“Most of the kids are doing posters,” said Stevie, “but I don’t want to.” He had been reading about octopuses, and he wanted to do his project about the undersea environment. And instead of cutting pictures out of magazines and pasting them to posterboard, he got his mom to buy some colored clay, which he shaped into fishes, clams, coral, and an octopus. He arranged them on a cardboard base that DeAnne cut from the side of one of the boxes they had used in the move. Then he wrote his report, typing it himself on Step’s word-processing computer and stapling it in the corner.
It was the first thing Stevie had shown any real interest in during his whole time at this school, and DeAnne showed it off to Step with real pride, the night before Stevie took it to school. “This is incredible,” said Step. “You didn’t help him?”
“I did nothing. In fact I advised him against doing something so hard. Who knew he could make fish that looked like fish?”
“Not to mention an octopus that looks like an octopus,” said Step. “And look at the clam. There’s a starfish prying it open!”
“He still never talks about school,” said DeAnne. “Not even when I ask. But he did this, so it can’t be all bad.”
Then came DeAnne’s new calling, and she was so involved with preparing her spiritual living lesson that she didn’t think about Stevie’s project now that it had been turned in.
On the first Monday in May, however, her lesson was over, and as she drove Stevie to school she remembered his project and asked what the teacher thought of it.
“She gave it a C,” said Stevie.
“What?” asked DeAnne.
“And it got mooshed.”
“It got mooshed! How? Did somebody drop it?”
“No,” said Stevie. “They put them all out on display in the media center, and when the other kids walked past it they mooshed it.”
“On purpose?” asked DeAnne.
“Yeah,” said Stevie.
“How can you be sure? Did you see them do it?”
“Raymond said, ‘Tidal wave!’ and then after him they wadded it up even more so finally it was just a big mess of clay.”
“Where was your teacher when they were doing this? Where was the librarian?”
“Mrs. Jones was there.”
“And she didn’t do anything?”
“No,” said Stevie.
“She must not have seen what they were doing.”
“She saw,” said Stevie.
“She saw? And she didn’t stop them?”
“No,” said Stevie.
DeAnne felt sick. No, she thought. Stevie just misunderstood the situation. The teacher hadn’t really been watching. She could never have let such a thing happen.
“I’m going in to talk to your teacher,” said DeAnne.
“Please no!” said Stevie, urgently.
“This has to be cleared up. There was no way that your project deserved a C.”
“Please don’t come in!” he pleaded.
“All right,” said DeAnne. “But why not?”
“It’ll just make things worse if you do,” said Stevie.
“Worse?”
But they had just reached the turnaround in front of the school, and Stevie bounded out the door and raced for school—the first time she had ever seen him hurry toward class. Somehow it didn’t make her feel any better. There was something seriously wrong here, and not just his moroseness because of the move. Mrs. Jones could not have given that project a C. No teacher could have stood by and let the other kids destroy a child’s project, either. It simply couldn’t happen.
Well, if she couldn’t talk to Mrs. Jones, she could at least talk to the librarian and find out from her what had happened. “Come on, kids, we’re going in,” said DeAnne.
DeAnne pulled the car into the teachers’ parking lot, where a visitor space was open, and within a few minutes she was leading the kids down the hall to the media center. DeAnne supposed that she ought to check in at the office, but the receptionist there was so snotty, and DeAnne was already so upset, that she decided that if she wasn’t going to get really furious today she’d better pretend that she didn’t realize she needed to stop in at the main desk.
The librarian was a sweet-voiced older lady, and when she smiled DeAnne thought for some reason of the time she had an eye injury and when the bandages were on and she couldn’t see, someone laid a cool damp cloth on her forehead. “I’m so glad when parents come by the library,” said the librarian.
“Oh, I thought it was a media center now,” said DeAnne.
“Well, so it is. We have two video carts and an Apple II computer, so we are a media center, but look at all these books. Wouldn’t you call this a library?”
“Yes I would,” said DeAnne. “And I like it all the more, knowing that you call it a library, too.”
The librarian smiled and patted DeAnne’s hand. “Aren’t you the sweet one.” Then she bent over—not far, because she wasn’t very tall—and soberly greeted Robbie and Elizabeth with a handshake each. “When will you be a student here, young man?”
“I start kindergarten next fall,” said Robbie.
“Oh, and I see you have been well taught,” she said. “You said kindergarten and not kindy-garden.”
Robbie beamed.
The librarian turned back to DeAnne. “Did you just stop by to visit? Or is there something I can help you with?”
“I understand that the second-grade projects were displayed here.”
The librarian looked mournful. “We just barely took down the display over the weekend. I’m so sorry you missed it. We’re so proud of our second graders.”
“It is rather remarkable, to have second-grade projects,” said DeAnne. “I’ve actually never heard of such a thing before. I don’t think we even had senior projects in high school when I was there.”
“I think it’s because our school is only K through 2,” said the librarian. “Dr. Mariner wanted our students to mark the children’s departure from our school in a special way—something they would remember, perhaps, in time to come.”
