Screaming Divas Page 5

  The bell rang and Ms. Claiborne shuffled into class. 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 passed 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. Cassie 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. Cassie could see the signs already.

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

  Titters erupted.

  Cassie 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 dickory 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 assignment. 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, Cassie 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. Cassie 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 class about dying and coming back to life. She became Lady Lazarus. The classroom 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.

  Ms. Claiborne, propped on the edge of her desk, had put down her pen as if she’d forgotten that this was a graded exercise.

  By the time Cassie got to the last part, about rising out of the ash with red hair, she knew that she would be getting an A. Performing like this was electrifying. Powerful. How could she have forgotten how wonderful it felt? She delivered the final words with a snarl: “And I eat men like air.”

  Rusty Andrews squirmed in his seat. Cassie glared at him, cast her gaze over all of the students, and then returned to her desk. Silence fell heavily.

  Finally Ms. Claiborne thawed and took a deep breath. “Wow. You are quite an actress. That was most impressive.”

  Cassie smiled. “Thank you.” She knew that word would spread quickly. She would be officially weird, but she didn’t care. There was so much beyond high school. She was ready to burn her bridges and move into the world.

  7

  Trudy had been to The Cave a few times with Adam. She thought of it as their place, and every time she climbed that narrow staircase, she expected to see him. The club was on the second floor of a run-down building on Assembly Street, next to a row of pawnshops. There was a parking garage across the street. During the day, looking up from the street, it looked like the kind of place where nothing would ever happen, but at night, the doors opened and the hall rumbled with pounding combat boots. Music blasted from a loft in the corner.

  Everyone danced solo, writhing as if they were in pain. Trudy understood. She threw herself into their midst, a whirling dervish, a tornado, a woman scorned.

  When she was tired of dancing, she slunk back into the Pink Room, a lounge with thrift shop sofas. The walls were hung with splatter paintings.

  One night, Trudy stumbled into the Pink Room and found something new: a dented birdcage with a ratty-haired Barbie doll hanging inside. A chain—the kind attached to bathtub plugs—was wrapped around her neck and rigged to the top of the cage. The doll was naked and its plastic flesh nicked as if by a razor blade. On the bottom of the cage there was a scattering of newspaper clippings. Trudy leaned in closer and saw that they were all concerned with sex scandals. A priest and a boy. A kindergarten teacher and a child porno ring. A Boy Scout troop leader who exposed himself to passing teenaged girls. There was an index card taped to the wall behind the cage: “Jail Bait by Adam Walker.”

  Someone came up behind her. “I think it’s offensive, don’t you?” Trudy turned to see a young woman with an inch of black hair all over her head. She was wearing jeans with suspenders over a T-shirt. Her feet were encased in Doc Martens. “He must hate women.”

  “No,” Trudy said. “You don’t understand. He’s my boyfriend. He’s in love with me. I’m, like, his muse.”

  The young woman looked at her strangely. “Wake up, girl. That Barbie doll has been lynched.”

  Trudy was sure that the noose meant something else. Thwarted desire. Strangled hopes. She rode her bike to Adam’s apartment at least once a day. Sometimes one of his roommates answered. Always the same response: “He’s not here, Trudy. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  But one day, she forced herself into the room beyond.

  “Wait—”

  Dave stepped up to the doorway. “I don’t think Adam is going to be too happy to find you here.” He pulled at his hair.

  Trudy glared at him. “Leave me alone.”

  Dave shifted from side to side, looked toward the screen door, then threw up his hands. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Trudy slammed the door in his face. This was her room as much as any other room in her life had been. She knew where everything was—the condoms in the drawer, Adam’s secret stash, the rolling papers. She flipped on the stereo and picked out an album. Then she slipped off her clothes, rolled herself a joint, and wrapped herself in sheets to wait.

  She heard the front door hinges screech about an hour later, then a slam and the tom-tom pound of footsteps. She lay against the pillows while she listened to the low rumble of voices in the room beyond. Then, a curse, a bang against the wall, the door thrown open, Adam yanking her by the arm with such force her shoulder popped out of joint. She was too stoned to feel much pain. “Adam … I love what you did for me … the birdcage … the doll.”

  Trudy thought she could see little licks of flame in Adam’s eyes. Behind him, Dave turned from her nakedness. There was someone else in the room. Female. Long rusty hair.

