The Divorce Express

by Paula Danziger

  “That would be good to use when someone cuts in front of the cafeteria line,” Sarah calls out, using a chair to practice leg extensions.

  “Better than flat tires, even,” Jill says, braiding Wendy’s hair.

  Garbage Gut does flat tires a lot. That’s when someone behind you steps on the back of your shoes and the shoes come off.

  I continue to read from the list. “I CEE A RAFT . . . I.E. FAT RACE . . . I.E. RAT FACE . . . FACE IT, EAR . . . I CARE, FEAT . . . .”

  “Not bad.” Pete Redding does his imitation of Mr. Morley, the math teacher. “But could you get to the point? Remember the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, Ms. Brooks. You’re taking the long cut.”

  “Okay. Listen to this one . . . CITE A FEAR. That’s it. We can write that on a piece of paper and everyone can tell what their worst fear is about the cafeteria.”

  “I like it,” Willow Smith says.

  Holly and Meredith agree. So do the other kids.

  Dave walks in the door. He’s out of breath. His blond hair is flopping in front of his brown eyes.

  I’d love to go over to him and brush the hair off his face but decide that would be a bit much.

  He walks through the crowd and sits down next to me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to do some errands before I could get the car to come over here.”

  Rosie looks at me and smiles.

  Jill says, “I’ve made up a list of committees to work on. Everyone sign up and get to work.”

  As people get up to look at the paper, Dave turns to me. “I have an idea too. I stopped at the library to get a copy of ‘Trees.’”

  “I figure you should know it by heart, since we have to sing it in assemblies all the time.”

  “No one pays attention to the stuff they make you memorize in school . . . . Look, let’s work together on it.”

  “Okay. So what’s the idea?” I really want to brush the hair out of his eyes.

  “You know how English teachers are always telling us that parodies make fun of an established work. Well, I think we should do one of ‘Trees’—and then we can get the whole school to sing it at an assembly when we’re supposed to do the school song.”

  “I love it,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”

  We pick up two pillows and go sit in a corner. Kids all over the room are working. Even though there’s a lot of joking, everyone’s serious, except maybe Garbage Gut. It’s interesting. In Woodstock a lot of grown-ups are active politically—fighting for good causes, like against nuclear plants, getting rid of the gypsy moths without using dangerous sprays, people’s rights. There’s even a runaway house and a battered women’s shelter. I think that when kids grow up seeing their parents involved, the kids get involved too.

  Dave and I look at the poem. It feels comfortable being with him.

  We start to laugh as we begin the parody. A couple of kids come over to see what’s so funny. When they realize what we’re doing, everyone joins in.

  When it’s finished, Pete does his imitation of Ms. Douglass, the English teacher. He pretends to readjust a bra strap, points into the air, and says, “Well, class . . . . It’s not Shakespeare, but at least it rhymes.”

  CAFETERIA

  (to be sung to “Trees”)

  I think that I shall never see

  A cafeteria as gross as thee.

  A cafeteria where hungry mouths are pressed

  Against food that’s really messed

  A cafeteria that looks at kids all day

  Who have fears of ptomaine, so they say

  A cafeteria that may each day wear

  Out stomach linings that will tear.

  Upon whose food lines people have lain

  People crying and writhing while in pain

  Poems are made by fools like me,

  But a cafeteria like this drives me up a tree.

  CHAPTER 14

  We’re ready.

  Someone’s father’s got a Xerox machine, and we’ve got all the copies of the song.

  One person in each homeroom quietly distributes the paper.

  There’s a note attached.

  IF YOU CARE ABOUT IMPROVING THE QUALITY OF CAFETERIA FOOD, SING THIS AT ASSEMBLY TODAY. IF YOU DON’T, JUST KEEP QUIET. NOBODY LIKES A SQUEALER.

  We march into assembly, sitting down quietly. It’s the kind of quiet where you know that something’s going to happen.

