Where the Bad Seeds Grow

By Tina Morlock and Stevie Morlock

She's beautiful, smart, envied, and loved, but there is an entire world of pain, grief, loss, and depression boiling underneath all the perfection her peers adore. But the moment she chooses to make her reality transparent, that's when she starts to lose it all. That's when the head cheerleader loses her crown and becomes the object

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Morlock
• Release date: Dec 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781087810584

Tina Morlock

Tina Morlock is a freelance editor who has always been passionate about the written word. This has driven her love for great stories and inspired her to create her own. Driven by a desire to advocate for the voiceless, she primary writes young adult mystery, but she also enjoys crafting fantasy, dystopian, and science fiction stories with strong protagonists who use their broken realities to fight for a more meaningful world.

Book preview

1

The Beauty Queen Formula

Iknow you. Your life has been spent watching what they do and wishing you could be a part of that perfectly painted picture. That girl in the middle never wears the same pair of shoes twice. Don't mind the blisters that have taken up permanent residence on her tired heels and the stress fractures she hides beneath her perfectly sculpted legs. That girl had a name once, but it doesn’t escape my lips anymore. Us cheerleaders have each other’s backs, but we only honor that promise until we step outside that circle of superficial protection. And once we step away from the pack, we become a mutant, and then we’re as ordinary as the rest of the school we try to ignore.

Her best friend, the one whose hair is always perfectly platinum blonde, would probably kill herself if you knew that under the extensions and the years of chemical damage, she had disgusting-looking scabs she spends hours itching at night. If you show up at her house late at night, you'll notice the blood underneath her brittle fingernails she spends nearly an hour washing away every morning.

The threat of suicide is real. Last year, the perfect-haired girl had to wear a hat to school for a solid week because her hair stylist had a family emergency. One of the football players stole the hat off her head during lunch, and she spent the night in the hospital after swallowing almost-too-many sleeping pills. The official word at school (if I remember correctly) was that her parents forced her into a short stay at an eating disorder inpatient center because they caught her throwing up for the 100th time. Bulimia is a much trendier character flaw than an attempted suicide caused by a severe case of body dysmorphic disorder. Mental illness is mental illness, but an eating disorder is only another name for a diet. Or at least, in our circle, it was.

There's one last girl in your line of sight I haven't mentioned yet. By design, she’s hated by everyone around her and everyone who craves to be around her. It's the curse of being the most popular girl in school. As cliché as it sounds, there is one in every junior high and high school in America. Everything down to her black lace panties was ironed at midnight the night before. There is no minute of her day that isn't spent being perfect, unless, of course, you count the hour after school she spends tracking down her drug dealer, whose sole purpose is to charge her fifty dollars a gram for the perfection burning a hole in her perfectly symmetrical nose. She tells everyone the nosebleeds are due to a hereditary disorder, and if you want to get real, she's completely honest. Her mother left her with her grandparents at the age of five because getting high was much more important than a snot-nosed brat she couldn't love if she were ever capable of such an emotion.

The reality of the high price of being worshipped is much easier to ignore than to admit you're as shallow as they are. If you weren't, you wouldn't be practicing the cheers you've memorized by sitting in the front row at every football and basketball game. You wouldn't be telling yourself, Maybe next year I'll have enough guts to try out. You won't. You never will because you realize the likelihood of being bullied for trying to steal their identity. I mean, it's as much of an identity as the possibility of you becoming head cheerleader. You can dream all you want, but you simply weren't meant to be one of the chosen ones.

I don't tell you any of this to be a bitch. I’m the nicest damned person you've never met. I'm trying to save you from the mistake of thinking your social status in high school means anything after the moment you graduate.

This is my letter to the world that never wanted to listen: the remnants of my pain, depression, and weakness are branded onto the page you are reading right now. This note is not a cry for help but a notice to inform you that you are much too late to save me from my fate.

---

I'm invisible to you today because I'm finally free of the burden of a life dictated by perfection, a lack of substance, and a bible of expectations nobody understands. I was once a carbon copy of an army of beauty queens who came before me. My story starts at the end and finished before it could begin.

You might know me by name, but I'm going to introduce myself anyway. My name is Erica Cohen, and I've seen the looks, so you don't need to say a damned thing. Before school started, they were looks of disdain and jealousy, and they grew into looks of pity and alienation.

These two contrasting worlds were interestingly similar, though they might have looked different on the outside. When I was the popular girl, I was mysterious in a way that most of the girls around me were trying to figure out the beauty queen formula, as if I knew all the secrets to unlock the power of the universe. That life seemed like it had only been a dream once I stepped into senior year. Overnight, I morphed into a completely different person, according to her. Though, I'd been trying to show her for the past year that this is who I’d always been.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw the same young woman from years past. Even though, to the rest of the school, I’d morphed into a creature who threatened to destroy everything they hold dear in their meaningless high school life. If they listened to everything she said about me, they’d start to believe her. Many of them did.

