Shawna glanced at Kay, looking puzzled.
“Kay.” A pudgy man in a brown tweed jacket stood to greet them. “Good to meet you, Shawna.” He nodded. “Please have a seat.”
He shuffled through a stack of folders with his stubby fingers and pulled one out. “These scores are very interesting,” he said without looking at either of them sitting on the other side of the desk. “Very interesting.”
Shawna’s eyes were focused on her feet, but at the mention of test scores, she looked first at the principal and then at Kay, then drew herself up tight as a feral cat cornered in the barn.
“Shawna’s education has been irregular.” Kay said. She shifted in her chair. She never explained anything when she was dealing with her own business, so she felt uncomfortable hearing her voice spill out excuses, especially in front of Robby Green, who already knew more about her than she wanted. Still, she couldn’t stop. “Her mother . . .” Kay’s throat felt suddenly dry and she swallowed before finishing. “. . . moved a great deal.”
No matter how many years had passed, whenever she remembered that dark-haired girl with the darting eyes and the nervous mouth, her whole body reacted like she was coming down with something.
“That makes these results even more fascinating.” He put the papers on the desk and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked under his bulk. “They are off the charts.”
“I can arrange for a tutor,” Kay said.
The principal sat up and put his elbows on his desk. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. Shawna scored extremely high on her tests. Her verbal, math, and reading scores are impressive. Her essay was,” he glanced at Shawna, “very adult and shows a sophisticated level of writing ability. She doesn’t need a tutor. In fact, she could be a tutor around here.”
Kay looked at Shawna, whose face she knew and whose sticky moods and bad language she was trying to manage. Now she studied that face, mining for the brilliance this school’s tests had revealed. “I’m surprised, of course, but very pleased. What do we do about someone with ‘off-the-chart’ test scores?”
“She’s a candidate for the advanced placement program. We have an AP Coordinator here, so I’ll arrange a meeting. We’ll see that she’s challenged. And we should probably get her started as soon as possible.” He looked at Shawna, who was biting her thumbnail to the quick. “Are you ready for the first day in your new high school?”
Chapter 16
Shawna
I don’t say a word while Robby and Granny discuss me. When he asks me if I’m ready to go to school, I want to shout, “Dumb question.” This is like the tenth school I’ve been to in the last three years, and they’re all the same to me: The prissy blonds look out from eyeballs they’ve chilled in the fridge before class, and they won’t talk to each other until you pass them in the hall; then they lay you out. The jocks just released from a field or a court want to paw you, and then put you down when you don’t roll over panting. The gangs are really terrific minefields, and then there’re the nerds. I feel like asking, “You got some level of hell I can go to? I’ll take one of those, please.”
Instead, I zip it and I follow Mr. Rolly-Poly Robby down the corridor, wondering how Kay knows him so well, and if that’s going to work for or against me in this school. When I step into the AP English class, the teacher sticks a piece of paper into one hand and a book into the other and points to a seat. I’m just in time to write a thirty-minute essay.
I’m glad I’m not rolling dice today, with the kind of luck I’m having. A principal on a first-name basis with Granny and a timed essay. I suck in my cheeks and bite down.
I get a back seat, which is good and not so good. The good part is I can sit with my back to the wall and nobody behind me. The not-so-good part is I have to walk down the whole row with all those eyes staring up into my face. Nerd, nerd, two sets of icy blue eyes, one jock, and—uh oh, one category I forgot—a troll.
More luck. I get to sit in the back with a troll for company. Oh well, it could be worse. But then, when I sit down, I get a closer look at the girl’s ferret-stare and catch a whiff of that loamy smell. Trolls don’t know about soap.
I glance up at the teacher, Mrs. Heady. She’s been around chalk dust a long time. She’s also embraced Sweet River’s dress code. I never knew they made whole dresses out of plaid. Pencils sprout from the back of her head like spores seeking light, and every once in a while she reaches back, plucks one out, scribbles a note, then tucks the pointed end back into her coiled braid. She makes it hard for me to concentrate on the essay, but I finally manage to shut her out and read the question.
