THE GOLD FISH: Complete and Total (2.14)

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Loch Raven Junior High School felt like a maze. From the air, the one-story building might look like the capital letter H, serifs included, but from Barbie’s mouse-level perspective, it was an endless series of dead ends. Her search for classroom B11 -- her homeroom for the next nine months -- eluded her at every turn. She was flummoxed.

Actually, before the search even began, the very idea of a “homeroom” confounded her. Okay, maybe not the idea of a homeroom. She liked the idea of a home base, like she had had at IHM. But why on earth should she (and twenty-five or thirty of her classmates) have to rush through the halls to change classrooms every hour of the school day? It made no sense. Why didn’t the teachers just move? After all, there were fewer of them than students. Just another example, Barbie figured, of adults taking the easy way out. Maybe her father should have been a teacher.

Barbie checked the room number closest to her. B9. Okay, B11 had to be right down the hall. But when she scanned the far end of the crowded corridor, it wasn’t B11 she found.

It was the sallow face of Donna Nichols. Pickles! God!

Barbie ducked to hide herself in the crowd. And for about the tenth time that day, wished for the comforting presence of Bridge.

Thankfully, Donna was preoccupied with her own way-finding and turned to spin off in the other direction.

Barbie had dodged a bullet, but knew it was only a matter of time. With all this stupid classroom changing, she was bound to run into Pickles sometime.

:::

The rest of the morning passed with a blur and before she knew it, it was lunchtime and Barbie was standing, terrified, in front of the crowded cafeteria.

If the school bus and hallways of Loch Raven Junior were chaotic, it was nothing compared to the din in the cafeteria. It took every ounce of control in Barbie’s body not to stick her fingers in her ears and shut her eyes.

Instead, she picked up a tray and followed a pair of giggling girls into the hot food line. While the line crept along, she was struck by how very small and quiet IHM had been in comparison. How could she not have anticipated how different junior high would be? And how small and dumb she would feel?

Judging by the morning alone -- with complex classroom changing schedules, locker combinations, and unfamiliar school supplies like compasses and protractors -- clearly there was quite a bit about the world she didn’t know.

Like what the heck was she supposed to eat for lunch. Definitely not the hot meal of the day, which she was just now passing. The so-called Salisbury Steak, covered in gray goop, was on offer for 85 cents. Passing that up was no great sacrifice. It looked disgusting and besides, Barbie wanted to spend as little of her lunch dollar as possible so she could pocket the rest. It may not be the quickest way to make money, but along with the extra dollar she’d pilfered from her father’s pants pocket, it could be a steady source of funds.

And jeez, this morning seemed like ages ago. How young and innocent she’d been then. Okay, come to think of it, she hadn’t exactly been innocent. But ignorant, for sure.

Barbie slid past the hot meals and onto the snack section, which thankfully included one of her favorites: Peanut Butter crackers. She grabbed a pack and after filling a small paper cup with Sprite from the drink dispenser, joined the line to pay.

When it was her turn, Barbie set down her tray in front of a register attendant -- Dot, according to her name tag -- who assessed its contents. “That it, hon? Don’t you want something else?”

Barbie’s “nope,” escaped with a croak. She’d only been called upon for a couple of “here’s” for attendance that day, and her voice had already gone rusty. She cleared her throat and continued. “I mean, no thank you. I had, um, a big breakfast.”

Dot nodded. “Okay, hon. That’ll be 25 cents.”

Dot was that ubiquitous Baltimore archetype known as a Hon. Of indeterminate age between 25 and 65, Hons typically wore their hair in excessively teased, sprayed-until-firm, sky-high beehives. Not only could these hair-dos stay upright and intact for nearly a week, but they were also perfect receptacles for extra pencils, which Hons often needed. Because Hons worked for a goddamned living. Whether they slung hash and waited tables at a diner or slung hash and waited tables at home, they worked their nicotine-stained, chipped-nail-polished fingers to the bone. They simply didn’t have time for anything as superfluous as names. So to them, everyone was hon.

Barbie handed over a crumpled dollar bill to Dot, who in return, handed Barbie back three quarters.

For some reason, Barbie was about to reply “thanks hon” -- that hon thing was really catching! -- but somehow it got muddled up with the math calculation she was performing in her head. So instead, blurted out “$8.02 hon.”

“What’s that, hon?”

“Nothing,” said Barbie, blushing furiously. “I just... never mind.”  

