Chapter 15
Yasmin, Aunty Mabel and The Jem Effect
Ellis
"No way," Astrid's eyes bulged out of its sockets.
"I know."
"Holy shit," spluttered Calista on the bagel she was currently enjoying. Even though I disapproved of her potty mouth and her affinity of swearing like a sailor, I had to agree that her choice of words could not have been more formally and wholly appropriate.
"I know."
"You've become taller."
"I know."
"Is that even possible?" Astrid looked at Calista for any evidence.
"I don't know." I stared at the mirror like the person standing in front of me wasn't me. My reflection hasn't changed, except for the fact that I've bumped up two inches. I called Calista and Astrid to share the joyous news and they didn't believe it until they arrived at my house for legitimate evidence.
"At least you won't slap Jem for saying you look like a twelve-year-old anymore," Calista tried- a valiant attempt at a compliment, considering...well, Calista.
It was an ordinary Sunday with Astrid lying on my bed and Calista by the window ledge, eating her bagel and jutting grey smoke out past the window from her cigarette like a chimney because there was no way in Hell, she was getting rancid cigarette smell on my brand new Egyptian cotton sheets. Yesterday, after Jem and I split the tiramisu (terrible, terrible mistake on both of our accounts), we took a McDonalds' run and chowed on globalised consumeristic albeit sinfully delicious cheeseburgers and Jem dropped me off at my house before gunning the engine into the night. The party guests had left by the time I was home but neither Paige or Dad noticed or cared I was home. The afternoon and dinner we had were etched in my mind the whole night, refusing to go away. Even at the adversity of my Business Studies concluding paragraph.
Astrid cleared her throat, diffusion our speechless daydreams. "Other than your height, I need help in differential equations. I don't get-"
Knock. Knock.
"Put it out!" I hissed at Calista.
Calista was abysmally confused: "But Lula's fine with me smoking."
"It could be my Aunt!"
"Oh, is the bitch you were-"
"Calista!" Astrid and I whisper-screamed. With the ammunition of pillows Astrid was armed with, she chucked a pillow at the place where it would hurt the most: Calista's blindingly blonde head.
"Ow!" Calista yelped, rubbing her head before glaring at Astrid, "Jesus, what have they been feeding you, anorexic cheerleaders? Steroids?"
"Before I rip you apart, Calista!"
"Okay, okay-" Calista hastily disposed the cigarette out the window, despite the alarming plausibility of the cigarette sparking Lulu's hard work of hydrangeas and poppies into a fire, and solemnly acknowledged the death of her cigarette: "What a perfectly good waste of nicotine."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Coming," I called out, faking despondency, and fumbling for an excuse; "I'm just...uh...changing!" The knock stopped for a while but I could tell whoever it was were standing by the door, waiting. I tossed Calista the Febreeze spray idly left at the edge of my dresser, "Get rid of the smell."
"You have Febreeze in your room?"
Exasperated, I snapped defensively: "I just like things to smell good, okay?"
"Fucking neat freak," muttered Calista but she obediently sprayed the Febreeze into the air. The stale smell of smoke evaporated into the sweet fragrance of French Bean Vanilla.
"You can come in now!"
The door opened and Aunty Mabel strode in with Yasmin, the laundered carpet sighing as her heels stepped onto them. "Hi, girls!" greeted Aunty Mabel warmly, "How are you?" Without pausing to hear an answer, she sniffed into the air: "Oh, it smells so good in here!"
Calista, Astrid and I exchanged looks and had to look away before we erupted in sniggers. "So," My teeth dug into my lip to withhold a snicker, "How can we help?"
"Oh, I was thinking that maybe Yasmin could hang out with you guys," chimed Aunty Mabel.
"Absolutely not," said Calista before I could beat her to it.
"Who are you?" Aunty Mabel scowled at Calista, scrutinising her kohl eyes and black clothes.
"Your worse nightmare."
"Calista!" I grounded and sucked my teeth, "Sorry for her...she has a...brain defect. Yeah, she has a brain defect! I'm just pitching in, helping her and..., uh, giving back to the community." I smiled tightly at Aunty Mabel, who nodded faux-sympathetically in understanding. "I apologise for her behaviour. And Yasmin is welcome to join us anytime!"
"That'd be great! What do you think, Yasmin?" She asked her daughter.
