On the Edge of Tomorrow, page 18
MY PARENTS NAMED me Laurel because they just liked the name. I was hoping for a better story, but with parents, especially my dad—who is never around— everything seems like a big mystery. Of course, this better story was found in an unlikely place—school. We are currently studying mythology in English, and we are told how the nymph, Daphne, was turned into a laurel tree by her dad, to save her from the pestering love of Apollo. Instead of this being a bad thing, it is a relief for Daphne. The laurel became, in legend, a plant of divine status. Which is why great thinkers, poets and athletes are crowned by a laurel wreath. In true Miss A fashion, she begins crowning us with goofy paper wreaths, pretending they are real laurel. I don’t know where she comes up with these silly ideas. I secretly enjoy stuff like this, even though all the other kids tend to think it’s lame.
Thankfully, everyone is so absorbed with their new crowns they never say a word about my name. I bet most of them don’t even know my name.
“You have a beautiful name,” Miss A says in a low voice as she hands me mine. She doesn’t make a big deal about it, and I appreciate that, wanting to be a tree myself.
Of course, Brad makes the connection, in a loud, clear voice. Apparently, he just realized my name. Hopefully, that solves his gender question for good. He gets up to go to the garbage can and passes me a note on the way back.
Just call me Apollo.
Again, I am blushing. I glance up to check on him. He is positively beaming.
I TAKE A walk each evening—rain, snow, wind, extreme heat, it doesn’t matter. Apparently my mother also liked to do this. My father once told me she called them walks and talks. She took her walks with him, or friends. I do the walk part alone—aside from my iPod—but always like to imagine I’m somehow talking to my mother in my head. Clearly, it’s not a satisfying conversation. Aside from that, it’s just good to think, be outside and get away from the icy house. I can only take so much of Geesy’s tapping fingernails and her overly ecstatic voice when my dad, or anyone else, calls on the telephone.
I wish I could avoid Brad’s house, but if I cut out the Smedley’s—yes, that’s his last name—I’d lose the whole loop-like nature of my walk. So, I take the risk, and for a while it works, no Brad.
But then it happens, and here I am, innocently walking, when I see his signature flash of redheaded movement, and I jump, pulling off my headphones.
“Psst!”
Psst? Who does that?
“Laurel, over here!”
I look over and see him peering out from behind his garage.
“Do you want to see something?”
“Whaaat?” God, this kid will not let up.
“I got an idea in English. A surprise for you.”
Why won’t this kid leave me alone?
“Come see.” Poof! He is gone. I keep walking and put my headphones back on, pretending like I never saw him. Come see, yeah right. I shake my head in disgust.
Before I can get past his house, the garage door starts to open, slow and loud, like a lion opening its lazy jaws.
Inside, it isn’t a garage at all; it is lacking all of the usual lawn mowers, ladders, tools, and of course cars that typically go into garages. Instead, there is a stage and a bunch of folding chairs. There are white Christmas lights above the stage and plastic tubs stacked around.
“What is this?”
“It’s a stage! My dad built it for me!”
“But what about your cars?”
“Yeah, but it’s cooler to have a theater, right? You can just put cars out in the driveway.” His hands are plastered on his skinny hips as his eyes excitedly dart around.
“Right,” I say, an annoyed, skeptical look spreads across my face.
It seems strangely true.
“What? Wait until you see this, Laurel!”
“See what?” What was his problem? Didn’t he get it? I don’t like him.
Before I know it, he reaches into a bin and pulls out…
“Puppets?” I cannot control my disdain.
“Yes!” He surveys the collection of men, women, children and even animal puppets strewn across the stage.
“Here.” He holds out a scary-looking female puppet. She has long blonde hair, bright blue unblinking eyes, and a red circle of rouge on each cheek.
“I don’t do puppets,” I say, taking a step back.
“Why?” It was a fair question. I just stare, looking forward.
“Have you ever tried?” he says, persisting.
I shake my head slowly. The sound of a lonely dog bark takes over the silence.
I should’ve said I needed to go, but I know no one is waiting for me, and I don’t have the energy to lie.
