If This Were a Story

by Beth Turley

  I know Courtney doesn’t mean to make me feel as tiny as the note made me feel, or hollow like when Mom and Dad fight, but she does. I guess Courtney isn’t the one who thinks I’m a good person.

  Lockdown Sounds

  Cafeteria sounds aren’t happy or sad, just clamorous. I sit with Courtney and Ryan at our blue table.

  “Hey, Ryan, did you hear? Someone wrote a note about Hannah, and she didn’t even tell us,” Courtney announces before sucking on her organic-juice box. She’s smaller and cuter than I am, with sun-colored hair and pink glasses. Usually I feel lucky that we’re friends, because I’m the only fifth-grade girl sprouting zits. But when her mean side comes out, I don’t feel lucky at all.

  “What are you talking about?” Ryan asks, but he’s looking at me.

  “It only happened yesterday. And it wasn’t a big deal,” I answer.

  “You know Hannah likes to keep secrets,” Courtney continues.

  Ryan reaches across the table and grabs my peach cup. He holds it in the air.

  “I’m taking this peach cup prisoner until you tell us if you’re okay.”

  “I’ve got the sandwich.” Courtney slides my ham-and-cheese away.

  If there were anyone in the world I could spill my feelings to like a tipped-over ink bottle, it would be Courtney and Ryan, my best friends since the alphabet sat us next to each other in kindergarten (Geller, Gilmore, and Grant). I like the idea that letters brought the three of us together. But I’d rather s-t-a-r-v-e than talk about the n-o-t-e anymore.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Oh, really?” Ryan asks all mysteriously, with a mouth full of sloppy joe.

  “Chew with your mouth closed, Ryan.” Courtney wrinkles her nose.

  “Are you my mother?”

  “That’s a book, not a question,” I say.

  The three of us jump when the cafeteria doors slam shut. I’m thankful for the distraction, until the lights go dark and the lunch monitors start running around to the tables.

  “Have a happy day, Brookview Elementary.” The voice from the loudspeaker falls over the cafeteria like the start of nighttime.

  The monitors herd us into groups around the edges of the cafeteria. I sink to the ground with my back against the wall. The lunch ladies seal themselves up in the kitchen. Ryan breathes shaky breaths next to me, so I reach for his hand, dark brown and very warm. Holding Ryan’s hand feels funny but safe.

  “What’s happening?” he asks.

  “It must be a lockdown drill. Those are the code words.” I swallow down being scared to sound strong instead.

  “But they always tell us when we’re having one.”

  “I know.”

  “Does that mean it’s real?” Courtney whispers.

  “I don’t know.”

  Footsteps echo in the hallway. The cafeteria doors rattle, and Courtney hides her face behind my arm. I breathe in deeply. The smell of sloppy joe and sanitizer makes my stomach twist into a knot.

  This doesn’t feel like a drill. I decide that drills are useless. Everything is different when the enemies aren’t imaginary. No drill could prepare my heart to beat so wildly.

  I wait for the ten years of my life to flash by, but instead I think about Are You My Mother? A baby bird is sent tumbling from its nest and into a desperate search for someone to love him. I always wondered why mama bird was who the baby bird belonged to, just because she was the same species. Maybe the dog or the bulldozer would have loved him just as much.

  Undecipherable voices leak through the wall. I close my eyes and wait for whatever is out in the hallways to find us.

  “We’re clear,” the loudspeaker says.

  Like a miracle, the lights are turned back on. Relief floods all the way into my toes. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the calm crash over the cafeteria like a waterfall.

  “Stay seated, everyone,” Bubby, the head lunch monitor, shouts to the cafeteria.

  Courtney peeks out from behind my arm. Ryan lets go of my hand like he was never scared at all.

  “I knew it,” he says.

  Bubby whistles through his fingers to regain our attention.

  “This was a lockdown drill. We must practice so that you know how to respond to an unexpected threat in the school. If you are alone and hear that announcement, get to the closest place to hide out of sight.” Bubby waves us back to our seats.