“It is easier to tell the truth than to tell a lie. Do you agree or disagree with this topic statement? Support your position with one or two specific examples from personal experience, events past or present, or from books you have read. (Three paragraphs minimum. 30 minutes.)”
Pathetic. Who thinks up these essay questions anyway?
I pull out my Casino Royale ballpoint and write Shawna across the top of the paper. This is an interesting dilemma—di... lem... ma. I love that word. It means something terrible, but it rolls off the tip of my tongue and sounds delicious. Do I put down the truth, or do I give her what she’d like to read?
I look at the clock.
I better decide or I’m not going to get anything down.
I disagree with the proposition that it is easier to tell the truth than it is to tell a lie. There are times when a lie works a lot better than the truth. I come from Las Vegas, a town where lying is an art form, so I have a lot of examples to support my position. In fact, I have so many that three hundred paragraphs wouldn’t be enough space to write them out.
Let’s take a bar girl for example. She wouldn’t make any tips if she told the drunk how flat-out ugly he was. Instead, by saying he’s a handsome so and so, giving him a small pat on his butt and a smile that tells him he’s the only guy she’s looking at, the girl takes home enough dough to cover her rent and her child care for the month.
Sometimes it’s better to lie than to hurt somebody with the truth. If a dorky guy asks a girl out and she would rather drink rat poison than be seen in public with him, I think she should tell him she’s got a date for that night. That way he saves face and she’s off the hook. Imagine a friend who is overweight asking for an “honest” opinion about how she looks wearing her new, very tight pants. Talk about a minefiled! If she looks fat and you tell her so, you can kiss that friendship goodbye. There are tons of times like these when people lie, and lying makes life better for the one being lied to and for the person telling the lie, too.
Okay, I have two paragraphs of examples—that’s more than enough. But, no, English teachers have this essay-trinity-thing they want. So, what can I use for the third?
I could write about me. I close my eyes and think about the next paragraph. Something like,
If I told the truth about what my mom does for a living, I’d be in Juvie and she’d be in jail. My mom’s a gambler and sometimes a pickpocket when she’s down on her luck, so, as anyone can see, if I’d told the truth to the police when they came to visit a few months ago, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, trying to defend my preference for lying.
No. I don’t want to write that. Let’s keep this essay impersonal.
Think about the politicians and how none of them would be elected if they told the truth. “I’m going to raise taxes the first chance I get.” “I’m declaring war as soon as I can make up an excuse.” Would these truthful candidates win? I don’t think so.
I reread the four paragraphs.
Not really good. I need a way more interesting question to write about if I’m going to bend my brain and be brilliant on paper. I lean back and twirl my pen. If I shake it up, maybe some punchy idea will flow out in the ink. A quote, maybe. That’s one thing I always surprise people with. They can tell me something, and it’s in and out of my head in a snap, but let me read it somewhere, and it sticks there like glue.
&nb
sp; So what quotes do I know about lying?
Even Mark Twain wrote in one of his letters to a friend, “I would rather tell seven lies than make one explanation.” Well, I agree with Mr. Twain. I know people would rather hear something they like than something they don’t. I know that sometimes the truth causes more damage than it does good, and sometimes it’s more trouble to explain than to lie.
Ta da! The summary conclusion, and it’s a wrap. I look up at the clock. I still have ten minutes before Mrs. Heady collects the papers, so I open the textbook she handed me on my way in and start the reading assignment written on the board. It doesn’t take long to lose myself in the story for tomorrow’s discussion, so I don’t see Mrs. Heady until she’s hovering over me.
“And what are you doing?” she asks, leaning over and whispering in my ear.
I want to say something like, “Eating cookie dough. What do you think?” “Reading,” I say, telling the truth.
“You’ve finished your essay?”
