by Gurley, Jan
Mrs. Bullard said, “Sit down, honey,” but I didn’t budge.
She gave a sigh, “Fine. Here’s the situation. You don’t want to be expelled.” I raised my chin at that and found her eying me, like she was measuring my stubbornness or something. “And I understand you want money. A lot of money.”
I gave a short nod. It was a lot of money. Maybe not for the University crowd, but it was for me, and for pretty much everyone else in Academy. No one at Academy had $200 a week allowances, or their own car, or a credit card that daddy paid off each month. Heck, I knew for a fact the reason Phoebe brought a pile of bananas and jar of peanut butter for group lunch was because that way Phoebes could sneak it through her mom’s grocery bill without setting off any alarms. Kids at Academy worked at burger joints and burrito stands and cleaning jobs and all earned minimum wage, which, after taxes and stuff came out to around $4 an hour take home — and everything you earned (mostly) went to stuff you needed. Eight thousand dollars, for us, might as well be ten or twenty or a hundred thousand.
“Maybe you think you could sue because those guards tackled you. But you wouldn’t see any of that money until a long time after June — if ever.”
I gave her a look. “You think I could sue? Clearly, you don’t know my mom.”
Mrs. Bullard smiled a pursed-lip smile, like maybe she did know my mom. “If you go looking for trouble, you’ll find it…”
“Exactly.” Mom had an annoying way of pinning blame precisely where it belonged. I’d be suing a security guard who caught me trespassing about the same time I won the Miss America crown. That is, never.
Mrs. Bullard straightened. Her hovercraft of breasts gave a distracting jiggle then settled. We faced each other, standing in the same position, her arms also crossed — but I was all twitchy bony elbows, and she was solid, rooted in place.
“This is my offer — take it or leave it. You and I both know I can push for you to be expelled. Instead, I’ll convince Deans Padua and Verona that a verbal “probation” is enough of a warning. If you break no more rules until June, nothing will be on your permanent record. Furthermore, at the end of the school year, I’ll give you the total that your club needs — up to a limit of $7,600.”
I felt my jaw gape. Then a horrible thought struck like a bolt of lightning. I had held my own in too many intense bargaining situations for Greenbacks snack purchases, iCandy contracts, and rummage sales not to realize that, for all this, there would be one-mother-of-a serious price to pay. I could feel my face get all slitty-eyed. “Eight thousand — even,” I said. “And what’s the catch?’
“There’s no catch. I’m paying for a job. Not forever, just for the next two months. Consider it a form of,” she cleared her throat, which sounded to my ears like it was a bit embarrassed, “work-study.”
I noticed she didn’t blink at the larger amount. Which meant she could pay the $8,000, but just didn’t want to pay it all if she could get away with less.
“What job, precisely?”
To give her credit, she didn’t flinch, even though her cheeks got a bit pink. “You attach yourself to my son. For two months, you keep him completely out of trouble. You, in a word, civilize him.”
For a long second there was a rushing sound in my ears, like my blood pressure was going to fountain out the top of my head.
“Are you mental?” I know that’s not how you’re supposed to speak to an adult who can get you expelled, but it just popped out. “I’m supposed to follow him all the time? Like at sports events and practice and parties and…” an appalled thought hit me, “the PROM?”
“Every minute,” she said, “like you’re joined at the hip. Or married.”
The blood ka-whoomed into my head and a black haze blurred my vision. This woman had no idea what she was talking about. It had taken me three years to find my friends, a few people, enough so I didn’t get that knot in my stomach when I arrived at school. This year I’d finally found a group, and a purpose, and I spent my snack breaks and lunches laughing and talking. Not hiding and wanting to be invisible. All that would be lost.
And I’d be a bigger freak than I’d ever been in my life.
I could imagine the University crowds, guffawing at my vintage bowling shoes, my homemade hair chopsticks. And my trombone. These are students who run like wolves in packs. They verbally Take Down people like me for entertainment — and the bruises hurt more and last longer.
