Potty Mouth

Leslie Armstrong
DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BLOOD? I think you’ll find that you don’t, or that maybe you only thought you did. Something just above an urban legend suggests that blood turns from blue to red as it oxidizes (that is, as it comes in contact with air). The theory seems buy-able. If you look at a sickly bruise or try to make your veins jump our, the hue is decidedly a grayish-blue. Of course, any notion that blood is at any time anything other than scarlet is fanciful.
If you’ve never heard of haemoglobin, you really can’t share this false piece of information with anyone, no matter how cool it sounds, because haemoglobin is only ever red. Otherwise, you’d hear some horrible scenarios, like children striking their fingers with sharp objects just to watch the colour transform like magic. We can blame it all on light refraction. Regardless, I like to imagine that my blood is nobly blue.
It’s easy to imagine, when I cock my hand back, tracing the pulpy veins on my wrist like tiny streams, and deciding which one I will nick when I get the courage. The unassuming vein that runs through my palm may prove yielding and juicy. Maybe it’s just the fluorescent light.
I’m sitting on the floor of my bathroom next to the toilet, spending my time in here like no other teenaged girl I know. I get up to lock the door so that my eight-year-old brother like a waif doesn’t make a surprise entrance. When I return to my spot, I realize that I’ve left my blue felt marker open on the white shower mat, and the ink has already bled a circle into the mat roughly the size of a nickel. Cursing under my breath, I cap the thing and thrust the mat under the faucet. Mother says that cold water is effective on stains. The stain remains saturated as ever. If anyone asks, I dropped a glob of toothpaste.
I leave the sopping mat in the sink and return to the toilet area. The roll of toilet paper is almost at its end, the way I like it. I dismantle it from the reel and write gingerly on the paper with my blue felt pen. Mother stopped buying two-ply long ago because one-ply is cheaper, but it’s awfully hard to write on because it falls apart. Also, the ink marks up the rest of the roll, so I have to write it against the palm of my hand. If she ever buys two-ply, it’s only for the main floor washroom so that guests that come into our house don’t think we’re poor. Mother suffers something called Trucker’s Wife syndrome, with symptoms including passive-aggressive behaviour, cleanliness and inability to complain. The symptoms flare when dad is away on the road, which is always. For this reason, I try not to pick fights with her. But when I am cross with her, I steal wads of two-ply for my writing. For now, I write my life on one-ply.
Trevor Blacke asked me to the Valentine Ball last week. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his football uniform, and there was a drop of sweat clinging to the end of his nose. His towering height and rugged jaw line sparked something in me that I’d never felt before.
I giggled all the way home, and I bought a tight red dress covered in sequins, a spaghetti- strapper that broke the three-finger rule. For a week, I lived in fantasyland. I planned our wedding, our children, our charming home, white picket fence and all.
For the whole week, he said nothing to me. I even sat two desks closer to him, and wore heavy eyeliner to make him notice me. The boy seemed unaware as never before. He was nervous, I concluded.
This morning was the following Monday. I was in the washroom in the last stall near the end, the one with the burnt out light bulb. I didn’t like people knowing that I was in here. As was common, a collection of girls entered the washroom, exchanging gossip. Molly Thimble’s voice rang out like a wind chime.
“Trevor Blacke asked me to the Valentine Ball last week. I told him no.”
Figuring out that you’re plan B doesn’t feel so hot.
I jot down my entire account just in time for a soft knock at the door. My eight-year-old brother has come to announce the cafeteria special. Mom has macaroni made, he tells me, on the other side of the door. And as a default, he asks me if everything is alright.
“Would you quit asking me that?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I undo one of my shoes and hurl it at the bathroom door. Soft footsteps, leading down the staircase.
I tear the piece that I wrote on and lay it carefully into the toilet bowl, watching the words blur and mellow. Clouds of blue ink gush and soon dissipate. The toilet swallows my words contentedly. No comment, it seems to say. Flush.
I’m finishing up my macaroni, and my eight-year-old brother retires to the TV room. Mom scrapes the casserole dish wearing her apron, and a radio segment is just barely audible if it weren’t for the running taps. I’m sitting at my place at the table, looking into her pebbly eyes, and willing her to look back at me.
“Mom, my friend is in a pickle.” I say it while the taps are running.
“You just had dinner, you don’t need anything. Go do some homework.”
I’m already getting frustrated. “Turn the taps off, I’m talking to you. It’s important.” She shuts off the taps and turns on me, smiling sickly, her hands on her hips.
“My friend, she’s unhappy. A boy she likes asked her to the dance, but she knows the only reason he asked her is because the girl he really wanted rejected her. What is she supposed to do?” Mom looks at me soberly for a little while, in silence.
“She should forget about boys and focus on more important things. Like school.”
On Tuesday, I’m on the floor of my bathroom, weighing the pros and cons of the Valentine Ball on one-ply. The advantage is to claim the most attractive boy in my grade for a night. Not to mention, the dress fits like a dream. The disadvantage is an already weak ego at stake. If Molly Thimble squawks to enough people, which she will, I will be the pig-headed fool, oblivious amidst flattery.
The sheet is longer than usual. I sight down the whole length of it, noting that my handwriting gets larger and messier the farther down I go. My hands are covered in blue ink. I tear the sheet and place it into toilet bowl, watching for the ink to bleed out. Strangely, the printing remains sharp.
I put down the lid and flush. I cap the blue felt pen and turn my body away from the toilet, into the light, still sitting. With the smooth edge of the marker cap, I follow the tracks of my veins, embossed on my wrist. Suddenly, my socks feel wet. A pool of water is making its way to my pants, and I stand up, whipping my body around. Frothing over the edge of the toilet seat are my words, lumpy and wet. I curse. The plunger is nowhere in sight, and the water is coming persistently. I fly to my mother’s bathroom for the plunger, and my socks leave dark prints in the upstairs carpeting.
I return, armed with the plunger. Soft footsteps lead up the staircase, and I stab the eye of the toilet with the plunger, over and over again. To my amazement, it works. The water level falls like a bird’s ruffled feathers settle. I stand over the toilet with my heart in my throat, my weapon at the ready in case of a second appearance.
The soft footsteps come nearer. Then the soft knock. Mother has tuna-fish casserole made, my eight-year-old brother tells me on the other side of the door, which I didn’t remember to lock. He asks me if everything is alright. I sink to the floor, letting my clothes get wet with toilet water, and I weep.
“No.”
My brother walks in, takes an ambivalent look at the water all over the floor, and kneels at my side in a full embrace, letting the dirty water get him, too. I cry into his tiny shoulder.
“Why are you sad?” he asks. “And why did the potty explode?” I tell him everything as we pat the floor dry with old towels.
And if it means anything at all, the red dress will come in handy at a certain Valentine Ball.