by Bob Krech
“Andrea—” my father says.
“Sorry. May I be excused?”
Mr. Dryden looks carefully out the window.
“Go ahead,” my mom says.
I put my plate in the sink and head to our cell. I sit on my sleeping bag and lean back against my new best friend—the white heater. Faith is always happy. Dad said his classes are really small and the kids are really good. Mom was raving about the huge library. That’s fine for them, but I’m stuck in a cold, wet, strange country, pretending I have laryngitis in a class with ten kids I don’t know.
And Jasmine.
7
DESPERATE
Driven by great need or distress.
“CRUSHED by the wheels, woo, woo! Crushed by the wheels, woo, woo!” Margaret Ferguson comes into the room this morning, singing this over and over, moving her arms, and chugging. Mrs. Watkinson says, “Park the train in your seat, Margaret.” She says it with a smile and you can tell she’s not mad or anything.
“But, tha’s Heaven 17’s latest, miss! It’s number one in the charts.”
“I’m sure it is, Margaret, but sit down all the same.”
Margaret smiles and sits down. She turns around and faces me. “It’s great music, that is. Are ye inta music?”
She’s talking to me! I’m about to say, “No, not really.” I start forming up the initial sounds, rehearsing in my mind how it will sound, when Mrs. Watkinson says, “How’s that laryngitis today, Andrea?”
That’s right! I still have laryngitis. I shake my head no and shrug.
Mrs. Watkinson nods. “Ah, well. Try gargling with salt water and maybe a bit of lemon. Often does the trick for me.”
Margaret shakes her head. “Too bad, that. I was thinkin’ about you and me formin’ a pop group, y’know? Sort of Spice Girls, only just two of us.”
I think she’s joking, because she tilts her head at a funny angle and laughs, but I’m not totally sure. I give her the shrug, smile, and nod. Anyway, I am safe from talking for another day. But how long can I pretend to have laryngitis? How long should I pretend to have laryngitis?
Day Two is a full day, so we have lunch. There’s no cafeteria though. We bring lunch and eat in the room. Mom has packed me cold, leftover tofu for lunch. Now that’s appetizing. I try to hide it while I’m eating it so no one will ask what it is.
I sit on the end of my row, by the window. Christian Mortimer is on my right. He’s drinking from a thin orange-and-blue soda can with a picture of a circus strong man lifting a giant weight. It smells exactly like a fresh pack of bubble gum. It’s called Irn Bru. I know this because Christian talks to himself. “Irn Bru, a favorite soda. Excellent,” he says. “I think Ah’ll have me sandwich first. And then me crisps.”
He looks “pulled apart,” as my grandmother would say. His shirt hangs out, half his collar is up, his shoelaces are untied—that kind of thing. He’s definitely the strangest boy in the class, but not really in a bad way. He’s not out there trying to force his weirdness on everybody, like Jasmine.
Jasmine is hanging around with a fellow crazy, Molly. Molly has a head like a jack-o’-lantern, with sharp stubs for teeth and wild eyes. They spend most of the day stuck together whispering and giggling. I’m very glad Molly is in the class because she is keeping Jasmine busy and away from me.
“After lunch,” Mrs. Watkinson announces, “we will have a twenty-minute break outside.”
You wouldn’t get that at middle school at home. Of course, I wouldn’t be trying to figure out how to sit in a gray flannel skirt, either.
Mrs. Watkinson pulls a net full of balls out of a closet and puts it by the door to the playground. She says, “Right. Balls are here.” My heart skips up. I can see a soccer ball right on top.
As soon as she puts the bag down though, the big girl Becky jogs over, grabs the soccer ball, and heads outside. I walk by and look in the net. That was the only soccer ball in there. One of the boys, Stewart, runs by me carrying his own ball from the coat closet. I go out the door to the playground. Becky and Lynne are together with a bunch of girls from other classes setting up a soccer game on the far field. Even though they are wearing skirts.
I take two steps toward the field without thinking. Then I look at my feet. Clogs. And what would I say to them, anyway? “Can I play?” Like I’m six years old? Lynne kicks off and all the girls start running, their skirts flapping. I turn around and walk back by the school. I stand by the wall.