The Dog was their golden boy. He’d die before he’d be caught anywhere near me. What would I ever say to him? “Hello, I’m your lunch-room monitor?” He would rip me to shreds in public. In a weird way, I couldn’t really blame him. If my mom hired some lame-ass kid I never met before to “make me behave,” I’d go ballistic too. This was impossible. Absolutely impossible.
Then, like the traitor that my mind is, I could feel the calculations beginning. Even though I was stunned and appalled at what Mrs. Bullard suggested, numbers whirled through my head. Dollars per day, price per school event, feasibility studies and cost per unit estimates all mingled and behind this tornado of totals, a backdrop rose. In my mind’s eye, I could see my trees, arching up and up in sun. Shafts of light filtered down between cool green branches like heaven was trying to spotlight an opportunity here. For a moment I could almost smell the resin tang again and everything inside me stilled and sharpened, the way I do when I’m around my redwoods.
Before I could stop myself, or even think about what I was saying, my mouth decided for me.
“Ms. Bullard, I’d love to do it, but I — I just don’t think it’ll work. I have no leverage. Your son isn’t going to listen to anything I tell him. The way it works, is that no one from University has anything but contempt for people like me. From Academy. It doesn’t even translate. I might as well be an alien from another planet.”
“Different, here, is better. Andrew has been surrounded for years by too many people — boys and girls — who all encourage his worst instincts. He will no longer listen to me, his Dean, or his coach.” Mrs. Bullard turned a tiny shade pinker. “But young men like girls. That’s all that motivates them at this age.”
I choked. “Hello? I mean, look at me.”
Mrs. Bullard tapped her forefinger on her chin and I could imagine what I looked like. Tangled scab-nest of hair with blobs of disintegrated wet paper-towel at hairline, a dried-blood Hitler mustache on my upper lip. Crumpled, dirty crinoline showing (my poor baby). Oh no, this certainly wasn’t pretty.
“You have brains. Wit. And a fierce determination. Those will certainly be a novelty for Andrew. But I see your point. Here’s what I’ll do. Andrew has too much disposable income and it allows him to get into more trouble than he otherwise would. How much is a normal amount, for, say, someone like you?”
“Try…none.”
She blinked. “Really? How do you pay for your car or dates, or go to events, or hang out with your friends?”
No way was I going to tell her that we did those things on the cheap — or gave them a pass. “Well, I have what I earn.”
Watching the steely look in her eyes I suddenly began to fear that I was creating a monster. Like I had just confirmed her worst fears about her son. Every teenager in the world says, ‘I need it and everyone else does and other kids get the same amount.’ For him, hanging with the University crowd, it was probably true. You couldn’t be one of those kids without serious money.
Here I’d busted him. Most Academy students had no money and no cars and now his mom knew it. Sure, technically, we were in the same school, but really, we’re talking worlds away. We weren’t her son’s crowd, but she clearly didn’t care about that Grand Canyon-sized difference. I felt a stab of guilt.
Mrs. Bullard said, “Hmm. Here’s what I’ll do. You need leverage. Andrew has too much money and I can promise you he hasn’t yet earned a penny of it. Every bit of his assets are now frozen. No car. No $400 a week allowance,” I choked again. $400? A week? “I’m keeping it all in a separate account and he
can have an appropriate installment. When he earns it.”
“Earns it?”
“You’ll provide me with a daily report of acceptable behavior. You can text me.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to me. Great. Now I was a paid snitch. Was there a lower form of life?
It was like she could read my thoughts. “How about this — what he doesn’t earn, I’ll add to your club’s amount at the end of the year?”
“I can’t.” Again, it was like the words popped out before I thought about them. “I don’t want to be a social tapeworm, living off someone else’s mistakes.” All I wanted was my trees safe, not a profit.
