Chapter 11
"I seem to be waiting for something to happen—I've tried not to think because there are so many things that make me feel so exquisitely raw inside Georgia O'Keeffe
Evie was waiting. Waiting for her shift to end, waiting for the middle-aged man with the Howdy Doody combed hair and bowling ball paunch that jiggled like Sylvia's stuffed bra to choose between a poinsettia and a bouquet of roses, waiting for her mind to stop spinning. She still couldn't believe it; Bridget Stevens had offered her house to use as a salon.
There had to be a catch. No one ever gave Evie something without expecting a whole shit more in return.
She learned that lesson way back in Junior High. She left her lunch at home and Ted Jones, one of Tim Shepard's hanger ons and an even dumber and more bullheaded version of Curly, if that could be believed; offered her half his peanut butter and butter sandwich. Her stomach growling like an overheated hair dryer, she blew off her pride and accepted Ted's sandwich.
What she didn't accept were Teddy's butter fingers, the ones that reached out like the snarled hands of the blue-haired ladies Evie's mom did manicures for, and grab her boob.
With lightening quick reflexes, Evie punched the little shit across his sunken cheek, his skin instantly turned pink under her knuckles. Evie was too mad to even notice that her own hand stung.
"Give a broad some food and looks how she pays ya," his voice grabbing ownership of the empty partials of air that stood between them.
The lunchtime monitor used all four of her glass encased beady eyes to spy the best TKO since Joe Lewis clobbered Max Schmeling and dragged Evie to the principal's office.
Evie always suspected she was a Nazi sympathizer.
Evie never told anyone that Ted grabbed her, even back then she didn't want them to think that she was that type of gal. A broad. Loose. One of them.
SLUT. BITCH. CUNT. A dictionary of labels that wrapped around east side girls like an over dried towel, itchy and familiar all at the same time.
Those labels stopped only when she became Steve's girl.
They would tell her that Teddy was just being a boy, that she wanted it.
And maybe, Evie thought, her stomach deflating, they were right.
Besides, having her breast fondled at was hardly the worst thing that could happen. She knew that. She heard stories, rumors that spread like sparks in the night.
So, thirteen-year-old Evie Martin sat on the hard wooden chair, staring without expression at the clock that would announce the end of her prison sentence, feeling the plaque of peanut butter still covering her teeth.
It was the way of the world, her mother explained to her. "No one gives something for nothing these days, no such thing as a free lunch, Evie," she tiredly told her eldest daughter one evening, eying the pile of unpaid bills that laid on their kitchen counter to give her words extra weight.
Least the way of the world for working class girls like her.
Girls like her who had to take a job in high school while trying to balance home, school and a personal life. It may be the way of the world, and Evie wanted to fucking hurl at how lopsided it all was.
Evie didn't think of Ted Jones and his hands very often, but a passage from The Scarlet Letter groped through her mind and now, four years later, she could once again feel Ted's hands.
He was the first guy to ever touch her.
Beth had found the passage. Her little sister had an annoying habit of going through Evie's books and trying to find all the dirty words she could.
"Not a whore in sight!" Beth giggled. "Or," she whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth, "the c-word."
Evie rolled her eyes but there was part of her that secretly smiled at Beth's innocence.
Not that Evie held such reservations. Hell, it was the only word that fit some of the gals she knew. And some of the guys, hell let's not beat around the bush, guys like Jerry Thompson and his ilk? Buncha cunts.
The closest Beth found to her beloved whore was bosom, which ain't even a swear word, but whatya expect from some dusty old book written about a million years ago? Shit, did people even swear back then?
"I presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness of an eider-down pillow. But she has no great tenderness, even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later,—oftener soon than late,—is apt to fling off her nestlings, with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows." Beth read in a snooty English accent, stretching out the word bosom from an A cup to a Double D cup that would have given Teddy a woody the size of the Empire State Building, "booooosoooommeee."
Evie couldn't remember them swearing in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn either even though they had a shit lot to cuss about. Of course you couldn't really say dirty words on film or T.V. But maybe people really didn't swear back then?
It made no sense to Evie; books, Miss. Tracy told them while Evie was staring out the window, were insights into the human condition, life in paper form. If that was true, Evie thought, then books should reflect how real people talked and lived their lives.
