Project Humiliation

San Antonio held me back. I had an inconveniently large network of friends that kept me from my writing a little too often. However, here I am, Ms. Annonymous, a suddenly-shy-for-the-first-time-in-her-life young girl in New York City. It can be a lonely place, but at least I'm able to get into my writing again. And since I don't have much to report, I thought I'd post one of the short stories. Now, be warned that my style has evolved into a brutal, sarcastic, often overdramatic smorgasbord of words. It can be a bit dark for those of you who remember me and my life as a pre-teen... Just keep in mind the ending is fiction!

Project Humiliation – A Memoire

Looking back on the little-me, circa mid-90s, I’m a three-foot-nothing redhead with freckles, dirt under my fingernails, and a consistent skip in my step. When the teacher has the class read aloud, I’m always the most articulate. I can comprehend poetry from the likes of Alfred Noyes. I can use words like inconceivable and atrocious… Little-me is headstrong and confident. A wad of sticky bubble gum in my stringy hair is nothing to fret over, and while the other girls are gushing over boys and their mother’s mascara, I hardly seem to notice the mirror. In order to bring this little lady’s spirits down, it's going to take a lot more than snotty girls on the verge of puberty, girls feeling the heat of competition. It's going to take a lot more than a nasty side-tackle on the soccer field. None of this will do the trick. We'll need something absolutely humiliating. We'll need something she'll never forget. In order to really get through to this little squirt, to really make little-me feel the burn, we'll need a neon poster board and a yard stick; all Teresa's idea, of course.

She sits across the kitchen table from me, giving me the look. I’m awaiting punishment. Her long dark hair is pulled back from her face so that every wince and grimace is out in the open. The furrow in her brow is exposed. There isn't a single strand of loose hair to soften the deceptively sympathetic, yet disapproving expression on her face. It tells the eleven year old in front of her, 'I feel sorry for you. You're a mess. Your mother has ruined you, and now you'll forever be a burden.' Her thin lips press tightly as she nibbles off the skin of her bottom lip. Her elbows are resting on the mosaic dinner table. Her precious, eldest son enhanced the old table with scraps of tile left behind from the kitchen renovations. The look on her face, her posture, her positioning at the head of the table, they way she forms a triangular shape by pressing the tips of her fingers together; it's all a reminder that this is her table - her kingdom. This much I knew from day one. Even before I became aware of the cliché, I knew what it meant to be a redheaded stepchild from first hand experience.

I talked too much in class and a letter has been sent home. It has to be signed and returned the following day. No big deal. I'm just a kid who has a lot to contribute. I have an imagination. I have ideas. I get excited. That's all. There’s no need for theatrics here. A quick signature on the dotted line will suffice, thank you. And fine, maybe a lecture, but make it snappy. There’s a basketball tournament going on in the alley and I’m missing out on all the action. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize Teresa means business this time. She’s whipped up a brilliant device, a sure-fire method to shape me up. After laying out a poster board and loading it with black magic-marker ammunition, I read the bold script in horror: I WAS DISRUPTIVE IN CLASS. Both sides. I’m ordered to carry the sign around at recess on the following day as Teresa will watch with satisfaction. Project Humiliation: Accomplished.

One long march around the playground later, I’ve been cured of my know-it-all stink. Little-Me no longer has the confidence to raise her hand in class, but don't worry. Teresa's campaign for Mom of the Year won't stop there. This is merely the beginning. Like when I’ll ask her if Lana Devine can spend the night and Teresa-Darling says, "Lana Devine? Why would she want to spend the night with you? Isn't she popular?"

She's a real gem, this woman.

Within the same vicinity of time, I get my first period. I’m lucky enough to be in the comfort of my own bathroom when I get the surprise, and I know just what to do. I throw out the underwear, shower, roll up toilet paper and go quietly back to my bedroom. There's no way in hell I’m going to tell anyone about this until she can call my loving Momma who lives a quick fifteen minutes away. I'll whisper the news in private after making sure all other phone lines in the house are unplugged and then Momma will come to my rescue with a gift bag full of all the proper remedies; Midol, a Payday candy bar, Teen Magazine, tampons, pads, etc.

