I hate to say this, but since I started high school it’s become obvious that I’m leading a double life. In fact, the longer my parents are divorced, the more split apart I am.
I won’t tell them that, of course. It would just make Mom guilty and Dad bewildered, and both of them would be angry with me, but it wouldn’t solve any problems at all. Their anger just makes everything worse. Case in point: our whole family falling apart permanently.
It’s not really their fault anyway – it’s my own. When I was a little girl, I belonged completely to you. Myself and you were one thing. I couldn’t separate even my strongest, worst feelings from the sense of being wrapped up in you. When I first had the feeling, at the water jet when I was seven, I knew it was you because you are Love and that feeling is nothing but Love.
Even when I was roaring mad sometimes as a little kid, I remember shaking my fists at the sky, shouting up at you: “Are you even there!? I don’t believe you! Prove it!” which I knew was the deepest sin, the ultimate betrayal. Just asking and challenging made me feel guilty and lonely for a moment. And yet I always felt you there, answering me, watching me, understanding me, soothing me.
Well, it seems like the process of growing up means that I split away from you. There is a rightness inside my heart when I feel you all around, but it’s for that very reason that I’ve got to shove you away at certain times. I don’t even want to think about you, really. There’s the girl who’s all safe with you, and then there’s the other one who’s not listening at all. She’s running at something. Gulping air.
You won’t mind my honesty here – I’m actually kinda glad she’s doing that. I know she stretches away from you, but every time I notice her, it leads me back again to you. She lives in us. I take comfort in that. For two reasons: it means you’ll understand if I want to go and do something crazy, and it means everywhere I go will lead to you, no matter how roundabout the trail. It’s as if I’m Princess Irene and you’re my grandmother in that special room upstairs. If I just reach down, I can feel the thread beside me, tugging at my forefinger, taking me back to you.
Now you’re wondering what kinds of things I’m talking about! Well, you don’t need to, you can just look into the future and see. You know better and more than I do.
But I’ll give you a hint anyway.
Girl #1, who’s running, she never says no to a white Russian. She likes to kiss boys. She gets very excited about school dances and coordinates off-the-shoulder tops with acid wash jeans. She hasn’t tried smoking, but wouldn’t say no if asked. She likes to give herself the feeling whenever she’s in the bathtub.
I know what you’re thinking. Uh oh.
But then there’s Girl #2, who still spends whole days out in the woods with you. She goes to youth group and sings praise songs and plans to keep her virginity until she’s married. She prays every day. She sings gospel.
Obviously, Girl #1 attends high school during the week and sometimes a Saturday night party. She likes to talk on the phone. She’s a real contrarian and a class clown. Girl #2 comes out on Sundays, at church events, and on Tuesdays at Mennonite Volleyball Night. She thinks about what it means to do the right thing, and why she doesn’t want to. She prays ceaselessly. She is all yours.
I can’t tell which Girl you like best, but I have to tell you I don’t really prefer one or the other. Occasionally they mingle together in a way that’s quite satisfying. Like, when I’m busy making a big art project, Girl #1 and #2 are holding hands in companionship. And when I’m hanging out with Miranda, making her scream with laughter as I do my best silly faces and voices.
Most of the time, though, they’re hiding secrets from each other. You’ve got to wonder why they try to do that! Girl #1 is embarrassing because she’s too easily excited and gullible. She’s reckless because of her bad impulses. Obviously she has a guilt complex, as well, because she is a bit of a slut. I don’t know how she’s going to keep her pants on for the next eight years till she finds the right husband.
Girl #2 is too earnest, always serious and thinking. Very moralistic and limiting. Very much a virgin. She feels things a bit too deeply, in my opinion. Sometimes she’s downright shy.
An awkward mix, if you ask me. I’d like it if the gregarious one could level out a bit, while the sombre one turned down the geek factor. But hey – I’m given what I’m given. And you gave it to me, so there.
Good news. I’ve made one new friend in high school, so far. Her name is Ella, so she’s decided that we’re basically name twins. We’re in gym class together. The first day, we were made partners by the teacher, Ms. Bobbitt. No kidding. It’s really “Bobbitt”.
“Do people ever call you El or Ellie?” Ella asked me. “Same here,” she said without waiting. Her eyes reminded me of bright shiny buttons. “I’m going to call you Myname. And I’ll be Yourname.”
“I’m supposed to call you Yourname?” I said. I thought, this is the first time I’ve met someone who’s almost as weird as me.
