Outcast (2 page)

“Excuse me?”

“Ask Grace.”

I turned to her, but Grace burrowed deeply into her notebook, studying the mechanics of her Bic with scientific intensity.

“Ms. Hallaran?”

Grace glanced up. I knew she saw the whole thing, yet she shrugged. And to support her statement, she added, “I was busy taking notes.”

I couldn’t believe it. My best friend sold me out.

After Mrs. Muir returned to her podium, I shot a look at Grace who avoided my eyes, spilling her cowardice onto the pages of her textbook.

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry.”

Grace and I pushed our trays through the lunch line. “You’re my friend. You’re supposed to take my side.”

“It won’t happen again,” she said.

I grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and shook it hard.

“We should really just try to make nice with her,” Grace said. 

Was she kidding? I typed my lunch code into the computer, then stared outright at Grace. She picked at her food while she waited for me.
Nice
wasn’t even a part of Trina’s vocabulary.

“We’re talking about Trina, right?”

Grace nodded.

“I don’t want anything to do with her,” I said. We danced around the crowds, searching for a place to sit. We parked at the end of a table filled with skittish sophomore boys. “I mean, the last thing I want is acceptance from—”

“Oh my God! It’s him!” Grace turned her attention away from our conversation.

“Who?”

“The guy from
Mill Avenue
. Remember? I told you about him...”

My eyes reached him. Tall with an athletic build hidden beneath a bland Polo shirt. 

As he sauntered past our table, he pushed back his copper-brown bangs, and I notice
d
the dimples that punctured his face. He was eye candy, for sure. But he disappeared as quickly as a desert mirage.

“Isn’t he hot?” Grace pressured.

“He’s all right.” I masked the tinge of interest I felt and pushed the elbow macaroni across my plate. Someone like him would never be interested in anyone like us. It seemed we would always remain on the outside of everything. I suddenly didn’t want to be there anymore: in the cafeteria, in the school.

“I feel sick. I think I’m going to go to the office. Maybe Aunt P can pick me up.”

“Don’t start with that again, Noelle.”

“I think it’s the macaroni and cheese.”

Aunt Penelope, who hated her given name and preferred to be called Aunt P, was my mother’s younger sister. It was difficult to believe they were related since they were dissimilar in every way. Aunt P was tall and slender with shoulder-length, wavy hair the color of beech wood. She exuded sophistication and was always well dressed. A divorcee twice over, she made a point of reminding everyone that her second marriage was her last. She was everything my mother wasn’t. Most importantly, she never worked, so she was always available.

She picked me up in her freshly-waxed cranberry Mercedes convertible. The top was down. She looked even more polished than her vehicle. I slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Look at you. First day of school and your mom didn’t let you wear any makeup.” She brushed her hand across my cheek. “How are you supposed to find a boyfriend?” She laughed off her remark. I knew she wasn’t slaughtering my appearance, just wanting to expand my possibilities.

“It will take more than makeup to find a boyfriend.”

“Nonsense. What happened this time?” she asked.

“It’s too involved to go into.” I shrugged her off, checking my appearance in the lighted mirror of the visor.

“Then you’re lucky you called me. I have all the time in the world.”

We tucked ourselves into a corner table at Steamers on the upper level of the
Biltmore
Center
. Aunt P sipped a glass of Mondavi Merlot, watching me scarf down a plate of Cajun-rubbed shrimp with French fries.

“Is it a boy? Tell me everything.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I called Aunt P to help me get away from Trina & Company, not to get involved in a whole conversation about them.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Noelle.” She set her wineglass down and stared at me. “You’re talking to me, not your mother.”

“Same thing as last year.” I laid my fork down. My appetite had suddenly diminished.

“Same girls?”

“Don’t forget the guy.”

“From what I recall, he’s one of the girls, isn’t he?”

I lifted my face into a fake smile. Jamie Gall had all female friends and plenty of feminine characteristics.

“I thought things would be different this year. They’re not. I’ll learn to live with it.”

“That’s a load of crap.” Aunt P polished off her wine. “You need to rise above. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“I guess not.” I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

“Noelle, look at you. You’re nothing at all like you were last year … thank goodness.”

It was an insult masked as a compliment.

“Your mom finally collected some common sense and let you get contact lenses.” It was a true Shakespearean aside spoken into the bottom of her empty goblet.

“I wish she’d let me go to a public school.”

“I can understand where you’re coming from. My parents had a hard time keeping me in parochial school. But in my case, it was different. For you, going to public school would be shamefully running away from your problems. I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

I felt intrigued, wondering if Aunt P was going to reveal a deep, hidden mystery about her past in Catholic school over a plate of shrimp.

She leaned in. “Ready?”

I moved closer to her. Perhaps her past would be the key to unlocking all of my problems.

“Living well is the best revenge.” She leaned back in her chair, waiting for my reaction.

I looked around. That was it? There had to be more. I waited for her to say something else, to bring a parade of experts into the restaurant with a platter full of problem-solving techniques. But she just sat there, gauging my reaction.

“Pretty good, huh?”  

“I don’t get it.”

“Show them how magnificent your life is. They’ll be jealous, and you’ll have the satisfaction of revenge.” She moved her hand in a flourish.

Right. That’ll show Trina. No boyfriend, no prospects, and a friend who is as much an outcast as I am. Great advice. I delved into the few remaining pieces of shrimp on my plate.

