by Heidi Ayarbe
The social committee is in a huff about the Halloween dance since Principal Kinne won’t approve the Playboy Bunny party idea. Apparently having a bunch of libidinous teenage guys dressed in silk bathrobes ogling girls with bunny costumes is “inappropriate.” Go figure.
The science club’s suggestion of Forces of Nature has been ignored. As usual. As well as the debate team’s. The social committee didn’t take their Dead Presidents idea to heart.
Today when Mr. Hunter pulls out the hot chili peppers for chemistry lab, Eileen hands him a note. I’ll work alone while she does worksheets. She’s allergic to peppers…or something. I think Eileen should be exempt from taking science even if she’s the only one who talks to me at school, text messages aside.
After school I slip into the office where all the school counselors and Beulah are sitting around Principal Kinne’s conference table. I bite down on a nail. My finger still burns from the spill in chemistry. I was helping Mr. Hunter organize the lab and dropped some nasty bhut jolokia pepper oil on my hand. I had to run my fingers under water and milk, but the tingling is still there. Now my lip hurts from where I bit down on my nail. Stupid. And I ran out of milk.
This time Beulah looks gray. Not beige. She sucks in her sallow cheeks when she sees me. One of Principal Kinne’s fluorescent lights sputters and dies. We sit in the shadows while the janitor works to replace the bulb.
Beulah hands me a piece of paper. “The State of Nevada is beginning the process to terminate your father’s parental rights based on the long-term deficiency of his parental duties.”
No one speaks.
The school counselors squirm in their chairs. Awkward, really. Star student. Felon father. Definitely a conversation stopper.
I look up at the picture hanging behind Principal Kinne. They wear matchy-matchy clothes—he, his wife, and three kids. Two big dogs with shiny fur lie in the shot. They all sit in front of a tree. It’s fall and the leaves are bright orange, red, and yellow. The frame is engraved: A FAMILY IS A LITTLE WORLD CREATED BY LOVE.
I look back at the piece of paper. Termination of parental rights. I read the words over and try to say them. Everybody stares at me. Waiting.
In order to speak, the brain has to create an idea of what it wants to communicate to somebody else. But what am I supposed to say when there’s nothing to say?
How could I have messed this all up? I think back to my first plan. The money from the cache was gone. So I just thought I’d sell my things. But time. It just was too late, and now—
And now.
I need a purpose.
The words blur on the page. So we don’t have the matching sweaters or the picture, but Dad is my family. I don’t know if our “little world” is created by love or necessity or obligation. But it’s ours. I take a big gulp of air and look up at Beulah. “You can’t do this. My dad not my dad? He’ll never let this happen.”
Beulah scowls. “It’s not personal, Maya. This is in your best interest.”
Not personal?
Ripping my family apart?
I concentrate on a water stain on the ceiling. One of the counselors pats my shoulder. “Maya, we’re so sorry,” she says. “We had no idea.”
Beulah clears her throat. “In the meantime, we’ll be looking for appropriate foster-care placement.”
“What about bail?” I ask.
Beulah blushes, her cardboard face turning blotchy. “All of your assets have been seized.”
“Can’t I just stay at Kids Place until Dad gets out? How long could that be, anyway?”
“We’re not sure.” Beulah’s face has gone back to that beige color. “And it’s not realistic to wait around until he does, uh”—she coughs—“get out.” She pauses, then says, “For the time being, we believe it would be healthier to place you in a foster home.” Beulah flips through her file. “With a family.”
I think about what Jess said about freak foster families.
Family.
So now I’m going to live the two-parents-and-two-point-zero-nine-children American dream mandated by the State of Nevada. Whoopee.
“Your father has mentioned some relative, but he’s pretty vague.” Beulah gnaws on her pencil.
What relative?
I sigh. I figure there has to be someone. It’s not like Dad and Mom were bizarre results of asexual reproduction. Jesus, even if they were test-tube babies, some woman had to have given birth to them and some guy’s lucky sperm was involved. Maybe Dad’s been checking out Genealogy.com or something.
