” he offered.

I shook my head. First, I had let a boy feel me up. Then I had let Steve put his tongue in my mouth. I was growing up too fast. Who knew what else I was capable of if I allowed myself to smoke?

“So? Wanna go with me?” Steve asked as he sucked on his cigarette, looking like he already knew the answer.

“Sure!”

I bounced off the caterpillar and had to restrain myself from doing a cartwheel. A boy actually wanted to be my boyfriend. He wanted me to be his girlfriend. I was going to start high school with a boyfriend, as someone’s girlfriend. A mushroom cloud of nuclear waste could not have erased the smile from my face.

“Cool. Let’s get some ice cream. My treat.”

Steve stood up and laced his fingers through mine, leading me towards Mister Softee. My head swiveled like a lighthouse light, spreading my smile in every direction. I wanted as many people as possible to witness my new status as a girlfriend.

“What’s your favorite?” Steve asked as we stood on line behind mothers and their whiny children.

“Chocolate with chocolate sprinkles,” I said, holding tight to his hand.

“Mine, too! Wanna split a double cone?” Steve suggested.

I had always wanted a double cone, but I had never had anyone to share it with before. I had always envied couples that split double cones, taking turns licking the melting ice cream and wiping sprinkles off of each others’ chins. I now had someone to wipe my chin! I couldn’t think of anything more romantic.

Steve held out the chocolate with chocolate sprinkles double cone. I dipped my mouth into the coldness, hoping to get some sprinkles somewhere on my face. Feeling an ice cream moustache on my upper lip, I batted my eyes at Steve. His tongue poked out of his mouth and licked the ice cream off of my lip. Bees buzzed inside of my head, and I felt faint.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into my ear.

“I am?”

No one had ever told me that before. Sister Roberta had once said I had beautiful penmanship, but that wasn’t the same thing.

“Yes, you are.”

“I like your dimples,” I responded, kissing each dimple quickly.

“I like your lips,” he kissed my lips and pushed his tongue back inside my mouth. My legs felt woozy beneath me. I wished I still had the caterpillar beneath me for support. Kissing while standing seemed a little problematic. I could see while people preferred to do it lying down

“I like your hair.”

Steve looked confused. I didn’t know what else to say. His tongue in my mouth had taken away my good sense.

“It’s really – curly,” I added.

“Thanks.”

We walked towards my house, holding hands and taking turns licking the melting cone. My temples began to pound, either from brain freeze or the extra-wide smile plastered to my face.
We stopped in front of my house, the last bite of our cone stuck in my throat. Other couples might have “a song”, but Steve and I had “a cone”. I could never again eat a chocolate cone with chocolate sprinkles without thinking of him.

“I’ll call you tonight, girlfriend.”

“Okay, boyfriend,” I beamed. I had just called someone my boyfriend! I bit the inside of my lip to keep from laughing.

Steve’s eyes focused on mine. He lowered his head and my eyes fluttered shut. My lips parted slightly. I was determined to get this open-mouthed kiss right.

A loud “thwack” stopped us both in our lust-filled tracks. I looked up at my window on the second floor. Erin was standing in the window, in her underwear, banging on the glass. At 6-years-old, we could not keep clothing on Erin. The second she entered the apartment, she stripped down to her skivvies and stayed like that. She repeatedly banged on the glass, jumping up and down like a monkey.

“Ma!!!” I could hear her ear-splitting shout through the pane glass. “I’m telling Mommy!”

“I gotta go!” I sprinted up the steps away from Steve. I had to get to my mother before Erin did.

“Sorry!” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Call you later,” Steve called out.

“Why are you screaming like that?” I heard my mother walking down the hall towards Erin.
I wasn’t too late! I would get to tell my mother before Erin did.

“Get out of that window with no clothes on! What’s the matter with you? You want the whole neighborhood to see you like that?”

“I don’t care,” Erin answered.

“I know you don’t, but I do. Out of the window. Now!”

I rushed breathlessly into the living room as Mom was scooping Erin out of the window.

“Mom,” I gasped.

“What?”

“Mommy, guess what I just saw Noreen doing?”

“What?

“Shut up, Erin.”

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up,” Mom admonished.

“Mommy, Noreen was….”

“Boogedy boogedy boo!” I shouted at Erin.

“No! No! Please! Mommy, hold me!” Erin clung to my mother’s neck, terror freezing her face and stealing her words.

Boogedy boogedy boo brought out the Boogey Man. Chris and I would routinely lock Erin in the bathroom with the light off and chant “boogedy boogedy boo”, which would make him appear to her. We usually reserved this tactic for times when Erin was bugging us, or was about to tattle something that Mom absolutely could not know. It worked better than any bribe we could ever concoct.

“Noreen! Why do you insist on torturing your sister? What did you do that you don’t want me to know about?” she asked, trying not to be suffocated by Erin’s death grip around her neck.

“I didn’t do anything,” I shouted over Erin’s wailing. “But I need to tell you something.”

“Get your sister to stop screaming, please! I can’t hear myself think.”

“Come on, boogedy boogedy boo. Time for you to go. Leave Erin alone.”

I opened the door and shooed the Boogey Man out of the apartment. Erin watched through her fingers as hiccups shook her skinny little body.

“Okay, he’s gone,” I assured her, shutting the door and turning all the locks.

“You sure?” she asked, still clinging to Mom’s throat.

“Yes, I’m sure. Just don’t make me call him back,” I threatened.

“No, don’t. I promise. You won’t have to call him back.”

“Okay, no more B-Man,” I said, handing over her favorite teddy bear.

Erin squeezed the teddy bear and wiggled free of Mom’s arms.

“Put some clothes on,” Mom shouted after her.

“No!” she screamed, running down the hall to our room.

“Why do you do that to your sister? Her screaming is like knives in my ears.”

“Steve is my boyfriend,” I exhaled it all out before losing my nerve.

“What? Since when?” Mom scanned the room nervously for her cigarettes.

“Since now. Today. He just asked me.”

“Don’t you think you’re too young for a boyfriend?”

“Are you kidding? All of my friends have had boyfriends since sixth grade. I was the only one who had never been kissed.”

“Whaddya mean ‘was’? Has that changed?” Mom’s nostrils flared like a bull’s.

I smirked and shrugged my shoulders coyly.

“So, what? You’re kissing now?”

“Yeah, I’m kissing now.”

“Oh, boy. Oh, Jesus!”

“What’s the big deal? He’s my boyfriend. It’s not like I’m gonna get pregnant.”

“Why would you say such a thing? What do you know about getting pregnant?” Mom had located her cigarettes, but was still searching for her lighter. The cigarette trembled between her lips, having its own nervous breakdown.

“Enough to know that kissing won’t lead to a baby.”

“No, but it can lead to other things,” she whispered ominously.

“What other things?” I tested.

I had once asked Mom about sex after I started hearing rumblings about it at school. Her face had turned gray and her eyes glazed over. Her only words about sex had been: “You don’t do it until you’re married.” I had had to rely on friends and scrambled cable channels to teach me the rest.
“Like, like….” Mom stuttered nervously. “Like you know what. Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not! I just wanna know.”

“What does this mean? He’s your boyfriend?” Mom spit out the word “boyfriend” as if it were a piece of rancid meat in her mouth.

“I don’t know. He’s my boyfriend. I’m his girlfriend. We do things together.”

“What things?”

“Movies, parties, stuff like that I guess. It’s my first day as a girlfriend. Give me a break!”

“I don’t know, Noreen. You’re going to have to tell your father about this. See what he says.”

I hadn’t really thought about that. Dad was at work so often, I figured he didn’t need to know about it. I didn’t want to give Mom any hint of weakness on my part, so I feigned bravery and smiled.

“Fine,” I nodded.

“Does Steve’s mother know about this?” Mom asked calmly, having found her lighter. Smoke blew out of her nose as she exhaled deeply.

“I don’t know. It just happened now.”

“Well, maybe I should call her and we can talk about it?”

“Don’t you dare! Talk about what? We’re not planning a wedding.”

“God forbid! Don’t even joke about such things.” Mom’s hand clutched her chest.

“Just trust me, okay? Don’t call his mom. Please.” I begged, wondering if a boyfriend was really worth all of this trouble. After about six seconds of deliberation, I decided it was.

“All right. But behave yourself. And tell your father. Tonight!”

“Thanks, Mom!” I pecked her cheek and ran into the bedroom, where I proceeded to call everyone I knew to spread the news. Of course, I may have fudged some of the details of the kiss, but wasn’t that part of the fun of having a boyfriend - telling not entirely true details to your girlfriends?

“His tongue tasted like honey.”

“That kiss was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt!” “Fireworks went off in my stomach.”

“He said he thinks he could marry me.”

“It was just what I always dreamed it would be. Better.”

After the hours of phone conversations had ended, I waited nervously for Dad to come home. He had been working for two days straight, with probably an hour or two of sleep stolen somewhere along the way. This could either work for or against me. Sometimes he came home so exhausted that he passed out on the couch fully dressed without eating a bite. Other nights, he came home cranky and cross, with a few Budweisers floating around in his belly. On those nights, we tiptoed around him, not wanting him to bark out complaints at us.

When I finally heard his key turning in the lock around nine o’clock, I sat frozen in my room. Should I attack him with the news before he had a chance to settle in, or ply him with Budweiser and spaghetti, getting him good and sleepy first? I glanced over at Erin, asleep in the bottom bunk. At least I wouldn’t have to contend with her snitching. I decided to wait it out in my room for a while.

Apparently, I waited longer than a while. Dad’s snores sounded like waves pounding the shore in the living room. I tiptoed into the living room, where Dad was marooned on the couch. His mouth was open wide enough for me to count his silver fillings. The remote control was tucked into the waistband of his pajamas, and the Honeymooners was on TV. A half-eaten bowl of spaghetti sat next to an empty Bud on the side table. It was now or never.

“Dad?” I whispered, barely loud enough to hear myself.

“Dad. Wake up,” I said slightly louder, pushing my pointer finger into his cheek.
Thunderous grunts and groans rolled out of his throat. His lips smacked together as if he still tasted the spaghetti sauce that dotted his white undershirt.

“Dad!” I shouted. “I have to tell you something. Dad!”

“Wha?” he shouted back, not quite opening his eyes.

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Open your eyes.”

“I don’t wanna. Whaddya want?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Go ‘head.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah. I’m listenin’.”

“But your eyes aren’t open.”

“My eyes don’t have anything to do with my ears. Whaddya want?”

“Steve asked me to be his girlfriend.”

No movement from Dad. His breathing started to deepen and I thought he had fallen back asleep.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. Steve’s your boyfriend.”

“That’s right. Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I need some sleep before I have to get back up and go to work.” His eyes were still sealed shut.

“No. What do you think about me and Steve?”

“You and Steve? Yeah. Good for you.”

“That’s all?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I just thought….”

“If you don’t let me get some sleep, I might have something else to say about it.”

“Okay. Good night!”

“Night,” Dad mumbled before the rumble of his snores took over again.

I did it! Racing back to my room, I shut the door just as my phone started to ring. I picked it up before Dad heard it and reconsidered his position on my dating life.

“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.

“Hi, it’s me,” Steve answered. We were already at the place in our relationship where he referred to himself as “me”! I couldn’t believe how well this was all going.

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?” I asked.

“Close your eyes,” Steve demanded.

“Why?”

“Just close your eyes and listen. Please?”

“Okay,” I sighed, lying down with my eyes closed and the phone pressed against my ear.The tinny noise of a guitar being tuned floated over the phone. Then, Steve broke into a familiar heavy metal tune with his guitar. I squealed into my pillow, dazed by my very first serenade. It was almost better than getting my first kiss.

I listened breathlessly for a full four minutes. When the song ended, I could hear Steve panting on the other end.

“Well? What did you think?” Steve asked breathlessly.

“Def Leppard?” I guessed.

“No! I wrote that. I wrote it for you, baby.”

He wrote me a song! And he called me baby! I couldn’t believe this was all happening.

“I loved it. I really really loved it. I can’t believe you wrote that for me.”

“Yeah. I worked on it for hours. It’s called ‘Double Cone’. I’ll never play it for anyone but you.”

“Do you mean that?” I swooned.

“Just for you.”

“Noreen! Is that you still on the phone?” Mom called from the kitchen.

“No!” I lied.

“Well, hang it up. Now.”

“Sorry. I gotta go.” I sighed to Steve.

“Wait. Don’t hang up the phone. Let’s fall asleep together,” Steve suggested.

“Reall”

“Yeah. Let’s just keep the phones by our heads on the pillow. That way we can say we slept together.” Steve chuckled into the phone.

“Okay. Good night, Steve. Thank you for my song.”

“Thanks for being my girlfriend.”

“Thanks for asking me to be your girlfriend.”

“Thanks for saying yes.”

“You’re welcome,” I relented, realizing the gratitude could go on all night.

“Night.”

“Noreen,” Dad called to me as he stood next to my top bunk.

My neck hurt from falling asleep with the phone pressed up against my ear. I rolled over to Dad, blinking into the darkness.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” I grumbled.

“Just cause I was half asleep when you talked to me doesn’t me I didn’t hear you.”

“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m not thrilled about you having a boyfriend, but I know Steve and he seems like a nice kid.”

“He is. He really really is, Dad.”

At that moment, I wanted to tell him about our double cone and about my song. But mostly, I wanted to tell him how Steve had called me beautiful.

“Yeah, I know that. But even nice kids can forget themselves. So, be careful. And make sure he treats you right.”

“I will.”

“All right. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay.”

“Go back to sleep. I gotta get to work.”

“Bye.”

“See ya later.”

I lay awake in bed, reviewing the events of the day. In the past, if I had wanted to let a boy know I liked him, I would crank call his house and disguise my voice.

“Noreen likes you,” I would whisper into the phone as Felix or Todd or Keith picked up.

“What? Who is this?” they would respond. I would then hang up the phone and wait for their return call, proclaiming their love for me. I reasoned that they just needed some prodding, and once they knew I felt that way about them, their romantic feelings for me would blossom. I even enlisted Erin’s help, though I never told her whom she was calling. A six-year-old could not be trusted with secrets of the heart.

Erin did a great Freddy Krueger impersonation. I would dial the number, and she would mumble in a deep, guttural voice, “Noreen likes you,” and I would slam the phone down. If she even looked like she might tattle, I would simply whisper, “Boogedy,” and she would run screaming out of the room.

The phone would always ring right after the call. I would let it ring a few times before answering.

“Hello?” I would grunt, disguising my voice with sleep.

“Hey. Did you just call here?” Felix or Todd or Keith would ask.

“What? No. I was sleeping. Why?” I quizzed groggily.
“No reason. Thought it might have been you.”
For some reason, this technique had never succeeded in snagging me a boyfriend.
My underwater groping with a 12-year-old toad had, however, eventually led to my first love. I couldn’t figure out the way the world worked, but I was happy with the results. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe everything did happen for a reason. Maybe I had participated in slightly slutty behavior so that Steve and I could have our very own cone. Maybe RJ’s grimy little fingers pinching my nipples were the price I had to pay for starting high school with a boyfriend. I replayed Steve’s guitar solo in my head and let the memory of the day fade as I fell back asleep.

hot oil treatments and other signs from god

2008-10-02T14:34:00.006-04:00

“Do you believe in signs?”

Shivers danced up my spine and my breath caught in my chest. Since the death of the Accutane dream, I had spent the rest of eighth grade squirreled away in the library. In the dusty old books, words whispered secrets to me, and I was bursting to share them with someone. I saw signs in books by Hemingway and poems by Thoreau. I didn’t understand most of what I read, but I knew it was important. I even wrote stories inspired by Hemingway. My characters were dark and tortured, but nothing much ever happened. Could Alyssa be the one to share my stories and signs with?

“Yes,” I croaked, trying to control my voice. “I believe in signs.”

Alyssa sat up on her bed and scooted closer to me. I leaned in, anxious to compare the signs we both saw all around us.

“Look,” she whispered, opening up the magazine she was holding and tapping her purple-painted finger on the page.

I took the magazine in both hands, wanting to fully appreciate the importance of the sign Alyssa was sharing with me. I searched the page for something significant, but came up empty. All I saw was an ad for a hot oil treatment. Two beefy football players had a pretty cheerleader hoisted on their shoulders. They looked up at her adoringly as she ignored them, beaming at the camera while running her fingers through her thick head of blond hair. The ad read: “Has your hair had a lift lately?”

“I don’t get it,” I confessed.

“Don’t you ever just see something again and again and then finally say to yourself, wow, this must be a sign. I should definitely do something about this.”

“I guess,” I shrugged, watching Alyssa buzz around the room as she brushed her wavy blond hair, spritzed perfume on her neck and applied lip-gloss in her vanity mirror.

“It’s settled. I’m going to do it.” Alyssa asserted as she grabbed her purse. “Come on, we’re going to the store.”

“What for?” I asked, starting to feel really dense.

“Look. I’ve seen this ad everywhere lately. On television, on the side of a bus, and now in this magazine. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know. This company spends a lot on advertising?”

“No! It means my hair needs a lift. We have to go buy that hot oil treatment right now. Don’t you see? It’s a sign!”

I took this as a sign that Alyssa was crazy. She already had perfect Prell hair, which she brushed dutifully every night before encasing each curl in a fat roller. Her heart-shaped face was delicately framed by soft, bouncy curls. The girl was a walking shampoo commercial, and now she wanted to improve upon her perfection. This I had to see. I avoided the mirror and followed Alyssa out the door.

Walking the streets with Alyssa, I felt prettier and uglier all at the same time. I imagined that people looked at me differently when I was with her. Sure, I had the skin of a swamp toad, but there must be something special about me if a girl as pretty and popular as Alyssa had picked me to be her friend. On the other hand, I often felt like a warty wicked witch dwarfed by Cinderella at the ball.

Everything about Alyssa was perfect – even her name. All of the prettiest girls had names like pastries: Alyssa, Tiffany, Amber. The letters blended together, producing a gooey sweetness that tickled the tongue. My name sounded like an industrial strength cleaning product. Noreen. Gets your floor shining every time. Eats the grime off your tiles. Cleans the gunk out of your drain. What were my parents thinking?

Freckles peppered the bridge of Alyssa’s nose like cinnamon flakes, and her coffee brown eyes popped against the milky white of her skin. Trying to improve her appearance would be like putting one extra light on the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. What was the point?

“I just read this really cool article in the magazine,” Alyssa said as we headed towards the store.

“About what?”

“Identifying your best and worst features.”

“Great,” I enthused.

“Let’s do it!” she demanded, bouncing along beside me.

