Wannabe

By Alisha Mercier

Brook Kinsey has never felt comfortable in her own body, in her own family, at her private school, or telling people that she can see ghosts. She wishes she could be as carefree as her best friend, Stacy.

Everything changes when she transfers to public school, where she finds a new confidence in herself through a crew of skaters, especiall

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alisha Mercier
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990733411

Alisha Mercier

Alisha Mercier has a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from Antioch University. She lives and works in California with her spoiled chihuahua, Tiri, who drags her away from her writing to go on walks around the neighborhood and enjoy the fresh air. Wannabe is her first novel.

Book preview

Private School

The heavenly scents of salty, crisp bacon and thick, buttery pancakes reach my nose. My door slides open. Her perky face pops in. Morning, honey. Breakfast is on the table. And it’s time for school.

Her smiling face is what makes me realize this is only a dream. And it wakes me up.

Her? Smiling? At me? Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout Willis? I wish my days started like this, with a loving mother making me breakfast. But, reality, that’s a whole ‘nother Bazooka Joe. This is what She’s really like…

Richard Blade’s voice comes through the radio. That was the Clash, ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’...

Light floods my eyelids, followed by intense pressure on my temple. She shoves my head deep into the pillow.

Brook, get your lazy ass up!

I flinch, rubbing my face. Grandpa said-

Her breath catches. She turns her head almost imperceptibly.

The last thing I want to do is admit we have anything in common, but there it is, exactly like mine, a widow’s peak. I’m sure she’s forgotten now, but when I was little She told me seeing ghost runs in our family and a widow’s peak is a sign that you have the sight. She could see ghosts too, if she wanted, but drinking keeps them away.

She points menacingly, nostrils flared. My father died eleven years ago. Don’t give me that talking-to-dead-men bullshit. She leans in. If I come back here and your stupid ass is in this damn bed... She raises her fist. I flinch again, but She walks out.

My dream of waking up with my real family didn’t come true. Her name is on my birth certificate, but in my heart, I know I was switched at birth or adopted; there’s no way I came from that. She rolls out of bed beautiful; I just roll out of bed. My chunky belly means I didn’t get my perfect body either. Oh well. I turn off the radio, throw off the covers. The uniform’s on the floor, so I can step into the too-tight-too-short plaid skirt. I’ll have to lay back down to zip up. Nine hours every day, cutting off my circulation. There’s a purple bruise tattooed around my waist. The shirt hangs over my bedpost. Don’t get me started. Spots that never come out and so tight my arms spill out the bottom. Seams pop every time I move. Fabric pulls open at the buttons, barely holding in my colossal boobs. Anyone can see whichever big ol’ granny bra I wear. I hate these stupid ties too. One size fits all. Lie! I mean really what am I, a Bible salesman?

Time to face the mirror. Five foot four: as tall as most of the boys. Brown, almond shaped eyes, chubby cheeks, and small button nose. I guess my nose is the only small, cute thing on my body. People tell me I have a beautiful smile, but my lips are too thin. My hand covers the face in the mirror. That’s the least of my problems.

There isn’t one thing I like about what I see. I’m 15. I should be loving life and having fun, but my body wasn’t built for fun. It was built for humiliation. Pale, yellowish skin. Perm-frizzy short brown hair that hasn’t grown out from the last haircut I was forced to get. Private school uniforms don’t flatter anyone, especially me. There’s definitely no cute clothes in my near future, just boring ‘women’s wear,’ or men’s jeans.

Her perfect body comes into view. Eyes like hellfire. Ten minutes. Her hair whips back as she leaves. No further explanation needed.

Before I kneel in front of my dresser, I make sure the coast is clear. A rush of excitement washes over me as I pull the drawer open, remove a layer of socks, and expose four Tupperware containers.

My senses anticipate the intoxicating smell, texture, and taste of chocolate, caramel, peanut butter, and nougat. My mouth waters. I long to run my fingers along each of the 36 ridges and valleys in the lids’ sunburst design.

I try to ration it out, make’em last. Try to, anyway.

She jingles her keys at the door.

