At Fourteen: A Collection of Short Stories

Claire Fenton

To my family, all six of us. Thank you JCB for your serious edits, good talks, friendship, advice. Thank you Mali for reviewing my work with a soon-to-be lawyers eye for detail. Thank you Rachel Boyer, youre my (formatting) girl.

Table of Contents

Intro At Fourteen Conversion Cousin CSPAN Jewish Tree House New Years

1 4 11 17 21 23 27 31

Introduction: Originally, the first line of my title short story was, At fourteen, you can be powerful if you are invisible. For a very long time, I savored such power. People knew that I wrote fiction, but they never read it. It was as good as they imagined it to be. This little book represents a giving up of the power that comes with invisibility, and, thus, it carries an exposure . This book is a scary thing. For me, fiction writing is deeply personal. Before I started this project, I already felt this depth, but I now understand it much better. Maybe being a writer isnt the gig I thought it would be. As much as this project has been an academic pursuit, it is just as much a lesson in humility. Fiction writing is painful: painful because I wish my stories could be perfect, brilliant, gorgeously written. They are flawed. My fiction is the product of my mind groping to understand characterinside of fiction as well as out. Each of these stories is the end result of many drafts, many hours in front of a computer deleting, rewriting, deleting again. As I said to one of my friends, These are not the best stories I have written, just the ones that I did not allow myself to delete away. Seemingly coincidentally, the stories in this collection focus on adolescence. Looking at them as a whole, however, its clear that adolescence fascinates me, holds me in a kind of thrall. Adolescence is a microscope that magnifies character sometimes to the point of the grotesque. Adolescent manipulators do little to hide their manipulations; in turn, those

2 who want to fit in shamelessly camouflage; shy kids dont speak for days on end. I wanted to write true storiesto keep my characters in scene, let their words and actions do the work of making a story. The past ten months have been a time of incredible darkness for me. Fiction writing, and my weekly meetings with my mentor to discuss it, were one of my few predictable guides through this darkness. My SMP was often my single motivation for keeping on track, my nagging obligation that pulled me from my bed. This project also offered me an escape: I put myself into my characters, took their stories on as my own. Maybe my perfectionism was partially a result of a desire to remain in the world of fiction writing: hearing the tap, tap, tap of my fingers on the keyboard, closing my eyes occasionally to imagine the world of the characters that I became.

At Fourteen You got a tampon? Daphne was standing over Sarah, skinny hipbones sticking out in the space between her old jeans and tank top. Daphne wore chipped nail polish that her mom didnt make her take off and platform sneakers that she had drawn all over with permanent marker. Her hair was knotty, and she wore dark eyeliner but no other makeup. Sarah had heard that she stole stuffed animals from the zoo during a field trip, that her boyfriend slept over, that she gave her gym teacher a blow job. Before she fell asleep, Sarah played these scenarios out in her mind and in them it was her who stole and had sex. Well, not sex, but made out. Sarah rummaged through her backpack, digging her way to the few smashed-up tampons at the bottom. Sarahs hair was brownlight and fragilealmost gray. She wore loose jeans and a yellow t-shirt, bought for her by her mom. Weve got Spanish together; youre Sarah. You know? With the woman with the purple eyelashes? Shes really sick, dying or something? You sit by the window: I always see you staring out there. Did you do that homework? Daphne looked around at the other people sitting outside during lunch. Her eyes lingered on the jocksplaying basketball like they were about to fight. She was hardly facing Sarah, focusing on whether anyone on the basketball court was looking back at her. Sarah imagined herself staring. She looked down every time she met eyes with those boys. What would the eyes do back? Would they dart or hold steady? Either way, what would it mean?

5 No. Im doing it now. You know one time that lady poured out the pencil cup and made me go wash it out and bring her a cup of water because she was thirsty. So weird. The tampon was smashed almost flat and the paper wrap was dirty. Sarah held the tampon, arm outstretched, trying to curl her fingers around it so it would be invisible. Daphne yelled to some kid and then flicked him off, sticking out her tongue. Sarah thought of her own voice carrying across the blacktop and cringed at the idea of it. Thats fucked up. I feel bad for her. Specially with those tits that practically drag on the floor. Thanks for this. Daphne snatched the tampon and walked away, her skinny arm swinging loosely as the tampon waved back and forth, just like that, in the bright sunshine. A few minutes later, the bell rang and Sarah stuffed her papers back into her backpack. Daphne grabbed her arm. Daphnes hand was wet from washing it and her grey eyes shone in the florescent lighting of the hall. Skip with me. You havent done the work anyway, and I know the craziest place. I guess. Sarah listened to her own voice, quick, and wished she had hesitated more. She hated the sound of her voice on answering machines and tape recordings and she momentarily had the sensation of hearing it, just like she did when she would play it back. Alright, its a surprise, though. Dont ask any questions. Daphne was still holding onto Sarahs arm, navigating through the crowd of kids who were sweaty from the sunny recess and hurrying to their next class. They climbed up the wide stairs at the front of the building, shoes slapping the linoleum steps. The dirty windows muted the sun, and the hallways smelled like tacos. Balls of tin foil and empty plastic bags were left around lockers. Daphne ran her hand against the cold concrete walls. Teachers were slamming doors and the echoes bounced. Sarahs arms were goosebumped and she rubbed them.

