Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Just Another Poseur
By Jessica Darling
By now, everyone knows the true identity of the PHS student we knew as Hy Wallace. But those who thought they were tight with Hy or Cinthia or The Artist Formerly Known As Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace (or whatever she’s calling herself these days) were shocked by the September 2 New York Times article revealing that the street-smart, straight-up homegirl was actually a former junkie and private-school flunkie with a fat trust fund.
Even those who weren’t friendly with Miss Wallace were peeved about getting played, especially when they found out that the book she’s writing about her PHS experience is called Bubble-Gum Bimbos and Assembly-Line Meatballers.
"I would never lie like that," students cried. "That’s the lowest of the low!"
Hy faked her way through friendships because she thought that was the only way she could get what she wanted. She morphed her identity in order to win favor with the people she wanted to pimp out. She sold out her "friends" to get ahead. It’s easy for us to get all high and mighty and point a disappointed finger at her. But ask yourself this: Is her deception any different than the lies we tell each other—and ourselves?
Think of cliques whose members smile in each other’s faces, then whip out the knives when backs are turned. Jocks who act like jerks and can still buy dozens of donuts. Social Climbers who drop less popular buds as they move their way up to the Upper Crust.
Sure I’m tired of all the backstabbing and social climbing and B.S. that goes on here. But how can I expect it to stop unless I stop doing it myself? I’ve looked in the mirror and faced the sad truth: I’m as big a poseur as Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace.
Since my best friend moved away, I’ve censored my true feelings more and more, replacing them with lies that I know everyone wants to hear. I’ve felt like I’ve lost my right to have an opinion, just because I know no one will back me up. But we should all have the courage to speak out about what’s bothering us about this school and beyond. Maybe people won’t like what you have to say. Perhaps you’ll find that you’re not alone.
Be willing to take the risk. Because if we continue to keep our mouths shut about all the nasty stuff we do to each other on a daily basis, then Miss Wallace is right. We are bubble-gum bimbos and assembly-line meatballers. Every last one of us.
the twenty-third
The paper came out today. I had stupidly thought that merely opening the paper would all at once unleash the floodgates of girlie fury. But it was much slower than that. More like the steady drip … drip … drip … that precedes a pipe-bursting explosion.
Havisham passed out copies at the end of the class period. Everyone turned to the story that he or she had written. Even though the Clueless Crew’s cheerleading–homecoming coverage comprised no more than 500 words, it spawned enough giggly conversation to suck up the rest of the class period without so much as a glance at any other stories in the paper. So it wasn’t until lunch that the Clueless Crew got around to reading my editorial.
"Quote Just Another Poseur unquote," Sara cooed. "Ooooohh … this should be good."
As they read, I watched their eyes grow wide with surprise.
"Omigod!" Sara said after looking it over for about five seconds. "I can’t believe you did this."
"Did what?" I asked. "You didn’t even finish it yet."
"I don’t have to," she said, putting the paper down on the table. "You finally owned up to how fake you’ve been since Hope left.…"
What?
"We’ve been waiting for you to see how the whole I’m deep and brooding thing isn’t winning you any popularity contests," interrupted Manda.
"It’s about time you got over yourself," Sara said.
"Yeah," said Manda. "Puh-leeze."
I couldn’t take it anymore. They couldn’t even take the time to finish the essay and figure it out for themselves. I was going to have to spell it out for them. So I did. Very loudly, I might add.
"I WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU!" I screamed. "MARCUS FLUTIE WAS RIGHT. I CAN’T STAND TO BE AROUND ANY OF YOU. I’M SICK OF KEEPING SECRETS BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO STIR UP TROUBLE."
"Hey!" Bridget said, "Like, chill out. You’re screaming."
I took a few deep breaths and lowered my voice. "You don’t want me to chill out," I said to Bridget. "Because if I chill out, you’ll never find out the truth."
Sara and Manda exchanged panicked, guilty-as-sin looks. Bridget seemed as blank and bewildered as ever.
