Not Crying
	My little brother and I practically run down the hall, attempting to make up
the lost ground from my parents' larger steps.  We finally reach the classroom
that has been assigned to the "Class of 1950."  Homecoming.  My father was class
president, so he knows everyone in the entire room.  I see smiles on his face as
he hears good news about one of his friends with whom he lost touch.  I also see
frowns and worry lines, indications that the news of a classmate's death has just
reached him.  It's not an uncommon occurrence for my dad.  Still, the next news 
to reach him and the rest of my family will not be taken quite so well.
	
	"Mr. and Mrs. Scott, please report to the main office immediately!"
	"Daddy, somebody's calling for you," I inform him.  "Somebody wants you in 
the office."
	Reassuring pats greet my upturned head.  "I'm sure that you're just hearing
things, sweetie."
	"But Daddy, I'm serious!  You and Mommy need to go to the office!  Somebody
called your name!"
	Eventually my persistence pays off and I accompany my parents and younger 
brother Cameron to the main office, eager to hear the wonderful news that awaits
us.  I am sure that I will get a reward for my remarkable hearing skills.
	As my Mother opens the swinging door that leads to the inner offices, I begin
to sense a tension.  A relentlessness.  A fear.  These faces that I'm gazing upon
are not filled with joy and excitement as I had hoped.  I soon realize that 
something is wrong.  We haven't won the lottery.  My Dad isn't "Father of the 
Year."  My mother's book isn't going to be published.  This realization makes me 
curious as to what is really wrong.
	The principal had to do it.  He had to tell us.  But still I hated him for it.
	"Your daughter has been in an accident."

	Five days later.  Five entire, full, whole days later, and I still can't cry.
I am envious of the moist cheeks of the rest of my family.  They have feelings. 
They are sad.  They grieve.
	It has been five full days since she died.  I can't cry.
	Ladies in Sunday attire parade around my house the entire day, rearranging 
the "pity food" in my refrigerator.  I don't think they pity me.  After all, I'm
the insensitive little snot that isn't sad that her sister just died in a car 
accident and is now gone forever and ever.  Attempting to avoid their penetrating
stares, I troop up the many stairs into my sister's attic room.  My fingers drift
from object to object, absorbing each piece of her life as I touch it.
	Dead.  She's dead.  She won't be back to pick up her clothes or perfume.  She
won't come visit me on the weekends.  She won't ask her "smart little sister" for
help with her homework. SHE IS GONE.  It's a heard reality for a nine-year-old-
going-on-ten to face.  It's hard for everyone.
	I feel her presence surrounding me as I stand there, invading her room.  I
don't believe in ghosts, but I'm still terrified.  I turn to run from the room.  
My legs won't obey.  I can hear my heart beating.  And hers.  Last week.  I heard
it just last week.  This is why I can't leave.  After I run down the stairs and
past the bathroom and down the hall and into my own safe little room, I will 
never look back.  It will never be the same.  Nothing will ever be the same.
	It's a heard reality for a nine-year-old-going-on-ten to face.
	SHE IS GONE.
	Dead.

	Hundreds, thousands, no, maybe even millions of faces stare at me as I walk 
up the center aisle of Saint Anne's Catholic Church towards the dreaded casket. 
That word sends shivers up my spine.  I'm holding my older brother David's hand 
as we weave our way through the crowd that has gathered to say a final farewell
to my sister.  I see kleenex and handkerchiefs for wiping tears.  I see sympathy
in everyone's eyes.  They're obviously not looking at me, the girl who doesn't
weep for a lost love.  My family gathers in the first pew and we sit down 
simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed it many times.  I can hear our thoughts,
all in unison.
	I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE'S REALLY DEAD.
	The priest goes through his long funeral service, but it falls on deaf ears.
No one is thinking about the afterlife or God.  We're thinking of the little girl
we all knew and the little girl she still was.  Eighteen years old and she's gone.
What did she get to do?  Nothing, that's what.  No graduation from high school, 
no college, no husband, no kids.  Did she even live?  Eighteen years, and someone
says, "That's enough," and she's gone from my life forever.  Eighteen years of 
living and lying and loving, and now she's gone.
