THE GOLD FISH: Happiness (2.13)

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While The Belle picked circles of banana from her high-chair tray, happily oblivious to the morning’s drama, Barbie sat dumbly before an untouched bowl of Cheerios. Despite being jauntily attired in her newly embellished hip huggers, she was terrified.

If starting at a brand new school and riding a school bus for the very first time wasn’t enough to rattle her, the despair on her mother’s face might have done the job. But it was like passing a car wreck on the side of the road; she couldn’t not look.

With unguarded intensity, Barbie studied her mother. Still in robe and slippers, Joan stood slumped against the kitchen counter smoking a cigarette while Karen Carpenter’s crystalline contralto seemed to mock her from the kitchen’s transistor radio.

“I'm on the top of the world lookin' down on creation...

And the only explanation I can find...

Is the love that I've found, ever since you've been around...

Your love's put me at the top of the world.”

Sensing Barbie’s eyes upon her, Joan snorted with disgust and stabbed out her cigarette. If there was one thing Joan couldn’t abide, it was the scrutiny of her daughter. Actually, there were many things Joan couldn’t abide, but at this particular moment, it’s what bothered her the most.

“What?!” She demanded.

Barbie shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Eat your breakfast!”

“I’m...I’m not hungry.”

Joan grabbed Barbie’s bowl off the table and tossed it into the sink. “So don’t eat.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s time to go anyway.”

Barbie pushed back from the table and strung the brocade tote bag she had made from her mother’s old coat across her body.

The sight of the bag snagged something in Joan’s distracted mind. Bag, bag. Something should be in a bag. Oh right, she thought, lunch.

Goddammit, cursed Joan. In all the bathroom pandemonium, she’d forgotten to pack Barbie a lunch! Joan knew she might not be the warmest and cuddliest of mothers, but she would never not feed her children. Or, as she gazed at the Cheerios now scattered across the bottom of kitchen sink, she would never not at least offer to feed her children. Whether they ate or not was up to them. But if Barbie skipped breakfast, she would absolutely need a decent lunch. She was too skinny as it was.

“Hold on.”

Hope sprung in Barbie’s heart, as she wondered what her mother might say next. Had Joan recognized the fabric of her groovy new tote bag and was about to pay her a compliment? Maybe marvel at how Barbie had given new life to such a dreary, old coat? (Funny, the notion that her mother might give her a pep talk about starting a new school never occurred to her.)

Regardless, neither were what Barbie was expecting.

“Yeah?”

“Run upstairs and grab a dollar out of Dad’s pocket. For lunch.”

Barbie’s face fell in disappointment. Lunch? Who cared about lunch?

The look on Barbie’s face sent another bolt of anger through Joan.

Ungrateful brat, she thought. Most kids would love to buy their lunch at the cafeteria rather than brown bag it. But no, not Barbie. She had to pout about it. That child was never satisfied.

“C’mon. Chop. Chop. Go get it.” She snapped.

:::

Minutes later, a dejected Barbie stood in her parent’s empty bedroom, her father’s bundle of cash in hand. She peeled a dollar bill off the center of the stack and was about to stuff the rest back into her father’s pants pocket when she hesitated.

The fact was she was tired of being good, of walking on eggshells all the time. Tired of her mother’s meanness no matter what she did. But most of all, Barbie was tired of feeling invisible. Like no one cared about her. Or cared about what she cared about, anyway. Like starting a brand new school with no friends! Or trying to stuff a gold (pause) fish! It truly was enough to harden her heart. If no one cared about her, why she should care about them?

Especially, she thought, her father. Because Barbie was starting to realize that everything wrong in the family -- ALL of it -- was HIS fault. HE was the reason her mother was miserable and, therefore, mean. Barbie might not know all the things that good husbands and fathers were supposed to do, but she suspected that being passed out on the toilet on a Tuesday morning wasn’t one of them. If her father would just act like he was supposed to, her mother would be nice. Happy. Affectionate even.

She glanced in the direction of the bathroom, where her father still slumbered, and with a serves-you-right look, pulled another dollar off the stack and shoved it into her bag.

“$7.27,” she muttered to herself. She was going to get her goddamned gold (pause) fish stuffed, and that was all there was to it.

:::

The din of the school bus was deafening. Barbie didn’t understand how the bus driver could hear herself think, let alone concentrate enough to drive. Honestly, if Sister Mary Margaret at IHM had gotten a load of all this, she might have downgraded Barbie’s not “sitting like a lady” to a misdemeanor and beaten these kids with a stick. Because they -- some of whom Barbie knew by sight; others were complete strangers -- were bonkers. They shouted and screamed. They bounced and threw things. They jostled and flung themselves over the back of each other’s seats with reckless abandon. All while hurling greetings and insults in equal measure.

Of course, it might have been fun to watch the chaos if Barbie had had a friend like Bridge beside her. Bridge would have said it was hysterical, and probably joined in, if not escalated, the chaos. And encouraged Barbie to join in too.

But without Bridge, it was just overwhelming. And kind of scary. Not at all how Barbie had imagined a school bus to be. Of course, she hadn’t expected it be cool like the Partridge Family school bus -- which had a groovy paint job and David Cassidy in it -- but it wouldn’t be this insane asylum.

It wasn’t even worth trying to imagine the bus filled with water. Which was her usual go to strategy for finding peace in the face of craziness. Because with all those open windows, her imaginary water would surely leak right out. And besides, there was too much stuff on the bus. Kids, jackets, ponchos, lunch boxes, book bags. There would have been no room to swim!

No. This time, there was no way her imagination could get her through. Her only option was to hunker down, try to blot it all out, and grit her teeth until the ride was over.

So Barbie turned her back to the rowdy masses, pressed her forehead to the window, and distracted herself with thoughts of her (most) recent crime. She had broken the Eighth Commandment: THOU SHALL NOT STEAL. Which she had done brazenly -- and this was kind of a surprise -- without a shred of shame. It had felt good.

She supposed she’d done it before. She’d accepted the embroidery thread that Bridge had stolen from Joanne’s and helped her -- even though she hadn’t meant to -- steal earrings from Woolworth’s. The money she and Bridge had taken from the car wash’s vacuum cleaners was also technically stealing, she supposed. After all, the money wasn’t theirs to begin with. If you wanted to get all nit-picky about it, that money belonged to the Car Wash.

But wait! Hadn’t the Car Wash sort of stolen it from their customers? For surely those people hadn’t meant to give away their loose change; they had only wanted to vacuum their car floors.

So Barbie and Bridge had actually stolen money from the people who had stolen it first. It might not be 100% right, but it wasn’t 100% wrong either. And if her father was stealing her mother’s happiness and by extension, her and Karen’s happiness -- The Belle didn’t count; she was always happy -- was it really so bad to steal some of her father’s?

Because Barbie knew, with 100% certainty, that her father’s wad of cash was the only thing that made him happy. And the loss of his cash -- or at least some of it -- would hurt him the most. Which after this morning, she kinda wanted to do.

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