One kid was sitting there, the Asian boy from English class. He had stuck his math book under the short leg, and was politely sipping soup, robotic and rigid, nothing else on his tray but a couple of pieces of fruit. Becky walked over, pulled out the chair across from him, and slipped off her backpack.
“What’s your name?” she said.
He was startled, but clearly glad he had a visitor.
“Joe,” he said. “Joey Chen.” He smiled then, and even though he had funny teeth, the expression had an interesting effect, like craft-show glass, like sidewalk art. His eyes glinted. “You,” he said, “are Becky Michigan.”
She shrugged.
“Are you new here?”
He looked down at his soup.
“I am from China. I been here one year, three months, eleven days.”
Becky sighed. A whole year and he was eating lunch alone.
“You like this great food?” she said.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“I like YouTube,” he said. “Funny things.” Becky sat back and folded her arms.
“I like the Tosh show.”
“Me too,” he said, “But he sometimes disgusting.”
“That’s what’s funny.”
“Yes.”
“What else do you like to do?”
He straightened a bit and got stricter and severe in his posture, if that was even possible.
“I put things together.”
Becky sat forward and put her chin on her palm.
“What do you mean?”
His eyes squinted a bit, as if he was deciding whether or not to go on, like she was going to tease him or something. Carefully, he said,
“I put things together. Build things. I make birds and airplanes and flowers and castles. Out of anything. Out of everything.”
“Really?”
He relaxed.
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Becky dug into her backpack. At the bottom, she found an orange Tic Tac, five rubber bands, four pencil stubs, a lipstick canister cover, five paper clips, and a Styrofoam packing square from the I-Pad Mother had mail ordered—Becky had gone through a phase where she liked digging her nails into it, making half-moon shapes when she was bored. She put everything up on the table and scooped it all into a makeshift pile.
“Sorry about the lint,” she said, pinching up a dust ball and flicking it aside.
“No problem. What you want me to build?”
“How about a boat?”
“Too easy.”
“A train caboose?”
“Something harder,” he said. “And be specific.”
She pushed out her lower lip and blew upward to fluff the hair off her forehead.
“Ok. How about a catapult?”
“That’s a good challenge.”
She grinned.
“It’s got to work, too.”
“How well?”
She looked over at the concrete pillar.
“You’ve got to be able to hit Freddie Douglass in the eye. Hard enough to tear the paper.”
Joe got to work, and it was amazing. His fingers were incredibly strong, and he was flying through the process, like a master craftsman on hyper-speed, carving out a base with the Styrofoam, inserting the pencils at strange angles, bending the paper clips into shapes and twisting them around the ends with the erasers, one of them a ‘stick-on’ she’d had since she was five, shaped like the Squirtle Pokémon. Then he was on to the next phase, making knots with the rubber bands, using his teeth to bite through them a couple of times when the length didn’t seem to appeal, then tying them around the pencils in crisscross patterns that made tiny triangle shapes in a broad, five-by-three inch webbing. Finally, he took the lipstick cover and with his fork, punched a pair of small holes on opposite sides of the closed end, using his spoon as a buffer and the heel of his palm as a hammer. He stuck the two rear paper clip ends through the holes, jammed in the pencil to turn down the edges on the inside, loaded the Tic-Tac, turned toward the pillar, and pulled back the little cannon he had created, stretching the rubber band web so far back the brown textured strands in the middle turned a strained grayish-white.
He released, and the lipstick cover snapped forward on its mounts, pistoning across, shooting the Tic-Tac right at the poster. He didn’t get Freddie in the eye, but it tore the paper a bit under his left jaw. Becky cheered, and then something hit her in the ear.
She reached there, thinking that somehow the Tic-Tac had had a delay-action ricochet, and then she felt something hit her again, this time on the cheek. The projectile rolled and wobbled across the table, settling at the far edge. It was a grape. A purple grape.