“Then look at it this way, young lady. It’s normal for a kid to lose their allowance for bad behavior. I’ll decide whether or not Andrew deserves it. You just provide me with a report and I’ll go from there.”
After a few more attempts to negotiate, I knew she wasn’t going to budge further.
“Is that it?” She asked and I knew she was ready to call the others in.
“No,” I said. She looked as surprised as I felt, like neither of us expected me to be so firm. “Two more things. First, you can’t tell anyone that you're paying me. Not my mother. Not the Deans. You can tell people I'm supposed to help your son to make up for what I did — any way you want to describe it — but no mentioning money.”
“But I thought that would help you in your…role.”
“Are you kidding? If word gets out, I’ll never have a chance.” My mom wouldn’t tell anyone. But she’d never let me do it if she knew. “Think about how your son would feel. How much more mortifying could it be than to have your mother pay another student to get you to act right?”
I didn’t add — especially if that student is a year younger and a social misfit compared to you. Yikes. It would be a horror in the making, if word got out.
“I’m not sure I agree, but okay, I can do that. And?”
“It’s going to look even weirder for your son if I appear for no good reason and start being involved. Don’t you…” I did my best to look nonchalant, picking at a knot at the end of a strand of hair, “have another kid?”
She eyed me again, “I have a daughter, Bianca.”
“What if,” I pulled at the knot so hard I felt it in my scalp, still not meeting her eyes, “what if you got a tutor for her? I have a friend, this guy, who might be willing. You know, you could talk to the Deans, make this whole thing with me and your son and a tutor and your daughter look like a kind of cross-pod exchange program.”
Mrs. Bullard had the same suspicious look that my mom got when I said something too reasonable, like she knew there was a catch somewhere, if she could only find it. “That’s not a bad idea. But see here, if you think some testosterone-saturated jock is going to have unlimited access to my too-beautiful-for-her-own-good, 14-year-old daughter, then I’ll call this whole thing off and we can go back to discussing expulsion.”
Yikes. Her charming son had sure done a number, scaring this woman into thinking Bianca ought to be locked up in a chastity belt. Well, maybe if I looked like a goddess, my mom would be like that too.
But what about Tio? He’d never had a crush on anyone. Ever. I couldn’t leave him out. And heaven knows, I needed someone around to help me. But could I count on Tio to not blow it? What if he went into his love-trance? The minute he zombied and let slip another “I burn, I pine, I perish,” I was going to be so dead. The Deans, Mrs. Bullard, the Dog — they’d be fighting for the chance to “perish” me first. Expulsion would look like a gift in comparison (“I’ll take Door Number One — expulsion! Whee!”).
Okay, so I’d opened my mouth, but I could still back out. Besides, Bianca would probably laugh at Tio. And then I’d have to kill her. There’s no way this was going to end well.
But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I swallowed hard. “You remember that guy who was here?”
“The tiny one?” she said. Even though it was true, I had an urge to hit her. Didn’t anyone ever see anything else about Tio?
“Um, well, he’s the guy I was talking about.”
“He’s a scholar?”
Tio got indifferent grades, at best. His theory was that the smartest people didn’t waste any more of their lives on school than it took to get a low C. “He quotes Shakespeare all the time.” Oh. God. I was going to be struck by a bolt of lightning where I stood.
“He certainly looks safe,” she said, rubbing her chin.
What else could Tio do? There had to be something. I flashed back on the mental image of Tio, shaking with fear in front of the crowded stadium, whacking a tinkling instrument for all he was worth, “He’s energetic with a triangle.”
“Bianca does struggle with geometry.”
She stared at me for a long, tense moment. “All right,” she said, “but I’m adding Bianca’s tutoring to your responsibilities. This Tio person is in your club too. If anything happens to my daughter — anything at all — your club’s money will be forfeit.”
I must have gone pale, because she said, “Do you want a glass of water before I tell the others they can come in?”
