CHAPTER 1

Notes From A Freak Like Me

My name is Haley Bodine. No, it's actually Haley-Jo Bodine.In the normal world (anywhere that's not Texas) people geta first name and a middle name. In Texas you are likely toget two names stapled into one by that hyphenator thing.Jeez, did my mother hate me from the get-go?

I've been writing about my stupid life since I could hold apencil. I write my stories in little discount-store notebooks.These aren't like diaries or journals since they don't paymuch attention to dates, or record things every day.They're just bits of my life that I write down. SometimesI have to write them the instant something happens, andsometimes I wait and think and remember for a long timebefore I write them. They are just me, thinking on paper.

MY CAT IS DEAD

My cat is dead. My cat is DEAD. My cat IS dead.

Twelve-year-olds shouldn't have to think much about dead,you know. His name was Wiffy, short for Willful, which hewas, and on some days he felt like my only friend. Purewhite, pinkish nose, pinkish eyes, and a devilly sense ofhumor. In our house, he was the only living thing that evertotally "got" me, and I could tell him everything. He actuallylaughed at my jokes, inside. Only I could hear him.

Wiffy died on my first day at my new middle school, ormaybe the night before. I'll never really know the truth forsure because I only have the story that my mother choseto tell me. She said that she found Wiffy dead on our backpatio after I left for school that morning, just lying stifflydead, no signs of a struggle. She said she called a cityservices number and a man in a uniform came and scoopedWiffy up with a shovel and put him in his city truck. Hesaid my cat would be "disposed of." Is that the true story? Idon't know. What is true is that Wiffy is gone forever, andI must not feel sad. My mother told me that she hoped Iwould be mature about it, and no hysterics please, thesethings happen. Then she served me the nutritious after-schoolsnack she feels every good mother should providefor her child. I couldn't eat the granola bar or drink themilk, but I faked it. Later, in my room, I pricked neat littlecircles on the inside of my wrist with a straight pin untilI didn't feel so much like screaming anymore.

SOMETIMES MY MOTHER CAN'T STAND ME

Elaine Bodine is a pretty woman who might be happierif we lived in the 1950s. She's just a little too formal forthe current times, like she's a housewife but she wearsskirts and dresses and high heels when other mothers arewearing jeans and sneakers. I don't care enough anymoreto be embarrassed by her, but I know that I embarrass herregularly just by looking the way I look. She wishes she hadbirthed a preppie girl, and what she figures she got is anon-compliant wild red-haired girl who thinks style rulesand dress codes are stupid . Well, they are.

Elaine (I call her by her first name when I really want tobug her) has her blonde hair done up in a French twistby professionals on a weekly basis, and thinks that mycurrent age (about to jump into the teens) is the perfecttime to begin my beauty salon education. Like that willever happen! All I wish is that she didn't act like she hada stick up her butt all the time. (That's something I heardsomewhere and it tickles me to say it about my mother.It's just SO true!). After twelve years of trying to pleasethe woman, I'm giving it up. Haley-Jo Bodine declares herindependence!

Umm, that all sounds pretty mean, I guess. I think therewas a time, when I was very small, when she thought I wasan okay human being, and she loved me. Maybe I just grewmore and more unlovable, I don't know. I'm not the firstand only child. I have a brother, Brett, who is ten yearsolder than I am. She's never had any trouble loving him.

GOLDEN-BOY BRETT

In Texas, to be the first-born son is to be the Golden Boy,for sure, and Brett is all that. He's out of the house now,all grown up, done with his undergrad years at UT. (HookemHorns!! Like who cares?) He's a handsome blonde hunk,athletic and smart and a smooth talker, expected to gofar in this world.

When I was a little kid, until I was six or so, I thoughtBrett was the eighth wonder of the world. He was mybest grown-up, all blue eyes and smiles, jokes and giggles,gentleness and games. Sometimes he took me to his placesto hang out with his friends, it was special, and he tookgood care of me. He made me feel like a real person. But Iguess after you're six, you can't be just a real-person littlegirl anymore.

The teasing games turned into something else, the ticklesweren't funny, they hurt. Brett would catch me frombehind and put his hands over my non-existent boobs andsqueeze hard, then put a hand to my crotch to poke andsqueeze. Stop, Brett, stop! He'd laugh and let me go, andcall me a damn baby. We were never allowed to use badlanguage in our house, but he called me a damn baby. I wasalways on my guard, knowing he'd catch me again, and healways did. I knew that a big brother shouldn't do that toa little sister, although no one told me so.

I wish I had known how to stop it, because it got worse.Brett became my nighttime nightmare, coming late atnight into my girly pink bedroom. Not every night, butsometimes, and the not knowing when tortured me. Ipretended to be asleep when he lifted my Barbie pajamatop to brush his hand across my chest to make my littlenipples peak, to be asleep when his fingers found andstroked the place down there I barely knew. I hatedhow I felt, and I hated the man-boy I had loved. I didnot believe I had the right to tell on him. Brett wassuper-loved by our parents, and if I told, I knew theirdisappointment would somehow fall on me, not him. Inever told anyone. He stopped it after I was about eight,so I guess everything's okay.

