by Lois Metzger
Evil Lynn continued to take Clara to psychologists and therapists. “I believe there’s something or someone out there who can help you,” she explained. Whatever works, Evil Lynn made a point of saying again and again, whether they were trying talk therapy (which would have required Clara to talk), medication (which made her too sleepy), some new advance, an established treatment, or a combination; the list included anything that was reliable, proven, and safe.
Clara kept her word—or lack of it, ha-ha—when it came to Evil Lynn, and only spoke to her when necessary. Clara’s preferred method of communication was by Post-it. I need this signed for school, Clara would write on a Post-it stuck to a medical form. Or Evil Lynn might leave Clara a note on the kitchen table: Going to the drugstore. Do you need soap? Clara’s answer: No soap. Which was one of her dad’s expressions. It didn’t mean he didn’t want soap. It meant no deal, more or less.
Without discussing it, they worked out the household chores. Evil Lynn cleared the table and Clara did the dishes—always by hand; they had a dishwasher with powerful suction, but it shook so violently Clara thought it might explode at any moment. Clara also vacuumed and did the laundry, folding clothes in piles so neat they still looked like they were in the store. Evil Lynn did the grocery shopping and made breakfast and dinner. If Evil Lynn had to work late, Clara had frozen pizza. Clara kept her room clean, and Evil Lynn was not allowed to enter. If Clara got ready for school too slowly, Evil Lynn stood in the doorway and told her it was getting late. When that happened, Clara glared at her stepmother and made extra sure she hadn’t set foot inside the room, not one inch, which, Clara was sure, would poison the atmosphere just as surely as Snow-white’s stepmother had poisoned the apple.
CHAPTER 14
On Wednesday, October 17, Clara, fifteen and a half years old and a tenth grader at Belle Heights High, was about to dissect a virtual frog in bio lab.
Out of nowhere she heard a voice:
“Are you with us?”
Clara looked up to see Mr. Slocum hovering over her.
“I asked if you were with us, Miss Hartel.” His bald head was turning purple. “You don’t listen.”
“I am listening.” How could she explain that it only looked like she wasn’t?
“You’ve been in my class for nearly six weeks. Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re in la-la land?”
“We’re on it, Mr. Slocum,” Selena Kearn jumped in, all freckles, dimples, and bouncy red curls. “I’m doing the setup, Astrid’s taking notes, and Clara’s doing the cutting.”
“What?” Clara said.
They’d decided no such thing when the three of them had been assigned to this project. Of course Selena Kearn and Astrid Mills, who only hung out with other popular, good-looking, well-dressed kids, had made no secret of their displeasure at being partnered with Clara. They’d asked for somebody else, but Mr. Slocum never honored such requests.
Selena’s sharp elbow jabbed Clara’s ribs, right through the flannel shirt and denim overalls. “See, Clara’s putting on the gloves right now. I’m allergic to latex, you know.”
Mr. Slocum gazed at Clara as she put on a glove that was so tight it felt melted on. This took longer than it should have under his watchful eyes, and before she could get the other one on, he turned around and circled the room.
“Latex allergy, my ass,” Astrid said, as Selena stuck out her lower lip.
Usually Clara didn’t have a problem with schoolwork. It was like washing the dishes, something you did until it got done. But this was different, disturbing. The frog was about to be sliced open and exposed. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go, Clara thought. The outside is supposed to stay outside so the inside can stay inside.
“I’ll do the setup,” Clara said. Selena hadn’t done it yet. “I’ll take notes.” Astrid hadn’t written anything yet, either. “But I don’t want to cut.”
“Grow up,” Astrid said with an exaggerated sigh. She always acted as though all eyes were on her—and they usually were. “It’s not even a real frog.”
The computer spoke: “The purpose of this activity is to help you learn the anatomy of the frog by locating the major organs within the body cavity, which will give you a better understanding of all vertebrate animals, including humans.”
“I hope you’re paying attention, Clara,” Astrid told her.