I would rather store pieces of burning coal in my mouth, but I decided to play along anyway.

“You go first.”

“Okay,” Alyssa agreed, needing little prompting. “My best feature…. God, I don’t know. Which one should I choose? I really like the shape of my face. But then again, Roger once said I had kissable lips. They do pucker nicely. My eyebrows have a natural arch. My skin is super soft. I really don’t know. Oh wait! My nose. Definitely my nose. Everyone says I have a button nose. That’s cute, right?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s cute.” How could I not agree? The girl oozed cute. The snot that shot out of her nose during a sneeze was probably cute, with its own bouncy blonde hair and freckles.

“So what do you think? Is my nose my best feature?”

“Sure. I’d go with the nose.” I assured her as she slid her finger down the bridge of her best feature.

“Okay, cool. Now you.”

“Now me, what?”

“What’s your best feature?” Alyssa asked, studying my profile as I squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze.

“I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do. Everyone has at least one. Look at me. I have a bunch.”

“Lucky you,” I responded with an involuntary eye roll.

“Fine, party pooper. If you won’t pick, I will.”

Alyssa scrutinized the deep craters and red ridges of my skin as if I were a topographical map. I fidgeted during the inspection, watching her button nose scrunch up like a bunny’s. She was right – her cute button nose was her best feature.

“Hmm. I can’t decide,” Alyssa said softly as she continued her quest for my best feature.

“Just forget it, okay? I don’t have a best feature.” I almost shouted as I pulled away from her.

“You do too, dummy. It’s just a close call between your eyes and your smile.”

“Really?” A wide smile invaded my face, but then faded as I wondered if Alyssa was making fun of me. Could I possibly have two whole good features? And both of them displayed prominently on my face?

“Sure. See – when you smile your lips look really full and your whole face lights up.”

“It does?”

“Totally. But your eyes…. First of all, your lashes are super long and thick. You don’t even need mascara! I’m so jealous. My lashes are short and thin. Totally lifeless. I practically spend a fortune of mascara.”

“Bummer.” I tried to empathize, but I was too ecstatic over my luxuriously long lashes that made Alyssa feel bad about her own. Who knew?

“Plus, your eyes are huge and full of different colors. Like today, they’re really green. But yesterday, when you wore your blue top, they were gray. That’s so cool!”

“Wow. Thanks!”

“But, you do have a killer smile.”

“If you say so.”

I let my stride match Alyssa’s as I batted my long-lashed eyes at strangers passing by.

“Okay. On to the bad news.” Alyssa frowned.

“What’s that?” I asked, my killer smile still stuck to my face.

“What’s your worst feature?”

“My face,” I responded reflexively. I wished I could swallow the words the second they came out, but they were already out in the atmosphere like a big, belching burp.

Alyssa studied me as she walked by my side. I wondered, would now be the time to finally reveal what it felt like to be stuck living behind my skin? After all, Alyssa had been the first person to stare straight into my face and not projectile vomit. Would she understand what that meant to me?

“Yeah, I guess your face is pretty bad,” she agreed, not unkindly.

The little bit of confidence that her previous words had inspired crumbled like stale crackers. Alyssa didn’t notice, though. Her words were waiting to dive off her tongue and out into the open.

“Okay, on to me. My worst feature, by far, is my feet,” she confessed, biting her bottom lip and stomping her feet on the ground as she walked.

“Your feet?”

“Yeah. Well, actually, my foot. The right one. On the bottom.”

“The bottom of your right foot is your worst feature?” I asked, incredulous.

“Totally. It’s so gross. I have the worst scar from my surgery. Remember?

Of course I remembered. It was how Alyssa and I had become friends.

I had always known Alyssa, though we had never really been friends. We went to the same grammar school and lived a few blocks from each other. Alyssa was a year ahead of me, but she wasn’t snotty like most of the older girls. She always said hi and was nice to everyone.
As I was walking home from one of the last days of eighth grade, I saw Alyssa limp off the bus with crutches and a heavy book bag. She was just finishing her freshman year of the Catholic girls’ academy I would attend the next year. My own book bag was light with a lack of homework, so I walked over to Alyssa and offered to carry her book bag home.

“Seriously? That would be awesome. Thanks!”

“So what happened?” I asked, shouldering her burden of a bag.

“It’s too gross to talk about. You couldn’t handle it,” Alyssa assured me in a throaty voice.

“Do you have a cold or something? You sound really hoarse.”

“No. It’s from the surgery.”

“If you had surgery on your throat, then why do you need crutches?” I asked, unable to make the connection.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” Alyssa whispered in her throaty new voice.

“Absolutely!”

“It was a planter’s wart.”

“In your throat?” I asked, covering my neck protectively with my free hand.

“Eww, no! Gross! On the bottom of my foot.”

“Yuck!” I agreed. “Exactly what is a planter’s wart?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It’s this big painful thing that grows out of your skin, and it hurts so bad you can’t even put a sock on. It’s really gnarly, actually.”

“Sounds awful.”

“It is. Wow, you really get me!”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it sounds super painful.”

“You have no idea!”

“So, how did you lose your voice?” I asked.

“The only way to get rid of the wart is to have surgery and cut it all out. The doctor didn’t give me enough stuff to numb me or something. My foot was open and he was scraping the thing out, when all of a sudden, ahhh! Oh my God! It hurts! It really hurts! Oh my God get that thing outta me!” Alyssa squealed and screamed and dug her nails into my arm, her face flush with pain.

“Oh my God! What can I do? Should I call for help?” I panicked, supporting her arm and looking up and down the deserted block for someone to call 911 before she fainted dead away.

“No!” I’m totally fine now, ding-dong. That’s what happened during surgery.” Alyssa explained calmly as she continued to limp with her crutches. I exhaled in relief, marveling at her acting ability while blushing at my own stupidity.

“Oh,” I responded dumbly.

“I screamed so loud and so long because of the pain, my voice changed just like that. The doctor says it’s probably permanent.” Alyssa said with a shrug.

“Wow. That sucks.”

“Not really,” she smirked.

“What do you mean?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Promise you’ll never tell anyone, and I’ll be your friend forever.”

“Of course!” I promised, thinking it was an easy trade-off to gain a pretty and popular friend just by keeping a secret.

“I like my voice like this. It’s sexy, don’t you think?”

“Um, yeah. I guess.” I lied. I had no idea what sexy was. I only knew that I wasn’t it.

“You know what else? The boys like it, too. They try to get me to say words like ‘hard’ and ‘stiff’, because they like the way it sounds with my sexy new voice.”

“Really?” Were boys that easy? Could a silly voice get them that excited? I hoped I would get a cold really soon so I could try it out myself.

“Sure. They love it. So I play dumb and say all sorts of words, just to torture them some more.”

“What other words do you say?”

“Lots of things: tight, wet, nipple.”

“Nipple? How do you work the word ‘nipple’ into a conversation with boys?” I asked suspiciously.

“Easy. I say something about cleaning a baby bottle or something. Only I say it really slow and low. Like this – it’s really hard to clean the nipple of a baby bottle. It gets so stiff. See?

“And that does it? Just like that?”

“You should see the reactions! They melt like butter. Boys are totally easy.”

I peered at Alyssa with a new level of respect, wondering about all of the other boy things she could teach me.

“I got this,” a rough voice barked as Alyssa’s book bag was lifted off of my shoulder. It was Tony, a jock that played on Alyssa’s father’s football team.

“Oh, okay,” I said as he cozied up to Alyssa.

“How’s your foot?” Tony asked in a voice very different than the one he had used to address me.

I watched, mesmerized, as Alyssa’s limp worsened and her big brown eyes blinked out a secret message to Tony.

“It really hurts, but I’ll be okay. Eventually.” Alyssa’s voice suddenly became deeper and lower, causing Tony to lean in even closer to catch each syllable. This was exactly the kind of maneuver that should be taught in school. It seemed much more useful than equations.

“See ya later,” I waved at Alyssa, feeling like a fly buzzing around a birthday cake.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Alyssa called after me as I walked away.

“Home, I guess.”

“No way. You’re coming home with me.”

“Why? Do you need help or something?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah. Let her go home. I can help you.” Tony offered without even looking at me.

“No. I want her to come over. Please, Nor?” Alyssa batted her eyes at me, and I found it just as difficult as the boys to say no to her.

“Okay,” I smiled, walking back towards Alyssa and Tony.

“Thanks, Tony. See you later!” Alyssa swung her hair, batted her eyes and flashed her smile effortlessly, as I resumed possession of Alyssa’s book bag. We walked up Alyssa’s steps while Tony pouted after us.

Alyssa and I had spent nearly every day together since that first day two months ago. We usually hung out in her room, where we sang along to her karaoke machine, made crank phone calls and experimented with make-up. Alyssa was very sensitive about my skin. She never said I had pimples or zits. She called them “blemishes”.

“Every woman has blemishes. You just have to know how to deal with them,” Alyssa instructed as she dabbed cover-up on my most stubborn “blemishes”. I liked that she referred to us as women, even though I knew for a fact that she still stuffed her bra with shoulder pads.

As Alyssa helped transform me into a woman with the help of some blush and eyeliner, she advised me on what high school would be like.

“Don’t let Mr. Romo get you alone. He’s a total perv. But unbutton your blouse and show some cleavage in his class. You’ll get an A without ever turning in a paper.”

“Is that allowed?” I asked.

“Duh! Of course not. But everybody does it. And watch Miss Avery in Algebra. She’s always drinking Diet Pepsi. But it’s a well-known fact that she mixes rum in it every morning.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! My parents were going to pay good money, money that they didn’t have, to send me to a school full of drunks and pervs. If the teachers were that messed up, what would the students be like?

Alyssa had one very big flaw – Roger, known privately to me as “Bubble Butt”. Bubble Butt was the boy she was in love with. He had a space between his front teeth wide enough to stick a match into, and his butt bubbled out behind him. Bubble Butt never called me by name. No matter who I was with or where I was, he would shout, “What’s up, crater face?” I ignored him, of course, but I daydreamed of siccing a pack of rabid dogs on him, then watching them shred his bubble butt to ribbons.

Alyssa made me spend countless hours walking around Bubble Butt’s block in the hopes that he would come out and talk to her. I held my breath each time we passed his house, praying he wouldn’t show his face. I tried to warn Alyssa that Bubble Butt was a waste of lip-gloss, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the name he called me. I was sure she would detour around his block if she knew how mean he was to me.

“He’s really nice, Nor,” she assured me. “He’s just shy.”

“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes as Alyssa smirked and fluttered her mascara-laden lashes.

As Alyssa and I walked back into her house with the hot oil treatment, we tripped on a mountain of muddy cleats.

“Oh my God!” Alyssa squealed, shoving the hot oil treatment into my hands.

“What?”

“It’s the football team. They’re here!”

“What’s the big deal? They’re always here.”

Alyssa’s father regularly invited the team over for cookouts and team meetings. Alyssa usually loved to bask in their testosterone, but she was panic-stricken.

“Hide the hot oil treatment. Pronto!”

“Why?”

“You should never let a boy know your beauty secrets. It adds to the mystery.” Alyssa instructed as she shook out her hair and plumped her lips.

I didn’t know what mystery Alyssa was referring to, but I deferred to her expertise and hid the bag behind my back.

“Smell me,” she demanded, shoving her armpit uncomfortably close to my nose.

“Yeah, you’re good.” I assured her.

“Breath?” Alyssa blew a hot breath into my face.

“Peppermint,” I nodded my approval.

“Good. Let’s go.” I followed Alyssa into the sweat-soaked den, fretting over the state of my own pits and breath.

The boys were a heaped mass of lanky limbs on the couch, shoving fistfuls of popcorn into their mouths as they watched an old football game on TV. I hung back behind Alyssa and watched her survey the group. Her eyes had the confidence of a fisherman shooting fish in a barrel.

“Hey, Alyssa!”

“We didn’t know you were here.”

“Missed you at practice.”

“I always play better when I know you’re watching.”

“Did you see the last game? That pass was for you.”

“Nah, she didn’t see it. She was too busy cheering for me.”

“You wish, lame ass.”

Alyssa glided into their midst as the boys tripped over themselves to make room for her on the couch. She was only a few feet away from me, but her voice had taken on that breathy whisper and I couldn’t make out a single syllable.

I lurked in the doorway, watching the scene unfold like a sitcom. I might as well have been home on my couch in front of the television. None of the boys acknowledged my existence, and Alyssa seemed to have forgotten me as well. I wondered if boys, or even a boy, would ever orbit around me in the same way.

Alyssa was comfortably encased in boy bubble wrap, and I knew it was just a matter of time before the tickling ensued. The boys loved to tickle Alyssa, producing that squeal that apparently made their neck hairs, and other boy bits, stand at attention.

Confident that my absence would go unnoticed, I made my escape to Alyssa’s bedroom. I tucked the hot oil treatment safely under a teddy bear on her bed, and then sat at her vanity mirror and stared at myself.

Scrunching up my face, I tried to replicate Alyssa’s cute little bunny button of a nose. I succeeded in flaring my nostrils, and looking as though I were smelling a dirty diaper. Next, I attempted to swing my hair seductively from side to side. Had anyone been watching from the window, they would have assumed I was fighting off a swarm of bees. Finally, I forced an open-mouthed laugh and squealed Alyssa’s throaty scream. Sadly, I sounded like a dying dolphin.

Resigned to the fact that I was as un-Alyssa as was humanly possible, I spritzed some of her perfume on and headed out the door. I resolved to practice my hair swing the whole way home.

“Well?” Alyssa waited expectantly in front of her house. Her shoulders were tense and she clapped her hands excitedly.

“Well, what?”

“What do you think?”

This was one of Alyssa’s favorite games. She would change something slight – a different shade of pink lip-gloss, beige eye shadow instead of brown – and she would expect me to notice.

“Of what?”

“I know! It’s subtle, right? But you can really see a difference, can’t you?”

“New mascara?” I ventured.

“No!”

“Hair cut?”

“Close.”

“I give up.”

“I did it! Can’t you tell?”

I gasped for air, wondering whom on the football team “it” had been with.

“You had sex?”

“Oh my God no! Are you crazy? It’s my hair, dummy! I did the hot oil treatment.”

“Oh! Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say? Doesn’t it look bouncier and shinier? I feel like a new me. You’re next!”

“Whatever,” I shrugged, knowing I would never let Alyssa anywhere near my hair after the home perm disaster. Clumps of my hair were still falling out.

“But not now,” Alyssa whispered, grabbing me by the shoulders and bringing me close to her face.

“It’s Roger.”

An audible groan of disgust escaped my lips.

“I scouted out his block, and he’s outside right now playing basketball in his driveway. I just couldn’t go up to him alone. You have to go with me or I’ll die!”

“I don’t know, Alyssa. That guy’s a real jerk. Can’t you go alone?”

“You’re supposed to be my friend and support me. Please? I promise we won’t stay long. We’ll just walk by and see if he says hi first. If not, we’ll just walk really quick and pretend we’re late for something.”

“Late for what?”

“I don’t know. Your doctor’s appointment.”

“Why does it have to be my doctor’s appointment? He’s your crush. Let it be your doctor’s appointment.” I pouted.

“No! I don’t want him to think I have something contagious!”

“Fine. Babysitting then.”

“Okay. If he doesn’t say hi, then I’ll say, ‘Hurry up. We’re late for babysitting.’ How’s that?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

Alyssa subjected me to another inspection of her odors, and we were on our way.

I heard the basketball bouncing against the pavement before I saw Bubble Butt on the sidewalk.

“Oh my God there he is!” Alyssa squeezed my arm.

“Great.”

“Quick! Act like I said something funny. Start laughing.”

“Say something funny and I’ll laugh.” I challenged.

“I can’t think of anything right now. Just laugh. And laugh loud so he looks up.”

I tried my best to fake a loud laugh but it came out sounding like a snort. The snort tickled my throat and produced a choking fit. As I gasped and wheezed for air while choking on my own saliva, Bubble Butt looked up and stopped bouncing his ball.

“Okay. You can stop now,” Alyssa demanded through her clenched teeth.

“Can’t. I’m…choking,” I gasped.

“Enough!” Alyssa whispered, pounding me roughly on the back. I swallowed a big gulp of air and managed to quiet my hacking cough just as we approached Bubble Butt.

“Hey,” he nodded at Alyssa, spinning the basketball on top of one finger.

“Oh, hi Roger. I didn’t know you lived on this block,” Alyssa lied in her lowered voice.

“Yep. All my life. What are you up to?”

“Nothing much. Just going for a walk. It’s so hot out here.”

“You should come swim in my pool some time,” Bubble Butt offered, keeping his eyes on the spinning basketball.

“Sure. That would be cool. I just got a new bathing suit. It’s a bikini.”

“Bet you look good in it, too,” Bubble Butt finally stopped spinning the ball and looked Alyssa up and down. I looked up at the trees, hoping for a bird to swoop down and carry me away. A long sigh of aggravation escaped my lips and filled the silence.

Bubble Butt looked over at me for the first time. His lips turned back like a dog about to bite.

“What’s up, crater face?” he snarled.

I looked at Alyssa, waiting for her to react. I could almost hear the echo of the slap I was sure she would deliver across Bubble Butt’s face in my defense. Then she would grab me by the hand and we would stalk off together angrily. She would agree that Bubble Butt was a total jerk, and I would help her pick her new crush out of the batch of boys vying to fill the position.

But there was nothing but silence. I waited and Bubble Butt waited, until finally, Alyssa’s perfect lips parted. Her throaty laugh landed like darts in my chest. She slapped at Bubble Butt’s arm playfully, letting her hand linger on his bicep.

“Oh, Roger! You’re so bad,” she giggled. Bubble Butt laughed along with her, and once again it was like I wasn’t even there.

“So, are you going to the game this weekend?” Alyssa asked, batting her stubby little lashes at Bubble Butt.

I stared hard at Alyssa until my eyes no longer focused on any one feature. Just like that, she didn’t seem pretty to me anymore. All I saw was a glob of lip-gloss and blush and liner making one big mess. It was too much work to be Alyssa – hair rollers and hot oil treatments, fake laughs and batting eyelashes. I had been looking for signs all around me. This sign came in loud and clear. Alyssa was not my friend.

The anger sitting in my chest lifted and I felt lighter. It was time to go.

“Later, Bubble Butt,” I waved as I walked away from them.

“ I do not have a bubble butt!” Alyssa screamed after me, her voice shrill and sharp like a whiny child’s.

I turned around and saw Alyssa inspecting her ass, frown lines etched deep into her usually smooth forehead.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I smiled, shooting my finger in Bubble Butt’s direction before turning back to walk down the block.

