This is the story I'm writing for NaNoWriMo, so advice is much appreciated!If it's too long then I'll cut it down.
Heidi
Maybelline Monroe is an idiot. There’s no doubt about that. She left me in this God forsaken suburb to suffer and angst alone. I want to hate her, but for some reason I just keep feeling sad.
People are saying she’s dead. I hope this isn’t true because she’s my best friend and it would suck if she were dead. My theory is she was abducted by aliens only because she always wanted to.
The day after she leaves town, I travel to St. Lima’s, the trying-to-hard-to-be-Catholic city, where Aspen Montgomery lives. She’s what you would call my other best friend, but I never liked her too much. She pretty much only liked hanging out with Maybelline. I was sort of like a consolation prize. A really shitty one like toaster, or a play-at-home game.
Aspen is in her room making out with her boyfriend, What’s His Face. Her mom is pretty cool about this. She’s probably off getting drunk in the pool house like any dignified wealthy homemaker would. See, I live in a soap opera. You learn to accept that people are fucked up.
“Aspen,” I say, bored.
She ignores me and continued to insert her tongue into What’s His Faces’ mouth. Disgusting.
I knock on the wall. “Aspen. Drop whatever your doing and listen to me.”
Aspen shoves What’s His Face off of her and glares at me with pretty, pale blue eyes. “What are you doing here, Heidi?”
“Where is Maybelline?” I ask. “Is she playing some sort of sick joke? Because I went to her house yesterday and there was a sold sign on her lawn.”
“I thought you were some sort of genius,” Aspen says. What’s His Face keeps starts playing with her fluffy, blond hair, but she swats him away. No sane person touches Aspen Montgomery’s hair. “She moved.”
What? She never mentioned anything about moving to me. It never came up in conversation. Maybelline would have told me if she was leaving town. This does not make any sense to me at all.
“Where did she go?” I ask, slightly flabbergasted.
“I don’t know,” Aspen says.
“Are you saying that just to be a bitch, Aspen?” I ask, crossing my arms across my chest.
“Usually yes,” she says. What’s His Face has now become tired of our girlish conversation and drifts over to Aspen’s dresser (probably to sniff her panties). “But I’m being totally serious.”
“Where do you think she might have gone?” I ask.
“I don’t know!” Aspen threw up her hands in agitation. “Now get out of here!”
I leave, but only because she seemed really mad and prone to violence at that moment. Who knows what could have happened.
***
“Well good riddance,” Mom says at the dinner table that night. Natasha, our Russian maid who enjoys communism and The Bachelor, made some kind of gross, tofu shit for dinner. Natasha is the worst maid in the history of maids, but I’m not complaining. I like to see her swear at my mom is Russian. “I think that Monroe girl was a bad influence on you.”
Apparently Mom still thinks that I’m seven years old. She treats me like a little girl even though I’m sixteen and have a boyfriend (that she doesn’t know about…but still!).
“Have you heard anything about it, Natasha?” I ask. She was over by the kitchen door pretending to water plants so she could listen to us talk.
“Why would I care about Miss Maybelline moving away?” Natasha says while killing our ficus. “She was brat. In Russia she would be killed.”
“In case you haven’t heard,” I say. “This is American in which we enjoy freedom and obesity.”
Natasha rolls her eyes and goes back into the kitchen, mumbling in Russian. I poke at my tofu miserably.
“Can’t you smile?” Mom asks. “Be grateful that you didn’t end up like that Maybelline. Running around half dressed with no morals what so ever. Her poor mother!”
I open my mouth to say a clever retort, but am interrupted by Dad rushing down the stairs looking like a crazed homeless man. He’s wearing his dingy old flannel shirt from his 90’s-Seattle-Grunge phase and has his laptop underneath his arm.
“Writing again?” I ask with a slight smile.
“Sherman!” Mom says, aghast. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I finished the first draft,” Dad explains. He always gets excited after finishing one of his Lucy von Diamond novels. Lucy von Diamond being the main character in my father’s critically acclaimed vampire series. She’s the pink haired vixen who hunts down ruthless vampires, and sleeps with them before beating the living shit out of them with a wooden stake.
“You look horrible!” Mom says. “Did a bomb hit the house while we were eating?”
“It’s great, Heidi,” Dad says, talking to me now. “Probably my best yet.”
