rocket queen
since disgustipation is interested in another story of mine (some of you may remember my brief mentions of the 5 Minute Lesbian) and bribery involving Mr T is always encouraged-- here is a teaser story from before the 5ML... this is my Shanda & Katrina story.
as previously seen in thefactory book, which I myself shall probably never see again.
I was 14 and a high school freshman. I knew going into high school that I could learn more from my fellow students than most of the classes I had to take. I also knew that if I didn’t make any friends it wouldn’t really matter as I spent most of the hours in my headscape anyway (you know the story: only child, eccentric-but-mostly-good family, rural area with no other children yet lots of places to make-believe in). luckily for me, I did attract people right away and I still use what I’ve learned from them to this day.
I had Physical Education second period. (my school had 6, with the option of 7, classes a day.) it is around 9 AM. I’m sitting out whatever little monkey routine the blandly friendly coach has set up as I wasn’t dressed appropiately for such activity. joining me on the sidelines of the gym was a new girl named Shanda. she strongly resembled PJ Soles in Rock n Roll High School, with the exception that Shanda seemed hardened. she could see right through you. she begins talking to me, learning that we share the same social group, and trusts me enough not to weird out when she divulges her reason for late enrollment into the school year: she has just gotten out of juvvie for hotwiring cars and going on joyrides. she then says, “hey, you wanna bust this joint? let’s go somewhere else, it’s too dead here.” I had just skipped school sometime the previous week and felt hesitant, yet I also had a gut feeling that something exciting was about to occur if I went along. so before the 3rd period bell rung we started walking off campus. another girl passing us in the halls named Katrina yelled, “hey, where ya’ll heading?” in a great Southern-fried accent.
“we’re leaving.”
“wait up, I’ll join you.”
now begins my descent into the realm of the high school parking lot queen.
across the street from the school was an area of suburban shrubbery and trees my less-than-straightlaced friends called “the Trail.” there was indeed a dirt-packed trail cutting through to the back of a loosely defined group of subdivisions and apartments. during lunch kids would come over to walk off in the woods to get high, feel each other up, fistfight, or just vent about how horrible the day was going. someone usually had a stereo so there would be homemade demos blaring out an ungodly mix of KISS covers and Black Flag rip-offs. I felt right at home. since it was still school and most of the Trail regulars were in class the woods were a bit eerie. I think, “big mistake joining these professionals. a hobo’s going to jump out and slit my throat.” of course nothing happens. I become immediately bored as Shanda and Katrina light up some Camels and ask, “okay, now what?” after sitting around in the woods for 30 minutes or so Katrina needs some more cigarettes so we start heading towards the skeezy gas station nearby. the school security guard drives by in his white and blue district truck. I lose my cool and jump behind a tree. this sends the other two into spasms of laughter. “you really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” teases Shanda. “follow our lead and always play it cool,” advises Katrina.
after getting Katrina’s smokes and standing around some more in an empty lot filled with beer bottles and a syringe or two Shanda starts waving at a passing car. a gigantic crap-brown Lincoln pulls up next to the lot and the driver says “hey, girl, ain’t you s’posed to be in school?” she replies, “yeah, you know how that is. can you give us a ride to the mall?”
there I am, in a creepy empty lot, next to the creepy, constantly-robbed gas station, getting into a stranger’s car with two girls I barely know. I start hoping my mother never finds out because she’d kill me if I make it out alive.
Fate remains by my side, along with some incredible subwoofers directly behind my head. distorted basslines rumble in my ears down to my gently vibrating fingertips. Katrina is next to me in the backseat, trading secret grins with me as Shanda introduces our driver as a neighbor of hers.
the mall is barely a mile away, but at a stop light the driver finds the time to ask Katrina something that makes my eyebrows raise a bit. “when you dancin,’ girl? I ain’t seen you in a while.”
Katrina, her Cheshire grin expanding, her dark thick hair trembling with the bass thump, lets out a stacatto-rhythm explanation.