“Familiarize yourself with the materials,” the computer said with some excitement—a recent audio upgrade to get kids engaged. Clara thought it had more emotion than some people did. “Look at the pan, the scalpel, forceps, scissors, pins, and the preserved frog. Notice the lower lid, the nonmovable upper lid, and the eyes, moistened by the nictitating membrane.”
The eyes were a color Clara had never seen before. If it were in a big box of crayons, it could be called Cloudy Dead Blue.
“Notice the hearing organ of the frog, the tympanum,” the computer said, increasingly upbeat. “It’s the dark round circle behind the eyes, close to the jaw.”
It was more than a dark round circle—it looked like a crater. Clara remembered how last year in geology, she’d learned about billion-year-old rocks, and how when meteors fell to earth, those rocks got thrown up to the surface, turned upside down, and thrust into the light when they should have stayed buried forever.
“I see you’ve got the gloves on,” Mr. Slocum said, popping up again. “I don’t see any work getting done.”
“Clara’s just thinking about the organs she’s going to locate,” Selena said.
Mr. Slocum left.
“You’d better get with it,” Selena snapped. Her eyes were ferocious, but those freckles made her look like a little kid. “We all get graded the same, and if you mess this up . . .” She liked to leave things like that, unfinished and menacing.
“Place the frog in the pan on its back, belly up,” the computer said gleefully. “Pin the frog through its hands and feet.”
“Do it,” Selena said. “He’s watching us.”
Actually Mr. Slocum had his back to them, but Clara picked up a virtual pin. She touched the frog’s back leg with the sharp point. The skin felt lumpy, squishy, and resistant. It popped, and the needle slid right through the flesh to the pan.
“Finally,” Astrid breathed out. She had perfect, pouty lips. Selena said she wanted to get her own lips puffed, to look like Astrid’s. Clara had seen a video about that.
“What’re you gonna be for Halloween?” Selena asked Astrid.
“A spider.”
“I’m gonna be the girl singer in the Cadaver Dogs.”
Clara didn’t know the music of the Cadaver Dogs, or the cutest actors in Hollywood, or the latest episode of the shows everybody else was watching. These things weren’t on her radar. She didn’t care about Halloween, either, or about her birthday in April, or the seven-year anniversary of her dad’s death in just a few weeks—November something. She could never remember the exact date. At some point in the early part of November, Evil Lynn always lit a candle.
“This one could be a ghost,” Astrid said, referring to Clara. “It’s like she’s haunting the place.”
“She wouldn’t even need a costume.” Selena laughed.
Astrid and Selena never censored their snarky comments in front of Clara, whether about Clara herself or about other kids, knowing Clara would never repeat them to another kid or report them to a teacher, or even say anything to indicate she’d been listening. They were particularly cruel about Kim, making fun of her mismatched clothes and the fact that she couldn’t afford to eat lunch out. Astrid’s latest was “Kim Garcia should have her memory entirely wiped and start from scratch. Anything would be an improvement.” Occasionally it occurred to Clara to stick up for her old friend, but she never did.
“Ow, I shouldn’t laugh, these things are killing me,” Selena said. She had the latest thing in orthodontics, Bracelesses, tiny adjustable magnets embedded in your teeth. They cost a fortune, but the video Clara had seen about them was right, the
y were invisible. “Brace yourself!” the announcer intoned. “You won’t believe your eyes—or your smile.” Whenever Clara started watching videos like these, she couldn’t stop. By swiping left she could cut them off after three seconds, but she often tapped on them and went to the advertiser’s channel to watch the whole thing, however long it was. Of course the more she watched, the more advertisers targeted her. There was probably a setting on her phone to disable these videos altogether, but why do that? They were so clever, so penetrating, the way they could isolate one specific thing that was imperfect, whether you knew about it or not, and then solve it like magic. Though she’d seen a couple about memory alteration, which frankly sounded sort of crazy.
“Stop complaining,” Astrid said to Selena.
“But they hurt. How can something you can’t even see hurt so much?”