  The Principal announces the speaker, a member of the D.A.R., Daughters of the American Revolution.

  Somehow that seems appropriate.

  The Principal continues. “Now, let’s all welcome her with a rousing rendition of our school song.”

  Rousing isn’t quite the word for it.

  I don’t think the real song has ever been sung so clearly, so loudly, by so many people.

  Probably the Principal, Mr. Beasley, doesn’t want to create a scene about what’s just happened, although he’s got this weird look on his face, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Some of the kids, and teachers too, do laugh. Even when the speaker is talking about how her ancestors took part in the American Revolution, every once in a while there’s a little chuckle from someplace, and trust me, this lady’s not doing a comedy routine.

  The bell rings.

  After applauding the boring speaker, we file out.

  All day long everyone’s expecting something to be said by Beasley. But nothing is. Amazing.

  By the end of the day there’s still no word.

  I’m at my locker, getting ready to go home.

  Dave shows up. Even though his locker’s at the other end of the hall, he seems to be in this vicinity a lot.

  “So what do you think they’re going to do?” He holds my books as I put on my coat.

  “I don’t know.” I take back the books. “I kind of expected something, like putting all of us in front of a firing squad, or detention, at least.”

  He says, “Well, on to Phase Two tomorrow.”

  “I know. They won’t be able to ignore that.”

  We walk out to the bus.

  Drat. He’s not on my bus. I wish he were. But then I’d have to make a decision about who to sit with, Dave or Rosie.

  Today I can’t sit with either of them. Rosie’s not going home on this bus. She’s got detention for cracking her knuckles in Music Appreciation class. She was doing it in time to the 1812 Overture. Some teachers have no sense of humor.

  We stop in front of my bus.

  “What’s your middle name?” I ask. “Since I don’t have much homework tonight, maybe I’ll try to figure what it is rearranged.”

  “A-L-L-E-N.” He brushes the hair out of his eyes. “How about letting me know what you come up with when we go out this Saturday night? . . . That is, if you want to go out.”

  Want to go out? Do I want a million dollars? Do I want the sky to fill with rainbows?

  I calmly say, “I’d love to.” Inside I feel like my body’s got a Ping-Pong game going on.

  “Okay, you kids. No playing Romeo and Juliet,” the bus driver bellows. “This bus is going to leave on schedule.”

  “See you in school tomorrow,” Dave says as he rushes off to catch his bus.

  Rushing up the steps, I have to listen to the driver say, “You kids think the world waits for you.” She points a finger at me. “Remember. Next time I’ll leave you behind.”

  As the bus lurches forward I take the first available seat I find. It’s next to this kid in my gym class. Lark McKeon.

  She looks up from her math homework. “Lucky. I’d give anything to have Dave Shore pay that much attention to me.”

  I look at her face to try to figure out if she’s being nasty but decide that she means it.

  Lark says, “Actually I do have a boyfriend, but he’s in the Army . . . . Doesn’t that bus driver just drive you nuts? Last year, my boyfriend, who was a senior, and I were two minutes late getting to the bus and she drove off without us. She saw us running and
she left anyway . . . . Look, do you want to see a picture of him?”

  Before I can even answer, she’s got her wallet out and she’s showing me pictures. Lark and Mark at the Prom . . . at the Library Fair . . . Mark in uniform. She’s the fastest talker in the world. I don’t even have a chance to say anything.

  Finally she puts her wallet away. “Actually I started going out with him because I like the way our names sound together. Lark and Mark. But then I really started liking him. I miss him. I miss having a boyfriend here. It gets boring without one. Actually it’s pretty boring even with one.”

  Actually I’m beginning to think that Lark’s pretty boring . . . . No wonder her life isn’t exciting. She’s got to listen to herself talk all day.

  I stare at her forehead, right between the eyes. It’s something I’ve learned to do when I’m supposed to look interested. It comes in handy in school and other places.

  The bus pulls up at her stop.

