Twi't

Twi’t Twi t

“The bells ring a-plenty It's lunchtime already For you and for me It's Chef Boy-ar-dee”

I’D NEVER REALLY GIVEN MUCH THOUGHT TO THE WAY I'D DIE. But all I knew was that I didn't want to live a stereotype - I had reason to in the next 400 pages, but I never imagined it'd be this bad. Have you ever felt as if your life was planned for you? Some crazy wet dream of a middle aged Mormon housewife? That goes on and on and on? I never thought that, but, I've never really been good at thinking. THAT MUCH AS I KNEW AS MY MOM DROVE ME TO THE AIRPORT past a slew of Volvo dealerships, all shiny and impressive and as the car drove to the airport, I imagined their purpose. For downtown lattés. For summer nights. For beach front BBQ’s. People would drive their Volvos for life. Likely with affordable options and many luxurious, reasonably priced add ons. Along the way, a trumpeting symphony began to inseminate itself in my subconscious. A symphony that announced that I, average American girl, who was more attractive than I imagined myself, would achieve incredible things through her own merit. I would rival Erin Brockovich as an icon for female strength and liberty. The rest of my story has not and would not have been told a thousand times before in second rate teen romances. Clearly, tense would be a problem and the thought of “insemination” both fascinated and horrified me. That much I knew. You’re probably wondering what I was wearing that day, and I’d tell you, because it was a farewell gesture, but I don’t remember. I have spent a good enough amount of time trying to remember exactly what I was wearing, because in any type of momentous life changing event, the ability to describe in detail what one was wearing has always been of a certain magnitude of which I still struggle to understand. I, am of course, only human. But I do remember my carry on item was “Pride and Prejudice”. My English teacher had suggested it but I couldn’t make it past the first few pages, instead choosing to be surly on the plane. The characters in that book just seemed too, threee dimensional for me. Why was I surly? You have to understand, I wasn’t happy to me moving to a new town. I was in a situation I’d never heard of before. I was a new girl in a small town, a fish out of water, so to speak, and a whole variety of people I’d never seen before. Somehow, I felt, I’d be outcast, and have to earn their affection. My hope was that if I were surly enough and seemingly ungrateful, I could achieve that. I don’t want to ruin some ensuing events that I’m sure you’ve never heard of before. Charlie was waiting for me. He’s my Dad. Colonel Charlie Chastity of the United States Marine Corps, I had not seen him since the last time he came to visit me last summer. I used to go see him but being what some would call “petulant, selfish and ungrateful”, refused, insisting that he take a month off work every year to come see me. Ever wonder if you’re really the center of the world? I do sometimes. Well, because the Colonel had to sell his car in order to afford to come see me, the only vehicle he had to pick me up in was the tank his base used for training purposes. It was so lame. I was like, “Um…Charlie,,,this tank is like, so, lame, OK?” and the guy was like, “C’mon Stella, the M10 is cool, it’s not just a tank, it’s a tank destroyer, with a barrel overhang of 0.86”

Yeah, like from 1942. Only saw service after the war. Lame. It’s no Volvo As he helped me up the ladder and down into the cockpit, I resignedly put on my helmet. I didn’t even bother asking him if I could drive, because he was so like that, he’d…duh…totally say no So, up again I went, newest arrival in Spoons, Washington, my head poking out of a hatch, holding onto a .50 caliber anti-aircraft gun for balance. Like, yuk, sooooo embarrassing. We tried to make awkward conversation as the armored vehicle made it’s way at 30 miles an hour along the interstate to my new, old home. Charlie was never good at small talk, choosing instead to bite into his cigar and mutter things like, “Better dead than Red”, and I, being a sulken adolescent who was unappreciative of everything around me chose to pout instead. Besides, the conversation was made more difficult as my face was being battered by a myriad of flying bugs. Charlie yelled up and offered some field glasses and I was like, “Uh, are you kidding?” This was going to be so uberbad. And then it started. Charlie’s war stories. The same ones I remember hearing as a kid, when Mom would go out on Friday, not returning until Tuesday and Dad would be all quiet. “Stella”, said Charlie, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco on the cockpit floor as the treads of the A-10 rumbled it’s way past “Uncle Nabob’s Jerky and Ammo.”, while juibilant townsfolk lined the streets waving petite American flags and throwing roses. “Oh, lord”, I thought, both exasperated, and conscious of using the word Lord in such a manner. Charlie exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke and pensively gnawed a wad of chewing tobacco before reaching for a cigarette. “Stella, In 1972, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. They promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no-one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire…” “Dad”, I whined, “Can’t we just be quiet? I might be 17, but I reserve the right to act like I’m 13, OK?” When we got to the house I was so angry I just wanted to spit. I hated this house and I especially hated the town. Why, you're probably asking, did I decide to move to Spoons in the first place? See, my mom was always hooking up with these LAME guys, and every time I tried to tell her that I'm still her special little girl and will always be her most best friend, she'd be like "but you don't understand, there's something about a man's company..." and blah blah blah. The point is, I was mad at her for not giving me the attention I obviously deserve, so I moved to Spoons so she could have time to think about what she'd done.

