“#83: Kimberly Frank Is a Skank” by Sharon Inkpen is the winner of the Through the Looking Glass Challenge hosted by Voyage YA by Uncharted.
Page 1
It’s 1989. You are thirteen-year-old Colleen Paxton. Puberty is hell. High school is hell. Your life is hell.
The lunch bell just rang. You’re supposed to be in Mr. Wilson’s science class observing the onion cells and their membranes under a microscope. But you’ve actually locked yourself in a toilet stall in your school’s most neglected girls’ washroom. And you’re crying. Again.
“Kimberly Frank is a stupid bimbo,” you sob. You almost wipe your tears on your sleeve, only to remember that it’s not your sweater. White mohair and slouchy, it belongs to your older, prettier, more popular sister. Her favourite one. You suspect she lent it to you as a peace offering. And Kimberly Frank made fun of you wearing it. A VHS in your head replays Kimberly Frank making fun of your hair, calling you a wannabe, a dweeb, and a poser in front of the entire cafeteria.
“Kimberly Frank is a bitch.” You kick the stall. “Ow!” You rub your toe. Is it bruised or broken? You wiggle your toe and wince, falling backwards onto the toilet.
You sit there, cradling your foot and blinking back tears. Your breath hitches so you try to inhale and exhale slowly, focusing your eyes on the graffiti surrounding you. Mr. Hilbrock sucks cock… That one’s your favourite. For a good time, call 867-5309… You dialed that number once, out of curiosity. It wasn’t in service. Ethan + Jennifer 4EVER. That’s your sister. You trace your finger along the heart surrounding it and the more recently drawn X on top. Next to it is a newer oath: Ethan + Trish 4EVER.
At the top of the stall door is a new one. Your throat tightens. You recognize the handwriting. The extra curly on the C, the wavy line across the t, a bubble instead of a dot on the i.
Page 2
You’ve seen it on the sign-up sheets for cheerleader tryouts, on notebooks tucked under the arm of a pink polo shirt, on cruel notes slipped into your locker. Kimberly Frank.
You read her words. Colleen Paxton is a butt-ugly loser!
Your hands tremble. You almost drop the ballpoint pen you pull out of your backpack.
You scribble tight loops over her words until your hand cramps. You shake away the ache and try cross-hatching the words away.
You stand back, looking at your work. You can still read her words.
Heat flushes your cheeks. You raise your pen and scrawl KIMBERLY FRANK IS A SKANK! You grind your pen back and forth on each letter, thickening your lines. Tiny paint flakes chip off and fall. You don’t even realize that you’re holding your breath.
Your pen snaps. Plastic shards plink against the tiled floor. Ink drips down your arm and pools in the cuff of Jennifer’s sweater.
“No no no!” You rush to the sink and soak the sleeve under cold tap water. The dark blue stain lightens, but only a little. You pump hand soap into your palm and massage it into the mohair. The stain spreads through the foam.
The washroom door creaks open.
“Do you think he’s into her?” a high-pitched voice asks. You look up. It’s Heather Wolffe. Kimberly Frank’s best friend.
“Duh!” says Donna Stone, Kimberly Frank’s other best friend, coming in behind her. They see you and stop in their tracks, their eyes falling on your blotchy blue cuff, your broken pen on the floor, and the drops of ink leading to the toilet stall. They’ll read it. They’ll tell Kimberly Frank.
She will murder you.
Page 3
You bolt past them, shouldering-checking Heather Wolffe. “What is your damage?” she screeches.
You sprint downstairs and out the basement exit. You run, rain pelting your face, through the woods. Your shoes kick mud onto the back of your jeans. Home. You just want to go home.
You peel off your socks at your front door. The phone rings, and you pray it doesn’t wake up your mother. The answering machine picks up the call, and you hear your principal’s voice.
You feel nauseous. What will your parents do when they find out you cut class? You erase the message.
You tiptoe upstairs and change out of your wet clothes, stashing Jennifer’s sweater under your bed, shoving it as far as your arms can reach. You could tell her that you left it in your locker. But what will you say when you’re back at school on Monday? You could tell her you lost it, but then she’ll remind you of how you always lose her things… her hairbrush, her sunglasses, her headphones…
You’re such a loser.
