When Madeleine turned twelve, she was five-nine and 170 pounds. That September she started the seventh grade, and she felt nervous, fat and ashamed. She worried about the clothes she wore to the extent that she didn't sleep well at night, and her breath came short and fast in the mornings, or sometimes all day, depending on what she was wearing. Lunch time was the hardest, because she no longer could run home, the junior high was too far away, so she had to eat at the cafeteria. After a few humiliating days of eating alone, she sat at a table with a handful of girls who looked around at each other with irritated and vulnerable eyes. It was a table that soon disappeared altogether, the girls sitting together only so as not to be alone, and as quickly as possible, they migrated to real, defined groups: the preps, the jocks or the nerds. Madeleine knew some of the preppie kids from her elementary school, but her view of them changed drastically in the first few weeks of seventh grade — she had once thought them important — and eventually they fell from her vision altogether, becoming vague, uninteresting phantoms who roamed the school in Izod shirts and cable-knit sweaters. Instead, she found herself mysteriously drawn to the freaks, and without realizing it, she began following them around, especially a small, wiry girl named Jennifer.
The freaks, of which Jennifer was a kind of queen, were generally from the south side of South Bend. The boys had long, stringy hair and wore heavy-metal T-shirts; their shoulders were slumped and they didn't look people in the eye. The girls dressed in tight, revealing clothing bought at discount stores, wore too much makeup and had bleached, feathered hair with dark roots showing. Both the girls and the boys had the reputation of being
violent and mean and were rumored to carry knives. Although they were not thought of as stupid, they were known to get bad grades, because they didn't care, because they smoked pot, because they were troubled. Maybe it was from fear, which can foster a curiosity or a kind of respect, maybe it was some knowledge they seemed to have, but Madeleine was drawn to their lunch tables and their ways, her voice became twanged and filled with ain'ts and her look became less respectable. Mostly, she wanted to be Jennifer.
Jennifer was perfect. She was thin and petite, her eyes were hard, and she was always impeccably dressed. Her sweaters outlined her smallish, well-defined breasts, and her pants were tight and new-looking, without a pantyline to mar the boyish curve of her bottom. Her piercing laugh was distinctly cruel and always directed at someone. But otherwise she spoke deep and low; the other kids would have to lean in to hear her, which they did nervously. She often slapped people on the arm or shoulder, biting her thin bottom lip as she did, and it hurt, stung for minutes, but it was just play, and no one could get angry about it.
Madeleine simply became Jennifer's shadow. She did this discreetly, unknowingly on anyone's part, especially her own. When Jennifer laughed, she laughed. When Jennifer kicked gravel, Madeleine did. She smoked Marlboro Lights because Jennifer did. Jennifer lined her dark eyes heavily with a Maybelline eyeliner, and her cheeks sparkled with blush that came out of a pink plastic case. Madeleine began darkening her eyelids with the same brand and stroked her robust cheeks with the same sparkly powder. She wore the same boots as Jennifer: brown with thick red laces. And Madeleine began swearing frequently with a violent enthusiasm, her sentences littered with fucks and shits, as if it were a part of her she had kept hidden all her childhood and finally set free. When Jennifer craned her neck around to
look at something, Madeleine's plump neck carefully followed in the same direction, a peripheral eye ever on her friend, in case she were to change the course of her gaze.
She called Jennifer every day after school. When they spoke, Jennifer talked about all the boys she knew, who was going out with whom, which girls did what with which boys, and Madeleine listened hungrily, curled up in the back of her parents' closet so nobody could hear her, the phone held tensely on her lap, surrounded by her mother's shoes.
Yeah, Marion is a slut, said Jennifer. Last year she fucked half the senior class at the high school. She thinks no one remembers because they've all graduated. But a slut's a slut.
Yeah, and I can't believe she fucked that guy in his car, said Maddy.
What do mean you can't believe it?
I just can't believe it. How gross. Where were they?
I just said, for the millionth time, they were in his car.
I mean, where was the car. Were they parked?
No, dumbshit, they were driving around while they fucked. What's your problem? Of course they were parked. You can't fuck someone when you're driving around. You're such a virgin.
