“It’s time to go.”
The announcement comes over the PA system. Everyone around me stands up and I try to grab some of the people passing me by to ask where we’re all going. No one will answer. I don’t recognize any of the students except Hannah and Chris, and they don’t see me. Nobody can see me. Then the cafeteria is empty except for me and Barry’s jacket. I wait for him as the PA announcement repeats over and over again: “It’s time to go. It’s time to go.”
The next morning is Halloween, and when I wake up, I am still in my clothes from the night before, my sheets twisted and wrapped like ropes around my legs. My hair is plastered over my forehead in hot wisps. When I try to sit up, the room spins and blurs. I’m on a carnival ride, the one that’s shaped like a cylinder that spins and sucks you to the wall before the floor drops out from underneath.
“Mom!” I yell for her just like I did when I was younger, but this time she doesn’t run into my room within seconds of my distress call. My clock radio reads 7:12, and a light rain taps against the windows. “Mom!” I try again with a longer though not louder wail—I’ve reached my maximum volume.
I hear her familiar footsteps coming up the stairs, and then she appears in my doorway, wiping her hands with a dish towel, her hair tied back in a bun. She takes one look at me and says, “Let me get the thermometer.” For once I know I’m not going to need my bed lamp to help my cause.
I hold the thermometer steady under my tongue until my mother takes it from me. “A hundred and one. Okay, kiddo, I’ll go call the school. Jesus, between the two of you, I should open an infirmary.”
“What do you mean?”
“Betsi’s sick too. Head cold. But she’s far more mobile than you are. You should give Hannah a call and ask her to pick up your assignments so you don’t get behind. You can catch up this weekend if you start feeling better. Ask her to drop your books and things on the way home from school today.”
“Hannah. Right.” I stare at the pink phone next to my bed.
“Something wrong, Presley?”
“No. No, I’m just hot. And dizzy. Can I have some juice?”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
The numbers on my phone seem to stare at me with disapproval. I lift the handset, and my finger hovers above the first digit of Hannah’s number.
“You got yourself into this,” my phone says, taunting me. “Now you need to get yourself out of it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I mutter, and finish dialing. Hannah answers on the second ring.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
“Oh, hey. You sound terrible!” She sounds like she’s chewing on toast. I guess she’s decided to temporarily ditch the bananas.
“Yeah, I’m sick. I have a fever and everything,” I tell her, as if I’m trying to convince her.
“But it’s Halloween! You’ll miss all the little kids dressed up.” The first-, second-, and third-graders from the elementary school two blocks over walk in buddy pairs to our school, where the gym is transformed by the senior class into a kid-friendly haunted house with stations set up for trick-or-treating. The best part is watching the children parade through the neighborhood in their costumes—a two-and-a-half-foot-tall horde of face-painted goblins, fairy princesses crowned with tiaras, and plastic-smocked Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
“Take pictures for me?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. We’ve been talking for over a minute now, and Hannah has yet to unleash a fury on me for ditching last night. “So you got home okay last night?”
“Um, yeah…Wait, aren’t you mad?”
“Mad about what? Didn’t Betsi tell you I called?”
“No!”
“Yeah, I ditched as soon as you gave the signal. I figured it was better to just head home than back to the stupid bus shelter.”
“Right,” I say, remembering my one long whistle. Did I get my signals crossed?
“Those guys are idiots. I can’t believe they stayed behind. I hope they got busted.”
Guess it wasn’t me who got my signals mixed up. I mouth a silent thank-you and count my blessings that Hannah’s memory isn’t always the sharpest part of her personality.
“So, you’re not mad, are you?” Hannah asks.
“Me? No! Why would I be mad?”
“Oh, you know, the whole Chris thing. He really is a jackass.”
“Totally! I don’t know what I was thinking. Last night he acted like he was in fourth grade, playing GI Joe or something, with those maps and everything.”
“Exactly! Hey, my mom is having a coronary because she needs to use the phone. I gotta run. I can swing by after school and drop your books off if you want.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Feel better!”
