Chapter 2
The first day of school used to be so much fun. But all that’s been ruined thanks to Bobby Worman’s mother. Allow me to explain.
Jess, the rest of our friends, and I are decent students, not valedictorian material, but definitely college prep and definitely filled with a healthy dose of school spirit. To us, Weeping Water High School (henceforth referred to as Two W) was the perfect mix of educational institution, social club, and, of course, fashion show. Walking down the hallway used to be like walking down a runway. And we would be starting off sophomore year modeling this year’s latest trends if Mrs. Beverly Worman read Vogue instead of the Bible.
Last year she bought her son, Bobby, a black T-shirt that spelled out the acronym OMFG in green velvet embossed letters because she thought it translated to “Oh My Fabulous God.” Normal people know the F stands for something entirely different. But Bobby’s mother is a “born again,” very sweet, and she makes incredible brownies that Bobby brings to school on half days, but to her absolutely everything has a spiritual connection.
I remember the day Bobby—or The Worm as he is now officially known—wore that T-shirt to school. He couldn’t stop bragging about how his mother bought it for him and that she had no idea what the F really stood for. Unfortunately, Principal Dunleavy (Dumbleavy to most of the student body as well as some of the cooler teachers) did. And since he overheard Bobby boasting about his mother’s fashion faux pas of biblical proportions, he didn’t believe The Worm when he tried to backpedal and say that the F was for fabulous and it was an expression of his religious beliefs. A week later we were informed that beginning the following year Two W would be adopting a new dress-code policy. And that’s how our school uniform was born.
So instead of wearing an awesome eighties inspired top with shoulder pads and dolman sleeves in electric blue, vintage Jordache jeans, and Candie’s high-heeled clogs, I stand before my mirror in a white, short-sleeved polo shirt with two navy blue W’s embroidered on the left chest pocket, paired with navy blue khakis, and simple navy flats. I look like I tighten screws into engine parts in an automobile factory. Or like I bowl. Neither of which I ever have any intention of doing.
This morning when I got dressed I didn’t even know how to accessorize. What goes with bowling attire? A wrist brace? After much deliberation and rummaging through my jewelry boxes, I opted for simple sapphire studs and a matching necklace and, in homage to my new wall color, a bunch of bracelets in various shades of orange. Stymied, I kept the hair and makeup to a minimum. I’ll have to live with this new outfit for a while before I feel brave enough to experiment.
Luckily, I don’t have to do much with my hair for it to look good. Despite the fact that my mother has blond hair and my father’s is brown, I’m a redhead. Some distant relative must’ve had the red hair gene for it to land in my DNA. And it’s a pretty red, closer to auburn than Little Orphan Annie. Thick and bouncy, so even dressed like I’m the poster child for Androgynous Anonymous, I still look like a girl, though I’m not sure I’ll still be the prettiest girl in the world like my boyfriend, Caleb, always says. Thanks to The Worm and his mother I may have to settle for top ten.
As I grab my navy blue and white cowhide-print backpack—I had to find some way to self-express—and turn to run so I won’t miss my bus, I see the timberwolf eyeing me. I still don’t know if he’s friend or foe, but in the early morning sunshine he doesn’t look as menacing, nor does he instill in me feelings of dread and anxiety and fear. I must have been caught up in a moment the other night; why else would I be so freaked out by a stupid mascot?
I don’t know; maybe it’s a phase I’m going through. Maybe these negative feelings are all a result of being stressed out, thanks to my subconscious quest to make a good impression on the first day of school. I mean, sophomore year should be better than freshman, right? But last year I became a football player’s girlfriend, made the cheerleading squad, and if it hadn’t been for my B in algebra, I would’ve made the honor roll. Freshman year is going to be hard to top, so there’s a lot of pressure on me to impress the masses.
