by Bob Krech
“I’m okay. I used to play at home.”
“There’s some great football here. Don’t play much meself, but I’m a big fan.”
Margaret is very easy to talk to even though I don’t know her. Probably because I’m not worried about impressing her and I get the feeling she likes me. I know Becky and Lynne respect the way I play, but I don’t get an overwhelming feeling of “like” yet. It’s probably just part of their being taciturn.
Margaret points down this skinny alleyway. The sign says COLLIN’S CLOSE. “Have ye tried this chipper down here yet? Gorty’s?”
I shake my head no.
“Ye never been to Gorty’s?!”
“No.”
“You’ve had fish and chips though.”
“Um, no.”
Margaret grabs her heart and staggers backward. “Tha’s nawt right. Nawt righ’ ’tall. We must rectify this immediately. C’mon!”
Margaret takes me by the hand and we practically skip down the little alley. She stops us at a storefront with green and gold letters in the window—GORTY’S.
Margaret rubs her hands. “Now fer yer experience.”
We walk in and bells over the door ring. Like sleigh bells. Margaret bellows, “Le’s have some service in here!”
A red-haired teenage girl in a white smock is at the counter. She looks up. “Oh God save us. Margaret Fer-gu-son!”
Margaret strides over and hugs her across the counter. “Susan! This is my friend, Andrea. From ’merica. She’s never had fish and chips afore. Ken ye believe it?”
“Oh, aye.” She smiles and shakes hands with me. “Pleased to meet ye. Ah’m Susan.”
“Hi.”
Susan gets a little paper pad. “What’ll it be then, girls?”
Margaret says, “Two regulars.”
There’s no tables or chairs. It’s strictly take-out. I reach in my pocket for money and Margaret notices. “Nay, nay. This is my treat all right.” The girl nods, goes in the back, and in seconds hands over a big brown paper bag that smells super. Margaret gives her some money. “Ta, Susan.”
“Ta, Margaret. Mind yerself now.”
We go out and we sit on a wall to the side of the shop. Margaret hands me a steaming rolled-up paper package with grease spots all over it.
I watch her unfold the paper and eat with her fingers, so I do the same.
It is outrageously good! It has a crispy golden coating and delicious fish inside. The chips are actually long, thick, crispy french fries. There’s lots of salt and some kind of brown vinegar on it all. It’s malt and salt! Like on the crisps! I eat like one of those polar bears in the National Geographic specials.
“Quite piquant, would ye not agree?” Margaret asks. Margaret obviously knows some words, too. While we eat, Margaret tells me all about these bands she likes and which radio stations she listens to. I don’t know much of anything about music so I just nod and chew.
When we’re done we get up and use about a hundred napkins to wipe up. Margaret laughs. “Well, that was a bit of all right, ay?”
“It’s great,” I manage to slobber. At least now I know I won’t starve to death here. Not as long as there’s fish and chips.
We walk back up the street together toward Margaret’s house. She gets a boom box from inside and we sit on her steps with it. We listen to her Madness CD and some others, too. The music is very cool, but it’s five now. “I have to go,” I say.
Then she says, “Are ye doin’ anythin’ Saturday?”
“Um, no.”
“Ye wanta come over? Ah’ve some other stuff we could listen to.”
This is fun. She’s nice and friendly and fun. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
She opens her hands up and shrugs. “No reason why not, ay?” she says.
“I guess,” I say.
“Bye then.” She waves and goes in her house. I walk up the street a few blocks and see Lynne and Becky walking toward me. Lynne calls, “Hey, hwr’ye? What are ye doin’ ’round here?”
“Hey. I was at Margaret’s.” I nod back toward her house.
Lynne gives me the TGFC tap.
Becky gives me the tap and says, “Bein’ kind to the underprivileged, are ye?”
I lower my hand slowly. “What?” I ask.
“Ye been spendin’ some time there with the elephant girl?” Becky answers.
“We’re just in messin’ ’bout town,” Lynne says. Then she gets this concerned look. “Are ye really hangin’ ’round with Margaret?”