6 Once, while she was walking to the bathroom during biology, Sarah had seen Daphne skipping class. Without a pass, Daphne walked quickly, as if she was running an errand. She was talking loudly on her cell phone. No teacher had stopped her. Even walking to the bathroom, Sarah had been stopped by prying teachers, demanding to see her pink hall slip. Now, by Daphnes side, she noted and imitated her posture and gait. The door at the end of the hall was unlabeled. Daphne forced open the door with a kick while Sarah glanced down the two long empty hallways she could see from their corner. Inside, stacks of books shot up towards the ceiling, a million Huckleberry Finn A Midsummers Night Dream Catcher in the Rye mold. Before the door to the hallway closed, Daphne opened the door on the other side of the tiny room. The sun felt closer, the black tar of the roof was warm. Daphne lay down and pulled up her shirt till Sarah could see the parentheses of her underwire bra. Sarah crouched. The hot roof left tiny pebble imprints on her red hands. She squinted at the office buildings a few blocks away, the grocery store that kids stole from, the traffic lights, and the crowded, shiny cars in the parking lot. Im going to fail that Spanish class. Im just no good at Spanish. And if I fail it, my dad will kill me. Seriously, you dont want to know what hell do. I am way behind in the workbooklike 20 pages. Lend me yours, and I could catch up. Daphnes eyes were closed, her arms propping up her head.




Every day during lunch, Sarah let Daphne copy her homework. Daphne introduced Sarah to her friends, told her about the crazy stuff they did, and sometimes skipped class with her. She even asked Sarah over before the next dance, to get dressed together, and maybe drink liquor from Daphnes mothers cabinet. Daphne asked her a month in advance. Even though she knew that Daphne had no girl friends, the gesture still surprised her. Sarah was always earlier to class than Daphne, but Daphne sat next to Sarah now and wrote her long
















7 notes in highlighter which Sarah would hold under her desk and squint at to read. The notes provided Sarah with information she knew was none of her business: whose father was dying, who had lost her virginity, who had smoked pot on the practice fields during sixth period. One day, Daphne wrote Sarah that people thought we were lesbians. We should make out in the hallway, she wrote, itd be hilarious. Sarah would see the people described to her in the hallways, sometimes with tearstained cheeks, sometimes stinking of weed, sometimes being escorted by security to the office in silence. Sarah always saw them from far away, put her head down when they came close. She never told Daphne about these encounters, humiliated by the cruelness of Daphnesand her ownwords about the episodes. Seora Hernandez lost papers and quizzes. She let the class whisper during exams. She left for the bathroom almost every day. Fridays became cultural film day and the class watched movies and got out five minutes early, left to wander, careful to avoid the Vice Principle who paced the halls and would certainly give Seora Hernandez a lecture if her students were caught. Sometimes Sarah would think about that moment when Daphne had asked her. She would bite her lip and scrunch up her toes and fingers, hating herself for saying yes. Sometimes guilt would grab her and squeeze her chest until her breastbone ached. But she never said anything. I looked at your workbooks last night, and I noticed that you girls have the exact same responses for this past week. I looked further back, and it seems this has been the case for the previous month or so. Now I want to give you a chance to explain yourselves, but you should know that you are in hot water. Seora Hernandezs veins were visible through her pale skin, even under the cakey makeup. Sarah stared at her purple eyelashes. Seora Hernandez took a deep drink of water out of the pencil cup. Sarah imagined Seora Hernandez, alone in a dim kitchen, grading workbooks late at night on a plastic table cloth.

8 Well, maam, Daphne said, There is really nothing we can do but apologize. I guess we didnt realize that we werent allowed to work with someone else on this stuff. I though so long as we both worked on it, it would be ok. Worked together? Seora Hernandezs raised eyebrows were like birds in flight: arched black lines against a white forehead. Seora Hernandez applied those pencil brows in the morning in front of a misty mirror somewhere. Yes, we would talk about the questions and decide what we wanted to say together. Daphne looked at Sarah calmly, nodding slightly. Really, is that true, Sarah? Of course she said yes but as she said it, her face got red and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Daphne looked suddenly tired to Sarah, her hair greasy, her chipped nail polish revealing dirty, overgrown nails. Finally, Seora Hernandez told them they could go. Sarah grabbed her backpack and walked fast. The hallway was empty, and fifthperiod classes had already started. Daphne skipped to catch up with Sarah. You are so completely overreacting. Shes so out of it shell forget we even had that conversation with her. I did all the work. All of it. And I havent said anything. You were the one talking. Her voice was quiet and fast, the words spilling out without the usual control she used around Daphne. Get over it, Daphnes voice was flat, louder then Sarahs. Wed both be in even more trouble if she knew that I copied and you let me. Two days passed. Seora Hernandez held the two girls after class again. Ive decided that youll each need to do some make-up work. I am going to be grading your workbooks very carefully from now on, and I dont want to have any reason to doubt that you are both doing your own work. Its great that you like to work together but this is an activity that you must do independently from now on. She handed them two big packets of white workbook pages, held together with heavy-duty

9 staples. Sarah read her hand-printed name at the top of the page, written by a clearly unsteady pencil. She ran her hand against the smooth paper, still warm from the copier. Like honey, relief came over Sarah. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, tip-toed out of the room, and stopped just outside the doorway to wait for Daphne to follow. So, about the dance, Sarah, you think you can come over? Daphne was picking at her nails. I got to talk to my mom. Sarah was walking fast and Daphne struggled to zip up her backpack and keep up. I cant believe she didnt compare our tests. What an idiot. Daphne laughed loud, and Sarah smiled, her face still hot. I know. Were saved. Sarah turned to go down the stairs to her next class. She nodded to Daphne and waved. Daphne grabbed Sarahs hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Sarah could feel the cold sweat on Daphnes fingertips in her hand. The dance. Think about it.

