Dead Dog

I want to die. Be dead. Well, not dead like the feel death’s tongue flickering upon the inner regions of my lightless soul. I want to be part of the universe. Experience the white light those inbred obese trailer folks with the Lycra pants and tube tops regurgitate on the daytime talk shows, while the commercials cry out for a ray of hope for the hopeless who can’t afford to pay their bills. Well, stop making them I always say. If you’re sitting home at three in the afternoon wallowing in Dr. Phil & Jerry Springer, then you need to get your ass out and find a job. 

But me, I want to experience death. See if Pappy will wear that tacky 70s black tuxedo that he wore to Aunt June’s wedding, that she was so embarrassed when he volunteered to walk down the aisle in lieu of Earl cause he was laying back at the hotel in a puddle of his own vomit. Though nobody knew it at the time. They just thought Earl was being a prick again. They didn’t know he was dead yet.

Maybe that’s where I got my obsession. I mean death screws up life, doesn’t it? And I figure I’m already screwed up, so I got a head start on death. Or it could be the little fact that I’m pregnant. Yes, I know-- the makings of a freaking after school special. Fourteen and pregnant. But no, it’s not really what you think. Before you put out the hits on my morally maladjusted parents, which aren’t all that horrible by the way, be advised that this is an educationally-induced pregnancy. You know, the stupid egg you carry around for a semester, pretending it’s your kid, so you can ace the sex-ed portion of your biology class. Well, my egg kid is Dog. Yes, I said Dog. Don’t feel bad, teacher thought I said Doug too. I figure it’s my freaking egg kid that I have to pretend to raise, and I’ve always wanted a dog and can’t get one - so I can name him whatever I want. So Dog it is.

Anyway, on the sixth agonizing day in a heap of excruciating days before, after days and nights of documenting Dog’s bottle time, burp time, poop time, and play time—I am so beyond tired. I’m ecstatic that it’s a Saturday and there’s no school and no dumb ass Seniors to play keep away with my make-believe kid. So I’m feeling pretty good for a change and I’m going to take Dog to see my best friend Marjorie and her egg kid Tommy Jr. who of course was named after her not-so-secret crush. She is probably the one bad influence on my life and mom just wants me to be just like her, but for now, we won’t go there.

So, I’m wearing my favorite well-worn “Kill Me Now” shirt, a hand me down from Marjorie. I get into my cute blue terry cloth weekend shorts, the low rise kind mom hates with “Super Star” in cursive across the butt and she says you have to stand too close to read what it says. I slump onto my bed in order to put on my tennies and I hear a crunch sound. I look down and there’s poor little Dog dripping from my ass. I say a couple of unrepeatable words because those are my favorite shorts, go to the refrigerator, slip pseudo son number 2 into his carryall and no one’s the wiser. Except maybe Dog no. 1 who’s sitting in the bottom corner of the white lemon fresh plastic bag in the kitchen garbage can.  And I make myself my breakfast of Mom’s fresh baked bread, homemade mayo and a close relative to Dog. As I sit here eating my fried egg sandwich, I realize I would make a lousy parent. 

You would think with having a Wiccan as a stay-at-home Earth mom and a Philosophy professor as a dad, I’d have my head screwed on straight. If I’m to believe Dad and Nietzsche, right now, I’m a camel loaded down with my experiences. Maybe in  death, I’ll find the strength to be the lion. Philosophy confuses me. If I’m just going in circles and I’m going to be here again, again and again, I say what’s the use. It’s not like anything is going to improve. And mom with her herbs and potions, saying that there’s never been a God only Goddess. No wonder I’m agnostic. With nature tugging me one way and existentialism the other, I’m lucky I can walk without tripping.

I think life just trips you up anyway. Just sets you up to think you’re doing great, but when the big moment comes, you fall on your ass in front of all the popular people. I mean, you cringe, then laugh and  pretend to yourself that it didn’t happen to gain face. And it’s like all the time in the world can pass, but then they see you and they immediately remember the incident – even the gurgle sound that escapes your throat when your left high top went unexpectedly flying. And they replay it again and again and again. It makes you want to die.

