Frannie sat up and adjusted the pillows behind her. How long had it been since she had replaced the pillows? She couldn’t remember, which probably meant that it was time for new ones. These were probably full of dead skin and dust mites. Next time she found herself in South Portland—which could be quite some time; summer was her employer’s busiest season and some weeks she found herself going in to the office on Saturday—she would stop in Marshalls or Home-Goods and see what was on sale.
She lay back down and sighed. Yes, Peter was useless in a situation like this, a family crisis. At least, he had been useless to date, and she didn’t expect that to change. He wasn’t a bad man, not really, just insensitive to emotional nuances, and also, she had to admit this, he was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. And there was the cheating thing, too. Peter would never agree to go to therapy—not that he had the money for treatment—so Frannie had no idea if he was indeed a “sex addict.” But he certainly had exhibited some seriously wayward behavior in the days of their marriage, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn he was still sowing his wild oats at the age of thirty-seven. Some women didn’t mind a premature paunch and missing front teeth. Frannie knew she was being mean—like she was physically perfect!—but at that moment she didn’t much care. She would admit such unkind thoughts to Father William when she next went to confession. But Father William had known Peter, albeit not very well. She doubted that deep in his heart he would condemn her for not thinking of her ex-husband with charity. Father William might be a priest, but he was a human being first.
Adjusting the pillows had not helped her to relax. And thinking about her ex-husband wasn’t helping either, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
To tell herself she should have known better than to marry the dubiously charming local boy with the spotty reputation didn’t help matters. The fact was that she had married Peter when she was twenty-three and he was twenty-two. The following year she had given birth to Megan Christine. Almost eight years later, Peter Jr. had come along, unplanned, an accident, but welcomed. By then, the marriage was a sham, held together only by Frannie’s willpower and the firm belief that divorce was fundamentally wrong and should be avoided at all costs. And then things had gotten really bad, with Peter losing his job and maxing out their credit card and taking up with a much younger woman with a drug habit, and reason and the instinct for survival had triumphed over her church’s noble but unrealistic teachings. When Petey was barely two, Frannie kicked his father out of the house he was failing to pay for or maintain and began life as a single parent, which, in a way, she had been all along.
Maybe that was why Meg had acted so irresponsibly, Frannie thought now. Maybe she just hadn’t been a good enough single parent. In all her reading she had yet to come across any study that identified kids from single-parent homes as necessarily more likely to bully or to betray a friend. Well, she hadn’t yet come across such a study. Maybe that study was just waiting to hit her over the head with an accusation of failure.
Frannie looked over at the pile of books and magazines stacked on the night table. With few exceptions they were from the library, as her book- and magazine-buying budget was pretty pathetic. It was actually okay in this case because she didn’t really want to keep all the information on such a grim topic as bullying in the house. It felt—contaminating.
The number of terms to learn and absorb was overwhelming—“relational aggression,” “bullycide,” “social contagion” (that was when nice kids joined in the bullying—was that what Meg had succumbed to, the disease of social contagion?), “potential defenders,” “cyber-bullying.” So-called experts differed in their sometimes dubious, sometimes legitimate credentials as well as in their definitions of the types of bullies, though all seemed to agree about how a victim or a witness should respond to a bully. In short, walk away and tell an adult.
And the staggering statistics! Frannie had read in one of the magazines that every day an average of 16,000 children in the United States stayed home from school for fear of being bullied. Another source said that 30 percent of American kids were directly affected by bullying. Seriously, what the hell was going on? And the damn Internet wasn’t helping matters, either. Children were being tortured in their own homes, the one place where traditionally they could feel safe and protected. It was insane. And it was criminal.
Of course, Frannie reflected, staring up at a new crack in the ceiling paint, the situation wasn’t entirely hopeless. It seemed that every week someone was establishing an organization to educate students and their parents about bullying, how to prevent it, how to stop it, how to heal from it. And there were successful campaigns out there, like the “It Gets Better” effort. A band, Rise Against (Frannie had no idea who they were but had read about them), had teamed up with that campaign and had recorded a song called “Make It Stop (September’s Children)” in which they called for the end of the kind of culture that fosters hate and bigotry. That had been after the rash of teen suicides in the fall of 2010.
Nickelodeon, which Frannie knew all too well from personal experience (if she never saw another episode of Sponge-Bob SquarePants it would be too soon) was very popular with kids and tweens, was running a two-year on-air public service campaign featuring some of the network’s young stars. There were several activist groups in her own state of Maine pushing for a law to define and prevent bullying, and there was something called a “System-Wide Code of Conduct” that addressed bullying and harassment. Even the federal government was involved in the education effort. And not too long ago a New Hampshire boy had successfully petitioned the Boston Red Sox to make a video for the “It Gets Better” campaign in honor of his uncle, a gay man, who had recently died while traveling abroad.
