And swings open the door
of an incredible 1957 Ford Thunderbird
painted look-at-me green.
The license plate reads: RUBYZDAD.
Grand Entrance
So much for trying to keep
my celebrity-daughter status a secret.
You should have seen the heads swivel
when we walked in here together.
It was like something out of The Exorcist.
And I bet you’d barf if you could see
how these women in the administration office
are falling all over themselves right now,
fluttering around Whip like a flock of butterflies on X.
They’re telling him how grateful they are
for his generous donation
and how delighted they are that he’s volunteered
to be the auctioneer at their second annual Noisy Auction
and how they’re sure he’ll draw
an even bigger crowd than Hanks did last year.
They’re offering him mocha lattes
and Krispy Kreme doughnuts
and some kind of fruit that I’ve never even seen before.
And I’m sitting here right next to him,
crossing my eyes, sticking out my tongue,
and wiggling my ears.
But no one seems to be noticing me.
(Okay. So I’m not really doing any of that.
But they wouldn’t be noticing.
Even if I was.)
Whip Finally Makes Like a Tree
He says he’s got to run over to Sony
to do some looping.
Whatever that means.
Then he gives my shoulder
this nervous little squeeze,
tells me to have fun,
and exits stage left.
At which point, the dean,
one Ms. Moriality,
says she’s going to take me
on the VIP tour.
Wouldn’t
the-daughter-of-the-VIP tour
be a tad more accurate?
I Don’t Know Why They Call It Lakewood
There’s no lake.
And there’s no woods.
Just a bunch of Lakeweirds.
Seems like half the girls
are wearing lingerie
instead of dresses.
And the rest of them are wearing jeans
with such major holes in them
that you can see their thongs.
(Only the skanky girls
dressed like that at my old school.
But here they all do.)
And most of the boys
look like they’re trying to do
Brad Pitt impressions.
These kids have perfect hair.
Perfect teeth. Perfect bodies.
Perfect skin …
I can feel a huge zit
blooming on the tip of my nose.
It’s flashing on and off like a neon sign.
Electives
I can’t believe it.
I just had to choose
between signing up for
Dream Interpretation Through the Ages,
Introduction to Transcendental Meditation,
or The Films of Steven Spielberg.
(But only because The Rhythms of Rap,
The History and Uses of Aromatherapy,
and Organic Farming 101 were already full.)
I chose Dream Interpretation.
So that when I wake up
from this really bad one,
at least I’ll be able to interpret it.
Colette
She’s deeply,
I mean severely tanned.
Her dress is so short
it’s a shirt.
She’s got this tattoo of a snake
slithering around her ankle.
And so many parts of her body are pierced
that she jingles when she walks.
I’ve never met
anyone like her.
I’ve never even seen anyone like her.
Except on MTV.
Dean Moriarity just asked her
to walk me to my first class,
since both of us
are taking Dream Interpretation.
What do you say to a person
with magenta eyes?
I sure hope she’s wearing contacts.
Colette Speaks First
“That is so last week
it’s not even funny,”
she says under her Altoid breath.
I cringe,
sure that she’s referring to
But then I realize
she’s talking about the dress
on the girl who just wiggled by.
It looks like
a handful of scarves being held together
by a dozen safety pins.
“So yesterday,” I say.
Colette laughs.
“So one minute ago,” she says.
Maybe
this will be easier
than I thought.
“You’re Whip Logon’s Kid, Right?”
Shit.
I’m afraid so,” I say.
“But would you mind keeping that quiet?”
“Sure, Wild Child,” she says with a smirk.
“But everyone who missed you on AOL
saw you drive up with him
in that prehistoric Thunderbird.”
Damn.
“But I can relate,” she says.
“My mom’s famous.
And I hate it when people find out who she is.
Because after that
I’m never really sure
if it’s me they like
or just the fact that she’s my mother.”
“Wow,” I say,
instantly bonding with this stranger
in a deep and permanent way.
“That’s exactly how I feel.”
And I find myself telling her
about how strange it was after Mom died,
when everyone found out that Whip was my father.
How all these kids
suddenly started wanting to hang with me
who had never even acknowledged
my existence on the planet before.