DADDY'S A DRUNK

I wrote those words at the top of this notebook page andstared at them for a long time. I used to try so hard notto know that something's wrong with Daddy.

Light comes into our house when Daddy's home. He doesn'thave to do anything special except be there. He's a big guy,loud and lots of fun, the darkest one of all of us—skin,hair, laughing eyes. It's a mystery how I turned up withthe red curls. Maybe I'd have done better in my family ifI just looked more like any one of them. I'm pretty sureDaddy loves me. He says it, and I can see it in his eyeswhen they crinkle and smile. He works hard for his family,crunching big numbers for a big corporation. He wantsus to have a good life. We've moved around a lot, whichmeans too many new schools, but it is always to a betterneighborhood, a bigger house, snobbier neighbors. This timewe've moved up to having a backyard pool. That pleasesmy mother, since she thinks having things is important. Ireally can't tell how Daddy feels about it.

Sometimes I wonder if my parents are in love. I used tothink if you were married to somebody, you were in lovewith them, but now I'm not so sure. There doesn't seem tobe the mushy stuff going on with them. They do have twokids, so there must have been something— well, SEX—butnow there's not any kissing or touching that I knowabout. We're not that kind of feely family, I think. Andnobody's much of a talker, either, I mean like real talk ifsomeone has a problem. We just pretend we don't have anyproblems, and get over it. It works, sort of.

Daddy for sure has a problem that nobody talks about. Hejust disappears, like he's here when I go to bed and totallymissing when I get up. Sometimes he stays gone a long,long time. When I was younger I thought every time thathe would never come back and it was my fault. I'm not aworried baby anymore, and I know he'll come back whenhe is better and life will go on as though it never happened.I know that my Dad is a drunk because my mother letdown her guard one day and said so.

I tried for a long time to make Daddy so happy at homethat he would never want to leave. I was good all the time,and smiley and cheerful and helpful and got mostly perfectgrades. It didn't make one bit of difference. Now, I am sadwhen he is gone and happy when he brings back his light.It's the best I can do.

DO ANGELS BELIEVE IN ME?

I don't believe in God. I may be a kid, but I'm smart enoughto notice that the world is pretty much an f-word mess, andI think if God existed He wouldn't allow it. When I did believein God, I thought that He would always make everythingcome out okay in the end, like a TV sitcom or something.Now I know it's not like that, no, you pretty much haveto rely on yourself if you get in a pickle. There's this funnything, though. I still say prayers in my head. I wonder whereI think they're going, if I don't believe in God.

My family is a church-going family. I think Elaine insistson it because she wants us to fit in and be consideredgood people, not because she's taken Jesus as her Savior oranything like that. Now that I don't believe in God, I'm notgoing. I will not be a hypocrite just to please my mother,although I am obviously willing to be a big disappointmentto her.

It's odd, but I have a clear memory of going to church asa four-year-old. I don't remember where we lived then,but I can see the rough grey stone building with big stairsgoing up and smaller stairs going down. Down went to mySunday School and the Story Lady, my sweet Story Ladywho told us Bible stories with the help of a flannel boardon which she stuck cut-out felt figures for illustration. Iloved all the stories, but I thought the best was the "Suffer"one, about how Jesus cared about little kids. I believed thatJesus truly was God's handsome Son and he cared aboutme. Oh the GLORY when I was called on to place the feltangel on the board above Jesus. I could see the light of thatangel, even if it was only a fuzzy piece of yellow felt. I sang"Jesus Loves Me This I Know" heart-strong that day.

Can you have angels even if you're a girl who doesn't believein God anymore?

SPENCER

Spencer doesn't look like much, just a grubby kid in dustyjeans, a faded tee shirt, and twenty-dollar sneakers. Hefound me on the morning of the same day that Wiffydied, although I didn't know about Wiffy until late thatafternoon. Spencer was new at Carlisle Middle School justlike me, although you would have thought that was the endof any sameness about us. We had a math class togetherthat ended just before lunch, and that first day he attachedhimself to me for the walk to the cafeteria. I didn't mindmuch, since I knew zero people in the new school. As theweeks went by, I got used to Spencer hanging with me offand on through the school day, and even started keepingan eye out for him. It sounds corny, but I get a good feelingfrom Spencer. It's like he sees something spectacular whenhe looks at me. He never sees a girl who can't get alongwith her mother, or a girl who hates her brother, or a girlwho chooses to wear weird clothes to defy the rules, or agirl who doesn't believe in God.

Amazingly, Spencer's been in my life for more than a yearnow. You could say we're best friends. I tease him and tellhim he's my best GIRLFRIEND because we talk about stuffthat girlfriends talk about, personal stuff that boys, beingboys, can't even comprehend. Spencer's fine with that,and thinks it's funny. He thinks I'M funny. He never saysI'm pretty, but he says that I have a beautiful brain. He'sserious when he says it, and I like hearing it.

