wild horses

Jenny Cho joined our class halfway through eighth grade. She had just moved from Korea, and was living with her aunt and uncle. Her parents still lived and worked in Korea, sending money and letters every month. Our teacher, Ms. Burke, assigned me to be her tutor and help her get settled.

Jenny knew very little English, and the English she did know was often difficult to interpret.

"Where are you?" she would ask me.

"I am here with you, in school."

"No. WHERE are you? I am okay. Where are you?" she would shout, frustrated.

"Oh..." I would finally understand. "HOW are you? I am fine, thank you".

Jenny would smile and nod, relieved to have been understood.

I was happy to help Jenny get acclimated. At that time, I was pretty low on the social ladder in my class. These things seemed to be seasonal. I would have friends and be told secrets one day, and the next I was an untouchable. When Jenny arrived, it had been a long, dark, friendless period. I was hungry for any type of social interaction, and Jenny proved to be a fun companion.
Jenny's aunt and uncle owned a junk shop on the avenue. They sold items ranging from fake snot to day-glow bracelets. They also had rows and rows of tooth-rotting candy, and her aunt would give us fistfuls whenever her husband was busy with customers. Jenny and I would do homework and watch television in the back of the shop. She lived upstairs with her aunt and uncle, but we rarely went up to the apartment. We preferred the small cramped space in the back of the shop, within easy reach of the candy.

I loved the smell of that back room. Jenny's aunt would feed us snacks after school. Some days she would make us a spicy soup that made my nose run but smelled fragrant and delicious. Other days we would have vegetables and rice, which we would eat with chopsticks. I had never used chopsticks before and I felt very sophisticated, though clumsy.

I would often bring Jenny to my apartment after school, and we would practice conversational skills with my family.

"How is you today?" she would beam at my mother.

"ARE! How ARE you today." my mother would correct her, smiling broadly.

"Yes thank you. Is good today."

Eventually, I would pull Jenny away from my mother and we would plop in front of the television, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching MTV. Jenny's tongue would cluck loudly as she tried to pry the peanut butter off the roof of her mouth. Her brow furrowed as she fought with the sticky texture, but she always asked for more when she finally finished her sandwich. I had never seen someone take so long to eat something so small.

One day, we were doing homework in the back of the store. Jenny kept sneaking glances at me over her book.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she smiled slyly and ducked back under her book. This went on for an hour. Jenny would stare at me, I would ask what she was looking at, and she would hide her face from me. Finally, she tore a page out of her notebook and handed it to me. I had to stare at the page for a full minute before I realized what it was.

"You like?" Jenny asked hopefully.

It was a portrait of me, only pretty. She drew my face the way I saw it in my head, without braces or acne. My smile was warm and my large eyes were twinkling. It was the first time I ever thought that I might be pretty. My chest swelled at the thought that this was actually the way someone else saw me, and I was so grateful to Jenny for sharing it with me.

Jenny and I spent a blissful month bouncing back and forth from my apartment to her store. My family invited her along on drives, and her aunt and uncle always gave me a small gift when I visited the store. They were happy that I was a good friend to Jenny, and they credited me for the improvement in her English. I credited the television. Nonetheless, I quickly amassed a veritable fortune's worth of junk from their shop. I had lace fingerless gloves in every day-glow color, black rubber bracelets running up both arms, and enough fart powder to exterminate my entire eighth-grade class.

One day during lunch, Prissy Krissy, who had formerly been one of my lifelong friends, approached us. She flicked a pair of long dangly earrings Jenny's aunt had given me from her store. They were hot pink and had little stars on the end.

"Where'd you get those?" she snarled.

Jenny and I were studying for a spelling test and I ignored Prissy Krissy.

"Concentrate, Jenny. Plateau. Can you spell plateau?" I enunciated the word slowly and carefully. Jenny, however, was not listening to me. She was smiling brightly at Prissy Krissy.

"They from aunt's store. I give. You like? I get more."

"Jenny!" I whispered and tugged on her sleeve, shaking my head. Jenny frowned at me in confusion.

"Oh, I very like!" Prissy Krissy squinted her eyes at Jenny. "I be you friend. You give me earring. I be you friend."

"Tomorrow I bring present. You like." Jenny nodded her head excitedly. Prissy Krissy petted her head.

"Tomorrow I be you friend." With that, Prissy Krissy walked away.

I tried to warn Jenny against Krissy and the other girls, but she was too excited to be making new friends. I understood. Even though we had fun together, it often got lonesome without other friends to interact with. Still, I knew what Krissy and the other girls were capable of, and I knew they would take advantage of Jenny. I tried to explain this, but Jenny held her ears and shook her head.

"Krissy nice friend. She like me now. You see."

Dread settled in my stomach. I knew this would not end well for either of us.

The next day, Jenny came into class with a shopping bag full of gifts. Krissy and the other girls gathered around as she handed out earrings, necklaces, bracelets and gloves. I wondered if her uncle knew how much merchandise she had taken. The girls patted her on the back and played with her hair, telling her how pretty it was. Jenny glowed with all of the attention. I hung back, watching the circus parading around her.

At lunch that day, Jenny excitedly relayed all of the compliments the other girls had heaped on her. Just as I was about to bite into my sandwich, Krissy marched up to us and grabbed Jenny's lunch out from under her. We both looked up in confusion.

"Come on, Jenny. You eat lunch with us now."

"Okay!" Jenny stood excitedly and motioned for me to follow. Krissy put her palm in my face.

"Not her. Just you." Jenny looked torn, glancing at the table full of girls beckoning her over, and then back down at me.

"Go ahead." I shrugged. "Eat with them." I feigned nonchalance, but my stomach shrunk when she actually walked away.

"See you for homework!" she shouted back to me. I finished the rest of my lunch in silence.

While we were in the back room working on math problems later that day, I began to feel better. Maybe I had overreacted to the other girls. Maybe we could all be friends again. I didn't have to worry about Jenny being like the others. She was too nice for that. Just as I began to relax and feel comfortable with Jenny, we were interrupted by a loud group in the front of the store.

"Yo Jenny, come on out here." Jenny looked at me excitedly and ran to the front of the store. I followed behind her sickly, poking my head out of the curtain to see what was going on. Krissy and the other girls were crowded into the store. Jenny's aunt and uncle looked nervously from one girl to the next. They were pushing one another into display cases and pocketing candy.

"Hello! These my friends." Jenny pointed to the girls as she spoke to her aunt and uncle in Korean. Their faces frowned at the loud girls, and they looked back to me for reassurance. I shrugged my shoulders.

Jenny was swallowed up into the group and led out of the store. I picked up my book bag and walked out of the store. Jenny's aunt and uncle smiled apologetically as I waved good-bye to them.

The next day I watched Jenny eat lunch with the other girls. I smiled over at her, but she looked away quickly. As the other girls giggled, Krissy sauntered over to me and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Jenny says she's not your friend anymore. She doesn't want you hanging out at her store anymore either."

"Yeah, right," I said confidently. My resolve cracked, however, when I noticed that Jenny would not meet my gaze. I stood up and walked past Krissy towards Jenny. The other girls formed a protective barrier around her.

"Jenny. We're doing homework today, right? I'll see you later for homework, right?" I tried to look over and through and around the girls, but Jenny was lost in their midst.

"We'll teach her English now," Krissy assured me.

"Hey Jenny, tell Noreen what we taught you."

With that, the girls parted and I stared down at Jenny, whose eyes were focused on the table in front of her.

"Go ahead, say it," Krissy goaded. I waited expectantly, holding my breath.

"Ugly bitch." Jenny had said it right to my face, out loud. She had picked her head up from the table and found my eyes. Her words were perfectly formed, and I could tell she knew what they meant. The girls exploded all around her, slapping her on the back and throwing their heads back with laughter. I quietly walked away.

Jenny began to dress and speak more and more like the other girls. She got into trouble for not doing homework and for talking back to teachers. I watched it all from a distance, sad for her and for her aunt and uncle. The girls and boys in our class all took advantage of Jenny now, putting in orders from the store and threatening to withhold their friendship if she didn't comply. I figured half of the store's merchandise ended up in the hands of our classmates.
The girls encouraged Jenny to call me names whenever she saw me, which she obligingly did. I stared blankly as the new words fell clumsily from her mouth: "fucker", "bitch", and "slut" were words she became more proficient at using. In a strange way, I was proud that her English was improving so rapidly.One morning at the start of class, Jenny came and stood over my desk, smiling sweetly. She looked like the Jenny that I had known, and I felt a stir of hope in my chest. She held out a folded piece of paper and nodded. I opened it and immediately balled it up and stuffed it in the bottom of my book bag. Apparently, the rest of the girls had already seen it and they roared with laughter as my face turned scarlet. It was a drawing of me, very unlike the first drawing Jenny had done. This portrait was grotesque-looking, with exaggerated braces and rampant acne. I concentrated very hard on the blackboard and dreamed of graduation, just a few short months away.
I still have the first portrait, the pretty one that Jenny drew of me. I know that was the real Jenny, and I don't blame her for the way she behaved. Not really. The girls in our class were like a stampede of wild horses. You either ran with them, or you were trampled under their feet. Sometimes, you ended up doing both.

