She says it with her nose and chin in the air. She gets all arrogant. And then I remember there are a bunch of anorexics who are PROUD to be skinny and starved freaks.
They think being anorexic makes them special, makes them better than everybody else.
They have their own fricking Web sites where they give advice on the best laxatives and stuff.
"What's the difference between bulimics and anorexics?" I ask.
"Anorexics are anorexics all the time," she says. "I'm only bulimic when I'm throwing up."
Wow.
SHE SOUNDS JUST LIKE MY DAD!
There are all kinds of addicts, I guess. We all have pain. And we all look for ways to
make the pain go away.
Penelope gorges on her pain and then throws it up and flushes it away. My dad drinks his pain away.
So I say to Penelope what I always say to Dad when drunk and depressed and ready to
give up on the world,
"Hey, Penelope," I say. "Don't give up."
Okay, so it's not the wisest advice in the world. It's actually kind of obvious and corny.
But Penelope starts crying, talking about how lonely she is, and how everybody thinks
her life is perfect because she's pretty and smart and popular, but that he's scared all the time, but nobody will let her be scared because she's pretty and smart and popular.
You notice that she mentioned her beauty, intelligence and popularity twice in one
sentence?
The girl has an ego.
But that's sexy, too.
How is it that a bulimic girl with vomit on her breath can suddenly be so sexy? Love and lust can make you go crazy.
I suddenly understand how my big sister, Mary, could have met a guy and married him
five minutes later. I'm not so mad at her for leaving us and moving to Montana.
Over the next few weeks, Penelope and I become the hot item at Reardan High School.
Well, okay, we're not exactly a romantic couple. We're more like friends with potential. But that's still cool.
Everybody is absolutely shocked that Penelope chose me to be her new friend. I'm not
some ugly, mutated beast. But I am an absolute stranger at the school.
And I am an Indian.
And Penelope's father, Earl, is a racist.
The first time I meet him, he said, "Kid, you better keep your hands out of my daughter's panties. She's only dating you because she knows it will piss me off. So I ain't going to get pissed.
And if I ain't pissed then she'll stop dating you. In the meantime, you just keep your trouser snake in your trousers mid I won't have to punch you in the stomach."
And then you know what he said to me after that?
"Kid, if you get my daughter pregnant, if you make some charcoal babies, I'm going to disown her. I'm going to kick her out of my house and you'll have to bring her home to your mommy and daddy. You hearing me straight, kid? This is hi on you now."
Yep, Earl was a real winner.
Okay, so Penelope and I became the hot topic because we were defying the great and
powerful Earl.
And, yeah, you're probably thinking that Penelope was dating me ONLY because I was
the worst possible choice for her.
She was probably dating me ONLY because I was an Indian boy.
And, okay, so she was only semi-dating me. We held hands once in a while and we
kissed once or twice, but that was it.
I don't know what I meant to her.
I think she was bored of being the prettiest, smartest, and most popular girl in the world.
She wanted to get a little crazy, you know? She wanted to get a little smudged.
And I was the smudge.
But, hey, I was kind of using her, too.
After all, I suddenly became popular.
Because Penelope had publicly declared that I was cute enough to ALMOST date, all of
the other girls in school decided that I was cute, too.
Because I got to hold hands with Penelope, and kiss her good-bye when she jumped on
the school bus to go home, all of the other boys in school decided that I was a major stud.
Even the teachers started paying more attention to me.
I was mysterious.
How did I, the dorky Indian guy, win a tiny piece of Penelope's heart?
What was my secret?
I looked and talked and dreamed and walked differently than everybody else.
I was new.
If you want to get all biological, then you'd have to say that I was an exciting addition to the Reardan gene pool.
So, okay, those are all the obvious reasons why Penelope I were friends. All the shallow reasons. But what about the bigger and better reasons?
"Arnold," she said one day after school, "I hate this little town. It's so small, too small.
Everything about it is small. The people here have small ideas. Small dreams. They all want to marry each other and live here forever."
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
"I want to leave as soon as I can. I think I was born with a suitcase."
Yeah, she talked like that. All big and goofy and dramatic. I wanted to make fun of her, but she was so earnest.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked.
"Everywhere. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China. I want to walk to the top of pyramids in Egypt. I want to swim in every ocean. I want to climb Mount Everest. I want to go on an African safari. I want to ride a dogsled in Antarctica. I want nil of it. Every single piece of everything."
Her eyes got this strange faraway look, like she'd been hypnotized.
I laughed.
"Don't laugh at me," she said.
"I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm laughing at your eyes."
"That's the whole problem," she said. "Nobody takes me seriously."
"Well, come on, it's kind of hard to take you seriously when you're talking about the Great Wall of China and Egypt and stuff. Those are just big goofy dreams. They're not real."
"They're real to me," she said.
"Why don't you quit talking in dreams and tell me what you really want to do with your life," I said. "Make it simple."
"I want to go to Stanford and study architecture."
"Wow, that's cool," I said. "But why architecture?"
"Because I want to build something beautiful. Because I want to be remembered."
And I couldn't make fun of her for that dream. It was my dream, too. And Indian boys
weren't supposed to dream like that. And white girls from small towns weren't supposed to dream big, either.
We were supposed to be happy with our limitations. But there was no way Penelope and I
were going to sit still. Nope, we both wanted to fly:
"You know," I said. "I think it's way cool that you want to travel the world. But you won't even make it halfway if you don't eat enough."
She was in pain and I loved her, sort of loved her, I guess, so I kind of had to love her pain, too.
Mostly I loved to look at her. I guess that's what boys do, light? And men. We look at
girls and women. We stare at them. And this is what I saw when I stared at Penelope:
Was it wrong to stare so much? Was it romantic at all? I don't know. But I couldn't help myself.
Maybe I don't know anything about romance, but I know a little bit about beauty.
And, man, Penelope was crazy beautiful.
Can you blame me for staring at her all day long?
Rowdy Gives Me Advice About Love
Have you ever watched a beautiful woman play volleyball?
Yesterday, during a game, Penelope was serving the ball and I watched her like she was a work of art.
She was wearing a white shirt and white shorts, and I could see the outlines of her white bra and white panties.
Her skin was pale white. Milky white. Cloud white.