Imaginary Enemy (8 page)

Barbie and the Little Neighbor Boys

“L
et’s go see what the deMichaels are doing,” Zander said to me one lazy, rainy Saturday midway through seventh grade.

“You can go. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Those boys are boring.”

“No, they’re not. They’re fun.”

“They don’t even go to real school. They’re out of touch. Like you.”

“No, I’m not. And how could Elliot and Peggy have out-of-touch kids? You’re a snob.”

“I’m too grown up to be playing with the little neighbor boys,” I said in a bored voice.

“Oh yeah, you’re
so
grown up,” Zander said sarcastically. Seconds later, I heard the door slam.

I had nothing to do. Carmella was off somewhere with Harmony, and Luke was at work. Mom was helping Dad with the marina’s budget, which meant they weren’t in the mood to be disturbed. There wasn’t anything worth watching on TV. Emma had joined a traveling soccer team and was in Baton Rouge for the weekend, and Madison and Samantha were at the dress rehearsal for their dance recital. So I made a break for the deMichaels’ through the rain.

When Chord opened the door and Zander saw me standing there with my hair dripping, he said, “Thought you were too grown up to play with the little neighbor boys.” They all laughed, so I knew that my brother, the traitor, had spilled the beans about what I’d said to him.

“Most of the ‘little neighbor boys’ are bigger than you, swampbreath,” said Chord, giving me a scathing glare.

“And we don’t want to play Barbie dolls anyway,” said Sharp as he arranged cards in his hand.

“I’m not here to
play
with you losers,” I lied shamelessly. “Mom sent me to tell you to come home, Zander. You need to clean your room.” Then I turned around and haughtily marched down the steps and back across the yard in the rain. I stomped to my room and yanked my Bubba folder out of my backpack.

Dear Bubba,

Those boys treat me like I’m invisible. Well, I’m not. I can see myself in the mirror. This whole thing has me staring at my hand—holding it up to the light and turning it just to make sure I’m really here. The silhouettes of my bones show through my flesh, so I know

I exist.

When I was little, I saw a cartoon on
Tom and Jerry
where a little duckling used vanishing cream to become invisible. Bubba, what I need is visibility cream. Can you hook me up with some of that? I’ll share it with you if you want.

Soggy, lonely, and bored,
Gabriel

P.S. Just for your information, I don’t play with Barbie dolls.

I threw myself on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The Gothosaurs Aunt Jane had sent me still sat on the shelf over my bed. I rearranged them so that T. rex looked like he was about to take a bite out of Brontosaurus’s neck and Stegosaurus and Triceratops were butting heads. When I rolled off my bed, my feet landed in the large bin Carmella stored her Barbie dolls and their accessories in. I heard the snap, crackle, and pop of breaking plastic as my weight crushed the bright pink Barbie sports car Carmella was so proud of. One of the wheels popped off and flew from the bin, smacking me in the forehead.

Suddenly, I was inspired. I rummaged through my backpack until I found the twenty-four-color set of Sharpie Ultra Fine Point Permanent Markers I’d gotten for my birthday. In the closet, I miraculously unearthed the sewing kit Aunt Jane had given me when I was eight. I swiped a tube of superglue from the kitchen drawer, along with an odd assortment of screws, washers, nails, thumbtacks, string, electrical tape, and the like.

“Hello, ladies,” I said when I returned to my room and snatched the Barbies from Carmella’s plastic bin to line them up on my bed. “Are you fashionistas ready to play Barbie makeover? Yes? Great. Who wants to go first?” I picked up a voluptuous lady clad in a sequined magenta gown. “You? Awesome. Hmmm.” Holding her by the ankles, I pivoted her and evaluated her assets and flaws. “You want to go punk? No problem. We’ll start with the hair.”

I grabbed a purple marker and colored random strands of her platinum hair. Added some black streaks. “I think a trim is in order, don’t you?” I took her silence as agreement and reached for the pinking sheers. “G.I. Joe will be delighted with your new look,” I said, piercing her pert little nose with a straight pin. “But your makeup needs retouching. It’s not bold enough.” I uncapped the Sharpie labeled
Blue Ice
and did her lips. Outlined them in black. Then I did her eyes.

