Why Girls Are Weird (13 page)
Read Why Girls Are Weird Online
Authors: Pamela Ribon
Smith handed me one of her Marlboro Lights.
“You owe me, like, a pack now,” she said as she lit up. She gave a quick glance around to make sure we were safe. I couldn't see anybody. We had been sneaking off behind the track bleachers during breaks. A crumpled pink hall pass was half-jammed into Smith's jeans pocket. I couldn't remember how Smith had first convinced me to write out a handful of hall passes, but it felt like she'd been cutting more and more homeroom classes and I had been taking longer and longer breaks as I'd continually bummed cigarettes off her for the past few weeks.
“I can't believe we do this,” I said for the tenth time that month. “When did I join the Pink Ladies?”
“You love it,” she said with a smirk.
I had to admit that I did. Smith allowed me to play the bad girl. She was my favorite thing about my job. I wish I had been like her when I was in high school. I would have been the one studying in the library while Smith skipped homeroom. Hell, I still was.
I liked hearing about her troubles. There was a comfort in high school woes, a reminder that worlds can shrink and grow depending on how much you let yourself see. Smith's entire world revolved around her college fantasies and she used me as the big sister to debate her new ideas.
“I'm breaking up the group,” she said to me. She leaned over the track railing and spit in the dirt near my toes.
“You say that every week,” I said.
“For real, Miss. I hate those bitches.”
The Action Grrlz were getting larger and larger, but Smith still hadn't found a direction for the group. Every meeting ended in arguments. Smith tried taking the lead by deciding they were going to protest the dress code, and then quickly changed her mind when she realized the dress code wasn't strict enough nor enforced often enough for them to make a fuss. If anything, it'd make the school more aware of the constant violations throughout the student body.
“Everyone's fighting all the time,” she said. “I don't think that I should have to choose which direction the group goes in. I like that everyone likes different things. It's all that different shit that makes people interesting. It's boring to all talk about one thing.”
“That's a good point,” I said.
“Says the girl who only thinks about one thing,” Smith teased.
“Then have your group be about making change.”
“I want to have a rally to get people motivated to talk to each other about important stuff. Issues. That's what I'll do. I'll have a rally to get more people to join Action Grrlz. It'll be about having an opinion and expressing it. And in our meetings we'll, like, discuss topics and current events and exchange ideas and theories to stimulate change and shit. Is that a group?”
I put out my cigarette with my toe and smiled at her. “Smith, I think that's a damn fine group.”
She smiled back, the rubber bands in her braces giving a quick flash of yellow. She saw something behind me and quickly put out her cigarette. “We gotta go. Coach Butler's coming over here and he'll bust us.”
We ran back to the library.
“I think they broke up back in October.”
I watched Dale drink his Cosmopolitan, which he made me order so he didn't have to. He ordered a martini. The Cosmopolitan switch-off had been happening for over a year. Once Dale realized I could order things he was too embarrassed to admit he liked, he made me order everything from salads and chicken nuggets to drinks with umbrellas to IHOP's Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity.
Dale handed me an olive and searched my eyes. “It's November. You know that, right?”
“I don't need you to tell me what month it is. And I don't care if they broke up. I mean, I care. I care very much. But I'm not supposed to care, so I don't care.” We were on our third round of drinks. “Let me ask you something, Dale. If they broke up back in October, why didn't Ian tell me that when we went out?”
“I don't know. Maybe they hadn't broken up yet.”
“Maybe not. But maybe they broke up because when we went out and Ian realized that I'm much more fun that Susan Suckass.”
“I like her new last name.” Dale lit a cigarette for me.
“I like it too. I made it up myself. I'm special.”
“Oh, honey. I know.”
I smoked my cigarette and looked around the bar. This was our favorite little hangout on Fourth Street. We liked it because it was dark enough that we'd recognize people who walked in before their eyes could adjust to the darkness. We could slink back further into our booths or even duck out the back door if we needed to.
“You really think you broke them up?”
I exhaled the smoke through my nose as I mulled it over. “Don't you think it sounds like it? Two dates with Ian and suddenly they're Splitsville?”
“I'm going to pretend you didn't just use the word
Splitsville.
And maybe Susan broke up with Ian.”