Continue reading...

nikki

I first met Nikki playing softball. We were around 12. I was pitching, and she was up to bat. She rocked back and forth on her heels and held the bat casually, grinning all the while. Right before I threw her the first pitch, Nikki grinned devilishly and pointed her bat directly at me. I balked for a moment, intimidated by the gesture. The ball left my hand, connected with her bat and came whizzing right back at me, catching me in the foot at full speed. The pain was instant. I hopped over to the ball and threw it hard to first base, but Nikki had already rounded first and was headed to second. My team threw the ball wildly around the infield, trying to stop her at any base, but it was futile. Nikki ran like lightning, never pausing for an instant. In a matter of seconds she was crossing home plate again, grinning all the while. She was the home run queen.

Nikki lived with her elderly grandmother in the projects. No one knew who or where her parents were. Her clothing was shoddy, the soles of her sneakers were worn and her hair was unkempt. Her tongue licked hungrily at her lips around any type of food. She never spoke much, but she didn't miss a thing. Her eyes squinted and sparkled, following every conversation within earshot.
My mother would often buy her food - hot dogs, burgers and ice cream from the concession stand. She would never act as if the food were charity though. My mother would buy too much food, and then ask Nikki to eat it so it wouldn't go to waste.

"Please Nikki. Really. I can't eat another bite. It's a sin to let food go to waste."

Nikki would oblige and gobble the food quickly. She would nod in appreciation, but never said

"Thank you." Sometimes my mother asked Nikki to carry a bag or something, and would then slip her a five dollar bill for her help. I never mentioned it to anyone.

There was something unsettling about Nikki. She looked at me in a way that made me cross my arms over my developing chest. Her eyes pierced through my clothing, and her hands hesitated on my backside when she slapped me after a game. She looked at me the way some of the creepy male umpires stared at the players.

Some of the girls volunteered at the concession stand to raise money for softball. I worked there often with my mother and her friend Grace, who ran the league. One day I was manning the stand by myself, serving coffee and grilling hot dogs. Nikki approached and leaned on the counter. She watched as I served customers and deposited money in the cash register. Once all of the customers had been served, Nikki leapt in through the open window and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

"Owww! Leggo Nikki!" I screamed, trying to pry her hand open.

"Just gimme the money in the register." She held tightly to my hair.

"Yeah right," I laughed, "Come on, get offa me!"

"I'm not playin with you. Gimme the money." Nikki's eyes were wide and her jaw was set. Her grip was firm and she twisted my head back. I realized Nikki was serious and fought in earnest to free myself. I slapped and clawed at her, but she pulled out of my reach, never letting go of my hair. With her free hand, she punched at the cash register, trying to open it.

"What are you doing? Get offa her!" Coach Paul approached behind me and rushed over to us.

Nikki's sly grin returned, but she still refused to loosen her grip. Coach Paul picked up a bottle of Windex and maced Nikki in the face with it. She pulled away from me, covering her face.

"Oh shit yo. Why you do that?" she barked.

"Come on Nikki. Get outta here before I call the cops." Coach Paul stood armed with the Windex pointed like a pistol at Nikki. She chuckled, winked at me and sauntered off.

"You all right"? Coach Paul asked.

I nodded, rubbing the fresh bald patch in the back of my head.

"What the hell happened here?" he asked.

"Nothin." I shrugged. "Just a fight."

I don't know why I didn't tell Coach Paul, but I felt the need to protect Nikki. When I told my mom what had happened, her response was not what I had expected.

"Poor Nikki," she said.

"Poor Nikki?" I was astonished. "I'm the one with a chunk of hair missing."

"Oh, she didn't mean it. Besides, Nikki doesn't know any better. She's had a hard life. She has no one to teach her the difference between right and wrong. Just forgive and forget".

I may have forgiven Nikki, but I never forgot the ferocious look in her eyes as she was demanding the money. I tried never to be alone with her after that.

At the end of the season, Grace threw us all a big party at the Elks club. We ate tons of pizza and drank soda. There was a dee jay and we all danced and laughed and cheered when the trophies were given out. It was the first dance I had been to without boys. It was the most fun I have ever had at any dance in my life. I threw my arms wildly and shook my hips, not caring what I looked like or who was watching. Nikki and I bumped butts on the dance floor, and she taught me the words to the song "The Roof is on Fire" (we don't need no water let the mother fucker burn!) All of the adults were appalled. I screamed the words loud and strong.

At the end of the party, Grace announced that there was a surprise raffle. A local sporting goods store had donated a bike, and we all had to write our names down and put them in a hat. It was a purple ten-speed, and every girl wanted it bad. For the first time, Nikki looked like an actual kid when her name was called. She ran up to the bike and hugged Grace long and hard. I saw a look pass between my mother and Grace. Although my mom still denies it, I always thought she and Grace had rigged the raffle for Nikki.

We got too old for the softball league and started high school. Nikki went to the local public high school (sometimes) and I went to a private Catholic school in Jersey City. We rarely saw each other, and when we did we nodded hello. Nikki still looked at me like a guy, and I still shrunk away from her gaze.

When I was 18, I was dating a snooty boy, Gerry, from a snooty family. During the summer before college, I convinced Gerry to take me to a local Italian feast. He was clearly uncomfortable in such a working class environment, but he politely looked down his nose and kept his comments to himself. The feast was pulsating with noise and people and smells. It was difficult to navigate through the crowd. Suddenly there was a surge of bodies around us. A girl fight had broken out. Gerry pulled my hand and led me away from the brawl, but I broke free from his grip when I realized Nikki was at the center of the fight. I shoved and pulled girls aside, making my way to Nikki. Gerry's protests faded among all of the other screams and shouts. When I finally reached Nikki, I grabbed her shoulder and she reared back to punch me. Once she caught my eye, she grabbed my ass and broke into a wide smile. Together, we punched and elbowed our way out of the crowd and back to safety.

Once outside of the fight, Nikki planted a wet kiss on my cheek and walked away, her hands tucked into her pockets.

"What the hell was that all about?" Gerry demanded.

I explained how I knew Nikki, how my mother had looked after her, how she had tried to rob me. It made perfect sense to me, but Gerry couldn't understand.

"So, this girl tried to kill you once?"

"No! She would never do anything like that. She just tried to rob me," I explained.

"Uh huh. And you felt the need to risk your life for her because...."

"I don't know. Cause she was my friend."

Gerry shook his head in disgust. We left the feast in silence. I didn't try to explain it after that.
I couldn't really explain any of it. I had never thought of Nikki as my friend before, but once I saw her in trouble, I felt it tug at my heart - that's my friend. And I had to help my friend. I didn't pity her or feel bad for her. In some strange way, I felt she had been a part of me, and of my childhood, and I didn't want to put that part away. Gerry could not and would not understand that part of my past. He was ashamed of it, and couldn't understand why I wasn't. He couldn't understand feeding other people's kids or grilling hot dogs for softball uniforms. I understood it, and I didn't want to let it go.

I didn't see Nikki for years after that. I had heard that she went to a state school on a basketball scholarship but dropped out. I had also heard that she had done some time for dealing and had had a hard time staying out of trouble.

Last year, I was walking down a street that had been ravaged by a fire. Four houses had been destroyed because of a candle left unattended. The smell of smoldering wood hung heavily in the air, and I breathed it in deeply. A figure walked out of one of the gutted buildings slinging a sledge hammer and wearing a face mask.

"Yo!" the mask yelled. I stopped and squinted˜. Nikki's grin appeared from under the mask. She was rounder and softer than when I had last seen her, and her unruly hair was tied off under a kerchief. She bounded down the stairs towards me, stopping just shy of a hug. We exchanged pleasantries, asked about family. She said her grandma had died of cancer a while back, and she now had a place of her own in the projects. She worked demolition, and said she loved knocking shit down. I was happy to see her, glad to know that she seemed settled and was staying out of trouble.