THE HOUSE WAS JUST THE SAME AS IT HAD BEEN THE LAST TIME I’D SEEN it, right down to the untouched copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein lying open on the kitchen counter next to a pile of well worn Harlequin Romances and the sink, which was full of dirty dishes that had probably also not been touched since my last visit. “Uhm, Dad? It smells like butt in here,” I complained. “Sorry Stells,” said Charlie as he walked past me into the living room. He plopped down and turned on the TV. “I’m hungry,” I said. “Me too,” said Charlie. “What’s for dinner?” I asked. “I ordered some pizza, thought you’d probably enjoy some takeout? I mean, I’d cook something, you know I sure can’t do and done make nothing’ fancy bein’ from a small town and all. You know how we people are.” I rolled my eyes. He’s like, so, dumb. He doesn’t know how to cook anything. I don’t know how he would even live without me. I was about to have a tantrum and scream at him for not being able to take care of his own daughter. Besides, I had resolved to be an independent source of inspiration for independent, strong women.. So I said, “Seeing that I’m the only woman in your life, I’m going to replace Mom and follow the time homoured tradition of cooking for you. You’re going to have REAL food now that I’M here. “ And I set to work making mac-n-cheese. I even put real cheese in there too, just to kick it up a notch. BAM! When it was done, I got very distracted by these two magnets on the fridge. I picked them up and tried to force them together, but they just.... wouldn’t.... touch. No matter how hard I pushed! I wondered vaguely whether that would later turn out to be symbolic of any of my own personal relationships. Dad had two bites of his macaroni and cheese and looked up in wonder at me. “What do you call this, Stels”, he asked, mouth agape in complete fascination. As much as Dad was a simple small town man, I couldn’t help but love him for his desperate naïve innocence. “It’s called macaroni and cheese, Dad. Some people think ‘pasta’ was of Italian origin, but many argue it was the Asians who originated it.”

“You mean like Chinese people?”, asked the Colonel, dropping his fork and pushing his plate back with trembling hands. “Yes, Dad, Chinese people are Asian.” “PAH! You know how it works, Stella! First pasghettiti, then public pools, and then pretty soon they’re takin’ our goddammed guns!” “Dad, let me remind you every Asian is not some annoying, affeminate socially awkward nerd on the school paper . “ God, he got he got all his information from movies. “Shuf Borlamo!”, declared Charlie, grimly firming white knuckles on the table and staring straight ahead at a picture of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. And so it goes. “Sigh”, I sighed, reaching up to the cupboard where cans upon can of Chef Boyardee were alphabetically arranged pristinely. They hadn’t been touched since Mom left for the third time. As I poured the can of ready made pasta into the deep fryer, somehow reminiscient of the familiar sizzling sound, I wondered what my life here would have in store for me. A small town of 365 people seemed to bear some metaphor for me. 365 days in a year. It was a metaphor I’d never come to understand. Surely, I’d see evidence of small town America. I knew that there was bound to be some evidence of poverty, some broken homes, that this town would surely not be a portrait of middle class America, all driving newer cars without a care in the world. That much I knew. Amidst my distracted thoughts, I almost put black pepper on Charlie’s Chef Boyardee. Charlie may have carried the backwards ignorance of all small town broken fathers but he knew the origin of black pepper. And I shuddered to hear his definition of East Indians. Yet, I also knew, that beneath his façade of stereotypes, Charlie saw himself as all American. As he chomped away voraciously at the steaming pile before him, I could hear him happily mutter, “Mmmm. Borlamo, Shuf Borlamo”, and I made my way upstairs to my new “old” room which I expected to suck. The room had not changed. The floors were still wood but two things caught my attention. The yellow curtains, still stained were my childhood. They were still there. Memories flew back, like a legion of fluttering bats against a full moon. Memories of playing with those curtains, the little tea parties I’d have with them, practicing for the day when one day I could cook for someone, when I’d fingerpaint on them and sometimes tear them down to make little wedding dresses. Stacked in my closet were untouched copies of “Compendium of Classics: Literature through the Ages”, “World Culture” and a shiny new American Pie DVD., which I used for all my book reports. But what really captivated me was the way the rocking chair presented itself. It was almost as a theme song for a movie was better written than the book that preceded it. The chair, its back formed of spindled Doric columns presented a menacing shadow, a black ghost with a sutured mouth, muted tales of Alacatraz and those who had longed for death within its walls.

