My Name Is Chloe (2 page)

Caitlin encouraged me to journal down my thoughts. She said it’s a good way to get in touch with my feelings, although I feel pretty in touch already—sometimes too much so. She also said I should write down prayers. I tried not to laugh when she said that, but I’m thinking:
What prayers
? I mean, I don’t
ever
pray. I don’t even want to pray. And why is that? I say I still believe in God. Well, sometimes anyway. So why wouldn’t I want to try praying to him?

I guess it’s because I’m worried that, if he really does exist, he’ll want to change me. And
I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. Even though I’m unhappy and mixed up and feeling a little frightened, I’m still not sure I want to change. So instead of a prayer, I guess I’ll just write down a poem. Because I’m not only a musician, I’m also a poet. And I am me! Chloe.

This was the longest week of my life. Every single day was grueling—worse torture than walking barefoot over thumbtacks or having bamboo slivers stabbed beneath your fingernails. I am utterly exhausted. Now, for whatever reason, I have promised myself not to swear or cuss or use profanity in my diary. (I also try to avoid such cheap tactics in my lyrics.) But right now I could easily back down on this puritanical pledge.

Because what I want to know is: What’s the bleeping reason for throwing a bunch of insecure, heartless, narcissistic, shallow, malicious, crass, and did I mention self-centered, adolescents together into one huge merciless cement complex and making them spend four years of their young impressionable lives together in there? If we were rats we’d probably start chewing off each other’s tails by the third day. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what a lot of kids do. But what’s the point of this pubescent penitentiary? Is it because the rest of the world is so frightened of teenagers that they want
to keep us off the streets for at least seven hours a day, five days a week, and nine months out of the year—like a part-time prison? Because it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Like today. I’m just minding my own business, washing my hands at the sink in the girls’ bathroom (a dangerous practice, i have learned, much more hazardous than walking around with toilet germs) when Tiffany Knight looks over at me and says, “Hey, I thought Goth went out with the last millennium.” Then she and her moronic friends laugh as if that’s real funny. Now I’ve known Tiffany since junior high, and she’s always been a great big pain in the you-know-what.

She’s one of those girls who craves, more than anything, to be
really
popular, but she can never quite make it into the inner circle of the elite. Probably because she’s so mean. As a result she’s gathered a small group of friends (Tiffany wannabes) that she controls like a bunch of trained monkeys. And her group of followers seems to derive a twisted pleasure from torturing anyone they perceive as
below
them—which probably consists of most of the rest of us.

Okay, I realize now that my first mistake was to even talk with her. I should’ve just walked away. But regrettably I reacted. Remember how I like to learn things
the hard way
?

“Do you even
know
what Goth is?” I ask, but not
in a mean way exactly. At least I didn’t think so at the time.

Well, this stops her for a moment, as she stares at me with obvious disdain and a pretense of superiority, but it doesn’t shut her up long enough for me to make my exit. Besides that, she and her goons are now blocking the door. So she sticks her chin out and says, “I know that
your look
is definitely the lamest thing I’ve seen since my grandma’s old Persian cat got his head stuck in the garbage disposal.”

Now this really cracks her friends up, but I don’t quite see the humor. Still, instead of just walking away, I toss back my own zinger. “Well, Tiffany, I guess
you should know
since you and your cookie-cutter friends all look like a bad day at the Fashion Butterfly.” Now that’s a pretty good put-down because Fashion Butterfly is this old ladies’ store on Main Street where no self-respecting teenager would ever be seen. My mom won’t even go in there.

Naturally no one laughs at my joke. And the next thing I know, Tiffany is right in my face, so close I can actually smell her Tommy Hilfiger perfume as well as see a fairly large but well-concealed zit on the tip of her nose. And her friends are right behind her.

“You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you, Chloe?” Tiffany’s breath smells like that sorry
excuse for pizza the cafeteria dishes up twice a week.

Well, as much as I don’t want to experience any-physical pain or discomfort, I also have no desire to give up my tough-girl image either. I mean, sometimes being tough is about all a girl has. So I stand firm and say, “I’m sure you think you’re pretty tough too, Tiffany. At least when you’ve got your goons to back you up.” Then I actually take what I hope is an intimidating step closer to her and we are literally nose-to-nose (an experience I’d just as soon forget—and soon). “I wonder how tough you’d be if it were just you and me.”

In that same instant I am exceedingly thankful for my additional few inches of height as well as the fact that I am wearing my studded black leather bracelet, not to mention my sturdy Doc Martens boots. But at the same time my heart is literally running the hundred-yard dash, and I want to disappear in a vapor of purple haze. Because, despite my tough appearance, I am basically a nonviolent person.

Just then, I hear the door open and I glance past Tiffany and her friendly thugs to see Laura Mitchell walk in. Now all I know about Laura is that she sits behind me in choir and has a pretty decent voice—in fact, she’s really quite good. But we’ve never had an actual conversation before today.

“What’s up?” she asks loudly, pushing her way past the cookie-cutter girls clogging the doorway. “You staging a fight in here or something?” She eyes me curiously then turns her attention to Tiffany. “Maybe I should go out in the hallway and announce to everyone that there’s going be a big cat fight in here. I’m sure they’d love to see you all scratching and screaming and pulling out hair—”

“
Back off
!” Tiffany hisses. Her attention has moved from me and is fully on Laura now.

“Hey …” Laura holds up her hands then lifts her brows as if she wants to remain neutral. “I just came in here to—”

“Why don’t you just take a hike, sistah?”

Now I didn’t mention that Laura is of African-American descent, but she definitely does not appear to appreciate Tiffany’s snide little
sistah
remark. And the next thing I know Laura squeezes in next to me, positioning herself directly in front of Tiffany. Then she narrows her eyes and speaks in a quiet but intense voice. “
I am not your sister
.”

