What Mr. Mattero Did

by Priscilla Cummings

  I flashed him a startled look.

  “As in dreamland,” Cade clarified, arching his eyebrows. “Just let him sleep it off, Mel.”

  Still, it was a poor choice of words, I thought.

  We went downstairs together.

  “Should we call Mom?” I asked, setting the steaming mug down in the sink.

  Cade wrinkled his nose. “Nah. I wouldn’t. What’s she going to do? It’ll just upset her.”

  So we didn’t call Mom. We waited until she came home from work to tell her. She placed a bag of groceries and a gallon of milk on the counter and, without even putting any of it away, sat down on a kitchen chair.

  “I was afraid of this,” she said.

  “Afraid of what?” Cade asked.

  Mom’s weary eyes settled on him. “I was afraid he’d relapse and drink because he’s depressed. Because of the pressure he’s been under.”

  “It could have been worse,” I offered.

  Mom nodded wearily. “Yes. It could have been worse. I wonder if I need to get him some kind of help. And gosh, it’s going to be so embarrassing for him. On top of everything else that’s happened, he’ll have to deal with this.”

  Mom added, “I just hope you kids don’t think any less of your father because of what he did today.”

  Would I? Would I think less of Dad?

  I wondered about that all evening.

  Even after Dad had sobered up and come downstairs to apologize to us, I wondered whether I thought less of Dad.

  “There’s no excuse for what I did. No excuse at all,” he said. “I am so sorry, Cade. Mellie. Please forgive me.”

  Even after he said that and didn’t touch a bite of dinner and sat in the family room all evening, just sat in his chair, without the television on, or a book or anything, I still wondered about it. Because as hard as I tried, I could not get that image of my father with his dumb, rubbery expression out of my head. It’s like all of a sudden, he wasn’t even the same person I knew anymore.

  A couple more days passed, and still we waited for word from Detective Daniels. As I said earlier, one of the only bright spots during that time was my job at the stables. But it was yet another bubble that burst the following week.

  I arrived early on my volunteer afternoon to brush and tack up Misty. I even gave the horse a pep talk and told him to step very carefully when he took Alexander around the ring for the first time. I looked forward to being one of the two walkers who would accompany Alexander on his first trip. Another volunteer would lead the horse. When the boy arrived, however, he came with his family.

  “Melody,” Mrs. Dandridge said, accompanying the family and eager to introduce me to the girls. This is Isabelle, Alexander’s little sister.”

  I shook hands and smiled at the small, blonde-haired girl.

  “And this,” Mrs. Dandridge said, “is Alexander’s older sister, Claire. In fact, I think you girls might go to the same middle school—Oakdale. Am I right?”

  Unbelievable! My mouth dropped open. I know it did. And I don’t blame Mrs. Dandridge for what happened next. She didn’t know. It was not her fault.

  21

  Claire

  MELODY MATTERO? WHOA!

  My heart did a somersault and landed in my throat! I didn’t know what to do!

  You could tell right off Melody knew who I was. The color drained from her face.

  Her and me, we just stared at each other for a couple seconds—and then she came flying at me like a maniac! I remember hearing that woman, Mrs. Danderfield or whoever, hollering, “Melody! Melody! What’s wrong?” Then that woman and my mother—both of them had to jump in to hold Melody off me.

  “You liar!” Melody screamed.

  “Stop, Melody! Stop!” that woman yelled.

  But Melody was like a crazed animal! She lunged against everyone holding her back and managed to get in one good swipe. My hand stung, and I could see blood from where she scratched me.

  “How could you do that? You liar!” Melody kept hollering.

  Corky and Izzy started to cry, and other people came running. The gray horse Corky was supposed to ride threw his head back and skittered sideways, stepping on a woman’s foot. When she yelled, the horse bolted.

  It was a nightmare moment, and all I did was freeze up. “Do you know what you’ve done to my dad?” Melody was still screaming while they dragged her off.

  I was not going to deny it. No siree. I figured whatever she said, whatever she did, I deserved it.

