My Invented Life (3 page)

Then I beat her at something without even trying. One fine day I got breasts, and not the Ping-Pong ball variety. I thought I’d get my period first too, until I found a box of tampons in her room. “What are these for?” I asked.

“Guess,” she said.

“Just in case?” I asked.

She laughed and shook her head.

“For cleaning your ears?”

“Right on the second try.”

It was an obvious lie, even back then, when I wanted to believe her. I’ll ask her why someday . . . if we’re ever friends again.

By the morning of the next day, I need to talk to someone. Either that or commit myself to a home for girls with excessive and neurotic nervous mannerisms. I cross the gopher-infested field that separates my house from Sapphire’s. Sapphire is the coolest adult for miles around and my drama teacher. Though she’s the same age as Mom, they have nothing in common. Mom drives a Volvo, while Sapphire tools around in her lemon yellow VW bug. Sapphire chose a new name for herself when she became an adult. But when I suggested Gethsemane to Mom, she refused to consider it.

As I near Sapphire’s house, a Grateful Dead tune comes at me through the open window, along with an unpleasant smell. I let myself in. I find her standing in front of the stove stirring an enormous pot of soup, her bare feet on a patch of floor where the linoleum has worn through. A full stereo dominates the counter where ordinary people put their microwave.

“Stay for lunch,” she says, holding out a spoon for me to taste.

The odor—reminiscent of animal hair and toenails—convinces me that the time has come to adopt my new vegetarian diet. “I don’t eat meat,” I say.

“Groovy. Since when?”

“Since now,” I answer.

She laughs. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I sit at the kitchen table—a mint green Formica thing from the fifties. A small shelf above it serves as a makeshift altar where the Buddha and the Virgin Mary rub shoulders. Her kitchen has been my haven since forever. I spin the stool, kicking off from the table leg while exhaling slowly like I learned in the meditation class Sierra and I took together.

“So what’s the big secret?” Sapphire asks. She can read my mind but never judges. I confessed to her (and her only) when I cheated on a history test last year. She supported me through my kleptomania phase, too. I think of her as a sounding board for my new ideas, a focus group for my new product lines.

“Bryan,” I say. “He made a pass at me.”

Sapphire pats my hand. If she were Mom, she’d act like a squadron of fighter jets just buzzed the kitchen. “And what did you do?”

I take another deep breath. “Nothing. He’s Eva’s boyfriend.”

“Very mature,” she says.

Sigh. My test failed. Even free-spirited Sapphire believes that going for Bryan would be immature.

“I have the perfect balm for your aching heart,” she adds. She lowers the volume on the stereo and puts a finger to her lips. I catch guitar strumming from her back room.

“My sister’s son is visiting me,” she says. “Jonathan’s a senior and a hottie too.”

“You have a sister?”

Sapphire has never mentioned this before. The omission
raises goose bumps on my arms. When Eva and I were little, I dreamed we would grow up and live together in the same house. Later on I accepted we would just be neighbors. Could we grow apart so profoundly that she wouldn’t mention me to her friends? I don’t respond well when people strip me of my delusions. Like the time my best friend in the second grade informed me that the Tooth Fairy didn’t exist. I hid under her bed and cut off the pink mane of her My Little Pony.

“Would you mind showing him around?” Sapphire asks. “How about tomorrow after tryouts?”

“If Jonathan’s a senior, why isn’t he in school?”

For a moment she looks like a person choosing between brands of laundry detergent. I’m guessing she’s deciding how much to tell me. “He got into a spot of trouble after an ugly split with his girlfriend. Nothing big, but there was talk of suspension. My sister worked it out so he could transfer here.”

“You want me to date some juvenile delinquent head case? What did he do?” My elbow collides with the vase of flowers on the table.

Sapphire rights it quickly and tosses a kitchen towel on the puddle. “Nothing terrible. And it’s not a date.” The guitar music stops. A small thud from the back room shakes the little house.

“Why not introduce us now?” I ask.

The next thud suggests overturned furniture.

“Later,” she says, ignoring the racket. “I wouldn’t ask if I thought you couldn’t handle it.” She turns up the music again.

The noise from the back of the house stops. I launch
the next test. “There’s something else going on . . . with Eva.”

