by Lea Geller
Beeks let me finish before she said anything. “Can we replace the yelling portion of this call with the ‘I’m sorry’ portion?” she asked.
“Huh?” I sniffled and fished a puff out of my bra.
“I’m sorry, Aggie,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t just shown up uninvited. I knew you needed me, but I wanted to give you some room.”
“That’s silly,” I said. “I told you not to come yet. You were being a good friend. That’s all.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “When I broke my leg, you just showed up, even though I told you I didn’t need help.”
“It’s not the same,” I said.
“And that time you faked pneumonia so I could get out of skiing with Brian’s family?”
“Beeks, it’s different. I’m not ready for you to see me.”
“Jeez, Aggie,” she said. “Can I have the yelling portion back?”
“If you see me, this is all real. And I just can’t deal with that now. Please understand,” I begged.
There was a long pause. “OK,” she said. “Whatever you need.”
“I love you, Beeks. I just need a little more time.”
“You can have it then. But don’t make me wait too long. I can wait to see you, but you’ve got my unofficial niece there as well. You know how I feel about patience—it’s somebody else’s virtue.”
-11-
Beeks called again the next evening.
“I’m glad you didn’t send me to voice mail,” she said. No hellos.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m wandering around campus searching for what looks like a place you’d live in.”
“What? You’re here?” I jumped up off the brown couch.
“Yup,” she said proudly. “You sounded positively dreadful last night. I may be a bad friend for not coming immediately, but I’m not a downright shitty friend.”
“Beeks,” I said. “I told you not to come.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.
“Yeah, well, I came anyway.” I could hear the hurt in her voice. “So tell me where you are or I’ll start asking people. I know how much you like it when people start talking about you, and I can promise they’re all going to talk if some crazed woman with frizzy hair and a gigantic mom purse is wandering the campus trying to track you down.”
“Fair enough.”
I gave Beeks my address and some directions. I stuck my head outside quickly to make sure Stacey Figg wasn’t around.
Grace was not yet asleep. Bedtime had turned hairy in the past few days. Although she once went down quietly in her crib, she now howled until I’d gone into her room multiple times. One night I did the unthinkable. I rocked her to sleep in my arms and put her down only when her limbs were floppy and limp. I tried not to think about my baby nurse or the baby-group moderator and their admonitions. Grace and I were on the brown couch when Beeks knocked on the door. I carried Grace to the foyer and opened the door to see Beeks standing in front of me, wearing black capri pants and a white button-down shirt and, as promised, carrying an enormous overstuffed purse with a newspaper sticking out of it.
I hadn’t gotten the door fully open before she jumped into my foyer. I stuck my head out, and sure enough, there was Stacey Figg looking through her window. I ducked back inside.
“Let me look at you!” Beeks said, pulling me to her. “Wow, do I spot roots up there?” She stood on her tiptoes and peered down at the top of my head. “Be careful or I’ll call the highlight police.”
And that is Beeks. Right there. I just smiled. Even though she’d surprised me, not really giving me time to prepare for her visit, I knew exactly what she’d say when she saw me. She reached over and scooped Grace out of my arms.
“Gracie, darling,” Beeks said. “Remember me? Aunt Beeks?” Grace just stared and then reached for the mass of Beeks’s hair. “She’s your mother,” she said, pointing at me. “But I’m your aunt. That means we both love you, but when you’re older, I’ll like you even when she doesn’t.”
“That’s right,” I said, finally speaking. “And you should know, Grace, that your aunt Beeks is also very forgiving.”
Beeks looked at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you come sooner.”
“Enough,” Beeks interrupted. Before either of us could say another word, we fell into each other. I don’t remember who moved first, but I hugged her, almost flattening Grace in between us. I smelled the coconut oil she piled into her big, coarse, curly hair, the oil she swears keeps the frizz at bay. I breathed it in. When we finally pulled away, loosening our grip on each other, I saw that we were both red-faced and blotchy. Our mascaras were in a competition to see whose could get farthest down our cheeks. I was still using pricey mascara that I’d brought with me, so I suspected Beeks’s was winning. We grinned at each other, and at Grace, and before I could say anything, Beeks had launched herself on a tour of the town house.