  After they hauled Melody into the little room with all the saddles and closed the door, things got quieter. Izzy and Corky were still crying, so Mom knelt down to scoop them into her arms. She looked up at me. “Claire? Are you okay?”

  I hadn’t moved. Not an inch. “I’m all right,” I said in a flat voice.

  Mom didn’t seem to notice my nonreaction.

  “Let’s get out of here,” my mother said. “I had no idea who that girl was. No idea. She has been so wonderful to Corky. Oh, Claire, look at your hand, it’s bleeding. Good Lord, I can’t believe this.”

  Unbelievable was definitely the word. Of all the people in the world, Mr. Mattero’s daughter had to be the one who worked with Corky at riding therapy? It was so random. I mean, what kind of fate is that?

  I picked up the camera from where Mom had dropped it and followed her back to the van where I helped buckle the kids in.

  But all the way home, all evening, I felt terrible. All twisted up in knots inside. I kept reliving it, seeing how angry Melody was, hearing her scream. And here is the really weird thing: I suddenly realized that over the past several weeks I had repeated that stuff about what Mr. Mattero did so many times, it had become like the truth. And I don’t think that during the whole time I ever once really stopped to think about what our lies had done to him, and to other people, like his family.

  Mom tried to comfort me. Mom and Dad both. They had no idea what a low-life, cruddy liar I was, how it was all my fault.

  I stayed in my room from the moment we got back from the stables. My mother washed off the little scratch on my hand and put some ointment on it. Then she brought me dinner on a tray, like I was sick, but I didn’t touch it. She came in later with some pudding, which I could have eaten without even thinking about the calories because I hadn’t eaten supper, but I didn’t eat that either. I just let it sit there.

  Later, after the kids were in bed, Mom came up again, to rub my back and tell me that the woman from the stables had called to apologize. She said they hoped Corky was okay and that he would return to riding therapy, to work with a new volunteer.

  Not that I think my mom is stupid or anything, but did it ever once occur to either of my parents that maybe we had made up that story about what Mr. Mattero did? Their trust in me and all the things they did that night made me feel even worse. I wasn’t comfortable being in my own skin.

  At school the next day, we had a science test. It was the only thing anyone else talked or thought about all day. Except for me. Kids kept grilling each other. “What are the four major types of air masses that affect the weather in the United States?” “What is atmosphere?” “What is convection?” Who gave a crap? All I could think about was Melody Mattero, screaming. And my little sister and brother crying . . . “What happens when a cold air mass meets a warm air mass?” I knew the answer to that one! A storm. A raging, frickin’ storm, which is what I had in my head!

  After school everyone seemed giddy and glad the test was over. I guess I was the only one who didn’t feel any relief.

  I had my new bathing suit and stuff in a little sports bag. Half a peanut butter sandwich for an after-school snack because it was my day to try out the swim club gig. Phoebe had talked me into it. See? I was still trying to hold on to my new life while the old one kept sucking me under.

  On the bus ride over to the pool, Phoebe and I sat with a group of girls that she knew. One of them passed out peanut M&M’s. Another one of the girls asked me, “When you lived in N
orth Carolina, Claire, did people talk with a southern accent?”

  I hesitated because I didn’t know, but I had to tell them something so I said, “Yeah, everyone down there talks with an accent.” And the voice of Suzanne’s older sister, Addy, echoed in my ears: “The more you lie, the more you have to lie . . .”

  “How come you don’t then?” another girl asked.

  My chest got tight. I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I finally mumbled. But I don’t think any of them thought about it much. I fidgeted with my watch. Pretty soon we were all talking about going to a movie at the mall on Saturday.

  At the pool, Phoebe and I shared a locker. We jammed all our stuff in. Shoes and socks and jeans and all our underwear rolled into our shirts. She forced the locker door shut with her hip and locked it. Then, holding our bathing caps and towels, we picked our way over the wet tile through the shower area to the door that opened into the indoor pool.