Screw this mamby pamby 'bosom' junk! Say tits, boobs, jugs.
Holden Caulfield? Yeah, he was more her style. He spoke his mind, talked like a normal person.
He wasn't some phony ass who kept their motivations to themselves.
Speaking of phony asses and a pain in one: Bridget Stevens.
Bridget's words from English class all those weeks ago came roaring back, "you're basically the female Holden Caulfield."
As far as insults go it was lame, hell, even Beth knew how to land a better punch; but it bothered Evie. Evie Martin wasn't no one's fool, and she sure as hell didn't like being made an ass by the new girl. Worse, when Evie glared at Bridget, she didn't even have the decency to meet her gaze, she just looked down, trying to act all coy and demure and shit.
Well, Evie wasn't buying it.
There was only one word for girls like Bridget, girls tried to act like they were the big shit, the girls who linked arms and giggled and talked about people behind their back. Bitch.
Yeah, Evie straightened up, maybe she was a female Holden Caulfield. But what was wrong with that? She wasn't as blunt as Steve who had no filter, but she was never afraid to speak her mind.
As she watched the clock strike the end of her shift Evie straightened up and admired her nails.
Now all she needed to do was find out why that bitch wanted Evie to style her hair.
XXXXX
Cathy stared at the snack shop's dented clock.
There were not enough hours in the day. Between school, her responsibilities at home, her job and now helping Evie with her hair salon, Cathy didn't know how she could fit everything in. How she wished she said no to Evie, how she wished she never opened her big mouth in the first place.
For the 'shy girl' she sure had a knack for getting herself in a heap of trouble.
How the heck was she to know that Evie and Bridget went together like oil and water?
Cathy didn't even want her hair done by Evie in the first place, she only agreed to it because she wanted to take a risk. Well, some risk, now she was in the middle of some bizarre cold war she had no idea even existed.
And now Cathy Carlson knew that she had to pay the piper. If she was having this much trouble balancing everything, what would it be like when she was a Junior or a Senior? What about college?
She was lucky, M&M pulled more than his fair share when it came to babysitting the little kids; and unlike Cathy he didn't look like he wanted to throttle one of the brats after only ten minutes.
Cathy didn't mean to lose her temper, but there was only so much hair pulling, temper tantrums, messy bedrooms and even messier kids that she could take.
Cathy knew her younger siblings preferred M&M to her, and that stung. It stung even more because she knew they were right.
Well, I'm not going to ruminate on it or feel sorry for myself, Cathy thought to herself, while doing exactly that.
"Hey," Evie said in an even voice.
"Hi" Cathy replied, looking up the register. Ever since Cathy agreed to wash hair at Evie's salon, Evie seemed less hostile to Cathy, but she still wasn't friendly.
"You working a late shift too?"
Cathy looked up at the clock, 8:00, her parents didn't like her working so late, but they agreed only because her late shifts were only on weekends. On those nights Cathy's father refused to allow her to take the city bus home, saying that public transportation was no place for a young girl at night.
"Yeah, my dad is picking me up. Do you have a ride? I mean, if you don't we can take you home." Cathy hoped that little peace offering would soften Evie's disposition towards her. Which only made Cathy confused, when did Cathy Carlson care what people thought of her?
Evie shook her head, although she seemed somewhat softened by Cathy's offer, "nah, my boyfriend is picking me up."
Oh yeah, her boyfriend. Cathy remembered Evie and her boyfriend, his hand. She greedily snatched onto the image in her head of Evie and her boyfriend and inhaled it. She had almost forgotten Bridget's promise to find her a date.
"You want a smoke?" Cathy eyed her purse.
"You smoke? No way!" The mention of smoking lit up something in Evie and she let out a cackled snort.
"What's so funny?" Cathy asked defensively. She got it though, she really did. Cathy just looked like a goody two-shoes, the idea of Cathy Carlson smokin' in the girls room was almost as foreign as Dallas Winston on the Homecoming Committee.
"Aww, nothing. You just don't strike me as a smoker." Evie paused. "Nah, I'm good though, thanks."
Cathy nodded, she really wished Evie would have accepted her offer. She really could use a smoke right now.
Cathy said nothing.