10

11

Conversion Before we left for the hunting trip, Dad took me to the army surplus store in town and bought me a camouflage jacket. He was working for a tree service company, talking to people on the phone about dead limbs and fungi and giving them estimates while he drove too fast in the brand-new F-series Ford he got from his company for free. As we picked our way though aisles of insect repellent, camping stoves, and tin mugs, Dad talked to me in a soft voice. He told me about West Virginia, how hes gone there since he was young, and how the water in the rivers is so ice cold it feels like your feet are burning hot. And when you warm your feet by a fire, they prickle. Ive never seen my toenails so blue. His voice was so soft that I would drift in and out of listening to him. Id never seen so many different kinds of ammunition, skeet, and knives. I itched to touch, but I walked around the stuff, careful not to let myself rub against anything. I imagined knives snapping open, or bullets spilling from their dusty boxes onto the linoleum tiles from the brush of my Mickey Mouse tshirt. The pocket knifes and small-fish gutting knives were in plastic on shelves, but the really expensive, really big knives were behind the glass counter with the guns. There were glossy pictures tacked up on the wall behind the counter of groups of men, out in the woods, smiling with their arms around one another, guns by their sides. The guns in the case were huge and so incredibly clean. I couldnt believe that they werent just for show. The guns gleamed black and oily, and my sweaty hands smeared the glass case that held them. The place smelled like dirt and plastic. I tried on army-green baseball hats and

12 facemasks. The other men in the store looked mostly like my fathertall, bearded, huge hands. Well get up early Friday morning and get on the road. Dads eyes were squinty as he jammed into second, third, fourth gear. The pine tree air freshener swung back and forth. Town was far from our house, about fifteen miles down a fast two-lane road that teenagers died on every other year. Dad told me I wouldnt ever get my license unless we moved. Whos coming with us again? Just Bill? Id hoped one of Dads other friends would come. Bill would be talking and talking the whole time. He was always telling jokes I didnt understand, waiting for me to respond. I fiddled with the metal snaps on my new camo jacket and looked at myself in the mirror above my seat. Yup. Just Bill. But hes enough company, believe me. He looked over at me, his eyebrows serious. Dont lose that coat between now and tomorrow morning, Maggie. I straightened, slapping the mirror up. I did lose everything, especially the expensive stuff. My dad had bought me a watch, a compass, a Swiss Army knife, and Id lost them all. Mom said it was just as well because it was all junk that I played with under my desk at school. That night, I dreamt that I was reaching for my dads hand and grabbed a shotgun. I tried to pull my hand away, but it was slow and my molasses movement frustrated me. Once I drew my hand back from the weapon, black gumminess from the gun was smeared all over my palms like wet paint. I woke up with sweat between my thighs, soaked through my sleeping shirt. Like an old man, the radiator next to my bed whistled and gasped. The dirty air in the army surplus store was in my nose, and I could taste dust and plastic. There was also the citrus smell of the DEET bug spray that Mom said gives you cancer. In my little room, I turned on all the lights. I woke up in the morning, my shoulders tight and achy. Downstairs, Dad and Bill were sitting at the kitchen table, while

13 Mom stood at the stove cooking up the bacon. Mom cooked all sorts of food but they always had something namebrand in them: Velveeta cheese, Cool Whip, Hellmanns Mayonnaise, Hunts Ketchup. Even when Dad made tons of venison, she would always make this nasty sweet potato marshmallow casserole as a side dish. This morning it was Pillsbury biscuits, the kind that make a champagne-bottle pop when you pierce the cardboard tube. You look pretty today, Miss Maggie. Bills eyes were flat and inky. You ready to go hunting, honey? Ready to spend some time in the woods? Bill was fat, and he had skin like an elephants. His eyes were black periods punctuating the grayness of his face, and his lips were red, really red. Like a babys. I always thought Bill was Dads boss, but Mom told me, no, he just made more money than him. Dad put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. He asked me if I was all packed and ready. My vision was fuzzed up with sleep. Mom served me the bacon, and it was crisp and hot and crunched and melted under my molars. When we got on the road, the sun was already bright, but the air was still cold. The view was so clean and clear, I imagined someone had shined up my eyes. From Dads Fseries, I watched the steep gravel hills for trucks gone out of control and the gas stations with cheaper and cheaper gas as we drove. We snaked through the Blue Ridge Mountains, up and down steep inclines and declines marked by orange signs. Dads truck sounded like a spaceship about to take off on the uphills, groaning. We were all stuffed into the cab. Bill was dipping, and the sour smell stunk up the car. I was in the middle, and I scooted closer and closer to Dad, leaning my weight into him. Bills legs moved into my little space and I could tell Dad was bugged that I was leaning so much. In the bed, my red backpack along with, according to Bill, a good assortment of guns and camping equipment, bounced around under a tarp. When we got gas, we stopped at the 7-11. I had a Slurpee and Dad and Bill had beef jerky which smelled bad, even though at the same time, the smell made my stomach growl. Dad drank Mug Root Beer from a can.

14 The campsite was off a dirt road, and right away we set up camp. Bill was excited about getting firewood and pumping water from the stream in this water purifying thing that looked like a bike pump and was running back and forth, his gray elephant skin pinkening from his hot body. I helped Dad set up the tents. That night we ate hot dogs, and I spent most of my time in the woods looking for branches to keep the fire going. I knew Bill thought it was weird that Dad brought me, but if he knew us so well, he must have noticed that Dad brought me everywhere. When I was young, I would go with Dad to his tree work jobs and play on strangers swing sets while he hung, stories above me. When Dad went to the hardware store, he would bring me along and give me some sort of challengea rusty screw or a dead light bulb or a busted hookand send me off to find its exact match. Bill said to Dad were not bringing her into the woods, are we, right in front of me and Dad said heck no. I knew I could have fought about it; what was the camo jacket for then? Dad was quiet, waiting for me to argue. He had told me before that I was comingor had he really just meant I had to come all that way and not get to shoot anything? But the woods and creek seemed good to explore for a day, and Bill was a creep. He called me Maggie, and he hardly knew me, always looking me up and down so hard, like he was waiting for me to grow boobs or something. The next morning Bill and Dad left really early to go hunting. It was still dark out, and, half awake, I smelled coffee and bacon. I heard Dad talking softly. I stretched out in our tent and slept for many more hours. Get up, Maggie, I have a job for you. Dad tapped against the tent with the butt of his rifle, and I woke up. Outside a deer hung on a tree. Its back legs were neatly tied to a branch, and it was suspended, stretched out, mid-dive into a swimming pool, its bristly fur mussed. I couldnt see its

