Echo, echo.
Esther had already figured out that people, if you looked at them the right way, were nothing but assets: tools to gain from to further a personal agenda. She was a flatterer, destroyer, manipulator, and worked people and systems in a scary, clinical way by the time I met her, when she was 15 or 16. Strangely enough, I just listed every one of her redeeming qualities. I used to like what a sociopath she was, really.
She and I were in DECA together, which was the only real reason I knew or cared that she existed. I can't seem to get my mind off of her tonight.
I was good at DECA. Scary good. All it really required was the ability to memorize big, overarching theories of marketing and then memorize quick scenarios and arrange them in a way that was in concordance with the overarching theory that applied. Whether writing huge market research papers or sitting down for ten minutes with a scenario and then ten minutes with a judge, my eternal gift for memorization and regurgitation was used at its very best during competition.
The first year, I won first place in my series in our Chapter. At state, I got called to stage, meaning I was in the top twenty, but didn't go to internationals. I cried afterwards.
The second year, I won fifth place (despite being hospital-worthy sick on testing day and losing a third of my score... yes, I was that fucking good) in my series but opted to go on my marketing paper, which I got second place for at state and secured a slot for international competition.
I cried after that, too. But it was an entirely different kind of tears.
Two years of an easy-A class, a couple of hours of effort learning my series, a completely made up essay (that part made answering the follow-up questions easier, since there was no real facts to bounce them off of, just things that only existed on paper because I'd thought them up and put them there), and a few blow out fights with my theatre director, and I was in the top running numbers of one of the most rabid competitions high school has to offer. This isn't football. The only way to outperform is to be better with no interaction, in front of an impartial judge. At least in soccer you can kick the competition's ankles out from under them at risk of nothing but a flag.
Esther was in the same ranks. She had fought a lot harder for it, but a spot up top is still a spot up top, even if it means propping up everybody you ran down on the way and sitting on them.
Shortly put, we were the hot shit bullshitters going to the claws-out bullshit-fight of the biggest bullshitting competition in the fucking bullshit world.
Anaheim was alright. I mean, we were treated like none of us had ever been to a city before, but it was okay. School was in session, so Disney Land was empty except for hundreds of DECA kids (all well-groomed, all good looking, most from money... I lost track of how many times I eyed the perfect complexions and teeth thinking "how the fuck did I get here?"). It was fine, though, minus having to sneak out during free hours of the day to frantically smoke a cigarette or two... I had figured that getting caught smoking would probably hold a heavier penalty than the inevitable manslaughter that would occur if I didn't smoke at all. I didn't get caught, nobody asked questions, that isn't the point of this at all.
After competition (I didn't do too badly, but I'll never know my score... I know I probably didn't hit top international awards, but I do know that I probably made my top twenty... year one all over again, only this time with a bigger stage), there was the dance.
Oh God, the dance. Tens of thousands of teenagers, all good looking, all tense and horny, all far away from home in one big fuck-off room, grinding in the dark. It was kind of like hell, only with worse music. I got separated from the person who had my phone, so lost all track of time trying to find her. In the mix, I got grabbed by some boy. Some man. Too old for DECA, too free-spirited to be a part of this shit. A crasher. He gave me a drink of something that I decided not to drink again (don't worry, he'd warned me) after the first swig. There was a good conversation, what little we could manage in the chaos, and he kissed me. A very nice kiss. I left, thinking that maybe the other girl had as well.
On the shuttle, I realized I was going to be 15 minutes late for curfew. I knocked on my instructor's door upon reaching the hotel and she answered in a bathrobe. She hugged me, always the dramatically superficial woman that she was (Queen Bee of Bullshit Island), kissed my cheek, accepted my (true) explanation of why I was late, and sent me to bed.
Then the next day came.
I slept in because my weird marketing seminar was a late one and I figured I'd get through it on a cup of coffee and find food near the hotel afterwards. I was awoken by a knock on the door. Mr. Nerland and Mz. Busby were standing there: one looking concerned and gruff, the other concerned and victimized. As I caught a glimpse of the huge blade that was apparently about to fall to my neck and cut my head off, I already knew that Esther had done something.
They sat me down in the middle of the room. Demanded to know the truth, and why I lied. I honestly replied that I didn't know what they were talking about. It ran in circles until I found out that apparently I'd gotten wasted the night before and possibly slept with somebody, on school time.
News to me, I said. But the damage was done. Esther was very worried about me and had come to them because she was afraid I might do something else rash and ruin my life. Busby cried, that fake slag, like she had the right to be upset. She, the one who turned her back on me at the drop of a lie, accused me of abusing her trust and ruining the entire academic year for her. I'd never jockeyed to be her favourite, only kept myself facing forward and did the legwork she asked of me, but that hurt.
