“I’m busy,” I tell The Rose. “I have a job after school.”
“Okay, then how about lunchtime? Should I try to have it rescheduled for noon?”
“I guess.” What else can I do? These kinds of things don’t go away on their own. I can’t for the life of me figure out what this meeting could be about. I bust my butt to stay out of trouble, and it isn’t easy. But I have to, for Kat. She depends on me to be around for her. Once you get expelled from this school, the next option is to be sent to the quasi-military one about a hundred miles away.
I shake my head and write out today’s quote.
Do not
go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no
path and leave a trail.—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Now, I know exactly where Ms. LaRose would like us to go with our response. That’s the reason I won’t. This is as close as I ever come to making waves around here.
This Ralph guy obviously hasn’t heard that other famous
quote, the one that goes “tread lightly on the earth” or something like that. If we all went around tromping through the
forest, just think of the mess we’d leave!! And by the way, is
this guy the same Waldo as in the Where’s Waldo books?
J
UST BEFORE OUR
morning break, Ms. LaRose comes up beside me and rests her hand on my shoulder. She leans over and peers at my work. The smell of her perfume triggers a strange kind of memory, not of an event, but of a sensation. I try to get a handle on what it is, but it’s too elusive. It frightens me. I’ve had it before and it always leaves me with a pitiful ache in my gut. I jerk my shoulder away. She can go be compassionate somewhere else.
“Can I see your journal please, Darcy?” she asks.
I hand it to her. She reads my entry and laughs. “Nice try, buddy. Now try again. And have it done before the break.”
I try again. Sometimes this goes on three or four times before she gives up on me.
I disagree with this Ralph guy’s suggestion. It makes
more sense to stay on a path that is proven to go somewhere. Why break your back making trails that may only
lead to dead ends?
I show The Rose my second entry just as the buzzer sounds for the break. She nods thoughtfully. “Kinda like ‘better safe than sorry’,” she says.
“Kinda like.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” she says, handing me back my notebook.
M
OST OF THE
kids from my class head straight off the school property to smoke. I wander down to the library where we can borrow CDs. Our librarian’s pretty cool, for a teacher. He has a sweet collection of CDs to choose from. I make my selection, snap it into my Discman and settle back in a lounge chair.
“Hey, dickhead!” I hear over the music. I turn the volume up and keep my eyes down.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Fraser.”
I sigh and pull off the headset. Troy and his two Troy-groupies loom ominously over me. “What do you want?” I ask and then notice the newspaper Troy has rolled up under his arm. Shit! That’s what the meeting’s all about! How could I be so stupid? I’m not the only one who’s seen today’s lead story.
“We’re just wondering what you think about the news,” Troy says, holding the newspaper in front of me and tapping my mother’s picture with his nicotine-stained finger.
I shrug and slide the headset back on my head.
Troy reaches over and tugs it off. He reeks of tobacco. “I asked you a question, Darcy. Are you excited about seeing your mommy again?”
“I don’t plan to see her,” I tell him. “Now get lost.”
He stares at me for a moment. I stare right back. “Better stay away from balconies,” he sneers. He turns and gives one of his buddies a shove. The buddy swings his arms around and around and sways on his tiptoes, as if to keep from falling. Then Troy gives him just a little flick of his finger and the other guy falls with a thud. The whole scene appears rehearsed.
I put the headphones back on, trying to cover up the sound of their laughter. I sense rather than see them move out of the library and back down the hall. My right hand slides up my left sleeve and I softly stroke the web of threadlike scars on my skin.
O
NCE THE OTHER
kids are shooed out of the classroom and we are assembled around a table, Ms. Wetzell starts our meeting.
“So, Darcy,” she says, looking directly at me. “We have received word that your mother will be released from prison soon.” For a person trained in counseling, she is amazingly blunt.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I read that in the morning paper too.”
“You read it in the paper?” The Rose asks. “That’s how you found out?”
“It’s as good a way as any,” I say.
I see her jaw clench as she folds her arms across her chest. That’s the thing about Marie LaRose. No matter how many times I brush her off, she never quits on me. It’s eerie.