“That’s certainly the way my oldest boy responded to the assignment,” said DeAnne. “Perhaps you noticed his project when it was on display.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d remember any one in particular, Mrs. . . . um . . .”
“I’m DeAnne Fletcher.”
Suddenly the librarian’s eyes grew wide, and she flashed her wonderful smile again. “Oh, you must be Stevie Fletcher’s mother!”
“I am,” said DeAnne.
“What a very special boy,” said the librarian. “I do remember his project, in fact. It was a sculpture garden—an undersea environment, I believe. With an octopus and that clam with the starfish opening it—and I noticed that the shark had a tiny little fish that the shark was swallowing. A little gruesome, perhaps, but very creative. You must have been proud for your son to be given the first-place ribbon.”
“First place? Stevie told me the project got a C.”
“But how could that be possible? Dr. Mariner came here and judged them all herself, and before she had even seen the rest of the children’s posters, she laid the blue ribbon down beside Stevie’s project and said, ‘This will stay here until I find something that makes me take it away again.’ And of course she never did, because he ended up receiving it. Isn’t it just awful what those other children did? They were so jealous, I suppose, but still, I think it was churlish of them to moosh it up that way.”
So that part of Stevie’s story was accurate. And the word moosh was apparently current enough in Steuben that a gracious, educated lady like this one could use it. “Yes, Stevie was rather disappointed, I think,” said DeAnne.
“He’s such a quiet boy,” said the librarian. “He spends every recess here, did you know? I think he must have read half the . . . um, media . . . in my little . . . um, media center.” She winked.
“Every recess?” said DeAnne. “I know he loves reading, but I had hoped he would play with
the other children.”
“I know,” said the librarian. “I think it’s better when children play together, too. But as long as he keeps to himself, better to have the company of a book than no company at all, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” said DeAnne. “Well, I didn’t mean to trouble you. And I can’t wait to tell Stevie’s father about the blue ribbon. I wonder where it is!”
“Well, of course it was given to Mrs. Jones to display in Stevie’s classroom. They usually keep them there until the end of the year, and then send them home with the student who won.”
DeAnne made her polite good-byes and left, feeling much better. Except that Stevie hadn’t told her the truth about his project. Was it possible that he was still trying to make his parents feel bad about putting him in this school? Was it possible that he was refusing to let them know anything good about his experience there, so that they’d continue to feel guilty? That just didn’t sound like Stevie, but what other explanation could there be? He must be so angry.
For the first time DeAnne wondered if they shouldn’t perhaps find a therapist who could talk to Stevie, who could help him find his way through this thicket of problems. Imaginary friends. And now lying. She called Step at work and he agreed not to be late tonight.
None of Step’s usual rides would be able to take him home today—not if he was leaving at five, because none of the programmers ever left until well after seven. So he hitched a ride with two of the phone girls, the ones who took orders for Eight Bits Inc. software on the 800 number. All the way home he kept thinking that there was something strange about the drive, and it wasn’t because of the two girls chattering in the front seat or the fact that in the back of a Rabbit his knees were up around his ears. Not until they pulled up in front of his house and he realized that the lawn was overgrown and very badly in need of mowing did it occur to him what was so strange. It was daylight! In the two months that he’d been working at Eight Bits Inc., he had never once come home in daylight.
He thanked the girls for the ride and came into the house. DeAnne was in the living room, playing the piano while Robbie sang and Elizabeth hooted and beat two rhythm sticks together. The song was “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
“Somehow I never thought of this as the sort of song that needed a percussion section,” said Step.
“Daddy!” cried Robbie.
“Robot!” answered Step. Robbie ran to him and Step tossed him in the air and caught him.
“Daddy!” screamed Betsy.
“Betsy Wetsy!” answered Step.
“Someday you’re going to smack their heads into the ceiling,” said DeAnne.
Step tossed Betsy into the air. Then, after catching her, he lifted her up and bumped her head against the ceiling. “Owie ow ow ow!” howled Betsy.
“Don’t be a poop, Betsy,” said Step. “That didn’t hurt at all, I was just teasing.”
“Owie ow!” Betsy reached for DeAnne.
“What did I tell you?” said DeAnne.
“Betsy’s a poop!” shouted Robbie. “Betsy’s a poop! You can bump me into the ceiling, Daddy!”
“Better not,” said Step. “Your head might cause structural damage.”
“I don’t mind!” insisted Robbie.
“I can’t believe you came home so early,” said DeAnne.
“I said I would, when you asked me to,” said Step.
“I never thought it would be a quarter after five,” she said. “Or were you fired?”
“Not yet,” said Step. “Though I may be, after today.”
“Because you left at five?” asked DeAnne.
“The lawn is really overgrown,” said Step. “I never noticed that before.”
“Well, that’s because it wasn’t as overgrown yesterday as it is today. Why might they fire you after today?”
“Because I finally worked up the guts to go in and make Cowboy Bob give me a copy of that agreement I signed with him.”
“You mean you only just got it today? I assumed you had that weeks ago.”
“I asked for it right after San Francisco. Well, not right after, or somebody would think that I was doing exactly what I’m doing. But the Friday after.”
