The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  “I didn’t finish making dinner,” I say.

  Zeyda pats my feet. “Not to worry.”

  I close my eyes.

  “Mom says she came home and found a boy sitting on our front steps,” Abby calls from the kitchen.

  “Paul?” Zeyda says.

  “You know about him?” Mom and Abby say at the same time.

  “Yes,” Zeyda says. “A nice boy, a little strange. He likes mushrooms.”

  “Like, magic mushrooms?” Abby asks.

  I groan and close my eyes again.

  “No,” Zeyda says, “the kind that grow in your lawn.”

  “That is strange,” Abby says.

  “He seems like a nice kid,” Mom says. I can tell from the way she says it that she knows something is up between us.

  “Paul’s my lab partner,” I say. “And I was with Fenny all afternoon.”

  “Ooh, Fen’s a hottie,” Abby says.

  I throw a cushion in her direction.

  We sit down for dinner, say the Friday-night blessings and pass the dishes around the table. There’s salad as well as the chicken, potato kugel, broccoli and the challah. No one mentions that I haven’t been to school in two days or that I wouldn’t answer my phone all day. No one brings up Passover, and Zeyda doesn’t say anything about Paul not being Jewish. After dinner we drink tea and nibble oatmeal cookies and play Bananagrams. Then Dad drives Zeyda home, and Abby disappears to practice her monologue, and it’s just Mom and me at the kitchen table.

  Mom looks at me. “Did you make an appointment with Dr. Spenser?”

  “Yep, 4:00 PM Monday.”

  “Do you want me to take you?”

  “Nope.” I fiddle with the game tiles.

  “I might drive you anyway.”

  “Oh.” She means to make sure I go this time. “I wrote Dr. Spenser a letter, so I’m ready to see her.”

  “Do you want to share it with me?”

  “Nope.” I keep my head down.

  Mom sighs. “Okay. It was nice of Paul to come and check on you.”

  “Yep.” I add and remove tiles to make words. Mother, other, not her, not here, her ear, not her ear.

  Mom says, “You know, you could talk to me about him or anything else, if you wanted to.”

  “Thanks.” I move the tiles back to not her, her ear. I stand up. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Mom nods. “Have a good sleep.”

  I lie awake in bed a long time, letting the darkness press down on me. Even though I didn’t say much to Mom, the fact that she knows about Paul and knows I need to see Dr. Spenser makes the fog feel a little lighter.

  Ten

  FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS I see Dr. Spenser twice a week. I tell her about the fog, and that there’s a boy I like, but that I can’t get through the fog to him. This isn’t exactly true, but it’s close enough, and it’s better than telling her that eye contact (and other contact) freaks me out. She probably knows that anyway, since I spend the whole time I’m talking to her looking at this toy she has—a fabric bag of rice with a plastic window in it. You can move the rice around and find little toys inside. When I discover there’s an object for each letter of the alphabet, I challenge myself to find them in alphabetical order, which is almost impossible. It makes talking to Dr. Spenser easier though.

  And still the fog weighs me down, worse in the morning. I force myself to eat, go to school, do my homework, visit Dr. Spenser, take the antidepressants she prescribes. She says they should help my anxiety as well. I hang on to this shred of information, hoping to wake up one day and miraculously feel better, the fog cleared away like when the sun comes out after weeks of Vancouver rain. It hasn’t happened yet, but I do feel the side effects, which seems unfair. The meds make me feel flat, almost dead, as if the fog is happening to someone else.

  Instead of relying on Sudoku or other games to get me up in the morning, Dr. Spenser suggests I have friends check in on me. And so each morning when I get up and reach for my phone, I find a text from Sofia or Fen or sometimes Paul. Sofia writes things like Get out of bed so you can see my fabulous new streaks. Fen sends biking routes for a trip he’s planning for us in the summer, which is something to look forward to. Paul sends his latest photos of logs on the beach. Abby’s been checking in on me a lot too, making me breakfast in the morning, and Mom asks or texts me about how I feel at least ten times a day. Sometimes all the attention is a little overwhelming, but mostly it makes me feel better. When I feel like sitting in my closet and not coming out again, I try to focus on the investor’s club—Sofia and I have fallen behind in the ratings—or write some new poems. I try writing about investing, but those poems are worse than anything I’ve come up with so far.