Chips of paint, flaked, adhered to the rocking chair, were unable to free themselves to the sweepings of a careless broom, captured in a time whose memory I in turn held caged.. There was a macabre horror to it all, one which I was incapable of describing. I’ve never been good at writing. Instead, I thought about how much my life sucked. Suddenly, there was a honk outside my window. It rang to the tune of “Dixie” “Peaches!”, yelled Charlie, and I looked over the railing to see his beaming face, covered in dried tomato sauce. Charlie could be cute sometimes. ““Remember, Billy the native, who lives on a reserve, we used to go fishing with in his hand carved canoe, you know, the native, who lives off the land and survives for himself and stays away from our people?” “Yes, Dad,” the tone of my voice could not hide my all American girl rolled eyes. Billy. The whole prospect of Billy made me think back to some of the worst days of my childhood, when Dad would take me fishing and try to spend time with me. I nearly gagged. “Well, the good news”, said Charlie, clearly unable to hide his excitement, “is that Charlie’s in a wheelchair!” “Really?”, I squealed. “Yes! But the news gets better!” “What could it be?” “Well, since Billy has no legs and his life’s pretty much kaput, he didn’t need his vehicle anymore so….” “You bought me a Volvo, Dad? Is it a Volvo?” I felt tingly like I was climbing rope in gym class and was of course, instantly ashamed. “Well, hold your horses, Clementine, I didn’t exactly buy you a Volvo. Even better! Billy couldn’t afford a wheelchair and he sure needed one, so I got your ole Granny’s wheelchair and made a fair and decent trade.” “Dad”, I was struggling to conceal my rage, “I don’t care what kind of power brokering you’re doing with the Indians. That’s your business. Is it a Volvo?” Without waiting for an answer, I stormed past him. I hardly noticed Billy there in the wooden wheelchair my Granny had died in, chomping on his bannock and silently whiddling away at a miniature totem pole . Instead I stared at the vehicle my father had dared to purchase for me.

It was a solid vehicle, one of those tough steel types that could withstand any type of physical damage. I hoped I’d one day meet a man like that to protect me from everything, while I preserved my independence. It was a 1969 Charger, painted an orange I’d never seen before. A colour the cross between the inside of a watermelon and daffodil. Between a fire engine and a lemon. Maybe a better description would be a combination of blood and a full moon. Who knows? Was that a confederate flag on the top? And little “01”s on the side. “Is that the General Lee, Dad?”, I shrieked, clasping my hands in delight. “Well, not the original, honey, but Billy sure put a lot of money and time into building it before losing his wife and his legs to cancer.” “Gee, thanks, Dad!” I gave Dad the hugs he deserved for buying me things. Billy raised his hands to welcome me back and say a few words but by that time we were already in the house to get ready for bed. CHARLIE’S HOUSE ONLY HAD ONE BATHROOM. THAT WAS ONE THING I’D MOST DREADED, coming here. I had become accustomed to having my own bathroom and when Mom said I’d have to share a bathroom with Charlie, I, of course, promptly refused. I did not care if he was my Dad or not, I would not be sharing a bathroom with him. Mom and I argued about this for weeks, and, it was out of exasperation that she called and had my Aunt Phyllis talk to me. Aunty Phyllis was someone who I could always count on to put things in a way that I could understand. I remember her words to this day. “No, Stella, my dear, sharing a bathroom with your father means you and him go pee at different times, but just use the same bathroom to do it.” As I waited forEVER for him to get out of it, I sat at the edge of my bed, kicking my legs and being childishly impatient. My room was so dull. The colors were bland, the furniture was dated. There was a land-line phone, and it didn’t even work because Charlie could never figure out how to hook it up. The electrical outlet was still black and charred beside the phone cord he had tried to jam into it. My dusty stone-age desktop computer probably still worked though. Charlie had gotten it from Billy in a completely fair trade a long time ago, when Billy had cracked his head open on a rock during one of his fishing trips, and came to Charlie’s house, bleeding and desperate for some help. Billy gave him a ride to the hospital; and some Ibuprofenwhich Billy called “modern city magic beans.” In exchange for Billy’s computer and fishing rod. And of course the deal was only acceptable if Billy agreed to come over and plug in the computer in all the right places. Billy called the computer “Great Flashing Spirit”

