Reform School Girls

December 26, 2005

We spent Christmas Eve at Deborah's apartment, sleeping under the tiny, flickering, red lights she'd hung from a houseplant earlier in the afternoon. The poor plant's spindly chutes and wide tropical leaves struggled valiantly to play the part of a Christmas tree, and might've done a convincing job if we'd managed to place a present or two underneath it. But, with no parents around telling us to wait, our presents were open long before morning. Still, the lights were pretty, and despite the misty, fifty-degree weather, it somehow managed to feel like Christmas when we woke up.

I ran out for the newspaper while Deborah made coffee, and then we read stories to each other while waiting for Deborah's friend Kat to arrive. "You'll like Kat," said Deborah. "I just hope she gets here soon. I'm starving. I should've told her to meet us earlier. I knew she'd be late."

Kat finally arrived, and after a brief hello, Merry Christmas, Deborah handed her a couple of presents — a pair of earrings she made, and a plastic keychain in the shape of a bible that played the Hallelujah Chorus when you pressed the cross in its cover. It was surprisingly loud and undistorted, and Kat loved it.

"I'm gonna bring this with me on Tuesday to protect me from the reform school girls," said Kat, shaking the bible over her head like a televangelist.

"Reform school girls?" I asked. "Who are they?"

She explained that she was taking a class offered by an organization called NEW (Non-Traditional Employment for Women), with the hope of getting a job apprenticing as an electrician. The program is like a prep school that trains women and does what it can to place them in jobs that are traditionally held by men. Carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and so on. As might be expected, the women in the program are a little tougher than your average girl. Some, having come via reform-school.

"Whenever the teacher asks a question, I'm afraid to answer, because the one time I did, I caught so much shit from the bull behind me, that I thought she was gonna shiv my kidney."

The class started with 30 students, but half of them "self-selected" out of the program after only a few classes. The ones left are hardcore. "That's not the right broom, you stupid bitch," one of the women whispered menacingly into Kat's ear.

The women all have to sign in at the beginning of class, and sign out at the end because, as the teacher explained, "Suppose the cops suspect you committed a crime, but you were here at school. Unless you sign in, there won't be any proof to back up your alibi."

"You can read, right?” I said. “Maybe if you help some of these girls with their appeals, you can win their friendship. Or at least their protection."

"Seriously, no kidding. I wonder if I would've dropped out if I didn't have a huge crush on my teacher.” Kat said. “Is that bad?"

"No," I said. "Having a crush on a girl is what got me through high school."

"My teacher is so hot — six-foot-tall, blond, Norwegian. I love her. She winked at me the other day. She's not even my teacher anymore. The section she was teaching is over, but she's still hanging around. That's a good sign, right?"

"Sounds like it,” said Deborah.

"Except I think she just feels like she needs to be around to protect me, which is kinda weird, I guess."

Deborah was starving and described the only three restaurants within walking distance of her apartment that were open, and asked us where we wanted to go. She had worked in each of them at one time or another, and even though she presented them all as options, it was clear she wanted to go to the only one with the manager she didn't hate.

The manager of the restaurant recognized Deborah from across the room and came over to wish us a Merry Christmas. "It doesn't even feel like Christmas," she said. "When I was a kid, growing up in New York, everywhere you looked, there were lights and decorations. It seems like no one cares anymore. Look outside—"

We all turned and looked through the window at the warm rain.

"—I guess it's the weather, too," the manager admitted, "But how come no one has any decorations up? Oh well, Merry Christmas. Enjoy your meal."

Deborah pointed at the lone, dry, and unadorned wreath that was hanging in the window. "She's not one to be complaining about decorations."

After we ate, we decided to see a movie. King Kong was playing at the nearest theater, and we tried to make it there for a five o'clock show. It was sold out, of course. "Should we just call it Christmas Day, then?" asked Kat.

"Yeah. I guess so," nodded Deborah. "What train are you taking? The F? There's a subway stop right around the corner."

"Perfect."

Kat lit a cigarette, and we walked her to the station. "This cigarette keeps turning off," she said.

"What?"

"Oh shit, those reform school girls are starting to rub off on me. I was having a cigarette with one of them the other day, and her cigarette wouldn't stay lit. She said, 'Ever since I switched brands, my cigarettes keep turning off ."

"American Spirits?" asked Deborah.

"I think so, yeah."

"When I used to smoke, I smoked American Spirits, and it's true, they always turn off."