Addie on the Inside (3 page)

“Ms. Wyman hates me,”
I told my mother when I got
home from school that day.
We were lifting bags of
groceries from the trunk
of the Volvo. “It's because
I question her authority,
even though I don't really.
I just stick up for myself.
For heaven's sake, it was
only
a question about God.”
My mother pointed to one
of the many bumper stickers
on the back of our car.
“‘
LORD, HELP ME BE THE PERSON
MY CAT THINKS I AM
'?” I read,
perplexed. “The one above it,”
my mother replied. “‘
WELL-BEHAVED
WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY
.'
That
is why she hates you,”
she said, grabbing for the jar
of pickles about to topple
from the top of the overstuffed
bag dangling from her left
arm. “I don't want to make
history. I just want to get
through homeroom and do well
in math,” I answered, even though
I secretly do want to make
history.

Just then the over-

stuffed bag ripped open
and the jar of pickles
crashed to the floor
of the porch, exploding
on contact. The cats went
ballistic. “Lousy plastic,”
my mother growled.
“That's it! From now on
we're bringing our own
bags. And they're going
to be hemp!” The only
thing that surprised me
about this statement was
that it had taken so long.
The bumper sticker above
WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN
reads,
LESS PLASTIC IS FANTASTIC
.

We have since

switched to hemp so at least
one problem has been solved.
I am still, however, working
on the solution to this
equation:
If Addie = Smart Student,
and Ms. Wyman = Teacher Who
Likes Smart Students,
why does Ms. Wyman
hate Addie?

If I must suffer Ms. Wyman's ways
all through period seven,
at least Ms. Watkins in period eight
provides a bit of heaven.

She has this halo of frizzy hair
and wears these retro glasses.
(Not that it matters what she wears,
I'm talking about her classes.)

She tells us teaching is her life.
I've never seen such passion.
O how I love her fire, her mind,
her awesome sense of fashion.

(Not that I notice what she wears,
it's hardly worth the mention;
it's social studies taught with flair
that rivets my attention.)

Ms. Watkins actually
likes
the fact
that I'm smart and so outspoken.
She doesn't think it's all an act
or treat me like I'm broken.

“Well done, Addie!” she says with a smile
when I offer an observation
or a clever rebuttal or fresh insight
on a stale interpretation.

She said it today when I pointed out
how women are often cheated
of their rightful place in history books, how
their names are simply deleted.

Some boys laughed, and some girls, too,
one even called me mental.
But Ms. Watkins told me, “Good for you,”
and the rest was inconsequential.

After class she pulled me aside
to ask how my project was going.
Maybe it was just the light from behind
but I swear her hair was glowing.

“I
love
your hair,” I blurted out.
I didn't mean to flatter.
I couldn't believe I'd said it aloud;
I mean, looks don't really matter.

Or maybe they do, I'm no longer clear.
I just know I've reasons myriad
to think Ms. Watkins the best teacher here
and to be grateful for eighth period.

It's not because I'm tall
or skinny as a board.
It's not my hair as limp
as seaweed washed ashore.

It's not even that I'm bright,
though that provides a clue,
or that I talk too much,
using words like
hitherto.

It's mostly that I've broken
an unspoken rule.
I even dare to say it:
I love school.

(A Button on My Backpack)

Do you believe it to be true?
I do.
No one is free when others are oppressed.
So this spring I addressed it by starting a GSA.
Translation:
An alliance for the straight and the gay.

I did it for Joe, who is out, and for Colin,
who is not, and for all those who haven't got
the same rights as you and I
(if you and I happen to be straight).

But wait.
Here's what happened after school today:

We were having a meeting,
there were six of us there
(including Joe but not Colin,
who doesn't dare),
when some boys ran past the room
and banged on the door, shouting:

LEZZIES! FAGGOTS! FREAKS!

Mr. Daly rushed to see who it was
but they were too fast, they were gone.
“What makes them think,” he said,
his voice shaking, his face burning red,
“what makes them think,
whoever they were at the door,
that they are more than anyone else,
that they are not different
in some way, too?”

Mr. Daly is my hero for agreeing to be
the faculty advisor for the GSA. Some say
it's because he has a son who's gay, but
I say it's because it's who he is.
“To thine own self be true,” his favorite quote,
were the words he wrote on the board
the first day of English class last fall. Mr. D
helps us all see through the words we read
to the people we are.

He is full of quotes. He wrote this one
on the board after those bullies (cowards)
ran past the door:

“You must be the change you wish to see
in the world.” —Mahatma Gandhi

And then one more:
“If we cannot end now our differences, at least
we can make the world safe for diversity.”
It was John F. Kennedy who said that.

It is Mr. Daly who says:
“And now let us get to work.”

Did I mention he's my hero?

Friday, and I'm meeting the gang
at our favorite place to hang out.
I ask DuShawn to come along,
but he's, like, “Your
gang
.”
“Don't say it like that,” I say.
“Like what?”

“Like it's strange.”

“Well, why you got to say ‘gang'?”
“Why
you
got to say ‘got to say'?”
And we go on this way until
“You missed your bus,” I tell
DuShawn and there's Tonni's
mother waving and Tonni
shouting, “You want a ride,
DuShawn?” And DuShawn
calling, “Yo, girl, wait up!”
and to me, “See ya, Addie.”

I watch him go

and ask myself, “Now why
is it you love school again?”
It sure is not this part, this
why-do-I-always-say-the-
wrong-thing part, when I don't
even know if I'm saying the
wrong thing.

