Somewhere there is a Perfect Girl...

Some where in the world lives a girl with a perfect life? She is beautiful with golden hair and a sexy smile. A heart of gold that extends to all those around her. A mother who is her best pal even during the tough times as they shared meaningful chats. Always having that one best friend too who knew all her secrets but never disclosed them to anyone. All the girls wanted her life while the guys all wish to be a part of it. The only man that shined in her eyes was her father though. He is one of those tough but lovable guys. Having set the bar so high no guy really had a shot at her heart; she would date the popular jock or court the cute class president but they never went beyond small kisses. She was above caving to boys needs, right? Of course she was always a Daddy's girl. He made sure the money flowed in to the house while that great mother would sort out the home life. Bake sales, car washes, Girl Scouts, P.T.A. meetings and parent teacher night she always showed up; perfect in her own right with smiles and praises from all. That girl had some life. Growing up with the prettiest dresses and shinny hair ribbons always in place. Then entering puberty without so much as a pimple and sprouting a perfect figure to go with her perfect life. Just look at the year books, you'll find her. Year after year her face only grows more beautiful; while the rest of us had fuzzy hair and bloated zits to prove we survived another year at school. She might have been a cheerleader or just the "it" girl but you'll remember her. You know that one girl who you wanted to be, the one you wanted to hate? Of course you couldn't she didn't have any faults, not even one.

Well I am not that girl by any comparison.

If I had her family I like to think I would have been different. My mother was that embarrassing woman at the parent teacher meetings. Always being too loud an overly concerned with my grades for show. Her clothes never seemed to pair up either; while the perfect moms wore dark denim and neatly tucked in shirts she showed up in daisy dukes and tank tops. Still sporting that eighties puffed out rocker perm and deep brown tan she demanded attention. She said the tan hid her cellulite but it didn't. Her once perky breast past their prime now, sagging sadly without a bra for support. That bright blue eye shadow must have been made in 1989 because I have never seen it on any store shelf. I know retro is back but its not retro if you never stopped wearing it for the past twenty years. Before the night would end she would become touchy with the male teachers. Maybe it was from the one two many drinks or valiums before entering the door. I don't know but if the floor could open up and swallow me whole I wished it would have.

She was a gem compared to my darling daddy though. He never bothered to show up at all but that was probably a blessing. Driving trucks for a living kept him away from home. To be honest his girlfriends took up most of his time as well as our money. He was tall and lanky at one time but now he sported a beer gut and slightly hunched over. A beer was never to far from his hand. When he was drunk he appeared somewhat normal but catch him sober and all hell would break out. So by the end of the day he was shaking from the urge to slip into a can of Budweiser and his temper would flare. I made the mistake of getting in his way a few times but I learned by the age of five or so when to lay low. Mom still hadn't learned her lesson. It always started the same way.

"Wilma Jean! Where the hell is my beer?" A simple enough question but hard to answer when you have two drunks refusing to recall the night before. She would cuss at him with no particular strategy.  "You bastard..." her voice slurred regularly mixing with our southern draw. Something glass would break. Then the screaming would start and my head would bury under a pillow. Eventually he would hit her though she was not always so innocent. She had blacked his eyes many times as well. "Dallas I hope they lock you under the jail this time!" Then the police usually showed up making us the talk of the neighborhood.

Mom would be half dressed hanging to Dad as the police drug him across the yard. His cussing and fighting blending with her shouts of innocence and pleas for forgiveness. We lost our last two apartments because of these little episodes. A two bedroom trailer wasn't my ideal home but I take what I can get. At least the social services had not come out the last few fights. I had been placed in a foster home when I was twelve for three months. Mom went to parenting classes and a psychologist while Dad checked into a thirty day alcohol rehab to get the judge to give me back. A lot of good that did! The shrink the state paid for Mom to see wrote her the valium for the anxiety. Now for about a week ever month she went on a drunken valium mixed vacation. The rest of the time Dad's pain meds for his back slowly disappeared from the bottle. Again she would accuse him of taking them while being drunk and we would end up back where we started.

