Juliette Miranda

It is said that one of the characteristics of a serial killer is a history of torturing animals as a child. I suppose this makes sense, though it does raise a few questions about my own future as a reasonably upstanding member of society. Not that I ever tortured animals, mind you. At least, not live ones.

I’m only reminded of my questionable behaviors as a child thanks to my mother, who felt the need to share them with my guy during the course of his first meeting with my parents.

That certainly wasn’t the impression I was hoping they’d make. Although why I thought they’d be on better behavior is beyond me. These are the same people who used to meet my dates in the living room, where my dad’s bear skin rug was on display.

“You see that rug?” my dad would ask my dates. “I did that. And I can do it again.”

Needless to say, I didn’t have many dates in high school.

Still, at this point in my life you’d think my parents would be more inclined to shower my guy with tokens of wealth to get me off their hands. Sure, I’m in my 30s, but I must be worth at least few goats or cows or bags of grain… anything besides a “here’s our daughter, the potential serial killer” story hour. My parents need to work on their sales skills.

I had thoroughly prepped my guy before the meeting to just how deep my parents’ eccentricities run, though even I couldn’t predict what might come crawling out of their collective woodwork. Even my guy, who is utterly reasonable and unflappable, wasn’t quite prepared for the response he got to his amused request for dirt on me.

“Well, there is the bunny story….” my mother said.

It took a few beats for me to recall the story she was referring to. My repertoire of lifetime stupidity runs a bit long, and while I will generally own up to most of it, there are a few stunts so outer limits that I’ve blocked them from my mind.

My mother’s sardonic smile triggered the memory like an epileptic fit, and I had a sudden urge to grab my guy by the hand and bolt from the room. There is only a certain number of quirks any boyfriend should be required to absorb when meeting his girl’s parents: playful ribbing about bad grades in school, jokes about unfortunate fashion decisions, and maybe an embarrassing photo or two are all fair game. Animal mutilation stories, by my own personal standards at least, tend to push the limits.

Sensing my discomfort, my guy dug in his heels and demanded to hear the story. “This sounds good,” he said, likely opening the mental file marked “For future use to torture Juliette.”

He certainly got plenty of fodder. My mother could hardly contain her sick joy at relating how in fifth grade a friend and I took it upon ourselves to vandalize the Catholic school we attended.

Curriculum, not religion, was the reason we were both forced to attend the pompous, opium for the masses religious school, and needless to say, neither of us had particularly warm feelings for any of the nuns, priests or other figures who attempted to instill education in us there.

My friend, a wonderful boy who was my sole friend in grammar school, lived across the street from the school. On a playdate at his house one day, we encountered a fresh dead bunny rabbit in his backyard.

It was a fascinating thing for two fifth graders to see, and after a few curious pokes with a stick, I suggested we do something with it.

“We should leave it at school,” my friend suggested.

It seemed a good idea, especially since we had already been considering dropping a few of the orange parking cones on the heads of the religious statues that lined the front of the building. But for me, already a fan of horror movies (thanks, dad) and wary of authority figures with no real authority, just leaving the bunny corpse was hardly enough of a statement.

“Let’s crucify it!”

My friends eye widened. Being my friend and partner in crime, it only took him a few minutes to raid his dad’s workshop for supplies.

A few strips of balsa wood, some nails, and the wounds of Christ later, and we had a dripping monument of our rebellion. We managed to attach it to the school’s front door and gleefully ran back to his house to wash up and have a snack of Oreos and juice. It was one of the most satisfying moments in my childhood.

The reaction to our display was ridiculously overblown. Word of Satanic desecration, black masses and pagan vandalism swept through the school for weeks, but my friend and I were never caught. Apparently, the Holy Ghost isn’t much of a detective.

Oddly, I never hesitated to tell my mother about what we did. In fact, on the ride home from his house that day, I gave her a full account of our activities. I don’t remember what her reaction was, but I do remember never being punished. And considering her glee in announcing the story to my guy, I’m guessing she may be harboring just a bit of pride in my sick childhood prank.

All the disclaimers in the world don’t make the story any less grisly, so my cries of, “I was in 5th grade!” and “I have never responded well to authority!” only served to increase the peals of laughter from my guy and parents when the story came to a close.

I suppose I should be glad that there was laughter and not a hushed call to the local psych ward. And to his infinite credit, my guy has yet to panic – over the experience of meeting my parents, and over all the crazy and slightly alarming things he learned about me though them.

Of course, he won’t let me near any bunnies and turned down my suggestion that we go to the zoo, but I guess I don’t really blame him.

1. Adam Says:
   September 10th, 2008 at 4:18 pm

   Juliette,

   I love this blog, you’re an awesome writer. You’ll get the book deal. Ask me about a tactic I used that had dozens of major agents contacting me for more info on a book I proposed…. Might be able to tweak it to your benefit…..

   Adam