Grief Girl (18 page)

They probably think Megan and I are the church dorks!

Neither of us has ever kissed anyone. We're completely abnormal for our age. Dead parents and runaway mothers tend to take your mind off such trivial matters. But all of a sudden it doesn't feel trivial. It's time for action.

We decide to practice on each other. It's a bit crazy and lesbian-like, but what other choice do we have? I'm sitting on Megan's blue carpet, my eyes are closed, and I'm heading toward her—that's if she hasn't chickened out and snuck out of the room. I peek. She's still there.

She peeks too. And then we start laughing. We can't stop.

So much for practicing.

         

I'm celebrating my birthday this year with a party. I still think birthdays are meaningless without parents, but maybe it's time to try and see how it feels. You don't turn sixteen every day, I guess.

It's a hot, windless Saturday night and all my friends from church are in the backyard, which is clean for once. The dog is at a friend of Chris's.

Apart from Megan, no one from school is here. I'm going to the movies and lunch tomorrow with Julie and my other friends because I know they would feel uncomfortable here and I'd be embarrassed. Julie hates the whole Christian thing but doesn't give me a hard time about it.

So it's just church friends for tonight. Some are huddled around a fire, some are playing guitars and singing, some are dangling their feet in the pool, and others are inside listening to music.

Chris is manning the barbecue with some of his mates, and Tracy is in the kitchen with a couple of her friends drinking champagne, watching us and laughing. It's great to see her laugh even if it is at me. That's what big sisters do, right? Laugh at their dorky little sisters.

No one's swimming, even though the pool's sparkling clean. Chris spent days getting it ready for tonight. I walk around with Trent holding my hand. He's so cute. I love showing him off to people.

“Hi, everyone.” I smile at the group huddled in a circle. They're engrossed in a serious spiritual discussion.

“Happy birthday, Erin,” they say, not quite in unison, before going back to their conversation.

I sit down with Trent on my lap and try to join in, but it's clear I'm not going to be able to contribute much. Megan's standing by the pool talking to one of the cuter boys, and I don't want to interrupt them. Trent runs off to Chris and the barbecue.

I'm starting to feel out of place at my own party. Was this just an excuse for people to come to a big gathering and eat free sausages? And to top it all off, Mark Bean is sitting in the shadows strumming his guitar and staring at me. Chris said I had to invite him—I couldn't invite everyone from church except him.

Thank goodness Julie isn't here. She'd be mortified, with all the religious singing and stuff.

I have to get away from Mark.

“Hi, everyone!” I yell over the music as I walk through the sliding glass door into the house.

“Hi, Erin,” a boy named Martin says, heading my way. I'm not really into Martin, but lately he's been really nice. Plus he's the only person at my party really talking to me.

“Hey, birthday girl, let's sit down,” he says. “You have a lot of great albums.”

“Thanks,” I say as we sit on Mum's brown floral sofa.

He puts his arm around me, which doesn't feel right, but I just go with it. I wish I could see past his buck teeth, red hair, and freckles.

Maybe I have to learn to be more open to all types of boys.

Martin's moving in. He's getting closer. His teeth are coming at me as if he's about to nibble me like a carrot.

I don't want to be sweet sixteen and never been kissed. If it has to be Martin, so be it.

We have several awkward attempts. At first his teeth hit mine. I keep instinctively closing my mouth. I feel like he's coming in from all different angles. Finally, we kiss, and it's pretty gross. I want to run and hide in the bathroom and puke.

Martin smiles. “We just need more practice,” he almost hisses through the gap in his front teeth.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say like a pathetic spineless jerk who is so desperate to get this kissing thing over with that she'll risk having her teeth knocked out.

“We need to be alone where we can relax.”

“Maybe, but this is my party,” I say, making it clear that I won't go off alone at my own party. Not that anyone would notice. But that's my excuse to Martin and I'm sticking with it.

“Well…how about we try going out? Then we can practice all we want.”

“Um…okay,” I say like a dork.

It doesn't make sense. He grosses me out. So why have I just agreed to be his girlfriend? What am I doing? Have I not gained any balls from all my suffering and torment?

I'll bet Tracy never had this trouble when she was sixteen.

God, what a party! I can't wait till it's over.

February 1985

M
egan's been teaching me how to sew. I've finally made something I'm proud of. It's a jacket made out of kids' curtain fabric. It's very colorful, with lions and tigers and elephants, set against a jungle background.

