A Lifetime of Aholes

“Who do you like?” Ross flicked the blinker on with his cut hand. He had clusters of paper cuts from sorting the mail. In between the cuts were ink smudges from people’s carelessly-written addresses. The bill address handwriting was always pissy - curt, cutting e’s and pointy y’s.

“I like you.” I looked into the bag to make sure there were no fuck ups. You had to make sure before you got onto a residential street, or else Ross wouldn’t turn back. Then I’d sulk about it and he would probably yell “You really want me to turn around for something that cost 2 bucks?!” And I’d whisper “no” into the car’s window pane and he would just turn around anyway, doing an angered yet careful 3 point turn.

“I hope you like me. We’ve been dating 5 years.”

Everything was in the bag. I stole a french fry from his order, then two more.

“I like my mom too and Vixen.”

“Your mom and your dog, wow.”

“Want a fry?” I shoved one greasy fry into his beard, missing his mouth by a couple inches.

“You’re just not a person who likes people, and that’s okay.”

He grabbed his own fries at the red light.

“I should’ve got a baja blast.”

“Want me to go back?”

“No.” I smiled extra wide to appear convincing.

You see, it’s not a big deal to not like other people. My way is strong dislike or indifference at first. Then, naturally you can prove me right or prove me wrong. What’s so bad about that?

I’m not gonna run around the streets of Manhattan smiling and hugging people. You get shoved inside an ambulance for that business. They would tie my tired ass to a stretcher; smiling wildly and reaching my arms out just for a nice old-fashioned hug? Restraints. Heavy restraints. And I wouldn’t blame them. Being too nice warrants some uneasiness in people. “Here, I baked you a pie, neighbor” Who the fuck would eat that pie?

You have to warm up to people first before you start accepting pies. You shouldn’t have too much gusto in human beings too soon, that’s how you end up poisoned (Snow White, dumb bitch #1) or chained in Buffalo Bill’s basement passing a basket of lotion in and out of the well you live in now because you were TOO NICE to Bill.

Listen, you’re not Maria Menounos. No one is paying you a whopping $500,000 per smile. No one probably will notice if you smile. I’m not kidding. No one takes notes. Only smile when you feel like it for God’s sake. Be bitter, it’s more fun. Does anyone want to be friends with Maria Menounos? Wouldn’t you rather be friends with the Joan Rivers of the world (RIP Joan). Side note: is Maria Menounos really famous enough to warrant her own spellcheck for her last name?

I’ve ranted about a lot of people in my time. I carry grudges like the inner 102 year old Italian woman I am. I forget nothing. Second grade up until now, I’ve been taking notes about the people who have wronged me, pissed me off, or just annoyed me without doing anything, really.

Anderson, Mrs.

Third grade was my unraveling. The once perfect image I had of myself with curly brown hair, and a perfectly fine smile besides one tooth, was turned over and scribbled on by someone’s good for nothing younger brother. Mrs. Anderson was my teacher.

The same Mrs. Anderson that marveled in making girls and boys sob into their trapper keeper folders. She breathed in deep and closed her eyes, relishing in the sounds of sadness. Some said that her power grew from the tears. Her silver hair would smooth down and curl under at the ends.

No student had seen Mrs. Anderson smile, but there had been rumors in the cafeteria amongst our chocolate pudding packs, rumors that she only breaks her smile out for dire occasions---like death or when a Billy fell on his face into his tray of mashed potatoes in the cafeteria. Anderson was the most feared teacher in this side of town. Parents knew her name from when they went to school and more importantly, they knew and understood when their child screamed at the sight of her name: neatly typed on their class schedules in August. They consoled their child best they could, rubbed their shoulders and offered them a Yoohoo, but they knew it wouldn’t help. A year of torture was before their child, a year that would seem to be a decade.

Calls were made in fury to the Principal’s office, Mothers begged, frowning until their lipstick stuck to their chin, to switch their child from Anderson’s class, but the Principal was prepared, she wouldn’t hear of it---unless she was offered something she couldn’t refuse---like a Coach pocketbook fresh from the Outlets---but that could only work within the first hour of calls.

It didn’t work for my mother. I knew it would be no use. Mom was like me, once told something like “your groceries come out to 1,000 dollars--even though you bought pizza bagels” she accepted it. I did the same. I never saw a point in fighting for something---I never wanted it badly enough---except for NOW. NOW IT WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL, MOM.

And so, I was sent to Mrs. Anderson’s classroom on the first day of school.

I spent the morning standing in the way of the school bus’s doors so they wouldn’t close. Mom pried my fingers from the side of the bus, then I would find a new spot to hold onto, and so on. She was getting mad. She was only this mad when I put a tea kettle in the microwave and it blew up. But not even that mad, she said it was okay and I didn’t know it would happen. Now she was not saying it was okay, her mouth and eyebrows were pressed into hard lines, not moving.