Colette just laughs.
“Well, that won’t be a problem at Lakewood.
Half the kids who go here
have famous parents.”
This is so sick.
But the truth is I’m dying to know
exactly who those famous parents are.
Especially Colette’s mom.
My Curiosity Is Killing Me
But before I can work up the nerve to ask her,
Colette says, “You know something?
I think your father and my mother
played a married couple in a movie once.”
“Then, hey,” I say.
“That means we’re practically sisters”.
“Come on, Sis,” she grins.
“We’ve got a few minutes before class starts.
I’ll show you around”.
And as we head off,
I casually ask, “What movie was it?”
“McKeever’s Will,” she says.
Oh. My. God.
Marissa Shawn’s daughter just called me Sis!
(Will you listen to me gushing?
I am such a hypocrite.)
Colette’s Tour
Well, let’s just say
it’s a wee bit more extensive
than the tour that the dean took me on.
First,
she shows me the spot behind the gym
where everyone goes
to sneak cigarettes between classes.
(I happen to think smoking’s disgusting,
but decide it would be unwise
to divulge this information to my tour guide.)
; Next,
she points out a tangled mess of weeds,
maybe twenty feet wide by forty feet long,
and informs me that it’s
the organic vegetable garden.
She says there’s a patch down at the far end
where a guy named Bing is growing some pot
that’s so amazing it’s not even funny.
He supposedly has the farming teacher
convinced it’s a rare species of mint.
But the word on the street is that it’s more like
a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing,
because Bing lets the guy “help with the harvest,”
if I know what she means.
Then,
before I even have a chance to stop reeling from shock,
she points out the spot
where the coke dealer hangs at lunch
as thougheveryschool has one.
After that,
she walks me past the two best places
for making out on campus,
introducing me, along the way,
to an enterprising senior named Lolita
(Lolita?)
who sells term papers.
And finally,
she points to a door
that’s been painted to look like a starry sky,
behind which our Dream Interpretation class
apparently meets.
Whoa.
Whoa.
If I was a coked-out nympho
stoner cheat who smoked a pack a day,
I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.
Dream Interpretation
Maybe
this is the norm in Loser Angeles.
Maybe this is just how things are.
Maybe all of the kids in all of the classes
in all of the schools around here
have to sit on cushions on the floor
holding hands in a big circle
with their eyes closed
while their teacher burns incense
and strawberry candles
and makes them do deep breathing exercises
and leads them through
these excruciatingly lame things
called visualizations.
Maybe this is just
how things are in Califartia.
Maybe I’ll just have to try
to get used to
all this touchy-feely stuff.
Maybe my dream class
is not exactly going to be
my dream class.
Then Again, Maybe It Is
Because I have to admit that after Feather
(she actually asked us to call her that!)
finishes doing her stupid visualization thing,
it almost starts getting sort of interesting.
Maybe even a tiny bit fascinating.
She tells us about this psychologist named Fritz Peris
who invented this bizarre technique
for interpreting dreams,
way back in the sixties,
called Gestalt Therapy.
Then she shows us this video
of Fritz doing this therapy on one of his patients.
In the film, the patient is telling Fritz
about a dream that he had the night before,
a dream about being at a train station.
And the patient says that in this dream
he’s watching all these people climbing up a big staircase.
And then Fritz interrupts him
and tells him that he should be the stairs,
that he should talk as if he is the stairs.
So the guy looks at Fritz like he thinks
the idea of being the stairs is way idiotic,
but he starts talking anyway.
And he says, “I am the stairs.
People walk on me.”
And Fritz says, “Go on.”
And so the guy says, “People walk all over me.
People walk all over me to get to the top.”
And then he starts bawling like a little kid
and saying that he hadn’t realized until this very minute
that he’s been letting people walk all over him
his whole entire life,
that he’s been letting them use him
and abuse him and it’s been making him
angry and resentful and sad.
And I’m watching this film
and I’m really getting into it
because it is sort of amazing to see this guy
have this major epiphany about himself
just from one measly dream.
And, I don’t know, I guess it feels good
to wrap my mind around some new ideas for a change.
