Lessons I Never Learned at Meadowbrook Academy (2 page)

My dad's old Chevy puttered along South Bittman Drive. Multiple pieces of grey duct tape held the dashboard together. I affectionately referred to the car as “Chipmunk” because it was small, brown, and had black racing stripes on each side. Chipmunk was my family's second car. We also had a red Ford station wagon that my dad primarily used to drive to his trucking dispatch.

It was still early, but already the sun felt warm through the window. September was one of those weird months when one day could be rainy and cold and another day could be hot and sticky. Today felt like the latter.

Anthony had on his favorite worn white T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt is paper-thin and has small holes forming around the neckline, but my brother refuses to get rid of it. He says the “chicks” dig it. Anthony is really very handsome—a strong Italian jaw, dark brown skin, and piercing blue eyes. He's also crazy obsessed about working out. With his high school graduation money, he bought one of those “all-in-one” gyms. My mother makes him keep it in the garage. His favorite thing is to make his shoulders and biceps really buff because apparently the “chicks” dig that as well.

Anthony glanced at the directions my mother had scribbled down on a McDonald's paper napkin. “Looks like we go four more blocks, take a right at the light, and we should be there.” He caught me biting my nails. “What are you so nervous about?”

I spit out a tiny piece of cuticle. “I just don't think this is fair. I mean, I don't know anyone at this freakin' place and Christine's at West Orange and she said Meadowbrook is horrible and snobby and I'll never fit in.”

“Christine is a stupid idiot. She doesn't know what she's talking about.” Anthony stopped at a red light. “Besides, you can make new friends.”

“I don't want new friends.” I slumped down in my seat and looked out the window. I could see a piece of the fence that surrounded the Essex County Public Reservoir. “Nobody's going to like me anyway.”

Anthony glanced over at me. The light turned green and we started to move. I could feel him wanting to say something, but what could he say? He knew I was right. I never had much luck at making friends. I was always the girl who ate lunch alone or sat with the teacher at the front of the bus during field trips. It was horrible. Even the geeks and nerds didn't want to be seen with me. Christine was the only person who ever gave me a chance.

I had been really fat, like obese, my entire life, and kids from elementary school would torture me on a daily basis. Then, between the summer of eighth and ninth grade, my mother put me on a diet, and I lost close to forty pounds and grew breasts. My doctor said it was also “latent puberty,” but my mother insisted it was her chicken cacciatore and prayers to St. Jude that did the trick.

I'm not going to lie; the beginning of freshman year at West Orange was horrible. I was alone just like in middle school, except the building was bigger. And then it was at the painfully boring homecoming dance, which my mother forced me to attend, where I met Christine for the first time. I was sitting by myself, and this girl with short black hair, torn jeans, tons of ear piercings, and a tight red tank top came up to me.

“You're that fat girl, right?” she said.

I was so uncomfortable I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.

“How'd you lose all the weight?”

I shrugged and said sarcastically, “Lipo.”

And to my surprise, Christine laughed, but she wasn't laughing at me; she was laughing because she thought I was funny. She stood there with her hands on her hips, streamers and balloons framing her body. Kids that I'd hated my entire life were effortlessly dancing behind her like they never called me
fat-ass
or
pig
or
loser
.

The DJ put on a new song and announced that “This one is for the ladies.” “You wanna smoke?” Christine asked me.

A perfect blonde girl in a strapless pink dress, who once poured peaches on my head in front of the entire seventh grade, danced past with her perfect blond boyfriend.

Two minutes later, I was out in the parking lot, and Christine was teaching me how to inhale.

Since that night, we were inseparable. School became less miserable, and when we would walk down the halls together, I felt invincible instead of feeling invisible. I'll admit, for some reason all that hurt from being picked on turned into anger with Christine by my side.

I stopped doing homework, and my grades fell from straight A's to C's and D's. I wouldn't tell my parents where I was, and then I purposely came home after my curfew. And if anyone told me not to do something, I would do it just to piss them off.