“No, silly!” she hollered. “To each other, we’re called Myname, but then when I describe myself I say I’m Yourname.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” I said.
“Nope. Just came off the top of my head!” She smiled with her brown button eyes and I felt very warm.
We spent the entire gym class timing each other’s sprints and comparing measurements with a ruler. We’re almost exactly the same person, right down to the length of our forearms. She has short hair and those cute brown eyes. My hair is long, thin, and curly, and of course I have light blue eyes. Myname says she wishes she had long hair, but hers is too thick and goes crazy when it grows out.
Ever since we met, we’ve spent almost every night on the phone. At times I feel guilty because inside my mind, I’m neglecting my friendship with Miranda. She doesn’t even know it. Her parents don’t let her talk on the phone for hours at a time – she doesn’t even get to have one in her bedroom. Thank goodness I do. That’s the one saving grace about sharing a room with Bonnie. It’s her phone, but I get to use it when she’s not around.
The thing is, living as Girl #1 and Girl #2 means I have to neglect certain truths at certain times. I have casually mentioned to Myname that I go to church, but I haven’t told her about my inner passion for Jesus. It would be the same as telling her I have an imaginary friend: “But seriously . . . he’s real.” Can you imagine?
Anyway, we’re too busy talking about the boys we like, and what we’d enjoy doing with them. You won’t believe this, or maybe you will since you know everything, but she has already lost her virginity. It was last summer, just before high school started. This guy she’d had a crush on for the entire year finally decided he liked her, too. He’s fifteen. He went over when she was babysitting, and convinced her to have sex with him. She said it hurt like the dickens. Then she thought she was pregnant – think about it, fourteen and pregnant! – but she wasn’t. He didn’t really talk to her afterwards. He had another girlfriend by the end of the first school week. Now she has to see him in the hallways and remember, like, everything that happened. She knows exactly what his thing looks like. And every day, she hates herself for still loving him.
Trust me – no matter how much I fool around, I won’t be going that far! That is serious stuff. I don’t want to do that with anyone until I’m married. And even then, maybe not. All I remember about a guy’s thing is when Charlie’s kept hanging in front of my face when he was sleepwalking – something I never care to see again.
I remember when my mom first told me what sex was. I was eight years old and we were sitting on the couch. She showed me The Body Book, full of drawings of penises and vaginas. She pointed out the diagram of the penis hanging down, then a picture of a big boner.
She said, “It gets like that so it can push into the vagina.”
I was like, “Forget it.” I stood up and walked right out of the house, slamming the door behind me.
Finally, I knew exactly what Charlie had been getting at with all his poking and prodding, what it would all lead to. I’d never realized there was a point to it, but there it was. Only a little while later, I stopped letting him take baths with me. But then he kept molesting me and spying on me with everyone knowing all about it.
Honestly, how could you let that happen!? You are as sick as Charlie if you saw that and just did nothing! I guess you must’ve been busy with someone else’s problems at the time.
I haven’t told Myname about all the stuff that happened with Charlie. I haven’t told anyone the whole story, really, not even my mom. It’s disgusting. I feel disgusting about it. It has made me weird, so weird that when I’m over at Pammy’s or Myname’s for a sleepover, I’ve often wondered whether we’ll fool around. We’re just lying there, falling asleep, and I start wondering if she wants me to roll over on top of her and press my hands on her chest and breathe onto her lips. Sometimes with Pammy, when we were nine or ten, I used to sit on her and put my mouth on her arms, blowing a fart sound and slobbering all over her. I liked the smell of her, and the sound of her laugh. Once we got older, we stopped doing that.
When I heard about how Myname’s cherry was popped, it made me ten times glad I have a friend like Miranda. That kind of conversation would be like talking in a foreign language with Miranda.
“Equalibus una, bulgia luna, haricaputa, miscalliupa?”
“Fallupian concha, perdita willonka, hoebilly flutus, grandithumpus.”
Kind of like that.
I bet you’d understand what I mean, though. Language is not something you need. It was made up for humans only. The Pentecostals say that’s why super spiritual people speak in tongues – they know what is said by everyone because they’re so in touch with you.
So here it is: I have a more homey time when I’m with Miranda, and my moral side is the winner. Girl #2 is at home with Mennonites. But I have a more exciting time when I’m with Myname. Girl #1 enjoys dancing on the edge of danger.
Both of my best friends are interesting and lovely, just like both sides of myself are real and filled with thoughts and understandings. But let’s just admit, I never bring them into one room together if I can help it . . . So where the twain shall meet?