We parted after a few minutes, and I walked on down the block away from her. I turned to wave good-bye once more. Her eyes were traveling up and down my legs, and I once again had that naked sensation that she had provoked in me all those years ago. I laughed and waved, knowing that some things about Nikki would never change.

Continue reading...

the floater

I awoke in a daze, unsure of my surroundings. There were pink lacy curtains on the windows. I didn't have pink lacy curtains on my windows. My bedroom didn't even have windows. A princess canopy bed sat in the corner of the room. I was on the floor, zipped into an old flannel sleeping bag with the stuffing leaking out of it. My friend Sue was asleep in her bed. That's right, I remembered, I had slept over Sue's. We had stayed up late talking about eighth grade boys and our periods. As I became more oriented, a sharp tension tightened its grip on my lower stomach.

I had to go lo lo.

Lo lo was the term Mom used for what other mothers referred to as poo poo, ca ca, dumps, or, from the better bred mothers - number two. For some reason, Mom made it understood that we were not to go lo lo in public. She had an almost psychotic aversion to public bathrooms.I was somewhat confused by this phobia. This was the same woman who, when I was little, stripped my underwear off from under my sundress and suspended me in the air between two parked cars and told me to make peeps. This was also the same woman who advised me to squat in the surf of Rockaway Beach and pull my bathing suit to the side before doing wee wee. A few minutes later, she shouted a reminder that I was not to drink the sea water.

Realizing it wasn't always possible to conduct all bathroom business in the comfort of our own home, (or in the sea or between parked cars), Mom taught us the hover maneuver. This technique required enormous strength in the thigh muscles. You straddle the toilet seat without sitting, letting your hiney hover above the toilet rim. Then, you let go a strong quick stream of urine, assuring no skin contact with the toilet. Lo lo was reserved for home. Or else. I didn't know what the consequences of skin-toilet contact or lo lo in public would constitute, but I wasn't going to find out.

I was now, however, no where near home or the beach or a parked car. And I had to go. Bad. The zipper on the sleeping bag sounded like cracking nuts as I tugged it slowly down. Tiptoeing to the door, I checked to make sure that Sue was still asleep. I wanted no witnesses to my shame.
The house was dark and quiet. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains. I snuck into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I sat down quickly on the toilet seat. My body was tense, my fists were clenched, and sweat dripped down my back. My eyes squinted shut and my face reddened with the strain of pushing. It was over in an instant. My body relaxed with relief. I wiped and pulled my pajama bottoms back up. Looking down into the toilet bowl, I was impressed. There was a single, large turd floating on the surface. I flushed it down and washed my hands at the sink.

While drying my hands on a cream-colored towel, I looked down at the bowl in confusion. The turd was still floating there. I flushed again. Although the water drained from the bowl and began to refill, the turd was stoic in its stubbornness. I flushed again. And again. And again. No movement from the bowel movement. I was sweating in earnest now, my pajamas damp and clingy.

I could not leave the turd in the bowl. Everyone would know that it was me. Sue's parents used the bathroom attached to their bedroom, and Sue had no brothers, sisters or even dogs to blame.

I had to dispose of my shame.

Frantically, I searched the bathroom for a solution. I pushed aside the shower curtain and surveyed the shower. I looked around the toilet bowl. Nothing. Opening the cabinet under the sink, I found everything I would need: cleaning supplies, paper towels, rubber gloves and a plunger.

I grabbed the paper towels and rubber gloves. Rolling up my sleeves, I struggled to wiggle my fingers into the gloves. I piled several layers of paper towels onto the sink until the roll was bare. I gave myself a cootie shot for good luck. Breathing deeply and squeezing my eyes shut, my gloved hands plunged into the toilet bowl.

My hands found the offending turd and plucked it from the bowl. Resting it on the paper towels, I fought the urge to retch and run screaming out of the house. I breathed quickly through my open mouth, trying to close off my nostrils completely. With the gloves still on my hands, I washed my hands vigorously under the faucet.

Now that the turd was out of the bowl, I had no idea what to do with it. I looked around the bathroom for a solution. It was too large to fit down the shower drain, and the smell would quickly make its way out of the garbage pail. The small window seemed my only option.
I pushed aside the lacy curtains and opened the window. Surely my turd would be mistaken for dog doo if found on the lawn. As I looked out the window, I realized this was no longer an option. An elderly woman was weeding her garden right next door. She looked up and waved cheerfully at me. My hopes dashed, I shut the window and slid down to the floor in despair.
My brain raced, looking for an answer. I visualized the layout of the house, and recalled the half-bathroom downstairs off the kitchen. This was my best and only solution. I would have to carry my turd down the stairs and flush it there, and I had to act quickly. The sun was rising, flooding the entire house with light. Sue's parents would be up any minute.

I inched the bathroom door open as silently as possible. The hallway was empty and quiet. Creeping towards the stairs, I glanced into the kitchen. It too was empty. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. This was my only chance.

Back in the bathroom, I stared at the turd resting on the center of the paper towels. A wave of nausea gripped my stomach. I swallowed it down and steeled my nerves. My fists pumped up and down, readying for the task at hand.

I walked down the hallway with the turd balanced on the paper towels like a birthday cake. My steps were slow and deliberate. Sweat cascaded down my forehead and stung my eyes. The center of the paper towel drooped with the weight of the turd.

I took the steps one a time, exhaling each time I found my footing. As my feet finally met the ground floor, I breathed a sigh of relief. Salvation was just a few feet away.

I walked into the kitchen, biting my lip with concentration. My brow was furrowed. My eyes never left the turd, which I was holding at chin level. My palms were sweating inside the rubber gloves, creating little pools. The turd was dipping dangerously low on the moist paper towels.

Once in the bathroom, I dumped the turd into the toilet. It plopped into the bowl loudly, sending droplets of water onto the rim of the bowl. I flushed quickly and watched in relief as it disappeared with the water.

I came out of the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it with my eyes closed. I snapped the rubber gloves off of my hands like a surgeon satisfied with her final stitches. Breathing a sigh of relief, I heard a sharp intake of air. My eyes jolted open.

Electricity snaked through my entire body. I was stuck to the spot as Mr. Roberts, Sue's father, stared at me, bewildered. He was wearing a robe and had the paper spread out before him. A spoon was suspended below his open lips. Drops of milk dripped onto the table. I fought to meet his leaden gaze.

We remained silent and motionless for an eternity, as if under a spell. Eventually, I shuffled over to the table and sat beside him. I opened and closed my mouth twice, unable to produce any sound. The third time I opened my mouth, Mr. Roberts awoke from his trance.

"Rice Krispies?" he offered, sliding the box over to me without meeting my eyes.

"Mmm hmm," I managed to respond.

I poured myself a large bowl of Rice Krispies and a glass of milk. I was grateful for the snap crackle and pop exploding in my ears. Mr. Roberts' eyes bore a hole into my hands as I dug into the bowl with my spoon. I looked down and realized that I had not washed my hands before sitting down to breakfast.

"Oh! Excuse me!" I gasped, pushing back the chair and running over to the kitchen sink. He studied me as I soaped up my hands and ran the suds over the backs and fronts of my hands, scrubbing my palms together and rubbing my wrists raw. Once finished, I dried my hands on a paper towel and returned to my seat, digging down into my cereal. I gave him a weak smile and kept my mouth full, chewing until my jaw ached. Mr. Roberts eventually averted his eyes and shuffled his paper, quietly handing me the funnies. I nodded my appreciation and read Beatle Bailey with rapt attention. We slurped to the bottom of our cereal bowls with silent determination.

Continue reading...

todd

Todd moved onto my block when I was 12. He was also 12, but had been left back and was one grade below me. Todd's appearance was sudden and mysterious. No one knew where he came from or where his parents were. He moved in with his elderly grandparents, carrying one duffel bag and a soccer ball.

His grandparents were German and spoke little English. Todd spoke little German. His grandmother could often be seen beating rugs out of the second floor window. His grandfather was missing an arm, and kept an empty right sleeve tucked into the waist of his pants.

Todd was, by far, the cutest boy I had ever seen. He rarely wore anything but athletic gear: running shorts, t-shirts, wrist bands and sneakers. His brown hair was straight and hung into his eyes. He had a devilish grin and a dimple in his right cheek. He was good at every sport, but especially liked football and soccer.

