Boring Girls Page 4

  “Oh, you know, through the grapevine,” I said stupidly, and froze. I could not have sounded more idiotic.

  “Through the grapevine?” he repeated with disgust. “What grapevine? What the fuck are you talking about? Who the fuck do you know in the scene?”

  Absolutely no one.

  “I didn’t know there was a scene,” I said falteringly, feeling a collapse within myself. Feeling my strength just drain, standing there like a moron.

  He stared at me for another moment, and then turned back to his locker. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  So I was left with the horror of having to silently acknowledge my uselessness to his hemisphere, turn, and walk back up the hall away from him, back to class. I was reminded of my moment with Brandi, of fearing she was watching me run home across the schoolyard. Even though I knew he wouldn’t bother watching me walk away, I felt so dowdy in my stupid plaid skirt and tights, still wearing my pathetic winter boots, which I wore every stupid day, because they vaguely resembled the “cool” style I didn’t own. Blood pounded in my head. Even my own kind weren’t going to accept me.

  The grapevine.

  What a fucking idiot.

  SIX

  When I got home, I could barely look at my DED poster. Balthazar looked too much like the Guy, with his long hair and his high cheekbones, that slim, strong body, the tight black pants. I was confused. Part of my fantasy, part of my empowerment, was that Balthazar and his band and the others who were a part of that music world would accept me, and I would belong, standing like Marie-Lise next to someone like the Guy, allied, ready to beat the shit out of the assholes and prove our superiority, together. If the Guy thought I was an idiot, would Balthazar too?

  But, in the end, metal was still mine. Just because the Guy liked it too and he was an asshole didn’t mean that I was going to allow him to ruin it for me. Fuck him. He could look at me like I was an idiot. It didn’t matter.

  However, I couldn’t face DED right then, so Gurgol it was. I blasted my favourite song of theirs.

  Your face is like a mask and I want to break it.

  Your life is in my hands and I’m going to take it.

  What did you say to me?

  You turn your back on me?

  I put my knife in you.

  Your life is such a joke that it makes me laugh.

  You just can’t seem to see that you’re made of crap.

  Soon you’ll understand.

  When your blood is on my hands.

  I bet Marie-Lise encountered guys, even in the metal scene, who’d try to make her into a joke. She was better than letting some asshole ruin how she felt. If anything, I bet it made her stronger. It gave her more hate, which would make her more creative. Sure, it was a guy singing, but her bass was there. She felt this song. She felt every word that the singer was feeling.

  If anything, the Guy was just an asshole in disguise. He’d missed the true meaning of metal music, which was so obvious to me: hating assholes and empowering yourself against them. I started to feel elated. He didn’t get it. I had won. I understood it and, despite his obvious disinterest in how little I knew, I was more metal than him. Maybe he knew something about a scene, but what I knew was more important. I decided to try to write something. Inspired by the Guy.

  Did you pay, what, a dime for that disguise?

  You suck and fail, that’s no surprise.

  Others like me hear my call.

  We orchestrate it when you fall.

  First I tear out your blue, blind eyes.

  Such a sexy voice, such tortured cries.

  And blood will fill this hollow hall,

  Cause I’m the wickedest witch of all.

  It was one of the best things I had ever written.

  In fact, I submitted it as a poem in my English class. The teacher, Ms. Voree, returned it with a good mark, but with some comments in red ink. Disturbing. Have you been watching horror movies? With a smiley-face beside it. She also mentioned that the word “suck” was a bit too much slang for the assignment. I didn’t care. I knew I was a good writer. And I was extremely proud of what I had written. It might not have been the perfect fit for my stupid school, but fuck it, neither was I.

  xXx

  Whenever I saw the Guy in the halls or in the cafeteria, I ignored him. Seeing him made me feel a bit stupid, but then I would just repeat to myself I’m the wickedest witch of all, and I’d feel better. Picturing myself pulling out the eyes of that faker made me feel great too.

  Of course I told Josephine what had happened, and after wincing over my moronic use of the word “grapevine,” she tried to help me rally.