She picked up her tray and fled.

Barbie stared at the row upon row of cafeteria tables, frozen with indecision. Should she try to find an empty spot at a crowded table -- risking embarrassment or worse? -- or search for an empty table and have her friendlessness broadcast for the world to see? Her eyes darted left and right for friendly faces, and for the second time that day there was Donna Nichols. Only this time, Donna’s eyes locked with hers, and a sneer spread across her greasy face.

Jesus Christ Almighty, thought Barbie, was there no escaping this girl?!

Panicked, she dropped her tray on the nearest table and clambered awkwardly over the bench seat, mumbling “sorry, sorry,” to those occupants who were forced aside to make room.

One, a tiny sprite of a girl with blond hair and fluttery, translucent eye lids scanned Barbie from head to toe and gaped.

“Oh my gosh... THOSE PANTS,” cried the girl. “I am flipping out. Seriously. A complete and total flip out. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Intricate. Cool.” She whipped her head to the girl beside her. “Bev, have you ever seen anything so far out?”

Apparently, Bev had not. Or if she had, wasn’t interesting in saying because she ignored the question and turned to the girl on her other side.

“Um thanks,” said Barbie, as she removed the tapestry bag from across her shoulder and laid it on the seat beside her. She sagged with relief and gratitude. Relief that she’d managed to dodge Donna’s glare, and gratitude for the friendly face beside her.

“And that bag too! Jeez Louise. I have, like, a million questions.”

“Okaaaay.” Barbie ripped open the package of peanut butter crackers and started to nibble on one.

“Question number one,” said the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Barbie.”

“Barbie. Got it. That long red hair. I’ll remember you as a Barbie doll, except with red hair instead of blond. Mine’s Erin, by the way. You can remember me by thinking of Erin go Bragh. You know, Ireland Forever.”

Barbie did not know. But nodded like she did.

“Question number two. Where’re you from? I mean,” Erin waved a blue-veined hand, “what school did you go to last year?”

“Immaculate Heart of Mary.”

“That explains it. I went to Pleasant Plains. That’s why I’ve never seen you before. Okay. Question number three. Where did you get those PANTS?!

Barbie took in a breath to answer but only succeeded in aspirating her peanut butter cracker. Instead of words, the only thing that came out was a hacking cough and a spray of crumbs.

Oh God, she thought furiously, I finally met someone nice and I just spit all over her.

Bev scooched as far away as the crowded bench would allow, but Erin simply wiped the crumbs away and smacked Barbie on the back. “Easy now!”

Eyes watering, Barbie took a sip of her Sprite before finally croaking out an answer. “Sorry… crackers… wrong hole.”

“Yep, I figured. Take your time,” said Erin.

Barbie swallowed and began again. “My... my pants were my older sister’s. But I kind of, you know, sewed them tighter down the legs. And added the stuff -- the embroidery -- down the sides.”

“Wowsers,” Erin gasped. “I could NEVER do something like that. Never. Ever. Ever. I mean, trust me, I have talents. No false modesty here. But not like that.”

Erin turned once again to Bev. “She made them! Can you believe it?” Bev seemed to believe it. But kept her distance just the same.

Barbie cleared her throat. “I didn’t make them, really. I just, sort of--”

Erin’s hand fluttered again. “And that bag?!”

“I did make that. From one of my Mom’s old coats.”

“Seriously? From your Mom’s coat?! That’s so Scarlett O’Hara.” Erin was almost hyperventilating. “I’m having a complete and total flip out.”

“It’s just a square and a strap. Honestly. No big whoop.”

Erin held up a finger. “No! It is a whoop. No false modesty for you either. Accept your talent! It’s a gift from God.”

Barbie flinched at the mention of God. She still hadn’t completely reconciled this morning’s sin and didn’t want to be reminded of it. But Erin mistook her expression for one of a disbeliever.

“Hold on,” said Erin. “That sounded religious-y, didn’t it? For all I know, you could be an atheist or agnostic. You know what they say about making assumptions? It makes an (beep) out of you and me. Ha!” She peered at Barbie. “Oh my God, are you?!”

Barbie had no idea what an atheist or an agnostic was, but shook her head no anyway.

