Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (3 page)

My mother doesn’t look at me, but she hands me the bread. My dad passes the butter from the other direction. Nobody says a word.

“Do you need some jelly … Liz?” Paige’s voice has a question in it, because she’s not sure how to read everything. This is the first family dinner she’s been to since Gabe’s joined the crowd. But I’m glad she didn’t blow my cover with John. She looks at me like
what the hell is going on here?
I shrug and nod at my food.
Keep eating. We can go soon.
She looks pissed, but I’m not sure if it’s at me, for not sticking up for myself, or at them.

“I’m good with butter.”

“Pass me that jelly, Paige, and Liz, pass me the bread when you’re done, all right? I need something to sop up this good beef juice.” John is my mother’s biggest fan, since all he eats is ramen and the occasional box of macaroni and cheese. “Darn fine meal, Mary.”

“You’re too kind.” She beams at him.

My dad clears his throat. “Liz, Paige, are you ready to be done with school?”

“Of course.” Paige doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Nobody’s paying any attention, so class is a waste of time.” She smiles at me. “We were just talking about what we were going to do after graduation.”

“What’s that?” My mom still isn’t looking at me.

“Paige thinks we’re going clubbing and to Valleyfair.” I roll my eyes at John, who smiles.

“Can I go to Valleyfair with you, Paige?” Pete’s not one to pass up an opportunity.

“Brothers aren’t allowed.” Paige’s smile both stops him in his tracks and makes him forget what she’s said. I know for a fact he’s had a crush on her since he was in fifth grade and we were in seventh.

“Maybe sometime we can all go.” Dad gestures to Pete and John. “Make it a family outing.”

“I’d like that, Joe.” John pushes his chair back. “Thank you, Mary, for your fine food. Liz, I’ll see you later.” He drops his hand on my shoulder. Paige kicks me under the table.

“Girls, could you help me clear the dishes?” Mom’s still not looking at me. Pete has faded into the living room, and my dad’s gone into the bathroom with the newspaper. Paige and I pick up plates and glasses and follow her into the kitchen. In the fifteen minutes we help her, she looks at Paige and at the dishes. That’s it.

When we’re done, Paige and I go to my room.

“Your parents need to get a clue. I wouldn’t put up with that shit.” She huffs like they’ve personally insulted her.

“They haven’t kicked me out yet, so that’s all right.”

“Wait till John comes over here and calls you Gabe while he’s off on some music tangent. That’ll shape them up.” She digs in her bag for her laptop and her history book again. “Get out the homework, dude.”

My heart shrivels up when I think about telling John. Better to do more history. I try not to watch while she chews her pen and types.

Before she goes home, I let her paint my toes. Pink. I don’t know why.

Satan is the new Elvis since
Neither One Ever Dies

High school is totally A side, and I hate it. But soon, Maxfield West High, good-bye. I chant it in my head every morning: I will survive. However, I swear I will never play “I Will Survive” on my show. Well, maybe the Cake version. Then again, “I Will Survive” was a B side—and it was huge.

Graduation is soon. My new life is soon.

Eight a.m. I shut my locker so the mess doesn’t escape into the hall. Aside from books and papers, there are about twenty CDs in there that would make the world’s biggest crash if they landed on the floor.

Paige scurries up. “Gabe!”

“Keep your voice down.” I hiss it at her.

“You look rather good today.” She brushes imaginary lint off my shoulder. “It’s a bit more
GQ
than your traditional look. A nice change.”

It’s khaki cargo pants and a tailored shirt, with glasses instead of contacts. It’s not easy to make yourself into a guy with just clothes and a haircut. And what sucks is I never get to have a bad day. I make it work or Gabe doesn’t happen.

“Cheap, easy, and moderately stylish, brought to you by Target. What more do you want?”

“I want you to be stylish more than once a week. And wear your glasses more often. They frame your baby browns.” She always tells me she likes my eyes. “You look a little bit like James Franco.”

“Go to class.”

She gives me a look and scampers back down the hall like a smart-ass rabbit. I see her link hands with Bobby X, and Bobby gives me a tiny nod as she chatters in his ear on their way to AP English. He’s all emo-goth seriousness, with hair down over one eye and two piercings in his lower lip, and so skinny he’d disappear if he turned sideways. I have no idea what she sees in him except that he’s sixth in our class GPA-wise, and Paige is third, which I’ve always admired in her since I’m about ninety-seventh. But he’s so gloomy he makes Marilyn Manson look like a ray of sunshine.