But still everything in my room was so nondescript, it was as if my entire life had yet to be categorized into its appropriate stereotype. I wondered what would become of me... would people in Spoons think I’m weird because I’m deathly pale even though I’m from Utah? Would I blend in with the rest of white people? And I certainly wasn’t good at sports. And I definitely wasn’t good at making friends. I wasn’t good at anime, acting, boxing, cadets, charades, choir, debating, earth club, fencing, glee, 4H, juggling, karate, latin, mamba, newspapers, or anything really. It was almost as if I had been designed as a non descript a foil for God’s romantic comedy. An empty vessel. Thinking “empty vessel” seemed to make me ashamed. Yet, even more important though, was would they think I’m pretty? In which case, would I become the popular pretty girl, or the quiet, unpopular pretty girl? Would I be smarter than everyone, or just more mature and well-read? So many things were as yet undecided. I got back to thinking about whether anyone would notice that I’m pretty. “Stella?!?” I heard Charlie yell from the bathroom. “Do you know how to use a plumber?” I was not only confused, but very annoyed. “What do you mean?” “You know, the stick things with the suckers at the end, to get things out of the toilet that are stuck?” “Those are plungers, dad.” “Well do you know how to use them? Just come in here, Stella. I need help.” I held my breath and cautiously opened the bathroom door. I couldn’t stay mad at him, he was way too adorable. He appeared to be trying to pull his foot out of the toilet. “See? It’s stuck, I can’t... get it... out.....” and he yanked and pulled and flushed with all his might as he spoke. “The plunger won’t help that, sorry. Just keep pulling, you’ll get it sooner or later.” I patted him affectionately on the shoulder and went about my business, brushing my teeth, washing my face, brushing my hair, practicing smiling at myself in the mirror, figuring out which side of my face looked prettier so that I could try to pass people on that side tomorrow at school. I really needed to pee, but it didn’t look like Charlie was making any progress. Just as was into my nightly routine of blowing myself kisses in the mirror, Charlie started to yell for help out the bathroom window. “911!”, he exclaimed, “911!, Billy! Billy! My foot’s stuck in the toilet! Billy, I tried calling 911 and they can’t hear me! Stella!” I was standing beside him, looking his shoulder, out the window as he called my name outside. I silently made my way to my room doing by best to distract myself from Charlie’s urgent pleas.

“Stella! If you’re outside, go get Billy and tell him to call 911! My foot’s….” I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep, trying not to think of the horrors I would endure the next morning. I needed a plan... Surly was a good plan. But what if it didn’t work? What if people really wanted to talk to me and I had to be friendly? Would it be disastrous to try to hang out with the popular kids? Should I flock to the nerds, just in case? Would I be too smart for them, thus making them feel inadequate, and resulting in my exclusion even from THAT group? Should I pack a lunch in the morning, or risk eating the school lunch just to look cool? It was all so confusing and stressful. I just hoped, that at the very least, I wouldn’t accidentally fall in love with the one boy that all the girls in the school have a crush on but can’t have because he doesn’t like them. Boys are so lame, and sexual tension is very embarrassing, because I’ve already decided that sex is not for me, at least not until I’m married or somehow otherwise eternally bound to him. That much I knew. IN THE MORNING, I WAS CAREFUL NOT TO WAKE UP CHARLIE AS I BRUSHED MY TEETH AND SAID MY PERSONAL AFFIRMATIONS IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR. He did look adorable, his head resting softly on the ivory tank of the toilet he had trapped his foot into. I delicately left his usual breakfast of a piece of bread (which he called “raw toast”) and an onion beside him on the bathroom sink and ran outside to pee in the bushes. Since I'm so terrible at balancing, not to mention balancing while squatting, it came to a point where I had to choose between falling backwards and getting my bare butt dirty, or leaning forward and getting pee on my pants. But it didn't matter because I managed to do both. And then guess what? That’s right. You guessed it. More anxiety. As I squirmed through the driver’s side window of the General Lee, I wondered how I could possibly be pretty enough to make it in this new town.

