Child of the Hurricane:

When I was little, five or six, my mother had a lot of PTA friends. Every week, the meeting would be held at a different member’s house. And, every week, my babysitter failed to show up. So I’d get dragged along to some perfectly put-together house that looked as if it had been cut out of a catalogue. The PTA moms looked that way too—like they’d been photo-shopped to perfection.

Let’s just say that I was not a quiet child, the kind that would sit there meekly for an hour while her mother ate lemon bars and talked about bake sales or clothing drives. Frankly, I was more like the Tasmanian Devil than a little girl.

Whenever one of the PTA moms commented, as they inevitably did, on my liveliness, my mother would smile and shake her head. “Yes,” she’d say. “I know. Leigha was born in the midst of hurricane season.” The other moms would nod and smile, as if that explained everything. I didn’t realize until much later that weather conditions at my birth would come to define my life. I was a child of the hurricane.

In the car on the way home, as I chewed on the stale lemon bars that I always managed to steal, Mom would sigh. “Leigha Forgette, why can’t you be more like Ashlyn and Kiara? They’d never embarrass me in front of all my friends.” I’d laugh, wondering why anyone would want to be like Ashlyn and Kiara.

Ashlyn and Kiara, my little sisters, were exactly what every mother looked for in a daughter. They were sweet, wore matching dresses, and liked kittens. They were the ones that got invited to play dates and birthday parties at the bowling alley. Their babysitters actually showed up.

I was the opposite. I was loud, wore dirty overalls, and liked homemade fireworks. I climbed trees and let Pork and Bacon, our pigs, into the house when Mom wasn’t home. All my parents had to do was mention my name to prospective babysitters and they would suddenly have plans.

This never bothered me. In fact, I had an almost perverse delight in the fact that other girls my age wouldn’t come near me with a ten-foot plastic Barbie leg. I had always liked playing with the boys better. They didn’t care if you got blood from your skinned elbow on their shirts.

* * *

If you were sixteen years old and had people mistake you for twelve, you’d have anger-management problems too. At least, that’s what I tell myself. That if everyone had my crappy DNA and was less than five feet tall, they’d all go around punching cheerleaders.

I really didn’t think I’d break her nose. It was a soft punch. But seriously, what was I supposed to do? This girl has sat in front of me in Biology for a month, and when she finally finds the time to talk to me, she says, “Did you skip a few grades? Are you like, twelve or something?”

Probably I should have waited to break her face until I was off school property. I couldn’t have done it, though. Patience has never been my strong suit. And I didn’t want to get swarmed by her cheerleader friends if I went at her during the football game. Instead, I got swarmed by well-meaning classmates trying to pull me off her.

Anyway, my mom wasn’t too thrilled when she found out that I was suspended for a week. Not nearly as thrilled as I was. I mean, come on. They tell you to stay away from school for seven days and expect you to be bummed? Not a chance. My parents weren’t even that mad.

When I got home from school, I was all, “Guess what!”

Dad asked me first. “What did you do now, Leigha? And please tell us if we should be expecting a lawsuit.” The thing is, he is only partially joking. Jimmy Anderson’s parents sued us when I went at him with a baseball bat and screwed up his orthodontia. He deserved it, though.

“I got suspended from school for a week because I punched a cheerleader in the face.” Short, concise. The confession of a seasoned delinquent.

Mom turned purple for a second. She had been a cheerleader in school. “Leigha, why? What possessed you to do such a thing?”

“Aliens took over my mind and thought, ‘Hmmm. We don’t like this human,’ and made me break her face.” I had always been able to joke about getting into trouble like this. Truth is, I don’t want my parents to realize that all my fights have been because people call me tiny. They shouldn’t feel guilty because they passed on awful genes.

“Well, good for you,” Dad said. My mother gaped. Dad realized what he’d said and hurriedly backpedaled. “I mean, I love cheerleaders. All of them. Just not the one that Leigha hit.”

Mom rolled her eyes and went out to the garden, probably to drown a few more of her tomatoes. The poor woman had tried to garden for years, but was guilty of a black thumb. Dad slapped me a quick high-five and told me to go pick up Ashlyn from cheer practice.

That’s right. My own flesh and blood is a member of the dark side. For this, I absolutely despise her. In fact, I pretty much despise her for everything. She’s not the type of girl I would ever in a million years be nice to. She’s awful. I only tolerate Ashlyn because I’m related to her.

