Written by Lynne Doncaster
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/marcogarrincha

 

Andrea shook the blue and silver can of Aqua-Net and sprayed a heavy coating of it on her arm. She looked away and touched the Bic lighter to her wrist. The flame flashed up to her elbow. “Ahhhh! Ahhh!” she shrieked, “Put it out!” In an instant, Emilie threw a damp Esprit beach towel on Andrea’s arm to smother the flames. Andrea pulled the towel back, examined her arm, and nodded. “Good. Now the other arm.”

“You probably shouldn’t do that,” I said, “I mean, light yourself on fire. It’s probably not safe.” I tried to sound casual. I didn’t want to start yet another fight with my roommates. I thought it was common sense not to set yourself on fire, but it was common practice at Jefferson-Rousseau Academy.  The first time I witnessed it and asked why, Andrea held out her un-fired arm and said “Sicilian.”

This time Andrea didn’t even turn to look at me, but I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was rolling her eyes. “Oh my god. It’s fine. Relax.”  

“You could just shave your arms,” I suggested.

“Shaving gives you stubble. That’s worse than hairy arms.” Andrea sprayed her arm again and looked at Emilie. “Ready?”

“Could you at least do that somewhere other than the foot of my bed?” I asked, panicked, before she could light the lighter. “Please? I really don’t think you should play with fire in here.” Our room wasn’t small, but it was crowded, with five desks, two bunk beds, my single bed, trunks, field hockey sticks, backpacks, the buckets of shampoo and soap that we carried to the bathroom down the hall, and other clutter that accompanies teenage girls.

“Ugh. Get over yourself!” Ashley snapped at me from the other side of the room. She was kneeling on a desk chair, hunched over the one ironing board shared by our entire dorm while our fifth roommate, Renee, ironed her hair. They got the idea from the movie Hairspray. Ashley’s hair was straight even without ironing, but they all found it funny when Renee said “I’ll iron the chick’s hair,” like Pia Zadora.

“You’re such a dork,” Ashley continued from her bent-up position. She raised her voice in faux-panic “Oh! Fire! Don’t play with fire! Don’t run with scissors! You’ll poke your eye out! Don’t pierce your ear with a safety pin! You’ll get an infection!” Renee snorted and misted Ashley’s hair with a spray bottle. She pressed down again and the iron hissed.

“You did get an infection.” I reminded her. Ashley’s earlobe swelled hard and red after she gave herself two new piercings for Halloween. The infection spontaneously broke during a Latin exam the week before Thanksgiving break. She tried to look nonchalant as blood-streaked puss oozed down her neck, but our teacher noticed the stain pooling on her shoulder. She had to leave class and make up the exam after break. She got a C+, despite the extra study time.

“So what? It got better. Ow!” Ashley tried to jerk her head up, but her head was pinned to the ironing board and she bumped into the iron again. “Damn it. Renee.”

“Shit! Sorry.” Renee lifted the iron away from Ashley’s head. “Did it get you bad?”

“Did you burn it? It smells like burning.”

“That’s me.” Andrea said. “Ready?” She looked at Emilie, who was ready to spring into action with the towel.

“Really, can you not?” I pleaded. “Please don’t. It makes me nervous.”

“You should take one of my Nan’s pills.” Emilie had a bottle of painkillers that she stole from her grandmother’s medicine cabinet after her hysterectomy. My roommates each took one before they went out to met the guys in the woods behind the field house on Friday nights. They said the pills made them drunker, faster, on less, which was important because their alcohol was limited to what Ashley’s boyfriend could shoplift during his weekly trip to town.

“Yeah, no thanks. Can you at least wait until I leave?” I asked, putting on my sneakers.

“Hot date?” Renee asked.

“Going for a walk.” I said. I did have plans, but I wasn’t about to tell them that I was planning to spend my night watching Dune in the common room at Carlisle Hall with guys from my Chemistry class. My roommates assumed I didn’t have any friends, which I didn’t when I started at Jefferson-Rousseau, but by the time I found my crowd my roommates had decided I was hopeless and I had realized they were idiots.

“Don’t snitch on us tonight.”  They were convinced I told the House Mother everything they did, because once, at the start of the year, I asked to switch rooms and during the mediation session I let it slip that Renee had toaster oven she wouldn’t let me use. I didn’t know toaster ovens weren’t allowed in our rooms. The toaster oven was confiscated, Renee got written up, my request to move was denied, and, for the rest of the year, every time one of them opened a package of Pop-Tarts they sighed loudly and glared at me.

“If anyone asks, I fell asleep early, wearing my Walkman. Have fun in the woods.” I put on my sweatshirt and grabbed my keys and ID. When I pulled the door behind me, I heard one of them repeat “have fun in the woods,” and they all burst out laughing.

I was in the common room at Carlisle Hall when I head the sirens. We all ran out and saw people streaming out of West. I looked up at my room on the corner of the third floor and saw smoke streaming out of the window. Fire trucks pulled up and firefighters rushed in. There was a commotion by the door and an ambulance pulled away.

“Dude, what the hell?” one of my friends asked.

“Stupid bitches.” I said.

We learned what happened a few days later. Emilie was playing with the lighter and the Aqua-Net, spraying the can over the lighter, throwing the flame like dragon’s breath. She did indeed set my bed on fire, which they tried to put out with cans of Diet Sprite, but it spread too fast. Ashley got second-degree burns on her shoulder, not from the fire but from Renee freaking out and slamming the iron down on her. They were all treated for smoke inhalation and expelled. Everything I had in the room was either reduced to charcoal or smelled so strongly of smoke that I had to get rid of it. The school’s insurance replaced everything, I got extensions on all of my assignments, and I got a single room in Everstone Hall.

 

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Lynne Doncaster grew up in Somerville, Massachusetts, and is a graduate of the Massachusetts College of Art’s Studio for Interrelated Media. She’s performed spoken word, stand-up, and storytelling at venues including Johnny D’s, StoryClub Boston, Bluestockings, AS220, and CBGBs.  She was a MassMouth story slam semi-finalist. Lynne performed improv comedy with The Tribe, is part of the team that explored women’s friendships I’m the Rhoda, and was an ensemble member and Artistic Director of the avant-garde sketch show MOSAIC at ImprovBoston from 2008 – 2012. Lynne wastes too much time on Twitter (@LynneDoncaster).