Bringing Me Back

by Beth Vrabel

  After slamming down the receiver, Miss Dickson crossed her arms and twisted her lips some more. “Might as well get comfy, Landon. Your mom says she can’t come and get you until your brother wakes up from his nap. And heads up—she’s not happy.” Miss Dickson sure seemed so, though, judging by her gleeful smirk.

  “Aw, come on!” Landon’s hands curled into fists.

  After a couple minutes, resigned to our fates, we both got out our homework. It was strange. Like I knew he hated me. He did everything he could to make that clear when we were in a group of people, laughing when Mike shouted, “Sneaks!” before the assembly this morning, shouldering me into lockers in the hall, coughing out curse words in the cafeteria when he passed me. But when it was just us, he wasn’t spewing hatred anymore. He was just kind of sad. He flicked his pencil against his work sheet. I glanced at it—math. I bit my lip to keep from telling him he was solving the problem in the wrong order.

  Landon used to come over to Jeff’s house after school. Even though Mom and I had our own place, we had dinner at Jeff’s every night, so I’d just go there after school. Plus it was only two blocks away from Landon’s house. We’d down chocolate milk while we plowed through our math work and his little brother, Henry, played with trucks on the floor under our feet.

  Landon babysat his little brother all the time, which meant that when he came over to do our homework, Henry came along, too. Mom ate it up, loving on Henry with tons of kisses. One time, she sang this song about Henry being her honeybun, sugarplum, and all these other horrible words moms use to torture chubby-cheeked babies. Henry covered his ears with fistfuls of trucks, whining, “I wish I had earlids so I couldn’t hear you right now. That’d be the time of my life.”

  I didn’t mean to, but I snort-laughed out loud thinking about it.

  “You got a problem?” Landon snapped.

  I glanced over at his math homework again. He still was way off. “No, but it looks like you do. You’ve got to get the denominator down to a whole digit before you can multiply the fractions.”

  Landon glared at me.

  “Like this,” I said, shoving my paper toward him. I thought he’d just copy the answer, but he didn’t. Landon wasn’t like that, even the Landon that hated me.

  “Why is that two-fifths? Isn’t it this plus two?”

  I squinted down at his work. Landon had covered the margins of his paper with numbers that didn’t have anything to do with the problem. That was the thing with him, I remembered. Word problems screwed with his mind. Any extra information swiped his focus. He always forgot to just focus on the problem. “You’ve got to simplify,” I told him, ripping a fresh sheet of paper from my notebook and writing the equation across the top. “Ignore the stuff that doesn’t matter. First you’ve got to—”

  Again, the door flew open. “Noah!” Jeff rushed forward, eyes wide. “Are you okay? I got a message to come in right away, but I was under a car and—”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I just…” The word Dad, it flew light as air out of my mouth but landed like a brick between us. Dad? Why had I said that? Jeff’s mouth twitched and head tilted away from me a fraction. “I mean, I just forgot to fill out some forms.”

  Miss Dickson cleared her throat. “The papers are right over here.”

  Jeff turned toward her, mouth still a little agape. “Paperwork? I got a message that I needed to come to the school immediately for paperwork?”

  “All students are required to have papers filled out by their guardians. All students.” Miss Dickson crossed her arms as Jeff took quick strides toward the desk.

  “I left a customer hanging in the shop so I could sign some forms?” Jeff wasn’t yelling. He never yelled. But his voice was scary calm.

  Miss Dickson held up a pen. Shaking his head, Jeff took it from her and started scrawling out info.

  “Why wouldn’t you just bring these home, Noah?” Jeff asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Noah.”

  “They all ask the same stuff. And it’s not like they don’t already know how to reach you.” I arched an eyebrow rather than point out the obvious. They had, after all, just called him in.

  Jeff stared at me for a long time. I could tell, even though my head was ducked, because Landon stared from me to him, me to him. Landon’s dad died in a car crash when his mom was pregnant with Henry. He always acted weird around Jeff, like he was at the zoo, observing monkeys in their somewhat natural habitat. I could almost see the thought bubble over his head: This is what life is like with a replacement dad. Now it could be: This is life when a replacement dad is annoyed.