When I got to the old football field, where the cheerleaders had their practices, Ashlyn was waiting for me with her arms crossed and her blue eyes narrowed. She got in the car, slammed the door, and said, “What the hell, Lex?” By the way, I don’t think I mentioned that my parents are the only ones that call me Leigha. I am so not a Leigha. Lex is much more my type.

“Ashlyn, watch your language.” I swear all the time, but as a big sister, I have to set a good example. Then again, I pretty much blew that one when I hit a cheerleader.

“No,” she said, checking her hair in the rearview mirror. “Tiffany Carter missed practice today because she broke her nose. Or, if what everyone’s saying is true, you broke her nose.”

I rolled my eyes. “She deserved it.”

“Lex,” Ashlyn whined. “Tiffany will be captain of the squad next year! She’ll never let the sister of the girl that made her have to get a nose job back on the team!”

“Good,” was my unsympathetic reply. “That skirt makes your butt look fat.”

“Ugh!” By that time, we were home. Ashlyn stormed out of the car and into the house. I stayed in my beat-up old Volvo. No point in going in, not with a homicidal Ashlyn and Mom trying to cook dinner.

Instead, I pulled out one of the paperbacks that I stored in the glove box for emergencies. Climbing over the center console, I stretched out in the backseat. I stayed that way for about an hour, until Kiara came out and banged on the window.

“What?” I yelled, purposely not unlocking the door.

“Ian’s on the phone!” She brandished it in my direction. Ian had been my best friend since third grade.

I opened the window for her, and took the phone. “Thanks, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Kiara said, with a toss of her flat-ironed hair. “I’m taller than you are.”

Yeah. It’s true. My thirteen-year-old sister is five inches taller than me. So is my fifteen-year-old sister. And pretty much everyone else.

“Hey Ian,” I said into the phone. “What’s up?”

“Wanna do a hit-and-run tonight?” In case you’re getting any ideas, I’ll clear this up. ‘Hit-and-run’ is Ian-speak for going to the ice cream parlor in town and asking for a taster of everything. After he’d sampled every flavor, he’d walk away without ordering any of them. For some reason, he’d found this incredibly hilarious ever since fourth grade.

“Nope. I’m probably grounded.”

“What do you mean, probably?”

“I broke Tiffany Carter’s face and now Ashlyn might get booted off the cheer squad.” There was a long moment of silence. “Still there? Ian?”

“Yeah, sorry. I had to put you on hold so I could laugh.” He was still kind of giggling. Ian was lucky he was kind of hot, or he’d be labeled as gay for all the giggling he did.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to go see if I can salvage some of Mom’s cooking.”

“Okay, bye.”

I hung up and made my way into the house. I was immediately assaulted by Fish and Marcella, the two cats. Fifi, our German shepherd, was close on their heels. Kiara was responsible for the dog’s name. She had wanted a poodle forever, but Dad wouldn’t let her get one. He knew me well enough to realize that a poodle wouldn’t last five minutes in our house. Ashlyn had named Marcella, when she was in her Italian phase.

I named Fish. He is orange and round, like a goldfish. I thought this was the funniest thing since sliced bread, but the rest of the family disagreed. Whatever. You can’t win them all.

“What were you thinking?” Ashlyn was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in. “She’s the second most influential member of the cheer squad! I need her to like me! God, Lex, you’re such a loser.”

“Me, a loser?” I countered. “Am I the one that stands on someone’s shoulders during football games and yells ‘We’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?’ No. That’s all you, babe.”

Ashlyn shook her head. “Whatever,” she said, and stomped upstairs.

I rolled my eyes, a habit that annoyed my mother to no end, and peeked into the oven. From the smoky aroma saturating the kitchen, I figured that whatever Mom was trying to cook had been burnt.

The blackened, charred crust made it hard to tell what was in the pan. It looked like some type of casserole, but there was no way to be sure. I grabbed a potholder, not wanting to subject the dish to any more torture.

Feeling like I should salvage dinner, to make up for getting Ashlyn ousted from the cheer squad, I stuck a frozen pizza in the oven. It was the best kind, with the three-inch-thick crust and everything that anyone had ever thought to put on a pizza piled on the top.

I opened the freezer and found my cell phone. I had been looking for the frozen corn, but an AWOL phone was infinitely better. I vaguely remembered getting the waffles out for breakfast a few days ago and setting the phone down in the ice tray… Flipping it open, I was amazed that the thing still worked. Deciding that the discovery of my phone deserved celebration, I called Jodi Forrest.

“Yeah?” she said, her unnaturally deep voice annoyed.

“I found my phone,” I told her happily.

“So? I’m more interested in your recent boxing match with the captain of the cheer squad. Why was I not invited?”

