The Little Ghost

Within each child exists a small clock located beneath the gut. This clock is called the clock of rebellion. These clocks expire before the age of twenty and are triggered by parental actions or opinions a child strongly opposes or resents. Psychologists and doctors call the aftermath of a set off clock a “phase”.

“Don’t worry Mrs. Berry, Laura running away to the neighborhood playground is just a phase. She just wants to feel free and in control of her own actions without requiring an adult’s permission. I have seen this many times before, don’t worry, she will grow out of it.”

Another example would be, “Oh Mr. Herzog you have nothing to worry about! Didn’t you try recreational drugs when you were in high school? Natalie just wants to experiment like all the other kids. It is nothing serious, just a phase. Teenagers out grow these habits soon enough. Just sit tight and keep her out of jail. I mean, I did them and look at me now, I am a perfectly normal and successful doctor!”

These two children went through standard and fairly common “phases.” Both Laura and Natalie did out grow their rebellious habits. By out grow I mean they succumbed to parental pressures in one instance and moved on to other, more mature ways, to get back at their parents. (Not that all children continue to rebel, some clocks are one time deals with others turn into yearly or weekly alarm clocks.) Laura chose to go to a college out of state, the ultimate way to run away from home. Only this time she had a place to run to her parents agreed with, a fortress of education. Natalie on the other hand decided to date a man her Roman Catholic parent’s strongly disliked. For this reason and this reason alone, Natalie loved him.

My clock went off well before Laura and Natalie’s. In third grade I was provoked not by the lack of opportunities to explore the little person I was, but by the overwhelming amount of after school activities for which my parents enthusiastically signed my name.

“Oh Julian just look! Little Einstein flute lessons! We must sign Kellyann up! The ability to play an instrument helps with mathematical problem solving and balance! Mary Sue never signed Jimmy up for any musical instrument lessons and look at him now- an alcoholic living pay check to pay check! Do we want our little wonder to end up that way?”

“But Michelle, Kellyann has spirit choir on the same day. Unless we signed her up for glee club, then she could do both. I am sure she would love that.”

Clearly my civil engineering father and stay-at-home mother forgot to ask me what I wanted to do- or even look in my general direction. They were too busy tossing around pages of colored paper advertising all the extracurricular they could signed me up for to notice me sticking my index finger down my throat, rolling my eyes into the back of my head and pretending to faint at the mere idea of playing the flute. I didn’t mind glee club because I would sit in the back and pretend I was an opera singer. When the director would ask who was singing like that I would cough the name of the girl to the right or left of me.

I was one of those kids whose parents enrolled their daughter in every possible extracurricular just to make sure she could find what she was good at, what she liked, what she disliked. Or that’s the reason they told me.

“Mommm, why do I have to go to soccer practice? I hate that stupid sport. It’s so dumb. Girls aren’t even allowed to play soccer at recess. The only thing I want to kick is the shin of the dumb inventor of soccer. Soccer is stupid.”
“Kel Bel, Marie Claire often played soccer when she wasn’t in her lab. Soccer helps develop teamwork skills and appropriate means of communication in a peer group. Plus you are only signed up for three activities right now while all the other girls have at least five.” My mom muttered that last part under her breath. I don’t believe she majored in English in college; her ability to tally and keep a running score of what all the other children were doing was unnatural.
“I hate science. I hate teamwork. I hate talking! I just want to read and color.”
“Don’t be stubborn. We all know how much you love to talk.”

For the most part I lacked natural skill in almost all fields I tried. I had my mom write a letter to my soccer coach so I was exempt from playing goalie; I never got past learning “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the flute even with a private tutor and I quit Irish step-dancing before the recital (this particularly upset my very proud, very Irish grandma who saw my rejection as a personal stab at our heritage and a complete and utter waste of natural red curls).

My parents, my mother in particular, gushed to the other PTA parents how involved their daughter was, with her choir experience, skill with the flute (my parents must have been deaf) but it was never enough. Each week the moms of the “gifted” girls would meet in the school cafeteria to put together the students’ weekly envelopes. The packets consisted of a newsletter for the parents from the principle, the hot food Wednesday order form and of course at least three varying colored papers each with a different after school activity to be offered. When it came time to assemble those particular packets the smiling dimpled faces of the proud housewives turned into faces similar to the ones men on prison shows make right before they kill their cell mate with a shank they hand crafted from the elastic band of their underwear.