On the bus ride into school, I change my mind and I swear all my problems have to do with Jess. Before I even sat down in the empty seat next to her, I felt my stomach clench and my throat tighten; just looking at her pissed me off. What is wrong with me? So what if she didn’t adopt my less-is-more approach to hair and makeup. It’s her look, not mine, and usually I think she looks great. Why is her face infuriating me this morning?
Obviously she got up in the middle of the night to re-dye her hair to get rid of her blond roots and straighten her curls so the color and style will be as close to Japanese as she’ll ever get. It’s also clear that she spent another hour polishing her nails a deep burgundy, the same color as her lipstick, and topped it off with plum eye shadow and mauve cheeks. She looks like she’s ready for a night out in Tokyo, not a day at Two W. I could warn her that Dumbleavy may make her scrub all the color from her face before first period, but I don’t trust myself to say it nicely, so I keep quiet. And honestly, it’s kind of hard to say anything to Jess, nicely or otherwise, when she just won’t shut the hell up!
Oh my God! On and on and on she’s been rambling, hardly taking a moment to breathe, telling me yet another stupid story about her stupid boyfriend. Normally, I thrive on this stuff; I’m a very social girl, and my friends’ social trials and tribulations are mega-important to me. But today I just can’t take it. I don’t think I can listen to another entry in the disappointing saga that is her relationship with Napoleon Jaffe.
They’ve been dating for most of the summer, practically since he came to town with his mother and sister after living in Connecticut his whole life. When Jess explains his backstory, she makes it sound way more interesting than it is, but the basic facts are that his mother grew up here, got married, and moved away to the East Coast, became a widow, and returned to Weeping Water with her two kids to live with her mother-in-law. Unexciting. But Jess has convinced herself that he’s led a wildly dramatic life that is movie-worthy. It’s not even TV-movie worthy. I told her that she’s gotten overly excited because he has an unusual name.
“Why would any parent name their kid after a short, maniacal emperor who was always scratching his chest?” I asked.
“Your parents named you Dominy,” Jess replied.
Score one for the best friend.
Watching her fiddle with the cheap ID bracelet he bought for her spelling out her full name—Jessalynn—the same crappy piece of jewelry she swears she will never, ever, ever take off, I swear I can feel my blood start to boil.
“Can you believe it?” she asks.
What I can’t believe is that I haven’t scratched her eyes out. Since I haven’t been listening to Jess, but daydreaming about ways to silence her long-winded, tedious, and oh-so-boring story, I have no idea what her question is relating to, so I fake a reply.
“No, Jess, I can’t.”
Her second question is even more unbelievable. “Don’t you think after all this time he should’ve tried to go a little bit further with me?”
I’m still not completely certain, but I think Jess is talking about sex.
“So you haven’t done anything except kiss all summer long?” I venture.
Jess slaps my knee and yells, “Will you keep your voice down!”
She looks around the bus to make sure my question hasn’t drawn the attention of our fellow riders and only looks at me when she’s satisfied no one has overheard and is currently eavesdropping. “Last week we had a very long, French-kissing make-out session,” she says.
“Well, that makes sense,” I reply. “Napoleon’s French.”
She slaps me again on the same knee only harder this time. “This isn’t funny,” she whispers. “That was the high point of our two-month, one-week, and three-day relationship.”
There’s so much I want to say, but so little that I know Jess wants to hear. I’ve already told her that I think she’s more attracted to the guy’s name than to the guy himself, but she told me that was ridiculous, even though her notebooks are already filled with the name Napoleon written in every conceivable manner and configuration. Print, all caps, all lowercase, script, bubble letters. Followed by pages of heart drawings that are filled with Napoleon and Jessalynn. She used her full name because, she informed me, Jessalynn has the same amount of letters as Josephine, who was the real Napoleon’s wife back in the day. She believes it’s karma; I told her it’s coincidence.
The real glitch is that Napoleon’s only outstanding feature is his funky name. He isn’t too tall or too short; he isn’t too fat or too thin; he’s got a normal haircut, normal IQ, normal everything. I want to tell Jess that Nap is the dull mayor of Dullville and she should be grateful that he’s really not into her so she can break up with him and find a cool guy who really likes her and who’s a lot of fun. But I’m not in the mood to be a straight shooter, so instead I tell her what she wants to hear.