  “Fuck him. He doesn’t do laundry anyway, you can tell. I bet his hair reeks too. He probably doesn’t shower. Fucking loser.” But her insults, while appreciated, were insignificant to the reassurance I got from just knowing I was better than him. And the good feelings I got thinking about pushing him down the stairs and watching his teeth shatter against the tile floor. Josephine didn’t understand that. I showed her my poem and explained to her that it was about him, and she laughed, but she didn’t get it.

  Josephine and I were good friends by that winter, and I liked her very much. School was pretty tolerable. I was surprised. Things had gotten better with the assholes. They’d still jeer and make fun of me from time to time, but it didn’t seem as often as the year before. Maybe it was because I was with Josephine a lot, and they didn’t see me as such an easy target. Maybe they had just finally gotten sick of picking on someone who didn’t respond, unlike some of their other targets. And Brandi had a boyfriend. That couple was truly a stain on the school, but at least she was distracted with her new project and left me pretty much alone.

  Writing became very good therapy for me, but I still had to deal with assholes. Ms. Voree, for example, developed a problem with the work I submitted as part of our “creative writing” assignments. I’d submit really fucking good poems, and she’d hand them back, scrawled on with red marker.

  Rachel, this is well written,

  but I’d like to see some lighter subject matter.

  Rachel, you’re a happy girl!

  I’d like to see some of that in your writing!

  Rachel, you are very talented.

  Please explore different subjects as your talent grows.

  Well, it wasn’t my fault that she didn’t like my stuff. She couldn’t argue that it wasn’t good writing, though, so she had to give me good marks, but I didn’t appreciate that she was critical of what made me passionate.

  So I submitted a poem that I wrote with Ms. Voree in mind.

  Lady in your proper dress,

  Telling me my brain’s a mess.

  Listen now and I’ll grade you

  For judging me on speaking truths.

  You fail at smarts,

  You fail just fine.

  You’ll fail at living

  When I snap your spine.

  I didn’t think Ms. Voree would take it so personally. In retrospect, I can see that she would obviously apply it to herself, but at the time, I was pretty wound up and I was writing some good stuff and I figured I was clever enough to get away with ironically giving her a poem about herself. When she returned the poem to me, the red marker ordered See me after school.

  And when I went to her classroom at the end of that school day, not only was she sitting there, but the principal of the school, Ms. Coates, was there too. I had never had a run-in with Ms. Coates before, and Ms. Voree looked pretty upset. I knew I was in for it.

  “Rachel, please sit down,” Ms. Coates said, gesturing to a desk. As I did, my mind raced with ways to get myself out of trouble. “Ms. Voree, please explain the problem once again, now that Rachel has joined us.”

  Ms. Voree wouldn’t look at me. “Rachel is a talented writer, and she has been very
consistent this year, handing in great poems for our creative writing unit. But I have become dismayed by her choice of subject matter.” She gestured to a short pile of papers on the desk beside Ms. Coates, presumably my poems. “As you can see, the subject matter worsened throughout the semester, leaning more and more towards violent imagery.”

  Ms. Coates interjected. “Yes. Rachel, would you agree?”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping I looked attentive and concerned.

  “Please go on, Ms. Voree.”

  My teacher cleared her throat. “In my comments on her work, I have suggested multiple times that she explore different themes and feelings in her writing. I’ve encouraged her to expand. I really believe she is the best writer in her class, but the drawback is always the imagery she chooses to write about.”

  “Having read the poems, I can see that,” Ms. Coates agreed. “Please go on.”

  “The problem right now is this most recent submission. It’s on the top of the pile,” Ms. Voree gestured at the poems. “I couldn’t help but feel that Rachel is now directing this violent focus onto me.”

  Ms. Coates sighed and addressed me. “Rachel, having read this poem, I can see how Ms. Voree would take your wording very personally. And as you know, here at Glen Park Secondary, we don’t want anyone to feel their work environment is threatening or harassing in any way, be it teacher or student.”

