by Beth Vrabel
Grace leans forward, snags the ball with two hands, and throws it as hard as she can at Hubert’s face.
“Whoa!” Alfonso and Henry say at the same time.
Wes hops to his feet but doesn’t move as Grace pushes back from the table and stomps to a different station, one filled with women painting their nails. Grace grabs a cotton ball, dunks it in nail polish remover, and wipes off the polish Hubert had blown dry that morning. Hubert covers his face in his hands.
Slowly the old man rises from his seat. “Sorry about the game,” he says to the others, and tosses the ball back into rotation. While the rest of the residents start playing again, Hubert limps off to an empty table.
Wes follows, but stops when Rex reaches out and grabs his wrist as he passes. “Starting to doubt true love, Ding?”
Wes smirks. “I don’t give up that easy.” Trotting forward, he calls to Hubert.
The old man shuffles away faster.
“Hold up! Come on, man. Hold up!” Wes hurries to Hubert’s side. “What happened?”
Hubert rakes a hand down the front of his face. “I told her we couldn’t be together anymore, that’s what. Told her to divorce me.”
Wes holds out his arm to stop Hubert in place. “Why’d you do something like that?”
Hubert shakes his head. “My first wife, she passed slow. I don’t want that for Grace. She’s so happy. I can’t be the one who takes that happiness from her.”
Wes drops his arm. “She threw that ball straight at your face. I don’t know a lot about women, but I’m going to guess that happy women don’t do that.”
Hubert strides ahead, and Wes hurries to stay by his side.
“You’ve got to tell her the truth, Hubert! It should be up to her.”
Hubert turns and looks straight on at Wes. “Why do you care, kid?”
Wes shoves his hands in his pockets. “Because you love each other.”
Hubert glances over to the table where Grace is painting her nails. She’s watching them. Hubert turns and walks out of the room.
1:07 p.m.
ALLY “The Athlete”
If you know your opponent’s weakness, where they’re most afraid you’re going to knock, you know how to train.
If you know your opponent’s weakness, you know what to exploit.
That’s part of being a star athlete—getting into the other side’s head space. Seeing what their triggers are and grinding your thumb into each and every one of them until they fall. Until they crumble. Until they’re so distracted, so shook up, they don’t even care that your pitch slammed into the glove behind them; all they want is to limp back to the dugout.
“Look for their marks,” Coach had said all softball season. “They’re telling you their weakness as soon as they step up to the plate. If they stand back and then inch forward, they’re scared of the ball. Throw it fast and quick. If they’re staring back at you, legs hunched and ready to run, give ’em the curve ball. Scatter their nerve. Best is if they’re shaking; if they need time to work their swing on the side; if they turn to the coach after each strike. Then, all you have to do is smile, and that will be enough.”
But the crushing smile feels like it belongs to someone else. Like she is two people. The real Ally isn’t the Ally on the mound who smirks as her team cheers her name. The Ally who sees her opponent’s curled shoulders. Sees the girl’s dad sitting in the bleachers with crossed arms and red cheeks at another strike. The real Ally is just there for a second, when she tastes the girl’s shame like ice water against a cavity in her mouth.
“You are stone-cold, Ally girl,” Coach had called when the no-hitter left the would-be batter in tears.
But the compliment is a splinter pressed into her palm. Because that time Ally hadn’t been reading the opponent. At least, she hadn’t thought she was. Maybe it had been just like Coach had promised at the beginning of the season. Maybe she had gotten so good at seeking out tells that she didn’t even know she was doing it. Maybe she had gotten to the point where all she could see was vulnerability, even without trying, even without wanting to.
“Help her out,” Rex whispers to Ally when the ball rolls to the weak old woman again. She tilts her head toward the woman, who was trying to grasp the pool noodle between arms as feeble as spaghetti. Ally shakes her head at Rex. Do it, Rex mouths.
