What Mr. Mattero Did

by Priscilla Cummings

  I spun away from her and walked off. Fast. I glanced back once, and she was still staring at me. Ugh. It gave me the creeps. I mean, what did she want from me?

  And did other people hear her?

  In music class that day, there was a substitute teacher. A real ding-a-ling. We’d had her before. She’s sort of fat, and she wore these loose brown old-lady pants and an oversized blouse that pulled so tight across her chest it popped open between the buttons. She was so gross. Even her hair—it looked like it just came off a set of rollers and she forgot to brush it. She was sipping a Coke and had an opened package of Fritos on her desk, which you could smell and which reminded me how hungry I was.

  “Get out your recorders,” Mrs. Fatso said. She must have said it ten times, but never very loud, which is why no one was listening to her.

  “Get out your recorders!” she finally yelled.

  So we took our recorders out of their blue leather cases. A kid in my class, Aaron Brown, started playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and we laughed.

  Spencer Leigh, behind me, had a lion puppet on his hand and pulled my ponytail. He growled when I turned around.

  And that’s what music class was like that day.

  No one seemed to miss Mr. Mattero. We were so incredibly bored in his class. I can’t even remember what we were studying—major and minor modes. Dynamics. Texture. Stuff like that. Oh yeah, and music where one voice has the melody, called homophony. Only Mr. Mattero had wrote it on the board before he pronounced it, and Travis Gilmore called out he had nothing against gay people and Mr. Mattero shouldn’t be making fun of them. We all bust a gut laughing that day. “Hoh-MAH-foh-nee, not homophobic!” poor Mr. Mattero tried to explain. I don’t think he ever did get control of our class after that.

  During music I doodled inside the cover of my music notebook. Flowers, faces, long swirlie doodads. The kids should have been on their knees with gratitude for what Jenna, Suzanne, and I did.

  The sub was pathetic. She didn’t know squat about the recorder. Which, by the way, I could play “Ode to Joy” on, like, perfect. It’s the first instrument I’ve ever played, too. When we blew into our instruments, we all played different songs.

  “Stop! Stop the music!” the sub hollered. Now that I think of it, it was the last time all year we ever touched those recorders. Too bad, because we were going to play them in the spring concert. Mom was going to bring Corky and Izzy. And my grandmother even said she would come, to hear me play.

  Word got around fast. At lunch, it was pretty obvious that everyone in school knew it was us who had told on Mr. Mattero. Everybody was whispering and pointing. Some other kids came right out and asked us. When we didn’t answer, a teacher nearby told everybody to mind their own business.

  At lunch, Jenna and I sat together, near a group of seventh-grade goody-goodies who made you want to puke. One of them, this girl, Emily, said to us, “It took a lot of courage to go in and report what Mr. Mattero did.”

  Jenna snorted a little. She can’t stand that group.

  But really, it was a nice thing to say to us.

  “Thanks,” I told her, good and loud so Jenna could hear. “We really appreciate it.”

  Still, we didn’t strike up any more of a conversation with them or anything. We went back to eating, which for Jenna was a hot lunch: lasagna, green beans, a roll with butter, and sliced, canned peaches. It looked delicious. Me, I had an old chocolate cherry Luna bar—smashed—that I’d found in the bottom of my backpack because I forgot to pack an apple. I had money, sure. My mother gave me lunch money every day. But eating lunch is a total waste of calories, and besides, that’s where I got money for clothes and stuff. So a Luna and a bottle of water. I probably should have skipped lunch, but that day we ate late with eighth grade, and I was absolutely starving.

  Suddenly, there was this food fight in another corner of the cafeteria. We heard kids laughing and saw some boys stand up to throw something. Then a girl sprang up out of her chair and ran from the cafeteria.

  I heard one of the seventh-graders near us lean forward into her group and say, “That’s Melody. Yeah. That’s Mr. Mattero’s daughter.”