And I already do—one down, one to go. I try to push myself up on my bed and reach for my robe hanging on the back of my closet door, but the spins return stronger. I fall back into my pillows, wedging my old brown shaggy bear, Henry, underneath my cheek. I’ve had him since I was four and still keep him in my bed. He has one eye missing and several stitches to repair loose stuffing, but during one particularly horrible run with strep throat at age six, I secretly convinced myself that having him nearby helped me heal faster. I chew on Henry’s tattered foot, thinking about the juice and hoping my mom brings it in something other than a red plastic cup.
The next time I wake up, it is 11:34. On my bed stand, my mom has left the glass of orange juice poured into one of the Detroit Tigers cups we got for free at a game last summer. The ice cubes have melted, and the juice looks thick and warm, like soup. My mouth feels dry, the corners crusty. I force myself out of bed, slipping into my robe and grabbing the cup for a refill.
From the kitchen, I can hear the TV in the family room and the cheers of thePrice Is Right contestants. “I bid one dollar, Bob!” one contestant chirps. I hope her strategy makes her the closest to the actual price without going over. The plan works, and Bob Barker calls her up onstage to try her luck at Plinko. It’s my favorite game, so I grab my fresh glass of juice and wander in to watch.
Betsi is camped out on the couch, buried underneath two afghans and staring past the TV out the window that looks into the front yard. She jumps a bit when she notices me in the room. “Hey, you’re awake. Want to sit down?” she asks, pulling her legs up to make room. I shake my head and plop down in the armchair instead. I can feel her eyes on me, but I concentrate on the television screen. The contestant is wearing a name tag that saysNANCY and a T-shirt that readsTEXANS LOVE BOB BARKER , with an airbrushed dollar sign where theS should be. Nancy stands at the top of the Plinko board with the three chips she has earned, trying to navigate the best place to drop them and win the most money.
“Everyone thinks it’s best to drop the chip right above the highest money amount, but it’s a mistake,” Betsi says, reaching into a nearby box of oyster crackers. She drops a handful into her mouth and adds around cracker crumbs, “The trick is to find a spot off-center and let go.”
She’s right, but I remain silent and watch Nancy make this exact mistake, placing all her chips in the dead center above the highest amount only to watch them fall into the zero dollar amount on either side. Bob tries to act disappointed, reminds Nancy she still has a chance to win a spot in the Showcase Showdown, and leans over for his millionth kiss.
“He’s such a player,” Betsi says. “I can’t figure out why all these ladies are jumping out of their pants for a chance to kiss old Bob. What do you think?”
I shrug. “I dunno. They’re probably just excited to be on TV.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Betsi sighs. The show cuts to a commercial for dishwasher detergent. A housewife is beaming as she holds up her dinnerware, finally free of spots and grime.
“Where’s my mom?” I ask.
“She ran to the store to get you some ginger ale and stuff. She should be back soon.” I nod and stand back up. “Where are you going? Don’t you want to see who
wins the Showcase Showdown?” I linger by the chair, trying to avoid looking Betsi directly in the eye. She stares at her hands, picking at her cuticles—she’s been doing that since I can remember. Mom suggested she get acrylics or regular manicures, with the idea that if Betsi invested some money into her hands, she wouldn’t be so quick to destroy them. The acrylics lasted for less than a week.
Betsi takes a deep breath, as if she is about to go underwater. “Look, Presley. I hope you know I wasn’t drinking last night.” Her words gush out, running together.
I shrug again. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Well, I care. And I wasn’t. I was just upset.” Her voice trails off and then finds its way back again. “I sort of…broke up with someone.”
I sink back down into my chair. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I sort of did too,” I find myself confessing. “Well, we were never really going out, so not exactly. But Chris Carroll is definitely over.”
Betsi nods. “Sometimes it’s best to quit while you’re ahead.” She digs through the oyster crackers, chewing on handfuls and staring out the window again.
