She takes it from me and drops it on top of a pile next to the typewriter. “Gone,” she says with a huff. “Quit. Her husband’s been transferred to Seattle and they’re moving out there next week.”
I shuffle my feet between the lines of the tiles, trying to think of something smart to say. “So, are you going to be the secretary now, too?”
“I am for the next couple of days at least. Until I can find a replacement.” Her voice is grumpy. I can tell she’s not happy with Mrs. Epstein.
The wheels in my head start to turn. “Well, I might know someone —”
But the phone rings before I can finish. She scowls and reaches to pick it up. “Roseborough Public School, Gina Fiorini speaking.” It’s not even nine thirty in the morning, but she sounds like she’s ready for this day to be over. I tiptoe out of the office before she decides to aim her grump my way.
“Finch?”
I pause in the doorway and turn back around. Mrs. Fiorini’s hand is covering the mouthpiece of the phone. Her dark eyebrows are pinched over the bridge of her nose.
“I’ve been meaning to ask … how are you and Harrison doing these days?”
Her voice is soft and full of pity and it makes me want to cry. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself. It’s horrible that you don’t have a daddy anymore, is what she really means. I glance down at the floor. I wish I could tell her about what’s going on at home with Mom. Mrs. Fiorini’s a principal, after all. Maybe she could help.
But then Mom’s voice pops into my head, loud and clear as a bell. You shouldn’t be telling people my business, Finch. And when I finally open my mouth to answer the question, I just can’t bring myself to let out the truth. “We’re okay, thanks,” I mumble.
Mrs. Fiorini smiles and nods and goes back to her phone call. I rush out of the office before she can ask me any more questions.
You can bet I’m in no hurry to go back to class, so I decide to duck into the girls’ bathroom to check for a message from my new “friend.” To my shock, there’s a whole crop of fresh graffiti decorating the space under where I wrote Whoo are you? last time I was here.
Farrah Fawcett
The Wizard of Oz
Your teacher … spell much?
Queen Elizabeth
The girl who just ate lunch here.
This last note was written with a familiar black marker. Yeah, I’m sure this one’s from my “friend.” I stare at it for a few minutes, wondering what it means. Did she really eat lunch here in this stall? That’s kind of terrible. Or maybe it’s a joke? On my way back to class, I think about coming to check the bathroom at lunchtime in case she’s there again. But in the end, I’m too afraid to do it. What if it’s really just Karen or Shawna or another one of those mean Nellie Oleson–type girls playing a trick on me? I don’t think I could stand it.
When lunchtime comes, I walk to the farthest corner of the school yard and eat under the shade of a tree where nobody can see me. I run my fingertip over the tiny scar on the back of my neck and pretend my lunch box is really an old-fashioned tin lunch pail. And that my Wonder Bread jam sandwich is really Ma’s homemade brown bread with raspberry preserves. And that it’s delicious. And that life is simple.
Mom’s smoking in the kitchen when I get home from school. The pile of unopened letters on the counter looks taller than it did yesterday. I grab a Fudgee-O and sit down beside her.
“Guess what?” I say.
Mom turns to look at me. I wait a few seconds for her to say, “What?” She doesn’t, but I tell her anyway.
“Mrs. Epstein, the school secretary, quit her job. Mrs. Fiorini told me they’re looking for a replacement, and I’m pretty sure you don’t need to take a test or do homework for answering the phone and typing, so —” I pause here to take a breath “ — I think you should go and ask for the job.”
Mom’s eyebrows float up her forehead. She smiles a tiny smile, like she’s thinking of some private joke. Her eyes flick to the window, and she takes another puff of her cigarette. I nibble on my cookie while I wait to hear what she’s going to say.
“Well?”
“Thank you, honey,” she finally replies, turning to blow the smoke over her shoulder. “But I don’t think I’m ready to be a secretary.”