But me, I really don’t fear death. I just figure it would piss the group off because I’ve been their entertainment now for over two years. I mean, tall, skinny, perm remnant hair, no chest to speak of—I am a walking bulls-eye. I should have Loser painted on my forehead. I mean, it’s been slapped on my back before. Why not make it more convenient for them?  And don’t you dare tell me, I should fight back. One of me versus a freaking busload of them? The David and Goliath scenario doesn’t work here. Believe me I’ve played the numbers in my head.

You’ll grow into your beauty, my mom says. You’re a late bloomer like your Auntie June, she says. Turn the other cheek, she says. I would like to see if those whom I’m supposed to turn my cheek to would show up to my funeral.

She was so sweet. So quiet. I wish I knew her better. And mom hugging the ebony dressed hypocrites and offering them lemon sugar cookies and home brewed hot chocolate for comfort. I’d prefer to hover above my deceitful mourners with their red eyes and ran mascara and call forth the fury of God and Goddess. I’d beat upon them like angry hurricane, stripping them of their lies to my grieving mother, leaving them naked, guilty and embarrassed in my pouring rain.

But not right now. With Dog securely attached to me in this ugly gold carry-all that was both mine and my sisters, I know I look ridiculous, but don’t feel so ridiculous because I know it’s something I have to do. Plus since Mom has to sign the sheet of paper that guarantees I keep this dumb egg kid on or around me 24-7, even on my weekends, I guess having no choice makes looking stupid easier to swallow.  

But I figure some meddlesome old bitty on the bus to Marjorie’s was bound to think the lump in my carryall was a real kid, so with black indelible markers I paint two eyes and a mouth opened in a wail. Pretty realistic I think. Colic, I’ll tell her as I shove the egg in front of her face. He’s got colic.

Yet on the bus, it’s a different story. There’s not supposed to be people I know on my bus ride to Marjorie’s. Especially those people. The ones who are intent on making my life hell. But there he is, looking completely out of place without his classic red Firebird. Joshua. One of the Senior dumb asses in his letterman’s jacket in hottest part of August. And there’s two seats available. The one next to him and the one in front of him.

And since I’m second in line and I get nauseated when I stand, I am praying that his seat fills first. I don’t even care if my only option is the exhausted-looking lady with the kid on her lap that’s wiping boogers on the seat. I don’t care. I don’t want to sit by him.

So as once again the universe sees fit to screw me over, I take the seat to the right of him, edging my body as far away from him as possible without falling into the aisle. As I slouch down, pulling my hair down around my face, I notice a perfect line of white blond hair on my right thigh that I missed shaving this morning. I make a mental note to borrow a razor from Marjorie.

And I squeeze my bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger until I realize I am doing this, so I stop and read and re-read all the advertisements on the right side of the bus. I am waiting like the deer who sees the hunter. I am holding my breath, waiting for his caustic bullets to pierce me. Hey, string bean. Hey, fugly. Hey, pancake. As in flat as a…. but it’s just a tap on my arm and hey, lips pursed and chin stuck out, lifted up and down and nothing else.

But I still can’t breathe because I know he’s loading the rifle, rehearsing in his mind, letting the words bounce around in his mouth for a while before projectile vomiting them on me. And he says—and I realize I am squeezing my lip again—he asks me how’s the project going and he pulls an egg from his letterman’s pocket and sort of smile grimaces. I’m not sure how to take him. And I’m wondering where’s Ashton Kutcher and the Punk’d Camera crew. Or the alien spaceship that abducted the jerk and left this guy in its place. I have the urge to tell him that teacher will fail him if he gets caught without the egg in its proper traveling gear. So I do. I don’t know why I care whether he passes or fails. But it’s conversation with the enemy and this is new ground for me. He looks at me and he says so, who’s gonna tell?

I shrug and figure that’s that.  The spell lasted all of five minutes. C’mon, I’m urging in my head, say it. I’ve got better things to do. Say I’ve seen better legs on a chair, pancake. Maybe we should shave your ass and make you walk backwards, huh, fugly. C’mon dammitt. Send the barrage. I’m ready this time.

He’s leaning against the window, crumpling and uncrumpling an envelope and he just doesn’t look like the obnoxious Joshua I know from school.  He looks deflated and small and for once, nothing happens.