15 face, but I could see its long neck stretched out and its black nose dripping something clear. Thats sick. This. I couldnt go out with them and now this. Im going to teach you how to gut a deer. Dad smiled at me, nothing to read in his face, and Bill stood back by the deer with a big knife like the ones I saw at the army surplus store. My vision was blurry with sleep, my body achy from the hard, gravely dirt under the tent. Bill shook open a black trash bag, and I cringed at the sound of the wind inside the plastic. No way. I stayed by the tent with my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants. The muscular thighs of the deer were taut and strong, the dripping snot made tiny pancakes of mud. Too much a lady to prepare the meat you eat? I thought you liked being one of the boys, Bill said. Dads face reddened, and Bill laughed softly, digging his heel into the dirt. I thought about the salty warmth of venison in my mouth. Daddy, come on. Was it Dad or elephant Bill who killed the deer? I imagined its bunny-white tail high up in the air as it crouched to eat. I wondered if it ran. I wondered how long it took it to die. Go take that knife from Bill. Dad pointed his finger at Bill, whose bottom lip was swollen with dip. Bill reached his hand and the butt of the knife out towards me, but I took a step back. The tent was right behind me, and I lost my balance. My bare feet were cold. No sir. My hands were sweating; I felt light-headed; I wanted to go back into the musty, warm-from-my-sleepingbody, tent air. Then youll watch, Dad said quickly. He walked over to Bill, took the knife in one hand. Bill crouched down with the plastic bag. Walk around to this side, Maggie. Now his voice was loud. My nose and eyes were damp, but I was silent, and I shook my head so my hair covered my face. Bill spit. I rubbed my arms back and forth against my jacket, hoping I could block out whatever noise was coming. Dad made me stand about a foot away, and I could smell the sweat and blood and fresh air on their hunting clothes and on the dead deer swinging lazily from the tree like it was for decoration.

16 Dads outfit and dirtied up face made him look like one of the guys in the glossy photographs at the army surplus store. As Dad approached the deer, the leaves rustled and the rope moaned with the weight of the deer grabbed by Dads sure hands. Through my hair I saw redness absorbing the soft whiteness of the deers underbelly. Dad dug the knife in deep and pulled it down. The heavy wet guts dropped into the trash bag. Im waiting in the car. Without looking up, I walked away, my breath hiccupping. I waited in Dads truck for hours, expected a beating. I hoped he would come and punish me, so it could be over. He didnt. The car was warm from the sun, and the air inside was moist and dull, like the tent. I slept, woke up, and it was getting colder and the trees were casting long shadows over the car. I peed by the side of the road. I found a stale, hard stick of Big Red and chewed it. By the time Bill and him came back, jeans stained, hair greasy, and hands full, it was dark. They made more than one trip back to the campsite, but Dad didnt ask me to help, and so I sat with my head down, listening to them coming and going. Dad never said a word to me. He just got in the truck with Bill. When we stopped to get gas, he bought me a ham sandwich in a plastic bag and some chips. I scrunched my forehead until it hurt, trying not to look at him. For a while, I didnt eat a thing but my stomach ached, so I ate the chips carefully so the crunching couldnt be heard over the roar of the trucks engine.

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Cousin Sam was waiting on my porch, drinking a beer, when I came out. Dude, they could have seen you, I said. My whole extended family was in the house; it was Christmas, for christsake. Well, if you had been out at the road on time, there wouldnt have been anything to see. He stood up, offered me his hand. I was clearing the fucking table, man, I said. He pulled me in to his chest and hugged me quick and hard. I was always surprised how I could completely encircle him, his tiny frame within my arms. Before letting go, our fingers caught. He nodded at Liz, my cousin visiting from Deale, and she smiled, thick makeup maturing her fifteen-year-old face. He pulled two beers out from under his down jacket, and he tossed one to me and the other to Liz. We walked down my gravel driveway onto the dirt road, toward the water. Three cigarette tips bounced through the icy, still blackness. We jumped the tall, chain-link fence past Bay Street, into Lower Begonia. Though no one had lived there for years, the streets had names and the houses had mailboxes. It used to be government housing for the Navy base. What were once homes had become concrete shells with sagging roofs, rotting doors, and yards overgrown with poison ivy. In middle school, we had covered them in spray paint. Now that we were about to graduate from high school, even our spray paint tags were faded and shadowed with mold growing on the concrete.