A blue Pixy Stix catches my eye. The paper straw rips open easily. I tip the contents onto my tongue; taste buds revel in sweet and sour. The candy dust turns to liquid. I savor the precious seconds of this sugar rush.

I grab Snickers, two Starbursts, a pack of Pop Rocks, socks, black Vans, and head for the living room to snatch my Sesame Street lunchbox. It adds an extra target to my back but it came from my best friend, Stacy, so I don’t care. Stacy is confident no matter what anyone says. Punk, from her jet black dyed hair, multiple pierced ears, hole-riddled stockings to pink and black skull Vans. A total badass and I love that she’s my best friend. I wish I could put some of her confidence in my Tupperware to use when I need it. But for now, I’ll do something with my hair at school. Flatten and straighten my uniform where I can. That’s the best I can do.

We walk to the car, a 1970 280 SL Mercedes ragtop convertible, black with leather interior. Her pride and joy. It makes me sad to know I’ll never mean as much to her as this car. The last piece of our old lives, with Dad. The weight of my backpack in my lap is a barrier protecting me. Something to hold onto, watching the world go by outside the window.

She pulls up to the school’s main gate, hoping there’s an audience for my poor time management skills. Luckily, there aren’t many kids. I squeeze my backpack tight against my pillowy arms, even though the pressure is a strain on the sleeves.

She knows I watch her and refuses to look at me, but smiles at everyone outside. In a nauseatingly sweet voice, Have a super day.

I get out.

She drives off.

2

I’m a steaming pile of manure fresh off Bandini Mountain. Only two weeks ‘til summer and the YMCA. I can do this.

I ignore the other kids, open my backpack, and push past this month’s Thrasher to grab my black hooded Van’s sweatshirt along with the red school one. My hair is a frizzy nightmare that barely squeezes into the small hood, but I quickly force them both on.

The gate opens.

Liam, who will always be the new boy in class at this tiny, cliquey school, approaches, his little brother Finn in tow. Hey Brook.

Nice sweatshirt, Finn squeaks out.

I stuff the last strands of hair into my hood. Thanks, shrimp boat.

He blushes, but Liam puffs out his chest. He’s almost as tall as me.

Finn clears his throat. You going ice skating Friday, Brook?

For sure. Why? You want to couple skate? Eye roll, as if.

That’s exactly what he wants. He’s crushin’ on you bad. Liam nudges his brother in the ribs. Aren’t you, Finnie?

Finn’s cheeks look like a paper towel soaked in fruit punch Kool-Aid. Shut up. He smacks his brother and puts his fist up to block any retaliation.

You’re a jerk, Liam.

What? It’s true. Liam shoves his brother. In true little brother fashion Finn quickly steadies himself.

Great, if I ever become a cradle-robbing-shrimp-boat-lover, I’ll know who to call. Thanks, but no thanks. I’m saving myself for Jake Ryan. I shake my head. Like I have a chance. Molly Ringwald couldn’t even get him in real life.

He shrugs. You finish the math? He holds up his Pee Chee folder.

Rat fart, there’s homework to finish?

Me either. Liam smiles. Hey, where’s Stacy?

Uh, not here yet? Will anyone ever ask about me like that?

Thanks, Captain Obvious. His friend Stephen shows up. See ya.

Later. Liam takes off.

So, Brook, Finn gives a small cough, maybe I’ll see you at the rink?

I pull on my backpack but stop to really look at him. With those green eyes and that strawberry-blond hair, hmmm...If he was taller… Wait, what am I thinking? No offense kid, but give me a few years, I raise my hand above his head, and a few feet before you ask me out. I ruffle his hair playfully but snatch it back when I see his hopeful smile. Dang, I’ve got homework. So, see ya. I bolt before he can pencil me in his calendar.

The school’s like Little House on the Prairie. Everything’s in this one-story brick building. Only difference: we have a teacher for each grade, they had one, total. Half the teachers are stay-at-home moms with too much time on their hands. They hang around sucking up to church officials but treat us like babies. Seriously, spelling bees in the eighth grade? They’d give us naptime if they could. The office workers: ‘stay-at-home mom clique, part two.’ I wish I had a clique, but life didn’t work out that way.