  As she stands up to leave she says, “We’ll have to talk more often. That was fun. When Mark comes home on leave, maybe we can double.”

  “But Dave and I aren’t a couple.” I manage to get in a word, several in fact.

  “Good. That’s settled. I’ll tell Mark when I write to him tonight.”

  She’s gone.

  Some girls turn into absolute fluffbrains when they go out with a guy. Something tells me that Lark started out that way though.

  The bus pulls up at my stop and I get out.

  “Don’t forget what I said,” the bus driver yells.

  I pretend not to hear her.

  My father’s out by the pool, painting the view of the reservoir.

  There are leaves all over the pool cover.

  Winter is definitely on its way.

  I stand on the patio and look down at him. “Want to take a break?”

  He looks up. There’s a smudge of paint on his cheek. “Oh, hi, honey. No thanks. I want to keep working as long as there’s light.”

  “Okay, see you later.” I go into the house.

  I really wanted to tell him about my date with Dave . . . and what happened in school with the assembly. Sometimes I get jealous of the time he spends painting, and then I think that’s better than his being with some woman I wouldn’t like.

  Going into the refrigerator for juice, I see that he’s made dinner for tonight. Salad. A cheese casserole.

  I’ll prepare a special dinner for him on the night I go out with Dave so that he doesn’t feel lonely.

  Before I start my homework, I take out my notebook and tear out little scraps of paper and put a letter on each one.

  DAVIDALLENSHORE

  It takes forever to come up with a good combination.

  Finally I come up with something . . . . It sounds like one of those awful romance novels.

  Wait till I tell Rosie . . . . HIS DEAR LOVE LAND and PHONE BREAKS A BOON are going out.

  CHAPTER 15

  Phase Two—Double B-Day.

  B&B—Bread and Butter.

  Everyone goes through the line, buying one slice of bread and two pats of butter.

  The bread gets buttered, with more butter around the edges.

  A few minutes before the bell is to ring, Jill goes up to the cafeteria teachers, who are all standing in one place, probably discussing how they got stuck with such a lousy assignment.

  Jill asks for a bathroom pass.

  That’s the signal.

  Everyone quietly sticks the bread to the underside of the table top, butter side up.

  The teachers tell Jill to wait until the bell rings, since the period’s almost over. They always say that to kids. They think that kidneys can tell time.

  The bell rings.

  Everyone rushes out of the place. I don’t think the cafeteria’s ever been emptied out so quickly.

  Later we get the report from the kids who have lunch next.

  The bread falls down—piece by piece.

  Cafeteria workers freak out.

  The janitors rush around cleaning it up while kids are trying to get lunch and be seated.

  No bread and butter is served for this group.

  We figured that would happen. So everyone buys the yucky yellow cake with the awful yellow icing and mushes it under the table.

  This time Beasley does react.

  I’m in Algebra class figuring out that the letters in the word ALGEBRA spell out REAL GAB when Beasley gets on the intercom.

  “All senior high students are to report to the school auditorium immediately.”

  Mr. Michaels, our teacher, says, “Okay, everyone line up.”

  “What about me?” Eric Parker, child genius, raises his hand.

  Eric’s only nine, but the grammar school has him in high school academic courses. He’s so smart, they don’t know what to do with him. However, he’s not real bright about asking. He should have just gone. That’s the problem with child geniuses. Academically they do fine. It’s socially that’s a problem.

  Michaels shrugs. “Why don’t you go back to your old school and have recess?”

  Michaels hasn’t liked Eric since the day Eric corrected one of Michaels’s mistakes.

  “The assembly may not be acceptable for you.” Michaels puts books in his briefcase. “We have to go.”

  What’s he expecting, an R-rated assembly?

  Eric says, “Okay, give me a pass to the library. I’ll do some work on the computer.”

  “Good idea,” Michaels says.

