by Tracy Bilen
Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t tell him what he did is okay! But I’m not strong enough to listen to my inner voice. I blink fast so I won’t cry. “Right. He should have lost the weight.” I stand up. “I don’t want to miss the bus.” I don’t throw my cereal bowl against the wall, but I want to.
In English we can hear the movie from the class next door through the walls. It’s in Spanish. When I was picking out classes for eighth grade, I asked my dad if I should take Spanish. He said, “Absolutely not.” I guess he was still a little sensitive about the fact that he and his partner might not have gotten shot back in Philly if he had known some Spanish. At the hospital I overheard some other cops saying that one gangbanger had told another in Spanish that the gun was under the mattress. That, and mumblings about an Internal Affairs investigation. Since I’m the one who never likes to cause trouble, I ditched the Spanish idea. Matt had the opposite reaction. He made sure to add Spanish to his schedule for the following year.
“Get started on your free writing, people,” says Mrs. Monroe. I shake my head, returning to the present, and get out my pencil. When I reach into my backpack, I find a Ritz Bits pack smashed underneath my history book. I make a slit in one side without making too much noise. I grab a handful and pop them into my mouth, leaning my pencil against my lips so it looks like I’m chewing on the eraser. I consider getting up to sharpen my pencil, not because it really needs it, but because I don’t want to start writing. I sigh. Mrs. Monroe’s head turns in my direction. I stop chewing and study the board. The topic is “Camping.”
I’m about to raise my hand and ask why we have to write about camping when we just wrote about vacations, but Rachel beats me to it. Mrs. Monroe just shakes her head and says, “Shh!”
I hate camping. I would rather write about anything else, even spiders. Like how when I was six I once sat outside during dinner because I was afraid to open the front door since there was a spider near the handle and my dad wouldn’t let anyone else open the door for me or flick it away. Or how I used to believe those stories about people who sucked in spiders when they screamed. Well, maybe I can work the spider stuff in anyway. There are plenty of spiders at campgrounds. I start to sigh but stop myself so Mrs. Monroe won’t get mad. Then I force my pencil to the paper. This is what I write:
I hate camping. I mean I really, really hate camping. We all do, except for my dad, who loves it. My mom and I pretend to love it, or at least pretend not to hate it. My dad loves both kinds of camping: in a tent and in a camper. Tent camping is actually very loud, because you’re out in the middle of nowhere so everything you hear outside the tent is very soothing and natural. All the other human noises that you normally wouldn’t notice are amplified. First, there’s the zippers. The zippers on the tent—Zip! Zip! Zip! (Center, side, side.) Then there are the zippers on the sleeping bags. Zip! (Down.) Zip! (Up.) Times four of us. And there’s the zipper of the sweatshirt you have to wear over your pajamas because Dad thinks it’s fun to camp when it’s cold out. There’s the bang of the plastic cooler that Dad closes after he gets out a Coke, the explosion of the seal when he opens it, and the slurping in the dark, followed by Zip! Zip! Zip! because then he has to go to the bathroom.
Way better than camping is Ramona’s Retreat, the cabin we used to rent for a week every summer. We’ve been going there for as long as I can remember—except for this past summer, on account of Matt. Even when we lived in Philly we would drive out here because Dad liked Michigan a whole lot; he just didn’t want to live in the same state as his dad. Which explains why we moved to Michigan after his parents died.
After free writing, Mrs. Monroe decides we need to get into pairs and peer-edit the paper we have due on Monday. Our class is a junior/senior elective, and Lauren’s older brother Jay is in the class too. Mrs. Monroe puts the two of us together. You never know quite what she’s thinking, that woman.
“Hey there,” Jay says as he slides his desk over next to mine.
“Hi. You bring anything with you?”
“The paper? Nah, I’ll pound it out Sunday night. How about you?”
“I haven’t started it,” I say. I’m not planning on still being here Monday, after all. “But here. You can mark up my history notes so we look busy.”