“aww, man, you know ever since they busted that place and they found my fake ID I’ve been takin’ it easy. I’m gonna try to start up again at that new place on Bush River Rd. , so check it out in another month.”
oh, I think dumbly. Katrina’s a stripper. how old is she again? I later find out she’s 17 in the 10th grade.
our polite, strip-bar-patronizing driver lets us out at the edge of the mall parking lot. “you be safe, girls!” he pulls off and we begin trudging along the asphalt as an autumn breeze drifts across my tense body.
the first thing that assaults you in the mall is the loudly piped classical piano Muzak. an experiment held by the mall property managers found that classical piano over the sound system drove off some of the unsavory characters that had been filling the mall, some of the same characters that started a gunfight in the mall the past spring which resulted in a shopper getting killed. the mall, especially for our little trio playing hooky, is dead. a few cotton-haired couples wearing shellsuits walk in circles behind us, getting some air-conditioned exercise. a few mothers listlessly pushing baby carriages. finally, someone catches Shanda’s interest-- a man in maybe his early 20s buying a Patti LaBelle CD at Sam Goody’s. she follows him through the store, casually flipping through the racks next to him, occasionally glancing up and smiling politely. we leave and wait for him outside the store on little cushioned ottomans underneath the escalator. he joins us, sitting between Shanda and myself. Shanda essentially interrogates him as to his purchase-- is it for himself? no, his mother’s birthday is this week. oh, my mom loves Patti LaBelle, too! this chit-chat continues until the man finally gets up to leave. Shanda and Katrina swear a little under their breath and say “we could’ve gotten something out of him, too. maybe lunch or something.”
we walk around the mall some more. the only thing any of us are carrying is my lunchbox I use as a sort of purse/junkbox. we have no money but we use my black permanent marker to write silly phrases on the restroom stalls. we spend at least 15 minutes in the restrooms. no one else walks in. the Muzak grows louder in the tiled enclosure as I lean over the sinks to reapply my glittery Wet’n’Wild purple lipstick.
Katrina suggests we head towards the west area of the mall where the arcade is. the arcade is directly across from a police substation so we hesitate at first, and then we finally decide the cops have better things to do than harrass a group of girls going to play video games. we sit on the wooden bench to gaze through the arcade’s glass wall. we see them at once: two roughly cut Asian man-boys. they can’t be over 21, but they certainly aren’t kids. both are wearing black leather jackets, white t-shirts, dark denim jeans and Doc Martens. they are concentrating on a driving game, each gripping a steering wheel with complete focus on the screen. we circle the boys like sharks smelling blood. while I’m obviously an amateur, hanging back a bit with my hands nervously trading my lunchbox around, I still give my best eye contact and steady, assured look. happily the two pass over me for the aggresive Shanda and Katrina. Katrina starts talking so fast I can barely understand anything she’s said. the man-boys nod at her as they lead us out to the parking lot. they ask our names in accented English.
“Faye,” says Katrina.
“Beth,” say Shanda.
“uh, Angel,” I say, quickly adding in my breathiest, stupid-floozy voice, “but I’m not one, don’t worry.”
the Asian devil-angels unlock the doors of an incredibly expensive-looking, beyond aerodymanically-shaped car. we climb in the leathered backseat. nosebleed techno fills the air, along with the odor of Marlboro Reds. “what do you all do?” one boy asks. “this is what we do,” Katrina says. she then gives directions to her sister’s apartment complex across the river in St. Andrews and asks to see the boys’ tattoos. the passenger removes his jacket and lifts up the back of his shirt to reveal a nearly-Aztec looking bird across his entire back in black ink. “we each have the same tattoo. we’re going to get it filled in soon.” I look up from his backpiece to glance out the window-- we were on the interstate moving quickly to another side of town.
the car was silent except for the jagged blips coming from the stereo. Shanda takes my box and pen to write “SARA!” in the recessed area where the lunchbox handles folds back. I take it as a sign that I am officially accepted into the fold. she squeezes my hand as she hands the box back. my anxiety is eased a little.
off the interstate, down the seedier end of Broad River Rd, into a mish-mash apartment complex. most of the doors are open and in each apartment living room you can see large-screen televisions and hotel-chain-style framed pictures of fruit baskets or flower vases on the walls. a woman wearing cut-off denim shorts with a cellphone attached to her beltloop walks out of one such apartment with two small children trailing behind her. she has the same dark, wavy hair as Katrina. Katrina gets out of the car as the rest of us look on them talking. I’m closest to them and roll down my window just a hair to eavesdrop.
“they got the money?”
Katrina comes back into the car, asks for $50 from the Asian boys, and gets back out. she slips it to her sister.
a baggie of green stuff mysteriously appears back into Katrina’s hand.
“look, I’m trying to quit selling like this. don’t bring them back here again, alright?”
“no problem, I’m just doing you a favor.”
“yeah, whatever.” they hug. Katrina leans down to ruffle one of the toddler’s hair and comes back to the car. she hands the baggie to the passenger.
