Laura Ruby - Good Girls (7 page)

Okay. Fine. Christmas store, bad idea. Nativity scene, bad idea. I push open the glass door with my foot and storm outside. I know I should just go home, but I think that maybe Cookie Puss and Fudgie the Whale could use some company. But what's the first thing I see?

85 A green minivan parked right next to the ice cream store. A minivan that looks a lot like Luke's mom's minivan, a van that Luke sometimes used when he had lots of stuff to cart around, or when he wanted a little portable pri- vacy. I'm assaulted by flashbacks. Hands slipping up the back of my shirt, looking for the bra clasp. Fingers scrabbling at the front of my jeans. The smell of carpet- ing and warm skin. And then newer memories: slam- ming the door on Luke at the party, my picture on the cell phone, his stone face as he passed me in the hallway.

I'm standing frozen on the walk when I see the door of the ice cream shop swing open. I don't have time to think, to consider if it really is Luke's mom's green van and if that really is Luke coming out of the ice cream store with another one of the half-vanilla, half-chocolate milkshakes he lives on. I do the only thing I can: I duck into Sally Beauty Supply. The choppy-haired punk girl at the counter looks up from her magazine, looks me up and down, and then looks down at the magazine again. Well, here's someone who obviously hasn't seen the infa- mous photograph. Hallelujah. Sighing in relief, I begin fake-browsing the shelves. I have my choice of cheap lip- sticks in every shade known to woman and hair clips with beads, sparkles, or feathers, as well as curlers, crimpers, dryers, tweezers, and other instruments of tor- ture. I pick through nail files and polishes, shampoos and conditioners, gels and mousses. I make faces at the

86 wig heads and then wonder if there are hidden cameras documenting everything I'm not buying. Moving on to the dyes, I marvel at the colors. Vampire Red. Purple Passion. Too Blue. Flamingo. Fade to Black. For some reason, I like the last color the best, like how it looks, all inky and thick in the bottles. I grab a couple, one in each hand, just to look as if I'm actually shopping, doing something other than hiding from other people's mom's vans.

"You're going to need developer with that."

I whip around and see the girl from the counter standing there. With her plaid pants and a "Luv A Nerd" T-shirt, she's paired black socks with green rub- ber flip-flops. I'm momentarily stunned by her fashion choices, and by the Oreo-sized plugs piercing her ears. "What?"

"Developer," she says. She pulls a big bottle of white stuff from the shelf. "You can't use the dye unless you mix it with this."

"Oh," I say. "But . . ."

"Have you ever dyed your hair before?" she asks me. Her hair is Flamingo, with Purple Passion bangs. She's clearly an expert.

"Uh, no, but . . ."

She plucks a bottle of dye from my hand. "I know it says `Fade to Black,' but it's really a very dark brown. I don't know why they don't call it something else. I always thought that Dirt would be a good name."

87 "Dirt?" I say. I would never want my hair to be something called Dirt.

"You should probably get some gloves." She thrusts a box of rubber gloves at me. "The whole box is only five bucks, so it's worth it. Especially if you dye your hair again. And you will, believe me. It's addictive." She hands me a little plastic bowl and something that looks a lot like a paintbrush. "Use this to mix the dye in. Equal parts dye and developer. Use the brush to paint the dye on. Start at the roots and work down to the ends. Wait twenty-five minutes and wash it all out until the water comes clear." She eyes me critically, and I see that she's even dyed her eyebrows Flamingo to match her hair. "You have a ton of hair. And it's so blond. Is that natural?"

"Yeah," I say. "But I'm not sure . . ."

She pulls another bottle of Fade to Black from the shelf. "You're going to need more." She looks at the pile I have in my arms and laughs. "I guess I should help you carry the stuff up to the front."

"Thanks," I say. "But I really haven't decided whether . . ."

She turns abruptly and walks to the front of the store. I follow, because I don't know what else to do. She moves behind the register and faces me. "I say go for it," she tells me. "If you don't like it, you can just chop it all off, right?"

88 I dump the stuff on the counter, wondering how I'm going to get out of the store without buying a thousand dollars' worth of products. "It took me years to grow my hair. I can't just chop it off."

Flamingo is amused. "Why not? Is it sacred or some- thing? Are you Samson? Besides, think about how dif- ferent you'll look with dark hair. I swear no one will recognize you."

I'm sure that everyone would recognize me if my hair were blue, with lime-green polka dots. But then, the thought that it might take people a few extra seconds makes me hesitate. Flamingo moves in for the kill. "I dye my hair all the time, and it works out fine for me. If I don't like what's going on, if things are crappy or just boring, I make my hair another color and I'm a new per- son. Easiest thing in the world." She smiles at me, a dif- ferent kind of smile than the ones I've been getting the last few days. A sweet smile, a friendly smile, an I-don't- know-who-you-are-and-I-couldn't-care-less smile. She starts to ring up the stuff, and I don't stop her. "Don't worry," she says. "You're going to be great."