You take down a box from the back of your closet and remove the decoy sweatshirt that hides your books. You know that they’re dorky, that you’re too old to be reading them. But you love them.
You love getting to choose your own plot, getting to be someone else. And tonight, you want to be Captain Amare, protector of the Sororibus Galaxy. You grab #42: Attack of the Zicox, throw yourself onto your bed, and begin reading.
It’s 2097. You are Captain Amare of the HWSS Adventum. Your galaxy is at war. Your planet is in danger. Your people are in peril.
Page 4
The Zicox, a murderous humanoid species, has trespassed into the Sororibus Galaxy. Your quest is to protect its planets at all costs, even if the cost is your life…
Your bedroom door opens. Jennifer presses Play on her boombox and a low baritone voice starts singing about how love tears people apart. You try to keep reading, but the song’s dark synthesizer notes knock your HWSS Adventum out of orbit.
You want to tell Jennifer to turn it off, that it’s your bedroom too and that you were here first. But that didn’t work out the last time you tried.
“You just don’t get it!” she screamed in your face, shoving you out of your shared room. You stumbled backwards into the hallway. “Leave me alone!” She slammed the door, shaking the walls.
The doorjamb has been a little out of alignment ever since.
You sigh, take your book to the kitchen table downstairs, and keep reading.
The Empress Erosa of the planet Eirene sends you a message. You play the recording, her holographic figure standing before you.
“Monstrous beasts have been stalking our people,” she says. Strange, you think. The Zicox possess their victims and steal their appearance, all to fit in with the culture they prey upon.
You hear your father closing the front door. He shakes off his raincoat and walks to the living room. You hear him turn on the TV. You look up and see Chinese people, jam-packed in a large crowd, shouting in a public square. You turn back to your book.
“These creatures have blue fur,” the Empress continues, “with long fangs… jagged claws. They like to rip out the entrails of their victims—”
Page 5
“Millions of university students,” the news anchorman says, “have gathered here to protest…”
“Could you turn down the volume?” you ask your father.
He walks over to the TV and turns down the dial, quieting the graying newscaster. But you can still hear him. And, despite trying not to, you can also hear the faint beats of a synthesizer with a heartbeat tempo coming from your bedroom upstairs. A high-pitched woman sings that she’ll catch you if you fall, that she’ll be waiting.
You sigh and rummage through the junk drawer. You find a flashlight and take your book to your mother and father’s bedroom. You step around your mother’s nursing scrubs on the floor and crawl into your father’s side of their bed, next to your mother. Her slow rhythmic breathing comforts you.
“They have killed and maimed thousands of our people,” the empress cries. “Help us, Captain Amare!”
“Turn the light off,” your mother murmurs. She doesn’t usually sleep this late. You turn off the flashlight, wondering when she’ll get up. You want to tell her that you can’t read in your room because Jennifer keeps playing that awful mixtape.
She’s going through a difficult time, your mother would say.
So am I. You’d most likely shout, and she wouldn’t believe you. You can’t tell her about Kimberly Frank. Parents only make it worse.
Just give her some space, your mother would sigh.
But that bedroom is my space too.
Your mother pulls the comforter close to her chin and rolls over. You leave her side, and as you gently close her door, you replay the cafeteria, the toilet stall, and the broken pen in your mind.
Page 6
Fast-forward to Monday morning and Kimberly Frank will be waiting for you with her friends, red-painted nails ready to tear you apart.
You shake your head and approach your bedroom door. You could try asking Jennifer to stop playing her music. That fight happened over a week ago, and she was much nicer to you this morning. Maybe she’s getting better. But what if she isn’t?
If you choose to confront Jennifer and risk certain death, turn to page 7.
If you choose to read your book in the bathroom, turn to page 8.
Page 7
“This is my room too!” You unplug Jennifer’s boombox and cross your arms. “And I was here first!”
Jennifer, lying on her bed, rolls over and stares at you. Why are her eyes bloodshot? She opens her mouth. Have her teeth always been that sharp? Her hands twist and turn. Long, jagged talons emerge from her gnarled fingers. Her muscles enlarge, bursting through her neon pink shirt and acid-wash jeans. Dark blue fur sprouts along her arms, her chest… her face.