  I would like to tell Principal Jenkins that “have a happy day” is not an appropriate code for a lockdown, because lockdowns are full of sad-day sounds.

  My friends and I turn ourselves from puddles of fear back into fifth graders, into the oldest students at Brookview Elementary. Liquid to solid. Phase transition.

  Ryan fills his mouth with sloppy joe again.

  “Where were we?” he mumbles through the goop.

  “Gross,” Courtney says, but she laughs.

  I laugh too and pretend the world is still spinning the same way, but it’s not. Somehow I’ve lost my center of gravity. The drill makes Ryan and Courtney move on from the note and start discussing the fall festival on Friday, so I take back my peach cup and sandwich. It’s easier not to talk about things.

  From Mrs. Bloom’s Shoe Box

  I bet Kimmy did it.

  I saw the note on the floor, but I didn’t pick it up.

  I apologize, Mrs. Bloom, but I do not know about the note. Signed, Rebecca Snow

  Courtney is a bully. She did it.

  What did the note say?

  I think the note was about Hannah. That’s all I have to say about it. ~Courtney

  I hope whoever did it stops.

  I’m hungry. From Theo.

  It was Kimmy. End of story.

  IDK

  I liked the kind-words activity.

  Sorry.

  If I tell you who did it, will I get an A?

  Maybe Joanie? I know she’s mad that people were making fun of her.—Katherine

  I don’t know anything.

  You rock, Mrs. Bloom.

  Truth Serum

  I have a pen pal. Her name is Ashley and she’s in eighth grade. Getting a new letter from her is like Christmas, only better, because the present is made of words.

  Today Mrs. Bloom looks at me for an extra second when she gives me my letter. I know she’s worried about me because of the note, but I would like to forget about it. It feels better to forget than make lists in my head of the reasons why nobody likes me.

  But the truth is, I don’t forget anything. Even the things I wish I could.

  I tear open the letter from Ashley and smooth it out on my desk. Ashley’s handwriting looks like bubbles, and she dots her Is with circles. One time I tried to replicate the way she wrote on a blank sheet of paper. I couldn’t catch on to the round-dotted Is and loopy As. It’s very hard to be something you’re not.

  The letter says:

  Hey, Hannah,

  Hope you’re having a great day. Thanks for sending that cool vocabulary list with your last letter. I’m sure you’ll do f ine in your spelling bee. You could definitely beat me.

  Are you excited about Halloween? I am. I don’t go trick-or-treating anymore, but there is this party. Me and my friends are going as old-school pop stars, and I’m going to be Madonna. Maybe you don’t know who that is, but you probably do. You seem pretty observant.

  It’ll be nice to meet you soon. I feel like I already know you a little bit. Maybe you feel the same about me.

  XOXO, Ashley

  I read the note five times. The way I picture Ashley changes with every new letter, but she’s always beautiful. She mentioned in her last letter that she wanted a tattoo, so I pictured her with purple hair and five piercings in her ears. Now in my mind she’s Madonna with an exotic costume made of colorful leather and a big, blond wig. I’ll know for sure who she is when our classes meet in November.

  If this were a story, Ashley and I would meet and realize that our eyes are exactly the same color. We would finish each other’s sentences
and talk about how we’ve always felt like something was missing. By the end of the story, we would take our DNA to a testing center, and the doctor would tell us that we were long-lost sisters after all. We would get ice cream to celebrate and let it melt all over our fingers while we watched the summer sun set.

  I read the letter again and then take out my notebook and pencil to write back to her.

  “Hannah, can you come here for a minute?” Mrs. Bloom calls to me from the back of the class. I fold Ashley’s letter and put it into my pocket for courage.

  “Yes, Mrs. Bloom?” I ask.

  “I’m going to have you go and see Ms. Meghan,” she says, and writes me a pass. My palms start to perspire.

  “Why?”

  “It may be helpful to talk to her about that note.”

  “But we already talked about it in class yesterday.”

