Stacy

Stacy would like not to be an outsider girl, but because of her OG best friend Melanie, Stacy has been dragged in(see OGW, 12/3/09, 1/4/10).  Right now, she’s trying to write a letter to Melanie, who has finally been sent, against her will, to rehab.

Stacy:  “Whuh-ut!”  I roll my eyes as I shut the lid on my laptop.  I feel like growling, so I do.  “Grrrr,” but my little sister doesn’t hear that, or she doesn’t care, more likely.  She knocks on my bedroom door again, and can’t see when my fingers curl into manicured claws that I want to use to scratch someone’s eyes out – hers, Melanie’s, my own, I don’t care.  Fucking Melanie.  Fucking Heather.  Fuck me.

     My sister knocks again, boldly, unashamedly, without fear – which makes me even madder.  Now my claws dig into my palms, making half-moon circles as my hands become fists.

     “I said, what!” I say.

     At this, my sister Heather, six years old and oblivious, walks into my room.  It won’t do me any good to yell at her now, she’s already here.  I sigh, a sigh-growl – huuuh (yoga breath in), huuurrgh (and out).

     “Whatcha’ writing?  Is it a poem?  Is it about me?  Want me to write you a poem?”

     I was writing a letter.  I don’t want to – oh fuck it, let her see it!  I open my laptop, which whirrs to life, and my letter to Melanie appears –

     Dear Melanie,

I am hurt that you would ask me to

     “I can even write a song!” Heather continues.  “Here it goes, ‘My sister Stacy is a witch,/ My sister Stacy has eyes that twitch,/ Stacy, oh Stacy, is so mean,/ She always makes me feel inbetween—“

     “That doesn’t even make sense, you little freak!”  I grab Heather around her little kid belly and pull up her tee shirt, saying, “I’ve got skin!  I’ve got skin!”  Squiggling my fingers on her belly, which is her biggest tickle spot, I crack her up. 

     “NO!” (gasp gasp giggle), “I’M NOT DONE!” (gasp, giggle giggle choke, giggle).  She squirms away.  She gets to my bed, climbs up on top and throws her arms to the side, not just singing, but bellowing, “My sister Stacy grabs my skin,/ Makes me laugh, ain’t that a sin,/ She’s all mad that I can sing,/ And she can’t and her friend Melanie went to rehab,/ Which doesn’t rhyme/ Ain’t it a crime –“

     Heather jumps back as I leap from my chair to the bed.  I grab her by the sneaker and pull her toward me.  She’s giggling, and starts singing that Amy Winehouse song which it’s just crazy for a six year old to know and it makes me want to cry, only I laugh as I pull her all the way to me and she’s singing in a fake low voice, “They try to make me go to rehab and I say—“

     “And I say/ No!  No!  No!”  We sing together, and then I tickle Heather on the belly again, and she gets me in my tickle spot under the chin, and we crack up and the computer goes back to sleep before I could write to Melanie that I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to sneak her some blotter acid in rehab because then she’ll never come home.

     “Do you wanna play with me now?” Heather says.

     “We are playing,” I say, tickling her tummy again and then we’re laughing so hard, we fall off the bed.

My mother’s all, “Cut that crap out, I’m trying to watch my show!” from downstairs, which is bullcrap anyway, she’s probably on the computer googling herself as usual and doing lines no doubt and Heather and I don’t stop, we just roll around and tickle and laugh, and I never do get to finish that letter or even smoke the joint in my desk drawer like I was gonna.

Eva

Eva:  New outsider girl Eva walks with a limp, has a lazy eye, has an unfortunate haircut… well, read on and you’ll see.

Eva:

I had a dream

I met my twin.

We wore the same earrings:

Scalloped mother-of-pearl.

We met in my doctor’s office.

“Take a book, leave a book”

Says a sign on a basket.

There is a water cooler

At one end of the room

A mirror you walk by

To get to it

That I never look in.

I hate my doctor’s office.

Soon I will have to undress,

And I worry what she will think.

