The Bitch Posse (14 page)

Puck’s already laughing with someone else, Ula, Rennie thinks her name might be, a tiny little blonde from the Stanford Writing Program, impish, ambitious. She thinks she hears Puck mutter something like “Can’t write worth a damn, but a lot of fun in bed,” and humiliation slices through her even though he may be talking about someone else.

Bay’s face flashes into her head for the first time in this confused night, and oh, crap, Rennie Taylor’s screwed things up again.

April 1988
Holland High School

Hauled into the principal’s office again, this is a pretty usual scene with me. If it’s not for sassing a teacher or smoking at school, it’s just because Mr. Coldwell’s bored with arranging paper clips or jerking off in his office or whatever the hell administrators do in their spare time. They called me out of chemistry, the only good thing about it, and here I am, waiting my turn in the “kid in trouble” chair.

The door swings open, and Amy ducks into the office, small and scared and not at all perky like her usual self. “Holy shit, what’d we do?”

“I have no fucking idea.” I never expected to see Amy here. As she’s sinking into the chair next to me, the door opens again and in walks Rennie, looking confused, black hair fluttering around her face.

“Oh, my God.” She drops her backpack to the floor. “Did you bring drugs to school?” she whispers.

It’s insulting she’d think I’d be (a) so stupid and (b) so crass. “I just told Amy I have no fucking idea.”

“I thought it was about Stanford. The school paper wants to do a feature on me.”

Sometimes, Rennie really annoys me. “Apparently not.”

Mr. Coldwell’s door peels open, and we step inside. There like a jury sit Marian, red hair sprayed to attention, so she can play the role of the normal mother; Amy’s dad, squinting behind his glasses, and her mom, wearing her librarian outfit; and Rennie’s dad, way too handsome for his own good (to me he looks just like Harrison Ford), and his attaché Kelly, with long brown hair.

Oh, shit.

“Rennie. Amy. Cherry,” says Coldwell in his Adolf Hitler voice. “Please, have a seat.”

They’ve spread out chairs all across the room so we can’t be near each other. Now I notice Ms. Phelan, the school guidance counselor, and a fat, bearded, and glasses-wearing guy who looks suspiciously like a shrink; I can just tell.

“I wish you’d tell us what this is about.” Rennie’s voice trembles. “We honestly have no idea why you’re all here.”

“I was just about to do that, Rennie.” He’s such a disgusting Fascist. I’d love to smack him across his pig mouth. “But perhaps your parents should begin. Rennie, let’s start with yours.” That must annoy the shit out of Rennie because she can’t stand her dad and Kelly being referred to as her “parents.”

Kelly clears her throat. “I’ll leave it to you, Ryan.”

And Rennie’s dad stands up (stands up!) and says, “Wren.” Oh, God, the hippie name, Rennie can’t stand that either. “Wren. We’ve been really worried about you. You stay out late without calling. You lie to us.”

“What?” She cocks her head to the side. “I don’t.”

“Last month, you said you were staying late at school because of play practice. But we spoke to Abby Green’s mother, and at least half the days you said you were at play practice, there was no play practice. Now you say it’s French Club. But Madame DuBois says you haven’t been to a French Club meeting in months. Where do you go after school, Wren?”

Rennie just sputters and spits, and it’s a question I couldn’t have answered a month ago, but for some reason last week at my house she spilled the whole story. I’m determined to protect her; no one can find out about her and Mr. Schafer. “She’s been at my house, Mr. Taylor. Her grades have been sliding a little lately, and I think she’s been embarrassed to tell you.”

Rennie gives me a thank-you glance, but Marian of course decides to save the day. “Amy’s been at our house in the afternoons, but I don’t see Rennie until about six o’clock or so. I just assumed she was at her after-school activities. Rennie’s so smart she’s always involved in something. As a matter of fact, I was thrilled when Cherry started hanging around Rennie, thought some of her good qualities would rub off on my daughter. But unfortunately, they’re a poisonous mix, it seems. I found this.” She pulls out a poem,
my poem,
where the hell did she get my poem? The best one I’ve ever written, yes, it
is
that one, “Graveyard.”