“Ange, come on, enough---you have to go.”

“Don’t make me, please, I can stay and I’ll be quiet--you won’t even know I’m home.”

“You have to go.”

“I think I’m sick--I might have a stomach bug, Mom.”

“You are such an awful liar.”

“I can’t go--I can’t!”

“Don’t make me call your Father.”

My eyes got wide. Dad wouldn’t even let me hang onto the bus, he would throw me in and shut the door behind me.

Time slowed. My grip on the bus slackened.

Ester, the bus driver honked the horn. She wasn’t as mad as Mom. Ester knew who I had for a teacher without me even telling her.

“Get on the bus or I’ll call your Father.”

“Please, Mom” those were my last words before boarding the snot-infested bus to third grade. I held my lunchbox close to my chest. Not even a Lunchable and an extra cookie would save me. I was going down.

My desk’s cold surface made goose bumps form on my arms. Michael Maydolo’s sneakers touched mine. He made me want to vomit my Eggo waffles from breakfast that mom made me eat. I wanted pancakes but she didn’t care---and that was BEFORE I was hanging on the bus.

I dreaded doing it, but I looked up at Maydolo the Mayonnaise head. I hated mayonnaise. He wiped his runny nose with his red and blue striped shirt. Why can’t Justin like me instead of Maydolo the Mayonnaise head. WHY? His head reminded me of a watermelon, but not in a good, summery way. He didn’t speak. He never spoke unless a teacher forced him to during her lessons.

He burped.

I kept staring with my top lip pressed to the bottom of my nose. My forehead was carrying worry in the little lines that showed up.

Another burp.

I gave up.

To my right was Justin, the Justin Timberlake of third grade. Everything about him was cute. His puffy blue winter jacket, the way he sat in his desk all the way back in his seat, the way he carried his books when he walked: resting on the side of his leg. He would never carry his books in his hands pressed against his chest like Michael would.

“Angeline,” a hissing voice called from the front of the classroom.

I looked up into a smileless face.

“present” my quivering lips managed.

She went on, not affected by my fear---she was used to it.

“Ashley..”

No answer.

“Ashley? Ashley Timons?”

Still no answer.

She gripped her red pen, holding it up onto the paper.

“Last chance, Ashley.”

A threat. If Ashley didn’t answer now, she would suffer for the whole year. Mrs. Anderson would only see her as the girl that didn’t answer her on the first day of third grade.

My head turned left and right, searching for Ashley in the classroom. I found her in the right corner, her head rested on her fist and her eyes were closed. Oh, Ashley you are in trouble. Pamela whispered something in Ashley’s ear to wake her up. What were you waiting for Pamela? Gosh.

“I’m here!” Ashley called out, her eyes screaming.

Anderson’s pen was halfway through Ashley’s name when Ashley called out.

She looked up, disturbed. You could tell her teeth were clanking against each other behind her lips. My mom made the same face when my brother got in trouble at school for hitting Breanna on the bus.

“Ashley, so nice of you to join us.”

Anyone with a brain could tell that Mrs. Anderson really didn’t think it was nice.

“I’m...” Ashley attempted.

“Now if you’re having trouble staying awake---let’s move you to the front of the classroom, right in the front row next to my desk.”

Her expression never changed, the same smileless face stared at Ashley, waiting for her to move.

“Should I move now?”

The red pen wobbled in her hand, behind her knuckles.

“Now.”

Ashley was exiled to the front of the room. She was lost. Anyone who talked to her would face the wrath. My glossy kitten notebook was all I had.

----

Mom never asked how school went and I never told her. She did make fresh cookies for me, they waited on the counter under tin foil.

Everyday, Ester would try to make me smile. She even tried those knock-knock jokes from the newspaper that usually worked. I couldn’t smile.

----

“Angeline..” a frosty voice called from in front of me.

Fudge. Fudge. Fudge. My eyes opened so wide they began to feel dry.

“Are you with us?”

I pictured myself as an alien, lime green skin and a metallic silver dress. A small red mouth that said “No, Mrs. Anderbitch, I’m on another planet.” My mighty fist would knock her purple lipstick off. I’d have to be on another planet to do such a thing. Her small, black eyes squinted. She knew what I was thinking. I blinked hard in vain, hoping it would erase my memory.

“GUILTY” a booming voice called out in my mind.

“Yes, I’m sorry” I said, rearranging my notebooks to look busy.

“So you say, now since I know you were paying attention, what is 16 divided by 4?”

A smile crept across her face, the first smile I saw come from her lips and I wished I never had wondered what it looked like.

I gripped my Barbie canteen in front of me. Barbie please tell me the answer. Her sparkling blue eyes had no answer. Of course, why would you help me? I had no time to turn to the black Scottie dogs on my red sweater. My cheeks grew a threatening shade of Santa Claus red.

