Mercedes

Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2012. No details have been changed so as to retain the spirit of the original story. 

“That sprite cah’ is fly. I’d definitely rock dat, definitely rock dat. You see da Bahbia cah’ downtown the otha day? Man, it was so fly I’d definitely rock dat.”

Without the facial hardware, she would have been the spitting image of Mercedes from Glee. She wore a Gucci hat, a big necklace that read “Barbie” in pink rhinestones and had piercings in both of her cheeks that resembled silver dimples. I had sat down to wait for the bus to take me downtown so I could get online to write; no one else around, I sat in the middle of three bench-style seats and stretched out my legs, my notebook open on my lap. She and her friend walked up behind a group of five boys who they greeted goodbye before sitting on either side of me. Immediately, both girls reached for headphones and cellphones, texting fervently while listening to music.

They kept leaning over me to talk to one another, and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. Mercedes’ friend had qualities that reminded me of the Jackson 5 brothers; her nose and eyes looked exactly like one of them. She wore a black bandeau bra— her waist fully exposed— with grey-scale stretch pants that could have hung in MC Hammer’s closet. They were loud and crass, talking about boys and swearing openly.

I’ve been known to speak like a sailor, so I can’t fault them for their language, however, the way they spoke about relationships and their lives saddened me. Two beautiful high school girls, whose idea of self-worth was based solely upon their Facebook relationship status’…
When the car drove up, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. It looked like an Oldsmobile from the ’90s and was bright green covered in Sprite logos and barcodes. The sincerity behind her voice when she said how fly the car was made me laugh— but not out loud— and wonder if she would really drive it if given the opportunity. They had come from a carnival at St. Mary’s on Broadway; two children holding on to adolescence while rushing to grow up.

Two more girls walked up carrying fried dough, and the four began talking like old friends. “You go on dat Polar Express ride? My titties was poppin’ out,” cried Mercedes’ friend; I could sense her insecurities as she spoke, despite the vernacular she used. Mercedes was funny and kept talking about the rides and how fast the Polar Express went. It made me think of the Sandlot and my childhood; I felt so naive in front of these fourteen-year-old girls, and yet knew exactly how they felt. Ignoring my parents and family members, rushing to grow up and be an adult, how I longed for the days when meeting friends at town fairs was considered “cool” and how sweet the apple fritters tasted walking around barns and craft tents in Autumn.

I wish for these girls a song to be sung for their freedom from Facebook and social impulses. I wish for them a better childhood, absent from the anxieties and awkwardness that I experienced. Naive wishes die hard with reality; perhaps I’ll never learn to accept that.