Now that I was fifteen I managed to survive. It had been hard when I was younger but you can grow use to anything after awhile. What's that called when a prisoner feels for the kidnapper? Stockholm's syndrome or something another; I think I have that. I loved those two self destructing people for some reason. Deep down I knew I was just a mistake made by two people parting one night that ended in a bitter marriage. Hell, they told me that often enough. Mom would cry on my shoulder with problems no kid should hear about. How dad was screwing a waitress or a whore. Yeah our rent money often disappeared for sexual favors. The prostitutes that worked the truck stops were called "lot lizards". Dad would apologize and she would welcome him and his pills home.

Don't get me wrong Wilma Jean was full of useful information as well. Like, "you're getting to fat...someone will marry you if you shake your ass hard enough ...are you deaf or just stupid like your dad..." I loved all her advice it was so motherly. Maybe it was her screwed up view of the world or the way she acted but I stopped having friends. The embarrassing episodes that played out at my house didn't exactly scream for an audience.

When I was about thirteen and we still lived in the government apartments I had a few people who were living similar lives around. None of us exactly had it easy there. A boy named Tony had played basket ball with me on the run down court. Like us he didn't have much but he was nice. We had been friends all summer until Mom came in and opened her big mouth. We sat on the couch watching music videos one evening when she came stumbling into the living room. With a rum and coke in her hand she asked the single most embarrassing question I had ever heard. "Do you need on the pill you look like your old enough to start screwing?" Tony had been mortified and we never spoke after that day. We lost the apartment when Dad's arrest record showed up, can't have a felony and live for free. We started bouncing around from place to place falling into our routine; paying a deposit and first months rent then waiting on the eviction notice. Sometimes if we were lucky we could last about six months in a place unless the electric got shut off first.

So a few months ago we arrived here in the "Bayside Trailer Court". There were no bay or court just about forty mobile homes in need of repair. A paved road separated the two lanes of homes each with their own patch of grass. The government paid most of our rent on some assistance program now. Mom had signed up on food stamps and welfare while Dad was in jail and conveniently forgot to mention he was home now. So as long as I hid the debit cards we could cover the electric and I could buy groceries. That was a new shame I had; purchasing food with that brightly colored card that screamed I'm poor. The clerks at the small grocery down the road seemed use to them though. It was either use it or let ourselves starve. Been there, done that, and don't plan on doing it again.

I felt very much like the parent in my home. Mom never cooked or cleaned; she just made cereal and shoved clothes in the washer when we had one. When we moved in I was so happy to have a dryer washer set. It meant no more lugging the dirty clothes to the community laundry mate or not being able to if we were broke. More than a few girls had turned their noses up at my two or three day old jeans at the other school. Wilma Jean had given one decent piece of advice to me that ran in my mind when those snotty bitches were laughing. "Don't ever make buddies with a bitch! All any woman does is store up bits and pieces of your shit to throw back in your face honey...They only want to use you for what they can take and that's surly your man!" Of course I had been maybe twelve at the time, no boy friend, and she was puking off the back steps but it stuck with me. Women were evil and not to be trusted. Just look at her, look at my Dad's girlfriends, and hell look at those smutty lot lizards. All any one of them wanted was what was best for themselves and only themselves. I had no need for those people in my life.

This place was a new start though. Long View High was on the other side of the county and no one knew me or who my parents were yet. Being a sophomore meant I didn't have to deal with the freshman nerves but still I dreaded tomorrow. Over the years I had adapted to changing schools and learned how to blend into the surroundings. Eventually though some smart ass bully would pick on me or a snotty cow would laugh at me but I would let it slide off my back now. Push forward, forget them, and most importantly remember high school ends in three more years.

With no clue as to where I was going I knew I would flee this god forsaken state. New York, L.A. or any big city would do, I would not live here. Study hard and focus on a college was my new plan. Get a scholarship or my ticket out of hell as I thought of it. If not I was doomed to marry a 'good ole boy' who probably would drink too much and slap me around. Life revolved in patterns and my parents had set a pretty screwed up circle for me to follow.

The heat was suffocating in that tin box without air conditioning but I prepared for bed. My eyes drifted shut that night to the sounds of country music playing from a nearby trailer and the frequent curses of another neighbor. It felt like home.