Damned Read Free Page A

adolescence occurs as a kind of Ice Age of Dumbness.
    And, yes, I know the word gender. Ye gods! I may be pudgy and
flat-chested and nearsighted and dead, but I am NOT a moron.
    Yes, and I know that when a supersexy older girl with hips and breasts and
nice hair wants to take off your glasses and to paint you a smoky eye she's
merely trying to enroll you in a beauty contest she's already won. It's a kind
of slummy, condescending gesture, like when rich people ask poor people where
they summer. To me, this smacks of a blatant, insensitive "let them eat
cake" type of chauvinism.
    Either that, or the attractive older girl is a lesbian. Either way, I
don't offer my face even as she stands ready, brandishing a gloppy mascara
brush like a fairy godmother's magic wand, to turn me into some floozy
Cinderella. To be honest, whenever I watch the classic John Hughes film The
Breakfast Club, and Molly Ringwald leads poor Ally Sheedy into the girl's
bathroom, then brings her out with those hideous 1980s smears of rouge under
each cheekbone and Ally's hair tied back with that preppy ribbon and her lips
painted that dated red- red like a cheap China doll version of Ringwald's
own sellout Whorey Vanderwhore Vogue magazine conformity, poor Ally
reduced to a kind of living, breathing Nagel print, I always yell at the
television, "Run, Ally!" Really, I scream, "Wash your face,
Ally, and just run!"
    Instead of submitting my face, I say, "I'd better not, not until
my eczema clears up some."
    At this, the magic mascara wand jerks back. The Avon eye shadows and
lipsticks all clatter back into the fake Coach bag even as her eyes squint,
searching my face for signs of inflamed, red, flaky skin and open sores.
    It's like my mom will tell you: "Every new maid wants to fold your
underwear a different way." Meaning: You have to stay smart and not let
yourself be pushed around.
    Other cells cluster around our two, some cells empty, others occupied
by lone people. No doubt the football jock, the rebel stoner, the brainy geek,
the psycho, all serving detention here, forever.
    No, it's not fair, but chances are good that I'll be in this cell for
centuries to come, pretending to suffer psoriasis even while hypocrite people
scream and complain about the humidity and the smell, and my Whorey Vanderwhore
neighbor squats down to try to spit-shine her cheapo, white plastic shoes with
a crumpled wad of Kleenex. Even against the stink of poop and smoke and sulfur,
you can smell her dime-store perfume like a mixed-fruit flavor of chewing gum
or instant grape drink. To be honest, I'd rather smell poop, but who can hold
their breath for a million-plus years? So, simply out of courtesy I say,
"Thanks anyway, about offering the makeover, I mean." Out of sheer
politeness, I force myself to smile and say, "I'm Madison."
    At this, the teenage girl almost lunges toward the bars which separate
us. All breasts and hips and high-heeled shoes, now obviously, pathetically
grateful for my companionship, she grins to show me her every mass-produced,
porcelain-veneered incisor. In her pierced earlobes, she's even wearing diamond
earrings—so very Claire Standish of her—only vulgar, dime-size, dazzle-cut
cubic zirconium. Saying, "I'm Babette," dropping the wad of tissue,
she thrusts a smutty, stained hand between the bars for me to shake.

III.
    Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. Please don't feel hurt, Satan,
hut my parents raised me to believe you didn't exist. My mom and dad said you
and God were invented in the superstitious, backward pea brains of hillbilly preachers
and Republican hypocrites.
     

     
    According to my parents, there's no such place as Hell. If you asked
them, they'd probably tell you I'm already reincarnated as a butterfly or a
stem cell or a dove. I mean, my parents both said how important it was for me
to see them walking around naked all the time or I'd grow up to be totally a
Miss Pervy McPervert. They told me that nothing was a sin, just a poor