“I need to talk to Tio first, see if he’s okay with this.” Really, I needed to talk to Tio to get our stories straight and to stop him from squealing with joy in front of everyone.
She looked at her watch. “You have two minutes. But if this Tio is not interested, I’m more than happy to drop the whole tutoring idea.”
“I, uh, think there’s a chance I might be able to talk him into it.”
***
“But Dean Verona knows I’m a slacker!” Tio vibrated like a panic-stricken rabbit. Even his eyes pinked with alarm. “And you!” He said it like an accusation, like I’d gone completely bonkers, instead of handing him the opportunity of a lifetime. “The Dog will kill us both. You, because, well, what you’re doing is pure suicide, and me, I’m going to be hanging out with his precious sister. He’ll pound me to a pulp. Did you see how hard those guys can hit? Did you? Oh my God. We’re doomed.”
“Put your head between your knees,” I said.
From under the seat of his chair, Tio’s muffled voice waffled up. “Money, you’ll do anything for money. You’ll chain yourself to this wild-dog.”
I patted Tio on the back and made myself lean back in my own chair. It would be all right. This had to work. The alternative was too horrible. In my mind I could hear the whir of a chainsaw, whining like a dentist’s drill. Sawdust flew as branches were amputated and plunged to the ground. With a scream of agony a hundred-year-old redwood tore at the base and began to topple.
No way would I let that happen. I was going to force this deal to work. “He can roar all he wants. I’m not afraid of boys.” There. See? My voice didn’t tremble. Much.
Tio popped up to face me where I sat beside him. “You think he’s a boy? He’s a man. Didn’t you hear the things those guys said in the locker room? Didn’t you see them crushing college men on the field? Don’t you realize the Dog is going to crush you when he finds out about this?”
Mrs. Bullard opened the door. “Are you ready to meet my son?”
I must have looked clammy and pale, because when I couldn't answer, Mrs. Bullard just handed me a paper cup of water. She gave me a hard look as I drank it. “Even if my son doesn’t know it, he has more at stake here than you. I’m not playing at this. I have no more options, other than to stand by and watch him destroy himself. There are only two months left for him to prove he’s changed, or no decent college program will take him. I will not back down one inch, not with his future hanging in the balance. Young lady, this is your last chance to refuse. If you take this on, there’ll be no going back. I’ll hold you to our agreement down to the very last day of high school.”
Mrs. Bullard and Tio waited.
Mrs. Bullard said, “Shall I send my son to you?”
I tugged at my shirt and smoothed down the back of my crinoline. “Might as well get this over.”
***
Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared.
See, I guess I’d started to channel the Dog image a bit too much. I worked last summer as a dog-walker. Most dogs that truly need a dog-walker are big. First thing you learn is, you can’t let them see fear, or you’re dead before you start. Attitude is everything. The fact is, when you're dealing with a pack of big dogs, they out-number you, they’re stronger than you, and each one could rip your throat out faster than you can blink. If they wanted to. In my head, where panic was a humming, high whine, that was all I could hear — the same words I told myself then:
Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared.
If he says he won’t do this deal, I’ll say fine by me. Go ahead and trash your future. If he says I’m ugly, I’ll say he is too. If he says I’m the most interesting person he’s ever met and he can’t wait to start hanging out with me…I’ll get his head checked.
Oh, God. This was never going to work.
The door opened.
“Hello, Drew,” I said, leaning back against the desk, hands flat on either side of me. See how cool I am about all this.
“What are you, deaf? My name’s Andrew. Not Drew.”
“You’re Drew to me.” His eyes narrowed and he came across the room to loom over me. I swallowed and kept going, my voice light and bouncy. “Determined Drew, defensive Drew. Drew, the damned. Drew, the — “
“Don’t you dare say it!” His voice growled, low and harsh. He took a deep breath. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Drew the Dog.”
“Ah,” I said (mental note: not keen on Dog nickname), “actually I was going to say Drew the debonair.”