Probably not. It’s not like there’s WiFi in prison.
I look at everybody in the room and try to deflect their pity stares. Maybe I have a seventh cousin four times removed or something. Somewhere.
Honestly, I’ve never thought about other relatives. It’s always just been Dad and me. But now it’s just me. Just me.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. One of the counselors wants to make sure I’m still eligible for advanced placement classes. Wow. Great priorities there.
“Maya? Are you listening?” Mrs. Peters is definitely the nicest school counselor. She’s one of those people who look distraught about the downfall of today’s youth. Her hand is cupped on mine. “Maya, you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m sure that Beulah will work hard to find you a good family—in this area. So you don’t have to change schools. It’s such a shame about your father,” she says.
I nod.
So Dad’s a crook. But I didn’t think anybody could say, “Hey, you’re not a parent anymore. Give her back.” Kids don’t come with a return policy. Do they? On a scale of one to ten, Dad’s probably a high five, sometimes six. A ton better than lots of deadbeats out there.
I’ve lost my home and everything in it. I’m losing Dad. And I feel like I’m becoming a blank slate—generic. I need to come up with a procedure. I sigh. At least I still have science.
CHAPTER SIX
When we get back to Kids Place, I head for the bathroom. The only good thing about school is that I now have my coveted bottle of Pepto-Bismol in hand. I sit in a bathroom stall—my feet up so nobody can see me—and take a swig. A couple of girls come in, zip open makeup cases, spritz on perfume, and talk about going to some school dance. I hold back a sneeze and slip out of the stall.
And there’s Nicole sitting in the corner stall, its door ajar. She’s flipping through a pile of postcards, a prescription pill bottle next to her.
I leave before she sees me but pause in the hallway, thinking about those pills. Nah, I think. She probably just has allergies or some kind of prescription meds for a cold. Or maybe they prescribed her something while she was in the psychiatric ward.
But what if that’s not true? If it’s not, what could I possibly say to her? It’s her life. If she wants to kick it, that’s her deal, not mine.
But I always dream of saying these perfect words to Mom—to make her want to stay. Some stupid Einstein quote. But what would Nicole think if I just went up to her and said it?
Academic bulimia.
I go to our room and wait, holding my breath until Nicole walks in. I sigh, exhaling for the first time all afternoon, and just watch her.
“What?” she asks, and tucks her pack of cloves and bottle behind Marlon Brando.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just, um, kinda glad you’re here.”
“Wish I could say the same, Jeopardy.” She glares.
Jess and Shelly give me weird looks.
But late that night, I can’t help it. I slip down off the bed and pull up the corner of Nicole’s Brando poster to find where she hides her cigarettes in a crack in the drywall. Right next to them is the bottle. I take it out and read the prescription: Fluoxetine. I count the pills and slip a note into the bottle. Maybe those words do matter. I don’t know.
The next morning, getting ready for school, I watch Nicole sweep her hand behind the poster and pull out the bottle. She stares at the note and puts it back in the bottle, carefully covering the ho
le with her Brando poster. She doesn’t say anything. She just throws her pack on and leaves.
“Oxygen waster,” Jess sneers.
I sigh. And things go back to normal.
The monotony continues; the experiment is repeated. And every night I count those stupid pills—she never takes one. That’s weird. I watch her. Waiting for the signs. But she’s always bigger than life with a huge smile glued to her face. She sometimes hangs out with the younger kids. And she’s always talking. Talking, talking, talking. Liborio Bellomo, the Genovese family, the Gambinos. It’s like listening to a direct feed of the True Crime radio station. That or some waiter in an Italian restaurant with those tacky checkered tablecloths telling you the day’s special. Today we have Lucchese linguine with some garlic Gotti bread on the side.
But nobody listens.
And she still talks. And talks. Maybe to fill up the emptiness. I don’t know.
Every day is the same: school; meetings with counselors and Beulah and the DA; eating tasteless food off heavy plastic trays; avoiding the Triad. I start to mark days off the calendar so I won’t lose track.