We moved to Moore, Oklahoma, from Hayward, California, in 1984 when the company my father built from the ground up went bankrupt. If it was true or it wasn't, I didn’t know, and I had no opinion on it. I don't like speaking badly about someone after they've died, but I never minded repeating what people said about him. According to his business partner, my father embezzled millions of dollars from his automobile factory for ten years. Once they discovered the missing money, the company went from booming to destitute overnight. My father disappeared for a month, and we followed him all the way to an exciting suburban community outside of Oklahoma City, where we lived comfortably in the most expensive house in a ten-mile radius.

My first day of third grade was a massive culture shock. The elementary school I attended, East Hills Elementary School, was a fairly new school, housed in a yellow warehouse-looking building with a sizable playground that gave off the impression that it was aspiring to be a real school. It gave off this impression from the outside, and that concept was driven home once I stepped into my new school for the first time.

It was a maze of classrooms that were only separated by short partitions. Now, don't ask me why walls were less of a priority than a freaking playground, but I swear to God, I'm telling you the truth. By the end of the year, we did eventually have walls, so it wasn't horrible, but that wasn't the only reason I got off to a rough start in Oklahoma.

While none of my peers knew the reason why I'd landed there, they looked at me like I had the words I’m not from around here written on my forehead with a black permanent marker. It was a look derived from part disgust, part jealousy, and part fear of becoming one of whatever the hell I was. Everything about me was different: my hairstyle, clothing, shoes, the way I talked, and the cars my parents drove. My only saving grace was my next door neighbor, Cameron Hicks. We became fast friends the day I arrived in Oklahoma, and we were inseparable for many years. That is, until our first week of senior year when our friendship finally ended. She is the her I mentioned before.

Both my mother and father died in an automobile accident two weeks before the first day of my senior year. Immediately after their funerals, I broke into my father’s private office and worked to make sense of the legacy he may or may not have left me and my older brother, Jason. My brother warned me against snooping through Dad’s things, but with both of them gone forever, I felt like it was my responsibility to take care of the family left behind after their deaths. Jason wasn't willing to step up, so there was no other choice for me.

Most of what I found was either too boring to be important or too complicated for me to understand on my own. I found a tall stack of journals with an endless amount of random financial figures. Number after number, some of them were crossed out, all pointing to the same destination—nowhere. I built a sizable mountain of crap with these useless works of art, and I'd planned to put them in a box and store it in some dark place so they'd never see light again.

Next, my attention was drawn to the hundreds of books arranged strategically on the shelves that lined the walls of Dad’s office. My dad was a voracious reader and prized his book collection among most other things: business, marketing, real estate, self-help, history, science, philosophy, psychology, religion, and my personal favorite—the literary classics.

I'd personally touched each one of these classic titles in the past ten years we've lived here, although I'd never seen them arranged together in his library. No one, not even my mother, was allowed to touch the door to his office. The lock to the door secured his office with a custom combination lock that changed on a weekly basis. We'd never tried to break into his office, yet he was still paranoid his fortress would be disturbed by an uninvited set of eyes.

As I surveyed the classics lying on the shelves, I touched each one as I remembered the countless number of hours we'd spent having literary discussions about each book I'd finished reading. One of our mutual favorites was Fahrenheit 451. The moment I touched it, chills started at my fingertips and crawled the length of my entire body as I recalled talking to him about the importance of the written word.

Imagine how disappointing being alive would be if you had to memorize every piece of literature you wanted to cherish for the rest of your life. He always spoke with such intention and conviction when we discussed literature.

If you had to, what would be the one you'd memorize? I asked him one night. His answer was another tease, as usual. He never wanted to hand me the answers to anything easily.

While I think about my answer, will you promise to do something for me?

Of course, Daddy.

He smiled every time I called him Daddy. First, ask yourself why my answer is more important than yours. Come to me when you know, and I'm sure I'll have my answer by then.

I was distracted from strolling down the Ray Bradbury memory lane when I noticed a folded piece of paper placed carefully within the pages of the book. After I removed the book from its place on the shelf, I flipped through the pages and removed the note. I unfolded the note to reveal the most dangerous secret I might find in his office. I'm not yet ready to reveal my secret to the world, but what I can say is that I barely left Dad’s office for the next three days. And in those three days, I didn't speak one word into existence. Not to Jason. Not to Cam. (She grew out of her full name many years ago.) Not to my boyfriend, Taylor. And not even to myself.

On the fourth day, Jason threatened to get rid of all the books Dad and I bonded over because he knew they were at least as important to me as they were to our father. Did he know the secret? I asked myself. I couldn't find out the answer without admitting any of it could potentially be true, so I kept my mouth shut—at least, on that topic.

Fine, I said. You win. I have to go shopping for school soon anyway.

At least you won't be moping around here no more.

"Anymore."

What? Who cares?

Dad would have.

I didn’t know it yet, but the world was about to be set on fire. The people around me would notice a change, but I promise the only thing different about me was that I was no longer willing to pretend everything would always be all right. It was not always going to be as perfect as the rest of the world expected me to paint myself to be. The days of the beauty school formula were gone. As my dad might have said at this moment, The formula no longer reconciles.

Simon Cohen can’t speak for himself anymore. It’s only me, and I’ve got plenty to say.

