Hate Mail

by Polak, Monique;

  The teachers stand up from the benches and wait for us at the back of the gym.

  When I get up, I see that Darlene and Todd are still sitting. They must be waiting for the rest of us to leave.

  Todd scratches under both his arms over and over. If a typical person’s armpits get itchy, he might scratch once or twice. But Todd keeps scratching as the gym empties. When autistic kids engage in repetitive behaviors like that, it’s called stimming.

  “What’s that freak doing?” Tyrone whispers. I know he means Todd.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Samantha and Isobel are right behind us. “That doesn’t sound very accepting,” Samantha tells Tyrone.

  Tyrone doesn’t like admitting he’s wrong. “Maybe the kid’s got fleas.” At least he didn’t call Todd a freak. Tyrone turns to me. “Do you think he’s got fleas?”

  I pretend not to hear.

  Tyrone nudges my shoulder a little too hard. “Do you?”

  Samantha saves me from having to answer. She sidles up next to me. “Did I ever tell you,” she says, “that your hair’s a cool color?”

  “Uh, no, you never told me. But, uh, thanks. It’s nice getting a compliment from a girl…I mean from you.” I realize how dumb that sounds. Why can’t I be as smooth as Tyrone?

  But Samantha doesn’t seem to mind. She lifts her chin toward where Todd and Darlene are sitting. “You know what’s funny? Your hair’s the same color as Todd’s.”

  The good feeling I got when Samantha paid me that compliment?

  It’s gone.

  Chapter Four

  “Can’t we walk over?” I ask Mom. “You’re always saying we should walk more.”

  Making kids attend parent-teacher night is another one of Mr. Delisle’s bright ideas. At least tomorrow is a professional-development day, so we can sleep in.

  “I know. But I told your Aunt Anna we’d pick her and Todd up.”

  “They won’t mind. C’mon, Mom. When’s the last time we went for a walk?”

  “Okay,” Mom says. “Let me phone and see if they can get there on their own.”

  The leaves have started to fall from the trees, and the air has a new crispness. Soon it will be Halloween.

  “I forgot how fast you walk.” Mom’s cheeks are flushed from keeping up with me.

  I can’t tell Mom I am desperate to get to parent-teacher night before Todd and Aunt Anna show up. If anyone spots Todd and me with our moms, they’ll know we’re related. Mom and Aunt Anna look more alike than Todd and I do.

  Mr. Delisle is waiting inside the entrance, shaking parents’ hands.

  Two grade eleven students are handing out a map of the school. “Don’t forget to check out the bake sale in the gym,” one of them says.

  Mom cranes her neck looking for Aunt Anna and Todd. I wonder if Mom has always felt responsible for Aunt Anna, who is four years younger than she is, or if she only started worrying about her after Todd got diagnosed.

  I tug on the sleeve of Mom’s leather jacket. “We should go right upstairs. That way, we won’t have so long to wait.”

  There are already people milling outside Room 221. Mrs. Turcot, my homeroom teacher, has left the door open. She is sitting at her desk with a parent. A girl named Lisa, who’s in my homeroom, hovers by the classroom door.

  “Five minutes alone with the parent, then she invites the kid in. The whole thing takes ten minutes…unless of course you’ve got add or something,” Lisa explains when my mom and I join the line. “Don’t forget the sign-up sheet.” She points to a sheet behind the door.

  There are four names ahead of ours. “Wanna sit?” I ask my mom. There’s a row of chairs in the hallway.

  Mom checks the time on her cell. “Maybe I’ll go back downstairs and look for Anna. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  “No problem,” I tell Mom. “I’ll hold our spot.”

  Tyrone hasn’t turned up yet. Samantha is not here either.

  I take a seat in one of the chairs. A group of parents are clustered nearby. I’m not trying to listen in on their conversation, but they’re talking so loud, it’s hard not to.

  “Who ever heard of Saturday-morning detentions?” one mom says.

  “I’m with you,” a dad chimes in. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “You know what’s even more ridiculous?” another woman asks. Her voice is nasal. She lowers it before she goes on, but I can hear her. “Letting kids into this school who need all kinds of extra looking after.”