That was all unarguably good stuff. But there were some aspects to the conversation surrounding the issue that worried Frannie. For example, some people in the anti-bullying industry were arguing that there was or should be no such thing as an “innocent bystander.” They argued that it was every person’s moral imperative to act to prevent, deter, or stop violence no matter the risk to personal health or happiness. That was a powerful ideal, but it was a tall order to expect a kid to act courageously when adults throughout history had failed—and continued to fail—to resist or criticize abuse. All you had to do was read the daily news to be reminded of human frailty. If you were really honest, all you had to do was look in the mirror each morning.
Frannie stretched her legs, toes pointed down, and felt instead of relaxation the beginnings of a cramp in her left calf. Quickly, she turned her toes up in the direction of her shins, hoping the cramp wouldn’t fully materialize. It didn’t. Good. Maybe if she exercised regularly her legs wouldn’t cramp so often. Maybe if she exercised at all.
Like that was going to happen. Frannie sighed. Maybe what her daughter had done—betraying a friend’s secret—would not be considered bullying by many people, but the results of her action, coming hard upon the terrorizing behavior of Mackenzie Egan and her gang, had undoubtedly pushed Rosie over the edge. Rosie had always been, from the very first, a quiet sort, a bit shy, a bit emotionally ... delicate. Just like her mother, in fact. Before the girls were out of Pull-Ups, Meg had emerged as the leader of the two, the one who had walked first, the one who decided what toys they would play with, the one who jumped first into the pool while Rosie followed more carefully, using the ladder to ease her descent. Meg had given up her favorite stuffed animal, a plush little puffin named Puffy, by the time she was four. Rosie had carried around her favorite stuffed animal, a fluffy brown puppy named Harold, until she was eight. (Frannie had often wondered what sort of kid named a stuffed animal Harold. The answer seemed to be, a special sort of kid.)
No, Frannie decided again, her daughter should not be demonized. She was not evil. In a moment of adolescent weakness she had spilled a secret. She had done something wrong but not something demonic. She had confessed to Father William and had been absolved. She had apologized to Ro
sie. What more could she do? There was no changing the past.
From her bed Frannie could see several lights on the second floor of the Pattersons’ house. So, it looked as if she might not be the only one who couldn’t sleep. It was probably Jane who was lying awake into the small hours. It was usually the woman who suffered the sleepless nights. Not always, but usually.
Frannie looked away from the Pattersons’ house. She missed her best friend. She could barely remember her life before Jane Patterson. They had met almost fourteen years ago at a local mommy-and-me class. Jane had arrived on the first day carrying a new knockoff designer diaper bag; Frannie had arrived carrying a bag passed down from a neighbor who had used it for both of her children. It was old but clean and serviceable.
The women’s differences, which were considerable, hadn’t proved to be an obstacle to building a solid friendship. Frannie’s mother had been a homemaker and her father had worked for a local utility company. She hadn’t been able to afford college after high school, so instead, she had taken some classes in computer science and taught herself enough administrative skills to get and keep progressively decent jobs. She was smart and used to making do. Jane, whose mother had worked in an art gallery and whose father had been a lawyer, had grown up in a suburb of Boston and gone to a small arts-oriented college in New Hampshire. Later, she had earned a master’s degree in the history of textiles. (That tidbit of information had amused Frannie for months. Imagine what her own parents would have said had she told them she was earning a degree in such a “useless” oddball topic!) Frannie loved the Red Sox with a passion. Jane couldn’t even recognize a home run, though she did enjoy going to a Sea Dogs game as much as the next person. But Frannie suspected that for Jane, the outing was all about the chance to socialize and chat about what people were wearing, not about the final score.
And there were deeper differences than levels of education and a love of or indifference to baseball. Frannie, who had grown up in a fairly religious home, still considered herself a Catholic and attended Mass almost every Sunday and certainly on the holidays. At Peter’s nagging insistence she hadn’t forced a religious education on the children, though both Meg and Petey had been baptized and Meg had gone to an after-school religious education program so that she could receive her First Holy Communion. Anyway, there wasn’t even a Catholic grammar or high school within ten miles of their home, not since the Church had hemorrhaged so much money in the past few years, paying off its emotional debts. Frannie had done her soul searching and had come to the conclusion that while the institution of the Church might be in many ways corrupt, and while some of its decrees were impossible for her to accept (No women priests? Come on! No gay marriage? What was that about?), there were plenty of good and faithful people, herself included, who should not be denied the solace and tradition offered by the community in which they had come to maturity. She had made her separate peace, which included requiring her children to accompany her to Mass whether they understood all that was going on or not.
Jane, on the other hand, considered herself an agnostic. She liked to say that she had been brought up in the First Church of Suburbia. She also claimed not to remember or maybe never even to have known the church’s actual denomination. “Something vaguely Christian,” she had said. “Nothing extreme. Nothing really memorable, either. No pomp, and certainly no circumstance.”
“Was there even a cross?” Frannie had asked, slightly appalled, the first time Jane had talked about her past.
Jane had considered for a moment before saying, “I think so.”