  The pool was already full of kids doing laps. A lifeguard’s whistle blew and echoed in the massive building. We hugged our arms and shivered, it was so cold. Phoebe pointed to the lane where we’d swim, and after throwing our towels on a bench, we went to stand at the edge of the pool, our teeth chattering.

  “Want me to go first?” Phoebe asked, loud because it was noisy.

  I nodded vigorously.

  She pulled her bathing cap on and stuffed all her long hair under it. Then she grinned at me and bravely dove in. Just like that! When her head resurfaced, she started doing a brisk crawl.

  I took a deep breath, tucked my hair under that thin cap, too, and reluctantly did the same, trying to make my dive, like, halfway respectable.

  The water was a shock. I came up gulping for air. But it was amazing how quickly I got used to it. Up one lane, down another, I followed Phoebe’s kicking feet. The exercise felt good, like it was making me breathe harder, but relaxing me inside, too. Briefly, there was a break from thinking about Melody Mattero. We did twenty laps before we stopped.

  Pausing at the end of a lane, we rested our elbows on a narrow shelf while we caught our breath. Then we flipped our caps up just enough so we could hear each other.

  “You’re doing great!” Phoebe exclaimed.

  I wiped the water out of my eyes. “I am?”

  “Yes! I am so glad you came, Claire!”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m not kidding,” Phoebe went on. “You are the best friend I’ve made at this school.”

  Why then? Why, why, why in the world did I choose that moment? I don’t know, but I did. And this is what I said: “Yeah, and you’re the best friend I have at this school, too, Phoebe, but I am not who you think I am.”

  Maybe I started to ’fess up because I didn’t think I deserved a nice new friend like Phoebe after what I’d done.

  Maybe because it had finally caught up with me.

  Phoebe just smiled.

  I figured maybe she didn’t hear me.

  “Phoebe,” I repeated a little louder, inching my slippery hands along that wall toward Phoebe and the truth. “All that stuff I said? About me coming from North Carolina?”

  Phoebe frowned a little. She bit the edge of her lip and tilted her head toward mine.

  “It’s not true. I made it up. I came from another middle school in the county—Oakdale—because two other girls and I told the principal we were abused by our music teacher.”

  Slowly, Phoebe nodded, in slow motion, like she understood everything. But how could she?

  “Did you hear me?” I asked. Her reaction was, like, too good for me to believe.

  “Yes, Claire. I know. I heard you. I know who you are.”

  “What?”

  “I know who you are. The day before you came to our school, our English teacher talked about it. You know, because it was in the newspaper, and if kids found out who you were, she didn’t want anyone giving you a hard time.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “You knew?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Does everyone at school know?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t think so. Just the kids in that class.”

  “Oh my gosh.”

  “Claire, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”

  Still, I was so bowled over by the news I turned away and stared at the end of the pool. I stared so long my arms started to get cold.

  “Yeah, but there’s more,” I finally said, turning back at Phoebe.

  She ignored it and pushed off. “Come on! Ten more laps!” she yelled, her face disappearing beneath her arm, then all of her slipping beneath the water.

  I pulled my cap down, but I remained treading water and watching with blurry eyes as Phoebe swam off. “Everything was a lie,” I confessed out loud, even though no one but me could hear what I said.

  Reluctantly, halfheartedly, I swam a little more. But after a few more laps, I told Phoebe I needed to quit. She said to unpin the locker key from her towel and go ahead in, so I did. I took a shower and got dressed and combed out my wet hair. Then, after discovering some change in my jeans pocket, I went to get a Diet Sprite while I waited for Phoebe to finish.

  She was the last one out of the locker room and found me sitting at a small table near the snack machines. By then, everyone else had either left, or was waiting outside to be picked up by their parents.

  I forced a smile when Phoebe walked in. “That was fun.”

  “You did great!” she said. “Have you already called your mom?”

  I nodded. “I used the pay phone. She’ll be here soon.”