Evie said nothing.
Then they both looked at the clock.
Silence.
It was the awkward silence when you feel like you should say something but nothing comes. The awkward silence that makes time rotate backwards.
Evie still looked as cool as ever.
"So, are you a freshman? Don't recall seeing ya around Will Rogers before."
Cathy shrugged," nah, I'm a sophomore, I went to priv-another school my freshman year." Cathy felt uncomfortable telling Evie she went to private school. She hated feeling that way, there was nothing wrong with going to private school and Cathy was proud for being accepted into such a prestigious school.
"Graves Academy, it's a smaller school." She couldn't help but stand up a bit taller, her chin slightly raised until Cathy almost stood taller than Evie. The 'confident, yet friendly poise' of a Graves girl, at least according to the Graves brochure.
But Evie just shrugged, curling her hair on her finger. How did she manage to look so with-it in that ill-fitting hospital uniform? "Never heard of it" she said with disinterest.
Cathy thought about how Bridget and even Vickie seemed impressed when she told them she went to Graves, but Evie couldn't give a damn and Cathy wasn't sure how she felt about it. For the past year her entire identity was tied into being a Graves girl, and even back in Tulsa the name Graves had enough currency to buy Cathy a ticket to the popular girl's circle, at least until they got to know Cathy and couldn't reconcile the mousy, overly serious girl in front of them with the peppy, bright eyed girl who emerged every time Cathy mentioned her old school.
"You still down for washing hair?" Cathy was never really down for it in the first place, but she had made a commitment and Cathy was never one to back away from a promise.
"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" The edge in her voice almost as sharp as Evie's eyes. If there was one thing Cathy hated, people second guessing her sense of responsibility and duty. Once she made a promise, she was all in.
It was why Cathy hardly ever made promises.
"Just askin'. You know you really put me in some hot shit tellin' Bridget Stevens I was gonna do her hair, now I got at least four or five people on the list to do hair. I figure washing hair is the least you can do."
Cathy, losing her temper with misbehaving siblings aside, was never one quick to lash out, she tended to take a slower approach to things, but Evie Martin was trying every last ounce of patience.
"You could just say no." Just like Cathy should have said no when Ella first broached the subject of her hair.
Evie scrunched her face and narrowed her eyes and then opened them up wide again, like she was getting use to the morning light after a long night's rest.
She looked almost offended, "no, I can't, I already made a promise to 'em, I and I ain't one to break my fucking promise."
Taken aback, Cathy was momentarily speechless. Maybe Evie's language was a bit crude, heck, she knew her dorm mother at Graves would have had a heart attack if Cathy used the word 'ain't let alone 'fucking' and let's not even talk about what would happen if she came within 3 miles of doing the act; but underneath Evie's sharp tongue and unnecessary swears, Cathy heard the voice of a young woman who had genuine commitment to keeping her promise, who had a sense of responsibility to others.
And maybe just in the faintest of echo, Cathy heard herself.
XXXXX
Cathy Carlson a smoker? Who woulda believed? Evie shook her head. Evie spent only a few minutes with Cathy but the younger girl already threw her for a loop.
Evie thought that maybe she'd been a bit too harsh on Cathy earlier, the idea of getting a chance to try out her styling skills was truly beginning to excite her, but shit like she was gonna apologize.
"So, why'd you want me to do your hair in the first place? I mean, it looks fine and all." It certainly wasn't the messy bushel that Ella Mitchell had or even the tangled tentacles that was Bridget's hair.
Cathy's hair was simple and straight, practically child's play.
Cathy thought of making some quip or giving shallow answer. "I heard from Ella you have a real knack and…"
Cathy decided to get real and so for the first time since she told Ella Mitchell her hair woes all those nights ago, Cathy Carlson opened up to another person.
"I've had the same damn hair style since I was in elementary school and it still doesn't feel like me."
Evie nodded, she got it. She really did. In her own way, Cathy Carlson didn't want to be a phony either.
But all she said was "damn, between your smokin' and cussin' people are gonna think you're a greaser." She winked at Cathy, who said nothing but turned a slight shade of red.
Evie gave her a teasing grin. It wasn't a friendship by a long shot, but it was the blossoming of something.