Yasmin huffed, "I don't need to be babysat. God, Mom." She loured at me as if being in the presence of my company was anything but pleasant. Well, breaking news: the feeling wasn't mutually exclusive.
Aunty Mabel pursed her lips. "Yasmin, behave yourself. Ellis will assert a brilliant influence on you. She's helping out with taking care of a less-privileged being-" Aunty Mabel gestured at Calista, "-and her influence will help you do better in your results." She glowered at Yasmin. Hint: somebody didn't do so well on their mid-terms.
"Ellis is fantastic," chipped in Astrid.
"Jolly good!" added Calista for good measure, mimicking the host for Nickelodeon. We sent her looks: Be quiet or else.
"You're staying here," ordered Aunty Mabel. "I'll be going out and I want to find you with Ellis when I get back or no phone for a week."
"Mum!" cried Yasmin, aghast.
"I'll see you at dinner." Aunty Mabel stalked off, closing the door but we can still hear her heels ringing in the hallway.
"This is so lame," grumbled Yasmin and I was certain that sentence contrived a majority of her vocabulary. "This sucks."
Calista had her cigarettes out. "Well, so do you, kid."
"Calista," I said, tiresome of this.
"What? The window's open."
"Be nice."
"Nice is not in my vocabulary," she insisted. "And, Ellis, birth defect, really?"
"Calista, in front of my aunt, really?"
"Are you smoking?" gaped Yasmin, gawking at Calista.
A tendril of smoke curled around Calista's clenched fist. "I didn't notice."
"But..." faltered Yasmin, batting her eyelashes and momentarily confused. "Doesn't it give you cancer?"
"Does it look like I care?"
"Calista Zoe Dames!" I barked, scandalised. "What have I said about your behaviour?"
With sulky intention: "That I can't be a bitch to somebody that doesn't know I'm naturally a bitch?"
"Yes. What do you have to say?"
"Sorry," she said. "I hate all pre-teens. Mostly because of my sister, Cathryn. She is one."
"Excuse her," I said apologetically to Yasmine, "She hates everybody."
"I don't hate everybody."
Astrid and I gave her a dubious look. She scowled even more. "I don't!"
"Alright," guffawed Astrid, then doubt wrings her tone: "Name one person in this room...you don't hate."
"That is a skewed statistics!" she judged, "Very unfair. You know I hate you, Astrid, on your account of being a cheerleader and so goddamn cheerful all the time. And I hate you, kid, because you're a kid and a bratty one."
"AM NOT!" bellowed Yasmin.
"Point proven," she pointed demonstratively at Yasmin with her cigarette before tapping the ash out onto the ledge.
"Such a sweetheart," drawled Astrid wryly, inspecting her nails then sent her pale-blonde friend an arid look, "Let's face reality, Calista. You hate everybody. You hate 99% of the population, except for Ellis and possibly your baby sister Connie. Probably because you don't have the heart to- in every aspect of the term."
"Can you blame me?" huffed Calista, the ghost of a grudging smile hovered over Calista's usually stoic straight-line thin pink lips. But since Calista claimed that smiling or anything of an extracurricular that involved being happy damaged her reputation, it was only for a nanosecond. "I mean, no offence but I'm just trying being really really honest with people and I just think they suck. You know, at least, I try to be real?"
"I'm sorry," I amended placidly for what felt like the thousandth time to Yasmin. "Here's the thing about them: they're kind of crazy."
"We're not crazy!" pouted Astrid but shrieked in laughter as Calista tackled her onto the bed, her cigarette vanished into thin air, and tickled her.
"...but I love them anyways," I concluded lamely.
-
"Tell her."
"No."
"You promised, Jem."
"I had my fingers crossed."
"Jem!"
"But why?" complained Jem petulantly, acting like five years old or in severe cases, as a remarkable imitation of Yasmin. But then again, all things considered, Jem and his friends did have the mentality of children.
"Because," I enunciated slowly, patience withering as I spoke over the strangely subdued husk of school chatter, lockers slamming, sneakers screeching against the floor, "Effy is a nice girl, whom I knew and is generally quite good acquaintances with. She's bugging me about you for...like a month already. Just tell her you're not interested."
"Fine," relented Jem, sighing with lament. I rolled my eyes and dragged Jem by the cuffs of his long-sleeve shirt over to where I recognised were Effy and Tabitha's lockers.
