by Susan Vaught
1. Wenchel pimple
2. Funeral
3. Funeral pimple
4. Geek
5. Chicken
6. Bra
7. Chicken bra
8. Helper
9. You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.
Focus. I had to focus. But it was hard. Wenchel pimple.
The next time I saw Leza was at lunch. She was waiting for me at the side of the salad bar, where everybody lined up for hot plates or the grill.
When Ms. Wenchel stopped and stood beside us, Leza gave her a Mama Rush look. Sort of down the nose and out from under the eyebrows. “Do you have to stay for lunch, too?”
“I—well, yes, I’m supposed—but, well.” Ms. Wenchel clasped her hands together. “I suppose I can sit over there with the teachers, as long as I can see Jersey.”
Leza’s you do that went unspoken, but it shouted out of her eyes. She pulled my memory book out of my hands, looped the dirty pen-string around it, and tucked the pen into the binder before handing it to Ms. Wenchel. “Keep this so it doesn’t get food on it, okay?”
Ms. Wenchel looked upset, but she took the book, tucked it under her tray, turned back to the salad bar, and started piling up her plate with lettuce and fruit Jell-O squares.
“You’d think you were some escaped convict,” Leza grumbled, tugging my elbow and urging me into the grill line. “Hamburgers okay?”
“Sure. Why is she supposed to watch me?”
Leza shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe they think you’ll fall down some steps and break your head and they’ll get sued.”
“My head’s already broken. Do you think she’ll read my book?”
“What do you want on your hamburger, Jersey? And no, she won’t read your book. Your handwriting’s really bad, anyway. Trust me. She wouldn’t get much if she did read it.”
“Handwriting. Do you think I’ll need my book? Hamburger.”
“No.”
“But what if I—”
“Don’t talk about the book anymore, Jersey.”
“Okay.”
So, we talked about hamburgers and nothing much and lots of stuff except the book until Leza put my plate beside hers on her tray and we left the grill line. As we rounded the salad bar, we came face to face with Todd, who was carrying a tray with two plates on it—hot lunches, barbecue on top of something that looked like cornbread but probably wasn’t.
Todd scowled at me, then Leza. “What are you doing with him?”
Leza puffed up like she used to when she was little. Her fists clenched. “Helping. Like you should be.”
I wondered if I should grab my hamburger before it ended up in Todd’s face.
“Don’t tell me what I should be doing.” Todd’s voice came out in a low growl. “You know how I feel about this.”
Should I ask him why he hated me? Or about Elana Arroyo? He was standing right here. I could ask. But Todd could throw food just as well as Leza, and that barbecue looked hot and messy.
“Get on with yourself, then.” Leza gestured with her head, and when I looked over her shoulder, I saw tables full of Green Rangers shirts alternating with the pinks and yellows and whites of girl-clothes. Pretty-girl-clothes.
The jock tables.
Some of the jock table jocks looked up. One of them stared at me and cringed.
Did I know him?
Oh, yeah. I used to sit there.
Before.
How could my life have sucked if I didn’t take drugs, my parents weren’t brother and sister, I didn’t hear voices, and I sat at the jock tables with barbecue and pretty girls? I stared at the jocks, and stared. And stared a little more. Neat hair. Neat clothes. No stupid-marks.
I used to look like that. I used to be like that. I used to sit at those tables. Golf, football, R.O.T.C. I used to sit there like them, talk like them, laugh like them. Didn’t I? Mama Rush and Leza said I did my freshman year, but I got different my sophomore year. Neat. Clothes. Hair. Before. Maybe I didn’t sit there my sophomore year. Maybe I was too busy. Hair. Maybe I made everybody mad. Golf and football. Maybe I wasn’t perfect enough anymore, or too perfect, or something.
Loosen up a little.
Mama Rush’s djinni-voice ran through my head once, twice, while Todd and Leza snarled at each other a couple more times. Finally, Todd stalked off. The girl he sat beside ran her fingers through her dark hair as he handed her the extra plate on his tray.
