Purple Daze

Table of Contents

 

 

 

—WENDELIN VANDRAANEN
author of THE RUNNING DREAM

—VALERIE HOBBS
author of SHEEP, California Young Reader Medal

—RON KOERTGE
award-winning author of STRAYS

and

and

and

and

and

and

and

We're slumped on the front seat of a
low-slung Pontiac, cherry paint job.

 

Cheryl pokes the ashtray for butts,
finds the key. “Wanna go for a spin?”

 

“If we can be back by sixth period—
I did my homework.”

 

I have the wheel in one hand, a Marlboro
in the other. We jerk down Ventura Boulevard
in second gear, and I'm yelling above Janis Joplin,
“Wait'll Mickey finds out we stole his car!”

 

Cheryl drums the dashboard laughing
because I don't have a learner's permit.

 

GRAND THEFT AUTO

 

That's what we tell the old guy we pick up
hitchhiking in front of Woolworth's.
He looks pale and asks us to pull over.

 

We couldn't stop now
even if we tried.

So what if the guys joke about Ziggy.
Stacked. What a rack. Tight sweaters
look bitchin' on her.

 

She puts out too

 

even though her house has this choice view
of San Fernando Valley and her step-dad
plays in a band at Disneyland.

 

If I ever see a T-shirt that says,
SLUTS RULE, I'll buy it for her.

Guys like me because they
know I go all the way.

 

It's the only reason Mickey
takes me out.

 

Bet you didn't think I knew that.

The potato's been in the freezer overnight.
The Animals wail “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.”
I pull a bottle of Sloe Gin from the cupboard,
hidden behind a box of Lucky Charms.

 

Ziggy cuts the potato in two,
carves Ziggy + Mickey into a half,
and makes an earlobe sandwich.
“Is this gonna hurt?”

 

I sip and dip the needle.
“Mine didn't even bleed.”

 

The door bell rings, my next door neighbor.
I know his daughters, in fifth and sixth grade,
straight hair without ironing it.

 

Booze wafts through the screen door.

 

“What's up?” I ask.

 

His wing tips skim the WELCOME mat as he
lunges forward, slamming through the screen,
knocking my ninety-six pounds backward.

 

An old geezer with a tongue,
his hand on Don's senior pin.

 

“Cheryl?” Ziggy calls from the kitchen.
“Hurry up! My ear's freezing!”

Ms. Hawes dresses like us:
Wool skirts. Mohair cardigans.
Sling-back flats. Seamless nylons,
nude.

 

Her skirts are minis.
But no one makes her kneel in the hall
to see if her hem touches the floor.

 

Here's another thing: Ms. Hawes uses a
blue pencil for corrections, never red, and
doesn't call on you unless your hand's raised.

 

There's a can of molasses on her desk. I saw
her in the cafeteria pouring it over fried potatoes
like Walter Cunningham in
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

 

When we read
Lord of the Flies
she passed a bag of pork rinds.

 

Before beginning
Lolita
she brought in Cokes.
Cheryl throws up when Humbert Humbert
talks about sin, soul, and the tip of his tongue.

 

Some numb-nuts poured strawberry
Jell-O in the toilet by the Girls'
Vice Principal's office.

 

She called the West Valley Police Station.
What if someone had slit her wrist or
had a miscarriage or something?

 

Talk about immature.

 

Get a boyfriend!

I finished
Lolita
in a bubble bath,
all three-hundred-thirty-six pages.

 

I cried
and
cried
and
cried
and
.
.
.