I start to turn to look at Margaret’s house, but I stop myself. I am mad at Becky. Mad enough to go after her again. I try to think of what to say, to get the words in order, to tell them it’s none of their business, that Margaret is cool and nice, and, and . . .
I look at Lynne and shrug. “Not really.”
19
NONCHALANT
Coolly unconcerned, casual.
I am ashamed. I mean, I didn’t really do anything to Margaret, but I didn’t stand up for her, either. It’s not like she’s ever going to know, but I still feel like a weasel.
We just played our last TGFC game of the fall season. As soon as I got there I checked the other Hazelhead field to see if Stewart was playing, but his team wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him play again except at recess. He moves so easily on the field, it’s like he’s weightless. Yesterday I saw him score from half field like it was nothing.
Meanwhile, we lost our game 1-0. We played Tilledrone. I almost scored on a couple of chances, but it didn’t happen. On my last try of the game, I took a pass at the eighteen, fired, and hit the right post so hard you could hear it ring. I’m walking back with Lynne to the sideline and Becky says, “Ye shoulda carried the ball in closer and shot.”
Lynne gives her a look. “Jest shet up, you.”
Lynne is all right.
In school we’ve been making decorations and practicing holiday songs. I am still managing to say hi to Stewart every morning. He says hi first, then I say hi, then we walk to our seats part of the way together. That’s it, but it’s pretty cool.
We’ve also been making Christmas presents for our families. My mother is going to get a picture frame I made, with a photo of me in it, of course. I made my father a clay sculpture of a kestrel. That’s a bird that’s popular in Scotland. There’s even a beer named after it.
It dawned on me while I was making the gifts that I really want to make and give them nice gifts. I’m not mad at them anymore. I don’t know how that happened, but it’s true. I don’t really think much anymore about how they dragged me here against my will. I’m just here. I mean, it’s still a very weird place, but . . . it’s getting radically better.
Today is the last day before winter break. We’ve had a tree up in the classroom for a week and this morning there’s presents under it. It’s pretty neat—all twelve of us around a real tree in our classroom, opening gifts. It’s like we’re a family or something. Even Jasmine and Molly act relatively normal, though they can’t resist putting popcorn in their noses and blowing it out. Gordon does some unmentionable things with his candy cane. They always seem to find dumb ways to use food most people would just eat.
When we’re not eating we get free choice. Lynne grabs me by the elbow. “C’mon. Time for desk hockey.”
We sit down at Lynne’s desk. Becky pulls up a chair opposite me. Lynne puts a rolled up gum wrapper in the center of the desk. Becky gives me a pencil and takes one herself. “First one to hit it over the other side of the desk scores,” she says.
Lynne pretends she has a microphone and announces, “TGFC Annual Christmas Desk Hockey Tournament is underway. How do ye say yer last name, Andy?”
“DiLorenzo.”
“Sounds eye-talian. Thought ye was ’merican,” says Becky.
Lynne ignores her. “Di-Lorenzo versus Leach. First round of the playoffs.”
In less than a minute I put one over. Lynne yells, “Scooooore!” and makes that air-horn noise, “Byyyyaaahhh!”
They usually go right to their bus line and wait there. I look around for Becky and Lynne, but the E bus has already left. Margaret is wearing a big red Santa hat. “Hi, Andrea!”
I still feel bad about my weasely answer to Lynne about Margaret, so I go stand right next to Margaret and put an arm around her shoulder to kind of make up for it. A little. In my own head, anyway.
“Hey, Stewart,” Margaret says. “Look! Here’s Andrea. You know Andrea.”
Stewart goes red. “Yes. Thank you so much, Margaret,” he says in this very cultured voice. Then he pulls the Santa hat down over her eyes.
“Hey!” she says. “ ’ Fraid Ah’ll see somethin’ I shouldn’t?”
Then their bus pulls up. Margaret heads off to get in the line, waving and yelling, “Happy Christmas!” Stewart does not move. He just stands there. I just stand there. Sweat immediately cascades down my sides.
Finally, he says, “Well, have a good Christmas, ay?”
I’ve got to think of a really clever reply. Something he’ll remember. Finally, I speak. “You too.”
He puts his hands in his coat pockets. “We’re goin’ to spend Christmas with me mum in London.”
