by Sarah Dooley
“Olivia Lashea Owen,” I said slower.
“Well, Olivia Lashea Owen, I heard tell that Michael and Robert just brought the breakfast basket down from the kitchen. Are you hungry?”
“She eats at home,” Michael said helpfully from the kitchen. “Always at home.”
“I think I’ll take some breakfast this morning,” I said quickly. “I didn’t actually have any at home this morning. I had to run outside and hide in the car.”
Mrs. Rhodes tilted her head as if she were slightly confused by this, but she let it pass. As we walked to the kitchen, she asked, “Now, surely you don’t go by Olivia Lashea Owen all day long. Is there a shorter name I can call you? Lashea perhaps? Or Ms. Owen?”
I giggled, the kind you do when you’re nervous. “Livvie.”
“Everyone calls her Livvie.” Michael helped again. “She doesn’t like her O or her A.”
“I don’t like my O or my A,” I repeated. “They make my name too long and, anyway, Tash started calling me Livvie and I like what Tash calls me.”
Mrs. Rhodes began stacking limp blueberry waffles onto a small paper tray. “And who’s this Tash? Should I be watching for her?”
“Natasha’s my sister. She’s one of my two sisters, I mean. I have two sisters.” Sometimes my mouth kept talking when my brain was already finished. “How many . . . sisters do you have?” I was pretty sure that wasn’t the question I had intended on asking.
“Oh, well, let’s see. Counting the one in Florida . . . the one in Illinois and the one in Timbuktu . . . I have no sisters.” She smiled wide. “I do have a brother, though. Otis Andrews. Otis is a divine creature. Paints murals. Great, giant pictures he has to climb up scaffolding to paint. I’m quite certain he’s going to fall right on his head before the year is out, but Otis never lets that stop him.”
I slid slowly into the chair Mrs. Rhodes indicated and she settled the waffles on the table in front of me. “Here you are, dear. Fresh from the kitchen. ‘Fresh’ being relative, of course.”
I liked yogurt best, or Natasha’s bagels, but I took a tentative bite of the waffle. It was limp and lukewarm. I smiled thinly at Mrs. Rhodes.
“That good, huh?” she asked briskly. “Well, here, let me have that.” She whisked it back off the table. “Who wants yogurt?”
Everybody except for Michael wanted yogurt. Michael liked limp blueberry waffles because they were what he always had on Fridays.
The yogurt was vanilla and Mrs. Rhodes stirred granola bits down into it. It would have been difficult to sip, what with the granola floating around, so I used a spoon. It clacked uncomfortably against my teeth, but the yogurt made it worth it. It tasted extra good.
Having unexpected yogurt when I thought I was going to have to eat a soggy blueberry waffle made the day better by several degrees. There was almost no pressure built up inside my head and I felt relaxed and happy. I was even feeling kind enough to say good morning to Bristol when she entered, although normally we gave each other nothing but suspicious glances. She was wearing warm colors today, so I figured it was safe.
With a startled look, Bristol said an uncertain “Hi . . .” before she and Robert went off to the corner to eat their yogurt and granola without associating with the rest of us.
Mrs. Rhodes helped Peyton eat some yogurt without the granola, and Peyton made a squealing sound and rocked her chair back and forth.
“Is it good, love?” I heard Mrs. Rhodes ask her softly. Shyly, so no one would notice, I watched Peyton’s face. Her warm brown eyes kept finding Mrs. Rhodes and then slipping away nervous, like she wasn’t sure how to say thank you for the yogurt. I knew how she felt, because I wasn’t quite sure how to say thank you for the yogurt, either. I sat and thought about it so long, Mrs. Rhodes finished with Peyton and sat down next to me.
“So, what does this class do after breakfast?” she asked me. “Do we have some sort of a schedule we follow?”
“I have a picture schedule you can look at,” I offered, “but you have to promise to give it back.”
She smiled a slight, crooked sort of smile. “I would be happy to give it back, of course, but it would be most helpful if you would share.”
