(17) Falling in Love with a Sex God: A Newsflash from the Punk Next Door

Chapter Seventeen: A Newsflash from the Punk Next Door

-Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult

Has someone ever told you not to judge a book by its cover? They were right, but only in the case of books. Humans are not books. Sure we don’t pick our faces or our bodies, but we do pick the masks we put over them. We chose the clothes we wear, the piercings we put in, the makeup we apply. We choose the expressions we form and the words we say. We choose what persona we embody on the outside, what person we reflect. We chose our covers and since we do choose them, we should be judged by them. The person we show on our outside is the person we want the world to see.

Though there is a small truth in this old saying. We aren’t masters of advertising, like book publishers are, we don’t know what cover will ‘sell’ best. We don’t know how our covers will affect everyone. We just put them on, without much thought. We are blind and inexperienced in the decorating of our bodies which is why we must be careful. We can decorate ourselves wrong. Sometimes we put on faces that don’t really reflect who we are inside, not fully, because we don’t full know ourselves. We don’t know how to represent ourselves. In these cases appearances can be deceiving in people and everything else.

Just as the beautiful ice showed its hard face, I thought it was sturdy because it played itself off to be sturdy and secure. Sometimes you lean on people and rely on people and you think they can handle it, but really they can’t. They aren’t as strong as they appear. They can break and some people can get hurt. Some people, who foolishly believe book covers tell the truth to the continents, fall through the ice.

…

An unfamiliar voice is squealing my name like a gerbil. It’s not the valiant cry of a knight riding in on his white horse, but it’s a start. “Is that you? Are you alive?” My knight in shining armor, or rather a punk in a band shirt, has decided that ratta-tat-tapping on my cheek fat will help revive me, if I am indeed dead. Which I’m not. I happen to be very alive, very annoyed, and very embarrassed.

“Are you alright?” Surprisingly, after sixteen years of bouncing back from sucky pitfalls in my rather dreary and depressing existence, I’ve decided that no, in this instance, I am not alright. “How did you manage to pull yourself out of that hole in the ice?”

“I was on a swim team for four years.” I huff to the complete stranger, eyes closed, head slammed back into the ice in shame. “I guess I still have some upper body strength.”

“Well it worked well.” He laughs. “It was hilarious though, watching you struggle. You looked like a cat being forced to take a bath, scraping at the ice with your little claws. You had this cute little whimpering look on your face.” I open my eyes now to flash him my fury. He’s unaffected.

“Why are you insulting me?” I heave myself into a sitting position, clutching at my sopping wet clothes. My jaw is clattering up and down, making loud clicking noises. He doesn’t care.

“I’m just messing with you! Stop being such a baby, that water isn’t even that cold.” He puts his hand in, shaking it. “It’s California. Are you retarded?” He snorts. “Of course the ice wasn’t fully frozen…” His smile is mocking, “How long were you out?” Finally, he shows concern for the injured and nearly killed.

“I don’t know, do you think I have a watch?” I snap, fisting my hands through my hair. “My phone…” I moan, looking despairingly at my phone’s black icy grave. “Do you have something warm?” My brain switches quickly between topics. I look down at his clothes, ripped black tights and combat boots with a short sleeved shirt. No, I concur.

“You are being way too overdramatic.” He tells me, putting his arms under my pits. He drags me, slowly and cautiously, across the ice. “You aren’t even hurt, just a little wet, calm down.” He growls to me, finally dropping me at the edge of the lake.

“I’ll just go home now…” I sigh, heaving myself to my feet. My entire body tingles with shock as each muscle is forced to abruptly awaken. I’m not done thawing. I stumble over a rock, tripping. He grabs me by the waist, tugging me to my feet. How did he catch me? He’s so weak looking.

“I’ll walk you.” He hisses. I nod in reluctant acceptance.

“What’s your name?” I demand, towering over him. He’s so small, so frail looking. He makes me look like a mammoth cave woman. I’ve always been a little taller than most girls, but nowhere near as tall as Brit, who wears heels every day to school though they aren’t in fashion anymore for teenagers. Yet I’m not quite as short to fit in with all the average girls with their cute little bodies that boys seem to adore. Fran has been the same height, five feet exactly, for three years now and this consistency has helped her keep the coveted title of Santa’s Favorite Little Elf permanently while we’ve been stuck as Santa’s Less Fortunate Elves. Curse her and her southern bell curls and apple cheek bones. I wish I had apple cheek bones.

“Darko.” What did I ask him? I must have asked him for his name. I balk. He’s lying; no mother in her right mind in this unoriginal suburbia would name her child that! I scrutinize his face. Where have I seen it before? I focus. I close my eyes and see a boy with tight black hair, chocolate skin and beautiful hazel eyes. A boy who used to love life, the color green, and tan colored cords.

“Ethan Marbo?” I guess. He grits his teeth at the mention of his pre-punkvolution name. “You were at the neighborhood fourth of July party last year.” I giggle. “You almost drowned in Mrs. Hayfield’s pool that she pulled a second mortgage to afford and Marty, the gay health education teacher, had to pull you out of the water and give you CPR in front of everyone.” I laugh harder. He merely blushes. “You’re in middle school right?”

