J Girls: A Reality Show (Blue Light Books) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rochelle Hurt is a poet and essayist. Her other books include In Which I Play the Runaway, which won the Barrow Street Book Prize, and The Rusted City: A Novel in Poems. Her work has been included in Poetry magazine and the Best New Poets anthology series, and she's been awarded prizes and fellowships from Poetry International, Arts & Letters, Vermont Studio Center, Jentel, and Yaddo. Originally from Youngstown, Ohio, she now lives in Orlando and teaches in the MFA program at the University of Central Florida.

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OPENING CREDITS

Montage: close shots of the items described with VO from all five J GIRLS in unison.

Adoration of The J Girls

Jocelyn, Jennifer, Jodie, Jacqui, Joelle: Gaudeville girl-gods of quick fingers and full pockets. The J Girls who lap the block garbed in exaltation:
Jocelyn of black thongs and push-ups swapped out in dressing rooms. Jennifer of sweater-swaddled kittens from behind garage doors. Jodie of Oxy-filled purses and money to hide. Jacqui of sleeved Slim Jims and pregnancy tests. Joelle of white cutoffs and lilac bruised thighs.

The J Girls who pool-hop apartments to christen each other bikini-clad diehards. The J Girls who laugh in spirals and slather themselves with joy:
Jocelyn of blue eyeliner and numbers scrawled on her palm. Jennifer of translucent eyelids and cheeks stained self-tanner orange. Jodie of chlorine-green hair and lipstick swiped from the drugstore. Jacqui of Kool-Aid dyed bangs and henna-etched arms. Joelle of mascara freckles and a double dimple on one side.

The J Girls who breathe chains of smoke O's from the blessed flames of their mouths and cough together in rounds:
Jocelyn of gold-ringed thumbs and Newport 100s. Jennifer of turquoise nails and Virginia Slims. Jodie of hemp bracelets and spliffed Camel Wides. Jacqui of silver star anklets and Salem Full Flavor 85s. Joelle of the Zippo filched from her sister and trembling Marlboro Ultra Lights.

The J Girls who gospel in gossip of plush tongues and soft-slurred consonants and bent-backed vowels. The J Girls who know more than they spill:
Jocelyn of pink pig Latin love notes. Jennifer of new foster brothers each year. Jodie of the hot dad who got caught jacking cars. Jacqui of the Ms. mom who smokes pot. Joelle of the recurring stepfather curse.

The J Girls who reign extreme in the kingdom of making-do:
Jocelyn, queen of Hearts in juvie that one time. Jennifer, queen of the Westside babysitting ring. Jodie, queen of flea-bombed carpets and snarling yard mutts. Jacqui, queen of beaded doorways and leaky waterbeds and torn Naugahyde. Joelle, queen of lonesome skinny-dipped midnights.
The omnipotent J Girls who swim circles through shame. The J Girls who say no duh, no really, no jinx, no takebacks, no fair, no shit, not sorry, not dead, not hardly, not long but not never, whatever, not finished, not enough, not yet.

MONOLOGUE: JOCELYN

INT CAFETERIA. JOCELYN stands in an empty cafeteria wearing a red tube top and a silver mini skirt. Posters hang on the walls behind her: "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle;" the "Hang in There" kitten; a diagram of a cartoon girl that illustrates proper skirt length and notes: "All hair colors must come directly from God;" a flyer for Modesty Club, on which someone has drawn a vagina.

Less is More

We fast through lunch & pocket pills at recess.
Gold letters on our gym class asses crown us
each a Princess.
School nuns scold, so we dig
little graves in our minds & they fill them
with etiquette. Bet they'll better us yet.
In church,
our voices rise, a sour choir of spit & pride. We stir
the nuns' words in our mouths til they curdle:
less is more.
At home our mean mothers pour
Suave into Avon bottles, stacking dimes as we lay
like strips of jerky on our roofs.
We tan. We turn.
We cure ourselves & wonder: how far down
our throats can these new woman hands go?

Together we trace rows of looping red X's & O's
into our arms with paring knives. We carve our skin
to the bone,
becoming instruments of less—
but we make it up in excess: rhinestone eyelids,
two-inch acrylics, hair frosted in three tones.

Each hotbox ride with garage boys is a fantasy
of proving the nuns right:
we see the road stop
like a cartoon cliff & we're driving on air til
someone looks down & we drop & that's all
we've wanted.
To hell with other kids' futures,
our parents' tired rising above.
A new high:
the long whistle of wind like a lullaby
against the slicked reeds of these whittled bodies
as we fall glittering to the bottom.

MONOLOGUE: JENNIFER

INT CHURCH. JENNIFER stands in front of a marble altar and large wooden crucifix holding a bag of communion hosts and drinking from a silver wine goblet.

Prayer for Effacement

O my fear-snuffer, my sensitive sigh-huffer,
my infernal grace-breather, my sin-sucker,
my most holy vampire, my tawdry tear-drinker,
my gory grief-strainer, my pulpy vice-eater,
my dull mind-cleaver, my gentle heart surgeon,
my acid bath, my quick-drying lime wash,
my most patient primer, my tongue-scrape,
my meticulous airbrush, my aerial lightbox,
my travelling sunspot, my beautiful cataract,
my personal snow machine, my salt-n-plow,
my spongy ink-blotter, my stack of sorrys,
my emergency stain stick, my cup of bleach,
my benevolent eraser, make me an eternal
thumbprint, your most stubborn spot of grease.