  I look up at the woman. She’s got spiky blond hair, and she’s wearing a black coat, with short black boots. “By the time kids get to high school, they should be able to manage without aides,” she adds.

  “And it’s our tax dollars paying for those services!” a man mutters. “What worries me is that with so much money being spent on special-needs students, my kid won’t get what he needs.”

  I know they’re complaining about kids like Todd. If my mom were here, she’d say something.

  I could say something.

  Only I don’t want anybody to know that Todd’s my cousin.

  By the time my mom gets back, our names are at the top of the list. “Everything okay?” Mom asks. “You look a little off, Jordie.”

  “I’m fine. Did you find Aunt Anna?”

  “Yup. I said we’d meet up with her and Todd later in the gym. At the bake sale. Someone mentioned chocolate cupcakes.”

  “Well, Jordie,” Mrs. Turcot says when I sit down with her and Mom. Mrs. Turcot’s mark book is open on her desk. “I’ve told your mom that overall you’re a strong student. The only area that needs improvement is that sometimes you seem distracted.”

  “I’ll try to work on that.” I look Mrs. Turcot in the eye so she’ll know I’m serious.

  “My stomach feels kinda off,” I tell Mom when our appointment is over. I put my hand on my belly. “I don’t think a chocolate cupcake is a good idea right now.”

  “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” Mom asks.

  “Maybe.”

  Which is how I get out of going to the bake sale.

  Mom gets Dad to pick us up. She makes him open all the windows in the van. She thinks the fresh air might make me feel better.

  When we get home, Mom insists on holding my arm as I walk up the front stairs. I want her to think I’m still feeling queasy, so I stop on the third stair. Mom stops too.

  Our eyes meet. I expect her to offer to make me tea or get me Pepto-Bismol. Instead, she gives me a sharp look and asks, “Jordie, have you told anyone at school that you and Todd are cousins?”

  When I don’t answer, Mom shakes her head. “There’s something wrong with you, Jordie,” she tells me, “and it’s a lot worse than a stomachache.”

  Chapter Five

  It’s after ten when I wake up. The house is dead quiet.

  I go down to the kitchen in just my boxers. If Mom were home, she’d make me put on a T-shirt. I leave the cereal box and my bowl, which still has milk in it, on the kitchen table. When I burp, I nearly apologize, but then I remember there’s no one around to hear me.

  Mom hasn’t left a note. I turn on the TV, but there are only kids’ shows and lame talk shows on. I should study for Mr. Dartoni’s history quiz, but hey, I’ve got all day. I turn on the computer. I figure I’ll message Tyrone, see what he’s doing.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve got the quiz on my mind that my eyes land on the word History at the top of the screen.

  When I click on History, I can tell right away Mom was the last one online. Who else would google spider plants and recipes for tofu teriyaki? I hope that isn’t what we’re having for supper. I scan the rest of the list. Mom’s visited three websites about teens who have autism and a website about depression. The autism I get—Mom’s trying to help Aunt Anna deal with Todd—but why is Mom looking up depression? We don’t know anyone who’s depressed, do we?

  I’m about to click on the depression link when I notice the next item. It’s Mom’
s Gmail account. I click on it.

  A couple of seconds later, I am looking at Mom’s inbox. I should tell her to make sure she logs out of her Gmail account when she’s done. She doesn’t want people reading her emails.

  I should close this window, but I don’t.

  Instead, I scroll down the list of messages. She’s got thousands. Hasn’t Mom ever heard of Trash? Some of the messages are work related—people inquiring about Mom’s houseplant watering service, her rates, whether there’s a discount if they sign up for a year. But most of the messages are from Aunt Anna. They’ve got subject lines like Having a really tough day, call me NOW! and Worried Sick About Fred. Why is Aunt Anna worried about Uncle Fred? I’m about to click on that message when another one catches my eye. The subject line is only two words: Hate Mail.

  I know even before I click on it that this must be the letter I heard Mom talking about on the phone. Most stuff you see on the Internet is typed out, so I’m expecting to see a typed-out letter.

  What I don’t expect to see is messy handwriting scrawled across a sheet of lined paper.