She reads it aloud:

Stack bricks,
scrape mortar
across the wall.
Build my tomb,
protect my body
from wild animals.
Inside, I spin
my sarcophagus
of poetry,
my death-shroud.

She widens her eyes at Coldwell and the other parents, and they’re shaking their heads—disturbed chick, crazy girl, sick, suicidal.

Coldwell clears his throat. “Obviously, that speaks for itself. And now I think it’s time to hear from the Linnets.”

I glance at Amy. I know they’ve called her bitch, whore, worse names, names you should never call your own child. I want to smash that drunken asshole’s face in, but he’s lucid now, his words deliberate. “As you know, our family’s dealt with a special struggle over the years.” He frowns with the pinched face he probably makes as he stands over someone drilling out their teeth. “Amy’s given us very little trouble. There were signs early on, though, as she drifted away from her old crowd. We were concerned when she dropped cheerleading, and in such a dramatic fashion.” That’s a lie too. Amy told me they barely cared that she sliced up her cheer uniform. She came home halfway through practice, and they were both already drunk. It was a Hemmler week.

Mrs. Linnet steps in. “Then we noticed this.” She leans over to Amy and pulls up her sleeve. Cuts and scars jag over her forearm, past her elbow, and onto her upper arm too. God, she’s been cutting herself a lot more than even I knew about. I cover my face with my hand and take three deep breaths, then look up.

The shrinky-dink squints behind his glasses. “This kind of maladaptive behavior is quite serious. When the Linnets called me, I told them we needed to do an intervention, right away. When we spoke with the school, we realized all three of these girls are in trouble.”

God, if they only knew. I vow to keep my mouth glued shut, and I try to psychically transmit this idea to the others by giving the tiniest, slightest Cherry-wink behind my hand. It’s good we’re here together.
If they’d been smart they would’ve seen us all separately, tried to wear down the weak ones, and get the goods on all of us.

Mr. Coldwell continues. “We’re going to nip this in the bud, before you girls get mixed up in even more frightening situations. Your teachers have been very concerned, particularly about you, Rennie. Madame DuBois tells me you’re frequently late to class.”

“I always have a pass.” God, shut up, Rennie! The next question will be why you’re always getting a pass from Mr. Schafer, idiot.

I try to save her. “I know just how she feels. Sixth period lots of times I just want to go home. Oh, what the heck, I’ll admit it, sometimes Rennie and I’ll have a cigarette in the bathroom by the orchestra room before sixth. That’s why we’re late. I’m late too. You can check.”

Fortunately that seems to throw them off track, because the shrinky-dink writes something down, the Taylors gasp (oh, dear God! Cigarettes! Imagine!), and Rennie shoots me an evil look. I’ll explain later.

“There have also been rumors,” continues Coldwell. “Rumors brought to my attention by several other students.”

“What rumors?”
Please, God, not Mr. Schafer, not that.

“Many, many students have told me that the three of you are members of a cult. A cult flirting with lesbianism and witchcraft, that almost certainly involves drugs.”

What? “Who the hell said that?” It has to be Pammie McFadden. That bitch hates us. If it weren’t serious shit, I’d burst out laughing.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well, it’s not true,” says Rennie. “We’re just friends. Best friends. I haven’t had friends like these in my life.”

Her dad and Kelly exchange a worried look.

Marian steps in. “Cherry, I’ve been dreadfully concerned.” Oh, really? Which coke-induced delusion prompted that? “I know all the parents have. That’s why we’re here today.”

You know what’s sick, they’re blaming our problems on our friendship
when that’s the only good thing in any of our lives. “Listen,” I say. “This isn’t true. Sure, we don’t fit the mold. So we listen to different music and dress differently than other kids. So Rennie dyed her hair and cut half of it off. So Amy chopped up her cheerleading uniform. That doesn’t mean we’re bad or evil. Just that we don’t play the game.” And I’m not sure I’ve helped anything either, because the Linnets just nod at each other; I apparently have confirmed their worst fears.

“The big concern for us,” says Coldwell, “is the part of the rumor that suggests the three of you have a suicide pact.”