My killer smile blossomed wide as Alyssa's voice reverted to its throaty whisper. I imagined her muttering apologies to Bubble Butt, blaming my behavior on my menstrual cycle. She might have called after me a few times; I couldn't be sure. Not that it mattered.

I wasn't listening anymore.

falling face-first for the very last time

2008-09-03T16:54:00.012-04:00

It was spread out like a last meal. The Blimpie sandwich was cut into neat little quarters. It was my favorite - ham, salami and cheese with onions, lettuce, oil and vinegar. A Devil Dog waited in its wrapper. Ice cubes melted in a large cherry soda.

Although saliva gathered in my mouth and hunger rumbled like a train in my stomach, my appetite turned to ash. Where was my usual boloney and mayo on Wonder bread? Why was Mom stationed like Vanna White at the table, a painful smile plastered on her face?

"What's going on?" I asked suspiciously.

"Nothin', babe. I got you Blimpie," Mom's voice oozed artificially sweetened syrup. Something was up.

"Where are Chris and Erin?"

"Aunt Theresa took them out to lunch. Here, sit and eat."

Twice before I had been lulled into bad news by a meal. There was the revelation that Mom was pregnant with Erin, and I would have to share my bedroom with a wailing newborn. That had prompted a McDonald's Happy Meal and a trip to Toys 'R Us. And just last year, there was the big "C" scare.

Mom had picked me up after school and taken me out for pizza, while Chris and Erin went home with my cousin. Sitting in Filippo's, Mom patted my hand.

"Noreen, I need you to help me the next few days."

"Okay," I mumbled, funneling oozing hot cheese from the slice into my mouth.

"You need to help Daddy with Chris and Erin," Mom's voice cracked and her lips quivered.

"Why? What's the matter?" I asked, putting down my pizza.

"I have to go to the hospital. The doctor found something and he wants to check it out."

"What did he find?" I demanded, suddenly angry with Mom and the doctor who "found something". Why couldn't he just mind his own business? We didn't need to find anything. We had enough problems that had already found us.

"It's probably nothing. Just a little lump in my...." Mom touched her breast, and the pizza turned to a brick in my belly.

"Is it cancer?" I asked a little too loudly. Mom looked around anxiously, hoping no one had heard.

"No, of course not! I don't know. I don't think so. The doctor has to take it out and check, that's all. He thinks it's nothing, but he has to be sure."

We walked home quietly. I stole quick glances at Mom's face to gauge how serious the situation really was. Her lips worked silently back and forth. I knew she was either praying or worrying. I was doing both.

"Can I stay out for a while? I'm going to see if anyone's in the park." I knew Mom couldn't refuse after what she had just told me. It was unfair to lie to her at this moment, but it was for her own good.

"Go ahead. But just for a while. Be home for dinner."

I kissed her on the cheek, something I had gotten out of practice in doing, and ran off.

Stopping at the entrance to the park, I turned and made sure Mom was out of sight. I bolted away from the park, and ran up the steps to our church across the street.

Incense enveloped me like a warm blanket. I sat in the back pew and surveyed the empty church. Interlacing my fingers tightly together, I said ten Hail Mary's in quick succession. I wasn't sure if there was a God, but I couldn't take any chances.

My eyes avoided the statues and stained glass windows. If there was a God, I figured he hung out in the dark wooden rafters, where it was cool and quiet and he could survey the entire congregation at once. I looked straight up at the ceiling and offered up my plea.

"God, please don't let Mom have cancer. She comes here every week and she is always polite to the nuns, even when they're mean. Mom really hates to throw up. I don't think she could handle that. And, she finally has a nice hairstyle. It would suck, uh, I mean stink, if she lost her hair now. Please, God, I swear I'll never ask for anything again. I'll say the rosary every day. I won't argue with Mom that I don't want to go to church. Please help her, and I'll help you. Lots of prayers and good deeds and stuff, and I'll take whatever you give me without complaining. Thank you, God. Amen."

I sat in the church a while longer, saying a bunch more Hail Mary's and Our Fathers and Acts of Contrition. I would do whatever it took and I would keep my promises to God, so long as he kept Mom healthy.

Mom's lump turned out to be nothing more than a benign cyst. I kept my promises to God, for a while. The rosary beads that I had kept under my pillow slipped under the mattress, and I never retrieved them. I used every excuse to avoid weekly mass, from cramps to softball practice. Complaints trickled off my tongue in a steady stream. And I had asked God for things. Lots of things. Stretchy jeans that made my butt look bigger. Passing grades on Math tests when I had watched a movie instead of studying. Giving Piss Pants Rick leprosy for telling everyone I had AIDS. And of course, the most frequent request of all: that the medication would work and make me look like a normal girl.

I had kept virtually none of my promises to God. And now, I was afraid I would have to pay for my lies.

"What's going on?" I asked Mom.

"Nothing! Just sit down and eat your sandwich before it gets cold."

"It is cold. It's a ham sandwich."

"Hurry up and eat it anyway. You have to get back to school, so go ahead and get started."

I chewed and chewed, but the sandwich just turned to glue in my mouth. Mom hovered over me, smiling at each bite. I took a long pull from my cherry soda and pushed back from my lunch.

"I can't eat like this. Tell me what's going on." I demanded.

"Nothing!" Mom protested, her voice high and shrill.

"Are you sick?"

"No!"

"Did Dad get into an accident?"

"God forbid!"

"Are we being evicted?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what's going on?"

"It's nothing serious. The doctor's office called."

In all of the weeks that I had been going to the dermatology clinic, they had never called me. Not once. This couldn't be good.

"What did they want?" I asked quickly, wanting to get the bad news out of the way.

"They want to see you tomorrow."

"But, why? I have an appointment on Friday."

"I know, but they need to see you now." Mom paused, her forehead twitching with uncertainty.

"They said you can't take the medication anymore."

"What? Why? Did we lose our insurance or something?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's your blood work. There are some concerns."

Mom then spouted of a list of words shrouded in mystery: triglycerides, liver functioning, kidney-something-or-other. This was it. I was going to die. My obituary would read: cause of death - vanity. I had killed myself in the pursuit of clear skin. What had I been thinking?

"Am I okay? Am I sick?"

"You're fine!" Mom assured me, lighting a Salem and sucking on it like oxygen. "You just can't take the medication anymore. The doctors will explain everything tomorrow."

"But they told you I'm okay?"

"Yes! You're fine. Tell you what. We'll make a day of it tomorrow. You'll take off from school. After the doctor's, we'll have a nice lunch in the city. Just you and me. Then I'll take you to Sears and we'll get you an outfit. Whaddya say?"

Mom didn't know that shopping for an outfit at Sears could not be considered an award. But, it was what we could afford. Maybe I could pick out a tasteful dress to wear to my funeral.

"Sure," I shrugged, already feeling the life draining out of me.

I dragged myself back to school, dreading the diseases that could be ravaging my young body at that very second. Along the way, I stopped to stare in the side view mirrors of parked cars to admire my clearing skin. Tiny red bumps dotted my hairline, but the flashy Vegas showgirl pimples were nowhere in sight. My lips were no longer chapped and I hadn't had a bloody nose in a couple of weeks. The medication was finally working. I had survived the worst of the side effects. What would happen to me now?

With my shoulders slumped and my head hung down, I entered the classroom wearing a stricken expression to convey the hopelessness of my situation. I sighed heavily to ensure that no one would miss my mood. It was my one melodramatic moment, and I intended to milk it.

"What's wrong?" Tiffany asked.

"My doctor just called," I whispered with a sniffle. It produced the desired effect. Within seconds, every girl in the class encircled me.

"Are you okay?" Laura asked, petting my hair. I shrugged noncommittally, gulping for air the deliver the bad news.

"I might be dying," I croaked.

"Oh my God! Sit down. Tell us everything," Butch insisted as she guided me to her desk. I couldn't believe Butch was concerned for my health! She was the class bully, and had personally tried to end my life on no fewer than three occasions. Had I known this was the response my dying would provoke, I would have done it years ago.

Slowly, and with many breathless pauses for dramatic effect, I inflated the sketchy details my mother had provided. I wondered aloud if an iron lung could be transported to and from school. I hoped that I wouldn't have to wait long for someone with my tissue type to die quickly and painlessly in a car accident, donating a healthy liver and kidneys to me.

"I'm sorry. I just can't talk about this anymore. I'm feeling really tired," I gasped.

"Want me to braid your hair?" Tiffany offered.

"You should sleep over on Saturday, if you're not in the hospital," Daphne suggested.

"I'll talk to my dad," Sara asserted. "We'll organize a blood drive."

"Or a bake sale!" Butch added.

The girls fussed and preened over me for the rest of the afternoon. The attention almost made me forget that I was terminal. I envisioned my memorial service. There would be no church funeral. Instead, all of my family and friends would gather in the park. The children's choir would sing Amazing Grace. Balloons and doves would be released. The concession stand at the little league field would be named after me. Butch and the rest of the girls would cry over my coffin before I was buried under my favorite climbing tree. No one would ever recover from my premature passing.

The newfound celebrity brought on by my impending death had some perks. Butch carried my book bag home, while Tiffany and I lagged behind her. I was about to learn the deepest, darkest secrets of the prettiest and most popular girl in class.

After swearing on the lives of my family members, under penalty of my own grizzly death at the hands of Accutane, Tiffany felt safe enough to tell me her secrets. She leaned in so close that I could smell her cherry lip-gloss.

"I let Billy feel my boob," she blurted.

"Really?"

"Yeah. The left one. It's my favorite."

"You have a favorite boob?"

"Sure."

"Why is the left your favorite?" I asked.

"It's bigger and rounder than the right. And, there's something else." Tiffany's words came out in a low mumble. Her hands cradled her right breast protectively.

"I was born with a defect on my right breast."

"Wow! Does it hurt?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's more...cosmetic."

Images of a green nipple and veined skin floated before my eyes.

"I have a birthmark!" Tiffany blurted.

"Oh. That's not so bad. I have lots of them."

"I don't know how you do it! No offense, Noreen, but if I looked like you, I don't think I could ever leave the house. Thank God my defect isn't on my face."

My fists balled and my muscles tensed as I prepared to punch Tiffany in her perfect mouth. But when I looked at her, I realized she didn't mean it as an insult. She was actually looking at me with an expression I had never seen on her unblemished face before - kindness.

"Really, you're so brave. I really admire you."

"Thanks, I guess."

"This birthmark, it's terrible! It hangs off of my skin, and it's hard and brown. It looks like a Raisinet! I'll die if Billy ever feels it!"

"Why don't you just have the doctor remove it?" I suggested.

"My mom says no plastic surgery until I'm eighteen. I don't know how I'll keep Billy away from my right boob until then."

We walked the rest of the way in silence. Butch and Tiffany insisted on helping me up the stairs. Butch clapped me roughly on the back, and Tiffany gave me a long hug.

"Remember. Tell no one! You're the best."

I thanked them both and walked into the apartment, confused and elated and terrified by all of the new developments.

The pampering continued at home. Mom made my favorite dinner that night - chicken and mashed potatoes with Stove Top stuffing and corn right out of the can. Forgetting that I might be dying, I ate every last kernel on the plate.

After dinner, Mom ceremoniously planted the remote control into my palm after fluffing a pillow and resting it behind my back.

"Now, don't you two bother your sister. She's not feeling well," Mom warned Chris and Erin.

I wasn't feeling well? Why? What was wrong with me? Should I not be feeling well? I cleared my throat to check for soreness, but there was none. My nose wasn't stuffed and my stomach didn't hurt and my bones were all in their proper places. Was I so sick that I didn't realize I was sick?

"Mom," I called from my deathbed on the couch.

"What is it? What's wrong? Mom came rushing in.

"Can I have some Advil?"

"What for? What's hurting you?"

"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. And can I have a wet cloth for my head?"
Mom felt my forehead with her cool cheek.

"You don't have a fever."

"I think I'm getting one. Can I just have the Advil and the cloth, or should I get it myself?"

"No, no. You stay there. I'll get it."

Mom raced out of the living room and came back with an Advil, a glass of Seven-Up and a cool, damp cloth. I popped the pill into my mouth, guzzled some soda and lay the soothing cloth on my head. Chris and Erin sat silently by as I surfed through channels and loafed on the couch. If this was the type of treatment I could expect while dying, I could get used to the idea.

I heard the key turn in the lock and sat bolt upright. What was Dad doing home? He was supposed to be driving the cab. I strained my ears from my perch on the couch as mom and Dad whispered at the front door. A few seconds later, Dad walked into the living room carrying a large white box.

"How you feelin'?" he asked cautiously.

"Fine. I'm fine. Shouldn't I be feeling fine?"

My paranoia was reaching hysterical proportions.

"Sure you should be feelin' fine. Just checkin'. Here. This is for you."

Dad handed me the box and awkwardly leaned down to kiss my cheek. Dad never kissed me, except for special occasions. It wasn't my birthday or Christmas, so the special occasion must be my impending death.

"What's this for? I asked suspiciously.

"Nothin' special. I was in the neighborhood and I know you like them. So, enjoy."

Dad watched as I opened the box to reveal an assortment of chocolate and creamy pastry goodness from my favorite bakery in Brooklyn.

"Thanks. But I'm not very hungry now."

"Why not? What's a matter? You don't feel good?" Dad asked as he scanned my face for signs of sickness.

"No, I'm fine. Just tired. I think I'll go to bed," I said as I pulled myself off the couch.

"You sure? You can stay up late and watch TV if you want. Your mother says you don't have to go to school tomorrow."

"No, thanks. Maybe some other time."

Nestled under my blankets, I began to worry in earnest. Dad was missing a night of work to bring me pastries from a bakery that was out of his way. Mom was keeping me home from school, taking me to lunch and buying me an outfit. Chris and Erin had been eerily quiet all day, not even protesting my possession of the remote. Fear snaked through me like an electrical current. What if I really was sick?

Mom and I walked through the cold clinic and headed straight for the lab. The doctors wanted my blood drawn before they saw me. I dreaded the rough nurse more than the painful prick of the needle.

In the beginning of my treatment, the clinic had allowed me to have my weekly blood work done at a small lab in my neighborhood. The old man who drew my blood was so tall and thin that he resembled a cardboard cutout. He was a kind man who let me suck on a lollipop while he stuck my arm with the long needle. Despite his calming voice and steady hand, I passed out virtually every time he drew my blood. He would patiently awaken me with smelling salts and then feed me sweet cookies and juice until I recovered enough to make the short walk home.

Several weeks into my treatment, however, my blood work showed some irregularities.

"These levels can't be right," the doctor scoffed. "They're much too high. We haven't seen these results in other Accutane patients."

"What does that mean?" Mom worried.

"It means that your lab is incorrect. From now on, I want the blood drawn here at the clinic. You can't trust these little mom and pop labs."

For the past two weeks, I had stopped at the clinic's lab before seeing the doctor. The nurse's fingers were bony and cold, and she always pinched my arm with her chipped nails while looking for a vein.

"Just so you know," I warned her the first time, "I pass out every time I give blood."

"Yeah? Well, don't," she shot back without even looking at me. Mom's neck veins protruded like worms and I shook my head sternly, warning her against attacking the nasty nurse.

Naturally, I did not disappoint. Each time she drew my blood, I awoke to find her blowing hot air out of her nostrils like a bull, impatiently waiting for me to vacate her premises.

I had a pleasant surprise awaiting me in the lab that day. The bony nurse with the ferocious nails was nowhere in sight. In her place stood an embarrassingly handsome male nurse with a toothpaste commercial smile and broad swimmers' shoulders. He handled me like a kitten and purred apologies as he guided the needle into my vein painlessly. I was so busy planning our wedding that I forgot to faint altogether.

"Good luck, gorgeous," my future husband winked as I floated out the door.

"Umph!" I responded as my forehead met the door frame on the way out. He winced in pain for me as I righted myself and rushed away before I could humiliate myself further.

The blush of newfound love (and public humiliation) quickly faded as I entered the exam room and was met by three of my doctors. I rarely saw the same doctor twice at the clinic. I didn't even know them by name. And I had certainly never seen more than one doctor at a time. On this occasion, Doctors A, B and C awaited my arrival. I wondered if there was already a gurney outside the office, waiting to whisk me to a room in ICU. Mom must have been sharing my thoughts. Her complexion went pasty as I felt the late onset effects of a faint buzzing in my ears. Mom guided me to a seat before my rubbery knees could give out.

"Hi, Noreen. How are you feeling?" Dr. A asked.

"Fine. I'm fine. I feel fine."

"She's fine. She feels fine," Mom added for emphasis.

"Good. We're glad to hear that." Dr. B nodded and scribbled into her pad.

"There are some things we need to discuss," Dr. C started.

"Your blood work is not good." I think it was Dr. A who spoke. At this point, I lost track.

"Not good at all."

"Troubling, actually. We've never seen results like this from Accutane."

"Nothing documented, at least."

"You need to stop the medication."

"Right away. You can't take it anymore."

"If you continue, there could be serious consequences."

"Liver damage, kidney disease...."

"We're not exactly sure."

"Interesting case, actually."

"Very."

"Yes. We'd like to do some tests on you. Some more blood work, some scans. Get a better understanding."

"The results would all be published. It's a highly irregular case."

"Highly irregular."

"Fascinating, actually."

"Indeed!"

"So we'll need you to sign consent, and we'll get rolling on the tests we'd like to perform."

"Just sign here, please."

"And initial there."

"Wait a minute!" I interrupted, my brain vibrating with questions.

"How sick is she?" Mom asked, her hands trembling in her lap.

"What?"

"Who said she was sick?"

"She's not sick."

"Not at all!"

"You mean, I'm okay?" I asked, barely keeping my voice under a shriek.

"Of course you're okay."

"You just have to come off the medication."

"Other than that, you're fit as a fiddle."

"Then why do I need to have tests done?"

"For research purposes, of course!"

"These results have never been documented."

"You are a very unique case."

"But what about her blood work? You said there could be complications." Mom was trying as hard as I was to piece together the doctors' puzzling talk.

"As long as she doesn't resume the medication, all of her levels will go back to normal in a matter of weeks. Everything should be fine."

"Now, how about that consent?"

"So, you're telling me I'm not sick?" I asked, a throbbing hot ball of fury growing in my chest.

"That's correct."

"What about my skin? What happens now? Will it keep getting better?"

"I'm afraid not. After the medication is out of your system, your skin will most likely revert to its previous condition."

"However, there are other remedies."

"Oral antibiotics."

"Creams."

"Gels."