“Because she's jealous of me.”
“Ooh! When did you develop an ego?” Dale asked, leaning toward me conspiratorially.
“We can change the subject.”
“No, I love the ego. It's about time you started thinking of yourself with some worth. Is it because of Mister Internet?” he asked.
I felt myself blushing. I had finally broken down about two weeks ago and told Dale about him so I wouldn't explode.
“He does help with the ego, yes.”
“Well, I think he's a stalker.”
“He's not a stalker.”
“A stranger writes you letters all day long and you don't consider him a stalker? Didn't you say he quit his job for you?”
“Not for me. For his painting. He had some money saved up. Besides, I write him back. It doesn't count as stalking if I write back, does it?”
“Have you asked him his real name yet?”
“Can we talk about something else?” I didn't want to talk about LDobler too often because I was afraid I'd talk myself out of everything. Seeing how Dale found it freakishly fascinating made me wonder if I should be embarrassed. It was all so narcissistic already. I hadn't ever been so self-absorbed before, my head in a laptop all day long talking about myself to the world, sharing secrets with strangers.
“Hey, tell your dad Happy Birthday for me, okay?”
I choked a bit on my martini. “Shit, you have a good memory. And thank you. I almost forgot to call him before he went to bed.” I'd called twice before, but both times he was at the doctor's. Mom told me to try again at night.
“How could I possibly forget when his forty-ninth birthday was one of the strangest weekends I've ever had?”
“It was just golf!” I shouted as I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and headed toward the door.
“It was creepy! I got a rash!”
I walked outside to the front stoop of the bar. Mom answered on the first ring. “Hello?” she whispered.
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey. I thought it was you.”
“Is Dad still up?”
“No, you just missed him. He knows you've been trying to reach him.”
“Damn.” It would have been nice to hear his voice. He was so rarely awake when I called home.
“I'll make sure he calls you tomorrow when he's awake.” Her voice was empty, dull, like someone had scooped everything out of her. I imagined her hunched over the table, a cigarette resting on an ashtray, the smoke making worried lines around her head as it rose.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
I heard her make a noise. A crackling sound. I thought my cell phone had cut out on us, but I realized she was just moving her mouth closer to the phone. Her voice had an urgency as she said, “Dad's going to have to go back to the hospital for a while.”
I sat on the curb. “Ma, is he okay?”
Mom sighed. “I don't know, Anna. I hope so. He's going to need a blood transfusion and a few tests. We'll have to see what the doctors say, okay? I'll call you when we know.”
“Okay.”
“Honey, I have to go. I'm just so tired.” I could hear her yawning as we hung up the phone.
Before anything could sink in, Dale was beside me, holding my purse.
“Becca called from Spaghetti Warehouse,” he said. “We have to go see her.”
“Dale,” I started to protest.
“The bride-to-be is very testy. Besides, I have to talk to her about renting some more equipment. She wants me to film this wedding from more than one angle, and somehow she doesn't realize that requires more than one camera.”
“Dale, I really don't want to. My mom⦔
“Tell me while we walk.”
Dale tucked my coat under his arm and rubbed his hand through my hair. “I'm starting to really love Betty,” he said with a smile.
“I thought hair was supposed to grow faster than this,” I laughed.
Dale and I were breaking rules by going to Spaghetti Warehouse. We promised each other long ago that we'd never eat in a place with license plates on the walls. Dale added the extra rule of never eating at a place that's also a warehouse. They were pretty good rules. But I had to put in an appearance with Becca since I hadn't returned her last few phone calls and she wanted to discuss the wedding.
When I got home late that night, still slightly drunk from bad wine, I couldn't fall asleep. I was thinking about Dad, wishing that we had more of a history together. I wanted to go back to when things were simpler, when being a daughter meant just doing as I was told and keeping straight A's. Being a daughter had nothing to do with watching someone slip silently away. I wanted to go back to when a father was someone big and strong, an invincible man who never let anything get in his way. I wanted a tough, fearless dad one more time.
