Screaming Divas Part 3

Trudy yanked it out, paged through and looked at the fleshpots. She studied Miss June's buxom figure. Trudy could copy that come-hither look, but how would she get those t.i.ts? Suddenly bored, she slammed the magazine down and got up from the chair. She was reading through the t.i.tles of books on the shelves when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she called out.

The door squeaked open and then, at first, only a head appeared. A guy, with short black spiky hair and eyeliner. His cheekbones jutted like cliffs over the hollow valleys of his cheeks.

"Is Dr. Baxter in?" His whole body came into view then-gangly limbs clothed in a shorn-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt and black jeans. He had a chain-the kind you can buy by the yard at the hardware store-around his hips instead of a belt. His eyes followed Trudy. The black around them made him look like some young Egyptian prince.

"He's out," Trudy said. "I'm his a.s.sistant."

He c.o.c.ked his head. Just then Trudy noticed the little dagger dangling from his right earlobe. "I didn't know he had an a.s.sistant. Are you a student here?"

"Uh, not exactly. Not this term."

"Cool. So what's your name? Mine's Adam, by the way."

"Adam. I'm Trudy." He was looking at her, sizing her up. She felt his gaze on her bleached blonde hair, her face, her uptilted b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Hey, do you want to go get something to drink? I could use a break. It's kind of dull in here."

"Yeah, okay. I guess Dr. Baxter isn't coming back right away."

They went down to the snack bar and ordered c.o.kes. Trudy paid for her own. She'd filched a twenty from Jack's wallet the night before.

Adam told her that he was taking anthropology to fulfill a requirement, but he was really an art major.

"Cool," Trudy said. "What kind of stuff do you do?"

"Right now I'm making sculptures out of junk. I use coat hangers and hubcaps and bottles and whatever else I dig up. I have a piece called Urban Bondage that's pretty cool. You'd like it, I think."

Trudy was flattered. "You'll have to show it to me."

"Yeah, sure."

Trudy told him that she was seventeen and she had been in prison.

Adam didn't seem too alarmed. "What for?" he asked. "Were you a dealer?"

"Armed robbery," she lied. "My friend Lydia and I held up a 7-Eleven."

"With, like, a gun?"

"Yeah, but I don't have it anymore. The cops took it."

"I never met an ex-con before. Especially not a girl."

They talked for over an hour. Trudy tossed whatever she thought might interest him into the conversation. A trip to Benin. Her stint as a striptease artist. She was good at making stuff up.

Adam invited her to a party at his house that weekend. He and his housemates were going to get a couple of kegs and engage in an evening of debauchery.

She thought that debauchery sounded like fun.

Trudy arrived wearing a tight black dress without underwear.

The bash was already in full swing. People were draped over the porch railing and spilling onto the lawn. A few staggered in the street. Most of the partiers were college age, but Trudy saw some that looked younger than herself. Maybe they lived in the neighborhood.

She bypa.s.sed the keg and went in search of Adam. She had a mission and she was looking to complete it as soon as possible. She found him coming down a staircase.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?" His eyes were red and she could tell he was stoned. Even so, he seemed aware enough to take in her dress and the body it contained.

"Show me your room," she blurted out. "I want to see your art."

"Right this way." He headed back up the stairs and Trudy followed.

He stopped at a closed door that had a sign reading Caution: Dangerous Chemicals hanging from the doork.n.o.b. Someone answered his knock and he shouted, "Hey, get the f.u.c.k out of there. This is my room."

Trudy stood waiting behind him in the hall till a rumpled-looking couple emerged.

"Enter," Adam said, motioning her inside.

Her foot came down on an empty pizza box. She wended her way through a maze of overflowing ashtrays and alb.u.m covers and Art in America magazines. Half-finished sculptures crowded every corner. A mattress made an island in the middle of the room. Above the tousled sheets, a mobile hung from the ceiling-keys and spoons and can lids threaded onto fis.h.i.+ng line.

He pulled her down onto the bed. Then his mouth was on hers, hard and searching, his tongue like a big sour slug. They wrestled out of their clothes, clas.h.i.+ng teeth. Trudy thought that everything looked so much smoother in the movies.

It hurt like h.e.l.l, but she didn't want him to know it was her first time. She moaned as if she were enjoying it. He rolled off her a few minutes later and reached into a drawer.

"I don't know about you, but I could sure use a joint."

All Trudy could think was, "I'm not a virgin anymore."

