But that’s all behind me now. Today is the first day of the rest of my bus-free life. I hear Pash’s car screech to a stop outside my window at exactly 8:32
A.M
. She has the music cranked so loud the use of a horn is unnecessary. Not that it stops her. On Pash’s horn-blaring cue, I slip out of my bedroom and tiptoe to our not-so-great room.
I stealthily grab my pack, throw Sweet Pea a kiss, and bolt for the door. But just as my hand reaches the knob, I hear my arch nemesis holler from the kitchen.
“Bliiiiiss! What about your breakfast?” I turn and there’s Brooke in the throes of some kind of TV mom fantasy moment. She’s holding a plate of piping-hot eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast.
It’s almost touching, except for the fact that I haven’t eaten eggs since I was, like, five, and my vegetarianism has been in full effect for at least two years. Brooke knows this. (I sent her a press release, not to mention the monthly reminders in my “Guide to Parenting Bliss” newsletter.) She refuses to learn.
So, here she is, decked out in pearls, foisting a plate of dead animal soul in my face first thing in the morning. Yum yum. I am
this
close to vomiting all over her Martha Stewart apron from the smell alone (& half-tempted, believe me).
But she’s got this crazy look on her face, like the roof will cave in if I decline to dine, and suddenly I feel a brief but potent mix of guilt and sadness for her. I forgo my typical eye-rolling, you-don’t-respect-my-beliefs monologue and do what any teen does when she is trying to get out of the house quickly in the face of a parental ambush: I kiss ass.
“Oh, my God, you’re, like, the best mom ever!” I gush. “That smells amazing.”
“Really? You really think so?” she asks, not wanting the real answer.
“Of course. But, Mom, do you think I could get this to go? I want to get to school in time to talk to Mrs. Luntz about trying out for cheerleader, since they’re replacing Jerri Lynn Templeton,” I say.
“They’re replacing Jerri Lynn Templeton?” Brooke gasps with way too much excitement. “Oh, I prayed for this!”
It takes my rah-rah worshipping mother exactly twenty seconds to whip up a breakfast sandwich, wrap it in a charming little diaper-napkin, and shove it in my hand as she ushers me out the door.
“Don’t be late, Bliss. Go, go, go! You’re gonna be a cheerleader!”
“Thanks, Mom!” I say, kissing her cheek. I book it to Pash’s car before Brooke can inhale the perfume of irony I leave behind.
Pash greets me by cranking up an appropriate classic by our beloved Ramones. (RIP, Joey!)
Well, I don’t care about history.
Rock, rock, rock-’n’-roll high school!
’Cause that’s not where I wanna be.
Rock, rock, rock-’n’-roll high school . . .
I feel better already. Pash hits the gas as we zoom past my former bus stop brethren. Ciao, suckas!
Closer to school, I make Pash pull over so I can pawn my breakfast sandwich off on some all-too-eager freshman boy who looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal since third grade.
“That’s so Girl Scout of you,” Pash remarks, applying her signature black eyeliner in the rearview.
“Not really. I’m planning on getting into a lot of trouble, so I’m trying to bank some Karma points.”
“Ooh. What kind of trouble?” She smiles.
“A-hem.” I clear my throat with dramatic innuendo.
“Oh riiiight, that Roller Derby thing,” she taunts. “Is that this weekend? I can’t remember—you’ve only reminded me twenty million times!”
It’s true, I’ve nagged like a maniac 24/7, hiding reminder Post-it notes all over her room, even in her box of tampons, which she acted vaguely annoyed about (but I know she secretly loved for the creative effort).
“Oh, c’mon!” I scream. “Just say yes, already! Consider it my birthday present.”
“Your birthday is six months away, dork. If I give you a gift now, you’ll totally forget and then accuse me of being a crappy friend.”
“Not even. If you see that my sad self gets to this Roller Derby thing, I will never accuse you of being anything more than the most awesomest best friend on the planet. Which is sayin’ a lot because I’m pretty damn good myself. Oh, and did I mention, the hot-guy factor is expected to be high?”
