Promiscuous (24 page)

He’s in for a rude awakening though, because I am a problem that can’t be solved. My angry, fucked up interior will never change. I can pretend all I want, but I'll always be this damaged enigma. The girl who refuses to admit defeat, even though she’s spent her life being defeated. The girl who lost her virginity at the age of nine to some asshole named Christopher, before she even really knew what virginity was. For me, pain is like gasoline. Hate is like coming home. So why not embrace it? My soul is fundamentally stained, and I can never wash that out.

Eat your fucking heart out, Dorian Grey.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I let my hand drop.

“Get out.” I spit the words into his face through gritted teeth.

And he does. Because Grant is a nice guy, who does what he's told.

And I'm a
dirty, nasty, slutty
bitch who's finally decided to stop hiding her true colors, or trying to pretend I’m something I’m not.

Part IV: “Bitch”

At this point in my story, I imagine you’re asking yourself a great deal of ‘why’ questions.

Such as: ‘Why can’t Tash just get over her issues and trust people, already?’ Or, ‘Why would she go to such great lengths, give up everything she has worked for, and have this miraculous Cinderella-like transformation, just to throw it all away in the end, and revert back to the embittered, petulant, trailer trash skank-a-tron she was in the beginning?’

To answer your first question, I’d like to invite you to please pull your head out of your ass.

Seriously, try letting go of your own, totally subjective view of the world, for one hot minute, and realize that I did not grow up in the same reality you did. I don’t care if you were born in the exact same trailer park, or if you went to the exact same school as me. Your experiences are not my experiences. Your thoughts and feelings and reactions are not the same as mine.

True, we’re all human. True, we all bleed if you prick us. But we all hurt in different ways. We all deal with our pain using personal, and at times, totally incomprehensible methods.

And secondly, about that whole Cinderella thing. Let’s discuss that for a moment, shall we?

One of the earliest derivations of the Cinderella myth was the folk tale of ‘Aschenputtel,’ which was set down by the Brothers Grimm. (And let me assure you, a more aptly-named pair of Germans has yet to be found, because those guys were some grim-ass mother fuckers. If you took the time to add up the amount of characters they’ve decapitated, tortured or disemboweled over the years, I’m pretty sure you’d end up with a higher body count than the entire
Saw
franchise. But I digress.)

In the original story, Aschenputtel—aka ‘Ash,’ because I’m too lazy to keep trying to spell that train wreck of a name—had this ‘Wishing Tree’ she used to cry on, which was planted over the grave of her dead mother. Every time something in her life was bothering her, little Ash would go tell her sob story to mommy deadest, and a magical white bird would appear and chuck things at her. Things she needed, like a pretty dress to go to the prom—or the royal ball, whatever. When she shows up at the ball, obviously Ash is looking pretty fine. But it still takes her three entire nights of dancing with the prince, and sneaking away from him at midnight, before he finally decides he’s had enough of her ‘dance and dash’ bullshit.

So what does this rather resourceful prince do? He smears the palace steps with tar—
Home Alone
style. And this time, when Ash runs away, she loses her shoe.

You’d think this would be the end of the story, right? Prince finds shoe, follows it to maiden, bah-dah-bing, bah-dah-boom. But nope. It takes this douche bag several months of searching, after which he gets duped—not once, but twice—by Ash’s evil stepsisters, who are so obsessed with landing a boyfriend that they actually cut off their own extremities to fit into this magical, prince-catching shoe.

In fact, the only reason the prince doesn’t accidentally go off and marry one of the step sisters, is because he happens to ride past the Wishing Tree every time with his new ‘future bride,’ and the magical white bird clues him in to the deception all like, ‘Hey fuck face, you’ve got the wrong girl!’

Anyway, after failing to recognize his so-called beloved twice, the prince goes back to Ash’s house and rolls up like, ‘Meh, I’m tired of riding around. You got any other eligible bitches up in this joint?’

And Ash’s dad—who is also apparently kind of a douche—kind of shrugs and goes, ‘Oh yeah we’ve got this kitchen girl in the back. She’s kind of dirty, though.’ (Keep in mind, this asshole is fully aware that he’s talking about his own daughter at this point.)

