Screaming Divas Page 4

  “Then why do her mama and daddy talk so funny?”

  “They came from Japan,” Esther said. “They came here to be free.”

  He picked up a stone and tossed it at Harumi. It hit the back of her leg, but she didn’t turn around. By now she was halfway to the Shealys’ yard. She’d probably keep on going and run off to her own house. Then Esther would be alone for the rest of the day.

  “I’ll get you for that,” Esther shrieked. She dropped her ice cream bar onto the pavement and ran straight for the little boy. When she got to him, she began pummeling him with her fists.

  He fell onto the pavement, his fudge bar flying into the air. The other kids went running off in different directions.

  Esther climbed onto the boy, pinning him to the ground, and yanked at his hair. Clumps of white-blond hair stuck to her sticky, sweaty hands. She tried to claw his hands away so she could spit on his face, but he kept his eyes and mouth shielded. By the time Esther’s mother arrived, the boy was a sniveling mess.

  Esther had gotten into big trouble, but she was still proud of her ferocity. Even now, she and Harumi would sometimes laugh about that day. Not that she saw Harumi much anymore.

  Sometimes she invited Esther to go along to a party where she’d be playing with her new band, but Esther thought that she was just using her as an alibi. If her parents knew what she was doing on those Friday and Saturday nights (Not shopping at the mall! Not going to see movies at the Cineplex!) they’d probably chain her to her bedpost.

  Harumi’s life had changed. She and Esther were in different orbits.

  5

  Trudy’s dad had once been in a band. He had photos and demo tapes to prove it. On one wall of his apartment there was a framed flyer advertising a riverside gig. They’d called themselves Swamp, after the mushy lowlands of South Carolina.

  Trudy spent hours listening to Jack’s tapes. Swamp’s sound made her think of dusty roads and moonshine and cats in heat. They were a blues band, but sometimes they got happy, rollicking through their songs with the kick of rock and roll. Sometimes she grabbed a wooden spoon, held it like a mic, and sang along. One day, that would be her voice on tape.

  Sarah had never told Trudy about the band. Maybe she didn’t care or hadn’t thought it was important. Sarah liked ’60s Motown, after all, the sexy croon of Marvin Gaye, the bubbly optimism of the girl groups. Swamp’s sound was something else.

  Trudy tried to get to know Jack through his music while he was away at the university where he taught anthropology. Sometimes he brought his textbooks home and tried to interest her in the peoples of the world. She’d officially dropped out of school (she’d be coming into her trust fund in a couple of years and had no need of a diploma anyway), but he thought that he could teach her things. One night he prepared a slide show, there in the living room. They sat on the secondhand sofa with Cokes while Jack narrated.

  Trudy looked at the images on the white wall and saw instead her father, holding a camera in a country far from her. Where had she been at that time? Curled up in the corner of her bedroom, evading Sarah’s hysteria? Trying to keep her mother’s boyfriend’s hands out of her pants? She would have been happier in West Africa with her father, drums beating her to sleep at night.

  Jack kept beer in the fridge and sometimes she’d crack open a can while watching the soaps. One afternoon she got carried away—two beers during All My Children, a couple more during General Hospital. Her dad found her still in her pajamas amid crumpled empties. He wasn’t as mad as she’d expected. Sarah would have been furious. She’d have shipped Trudy off to a foster home like she had once before. That had been for slapping her little brother Joey. She didn’t remember why she’d hit him, only a sense of never-ending fury that had finally made its way to her hand. Joey hadn’t been injured, but he’d wailed like a banshee. Trudy had been sorry about it later, but she got sent away anyhow.

  The foster family, the Andersons, had lived in an old house with a rotting porch. There were three other foster children as well. Trudy figured they were getting paid to take in the unwashed and unwanted because they hadn’t seemed enthusiastic about parenting.

  Mrs. Anderson sat in the den all day, a bowl of potato chips in her lap, watching game shows. Sometimes she asked Trudy to change the baby’s diapers or run to the store for a pack of cigarettes. She was like their maid. She ran away five times.

  Jack didn’t send her to the Andersons or anywhere else. He had this liberal parent act going. Or maybe he didn’t know that he was supposed to be strict.

  “Trudy,” he said calmly. He picked up one accordioned can and examined it. “First I’m going to go make us a pot of coffee. Then we’re going to have a talk.”

  Trudy sat on the sofa, mute, too stunned for defiance. She grabbed a cushion and held it to her chest, rocked back and forth. He was probably going to beat her. Didn’t Sarah say he’d given her a black eye once? But no. Trudy listened to him pulverize the beans in a hand-crank grinder. Then she heard the whistle of the kettle as the water came to a boil. Jack made coffee in a French press he’d gotten on one of his trips.

  When he came back, he set down two mugs, opened the curtains, and sat on a stool in front of Trudy so they could talk face to face.

  “I think you need something interesting to do,” he said. “I’ll give you a choice. You can help me at the university, or maybe we could find a job for you somewhere.”

  “I’ll help you,” she said, “at the university.”

  She went with him the next day even though she had a slight hangover. She wasn’t used to drinking. The reform school had been dry, although some girls had managed to smuggle in some weed.

  Trudy followed her father across campus, into the Humanities building where he had his office. She tried to keep her distance, not wanting to look like a kid tagging along. She wore lipstick and bright blue eye shadow.

  Students were everywhere. Blankets decorated the lawn, and young men and women in cutoffs and tank tops sunned themselves. Frisbees sliced through the air. Music blasted from portable radios.

  Jack led her to the elevator, then along a hallway to his office. She waited while he opened the door, looked both ways down the corridor as if planning her escape.

  Jack’s office was small and walled with books. His desk faced away from the window. There were a couple of straight-back chairs near the door for students. A beanbag chair took up one corner.

  He showed her where the bathroom was and where she could get a drink of water. Then he led her back to the office. “Why don’t you hang out here for a while? Read some books. Get a feel for the place.” He left her there to go teach a class.

  Trudy sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk. She pushed off against the desk and gave it a spin. When the chair came to a stop, she started looking in the drawers. Lots of pens, paper clips, a scattering of business cards. In the bottom drawer there were stacks of papers—drafts of an article Jack was working on. Something about Gullah coming-of-age rituals. And under that, last month’s Playboy.

  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 tits? Suddenly bored, she slammed the magazine down and got up from the chair. She was reading through the titles 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-shirt 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 assistant.”

  He cocked his head
. Just then Trudy noticed the little dagger dangling from his right earlobe. “I didn’t know he had an assistant. 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 breasts. “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 Cokes. 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 bypassed 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 doorknob. Someone answered his knock and he shouted, “Hey, get the fuck 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 album 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 fishing 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, clashing teeth. Trudy thought that everything looked so much smoother in the movies.

  It hurt like hell, 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 passing 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 relationship?

  “She’s fifteen.”

  “Sixteen,” Trudy said. Her birthday was in a few days. What the hell 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 assumed 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

  Cassie knew that rumors about her were flourishing at school. Todd’s football buddies snickered in her wake. Their girlfriends darted their eyes from Cassie to each other and whispered behind their hands.

  October, November, December … Cassie 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 slobbering 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 Cassie, 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 passed Harumi on her way to American Lit. When Harumi saw her, the usual chill left her eyes and she smiled.

  “Hey, Cassie. 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 Café 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 Cassie 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 Washington and the Confederate soldiers, talking and talking until nearly dawn.

  They’d have to make plans to hang out together again soon, Cassie thought as she made her way to class. 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 Cassie 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.