  Aunt Anna must have scanned the letter. There’s no date or greeting at the top; no yours truly at the end. It just starts.

  I can’t stand looking at that kid of yours. I’m sick of seeing him outside or in the schoolyard at Riverside, scratching under his arms and talking to himself like a lunatic.

  Your kid’s a freak.

  I need to stop and take a breath after I read that. Sure, I think Todd is weird, and just last week Tyrone called him a freak. But seeing the word written out like that seems worse.

  I don’t know why you even let that kid out of the house.

  You should keep him locked up so regular people don’t have to look at him.

  Or put him in a zoo where freaks like him belong.

  The words are so mean, so angry, I can’t keep reading.

  I shut down the computer. My eyes are stinging. I turn the TV back on. A woman in heavy makeup is talking about a diet. “After a few days, you won’t even miss sugar,” she says, smiling into the camera. I hit the Power button on the remote to make her go away.

  I go upstairs to get my history folder. It was wrong of me to open Mom’s email. I should forget I ever saw that letter. Erase it from my mind the way Mr. Dartoni erases the whiteboard at the end of class.

  Except I can’t.

  The words I read keep coming back to me. Your kid’s a freak. Put him in a zoo where freaks like him belong.

  How could anyone think those things about Todd? I’m halfway up the stairs when I turn back. I re-open the computer and go back into Mom’s email. The end of the letter is even worse than the beginning.

  If you ask me, you should put that freak down, put him out of his misery. Just like you’d put down a sick animal. That freak of yours doesn’t deserve to live.

  I didn’t really have a stomachache last night, but I’ve got one now. Even after I vomit into the toilet, my stomach still hurts.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m going to have to confiscate that gun,” the security guard tells me.

  “It’s plastic,” I tell him. “It’s part of my costume. I’m a gangster.”

  But he insists. It’s only when he’s patting me down, checking for knives or alcohol, that I realize it’s Mr. Delisle dressed up like a security guard.

  “That’s a very convincing costume, Mr. De—”

  Mr. Delisle presses a finger to his lips. “What are you trying to do, blow my cover?”

  I adjust my sleeves as I walk into the gym. I’m wearing my dad’s black suit—Mom pinned up the pants, but the sleeves on the jacket are still too long—a black shirt and red tie. It’s hard to believe this is the gym where we play basketball and floor hockey and have assemblies.

  There are platforms for dancing and another one for the DJ. Paper skeletons hang from the ceiling, and there are jack-o’-lanterns on the table where a student council kid is selling soda and chips.

  “I love your costume!” I hear some girl squeal. When I look to see who she’s talking to, I know right away it’s Tyrone. Who else would dress up like a rapper? He’s wearing a velour tracksuit, with thick gold chains and a giant pair of headphones around his neck.

  There are two girls with him. I can tell from her silver dress and pink hair that one is supposed to be a groupie. The other girl is wearing a black wig and a navy skirt and jacket. She must be some kind of businesswoman.

  I make my way over. It’s only when I get closer that I realize the girls are Isobel and Samantha.

  Tyrone has one arm around Isobel’s waist. I can’t help feeling a little jealous when he wraps his other arm around Samantha.

  “We’re his dates,” Isobel chirps. She even sounds like a groupie.

  “You are? I didn’t know we were supposed to have dates. How come you didn’t tell me, Tyrone?”

  Tyrone lets go of Samantha so he can smack the side of my head with the back of his hand. When he opens his mouth, I see the gold grill over his teeth. “It must’ve slipped my mind. But hey, you’re welcome to hang with us. If the ladies don’t mind.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” Samantha says, which makes me feel better about the whole date thing.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I say to Samantha, “what are you supposed to be?”

  “Tyrone wanted us both to dress up as groupies, but I refused. I’m his producer.”

  “You look hot in that wig.” Even before the words are out of my mouth, I realize how dumb they sound. “I mean you look…well, you know…good. Extremely good.”

  Samantha doesn’t seem offended. “You look good too,” she says. “Even if you’re not really the gangster type. I like to think I’m the producer type.”