  At home, Mom focuses on Passover and starts stockpiling special Passover foods—boxes of matzah, matzah meal, macaroons, prunes and other kosher for Passover treats. She attaches a Seder seating plan to the refrigerator and a menu—chicken soup with matzah balls, gefilte fish, charoset, brisket, arugula salad with roasted red onions, sweet-potato tsimmes with pears and pecans, leek and potato kugel, fruit compote and Passover brownies. My mouth waters every time I look at the list, even though I still don’t have much appetite.

  Zeyda and I reach a compromise about the casino. I promise Zeyda to take him if he’ll try out the JCC. Zeyda agrees as long as I’m willing to drive. One Saturday afternoon I drive Zeyda’s old car with Zeyda, Crystal and her son, Leonard, who has a valid driving license and likes gambling, to the casino in Richmond. I’m so nervous about driving over a bridge, making left-hand turns and going somewhere I don’t know that by the time we arrive, I’m a sweaty mess. Leonard helps Zeyda lose his money in the casino, and Crystal and I spend the afternoon at a nearby mall. A few days later Zeyda goes to the JCC senior hour with Crystal. When I arrive at Zeyda’s house that same day, Zeyda is thrilled to announce he won seventy-five dollars playing cards against Abe Sandler. This is less than he lost at the casino, but Zeyda doesn’t care. Abe Sandler calls while I’m visiting to insist on a rematch the following week. After a long conversation of insults and reminiscing, Zeyda turns to me and says with gusto, “I’m going to bleed that sucker dry.”

  Paul’s mom arrives in Vancouver, so I mainly see him at school. We work on a chem lab at Starbucks after school one day, and one Saturday we go down to Granville Island to eat lunch and watch the seagulls and the buskers. He kisses me goodbye, but it’s on Main Street, and we don’t linger. Instead of hanging out with him, I spend time with Dr. Spenser.

  Dr. Spenser wants to talk about how I feel, and I only want to know when the meds are going to kick in.

  “So I should definitely feel better by the end of the month, right?” I’m in Dr. Spenser’s office after school, slumped in a black-leather swivel chair.

  “Yes,” she says. “It might take a while to get the dosage right.”

  “Like, how long?” I persist.

  “There’s no hard-and-fast rule.”

  I sink further in my chair. “Can I hide in my closet until that happens?”

  “You could, but that doesn’t sound like very much fun.”

  “Have you tried going out in the world when you feel like this?” I can’t help the angry edge in my voice.

  Dr. Spenser leans back in her chair and looks me straight in the eye. “I understand how hard this must be, Syd, but you have to understand that meds aren’t going to fix everything. You also need to get out and be involved in your life.”

  “Involved in my life?”

  “Yes. The more you engage with the world, the better you’re going to feel.”

  I don’t answer. The fog is so thick I can’t see past it.

  Dr. Spenser continues. “Sitting in your closet is only going to make you feel worse.”

  “It’s just a last resort,” I mumble. “I only do it once or twice a week.”

  Dr. Spenser nods. “Good. What else do you do that makes you feel better?”

  I swivel my chair back and forth b
efore answering. “I hang out with my zeyda. We do investing together.”

  “What about kids your own age?”

  “Well, I bike with Fen, and Sofia and I hang out.”

  “And there’s Paul too, right?”

  I look down at my lap. “Yeah, him too.”

  “That’s not going well?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  There’s a long silence. Dr. Spenser waits patiently. She doesn’t even tap a pen on the desk or look at me. Finally I say, “It’s hard to be with him.”

  “What’s stopping you?” she asks quietly.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Think about it,” she says. “Maybe you’ll tell me next time. Or maybe you could write about it.”

  I stand up to go, but before I get to the door, Dr. Spenser says, “Sometimes you just need to let people into your life. Take a risk.”

  I nod and swallow back tears. If I let Paul be close to me and it doesn’t go well, I might never get out of my closet.

