Free Imaginary Enemy by Julie Gonzalez Page B

can’t fix.” I slashed and tattered and embellished. “A tattoo, I think, would complete the look.” I drew a vine that snaked from her left ear to her right breast. “You’re stunning,” I told her as I tossed her aside. Then I chose another perky platinum-haired doll from the lineup on my bed.
    Time passed. The rain finally stopped, and sunlight streamed through the windows. I stiffened the last glamour girl’s hair with glue, which worked better on Barbies’ artificial hair than the gel in the bathroom. “Okay, girls, we’re done. You all look smashing. Absolutely smashing!” I posed all seventeen of them on Carmella’s pillow.
             
    For a nine-year-old, Carmella had quite a pair of lungs. I’ll never forget her shriek when she walked into our room. It was overstated to say the least, and brought everyone running down the hall. Mom and Dad were really steamed when they saw my artistry, but Zander flashed me a covert thumbs-up, and Luke winked in my direction as he stifled a grin.
    Carmella’s reaction, however, went from anger to tears to despair to righteous indignation to outrage. She sobbed and threw things and stomped her feet. She yelled and screamed. She yanked one of my Godzilla posters from the wall and tore it to shreds. Threw a made-over Barbie at the shelf over my bed, causing my Gothosaurs to scatter like frightened hens. Swiped her fingernails at my face, but Dad grabbed her wrists. Calling it a temper tantrum would be like calling World War II a minor skirmish.
    Have you ever noticed that judgment doesn’t always rear its head until it’s too late? I’ll admit it. That day I didn’t use good judgment. I went too far. I should have been more subtle. Pubic hair and pierced nipples were definitely overdoing it. Crossing that invisible line.
    I paid the penalty, believe me. I had to work at the marina to earn enough money to replace Carmella’s dolls. Dad made me wash windows, mop floors, clean bait tanks, stock fishing tackle, weed walkways, and scrub patio furniture every Saturday for weeks.
    I kept the punked-out Barbies, though, somehow winning the argument that if I was buying new ones for Carmella, then the others were mine by forfeit. I lined them up on my shelf with the Gothosaurs.

Fragrance Testers
    M rs. Lezcano, my reading teacher, was a fossil with teeth the color of oatmeal and a voice even worse than fingernails dragged down a chalkboard. She gave boring lectures, making the most riveting story less exciting than junk mail. Every class period she’d also tell us about her various health issues, of which there were many. “I can’t eat tomatoes or cucumbers. They give me horrendous indigestion. Keep me up all night.” “I’m allergic to perfume. When I go through the cosmetics area at a department store, I have to hold my breath.” “All the pollen in the air this time of year sure activates my asthma.” “My migraines get worse with every episode. That new medication didn’t help me one little bit.”
    The suck-ups and brainiacs thought Mrs. Lezcano was wonderful. She praised them, giving them perks and privileges regular kids never got, like exemptions from assignments. But the woman had disliked me from the first day of seventh grade.
    Whenever she posed questions even someone of Emma’s academic ability would struggle over, Mrs. Lezcano inevitably called on me. To hide my ignorance, I answered the simplest queries with flippant responses. When we read “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, Mrs. Lezcano asked, “Jane, what did the raven say?”
    “Caw, caw,” I said.
    The class fell into hysterics, but Mrs. Lezcano went ballistic. She thrust off her ugly beige sweater and stomped across the room so that she was looming over me. “I’ve had more than enough of you, young lady.” She sent me to the principal, charging me with the crimes of disrespect, impertinence, and brazenness. Mr. Freeman, who hadn’t forgotten the Bryan Latham flagpole