"What is she talking about?" Bridget asked, quietly.
"If you don’t tell her, I will," I said.
"Don’t!" begged Sara.
"How does she know?" said Manda, through clenched teeth, looking at Sara because she already knew the answer.
"What does she know?" asked Bridget.
I looked at Manda and Sara, giving them one last chance to come clean. They passed it up. So I said the words responsible for the bubble-gum bimbo blow-out:
"Manda banged Burke all summer."
Have you ever witnessed a high-school catfight? There are four universal elements: 1. Hair-tearing. 2. Fingernail face-scratching. 3. Pierced-earring pulls. 4. Gut-wrenching screams. This catfight was no different, only it amassed a huge audience in half the time of the average Hoochie on Hoochie brawl because of the uniqueness of the participants. How often do you see three honors cheerleaders rolling on the floor? Right; it’s a rare occurrence. Therefore, it attracted the attention of the teachers on lunch duty and was broken up in about ten seconds.
But this was long enough for some Tyson–Holyfield moves to go down: Bridget smacked Manda and sent her glasses sailing through the air; Manda grabbed a fistful of Bridget’s silky hair; Sara was tripped and stepped on by Manda’s size-seven Steve Madden boot; and Sara pulled on Manda’s skirt and sent her rolling on the sticky tile floor.
It was, in a word, awesome.
When it was over, they were all crying. I escaped unscathed, simply because Manda couldn’t get to me fast enough. A miracle, considering I was on crutches. Eyewitnesses backed up my claims that I hadn’t thrown a single punch, so I was set free. Bridget, Manda, and Sara were sent down to the principal’s office. They all got a week’s suspension for fighting. I shouldn’t find that positively hysterical. But I do.
Catfights are a favorite PHS topic, so I wasn’t looking forward to providing my in-the-trenches commentary. Fortunately, I escaped everyone’s inquiring minds because my mom had to pick me up from school early for a doctor’s appointment. I got my cast removed today. (By the way, have you ever seen someone’s leg right after it’s been released from a cast? It’s so disgusting that just thinking about it now and knowing it was my leg makes me want to puke.)
By the time I got home, I’d received a half-dozen E-mails.
Bridget’s said that she would never forgive me for keeping the truth about Burke to myself. (She never asked for the truth!)
Manda said she would never forgive me for ruining both her friendship with Bridget and her reputation just because I couldn’t handle such an aggressive exhibition of female sexuality. (She ruined them—not me!)
Sara said she would never forgive me for blabbing when everything was just fine the way it was. (Everything was not fine the way it was!)
Burke said I was a bitch who was just jealous because I didn’t get a chance to ride his hog. That is, if I were even interested in dicks. (This confirmed my suspicions: Burke is an asshole.)
Scotty said he didn’t hate me, but out of respect for Burke he can’t talk to me anymore. (Such a shocking revelation considering we didn’t talk to each other anymore anyway.) He also asked why I have to be such a pain in the ass all the time. (Valid point.)
Hope said some funny stuff about a guy she has a crush on that has nothing to do with any of this. (Which actually made me appreciate her absence.)
Instead of responding to the hate mail, I examined my pale, hairy, shriveled, sorry excuse for an extr
emity.
Some things are just too coincidental not to be a message from whatever higher power controls synchronicity. The comparisons between getting my cast off and getting the secret off my chest are inevitable: One is physical emancipation, the other an emotional one. Both are painful, yet they leave me feeling free, clean, and ready to build myself up and be stronger. Maybe even happier.
the twenty-seventh
I was in front of my locker this morning, bent over, adjusting the Velcro straps on my air cast, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi. Jessica. Um. I."
My first reaction was, Len Levy. Ugh. This repulsion is the result of years of Valentine’s Day resentment combined with intense head-to-head academic competition. But my conditioned response was quickly replaced by "Oh, hi, Len!" when I remembered that he might be my way in with Marcus.