“I have a paper cut,” Astrid said. “You can’t see it, but it hurts like hell. Do you hear me whining?”
“This morning I bit the inside of my cheek,” Clara said without thinking.
Selena and Astrid exchanged a look and then burst out laughing.
“Ow,” Selena said.
“It’s time for the first incision,” the computer chirped in.
“Well, go on,” Selena said. “What are you waiting for?”
Selena had done nothing so far. Astrid had only turned on the computer. Clara looked at the pinned-down frog and its white belly with faint beige spots. You could practically see through that belly to the dark organs and blue veins.
“Use the scalpel to cut along the center, or midline, of the frog,” the computer said, “bisecting it equally.”
Clara lifted the virtual scalpel and held it in midair.
“Use the scalpel to cut along the center, or midline, of the frog, bisecting it equally,” the computer said in a more scolding tone. Apparently it didn’t like to repeat itself.
“Come on already,” Selena snapped. “Bio ends in ten minutes. Do you want to get marked down?”
Clara held the scalpel to the frog’s throat and moved the scalpel down its belly.
“In a straight line,” Selena said.
Clara’s cut slanted wildly.
“Continue to cut, now with scissors,” the computer said, regaining its composure. “Be careful not to cut too deeply.”
That wasn’t the problem. Clara wasn’t cutting deeply enough.
“Look,” Selena said. “Nick and Dylan have already found the heart and liver.”
They weren’t the only ones. All around the room, other computers were way ahead, cheerfully instructing:
“Separate the skin and muscle; notice the abdominal region. . . .”
“Pin the muscle flaps to allow easy access to the internal organs. . . .”
“Lift the liver gently to observe the lungs. . . .”
“Notice the heart, the red potato with tubes on top. It resembles a human heart. . . .”
While their computer said, sourly, “Continue to cut, now with scissors. Be careful not to cut too deeply.” Abruptly it beeped loudly and said, “Instructions have been repeated repeatedly. Do you need me to alert the teacher?”
“You’re hopeless,” Astrid said.
Mr. Slocum was suddenly there again.
“Clara won’t do what she agreed to do,” Selena told him. “Meanwhile Astrid and I are doing all the work, and we have to share a grade with her!”
“Well?” Mr. Slocum said to Clara. “Explain yourself.”
Clara tried. “The heart is on the inside, the skin on the outside. So it’s already the way it’s supposed to be. Don’t you see? The heart, the potato heart, looks like a real heart—and we shouldn’t see that.”
Mr. Slocum looked at her for several long moments. Finally he said, loud enough for the entire class to hear, “Miss Hartel, report to Ms. Pratt.”
Not to Mr. Silver, the principal, but to Ms. Pratt, the school psychologist. Selena and Astrid exchanged a look of satisfaction. Clara peeled off her gloves. Her fingers were as wrinkled as if she’d taken a long bath. She grabbed her backpack.
“Lesson ended due to inactivity,” the computer said, and then shut off.
“Oh no!” Selena wailed to Mr. Slocum. “Will this affect our grade?”
“How can it not?” Mr. Slocum said.
“That’s seriously not fair!” Selena stomped her foot.
“Life isn’t fair,” Mr. Slocum said.
Neither is death, it occurred to Clara. And that doesn’t leave much else.
CHAPTER 15
Clara waited on a wooden bench next to Ms. Pratt’s office. The pale October sky was turning orange, and she could see a tattered net on the basketball court outside. It was quiet except for muffled voices behind Ms. Pratt’s door.
The door opened—and out came Kim Garcia. She had on a ruffled orange shirt and sweatpants. “What happened?” she said to Clara with a worried look.
“It’s nothing.” Clara had long fingers, and she tangled them like vines. “Just a misunderstanding.”
“Well, I’m here for something completely stupid. I was in the library when Nick Winter, that idiot, knocked over a lamp, because he and Dylan Beck were goofing around, shoving each other. The librarian collected everybody’s names in case she needed to talk to us later—about the ‘incident’—and I got mad because, you know, I had nothing to do with it, so I signed a fake name. Which made them think I was losing it.”
