Gravity Brings Me Down (5 page)

I was just bored, I think, or the forces were particularly strong that day. But the shrink decided I suffered from antisocial behaviour. He wanted to put me on some kind of pediatric antidepressant but Mom freaked and told him to forget it. And that was the end of that.

I know Mom wishes I were more like Peggy, all excited about things. She never says anything directly, but I can tell by the way she looks at me sometimes that her life
would be a whole lot easier if I were a little more “peace, love and happiness.” If I could explain to her about machines and invisible forces she might understand, but I can’t, so there’s no point even trying.

Sharon’s an ace about eating over. She pretends to be excited when Mom serves stuffed squash flowers, even though she’s a hard-core carnivore.

“What are you girls up to tonight?” Dad asks.

“I have a cheerleading practice at eight,” Peggy says.

She’s really going to see her boyfriend for a make-out session. I overheard them talking on the phone. But I won’t blow the whistle on her yet. I may need this information for blackmail leverage in the future.

“Do you need a ride?” Mom asks.

Peggy shakes her head.

“What time will you be home?”

“Probably late because we’re all going over to Josie’s afterward to talk about our strategy for the trials this summer.” She flashes her sweetest metallic smile, and Mom and Dad are totally duped.

“What about you two?” Dad asks me.

“We’re gonna snort coke and walk the streets.”

Sharon kicks me under the table. Mom just sighs.

Dad keeps eating. “Fine. Just make sure you’re home before midnight.”

We’re really going to a bush party on the outskirts of town. I almost never go to these things but I heard that Darin’ might go. Sharon has her eye on a guy from another high school named Gus. Neither of us has a licence and we definitely don’t want our parents to
drive us so we’ll have to walk. I just hope Darin’ actually shows.

“May I be excused?” Peggy asks.

She hasn’t even touched her squash flower. Dad reaches over and takes it from her plate, putting it on his own.

“More for me,” he says, smiling at Sharon.

Sharon smiles back, but she hasn’t touched her squash flower either.

After dinner, we primp for a bit then begin our trek to the hinterland for the bush party. Sharon chatters non-stop about Gus, telling me how gorgeous and amazing he is, etc., etc.

“I think Chocko lives out here somewhere,” she interrupts herself as we tramp down this lonely road.

I look around at the barren farmland. “There isn’t a house in sight. Do you even know where we’re going?”

Sharon’s leading because she got the coordinates from Gus. She points across a field. “It’s over this way, I think.”

We leave the road for the field and continuing hiking for what seems like an hour before reaching the edge of the woods. Sharon continues to chatter. I’m fed up already and we haven’t even got to the party yet. To make matters worse, it’s pitch-black in the woods and there are all these spooky, unidentifiable sounds. The ground is kind of spongy and wet, too. My boots are getting all dirty.

“If Darin’ isn’t there, I don’t want to stay,” I say.

“He’ll be there.”

“Well… if he isn’t, I don’t want to stick around.”

“God, Sioux, he’ll be there.”

A century later, we’re still bushwhacking through the forest, desperately trying to find this stupid party. Sharon’s complaining that her feet hurt. My hair is totally wrecked. I’m thinking we should just give up and go home when we hear music. We follow the sound, the music getting louder, mingled with the noise of laughter and glass breaking. Suddenly the woods open and we stumble into a clearing.

Everyone looks up. You’d think we barged in on a dinner party or something. There are about twenty people standing around a fire, most of them B-list stoners, and none of them Darin’. A couple of skanky girls I’ve never met gawk at us like they’re looking for a fight. But Gus is there, so Sharon is happy. They disappear immediately into the woods, leaving me alone to fend off the skanks and stoners. I’m thinking the situation couldn’t possibly get worse when I hear the distinct sound of a small motor coming through the trees. Please, God, let it not be Tod.

It is. He crashes into the clearing, his moped bucking to a stop in front of the fire. I can’t imagine how he managed to ride through the woods. In any case, I wish he hadn’t, because the stoners are all too happy to have someone to pick on. They surround Tod, pushing him and calling him names.

“Who invited you, Toad?”

“Who said you could come?”

They’re even worse than the stupid jocks, the way they’re shoving him around. And then something really horrible happens: they get me involved.

“Hey, Smith, your boyfriend’s here.”

I freeze, pretending I’ve never seen Tod in my life. I don’t want him to get pulverized but I’m pissed that he showed up in the first place. What was he thinking? It’s like he
wants
to get beat up or something.