He holds out the female puppet. “C’mon, try it!” Not being able to resist, I step forward. Here we go, stage one of getting sucked into Brad’s weird orbit.
Brad’s mother pops out of nowhere and says, “Oh, good! Laurel’s here! I’ll get some tea!”
“Great, Mom!” I guess the whole family is on some kind of drug that makes them all happy and clueless. Must be a Smedley thing.
“Just hold your controls like this.” Brad shows me how to move the hands, mouth, and feet of my puppet. Soon, my puppet is flailing around in an explosive lack of coordination. It is harder than it looks, this puppet thing.
“Oh my God.” I start laughing. So does Brad. Mrs. Smedley comes out with a tray, presumably with tea, still smiling.
“Got it?” he asks, deftly moving his male puppet—who incidentally has red hair.
“I guess,” I say, trying to sound negative.
Brad makes his puppet dance, shaking its head. “Hey bro, nice poem!” He mimics our favorite bully!”
I flush but can’t help laughing.
“You laughed! I am getting somewhere!” he says, still in character, to which I laugh again—a strange giggle I never heard before, or haven’t heard for a long time. We stop for tea. The gingery liquid feels good sliding down my throat, and I can feel my frozen parts melt just a little.
“THAT WAS FUN last night,” Brad says, putting his tray down with a clatter at my table. Cheeseburger in a bun, tater tots, yogurt, pineapple chunks and chocolate milk. I try to play it cool, holding my book over my face, breathing in my rage brought on by the ambiguity of his statement. It sounds like we are close, too close. Suddenly, as if in direct response to my rage, Casey and company swoop in for some harassment.
“Oh! Look what we have here! Some new love! Who’d of thought it possible?”
I glare. Casey beams.
“Are you guys going out?” Taylor twists a long lock of her curly hair, always playing the dumb sidekick.
“Does that mean you’re gay, Brad? Seeing as though you’re pretty much dating a guy?”
I am not in the mood for this. It is all stupid Brad’s fault. If he weren’t harassing me, I’d be sitting alone enjoying my book. I stand, stack my school stuff on top of my tray and turn to leave.
As I walk away I hear Brad say calmly, “You are aware ladies, that questioning my sexual identity only means that you are unsure of your own?” Since my back is turned, I don’t know how they react to that, but I bet Casey’s eyebrow twitched. I smile slightly and just keep walking, leaving early without permission. Being a quiet, smart kid has its advantages. Teachers leave people like me alone.
I CAN’T FOCUS. I lay on my bed, literally fuming. I am listening to old Pearl Jam. My feet are sticking out, gray Converse still on. My hands, with bitten nails, are clenching and unclenching. I just want to be left alone. Just like dad does, just like Geesy for the most part. That’s what my life is— being alone. It works for me. Oreo struggles onto my bed and nuzzles my face. Animals always know when you need a hug. My mood is even too dark for the one living creature I allow into my orbit. I pull away, and with that physical gesture, pull myself up and off the bed. I walk straight out the door to the long corridor, down the white carpeted staircase, through the sparkling, sterile kitchen and out the front door. I know where I am going. I am going to let him have it.
I walk straight to his front door and bang my fist on the peeling red paint. It feels good to bypass the gold door knocker that looks like a dolphin. Nothing. I knock again. Still nothing. It is dark, and really cold. I bang on the door. Silence. At each knock I can feel my anger leaving, my resolve weakening. Then I hear my name.
“Laurel?” There he is, Mr. Sunshine 2016. He is wearing a blue kimono with stars all over it and jeans. The kimono is wrapped tightly around his twig-like body. Creepy.
“Hey, do you want to watch Star Wars? I’m in the mood.”
“No, Luke Skywalker. I don’t.”
“I think I’m more like Obi—”
“Just shut up, okay?” Brad’s smile fades. My shaggy hair falls in my eyes.
“Don’t you get it? I’m not and will never, ever be your friend. We’re not friends. What do I have to do so you’ll get it?” I shout. Brad just stares, his green eyes stuck on my face, his shock of red hair shooting off his thin face.