  “Trudy, we’re through. Get out of here.”

  “I’m homeless, Adam. He kicked me out. Have a heart.”

  His grip on her arm loosened. A dozen emotions flickered across his face. “I don’t believe you,” he s
aid at last. “You lie about everything.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “I swear. You can call him. He threw my ass on the street.”

  He let go of her then and she reeled back.

  “Get dressed,” he said. He left her alone and closed the door behind him.

  Trudy started crying. She crawled back under the covers and her mascara-tinged tears smudged the pillow. She heard the door creak and slam again and then she jumped out of bed again, a wild woman. He wasn’t coming back. He’d gone off with that wench. She wanted to hurt him somehow, to make him feel as wretched as she felt then, naked and abandoned. There was a rolled-up sketch standing at the foot of the bed. She lit a match and set it on fire.

  8

  Esther took a deep breath and followed Harumi into the apartment. Harumi had said “party” and “college.” Although Esther was nervous about the whole thing, she was tired of staying at home, always the uninvited one, while her brother Mark went to bash after bash. If nothing else, she told herself, she’d have a chance to work on her social skills. She was grateful to Harumi for asking her along. And although they hadn’t been all that close lately, she was glad that they were still friends. She’d missed Harumi.

  This wasn’t the usual party where all the breakables and valuables were locked up in the master bedroom so Mom and Dad wouldn’t get upset when they got home from their cruise. The thrift shop furniture was already wrecked.

  “Is there anybody that I know here?” Esther asked, hovering a little too close to Harumi.

  “There’s me.” Harumi was messing with her bass, too distracted to give Esther much attention. “Look, you said you wanted to come. Get in line at the keg. Mingle.”

  Esther was hurt, but tried to hide it. Somehow, she’d thought that they’d be hanging out together. “Okay. Have a great show.”

  Harumi rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. This is show biz, all the way.”

  Ever since her audition at Juilliard, she’d been a bit harder, a bit colder. Esther wished she’d just talk about it, but Harumi never brought up New York or her violin. She probably thought that Esther, who’d never been north of Virginia, or a master of anything, was incapable of understanding. Maybe in time Harumi would go back to being her old self.

  If only Esther could play a musical instrument. Then Harumi would think of her as more of an equal. They could even be in a band together. Maybe Esther could be a backup singer, or a songwriter. She could learn to play the guitar! Yeah, right.

  Esther worked up a smile and found her way to the bathroom where the keg was chilling in the tub. “Hi,” she said to a tall guy with a black T-shirt and squiggly hair. He winked and moved on. Esther pretended that she belonged there and that she was comfortable.

  No one spoke to her while she waited in line to get a plastic cup filled with beer. They all seemed to know each other. Across the room, she spotted a thin woman with bleached butch-cut hair. She was leaning against the wall, hip cocked, like a model in Vogue. Why couldn’t Esther look like that? Tall and thin and exotically beautiful.

  The woman caught her staring and raised her drink in a toast.

  Esther looked away quickly, embarrassed. She felt odd with her ordinary reddish-brown shoulder-length hair and her plain face. She wished that she had dabbed on some lipstick, at least. And maybe she should have worn something other than jeans and a flannel shirt. These women were like tropical birds, dazzling and rare in their finery. Esther looked like a roadie for the third-rate garage band warming up.

  “Hey there, dear. You look lost.”

  The British accent jarred Esther out of her gloom. She improvised a smile for the model-thin woman with white hair, now standing before her. Her cotton dress was so tight that Esther could see her nipples. She obviously wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “I’m Rebecca,” she said, holding out a hand.

  “Esther.” Rebecca’s hand was bony and cool.

  “Did you crash the wrong party, darling? You look a little muddled.”

  Esther’s back stiffened. “I’m here with my friend, Harumi. The band, I mean.”

  “Ahh.” Rebecca’s thin penciled eyebrows rose. “So you’re in high school.”

  “Well, yeah. I’m a senior.”

  “Ahh.”

  Esther had finally reached the bathtub. The most gorgeous guy she had ever seen was now pumping beer into her cup. He was wearing cut-offs, no shirt, and even though it was October, he was amazingly tanned. His belly was taut and segmented.

  “There you go,” he said. For a split second, she had the pleasure of looking into those chocolate eyes, half-hidden by the wavy hair that fell to his chin.