She pushed past me and walked into the living room. “You’re not planning on unpacking?” she said.
“I dunno,” I replied. “I could be leaving at any moment, and I don’t want to get too comfortable.”
“Right,” she said, barely concealing her disapproval. She walked into the kitchen and opened my fridge. Damn, her instincts were good. We both stared inside. I saw a half gallon of milk and a lot of baby yogurts. Before I could say anything, Beeks whirled around and surveyed the kitchen. I wished I’d washed the dishes. I wished I’d bought some food to put in the pantry, even if I wasn’t going to cook it.
“Where’s the rest of your food?” Beeks asked, picking up an empty can of veggie puffs, her eyes darting to a shelf of replacement puffs, stacked up in all the colors of the rainbow.
“Huh?”
“Where’s your chicken? Where are your eggs? What are you guys eating? Are you a vegetarian now?” She reached for another can of puffs. “And what the hell are these things?”
“We’re eating fine, Beeks. We don’t need much.”
Just then, before I could stop her, Beeks fixed her eyes on some small jars huddled behind the microwave. She waltzed across the tiny kitchen and swept the jars up in her hands. They were baby food jars, and inside each one were what appeared to be very little fingers. Baby fingers, almost.
“Aggie, what in God’s name are these?” She held the jars up to her eyes to look inside them.
I mumbled a response.
“What?”
“Sticks,” I mumbled again, slightly louder. “Meat sticks.”
“MEAT STICKS?”
I leaned back on the dirty counter and braced myself for an in-person yelling portion.
“LAST TIME I SAW YOU, YOU WERE BUYING A FIVE-DOLLAR APPLE AND HAVING SOMEONE MAKE IT INTO FOOD FOR GRACE. NOW YOU’RE FEEDING HER THIS SHIT? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU, AGGIE?”
“Beeks, they’re not for Grace. They’re for me. I eat them.”
“WHAT?”
“I discovered them on the road. I eat them.”
“Aggie, I know you can cook! I’ve eaten your food, remember? That tuna bake with cereal may have been revolting, but at least it was technically food. What about that fancy chicken dish with the olives and canned corn? What happened to you? I know you know that glorified corn pops and these revolting toddler fingers aren’t really the staples of a solid diet.”
“Please tell me you didn’t come here just to criticize me, because if that’s the case, you’ll be really busy. I’m a mess,” I said. “I’m a hot mess. My roots are showing; my child and I are living on puffs of sugary air and sticks of processed meat.” I looked at her defiantly. “Anything else I’m missing?”
“Yeah, well, this may be temporary, but you need to unpack. It looks like you’re just stopping here for the night, and by the sound of things, you may be here for longer.” Beeks glared right back at me. “One more thing. This baby,” she said, making an upward motion with the hip that held Grace, “this b
aby is up way too late. She needs to go to sleep. She needs to go to sleep because babies should not be up at nine. She also needs to go to sleep so we can drink.” Before I could say anything, Beeks went looking for the crib.
I wanted to stop her from taking over. I wanted to show Beeks that I could put Grace down on my own, that I didn’t need her help. But I was so relieved to hand her off, to have someone else put her sleep, that I didn’t protest. I didn’t even mock protest. Beeks found Grace’s crib and slowly lowered her into it after kissing her good-night. Grace moaned, and Beeks went in and rubbed her back. She did this a couple more times until Grace fell asleep. Beeks walked out of her room and gave me a look. This is how it’s done, her face said. This is how you do it.
I wanted to be angry. But even more, I wanted to have a glass of wine on the couch with my best friend, even if she was pushy and opinionated. I let Beeks lord over me some more. I had it coming, anyway. She left once we polished off a bottle of wine she’d pulled out of her sack. It was much better than anything I could get at the local supermarket, even if it wasn’t Jack quality. Beggars can’t be choosers. Hell, beggars can’t even have opinions. Beggars just drink whatever wine is in front of them.