  “I understand that,” I said, nodding.

  “Ms. Voree is concerned, after reading your poem. But she’s also stressed to me that you are a good student, a pleasant personality, so she is having a dilemma in reconciling your viewpoint in this particular poem to your personality as a student, as delinquent behaviour is not typical of you. I’ve certainly never had any run-ins with you, and I tend to be able to learn who the bad seeds are pretty early on in their scholastic careers here at Glen Park.” She chuckled. I chuckled too, and so did Ms. Voree. We all fucking chuckled, even though it wasn’t funny.

  “Ms. Coates, if I may take it from here,” my teacher said. “I’d like to express to you, Rachel, that I give you credit as a writer and I hope I am wrong in my reaction to this poem. I’d like to give you the opportunity to explain it to us, if perhaps we are misunderstanding your meaning.”

  Both of them looked to me expectantly.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “I think it’s a misunderstanding. I mean one of the things I’m learning about in English class is the use of metaphors. And so I’ve been trying to use metaphors in my poems. I mean, that first line, about the lady in the dress, that isn’t supposed to be Ms. Voree. It’s supposed to be, like, a metaphor for ‘education,’ you know?”

  I cleared my throat and continued. “Like, the school system. I guess I had this idea about education, you know, maybe if it was corrupt. A corrupted school system teaching kids the wrong things.” They watched me, and I wiped my palms on my skirt. “Sort of wanting to rebel against the system or something. You know? Like the school system being a symbol of something evil. But it’s all metaphors. It wasn’t about Ms. Voree.”

  They absorbed this, and Ms. Coates thoughtfully looked over the poem. “What about this part, about ‘snapping your spine’?”

  “It isn’t literal. It’s just another way of saying, like, ‘stopping’ it. The whole thing is about being unfairly judged and turning the table on people judging you. ‘Grading’ means ‘judging.’ Just sort of fighting back against things that are unfair, and I used the whole school thing as a metaphor.”

  Ms. Coates nodded and looked to Ms. Voree. She was also nodding.

  “You’re very creative, Rachel,” Ms. Voree said, “and I appreciate that you employ these sorts of concepts in your work. Clearly, you are capable of some very interesting ideas. I can accept that explanation.”

  Ms. Coates agreed. “I’m glad that this matter seems as though it can resolve itself. Both of us had hoped for just such a clear resolution from you. You’re a very bright girl. But please do try to take a lighter note in your work from now on, as Ms. Voree has suggested. These violent metaphors are present in most of your assignments here, and I agree it would be nice to see some other ideas from you.”

  Everything was pleasantly wrapped up and I was able to leave, boiling with fury. I was relieved that I wasn’t in trouble, but I felt incredibly wronged and patronized. My teacher wanted me to write about things I didn’t believe in and didn’t feel. Shouldn’t a good teacher approve of, and encourage, strength and inspired emotion? It was a creative writing unit, not a let’s make the teacher think happy thoughts unit. Shouldn’t she want to bring out the best in me? Sure, the poem had been about her, but I wasn’t actually going to walk into the class and break her neck. How naïve was she? She had been one of the teachers I actually kind of liked.

  As I walked home through the snow, I got some more ideas for poems. How bright blood would look spilled across a blanket of white snow. Ms. Voree’s and Ms. Coates’s blood. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to submit that poem to her class. I’d have to write something stupid, like how the snow sparkled, glittering, as the afternoon sun slanted across it. Whatever.

  The two of you are one of a kind.

  Fucking brain-dead. Fucking blind.

  School’s out now. It’s time to go.

  Scarlet blood on ivory snow.

  SEVEN

  The school year crept along. One of our art assignments was to choose a favourite piece and recreate it using a different media. You know, take the statue of David and paint a picture of it. Or make a sculpture of the Mona Lisa. Something like that.

