Q

by Christina Dalcher

  The second time the bus honks, Freddie begins to shake her head with such violence I’m worried her neck might snap. Can that happen? Is it physically possible to break your own neck?

  I don’t know. But I know one thing. I’m taking her back inside.

  Twenty-Three

  And now I discover why my husband stayed home this morning.

  Before we’ve crossed the street, Malcolm is outside, hands buttoning up his coat as he walks toward us with the kind of smile he reserves for his older daughter.

  “What’s this?” he says, scooping Freddie up into his arms. “What’s all this about?” When Freddie doesn’t respond, he coaxes her. It’s a sound like wooing. “There, now, Frederica. You can tell me.”

  She snuffles once, a deep and choked inhalation of tears and snot and phlegm. Malcolm’s smile fades, and his eyes register disgust I wouldn’t think possible from a father.

  “I want to stay here with Mom and Anne,” she says finally.

  My own eyes plead with Malcolm from behind her. They say, Fix this. They say, I know you can. When he speaks, I almost believe he’s heard me.

  “Now, Frederica,” he says. “You can stay with us if you really want to. It’s all up to you.”

  I nearly ask him who put the drugs in his coffee this morning, then think better of it. Freddie has relaxed and quieted, and a wide smile lights up her face as Malcolm carries her to the front porch, away from the idling yellow bus, sits her down on his lap, and begins to speak.

  “Do you know what ‘progress’ means, sweetheart?” he says in his best lecture voice—not too hard, not too soft. A Goldilocks voice. The kind that burrows into unsuspecting ears and defeats defenses without any weaponry.

  Freddie nods, sniffs again.

  “What does it mean, honey?”

  “It’s when things get better.”

  “That’s my girl. And we want things to be better, right? We don’t want things to get worse.”

  She nods again.

  “Now. If you stay home, they’ll take points from Anne’s Q score.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Malcolm? What the—”

  He glares at me. “Don’t make me make this worse, Elena.”

  Freddie’s eyes widen. “A lot of points?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

  Oh, Malcolm.

  Freddie shakes her head.

  “Of course you don’t. Anne’s got college to think about. And your college years are still a long way off.” He sits her up straight so she’s facing him. “Now. You love your sister, right?”

  “Malcolm, I swear,” I say. “Stop this.”

  He doesn’t stop. He keeps going. And he makes it all worse. “You and your mother would have to go live with Oma and Opa.”

  My daughter doesn’t see the wickedness, doesn’t realize what’s about to come next. The smile on her face changes to trembling lips as she listens to her own father explain.

  “You wouldn’t see Anne anymore,” he says, looking at me, daring me with his eyes to interfere, knowing I’ll stay quiet. He’s won this round. A knock-down, drag-’em-out finale.

  “Never?” Freddie says.

  “Never. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

  A fast shake of her head.

  “And we’re all going to do what’s best for everyone, okay?”

  Another nod.

  “Good girl.” He stands, takes Freddie by the hand, and wheels her suitcase back across the street to the bus. Mrs. Sabrina is still there, looking blankly up at a backseat window where a cloud of condensation has obscured her daughter’s face.

  Freddie gives me a final hug and climbs aboard. She takes a seat in the back, near Sabrina, wipes a clear patch with her palm on the window, and waves to us. I can’t remember the last time she smiled at her father.

  “Oh, Malcolm,” I say, smiling on the outside only as I wave to my daughter. “What the hell have you done?”

  “Just what you wanted, Elena.”

  Twenty-Four

  THEN:

  The popular girls stood in the short line on Monday, hipshot and chatty, lips shining with gloss. They compared notes on the weekend’s parties and football game, adjusted hair that didn’t need adjusting every five seconds, and cast sultry, unteenage looks at whichever boys were choice of the week.