	Each member of my family has a different look of pain on his or her face.  My
dad hates himself because he never tried to understand my sister.  He was her 
stepfather.  They never had any of the same opinions.  She was too wild.  He was
too stubborn.  He's crying.
	My mom can't cope with this loss.  She and my sister had their arguments, too.
But there was love in their relationship, unbelievable love.  They shared almost
everything.  She's crying.	
	My "big brother" doesn't quote know what to do about the death of our sister.
They were very close as they grew up.  They had the same father and the same 
problems with my father.  Tomorrow he'll go back to college and he won't be able
to call her sometime next week to ask how she's doing.  He's crying.
	My baby brother doesn't understand everything that's going on.  All he knows 
is that his big sister that used to give him piggy back rides and take him to 
Dairy Queen for ice cream is now lying in a casket, not breathing.  She can't
come give him a comforting hug.  He's crying.
	I can't stop thinking about cereal.  Every night at nine o'clock you used to 
sit in front of the television and eat your Golden Grahms and I would get mad
because I couldn't have any.  What are we going to fight about now?  Huh?  What
can we fight about? 'Cause after a fight we would get in a silly mood and play
games and cards and make snacks and...what now?  Who will be my best friend now?
Who will I tell my secrets to now?  How will I live now?
	The funeral's over.  My family and I stand up together and approach my sister.
I don't want to look, but my brother is coaxing me.  "This is the last time you'll
ever see her."
	I look at her relaxed face that didn't want to die.  I smell her hair that 
doesn't want to wilt away.  I touch her hand that didn't want to let go.
	It's the last time.
	It's a hard thing for a nine-year-old-going-on-ten to face.
	SHE IS GONE. 
	I'm crying.

	I am the ultimate bargain shopper.  Just believe me on this fact.  I have awed
listeners with my stories of sales and clearances.  I know which stores have the best
prices.  I can locate a sale rack within seconds upon entering the store.  I am a 
shopping goddess.  And I make my home at the Indiana Factory Shops outlet mall in 
Daleville, Indiana.  You won’t find your ordinary mall shopper in my home.  Oh, no.
Only the most thrifty customers come here and for one main reason:  The Daleville 
mall sacrifices the comforts and luxuries of an ordinary mall, but compensates for
 this fact by having good prices, unbelievable sales, and a unique atmosphere.
	The first thing that you notice about the Indiana Factory Shops is that you must
walk outside to go from store to store.  For some reason, every outlet mall is set 
up this way.  Maybe the stores want to seem somewhat separate from each other.  My 
theory is that the owners believe that we "bargain shoppers" don’t really need the 
controlled environment like that of an air conditioned mall. We are thrifty, therefore
we are poor, therefore we are not used to such luxury.  Most customers don’t seem to 
mind this.  The young man I spoke to, Matt White, commented, "I usually know exactly
 where I’m going, so I’m not outside that much."  
	This seems to be the rationale of most Indiana Factory Shops customers.  As I
stroll down the sidewalk from shop window to shop window, I notice that I pass only
a few people.  True, it is Monday evening.  But then I see that most of the stores
are packed with people.  And I know why.
	Sales.  They’re everywhere.  They crowd the sidewalks in the summer and clutter
the aisles in the winter.  Every store has a sale going on.  I think it’s a requirement.
And a good idea.  My fellow shoppers flock to these "half off" and "going out of business"
sales.  It’s good bait.  We bite hard and won’t let go.  Matt and I discuss the competition
that occurs over some sale items.  I tell him of the time that I just missed getting
a pair of platform sandals that were marked down to four dollars.  My hand was two 
inches from my prize when another girl snatched them away.  I was close to tears. 
Matt tells me about a similar situation with his mom.
	"We were shopping in J.C. Penney when she saw a shirt that, I guess, she fell
in love with.  As she was attempting to take it off the rack, some other lady tried
to look at it.  They had like a tug-of war.  It was so embarrassing, but she got the
shirt."
