Barbie Girl (Baby Doll Series) (2 page)

“I charge ten dollars an hour, but I am sure we can work out a deal,” I shoot back. I usually charge ten bucks an hour but I have done it before for five dollars, of course she was in first grade and not a raging loon.

“So what, you want me to like show you my boobs or something?” I choke on my chocolate milk. Third is shaking his head “yes” fiercely. “Or make out with you?” she points the burger at me. Her eyes still
remain
unblinking.

“I know, how about I pretend I am your girlfriend, boost your popularity.”
What?
She continues, “How about I say we did it, that you rocked my world, you know…” She leans back in her chair and kicks up her long booted legs onto the table.

“No!” I get my voice back, and looking away I blink. “I don’t want you to ‘pretend’ to be my girlfriend.” I make air quotes around pretend.

She smiles, “I am not really going to be your girlfriend.” She laughs like being my girlfriend is incongruous.

“This is a cafeteria. Do you mind?” I glance at her
feet;
she is starting to grate on my last nerve.

“Not at all,
” She smiles at me.

“What does pretending to be his girlfriend entitl
e him to? Just out of curiosity,
” Third inserts himself into the conversation. I can practically see the perverted wheels of his mind turning.

“Look, I don’t want you to pretend that you are my girlfriend or pretend to do ‘it’ with me,” I say before she can answer his question. This girl is trouble, she is probably higher than a kite right now, and I do not want to get more involved than I already am.

“I am not really going to do it with you.” She rolls her eyes. “I tell you what, how about I let you feel me up,” she gives me a wink.

Holy crap
. Third is really drooling. “Marry me,” Third in his comatose state says dreamy-eyed. If anyone knows how to get attention it is Barbie. She swings her legs down and perches her chin in her hands ignoring the puddle of drool that is forming under Third.

“Remember the time you made me eat that roly-poly?” she looks at me innocently.

“What? No.” Of course I do, it was the first and only time I was in the Principal’s office.

We were in kindergarten; her hair was not blonde like it is now, but a mousey brown that she wore down her back in two long braids. I always had this weird desire to yank on them to see what would happen, to see if she would smile and laugh, or just punch me. She was known for beating up the boys, but she never did touch me. I was jealous. I didn’t know any better I was six.

Every day during recess I would chase her; she never let me catch her. None of the other girls let me chase them like she did; she was always faster than me, flittering just out of reach. I wanted to catch her so bad.

Then one day I got the flu, a week later when I got back to school Billy Nichols was chasing her, pulling on her braids and she was laughing. I had to do something drastic! So I found a roly-poly and hid in the slide popping out when she ran by. I caught her and stuffed the little bug in her mouth. It was the first and last time I caught her. So I didn’t say it was a smart choice but I needed something drastic and I was like six. When I got off her she finally punched me, right in the nose so hard that I saw stars. To make it worse she tattled on me, getting me in trouble. I was the only boy she ever told on.

I rub at the bump on my nose; I swear it was from her. “Why did you stop chasing me?” She is looking at me with those alien eyes.

“What? I… it was…I… Billy…you punched me, and I got in trouble…what does this have to do with tutoring?” My checks are burning.

“I know, Katie Bloom,” Third says throwing his hands in the air like he just scored a touchdown.

“What?” We both look at him.

“What does this have to do with Katie Bloom?” I say irritated.

“Ahhh, Katie Bloom, goodie two shoes straight
as
with a freak underneath. You’re in love with her.” She points at me an all-knowing smile on her face. “And I can help you get her,” she says nonchalantly like we are talking about the weather and not the girl of my dreams.

“What…no I am not in love with her,” I protest. “And she is not a freak; she is a lady, unlike some people.”

She looks at me like she is trying to read something that is not there. “Katie Bloom is little bit of a psycho,” her voice raises an octave, my face is on fire.

“Will you keep it down, she is sitting right over there and can here every word you are saying,” I hiss.

I steal a glance nervously in Katie’s direction. She is not even paying attention to our
table;
she is too busy laughing at Tyler. Douche bag. I should be the one making her laugh. “You don’t even know her, she is smart, and kind, and pretty,” I say in a hushed tone.
I am filled with i
mages of Katie gliding past me, always with text books in her hand, a halo around her auburn head.
I love her
.
I love her. I love her.

Barbie throws her hands in the air, “Okay lover boy don’t say I didn’t warn you. You get me a passing grade on the next test in Gregor’s class, and I will help you get Katie Bloom’s pants.”

Even though it feels like I am making a deal with the devil, I agree.

“How exactly are you going to do that?” I lean over to her. Her blue eyes glisten with a scheme.

“I have my ways,” she leans close to me licking her lips.

“This is going to be awesome,” Third chimes in, breaking my lock on those lips.

“So why don’t you wear glasses anymore?” she asks. This girl is freaking crazy! I spend the rest of the day not concentrating on school, but how to get out of a deal I somehow got tricked into by the she-devil Barbie.

The bell rings. I make a grab for my books and head toward the door, “Miss Starr, freeze.” Shit. What did I do now?

“Yes Gregor,” I bat my eyes at him.

“Mr. Gregor,” he corrects me.

“Mr. Gregor.” I put emphasis on the
Mr
.
part
. “What can I help you with?” I sit down on his desk my skirt rising, inappropriate I know, but making him uncomfortable can work in my favor. No such luck, we have been together too long and he is immune to my antics.

“Barbie, I am going to be frank with you, you are failing and unless you want a repeat of my class therefore being in Central for an extra year is entirely up to you, but I am going to suggest you get a tutor.” He flops himself in his chair and straightens his glasses. He is wearing one of his signature sweaters even though it is mid-May and eighty degrees outside.