“this doesn’t look like $50 worth,” he complains. uh oh, I think.
Katrina strikes back as any assertive businesswoman getting her cut. “look, this is from my sister’s own personal stash. her husband brings this back with him from the Florida Keys, alright? you’ll get nothing better in this state. to prove it we’ll smoke it with you later.”
Katrina looks over to me.
“you busy later?”
“uh, yeah, I live too far out anyway and I’m on restriction.”
when not wanting to do drugs and get anymore caught up than necessary, lie.
“ah man, too bad. we’ll fill you in later.”
she invites the boys to a party later that week at someone’s house. Shanda trades pager numbers with the passenger as our driver hits 110 MPH on the interstate. it’s 2:40 and school lets out in 30 minutes.
the ride back is when I take the time to assess what has actually happened during the day. I’m in a souped-up, specially-imported car with two strangers that dress and tattoo alike, one of whom has a baggie of pot in his jacket pocket.
I’m seated next to two girls-- one on probation, one probably on probation or at least known to the local cops as an underaged stripper.
the nicotine is heavy in the air and is causing me to squint. I finally accept a cigarette from the Asian devil-angel and attempt to smoke it properly. the music eases out into underwater trance. I start feeling adrenaline kick in. we might just get away with this.
they drop us off at the school gates and zoom off. we head into the woods to grab our bookbags and straighten up. Shanda tells us she’s going to meet her brother at the end of The Trail and waves goodbye. Katrina and I wait for the security guard to open up the gates. we’re ten minutes early. while we wait Katrina tells me she had a great time and plans what she’s going to do with our drivers later that week. we see our mutual friend Jeff doing errands for a teacher and he sits on the other side of the gate, waiting with us for the school day to end. he braids my hair through the fence as he listens patiently to the details of my day.
“well, nothing exciting happened here. some of us wondered where you disappeared to.”
“I just wanted to go on a little field trip. I learned a lot.”
the bell rings, the rent-a-cop opens the gate, and we all go our separate ways. I spot my mother waiting in the car.
“good day today?”
“yeah. nothing too exciting.”
xxx
everything you’ve read above is true and no names were changed. we were all guilty one way or another and there’s nothing to hide all these years later. I don’t know what happened to Katrina-- she just stopped showing up to school. Shanda got kicked out later that year. I miraculously graduated on time without much trouble. luckily, this is the most excitement I had my entire time in school that I directly participated in.
as previously seen in thefactory book, which I myself shall probably never see again.
I was 14 and a high school freshman. I knew going into high school that I could learn more from my fellow students than most of the classes I had to take. I also knew that if I didn’t make any friends it wouldn’t really matter as I spent most of the hours in my headscape anyway (you know the story: only child, eccentric-but-mostly-good family, rural area with no other children yet lots of places to make-believe in). luckily for me, I did attract people right away and I still use what I’ve learned from them to this day.
I had Physical Education second period. (my school had 6, with the option of 7, classes a day.) it is around 9 AM. I’m sitting out whatever little monkey routine the blandly friendly coach has set up as I wasn’t dressed appropiately for such activity. joining me on the sidelines of the gym was a new girl named Shanda. she strongly resembled PJ Soles in Rock n Roll High School, with the exception that Shanda seemed hardened. she could see right through you. she begins talking to me, learning that we share the same social group, and trusts me enough not to weird out when she divulges her reason for late enrollment into the school year: she has just gotten out of juvvie for hotwiring cars and going on joyrides. she then says, “hey, you wanna bust this joint? let’s go somewhere else, it’s too dead here.” I had just skipped school sometime the previous week and felt hesitant, yet I also had a gut feeling that something exciting was about to occur if I went along. so before the 3rd period bell rung we started walking off campus. another girl passing us in the halls named Katrina yelled, “hey, where ya’ll heading?” in a great Southern-fried accent.
“we’re leaving.”