“Jennifer?” you whimper. Is she getting taller?
You watch slack-jawed at her canines extending beyond her jawline. Her eyes, now a glowing crimson, narrow. Is she smiling? It’s not the smile you’ve been wishing for.
Your heart races. She growls, and her foul breath, like rotten meat, lingers on your tongue.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise. You flee for the door, but Jennifer’s claws pierce your shoulder. She pulls you back, throwing you to the floor. She tears at your face, and you hold up your arms, crossing them, as blood trickles into your eyes. Her teeth rip the flesh off your forearms, and you cry out. Your mother will hear you.
But would your mother stop her?
She’ll probably tell you to give her some space.
Jennifer lacerates your belly. You scream at the sharp searing pain. She hooks her talons into your intestines and pulls them out. A warm pool of blood oozes from your abdomen. It’s hard to breathe. You lose feeling in your legs. You watch Jennifer eat your liver.
You’re dying, and with that realization, a sudden tide of relief washes over you. You won’t have to go to school on Monday.
The End.
Page 8
You enter your bedroom and roll your eyes at the melancholic strums of an electric guitar playing through Jennifer’s boombox. You hear Madonna singing about being crazy for someone. If Jennifer doesn’t stop playing this mixtape, you’re going to go crazy.
Jennifer, curled on her bed and staring at her popstar posters, squeezes her teddy a little tighter. The worn-out thing stares at you with its remaining glassy eye.
“I’m just getting my pillow and blanket,” you say, not that she acknowledges you.
You carry your items to the bathroom and drop them into the tub. You slip into your parents’ bedroom. Your mother is sitting up and talking on the phone.
You grab your father’s pillows.
“Hold on Daphne,” your mother says, cupping the handset with her hand. “Where are you taking those?”
“To the bathroom,” you shrug. She gives you a blank look, and you sigh. “I can’t read in my room.” The slow percussion of that sappy Bangles song, the one about holding hands and an eternal flame, coming from your bedroom answers the rest of your mother’s questions.
“You know that your sister—” she starts.
“—is going through a difficult time.” Your voice is flat.
“Sixteen is a hard age,” she smiles, “Give her time.” Her words remind you of the song, Time After Time, another song from Jennifer’s mixtape, and its chorus starts looping in your head. You grimace, squeezing your father’s pillows and inhaling the scent of Old Spice on their covers.
In the bathroom, you sculpt the bedding. Settling into your makeshift chaise longue, you reopen your book.
Page 9
Course set for Planet Eirene. Your crew has been acting peculiarly. You hear clicking sounds at night. Have the Zicox infiltrated your ship? They can take on the form of any human. You can’t trust anyone. You keep careful watch for telltale signs, like the occasional flash of ultra-violet eyes or burn marks on the ship’s floors made from the Zicox’s acidic body fluids.
You hear blood-curdling screams. You leave your quarters. The cries are coming from the bridge. You start to follow them, but as you pass the engineering bay, you smell sulfuric gas.
If you choose to investigate the cries, turn to page 42.
If you choose to follow the scent, turn to page 61.
You smell something too. Hydrangeas drowning in rubbing alcohol? It invades your nostrils and halts your mission. It’s familiar. You scan the bathroom, eyes falling on Jennifer’s Aqua Net sitting on the counter.
“I like styling your hair,” she had said that morning, misting your tiny tight waves with that hair spray. It surprised you when she came down at breakfast, clacking her crimper like a castanet, and with a half-smile, offered to style your hair. You hadn’t seen that smile in a long time. She handed you your glasses. “What do you think?”
You gasped at your reflection in the mirror. “I love it!”
“You’re like Debbie Gibson,” she smirked, “in dorky glasses.”
You didn’t mind the teasing. That was Jennifer’s second smile that morning. And you looked bitchin’.
“Your shirt’s looking a bit gnarly though,” Jennifer said, leaving the bathroom. You looked down at Mickey Mouse, smiling on your still very flat chest. The white cotton had somehow become dishwater gray.
