Punk Like Me (7 page)

My parents did the normal mom-and-dad thing and asked me all about my day, so I truthfully told them everything—well, except for the part about the date switching and especially not about that weird “this-is-gonna-happen” thing that didn’t by the train tracks. I had the funny feeling that they wouldn’t have been very happy with that. It wouldn’t be too long before I learned how right that suspicion was.

I kissed them each good night, and as I went through the door, I stopped. It was time for the big question. “Hey, Mom?” I turned and asked her, “I um, I was kinda hoping to go to CBGB’s tomorrow with Kerry. Is that okay?”

“Kerry again?” my father grunted from his side of the bed. “I don’t like that kid. She’s a lowlife punk,” and he picked up a book off his nightstand to read.

“Honey,” my mother murmured chastisingly to him and laid a calming hand on his forearm. “Sure, baby, if you’re going to be home before six.” She turned away from my father to face me. “Are you meeting or going with anyone else—Joey or Jack or anyone?”

“No, Mom, just us,” I answered, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“Harrumph,” grunted my father, never taking his eyes off his page,

“Joey’s a Nazi, Jack’s a ß ake, probably a fag, probably both fags. Both useless. Should’ve been drowned at birth…” He trailed off, immersed in the depths of his book.

It was uncanny. It was almost like he knew about the game we’d all played and freaked me out a little, well, maybe more than a little.

But still, Joey and Jack had been very clear. It was just a game, a little

• 49 •

make-believe, a little horsing around among friends. Which meant my dad was wrong.

With that in mind, my mom and I shared a look; then, taking a deep breath and squaring myself in the door frame, I asked, “Why, Dad? For being useless or for being”—my mouth went dry and I swallowed—

“faggots?”

Dad snapped his head up from the book with a shocked look on his face, either surprised that he’d spoken aloud or, more likely, that I’d questioned him. “What?” he asked sharply.

Now, maybe a smarter person would’ve said nothing, and maybe a better person would have let it go, but to be
truly
punk is to stand up for your ideals and do the right thing, no matter what. In other words, open your mouth, question authority, and take the consequences that come your way, no matter what they are. “Should they have been drowned at birth for being useless, for being faggots”—I took a breath and folded my arms over my chest to pretend a calm I didn’t feel—“or both?” I watched him stonily.

Did he know how close he was to maybe talking about me? If that was me, would he have wished me drowned at birth, too? I had to know.

My father put his book down and sat up straight. For maybe half a second, I thought he’d get up and maybe actually come over and, well, let’s not get into that. My body tensed just in case, but he simply readjusted his blankets and took his glasses off.

“Oh, I don’t care if they’re faggots,” he dismissed, “so long as I don’t have to watch ’em. What I do care about,” he said, punctuating his words with his glasses, “is that they’re useless know-it-alls.” He slipped his glasses back on, then picked his book up again and found his place. “Same as that good-for-nothing Kerry.” And with that he buried himself back in his reading, signaling that this friendly interpersonal exchange was over.

My mom looked at me, sympathy and concern in her eyes, and I’m sure she would have come over to hug me, but I just shook my head as noncommittally as possible and shrugged.

“Whatever,” I responded as my cheeks began to burn with the unfairness of it, “but they’re not Nazis, and they’re not useless. They’re nice people—they’re my friends.”

Why was it that he just never got it? My father, I mean. He used to be my friend, he used to listen, really listen, and talk and share, and

• 50 •

PUNK LIKE ME

now, well, I don’t know, it was just different, and not in a good way. I mean, it seemed everything he said was “faggot this” and “fags that,” with the Nazi thing thrown in here and there for good measure. And he just kept picking on me, just a constant criticism of everything I did—

like nothing I could do was ever right. I tried not to let it bother me, but it hurt, and I didn’t understand it. Well, whatever. It would probably work itself out eventually, I thought to myself. It was probably some weird midlife phase or something he was going through.

I turned back to my mother again and asked, “So, is it okay, Mom?

Tomorrow, I mean?”

“Sure, honey, just be back by six, okay?” She smiled at me, a little sadly, I thought. It seemed she’d been doing a lot of that lately.