Elana. It looked like Elana. In the picture. In my head. Elana from when I was perfect and busy and sat at the jock tables with a life that didn’t suck. Elana moved away.
Did she move away?
I ground my teeth.
Loosen up a little.
How could I loosen up? I needed to tighten up. At least my mouth. Something. I had to tighten up to get better.
“Quit staring,” Leza whispered.
“I need to know some stuff from Todd,” I whispered back. “Can you get him to talk to me for five minutes?”
“No.” She took hold of my elbow again and led me across the cafeteria, past a clump of teachers including Ms. Wenchel and her funeral dress and her tray on top of my memory book. We walked straight to a long table full of gorgeous girls and one or two guys.
The cheerleaders.
Oh, God.
Loosen up a little.
If I had been carrying my own tray, which of course I couldn’t, I would have dropped it. This was a bad idea.
“Come on,” Leza instructed, all but dragging me. “It’s only the junior varsity, and they’re all my friends. Just keep eating and don’t say anything. You’ll be fine.”
The sheer number of horrible things that could pop out of my mouth—even full of food—made my heart thump hard on my ribs.
Loosen … loosen … loosen …
She almost had me to the table when I broke away. “I—um—need to go. You know. Go.”
I nodded toward the restroom.
Leza gave one of her shrugs and nodded. She set her tray down between two girls with blond hair and told one of them to scoot over. The girl did. Most of the table gazed up at me like they had been expecting this, like maybe they had all agreed to it beforehand.
The geek can sit at our table if he doesn’t bite off any chicken heads.
Are his scars gross up close?
How can we make him say stupid stuff we can repeat all over school?
The cheerleaders were blurring.
Leza was biting into her hamburger.
I took off for the bathroom and stayed there the rest of our short lunch period. I stayed there until Ms. Wenchel knocked and made me come out. We barely made it to the next class on time, and I didn’t see Leza anywhere.
• • •
Sixth period, last class, last desk, in the corner. Why did she keep staring at me? The teacher was staring at me, just like the Civics teacher and the Algebra teacher. Staring at the freak. The freak with the scars and no pragmatics. I had no pragmatics. I wanted to hop up and down and make monkey noises. Yeah. Stare at this, why don’t you? If it hadn’t been for Ms. Wenchel, I probably would have made monkey noises. Pragmatic monkey noises.
“Monkey,” I said quietly. “Pragmatic monkey.”
The teacher glared. She had white hair and big glasses, and she missed her mouth with her lipstick really bad, so her top lip looked like it was coming out of her nose, but she was staring at me.
“Pragmatic monkey.”
“Jersey,” Ms. Wenchel whispered. “Ssshhh.”
I opened my memory book and wrote pragmatic monkey five times as fast as I could.
Some of the other kids glanced at us, but they turned back around. Nose-lip started talking about charity organizations. I tried to listen, and I opened my notebook on top of my memory book. I tried to take class notes in between writing pragmatic monkey every time I wanted to say it. My hand was cramping. My head felt heavy, heavy. Pragmatic monkey naps. If I could just close my eyes.
; Ms. Wenchel nudged my shoulder. “Stay awake,” she murmured. “Write notes in your class notebook, not that journal.”
My stomach growled. Kids looked around. Nose-lip stared another few seconds, then started talking again. I blinked. Closed my eyes.
Ms. Wenchel poked me.
If I poked her back, I’d probably get suspended. Pragmatic monkey naps.
I didn’t poke her back.
I didn’t.
But I wanted to. Her and all the rest of the class. Monkey. Monkey naps.
I had tried to talk to my old R.O.T.C. commander before this class, but he sort of dismissed me.
Nothing much to say, Hatch. All his buttons shining. His false teeth shining. The sun shining as the drill team worked out behind him and he told me I couldn’t pass the physical to get back in uniform. But keep that chin up. You’ll find another niche.
The football coach was worse.
How ya doin’, Hatch? He had slapped my back so hard I almost fell over. Come see me if you want to do towels and water.
Monkey naps.
Towels and water.
Towels and water.
Niche.
