Outcast (6 page)

My dad pulled away, not allowing her to continue with her threats.

“You’re welcome,” I yelled at the rear bumper as they drove down the street.

I changed my clothes and took my time rummaging for garbage bags. Though I didn’t relish the idea of cleaning up the front yard, it was certainly better than attending mass. If I worked quickly, I would have the house to myself for well over an hour.

I carried the entire box of ten-gallon bags outside. Picking up the monumental strips of paper proved more difficult than I’d initially imagined. It grew especially challenging to remove the sheets from the cacti. The tissue attached itself to the shards of cactus needles, tearing and eventually embedding itself within the recesses of the plants.

I decided to take a break from the cacti and turn my attention to the treetops. Dragging a full-sized ladder from the garage, I stationed it beside the orange tree. As I climbed the rungs, a car rolled down the street and slowed in front of our house.

“Toilet paper goes in the bathroom, not the front yard.” Trina catcalled from the passenger’s seat of a shiny blue BMW.

Liana smirked from the back seat. Some guy I had never seen before drove. I was so caught off-guard by them that I lost my balance and spilled from the ladder, crashing hard on the front lawn. A sharp pain screamed from my right ankle, but it didn’t hurt as much as the humiliation of knowing Trina and Liana witnessed the whole thing.

“At least the toilet paper broke your fall.” Trina squealed with laughter as the tires of the car peeled away.

So they were the ones who so thoughtfully decorated our lawn. Revenge for the whole
Chad
episode. She set out to pay me back, and she did. Unfortunately, she received the added bonus of watching me plummet from the ladder.

I tried to stand, but my ankle was too weak. I fell back down amidst the strips of toilet paper and looked at the front yard. It seemed worse than before I started cleaning it.

They simply weren’t going to get the best of me. No matter what they did, I would show them how strong I was. But in that moment I didn’t feel strong at all, so I dropped my head in my hands and cried.

I limped into the house, leaving the mess for someone else. My ankle swelled, so I stuffed ice into a sandwich bag and placed it on my injury. I turned on the television in the living room and flipped through channels. I didn’t even notice the time until I heard the car pull into the garage. I knew I was in for it, but I really didn’t care. The back door slammed, and my mother’s heels clomped on the kitchen tile.

“Noelle, I thought I told you…”

She caught sight of my swollen and elevated foot.

“What happened to you?”

“I fell off the ladder trying to clean the toilet paper from the tree.”

My dad stood in the archway to the living room. I heard him snicker. My mom, on the other hand, rushed over to investigate, as though she didn’t believe me.

“Let me see it.”

It was red from the ice and obviously swollen.

“Does it hurt?” She moved it in a way I was sure it shouldn’t be moved.

“Ouch.”

“Jack, pull the car out again. We’re taking her to the emergency room.”

Sprained ankle. So Monday morning, I hobbled into school with crutches. I related the entire story to Grace, hoping it would make her see Trina for who she really was.

“How do you know it was her? Did you actually see her do it?”

“Well no, but…”

“Why would she do that anyway?”

I definitely couldn’t tell Grace my theory. It would set off another flood of tears at the Grace Hallaran Water Works.

“Come on, Grace. Don’t you think it was pretty convenient that she just happened to drive by?”

Grace shrugged. “Maybe it was a coincidence.”

Grace sped up on purpose. I limped along to keep up.  

“Slow down, will you?”

“I can’t see Trina TPing a house.”

“How can you still defend her after what she said to us on Saturday night?”

“Maybe she was trying to be funny. I took it the wrong way and acted like a big baby.”

There was no question that Grace acted like a baby, but I held serious doubts about Trina’s sense of humor. The comment was a joke all right, and Grace and I were the punch line.

We headed in the direction of our World History class. As we turned the corner, the toilet paper queens, Trina and Liana, stood outside the doorway. They stared at my crippled foot and crutches as I made my way toward them. My nerves short-circuited. I didn’t want to pass, much less confront them. My immediate urge was to turn around and skip class altogether.

“Come on, Noelle. The bell’s about to ring.”