18 As we approached the crowd down by the water, Sam put his arm around me, pushing me. I took a breath in as he pulled away, sucking in his normal smell of beer and pot. Almost nostalgic-smelling on shirts and jackets, I remembered how nauseating the smell was on a face, the taste dry and stale on a tongue. Orange and red, our faces flickered and our dirt-filled fingernails glowed translucently as they hovered over the edge of the bonfire. On the edge, some kids were waving around newspaper torches and the orange blurred across the black sky. The wind off the water was cold and strong, causing debris to float up off the fire and torches, illuminated as it danced up into the sky. Between my legs, I held a bottle of wine I had swiped from home, drinking from it now and then, allowing Liz as much as she wanted. Every so often, laughter ignited. Finished transporting near-frozen beers, backpacks became seats, and we huddled together in twos and threes. Liz had never been out with my friends before. She pushed her body up close to me, shoved her sweaty hand into mine, and drank too fast. In her blonde hair, I could smell shampoo and I squeezed her hand. Someone got up to throw another log onto the flames. The torch kids got bored and sat down. Sam wandered over to sit with us. Hey. His arms were skinny and rested on his hips. He stood over us, the fire casting heavy shadows over his cheeks, and I looked up at him. Scoot, he said. We made a space and he sat next to Liz with his leg touching hers. So, Liz, not much going on in Deale, huh? No, said Liz, Nothing like this. You should come here more often, now that Kat here is on her way off; wed appreciate the company. Sam didnt get into college and resented me for doing what he could have done if he had tried even a little bit. Liz was drunk, loud-voiced, and Sam was sitting close. He put his arm around her, smiling, and offered her a beer, which she accepted. I felt her grasp on my hand loosen, and she

19 turned towards Sam, putting her elbows on her knees and leaning away from me. I got up to bum a cigarette. Not long after, the night got real cold. My eyes watered from the wind and I sat on my hands to keep them warm. People were drunk and had stopped feeding the fire, so it was burning low. For the first time since I left my house, I noticed my icy breath in the air. I found Liz and told her I was going. Ill meet you there, ok? She smiled at me, a burning cigarette hanging from her hand, her voice sweet and high. What? Ill walk back with Sam. Ill meet you there. She looked to Sam and he nodded his head and waved me away. Well you dont have a key to the house, Liz. Can I just knock on your window? I guess. Yeah. Im not your fucking mom. Well I can come back now. Her voice was more babyish then ever, sweeter than I was used to. No, its fine. Sorry. Alright, be careful. I walked back alone, hands in my pockets, cold as shit, kicking gravel under my feet. My breath clouded out in front of my face and my ears ached. I walked fast, the sound of my jeans rubbing back and forth filled the quiet night. It seemed darker than it had when we had walked down, and the abandoned houses were hard to see from the road. It was an uphill walk the whole way, and my breath was quick. When I got back to the house, the mess of dinner was still all over the dining room and kitchen. Wine bottles, plates with hardened food, and burnt pots were piled around the sink right where I had left them. Mom, Dad, my aunt, and my uncle were all asleep. Our dishwasher didnt work so I washed all the stuff by hand and put it in there to dry. The warm water on my hands and the mechanical act of washing the dishes and setting them to dry felt good. When I finished, I went to my room. I couldnt sleep. Around four Liz came home. She smiled at me through my window by my bed, tapping lightly on my glass. I frowned. Walking through my cold, sleepy house to the front door, I smashed into the coffee table, my leg pounding with pain. I let

20 her in. Without words, we picked our way back to my room and climbed into my single bed.

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CSPAN When my parents went through the divorce, or I guess before, when it was loud conversations in the kitchen, they would put me in front of the television after school. Sitting Indian-style on the orange carpet of our living room, I would watch anything so long as it was on CSPAN: Bushs inaugural address, the Gore Vidal reading at Barnes and Noble. My feast was interrupted only twice a night: first my mother would bring me dinner, usually chicken nuggets, peas, and tater tots, and later she would walk me to bed and kiss me, a routine that was once accompanied by her reading to me. One such evening, I made a T.V. out of a cardboard box while I watched debates in the British parliament. The microphones in the parliament were picking up shuffling papers and mumbles, making the speakers voices hard to hear. I found the box in our garage and drew little knobs and attached a hanger for the antenna. I drew a big button and wrote ON. Using a knife from the kitchen, I cut a square screen. I used pieces of paper to make scenes and commercials, careful that the pictures would fit perfectly in the hole. My markers, scissors, crayons, little pieces of paper, and scraps of cardboard spread out around me. When I was finished (it only took about two hours), I went into the kitchen. I stamped hard on the floor as I approached the door, hoping they would hear me and stop yelling. I stood half in the kitchen and half in the living room. Mom was unloading the dishwasher. Dad was sitting at the table, still in his scrubs from work. Ive made a T.V., I said. Honey thats great, my mother said, Thats really something neat. Do you want to watch a show? I asked, shifting my weight, the scenes I had created on paper rustled behind my

22 back. I had expected them to ask to see it up close. I held the cardboard T.V. on my hip, still only half in the room. Lydia, were talking, honey. Oh, I said. I had invaded some sacred space, stumbled into someone elses graveyard. Well, I took a step into the room, can I have a drink of water? My mother walked over to the high cabinet and got down a plastic cup. I traced my big toe along the linoleum tiles on the floor. My dad frowned at the newspaper. I reached out my hand and she gave me the water. The little blue tab that said CSPAN at the bottom right hand corner of the screen was still there when I returned. The world of channel 26 never changed: it was always the same white men with grey hair who were cheerful, anxious to talk. They all had the same voices: serious, fatherly, grown-up, and intense. I settled into my usual position on the floor, in the middle of the scraps of cardboard and paper I had created, and put my television on the coffee table, with its paper-sheet shows piled neatly by its side.

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Jewish

Shauna Shauna was Jewish. Her Hebrew name was Aviva. She had a Jewish nose, black frizzy hair, and brown eyes. Shabbat Shalom she went over there on Friday nights. She lit the house with candles and didnt answer the phone. She said wash your alough. Hentalough grandmother had separate plates and silverware for meat and dairy. She even had two different refrigerators. On one of the refrigerators was a magnet that read: Im suffering from PPS: Pre-Pesah Syndrome. Pesah is Hebrew or Yiddish for Passover.