Then he comes. I see Beulah and Rose bring him in. He’s young—ten at the most. And we can all smell his fear. I wonder if I looked that scared.
He sits at a table across the room, not looking up from his food. Nobody at his table talks to him. Talking is a risk. Because if you can just hold it all in until lights-out, you’ll be okay. Nobody cares if you cry at night.
I sigh and look over at the Triad. They whisper and stare at the boy. They’re planning something—something bad. Probably one of their typical pranks. Shelly’s told me all about them: feces on your bed or other even more disgusting bodily fluids, the icy shower, the Dumpster, all followed by getting everything you bring with you stolen.
I hate the Triad. The more often I see them, the angrier I feel. My body turns to ice; my tongue feels like sandpaper; my stomach clenches. It’s like my amygdala goes into hyperdrive at dinnertime.
I hate feeling helpless even more. Weak. Maybe I am weak. I feel like I play a part in keeping this whole messed-up place in order. I look back at the boy, his bangs flopping in his eyes. Nicole stands up from her table and walks by the Triad staring them all in the eyes.
They laugh at her. The girl smirks and says, “Oh, real tough. Like you can do anything?”
Nicole sits next to the boy, banging her tray on the table. He still doesn’t look up. He’s probably gotten the tour already—been assigned his locker with generic soap, sandpaper towels, and dollar-store shampoo.
Everybody here at Kids Place has a locker for their bathroom stuff—toothpaste, toothbrushes, those kinds of things. We have shifts for showering and getting ready. We have shifts for cleaning. There’s a bathroom schedule, cleaning schedule, everything’s pasted in the hallway. Basically, we all know what everybody else is doing from sunup to sundown.
Routine can be tedious. But it can also be advantageous. I watch as the Triad huddles together, eyeing their new prey.
I finally feel like I might have a little control over something in life.
And I have a purpose.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Purpose: Keep the new boy safe. Regain self-dignity
Hypothesis: If I can send a message strong enough to freak out the Triad, they’ll back off.
Materials: Bhut jolokia pepper oil, a medicine dropper, plastic gloves, flathead screwdriver, safety pins or paper clips, flashlight, Triad’s toothbrushes
Procedure:
1) Get the pepper oil, medicine dropper, and gloves from Mr. Hunter’s supply room
2) Borrow the screwdriver and flashlight from Mr. Hunter’s top right-hand desk corner
3) Get paper clips from Beulah
4) Find the Triad’s lockers
5) Look up the bathroom schedule
6) Pick the locks
7) Drop oil on toothbrushes
8) Sit back and enjoy the show
Variables: Time: How quickly can I do this? What are the bathroom schedules this week? Locks: Will they all be pin-and-tumbler locks? They’re the only kind I know how to pick.
Constant: Me
I decide I need to do it tomorrow night. I just hope the boy is safe until then.
Another plus to this whole thing is my Pepto-Bismol supply might not dwindle so fast. If I stop hating the Triad, then my gastritis won’t be as bad. If my gastritis is better, I won’t need so much Pepto-Bismol. If I don’t need so much Pepto-Bismol, I won’t have to worry about finding a way to get my next bottle. Science experiments come with all sorts of bonus results.
Now it’s time to put things to the test. A perfect pre-Halloween prank.
I smile. Supposedly every scientist should do the test several times, but I don’t really think I’ll need more than one.
There’s nothing like trust. That’s how Dad screws people over. I hate using Mr. Hunter’s keys to get into the science supplies. He gave them to me so I could open early in case I wanted to study in the mornings before he got there. But I just need a few things—things he probably won’t even notice are gone. And one day I’ll replace them. It’s not like I’m becoming my dad.
I search the shelves of the supply closet and find the one labeled bhut jolokia. Mr. Hunter ordered it from a supply shop in India. We saw how long it took different hot sauces to corrode iron. Not long. Same day I got it on my finger.
With just a few drops, the Triad will be done.
