Chappie One

Teen novel, about homosexuality, sisters, family, and love.

 

 

Chapter One-the morning

“People always clap for the wrong things.”-TCITR, Chapter 12

Mom is sitting at the linoleum counter, hunched over the sticky table-top, watching paid programming from a crackly antenna TV. I sit in the corner, nibbling on an apple and swinging my legs. I am already in uniform, just waiting for my mother’s beloved program to be over. An ad pops up for something I guess Mom isn’t interested in, and she twisted around to face me.

            “Excited?” She smiles, her eyes wrinkling. I frown, bite the apple, and swallow.

            “No.” I answer plainly, wiping my hands on my blue school pants. Today is the start of my internship at the Daniel Shays Memorial Library, a library who has no easy pronunciation, nor abbreviation. I am only doing because a) I need money and b) I am too weak to bag groceries. Of course, my mother was elated at the very idea of me “working for my money”.

            She giggles, and my stomach clenches. “You are going to love it! I remember when I was 14 and living in Belgium”--oh this is the highlight of all my mother’s conversations--“I worked to scrape snow in the winter. It was of course hard but very rewarding.” She expects me to suddenly realize the joys of an employment, but instead, my eyebrows furl.

            “I get paid, like, 3 bucks an hour.” I am picking apple from my braces, no doubt looking a little less menacing. I change the subject. “Let’s go to school.”

Mom was still stifling a giggle as she picks up her keys, and switches off the set.

            “Whatever you say, Capote.”

                            ***

            Let it be clear that I am not the Queen Bee at my school. I don’t even think there is a Queen at my school. We’re not very status quo people, to be honest. I think this originates with the idea that our mascot is a hornet. A hornet is not a strong, memorable mascot. Just the butt of jokes on the bathroom stalls and what is appliquéd to every scrap of paper they give to us.

But I have only been going to the school for a year now, going on two, so I am not really sure about the ebb and flow of our school. Only that around December it gets cold and gross and the kids get wild with the idea of approaching winter holidays.

Mom dropped me off outside the school, and I stumbled into the main quad, my backpack digging into my shoulders, and my shoelaces dragging into the sloshing puddles. My best friend, Ashley Batty, is standing by the water fountain, smiling at me. Ashley is my height, but with nicer brown hair and a stronger build. Let’s just say she’s prettier than me, okay?

            “Hey, Capote!” She laughs. If you must know, when I was in third grade, I did a report on Truman Capote. Now my parents have the unbelievably annoying habit of calling me Capote. What friend would Ashley be if she did not pick up on this? I smile back, and roll my eyes at her.

            “Harhar, you are the master.” I lean up against the rough cement wall of the auditorium, making sure my hair doesn’t drip into the rather disgusting water fountain. The school janitorial staff apparently finds no need to clean the things we drink out of, but instead take hours scraping gum of the bottom of desks. I don’t share this with Ashley, because she probably wouldn’t find it funny.

            “So, where are Liam, and Michael?” I ask casually, hiking up my backpack and scanning the busy quad. Guys punching each other, girls sharing lip-gloss, two people hugging rather close.....I don’t see who I’m looking for.

            “Band field-trip, remember? They have to sit through some crap musical.” Ashley says lightly. The ‘giants’ are actually a collection of two people. How I wound up with two, all above-five-foot-six-inches, boys as friends, I’ll never know. But they’re gone today, and I feel much-less short.

The bell screams above our heads, and I lumber across the quad, letting myself be pushed by the river of kids that pour from each direction. Someone elbows my side, but I’m used to it so I just keep going, until I reach my science room.

The science room is right by the staff room, and it’s the biggest room on the campus (besides the computer lab and auditorium) because we have this hunky lab tables that can’t be moved, and are the epicenter of the entire lab. I’m somewhat late, but the teacher doesn’t notice and a slip back to my seat. I sit at the Disable Table, which basically is a lab table that’s a heck of a lot shorter, and has this gaping place between two sets of drawers for a wheelchair to go in. No one is on a wheelchair at a our school, but the administration didn’t really think out the number of kids that could fit in one class, so every period there are four of us who try to arrange our stools to be comfortable, and lean hunched over the desk because it makes us all feel very tall if we don’t.

Long explanation to say simply that I sit at the weird table, and it’s at the very back of the classroom, so I don’t get very much work done.

The teacher makes us listen to the morning announcements, and then we all rifle through are bags, desperate to find last night’s homework. With relief, I pull out a slightly crumpled worksheet and see the sad eyes of my table-mates. Their names are Alfred, Maria, and Laura. Laura has found her sheet, but she didn’t do it, so I manage to fake a kind smile and pass my work to her to copy. I am pretty well-known for being the “go-to” girl for homework copies. It’s an important title, in the world of junior high.