  12

  Melody

  “IS IT TRUE WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT YOUR DAD?”

  “Who reported him?”

  “Do you know who told?”

  “Is he in, like, big trouble?”

  The questions pummeled me as soon as I got to school. Mom had given me a quick hug and headed to the office to deliver Dad’s letter, but my locker was in the opposite direction. I had to go on alone, shouldering my way through the thick and boisterous morning crowd, teeth clenched, stomach in a knot, ignoring every question and comment that came in my direction. Kept coming in my direction, even as I spun the dial on my locker trying to find the right numbers, but kept missing and so had to keep spinning.

  Thank God for Annie. She is everything a best friend could be. As soon as she saw my hunched shoulders and the tears creeping into my eyes, she took over.

  “Beat it!” she hollered at everyone clustered around me. She even waved her arm around as though threatening to smack anyone who got too close. “It’s not Melody’s fault! Leave her alone!”

  People backed off.

  “Bunch of animals,” Annie muttered, her eyes sweeping the hallway, on the lookout for anyone even thinking about coming toward us. “They’re like vultures, aren’t they? Disgusting vultures!”

  I flipped my braid back over my shoulder, and I might have laughed at Annie’s reaction if I wasn’t trying so hard not to cry.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Annie asked, bending her head close to mine. She had a burst of curly, frizzy black hair that seemed extra wild that morning.

  “Yeah. I’m okay. I just didn’t know what to say to anyone.”

  “God, it’s awful, Melody. We saw it on the news last night and in the paper this morning. How come you didn’t call me?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to tell you.”

  “Do you know who those girls are?” she asked. It was the same question everyone else had asked, but Annie wanting to know was different.

  “I know one’s named Jenna somebody. Dad said the other names but they weren’t familiar. Oh, there’s a Claire—I think. They’re seventh-graders.”

  “Seventh grade! That is such a creepy class. A total bunch of losers.”

  I felt better now with Annie beside me, verbally bashing the entire seventh grade because of what three girls had done. I pushed my glasses back up on my nose and went back to the combination on my locker, finally finding the right numbers. Metal clicked. My locker opened. “Thanks,” I told her.

  “Sure.” She scanned the hallway again. “Get your stuff and let’s go.”

  We headed to homeroom, but first, I had to stop in the music room to drop off my father’s planner so the substitute would know what to do. It was painful opening his door. No one had arrived yet; the room was dark.

  I flipped the switch, and, as the lights flickered on above the carpeted, tiered steps of the rehearsal room, I walked over to my father’s desk. As usual, it was a mess. Piles of music books. The CDs we’d stacked up the day before. A copy of Great Songs of the 60s beside a tape of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. A container of keyboard cleaner. A vial of clear slide oil for the trombones. And among the scattered pens, pencil halves, and assorted pieces of paper, an open can of Diet Coke.

  Setting my backpack on the floor, I took a minute to straighten up, quickly making separate piles of books, music, and other things. I placed the can of soda in the wastebasket and when I finally had a clear space on his desk, I retrieved Dad’s day planner from my backpack and set it down. I even opened it up to the right day so the substitute would see what Dad had planned.

  “Come on,” Annie beckoned from the doorway.

  I scooped up my backpack, but on the way out I paused to look at the notice on his bulletin board for the upcoming competition in Virginia. There was a picture of the am
usement park where we would all spend the day after the contest at Patrick Henry High School in Ashland. And a brochure of the hotel where we were staying. It had an indoor pool, a game room with video machines, and a restaurant where we could order what we wanted because we’d be bringing our own meal money.

  EVERYONE SHOULD BE PRACTICING AT LEAST ONE HOUR A DAY.

  My father’s note on a piece of white paper was printed by hand, each word underlined.

  I wondered how long it would take the police to do an investigation. Would they get it done in time for us to have a final rehearsal and go to the competition the week after next? What if they didn’t get it done in time? Would Dad have to cancel the trip? Could the school let him do that after all the work we’d done? All the money we’d raised at bake sales? At car washes?