So the prince says something like, ‘Oh well, a girl is a girl, bring her out anyway.
Yawn
.’

That’s when Aschenputtel washes her face off and comes into the front room. But the prince still doesn’t recognize her. In fact, it’s not until she puts the disgusting, blood-covered shoe back on that he looks up and goes, ‘Oh, it’s you! You’re the one I’ve been looking for all this time! Ugh, finally! Let’s get married and stuff.’

And this is the story we tell to thousands upon thousands of little girls every day, to teach them about life.

Now, I think we’ve already established that you and I do not always see eye-to-eye on matters of morality. However, in the interest of bridging the gap, I’d like to share my thoughts on this rather horrifying, yet for some reason widely-beloved story. There are a couple of morals I gleaned from this, but to save time, I’ll just narrow it down to my top three.

One: Cinderella was a
huge
tease. I submit that the only reason the prince fell for her—or thought he fell for her—in the first place was that she kept playing hard to get and running away from him. Guys want what they can’t have, and history has shown us—Homer’s
Odyssey
, anyone?—that they’re willing to fight to get it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going to keep fighting for you, once they’ve got you. (Just look at what happened with me and Grant.)

Two: If your Prince Charming only recognizes you as the love of his life after you’ve washed all the dirt off your face and happen to be wearing the right shoes, dump that prick immediately. Because he’s obviously an idiot.

Three: Maybe if Cinderella had just let herself get mad, and punched those bitchy stepsisters in the face a few years earlier, they wouldn’t have made her their bitch. Just saying.

Oh, you think I’m being irrational, and making sweeping generalizations? We’ll
you’re
the one talking trash to a book, weirdo.

So let’s make a deal, shall we? I won’t give you shit for how you deal with
your
issues, and you won’t judge me for struggling and clawing my way through life, trying to figure out how to deal with mine.

Sound good?

Great.

Now please shut up and let me tell you about the night I ruined the Guthrie High Senior Prom.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Prom day.

On Saturday, I visit the peanut farm late in the afternoon, so my mom and Nana can take pictures with me and Margot with The Dress.

Of course, I didn't tell them about my epic, junk-grabbing falling out with Grant, so they still think he's picking me up at the house later. After I leave to ‘go meet him,’ Nana and my mom are having dinner at the hospital with Margot, probably to take the sting out of her missing the prom. Not that she would've gone anyway. In fact, if she hadn't tried to kill herself, we'd probably be spending tonight watching old John Hughes movies and eating glaucoma brownies with Nana, totally oblivious to who was running for prom court or what the stupid theme of the dance even was.

But she did try to kill herself, and I've finally come to grips with the fact that I’m still kind of pissed at her about that.

Margot's doctors say she'll be out in about three weeks, just in time to finish up her classes and get ready for graduation. But who knows if she'll even want to. Who knows if she'll ever go back to being okay? I used to think that all we had to do was leave high school, and we’d finally be free of our personal demons. But now, I know better. Hell, maybe she would’ve just found herself a brand new Becca Foster in college and started the cycle all over again.

The only thing I know for sure is that I'm not going to be around for graduation. Because I'm not going to keep my promise to Mr. Dodge, or my promise to Margot. I'm going to end it. Tonight.

As I clack loudly down the hallway, I get a thumbs-up from Jerry in room 214—or, as Margot calls him, ‘chronic masturbation guy.’ I take it as a compliment that his pants are still on, and flash him a crimsons-lipped smile as I continue down the hall.
Live it up, Jerry. Enjoy the visual feast.

Tonight, I'm wearing actual heels, which makes me almost six feet tall. I'm done with that kitten heel bullshit. But I did keep the red lipstick, because Keely was right. It's kind of a signature thing now, and the color looks awesome with my dress.

Yesterday, after I got home from decorating, I went over to Mrs. Jimenez's trailer and begged her to make one final alteration. She rolled her eyes and I'm pretty sure she put a curse on me in Spanish, but she did what I asked. Because even in Spanish, Rule #1 translates.

When Margot sees me, she gasps.

“Oh my God! You look...you look so....” Her eyes fall. “What the
hell
did you do?”

