Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  His freckles disappear in a blotch of fury. “Were you snooping in my room?”

  “No, you left it out in plain sight.”

  “Well, it’s not due today.”

  “So? It’s finished, right? You can turn it in early. Go get it,” I order.

  Seething, he disappears, and returns with the red folder. “You read this, didn’t you? You’re as bad as Dad.”

  Ignoring this, I snatch up Charles, who’s desperately begging for a ride. Schmule sulkily climbs into the car and sits in frozen silence till we get to his school. “You forgot my pill, stupid.”

  “Too late now.”

  “You’re supposed to be weaned off that stuff, not stop it instantly. I could go into convulsions and swallow my tongue and die. I bet you didn’t know that. Ha! Some doctor you’ll be.”

  I bite my own tongue as I brake near the entrance. When Schmule grabs the handle, I mirror his movement on my side.

  He slits his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m coming in with you.”

  “Into my school? What for?”

  “Because I want to see Mr. Gorski’s face when you turn in that report. I want to see what he says when you turn in a project he didn’t even assign.”

  “He did so assign it!”

  “Then why don’t you want to turn it in?”

  “You’re nuts. Why would I waste time on a stupid project I didn’t have to do?”

  “Good question,” I agree. “But I think I know why.”

  “Well, you’re not coming in!”

  “Oh yes I am.” I watch how his fingers open and shut, open and shut on the straps of his bookbag. I know he wishes he could wrap those fingers around my neck. “Okay. Give me the folder.” He yanks it out of his bookbag and flings it over. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  “No. I hate you! And I hate your stupid ugly dog.” Half rising, he hurls his loaded bookbag violently into the backseat. Charles yelps, and cowers in bewilderment.

  Determined not to lose my cool, I open the folder. Schmule snatches it out of my hand and throws that in the backseat, too. A staring contest ensues, and yes, I’m the first to look away.

  I hear the shouts of the kids as they straggle toward the school entrance. An occasional horn. Birds chattering in a nearby tree. None of it really breaks the silence in the car.

  Schmule kicks my glove compartment, harder than usual. “May I please be excused? Or do you want me to get into trouble for being late?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  I drag air into my lungs. “On whether or not you want to go see Fran.”

  “Fran?” Schmule kicks again. The glove compartment springs open and my sunglasses tumble out. I’m surprised he doesn’t stomp on these, too. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. Yes or no?”

  “Ya-ah, so Dad can kill us?”

  “Dad’s in the delivery room all day. So do you or don’t you? This is our only chance. And if you flip out on me again I’ll never take you anywhere, ever.”

  He watches me dubiously from beneath his lashes. “Yeah, you will.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You never take me anywhere good, anyhow.”

  “I took you bungee jumping, didn’t I?”

  “Big deal. One time.”

  Silence, silence, and I chant to myself: make up your mind, make up your mind!

  “Do you want me to apologize?” Schmule asks, confused.

  “For what?” He shrugs, so I add, “Well, maybe you owe Charles an apology.”

  Schmule scrambles around and lifts Charles into the front seat, cuddling him, covering his doggy face with kisses. Charles, always forgiving, kisses him back, his long rubbery body wriggling with delight. “I’m sorry, Charles. You know I love you. I love ya, love ya, love ya . ..”

  I turn away, unable to speak. I see a teacher’s aide wave a couple of latecomers inside, then shut the door.

  Schmule notices, too. “Um, what about school?”

  I yank my car into gear. “You know something? Screw school.”

  He snorts into Charles’s fur.

  109

  Leaving Charles in the car, nosing the half-open window, we walk hand in hand up to Fran’s door. Schmule doesn’t use his key. Maybe he already feels like a stranger.

  Fran goggles through the screen, fingers splayed at her throat. “What happened? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I promise her. “We just both blew off school.”

  Trance-like, she unlatches the door. Schmule sends me a questioning look as if to make sure for the very last time that what we’re doing is okay. I nod. He bolts inside before I can change my mind.