I tried to ignore the two of them as I slogged by, but they didn’t allow me to safely pass.

“Hey Liana, look at the gimp.”

“Yeah, I heard she had an accident in her front yard.”

“Oh, she had an accident all right. That’s why she needed all the toilet paper.” They laughed the whole time, following me into the room. I burned with hatred for them, but I knew there was nothing I could do.

“The Renaissance was a time of change.” Mrs. Muir launched into her lecture before the bell stopped.  

Instead of listening, I imagined creating a voodoo doll of Trina from her hair, then hacking it to pieces. I dreamed of tearing off its limbs, feeding it to the dog I didn’t have, or tying cement shoes to it and drowning it in
Canyon
Lake
.

“Has anyone heard the phrase ‘survival of the fittest’?” Mrs. Muir asked.

Not a single person raised a hand, including me.

“Miss Stark?”

I shook my head modestly. She still had it in for me and would for the rest of my high school career because of that unflattering picture.

“Only the strongest survived.” She looked at me when she spoke the words. “For example, if you have a lion with predatory skill and one without, which do you think will survive in the end?” She glared directly at me.

“The predatory one.” Obviously.

“Exactly. That’s what happened…”

I stopped listening. Survival of the fittest. The Renaissance, a time of change. Of course. In the battle against Trina and her cohorts, only the fittest member would make it in the end. I decided, then and there, to create my own Renaissance. It was time to remove the weak link in the chain.

I glanced over at Trina slumping in her chair, her perfectly painted face shrouded in boredom. She certainly didn’t get it. The concept fell deaf on her diamond-studded ears. From that moment on, she would be the prey and I would be the predator. 

In my crippled state,
Chad
easily slid beside me outside of class.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Just a sprain.”

“How?”

“Got into it with a ladder.”

“Here,” he said, “give me your backpack.”
Chad
took it off my shoulders and carried it for me. I stopped for a moment to soak myself in his smile. Looking at him, I couldn’t help but beam. I battled the interest that rose within me. I told myself that he wasn’t all that good-looking, that he had ulterior motives, and that his true affection lay with Trina. I simply couldn’t fall for him. I couldn’t hurt Grace that way. Sure,
Chad
could be a way to get back at Trina, but I didn’t want to use him. He was so nice. Besides, he had to be crazy to be interested in someone like me. No one else was.   

“I wanted to call you,” he said.

“Really?”

As he grinned and nodded, those dimples showed up again, punctuating his cheeks like apostrophes. I pretended not to like the way they looked.

“Why didn’t you?” the skeptic in me asked.

“Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“It would be okay,” I heard myself say as I tried to hide a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Chad
gently looped my backpack over my shoulders. He paused for a moment and smiled into my eyes. “See ya.”

Without another breath, he disappeared around the corner. What was I doing? I was a horrible friend. Someone else must have uttered those words because I would never betray my best friend like that. Not after Jerry Searfus.

I limped off to the cafeteria. Grace moved next to me in line.

“Saw you talking to
Chad
.” She seemed jealous. “What were you talking about?”

“The play,” I lied.

“Did he say anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Did he mention me?”

I shook my head. “Um, no.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“What?” I almost heard myself shout.

“You don’t have to pretend. If you like him, just tell me.”

The line dragged. Grace grabbed a tray and avoided looking me in the eye, afraid of my answer. I wanted to tell her; it would have been the right thing to do. But I knew how insecure she was. And, to be honest, I felt sorry for her. So I chickened out.

“We were just talking.”

We waited our turn in the slow-moving line of students.

“Well, I think he has a crush on you.”

“No way.” I mustered an I-don’t-care tone. But I did. “Besides, I’m not interested in him,” I lied.

“Why not? He’s hot.”

I shrugged. The last thing I could be with Grace was honest. The guilt of betraying her would eat me alive.

Grace grabbed a carton of milk hastily from the cooler. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, dejected. “Trina likes him.”

I seethed with jealousy.

“I heard her say she’d have him by the end of the school year,” Grace continued. “Imagine, if someone like her is interested in him, I don’t have a chance.”

