by Sean Platt
He wondered how his dad always got him to say and do what he wanted. Luca didn’t want to tell anyone about Johnny Thomas, or go to school. Now, only a few minutes after Dad came into his room and sat on his bed, he was doing both.
“Johnny Thomas has been picking on me.”
“Johnny Thomas?” Dad scrunched his nose. “Do I know him?”
Luca shook his head. “No, because you’re lucky.”
Dad laughed. “So, what’s he doing to pick on you?”
“He calls me names and always makes me feel stupid.”
“Uh oh,” Dad grimaced.
“What?”
“That means you’re letting him.”
“I’m not letting him!” Luca cried out; that made him mad.
“Well, I don’t mean to upset you, Little Luca, but you kinda sorta are. Bullies only have the power you give them. If you ignore what they’re saying, they have no power at all. My best suggestion, ignore Johnny Thomas. Sooner or later he’ll get bored and find someone else to pick on, someone who doesn’t know how to ignore him.”
“I knew you’d say something like that,” Luca crossed his arms tighter.
Dad gave Luca an understanding smile, then disappeared. He was gone for two minutes before he came back, according to the clock, but because Luca was curious, those two minutes felt more like 10.
Dad sat back on the bed and handed Luca a comic book.
Luca was excited for a second, thinking the comic would be about superheroes. But it didn’t look super at all; it actually looked sort of dumb. The colors were bright, and the drawings seemed sort of babyish.
The title was dumb, too: Billy Bully.
Luca looked up at his dad, wearing his not-real smile.
Dad laughed.
“I know it’s not exactly Spiderman, but I promise you’ll like this. Read it on the way to school. You can throw it away when you get there if you want, but I have a feeling you won’t. I’m 44 and I laughed a few times, out loud. Hopefully, the book will help you understand Johnny Thomas better, at least enough to ignore him, and maybe understand yourself a little too, enough to know you’re doing the right thing. We only have a few minutes before we need to leave for school, and we’re already late for getting downstairs, so before we go, do you want to hear my super-fast advice for dealing with bullies?”
Luca rapidly nodded, dying to hear.
Dad pulled him closer. “Look, Luca, I’m not going to lie to you. Bullying sucks, and unless you’re a bully yourself, and sometimes even if you are, most kids go through it at one time or another. You’ve already done the smartest thing by telling someone. You can always ask your parents or friends to help you — there’s safety in numbers — and know what you’re going to say before you say it.” He smiled. “In fact, if you want, we can practice scenarios when you get home from school. Would you like that?”
Now smiling, Luca nodded.
Dad clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Be cool and control the moment, don’t let the moment control you; don’t show Johnny Thomas that you’re sad or mad or anything else. Ignore him, walk away; don’t make it worse.”
Luca threw his arms around his father, suddenly not feeling very sick. “Thanks, Dad!”
Dad told him to hurry, then Luca leapt out of bed quickly got dressed, ran downstairs, mowed through a still-hot waffle — Luca saw two in the trash — then ran outside to the Maxima behind Anna and read his new comic as Mom drove them to school.
Dad had helped Luca feel better, and so did the comic, but he still spent the whole morning dreading recess and gym, because he was sure Johnny Thomas would make his move. All the advice in the world couldn’t give Luca the super powers he needed to stand up to the school’s biggest jerk, who, despite his big, giant, bullying mouth never seemed to travel without his two big, stupid bully friends, Gus and Kiyor, behind him.
Luca made it through recess because he followed the first part of Dad’s advice: Control the moment, don’t let the moment control you. He sat midway up the school’s front steps, reading his Billy Bully comic. It was pretty dumb but kept him smiling anyway. Johnny Thomas and his stupid bully friends kept looking over at Luca, probably making fun of him and his comic, but they never approached him or said anything at all.