I nod and hand her my paper. She’s on her way to the front of the room when she stops with her back to me. If she’d been a car, she would have skidded and spun out. She brings my paper closer to her face, cranks her head side to side like she’s trying to rid her neck of a nasty crick, and then turns to look at me over her shoulder.
I shrug and lower my eyes to the Aesop Fable about a boy and a wolf.
Chapter 17
Shawna
I survive my first week in Sweet River High and wake up to Sunday quiet. On Sundays the ranch is a whole different world. Instead of whistling his horses to him, Kenny Fargo sits on the front porch with his feet propped on the rail, reading the paper. Kay doesn’t stomp down the back steps and toward the barn, either. She spends the day in her office. Even Buster isn’t up and doing his weekday job. There’s no nipping at the sheep to keep them out of the garden; instead he stretches out in a sunny patch like funky yard art.
Kay comes out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in her hand, and passes me as I’m looking out the window at rural America, wondering why I ever got on that bus leaving Vegas.
“There’s toast and cereal on the table, Shawna. I’ve got paperwork to do,” she says before closing her office door behind her.
Sunday is about as exciting as having a conversation with one of Kay’s sheep. I almost miss not being dragged out to the barn.
I eat breakfast, read the back of the cereal box, and time how long I can hold my breath. I know all about nightmares, but Sunday is a double nightmare. I push myself away from the table, grab an apple, and cut it into chunks. Time to do something. Anything!
When I walk past the barn, two Sunday boys are working. One is cleaning stalls and another is in the tack room, working on a saddle. The one using my favorite rake gets my attention. I love how his jeans hug his butt. He turns and catches me staring.
“Hi.” He smiles and waves at me.
I don’t want any cozy communication with him, so I shrug and look away.
When he goes back to raking, I notice he digs the rake in a little deeper. And I’m thinking he needles pretty easy, and that should be fun when I’m bored around this place. But then there are those jeans. I wander over to the fence to scope out Drunk Floyd’s place. The old man isn’t outside. I wait to see if he might pop out of his barn or come out from behind one of those big oaks on the other side of his shack.
When I’m pretty sure Drunk Floyd is sleeping it off somewhere, I climb the fence and work my way around the block foundation where it’s clear this place went up in flames. Inside the knee-high walls, charcoal chunks lie scattered among the weeds, sprouting around the junk—an oven door, a sink, a bucket. A limp vine has a strangle hold on some rusty mattress springs, and gophers are mining the ground from side to side.
I go slow and quiet over to the black horse. He keeps his head down, but he eyes me with every step I take toward him. I get within three feet before he flattens his ears and backs off. I take the chunks of apple out of the napkin and hold them in my palm. He shakes his head and plows the ground with his front hoof, but he doesn’t come closer. I sit down, keeping my hand out. Still, he doesn’t move toward me. I know he wants this apple the way he dips his head, but he keeps five feet of space between us, watching.
“I’m a little tired of this, black horse. Either you come over here or I eat this damned apple.”
He swishes his tail and eyes me.
“Okay, I’m lying down. The apple’s yours, but you gotta make the move.” I stretch out and put the apple on my stomach.
The sun is hot and the weeds prickle my back and my legs. I wonder what creepy Tuan is up to right now? And Mom. What’s she doing? I think about her dark hair and the way it used to shine after she washed it and let it dry in the hot desert sun. When I squint my eyes real hard, I can see her face—the plummy red she painted on her lips before she went out, her eyes and the thick matted lashes she coated until they turned into dark fringe. The way... Stop!
Monster is combing through the weeds and the shakes are right behind him, so I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. Remember something else, Shawna. Remember Mom’s face when it turned ugly on you. Yeah!
“You want to be the star? Is that it, Shawna?”
Remember that? Mom pacing back and forth, arms crossed, jutting her chin out and staring me down.
“Well, you can’t be. You hear? Me. I’m the star in this family.”
