Anthropology of an American Girl (5 page)

“What’s your locker number?” Stephen asked. Our last names were letters apart,
Auchard
and
Auerbach;
our lockers had been side by side every year.

“591,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“590,” he answered.

I nodded, and he nodded again, and we watched Nico Gerardi and Billy Martinson saunter in. I wasn’t surprised to see them in an Advanced Placement class, though they were awful students. Jocks were pretty much exempt from the standards that bound the rest of us. Teachers and administrators humor them because it’s in everyone’s interests to coax them through school and get them out of the building. Since it’s unethical to turn them loose on society, they get sent to college to be kept out of the mix until their frontal lobes develop more fully. As enticement they are given sports scholarships that will later amount to nothing, not even good health.

Stephen fingered the corner of his notebook. He was going to be valedictorian. I wondered if he was annoyed by Nico and Billy and others like them, by the way they occupied the classroom, establishing through body language a right of place that their brains could not. The contrast between their physical conceit and their intellectual timidity made me think of men in small clothes. They’d been given the basics—food, shelter, girls, trouble to cause—but deep down, they were on to the game. You could catch this tiny light in their eyes, this proto-consciousness of slipping supremacy.

Nico had changed over vacation. His football jersey hung closer to his waist than to his legs, his butt was more muscular, his crotch had thickened. I could not help but notice the way the denim of his Levi’s was rounded and slightly whiter there. I knew I should despise him as Jack did,
the way he and his friends flirted with female teachers and played buddy with the male teachers, the way they gave congenial grabs to girls in hallways and relied on family ties to get them out of trouble. When Nico got caught stealing from summer houses, Judge Baby released him to his parents without so much as a meaningful reprimand. The boys called him Judge Baby because of the way he talked. Every day they played Judge Baby, cracking themselves up.
“I cew-tin-weey hope you’ve gotten the boyish pwanks out of your system, wittle man. You have gweat pwomise.”

Billy had never been in trouble with the police, not that anyone knew of, except he did go through a bay window at his house once when he rode his mother’s spare wheelchair down the staircase, and at several parties he’d swallowed goldfish.

Boys will be boys
, that’s what people say. No one ever mentions how girls have to be something other than themselves altogether. We are expected to stifle the same feelings that boys are encouraged to express. We are to use gossip as a means of policing ourselves. This way those who do succumb to the lure of sex but are not damaged by it are damaged instead by peer malice. We are to remain united in cruelty, ignorance, and aversion. We are to starve the flesh from our bones, penalizing the body for its nature, castigating ourselves for advances from men that we are powerless to prevent. We are to make false promises, then resist the attentions solicited. Basically we are to become expert liars.

Nico and Billy were talking to Annie McCabe. Her voice was inaudible except for the random coo and peep, and the edges of her fine brown hair came forward like crepe curtains to hide her face. I wondered if she had ever masturbated. Probably not. I couldn’t imagine her manicured hands reaching to touch such a damp and pulpy place. Did she have the urge but resist? Or could the situation be precisely as it appeared—that she longed for nothing?

Nico’s simian eyes scanned for a target and rested on me. He swaggered strategically into my aisle, and Billy Martinson followed. I curled over my notebook to draw.

“Hey, Steve,” Nico said in his weedy voice, “looks like you got the hot seat.”

“Guess so,” Stephen replied.

Nico sat sideways in the chair in front of mine with his knees poking into the aisle. He put his elbow on my desk and leaned close, his breath coming in humid strokes. “Hey, baby.”

I said hi and returned to my sketch. My pen moved boldly. It swirled to wobbly heights, making me think of “Irises” or “Starry Night.” Billy settled his lanky frame into the seat in front of Stephen, the four of us carving out a strange chunk in the back of the room.

Breanne said something to Darlene, probably about me.

“What’s that, Breanne?” Billy leaned diagonally to shake her seat.

Nico said, “No whispering. Speak up or forever hold your peace.”

“That’s right,” Billy growled. “Speak up or forever hold
my piece.”

Everyone laughed except Breanne, who whined, “Stop it, Billy,” in a voice that vibrated because her chair was shaking.

“St-o-o-p i-it B-il-ly,”
Billy imitated, and the late bell rang. Mr. Shepard finally drifted in, coffee mug in hand. He lingered by the door, talking about golf with the AV teacher.

