Fractured

 

            Walking home from Dairy Queen that afternoon I knew three things for sure; One, whoever invented the cookie dough blizzard was a genius. Two, that old man that called me a “blond bimbo” was totally out of line because A, I’m 11, not 30, and B, it’s not my fault his son cried like a girl when I pushed him off the slide, he threw ice at me! And three, we were being followed.

            “Rachel, check out that red car behind us, I think we’re being followed.” Rachel jerked her head back staring directly at the would-be kidnapper.

            “No!” I yelled, smacking her hard in the arm. “You don’t just turn and stare! You look nonchalantly! God! Now he knows we’ve seen his face!” I continued incredulously.

            “Calm down, he’s not following us, there’s a million cars like that , you probably just-”

            “Aaah!” I scream. “He’s turning!” Rachel rolled her eyes.

            “Oh, God Christy, he’s not following us, you watch too much TV.” But at least now she was at least looking, and she was seeing what I saw. The creepy stalker turned off the main road, slowed way below the speed limit, and began to turn into the empty church lot where we, prime for picking victims were walking.

            “Oh crap!” Rachel stammered, finally grasping the enormity of the situation.

            “Run!” I bellowed, taking off through the parking lot, tearing through the shrubbery, jumping off the curb, looking back for Rachel, telling her to go faster, landing on my weak foot, rolling my full body weight onto the right side of my foot, hearing a sickening crack, crying out, falling slow motion to the asphalt, rolling into a ball.

            “Are you okay?” Rachel asked holding back hysterical laughter with a thin veil of concern. I managed a moan, vaguely aware that this was not time to lie on the ground like a threatened armadillo.

            “Can you get up?” She asked, pulling and my arm and shooting glances back to the would-be child murderer behind. I grabbed hold of her arm and move to sprint, but unlike most pain that could be pacified with a sucker and a promise of cherries jubilee ice cream, this pain wasn’t budging, even to avoid a body bag.

            “Aahh!” I blurted as fire invaded every nerve in a three mile radius.

            “I can’t put weight on it. I think it’s broken, see? Aahh!” I yelled trying to turn in to the right.

            “See watch! Aaahh!”

            “Well stop doing that then!” Rachel practically screamed. “God!”

             I had to admit I was impressed that the pain had not lessened and I couldn’t move it. We may be onto a genuine injury here!

            It had only been two weeks ago that I went scrounging through the medicine cabinet, looking for the ACE bandage that I had wrapped and rewrapped with great care, to nurse my foot back to health after the pool incident. I had been so pleased with the attention I got with it the next day at school, that even when it started to feel better, I kept it on, keeping up the charade by limping around dramatically, eliciting assistance with doors and chairs. By the next day, I was so enamored with all this new attention that I decided my condition had worsened at prescribed myself the crutches in the basement left from mom’s moped incident.

            For some reason, the crutches stirred up suspicion in my classmates or else apparently I started limping with the other foot, the point is, the ruse was over. I needed a bonifide injury if I was going to avoid eye rolls.

            Remembering the potential serial killer, I looked behind me, and scrambled up on my other foot while pulling Rachel’s arm nearly out of its socket. Hobbling pathetically, and nearly hopping on one foot, the chase continued.

            “Are you really that hurt?” Rachel asked with raised eyebrows.

            “Yes!” I replied in a hurt tone. “I think it’s broken. I’m pretty sure.”

            “Well here, I’ll carry you.” She said arms out.

            “You are not carrying me! I’m not a baby and I’m doing just- Aaah! Fine!” I finished wincing.

             “Fine. Give me your arm.” I said dejectedly. Using her as a human crutch I bobbled down Aumaum Blvd. turning the corner for home, narrowly escaping abduction.

 

            I was as surprised as anyone to find that when I arrived home I was still unable to walk. But to have an emergency appointment with the doctor? It boggled the mind. No one every took me seriously around here. Take my last injury for example; I had been developing my supreme jumping talent at the pool, when that show off Salena did something reminiscent of air splits before hitting the water.

            “Oh, please!” I had said. “If you’re going to do it, at least do it right.”

             Basking in the attention of my peers I took a running start, visualized my feat, soared into the air with the grace of a gazelle, moved into a split, majestic as eagle’s wings, and then due to a slight change in the wind at that moment, miscalculated my landing, and smashed my right foot onto the concrete side of the pool with full force.

            The think about pain while underwater, with friends laughing so hard at the surface, that you can already hear them, is that it takes you dangerously close to opening your mouth and gasping, which due to the whole chlorine and lack of oxygen thing, is a bad idea.

            But no amount of complaining or limping, or recounting of the gruesome details had convinced my parents I needed a doctor.

            “I think there’s an ACE bandage in the medicine cabinet.” My mom had said while tapping away on the computer, eyes fixed to the screen.

            So why I was whisked away to the doctor was probably a result of having a witness at the scene.

            “Christy?” A nurse called from an open door in the lobby. “If you’ll come this way please?” I graciously accepted the looks of concern from my fellow patients and hobbled through he door with my skeptical mother.

            I recounted the story to the nurse and then the doctor, sure not to leave out any important details. My doctor’s eyes glazed over with worry.

            “But I’m alright now doctor, disaster averted.” I assured him.

            “Yes.” He said dully. “Well let’s have an x-ray, shall we?”