And watch.
It’s been three days now and I have all A’s on everything. Big whoop. That’s because all I do after school is homework and then soccer drills by myself on the playground.
The highlight of my life here are malt and salt crisps. How sad is that? Crisps are what they call potato chips over here. My mom bought them yesterday at the little local supermarket, Munro’s. They are incredible! I brought some to school in my lunch today and ate the bag in about three seconds. I lick my finger and stick it down into the bottom corners of the little bag to get those last bits of delicious chip dust.
As I bring my salty, tangy finger to my mouth, I look up to see Stewart McCombie and Joseph Jacobs standing a few feet away, watching me. Stewart is like medium height with brushed-up, short brown hair. Joseph is small with dark hair in an old Beatles-style cut.
“Like those, do ye?” Stewart says, grinning.
Joseph laughs. I roll my eyes but stop licking my fingers. I’m embarrassed they caught me eating like a pig. Typical—stupid boys. I pick up my trash, throw it out, and head for the back door.
When I turn to go out the door, Lynne is standing right there in the doorway, the soccer ball on her hip. I should say something. But I have laryngitis, right? Not that I would say anything anyway. I walk right by and go to my spot against the wall. I stand there and freeze. I am like an ice cube with this skirt. I’m glad I have the geeky socks just for warmth.
I watch my class. Bernadette is playing some kind of hopscotch game with a bunch of fifth graders. She’s small and thin and fits right in. She seems sweet, but even though I’m pretty desperate, I can’t bring myself to play hopscotch with ten-year-olds.
The heavy kid who sits in front of me, Margaret, is always goofing around and singing. I can’t tell if she’s serious or not. She’s hanging out on a low stone wall with some kids from another class, listening to music. Pretty boring way to spend a recess. Of course, standing against the wall by myself isn’t exactly a thrill ride.
That leaves Lynne and Becky. Becky’s got long brown hair, and she’s built square and strong. Lynne is a little taller than me. She’s got short blond hair but enough to pull back with a headband. I watch them play soccer again. Becky is very coordinated for someone so big. Lynne is quick and also very skilled with the ball. They’re good soccer players. Like me. I wonder if I should bring my ball to school, but then they might think I’m trying to do my own thing because I don’t want to play soccer with them.
It’s always been hard for me to make friends. Gina and Nicole and I were friends because our parents herded us together to the same places since we were babies: play group, preschool, soccer, Brownies. I don’t remember “making” friends with them. How do you “make” friends, anyway? You kind of have to grow into being friends.
The problem with me trying to grow into being friends is that I hardly say anything till I get to know a person. I don’t like to say too much because I don’t know if I’m going to get stuck and stutter, and then they might avoid me like I’m weird, or else they might get all sappy and kind and treat me like I’m an invalid.
When I get back in after recess, I go in the coat closet and take my hat off immediately. The coat closet is huge. It’s as big as my bedroom back home.
I check in the mirror there. My hair makes me look like one of those trolls you get in a gumball machine. I pull out my brush and try to restore order.
“So, Andrea.” It’s Mrs. Watkinson. She’s standing at the door smiling at me. “Love your jumper.”<
br />
I stare. Jumper? I must look as clueless as I feel because she follows up. “Your jumper, your sweater, right?”
“Oh yeah. Thanks.” I am so surprised, I just talk.
Mrs. Watkinson’s smile gets bigger. “Oh, wonderful! Your laryngitis has cleared up.”
Oops. Double-oops. “Um. Yes.” My heart pounds. My brainstorm is suddenly over.
“Super,” she says.
After lunch, we do some math. I am careful to say nothing even though I am now laryngitis-free. I always get those comments on my report cards, “Should participate more in class.”
After math, Mrs. Watkinson says, “These reports you handed in on the explorers are fairly good. With one exception. One was outstanding. Very well written.”
It is late in the day, and half the class is looking out the window. Jasmine is sticking a bent-open paperclip through an eraser and twirling it.
“That report was done by Andrea DiLorenzo,” Mrs. Watkinson says, “and I would like it very much if she would come up here now and share it with you.”
