It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections From a Terminally Optomistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor Page A
Authors: Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
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permeated the vinyl seats from our springer spaniel, Louie, and our Alaskan malamute, Conan—the smell still clinging to my clothes in the morning.
When I arrived at the shelter, I was an odd sight. Apparently it’s not the norm for parents to pull up and drop their kid off like the shelter is some sort of day care for teens and not a crisis center for kids scooped off the streets. No wonder I got the evil stare from the group of runaways, which could just as easily been the touring company of Oliver or Annie. It didn’t help my cause that I was wearing a spiffy new red mini-skirt and matching blouse with a sailor’s knot at the neck, a present from my biological father’s wife. I must’ve looked like a slightly more ethnic Shirley Temple with a major chip on her shoulder. The way people were looking at me, I’m sure they thought I was about to break into a rendition of “Good Ship Lollipop” and blow everyone kisses before my sign-in was complete. God, I hoped they had MTV. I had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to be making friends.
Once my mother drove off, I was shown to my room by the director of the program, a kind, obese black woman named Gladys. I was led through the family room, where a couple of boys, Chris and Jeremy, were sitting around playing cards and reading comic books. Chris looked up and gave me a “hey.” And Jeremy, with long, dark, stringy hair and an earring, didn’t even look up. I immediately considered him a person of interest.
We had to walk up a short flight of stairs to get to the bedrooms, and Gladys seemed out of breath by the time we made it up to the top. I had a twin bed with a musty, faded bedspread and a lumpy pillow that looked like it was made out of some kind of cheap foam padding. On the other twin bed in the room sat my new roommate.
“This is Tammy. You’ll be sharing a room with her. Get settled in and then come downstairs, and in the meantime, I’ll get you set up on the chores sheet.” Chores sheet? Wow, things just kept getting better. While I put the blanket and pillowcase on my bed which had been left folded on top, Tammy introduced herself.
“I’m a prostitute,” she said as casually as if she was telling me her astrological sign.
“Oh?” I tried not to look shocked. The girl couldn’t have been older than fourteen. She wasn’t even wearing fishnets—just no-label jeans and an old ratty sweatshirt that looked like she may have found it in the trash. Prostitution seemed so out of my realm. I tried to figure out how to respond, but it turned out a response wasn’t necessary. This one was a talker.
“My boyfriend, Zeke, was my pimp, but I couldn’t stand it anymore so I took off and now he’s coming after me. He’s threatened to bomb the place. He totally wants me dead. I don’t have pass privileges because he may be waiting outside. So if you go to the store, can you get me some BBQ chips and a Kit Kat bar? I could totally use a sugar fix.” While she talked, she poked through my belongings and stopped suddenly, holding up a periwinkle angora sweater with flared sleeves. “Fuck me running! Where you get this? It’s wicked gorgeous!”
“My grandmother bought it for me at Macy’s when I went to visit her in New York.”
I hadn’t shared a room with anyone in years, especiallya prostitute on the run from her pimp. It made me nervous, but I tried to be cool. “My mom’s a bitch. And my stepfather hates me.”
“Really?” Tammy perked up. “My mother’s asshole boyfriend raped me so I took off. Stole his dog, too. But Zeke has him now.” Jesus. It wasn’t a “whose life sucks worse?” competition, yet I was already feeling like a fraud. On the other hand, I was here, so somewhere things had veered way off track for both of us.
I had to pee, so Tammy showed me to the bathroom we’d be sharing. On the sink was a huge can of Aqua Net, a clear Ziploc bag full of drugstore makeup, and about nine bottles of prescription medication
When I arrived at the shelter, I was an odd sight. Apparently it’s not the norm for parents to pull up and drop their kid off like the shelter is some sort of day care for teens and not a crisis center for kids scooped off the streets. No wonder I got the evil stare from the group of runaways, which could just as easily been the touring company of Oliver or Annie. It didn’t help my cause that I was wearing a spiffy new red mini-skirt and matching blouse with a sailor’s knot at the neck, a present from my biological father’s wife. I must’ve looked like a slightly more ethnic Shirley Temple with a major chip on her shoulder. The way people were looking at me, I’m sure they thought I was about to break into a rendition of “Good Ship Lollipop” and blow everyone kisses before my sign-in was complete. God, I hoped they had MTV. I had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to be making friends.
Once my mother drove off, I was shown to my room by the director of the program, a kind, obese black woman named Gladys. I was led through the family room, where a couple of boys, Chris and Jeremy, were sitting around playing cards and reading comic books. Chris looked up and gave me a “hey.” And Jeremy, with long, dark, stringy hair and an earring, didn’t even look up. I immediately considered him a person of interest.
We had to walk up a short flight of stairs to get to the bedrooms, and Gladys seemed out of breath by the time we made it up to the top. I had a twin bed with a musty, faded bedspread and a lumpy pillow that looked like it was made out of some kind of cheap foam padding. On the other twin bed in the room sat my new roommate.
“This is Tammy. You’ll be sharing a room with her. Get settled in and then come downstairs, and in the meantime, I’ll get you set up on the chores sheet.” Chores sheet? Wow, things just kept getting better. While I put the blanket and pillowcase on my bed which had been left folded on top, Tammy introduced herself.
“I’m a prostitute,” she said as casually as if she was telling me her astrological sign.
“Oh?” I tried not to look shocked. The girl couldn’t have been older than fourteen. She wasn’t even wearing fishnets—just no-label jeans and an old ratty sweatshirt that looked like she may have found it in the trash. Prostitution seemed so out of my realm. I tried to figure out how to respond, but it turned out a response wasn’t necessary. This one was a talker.
“My boyfriend, Zeke, was my pimp, but I couldn’t stand it anymore so I took off and now he’s coming after me. He’s threatened to bomb the place. He totally wants me dead. I don’t have pass privileges because he may be waiting outside. So if you go to the store, can you get me some BBQ chips and a Kit Kat bar? I could totally use a sugar fix.” While she talked, she poked through my belongings and stopped suddenly, holding up a periwinkle angora sweater with flared sleeves. “Fuck me running! Where you get this? It’s wicked gorgeous!”
“My grandmother bought it for me at Macy’s when I went to visit her in New York.”
I hadn’t shared a room with anyone in years, especiallya prostitute on the run from her pimp. It made me nervous, but I tried to be cool. “My mom’s a bitch. And my stepfather hates me.”
“Really?” Tammy perked up. “My mother’s asshole boyfriend raped me so I took off. Stole his dog, too. But Zeke has him now.” Jesus. It wasn’t a “whose life sucks worse?” competition, yet I was already feeling like a fraud. On the other hand, I was here, so somewhere things had veered way off track for both of us.
I had to pee, so Tammy showed me to the bathroom we’d be sharing. On the sink was a huge can of Aqua Net, a clear Ziploc bag full of drugstore makeup, and about nine bottles of prescription medication
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