It Gets Worse Read online

  ANDRE: You should ask her to the fall dance. I’m gonna ask Mrs. Rose.

  ME: Fall dance? That’s a thing? Also, you really gotta find a new crush. You know, something not illegal.

  ANDRE: The fall dance is coming. It’s my favorite dance ’cause there’s candy corn everywhere.

  ME: Now you’re speaking my language. I fucking love candy corn.

  ANDRE: Also Mrs. Rose always saves me a slow dance.

  ME: You’re creeping the fuck out of me, Andre.

  That Monday Mrs. Rose told us what our next assignment would be. We were in charge of being our buddies’ guardians at the fall dance. This was perfect! It was the perfect time for me to ask Cary if she wanted to take our relationship to the next level.

  ME: Hey, Cary, will you go to the dance with me?

  CARY: Oh . . . you mean like . . . as a . . . friend?

  ME: Um . . . Um . . .

  I started to sweat, and I heard a grunt behind me. It was Andre shooting me a “you got this” face. I turned back around to meet my destiny.

  ME: No. As more.

  CARY: Oh.

  OH?! What do you mean OH?! She used the same tone I would have if I found out it was past eleven a.m. and McDonald’s wasn’t doing breakfast anymore!

  CARY: I just don’t want to date right now.

  ME: Oh.

  My “oh” was more in the tone of just hearing that MCDONALD’S HAD JUST BLOWN UP AND THEY WERE NEVER COMING BACK!

  CARY: I’m sorry. I just don’t want to date until I’m fifteen. We’re still kids, you know.

  ME: But I look thirty.

  CARY: I’m sorry, Shane.

  She gave me a hug. Not as tight as an Andre hug but just as sweet.

  CARY: Still friends?

  ME: Hey, best buddies.

  We laughed, but on the inside I was dying. It was the first time I had ever had the courage to ask a girl out, and I got shot down. Luckily Andre was there to lift me up.

  ANDRE: Mrs. Rose said yes!

  ME: What?

  ANDRE: Told you she liked me.

  Once again my mentally handicapped friend’s life was better than mine. The next week was the dance and I made sure to find the coolest outfit I could. Unfortunately I’d thrown my dolphin shirt in a fire pit and watched it burn to fucking ash, so all I had left was the outfit I’d worn to fifth-grade graduation. It was a button-up shirt and pants that had a rip in the ass. Still a step up from the dolphin shirt.

  My mom dropped me off at the dance, and I saw Andre standing at the door waiting for me. He looked awesome. He had on a suit and the shiniest shoes I had ever seen. He looked like a member of OutKast, and I looked like a guy from American Idol who lived in his car and got voted out the first week. As we walked in together, lots of girls were hitting on Andre and staring at his . . . toddler. I tried to make the sexiest face I could, and all I got was a teacher asking me if I was ok. She even mentioned that the nurse was on duty. Once again, nailing it.

  CARY: Hey, Shane! Hey, Andre!

  ME: Hey! Where’s your buddy?

  CARY: She’s on the dance floor. I can’t get her off.

  ME: Isn’t she . . . deaf ?

  CARY: Ya! She feels the vibrations of the beat through her feet!

  I looked over at Cary’s buddy and she looked like she was in an old-school Britney video. Her arms were popping, her hips were shaking, her head was whipping. She was a true pop icon reincarnated. Of course the deaf girl was a better dancer than me, and my buddy had a bigger dick than me. Special ed kids: 2. Me: 0.

  CARY: Are you gonna dance?

  ME: Nah, probably not. Just gonna make sure all the buddies are safe. Maybe have some punch or something.

  CARY: Well, I’m going to dance, so if you wanna join, that’s where I’ll be.