  “Hurry up!” Annie called in. And it suddenly struck me as odd—really odd—that Annie hadn’t even set foot in the room.

  After going to English together, Annie and I had to split up for different classes, her to Spanish and me to social studies.

  None of my good friends were in that class with me, and I was not prepared, so I leaned over my desk, resting my forehead against my hand and hoping it looked as though I had a headache. My history teacher, Mr. Woburn, was pretty cool; I hoped he would understand and not call on me.

  Discussion centered on World War II, which was our reading the night before. “How did the Allies force Germany and Japan to surrender?” Mr. Woburn asked. Hands went up, but not mine. While they discussed the answer, I drifted into my own thoughts, wondering how Mom was doing while she arranged all those impatiens at the nursery, and how Cade was surviving at the high school.

  I worried about Dad and tried to imagine what questions the detective would be asking him for the lie-detector test. I did not doubt that my father would pass that test. Why wouldn’t he? All he had to do was answer simple, basic questions and tell the truth of what happened. Questions that Detective Daniels said he would even know beforehand.

  And just at that moment I had an incredibly random thought. I thought about my viola. I saw it in my mind, leaning in its case against my desk, and how, out of a sense of duty, I took it out and practiced for half an hour five days a week. I was good at fooling my parents. They didn’t have a clue what a chore it was. Could a lie-detector test expose me?

  Melody Mattero, do you enjoy playing your viola?

  Oh, absolutely! Of course I do!

  How deep down did a secret have to be before it was completely safe? And if there was a safe zone, then how could you ever really be sure that anyone was telling the truth? Even my father! What if Dad had lied about not touching those girls? What if he really did do something and was so ashamed he didn’t want to tell us?

  Startled, I sat up abruptly. I could not believe those thoughts had the audacity to come into my mind!

  Mr. Woburn must have figured I had the answer to his question.

  “Melody?”

  I blinked and stared at him.

  “Why was penicillin so important during World War II?” he repeated.

  Penicillin? I bit my lip and frowned, making it look as though I was trying hard to remember. What was penicillin? A person? A legal term? No, it was a medical thing, some kind of—

  “Did you do the reading last night?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said instantly, afraid to tell him I hadn’t. But didn’t Mr. Woburn know what happened to my dad? How could he call on me like this? He started looking around the room, to ask someone else I assumed, which would have only humiliated me more.

  “Penicillin was important,” I began.

  “Yes?” Mr. Woburn looked over his glasses at me.

  “Because it saved lives?” I guessed.

  “Excellent! It saved lives.” Mr. Woburn lifted his head, tapped a piece of chalk against his palm, and walked down the aisle behind my desk. “Remember that during World War I, fifteen percent of all soldiers who died had succumbed to infection.”

  I sighed with relief, closed my eyes, and slumped back against my chair.

  Annie was waiting for me in the hallway after social studies. We were scheduled for a study hall together the next period and had passes written out enabling us to go to the library, where we planned to make a recruiting poster for the literary magazine. Mrs. Humphries, our club adviser, had suggested we make a list of ten reasons to join. So far we’d come up with only two:1. It’s a great way for you to show off your writing skills!

  2. It’s a great way for you to improve your writing skills!

  During study hall Annie thought of three more:3. You’ll learn responsibility!

  4. You might make a new friend!

  5. It’s cool to see your name in print!

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t think we need to use so many exclamation points.”

  “But we have to make it sound exciting,” Annie argued.

  I thought about that. “Why don’t we just say there will be free snacks?”

  Annie lit up. “Great idea! We’ll do that and the exclamation points!”

  I rolled my eyes; she laughed. But we made it to six. After that, we couldn’t think of anything else.

  “Let’s finish when you come over tomorrow night,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “We can be thinking of things in the meantime.”