I never complain to Her; She thinks she’ll find a ‘suitable’ husband here. ‘Do you know how lucky you are?’ or ‘Do you know how much it costs me to send you to that school?’ Yeah, I’m so lucky. Like any of this is for me, as if. At least I have Stacy, if she’d ever get here.

The cure for my loneliness is easy to grab: a thin rectangle. Red letters stand out brightly on the black packet of Pop Rocks. My punk candy. I rip the foil package in half, throw back the neon red dust and crystalline nuggets, but never close my mouth. I love the popping, sizzling and crackling sounds that fire off, like bacon frying. Mmm…bacon. The dust slowly turns liquid; the action starts to fizzle out. The strawberry sweetness drizzles down my throat. I lean back and let the sugar buzz take me over.

The bell rings.

I head down the hall. Good thing about a small school, no matter where you’re coming from, you’ll never be late to class.

In neat rows, we sit in alphabetical order. I’m the last K, so there’s nothing between Satan’s bride herself, Colleen McCarr, and me. For a bonus torture, the chairs have built in desks that are snug against my belly.

Colleen leans forward and whispers. Nice hair, tubby.

I pretend to ignore her because any retaliation from me eggs her on to say worse. I’ll dip into my stash as soon as she looks away. I wave at my best friend for now. Stacy’s desk is way across the room but her confident, friendly face still pulls a smile out of me, even though I’m totally dreading the spelling test today; it’s my worst subject. I slump in the chair and hope the bell rings before Mrs. Taylor gets to me. The mortification is piled on with the prospect of standing in front of the class and getting it wrong. I’d rather be adopted by Colleen’s family and share her room. The candy in my stomach threatens to return.

Good morning, class. Mrs. Taylor’s all business. Children, rise and place your right hand over your heart.

I fight the urge to do the robot; instead I stand with the other mechanical children. I realize everyone else is using their other hand and switch.

Ok, let’s get started. She pulls out the roster and spelling list.

Please, please, please let the bell ring before she calls me. No such luck. I get the easiest word, budge, and I still spell it wrong and of course Colleen’s there to cheer me up. I mean Colleen’s there to call me stupid and laugh at me. The worst part is I knew the word. I just lost it with all of those eyes on me.

Stacy’s there with a smile that tells me everything’s okay. I mouth ‘Thanks’, she motions for me to keep my chin up, then I let my mind wander for the rest of the morning until the lunch bell shakes me back to reality. The room is alive with the sounds of chairs screeching across the floor and sneakers scuffing. Students trying to be first out the door. Stacy always saves me a seat so I don’t have to hurry.

Colleen’s shoes appear at my side, then a pencil hits the floor next to me. Her face inches from mine. I bet you can spell lunch. Can’t you, fatty? She snatches the pencil and walks away.

Bitch! I grab the lunchbox. My most prized possession, a second-hand gift from Stacy. She knows I’m a total dork and loves me anyway. What more could I ask for in a best friend?

This school packs us in like Vlasic pickles. Even out in the open, I feel claustrophobic. Surrounded by cookie-cutter white kids, with their Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood families. My address doesn’t fit this picture. She’d like me to believe they’d get out pitchforks if anyone found out I’m bi-racial, too. She’s wrong. Stacy knows and doesn’t care. My candy coated treasures call to me but I see Stacy at our spot that overlooks the freeway and head over.

She leans in, whispering. Anyone joining us?

I smile and shake my head. Just us. Stacy gives me what I need most, unconditional acceptance.

Stacy has a perfect widow’s peak. The only feature we have in common. It’s also a sign that she could see ghosts too. Some people, like Stacy, stop seeing them as they grow up; at least that’s what She said. Although Stacy can’t see or speak to ghosts anymore, she believes that I still can. I love her for a lot of things, but especially that.

I feel weird picking my nose or butt because someone might be watching. Ya know?

I giggle. Trust me, your sister’s got better things to do than watch us.

Remember when she tried to take her silver locket back?

