Someone I Wanted to Be (26 page)

Kristy finished her left foot and began to paint her right big toenail. “So,” she said, smiling softly, “how’s Slutella and Caaaaaaaaarrrrl Lan-cas-ter?”

I leaned back on the heels of my hands and looked in the full-length mirror. A girl with dark eyes stared back at me. I shook back her hair. “Not bad.”

“Oh!” she said. I watched Kristy in the mirror as she smiled at her toes and tipped up her chin. “Are they just loads of fun? What do you guys do together? Draw anime people with big eyes and jaggy hair? Does Caaaaaarrrrl play piano for you?”

I didn’t say anything, and Kristy looked up. Corinne had just finished lining her eyes and watched both of us. We were all watching each other in the mirror.

“Shut up, Kristy,” said Corinne. She tilted her head and smudged the liner with her pinkie.

Kristy looked up at the ceiling and said, “Wow.” She shook out her curly white hair as if to remind us who she was. She snapped her headphones on and rolled onto her stomach with her feet in the air. She opened her laptop. “Screw both of you,” she said over her shoulder.

Everything looked the same as it had since seventh grade. That was the year Kristy’s mom redecorated the room to celebrate Kristy turning thirteen. Corinne stood hunched in front of the mirror with her flat little butt tucked in, her small feet disappearing into the frayed bottoms of her jeans. She wore a big stack of bangles. Kristy lay on her stomach, surrounded by her magic hair. She whispered the words to a song and frenetically typed on her keyboard.

We always pretended that everything was normal, everything was wonderful, as though Kristy’s mom wasn’t wrapped in a hideous pom-pom blanket as she died of cancer on the couch down the hall. We pretended that Kristy and Corinne hadn’t ditched me for two weeks. Ditched, trashed, thrown away, erased, like I was a picture you could delete from a phone. Like I’d done to Anita.

Everything was great, even if Corinne’s stepfather wouldn’t let her join the softball team, though she was the best girl pitcher in the school and the coach begged. The coach said she could play varsity. Derrick wanted Corinne to babysit. Derrick had already decided that if Corinne wanted to go to college, she could study accounting at the vo-tech. She’d have job security.

Everything was fantastic, even if Cindy was getting blasted at the Stoplight Lounge. She was probably crying and telling her date the story of Paul.

And I sat on Kristy’s pink carpet as if I was Leah and Kristy was Kristy, and there was no Mr. Corduroy and there never had been an Ashley.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Girls, fifteen minutes.”

“OK, Mr. Baker,” I said.

Kristy twisted around and lifted off her headphones. “What did my dad say?”

“Fifteen minutes.” I was tying tiny knots in the tufts of pink carpet.

“Tell him OK.”

“I already did.”

Kristy lay there with her bony feet waving in the air. She gave me a long, evil look. “Hey, Chubs. You really think you should wear that? Those jeans make you look kinda —”

I couldn’t play along anymore. Chubs. I wasn’t Chubs. “Kristy, why do you even hang around me? Do I make you feel better about yourself? ’Cause I’m fat? And poor?”

Kristy rolled over and raised herself up on her elbows. Her eyes were weird and glossy. “Chubs, you are soooo tedious.”

“You can call me Leah, and, by the way, I know someone who’s met thousands of people, and she thinks you’re the meanest girl she ever knew. Everyone thinks that, Kristy. Everyone.”

Kristy blinked. The color faded from her cheeks and forehead. She dropped against the mattress, pulled a pillow to her chest, and curled around it.

“Kristy, come on. . . .” Corinne stopped brushing her hair and looked over her shoulder.

“Lock the door.” Kristy sounded like she was choking. “Lock it.”

Corinne and I sat on the bed while Kristy cried. Her eyes squeezed shut, blocking out me and Corinne and the rest of the world. She hardly made any noise, but tears and snot poured down her face and made a large wet spot on the rose-covered comforter. She coughed and choked on breaths. Corinne rubbed her arm, and Kristy knocked Corinne’s hand away.

