Outcast (25 page)

“What the hell! My clothes are gone.”

I stifled my laugh, reaping enormous satisfaction from her dilemma.

“I bet the loser did it,” I heard a voice on the other side declare.

Trina marched over with a yellowed, class-issued towel wrapped around her. “Where are my clothes?”

“What are you talking about?” I played the innocent, infusing my speech with a soured sweetness.

Trina tried to interrogate me, but I refused to allow her to brow beat me into submission.

“You’re not getting away with this.”

“I don’t know
what
you’re talking about,” I said.

She stared at me coldly. So did Liana. They then stormed off to the one person who could help, the one whom they recently made fun of and called
a dyke
: Coach Childers.

By the time the bell rang and I ventured to eighth period English, I left Trina half-dressed in the locker room, telling her troubles to the coach through a waterfall of crocodile tears.

While Ms. Walker explored the literary devices evident in Hemmingway’s
A Farewell to Arms
, I anxiously anticipated Trina’s arrival. I wondered if she’d even show up to class at all. With my ill fortune, she’d be allowed to go home early with an excused absence.

I was behind in the novel. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even started it. So I didn’t understand anything. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I devoted my life up to that moment to the study of Hemmingway, my thoughts were completely ensnared by the net Cassie and I had set afloat.

I heard the door open, and I turned in the hope of seeing Trina. I envisioned her in a hideous getup, wearing a used, plastic bag from the cafeteria, holes punched in it for the head and arms. Or drowning in boys’ khaki pants fastened by a mismatched brown belt, black shoes flopping on her feet, the remnants of a circus clown’s wardrobe. Underneath, a mortifying pair of boys’ Fruit of the Looms with skid marks.

But Trina didn’t enter the room. Mr. Pace did. The collective classroom stared at him. He marched to the head of the class with a slip of paper in hand.

“Noelle, collect your things.”

Mr. Pace loitered at the door. With an impatient fingertip, he guided his glasses along the bridge of his nose. All eyes fastened to me like ticks on bare skin. Students whispered and mumbled while some snickered. Retaliation came with a price.

Our plan backfired. Trina pointed the finger at me. They searched my locker and found the incriminating evidence: Trina’s bathing suit. I had forgotten to get rid of it.

As I slumped in the chair inside Mr. Pace’s office, I watched Trina through the glass door. She was draped in a new set of designer clothes.
Where did she get them?
I wondered. In hindsight, I should have put the bathing suit in the trash. But it was too late to second-guess myself.

“This is very serious. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

The broken lock was displayed on his desk. It may as well have been in an evidence bag labeled
exhibit 1
.

“You don’t understand.” I attempted to defend myself. “She’s the one who wrote loser on my locker.” 

Mr. Pace simply glared at me.

“This is so unfair,” I protested.

“Unfair?” Pace actually snickered. “You’ve been placed on academic probation. Lucky for you, your counselor, Ms. Sherwood, rallied on your behalf. You have her to thank for not receiving a far more serious punishment.”

“Academic probation?”

I watched as he rooted through his head for an adequate response. “Keep your nose clean.”

Ash Wednesday. A season of renewal and rebirth. The desert remained dry, thirsty from the absence of rain. I hadn’t seen Becca since she left the house on my birthday. It had been nearly three months. I had no idea where she was. Out of sheer stubbornness, my mother refused to mention her name. But I knew Becca was all she thought about.

Like every year before it and every year to come, we all went to church during school. Each one us was anointed with tar-colored ashes. After listening to a homily about our Lenten commitments, taking communion, and offering good will to our neighbors, mass was finally over.

Before Cassie and I took off for lunch, we headed to the girls’ bathroom to wash off the ashes. We didn’t want to be ostracized at the local Taco Bell. As soon as we stepped out the door, we sparked our cigarettes. 

I finally owned my own lighter and purchased cigarettes from Cassie. She paid the landscapers to buy them for her. Underpaid, they were more than happy to accommodate. The habit was more expensive than I realized, but Cassie usually let my delinquent payments slide. I think she was simply grateful to finally have a smoking buddy. Soon, I started smoking around
Chad
.

“It’s like kissing an ashtray.”

“Please!” I protested while nursing a Camel.

“I’m serious. It’s absolutely disgusting. When did you start smoking anyway?”

I shrugged.

“It’s because of Cassie, isn’t it?” There was an edge of impatience to his voice that I hadn’t heard before.

“No,” I said. But my defense sounded weak.

