by Beth Goobie
“Weeeeell,” drawled Julie, “I didn’t say she did believe in suffering for the tribe. I just—”
“You said she was happy with her fate,” interrupted Theresa. “Farang can’t be happy with her fate if she doesn’t believe in it.”
Julie’s smirk went into another falter, and she slouched down in her seat.
“Any response to that, Julie?” asked Ms. Mousumi.
“Not really, I guess,” said Julie. “Except that I thought that when it was my turn, I was supposed to take the story where I thought it should go. I didn’t know I had to worry about keeping Kara happy.”
Kara hissed something indecipherable under her breath.
“Does anyone else have a comment?” asked Ms. Mousumi. Another hand went up. “Yes, Harvir?”
“I thought Julie’s chapter was okay,” said Harvir, a diplomatic expression on his face. “I’m not taking it personally that she didn’t mention the high priestess or the soul stones. She just added a new twist, like I did.”
“It’s twisted, all right,” muttered Kara.
And it was, thought Maddy. Kara was completely and totally correct – Julie’s version of the story was twisted. Hunched in her seat, Maddy could feel the wrongness of Julie’s chapter almost writhing inside her. But why was it wrong? And what were the exact words to describe the wrongness of it?
“Anyone else?” asked Ms. Mousumi, her gaze roaming the class. But she didn’t see. She didn’t see the thoughts raging inside Maddy, the words so close to forming on the tip of her tongue.
“All right then,” said the teacher. “We’ll leave it there for today. Paul – you’re next, with chapter four on Wednesday.”
And the class moved on.
Chapter Four
Maddy sat on the living-room couch, sketchbook on her knees. She was drawing her father, who was seated at the opposite end of the couch, watching an episode of Mad Men. Her mother sat across the room at the family computer, catching up on email. Upstairs in her bedroom, Leanne was working on homework and refusing to speak to Maddy. Maddy, in response, was pretending not to notice.
“Delores, you remember the charity dinner at the Hilton this Saturday?” Mr. Malone asked as some ads came on.
“Mmm hmm. My dress is at the cleaner’s,” replied Ms. Malone. “Does your good suit need cleaning?”
“Pressing,” said Mr. Malone. “But I can get Maddikins to do that, right, m’dear?” Turning, he winked at Maddy. “Five bucks. How’s that sound?”
“Ten,” said Maddy, slitting her eyes at him. “And I need your profile. Quit wobbling your mustache.”
“That’s called a smile, sweetie,” said her father. “And this is called a ten-dollar scowl. Since when do fathers have to pay ten bucks to get their pants ironed?”
Maddy sat, lips pursed, thinking. “Five bucks per leg,” she offered. “The jacket’s extra.”
With a shout of laughter, her father lunged, grabbing her in a bear hug. “I’ll five bucks you!” he roared. “This is a five-buck tickle!”
His fingers darted across Maddy’s back and under her arms, in search of her ribs. Maddy raised both hands to protect herself, and her sketchbook and pencil dropped to the floor. She had always been ticklish, a primary target for her father’s teasing. By the time Leanne had reached high school, she’d convinced Ian Malone that his elder daughter was too old for his “shock and awe campaigns,” but Maddikins was his baby, the twinkle in his eye. He could resign himself to Leanne’s firmly announced adult status; Maddy was another matter entirely.
But Maddy couldn’t breathe. Her nose and mouth were clear, and her father wasn’t holding her tightly, yet the instant his arms had slid around her, all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. With it had gone the light; she couldn’t see, everything was going dark, and they were closing in on her – their grunting voices, the panting, the hands that grabbed and shoved. Terror exploded through her; it shouted up her throat. Pushing hard, Maddy kicked out with her feet. “Whoa!” cried a voice and the grabbing hands withdrew, the weight pressing her down pulled back. Breath returned to Maddy in huge, gulping sobs. She couldn’t get enough of it – heaved and heaved with the effort of breathing free air.