“I’m not sure” I whispered.

“What was that?” she called back, intrigued by the mouse I was becoming. She sat on her long black desk, her legs crossed and poised, waiting for me to crumble. I was a warning---don’t be like Angeline, because I will fill you with terror.

Justin is going to think I’m not smart enough to marry. I didn’t dare look his way. I saw his hands flex on his desk.

I gripped my throat, trying to pretend I had laryngitis.

“I’m waiting....” her fingers drummed against the desk. Long, sharp fingers that would find joy in popping a child’s balloon at the circus. She was definitely a balloon popper. Her gray hair always precise and smoothed down to her shoulders. Her lips always were purple.

Michael the Mayonnaise head leaned closed to my ear. His warm, disgusting breath blew my hair back, “Four” he whispered quickly. His dirty hand covered his mouth so she wouldn’t see from the front of the room.

“Um,” I looked up, hoping Michael was right. I wouldn’t thank him unless it was right.I knew plenty of numbers to shout out too, but I wasn’t going to be wrong in front of EVERYONE.

“Four” I said, that number ate the space of the classroom and appeared in bold, next to her wrinkling face.

“You’re right” she said, her smile disappeared, leaving that still thin line where it had always been.

She turned her attention to her next victim, Stephanie with her high ponytail. She always sat up so straight in her chair--I bet her doctor didn’t say she had scoliosis.

After class I waited in my seat. My hands shook again. I was at her mercy: the evil Snow Queen of Chippewa Elementary School. In she walked, and every click of her beige, Grandma high-heels made me sink farther down into my seat. Mrs. Anderson finally reached me.

“Angeline, you’re going to have to be placed in remedial Mathematics, you don’t seem to be catching up. I will talk to your parents this afternoon about the matter.”

“Okay” I said, looking down into the beige, laminated desk. Spotlights from overhead formed spheres on its surface.

“You may go.” She stood up and pointed to the door covered in paper apple cut outs.

Apples.

What student ever gave Mrs. Peeface an apple?

I nodded and stood up from my seat. I was defeated. I walked to the bus and kicked small asphalt chunks--picturing they were her tiny, raisin head. I saw her face when I closed my eyes: the wrinkles stretching across her cheeks.

After that day came and went, Mrs. Anderson took to calling on me more and more. She would chuckle at my pathetic broken answers and red cheeks.

“Angeline can you read this passage for us?”

Icicles ran over my body. I turned away from Justin. I had been staring at him for the last five minutes, or the whole day, I couldn’t remember just like Dad couldn’t remember if he just had one cupcake or five when Mom asked him. My throat quivered, shifting up and down, a broken faucet.

She waited at the front of the room. Snow fell in the window pane. I could see the playground with no children from over her head. The red monkey bars where I finally could climb across and back without any help. I needed help now. I couldn’t pretend to be a dummy and have Michael read for me while I moved my lips, could I?

“Angeline. Can you read it? Yes or no?”

I pinched my arm, angered at my own fear. A thin red line formed when I lifted my fingers from the spot. I smoothed out the skin and faced the front of the room. I didn’t even know what page we were on. I turned left and right. Justin was doodling normally adorable pictures of dragons in his textbook. Mayonnaise head looked back at me and mouthed 15. I could kiss him but he was gross so I didn’t. I smiled. I was ten pages behind, god.

“Angeline? Hello?”

Our eyes met. I couldn’t shift mine downwards. Her eyes held mine, ripping them from their sockets.

“I can read it.”

“Well then go” her arms crossed against her chest, rippling her brown, lifeless turtleneck.

My voice began, “Wendy turned the sink off and met her friend, Sally in the parlor....”

“Louder. How can anyone hear you? You’re whispering.”

“Sorry” my voice grew to unnatural octaves “IN THE PARLOR THEY MET OLD MISTER JONES WHO HAD THE BOOK THEY HAD BEEN LOOKING FOR.”

“Are you mocking me?”

I looked up from the book, holding my finger down at the exact spot I stopped, just in case I got the urge to stare at Justin for a few minutes.

“No, you said louder” I whispered, slumping down over the paper book.

“I don’t like your attitude. Get to the front of the room. You’ll be sitting next to my desk. Ashley get up and take Angeline’s seat.”

That was it. I was sentenced to exile. Justin would be four rows behind me, impossible to stare out without being noticed. Mom is going to kill me. AND SHE WAS ALMOST GIVING IN TO GETTING US A DOG! Dad might really kill me. Tears collected in the corners of my eyes. I shut my mouth tight and stopped breathing hoping that would take them away. I lifted my pencil box and textbook, then my backpack from the floor.

“Today, Angeline.”

It wouldn’t do anything if she noticed my tears. She was used to tears. Children’s tears gave her power. I wanted to see her cry. I settled in my seat and began what was the longest year of my childhood.