Another one struck her right on the end of the nose, leaving a hint of moisture, making her blink stupidly, and yet another plinked off her forehead. So immature! She pushed back her chair and looked over in the general direction of the assault. There, across the aisle and about eighteen rows down, was Cody Hatcher, sitting at the edge of the table with what seemed to be four of his idiot friends, all of them laughing like hyenas, one stamping his foot he was so overcome with the hilarity of it all. Hatcher stopped and looked right at Becky. He reached in front of him and took a purple grape off the stem. He put it in his mouth and chewed real slow. Swallowed. Licked his top lip and winked. Then his friends were laughing again, slapping him on the back.
Becky didn’t think, she just acted. Joe didn’t have time to move. In a flash, she reached across the table, knocked over his milk, grabbed his orange, and pivoted back, side-stepping into the aisle. She had a split second to look at her target, and Hatcher had his mouth open, all teeth, eyes up at the ceiling he was laughing so hard.
She kicked up a knee and spread her hands, throwing-arm dangling way low behind her. There was a moment of perfect balance there, and then her body became a machine: all hot fluid and angry levers. She stepped into it deep, cocked up her arm, snapped her hips, and fired.
The orange flew out of her hand as if on a clothesline. Even through the noise, she could hear it hiss through the air, and heads turned with it as if in slow motion. Hatcher had just enough time to adjust his eyes from the ceiling and focus on what was coming. It hit him square in the forehead with a hard splat and his hands flew up. It knocked him straight back out of his chair, and the fruit ruptured in a blast of spray and peel.
People roared. Gossip exploded, and Becky could hear a lot of “Did you see that?” and “Who is that girl?” and “What happened?” and “Did you see how freakin’ hard she chucked that?” Everything was echoing, sounding unreal, and the teachers on lunch duty were darting their eyes all around to pinpoint exactly where the disturbance was. Becky got back in her chair, and Joe had his mouth open.
Becky was trying not to shake.
“He had it coming,” she managed.
Joe nodded.
Suddenly, there was another commotion. Becky looked over, and Hatcher was being helped up by a teacher’s aide wearing a hairnet and rubber gloves. The knucklehead was slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, trying to shake out the cobwebs. She had knocked him out cold. And there was a huge red blotch on his forehead where the orange had struck him.
The aide led him out of the room to a rash of cat-calls and finger pointing, and when he passed Becky, he didn’t even glance over. He was trying to walk without his knees caving.
A boy approached the table then, from across the aisle, slowly, duck footed, with big ears, a crew cut, and trusting smile. He sat next to Becky, and then they were joined by a skinny girl with red, gimpy hair, a ton of freckles, and wire-framed glasses. Next, there was a kid with a thin face and dirty-blond hippie hair alongside a tall boy with his hands in his pockets, a bead shell necklace, and a winter hat with pom-pom tassels. Last, came a heavy girl wearing a ton of junk jewelry, and they all sat there sort of looking at each other. Becky suddenly realized that these were Joe’s friends, and she was about to
ask, and rather rudely, where they all were five minutes ago. The boy with the big ears and crew cut seemed to read her mind, speaking earnestly, with a bit of a lisp.
“We were at a stage crew meeting for the assembly next week. Joey’s not with us because he has a conflict with robotics. We walked in when Cody Hatcher was throwing the grapes.” He paused. “We all have our bullies.” He looked at Becky directly then. “Nice arm.” Everyone at the table nodded.
“Thanks,” Becky said. The guy giggled nervously, grinned foolishly, and began playing church and steeple with his fingers. The red head tapped his arm, widened her eyes, and nodded towards Becky.
“Right,” the boy said. “My name’s Shane, and I win the Science Olympiad every year.” He looked back at the skinny red head. “That’s Beth. She writes songs. She played guitar at the Philadelphia folk festival in 2010 and won the music award in eighth grade at Paxon Creek.” He angled his head over at hippie-hair. “Justin’s just sick with computers, and he invented three video games. We call Brandon ‘Fluffy,’ because he never takes his hat off, and Jill is weird, but she’s really nice.”
The big girl leaned over, her necklaces swinging and clacking all over the place.
“You’re interesting,” she said. “Could I pierce your ears? I have some hoops with rubies at the bottom that would really bring out your eyes.”