“She’s…”
Chad
tried to find the right words.

“What?” I snarled. “She’s what?”

“I don’t like her, that’s all.”

“You think she’s a bad influence?” I asked without expecting an answer. “I’ll keep that in mind,
Dad
.”

Chad
merely glared at me. I didn’t care. Who was he to talk? He was the one who was trying to get me to have sex. Compared to that, smoking was nothing. 

“Can you try to stop?” he asked.

I think I rolled my eyes.

“If not for you, then for me?”

“
God
,
Chad
. It’s not like we always get what we want,” I snapped.

He appeared stunned by my reaction to his concern. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I only wanted him to stop pressing me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I said, reaching out to him. But he backed away, offended by the smell of the smoke.

The school year drew to a close. My grades dropped. I was taken off the Dean’s list and was no longer a member of the honors program. I didn’t know where I went wrong. Many students maintained excellent grades while participating in extracurricular activities. I considered my campaign against Trina a hobby like soccer or photography. There was no reason why my grades should have fallen so dramatically. The important thing was that I managed to pass all of my classes, including Driver’s Education. Summer brought with it two momentous occasions: the end of my junior year and the end of the driving simulator. It was the real thing now. By the close of summer and the start of my senior year, I’d be the proud owner of my very own driver’s license.  

My mother was furious after viewing my midterm report card. She grounded me, but retracted it when she realized she wasn’t getting the results she had anticipated. Her passiveness in regard to my punishment was a direct reflection of her concern for Becca. She was consumed by it, she just never let my father or me know it. I hoped she’d remain equally passive when my final report card arrived in the mail sometime over the summer.    

Trina seemed to back off after the incident in the locker room. Maybe it was a facade. I was sure she was concocting a plan. It bothered me that Trina still spent time with Grace. But she couldn’t keep up the charade for long. At some point, Trina’s puke green color would show through her translucent exterior and she would treat Grace the way she always did—with complete loathing. At that time, Grace would run back to me to recover our friendship.

With Jake it was different. It crossed my mind that he might flirt with Trina the way he did with me. He might conceivably invite her to
Mill Avenue
, stand alone with her against the edge of a building, and lean in closely to her. But with Trina it wouldn’t end there. In my mind, she had a reputation. She’d exploit the situation and take it as far as it could go.

I refused to torment myself any longer with the visions of the two of them engaged in romantic scenarios, which I previously pictured for myself. I thrust the thoughts from my mind. I was simply grateful that the semester ended and summer vacation began.

Summer was a time to earn money for a car—or at least a down payment for one. I applied to Macy
’
s and Old Navy, Red Lobster and T.G.I. Fridays. I even tried Target and Wal-Mart, but I waited too long—all the jobs were taken. I was the lucky recipient of a prestigious position at Mean Jean’s Wieners, center stage in the mall. I never thought I’d have to resort to a job at a fast food place. I was wrong.

I was less than thrilled to wear the standard uniform: a red polo shirt with a tall, hotdog-shaped hat. I immediately learned how to properly cook a Mean Jean wiener, received a crash course in operating the cash register, and was forced to memorize the Mean Jean greeting:
Welcome to Mean Jean’s Wieners!  Would you like to try our famous chili
dog?
I tried their dogs. Infamous was more like it. 

Employment there was a completely humbling experience and did nothing to eliminate my loser status.

Stan, the second assistant manager, was cool. He wasn’t like a manager at all. Twenty-one, he attended film school at
Scottsdale
Community College
and didn’t boss us like Lois, the assistant manager, and Carey, the manager, did. Lois and Carey yelled at peons like me when we were generous with the condiments or if we gave customers more soft drink than ice.

Even at sixteen, I wasn’t allowed to wear much makeup. So before each shift at the mall, I slid into the women’s restroom and rubbed on dark eyeliner and eye shadow. It made me look older and more appealing. Except for the hotdog hat, of course. 

I was always on the front lines. While the tenured employees had the fortune of taking inventory in the back room—we called it
the closet
—I stood out in front in my cardinal red outfit, drawing customers like hummingbirds. I was always afraid of seeing Trina & Company with their new mascot, Grace, traipsing through the mall. I didn’t want them to know I worked at the hotdog place. Grace and I hadn’t spoken since the last day of school, so there was no way they’d find out from her. But Mean Jean’s was located close to the Harkins Theater. Moviegoers had to pass through the food court to get there. If Trina and her friends decided to catch a show, there was a good chance they’d spot me, so I was always on guard. I was three weeks into the job before my anxiety started to wane.

