Boring Girls Page 3
xXx
There were two things I was preparing myself for that summer. One of them was Brandi and another year of shit from her that I worried would be more violent. I never wanted to be as weak as I had been after that exam. The other thing was to express how I felt on the outside. I didn’t fit in with Brandi and her pals, and I wanted to show that as strongly as I could, for them to know just by looking at me that I rejected them and everything they stood for. And, if I was able to express how I felt by looking a certain way, maybe I would finally attract another soul like myself and start meeting more people who felt like I did.
I hoarded black clothes and started brushing my hair, which only fell to my shoulders, so that it covered half my face. I bought some black eyeliner, which Mom very reluctantly agreed I could wear in small amounts. I dug up a pair of black winter boots that had buckles on them and could pass as kind of cool. I needed to change how I looked, but I knew my parents would freak out if I demanded a new wardrobe. So I adapted what I had. I wanted to be ready for when school started. I wanted Brandi to know she wasn’t going to be able to get me.
FOUR
That fall I went back to school steeled. Ready.
When I saw Brandi in the hallway, she gave me a once over and laughed, walking past me with her little group of friends. It was so anticlimactic. I actually felt disappointed. And then I got pissed off with myself for being disappointed. I sat through my first class that day, my head pounding with rage. The teacher was outlining what the year would bring for us, ancient civilizations–wise, but I barely heard a word. I was too consumed with trying to figure out why I was so irritated by Brandi’s nonchalant reaction to me. I hadn’t changed myself for her, had I? To make an impression on her? Her laughter was a given. Had I wanted her to attack me? What had I been expecting?
My second class was art, which is a subject I always did well in, but when I walked into the classroom I was faced with my usual dilemma of where exactly I was going to sit. See, when you’re a loner, it’s easy to find a seat in a normal class with individual desks. You just plunk yourself down as far away from the “cool kid desks” as possible. But in an art classroom, there aren’t any desks. It’s all tables where four kids can sit and you end up sharing your space with them. Last year hadn’t been bad; I had shared with three girls who were friends with each other, but who weren’t shitty people either. They had ignored me all year and talked amongst themselves, and I had half-heartedly eavesdropped on their conversations and worked on my stuff. The teacher liked me, and I did well in the class, even though it was boring to me. It was the same stuff I had done with my mother: paint an apple. Draw a leaf. I was doing that shit when I was five. This year, art was an elective, so I was hopeful there would be fewer assholes. I chose an empty table in the far corner at the back next to the window.
The class filled up, and no one sat at my table. Fewer kids this year, I happily noted, even though there was a table with a bunch of guys I could have done without. Some of the Brandi bunch, who greeted each other with stupid handshakes and high-fives, as though they were some exclusive society. Which I guess they sort of were. It’s always been a mystery to me how people who are so horrible end up finding each other and don’t seem to mind being cruel to everyone else.
The teacher, same as last year, Mr. Lee, saw me sitting by myself. I guess he felt bad for me, because he made a point of saying, “Rachel, I love the new look.”
I knew that he was trying to make me feel special, because he probably thought I felt upset at having to sit by myself, you know, make the poor girl feel good about herself, but I fucking hated that because all it did was draw attention to me, and I was trying to be unnoticed and left alone.
Of course, Mr. Lee’s comment drew a few guffaws from Brandi’s buddies. Fine by me. Nothing new. At least this year, I would have a whole table to myself and I could look out the window.
Just before class began, a light-haired girl came into the room, looking flustered. She scanned the room, presumably for a seat, and then hurried to my table, sitting in the chair kitty-corner from me. She didn’t look like one of the assholes, or like she knew anyone in the class. I hadn’t seen her last year, and she was just wearing a boring old smock dress. Sure, I’d share a table.
Mr. Lee began to talk about what the year would cover. Colour theory and different mediums that we would use for our projects. This year would be more technical, apparently, which was fine by me. I already knew most of this stuff. At least this class would go well.
When the bell rang, I started gathering up my notes. Next up was math. I wondered who’d be in that class. See, this is what really sucks about the first day of school. It’s a whole new year, with new classes, and you get to see who you’re going to have to deal with for the rest of it, who’s going to make fun of you when you walk in and out, who’s going to snicker every time you’re called on to answer a question. And who you’re likely to end up with at the dreaded moment when the teacher says, inevitably, “Partner up!” I was always one of the people who would have to raise their hand when the teacher asked who didn’t have a partner. I would end up working with some nerd, but I never minded that part of it. Nerds are smart, and I’m pretty smart too, and we’d get a good mark on whatever the assignment was, and there was no chit-chat bullshit. What bothered me was that moment of having to raise your hand and declare to the class that you are a loser with no friends. I don’t understand why teachers do that. It’s so damn segregating. They may as well just say, “Raise your hand if you have no friends and no one here likes you.”
I was mulling this over when I noticed that the girl I’d been sitting with was staring at me expectantly. I realized she must’ve said something, but I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t heard it. I cleared my throat like some nervous public speaker. “Uh, pardon?”
“Oh, I just said, ‘See you tomorrow,’” she repeated, and smiled. I sat there as she gathered her things and walked out of the classroom.