“Are you sad?” I ask as a cat-litter commercial plays in the background.
Betsi shakes her head. “It was for the best. We never should’ve gotten involved in the first place.” She fidgets with her hands once more, and our eyes meet for the first time since last night. Hers are puffy and bloodshot. “Remember when I told you sometimes I wished that I could just call for a do-over? This is one of those times.”
The door to the garage slams. “I’m home!” Mom calls, walking into the family room with several bags from the market. “Feeling any better?” I wonder who she is asking, me or Betsi.
“I’m going to go unload these bags, and then I’ll get you some ginger ale and soup and check your temperature again. Did you get ahold of Hannah?” Mom asks.
“Oh, crap,” Betsi blurts. “I forgot, she called last night.”
Mom looks at me, confused. “I thought you two were together last night babysitting.”
“We were,” I stumble. “We just wanted to gossip about Mr. Reynolds. He dropped me off first, and he always tells weird stories on the way home.”
“Okay. Well, are you going to get set up down here on the couch with Betsi, or go back to your room?”
Betsi looks at me from the couch like a puppy begging to be fed. “I think I’ll stay here,” I say, and Betsi smiles, giving me more than enough space to make myself comfortable.
“All My Childrenis on in an hour, you want to watch?” she asks.
“I haven’t seen it in forever.”
“Yeah, but it’s easy to get back into—the characters never really change. They just keep recycling story lines.”
“Is Erica Kane still on?”
“Of course!” she says, passing me her box of oyster crackers, the closest we can come to a white flag for now.
“Presley, you cannot stand by the front door all night after being sick all day. You’ve been running a fever, and you’ll end up catching something worse than what you already have.” My mother makes her argument as she cuts open packages of candy, dumping the variety into a large bowl and tossing the mixture like salad.
“But who’s going to hand out candy? Peter’s already left to go out with his friends.”
“Betsi can take care of it—she seems to be doing better.” It’s hard to take my mother seriously because she’s dressed up like Raggedy Ann, with a wig of brilliant red yarn and two perfect circles of blush on her cheeks. My dad is upstairs trying to fix the strap of his overalls on his matching Andy costume. They’ve been invited to a party being thrown by Dad’s boss, who apparently takes Halloween very seriously.
“I think it’s fun that you get to dress up,” I tell her, wrapping my robe tighter as a chill races up the back of my neck.
“I suppose, but these heels are already killing me. Look at you—you’re freezing to death. Back to bed for you.” She shoos me out of the kitchen. Betsi is out on the front porch relighting the candles in the pumpkins. There are two on the stoop now, mine and hers. Betsi’s black-cat design looks more like a black hole, but I’m still surprised and pleased to find it outside next to mine.
She looks up and catches me in the doorway and smiles. “Told you I’d finish.” She’s pulled together a makeshift costume—a black miniskirt and tight top, a headband with cat ears, and whiskers drawn across her cheeks in thick, dark eyeliner. It’s crisp out but not subzero. For once we have a Halloween that won’t require covering your costume with a puffy winter coat. “You better scoot upstairs before your mother freaks out. Go on, you can see everyone coming up the front walk from your window.”
I retreat to my room, piling the pillows and comforter from my bed into my window seat. I keep my bedroom lights off and watch from the dark. Most of the houses on our block are decorated for the event—faux tombstones lining the front lawns, scarecrows towering above, and ghosts hanging from the tree branches. Some of our neighbors have even added strobe lights or a boom box with creepy music. Betsi has made her own contribution, playing Michael Jackson’sThriller from our porch. It’s old but a secret favorite of ours. When it first came out, Betsi would babysit me and Peter, and we’d watch the video over and over again, trying to memorize all of the moves.
