What I Believe

by Norma Fox Mazer

  My head burned as if I still had a fever. “I never did anything like this before. Honestly.”

  Why did I say that word? She jumped on it. She pounced on it. “Honestly?” She stepped closer. She breathed in my face. Her hands went up. I thought she was going to hit me. “You act so nice, but underneath you’re nothing but a sneaky, dishonest person.”

  I stood there, swaying. Her breath smelled fishy. I was getting nauseous. “Are you going to tell my mom?”

  She stretched herself taller, stepped back, folded her arms, and stared at me before answering. “I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

  “Please—please don’t.”

  “You don’t tell me anything. Get out of here now. Go on. Go.”

  So I did.

  three days

  since she caught me in her bedroom

  since she refused the money

  since she’s spoken to me

  since I begged please don’t tell.

  three nights

  she’s appeared at my door

  she’s stood silently

  she’s crossed her arms

  she’s watched and made her plan.

  waiting

  for her to tell

  —or not tell.

  a dream

  my little room

  cracking, splitting

  like pavement

  after winter storms.

  Taking Mr. Marty for His Walk

  Like a king, he sniffs

  every tree, kid, cat, and dog

  on his royal route.

  In Her Room

  I leave ten dollars

  on her pillow, but no note.

  She will know it’s me.

  At the Dinner Table

  Seated next to her,

  no words, but my eyes begging

  Please don’t tell … please don’t …

  Her

  eyes always watching,

  ears always turned, listening.

  laugh always so loud.

  Missing Dad, and Half a Dozen Other Things

  1. Iwant to hear Dad’s voice again. I want to talk to him. I want to tell him, “I miss you. Come home. When are you coming home?” Every day after school, first thing, I check the answering machine. Every day I think that this time there’ll be a message from him.

  2. I walk Mr. Marty in the morning before school. I told Mr. Rose no money anymore for walking him. He is the best part of my life right now.

  3. Why can’t Sara reach into my mind and see my thoughts? Why can’t she just know what I did, so I could stop thinking about telling her—and then thinking, no no no. Yesterday, when we were talking in the auditorium, just before assembly, the words were right there on my tongue, like rafts ready to take the plunge and go over the waterfall.

  4. That is my impulsive self trying to take charge of me again. I know it is. I know the feeling. I just want to do it. And I’m really afraid that one of these times, I will. I’ll tell her. And then?

  5. Then Nikkee would be her best friend. Ever since Nikkee came to school wearing a six-pointed Star of David on a chain, Sara thinks she is brave and honest. Because, she says, “Being Jewish is not so popular here, but Nikkee is right out there with it.”

  6. Ladine is still watching me. I know she’s planning something.

  7. To keep myself from going crazy thinking about her, I wrote a villanelle, which I’ve never done, and even though I was writing about her, it calmed me down.

  Vexing Myself with a Villanelle

  I know Ladine is watching me.

  What is she waiting for? Is she biding her time?

  Quiet, I tell myself, what will be, will be.

  I dream of wooing Ladine, bringing her tea,

  cake, cookies, chocolate, slices of lime.

  I know she’s watching me.

  I dream of shrinking her, turning her tiny, wee,

  so small, smaller than a bug, smaller than a dime.

  Stop, I tell myself, what will be, will be.

  How her mind works is such a mystery.

  Does she despise me for my crime?

  I know, I know—I know she’s watching me.

  I think of Mom and all I want to do is flee.

  Scared she’ll look at me and say, You’re no child of mine!

  But again I tell myself, What will be, will be.

  And now I write, bent low over my knees,

  wishing for that time when all was fine.

  I know Ladine is watching me.

  I tell myself, Stay calm. What will be, will be.

  Eight Questions to the Universe

  1. Why did I do it?

  2. I mean, I know why I did it, but why did I do it?

  3. What was I thinking when I did it? (Answer—nothing.)

  4. Why was I thinking of nothing?

  5. Is that going to be my life, always doing stupid, impulsive things?

  6. What if Mr. Rose finds out?

  7. What if he wouldn’t trust me anymore with Mr. Marty?

  8. What if no one trusts me ever again?

  Nikkee Wasn’t in School Today

  Klaera said, “Her mom is Jewish, you know.”

  Sara and I, in unison, chorused, “So?”

  “So it’s the holidays for them.

  When you tell your sins and start fresh,

  something like when I go to confession,

  only they do it once a year,

  and I do it once a month.”

  “I bet you have lots of sins,” teased Sara.

  “I do, yes,” said serious Klaera.

  “I’m doing wrong things all the time.”

  I leaned over the table—pleased

  to hear someone else’s crimes.

  I want company in this strange place

  of bad deeds that I’ve landed in.

  “I have nasty thoughts.” Klaera blushed.

  Sara screeched, “Silly girl!”

  I sank back in my seat.

