by Bob Krech
Then he bends down to shake Faith’s hand. “And ye must be Faith.”
Faith smiles and shakes hands. She says, “Where are the guys with the skirts?”
Mr. Dryden straightens up as he laughs. “None ’bout here t’day. I’m sure we kin find ye some eventually, don’t ye worry.”
We begin to walk along with Mr. Dryden. It looks like a regular small airport. Nothing real weird. Yet.
“How was yer flight?” Mr. Dryden asks in a real up voice.
Mom says, “Good. Everybody slept most of the way.”
He rubs his big hands together. “Tha’s super. That’ll help with the jet lag. Come on over this way and we’ll git yer bags.”
We pick up our bags from the conveyor belt and follow Mr. Dryden out to the parking lot. There is less wind here than on the runway. The air is moist and cool. It smells almost sweet.
Mr. Dryden stops next to a very small gray car. “Sorry. The school van is in the shop so we’ll have to snuggle a bit.” He looks at all our stuff and says, “I’ll just get some fasteners out of the boot.”
Except he’s not wearing boots. Then he reaches in the trunk and pulls out some bungee cords. Did he say the boot? Because I know a lot of words, but I’ve never heard anyone call a trunk a “boot.” I know he has an accent, but this is not English.
He and Dad start strapping the luggage on the little roof rack. The pile gets too high though, so they cram three fat bags on top of each other on one of the backseats.
Mr. Dryden gets in the driver’s seat. Mom takes the empty seat in the back, and Faith sits on her lap. My dad sits down in the passenger seat, looks at me, and pats his lap. I get in, bending my neck down so it’s on my chest. My hair immediately clings to the ceiling so now I look like I have cotton candy on my head.
Mr. Dryden starts the car, and we putter off out onto a skinny little road that cuts through the green hills. We are on the wrong side of the road. Even the steering wheel is on the wrong side. But I read about that in the propaganda, so I don’t freak out even though it feels all wrong and backward.
Mr. Dryden smiles at us in the rearview mirror. “Looks pretty much the same as New Jersey, eh?”
Mom and Dad chuckle.
“Look at all the sheep,” Faith says.
She’s right. I thought they were rocks, but they are sheep. They are tan and everywhere up on the hills, and they don’t seem to move.
“There are more sheep in Scotland than there are people, actually,” Mr. Dryden offers.
We pass one gas station and five houses in fifteen minutes. Lots of lush green grass and hills though. The kind of stuff sheep would like.
“So I wanted to tell ye . . .” Mr. Dryden starts to talk, but then stops to swat at a fly. “We were goin’ to put ye up at the hotel here by the airport, till yer flat is ready, but we realized ye’d have to be runnin’ back and forth, and ye won’t have a car right away, and since I have plenty o’ room, I wondered if ye’d rather just stay with me.”
Wait! What?!
Dad says, “Really? You’re sure? That would be great.”
No!!! It would not be great!!!
Mom chimes in, “How exciting! You’re sure it won’t be a problem?”
Mr. Dryden chuckles. “No problem t’all. I’m on me own. Ah’d love the company.”
Dad says, “How about that, girls?”
Faith shouts, “Cool!”
I smile politely and nod, then look back out the window at the sheep rocks. Yep. Living with your principal. Every kid’s dream.
3
MORTIFIED
To be subjected to severe and vexing embarrassment.
MR. DRYDEN and my parents thank each other for the next twenty minutes. Eventually, we start to see less sheep and a few more houses. Mr. Dryden says, “Here we are in Cults. That’s our wee suburb.”
We drive down a little street lined with more little cars and little houses. Everything is like miniaturized here. Even though Cults sounds like a place in a horror movie, it’s actually cute, like Thomas the Tank Engine or something.
At a high stone wall there is a white wooden sign shaped like a shield—Dunnotar Academy. We slow down and turn up a long driveway. On both sides are pine trees and more emerald green grass. We stop in front of a tiny house that looks like a cottage in a storybook. You expect Hansel and Gretel to walk out.
Mr. Dryden shuts the car off and says, “Well, this is it. Fairfield.”
My father asks, “Fairfield?”