Gym was an even bigger worry than recess, so Luca tried not to be scared as the bell rang for fifth period and he changed into his shorts and T-shirt. Luca wished he had told his dad about Johnny Thomas the night before so that he would have already had time to practice what he would say, but since he didn’t, Luca ignored the bully as best he could. That worked at recess, and all the way through the time they played soccer, probably because there were so many other people around. But then the bell rang, and gym ended. Everything inside Luca knew trouble was coming.
He ran into the locker room as fast as he could, faster than he ran when playing soccer, hoping to get in and out before Johnny Thomas or any of his stupid friends saw him. Luca grabbed his backpack and clothes, then ran out from the gym and across the hall to the bathroom in Building E that no one ever used. He went into a stall and changed, happy that it was almost sixth period science and that he had almost made it through the day.
Tonight he could practice with Dad.
Back in his regular clothes, he stepped outside the stall, and the bathroom door swung open — Johnny Thomas stood in the doorway, sneering between Gus and Kiyor. All three stepped inside, blocking Luca’s exit.
Luca stared at the boys, trying not to be scared and wondering what he should do. Before he could decide, Johnny Thomas was right in front of him, yanking the backpack from his shoulder. With the backpack in his hands, Johnny pushed Luca to the floor.
Laughter echoed in the bathroom.
Luca figured he’d wait it out, ignore the bullies until they left, but then Johnny Thomas started rifling through his backpack, and laughing hysterically once he found the Billy Bully comic Dad had given him. The fact that they, these bullies, were handling the comic his father had given was awful horrible.
Luca tried not to cry; it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.
Laughing so loud it was nearly a scream, Johnny Thomas ran around the bathroom waving Luca’s comic over his head, bellowing through his laughter: “Poor little Luca, Luca Crybaby, doesn’t want to get bullied by Billy anymore.”
Then, Johnny Thomas did something that made Luca hate him even more than he already did; he went to a stall, dropped the comic into a bowl, and peed on it, still laughing. He left the stall and said, “Your Billy Bully comic is in the shitter where it belongs,” then shoved Luca back to the ground and walked off laughing.
Luca found his courage and yelled, “Why are you picking on me?”
Johnny Thomas turned and met his eyes. Luca was sure Johnny was going to hurt him, maybe even kill him right there, and nobody could stop him.
Johnny leaned in, sneering, his eyes full of a hate Luca couldn’t understand, “Because you’re a little faggot, and I don’t like you.”
Johnny punctuated the comment with a swift punch to Luca’s balls, sending him to his knees crying out in pain.
The boys all laughed as the bell for sixth period rang, then left Luca balled on the floor, crying.
Five
Mary Olson
Fairfield, Colorado
September 2013
Mary stood in front of the classroom watching as the eighth-graders studied her. She was up next — career day — just as soon as Paola’s teacher, Lindsay Slater, finished introducing her.
Paola was in the third row back, refusing to look up at her mother. She was probably still mad about the previous evening’s argument, or maybe embarrassed that her mom was speaking next. If she was trying to make Mary feel like an intruder in her classroom, it was working.
There was a time when Mary’s baby girl loved spending time with her mom, loved when she had showed up at school for lunch every so often, or helped out with after school activities. Now Paola was 13, and growing ever more concer
ned with boys and her social standing in the school’s neatly divided cliques. The last thing she wanted was to be seen with her mother.
Mary knew this time would eventually come, it had, in fact, been approaching before The Event when Paola was just 11. But when they returned home from the horrible world following Ryan’s death, something had shifted. They were closer than ever, and Mary had hoped it would stay that way. They were each a rock for the other, recovering together from their shared nightmare and the transition to a new life in North Carolina briefly, then off to Colorado when Mary decided Paola needed a school that understood her, and she needed a school of her own.
Mary thought the events of the other world might have short-circuited Paola’s inevitable “I hate my mother” phase before it took, but it seemed to merely delay it. Now it was hitting hard with vengeance.