Fuck you, I am not.
Yes you are. A fat virgin.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, Jennifer mimicked.
I am not a virgin.
Okay then. Who have you fucked?
I fucked Tim Spencer last year,
lied Madeleine.
The previous year, while playing five minutes in the closet, Tim, a nervous, skinny boy with protruding front teeth that obviously bothered him, had groped at her breasts and put a twitching hand between her legs on the outside of her jeans.
No way. Tim Spencer couldn't fuck no one if he tried. No way in hell. That nerd doesn't have a dick.
Fuck you. You're a bitch.
I gotta go.
Okay, I'll see you tomorrow.
Bye.
After they talked, Madeleine would sit in the closet for awhile, her heart beating fast, her lips moist, her mouth full of saliva. She'd stay there until her mother would come to the closet door, yelling, asking her what on earth she was doing, and Madeleine, caring little about her mother's frustration, stumbled out and into her own room and would plan what she would wear the next day. She fingered her clothes, spreading pants and sweaters out on the bed; she'd look at an outfit and change her mind, deciding on another sweater. Meanwhile, images of Marion fucking someone in a car raced through her head. And as she lay in bed, curled up in a big, cozy ball, with a warm hand between her thighs, she thought of Jennifer: of the way Jennifer held her body tight and erect, with her shoulders slumped slightly and self-consciously, of the way Jennifer walked down the halls, her bowed, short legs gliding quickly, her feet hitting the shiny, hard tiles and clicking solidly.
Now at lunch time, Madeleine without question joined Jennifer at a table in the back of the cafeteria. It was known as the freak table. The table differed from other tables in that it never lined up in quite the same direction as the rest, but rather pointed in a strange angle, and the lunch trays were extraordinary in their sloppiness. Food was left uneaten and graying, feet were propped up on the table despite this being against the rules. Bags of pot and switchblades and dirty magazines were passed from one grubby hand to the next. Everyone who sat there owned a blue jean jacket, preferably an old, beat-up one, and all of the boys wore theirs year round, even in the worst months of winter. After they finished poking at their lunch, the crowd gathered around by a side entrance of the school and smoked joints and cigarettes. Conversation and eye contact were spare. Gravel was kicked. Madeleine never spoke, but by the time she entered her next class, she felt powerful and dangerous. She was aware of her growing reputation.
Madeleine's parents began noticing the change in her, which her father tried to ignore and her mother occasionally yelled and cried about. Madeleine became unrecognizable to her family, her hair burnt and twisted from the curling iron, her face orange with cheap makeup. She left a trail of Coty Musk perfume behind her as she awkwardly roamed the malls, fast-food restaurants and skating rinks of South Bend, two steps behind Jennifer wherever they were. They shopped together at the discount stores, buying the same outfits in different shades — Jennifer's in purple,
Madeleine's in pink. They took Polaroids of each other and had people photograph them together when they were at the mall, leaning against each other in their matching outfits, their arms folded against their chests, one foot crossed arrogantly over the other.
The two girls usually spent the weekends at Jennifer's house, side by side in the bathroom, applying and reapplying eyeshadow. On Friday nights, they skated at Howard's Park ice rink. The two rink guards who worked there, Scott and Oz, were in their last years of high school after having repeated a few years. They drove loud cars that had red stripes painted on the sides, and they spoke with deep, weathered voices. Jennifer talked with Scott, and Madeleine talked with Oz by default, he being the less-attractive one. Madeleine followed Oz around the rink just enough to annoy him, laughing at inappropriate moments, staring at him quite slack-jawed. She was aware of her effect on him, and she continued to pursue him with the belief that next time she'd say the right thing. On occasion, Oz would look upon her with some sign of interest, or something that appeared to be interest, and Madeleine would get dizzy and skate away, covering her broad, uncontrollable smile with large, mittened hands. Every hour on the hour, the Zamboni would smooth the ice and
the two girls would convene in the bathroom, their tarted-up faces red from the cold, and comb their hair with combs kept in their back pockets.
I think he likes me, said Madeleine.
I think he likes me, mimicked Jennifer, her voice high and nasal.
Stop it, you bitch. I think he does.