  I hated every single one of these girls. At the same time, I wanted to be them. I wanted to be part of the “us” crowd, not part of the super-geek, bring-your-own-lunch, never-get-invited-anywhere crowd that sat together at a corner cafeteria table. Jimmy Fawkes, Cheryl Comstock, Roy Shapiro and his pimply girlfriend, Candice Bell—sixteen-year-olds who had nothing in common other than straight As and the shared hatred of the pretty, popular people.

  This Monday, though, with Malcolm to my left and Cheryl to my right, I was happy. I was waiting for the shit to hit the fan. When it did, it would hit big-time.

  Malcolm sniggered and elbowed me in the side just as pretty Margie Miller reached the lunch counter, tapping her plastic tray with bright pink fingernails. I figured her brain was hurting from trying to decide which flavor of nonfat salad dressing she wanted on her rabbit food.

  Well, Margie was in for a surprise.

  The new ID cards had rolled out that morning, distributed during homeroom while all the Margie look-alikes flirted with their weekend conquests, and the undesirables like me had their noses in a textbook, cramming for the day’s geometry test. I watched Mrs. Parsons hand them out—gold, green, and white—and watched Margie and her crowd slide their new white cards into purses and pockets. The handouts Mrs. Parsons gave out with them ended up on the floor or in a trash bin.

  “Watch this,” Malcolm said, elbowing me again as Margie ordered.

  She had her ID card out, ready to scan, when the lunch server shook her head. “Other line, dear.”

  Margie looked around. The other line snaked around the far end of the counter, along the wall, and back to the rear of the cafeteria. There might have been a few kids past the doors. It was hard to tell.

  “No way,” Margie said. “I’ve only got a half hour before cheering practice.”

  This time I sniggered along with Malcolm. Roy Shapiro reached across the table and slapped me a high-five. They all knew what was coming, even if Margie didn’t.

  “White-card holders in line two,” the server said. “This line’s for the gold and green cards only. New policy.”

  Margie shook her head. “Starting when?” By now, the cafeteria had gone quiet; only a murmur made its way through the longer line, from front to back, and again in the opposite direction.

  “Didn’t you get the handout?”

  “Freaking ridiculous,” Margie said to the other girls in line with her. She twirled, her blue and white skirt belling out, and marched off, tray in hand, fingernails no longer clicking.

  Twenty-five minutes went by. We were all back at our corner table after speeding through the express lane, lunch bags forgotten, eating the fruit salads and cheeseburgers and Rice Krispies bars that usually disappeared before our eyes while we were crowded out of the lunch line. On top of a gold ID card, I had extra babysitting money and bought the last of the mixed salads for Candice and myself. I didn’t even want the salad, and judging by Candice’s fresh sprouting of pimples, she didn’t go for the greens, either. But I bought them anyway. Just because I could.

  For the first time, I was first.

  Margie finally made it to the counter. “Mixed salad, please. Nonfat ranch.” She checked the slim little watch on her slim little wrist. “And I’ve only got five minutes.” A chorus of “me toos” came from the girls behind her. Margie might have been at the end of the line, but she made sure there were still people behind her.

  The server exchanged a look with one of the other lunch staff, who threw his hands up in a tough luck kind of gesture. Next to me, Candice helped herself to a third Rice Krispies Treat an
d tittered. Margie shot her a look, then turned back to the counter and pitched a fit.

  “Do you know who my father is?” she said. “Do you?” Then, to the rest of the cheerleader-skirt crowd, “This is unbelievable.”

  It didn’t matter who Margie Miller’s father was or what position he held in the legislature. He might make a noise at the state level, but right now, and right here, we were at the local level, where the only thing that really mattered was that Margie’s grades had gotten her a white card, and white cards had to wait.

  It was a glorious fuck-you to all of them. From us.

  Twenty-Five

  When humans find themselves in extreme situations, in personal trauma, a mechanism clicks on. A switch is thrown. Even the most introverted open themselves up and bare their souls.

  I don’t know Sabrina’s mother; I’ve only seen her shadowy outline behind the wheel when she drops off her daughter. But when the doors close, sealing shut the mouth of the yellow bus, this nameless woman and I hold on to each other as if we were the last two humans on Earth. This time, when she lights another cigarette as the bus pulls away, she doesn’t exhale a cloud of burnt tar in my face.