Ally swallows the bile rising in her throat. She doesn’t want to touch the woman again. It’s not that the woman is old. It’s not that she’ll have to touch skin as brittle as tissue paper. It’s not that Ally’s scared to stretch the woman’s swollen, stiff fingers. It’s the blaring, overwhelming weakness of the woman—the help she needs for even the simplest task. The woman’s mouth is open, tilting up at the sides. Soft sounds bubble out of her, like the babbling of a baby. She’s happy, Ally realizes. She wants to play. She just can’t.
Again Ally swallows.
“Help her,” Rex says again.
But Ally can’t. Her heart’s jumping up in her throat. “She can’t play,” Ally says. “I mean, come on.” She glances at the others around the table. The old woman’s mouth trembles. “She can’t do it.”
The woman on the other side of Ally sucks in her breath. Another resident shakes his head. Even Alfonso and Henry look disgusted. Rex glares at her. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Let’s all take a break,” the activity leader says. The residents grumble. One reaches over and pats the old woman’s hand.
“You’re doing just great,” she says. “Just great.”
Ally pushes away from the table. She turns, not sure where to go, and sees Jason and Mike watching her. She shrugs, trying to play off what just happened like it isn’t a big deal. The woman couldn’t play, she tells herself—tells Jason with her eyes. But he turns back to sorting puzzle pieces with Mike.
Ally hears someone stand from the table and knows without looking that it’s Rex. Ally can practically feel anger radiating off her.
“What is your problem, Sports Barbie?”
“It’s Ally. My name is Ally.”
“Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of new names for you, and any one of them would land me in another Saturday of detention.” Rex’s upper lip twists when she’s trying to look tough. “You know, for a minute I actually thought you were cool.”
Rex places her hand against her chest. Ally knows she’s pressing the locket closer to her heart. And Ally knows Rex isn’t nearly as tough as she wants everyone to believe. It’s all an act. Unlike the endlessly revolving masks Lilith tries on, Rex found a mask that stuck. The rebel. But this close, Ally sees the cracks. She’s lonely, Ally realizes. She’s lonely, and she thought I’d be her friend.
Ally keeps her own face expressionless. “Why would your opinion mean anything to me at all?” Face-to-face, Rex isn’t nearly as big as she seems. Face-to-face, she seems smaller, fragile even. Ally feels her cold game face set.
She whips around, right into Jason, who’s now standing behind her. How much had he heard?
“Ally?” Jason’s eyes are wrinkled at the side, the way they did when he was drawing and trying to figure out what he was going to add next.
“It’s not a big deal, okay?” Ally sidesteps, looking from Jason to Rex and back. Rex’s face is hard and mean. Jason looks sad. Neither has a right to look at her that way. Neither knows her, not really. It isn’t like she owes them anything. “Why is everyone making this out to be a big deal? She’s weak. She can’t play. Why is she even in the game if she can’t play?”
Jason looks at his feet while she speaks, but he’s watching her from under his lashes as she steps away from them. In that moment she realizes that somehow Jason knows exactly why she has detention. He knows what she did.
“I thought you were different,” Jason says. Or maybe it’s Rex who says it. It doesn’t matter.
That’s the funny thing—but not funny as in laugh-out-loud hilarious. Funny as in sad. Funny as in pathetic. Funny as in weak.
Ally thought s
he was different, too. For a moment, the corner of her eyes sting. But Ally will not cry, not now or ever. She doesn’t tolerate tears.
Because, really, she’s just like Coach says. Stone-cold.
1:44 p.m.
LILITH “The Drama Queen”
Being someone new is part of the fun of being an actress. While To Kill a Mockingbird is an all right book, Lilith admits, only one line from it really sticks with her, and it’s about needing to walk around in someone else’s skin if you really want to know that person. Acting is like that, but with a twist. It’s being someone else in your own skin.
And usually it takes effort.
Usually it impresses people.
But this blind old man who keeps thinking Lilith is his granddaughter Becky is flat-out disappointed to discover the truth. And she isn’t even trying to be like Becky. She’s actually being herself.
Frank falls asleep in the middle of Wheel of Fortune. How he manages is a mystery since the volume is up as far as it can go.
“Frank. Hey, Frank!” Lilith nudges him.
“Becky, that you?” he asks and starts to stand.