"Hey Effy," I greeted amiably, who glanced up from the locker and widened considerably when she saw Jem. "Jem wants to speak to you about something."
Effy's mouth opened and no sound came out. Her Geography and Social Science textbooks toppled from her cradled arms as she stared wordlessly at Jem. "Oh God," I bend down to pick up the books. "Effy, are you okay?"
"I'm...uh...I'm..." she stuttered, fearfully shrinking from Jem. "I'm fine." Shyly: "Uh, h-h-hi Jem."
"S'up, Visie?"
I made it a conscious effort not to scream he was a piece of stupid shit and slap him right then. "It's Effy," I rectified fiercely, silently implying with my livid eyes: you asshole.
"Oh yeah," Recognition crossed his face, "Hey Effy."
"It's o-okay," Effy blushed, her face the same colour as her carrot hair, "You can...call me whatever you want."
"Jem has something to tell you." I elbowed him in the ribs as a bonus to strengthened the promise we made. A sibilant sound escaped his mouth. His nonchalant smile warped into a thin veneer of a scowl. "Don't you, Jem?"
Jem rubbed his ribs. "What was that for?"
"Y'know," I sing-songed. "Jem, what do you have to say?"
"Well, you seem cool," complimented Jem casually, rubbing the back of his neck, "But I don't think...we...uh know each other that well to continue anything yet. Romantically, I mean."
"Oh." There was no doubt every hope Effy harboured for Jem's affections were utterly crushed in a single forlorn syllable, drafted with despair. Poor girl, I wanted to reach out to pat her shoulder or something...a token of comfort. She fell in love- or at least, lust- with the wrong boy. Effy gulped and her green eyes were moistening, on the brink of crying. "Well, that's...that's okay."
She sprinted off into the hallway, zipping towards her class before we could see the tears streaming down her face or hear the soft sobs fleeing out of her throat.
"That was heartless, Ellis. I feel like I just killed Bambi's mum. I can't believe you made me do that."
"Me? You could've let her down a little less apathetically. She's a human being, Jem."
"We could've forestalled it, Porcey," he pointed out. "Let her live in the fantasy of us being together or whatever she dreams about until she gets over it."
"She's been infatuated since the fourth grade," I said cynically, "I don't think she'll ever 'get over it." I air-quoted.
"What happened to you? Thought you were all fantasies, hopes, fairytales and dreams."
I didn't choose to answer him. I tilted my head over to Effy's open locker and put her textbooks into the neat, precarious stacks. I closed and locked it for her until I said: "Maybe it's the Jem Effect."
He laughed, it's obnoxious happiness blending into the buzzing school morning conversation of a morning before classes: "What's the Jem Effect?"
"To be as cynical as possible."
"Taken a page out of my book?" he coyly wrapped an arm around my shoulder to showcase our signature partnership- not in a romantic way but it was most certainly platonic, though it was still eliciting my heart to beat irregularly. Why? I didn't have the time to come up with an answer as some of the student body cast us some looks as if contemplating when the hell did they become friends? Is it the end of the world?! I cocked my head away from their pondering stares. "And did you get taller?"
He narrowed his eyes into slits, scrutinising me and travelling down to my shoes, which were my run-of-the-mill Tory Burch leather flats- my favourite. "Yeah," I said smugly, measuring my height in comparison to his body. I was always below his shoulder. Now I was slightly above. "I've grown, like, two inches."
"Impressive," he whistled, "You're still a little short to me, though, Porcey."
"You suck."
"You know you love me," he teased.
-
"Do you need any more assistance, Mr Montez?"
Mr Montez shook his head, peering at me with kindness from his bifocals. He was on his desk, faintly typing on his computer when he stopped to survey the work I've done- cleaning up his shelves by stacking the books at exactly ninety degrees, arranging the flowers according to colour, smoothing the wrinkles of his couch, ironing his table mats and sprinkling a dash of lavender essential oil to create a pleasant and homely aura.
"Brilliant, as usual, Ellis," he chuckled, inhaling deeply onto the lavender, "Though I think you went a bit overboard."
"Oh I don't mind," I said loftily, approaching his desk, "Really, it's all I could do for you, Mr Montez."