Page 10
“Wear this instead,” Jennifer tossed you her white mohair sweater. She never lets you wear it. Was this an apology for pushing you last week? It didn’t matter. You had your rad sister back, and you were happy, and you didn’t care about anything else.
But then Kimberly Frank ruined it.
“Wannabe,” she said, blocking you from the cafeteria lineup. “That hair makes you look like such a poser.” She removed her cherry lollipop from her mouth and ran it along her lips, painting them extra bright red. You smelled the sugar on her breath. “And that sweater is way too big for you,” she grinned. “It makes you look like a dweeb, like you’re trying too hard.”
Donna Stone and Heather Wolffe giggled. You swallowed, fighting back your rising tears. “Aw,” Kimberly Frank stepped back, giving the whole cafeteria a better look at you. “Are you crying, Crybaby?”
You took off, tears falling, the cafeteria thundering with laughter. You turned a corner, almost slamming headfirst into Mr. Hilbrock.
“No running in the hallways!” he shouted.
You burst through the girls’ washroom doors. Trying too hard? You have been trying so hard. You keep your head down. You take the longer route to your locker. You don’t speak up in class, even when Mr. Wilson threatens to deduct marks for lack of participation.
The tears wouldn’t stop. You wiped them with a scratchy paper towel, reddening your already ruddy face. You looked in the mirror, at your hair, at Jennifer’s sweater. Kimberly Frank was right. You looked like a poser. You wetted your hair in the sink, euthanizing those crimped waves.
Your toe is wet. The bathtub faucet drips onto the comforter at your feet. You get out and gather your bedding. It doesn’t matter. You can’t fight the Zicox when Jennifer’s Aqua Net makes you remember it all.
Page 11
You look at the canister next to the sink. It was stupid of you to accept Jennifer’s help. You hate the hairspray. You never want to smell it again.
You grab the hairspray and open the window. Swinging your arm back, you aim at the concrete driveway.
“What are you doing?” Jennifer yells, grabbing your wrist. “What’s wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with you? The entire school hates you. You’re the only girl without breasts in grade eight. Kimberly Frank is going to kill you. And ever since Ethan broke up with your sister, she barely knows you exist.
“Hairspray is making a hole in our ozone layer,” you retaliate. “It’s killing the planet!” Jennifer tries to pry your fingers off the canister. You tighten your grip. A gust of Aqua Net sprays in her eyes. Jennifer screams, dropping the hairspray and turning on the bathtub faucet. She plunges her face in its stream.
“I’m sorry,” you say. You smell the Aqua Net, and your stomach feels queasy. You breathe through your mouth, gagging a little. You can feel bile rising in your throat.
If you decide to vomit, turn to page 12.
If you choose to swallow your vomit and explain yourself to Jennifer, turn to page 13.
Page 12
You projectile vomit chocolate milk into the bathtub, splattering a few droplets in Jennifer’s hair. “Oh god,” Jennifer says, gagging. The smell of vomit always makes her puke. She crouches over the bathtub, and you gasp in horror as green, radioactive ooze spews from her mouth. It sizzles, corroding and burning a hole through the porcelain enamel.
“Jennifer?” you ask. She turns to you. Blisters surround her ultra-violet eyes. Layers of human skin fall off her face, like ham in a meat slicer, revealing amber scales beneath.
“You’re a Zicox!” you gasp.
Pincers protrude from the Zicox’s mouth. Its pupils retract into vertical slits as it slithers toward you. Acidic snot drips from its eight nasal cavities. It is going to turn you into one of them. Your hand fumbles the items on the bathroom counter. A pair of tweezers, nail clippers, lipstick… you need a strong weapon. Light glints off the Aqua Net canister rolling on the floor, and it occurs to you that you already have a weapon strong enough to kill a planet.
You duck and grab the Aqua Net from between the Zicox’s legs, praying that there’s enough left. You press the nozzle. It spits out a few drips. The Zicox inches closer. You step back, shaking the bottle. You feel the door behind you. You try the spray bottle again. It still doesn’t work. You open the bathroom door, but the Zicox slams it shut with its webbed appendage. It leans in, and droplets of snot fall onto your cheek, burning your flesh. You scream, and it clicks its pincers, as if pleased with itself.