Yes! This was great. Houston, we’re a go for countdown! “Thanks, Mom, Dad,” I said. “Good night.” I went over and gave my mom a big hug, which she returned, then made my way to my room.

“How do you expect her to Þ nd a real boyfriend if you keep talking about them like that? How is she supposed to have friends?” I heard my mom ask my dad as I walked down the hallway.

“Damn kid has got to learn, hon, there are idiots in this world.

Don’t want her to become a lowlife street punk faggot,” he answered decisively.

“Don’t you dare say those things about my daughter,” I heard her respond heatedly. I could just imagine her expression, the hand up in the air demanding silence, the tight twist to her lips. Dad must have wisely decided to drop it at that point, because the rest of their conversation faded to soft murmuring. Me, though, I stood stock-still, perhaps even a bit frozen at the door to my bedroom, the happy feeling I’d had momentarily before completely gone. Instead, my stomach clenched and a sour taste built in my mouth. I thought of going back to their room and almost turned around. But I’d already said what was on my mind earlier. What would be the point if I went back now? He wouldn’t listen, anyway.

Fuck it. I went to sleep.

• 51 •

• 52 •

PUNK LIKE ME

The morning dawned as another unusually warm November day, and Kerry called me Þ rst thing in the A.M., just as I was stepping out of the shower.

“It’s your punk friend!” my father called in a teasing tone from his room where he’d answered the phone.

“Which one?” I yelled back as I toweled my head. Hey, if he wanted to play, I could play, too. Sometimes it was funny and we’d even laugh.

“Smart-ass kid—don’t be a punk with me,” he grumbled, but I could tell it was a relatively good-natured grumble. “It’s that
girl
.” He emphasized the word to make sure I understood full well that even if he was in a good mood, he still disapproved of her.

“Yeah, tell her I’ll be right there,” I called back to him as I jumped into a towel, then grabbed my clothes and ran on tiptoe feet across the hall to my parents’ room. Why does everyone do that when their feet are wet? It all drips on the ß oor anyway, and your feet still get dirty.

“Yo,” I greeted as I grabbed the phone from the pillow where my father had left it. “You ’bout ready?” I was pulling on my favorite black jeans and struggling to keep the phone line out of my shirt as I pulled it over my head.

“Yeah, just gotta do the hair—wanna meet at your place or the station?” Kerry asked, referring to the train station that would take us to the boat, then on to freedom and adventure.

“Um,” I breathed as I struggled with my “bondage” boot—so called because it had to be zipped, laced up, then buckled, seven times—“let’s meet at Universe, since it’s right there and you’re closer to the station

• 53 •

anyway. Sound good?” I got the last buckle in place.

“
No problema
, you wanna get the 10:40 train?” she asked me.

I could hear the hair dryer going in the background, and I envied her the fact that as an only child, she had her own phone in her own room, unlike me, who had to share the phone with everyone and my room with my younger sister.

Yeah, I have one of those, too. My baby sister, Nancy, who we called Nanny (and I know, I know, we all have the same Þ rst initial—

we all have the same middle one, too, but I’m not telling just yet), two years younger than Nicky and almost four years younger than I, shared a room with me. She, being the baby of our little bunch, had a saying:

“You’re the culprit, I’m the victim,” whenever anything happened—

anywhere—that any of us could get in trouble for. Come to think of it, Nanny said that a lot.

It’s not that she was terrible or evil (well, maybe sometimes) or anything like that. It’s just that she was younger enough than me for us to not have too much in common until she hit high school. She was just starting to be cool, and I was just starting to relate to her, but she still had the reputation in our family of being a tattletale, and she thought I was “weird.” She hated all of my friends, and she was way too young to hang out with Nicky and me. Well, that’s all you need to know for now. Back to the phone call.

“Yup, 10:40, be at Universe by 10:20?”

“Uh-huh, see ya there, ’kay?”

“Okay, then. Later,” and we hung up.

I looked over at the clock on my dad’s nightstand—it was nine thirty—and I bolted for the bathroom. I still had to do my hair! No luck for me, though, the door was closed, so I did the obvious, I knocked.