Hebrew School Starting in kindergarten, Shauna went to Hebrew School on Sundays. In the car, her father would always say, Did you brush your teeth, Shauna? and some days he would even turn around and make her run into the house and do it. To her brother he would say, Are you wearing socks, Max? and other days he would turn around the car and make Max put on socks. One time Max threw up in the car, and they didnt have to go to Hebrew School after all. High Holidays


























24 Shauna also went to her Grandmothers house for the High Holidays. Her grandmother rented a very long table and fold-up chairs from her synagogue to seat everyone. On Passover, or Pesah obediently dripped the red wine onto her plate. A drop for each plague: blood, frogs, lice, fleas, cattle, boils, hail, locust, darkness, and death of the firstborn son. Shauna thought about the plagues and found them, well, gruesome. Shauna listened to the part about the four sons: wise, wicked, simple, and the one who does not know to ask. She listened to her grandfather read the response that follows the description of the wicked son: This is what God did for Shauna didnt think of herself as wicked, but she also didnt identify with ever having been a slave in Egypt. At Passover, they all toasted and said Next year in Jerusalem. Her second cousins lived in Jerusalem. She didnt know why. Each year, the little kids hid the Aficoman, a piece of matzah in a cloth essential to the last part of the Seder. They demanded money for the Aficoman and a lengthy argument between the adults and the children always arose. It was in Rather poor taste, Shaunas mother would whisper through clenched teeth to her father. He would just laugh.











out on the sidewalk by the parking lot. The black kids are fighting the Spanish kids, someone would yell and Shauna would obediently follow the masses out to the hot sidewalk. The Muslims only talked to each other, and always in Farsi. The Chinese kids formed two distinct groups: one that drove fast cars and smoked cigarettes outside the Barnes and Noble and one that was competing within itself for the position of Valedictorian. Shaunas friends were Christian. She had no friends at Hebrew School. The girls at Hebrew School were bitches. They went to a different middle school.

Ellis Island Hebrew Schools in her area got together and made a fake Ellis Island in the gym of a







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25 local high school. There were immigration officers in uniforms that checked their passports and asked them questions and wrote down that their name was Gold instead of Goldblatt or Rose instead of Rosenburg. There were egg creams and pickles at a delicatessen. Shaunas father had made her egg creams before and of course shed had pickles, and even been to a real delicatessen, but she was still impressed by the scope of the fake world they had created. Training Shauna was dyslexic and the fact that Hebrew is written from right to left didnt help. She had a tutor who made her cry. Her dad said that his tutor would stick him with a pin when he mispronounced words. She learned how to read tropes, little accents that indicated how words should be chanted. She learned her Torah and Haftorah portion but had no idea what any of the words meant. Now she was 12 and tall and very, very thin. Her mothers friends would say, do you Bat Mitzvah Service together under her breath. Shauna wore a dress her mother and her had picked out from the juniors section of Nordstrom Shauna asked the Rabbi what happened if she dropped the Torah. He said the whole congregation would fast for a year. Although the Yad, hand a pen-like pointer with a tiny silver hand at the end that pointed to the text, shook, she barely messed up at all and a great wave of relief, not quite pride, but relief, came over her as she finished reading. Party Afterwards her whole family gathered at her house. They ate food and drank wine. They carried Shauna around on a chair. They all said, Mazel tov. Shauna got up early the next morning and counted the money and gift certificates she had received. This was the best part. High School Shauna learned what a JAP was and also that Jewish people were always rich. When people asked her what religion she was she would say, Im not religious. She wore a Star of







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26 David tucked into her shirt, but her grandmother had given it to her for Hanukah and it was from Tiffanys so she felt like she should. Shauna found her favorite poet: Bob Dylan. He was also Jewish, but it was only a coincidence. His name used to be Robert Zimmerman. Bob Dylan had changed his name by choice, which sort of made sense. Robert Zimmerman just didnt have the same ring to it.

College started waxing her arms. She met a nice boy. He was a Unitarian. She stopped fasting for Yom Kippur. She thought about joining Hillel at her school but joined the poetry club instead. Her boyfriend was in the poetry club. Rest

tory, Shauna dates Christian boys, learns to eat bacon, and watches Woody Allen movies, but only occasionally.















 




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27

Tree House I was a junior in high school, working a job for the first time at an ice cream store. It was midnight and we had just closed. From breathing in and out the cigarette air, I was woozy and seeing sparkles and blackness at the edges of my vision. I wiped my eyes and examined the charcoal and dust smudge on my finger. Counting money, the worn bills soft and almost damp in my hands, my mouth moved silently: one hundred, two hundred, three hundred. The piles of twenties spread out in front of me on the desk in rows to create a grid of hundred dollar piles. Between the walk-in freezer and the utility sinks in the back room of the store, I leaned forward in my chair and counted my piles one last time. The music from the old sound system was loud and edged with static, the speakers popped and fizzed, threatening to blow out. Eight hundred dollars. I leaned back. Every night without fail, the moment of daydreams. What would I do with eight hundred dollars? A good game. Leaning back, I could see Emily. Emily was mopping the main part of the store, and the mop water was so dirty it left gray streaks, like the black tiles were smearing across the white ones. She was mixed, her skin almost as light as mine, but her hair black and frizzy and knotted in a ball on top of her head. When she smiled I could almost see her molars. She was smoking, ashing into a plastic cup while she pulled the heavy mop across the floor. Sitting on the curb outside, her friends were waiting for her, also smoking cigarettes, and eating ice cream that Emily gave them for free.