-12-
Some days the boys were unresponsive, almost drugged. Other days I spent the entire class trying to get them to sit in their seats. The morning after Beeks stopped by, they were bouncing off the walls. Guy was standing on his desk. He had rolled up a piece of loose-leaf paper and was shooting spitballs at his friends.
“Geeeeeee!” they called, begging for spitballs to come their way. Some of the boys were using their iPads as shields. Others used their hands. (Nobody used a notebook or a binder as a shield, because nobody used notebooks or binders.) One boy sat in the back with his mouth open, waiting for a spitball to fly in. I assumed my unproductive position in the front of the class. A spitball flew over my head and landed on the smart board. “Geeeeeee!” they continued to yell. I looked over at Caleb, who got out of his seat and made his way over to me.
“Guy’s father is French,” he explained. “That’s how they pronounce his name at home.”
“Oh, I see,” I said.
“Yeah, his father is also kind of an asshole. But we don’t talk about that much.”
“Language! Boys, please!” I begged. Nothing.
“Boys!” I said, this time even more loudly, but still getting no response. I turned around, held my skirt down, and climbed onto my desk. I summoned all my dormant yoga skills and balanced, facing them.
“Boys!” I yelled, surprised at the volume in my voice. I am not a yeller. Beeks is a yeller. Jack, on occasion, is a yeller. I do not yell, but here I was, standing on a desk in a skirt, yelling at a group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who were now engaged in a full-on spitball war.
“Don’t shoot spitballs!” As the words came out of my mouth, I remembered Marge at Sunny Day, telling me that you should never tell a toddler what not to do. If you say, “Don’t throw your food,” the toddler hears, “Throw your food.” If you say, “Don’t bite your sister,” he hears, “Bite your sister.” If that applied to adolescents, and I was beginning to suspect it might, then all these kids were hearing was “Shoot spitballs.” I needed another tactic.
“Outside! Now!” I yelled. “All of you! Outside!” One or two of them looked at me. I realized I needed to use names. I could not address the group, because as a group, these boys were unable to hear me. As a group, they were a spinning mass of chaos. To get their attention, I needed to make a dent in that mass. I needed to pull them apart.
“Guy! Caleb! Fart! Outside!” Nobody moved much, but one by one, I got their attention. “Davey! This way!” I pointed to the door. Davey, who always seemed to be rocking in his seat, standing on a desk, or running down a hall, paused, still moving his feet, and looked at me.
“All of you,” I said. “Follow me outside.” I did not wait for them. I walked to the door and ran down the four flights of stairs. The boys were rowdy and they filled the halls with their noise, but I didn’t hush them. I needed to save what little capital I had for what was going to happen once we got outside.
I walked out of the building and onto the small patch of grass in front of MacReady. I stood at the base of a statue of St. Norbert, his round, bloated face glowering down at all of us.
“Davey,” I said. “Do ten jumping jacks and tell me what you had for breakfast.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Now!” I barked, surprising myself.
Davey began to jump. After a few jumping jacks, he yelled out, “Froot Loops!” The old me would have wrinkled my nose in disdain, but I had eaten canned corn for dinner and washed it down with Rice Krispies. I was hardly in a position to judge.
“OK,” I yelled. “Guy, do fifteen push-ups and tell me the name of your kindergarten teacher.”
Guy giggled, dropped to the grass, did some of the lamest, wobbliest push-ups I’d ever seen, and panted, “Mrs. Loom!”
I looked over at Caleb, who was leaning against the statue of poor old Norbert and scowling. “Caleb, jog in place and tell us your grandparents’ names.”