Sapphire tilts her head to show she’s listening.

“I think she’s a lesbian.”

“That’s way far out,” Sapphire says. “And so cool she can talk to you about it.”

Freeze scene
.

When I say, “I think she’s a lesbian,” Sapphire’s face darkens. Think computer screen when the hard drive crashes. Soup scum slides down the side of the pot and hisses in the fire. She stands up to lower the flame.

“It’s just a theory,” I add, faltering a little.

“It isn’t appropriate to talk like that about your sister’s personal life,” she says.

Appropriate? Sapphire sounds positively parental. I jump off the stool, and my hip accidentally bumps the table. The vase falls over again, rolls, and smashes to the floor.

Sapphire hands me a broom and dustpan. “You really had it in for that vase,” she says. “It wasn’t that ugly.”

I don’t laugh. Sierra would call it instant karma for talking about Eva behind her back. I call it bizarre.

Sapphire stirs turmeric and cumin into the soup as if nothing happened. I finish cleaning up the mess. “I’d better go,” I say. “You know, practice my lines one last time.”

“Are you okay?”

“A little nervous about tomorrow.”

“With your talent, Shakespeare will be a stroll in the park.”

“Thanks,” I say.

When I make it outside, I count up my losses—Sierra,
Eva, and now Sapphire. That doesn’t even take into account the drought in Boyfriend Land. I see loneliness in my future. Except for a nondate with a quasi punk who probably hates girls based on a warped relationship with his evil ex-girlfriend. That’s when I notice strange objects strewn below the open window alongside the house—clothes, an empty suitcase, and an office chair. So he’s a performance artist too. I’d title his installation Life Sux Yolo Bluffs Sux More. At least my nondate with Jonathan won’t be dull.

B
ack home
Mom is out with Eva, and Dad is on the phone. After an unfulfilling lunch of raw broccoli and carrots, I log on to chat with someone. Sadly, it’s dead in Electron Land. Maybe everyone got boyfriends for Christmas. Anyway, I need more time to obsess about the incident at Sapphire’s house. I wish I could Google the inside of her head. Since that’s not possible, I Google gay teens. The first site features a coming-out story by Jaylee.

By the time I was eleven I knew I was different from other girls, and it scared me. So when my best friend chased me around the garden, I pretended my pounding heart was from running so hard. By high school I admitted (to myself) I was attracted to girls. The pressure kept building inside me, until one day my friends asked me a question about the prom, and I started to cry. When they freaked, I blurted out, “I think I’m a lesbian,” expecting that to be the end of everything. Instead they surprised me! They had guessed already and were glad I finally told them.

The story moves me so much, I devour a second one, and then another, and another—like Pringles until the
tube is empty. Coming out doesn’t sound half bad. I’m even a little jealous of some of these girls. For one thing, I wonder if
my
so-called friends would be that supportive. For another, these girls get to be themselves for the first time in their lives, and it’s a joyous occasion for the most part. I print the best stories for Eva because they might give her courage to be true to herself.

In case she
is
a lesbian.

Auditions for the play are tomorrow after school. I should be practicing my lines, but Andie’s book calls to me with a siren’s song. Always put off till tomorrow what you can do tomorrow. I read the book to the end. After a few teary scenes, the other chess geeks come to their senses, embrace the lesbian lovebirds, and throw a dance party where they all dress as their favorite chess piece. I love happy endings.

Since I’m already in procrastination mode, I scour my closet for an outfit with good juju for tomorrow. Unfortunately, my most flattering ensemble—scoop-necked top, floral miniskirt, and velvet leggings—doesn’t say shepherdess. Then it hits me. I should take Carmen’s “advice” and try out for the lead. While Dad’s still on the phone, I borrow a casual button-down shirt and tie from among his work clothes. Then, standing in front of my mirror, I read the lines from the play where Rosalind dresses as a man.

A boar spear in my hand; and—in my heart,

(
I adopt a warrior’s pose
.)

Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,

(
I thrust out my jaw
.)

We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,

(
Where did I leave my sword? I’m always forgetting it under the seat in some café
.)

As many other mannish cowards have. . . .

