Not Worth the Paperwork

Sparkling eyeshadow drips liquidly on my face and through a silver haze I see skinny David Bowie girls jumping up and down with their scarecrow arms high above their glittering heads and in between them, nervous boys with thick hands pulsing up and down to the trance music falling from speakers above us, all of them slow-motion-beautiful in the flash of a strobe light. The sharply angular girls scare me, their elbows and knees are knives. Their mouths are full of knives.

I stood on the edges of this pulsating organism at first, but a vaguely familiar girl pulled me into the fray, her sharp nails tickling where she held my wrist, her eyes alight with some knowledge I didn't hold.

"Like this," she screamed, her voice dragged over sand. She jumped in rhythm with the crush of bodies around her, blackening her hair with sweat that dripped down her neck, pooling in the hollows of her sharp bones. I mimic her, throwing my body further into the crowd, not feeling any pain, though elbows crunch into me, heads knock against me, the rubber flooring smacks at my bare feet before I push off again. We stayed like that for hours, all of us slamming into one another and barely noticing. Later, I would discover bruises and scratches decorating my arms and torso.

Soon it is twelve-thirty and the music stops abruptly. The steamy room fills with a collective moan, my own voice contributing hoarsely. Fluorescent lights are flicked on, hesitating before acquiescing. I squint, rub my eyes, blink along with everyone else. The silence feels too empty and open. Shortly, a man's voice whispers over the loudspeakers.

"If you have not already done so, please phone your parents and arrange for a ride. Thank you for coming to the Summer Fling, please enjoy your weekend and the remainder of the school year. Good night."

We start to trudge outside en masse, and some kids pull out cigarettes and joints even before we reach the parking lot. Four or five of us cram into the backseat of a car, smiling tiredly and chatting, heady with the grown-up feeling of being out until the wee hours with minimal supervision, being pressed within a not-quite-safe, not-quite-chaste crush of bodies.

This is middle school and we are eleven years old.


/*/*/*/


We are academically indifferent (more so than usual) for the last two weeks of school; our teachers are idiots, and we don't need to study because we have all the answers. We skip school without a thought as to the consequence because our past experience has taught us that, unless we are caught red-handed a few times, we are just poor kids who will never amount to anything and we are not worth the paperwork.

We steal slurpees and candy from 7-11 and bubbles from the dollare store. We experiment with each other and some of us experiment with drugs. We like to think all of this would shock and anger our parents (IF they found out), but the truth is most wouldn't care.

We meander into summer and our routine doesn't change much; we sleep later and no one gets detention, but that's about it.

We spend long, hot days drinking pop and eating candy while our skins burned and peeled on the silvery tops of baseball dugouts. We do not play baseball. Baseball is for jerkoffs and suckups. I learn how to rollerblade on Syleena's blades. I learn to kiss on Chris' and Chelsea's and Shawn's lips. I will not kiss Kieron because he smells. Chelsea learns how to break up with a boy dramatically, all pouty lips and high heels. I learn that what my mother doesn't know can't hurt me, but will probably cost me in the long run. Chris learns how to do a chin-up while hanging off a baseball dugout, scorching his fingers.

I am still pissing the bed, and I talk about fucking like I talk about dolls. We make our dolls fuck. I cut all the hair off my sister's favourite Barbie and tell her, "Now she's a lesbo. The dog chewed up your Ken anyway."

My friends are the centre of my universe and we are beautiful. We hate a lot of people - most of our parents, stupid bitches from school, our teacher who is a pervert and needs to be locked up, anyone who eavesdrops - and we tolerate the rest because we've found some use for them.

We rarely, if ever have money, so we steal a lot. I steal notebooks, pens, drinks (I feel safer when I can make notes so I don't have to process everything at once). Sarah steals clothes (she's something of an anarchist, thinks they are too expensive to buy, even if you have the money). Chelsea steals magazines and candy (the candy is all she eats. She wants to look like the girls in the magazines). Shawn steals potato wedges from 7-11 (show-off). Chris won't steal unless we taunt him, then he takes a pack of gum.

No one ever gets shit for stealing because the clerks are indifferent. We are poor kids, going nowhere, not worth the paperwork.

Our legs are muscular and the hair on them is fine and blonde. Our fingernails are bitten and bleeding. Our eyes can only see as far as the next kiss, the next trip to 7-11, the next baseball dugout. Sometimes we give up halfway across a field. We all collapse and scream, FUCK! MY PARENTS I HATE THEM LET'S KILL STEPHEN GALAGOS! Did you know he fucked Crystal Benn? It's true, he did, right on her parent's couch, and they know and they don't even care. That's because they're stupid hippies.

Every day is the same and we are so stuck here that we don't even think about leaving. It takes two ferries and a fuckload of driving to get to the city. We have no money. Let's go steal slurpees and like pick blackberries or something. Blackberries aren't ripe yet, you stupid fag. Fuck you, cuntface, I just suggested it. Whatever, you assholes shut up. Let's go to the mall, it's too hot. And I want some makeup.

Chelsea always wants makeup. She's been caught twice, but she cried a bunch and they let her go with a warning, no phone call. Because it's easier that way. We're poor kids. We won't amount to anything. We're not worth the paperwork.