  Jeff gripped the pen and tackled the forms. I glanced up at him just as he looked over at me, his eyes softening as he figured it out. Every one of those forms—each and every one—asked for Mom’s address. For her contact information. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t write Center Regional Jail on those lines. Jeff nodded once at me and silently filled out the papers.

  He slid the stack toward Miss Dickson and handed her the pen.

  Miss Dickson’s mouth puckered at Jeff’s oil-stained hands. She grabbed a tissue and plucked the pen from his fingers with it as Jeff’s face reddened. I’ve never hated anyone more than I did Miss Dickson and her stupid bubblegum-pink face at that moment.

  She studied the papers. “Is this to be Noah’s permanent address?”

  Jeff stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Will Noah be staying at this address for the remainder of the school year?”

  Jeff crossed his arms. “If plans change, you’ll be the first to know, Miss Dickson.” I swallowed as if the words were a pill or something. If plans change. Maybe he was just putting Miss Dickson in her place, letting her know she was being nosy. Or maybe Jeff just didn’t want to answer. Maybe the plans would change when Mom was released. Jeff rolled his shoulders and turned back to me. “Ready, Noah?”

  I nodded, shoving my folder and notebook into my backpack. “Remember, just clear the denominator and you’re golden,” I told Landon.

  “Whatever.” He turned away from me.

  “Landon,” Jeff asked, “need a ride home?”

  Landon’s mom rushed into the lobby just then. “No,” she said crisply. “I’ll take my son home.”

  Jeff nodded. “Nice to see you, Abby.”

  Landon’s mom acted like she didn’t hear Jeff. Funny, she never had a problem talking with him when Landon needed a ride to football practice last year. Henry, hoisted onto Abby’s hip, laid his head on his mom’s bony shoulder. Still groggy from his nap, he yawned then pointed a chubby finger toward me. “No-no!”

  No-no was Henry’s name for me, but Abby must’ve forgotten that, too, because she just lowered his hand and said, “Yes, Henry. Landon made a no-no, missing the bus again.” Landon didn’t respond, just raked his backpack up his shoulder and followed his mother out of the lobby. “And now I’m going to be late for work. Again. Which means another demerit. Two more, Landon, and they’re going to fire me, and then what? Have you thought about that?” Landon didn’t say anything as he trudged out the door.

  Another a memory I didn’t want of my own mother slammed me.

  It was Mom picking me up in third grade after I socked a kid in the mouth. The kid had pushed me because he wanted my spot in line for the slide. I had told him to go to the back. He tried to push me again. But I blocked it and punched him in the gut. The elementary school principal, a lady who loved the phrase “Hug it out,” said punching was never okay, and I had a three-day suspension. Then she called Mom.

  In Mom whirled like a tornado. She had been waitressing then, and still wore her apron. She smelled like hoagies and pickles. “What’s going on?” She kneeled to look me in the eyes. Her fingers raked across my forehead and under my chin, tilting my face up to hers.

  The principal cut in before I could reply, telling Mom that I had punched a boy.

  “Noah?” Mom hadn’t said it like I was in trouble, either. Just like she hadn’t he
ard a word from the principal and was still waiting for me to answer.

  I never could lie to her, never even wanted to. “I punched him.” The principal made a tsking noise with her tongue, but Mom’s gaze didn’t waver. “He pushed me and was going to do it again.”

  “Three days suspension,” the principal chirped.

  Mom nodded, face still soft as pie. “That’s my boy. You’ve got to fight back when someone pushes you around.” Mom had stood then, holding my sweaty hand in her cool grip, as the principal waxed on about nonviolent ways to handle conflict. “Save it for the boy who started this. My boy and I are going out for ice cream.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The second time I saw the bear was in the middle of the “Bring Back the Bruins” frenzy.

  By the end of September, the Bruins Bucket Challenge swept the school. Landon had videoed his challenge and posted it to the school site. Soon there were fifty other kids, drowning themselves in blue, orange, or red drinks by the case. The website couldn’t handle the traffic, so Brenna started a “Buckets and Bruins” social media page. It had hundreds of likes the first day.