I used to catch passes, but it was towels and water now. The golf coach had been gone over a year, or so the Wench told me. Even if he’d been there, I don’t think I would have tried to talk to him. Towels and water. I saw a few teachers I remembered from freshman year, and they were nice, I guess. But they had stuff to do. I had stuff to do. Not towels and water, though. Monkey naps. I did need a monkey nap.
Everything hurt. I felt like I’d walked twenty laps around the track instead of sitting in a desk for hours. How could sitting at a desk make me so tired? At Carter, I was used to half-hour therapy sessions separated by a lot of nothing, a lot of free time, I guess. Not six straight hours of books, teacher-talk, towels and water, notes, Nose-lip, Ms. Wenchel the funeral lady poking me, and worrying about how mad Leza might be.
1. Nose-lip
2. Nose-lip
3. Nose-lip
4. Nose-lip
5. Nose-lip
When the last bell rang, I wanted to yell with relief, but I didn’t have the energy. My stomach growled. Ms. Wenchel sighed, shook her head at me, and took off. Nose-lip followed her. Monkey naps. Thank God.
With help from the notes in my memory book, I found the wheelchair exit, limped outside, and dragged myself around the side of the school, toward where Mom was supposed to pick me up.
The car was already there.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I mumbled as I crammed my memory book under my bad arm and rested for a second. My stomach made freaky noises. Somebody giggled.
I looked up. Leza was standing right beside me.
“Chicken,” she said. She chicken-clucked as she made sure my memory book was tucked tight under my bad arm.
Her smile made me feel a lot better, like I had enough juice to get to the car after all. She dug around in her purse, then took out something wrapped in napkins and handed it to me. My hamburger. Cold now, but man did it taste good when I took a huge bite.
Leza laughed again. “Don’t you choke. Your parents would kill me.”
I tried to answer, but my mouth was full. I swallowed instead.
“You’re sitting with me tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the next day, or the day after. I won’t give up. Got that?”
Between bites and chewing, I studied her face and nodded. The entire Rush family had problems with the word no, so I didn’t bother trying to use it.
Leza walked me to the car and opened the front door for me. I climbed in awkwardly beside Mom, unwilling to surrender my hamburger. Leza looked inside, saw Mom, and backed up in a hurry. Then she just sort of looked down, closed the door, and took off.
Mom watched her go, but she didn’t say anything. When Leza disappeared into a crowd of people, Mom grimaced at the cold hamburger, but she still didn’t say anything. She even held it while she helped me fasten my seat belt and put my memory book in my lap.
The minute I got the hamburger back, I took another huge bite.
“Slow down,” Mom said automatically as she pulled out of her parking spot. “Focus, remember? The speech therapist said—”
“Small bites,” I mumbled around hamburger, bun, and pickles. I’d heard “small bites” over and over again since I’d woken up and started eating for myself. Small bites. The speech therapist had never been this hungry, and I could eat without choking now, no problem. But I didn’t want to be a Big Larry, so I focused and took small bites, small bites, small bites. Why did Mom have to be so uptight? Small bites. Don’t ask that. Focus. Small bites.
Soon, small bites after small bites, the hamburger was gone and my stomach quit sounding so weird.
“Did your day go okay?” Mom asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
“Yeah. I guess.”
There was a long pause.
Mom kept her gaze straight ahead. “I’m—I’m proud of you for having the courage to go. Really proud of you, Jersey. Any problems with your classes?”
“No.” I stretched and yawned. “But they had a funeral woman and an assembly about me. Not fun.”
Mom nodded. “The principal told us they were going to bring in the counselors one more time. What did you say about a funeral woman?”
I looked at her. Her face was still and blank and her fingers went tap-tap-tap against the padded steering wheel cover.
“The assembly—you knew?” My voice was louder than I intended. Selfish. Self-centered. I would make her look at me like I was Big Larry again.
Mom said nothing. Her fingers stopped tapping.
Doing my best to focus and turn down the volume, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t—I guess we just didn’t think about it, Jersey.” Her expression never changed. Her fingers didn’t start moving again.