“And the beauty of it is you don’t actually have to live better. They just have to
think
you’re living better.”

“Ah, it all makes sense to me now.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Noelle.”

“I’m sorry, but it seems like one of those things that just look better on paper.”
Or in her mind
, I thought.

“What the hell, Noelle. You knock everything down, just like your mother.” She was genuinely angry. “No wonder you have so many enemies at school.”

When she read the expression on my face, her words lassoed her like a noose. “I didn’t mean that.”

But I knew she did. Her eyes were on me.

“What?” I spat.

“It’s nothing,” she pretended then continued as though I pressured her. “It’s just that you could make them see you even more differently if you wore makeup.”

“I am wearing makeup.”

She inched closer, not believing me.

“Besides, my mother won’t let me. Remember?”

“Do you listen to
everything
your mom tells you?”

“Yes. Besides, I don’t see how painting my face is going to dramatically improve things for me at school.”

“Nothing against your looks, honey. It’s just a fact of life. Women look better with makeup. I don’t care if you’re Elizabeth Hurley.”

“Who?”

The server delivered the check, and Aunt P immediately palmed it with her manicured fingertips as if I planned to take it first.

“How about a makeover?” she suggested.

“I don’t think so.”

“Have it your way. You’re only hurting yourself.”

She pushed her chair back from the table, leaving me alone with her depressing words.

As if the day wasn’t bad enough, we had dry pork chops, undercooked broccoli, and an interrogation for dinner. Mom served large helpings of food, interjecting questions about the day with each forkful. My dad shoveled the dry meat and weed-like vegetable into his mouth. He said nothing, but heard everything.

“Tell me about your first day of school? Was it fun?”

“Mom, really. Give me a break,” my sister, Becca, said with a tone. “It’s school.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”

“My classes suck—”

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Mom interjected.

Becca continued anyway. “There are no cute guys in any of my classes, and Mr. Hammond in Trigonometry is a total moron.”

“I thought you had a boyfriend.” I prodded the meat with the prongs of my fork.

Becca glared at me.

I didn’t want to debate Becca’s social life, so I forced a clump of broccoli into my mouth and looked away.

“What about you, Noelle? Did you have a nice day?”

“Great.” I chewed the undercooked sprig.

“Good.” She turned to her plate, either not noticing or ignoring the sarcasm. “By the way, I made an appointment at Celine’s for you on Thursday. I thought it would look nice if you added some curl to your hair. It would give you some personality like Rebecca.”

I let my fork drop and slunk back in my chair. Her words stung me. The poison of them spilled through my system. She noticed.

“God, mom. Perms are so 1980s,” Becca chided.

If I had said God in our oh-so-Catholic household, I would have been subjected to temporal punishment. But it was Becca. So…nothing.

“I just meant that it would give you a different look.”

Right.

“May I be excused?”

“You haven’t finished your dinner.”

“I don’t feel well.”

She looked skeptical. “When you’re finished.”

“But I think it was the macaroni and cheese I had for lunch.”

Mom ignored me, so I looked across the table. “Dad?”

He nodded his approval through his pork chops. After walking out of the room, I heard the muted sounds of my parents’ discussion. Mom’s voice echoed loudly. “What? You’re undermining my authority now?”

“I’m not undermining your authority.”

“Then what do you call it?”

By the time I reached my room and locked the door, their words slurred together like a foreign language. I plunged into the bed, thumbed through an art book, and eventually fell asleep. What a remarkable first day of sophomore year.

Drama was my favorite class of the day. That is, until Trina and Jamie—the Iago and Puck of the high school stage— showed up.

Grace and I tethered ourselves to the back row while Grace rummaged through a bag of beaded friendship bracelets she had made.

“Look.” Grace nudged me.

“I see.” My tone was less than enthusiastic.

Acting I with Father Dodd. He possessed the nervous energy of a poodle, dancing around the stage, waiting for the bell. He wore his collar, but tried to mask the fact that he was a priest by donning gentle weaves of blonde in his sandy hair. He worked hard to be youthful and hip, but the truth remained that he was still an un-hip priest. I felt certain he missed his true calling: a struggling Hollywood actor who belonged in the depths of the
Los Angeles
lifestyle.

The bell rang.

“All right, budding actors. Welcome to Acting I. I’m Father Dodd, the thespian of the school. But you can call me Chris. I see all of you are spread across the theater. I would like everyone grouped in one area.” Father Dodd surveyed the auditorium. “You and you,” he pointed to Trina and Jamie, “Move in the center area here.”

With a roll of the eyes, they reluctantly budged.

Father Dodd wasn’t finished. “And you two in the nosebleed seats…” he was talking to us. “Why don’t you move behind these two?”

God, no. Behind Trina and Jamie. I thought of dashing to the guidance counselor’s office. Despite my interest in acting, a deep desire to drop Drama and opt for a low-profile subject like pottery or shop crept through me.

“The rest of you pinch inward toward the center of the theater.”

We moved behind Trina and Jamie. Grace fumbled with her endless supply of bracelets. While Father Dodd took roll, she retrieved a bangle of rose quartz and jade. She hesitantly tapped Trina on the shoulder. Slowly pivoting at the obvious disturbance, Trina glared at us. Like a peace offering, Grace held out the bracelet to her.