Kristy pushed herself up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rocked back and forth. She looked like a cave girl. Her hair was a crazy mess. There was a knock on the door. She went still. “Don’t tell my mom,” she said, and buried her face in the pillow.

“Girls, supper’s ready.”

“We’ll be out soon,” said Corinne. “Like fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll keep it hot,” said Mr. Baker.

Kristy pulled away the pillow and let out one last shudder. Her eyes and mouth and nose were swollen and wet. Black streaks of makeup were smeared across her cheeks. She looked at me through a thick wall of tears, but there was no anger, no resentment. “Did you know they pray for me? They were praying for me, I promise you.”

Corinne hugged Kristy, smoothed back her hair, and wiped off some of the makeup with her fingers. “Come on.” She lifted Kristy’s arm and led her into the bathroom.

It was the meanest thing I’d ever done.

Half an hour later, Corinne and I followed Kristy down the hallway to the kitchen. I was in the rear with Corinne’s backpack of booze. Kristy stopped beside her dad, who stood in an apron stirring a saucepan of red glop.

“Soup’s on, girls!” He held up a plastic bag of whole-wheat buns. “Stay and have a bite to eat with us! It’s my special sloppy-joe recipe. I used organic ground turkey, tomatoes I grew and canned myself, and my special spice mix.”

Kristy didn’t even look. “No, Daddy. I told you we’re going to Hilton Days. Can I have some cash?” Her eyes were still bloodshot and glassy, even though she’d used half a bottle of Visine.

Kristy’s dad stood there in his
SEXY CHEF
apron and held his old wooden spoon up like a baton. His face was a red, creased moon. The man in the moon had just had his heart broken.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He carefully set the spoon on the edge of the saucepan and pulled out his wallet. “I don’t know who’s going to eat all this. You girls are trying to make me fat.”

What would it be like to have a dad who pulled out a worn leather wallet and thumbed through it until he saw a twenty? A dad with a belly, fur that curled over the collar of his T-shirt, and a big sad man-in-the-moon face? A father who looked at you and saw nobody else?

After Kristy kissed her mom, we left. I was the last one out. The bottles clinked as I went down the steps into the garage. To cover it, I yelled, “Bye, Mom and Dad.”

Then we were out in the cool blue night. Kristy unlocked the car doors, and we each threw ourselves into our assigned seats and slammed the doors shut behind us. It was like the same Saturday night over and over.

Kristy steered with her wrist as she backed out. “The smell of that shit my dad was cooking almost made me throw up.”

“I thought it looked pretty good,” I said.

Kristy whipped around. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but hard again, like she’d coated them with layers of polish. “You would, Chubs. Man, I’m gonna get wasted tonight.”

I leaned against the webby fabric that covered the door and looked out at the driveways and lawns and lampposts. Everything was lit up. The big houses all had welcome mats by the front doors, though 99.9 percent of people really, truly weren’t welcome. Mountain View Estates looked like it was made of plastic.

We drove around the downtown while we waited for it to get dark. A huge plastic banner stretched across Torrance Avenue:
HILTON DAYS! 125 YEARS AND COUNTING!
There were dark piles of horse poop all over the street from the afternoon parade, and the air smelled like shit. When Kristy drove over a turd, we shrieked. The sidewalks were packed with crowds of families and couples. There were lots of ladies in bright red cowboy hats, though Cindy was probably the only one also wearing red sandals that tied around her ankles. Everyone moved in excited herds toward the bright lights, music, and the pie auction.

At eight thirty, we headed north on Torrance Avenue toward the park. Only the Burger King and a gas station were lit up; all the other businesses were closed and dark. There were already tons of kids in the parking lot.

Kristy parked, unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle, gulped a mouthful, and choked. She ate half a bag of Cheetos, wiped her chin, and then drank some more. “It’s super gross but give me some of that.” She drank straight out of the crusty bottle and got a long green drip down her chin and neck. We passed the bottle back and forth between the seats. Corinne and I both took burning slugs. Once the world lost its edges, we climbed out of the car. Kristy wandered into a crowd of boys. Corinne and I got out and stood by the car.

