FFP#3 – Bubble Butt
Yolanda reminded us of hay, brittle and dry, fodder for the animals who roamed our school’s hallways. Twice a week, we ran laps in P.E. and Yolanda ran as stiffly as she walked. She tucked her arms tight against her sides, the heels of her shoes kicking her bottom. It spoke to us, that round rear end, silently communicating with each jiggle and bounce, “If you befriend me, I will bring you down. If you befriend me, I will turn you into me.” We kept our distance and drew an imaginary line between us.
One day, a popular senior named Rob said to Yolanda, “Cute butt,” like she was one of us. From then on she followed him everywhere, calling him, texting him, slipping carefully folded notes between the slots of his locker. Rob sent his friends to tell her to get lost. He hated her now, but she honestly believed that he liked her. Hadn’t he said her butt was cute? Rob’s buddies couldn’t explain to her that it wasn’t a compliment, that it was, in fact, just another way for Rob to prove he could say anything he wanted and get away with it.
Rob approached us while we were stretching near the track. We extended our arms, gracefully bending over to touch our toes, showing him how different we were from her, how wrong he’d been to cross that line.
“How can I get rid of her?” he asked.
“What do you mean by ‘get rid of?’” We laughed and pointed out the corner of the field where Yolanda was lacing up her sneakers. “Tell her the truth. She’ll understand.”
“I doubt it.”
“Trust us,” we said. “She’ll listen to you.”
So he walked over to Yolanda, who called out to him cheerfully, “Hi, Robby!” Even from where we stood, we could smell her vulnerability and it reeked of baby powder, dandruff shampoo, and sweat.
Rob didn’t say a word as he yanked Yolanda’s gym shorts down to her knees. Her butt cheeks, like two deflated volleyballs, hung over the elastic waistband. She didn’t cry or scream, just tugged up her shorts and ran to the locker room. We were impressed, in a way, by her calmness. Would we have played it so cool? We shook that thought out of our heads – no, what happened to her would never happen to us. We wouldn’t let something like that happen to us.
We finished stretching and jogged our remaining laps in silence.
Yolanda was absent the following day, but nobody really noticed.
A few days later, we were paying for prom tickets when Yolanda and her father stepped out of the principal’s office. Her face was brightened by streaked tears and red eyes. She almost looked pretty. Her father stood next to her, his biceps bulging against the flannel sleeves of his work shirt.
“Yolanda’s dad is hot,” one of us said.
She made a face, her eyes shrinking beneath her thin eyebrows.
“Uh oh. Here come the water works,” we whispered. Instead, Yolanda blew a tiny spit bubble which floated from her lips and hovered a few inches from her face before popping.
“What was that?” We giggled quietly as she and her father disappeared down the hallway.
At lunch, we watched Yolanda while she waited in line, tray in hand. She glanced around the cafeteria, probably figuring out where she’d sit today, wondering who’d be the first to say something kind or something cruel to her.
“We should invite her to join us.”
“It could be fun.”
We waved at her. Her mouth twitched.
Rob stopped by our table. “What’s up?” he said, and we told him how much we felt sorry for Yolanda. We said all girls are part of a sisterhood. “Why don’t you just leave her alone?” he asked.
“Like you did?”
But before he could answer, Yolanda was already sitting down with us. She didn’t say a word, just ate her fries slowly, rolling each one in a puddle of ketchup.
“Are those good?” we asked.
“I guess.”
“What are you thinking about?”
She shrugged.
“Do you want Rob to leave?”
Yolanda shrugged again.
We looked at each other and shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Rob said to her. “That’s all.”
“Too late for apologies,” we said. “Don’t listen to that jerk, Yolanda.”
Like earlier that day, she blew a bubble. It escaped from her greasy lips and floated above Rob’s head, shimmering in the cafeteria’s fluorescent lighting before breaking. “Jerk.”
Rob scrunched up his face in disgust. “I’m outta here.”
“God, I hate him,” Yolanda said after he left. “I hate everyone.”
“Even us?”
“Everyone.”
“You used to be so sweet,” we said. “But now you’re kind of a bitch.”
She winced, her face flushing from anger or hurt or both. She blew another bubble: “Slut.”
And another: “Zit face.”
“Bean pole.”
“Dick breath.”
We were stunned for a moment by her words, by their truth. Were we that obvious? But we composed ourselves just in time to volley back with “loser” and “lard ass” and “whatever, Crack-atoa.” Just in time and just like that. Just as mean as we had to be.
And suddenly, there we were, bubbles flying at us like bullets, releasing a sulfurous odor as they burst, sending students and teachers fleeing from the cafeteria. We ducked under the table, hands protecting our faces, for once not knowing what to say or do. There were so many bubbles that Yolanda herself was covered in them.
We screamed, begging her to stop. Her saliva blistered our skin and seared our bones. We melted and Yolanda melted with us. Together, we oozed onto the floor, a thick layer of liquid fat and flesh that spread to all corners of the room, stuck there like a permanent sealant. Not even the janitor with his power tools could scrape us from the linoleum.
And here we are.
When summer arrives, when the cafeteria sits empty and still, we dream about the way life used to be. We listen to the silence, longing for the school year to begin again. We look forward to each and every school dance. So many students have come and gone, yet we never get tired of them dancing above us, glancing down at their faint reflections, wondering how they look, what will happen next, who really knows them.
Tags: flash fiction project
Uncategorized | 
January 11, 2010 12:38 am
Subscribe