I smiled at my twin, shy.

“Your hair looks like mine,”

She said with a sneer.

I noticed her hair was some

Shade of brown-blonde,

My shade of brown-blonde,

Attempting to be a cute bob.

Unsuccessful.

“Your breasts are kinda small,

I noticed,” I said, as I

I got a small, paper cone

Of water, limped with it

Back to my seat,

Sipped,

And stared.

“You walk funny,”

Said my twin.

“You talk funny,”

I said, feeling meaner,

“Your nose is bent,”

“Your forehead is too high”

“Your zits are gross,”

“You have a lazy eye.”

We scowled,

We pouted,

We stared,

We glared,

And finally,

We cried.

Gemma

Gemma is the adolescent girl with wings, a birth defect caused by her mother smoking Fairy Dust.  Gemma is in New York City, searching for her mother, who ran away when Gemma was six.  Earlier posts from Gemma appeared in OGW 9/24/09, 10/29/09, and 2/4/10

Gemma: “Very interesting,” says the woman, peering into my teacup.  “It says here that you must watch out for the hooved poet.”

     “Aren’t you supposed to read the tea leaves?”  I say in a tiny voice, not strong enough to argue, but anxious enough to be a little bitchy about some supposed prophecy coming out of the Lipton tea bag floating in my cup, especially a prophecy that doesn’t tell me shit about where my mother is.  Plus I’m a little p.o’ed at the implication that I have to watch out for a hooved poet, not just any poet -- it seems like racism, or Fant-ism or something, and I take it personally. 

     I feel fragile, and everything seems personal, instead of just maybe this is a crazy old lady who wants some company and wants to give me some tea, and is trying her best.  I’m the one who just wants to cry.  I’m the one with the bad attitude.

     Which is why I let the woman take my hand, and I follow her into a small kitchen with a slanted ceiling on one side, a scarred brown card table with rickety metal poles for legs, a half-sized refrigerator and a teapot shaped like an owl’s head on the stove.  It smells like onions.

     I feel so weak, I can’t even bear to help the woman as she pushes the card table into a corner.  I can’t bear to stand up.

     As if she read my mind, the old woman says, “Sit,” gesturing with a wrinkled, twisted hand, down at the floor, a floor made of a strange assortment of tiles -- patterns, solids, faux stone of gray, brown and red, a row of glossy black granite and a half row of pinkish marble, a large square made of smaller squares of purple and yellow, a circle of blue glass.  She wants me to sit inside the circle.  I don’t think so.

     Goosebumps rise on my arms.  I shiver.

     “You’re cold, just a sec,” she says, stepping into the circle herself.  She spins around, tottering, and I recover enough strength to reach out to steady her, getting a fistful of baby blue tulle which then suddenly I’m afraid will tear, so I let go, and she really sways for a moment, but catches herself. 

     She smiles at me and winks, then closes her eyes, which I wish she wouldn’t do because she’s going to break a hip or something, especially spinning in the long prom dress she’s wearing.  “Spirit of fire, I command you, bring us warmth!”

     It doesn’t feel warmer, but I can’t tell her that, and now that she’s gone to all this trouble, I can’t tell her I wasn’t cold anyway.  My goosebumps are anticipation or fear, but --

     WTF?  She is opening the oven door and turning up the gas.  A whoosh fills the oven with a flash of blue flame, and then heat does ripple out.   

     “So mote it be!”  she yells, which is a strain for her little old lady voice, and for a moment she turns away, bent over with a dry cough that I’m almost afraid won’t stop.  Like I don’t have enough problems, now I’m afraid for this poor old lady who’s supposed to be helping me.  Yet I’m the one gently patting her back.  I can’t believe this crazy lady is my best hope of finding my mother again.  I shudder.

Lilly

OGW NOTE:  OGW WILL NOT BE POSTING NEXT WEEK.  OGW WILL BE POSTING EVERY TWO WEEKS FOR THE SUMMER (JULY-SEPT.)