Relieved, Erin continued. “Of course you’re not. You went to IHM. Not that there’s anything wrong with it if you were. We’re all free to be you and me, you know? I believe in God, but I’m not all God is this, God is that, you know? I mean, my Dad IS a minister, but it’s not like we sit around talking about our lord and savior all day long. By the way, I’m talking about my adopted Dad. Not my real Dad. My Mom booted him out of the house when I was three. Actually, she would say...” Erin fluttered her eyes and raised her voice an octave in imitation of her mother. “‘I simply asked him to leave.’”

With a shrug, she continued in her normal voice. “I don’t really remember him. So it’s not like it was traumatic or anything. Nothing to make me...” She folded her hands in a prayer position and turned her eyes heavenward “cry out for GOD! You know? Now Jesus. He’s a different story. Because he’s actually nice. And cute! Oh my Gosh... have you seen Jesus Christ Superstar? I’m in love. I mean, a complete and total obsession.”

Barbie was speechless at this proclamation. This girl was in love with Jesus? Was that even possible? Or allowed?

Erin took a sip from her milk carton. But when she caught Barbie’s stunned expression, she slammed it back down on the table. “Sorry! Sometimes I get carried away. My Dad says that all the time. He says, ‘Erin, slow it down. And tone it down.’ Isn’t that rich? From a guy who likes to fire up his congregation and all. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! I mean, that’s practically his entire job. Anyways... here’s my last question because the bell is about to ring.” She gestured to Barbie’s jeans. “Could you do what you did to your pants to a pair of my pants?”

Barbie blinked. She certainly never expected this. But why hadn’t it occurred to her? What a dumbbell she’d been. Why shouldn’t she take the bull by the horns -- as Mr. Charles might have said -- and drum up fashion business with kids her own age? Because, let’s face it, kids her sister and Shay’s age wanted to use their money on things like cigarettes, beer, lip gloss, maybe even for pot, for all she knew.

But kids her age didn’t care about those things. At least not yet. But they did want to look cool.

It was like a thunderbolt. Her assumption had indeed made a (beep) of... well no one else, but her. Kids at IHM had no choice but to wear a uniform, but at Loch Raven Junior High, they were free to wear whatever they wanted. Just one more example of how Catholic school had limited her thinking.

Barbie looked around the cafeteria and for the first time that day, really saw the kids around her. Not as a group of rowdy strangers that scared her by their sheer numbers and overwhelming boisterousness, but each as an individual, with distinct and, in many cases, flamboyant personal style. Wearing fringed pocketbooks, beaded chokers, and crocheted vests. In Peanut pants, Sizzler dresses, and Earth Shoes. Wow, she thought, these kids were groovy!

Erin, oblivious to Barbie’s observations, rushed on. “Oh please say yes! All my clothes look like my mother picked them out. Which of course she did. Without even asking me, I might add. That might have been fine in elementary school, but I’m in Junior High School! I can’t keep looking like...” She plucked at the ruffles that ran down her prim white blouse and howled, “Anne of Green Gables! I want to look like Laurie Partridge. I can pay you, of course. I have babysitting money. LOTS of babysitting money. How much do you want?”

A smile started at the corners of Barbie’s mouth. Then grew. And grew. Soon she was grinning like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas who’d just had his eureka moment about what he could do to stop Christmas. How crazy was it for Erin to mention Laurie Partridge when she’d been thinking about the Partridge Family only this morning?! Clearly, this was a sign. It was meant to be. This was how she was going to get her gold (pause) fish stuffed.

Barbie nodded. “Bring the pants you want to fix to school tomorrow, okay? We’ll meet back here at lunchtime and talk about it.”

Erin spread her arms wide. “YES!”

The bell rang out, startling them both. They gathered their belongings and followed the mass of kids heading for the double exit doors, Barbie’s mind already racing with the possibilities.

“This is going to be amazing,” bubbled Erin. “A complete and total creative collaboration. I have so many ideas. Tons of ideas. Just you wait!”

“Creative ideas want out,” said Barbie. “I mean, I think they do.” she added with an embarrassed shrug.

All this exuberance and optimism was new to her, and reciprocating it -- especially, on the outside! -- felt like a tightrope walk above a rocky gorge. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Erin pointed at Barbie, “Yes! Yes they do.” Then whirled to go.

“Erin! Wait!” Barbie called after her. “What are your, um, ‘other talents?’”

Erin spun back, and with a dramatic curtsey, cried. “Musical the-a-ter! Couldn’t you tell?!” And with a giggle, she was off like a shot, disappearing into the crowd.

Next → Apple Sauce (2.15)