2

The Philosophy of Perfection

Do you remember the first day of your senior year? Well, this is it, baby. It was the day I’d been planning for since my junior year ended. Well, since before my junior year ended. Ever since they named me head cheerleader in the middle of eleventh grade, I’d looked forward to that day because it was the beginning of the end of the high school facade. Until I became her , I felt pretty good about the young woman I’d become. Being a cheerleader wasn’t the worst thing in the world, regardless of how the rest of the school perceived me. Though, I think I was the only one of us who didn’t think we were the most important girls in school.

Red, white, and blue. When I stepped into the uniform, I still felt like the real Erica Cohen. I still stood about 5’7", had naturally curly black hair, and had light olive skin that wasn’t always the envy of my female peers. But that’s in my third-grade past. What I want the world to remember right now is that I didn’t allow cheerleader to make me feel like I lived any different than any other girl in my school. That is, not until the day I became their captain.

Earning the title itself was quite boring, but what happened internally was devastating. I knew I’d suddenly be expected to live and breathe perfection every waking (and sleeping) moment of the rest of my high school life. I wasn’t given a special uniform, jacket, trophy, or any award. The weight I carried, however, was much more substantial than anything you can touch.

Congratulations, E, Cam said. You're going to be great. Even though she stood right next to me, I could have seen through her strategically painted smile from a mile away. While her lips smiled, her eyes told a different story. They were empty and cold, as if I were looking into a mannequin.

I'm sorry. I voted for you, you know? At the end of our junior year, I started to question whether I still wanted to wear the uniform anymore. My dad had always pressured me into aiming for something more, something less superficial, but I rebelled against that pressure at every turn. After his death, I questioned why I held so tightly to that rebellion. Why had I really wanted to be a cheerleader?

I know, girl. And I voted for you. She didn't. On her best day, she wouldn't have voted for me. With everything we did, we were neck-and-neck. I was number one, and she was my number two. I don't say that because I felt like I was better than her, but I knew where we stood academically and socially because she made a point to mention it whenever she felt it was appropriate. It never was, but she did it anyway. To her, we’d always compete with each other. For the best hair. The prettiest face. The most money. The latest clothing styles. The hottest boyfriend. The best grades. And in her eyes, I'd taken the title of captain away from her. I had never been the type of person to measure these things, but she acted as though she kept a running tally of what ways she thought I was better than her. True friendship should never be a game, though. I loved her as if she were my blood sister, and I knew nothing could be won by framing things exactly as she had.

Cam had cheerleading coursing through her veins, and she thought I’d stolen that right from her. It’s quite possible I had done exactly that. I didn’t feel guilty about it, but it forced me to question why I still prized that uniform even more. Cheerleader was simply something I was because I memorized cheers, practiced tumbling and gymnastics, and I wasn’t afraid to climb to the top of the pyramid. Cam, however, wore that title like a crown. Her entire world hinged on wearing that uniform. As two girls who had grown as close as sisters, so many barriers stood between our hearts. I wanted something more meaningful in my life, and she never understood that could never be found within the walls of our high school. There was something more to experience outside of that uniform, but she always saw it as something less, something beneath her.

When our cheerleading coach made the final announcement, I forced myself to appear thankful, humble, and proud that I'd won yet another badge in the race to be the perfect beauty queen. I would have thrown it all away to be myself, though. In some ways, I did. I only wanted to be Erica Cohen, a seventeen-year-old girl who wanted to survive high school so her real life could begin already. It was a quiet moment, but inside, I screamed, Please. Set me free, I begged.

The one great thing about the secret I'm not quite ready to share with you yet is that it forced me to be the real me. It rendered me powerless to pretend I was anything beyond who I was meant to be—a human being. But it did more than that. It made me feel like less of one. Suddenly, with the stroke of a pen (or a piece of paper that was over a decade old), I had become a monster. I knew that was the way they would see me when they found out my secret. Let's not keep them waiting.

The morning of the first day of my last year of high school, I decided to rip the mask of perfection off. I didn't do it to make a point or to grab their attention, but I did it because I grew tired of being expected to be the epitome of perfection.

After the first day of third grade, I'd asked my mother through my tears, Mommy, what does it mean to be perfect?

What's wrong? What's happened? she asked. I didn't realize it at the time, but through the lens of my memories, I could see it caused her pain to see me like that. Her little girl was confused and in pain, trying to understand what millions of women have tried to achieve aesthetically since the dawn of civilization. My love, there is no such thing as perfection. But always remember—you are the most beautiful girl in the world to me.

To us, my dad echoed from behind her.

That was the first time I decided I never wanted to try to be anyone but who I was, but I also realized it would be a hard fight. Being a woman, even a young woman, was a burden we all understood but refused to recognize in others. I never wanted to take that for granted, so I became determined to celebrate beauty in the other girls I knew, even if they couldn't see it in themselves. Especially if they couldn't see it in themselves. I didn't understand back then the significance of that moment, but luckily, it carried me through for many years after.

What does it mean to be perfect? Does the concept of perfection exist? Being perfect, to me, means you work hard to be the most genuine version of yourself you can be. Outside of that, you can't control how others think you should be, act, or look. So many before me had destroyed themselves in their pursuit of perfection, but I guess nobody had ever told them such a