“I thought we could—”
“Well, stop thinking. That’s your problem. You have too many bright ideas. You should start picking up on some hints and start paying attention to things. Middle school isn’t about ideas—it’s like the opposite of ideas. It’s about surviving, playing along, keeping your head down, staying out of the way of the assholes.”
Brad shrugs. “That’s not me,” he says. He never ceases to amaze me.
“Well, it’s me,” I say, turning and storming back to my empty house, feeling slightly relieved, but even more alone.
HE TRIES TO ignore me, which I know is hard for Brad. During English, he makes a point of bee-lining for someone else, another outlier, for the rest of the week, leaving me to do the same. I don’t care. I can’t resist but take a peek at him across the room. Blowing me off is stressful for him. He is red-faced and flustered. Brad is such a mystery. Why does he even like me, anyway? He doesn’t bother me at lunch, either. I see him across the way, in the other alcove, reading his own book. Copycat.
Of course, he can’t resist some communication. I find strange things left in our mailbox, which can only come from him. It is like he is trying to make amends for his earlier gender questioning infraction. He leaves me things for women—PMS medicine, tea for women, LUNA bars. Geesy thinks they are for her, but I know they are from my strange ex-non-friend.
For the end of the mythology unit in English, the “big”—I put it in quotes because it wasn’t hard; it was just embarrassing—assignment is to take one of the myths we learned about and retell it, using modern language, props, references, etc. We can do it in groups or alone.
Since this is basically a joke assignment, I decide not to invest too much and agree to doing the Persephone/Demeter myth with Stephanie Destick and her gang of intense geeks. I am issued the role of Hades, of course, and am told to wear a suit and tie and carry a briefcase. It is fine, the script is well written and I know it would just be a short period of heckling by my enemies, who are busy being obsessed with their own skit, a Jersey Shore version of the Medusa story.
During rehearsals, Brad sits alone at his desk, drawing out pictures in little boxes, not looking up when Miss A tries to prod him into more social behavior. I pretend like I don’t see him. He is either doing something weird or just blowing it off all together. That’s how he rolls.
The day of the skits, I put on my business suit and receive the usual laughter and cajoling from the usual people. It is so expected and unoriginal that it almost bores me. Our skit is fine; my geek compatriots go off into their own geek revelry, laughing hysterically over jokes they ad lib that no one understands but them. The audience sits and stares, inserting the occasional eyeroll and snicker, just trying to get through the discomfort.
Of course, when Casey and her crew arrive on stage, the boys are dressed as Medusa’s sisters, wearing fake boobs and wigs. This act of cross-dressing is, of course, viewed as hilarious and cool. I note the hypocrisy and watch their skit.
It’s the usual pushing of the envelope, seeing how far they can go with Miss A—today it’s empty beer cans in their skit. It is really pleasant for me to watch Casey play Medusa. She thinks it’s cool because she is wooed by Poseidon, but so fitting because Medusa is cursed at the end and turns everyone she looks at to stone. As they perform, Casey goes from being just an ugly person inside to an ugly person on the outside, and the room starts to seem far away. I imagine myself floating above, watching from a distance. My outsider-status seems to have leached into my bloodstream, and I start to feel a bit like stone myself.
I snap back to reality when it is finally Brad’s turn. When Miss A gives him the thumbs up to go, he pops out the door and retrieves his mother, who is wearing a visitor’s pass.
Taylor giggles. “Oh, lordy, he’s got his mommy with him.”
A hush of laughter and critical whispers wafts through the room.
Mrs. Smedley, like Brad, seems totally oblivious. She begins to help Brad set up a small stage using a cardboard box, which is colored and decorated to form a forest, green and leafy. It has one main tree in the center and an oval cut through the back. I feel a strange foreboding overtake my senses.
Mrs. S sticks her face in the oval, so it appears the tree has a human face. She speaks, “I am a laurel tree, but I used to be Daphne!” The room erupts in laughter. My face turns bright red. I can feel Casey and company’s eyes on me, charting my reaction.