Except he talks to me. Not through me or at me or about me. But to me.  He tells me he’s scared he screwed up, String bean. But he doesn’t say it in a way that makes me cringe. It’s like it makes me wonder if he even knows my real name, so I tell him. And suddenly, we have a weird connection. Like he was waiting for someone to unload to, that wasn’t attached to the group. And we have a good old-fashioned two-completely-opposite-people-who-freakishly-discover-they-have-common-interests type of conversation. He laughs at Dog’s marker makeup. He bitches about the new transmission his Firebird needs. And the pressure his Dad is putting him under to get a college scholarship. And he repeats his earlier statement about how badly he thinks he screwed up and he tosses the envelope on to my lap. See for yourself, he says and than he says my real name. And it feels like he’s breaking some law or something. I tell him I don’t think the contents are my business, but he asks me to read the letter, just the same. So, I swallow hard and begin to read, but he stops me when I get to word “unfortunately.”  He sort of sighs and looks out the window, then he turns to me and says that he’s really been a prick to me, hasn’t he? It’s not really any type of apology, but it still feels good to hear the words.  And than he smiles at me, sort of sheepishly at first, and it isn’t one of those fake close-lipped smiles that you give to people you can’t stand, but it evolves into a real open-mouthed one where you see teeth and a dimple that you never noticed before indenting his left cheek.

And on the second stop before Marjorie’s, he stands and I try to hand him back the envelope. But he shakes his head and asks if I can throw it away for him, that he already knew what it said and doesn’t want to look at it anymore. And he says see you on Monday. I lift my hand in a lazy wave. But I wonder if I will ever see this version of Joshua again. Most likely, I’ll see his evil twin on Monday, but unless we happen across one another when nobody else is around, I doubt I will ever see that dimple again.

Of course, Marjorie doesn’t let up. She pounces on me, wants to know every single detail because I made the mistake of my opening line being guess who I sat next to on the bus. She knows our history and is convinced that he now has the hots for me and my life will be forever changed on Monday, homeroom, 8am. I decide at that moment not to share the contents of envelope I have stuffed inside my book-bag.

So I try to change the subject. Where’s your razor and what’s the plan for today, I attempt to divert her from my non-existent love life. Ooooh, she purrs. She wants to see if she can get some tank tops. I grimace. Get some. Codeword for you stand watch and I slip the merchandise into the backpack while no one’s looking. Because no one would ever suspect you because you look too sweet and innocent to do something so terrible like lifting.

And I don’t know why she does it. It’s not like she wants for everything. When she was nine and her parents divorced, her bedroom was like walking into a freaking toy department. Each parent trying to outdo the other. And nothing’s changed in six years. Except she asks for cash now instead of toys.

Marjorie locks her bedroom door, puts her finger to lips, then grabs my hand. She goes into her cd cabinet and pulls out a DVD. She hands it to me with the unbridled anticipation of a kid at Christmas.

So I open the empty DVD and I’m looking at two small white capsules and a plastic forehead thermometer and I am worried. This isn’t like the stupid cigarette that we swipe from her mom and smoke or try to smoke, but get so dizzy, we just air-freshen the room and flush it down her toilet then watch late night soft core on HBO on Demand because Marjorie discovers the password to the adult channel block is her birth date.

I can feel her eyes upon me, but I can’t look at her. This is so much more than a little shared nausea from nicotine. I know this is bad and dangerous and—she takes the pill in her fingers and holds it to my lips. I hear her tell me that her mom is out until tonight, that this is something special that she was waiting to do together, that it tastes bitter as hell, but feel so good. But I’m not truly listening. I don’t want any part of this. But how do you not want to do something with your best friend and still keep them as your best friend?

And she starts rubbing the pill against my lower lip and teasing me that you want some candy, little girl. I can sense that she is getting frustrated, so I step outside of myself the way I do with the assholes at school and I watch as I part my lips. I can’t believe I am doing this, but it’s like Marjorie sucks you into the alternate universe where you know what you’re doing is wrong, but you’ve trusted her for such a long time, and so far you can justify it because nothing bad has happened, so you just follow her lead. Marjorie smiles, lifts her arms to her sides and spins around her bedroom, landing on her bed.  