The stoners take Tod’s helmet, tossing it back and forth. Whenever Tod tries to grab it, they shove him—hard. Until Tod is stupid enough to retaliate, and gets decked. He hits the ground, arms and legs flailing, gasping for air. I can’t stand it another second so I bolt, running into the woods. Leaving Tod at the mercy of those goons makes me want to hurl, but I don’t have the guts to stick up for him. Besides, I’ve worked hard to get where I am. If he’s too stupid to follow monkey rules, it’s not my problem.

I wander around, hoping to find the path back to civilization. But it’s so dark, I have no clue which direction to go. I’m actually scared. Then it starts pouring rain, and within seconds I’m soaked to the bone and shivering. I pull out my cell to call Sharon but it’s dead. I knew I should have charged it before I left but Sharon said I could use hers. I could kill her right now! And Tod, too, just for showing up and forcing me to vacate—though I don’t know what I would have done by myself anyway with Sharon off making out in the woods. What kind of crummy friend ditches you the second you arrive at a party? I only went because I was hoping to see Darin’. Now I couldn’t go back if I wanted to because I’m totally lost.

For some reason, my desperate plight gets me thinking about Miss Marple. Maybe this is how she feels when she gets all confused. It’s an awful situation to be in, all scared and uncertain of what to do next. Mom and Dad
would have a conniption if they knew I was out here like this. I’m thinking I should just lie down and die when I stumble onto a road. I follow it, hoping it takes me somewhere … anywhere.

I walk for about an hour before I see a house at the end of a very long laneway. I’m so happy to see the lights are on, I swallow my pride and decide to ask if I can use the phone. I’ll call Dad and tell him to come pick me up. At this point, I don’t care if he grounds me for the rest of my life, I just want to get home.

Walking up the lane, I see several cars and motorcycles parked to one side. Led Zeppelin blasts from inside the house. Whoever lives here must be having a party. Suddenly I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to ask about using the phone. The whole set-up seems seriously wrong. I mean, anyone could be inside. I’ve seen
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.

I’m standing in the dark, considering my options, when Steve Ryan walks out of the house and sits on the stairs. I freeze, hoping he won’t see me. I’m wondering if he lives here when somebody grabs me around the waist. I jump, screaming at the top of my lungs.

It’s Biff.

“Hey, Steve! Looks like we caught a mouse.”

Steve looks totally shocked to see me.

Biff laughs drunkenly, shoving me toward the door.

“Come on, mouse, into the house!”

I have no choice but to let him push me along. Inside, the music blares. Beer bottles litter the floor. The house is a total pigsty. There’s a bunch of jocks sitting around the table playing cards. They don’t even look up when I walk in. To my abject horror, Chocko, my philosophy teacher, is at the head of the pack. I’m so stunned, so completely freaked out, that all I can do is stand there. Of all the houses in the world, I have to find his. So I guess all the rumours about him are true. I glance around the room. There are no other girls and I’m thinking it’s not a good idea to be here. All at once, the gravity machine lurches into high gear.

“Have a beer,” Chocko says to his cards.

Biff twists the cap off a bottle and tosses it at me. I don’t even try to catch it. The bottle explodes at my feet in a shower of foam and broken glass. Steve looks at me apologetically. But Biff thinks it’s hilarious. He points and howls at the broken bottle as he slings one arm around Steve and drags him to his seat. Chocko stares off to one side as though he’s pondering very deep thoughts.

“I wanna ask you something,” he says, to the air over his shoulder. “Have you ever heard the sound of one hand clapping?”

Biff lifts his cheek and rips one. The jocks burst out laughing. I take the opportunity to slip out of the kitchen and look for a phone so I can call my dad.

The whole house suffers from major creep factor. It’s dark and dingy like something from a horror film. I can hardly breathe, the gravitation is so heavy. I move upstairs, hoping to find a phone, but find a bizarre room instead, tucked away at the back, behind a small door. The room is totally empty, except the walls are completely covered in pictures of naked ladies. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures, meticulously, painstakingly cut from magazines and glued to every square centimetre of the room. So Chocko truly is a freak! And now I have proof.

I stare at the pictures in disbelief. The women smile back at me like we’re best friends. It makes me feel so strange. I mean, these women are someone’s sister or daughter or mother. They’re not doing anything particularly gross. Just the usual cheesecake kind of stuff. It’s kind of pathetic, really. Still, it’s totally bent that Chocko has them on his walls. I mean, who does he think he is, Stalin? I read once that Stalin covered walls in collages made from pictures he cut from magazines. It would be just like Chocko to copy something like that. I always knew he was a megalomaniac. But I doubt Stalin focused on naked women. God, I wish Sharon were here to see this. I’ll just have to tell her about it, because there’s no way I’m coming back.