“Your clothes are all wrong,” I told her. “Not to worry. It’s nothing scissors and glue can’t fix.” I slashed and tattered and embellished. “A tattoo, I think, would complete the look.” I drew a vine that snaked from her left ear to her right breast. “You’re stunning,” I told her as I tossed her aside. Then I chose another perky platinum-haired doll from the lineup on my bed.

Time passed. The rain finally stopped, and sunlight streamed through the windows. I stiffened the last glamour girl’s hair with glue, which worked better on Barbies’ artificial hair than the gel in the bathroom. “Okay, girls, we’re done. You all look smashing. Absolutely smashing!” I posed all seventeen of them on Carmella’s pillow.

For a nine-year-old, Carmella had quite a pair of lungs. I’ll never forget her shriek when she walked into our room. It was overstated to say the least, and brought everyone running down the hall. Mom and Dad were really steamed when they saw my artistry, but Zander flashed me a covert thumbs-up, and Luke winked in my direction as he stifled a grin.

Carmella’s reaction, however, went from anger to tears to despair to righteous indignation to outrage. She sobbed and threw things and stomped her feet. She yelled and screamed. She yanked one of my Godzilla posters from the wall and tore it to shreds. Threw a made-over Barbie at the shelf over my bed, causing my Gothosaurs to scatter like frightened hens. Swiped her fingernails at my face, but Dad grabbed her wrists. Calling it a temper tantrum would be like calling World War II a minor skirmish.

Have you ever noticed that judgment doesn’t always rear its head until it’s too late? I’ll admit it. That day I didn’t use good judgment. I went too far. I should have been more subtle. Pubic hair and pierced nipples were definitely overdoing it. Crossing that invisible line.

I paid the penalty, believe me. I had to work at the marina to earn enough money to replace Carmella’s dolls. Dad made me wash windows, mop floors, clean bait tanks, stock fishing tackle, weed walkways, and scrub patio furniture every Saturday for weeks.

I kept the punked-out Barbies, though, somehow winning the argument that if I was buying new ones for Carmella, then the others were mine by forfeit. I lined them up on my shelf with the Gothosaurs.

Fragrance Testers

M
rs. Lezcano, my reading teacher, was a fossil with teeth the color of oatmeal and a voice even worse than fingernails dragged down a chalkboard. She gave boring lectures, making the most riveting story less exciting than junk mail. Every class period she’d also tell us about her various health issues, of which there were many. “I can’t eat tomatoes or cucumbers. They give me horrendous indigestion. Keep me up all night.” “I’m allergic to perfume. When I go through the cosmetics area at a department store, I have to hold my breath.” “All the pollen in the air this time of year sure activates my asthma.” “My migraines get worse with every episode. That new medication didn’t help me one little bit.”

The suck-ups and brainiacs thought Mrs. Lezcano was wonderful. She praised them, giving them perks and privileges regular kids never got, like exemptions from assignments. But the woman had disliked me from the first day of seventh grade.

Whenever she posed questions even someone of Emma’s academic ability would struggle over, Mrs. Lezcano inevitably called on me. To hide my ignorance, I answered the simplest queries with flippant responses. When we read “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, Mrs. Lezcano asked, “Jane, what did the raven say?”

“Caw, caw,” I said.

The class fell into hysterics, but Mrs. Lezcano went ballistic. She thrust off her ugly beige sweater and stomped across the room so that she was looming over me. “I’ve had more than enough of you, young lady.” She sent me to the principal, charging me with the crimes of disrespect, impertinence, and brazenness. Mr. Freeman, who hadn’t forgotten the Bryan Latham flagpole incident, called my parents, turning a nonevent into Kingston Middle School’s private crime drama.

I chose Samantha, the most malleable of my friends, to help me implement my plan. She sat on my bed while I rummaged through the box of powdery eyes shadows, dried-out mascaras, and stubby lipsticks Aunt Jane had given me when she cleaned out her bathroom. “Found ’em,” I said, putting some nearly empty perfume bottles in my backpack. “Now we’re armed and dangerous.”

The next day, after eating our lunches, Samantha and I slipped away to Mrs. Lezcano’s classroom. I twisted the doorknob. “We’re in luck. She forgot to lock up again. I swear, she’s senile.”