“Oh, aye. Tha’s the name o’ me wee house. You’ll find all the houses here in Scotland have names. This used to be the groundskeeper’s cottage. I’m the only one who doesn’t take the bus to school.” He laughs.
As we uncork ourselves from the car, Mr. Dryden says, “Le’s bring yer bags and then we’ll take a walk so ye can see the school and stretch yer legs.”
He leads the way to the front door of the cottage and takes a huge key out of his jacket pocket. It’s the kind of key you see in pirate movies when they open the chest, but Mr. Dryden opens his front door with it. I feel like I’m on some kind of historical field trip.
He shoulders the door open and picks up two bags. I quick grab the door and hold it so he can get through. He smiles at me and says, “Ta, Andrea.”
What? He sees me looking clueless and chuckles. “Oh. Sorry. Ta means thanks around here.” He shrugs. “ Just one of our little words.”
“Oh,” I say. Ta? Like what kind of language is this? How am I going to know what people are saying?
We drop the rest of our luggage on the floor in his little living room. Tan walls. Dark brown carpet. I don’t normally say two words to my principal in a year. How am I going to live with one in his home?
“Here we go, then. Follow me if you please,” Mr. Dryden says. He is obviously enjoying being a guide. We go out and walk up the drive together. It’s like a park. Big trees and green lawn everywhere. After a few minutes we come around a bend, and right in front of us is a small museum. It’s got huge gray stone walls, a red tile roof, and a stone porch with columns.
My dad says, “There’s your new school, girls.”
Faith says, “No way!”
Mr. Dryden says, “Yes way.” Then he laughs again at his own joke. “This is Fairgirth, where you two will be. Yer parents will be up this road another three kilometers at the upper school, Fairmount.”
Faith runs ahead and cartwheels across the grass. I look back down the hill we’ve just come up. Across the road in the distance I can see the ocean and the creepy gray castle from the brochure. It sends a chill up my spine just to look at it.
After our tour we walk back down to the cottage and go and sit in the living room. Mr. Dryden takes his shoes off at the door and is walking around in his brown socks. The back of the heels are worn out so they look like window screens. My principal in his shabby socks!
We put all our stuff away in a little back bedroom. Then Mr. Dryden smiles and says, “Are ye hungry? We could take away some Chinese food.”
My mouth begins to water like on autopilot. I love Chinese food! How did Chinese people decide to come way over here to Scotland and open a restaurant? My mom gives me the “See, I told you everything would be fine” look.
My dad and Mr. Dryden head out. I sit on the couch, close my eyes for a second, and wake up suddenly to see my dad in front of me again. “I got you your favorite, chicken chow mein.” I must have passed out. This jet lag thing is for real.
Mr. Dryden is right behind him. He smiles and says, “My favorite, too. We got a large one so we can share.” They spread the white cardboard containers across the kitchen table. I didn’t realize how hungry I was till I smelled the food. Mr. Dryden passes out the plastic utensils and some plates. I take a huge fork full, stuff it in, and chew. Then I stop.
Did the Chinese people forget how to make real Chinese food when they got here? Because this is not real Chinese food. It’s disgusting. It’s—
“How is it?” Mr. D
ryden is grinning at me and nodding.
“Good.” I gasp. I look frantically for a napkin to spit it in as soon as he’s not looking.
“Great. Golden Dragon is very good about givin’ ye plenty o’ food. Not like some places,” he says.
I push the greasy lumps of rat fat around with my fork and try to pick out the rice.
“Don’t be shy now. Eat up. This is all for you and me.” He gives me a big grin. Green stuff hangs off a front tooth.
My mother and father got some kind of vegetable pancake that they are devouring, and Faith is eating the crispy noodles and fortune cookies. Mr. Dryden is shoveling in the chicken yuck. Then he says, “Oh, sorry. Forgot the drinks. I have some Coke in the fridge.”
He pours me a big glass of Coke. This may save me. I take a mouthful of the yuck, chewing slightly so I don’t get too much taste, and then wash it down with Coke. Mr. Dryden is giving us a big speech all about the school. I can’t hear it. I just work on the food to get it off my plate. Fork in. Chew. Wash down. Don’t taste. Fork in. Chew. Wash down. Don’t taste.