You press the nozzle one last time. It ejects a heavy mist. Flaming holes spread all over the Zicox’s body. It screeches, expelling a surge of acid onto your chest. It burns through your bones and into your heart. You fall to the floor, dying with the comfort of knowing that the cruel Jennifer of these past few weeks was not your real sister.
The End.
Page 13
You swallow back the sour chocolate milk in your throat and take a deep breath. She turns off the faucet.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, passing her a towel. She dries her face.
“You can’t mess with my things,” she says, wrapping the towel around her dripping hair. “How would you like it if I messed with your stuff?”
You look at #42: Attack of the Zicox lying on the pile of bedding in the corner. “I mean,” Jennifer picks up your book, “what if I ripped up your stupid book?”
It’s not a stupid book. You ball your hands into fists, and pocketing them, you shrug. “I wouldn’t care.”
“Really?” Jennifer opens the book and begins twisting it at the spine.
“Don’t!” You leap at her, grabbing the book, but she doesn’t let go. The book rips down the middle.
You both stand there, each holding one half of the book.
“I didn’t mean to,” Jennifer offers you her half. You hold the pieces. This can be fixed. A bit of cellophane tape and the Sororibus Galaxy will survive. Your hands tighten their grip on the pages. Surviving’s not great though. Your face feels hot. Surviving is just getting by. Your heart pounds. Surviving is exhausting… and lonely. Tears rise. You’re tired of surviving.
You throw the book halves at Jennifer. She dodges one, but the binding of the other hits her face, and she yelps.
“I hate you.” You run to your bedroom, throwing open the door. It bangs against the wall. You slam it and shove her dresser against it. It teeters over, crashing to the floor and spilling her underwear everywhere.
Page 14
“What did you do?” Jennifer is at the door, trying to push it open. You lean your back against the dresser, pushing the door shut. “Let me in!”
Tears rise, and you’re infuriated that you’re crying again, you crybaby. Up above on Jennifer’s bookshelf, her boombox, with its round speakers like wide black eyes, stares down at you, its tape display like cyborg lips. You already know what’s between its teeth. A mixtape with a handwritten label, Ethan + Jennifer 4EVER.
If you choose to let Jennifer in, turn to page 15.
If you choose to destroy the mixtape, turn to page 16.
Page 15
Why would you ever let her in? Have you learned nothing? Don’t. Just don’t.
Page 16
You press eject and snatch the cassette. Your fingers pinch its brown ribbons, and you pull, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Its tape reels spin with a quiet, mechanical squeal, until empty. You tangle the strips together and rip them. You throw the mess around the room, like confetti. It is confetti. You’re celebrating your freedom. Never again will you have to hear how every rose has its thorns, how a name is like a prayer, how someone thinks they’re alone now. You snap the cassette in half.
“Colleen!” your mother shouts. “Open this door.”
You pause. Your chest is heavy. You look around you, surveying the fallout. A broken drawer. Brown ribbon dangling from the light fixture. Plastic pieces in your hands.
Together, your mother and Jennifer push open the door. Jennifer’s eyes fall on the damage, on the open cassette deck of her boombox. She whimpers.
“What have you done?” your mother sighs, staring at you.
“She ripped my—” you start, but you know your excuse doesn’t fit the crime. “I was just so upset—” you choke on your words, “she’s always—” you point to Jennifer. Jennifer shakes her head. She’s crying. You made her cry. You look away and hear her footsteps stomping down the stairs.
“You are going to clean this up and apologize,” your mother says, pointing at you, and you nod, swallowing hard and blinking back tears. She leaves, closing the door.
Outside the rain has stopped, and the moon, almost full, shines through the naked arms of your oak tree. You look out the window. You could climb into those arms. You could live in that tree and never come down.
If you decide to climb the tree, turn to page 17.
If you decide to fix what you have done, turn to page 19.
Page 17
The bark is slick. You hold onto a branch and search for a foothold. You’d forgotten about your bruised toe. Pain shoots up your leg and you slip. You grab a thick branch and dangle. You lower yourself onto a safer branch and looking up, you try again, this time climbing to the highest branch that can hold you. You sit there staring at the moon, and it starts to snow, odd for May, and you let it blanket you. You’re freezing, but you won’t, you can’t, go back inside the house.