Nico dug deep into his pocket and removed a fistful of stuff—coins, bills, gum, and erasers, those awful ones that fit on top of pencils. He laid the erasers on the desk. Most of the other boys did the same, except for Stephen, who didn’t budge, and Marcus Payne, who was facing back from his seat in the front row, observing.

“This is gonna be great,” Nico said.

Marcus stood, addressing everyone with a series of panoramic nods. Whenever I saw him, I felt bad for the way he was treated but also inspired by his stamina. I secretly admired the gentlemanly way he always managed to face off with his oppressors.

“Now, listen up, people.” His eyelids fluttered and his top teeth gnawed at the air. His head cocked to one side, and his arms came out from his shoulders at a preacherly incline. “Watch out for my head with those things.”

“Shut up, Marcus,” Bobby Tabor said. Bobby’s parents owned the liquor store and every night at dinner the whole family got drunk on good wine. Bobby got invited to all the parties. “Pouilly-Fuissé,” he would say to his teen host, rotating a bottle lovingly in his hands to feature the label. “1974.”

“Yeah,
Carcus
. If you don’t wanna get hit,
move,”
Mike Stern warned as he emptied a snack bag full of erasers onto his desktop.

“It doesn’t matter where you sit, Payne,” Billy said. “We’re gonna hit you anyway.”

Mr. Shepard closed the door behind him.

I asked Nico what was going on.

“Everyone’s supposed to toss erasers at Shep when he makes a bad joke,” Nico said.

“You can’t do that,” I said.

“It’s tradition,” Nico stated defensively. “I didn’t invent it.”

I looked around the room. All the boys were seated properly and staring ahead; the only signs of impudence were the piles of erasers on most desks. It was tradition; of course they wouldn’t be punished. It was a preliminary test of gender loyalty, a distinct part of the male experience—next came fraternities, bachelor parties, firefighters, the police, politics, war. It wasn’t
girl
tradition. Girls had no traditions—anyway, none that teachers and boys would participate in willingly.

“Relax, baby.” Nico leaned into my face. “We’re just gonna have a little fun.”

T
here was a line I always liked to walk, a single discolored plank that went from the east to the west wall of the barn behind my house. I called it a barn because it was shaped like one, but actually it was just a shed, twenty by twelve, with no plumbing, no heat, and no insulation. The light inside was gauzy, like light in a tent. I went there almost every day to paint or to study.

One warm night, in the spring of my junior year, I fell asleep on the floor. When Mom couldn’t find me in the house in the morning, she checked the barn and saw me curled up in the corner. That afternoon,
Kate and I found Mom’s Plymouth Scamp parked in front of the high school. The car was old but anxious to please. It leaned forward like a pollen-yellow rhombus. We approached cautiously; we’d never seen my mom at school.

“Maybe she got fired,” Kate whispered as we exited the building.

“Maybe she has cancer too,” I said.

Mom waved. “Hop in, you two! We’re going to Sears!”

We headed toward Amagansett on Pantigo Road. At Sears, Mom ordered a piece of foam from a catalog. “A mattress,” she said. “Now you can crash in the barn whenever you’re working late. It’ll be your studio.” She tore a plain blue check from her wallet. On top was her name, Irene Ruane, and our post office box number, and East Hampton, New York, 11937. The amount was forty dollars.

“I wrote it on the bottom, Laura,” she told Kiki Hauser’s mom, who worked behind the counter. Mrs. Hauser had asked for our phone number even though she knew us. My mother refused to allow the insult to dampen her spirits. As we waited for processing, she brushed my cheek with her hand. “Isn’t this exciting? You can sleep there all summer if you want.”

Afterward we stopped at A&B Snowflake to celebrate with soft-serve ice cream, then we dropped Kate at her house on Mill Hill Lane. Maman was still alive then, though very sick. When we pulled away, we waved to Kate and I felt sad. It’s sad to leave a friend, especially at four-fifteen in the afternoon, especially when her mother is dying but yours is not—but, then again, everything is sad at four-fifteen in the afternoon.

In the barn I always walked that same line—pacing along the plank to the overpainted brown door in back that opened onto no place in particular, just a stall with a potting bench. When I reached the wooden ladder to the sleeping loft, I turned, keeping every inch of my body centered and upright. In some parts of the world, steadiness is a requirement. In some places, children carry baskets on their heads. In America, we don’t need balance, except maybe in school athletics.