Jennifer continued primping in the mirror, tucking her tight, fluffy acrylic sweater into her jeans, then slapped Madeleine on the shoulder.
I think he does, Jennifer squawked.
Madeleine ignored her taunting for a moment, then stated: I'm going to lie to him and tell him I'm fifteen.
I'm gonna lie to him and tell him I'm fifteen . . .
Stop it!
Stop it!
Madeleine didn't tell Oz she was fifteen that night, but she skated around slowly, her hands deep in the pockets of her turquoise ski jacket, planning the perfect way of telling him, how she would toss her hair, how he would smile at her. That night, like most Friday nights, Madeleine and Jennifer slept together on Jennifer's narrow mattress, their skin damp and swollen with sleep, their bodies tired from skating. Madeleine had trouble sleeping. She lay quietly next to her friend, imitating the way her breath came and left, the way her stomach rose and fell, aware of herself and Jennifer's body next to her. When she woke up that Saturday morning, her arms and legs ached. She was quieter than usual as she and Jennifer ate their cereal together.
The next weekend, they went skating again. Madeleine wore a brand-new pink velour V-neck sweater that made her self-conscious of her large breasts. Before they left Jennifer's house, Madeleine stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom and practiced saying, I'm fifteen and I bet you didn't know I was fifteen. She put her hands on her hips and then on her thighs, tilting her hips this way and that, and she smiled at her reflection with her head turned downward, looking up at herself coyly. She sprayed an extra squirt of Coty musk perfume on her neck, telling herself it was for good luck. It was a particularly cold November evening, and she skated up to Oz soon after they got there.
Hey Oz, she said, reaching out awkwardly to grab the sleeve of his leather jacket.
What?
I'm fifteen.
No, you're not.
Oh, yes I am. I swear it.
Then how come I've never seen you at the high school? Huh?
I don't know, Madeleine said, looking down at her skates and touching her toes together, the blades scraping against each other.
You're not from this part of town, are you? He looked straight at her, and it unsettled her, but she was flattered. He had never spoken so many words to her before.
I am fifteen.
Well, you're tall enough, he laughed. He wet his lips and appeared as if he had decided on something.
I am. I was born in 1965. That makes me fifteen.
Well, if you say so, sweetie. That still makes you a lot younger than me. Almost five years younger. Now what do you think of that?
I think that's just fine.
Madeleine smiled broadly, unable to refrain from doing so and she lifted her colorful, wool knit mittens to her face.
You think that's just fine!
He laughed, throwing his head back, his mouth open wide, revealing more fillings than she'd ever seen.
Well, my little fifteen-year-old girl, it looks like it's time to get off the rink. It looks like it's time for the Zamboni to clean off the ice, he said, then paused a beat. Looking away from her, he added: Why don't you come with me? He skated around in a small circle, and she couldn't catch his eye.
Come with you? Where to? Madeline asked. She put her toes together, then slid her heels together — toes then heels, without looking at her skates.
To the rink guard's station, where else? Where did you think I meant?
Oz brushed his hair away with black, dirty leather gloves, revealing a small forehead and tired, gray eyes, and for a moment, she was alarmed.
I don't know. How was I supposed to know?
Her cheeks felt puffy, like a baby's cheeks, and her face was hot with blood that had rushed to it.
Let's go, he said, smiling, skating over to the rink-guard's station with its PRIVATE sign on the door. Fifteen-year-old girls aren't as shy as you, he snickered. His laugh was quiet and light, and she looked at his teeth. They were tobacco-stained and seemed much too small for his head. Her ankles wobbled as she followed him.
I'm coming.
He held on to the sleeve of her ski jacket, coaxing her firmly yet softly into the room, and it occurred to Madeleine that no one had ever been that gentle with her before. A fluorescent light hung from the ceiling, giving everything a hard, green appearance. There was a bench and a desk with a chair, a girlie calendar on the wall and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Oz lit a joint, sat on the bench and pulled her next to him. He grinned, the light making his face veiny and green. She smoked, aware of his hockey skates and she noticed that his feet were actually larger than hers.
You have big feet, she said.
