Screaming Divas (6 page)

Sir?
Trudy could hardly believe her ears. What was going on here? Only a couple of hours before, he was telling her that he loved her, and now he was sucking up to her dad. Shouldn't he be defending her? Their relationship?

“She's fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” Trudy said. Her birthday was in a few days. What the hell difference did it make how old she was? Romeo and Juliet were fourteen. “And what I lack in years, I make up for in experience.”

“That's enough, young lady.” Jack's face was red. Trudy had made a fool of him. Clearly he wasn't used to this fatherhood business.

Trudy had seen it all before with each of her four stepfathers. They assumed the role, went as far as adopting her, asked her to call them “Dad.” And then, as soon as Trudy did something they didn't like, there would be murmuring behind closed doors, ultimatums made. Sarah standing by, wringing her hands. Then announcements: She'd be going off to school/to stay with distant relatives/to the juvie home.

Trudy slouched back in the booth. She'd expected more from Adam, at least. But he just sat there, avoiding her eyes. She took a toothpick out of the faux-crystal holder and stabbed it into the tip of her index finger, trying to make the pain in her body match the aching in her heart. The wood didn't puncture skin. Jack saw what she was doing and grabbed her hand.

“You'd better know that this could get us all in trouble. Trudy is a minor. You know what that means, don't you?”

Trudy held her gaze steady on Adam. She willed him to look over at her so she could roll her eyes at “Dr. Baxter's” paranoia. He didn't really care about her, Trudy. He was only concerned with his precious career. No wonder Sarah had left him.

But Adam would not look her way. She felt like that woman with the snakes growing from her head—Medusa. Was he afraid he'd turn to stone or something? She found his foot under the table with her own and nudged his ankle. She needed a sign from him, some indication that he was still on her side, but he jerked away. The future of their romance was looking pretty bleak.

Jack stepped away and gave them a few minutes of privacy.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Adam said. “See you around.”

“What are you talking about?” Trudy's voice was shrill with desperation. “You really care what he thinks?”

“Hey, I need to graduate.” His kohl-lined eyes were strangely cold. He eased himself out of the booth and headed for the door.

When Adam was gone, Jack ordered two more cups of coffee. “I'm sorry Trudy,” he said, “but I'm afraid we're going to have to make other arrangements.”

Cassie knew that rumors about her were flourishing at school. Todd's football buddies snickered in her wake. Their girlfriends darted their eyes from Cassie to each other and whispered behind their hands.

October, November, December … Cassie ticked off the months in her head. She couldn't wait to get out of there.

Todd must have been pretty angry when she ditched him at that party, but he was the one slobbering all over Miss Big Blonde. She'd had every right to leave.

But Todd wasn't used to indifferent dates. He probably couldn't believe that Cassie, a girl with a disfiguring scar, wouldn't jump through hoops to be his girlfriend. This was his way of getting back at her.

She passed Harumi on her way to American Lit. When Harumi saw her, the usual chill left her eyes and she smiled.

“Hey, Cassie. How's it going?”

“Thanks again for the ride the other night.”

“Sure. Anytime.”

After they'd ditched the party, they'd wound up going to the Capitol Café downtown. A waitress named Pee Wee brought them coffee and scrambled eggs, and they'd compared notes on stage mothers, itchy costumes, and favorite songs. They'd even hatched plans to perform together someday. Harumi was sick of her bandmates and ready for something more serious. Maybe Cassie would be interested in being the lead singer?

Later, they'd gone across the street and wandered around the capitol grounds, under the palmetto trees, past the spotlit monuments dedicated to George Washington and the Confederate soldiers, talking and talking until nearly dawn.

They'd have to make plans to hang out together again soon, Cassie thought as she made her way to class. For now, she sat down at her desk, hauled out her textbook, and waited for the bell to ring.