After five long days of going out of my way to walk behind everyone, the first crimson wave seems to be over. It comes and goes without doing any apparent damage and I feel well acquainted with the idea of becoming a woman just in time to test the waters of my newfound femininity. I’ve just discovered an unfamiliar voice coming from downstairs. My eldest stepbrother has a handsome friend over and I can't help myself from lingering a bit more than I’m welcome to. He’s a mature man of nineteen, and if anyone can pick up on the presence of a young woman on the rise, it'll be him. He'll be sure to notice! Right? . . . After half an hour of hovering, my brother kicks me out of the room. My chance to spot a twinkle in the handsome friend's eye is gone. But the following day brings hope! Big Bro asks Little-me if I'll join him on a ride to town. So, it's official. I'm one of the adults now. I imagine his handsome friend has asked about me. He must have demanded my presence at an afternoon social function. I imagine a fast food joint full of teenagers. I imagine big hair and real boobs (not the toilet-paper kind), "Holy" jeans and hair gel, loud music and laughter. Now Big Bro will have to accept the fact that his friend is madly in love with me and I'll be part of his crowd. I'll be four years older within one night! And soccer suddenly seemed like such a waste of energy.

I tell Big Bro I'll be ready in five and run to my room for a quick primp. Fifteen minutes later, we're riding in silence with the windows up and the radio turned off. Considering his windows are never rolled up and his speakers are always blaring Guns N' Roses, this isn't quite what I had in mind. Eventually we're in front of the post office. He commands me to wait in the truck, says he'll be right back. Twenty-five minutes after the enthusiastic primping, my bubble gets busted.
After getting back in the truck and getting us back on the road to home, he confesses that this isn't just a quick ride to town. He says his mother has sent him to have a talk with me. I look at him. He's nervous. His usual air of nonchalance is gone. His Elvis-like smirk is replaced with his mother's pseudo-sympathetic/disapproving expression. Both hands grip the wheel and he releases an exaggerated sigh to let me know I've gone and fucked up, yet again.

"Why did my Mom find blood on your underwear?"

Instantly, I’m shrinking behind the confinement of my safety belt and my head begins to spin. Or maybe the truck is spinning out of control. It's hard to be sure. I mumble something along the lines of, "I dunno" and the suspense music in the background starts to play. Can you feel the blood and thunder rising from my veins? How could he? And with such an accusing tone! What's the big deal? I got my period. I'm thirteen. What else do you expect? And what's with all the theatrics? …Here's a guy who barely acknowledges his pre-teen stepsister. Fair enough, perhaps. Considering I didn't meet the guy until he was nearly a grown man, considering the age gap, we aren't especially close. In fact, he intimidates me. So, why would Teresa send him out on a mission to get an explanation out of me when she already knows the truth? Why him? If she just wants to hear me fess up to the obviously inevitable, fine! But…
And then it occurs to me; What if they think its something else? What if they're actually deranged enough to believe I did this to myself? I'd seen a Lifetime movie where a girl had been cutting herself and then hiding the marks with the elastic line of her underwear. Maybe they think I'm one of those depressed chicks that can't handle pre-teen hormones. Or… Or what if they think… Oh for Christ's sake!

The look on his face reveals his perception of me, a result of his mothers influence. He's broken-hearted because he believes I'm a hopeless fuck-up. He believes – they all believe – I come from a woman who is also a hopeless fuck-up, a con-artist, a whore. Therefore, I will never be seen as anything more. I'm not even sure the wretched stepmother can see a child in me, not even back when I wore pigtails and a fudge-pop mustache. Instead, she sees my mother, or if I'm lucky enough to catch her on a good day, she'll see the bastard child of a woman who once slept with her husband. It doesn't matter that I came from a pre-Teresa affair. That's irrelevant. I'm evidence of another woman in her husband's past. I'm guilty by association without mercy, and now, within a quick glance at Big Bro, I can spot that all-too-familiar look. He's disgusted and condescendingly sympathetic. I can't be sure if he'll throw up, scream, or cry. I can see sweat on his brow and his tan skin has gone green. He's clenching his teeth and his nostrils are flexed.

He opts for a good shout, straight from the gut, "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you have sex?!"

Looking back, it's hard to remember if I cried a little or a lot in Big Bro's truck that day. I continued to mumble things like "no" and "I dunno" between sobs until we got back home, at which point, I ran and hid. I sat alone under the stairs and tried to muffle my sobs so that I couldn't be found. I cried long into the night and when I crept out, the house was still and it seemed everyone was sleeping. As I fought my thoughts that night, as well as the urge to toss and turn, too scared to make even the slightest sound, I feared the morning to come. I couldn't prepare myself with a rehearsed conversation inside the privacy of my own imagination. Probable dialogue was inconceivable and my expectations were endless one minute, void the next.