89

This Program for

a Special Report

I 'm twenty-five bucks poorer when I walk

home, and I'm not happy about it. I don't know

why I let some punk girl in flip-flops talk me into

buying stuff that will turn my hair the color of dirt.

Dirt! And who is so dumb that they believe dyeing

your hair can make you a whole new person? I

fumble around in the bag for the receipt.

90 Great. She forgot to put one in there, and I forgot to ask for it. Twenty-five bucks down the tube because I couldn't face Luke's mom's van.

My dad's not happy, either. Apparently, he went to a lawyer and got some answers on the legal front. Since no one's face is visible in the picture, he tells us at dinner, it would be difficult to prosecute anyone for sending it.

"He did say that we could at least threaten to sue," my dad says. "Since it's probably a kid who sent the pic- ture around, we could shake him up."

"What will that do?" I say.

"What do you mean, what will it do?" my dad says, chewing his broccoli vigorously. "It will stop the little monster from doing it again."

"Dad, I don't even know who sent it."

"Did you ask that boy?"

I want to say What boy? but I know what boy. "No," I say. "I don't want to talk to him."

"I wouldn't want to talk to him, either, after what he did to you," my dad says. "Now that I'm thinking about it, you shouldn't talk to him. You should let me talk to him. I'll shake him up." For a second, he looks so mad that I worry he'll find Luke and rip his arms off. And maybe some other key parts, too. Not that it wouldn't be a teeny bit satisfying, but I know that if my dad even talks to Luke or his parents I will never, ever hear the end of this. Everyone will just blame me anyway.

91 "Dad, I don't want you to do anything," I say. "I want to forget about it."

"Forget about it?" he says. He turns to my mother. "Elaine, will you talk some sense into her, please?" He scoops up his plate and practically throws it into the sink. "I have to look at some prom gown catalogs." He stalks from the room.

I push my broccoli around my plate. "Dad's freaking out."

"We're all freaking out," my mom says. "You're not eating."

"I don't like broccoli."

"You love broccoli."

"I love the cheese sauce that goes on the broccoli. I never liked the broccoli."

"I'm worried about you." My mom starts clearing the table. "I called my doctor. He had an appointment available, and I--"

I knew it! I start moaning: "Mom . . ."

"Audrey," she says, her voice firm. "If you're sexually active, you need to see a doctor. This is not debatable."

I wince at the phrase "sexually active." So weird and vague. So not sexy. So not the way I'd describe anything I've ever done. "Do I have to go to a man?"

"He's a good doctor," she says. "I've been going to him for years. But if you want me to make some more calls--"

92 "Fine," I say, too embarrassed for the both of us to argue. "When's the appointment?"

"Next Friday. Four o'clock."

"You're taking me, right?" I say, suddenly terrified that my dad will want to do it.

"Yes," she says. "You might not be comfortable talk- ing to us about these things, but I want you to be hon- est with the doctor."

I nod.

"I mean it," she says.

"I know." I feel like I'm at the doctor's already, splayed out under the bright lights. I can hear the ques- tions now: Are you sexually active, Ms. Porter? When did you first become sexually active? How often are you sexually active? Did you know that sexual activities occurring in green vans are more likely to result in hair the color of dirt?

"Can I ask you a question?" my mom says. She doesn't wait for me to say yes before she says, "Did you care about that boy?"

I feel a flare of anger at this, and then it's gone. "No. I just picked him up off the street."

"Audrey . . ." she says.

"Yes, I liked him. Of course I liked him. Jeez. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry," she says. "You read magazines and see TV shows about what kids are doing. Scary things. Bets

93 and games and contests. Girls doing things just to be popular. All that stuff on the Internet."

I don't say anything; I can only imagine what was on the latest episode of Oprah.

Mom blows a curl from her cheek. "This is exactly what makes parents crazy," she says.

"What is?"

"This. All of this. One day you're building little cities out of toothpicks, and the next . . ." She trails off. I fin- ish her thought in my head. And the next you're blow- ing random guys. What a world! It must be the rap music! The video games! Someone alert the media! We need to do a Special Report!

But that's not what she says. "The next minute, you find out that your child isn't a child anymore, that she's being confronted with things that could hurt her or even change her life forever. I speak from experience." Again she tries to tell me that sex is beautiful, but that's not what her face says. Her face says that sex is kind of icky and sort of frightening. Something that you have to gear up for. Something that requires medical attention. Maybe it's only beautiful for people over a certain age. Or maybe it's beautiful for everyone other than some- body's daughter.

But she's still forging ahead. "You open yourself up to so much," she says. "I'm not just talking about preg- nancy and disease, I'm talking about your heart. I'm

94 talking about people breaking it. It's wonderful and nat- ural," she says. "But only with people you can trust."

She can't tell me how you know who you can trust. "What, do they have neon signs on their foreheads or something?"