“Maddy?” came a tentative voice, followed by a hand touching her hair. Maddy jerked away, whimpering, and the voice said, “Okay, okay, Maddy. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
It was her mother. Eyes squeezed shut, still sucking in air, Maddy recognized her mother’s voice but couldn’t open to it. Not yet. “No,” she whimpered. “No, no, no.”
“Okay, Maddy,” whispered her mother. “Take your time. Try and calm down, okay, honey?”
Breathing was getting better now, the air not so impossible to reach. Maddy shuddered, shuddered again. Slowly, she opened her eyes. At the far end of the couch sat her father, looking astounded. In front of her knelt her mother, eyes like searchlights, scanning Maddy’s every breath. “Honey,” she said. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
Maddy blinked, sniffed, then wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. Her face was wet with tears. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I freaked. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, I’m sorry, Maddikins,” said her father. “I didn’t mean….” His voice trailed off, then he burst out again, “I’m sorry!”
“Can I get you some tea?” asked her mother. “Peppermint with honey – your favorite?”
“I’ll get it,” her father said quickly. “Let me, Del.”
Getting to his feet, he exited the room. For a moment, Delores Malone knelt motionless, then rose and sat beside Maddy on the couch. “May I?” she asked, taking Maddy’s right hand. Head down, Maddy sat, feeling her mother gently run a thumb across the back of her hand – a bedtime gesture Delores Malone had used years ago to stroke her youngest daughter to sleep. Gradually, the tension left Maddy’s shoulders and eased out of her chest. Pulling her hand free, she yanked a Kleenex out of a nearby box and blew her nose.
Her father came in with a mug of tea. It was the blue mug with the mauve flower – her favorite. She took a sip, followed the warmth down her throat.
“Okay?” asked her father, sitting down on the other side of her mother.
Maddy nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said again, keeping her eyes closed. “It wasn’t you. I just freaked. I don’t know why.”
Her parents glanced at one another. “You’re sure, Maddy?” probed her mother. “You can’t think of some reason? Nothing’s happened? Noth—”
Panic surged up Maddy’s throat and shattered across her brain. She couldn’t talk about it. She couldn’t think – even think about it. “No!” she shouted at her mother, her eyes now wide open and watching her parents’ faces tighten with alarm. “Nothing’s happened! Nothing’s wrong! I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone. Just leave me goddamn alone.”
Her parents sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. Tears slid, glistening, down her mother’s cheeks. “Maddy,” she whispered.
But Maddy didn’t know how to respond.
. . .
Paul Benitez was a case of nerves. As he stood at the front of the class, he looked ready to leapfrog out of his skin. His glasses slid down his nose; pushing them back up, he left a large, sweaty fingerprint at the center of one lens. About to start, he cleared his throat, then went into an extended coughing fit. “Sorry,” he choked, turning toward the whiteboard to hide his flushed face.
Snickers rose from the desks around the classroom door. Julie, of course, thought Maddy, with a flash of anger. And probably Harvir and…the rest of them. Why couldn’t they lay off for once? Take one day off for mercy?
“Take your time, Paul,” Ms. Mousumi said quietly.
Paul flashed her a glance of pure misery. Squinting at the single squashed page in his hand, he croaked, “Okay. Here goes. Pain. What is it like to eat pain? What does it taste like? Does it taste diff
erent on different days, or is it always the same? We know Farang’s pain was from the allura leaf, so maybe hers always tasted the same. But is that true for everyone?
“Because we all eat pain. Oh, yes – every one of us eats pain. Not every day, maybe, but we all do sometimes. How do we eat pain? Do we even know we’re eating it when we do? Pain is invisible, but you can still taste it. You can feel it in your stomach. I think it tastes somewhere between lightning and acid. It lights up your whole brain like sticking your finger in a socket. Then it’s like tasting a scream.
“No one wants to taste a scream. It’s okay to watch someone else screaming in a movie, but you don’t want it to be you. So that’s why you look for someone else to give your pain to. You make someone else eat your pain, like Farang’s tribe did to her. You kick the dog or pick on your little brother, and then you feel better. Why is that? How can hurting someone else take away your own hurt?