No surprise Trina had the hots for
Chad
. However, I tucked Grace’s information into my arsenal. I knew it could prove to be a grenade in the future.

“I can hear you in there! Come on!”

I pounded on the bathroom door. No use. Becca refused to answer or open up. I battered the door again, making enough noise to draw my mother up the stairs from her comfortable position in front of
Law and Order
.

“
What
is going on up here?” she demanded, making it quite clear we interrupted an integral part of her evening.

“I have to get ready for bed, and Becca won’t come out of the bathroom.”

My mother knocked. “Becca, what’s…do I smell smoke in there?”

The bathroom door flew open. Becca’s eyes were swollen like cherry tomatoes; she mopped the tears violently from her face.

“I’m not smoking! I am not on drugs, Mother. Okay? Are you happy now?”

My mother moved to her side, hovering. The whole abrupt change in tone made me wonder if the whole drug thing was merely a ploy to lure Becca out of the bathroom.

“What happened?” Concern crossed my mother’s face.

Becca suckled as much sympathy as she could. Then she spotted me. “What’s she still doing here?” Her voice was rapt with condescension.

“Noelle, go and get ready.”

As I shut the door behind me, I heard the words
boyfriend
and
breakup
. What a drama queen. No boy would ever have that kind of effect on me.

November ushered in the holiday season. Nurseries bloomed with cadmium orange and yellow ochre. The heat quelled to the sixties and seventies, while department stores displayed decorated trees and plastic Santas.

My ankle healed, and I no longer hobbled. Unfortunately, I limped long enough to receive the name Quasimodo, compliments of Trina & Company. I didn’t know which was worse: that or Doctor Freckle.

In religion, I burrowed my eyes into Trina and cursed her. While sacred words flowed from the lips of the teacher, obscenities dammed in my head. I felt like a hypocrite. I wanted to inflict pain on her, but the only way to do it was to wrap
Chad
around my finger before she had him around hers. Except for the whole Grace liking him thing. 

Play rehearsal. I dreaded going. It was a glorified study hall. Grace—desperately wanting to belong—was part of the backstage production. She moonlighted in makeup.

Grace slid beside me, and we watched Trina blatantly flirt with
Chad
on stage. She touched him a little too often, wore seductive expressions. It was sickening to watch. Grace mouthed all the words along with Trina; she could have been the understudy.

“It’s not fair,” Grace silently uttered as
Chad
laid his hand on Trina’s arm. “Why is it that the people who have everything continue to get everything?”

Chad
, Trina, and Zach Peterson as Demetrius yakked away in Middle English.

“I don’t know.”

Trina spotted me and glared.

“He said, ‘Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.’” Irritation rang in the syllables of her voice as she recited Demetrius’s lines, working hard to embarrass me.

I dumped my books. “That’s my cue.”

Chad
smiled at me as I entered stage right.

“You all right, Noelle?”
Chad
innocently chided as I approached. “Break a leg?”

“Funny,” I said under my breath.

He smiled that incredible smile again, and I found the courage to delve into the lines on my paper.

But the memory of the smile dissolved as
Chad
gazed into Trina’s eyes—Lysander declaring his love for
Helena
. Pangs of jealousy swept over me. It was acting, but it seemed so real. Lysander’s love for
Helena
;
Chad
’s attraction to Trina. It was what it was. No amount of acting could deny that.

My mother remained true to her word. The following Sunday, there was no escaping church.

“Rebecca, hurry up. You’re going to make us late,” my mother bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m not going.” Becca was merely a voice from the corner of the house.

“What do you mean you’re not going?”

She finally appeared at the top of the staircase. She wore shorts and a spaghetti-strapped tank top; her hair was looped through a Scunci.

“I’m not going.”

“Change clothes and get down here this instant.”

“No.” Becca stood defiantly with her hands on her hips.

Scarlet rose to my mother’s cheeks as she glowered at my sister. “Don’t make me get your father.”

“Oh, what’s he going to do? He just sits back and takes orders from you. If you think I’m going to do the same thing, you’re wrong.”

My mother never set a foot closer to the steps. Secretly, I think she was intimidated by Becca, maybe even afraid of her.

