Pretenders (5 page)

I wanted to ask her why my ratings are so low this season. Or why no one is making an effort to talk to me if I’m so “super hot.” But Mrs. Levinsky at Retirement Village said low self-esteem gives women wrinkles. And that a performer with my abilities should
act
confident when she doesn’t feel it. She made me promise not to put myself down and then passed, like, two days later. So I held my tongue in honor of her dying wish.

Anyone cool in your classes?
(Me. While Audri is paying for a see-through tank top even though winter is on the way and it’s been raining for days.)

There’s this one guy in American History. I think his name is Jagger…

Reddish-brown hair? Thin? Indie band-ish? Yeah, we’re in English together.

I heard his parents are on death row.

What? Why?

Not sure yet. But I do know he lives alone and is allowed to sign his own report cards. I’d say that makes him “cool.”

I guess.

I should sit with him at lunch one day.

What about girls? Any cool ones?

A few have introduced themselves but… I dunno, Noble is kinda different. It’s like everyone is more into the school part of school than the fun part.

Exactly.
(Yay. She hadn’t met anyone she liked yet either.)

Where to now?

I shrugged because I really didn’t know. All I wanted to do was go home and journal. Weird, I know. But it’s what I was feeling so I owned it. Oprah would have been proud.

On the ride home Audri and I agreed that if we did everything together like carpool, study, act, and have sleepovers on the weekends she’s not in Montclair with her dad, we wouldn’t feel so separated. Audri even suggested we leave secret notes for each other in the cafeteria since she has early lunch and I have late. How cute is that?

The mall was great even though I didn’t buy anything. The plans I made with Audri helped me feel better than a thousand costumes ever could.

END SCENE.

Friday

I’m in my room waiting to Skype Amelia. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for three days so she could tell me how to write about feelings. But she’s been too busy with college and needed to “set a time.” Friday at 6:40 PM is our “time.” I swear. She can be so—

Okay, just got off Skype. For someone so “busy” she certainly had “time” to bore me with the differences between the female and male brain and how we “process emotions.” Can’t she just answer the question?

This was me: Hey A, I’m supposed to write 250 pages about my feelings. What do I do?

This was her: Oh, wow! How cool. Who is the teacher? Is she new? Sorry. That was wrong of me to assume she’s a woman. But something tells me she is. Is she? (I nod that she is. Amelia looks proud of herself). Journaling should be mandatory in high school, especially for boys. They have such a hard time expressing (yawn = deaf)… think about Dad and… (yawn = deaf)… Andrew stop yawning, it’s rude… this is crucial… manage stress… reduce the risk of heart attack… (bored = deaf)… not to mention a better husband and father, especially to young…

Mom’s calling me for dinner.

That was me interrupting because my legs were getting restless.

Any tips? You know, on how to do it? What do I talk about?

HER:
Write about the most important thing that happens to you each day and how it makes you
feeeeel
. Once you get more comfortable with that process we can take it further, more along the lines of—

ME:
Coming, Mom! Gotta go. Thanks, Amelia. Love ya.

Amelia is super smart but she’s so serious. Then there’s Mandy, who’s way more into her slick boyfriend Gardner and fashion and stuff. She’s cool too but they’re both kind of annoying. I would never hang out with a girl like Amelia or Mandy. It would be cool to find one who’s a mix of both, smart and into girl stuff. A sister-mutt.

Anyway, I got Amelia’s point. Write about the most important things that happen each day and how they made me feel. So here’s today.

School dragged.

Had lunch with Hud, Coops, and four girls who whispered and giggled.

Six more days until basketball tryouts.

No hoops after school again because it’s raining.

Feeling = Bored.

Bubbie Libby said we should gather the animals and build an ark. I’ll donate the two Malteses Mom bought to replace Amelia. We’ve had them for three weeks. All they do is yap and poop on the carpet in the TV room. Mandy won’t walk them in the rain because she got a blowout. My parents can’t because they work late. Bubbie says low air pressure gives her joint pain. And I refuse to walk dogs that wear matching outfits and pink hair bows. Besides, I still don’t know their names. One day it’s Maybelline and Revlon. Then it’s Vanilla and Blanca or Ellen and Portia. No one can agree. I told Dad we shouldn’t name them anything. That way when no one is talking they’ll think we’re calling them and they’ll come. Dad said someone is always talking in this house so that would never work. He’s right.

Rosie our cleaning woman used to walk the dogs but she doesn’t work here anymore. Mom said she quit to spend more time with her kids. Bubbie did that fake cough thing to let me know Mom was lying. Then Mom said: Really, Mother? and left the kitchen. Whatever. I don’t need to know why Rosie left. I just wish she was still here to clean the Tootsie Rolls. Mom makes me do it or I can’t play Wii.

Feeling = Over the rain.