  “Totally,” I say, which makes Samantha smile.

  Tyrone and Isobel are first on the dance floor. When he presses up close against her, Mr. Dartoni, who is dressed like a priest, walks over and taps Tyrone’s shoulder. “Not so close,” he says.

  I’m trying to figure out how to ask Samantha to dance. I don’t think Tyrone asked Isobel; he just swept her onto the dance floor. I don’t think I could do that with Samantha. Do you want to dance? Nah, too dorky. Plus, what if she says no?

  I’m trying to come up with the right words when Samantha grabs my hand. “What are you doing?” I ask her.

  “I was waiting for you to ask me to dance,” she says. “But I ran out of patience.”

  The DJ is playing Eminem’s “Same Song & Dance.” Samantha sways to the beat. I nod when Eminem sings, “I like the way you move.” Tyrone and Isobel are dancing next to us. Tyrone winks at me.

  While we dance, Samantha and I comment on the other kids’ costumes. “That’s so original,” she says about some guy dressed like a box of Chiclets. She also likes the girl in the mummy costume, her entire body wrapped in white medical gauze.

  I don’t think anything about it when a guy in a pilot’s uniform passes the platform where we’re dancing. I only see the back of him: shiny black cap, white shirt with gold epaulets, gray pants.

  Samantha nudges me. “I don’t see Kool-Aid. Do you?”

  “I don’t see Kool-Aid either, just 7-Up and Coke. You thirsty? You want to get something to drink?”

  “I said, ‘I don’t see his aide.’” Samantha shouts so I can hear her over the music. She lifts her eyes in the pilot’s direction. How could I not have known it was Todd? Then again, I didn’t expect him to show up at a school dance.

  “His aide must be here somewhere. His parents wouldn’t let him come to a dance unsupervised. They’d have hired Darl—” I stop myself. I don’t want to sound like I know too much about Todd.

  “Oh, there she is!” Samantha says. Now I see Darlene too. She’s in line at the refreshments table. She’s dressed as a unicorn, with her horn wrapped in tin foil. Maybe it’s her way of saying it’s good to be different.

  I don’t know where Todd is. The lighting is dim, making it hard to see. Why
am I worrying about him anyway? That’s Darlene’s job.

  A guy from homeroom is dressed like a hockey puck. “That’s a cool costume,” I say to Samantha, but her back is turned to me now, and she’s dancing with Isobel.

  I don’t understand girls.

  Since I’m not one of those people who enjoys dancing alone, I step off the platform, hoping no one is watching me.

  I’d buy a soda, but I don’t want to get stuck talking to Darlene—or Todd.

  I go stand by the wall. Isobel and Samantha are still dancing. I wonder where Tyrone is. When I get tired of standing around, I take a bathroom break.

  Even before I walk into the bathroom, I can hear laughter. What’s going on in there?

  Tyrone is sitting on a chair blocking one of the stalls. He moves his head to the beat of the music he is listening to.

  The laughter comes from Mark, one of Tyrone’s buddies, who is wearing a Spider-Man costume. “If you were a real rapper,” Mark tells Tyrone, “you wouldn’t be listening to music in some bathroom. I’m getting outta here. Why don’t you just leave whoever’s inside there alone? I’ll wait for you outside.”

  That’s when I realize someone is trapped inside the stall.

  Whoever it is has started banging like crazy on the stall door.

  Tyrone has this big dumb smile on his face.

  The guy inside bangs harder. He’s going to hurt himself if he keeps that up.

  It’s not nice to tease some kid the way Tyrone is doing, but I have to admit it’s kind of funny to hear the guy freaking out.

  Now he’s trying to crawl out from underneath the stall door.

  Tyrone laughs as he swats at the guy’s hands.

  The guy starts howling. It’s this weird high-pitched nervous howl. Only one person howls like that.

  Todd.

  “Let him out!” I tell Tyrone.

  Mark bangs on the bathroom door then pushes it open. “Security’s coming!” he hisses.

  Tyrone pulls the chair out of the way. “Okay,” he says, “whoever you are, joke’s over. You can come out now.” But Todd is howling so loud he can’t hear Tyrone.