	This type of aggressive woman has often been my competition.  They thrive in 
places like the Indiana Factory Shops.  As I continue to walk down the sidewalk, I
pass approximately 10 middle-aged women loaded down with shopping bags, and maybe
five other humans.  This outlet mall caters to the middle-class working mom.  They
don’t have gobs of money to spend, so they have to shop wisely.
	The other five people I pass seem to belong to these women.  They are the children
and husbands.  Most of them are sitting on the provided benches, impatiently waiting
until they can proceed on to the next bench.  This is how I first meet Matt.
	"My mom’s been in there for an hour.  I think she forgot about me."
	The fact that the "buyers" are inside the stores and the "waiters" are outside
accounts for the overall atmosphere of Indiana Factory Shops.  The natural air of
the outdoors and the laziness of the waiters make the mall feel laid-back and free.
    If you walk inside, it’s a different story.  The air is vicious.  Those ravenous
women are after the clearance items.  The sales clerks are ringing up prices as fast
as their computers will let them.  It reminds me a little of Christmas morning.  
The whole dual environment gives off an eerie, strange feeling.
	As I make my way back to the car, I can still see the faces of a few straggling
shoppers in the store windows.  My fellow goddesses are at it again.  We made the
Indiana Factory Shops what they are today: a thriving, cheap kind of buying frenzy.
We don’t care if we get rained on as we walk from the Dress Barn to Claire’s.  We
aren’t bothered by our families that are desperate to simply see home again.  We 
remove all worldly distractions and simply focus on our task:  buy, Buy, BUY!  We’re
good at it.  Would you like to join us?  Come on over.  Bring your credit cards.
We’ll show you the way.

	As a child, I wasn’t a big fan of movies. Sesame Street was my passion.  I loved Bert and 
Ernie, and I fashioned my personality after Oscar the Grouch.  While my older siblings were 
watching Pretty In Pink, and Back to the Future, I was singing my numbers along with the 
Count.  After all, I hadn’t learned to appreciate the genius of these movies at the ripe age of 4.  
Only recently have I begun to seek out such films and sacrifice my sheltered Sesame Street life.  
I’ve noticed that a large percentage of my peers are doing the same.  Everyone I 
know has seen and loved Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  We all wish that we could have a day like 
that.  And that was the purpose.  That movie was every teenager’s fantasy—a day off.  The 
most notable films of the eighties were about this phenomenon.  Teenagers, in general, wanted 
to be free, to control the world, to truly live.  The movies reflected this desire.
	Most eighties movies involving teenagers have common characteristics.  First, there is 
the sexual sub-plot in every movie.  Someone is always going for the unattainable prize.  As 
James Thorburn of the Wad entertainment group said, "every Eighties Teen Movie is at heart, 
the story of why the cute chick in high school should have gone out with the 
screenwriter / director instead of that jerk from the football team" (1).  Here is that element of 
fantasy again.  We’re always longing for what we can’t have.  Eighties movies play on this 
desire. One example is Sixteen Candles.  In this movie, the cute, sometimes nerdy girl goes after 
the popular, always handsome stud.  As is typical, there is a happy ending when the stud 
realizes that he should have been with this girl all along.
	Another key characteristic that goes along with the sexual subplot is the makeover scene.  
In order for the object of affection to see the true beauty of the protagonist, they must do some 
work.  They change hairstyles, get a new wardrobe, put on some makeup, or possibly all three.  
The end result is what you would expect:  The "woo-eee" falls for the "woo-er," simply because 
they look better.  This illustrates how vain teenagers were in the eighties.  Looks were 
everything.  This probably seems ironic to us now, as we laugh at some of the styles of the 
eighties era.  "…Everyone wanted a skirt like the Material Girl and a glove like Michael 
Jackson’s" ("Children" 1).  But these things were "in" at the time, as was vanity.  So, this 
makeover is another element of fantasy. We all want and need to find a way to look better to the 
opposite sex.  The characters in these movies did just that, and, in turn, they got what they 
wanted.  We are all "Material Girls."