I hold up my hands. “I just made a tiny adjustment. Don't you think it looks more ‘Red Carpet’ now?”

Her eyes are huge. “Yeah, but...do you think they'll let you in?”

I look down at myself. The dress Margot designed was already strapless, with a deep sweetheart neckline, but now there's a huge slit running up the front, all the way to my upper thigh.

I shrug. “It doesn't matter. I'm showing up early to help finish setting up.”

She frowns. “I thought you were riding with Grant?”

“Oh yeah, I am.” The lie rolls off my tongue just a little too easily. “Goody two-shoes that he is, he offered to help, so I'm getting dragged along.”

“Oh.” She nods, but I can tell that her best friend senses are tingling.

Fortunately, that's when my mom and Nana show up.

I turn, and my mom covers her mouth, with tears in her eyes. Her gasp is equal parts pride and wistfulness. She's jealous of me, I realize. Because I'm still young, and the rest of my life is still ahead of me, filled to the brim with so much potential.

Little does she know....

“Oh, Natty,” she whispers.” You look so...glamorous.” Then, “
Ooh
, I love that purse!”

Instinctively, I close my hand around the dainty black clutch I picked up at the mall this morning, protecting it from my mom's grasping hands. It has a little chain on the corner that wraps around my wrist like a handcuff, so I won't lose it.

“Glamorous?” Nana snorts. “You look like sex on a stick, Tash. Minus the stick. Are you sure they're gonna let you in?”

Always the peacemaker, Margot rushes to defend me—even though she said the exact same thing not thirty seconds before. “I think she looks like a Greek goddess. Like what's her name, from
Hercules
.”

I raise an eyebrow playfully. “Megara?”

“No, dumb ass.” Margot rolls her eyes. “The actual movie. From the sixties.”

“Oh, right.” I smile, but it feels forced. “Well, let's go ahead and get with the picture taking. I don't want to be late.”

The older ladies coo and make a fuss about where we should stand, and whether or not Margot should take off her fuzzy Muppets robe or leave it on. I tell her she should wear it like a cape, so she does. We laugh and mug for the camera, and for a few minutes it almost seems like things are going to turn out okay. But that’s not the story of my life. So I try to savor the moment, and leave Margot with a few happy memories, just in case this is the last time I ever see her.

After a few thousand pictures, I wave goodbye. I leave the three of them to their Chinese takeout and
Steel Magnolias
DVD, and I drive straight to the school. I park behind the gym and go in through the back entrance, through the girl's locker room.

Before I make my big entrance, I check my lipstick one more time in the full-length mirror by Margot’s ex-favorite bathroom stall. Tonight, my hair is piled gracefully on top of my head. It’s meant to echo the delicate swaths of scarlet red fabric that fall in drapes from my waist to the floor. If it wasn’t for the indecently-high slit, I would look almost…classy. But, as they say, sex sells. And it’s the only thing of value I really have left.

I’ll just have to stop walking whenever I see a teacher, at least until the lights go down in the gym.

“Alright, Tash,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror, the girl I barely recognize. “Time to show them what you’re made of.”

As I enter the cavernous room, I take inventory of who's already there: most of the senior student body officers, a couple of freshmen and sophomores who agreed to set up and then leave because they couldn't find dates, a deejay, and a few random chaperones. I don't recognize most of the adults, so they must be parents who actually give a damn.

Grant isn't around, but then he's probably already at the front table—which is why I came in through the back. I can see Mr. Dodge standing over by the punch, wearing a tux with an orange bow-tie. Of all people, I figure he’d be least likely to play fashion police, so I decide to go and talk to him.

“Hey, Mr. Dodge. Nice suit.”

He's in the middle of filling up the punch bowl, so he barely glances at me.

“Hello, Natasha. Are you here to—”

When he looks up a second time, Mr. Dodge almost drops the jug.

“Help?” I answer his stare with a wicked smile, like I know what he's thinking—and it doesn't bother me. After all, I'm just an object, right? I might as well use what I've got. “Yes, I am here to help.”

I lean my hip up against the table, bringing myself down slightly so our eyes are level.