The sidewalks are full of tiny spotlights from handheld flashlights. Most of the early groups are the younger kids, chaperoned by a parent standing guard at the edge of the driveway. I think about how Halloween goes against what we were taught as kids—never take candy from a stranger. Every year around this time, the urban legends rise from the dead, and we’re all reminded to check every piece of candy for razor blades or needle pinpricks from injections of rat poison. I’ve never actually known or met someone whose candy has been tampered with, but I bought into it for years, surrendering my bag to my parents for inspection as soon as I walked in the door.
“Trick or treat!” I hear it over and over again as Betsi hands out generous handfuls of candy to each group. My mother always overestimates how many bags will be enough, so we usually have leftovers, which she promptly hides in the cupboards above the refrigerator as if Peter and I can’t get to them.
The stream of costumed kids is endless—maybe this year we won’t have so many leftovers after all. I lean my forehead against the cool windowpane and drift off as the voices below chirp their “Trick or treat!” mantra, demanding a reward and threatening consequences if they are denied.
It’s the sound of the front door slamming that wakes me up. My eyes pop open. The streets look empty now. I think Betsi must be coming in and turning off the porch light to signal to the neighborhood that our house is closed for business, but down below I see the light is still on, with Betsi’s silhouette pacing back and forth on the porch. One lone trick-or-treater stands at the bottom of our steps. At first his costume looks like a hooded black cape, but it’s just a sweatshirt pulled up over his head. His voice is low, and I can’t make out what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it’s the same tone, the same pattern, as if he’s repeating himself over and over.
Betsi suddenly scampers down the stairs, still holding the bowl of candy and standing right in front of him. “You have to go. Now.” Her voice is clear and forceful. His cloaked head shakes a slow “no,” then he pulls back the hood and rubs his eyes. His head is tilted up, and when he takes his hand away from his face, it feels like he is looking right into my room.
It’s Barry.
I duck behind the curtain, praying I haven’t been spotted, and slowly peek around the edge, my heart fluttering as if I’ve just run sprints in gym class. Barry and Betsi are still standing at the bottom of the steps, with Betsi cradling the candy bowl in her arms. Their lips are forming words, but their voices have dropped even lower, and I can’t make out anything that’s being said. Barry keeps wiping his eyes. I try to identify what it is I recognize in his face and realize it’s desperation.
&nb
sp; Barry grabs Betsi’s shoulders in an attempt to pull her closer to him, but she pushes him away, the bowl of candy wedged between them. He snatches it from her hands and tosses it up into the air, the pieces of candy falling down like confetti from the sky. For the briefest moment, the candy almost seems to freeze in the air around her, like numbered dots waiting to be connected in a coloring book. And as clear as I can trace the outline of the constellations in the sky, I finally see the dots between Barry and Betsi, the order in which they connect, the pattern that needs to be traced to see the true picture.
Chapter5
Parent-Teacher
Conferences
“Looks like it’s a seriesof storms heading our way all at the same time—that’s the cause of it.” My father announces this from behind the Metro section of the paper during Sunday breakfast.
“The cause of what?” Mom asks, continuing to concentrate on an ad in Arts & Leisure for a touring production ofLes Misérables. She’s been using a black felt-tip pen to mark little stars next to the reviews of movies or plays she says she wants to see but probably never will. Peter is buried behind one of the books from theLord of the Rings trilogy. I read whatever is closest—the label of the syrup bottle, the nutritional facts from the side of the orange-juice carton, the coupon insert offering seventy-five cents off my next purchase of sesame-seed bagels.
“The early freeze. Says it’s going to hit by Thanksgiving at the latest. I should give Tim a call and let him know. Maybe he and Barry can get the house out onto the lake early.”
Every winter my father and Uncle Tim put up a shanty on Lake St. Clair for ice-fishing season. Once the weather sets in and the ice is thick enough, there is a particular alcove known as the best spot on the lake, and it quickly becomes littered with these shelters. Most are built fast and cheap with plywood, the permit number and owner name hastily painted on all four sides, per city regulations. No one puts much time or resources into construction—they just need something that will offer protection from what can be a brutal wind coming across the lake.
The Girl I Wanted to Be: A Novel Page 8