28 Emily went to private school but she wasnt rich. Her mom was a teacher at the school, so she went for free. She made her purses out of old Capri Sun juice boxes and her bracelets from big, plastic beads. I went to public school, had just quit the swim team because I hated it, and had gotten this job instead. I wasnt interested in anything thenI would come home after school and nap for hours and then do my homework. My parents really pushed me to get this job, but they shouldnt have worried because I wasnt into drugs. Over the music Emily yelled, Hey, and waited for me to pay attention, Want to hang out with me and my friends tonight, Jill? Emilys voice was heavy and deep, serious. She was always lecturing me about something: meat, clothes made in sweatshops, deodorant. She was still smoking as she came into the back. I guess. Should I? Filling out a yellow deposit slip, I chewed on a pen. Yeah. Hey listen. You dont mind driving? Because they want to leave now and if you drive, then I can just tell them well meet them wherever. When she faced me, I noticed she had her cartilage pierced, swollen and red against her flat olive ear. No. Thats totally fine. I regretted the words. I hadnt been driving long at all and I hated it, especially when there was someone else in the car. Emily tiptoed to the door, stepping only on the black tiles and told her friends to go ahead. She never got her license and told people she took the Metro, but I always drove her home from work or else her friends did. Her cell phone was always ringing, and she would call people back from the store line so she wouldnt have to pay for the minutes. Late at night, I would drive to the other side of the city to drop her off and then back home, taking at least thirty minutes. To me, then, Emilys friends were gorgeous. They wore Salvation Army t-shirts, with pictures of dinosaurs, Looney Tunes characters, and mascots of elementary schools. They had stringy, greasy hair and pants so tight that their cell phones and wallets bulged like extra sex organs. Their sneakers were ridiculously old and dirty, duck-taped. At least half of them had

29 tattoos. They were always at the store, and some nights Emily would shut off the circuit for the walk-in, and they would get high in the freezer, wrapped in coats and wearing hats and gloves that theyd found in the dingy lost-and-found box. Once, I had gone with all of them downtown to see some band play, and everyone in the band wore masks and pretty much the only instrument was a synthesizer. Now I watched them throw their cigarettes into the road, the red tips glowing in the darkness, and walk away. When we finished cleaning the store, I changed out of my stained shirt into a clean one and washed my face in the bathroom. I bit in my fat cheeks and let down my hair, frowned. On the way to the car, Emily talked on the phone. It was warm and wet out, and she walked slowly, almost dragging her feet. Where the fuck did you park? She pushed her phone away from her mouth and smiled, eyes rolled up, jaw slack, white teeth visible. We found my moms van. Emily said we were going to some house that was under construction. Until we were almost halfway there, I didnt realize I had forgotten to turn on my headlights. The neighborhood had all these tall, modern houses with big windows. We had parked, and I had my hands in my pockets, pushing hard down on my pants, making them look lower as I walked next to Emily. I dont know which of the kids lived in this neighborhood or how they found the unfinished house, but it was at least four stories tall, surrounded by old trees, only the shell of the mansion it would become. It smelled like wood shavings, hamster-like, and the yard was slippery with mud. Muggy, the moon was covered with clouds. The tall trees around the house made it even darker, and everyone was stumbling and laughing and shushing. I grabbed Emilys hand. We wandered through the house, climbing higher and higher up the stairs, examining boxes of nails, empty soda bottles, and guessing at what room would be what. The stairs were unfinished, without railings, and I walked slowly, aware of where I placed my feet. The rooms were enormous.

30 This will be my bedroom where I fuck my millionaire husband. Reaching out her skinny arms, Emily admired the view. The walls were just boards and there were holes where the windows would be. I could reach some of the trees when I stretched my arms. When we got to the top floor, we sat around in a circle, and Emily and her friends got high. I could still smell the sweet ice cream on me, and my forearm was sticky. They talked about movies I hadnt seen, music I didnt listen to, people I didnt know. Their lips carefully formed words around tongue-rings. Their hands waved eccentric gestures. The boy across from me shook his hair from his eyes dozens of times as he spoke. I got up and walked around the perimeter of the top floor, listening to the conversation and pulling my hand along the unfinished wood. I imagined myself in this house, with long angular furniture and clean, white walls. I imagined sitting cross-legged on a leather couch looking at the tops of the trees. I would have good posture, my neck elongated, my hair pulled back behind my shoulders. Emily told me she didnt need a ride home that night. I drove with the radio off. The windows were rolled down, and even the hot air felt good.

31

New Years It was New Years Eve and she was driving on Route 81, only about thirty minutes away from the shitty hostel her boyfriend and she would be staying in once they got to Asheville. He had bet her five bucks they could get there by midnight. Asheville had been arbitrary, a choice made sitting at their respective parents kitchen tables on the phone flipping through atlases. They were out of college for winter break. Earlier that day, they drove through West Virginia where the mountains were faded greed and enormous and the road cut through them like a gash. The sky was cloudless then. Now it was dark. She was driving with her knee, pulling her red hair away from her face and putting it in a loose braid at the bottom of her neck. Her neck was hot, and her hair was in tight little knots at the nape from not washing it enough. They hadnt slept the night before very much, which made her stomach empty and hollow. Theyd been at her parents house, playing Scrabble and drinking cheap beers that theyd hid in a trash bag under her bed. They hadnt eaten before they left early that morning. After fixing her own hair, she touched his dark, too-long mess. Let me cut it, she used to beg. That was a couple months ago, right at the beginning. Now it was enough for her to hold a handful of it from the back when he was lying on his back or when they were in the car together and fantasize about the rip of scissors through that thick, dark nest. These past few

