Salvation Army
The building is low and square and filled with a misty dust layer that gives everyone and everything an antique quality. It is too hot in here, and the must from the clothes climbs into nostrils like sneaky bats at dawn. I have to sneeze, but if I do, Trista Doan's mother will notice me because she works here, volunteers her free time to help the needy, and she is behind the counter and I am following my mom down the row of Black Coats, generically ordered by size and not by odor, and she is buying me a coat that I will wear over my new dress in the Pop Concert Friday night for school. And Trista Doan is a soprano and so am I and we stand next to each other on the top level of the bleachers (the fourth tier) and it is hard enough not to accidentally sway off the back of those things, without having to worry about what Trista Doan might be thinking of me.
But I do.
Worry about what she is thinking about me, that is.
Because Trista is very popular and dainty and girlish, with soft hair and money behind her smile and her clothing and her happiness, and her grandfather is behind the name of our high school, Doan High School. She is a shitty soprano, but it doesn't matter because her teeth are white and straight and her nose turns up and all that kind of thing. I sweat constantly when I'm standing next to her on the risers.
I think she likes me okay. But that doesn't take away the stress, because a) how do I know if she does or not, really? and b) it doesn't matter because I could never cut it as being her friend. She might be stupid enough to think we have enough in common to actually hang out, but I'm not. That stupid. I wish I was. If I were stupider, life would be so much better. Have you ever thought about that? It's true, for me anyway. If didn't have to think about how much better life could be; if I didn't know I was capable of doing, for example, Trista's life way better than she will end up doing it; if I couldn't see the screwed up-ness all around in me, the kids who are living in Twilight Zone hells. Walking into a grocery store is like a haunted house for me.
Whatever. Anyway, my mom is holding up this disgusting, lint-covered jacket that there is no way I am wearing. How stupid can she be? See, there's an example right there of what I was saying. Look at what a fucking clueless slug she is, not even noticing or caring or processing that a coat is full of lint, and you know what? Of course, you already guessed it, because you are jacked like me and can't turn the key off. She is happy, my mother! She is just fine with life, because she can't really conceive of it objectively enough to see how screwed up everything is. She is like some single-to-few-celled creature just barely up the shore from the primordial swamp.
But I do.
Worry about what she is thinking about me, that is.
Because Trista is very popular and dainty and girlish, with soft hair and money behind her smile and her clothing and her happiness, and her grandfather is behind the name of our high school, Doan High School. She is a shitty soprano, but it doesn't matter because her teeth are white and straight and her nose turns up and all that kind of thing. I sweat constantly when I'm standing next to her on the risers.
I think she likes me okay. But that doesn't take away the stress, because a) how do I know if she does or not, really? and b) it doesn't matter because I could never cut it as being her friend. She might be stupid enough to think we have enough in common to actually hang out, but I'm not. That stupid. I wish I was. If I were stupider, life would be so much better. Have you ever thought about that? It's true, for me anyway. If didn't have to think about how much better life could be; if I didn't know I was capable of doing, for example, Trista's life way better than she will end up doing it; if I couldn't see the screwed up-ness all around in me, the kids who are living in Twilight Zone hells. Walking into a grocery store is like a haunted house for me.
Whatever. Anyway, my mom is holding up this disgusting, lint-covered jacket that there is no way I am wearing. How stupid can she be? See, there's an example right there of what I was saying. Look at what a fucking clueless slug she is, not even noticing or caring or processing that a coat is full of lint, and you know what? Of course, you already guessed it, because you are jacked like me and can't turn the key off. She is happy, my mother! She is just fine with life, because she can't really conceive of it objectively enough to see how screwed up everything is. She is like some single-to-few-celled creature just barely up the shore from the primordial swamp.
<< Home