"Have you tried avoiding greasy foods?"

"How about a sugar-free diet?"

"Are you people crazy?" I erupted, jumping to my feet. Mom stood next to me, her hand protectively on my back.

"Pardon?"

"Do you have any idea what I've been through?"

"We know treatment has been...."

"I've eaten most of my meals through a straw. Kids say I have AIDS. My nose bleeds so bad that my sheets look like a crime scene. I hurt everywhere. I used my own face as a Science project. And now you say it was all for nothing?"

Tears of rage coursed down my face as my finger pointed accusingly at each of the doctors.

"Calm down," Mom warned.

"I will not calm down! And I will not be a goddamned guinea pig. You're not doing any more tests. You're not taking any more of my blood. I'm finished. Fuck all of you!"

"Noreen!" Mom gasped in horror.

I raced out of the room, leaving Mom with the doctors. I was too infuriated to be fearful that I had just used the "F" word in front of my mother.

I waited for Mom on the sidewalk outside of the clinic. Steam rose up from a manhole cover. A vendor was selling roasted peanuts on the corner. The streets were crawling with people rushing towards warmer places. A numbing emptiness crowded out all of the air in my chest. I had never felt so alone.

I had seen every doctor and tried every remedy. I wanted so badly to trust them, to believe that they could turn me into the kind of girl I longed to be. I had done it all, and it had failed. I would never see another dermatologist. There would be no more poking or prodding, no more mysterious pills or sickening side effects. This was me, as I was and probably always would be.

I was on my own.

my letter to the world

2008-07-06T11:05:00.026-04:00

The little slip of paper in my school bag weighed more than all of my books combined. I trudged home with the burden in my bag, scheming ways around it. I could transfer to public school, with the excuse that I wanted to save my parents' money. Given that I had just asked for a new ten-speed bike, I doubted they'd believe that one. I could contract mono and be home-schooled for the rest of the year. But mono was the kissing disease. First, I'd have to find a boy with mono. Then, I'd have to convince him to kiss me. Not likely. Maybe I could get abducted! There had been a rash of kidnappings out on Long Island. I could visit my aunt in Massapequa and hang out at the mall. I could appear really low maintenance, weak and meek, a girl who wouldn't scream or fuss or fight. I didn't really know what that girl would look like, and the thought of what would happen once I was kidnapped sort of scared me, so that one was out. There was no avoiding it. I had no recourse. I had to participate in the Science Fair.

Science was my least favorite subject. There was no wiggle room, no talking yourself in circles around a question. There was a right and a wrong, a yes and a no, and I usually found myself on the losing end of the equation. And there was no way I could win. Not with kids like Vin and Sara in my class. Vin's father was an engineer, and helped him build models and conduct experiments that not even our teachers understood. He usually won the top prize, by simple virtue of the fact that he (and his father) knew more than the entire teaching staff combined. Sara's father was a surgeon. She brought in jars with things floating in formaldehyde, and wrote whole encyclopedias on their contents. I never really knew what was inside those jars. The gross factor kept me far away. With no chance of placing in the science fair, I quickly lost interest and left my chances up to fate, (and Mom).

My previous science projects had involved as little time and effort as possible, and Mom usually had a heavy hand in them. She vibrated with excitement every time I came home with a Science project to complete. There was the year we turned white flowers purple by mixing food coloring into the flowers' water. The problem was, about four other kids (and their parents) had had the same project idea, and the Science Fair was punctuated by purple and green and orange daisies in paisley-colored water.

Mom got truly inspired the year after the purple daisy disaster. She found a black and white Science book with pictures of girls wearing poodle skirts, and settled on a revolutionary project involving earthworms. It was simple, it was quick, and it involved no actual thought. I was all in. We only had to wait for the optimal conditions in order to collect our specimens.

Rain bounced off our windows like bullets in the dark night. Mom quietly donned a raincoat, chuckling and shushing me the whole time. I was giddy with the knowledge that what we were doing was forbidden, but I was also worried about Mom going out into such a heavy downpour.

"Can't you wait until it stops raining?" I asked.

"No, Noreen. The book says it's easiest to collect worms in the rain. They come up to the surface so they won't drown or something. I hope I don't get caught!"

Mom giggled like a little girl with a secret, and I realized that this was fun for her. She threw a towel out the window into the backyard and snuck out the door, armed with a Ziploc bag, a glass jar and a beach shovel. I raced back to the window overlooking the backyard to act as her scout.

Our crusty old landlords never let us use the backyard. We were only allowed to set foot in it to rescue laundry that fell off the clothesline suspended over the yard. Mom threw the towel out the window so she would have an excuse for being in the backyard. I wondered how she would explain away everything else she was carrying.

The landlords never used the backyard anyway. A large plot of dirt lay barren, with no flowers or plants or even weeds growing in it. The plot was guarded by a sinister-looking statue of the Virgin Mary; her eyes glowered and her lips turned down in disapproval. She closely resembled the miserable old Italian lady downstairs, who always looked like she had been sucking lemons, but smelled like she had been sucking sardines.

The screen door squeaked open below. It sounded like cracked fingernails inching down a chalkboard. Mom tiptoed slowly over to the dirt, looking up at me and waving wildly. She quickly went to work, scooping dark mud into the jar. Once the jar was full, she plucked long strands of what looked like squirming spaghetti out of the dirt, and placed them in the Ziploc bag. I trembled with nerves at my post, terrified she'd be caught and we'd be forced to live with my aunt in Massapequa, where men cruised in blue vans snatching kids off the street.

"Come on, Mom. You got enough. Get outta there!" I whispered at the window.

Finally, Mom disappeared from the backyard and slipped back into our apartment. She was soaked and soggy, streaked with mud, triumphantly holding up the mud jar and the Ziploc full of fat earthworms.

"Don't ever say I don't love you," she smirked, feigning. But I knew she had loved every second of her earthworm excavation.

Mom did not have to fake anger when I didn't win any awards for my earthworm project.

"Unbelievable! Not even an honorable mention. How many clay hearts or exploding volcanoes can they have every year? This project was original! Unique! Honestly, Noreen. I just don't know what those nuns are looking for. But they were wrong this year."

We walked home from the Science Fair, Mom cradling the jar of worms like a newborn baby. The project had only consisted of putting the worms in a jar of dirt, and watching them burrow paths around the jar. I didn't really understand the point of the project myself, but Mom was excited by it and did most of the work, so I didn't complain. The worms remained on our kitchen counter for weeks after that, and then one day they were gone. I wondered if Mom snuck out in the middle of a storm to return them to their muddy home beneath the unsettling eyes of the Virgin Mary. Then again, she might have found them a better home, in a garden full of flowers. She had become pretty attached to them.

This year, however, there would be no help from Mom. She had declared me "old enough to do it yourself". The kiss of academic death. I exhausted every tactic:

"Mom, you're way smarter than me. I can't do it without you."

"Tough. You'll learn."

"Mom, I really enjoy spending time with you, Mommy, and working on this project is one way to
do fun stuff together."

"Really, darling? Then why don't you skip Diane's party Friday night and we'll go see a movie together?"

A silence as loud as thunder surrounded us. If I went to a movie with my mother, would she help me (translation: do) my project? If I missed Diane's party, how would I know who spent seven minutes in heaven with whom? Would I be missing an opportunity to spin the bottle and land my first kiss while I sat through 3 Men and a Baby with my mother?

"Forget it, Noreen. You're doing your own project this year and that's it. Besides, your brother's in fifth grade now, and it's his first Science Fair. He'll need my help."

So this was how it was going to be. I had been dumped for my brother. Maybe Mom thought she'd have more luck winning with Chris than she had had with me. I daydreamed of ways to sabotage Chris' (Mom's) project as I ransacked my brain to come up with one of my own.

I dozed in the dermatologist's waiting room, waiting for my weekly appointment. After several sleepless nights and countless hours in the library, I had still not settled on a project. Glancing up, I saw Mom peering at me over the top of an Accutane brochure. Her eyes appraised every inch of my face as her forehead scrunched up in a tangled mess of worried lines. I knew Mom was comparing my complexion to the before and after pictures featured in the Accutane brochure. I had been on the medication for about eight of the twenty weeks of treatment, and my skin looked no better. My acne had settled comfortably into my pores. I imagined each little pimple burrowing deep under my skin, moving in furniture and preparing to live in my cells forever. The pimple colony was clearly ignoring my obvious eviction notices. I felt like a Petri dish. I was a Petri dish. And that's when it hit me.

I didn't need to come up with a Science experiment, I was a Science experiment! As I made a mental list of everything I would need, I shoved fistfuls of Accutane pamphlets into my bag.

"What are you doing, Noreen?" Mom mumbled under her breath, mortified by my sudden compulsion to horde reading material.

"Tell you later," I whispered back as I composed my winning Science essay in my head.

"I don't know, Noreen. Are you sure that's something the nuns would accept?" Mom worried after I explained my idea on the way home from the doctor.

"Why not? I can write an essay on acne, describe what causes it, and show all of the different treatment options available. And the best part is, I'm part of the actual experiment. My face will be right there for them to see. The Accutane brochures only show the before and after pictures. I'm a living example of the during. What's wrong with that?"

"But what will people say?" Mom chewed her fingers nervously. I knew that's what was bothering her. My project would be an open invitation to everyone to stare and laugh and insult. Mom turned into a rabid bulldog whenever she heard anyone taunting me. I worried that she would eventually end up in jail for defending me.

The previous week, on our way to the dermatologist, Mom and I approached a group of teenaged girls hanging out on a corner. I could practically taste the insults waiting on their tongues, and I braced myself for the verbal grenades that were about to be lobbed at me. Naturally, the kids did not disappoint.

"Hey, crater face! Any space ships land on your surface lately?"

"I was gonna eat some pizza, but after seeing that pizza face I lost my appetite."

"Can't your mother afford some soap to scrub those zits off you?"

Keeping my head down, I studied the cracks in the sidewalk and quickened my pace. While staring down at my Nikes, Mom's sensible walking shoes disappeared from my side. Before I could turn to see where she had gone, I heard the roar of her voice, inhuman with hate and rage.

"What the hell's the matter with you little punks?" Mom's pointer finger was dangerously close to the nostrils of the largest of the girls. I wasn't sure if I should keep walking and pretend it wasn't happening, or prevent my mother from ripping out the girl's nose ring. I waited and watched, wondering if embarrassment could possibly cause spontaneous combustion.

"You think she wants to look like this? She's on medication. What's your excuse, you fat slob?"

The large girl was clearly losing patience, and I was losing face. I ran over to Mom and yanked her by the elbow, just as she was rolling up her sweater sleeves.

"Forget it, Mom. Let's get outta here." I pleaded.

"Punks! Somebody oughta teach you a lesson. You better hope I don't run into you again. You slob!"

The girls cackled and sneered as I dragged Mom down the street.

"See ya later, Pizza Face. Bye, Mommy!" The big girl waved and blew kisses, daring Mom to rush back and rip her tongue out.

"You'll get yours. You'll see. Punk!"

I didn't dare let go of Mom's arm until we were safely inside the doctor's office. I was proud of her for not gouging out the girl's eyes. I was equally proud of myself for not crying until I reached the relative privacy of the exam room.

"Whatever people say, I've heard it all before," I assured Mom.

I had stayed quiet for so long. This was my chance to speak. I wanted my project to explain that the acne wasn't my fault: I wasn't dirty or addicted to grease. I didn't want to hide and pretend that this wasn't happening to me anymore. I was tired of being the pockmarked elephant in the room. Maybe, just maybe, if I brought it out into the open and put it all on display, it would lose some of its novelty and fade away into the background.

"All right, Noreen. If you're sure that's what you want to do. Do you need my help?" Mom asked.

"Yes. Get me two mannequin heads."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do."

I lied.

I held Jane by the back of her head and punctured her cheek just below the left eye. The screwdriver slid in with surprising ease, gouging out a deep crater. Moving on to her chin, I used quick stabbing motions to burrow out holes. As I worked across her nose, cheeks and forehead, my movements became faster and more furious. Years of pent-up rage and hurt exploded out my arm, exacting revenge across her face. Her lifeless eyes sat like stones in her sockets as I decimated her complexion.

Cassandra looked on impassively. A slight smirk played on her passion fruit-painted lips. Jane and Cassandra had been identical, until I had gotten my hands on them. Mom had brought them home from a wig shop, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do to each of them.

Jane was my "before Accutane" model. I dotted her now pockmarked complexion with angry red paint, throwing in splashes of purple and blue for dramatic flair. Her lips were a sickly gray, and I chipped away some of the Styrofoam around her mouth to denote chapped skin. Using canary yellow paint, I drew dull, limp locks of hair around her inflamed face. Jane looked utterly dejected, so I added a touch of pink rouge to her cheeks and purple shadow to her eyes to brighter her up a bit. Every girl wanted to look her best, and my plain Jane was no exception.

Cassandra was my "after Accutane" beauty, which called for an exotic name. She was not to be called "Cassie" or even "Sandra"; her beauty demanded that she be called by her full and proper name at all times. Her lips curled up in an inviting smile, thanks to my careful application of lipstick. Aqua blue eyes glimmered under a shimmery peach shadow. Chocolate curls framed her delicate features, and I stuck a ruby hairpin into the hairline to accentuate her eyes. For realism, I gently added a dab of red on the chin to hint at a tiny little blemish.

My Science project was promising to be very visual. I emptied the medicine cabinet of all the skincare products and prescriptions I had used over the years. I had a virtual pharmacy of remedies: over the counter creams and soaps and lotions, prescription antibiotics and ointments, home remedies like toothpaste and zinc oxide. I carefully penned a description of each item and its supposed benefits on an index card to be displayed under each remedy.

I then raided the kitchen for samples of foods that were thought to cause acne: chocolate and soda and potato chips. I labeled this section of supporting data: "Nature or Nurture? Is acne caused by the foods that you eat or the genes in your body?" I wrote a persuasive essay arguing that it is in fact nature that is responsible for most cases of acne, with direct quotes from my team of dermatologists. The experts were all on my side.

I had been so involved perfecting the complexions of Jane and Cassandra that I hadn't bothered to look at my own. When I finally glimpsed myself in the mirror, I took a long, hard look at myself for the first time in weeks. It was as if a mask were slowly being peeled away from my face. Patches of clear, healthy skin were making a path across my complexion. The previous mountains were being reduced to molehills. My cheeks were a perky pink instead of an enraged red. Stubborn pimples hunkered down around my hairline and chin, puffy and brazen, but it looked like their days were numbered. For the first time, I spied the pretty girl I could be. The experiment was working!

Inspired by my budding beauty, I sat down to complete my project. It was a virtual love letter to the makers of Accutane. A large piece of oak tag queried: "Accutane - The Answer?" Underneath it, I glued before and after pictures from the Accutane brochure, along with quotes from patients and doctors. Included was my final essay. There, I described the emotional pain of acne as being far greater than the physical discomfort. I then detailed all of the failed treatments I had endured, the doctors I had entrusted, the Ouija boards I had consulted. Accutane, I wrote, was the cure I had been longing for, and I was lucky to have finally found it. I concluded my essay with a plea for compassion for acne sufferers, and a reminder that everyone deserved to be treated with respect. The nuns would be proud to see that their teachings had penetrated my thick skull. That had to be worth at least an honorable mention.

The burn of bile raced up the back of my throat. Racehorses pounded furiously in my chest. Earthquakes erupted inside of me, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably. I could not go to the Science Fair.

What had I been thinking? I was going to be crucified once I walked through those doors. This was all my mother's fault. If she had only done my project for me, I wouldn't be facing a social execution.

"Ready, Noreen?" she asked, holding out my coat.

"Not going."

"Yeah, you are. Come on. We're gonna be late."

"Can't. I have a stomach ache."

"Tough. Take a Tums."

"But, Mom...."

"But nothin'. Let's go."

Reluctantly, I stood to face the firing squad that would no doubt slaughter me with ridicule. My only hope was that Vin and his father had invented a time machine that would cart me away before the humiliation hit.

The smell of gym class sweat and Sunday bingo cigarette smoke hung in the air of the auditorium. The chatter of conversation buzzed in my ears. Mom took my coat and not so gently pushed me in the direction of my project, where I was to stand and answer questions for the evening. I stood facing Jane and Cassandra. They looked angrily at me, asking with their eyes:

"How could you humiliate us like this?" I would have gladly traded places with either of those Styrofoam heads in an instant.

I thought of the Dragon Coaster at Playland. I had waited for years to be tall enough to ride it with my father. Finally, by the age of nine, I had reached the height limit. I eagerly anticipated the steep drop, until we got to the top and looked straight down at our deaths. The only way through it was to throw my arms in the air and act like I enjoyed every inch of it. I couldn't raise my arms and scream in the auditorium, but I could fake bravery.

I concentrated on my project, arranging and rearranging my exhibit. While I was adjusting Cassandra's hairpin, I heard a gurgle of phlegm behind me.

"Wow! You did a project on how ugly you are?" Timmy was frothing with giggles. Whenever he laughed, spit bubbled out of the corners of his mouth and splashed whoever was unlucky enough to be hear him. I flinched in anticipation of the spit shower headed my way.

"Go away, Timmy. I'm busy." I would not waste any good insults on this loser. He looked like a garden gnome and smelled like a sweat sock after soccer practice in the rain.

"Oh, man. I can't wait for everyone to see this. Guys, come and see. Noreen did a project on her zits. You gotta see.... Oww!"

"Shut your mouth, you dumb goon. Sorry, Noreen." Timmy's mother had wacked him in the back of the neck.

"Timmy, tell Noreen you're sorry," his mother demanded.

"Okay. Sorry, Noreen. Sorry you're ugly! Oww! Would ya stop, Ma?" A second slap stung the back of his neck.

"Don't pay any attention to him. He's an idiot. The curse of my life. Let's go, stupid."

As I watched Timmy's mother yank him away by the ear, I remembered Dad saying that there was always someone worse off than me. At that moment, I felt luckier than Timmy and his mother.

Once that first humiliation was out of the way, I was ready for the rest. Sharpening my mental pencil, I prepared some pretty witty comebacks. As it turned out, however, none were necessary.

Teachers, parents and kids paraded past my project. There were some muffled chuckles, but for the most part, my project inspired silence. Each person read all of the information and flipped through the pamphlets. Several times I caught adults sneaking glances at my complexion, and I pretended to be staring at my shoes so they could get an eyeful. After all, I was on my way to becoming an Accutane success story. They could look all they wanted. Within weeks, I would be unrecognizable as the former Zithead. I would soon be sporting a clear complexion.