            X-ray I knew, told the truth, they had no ulterior motives and they didn’t exaggerate. In a few minutes the world would know for sure if my foot was broken. Please let it be broken, please let it be broken I prayed earnestly while laying on the table.

            “Well,” the Dr. said as he entered the room after an eternity. “It’s broken.”

            My insides erupted with excitement. It was broken! I would have it all; The cast, the concern, the sympathy, the attention, the guilt from my parents for disregarding my word. I tried to hold my face in an expression of worry and disappointment.

            “It appears as though when you fell you compounded an old injury, because there is an older hairline fracture…here.” He said pointing to something only he could see.

            “Any idea how you might have injured your foot?”

            “Yes, doctor. I hit my foot on the side of the pool.” I looked over at my mom, letting the reality sink in.

            “Well let’s get you into this cast.” He said.

             “What color would you like?”

             I pointed to the white with a smile that was perhaps just a little too big. This was going to be better than I thought!  I had entered into the adolescent lottery that I couldn’t lose. Tomorrow morning, I would arrive at the bus stop in my cutest form with crutches. Michael Cunningham would see me coming up the street and would drop everything and run to my side. He would immediately devote his foreseeable future to my care, holding my books, rubbing my back with concern, and helping me up the stairs. This would be the defining event that showed him how much more I meant to him than he realized, someday in the far future, we would sit laughing about the time I broke my foot, over a steaming mug of whatever old people drink.

            My cast would be more of a fashion accessory than a limitation. I would get around exactly as I do now, only with the addition of badge of heroism and conquered pain. I would be able to show off my red toenail polish, all my friends would sign it, the signatures on my cast would be a who’s who of the sixth grade. After careful consideration I would hand the pen to the lucky kid and ask them to sign my cast. They would hold the pen in their hand as if it were a trophy and other kids in the class would bite their lips in anticipation, wondering who would be the next to receive the pen.

            The elusive elevator that only that boy who limped could ride would now be at my disposal. Doors would be held, hands would be offered, the story of the injury and near abduction would be told and retold, and concern would abound.

 

            “Using crutches will take some getting used to.” I said in mock fretfulness.

            “Oh, you won’t be using crutches.” the doctor said matter-of-factly as he finished wrapping my leg in a wet soupy paste,

            “This will be a walking cast. You’ll Velcro this to it,” he mumbled gesturing to the table with his head. I followed his movement and found myself staring directly at the most hideous contraption known to man. It was a large, nearly round blue platform, that had Velcro straps dangling off of it.

            “What is that?” I asked, my face crinkled around my fixed eyes of disgust.

            “It’s a boot.”

            “That’s not a boot!” I say indignantly.

            “They just call it that Christy.” My mom chimed in, and my body sunk. I couldn’t wear that strap-on-popularity assassin, it would ruin everything.

           
            It didn’t take long to realize that even walking would not be as simple as I had anticipated. Because my ankle was now locked into position, I could only bend awkwardly at the knee, leading to jerked steps on one side. Crushing my foot against the side of the pool, I had not cried. Landing sideways and breaking a bone in the middle of the street, I had not cried. But now, hobbling pathetically out of the doctor’s office in what was supposed to be the best day of my life, with a dark blue popularity assassin strapped to my foot, the stubborn tears finally broke out. I needed to get back control of this situation. I decided right then and there, I wouldn’t wear the so called boot even if it was a walking cast. My dreams were still in reach.

            The next morning, after trying on five pairs of pants to find the one that would fit the new ginormous leg, I hobbled upstairs with my mom’s crutches tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t mind me using them instead of the hideous blue thing. I grabbed my things and headed for the door.

            “Christy?” Busted.

            “Yeah?”

            “Come here please.”

            “Yes?” I answered sweetly, sticking my head around the corner where she was sitting on the couch.

            “Where’s your boot?”

            “I have a really hard time walking with that thing.” I said slowly. Plus, I thought, it’s hideous!  “And,” I continued, “I’m used to the crutches already.” And, I added in my mind, it’s hideous!

            She looked at me for a moment and I could see that my case was about to be decided. Inside her head she was weighing the consequences of her decision and thinking of her dear daughters well being.

            “Alright, but wear the boot just in case you get tired of the crutches, and come into the kitchen so I can put a bag over your cast, there’s a little snow on the ground and the doctor said it can’t get wet.”

 

            It had all started so well. But now, as I hobbled to my bus stop, things were far worse than a popularity assassin strapped to my cast. Now, I bore the curse of an overprotective mother in the form of a Safeway bag duck taped around my cast, strapped to a popularity assassin, partly covered by the ugliest pair of paints known to man. I was barely better than a hobo. But, I considered as I pushed the crosswalk button, perhaps, Michael Cunningham could see past these small details. I had been injured after all, and certain precautions were in order in order for speedy recovery. I pictured the concerned look on his face and smiled.

            “What happened to you?” Salina yelled as I approached the group at the stop.

            “It’s a long story!” I called out smiling, and practicing my hurt, but brave hobble. And now I could see Michael. He took off his Walkman and stared at me, transfixed. I knew that he was dealing with an influx of emotion and I nodded my understanding. He looked dumbfounded and I could see that he was struggling to find the words of comfort he had for me.

            “What the hell is that on your foot?” Michael asked with one eye brow raised.

            “Uh.” I managed, taken totally off guard.