XXXXX
George Clayton is an idiot. Present Tense.
Vickie Harper came to this sad conclusion after the awkward looking boy dipped Judy Martenero's long braid in the bottle of ink Miss. Wilson kept on her desk back in the 3rd grade. Years later George grew into his looks, but unfortunately the gain in looks was offset by a prodigious loss of brain cells.
It was tragic, really.
Why did the good looking ones always have to be dumb as rocks?
"Why do you care so much about Homecoming?" Vickie had shoved a pile of posters into his hand and ordered the boy to tape them up. At first he asked why she didn't just hang up the posters herself, which only assured Vickie that the boy was deeply, deeply, touched.
"Can you not shake that?" George's voice had a slight worried tone to it, and it took all of Vickie's poise earned from months of Miss. Dawson's Etiquette School not to roll her eyes. He was barely up a few feet. Lord, how would he handle being up on the elevated stage when Vickie and him were crowned Homecoming King and Queen?
If he embarrassed her…
If he ruined her moment…
"Sorry," Vickie said dismissively.
How long did it take to tape some posters up, holy cow, even that dumbest greaser on the planet could finagle his way around a roll of tape better than George Clayton. Did George have a girlfriend? How the hell did he feel her up with his clumsy hands?
At least the greasers came from broken homes to explain their numerous pathologies.
Speaking of…
Like a pus filled pimple before the dance she popped out of nowhere: Evelyn Martin.
Evie was on Vickie's shit list for two reasons, she didn't know her place and she was a bitch. Vickie knew that like the heavy eye shadow greasy girls wore, bitches came in a multitude of shades. There were the queen bees of whom she proudly considered herself a charter member.
Then there were girls like Evie. Greasy girls could be just as cliquish as the Socs, and they looked so trashy doing so. Girls who cackled when they laughed and had sex in the back of cars and wore so much makeup they looked like streetwalkers.
To make matters worse, Evie was walking with Sylvia, a girl so loose Vickie wondered how she could walk upright.
Vickie scanned her eyes down on Sylvia, she figured the girl already had at least two illegal abortions. At least.
God, these greasy girls were so dirty, Vickie could practically smell the salty scent of slut first thing in the morning oozing off Sylvia.
Evie poured her venomous cat eyes onto Vickie's sharp eyes. Well, if Evie wanted to play that game, Vickie would be happy to meet her glare for glare.
"Hey Harper, your tit is showing," Evie said in a loud but no-nonsense tone.
What? Vickie let go of the ladder, sending George hurling towards the earth with a very strong and not AT ALL wimpy scream.
Instinctively, she looked down at her light blue cashmere sweater, the one that so perfectly showed off her blue eyes, and sure enough it was pulled down, exposing a tiny bit of her nipple.
Rage and embarrassment rose within Vickie Harper, not unlike her perked, popped nipple.
But before she had chance to react, before she had a chance to tell the foul mouth greaser exactly what she thought of her, Evie and Sylvia walked away, cackling and smacking their gum in unison.
Still smarting from his brief fall to earth, George Clayton rubbed his calf and looked at Vickie askew.
"See, this is why winning Homecoming is so important, it's about putting girls like Evie in their place." Vickie tugged again on her sweater.
George winced as he pulled himself up and straightened himself out. He was in too much pain to even care about Vickie's breasts although from what he could see, even locked under her sweater, they ginormous. Oh man!
George had no love for Greasers, what was once a mild, annoyed contempt turned into a slow, but intense hatred. The murder of Bob Sheldon turned that simmering hate into an inferno.
Murdered, Bob was murdered, yet all people in this two-bit hick town could talk about was that juvenile delinquent who murdered Bob, made him out to be a hero. How sick was that?
Worse he had to see one of Bob's killers every day in the hallways. Every day he walked past a murderer, and every day a small part of George died.
Didn't they say that time healed all wounds? Well, time was sure taking a slow ass time with this one.
But he didn't see what Homecoming had to do with the greasers. Truthfully unlike some of his friends, George never really saw the big deal in Homecoming or all that rah-rah crap.
"Besides," George continued, "It isn't like girls like Evie even go to Homecoming. Can you imagine Evie on the Homecoming Court?" Despite his still bruised leg and slightly bruised ego, he smirked to himself imaging Evie walking up the dais as a Homecoming nominee.