“Ah, history. I hear you and Maloy are in the same history class. Word on the street is he’s got the hots for you.”
“Alex?” I try to sound surprised, but I know I’m blushing.
“I take it that’s a yes. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Unless you want me to spin the rumor the other way?”
“No, thanks. That won’t be necessary.”
Jay laughs. “That won’t be necessary,” he mimics. “You’re killing me. Yikes, looks like you misspelled the Treaty of Versailles.”
“Yeah, well. My brother’s natural ability for languages didn’t rub off on me.”
“Not on me, either. I’m not talking about Versailles. I have no idea if you spelled that right. I’m talking about the word ‘treaty.’”
“Like I said, spelling was never my strong suit.”
“Where do you suppose she goes every day?” Jay points to Mrs. Monroe’s desk, which is empty. “She never smells like smoke.”
“I think it’s just a social experiment. To see if she can trust us.”
A chair squeaks. Another one topples over. Bam!
“And apparently the answer is no,” Jay says, turning to watch Nick and Andrew, who are on their feet, fists raised.
“Jackass.”
“Queer.”
I estimate that Andrew has about ten seconds before Nick beats the crap out of him. But Jay makes it between them first and stands facing Nick.
“Get out of my way,” Nick says, trying to get around Jay, who towers above him.
“It’s not worth it,” Jay says. “Forget about it.”
Nick steps right. Jay blocks him, poised as if he’s on the basketball court.
“I said, get out of my way.”
“Come on, there’s a game tonight,” Jay says. “You know you won’t be playing if you’re suspended.”
Nick seems to consider this. There’s hesitation in his eyes.
“You’re not going to let Maloy have all the glory now, are you?”
This does the trick. Within a minute, Jay has Nick over on our side of the room, talking about football and other equally boring topics. And when Mrs. Monroe returns, the only thing amiss is the chair that no one has bothered to pick back up. How did Jay do that? I only wish that I had learned to do the same for my mom.
Alex and I are both late to history. Me, because Mrs. Monroe kept me after class to ask if anything is wrong since “it’s obvious you haven’t been doing the reading and that’s not like you.” And Alex, well, I’m sure it’s because he’s just being Alex. In any case, by the time he arrives, there isn’t an open seat anywhere near me.
A paper airplane hits my neck. The whole class laughs. I don’t know how Robertson doesn’t notice, but he stops writing on the whiteboard to turn around and ask, “What? What’s so funny?” No one says anything, so he goes back to lecturing.
I pick up the airplane and examine it. LIFT HERE, it says on one of the wings. I open the flaps and flatten the paper. The party at Nick’s house is starting early tomorrow, it says. I’ll pick you up at 7:30 instead of 8:00.
I know I should just tell Alex that I’ll be leaving soon, that I can’t get involved, that he’s wasting his time—only I don’t want to. I scribble Okay at the bottom of the page and fold the paper into vaguely the same formation as it was in when it arrived. Then I fling it behind me without bothering to look to see where it ends up. It doesn’t really matter if Alex gets the message or not. I have the feeling that if I scrawled NO all over the page, he would still be standing on my porch tomorrow night. And spending time with Alex is the only thing right now that’s keeping me going.
The bell rings for lunch, and Alex is at my desk before I can even stand up.
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br /> “That was fast,” I say.
“I had to catch you before you took off for the Dairy Dream without me.”
“Impressive. Are you that quick on the football field?”
“Come to the game and see.” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. You go to the games, but only to catch up on reading Soap Opera Digest.”
“See if you can catch me, funny man.” I sprint for the door.
Alex has his arms around me before I even get to the next row.
“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not on the opposing team.”
“Guess so,” Alex says, his voice raspy. He pulls me in closer, even though we both knew I’m not going anywhere.
Robertson clears his throat.
“Oh come on, Mr. Robertson. You know I’m not that bad of an influence on Sara here.”