"Um. Your article. Um. In the paper."
For as long as I’ve known Len Levy, I have never heard him utter a complete sentence. This has been confirmed in all my Len–Marcus eavesdropping sessions.
"Uh-huh?"
"It was. Um. Rad," he said. "And. Um. You said what. Um. A lot of people think. Um. But don’t say. And. Um. I’m looking forward to. Um. Future articles. And."
I managed to mumble some sort of thank-you before he walked away.
About two minutes later, I felt another tentative tap. This time I turned around to see a trio of band nerds, ID’d by the black music cases they clutched in their hands.
"You’re Jessica Darling, right?" asked one with an overbite and a red, pulsing pimple on her chin that looked like it could keep time with the music. A built-in metronome.
"Yes."
"Your article in the paper. My friends and I … think it’s cool," she said meekly.
"Thanks."
They scurried away.
I didn’t think my essay would have any effect on the student body. But when word got out that my editorial caused yesterday’s brawl, there was more interest in this issue of The Seagull’s Voice than ever before.
"There’s no excuse for violence," Havisham said to me before English class. "But if a little sensationalism gets students reading The Seagull’s Voice, so be it. I just hope your next editorial is as rabble-rousing as the first one. Power to the people!"
Right on, sista. But my next editorial? I hadn’t thought beyond the first.
As other freaks and geeks quietly thanked me for speaking out throughout the day, I realized that I was going to have to think about it carefully. "Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Just Another Poseur" actually had a positive impact on those who felt most oppressed at PHS.
Who knew my editorial would even renew my faith in Pepe Le Puberty?
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!"
It had been so long since he had said anything to me, that I was a bit taken aback by his greeting, even during a week when I’d been approached by people I’d never spoken to before in my life.
"Your editorial was off the hook," he said. "It made me think about the wack stuff I’ve been doing, you know, to fit in."
It was strange to hear Pepe talking to me again. Especially in English.
"En français, s’il vous plaît!" sang Madame Rogan.
Pepe paused, grasping for the right words. "Je n’ai pas eu … les boules … à casser vers le haut avec ma petite amie …"
What?
"Comment?" I asked. Either my French was off, or what he said made no sense.
He dropped his voice to a whisper, "I didn’t have the balls to break up with my girlfriend until I read it."
That’s what I thought he was trying to say.
"En français!"
Pepe looked up toward the ceiling, as if the right English-to-French translation were written there. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, simply, "Merci, Jessica."
I can only imagine what my essay had to do with his breaking up with his girlfriend. Maybe he dated her only because he was under the same couple-up pressure that had made me consider getting back together with Scotty last spring. Maybe he thought he needed a girlfriend to prove just how testosterrific his new bod really was. Maybe, of all his identities—Percy Floyd, Pierre, Pepe Le Pew, The Black Elvis, The Geek—Pepe Le Puberty was one he didn’t identify with. Maybe he didn’t identify with any of them, which is why he jumped from persona to persona in the first place, hoping to find one that fit. Maybe that very realization is what defeated The Geek that night. Maybe the supreme self-confidence I envied in Pepe was nothing more than cleverly masked insecurity.
It’s irrelevant really. Because Pepe is clearly happy about his decision. And to think that I’m the one who helped him come to it. Cool. Maybe my op-ed pieces can make a difference.
Still, my newfound notoriety doesn’t change the fact that I’ve alienated my suck-ass excuses for friends and don’t have anyone to sit with in the cafeteria. I now spend my lunch periods rehabbing my leg with the athletic trainer. My father and Coach Kiley are thoroughly impressed by my Will to Win. Ha! Truth is, the flesh-ripping pain of the fifteenth and final rep on the Cybex leg press is preferable to sitting through lunch with another assemblage of pseudo pals.