  Josephine was really into Jackson Pollock, so she decided to take one of his abstract paintings and recreate it using collage. I’ve never liked his stuff. Looks like a bunch of random paint splatters to me. It doesn’t have any mystery to it, it doesn’t tell a story, there’s no atmosphere. But Josephine loved his work. She said she can feel excitement and movement in it. Josephine was also into straw sunhats and floral print. But, hey, different strokes, right?

  I was feeling pretty damned good that day. Most of the kids in the class didn’t know much about art history, so a bunch of them were crowded around Mr. Lee’s collection of books, turning pages. Mr. Lee found that depressing, and he was barking at them about how true artists would at least know one work of art from that book before they even walked into his class. Not a problem for me, of course. I’d grown up with those books. I knew who Vermeer was when I was a toddler.

  And there was no question as to which painting I was going to recreate.

  “That’s a pretty creepy painting,” Josephine said when I showed her my colour photocopy of Judith Slaying Holofernes.

  “It’s so fucking cool. The girl in blue is Judith, and the girl in red is her maidservant,” I explained. “The guy on the bed is Holofernes. He was this war general guy who was destroying Judith’s town, really brutal. He had to be stopped, right? So Judith and her friend sneak into his camp. Some of his guards stop them at first, but these are just a couple of girls, right? What could they possibly do? So Judith and her friend hang out with Holofernes and get him drunk, and then when he’s passed out, they attack him.”

  “It looks like she’s cutting his throat,” Josephine said.

  “She’s actually decapitating him. Judith cuts off his head, and then they put it in a bag and take it back to their village and show everyone. They totally saved their own village and became heroes for it.” I grinned. “I love this painting. Look at them, they’re so beautiful. Look at the way the maidservant is struggling with Holofernes, holding him down. You can see how strong she is. Judith is totally into it, cutting into his neck. And the look on his face, like he can’t believe that these silly, weak women are going to decapitate him and stop all his evil bullshit. He can’t believe that he isn’t as strong as they are, and that they were able to get close enough to kill him.”

  Josephine gazed at me quizzical
ly. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember when I first saw this painting when I was a kid. I thought it was so beautiful, the way the blood is just streaming out onto the bed. You know, a woman painted this. I love how she also showed what great friends Judith and the other girl are. You can see how much they trust each other.”

  “All I see is some guy getting killed,” Josephine said. “You’re thinking about it too much.”

  I didn’t agree, and shrugged. We got to work on our projects. Mr. Lee was still at it with the other clowns, so I tuned them out and focused on recreating the painting in oil pastels.

  Mr. Lee came by after a while to observe, moving from table to table. “Josephine, I love what you’re doing with those small bits of paper. You’re really capturing the movement of the Pollock.” Looking at mine, he said, “Rachel, I am absolutely in love with the fact that you know Artimesia Gentileschi. And I love that painting myself. But I wonder if you’d reconsider your choice of oil pastels. I’d like to see a completely different take on the work, perhaps sculpture or even watercolour. The painting is so dark as it is, and a lighter, softer perspective could be more interesting. Think about it.” He moved on to the next table.

  But that was exactly why I had chosen the pastels. The colours were dark and bold. Mr. Lee didn’t understand that I was going to make my version of the painting even darker than it already was. If all Josephine could see was a guy getting killed, if that’s all everyone else saw when they looked at this painting, I wanted them to see the rage and passion and intensity.

  I copied the scene, but I twisted Holofernes’s expression, highlighting his agony and confusion. The blood spilled from his jugular onto the bed, as in the painting, but I took it further, pooling it on the floor. I emphasized the wound on his neck, giving it dimension, hinting at the rupturing, severing veins. Judith’s maidservant pinned him to the bed, her face a mixture of determination and amusement, her muscles tensing, her fingers digging into his sweating skin. And Judith, so focused, but also with a hint of a smile on her face. Brandishing the blade fiercely. I added blood to her hands, almost feeling its warmth as it flowed from the cut. I imagined she would relish the feeling of that blood enveloping her fingers. I decided to add some blood to the maidservant’s hands as well, picturing that they would both get satisfaction from feeling their enemy’s life drain away over their skin.