“Perklety and Kilsmaddeny”

By Jessamyn Rains

 

Perklety and Kilsmaddeny

They wore matching pink-and-blue sweaters and carried purple and silver Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers on the first day of seventh grade. They sat in front of you in your Language Arts class, one of them short and freckled, brown-haired with an upturned nose, the other tall and blond and modelesque like one of the Sweet Valley Twins.

Their names were Perklety and Kilsmaddeny, and somehow you got it into your head that you’d like to be one of them.

You approached them at lunch with your footlong hot dog and canned pears on a tray, and they, with their matching sandwiches and chocolate milks, turned their fluffy heads to you and gave you that sneer that only Junior High girls know how to give.

You took your footlong and sat with the dorks.

Unfortunately, Perklety and Kilsmaddeny happened to notice you staring weirdly—(creepily!)—at them. You protested—explained it away– to no avail. They called you fongenbaumer and viegleheimer in the hall while you fumbled with your locker combination. They made fun of your hair, your shoes, your adolescent body, the way you carried your books. They enlisted the help of the boys, who were only too glad to volley insults at you: on the bus, in pre-algebra, in the halls

and, yes, even at the dork table.

You took your chicken nuggets and canned peaches and sat with the kids who wore black T-shirts and slept, heavy metal blaring in their headphones.

***

In high school, Perklety was class president. Kilsmaddeny was a cheerleader plus homecoming queen, in short skirts and hair ribbons. You wore your Metallica and Megadeth T-shirts like an invisibility cloak, the darkest, oldest ones you could find.

Then somehow, you were accidentally valedictorian of your class.

And just as you were about to begin to give the speech you wrote that morning on a McDonald’s napkin you saw Perklety and Kilsmaddeny lurking in the back of the gym in their caps and gowns, giving you that junior high sneer and holding up signs: Fongenbaumer. Viegleheimer.

You were surprised by a feeling of shame, of weakness; you stumbled as you spoke.

***

You went to college; you got a job; you married and had a child; you moved back to your hometown. And, contrary to your revenge fantasies, you found that life was more like junior high than otherwise: the mom groups at the park—the ladies at the church—the coworkers at K-cup coffeemaker—all of them looking at you and saying fongenbaumer and viegleheimer.

So you were not entirely surprised to see Perklety show up fifteen years later in an emerald green gown in the chicken wing joint where you were on an anniversary date with your husband. She had always been a bit on the chubby side but now she was perfect; she stopped and sat with you and smiled and was friendly and charming and gorgeous.

She acted like you were old friends.

You almost forgot how she was your tormentor; you enjoyed her smiles and banter.

But then you were tormented again, after she left, stealing glances at your hangdog reflection in the car window while your husband went on and on about how nice she was, how you should give her a call and hang out, and “aren’t you always saying you don’t have enough friends?”.

***

A few years later you got a job teaching junior high at the school you went to, only now they called it “middle school.”

Of course, they changed the carpet and the décor; the lights were different; the kids were more human somehow.

And they built a new gym. That’s where you saw Kilsmaddeny again. Only now, she was Dr. Kilsmaddeny. Psychiatrist and psychologist. When people ask her is she that kind of doctor, or that kind? she says “yes, both, and I’m also a motivational speaker, best-selling author, podcaster, a Ted-Talker, aspiring congresswoman, citizen of the world.”

She told everyone you can be anything you want to be, etc. etc. She was more ordinary-looking than before; she had aged; she wasn’t so thin; but who cares?

She said they all used to call her a dumb blond just because she was a gorgeous cheerleader and a homecoming queen, but she proved them all wrong.

Good for her.

Good for her.

Good for her.

You woke up in the middle of the night: You’d never given a Ted-Talk. You weren’t a Dr. of any kind. You’d never written a best-seller, never aspired to be a congresswoman. You’d never given inspirational talks. You wondered if you’d ever even inspired anyone.

You were awake from 3-5 AM. You looked up Perklety on Instagram; she had pics of herself in activewear; she had 3 million followers.

***

You didn’t see either of them again for another twenty years.

You were in a crisis when they showed up as holograms, shadows on the wall. They were full of kindness, as though they’d come bearing casseroles; they were the mentors you never could find. You said that you were trying to come to terms with your life; you saw how some dark inferiority had stalked you the whole way; you were tormented by what you did not do, by whom you did not become.

The morning light leaked out under the window shade—they spoke in professional tones like compassionate healthcare workers—they told you gently

winsomely

and with so much certainty

that they had the answers–

they said it louder:

they had the answers.

You finally understood.

You saw how they’ve been there the whole time, lurking in the halls, in the back of the gym. And that’s when you finally decided: let them lurk if they must.

You’re not handing your life over to them anymore, however much is left of it.

 

 

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Jessamyn Rains’ work has appeared in various publications, including Solid Food Press, Reformed Journal, and Trampoline. She is also a musician and songwriter. She lives with her family in eastern Tennessee.