“Nice try,” he said. “I think I’ll pass.” He looked at me, daring me to challenge him. But I didn’t see him. I suddenly saw the four-year-old he probably was. I remembered one of my first students, Ronan, a four-year-old who tested every boundary, a four-year-old who did exactly what he was asked not to do and did nothing he was asked to do. I knew what a power struggle with a Ronan looked like, and it was a struggle without a winner. It was a struggle for struggle’s sake. I thought back to Marge again and I remembered one of her first pieces of advice: “Ronan wants to be asked to do something again and again, just so he can have the pleasure of saying no each time. So stop asking.” I decided to stop asking. “Whenever you’re ready, Caleb. I’ll be here,” I said, looking away and giving someone else my attention.
One by one, I went through all the boys and had them doing a variety of ongoing exercises while singing nursery rhymes, answering questions, reciting their addresses. The air around me smelled like deodorant, grass, and clammy middle school armpits. When most of the kids were worn out, I sat down on the grass.
“If I had a superpower,” I said, looking up at them, “it would be to get food in my daughter’s stomach without actually having to feed her. You know, bypass her mouth. I’m kind of tired of having her spit applesauce all over me. I probably have some of it in my hair right now.” I ran my fingers through my ponytail, and sure enough, I landed on a clump of hardened puree.
Some of the boys giggled.
“Anyone else?” I asked.
“X-ray vision,” giggled Davey, looking at the boys. “I think you guys know why.” Several boys hooted around him. He bowed to them.
“I would want a power that made me taller,” said Guy, looking around nervously to see what his friends would say. “Much taller.”
Davey shouted, “Yeah! No more growth hormones for Geeeeeee.” Guy smiled at him in appreciation.
Art announced that he’d like teeth that never needed brushing, and then he blushed to match the color of his hair. A few more boys chimed in, and one by one they sat down around me. They did not sit in a circle, because they were incapable of forming a circle. I thought back to the boys in preschool who could not sit crisscross applesauce and how we just had them sit however they could, on their knees, on their backs, or not at all. These boys were all like that. A lot of my students were. Some boys needed to sit unreasonably close to the boys around them, almost touching. Others needed to sit far away, with a mile of space around themselves, often with some sort of physical barrier—a book, a backpack, a removed sneaker.
“Are you gonna ignore me again?” Caleb called from the back. “Or don’t you care what I think?”
I could see from looking at his face that he was completely serious. Everything this kid said sounded sarcastic, but he didn’t do sarcasm. None of them really did.
/> “I’m interested in what you have to say,” I said. “Do you wish you had a superpower, Caleb?” I waited, looking right at him.
“No,” he said. “Not that I can think of. I’d just like to be a lot better at everything. That’s all.”
The boys all turned to look at him. I could have sworn I saw his eyes fill a little. I wanted to say something more to him, but the bell rang.
“This was good,” announced Davey. “Outside is good.” He got up and bounced back into the building. We passed Stacey Figg, who gave me a quizzical look. She mouthed a question to me, What’s going on with you? Her glossy lips formed a perfect circle at the end of her question. I quickly looked away, pretending I didn’t see her.
I didn’t feel like getting cornered, so I followed the boys. I spotted my third-period boys throwing their water bottles in the air to see if they’d land upright. I hated this trick.
I watched the boys open their lockers, shove things in, then pick up the mountain of things that fell out as soon as the lockers were opened. I never got to see them out of class. I was curious about what they were like when no teacher was around. I walked a little closer to a back I was sure belonged to Art—there were not many red buzz cuts around. As I neared him, he whirled around, and before I knew what happened next, I got a face full of Axe. I choked on it, coughing up talc and chemicals, wrenching my eyes in pain. I couldn’t see anything. I could only taste and smell. I fell back into a pair of thick arms.
“Whoa!” said Gavin as he propped me up. “What do we have here, boys?” My vision was starting to come back. I still had a nose full of Anarchy, but I could see the boys, and I wrestled myself out of Gavin’s meaty hold. The boys looked terrified. Art, still holding the can of Axe, started to stutter, and true to his nickname, farted nervously.