  I don’t know what I expected. That Schmule would throw himself at Fran and sob with joy? That Fran would stroke his head and smother him with kisses, the way Schmule kissed Charles only minutes ago?

  That she’d swear never to let him go back with me, never, never, never?

  Instead, Schmule says, matter-of fact, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” Fran replies as if he’s only been gone an hour. “Well, this is a surprise. Though possibly not,” she adds to me, “the smartest idea you ever had.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say sarcastically.

  What did I expect? Gratitude? It’s my ass on the line, not hers. There’s no court order yet saying she can’t see Schmule; Dad only threatened that, and only to me.

  Of course, after today it might be a different story.

  Fran touches my elbow. “Shawna, I appreciate this. But are you out of your mind? First of all, you’re supposed to be in school. And when your dad finds out you two missed the same day—”

  “I told you so!” Schmule aims this at me.

  I didn’t think of that. Now it’s too late.

  He edges toward the door. “I want to go back.”

  “No, you don’t,” I say firmly.

  “I do!”

  “Schmoo, listen—”

  He cups his hands over his ears. “I want to go to school. Take me back! Now!”

  “Shawna, take him,” Fran pleads as Schmule hyperventilates before our eyes. “This just isn’t worth it.”

  “Not worth it?” I echo in disbelief. “How can you say that? This is your fault, too!”

  “My fault?”

  “Yes! Why didn’t you fight for him?”

  “I did!” she cries out, clutching herself tightly.

  “You did not. The judge says, okay, Dr. Gallagher, you get to take him home—and what did you do? You just sat there and nodded?”

  “They won’t give him to me! He is not my son!”

  “Yes I am!” Schmule torpedoes forward, flinging himself on Fran. She cowers under his pummeling fists but makes no attempt to stop the assault. “I am! I am!” He’s crying, Fran’s crying, and before I know it I’m crying right along with them.

  Exhausted, Schmule sags against Fran. She hugs him ferociously before spinning him around. “Go to your room. Please! Just for a while.”

  Schmule flees. I’m sobbing so hard I can barely understand my own words. “My mom didn’t fight for me. Now you’re doing the same thing.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “It’s exactly the same thing!”

  “Everything you see, you see in black and white! You’re seventeen years old. You have no idea how the world operates. God!” she screams, slapping the wall. “You and your smart-ass, idealistic attitude. You know there’s no way in hell any judge would give Schmule back to me. And you have no goddamn right to come in here and say I didn’t try!”

  “She didn’t fight for me,” I repeat stubbornly. I swipe my cheeks, sorry I took so much time with my makeup. “Do you know what that feels like? To know your mom just gave up?”

  “She had no choice! He would’ve dragged her through the mud.”

  “So what?” I shriek. “She could’ve dragged him right back. I know what he did. I
saw what he did. If you take him back to court, you can tell them the truth!”

  She stares, stricken. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please. You know.”

  I sniffle into my hands, so she leads me to the sink. I splash water on my face. She mops hers, too, and blows her nose.

  At last she asks, as if she missed every word I just said, “Why did you bring him here today?”

  “B-because,” I squeak between hiccups. “He’s going to hurt himself if someone doesn’t help him. He’s cutting his face out of pictures. He wrote this awful report about people who are kidnapped. Plus he tried to give me his Nintendo. I don’t even play video games. It’s a Nintendo Wii. He’d never part with that.” I fall down in a chair and hide my face. “Today might’ve been the day. He tried to stay home. He figured no one would be around.”

  “Does your father know about this?” Fran asks hollowly.

  “I told him most of it. I don’t think he believes me. He thinks I’m jealous. Or maybe he doesn’t want me to be right, because he’s in charge. He’s supposed to be in control.”