I started getting into fights with other girls at school, and I wound up giving this one girl a bloody nose. When the principal asked me to explain my actions, I said, “Shit happens,” which got me suspended for two weeks. The truth was I
didn't
know why I had hit that girl specifically. I guess when enough people make fun of you, after a while all their laughter just sounds the same.

Christine would still call me names, like
Ricotta-Ass
and
Whale-Butt
, but she was just joking. Even though this would hurt my feelings sometimes, I never said anything about it because she was my friend. And I was too afraid to lose her.

Anthony reached over and turned the radio on. Thick patches of static poured out of the speakers. He fiddled with the tuner, but the sound got worse. “Shit, I guess it's busted again,” he mumbled as he turned it off.

So we sat in silence and passed through two more traffic lights.

Then Anthony reached over and gestured out the window off to my right. “There it is.”

I had passed by Meadowbrook before, but never paid it much attention.

Anthony turned right and we entered through a black wrought iron gate, passing by a grey marble plaque that read:
Meadowbrook Academy Established 1904
. We slowly drove up the long, tree-lined, gravel driveway. I could hear the tiny rocks clinking off the metal bumper of our car. The school was red brick with a sharp white trim. A tall black steeple poked out the roof. There were three sets of stone steps leading up to double glass doors, trimmed in gold. In front of the steps, a half-moon-shaped lawn was adorned with a gigantic pedestal marble fountain. Water abundantly spilled over the tier edges.

Kids were everywhere, hanging out on the steps, lying on the grass, and running around the fountain. There were other kids hanging out in clusters, listening to iPods and rapidly text messaging on their cell phones. Christine owned a Blackberry, which apparently her mother stole, but I didn't own anything even close to something like this. My family still had a wall-mounted phone in the kitchen and basic cable in the basement. It's embarrassing to feel like you're not good enough to have the things other people have.

As we inched up the driveway, I looked over at five identical blonde girls sitting Indian style on the lawn in front of the fountain. They were all smiling and laughing and chewing gum. A couple of boys purposely threw a football at them. One of the girls, in a fit of giggles, grabbed the ball and threw it in the water.

I would never fit in here.

Christine was right.

I scanned the crowds to see what everyone was wearing. My mother had sworn on the Virgin Mary that the dress code was white, button-down, collared shirts and dress pants. Sure enough, kids were wearing everything
but
white, button-down, collared shirts and dress pants. Girls had on pretty, flowing dresses with fancy heels, and boys were wearing sports jackets and khakis. My mother had sold me out for a sale at Kmart.

Anthony parked right in front of the fountain behind a shiny white Meadowbrook school bus. Smoke billowed out from under our car and made a futt-futt-futtering noise. Practically everyone on the half-moon lawn looked over at us.

Staring at the school in awe, Anthony said, “This is unreal.” He craned his neck to get a better look. “It's like a picture in a magazine.”

I threw my face into my hands. “Please just park somewhere else, would you? Or drive around again.” I took off my seatbelt and hunched down in my seat, right below the window. “Anthony, move!”

But he didn't. He just sat there.

“What is wrong with you?” I snapped.

“Nothing is wrong with me.” My brother was getting angrier with each word. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Anthony rarely took this kind of tone with me. “Excuse me?” I said, finally realizing he was mad.

“Look at this place; it's absolutely amazing and you're crying about West Orange High and loser Christine—”

“Stop saying Christine is a loser! You and mom both; you don't know her!”

“She is a loser, Roberta, and that's all you're going to be if you don't stop your shit!” Anthony reached over and turned the ignition off. The car sounded like a dying moose. “Don't you think I would have liked to come to school here? I love you, but God, you can be so selfish sometimes.”

I slowly sat back up in my seat. I hadn't even thought about Anthony's feelings. I was too busy being consumed by my own. My chest filled with shame.

Anthony grabbed the paper McDonald's napkin and shredded it. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you.”