“No, no.” Lilith helps him stay seated. “It’s me, Lilith.”
“Oh.” Frank blinks a little. “I thought you were my granddaughter, Becky. She looks just like you.”
Lilith squints at him. He’s probably the whitest old man she’s ever seen, down to his fluffy white hair and baby blue eyes. His arm is like a blank canvas against her darker hand. “I somehow doubt that,” she says.
“Should’ve known better. Becky wouldn’t have called me Frank. She calls me Pap.”
“Right,” Lilith says. “Anyway, can I change the channel? It looks like you are sleeping.”
“Oh, I am just resting my eyes a spell,” Frank says.
“Well, can I? Change the channel, I mean.”
“Sure, Becky, you go on ahead.”
“It’s Lilith.”
Lilith leans over the coffee table. “Frank, any chance you know where the remote is?”
He shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t know that there is a remote. Wheel of Fortune is the only thing that ever plays on this TV.”
Lilith sinks back into the couch with a sigh. What exactly is the purpose of this day? Is forced boredom even a legal means of punishment? She doesn’t bother to turn around when Rex and Ally get into another whispery fight. It has to be criminal to do this to children, she thinks.
Finally, Mr. Hardy and Mrs. Mitchell come back into the room. Mr. Hardy calls out their names and motions for them to join him.
“See you later, Frank,” Lilith says.
“Bye now,” Frank says. “Maybe later I’ll introduce you to my granddaughter. She’s going to visit me real soon.”
Mr. Hardy stands in front of them with his arms crossed. Next to them, Mrs. Mitchell stands with her hands held behind her back. She has a fresh layer of pink lipstick on and is back to sporting a Southern accent.
“All right, y’all!” she says. “You’ve had time to chitchat with our residents. Now it’s time to reflect on what y’all learned!”
Mr. Hardy’s jaw flexes. “Mrs. Mitchell and I have been talking about how you should spend the rest of your day. We both agree that it should be spent quietly reflecting. Our day here ends at four thirty.” Mr. Hardy winces as Mrs. Mitchell makes the sign of the cross next to him. “So that gives you a lot of time to—”
“Write the skit!” Lilith interrupts. “Just like you asked us to.”
The other four groan in unison, and Mr. Hardy nods. “That’s right,” he says, “the skit, which, of course, will come after you write your essays about what you’ve learned today.”
Mrs. Mitchell’s bubblegum pink smile falters a moment. “Oh,” she says. “The skit.” She clears her throat. “Well, I’m not sure our residents will be up for that—”
Just then the door behind them opens. Agnes beams at the students, clapping her hands together. “There you are, Lily!” she squeals. “I was just talking with Opal. We can’t wait for our special show!” She claps again and turns to Mrs. Mitchell. “When will they put on their skit?”
Mrs. Mitchell’s mouth wobbles for a moment. In a shaky voice, she says, “At four o’clock, Agnes.”
“Oh, yippee!” Agnes does a little skip and then points to the table behind them. “And, oh look! Jigsaw puzzles! This is such an exciting day.”
Lilith shakes her head. “So sad,” she mutters.
1:47 p.m.
WES “The Flirt”
Mr. Hardy leads the students back to the conference room. Lilith, of course, is first to enter the room and takes a seat at the head of the table again. Ally strides into the room and goes to the back, throwing her hacky sack against the wall, catching it, and throwing it over and over. Jason sits near the middle of the table; he has his sketchbook in front of him, his body curled over it and his pencil darting across the page.
“Come on, Rex,” Mr. Hardy says. “Don’t think I’m suddenly going to lower expectations after what we discussed.”
“We didn’t discuss anything,” Rex says as she shuffles into the room. “You made a ridiculous suggestion.”
Mr. Hardy sighs, his breath coming out like a leaking balloon. “Just move it along.”
“I move at my own pace,” she snaps.
“No,” Mr. Hardy growls back, “you move at my pace when I’m in charge.”
“Who says you are in charge?”
“When are you going to learn how to tell when people are trying to help you instead of hurting you, kid?”
“When are you going to learn to leave me alone, Teach?”