  Fran takes my hands and squeezes hard. We sit without speaking as the faucet drips, and floorboards creak above us in Rina’s half of the house. The silence between us feels strong and viscous. She grips my fingers tighter, enough to jam my class ring into my skin. “Do you want to tell me what happened? The night your mom left?”

  “I’m sure she told you.” Of course she did.

  “Ye-es, some of it. But she didn’t know you’d—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this now.” I twist my hands away and push up on the table. “Look, I’ve, um, got stuff to do if you and Schmule want to hang out for a while.”

  “Shawna. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  Fran nods. Without asking permission, I walk through the back hall and rap on Schmule’s door. Cross-legged on the bed, he looks up from the book in his lap and asks darkly, “You guys done yelling at each other?”

  I touch one freckled cheek. “Yeah, you can come out now. It’s safe.” Unconvinced, he stays put till I nudge him. “Go visit with your mom.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have some stuff to take care of.” I glimpse the title of the book as I give him a hug: The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Bronte. “Was that Mom’s?”

  “Yeah. I like poetry. I write it sometimes. But don’t tell Dad, or”—he pulls away from me, arcs his wrist, and wiggles his fingers—“he’ll think I’m gay or something.” He taps the page. “Herr Gorski’s making us read one and then say what it’s about. This one’s mine.”

  Out loud, I read the lines highlighted in yellow, never mind I already know them by heart. “‘These once indeed seemed Beings Divine; / And they perchance heard vows of mine, / And saw my offerings on their shrine. / But careless gifts are seldom prized . . . And mine were worthily despised.’” My forced laugh clears the lump from my throat. “Yah, good luck.”

  “Aw, I can pull it out of my butt.”

  “I bet.” I kiss the top of his head. “’Bye. And be good.”

  “Ugh, please. Do you have to slobber all over me?”

  “Good-bye,” I repeat, in case he didn’t hear me.

  “Yeah, yeah. ’Bye!” Rubbing my kiss out of his hair, Schmule makes an atrocious face. “And don’t hurry back.”

  110

  Back home, after Charles and I take a break, I cart my collage out to the car. He knows something’s up and watches intently as I aim the car toward Wade Prep. Awkwardly, I lug the heavy poster through the quiet halls to the art room. Miss Pfeiffer’s wiping down shelves, no class in session. “Shawna! What’s up?”

  “Here’s my project. I know it’s not due yet. . .” But truthfully, I’m sick of it.

  She props it on a table and examines it for a minute. Then: “Shawna, this is amazing! I’ve never seen anything like—” Then she draws back, head cocked at the sight of those creepy, mutilated faces. “Well. Hmm. I don’t quite understand . . .”

  “Me either,” I admit. I run a finger along Schmule’s naked foot, sketched in pencil, veins traced in a delicate gold. “By the way, I’m cutting today.”

  She’s so absorbed in my collage, I don’t think she notices me leave.

  111

  What do you do on a day when the only life you know may blow up in your face at any second?

  I throw off my vest and my blazer—the day is warming up—and drive around with my dog with the top of my car down. Charles’s ears flutter in the breeze as we swing through Little Italy and then head back uptown. After stopping at Starbucks for tea and a scone, I park on a side street and doodle in my sketchpad, trying to take my mind off things . . . but I can’t stop thinking about the night my mom left.

  How Mom left, came back, and then left one more time. I always wondered: would she have stayed that second time if what happened in their bedroom had never happened?

  I remember the sounds—Dad’s voice, angry and muffled, and Mom, in tears. A dull explosion, similar to the one I heard the night Dad slapped Schmule.

  Even though I’d been warned to never open the door when Mommy and Daddy are inside, I opened it anyway. Nobody noticed the click of the latch. I pressed my face into the opening and saw Mom and Dad on the bed: Mom, underneath him, gasping and pushing and smacking his head, saying, “No, no, stop it!” between choking sobs.

  Dad, lunging hard and fast. I didn’t understand his words then, but I understand now: “Can Fran give you this? Can Fran give you this?”