“Damn you, Bliss, playing the hot-guy card.”
“I’m just sayin’. . . .”
“Honestly,” she sighs. “At this point, I’m not even sure I would recognize a genuine hottie. Do you realize the last erotic dream I had was about Ryan Seacrest—”
“Ew! That is so wrong.” I gag.
“Oh, yeah,” Pash says. “I went to sleep envisioning some wonderful scenario with my boyfriend, Connor Oberst, but somehow it got all jumbled, and by the time I woke up, I was muggin’ down with Ryan Seacrest.”
“TMI!” I scream, throwing my hands over my ears.
“Sorry, I just—”
“I am so disturbed right now,” I say in full-on cringe mode.
“Clearly, my judgment is off.” Pash sighs.
“Way. Which is exactly why you need to be around real boys so you can set your boy compass straight.”
“You’re just using me for my car,” Pash says with mock suspicion.
“Your car, your clothes, your CDs—whatever you got. C’mon, Pash, my only other option is to post some skanky photos online to lure some fresh-from-prison freak out here to drive me.”
“Ew! No, I will not let you skank out like that!”
“So, that means you’re driving?” I say, grinning.
“Thinkin’ about it. But you have to come up with a plan.”
“Already workin’ on it.”
Rock, rock, rock, rock, rock-’n’-roll high school!
Same-O Lame-O
E
ven though I should know better, I confess there’s always a little piece of me that gets excited about the first day of school. Back in the elementary years, it was about christening a box of virgin crayons or breaking in a brand-new Sesame Street lunchbox. But these days it’s more about anticipating the arrival of a perfect boyfriend in the form of an exotic exchange student or even just a really hot teacher who gets exiled to the sticks (bad for him, good for me).
By third period, it’s painfully clear the foreign exchange miracle has once again eluded my grasp. Yes, friends, this year is just as lame as the last, and shocking as it sounds, my peers have somehow managed to get even more annoying over the summer.
Exhibit A: Lisa Catchum, my downstairs locker neighbor. Now, personally, I have nothing against Lisa. That is, until her fashion choices start interfering with my pursuit of happiness, which they are in a major way. You see, Lisa is a die-hard devotee of Britney-cut jeans, and every time she bends over to get her books, I am assaulted with a major thong-a-palooza (made of gold glitter, no less—which just proves the display of ass flesh
está no accidente
).
As the day wears on, I find myself muscled out of locker access by desperate boys who jam the hallway in hopes of sneaking a peak. And Lisa doesn’t disappoint. Every hour on the hour, the gold butt-floss comes out to say hello.
(Good-bye!!!!)
“What is this, Groundhog Day?” Pash asks. “The bell can’t ring unless Lisa’s shown us her thong?”
“Apparently,” I say, shoving past the horny onlookers.
The hourly assault on our visual senses is so disgusting that Pash and I have no choice but to spend our lunch hour drafting an anonymous letter addressing the Lisa Catchum ass-flashing issue.
Dear Lisa:
It has come to our attention that every time you use your locker, your backside is on complete display. Perhaps you’re unaware of this, perhaps you think that the breeze you feel from bending over is the rush of the crowd passing by, or perhaps you are training to be a porn star.
Whatever your reason, it is most definitely wrong. Being forced to look at your pint-sized underwear is a distraction, and not a good one. Just because you want to flash your thong to the world doesn’t mean the world wants to see it.
So, please, Lisa, for the sake of all human ity, kindly shove your ass and your Band-Aid-size panties back into your too-tight jeans, and we won’t be forced to vomit on you.
Sincerely,
People for Ethical Treatment
of Thongs
Bitchy? Perhaps, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, you should have seen the first two drafts Pash and I whipped up, laughing till we cried into our already soggy lunchroom fries.
And when, by fifth period, Lisa takes to wearing her rhinestone hoodie around her waist for extra butt coverage, victory is mine. I can now proceed to my locker in peace.