I laughed. “Well, it wasn’t like I planned it or anything.” I had tried to tell the principal about my uncle’s cousin’s accountant, who had gone on trial for murder. He’d gotten a lot fewer years in prison, because it wasn’t premeditated. The principal said that high school wasn’t a courtroom and I hadn’t murdered anyone. Consequently, I still got the full punishment.

“Nice. What do you want from me?” Jodi had always been unnecessarily blunt. I’d gotten used to it four years ago, soon after we’d become best friends.

“Want to go to the mall and needlessly ridicule the girls that work at Abercrombie and Fitch?” I asked, swatting Marcella away from the casserole-type dish, which was sitting on the counter.

“Not really. I’d rather go TP the cheer squad.” This was nothing unusual. Jodi and I had TP-ed, forked, egged, and Silly Stringed the houses of the cheerleaders every few weekends since ninth grade.

“Yeah, but then we have to do my house too.” We had always been forced to TP our house as well, because of Ashlyn’s involvement with the dark side. Our trusty weatherman said to expect rain, and I hardly wanted to spend my Saturday peeling soggy strands of toilet paper off our trees.

“Fine. I’m coming over.”

I hung up on her and sat in the kitchen, waiting for the pizza to be done. Thinking back, I realize that I should have known better than to stay for a significant amount of time in a common room of the house.

Five minutes later, Ashlyn dragged Kiara and Mom into the kitchen. They settled themselves into chairs on either side of me, glaring icily. Our glare, the female portion of the Forgette clan’s, has been the prized possession of countless women. One stern look from an angered Forgette and the perpetrator willingly confessed and resorted to groveling.

I glared right back, holding my ground. “Can I help you?” I asked coolly, eyeing the clock and wondering when Jodi would arrive.

“I want you to apologize to Tiffany Carter,” Mom said.

“Not a chance.”

“Leigha,” Mom persisted. “Ashlyn told me that she’s going to be kicked off the squad because of your little spat with Tiffany. Now, I’ve known Tiffany’s parents for years, and she seems like a very nice girl. I don’t know what she did to deserve a punch to the nose, but I’m sure she’s very sorry.”

“Not a chance,” I repeated.

“You’re being very immature,” Mom told me, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“I know you are, but what am I?” I held back a laugh at the retort.

Kiara grabbed desperately at my arm. “Lex, please? I really really want to join the squad next year!”

“In case you’re deaf,” I said icily, “I’ll repeat it. Not a chance.”

“Fine,” Mom said. “You’re grounded. Go to your room.”

“I have to go to work,” I told her. Never mind the fact that Jenny Foley from down the street was supposed to be covering for me today. I would do anything to get out of a day in my room.

Mom had decorated it when I was five, too young to protest at the ungodly use of pink wallpaper. There were frills and ribbons and flowers up the wazoo. The bed was a four-poster monstrosity with pastel sheets and pillows enough for an army. The walls were covered in nauseating Degas ballerinas and grotesque lace curtains shrouded the windows. I have nightmares with less pink. Needless to say, I spent as little time in the room as possible. Actually, I spent as little time in the whole house as possible.

So I gathered my stuff for work and bolted. I worked as a lifeguard at the community pool. Not to brag or anything, but I was a pretty damn good one. Not a single kid had drowned on my watch. Then again, not a single kid had ever drowned at our pool. But that’s not the point.

In the car, on the way to the pool, I made a few phone calls. First to Jenny Foley, to tell her that I would work today. Second to Jodi, to warn her against going to my house. I didn’t want to subject her to awkward time alone with my family.

“So,” Jodi said, when I called her. “When are we going to get the cheerleaders?”

“Later,” I told her. “I’ve got work. The little kiddies at the pool will die without me.”

“As if. Their obsessive parents don’t let them swim without life jackets and twenty floaties.” Jodi laughed. “Don’t you think that the hell-boss at that pool can do without you for one day?”

“Yeah, but if I go home, I get sent to my room.”

I heard Jodi’s sympathetic grunt. She knew what a horrific bedroom I had.

I pulled into the pool parking lot and said goodbye. My boss, Tanya, had a cell phone issue. She put poor Jenny Foley on a month-long probation just for checking her voicemail in the locker rooms.

After carefully stowing my phone in the glove box, I grabbed my suit and my towel and made for the locker rooms. The pool was the meeting ground for preteen mobs and toddler-toting soccer moms. A few older kids frequented the pool, most of them cheerleaders working on their tans.