Just as I’m bracing myself for everything ugly to break loose, the door opens again and Mrs. Langford, an elderly English teacher, walks in and looks curiously at our little throng. “Everything all right in here, girls?” she asks in her apple-pie voice.

This mercifully breaks the happy party up, and Tiffany and her monkeys slip out the door acting like the good little girls they want everyone to think they are. Everyone except for us unlucky ones—the ones they set their sights on — to search out and destroy. That always includes any of us who are willing to look or act or even think different. Because difference is not tolerated by people like Tiffany.

Laura and I spoke only briefly in the bathroom. I think I was more shaken than I wanted to admit. Besides, Mrs. Langford was probably listening from behind the stall door. I’m not sure what made her use the girls’ bathroom in the first place, since they have a special one for teachers, but maybe it was occupied. Just the same, I’m glad she did. And I promised myself that I’d put out more of an effort in my composition class with her.

“See ya ’round,” I said to Laura as I left.

She nodded. “Yeah, take it easy.”

And so I’m thinking, maybe i should try to get to know this girl better. But at the same time, I’m wondering why she’d want to know me. She seems to have a big group of friends already. And to be honest, they look a little too preppy for me. Okay, not as bad as Tiffany and her wannabes. But they definitely seem to be into labels and fashion and image and could be shallow. Although I could be
all wrong too since I don’t really know them personally. They’re from a different middle school, and they seem pretty tight-knit. They probably have no interest in hanging with a white chick anyway. Besides, I’m sure they think I’m pretty weird. And that’s okay. I’m used to being alone. And I’m pretty good at acting as if I like it.

Had a big fight with Mom tonight. What a surprise. She’s been on my case all week to clean up my room. But I think, hey, it’s my room. If I want
to live like a pig, well, who’s it gonna hurt?

“It’s just like your life,” she said as she blocked my doorway so I couldn’t close it and couldn’t leave unless I wanted to jump out the window, which I only try to do when my parents aren’t looking.

“Yeah, well, it’s my life, isn’t it?” I flopped down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing she would just go away. These little confrontations don’t help anything. And my mom has this tendency to let things go for a long time, but then like a pot that’s been left on the stove too long, she boils over and burns whoever crosses her path. Usually, my dad intervenes about that time, but he was out of town on business.

“You live under our roof! And you are our daughter! You might think you’re all grown up, but you’re still a child, and there are certain things you
have
to do!”

“Duh.”

“Are you listening to me, Chloe?”

“How could I not be?” I sat up and looked at her. “You’re screaming so loud I’m sure everyone in our neighborhood is listening.”

Now this quieted her down a couple of decibels because despite everything else, she does care what the neighbors think. A lot.

“Look, Chloe,” she was softening now. “I try to be patient with you. I put up with your clothes,
your hair, and your attitude, but there are some things I simply cannot put up with.”

“Such as?”

“Your room, for instance. I insist that you clean it at least once a week. It’s a—a health hazard. Look at the cereal bowl over there.” She pointed to a bowl on my dresser. “It’s turning green.”

“It’s a science experiment.”

“
Chloe
!”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, maybe I could clean up a little. But why do you have to come so unglued about such minor things?”

Okay, that was probably a mistake. My mom took that as some sort of an invitation to really bare her soul to me. Something I could’ve easily lived without tonight.

But being a somewhat dutiful although somewhat detached parent, she came over and sat on my bed. “It’s because I’m worried about you, Chloe.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“I can’t help it. You’re my daughter. And you don’t seem happy to me.”

“
Happy
?” I laughed sarcastically. “Is there any such thing?”

“Of course, there is. Lots of people are happy. Your father and I are happy. Josh is happy.”

I noticed she didn’t include Caleb on her little happy list, but thinking better of it, I didn’t
mention it either. “Well, did it ever occur to you that some of us just aren’t
meant
to be happy?”

“But you used to be happy. At least I thought you were. You had friends and you went to slumber parties and you played soccer and acted, well, like a normal girl—”

I socked my pillow with my fist. “So that’s it. You want me to be a
normal
girl. You want me to dress and act and talk and think just like the rest of the superficial airhead girls that go to my creeped-out school. They’re all clawing and climbing to be among the elite, the best, the queens of the high school ball, willing to walk all over anyone who gets in their way as they fight their way to the top. That is, if they even can get to the top, and most can’t. You want me to be like
that
?”

Her eyebrows shot up and she pressed her lips together.

“That’s really it, isn’t it?” My voice was loud now. “You simply cannot stand that I’m not like that. That I’m not like you!”

“Oh, Chloe, I’m glad that you are your own individual—”

“
No, you’re not, Mom
! You wish and you probably even pray that I would be just like the others—what you call happy! If you could, you’d probably clone me into the spitting image of yourself back when you were in high school — Miss
Rah-Rah Rally and Homecoming Queen. Well, you better get over it, Mom, ’cause it just ain’t gonna happen!”

Now I could see her getting all weepy—the second act of her annual “Be Like Everyone Else” show. “You’re just going through a difficult time—”

“You got that one right. Life is difficult. And high school is the pits.”

“But things can change—”

“Don’t count on it, Mom. At least not if you’re thinking it’s me who’s going to do the changing. Because, like it or not, I am who I am.”

“But you’re unhappy.”

Despite myself I let a cuss word fly. But my mom just continued, pretending not to even notice. “I just want you to be happy, Chloe.”

If I heard that happy word one more time tonight, I might literally explode—go flying into a thousand pieces, splattering all over my room in a nasty bloody mess.