Not that she would win of course.
"Not that she would win, of course, not against you."
"Well of course she wouldn't win!" Vickie snapped. The cold wind from her mouth was enough to cause her nipples to practically pop out of her sweater like a common greaser.
Evie Martin on Homecoming Court? Could there be any idea as ridiculous?
Evie would be humiliated, just having to walk in front of the entire school, smiling and waving like a beauty queen. Why, that would be horrible for poor Evie, wouldn't it?
Vickie walked away the seed of an idea blossoming in her head.
XXXXX
Ponyboy Curtis swung open the door of the school library, his overdue copy of David Copperfield in his hand, but golly he couldn't help it, he lost track of the due date. The book was over a week late, so there would be a five cent fine to pay, but Pony could hardly care, he was still digesting the words Mr. Syme told him earlier.
Ponyboy Curtis publishing a book?
That was beyond Pony's wildest dreams. Pony wanted to share the stories of his friends with a wider audience, but to possibly be a published author? The thought was overwhelming.
"Hey," Ponyboy recognized the girl with a stack load of books as Cathy Carlson.
"Oh, hi." She had a real bright grin and Pony found himself smiling at her, even though he was s till a bit uncomfortable around cute girls.
And this Cathy girl was cute. Pony hadn't notice it before, but she had a nice face, a cute nose and a really beautiful smile.
Pony tried to think of something to say, but the gift of gab that both Soda and even Darry were blessed with, was not passed down to Pony.
"Got a lot of studying?" He pointed to her pile of books. Oh man, did he sound like a complete chump.
"No, I mean, yes, but I usually just like to hang out in the library for at least part of my lunch," she quickly added, "I just like the quiet."
Pony thought of the frequent food fights that broke out in the cafeteria, "yeah, it gets pretty loud."
Pony shuffled a bit, when he talked to her earlier the conversation flowed so easily, but now he just felt strange, like everything he was going to say was stupid.
But Cathy just smiled, "not as loud as my house though." She let out a laugh. She turned and walked away, her backside sashaying back and forth as she walked down the hall. Pony felt something rise up in his throat and then he swallowed.
Oh Lord…
XXXXX
Bridget Stevens' heart was in the right place, it usually was, but she had no idea that her kind heart sealed Evie Martin's fate.
"Bridget, honey," Vickie began innocuous enough, which should have been a warning sign for Bridget to run to the hills "I heard you're having that little Evie girl wash your hair?"
Evie was taller than Vickie, but for some reason Vickie called people 'little' when she wanted to demean them, it was one of the nicer arrows in her quiver.
"She's styling it," Bridget said, then, perhaps a little too quickly, she continued "she's supposed to be very good."
"Oh, that's nice," she said in a condescending voice. Then, putting her hand on Bridget's shoulder, she muttered, "have you seen their hair? I mean, talk about slutting it up."
Bridget was shocked, she didn't think of herself as a prude, well, okay she was a bit of prude, her dream of Two-Bit Mathews last night notwithstanding, but she never thought of swearing like Vickie did; at least not in public.
Private?
That was a whole fucking different Bridget Stevens.
"I know that's harsh Bridget, but really have you seen that Sylvia girl who is always hanging around her?"
Bridget hadn't really paid much attention to Sylvia or to well, really anyone, she shook her head no.
"Hmm," Vickie sighed in an almost grave tone of voice, "do you know what those girls do to get attention?
I was putting up my posters for Homecoming and that Evie girl was wearing her blouse so low, I could practically see her nipples. Of course I wasn't trying to, but it was so obvious."
Bridget scrunched up her face, Evie Martin's nipples was not the topic she wanted to be talking about. Ever.
Before she could say anything Vickie continued, "so Bridget it you want that girl to do your hair, that's fine, but just think what people are going to say about you afterwards."
Bridget felt torn, it was odd, Vickie was her friend and Evie wasn't, yet she knew she had to make up for how she treated Evie in class. Sure, an apology would have been easier, but swallowing her pride was never easy for Bridget Stevens.
So now Bridget was getting her hair done by Evie who clearly didn't like Bridget and her friendship with Vickie seemed shakier than ever, a cruel world indeed.