Standing in front of the class on career day was odd enough without Paola’s anger rolling from her body in waves. Mary couldn’t help but compare herself to some of the other parents: lawyers, surgeons, police officers — careers that required degrees and daily heroism. She was an illustrator, someone who drew pictures for a living and was lucky enough to make a ton of money doing so, doing the same thing many others could do, and arguably better than her. Mary didn’t feel like a role model. She couldn’t suggest that children follow her example, particularly when there were so many starving artists pursuing dreams that were slowly broken by reality, working jobs they hated to support ambition that thinned as struggle elasticized. Because of Mary’s own lean years, and her maternal instincts, she wanted to tell these kids yes, follow your dreams, but be smart about it. Have a Plan B. She wanted to tell them to take the other parents’ advice: Stay in school, go to a university, get a job and a guaranteed paycheck. Be safe.
Paola’s school specialized in creativity and believed in dreams. That’s why she pulled the plug on North Carolina right after getting there, to give Paola the same opportunities, or at least an environment to foster artistic growth rather than squash it underfoot like schools in the system. To stand in front of the class and preach anything other than “follow your dreams” was hypocrisy, and Mary simply couldn’t have that.
“And now,” Ms. Slater said, “here’s Paola’s mom, Mary Olson, a greeting card designer and illustrator.”
“Hi, class,” Mary said, stepping into the center of attention. She felt awkward, standing with wobbly knees, smiling brightly at Paola’s class as she walked to the front and thanked Ms. Slater. She looked out at the room, hoping Paola would look up, then trying not to feel horrible when she wouldn’t.
Mary smiled again, half the class smiled back. Paola wasn’t one.
“How many of you like to draw?”
Most of the smiles raised their hands, along with two of the frowns.
“How many of you would like to draw for a living?”
Most of the smiles raised their hands again.
Mary wished she had prepared something to say, rather than going on intuition like always. Or that Paola would look up and let her know she wasn’t alone, or at the very least not an intruder making her daughter feel stupid. But in a room of 34 kids, Mary had no one, so, like always, she opened her mouth and went with her gut.
“Whether you want to make a living as an artist or not, knowing that there’s already an artist inside you can help you get more out of any career.” Mary looked around the room, already feeling better. She took a step forward. “Whether you’re a doctor, a fireman, or a writer, creativity helps you do your job better because creativity is the ability to put things together in interesting ways. Creative people see the world full of solutions waiting for discovery.”
Mary stared at the top of Paola’s head, willing her to look up, but her daughter’s head stayed down.
“We all tap our creativity in different ways. Some people are born with an artist’s eye; some musicians have perfect pitch, and some writers can string words together like brushes of color on a canvas. I doubt they’ll ever be able to teach talent, but there are countless ways to train what’s already inside you. Everyone has an artist in them, waiting to be found. One of the best things anyone can ever do for themselves is listen to the people in their life who want to draw that from inside them.”
Paola looked up, but just for a flicker, as if she couldn’t help it, then looked back down. It was enough. Mary finished her talk, feeling better than she expected, earning smiles and applause from Ms. Slater, parents, and even most of the children, including two of the frowners.
Two more parents spoke after Mary, a judge and a soft-spoken man with white hair who owned a janitorial supply company, then everyone lined up for pictures, each child with their parent.
To Mary’s tremendous relief, Paola only grimaced a little.
Following career day, Mary ran a few errands, then went back to school to pick up Paola. She got into the car, mumbled “Hi”, then turned on her iPhone, chose a song, and buried buds inside her ears.
Oh no, you are not going to keep ignoring me, young lady.
Mary grabbed the end of Paola’s cord and yanked the buds down to the console.
“What the hell, Mom?!”
Mary stayed firm, turning the engine and backing out from the school lot. Once on the road, she said, “We’re going to discuss last night.”
“I told you, there’s nothing to talk about, Mom.” Paola’s eyes were out the passenger window.
“It’s not nothing, Paola. You need to listen to me because I’m your mother and I have a job to do.”