  The next day in writing class, Mrs. Lee starts with another free-write exercise. I haven’t done much writing in the last couple of weeks, and I’m behind on my poetry assignment. Mrs. Lee says this will be our final free-write this term. I sigh and pick up my pen. I hope it will be something impersonal, like a list of red things, or a writing prompt like “I See.” But Mrs. Lee says we should start with “I Want.” I take my time opening my journal and choosing a pen, and then I tap the pen on the page. Everyone else has already started. I pretend to think. Finally, I start writing.

  I want to live alone and go biking every day. I want tomato soup and Saltines for lunch, and to never have to go to therapy again. I want to go on a long biking trip with Fen or to the beach in Croatia with Sofia. I want Passover to be over and Abby’s play to disappear with the fog. I want to not exist some of the time. I want a walk-in closet. I shake my hand out. I want to study commerce and take Zeyda on a cruise. I want to walk on the beach and for the rain to stop and the weather to be warm. I take a break for a minute. All this stuff is true, but none of it is very interesting. I take a deep breath and keep going. I want to be with Paul and for it not to be hard. I want to be the kind of person who laughs and tells jokes and even skips. Yes, I want to skip, with Paul. I pause and imagine this. And after we’re done skipping, I want to disappear with him into his basement, back to that couch, back to his skin. I feel my cheeks heat up, and I put down my pen. I think about sex-ed class, about girls’ desires. That could go right in this free-write. Instead I write, I want this exercise to finish, for Mrs. Lee to say stop. All around me people are still scribbling and tapping. I turn to a fresh page in my book. I want a pumpkin-caramel muffin, Earl Grey tea, French toast, seared green beans and a rare steak. I fill the rest of the page with food items until Mrs. Lee says stop.

  When the bell rings I shove the journal in my bag and get out of class as quickly as I can.

  The next day at lunch there’s a commotion in the hallway, students all heading in one direction. “What’s that about?” Sofia asks Fen and me.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, but I have a bad feeling.

  “Maybe this?” Fen holds up his phone and shows us a Facebook invitation: The Vagina Stories, NOT a Drama Festival production. It’s happening today, right now, in the drama studio.

  “Oh, this is so exciting,” Sofia cries out.

  “Ugh, I can’t believe she’s actually doing this,” I wail. “Let’s leave the building.”

  “Yeah right,” Sofia says. She grabs my hand and drags me down the hall along with the herd of kids.

  I follow reluctantly. A crowd gathers outside the drama studio as students slowly file in past a sign on the wall announcing the performance. Sofia, Fen and I go in and stand at the back, behind kids sitting on the amphitheater-style stairs that lead down to the stage where Abby and her cast sit on wooden chairs, dressed in black. Outside the room someone yells, “Vaginas,” and other kids hoot. Then an usher closes the door and the lights dim except for a spotlight on Sunita, who begins the opening monologue. She stands with her hands on her hips, one foot cocked to the side, and begins.

  “Sometimes I think boys only see girls as objects, as things to collect.” Even though Sunita looks confident, almost cocky, I grab Sofia’s hand, squeeze it tightly and stare down at my shoes, too embarrassed to look.

  I try not to hear Sunita’s words, but I can’t help it. The students listen, the studio silent, and then Mr. Edwards pokes his head into the room. I watch him take in Abby and her friends. I wonder if he gave Abby permission. From the surprised look on his face, I think not. He surveys the room, the quiet audience. Maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t see. Maybe he’ll get in his car and drive to McDonald’s for lunch. I wasn’t on school property, he’ll say. I didn’t know it was going on.

  Sunita finishes her monologue. Then Abby gets up, the spotlight shining on her golden hair. I feel my guts tighten. I want to slip out and not hear her words. When she speaks her first line, “My grandmother could never say the word vagina,” I want to sink through the floor. I push myself behind Sofia and Fen. “I can’t believe she’s doing this,” I mutter. Sofia shushes me. When Abby says the word cunt, a murmur goes through the room. Abby waits for it to subside before going on.

  And then there are footsteps coming down the hallway, not the shuff ling and ambling of student sneakers making their way to lunch or stopping to talk to friends, but hard-soled shoes marching down the hall with intent. I hear them stop, and then I hear the sound of a poster being ripped off the wall. I cringe and dig my fingers into Sofia’s palm. She squeals a little. Then the lights flip on, and the principal, Mr. Gupta, uses his super-loud voice to interrupt Abby. “Show’s over, folks. Please head back to your usual lunch spots.”