"You're pretty, Bridget," Bridget almost blushed from the surprise, Vickie didn't dole out compliments very often, so when she did they seemed to carry an almost gravitas to them, "just remember who you are."
But who was Bridget Stevens? She was still the new girl at school, the one Two-Bit called Bee, she was, by virtue of her friendship with Cherry and Vickie and those girls, 'popular' but few girls at Will Rogers felt as unmoored or unsteady as Bridget Stevens.
But she was also the girl who had negotiated with Evie, she stood up for herself, even if it didn't comfortable.
"Oh great," Vickie smirked, "it's little Miss. Sunshine." Cathy Carlson was walking towards them. She had on a green jumper and paisley blouse.
"My God," Vickie began, cupping her hand over Bridget's ear, "it looks like a bad dream after watching too much Romper Room and The Secret Garden."
Bridget felt her face grow flush, Vickie could be cruel, and worse, she was making Bridget an unwitting partner in her cruelty. She hated that and she hated that she didn't have the courage to stand up to her, that she still wanted, no, needed, her friendship.
"Cathy!" Vickie called out with a sunny greeting.
Cathy Carlson rolled her eyes. She couldn't stand Vickie Harper.
What surprised Cathy was seeing Bridget Stevens with Vickie. They seemed to always be together, in the cafeteria, in the hallways.
Cathy couldn't believe that the girl who gushed with her over the Beatles was the same girl who was bosom buddies with the like of Vickie Harper.
Maybe Cathy had judged Vickie wrong? Cathy knew that she could be a bit blunt, though she preferred to think of herself as honest, thank you very much, and well, Cathy could be quite judgmental of others. Maybe Vickie was a lot nicer once you got to know her?
Or maybe it was Bridget Stevens she judged wrong?
Like a prisoner on her way to the electric chair, Cathy walked towards Vickie. Bridget looked awfully uncomfortable, and Cathy wondered what she did. Was Bridget upset that Cathy never told her she preferred to go by Cathy rather than Catherine?
It would be a pretty dumb reason to be upset at someone, but Cathy couldn't figure out why Bridget was barely making eye contact with her.
"How was the library?" Vickie asked benignly.
Cathy shrugged, even though Vickie's tone was friendly enough she couldn't help but pick up on the judgment laced in her comments, like there was something wrong going to the library for lunch.
"Fine."
"Oh, by the way, that is such a cute outfit you have on, it's like a garden party come to life! It's so springy. You have such a cute little fashion sense. I love it." Vickie said in a perky tone.
Cathy looked down at her jumper, she liked the colors, the greens and pinks, she didn't look as good in greens and pinks as she did yellow, but she though the outfit was cute. She also couldn't help but notice the heavy sarcasm weeded beneath the flowery veneer of Vickie's sweet words.
She crossed her arms in front of her, and she thought Bridget gave her a sympathetic smile. She turned to Bridget, "I talked to Evie at work, and I suggested that if it works for you we all meet this weekend, maybe at your place to set everything up and go through all of our scheduling."
"Your house?" Vickie gave a pointed look at Bridget and Bridget wished Cathy's blouse really was a secret garden she could escape into.
"Yes, I think I'm going to allow Evie to do her hair styling at my place," a thought bolted through Bridget's brain, "I mean, it would be a lot easier to have her come to me than to go all the way to the east side."
Vickie nodded, that almost made sense to her.
Cathy tugged at her arm. She felt small the way Bridget said 'the east side' in a tone both full of dismissal and fear.
The east side, that's where she was from. Cathy may not dress like Evie or Sylvia or thank God, Angela Shepard, she did have morals, but she wasn't a rich girl, or even middle class.
Her family struggled to pay the bills, her father's salary barely stretching to feed nine mouths.
What type of girl did Bridget think she was?
XXXXX
Vickie Harper couldn't believe it; did Bridget have any idea the kind of trash that would pour through her home? She could just imagine the neighbors reacting to seeing Evie Martin and that slimy boyfriend of hers drive through their neighborhood in a souped up car.
Could you get any more ridiculous?
She hoped they had more cops driving through the neighborhood there was no telling what they were capable of.