I hate it when Paige has a boyfriend.

Bobby X did serve a purpose in my life. He’s a comic book geek, a truly passionate collector, so I respect that because I know how he feels. Three weeks ago, when he was still trying to impress Paige, he made us come over so he could show her his collection. Neither of us was impressed, but we were polite. As he was digging through his boxes for his first edition of
Ultimate Spider-Man #1
—“Valued at two hundred bucks!” he told us, the only time I’ve ever heard anything close to an exclamation point in his voice—I saw a comic called
Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children
. My brain said, “Beautiful music for ugly children.” And my show had a name.

I pass a crowd of girls on my way to geography and they look at me like I’m from Planet Strange, which is true. As I get to class, Chad Baker slams his locker door and turns to me. “Hey, he-she-it girl, s’up?”

Instead of ignoring him, my general MO, I smile. “How ya doin’, asshat?” I can afford it. This life is almost over.

I’m not sure why guys are meaner to me than girls are—they don’t even know about Gabe, and it’s not like I’m stealing their girlfriends. Maybe on some subconscious level they know we share a label. And if
I’m
a guy, maybe they think it makes them
less
of a guy. Honestly, there’s a part of me that’s sad to join them. If testosterone shots turn me into an asshole, I’m gonna be pissed.

I slide into my seat in geography about a second before the bell rings. This class is sort of okay, but Heather Graves is in here, and she’s Beyoncé, J.Lo, and Christina Aguilera all together. I’ve had a crush on her since we were freshmen. We were in the same gym class, and she and I had to be square-dance partners once since we didn’t have a matched set of guys and girls. I looked at her shoes the entire time.

Mr. Anderson doesn’t call the roll out loud, so I don’t even know if he knows I’m here, which is fine. I prefer to be white paint on the wall—something you’d never notice. But I always stick out. Plenty of other kids take shit from everyone, but I get it double because nobody knows where to put me. Lesbian? Guy? Ugly and can’t dress herself? I don’t fit anywhere.

“Elizabeth Williams.”

I jump. “What?”

“Come to the board, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“No excuses—come to the board, please.” There’s a blank map of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia up there.

I stand up and bang my knee on the bottom of the desk. I hear a snicker and a “lesbo!” from the back of the room as I slouch my way up there. Two random guys I don’t know are giving me the look usually reserved for dog shit on your shoe.

Mr. Anderson clears his throat. “Please label all the countries that were once part of the USSR.”

“Excuse me?” I stall for more time.

“Once again, no excuses—please label all the countries that were once part of the USSR. There are fifteen countries.” He sits next to the board on a high stool, straight and prim.

My hand is frozen, marker tip resting on Russia. I do know that one. I write it slowly, and my brain begins to feed me more answers. I label as many as I can, as fast as I can, and sit down. In my hurry to get back to my seat I manage to kick a desk, and a voice from the back hisses, “carpet muncher.”

I bury my face in my notebook.

Mr. Anderson peruses the board. “Very good, Elizabeth. You only missed Kazakhstan. All right, class, who can tell me … ” The sound drones on as I recover.

I pull my notebook away from my face and look at the picture taped there. It settles me, just a little. It’s my senior picture. My other senior picture. I went to another photographer the week after my mom made me do the Elizabeth ones. Those were outdoors, and my mom wanted at least six poses with two different sets of clothes. I look like I’m going to barf in every single shot, and she was pissed beyond belief when she got the proofs. This one is more my style—soft lighting with a dark background, me in a dress shirt with a good-looking tie. I’m looking straight into the camera with no smile. Gabe the businessman. You kind of have to squint your eyes to believe it’s a guy, but it’s a start. It was a good day.

The photographer thought I was nuts when I asked him for only one four-by-six print. But who else would I give them to?

“Who’s that?” Someone’s talking in my ear. I whip my head around to see Heather. When did she start sitting behind me? Or talking to me, for that matter?

I almost can’t speak. “Where’d you come from?”

“Anderson just rearranged us, remember?”

“I forgot.” I’m not even sure I remember my name right now.