Lilly:  New Outsider Girl, Lilly, is a teen on her own in San Francisco in the 1990’s.  No home, no job, no life, but surviving thanks to the kindness – or not – of strangers.

Lilly:  San Francisco.  My clubbing years.  My no-real-home years.  Job:  Dancing three nights a week for $75 and free drinks; Troc, Urban Decay, DNA Lounge.  Covers my meth, my E, my weed, my brunch at “R” Bar of bloody mary with shrimp, pickled string beans and celery.  Breakfast of Champions.

I feel like I’m stuck in a permanent weekend.

Sleep wherever I end up.  Today I’m sprawled on a Mexican blanket on someone’s floor.  Can’t remember who.  Is it a she?  A he?  Unusual for me to be on the floor, especially if it’s a he, but often if it’s a she as well.

Mouth dry, lips cracked.  Back aches.  Spine.  Heard when you do Ecstasy your spinal fluid dries up, but I don’t believe it.

Memory:  Dancing afterhours at Chez Luis, basement private club.  E kicking in.  Talking to some girl, name Star.  Talking, talking, talking, yelling over house music spun by DJ Troy, my sometime fuck buddy.  This is not his floor.  Star said, “Where’d you get that New York accent?”  I’m like, “New York.”  She:  “It’s cool.”

Memory:  Huddled against heating unit, naked, crying, pink dildo, trying to jerk off, trying trying trying, can’t.  Curse the tequila at Bar None.  Someone cradles me, picks me up.

Oh that’s how I ended up here.

Push up to sitting.  Naked, great.  Just great.  I frantically scan the room for my duffel, and it’s there on the floor and I grab it, pull it toward me.  Thank God.  Clothes and half a doobie. 

Oh yeah, much better.  Dude or dudette must’ve gone to work?  For coffee?  Bathroom?  No way to know, but don’t care much.  Time for me to exit, stage right.

Locked.  Fucking locked in!  Pound, kick at the door, start screaming in a cracked, desperate voice.  Where am I? 

HELP ME!

No one hears.  No one comes.  Palms hurt from banging on the door.  Sink to the floor, clutch the Mexican blanket like Linus does his security blanket.

Nancy

Nancy is Casey's mother, both from OGW and from the novel I recently finished, Somebody's Daughter.  Nancy's daughter and her friends have been at a party -- their first keg party.  Nancy freaks out and goes looking for them at 3 am.  Read the first 21 pp. of Somebody's Daughter at http://www.writing.com/authors/shelley2007.  Read more from Kayla, Casey, Rain and Nancy in OGW:  10/1, 11/5, 11/12, 12/10, 12/31, 1/14, 2/11, 3/25.


Nancy:   I woke up with a start at three AM, sitting straight up and shaking my head, as if a bucket of water had just been thrown on me.  I rubbed my eyes frantically.  I remember thinking, Something’s wrong!  Casey! and hurrying to her room.  She wasn’t there.  Grabbing my keys and my cell, I was dialing her number as I slid my feet into my Berks.  She didn’t answer, and I left a quick, “Where the hell are you?” message before fumbling with the door downstairs which shit!  -- always stuck in summer.  I threw my shoulder against it and finally smashed through, ran to my car, left the house door open behind me and didn’t care.

Brian Kepler’s house was quiet.  Too quiet.

“Casey!”  I yelled in the backyard.  “Casey!  Casey!”

Backyard strewn with empty and broken bottles.  Pool table in the garage felt torn.  Running, slipping, running, shouting.

“Shut up or I’ll call the cops!”  I heard from the house behind the back fence.

I should’ve called the cops, but I ran into the house through an open door instead, dialing as I went.  “Casey!” I yelled into the house and the phone at the same time, stupid voice mail.  Stupid party.  Stupid mom.

Upstairs, I threw open doors.  Threw open one, and Kayla was in a boy’s bed, but no boy.  She was sleeping, tucked in all nice.   

“Kayla!  Kayla!  Wake up!  Where’s Casey!  Where’s my daughter!”