I wear it today to church. During the sermon, the minister starts talking about how we present ourselves to God, how what we wear shows how much we respect him, how showy clothes are a sign of ego. And he's looking right at me! And, I realize, so are some other people.

I feel stupid and self-conscious. As we file out after the service, the minister looks at me meaningfully. “I hope you especially got a lot out of my sermon.”

When I get home, I take my stupid jacket off and throw it on the floor. I thought Christians were meant to be accepting of everyone, no matter what. It's about what's on the inside, right? He had no right to say that. It's not like I turned up at church in my undies! If it's okay for a kid's bedroom window, I think God can handle it.

I make an effort to look good. God probably
likes
my creativity. I'm sure God doesn't care what I wear to church.

So I pick up my jacket and hang it up.

I don't want to go back to that stupid church. It sucks! It's got nothing to do with God anyway. Who needs judgmental Christians and creepy boys? Goodbye, Martin.

What was I thinking in the first place?

Church numbed me, distracted me. It helped me ignore what was really going on. A diversion, the same way a hobby keeps people from thinking about things they don't want to think about.

The next Sunday Tracy asks me why I'm not going to church and I tell her I'm done with all that Christian bullshit.

“It's about time you came to your senses,” she said.

“Yeah. Sorry for being such a weirdo with all that hell stuff.”

         

I have just read
The Diary of Anne Frank.
Suffering? I have nothing on Anne Frank. I'm just a middle-class white girl living in a nice neighborhood. I can come and go as I please. I am under no threat of death. I don't have to hide behind a bookcase. I can leave my bedroom whenever I want.

She suffered and never complained. She was strong and noble and wise.

She dealt with her pain beautifully, the way I should, but don't.

She was wise and I'm stupid.

She was noble and I'm pathetic.

She had no self-pity and I feel sorry for myself sometimes.

She was never too angry and I'm always too angry.

She was positive. I'm negative.

Why can't I be more like her?

The Diary of Anne Frank
is full of love and hopeful things and little stories and Anne's observations about the people around her. Anne Frank loves through it all. She had so much more to contend with. I wish I had her courage.

She's a hero.

If my diary were published, it would be called
The Diary of a Whining Crybaby.
Mine wasn't written with eloquent prose. My diary is full of bad writing and dumb metaphors and mean things about Tracy. Fuck this and fuck that. That person's an asshole and I'm pissed off.

I burn my diary.

         

Something I must remember: no matter how bad things get, there's always someone worse off.

Like I could go out and meet someone who lost their mother and their father plus one other family member. I'm not starving. I can go to school. I'm not hiding behind a bookcase. I have hope, the possibility for a better life. I know my parents loved me, so I don't have any of those “my parents don't care” hang-ups. Not like the girls at school who you can tell don't feel loved at all.

There are a lot of people worse off than me:

1. Tracy, because she's the oldest.

2. Trent, because he never really knew our parents.

3. Starving Africans with bloated bellies and nothing in them.

4. People in war-torn countries dodging bullets and bombs.

5. Kids whose parents don't love them.

6. Little orphans (the real thing) living in homes.

7. Street kids.

8. Abused kids.

9. Poor people.

10. Paraplegics.

11. Quadriplegics.

12. People in iron lungs.

13. People dying of cancer, especially kids.

14. People with deformities.

15. Mental patients.

16. Deaf people.

17. Dumb people.

18. Blind people.

19. Deaf, dumb, and blind people.

20. Retarded people.

21. Homeless people.

22. People in prison who aren't guilty.

23. Kids who have lost not only their parents, but their whole family.

Then there are all the people I've learned about in my modern history class—peasants in tsarist Russia, all the Jews in the Holocaust, black slaves in America, Chinese women with tiny bound feet…the list goes on and on.

I don't feel so bad when I think about how terrible they must all have felt. I must never forget that. Maybe I should put this list on my bedroom wall.

I've got to take control of things. I've got to fix things. It's time to make some changes. There are some things I can't change, but there are others I can.

         

It's five a.m. on the first day of my “Have a Life That's Cool, Do Well at School” plan.

My mission (now that I have chosen to accept it): Study hard. Do brilliantly at school. Have a great career. Make some money and end our money worries. Change our lives for the better.

Plan of attack:

5:00 a.m.: Out of bed every day.

5:05 a.m.: Sneak a peek at Trent (for inspiration).

5:10 a.m.: Strong coffee.

5:20 a.m.: Sit on bed or at desk.

5:30 a.m.: Study.