“I wonder if Farang’s tribe even thinks about this. Do any of them feel guilty for what they do to her? Do any of them want to be friends with her? But then they would have to eat their own pain again. They would have to stop hurting her, and feel their own hurt.
“Maybe it’s because of the soul stones. Maybe the tribe can’t stop hurting Farang because they don’t have their souls anymore. Someone has to rescue their souls for them, please. But I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop kicking my dog from now on.”
Paul stood a moment, staring at the page in his hand, then bolted for his desk. As he passed behind her, Maddy ducked, then turned to watch him collapse into his seat three desks over. Across the classroom, silence sat heavily. Students sat staring at their desks, or shooting sideways glances at Paul.
“Well,” said Ms. Mousumi, getting to her feet. “Thank you, Paul. That was very…thoughtful. Any comments?”
Kara’s hand shot up. “I liked it!” she said, her voice so intense it punched the air. “I think it was really great.”
Another hand went up. “I liked it too,” said a girl named Lilian Pickersgill. “But it wasn’t really a story, was it? I mean, how did it fit into the novel?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Kara. “It had to do with pain-eating, didn’t it?”
Ms. Mousumi nodded. “In a collective novel, format is going to change, depending on the contributor. I think it fits in with the overall theme. Come talk to me at the end of the class, Paul – I need to get a copy of your chapter.”
Paul nodded, his chubby face a brilliant red. He looked about to cry, and at the same time fiercely proud – as if he’d accomplished some great, good thing. Watching him, Maddy felt a rush of gladness so pure it felt like light along the edge of a glass. Paul’s awkward, stumbling chapter was, she realized, the most important thing she’d ever heard. In her entire life, she didn’t expect to hear anything truer. Or braver, she thought, glancing again at his flushed face.
Fingers touched the back of her left hand. “Hey,” said Kara. “You’re not doing it today.”
Surprise took Maddy as she realized her left hand was clear of fingernail welts. “It’s just a habit,” she muttered, not looking at Kara. “No big deal.”
Kara’s hand withdrew. Very quietly, as Ms. Mousumi began speaking, Kara said, “Turning your hand into hamburger meat – why would you want to do that to yourself?”
. . .
Maddy sat in a washroom cubicle, pondering Kara’s words: Turning your hand into hamburger meat. It was forty-five minutes after the comment had been made, and English had just ended – English, last class of the day…a class Maddy had spent endlessly rerunning her classmate’s question inside her head: Why would you want to do that to yourself?
The back of her left hand was once again covered with red welts. Maddy tilted her hand and studied the indentations. It wasn’t a great habit, she knew that. At the same time, it didn’t do permanent damage. At least it didn’t leave scars like….Shaking her head, she pushed away the thought. The question was, how obvious was her thumbnail-attack habit? Had anyone besides Kara noticed? Kara was unusually smart, so hopefully not. And the back of Maddy’s hand usually recovered by the time she got home, so she was pretty sure none of her family had clued in. She was careful never to do it there….
The washroom door opened and someone came in – two girls, from the sounds of it. Books and laptops thumped onto the counter, and one of them swore. “I thought that class would never end,” drawled a familiar voice. “Could you believe Benitez’s chapter? I thought he was going to take a crap up there.”
It was Julie, a smirk crawling all over her words. In her head, Maddy could see Julie leaning into the mirror and examining her pretty reflection.
“Kicking his dog!” sneered a second voice. “He couldn’t kick the broad side of a barn.”
“Maybe a veeeery broad barn,” Julie replied, and the two girls laughed. Brain on overdrive, Maddy struggled to identify the second girl, then suddenly knew – Dana Ferwerda, a jock who sat next to Julie in English. “This whole collective novel thing is getting on my nerves,” continued Julie. “Everyone’s taking it so seriously. And that Kara acts like it’s her personal property – she gets to run the whole thing just because she came up with the first chapter. Every time someone reads, she’s got to pronounce judgment.”
“Yeah, she’s got some attitude,” Dana agreed.