“I don’t know what the problem is,” I say, sneaking a glance out the window to watch the world fly by. “Whenever I see the two of you together, you look like you’re in love.”
“Really?” Jess asks. In the reflection, I can see her blue eyes bulging at me.
“Yes!” I reply, turning to look at her. “You’re grossweet.”
“What?”
“A little gross and a little sweet,” I explain. “Both at the same time.”
I’m staring into Jess’s eyes, but I see her hand move. Before she can slap my knee again, my hand springs out lightning fast and grabs her tight around the wrist. Jess tries to break free, but my hold is secure, and after a moment of struggle Jess gives up.
“Let go of me.”
“Do not hit me again.”
I could let go of Jess’s wrist, it’s what I should do, but I don’t. I like how my fingers feel wrapped around her skin, and I like how her tiny bones feel pressed against my flesh, delicate and vulnerable. If I made the choice I could probably snap them into little pieces. No, not probably, definitely. I know it, and Jess knows it. It’s what I want to happen; I want to twist my hand so her bones shatter, break through her flesh so we’re both stained with her blood. The thought of it makes me want to squeeze her hand harder. Just as I’m about to, the bus goes over the speed bump into the school parking lot and shakes me in my seat. The spell is broken. While Jess rubs her wrist and looks at me warily, it gives me enough time to think of a lie.
“I think you gave me a black-and-blue!” I say, massaging my knee. “I couldn’t risk another assault.”
True to her nature, Jess chooses to embrace the good and believes my story. She would never hurt me physically—she would never entertain the idea—so how could she think for a split second that I would want to do the same to her? Before this morning I would’ve felt the same way. Now I know differently.
I almost forget the incident until I run into Archie Angevene, who after Jess is my second best friend, and feel the need to replay the entire story so I can get a reality check and find out if I overreacted.
“Archie!”
“Hey, Dom!” he replies. “Heard you almost ripped Jess’s arm off.”
Guess Jess beat me to the punch. So to speak.
“Arch, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I confess. “I just couldn’t stand listening to her anymore, and all of a sudden I grabbed her and wouldn’t let go.”
“Let me guess,” he says, shoving a book into his locker. “She was filling you in on another riveting chapter of Nap ’n Jess’s ‘not-so-in-love story’ and you snapped?”
“Yes!”
Thank God, Archie gets me. And thank God, he’s gay. If he weren’t, we would probably date, break up, and I would lose my best guy friend forever. Things are so much better this way.
“FYI she’s not upset with you,” Archie says. “But I think she’s upset with me now.”
“Why?” I ask.
“She kept asking me if it was normal that a guy would only want to French-kiss a girl after almost three months of going out,” he relays. “I finally told her I don’t know why any guy would want to stick his tongue down a girl’s mouth in the first place. Everybody knows that girls got cooties!”
“Which is why I got my vaccine,” I reply, playing along.
Turning around I see my boyfriend, but he seems happier to see Archie than me. Maybe I do have the cooties?
“Winter!” Caleb exclaims.
“Bells!” Archie shouts back.
Let me explain their nicknames. Besides being gay, Archie is an albino, and when he was a kid he wore his white hair straight and long, which reminded Caleb of the Winter Warlock on his favorite Christmas special. Meanwhile, Archie says Caleb’s high-pitched laugh reminds him of church bells. So Archie is Winter and Caleb is Bells and together they’re Winter Bells. At moments like this I think they make a better couple than Caleb and I do.
“Can we talk later?” I ask. Caleb, unfortunately, doesn’t hear me.
“Winter, did you get the new playbook?” he asks.
“Just picked it up,” Archie replies. “Why?”
“Coach has got some cool new plays for us,” Caleb informs him. “There’s this one . . .”