  Phoebe dropped her backpack on one chair, then pulled out another and sat down. Her long hair was still wet. She rubbed it with a towel.

  I wondered if I should finish what I had started saying in the pool, but I was scared.

  Phoebe sensed I was uneasy. She glanced around like she was making sure no one was listening, then leaned forward, letting her hands and the wet towel rest in her lap. “Look, Claire,” she said. “I meant it when I said it didn’t matter to me what had happened to you. It doesn’t mean that I don’t care.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I ’preciate it.” I swallowed hard because I wanted to finish telling her the whole truth, but then what if she told someone else and Jenna found out? I leaned toward her. “But you don’t understand,” I began. “It’s just that . . . see, I—”

  “I do understand,” Phoebe insisted.

  I froze up, and, nervous, I started picking at a fingernail.

  “Look at me, Claire,” Phoebe said.

  When I lifted my eyes, Phoebe reached across the table to touch my wrist. “I understand,” she said, lowering her voice, “because it happened to me, too.”

  A cold feeling seized me. I stared at her.

  “Yeah,” she confirmed. Her eyes grew large and instantly became moist when she blinked. “By my stepfather.” She pulled her hand back and wiped her lips. Her eyes fell away, then came back to find me sitting there—dumb and speechless. “It’s still going on, too. Only I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t think my mom will believe me.”

  A tear spilled out of one of Phoebe’s eyes and ran down her cheek.

  “Oh, my God,” I muttered.

  “You’re the only person I’ve told,” Phoebe said. “’Cause you’ve been through it, Claire. So you know what it’s like. It’s one reason I wanted so bad to be your friend. Because, like, you’d understand.”

  Poor Phoebe, I thought. Her stepfather abusing her. I blinked and held my eyes closed briefly, not wanting to even imagine what that meant.

  “This is serious—really serious, Phoebe,” I said urgently. “You need to tell someone.”

  “No!” She shook her head vigorously and wiped away the tear with her fingers. “No way. I can’t. My mom would kill me. And my stepfather would deny it. He said he would!”

  Through the large glass windows, I saw my mother pulling up in our van.

  I rolled my eyes. “My mom’s here.”

  Phoebe pulled
back. “It’s okay.”

  “But I can’t go now—”

  “No really, it’s okay. I’m getting picked up soon, too.”

  I started to stand up.

  Phoebe folded her hands, like she was praying, and begged me, “Please don’t tell anyone, Claire. Please don’t.”

  “No, I won’t tell,” I feebly assured her.

  I picked up my backpack and my duffel, and I started to walk away, then stopped and rushed back.

  “Phoebe, will you be safe at home tonight? Do you want to come stay with me or something? I’m sure it would be okay with my mom.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. Go ahead, Claire.” Still, I hesitated.

  “Go, Claire. It’s okay,” she insisted.

  So I left, but I knew Phoebe was not going to be okay. Not unless somebody spoke up for her.

  When I walked out of the pool building, I stopped. The late-afternoon sun was warm. Two kids flew by on their Rollerblades, laughing. Mom waved to me from where she waited in the van across the street, and I could see Izzy sitting in her car seat in the back licking an ice-cream cone. Corky, beside her, had his arms crossed and was pouting. He was probably still angry about what had happened at the stables the day before. Already, he had stopped talking again. No telling when he would get over it. It could be weeks. And all because of me.

  I closed my eyes and felt the tears rush in.

  Because look at what I had done.

  And look at what I knew.

  I said to myself, that if I took another step, I had to tell the truth. I had to tell the truth about what Mr. Mattero did—which was nothing! And I had to tell someone about Phoebe so her stepfather wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Even if it made her angry. Even if she never spoke to me again. Even if I had to go to yet another school.

  “Claire, come on!” my mother called out the window.

  I couldn’t move. If I took a step, I had to tell.

  Little white card. I thought of it, lying under my socks in the bureau drawer at home. It had Detective Daniels’s number on it. “My cell phone number’s there, too. Call me anytime. Anytime at all.”