Robertson does a really good rendition of the “you’ve got to be kidding” look.
“A man can change,” says Alex.
Robertson snorts. “See that you do.”
Alex takes my hand and leads me down the hall and out the front door. “I assume we’re going to the Dairy Dream again today?”
“I’m going to the Dairy Dream.”
“Well I happen to have packed a lunch. For two. Saves all of that waiting in line in the cafeteria without you. Don’t worry. I gave Zach the heads-up.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”
The wind blows and leaves swirl in the air in front of us. I shiver.
“Hold it right there.” Alex lets go of my hand and sets his backpack on the ground.
“Now what are you up to?”
Alex unzips his backpack and pulls out his varsity jacket. He shakes it in the air and offers me one arm.
“How in the world did you fit your stuff for history, lunch, and your jacket in there?”
“I kind of left out the history stuff.”
“Of course. But I can’t wear your jacket. Then you’ll be freezing.”
“How would it look if I were wearing a jacket and my—the girl that I’m with is shivering?”
“Like you’re in a modern relationship?”
“That only applies to things like doing dishes. Here, put on the jacket. I want to see how you look in it.”
“Fine.” I slide my arms in the sleeves and pose. “Well?”
“Yep. Looks like it was made for you. Even if your arms don’t actually stick out the sleeves. Plenty of room to carry a Stephen King novel, too. And it looks like our table at the Dairy Dream is still open. Race you!”
Alex beats me, but not by much (only because he ran in slow motion). When I sink down next to him, he’s busy pulling out lunch.
“Subway? You went to Subway? Please don’t tell me that’s why you were late to history class.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t skip class on a game day. I went last night. That’s why the lettuce is a little wilted.”
As we start to eat and chewing takes the place of talking, it’s hard not to think about Mom, and even though I’m starving, I have trouble swallowing the sandwich.
Alex puts his arm around me, underneath the jacket. “Whatever it is,” he says, “it’s going to be okay.” With him holding me, I almost believe it might.
“Thanks. I hope so. Thanks for lunch, too. And the jacket.”
“No problem. So, are you coming with me to math today?”
I take one last look at the cars going by in front of the Dairy Dream.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go to math.”
Since there’s no need to wait until after dinner to watch The Winds of Change with my mom, I watch it live. I hope that Mom is watching it too, in a hotel room far, far away. Julia and Ramón are walking in the park when a man keels over from a heart attack. Julia steps right in and starts performing CPR.
Yes! Now she’s going to remember that she’s actually a nurse at Beauford General! She does start to remember. But then, as usual, she tells Ramón. He “reminds” her that she recently took a first-aid course at the hospital. Then he laughs and says she’d always had a Florence Nightingale fantasy.
I go out to feed Chester his carrots. It takes him forever to get to me at the fence, he’s limping so badly.
“I know, Chester. I promised someone would come look at your leg. I’m going to go take care of that now. Wish me luck?”
Chester swishes his tail. I pat his head to give myself a little courage.
I walk around the fence and onto Mr. Jenkins’s property. His truck is in the driveway. That’s either good news or bad, depending on how you look at it. The last time I spoke to Mr. Jenkins was a year ago when my mom made me take cookies over to his house after his wife died. He dumped the whole lot in the garbage while I watched. Then he slammed the door in my face. Actually, he and my dad are a lot alike. They should really hang out.
I ring the doorbell and wait. No answer. I knock on the screen door, then open it and knock on the inside door. “Mr. Jenkins? Mr. Jenkins?”
My fist is poised to knock again when the door opens.
“What the hell do you want?”
I almost turn around, but then I think about Chester.
Talk to him. Remember, you’re doing this for Chester.
“Hi, Mr. Jenkins. Remember me? Sara, your neighbor?”
He stares. His face has a permanent scowl on it, even worse than I remember.
“I left a message last night about Chester—about his foot? He’s limping really bad, even worse than—”
Mr. Jenkins slams the door and turns the deadbolt.