I remove the tie, unbutton the shirt three notches, and layer with a cute vest. Better. Bryan won’t find me attractive if I’m too mannish on the outside. Still, I would do anything to play Rosalind. A tattoo on my lower back—a snake, maybe—or a strategic facial piercing would toughen my image without sacrificing sex appeal. Unfortunately, Mom flips whenever I mention needles and skin in the same sentence. My hair isn’t quite right, either. I test the blade of my sewing scissors against my thumb. Not salon quality, but good enough.

Mom suffers from classic bad timing. I wonder if showing up at the wrong moment is an innate talent or a skill she’s been developing. Just as the last of my long, auburn tresses hits the rug, she yells from the living room, “I’m home!”

My reflection sneers at me—“Got a little carried away, did we?” When I hear
chhhh
coming from the shower, I sneak past the kitchen with a towel around my head. Gethsemane spots me before I make the front door. Must be Elmo in the bathroom.

“Why are you wearing a turban?” she asks.

I can’t think of a good lie. “I joined a cult,” I say. “I’ll be home before dinner.”

“Not wearing that on your head,” she says. Parents
should be required by law to listen to themselves so they can hear how condescending they sound.

I take off the towel as ordered. Her reaction deserves the horror movie hall of fame. If this were my cue, I would look behind me and discover a slimy monster of gigantic proportions, saliva dripping off its daggerlike teeth.

“Does this have anything to do with that thing between you and Eva?” she asks.

I swear Mom has barely glanced at me in the last two weeks. Where does she get this stuff? Maybe she really does have eyes in the back of her head. Maybe she bugged my room.

“What thing?” I say. “I was fooling around with a new look.”

Mom drives me to Hair Central, where styling guru Miranda does her best to even out what’s left. My hair ends up very short, except for a fringe in back that I insist upon based on a lesbian rocker hairdo I saw on the Net. I ask Miranda for some green highlights. She clicks her tongue at me.

“Earth tones are the style this year,” she says.

How would she know? Her tongue isn’t even pierced.

On the drive home, Mom brings up the topic we’ve both been avoiding.

“Why did you cut off your hair?”

“I felt like a change. And I’m a vegetarian now, too,” I say, employing a simple sleight of hand. Look at the egg. Now it’s gone. See the pretty silk handkerchief.

“What brought that on?”

I pinch the roll at my waist. “I’m tired of being fat.”

She shakes her head at me. “Your weight is healthy.”

I don’t want to be healthy; I want to be sexy. “Did you know that they raise pigs in pens so small they can’t turn around?” I say.

I can tell from the way she presses her lips together that she will say something reasonable, like we rarely eat pork anyway. We pull up to a red light, and she turns to look at me. I roll my eyes as a preliminary rebuttal to her future argument. She surprises me by saying something entirely different.

“I didn’t try vegetarianism till college,” she says. “You’re a little early.”

We get home and choose a recipe together for dinner. While I chop the veggies, she makes the sauce. After a while I admit to cutting off my hair for tryouts, neglecting to mention my new fascination with coming-out stories and how that may have influenced me. Nor do I say a word about my Eva-is-a-lesbian theory. She thinks I went too far cutting my hair for a role I haven’t gotten yet, but seems satisfied by the quarter truths I tell her.

“All’s well that ends with a cute haircut,” she says, and I laugh like a good daughter should.

I set the wok on the table in front of Dad. “Where’s Eva?” I ask.

“With Bryan,” Mom says.

Well, lah-di-dah.

She misinterprets the look on my face. “You’ll find a boyfriend like Bryan someday,” she says.

No, Bryan will be my boyfriend someday
.

“I don’t think Bryan’s so great,” Dad says.

If Dad had his way, there would be no boyfriends until we finished graduate school.

“Although anybody would be better than your last boyfriend, Prince Charmless,” he adds, winking at me. Obviously he forgot that Eva went out with Prince Charmless first.

“Roz decided to go vegetarian,” Mom says. She fills his plate.

“Cool,” he says.

He’s not one to criticize hot food set in front of him, with or without meat. Both of my parents like to cook, but only on weekends when they aren’t tired out from work. Unfortunately, we’re a family who’d rather eat out in a town with four mediocre restaurants.