“My leaves are a sign of status, beauty and strength. I used to be a goddess of the river. The god Apollo loved me with all his heart. He loved my blue eyes, my thoughtful waves, but Cupid’s bow hardened my heart and I prayed to be a tree. So that is what I am, a beautiful, powerful but loveless tree.”
Her face disappears, she’s gone. A panel of wood replaces the oval cutout. A red-haired puppet in jeans and a tee shirt appears on the small cardboard stage. Mrs. S exchanges smiles with Miss A, looks at me, then steps out of the classroom.
Brad is on his own, with his Brad-like doll on strings. He stands behind the stage, moving the puppet back and forth. The puppet looks up. “This is what got me into trouble in the first place,” he says, pretending to write a letter in his head. “Let’s see. I will write an email, but what should I say. Let me think. Dear Daphne, do you want to come over to watch Star Wars? Dear Daphne, do you want to have a cup of tea? Man! Where did she go? What did I do to lose her? How do I get her back?” The puppet sits down and leans against the laurel tree. “Mmm. This feels comfy. I’ll just stay here for a while and wait. Something about this tree makes me feel better, like everything is going to be okay.” He pauses. The room is silent. I feel choked up.
Suddenly, Casey blurts out, “Aww! So sweet!”
“Casey, get out of here.” Miss A, tearing up herself, stands and opens the door. She hands Casey a referral on her way out. Ah, victory.
The skit ends. Class ends. The day ends. Brad doesn’t come to my table at lunch. He isn’t even at lunch.
That night I write in my journal.
Who cares why Brad likes me? He does, or he did. He wants to be my friend. He is a cool kid, in a weird way. He doesn’t care what people think. I act like I don’t care, but I really do. Brad totally outed me on that one. I touch my hair. What did Brad see in me? He didn’t even know I was a girl at first. Maybe he just hoped I was a girl. Maybe he doesn’t care what I am; maybe he just wanted to know what pronoun to use. I am such a bitch. As bad as Casey. This is what is known as a “shame spiral.” What would Mom say?
I sigh, pushing my long bangs behind my ear, revealing my splotched face.
I get up and put on my hoodie. I know where I am going. I don’t know what I will say, but I’ll think of something when I get there.
I DRIVE UP to the crowded airport terminal, extinguish what’s left of my joint with my thumb and forefinger, and flick it out of the window. I suppose it would’ve gone out on its own, but there’s something cool and tough about feeling the burn and being able to take it and not flinch. I guess I could’ve saved it for later, but I’ve never understood that process, plus Tate says that’s how you get caught, leaving evidence lying around. For some reason, I still can’t shake the guilt when I partake. Partake, I laugh at the word. But I just can’t do this, not without a buzz.
The two-week-old air freshener dangles from the rearview mirror reminding me of something else I’m doing illegal. Rules. Rules. Rules. Dad never taught me that one. But he did go on and on about school and its importance, even though he was a self-admitted underachiever when he was in high school. The things you learn in high school. The things you learn in practical law. I still don’t take the air freshener down even though it won’t hide that skunky smell. I scrunch my nose.
I grab the can of aerosol potpourri from under my seat and give it a few sprays. This is my signature move whenever I drive my mother around, not sure it actually works. For added measure, I thumb a Listerine breath strip from the tiny dispenser buried in my cupholder between the seats. I place it on my tongue. Ah, refreshing.
I’ve never met my grandfather, only have a vague idea of what he looks like from the pictures my parents showed me a long time ago, and I’m sure he doesn’t look like that anymore. The pictures were ancient, some even black and white. I didn’t bother trying to get a look at any of those old pics today, figured I’d play a game with myself when I got here and see if I can spot him before he spots me.
The sign I made sits in the passenger seat as if it’s keeping the spot warm on this cold autumn day. I trace the letters on the sign that reads:
I look for a place to park, something I’m pretty good at. It’s all about timing. There’s one. I eject the CD of Eminem from the player and then pull up to the curb. I open my glove compartment and grab the stack of CDs that populate it. The Recordings of Dom Pacifico sits on top, a tired joke by my girlfriend, Tanya. She thinks I should be proud of my first and only recording, courtesy of my dad when I was twelve. Ha ha!
