Posted in Random, Writing

Me and Mags, Episode 2: Your Skeleton is Showing

[If you you missed Episode 1 of Me and Mags click here to read it first!]

*

The trick that launched me into my year of popularity was the secret of the Second Day Outfit, and I learned it from my little brother of all people. Justin was in sixth grade when I was in eighth, the last time we’d been at the same school. On the second day, when we were walking home from the bus, he said, “Girls are so weird.” This was not an unusual statement from him, so I ignored it, but after a moment, he elaborated. “On the first day of school, they all wear something new and trendy or expensive looking, as if they’re a whole new person. But no one ever cares because they’re wearing something new and shiny too. Then on the second day, everybody goes back to what they’ve always worn anyway. It’s so dumb.”

I’d looked down at my Forever 21 t-shirt and black leggings—new because I’d outgrown my old clothes since last year, but, as Justin pointed out, also the same as what I’d always worn. My hair was in a messy bun instead of down and straightened with care. I hadn’t even put on earrings, whereas the day before I’d borrowed one of Mom’s Kendra Scott necklaces and ducked into the bathroom during each passing period to reapply my lip gloss.

“Also,” Justin said, “girls giggle too much.” He started imitating the high-pitched laughter of the girls in his class, and I thumped him on the back of the head.

I didn’t forget Justin’s observation, though, and began making plans for ninth grade. By the time I started high school, I had outfits picked out for the first two weeks.

It worked. People noticed. Soon I was the one deciding where we sat in the cafeteria, and I had my choice of partners for group projects. Friends asked if I was going to a party before they decided if they were. Suddenly, finally, I was popular.

Until April, when everything happened and life blew up around me. I couldn’t tell you what I wore the last two months of school or if I even went.

My second day of tenth grade at Temperance High School wasn’t the real second day. Everyone else had been in school for a few weeks already. I stared at my closet, considering. I picked up a striped romper that I knew looked great on me. It made my legs look long, and the v-neck showed just the right amount of skin. I held it up in front of me, then put it back in the closet. Being popular suddenly seemed like a lot of trouble. I pulled on black athletic shorts and a long-sleeved teal t-shirt with a trendy logo on the pocket, and put my hair in a bun. But when I turned to face the mirror, I didn’t see myself. I saw a clone. Just like my old school, this was what all the girls at Temperance wore. It was the best way to blend in and be anonymous, but was that what I really wanted?

“Hadley!” Mom yelled. “Are you ready? The bus will be here soon!”

“Just a minute!”

I took the clothes off and stood in front of the mirror in my underwear, thinking. Not every girl at school wore the shorts + trendy tee uniform. I thought of Mags and a smile pulled at my lips. She’d been dressed in a faded green t-shirt, a long gray skirt tied at the waist with a shoelace, and black combat boots. I didn’t have anything that “alternative” in my closet and wouldn’t have worn it if I did. Still…

“Hadley!”

“Coming!”

I closed my eyes and thought about what I wanted to feel on my body. Then I pulled on a faded pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. Not a fashionable hole, a real one, made from absentmindedly picking at the fibers with my fingernail while watching TV. I threw on a soft purple t-shirt that said “don’t flatter me” across the front, slipped my feet into a pair of sneakers, and grabbed a flannel for my cold classes.

Mom was about to shout my name again when I hurried past her, picking up my backpack and lunch. She looked at my clothes and her forehead creased, but then she smiled and told me to have a good day. On my way out the door, she said, “That flannel used to be your dad’s,” but I pretended I didn’t hear her.

I was sitting on the floor in the hallway by the elevator, waiting for the bell to ring. Groups of students were standing or sitting around in similarly-dressed clumps, talking or looking at their phones for a few last precious moments before putting them in their lockers for the rest of the day. (Temperance’s phone policy was no-nonsense from first bell to last.) I saw Vik, who I remembered from English and Biology. He was a head taller than anyone else in his group—mostly girls, including loud, complaining Shay. He stretched his neck left and right, nodding at whatever Shay was saying but not appearing to really listen. She swayed back and forth in front of him, trying to make eye contact, but he either didn’t notice or was very good at pretending not to. He had the air of someone devouring a delicious lunch, bite by slow bite, never once looking at the drooling dog at his feet. The image made the corner of my mouth turn up.

The elevator doors opened and a boy in a motorized wheelchair began exiting. But his chair only made it halfway out before the wheel got stuck. He motored forward, then back, then forward, then back, moving barely an inch each time.