“I did not raise you to speak to me this way. Apologize right now.”

“No.” Becca pivoted around and headed back to her room. I silently observed, listening in the background.

“Rebecca, come back here.”

She didn’t.

“You will not defy me while you’re still living under my roof.”

But, obviously, Becca did defy her. My mother turned away from the stairs as if the whole episode never transpired.

“Your father’s waiting in the car. Let’s go.”

“If Becca doesn’t have to go, why do I?”

She answered with a single scowl. The debate was over.  

The ride to church was a silent one. My mother only said one thing: “After mass I want you to go to confession. I think it will do you some good.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it. It was one quiet ride.

I sat inside a wooden box—like a wardrobe. Except there was no Narnia on the other side. Just Father Patrick.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been … about eight months since my last confession.”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s see, I … I can’t really think of any sins. My mom forced me to come today.”

“Perhaps there’s something small that you’re overlooking.”

“Well, I guess I’ve back-talked her a few times.”

“That’s something.”

“I hate some of the people at my school.”

“Hate is a very destructive emotion.”

Was this psychotherapy or confession?

“Is there anything else?”

I hesitated, remembering the damning thoughts I had about Trina: hiring a hit on her, tying her to the light rail tracks, throwing her into a tank of piranhas.

“No, I guess that’s it.”

“I need you to pray about your hatred. Ten Hail Marys and try to do something nice for those people who you claim to hate. It will free your heart.”

Do something nice for Trina? Apparently, he didn’t know her. If so, he would have helped me form a diabolical plan to bring her down.

I could do the ten Hail Marys. But as far as doing something nice for Trina, that was merely a suggestion.

People swarmed the mall. Some cruised its three tiers, occasionally ducking into Dillards or the Museum Store. Others remained spectators along the benches or indulged in the forbidden flavors of the Godiva Chocolate shop. The line for the Harkins Theater snaked around the food court; moviegoers pushed fistfuls of popcorn into their mouths with bated breath, sucking gallons of soda through plastic straws.

My senses felt hyper-stimulated. The smells from Panda Express, Johnny Rockets, and
Bath
and Body Works mixed like a witch’s brew. The sound waves carried a cacophony of laughter and voices.

I trailed behind Grace as we made our way into Nordstrom. She shot directly toward the junior’s department like a kid at Christmas.

She pushed drop-waist shirts and Capri pants along the rack, fishing for the right size and the perfect color. She galloped into the fitting room, her arms filled with designer labels—all the things she couldn’t afford. She embraced a horrendous pallet of stripes, paisleys, and solids.

Since I met Grace, she’d always had a need to belong. But that desire grew stronger all the time. I didn’t understand, didn’t want to. I especially despised the fact that she wanted to be a part of the group who picked on her and made a hobby of destroying her self-esteem. And they honed in on her vulnerability, knowing she wanted their acceptance. They preyed on that, used it against her. It was yet another reason why I wanted nothing to do with any of them. And I couldn’t understand why Grace put up with it anyway. She seemed so strong back in the seventh grade, standing up to Jerry Searfus, putting him in his place. Saving me. Why couldn’t she do the same with Trina? Stand up for herself this time? See Trina for the witch she was—a creep who in many ways was no different than Jerry Searfus.

I browsed, shifting the strange, pleated dresses from side to side. When I looked up, there she was. Trina. She glared at me, then said something to the group, and they looked collectively in my direction. They pointed, and their laughter became audible. My heart pulsed and jumped, and the crease between my eyebrows pinched into a scowl. I squeezed the fabric of a dress between my fists, pretending it was her neck.

“What do you think of this one?” Grace inched beside me and held up a purple shirt and a full skirt with a graphic print. She, too, was the source of their ridicule, and she didn’t even know it.

“I don’t think they go together.” I continued to dwell on Trina & Company, paying little attention to Grace.

“No kidding, Noelle. The polo’s for school. The skirt is for—whenever.”

I watched Trina ride the escalator down to the cosmetics department, wishing it would suck her under once she reached the bottom.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I offered. There had to be a way to get back at her for all those years of torment. There just had to.