  He said it over and over. And Mom kept crying.

  112

  Charles, bored, pats me with an impatient paw. Like people, he gets homesick if we stay away too long. The second we get home he scampers to his dish, laps up a gallon of water, and collapses into a sunlit square under the dining room window.

  No blinking red light on the answering machine. Dad, thankfully, hasn’t caught on yet.

  The palpable emptiness of the house unnerves me. I’ve never felt so alone, but it’s not a true “loneliness.”

  A “nothingness,” maybe.

  All I hear is my shallow breathing as I root around for that secret box. The “just-in-case” condoms foisted on me by Dad after my last nightmarish date with Danielle’s brother.

  What the hell do think you’re doing, Shawna Gallagher?

  I don’t answer because, well, I don’t have a good answer.

  I kick off my uniform, pull on a hot pink tee and flowered capris, and slide a single foil packet into a pocket. I tell myself that if Arye laughs at me, it won’t be the end of the world.

  It won’t. Really.

  113

  Parked at the curb, I see him, loping down the sidewalk toward his house after school. I toot the horn. He squints to be sure I’m not a hallucination. “Stalking me again?”

  “You wish. Schmule’s inside with your mom. I’m just hanging around.”

  Wondrously, he asks, “Do you know you’re insane?”

  I smile boldly. “Want to go for a ride?”

  “Let me say hi to my brother. Be right back.”

  The sun, startlingly hot for only the beginning of May, roasts my face in the five minutes he’s gone. When he climbs in next to me, and his arm brushes mine, I relish this new sensation that leaves me breathless and off balance. Is this what it feels like to bungee jump? Like flinging your heart, brain, and stomach in three different directions, and not caring if they find a way back to your body?

  “When do you have to be home?” Arye asks.

  “No time soon.”

  He shakes his head, mystified. “This is great what you’re doing. But if your dad—”

  “I can handle my dad.” For the first time, I believe it.

  “So where are we going?”

  “Nowhere. Anywhere.”

  We head out of Cleveland Heights and ride through the next few suburbs. I steer left-handed, my right one resting comfortably under Arye’s. The far
ther we drive, the faster the blue disappears from the sky. Gray clouds roll in from the lake, smothering the hot sun that previously tried to broil me alive.

  Arye rubs my thumb. “Thanks for bringing him over.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say formally.

  “Stupid of you, but nice.”

  “I didn’t do it to be nice.”

  “Then why?” When I can’t answer, he says, “You know, I still don’t get you. You’re nothing like the person I knew last year.”

  “Neither are you. I thought you were a jerk.”

  “Trust me. You were no prize yourself.”

  We laugh. Relaxed now, I ease up on the accelerator on a crooked country road and roll the car onto the bumpy shoulder. Through an old split-log fence, we spy a couple of horses, munching grass and swishing their long tails.

  “You still think I’m a jerk?” he asks curiously.

  “Sometimes. Like, when you give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That eyeball thing, like you think I’m retarded or something.”

  “This one?” He does it, and I smack him—so he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. When a truck roars by inches from my car, he quickly lets go, and points to an alcove of trees. “Better pull over there before we get run off the road.”

  I obey, hoping we won’t get stuck in a ditch. The sun reappears, briefly, to cast an orangey glow on the evergreen branches. Then it disappears, leaving our surroundings gray and almost spooky. A squirrel scampers down one knotty trunk, chatters at us for trespassing, then scrambles back into the branches.

  “Want to get out?” I ask, oh-so-casually. “I have a blanket in the trunk.”

  Arye deadpans, “Not only are you stalking me—now you’re trying to seduce me.”

  “Don’t be presumptuous. I’m tired of sitting.”

  “Well, put your top up, ’cause it’s going to rain any second.”

  I do, and he helps me spread the blanket over the ground. We plop down side by side—and then I watch the sky disappear as he brushes my lips with his own. Again and again.