I've learned a lot about Spencer, and some of it is tough.His dad split when his younger sister was a baby, leavinghis mom to make it with two kids on her own. They aremaking it, but barely. His mom works a couple of jobs, andshe depends a lot on Spencer to keep things together forAnna, who is eight now. They live in a trailer park, but it'snot as bad as that sounds. It's a pretty place with treesand flowers and a playground, and Spencer's home is nottrashy, but just the opposite.

I like spending time with Spencer and his family, andsometimes I go over and help him watch Anna while wedo homework. I feel welcome there, and when she's homehis mom feeds us and we'll all get going with a noisy gameof Sorry, which is Anna's passion right now. We've tried itthe other way around, with Spencer coming to my houseto hang out by the pool or play ping pong on the covereddeck, but it doesn't work out well. Elaine has never saidin so many words that she thinks that Spencer is aninappropriate friend, but there are ways to say thingswithout using words. Spencer has never been anythingbut polite to my mother and she has no reason to dislikehim, but she does. I know he feels it, and I am ashamedof my mother.

Oh, one other thing about Spencer. He's the only teen-agekid I've ever known who not only loves but also admiresand respects his mom, and lets her and everybody elseknow it. That is so cool.

A COUNTERFEIT LIFE

Okay, this one's going to be kind of a long story that willtake awhile to tell, but here goes:

My mother believes that there has been a dramaticimprovement in my behavior. She dates it back to a fewmonths ago, around my fourteenth birthday, when, shesays, I "finally grew up a little." The real truth is that Imade a decision when I turned fourteen. I decided I couldenjoy a life of greater freedom if my parents thought I wasa good girl, a girl who could be trusted. It turned out tobe almost too easy, since it seems to me that most of thetime your folks just want everything to be fine so badlythat they can't even see when it isn't.

I made a plan and I put it in motion. First I made a listof all of the things about me that I know either annoy orworry my parents. Actually the list was more about mymother, since my dad sort of accepts me at face value anddoesn't ask too many questions. I think he sees me moreas just a normal f***ed-up teenager and has faith thattime will take care of everything. Poor Dad. Anyway, thisis what the list looked like:

1. Raunchy music

2. Weird clothes

3. Bad manners

4. Sarcastic comments

5. Unkempt hair

6. Cursing

7. Low grades

8. Door slamming

9. Smart mouth

10. Messy room

11. Silent treatment

12. Sullenness

13. Spencer

Okay, so I got thirteen things in about two minutes withouttrying very hard. I'm sure there are more, but that was adecent start.

I spread the amazing makeover of me over several weeksso it wouldn't look too phony and suspicious. I beganwith better grooming and better housekeeping, sincemy personal appearance and the state of my room aresuch hot-button issues for Elaine. She was thrilled that Icould actually brush and comb and corral the curls intosomething tidy, as well as clear my bedroom floor of junkthat had accumulated over weeks. Imagine her delightwhen I cleaned up my mouth, spoke civilly to adults, andwore a pleasant expression more often than not. I playedmy raunchy rap stuff softly so the house didn't ring withit, and stopped (this was a hard one!) relieving anger witha satisfying door-slam. My slipping grades were an easy fix,since I just did the assignments instead of ignoring them. Ididn't actually give up Spencer, but I never mentioned himso she forgot about him completely. She actually thoughtthat all of her years of lecturing me were finally payingoff. I was happy to let her think so, for it lulled her into akind of parental happy place, and left me free to do as Ipleased when I was out of her sight. With all of this workingso well that it was practically ridiculous, I got busy creatingmy new life.

Things began to take off quickly at school. Using the makeupstashed in my locker, plus a few adjustments to myclothes—buttons unbuttoned, skirt bands rolled, a blouseditched for just the skimpy sweater, borrowed jeans toosmall and riding low—I started to be noticed by the oldercrowd. I feel way older than other fourteen-year-olds, forsure. Now I am hanging out with sixteen-year-olds andpassing as one of them. My new friends accept me as theperson I appear to be—bright enough but not a brain,pretty enough but not a starlet (yet!), and cool enough totry whatever is going down. These kids aren't bad in thereally criminal sense, but they are rebels who push therules and limits every chance they get, and they let mebe one of them. I never really belonged anywhere before,never felt like I had a group to be part of. Now I haveAngela and Justin and Ty and Sheila and Phillip ...

Ty (who looks and acts exactly like a bad boy movie star oreven better) took me to my first party, and I had a blast. Itdidn't seem to matter that neither of us knew the kid wholived in the house where the party was held. It was in thebasement, and maybe there were adults upstairs, I don'tknow. The music was loud, kids were dancing and talkingand horsing around, laughing. Guys were passing cigarettesaround, but only a few girls were actually smoking. Ithought they looked very grown-up and cool, but I didn'ttry it, not that night.

(Continues...)