Turning to leave, I find Biff blocking the doorway. He has the weirdest look on his face.

“So … what do you think?”

“… about what?”

He steps toward me. “You know.”

I really don’t know. And I’m not sure I want to. I consider the space between him and the door. As soon as he staggers toward me, I run. Taking the steps two at a time, I push past Steve Ryan halfway down the stairs, reach the front door and grab the handle. It’s locked. I panic, but somehow, my spidey sense kicks in and I’m able to open the door and burst outside. I fly down the laneway, the rain stinging as it hits my skin. I keep running until I’m sure Biff is nowhere in sight.

I start planning my funeral because I’m already dead as far as my dad is concerned. I’ll never make my midnight curfew so I may as well just accept my fate. Excuses would only insult Dad’s intelligence. I should be terrified to be on a dark lonely road by myself, but I’m so cold and wet I can’t even think about being scared.

To pass the time, I write my own eulogy in my head. I haven’t finished composing the first line when I see a beam of light shining faintly in the distance. For some reason, I convince myself it’s Biff, coming to get me. I’m so wigged, I run into the ditch to hide and end up twisting my ankle. Lying in a heap, totally drenched, I hear the distinct sound of a moped penetrating the rain.

Tod pulls up to the ditch and stops, engine idling. For the first time in my life, I’m truly glad to see him. As dark as it is, I can easily see his eye is black and swollen.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Oh my God, Tod.”

“Do you want a ride home?”

Limping to the moped, I straddle the seat. Tod hands me the extra helmet but I decline. There’s nothing to hold on to so I’m obligated to hold on to Tod. Refusing to put my arms around his waist, I perch my hands on his shoulders instead. This isn’t a good idea, because when he releases the clutch, the moped lurches forward and both of us nearly fly off the back. When we finally do get going, we never move faster than a crawl. I could walk home quicker, but I’m grateful for the ride so I just keep my mouth shut.

We sputter up to my house and I dismount as quickly as I can, given my condition.

“Please don’t tell
anyone
about this,” I say.

Tod waits as I hobble to the door. Dad is standing in the foyer. He starts interrogating me immediately.

“Was that Tod Cummings?”

I hold a finger up in warning as I limp past him and up the stairs.

I
wake up Sunday morning, my mind flip-flopping over the events of the night. The whole thing seems so unreal: Sharon running off with Gus, Tod getting beat up, Biff partying with Chocko, Chocko’s creepy house, Tod giving me a ride home. I decide then and there that everything I believe about the human race is true: we’re all doomed. And I’m no better than anyone else. I just stood there, letting Tod get beat up. I was so worried about what other people would say that all I could think about was myself. The whole nightmare loops over and over in my mind until I feel totally angry and confused and depressed. Then Miss Marple joins the party, ramping the levels even higher. It gets so crowded in my head, there’s no room for me any more. Not even Ozzy Osbourne can help me now. All I can do is lie there and let the forces take me under.

Morta jumps onto the bed. She rubs her face against mine, purring loudly. I’m wishing we could both just disappear when Dad bangs on my bedroom door.

“Hey, Dracula. Pick up the phone. It’s for you.”

I have a phone in my room but I turn off the ringer so I don’t have to hear it. I hate the ringing sound. It reminds me too much of school. I pick up the receiver. It’s Sharon.

“I’ve been calling your cell for hours.”

“I forgot to juice it.”

“What happened to you last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“You took off and left me.”

“You were with Gus.”

“Yeah, but I thought we were going home together.”

“Well… I didn’t want to stand around with a bunch of mutants while you played doctor in the bushes.”

“Darin’ didn’t show.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How did you get home?”

“Walked.”

“Oh … because I heard something about Tod …”

This is all I need. I attempt a diversionary tactic.

“Chocko has a weird room in his house.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Come on, Sue!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Come on, Sioux, tell me!”

“Tomorrow.”

I can’t believe Sharon heard “something” about Tod. My life goes from brutal to worse in two seconds flat. It’s so typical that everyone else is out having a good time while I’m in my room, plagued by morality demons.
Why should I concern myself with Tod or anyone else? What am I? The patron saint of losers? No one else seems to care. No one else wastes their time thinking about geeks and abandoned dogs and lonely old ladies who can’t find their way home. They’re too busy making out in the bushes, or pasting pictures of naked ladies on their walls. Why can’t I just say to hell with it and end it all? I know what The Bard would say …

I could kill Shakespeare right now.