I glance over at Maria, who is bent over, her hair shielding an open cellphone. I don’t understand the need that is instilled in the owners of cellphones to text at every given time. Maria is in a trance, her fingers clicking away the keys.

            “Oh my God.” Maria laughs, making sure to keep her voice underneath the teacher’s radar. “Some retard got in a fender bender by Subway.”

            “Were they hurt?” I ask attentively, my hands starting to sweat on the Formica desk.

            “Uh, I don’t know.” Maria purses her lips. “But like, Josh just texted me, and his sister said that she was there, and this retardando was like, not supposed to be driving, but she was, and they say it was hilarious. I’ve got to text Nikki.”

I don’t like hearing the word ‘retard’. It makes my neck involuntarily contract, and my stomach does this uncomfortable flipping motion. My eyes dart up to the front of the room, towards Shelly Angelo. Shelly Angelo is a tall blonde with perfectly unclogged skin and pouty lips that are always slathered in gloss. Shelly isn’t s****y or ditzy anything though. She is just beauty without work. She’s also my technical sister.

I make sure Mrs. Rikki isn’t listening, and I chuck a wad a notebook paper at the back of Shelly’s head. The wad falls short and grazes her back, just barely, but it gets her attention and she turns around.

            “Shelly!” I hiss. “Was Julia going to work today?” I ask her, leaning on across the table. Then I realize that a thin, shimmering line of sweat is dripping along Shelly’s hairline. She bites her lip at me, and then nods. Her perfection is washing-away in form of a silent anxiety attack.

                               ***

About an hour later I’m at home, because of ‘family issues’.

 The Angelos and my parents are sitting in this semi-circle in the living room of the house we share (long story-we’ll get to that) and their eyes are on Julia Angelo. Julia is crying, but I’m not sure why, because she doesn’t normally cry. Her thin, bony fingers are wrapped around a strand of blond hair as she nods to their individual speeches about safety, and responsibility. But throughout it all they keep blaming themselves.

Shelly and I are the outsiders suddenly, sitting in my small room, parallel to the foyer. Shelley is curled up on my bed, one of my old teddy bears squished to her chest. I am slouched in my desk chair, mindlessly spinning to the tune of some La’s song, that’s playing from my General Electronics radio.

            “I forgot to lock the garage and Julia like nearly killed herself!” Shelley is rambling between muffled sobs. My face is dry, somewhat stoic, my lips bent into a flat line.

            “It’s not your fault, Shell.” I try to reason to her, but I kind of is. That’s what I hate about it. It really is her fault that Julia decided to take a joy ride, and ended up denting the door of some man’s Silverado. And in a way-and this makes me feel like a jerk-I’m glad it’s her fault and not mine.

            “She’s my own effing sister, you know?” There is a sob.

I nod.

            “And she’s 17, and she’s a retard, and I’m 14, and I should...but I still need to take care of her and I’m doing a s**t job.”

            “You are not doing a s**t job!” I say, almost in a demanding tone. I get up and sit down next to Shelly. I muster up the cheesy love. “I’ve lived with you for 8 years, and you are not doing a s**t job. I love you.”

            Shelly almost laughs. I’m not a mushy person, and hearing that crap come from my mouth is admittedly funny. She releases herself from my hug. “You’ve got your first day on the job this afternoon. You should be getting ready.”

            “Uragggh. Why. Must. You. Bring. That. Up?”

            “Because, Capote, I lurvveee yooou.”

                        ***

 

It’s still raining, dribbling down the window and pattering on the roof. I can hear a clichéd thunder off in the distance, and its getting darker outside.

Mom comes in a while later, nursing a cup of coffee. “So, all you all right?” She digs.

            “Yeah.” I perk up, leaning against the chilly window.

            She laughs nervously. “Julia, sweet Julia.”

I look out the window wistfully, and move away when my breath starts to fog up the view.

            “So, do I still need to go to the library?” I ask, changing the subject, but only slightly.

            “Yes, of course. You must be glad.” She laughs, but it’s in that half-assed way.

I frown. “So, what’s going to happen?”

            “I suppose...I don’t really know.” Then she sighs. “Beth, Capote, I really don’t know. Julia is a near-drowned victim with severe brain damage, and we need to be more careful with her...The s**t has hit the fan and now everyone is trying to clean it up.” She says earnestly.

I manage a giggle. “That is a disgusting metaphor.”

            “But,” she sips her coffee, “it’s accurate.”

Author's Note

Review please! Its not edited. Cussing.

Reviews

[DF]

You set up scenes very well. The dialogue feels real as well, though perhaps it would stand out even more without so many of the narrator's observations intermingled between. It's good enough to stand on its own.

[Brendan Kerestes]

This is very good! I cannot wait to read more. I think you should consider sending to a publisher.