“My little Michelle will just love the new dance class offered on Thursdays! She has excelled in Irish Step dance beyond all the other girls her class. Ballet, tap and jazz will help to just keep her in shape for that.”
“Well you should just see Claire! What a delight! Always dancing up a storm while Jimmy- you know my youngest; the first grader who played Mozart in last year’s talent show- plays the piano. I am going to make them matching costumes out of crushed blue velvet!”
“Well that’s nothing ladies. Lauren has the lungs of Madonna. I am sure these dance classes will just help her become the triple threat she is destined to be! After becoming a lawyer of course.”
Now it was my mother’s turn.
“Cheryl, I heard Michelle was the best in her class because she was with the first graders, not the third graders?”
“Michelle just missed the deadline for her age group because she was at figure skating nationals in Texas. She got third you know. Is Kellyann even still in Irish step dancing?”
My mom blushed, but recovered quickly. “Kellyann thought it was too boring. She could practically be on River Dance! It just wasn’t enough of a challenge for her anymore. I am sure theses Thursday dance classes will be the same, besides she may decide to start taking Chinese on those days.”

Right mom, because deciding between dance class and a nonexistent Chinese symbol drawing class was my choice to make. If I had my way I would have been in the library’s reading club and taking a drawing class at the local community center. I asked my mother once to sign me up for either of these activities. The first was not developed enough so it would be a waste of time, she would make up a personalized reading schedule for me instead. Drawing class? That desire, ironically the strongest of all, was ignored. What could a girl do with art?

When my mom came home from envelope stuffing she had an announcement.
“Kellyann Marie, get down here! I have some wonderful news!” Maybe I was wrong; maybe I could finally do what I wanted to do. I had already taken a form of singing, dancing, and playing- what was left? I felt safe. I was wrong.
“You are going to be taking the new ballet, jazz, and tap dance class series on Thursday afternoons! All the other girls are doing it, you will have so much fun!”

I was cosmically screwed over, what horrendous deed had I performed in a past life to deserve such a serving of karma? Apparently Irish dance has nothing to do with ballet, tap dance, and jazz. My parents were thrilled. A sign! Oh their little baby girl still had some hope of avoiding middle class mediocrity and doing something she loved. By “something she loved” I mean something they selected, wished they had been able to accomplish in their childhood, or all the other “normal” girls my age were doing. The fear of having a daughter who was not normal often consumed my parents. I didn’t make any form of verbal protest. I accepted my fate and ran up to my room where I kicked my garbage can from my desk to my door. Maybe soccer was good for something after all.

There I was, Thursday afternoon in my school social hall, in my black tights, black spandex leotard, and matching Payless Shoe Source ballet slippers, surrounded by a sea of girls whose parents had the exact same thought mine had. Most of us were miserable; some of us enjoyed the lessons, some of us were just happy to get away from overbearing parents insistent that dance lessons lead to Harvard scholarships. More often than not I fell into the first category.

Ms. Wetzel was the instructor for all three fields of offered dance (all of which I was signed up). She was an old widowed woman who looked as if she had been sitting in a hot bath all day. Her pruned, wrinkled fingers matched nicely with the permanent scowl tattooed to her elastic face. She clapped bendy-straw fingers together, “My misfit gaggle of ugly prepubescent ducklings! Line up along the red line facing me, shortest to tallest. Let me see what I can do with you. Not all of us were born to be beautiful swans you know.” She finished her opening proclamation with a cackle that would make even the most black lungs filled with cigarette smoke cringe.
“My, my, my, what do we have here?” She was headed in my direction. I tried to pull the curtain of my red curls to hide my face.
“Little ghost, have you taken dance before? Your posture is très magnifique.”
Her French wasn’t fooling anyone she was so obviously German. “Yes ma’m. Irish step dancing. I hate dance, I think it’s stupider than Mrs. Robinson saying “catch-up not mustard when I don’t turn my times tables in on time,” I finished, crossing my arms and slouching.
“Well then! You will learn a thing or two in the back of the gaggle now won’t you!” With that she dug her yellow nails into my wrist and placed me at the tip of a triangle formation- me being the very back point so I could not be seen from any direction.

As much as I hated dance, I loved being the center of attention- my zodiac sign is a Leo after-all.
I do not think I ever looked that woman in the eye. For some reason unknown to my third grade mentality she felt the need to match us by wearing her own black tights and black spandex leotard. Her weekly costume also included a cane with which she used to keep the beat of the music, when she was not swinging it around like a bayonet. She had an assistant, whose name I cannot recall, who was much kinder than her. I think she was her sister. She left halfway through that year for reasons unknown to us girls. Some of the girls missed her and felt bad for Mr. Wetzel who was left all alone on Thursday afternoons. Being the stubborn smartass I was (and still am) I wondered what took her sister so long to leave and wished she had taken me with her.