Good to take a break from missing my mom.
And Aunt Duffy. And Lizzie. And Ray.
It even feels good to take a break
from hating Whip.
Multiple Choice Pop Quiz
I will:
get used to being expected
to call all my teachers
by their first name
(such as Feather, Troy, Violet,
and, my personal favorite, Proton)
learn not to burst out laughing
when my math teacher suggests
that I “take a moment to reflect”
on how solving the math problem
made me feel
adjust to the sound of a gong
ringing at the beginning
and the end of each period
(naturally, they don’t have bells here,
that would be too normal)
grow accustomed to the fact
that the cafeteria has waiters,
which is apparently what you have to do
if you get detention here,
instead of staying after school
none of the above
After School - Take One
I step outside—and there’s Ray!
Grinning behind the wheel
of his battered blue 1989 Mustang.
He waves.
I melt.
He leaps out of the car
and we run toward each other.
Then he hugs me off my feet.
And I die from joy,
right there in his arms.
After School - Take Two
I step outside—and there’s Whip.
Grinning behind the wheel
of a pale yellow 1929 Packard convertible.
He waves.
I freeze.
He leaps out of the car
and runs toward me.
Then he hugs me,
right in front of everyone.
And I shrivel up and die.
(You get to guess which one actually happened.)
On the Drive Home
Whip plays the concerned parent.
“I thought about you today,” he says.
Yeah?
Well, I tried not to think about you.
“I kept wondering
how you were doing,” he says.
I bet. Just like you’ve been wondering
every minute for the last fifteen years, right?
“How was your first day at Lakewood?”
“It was fine.”
“How are your teachers?”
“Fine.”
“Are the kids nice?”
“They’re fine.”
“How’s the cafeteria food?”
“Fine.”
“I just have one more question then,” he says.
“Are things fine at Lakewood?”
He cracks up at his own joke
and pretends not to notice that I don’t.
“I wonder why they call it Lakewood,” he says.
“There’s no lake and there’s no woods.”
Jesus H. Christ.
If he does that one more time
I’m going to have to kill him.
Aunt Duff
y Calls
And all she has to say is,
“Hey, Rube. How are you doing?”
And my eyes threaten
to turn into two gushing faucets.
But it’s an idle threat.
Because, of course, they don’t.
They never do anymore.
My cheeks just do their hideous splotchy thing.
“I’ve been missing you,” she says.
Aunt Duffy’s words sound far away,
and so thin, as though she’s forcing them out through
a throat that’s even tighter than mine is right now.
Sometimes I feel like I’m this geyser
with a cork shoved in its mouth.
Like I’m this overfilled water balloon
that’s getting ready to blow …
“It’s great to hear your voice,” I say,
barely managing to swallow back the quiver in my own.
But it isn’t great.
It’s awful.
Because Aunt Duffy’s voice
is an exact replica of my mother’s.
And hearing it
splits apart every atom in my body.
What I Say (and Don’t Say) to Aunt Duffy to Keep Her from Worrying
Turns out Whip isn’t as bad as I thought he’d be.
He’s a hundred times worse.
He’s got a mega-cool collection
of classic cars in mint condition.
The sole purpose of which
is to draw even more attention to himself.
He took me on an amazing shopping spree
and bought me everything in sight.
But he couldn’t buy my love.
’Cause my heart’s not for sale.
God. My life’s starting to sound like a bad country song.
(Is there such a thing as a good country song?)
Marissa Shawn’s daughter and me are like this.
Who am I kidding?
She was probably only so nice to me
because she felt sorry for me and my enormous zit.
My bathroom is to die for.
And if you don’t come out here
and rescue me right now,
I’m going to.
What’s that you say?
You’re leaving on a six-month-long
archaeological dig with your new boyfriend?
And you won’t be reachable
by phone or by e-mail or even by postcard
the whole entire time?
I’m so happy for you!
That’s wonderful!
You deserter.
You traitor.
You scum of the universe.
You call yourself an aunt?
I Log on to AOL
And when I see FrankLloydWrong
in my “new mail” box,
my heart starts moshing against my ribs.
That’s Ray’s screen name!
He says that the first day of school sucked.