Remember the freakiest sleepover ever? Uh, yeah. It was only a month after Sage died.

•••

Where is it? I was woken up by the sounds of things fallin, drawers whipped open and closed. I know you have it.

What are you doing? The voice threw me at first. Sage?

What the hell? Stacy popped out of the covers.

It’s mine, you little creep. Sage’s voice was as frantic as her face. Clothes fell to the floor with Stacy’s tapes.

It’s your sister. She’s looking for something. Sage looked and sounded just like she did when she was alive. It took me a second to remember she was dead.

Stacy clutched her throat, then pulled out a chain with a silver locket from her pajama top. This?

Keep your paws off my stuff, Wasteoid! Her emaciated body looked vulnerable, innocent. She tried so hard to give off ‘scary’ vibes, but only managed ‘crabby older sister’. Brown hair tucked behind one ear, frosted pink lips, track marks peeking out of her sleeve. You didn’t even ask. Sage was determined not to look at me, but I saw in every crinkle on her forehead how hard it was for her to watch Stacy, her new younger sister, soak up all of their parents’ attention that used to belong to her.

I nodded. She wants you to ask her for it.

Stacy rolled her eyes. Fine. Sage, even though you can’t really stop me, can I have your stupid locket?

Oh, I can’t? Sage pushed her fingers into Stacy’s forehead, giving her a brain freeze.

Stacy flinched so bad, it looked like a seizure. Don’t touch me. She shivered and rubbed her forehead. Sorry Sage, I just wanted something of yours, you know…to remember. She frantically searched for the sister she couldn’t see. So, can I please have your locket? Held the blanket like a shield. I’ll take good care of it.

Sage collapsed onto the bed. Stacy’s breath caught at the depression beside her. Stacy, don’t be like me. Mom and Dad are good people. Be nice to them. You’re stronger than me. You never do things to fit in. You do what you want and people love that about you. I love that about you. She ran a hand down Stacy’s face, gave her shivers. Don’t get sad and give up like I did.

Grandpa’s the only person who loves me like this. Tears dripped down my nose.

What? Stacy moved carefully away from the indent. Brook, what’s she saying?

She loves you and wants you to keep being yourself.

Stacy laughed nervously. Well, duh.

Sage smacked her thigh playfully. Stacy shivered. Don’t be a smartass. I’ll be watching you. Don’t make me freeze your brain.

She’s gonna keep an eye on you. I smiled at how brave Stacy was with all of this.

Brook, tell Stacy my locket looks good on her. She was gone.

I wish I could’ve seen her. Stacy held the locket tightly to her chest with one hand and grabbed me with the other. Tell me everything she said. Don’t leave anything out.

Every word.

Stacy needed to know how much her sister loved her. I was glad I could help.

•••

Where did you just go, Brook? Stacy opens her lunch bag but looks up. What’s up?

I’m just glad we’re friends.

Of course, we’ve bonded over our crazy families.

Your sister was skinny. Even though she would’ve robbed her blind, She’d still love Sage more than me. You know her motto. You can never be too rich or too skinny.

Don’t say that.

What? It’s the truth. Cliche or not, the truth fucking hurts. I take a Starburst out of my backpack and pop it in my mouth before considering my lunch.

You don’t have to change anything for her. Anyway, I love you, right now, as you are, forever. Who cares about your mom? She looks at me suspiciously. Is that all?

I look down at the freeway. I’d rather be down there in one of those cars speeding off to my happy ending than stuck here waiting for the next blow or humiliation from Her or Colleen. I grab another Starburst and let the fruity sweetness take it all away.

What’s bothering you? Stacy puts her hand on my arm. Colleen or your mom?

Both, I admit.

Your mom’s a bitch and I told you what Colleen’s deal is. Her parents were addicts just like yours, but they gave her away. She’s just jealous.

About what? I wish someone would adopt me. She’s the lucky one.

Stacy shrugs her shoulders. Maybe it’s that you have a personality and she doesn’t. Anyway, you’re the lucky one. You’ve got me. What’s on the menu?