Oddly enough, I did not develop a crush on Todd. Instead, I felt the way about him that I would feel about a wounded bird. I wanted to protect him and keep larger birds from pecking at him. I wondered about his parents, though I never asked. Watching his grandmother bark at him in a foreign language, I wanted to take him home with me, feed him chocolate chip cookies and watch television.

The nuns took an instant dislike to Todd. They were as alarmed by his sudden appearance as I was intrigued. Knowing that he had been left back a year, they often referred to him as "the new dumb kid". This was a relief to Joe Marco, who had singularly been known as "the dumb kid" prior to Todd's arrival. The label didn't seem to bother Todd, however. He laughed at any mention of his stupidity, making ape faces and grunting at the nuns. He also openly called Sister Marie a rhinoceros and told Sister Bernadine that she was older than the Bible.

When Todd first moved in, I watched from my window as he kicked his soccer ball against a building. He didn't look lonely or unhappy, but I still felt a tug of pity when I looked at him. Maybe it was the dirt ringing his neck or the extra-worn sneakers he was wearing. It wasn't that he was any poorer than we were. It was just the lack of care surrounding him, the fact that no one seemed bothered by the ring of dirt or the worn sneakers. I grabbed my brother Chris and we headed out to play with Todd.

We became instant friends, or the closest that Todd would allow to becoming friends. He never talked about himself or his family, but he accepted invitations to eat dinner at our house often. He became part of my group of friends, playing tag and manhunt in the summer, having snowball fights in the winter. He felt like a brother I didn't have to share a bathroom with.

Todd was very often in trouble. He was immature and mischievous, even more so than other boys his age. I'm not sure if the nuns picked up on his bad behavior before it started, or if all of their labeling propelled him into juvenile delinquency. Todd was responsible for broken windows, graffiti tags and overturned garbage pails all over town. He rarely got into fist fights, but the few he had were brutal and bloody; he always walked away without a scratch.

We occupied entire days of our childhood on the campus of a local college overlooking the Manhattan skyline. We would spend hours exploring what we called "the trails". This was a five-block stretch of overgrown brush and trees on the cliffs below the college and above the Hudson River. The trails were private property, belonging to the college, which made traversing them even more titillating. Half of our time was spent running away from the "toy cops", campus security. They would chase us with their billy clubs brandished, huffing as their beer bellies dragged below their belts. If we went home without having been chased by the toy cops, we were disappointed by our failure to incite a riot on that particular day.

The campus became Todd's favorite toilet. Even if we were near his house, he'd say, "I gotta take a piss. C'mon." We'd then hike up to campus. Todd would break into a classroom and take a piss on a professor's desk or onto the blackboard. Once he even pissed into the open window of a toy cop's car. We hid in the bushes and watched the toy cop waddle to his car and sit on his wet seat. We rolled around the grass clutching our sides as the toy cop patted his pissy seat with a handkerchief and sniffed at it, trying to place the smell.

Although I was often with Todd during his terror raids on campus, I never participated. In fact, the more bold he became in his behavior, the more uneasy I became around him. The novelty of his hijinx wore off, and I was afraid Todd was going to get caught and maybe even hurt. The toy cops knew Todd by name. They wanted to get even with him for making them look like fools. I wasn't sure what they were capable of if Todd was ever dumb enough to get caught.

A large group of us were on campus one spring day. The trees were in bloom and I loved walking around campus, pretending I was a college student with cable-knit sweaters, loafers and term papers. As I was daydreaming, I saw Todd open the window of a first floor dorm room and peer inside. He stood on the ledge, unzipped his pants and let go a stream of piss. Everyone laughed and cheered him on. I was disgusted with the whole group, and wanted to be on my own away from them all. I waved good-bye and headed down the long hill to my house.

Moments later, as I was rounding the corner, I heard the pounding of feet behind me. I turned and saw Todd and my friends running down the hill towards me.

"Cops! Go! Get out of here. Run!" Todd screamed without stopping as he and my friends whizzed past me. I ran a few steps and was stopped in the middle of the street by two toy cop cars. They jumped out of their cars and rushed towards me.

"Freeze!" they both screamed, veins popping out of their foreheads. I did as they said, figuring I had nothing to fear. I had done nothing wrong, and thought it would be worse if I ran. I rested my hands on my hips defiantly, palms sweating and heart drumming in my chest.

Before I could protest, the toy cops grabbed me by the arm and put me in the back seat of a green VW bug. (At that time, the toy cops had to use their own cars to patrol the campus. And they wondered why they got no respect!) A toy cop with dark, course back hair got into the driver's seat.

"You're in trouble now, missy!" he laughed and sweated into his beard. I shook and felt my face turn red, trying to fight back the tears. He drove me around the neighborhood, and I actually saw Todd walking into his house as we drove by.

We parked in an alleyway, and I cried in earnest. The toy cop looked at me not unkindly, handing me a tissue as I gulped for air between sobs.

"Now look," he started. "We know you didn't urinate on that computer back there. We know it was Todd. You just tell us where he lives and this'll all be over for you".

Once I realized that I wasn't about to be raped, my crying subsided and I sat up defiantly.

"I'm no rat!"

"How about his last name?"

I stared out the window in stony silence. He sighed in disgust, scratching his furry back.

For almost an hour the toy cop drove me around town, looking for signs of Todd and lecturing me about the hoodlums I called my friends. Finally, he drove me home. Before letting me out of the car, he warned that if he caught me on campus again, he'd haul me in and make sure I got a JD card. Getting out of his car, I slammed the door hard behind me. I spit near his tire, proud that I hadn't cracked under pressure.

I was a hero at school the next day. Everyone knew I had been caught and hadn't ratted. I was drilled about what the toy cops said, what they did to me, how I held up under their beady eyes. Todd said nothing, but smiled and patted my back vigorously. I had done it all to protect him, and I still wasn't sure why.

For a while, Todd seemed to curb his wild ways. Instead of terrorizing the town, he would ring my bell, holding his soccer ball, and we'd go kick the ball around. Some days we rode our bikes for hours, and Todd didn't even knock any car mirrors off along the way. This is it, i thought, he's finally changing.

Summer came, and Todd was ecstatic to have dodged summer school that year. His focus was on baseball. He had tried out for little league and was chosen for one of the best teams. His baseball glove, however, was in rough shape, and he needed a new one in order to play.

We walked the streets, brainstorming fundraising ideas. Living in a city, there were no lawns to mow. We were too old for a lemonade stand, and too young to get real jobs. Without realizing it, we ended up at the entrance to the campus. Steve, the oldest and friendliest of the toy cops, was standing beside his Impala.

"Hey kids, what's shakin?"

"Hi Steve," we murmured back. Steve waved us over and we dragged our feet over to him.

"Why so glum? You got no homework to do."

"Yeah, and we got no money either." Todd shot back.

"Whaddya need money for?"

I explained Todd's predicament. As I talked, Todd took off his t-shirt and tucked it into the back of his shorts. I noticed Steve looking at Todd's chest, shirtless and sweaty, and I became uncomfortable. Todd seemed to notice Steve's glances too. Rather than be embarrassed, however, Todd seemed to puff up under Steve's gaze.

Without taking his eyes off of Todd, Steve made a proposition.

"Say Todd, I think I might have a job for you. How's about you clean my car, for say, five bucks?"

"I'd say 15 and you have a deal."

"Now, that's a little steep dontcha think?"

Todd turned on his heels and walked away from Steve.

"Later daddy."

"Okay okay now hold on a minute!" Steve was actually trembling as he fumbled for his wallet.

Todd struck a pose and waited, smacking his lips impatiently.

Steve produced a twenty dollar bill and waved it at Todd.

"Got change?" he purred.

Todd sauntered back and tried to swipe the twenty out of Steve's hand. Steve held tight to the bill, and they yanked on it back and forth. Todd leaned close into Steve's chest and Steve's eyes fluttered. Todd pulled the money out of Steve's hand, and Steve licked his lips.

"Todd, let's go!" I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I wanted to be away from Steve, and away from Todd, back in my air-conditioning watching cartoons. But first I wanted to make sure that Todd got away from Steve, fast.

Steve and Todd continued to stare each other down.

"Why dontcha go on home, honey. This ain't no job for a girl. Todd can handle it on his own."

"Todd, I said let's go!" I pulled on his arm and he leaned close into my ear.

"Go on home. I got this under control."

Todd gave me a gentle shove and I walked away. I wanted to do something or tell someone, but I didn't know who or even what to tell. Before I turned the corner, I saw Steve's fat hand on Todd's back.

The next day Todd rang my bell. I opened the door and he waved a new baseball glove at me.