8:00 a.m.: Get ready for school.

8:30 a.m.: Leave for school.

9:00 a.m.: School.

12:30 p.m.: School library during lunchtime.

3:30 p.m.: Walk home from school.

4:30 p.m.: See Trent. Play. Snack.

5:00 p.m.: Change into comfortable clothes.

5:05 p.m.: Homework.

7:00 p.m.: Dinner. Takes a while, because Trent's not that into eating, so we have to coax him and keep a close eye on him so he doesn't hide any food. It's good because it gives us something to focus on.

8:00 p.m.: More homework.

9:00 p.m.: Coffee break.

11:00 p.m.: Two NoDoz tablets.

1:00 a.m.: Bed.

Do this every day except Thursday nights and weekends, when I'm at Cookie Man.

End result: A great career and enough money for us all to have a good life without stress and worry.

Tracy's not a huge fan of my mission. “There's more to life than studying, Erin—like helping me more with the housework, for starters!”

I try to help as much as I can, but I know it's not enough. But time is precious and I have to do well at school. She'll understand one day when I'm able to pay for her and Chris to laze on a tropical island sipping cocktails while Trent and I fly off to Disneyland.

My timetable is very strict, but I do make allowances as long as they help move the plan along. Like sometimes I combine Trent and homework: he sits on the floor next to me and colors and plays with his trains. He's a constant reminder of the things I'm working for.

I have a choice. Life can be completely shit forever, or I can try and make it better. If I do well at school, any career will be open to me. The world will be my oyster. I hate oysters, but whatever.

If Anne Frank could keep on with her studies in the middle of all that tragedy, so can I.

March 1985

“E
rin, what are you doing?” The strict, scary head of the science department has called me out of school assembly. She's tall and thin with short dark hair and an even shorter temper.

What on earth is she talking about?

She continues. “I've been watching you for a long time and said nothing, but it's time someone did.”

What is this woman going on about? She's never spoken to me before.

“This has to stop. You look absolutely terrible. It's time you started making an effort.”

I blink at her. “What?”

She sighs. “Take a good look at yourself. Your hair and your clothes are dirty. You've been wearing that same shirt for so long now. You're an attractive girl, Erin. What are you doing to yourself?”

“I'm wearing green, aren't I?” I say defensively. I have my green workman's pants and Dad's shirt on. My rebellion is starting to get a little tired, I must admit. Besides, I'm a senior now. Seniors can wear whatever they want as long as it's bottle green on the bottom and white on top.

“Yes, but you know what I'm talking about, Erin.”

“But I hate the stupid uniform. You can't force me to wear it.”

“No, I can't.” The official senior school uniform is a short (and the world does not need to see my fat knees) green skirt and white collared shirt. Most of the girls wear it with some sort of personal variation—a T-shirt underneath the shirt, knee socks, a sweater. “But I've heard you like to sew. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you can put that talent to good use.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Now get back into assembly and I'll expect to see some changes very soon, Erin.”

I just look at her and nod and walk back into the assembly hall to hear the school principal's boring speech about the sports carnival. In a weird way I know she's doing me a favor. I'm surprised the school hasn't said anything about my clothes before now. But she didn't have to butter it up with compliments. A pretty girl I'm not.

Do I really want to give up Dad's shirt, though? It's become a part of me.

But now that I'm getting my act together with my schoolwork, maybe it's time I took a good hard look at my appearance. It would mean I could express my style. Maybe it's a sign.

         

My uniforms are a hit.

There's my bohemian look: baggy green harem pants with a white T-shirt.

The 1940s Marlene Dietrich look: green below-the-knee pencil skirt and white oxford.

And my favorite, the Katharine Hepburn offscreen look: green suit pants and white sweater.

Girls and teachers have been commenting on them all week.

“Erin, I'm impressed,” the science head says, winking as she passes me in the corridor.

Megan's angry, though. “I know it's not your fault, but it isn't fair. I've been sewing for years. You start and get all this attention. It's like everything.”

“Everything?” Since I stopped being a Christian, we've kind of avoided each other. Her jealousy makes our friendship even more stressful.

“Well, it's always about you,” she says, not meeting my gaze. “I know my mum didn't die, but it's still hard, and nobody cares because you're worse off.”

I'd wear that stupid uniform my entire life if it meant I could see my mother again. But that's not an answer you can give someone whose mother walked out on her.

Later that week I'm called into Deputy Principal Edwards's office.