That afternoon Kids Place is like any other day. Nothing has happened. I can tell. There’s no buzz. The boy eats dinner at the same table, bangs covering his eyes.
I wait until lights-out and listen as the last shift of security guards locks up. I slip into the boys’ locker room first—two locks to pick there—and find the lockers. It doesn’t take long to get them open and get a few drops out of the vial onto their brushes. I worry for a second. What if they don’t brush their teeth every morning? That’s a variable I hadn’t thought of before.
I push the thought away. With all the information out there on dental hygiene, I can’t imagine anybody not brushing.
I repeat the same thing in the girls’ locker room.
Then I lie on the bunk and wait for morning. Odd-numbered rooms have the second bathroom shift today. Luckily the Triad all bunk in even-numbered rooms. That really worked to my advantage. Hey. I never said luck wasn’t a little part of science. Think penicillin.
When the sun comes up, I pretend to read. Kids shuffle down the hallway in bathrobes. The water pipes whine awake.
Then we hear the first shriek, followed by two more. Rose’s heavy footsteps pound down the hallway, followed by more screams and chaos. Shelly and Jess run out the doorway. Everybody floods the halls, wondering what’s happening.
“Hey, Jeops, don’t you want to know what’s going on?” Nicole eyes me.
I shrug. “Answer in the category Kids Place: This is the region that grows bhut jolokia, the hottest pepper in the world.” I force a smile and go back to reading Nobel Prize Women in Science: Their Lives, Struggles, and Momentous Discoveries. Dad bought it for me the week before the repo guys came. It was like he had finally paid attention to what I liked, not what he thought I should like. Too little, too late. I close the book.
Kids Place staff sweep the three of them down the hall. I watch them suffer. And in a horrible way, I feel glad, glad that they hurt as much as I did when they stuffed me in the Dumpster—glad that they’re the prey and I’m the predator.
Shelly returns, breathless. Her eyes bulge so much it looks like she has developed a major thyroid problem. “Oh. My. God. You won’t believe what has happened,” she says between sniffles, then tells us a pretty blown-up version of what happened, including some kind of explosive device in lockers.
Jess rolls her eyes and says, “It was just Tabasco sauce or something. Anybody could’ve done that.” Then she says, “But I don’t know who would’ve had the nads to do it. I mean messing with the Triad is su
icide.” Then she looks at Nicole.
I jump off my bunk and get ready for school. We’re all corralled into the cafeteria for breakfast. A kind of electric expectation fills the air. Everybody’s a lot quieter than normal.
My stomach still hurts, though. The oatmeal tastes like sawdust. I choke it down with overfluorinated water, counting the minutes before I can go back to the room for a swig of Pepto before school. I look at the Triad’s empty seats and feel the oatmeal work its way back up my system.
But they don’t load us onto the buses. We listen to the phones ring in the offices and watch as the buses idle in the parking lot.
Rose returns after what seems like an eternity. She stands at the front of the cafeteria, hands on heavy hips. “Kelly, Jared, and Wyatt all have blistered tongues and lips—second-degree burns. And their fingers have burns on them as well. This was a serious, brutal attack, and none of us are leaving this room until someone tells me who did this.”
Beulah stands behind Rose in a skirt that sticks to her nylons, making a fizzly sound whenever she moves and tries to unstick the skirt. Major static cling. The skirt is that salmon color you see old ladies wearing at retirement centers in Florida.
“I’m waiting,” Rose says, shifting her weight.
We search one anothers’ faces for the truth. Even the new boy looks bright-eyed. Maybe they warned him. Maybe he’s been waiting for something bad to happen to him, only to be relieved to see it happened to someone else.
Before Rose can say anything else, I stand up. “I did.”
Silence.
Nobody congratulates me.
Why would they?
You can’t congratulate cruelty.
They send everybody off to school and Rose yanks me into her office. I don’t even hear what she says. It’s like I’m in some kind of bell jar, Rose’s words all muted and soft. Phone calls. Reports. Anger management. Therapy. Consequences.