But though she wouldn't have admitted it, something stung about Bridget's decision to allow Evie not only to style her hair but use her house as a salon. For some reason, Bridget seemed to want Evie to like her.
Vickie thought of the crude, short skirt girl. This was the type of girl Bridget wanted to associate with?
A strong urge pulsated through Vickie's mind; she wanted to see Evie humiliated. She wanted to see Dallas, and Two-Bit and all of their nasty friends humiliated. But how?
With the way that girl dressed and talked it would be hard to humiliate her more than she humiliated herself.
She thought of starting a rumor about Evie, maybe even something about her and that Winston guy. But Vickie shook her head, no that was too easy, besides everyone knew those girls were all a bunch of tramps and proud of it. If anything Evie would wear it as a badge of honor.
No, Vickie saw herself as a pioneer when it came to humiliating others, boldly going where no one dared tread before.
The key to humiliating Evie was not to call her loose, but to really make her uncomfortable and what would make a girl like Evie uncomfortable? Being on Homecoming Court.
Yes that was it. Rig the nominating ballots to get Evie Martin on Homecoming Court, she wouldn't win of course, but her friends would all think was a traitor and all of the Soc kids would hate her for not staying in her place.
Well, Evie deserved it, trying to get her too fast hands all over Bridget. There were lines and boundaries you didn't cross.
Payback was a bitch, but, Vickie thought with a thorn laced smile, so am I.
XXXXX
Miss. Tracy caused quite a stir when she started at Will Rogers, the school's beatnik. What the parents and teachers of Will Rogers failed to realize was that the real rebel on staff, the real iconoclast was the sweet, middle aged slightly off-kilter, Mrs. Dick Girdlé.
So when the sweet woman who drank nothing stronger than coffee with one cream and one sugar, decided to teach a unit on Georgia O'Keeffe no one could possibly believe that Shirley Girdlé, for all of her art training and talents, truly knew the subtext message underneath many of O'Keeffe's paintings.
But she knew. She knew.
XXXXX
A thousand sweaty runners pumped their legs through the tangled obstacle course that Cathy Carlson called her heart. Or, that's how it felt to her.
Their weekend art assignment stood propped up against her closed bedroom door. She looked at O'Keeffe flower painting; she was supposed to write a small essay on it.
She had her record player on, it helped her think. The Blue Diamonds' "Cathy's Clown" filled the room. She wasn't crazy about the song, but lying on her bed, she was too lazy to find a better record.
She tried to think of what to write about.
But how much could you say about a flower?
She squinted her eyes, trying to find something different, something that she could write about. Then, she noticed the folds of yellow, blue, purple and the tiny black space in the middle the rose color petal which emerged from the depth.
There was something so familiar about it, although Cathy hadn't seen the painting before. But then she realized that the painting looked familiar not because she saw it before, but because she felt it.
Holy shit, Mrs. G. was having them study pictures of vaginas!
How could Cathy not notice it before? It was right underneath her eyes.
She knew that Bridget and Pony were in a different art class, she wondered if Pony was studying paintings of vaginas as well? The thought filled her with a strange sensation. Lordy! How could she even imagine? Her cheeks turned flush. What an embarrassing thought!
She thought of his sharp green-grey eyes, eyes that seemed sharper than teeth. Then she thought of his white teeth cutting into her lips. And yet, it didn't hurt. Her lips were soft and wet, her mouth open.
Not even Mike made her feel like this.
She stared at the vagina painting. She closed her eyes, imagined the smooth glide of her finger but then her finger became Ponyboy's finger. She shivered. The thought made her feel dirty and uncomfortable.
She contracted her muscles and tried to focus on the painting of Jesus with four children of different races that Grandma Baker had given her as a child.
But her eyes kept on zipping back to the vagina and her mind kept on zipping back to Pony's invisible fingers.
Why was her heart beating so fast? What was this electric surge she felt deep inside? She felt as if her lower part was warm and tingly. She felt it move against her bed sheet, beads of sweat dripped down Cathy's face.
What the hell?
And then she felt her hand slowly lift her garden jumper up, her hand was warm and slightly sweaty as she pulled down her panties to just below her knees.
She pressed a finger in, wincing as she felt it slowly open up.
Thank you for reading! We don't own anything. :)