Okay. Another chance here for a witty remark. “That’s good.”
The bus horn blares. He says real quick, “Um, well, okay. I got ye a prezzy here.” He reaches in his pocket and jams a packet of salt and malt crisps in my hands. Then he is jogging down the steps and halfway to his bus. “Bye, Andrea! Happy Christmas!” He runs across the parking lot and up the bus steps waving.
I wave. I have given up on witty remarks. Nice and easy now. “Happy Christmas!” I yell. Usually I love Christmas break, but I kind of hope this one goes by nice and quick.
We spend Christmas doing lots of Scottish cultural stuff. Going to concerts, seeing a play, taking a train to Edinburgh. It was nice, but Margaret and Lynne were away and it was a long break. The day before we go back to school, January 15, I start to feel sick. I read once in one of my mother’s health magazines that if you feel a sickness coming on you should take a nice hot bath. So I do.
I get much sicker, much faster.
I have a fever and I’m like a wet rag. It’s so bad I don’t care what happens to me. They can come and tell me they’re going to stick a million needles in my eyes—it wouldn’t matter. My mother keeps putting cold washcloths on my head and saying, “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.”
Somehow she is right and a miracle happens and I live. I go back to school a day late. I look for Stewart in the coat closet so we can resume our hi’s and I can thank him for the Christmas crisps, but he’s already at his seat. Instead, Margaret greets me. “Hey, Andrea. Ye don’ look so good.”
I give her a little nonchalant chuckle and say, “I’m fine.” Nonchalant is a good word from Word Power. It means you act like it’s no big deal. That’s me. I’m tough.
After a very slow morning, and a lunch where I eat crackers and sip ginger ale, because that’s all I’m positive I can keep down, we finish up the day with multiplying decimals, which in my weakened state is even more confusing than usual. How do you ever know where to put that dot?
Mrs. Watkinson says, “Open up your books to page one hundred and twenty. Let’s look at the example problems.”
Then I hear something. It starts low, like little sniffing sounds, then gets kind of blubbery, then out-and-out loud crying. Bernadette is bawling.
Mrs. Watkinson is right there and quickly brings little Bernadette up to her desk, gives her a tissue, and begins whispering. Bernadette reaches in her pocket and pulls out a wrinkled piece of notebook paper. Mrs. Watkinson looks at it for a few seconds. “Bernadette, you go ahead to the nurse. Tell her I said you should rest there a few minutes.”
Then they walk together to the door. Bernadette stumbles out sobbing, her little pigtails sticking out, wiping her eyes and nose with crumpled-up tissues.
Mrs. Watkinson closes the door then walks very quickly to the front of the classroom. She puts her hands on her hips. Her face is red. Even her nose is red.
“Put your books away—NOW!”
Mrs. Watkinson has never yelled before, even when Gordon let the crickets out of the science kit, but she’s yelling now. “I cannot believe this!” She holds up the wrinkled paper and waves it at us. “I have never—” She starts again. “All of you come up here!”
We shuffle our way over carefully, like a pack of old people in their slippers. She shakes the paper at us. “Does anyone want to say anything about this? Because if you know anything, you had better tell me right now.” She looks from face to face.
Did the paper make Bernadette cry? Was it more decimals?
Mrs. Watkinson’s eyes get all wide. “No? No one has anything to say?!” Her voice gets shrill again. She lays the paper out on her desk. “Read!” she commands.
It’s typed all in capital letters. We read it silently, hunched over each other’s shoulders.
BERNADETTE—
YOU ARE TOO STUPID AND UGLY FOR WORDS. YOU THINK YOU ARE SUPPOST TO BE SO SMART. TRY UGLY AND DOPEY. I HATE YOU. PLUS YOU HAVE A BAD BODY ODER.
Mrs. Watkinson’s voice gets soft and low, which is always a danger sign with mad people. “Now. I want to know who wrote this and I want to know right now.”
There’s the pin-drop silence you read about in books. Mrs. Watkinson does not react well. She throws her arms up. She looks like she’s going to fly apart. “A little girl’s feelings are crushed! And you all stand here like nothing happened?! How did this note get in her math book!?”