I do this for maybe fifteen hours.
Finally my plate is mostly empty, but it feels like someone has piled bricks in my stomach. Everyone is talking and laughing around the table. I try to sit and listen, but the bricks begin to shift around.
I mumble, “Excuse me.” I stumble into the dark little living room, sit on the couch, and try to get comfortable. I cross my legs. The room is cold, but I start to sweat. This is a very bad sign. I uncross my legs. I grip the arms of the couch and swallow. Oh God, no! The bricks want out!
I jump off the couch and dash into the little hallway. There are three identical doors! I yank open the first door. A broom, a mop, and a vacuum cleaner greet me. Then, it’s too late. I crumble to my knees and barf like crazy. I try to do it quietly, but snarly retching noises come up from my stomach so I sound like an animal being tortured.
Faith does the announcement for everyone: “Ewwww! Gross! You puked in the closet!”
In the next second my mother is there pulling me into the actual bathroom. I can hear Mr. Dryden behind us. “No problem. Not to worry. I’ll get some rags.”
I’m shaking and cold and on my knees in the tiny bathroom. My mom holds me steady until it’s finally over. She helps me up and I wash my face and rinse my mouth about fifty times. When I stagger out, everyone is sitting on the couch huddled near a little fireplace that is now lit.
“Hi. Feeling better?” Dad asks.
“Uh. Yeah.” I am totally and absolutely mortified. I look down at Mr. Dryden’s terrible brown socks. I have to say something to him now. I can’t just puke in his closet and shrug it off like, oh well.
“I’m, uh, su-su”—Finish it!—“su-sorry.”
Oh no! I check his eyes. He just shrugs and smiles. “Not at all. Probably too much airline food, time zone change. Flying takes a toll.”
Mom says, “How about a little air?” She guides me to the front door. I step out onto a little porch and slam into a wall of frozen air.
She closes the door behind us. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I say, “Yeah.”
She rubs her arms with her hands. “Little chilly.” She looks up at the sky and sighs. “So beautiful.” She puts an arm around me.
I look out at the dark hills across the road. I knew this would happen.
“Want to go in?” she asks.
I follow her into the warm fireplace room. I don’t mind leaning on her. My legs are still wobbly. Barfing your brains out will do that to you. Finally everyone is yawning, so Mr. Dryden says good night and we go to our bedroom. It is as cold as the back porch. There’s a skinny little white heater in a corner. If you want to actually feel the heat, you have to sit right on it.
We all get ready for bed, taking turns changing in the one bathroom (which doesn’t smell that great thanks to yours truly). Everyone comes out wearing sweatshirts, sweatpants, and socks. What will we wear to bed in December? Furs?
My parents share the bed. Faith and I get sleeping bags. I huddle in mine against the heater. Faith pushes her bag so she’s lying just about on top of me. Her blue eyes are all wide. “Isn’t this cool?”
I have a million answers to that, but this is not Faith’s fault, plus I need her body heat, so I say, “Yeah. Real cool, Faith.” I tuck my head into the sleeping bag and roll myself into a ball for maximum warmth.
Dad turns out the light. “Good night, all!” he calls.
Everyone murmurs good night, and it gets quiet except for breathing and teeth chattering.
I lie there and breathe deeply. And think. I am in a place that is all sheep and toy cars and toxic Chinese food. It is freezing in August. I am living with my principal. I have thrown up in his closet all over his vacuum cleaner. And my stutter is back.
My “memorable, beautiful first day” is finally over.
4
ABERRANT
A person whose behavior departs substantially from the normal.
RAIN patters against the windows. A gray morning light peeks through the curtains. Faith snores her canned-dog-food breath directly into my face.
I get up and walk carefully out into the hall. The house is quiet. I go in the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. I stand in front of the mirror. I say, “Hello. My name is Andrea.” I watch my jaw. Keep my muscles loose. Talk slow. Glide. Control. “Hello. My name is Andrea.”
Control. That’s what you do with stuttering. I mean, when I was thinking it’s back, yesterday, it wasn’t like it ever really left. It’s not like I can take something to make it go away. I just try to keep it under control like a bad dog.