            “Is that a Safeway bag!?” He threw his head back in a burst of laughter. “You have a Safeway bag taped to your leg!” The laughing continued, and the others joined in. I laughed too, hoping and decided to play the victim of mother card.

            “I know! Isn’t it stupid? My mom made me wear this! I was going to take it off when I got out of the house, but I forgot.” They seemed satisfied with that.

            Unfortunately as it turns out, having a cast was probably the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I looked ridiculous, I could hardly get around, playing on the bars at recess was out of the question, my armpits ached from using the crutches, the pens that I used for my friends to sign it all bled into each other creating a huge mess when I accidently got my cast wet, and I even got yelled at for using the elevator. As I sat looking in my mirror, reliving the lessons of the day and listening to my friends rollerblading outside, I vowed to be more careful, to not try and milk attention from injuries, to be the person I really was, strong and unswayed by my peers.

            Satisfied with my new resolve, I pulled a slipper over my cast; strapped my rollerblade onto the other foot, and semi rolled my way outside. I used the back door though, just to be on the safe side.

 

OBG-Whinin'

            I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I had already rescheduled my appointment twice and it was time to just get it over with, which is exactly why I was sitting breaking into a sweat in the waiting room.

            I flip nervously through a “Health Today” magazine, reading the words but not really paying attention, switching between wishing the nurse would just call me and get it over with and hoping that it would be a long while before they could get to me. As if right on cue my name is called. I reluctantly follow the nurse where she stands in judgment next to the scale. I tell her I’m not interested in knowing the truth and look at her with big eyes, but she points unsympathetically to the scale. I sigh loudly and step on. I am whisked away to a small blue room standing face to face with a tissue covered table with strikingly bare metal stirrups sticking out of the end. My cheap piece of fabric which the doctor calls a “gown” is neatly folded nearby and I am asked to get completely undressed and put it on, opening to the back. A familiar feeling is creeping into my stomach.

            I remove my clothing as quickly as possible. I don’t want anyone to come in to the room while I’m undressing; I want to look put together and unexposed waiting patiently when the doctor enters. I can’t help but feel dread as my underwear slips off my feet. There’s something so comforting about them.

            I go on a search for a tissue. The last thing I can handle would be the doctor finding some tiny hidden piece of toilet paper during my examination. Once on the table I try to read the charts on the wall. It makes me feel better to see pictures of my anatomy with labels-proof that I am just another vagina on this table with a labia, clitoris, and cervix just like the next girl, not an individual who flashes her privates to a total stranger. That gets me thinking, vaginas are probably totally different from one another-none is the same. We all have noses on our faces and check out the variety there. This makes me think that I’m actually being judged by the quality of my vagina’s features. In the same way that one sizes up a room they walk into saying to themselves, Oh, they’re cute, or man, she got hit with the ugly stick! I am starting to sweat this line of thinking when the doctor walks in.

            She makes small talk with me, but I know what it’s leading to and I can’t relax. I try to keep the conversation going as long as possible to avoid the inevitable but soon I’m asked to lie down and scoot to the edge of the table. I reluctantly do and make a feeble attempt to gracefully slide downward but instead I wriggle awkwardly crumpling the tissue paper and creating a scene under the joke of the sheet she has draped above my knees. It’s not enough, I’m asked to move further down. I moan from dread as I move into full view of the doctor’s face and shut my eyes tight. Damn her for making me do this!!! It’s quiet for a moment and I think she’s deciding if my anatomy is attractive or not. I’m mad because she’s not being paid to evaluate me; this isn’t the “Miss Vagina Pageant”! Let’s get this over with!

            Minutes and several painful jabs and prods later she strips off her gloves and announces that we’re all finished here, and she’ll see me in one year. The second she leaves I’m on the tissue hunt again but this time it’s because of the mess she’s left behind. What a slob!

            Once my clothes are on again, I’m a brand new woman. Her and I are equal now

and I even look her in the eye and smile on the way out of the office.

            “Ms. Bowman?” the receptionist calls after me. “Shall we make your next appointment?” I quickly grab my phone and pretend to be on an important call. I point to the phone and lift my shoulders apologetically as I let the door close behind me.

 

 

Polyester and Cotton

“And what about you Mr. Hippo, what would you like?” I asked after Rabbit had been served her lemonade. As usual, he wanted whatever Rabbit was having, and Mrs. Bess wasn’t having anything because she was on punishment for not listening.

The gathering was held on the peanut brittle aging blanket with green blades of grass poking through the worn patches of fuzz. I sat barefoot with the group chatting about the schedule for the evening and whose turn in would be to sleep in the place of esteemed honor, my bed.

Every night it was a struggle to determine who would sleep with me. I would grab two toys and tuck them under my arms, and would say goodnight to the others, but it was always the same thing; the other toys would look at me with their wide, unblinking eyes and I felt awful for loving some and abandoning others. And so, I would climb out of bed and gather all the toys that I could manage, and try to arrange them on either side of me so they wouldn’t fall off the bed.

But now, there was a schedule. Every toy would have their chance to sleep with me and the rest would be tucked in and kissed and left to sleep. Tonight, Mr. Hippo would sleep with me. He had waited two whole days, and now it was his turn. “Tonight is Mr. Hippo and tomorrow is Raggedy Ann.” I said as I picked up Mr. Hippo and wiped a blade of grass out of this mouth. “You’re such a silly guy.”