Mom is calling me for real this time. We have a Jewish Sabbath dinner every Friday for Bubbie. Mandy used to complain about it because it messed up date night with Gardner. Dad and I weren’t into it because we like to get Italian takeout and watch sports. But Mom said Bubbie isn’t going to be around forever and we should do this for her. So we compromised. Mandy gets to bring Gardner and we still get the takeout. We just have to light special candles and eat at the table and not in the TV room, which is fine because there’s probably poop in there.

Feeling = Hungry.

I’m back. I’ve been writing a lot tonight cuz I have a lot to catch up on. Hud is already on page 40. He’s been writing about the girls in our grade and what he thinks they eat for breakfast. He says it can tell you a lot about a person. Like this super-smart girl Vanessa. Hud thinks she scarfs a chocolate donut and a Monster Energy drink. He wrote crayons for that girl Sheridan but that’s only because I told him about her lipstick tooth. He originally assigned her key lime pie flavored yogurt. The whole thing is kind of weird and kind of funny. So is Hud.

Feeling = Ha.

Coops is on page 63. That’s because his parents give him a dollar for every page he writes. They love paying him to do things no one should get paid for. Like making his bed or not choking his brother. He’s writing out the words to every Bruce Springsteen song and saving for an electric guitar.

Feeling = No fair.

Anyway, Sabbath dinner tonight was lame because Mom tried to cook. When I asked what happened to the Italian takeout, Bubbie Libby did that cough thing again. Mom and Dad looked at each other, then Mom said she wanted to try something different. She went on and on about how life is about new experiences and breaking routines. After like, ten minutes, I still had no clue what happened to the takeout. Why can’t girls just answer the question?

Feeling = Frustrated.

She microwaved frozen chicken nuggets with cheddar sauce and pasta Alfredo from a bag. Bubbie wouldn’t eat because she said it wasn’t kosher.

MOM:
That’s because we’re not Jewish. Besides, Italian takeout isn’t kosher either.

BUBBIE:
But it’s good so God makes an exception.

MANDY:
We serve this to the homeless on Thanks-giving.

GARDNER:
I think it’s delicious, Mrs. Duffy.

The guy will eat anything as long as it’s free. Probably because he wastes his money on slick designer clothes.

Dad and I fed the dogs under the table. Bubbie Libby saw what we were doing and started doing it too.

While we were clearing the table Dad asked me how Hudson’s parents are doing.

Dad and Mom sell commercial real estate. Stuff like malls and stores. Hudson’s dad does the same thing. They are competitors. But it’s all good.

ME:
Fine, I guess.

DAD:
Good.

That was it. Easy.

Feeling = Glad Dad’s a guy.

Sept. 8.

Finally, a break in the rain. The sky is greenish-black so it’s going to get worse.

I am sitting on a cement bench in Regal Park watching some guys shoot hoops.

They don’t seem to mind the puddles. It must be nice to love something enough not to mind the puddles.

Two of them are in my English class but don’t notice me. Maybe they’re pretending because my journal is wrapped in boxer shorts.

I hate the weekend.

Forty-eight hours of nothing to do.

No parents. No siblings. No DS. No TV. No sports. No sleepovers. No Boy Scouts. No cul-de-sac. No friends.

Maybe one day.

Noble is cool.

It’s all about achievements. Not mommy and daddy’s bank account or who’s dancing with who at so-and-so’s boy-girl party.

I’ve been invited to lunch nine different times this week. That’s nine times more than Sagewood, and I was sentenced to that place for two years.

That middle school was full of spoiled rich kids who couldn’t understand the heavy stuff going on in my life. Not that they ever tried. To them, heavy was an extra pound some cheerleader gained over Christmas vacation.

Do you know how many dog biscuits I eat to gain one pound?

Sixty-three.

Fattening up on Santa-shaped shortbread cookies would be a dream. Not an excuse to starve myself until Valentine’s Day.

But that’s where my parents had me.

Until they were arrested.

After that I was free to move to a new district and start fresh.

Not that I am any different at Noble. I’m used to keeping to myself so that’s how I am.

The one-name thing has been attracting a lot of attention, especially from girls.

They come up to me all squirmy and shoulder-to-shoulder and ask if “Moves Like Jagger” is about me.

Since that song came out last summer and I’m fifteen I invite them to do the math.

Next they ask if I’m trying to be famous and one-name-ish like Bono or Xzibit.

I look at them like a joke I don’t get.

I say I’m not trying to be famous at all. I’m trying to survive.

They laugh again but with less of a smile. There’s a bigger story here and they sense it might not be pretty. They peer down the hall, or around the classroom, or wherever we are, wanting out.

There’s always a brave one who asks what I mean by “survive.”

I tell her I’m legally separated from my parents because they’re in prison. Last names are for families. I live alone.

They ask me to lunch.

They ask me questions.

I answer them.