What the two women did have in common was intelligence, a devotion to family, a generous spirit, and, if Frannie was being honest, a real need for each other. That was enough to unite them and keep them together for almost fourteen years. The Pattersons moving into the house right next door to the Giroux family when the girls were about six further cemented the bond that had begun to form over hand-clapping games and diaper rash remedies. True, Mike and Peter had never been close. In fact, from the start Frannie had the impression that Mike only tolerated Peter for her sake. Certainly, after Peter had moved out, Mike hadn’t spoken more than a passing word or two to him when he showed up to beg for a loan or to retrieve something important he claimed to have left behind. (That was really an excuse to make off with an object he could sell for some quick cash.)
And now, after all the two families had been through together—the childhood illnesses, Jane’s miscarriages, the birthdays, the holidays, the first day of school, her own disruptive divorce and its aftermath—to have it all come to this horrible state of anger and betrayal and distrust sickened Frannie.
Frannie sighed and reached for the switch on the bedside lamp. If she had to lie awake well into the night, she might as well do it in the dark and keep the electricity bill within budget.
6
November 5, 2011
Dear Diary,
In the past few days, things have been kind of weird between Meg and me. This girl Jill Harrison, one of Mackenzie Egan’s friends, told a bunch of people about a video that’s going around online that’s supposed to be really sexy. I’m not sure what Meg means by its being “sexy,” like if it’s a music video or what. Anyway, Meg asked me if she could check it out at my house because she didn’t want her mom somehow finding out or her brother coming into her room while she was online. But when she told me about it I said no. Not just because my mom and dad wouldn’t want me to watch the video but also because I just didn’t feel right about it.
Meg was all, “But everyone is checking it out!” and I just laughed. Since when does she care about doing what everyone else is doing? Besides, I seriously doubt “everyone” is checking it out. Anyway, I said, “No, thanks,” again and then she wanted to know if I was going to tell on her. I was totally shocked and really hurt, but I didn’t say anything. How could Meg think I’d ever tell on her? I’m her best friend. I might not like something she does, but unless it’s some sort of horrible crime—which Meg would never do, anyway—I’d never give her away! Never. Just like Meg has kept my big secret for years now and would never, ever tell anyone. I know that for certain, like I know that my name is Rosemary Alice Patterson.
Anyway, the long story short is that I guess Meg went ahead and checked out the video, but I have no idea whose computer she used or if she did it by herself or with someone else. I kind of want to know and I kind of don’t want to know. I’m certainly not going to ask her! I think she’s sort of mad at me for not going along with her or helping her out. I hope she’s not but I think she is.
As for my big sister, I haven’t seen Carly in weeks, except for glimpsing her across the cafeteria at lunchtime. But that’s okay because I’m doing fine. Meg’s big sister gave her a crinkly cotton scarf she didn’t want anymore. I didn’t even know that Meg liked scarves, but she’s been wearing it ever since, so I guess she does. And it’s orange, which I always thought Meg hated! I wonder if she just likes it because it was Tiffany’s.
That sounds kind of mean. Sorry. I guess I’m still a little upset about the video incident. I shouldn’t be because I know I did the right thing not letting Meg use our computer. But I am. I don’t like to make anyone unhappy, and I guess that this time I did. Mom and Dad have always taught me that following your conscience isn’t always easy. They were right.
Oh, this is news! In gym class I actually made a basket in basketball! It was the first time I ever even came close and this girl Kylie joked it would probably be the last time, too. She’s probably right!
It’s already been below freezing three times—at night—and it’s only the beginning of November! Brrr. I don’t like the cold that much, but I love the holiday season. I love all the decorating! Finding the perfect tree and then putting all the special ornaments on it is my favorite thing ever. We have one ornament from my mother’s mother, my grandmother Rosemary. It’s made of pink glass and has a kind of glitter all over it that looks like sugar frosting. It’s my abs
olute favorite ornament. I hope that when I’m older and have my own tree, Mom passes it down to me. But if she doesn’t want to, I’ll understand.
This year for Christmas I’m asking for a hardcover copy of THE GOLDEN COMPASS. It’s the first in a trilogy called His Dark Materials by a writer named Philip Pullman. I read it last summer and loved it. I kept imagining that I was Lyra, the heroine, though she’s an awful lot braver than I am. Anyway, it was a library book, so of course I couldn’t keep it. I’m going to read and someday own the other two books in the trilogy, too. The second one is called THE SUBTLE KNIFE and the third is THE AMBER SPYGLASS. How do people come up with such interesting titles? How can a knife be subtle? That sounds so interesting. Maybe someday I’ll meet an actual writer and ask how they come up with titles and how they find their ideas.
I should go now. I really want to watch this special about the Vatican art collection on TV tonight, but I won’t be allowed unless my homework is done. I am so going to Italy when I’m older. Mom went to Italy and to France for almost the entire summer between college and graduate school and I love looking at all the pictures she took, though I can hardly recognize her with such short hair. I can’t wait to visit the Louvre in Paris and see the Mona Lisa up close and to see Michelangelo’s statue of David, the original one, in Florence. And the food in France and Italy is supposed to be amazing and you know how I love to eat!
Last Summer Page 5