Arms engulfed me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. The smell of baby powder and floral perfume choked me as I was smothered by an armpit.

"Oh, Noreen. You are very very brave. Bravo. Very brave. Just wonderful!" Miss Luigi, the fourth grade teacher, attempted to asphyxiate me with her bulk.

"Fank hue," I muttered into her bosom, trying to free myself without seeming rude. When she finally released me, I gulped air like a dying fish.

I had several unexpected hugs and encouraging pats on the back that night. The attention made me feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to the name calling and cackling I had expected.

By the end of the night, I was ready to pack up Jane and Cassandra and head home. The fake smile I had plastered across my face made my jaw ache. I just wanted to sit in the bathtub and frown.

I was so preoccupied trying to survive the night that I almost forgot about the awards ceremony. Sister Roberta wobbled up the microphone and heavy-breathed like an obscene caller for two whole minutes before she could speak.

"Settle down, now. We are about to announce the winners of the Science Fair."

Mom came rushing up to me.

"Are you excited? I really think you have a chance at this, Noreen. Have you looked around? No originality here. Yours is something special."

"Shhh. I can't hear."

Desert sand filled my mouth as every drop of moisture flooded out of my palms. I wasn't afraid that I would lose; I was terrified that I would win. Sister Roberta wouldn't just call out my name if I won. She would announce the title of my project - Acne: Its Causes and Treatments. I could already hear the howling laughter that would echo throughout the auditorium.

I looked at Jane and Cassandra for comfort.

"Let's get out of here before this thing gets out of hand!" Jane advised, her face turning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

"No way! We deserve to win. And we'll look good doing it!" Cassandra argued, puckering her lips.

Before I had a chance to grab the girls and go, I heard it crackling over the microphone.

"And for the eighth grade, third place goes to Noreen Heslin for Acne: Its Causes and Treatments."

Applause boomed around me but I heard nothing but the echo of my heart pounding in my ears. Mom beamed with pride. Jane frowned doubtfully while Cassandra exuded triumph. My jelly legs carried me to the microphone, fearing the worst. Once there, would I be pelted with tubes of Clearasil? Was a pail of Zit-B-Gone waiting to be dumped on my head?

Sister Roberta pumped my hand in her panda paw before handing me my third place ribbon.

"Excellent work, Noreen. I'm very proud."

"Thank you, Sister," I muttered, anticipating a flurry of insults from the crowd. But none came. I looked out to see parents and teachers and yes, even kids, cheering for me. Relief flooded over me and I allowed my muscles to relax. I marched back to Mom, proudly displaying my ribbon. I realized I still looked like Jane, but I was starting to feel more like Cassandra.

Sara came in second, and as usual, Vin came in first. I think Sara cured cancer and Vin built a nuclear reactor. They both congratulated me after the ceremony, and Mom took a picture of the three of us donning our ribbons. It was the first time in weeks that I didn't shy away from the flash of a camera.

Mom helped me carry my project home. I cradled Jane and Cassandra in my arms, and we three enjoyed the cold night breeze on our faces. Even Jane seemed to be smiling.

"That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Jane admitted.

"I think it went well," I agreed.

"Don't worry, Noreen. You'll be looking like me in no time," Cassandra assured me.

The Accutane was coursing through my veins, eradicating the acne, zit by stubborn zit. I imagined the photo shoot for my "after" picture in the brochure. I would borrow Cassandra's ruby hairpin, and I might even experiment with her passion fruit lipstick. The photographer would be so taken with my radiant beauty he would forget to take the cap off the camera lens. The doctors would look on approvingly, patting each other on the back. The pictures would prove so alluring, they would make their way to Seventeen Magazine, where I would be featured in the Spring Fling layout, wearing a cute white tennis outfit and lobbing a ball over the net. I would become the next teen sensation.

"Of course you will," Cassandra purred. "You'll be gorgeous."

"Maybe we shouldn't put the cart before the horse," plain Jane warned.

For once, I let Cassandra's voice trump Jane's skepticism. After all, I was not publicly stoned at the Science Fair. I had even placed third, receiving congratulations from everyone. I had survived the worst of the side effects, and my skin was finally clearing up. What could possibly go wrong?

weirdness

2008-04-20T09:51:00.016-04:00

When I started this blog almost a year ago, I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with it. I knew I had all of these stories, and I just wanted to get them down and figure out what, if anything, to do with them later. In the fall, I took a class called Autobiography Into Art. That class helped me shape my stories and figure out what to do with them.

I began writing a series of stories, starting with Zithead, that described my childhood as, well, a zithead. Other stories came after that first. Stories about the different doctors and treatments I tried, about how I was treated and how I reacted. I am now about a quarter of the way through with what I hope to be a memoir entitled "Zithead". And now, I am stuck.

Since I have started writing the zithead stories, some very strange things have been happening. First, my skin has started breaking out worse than it has in years. At 34, that's not such a great feeling, but it probably isn't as bad as being 13 with acne. In some respects, these outbreaks have been helpful, reminding what it felt like all of those years ago.

Maybe worse than my skin issue is the fact that I have been harboring two very unwelcome house guests over the past few months - depression and anxiety. Don't act surprised. If you have been reading any of these stories, I think it follows naturally that I would have some psychic, as well as physical, scars from my childhood. I have been both ashamed and embarrassed to write about this part of my life. But then I started reading over some of my previous blog stories. I have written about carrying my own poo down a flight of stairs (see The Floater). I have revealed how I let a boy feel me up in a pool and then lied about it (see How Second Base Led to my First Boyfriend). I rigged a contest to win a camera, alienating my first crush before I even had a chance to make him fall in love with me (see The Contest). So talking about a couple of little things like anxiety and depression should be no shame. After all, there are plentiful commercials detailing how my little sorrows are alienating my cat and destroying my marriage, so surely these topics are fit for blog discussion.

I guess it's only logical that writing about these old episodes would stir up some emotional sludge. So I am in the process of draining the mental pool and giving it all a good cleaning. I started a new story, weeks ago, and I am trying hard to get back on track. Who knows? Maybe this blog entry will someday appear as the epilogue to "Zithead". Stay tuned!

sister zithead

2008-03-22T15:38:00.060-04:00

The floor shook beneath us. Pencils rolled off of desks. The American flag trembled above the blackboard. Sister Mary squeezed the chalk in her palm until it cracked. A collective gasp rippled through the classroom as we all held our breath. The door creaked open, and Sister Roberta filled the doorway.

Sister Roberta was the principal. She was feared by students, teachers and parents alike. Bigger than all of the fathers in the entire school, her bulk sucked the air out of every room. She had no cheeks or chin, just jiggly jowls. Her breath was hot and ragged, and the sides of her face puffed out like the gills of a fish out of water. Deep lines were etched into the fat around her mouth, giving her face the look of a ventriloquist's dummy. Square glasses slipped down her nose from the constant sweat that clung to her like skin. The white collar of her habit was no match for the fat exploding out of her neck. She rolled her sleeves up to the elbows, and the fabric sliced into her skin. A tiny gold watch was smothered by chubby rolls on her wrist.

Sister Roberta spent her days trolling the halls and checking in on classrooms. Sometimes, she would call on a student to stand and recite, alphabetically, all of the prepositional phrases. On other occasions, she would stand at the back of the classroom and breathe heavily, making her oppressive presence known to tense students and stuttering teachers. The only point that both students and teachers agreed upon was the unnerving effect of Sister Roberta's glare.

"Good morning, Sister Roberta. God bless you." My entire eighth-grade class stood and saluted the principal as she darkened the doorway. I remained stuck to my seat, hot tears coursing down my cheeks. Her eyes pierced through me in an instant.

"Ms. Heslin. Come with me, please." Sister Roberta demanded, poking her sausage finger in my direction. I rose reluctantly, my body wracked with sobs, snot flowing freely towards my upper lip. It was the kind of hysterics that produces hiccups, and mine ensued in short order. The entire class watched as I sniffled and shuffled towards Sister Roberta.

Once outside the classroom, Sister Roberta wrapped her hand around the back of my neck and led me to the nurse's office. I felt like a helpless kitten about to be tossed in a sack and drowned in a river. Sister Roberta breathed heavily on the back of my neck like a bull. I wondered how many times I would have to write "I will not cry in school" on the blackboard as punishment for my outburst.

Once inside the empty nurse's office, Sister Roberta shut the door behind us. I sat down on the cot reserved for kids with stomach aches and fevers, as she squeezed into the nurse's chair opposite me. She handed me a box of tissues, waiting patiently as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, hoping for the sobs to subside.

"Now. What is this all about?"

I didn't know where to begin. This was the first time I had cried in front of anyone since starting Accutane, and I was ashamed and angry about my outburst. No matter what anyone had said to me, I hadn't given them the satisfaction of seeing their words pierce my skin. But lately, I had crying jags for just about any reason: a Hallmark commercial, a kitten on the corner, a boy skinning his knee in the park. This time, it had been Thomas.

"It was nothing, Sister. I'm just having a bad day."

"Well, it seems like something to me. "Nothing" does not produce the hysterics I just witnessed."

"It was stupid...."

"I'll be the judge of that."

I hesitated. Did I want to be a rat? Being called a rat could be more devastating than being a zithead. But, lying to Sister Roberta could be lethal. She had this nun's sixth sense that she claimed had been divined straight from God Himself. To Sister Roberta, there was no greater sin than dishonesty. I balked between my choices - social death or slaughter by Sister. Picturing myself perishing in a sister's strangle, I chose the former.

"Thomas called me a name."

"And what name was that?"

"He called me a dirty pizza face." As I buried my face in a tissue, the sobs started fresh again.

It wasn't just the name that had hurt me. It was Thomas. Throughout the years, he had always been my protector. Whenever we played football, he would beat away the other boys trying to tackle me so he could gently knock me down himself. He always walked me home, and offered me his jacket when I was cold. I didn't want him to be my boyfriend, but I also didn't mind the attention he showed me, or the occasional jolt of electricity that shot up my arm when he tried to hold my hand. Thomas was a safe way to practice flirting, because I knew he would never want to hurt me. Until today.

"Why do you think he did that?" Sister Roberta wondered.

"Because I told him to stop poking me in the back with his pencil."

"You know, Noreen. I have often thought that Thomas might have somewhat of a crush on you."

"I know."

I didn't know Thomas had a crush on me, I had felt it. On my thigh. The year before, in seventh grade, Thomas and I were slow-dancing in Ashley's house at her thirteenth birthday party. Her parents stayed upstairs all night, while we danced and flirted and (some of us) got felt up. Thomas held me uncomfortably close, and I felt something jabbing me in the thigh.

"Thomas, can you move your keys? They're digging into me." I explained. Thomas pulled me closer and breathed onto my neck.

"Those aren't my keys." Confused, I pulled back from him and glanced down at his crotch. It was the first bulge I had ever seen, let alone felt up against my body.

"Ewww! Gross!" I squealed and pushed away from him, running into the safety of a circle of girls. They consoled me throughout the night, dutifully calling Thomas a pig. But, their eyes lit up as they asked questions about "it".

"Was it hard?"

"Was it big?"

"Did you touch it?"

"Is it shaped like a rocket?"

"Would you let him do it again?"

I would slow dance with Thomas again in other darkened living rooms while listening to homemade mix tapes of slow songs. His hands would cascade down my back past my boy-straight hips to the no-man's land of my flat butt. I would dutifully reposition his hands to the safety of my waist time and again, doing a chastity dance. I could have refused to dance with him, but I didn't. I did, however, remember Sister Mary's advice for dancing with a boy, and I left room between us for the Holy Spirit.

"Sometimes," Sister Roberta offered, "Boys don't know how to show girls that they like them. They're not mature enough to say the words, so instead, they tease and taunt."

"I know that too, Sister." I breathed out in exasperation. Did she think acne had made me a complete social moron? It was as if she subtracted ten IQ points per pimple, speaking slowly so I didn't miss her meaning.

"You know what I bet would shut him up?" Sister Roberta's lips quivered with menace. I waited for her advice. "Call him fat!"

"What?" My eyes shot open as this Bride of Christ recommended that I intentionally hurt someone's feelings.

"Sure. Why not? Call him a porker, a chubber, a whale. Whatever word works for you. Give him a dose of his own medicine." The mud-colored mole sitting on Sister Roberta's left eyelid shook with excitement. She looked entirely pleased with herself.

"I couldn't do that." I responded, still shocked by her suggestion.

"Why not? Don't you think Thomas is fat?"

Oh, this must be a trick! These nuns could be slick. This must be some sort of morality test. To see if I would do unto others as had been done to me, or if I would turn the other cheek. I quickly did an equation in my head. If I admitted that Thomas was fat, but Thomas was much thinner than Sister Roberta, then wouldn't I be calling Sister Roberta fat by extension? The only safe way out of this one was to use a diversion tactic.

"I can't be mean to Thomas because of his brother."

Sister Roberta sucked in her breath and looked surprised. I could tell that she didn't know what to say, and that sent a shock of excitement through me. I had left a nun, the nun, speechless!
Thomas' little brother Christopher had died of leukemia the year before, when Thomas and I were in seventh grade. He had been sick since he was two, and he died right before his eighth birthday. We had all grown up together, with Thomas and I watching after his brother Christopher, my brother Chris and my sister Erin. Christopher had lost all of his hair from the chemo, but it never seemed to bother him. He'd walk right up to you and say, "Rub my head for good luck." It was easy to forget he was sick.

Our class had fundraisers for Christopher's medical expenses. We held raffles and car washes, until everyone in town knew Christopher's face and asked how they could help. One afternoon while we were making flyers for an upcoming fundraiser, Thomas walked into class after visiting his brother in the hospital.

"Hi, Thomas. How's Christopher today?" Miss Andrews asked.

"He's dead," Thomas answered bluntly. The class was quiet and waited to see what would happen next. Thomas walked out of the classroom and didn't come back until a week after the funeral.

For weeks after Christopher died, Thomas walked around town alone, a large boom box planted on his shoulder blasting music. He didn't speak to anyone; he just nodded his head and kept on walking.

Just thinking about Thomas and Christopher got me crying all over again.

"Noreen, Thomas is very lucky to have a friend like you." Sister Roberta said as she handed me more tissues. I blew my nose and nodded.

"Your mother explained the medication to me. You won't always look like this."

"It's not just that," I admitted. "Everyone thinks I'm dirty, like I don't wash my face or something."

"Let me ask you a question. Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

Another trick question! What kind of moral Olympics was this woman putting me through?
Sister Mary had once asked me to get her sweater from the convent. I was both honored and terrified. Very few students were ever allowed into the convent, which was attached to the school by a back staircase. I opened the heavy door and stared into the darkened convent. It smelled like bleach and something sweet. Flicking on the hallway light, I looked around at the cold, gray walls and floor, all made of cement. There was nothing to suggest the convent was a home. Rather, it looked more like a storage closet or a crypt. I shuddered as I made my way inside.
My eyes widened to the size of flapjacks at what I encountered in the first room - the laundry room. There, weighing down a clothesline strung across the room, were three pairs of underwear, each large enough to cover the back end of a Volkswagen bug. Either these belonged to Sister Roberta, or the nuns were harboring a large circus animal somewhere in the confines of the convent.

Even more startling, however, were the three bras (nuns wore bras!) hanging next to the underwear. Each bra cup could easily cradle a small child. I wondered who did all of the laundry, and I assumed it to be Sister Mary. Sister Mary was as thin and meek as Sister Roberta was large and domineering. I could just picture Sister Roberta making Sister Mary write a thousand-word essay on the virtues of using bleach when washing underclothing.

I found Sister Mary's sweater on a hanger, but couldn't stop myself from peeking into the next room. Obviously, the sweet smell had originated here, in the kitchen. It looked like a Hostess cupcake factory. There were boxes of Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, Twinkies and Sno Balls. A small index card was taped to each box. Tiny block letters were printed on each card. I crept closer to read the writing: "Property of Sister Roberta. Do not touch. The Lord is watching."

Unable to stop myself, I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Gallons of Pepsi and Dr. Pepper lined the shelves. Take-out containers from Number 1 Kitchen, Benny's Pizza and Chicken Galore peeked out from behind the soda. I couldn't believe my eyes. These nuns lived like college students. I wondered if our tuition paid for their junk food habits.

"Well?" Sister Roberta waited for my response.

"Sister?" I couldn't remember the answer I was supposed to give.

"Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

I shrugged and widened my eyes, noncommittal in my response.

"No. I have a glandular problem. I actually eat very light and healthfully."

"Ohhh!" I said. I couldn't believe all of the things I was learning. Nuns wore bras that could carry bowling balls. They encouraged children to make fun of their peers. And they lied!

"There. Now I've just dispelled a misconception about people who struggle with weight. Maybe you can dispel the idea that people with acne are...."

"Dirty?" I offered.

"Unhygienic, yes."

"How do I do that?" I pictured myself wearing a sandwich board as I walked the halls. On it, in bright red letters, I would have written: "I'm not dirty! I'm a zithead and I don't know why. But one thing's for sure - I am not dirty!"

"Well, you're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Sure."

"I think you're ready to return to class. Go splash some water on your face while I explain your outburst to Sister Mary."

"Yes, Sister Roberta."

When I returned to class, it was clear that Sister Roberta had given Thomas a talking to. He looked up as I walked in and then glued his eyes to his desk. I sat down in front of him and tried to pretend the entire class wasn't staring at me.

"Psst." Thomas gently tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a note. I slipped the note into my lap and unfolded the paper. He had drawn a picture of the two of us smiling and playing catch. Above it, Thomas had written "Sorry!!!" I half-turned towards him and sort of smiled, to let him know it was okay. I didn't know if it was okay, but I just wanted to forget about it. I was too busy thinking of a way to let everyone know that what was happening to me wasn't my fault.

"Hello?" Mom answered the phone while I was doing homework later that night.

"Oh, hello Sister Roberta." Mom's voice went rigid and fear showed on her face. She stubbed out her cigarette guiltily. I slammed my book shut and stared, trying to divine what Sister Roberta was saying on the other end.

Mom gave me no hints as to what was being said. She issued several "umm hmms" and "I sees", but nothing concrete. After a minute, Mom clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. I tugged at her shirt, mouthing: "What's going on?" Mom shrugged me away and held the phone protectively to her ear.

"Really? You think so? We'll have to discuss that." Mom's chin quivered from the effort of containing a laugh. My bones ached with anticipation. It was never a light matter for the principal, let alone Sister Roberta, to call a parent. The veins on Mom's forehead were not popping with rage, so I figured I wasn't in that much trouble. But what could Sister Roberta say that would make anyone laugh? Maybe she was explaining her glandular problem, and Mom found it as unlikely as I knew it to be.