  “I think you could unravel your feelings further with Ms. Meghan.”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  Mrs. Bloom leans her head to the side. Her eyes are soft behind her glasses.

  “Please go.” She hands me the pass, and I take it because I don’t want to make a scene.

  I walk to Ms. Meghan’s office. Her door is open, but I knock anyway. She looks up at me from her desk, dark hair puffed out like it’s been through a windstorm. Her face is small and smiley.

  “Hi, Hannah. I’m so glad to see you,” Ms. Meghan says. She points me toward the circular table and closes the door behind us.

  “I’m not upset, Ms. Meghan,” I say, just to get things straight.

  “Who said you were?” She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down next to me.

  “Isn’t that why Mrs. Bloom sent me here?”

  “We thought you might like someone to talk to. It must have been upsetting for you to find that note.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  It’s starting again. Ms. Meghan has captured me in the clutches of her peach-colored walls and dropped truth serum onto my tongue without me knowing, like the first time I came to her office. That’s the only explanation for why I told her about my parents.

  If this were a story, I’d write an article for the school newspaper, revealing that Ms. Meghan brews truth serum in her coffeepot. I would have firsthand accounts from other students who had sipped her potion and proceeded to spill their guts, and eyewitnesses who would swear to seeing Ms. Meghan with a suspicious vile of lime-green liquid. If the article ended up on the front page, news channels from all over the country would gather in front of Ms. Meghan’s office and demand answers. The chaos would then cause Ms. Meghan’s coffeepot to fall onto the floor and crack, leaking truth-fumes through the school and causing everyone to tell their secrets.

  But this is clearly not a story, because Brookview doesn’t even have a school newspaper.

  “Hannah, did you hear me?” Ms. Meghan asks.

  “Sorry. I just think maybe the note was a joke,” I say.

  “What was written on the note?” she asks.

  “It said that nobody likes me.”

  “And that didn’t make you sad?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay to tell someone how you feel, Hannah.”

  No, it’s not. I mash my lips together so that the words don’t come bursting through. I won’t let her truth-fumes get me. Two years ago I made a promise not to tell Ms. Meghan anything else. And that promise built an indestructible wall to guard my secrets with. No one can knock it down.

  Ms. Meghan leans back in her chair.

  “Do you remember that story I told you to read the first time we met?” she asks.

  “ ‘Lost in the Funhouse,’ ” I say, and look at her messy curls. I don’t like Ms. Meghan, but I do like the story she gave me.

  “Right. Do you remember what you told me about Ambrose after you read the story?”

  “Yes. I said that he was too aware of his own thoughts. He couldn’t escape them because that’s just who he was. Other people could have fun in the funhouse, but not Ambrose. He was different,” I say. Ms. Meghan nods and smiles slightly.

  “You are so smart, Hannah. That story was written for much older people, but you understood how introspective Ambrose was.”

  “Introspective” means you look at your thoughts and feelings with a magnifying glass, making them larger than life. It makes things harder for people like Ambrose.

  “The story is still hard to understand. Even now,” I say.

  “A lot of stories are. Why don’t you look at those passages from ‘Lost in the Funhouse’ again and let me know what you think this time?”

  I would estimate that I have read the passages ninety-six times, but I don’t say that.

  “Sure.”

  “How have things been at home? With your parents?” Ms. Meghan asks.

  “Great.” The word hurts as it escapes.

  “Have there been any more fights?”

  “Ms. Meghan, can I go? Everything is fine, and I’d really like to get back to class so I can write a letter to my pen pal, Ashley.”

  Ms. Meghan looks at the clock and pulls her eyebrows together.

  “Okay. Come and see me soon,” Ms. Meghan says. I close the door behind me and run down the hallway.

  I get back to class and start writing my letter to Ashley.

  Dear Ashley,

  I found a note that said nobody likes me. I don’t want to talk to anyone about it, just in case it’s true. I would rather not know.

  My stuffed elephant, Ambrose, came to life last night.