“And they didn’t send it to you till today?”
“They didn’t even send it to me today. I had to go get it. And not from Cowboy Bob, in fact, because he wasn’t in and his secretary was on lunch and so it was somebody else’s secretary who got it for me out of my personnel file and made a copy for me.”
“So you only have a copy?”
“They weren’t going to give me the original!” said Step. “Anyway, I have it, and it’s possible that Cowboy Bob doesn’t know that I have it even now.”
“Well, then you won’t get fired.”
“Except what if he finds out that I came and got it behind his back? Then he’ll be really suspicious.”
“Well, I’ve got to admit, it wouldn’t break my heart to have you home every day,” said DeAnne. “This is such a treat, Step.”
“Treat!” scoffed Step. “Hardly. It’s where I ought to be, and it makes me sick that you actually had to call me and practically make an appointment to get me home to talk to my own son. I’m living like one of those high-powered stockbroker types, like a Madison-Avenue live-for-the-job hyper-ambitious robot, except that I’m not getting the money they make. Where is Stevie, anyway?”
“He’s either outside in back, playing with—Jack and Scotty—or he’s in his room.”
Step nodded grimly at her mention of Stevie’s imaginary friends. And now lying to her . . . I’ve just been too cut off from the family. I’m practically a stranger here.
Stevie was in his room, lying on the top bunk, reading a book.
The conversation did not go well at all. Step leaned on the safety bar and said, “Your Mom tells me that your undersea project did really well.”
“No it didn’t,” said Stevie.
“She said it got the blue ribbon.”
“J.J. got the blue ribbon,” said Stevie.
“Well, the first-place ribbon, anyway, she didn’t actually say what color it was.”
“First place was blue,” said Stevie.
“Stevedore, I’ve got to tell you—your mom went to the school and checked. Dr. Mariner gave your underwater garden the first-place ribbon.”
“My project got mooshed,” said Stevie. “So it couldn’t get first place.”
“Son, Dr. Mariner judged the projects over that first weekend, before your project got ruined by the other kids. And she gave first place to you.”
“No she didn’t!” said Stevie, and now his voice was full of emotion. “She said that my project was nothing but a lump of clay and it didn’t deserve to be shown to anybody at all! And I got a C on it.”
“Dr. Mariner actually said that?” Step could not, did not believe it.
“Yes,” said Stevie.
“She actually stood there and told you that to your face?”
“No,” said Stevie. “She told Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Jones told us.”
“Us? What do you mean us?”
“Us,” said Stevie. “Me and the other kids.”
“The whole class?”
“Yeah.”
Step tried to imagine it—a teacher repeating such a remark in front of all the other students. It would be too cruel to say it even in private, but in front of everybody—unthinkable.
“Stevie, are you sure that you aren’t just—pretending this story?”
Stevie looked up into his father’s eyes. “No, Daddy,” he said. “I don’t tell lies.”
“I know that you never have before we moved to Steuben, Stevie. But you’ve got to realize that this story is a little hard to believe. I mean, isn’t it possible you exaggerated it a little? Or maybe pretended?”
“I’m not pretending.”
“I mean, you pretend to have two friends, Jack and Scotty.”
Stevie looked at him silently. “I never said that,
” he said.
“Not to me,” he said. “But you told your mom about things that you and Jack and Scotty did.”
Stevie said nothing.
“I don’t mind you pretending. Maybe that’s what you need to do in order to get through a hard time at school. But you can’t tell Mom and me pretend things as if they were true.”
“I don’t,” said Stevie.
“You mean you won’t from now on,” said Step.
“I mean I never do!” shouted Stevie.
His vehemence made Step pause. Was it possible that Stevie wasn’t lying about this? That in fact it happened the way he said? Then how to account for what the librarian told DeAnne? Impossible, it couldn’t have happened the way Stevie described. And yet he insisted on being believed, and it made Step remember the times when he was a kid and adults didn’t believe him because they were so sure they knew how things were. He remembered very clearly saying to his mother, “Well you weren’t there so how do you know?” And now here he was, contradicting Stevie’s account when in fact Step wasn’t there, so how did he know?
“Stevedore,” said Step, “have I been making a mistake here?”
“Yes,” said Stevie.
“I’ve got to tell you that if Mrs. Jones stood up in front of class and said such a terrible thing, even if it was true, then she should be fired from her job as a teacher.”
“Yes,” said Stevie. “I wish she was dead.”
Step was horrified. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes,” said Stevie. “I think about it all the time. I look at her talking and I think of blood coming out of her forehead from a bullet. I think of her falling over dead in class and then I’d laugh and I’d sing a song. I’d sing ‘In the Leafy Treetops’ because it’s the happiest song I know.”
This was worse than Step could have imagined. No matter what was true about the project, it was certainly true that Stevie hated Mrs. Jones beyond all reason. It was awful to think of his sweet little boy—a child who had always been forgiving and generous—having such hatred in his heart for anyone. And these feelings must have been smoldering for some time now, yet he had said nothing.
Lost Boys: A Novel Page 17