How I had managed to keep him perfectly white was something of a mystery. Even his two teeth glimmered. But what was most special about him was the pocket he had on this belly; velvet and soft and big enough to put candy and other treasures in. He was the newest of all my stuffed animals and I was looking forward to having my special time with him.

I was pondering this when my dog Shtix came bounding down the porch steps in a frenzy, and headed straight for the gate. “What’s wrong Shtix?” I asked while scrambling to my feet to follow her. I peeked through the fence and saw my dad getting out of that beat up station wagon; Shtix always did make a fuss when he got home. “Come on Shtix! Let’s go see dad!” And with that we were both racing for the steps, and bursting through the kitchen. “Why are you running around here like that?” My mom inquired in her not so gentle voice.

“Dad’s home!”

            “Well, I’ll notify the press. Did you pick up your stuff from the yard?”

            “Not yet, I’m not done with them.”

            “Well, you’d better pick them up before you go to bed or I’ll through them away!” “I will,” I chimed and ran to open the door for my dad just as his keys started to rattle the lock.

           

            In bed that night I shifted uncomfortably. I was supposed to have Mr. Hippo tonight, but he and several others were picnicking late on the lawn. It was too dark and cold to go get them now, but I couldn’t sleep alone, so I tossed back the blankets in defeat and got up to grab the closest stuffed animal, which happened to be Mrs. Quackers, an oversized yellow duck who quacked if you pressed her left foot. “You’ll have to do for tonight.”

            “Quack!”

            “Silly guy.” I said smiling as I pulled the covers over our shoulders.

            In the morning, after setting and resetting rows of Dominoes in stringed patterns all over my room, then watching them tumble over each other in a chain reaction, I went outside with a Chuck E Cheese coin and a treasure map, determined to have some fun. I was just hatching a plan for the ultimate booby-trap for treasure hunters when my annoying neighbor Monique called out, “Helloooo!” “Hi,” I said, trying to avoid eye contact.

            “Too bad your mom says you can’t come over, I was about to play on my swing set.”

            “Yeah,” I said, “Too bad.” It was just like her to point out that she had a swing set and I didn’t. Whatever, I thought; I’m going to have fun without her stupid swings.

The first thing I would do was bury the coin. But where? Nowhere too obvious, but treasure maps did often show that the treasure was under your nose the whole time. Hmmm. “I don’t know, what do you think?” I hear Monique say as if she’s having a private conversation. She wants me to look over there, I think. She’s trying to make me jealous. So instead of giving her the satisfaction, I go about my work even more; looking around thoughtfully, glancing at my paper, taking measured steps and acting as though I was about very important business. She would be the one who felt left out. It was only a matter of time before she asked me what I was doing and wished that she were allowed to come over to my house.

“Hold on, hold on!” She yelled. Now this was getting ridiculous! But I continued about my business. “Oh, no!” I told you to hold on; now look at you!” She stammered. I looked up. Someone must have fallen off the swings. Her showing off had finally gotten someone hurt. Monique was stooping over, helping someone off the ground. “Are you okay?” She asked. I couldn’t hear their response. Oh, man, this was worse than I thought! I ran to the fence, dropping my map. “What happened?” I asked frantically. “Is somebody hurt?” “No,” she said, still stooping. “I just dropped Robert.” “Robert?” I repeated, growing increasingly alarmed that dropping Robert was not a big deal. “Say hi Robert.” She said spinning around with a dirt covered Hippo with a jump rope hanging out of a pocket on it’s front.

My jaw dropped. What was going on? Something wasn’t connecting here. How did she get a Hippo with a pocket? Where was Mr. Hippo! My eyes darted across the yard wildly. Hippo was gone.

A spark ignited in my chest. Monique had crossed the line. “That’s my Hippo!” I declared indignantly. “He’s mine! I left him right here!” I continued while gesturing. “Why did you take him?” I managed, running out of breath. “I didn’t take him,” she replied. “I found him.” “Found him where?” I belted, nearly screaming. “In the dumpster in the alley! I was taking out the garbage and I saw it just sitting at the top, looking clean and brand new! I couldn’t believe it, so I grabbed it outta there and showed my mom and she said I could keep ‘em!”

The puzzle pieces were coming together, but this was no time for pondering. “Well, he’s mine and I want him back!” I announced. “If it’s yours, what was it doing in the dumpster?” She said with hands on her hips.

“My mom said if I didn’t put my stuffed animals inside, she would throw them away, and I forgot them outside last night.”

“Well, you should’ve listened to your mom. Finder’s Keepers.” She said in her snooty little voice. My first reaction was to scale the puny fence between us, knock her down and take Mr. Hippo inside where he belonged. My second reaction was to tell my mom of the injustice done to me so that she would talk to Monique and make her give Mr. Hippo back. But, deep inside I knew that that would never happen. I had made an incurable mistake; I had assumed my mom would never throw away my stuffed animals, and I had left them out.

I wondered if Mr. Hippo would be okay with Monique. I knew she wouldn’t love him the way I did. But the thought wasn’t too horrible because I know something else. Mr. Hippo would never be loyal to her. He was made of polyester and cotton. I know. I checked his tag once.