"Thank you, Sister. Have a good night." Mom hung up the phone and stared at me. I sat back in my seat, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Sister Roberta told me what happened with Thomas today," she said sympathetically.

"Oh," I breathed out heavily, relieved.

"She was very proud of the way you handled yourself."

"Okay." I didn't know where this was going, but I could see Mom was saving the best for last.

"She said you taught her a lesson about compassion, and forgiveness. And she thinks...." Mom snorted and laughed, covering her face. I was getting annoyed that it was taking her so long to finish the story.

"What? Mom, just say it!"

"Well, Sister Noreen, she thinks you would be an excellent addition to the convent. She wants to know if you'd ever consider becoming a nun!"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted, picturing a life living in that concrete hell, washing Sister's Roberta's elephant-sized drawers and sneaking bites of her Ho Hos.

"Noreen! Watch your language." Mom admonished. She then continued to convulse with laughter as I picked up my books and stalked off to my bedroom.

I was too distracted to finish my homework, thoughts rattling around my brain like a pocketful of loose change. What if I did pledge my undying devotion to the church? Could I somehow strike a deal with the Big Guy to clear my complexion? I could vow to stay a virgin until marriage. In my current condition, it didn't seem like such a stretch to say say I would remain untouched for the next fifty years anyway. I could give up something really important for lent, like Burger King or television, and not just some random candy that I only ate once a month anyway. I could go to confession weekly and say the rosary daily. I could shake hands with every person within reach during mass when we said "Peace be with you". (This was my least favorite part of mass. I didn't like shaking strangers' hands after watching them pick their noses or scratch the insides of their ears. I usually faked a sneezing fit seconds before, so as to excuse myself from hand-shaking. It was, after all, ungodly to spread germs.) I would even clasp the hand of the old man with shingles, who was always peeling off bits of skin in long scaly strips.
Then, another line of thinking barged into my brain like a freight train. Was I being recruited to the convent because of my poor complexion? All of the nuns I knew did seem to have some sort of defect. Sister Mary had a man's face, with a robust nose and chin whiskers that she was fond of stroking. Sister Agnes, the librarian, had fingers that were twisted like the knotted roots of a gnarled tree. Sister Theresa, whose place in the school no one was certain of, looked very much like a garden gnome. She was as tall as the third graders and had elfin ears and a pointy chin that jutted sharply away from her face. Was I, too, unfit for society? Did Sister Roberta become a nun because she was obese, or did she become obese because she was a nun? What came first - the habit or the Ho Hos?

I then thought of ways to make everyone understand what was happening to me, and why. I could kidnap one of my doctors and bring him to school to explain the situation. I could hire a plane to sky write it over town. Or, I could ask Sister Roberta to make the entire class write on the board a thousand times: Noreen is not dirty. She has acne, which may be caused by a hormonal imbalance, clogged pores, or an infection within her skin.

I had already been on the medication for several weeks, and still no improvement. If things didn't start to change soon, I would have no choice but to become Sister Zithead.

you

2008-02-23T06:45:00.012-05:00

The early summer sun is beating down on you. Boys and girls, your friends, are running and playing catch, laughing and chasing each other. You are riding your new bike in circles around them. You got it for your ninth birthday last week. It is blue and shiny. There is a name plate on the back that reads "Robert". You feel free on that bike. It is your first. Before, you had to ride on the pegs of other kids' bikes. You learned to ride on Billy's bike three years ago. Now you don't need to beg rides off of anyone else. For the first time, you can offer anyone you like a ride on your bike.

You chant with the other kids: "No more homework, no more books. No more teachers' dirty looks". It is the first day of summer vacation. The days are stretched ahead of you like a long, cool drink of lemonade. You wonder how you will have time to do all that you want to do. There will be bike riding, of course. Wiffle ball tournaments against the kids from the next block. You're not very good at bat, but you do throw a mean slider. Games of Manhunt and Freeze Tag. Firecrackers to set off at night. Exploring the neighborhoods further away from your safe street, without getting caught by your mother. Catching fireflies and putting them in girls' ponytails, waiting for them to screech and swat at you. A lifetime to live in just a few short months.
You don't know that none of that is going to happen. You don't know how everything is going to change. That you will never be the same. You are riding your new bike, in the sun, surrounded by your friends. And you are happy.

possible side effects

2008-02-16T07:42:00.071-05:00

"She has AIDS!"

"Don't touch her. She's contagious!"

"Disgusting!"

I heard the rushing rocks before I felt them pelt my back. It didn't hurt. Not really. It was just a dull thud near my shoulder blade. Already, though, I could feel the wetness of the blood leaking out of the pimple that had burst.

I turned and stared blankly. Piss Pants Rick, Dick Ear, and Petey Boy had their hands poised with more rocks waiting. I didn't go to school with these boys, but I had played baseball with them. Their fathers called me "honey". Their mothers congregated on the same park bench as mine, smoking and gossiping. I knew their secrets and shames. Everyone did.

Piss Pants Rick earned his nickname on a Boy Scout camping trip. Too afraid to leave his tent in the ink blank night, he refused to make his way to the outhouse and opted to piss in his pants. The act would have been less shameful had he not repeated it three nights in a row.

A fleshy bit of skin protruding near his ear was responsible for Dick Ear's name. He was constantly tugging on it, and his face would go all dreamy and far away.

"Hey, Dick Ear," his friends would taunt. "Dreaming about sticking that thing in your mother?"

Dick Ear would pull his reluctant fingers away from his ear and slip his thumb into his mouth.
Petey Boy was named after a dog. His father was a slow and nervous man. When he found out that his large and oppressive wife was expecting a baby, he had to go to the nervous hospital for some "rest". The only way his wife could convince him to come home, as the story goes, was to allow him to name the baby. Petey Boy was his much-loved childhood Schnauzer. We couldn't help but bark and whistle whenever Petey Boy and his father played fetch. I mean, catch.

I popped my watermelon gum noisily between my teeth, working it into a pulpy mass and poking my tongue through its center. My mouth was dry sand paper. The juice of the gum eased it somewhat. Puffing out my cheeks, I blew a bubble as I walked slowly towards the boys. The bubble burst, and I picked the sticky bits of gum off of my lips. My red-rimmed eyes burned and itched, blinking back the constant throb of a headache that had taken up permanent residence behind my eyeballs.

I stopped just a few feet short of the boys. They were poised nervously, as if preparing to steal second base. I couldn't blame them really. I guess I did resemble the images of the scabby, shrunken men on television - the ones with AIDS. I wasn't sure what I looked like. I tried not to spy my image in the mirror. I didn't want to see what would be staring back at me.

"You guys are right. I do have the virus." It was an effort for me to speak. Each time I opened my mouth, my lips cracked and bled, splitting in the corners. I swallowed and tried not to lick my burning lips. The boys shifted and cackled nervously, looking uneasily at one another.

"Yeah, you got the virus. Like anyone would fuck you!" Piss Pants Rick stepped forward defiantly. Dick Ear and Petey Boy stepped closer, feeling more confident in his shadow.

"No. Nobody fucked me. Wanna know how else you can get it?"

I could almost see their brains racing to remember the brief lessons on sex and AIDS education. A panic flashed in their dim-witted eyes, as they wondered what they had missed while snoozing in the back of class.

I took the sticky gum out of my mouth and held it out to them, like an offering.

"The spit on my gum!" I hissed as I wound up my left arm and watched them race away from me.

High, feminine shrieks escaped from their fleeing forms as they tried to escape. But it was too late.

I focused my aim on the fat rolls protruding from the back of Piss Pants' sweatshirt. I missed my mark, and the spit-soaked wad of gum landed smack in the tangle of his dirty curls. The gum hit him like a shot from a rifle, and he landed face down with a thud in the grass. He writhed and screamed, swatting at the back of his head.

"Guys! Help! Get this thing offa me. Come back!" Piss Pants shrieked. Dick Ear and Petey Boy paused briefly to look at their fallen friend, but I was hot on their heels. They ran for their very lives as I chased them, gathering up as much spit as I could spare. Unfortunately, Accutane had drained me of most of the moisture in my entire body, and I was dry after two measly shots. Still, I was proud of my efforts.

The real payoff came the following day. I glimpsed Piss Pants, his hair sheered close to the scalp. He had the lumpiest, most misshapen head I had ever seen. I almost felt bad for him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Kids shouted. "You look like a shaved ass hole!"

Piss Pants Rick looked over and saw the serene smile on my face. I nodded and bowed in his direction. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot protectively to the back of his bald head. His lips pursed with want, insults tickling his tongue waiting to be hurled at me like hand grenades. But he kept his mouth shut and hurried away.

Kids weren't the only ones who were cruel. I couldn't go around throwing my gum and spitting at everyone who called me a name, so I devised other ways to deal with the daily insults and assaults.

I flipped through beauty magazines in the salon. Mom was treating me to a new 'do to help me feel better about my appearance. As I sat and waited for my turn, something tickled my bare arm and nuzzled against me. I jumped in my seat at what I thought was a cougar cozying up to me. Dead black eyes glared at me as razor sharp fangs poked out of a tiny but ferocious muzzle. Claws hung at the end of little legs. A furry body lay lifeless on the shoulder of the middle-aged woman who had sat down beside me. An identical little creature lay draped over her other shoulder. I scooted away from the snarling fangs of these animals, sneaking peaks to make sure they wouldn't come to life and take a nip at me.

I felt more than one set of eyes piercing my skin, and slowly turned in the direction of the coat. The furry creatures, and their owner, were glaring at me. The woman's scowl was more menacing than that of her creature companions. I blushed guiltily and shrugged, assuming she had spied me staring at her roadkill coat.

Don't you ever wash your face? You look absolutely filthy!"

The busy chit-chat of the salon and the hum of the hair dryers screeched to a halt. Scissors clipped shut. Aqua Net hung suspended in the air. All eyes were on us.

Before I could open my mouth and eek out a response, a deep growling erupted from within the woman's coat. It began as a dull rumble, like distant thunder, but quickly escalated into a guttural grumbling, full of phlegm and menace. I pulled away cautiously. The woman was frozen in fear, her eyes piercing pools of terror. Her coat began to shift and move about her. The limp creatures on her coat suddenly came to life, spit flying out of their ferocious mouths, salivating for a piece of flesh.

Their claws dug into the make-up caked on her aging face, searing away the flesh in shreds. Pulpy strips of cheek hung like fillets. One creature feasted on her ear, while the other tore away at her deep peach lips. Then, they began fighting over her pointy nose. Within seconds, it was nothing more than a cavernous hole. She screeched and screamed and swung at the greedy creatures, while we watched in horror as her face was torn away.

The woman flopped onto the cold tile floor and the creatures pecked lazily at what was left of her face. The bell hanging above the front door dinged as a woman entered the salon. The creatures, still attached to the coat, took off running out of the salon, dragging the half-eaten woman behind them. The salon remained still for a moment longer, and then everyone snapped back into action. Blow dryers clicked back to life. Scissors clipped. Gossip resumed. And I continued to search for the perfect layered look.

"What the hell is your problem, lady?" Annie, the salon owner, was sticking her scissors into the woman's face.

"Excuse me?" she responded indignantly.

"Can't ya see she's just a kid? Get the hell outta here before I stick my scissors up your ass!'

Annie, whose own face was deeply pitted with acne scars, looked like a woman possessed. She poked her scissors so close that she could have trimmed the woman's nose hair. Annie was convincing enough that the woman rushed out of the salon without a word.

"Don't you pay her any mind, honey," Annie gripped my chin firmly and planted a lipstick kiss on my cheek. She was the first person to touch my face in months.

An hour later, I walked out of the salon with Joan Jett's rocking hair, and a little bit of her attitude. Annie had invited me back for a free facial, and promised me she would take care of business if she ever saw that woman out on the streets. I believed her.

Mom didn't much like my haircut, but that was forgotten once I told her what had happened. She lit up another Salem Light, blind to the one she already had burning in the ashtray.

"She's lucky I wasn't there. What the hell's wrong with people? Son of a...." She trailed off before spewing forth the slew of curse words she would not say in front of us.

"It's okay, Mom." I assured. "Her face was eaten off by her fur coat." Mom looked at me, shook her head and sucked on her cigarette.

I was standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change. A little girl next to me was nibbling on a chocolate bar, holding her mother's hand. I was starving. I hadn't eaten a solid meal in days. My lips had become so blistered and swollen that I could no longer chew. My mother had to puree all of my meals, and I sucked them up through a straw. The doctors assured us that this was normal, and that the side effects would soon lessen and my skin would heal. I held on to their words, and to the vision of myself at the end of treatment, eating a four-course meal with clear skin.

I peeked down at the little girl and smiled. She grinned back and hid behind her mother's leg. We played peek-a-boo and giggled at each other. The mother smiled down at her daughter's playfulness, but her jaw went rigid when she got a glimpse of my complexion. I recognized the look of disgust in her eyes and waited. She jerked the chocolate bar out of her daughter's hand and pointed an angry finger at me.

"See? This is what you'll look like if you keep eating chocolate. You wanna look like her?" The mother glared accusingly at me and threw the chocolate bar in the garbage. The mother stepped off the curb and walked into the street, leaving her daughter behind. She stopped and turned towards us.

"Well, come on! What're you waiting for?"

Before the little girl could step off of the curb, a bus came screeching down the street and knocked the mother out of her socks. The bus kept on going, with the mother splayed across the windshield like a squashed bug. The girl and I looked at each other, shrugged, and giggled. We took a seat on the curb, and the girl produced two chocolate bars from her pocket. We ate slowly and gratefully, as the mother's socks blew away in the wind.

I didn't tell Mom about that one. I was afraid she'd patrol the streets with a baseball bat, and bludgeon to death the first mother she saw who fit the description.

I often woke up with my pillow and sheet smeared with blood. I never knew if I had gotten a nose bleed in the middle of the night, or an infected pimple had burst. It was harder to leave the house on days like these.

In fact, I didn't leave the house on those days. But someone else did. Some days, it was Laverne, or Shirley. Men seemed to respond to Shirley more, with her sweet and feminine ways. On my Shirley days, I walked softly and gracefully. I couldn't fully get behind Shirley, though. I just couldn't see myself being that attached to a stuffed cat. Laverne, who boldly sewed her signature "L" on each sweater, seemed more my speed. On my Laverne days, my smile was sly and my gait was sturdy. As strangers' stares penetrated my skin, I sang Lavarne and Shirley's down-in-the-dumps pick-me-up song: "Woops there goes another rubber tree plant." I didn't really know what it meant, but it always seemed to work for them.

Sometimes, I called on Laura Ingalls to get me through the day. I thought of her life on the prairie, and realized she had it much tougher than I did. At least we had indoor plumbing. When kids were calling me names and my first reaction was to lash out, I thought of Pa and the always tender advice he gave Half-Pint. I imagined myself hitching up the team alongside Pa, and telling him of the mean things that had been said to me that day. With a glint in his eye and his homemade pipe stuck firmly between his teeth, Pa would say: "You'll grow out of it, Half-Pint. And you'll be the prettiest girl on the prairie." And just like that, I could breeze through the names being hurled at me with relative ease. Of course, I also knew that Half-Pint could beat up almost any boy on the playground.

My favorite, however, was Jo from the Facts of Life. Jo was really prettier than all of the other girls, but hid it under her pigtail and motorcycle helmet. I relied on her more often than the others. Affecting my best Bronx accent, I would scrunch my face up into a scowl and display my fist to anyone whose stare lingered too long.

"Whaddya lookin' at?" I would ask icily. "Ya wanna knuckle sandwich?" Sometimes people would laugh, but more often than not, they would look away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought!" I would yell after them.

On the toughest days, I would picture myself jumping onto Jo's motorcycle and riding clear out of town, wielding a tire iron and smashing anyone who got in my way.

Sometimes, though, assuming Jo's identity got me into trouble. It was during a spelling test. As I was waiting for Sister Alice to pronounce the next word, a fat drop of blood like a rain drop splattered across my loose leaf paper. I pinched my nose and tilted my head back, raising my clean hand in the air.

"Sister Alice," I called out, "I need to use the bathroom." Dark droplets of blood plopped on my white uniform shirt.

"Lord God above, Noreen. What have you done?" Sister Alice asked suspiciously. We had recently had a visit from an ex-drug addict who warned us against the perils of drug use. He demonstrated the effects his cocaine habit had had on his nose by stuffing a tissue up one nostril and retrieving it from the other nostril. The boys in my class thought he was cool. The girls thought he was cute.

"Sorry, Sister. I guess I partied a little too hard this weekend." The class hooped and applauded in approval. What did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork.

"To the nurse's office. Now. I'll deal with you later." Sister Alice promised.

That night, Sister Alice followed through with her threat and called my mother. Mom's face turned scarlet as she nodded her head.

"Yes, Sister. I'm sorry, Sister. It will never happen again, Sister. It's the medication. She's just not herself right now." I bit my nails nervously, wondering what my punishment would be.

Mom slammed the phone down and stared hard at me.

"She wants to know if you have a drug problem or if you're trying to get suspended with that smart mouth."

"Mom, I'm sorry. But what did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork?" Mom sighed heavily and shook her head. I waited for my punishment, but it didn't come. Instead, Mom opened up the freezer and handed me a cherry ice pop, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Cherry ice pops had become my salvation, easing the ache of my lips and the dryness of my mouth. As I sucked greedily on the frozen treat, my breath froze at what I saw staring at me in the reflection of the toaster. My features were distorted, as if I were looking into a funhouse mirror. I was puffy and swollen, so raw and red that I could understand the disgust in strangers' stares. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, standing in the darkness.
Closing my eyes, I flipped the switch and willed myself to look. I knew it was bad, but I had no idea what I had actually become.

The acne I had had before Accutane was almost cute in comparison to what was happening now. The pimples on my face, neck, back and chest were competing for the title of "Miss Hideous America". Godzilla lurked beneath the surface of every inflamed boil, waiting to burst through and spew hot lava. Blood and pus pooled beneath the pimples, turning my skin blue-black in some spots. Traces of dried blood dotted my face like fault lines on a map. Crunchy scabs encrusted my mouth. I was completely unrecognizable.

I snapped the light off and stood in the dark before the mirror. My mind raced, trying to find the thought that would make my appearance more bearable. I would get better. The doctors had said so. But when? And what if they were wrong?