The car was pretty cool. It smelt of stale beer and government waste, and we all know why. I did wonder how many fishing trips and hunting expeditions, government protests and pow wows the car had been to. If I were to take an educated guess, probably a hundred and seventy-four. But I never was good at guessing jellybeans in a jar. And I never was good at not pigeon holing either.

Finding the school wasn’t difficult. It was off of a road, like most places in town. It was not obvious that it was a high school. The big digital sign flashing “Spoons High School” was my clue and it was after passing that sign four times that I realized I was probably at the right place. There was only one car in the lot. A shiny new Volvo! My heart lifted for a moment. Maybe there were like minded people here. But that didn’t last long. A few stragglers were loitering in the parking lot, and one of them was smoking. They looked like ruffians and it was tense for a brief moment like when Mom and I walked by black people at home. I wondered if they would beat me up for being pretty. One of them said under their breath, “Nice ride”, and I just knew they wanted to rape me.

[^^can't stop laughing] Then the other guy looked over at my car, laughed and said, “Good one”. I was further irritated that they had been talking about my car and not me. This high school was going to suck.

Back in Arizona, I was used to security, and as I approached the front door a rather fat man with a boil on his nose, sported a T-shirt. I assumed he probably had big, puffy nipples with sticks of white hair stranded around them. He wore a plastic star shaped badge with the word “security” drawled across it with a Sharpie pen.

“Um, where is the metal detector?”, I asked politely, even though I secretly despised him.

“Wazzat now?”

“Well, back in Arizona we have metal detectors …”

“Yeah, we ain’t got that here. Guns don’t kill people.” He had a frightening lisp, “People kill people”

Shaken, I stumbled in through the door. Looking back, I know I was far too concerned about whether I was pretty enough. So it goes.

As I looked ahead at the sterile white hallway, feeling a little embarrassed at having thought the word “sterile”, I tried to salvage my thundering nerves. No one is going to bite me. No one is going to bite me. No one is going to bite me. An open door revealed what seemed to be an English class, with the word “foreshadowing” underlined twice.

There it was, the front office looming ahead of me like the death panels I had been reading about in the news. I shivered at the thought. Fortunately all my grandmothers had already died peacefully. Anyway, behind a single desk, a rather fat woman with a boil on her nose looked over her glasses at me. Her massive T-shirt, half hidden by the counter, announced, “God hates…”, but I couldn’t see the rest.

“What’s your name?”, she barked. I smiled, although I secretly despised her. “Stella, Stella Chastity.”

“Oh, the colonel’s daughter. Welcome to…”

“Excuse me,” I snapped, “Can I just have my schedule?” I just knew it. She had probably been gossiping about me all week. Wretched woman. I stormed out, schedule in hand, tightly gripped in my fist, and stamped my feet and waved my hair at her to make a point. On the way out, I wondered what the rest of her shirt said. There were so many options. First Period: English - Dr. Reid - Room 109. I was relieved that my first class would be English, but embarrassed at having read the words “first period.” English was my best subject. I simply loved reading, especially the classics. Probably because I, myself, had so much in common with many classic heroines. Surrounded by pain and suffering and stereotypical hopeless people who look up to me, I bear their burdens without complaint and remain strong for the benefit of my people. At least, ever since I moved to Spoons, that’s what I do.

THE HALLS WERE BEGINNING TO FILL UP WITH GENERIC-LOOKING WHITE PEOPLE, and I made sure to walk all the way to the right so they could clearly see the left side of my face. I passed room 108, 110, and 112 before I realized that 109 would probably be on the other side of the hallway. My heartbeat drastically increased with this new anxiety.