A Lesson From Mary Poppins

            Black trash bag in hand I bounded out the ripped screen door, down the steps, and onto the dirt.  I was lucky to have escaped the house without hearing, “Christy, where are you going with that trash bag?” My ideas were always getting squashed by the adults around here. “No, you can’t keep a worm as a pet.” “Why is there a shampoo bottle in the microwave?” But this time, I would answer to no one, I would endure no lectures, no laughter, no eye rolls, this time I would push the limits of adult skepticism, and win. Two nights ago this idea was born while watching “Mary Poppins” for the first time with my dad.    

             “Dad, do you have an umbrella?”

            “It’s not going to work.”

            “What’s not going to work?”

            “Her umbrella is magic, it doesn’t work on any old umbrella.” Typical.

            I ran to the tree stump in the center of the yard, tickled at my resolve and climbed up, arms raised, trash bag in the air. I had already tried this with an umbrella, and while I didn't float down gracefully like Mary Poppins, I definitely felt some resistance. I was sure that this time when I jumped, the rushing air would fill the bag with such force that I would defy gravity and drift slowly, serenely to the ground, where I would bask in my victory.

            I looked around one last time knowing that from now on, nothing would ever be the same. I started the countdown: three, two, one, and I was in the air. The bag inflated, wrestled with gravity, and hesitated before it dropped me on the ground. This wasn't what I had expected, but it also wasn't failure! I had slowed, and if I hadn't been so close to the ground, I would’ve floated! What I needed was to get higher. It was time to investigate my options.

            Asking for a ladder would arouse suspicion, and after circling the house twice it was clear that without it, getting on the roof was not an option. I tore through the grass and around the house toward the woods where our neighbors dumped all their garbage. Mom said they did this to save a buck. Mom also said this was the reason our house was infested with rats. I couldn't figure out why garbage in the woods had anything to do with the rats all over our house, but I was starting to feel bad about all the babies we kept catching in traps, they didn't do anything wrong!

            Around the corner I saw what I was looking for; a broken washer with pipes and cords spilling out the back. This was the height I needed.  I wasted no time, and climbed up the washer, black bag still clutched in my fingers. I stood on the edge looking down dramatically and  began the count down again: three, two, one. I hesitated momentarily and then sprang from the washer, up and out with a much power as I could muster, and once again the bag inflated, but it wasn't enough. My feet hit the ground much sooner than I anticipated and twisted, I fell over them, wincing from the sharp stabbing feeling, angry at the bag for pulling such an awful trick on me.

            It was then, writhing on the ground that it occurred to me; Mary Poppins was a fake! And furthermore, adults the world over were furthering her adulterated agenda. My mind whirled realizing there was no one to tell. Surely my sister already knew, there was no one I could trust. Heavy with the weight of adult knowledge, I hung my head and shuffled dejectedly back to the house of lies.

High Hopes and Hairspray

        “Train to be a model, or just look like one,” the woman on the TV announced as the pictures flashed of models on catwalks, and make-up artists applying make-up on models who seemed untouchably glamorous. “At Barbizon, you can…. Barbizon!” The marquee at the bottom of the screen read, “All ages and sized wanted, call today for an appointment.”

       My eyes widened. I had seen the commercial dozens of times before, but this time was different, this time the commercial seemed just for me. I began to consider how ridiculous it would be of me, but quickly I pushed the negativity out and dialed the number on the black cordless phone that I never let out of my sight. There was always 12 year old drama going on that needed discussionat the very moment you placed the phone on the charger.

       The phone rang on the line.

        I held my finger to the end call button. What would I say if someone picked up? Hello, my name is Christy and I want to be a model. Yes, I realize I’m only twelve, but I’m mature for my age and your commercial did say all ages.

         The phone rang again.

        My insides started to twist. I had just decided that this was one of the stupidest ideas I had ever had when a Barbizon operator picked up the line. “Barbizon, how can I help you?” Silence. My heart stopped, my brain screamed for my mouth to speak. “Uh, yes, I saw your commercial?”

       “Yes! Are you interested in becoming a model?” I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to have to bring it up.

       “Yeah,” I said with some reluctant enthusiasm.

        “Great! I’ll make an appointment for you to meet with a Barbizon model representative. Is there a good time for you this week?” Oh, no! This was all going too fast. I didn’t know what I expected, but I didn’t realize my big break could happen so easily. I wasn’t sure I was ready for my life to change from this one phone call.

       “Well, I’m only twelve. Is that okay?”

        “You’ll need to bring a parent or guardian along with you to your appointment, but we have many young models here at Barbizon,” the woman chimed as if still in the commercial.

            I wasn’t sure if any of this would fly with my parents, but I made an appointment for a Saturday afternoon on the faith that something would work out. I hung up the phone with a smile so big that the space between my cheeks and my ears hurt.

 

                                                                                            *****

 

            I decided my best move would be to bring it up with my dad casually, and emphasize that there was no pressure, but thatI was interested. Dad? Hey Dad! Oh yeah, Dad? It just didn’t sound right. Maybe I should try telling it like a story. Dad, guess what? Today I was watching TV, this show called ‘Saved by the Bell’ actually, but anyway, I was watching TV and this commercial came on for Barbizon. Have you seen a Barbizon commercial? Yes, that would work. I looked confidently at myself in the mirror and while I waited for him to get home, I thought I should practice my catwalk and poses. I definitely wanted to be prepared when I met with the Barbizon representative…if I met with the representative, I realized reluctantly.