Besides being gay and albino, Archie is also on the football team. Back in junior high he was in love with Johnny Saretti, a gorgeous Italian kid in our class. Archie was convinced he could snag Johnny as a boyfriend if he could only make a good impression; so when he heard Johnny was trying out for football, Archie tagged along. Jess and I watched from the stands, ready to dial 911, convinced Archie was going to break every bone in his then-skinny body. An ambulance was called, but for Johnny, who suffered a major asthma attack on the field. Archie made the team as a wide receiver, whatever that is, and two months later Johnny and his family moved to the more arid climate of Arizona for health reasons. Today, Archie, along with Caleb, is one of the stars of the team. And most of the time I love the fact that my boyfriend and my best guy friend are buds, but not right now.
“Caleb,” I interrupt. “Archie and I need some girl time.”
“Sorry, Dom,” Archie says. “I have to get to chem or else I’ll be late. Catch up at lunch. Later, Bells!”
“Later!” Caleb cries out.
Caleb high-fives Archie so hard Caleb’s blond hair bounces and his bangs fall into his eyes. Usually, the look makes me smile, but now I’m feeling exactly the way I felt on the bus with Jess. Like my insides are going to shoot out of my stomach.
“Oh I almost forgot,” he says. “I can’t come over tonight.”
Now I feel worse. His broad shoulders shrug slightly, and the right side of his mouth lifts up into a smirky smile that I know from previous experience is a look that he thinks is sexy. It doesn’t work this time. The hand that isn’t carrying his books reaches out to me, presumably to touch some part of my face, and his mouth opens again to speak, but before I’m assaulted with any more words, I do something I’ve never done before: I hit my boyfriend.
I slap his hand away before he can touch me; the back of my hand hits his palm and makes a loud smack. What is wrong with me? I mean seriously, what am I doing? Because I’ve never hit him before, Caleb is more startled by my action than I am. The strange thing is, a part of me feels completely normal.
“What do you mean you’re not coming over?” I seethe. “We have plans.”
Now his lips form a real smile; he clearly doesn’t realize how ticked off I am. “I know, but I have homework.”
“Nobody has homework on the first day of school!”
I hit him again, this time a punch in the chest. The sound it makes isn’t as loud as the slap, more like a muffled thud, but the impact is greater. He stumbles and falls into the bank of lockers to his right; the flesh-to-metal crash creates a noise louder than I could ever create, so I’m not disappointed. In fact, I’m really happy because I know I’ve hurt him and he deserves it. But something’s wrong; Caleb isn’t acting like he’s in pain.
“Don’t laugh at me!” I shout.
Caleb is taller than me, bigger than me, but at this moment I know that I’m stronger than he is. I sense that he’s starting to comprehend this new fact as well. The feeling of power that’s racing through my body, making my veins pulse and tingle, is unlike anything that I’ve ever known before. The sensation is extraordinary and mind-boggling and unexpected, and I know that it’s always been waiting for me to reach out and grab hold of it. Just like I want to reach out and grab hold of Caleb’s throat and squeeze it tight so his laughter turns to begging.
Instead, I punch him in the shoulder, and his body flinches; he’s not in that much pain, not yet, but at least he’s stopped laughing. My fist whizzes past my face again, but stops when it collides into Caleb’s waiting hand. He wraps his fingers around my fist and holds me tight. For a few moments we’re motionless, staring into each other’s eyes. His are confused; mine are triumphant. My fingers dig into the palm of my hand, and I’m glad Jess and I just gave each other manicures or else my nails would be cutting into my flesh. The thought makes my mind wander and my heart beat a little faster. No, I wish my nails were long enough and sharp enough so I could dig them into Caleb’s face and peel away his lips and all of the flesh around his mouth, so he could never laugh at me again.
“Stop!”