  “They say we can visit,” she says to no one in particular. “Once a quarter. For a whole five hours.”

  They did say that. In the same envelope that held Freddie’s yellow card was a single-page handout outlining the rules. I recite them in my head.

  Dear Parents:

  Please do not send the student with electronic devices, including portable phones, cameras, voice or image recorders of any kind, tablets, laptops, and flash drives. These will be confiscated during check-in and held in lockers. We find that working in an electronics-free zone gives your student the freedom to reach his or her academic potential. Also, please do not send your student with cash, jewelry, or other valuables.

  We kindly request that parents and other family members refrain from calling or emailing the school. Our mission is to serve your children. Staff are unavailable to devote resources to communication with parents, except in the event of a family emergency. In-person visits outside of scheduled visiting days cannot be accommodated.

  Visiting days are scheduled once per quarter. Your date and further details will be mailed to you within the next two business days.

  Thank you for entrusting us with your children,

  Mrs. Martha Underwood, Headmistress

  State School #46

  No names for the state schools, only numbers, almost one per state. I had no idea there were so many.

  Mrs. Sabrina turns out to be Jolene Fox, although she looks less vulpine and more like a deer in headlights now, with her eyes wide and her pupils dilated.

  “I don’t understand,” Jolene says between shallow drags on her third cigarette. “They’re not supposed to go to state schools if they don’t pass the silver-level tests. I mean, it was bad enough when we got the envelope, thinking there’d be a green card inside. But we didn’t expect yellow. Not yellow.” She pauses, wincing at the sun. “It’s funny. Yellow used to be my favorite color. Now I’ll have to change the curtains because I can’t stand the sight of it.”

  “You all right driving? Want to come in for some tea?” I ask, immediately taking it back because Malcolm is giving me the evil eye.

  She shakes her head, crushes the half-smoked cigarette under a Bally pump, and jangles her key fob nervously in one hand. Lexus SUV, Swiss shoes, monogrammed Tiffany key chain. No daughter, though. So much for the cocooning effects of money.

  The only thing left to do is trade emails, so we spend a silent moment tapping in letters and numbers and @ signs before I head back into my own house. Malcolm has already gone inside, but not before the bus drives off with his child, who I can visualize on that yellow bus, head bent to the cold glass of the window, counting trees and telephone poles and mile markers.

  I don’t know whether there’s a word for what I am now. Many come to mind, all of them with a negative cast, but none seems to fit; none spells out the horror-grief-anger-loss-sadness-hate that I feel. There should be a new word, a new concatenation of sounds and syllables to describe the desperation inside me. It might sound like thlug. Or frake. Or a scream.

  “Did they make a mistake?” I ask Malcolm as I nuke my now-freezing coffee and take it back to the window where I can hold vigil over Jolene. These are the most words I’ve spoken to my husband since yesterday morning when he blackmailed me into going to breakfast with him and Alex. Even then, the most I could muster were a few one-word answers to Alex’s questions about the girls.

  He looks up from his phone. “About what?”

  “About that girl. Last week she was in Anne’s school. Now she’s got a yellow ID card.”

  It would be too much bother for Malcolm to join me by the window, so he speaks from the dining room chair, where his computer and coffee and ego are keeping him company. “Maybe she failed everything on Friday,” he says.

  “Anne says she was doing fine. Great, even.”

  Malcolm’s only response is a noncommittal shrug.

  Across the street, the Lexus’s driver door opens. Jolene sits, half in and half out of the car, and lights up another smoke. It’s seven in the morning. I have a feeling this is going to be a two-pack day for her.

  “I’m taking a mental health day and going to my parents’ house,” I say, texting a message to Rita.

  This gets Malcolm’s attention, and he turns toward me. The bruise on his cheek has developed a yellowish corona. “You’re coming back, I assume.” It isn’t a question.