            Later that night I told my Dad the story version, how many times I had seen the commercial, what had happened, and how excited I was. “Does it cost money?” he asked in a low monotone voice. And the answer “no” had been all that was needed to seal the deal. Seconds later my black cordless phone and I were one, and all my girlfriends knew that I was going to be a model. My time had come and clearly this evenmeant that Jason Garret was mine. Who could even compete with me now?

            Everyone knows Jason Garret is the cutest boy in our school, and besides that, he’s an eighth grader! There’s an invisible line in dating at middle school and it falls right between the seventh and eighth grades. Sheila Peterson crossed that line when she went out with Trevor Scott, and she’s been a relic ever since. Of course, this only works if an eighth grade boy goes out with and eighth grade girl, but everyone knows that too.

            At school there was always a reason to bring it up. “Oh, Saturday? That won’t work for me, I’ll be at my modeling agency appointment.”

        “Modeling agency?!”

        “Yeah, I’m meeting with them to talk about my options in modeling. I don’t think we’re talking big time, maybe just training for now, maybe a catalog or two, who knows?”

        Everyone was happy for me, except for Salina. (Who’s surprised?) She was always pursing her lips like an old woman and complaining about something. “What modeling agency?” she asked, hands on her hips and lips squished together.

       “Barbizon.” I answered coolly.

       “Barbizon!” She burst out with a laugh, “That is such as scam! My cousin went to Barbizon and all the kept saying was, ‘You’re a natural. You’re exactly what we’ve been looking for.’ But even after her dad spent $2000 for the training, she still wasn’t a model!”

        “Whatever Salina,” I said rolling my eyes. “You’re just jealous.” I turned on my heel and did the perfect model hair swish, leaving her to contemplate her mutinous ways.

         All week I walked a little differently, with a pop in my step, shoulders back, head high, confidence oozing from my movements and by the time Saturday rolled around, I was as ready as I could get.

            My sister Heidi had pulled her signature move and showed up unannounced to give me a makeover. Usually I would be wary of this, having flashbacks of when I was eight and she gave me a home perm, making me resemble a blonde French poodle. But today I was appreciative. This was the nineties after all where perms were at the height of their popularity… or was that the eighties? I sat on the bathroom counter and allowed Heidi to put everything dreaded on me, including but not limited to foundation, which I hated to the very core of my being. I mean, who wants to put globs of colored paste on their face? My wardrobe was chosen, a dress, which I never wore…ever. In fact, it was the only dress I owned. This presented another problem: the shoes, or lack thereof.  Time was running out so I was forced to wear my friend’s cream shoes that were one size too big. But no matter, I was destined for modeling and no shoes were going to hold me back.

            The car ride downtown was silent. I’m sure my Dad was contemplating my stardom and I didn’t want to rock the boat in case the topic was a sore one. I imagined what my entrance would be like. I would have to get out of the car gracefully because though my hair had been sprayed within an inch of its life with Aqua Net hairspray, it was still delicate. I would nod politely to the door man, and enter the building, my heels click-clacking on the marble floor. Agents would look up from their mahogany desks at the new wonder, and I would stand poised in front of the receptionist and announce that I had an appointment.

            I was scanning the road for the big building with the gold lettering on the outside, so I was surprised when we stopped next to a dank building with missing bricks, sidewalk construction, and a homeless man sitting against it. He was no doubt covering the gold lettering. What a shame. I stepped out of the dirt covered station wagon as if were a limousine, silently praying no one had noticed which vehicle I had come from. As we walked to the front the brick building I was fascinated by how the extraordinary things in life, are hidden in ordinary packages. Like Barbizon’s building —or me, for example. “This is it.” My dad said, interrupting my thoughts.

            Thinking the doorman must be on his lunch break, I pushed open the glass door, and found myself not click-clacking my heels on marble, but shuffling in my too-big shoes across the carpet covered cement. “Are you sure this is it?” I asked, finding no agents at mahogany desks. “Yep.” My dad responded, checking his watch.

            “Oh, I see a desk over there.” I said pointing, and shifting between shuffling and clopping my way in its general direction. I stood in front of the make shift receptionist desk in my best impression of poised beauty. The young woman just smacked skeptically on her gum. “Hello, I have an appointment.” I said as professionally as I could manage.

            “Okay, just have a seat in the lobby.” She said, pointing to a group of five chairs next to the paint chipped wall.

            “Do you need my name?” I continued pleasantly.

            “Sure. What’s your name?” she asked with what I sensed was slight annoyance.

            “Christy Bo…”

            “Okay Christy,” she said cutting me off. “Have a seat in the lobby, and someone will be right with you.”  I turned, and scuffled over to my dad who was reading the paper, tripping slightly on piece of raised carpet. Nervous, but excited about the journey I was embarking on. And when the agent in the polyester suit came out to greet me, I knew that it was only a matter of time before I was a star.

            “Christy,” he said, taking my hand. “I can already see that you have natural talent. You’re exactly the kind of girl we’re looking for.”

 

           

Letter to the DoubleTree Hotel After the "Elevator Incident" (tisk tisk)

November 4, 2007

Mr. Frank Welton:

On Saturday, November 3rd, 2007, I came to The Double Tree Hotel to enjoy what was supposed to be a relaxing an evening at Maxi’s, instead, it would be the worst experience I have ever had. At approximately 10:00pm I entered the elevator from the first floor and proceeded to ride it up until only myself and another woman with two dogs remained. I understand that the hotel had many visitors with dogs this particular weekend, but I was unhappy that I had to share such a small space with two animals that jumped on my legs and licked me repeatedly, and I was anxious to get off the elevator away from the dogs. As we approached the Penthouse floor, the elevator hesitated, and then dropped several feet, frightening both the woman and myself. The elevator then froze, and did not respond. I attempted to contact an operator, and was disconnected three times in the process. 