As I left the room a few moments later, I kicked myself for not having smiled back or replied in some pleasant way.
xXx
The rest of the classes were the usual. The only class I shared with Brandi was math, a blessing because math is not a “social” class. It’s dead quiet with a serious teacher, usually. And she didn’t even bother making fun of me when she saw me, because she was trying to leech on to some guy she thought was hot.
Leaving school at the end of that first day, I noticed a guy in the hallway. I hadn’t seen him last year. He looked a couple of grades older and was by himself. His hair was long, light brown, almost to his waist. And he was wearing a Bloodvomit shirt. I hadn’t seen a scowl like his other than on Balthazar Seizure’s face. I’d have to find out his name somehow.
xXx
I got to know the girl who’d talked to me that first day as the school year got underway. When we were left to work for the rest of the period on our colour wheels, she struck up a conversation.
“So my name’s Josephine,” she said casually, after Mr. Lee had handed out the paintbrushes.
“I’m Rachel.” I hoped I sounded as casual as she did. It’s so stupid: I am not an awkward person. I can communicate. I’m not stunted. But in school, I was just so damn uncertain and at that point, I was so used to being by myself, and I guess part of me really did want a friend.
“I just transferred here from Our Lady of Heaven. My family moved and it was too far to go there. Do you know anyone from there?”
I certainly didn’t know anyone from the Catholic high school. I mean, I didn’t even know anyone from this school. “Nope.”
“I still have a bunch of friends there, but I’m glad I’m not there anymore. All the religious stuff, it was just stupid.”
I nodded, dipping my brush into the red paint.
“My family isn’t that religious or anything,” Josephine continued. “We don’t go to chur
ch. It’s just that Our Lady was in our district. You wouldn’t believe how much they talk about God and stuff at that school. Every morning you pray first thing. And you have to take religion, it’s not an elective. They treat it like it’s as important as science and English. You have to go to Mass. I sure won’t miss that. And it’s also nice not having to wear that stupid uniform.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, staring at my work. I had no idea what to say.
But Josephine carried on, apparently oblivious to my awkwardness. “It’s going to suck only seeing my friends on the weekends, but whatever. I don’t really know anyone at this school at all. Are people nice here?”
“Nope.”
Josephine laughed, to my surprise. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard about this place. Glen Park’s full of assholes. John Hespeler is the stoner school, Queen Liz has all the rich kids, and Glen Park’s got the assholes.”
“My dad’s a teacher at John Hespeler,” I offered helpfully.
“Oh yeah? Does he smoke a lot of pot?”
We laughed. I started feeling more comfortable. “Fuck no. What are the kids at Our Lady like?”
“Really cool. It’s probably because most of them grew up with religion and stuff and their families are real strict. So they get pretty crazy. But there’s assholes there too.”
For the rest of that period we talked. And we ended up having lunch together too. And every day after that.
FIVE
Mom was relieved that I’d found a friend. When I’d hole up in my room and listen to music and do my homework, she never complained about the bands or anything. She didn’t say a word about how I was dressing or wearing my hair. Neither did Dad. I think they were really happy that I was doing well that first term, that I’d talk about Josephine, and that my grades were good. I was pretty happy too. Sure, Josephine didn’t listen to any of the bands I liked, but that was okay. She didn’t make fun of me for it either.
We’d go shopping downtown sometimes on Saturdays, mostly looking for clothes and stuff in thrift stores. Neither one of us had a big enough allowance to shop at the trendy stores, but that was fine because neither one of us was interested in that crap. I was always looking for black stuff, or dark plaid, and old, tough-looking boots. She had more of a hippie thing going on and would look for long dresses and sweaters. We never had to compete when we’d find something cool, and we never judged each other on any of it. It was a beautiful autumn. As the leaves changed, I spent many afternoons with Josephine, chatting as we made our way downtown. I felt important because I was with a friend. I learned to relax with her and be myself, talking openly about how the kids at school made me sick. She’d encountered Brandi by this point, but Brandi had treated her like wallpaper, preferring to abuse kids who offended her in some way that Josephine didn’t.
She started inviting me to go to parties with her friends from Our Lady. They’d have them every few weeks. “They’re really nice people, you’ll like them,” she insisted. But I never went. The thought of going to a party was uncomfortable. Just because Josephine liked me and accepted me didn’t mean that her friends would. I imagined walking into a room filled with strangers who would totally reject me. The only person I would know there would be Josephine, and she’d abandon me to catch up with her real friends, and I’d be left sitting by myself surrounded by people having a great time with each other and totally ignoring me. It’s one thing when that happens at school; it’s quite another when you’ve chosen to be in that situation. I even worried that once Josephine’s friends rejected me, she would reject me. She’d realize that I was a total fucking loser.
