Peace, Love, and Manson

“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper, staring up at the ceiling, “I don’t want to be here. I never have and I never will.”

My alarm clock goes off.

I sit up and pound my fist on the clock, almost sure that I broke it other than just trying to silence it. My feet touch the cold hardwood floor and I cringe, fumbling for my slippers and sighing when I slip my feet into them. I push myself off of my bed.

I open the door and make my way to the living room, practically collapsing on the couch. I’m contemplating not changing and just wearing my nightgown to school.

I feel two fingers tap on my shoulder just before I fall asleep and I groan, lifting my arm to half-heartedly swat away the hand that’s trying to awake me.

“Clementine,” My mother’s voice, cold and sharp as a stainless steel knife, “Clementine get up.”

My head turns to face her. Brown hair perfectly cropped to her head, dark raspberry lipstick, muddy hazel eyes, piercing behind her cat’s eye glasses. This is my mother. My father slurs about how beautiful she was back in her day, how he would get jealous when she averaged about eight double takes per minute by passerby men. He loved her so much. As much as I try, I can’t see it, my mother being happy and beautiful and glowing. All I see now is a cold, unforgiving monster who has been hardened by the tasks of life.

“What?” I grumble.

“Get up,” she says shortly.

And I do.

I throw on the outfit I laid out the night before, a plain white blouse and blue jeans with black hunting boots that I get made fun of mercilessly for, but I like them. I grab my tie-dye bag and run in the bathroom before my brother can claim it. I dig in my drawer and pull out a hair brush, sweeping through my honey-blonde hair that falls to the middle of my back. I put on a quick coat of soft coral lipstick on and I’m done. I look in the mirror.

I’m so plain. I blend in with any other girl from my school, except that I’m flat all over; flat chest, flat ass, and a flat stomach. My hair that they can yank and my eyes that they can stare into while muttering obscenities are the only things that boys like on me. Not that I’m particularly interested in boys, anyway, which suits me just fine. I spend a lot of time on my school work. And all the boys at my school are close minded anyways.

My brother catches me looking in the mirror in a trance-like fashion. “Are you… okay, Clementine?”

I jump at the sound of his voice, “Oh, God, Arthur. Yeah. Yes, I’m fine.”

Arthur, my brother, has the same basic features as me, blonde hair, bright green eyes, except he’s much more endearing than I am. I’m quiet and standoffish while he gets along with everyone and is quick to invite somebody in when they feel left out. He has a winning smile.

“Your bus is here,” Arthur says, pulling out a toothbrush.

“You can’t give me a ride today?” I groan.

“Sorry, I’m picking up Ashley Fibley and I don’t exactly want you to tag along,” He winks.

“Well, good luck.”

“Fhranks,” He says through a mouth full of toothpaste.

I have to run out the door to get onto the bus on time.

When I do get on, I see Ramona. Her pocket mirror is out as she fixes her already perfect hair. With Ramona, it’s shouldn’t be called a pocket mirror. It’s more of a constantly-out-except-for-when-the-teacher-is-looking mirror. I sit next to her.

“Hey, Tiney,” she says, not looking at me. Now she’s pouting, touching up her bright pink lipstick.

“Hi, Ramona,” I say quietly.

We are the exact opposites, yet we are best friends, and have been since sixth grade. I think it’s because we both have such extreme personalities that no one else can really handle. She’s so loud and sexy and I’m so… odd.

“You didn’t put mascara on, did you?” She says, still not looking.

“No,” I sigh.

Ramona turns to me, pulling out a blue tube from her backpack. She unscrews it and unleashes black clumps onto my eyelashes. When you think about it, it’s kind of ironic. How eyelashes are supposed to stop the dirt and other alien matters from going in our eyes, so we coat them with exactly what they’re protecting us from. I snap out of it as soon as she’s done and she hands her pocket mirror to me. I examine my face for the second time in the last ten minutes and nod approval.

“What are you doing tonight?” I clear the sleep from my voice and let out a small cough.

“Tommy Bass,” Ramona snaps her gum and winks at me, her plaited hair falls over her shoulder.

“I didn’t say who you were doing tonight. I hope he’s taking you out to dinner first, at least. Afterwards?”

“Nothing. You?”

“What do you think?”

She gasps theatrically, “Has Tiney possibly shown some kind of sex appeal and attracted a waiting male who’s not our creepy English teacher? What has the world come to?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no. Do you want to go to a movie or something later?”

“Maybe.”

This is how most of our conversations go; a few sarcastic comments, small talk, and silence as we try to come up with something else. Some people would expect this to be uncomfortable, but this is how it’s always been; and it suits us both just fine.

Soon enough we’re at school. Boys flexing, girls giggling.

“Do you ever want to get out of here?” I ask Ramona.

“All the time. My sister did.”

“Rebecca did? Are you serious?”

“Yep, she ran to some weird camp. Mom and Dad don’t really care, as per usual. Spahn Ranch, I think.”

“The place where they make movies?”

“Yeah. Some guy named Manson is there now with a bunch of other hippies.”

“Huh,” I breathe, staring off into the distance.

The bell rings.