But I’m expecting bitterness. I am surprised by the cool mint sensation on my tongue. I shut my eyes. A familiar sensation. A familiar taste from my childhood. Mint Tic Tacs—I didn’t think they sold them anymore? I open my eyes. By now, Marjorie is rolling around the bed, hysterical with laughter, telling me that I should see my expression, that oh my God, couldn’t I tell that they were Tic Tacs?  But then she gets serious and says the real stuff doesn’t look like that. She just wanted to see if I’d do it. Rolling, she calls it, and next time, she promises me, she knows a guy that knows a guy and that we’ll do “X” for real.

So she doesn’t push it when I tell her I no longer feel like going to the mall, that I just want to crash and watch movies. I let her braid my hair and put makeup on me, but something has changed between us and when Dad beeps his horn at exactly quarter past two, I don’t make him wait, I  am up and out of there and finding a certain inexplicable comfort in the backseat next to a sack of groceries and my little sister.

And back at home, I decide to play with her, this little eleven-year-old with Dad’s “Over 40 & Fabulous” ball cap and a long blonde ponytail, who I avoid at all costs since I am a teenager and she’s old enough to be a pest. And she confides in me that she’s reading the bible because she doesn’t understand her place in the big scheme of things and needs something to compare Goddess against. And she asks if it gets easier when you get into high school because middle school sucks. And I laugh, not at what she said, but because that word seems so inappropriate coming out of her angelic face. And she gets annoyed, misunderstands, and sulks out of my room, saying she’s never telling me anything again as long as she lives and I suck as a big sister.

As she slams the door of my bedroom and I hear her bedroom door slam, I want to make amends. I knock on her door and she’s in her bed scribbling in her diary. She tells me to go away, but I go in and sit on her bed anyway. I tell her I’m sorry and why I laughed and that I like the theme of her bedroom. I haven’t been in here for a while and the posters of Disney boy bands are much cooler than the pink and pale pink Barbie border. She snaps the lock shut on her diary, sits up on her elbows and she asks if I am popular. I want to lie and say yes because she looks so hopeful. If popularity means that everybody, even kids at school I don’t know, know me or of me, than yes, I am the most popular girl at school. But I tell the truth. No, I am the antithesis of popular.

Why, she wants to know. What’s wrong with me? The wrong atoms and wrong genes spinning out of control made the wrong interplanetary connection and merged together to create me, I laugh when I tell her, but she looks at me blankly. I shrug and for whatever reason, she reaches over and hugs me. You don’t suck, she tells me and now that I see her up-close, I can tell she’s been crying. They suck. They all suck.

As I pull away from her, I start laughing because if I don’t laugh, I will cry and I point to my chest. Poor Dog can’t win. Not only have I neglected to burp, feed, change and play with my son today, he’s dripping through the carryall, a slimy yellowish puddle, down my stomach and onto the waistband of my shorts. 

As I dispose of Dog no. 2’s remains in with his sibling, I open the refrigerator and remove Dog no. 3 from the tray then gingerly place him in a pot of boiling water. I know it’s completely against the rules. I figure I can switch to a raw egg on Monday, but since I still have another weekend day remaining, I was not willing to take anymore chances.

And with my hard-boiled son in tow, all his activities properly documented, Sunday passes without incident. And of course, Monday comes, rears its ugly head like a scarlet pimple on picture day. I go through the motions of getting ready, exchange my counterfeit kid for one more fragile, take the empty nerd seat behind the bus driver and arrive as Monday’s fresh meat to the hell that I call Palmer High.

So, I grasp the handle of the thick steel door, not with trepidation, but resignation. I know what’s to greet me on the other side. A cruel rush of words as cold as the air-conditioning that will soon turn my skin to gooseflesh.

Yes, it’s cold, but it’s quiet. Unsettlingly so. Like when you go to your Uncle Earl’s burial plot and it’s so quiet, you wonder if he can hear the thoughts ping-ponging around your head, that you really didn’t want to be there because you didn’t even know Uncle Earl, except that he drank to much and liked his truck more than his wife, but mom drags you out of respect, but you know she’s really there out of guilt.

