CHAPTER 1

Notes From A Freak Like Me

My name is Haley Bodine. No, it's actually Haley-Jo Bodine.In the normal world (anywhere that's not Texas) people geta first name and a middle name. In Texas you are likely toget two names stapled into one by that hyphenator thing.Jeez, did my mother hate me from the get-go?

I've been writing about my stupid life since I could hold apencil. I write my stories in little discount-store notebooks.These aren't like diaries or journals since they don't paymuch attention to dates, or record things every day.They're just bits of my life that I write down. SometimesI have to write them the instant something happens, andsometimes I wait and think and remember for a long timebefore I write them. They are just me, thinking on paper.

MY CAT IS DEAD

My cat is dead. My cat is DEAD. My cat IS dead.

Twelve-year-olds shouldn't have to think much about dead,you know. His name was Wiffy, short for Willful, which hewas, and on some days he felt like my only friend. Purewhite, pinkish nose, pinkish eyes, and a devilly sense ofhumor. In our house, he was the only living thing that evertotally "got" me, and I could tell him everything. He actuallylaughed at my jokes, inside. Only I could hear him.

Wiffy died on my first day at my new middle school, ormaybe the night before. I'll never really know the truth forsure because I only have the story that my mother choseto tell me. She said that she found Wiffy dead on our backpatio after I left for school that morning, just lying stifflydead, no signs of a struggle. She said she called a cityservices number and a man in a uniform came and scoopedWiffy up with a shovel and put him in his city truck. Hesaid my cat would be "disposed of." Is that the true story? Idon't know. What is true is that Wiffy is gone forever, andI must not feel sad. My mother told me that she hoped Iwould be mature about it, and no hysterics please, thesethings happen. Then she served me the nutritious after-schoolsnack she feels every good mother should providefor her child. I couldn't eat the granola bar or drink themilk, but I faked it. Later, in my room, I pricked neat littlecircles on the inside of my wrist with a straight pin untilI didn't feel so much like screaming anymore.

SOMETIMES MY MOTHER CAN'T STAND ME

Elaine Bodine is a pretty woman who might be happierif we lived in the 1950s. She's just a little too formal forthe current times, like she's a housewife but she wearsskirts and dresses and high heels when other mothers arewearing jeans and sneakers. I don't care enough anymoreto be embarrassed by her, but I know that I embarrass herregularly just by looking the way I look. She wishes she hadbirthed a preppie girl, and what she figures she got is anon-compliant wild red-haired girl who thinks style rulesand dress codes are stupid . Well, they are.

Elaine (I call her by her first name when I really want tobug her) has her blonde hair done up in a French twistby professionals on a weekly basis, and thinks that mycurrent age (about to jump into the teens) is the perfecttime to begin my beauty salon education. Like that willever happen! All I wish is that she didn't act like she hada stick up her butt all the time. (That's something I heardsomewhere and it tickles me to say it about my mother.It's just SO true!). After twelve years of trying to pleasethe woman, I'm giving it up. Haley-Jo Bodine declares herindependence!

Umm, that all sounds pretty mean, I guess. I think therewas a time, when I was very small, when she thought I wasan okay human being, and she loved me. Maybe I just grewmore and more unlovable, I don't know. I'm not the firstand only child. I have a brother, Brett, who is ten yearsolder than I am. She's never had any trouble loving him.

GOLDEN-BOY BRETT

In Texas, to be the first-born son is to be the Golden Boy,for sure, and Brett is all that. He's out of the house now,all grown up, done with his undergrad years at UT. (HookemHorns!! Like who cares?) He's a handsome blonde hunk,athletic and smart and a smooth talker, expected to gofar in this world.

When I was a little kid, until I was six or so, I thoughtBrett was the eighth wonder of the world. He was mybest grown-up, all blue eyes and smiles, jokes and giggles,gentleness and games. Sometimes he took me to his placesto hang out with his friends, it was special, and he tookgood care of me. He made me feel like a real person. But Iguess after you're six, you can't be just a real-person littlegirl anymore.

The teasing games turned into something else, the ticklesweren't funny, they hurt. Brett would catch me frombehind and put his hands over my non-existent boobs andsqueeze hard, then put a hand to my crotch to poke andsqueeze. Stop, Brett, stop! He'd laugh and let me go, andcall me a damn baby. We were never allowed to use badlanguage in our house, but he called me a damn baby. I wasalways on my guard, knowing he'd catch me again, and healways did. I knew that a big brother shouldn't do that toa little sister, although no one told me so.

I wish I had known how to stop it, because it got worse.Brett became my nighttime nightmare, coming late atnight into my girly pink bedroom. Not every night, butsometimes, and the not knowing when tortured me. Ipretended to be asleep when he lifted my Barbie pajamatop to brush his hand across my chest to make my littlenipples peak, to be asleep when his fingers found andstroked the place down there I barely knew. I hatedhow I felt, and I hated the man-boy I had loved. I didnot believe I had the right to tell on him. Brett wassuper-loved by our parents, and if I told, I knew theirdisappointment would somehow fall on me, not him. Inever told anyone. He stopped it after I was about eight,so I guess everything's okay.

DADDY'S A DRUNK

I wrote those words at the top of this notebook page andstared at them for a long time. I used to try so hard notto know that something's wrong with Daddy.

Light comes into our house when Daddy's home. He doesn'thave to do anything special except be there. He's a big guy,loud and lots of fun, the darkest one of all of us—skin,hair, laughing eyes. It's a mystery how I turned up withthe red curls. Maybe I'd have done better in my family ifI just looked more like any one of them. I'm pretty sureDaddy loves me. He says it, and I can see it in his eyeswhen they crinkle and smile. He works hard for his family,crunching big numbers for a big corporation. He wantsus to have a good life. We've moved around a lot, whichmeans too many new schools, but it is always to a betterneighborhood, a bigger house, snobbier neighbors. This timewe've moved up to having a backyard pool. That pleasesmy mother, since she thinks having things is important. Ireally can't tell how Daddy feels about it.

Sometimes I wonder if my parents are in love. I used tothink if you were married to somebody, you were in lovewith them, but now I'm not so sure. There doesn't seem tobe the mushy stuff going on with them. They do have twokids, so there must have been something— well, SEX—butnow there's not any kissing or touching that I knowabout. We're not that kind of feely family, I think. Andnobody's much of a talker, either, I mean like real talk ifsomeone has a problem. We just pretend we don't have anyproblems, and get over it. It works, sort of.

Daddy for sure has a problem that nobody talks about. Hejust disappears, like he's here when I go to bed and totallymissing when I get...