"Look what I got! And that's not all". Todd pulled a twenty out of his sock.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"From Steve yesterday dummy. You were right there!"

"Then where'd you get the glove?" I asked, feeling that tightening in my stomach again.

"Steve."

"Oh."

"Let's get pizza. Steve's treat."

Todd began to spend more time with Steve: going fishing, cleaning his car, and once going to a Yankees game. Steve looked at Todd like he was an ice cream cone on a sunny day. Todd stared vacantly at Steve, pouting his lips on cue every once in a while.

I began to feel nervous around Todd and spent less and less time with him. He didn't seem to notice or to care. Later that year, Todd was expelled from my school and ended up in public school. That'd didn't bother him either. As long as he had sports and a little change in his pocket, he was happy enough.

Todd played football in high school and did very well for his team. He led them to three state championships, and the coach made lots of promises about his future. Todd loved the praise and wanted more than anything to please the coach. Somewhere along the way, however, Todd started partying hard. He fouled up his last year of high school and got thrown off the team. Gone were the promises of college scholarships and pro scouts. The coach and the team forgot how they had hoisted Todd onto their shoulders, chanting his name. He shuffled around aimlessly, unsure of who he was without sports, or the praise of the coach.

Todd dropped out of school, and for years I heard rumors of his death. I assumed that one of the stories must have been true.

A few years ago I was driving down the street and a wiffle ball hit my windshield. I slammed on the breaks. A doughy man ran in front of my car to retrieve the ball. His skin was weathered but he moved with a certain grace. Todd looked up and saw my face. He smiled broadly, as if we had just seen each other yesterday.

Again I felt it in my chest. That rush, that tightness, that made me want to protect him from the world. We spoke briefly. He told me he lived nearby and worked construction. He seemed older than he should have, not sad, but disappointed somehow.

A car honked behind me and I wished Todd well, driving away. I see him now, on that same corner, playing wiffle ball with boys half his age. As he swings the bat he has that same glimmer in his eye. His bangs are still in his eyes, and his dimple is more pronounced in his fuller cheeks. I feel sorry for every person that ever let him down. And I can't help but feel that I was one of them.

Continue reading...

huxo

It had been a long day. Sixth grade was difficult. I had homework in three subjects, and a test to study for. I dumped my heavy backpack on my bed and headed into the kitchen for a snack.

I ate my peanut butter sandwich slowly, reluctant to start my homework. The house was strangely quiet. My mother had her head out the window, stringing wet clothes out on the line. Chris was at soccer practice. Erin hadn't made a peep since I had gotten home. That was both uncharacteristic and troubling.

After licking the crumbs off my plate and washing the dishes to kill more time, I dragged myself back to the bedroom. There, my backpack sat waiting for me. I dug to the bottom of the bag, looking for my rubber pencil case. My fingers brushed against something soft and wispy. My hand shot back out of the bag. Long strands of familiar brown hair stuck between my fingers. I pulled the bag wide open and dumped out all my books. After upending the bag and patting its bottom, a large clump of hair fell to the floor. Erin's hair!

I breathed in sharply, holding Erin's hair in my hand. The closet door creaked behind me. I tiptoed over to it and jerked the door open. Erin, three-years-old, squatted behind my long winter coat among the sneakers and roller skates. I snapped on the light bulb and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her hair, which had previously hung all the way down her back, was cut into short, chaotic layers all around her head. Her bangs had not been spared and were chopped completely off on the right side.

"Huxo made me do it," Erin exclaimed, eyes still shut. In her right hand she clutched a green pair of safety scissors in the shape of an alligator. Long strands of hair still remained in its plastic blades.

Huxo was one of Erin's imaginary friends. There were three - Bunny, Ho Ho and Huxo. Bunny and Ho Ho were variations of the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Their influence was benign and playful. Huxo, however, was devilish. He encouraged all sorts of mischief in Erin. Huxo had persuaded Erin to hide the cat in the refrigerator and flush him down the toilet. Huxo sometimes committed crimes himself, scribbling over my homework or coloring the bedroom walls. This, however, was the most serious action Huxo had ever taken.

"Maaa!" I screamed, my tonsils exposed.

Erin rushed out of the closet, baring the safety scissors. I backed away from her, hands wrapped protectively around my pony tail.

"Maaa!" I screamed again.

"Shhh! Don't tell. I can fix it. See?" Erin picked up clumps of her hair and stuck them on top of her head. Wisps slid off her head and fell around her like noodles.

"What are you screaming....OhmyGodJesusMaryandJoseph!" My mother dropped the clothespin she had been holding and shielded her eyes, unable to look. Erin broke into a wide grin and patted the top of her head.

"Huxo did it Mommy!" My mother gurgled and gasped, unmoving. I picked up a clump of hair and handed it to my mother.

"See Ma? she hid it in my backpack."

My mother groaned. "Oh God. Oh God. Look at your hair! Look at your head! I gotta get you to the beauty salon. Jesus Christ!"

My mother plucked Erin up off the floor, holding her at arm's length as if she were infected. Erin beamed. My mother held her upside down and shook the excess hair off of Erin, who giggled with glee.

"Noreen. Please clean this mess. I have to get this fixed." Holding Erin like a package under her arm, my mother grabbed her purse and swooped out the door, trailing along a string of JesusMaryandJosephs.

I dutifully swept up all of Erin's hair and hid the safety scissors under my mattress. Piling my textbooks onto my desk, I sighed at the work in front of me. With my math textbook sprawled out in front of me, I reached for my rubber pencil case. It wasn't on my desk, in my backpack or on the floor. I surveyed the room, unable to find it anywhere.

From behind me, I heard the slight creak of the closet door. My blood ran cold. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I turned and saw that the closet door was slightly ajar. With my hands out in front of me, I rushed to the door and flung it wide. Staring into the darkness, I clicked the light on and bent down into the closet, moving stuffed toys and baseball gloves aside. There, behind a bowling ball, I found my rubber pencil case and snatched it out of the closet. I stood and slammed the closet door shut.

Back at my desk, I stared at my homework, distracted. A jumble of equations taunted me. My eyes kept returning to the closet door expectantly. I thought of Erin's innocent eyes, and the fear sometimes in her voice when she mentioned Huxo. I wondered, and a chill shot up my spine. I stacked my books carefully and carried them out to the kitchen table. I didn't believe in ghosts or goblins. The boogeyman had nothing on me. But Huxo...? I decided not to take any chances. Besides, the light in the kitchen was much better for my eyes.

Continue reading...

sweet sixteen

It was that time of year - sweet sixteen season. Sweet sixteens meant parties. Parties meant formal wear and gifts. Formal wear and gifts meant money. And I didn't have any. So, I accepted invitations for just a few of the parties, and regretfully turned down the rest.

I had been looking forward to Marie's party all year. It was the last of the sweet sixteens. She was practically inviting our entire sophomore class. Her mother worked at the local university, and had rented out one of the banquet halls for the party. Marie came from a traditional Irish Catholic family - lots of babies, not a whole lot of money. I knew I would feel comfortable at this party where there would be no pretense of riches. Just a nice hall with meals cooked by aunts and friends. (Marie also had four really cute older brothers.)

My friend Kay and I were going to the party together. Neither of us had any money, and this bonded us. We had two dresses each, which we had put into rotation for different parties and events. For this party, however, we had each bought a new outfit. Kay wore a long flowing skirt and a beaded peasant top, looking very Edie Brickell. I, on the other hand, went the rock route and wore a Robert Palmer "Simply Irresistible" little black dress. My breasts heaved out of the top and I had to keep tugging the bottom down to keep from exposing myself.

I finally looked like a slut!

My mother confirmed this fact:

"You look like a slut!"

"I know!"

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Thanks!"

"You better not let your father see you in that."

She was right. My father would build a basement and lock me in it if he saw me. Luckily, I would be long gone before he got home from work.

Kay and I got ready at my house. We were both giddy with expectation. Our friend Julie was driving us to the party. When we piled into her car, we groaned hello to her new friends, Babs, Yvette and Sandy. We didn't like these girls. They were rich snobs who acted like nothing could touch them. Under their influence, Julie had turned away from us and into someone new. - someone with secrets and snide remarks. Kay and I sat in squished silence as the other girls whispered private jokes and passed around a clove cigarette.

When we arrived at the party, Babs rushed off to a boy on the corner. They argued for a few minutes, and then he gave her a small envelope. Babs rushed past Kay and I, jiggling the envelope at the others and laughing. All four girls huddled into a knot and strode into the party. Kay shrugged at me and we walked in alone.

