Read Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake Online
Authors: Jennifer Allison
Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake (13 page)
Dear Dad,
Brad is blatantly attempting to buy his way into our lives.
Mom worked the earlier shift this week, which is always nice because she’s home for dinner (but also kind of a drag because she doesn’t let us watch television while we eat). She and Stephen and I were eating fried chicken in the kitchen, and I was just in the middle of explaining the plot of
Hamlet
when who shows up at the front door uninvited but Brad Squib.
Mom lit up like a birthday cake when she saw him, and she started touching her hair and face and apologizing for “looking such a mess.”
“You always look gorgeous, Patty,” Brad said (but I noticed he wasn’t actually looking at her). He had other things on his mind. You could just tell he had come over
with some big purpose, and he was twitching and smirking with excitement. “Stephen,” said Brad, “I’d like you to step outside here for a moment.”
Stephen shrugged and followed Brad out the front door. I stayed in the kitchen.
A second later, Mom screamed, “Brad! No!”
Then I heard Stephen’s adolescent grunts of euphoria: “Sweet! This is so awesome!”
“Brad, you really shouldn’t have,” said Mom. “You just shouldn’t have.”
Well, now I had to see what was going on. I should have guessed what it was, but I still couldn’t believe it: Brad had bought a shiny new car for Stephen. (Well, I guess it isn’t exactly brand-
new
–but it’s still damn shiny.)
“Got a great deal on this baby,” said Brad. “That’s one of the perks of my position.”
Mom looked ill. I happen to know that the idea of Stephen actually driving around in his own car makes her scared. “But Stephen doesn’t even have his driver’s license yet,” she said.
“Mom, I have my Level I driver’s license; I just need to finish about twenty more hours of supervised driving.”
“Not like the good ol’ days when a
teenager was allowed to just crash his car all around town, right?” Brad grinned and dangled the car keys in front of Stephen’s nose. “I can help him get some of those practice hours in, Patty.”
Stephen climbed into his new car and sat behind the steering wheel with a silly grin on his face. It reminded me of when we were little, and he would pretend to man the controls of an airplane or a rocket ship. I knew I should feel happy for him, but I couldn’t help it: something about the whole situation just made me mad, so I walked inside and called Wendy.
You know how sometimes you just want to complain about something to a friend who agrees with everything you say? Well, Wendy isn’t that friend. Whatever you do, don’t call her if you definitely want someone to agree with you.
WENDY: What’s so bad about a guy who buys a car for your brother and helps you get into private school?
ME: He’s acting like he’s trying to be our new dad or something!
WENDY: Maybe he’s just trying to be nice.
ME: Nobody’s ever just “trying to be nice.”
WENDY: You’re so bitter!
ME: I’m just being realistic.
WENDY: Your problem is that you think that if you let yourself like this guy even a little bit, you’re betraying your father. I’d trade my parents for him in a second.
ME: Wendy, it’s not about that. My instincts are telling me there’s something about this guy that isn’t right. I’m psychic, remember?
WENDY: Yes, you keep telling me that.
NOTE
TO
SELF:
Secretly, I think Wendy might have a point, but that doesn’t make me like Brad any better.
It’s obvious that the Triplets have a huge crush on Mr. Panté. When he calls on them, they bat their eyelashes, chew on their pencils, and swing their crossed, Mystic-tanned legs. Then, when he turns around to write something on the blackboard, they giggle and lean over to whisper to each other, especially if there’s chalk lingering on his butt from leaning against the eraser tray. Sometimes I feel sorry for teachers, because no matter what school they teach in, people are always looking at their butts.
Tiara hasn’t been in school for days.
I’ve called her house about twenty times, but nobody ever answers the phone or calls me back. What if the ghost in her house did something to her family?
Marcie Dinklemeyer is driving me crazy!
7:00 a.m.: Call from Marcie reminding me to wake up on time for school.
7:30 a.m.: Call from Marcie telling me to “wear a sweater because it’s a little chilly outside.”
8:00 a.m.: Note from Marcie in my locker: “In your own special way, you’ll have a super-great day! Love, your big sister, Marcie!”
9:00 a.m.: Marcie makes me sway back and forth with her during the sing-along portion of morning prayers.
12:00 p.m.: I eat lunch with Marcie in the dining hall. As I eat, she makes little
comments: “Don’t you get tired of eating peanut butter and jelly so often, Gilda?” and “Gee, isn’t that can of Coke going to make you really tired later even if it perks you up now?”
12:30 p.m.: Marcie tells me “a way to iron your school uniform so it doesn’t look so wrinkly in the back.”
3:00 p.m.: Marcie informs me that my shoe is untied. I tell her I want it that way, and bend down to untie the other shoe as well. I also roll my socks down around my ankles just to complete the look. “You’re so weird, Gilda!” Marcie says.
4:30 p.m.: Call from Marcie to find out how my homework is coming along. I tell her I haven’t started it; I’m busy having a sugary snack.
7:30 p.m.: Call from Marcie to ask me if I’m watching a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slaver instead of doing my homework. I tell her that my brother is showing me how to play a video game called “Grand Theft Auto.” (It’s a game he only plays when Mom isn’t home, because she can’t stand it. Sometimes it’s just nice to sit on the couch with Stephen even if that means watching a bunch of things blow up and
conversation consisting of phrases like “Watch it, Gilda!” and “You’re so bad at this!”) Marcie doesn’t like the sound of the video game. I tell her I love video games (even though I don’t) and that my favorite one is called “Festival of Violence.”