After reaching an operator, I was assured that help was on the way, but after fifteen minutes, I was still trapped in the elevator, near the top floor, extremely high off the ground with a woman who was becoming hysterical and two dogs. I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable and a bit sick to my stomach, not knowing how long I would be trapped and if I were safe or in imminent danger. During this confusion, the operator continued to be disconnected and finally informed me that the fire department was on their way. 

Meanwhile, my friends were waiting for me in Maxi’s and becoming increasingly concerned that I was trapped in the elevator as I became more panicked about my situation. The woman and her dogs became increasingly agitated and she began to swear and sit on the floor of the elevator. At this time, it was evident that people were working near the elevator because I began to hear clinking and clanging noises and vibrations. I grew increasingly panicked. I attempted once again to contact the operator who was continually disconnected and asked if the fire department had arrived yet. After asking this, someone sitting near the operator began laughing and the woman and I looked at each other appalled that someone would be making light of our situation. To think that we were dangling from the top floor in a broken elevator while people safely on the ground laughed at us, was infuriating. 

Approximately ten minutes later, we were informed that the fire fighters had arrived, but the elevator was stuck in between floors and we could not be reached. We were then told that the power to the elevator would be turned off and that we might experience some movement. At this point, I became panicked. The elevator was cramped and now smelled like dog, the lights were about to be turned out in the middle of the night and I thought that once the power was turned off that it was possible that the elevator would fall. I felt nauseous and began to sweat. The woman with me was frantically holding onto her dogs and grabbing the handrails. Moments later, the alarm in the elevator began to sound and we were terrified. I couldn’t even hear the operator over the alarm. In the middle of this terrifying situation, people in fully functioning elevators had become aware of our situation and were gawking and pointing and laughing at us as we waited trapped. I had now been in the elevator for over twenty-five minutes and needed to use the bathroom having no way of knowing how long I would be stuck in the elevator. 

The operator then told us that the doors would not open and that they would need to be opened manually. At this point, my friends, worried for my safety and well-being, had left Maxi’s and were waiting anxiously. When at long last, the fire fighters pried the doors open, I nearly cried, but instead of asking if we were okay, I was told to “hurry up”. I was in a skirt and had to jump out of the elevator, which was not level to the floor without any assistance, while the woman following me was given a step stool, and a fire fighter carried out her dogs. Once safely out of the elevator, employees of The Double Tree tended to the woman, asking her what room she was staying it, offering a comp, and apologizing profusely, while I was ignored after saying that I was not a guest of the hotel. I finally had to ask how to get to Maxi’s from where we were because I was tired of watching your employees fuss over her while ignoring me. One of your employees offered to escort me to Maxi’s which led me right back onto an elevator, which I was understandably reluctant to get on. One of your employees said, “This hasn’t happened in a long time.” Still, I was not apologized to, but treated like a nuisance and was asked for my identification by your employee instead of offered kindness for this frightening event which had just occurred in your hotel.

When I enter your establishment, whether or not I am staying as a guest, I expect to be treated with dignity, and when a mistake occurs, to be listened to and for the mistake to be rectified.

I appreciate your prompt attention to this matter,



Christy Bowman

There's No Such Thing as an Accident

 

It was always hot in Florida, today was no different, but somehow the air was thick and threatening and something was looming over our two houses near the woods and that main road.

I knew it had gone terribly wrong when I heard her toenails clacking against the hard wood floor far to close to the front door. It was a rule in my house. My mom always whined, “Christy, I told you not to leave the door open!” I had heard it a thousand times before. Why then was the door hanging open this particular afternoon? I had left it that way as usual. I’m a forgetful person and Barbie told me she wanted to have a tea party.

Out the door, she took off, creating a dust storm with her little paws scrambling down the dirt road. “I’m in so much trouble,” I thought. Unless, that is, I could catch her and bring her back before anyone realized what happened. “Shadrach!” I called, but she didn’t stop. She barreled across the road, ears flopping in a cloud of dust. Shadrach reached the other side where several sheep were grazing on grass enclosed by a wooden farm fence. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I should’ve known better.

I called to her again and like the good dog that she was, she came, ears flopping, tail wagging. But something wasn’t right. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it. Big and barreling, the truck got closer. “Don’t hit my dog, don’t hit my dog,” I prayed. I thought it would brake, that it would swerve, but it didn’t. In slow motion the truck approached and so did Shadrach, on a collision course. My eyes grew wide, my stomach twisted.

I heard the sickening smack.

Shadrach yelped, I fell to my knees in the dirt on the side of the road. Blood gushed from a tear in her neck while she whimpered with a throaty sound. I burst with tears. “Shadrach!” I cried, petting her, holding her, as her head flopped heavy in my hand. “Shadrach, you’ll be okay. Are you okay?” As if out of a movie, the driver appeared and said something to me, but I couldn’t hear or comprehend any of his words. He shrugged apologetically and jumped into the metal weapon and drove away.