Jumping up so hard I banged the table and drew a vicious glare from Michael, I galloped to my study carrel and lifted my picture schedule out from under Monday’s newsprint scraps.
“Hey! It’s not set up!” The pressure was back all of a sudden.
“Of course it’s not, dummy!” Bristol yelled. “Mrs. What’s-her-head didn’t know to do it and the old sub ran away!”
I slammed my picture schedule down on the desk, hard. “What am I supposed to do with no schedule?” I hollered, my voice feeling thin and cracking.
G followed me to the study carrel and tapped me once, but I didn’t like touch when I was already full of pressure, and I jumped away from her. “Hey! Watch it!”
Stepping back with narrowed eyes, G put her hands on her hips.
Mrs. Rhodes came a little closer, but not so much that she overwhelmed me again. “May I borrow that schedule?” she asked calmly.
“It’s not going to help you! It’s blank!”
“What’s blank about it? I see pretty white Velcro dots and a lot of potential. Let me see.” Her voice stayed calm. I could sense Mr. Raldy lurking nearby, ready to intervene if asked, and I scooted away from him, frustrated by his presence. G ventured closer again and offered me her Velcro strip. I didn’t take it because I didn’t want to listen right now, but I did see the words she had chosen. A picture of G, smiling, from earlier this year—she liked new pictures a lot—and a picture of a right fist being lifted by a left hand—the sign for “help.”
“How?” I demanded.
“Oh, Georgia has offered to help? Fantastic.” Mrs. Rhodes smiled at G gratefully. “You’ll know the schedule well enough to help me, won’t you?”
G nodded and handed Mrs. Rhodes her own picture schedule, which G was organized enough to be in charge of. Hers was always in the proper order, neatly arranged. She did it first thing when she got to school in the mornings. Sometimes I wished I could be like G.
Working my fingers into my hair, I nonetheless did not pull. G looked at me disapprovingly and my insides felt like I had swallowed snakes. She and Mrs. Rhodes sat down calmly at my desk and began preparing my schedule to look like G’s.
After several deep breaths, I realized that the pressure had started to diminish again.
“Livvie, tell them you’re sorry,” I said quietly after a minute. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad. I got scared.”
“Fear makes a person act angry sometimes when they really feel scared,” Mrs. Rhodes said matter-of-factly without looking up. “Now, Livvie, you’ve got half-eaten yogurt in the kitchen and you’ve got this fabulous friend here who’s willing to help you fix your schedule, so really, I think that all is not lost.”
I rocked and hummed for a moment, then replied, “I think you’re right.” And although neither of us particularly liked them, I gave G a quick hug in thanks.
Velcro ripped and she pressed the strip into my hand.
I knew the pictures well. They meant You’re silly.
Mrs. Rhodes finished with my schedule and gave G’s back to her. Standing, she cupped my cheek in her hand for a moment. Her hands were hot and papery and I didn’t like the touch, but it would have been rude to draw away and I had been rude enough for one morning before the bell.
“You really quite remind me of Otis Andrews,” she said with a soft sort of smile.
“Does Otis Andrews get mad like Livvie?” I asked.
“Sometimes, dear. But remember what we figured out? I think mostly he just gets afraid.”
I nodded wearily and at last couldn’t keep myself from drawing away from her touch.
“I’ll finish my yogurt and wash the bowl,” I said. “That’s what you do when you finish, you wash the bowl.” I blushed a little. She was in her sixties and probably knew what to do when
you finish with a bowl.
“That sounds like a lovely idea, my dear,” Mrs. Rhodes said, and with a smile for G and a softer one for me, she headed back to the kitchen.
Chapter 8
I worked on my real estate notebook for almost fifteen minutes before lunch. I accepted Mr. Raldy’s real estate pages even though there was a Neighbor-with-an-E section in it. This portion, I separated carefully with my scissors and folded into seven tiny squares before I threw it in the trash can.
Nabor-with-an-A’s rental section usually got ignored, since it was the sale houses I was interested in, but it occurred to me this was the section the Sun House was most likely to appear in. The problem was that the words were too hard, and this part didn’t have any pictures. Instead each ad began with a bold-print number and some letters, followed by a lot of letters that didn’t look like actual words.