  And We All Laughed at His Joke

  In language arts, Mr. Franklin told us we were each going to write a letter to our favorite author or to the author of our favorite book, which, he said, “I assume you all have, and I said a letter, not an e-mail, and I want you to remember this: An e-mail is to a letter as a puddle is to a pool. Yes, you can get wet in both, but you can only swim in a pool—or drown, now that I think of it, so watch your strokes if you get into the deep end of your pool. And remember that a letter is about something, a letter is like a big grocery bag that can hold all kinds of things—cans and boxes, milk and butter, whatever—and don’t forget a letter is neater and spelled better than an e-mail or an IM, and, speaking of abbreviations, no abbreviations! For Pete’s sake, show me your stuff, show me what you got, ’cause I know you’ve all got it!” Then he turned and wrote on the blackboard, “Now u no whut i meen 4 u 2 do.”

  The Letter I Wrote

  Dear Sara,

  I can not write a letter to an author right now. I can not compose my mind to compose a letter, which would only be full of phony phony phony stuff, because there is one thing only on my mind and it is not a letter to someone I don’t know, who lives far away and has no idea who I am, and who might even be dead, and I hope that Mr. Franklin will not flunk me on this assignment because I’m writing to you instead of an author, but if he does, what will be, will be. That is my new mantra, Sara!

  I know I could talk to you instead of writing this letter, but no, I can’t. I have to do it this way. It’s always easier for me to write than to speak. I need advice, Sara. I think you are wise. I have that feeling about you. Please be wise! I hope I’m right. I have no one else to ask. I can’t tell my mom, absolutely not—that’s what this is all about. And I’m afraid to say anything to my brothers.

  Sara, telling you what I’m going to tell you makes me feel as if I’m running straight into traffic on the highway. Or crossing the train tracks as a train is coming. Or jumping off a high rock into a deep lake. It feels so d
angerous! My heart is going so fast right this minute, just writing this, and my stomach is all in knots.

  Sara, I did something wrong. Sometimes I wish I was Nikkee or Klaera, Jewish or Catholic, so I would know how to tell, confess, be cleansed of my wrongdoing, and start over fresh. But it’s not possible, anyway. The person I did the wrong thing to has found out, and even though she knows I’m sorry and I’m trying to make it right, she might still tell my mother. She won’t say if she’s going to or not, but I think she will. I think she plans to do it. She continually watches me in a mean and significant way.

  Do you have any advice on how I can get this person not to tell my mother? I’ve begged her not to, and I’ve apologized, and I’m trying to make up for what I did. Is there anything else you can think of that I can do? Please think about this for me. Please give me your best advice.

  Love from V.

  Syllables of Steel

  Why do

  I keep saying

  That one word I now hate?

  I’ll steel myself for the next test.

  And then

  I say,

  We two will steal away, Sara.

  And more. Just as a joke

  I dub her Steel

  Girl, not

  at all

  in the moment

  getting the real joke-jolt

  of it. But deep down, don’t I hope

  she is?

  Memo to Myself

  Try not to be mad at Sara.

  Remember she’s your best friend.

  Tell yourself she thinks she’s giving you good advice.

  Remind yourself she doesn’t know what you did, and she doesn’t have to know.

  Remember that you are trying to curb your impulsive side.

  Ask yourself how you can still forget that.

  Saturday Afternoon

  She says,

  How do I know

  how much you really took?

  I say, I told you. I don’t lie.

  She smirks.

  She’s like

  a box stuffed full

  with hidden things. She takes

  out two words, shakes them in my face.

  thief … liar.

  Saturday Night

  Late, dark.

  They’re all sleeping.

  I can’t sleep. I can’t. Can’t.

  Ladine is going to tell Mom.

  I know.

  She will.

  I saw her eyes.

  She’s going to do it.

  She’s just waiting for the right time.

  She’ll tell.

  Later. 3:30 A.M.

  I tiptoed into Mom’s room. She was still, all curled up. I bent over her and listened to her breathing. I whispered, “Mom, I have to tell you something.” I knelt and leaned my head on the bed next to hers. “Mom,” I whispered, “I stole money. I stole from Ladine. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m paying it back. Please don’t hate me.” She went on sleeping. Her breathing was peaceful, as if she heard me, and it was okay, she understood and forgave me. I tiptoed out. Now I can sleep. I’m so tired, but I said it. I did it. I told her. I know it wasn’t the real thing. It was like a rehearsal. Tomorrow I’ll really tell her. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. I promise myself.

  Sunday Late Morning

  I overslept.

  Sunday, Noon

  As soon as I walk into the kitchen,

  Mom asks, “Is it true you stole from Ladine?”

  I take a breath, meaning to explain, but

  instead I blurt, “She told you? I’m screwed!”

  Mom gasps and knocks over her coffee cup.

  “So now my daughter is not just a thief.”