My throat was raw. Corinne started rapping to a dumb song someone was playing. She hooked my arm and tried to make me rap with her, but I couldn’t remember the words. Jamie Lopez pulled into the parking lot in a car driven by a boy with bleached blond hair. Jamie looked ecstatic. I wanted to run over to say hi, but they squealed their tires and took off.

Corinne stopped dancing and grabbed my sleeve. Damien Rogers and his friends stood in a circle around Kristy.

Damien was wearing a white V-necked football jersey that showed off his brown neck and his thick brown arms. His hair was wet and curled around his shoulders. There were his huge eyes and his straight black eyebrows, his cheekbones, and his wide, loose mouth, the dimple in his chin. He leaned down to talk to Kristy and shook the wet hair out of his eyes. He was with a white basketball player and four Mexican guys, baseball players with crossed arms and huge brown biceps.

I managed to ask Corinne, “Do I look OK?” before I realized what I was seeing.

Kristy scampered like a puppy inside the circle Damien and his friends made. Damien laughed when she asked his friend, “Is your name Sanchez or Tex-Mex?”

Kristy punched Damien in the chest. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? You don’t know nothing.”

Damien slid his hands down Kristy’s arms and wrestled her. Her white hair shimmered in the light from the streetlamp. She said, “Oh, you’re such a badass.”

Corinne and I were sitting on the hood of Kristy’s car. Corinne sighed and slid off. She rummaged around in the backseat, then came back with two Coke cans half full of vodka. She sat back down and fiddled with her bangles. Kids walked past in groups of three or four, everyone nervous and excited as they waited to see who would get shit on. I chugged the can. Heat streaked down my throat into my stomach.

The same stupid songs played. I shivered and pulled the zipper of my hoodie up to my chin. The air was swampy with exhaust, perfume, urine, and beer. My throat hurt, my stomach churned from the vodka, and my head pounded from the nightmarish sound of Damien Rogers and Kristy Baker talking and laughing. I couldn’t stop myself. I turned around and looked.

Damien and Kristy scuffled around. He grabbed handfuls of her hair, and she shook it out. He hugged her from behind and rocked her. Kristy had stolen a dream out of my head.

Kristy saw me watching. She held Damien’s wrists still. She said, “My friend over there — the big one — she’s madly in love with you.”

Everything stopped. My heart. Lungs. The world turning.

Only Damien Rogers lived. He turned around to take a look. He blinked his huge horse eyes. “You talking about the elephant? Holy crap, she’s a wide ride. Uh, no thanks.”

He’d made his pronouncement. The world came back to life. His friends joined in.

“Scary. Her ass alone would flatten you.”

The ugly basketball player said, “She’s a beached whale. She’s crushing the car!”

For a minute, I was dying, or it would have been better to be dead than alive in my humiliated body. It was like I was on fire. My skin split open, and I slopped over the dirty parking lot like the Blob.

Corinne lit two cigarettes and jammed one in my hand. “Screw him. He’s a jerk.” I took a puff and coughed. I dropped it on the ground and rubbed it out with my shoe.

A minute later, Corinne grabbed my arm. “Jason Coulter walked up and he’s talking to Damien. Oh God, he’s looking over here. . . .”

A black Mustang rolled past on Torrance Avenue. Kurt King was sitting bolt upright. His head turned sharply as he spotted Kristy. He gunned his engine and drove through a red light.

“Can I borrow your lip gloss?” Corinne huddled toward me and combed her hair with her fingers. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh my God, he’s coming over.”

I was alone. I was completely alone as I dug in my purse and handed Corinne my lip gloss. Her eyes were bright and blind. She was looking right at me but didn’t see me. I was all alone in a weird silent little bubble, even though there was laughter, a blur of voices and shouts, hip-hop thumping from car windows. I felt weirdly real and nameless, not like Leah Lobermeir. I felt like a person that no one else knew about.

Kristy pulled away from Damien. She stumbled around in a little circle. “Keep away from me, you fool!” she shouted. She leaned over and put her hands on her knees like she was about to be sick.

Kurt King would have done a U-turn. In a minute, he’d pull into the parking lot.