I pick up my

backpack from where I've
dropped it and call out,
“See ya, DuShawn.” But
he's already gone. I hear him
laughing, though.

Thank goodness

for Joe. When I call out “Yo!”
he looks at me like I've grown
another head.

“Dude,” he says

as I fall into step beside him,
“you have been spending
way
too much time with DuShawn.”
He decides I'm a “dudette”
and not a “dude,” and this gets
me laughing even after I
tell him to stop, and Joe being
Joe, he won't, and that makes
me feel good because it's how
we are, and even when I say
something dumb I never have
to worry I've said something
wrong.

We are walking down Main Street in the little town
of Paintbrush Falls, New York, where I have lived
all my life, Joe since the age of four. It's April, and
winter's bite is still in the air, but Santa doesn't live
here anymore. The Easter Bunny in his pastel vest
has taken Plastic Santa's place in the dreary display
window of the Paintbrush Falls Electric & Hardware
Store. “About time,” Joe snaps. “Santa must have
been missing Mrs. Claus, and what about the elves
and Rudolph and Blitzer and Madonna and Twister?
Didn't anybody
notice
Santa never made it back
to the North Pole? We should have filed a report
with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Plastic Santas!” “Are you going to rant like this
the rest of the way?” I ask, and Joe says, “I might.
'Tain't right, Beulah Mae. We got to look out for
our little plastic friends.” His rant doesn't end. He
carries on in what he calls his hick-town voice,
punctuating bad grammatical constructions with
Beulah Maes and Jimmy-Bobs, his names for us
in moments like this. I join in, doing my best to
keep up. I know moments like this won't last
forever. One day he'll move away and so will I.
Someone else will have to watch out for our little
plastic friends. Beulah Mae and Jimmy-Bob
won't live here anymore.

This is my home away from home,
this booth in the back of the Candy Kitchen,
this torn red leatherette seat,
this place where I meet up with my friends
to talk and to eat.

We call our meet-ups the Forum.
We call ourselves the Gang of Five,
although we were only four at first—
Joe and Bobby and Skeezie and me.
Now we are five or six or even seven,

but it doesn't matter who we are
as much as where we are, and the fact
of the tear in the seat just to the left
of my left hand, the tear I touch
as soon as I sit down, always there.

I never say it, but I think it every time,
how I have been coming here
my whole life, thirteen years. How,
except for the jukebox that's gone,
everything is the same:

The way you can see your face reflected
in the candy case just inside the door.
Across the street, the view of Awkworth & Ames
Department Store. The taste of the shakes.
The size of the fries, long and skinny, like me.

HELLO MY NAME IS
, the name tags
read,
CHRIS
or
STEFFI
or
SAM
or
EDDIE
.
“Do you guys know what you want?
I'm ready for your order.” And us?
We are always ready.

The fries have all been salted and eaten,
except for two Skeezie has tucked between
his lips and canine teeth. “I vant to suck
your blood,” he says for the third time.
He has been doing this since third grade,
so no one pays attention except Zachary,
who is new and polite and doesn't know
that to love Skeezie is to ignore him.

“Moving on,” I say as Skeezie sucks his fangs
into his maw and his molars move into action,
mashing and grinding and finding more fun
in two sticks of starch than in Disney World
and Six Flags combined. I remind myself
to ignore him and repeat “moving on” when
he belches and says, “Well, excuse
you
, Addie.”
Maddening, really, but what can you do?

“This is what I get for hanging out with boys,”
I say with a sigh. “It's an established fact that
boys mature more slowly than girls.” The boys—
except Zachary, see above—roll their eyes
as I wonder why it is I
do
hang out with them,
why I am not at the mall with an all-girl posse,
applying lip liner at the Body Shop. Why I am
here
, preferring fangs dripping ketchup blood
to lips all glittered and glossy.

I pick a topic, something really important such as What I'd Do for Love or

How to End World Hunger,

and then, after we've eaten our burgers and fries (a veggie burger for me,

on a whole-grain bun)

we order our ice cream and talk about the topic of the day. Well, to be

honest, it's often about school—

something that happened or something that's going to happen, like an

election or a dance

or what a teacher had to say or what we think is wrong and needs fixing,

and that's an endless topic.

I write everything down, every word, even if it's about ice cream or

Skeezie's french-fried fangs,

because these are the minutes of our meetings and I only wish there could

be minutes of every minute we live.

Today we discuss the Gay Straight Alliance and the disgusting homophobic

display put on by the boys

running past room two-twenty-two, the pounding on the door and the

shouting of names.

We are all very serious, even Skeezie, because he knows enough to know

that this is about Joe

and Joe is right here at the table. “I think,” says Skeezie, “that we should

track down who did it and

cut off their—” I cut him off, saying, “That's a tad medieval, and one evil

does not negate another.”

Bobby says, “How about the Day of Silence Mr. D suggested?” I write it

down, underlining twice:

a day of no speaking to express solidarity with those who are silenced for

being themselves.

“I don't get it,” says Zachary. “Why should anyone have to be silent about

who they are? That's so . . .”

We wait. Is he going to say it? No way. My pencil breaks its point before

Zachary makes his.

He looks at each of us in turn. “That's so ridiculous,” he says as the rest of

us exhale collectively.

Joe thinks Zachary is gay but doesn't know it. I agree, but it isn't p.c. to

label, and anyway,

“who cares” is the whole point. It's decided we'll do the Day of Silence,