Difficult enough even for a reader. I knew because I made Bristol try once and she never got past the bold print.
It never occurred to me to ask a teacher before, but Mrs. Rhodes was different from most teachers, so I followed her through the classroom as she readied us for lunch.
“What’s three BR mean?”
“Come again?” She distributed three lunch boxes to three students without looking. It seemed to be a talent that came natural to teachers.
“The paper says there’s a house for rent that’s three BR, one point five BA.”
“Three bedroom, one and a half bath, dear.” She helped Robert on with his coat and coaxed Michael to leave all but one of his snake pictures behind, so he had a hand free to eat.
I didn’t like the sound of “half bath.” It made me think of our leaky bathtub in the trailer. Counting in my head, I figured out that any ad about the Sun House would have to start with 4 BR and 1 BA. No halves. I scanned the rental section without luck.
We visited the cafeteria between lunch shifts, so it wasn’t busy and full of people. I liked it quiet in the cafeteria because when it was even the littlest bit loud, the walls amplified the sound and it got extra loud and echoey. It hurt my ears some and it made me a little upset, but it really killed Michael. He just could not tolerate it. Peyton, too, seemed to dislike the louder noise, and she got louder when it was loud. Her singsongy sounds became shrieks and she banged her head on the back of her chair.
Our peer helper came with us to lunch. His name was Jamie and he was a junior like Natasha. I liked him better than the peer helper who came during second period. Her name was Kristin and she was giggly and flirty and liked to hang around the most with Bristol and Robert, if she could be bothered to hang around with anyone at all. Mostly she just snuck her hands under the table and sent text messages back and forth with her boyfriend.
Jamie helped us get our trays, except he didn’t have to help me or G because we were very careful to get it right. He did have to help Michael or Michael would take all of one food and none of the next, and then get to his table and get frustrated because he only had one kind of food. Michael was not a planning-ahead sort of guy when it came to practical matters.
Jamie sat next to G and helped her open her milk, which was hard for her. “Hey, G, what’s up, girl?” he asked happily, nudging her with his elbow. He and G were buddies. I wished I knew how to be buddies.
Velcro ripped, even though G had been told time and again that talking and eating were not compatible, particularly if you used picture exchange. But then again, Jamie had asked.
G must have said there wasn’t much up, because Jamie shook his head. “Not much? But aren’t you going to the pep rally Friday?”
G bounced in her seat and giggled. She was girly when it came to things like pep rallies. She liked to watch the cheerleaders and she especially liked to watch the football players.
I rolled my eyes and smiled at them, then let my gaze slide away. I was just about to take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich when I heard the paper mill whistle, as loud and clear as if the lunch lady had done it. I dropped my sandwich and bumped the table. My spoon clattered to the floor so loud that Peyton shrieked and Michael clapped his hands over his ears, knocking over his milk with his elbow. Bristol screamed and leapt clear of the spilled milk as it threatened to soak into her warm colors, and her scream inspired an even louder shriek from Peyton. In two instants, the paper mill whistle had demolished the relative quiet of the lunchroom, and all hell had broken loose, courtesy of me.
The noise was so loud, I stood up and backed away. It would help if the whistle would stop blowing, but it blasted away just as merry as ever, although no one else at the table seemed to hear it.
“I have to ask Tash if she heard it!” I yelled, and jumped up from the table as the whistle finally faded. I ran through the cafeteria, ducking around tables and jumping over chairs, bolting down the hallway before anyone could stop me. I knew Natasha’s schedule because she showed it to me on the first day of school in case I ever needed to find her. She was worried about high school being a place I could get into trouble and, thinking back on the pandemonium in the cafeteria, I guessed she was right.
This was third period for her because she had already eaten lunch. Blasting through the door, I knocked into a desk right inside the classroom door.
Natasha jumped up from her seat, her face turning red as she glanced around at her openmouthed friends. “Livvie, what are you doing?” she demanded in horror.
“Did you hear it?” I demanded, grabbing her arm. “Did you?”