The first time I knew I stuttered was in first grade. I was already in Speech in kindergarten, but I hadn’t figure out that’s what it was. I just thought I got to go play games in front of a mirror with a nice lady because I was lucky.
Then that brat, Jennifer Borman, pointed it out to me. I was asking for a cookie at snack time and got stuck on the initial “c.” Jennifer started cracking up, saying, “You want coo-coo-cookie? Are you coo-coo-coo?”
She was laughing like crazy, and other kids started laughing, too. So I started crying. And then I slugged her. My teacher, Miss Gold, grabbed me by the wrist and put me in the time-out chair. “Use your words, Andrea,” she said. Didn’t she understand that that’s what got me into the mess in the first place?
But therapy made things much better. In fact, I don’t even go to speech therapy anymore. I was, to use the official term, “released.” Like I was in jail or something.
I can go for pretty long stretches without a blip in my speech, but sometimes it can just start. Usually when I’m stressing. And throwing me into a foreign country, into a new school, with a bunch of kids I don’t know, and making me live with my principal is about as stressful a situation as I could have dreamed up.
I look back at the mirror and practice saying my name and other useful phrases like, “Please pass the Cheetos,” until Faith bangs on the door like she’s trying to wake up dead people. “I have to pee!” she screams. That gets Mom and Dad up and going.
While we all get dressed, Mr. Dryden reappears. He puts out toast and cereal and juice. My mom says, “Dad and I and Mr. Dryden are going this morning to to see if the apartment is ready and to sign some papers. We’re also picking up a car someone is renting to us for the year. You two can stay here.”
“Okay,” I say. I peek out the window at the rain. It’s just a drizzle. I lean over to Faith. “Want to kick around?”
She hops out of her chair. “I’ll get my cleats,” she says.
I go into our little room and find my carry-on bag. I pull out the very first things I packed—cleats, shin guards, soccer ball, pump, and needle. I pump up the ball and put my foot under it and lift it. It feels great to have that little black-and-white weight on my foot again.
Faith comes running out with me to the front of Mr. Dryden’s. The Blast are training right now I bet. Even t
hough everything’s wet and muddy, Faith and I trap and kick. It’s amazing how important good trapping is. It seems basic, but it’s hard to do really well.
We keep it up until the rain starts to really come down and we get chased back in. We dry off with towels from the bathroom. Then Faith calls, “Hey, I found Candyland!”
We play Candyland six times. It turns out that this is the only board game Mr. Dryden has. He said his TV is “on the fritz.”
The adults finally come back to end the Candyland marathon. I will die happy if I never see Plumpy or Mr. Mint again. Dad hangs up his dripping raincoat by the back door and says, “No luck yet with the apartment. But the car will be ready tomorrow, and the school board is having a small reception for faculty and their families at four o’clock today.”
This is not good news. Meeting new people. I cozy up to Mom and whisper, “M-m-maybe I should just stay here.” Whispering is a technique that actually helps you control a stutter. Whispering, yelling, and singing. They’re useful, just not for regular talking with people.
She pats my shoulder. “No. We need to go as a family.”
We have grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. Not much can go wrong with that except Mr. Dryden farted, and we all pretended we didn’t hear it—except for Faith, who snorted uncontrollably. Then we all cram into the tuna-can car for the short ride over to the upper school.
The upper school is like a larger version of the lower school mansion with some big new box-type buildings attached. We go into one of these. It has big metal letters over the door: GYMNASIUM. We walk in and hang up our raincoats next to the other fifty raincoats, then sit down in one of the rows of folding chairs.
After a few minutes a school board guy gives a short welcome speech and ends with, “Please join us for coffee.” People get up and start milling around in groups, chatting. A little gray-haired lady strolls over to me and Faith with a silver tray of cookies. She says, “Would you two fancy some bickies?”
Faith grabs two Oreos off the plate like a reflex. Fancy? Bickies?! My mother is talking with an older woman while Faith and I stand by eating “bickies.” A heavy guy with a mustache and a blue-and-white striped tie walks over and says, “Hello there. Don’t think we’ve met. I’m Brian Geddes. Chair of history at the upper school.”