I was biting my bottom lip, trying desperately not to cry.

“But you're my little sister, and I'm not gonna watch you screw up your life.” Anthony threw the napkin, and its pieces slid down the dashboard. “You know, Dad picked up three extra routes on his drive to make enough money to send you here. That's why he's never home anymore. He's driving a goddamn truck fourteen hours a day, six days a week just to send you here.”

My heart collapsed into my stomach. My skin got hot. My throat started to close up. And I could feel the tears pressing against my eyeballs. “Why is Daddy doing that?” My voice cracked.

“Come on, Roberta, where should I start? You're smoking, drinking, hanging out with older guys—who, if I ever get my hands on, I will beat the crap out of—and just doing shit you shouldn't be doing.”

“I'm
not
drinking—”

“Really? 'Cause the beer cans I found shoved in the garbage can out back sure as hell weren't mine.”

I turned to look out the window. He was right, about all of it. I felt like I was going to be sick. “Does Mom know? About the beer?”

“No.”

“I didn't even like it.”

“I'm not going to say anything.” Anthony ran his hand through his hair. “Trust me, I've done worse.”

I rubbed my eyes and let out a groan. “I feel terrible.”

“Well, don't. That's not why I told you.” Anthony laughed a little. “Actually, that is why I told you. Listen, Roberta, you've got a chance to graduate high school and go to college and do something great with your life. I don't want you working at Gino's Pizzeria and going to Essex Community like me. Got it?”

I looked at Meadowbrook through Chipmunk's window. Its front doors trimmed in gold. I had never told anyone this, but there was a part of me that did secretly dream of doing something majorly important, like becoming a doctor who delivers babies or a scientist that calculates when devastating storms are coming so that people can get to safety in time. But dreaming that way always made me feel guilty, like I was trying to have something that belonged to someone else.

I turned back toward Anthony with my “desperate puppy dog eyes,” as he liked to call them.

“Ahhh, come on now. Not the eyes
.
”
He squeezed that place on either side of my knee that made me laugh. “It's going to be okay, Birdie.”

Birdie was Anthony's nickname for me since I was four and he won me a whistle that sounded like a chirping bird from the Point Pleasant Beach boardwalk. I loved it when he called me Birdie. It made me feel safe.

Anthony squeezed my knee again and jokingly punched my shoulder. “Besides, you know I'll pummel anyone that even
looks at you the wrong way. Now go make friends with some really hot girls who you can introduce me to.” He popped his bicep a few times in front of my face.

“Ewww, gross,” I said and pushed his arm away.

“Chipmunk and I will be here at two forty-five on the dot to pick you up, and I promise I'll park further down the driveway.”

A girl with perfect summer blonde highlights in a green dress ran past the front of our car. The sun bounced off a diamond tennis bracelet she was wearing on her right wrist. I winced a little.

“Just try,” Anthony said. “The stuff that people have is just stuff. It doesn't make them any better or worse. It just makes them have more stuff, you know?”

I nodded, but it didn't make me feel any better. “I still don't want to go.”

“I know,” Anthony said.

“But I have to, right?”

“Yes.”

I pulled the lock open. “You promise you won't tell Mom about the beer?”

“I promise,” he said.

I opened the door, but didn't get out. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Does this look red?” I pointed to my mouth. “I plucked the hairs above my upper lip this morning, and I think I made it worse.”

He genuinely looked. “No, looks good to me.”

I took a deep breath and got out of the car, but before I shut the door, I leaned back down. “Anthony?”

“Yes, Roberta?”

“I want you to know, I would have worked extra shifts at The Cone Zone to send you to a high school like this. I want you to know, I would have.”

His eyes flickered down for a moment before he looked back up. “Thanks, Birdie. That means a lot.”

With my head tucked down, I quickly walked across the lawn, past the fountain, toward the front steps. The air smelled sweet of flowers and expensive perfume. I couldn't help but feel nauseous.