*contains drug use and use of the f-word, among othe profanities*
Chapter One
I, Jezebel Sisley, have never kissed anyone.
Sure, I’m only fifteen-going-on-sixteen, but Venus Depollo (best friend and Drama Queen extraordinaire) has already gotten to second base with a guy. Yes, they were black-out wasted, but that’s Venus Depollo for you.
My mind has been on kissing a lot lately. They’ve warned us about this in sixth grade PE. Hormones or something, I can’t remember. Shelly (my ridiculously inept step-mother) still hasn’t given me the Sex Talk yet. This is a good thing since she’s a Super Catholic and would probably fuck up the whole thing anyway. These days I try to avoid boys at all costs; even though I still think about kissing them. Whenever a guy, even a completely unattractive one, talks to me I suddenly lose the ability to speak in complete sentences. Stupid female mind. Get a grip.
Most of the time when I’m not thinking about kissing, I’m in the basement playing Guitar Hero and hanging out with Shelly’s poodle, Wanda. Wanda’s sort of ugly and smells funny, but she doesn’t do anything like bite or pee in the house.
While most kids are out getting drunk and giving each other blow jobs, I'm stuck at home with a freakin' poodle. You could say that I'm "unpopular" or "nerdy", but I would be offended if you did. People don't seem to talk to me as much as they did back in middle school. Then suddenly I developed a taste for The Who, while the other girls were kissing the ground preppy boy bands walked on. I was left in the dust with only the not so helping hand of Venus Depollo to hold on to.
Anyway, the only instrument I can play beside Guitar Hero (does it really count as an instrument?) is the clarinet. Kids called me the ‘Clarinet Wizard’. Well, more like Venus (who plays the oboe) and Jesús Diaz (who plays the trumpet). I’m only a sophomore and have already made first chair. I can feel the seniors glaring at the back of head all through practice.
So, I’m putting together my Weapon of Justice and Musical Truth (otherwise known as my clarinet) with
Venus blabbing in one ear, and Jesús blowing his trumpet in the other.
“…So she was like, ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ and I was like, ‘I’m freakin’ brilliant!’” Venus is telling me about her most recent cat-fight. I’m only half listening.
“Did you really say that to Melissa Haggardy?” Jesús asks resting his trumpet on his knees.
Venus smirks and points her oboe directly in his face, the mouthpiece practically touching his nose. “Sure did. She deserved all the crap I said to her. Trying to call me a two-faced lieing skank.”
I bonk her on the head with my clarinet, scowling. “Can you please shut up? You're giving me a headache.”
“Putain!” Venus cried out in French.
I had accidentally messed up Venus’ wig when I hit her in the head. Her normal strawberry blond tresses are poking out from under her violent indigo wig. She adjusts it while glaring at me.
“Ladies,” Jesús says calmly. He has both of his hands up in an ‘I surrender’ sort of way while trying to hold his trumpet in between his legs.
These mini-fights happen every seventh period. Just because Venus and I are friends doesn’t mean we can’t rag on each other every so often. I finish putting together my Weapon of Justice and Musical Truth and slouch low in my seat, still tired even though it was seventh period. Shelly had made me hand out cheese squares/coffee/Jell-O at her Super Christian book club last night.
“Where is Mr. Wexler?” I ask while trying to suppress a yawn.
Venus shrugs her pointy shoulders. "Usually he's always the one freaking out about us being late."
“Someone flushed his toupee down the toilet,” a voice answered from behind me. I jerk around in my seat and suddenly am overcome with the feeling of dread. “so now he’s stuck in the bathroom trying to get it out.”
“Fish!” Venus squeals in delight. She fixes her wig, pouts her dark red lips, and bats her fake eyelashes. Typical Venus. If she sees anything with a dick, she'll pounce.