  I wanted to be there more than anything. Dancing with her. Watching her hair fly through the air as she jumped around to the beat. It sounded like heaven. Too bad I was a big pussy who watched everyone else have fun while I ate deviled eggs by the trash can. You know, eating the innards and throwing away the white. A big pop song came on and busted through the speakers. I don’t remember the song, but I do remember it was something everyone knew and everyone wanted to dance to. I saw all the best buddies RUSH to the dance floor and take over. I was nervous because I didn’t want the other students to make fun of them. Kids can be so mean. Hell, just a couple of months ago I might have even laughed at a group of special ed kids freak-dancing on each other. But after spending time with them and becoming their friend I just wanted to see them have fun and be happy. And that’s what they were doing. Mrs. Rose’s whole class was in the middle of the dance floor fully having the time of their lives. Not caring what anyone was thinking about them. Not listening to the laughter coming from some of the “normal” kids, and not even paying attention to anyone around them.

  As I watched I felt inspired. I wanted to be more like them. I wanted to not care what other people thought. I wanted to just be myself and ignore all the assholes that surrounded me. I decided to throw away my last deviled egg and make my way to the dance floor. I saw Cary, and she was jumping up and down like she was in the middle of a rave. She looked so free and so happy. I ran up to her and started jumping too. She screamed over the music.

  CARY: YOU’RE DANCING!

  ME: YA, I KNOW!

  CARY: YOU SMELL LIKE EGGS!

  I shut my mouth to keep the smell from coming out and kept dancing. She laughed and then grabbed my hands. We started jumping up and down and spinning in circles. Besides the fact that deviled-egg-colored vomit was starting to come up, it was the most fun I had had in a long time. I felt like I’d found my place.

  For the rest of the year I spent each day hanging out with Cary and the rest of the buddies and I never had to eat lunch alone again. I also started wearing a crotch cup on cold days just in case Andre experienced a fit of rage. Luckily I had a micro-dick, so not much damage could have been done anyways. I’m not sure where Andre is now, but I’m sure his life is better than mine in every way. That good-looking, tall, hung asshole.

  • • •

  Special ed kids: WINNERS. Me: 0.

  The Lottery

  About the Artist

  STEPHANIE SHAW is an eighteen-year-old fine arts student, originally from Liverpool, now studying in London and hoping to go on to study effects makeup and prosthetics. She’s had a paintbrush in her hand for eighteen years and has slowly moved from painting on paper, to canvas, to . . . well . . . her own face. Lover of horror and gore as well as musical theater and costume design, she’s completely honored to have her work chosen and published. She can be found on her Instagram @stephanie.shaw.art.

  It was a typical Sunday morning. While most eleven-year-olds were watching cartoons I was watching the Spanish channel because the coat hanger I had shoved in the back of my television didn’t feel like picking up Nickelodeon that day. The telenovela dramatically unfolding featured a couple screaming at each other in their living room while their three daughters watched with tears in their eyes. A lamp was thrown across the room and smashed through a window. The father slapped the mother in the face but not before the mother stabbed him in the stomach with a carving knife. While all of this was happening, the family’s television set was showing a music video on MTV. As the father took his last dying breath in front of his screaming children, I had only one thought: Does that family know how lucky they are to have CABLE?? They can watch whatever they want whenever they want! It’s like they’re living the dream! I’d watch my mom brutally kill my dad if it meant I could watch cartoons in HD.

  When my family and I wanted to watch something on TV, we had to play a game of eeny, meeny, miny, mo to see who would risk getting electrocuted by shoving their fingers in the outlet to steal cable from the neighbors. Sometimes it worked, but usually it ended with one of us needing an ice bath and a two-day nap. Cable was one of the many luxuries that we couldn’t afford in my house.

  By the t
ime I was eleven, I was living with just my mom and my brother Jerid. We had a nice routine set for Super Cheap Sundays. We would go to church so we could get all our lessons from the Bible and soak up the beautiful word of Christ. Just kidding. We went to church because they had free donuts and hot chocolate. The word of Christ was just something you had to sit through so you could get your glaze on. After that we would return home and go to our separate areas of the house. My mom would do laundry, my brother would go back to sleep, and I would stare out my bedroom window and try to watch the couple who lived in the apartment across from us having Sunday-morning sex. As it was the day of the Lord, they would usually steer clear of anything too experimental.

  But this particular Sunday morning was different. Instead of spending my day trying to catch a glimpse of Veronica’s asshole (I’m not sure if that was her name, but it’s nice to give a name to the people you spy on. It makes them more real.), I was interrupted by my mom, who burst into my room with an enormous smile on her face and a Bible in her hand. It was as if she had discovered the meaning of life, and I was the first person she was going to tell.