I went to my go-to guys for support, but this time they had nothing for me. Laverne and Shirley were slouched at the kitchen table, crying into tall glasses of milk and pepsi, Noxzema slathered across their faces. Pa had no words of wisdom. He blew out the candle and left me sitting alone in the dark barn to figure it out for myself. Jo, always ready with a stiff upper lip and a wisecrack, was stranded on the side of the road, covered in grease, trying to fix her broken down motorcycle in the rain. I was on my own.

Snapping the bathroom light back on, I stared hard at my reflection until it all became a blur. And then, a new fictional character emerged. This character bore a greater resemblance to my current physical state. I couldn't believe I hadn't realized it before. I was becoming - The Fly!

I was strangely comforted by this fact. I ignored the obvious worries, such as my ears falling off or having to puke on my cheeseburger before I could eat it. Instead, I remembered Jeff Goldblum's character being exhilarated at the change that was taking place inside of him. I too was undergoing some sort of transformation. My old face was literally falling off, and someone new was waiting underneath. I didn't know who or what it was.

The doctors said this would happen. I would get much worse before I got better. It was part of the process. Even Jeff Goldblum, with his collection of rotted-off body parts in the medicine cabinet, believed he was falling apart to become something better, stronger. I looked at my reflection. Jeff Goldblum stared down at me from his perch on the ceiling. He nodded at me confidently. If he believed it, then so could I.

the magic

2008-01-21T07:27:00.012-05:00

"I want you taking birth control." The doctor demanded.

"What? Why?" I asked as Mom twisted a brochure in her hands.

"So you don't get pregnant."

"How would that happen?" I screwed my face up into a question mark. The doctor sighed deeply and looked at the wall clock, calculating the seconds he would have to spend on me.

"Mom, have we not had "the talk" yet?" The doctor asked, using a tone of voice that was best reserved for very small dogs or very stupid children. Mom stammered and flushed apologetically.

"I know how you get pregnant!" I practically shouted. "I mean, what does that have to do with the medication?"

"Well," he began, unbuttoning and rebuttoning the fat white buttons on his lab coat, "If you get pregnant while taking this medication, the baby would most probably be born with devastating birth defects."

Mom's skin turned the green of a not yet ripe banana. I guarded my belly protectively, imagining the six-legged swamp beast that would slither and ooze out of my womb. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook my head violently to expel the image from my brain. I wondered what my mother had gotten me into.

After a few months with no results from Dr. Blank, Mom had decided to take matters into her own hands. She consulted mothers from softball and PTA, Girl Scouts and basketball. Sympathetic shrugs and embarrassed sighs ensued from these mothers, but no one seemed to have the answer.

One summer day before the start of eighth grade, Mom and I ran into my old babysitter Beth.

"Oh my God! You look gorgeous, Beth!" Mom screamed down the block. Beth was unrecognizable. She glided down the street with her head held high and her long curls swept confidently off of her face. Smiling serenely, she nodded at my mother.

"What happened? I mean, what have you done to yourself? You look amazing!" Mom gushed.
A proud pink flush swept across Beth's now-clear face. Beth had had the worst skin I had ever seen. Cystic acne had assaulted every inch of her face and neck. She had often hidden behind blood tinged tissues, dabbing at her constantly erupting pimples. Looking at her now, I immediately shrunk back in embarrassment, painfully aware that my skin was now much worse than hers. There was, however, a ping-pong ball of hope hopping around in my stomach.

"I know! Isn't it amazing? I tried this new medication. I mean, look at me. It's a miracle!"

"Beth," Mom whispered. "Do you think you could give us your doctor's number? We've tried everything, but...." Mom trailed off, nodding in my direction. I stared down at my feet. Even Beth's sneakers seemed brighter than my own. Beth nodded knowingly and patted me like a puppy with fleas. She rooted around in her purse and handed my mother a card. Mom stared at its crisp white edges and poked me in the shoulder.

"Look at this, Noreen. All your troubles could be over!" I shrugged and glanced at the card, almost afraid to hope, but feeling my step lighten a little as we walked away from Beth.

A week later, Mom and I sat in the waiting room of the skin cancer and dermatology clinic of a major New York hospital. A sickening smell surrounded us, seeping into my nostrils and sitting on my tongue, thick like a wet sock. Patients, some in wheelchairs and padded with gauze, lined the white walls. I looked at them suspiciously, wondering if the odor was escaping from underneath their bandages.

"It's the burning skin." The man sitting next to me whispered as he scratched at a bandage covering the left side of his neck.

"Huh?" I leaned away from him and into my mother.

"The smell. They burn the skin away when there's cancer. It smells awful, doesn't it?" He sneered down at me as my mother took notice.

"Leaver her alone! Creep."

"I was just...."

"Knock it off or I'll call security. Noreen, sit over here." Mom yanked me up out of my seat and repositioned me on her other side. She glared at the man, who shrugged apologetically.

"Sorry, lady." Mom snarled and sucked in air through her teeth.
Now I was marooned in yet another doctor's office, being told that I would give birth to a head of broccoli with teeth, if I could even get a boy to somehow look in my direction.

"Umm, have you gotten a look at my face? No boy will even kiss me. How exactly would I get pregnant?" The doctor exhaled dramatically out of his wide nostrils. Mom bit her lip, but I couldn't tell if she wanted to laugh or smack me in the back of the head.

I had had some experience with boys, and how to avoid their advances. At Katie's thirteenth birthday party last year, I had been thrown in the closet with Nelson during a heated game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Although two girls and one boy had already come out of the closet with raspberry-colored hickeys, I wouldn't let anything like that happen to me (unless I was lucky enough to end up in the dark with Anthony. I was not.)

Nelson spun an empty gallon of Coke, and the plastic red cap pointed decidedly at me. I groaned in disappointment and fear as hands jostled me towards the closet. Nelson waited expectantly in the dark, nestled between a parka and a fur coat. I was thrust into his open arms and bumped my head on his chin. The tiny stubble that had grown there dug into my skin.

"Have fun! Don't do anything we wouldn't do!" Cheers and sneers erupted behind us as the closet door slammed shut. Nelson's greasy hair smelled like a gas station. I wiggled my way to the back of the closet, hoping he wouldn't be able to see me. His hormones guided him like a missile to the spot where I was hidden. Raspy, breathless sounds escaped from his lips. His cheese puff breath felt hot on my cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible.

Within seconds, his hot hands were on me. His left hand groped my right breast firmly, while his right hand reached for and missed my left breast, ending up on my elbow. The surprise was so sudden that I froze, leaving his hands to push and pull and pinch me.

"Oh, baby! Yeah!" Nelson cackled close to my ear. This was the same boy I had previously seen shove a pretzel up his nose and then eat it. That image bolted me out of my stupor and into action.

With one swift motion, I raised my right knee as if I were hitting a soccer ball. The effect was instant. Nelson crumbled into a crippled heap on the closet floor. There was complete silence for several seconds, and I was afraid that I had killed him. Suddenly, a tortured gurgling came from the bottom of the closet, and I exhaled with relief that he was at least alive. I spent the next six and a half minutes huddled behind the coats as Nelson gasped for air on the ground. When the closet door was finally opened, I exited triumphantly, my honor still intact. Nelson crawled out on his hands and knees, sweat dripping from his reddened face.

"As a precaution, we insist all women of child-bearing age take birth control while on this medication." The doctor said decisively.

"Well, she's not a woman, she's a child." Mom asserted, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"As a precaution...."

"No birth control. Thank you, Doctor." Mom's jaw was rigid and her nostrils flared. She fidgeted in the way she often did before saying, wait till your father gets home.

"All right then," he sighed. "You'll have to sign this release which says you understand the dangers of becoming pregnant while taking Accutane."
Accutane. It was the first time I heard the name of the medication that I hoped would transform me from a duck into a swan. I read through the form that warned of birth defects and fetal death. While scribbling my bubbly signature and dotting my i with a heart, I had a vague thought nagging at the back of my brain: if Accutane could turn my unborn baby into an octopus, what could it do to me?

There were some vague explanations of possible side effects. My skin would get worse before it got better. Redness. Peeling. Dry skin. Chapped lips. Upset stomach. Headaches. I would take the medication for twenty weeks, visiting the clinic every other week for a check-up. Each week, I would have blood tests done to monitor the medicine's effects on my kidneys and liver. Mom looked hesitantly from me to the doctor. Her finger pulled nervously on her lower lip.

"Noreen. Are you sure?" I took the brochure out of her hand and stared at the bold block letters spelling out ACCUTANE. The inside of the brochure had before and after pictures of men and women, boys and girls. The pictures on the left depicted pitted, pimply-skinned misery. The pictures on the right, however, showcased bright smiling faces with clear skin. This was it. This was the magic I had been searching for.

"Absolutely." It came out with such force that neither my mother nor the doctor thought to ask again. A few scribbles on a prescription pad and it was over.

"See you in two weeks." The doctor said, already walking out the door to his next patient. Mom raised her eyebrows and rubbed my back. For the first time in a long time, I felt myself smiling on the inside. In just twenty weeks, five months time, I would be a new me. I walked out into the sunshine, clutching the prescription for my future, my head raised towards the sun.

taxi

2007-12-10T10:17:00.005-05:00

The fish tank spanned nearly an entire wall of the waiting room. Fish the color of Easter candy swam lazily about the tank, sometimes pecking at the surface, making miniature bubbles. Mom flipped through a magazine, nervously thumbing the pages without focusing on them. The bottoms of my legs stuck to the leather couch and made squishy sounds as I tried to pry them free. I slipped my foot out of my flip-flop and ran my toes over the soft shag carpet. It was cream-colored and spotless. I wanted to lay on my belly and feel that softness against my face.
Two other patients waited with me. They were both adults, a man a lot older than my mom, and a woman a little younger. They checked their watches and sighed deeply, as if waiting for a late bus. Neither of them, I noticed, seemed to have anything wrong with their skin. At first, I took this to be a good omen. Dr. Blank had already cured them of their skin diseases, and these patients were simply here to give thanks. But they did not look grateful; they looked sour and gray. This made me wonder what secrets lay buried beneath their clothes. I pictured scabs and scales and boils erupting underneath their neat shirts and slacks. I began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The office door slid open silently, and a shocking white uniform brightened the doorway.

"Mr. Casey?" the uniform called out, and the older man stood and toddled through the door.

Before shutting the door, the uniform looked over at me and smiled. I inhaled sharply as I noticed the scaly dark patch of skin marring her right cheek. Couldn't Dr. Blank help his own employee, I wondered? A second, more chilling thought shot through my brain. What if that scaly patch of skin was the result of Dr. Blank's treatment? Not waiting to find out, I pried myself free of the deep leather couch, slipped back into my flip-flops and headed towards the exit.

"Miss Heslin?" The scaly-faced uniform had crept back into the doorway, smiling and waving me in like a stewardess pointing out emergency exits. Mom stood and took firm hold of my elbow, leading me to what could very well be my death. I held my breath and looked down at the uniform's squeaky white shoes, afraid she could read the questioning gaze in my eyes.

Dr. Putz had been plucked out of the Blue Cross bible of practitioners. Dr. Blank, however, had come from much higher authority - a passenger in the backseat of my dad's cab. He had come home the week before and plopped down a torn piece of paper onto the kitchen table.

"I got you a new doctor. A good one, too."

"Okay."

"Yeah. You're goin' to the city. There's no good doctors in Jersey."

"Then, why didn't we go there in the first place?" I wondered aloud.

"Well, ya gotta be fair. Give Jersey doctors a shot. They gotta make a livin', too."

I didn't quite follow my dad's logic, but I was relieved to be making a fresh start with a new doctor. I wanted to stay positive, but my experience with Dr. Putz had left me bankrupt in the high hopes department.

"So, who recommended this doctor, Dad?"

"A friend."

"Which friend?" I persisted.

"You don't know the guy."

"Yeah? Do you know the guy?"

"Course I do."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"In the cab. I had him in the cab, all right?" Dad answered in exasperation.

"So, he was your customer, not your friend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Big deal. Ya wanna go to this doctor or not?"

"Yeah, okay."

Everyone was Dad's "friend", whether he knew their full names or simply referred to them as "pal". My head always cocked suspiciously when he threw that term around like a tennis ball, bouncing it on the walls of our apartment.

The back of Dad's cab had produced almost every referral my family ever needed. For medical advice, Dad would pick up a fare in front of a hospital, hoping to score someone in the know. That could mean a recently discharged patient, an orderly, or, (hopefully) a nurse. Then, the questions would begin:

"I got this rash on my elbow. You ever seen anything like that before?"

"My kid's got this turn in his left foot. You think he needs to see a specialist?"

"I got this bill from GHI. Says it won't cover my daughter's braces...."

Dad had two jobs. He worked at the Department of Health during the day, and drove a cab in the city on nights and weekends. Sometimes, he didn't come home for three days straight. It was easier for him to catch a few hours sleep at the garage than to come home between shifts.

When I was little, I would sit in the drafty window waiting for the long nose of his Impala to round our corner. I would count the cars and guess when his would appear. If the car did not materialize as predicted, I would begin to panic. I was afraid of the cab, and all of the horrible things that could happen to my father behind its wheel. Even though Dad always kept a billy club tucked under his seat, I imagined all of the people and things a billy club couldn't beat.

I had good reason to be afraid of the cab and the "friends" my dad drove around in it. Dad was careful not to talk about his job in front of us, but I overheard plenty. When I was nine, there had been some hushed conversations that made my stomach quiver.

"I maybe got myself into some trouble last night." Dad told Mom when he thought we were asleep.

"What kinda trouble?" Mom's voice shook and I pictured her sucking hard on her Salem Light.

"Picked up two working girls and their john...." I thought of two ladies wearing suits with feminine little silk ties around their necks, toting briefcases, Nike sneakers carrying them through traffic, accompanied by their friend John. But the tight strain in Mom's tone made my toes curl.

"What did you do, John?" She accused.

"Jesus, I didn't do nothin'. Wouldya let me finish?" I pictured his tired eyes fighting to stay open.

"Go ahead," she said, but I didn't think she wanted to hear the rest.

"Somethin' didn't seem right. They wanted me to take 'em to a real deserted block on the lower east side. I didn't like the way they were whisperin' and lookin' at me."

They were both quiet for a moment. I didn't realize it, but I was holding my breath.

"I knew somethin' was gonna happen once we got to that block. I saw a cop car on Broadway, and I pulled up next to it and stalled the cab out."

"And then?"

"Then nothin'. They didn't do nothin' but curse and stiff me for the ride."

"So what's the big deal?" Mom sounded annoyed at the fear that Dad had brought up into her stomach.

"The big deal is, a cabbie got killed at that same address I was supposed to take them to."

"Oh my God."

"Shot twice in the head. So I went down to the police and told them what I know."

"Whaddya know? You don't know anything." Her voice raised and I heard Dad slurp from his can of Bud.

"I know what I saw and what I felt. So I told the cops. They showed me some pictures. I fingered one of the women."

"Are you crazy?"

"That cabbie coulda been me. I can't say nothin'."

"But what if they find out it's you?"

"Don't worry about it. Nobody's gonna find out. Besides, they probably won't need me to say nothin'. They have prints all over the cab."

"John, I don't know."

"Yeah, well. Just thought you should know about it. Don't worry about it. It'll all work out."

My father was always doing this. He would drop a bomb into your lap and empty out all his worries into your brain. Then, he'd say casually, "Don't worry about it," walk away and snore his way through dreamless sleep.

I didn't really understand what my father had been involved in, but I did understand that what he did was dangerous, and there were people out there who might want to hurt him. That night, I lay awake and listened to him snoring heavily in bed, while my mother chain-smoked in the kitchen. Eventually, I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of working girls with guns hidden in their briefcases.

Sometimes, the cab was as much a source of awe as it was fear. Dad was always coming home with a story about some celebrity he drove, and Mom was always doubting him.

"Guess who I had in the cab today?"

"Who? Who?" I would bounce with excitement as my mother rolled her eyes.

"Jackie O," he said proudly, clearly impressed with himself.

"Oh," I muttered, with a vague image of a woman wearing a suit and a funny hat, holding a little boy's hand.

"Boloney!" Mom burst his bubble with her doubt.

"Whaddya mean, boloney? I said I had Jackie O in my cab."

"Today?"

"Yeah, today. Just this morning."

"That's impossible, John."

"Whaddya you know?"

"Cause I just saw her on the television, over there in Europe somewhere." Mom gloated.

"Oh. Yeah. Well. She had them big glasses on. Looked just like her anyway."

"I bet."

Most nights, when I couldn't sleep, I lay awake and wondered about Dad's life in the cab away from us. I had been in the back of his cab only twice. I used those brief experiences to help paint a picture of his long hours behind the wheel.

On a cool spring day, Mom packed Chris and I up and headed for the train. Chris was still in a stroller drinking out of a bottle, and I was four.

"We're going to Aunt Mal's," Mom explained as we walked to the train that would take us to New York. I puzzled over this, because we had never before gone so far without Dad.

We boarded the first car of the PATH train, and Mom let me stand at the fron so I could stare into the dark tunnel that would swallow our train. I was secretly afraid of the train and the blackness that pushed down on us from all sides. Watching the light of the train cut through the darkness made me feel better.

The first stop was Christopher Street. I grabbed Chris' hand and shook it vigorously up and down, congratulating him for having a train station named after him. I was also a little jealous. Nothing was named Noreen. I couldn't even find a keychain with my name on it. And I had tried. It was the mission of every adult relative to find me a souvenir with my name written boldly across it.

We rode the train all the way to the end - 34th Street. Mom lugged us up onto the street and I breathed in the fresh air of car exhaust and hot dog stands. I clapped my hands over my ears against the overwhelming honks and shrieks of the city. So many legs and shoes and hips breezed past me, and I wanted to follow them all on their way.

Mom smirked down at me as Chris dozed in his stroller. I was anxious to see how we would get out of all of this chaos and make our way to Aunt Mal's.

Mom stuck her hip out and raised her hand up in the air. She was standing dangerously close to the curb. I tucked myself behind her as a cab came screeching to a stop right at her heels. Mom opened the back door and ordered me into the backseat. She picked Chris up and folded his stroller into a straight line.

"Where to, Miss?" A warm voice full of mischief asked from the other side of the plexiglass partition.

"How'd you do that?" I bounced on the backseat as Dad gave me his sheepish grin. Mom and Chris sat down beside me. Mom shrugged her shoulders as Chris lay groggy in her arms.

"Magic.' Dad snapped his fingers, and then went back to business.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Aunt Mal's house in Queens."

"Aunt Mal's house it is."