Fish Campbell is sitting beside Jesús in the trumpet section with his muddy combat boots on the back of my chair. He looks more pleased with himself than usual. I’m guessing he was the one who flushed Mr. Wexler’s hair down the toilet. Damn percussion players.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Just stopping by, Jezzy,” he tells me innocently. Meanwhile, the rest of the percussion section are trying to escape out the band room windows. No one seems to notice, and if they did, they didn’t care one bit.
Fish Campbell and I have been at odds with each other since kindergarten when he tried to get a good look up my dress during story time. I know he's in love with me. It’s written all over his face (or perhaps it's just my imagination).
Fish Campbell lusts after Jezebel Sisely.
Some could argue that I myself lust after Fish Campbell. I have one question for them. Why??? He’s dumb, perverted, lazy, and un-kissable. He cares more about tampons than anything else in the world. He probably has a vast collection.
Before I can tell off Fish for being fucking retarded, Mr. Wexler rushes into the band room with a sopping wet hair-piece. He points a finger menacingly at the remaining percussion kids; Fish Campbell included, and tells them to report to the office for some good old corporal punishment.
Serves them right.
*****
Instead of being a good little Jezebel and going straight home to the Super Christians, I ride my bike to Mom’s house where everything is a little less crazy (only a little). I enter the living room where Mom is sleeping on the couch Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus covering the lower half of her face. QVC is on. They’re selling these totally ugly Christmas tree sweaters. In April. What has the world come too?
“Mom?” I take the book of her face and toss it on the floor. “Mom. Wake up.”
She’s not waking up. Holy shit. I hope she didn’t O.D on Vicodin. I prod my mother with her cigarette lighter I found on the coffee table among her boxes of cigarettes.
“What the fuck?” Mom mutters. Now you know where I get my lovely sailor mouth from. “Who’s poking me?”
“Your brilliant yet humble daughter, Jezebel Sisely.” I sit down beside me mother, the lighter still in my hand. “Did you pass out or what?”
Mom and Dad split up a couple years back. At the age of ten I was shoved into therapy by the Super Christians. They thought I couldn’t handle the divorce. The only thing I can’t stand is Shelly’s constant preaching and Dad constantly being a push-over. It’s annoying.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” Mom asks sadly. “You're not supposed to be here.”
Uh… the exact reason why Mom and Dad split is sort of foggy. Had to do with uh… herabusingdrugsandmydadbeingadouch. I watch my poor mother laying on her beloved futon feeling an immsense amount of pity for her. I begin to click her Marilyn Monroe lighter on and off repeatedly. Unlike Super Catholic Stepmom Shelly, Mom doesn't bark at me to quit it. If I set the whole house on fire I bet she wouldn't even bat an eyelash. That's just how she is.
[b]Mom suddenly sits up on the couch, snatches a pack of Newports from the coffee table and grabs the lighter from my hands in mid-click. Believe me, I am worried about my Mom, her being an ex-drug abuser and all, but most of the time I just let her do whatever she wants. I don't want out relationship turning into one of those things where I'm the responsible adult and she's the dumb teenager. Mom knows right from wrong without me having to tell her, something my father tends to forget which is why he prohibits me from seeing her. Well, fuck you Dad. You betrayed me by going all Super Catholic on me. The least I could do is repay you.
"How's it going over there, anyway?" Mom asks pratically reading my mind. Sort of a mother/daughter ESP thing, I'm guessing.
"I hate it," I complain. I'm not allowed to complain in fron of the SCs. It has to do with being thankful for crap, or something. "Joel hates it too. Can't we just come live here?"
Mom sighs. I've asked this question enough times that she has a little speech prepared. "I wish that were possible, Jezebel. But you and your brother are better off living with Shelly and your father."
I don't want to be "better off". I want to live with my real mother in her dumpy, little house, and be rid of those stupid SCs. The plastic, artificial life they've conjured up for me makes me suicidal. Not that I would tell anyone that.
I do tend to make run-on sentances, don't I? A THOUSAND THANKS!