“Your job doesn’t have to be constantly managing me, Mom.”
Mom was a knife.
“I’m not managing you, Paola. I’m helping you.”
“No, Mom. You’re not. You think you are, but I don’t need to be managed 24/7. You don’t need to tell me to throw my socks in the washer every single time!”
“Are you kidding me?” Mary put a thousand pounds of effort into muting her temper. “You have failed to put your socks in the washer 100 percent of the time that I’ve not mentioned it, Paola, and I’d be fine with the socks, really, if that’s all it was. I wouldn’t care at all, if I didn’t also have to remind you about your homework, your manners, your coming down for dinner without me calling for you a dozen times, or your media time — all of which scratch the surface of the many, many things that you need to be reminded of.”
“EXACTLY!” Paola bellowed. “You manage me about EVERYTHING. You tell me when to brush my teeth!”
“You had six cavities!”
Heaving, she growled, “We were on another fucking world!”
Mary gasped.
Paola often screamed, but never cursed.
But her daughter was right. They were on another fucking world. And they’d lost Ryan — Mary’s ex, and Paola’s father. And while Mary had somehow been able to cobble a semblance of normality together for them, it seemed sometimes more illusion than reality.
An illusion that the slightest aggravation threatened to unravel.
Mary gripped the steering wheel and drove the rest of the way home in silence. Paola grabbed her cord, plunged it back into the bottom of her iPhone, then cranked the volume loud enough for Mary to hear.
Despite her best efforts, there were some things Mary couldn’t fix. At least not alone.
Mary stood at the kitchen island, spreading veggies across the cutting board as Paola came downstairs and walked past her mother to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, then went to the living room, and flicked on the TV.
Mary smiled.
Paola rarely watched TV any more — she was always on her computer. So her being in the front room was her way of slowly opening the door for Mary.
“You want to help me?” Mary called out past the island.
Paola turned around, leaning over the back of the couch, “Whatcha makin’?”
“Nothing fancy. Just cucumber salad.”
“Sure,” Paola said.
“Thanks,” Mary smile
d. “Do you want to start the water for pasta?”
“OK,” Paola said. She grabbed a pot from the hanging rack above the island. “This one big enough?”
“Perfect.” Mary watched as Paola brought the pot to the sink and turned on the water.
Mary grabbed a cucumber, then her Consigli knife, and pressed down.
Paola finished filling the pot and carried it to the oven. “You know,” she said, “If you didn’t nag me all the time I would want to do the right stuff more.”
Mary kept chopping. “That’s never worked before.”
“Let’s try it. Just for one week. You can … ”
“Shit!” Mary screamed, looking down and seeing the deep gash in her left index finger.
Paola ran to her, “Are you OK?”
Mary grabbed a paper towel and squeezed it tightly around her finger, breathing in and out, hoping the injury wasn’t as bad as it felt — like she’d cut through to the bone. She squeezed tight, trying not to freak out, not in front of Paola. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Can you get the first aid kit?”
“Yeah,” Paola said, sprinting up the stairs and returning moments later with the white, plastic box — red cross on the front.
Paola set it on the counter and flipped it open, then Mary grabbed the peroxide and went to the kitchen sink. She rinsed the wound; it wasn’t to the bone, but the slice was deep enough to leave a chunk of her finger barely hanging.
“I need stitches.”
“Let me see,” Paola rushed toward her mother, bandage wrap in hand.
Paola winced when she saw the wound. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad,” Mary lied. It did, but she didn’t mind the pain so much as the thought of missing the best of her finger.
“Can you wrap it up so I can run to the all-night clinic?”
“Here,” Paola said, taking Mary’s hand in hers. Mary watched as Paola leaned in closer. The tip of her tongue stuck out like it did when she was concentrating. The look in her eyes, and the urgency Paola flew upstairs with, were touching. A knot formed in Mary’s throat, she tried to keep her eyes dry.