“Who is it?” Nanny sang out as sweetly as she could.

“Nanny, you gonna be out of there soon? I’ve got to get in there and—” I stopped abruptly when I heard the toilet ß ush. I heard the water start to run in the sink as Nanny washed her hands, and I was getting later and later, so I knocked again.

“C’mon, Nanny, hurry it up!” I said importantly. “I’ve got things to see and people to do!”

There was silence for a moment. Nanny had turned off the water, and I could hear her rummaging through the cabinets. Suddenly the door opened and she shoved a hair dryer, gel, and hair spray into my surprised hands, then slammed the door shut again.

• 54 •

PUNK LIKE ME

“Go do your hair in Mommy’s room,” Nanny told me through the door. “You’re not the only one who has a life, you know. My Menudo club is coming over today.”

I started to laugh and I couldn’t help it, I had to, just absolutely had to tease. “Menudo, oh, Ricky, Ricky, you’re so cuuuuute, I luu-uu-uuv youuuuu!” in the highest, drippiest falsetto I could manage.

Menudo was a boy band created somewhere in Mexico, I think, and the members kept rotating—I think the rule was when the pubes come in, the boy goes out, and all these teeny little girls loved them and the stuff they sang. I thought they were all airheads, both the fans and the boys, and I knew for sure that if her club was coming over, I was glad I was going out. Nicky had stayed overnight at a friend’s house, so I knew he was clear, or he’d be coming out with me and Kerry, and for once, I didn’t want him along.

“You’re such a jerk!” Nanny yelled at me from behind the door.

“You think you’re so big just because your friends are weird and you all read stupid comic books and listen to weirdo radio stations with weirdo music no one ever heard of, and you talk about stupid things and watch stupid movies that don’t make any sense!” I stared in shock for a few seconds, caught between amusement and irritation.

“Yeah, well, at least my friends know how to think for themselves,” I Þ nally shot back as I turned away from the door to stalk back to my parents’ room with my precious hair supplies.

Something slammed against the door in the bathroom; Nanny must have thrown a brush. “Go do your hair upside down, weirdo!” I continued down the hallway; it would be undigniÞ ed of me to explain what I was actually doing. Besides, I had to get going! Kerry and I were going to CBGB’s, the mecca of all meccas for us, for the Þ rst time, well, for me anyway. This was going to be so cool…

I had my hair done, got some money from my mom, and with a quick kiss to her and Dad, I made it to Universe and the train station in record time, where Kerry waited for me.

We didn’t say much to each other waiting for the train or on it; a companionable silence reigned between us. We’d just grin at each other happily from time to time, but once we got on the boat, things started to change.

We were sitting across from each other on the benches in the bottom level, and as the engines roared to life with a thrum that moved

• 55 •

through our bodies, I kept thinking about the day before and all the outrageous things we’d done and said. I began to feel a bit awkward. I mean, what if I’d gone too far, what if Kerry was thinking about it, too, and realizing that she didn’t want to hang out with a, well, I don’t know what. I frowned at Kerry’s plaid pant leg that she’d been repeatedly smoothing.

Kerry stopped playing with her pant leg—I guess they were as smooth as they could get—looked up, and smiled at me. “Ya know, Hopey, I love you so much, I’d suffer a thousand paper cuts all over my body and roll myself in salt for you.”

I smiled back, glad to be on familiar territory, happy to know that everything between us was still okay. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Yeah, well, I love you so much I’d suffer a thousand paper cuts, roll myself in salt, and dry myself with sandpaper,” I returned, and we just grinned at each other like idiots for a bit.

“Ah, Hopey,” Kerry addressed me softly, leaning over from her side, “do you know what?” She hesitated while I waited for the rest of it. When she started to examine her Þ ngernails, which she’d painted alternately in bright neon yellow and bubble gum pink, I decided to help the conversation along with my brilliant discussion skills.

“What, Maggie?” I lowered my voice to match hers and leaned to meet her halfway across the gap between us, so I could hear whatever she said next.

She Þ ddled some more. “Do you…” She paused, as if to think about her next words. “Do you…” and she swallowed and stared down again. The silence grew until it felt like a heavy cloud between us—