Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (9 page)

After a few agonizing hours, we made it into our Volvo station wagon, finally on our way to Disneyland. “Are we there yet?” my sister asked. Good thing too, because I had been wondering the same thing. We had been driving for at least an hour, so we must’ve been getting close.

“We’ve only been driving for seven minutes,” my dad barked at us from the driver’s seat. His apathetic attitude toward the most magical place in all the world was beginning to make me lose respect for the guy. Who is this pod person, and what has he done with my real father? I wondered. After another hour went by, I chimed in with, “I think it’s the next exit.”

“We have been driving for thirty minutes and are nowhere near our insufferable destination.” I could tell my dad’s irritation level
was reaching its peak. Luckily, I knew just what to do to mellow him out while simultaneously lifting his spirits.…

“It’s a small world, after all. It’s a small world, after all. It’s a small world, after all. It’s a small, small world.” I nailed it pitch-perfect, a future
American Idol
winner. My sister soon joined in, effectively turning my solo into a duet. We managed to harmonize on a song that had no harmony.

My father stared me down in the rearview mirror. His reflection wasn’t even half as intimidating as it would have been had our eyes locked directly. So I continued on, this time a smidgen louder. And Lilly followed my lead. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and sang my little heart out at the top of my reverberating lungs. Eventually, I felt as though the lyrics to “It’s a Small World” had run their course, so I began making up my own verses on the spot:

“Disneyland is so much fun. I can’t wait to ride the rides. I hope there’s a candy store in the snowy mountain. I’m going to touch Mickey Mouse’s tail.” To this day, I believe I’d achieve great success as an underground battle rapper; my ability to make up lyrics on the spot remains unmatched. I’m talking to you, Eminem.

I guess our duet was so loud, I couldn’t hear the car phone ring, but my dad violently picked it up and asked who was there. I lowered my voice a little bit but had no intention of stopping until my parents believed in the magical place just as my sister and I did.

“Wait, so this is Mickey Mouse? Why are you calling me?” my dad asked in a loud voice.

The singing stopped immediately. Umm, why was Mickey Mouse calling my father?!

“Give it to me, I wanna talk to him!” My sister desperately reached for the phone, but my father shushed her. Something was seriously wrong. I was so nervous I felt as if I was going to pee my pants,
which is the ultimate betrayal of a five-year-old’s body, because at that age, you’ve only just recently stopped using diapers.

“I understand. Well, I’m sorry, Mickey. Be safe. Take care now.” My dad hung up the phone. All eyes were on him, including my mother’s. She seemed just as shocked as we were. We awaited the verdict.

“I have an announcement to make.” My dad paused to collect his thoughts, while a little bit of pee ran down my leg. “I hate to be the one to tell you this … but … it’s official. Disneyland has burned down.”

“Nooooooooooooo!”

THREE MONTHS LATER …

I sat at a picnic table under a large oak tree with my best friend, Duncan Winecoff. I was enjoying
his
peanut butter and jelly sandwich as he scarfed down
my
ham and cheese. Lunchtime at elementary school is basically the NBA draft of packed brown bags, except much more intense. The strategy that went into planning my lunch for the week qualified me to be the GM of a professional sports team. I remember convincing my mom to make things I had no intention of eating, days in advance, just because I knew the trading leverage I’d acquire. People still talk about November 23, 1994, or as it’s been immortalized, “Thank-Charlie’s Day.” The day before Thanksgiving I was able to trade my Fruit Roll-Up for a half-drunk can of Dr Pepper. No big deal, you say? Well, I forgot to mention that the trade was with a
teacher
. Nuff said.

Out of nowhere, into the snacking area walked the infamous Teddy Long. I had never seen a second grader wander into our quarters before. What was the purpose of his visit? Did some lucky
bastard have Bubble Tape? I could only imagine the trouble that was brewing on the horizon. It soon became apparent that Teddy had his eyes set on one thing and one thing only: Annie Greynold.

Annie Greynold was the Paris Hilton of kindergarten. Which meant she was smarter than Paris Hilton, but you get the idea. He approached Annie as if she were just another one of his AYSO soccer trophies. I noticed Teddy was wearing an odd-looking hat, but as he got closer, the outline of it became more clear. Two felt black circles protruding from the top.… Very similar to a certain mouse.

Through my extensive research, I knew the only place to purchase one of these hats was at a kiosk at the late great Disneyland. I had seen Teddy get dropped off at school every single day, but not once had I seen him sporting a Mickey Mouse hat. Where did it come from? I needed answers.

I have no idea where I mustered up the courage, but out of nowhere I stood up, Velcroed my shoes a little snugger, and headed off into the land of cooler kids. Duncan remained seated, mouth open in disbelief, with pieces of my mom’s ham and cheese sandwich still on his lips. As I got closer to Teddy, my knees began to quiver. Not only was I going to converse with a second grader, but Annie was going to hear me speak for the first time. I cleared my throat, making sure no hidden saliva would send my vocal cords into an even more girl-like pitch than normal. I swiped my hand along the ground, collecting dirt to rub on my shirt to match Teddy’s casual grunge. As I got closer, I felt the eyes of other kids staring at me. I could tell they all thought I was on a suicide mission. Maybe I was, but I had thought about Disneyland every single day since it had burned to the ground, and Teddy was the only hope I had for some answers.

“Teddy?” My voice seemed to echo off of every single lunch box in the snacking area. He turned around, not pleased by my
interruption. “Umm, where’d you get that hat?” I had felt somewhat self-assured, until I saw Annie’s “Are you fucking crazy-ah?” face. I looked up at Teddy, who weighed in at an impressive four foot five and fifty-seven pounds, ready to kill me at any moment.