Come to find out, my peace of mind was premature. I happened to glance up while making a chili cheese dog for a customer. That’s when I saw her thundering toward me from across the food court. She pushed her way through the crowds and forged a position at the start of the line.

“What the hell are you doing here?” It was Aunt P. She looked out of place at Mean Jean’s Wieners in her Donna Karan suit and Fendi handbag.

“I’m working.”

The customers scowled at her, mumbling foul words and obscenities. She didn’t care.

“I see that. But why are you
here
?” She made a broad sweep of the establishment with her silken arm and perfectly manicured nails. “This place is a dump.”

Lois, the manager on staff that day, looked like a walking stick as she stalked to the scene. She wiggled her bony finger at me, assuming I was the troublemaker in the scenario.    

“Joelle,” she called. “What seems to be the problem here?” Her tone was accusatory.

“Listen, Swizzle Stick,” my Aunt P overpowered her. “I’m having a conversation with my niece. So bug off.”

Lois’s emaciated jaw fell open. She was the boss of teenagers and not accustomed to being spoken to in that manner.

“Take that hat off. You’re coming with me.” Aunt P showed no concern over causing a scene in the middle of the food court. I could almost see the customer willing me to finish her hotdog so she could move out of the war zone.

“You’re going to get me fired,” I hissed through a clenched jaw.

“
That
would be a blessing.” P waited for me to comply with her wishes. I didn’t know why she was jeopardizing my job. Just because she didn’t have to lift a finger for money didn’t mean the rest of us possessed the same good fortune she did. I had no idea why she even cared that I was working at Mean Jean’s. Most adults would view my job as an act of responsibility, not an embarrassment.

I glared at Aunt P, hoping my look would push her away, knowing deep down it wouldn’t.

“Lady, if you don’t leave now I’m calling mall security.”

I knew my Aunt P, Lois didn’t. Nothing stopped her from getting what she wanted. In that way, she was very much my mother’s sister. No one told her what to do, especially a thirty-five year old manager of a fast food restaurant. Aunt P had money, and she felt it could get her out of any sticky situation into which she had been placed. Even though she was the creator of this outburst, she would find a way to blame it on someone else. There was only one way to resolve the conflict before it grew ugly.

With the unmade order in front of me, I took off my hat and nametag and handed them to Lois. “Sorry.”

“You’re quitting?”

I said nothing. I turned to Aunt P who glowered with triumph. Little did she know that she was going to pay for forcing me to quit my job.

The walk to the car was silent. As soon as we set foot in the parking garage, I laid into her.

“How dare you do that to me! How am I supposed to earn money for a car now?”

She said nothing until we were inside the air-conditioned Mercedes.

“Look at you. Your hair’s a greasy mess, you have mustard stains on your shirt, and you smell like dead pig. That’s no way to show the world you’re a success. You have
outcast
slopped all over you.”

“Well, I’m too young to marry someone, get a divorce, and demand alimony.”

Her hand flew out and struck me across the face. Aunt P had never hit me before, and I knew I would never allow her to do it again. A cry choked in my throat, but I willed back the tears. I refused to let her see me blubber. Even my own mother never hit me.

I stared at her for what seemed like minutes while she measured my reaction. I grabbed my purse and threw open the car door. I heard her beckon to me, but I kept moving. The last thing I wanted was to speak to her or hear her explanation. I couldn’t go back to work, begging for a second chance at a place like that. It would be far too humiliating. My father planned to pick me up at ten-thirty when the restaurant closed. It was only six-fifteen. I lacked the energy to call and explain what had happened. Though I knew Aunt P should suffer the wrath of my mother at some point.

I fished in my purse for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I maneuvered through the parking garage while I lit the Camel, barely avoiding a collision with a Lexus. The tobacco and nicotine poured into my lungs, relaxing me. I needed to go to a place I felt safe, away from the maliciousness of people. I instantly thought of
Chad
. His house was at least two miles away—a torturous walk in the heat of an
Arizona
summer night.

As I made my way onto the street, the Mercedes pulled up next to me.

“Noelle, get in the car.”

I continued to walk, sucking more deeply on the cigarette tightly gripped between my fingers. She followed me. People honked their horns and violently sped around her as she held up traffic. She didn’t care. Just as before, she wouldn’t give up until she got what she wanted. I tossed the cigarette underfoot and stamped it out. With sweat staining the armpits of my work shirt and beading on my face, I stepped into the vehicle. I refused to look at her, only seeing the windshield.