The party was already in full swing. Girls were dancing while boys watched and made comments. A buffet was set up against one wall, and tables and chairs dotted the room.

"What do we do?" Kay asked.

"I don't know. Dance, eat, sit. I don't know."

Kay and I stood like dopes in the doorway until some girls we didn't know shoved us aside and into motion. We said bashful hellos to some girls from school and headed for the buffet. We piled out plates high and sat alone at a table, thankful to have an activity to occupy some time.

It was an hour and a half into the party. Kay and I had already finished eating seconds, and we were unsure of what to do next. As we debated another attack of the buffet, Babs sauntered up to our table, glassy-eyed.

"You better go check your girl," she slurred.

"What are you talking about?" I scowled. Babs cackled and swayed on her feet.

"Julie. She's a mess!"

"Where is she? What did you do to her?" Kay demanded. Babs found this hysterical. I became furious as she laughed at us. Kay and I stood from the table and looked around for Julie. Babs pointed towards the bathroom. As Kay and I rushed off, Babs called after us, "Your girl can't hold her shit!"

We found Julie in the bathroom, sweaty and leaning against the wall. She was crying and moaning. Kay and I stared at her, unsure of what to do.

"I gotta get this thing offa me. Get it off! Get it off!" Julie tore at her dress, trying to pull it over her head. Kay and I held her arms at her sides.

"What'd you take Julie?" I asked.

"I don't know. A red one, a white one and a blue one. Can you feel my heart? Is it supposed to do that?" Julie pulled my hand up onto her chest and I felt it pounding. I looked at Kay, alarmed.

Kay shrugged. "Let's make her throw up."

"I can't throw up! My insides are burning. It'll tear up my throat, I know it."

"Maybe we should tell someone. Marie's mom?"

Kay's eyes widened. Julie stood up and shoved me against the stall, staring hard into my eyes.

"I'll kill you. I swear I will." Julie said this calmly, and I believed her. She was bigger and stronger than I was. I wracked my brain for useful information from after school specials about drug overdoses, and I had a terrible vision of Julie hurling herself out a fourth floor window. I was grateful to be on the ground floor.

Kay puffed herself up and stood up to Julie. "Look. Either you throw up a bunch of times or we tell someone. Choose."

Julie's ashen, sweaty face glowered at Kay, but Kay stayed firm. I was glad she was my friend.

Soundlessly, Julie turned away from us and vomited into the toilet. She cried then, cursing the toilet and kicking the wall. We held her hair back, trying not to gag.

Kay and I took turns holding Julie up and bringing her drinks of ice water and coffee. Marie's mother stopped me outside the bathroom as I was rushing back with a tall glass of water.

"What are you girls up to? You've been in the bathroom all night."

"Sorry. Julie's having a really bad period, and we're just trying to help her through it."

"Oh, poor girl. Can I help?"

"No!" I practically burst. "She wouldn't want to ruin the party. We have it under control."

"All right. Let me know if she needs anything." I nodded and went back to my post beside Kay.

We spent the rest of the night in the toilet with Julie. She was shivering and paranoid, angry and pathetic. Her puke was on one of my patent leather pumps.

As the party was ending, we were all slumped in the stall, exhausted. We needed to find a way home.

"I'll drive. I can drive," Julie murmured. We ignored her and decided to look for a ride home.

"We'll be right back Julie. Don't you move!" Kay warned. A snore escaped from Julie's sunken head, and we went back out to the party, in search of a ride.

All of the lights in the hall were on. I felt exposed and unglamorous. Three hours ago I had felt sexy and mature. Now I felt tired and old.

Most of the people we knew had already left the party. We asked the few remaining guests for a ride, but no one had room for us. In desperation, we called Kay's older sister Nell, who went to a nearby college. When Nell picked up the phone, Kay looked at me, rolled her eyes and hung up.

"Drunk," she explained.

As we were brainstorming by the phone, a rush of giggles shot past us. Babs, Yvette and Sandy were ushering Julie out of the party. Julie allowed herself to be swept away by their arms. We chased them out onto the street.

"Hey! What are you doing?" I shouted after them.

"What does it look like?" Babs shot back.

"Julie! Come on. We got a ride," Kay pleaded. Julie held up her car keys and jingled them at us.
"I got a ride!" She opened the car door and they all piled in, with Julie in the driver's seat. I started after them but Kay grabbed my arm.

"Let them go. There's nothing we can do." We stared off as the car peeled away.

"How much have you got?" Kay asked.

"About 75 cents. You?"

"Not a thing."

"What do we do?" I asked, feeling a panic rise in my throat.

"Who can we call?"

"Your mom?"

"You know she's passed out drunk by now," Kay answered curtly. This was true. Both of Kay's parents were alcoholics. They weren't mean or violent, but they were dedicated drunks.

"Your dad?" Kay offered hesitantly.

I bit my lip as I considered this. My dad worked two full-time jobs. He worked for the Department of Health during the day, and drove a cab in New York nights and weekends. He got very little sleep, and was often cranky with exhaustion. It was 11 o'clock on a Friday night. My dad had probably come home at 9 and gone right to sleep, only to wake up again at 2 am to drive the cab. I really did not want to wake him. More importantly, I did not want him to see me in my slutty dress.

As we watched the last of the guests leave, I reluctantly called my dad. His voice was gruff and thick with sleep. I explained the situation, and asked if he could come for us. There was silence, followed by a long exhale.

"Where are ya?"

I gave him directions, intermittently thanking him and apologizing.

"See you in 15," he said, and hung up on another apology.

Kay looked relieved, but I felt heavy with guilt and fear. What if my father fell asleep behind the wheel? What if Julie crashed into him and killed him because I had let her drive stoned? What if my father refused to let me in the car with my slutty dress? My fears were endless.

Kay and I stood on the corner, waiting for my father. Although he was a New York City cab driver, he could never find his way around Jersey. I watched eagle-eyed for his long shark of a Buick to come barreling down the street, afraid he might pass us by.

Kay pressed close against me, digging her Lee press-on nails into my arm.

"Ouch!" I shouted. She lowered her head close to mine.

"Look," she murmured, gesturing to my right.

There were two slimy men looking us up and down, slowly approaching us. One was short and greasy, the other tall and missing a front tooth. The short one nodded beyond us and I turned around. A third man was approaching us from the left. He was large and muscular, much more menacing. The three men closed in on us, and I began to cry.

"I can't believe this is happening. Julie's off killing people with her car, my dad is probably lost and I look like a total slut. Now we're going to get raped. Great!"

The three men surrounded us. Kay put her quivering arm around my shoulder protectively. I cried softly, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"Hey, got a light?" the thin one asked, biting down on a cigarette.

"We don't smoke," Kay barked. I cried harder. The big guy patted my arm and I cringed.

"Don't cry sugar. We're gonna party." I recoiled, snot running down my nose.

"Leave us alone. We're just kids!" I shouted.

The tall one cackled and tugged on Kay's skirt.

"You don't look like kids." As the three men laughed, I heard Kay whimpering beside me.

I turned to the street and saw the long white hood of my father's car. I jumped off the curb, waving my arms. My father slammed on the brakes and the would-be rapists backed off. Kay and I scrambled into the back seat, shaking and sobbing with relief.

My father made a U-turn and stopped at a red light. Kay and I held each other.

"What was all that about?" Kay and I choked out our story, about Julie and Babs, Kay's sister, the thugs on the corner. My father's face was angry and tense, but softened as we spoke.

The light turned green. As my father was about to drive, there was a squeal of tires all around us. Three large cars surrounded us. Several meaty men got out of the cars and approached us, two on the passenger side and two on the driver's side. This sent us into a fresh round of hysterics.

My father rolled down his window. The men peeked into the car, looking us up and down.

"Sir, why did you just pick up these women?" one of the men asked. Kay and I stopped crying, confused.

"What?" my father demanded. The man ignored my father, leaning further into the car, staring at us as the other men looked on.

"Ladies, Jersey City PD. Did this man offer you money for...favors?"

"Oh. My. God!" Kay shouted.

"What? What?" I was completely confused.

"They think we're hookers!" Kay shouted, shoving my arm.

"I can't believe your mother let you out wearing that!" my father's face turned scarlet. "Officer, this is my daughter and her friend. I'm picking them up from a party."

The officer nodded his head, embarrassed.

"Sorry sir. We're working a sting in this area, and we saw the girls on the corner talking to those men. Then you showed up. You can see how...."