“I want to punch Ms. Wetzel square in the face. Michelle, what snack do you have?”
“Celery with peanut butter. Mom says they will make me limbery, whatever that means.”
“Well they look gross, maybe if we leave them on the floor and ants come Ms. Wetzel will see them, have a heart attack and die! I wouldn’t go to her funeral.”
“Kellyann, why do you have such a violent thoughts?”
“I watch a lot of crime TV.”
“Huh?”
“After my parents go to sleep I sneak downstairs and watch TV, that’s all that’s on. We should have a sleepover at my house, then we can think of ways to kill Ms. Wetzel.”

When the ants never came I knew it was a bad omen. My fate was sealed. No one was going to get me out of those dance classes expect myself. I guess you could say my long overdue rebellion clock went off. My parents were clueless. It was little things at first. Forgetting my dance shoes so my mom had to come and drop them off for me. This action excused me from at least an hour of dancing, as I would sit along the wall, patiently waiting for my mother.

“Kellyann Marie Wargo if you leave your shoes at home again so help me I will take you out of dance class and you can do chores!” She would then throw the shoes on the floor and leave with that special PTA-prison-man-murder face of hers.

We both knew this to be an empty threat because I would have loved that. My mom learned this game and began packing my backpack for me. Damn it. I had to take larger steps. I faked a twisted ankle in a gym class soccer game when I was goalie. I went to the secretary who called my mom to come pick me up from school and waited patiently, frozen sponge ice pack pressed to my ankle, for my mother to arrive. That was only good for one Thursday, though, so more drastic measures had yet to be taken if I wanted to reclaim my freedom.

The secretary of the school’s office changed daily. Answering phone calls, making phone calls, and typing documents for the principle was considered a PTA activity. The parents who were not part of the clique with “gifted” daughters were left to fulfill this activity slot. This trend I noticed after twisting my ankle. The secretary I met when dropping off my class’s morning homeroom attendance sheet Tuesday morning was not the same woman as on Wednesday. Interesting. I had a plan and a week after twisting my ankle I put it into action.

I went to the secretary complaining of a stomachache, sore throat, feeling like I was going to puke at any time. She had no choice but to call my mom to come pick me up. In the meantime I got to nap on a hideous, brown, plastic reclining bed in the sick room. Of course I had no stomachache, no sore throat, and if anything I was hungry. I silently celebrated my great escape by making little creatures out of the paper towel by the sick bed used to clean up students’ puke and other body fluids. Whenever someone walked by the room I was sure to hide the small creation, squint my eyes, and curl up in ball holding my stomach. This time when my mom came to get me she was not upset, she was worried. My plan had worked. My mother’s sympathy did not impact my conscience. I had no feelings of guilt for tricking a low-rung member of administration, or for making my mom drive all the way to school during the day to pick me up.

The following Thursday I made another sick attempt. If I were to succeed this would be my third successful week of dodging dance- my own personal extracurricular. Another secretary, another illness- this time an excruciating headache that was making me so dizzy I could not walk straight. (If I pulled a stunt like this in high school they would think I was drunk.) I simply could not attend dance because my dizzy state would put the other dancers in danger with my flailing limbs and staggering step. More classes missed, more paper towel creatures made and stored under the reclining bed.

In fact I continued my charade for months. For reasons unknown to me, and unknown to my mother to this day, I missed almost every Thursday afternoon in the third grade academic year and got away with it. Ms. Wetzel did not notice my disappearing act, she had other young souls to deform and torture. The “little ghost” was the least of her worries when she was up to her neck (did she even have a neck under all the draping of wrinkled skin?) in ugly ducklings.

Then my mom became pregnant with my sister, Caitlyn. The fun and novelty of outsmarting my parents began to wear off when my charades were dismissed and replaced by shopping for a new stroller, crib; even little swatches of paint samples were more interesting than their first-born’s progress on her route to Harvard. Although Ms. Wetzel kept me in the back of the dance formation I could not have been happier and I knew my pregnant parents would still be able to see me because of my large mass of frizzy red curls- assuming they put down the Pottery Barn magazine down long enough to remember my recital. After all, my problem lied not with my crazy German teacher who smelled liked a kitty-litter sandwich sprayed with Chanel No. 5, nor with my parents who bought me footed pajamas until I was fifteen, no- my problem lived within my very own mind; I wasn’t making my own decisions.

I was back in class because I wanted to be, I actually wanted to be miserable. Why? It was my decision. That was my first and last real rebellion against my parents, the end of my “phases”. My clock stopped ticking after that. They no longer signed me up for after school activities with Kaitlynn on the way. They had a new soul to mold to their liking, whether my new sister liked it or not her fate was sealed before she was the size of a peanut. Although my years as the guinea pig had just begun so did the years of me doing what I wanted to do. I still do not feel bad about missing those classes. I have yet to take a dance class again and still lack rhythm and grace, but I am okay with that because I have a mean streak a mile wide.