Everybody said it wasn't so great the first time. Trudy was willing to give it another shot. She liked knowing that when Adam was inside of her, she was the only thing on his mind. It made her feel important.

A month later, they were in Dr. Baxter's waterbed. This time was different. The motion of the waves rocked them, lulled them. Adam moved more cautiously, trying to gauge the movement of the liquid underneath.

"I love you," he said as he gathered her in his arms and nibbled at her neck.

Happiness bloomed in her, threatening to burst out of her chest. "Oh, I love you too, Adam." She dug her fingernails into his back, pulling him closer.

After it was over, they smoked some pot from Jack's stash, took a bath, and fell asleep. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, but nothing could wake them-not the sound of a pa.s.sing train, not the ringing of the telephone, not the opening and banging shut of the door.

"Trudy!" Only that-her name on her father's lips-could pull them out of their dreams. Then, "Adam!"

"Dad!"

"Dr. Baxter!"

"Get your clothes on. Now." He dragged them away from the scene of the crime to Goatfeathers, a coffee house down in Five Points, and all of his hippie cool disappeared. Suddenly he was a self-righteous square.

"Adam, do you realize how old my daughter is?"

"Sir, I didn't know she was your daughter."

Sir? Trudy could hardly believe her ears. What was going on here? Only a couple of hours before, he was telling her that he loved her, and now he was sucking up to her dad. Shouldn't he be defending her? Their relations.h.i.+p?

"She's fifteen."

"Sixteen," Trudy said. Her birthday was in a few days. What the h.e.l.l difference did it make how old she was? Romeo and Juliet were fourteen. "And what I lack in years, I make up for in experience."

"That's enough, young lady." Jack's face was red. Trudy had made a fool of him. Clearly he wasn't used to this fatherhood business.

Trudy had seen it all before with each of her four stepfathers. They a.s.sumed the role, went as far as adopting her, asked her to call them "Dad." And then, as soon as Trudy did something they didn't like, there would be murmuring behind closed doors, ultimatums made. Sarah standing by, wringing her hands. Then announcements: She'd be going off to school/to stay with distant relatives/to the juvie home.

Trudy slouched back in the booth. She'd expected more from Adam, at least. But he just sat there, avoiding her eyes. She took a toothpick out of the faux-crystal holder and stabbed it into the tip of her index finger, trying to make the pain in her body match the aching in her heart. The wood didn't puncture skin. Jack saw what she was doing and grabbed her hand.

"You'd better know that this could get us all in trouble. Trudy is a minor. You know what that means, don't you?"

Trudy held her gaze steady on Adam. She willed him to look over at her so she could roll her eyes at "Dr. Baxter's" paranoia. He didn't really care about her, Trudy. He was only concerned with his precious career. No wonder Sarah had left him.

But Adam would not look her way. She felt like that woman with the snakes growing from her head-Medusa. Was he afraid he'd turn to stone or something? She found his foot under the table with her own and nudged his ankle. She needed a sign from him, some indication that he was still on her side, but he jerked away. The future of their romance was looking pretty bleak.

Jack stepped away and gave them a few minutes of privacy.

"Well, I guess this is it," Adam said. "See you around."

"What are you talking about?" Trudy's voice was shrill with desperation. "You really care what he thinks?"

"Hey, I need to graduate." His kohl-lined eyes were strangely cold. He eased himself out of the booth and headed for the door.

When Adam was gone, Jack ordered two more cups of coffee. "I'm sorry Trudy," he said, "but I'm afraid we're going to have to make other arrangements."

6.

Ca.s.sie knew that rumors about her were flouris.h.i.+ng at school. Todd's football buddies snickered in her wake. Their girlfriends darted their eyes from Ca.s.sie to each other and whispered behind their hands.

October, November, December ... Ca.s.sie ticked off the months in her head. She couldn't wait to get out of there.

Todd must have been pretty angry when she ditched him at that party, but he was the one s...o...b..ring all over Miss Big Blonde. She'd had every right to leave.

But Todd wasn't used to indifferent dates. He probably couldn't believe that Ca.s.sie, a girl with a disfiguring scar, wouldn't jump through hoops to be his girlfriend. This was his way of getting back at her.

She pa.s.sed Harumi on her way to American Lit. When Harumi saw her, the usual chill left her eyes and she smiled.

"Hey, Ca.s.sie. How's it going?"

"Thanks again for the ride the other night."