	The ultimate dream of any living person is to rule the world, to control our own destiny, 
and to control the destiny of everyone else.  An entire set of movies stemmed from this idea—
The Back to the Future trilogy.  In these films, a teenage boy, Marty McFly (played by Michael 
J. Fox), goes back into the future with the help of his friend and teacher, Dr. Emmet Brown 
(Christopher Lloyd).  Through a long cource of complicated events, the fate of the entire human 
race is in Marty’s hands.  Wow.  THE FATE OF THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE.  What more 
could a guy ask for?  Well, how about a cool car, a pretty girlfriend, and a perfect nuclear family.  
How’s that for a fantasy?  Despite the fact that this movie is totally fictitious and unthinkable, 
we can all relate to it in some way.  We all want what Marty has.
	And now…(drumroll please) the two movies that surpass them all…
	First, that take-all, defy-authority, do-what-you-please thrilling movie that I have already 
mentioned:  Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  Another ultimate fantasy.  Bueller is the kid that we all 
want to be.  He’s got the girl.  He’s got the brains.  He’s got the guts.  He’s got the power.  In 
one day, he lies to, among others,  a principal, a secretary, his mom, his dad, his sister, 
his best friend,  and a maitre d.  And, miraculously enough, he gets away with it.  He is able to 
eat in a fancy restaurant, go swimming in a hot tub, drive an expensive sports car, visit an art 
museum, rescue his girlfriend from school, and sing in a parade.  Always on his tail is his 
principal, a man who never makes any sense.  He once says about Ferris, "I did not 
achieve this position in life by having some snot-nosed punk leave my cheese out in the wind" 
(Ferris).  I have no idea what his "cheese" is, and even if I was to guess, I’d still wonder why 
he chose to use the word "cheese."  It’s a mystery.  In any case, the principal is a 
prime example of the stupid adult that is so common in eighties movies.  Other examples in this 
movie are…well, basically every adult in this movie is an example.  Some might argue that this 
is not the best example of an eighties movie involving teenagers.  There’s no makeover.  
There’s no boy-chasing-girl or girl-chasing-boy subplot.  None of the common characteristics 
are in this movie.  But it still seems to fit into this category.  Ferris is not the typical teen, but he 
still has typical teenage emotions.  He’s scared of the future.  Even though he is good at 
manipulating, he is still fearful of getting caught by authority figures.  He’s still vulnerable, 
which makes him even more likeable.  So this movie still has the feel of that teenage angst, 
even though it does not follow the pattern of most other eighties movie.
	This leads us right to our next example, The Breakfast Club, a movie that fits into this 
category perfectly.  Many critics believe that this is the ultimate eighties movie.  There are the 
stupid adults (principal, parents, teachers) and the kids that are struggling to fit in and struggling 
to find a place.  There is a representation of basically every teenager out there:  "Andrew, the 
jock; Bender, the punk rebel; Claire, the princess; Brian, the brain; and Allison, the kooky loner" 
(Polenz 1).  In this movie, 5 teenagers come to Saturday school, expecting a boring, uneventful 
day.  Instead, the put aside their differences and form common bonds that they didn’t know 
existed.  In the end, the princess and the punk rebel become a couple, and so do the jock and the 
kooky loner.  These relationships could not have occurred without the help of a the sexual 
subplot between Clair and Bender and Allison’s miraculous makeover.  The Breakfast Club 
seems to be set apart from all of the other eighties movies.  It has a message behind it.  It tells 
teens that stereotypes are just that—ignorant first impressions.  The writers and directors are 
trying to show us that we need to break down barriers between classes and cliques.  We need to 
make the world a more pleasant place in which to live.  We need to join The Breakfast Club.
	And now, as I look at my Elmo watch, I see that it is seven o’clock.  Time for the Molly 
Ringwald marathon.  I have to get in my weekly dose of "cheesy movies."  Afterwards, I’m 
going to play some Atari, curl up with my Cabbage Patch doll, and work on solving that stupid 
Rubik’s cube.  "I am a child of the eighties.  That is what I prefer to be called" (Adkins 1).











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