Kayla opened her eyes, snapping awake the way I had back at home.  “Mrs. Shaw?”  Kayla fumbled under the covers.  “Oh God,” she said.

“Looking for these?” I said, throwing her underpants at her.  “Where is Casey?”

“I don’t--”

“Forget it!  You’re useless.  You stupid little--”  I didn’t say bitch, but I was thinking it as I left the bedroom and continued throwing open doors, shouting as I left open the doors, revealing girls and boys making out, having sex, passed out in vomit, stoned, stupid.  “Casey!”  

The door at the end of the hallway opened, and a boy, Brian, that was who it was, Brian Kepler, I thought.  

He tried to stop me from going in.  “You can’t --”

“Casey!” I yelled, pushing past the boy, into the room.

I froze.

“Look, I don’t know what happened, but I told them they have to go.  I don’t know--”

“Shut UP!”  I yelled in Brian Kepler’s face.  I noticed the top button of his shorts was undone.  He wasn’t wearing a shirt.  “Don’t you move,” I told him.

God help me, I forgot about Casey when I walked into that room.  All I saw was Rain Rikowsky, eyes shut, legs spread. -- (I don’t know how to say this, I’ll just do it) -- a boy with his shirt off and shorts around his ankles, pumping on top of her.  A couple half-naked boys, boys with their zippers undone and their hands moving fast, groans, shouts and cheers swallowed when I’d burst in.  The boy on the bed jumped down and grabbed his shirt off the floor, tried to run.  Brian Kepler stopped him.  I tore a handheld video camera out of another boy’s hand.

“I think you broke my thumb!” he yelled at me.  I slapped him.

“Shut UP!”  I said, rushing to the bed and throwing a stained bloody sheet over Rain’s lower body.  I rushed to her head, I said, “Rain, honey, wake up, Rain, are you there?” Her head lolled.  Someone snickered, but mostly the boys were trying to get away.  Many did escape.  But Brian threw camera boy down and shirtless boy against the wall.  For about half a second I wondered whose side Brian Kepler was on.  He seemed to be on ours.  But I hated him.

I called 911.  I gently stroked Rain’s face.

“Oh God,” I heard from the door.  It was Kayla.  “Rain... Brian... oh God oh God oh God oh--”

Brian tried to hold on to Kayla, but she shoved him, sudden power bursting out of her.  She ran to Rain and held her hand.  I dropped the camera I’d confiscated.  I looked at Kayla.  “Where’s Casey?” I tried to say, but it was hard to talk.  I couldn’t get a breath, and I couldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t find the ground with my feet anymore.  

Gabby

In respect of LGBT WEEK… Gabby is an outsider girl with a lesbian Mom.  Gabby learns that just being lesbian doesn’t make you cool, and her Mom’s girlfriend is as annoying as Mom’s last boyfriend.

Gabby: “Gabby, what’re you doing?” Ellen yells to me, even though I’m only in the next room.  Her tone says:  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s not as important as what I’m about to ask.”

“Folding laundry,” I say.  My tone says, “Your laundry so’re you sure you want to get on my case now?”

“Get me a snack.  Gab-by,” Ellen whines.  “Gabby!”

     “Get it yourself!  God!  I’m folding your laundry right now —“

     “Gaaaby, my feet hurt.  You try wearing three inch heels for eight hours.  What’s your problem anyway, just get me some of those pita chips and some of that spicy hummus from last night.  It’s not that difficult, I’m not asking for you to come up with a gourmet -- Gabby?  Are you listening to me?  Come on Gabby, I’m serious.  Your mother always tells me what a good kid you are… Gabby, are you there?  Gabby, what’re you doing —“

     “Alright, alright!” I say, dropping the laundry on the dining room table.  Anything to shut Ellen up.

     I hate Ellen.  I wish my Mom were home.  This is so Cinderella.  Lesbian Cinderella.