  “Of course.”

  Malcolm doesn’t care if I come back, if I stay at my parents’, if I grow a beard and run away with a traveling circus. This much is obvious from his tone. Without me in the way, he and Anne can have their own private little dinner parties; he can fill her head up with ideas about his brave new world of education.

  He throws a coat over his shoulders and walks past me on the way to the front door. “Just don’t spend so much time with that grandmother of yours that you screw up your teacher assessments tomorrow.”

  Did I really love this man once upon a time? “I won’t screw them up.”

  The front door shuts with a definite slam, separating more than the outside from the inside, and I sit in Freddie’s bedroom. The pillow on her bed still smells of my younger daughter, and I bury myself in it, breathing in the last of her. Everything is a shade of candy pink or moss green or butter yellow in this room, soft colors that should comfort me but don’t. Dolls watch me silently from their perch on the little shelf I whitewashed last year, reproach in their black eyes. A stick of bubble gum—strawberry, I think—has fallen between the night-stand and the bed rail. I pick it up and hold it, imagining Freddie’s small fingers unwrapping the foil, folding it into quarters the way she always does.

  I shouldn’t be so selfish. I’m not the first woman, not the first sister or mother or wife, to sit in an empty bedroom with nothing but colors and icons for comfort. Women have been losing their children since they’ve been having them. Cholera. Cancer. War. None of it fair.

  A phone chirps from the kitchen counter, interrupting my grief, and I stupidly think, This is it. This is when they tell me there’s been a mistake. Relief comes to me and dissolves in a matter of seconds. There’s no salvation waiting on this phone, no cheery voice about to inform me of a glitch in the system. I leave Freddie’s room reluctantly and shut the door behind me.

  The phone isn’t mine or Freddie’s but Anne’s, and it shouldn’t be here. It should be glued to Anne’s palm like it always has been. There’s a text message alert from one of her friends, a girl who has visited our house for study sessions on more than one Saturday afternoon.

  Hey. U OK?

  This is the latest in a long chain of back-and-forths, and I’m about to put the phone down when I see Anne’s last responses.

  STFU!!!! accompanied by a crying emoji. Not the laughing-crying one, but the other. The one with r
eal tears and a sour face. And after that, a terse I H8 U.

  I shouldn’t scroll through them, but I do. Otherwise, I’ll worry. Otherwise, I’ll wonder all the things.

  The friend—who I imagine isn’t a friend anymore—started this conversation on Friday night with a simple text: Prolly better this way 4 Freddie

  Of all the ways I’ve thought about how “this way” is for Freddie, the word “better” hasn’t come up. Not once. But this isn’t what raises my blood pressure.

  She’s not like u

  Maybe she’s a moron

  Like in ur dad’s books

  The words make my eyes sting. And they explain why Anne left for school without her phone.

  I’m up the stairs, coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter with the message-filled device. The office I share with Malcolm in the back room is more his than mine, a square of space carved out for my laptop and a few files from school. Mostly, I leave work at work, bringing papers home only when necessary. I ignore my own space and go straight to the floor-to-ceiling shelf to the left of Malcolm’s desk.

  There’s the canon of learning theory and cognitive development, from Köhler to Piaget to Montessori, on the top shelf. I remember reading a few of them when Anne was young, but I don’t remember any mention of morons in the descriptions of Gestalt psychology or the Montessori Method. My fingers move across the spines of these books, then to those on the next shelf down, and finally all the way to the bottom shelf, partially hidden by a file cabinet and a wastebasket. I slide the first three books out and start paging through them on the floor between the desk and the wall. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  Maybe she’s a moron. Like in ur dad’s books.

  I start with the oldest one of the three, the one with a cracked cover and foxed pages that can’t be part of Malcolm’s graduate school leftovers. Even the smell of it is old, a dank and dusty old of the sort you find in forgotten basements of libraries where mold reigns. When I open it, the book falls flat to a page in the center.