I needed help, but I didn’t want to leave her there or risk hurting her more by moving her. Her eyes were glossy and she whimpered softly. “I’ll be right back Shadrach.” I told her and pet her softly, hands hesitating, then ran as fast as I could to find help. I was acutely aware that every second I spent looking for help, she was left laying alone on the road, bleeding and hurt. How could I have done this? How could I just leave her there? Does she know I’m coming back? Does she think I’ve abandoned her to die? I found my sister hanging laundry on a line in the back yard. She knew immediately that something was terribly wrong, but no matter how much I wanted to tell her that Shadrach was hurt, that she was bleeding in the dirt, no words would come out. I could only point to the road and start running. My sister followed behind.

I don’t remember what she said or how she managed to bring my parents. I only remember Shadrach’s body, hurt and bleeding with those eyes that said, “help me.” “Help her!” I screamed to my dad. “Help Her!” I repeated through my sobbing. “Christy,” my dad said gently, “she’s dead.” “No she’s not!” I said terrified. “She’s looking right at me. Do something!” My mom and dad took me by the arms and tried to speak softly. “Christy, sometimes when animals die, their eyes stay open. Look honey, she’s not breathing.” I watched her chest, my heart begged for it to rise and fall, but it didn’t. “No!” I sobbed, “she was alive! I was with her.” My tears were uncontrollable.

My dad picked up her bloody body and she hung lifeless in his arms. Then out came our nosy neighbor with a shovel to help. “What’s he going to do with that?” I asked hysterically. “He’s going to help us bury her,” my dad said. And then a new wave of pain swept over me. They were going to cover Shadrach with dirt. It would get into her ears, her nose, her open eyes. I just couldn’t bear it, so while my family did the unthinkable, I went into the house to get Xerx and Rascal. We all needed to say goodbye.

By the time I was back outside, Shadrach was buried and we all stood around  he fresh pile of dirt. My mom prayed and I cried while I tried to comfort the other dogs.  One by one, everyone walked away. “You can stay out here as long as you like Christy.” My mom said as she walked away, leaving me alone to relive each moment again and again.

Essay: My Childhood Revolved Around My Sister

            I can still remember like it was yesterday, the first night at home without my sister, when she had gone and left me alone with my parents. She took everything except her futon and a stuffed bear, and when I saw what was left, I cried tears I had never cried before, the first touch of real pain in my young life. My childhood revolved around my sister.

            My childhood revolved around my sister because I always wanted to know what she was doing. I used many spy tactics to gather my information. Sometimes I listened in on her telephone calls, or snuck into her closet to eavesdrop or pressed my ear against the glass I pushed against the wall. But my perfectly plan was to drill holes through the eyes of Zach from Saved By the Bell, which hung on the wall between our room. I would make sure the holes went all the way through to my room and then I would cover the evidence with the “My Little Mermaid” poster in my room. Then, whenever I wanted to know what she was doing, I would simply take down my poster and look, through Zach’s eyes! Unfortunately though, there were no drills long enough in our garage for a job like this. I checked.

            My childhood revolved around my sister because I wanted to go where she went. One evening I walked into my sister’s room without knocking just in time to see her scooting out her window. “What are you doing?” I gasped. I busted her in the middle of her sneak out attempt. “I’m just going to meet a friend, I’ll be back in a little bit-don’t tell mom and dad!”

            “But I want to go.”

            “You can’t come with me.”

            “Why not? I’m bored! I won’t bother you, I swear!”

            “Christy, I have to go! You can come with me next time okay?”

            “Promise?”

            “Yes.”

            Unfortunately for us though, she didn’t keep her promise and so the next time she snuck out, I followed her and got us both caught.

            My childhood revolved around my sister because she took care of me. My mom had been sick for awhile but I didn’t know what was wrong with her. One afternoon, my mom, sister and I were in the kitchen when mom’s eyes began rolling and she collapsed on the table, smacking in a way you would only see in a move. I screamed and began crying hysterically, yelling “Mom! Mom!” My sister, who was always overly dramatic turned to me and said, “Christy, it’s okay, she’ll be okay. Just call 911.” I couldn’t move I only shook and cried, “Is she dead?” My sister was calm but firm. “Mom is not dead, she’s going to be okay, but you need to call 911.”

            “What do I say!?”

            “Tell them she’s unconscious and tell them what you saw.

I picked up the phone, hands shaking, and cried to the 911 operator who spoke calmly to me until the paramedics arrived. My sister just looked and me and smiled, frightened tears running down her cheek. “Good job Christy.”

            Once I begged my dad to take me and my friend Kiki to the movies. He said he would if I could find a ride home and Kiki had arranged one. The movie was great but when it was over, there were too many people and not enough spots in the car. Kiki got in the car though and drove away leaving me stranded late at night. I was humiliated, angry, and scared. I couldn’t tell my dad what happened.

            I had two dollars, but I didn’t know how to get home on the bus and people walking around scared me. I walked to the McDonalds and put a quarter in the slot, calling the one person in the world I thought would know what to do. My sister said she was so sorry for what happened, dropped everything so was doing, picked me up in the middle of the night, and never said a word to my dad.

            My childhood revolved around my sister because I was devastated when she left. I creped to her room and opened the door without knocking. Nobody inside. Everything was gone. My whole life. I sat on the bare red carpet then smothered the stuff bear and fell asleep on her floor, waking only after midnight, utterly alone.