“I’m a freshman…” He growls, “…at YOUR high school…” He blushes further. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t spread that story around…”

“You’re a freshman!” I bark incredulously, “No…you can’t be…you look so…” His jaw tightens. “You’re so little.” He flushes. “I’m sorry!” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’m a little bitchy sometimes. I’m working on it though. I should learn to be nice while I still have the cute, forgivable-ness about me left over from childhood. No one wants to marry someone with an ugly face and an even worse personality.”

“You said that last year too…” He sighs. “That I was little.” He completely ignores me, kicking his combat boots in angst. Admiring his punk-rock get-up, I wonder if what he categorizes himself as. Does he categorize himself as anything at all? Brit told me no one ever claims to be part of a “group.” Everyone is placed into their groups by other people. No one would call themselves a hoe bag or a jacket jockey.

“What happened to you?” I ask, feeling like a jerk for saying it. “I mean…why did you change?” I look down on him and his weird clothes. Everything about him is different.

“Why does anyone change? Time passes. Things happen.” He shrugs. “Life changed me.”

“But you were so happy.” I mutter. “I remember YOU called ME a downer,” I huff.

“I should be the one asking what happened to you?” He mutters with contempt. “Look at YOU!” He shouts. I’ve hit a nerve. Strike Three. I’m out.

“What do you mean, look at me?” He sighs in aggravation, teen angst at its finest. Teenagers are quick to insult people because they see so much fault in themselves they feel they have the obligation to point out the faults in others as well.

“You’re a bitch. A whiney, unproductive, complaining bitch.” His smile falls. “You sit in your room on your lap top all day, talking to yourself, screaming at yourself…crying.” I blush. “Then you complain about how your family hates you when you do nothing to better those relationships…and then you go on to complain about how you have no friends and how your friends are bitches when you never try to make new friends. Fix your own problems before you judge me for mine.”

“Ouch.” I murmur, not at all offended. I guess I should have been, all his insults hit close to home. But I’ve learned something valuable in my short sixteen years of life and that is that when someone insults you by stating the worst truths of your personality, don’t argue with them. Accept those faults and better them or don’t bother trying to defend yourself.

“That really hurt, kiddo.” I add in a lethargic voice. “You’re right, though, I am a terrible, flawed person.”

“Sarcasm. You’re sarcastic too.” He adds in a huff, surprised and made speechless by my actual admittance to my faults. Seeing how unaffected I am, he changes his tune, going for a more dramatic approach. “There are people dying in this world and you have the audacity to feel bad about your stupid suburban miseries. People are starving in the world. People are dying and having their families murdered. Countries are at war!” he scoffs. “And here you are in your quiet little home on this nice little street, sipping coffee and moaning about how Bobby Jenkins doesn’t like you back. Blah.”

“I admire you.” I tell him. He’s shocked. I smile. “Thank you, for waking me up.”

He blushes. “No problem.” With that, he nods in the direction of my house. “You’re home.” He tells me in a calm voice. I nod appreciatively, gazing up at my meager two story house. The house I’m fortunate enough to have with the family I’m fortunate enough to be related to. I smile.

“Thank you for helping me home,” I tell him. He doesn’t look at me. I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. His whole face becomes engulfed in embarrassed flame.

“I have a girlfriend.” He blurts. I laugh. “Okay, that’s a lie, but I do have a crush so…”

“Relax, I wasn’t hitting on you. You’re too young for me.” At this, he’s disappointed. “Who’s this crush of yours?” I ask, curious if I know the girl.

“She’s your friend; do you think you could put in a good word for me?”

“Don’t waste your time, Brit is…Brit.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Not Brit, she’s a whore.” I cringe for her. “Francine.”

“Fran?” I squeal and then stop myself. I look him up and down. He smiles. He’s a good boy at heart. He has aspirations. He’s smart and he’s driven. But she wouldn’t ever like him. He’s the kid that sits in the back in class and doesn’t talk. He’s the kid who only trusts a few certain people, like me, and only talks to those few. He’s the kid girls like her are afraid of. He’s the type of kid she would call a freak, being the close-minded prep she is.

She likes confidence, and sadly this is her downfall since the only high school boys with confidence are the jerks. If she really wants to find a nice guy, she needs to start dating the shy guys not the cocky ones. “I’ll put in a good word.” I tell him finally, smiling. He smiles back.

“Thank you,” He grins, “She’s really sweet…” He gulps, “and really pretty…I just…she scares me.” I laugh. “She’s so intimidating! She’s so sure of herself all the time. She’s more of a man than I am.”

I laugh at the thought, considering I had to give her a major confidence boost today to prevent her from falling apart. “Fran may seem tough, but on the inside she’s a softie. She doubts herself all the time. She just doesn’t let anyone know except me. She has a real weak spot for her crushes.”

“She likes you?” He growls with utter contempt and jealousy. I smile.