I think my mouth must have fallen open, because there’s a little mess of chewed-up cookie crumbs on the table under my chin where there wasn’t a minute ago. Not ready? What in the world does that mean? I wait for Mom to explain, but of course she doesn’t.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “You told me there are no jobs … but I found one for you this morning. Why don’t you take it?”
Mom looks surprised. She gives her head a little shake. “I just told you, I’m —”
“And what about those bills?” I demand, pointing to the stack of mail she’s been ignoring all week. “How are we going to pay them if you don’t get a job?” My voice is rising louder and louder with every word. I feel horrible, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Laura Ingalls never once raised her voice at Ma. What am I doing?
Mom runs a pale hand through her hair. The long ash end of her cigarette crumbles to dust on the tabletop, but she doesn’t notice. “You don’t have to worry about bills, Finch,” she says. “I’ll take care of them. Like I told you, I’m figuring things out.”
I stand up now. My voice feels way too big for sitting down. “No, you’re not!” I shout. “You’re not figuring anything out! You’re just afraid!” Tears I didn’t even know I was crying stream down my cheeks and into my mouth. I’m hysterical now, but I can’t stop. It’s like a wild animal has taken over my body. Without thinking, I reach out and pluck the cigarette from Mom’s mouth, stomp over to the sink and hurl it down into the garbage disposal.
“Finch Anne Bennett!” Mom’s yelling now, too. Good. I haven’t seen her this worked up in months. Maybe not since Daddy died. But I don’t care. Before she can stop me, I grab the rest of her cigarettes and throw them into the sink. I toss her lighter in, too. It clatters angrily against the stainless steel.
Now Mom’s hands are gripping my shoulders, turning me around, shaking me. “Good grief! What’s gotten into you?” she shouts. But I can barely hear her because I’m screaming. Like the wild animal inside me thinks if it gets loud enough, maybe it can claw deep into this new Mom and pull the old one out.
I squeeze my eyes shut because it’s easier to be brave when you don’t have to watch what’s in front of you. “I know why you keep giving us those awful fish sticks every night ’cause I opened the default letter from the bank and I’m not sure what foreclosure means but I’m scared they want to take away our house and I’m even more scared because you’re not doing anything about it! And Mrs. Garvin hates me and calls me stupid in front of all the other kids and I think I’ll die if I have to stay in her class another day and I don’t have any friends left because she turned them all against me! And I have nobody to talk to about any of this because Harrison’s always hanging out with awful Matt and all you do is sit in the green chair and stare out the window!”
I pause for a second to catch my breath. But it’s like all my energy has flown away with those angry words, because when I start talking again, my screams have shrunk to whispers. “And sometimes I feel like you’ve gone and died, too,” I say, trembling ’cause these are the words that hurt the most. “And I need you to be alive.”
Now the whisper is gone, too, and I’m finally quiet. All that’s left is a loud ringing in my ears and a pain in my chest where it feels like I’ve been kicked. I open my eyes and look up at Mom. She’s watching me carefully. Her eyes are bright and clear, just like they used to be before Daddy died. Nothing in there but the raw naked truth.
“I’m sorry, Finch,” she says, and I can tell by her voice that she is hurting, too. It’s not a lot. But it’s all I need to hear before I let her cover me wit
h a hug.
My exhausted body sags with relief in her arms.
I knew she wouldn’t leave me forever.
CHAPTER 9
Halfway through the morning, Mrs. Garvin’s class phone rings. She listens for a minute and when she hangs up, she walks straight to my desk and says, “Pack your things, Miss Bennett. You’ve just been transferred.” Her voice sounds gushy, like she’s relieved.
Transferred? My heart does a little cartwheel.
“Thanks,” I say, pushing my stuff into my bag. I’m sure this must be Mrs. Garvin’s doing. She probably hated having me in her class for two years straight and asked Mrs. Fiorini to fix it. I don’t mind, of course. I’m just so excited to be free from her.