The voice comes from behind me, but I refuse to listen to its command. Ever the obedient student, Caleb does, and releases his hold on my fist. His mistake. I let my arm fall to my side, but only for an instant before I throw another punch that lands on Caleb’s forearm. I was aiming for his shoulder again, but he must have sensed that I wasn’t ready to give up and at the last second he raised his arm to block my punch. Now we’re just staring at each other. I have no idea what my face looks like, but his forehead is scrunched up like he’s trying to figure out my next move or his next move. The next move actually doesn’t come from either one of us.
“Dominy Robineau! I told you to stop!”
This time the voice is too loud and demanding, and once again the spell is broken. I feel light-headed as I whip around to see Mr. Carbine staring at me with an expression similar to the one Caleb is wearing. At the moment I can’t remember if Mr. Carbine teaches science or gym; doesn’t matter, he’s a teacher and that means that he can get me into trouble. And no one, not even Caleb, is worth being sent to detention on the first day of school.
“Everything okay over there?” Mr. Carbine asks.
He’s a complete fool if he thinks everything is okay, but I understand that he’s giving me a chance to escape a trip to the Office of School Security and Discipline, so I grab it. I smile, perfectly and beautifully, the embodiment of everything Caleb thinks I am. “It’s all good,” I reply. “Just fooling around.” Then I turn to Caleb. “Right?”
Dumbfounded would be the correct adjective to describe Caleb’s expression. I have to repeat my one-word question to get Caleb to speak, but he proves he’s loyal to me and still my boyfriend when he agrees.
“Yes,” he says in a strong, flat voice, nothing like the sound of his laughter. “Just fooling around.”
Mr. Carbine tells us to knock it off and get to class. Caleb looks concerned as he asks me what’s wrong. I ignore them both and run off to the ladies’ room.
I hear the class bell ring just as the bathroom stall door slams behind me. I lean back against it and press my foot into the side of the toilet bowl and kick it a few times. Nothing’s working, and the adrenaline and tension and whatever else is locked inside my body won’t relent; it won’t disappear or even subside.
I start to walk from one side of the stall to the other, then in circles, like a caged beast, like a wild animal that’s just been caught and is trying to make sense of its new surroundings. Even though the stall isn’t enclosed and there are openings at the top and bottom, I feel like I’m suffocating. I kick the door open, and when I catch my reflection in the huge mirror that takes up the entire wall, I freeze. I don’t know who I’m looking at. I don’t recognize this girl. She doesn’t even look human. I close my eyes, and when I open them I’m staring back at myself.
I’ve returned.
And now it’s become official: The first day of school sucks.
At lunch it gets worse. I explain to Jess and Archie how Caleb not only broke our date for tonight, but lied to me as well.
“He didn’t lie to you, Dom,” Archie says.
The tater tots on my tray are about to make a new home on Archie’s face, but I take a deep breath. I take another one, slower this time, and the urge to hurl food dissipates. My anger at Caleb does not.
“Yes, he did! He said he has homework. Nobody has homework on the first day of school!” I pound my fist on the table, and Archie’s milk carton jiggles; it doesn’t fall over, but some white liquid spills over the spout and onto Archie’s fingers. I’m mesmerized by the sight of white spilling over onto white. I’m so focused on watching the milk dribble over and in between his fingers that I don’t realize he started talking again. “What?”
“He didn’t lie,” Archie explains as he wipes the white milk off his white fingers with a white napkin. “Mr. Lamatina gave us homework in world history.”
First Caleb, now Archie. Why is everyone lying to me? “I had world history third period, and Lamatina didn’t give us homework!” I respond.
“You have regular history,” Archie says softly. “Caleb and I have honors.”
I have no response to this logical explanation, so I remain silent, which Archie takes as permission to keep talking.
“We have to write a paper comparing the end of the Vietnam War to the end of the Iraqi occupation,” he explains. “Five hundred words, due tomorrow.”
“Five hundred words?” Jess asks, utterly appalled. “In one night?”
“Ladies,” Archie replies, raising his milk carton, “that’s why they call it honors.”
Simultaneously shaking her head and chewing on tater tots, Jess replies, “I loves me my school, but I’m so glad I’m only slightly above average.”