9:30 p.m.: Marcie informs me that she has just prayed for me. She hopes I don’t stay up too late playing video games because I’ll be tired the next day and then I’ll have to drink lots of Coke at school. She hopes I’ll have a good night’s sleep despite having too much caffeine during the day. She also reminds me to iron my skirt, not to worry about packing a lunch because it’s pizza day tomorrow, and to make sure I have clean socks.
I have half a mind to show up at school tomorrow wearing the smelliest socks I can find in the Woodward Avenue gutter, and to pack a lunch composed of nothing but gumdrops and Coke.
Oops–just remembered something: I’m supposed to turn in a question-and-answer for the “Miss Petunia” column tomorrow. I’d better get started channeling my inner advice columnist!
Dear Miss Petunia:
My parents won’t allow me to go on any dates without a chaperone. The problem is that three or more of my senile relatives are always tagging along whenever a boy wants to take me out to a movie or something, and they make dumb comments and ruin everything. How can I explain to them that four is a crowd?
—
Exasperated
Dear Exasperated,
Try to bring some fun games or other activities like finger puppets for your aging relatives to keep them busy, or better yet, steer the conversation toward topics people of all ages can enjoy, like hair loss and window treatments. Remember: In this day and age, bringing some elders along for a night out simply makes sense
.
Dear Dad,
Danielle loved my first advice-column installment. I think she also appreciated the help I gave her with her college entrance essay, because tomorrow she’s going to take me into the Senior Common Room so I can see what really goes on in there. I’m pinching myself–a senior is actually going to let me into their top-secret hangout!!
T
he freshman locker rooms were located in the back of the Castle House, an area of the school that was partially underground and prone to flooding, large spiders, and mice. In contrast, the Senior Common Room was located near the front of the school—far enough away from the administrative offices and headmistress’s quarters to maintain its relative privacy, but close enough to benefit from being in the most well-maintained and elegantly furnished portion of the school building.
“This is it,” said Danielle, her hand resting on the brass doorknob. “You are officially the first freshman ever to set foot in the Senior Common Room.”
“I’m ready,” said Gilda.
“I’ll probably regret this,” Danielle added.
“It’s in the interest of good journalism.” Gilda heard the murmur of conversation punctuated by fits of giggling from behind the door.
When Danielle and Gilda entered, a guarded silence descended over the room. Gilda found herself facing a couch piled high with throw pillows and a group of girls who sprawled across one another like a litter of puppies. They fell silent,
regarding Danielle and Gilda with expressions of sullen, bleary-eyed resentment.
Sensing that she might be kicked out at any moment, Gilda surveyed her surroundings quickly.
The room had an atmosphere of unkempt grandeur: there were chaise longues, daybeds, and velvet love seats, most of which were stained or torn. A wall of mirrors reflected dressing tables equipped with silver combs and brushes.
Contrasting with the relative luxury of the surroundings was the stale odor of spilled Starbucks coffee and an old pastrami sandwich. Plastic bags of snack foods littered the floor along with a jumble of backpacks.
“A freshman?! Who brought fresh meat in here?” A stocky girl wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt rose from her seat. Her curly, caramel-colored hair stuck out in two angry-looking pigtails. It was difficult to tell whether she was genuinely outraged or simply aiming for a dramatic effect.
Gilda recognized Nikki Grimaldi; whether or not you were friends with her, you couldn’t miss hearing her voice in the hallway since she usually yelled to her friends from a distance rather than approaching them to have a conversation in a normal tone of voice. Gilda already knew several facts about Nikki: she was president of the Young Republicans Club; her father owned the Grimaldi Ford dealership “where only stealing is cheaper!”; she was an enthusiastic University of Michigan football fan, and she had a long-term boyfriend with the ridiculous name Dinkel.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Nikki. “Now we have to kill her.”
The girls lounging on the daybed giggled, but Danielle didn’t laugh.
“Seriously,” said Nikki, “what’s the deal with dragging this frosh in here?”
“My name’s Gilda.” Gilda held out her hand to Nikki, attempting to undercut her hostility with a businesslike demeanor.
“I prefer the term
fresh meat
“ said Nikki.
“Gilda’s writing a story for
The Petunia
, and I told her she could take a look in here,” Danielle explained. “I don’t see what the harm is.”
“You don’t see what the harm is in what?” A strikingly pretty girl entered the room, flipped her sleek, blond hair over her shoulder, and tossed her backpack onto one of the chairs.
It was Priscilla Barkley—a girl who held a celebrity status at Our Lady of Sorrows. Priscilla’s power to attract others was largely the result of her undeniable natural beauty—the dimple that winked from one cheek when she smiled, the toothpaste-commercial teeth, the green eyes and smooth skin as soft and clear as a young child’s. She was also popular simply because she seemed to be everywhere at once. She served on student council; she tutored younger students as a member of National Honor Society; she sang in the school chorus; she pirouetted and shimmied on the dance team; she debated on the Trial Lawyers Club; and she always played starring roles in the school play.
“Danielle brought a FRESHMAN in here who’s going to write about the Senior Common Room,” Nikki explained.
Priscilla regarded Danielle coolly. “Nobody except seniors can be in the Senior Common Room. Everybody knows that. It’s
tradition
.”
“I know it’s tradition,” said Danielle, “but that’s why Gilda thought it would make a good article for the paper, and I agreed.”
The girls all regarded Danielle with stony silence.
“I just can’t help but wonder,” said Priscilla, speaking with a quiet violence. “If you’re willing to let a freshman into the Senior Common Room, what
other
secrets are you willing to give away?”
“None. Because I don’t
know
any secrets.”
“Good,” said Priscilla. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“
I
would never give away a secret,” said Gilda, hoping Priscilla and Danielle would let her in on whatever juicy gossip they were alluding to.
“Gilda,” said Priscilla. “This isn’t your fault, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”