32 weeks, hed grown the shadow of a mustache above his red lips. Cold, spongy perspiration gathered in her armpits, which had their own soft down. This winter break, neither of them could get jobs, although they hadnt tried very hard. So they split their time between their parents houses, reading and watching movies, getting drunk and playing board games. They were almost always alone together, lounging around, sometimes in silence for hours, and her mother had said to her again and again, Why dont you get some exercise? Now, in the car, panic was building in her, rising up in her stomach, pushing out at her ribs, moving towards her throat. I think Im having a bit of an anxious blow out. She had sort of warned him before that this happens. Do you want me to drive? His voice was hoarse. No. Its just like my heart is beating really fast. Could you find me something to drink, though. Water or something? I know it will go away. In your backpack? He turned in his seat and rummaged through the piles of books, dirty clothes, and old papers. Its no so bad. I think Im just nervous. About being so far away from home. It will pass. Not now, in the middle of nowhere, in front of him. She reached her right arm under her shirt and touched the soft white flesh of her breast. She pressed hard, willing her heart to slow down. Please, Ill sleep a million hours; Ill quit drinking beer; Ill get some exercise; Ill take better care of myself. Please, not now. Finally, she pulled over. You drive, she said and opened the door to walk around to the other side. They were so close, just a few miles away from the hostel. He didnt say anything. She looked out the window, rubbed her finger against the rubbery connector between the glass pane and the car. The scenery flew by like a flip book, the guard rail flickering, the trees blending into the blackness of the night. She had made it up to the room. She had made it to the bed. She had taken off her shoes, bra, and jeans one at a time, even folded the pants. She had gotten into the bed. She had curled up in a tight ball, avoided eye contact. Her eyes were stinging, but she thought that if she could just fall asleep the

33 nausea, sadness, and fear would leave her, and she would be safe. Her heart was still beating too fast. She was pulling air in through her nostrils. She knew she couldnt fall asleep. She was ruining New Years. When he lay down next to her, pulled her head onto his chest, and asked, Are you ok? for the fifth or sixth time, she cried. First soft, hoping it would go unnoticed. But then she was gasping and sobbing, trying to speak. She thought about her body: jiggling, out of her control, ridiculous. Ringing in the New Year with hiccups, snot, and tears. He wanted to kiss her, but she kept breathing out of her mouth and wiping her nose with the back of her hand and covering her face. They had made it in time. It was New Years and somewhere in Asheville fireworks exploded into the sky at midnight; she could hear the rhythmic whistle-pause-pop of them. Do you want a tissue? No. She said quietly, turning away from him, her face pressing against the mattress. You do. He got up and went into the bathroom. I just need to wait a second. The crying started again now. Youre going to suffocate through all that snot. And leave me alone. On New Years. I want to kiss you. And then she was laughing, or at least sort of. She was snorting and digging her head into his side and getting her snot on his shirt and wishing she was dead and hoping he would try to kiss her after all. He was laughing too but holding her hard and close. The whole time since she had started crying, she realized they hadnt been looking at one another: now she was safe in the folds of his shirt, and he had his head over hers. That was kind, she thought, crying into the privacy of his shirt. And then it was kissing, which was hard. She felt like she was holding her breath. She was trying not to breathe in through her nose. She was crazy with the want for kissing. She was grabbing at him and pulling him in. So sorry. Im going to go to the bathroom, she said. Go. Go. Go, he said, pushing her up and out of the bed and watched after her, sitting up at the edge of the bed, waiting, as she closed their door.

34 The bathroom was light yellow and the toilet was running. The mirror was cracked, the sink littered with toothpaste spit, and there was a moldy clear curtain around the shower. She sat on the toilet. She washed her face with cold water, rubbing her eyes. Then she yanked her fingers through her knotted hair. She returned to the room, to his body, and curled up around him. Sometimes the closest their bodies could be wasnt close enough. She would wish that he would open his mouth and she could crawl in. She pictured herself sleeping in the red darkness of his insides, like a baby. When she woke up, even before she peed, she took her pills like always: anti-depressant first and fast because they were bitter, tiny yellow round birth control next, organic looking grayish vitamins as the main dish. In the beginning, she hid this routine from him. She used to keep them at the bottom of her backpack, take her backpack to the bathroom, and go through the process there, with the doors closed and the fan on. But within the last few weeks, spending so much time together had dulled her need for privacy. She now lined up the bottles on her desk in her room, or the nightstand in a hotel, or his bookshelf. He never said anything, never asked what they were or picked up the bottles. This morning, she had woken up well before him and taken her pills sitting on the edge of the bed. The hostel room was small but the bed was enormous. On the walls, there were pictures of pirate ships in cheap frames. One window overlooked a dirt backyard with rusty bikes and a blue tent. The room was dirty. The gigantic comforter had stains on it from someone before them. Which is disgusting, he had said very late the night before, But considering were not going to pay, I just dont think were in a position to complain. She stared at her body, sitting flattened out her thighs and made them push up against each other and rise up from their soft in-between. She touched her stomach, which was too pouchy. She sat up straight and looked down again. The stomach appeared harder, the thighs less like fleshy pancakes.

35 He woke and reached out his hand toward her, pushing his flat palm against the small of her back. I wish you would quit smoking, she said as she lay down again, while he looked back at her with eyes still wet with sleep. Come on. Tiny crease marks were on his cheeks from the pillow. Im sort of being serious. What do you mean? Are you dying of secondhand smoke? He stretched out in bed, his legs splayed, his arms behind his head. Not me idiot. You. You are going to die of a heart attack at age 30. Hamburgers, giant cokes, French fries, hot dogs, and, of course, Camel Lights filled her head. It was like being at a baseball game except there was no one there, just the disgusting food. Im going to quit smoking when I graduate from college. He looked at the ceiling. Yeah but it smells bad now. Pulling the covers around her, she thought of the stink in her car that her parents were sure to notice. And if you keep smoking, she said, who will talk me down from my psychotic freak-outs after you die? I dont know. Youll get a new boyfriend. Maybe hell be a doctor. You can get addicted to tranquilizers or something. Im not going to die for a while. But I dont want a new boyfriend. Well, what about a rich husband? I hope youll remember me, or at least my name, when youre picking up the kids from daycare. She turned toward him, throwing her leg across him, and they both fell back asleep.