"Sure. Anytime."

After they'd ditched the party, they'd wound up going to the Capitol Cafe downtown. A waitress named Pee Wee brought them coffee and scrambled eggs, and they'd compared notes on stage mothers, itchy costumes, and favorite songs. They'd even hatched plans to perform together someday. Harumi was sick of her bandmates and ready for something more serious. Maybe Ca.s.sie would be interested in being the lead singer?

Later, they'd gone across the street and wandered around the capitol grounds, under the palmetto trees, past the spotlit monuments dedicated to George Was.h.i.+ngton and the Confederate soldiers, talking and talking until nearly dawn.

They'd have to make plans to hang out together again soon, Ca.s.sie thought as she made her way to cla.s.s. For now, she sat down at her desk, hauled out her textbook, and waited for the bell to ring.

It had to be hard for Harumi, being a minority, she thought. And her life was so different from everyone else's. Instead of going to volleyball or cheerleader practice after school, or even kicking back in front of MTV at home, Harumi had gone off to play her violin. She'd never dated, as far as Ca.s.sie knew. Harumi hadn't said anything about boys the other night. Maybe the guys at their school didn't want to go out with someone of another race-especially the ones with the Confederate flag decals on their car windows. Or maybe they were intimidated by that angry aura that surrounded her. It could have been something else. She might have a boyfriend at another school-a college poet or a pianist. A secret lover.

The bell rang and Ms. Claiborne shuffled into cla.s.s. Speaking of outsiders, she was pretty much one herself. Today she was wearing an all-black outfit-a turtleneck that clung to her bony chest, a miniskirt revealing stick-like legs, and a black beret, slightly askew, which hid most of her short auburn hair. Her lipstick was white.

Ms. Claiborne always dressed eccentrically for a high school English teacher, but the beret was a special addition meant to evoke a bygone era of coffee houses and beatniks. Ms. Claiborne had hung out in Greenwich Village in the '60s. Rumor had it she'd once smoked pot with Jack Kerouac.

"Now, you've all memorized your selections," she said hopefully. "You're all ready for today's poetry reading, aren't you?"

"We need clove cigarettes," someone heckled from the back row.

A wave of giggles pa.s.sed through the room. Ms. Claiborne smiled patiently. She waited till silence returned, then scanned the upturned faces. "Well? Who's first?"

Rusty Andrews raised his hand. Ca.s.sie had been out with him a few times her junior year. Like Todd, he was a BMOC coasting on looks and easy charm. In another ten years, he'd be balding and fat from beer. Ca.s.sie could see the signs already.

He scooted his chair back, rose from his seat, and strode to the head of the cla.s.sroom. Then he cracked his neck and cleared his throat loudly.

t.i.tters erupted.

Ca.s.sie checked out Ms. Claiborne's expression. Her chalky lips were pressed together. She didn't have much tolerance for those who lacked the proper respect for literature.

Rusty saw her face and subdued his smirk. He began his recitation: "Hickory d.i.c.kory dock ..."

Wild laughter broke out.

Ms. Claiborne had asked the students to memorize their favorite poems. In the spirit of the '60s, she'd given them total freedom in choosing what they would recite. They were allowed-encouraged, even-to go beyond The Norton Anthology of American Literature and dig up poems from obscure literary journals and hip small presses. Mother Goose wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind, and everyone knew it. Rusty would probably get a D on this a.s.signment. A C, if he was lucky. After all, he hadn't flubbed the lines.

"That was very entertaining, Mr. Andrews," Ms. Claiborne said once he'd returned to his seat. He was slapping the palms of his neighboring students. "I'm glad to see that you're still in touch with your inner child. Anyone else have a favorite nursery rhyme?"

After a long pause, Ca.s.sie raised her hand.

A strange hush fell over the room and she was reminded of the mysterious rumor floating around the halls. Her audience sat with crossed arms and blank faces. Ca.s.sie was surprised that they were listening at all. "'Lady Lazarus,' by Sylvia Plath," she said, naming her selection. Then she began her performance.

"I have done it again," she recited. She told the cla.s.s about dying and coming back to life. She became Lady Lazarus. The cla.s.sroom was silent, except for her voice, the enchantment complete.

"Dying / Is an art, like everything else." She paused. "I do it exceptionally well."

They were all listening.

"For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge." She touched the crescent on her cheek. "For the hearing of my heart- / It really goes." Here, she thumped her chest with her palm.