“Come on Gregor,” I moan. “We can work something out.” I reach across the desk and mess up the front of his hair. “I do not have time for a tutor.”

Unfazed he moves my hand away. “Here is a name of one of my AP students; if you hurry you can catch him before the bell rings.” He jots down a name and the class he is in on a hall pass. I glance at the name “Dylan Knight.” I crumple up the paper and stuff it into my bag.

“No thanks,” I give him a smile. So not happening “Barbie” he stops me before I make it into the hallway.

“It does not look good on college applications to fail a class,” he smiles.

“Aww that’s sweet Gregor but you and I both know I am not college-bound. Why, I am going to be the next nymph at the Purple Lotus.” I wink at him and strut out of his room.

A nymph is what the dancers at my momma’s job are called. My mother doesn’t dance, she waits tables. She barely make enough money to pay the rent and what she doesn’t drink she blows it on whatever else that can manage on getting her high. Her oily boss tried to turn it from a sleazy club into a classy one. Changing the name of a strip joint doesn’t really do anything for the class and type of people it attracts. The warped thing is her boss has actually asked me to be one of the nymphs. Yeah, I really do have a better chance at becoming a dancer than going to any college.

* * *

After talking to Dylan, I skip my next period and head straight under the bleacher. The bleacher is a place I go to feel numb. It is used by kids like me, no friends, burn-outs, loners, girls skipping class to get busy with their best friends’ boyfriends. Why am I here? Is it because Gregor showed some concern about me passing and potentially going to college? Ha, like that could happen. But he did open something in me that I need to numb as soon as possible. Does he not see how screwed up I am or is he one of those delusional teachers that believe in the youth of today.

I make my way to the back right corner where someone had dragged out a few rotting beach chairs and an old ripped recliner. The group of kids lounging on the chairs are the closest thing to friends I have.

I spot the one I came to find, the one I need to lick my wounds, his dark hair is slicked back in one of those messy styles he got from a cheap hair salon. His eyes meet mine; a knowing smile spreads on his thin lips. “Look what I have, a bag of little blue happy pills.” He shakes a plastic sandwich bag in front of me.

I shake my head, even though the rumor is I am a druggie slut, I do not do drugs. And slut, I guess that depends on your definition of a slut. If it constitutes messing around with a few boys, then yep I am a slut. He shrugs and pops one in his mouth, putting the bag back into the front pocket of his denim jacket. Very James Dean of him.

“I have something different in mind.” I push him back into one of the rotting chairs and startle him. His body reacts instantly, his fingers find my hips as he pulls me closer digging deep into the soft sensitive tissue. That will leave a bruise, but I can’t make myself care.

My body
responds
numbness starts to travel up my
legs;
my heart slows to a steady rhythm tuning out Gregor’s words. When I am in this position, things become oddly clear. My head stops spinning and the ache that I feel starts to fade, numbing me into pure bliss. I cannot feel the pain of what cannot be. His touch is like a balm to my open wound, I grind against him. Soaking in the feeling, I begin to forget, or at least push the words down deep down inside of me. I am begging to feel that sensation my body craves. Numb.

I don’t want to feel anything; I want the world and all my problems to fade away. I push Tyler’s head backward deepening the kiss. I am like an addict, jonesing for my fix. I need to feel nothing right now more than I need to breathe. I need to make my mother fade. I need to forget about the hardships that face Everett every day. I need to lose the image of my mother. The look of disgust
written
on Dylan’s face, the hopeful tone in Gregor’s voice. I want it all to disappear.

Tyler’s hands snake up the front of my shirt, his finger grasping at the thin fabric of my bra. As he bites at my neck I lean into him. His heavy moans bringing me to the place I want to be. His hair falls into his eyes just like Dylan’s. I groan, not numb enough. Tyler pulls me tighter against him.

Why did I agree to help Dylan? He looked at me with such disdain. Why wouldn’t he just have agreed to me flashing him? His little chunky friend was all abo
ut it. Aww,
hell, the bleeding hearts of the world; if I was not turning into a softy. Was it all because he reminded me of when we were young?

He was the only kid that was nice to me. The girls didn’t speak to me, I never seemed to have the right clothes or the right hairstyle,
and always
wearing it in two messy braids…the only thing I could manage myself. My shoes were always too big or too small for my feet.

The boys teased me, calling me Trailer Park Barbie, a rumor that was spread by dumb ass Tyler Smalls. He told all the boys I would show them my underwear in the slide. The boys tried to look up my dress, and I got in trouble when I beat them up.

Dylan was different than the other boys he never tried to pin me in the slide to look up my dress. He didn’t care that my hair was a mess; he would play with me anyway, he always let me win. Never catching me. He was the skinny kid with knobby knees and freckles on his nose. He wore glasses that would slide down his face. One day he stuffed a bug in my mouth. I gave him a bloody nose. Hell, I guess I feel like I owe him. He is not the same boy that would chase me. No, gone are plastic frame glasses, his freckles faded. He turned from a skinny kid into a hottie with lean mussels that could be a Calvin Kline model.

Tyler’s hands slide down my thighs and he begins to make his way under my skirt. I pull his hands back to my chest and bring my mouth to his. He moans against my mouth, “Come on Bee,” he
pleads;
his hands fall back to my thigh.

“If we don’t it will hurt,” he groans.

I roll my eyes, my mouth still on his. “How very romantic,” I say. “But I am not about to do ‘it’ under the bleachers because ‘it hurts’ if we don’t.” I stand up.

He tries to grab for me, but I move out of the way. “You’re a tease.”

Oh now that hurts. Not. “Oh, no! Not a tease!” I gasp bringing my hands to my mouth. “Please take off your pants and let’s do it, because I don’t want to be known as a tease.” I say sarcastically.