  MOM: Shaney! We’re going to win the lottery!!!

  Fuck the meaning of life! This was even better! This bitch discovered MONEY!

  ME: What?!!!

  MOM: Jesus told me in a dream!

  ME: That sounds literally insane, but I don’t care! I want to see what a hundred-dollar bill looks like!

  MOM: I prayed to him last night, and when I went to sleep I had this incredible dream that we were going to win the lottery and be able to do everything we’ve ever wanted. It was so real. I think it was a sign.

  ME: Wow. Do you think you can ask Jesus to make me skinny?

  MOM: He’s not a miracle worker, honey. Now go get on some clothes! We’re going to the liquor store!

  It was at that moment I realized I could put all common sense on the back burner if someone dangled money in front of my face. Even as a kid, I should have known how impossible the odds of winning the lottery are, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was how I was going to buy that douchebag kid in my class from his parents (everything has a price) and make him spend the rest of his life getting his hairs slowly picked out of his head by my fat little fingers. Of course I’d have to set some money aside for the creepy-ass basement I was going to need to keep him in. Oh, and obviously some money set aside for my college. I was reasonable.

  As we hopped in the car my mom’s eyes were full of hope. I hadn’t seen that look in years. The last few years had been difficult after my dad left, and her eyes were usually too tired from working her nine-to-five job to show any signs of spirit. Seeing her like this was refreshing, even if the circumstance was a little crazy. As we drove to the liquor store we started talking about which six numbers we would choose for our ticket.

  ME: Did Jesus tell you what the winning numbers were?

  MOM: No. Maybe we just choose random ones and pray they’re good?

  ME: That’s how I feel when I pick a dish out of Grandma’s cupboard. I pray to God she washed at least one of them in the last twenty-five years.

  MOM: Maybe we should pick our birthdays?

  ME: Good idea! Let’s do mine, yours, Grandma’s, Jerid’s, and Jacob’s! Twelve, twenty-three, nineteen, twenty-nine, eight.

  MOM: Perfect!

  ME: Wait, we need one more!

  MOM: How about seven. That number’s special.

  ME: ’Cause that’s how many times we saw Titanic in theaters together?

  MOM: No.

  ME: Because that’s how many Weight Watchers points my favorite donut at Krispy Kreme is?

  MOM: No.

  ME: Because that’s the age I was when strangers finally stopped thinking I was a girl?

  MOM: Awwww, you’ll always be my husky little girl.

  She pinched my cheek. I pinched my inner leg, which is like cutting for people who don’t like blood. Try it.

  MOM: Seven is the number of completion in the Bible. It’s how long it took Him to create the world. Maybe us winning the lottery will be the completion of our struggles. We can start over again. Start a new life.

  I looked at her with admiration. She was so convinced that this was going to happen, and I was really starting to believe it. I’ve never believed in anything as much as she believed that God was going to perform a miracle to get us out of our debt. It was like watching a kid on Christmas wait for Santa Claus to crawl down the chimney. As we pulled up to the liquor store she did the sign of the cross over her forehead and reached over and did it over mine. This is still something I do to this day. Every time I get on the freeway I do the sign of the cross over my forehead, and it always makes me feel safe. Even though I’m not as religious as I once was, I still feel connected to God and I still want His protection. It’s like using a toilet-seat cover at a nice restaurant. You know deep down that nobody who can afford to eat there has ringworm, but you don’t want to risk it.

  When we pulled into the liquor store parking lot, we could see a line of people wrapped around the building. My mom stopped the car near a woman who looked just as desperate for cash as us.

  MOM: Hi, is this the line for lottery tickets?

  DESPERATE WOMAN: No shit. What did you think this was? A line for pretzel dogs?

  ME: Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. The new fiesta blast flavor is kind of revolutionary. And just a tip: try dipping it in the cheese from the nacho station. It’s fifty cents extra, but it really enhances the experience.

  DESPERATE WOMAN: Wow, the employees here have gotten so much more helpful!

  ME: I’m eleven.