And the halls are emptier than usual. So instead of lowering my head and examining the flecks of gum that permanently escape the janitor and identifying the eclectic shoes of fellow passer-byes, I change my expected stance. I pull my shoulders back and lift my head and I walk down the hall. Un-assailed. For once, the seniors aren’t around to block my way. No keep away with my folders, my notes, my glasses, Dog no 3. Not even Joshua trying to trip me because I have big get-in-the-way type of feet.   

So I venture to the assembly spot where awaiting me are a collection of fellow outcasts who don’t have right clothes, the right hair or the right taste in music, so, of course, they have the wrong social status to be accepted by the nobility of Palmer High. They pay no heed to the injustice of our caste society. They tell me not to worry about it, that some people are the bugs and others are the windshield. They laugh when they say it’s just a fact of life to be acknowledged, accepted.

And they are thrilled. Did you hear? Do you know? Can you believe?  They pounce upon me and I am stunned. I don’t believe. He put a 22 in his mouth—nope, it was a 45, someone interjects—he put a 45 in his mouth and blew his head clear off. No, just blew his brains out, another corrects. Joshua killed himself, she says almost with a smirk, rumor has it- because he e didn’t get his stupid football scholarship. Too bad he didn’t take her with him, another says of the girlfriend that found his body in his transmission-less Firebird. What a dumb ass, they all concur. And, they all laugh, wanna hear something really funny… here’s the kicker… his egg didn’t break. He shoots himself point blank and the raw egg in his pocket stays completely in tact. Funny, huh? They look at me, waiting for me to smile, to say something about oh, the irony.

But I can’t. These misfit that don’t care that my new school clothes are leftover from last year that mom got at Wal-Mart and not some store where I feel threatened if I breathe the same air—they accept me unconditionally and they don’t know anything.

I back away and their voices fade into his promise. See you Monday. I envision Death peering over my shoulder, like a friend cheating on a math test. You’ve been seeking me, he whispers and I can feel the accusation burn into my cheek. He warns that he found me first, than he laughs and disappears.

I want to give my condolences. And as I walk I see Marjorie arriving off the bus, or more accurately, she sees me. But she doesn’t run up to greet me the way she normally does. She sort of hangs back, and then approaches warily as if the slight shift in our friendship is visible, like I am surrounded by caution tape that says do not cross.

She hasn’t heard the news yet about Joshua. So I tell her because I feel it is my responsibility to get the words out without our group’s asides and cruel interjection. And she says she’s sorry about Josh and more softly, about the other day. But she doesn’t hug me and her sincerity doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And when my gaze does, I notice they are glazed, glassy.

But today, Marjorie is the least of my concerns. I can no more prevent this newest fixation, than can I control her shoplifting. I’ve known for a long time- probably longer than I care to admit- being friends with Marjorie is not good for me. And as callous as it sounds; Saturday was absolutely it. What I almost did for her was stupid. Not to mention my parents would shove me into a psych ward if they ever found out.

Without realizing it, I think I’ve metamorphosed into the lion. I have found the strength I need to finally choose not to be the bystander who gets injured by Marjorie’s flying debris. Dad and Nietzsche would be so proud. But I won’t reveal her secret. She knows this. I know this. I couldn’t do that to her. We are still best friends, if only for appearance sake.  She mumbles later over her shoulder and leaves me to face my demons alone.     

I feel the wetness pool beneath the rim of my glasses the closer I edge to senior domain. It’s just the lunchroom really. But to us freshmen, it’s a place to be revered, aspired to. This is the home of the seniors with their driver’s licenses, class rings and college brochures, just inches away from being an adult. Within this 24x24 room, with rainbow colored plastic chairs and oblong metal tables, popularity had its first breath, let out its first cry.  Lives are made and broken within these hallowed walls. And I dare to enter its forbidden realm. I am a ceremonial lamb offering itself up to rabid wolves.  Raccoon bloodshot eyes linger upon me.

What the hell do I want? She is sniffly and red-eyed and a complete mess. And I should be enjoying seeing her like this with the runny nose and wadded up tissues that surround her. But I’m not. I want to offer the hope that he’s in a better place, but I don’t know this. Her group huddles around her as if I might pose some sort of threat or danger. I take in her bitten to the quick fingernails, the slipshod ponytail and the wrinkles in her cheerleader uniform. But I cannot gloat. Not now. I offer my sympathy. Empathy. Yeah, she says, puts her back to me and turns to her friends, you didn’t even know him.