"I'll be sure to write a stellar reference letter for Harvard Medical School," he assured me, causing a mental image of myself fist pumping. Now you all might regard me in the dust because you think I was using Mr Montez's hospitality to get a reference letter for an early acceptance into Harvard Medical but we were just both doing each other favours. "Anyway, why the rush for college? There's still one more year. Enjoy it while you can. You've only got a few years to be a kid."
"Well, it's another year of a waste of time," I replied and realising what I said was harsh, there was a sharp intake of breath, "Sorry, I mean it's going to take what? Four to five years of pre-med preparation, another four years of medical school, and three to seven years of residency. And it just doesn't end there. I'll be at least thirty before I could finally start my profession, Mr Montez. So the faster I finished high school, the faster I'll be able to do it."
He nodded in comprehension, "Understandable. Oh- and thank you."
"Um, for cleaning up? It's no-"
"No for Jem," he amended, interrupting me. Perplexed befuddlement twisted my features into a frown as if I didn't wholly get the gist of what he was hinting at. "Ever since you guys had your community service together, his attitude had improved."
"Really?"
The evident shock and astonishment in my tone made Mr Montez laughed. His eyes glinted with amusement, "Don't be like that, Ellis. Some people can change."
Yeah, I speechlessly advocated, as I strode over to the threshold and heeded in my tracks to turn around for one last inspection of Mr Montez's office, tucked into the corner of the west wing of our school- to check whether the details of cleanliness had surpassed my standards because if it didn't, I won't be able to sleep at night. Thinking about what Jem and Mr Montez said: it's called the Jem Effect.
-
Editing group essays often required more effort than editing your own essay, I took it upon myself to become conscious of over my adolescent career, but Jem's essay was actually pretty good so it didn't need much fixing- surprisingly. But then again, I reminded myself: of course, it wasn't a surprise. This was the boy who beat me in almost everything.
"I think you were a bit too mean to our own country in your essay," I sounded, clicking the pen, "I mean, you sound exactly like Mr Montgomery's videos on Vietnamese sprouting propaganda on Americans."
"Yeah, but that's just an excuse," he was spinning in my office chair, his legs kicking off back and forth the ground to make the chair rotate faster- but I don't know why he would want to because at the speed he was going, it was blurry enough to cause a headache. "The Vietnam War was a war that could've been easily avoided. It was basically Pre-Iraq."
"Yes," I subconsciously let him carry on, didn't know where exactly he was heading with his point.
"At first, the French gave Vietnam the right to self-autonomy and then decided, oh wait you know what? Maybe not. So in order to poach back their colony that was once theirs and a country that wasn't theirs, to begin with, they bombed them. So naturally, Vietnam was pissed- who could blame them? Not to mention, Ho Chi Minh was at the Treaty of Versailles, went to approach Woodrow Willson and asked for the Americans to back them up for independence. He didn't want to go communist at all but you know what we did? We laughed him out of that room. And he was forced to go communist because the Soviets was all too happy to help. And the worst part was this: the French and the Americans used 'stopping communism' as an excuse to cover up what was really going on- a colonial war. Long story short: France lost so the Americans came in because they were afraid that if Vietnam became communist, it'll give the Soviet Union an extra ally and a leverage on the US. Just because of this, everybody died. It's so obvious, Porcey, America was an asshole in this war. Possibly more than I ever was."
"Fair point. I have to say..." I swallowed my pride, "...the essay's quite well-written."
"Ooh," his lips shaped into a small circle and he moved the chair around to face me, "A compliment from the illustrious Ellis Chan. How will I ever return the favour?"
"You can stop spinning around in my office chair like a five year and help me," I mentioned, attempting irritation but my veneer could only last for so long before I break because seeing Jem gyrating around childishly was too funny and adorable to be mad at.
"But I've finished," he pouted, grousing indignantly. "Bibliography- done. Essay- done. In-text citation down. All I need to do is my IA and my EE. What about you, Ellis, have you done anything?"
"Do you know who you're talking to?" I lifted my eyebrows.
"True." He stopped spinning, fished out a stack of papers and a packet of his cigarette and a red lighter from his bag. And lit both of them up. My eyes widened and I jumped out of my seat in a panicked alarm when he began singing the papers.
"What the hell are you doing?" My volume ascended a decibel and he backed away- wisely- from me.
He was rubbing the cherry tip into the edge of the papers, letting the small flame consumed and eat away at the small print. "Burning divorce papers."
"But...but...." I couldn't strive to pull my sentences together articulately so I settled for: "Jem!"