“Loser,” Karen whispers as I pass her desk. But I’m so happy, even she can’t ruin it. I walk down the hallway to the other sixth-grade class and knock softly on the door. My new teacher is smiling when she opens it.
“Welcome, Finch. I just got the call that you’ll be joining us.”
She says her name is Miss Rein. She has green eyes, freckles and red feathered hair that’s the same color as a brand-new penny. I step inside the room, glancing quickly at the blur of curious faces all staring at me like I’m here to put on a show. Miss Rein steers me to an empty desk at the front of the class.
“Have a seat and make yourself at home.”
At home? In school? I wonder if that’s supposed to be funny. I wonder if she’s waiting for me to laugh. Just in case, I smile as I sink into the chair, even though I feel nervous about sitting all the way up here. But I don’t want to cause trouble for my new teacher by asking to move.
“Before we do anything else, I’d like to know a bit more about you, so maybe you wouldn’t mind writing me a short biography,” she says. “The rest of the students wrote theirs yesterday, but there’s time this morning for you to do one, too.”
“A biography?” I squirm in my seat. Why did I think those were just for famous people?
Miss Rein nods. “Yes. I’d like you to write a story about Finch Bennett’s life … just so I can get to know you better. It doesn’t have to be long.”
I pull my pencil case out of my bag slowly, worrying about what my new teacher will say when she sees my writing. And I worry the kids in this new class will think I’m slow. And that everyone will be watching me when I make mistakes because I’m sitting all the way up here in the front. Trying to remember all of Daddy’s advice, I open to a blank page in my notebook and pick up my pencil.
Finch Bennett is 11 yeers old. she has a mother and a brother and she had a father but he dide last yeer. Finch isint good at sports and she hates riting about herself. She likes chocolit, waching tv and lisining to music. if she culd run across the contry to help Terry Fox finish his marithon she wuld.
I take a lot of time getting the words down, but Miss Rein doesn’t hurry me. I hand it in just before lunch. She reads it at her desk while I doodle on my pencil case and wait for her to start in on me about my writing. But to my surprise, she doesn’t say a thing. When the lunch bell rings, she waves me down on my way out the door.
“Would you mind staying back a minute to chat, Finch?”
Oh, boy. Here it comes. I wait beside her desk, shuffling my feet while the rest of the kids push out into the hallway. She only starts talking when the last kid is out the door, which makes me pretty sure she’s planning on doing some yelling.
“I read your biography. I’m very sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, staring down at the scuff marks on my shoes.
“I taught your brother, Harrison, when he was in sixth grade. How is he doing?”
“Fine, thank you,” I say, wondering when she’s going to get to the yelling.
She pauses and hands me back my biography. There’s a note written at the top in red marker. It says, Nice effort. I stare up at her in shock.
“Tell me something. How do you like writing, Finch?”
“I hate it.” Each word is like a knife slicing through the quiet of the classroom.
Miss Rein nods like she’s not surprised to hear it. “Well, maybe we can find a few ways to make it a bit easier for you. I have some ideas. But most important, I want you to know that I’m here to teach you, not to trap you. If for whatever reason you’re having trouble writing down your answers, we can always go over them at lunch or after school.”
It takes me a full minute to get my voice working. “Okay,” I finally say.
She opens her desk and pulls out a small bowl of Hershey’s Kisses. “I like chocolate, too,” she whispers, like we’re sharing a secret. She holds it out for me to take one.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling.
I let the chocolate kiss melt slowly in my mouth as I make my way across the school yard. My heart is racing like I’ve just won a lottery or something. Nice effort. Just two little words, but they make me feel smarter. I can’t remember the last time any of my teachers made me feel smart. My insides are all puffed up and proud, and I think if I tried right now I could swim across Lake Ontario, or climb Mount Everest, or fly to the moon. I’m too excited to be hungry, but I pick at my lunch under the shade of the tree. While I eat, I watch Karen and Shawna walking arm in arm around the edges of the school yard, circling the rest of us like a pair of sharks looking for their next meal. I feel jealous watching them together. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want Karen for a friend anymore, even if she got down on her hands and knees and begged me. But it sure would be nice to have someone to sit with and talk to at lunch and recess. I’m halfway through my jam sandwich when I remember the message chain on the bathroom wall and the mystery girl who wrote to me. Would she be there again right now? Should I go check? After what happened this morning in Miss Rein’s class, I’m feeling brave enough to try.