Samantha and I entered the room and closed the door. I handed her a purple glass bottle and chose for myself a clear one half full of golden liquid. “Ready. Aim. Fire,” said Samantha, and we both began spritzing perfume on and around Mrs. Lezcano’s desk.

“This stuff reeks,” I said as the room filled with the mingled scents.

Samantha pointed to the stack of papers on the desk. “I’ll sweeten these book reports,” she said, saturating them.

I glanced at the clock. “We better take off. The bell’s about to ring.”

“She’ll be a sneezing fool all through class,” Samantha said, laughing.

“Let’s hope it makes her itch. My neighbor Peggy gets itchy around dogs because of her allergies.”

“And maybe her beady little eyes will water, too.”

Samantha opened the door only to see Mr. Freeman standing in the hallway with the band director. He looked at us curiously.

“Um…hi…I was just…um…looking for my PE stuff. I thought I left it in here,” Samantha explained.

“We’re going to lunch,” I muttered, grabbing Samantha’s forearm and pulling her toward the lunchroom.

The bell rang before we reached the corner. We lingered a moment until some of our classmates preceded us; then we filed back into the classroom.

“What smells?” I heard someone ask.

“This is worse than the locker room,” said another kid.

Mrs. Lezcano stood near the chalkboard wrinkling her nose. “Quiet,” she squawked. “Take your seats. Now.” Samantha winked at me and slid into her chair. Mrs. Lezcano grimaced. “Someone is wearing way too much perfume. Subtlety is much more effective than overstatement. And now my allergies are going to act up. You all know about the ban against fragrances in my classroom.”

She launched into another bland lecture. “The characters in this story are all unique. Jane, what makes Charlie an interesting”—cough, cough—“excuse me”—cough—“person”—cough—“ality?”

“I don’t find him interesting,” I said, which was true. How could a character in a story I hadn’t read interest me?

I expected Mrs. Lezcano to snap at me as usual, but she didn’t react. She only reached for the water bottle on her desk and sipped from it. “Now, where were we?” she said. “Oh yes, Charlie…He was…” From my seat, front and center, I could hear her breathing grow raspier. I turned to look at Samantha. She met my eyes, half amused, half afraid.

Mrs. Lezcano pulled her oversized vinyl handbag out of the desk drawer and rummaged through it. She yanked out her checkbook, wallet, and glasses case and continued digging. Her face was pale but her cheeks were red. She finally extracted an inhaler, which she latched on to. We spent the rest of the period doing vocabulary worksheets because Mrs. Lezcano told us she needed to recover.

When the bell rang, Samantha and I met at the classroom door and exchanged high fives. “A job well executed,” I said.

“It went beyond our expectations…. The inhaler was a bonus.”

“What a perfect day this has been.”

“Success is the name of the game,” Samantha whispered.

The following morning, things unraveled. At an after-school faculty meeting, Mr. Freeman overheard Mrs. Lezcano telling the drama teacher about her perfume-induced asthma attack. Now, he’s no Sherlock Holmes, but he said he remembered Samantha and me exiting the classroom smelling like streetwalkers (he actually said that, and in front of my parents) and concluded that Mrs. Lezcano’s attack was no accident.

Samantha and I were in math class when a voice on the intercom directed us to go to Mr. Freeman’s office. All the other kids starting joking around, but my heart sank.

“We’re screwed,” I whispered to Samantha as we walked down the hall.

Through the window in the office door I saw my parents, Samantha’s mother, and Mrs. Lezcano seated across from Mr. Freeman. “Oh great, they’ve ambushed us,” I muttered.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” moaned Samantha.

“Let me handle things,” I suggested as we entered the office.

The interrogation began. Charges were filed and the suspects named.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince the judge and jury that it was merely an accident. “We were getting Samantha’s PE stuff, and I wanted to try out her new perfume,” I said, attempting to look embarassed. “I wanted to catch a certain someone’s attention.”

“Give it up, Jane,” my mother said. How could she be such a traitor? “We all know this was no accident.”

“But—”

My father nudged me. “Jane, don’t you have something you need to do?” he asked flatly.