Pushing my feet into my slippers, I shuffle to my desk. Maybe I’ll feel better if I do a little scribbling. I put on my inspiration and open my journal, wondering which of my many coloured pens I should use, when suddenly, I get an idea. I can write Miss Marple a letter. Writing is my favourite thing in the world to do anyway, so it won’t be too painful, I think. That way, I can help Miss Marple and offset the universal balance tilted by the likes of Chocko.

I dig through my desk drawers, searching for the fruity paper my flower-child aunt gave me one year for my birthday. It’s just the kind of thing old women would find nice, I think. I never liked that stationery when my aunt gave it to me, but I didn’t have the guts to throw it out.

Once I find the paper, I place a piece in front of me and write the date neatly in the top right-hand corner of the page. And that’s as far as I get. I have no idea what to say. This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought. I mean, what do you say to an old woman you barely know who’s mistaken you for her daughter?

I tap my pen against my bottom lip, the way Dad does when he’s thinking about something complicated. I’m not sure how to address Miss Marple. I don’t even know her real name.

Then I get a brainstorm. I’ll pretend I’m her daughter. She thinks I’m Marie anyway, so what harm would it do?

Writing in my best script, I employ plenty of swirls and whirls because I think that’s what she’d like. I have lots of experience writing this way from all the
thank-you notes Mom forced me to compose over the years for birthday presents and things like that.

I instantly change my mind about the word “Mother.” It sounds so formal. I think the real Marie would be more down-to-earth. Scratching it out, I start on a new piece of paper altogether.

I read the letter through and decide it’s fine. The flowered paper my aunt gave me has matching flowered envelopes so I use one for the letter. But as I’m sealing the envelope, I realize that I have no way of actually posting it because I don’t know Miss Marple’s real name or proper address. All I have is her apartment number. I tap my pen against my lips until I come up with a plan.

Monday morning, I skip class to stake out Miss Marple’s apartment. Entering through the glass doors, I scan the directory with the hope of discovering her true identity. But the directory is just a string of names and dial codes. There’s no way to tell which name goes with which apartment. I’m ready to give up when I see a man inside. He looks like Nintendo’s Super Mario with his moustache and hat. I think he must be the superintendent so I knock to get his attention. Mario peers suspiciously through the glass but doesn’t open the door, like he’s worried I’m going to rob the place or something. I’m five-foot-two, for God’s sake. I knock again.

“I need to deliver something to the woman in 1404.”

No response. It’s as if I’m speaking in tongues.

I hold up the envelope to show that I come in peace. “I don’t know her name.”

He shrugs and walks away. What a total jerk!

Then the mailman arrives. He looks like a refrigerator decorated with chains of keys. He opens the door to the building, but when I go to slip through, he closes it roughly in my face. There’s a bit of a struggle as I grab the handle and try to open the door with force, but the Refrigerator is too strong.

I press the envelope against the glass. “I just want to deliver a letter.”

“So do what normal people do and put a stamp on it.”

“But I don’t know the woman’s name. She lives in 1404.”

“Not my problem.”

What is with these creeps?

“Look, could you just help me out here? All I need is for you to put this in the woman’s mailbox.”

The guy squints at the envelope. “How do I know it’s not a letter-bomb or anthrax? These are dangerous times.”

I stare at him until he relents and opens the door. He snatches the envelope from my hand in case I bite.

“Could you just tell me her name?” I ask.

He closes the door in my face, leaving me standing there like a criminal. At least I don’t have to worry about the security in Miss Marple’s building.

It’s too late to catch morning classes so I decide to do some research for my CPP. I can’t escape seeing Chocko
today but at least I can enjoy my morning a little before dealing with him.

I light a Gauloise and walk to the end of the block to window-shop at the local funeral home. I’m fascinated by how much effort they put into their displays. They always feature their finest (read: expensive) coffins, carefully laid out. There’s one in particular they like to show off. It’s lined with blue satin, all pleated and padded. I don’t know why someone who needs a coffin would care about the pleats and padding but I guess it’s for the people left behind. As if the coffin you buy is somehow an indication of how much you loved someone. I find that quite bizarre. For those who aren’t interested in bells and whistles, I’ve seen sites on the Net that promise to send you off in a cheap pine box, Old West style. Personally, I want a coffin like the tin one filled with mints at the candy shop.

As I’m staring into the funeral parlour window, I catch a glimpse of Tod on his moped, reflected in the glass.

“Please, Tod,” I say, before he even stops.

“This is a surprise,” he says, like he had no idea I’d be here.

“Come on, Tod. You followed me.”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”