  Her mouth has turned crude, rude, rough. Awful.

  I plead, “I didn’t plan to do that … thing.

  It just happened, like a crash, like lightning.”

  “Stop!” She wipes up the coffee spill. She screams,

  “Why didn’t you ask me for what you need?

  For good god’s sake, you’re not a homeless waif!”

  Then she weeps. I hate her for doing that.

  Her tears make me hate myself even more.

  Portrait of Mom

  after she knows all:

  red, blotchy, tear-streaked cheeks, tight

  white lips, scary eyes.

  I never saw her this way

  with that ugly, angry face.

  Skidding on the Icy Path of Life

  Sitting on snowy steps with Sara,

  I said we should go someplace else, not so wet.

  “But, Vicki, this is a perfect place to talk.”

  “She said desperately,” I added.

  (Although, after Mom, not in a jokey mood.)

  Sara liked the joke, though. She tousled my hair

  and threw me such a sweet look that I

  threw over all sense and let myself forget

  the very things I’ve been trying so so hard

  to learn—to think, think, before acting.

  I blurted out everything, trapped myself,

  told Sara the entire sad, stupid story.

  She stared hard at me. “Oh, so that’s why

  you wrote that letter, and what you didn’t want

  to tell your mother. How dumb. How very dumb!”

  Before, when I imagined telling,

  I knew she would hate what I did, but always

  I made up a happy ending: sympathy

  and understanding, Sara saying

  I wasn’t a bad person, just slid, slipped up,

  skidded a bit on the icy path of life.

  But now she was mad, calling me names.

  I thought I’d lost her. I pressed my lips tight.

  “Vicki, I would have lent you money,” she said,

  “in a heartbeat. You didn’t know that?”

  All I knew was that I couldn’t—just couldn’t—

  talk about Dad or the family—nothing.

  Yet now I’d done it, spilled it all out,

  the whole deal—everything! I tried not to cry.

  When

  Sara yelled at me

  when I told her everything

  when she glared at me

  when we walked down the street

  when I tried again to explain

  when she kept saying, I don’t get it, you shouldn’t have done it

  when I could barely speak

  when we parted at the corner

  when I walked home alone

  when I went up the stairs, wanting to cry

  when I went in the house and didn’t cry

  when even Thom looked at me as if he didn’t know me

  when I didn’t eat supper

  when I went into my room and closed the door

  when I lay on my bed and pulled at my hair

  when I tried to think about something else

  when I wondered how to make things right

  when I couldn’t think of anything …

  what should I have done? what? what?

  Last Night

  even though I told Mom my debt was almost paid off, she kept asking why why why I took that money. It made me crazy and I shouted at her and she shouted back. And then Spencer said to Thom, “Let’s get out of here. This family is nuts.” He looked ready to cry, and it made me even crazier, and I shouted at him, too, “Don’t you dare cry! What do you have to cry about, mama’s boy.” Mom slapped me, the second time in my life she’s done that. A moment later, she hugged me and said she was sorry, so sorry. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t hug her back. I felt myself passing over something, like going over a bridge. On one side, the side I’d always been on, I could cry and pout and shout, but on the other side, it was different. That’s where I am now. I’ve crossed over that bridge—and I’m never going back.

  Story About Friendship

  This morning, Sara caught up with me in the hall, just as I was ready to walk into home base. “Vicki, wait up.”

  “What do you wan
t?”

  “I have something to say to you. Hold on!”

  “What?”

  “Uh, this isn’t easy, but I have to say it.”

  “What?”

  “Um—okay, here it is. I was a jerk the other day. I talked to my mom, and she helped me see that I was way out of line. You did something wrong, yeah, but I didn’t have to come down on you like that. My mom said who am I to be so righteous.” She put her arm around me. “Vicki, can you forgive me?”

  Just like when we first met, she stunned me. For a moment, I wanted to hurt her back, the way she hurt me. But I’m lucky sometimes. I don’t always do everything wrong.

  “Sara,” I said, “I kept secrets from you. It was hard, it made me sort of crazy. I stopped thinking straight. My brain was mush, I’m not kidding! I’m glad now that I told you that mucky story of mine, but, Sara, it was so awful thinking you hated me and I’d wrecked our friendship.”

  “I never hated you. I went home and cried my eyes out! V., will you promise me something? That if you ever need anything again, you’ll come to me, and, at least, we’ll talk things over? Like friends should.”

  “I promise,” I said. Then we linked arms and walked into home base.

  Poem About Friendship

  I was wrong

  to keep my heart

  closed tight

  as a trap.

  Just Like That

  In the kitchen this morning

  Dad is sitting at the table

  with the newspaper and coffee.

  I plunk down hard and hum

  out, “When did you get back?”

  “Late last night. You were sleeping.”

  His eyes at half-mast, he looks half asleep.

  It’s cold again this morning.

  My hands are frozen. I push back