On one of those Saturday afternoon shopping trips, I’d picked up a Gurgol CD, Tear Off the Scab. It became one of my fixtures that fall, as well as DED’s ever-present Punish and Kill. The thing I liked about Gurgol was that there was a girl in the band. She played bass. Her name was Marie-Lise, which sounded very exotic, and her hair was done in bleached white dreadlocks. In the band photo with three tall dark-haired guys, she stood out but didn’t look out of place at all. The guys glowered and frowned, and she glowed, while still looking pissed and tough. In all my research of metal bands so far, I hadn’t seen a woman in one. When Josephine and I shopped, I have to admit I kept an eye out for stuff that Marie-Lise would wear. She always looked so awesome in their pictures, wearing ruffled black dresses and coloured tights and leather skirts. And I loved how she fit in with those guys. I wanted to be tough like her, surrounded by furious guys; everyone would look at us and be terrified.
Of course, Marie-Lise wore a hell of a lot more makeup than I could get away with. She wore dark lipstick, powdered her face completely white, ringed her eyes with tons of liner. She looked absolutely sinister and, to me, beautiful. Even Melissa, who was scared of everything to do with the music I liked, admired the pictures of Marie-Lise. We both agreed she looked like a beautiful vampire doll or something. Well, Melissa said that. I said that was childish, but secretly agreed.
xXx
Instead of just writing poetry and short stories, I started to write stuff that would be more in sync with the music I was into. I don’t want to say they were lyrics, but I guess they sort of were. They were terrible, these early attempts. But I felt a strong creative pull in that direction.
I was very happy that fall, but I didn’t have to be furious and full of rage to enjoy the music or its messages. That whole time, after all, despite Josephine, despite shopping and enjoying school, all of that was still inside me. Just because Brandi hadn’t bothered with me in a while didn’t mean that I was over wanting to splinter her nose with my fist. It didn’t mean that I hated the assholes in my classes any less. It just meant that I wasn’t alone anymore.
Now that I had Josephine, I ate lunch in the cafeteria rather than sitting on the floor by my locker, so when we would take our lunches to a table, I would always nonchalantly keep an eye out for the guy I’d seen in the hallway with the band shirt. He always ate in the cafeteria too, with a couple of his friends, and as me and Josephine chatted and ate, I would steal very discreet glances at him.
At least I thought they were discreet. One day Josephine totally busted me on it.
“Okay, so who is that guy?” she asked me.
“What guy?”
“The one you’re always looking at. The long-haired guy with the Vomiting Blood shirt.”
“It’s actually Bloodvomit.”
“Whatever. You realize he wears that shirt, like, three times a week, right? I bet he doesn’t wash it.” She glanced over her shoulder to where he sat a few tables over. “You like him?”
I blushed and looked down at my tapioca. “Yeah, he’s cute.”
“He’s got nice hair. You guys would make a good couple. What’s his name?”
“I have no idea.”
So Josephine made it her personal project to get very involved in my nonexistent relationship with the Guy. She’d set up little experiments, like telling me to walk past his table while he ate lunch and she’d watch to see if he looked at me. Which, apparently, he totally did.
“You have to talk to him,” she said. “He likes you. He checked you out.”
“But what would I say to him? He’s in eleventh grade. He doesn’t want to bother with me.”
“So what? You’re only a year younger. That’s fine. And you like the same bands, obviously. You should talk to him. Ask him about his vomit shirt. That’s a good icebreaker.”
xXx
I nervously considered all of this for a few weeks, feeling sweaty excitement every time I saw him. One morning when I was getting ready for school, I looked out the window and saw that overnight there had been a light snowfall, dusting all the trees and shrubs in my backyard with white. It looked beautiful. I felt refreshed. And I decided that this would be the day I would approach the Guy.
I got my chance sooner than I expected. I had to go to the bathro
om during my first class, history, and when I walked out into the quiet hallway, there he was, at the other end of it, at his locker. The bathroom was right near his locker row, and I walked towards it and him, relishing the tension of the two of us, alone, in the hallway. As I neared him, I started feeling sick, my palms began to sweat, and I gave up on the idea. I went into the bathroom. Then for a few minutes I proceeded to kick myself for not having said anything and blowing my only chance. I’d never be alone anywhere with him again. I had no fucking gumption. I cursed myself as I washed my hands, glaring at my stupid reflection in the mirror. When I left the bathroom, he was still there. It was now or never. If I so much as stopped walking, he’d know I wanted to talk to him, and then I would be forced to. It was as easy as just stopping. And I did.
The Guy looked at me. His eyes were so blue. My stomach went through the floor. He was cute. He was handsome. He looked like Balthazar Seizure. Sure, a high school version . . . but he did. His hair was shiny. He wore all black. And he was looking at me.
“Yes?” he asked. His voice was deep! I almost gasped.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, hoping I sounded confident and relaxed. “I like your shirt.”
He stared at me. “Bloodvomit? What do you know about them?”
“I like them,” I said. “I’m also really into Gurgol and DED. Do you know them?” I was impressed with myself, listing off other bands so casually, proving my knowledge, fitting in.
“Yeah, I know them,” he said irritably. “How the fuck do you know them?”
I could not think of a single cool-sounding answer to that question, and I was starting to lose my confidence. I don’t know exactly what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. And in no way, shape, or form was it cool that I had found out about the bands from a bumper sticker. I’d keep that little tidbit to myself.