“We could have a party,” Beth said, crossing her legs, almost folding into herself. “I’ll bring my acoustic and play you three songs no one ever heard before.”
“My Mom can make Amish Whoopie Pies,” said Fluffy.
“With fudge icing?” Shane said.
“Is there any other way?”
“Mmmm,” they all said so simultaneously it seemed rehearsed. They were all smiling. Justin looked around the group shyly, then, and said,
“I’ve been forming a new battle program. It has super heroes, but I haven’t worked out the villains yet except for some empty prototypes. I’ll bring my laptop.”
Joe smiled and clapped his hands together like a little boy.
“Yes, it’s an ear piercing party. Piercing, music, and villains.”
He focused on Becky.
“We can we come over, can’t we?”
Everyone leaned in, looking at her.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “After school. I’ll tell my mother to bring home a tray from the Superfresh when she gets off shift.” For a second then she died inside, embarrassed that her mother was so the cliché of the weird lady at the supermarket, but Shane’s eyes had gone dreamy.
“Ooh,” he said. “Superfresh, really? That’s neat. I like their corned beef.”
“They have the only rawhide bones Chippy will play with, like at all,” Fluffy added. Jill’s eyes had gone distant like Shane’s. “Nice Revlon products, non-foods, aisle four,” she said.
“If your mom brought home a tray that would be awesome,” Beth said. “But in case she can’t, I could bring hot wings, Tostitos, and guacamole.” She looked at Becky closely and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Do you think your mom will like me? I need a job and I think I’d be a good cashier. Is she nice or mean?”
“Nervous.”
Beth smiled.
“Just like my mom.”
They all got out their phones and did the ritual trading of phone numbers and Facebooks and screen names. They took some pictures together in different pairs, told silly jokes, and time flew.
“Miss Michigan?”
“Yes?” Becky looked up, and there was a man standing there—silver hair, red tie, dark blazer.
“I’m Mr. Ladd, the Disciplinary Dean. Could you come with me, please?”
Blood drained out of Becky’s face. She numbly got her stuff and walked into the aisle with him. There were sarcastic cheers and she hardly heard them. Three days in, and she was already doing the walk of shame to the Principal’s office.
Chapter Nine
Becky tried to hold her head up and stay proud, somehow, but she couldn’t with about a million and a half kids saying, “Oooh, Mr. Ladd!” and “She’s in trouble!” and “Mad-Ladd don’t play,” and “Mr. Ladd calls your Dad!” as she was being escorted out of the cafeteria.
Out in the hallway, his dress shoes clicked and clacked echoes off the walls, and in any other situation, Becky would have burst out laughing. It was always funny when guys wore clicky-heels, especially when other guys thought a female in a skirt was coming then turned around, disappointed. Suddenly, she thought of Baseball-Danny and his cleats, and her eyes reddened with brim-tears. Somehow, this would have been better if he was walking there with her, holding her hand, reassuring her that there was some valid excuse for her sudden ability to blast a boy clean out of his chair and knock him out cold.
A couple of tears did spill over just then, and they were more of frustration than anything else. Cody Hatcher deserved worse, far worse, and she was the one getting in trouble! She sniffed and rubbed her cheek hard with her open palm. Mr. Ladd ignored it and kept right on walking, faster now, making her keep up. He was closed-fisted and wire tight, toes pointing slightly outward, click-clack past the teacher’s lounge, click-clack past the auditorium, click-clack past the west-side library exit. He opened the door with the green marbled glass, and waited for her to enter.
Becky shuffled in and stood there so Mr. Ladd could close the door and lead the way. The secretaries looked busy, and it was pretty obvious they were trying to look busy. Gosh—did they already know about this? Did the whole school realize she had been busted? Had it gotten to the papers yet? Was it already plastered all over the internet with people blogging ‘for’ and ‘against’ campaigns? What the heck? All she did was throw an orange!