You think it’s going to be different when your Mom reveals to you she’s coming out as a lesbian, I mean, I thought that.  Not just different as in no smelly guys tracking mud in the house and sneaking glances at my chest.  I don’t know why, but I thought when my Mom made peace with her sexuality and got a girlfriend, our life was going to be all about fresh flowers, impromtu fashion shows, sunglasses and floppy hats, makeovers, ice cream straight from the carton… I thought when Ellen moved in it was going to be like the perfect sleepover party.

Ha!

Reality?  Since my Mom got with Ellen, not only is life at home not girl talk and sleeping bags in front of the TV, I can’t even have a real sleepover party with my friends.  Seriously, no one is allowed to sleep over at my house anymore.  None of my so-called friends’ parents want their kid to sleep over in a house full of lesbians.  They like think life in my house is a non-stop orgy or a sex ed. class or something, which is almost as funny as me thinking it would be a non-stop ice cream sleepover.

I want my mom to be happy, I do! I think as I spoon hummus into a small plastic bowl, exactly two tablespoons because Ellen’s on Weight Watchers.

     A tear slips out of my eye and slides over my cheek.  I wipe it away quickly, but another tear follows, then another, then faster and faster, and I’m crying, and I can’t stop and all I want is someone to get a snack for me, to love me.  Right now it feels like I don’t have two Moms, I have two children.  And they’re not the cool kids on the block like I expected they would be.

Jessica

Jessica first appeared in a short story I wrote, called “The Book”, for the anthology “Lost and Found”.  The story is a memory of Jesse and her best friend Anne… first love, and of the events leading up to a tragic accident.

Jessica:

When I isolate, I go all the way, I mean no contact with the outside world, I mean if you’re not an anxiety or nasty phrase in my head, you’re just not in my space, know what I mean?  I’ve been in that head space for weeks.  Not everyday since the accident, but most.

But today, in spite of the pain in my leg, I slid on a pair of sweats and asked my Mom to drive me to the gym. 

When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t even muster the energy to put on my iPod and listen to angry alternative music and cry.  I felt too badly even for that.  Honestly? I wanted to die today.  I usually keep up a good face, and I exercise my bad leg faithfully, but not lately.  Not since a week ago last Tuesday.  Yep, that was the last day I felt like living.  

But this morning I thought, if I spent another day in bed, or dragging my leg uselessly behind me in mental and physical agony -- I might as well be dead.  I deserved to be dead.

Yet I knew, or had myself partly convinced, that I also deserved a chance to feel better, go figure.  Am I forgiving myself for Anne’s death?  I hope not.  Still….

“How are you today?” my Mom wants to know.

I see the For Sale sign on Anne’s old house next door as we pull out of the driveway, and I say, “Dunno,” which is true.  I dunno anything. 

At the gym I lifted three pounders:  biceps, triceps, delts front, middle, back, pecs, lats, rhomboids.  I sucked in my gut and pulsed up and sideways.  I stretched – feeling, if not actually hearing -- my bad leg creak as I pulled it straight and leaned for all my might.

I felt better.  Like one baby step outta my head.

Not happy enough to shower at the gym with all those women, friendly and loud, but well enough to stop in the coffee shop for a cappuccino before my Mom came to get me. 

OhmiGod!   There, in the coffee shop, was Lark, my dearest friend from rehab., Lark with her fused spine and only one complete arm.  Lark, who reminded me how much worse pain could be.  Call it the Power of the Universe, God or Goddess, the Tao, or just Dumb Luck – Lark!  Here, now! I seriously almost cried. 

I said I’d been meaning to call her, but… and she said, “I know.  Me too.”  Then we hugged, my crutches hanging from my wrists and clanging behind her back, she supporting me with her one arm, a couple of crips no longer alone… God!  Good!  Smiles on broken lives like bandages on our hearts!

And I was out!  Out of my self-imposed isolation.  Free of my meanie self, my head-jail.  Never free of guilt, but walking in the world. 

I dunno, but it seems like it’s good enough for today.  Freakin a miracle, if you ask me.