All the energy, the good and the bad, leaves my body. I’m no longer angry or passionate or outraged; I’m just empty. I don’t feel stupid or foolish; I’m curious. I feel like an observer, like I’m someone watching my life, not the person living it. People make mistakes, but I don’t feel like I made a mistake with Caleb; I feel like someone made the mistake for me. And according to Jess, it was a big one.
“You really went ballistic on him,” Jess says, now chewing on a fish stick.
“How do you know?” I ask.
Jess stops chewing and stares at me, her expression all surprise and skepticism. “Because I was standing next to Mr. Carbine,” she informs me. “You didn’t see me?”
“I can’t believe I missed it!” Archie shouts. “I would’ve totally bailed on chem if I had known you were going to fine-tune your Roller Derby skills.”
Ignoring them both, I shove a slightly burnt fish stick in my mouth. I reply, “Guess I overreacted.”
“You guess?!” Jess exclaims. “Dom, it was reality TV, live and in person. And the good reality TV, like a train wreck. I was totally looking around for the camera crew.”
As Archie and Jess engage in a debate over what constitutes good reality TV, I’m overcome by a huge sense of grief that far outweighs the event by which it was inspired. I’m sure I hit Caleb in a fit of unwarranted fury, but I didn’t kill him; I doubt if I even really hurt him. I’ll apologize, he’ll cringe when I blame it on my period, I’ll let him cop a feel, and we’ll be over it. He’s a guy; he isn’t complicated. But I get the feeling I’m another story.
After school, locked in my bathroom, I try to push the events of the day from my memory, but I can’t, so I decide to face the enemy head on. My reflection stares back at me blankly, and I wish my mind were as uncluttered as my expression. Lying to my teachers isn’t the end of the world, but it’s unlike me, and physically assaulting both my best friend and my boyfriend and then wishing I could do them even greater harm is completely unacceptable. The first day of school didn’t suck; it was a disaster. Of epic proportions. It’s like someone took my body hostage and went to school in my place.
Could this be the start of a whole new me? Is this how people turn bad and go crazy? They start by doing little things that are easily explained and quickly forgotten and then catch everybody by surprise by bringing a machine gun to school or a shopping mall and opening fire on strangers. Then they kill themselves before they have to explain their actions or take responsibility for the horror they’ve caused. Is this what I have to look forward to?
My reflection is too difficult to look at, and I shut my eyes tight. I clutch my head and run my fingers through my hair; the pressure feels good against my scalp, calming, and I keep doing it for a few minutes. I stare into the mirror, my hands still holding my hair away from my face, and I see a few wispy strands of red hair growing by my ears where a guy’s sideburns should be. The hair is soft to the touch and there isn’t a lot of it, but I don’t think it was there this morning. No, I’m sure it wasn’t.
What the ef is happening to me?! I can’t look at myself any longer, but I can’t turn away. Jess was right; I am a train wreck. I drop my hands to my sides, and my hair falls down, covering the new strands, but I still know this new, unwelcome growth is there. Not only is there possibly something wrong with my mind, but now there’s possibly something wrong with my body too?
I watch the tears well up in my eyes, and they look like the sky during a rainstorm. Gray with only the slightest hint of blue. Despite how I feel about myself, I can’t help but notice how beautiful my eyes are, only because they’re just like my mother’s. If only she were here. If only she could tell me that everything was going to be okay. I close my eyes and feel the tears run down my face. Her image appears before me, and she looks as radiant as always, but her presence isn’t soothing, and I’m not comforted; if anything I’m more disturbed and more agitated. Because the truth is that she isn’t here, she isn’t coming back no matter how badly I want her to, she’ll never help me again, and I simply have to accept that fact.
My eyes spring open, and I look as frightened as I feel, because even though I don’t have a whole lot of proof, I know with complete certainty that something is majorly wrong with me. My body starts to shake as I cry even harder when I realize that I’m going to have to figure this one out all on my own.