I changed into my suit and grabbed my long red floatation device. I really don’t understand the point of the thing, but the word LIFEGUARD spelled out in bold white letters made me feel very official.

With my blue one-piece donned—it was something my Great-Grandma Helena would wear—and my cheerful Hawaiian towel draped over my shoulders, I headed out to my big chair.

If I’m being honest, which I always make a point to be, I have to admit that the only reason I became a lifeguard is because of the big chair. Ever since I was a little kid with messy pigtails and a sunburned nose, I had wanted to sit in the giant white chair and lord over the pool and all of its inhabitants. To me, the chair wasn’t just an uncomfortable wooden seat. It was a throne. Well, there was the chair and the whistle. I have always had a thing for whistles.

I climbed into my throne, giving Luke Thor, who took the first shift at the pool, a flirtatious wink. I had exchanged probably ten words with him, but we both knew that he wanted me. Okay, so he had a girlfriend. And okay, she had the face of an angel and her legs were taller than me. A girl can hope, right?

The first thing I did once I was settled was blow my whistle. At the shrill sound, everyone looked up at me. I could immediately tell who was being naughty. A group of boys, foam kickboards in hand, looked guiltily at each other, avoiding my eyes.

“Just wanted to let you all know I’m here.” I smiled down at my chlorinated kingdom. “I do accept tips in that little jar over there. What is safety worth to you? Just think, an extra dollar might make me jump just a little bit faster to save your child. It could be the difference between life and death.”

I shut up then for two reasons: Tanya was on her way over, wearing her mad face, and a few mothers looked about ready to shoot me. I tuned out Tanya’s lecture, and then settled in for a long wait. Nothing ever happened on my shift. All the good stuff went down for Luke Thor and his biceps.

I was on the cusp of a nap when I just about fell out of my chair to a shrill voice screaming my name. I looked down to see Yvonne Roulette, a petite cheerleader with an awful perm, pointing into the water. “She fell in, Lex! Oh, my God! She fell in!”

I didn’t stop to ask who had fallen in. Already at the edge of the pool, I handed a bewildered ninth-grader my sunglasses. I blew my whistle one the way into the water, screaming for everyone to get out.

Diving in, I saw a limp, bikini-clad body sinking to the tiled floor. Didn’t think, just grabbed her arm and pulled up. The girl was about a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier than me, so I struggled a bit to get to the surface.

Finally I had her sprawled across the deck. Didn’t look at her head, which was gushing blood from a scalp wound. Just started CPR, pumping the water out of her lungs.

When she took the first gasp of breath on her own, I slumped back in relief. I had just handled a drowning situation with undeniable savoir faire. I yelled to a visibly shocked Tanya, who had just meandered out of the pool office, to call an ambulance.

Looking down at my rescued drowning victim, I just about had a heart attack. Lying on my pool deck, in her pink bikini, was Tiffany Carter. In denial, I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, it was still Tiffany. The soggy white bandage on her nose proved that.

She was staring up at me with an equal amount of disgust. I glared down at her, about ready to break her nose for a second time. But no, I had to put a make-shift bandage on her scalp wound.

Taking care not to pull her hair, which wouldn’t be very professional of me, I spread Neosporin on the cut. Spreading a square of gauze over the cut, I said coldly, “You are not having a very good day, are you Tiffany?”

She blushed. “Thank you, Lex. You saved my life.”

“Yeah, well.” I fidgeted uncomfortably. “It would be really great if you didn’t sue me for breaking your nose.”

Tiffany gave a nervous laugh. “Deal.”

* * *

When I returned to school after my suspension, I was a freaking goddess. Everyone came up and thanked me for saving Tiffany’s worthless hide. They practically kissed my feet. A sophomore asked me for to sign her make-up bag with lipstick and a junior asked if he could carry my books. I could tell that Jodi was about ready to vomit—or kill someone.

I wasn’t really surprised. I knew that, eventually, the school would realize that there were many facets to me.

At lunch, when I was in line for a corndog, Matt Abbot patted me on the head and said, “Thanks kid. You saved my baby’s life.”

I’d had it. After personally pulling Tiffany Carter out of a pool and saving her life, people were still calling me ‘kid’ and patting me on the head. I had deluded myself into thinking that my recent escapade had wiped any thoughts of shortness from people’s minds.

I glared up at Matt Abbot, QB on the Varsity football team and boyfriend of Tiffany Carter. And then, for no other reason than the unfortunate fact that he was over six feet tall, I gave him a swift upper-cut to the ribs.

Oh boy, I thought, as Matt clutched his side. Here we go again.