How embarrassing would THAT be, to just turn around and start walking the other way? Much too embarrassing. Everyone would know that I was the new girl. I would stand out! The boys would all notice that my overly pale skin was actually “ivory” and thus beautiful-- and all the girls would be jealous of me. I just couldn’t do it. I walked backwards to avoid attention, but just as got to room 110, I changed my mind. Instead I walked on until I found a women’s restroom. I went inside, used the mirror to practice a few different faces-- smile, scowl, shrug, that inside-joke type of grin-- and then went back into the hallway. I was so ready for 109 when it came. I KNEW it was going to be right after 111, because I had done the math in my head while I was walking I never was good at math, but I gave it my best shot.I took a deep breath, shook back my naturally luscious curls, put on a smile, and then changed it to a scowl at the last minute as I stepped into the room.

I was one of the last people in the classroom, because I had wasted so much time in the hallway. There were only two seats open. One next to a nerd and a loudish bubbly girl, and the other next to three jocks. My brain froze for a moment as I tried to analyze the situation, and while I was standing there looking dumb, another jock walked in and took the seat I had just decided to sit in. Story of my life. Ya know? Just when I decide I want something, I can't have it anymore. I must be the unhappiest girl in the world.

I took the only remaining seat, and prayed that no one else would walk in, because then they would probably confront me and ask me to get out of it. I knew I was safe then, because God always answers my prayers. Sometimes I think he's the only one who really understands me. And that makes me think, you know, maybe I'M the only one who truly understands him, too. Maybe that's why he loves me so much. As if in direct response to my prayer, the bell rang to start class. The nerd opened a copy of Wuthering Heights to chapter 7 and looked up expectantly. The bubbly girl quickly placed her enormous purse open on the desk in front of her, and used it cleverly as a secret cave in which to play with her cell phone without the teacher seeing. I hoped one day I would have cell phone too. The temptation to raise my hand and tell on her was quite powerful, because I knew that texting in class was wrong. But I managed to stay quiet by convincing myself that she probably had it coming to her anyway.

English was exactly what I thought it would be. My teacher was what I expected, some non descript character placed in the background while I mused about how bad my life was. He droned on about, “Wuthering Heights”. It was clear that this teacher who I only have to describe as wearing a plaid shirt, wasn’t going to teach me anything I already knew. I already had last year’s book report called “How the Bonus Features of American Pie is better than Wuthering Heights” so I sat there worrying

about my own situation. I was stuck making dinner for a gloomy, morbid character who bought me things and protected me. And what of the shiny Volvo? I compared that shiny new fiberglass beacon to my own orange steel car. My car was strong and could withstand anything that stood before it. Maybe that was me. Maybe I was strong like that car. There was something unique about it. Sure, it was bright orange, but it stood out. And I wondered what kind of story truly lay behind that car? What had it been through? Whoa. Waaaay to deep. It would be so easy just to have that shiny, new Volvo. Maybe the owner would just let me drive it because I was pretty? My inner monologue was shattered by the clanging of the bell. I looked up in despair. No one had even talked to me and I had been in the school for an hour. They must be jealous. They had to be. As I left the classroom and pulled out my timetable, I noticed that my next class, Russian, was going to be in room 909. The school was only six floors, so of course this confused me. I put my thumb and index finger on my nose and closed my eyes very tightly, because I always thought that helped me think harder. Just then, an effimante voice rang out in front of me, enough that I panicked. "Help!", I shrieked, "Help!" and I dropped my schedule and the stylish purse I was holding. I had to ask Charlie for a cell phone or a gun. This town was a haven for emergencies. "Stella? Stella Chastity?", the small effeminate boy shouted at me. He flung himself toward me, swooped down to pick up the things I had dropped, and placed them gently back into my hands. He stood upright and proudly dusted himself off. He had a pocket full of pencils and his glasses were taped in the middle. He was asian and had a big camera. My first thought was that maybe he was a tourist. "Are you part of the chess club?", I asked. "No, but I am part of the school paper! I'm Eric and I'm the only one who doesn't know I'm gay!"