“Couple years from now, she’ll be running for president of Student Council,” moaned Julie. “Then she’ll take over the entire school. Fate worse than preggers.”
“Maybe,” said Dana.
“What d’you mean maybe?” demanded Julie. “You want a President Adospazio?”
Dana snickered. “No,” she said. “I mean maybe she’ll go through a change of attitude, and we’ll be spared.”
“Yeah,” snorted Julie. “Her attitude is rock solid as the Canadian Shield.”
“So we change it,” Dana said lightly.
Silence descended upon the washroom, so dense Maddy could practically hear Julie thinking her way through it. “And how do you suggest we do that?” Julie asked finally.
“There’s ways,” said Dana. “Many ways. But we can start with the damn Pain Eater.”
“Like how?” asked Julie.
“Make it go our way,” said Dana. “Talk to the kids coming up, in-flu-ence them.”
Julie broke into a startled laugh. “Who’s next?” she asked. “Vince Cardinal, right? Then Christine.”
“Yeah,” said Dana. “And there’s Dugger. Any other Ds?”
Julie thought a moment. “There’s that du Pont kid. Does that make him a D or a P?”
Confusion kept them quiet, pondering. “I dunno,” admitted Dana. “But I don’t think there are any Es, and then come the Fs. And the Fs fuckin’ rule!”
“Hey!” crowed Julie, and a loud clap followed. Probably a high-five, thought Maddy. “You know why I like your mind?” giggled Julie. “It’s evil. As evil as mine.”
“Birds of a feather,” drawled Dana.
It was at this point that Maddy’s phone went off. Heart in a supersonic thud, she grabbed for her jeans pocket, which lay somewhere in the rumple surrounding her ankles. Five full seconds of “O Canada” blared before she had the phone in her hands and managed to shut off the ringtone. Why, oh why, had she chosen the national anthem? It had seemed funny at the time, but blasting out of a high school washroom cubicle….
Silence greeted the anthem’s sudden death. Under the cubicle door, Maddy watched a pair of runners approach and come to a halt. “Who’s in there?” demanded Julie.
Maddy sat riding out the thud of her heart and considering her options. Nothing remotely positive presented itself, so she kept her mouth shut. Damn that phone! If she didn’t need it, she’d flush—
“I said, who’s in there?” repeated Julie.
Maddy continued to sit motionless, vibratin
g with each heartbeat. Beyond the cubicle, she heard a whisper; then Julie’s face appeared at an angle in the space under the door. At the same moment, a rustling sounded to Maddy’s left, and she glanced up to see Dana peering over the top of the adjoining cubicle wall.
“Maddy!” said Julie, staring up at her. “It’s Maddy, the Mad Eavesdropper.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” said Maddy. “I was tinkling.”
“Mighty quiet tinkle,” observed Dana, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m a quiet tinkler,” said Maddy.
“Quiet as a rock,” said Dana. “You could’ve said something – coughed or made a noise to let us know you were there.”
“I thought it’d be rude to fart,” said Maddy. The second this left her mouth, she knew it was numbskull. A joke was not the way to go here. Abject humility had more survival possibilities.
“You’re dead meat, Maddy,” said Julie.
Hunching her shoulders, Maddy erected a shell of silence and crawled inside.
“Get out here, or we’re coming in,” Julie added.
“Paper towels,” said Dana, when Maddy gave no sign of moving. “We’ll soak them and plaster her with them.”
Both faces disappeared, and Maddy heard the sound of running water. “Okay, Maddy,” said Julie. “We’re coming to get you.”
But just as Maddy heard someone step up onto the next toilet seat, the outer washroom door opened and several loudly chattering girls came in. “What’s going on here?” demanded a voice.
“None of your business,” came Julie’s cool reply. “If you know what’s good for you.”
Two pairs of feet exited the washroom, and the outer door swung shut after them. “That’s Armstrong’s kid sister,” observed someone. “I hear she’s a megalomaniac.”
“Armstrong genes,” commented someone else. “Hey – are you okay in there?” A hand knocked on Maddy’s cubicle door.