Before I can change my mind, I’m packing up my food and marching back into the school. The door to the end stall is closed. Someone’s in there. Leaning over, I see a pair of feet wearing dusty white sneakers and blue pompom socks. I hesitate for just a second before knocking.
“Hello?” I say.
The door slowly swings open. There she is, sitting on top of the toilet seat with her lunch box in her lap as she finishes the last bites of an apple. She looks up at me; her mouth is shiny with juice.
“Pinky?” I blink a couple of times just in case my eyes are playing tricks on me. I guess I’d pretty much given up on the idea I was ever going to see her at my school. After a second, she lifts her hand and waves shyly. She’s wearing a plaid dress that reminds me of the curtains in our kitchen, and her glossy hair is hanging in two perfect braids on either side of her head.
“Hi, Finch,” she says with a tiny smile.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It’s like my tongue is stuck or something. I’m really nervous I might ruin this by saying the wrong thing, which probably explains why I can’t bring myself to say anything at all.
“Don’t you talk?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I somehow manage to answer. Where’s all that courage I was feeling just a few minutes ago? “Hi,” I finally say. My head is swimming with so many questions, I don’t even know where to start. Did your family take a trip? Why aren’t you answering your door? Why don’t you ever come outside? What happened to Hindu school? “What are you doing here?” I ask instead. Better to start with the easy questions and work my way up.
“I go to school here,” she says softly. “Miss Rein’s my teacher, too. I saw you come in to class this morning — I waved, but you didn’t see me.”
“You go here?” I stare at her in surprise. “But I’ve never seen you walking to school in the morning. Or walking home either.”
She wraps the apple core neatly inside a paper napkin so tight it looks like a miniature mummy in her hands. “That’s because Father drives me every day.
And Mother makes me run straight home as soon as the bell rings. No stopping.”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. “But what about at lunchtime? Or recess? How come I’ve never seen you then?”
“I spend them here.” She nods in the direction of our message chain.
“But why?”
Pinky shrugs her narrow shoulders. Her big brown eyes drop to the floor.
“I waited for you the first day of school. I wanted to walk with you.” I don’t mean for this to come out like I’m upset. But I think it does.
“I know. I saw you from my window,” she says.
“So why didn’t you come out, then?”
Pinky shrugs again.
“And I came by to see you,” I say after a minute. “I came by a few times. I rang your doorbell, but nobody ever answered.”
“I know,” she replies. “Thank you for the cookies,” she adds quietly. And that’s all. I can’t remember the last time I felt so confused.
“Wanna go outside and play hopscotch?” I say, changing strategies.
Her eyes are stuck to the lunch box in her lap. “I don’t think I should. Father always tells me not to talk to anyone at this school. Except for the teachers, of course.”
Not talk to anyone? Why? Is that the reason she spends all her time in the bathroom stall? I think about our message chain, and I get why she hates it here if she has to spend every lunch and recess time hiding. I’m about to ask her why her father would say something like that but stop myself before the words come out. I have a feeling she wouldn’t answer anyway.
“Well, you’re already talking to me,” I point out. “So I think a few more minutes probably won’t make a difference. Right?” She glances up at me. I can tell she wants to say yes, but something’s holding her back. I reach out my hand. “Come on. It’s really nice out.”
She hesitates, peering around me as if to check to make sure we’re alone. “Maybe my father was right about this school. There was an older boy who said horrible things to me at lunchtime on my first day here. And he pushed me into the boys’ bathroom and held the door closed so I couldn’t come out until the bell rang.”
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