A Lesson in Automobile Maintenance
13 NOVEMBER
I got my first car when I turned seventeen: an '85 Renault Alliance. It was beige, I think, and was very stained and sad and scary. The speedometer didn't work. Once you hit 45 mph, it would kick in and point the needle to 98 (the highest number on the dial) and would make a noise like you were revving the engine. The seats didn't recline, but instead worked like those chairs that lift you when your knees give out. The heater smelled like maple syrup. The stereo didn't work, and a friend of mine offered to fix it. He removed the entire front panel to get to it, and never was able to put it back on correctly. The battery would die every other week. We'd jump the car, charge the battery, and it would die again. We'd buy new batteries, but they'd still die. All of those things I could put up with, but when the brakes started to fail, I got scared.
Initially you'd hit the brake and it would fall all the way to the floor. The car wouldn't slow down at all. You'd have to feverishly pump the brake pedal and eventually it would click with something and jerk the car to a stop. The emergency brake was used in near-death situations.
I told my dad about the brakes and described the “pump action” I was using to stop the car. He informed me that my cylinder needed “repumping” and he had the perfect solution: Drive the car backwards and pump the brakes, “resetting the cylinder.”
“I'm not driving home backwards, Ferris Bueller,” I said.
“Anna K, I'm serious. You pump the cylinder back up when you do that,” Dad insisted, the pop culture reference flying right over his head.
“Dad. I've fallen for many of your tricks. I thought that the reflectors on the street were so blind people could drive. I thought a land shark ripped through downtown Los Angeles, chewing on poodles and killing innocent blondes in bikinis because you told me you saw it on the news. I even for a quick second believed you when you told Shannon the number of spots on a Dalmatian signified how long the dog would live. But this I'm not buying. I'm not driving backwards.”
My father has a look that he gives when he wants to prove he's not lying at all. His eyes widen and his mouth opens just a bit. Usually his fingers will extend and his arms will go out, like he's in shock. The look says, “How could you even think for a second that I would deceive you?”
The problem is that Dad is good at faking this look when he is actually lying. If you still say he's lying after he's delivered this look, you enter into Phase Two of Dad's “I am not a liar” dance. The mouth snaps shut. The hands come back down to rest on the chair. He usually kicks the recliner back up and snaps the television on. He'll stop looking at you and merely say, “Fine. Do whatever. You're going to do what you want, and if you don't want my help, then that's fine. See ya.”
It's the “See ya” where you know things have gone sour. This is the point where you have to do whatever it is, because you're about to be grounded.
I drove the car to the end of my street, right by the stop sign. I stopped the car, took a deep breath, and popped it into reverse.
I try to imagine this scene from my father's point of view. Dad walked out to the front lawn as I was passing at thirty-five miles an hour, my head cranked sharply to the left behind me, trying not to hit any of the cars parked in the street. I had a wild look, and the scream that he heard as I drove past must have been: “Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! NOOOO BRAKES IN REVERRRRRRsssse! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I stopped the car by slowly rolling to a stop on the curb of a neighbor's yard.
I walked back to Dad, who was standing on the lawn with his hand on his chin.
“Were you really pumping the brake?” he asked.
“Dad, I can't feel my knee, I was pumping so hard.”
“Huh.”
“You wanna try it?”
Sometimes things work out in your favor. Sometimes you get to see that “Well, I'd like to see him try it” image that you want so badly. Dad must have really convinced himself that this was the way to fix the brake problem, because he took the keys and walked over to the car.
I ran inside the house shouting, “Mom! Dad's gonna drive backwards in my car with no brakes because he doesn't believe me!”
“Oooh! Oooh! Let me see!”
We watched Dad drive all the way down the street and slowly stop the car by the stop sign. In order to do this, you had to grind the pedal like you were putting out a cigarette.
I do wish I had a picture of my dad's face as the car went traveling backwards down our street. He craned his head back and forth, up and down, forward and backward again, fear frozen on his face in a look that screamed, “I'm going to crash and they're going to laugh at me.”
He hit the curb with the back of the car much harder than I did. Once the car stopped, he calmly stepped out, walked up to me, and handed over the keys. He never stopped walking away as he said over his shoulder, “You should get the car looked at. There's something wrong with the brakes.”
He went inside, and there was never another word spoken about it.
Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks for showing me that you can control the truth as long as you believe in it hard enough.
Love until later,
Anna K