Heather’s still staring over my shoulder. “Who’s that? He’s kind of cute. Hold it up.”

What would Elvis do? He would show her the photo. Somehow I have strength in my hand, and I lift the notebook so Heather can see it over my shoulder.

“He looks … hey, is that you, just really butched up?”

“Well … ”

“Or is it a cousin or someone?”

“It’s … hard to explain.”

“He’s kind of cute.”

I try not to fall out of my chair. We’ve never said more than three words to each other and she thinks Gabe is kind of cute. Go figure.

“Ouch!” Heather yells it in my ear. I’m sure talking to me has caused her brain to melt down into one massive headache.

“Sorry.”

“Not you.” I look behind me and she’s picking up a pen. “Them.” The two dudes with the stupid comments are waving at her.

“Elizabeth Williams and Heather Graves!” Mr. Anderson’s paying more attention to me today than he has the whole semester.

“What?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson?” Her answer is better than mine.

“Focus on the board, not on your neighbor.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.” We say it together.

At graduation I’ll be the happiest senior in the history of the universe. Hands down.

Finally, finally, finally the class is over and I slouch out the door. Behind me, I hear Heather Graves yell, “Mara!”

There are bunches of Maras in this school, right? Tons of Maras.

I sneak a look to my left, and Heather and a beautiful brunette are laughing about something. I decide to casually shuffle by and see if I can hear her. She’s never been in any of my classes. Maybe she’s a junior.

Voice as perky as can be, the brunette says, “Do you think you’ll go to Jessie’s tomorrow night? I’m not sure if I want to.”

I’m so lucky Mara doesn’t look at me, because I’m blushing. It’s definitely the phone girl, not to mention the fact that Phone Mara is also Change Girl. Every day, when I buy myself a Pepsi at lunch, I have to get change from her at the snack bar, and I always think, “Gee, that girl is pretty.”

Shit.

I see Heather wave goodbye to Mara and link arms with the guy from the back of the class who threw the pen. They walk off somewhere, and Mara goes in another direction.

Note to self: buy a roll of quarters on the way home.

Seventh hour. Government. Paige is in the AP version and I’m in the everybody-else section, and we’re doing group projects about the Constitution. My group has to do the Eighth Amendment, which is the one about cruel and unusual punishment. I’m not sure why group work isn’t counted in that amendment. Especially when it’s a group with Paul Willard and Kyle Marshall.

Well, Kyle’s okay, not stupid or a bad group member, but he keeps frowning at me when I talk, like I’m speaking another language. Paul’s just dead weight. He’s flirting with Ashley Jones, who’s actually in the group next to us, and she’s got her hand on his knee. Paul’s hard-on is probably keeping him from thinking about the Eighth Amendment.

Kyle kicks Paul under the table. “Hey, dipshit, you’re in charge of finding three sources about the Eighth Amendment.”

Paul smiles one more time at Ashley, then turns back to us. “Why can’t she do it?” He looks at me.

“Liz has other stuff to do. This is your shit.”

“Whatever. ” He scoots his chair closer to Ashley and starts whispering in her ear.

I turn back to Kyle. “So what’s my job?”

“Find three sources about why the death penalty isn’t considered cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Sure thing.” I grab my books and go to the front of the room. Mr. Alonzo is looking through his desk for something, which I’m hoping is a breath mint because his breath is legendary.

“May I go to the library?” I stand back a bit, just in case.

Alonzo looks up at me, then at the clock. “You’ve got five minutes until last bell. Sit down.” He goes back to rummaging through the crap in his drawers.

I go back to the table where Kyle and Paul are. They’ve started talking about what’s going on this weekend and neither of them is paying attention to me, which is great. I watch the clock for four more minutes. When the bell goes off, Paul stands up before I can and kicks my chair. “Later, he-she-it girl. Get your sources.”

“You got it, asshole.”

When he turns around to look at me, I give him the finger, very calmly. He laughs, not in a nice way, and reaches out to grab my hand and break it, but I pull away. Kyle stands and watches, waiting to see the fight. Nobody moves. Paul is the first one to give, and by the time he and Kyle are at the door, he’s laughing and looking for Ashley to flirt with. Mr. Alonzo doesn’t say a word.

I stay back until everyone else is out of the room, and then I go home.

I will survive, jackoffs. Just watch me.