“Erin, we've all been talking about your wonderful designs. We were wondering if you'd like to design a new official uniform for the senior students,” Mr. Edwards says.

I know they're only doing it to make me feel useful and special, so I say no, but thanks anyway. I tell them Megan taught me to sew. “She might be interested,” I tell them. I'll stick to designing just for myself.

         

I need a new hairstyle to complement my changing moods and fashions. Something light and cheery.

Tracy suggests I get a perm to give my limp hair some life. She's taking me to training night at the salon where she works Friday nights. Trainees practice on anyone willing, and it's free.

“They won't ruin my hair, will they?” I ask.

“No! And anyway, I'll be there to supervise and make sure they don't.”

So Tracy drives me to the salon and I get assigned Tess, a four-foot-eleven trainee with a bad haircut. Not a good sign.

“So what do you want?” Tess asks nervously, biting her nails.

“A perm,” I tell her, wondering if I should request someone else. But maybe I'm not even allowed to do that.

“That's perfect. I need to practice more perms,” she says, putting her large black apron on.

As Tess walks away to get the rollers and solutions, I wander over to the bench where Tracy is chatting with another stylist. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whisper.

“Yeah, of course,” she whispers back. “Stop being such a pain. Don't worry, it'll be fine. Tess knows what she's doing.”

Because my sister's a hairdresser, I know that small orange rollers mean tight curls and big blue rollers mean loose curls. Hang on! Tess is using small orange ones! I look over at Tracy and make a face, and she's watching and not saying anything, so it must be all right.

Tess pours smelly perm solution over my roller-covered head.

“Now, it needs to stay in for a while, so just sit back and relax,” she says before walking over to the senior hairdressers, including Tracy, who are marking them on tonight's performance.

Have my hair done and relax—I didn't know the two went together. Lovely. I'm just going to lean back, close my eyes, and enjoy this.

After thirty minutes Tess is back and ready to roll out my thicker, fuller, less limp hair. With each unroll a little bouncy curl pops out.

Five minutes later and all the rollers are out. I look like a teenage Medusa!

“Don't worry, it will look great once it's dry,” Tess says in a voice trying to mask her obvious concern.

She dries it and it starts to shrink. It was supposed to be a light, wavy perm. Instead, I am sporting an Afro. A blond Afro! I look like a white black girl. No. At second glance, I'm a sheep. My shoulder-length hair has sprung up around my ears.

I try to pretend I like it. I get up from my chair and walk over to Tracy.

“I look like a fucking sheep!” I whisper so Tess won't hear. She's probably already distraught enough, knowing she fucked up so badly.

“Didn't you see what she was doing?” I say, trying not to sound accusing. “Look at me, Tracy. What am I going to do?”

“I thought it was going to be fine. She seemed to be doing the right thing to me,” Tracy says, and now I officially know I must look disastrous. “I don't know what happened.”

“Couldn't you see the size rollers she was using? You always tell me the smaller the rollers, the tighter the perm. She used those tiny orange ones!”

“I couldn't see the rollers.”

She's acting like looking like a sheep is no big deal.

“You were right here. There are mirrors everywhere!”

“Calm down, Erin! Perms are always too tight at first,” she says through gritted teeth before storming off to a scared-looking Tess on the other side of the salon, where I was sitting earlier getting my Afro. Hey, I can see the angry look on her face perfectly well from here! Why couldn't she see my hair being tortured? Was she even watching?

         

It's Monday morning and I still have an Afro. I almost don't need a pillow anymore. My hair's padding enough.

I do not want to be in school. I can't make myself look even slightly better. Any other bad hairstyle you can disguise. But not this one. I've tried hair clips, but they won't stay in. A scarf is even worse—it looks like a hot-air balloon has landed on my head. I can't even wear a hat; it just sits there on top of my hair, five inches away from my scalp. So it's just me. The sheep.

“Baaahhhh…baaaaahhhh…”

I can't believe I just heard that! I thought having dead parents might exclude me from that sort of teasing in the school corridors, like I'd be off limits. But obviously nothing makes you immune to bad haircut jokes in a school full of girls.

“It's just hideous, isn't it?” I asked my friends by our lockers. They're trying not to laugh.

“It's doesn't look so
baaaad,
” Julie says, laughing halfway through her sentence. My friends all crack up.

“I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it.”

“Oh God, what am I going to do?”

“You could always go and have it shorn off and make a sweater out of it,” Lorraine says, and I must admit it is sort of funny.