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"Wait a minute," I shouted, leaning up towards the cop. "You saw us? You saw those men harassing us? Why didn't you help us?" I was livid.

"Don't press your luck!" my dad shot back angrily. "Is that all officer?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. And I'm also giving you a warning. U-turns are illegal. Understood?"

"Yeah yeah. Got it. Thanks a lot."

"Now get these girls home." The cop tapped the roof of the car, and they all sauntered back to their cars. My father mumbled curses while waiting for them to pull away. He turned and glared at us, shaking his head. We drove home in silence.

When we got home, my father went back to sleep for an hour before getting back up for work. I changed into pajamas and scrubbed off my make-up. I was still awake when my dad got back up for work. I heard him sighing and yawning as he got dressed. I wanted to go to him and somehow make it better, but I didn't know how. He would have to be out working all night again, and he would be extra tired because of me.

As he unlocked the front door I listened for him to leave, but he didn't. He walked to my bedroom and stood in the doorway, listening. I waited, unsure if I should speak.

"You can always call. I'll always come for you."

"Okay," I whispered into the dark.

"Get some sleep."

I heard him walk out and lock the door behind him.

At school on Monday, Julie acted like nothing had happened. We assumed she hadn't killed anyone on the way home. Kay and I didn't see her much after that.

I threw away the little black dress and the puke pumps. Sweet Sixteen season had finally come to an end. I felt lucky to have survived it.

Continue reading...

awake

"Why do we have to go to the awake?" my 7-year-old brother Chris asked from the swamp that was our back seat.

"It's not an awake. It's a wake. And we're going to pay our respects," my mom answered, a Salem Light clenched in her fist.

"I don't wanna go!" my brother whined.

"No one wants to go," my father added, slamming his fist on the steering wheel as we waded in traffic.

"Don't start John. He was my father's brother".

"My cousin Harry died last year and you wouldn't go to his wake."

"Oh please John. When was the last time you even spoke to your cousin Harry?

"I didn't have a chance. He was away."

"For bank robbery! What do you...."

"Wahhh!"

The argument was interrupted by my sister Erin squealing and sweating in her car seat. Chris and I covered our ears.

"What is it Erin?" my mother asked, annoyed.

"My stomach hurts!"

"Me too," Chris and I echoed.

"Here we go again!"

"It's not their fault John. They get car sick".

"There's no such thing. It's all in your heads. We're almost there."

During every car trip, one or all of us would complain of car sickness, and my father would tell us it was in our heads. That is, until one of us projectile vomited from the back seat into the ash tray on the dashboard.

"They're hot John. Can't you get this thing fixed?" my mother flicked the air conditioning vent.

"Whaddya talkin about? It's fixed." My father blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

Erin's screeching persisted. She was two, and hated the car seat more than spinach. This was back in the day when parents only had car seats to pile groceries on top of. My mother told me to take Erin out of the car seat and pass her up front. Erin wailed and kicked and cried, wanting to get out of the car as much as the rest of us. My mother tried to soothe her by shouting in her ear,

"Enough now! Stop your nonsense." Surprisingly, this tactic did not work.

"Jesus Christ!" my father began, "You have no control over these kids. Can't you do something? I can't drive like this."

Erin's screaming had trickled down to hiccuping sobs. Her face reddened in a familiar way, and she became eerily silent. I pushed against my brother and we hunkered down against the back seat. Erin's cheeks rounded and her eyes bulged. "Maaaa!" I tried to warn my mother, but it was too late. Erin let out a stream of vomit that completely covered my mother and the front seat.

Chris and I screamed. My mother gagged. My father goddamned us all. Everyone was scrambling and hysterical. Everyone but Erin. She wore this marvelous self-satisfied grin, and rested her head on my mother's filthy shoulder, ready for a nap.

We pulled up in front of the funeral home. My father shut off the car and opened his door. Chris and I fell out into the parking lot, holding our noses and our stomachs. My father opened my mother's door and backed away. My mother emerged, puke dripping off of her and Erin.

"How'm I gonna go in there like this?" she asked my father, holding Erin out away from her.

"You and Erin go in and clean up. I'll take these two in."

My father did his best to clean the puke out of the car while we stood sweltering in our dress clothes. When he finally finished, he walked us inside the funeral home, warning us to behave or else. He saw some relatives at the door and stopped to shake hands. Chris and I took this as our chance to escape and explore. In the misery of the car ride, I had almost forgotten my excitement at going to see my very first dead body. Chris and I had talked about it the entire night before. What would he look like? Would he smell? If we touched him, would his skin crumble like dust or feel hard like a stone? We were practically vibrating with anticipation.

People were milling about, smoking and laughing as if they were at a party. We scoured the room for the body but didn't even see anyone crying, so we continued into the next room.

"Where is he?" Chris asked. I shrugged.

"What's he look like?"

"I don't know! He's the one laying down."

Chris crept closer to me.

"I do and I don't wanna see him."

"Me too." I took Chris' hand.

We entered a large quiet room full of pungent flowers. The lights were turned down low. We were frightened and clung to each other. Towards the back of the room, a very old woman was laying in a reclining chair. She was wearing a black dress and had a black veil over her white wiry head. Her eyes were closed and her hands were folded across her stomach. Her mouth was slightly open.

"What's that?" Chris whispered. We inched closer, holding our breath.

"Is that him?" I shoved his shoulder.

"No stupid. It's a woman. She's wearing a dress!"

Chris rubbed his arm and sulked. "Boy babies wear dresses when they're baptized!"

I rolled my eyes at his ignorance, yet I wondered.... We crept closer until we were eye level with her head. We stared hard. Chris was breathing heavily through his mouth. I covered his mouth with one hand and covered my own with the other.

"Is she alive?" Chris asked through my fingers.

"Shhh!"

Chris held up a trembling finger and inched it closer and closer to the woman's face. As Chris' finger hovered a hair away from the woman's face, we looked at each other, eyes flung wide open, chins quivering. Chris squinted his eyes shut and plunged his finger into the woman's doughy cheek. An eyeball opened, red and veiny. Our mouths shot open to reveal our scarlet tonsils.

"Ahhhhh!!!"

The woman sat up, confused and ancient, but alive. Chris and I ran screaming out of the room, past our parents and Erin, past the smoking and laughing mourners.

We ran out to the car and locked ourselves in, huddled together in the back seat with the windows rolled up. We pinched our noses and fanned ourselves.

"It smells like Erin's puke!" Chris complained.

"Shut up! Would you rather be in there with that?"

"No way!" Chris shuddered at the thought.

We sweated and waited for my parents to come out, choking on the stench of Erin's vomit. I wondered which of us would be the one to puke on the drive home.

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white trash queen

Madeline was my rich friend. Well, she wasn't exactly rich, but her father Stan was. He drove a convertible porsche and had a young, blonde girlfriend. Madeline was my only friend whose parents were divorced. I thought that was tragic and romantic. The rest of our parents, despite hating one another, stayed together FOR THE CHILDREN.

I wanted to be Madeline so badly. Her parents never spoke, which meant she never had to listen to them fight. Stan sent her mother fat checks every month, and Madeline got everything she ever wanted. Stan drove us around town in his convertible and took us for rides on yachts. (My father had always dreamed of having a boat. When I was seven, he found a little motor boat somewhere and fixed it up. One day, we towed it out to Queens, and my father and I set out for our sea voyage. Luckily, we were only in three feet of water when it sunk into the sand. We walked out of the marsh and back to the car, sodden and defeated.)

Madeline's mother Martha never liked me very much. In fact, I suspect she thought I was white trash. I'll cite the following examples:

Case # 1: I was biting my nails in front of Martha. She grabbed my nubby finger out of my mouth, examined my nails and exclaimed "Have you never heard of a manicure?" Her face turned into dried prunes as she scowled down at me.

Case # 2: I was having dinner at a fancy restaurant with Madeline and her mother. (My family never ate out in restaurants. Sometimes on Fridays we ordered a pizza.) I surveyed the menu and read one item after another that I was unfamiliar with - chicken piccata, veal marsala, shrimp diablo. The list was endless. Finally I saw something I recognized - chicken fingers! When the dishes were placed on the table, I pulled the chicken fingers in front of me and went to work, dipping the chicken into the honey mustard and relishing the flavor. Madeline and her mother kept staring at me. As I licked my fingers clean over my empty plate, Martha glowered at me. "I suppose you don't spend much time in restaurants. Appetizers are shared, not hoarded". Woops.

Case # 3: Okay, I don't even remember what I did that time. Martha sucked her lip, stared straight at me and said "That girl is white trash!"