Then they called my mother. Nerland talked to her for a few minutes and handed the phone over to me. She was crying, telling me how proud she had been the day before and how ashamed she was now, how she didn't even know me. I hung up the phone, numb, realizing distantly that I'd been crying, too.
They put me under house arrest. I watched shitty television, read, and called Dee. They had taken my phone, so I used Esther's credit card to get a long distance call through to her, and she promptly called me back. We talked for hours about everything about the day and everything but.
Esther and Sarah came back to the room, apologetic, huggy. I wanted none of it.
Busby stopped by, making sad, understanding cow eyes at the poor lost child; her failed bullshit minion. I wanted none of her.
I wanted none of any of them.
I don't think my mother talked to me except when required for a month. I don't remember if I was punished, but I think the entire experience was punishment enough. That summer's yardwork regiment was particularly hellish, and I suspect the DECA ordeal had a little something to do with it.
Nerland moved on to be Board Director for our school system the next year. I can't help but think that the abrupt change in the way other administrators treated me. I never passed Esther in a hallway without getting a smug look of victory. She made her stage at Internationals the next year, but left without an award. Busby never looked at me again.
Strange, how a lie can do these things. Most lies are inconsequential. I may have been sitting on the bullshit throne at the top of the bullshit heap for awhile, but lying is so tiresome... so much to keep track of, so much to worry about at night. It's not for me.
I've just been wondering.
If a lie told at the most perfect time to destroy can cause so much damage with such little effort, I wonder if a little lie builds to the same effect when given time. A lie to save a relationship doesn't save a relationship. It just builds a new relationship that isn't true. The heartache at the end all has root in something, right? Why not whatever little lie it was?
And I've been thinking about happiness. I'm happy right now. Not jump for joy ecstatic all the time, mind you. I'm peaceful, my worries are few and faceable. I'm not scraping together all of my resources to get by. I'm surrounded by people I love who love me back. I had to work really hard to get myself here, and fucked up a lot on the way. But I'm happy and intend to stay this way.
I doubt Esther is happy. Not in this way. The only thing she ever seemed to crave, her only VICE seemed to be the need to defeat, the need to be number one. I can't imagine how horribly lonely it must be, and how ugly and black her soul must be getting after a few years of college. She landed a blow that still bums me out to think about (Angel got the earful earlier tonight), but no matter how big that blow was, it didn't keep me from getting happy.
And she has to live with what she did. Forever.
All I've had to do is live with what I didn't do, keep my face forward, and do the legwork. And look! It's working.
Strange world.
Sorry for the ramble, folks, but there it is.
She and I were in DECA together, which was the only real reason I knew or cared that she existed. I can't seem to get my mind off of her tonight.
I was good at DECA. Scary good. All it really required was the ability to memorize big, overarching theories of marketing and then memorize quick scenarios and arrange them in a way that was in concordance with the overarching theory that applied. Whether writing huge market research papers or sitting down for ten minutes with a scenario and then ten minutes with a judge, my eternal gift for memorization and regurgitation was used at its very best during competition.
The first year, I won first place in my series in our Chapter. At state, I got called to stage, meaning I was in the top twenty, but didn't go to internationals. I cried afterwards.
The second year, I won fifth place (despite being hospital-worthy sick on testing day and losing a third of my score... yes, I was that fucking good) in my series but opted to go on my marketing paper, which I got second place for at state and secured a slot for international competition.
I cried after that, too. But it was an entirely different kind of tears.
Two years of an easy-A class, a couple of hours of effort learning my series, a completely made up essay (that part made answering the follow-up questions easier, since there was no real facts to bounce them off of, just things that only existed on paper because I'd thought them up and put them there), and a few blow out fights with my theatre director, and I was in the top running numbers of one of the most rabid competitions high school has to offer. This isn't football. The only way to outperform is to be better with no interaction, in front of an impartial judge. At least in soccer you can kick the competition's ankles out from under them at risk of nothing but a flag.
Esther was in the same ranks. She had fought a lot harder for it, but a spot up top is still a spot up top, even if it means propping up everybody you ran down on the way and sitting on them.
Shortly put, we were the hot shit bullshitters going to the claws-out bullshit-fight of the biggest bullshitting competition in the fucking bullshit world.
Anaheim was alright. I mean, we were treated like none of us had ever been to a city before, but it was okay. School was in session, so Disney Land was empty except for hundreds of DECA kids (all well-groomed, all good looking, most from money... I lost track of how many times I eyed the perfect complexions and teeth thinking "how the fuck did I get here?"). It was fine, though, minus having to sneak out during free hours of the day to frantically smoke a cigarette or two... I had figured that getting caught smoking would probably hold a heavier penalty than the inevitable manslaughter that would occur if I didn't smoke at all. I didn't get caught, nobody asked questions, that isn't the point of this at all.