I found myself thinking about Carson Malloy…

She had her first period during class a few weeks back. She was wearing white pants with a bloody stain for all to see and I remember feeling triumphant, having just survived my first personal experience with the red tide. I'm relieved to have escaped public observation, unlike so many of my fellow classmates. I'm proud for not turning out like her, with a big red stain on my new white denim. I figure, 'I'm too smart to let something like that happen to me' and up until yesterday, I'm confident my discretion had gotten me through. I conclude that the worst is over. Yet, one restless night later, I find myself waking up drowsily to the smell of breakfast. The aroma of bacon and biscuits fill the room. For many, this is a pleasant way to rise and shine, but for me, the smell consistently sends me into a panic. I must've slept in! I'll be getting another lecture, and if I'm not at Teresa's precious table by the time the eggs are salted and spooned onto all six plates, I'll be sentenced to an earlier bedtime. Of course, my concerns with a tardy appearance at the breakfast table are quickly replaced by the memory of all that happened the day before. Suddenly, I don't care if I make it to breakfast on time. Fuck breakfast.

Eventually, I trudge my way up the stairs and keep my head down while taking my place at the table. I listen as happy voices fill the room. The middle brother has just gotten an early phone call from his girlfriend, a member of the yearbook staff. Apparently, he's been nominated "Most Comedic" for the Who's Who list. My tardiness has gone unnoticed; perhaps even my existence, at least for the time being. Everyone seems distracted from their suspicions of the alleged sexual escapades by a popularity contest. One of her boys had made Momma proud and nothing will spoil the moment.

School was a sweet escape that day, but returning to hell was unavoidable…

She'll remember her redheaded stepchild. She'll remember the spot of blood on the size too-young-for-sexual-accusations underpants and she'll remember Big Bro's reports from the night before. I'm sure he's informed her of my lies and she'll be waiting for me at the dinner table, cleared of food with nothing more than her pointy elbows and ringing hands between us. Judgments will be made, accusations will fly, and I'll be sentenced unlike never before.

Then again…

Upon returning, I'm surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the hustle and bustle throughout the house isn't all that different from an average night in Teresa's lair. The only reminder of my doom is a bad case of the stomach knots and my inability to smile, even for the sake of faking it as per usual. The house is loud with action as Big Bro jams on his electric guitar and the little one trots about with his cape flying behind him. Mr. Popularity is gabbing with a girl on the phone while watching MTV and Teresa is preoccupied with finding a lost photo album. Aside from being told to lay off the T.V. and go play outside, I seem invisible. That is, until my father stops me just before I make my way to bed. I take a few steps down the stairs before I hear him call my name. He stands up from his throne, where he sits watching CNN and he walks to the railing. He stands over me and asks me if I've ever had sex before. As I begin to shrink again, as I watch him grow six feet taller with intensity, I manage to give him an honest answer – "NO!"

I think I sneered a bit, or maybe I hated them all so much that I maintained a permanent sneer back in those days. I'd like to think I was sneering… though the look on my face probably looked more like that of a pitiful puppy. Either way, I suppose he felt disrespected. His face got all twisted and he actually raised his voice, "If a boy's penis gets close enough, the sperm can jump on your knee and run its way up until it impregnates you! Do you understand?" It was a far cry from the usual melancholy attention I was used to on his behalf.

"Yes sir."

"OK then."

"OK."

I realize at that moment that I'm more jealous of Carson Malloy and her blood-stained white pants than I'll ever be jealous of anyone ever again. If only I had bled through, creating an obvious display for the whole world to observe, this wouldn't be happening. I'd call home and Teresa would be forced to pick me up and let me spend the rest of the day at home. Perhaps she would have been sincerely sympathetic and maybe she would have made an attempt at being nice to me. At school, I'd be called a few names, but it would only last two weeks and then everyone would forget. Two months later, chances are I would forget. If only I had been so lucky. If only! Instead, I’m forever scarred with this memory-in-detail. But with said memory nearly thirteen years behind me now, I can be found in Time Square. I’m easy to spot if you’re a tourist, easy to overlook if you’re a local. My red hair, still stringy, harbors a wad of sticky gum near my chin and the stench coming from my crotch is a hard to dismiss. But don’t mistake this conclusion for a pity-party. It’s actually a very touching outcome. You see, I’m out there sticking it to ‘ol Teresa. As I carry a neon sign high over my head throughout the city crowd, reading I’M LIKE OBAMA - I WANT CHANGE, I smile with pride. Not a hint of humiliation.