Martha, in my opinion, was in no position to judge me. The only reason she had money was because Stan had gotten her pregnant on their first date and her father threatened to kill him if Stan didn't marry her right away. It was rumored that Martha's father had done some "contract" work for a mob boss, so I guess Stan took him at his word and ushered Martha straight to city hall. Seven months later Madeline was born. Three months after that, Stan moved out, and the big checks started rolling in.

Martha never recovered from the divorce. She had been working as a mechanic's secretary when Stan knocked her up, and she had thought the dirty days of work were far behind her. She hoarded the checks Stan sent her and spent very little on Madeline. Martha talked about money incessantly: how much she had, how much things cost, how she was afraid she would somehow lose money. When we were 13, there was an ice storm. Even though Martha had paid some boys to shovel her sidewalk, an old man fell and broke his arm on her property. The old man sued Martha. Her insurance covered everything, but Martha's premiums rose and she bemoaned this fact on a daily basis.

Much to Martha's dismay, Madeline often invited me to spend the night at her house, especially in the summer. Madeline belonged to a pool that my family could not afford, and I went to the pool as her guest as often as I could. On a steamy July morning, Madeline and I jumped out of her canopy bed and raced each other to the shower. I beat Madeline by a foot.

Against character, Martha had just had the entire bathroom redone. The shower was newly tiled and the walls were freshly painted. New silver fixtures decorated the sink. As I entered the bathroom, Martha scolded me to keep everything neat, and warned me not to get water everywhere. I mocked her voice as I stripped off my pajamas and climbed into the steaming shower.

After using plentiful amounts of Martha's fancy smelling soaps, I was about to turn off the water when I noticed that I needed to shave my legs. (I had been shaving for less than a year, and had not yet mastered the art of shaving without butchering myself.) I lathered soap all over my legs and rested my foot on the built-in soap dish on the side of the shower wall. I had an especially hard time shaving around my ankle, which would end up looking like a carved pumpkin if I wasn't careful. I bit my lip in concentration and put all of my weight on the soap dish, trying to navigate delicately around the ankle bone.

And then, it happened. A snap, a slip, and I was on my back, water pelting me in the face. I squinted my eyes and sputtered water out of my mouth, trying to determine what had happened. My head was sore where I konked it on the side of the tub. A thin trickle of blood was trailing down my foot from my ankle. The soap dish lay in a broken mess beside me, and new white tiles were crumbling off the shower wall. I had snapped the soap dish off the wall. I had ruined the brand new shower. I was white trash.

I scrambled to my feet and bit my nails, trying to think up a way to pay for the damage I had just done. If I baby sat every day for the next six years, maybe. But what of school and softball and bike riding? I would have to give it all up for this stupid shower with its white tiles and expensive shampoos. I was doomed.

My mind raced. In an instant, I saw the answer sprawled out before me. Or rather, I saw myself sprawled out in the shower. I laid back down in the shower, limbs akimbo, and threw a bottle of conditioner hard against the shower wall. "Ouch." I screamed. Not sure if I was loud enough, I howled again and again. "Ouch! Ouch! Somebody please. Help me. I've fallen and I CAN'T GET UP!"

Within seconds, Martha and Madeline raced into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. I didn't care that I was stark naked, or that they were the first two people to see me so since I had "developed". I clutched my head and moaned, "The pain! The pain!" Madeline laughed hysterically, as all good friends do when one is injured. Martha, however, looked stricken. She shut the water off and bent down to me. "What happened? Is anything broken?" I braced myself for the onslaught of names that was headed my way. "The soap dish and the wall are broken". "No! I mean is anything broken ON YOU?"

Martha looked absolutely terrified. I realized then that she was afraid I had hurt myself in her house, and she would be responsible. I hadn't considered this. I had only faked the second fall to escape blame for the wrecked shower. I now had the upper hand!

I stood slowly, alternately holding my head and my back. "I...think I'm all right. A towel, please, hand me a towel." Madeline threw a towel at me and Martha wrapped me in it like a broken bird. She guided me into Madeline's bed, sitting me gingerly upon the comforter and checking me over for bruises and brakes. I was her new pet. She cooed and clucked over me, as her eyes calculated how much this could run her.

Once I was dressed and dried, with a cup of tea in front of me, Martha finally asked: "How did this happen, dear?" Dear? She was more afraid than I had thought. I choked back a tear, signifying how terrible it was to relive the moment again. I stammered out my story. How my feet went out from under me as I tried to turn the water off. How, possibly, the new tiles were just too slippery. It was awful. The pain. My neck, my back, my head. With that, I folded up into myself and Martha petted my head.

Later, sitting by the side of the pool, Martha brought me iced tea and rubbed sunscreen on my sore back. It had taken some work to assure her that I didn't need to see a doctor, but I eventually convinced her that the sun and the pool would soothe my sore bones. She doted on me from that day forward. Finally. I felt like the white trash queen I was meant to be.

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make out

My first real boyfriend, Dom, and I were on my couch. I was 14, he was 15. We had known each other practically from birth. We had been going out for a couple of weeks. There was lots of hand holding and some kissing on the lips, but no tongue or touching anywhere that would make you tingle. This was to be our first make-out.

Dom and I were a tangled mess of limbs. At first, teeth were gnashing into teeth. Tongues were searching aimlessly. Hands wandered and were put back into their proper place. After a clumsy beginning, we found a rhythm and I started to enjoy myself. It felt natural and electric to have this boy's tongue inside my mouth, to feel him pressing against my fully-clothed body. I relaxed into his arms, relieved to finally be experiencing what I had dreamed of and read about for ages. Love and sex! (By sex, I meant making out and rubbing against one another.)

Dom pulled away from me, panting. His eyes were shining and his lips were lollipop red. He nuzzled into my neck and whispered, "Hey. Know what I want you to do?" My body stiffened and my heart pounded in my ears with the fear of all he could ask me to do that I a) wouldn't want to do, or b) wouldn't be able to identify. I reluctantly croaked, "What?" His body arched towards mine with expectation. "Rub your tongue across my lips. Like lipstick." I was both confused and repulsed at the same time. "Huh?" After ten minutes of making out, I wasn't ready for anything kinky. Yet.

Dom pulled me in close to him. I felt his whispery breath on my chin.

"You know. Like this."

With that, he closed his eyes and poked his tongue out of his mouth. He then ran the tip of his tongue around and around my lips. It felt slimy and wet, like an eyeball. I had to fight the urge to pull away from him and roll off the couch to safety. His face was so earnest I wanted to laugh and throw my hands up, fed up with all of this gross sex stuff already.

It went on for days. His fingers dug into my hips as he moaned and gyrated next to me. "Oh yeth," he lisped with his tongue between his lips. My eyes widened and rolled up to the ceiling. My shoulders touched my ears as the shivers shot up and down my spine. I felt like I would scream in agony if he didn't stop soon. I sensed him slowing down and tried to compose myself before he opened his eyes and saw the look of disgust on my face. When he finally pulled away from me, Dom was beaming with pride. He was so pleased with himself I wanted to puke.

"You like?" He was my boyfriend. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. My mother had told me you had to make some sacrifices in a relationship, but I thought that meant letting my dad have a fish tank. I shrugged my shoulders as my face reddened. I gave my best ambiguous smile while trying not to laugh. Dom could barely contain himself. "My turn!" He closed his eyes and puckered his already chapped lips, leaning in close.

I stared at his expectant face. Reluctantly, my tongue poked out of my mouth like a turtle's head leaving its shell. I felt ridiculous.

I poked Dom's lips with the tip of my tongue several times.

"Oh baby..." he moaned and groaned and twisted on the couch.

I continued pecking at his lips, 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 7-Up.

"That was amazing. The best I ever had." I bristled at these words. I wasn't jealous that Dom had dated and kissed other girls. In fact, I knew and liked his previous two girlfriends. That was part of the problem. I now had a clear mental image of Liz, Julie and I all standing in a line with our tongues poked out, reluctantly waiting to lick Dom's lips to his content. I didn't want to be a lip licker.

Our love fizzled six weeks later. I don't really remember why. It seemed to involve a he said/she said regarding my whereabouts, or his whereabouts, or whereabouts I would and would not put my tongue. Our break-up meant that I had to take a different bus to school in the morning, and the mix tape of power ballads he had made for me was locked away in the closet. It was fun to break up, to have my girlfriends console me, and to look at new boys with a question in my eye. But mostly, it felt good to reclaim my tongue, and reserve any and all licking I chose to do for ice cream.

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