“I don’t understand it either.” I mumble.

“Whatever. Make sure to tell her, alright? But I have to go. Mom will be worried I’m out so late. Be careful next time you walk home. Bye, Danielle.” I wave bye and retreat into my house or in more realistic terms the dungeon that holds the ferocious she-dragon.

…

“We need to talk.” The magical sentence that forces you to recall every single bad thing you did in your entire life. I stand, frozen, at the door waiting for her to string on about what I’ve done wrong. She’s got her hook in my lip, now all she has to do is reel me in.

“About…” I press, shutting the door carefully. It makes a clicking noise that seems way too loud in the empty hallway. My mother, her face a mask of calmness, points into the living room. Go, she silently commands. I obey and take a seat on the loveseat, the normal brown colored love seat placed strategically in the center of the living room on a crème colored rug with matching lamps and tables all abound.

It’s a nice living room, clean and orderly with its only occupants being carefully bought pieces of furniture to show off the room. My mother is in real estate. She sells houses. She used our house as practice to set it up and now because of it she has washed out all the personality of our family. We have a house filled with furniture and wiped clean of memories, just the way she likes.

“I have heard some…disturbing…things from your friends and your brother and I would like to discuss them with you,” My mother inclines, her voice calm and at ease, open for discussion and yet commanding all at once. She sits in a singular chair to the side of me, forcing me to turn my body to face her. My back is unnaturally straight. I wait for her to speak. “You have been sleeping in class.” I open my mouth to refute her, saying I haven’t done that it a while now and I’m working on it, but she stops me with her hand held up. “Your grades have been dropping.” I have an answer to this too, that my lowest is only a ninety four (moved up a point, thank you very much) and that is nothing to worry about. “But worst of all…you’re distant.” Here I have nothing to say. “From me, your brother, your friends.” She frowns. “John tells me you’re pulling away from him. He wants to open up to you, Danni, but you just won’t let him.” You called me Danni, I mumble in my mind.

“He said he wanted nothing to do with me.”

“People say stupid things when they are upset, things they don’t mean.” My mother chides, “You should know that, Danielle, your brother loves you.” I snort and she glares. “You need to have a talk with him, before the dinner on Saturday.”

“Dinner?” I squeak. She nods, smiling.

“A formal dinner at Harringwald, we have six o clock reservations. His girlfriend’s parents want to meet his family before they allow her to move in with him.” My mother’s smile grows. “Aren’t you excited?” She asks, her voice dead and sarcastic.

“I don’t want to meet his cruddy girlfriend,” I pout, folding my arms, “Why does it have to be at a fancy restaurant where I have to wear a dress?” I growl.

“Her parents are very, very rich.” My mother tells me, a smile forming, “If he marries this girl, do you know how much money he will get?” She laughs. “She loathes her parents to a cellular level, she will give her money to him to finance. I will be able to retire early.” She giggles and I physically flinch away from her and the horrid sound, “You can’t mess this up, Danielle.” She tells me sternly, pinching my arm. I nod my head, wincing from the pain.

“About this talk…” I whine, still rubbing my sore flesh, “What do I have to talk to John about?”

“Just clear the air between you two, let him know you’re on his side.” My mother implores, her eyes steel set on mine. “He really likes this girl, Danielle, and he’s gone to great lengths to prepare her to meet you.”

“Prepare her?” I say with disgust. “Was there something wrong with her?” I know John has a weakness for broken things. He likes to take them in, like little charity projects, and fix them up before releasing them back into the wild. It’s a bad habit of his and his little projects often end up hurting him in the end.

“She was a bit of a…” My mother pauses thoughtfully, “whore.” She states bluntly. “He’s spent months training her not to hump everything like some kind of dog in heat.” She snorts with disgust. “But his training worked, this girl is now civilized as she’s never been before.”

“Will I like the girl?” I ask, honestly.

My mother stares at me hard for a long moment, unsure of how to answer me. “I don’t know.” She says honestly.

She dismisses me to my room and just as I’m about to escape, I stop on the stairs. My mother never asked me why I came home late. She always does. Why didn’t she today? I pause, unsure of whether I should bring it up or be lucky I escaped unscathed. I sigh. “Mom, why didn’t you get mad because I came home late?” I ask, back still turned.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” My mom answers. I turn in shock. She smiles. “I’ve realized that you are a responsible girl, Danielle. You can handle yourself.” She sighs. “I’m trusting you and giving you a freedom I didn’t have when I was a kid,” She glares at me as if I’m forcing her to, “remember that!” As I absorb her words, I feel a lump form in my throat.

My mother trusts me. All my life she’s never trusted me. She’s always assumed that, like my father, I would betray her in some terrible way. Now she has realized I won’t, but I already have. Instead of spending that weekend with Fran, as I told her, I spent it with my boyfriend. I feel the guilt swell inside me and I know now more than ever I can never tell her what really happened that weekend. Just another secret to keep, another lie to tell, another stain on my soul that I promised Daniel I would keep clean. Life sucks.

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