"Shera"

Shera
Chapter One

It first started when I wanted to lick Brad Ferguson’s peanut butter smeared cheek. That’s right. Lick the orange streak right off his freakled skin and then slide my rough tongue up the tips of his ears and then the left side of his head so his reddish-blonde hair would lay flat. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I didn’t even like Brad Ferguson. He was part of the empty-headed, steroid-pumped popular pack and I was stuck somewhere between gothic chick and drama dweb. But there I was in Mrs. Webb’s lecture on late British literature slumped over the edge of my desk with my tongue nearly lunging out of my mouth to scrap the dimples of his cheeks.

I shook my head to try and get a grip on myself but my taste buds felt like sand grains and how I longed to lick something. I pulled a piece of my favorite watermelon-flavored gum out of my purse to hopefully satisfy this new impulsive drive, but my eyes were still riveted on the curve of Brad’s face and he finally turned to look at me and as he did, I found myself licking the back of the wrapper instead. Stop it, I told myself. Most of the 725 students of this hick High School already think I’m weird, and this will just give them another reason. He’s watching you, I told myself, but licking the fruity foil felt so good. Then I licked a bit of my hand, and soon my tongue was sliding quickly up and down my own salty skin.

A distant part of me was still searching Brad’s face for a reaction as I continued to frantically satisfy this urge. Instead of puzzlement, mockery or revulsion, there was a slightly bemused smile on his thin lips, and his pale yellow-green eyes flickered. He’s got the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen. Except for maybe Richard’s: Brad’s best friend. They’re pretty strange too, like the kind of contacts you can buy at Hot Topic, except that I’m pretty sure they’re real. But I couldn’t see Richard’s orangish-brown eyes because his broad back was turned to me as he watched the last minutes of class tick down. But then Brad shot a spit wad at Richard’s arm and Richard glowered back at him. I swear Richard’s irises were more tangerine than brown. Who has tangerine eyes and why was I still licking my arm?

Later that night, as I sliced tomatoes into pretty little ovals for a dinner salad, and resisted the temptation to lick up the tiny bit of butter smudged onto the counter, my Mom asked me, “Valerie, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lied and scratched behind my ear with the back of my hand. “I just had a really weird day, that’s all.”

Mom dumped a pot of steaming noodles into a strainer, framing her dyed-blonde hair in a halo of steam. “Hormones,” she re-iterated her favorite diagnosis for her only child, now turned teenager. If a pimple showed up on my arm, or a Huggies Diaper commercial produced tears, or the moon stopped orbiting the earth, it could only be because of one thing: hormones.

Maybe she was right, maybe my new licking urge was merely the symptom of more feminine “changes,” but I was 17 already. You’d think my body had pretty much figured it out by now. Either way, I wasn’t about to confess it to my Mom who would probably take me to some sex shrink for unusual obsessions. But that so wasn’t what it was, or why would I get so much relief from licking a bubble-gum wrapper?

I chopped the tomatoes more madly this time, not caring to make each one symmetrical and just hoped that soon everything would be normal. Or as normal as life could be for a goth-girl who had no father, no siblings, a Mom who thought violet leg-warmers were coming back, and a best friend whose primary ambition in life was to take the lead of the Spring Musical right from me.

Auditions for The Sound of Music were in less than a week and I practiced “My Favorite Things” for the four-hundredth time in the shower the next morning, adding a few lines of my own.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Eyeliner and incense, and silver skull rings. These are a few of my favorite things.”

“Why do you even want that part anyway, Val?” Chrissie, my best friend asked me as we walked through the melon-painted halls of Whitefish High between classes. She was trying to use the tactic of making what I want less than desirable so she could then go ahead and have it. The real thing was that the part was pretty much guaranteed mine: most kids around here were into calf-roping and the typical Montana ho-downs, not drama. Besides, I had the voice and decent enough acting skills, and Chrissie’s singing was more like a donkey in heat.

“I think it would be fun,” I tried to slough it off.

“But then you’ll have to be a Nun,” her tongue piercing showed as she over-enunciated the word like it was a rotten bit of apple. How I wish my Mom would let me get my tongue pierced. Chrissie knew that and seemed to show hers off every chance she got. “Nuns are so grouse.”

“I think they’re hot,” I came back at her. “Especially if become anti-nun at the end of the play, marry a rich captain and inherit a mansion.”

“I thought they had to climb the Alps after they got married,” Chrissie said in her winey voice as she tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear.

She had a point. I needed a new tactic. “Well Dave Lonsley is most likely to get the part of Captain VonTrapp.”

“Oh,” Chrissie gave the usual sigh most girls gave at the thought of Dave Lonsley. If Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred were in Westpoint High’s elite class, then Dave Lonsley was the king. His ink-black hair, roughly cut cheekbones and olive skin made babies laugh, old women cry with joy and even Principle Whitler bat an eye if ever he missed class, which by the way only happened once in recorded history.

It was impossible to resent Dave either; if ever there was a Prince named Charming, his was named Dave Lonsley. Everyone loved him: from bubble-popping cheerleaders, to farm nerds, to pent-up-frustration-filled Goths, because he loved everyone. He knew all 725 students of Whitefish High by name, helped old Mrs. Daffiny with her gift shop on Saturdays for free, and always seemed more interested in you than himself. It was almost disgusting how his dimple-producing smile never seemed to leave his angelic face.