It had to be hard for Harumi, being a minority, she thought. And her life was so different from everyone else's. Instead of going to volleyball or cheerleader practice after school, or even kicking back in front of MTV at home, Harumi had gone off to play her violin. She'd never dated, as far as Cassie knew. Harumi hadn't said anything about boys the other night. Maybe the guys at their school didn't want to go out with someone of another race—especially the ones with the Confederate flag decals on their car windows. Or maybe they were intimidated by that angry aura that surrounded her. It could have been something else. She might have a boyfriend at another school—a college poet or a pianist. A secret lover.

The bell rang and Ms. Claiborne shuffled into class. Speaking of outsiders, she was pretty much one herself. Today she was wearing an all-black outfit—a turtleneck that clung to her bony chest, a miniskirt revealing stick-like legs, and a black beret, slightly askew, which hid most of her short auburn hair. Her lipstick was white.

Ms. Claiborne always dressed eccentrically for a high school English teacher, but the beret was a special addition meant to evoke a bygone era of coffee houses and beatniks. Ms. Claiborne had hung out in Greenwich Village in the '60s. Rumor had it she'd once smoked pot with Jack Kerouac.

“Now, you've all memorized your selections,” she said hopefully. “You're all ready for today's poetry reading, aren't you?”

“We need clove cigarettes,” someone heckled from the back row.

A wave of giggles passed through the room. Ms. Claiborne smiled patiently. She waited till silence returned, then scanned the upturned faces. “Well? Who's first?”

Rusty Andrews raised his hand. Cassie had been out with him a few times her junior year. Like Todd, he was a BMOC coasting on looks and easy charm. In another ten years, he'd be balding and fat from beer. Cassie could see the signs already.

He scooted his chair back, rose from his seat, and strode to the head of the classroom. Then he cracked his neck and cleared his throat loudly.

Titters erupted.

Cassie checked out Ms. Claiborne's expression. Her chalky lips were pressed together. She didn't have much tolerance for those who lacked the proper respect for literature.

Rusty saw her face and subdued his smirk. He began his recitation: “Hickory dickory dock …”

Wild laughter broke out.

Ms. Claiborne had asked the students to memorize their favorite poems. In the spirit of the '60s, she'd given them total freedom in choosing what they would recite. They were allowed—encouraged, even—to go beyond
The Norton Anthology of American Literature
and dig up poems from obscure literary journals and hip small presses. Mother Goose wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind, and everyone knew it. Rusty would probably get a D on this assignment. A C, if he was lucky. After all, he hadn't flubbed the lines.

“That was very entertaining, Mr. Andrews,” Ms. Claiborne said once he'd returned to his seat. He was slapping the palms of his neighboring students. “I'm glad to see that you're still in touch with your inner child. Anyone else have a favorite nursery rhyme?”

After a long pause, Cassie raised her hand.

A strange hush fell over the room and she was reminded of the mysterious rumor floating around the halls. Her audience sat with crossed arms and blank faces. Cassie was surprised that they were listening at all. “‘Lady Lazarus,' by Sylvia Plath,” she said, naming her selection. Then she began her performance.

“
I have done it again
,” she recited. She told the class about dying and coming back to life. She became Lady Lazarus. The classroom was silent, except for her voice, the enchantment complete.

“
Dying / Is an art, like everything else.
” She paused. “
I do it exceptionally well.
”

They were all listening.

“
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
.” She touched the crescent on her cheek. “
For the hearing of my heart— / It really goes.
” Here, she thumped her chest with her palm.

Ms. Claiborne, propped on the edge of her desk, had put down her pen as if she'd forgotten that this was a graded exercise.

By the time Cassie got to the last part, about rising out of the ash with red hair, she knew that she would be getting an A. Performing like this was electrifying.
Powerful.
How could she have forgotten how wonderful it felt? She delivered the final words with a snarl: “
And I eat men like air.
”

Rusty Andrews squirmed in his seat. Cassie glared at him, cast her gaze over all of the students, and then returned to her desk. Silence fell heavily.

Finally Ms. Claiborne thawed and took a deep breath. “Wow. You are quite an actress. That was most impressive.”

Cassie smiled. “Thank you.” She knew that word would spread quickly. She would be officially weird, but she didn't care. There was so much beyond high school. She was ready to burn her bridges and move into the world.