I know I should be thrilled about all this success—¡Viva la revolución!—as Hy said, back when she was still Hy to me. Yet, I can’t stop thinking about the one person who apparently hasn’t read it. The one person I haven’t affected at all. The one person who inspired me to write it in the first place.
the thirtieth
A Titanic, ’70s-era brown Cadillac slowed down, then pulled over onto the shoulder right in front of me on my limp home from school today. The owner had tied a fake flower to the antenna for quick sightings in shopping center parking lots. Bumper stickers: Honk If You Love Your Grandchildrenand Sexy Grandpa. Five never-been-worn baseball caps were lined up against the back windshield, proudly on display. Sun glare on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside, but I was expecting a blue head to pop out and ask for directions to the local V.F.W. Naturally, that’s not who I got.
"Hey, Cuz. Need a ride?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"I said, do you need a ride?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought Marcus would pull away. But he stayed there, with his head out the window, waiting for me to respond.
"Uhhhh … I live less than a half mile from here. Twelve Forest Drive."
Pause.
"So I don’t need a ride …"
Another pause.
"But do you want one?" he asked.
God, did I want one.
He knew it, too. He leaned over the front seat and popped open the passenger-side door. "Come on, I want to talk to you," he said. "I’ll drive around in circles if I have to." Happyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappy!
Because I’ll never see Marcus’s bedroom, here’s what the inside of his car reveals about his personality.
Marcus’s car: Luxe leather backseat littered with empty packs of Marlboro reds, wadded-up balls of notebook paper, and no fewer than four crushed sixty-four-ounce 7-Eleven Super Big Gulp cups. Caramel droplets trapped in straws chewed and bent beyond any successful suction. On the front seat, amid more crumpled paper, but still in plain sight, a teensy, quarter-inch bit of wrapper printed with the letters ROJA, instantly recognizable as the heart of the word TROJAN, as in condom.
Conclusion: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He cleared the clutter. If he noticed the condom wrapper, he didn’t let on.
I didn’t have trouble maneuvering myself into the car. There was ample leg room. I placed my backpack on the seat between us and slammed the door, making a yellow palm-tree deodorizer swing from the rearview. The car smelled like coconuts. The beach. Suntan oil and brown skin.
Marcus wasn’t saying anything as he drove. I felt like one of us needed to br
eak the silence. So I said the first thing that came to mind.
"Uh, nice car," I said.
"I love this car."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it belonged to one of the coolest fogues I know," he said. "I work at an old fogies’ home."
I almost said, I know, until I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to know that.
"Really?"
"Yeah, he’s dead now, though," he said.
"Oh. That’s too bad."
"It is," he said. "But he left me his car."
"Oh."
"And all the eight-tracks that go with it."
"Oh?"
"That’s why I love this car," he said. "It’s festooned with all the trappings of the elderly."
I laughed out loud. That was one of the funniest things I had ever heard in my life. It’s festooned with all the trappings of the elderly. Then it suddenly occurred to me that Marcus and I were actually having a conversation. A real, two-sided conversation. I felt the heat creep up from the middle of my chest and spread red across my clavicle.
Roja. "Red" in Spanish.
Since school began, I’ve sat in front of Marcus Flutie in six out of eight classes. When he isn’t jiggling the back of my chair, he often stretches his long legs out into the aisle, so I can see his feet without having to turn my head around. Until this afternoon, I could say far less about his face than I could about his feet: no socks; faded blue Vans; the big toe wearing a hole in the canvas of the foot closest to me; the left one, rubber sole coming undone, opening and closing like a puppet mouth every time he taps his heel to the floor, which is quite often.
I knew that sitting beside him in the Caddie could be a one-time-only opportunity, so I looked him full in the face for the first time ever. This is what I saw, in the order that I saw it: adobe-red buzz cut, no more dreads; feline eyes; sunburnt skin peeling off his nose; two thread-thin lines bookending his mouth.
He lightly poked my shoulder with his index finger and I involuntarily twitched like a spasmodic. We were already at my house.
"Twelve, right?"
"Uh, yeah."
He stopped the car and turned off the ignition.