Principal Hardy’s nostrils flare. “Both topics we can discuss Monday. In detention.” He raises an eyebrow at her.
“Just one day? That’s a lot to discuss.”
“Tuesday, too, then.”
Rex’s arms are crossed and her chin popped up. Just as she opens her mouth, Wes blurts, “Stop!”
Rex’s eyes shift to his. He shakes his head. Rex doesn’t move, but she doesn’t speak, either.
Without saying anything else, Rex slouches, her shoulder ramming into Wes as she passes by him. She grabs a chair and yanks it to a corner before forcefully sitting in it.
For a moment Wes and Mr. Hardy both stare around the room, with Lilith prattling on and on about the skit, Jason absorbed entirely in his sketch, Ally blocking them all out, and Rex partitioning herself off. Nothing’s changed, Wes realizes. This whole day—everything that’s happened—and we’re all exactly the same.
Jason, for a while, had stepped up, been a leader even. Lilith became less obnoxious, saving all of them from getting in trouble instead of just thinking about herself. Ally dropped the better-then-everyone act and seemed to connect with Jason and Rex, too. Rex had trusted them to get her necklace back. But here they all are, back to being exactly how they were that morning—a nobody, a drama queen, an athlete, and a rebel.
Did I change? Wes asks himself. He lifts his chin, remembering. Yeah, he had stood up for TBN. He had stood up for himself. He’s done solving everyone else’s problems. Except that isn’t even true, a little voice in his head whispers. Hadn’t he put himself square in the middle of Hubert and Grace’s problem? Wasn’t he, even now, trying to figure out a way to keep everyone together?
“I want this door open,” Mr. Hardy says. He moves a hinge on the door so it’s locked in place with the door wide open. “The whole time, it’s to remain open. And you’re all going to stay inside. I can hear you from across the hall.” He points to each of them. “Remember that. I can hear you.”
For a full minute, no one speaks. The only sound is the steady bam, bam, bam of Ally’s hacky sack against the wall. Finally, Lilith clears her throat. Without looking up from his sketch, Jason interrupts her, saying, “I don’t think we’re going to get out of this skit thing. So we should probably all fess up to why we’re here. I mean, I think Hardy and Mitchell are looking for our deep overriding lesso
n. And if we say what we’ve learned—”
Lilith clears her throat again. “I was going to propose something. I have to figure out how to pull each of us into one character so you can take parts as residents.” She turns to Rex. “Obviously, as the writer, I don’t need to share my experience. It will come through in the writing.”
“Who exactly put you in charge anyway?” Rex asks.
“Earlier, when you were off getting yelled at by Mr. Hardy, we decided that I will play the role of all of us and the rest of you will be in supporting roles. I’ll try to make it so you don’t even have to speak.”
“How generous of you,” Rex quips.
Lilith shimmies her shoulders. “You’re welcome.” Then she points to Jason. “You’ll be one of the silent old men. I don’t care which one. You’ll just be lurking in the background. Should be easy enough.”
“Wow,” Rex mutters.
“Wes, you can be TBN,” Lilith continues.
“Seriously?” Wes gasps.
“Won’t be hard,” Rex says, an edge to her voice. “Isn’t she, like, your best friend now?”
“That’s not fair,” Wes says. “You don’t understand—”
“Yes, she does,” Ally says. “I told her TBN was just covering for Opal. Not that she cares.”
Rex swivels her chair toward Ally. “As if you’re such a pillar of kindness. I saw how you treated that old lady at the game table.”
Ally doesn’t say anything, just throws the sack harder against the wall.
Lilith glances toward Rex. “You can play a combined role of Mrs. Mitchell and Mr. Hardy. Just be yourself—annoying and bitter—but instead of showcasing your antisocial behavioral traits, pretend to have feelings.”
Ally snickers.
“And you,” Lilith says to Ally, “will be one of the old women. I don’t care which.”
“Be Agnes,” Jason says. “She’s amazing.”
Lilith shakes her head. “You’re seriously dull. But, sure, Ally, if you want to spend the skit stitching a quilt or babbling about oatmeal, go for it.”