Dad snapped on the meter and drove us through the Manhattan maze all the way out to Queens. He dodged cars and pedestrians, zooming in and out of lanes like we were being chased. I fidgeted and flitted about the backseat, watching Dad snake through the dangerous traffic.
Much too soon, we pulled up in front of Aunt Mal's apartment. Mom leaned down and handed me a quarter.

"Give your father his tip," she whispered. Proudly, I plunked the quarter down into Dad's palm.

"Thanks, lady." Dad winked at me.

We got up out of the cab and I leaned into the window and pecked Dad on the cheek.

"I'll pick ya up tonight," he said, before he sped away.

The cab ride was all I talked about to Aunt Mal that day. I couldn't wait for Dad to come back and carry us off in the cab again. Much to my disappointment, he came back for us in the Impala. The car ride home was slow and boring. We sweated and sat in traffic. It felt a little bit like driving with Clark Kent after having flown with with Superman.

"You don't have a father!" Joey taunted.

"I do so!" I defended.

"Oh yeah, then why don't we ever see him?"

"Cause he works, that's why!"

"Yeah, well my dad works, and he still comes to my games'n stuff."

"Well, my dad works two jobs," I shouted, thinking this would be enough to quiet him.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it."

Kids in my class always doubted my dad's existence. He never came to teacher's nights or basketball games because of work. I said I didn't mind, but I would have loved to see him encouraging me from the stands just once when I was standing at the foul line or on the pitcher's mound.

One snowy Saturday morning when I was 10, Joey, Michael and I were in my apartment, getting ready for our biddy basketball game. The gym was about fifteen blocks away, and the sidewalks were sleek with ice. Mom was about to call us a cab when the phone rang. The three of us held our breath, wondering if it was the call to cancel the game. I was relieved to hear my mom say,

"All right, John," and knew the game would go on as scheduled.

"All right you kids, go on outside and wait for your cab. It'll be here in a minute."

We rushed outside and waited on my stoop, making predictions about the upcoming game. A cab cut through the snow and ice and slowed in front of my house. It didn't look like one of our regular cabs, and I noticed it said NYC on the side. I slowly made my way down the stairs with the boys following, and almost slid down the steps when I saw my dad behind the wheel.

"Come on!" I shouted to the boys. "It's my dad!" Joey looked skeptically until we piled into the backseat and I kissed Dad through the partition.

"Dad, this is Joey and Michael."

"Hello, boys."

"Hi, Mr. Heslin," they said in unison, suddenly shy.

"Sit back and hold onto your hats."

Dad sped around the icy corner and headed down to River Road. It was a small, two-lane street that curved inches above the choppy Hudson River. Joey and Michael clung to the side of the cab as I glowed with pride. They plastered forced smiles onto their petrified faces, and I saw Dad's sly grin in the mirror. I could tell they thought my dad was cool, and they were maybe just a little bit scared of him. I felt like a real person, with a dad driving a cab and taking me to biddy basketball.

Dad pulled up in front of the gym and shook the boys' hands. I got out and waited for my dad to follow, but he stayed behind the wheel and kept the cab running.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"Nah. Gotta get back to work. I'll catch you another time."

"Okay," I shrugged, not wanting to show my disappointment.

"All right. See ya later." He sped off through the snow as I walked over to Joey and Michael.

"Your dad is so cool!" Joey said.

"Yeah! You see the way he takes those curves. Man, I think I'm gonna puke!"

"I know! Me too! Cool!"

"Yeah," I said coolly. "He's all right."

Joey and Michael had blabbed about our ride to the entire team, and everyone wanted to know when they could get a ride. I played harder and faster that day, knowing that now all the kids knew I had a dad. Even though Dad hadn't set foot in the gym, he had come to my game, sort of.

Life in the cab wasn't always death-defying or action-packed. Mostly, it was exhausting. Dad would come home blurry-eyed after having worked two or three days straight between his two jobs. He would stagger up the steps, grocery bags bulging out of his arms, and grunt hello to all of us. His patience was short and his sighs were deep and heavy. Dad immediately changed into his pajamas, which consisted of a thin pair of cotton pajama bottoms pulled practically up to his nipples, a white guinea-t, and black dress socks pulled up his shins. I could gauge his mood by his dress socks. If he left them on, I knew he was in no mood to talk or even acknowledge us. When tips had been good and he had gotten more than two hours of sleep, however, he would sneak his socks off, ball them up and throw them in my face.

"Gross!" I would shriek and fling them back at my father.

"Wassa matter? Ya don't like feet?" Dad would chuckle. In fact, I did not like feet. I thought they were the most disgusting part of the human body.

"Maaa! Dadddy's throwin' his dirty socks at me!"

"Jesus, John. Wouldya leave her alone? Geesh!"

I waited on those nights, quietly watching Dad's feet for a sign of his mood. Those socks, however, usually stayed glued to his feet.

Dad always came home around eight, and lounged on the couch with a few Budweisers watching television. Then, as we were all getting ready for bed, he'd fix himself something to eat. I never understood how he could eat steak and noodles or spaghetti and meatballs right before going to sleep and still stay so skinny.

I often begged to stay up and watch television with Dad. When the socks came off, I knew it was usually safe to whine my way into late-night television. After eating, Dad rarely stayed awake long enough to watch an entire program. He would, however, struggle against sleep to watch Taxi. Even if Dad wouldn't let me stay up to watch it, I loved drifting off to sleep with its theme music whistling in the living room. I imagined that all of those crazy cabbies on the show were my dad's real-life friends, and I dreamed up dialogue for them.

"Hey Tony, my son's got a bully pickin' on him at school. Think you could teach him a few moves?" or, "I'm a little short on cash this week, Alex. Can you spot me a twenty 'til pay day?"

I pictured Elaine helping Dad shop for my birthday gift, and Louie barking out insults if Dad were a few minutes late. It made me feel safe to dream my dad into a better life - one with friends and laughter and lightness, and yes, a theme song.

Mom and I waited in the frigid exam room. The furniture was modern and sleek, but there were no pretty pictures on the wall to act as distractions. Instead, I noted a sterile tray with sharp instruments, and glass containers filled with cotton swabs and gauze pads. My palms sweated profusely and left damp handprints on the paper covering the exam table. Mom rifled through her purse, avoiding the sharp instruments and my accusing gaze. I had already sworn off any doctor who dared to go digging into my skin again.

The door swung open and Dr. Blank burst into the room. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Dr. Blank had his face buried in my chart. He wore a metallic light fixture around his forehead.

"Miss Heslin...." he started, his face still obscured by the chart.

Dr. Blank flicked a switch on the band around his forehead, and the light shot on. I blinked against its surprising brightness. Mom fidgeted and remained silent next to me as Dr. Blank moved my face from side to side, scanning my skin. I felt naked under his gaze. His features were a blur behind that shining light.

"Uh hmm.... Acne. Yes." His voice purred like a cat. My arms broke out in goose bumps and a shiver crept up my spine. I felt like a specimen on display under a microscope. My skin crawled under the scrutiny.

"Did no one ever tell you not to pop your pimples?" the voice behind the light accused.

"No," I said, confused by the question. I stammered and sweated out my stress. "I mean, yes, I've been told that, but no, I've never popped my pimples." This was true. Seventeen Magazine had warned me against this early on. They promised permanent scarring if this cardinal rule of skin care was broken. Despite never having popped a single pimple anywhere on my body, however, there were reddened pits littering my cheeks. It had been a year since I had seen Dr. Putz. The only change I had seen in my skin since then were the angry red holes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my face.

"Well, dear, someone's been popping your pimples. And they have permanently scarred you."

Dr. Blank's voice oozed like oil. Although I couldn't see any of the features on his face, I imagined him to have a slick pointy mustache that he twirled between his fingers. I didn't trust his voice, or the fact that he hid behind that flood light on his forehead, but I decided to tell him about Dr. Putz's weekly treatments.

When I finished the story, Dr. Blank vibrated with "hmm's and ahh's". The light bore a hole through my eyes, and I was beginning to get a headache.

"Mrs. Heslin," Dr. Blank turned his spotlight onto my mother. I saw her blink against the harsh light. I stared hard at Dr. Blank, but all I saw were halos of light.

"You have quite the lawsuit on your hands. That doctor of yours has marred your daughter's skin. And I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about it."

Dr. Blank turned away from us and scribbled on a piece of paper. He had said nothing of how he would help me, or where we could do from here. I stared blindly at his back, willing the words that were stuck in my throat to come out - do something! I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or me. While I wanted him to help me, I equally wanted to rear my foot back and kick him in the seat of his pants.

He wrote furiously and then swiveled back in my direction. He held out two prescriptions and plopped them down into my palm. The halos of light were almost fading, and I was anxious to get my first look at Dr. Blank's face. I blinked my eyes feverishly, hoping to further diminish the blind spots.

"Stop at the desk on the way out. I'll see you in a month." And then, like a cyclone, he blew back out of the office.

Out on the street, my vision cleared and I was finally able to read the prescriptions I was still clutching in my hand. I read them both and laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Mom wanted to know. I balled the prescriptions in my fist.

"I've tried these both already. Dr. Putz gave them to me. They didn't work." I stuffed the prescriptions down into my pocket, but I knew I would let Mom fill them once we got home.
Maybe they would work this time.

I could see Mom biting her lip and looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

"What?" I asked, somewhat annoyed.

"Whaddya think about what he said?"

"What did he say?"

"About the lawyer."

"Yeah, I can see it now!" I snorted. "'Uh, your honor. I was ugly to begin with. But this doctor made me even uglier. Just look at me. Oh, the horror!' No thanks. I'll pass on that." Mom walked quietly beside me. I knew she felt bad, and I felt bad about her feeling bad.

"What did he look like, anyway?" I asked.

"You know, I have no idea! I barely got a look at his face."

During the three months that I was under Dr. Blank's care, I never got a look at his face. His nose was always buried in a chart or I was blinded by his light. It didn't matter anyway. He was missing the magic I was chasing.

Dad's step was a little quicker when he came home that night. He came right to my room with his keys still jiggling in his hand.

"Well? How 'bout that doctor my friend recommended? Somethin' else, huh?"

"Yeah, Dad. He was somethin' else."

"What'd I tell ya. Ya want a good doctor, go to the city."

"I know, Dad. All the best doctors are in the city."

"You'll see. Everything'll be better now. He'll fix ya up."

"I know. Thanks, Dad."

I heard his keys tinkle together as he put them on the kitchen table. I wondered if there were some way I could affix a light to my forehead. I could blind everyone who stared at me, and then my face would be nothing but a big blank spot.

The dumb six year old christmas-a totally twisted tale-

2007-12-01T17:44:00.001-05:00

WRITTEN BY MY 12-YEAR-OLD NIECE RIZALINA

(Picture this a six-year-old girl and her mother in a kitchen. The six-year-old told her mother there's a Santa. Now who would crush a six-year-old's dreams! Isn't she young enough to believe! Its not like she's 50! Anyway carry on reading my brilliant, terrific, totally horrifying, and a little bit disturbing Christmas Eve.)*****

"Carroll, what are you doing?," said mom.

"Making cookies for Santa!"

"Sweetie I told you there is no such thing as Santa."

(Do you not see how disturbed that is I mean come on I'm only six!)

"Yes there is mom! I mean not everyone rushes to the store. Some families don't have the money."

"Exactly... and those kids don't have Christmas."

"Yes they do!"

"Don't raise your voice lady. I'm trying to have a nice Christmas Eve, see even right now I'm not raising my voice."

"Fine."

"Thank you, now what is that stuff next to your cookies?"

"Carrots for the reindeer."

"If you insist on Santa then answer this one question: How will the reindeer eat those carrots if they're up on the roof?"

"Well Santa obviously has a little container to hold the carrots 'til he gets on the roof. But if you don't believe me just give me a..."

Watch this she is going to totally cut off my sentence just because she knows what I'm saying.

"No you're not getting a ladder. Now go upstairs and get ready for the Christmas party."

(Okay secretly I was jumping off the walls to pick out a Christmas outfit. My aunt had just gotten me a whole bunch of red, green, and gold clothes.)

"Alright."

"Thank you."

( So of course I run upstairs as slow as possible trying to act uninterested. You really know I was insane! Now I pick out the cutest clothes a six-year-old named Carroll can pick out. An average-hint hint totally cute-gold tank to go over a 3/4 cut red top with a green mini skirt and red leggings with gold shoes. Then-warning if you were there this would be mortifyingly horrible, especially if you're six-I hear this huge scream from my 15-year old-sis. You may carry on reading)

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"What's wrong?!?," says my mom.

"There's, there's a, a f, fire!!!!!"

"Carroll come down right now and go straight out the door!"

"Wa"

"JUST DO IT!"

(See she just totally cut me off! Well maybe that time was urgent, but still!)

"Mommy my cookies!"

"You forgot to take them out! Forget it, Susanna take your sister outside right
now!"

(Just then Suza-what I called her when I was six- rushed me outside with tears)

"Is mommy g,gonna be okay?"

"It's okay Care Bear she'll be fine. Don't cry okay it's not your fault I let you bake the cookies I should have watched you you're only six."

"I killed mommy!"

"Oh, Care Bear!"

(Just then I heard a whoosh-like a fire extinguisher makes-then mommy came out with my shriveled cookies that had white stuff on them)

" Do we call the fire thingy?," I asked my mom.

"Well the fire's out and they should have a good Christmas. C'mon we're all dressed and look 1 cookie made it out unburnt."

"It's a heart!"

"See isn't that comforting Care Bear?"

"Yessssssssss, it is"

"So who's up for not telling anyone?"

"Us!," Me and my sister said together.

"Hahahahahahahaha!"

"Well let's get in the before Mrs. Jenkinson get suspicious. Deal?"

"Deal!"

"Deal Susanna?"

"Huh?"

"I'll take that as a yes and the boy across the street is two years younger
then you."

"Ewww!"

(See my sister was in love with the boy next door. She thought he was the cutest. Of course if your sis is totally in love with a boy you become really good friends with him just to call her over and make her get all squeamish. That's just what I didbecause he just thought I was the cute little toddler looking child next door.)

"And he has a girlfriend that is like 5 times prettier that you!"

"Whatever Sheryll."

"It's Carroll!"

"Same good ol' times," said my mom.

(So of course we drove to my dad's sister's place for Christmas-who is totally less interesting than my mother's sister-in-law, the one who got me the clothes-where her totally annoying 7-year- old never stops bugging me and my sister! She screamed at him so many times and I punched him in the arm so many times that in 5 minutes he went crying up to room when gram and Phillip-granpa-said hi. His mom tried to say he had the jitters for Santa but we all knew he was just a pain in the butt who wantedattention and the chance for me and my sister to get screamed at. Oh, sorry back to the story!)

" Hi! Minnie!,' said my mom, with the fakest smile on her face.

"Carrie!," said aunt Minnie obviously knowing my mothers name was Karen.

"Where's Paul?," said my mom asking for her husband.

"Oh, you mean Paula, I've been teasing him all night. He's in the dining room!" said my aunt trying to be cool.

"So you're kissing you sister's a** again," said my mom obviously mad about having to go to my aunt's.

"Listen she can hear and she's just trying to be nice I mean she didn't have to
invite us," said my dad pissed off at my mom's attitude.

" Listen we could have went to my mother's she invited us too and the kids think their others cousins aren't pains a in the a**," said my mother feeling insulted because my dad acted like we were so desperate to go to her house.

" Look it isn't fair that just because you don't like her me and the kids have to suffer.," said my dad standing up for his sister.
"Paul she treats you like s***!," said my mother.

( At that time it got kind of serious and we knew it wouldn't end so we pretty much left the room. Then we heard a crash and we knew it was time to go. Before that day we never heard our mom curse, something must have really bugged her. Anyway we were right and dad ended up having to go to my mom's mother's so here's the car argument.)

" You didn't have to curse like that."

" Well Paul you brought that upon yourself."

" How?"

" No one likes her or her son."

" Oh yeah that's probably because you make it like that. You're setting a bad influence for the kids. You know you said more curses in that room than Andrew Dice Clay has in his whole career!"

" Who is that?!?"

" A comedian!"

" Does anyone know him besides you?"

" Yes he's obviously famous!''

" Sure."

" Just pay attention to the road."

( So about then I realized it was time for my afternoon nap, but I 'm pretty sure my mom slipped a few curses while I was sleeping. So since I sleep forever let's just skip to my granmam's house.)

" Sweetie wake up," I heard my mom say softly.

" Yeah it's time to go in we're here."

" Maybe you should just carry her?"

" Yeah I guess you're right."

( I figured while was asleep making parents had a moment of silence then decided to talk it over. I'm guessing then they pulled over and started macking. Now here we are.)

" Hi mom"

" Hey sweetie. What's wrong you're not usually late? And where's Paul?"

" Oh you know traffic and Paul's outside trying to carry Carroll in."

" Oh that Paul, well your sister's on the balcony necking your brother-in-law if you know what I mean."

" Come on they got married 2 years before Susanna was born, the excitement
wears off."

" Oh no, she just got remarried a month ago. And she's pregnant!"

" No.. what happened to Lenardoni? He was the only boyfriend dad ever liked."

" Like you said the excitement wears off... and you know how active your sister is. Beside you're father only liked him because he thought you're sister should be more conservative."

" Well where's Jule's and his wife I haven't seen him in forever."

"Oh, there in the living room cheering to the football game. You know how much his wife loves football."

" That's funny because Jule's hates football, he was always the nerd."

" Well where's Susanna?"

" Oh, you know her she's probably off mingling somewhere. Where you better go get her. The boy that lives across the street is here."

" Oh no, I told her how he was younger."

" I found out that he's not younger he's just in a lower grade. He got held back three times and I found out he just broke up with his girlfriend."

" Why does she always go for the bad ones? And I bet he didn't really break up with his girlfriend. Some people just want a plate and a side."

" Now sweetie let's just chill okay.'

" No boy gets held back three times without having a reason. That's all I'm gonna say."

" That's all you should say."

" Well I really better go get her."

( Guess what, my dad ran into him trying to make a move! How gross! But it was still funny to see dad leave the party to bring her to a babysitter. Ha ha! Well nothing really interesting happened until dinner when this happened.)

" Why did you fling your carrots at me?!," I said to my 10 year old cousin Taylor.

" I did not!," he replied.

" Oh yeah just like I didn't just fling a piece of broccoli at you!"

" Gross my mouth was open!"

( So after that he flinged mashies at me and missed, then landed on aunt Temira's new husband and we all know how she gets about her men. So my mom and dad rushed me and home. Then..)

" What happened to this kitchen Karen?"

( To be continued.......)

*****( Carroll's words of what you would miss without her.)