“What?” I stage-whispered.

“You know what.” He nodded toward Mrs. Lezcano.

I got the message. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We didn’t know you’d get sick. I just wanted to smell girly.”

Mrs. Lezcano sat there looking prim.

“Really, Mrs. Lezcano. I’m so, so sorry,” simpered Samantha. I half expected her to fall on her knees and kiss Mrs. Lezcano’s feet. Did she have no pride at all?

My father elbowed me again and gestured toward the principal.

“Sorry, Mr. Freeman.”

“Me, too, Mr. Freeman,” whined Samantha. “We aren’t troublemakers. We feel awful about this. We’re both sorry.”

Fat lot of good it did. Samantha and I were put on three days’ suspension. As I was ushered from the building sandwiched between my parents, a group of Mrs. Lezcano’s favorites glared at me. Then I saw Chase, so handsome and confident, look right through me as if I wasn’t there.

Dear Bubba,

Is it my fault Mrs. Lezcano is so unhealthy that a little perfume sets her off? It’s not like I’m Charles Manson or Jack the Ripper. All I did was spray a little fragrance. By mistake. It could have happened to anyone. Don’t think for a minute that I missed the covert glances of the other kids. Who do they think they are to ignore me?

I’m still waiting on that visibility cream. And don’t blame it on the postal service, because everyone knows about FedEx.

Overnite it,
Gabriel

For the next five days (my disciplinary counseling session occurred on Friday, giving my parents the weekend plus my three-day suspension to fume), I was punished, lectured, and reprimanded. Luke, Carmella, and Zander made jabs and jokes about it, scalding me with their humor. The one comforting voice was that of Cassidy, who said middle school was a difficult time avalanched with injustices against students. “The balance of power in that environment is ridiculously skewed,” she said, “and you can’t expect to come out on top.” I agreed with her completely. At least someone understood.

I returned to school on Thursday, expecting high fives and congratulations from my schoolmates (minus the goody-goodies). Instead, kids averted their eyes or crossed the hall when I approached. Even Mrs. Lezcano’s other victims didn’t appreciate the artfulness of my prank. Apparently, the rumor mill had turned a teacher’s asthma attack into an act of middle school terrorism, with Mrs. Lezcano near death’s door.

Samantha was mad at me, saying I dragged her into my scheme against her will. “That’s not the way I remember it,” I protested. “You’re the one who came up with the PE clothes excuse when we saw Mr. Freeman, so don’t try that innocent act with me.”

Dear Bubba,

I’ve given up on that visibility cream. Just forget it. I’ll tell you this, though—you make a darned good enemy. You have yet to come through for me in a clutch. Only the truest of enemies could be so steadfast. Only the pettiest of enemies would find pleasure in my agony. Only the meanest of enemies could just sit back and allow me to suffer, doing nothing.

Or, even worse, enjoying it. I bet you enjoy my pain. I bet you sit there with a bowl of popcorn and a soda, grinning when the going gets rough. You, Bubba, are the ultimate action hero of enemies—the Hercules, the Incredible Hulk of enemies. The Genghis Khan of enemies. Well, I hope you choke on your popcorn.

Get a life and get out of mine,
Gabriel

Emma kept insisting I should make a public apology. Like I planned to stand up in front of my reading class and openly express remorse to Mrs. Lezcano.

“Emma, I don’t see what the big deal is. It was an accident.”

Emma sighed. “Jane, just admit that it was a prank gone wrong and move on.”

“But it
was
an accident,” I insisted. “And there’s no reason for people to be giving me the cold shoulder over it.”

“No one is giving you the cold shoulder. That’s your imagination.”

“Emma, even you’re treating me like I’m a criminal.”

She laughed. “No, I’m not. I’ve just been preoccupied with my research paper. Think about it, Jane. Nothing’s changed since last week except your perception. Because you feel guilty about what happened, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“I have nothing to feel guilty about,” I insisted.

“Then why’d you leave that chocolate bar on Mrs. Lezcano’s desk at the end of class?”

I gaped, shocked and exposed. “What?”

“I saw you. You’re not as slick as you think, Jane. But I think it was nice. Minimal, but nice.”