  I agreed. Then Annie took out her poem to work on for the rest of the period, and I did the same, only all I did was doodle in the margins.

  Annie and I were part of a larger group at school. A group that included Jane, Jean, Noelle, Lucy, and Liz. We were in a lot of honors classes together. We were in chorus, orchestra, or band. And in the fall we were all on the field hockey team for Oakdale. In the spring, we did different things, some of us lacrosse, some of us tennis. Annie and I didn’t even do a spring sport because we worked on the literary magazine. But every day, no fail, we ate lunch together at the long table by the double doors that led outside.

  That day was no different. We met in the cafeteria, saved seats by throwing down backpacks and sweatshirts, and those of us getting hot lunch rushed to get in line.

  No one in my group pestered me with questions about Dad, but I thought about him as I pushed my tray along in the food line. My father always brought his lunch to school and ate at his desk, using the extra time to repair instruments or grade papers.

  A square of lasagna and a big spoonful of string beans were dished out onto a plate and slid over the counter to me. A weird combination, I thought. But it didn’t much matter. I wasn’t very hungry. I took a roll, some sliced peaches, and a milk.

  Walking back toward our table, I saw Noelle rushing toward me. She grabbed my elbow and whispered in my ear. “Mellie, we know who the girls are—those seventh-graders—two of them are eating lunch over there.”

  “Where?”

  “There, by the windows,” Noelle said. “Don’t look! Just walk by. Second table from the right. The two at the end. One of them has blonde hair, see? With the streaks in it? The other one has brown hair—in a ponytail.”

  I walked by, but not very slowly because I was nervous. I glanced quickly but didn’t recognize the ponytailed girl at all. Her face looked pinched. She was eating some sort of a granola bar. Another quick glance at the blonde, however, and I had a flash of recognition. But I couldn’t quite place her.

  Noelle was still beside me. “Do you know them?”

  I shook my head. “Are you sure those are the girls?”

  “Positive.”

  After we sat down, I started buttering my roll, but I kept looking over at the two girls.

  “The blonde one’s Jenna,” said Liz, crouching beside me. “The other one is Claire. And one of them isn’t in school today. Her name’s Suzanne.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Liz nodded toward Jane. “Jane’s brother, Colin, is in seventh grade. He says everyone knows.”

  Annie settled her tray beside mine and pulled out the chair. “Do you want m
e to go over there and accidentally spill my lunch on them?” she asked. “Or my milk? I’m good with milk.”

  I smiled at her but shook my head. And vaguely, I heard some boys laughing at the table behind us. I heard the name “Mattero” and the word “bra.” And very clearly, I heard the word “pervert” before a slimy string bean hit the side of my face. An explosion of laughter from the boys.

  Pushing back my chair, I fled from the room.

  13

  Claire

  I WAS BACK TO BITING MY THUMBNAIL so badly that my finger started bleeding again. It stung, too. I took a Kleenex from my backpack and wrapped it around the top part of my thumb. Then I kind of made a fist so you couldn’t see it. There were only a few minutes to go in the last period of the day. Literature. Mrs. Sidley passed out paperback copies of the next book we were reading, The Outsiders. I might actually read this book, I thought, since I sort of felt like an outsider myself. I wondered if that was what the book was about, not fitting in. This year, even with Jenna, it didn’t feel like we “fit in” so much as we had just carved out our own little world and had each other.

  “One other handout!” Mrs. Sidley announced. She gave it to us as we walked out the door. A sheet of paper with Oakdale Middle School at the top and Mrs. Fernandez’s signature at the bottom:

  Dear Students, Parents, and Staff: I want to inform you of a serious incident within our school that has had terrible consequences for several of our students and their families, as well as a member of our staff . . .

  I knew that note was about us—Jenna, Suzanne, and me—and I didn’t want to read it. In all the hustle and bustle of the final bell, when kids were pushing through the doorway, I crumpled up the letter and dropped it in a wastebasket.