The western sun painted a mirage of ripples on the pavement.

“Let’s get something to drink.” It was her way of apologizing without having to say it.

I sat on the restaurant patio, my arms crossed in defiance. The server set a second
Long Island
iced tea in front of Aunt P. I nursed a glass of water.

P ordered a sampler platter of hors d’oeuvres. I refused to touch it even though I was starving. The last meal I had was lunch. I had planned to buy a chili
dog at break. Now I couldn’t. I remained obstinate. The last thing I wanted was her coaxing me into submission with food. She wouldn’t break me that easily.

Aunt P already bored me with her lecture on the keys to success. All I wanted was a car. I didn’t work at Mean Jean’s with the intent of making it my career. There was no point in arguing with her. She’d always find some way to make herself right and me wrong.

I popped a Camel out of its casing and fired up the end of it. The gesture stopped her in mid sentence.

“Smoking?” Judgment peppered her voice. “Since when do you smoke?”

“You’re not my mother, all right.” I took a long drag on the cigarette.

“No I’m not. But I’m sure she wouldn’t be pleased to know you’re smoking. Besides, this is a restaurant. You can’t smoke in here.” 

“My mother also wouldn’t be pleased to know that you made me lose my job.” Just like
a pound of flesh
and
survival of the fittest
, I had to defend myself.

Instead of arguing, Aunt P took the cigarette right out of my hand and stubbed it out in the water glass. She guzzled her
Long Island
iced tea like it was a container of Gatorade, then ordered another.  

“Let’s end this now, whatever’s going on between us. How can I make it up to you?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” I finally told her. “I’m tired of you making things up to me. Why are you always meddling in my life?”

“You’re the one who comes to me for help, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Not this time.”

The waiter delivered Aunt P’s third drink. I was unsure about how much alcohol was inside that iced tea, but it seemed to be a lot. She was beginning to slur her speech. The table suddenly became a crutch, which she used to steady herself.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Noelle.”

“Like what?” I leaned in. The liquor was causing her to lose her inhibitions.

“Your sister…” It was as though I was no longer there. She spoke to the potted palm. I felt like the therapist, and the wrought iron furniture was the couch on which she lay. I grabbed a mozzarella stick and put it to my lips just like a therapist would a pencil.

I wanted Aunt P to continue. What did she have to say about Becca?

“I took her to
Chicago
with me after the—”

A shade of jealousy washed over me in viridian hues.
Chicago
was for me. As horrible as that trip was, in some way it held some form of sacredness. Now it was tainted by the fact that P shared it with someone else.

P scattered her confession with sips of her brew. “We were getting along great, things were going fine, and then all of a sudden…”

All of a sudden what? I wanted her to complete her thought. What happened in
Chicago
? It was as though she was reliving whatever occurred in the
Windy
City
.

The waiter came over, interrupting our conversation with idol questions about the quality of our appetizers. All I could think was
Go away so she can finish her story!
 

P finally broke the spell that the palm fronds held over her. She looked at me. “She’s still there, Noelle.”

“In
Chicago
?” Now I was spellbound.

“It’s a long story. I took her there to take her mind off of things. She went through a very traumatic experience, and Joyce is not an understanding person. I know,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She never referred to my mother by her first name when we spoke. The booze was definitely affecting her.

“We went out to dinner, and I introduced her to Doug. You remember him, right?”

How could I forget? Porcelain Teeth, the infamous, cheating husband who ruined our trip to
Chicago
. Unfortunately, I would always remember him. I didn’t answer. I was afraid if I interrupted her thought, she would realize she was talking to me and stop.

“Anyway, we were there for a month. We saw a lot of Doug over the four weeks. They hit it off. It was as though I wasn’t even there.” She swallowed the rest of her drink and held a finger up for another.

Aunt P grew angry and bitter as she explored more deeply the details of her trip with Becca. I failed to hear all the intricacies because I already knew what had happened. Becca was still in
Chicago
. With Doug. She stayed there to be his newer, younger mistress. I didn’t have to be on the honor roll to figure that one out.

“He’s leaving his wife for her. Can you believe it?”

The server deposited a fourth drink. My eyes lingered on it. But P didn’t notice because it was quickly lifted to her lips and guzzled down.

I had never seen Aunt P so distraught. I needed to get her out of the restaurant. It was not the place to unload misery. That was reserved for pubs and taverns. Fridays was a family place.