  We parked the car and walked to the back of the line to wait our turn. I noticed the line was full of all types of people, similar to what you might find at a Christmas parade. Everyone had hope in their eyes, but they all secretly knew it would be a letdown. Think about it: Have YOU ever been to a parade and left satisfied? Have you ever turned to your friend and said, “Wow, that wasn’t a total waste of fucking time”? No, you have not. No one has. Parades are the same as the “professional” beat boxers that go on TV talent shows. Loud, depressing, and useless.

  When we finally made it up to the counter, the man handed us a ticket and asked us to fill out our numbers.

  ME: We’re gonna win today! God told us!

  EMPLOYEE: Really? That’s exactly what that guy said.

  He pointed to a homeless man peeing in the parking lot, aiming his penis into his mouth. My expectations for winning started to slip. We wrote down our numbers and gave the ticket a good-luck kiss, and my mom tucked it into her Bible. We got back into the car and headed home. The winning numbers would be announced in eight hours, and I couldn’t contain myself. On the drive back to our apartment all I could think about was what I would spend the money on if we won. Obviously, I would give some to charity, possibly give that homeless man who talks to God a bottle to pee into. But after that, what would I do? Maybe a new bike? Or maybe an Easy-Bake Oven? I was always too scared to play with one, but with that much money, who cares how many people made fun of me! I could just BUY acceptance from my peers! I looked out the car window as we drove past a nice neighborhood, where I saw an OPEN HOUSE sign.

  ME: Mom. We should go to that open house!

  MOM: Oh, Shaney, we could never afford that. This is the fancy neighborhood.

  ME: Umm . . . Mom.

  I pulled the lottery ticket out of her Bible and waved it around. She smiled and flipped a U-turn. It was time to start spending our invisible money! As we passed a street full of mansions I couldn’t help but wonder what life was like on the other side. What was it like to wake up in the morning and open a fridge full of brand-name foods and then sit on your couch that was from a store and not from the curb while you watch cable that you had gotten LEGALLY ? This was a world I had no experience in, but I was ready.

  We pulled over in front of a house with balloons and a sign in front of it. As we walked up the driveway I look
ed up to take it all in. It was the biggest house I had ever seen in my life, and I suddenly wasn’t sure I was ready for it. Even though we believed we were going to be rich in the next eight hours, we were still technically poor street trash. What if the real estate agent saw us walking through the door and then kicked us out for smelling like coupons?

  ME: Maybe we shouldn’t go in.

  MOM: Why not? This is our dream house!

  ME: What if they make fun of us? What if they know we’re poor?

  MOM: If we want to fit in, then we have to act the part. Stand up straight.

  I pushed my shoulders back and pumped up my chest.

  MOM: Push your hair back.

  I spit in my hand and used it as a gel to slick my hair back.

  MOM: Now make a face like you just smelled your own fart and liked it.

  That one was easy for me. Farts are like little gifts from your body. It’s the same way I feel about pimples or pickable foot skin. Hours of free entertainment.

  MOM: Alright. Now let’s go in there and be stuck-up assholes like the rest of them!

  When we walked inside, the first thing we saw was a sign-in sheet and a gold pen sitting on top of it. I grabbed it and scribbled down our full names. “Boobies McTitface” and “Mrs. Queefington.” Give me a break, I was eleven. As we turned to take our tour of the house a woman wearing a pantsuit and a stick up her ass stopped us for a chat.

  MRS. PANTSUIT: And you are?

  ME: McTitface. And this is Mrs. Queefington.

  My mom looked at me, pissed. She obviously hadn’t read the sign-in sheet, but it was too late. The queef had already been released.

  MOM: Yep, that’s us. Just a couple of successful business people.

  ME: I invented marshmallow Peeps.

  MRS. PANTSUIT: Aren’t you ten?

  ME: Eleven, actually. But thank you. My VERY expensive face cream must be working.

  MRS. PANTSUIT: Right. Well, if you have any questions, please let me know.

  As the woman walked away, my mom and I busted out in laughter. We had officially lost our minds, but at least we were having fun. This was way better than waiting for Veronica to finish Jason off with a handy. (Once again, not sure if that was his name, but he looked like a Jason.)