After competition (I didn't do too badly, but I'll never know my score... I know I probably didn't hit top international awards, but I do know that I probably made my top twenty... year one all over again, only this time with a bigger stage), there was the dance.
Oh God, the dance. Tens of thousands of teenagers, all good looking, all tense and horny, all far away from home in one big fuck-off room, grinding in the dark. It was kind of like hell, only with worse music. I got separated from the person who had my phone, so lost all track of time trying to find her. In the mix, I got grabbed by some boy. Some man. Too old for DECA, too free-spirited to be a part of this shit. A crasher. He gave me a drink of something that I decided not to drink again (don't worry, he'd warned me) after the first swig. There was a good conversation, what little we could manage in the chaos, and he kissed me. A very nice kiss. I left, thinking that maybe the other girl had as well.
On the shuttle, I realized I was going to be 15 minutes late for curfew. I knocked on my instructor's door upon reaching the hotel and she answered in a bathrobe. She hugged me, always the dramatically superficial woman that she was (Queen Bee of Bullshit Island), kissed my cheek, accepted my (true) explanation of why I was late, and sent me to bed.
Then the next day came.
I slept in because my weird marketing seminar was a late one and I figured I'd get through it on a cup of coffee and find food near the hotel afterwards. I was awoken by a knock on the door. Mr. Nerland and Mz. Busby were standing there: one looking concerned and gruff, the other concerned and victimized. As I caught a glimpse of the huge blade that was apparently about to fall to my neck and cut my head off, I already knew that Esther had done something.
They sat me down in the middle of the room. Demanded to know the truth, and why I lied. I honestly replied that I didn't know what they were talking about. It ran in circles until I found out that apparently I'd gotten wasted the night before and possibly slept with somebody, on school time.
News to me, I said. But the damage was done. Esther was very worried about me and had come to them because she was afraid I might do something else rash and ruin my life. Busby cried, that fake slag, like she had the right to be upset. She, the one who turned her back on me at the drop of a lie, accused me of abusing her trust and ruining the entire academic year for her. I'd never jockeyed to be her favourite, only kept myself facing forward and did the legwork she asked of me, but that hurt.
Then they called my mother. Nerland talked to her for a few minutes and handed the phone over to me. She was crying, telling me how proud she had been the day before and how ashamed she was now, how she didn't even know me. I hung up the phone, numb, realizing distantly that I'd been crying, too.
They put me under house arrest. I watched shitty television, read, and called Dee. They had taken my phone, so I used Esther's credit card to get a long distance call through to her, and she promptly called me back. We talked for hours about everything about the day and everything but.
Esther and Sarah came back to the room, apologetic, huggy. I wanted none of it.
Busby stopped by, making sad, understanding cow eyes at the poor lost child; her failed bullshit minion. I wanted none of her.
I wanted none of any of them.
I don't think my mother talked to me except when required for a month. I don't remember if I was punished, but I think the entire experience was punishment enough. That summer's yardwork regiment was particularly hellish, and I suspect the DECA ordeal had a little something to do with it.
Nerland moved on to be Board Director for our school system the next year. I can't help but think that the abrupt change in the way other administrators treated me. I never passed Esther in a hallway without getting a smug look of victory. She made her stage at Internationals the next year, but left without an award. Busby never looked at me again.
Strange, how a lie can do these things. Most lies are inconsequential. I may have been sitting on the bullshit throne at the top of the bullshit heap for awhile, but lying is so tiresome... so much to keep track of, so much to worry about at night. It's not for me.
I've just been wondering.
If a lie told at the most perfect time to destroy can cause so much damage with such little effort, I wonder if a little lie builds to the same effect when given time. A lie to save a relationship doesn't save a relationship. It just builds a new relationship that isn't true. The heartache at the end all has root in something, right? Why not whatever little lie it was?
And I've been thinking about happiness. I'm happy right now. Not jump for joy ecstatic all the time, mind you. I'm peaceful, my worries are few and faceable. I'm not scraping together all of my resources to get by. I'm surrounded by people I love who love me back. I had to work really hard to get myself here, and fucked up a lot on the way. But I'm happy and intend to stay this way.
I doubt Esther is happy. Not in this way. The only thing she ever seemed to crave, her only VICE seemed to be the need to defeat, the need to be number one. I can't imagine how horribly lonely it must be, and how ugly and black her soul must be getting after a few years of college. She landed a blow that still bums me out to think about (Angel got the earful earlier tonight), but no matter how big that blow was, it didn't keep me from getting happy.
And she has to live with what she did. Forever.
All I've had to do is live with what I didn't do, keep my face forward, and do the legwork. And look! It's working.
Strange world.
Sorry for the ramble, folks, but there it is.