  I’m afraid of a fight every time I go home.

  Love, Hannah

  I tear the note up immediately and stuff it into my desk. I can’t tell Ashley any of those things because then she’ll be scared of me the way I’m a little scared of me, so I pull out a clean sheet of paper and write my real letter.

  Dear Ashley,

  I’m so glad you liked the vocabulary list. I don’t have time to write one for you now, but I promise I will next time. I haven’t thought much about Halloween. You’ll make a terrific Madonna. I hope you have fun at your party and that everyone loves your costume.

  Meeting you will be my favorite part of the fall. I’m sure of it. Of all the pen pals in the world, you are the most magnificent. I’m sure you know what this word means, but just in case, I’ll tell you that it means you are the best one ever.

  P.S. Does the middle school have a school newspaper?

  Love, Hannah

  Counselor’s Notes: Friday, October 9

  Name: Hannah Geller

  Grade: Five

  Reason for visit: Follow-up about a classroom incident involving a hurtful note. This is Hannah’s first visit to the office in two years. Previous visit due to unprovoked emotional response and disconcerting comments about home life.

  Demeanor: Hannah maintained a distant state throughout the visit. Kept arms drawn close to body as if holding self together. She expressed little to no response over the incident, despite the emotional nature. Did not seem especially accepting of visiting the office. This reaction is understandable when considering the parental involvement that resulted from previous visit.

  Visit: Hannah was not open to discussing the classroom situation. Seemed convinced that there was no real issue behind the note. After conversation about the note, I shifted to home life. She did not offer any information.

  Next action: Asked Hannah to reread excerpts from a story given during previous session called “Lost in the Funhouse.” Story is well above grade level, but Hannah is highly gifted in vocabulary and storytelling. Story was given in an attempt to reveal similarities between herself and perceptive main character, so that she might better understand and ultimately appreciate her introspective nature. Revelation was not fully made in previous sessions. Hoping that another read will accomplish this.

  From Hannah’s Pages of “Lost in the Funhouse”

  When you’re lost, the smartest thing to
do is stay put till you’re found. . . . What’s more you might find your own way yet, however belatedly.

  The Fall Festival

  Every year at the beginning of October, Brookview holds a fall festival. Popcorn stands and ringtoss games and piles of hay for climbing fill the big open field next to the school. The sky turns lavender, and stars pop into place as I stand in the ticket line with Courtney and Ryan and our parents.

  “Guys, I just realized something,” Ryan says to Courtney and me. He wears a green glow stick as a necklace.

  “What?” we ask.

  “This is our last fall festival.”

  “You’re right. Next year we’ll be going to a fall dance or something,” Courtney gushes. A pink glow stick sits on her head like a fluorescent crown and gives her pale white skin a rosy shine.

  “Yuck,” Ryan replies while Courtney dances in place. I fidget with my own glow stick, wrapped around my wrist like a handcuff. Ryan looks at me like he knows what I’m thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he confessed that he could read my thoughts like a story, especially the ones when I worry about middle school.

  “Our turn,” Mom calls from ahead of us. I jog away from Courtney’s dance moves and Ryan’s knowledgeable eyes.

  “Twenty tickets, please,” Dad is saying when I wiggle between him and Mom. Mrs. Thyme, my third-grade teacher, is in the booth, dressed like a clown with a round red nose and bushy wig. It’s tradition for the teachers to work the fall festival and wear costumes.

  My cheeks get warm even though the air is chilly.

  “Hi, Hannah. How’s fifth grade?” Mrs. Thyme asks. She pulls twenty tickets from a big blue roll, but stares at my blushing face. Her eyes remind me of Ryan’s. They know too much.

  “It’s good,” I say, and gather the tickets from her outstretched hand. Dad holds my shoulder and steers me away from the booth. The Grants step up to the window next.

  “Did you see the way she looked at us?” Dad asks Mom roughly.

  “Come on, Michael. It was nothing,” she answers in a hushed voice.