She looks depressed and defeated, and I feel bad. She's trying to help and I won't let her. Why can't I let her? "This is why the pastors at church say it's smart to wait," she says.

As far as I can tell, the pastors at the church like to talk about everything but sex, except to tell us to "save ourselves for our husbands and wives." Both pastors are at least sixty years old. Who says they can even remem- ber sex? And besides, me and my mom both know how I came to be. An unplanned little bomb that blew up in my parents' senior year of college. I try not to sound pissed when I say, "Is that what you think?"

She's been wandering around the kitchen, shifting things--the fork here, the tub of butter there--but not really putting anything away. She gives up and sits back down at the table. "I think it's best to wait as long as you can. Until you find someone you love."

"So you waited for Dad," I say.

My mother looks extremely uncomfortable, as if she's suddenly been stricken with intestinal cramps. "This is not about me. I'm just one person."

Whoa. "You didn't wait?"

95 "What I did or didn't do is not the point," she tells me. "Every person is unique." She looks down at the table and brushes some crumbs into her palm.

Now that we're talking, I realize that I don't want all the sordid details, that I really don't want to know who my mom was with and when. I mean, yuck. Then I real- ize that it's probably how she's thinking of me--my daughter, sex, yuck. For something that's supposed to be all God-given and Song of Solomon and comfort-me- with-apples fabulous, it feels about as beautiful as drink- ing from a toilet bowl. At least that's what it feels like afterward, when someone's taken a picture of you and decorated the world with it and your mom is about to drag you off to the clinic for tests.

I notice that she's not asked me exactly the kinds of "sexual activities" I've participated in, whether or not I'm still a virgin. She doesn't want to know, either. I guess if I could do this one thing, I could do almost any- thing.

She's right.

"You think I'm a slut."

Her head whips up. "No, I do not think you're a slut. I absolutely do not think that. And neither does your father. How could we? We love you. And nothing has changed that. Nothing will ever ever change that."

"I feel like a slut," I say. "I didn't before. But I do now."

96 "Oh, honey," she says, and grabs my hands. She squeezes so hard that my knuckles go white.

Talking about sex totally wrings my mother out; she goes to bed at about eight thirty. I'm so tense and be- freaked that I have a hard time getting into my home- work, but when I do, it's like I disappear for a while, let all the facts and figures scour my brain, scrub it clean and light. Cat Stevens curls up in my lap as I read, purring so hard that I feel the vibrations in my fingertips.

Hours have gone by before I look at the clock again. After midnight, I put the books away and sit at my com- puter. I tool around my friends' blogs for a while, occa- sionally pushing Cat Stevens out of the way when he decides to do his happy-kitty parade march in front of the screen. Joelle has publicly threatened to murder the person who took the photograph of me and Luke and offered a "lunch date at the restaurant of your choice" to anyone who has any information on the "perpetra- tor," and then goes on to babble about starring in Hamlet, even though it hasn't been cast yet. On her blog, Ash dissects horribly depressing lyrics, which means that she has her favorite angryshriekypunky songs on a loop again. She's probably sitting in her bedroom, enveloped by a cloud of gray smoke that she's only halfheartedly trying to blow out the open window, cutting up whatever

97 photos of Jimmy she hasn't already cut up. Or maybe she's just cutting up the pieces into smaller pieces.

I don't have as many messages as before, and for some reason I'm able to read them. They're the same crap, but it's like they're talking about some other girl. Pam Markovitz or Cindy Terlizzi or someone. They don't even make me mad. I think of Ash, how she kept asking, Aren't you mad? Don't you want to know who did this? and wonder why I'm not mad, why I can't seem to get there for longer than two seconds, why I haven't been spending my time making lists of possible suspects, why the first thought I had after I found out about the picture was my history test. I should be mad. I should be something.

Someone has sent me another copy of my picture, and I can't help but stare at it. On my big computer screen, it's incredibly clear. I'm amazed that it's me. I'd never gone down on anyone before, never really wanted to before. The only reason I had any clue how to do it is because me and Ash had once Googled for instructions, which Ash then demonstrated on an ice pop. Back when she did goofy stuff like that, back when she and Jimmy were in love.

I touch my mouth, the way you touch your mouth after you've been kissed, the way I did when Luke first kissed me at Ash's party at the end of the summer. I can still taste the salt on my tongue, but I can't connect the

98 picture to me--all that striped blond hair shining; all of that pale, naked skin glowing in the dark. I look at Luke's hands, how they clutch the bedspread, like if he doesn't hang on tight, like if he doesn't sit as still as he can, something crazy-awful could happen. He could float up to the ceiling. He could fly out the window. He could separate into trillions of atoms and disperse into the air.

My eyes wander from the picture to the corner of my room where I've dumped the bag from Sally Beauty Supply, then back to the picture again. Bag, picture. Bag, picture.

Yeah, I should be mad. Or sad. Something. Anything. I jump up from my chair, grab the bag, and head to the bathroom.

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