  Good for Eric. He didn’t let Michaels’s remark get to him. And I’ve seen him work on the computer before. He’s got Space Invaders programmed on it.

  We march down to the auditorium. Some kids look nervous. Others smile a lot.

  Beasley is on the auditorium stage pacing as everyone sits down.

  This time he does react.

  He starts to speak.

  Something tells me that this time no one is going to get the chance to sing “Trees.”

  He grips the podium. “What’s going on?”

  The room is quiet. The only sound is the auditorium clock ticking.

  Dave raises his hand. We’ve decided that he should be spokesperson.

  Beasley calls on him.

  “We’ve all complained about the cafeteria food before, and no one has done anything about it. We just wanted to emphasize our dissatisfaction.”

  Dave’s speaking very calmly. I’m proud of him. I’m so glad he’s asked me out. I’m glad he called me last night. At Kilmer that’s how people “go out,” by making phone calls and walking around the halls together. When you’re a kid, it’s hard to have lots of real dates. One good thing is that he’s older and has his license, so we’ll have a chance to spend some time together. I hope that he’s a good kisser. I definitely like good kissers.

  Dave continues. “Civil disobedience is the cornerstone of a democracy. We just wanted to be democratic about it.”

  Beasley snorts. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to send a telegram? Did you have to disrupt a school assembly, embarrass a guest, and ruin school property?”

  Dave speaks firmly. “No property was ruined. We realize that there was a mess to deal with, but there was no willful destruction.”

  Beasley doesn’t listen. He talks about the Kilmer school spirit and how we should stand behind the school, no matter what.

  Maybe we should send him a telegram. That’s expensive, but if we can keep it under ten words, it shouldn’t be too bad.

  ROSES’RE RED,

  VIOLETS BLUE.

  THE FOOD STINKS.

  SO DO YOU.

  Beasley keeps talking. “I don’t like the food any better than you do. What do you think? That the administration and staff have their lunches catered? We have to eat the same food as you do.”

  Teachers get to cut in line and they get the few good things first. In the morning they can also put things aside for later. And one day I saw my home-room teacher send a note down to the cafeteria staff asking for specia
l food.

  I tried asking a cafeteria worker to please put aside a cottage cheese and fruit platter for me.

  She said, “What do you think this is? The Culinary Institute?”

  So it’s not the same.

  It’s like the book that we’re reading in English, Animal Farm, by George Orwell.

  Some animals are more equal than others. (Especially if they’re teachers.)

  Beasley ends up by saying that the foolishness has to stop, that no one will be punished if everything goes back to normal.

  We all troop out of assembly.

  On to Phase Three.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Phoebe, do you really think you need four sandwiches, twenty granola cookies, an apple, and two pears for one lunch?” my father asks.

  I nod. “It’s for Garbage Gut. I can’t believe he’s so skinny with all that he eats. If I ate half of what he does, I’d have to be rolled around.” I pack another lunch.

  My father pulls out a new batch of granola cookies from the oven. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he says.

  “You kids are really organized.”

  We are. Phase Three is: Everyone brings lunch. No one buys it. That’s why my father and I are doing this—to help out the kids who can’t make their own lunch, for one reason or another.

  Garbage Gut said he’d bring his own, but we were afraid that he’d still be hungry and not be able to keep away from the cafeteria line.

  My assignment is to bring five extra lunches. At first I was kind of worried about whether doing this would put us over our food budget, but my father says not to worry.

  As I put a new batch of cookies into the oven, I think maybe I am turning into a worrywart about money. I’ve never thought about it so much, but when my parents were married they never used to talk about it either.

  I guess I’m thinking a lot about it today because my father’s mother called. Grandmother Brooks is still absolutely freaked out that he’s quit his job. She says things to me like, “Put your father, the bum, on the phone” and “I hope that he doesn’t think he can come to me for money when he runs out.”

  I really do hate her. She’s never been nice to him. He’s never gone to her for money. I know he’s not going to start now.