“wait up, I’ll join you.”
now begins my descent into the realm of the high school parking lot queen.
across the street from the school was an area of suburban shrubbery and trees my less-than-straightlaced friends called “the Trail.” there was indeed a dirt-packed trail cutting through to the back of a loosely defined group of subdivisions and apartments. during lunch kids would come over to walk off in the woods to get high, feel each other up, fistfight, or just vent about how horrible the day was going. someone usually had a stereo so there would be homemade demos blaring out an ungodly mix of KISS covers and Black Flag rip-offs. I felt right at home. since it was still school and most of the Trail regulars were in class the woods were a bit eerie. I think, “big mistake joining these professionals. a hobo’s going to jump out and slit my throat.” of course nothing happens. I become immediately bored as Shanda and Katrina light up some Camels and ask, “okay, now what?” after sitting around in the woods for 30 minutes or so Katrina needs some more cigarettes so we start heading towards the skeezy gas station nearby. the school security guard drives by in his white and blue district truck. I lose my cool and jump behind a tree. this sends the other two into spasms of laughter. “you really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” teases Shanda. “follow our lead and always play it cool,” advises Katrina.
after getting Katrina’s smokes and standing around some more in an empty lot filled with beer bottles and a syringe or two Shanda starts waving at a passing car. a gigantic crap-brown Lincoln pulls up next to the lot and the driver says “hey, girl, ain’t you s’posed to be in school?” she replies, “yeah, you know how that is. can you give us a ride to the mall?”
there I am, in a creepy empty lot, next to the creepy, constantly-robbed gas station, getting into a stranger’s car with two girls I barely know. I start hoping my mother never finds out because she’d kill me if I make it out alive.
Fate remains by my side, along with some incredible subwoofers directly behind my head. distorted basslines rumble in my ears down to my gently vibrating fingertips. Katrina is next to me in the backseat, trading secret grins with me as Shanda introduces our driver as a neighbor of hers.
the mall is barely a mile away, but at a stop light the driver finds the time to ask Katrina something that makes my eyebrows raise a bit. “when you dancin,’ girl? I ain’t seen you in a while.”
Katrina, her Cheshire grin expanding, her dark thick hair trembling with the bass thump, lets out a stacatto-rhythm explanation.
“aww, man, you know ever since they busted that place and they found my fake ID I’ve been takin’ it easy. I’m gonna try to start up again at that new place on Bush River Rd. , so check it out in another month.”
oh, I think dumbly. Katrina’s a stripper. how old is she again? I later find out she’s 17 in the 10th grade.
our polite, strip-bar-patronizing driver lets us out at the edge of the mall parking lot. “you be safe, girls!” he pulls off and we begin trudging along the asphalt as an autumn breeze drifts across my tense body.
the first thing that assaults you in the mall is the loudly piped classical piano Muzak. an experiment held by the mall property managers found that classical piano over the sound system drove off some of the unsavory characters that had been filling the mall, some of the same characters that started a gunfight in the mall the past spring which resulted in a shopper getting killed. the mall, especially for our little trio playing hooky, is dead. a few cotton-haired couples wearing shellsuits walk in circles behind us, getting some air-conditioned exercise. a few mothers listlessly pushing baby carriages. finally, someone catches Shanda’s interest-- a man in maybe his early 20s buying a Patti LaBelle CD at Sam Goody’s. she follows him through the store, casually flipping through the racks next to him, occasionally glancing up and smiling politely. we leave and wait for him outside the store on little cushioned ottomans underneath the escalator. he joins us, sitting between Shanda and myself. Shanda essentially interrogates him as to his purchase-- is it for himself? no, his mother’s birthday is this week. oh, my mom loves Patti LaBelle, too! this chit-chat continues until the man finally gets up to leave. Shanda and Katrina swear a little under their breath and say “we could’ve gotten something out of him, too. maybe lunch or something.”
we walk around the mall some more. the only thing any of us are carrying is my lunchbox I use as a sort of purse/junkbox. we have no money but we use my black permanent marker to write silly phrases on the restroom stalls. we spend at least 15 minutes in the restrooms. no one else walks in. the Muzak grows louder in the tiled enclosure as I lean over the sinks to reapply my glittery Wet’n’Wild purple lipstick.
Katrina suggests we head towards the west area of the mall where the arcade is. the arcade is directly across from a police substation so we hesitate at first, and then we finally decide the cops have better things to do than harrass a group of girls going to play video games. we sit on the wooden bench to gaze through the arcade’s glass wall. we see them at once: two roughly cut Asian man-boys. they can’t be over 21, but they certainly aren’t kids. both are wearing black leather jackets, white t-shirts, dark denim jeans and Doc Martens. they are concentrating on a driving game, each gripping a steering wheel with complete focus on the screen. we circle the boys like sharks smelling blood. while I’m obviously an amateur, hanging back a bit with my hands nervously trading my lunchbox around, I still give my best eye contact and steady, assured look. happily the two pass over me for the aggresive Shanda and Katrina. Katrina starts talking so fast I can barely understand anything she’s said. the man-boys nod at her as they lead us out to the parking lot. they ask our names in accented English.