  On the way to school, I stared out the bus window and counted buckets. Seventeen this morning on our route. Landon had ended his video by throwing the bucket over his shoulder. The person filming it—Mike, probably—focused on the bucket in the yard as the last scene. Now that was part of the thing, I guess. Everyone tossed their empty bucket over his shoulder and left it in the grass.

  The hallways smelled like Arctic Blast and Lemon-Lime from the kids too lazy or proud to take a real shower after their “challenge.” Their sneakers squelched against the tile floors. Walls were sticky from their fingers. Someone in the bathroom moaned that he was stuck to the toilet seat. I think he was joking. Definitely didn’t check.

  Suddenly Bruins colors—orange and black—filled the school again. Landon wore his jersey almost every day. Brenna wore her old cheerleading uniform, but Mr. Anderson made her wear leggings under the skirt. Sometimes I thought I was the only one who didn’t sport Bruins clothes. Even Rina in her all-black, all-the-time attire appeared full of school pride.

  Rina had somehow managed to create a newspaper. I mean, I guessed it could be called a newspaper. It was one printed page that she was handing out to everyone as they came into school. Across the top, right under BRUINS GAZETTE, she wrote about the Bringing Back the Bruins fund-raiser, and how just making a big donation to MADD didn’t guarantee the League would take us back. I mean, take the team back.

  The League is run by a committee comprised of two members from each team in the surrounding area. They would need to vote to reinstate the Bruins, which had been fined $200 following the forfeit of last year’s championship game. The donation might be enough of a goodwill gesture, but reinstatement isn’t guaranteed.

  Next to the article, just over a snippet announcing that “the editor welcomes reporters to apply for a position in the newspaper,” was a smaller piece about the fund-raiser itself. The headline was To Fill or Not to Fill. Her article stated: A case of energy drinks costs about $9. To fill a standard-sized cleaning bucket, a person would need to use the entire case. In addition, he or she is then supposed to donate an additional ten dollars to the fund. Wouldn’t it make sense to just donate $20?

  Fundraising planners refused to comment.

  That last part was surprising. Bringing Back the Bruins seemed to be the only thing anyone wanted to talk about. That and trashing Rina’s “newspaper.” When Rina tried handing out copies in the hall between classes, Mike whipped most of them out of her hands. Landon then offered to help Rina, but once he gathered up the scattered papers, he dumped them all in the trash can.

  Still, a few days later, Rina had her notebook in her hand and pencil at the ready when there was another assembly. This one was held out on the (former) football field, where we sat on still-dewy grass.

  The makeshift stage that’s usually in the cafeteria/gym/assembly room had been carted out to the middle of the field. Mr. Anderson stood in the center, holding a megaphone instead of a microphone. “Let’s go, Bruins!” he called.

  The crowd went nuts.

  “We love school spirit here at Ashtown Middle School,” Mr. Anderson kicked off. “But the janitorial staff is complaining about the condition of the hallways, desks, and lockers. Bugs are becoming an issue. Anyone who comes into school smelling of energy drinks will be sent home to shower.”

  A bunch of kids jumped to their feet, complaining. The flurry sent a new wave of sickly sweet energy drink stench across the field.

  Mr. Anderson held up his hand for silence. No one listened.

  “Knock it off!” boomed the gym teacher and he blasted his whistle. Slowly, everyone simmered down.

  “All right. Any questions?” Without even turning toward her, Mr. Anderson sighed and said, “Rina.”

  Rina popped to her feet in the front row, notebook still in hand. Mike groaned. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” she said formally. “Rina Beltre of the Bruins Gazette. My question is two part. First, exactly how much money has the Bruins Bucket thing raised?”

  Mr. Anderson smiled in a grimace-y sort of way. “That’s a question for Brenna, but I understand we’re nearly at triple digits!”

  “It’s just that the big poster in the hallway is showing that about fifty dollars—two digits—has been raised.”

  The Adam’s apple in Mr. Anderson’s throat bobbed so hard my own throat hurt. “Is that your second question, Rina?”