  Abby turns to Mr. Gupta. “For some of us, this is our usual lunch spot.”

  “Not today it isn’t.”

  Students start filing out of the room. I linger behind but slip out when Mr. Gupta glares at me.

  When we’re back on the third floor, in front of our lockers, Sofia says, “Your sister is one brave cunt. I’m going to have to design a whole line of Abby-inspired clothes.”

  I slump against my locker and slide to the floor. “Please, no genital-inspired T-shirts.” I’ve tried texting Abby twice since the show got shut down, but she hasn’t responded. Sofia shows me a whole thread of Facebook cunt talk already going on. Things like drama cunts performing at school. It’s mostly silly stuff, and Abby will be pissed because none of it addresses her concerns about women.

  “Did you ever write your own monologue?” Sofia asks.

  “Yeah right,” I say.

  “I’m going to write mine today,” Sofia declares.

  I don’t pay too much attention to her, but after school Sofia convinces me to go to the mall to look at shoes. She’s been doing this a lot lately, trying to keep me busy. After a few stores we end up ordering hot-fudge brownies in White Spot. As soon as we sit down in the booth, Sofia whips a notebook out of her backpack. “I wrote my monologue,” she says.

  “Didn’t you have class this afternoon?”

  “I wrote it instead of taking math notes.”

  “That’s great, Sof.” I sip my water. “But I think you’re a little late for the performance.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want you to hear it.”

  I groan. “Do I have to?”

  She grins. “Yes.”

  “Here?” I look around the restaurant. Luckily there’s no one sitting near us.

  “Yep.”

  I slide down a little in the booth. “Okay, fine. I’m listening, but whisper, okay?”

  Sofia nods. “Right, a quiet little vagina monologue.” She smiles self-consciously. “It’s called ‘Finding Your Magic Button.’” She begins reading quietly. “Every girl has a button, but lots of girls don’t know where to find it. Some don’t even know it exists. It’s kind of hidden away, but it’s a super thing, if you can find it. It’s kind of
like a magic button. If you press it, great things can happen.”

  I clap a hand over my mouth. “I know you think girls should talk about these things,” I hiss, “but here, in White Spot?”

  “I’m whispering,” she says, “and no one is around us. Just listen.”

  I grip the table. “Is it long?”

  “No, just listen. If you press it, great things can happen. Girls should take the time to find their magic buttons so they can know what they like, and then maybe they can share that knowledge with someone they like. Then they can say, ‘Push my button.’” Sofia closes her notebook. “That’s it.”

  I sit with my mouth hanging open.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” she asks.

  I swallow. “Um, well, at least you didn’t use the m-word?”

  “You mean masturbation,” she says too loudly.

  “Please, stop!”

  She laughs. “I won’t say it again. Not even to bug you. How’s your monologue?”

  “The one I said I wasn’t writing?”

  Sofia bats a hand in the air.

  I stand up in the booth. “I think I see the waiter coming.”

  She arches one eyebrow at me. “Chicken.”

  I sit down and raise an eyebrow back at her. “Chicken?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  Sofia nods. “I challenge you to write your own monologue—on relationships or sex or whatever.”

  “I can write on whatever?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about brownies?”

  “Your own vagina monologue.”

  I wrinkle my brow. Then the waiter comes with our order. I take a large spoonful of the rich cake. “I’ll think about it,” I tell Sofia.

  She nods. “Good enough.”

  The house is empty when I get home from the mall. Mom texts me to let me know she and Dad are still at a meeting at school with Abby and the principal and that they’ll pick up something for dinner. I sense it’s going to be a long evening. I’d like to crawl into bed, even though it’s only 5:00 PM, pull the covers over my head and pretend the day didn’t happen. I know the fog will creep up on me if I do that, so I wander around the house for a few minutes. I consider going to Zeyda’s even though it’s late in the day. I’ve been biking to his house a lot so I can exhaust myself and get Zeyda some fresh air—now that the weather is nicer, I’ve been trying to take him for regular walks along the beach.