I stare at the note. So does everyone else. No one looks up.
Finally, Jasmine says, “Mrs. Watkinson.” She points at the paper. “There was somethin’ erased near the bottom. I can almost read it.”
We all look closer. Molly says, “Wait, I know a trick for this. Give me a pencil, Jazzy.”
Jasmine hands her a pencil. She turns the point on its side and rubs it gently over the part Jasmine pointed at. Something had pressed some letters into the paper, and her rubbing leaves a white area where the original lines had been. Letters start appearing.
A—N—D—
Wait. No way!
R—E—A
Jasmine gasps. “It says Andrea!”
Everyone stares at me. Mrs. Watkinson looks puzzled. “Andrea?”
20
OBSESSION
The domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.
“THA—THA—” I stop. Breathe. Focus on Mrs. Watkinson. Stretch my neck to relax. I know it looks weird, but I’ve got to get under control. Tongue between teeth. “Tha—That’s—not my writing.”
“It’s yer name,” Molly replies.
Mrs. Watkinson says, “Does anyone know anything else about this?”
Jasmine rubs her chin. “Well, I wasn’t goin’ to say nuthin’, but I—well, I saw Andrea in Bernadette’s desk this mornin’.”
My hand is shaking. I grab the side of my pants and squeeze. “I w-w-was not!”
Molly quickly chimes in, “What are ye stutterin’ about anyway if yer so innocent?”
Mrs. Watkinson quick says, “Molly! Enough!”
Oh my God. I really stuttered in front of all of them. But maybe they think it’s because I’m scared. Regular people stutter when they’re scared. Breathe. Focus on Mrs. Watkinson. I stretch my neck again to relax the jaw.
Mrs. Watkinson doesn’t move for a second. Just looks at me. “Maybe we should talk with Mr. Dryden.” She puts her hand on my arm. I think about pulling away. I don’t want to go to Mr. Dryden, but I don’t want to disobey Mrs. Watkinson, either.
“Wait!”
Everyone wheels around. Stewart has the paper in his
hand! “Mrs. Watkinson, could I speak to ye?” he asks.
I can’t believe it. He took the paper! Mrs. Watkinson keeps her voice even. “Stewart, this is completely inappropriate. Give me the note, please.”
Stewart stands there. “Sorry, Mrs. Watkinson, it’s just—I noticed somethin’. Could I show ye, please?”
Mrs. Watkinson looks undecided for a second, but she lets go of my arm and walks over to Stewart. “This had better be really good, Stewart.”
The rest of us are just frozen. Mrs. Watkinson huddles with Stewart over the paper. Stewart is whispering to her. Mrs. Watkinson nods a couple of times. Then she turns back to the rest of us. “Everyone to your seats. Clear your desks except for a piece of spelling list paper and a pencil. Put up your offices.”
Our offices are these pieces of manila file folder cut in half, that we stand up on our desks to give us “privacy.” In other words, they keep people from cheating off of you.
Mrs. Watkinson continues, “We are going to have a spelling test. Put your name on your paper.”
We all look at each other. Jasmine raises her hand. “Why are we havin’ the spellin’ test again? We did it just this mornin’.”
“Because I said so! Now be quiet and get your paper ready.” Mrs. Watkinson is still white-hot mad. “There will be six words. I will say the word, use it in a sentence, and then say it again. The first word is Bernadette. Bernadette is unhappy. Bernadette. Do not dare even to begin to glance at someone else’s paper.”
She pauses briefly. “Second word. Ugly. This was an ugly incident. Ugly.”
She keeps going the same way. “Third word. Stupid. It was stupid to do something like this. Stupid.
“Fourth word. Odor. There was an odor in the room. Odor.
“Fifth word. Hate. I hate this behavior. Hate.
“Sixth word. Supposed. We are supposed to behave like young ladies and gentlemen. Supposed. That’s it. Now, fold your papers in half and pass them to the front. Then put your heads down.”
We do. I haven’t had my head down on a desk since second grade. I can peek though and see that she is going through the papers. When she’s done she says, “Jasmine and Molly—out in the hall now! Everyone else stay right where you are.”