“Hear what?”
“The whistle!”
“Livvie, for godsake, not this again!” With a firm arm on my shoulder, she guided me back into the hallway. Over her shoulder, she said to her teacher, “Excuse me just for a minute. My sister—”
“Go ahead,” the teacher said kindly, as though Natasha were someone to be pitied. I was beside myself about the whistle, but I had time to cast the teacher a hateful glance at his attitude.
In the hallway, Natasha ran her hands down my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “You may not,” she said in a shaky voice, “run away from your class to tell me things. And you may not barge into my class right in the middle unless it’s a life-or-death emergency.”
“It is an emergency,” I insisted. “And you never said it had to be the life-or-death kind!”
“Olivia—” Her eyes rolled away from mine, up to the ceiling, and she took a couple of steadying breaths. “Do you know how awful that looks to have your kid sister come running into your classroom screaming?”
“I wasn’t screaming. I was asking and you still haven’t answered. Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Hear the whistle!”
“Livvie, there is no whistle. The whistle stopped blowing ten years ago. I don’t know what you’re hearing, but that’s not what it is.”
“But I heard it.”
“You heard something.” She sighed sharp enough to make her hair blow back. “We all wanted the whistle back, Liv. We all wanted Mom and Dad to keep their mill jobs so they could afford to repair the damage at the Sun House. But it doesn’t matter how much you want to hear it. It’s gone! You’re stressed out about a new teacher and you heard something, but you didn’t—you didn’t hear what you think you did.”
“That’s not what I’m stressed out about. I like my new teacher! And you heard it, too, the first time!”
“I was sleeping, Livvie. I was dreaming. That’s all. I had a dream.” She ran a hand through her hair, much like I did when I was nervous. “Maybe you’re just not one of those people who needs to be asleep to have a dream.”
I yanked my arm away from her, suddenly suspicious, and began to rock and hum.
“Livvie, you’re making things up. You’re crazy,” I ventured, knowing this was what Natasha meant to say.
“You’re not, you’re not crazy, you’re just . . . you.” She tugged my hands out of my hair. “Stop doing that. Go to class, Livvie. Come on, I’ll walk you. I want to make sure you don’t run off along
the way.” Her voice was tired and sounded a lot like Simon’s. She took my hand as though I were small.
“Livvie, you didn’t hear anything,” I said as she walked me toward the cafeteria. I began to hum again, fervently, loud enough I couldn’t hear her sighing, except I could sense it, anyway. “You didn’t hear anything, so stop hearing things.”
Halfway to the lunchroom, we met Mrs. Rhodes and G jogging along the hallway.
“Oh, thank god,” Mrs. Rhodes said with a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I really didn’t want to lose one on my very first day. Olivia Owen! What were you thinking?”
Velcro ripped, but G’s question was along the same lines, only less nice.
“I needed to talk to my sister, only it didn’t help.”
“Olivia, want and need are two very different things,” Mrs. Rhodes said sternly. “There is never anything that you need to do that is more important than being safe, and is running off safe?”
When I didn’t answer right away, Natasha nudged me.
“No,” I muttered. Then, “Be polite, Livvie. You’re already in trouble.” And a little louder, “No, ma’am.”
“That’s better,” Mrs. Rhodes said briskly. “Well, now. That’s twice today you’ve bolted away from a perfectly good plate of food. I’m starting to think that I make you lose your appetite.”
“She usually doesn’t have one,” Natasha offered. “I wouldn’t blame yourself.”
“And you must be the famous Natasha,” Mrs. Rhodes said, changing gears with no obvious warning signs. “You are a popular topic of conversation with Miss Olivia.”
“Maybe a little too popular,” Natasha muttered. “I’m sorry. I told her once that if she ever needed me . . . and now she thinks she can come find me if the slightest little thing goes wrong. Like I know how to fix it.” Natasha bit her lip in frustration, ruffling my hair so I knew she didn’t hate me.
I hummed harder for a minute as tears filled my eyes. “Livvie, say you’re sorry,” I whispered, but I wasn’t quite sure how.