Rumor was, he was planning to audition for the musical. My musical. Of course he’d walk right into the leading role just as he excelled at soccer and chess and Mr. Personality of the Year.

“Well who wants a stage kiss from Dave Lonsley anyway?” Chrissie scowled but I could see the way she rubbed her strawberry Chap Stick lips together. My mouth salivated too, but I was just grateful that I didn’t have the urge to lick him. Actually, I hadn’t felt the impulse all day. Maybe things were back to normal.

“Look,” Chrissie whispered and squeezed my arm. “There’s Samantha Gray. Did you know she spent the whole weekend in a mental hospital?”

The news surprised me. Samantha’s family had a two-hundred acre ranch up near Whitefish Lake and she had always been so quiet and reserved. Watching several sophomores try to rope a couple of freshmen with cattle rope ahead of us, I knew who deserved institutionalization more. “Why?” I asked Chrissie as we dodged the sophomores.

“Not sure,” Chrissie shrugged. Suddenly, she ducked behind me. “Crap,” she whispered. “There’s Mr. Wilcox. If he sees that I’m not home with the flu, I can’t ditch class.” As he passed with his typical pointy-nose scowl, she hushed “See you,” and scampered off toward the Gym building.

Time to practice lyrics again in my head while I had a few minutes of freedom left maneuvering through the halls. I wished I could ditch with Chrissie, but my name had been red-flagged for having missed so much class and my mom threatened to ship me off to etiquette school if I skipped one more time. Chrissies parents were so laid back, it wasn’t fair. Mom blamed my rebellion because of my father, who walked out on us when I was four. That was why she moved us to this pathetic little town.

We moved around a lot for a couple of years and then my mom had this great idea to take this road trip around the country to take in all the sights there were. But then she took a wrong turn trying to get to Great Falls, Montana and our white Honda broke down on Hwy 93. An old weather-worn man toed us with his even older green pick-up to Whitefish and when my mom laid her eyes on the quant western town, she said, “Valerie, sweetie, I know where our home for now on is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tanner let us stay the night in the apartment above their shop until the Honda was fixed, but my mom fell so in love with the warm hospitality of the people and they must have fallen in love with her too, so that when the car was good to go, we just stayed. The Tanner’s let us keep the cozy apartment as long as we helped out in the souvenir store a couple hours a week. So, in Whitefish we stayed, while the rest of the world melted away.

I never did see or hear from my father again. My mom was probably right about him being the source of my anger, but mostly I just felt angry at everything; especially this pathetic town where on any given day, the tourists quadrupled the town’s population of only 6,000 plus or minus a few babies born or old people dead.
Now, I was in a particularly sour mood that Chrissie was still trying to swipe the lead role right out from under me. Everything was back to normal.

I turned down the last hall to head to Algebra where I’d spend the next 45 minutes pretending to pay attention and try not to breathe the B.O. of the kid who always wore a straw hat in front of me and didn’t seem to know how to apply deodorant. At least there’d be no Brad Ferguson or Richard Alred there with their weird eyes. I maneuvered myself around a rather large senior shoving papers into his locker and joined the stream of students reluctantly plodding to class like a bunch of mechanical sheep.

My mind was inventing more lyrics for “My Favorite Things,” and half-thinking how my mom probably wishes she could trade me in on a new model like she finally did our old Honda after years of saving tip money, when my eye caught the purple strap of a backpack on some chick in front of me. It fell down to her knee and I watched as it swayed back and forth, back and forth. Very quickly, all my thoughts seemed fixed on the movement, almost like I was mesmerized by it.

The final bell rang and the chick sped up causing the strap to sway faster. My calves bunched together and my arms tensed as I squatted low, my eyes still riveted on the line of purple. My fingers curled in and suddenly I felt like pouncing. Back and forth it went over and over and I couldn’t resist it: I wanted to swoop down on the strap so bad. The small rational part of me wondered what I was doing, but it was like pure instinct had taken over my body. I pushed my hands off the floor and prepared to leap into the air when the chick turned right into her classroom.

Dang it. I wasn’t fast enough. What was I talking about? Shouldn’t I be glad that I hadn’t tackled her in the middle of the hall and became the joke of the day for Whitefish High? As soon as the strap was out of sight, the feeling was gone and only my disturbed paranoia remained. I shook my head and tucked my short brown hair behind my ear, disgusted by a straw of hay I found caught there. The halls were nearly empty now. Crap, I can’t be late. So I rushed off to class and tried to pretend the strap incident hadn’t happened for the rest of the day.

That was how it started. I thought it was just a weird happening but it got worse from there. The next few days I fought hard to keep from attacking a loose shoe lace, or from licking up my bowl of Fruit Loops instead of eating it. Sometimes the urge to lick and pounce happened at the same time: like in Gym class when I wanted to leap upon the volleyball, flip over onto my back and lick the rubbery surface. Times like that, it was best if I just fled to the bathroom.

All the while, Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred’s bizarre green and orange eyes seemed to be watching me. Life can be weird for any teenager, but this was more than acne or popularity or driver’s licenses; something terrifyingly more.