You've got big eyes, he said, laughing quietly, nicely and added, They're pretty. I like them.
He grinned, and his grin seemed permanent, endless. She tried not to stare at his teeth.
Come here, he said, I want to touch you. That's a girl.
She scooted closer to him. Their bodies were touching, and his arm was heavy around her shoulder. His arm felt protective and affectionate, and she liked it, but the inside of her mouth was swollen and dry. He leaned into her face, kissing her ear. She sensed a tension in his body.
Relax, he whispered hoarsely, but his body was tight and rigid. He kissed her ear again, and Madeleine's heart slammed against her breasts as she looked down shamefully on the whiteness of her swelling cleavage. Oz ran his hands over her neck; his fingers were slightly damp and cold. Oh baby, he murmured, biting his lip, just relax, that's it, I won't hurt you.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her muscles twitched under her skin; she felt each one jerk, her shoulder, her stomach, her thigh. Oz reached toward the zipper of her jeans and she opened her eyes and put her hand out halfheartedly to stop him and he gently put her hand away. He undid her jeans and quickly slipped a clammy hand into her underwear, saying, That's it. You like this, don't you?
Madeleine tilted her hips upward, letting her thighs spread to accommodate his hand. A warmth ran through her body, and suddenly the light hurt her eyes, so she shut them again.
You're wet, baby. God you're wet, he said, grinning, and she opened her eyes and looked straight into his mouth, straight at his teeth. Then his hand was in front of her face, glistening and mossy smelling. Look at how wet you are, he said, and he touched her lips with his damp hand. He put his fingers back inside of her and she felt them hard this time, scraping against her soft, swollen flesh.
Ouch, that hurts, she said, and Oz grinned, removing his fingers.
I want to fuck you. Okay?
He stood, pulling down his tight pants. He put out his hand and she reached up and held on to it, careful to look at his face, at his tired eyes, and he pulled her up off the bench. Then he pulled down her jeans and underwear and she twisted and squirmed to help him along. He pulled them down around her ankles, like his were, and he sat down, pulling her on his lap, with her back facing him, his long fingers gripping her already broad hipbones, sliding himself into her.
That feels good, doesn't it, he said. You are a big girl, aren't you? A big, big girl.
He moved her then with his strong hands, back and forth, then up and down, then back and forth again.
You're as big as a woman, big there where I'm in you, big as a woman who's had three kids, he said, laughing. Madeleine smelled herself — the whole room smelled of her — and she wondered why it didn't hurt like it was supposed to, like it had when his fingers were inside of her, like Jennifer said it had, and she thought about how she'd tell Jennifer all about it at night, lying next to her on the thin mattress.
After a few moments, Oz gripped her hard and groaned a little. Then, with one hand on her head, he moved her off his lap.
They pulled up their pants in silence, and she looked at him. He seemed anxious. Shit, he muttered, I gotta get out there.
As they walked out onto the ice rink, he calmly skated away toward the other rink guard. Madeleine saw Jennifer come out of the bathroom, and she glided quickly over to her friend, her mittens up to her face, covering a nervous, painful grin. Her breath came out moist and floated like damp smoke in the cold air as she put her arms around Jennifer's neck, saying, Oh God, Jennifer — fucking shit. You're not going to believe this. Jennifer ducked her head and twisted herself away from Madeleine's grip.
Get off me, man, Jennifer said, and her arms flew out sharply from her compact frame. Madeleine winced.
Where the fuck were you, Jennifer snapped, her mouth tight.
I was in the rink guard's station. Madeleine's words echoed in her head. She exhaled wetly again, her breath visible against the black air. The darkness of the sky had come down in front of her like a wall of water.
You were where?
I was in the rink guard's station. With Oz.
Jesus fucking Christ. You whore.
Jennifer spat on the ice. She turned around and skated back toward the bathroom. Madeleine watched her skate away, watched her enter the bathroom. Then she turned her large head to the sky, the sky that had darkened to a crisp black, the sky that surrounded her. Her groin ached, throbbing like a heartbeat, and holding her crotch with her mittened hands, she counted: one, two, three.
n°
©2007 Paula Bomer & Nerve.com