“What?” This crap is incredible! “Look, none of us would commit suicide.”

“I’m Catholic,” Amy pipes in meekly. “Suicides go to hell.” Good Lord, Amy, shut up! They think we’re witches, they probably think we want to be in hell.

Coldwell goes on like he didn’t even hear her. “So, it’s time for an intervention. The three of you are bad news for each other, and all the parents have agreed it’s time to end the relationship. It’s become too intense. Young girls have high emotions, and this friendship has gotten to be too much for you.”

Break up the Bitch Posse? No fucking way! But I shut up . . . for now.

Rennie looks like she’s going to cry. “No, please!”

“Wren. Madame DuBois is the National Honor Society adviser. She’s brought to my attention the slipping grades, the chronic tardiness. Now we learn of lying to your parents, smoking.” Coldwell unfolds a paper. “These are the tenets of the National Honor Society: Scholarship, Leadership, Citizenship, and Character. Here, let me read something to you. ‘The student of good character upholds principles of morality and ethics, is cooperative, demonstrates high standards of honesty and reliability, shows courtesy, concern, and respect for others, and generally maintains a good and clean lifestyle.’ Unfortunately, Wren, Madame DuBois no longer believes you represent those
principles. Nor do I, nor do your parents.” Oh, poor Rennie, there’s that word again. “Aladame and I had a long, tough conversation about this. But in the end, we and your parents decided that it would be better to draw a line now than to allow you to throw yourself into more trouble. You’ll be attending one of the toughest universities in the country next year, and you can’t afford to slip up. It’s for that reason that we’ve decided to revoke your membership in the National Honor Society.”

Rennie turns pale.

“It’s just a club, Rennie,” Amy says, thinking she’s being helpful. “You never went to meetings anyway.”

“That’s just the kind of attitude, Amy Linnet, that your parents, and all these parents, are concerned about.”

And shit, we’re in deep this time, can’t get much deeper. It’s time to quit fucking around. “So you’ve made your point, taken away something that’s important to Rennie.” God knows why she cares about some boring club where people sit around being smart, but far be it from me to judge. “What do you want from us? Do you want us to sign something that says we won’t kill ourselves? Send the three of us into therapy?”

Coldwell sighs, drums his fingers on the desk. “Yes, that’ll definitely be a part of this.”

Dr. Linnet smirks. “We’ve been advised that it would be best to send Amy away for a while, to a hospital program that can take care of her. This cutting, it’s serious stuff.”

They’re sending Amy away?

“No, Dad, please,” says Amy. “Please. I’ll do anything, please.” Tears are running down her face now, splashing over her nose, dripping from her chin. “I won’t do it anymore. I had no idea you’d freak out like that. I’m not suicidal, really, I’m not. Ask Cherry, ask Rennie, ask anyone!”

Mrs. Linnet crosses her arms. “Amy, you’re so frantic these days,
you didn’t even let your father finish. We were
advised
to do this. But you’re so close to graduation, and we don’t want to jeopardize Michigan for you. So after discussing this with several people, we’ve decided that intense therapy sessions, twice a week, will help you. Dr. Whalen has found a wonderful psychiatrist for you, a woman who specializes in treating girls your age. But—”

“But,” interjects Marian, “we’ve all agreed, it’s best that the three of you not see each other until further notice.”

They’re ganging up on us when all we want to do is be friends. It’s not fair!

“And, Cherry, that awful piece of suicidal garbage you wrote?”

My poem?

“That’s going in the fireplace, tonight. Along with the rest of that book you keep your poems in. They’re evil, brooding things. If you ask me, it’s the same thing as Amy slicing up her arm.”

The shrink gives me a sympathetic look, but Marian’s going to do what she wants. I glance furtively from Rennie to Amy and back again at Marian. Her eyes are steel. My poems, I have to save my poems. If I beat her home, I can throw them out the window, scoop them out of the shrubbery later. Oh, God. My writing, she’s going to burn up my writing? I picture smoke curling around the edges of my paisleycovered poem book, my words twisting into ash, puffing away in the little woodstove Marian calls a fireplace, up into the spring air, and that’s not even the worst of it.