Trudy had been to The Cave a few times with Adam. She thought of it as their place, and every time she climbed that narrow staircase, she expected to see him. The club was on the second floor of a run-down building on Assembly Street, next to a row of pawnshops. There was a parking garage across the street. During the day, looking up from the street, it looked like the kind of place where nothing would ever happen, but at night, the doors opened and the hall rumbled with pounding combat boots. Music blasted from a loft in the corner.

Everyone danced solo, writhing as if they were in pain. Trudy understood. She threw herself into their midst, a whirling dervish, a tornado, a woman scorned.

When she was tired of dancing, she slunk back into the Pink Room, a lounge with thrift shop sofas. The walls were hung with splatter paintings.

One night, Trudy stumbled into the Pink Room and found something new: a dented birdcage with a ratty-haired Barbie doll hanging inside. A chain—the kind attached to bathtub plugs—was wrapped around her neck and rigged to the top of the cage. The doll was naked and its plastic flesh nicked as if by a razor blade. On the bottom of the cage there was a scattering of newspaper clippings. Trudy leaned in closer and saw that they were all concerned with sex scandals. A priest and a boy. A kindergarten teacher and a child porno ring. A Boy Scout troop leader who exposed himself to passing teenaged girls. There was an index card taped to the wall behind the cage: “
Jail Bait
by Adam Walker.”

Someone came up behind her. “I think it's offensive, don't you?” Trudy turned to see a young woman with an inch of black hair all over her head. She was wearing jeans with suspenders over a T-shirt. Her feet were encased in Doc Martens. “He must hate women.”

“No,” Trudy said. “You don't understand. He's my boyfriend. He's in love with me. I'm, like, his muse.”

The young woman looked at her strangely. “Wake up, girl. That Barbie doll has been lynched.”

Trudy was sure that the noose meant something else. Thwarted desire. Strangled hopes. She rode her bike to Adam's apartment at least once a day. Sometimes one of his roommates answered. Always the same response: “He's not here, Trudy. I don't know when he'll be back.”

But one day, she forced herself into the room beyond.

“Wait—”

Dave stepped up to the doorway. “I don't think Adam is going to be too happy to find you here.” He pulled at his hair.

Trudy glared at him. “Leave me alone.”

Dave shifted from side to side, looked toward the screen door, then threw up his hands. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Trudy slammed the door in his face. This was her room as much as any other room in her life had been. She knew where everything was—the condoms in the drawer, Adam's secret stash, the rolling papers. She flipped on the stereo and picked out an album. Then she slipped off her clothes, rolled herself a joint, and wrapped herself in sheets to wait.

She heard the front door hinges screech about an hour later, then a slam and the tom-tom pound of footsteps. She lay against the pillows while she listened to the low rumble of voices in the room beyond. Then, a curse, a bang against the wall, the door thrown open, Adam yanking her by the arm with such force her shoulder popped out of joint. She was too stoned to feel much pain. “Adam … I love what you did for me … the birdcage … the doll.”

Trudy thought she could see little licks of flame in Adam's eyes. Behind him, Dave turned from her nakedness. There was someone else in the room. Female. Long rusty hair.

“Trudy, we're through. Get out of here.”

“I'm homeless, Adam. He kicked me out. Have a heart.”

His grip on her arm loosened. A dozen emotions flickered across his face. “I don't believe you,” he said at last. “You lie about everything.”

“It's true,” she said. “I swear. You can call him. He threw my ass on the street.”

He let go of her then and she reeled back.

“Get dressed,” he said. He left her alone and closed the door behind him.

Trudy started crying. She crawled back under the covers and her mascara-tinged tears smudged the pillow. She heard the door creak and slam again and then she jumped out of bed again, a wild woman. He wasn't coming back. He'd gone off with that wench. She wanted to hurt him somehow, to make him feel as wretched as she felt then, naked and abandoned. There was a rolled-up sketch standing at the foot of the bed. She lit a match and set it on fire.