“And now welcome to the field the Scottsfield High School marching band,” booms a voice over the PA system.
Drum cadence. We march out, face the audience, and begin our routine. Sixties tunes. Only Mr. Sommers would think that anyone wants to listen to music that old. Even my mom doesn’t like this stuff.
Mom. Where are you? I play a high C and let it squeak. No one will notice one wrong note in the midst of all this noise anyway, just like no one except for me and Zach seems to have noticed my mom is gone. And Zach, only because I told him. We start our forward movement. Our line bows since half of the people are too focused on reading their music to pay attention to where they’re going.
Up in the stands, I pull out my Soap Opera Digest. Last year I alternated reading and gabbing with Lauren. This year I’ve been avoiding her, so I usually sit in the middle of the clarinet section and read my magazine. Since he only needs us to occasionally play the fight song, Mr. Sommers doesn’t care where we sit in the stands as long as we’re vaguely grouped by instruments.
“Sara!” Lauren, sitting where the flutes meet the clarinets, waves me over.
“Excuse me,” I say, making my way down the row.
“Hey there,” she says.
“Hey there, yourself.” It feels good to sit beside her again.
As our team runs onto the field, I look for Alex. “Who’s number twenty-three?” I ask. I actually know that it’s him, but I want to hear someone say his name.
“That’s Alex Maloy. What—you’re actually watching the game tonight?”
“I read most of my magazine last night.”
The other team kicks off to us. Somebody catches the ball and runs. He gets tackled. Whistle. Everyone gets back up. He tries again. Another whistle. Alex doesn’t seem to be doing much. I zone.
“First down,” calls the announcer. A few claps from the audience.
“Is that good?” I ask Lauren.
“It means we get four more tries to move the ball ten yards.”
“Oh.” I try to focus again. The ball arches across the field. One of our guys jumps up and grabs it. Number twenty-three. Alex! He starts running. And running. Players from the other team swarm him and bounce off him like pinballs. He’s still running. He runs until he’s past the goalposts.
“Touchdown! Is that a touchdown?”
Lauren claps and whistles. I take that as a yes.
I jump up and clap too, forgetting that my clarinet is on my lap. It bangs against the bleachers and drops to the grass below. Mr. Sommers lifts his baton and gives a powerful nod of the head to start everyone else with the fight song. I just stand there and try to look as if it’s normal not to be holding an instrument. Lauren tries to play her flute, but the fight song doesn’t sound quite the same when you’re laughing.
When it’s over, I squeeze past the kids in my row and go down the stairs. Fortunately we’re only sitting in the third row. My clarinet is on top of a napkin smeared with ketchup. I pick it up and try to wipe off the ketchup and germs. Surprisingly the reed remains unchipped. I play a few scales. It still works.
I run into Jay on his way back from the concession stand. Actually, I trip over him because I’m not paying attention to where I’m going. He catches me before I fall and drop the clarinet again.
“Here’s a little hint, Sara. When your boyfriend’s in the game, you’re actually supposed to watch it.”
“I’ve been watching. I just had to get something I dropped.”
He raises his eyebrows. “What’s the score, then?”
“The score? Why would I know the score? I saw the touchdown. Isn’t that all that matters?”
He sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “I’m afraid you have a ways to go. Hey, would you mind taking this to Lauren?” He hands me a box of popcorn.
“Sure, but where’s yours?”
“I’ll get another one.” He turns and heads back toward the concession stand.
After ten “excuse mes” I’m back to my spot on the cold metal bleachers. I hand Lauren the popcorn. “It’s from Jay.”
“If you see him again, tell him it’s not going to work,” she says.
“What’s not going to work?”
“Jay thinks if he’s extra nice to me I won’t tell Mom and Dad that he was out an hour past his curfew last night.”
“You’re really going to rat him out?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I just want to see him squirm.”