  “Thanks.” She wanted to talk more, but he had already forgotten her, his attention on the next cup.

  Esther moved out of line, a little shaken by her brush with beauty. Rebecca was still there, watching her with an amused twist of the lips.

  “You can’t have him,” she whispered, pulling Esther out of hearing.

  “What?”

  Rebecca ushered her onto the balcony where a few people were smoking and talking. “That’s Tony,” she said, nodding her head toward the keg. “You can’t have him. Don’t waste your energy.”

  Esther blushed. She hadn’t been thinking of making a play. Someone like that was obviously beyond her grasp. She’d never presume to want him. He was just nice to look at, like a statue of David or something.

  Rebecca was staring at her, watching her every reaction. “You can’t have him, Esther, because he’s gay.”

  “What?” Esther had never met an openly gay person before. Sure, there was talk about certain kids at school, such as Lewis Dalton who’d once been spotted purchasing needlepoint supplies. Everyone knew, but he was still in the closet.

  “Are all of these guys … gay?” Esther asked. She couldn’t imagine the straight boys at school drinking alongside a self-declared queer.

  “No, but some are,” Rebecca said. “Some of the women, too.”

  Esther turned and looked at her then, a little frightened. “Are you?”

  “What if I am?”

  Esther didn’t reply. Her head was suddenly too light, as if it were about to drift from her shoulders into the starry sky. She could smell Rebecca’s perfume. She could feel the heat of her body.

  Rebecca lowered her voice. “What if I told you that I think you’re really beautiful and I want to kiss you?”

  Esther brought her beer to her lips and drank like a horse in the desert. She set her empty cup on the railing. “Do you think I’m gay?” she whispered.

  “There’s just something about you that I really like.”

  Esther wondered what it would be like to kiss this woman. What would her lipstick taste like? What would it be like to run her fingers over Rebecca’s ribs, her back, her pea-sized nipples? What would it be like to be kissed in return?

  When Rebecca took her hand and pulled her back into the living room, she didn’t resist. She followed her to the tub and got her cup refilled. She drank and drank, and then she didn’t care when Rebecca led her into a dark room and nudged her onto the bed. She closed her eyes and felt Rebecca’s lips brushing hers. A shiver went down her spine. And then the light came on and she looked to see Harumi standing in the doorway.

  Her face was totally expressionless, but Esther knew that wild thoughts roiled underneath. “I’m leaving now,” she said in a frosty voice. “Are you coming or not?”

  Esther nodded. She couldn’t speak. This was the most embarrassing moment of her life. When Harumi left the room, she looked toward the window, seriously considering jumping. Everyone would stare knowingly when she emerged from the room. They probably knew that Rebecca was queer and that the two of them had gone off together. She might as well commit suicide right now.

  “Sorry about that, luv,” Rebecca said, still lolling on the bed. “I should have put a chair under the doorknob or something.”

  Esther didn’t answer. She heaved herself off the bed and smoothed o
ut her clothes. The room was spinning. Behind her, Rebecca was scrabbling through the drawers of the nightstand. When she turned, Esther could see that she was writing something.

  Rebecca prowled across the room and draped her arm over Esther’s shoulder. “Here’s my phone number, darling,” she whispered, tucking a folded piece of paper in Esther’s shirt pocket. “Call me.”

  Esther felt Rebecca’s lips on her neck before the other woman moved away. She crawled under the covers and closed her eyes. Esther tucked in her shirt, turned off the light, and went to find Harumi.

  All the way home, they sat in total silence. Harumi didn’t even turn the radio on. Maybe she was sick of music for the night. Maybe she was waiting for Esther to explain. But she couldn’t. What had happened had been beyond her control. It was as if Rebecca had hypnotized her. Well, actually she’d been drunk. And it hadn’t been bad. It had been really, really nice. No one had ever told Esther that she was beautiful or desired. And no one had ever kissed her like that. What was so wrong with it? Of course she wouldn’t call Rebecca. No, she’d wad up that little piece of paper and put her out of her mind. Someday it would seem like a dream.

  When the car reached Esther’s house, Harumi parked at the curb. She stared straight ahead and waited.

  “Thanks,” Esther said. “For the ride, I mean. And for taking me with you.”

  Harumi acted as if she hadn’t heard. She kept her eyes on the windshield until Esther had slammed the door and run across the yard to the front porch of her house. Then she drove home, two blocks away.