My face got hot. I knew my cheeks were turning red. My teeth clenched, but I refused to go off. No Big Larry. Not me. I was going to wear my braces and keep my mouth shut and do what I learned at Carter. And since I left Carter. So I made myself relax by singing the alphabet in my head over and over again. Then I opened my memory book and started writing the alphabet. It was all I could think of to keep my mouth shut.
Focus. Small bites.
Mom and I rode the rest of the way home without talking.
chapter 11
Three weeks. I’d survived three weeks.
But the lunchroom was really, really loud, and hot, too. Even though I was sitting with Leza and the cheerleaders, I was bugged about a bunch of stuff. Hot didn’t help at all. Hot made everything worse. For the first time since school started, I forgot my memory book. That made everything worse, too. The book was at home on my dresser, so I thought about it every time I needed to write something down. At least I had good shoelaces. Leza had given me three packs of Easi-laces, in lots of colors. Today I had on dark green. White shoes. Green laces. I thought about green laces, and how it would have looked if I’d picked blue, and my memory book. Mostly, though, I was thinking about the Wench.
If I had to look at Ms. Wenchel one more day, I might go off. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, do it again, One, two … Red hair. Dark dresses. Nervous smiles. Three, four, five … Every time I even thought about her, my scars hurt. Shoelaces. Counting didn’t help much.
Pragmatics. Behave myself. I didn’t want to be a Big Larry, and I knew the teachers at school were still all squint-eyed and jumpy like my dad about me hurting myself again, but I really, really wanted to ditch the Wench.
“It’s only been three weeks.” Leza had to yell so we could hear her over all the other yelling in the lunchroom. Something smelled like seriously bad armpit stink. I thought it was the onions on Leza’s hot dog. “Maybe she’ll just be your shadow for the first month.”
Nobody else seemed to care about the body odor onions, so I tried not to scrunch up my nose. Shoelaces. Green shoelaces.
O
ne of Leza’s friends gulped down a big bite of salad, then wiped her mouth. “Wench is a total headcase. Maybe you should complain and make them give you some other babysitter.”
She wiped her mouth again, and I looked down at the nuts on my plate. I was eating peanuts because that was something I could eat in front of cheerleaders without accidentally sneezing and dribbling all down my shirt or something. Small bites. At least I didn’t need a babysitter when I ate peanuts.
“Peanut wench,” I muttered even though I had my teeth clenched to keep from saying it. “Body odor. Small bites. Shoelaces. Nuts and onions.”
Leza giggled. So did her friends. I did my usual—swallowed a lot, tried to focus like I was supposed to, turned red, put my hand over my mouth and hoped it didn’t look like I was putting my hand over my mouth. Leza wasn’t trying to torture me, making me eat with cheerleaders. Her friends were nice, and it was cool to have a place to sit—especially a Wench-free zone—but still. Eating with cheerleaders wasn’t easy, even though they were just junior varsity. They were all so pretty, and they didn’t have stupid-marks, and none of them were eating peanuts, either.
Salad, salad, salad.
“Lettuce,” I muttered, even though I had my fist nearly crammed in my mouth. “Wench. Stinky onion peanuts.”
“Frog farts,” said Leza.
“Toad turds,” one of her friends agreed.
“Horseflies,” a third girl said way too loud.
“Hoochie-mamas.” Leza again. “Frog farts and hoochiemamas.”
“Knock it off!” I smacked her shoulder with my good hand. “Frog fart.”
Everyone laughed, even me.
Leza got out of my way, kept giggling, and still managed to take the last bite of her hot dog and stink-onions. She didn’t eat healthy salads very much. She crammed down lots of junk food and worked it off during practice. She said that all the time, along with frog farts and hoochie-mamas and lots of other headcase stuff. It was her new strategy. Hers and Mama Rush’s.
You can’t stop it, boy, and you can’t prance around school with a sock stuffed in your mouth. So why not let all that silly talk be a trademark?
Frog farts.
My new “trademark.”
Yay.
Pragmatics.