Pip Harriman was perfectly balanced when she climbed the ropes for the presidential physical fitness exam in gym that morning. It wasn’t the
actual
presidential physical fitness test but a simulated version to determine our “health entry points,” from which we were expected to improve by the year’s end.

Pip’s hands went fast, fist over fist, with her legs crossed like wishful fingers, pinching to maintain counterbalance. Even in the gymnasium’s fluorescent light, her hair gleamed like a length of satin ribbon.

Coach Slater took advantage of Pip’s sterling example by making a speech. “Rope climbing is noncompetitive, okay ladies?” Coach shouted didactically in a stirring bit of showmanship. Her voice echoed from the freshly polyurethaned floors to the soaring metal rafters. “A climb is a personal challenge, okay? It’s an opportunity for you to top your own best performance.”

It seemed pretty competitive nonetheless, with Pip effortlessly mounting the one available rope while the rest of us sat slumped and cross-legged, averting our eyes and praying like mad for time to run out before Coach got around to calling our names. If they really wanted it to be noncompetitive, they should have divided us into groups, then added up the total number of inches climbed by each team. Then at least we’d all root for one another to go higher—every single inch gained by one would make a difference for all. I wasn’t sure what it had to do with fitness anyway, since the entire gym class was spent sitting and waiting. And obviously the ropes weren’t important enough to practice on a regular basis, since they only got dropped from the ceiling for tests. It’s not exactly a usable life skill, except maybe in the circus or the army.

“Can you imagine?” I whispered to Kate. “Pip under the Big Top?”

Kate shushed me. She didn’t want me to draw Coach’s attention to us. I would tell her later, at dinner, and we would laugh. My mother liked to laugh about Pip.

Once we were all standing in Kate’s parents’ driveway—it was probably freshman year.

“What is it with these children’s names?” Mom asked. “Claire, have you heard them?”

“Oui,” Maman replied in her turbid accent, “Pip.”
Peep
.

“What are the others?” Mom asked.

Kate made a list. “Coco and Kiki, Bobum, Winn.”

“Skip,” I added, “Colt, Duff, Leaf. Fick.”

“Fick!” my mother said, laughing so much she needed her asthma inhaler.

Maman didn’t think it was funny. “It is very sad, Irene,” she scolded, “this American custom of calling a child by the name of a dog.”

Pip hopped off the rope, triumphant and breathless, and Coach made a check mark on the fitness report form. Coach called,
“Palmer
, Ellie!”

The worst thing about the ropes was the panic you felt when you stood up, knowing everyone was staring. Though I sympathized with whomever was up there, I would stare too, since you were wise to feign interest. Ellie rose reluctantly, yanked her T-shirt down around her hips, went dutifully to the swinging rope, tilted her head as if wondering how to begin, then looked pathetically to Coach for some kind of break. But coaches never give breaks. They take their jobs seriously—you can tell by the way they wedge their clipboards into their bulging bellies, blow silver whistles up close and indoors, and wear neat-looking Adidas sweat suits, though they never break a sweat.

Coach Slater had to be forced to give Alice Lee a break. Before class started, Alice had handed Coach a doctor’s note saying to excuse her from the exam because it was
that time of the month
. Coach was especially irritated when Alice asked if she could stay there in the locker room or go to the nurse’s office for privacy because we were going to be sharing the gym with the boys.

“Are you enrolled in this class?” Coach shouted.

“What do you mean?” Alice asked suspiciously.

Coach shook her head like Alice was dumb. “I
mean
, are you enrolled in this class?”

“I
guess.”
Alice’s head sank meekly, but her eyes lit up with hatred.

“Then you’re my responsibility.
You
go where the
class
goes.”

Coach turned from Alice and blasted her whistle harshly, then pointed to the gymnasium and commanded the rest of us to “Get out there and do three laps.” The boys had already started, so we ran in place in the corner until they reached the far side of the room, then we moved ahead in a big group. Every time the boys passed Alice, who was sitting on the floor under the water fountains, hugging her knees to her chest,
they would say mean things. The coaches did nothing to stop them—they seemed to be using Alice as an example. They seemed to say that the gym is a realm unburdened by sloughing wombs and engorged breasts. It was confusing, frankly, the way everyone stared at our bodies even as they tried to erase the ideas of our bodies from our minds. We were supposed to get over ourselves, but no one was supposed to get over us. The female body was our worst handicap and our best advantage—the surest means to success, the surest course to failure.