She hammered me, and all I did was put on her red dress. The veins in her neck stuck out like they might snap, and her lips drew back so I could see her gums.
“All I wanted was to—”
“Shut up.” She pulled back her hand and I caught it on its way to my face. I never used to duck. I never used to stop her. That day things changed between us. She stepped away and put her hands on both hips. “Don’t sass me.” She grabbed the red dress out of my hand and threw it on the bed. “And stay the hell out of my things.”
Yes, Shawna, remember when your mother turned on you. The shakes are gone.
I feel something nudge my belly. I almost jump to my feet, but I catch myself and keep very still. I squint up at the great dark horse hovering over me, drawing the apple chunks between his lips. His mouth brushes against my shirt. The heat of his breath filters through to my skin.
“Yes,” I whisper.
No. My heart pumps in my throat.
Get away.
Run.
I clench my fists as he takes more of the apple. It’s scary.
Why? This isn’t some... guy.
Then why?
It’s scary because... I swallow... I like it.
My throat feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton balls as the horse’s warm puffs of breath flow across my belly.
This is not the way to stay safe.
Now who are you talking to?
I’m talking to you, girlfriend. Listen up, Shawna!
He finishes the apple and shies away. I watch him disappear inside the barn.
I sit up, but I can’t even stand. My bones are Jell-O. Man, this is too strange. My eyes burn, and that’s not natural for me. A little kid, maybe. Not Shawna.
“Crap!” Saying that out loud helps bring me back to normal. I push myself to my feet and swipe my arm across my eyes.
Drunk Floyd must have come to just about the time I swing my leg over the fence and drop back to the other side. He staggers out his door and down his back steps toward his car. He yanks open the door and falls in behind the wheel. The old stick shift groans when he shoves it into reverse, and the car rolls backwards, sort of like it has hiccups. He’s behind the shack now so I can’t see him. I wait, expecting to hear a major crash, but I don’t.
“Friends don’t let friends drive drunk,” I say to the fence post. “But what about people you hate?”
“Shouldn’t let them drive either.” The voice comes from next to me, and I whip around to look straight into Sunday Boy’s blue eyes—not two feet away from me. He leans on the fen
ce rail.
“That black horse probably was a good one a while ago. Too bad he fell into old Floyd’s hands. Maybe you should make Floyd an offer and buy that guy.”
“Why would I waste good money on a beat up old horse?”
“I dunno. Seems like you got him tucked under your heart.”
I must look blank. Nobody in this world talks like that.
“That’s what my daddy says. When you love something, it’s tucked under your heart.”
“I don’t love one single thing around this place,” I say, before I walk away.
“That’s gotta be terrible for you,” Sunday Boy calls after me.
What is he, anyway, a damned preacher? I scuff the dirt with my feet. “I don’t have anything tucked anyplace.”
Chapter 18
Shawna
Pollard Nix is my history teacher. He’s standing in front of the class, tugging at a really ugly floral tie and looking a lot like a sausage stuffed inside his jacket. He’s said something important, because he picks up the chalk and turns to write on the board. When he lifts his arm, the stitches along the back seam give way, so now the lining peeks out from inside. It’s kind of like looking at a guy’s fly that comes unzipped. You want to say, “Hey! It’s snowing, bud.” But instead, some students slide glances at each other, while others pretend Pollard Nix isn’t popping out of his clothes. I join with the last group and write down the dates he’s scribbled on the scarred blackboard.
Sweet River High is so far under the hi-tech radar that I’m guessing whiteboard has never been an entry in their dictionaries. The computer lab is the size of maybe a big broom closet, and their computers are charity donations that the good citizens of the community have provided. Three Apples (plain with fat monitors) and two PCs loaded with older Windows software. The third and newest one actually has the latest version. Networking is not in anyone’s vocabulary, but that’s fine with me. I’m not into being connected with anyone, so I don’t bother with the so-called computer lab.
Sliding On The Edge Page 6