Loser, the sound reverberates off the lunchroom tiles and I instantly feel more at home. I shrug and mumble I’m sorry. I lower my gaze and unconscientiously reach for Dog no. 3 in his ugly travel sack. I walk slowly toward to my locker, stopping briefly to remove the spitball some senior sailed my way.

And I sense Death’s return. I feel like Death wants me to skip down the hallway because Joshua is one less asshole to make my existence miserable. But I can’t. Usually I take some pleasure, perverse as it is, when something bad happens to anyone in their group. But today, I can’t find joy in this. I wrench my thoughts away and leave Death behind, confused and wondering. 

I pause and say softly to no one in particular, that I do know Joshua. I think- no, I know - I probably understand him better than anyone realizes. But I wonder who cares. Not my group who would gladly see suicide, disembowelment-- any means of a slow and painful death-- happen to anyone in the inner realm, even though the pretense is who gives a shit how that group of stuck-up bitches and their boy toys view us.

And certainly not the group I just came from. Unless it could be used against me, cheerleader girl and her crew could care less that maybe I was the last person to see Joshua alive and that I might be the only person to see the real Joshua, not the mask that they wear to appear cool to each other, even though they’d gladly lie, spread rumors about each other in order to move up from their appointed royal stations.

Without thinking, I reach down to tie the laces of my left tennie and Dog no. 3 falls from my carryall and splatters on to the cement floor. And I want to cry, but what’s the use, because what am I crying for? A stupid egg for a stupid grade? I mean, other schools have computerized baby dolls for this project and I’m stuck in the Stone Ages with part of my freaking breakfast. Or should I cry for Marjorie and wondering what’s left of our friendship, that is if we really had a friendship or if it was just Marjorie doing things for the rush and me along for the ride because the ride is better than being alone? Or maybe I should cry for Mom and Pappy, who blindly think my life is just grand as long as I always to turn the other cheek. I barely tell them anything. I don’t want to see that look that, for just a minute, flickers in their eyes before they kiss me goodnight and tell me tomorrow’s a new day filled with possibility and everything is going to be all right.

 And really, why should I cry over a guy I only knew by how many times he tried to trip me coming down the hall. So we talked for 20 minutes out of two years. Big freaking deal. Eighth grade and ninth grade he helped spearhead Operation-Make-My-Life-Miserable. I take the envelope I was supposed to throw away out of my school book bag and stare down at the ripped official college seal. He never really, truly apologized. Why should I care that he died? But possibly-- just maybe-- the words I read to him—that I sat there reading to him without even thinking about any consequences— maybe I pretty much put the gun in  his hand.

So the bell rings and I am sitting in the way of all the feet scurrying like rats on their way to auditorium because the school is afraid Joshua may start an irreparable chain of events and this is their pathetic attempt at a special student session to deter anyone with an urge to stick a gun in his mouth.

 Nameless faces blend together, laughing and taunting, whispering and pointing at me. Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. My mom’s voice singsongs, a mantra in my head. And I’m sitting here on the floor cross-legged, dipping my finger into the slime that was once my so-called child and I am bawling, big raspy sobs that wrack my body. Then there’s an arm supporting me, a teacher hugging me, gently pulling me to my feet, breaking the no-physical-contact-with-students-for-threat-of-lawsuit-rule, squeezing me tightly into her chest, saying honey, oh I understand, it really is so tragic and we’ll get through this together. Trust me.

But she doesn’t understand. How can I trust her? Unless she has the cure for being fifteen, flat-chested, horrible-haired and too smart, it doesn’t matter what counsel she gives me. And I am so sick of this. Of feeling like this. Every freaking day Death hovering over my shoulder, just waiting. Of everything. I can think of too many reasons why I should care even though I pretend like I don’t, like it doesn’t matter, like the words don’t leave invisible permanent scars, like each one isn’t stacking upon to the other and just one day, like today it becomes too much to handle because everyone, even the ones that are best at pretending it doesn’t hurt like hell, has a breaking point. And that’s why it sucks, as my baby sister would say, it sucks that I allow myself to care so much. 

END