"What?" He was feigning ignorance, imitating innocence.
I crossed my arms and clamped my lips together, harrumphing: "This is my house."
"You shouldn't state the obvious, Porcey. Makes you seem less intelligent."
"You...you..."
He stifled the impending urge to snicker at me, exercising some form of self-control- a characteristic that I once thought was virtually non-existent but I guess you learn something new every time. "Can't even say it."
"...fucking bastard." It just came out, spitting out the vulgar language like a cannon recoiling. An ashamed flush crept up my neck, searing into the particular area of skin and flesh. I didn't know how or why I said it but I did. Maybe I was just tired of maintaining the appearance of perfection. Maybe I was just tired of fighting with Jem.
His lighter clattered out of his hand. He goggled at me with his both simultaneously lazy and sharp hazel eyes, peering from the strands of his lashes, stupefied, as I smirked, placing one hand on my hip smugly to accentuate my authoritative condescension, earning a grin of utmost reverence from him.
"Feels good, huh?" He bunched his hands on the cuffs of his sweater while he took it off and later tossed it onto my bedspread lazily- I was about to lecture him not to throw his things around in my house because I was not his maid and this wasn't his house but decided against my better judgement.
"Fantastic," I drawled dryly, casting him a shrewd glower- because I lacked the originality of hitting him with anything else and I was too tired to. I was tired of bantering. I was tired of fighting with him. I had five years of it. I just wanted...well, I don't know what I wanted. I just wanted my Mum back, Paige out of the house, Dad and Mom to reconcile and love each other like they used to and me to be accepted into Harvard Medical, sealed into a fate with lots of money and hopefully if I was lucky enough happiness. "It's not going to happen anytime soon."
"Oh well," he sighed, smoke cascading out of his cracked lips resembling a ghostly waterfall out of a parted rocky crevice- I can't resist but observe. They were the colour of a ripe persimmon that'd been left out to dry in the hot sun- a glaring event, too bright to evade and too loud to not hear, an analogy to explain Jem himself. "I enjoyed it while it lasted."
"So...do you care to explain why you're burning divorce papers?"
"They're my Mum's," he answered like it was self-explanatory but it wasn't.
"Yes, clearly...and?"
"And she's a bitch to my Dad so I'm cutting off all connections with her."
"By burning the divorce papers."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm mad at her."
"Why are you doing this at my house?'
"Because I can't do it in mine?"
"That doesn't mean you can do it in mine! What about Heath's?"
"His parents had put up a smoke detector because- well, it's a long story."
"Do I even want to know?"
"Probably not."
"So you're sorting out your problems by burning up. In my house."
"That pretty much sums it up, Porcey."
"That's healthy."
"Yes, surprisingly so. Normally, I vent my feelings out by drinking excessively and crying out my problems to my plausibly bisexual best friend, Heath, but this is...quieter."
I gasped, "You have feelings?"
"Yes, many. It's one of the downfalls of being human. You wouldn't know anything about it, Ellis."
"Funny," I snarked but didn't push the boundaries before it could escalate into an all-out fight, "Divorce, huh? It sucks."
"You're not alone in that boat."
"I didn't think I was alone in that boat," I frowned at his pre-conceived perception of me. Did he think I was just some poor little rich girl? I hated how he assumed I couldn't handle a bit of heartbreak. I hated how he thought I couldn't handle getting my hands dirty. "How self-involved do you think I am?"
"You want me to answer honestly?"
"Never mind I asked," I revised swiftly, and changed the subject: "But I know how you feel. Obviously, yours aren't going great."
His neck muscles stiffened, becoming apparent as his veins popped out, and I could still see the feeble aftermath of the bruise on his cheek, the discolouration was not as harsh and strong as it was a week ago but the blue black and purple of a twilight marred the steep contours of his cheekbones. "Yeah. Speaking of which," he obligated a smile, but it was a smile of pain, "Has your mum said anything?"
"No," I sucked my teeth at the reminder, "My Aunt...she's my mum sister and...well, I've been asking her but she always changes the subject."
"That means she knows something," Jem said with a note of certainty, "And you need to find out what."
oh my god i realize how much i miss writing jellis banter dirtypalette and how much rachel berry/hermione vibes u get from ellis ay? and jem seems like the type of asshole who seem to never do the work and still get a 43/45 on IB :(