Mom sighs and calls for Natasha to bring her some more sludge.
“Have you heard anything about Maybelline?” I ask him hopefully.
“What happened to Maybelline?” Dad asks, still glowing about his accomplishment.
“Nothing important,” I say. “Now tell me what happens!”
***
Will Bingham Jr. is taking Maybelline’s mysterious moving especially hard.
Will is, or was, Maybelline’s boyfriend of forever. He founded the band pLaStIc-PoP where Maybelline was the electric keyboard player and lead singer, and I was the part-time tambourine player. Sometimes I would come to gigs at the bars in St. Lima’s. We drove around in Will’s van soaking in the night life.
Jamie Holmes Abraham Doe and I are sitting at a table in Kingsbury (one of our favorite bars) missing Maybelline. Jamie, who is usually cold hearted and badass, is even feeling upset. She’s drowning her sorrows in beer and pretzels.
“Why didn’t she tell anyone?” I ask.
“Maybe she’s in Witness Protection,” Abraham suggests. He smells like weed again. It hurts my nose, but I don’t say anything.
“She didn’t see the murder of some mafia boss, dipshit,” Jamie says shoving another pretzel in her mouth.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me,” I say mostly to myself.
Aspen is nowhere to be found. I brought her here so we could discuss Maybelline, but she managed to find something else sexier to do.
“Hey, Kingsbury.” It’s Will. He’s on stage holding his guitar and looking suicidal.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Jamie groans.
“How are you, Kingsbury,” Will says. “I hope you’re doing fine. Because my girlfriend left town without telling me and now I might just jump out a window.”
Then he breaks into a stunning rendition of ‘Everybody Hurts’. Jamie groans again and smacks her head on the table. People take out their cigarette lighters and wave them around. I’m about to just leave because I can’t take this emotional trauma when my handsome punk boyfriend, Falcon, comes over and gives me a hug.
“What’s up with Bingham?” he asks, sitting next to me.
“Maybelline sort of left,” I explain.
“The heartless bitch,” Jamie adds. She’s drunk, but no one cares.
Falcon runs his hand through his gorgeous black hair. “Jesus that’s harsh. Are you okay?”
“I’ve seen better days,” I say.
I half expect Maybelline to walk through the door and announce that this was all a big joke. She pulls that April Fool’s shit all the time. Once she was pretended she was dead, so she could see what everyone truly thought about her at the funeral. After it was revealed she was actually alive, I didn’t speak to her for two weeks.
When Will finishes his heart wrenching number, everyone applauds like crazy and yells out supportive comments like, “I’ll sleep with you Bingham!”
“Are you doing anything on Friday?” Falcon asks, putting his arms around my shoulders.
“I have a convention on Friday,” I reply.
“Another one?” Falcon sighs. “Didn’t you just go to one in Boise?”
“It’s sort of a spur of the moment thing,” I say. “My dad’s doing another panel in Portland. He just finished the first draft of his new book.”
“Sweet,” Abraham says. He unzips his jacket and shows me his Lucy von Diamond t-shirt. “I love me some Lucy.”
Falcon, however, is not so happy about it. “Can’t you skip just this once?”
I hesitate. Usually I would say something snappy and mean, but this is Falcon. He’s the love of my adolescent life.
“He’s my dad,” I say, squirming in my seat. “And I never see him at home since he’s always writing. Conventions are the only time we have together.”
Falcon removes his arm from around my shoulder and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s clearly throwing some sort of cute handsome punk boy tantrum. Other people might find this annoying and get pissed off, but I just think how lucky I am. This stupid boy is pissed because he can’t spend time with me. Me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, inching closer to him with my chair. Will starts singing ‘American Pie’, but breaks down crying during the chorus. Everyone cheers.
“Don’t be a jackass, Falcon,” Jamie says.
I glare at Jamie who snickers. “We can hang out on Monday,” I say.
Falcon grins. My heart melts. “That would be great. Sister Cripple is playing here Monday night.”
Jamie and Abraham hiss. “Boo! Sister Cripple sucks major ass!”
I give them my best I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass look, and they shut up. “Sister Cripple doesn’t suck,” I say. “Axel Joe is…really good at…playing…music.”
Sister Cripple is the worst heavy metal rock band in the universe, but Falcon loves them just the same. He has really bad taste in music.