A few students chuckled. Most paid no attention. Then the elevator doors tried to close even though the boy was still in the way. They collided with his chair, wobbling him, then retreated again. More laughs erupted, bouncing between cliques like a pinball. They came from nowhere and everywhere, from averted gazes and closed-lipped snorts, the kind of cruel amusement that disappears the moment you try to spot it. I hated them for it and hated my former self for being guilty of it and hated my current self most of all for not doing anything about it. I willed my body to move but felt rooted in place as if I too was stuck.

Then Vik appeared. He stepped gracefully into the elevator and pushed the boy’s chair over the impediment. Bump-bump. Without saying a word, he turned the boy in a quick circle before pushing him through the hall, causing groups of shocked and annoyed students to jump out of the way. A moment later Vik reappeared and joined his trendily-dressed peer group again. Shay bobbed in front of him, vying for his attention, and one guy tried to give him a high-five, but Vik ignored them both. He just put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gazed over the heads of the crowd. When his eyes landed on me, he gave me a small smile. My heart went bump-bump.

When I arrived at Mags’ table for lunch, a teacher was interrogating my new friend. Standing, arms crossed, in heels that elevated her just above five feet, the woman fired questions at Mags, who answered succinctly. I hovered nearby, balancing my sandwich, sparkling water, and banana, and waited.

“Ms. DeVille, you know we have a no-tolerance cell phone policy.”

“I do.”

“Cell phones are not allowed in the classroom.”

“That’s true.”

“How do you explain what happened last period?”

“Shay Bentley broke the cell phone policy. This was revealed when her phone rang during class. You then confiscated Shay’s phone, which led to Shay calling you an unkind name.”

The teacher closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. “Could you please explain why Shay’s phone showed that the call was coming from you?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t explain that.”

“Did you have a cell phone in my classroom?”

“No. You know this. You searched my belongings.”

“Why did Shay’s phone show that you were calling her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Mercury is in retrograde. That can wreak havoc with technology.”

The woman’s eyes were open again, but she looked at the ceiling (or possibly to the heavens) rather than at Mags. Through clenched teeth, she said, “No cell phones in class, Ms. DeVille.”

Mags said, “Yes, ma’am,” and the teacher left, her heels clopping an angry rhythm across the tile.

“What was that about?” I asked as I slid into the seat I hoped was still mine.

“Just a miscalculation. Could we talk about something else?” Mags said. Despite her calm confidence in front of the teacher, she now looked peeved.

“Sure,” I said, and spent the next twenty minutes listening to the intricate details of Mags’ new beet garden.

*

During 8th period biology, we were all herded to the lecture hall for school photos. Apparently they’d been taken earlier in the year, but the computer hadn’t saved the images, so they had to be redone. On the way, I paused next to the trophy case and looked at my reflection in the glass—at my purple tee and sloppy flannel. So this was how my sophomore year would be immortalized. I took my hair out of its ponytail and combed my fingers through it. Mags was in front of me in line. One of her auburn curls was sticking out the side of her head like a horn, but she didn’t even glance at her reflection. She also had a small round Band-Aid on her cheek.

“Um,” I pointed to the Band-Aid, “do you want to take that off?”

“No,” Mags said, blushing slightly. “What’s beneath it does not deserve to be in a photo.”

“Ah,” I said, pretending that wasn’t an odd way to speak about a pimple.

I felt someone step in line behind me and turned to see Vik leaning against the display case.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” Vik said.

“Hmm,” Mags said and pulled her journal out of her pocket and made a note in it.

The line progressed slowly.

When Mags’ turn came, she sat down on the small gray stool, feet together, back straight, her gold-brown eyes staring at the camera unblinking, her lips a thin, tight line.

“Smile!” said the cheery photographer.

Mags didn’t move.

“Smile!” she repeated.

“I am smiling,” Mags said.

“Smile bigger!” the photographer chirped.

“Just take the picture,” Mags said.

“Smile with your teeth!” the photographer insisted, and she flashed her own whitened smile as an example.

Mags narrowed her eyes. “You know teeth are just your skeleton poking through your skin, right?” she asked.

The photographer’s smile disappeared. She took the picture. Her voice wavered a little when she called, “Next!”

I was chuckling when I sat in front of the blue backdrop. The photographer didn’t have to tell me to smile. I let my skeleton shine.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Posted in Random, Writing

Me and Mags, Episode 1: My Friend the Witch

Nothing like starting a new school in a new town in the middle of September on a Wednesday. I leaned on the bus window and breathed through my mouth to escape the aroma of vinyl and exhaust, trying to memorize the route to school. It was no use. I’d be helplessly lost without GPS, so I prayed my phone would have enough service to guide me home if I decided to skip out early.