I genuinely smile and open the latch. She gets me like no one else. My famous turkey avocado BLT, chips and a Pepsi. You?

She frowns. Mom’s on one of her health kicks.

We can share.

Thanks. We’re on for the rink Friday, right?

As long as… I look inside the lunchbox, see what’s replaced my lunch. My stomach boils with rage. That bitch. I quickly try to close the box before anyone looks over.

Stacy reaches out to me. Chill, she’ll let you-

I can’t believe Her.

What? I hand her the note. She gasps. That lady is seriously twisted.

You don’t have to live with her.

No thanks. What else is in there? Before I can answer, Colleen walks over.

What’s wrong, lezbos?

Stacy stands up with the note.

If Colleen doesn’t get a response from me she’ll leave. I slowly pull the box closer; hopefully she won’t notice. No such luck. Colleen grabs the note out of Stacy’s hand and knocks the lunchbox to the ground. When it hits, a can of Slim Fast rolls out, followed by a small packet of Weight Watchers dried apples. Colleen starts to laugh as she reads the note. Stacy mouths ‘Sorry’, but it’s too late. I try to get the note back.

Colleen jumps onto the nearest bench, reads aloud as she dances out of my reach. You would be so pretty if you just lost a few pounds. Love, Mom.

There’s an intense heat coming off my face. I ball up my fists and bite down so hard my teeth might break. My eyes are narrowed to slits. I try to pull a Carrie on Colleen. It doesn’t work.

She doubles over laughing; one of her friends picks up the Slim Fast to show everyone. Colleen wipes away a tear. I can’t believe I never thought of this. Maybe because I don’t think you’d ever be pretty. Even if you lost a hundred pounds.

My body shakes more with every word. I don’t realize that I’ve grabbed the lunchbox until it’s swinging full force towards her bent-over body.

She has no time to react, only to stand there and take the hit. Colleen’s eyes bug out of their sockets as her mouth fills with blood. I take a mental Polaroid to laugh at later. The lunchbox smashes out a few teeth as she loses her balance and falls backwards off of the bench. It’s a beautiful sight. Colleen’s arms flailing, skirt going up revealing her Snoopy underwear. The entire yard erupts in laughter, cheers from Stacy, sounds of shocked teachers-

That part doesn’t happen. I wish I had the nerve.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

What really happens is, I cry. Colleen and her stupid friend get detention. The lunchbox that used to remind me of Stacy goes in the trash. I have two Big Macs with grandpa on the way home.

3

I keep money for emergencies like today. Call it a restocking fund. All three gas station cashiers on Centinela and La Cienega know my name but the coolest by far is Babu at Mi-T Mart. He lets me stock up on credit and pay when I get my allowance. Today’s options, for the green container: Snickers, Reese’s Peanut butter cups, M&M’s (plain and peanut), Charleston Chews or Kit Kats. Each one is held in my hand before the final decision. I examine the lettering on the wrappers. Feel the weight in my hand. Sniff each package and imagine its luxurious aroma. I lay a Snickers and plain M&Ms next to me.

The orange container gives an explosion of artificial sweetness from Fruit Stripe Gum. The zebra smiles as cherry, grape, lime and orange ooze into the air. I place a pack on the pile with cotton candy scented pieces of Bazooka.

The first yellow container is a collection of Jolly Rancher sticks: green apple, watermelon and pink lemonade. I sort through them like a DJ through LPs; each flavor its own genre of music, used to soothe my moods. Today’s a cherry kind of day.

The last container will hold random candies for quick bursts of relief. A kaleidoscope of colors and flavors from: Bit O’ Honey, Starbursts, Pop Rocks, root beer barrels, Pixy Stix, to Boston Baked Beans. A pack of Pop Rocks, three Pixy Stix, and a handful of Starbursts complete the pile I lovingly pour onto the counter to pay.

Babu sweeps the pile into a paper bag. Bad day?

The worst. I hand him my cash.

We’ll settle up at the end of next week. Maybe he senses my depression or I’m his best customer. He throws in a box of Nerds with a wink.

Thanks, Babu.