Cowboy Yoda
N
ow, between you, me, and Pash, there is one bright spot in this farce they call the Bodeen educational system.
That would be junior economics teacher Mr. Smiley. What can I say about this jewel of a man? He looks
exactly
like Yoda, stands maybe five foot two inches tall in his high-heeled cowboy boots, and is a die-hard devotee of Western suits. And when I say Western suits, I don’t mean any ol’ just-add-water cowboy getup. I mean the polyester kind they quit making sometime in the ’70s, the kind that only came in pastel colors usually reserved for special-issue M&M’s at Easter. Peach, lemon, lavender, mint green—Mr. Smiley has the entire collection, and then some. He must have stockpiled them as their expiration date was coming up.
Normally, such a bold fashion move from a teacher in the face of judgmental teens would result in abject ridicule (witness Mrs. Gomer and her wacky “Friday earrings”). But Mr. Smiley deftly avoids such pitfalls.
He never lets anyone forget that, despite being 108 years old and a charter member of the pastel appreciation society, he could kick your teenage ass in a heartbeat. Not even the toughest boys dare fuck with Mr. S.
And if the fashion glory weren’t enough to convince you of his greatness, consider his legendary use of nicknames. Mr. Smiley has a moniker for every student who crosses his path—Slick, Hee-haw, Black Jack, Ladybug, Rawhide, Pop Tart. . . .
He’ll swagger through the halls, urging kids to get to class. “Skedaddle, Lipstick. Bell’s about to ring,” he’ll say in his exaggerated Texas drawl. “You too, Cracker Jack. And take Hopscotch and Johnny Diamond with ya. . . . Wanda Sue, I’m lookin’ at you. . . . Time’s up, Lion Tamer. . . . Dorito, you are not exempt. . . .”
In my brief run-ins with Mr. Smiley, I have been referred to as Betty Rebel, Firecracker, Outlaw, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Ginger Snap.
He never uses the same nickname twice. Ever. Sometimes I think that when Mr. Smiley finally does pass on to that big classroom in the sky, it won’t be because of a heart attack or anything like that. It will be because he finally ran out of nicknames.
He owns his weirdness in such a pure way, just thinking about it makes me want to cry. I totally worship him, which is why I dedicate my back-to-school fashion statement to him—a homemade T-shirt that says
MR. SMILEY IS MY HOMEBOY
in iron-on velvet letters.
When I take a seat in seventh period, Cowboy Yoda regards the garment with guarded suspicion, but I flash him my sincere smile to let him know I’m legit (the smile I save for Pash and the boyfriend I have yet to meet). Mr. Smiley warms. His pointy ears even twitch with approval.
“Well, Blueberry,” he declares, “it’s high time I had me a fan club.”
“No doubt,” I say. And we exchange a high five, which my clueless classmates regard with slack-jawed confusion, trying to decide whether or not it’s cool. (Clearly it is.)
They Skate by Night
F
riday night, 8:23
P.M
. Pash and I are driving approximately 102 miles an hour to get to Austin in time for our Roller Derby baptism.
We scam Pash’s parents with a heartwarming tale about two girls who love rooting for their high school football team so much they can’t bear to miss the season opener against Killean High, two hours away. Since being a “normal American teenager” trumps all in the immigrant Amini household, they agree to extend Pash’s car curfew to one
A.M
. which gives us just enough time to dip our toes in the water of real fun. Naturally, I’m also spending the night, which keeps our plan safely under the Brooke radar. Woo hoo!
I’m so amped in the car, I change my clothes a thousand times in search of fashion greatness. With the pickin’s slim, I settle into my old standby, a micro minidress made from a vintage T-shirt and held together with nothing but a million strategically placed safety pins. I wear it layered over tights to undercut the would-be slut factor. Normally I love wearing this dress, but tonight I’m just not feeling it. I’m afraid my romance with my favorite frock might be over.