My vintage Jansport with the rainbow patch occupied the seat next to me. I gripped its strap protectively. Who needs a friend when you have a backpack that smells like your childhood? Charcoal burgers and chlorine. Cinnamon sticks and attic dust. Our new house didn’t have an attic. It didn’t even have a garage.

A tall guy with a baseball cap got on the bus. He looked like trouble. I opened my backpack and rummaged around inside like I lost something important—my home? my life? my sanity?—and hoped he’d walk on by. He did. When I looked up again, a girl was standing next to my seat. Short blond hair, pink hairclip, retro 80’s t-shirt. She had a cell phone in one hand and a yogurt in the other. We locked eyes, and I made a move to pull my backpack aside, offer her a seat, but then her gaze drifted to the back of the bus, and she said, “There you are!” in a relieved voice. Later, when I looked back, I saw her sitting alone looking at her phone.

IMG_20190722_120159840We were stopped at a red light when I heard, “Watch this!” I turned around and saw Baseball Cap with an apple in his hand. He was lowering one of the windows. Outside, a girl with crazy curly brown hair and a small round Band-Aid on her nose was walking down the sidewalk. She had a leather satchel slung across her body and wore a long skirt and black combat boots. She was reading a book as she walked. With no warning, Baseball Cap threw the apple at her. Before I could hold my breath and hope it didn’t hit her, she caught the apple one-handed, took a large bite, then hurled it back at the bus. It smashed to pieces on the side. The light turned green. The boys around Baseball Cap hooted and hollered. The girl never took her eyes off her book.

*

It turns out, navigating a new school isn’t as hard as you might think. Looking for the library? Tail someone with a lot of books. Need the restroom? Follow the smell of perfume and vapes. Trying to get to the gym? Just swim against the stream of kids carrying violin cases. Math is math no matter what color the fake wood desks are, and the art of evasion is consistent across time zones: don’t engage, don’t make eye contact, look bored.

I kept my head down through my morning classes and spoke as little as possible, observing my new classmates from a wall of body language that I hoped said, “Leave me alone.” In English, a girl argued with the teacher about her grade in front of the entire room, then muttered “Freaking Communist” as she stomped back to her desk. A guy with smooth tawny skin and dark curly hair whispered, “Calm down, Shay,” but she shot back, “Shut up, Vik” and sneered at him.

For the most part, life went on around me, and no one paid me much attention until lunch, when Operation: Avoidance came to a screeching halt.

I’d been expecting a cavernous room of long, prison-like tables where I could slip into a vacant seat and eat my chicken salad and Cheetos unnoticed. Instead, this school’s cafeteria looked more like a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon. Small tables of different sizes and shapes crowded into a space that wasn’t designed to accommodate them. Students filled most of the chairs and stools, while some lounged on the tile floor, picnic-style. Every table with an empty chair filled quickly as more students arrived, fist-bumping each other and sliding into seats they’d obviously claimed weeks ago.

Every table but one.

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At a small round table near the recycling bins sat the girl who caught Baseball Cap’s apple. Next to her were two empty chairs. I tightened my grip on my lunch bag and walked over. The girl was eating a bowl of noodles and reading a book, but she looked up when I approached. The Band-Aid on her nose was gone, but now there was one on her chin.

“Hi,” I said. “Is this seat taken?” I gestured to the chair on her left.

“Yes,” she said, “but the other one’s not. Care to join me?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I sat down in the vacant seat just as an empty Coke can went flying over the table. It hit the rim of one of the recycle bins, then bounced inside.

“Yes!” Baseball Cap high-fived a fellow cap-wearer, then smirked in our direction. “What happened, Maggot? Nick yourself shaving this morning?”

The girl turned a page in her book, then said, “Better a nick than a celery stick, Mr. Brand.”

He rolled his eyes. “Freak.” On his way back to his table, his foot slid out from under him. To avoid falling, he grabbed the shoulder of a girl seated nearby, spilling her Smart Water all over her and himself.

“What did he slip on?” the curly-haired girl asked.

“Huh?”

“What made him fall? Can you see?” She was standing up, craning her neck.

I squinted in the direction of the chaos. “It looks like a squished grape.”

The girl looked thoughtful. “Green or red?”

“Um… green.”

“Hmm.” She sat down and made a note in the book, which I realized now was actually a journal. Then she closed it and turned her gold-brown eyes on me. “I’m Magdalena,” she said. “People I like call me Mags.”

“Hi Mags,” I said. “I’m Hadley.”

I took my plastic container of chicken salad out of my lunch bag. Mags went back to slurping her noodles. No one ever sat down in the other seat.