There was a carpeted hall foyer past the information center, and Mr. Ladd led her to the last door on the right. He pushed it open, and Becky walked in. There were plaques on the wall and plastic flowers, and certificates from Saint Joseph’s and Villanova, a Principal’s desk with no one behind it, and to the left toward the corner, there was a round conference table. There were three men waiting there, standing behind their chairs. Hands! What should she do with her hands? She folded them in front of her, and it felt like she was wearing handcuffs. She put them behind her back, but that made it seem like she was being smart. Her throat hurt suddenly, and her back itched right in that place impossible to reach without a fork or long handled spaghetti strainer.
“Come and sit down, Becky,” the oldest and tallest of the group said. He had short gray hair that had faded tints, suggesting it had once been fire-Irish red. He had on a blue suit, and his eyes were a cold, hard gray. Becky came forward and took a seat, the men around the table joining her. The man in the blue suit sat across from her, a couple of files in front of him. To Becky’s left, the short guy in his rather wrinkled brown blazer had a big nose and a bald spot up the middle, giving him horseshoe head. The one to Becky’s right, the really scary one with the Devil’s point goatee, was wearing a black golf shirt. He also had on a black cap, mirror sunglasses, and a mini radio clipped to a shoulder harness. A cop? Had they really called in a cop? Over an orange? Becky put her hands between her knees and tried her best not to shake. The man directly in front of her opened the file, Mr. Ladd standing behind him like a Pitbull.
“I’m Dr. Edward McGovern, the Principal here,” he said. He glanced at a couple of things in the file, closed it and leaned back, hands webbed behind the head, elbows out, face no less serious. “Twenty minutes ago there was an incident in the cafeteria. Can you explain it?”
Becky was pinching at the skin of her forearm and she made herself stop. Her voice sounded small.
“I…I was sitting with Joey.”
“Yes, Joey Chen,” Horseshoe-head interrupted. “An excellent student, advanced in the sciences…” His voice trailed off because Principal McGovern and Rent-a-Cop were staring at him. “Sorry,” he muttered, getting out a pair of bifocals and a pocket-sized spiral notebook to study. Becky gave a little cough and
went on.
“Cody Hatcher was bullying us. I’ve got witnesses, but nobody likes me…well, not until today…but I mean before, like when Cody hit Joey with an eraser and put his dirty foot on my chair, and…” Now she faded off. She was making no sense whatsoever, and she closed her eyes to concentrate.
“Miss Michigan,” Principal McGovern said. She opened her eyes and saw that everyone at the table was looking at each other rather uncomfortably. “I don’t think you really realize why you’re here, and that in itself is a surprise to us. I’m probably going to get a call from Cody Hatcher’s father tonight and an email from his lawyer. I am going to have to set up a meeting with a member of the board, a union representative for each teacher patrolling the lunch room, a disinterested third party, and a stenographer. Do you know why I am going to have to go to those extremes?”
“Because I threw the orange?” Becky whispered. This was a nightmare, a cold nightmare. How was her mother going to handle this? Her father would never speak to her again. She would wind up going to one of those special juvi schools, where sections were overcrowded with kids that had police records, and the classes were monitored by uniformed security guards with weapons.
“Threw an orange,” Horseshoe-head said reflectively. He was smiling slightly, and again, Principal McGovern and Rent-a-Cop looked over at him. He went back to his notes and starting writing stuff furiously. Principal McGovern breathed hard through his nose, sat forward, folded his hands, and spoke at them.
“Gerry, run the clip.”
Mr. Ladd went over to a control panel over by the bookcase and hit a few buttons. A Sony flatscreen mounted in the corner flashed on, and twenty or so small squares came visible. Video monitors. Becky recognized the image by the front entrance and another outside the gym where there was the water fountain and the stairwell, though the angles were overhead from their ceiling mounts and slightly tilted.
“Hit number twelve,” Principal McGovern said. The image flickered, and one camera shot filled the screen. It was a black and white film of the cafeteria, just above where Becky and Joey had been sitting, the Frederick Douglass poster there, his cheek ripped a bit from the Tic-Tac. The room was vacant.
Becky's Kiss Page 6