After a few hours, you can’t feel the cold. You can’t feel anything. You didn’t know that death could be so peaceful.
Your family holds your funeral reception at the house. They serve tea and finger sandwiches. All of your relatives are there, even Cousin Andrea who you hardly ever saw, dressed in black. Some teachers also came. You listen to Mr. Wilson boasting to your mother about how you had so much potential, how he could see you pursue science and become a Nobel laureate.
You see some kids from school. Why are they here? They hardly knew you. And here’s Kimberly Frank. She’s crying. She must regret how she treated you.
Your father gathers everyone around. He thanks them for coming. He tries to say a few words about you, but his breath hitches. Aunt Beth takes over, describing how smart you were, and how kind and caring you were. You watch Jennifer cry into your mother’s shoulder.
After the funeral, you watch Jennifer put your things into a box labelled for the local thrift store. She finds her ink-stained sweater under your bed. She examines the cuff and chuckles. And you thought it was such a big deal. Soon there isn’t a trace of you in that room, aside from a photo of the two of you. She holds you as waves crash around you. You were five years old and scared of the ocean. Except when Jennifer was with you.
Page 18
You haunt your house for the years to come. Your father spends more and more hours at work. Your mother starts smoking again. Jennifer refuses to leave her room, spending most of her time lying in your bed, arms wrapped around the ink-stained sweatshirt.
“I’m sorry,” you say to her. She can’t hear you.
The End.
Page 19
You throw the broken cassette pieces into the waste bin. You remove the drawers of Jennifer’s dresser, setting aside the broken one. Tomorrow you will glue the drawer face back on with superglue. You pull and push the dresser back to standing and put away Jennifer’s underwear. You collect the brown ribbons, placing handfuls of them into the waste bin.
You wish Jennifer never met Ethan. Before him, she laughed more. You talked more. You talked about everything. Sure, she was way more annoying, always lip-syncing into her hairbrush or dancing on top of her bed when you were trying to read, and always hugging you whether you wanted it or not.
She was the best kind of annoying.
You lie down on your bed. You didn’t mean to make her cry. Can you fix it?
You hang over the side of the bed and rummage through the items underneath. You pull out a dirty sock, candy wrappers, and one black banana. You toss it in the waste bin, cringing. You reach further, pulling out Jennifer’s sweater, and then finally you find it, the only cassette tape worth your allowance, Science Fiction Sound Effects.
You slide it into your pocket and carry Jennifer’s boombox downstairs. Your mother and father are curled up on the couch, watching the news, pizza boxes on the coffee table. They see you, and your mother moves over on the couch, making room for you. You shake your head and look to the kitchen where Jennifer sits, red-cheeked and glassy-eyed, in front of a half-eaten slice of pizza and a book. Your book. You notice the strip of cellophane along the spine, holding the Sororibus Galaxy together.
“I’m sorry I broke your mixtape.” And your dresser drawer. And your sweater. You tell yourself to save those for another day. She barely looks up from her plate. You place her boombox on the table. “But I’m going to fix it.” You insert your cassette into the tape deck. “I’m
going to listen to the radio and record all of your songs,” you sit down next to her.
Page 20
It’s a good plan. After all, rooming with your sister means that you know the songs by heart. “I’ll stay up all night if I have to.”
She looks up from her plate. “Sure,” she sighs.
You switch the setting to the radio and turn the FM dial. You hear a song with a deep guitar riff and an upbeat tempo.
“Stop there,” she says. This isn’t one of the songs. She smiles at you, a full one this time, and turns the dial until she finds pop music. You’ve never heard this one before. She smiles at you, a full smile this time, and presses the record button. You hear a rapper call you a smarty and then say something about a party. Jennifer stands up, bopping her shoulders, and starts lip-syncing into a salt shaker. She exaggerates her mouth movements and dances the Running Man. She’s so corny. Then she picks up the pepper, and offers it to you…
If you decide to refuse Jennifer’s hand, you weren’t paying attention. Turn back to page 1.
If you choose to take the improvised microphone, you will lip-sync words you don’t know. Jennifer will laugh. You will hug her, a little too tightly.
Together, you will turn a new page.