IMG_20190722_225631647

A few minutes before lunch ended, Mags shoved her empty bowl into a pocket of her satchel and closed her journal. “You’re new,” she said.

“Yep.” I licked Cheeto dust from my fingers. “Got any advice for me?”

Mags’ eyes lit up. “Tons,” she said. “For starters, never confuse nightshade with wolfsbane. Also, avoid the girls bathroom outside the library. It’s haunted.”

“Noted,” I said. The bell rang.

*

I didn’t see Mags again until 8th period AP Biology. The teacher, Ms. Archer, gave a pop quiz. She said I could take it “just to see how you do.” My last school was obviously ahead of this one because the questions were easy. I breezed through them, then went back and marked two answers wrong on purpose. Pretending I was still working, I snuck peeks over my cardboard privacy screen, scanning the room. Everyone had their heads down, working, until I got to Mags. Over her privacy screen, her eyes were fixed on me. She raised her quiz paper, as if to study it closely. On the back, in large, loopy, capital letters, it read “LUNCH TOMORROW?” I gave a quick nod, then went back to pretending to work.

*

After school, I got utterly, helplessly lost. I couldn’t find my locker because I was upstairs when I was supposed to be downstairs, and then I accidentally exited out the back of the school, instead of the side where the buses pick up. By the time, I got to where I was supposed to be, bus #313 was gone. I collapsed on a bench, dug out my phone and opened my map app. I was still sitting there, trying to figure out which direction I was supposed to walk when Mags appeared before me.

“Not a bus rider?” she asked.

“Not today.” I showed her my phone. “Can you point me the right way? I have a terrible sense of direction.”

Mags peered at the screen without touching it. “That’s where you live?”

I nodded.

“That’s close to me. I’ll walk with you.”

Mags walked fast and talked faster. She covered everything from politics to plant species to the perils of popularity in the span of a block. I tried to keep up.

“The biggest problem with teenagers today,” she said as we rounded a corner, “is that they don’t think for themselves anymore. Bunch of guppies, all of them.”

“You mean sheep?”

She shook her head. “Sheep don’t eat each other.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Someday,” Mags said, “I’m going to turn this school into a fish tank. Can you imagine how awesome that will be? Standing outside, tapping on the glass, while all these wide-eyed mouth-breathers swim around in each other’s poop fighting for the crumbs we throw on top?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. “That does sound pretty awesome.”

When we got to my street, Mags pointed out my house and said, “Think you can make it from here?”

“Yeah, thanks. For everything—walking me home, letting me sit with you at lunch, the advice about wolfsbane.”

Mags tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. “Of course. After all, what are complete strangers for?”

*

“So, how was it?” Mom opened the pizza box and set down three plates.

Justin stuffed a slice in his mouth and gave a thumbs-up sign. Mom cracked open her sparkling water and gave me a sideways glance. “How about you? Did you talk to anyone?”

“It was ok,” I said. “I sat with a girl named Mags at lunch.”

Justin huffed, and a dot of tomato-sauce-spit flew out of his mouth. “Magdalena DeVille? She’s a witch.”

It didn’t bother me that after one day in a new town, my little brother already knew the ins and outs of not only his social circle but mine too. He’d always been plugged in to the gossip superhighway in a way I hadn’t, even at my most popular. I thought about what he’d said. Maybe Mags was a witch. I realized I didn’t care.

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s got some crazy idea about turning the high school into a fish tank.”

Mom and Justin froze, looking at me strangely. That’s when I heard it. That sound. That high, staccato sound that had been missing from my life for months.

I was laughing.

*

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Posted in Poetry

Book Title Poems From a Stormy Night

Last night, thunderstorms and a pot of evening coffee proved to be the perfect combination for pulling books off my shelves and making some more book title found poems. Here are a few of my latest creations:

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The Arrival

In the lake of the woods,
strange little girls
wait ’till Helen comes
out of darkness
(beautiful darkness)
the girl from the well
extending the shade,
inhaling the silence.

Old friend from far away,
time you let me in.

*

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Growing Pains

hard times,
brave new world–
the flag of childhood
catching fire

*

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Why the Dwarf Had to Be Shot

Miss Nelson is missing!
The walls around us red as blood,
the creeping shadow leaving a trace
a darker shade of magic.
Mortal coils fuel
smoke from this alter.
All that lives must die.

I am not a serial killer.

*

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Journaling the Apocalypse

Vampires in the lemon grove
howl the sound of water.

Snugglepot and Cuddlepie
speak of the devil.

Places left unfinished at the time of creation
linger

The sky is everywhere
when you are engulfed in flames.

*