Paula Bomer - Inside Madeleine

Fuck you. You’re a bitch.

I gotta go.

Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Bye.

After they talked, Madeleine would sit in the closet for a while, her heart beating fast, her lips moist, her mouth full of saliva. She’d stay there until her mother would come to the closet door, yelling, asking her what on earth she was doing, and Madeleine caring little about her mother’s frustration, stumbled out and into her own room and planned out what she would wear the next day. She fingered her clothes, spreading pants and sweaters out on the bed; she’d look at an outfit and change her mind, deciding on another sweater. Meanwhile, images of Marion fucking someone in a car raced through her head. And as she lay in bed, curled up in a big, cozy ball, with a warm hand between her thighs, she thought of Jennifer; of the way Jennifer held her body tight and erect, with her shoulders slumped slightly and self-consciously, of the way Jennifer walked down the halls, her bowed, short legs gliding quickly, her feet hitting the shiny, hard tiles and clicking solidly.

Now at lunch time, Madeleine without question joined Jennifer at a table in the back of the cafeteria. It was known as the freak table. The table differed from the other tables in that it never lined up in quite the same direction as the rest, rather it pointed in a strange angle, and the lunch trays were extraordinary in their sloppiness. Food was left uneaten and graying, feet were propped up on the table despite this being against the rules. Bags of pot and switchblades and dirty magazines were passed from one dirty fingernailed hand to another. Everyone who sat there owned a blue jean jacket, preferably an old beat up one, and all of the boys wore their blue jean jackets year round — even in the worst months of winter. After they finished poking at their lunch, the crowd gathered around by a side entrance of the school and smoked joints and cigarettes. Conversation and eye contact were spare — lots of gravel was kicked. Madeleine never spoke at all, but by the time she entered her next class, she felt powerful and dangerous. She was aware of her growing reputation.

Madeleine’s parents began noticing the change in her, which her father tried to ignore and her mother occasionally yelled and cried over. Madeleine became unrecognizable to her family, her hair burnt and twisted from the curling iron, her face orange with cheap make-up, leaving a trail of Coty musk perfume behind her as she awkwardly roamed the malls, fast food restaurants and skating rinks of South Bend, two steps behind Jennifer wherever they were. They shopped together at the discount stores, buying the same outfits in different shades — Jennifer’s in purple, Madeleine’s in pink. They took Polaroids of each other and had people photograph them together when they were at the mall, leaning against each other in their matching outfits, their arms folded against their chests, one foot crossed arrogantly over the other.

The two girls usually spent the weekends at Jennifer’s house, side by side in the bathroom, applying and reapplying eye shadows. On Friday nights, they skated at Howard’s Park ice rink. The two rink guards who worked there, Scott and Oz, were in their last years of high school after having repeated a few years. They drove loud cars that had red stripes painted on the sides and they spoke with deep weathered voices. Jennifer talked with Scott and Madeleine talked with Oz by default, he being the less attractive one. Madeleine followed Oz around the rink just enough to annoy him rather than amuse him, laughing at inappropriate moments, staring at him, slack-jawed. She was somewhat aware of her effect on him and she continued to pursue him with the belief that next time, she’d say the right thing. And on occasions, Oz would look upon her with some sign of interest, or something that appeared to be interest, and Madeleine would get dizzy and skate away, covering her broad, uncontrollable smile with large, mittened hands. Every hour on the hour the Zamboni would smooth the ice and the two girls would convene in the bathroom, their tarted-up faces red from the cold, and comb their hair with combs they kept in their back pockets.

I think he likes me, said Madeleine.

I think he likes me , mimicked Jennifer, her voice high and nasal.

Stop it, you bitch. I think he does.

Jennifer continued primping in the mirror, tucking her tight, fluffy acrylic sweater into her jeans and then she slapped Madeleine on the shoulder.

I think he does , Jennifer squawked.

Madeleine ignored her taunting for a moment and assuredly stated: I’m going to lie to him and tell him I’m fifteen.

I’m gonna lie to him and tell him I’m fifteen .

Stop it!

Stop it!

Madeleine didn’t tell Oz she was fifteen that night, but she skated around slowly, her hands deep in the pockets of her turquoise ski jacket, planning the perfect way of telling him, how she would toss her hair, how he would smile at her. That night, like most Friday nights Madeleine and Jennifer slept together on Jennifer’s narrow mattress, their skin damp and swollen with sleep, their bodies tired from skating. Madeleine had trouble sleeping. She lay quietly next to her friend, imitating the way her breath came and left, the way her stomach rose and fell, aware of herself and Jennifer’s body next to her. She woke up that Saturday morning and her arms and legs ached and she was quieter than usual as she and Jennifer ate their cereal together.

The next weekend they went skating again and Madeleine wore a brand new pink velour V-neck sweater that made her self-conscious of her large breasts. It was tight and shiny and her cleavage was prominently displayed. Before they left Jennifer’s house, Madeleine stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom and practiced saying, I’m fifteen, and, I bet you didn’t know I was fifteen, and she put her hands on her hips and then on her thighs, tilting her hips this way or that, and she smiled at her reflection with her head turned downward, looking up at herself coyly. She sprayed an extra squirt of Coty musk perfume on her neck, telling herself that it was for good luck. It was a particularly cold November evening and she skated up to Oz soon after they got there.

Hey Oz, she said, reaching out awkwardly to grab the sleeve of his leather jacket.

What?

I’m fifteen.

No you’re not.

Oh yes I am. I swear it.

Then how come I’ve never seen you at the high school. Huh?

I don’t know, Madeleine said, looking down at her skates and touching her toes together, the blades scraping against each other.

You’re not from this part of town, are you, he said, looking straight at her and it unsettled her but she was flattered. He had never spoken so many words to her before.

I am fifteen.

He laughed, saying, Well, you’re tall enough. He wet his lips and appeared as if he had decided on something.

I am. I was born in 1965. That makes me fifteen.

Well, if you say so sweetie. That still makes you a lot younger than me, almost five years younger. Now what do you think of that?

I think that’s just fine.

Madeleine smiled broadly, unable to refrain from doing so and she lifted her colorful, wool knit mittens to her face.

You think that’s just fine!

He laughed, throwing his head back, his mouth open wide, revealing more fillings than she’d ever seen.

Well my little fifteen-year-old girl, it looks like it’s time to get off the rink. It looks like it’s time for the Zamboni to clean off the ice, he said and then paused a beat, and looking away from her, added: Why don’t you come with me. He skated around in a small circle and she couldn’t catch his eye.

Come with you? Where to? Maddy asked. She put her toes together and then slid her heals together, toes then heals, without looking at her skates.