8
DEBACLE
A complete failure, a great disaster.
MY orbit tilts. I feel like I’m going to fall over and right out of my desk. I can’t do a presentation in front of this class! I’m not prepared. I mean, how can I . . .
“Have a seat right up here, Andrea.” Mrs. Watkinson is smiling and beckoning me over with one hand while the other holds my report on Balboa. “It’s wonderful that your laryngitis has cleared up.”
I am frozen.
“Here we go then, Andrea.”
I make my feet move and walk to the front. She hands me my report. She must see the look of total panic on my face because she says, “You wouldn’t mind sharing it with the class, would you? It’s really well done.”
I swallow hard. “Ow-ow-out loud?” Help! I’m losing it. Oh God.
She looks at me, really taking the stutter in for the first time. It was probably in my records, but now she’s actually hearing it. It looks like she’s reconsidering. Please, please reconsider!
“Yes.” Then her eyes get all soft. In a low whisper she says, “Do you think you can manage it?”
The pity voice!I hate the pity voice! Poor, stuttering little girl. You won’t have to do it like the other kids.I hate this worse than the stutter. I have to calm down. It’s always easier to read and sing and stuff like that. I’m just going to be reading. It’s going to be okay. Suck it up. Get tough. “Yeah,” I say.
She searches my face. “You’re sure?”
I nod. She smiles, puts an arm around my shoulder, and introduces me like I just won some kind of big prize. “Okay, Andrea!”
Fortunately, reading out loud is way different from talking to people. Singing works the same way. It’s like, if I don’t have to think of the words, just read them or recite them, it’s tons easier. My speech teacher, Mrs. Galen, once gave me a pamphlet about famous people with stutters. One was James Earl Jones. Darth Vader’s voice. He hardly talked before high school, but he found out he could read Shakespeare real well aloud and he became an actor.
I have to make myself keep taking deep breaths, but I lick my lips and start reading. It’s either that or run out of the room. Nice and slow. “Balboa . . .”
And it works! Breathe. Read. Breathe. Read. For three whole double-spaced, typed pages. I go slow and careful and emphasize words. I use every technique I know. Not one catch. Thank you, God! When I’m done, I am in a pool of sweat. I start for my desk.
Mrs. Watkinson brings me to a halt with a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Andrea. Very nice expression. Time for feedback now. Remember class, begin with a positive comment and then any questions or suggestions you might have. We’ll take three comments.”
Margaret’s hand goes up. Mrs. Watkinson points to her. She gives me a big grin. “I quite liked the part when Balboa was little.”
I nod back. One down.
Bernadette’s hand goes up. She has this little voice. “Really quite interesting in parts.”
I nod again.
She wrinkles her little forehead. “But do you think being a conquistador was evil?”
Oh my gosh. What kind of question is that?! “Uh, uh, uh . . .” Stop! Breathe! Slow! “I, I, I’m not sh-sh-sure.”
Don’t panic. That wasn’t a major stick. Maybe no one even noticed.
Mrs. Watkinson is still smiling. “One more.”
Fortunately, there are no hands up. Then Becky calls out, “Why didn’t he sail to the South Sea? I thought he was suppose’ to be a sailor.”
Mrs. Watkinson says, “Remember, Becky. Raise your hand and begin with a positive comment.”
Becky raises her hand. “Oh yes, excuse me, miss.” She clears her throat kind of dramatically. “Your title, what was it, ‘Balboa’?” Tha’s brilliant, that is.” She rolls her eyes to let everyone know she’s thinking just the opposite. Some kids snicker. Then she fixes her stare on me. “So why would this sailor-fella hike around instead of sail?”
Jasmine and Molly burst out laughing. Mrs. Watkinson waits for me to answer, but I can’t. I can’t form the words because I don’t even know what they would be. I look at my Sebago boat shoes.
Then a voice says, “Excuse me, Becky. Are you saying that if you’re a sailor, you can only sail? So, if you’re a cook, you’re not allowed to play tennis?”
I look up. It’s Stewart McCombie. He’s turned and facing Becky, and he actually sounded smart, the way he said that.