“Faye,” says Katrina.
“Beth,” say Shanda.
“uh, Angel,” I say, quickly adding in my breathiest, stupid-floozy voice, “but I’m not one, don’t worry.”
the Asian devil-angels unlock the doors of an incredibly expensive-looking, beyond aerodymanically-shaped car. we climb in the leathered backseat. nosebleed techno fills the air, along with the odor of Marlboro Reds. “what do you all do?” one boy asks. “this is what we do,” Katrina says. she then gives directions to her sister’s apartment complex across the river in St. Andrews and asks to see the boys’ tattoos. the passenger removes his jacket and lifts up the back of his shirt to reveal a nearly-Aztec looking bird across his entire back in black ink. “we each have the same tattoo. we’re going to get it filled in soon.” I look up from his backpiece to glance out the window-- we were on the interstate moving quickly to another side of town.
the car was silent except for the jagged blips coming from the stereo. Shanda takes my box and pen to write “SARA!” in the recessed area where the lunchbox handles folds back. I take it as a sign that I am officially accepted into the fold. she squeezes my hand as she hands the box back. my anxiety is eased a little.
off the interstate, down the seedier end of Broad River Rd, into a mish-mash apartment complex. most of the doors are open and in each apartment living room you can see large-screen televisions and hotel-chain-style framed pictures of fruit baskets or flower vases on the walls. a woman wearing cut-off denim shorts with a cellphone attached to her beltloop walks out of one such apartment with two small children trailing behind her. she has the same dark, wavy hair as Katrina. Katrina gets out of the car as the rest of us look on them talking. I’m closest to them and roll down my window just a hair to eavesdrop.
“they got the money?”
Katrina comes back into the car, asks for $50 from the Asian boys, and gets back out. she slips it to her sister.
a baggie of green stuff mysteriously appears back into Katrina’s hand.
“look, I’m trying to quit selling like this. don’t bring them back here again, alright?”
“no problem, I’m just doing you a favor.”
“yeah, whatever.” they hug. Katrina leans down to ruffle one of the toddler’s hair and comes back to the car. she hands the baggie to the passenger.
“this doesn’t look like $50 worth,” he complains. uh oh, I think.
Katrina strikes back as any assertive businesswoman getting her cut. “look, this is from my sister’s own personal stash. her husband brings this back with him from the Florida Keys, alright? you’ll get nothing better in this state. to prove it we’ll smoke it with you later.”
Katrina looks over to me.
“you busy later?”
“uh, yeah, I live too far out anyway and I’m on restriction.”
when not wanting to do drugs and get anymore caught up than necessary, lie.
“ah man, too bad. we’ll fill you in later.”
she invites the boys to a party later that week at someone’s house. Shanda trades pager numbers with the passenger as our driver hits 110 MPH on the interstate. it’s 2:40 and school lets out in 30 minutes.
the ride back is when I take the time to assess what has actually happened during the day. I’m in a souped-up, specially-imported car with two strangers that dress and tattoo alike, one of whom has a baggie of pot in his jacket pocket.
I’m seated next to two girls-- one on probation, one probably on probation or at least known to the local cops as an underaged stripper.
the nicotine is heavy in the air and is causing me to squint. I finally accept a cigarette from the Asian devil-angel and attempt to smoke it properly. the music eases out into underwater trance. I start feeling adrenaline kick in. we might just get away with this.
they drop us off at the school gates and zoom off. we head into the woods to grab our bookbags and straighten up. Shanda tells us she’s going to meet her brother at the end of The Trail and waves goodbye. Katrina and I wait for the security guard to open up the gates. we’re ten minutes early. while we wait Katrina tells me she had a great time and plans what she’s going to do with our drivers later that week. we see our mutual friend Jeff doing errands for a teacher and he sits on the other side of the gate, waiting with us for the school day to end. he braids my hair through the fence as he listens patiently to the details of my day.
“well, nothing exciting happened here. some of us wondered where you disappeared to.”
“I just wanted to go on a little field trip. I learned a lot.”
the bell rings, the rent-a-cop opens the gate, and we all go our separate ways. I spot my mother waiting in the car.
“good day today?”
“yeah. nothing too exciting.”
xxx
everything you’ve read above is true and no names were changed. we were all guilty one way or another and there’s nothing to hide all these years later. I don’t know what happened to Katrina-- she just stopped showing up to school. Shanda got kicked out later that year. I miraculously graduated on time without much trouble. luckily, this is the most excitement I had my entire time in school that I directly participated in.