“Who wants to know?” he grunted.

“Me,” I said while instinctively raising my hand. I quickly put it down, realizing we weren’t in Mrs. Shanel’s classroom.

“Well, if you must know, I got it at Disneyland over the weekend.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yeah-huh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh, yeah-huh.”

“Nuh-uh, nuh-uh.”

“Disneyland burned down months ago,” I shouted out for the entire snack-time-area population to hear. Everyone instantly erupted in laughter. I couldn’t believe it; these morons had no clue. Was I the only one who was privy to this information? It was possible. I mean, Mickey Mouse did call my father directly.

“Whoever told you that is stupid. I went on Space Mountain yesterday. And it was awesome.” Jealousy and rage took over for rational thought. He had not only called my dad stupid, but he had supposedly just ridden on the very ride that started the fire. What was going on? What the hell was going on!?

“I sat in the front cart on the Matterhorn and I didn’t even close my eyes once,” one kid yelled out.

“My older brother said he touched a ghost’s wee-wee in the Haunted Mansion,” another said.

“Yeah, I just went on the Jungle Cruise and I got out to feed the alligators. They’re real.”

I couldn’t believe it. Had my dad completely fabricated a story about Disneyland burning to the ground just so he wouldn’t have to go? If so, then I was living with a monster. (Not one of Gaga’s.) How could I ever face that man again? Oh my God, and did that mean he wasn’t actually friends with Mickey Mouse?!

I reluctantly glanced over at Annie. She had a look of empathy, which quickly dissolved into a look of repulsion. Then she got sucked into the vicious kindergarten peer pressure and laughed at me along with the rest of them.

“Your dad just got here,” my after-school teacher informed me as I stood in a corner brooding.

Dad? What dad? I didn’t have a dad. A dad is an honest man who gets excited about taking a family trip to Disneyland. The gentleman who referred to himself as my father was a lying son of a grandma named Edna. And I knew for a fact she would not approve of his deceitful behavior.

I entered his car (the scene of the crime) without speaking a word to him. I attempted to strap myself into the car seat. I admit I was having a bit of trouble as I was not confident enough to work this strange contraption on my own. My father tried to help.

“I can do it myself!” I roared. I knew I couldn’t, but I was willing to live on the wild side for the seven-minute drive home. Plus, given the state I was in, my dad knew not to mess with me.

We drove in silence. I was so infuriated. Everything I saw out the window was stupid. Stupid hair salon. Stupid metal gate. Stupid orange tree. Stupid running creek. Stupid person putting change in a homeless man’s stupid cup. The homeless man was the last straw; I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why did you lie to me about Disneyland!?”
My high-pitched voice echoed off of every windowpane in the car. My dad was so startled by the noise that he swerved into the lane next to us, almost crashing into the stupid guy in the stupid Porsche.

“I did not lie to you,” he turned around and said directly to my face.

“Yes you did! I know Disneyland didn’t burn down!”

“Listen. Disneyland
did
burn down. But they recently rebuilt it!”

“Really? Well, can we go?”

“We can, although I heard it’s not even close to as good since the reopening. They don’t even have bathrooms anymore. Plus they had to replace the castle with a vegetable farm.”

My father was very lucky that it was the eighties, ’cause if I’d had access to Google, I probably never would’ve spoken to him again. To this day, I’ve still never been to stupid Disneyland, nor do I have any desire to.…

Especially now that it sucks since they’ve rebuilt it.

THE GIRLS ON DIETING

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Oh I get it. It’s called string cheese cause it comes off all stringy.” Next week we’ll tackle Push-Pops.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, can I just skip the others?” That might be healthier than throwing them up.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“How much did that gluten stuff in food cost before they made it free?” Oh man, you don’t even wanna know.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I know this might sound stupid.” Not again, please no—“But does air have any fat calories in it?” 9-1-1.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“OMG! I lost three pounds from food poisoning! We’re so going back there.” Finally you found a place that does the vomiting for you.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“He’s taking me out to some restaurant in Koreatown. Oh great, I hate sushi!” Maybe they can whip you up some Korean food.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“If I eat half of the fries and then I bite those in half with only a little salt, will I get fat?” Your version of the SATs?

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I just realized it’s March! You know what that means …” March Madness tournament? “Girl scout cookie diet month!” Oh … right.

CHAPTER NINE

I said my good riddance to the Disney boys, then reclaimed the living room couch as my own. I could hear murmurs coming from the ceiling, but the girls weren’t speaking loudly enough for me to comprehend their topic of conversation. Normally, I would pray for this low decibel level, but I was bored and wanted someone to talk—I mean listen—to. I could hear the Jewish mother inside me saying, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Oy vey. And while I’m on the subject, how come you never call anymore?” If I had a choice in the matter, I would want them to be silent for the rest of my existence, except at that very moment. That’s not entirely unreasonable.

I cracked open a window, hoping to boost the volume. I now had the ability to make out certain words, but their sentences were still a little fuzzy. So I grabbed my computer and went on an adventure to find the most clear listening spots. My apartment is only about seven hundred square feet, so the trek wasn’t that strenuous, but it
took a while to pinpoint the perfect area to camp out. Here are my easy-listening results:

Living room: Decent. If they were excited, drunk, or in a fight, I could hear them well from there, but otherwise it’s not ideal. Note: For reasons unknown, high heels are loudest here.

My bedroom: Solid. The acoustics are phenomenal. Coldplay could perform unplugged. Because both our apartments share the same layout, daytime does not experience a lot of activity in this spot. Nighttime is hopping, though.