Becky wrinkles her nose. “What are you on about?”
Mrs. Watkinson jumps in. “Well. That’s food for thought. Well done, Andrea.”
I slink to my desk. My presentation is a debacle—“a complete failure, a great disaster.” I am an idiot. And now everyone knows it.
I go back to the school after dinner. I run and kick and shoot till I can’t take another step and at that point the stupid embarrassment is gone. Or at least buried for now.
The next day I am back at school, and I know Mrs. Watkinson expects me to talk now that my laryngitis is over. But I just huddle over my books. I try not to let anyone catch my eye. But I think I notice Stewart McCombie looking over at me. He has some gel or something in his hair today. It actually looks kind of cool. It makes me think about yesterday and how he sort of defended my report.
And then just when I’m thinking maybe Stewart is semi-okay, I am tossing my trash in the big barrel by the back door after lunch and he suddenly leaps in front of it and smacks my lunch bag out of the air and across the room. He shouts “Rejected!” and grins this goofy grin. Joseph laughs uncontrollably and they slap hands.
Becky says, “Wow. You’re impressive.” Lynne just shakes her head. It seems like they don’t like Stewart much either.
I look the other way and head out to the playground. Stewart calls after me, “That’s like American basketball, right?”
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of a reply. Let them pick up my trash, weirdos. I go to my part of the wall. I lean back and try to look cool. Like, who cares what everyone is doing? I’m just hanging.
Becky joins Lynne, and they run out to the field and start their game up with the other kids. I start to watch, but I have so much upset that I get up and have to walk around the perimeter of the playground instead of holding my piece of the wall up.
I stop near Faith and a swarm of other kindergartners playing some kind of tag game. She waves and I wave back. I am reduced to watching kindergartners play tag! What is wrong with me? There’s a little-kid soccer ball on the side by all the tag players. I take two steps into it and kick it hard against the low stone wall that surrounds the playground. Slam! I trap it on the return. I hate this place! Slam! Wet! Slam! Cold! Slam! I spend my recess slamming that ball on that wall. I am just rocketing it, trapping it, and then rocketing it again.
When the bell rings, I’m actually sweating. I turn to walk up to the upper field and see Mrs. Watkinson standing there, watching me.
I look down. I hope she didn’t see me doing it the whole period.
We line up to go back in. Lynne and Becky are in front of me, breathing heavy from all the running around. Lynne is facing Becky. “What are ye doin’ tomorra?”
Becky bounces the ball. “Don’ know.”
“Ye want to take the bus inta Boots?” Lynne asks.
I saw Boots in town when we were getting my school uniform. It’s actually called Boots, the Chemist. A chemist is what they call a pharmacist over here, and I guess Mr. Boots was the original pharmacy guy, although the name makes it sound like a cat owns the place. Boots has stuff like magazines, CDs, and soda as well as all the regular pharmacy junk.
“Cool.” Becky nods.
“Okay. Meet ye at the bus stop ’bout half-nine.”
“Aye. Super.” They tap their fists together, knuckles to knuckles.
Mrs. Watkinson opens the door and we all head in. I take my seat. Okay. I can’t stand one more day like this. As much as I hate having to do it, I’m going to have to try to make friends. I’ve got speech control. I’m normal-looking. I’m a good soccer player. No, I’m a great soccer player. I’ve got to get to know Lynne and Becky so I can show them I can play.
And I’ve got a plan.
9
DECREPIT
Worn out, in a dilapidated state.
LYNNE and Becky are over at the magazines. They are wearing jeans and cool tops since it is a Saturday and we can wear civilian clothes. Lynne hears the bus brakes screech in front of Boots. She peers over the rack to see who’s getting out. She taps Becky on the shoulder and says, “Hey, look. It’s the new girl. From ’merica.”
Becky waves. “Yeh. Her name’s Andrea.”
I hop down the bus steps and push through Boots’s glass double doors. Lynne smiles and waves. I can hear her whisper to Becky, “She’s cool. She rides the bus into town and hangs out at Boots, too.”
Becky calls, “Hey, Andrea. How’s it goin’?”