Clara didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help asking, “What name did you use?”
“Alison Wanda Landa. It’s actually a girl in my building. Her dad’s a dentist, Dr. Landa, and he named his daughter Alison Wanda.”
There, Kim was doing it again, acting as if nothing had gone wrong between them. Usually Clara would just not respond; sometimes she would cut the conversation short, in order to remind Kim they weren’t close anymore.
But now, for just a second, Clara felt how it used to be with her and Kim, as if no time had passed, and the entire last seven years hadn’t happened yet. “That’s the dumbest name I ever heard,” she said with some energy.
“I know, right?”
The door opened. “You may come in now,” said a woman.
It wasn’t Ms. Pratt.
The woman looked as young as a teenager herself, in a corduroy dirndl and feathery ash-blond hair with two tiny floating butterfly barrettes clipped to her head. That was last year’s big thing. Selena had worn them all through ninth grade and wouldn’t be caught dead in them now.
“You’re not Ms. Pratt.” Clara jutted her chin at the door, which clearly said MS. PRATT.
“Ms Pratt had a family emergency. I am Ms. Gruskin.” She smiled, displaying a butterfly tattoo on her front tooth. She smelled like strawberries. “What is your name?”
Clara told her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I was sent.”
“Won’t you come in and have a seat?”
Clara knew this office—she’d been here a few times in ninth grade and once already in tenth. Evil Lynn had insisted that Clara make appointments with the psychologist in middle school and now in high school, too. Ms. Pratt was nice enough, but of course Clara had nothing to say to her.
She sat on the couch across from Ms. Gruskin at the desk and stared at tall flowers trapped in a vase filled with stones and water. The indentation in the couch fit perfectly, as if Kim, her friend from long ago, had made a point of breaking it in for her.
“Who sent you here?”
“Mr. Slocum.”
“And he teaches—?”
“Bio.”
“Why did he send you?”
“I couldn’t cut into a virtual frog.”
Ms. Gruskin’s butterflies sagged. “Help me to understand, Clara. You know that all dissections are virtual these days. I can see being opposed to the killing of live animals—in the old days kids held chloroform over the mouths of frogs until they were dead, if you can imagine that. But these frogs were neve
r alive, so what’s the problem?”
Clara tangled her fingers again. Music teachers often said it was a shame she didn’t want to play piano. She had the perfect hands for it.
“Perhaps if I knew something about you, Clara, I’d understand this better. When you’re not in school, what do you do? For fun.”
“Crossword puzzles.”
“That is fun! I can do the New York Times Monday and Tuesday puzzles, but once it gets to Wednesday, no thank you! Do you do sports? You’re so tall. I always wished I were taller! Do you play basketball?”
Clara was almost six feet. Basketball coaches used to pursue her, and she had to tell them she wasn’t interested. Piano, basketball—maybe her body was suited to those things, but Clara wasn’t.
“What about clubs? The school musical? I hear it’s Into the Woods this year. I love that show. Do you know the song that says ‘Children will listen’?”
“Try telling that to Mr. Slocum,” Clara said under her breath.
Ms. Gruskin cocked her head, but Clara had nothing to add.
“Tell me about your friends, Clara. In the cafeteria, do you eat at a big crowded table with lots of kids, or with only one special friend?”
“I eat by myself.” She would do a crossword puzzle and eat a poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese and three chocolate chip cookies that came in a pack. The bushy-haired kid at the scanner sometimes said things like “Why don’t you surprise me sometime, with oatmeal-raisin cookies instead? Astound me with a sesame-seed bagel! I hope my heart can take it.” Clara always ignored him.
“Are you bullied? It’s a special interest of mine. I’m writing a book about it.”
Selena and Astrid could qualify as bullies, but even anonymously, Clara didn’t want anyone writing about her in a book.
“Do you get along with your parents?”
“My parents are dead.”