"It just seemed obvious", I smirked, "How did you know my name?" "Everyone knows you! You're Colonel Chastity's daughter! Are you finding your way around OK?" I despised him right off the get go. Way too overly helpful. But he prattled on as we walked, and I looked for a rest room to escape to. There was no way I was going to ask this guy for directions. Get

this lame conversation we had. He was like, "You're from Provo, right?" And I was like, "uh huh". And then he said, "Well, that's quite a ways away!" So, of course I said, "No, it's really, really close." And the guy just looked at me. I dunno, but I thought that was funny. "It's really, really close. Duh" Sarcasm. Like if let's say I was from Phoenix and he wondered why I wasn't tanned, and I said something like, "because my mom's albino"in a snotty tone, I'm sure he wouldn't have laughed either. He just looked at me like I was being rude and unapproachable. I couldn't understand why no one got me. But he still had the gall to wave goodbye, smile and say he hoped he'd see me again. I had no idea how I was going to survive the semester. "Really, really close" , I chuckled to myself as I taped a sign that said "Kick Me" to his back because that seemed the only thing left to complete this picture. BUT HOW WAS I GOING TO GET TO RUSSIAN CLASS? Where could room 909 be? Again, I stood in the hall with my finger and thumb squeezing my nose and my eyes clinched shut, and then it hit me! I'd have to talk to someone, and they had to be in my Russian class so I went up to the closest person near me, a fashionably dressed, non descript white guy, "I' m холодная сука. тип русского направления?" The guy just gave me a blank stare! He, therefore, could not be in my Russian class! My deductive reasoning was paying off. There was a student at the end of the hall wearing a full parka and holding a bottle of vodka. "Извините меня!", I shouted furiously waving my timetable. He looked sternly at me, and his thick white moustache smooshed beneath his red, bulbuous nose. He peered at me with narrowing eyes, but I was adamant. "Где комната 909?", I demanded pushing my timetable against his chest. He pressed up against me, his eyes growing wild with ferocity and tore the timetable out of my hand. "909!", I insisted. He wasn't getting away. I had him by the scruff of his neck. "Вы идиот! It' s вверх ногами. 606!" His furious outburst left trails of spit down the hall as he turned my timetable right side up and pointed at the numbers. 909. 606. Whatever. I cursed him and made my way to Russian class. I was late again, but luckily there was a seat at the back where I could filter in relatively unnoticed. The teacher, Mr. Gorbachovsky, was asking people to tell jokes and the room was busy laughing at the one told by that fat, bubbly texting girl that was in my English class. So, trying to fit in, I raised my hand and Mr. Gorbachovsky motioned to me, and asked my name.

Oh God. I didn't expect that. How could he not know my name? I was mad, but I smiled sweetly. "Stella Chastity, you know, the Colonel's daughter, moved here from Provo. I'm really quite sad because my Mom and Dad are separated..." "Just tell joke in Russian now.", he said. His tone had all the warmth of an iceberg.

I told this joke I read on a Russian website. "Еврейская мать идет вне к балкону и плачет к ее сынку который играет в ярде: - Дэвид! Пойдите домой! Сынок поднимает его головку и плачет: - Замерли я, котор? - No. Вы хотите съесть!" HA! It means, "Jewish mother goes out to the balcony and cries to her son who is playing in the yard: - David! Go home! The son raises his head and cries: - Am I frozen? - No. You want to eat!" The room froze. No one dared to look at me. It was deathly quiet. How many Jewish people could there be in Spoons anyhow? Besides, it was hilarious anyhow. The guy across from me felt bad, I think and leaned over and whispered, "Veronica just told that joke". Oh no. I felt sick to my stomach embarassed. That damned texting girl! "Проклятье вы все к аду!", I screamed and stormed out of the room, trying to stifle the emerging sobs. I ran to the bathroom and stayed there for the next two classes, crying and trying to convince myself not to leave the school, or kill myself. Sometimes life was just so hard. "Everything is so hard," I whined. When the bell rang for lunch time, I had cried all my tears and washed up my face, and was ready for a second chance. Plus I was like, so hungry. You just don't even know. So I slipped out of the bathroom and followed the students who were now pouring out of every door and stampeding in the same direction as if the food was going to run out before they got there. "Gah, these cheap little small-town schools are so stupid and poor," I thought. I thought about rebelling. I knew enough not to wear earrings or makeup because that just invites the devil’s wiles. I had made up my mind. I’d be a vegetarian. That’d tick off Charlie and I’d stand out with my unique principles.