  Her sigh drifted heavily over the field. “No.” Her voice raised high so that even I could hear in the back, she continued, “But let’s say the poster hasn’t been updated and we’re nearly at triple digits, aka a hundred dollars. But, by my count, more than fifty people have thrown a bucket over their heads, which means that a minimum of five hundred dollars should’ve been raised. So the goal would be met and we can stop the fund-raiser. Right?”

  Silence from Mr. Anderson.

  Silence from the crowd.

  “Is it possible that people are forgetting the ‘and donate ten dollars’ part of the challenge after they dump wasted overpriced energy drinks over their own heads?” Rina continued.

  “You can mix the energy drinks with water!” a cheerleader yelled.

  Mr. Anderson stared at Rina.

  “Shut up!” someone shouted from the middle of the crowd. “Boo!” came from near the goalpost. Soon almost everyone was hissing and booing, some people even throwing balled-up paper—copies of her own newspaper—at Rina. She stood stock-still in the front, notebook still in hand, waiting for Mr. Anderson’s reply.

  “Now, now,” the principal said weakly.

  I sat on my fists and bit my lip, swallowing down my own fury. But it bubbled out anyway. “Leave her alone!” After being quiet for so long, I didn’t realize how loud I could be. My voice sliced through the buzzing until everyone was quiet again.

  “Do you have something you’d like to add, Mr. Brickle?” Mr. Anderson said. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Davies, standing beside the stage. He smirked.

  “Yeah.” I stood, but kept my head down. Already a paper ball hit my back. “Rina’s just asking a question. Back off.”

  “Sit down, Sneaks, and shut your stupid piehole!” Landon didn’t even try to cover up that he was the one yelling.

  The room would’ve erupted again, this time aiming its anger my way, had the bear not appeared.

  The blue bear had grown. She was still small but carrying more weight around her middle than last time I had seen her.

  She lumbered out of the woods at the edge of the field. The kids in the back saw her first and started screaming. “Bear!”

  Mr. Anderson stood on tiptoe at the stage, looking out over the field, yelling into the megaphone for everyone to remain calm. But that totally didn’t work. Just about everyone jumped up, pushing the row ahead. Half the kids screamed, the other half laughed. I twisted as I stood, trying to keep an eye on the bear. She faced the w
oods, her backside toward us. She should’ve run off, away from the people and the noise. Everything I had heard about bears said they are more afraid of us than we are of them. Yet she didn’t move, not coming toward us but not backing away, either. I jumped up onto the stage so I could see her better. Mr. Anderson paced on stage, barking, “Code Yellow! Code Yellow!” into the megaphone as streams of kids ran into the building.

  Someone pushed into me, also climbing up onto the stage. Rina. “They shouldn’t be running!” she yelled at Mr. Anderson. He lowered the megaphone and pulled out his walkie-talkie, still screaming, “Code Yellow! Code Yellow!”

  Rina swiped the megaphone from his hand and called into it, “Everyone! Walk calmly backward from the bear. Don’t run! Stop running! You! Stop running! Walk calmly backward from the bear!”

  Another crumpled paper ball nailed her in the head. “Seriously!” Rina hissed into the megaphone. “A bear is a few feet from away and you take the time to make a spitball? You deserve a mauling!”

  “Give me that!” Mr. Anderson grabbed the megaphone and shooed us from the stage. He told Mr. Davies he was going to run ahead and unlock the doors. “Make sure everyone gets inside!” he yelled, and pushed through the crowd.

  “Come on,” called Mr. Davies, turning Rina around by the shoulder and motioning for me. But then I caught a glimpse of the bear straight on.

  “Oh no!” I yelled. By now, just a dozen or so kids were rushing toward the entrance, everyone else pressed against windows inside the building. Each of them skidded to a halt, turning halfway back toward me. I hadn’t realized I had yelled so loudly. Again.

  Mr. Davies grabbed my T-shirt at the shoulder, pushing me forward. “Come on, Noah, into the building.” He put out his arm to herd Rina in, too, but, like mine, her feet were planted.

  “Look!” I yelled. “Look at her!” I pushed back against his arm, sidestepping so his grip on my shirt loosened.