“Have you considered how the community is going to react to that news?” Ms. Wetzell asks. Her starched white blouse and pleated navy skirt reflect the no-nonsense approach she brings to her work.
“No,” I answer honestly. “It never crossed my mind.”
“Well the thing is this,” she says, leaning forward and placing both hands on the table. “There’s bound to be an uproar. People are going to think she should serve the entire sentence for her crime. As you know, even in prison she’s been kept away from the general population, for her own safety.”
I hate it when people start sentences with “as you know.” If that’s so, why say it? “No, I didn’t know,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, looking surprised. But it doesn’t take her long to compose herself. It never does. She’s the queen of composure. “Well, she has. But once she’s released she’s going to have to face the music.”
“The music?” I ask. A drumroll plays in my head.
“You know what I mean,” she answers. “The community is going to let her know how it feels about what she did.”
I nod.
“Our concern today,” Mr. Bryson, principal of Hope Springs Alternate, says, “is for your well-being.” He’s been uncharacteristically quiet, but suddenly he pulls his hands out of the pockets of his faded jeans, places them on the table and leans forward.
I can’t help but wonder what the hands-on-the-table thing is all about.
“Things could get…difficult,” he continues, “and we want you to know that we’re here to support you in any way we can.”
“Thanks,” I say. Like I’d ask
them
for help.
“We don’t want the inevitable uproar to be detrimental to the progress you’ve been making.”
Detrimental to the progress? What’s that got to do with my well-being? If he could see my arm he might not think my
being
was so
well.
Mr. Bryson, with his laid-back, relaxed attitude, usually scores pretty high on the coolness scale around here, but he’s not scoring any points with me today.
“I don’t see why it should,” I answer, hoping to bring this useless meeting to a quick end.
“Maybe because you’re her son?” suggests Ms. Wetzel. I’m surprised by the hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“That may be so,” I say. “But I have no plans to associate with her. And my sister won’t either, for obvious reasons. So I appreciate you organizing this little get-together, but I really don’t think you need to worry.”
The three of them stare at me and then glance at one another.
“You don’t seem too concerned,” Ms. Wetzell says, flipping through the pages in my file. I wonder if she’s looking for the document that explains why I was sent to this school in the first place. It’s not the cutting, because no one, except Kat, knows about that. My antisocial behavior all through elementary school always concerned my teachers, but I still think it was that paranoid grade seven teacher who clinched my deportation from the regular system.
“I guess I just don’t believe in putting out fires where there are none,” I tell Ms. Wetzell.
“Oh, I expect we’ll see some fireworks where this case is involved,” Ms. Wetzell says, slapping my file closed. “And I expect it will be quite a show.”
J
UMPING MY SKATEBOARD
over the curb, I wheel into the Kippensteins’ driveway. I didn’t mention to The Rose that my job is baby-sitting. That would have seemed way too wussy by the standards of most of the Alternate kids, but it works for me. The thing is, the Kippensteins have a little deaf kid, Samantha, and they need a hearing sitter who can sign. I’m perfect for the job. Not only that, but Kat is welcome to join me. The Kippensteins don’t seem to mind that our mom’s in jail. I guess they figure being murderous is not a trait you inherit.
Mrs. K leaves for work at four o’clock in the afternoon Tuesday through Friday, and Mr. K doesn’t get home until seven o’clock, so that leaves a few hours that Sammy needs to be taken care of. They both work all day Saturday, and I wish they’d hired me for that day too, but Sam has an aunt and uncle who are willing to take her then. The best part of this whole deal is that Kat and I have somewhere to hang out four afternoons a week—keeping us out of Dad’s way. Mrs. K leaves dinner ready, and there is always enough for us. I get paid for this. What could be a better arrangement, aside from doing the Saturdays as well?
The deaf kids’ mini-bus has dropped Kat off and I find the two girls squatting on the driveway, sharing a big bucket of sidewalk chalk. Their backs are turned to me so I step off my board and watch them for a moment. Kat’s long hair sparkles in the winter sunlight, and she’s engrossed in the picture she is drawing. Four-year-old Sammy is imitating Kat’s every move. I feel a stab of worry for Kat. How are these fireworks that Miss Manners was talking about going to affect her? Knowing the mentality of some of the people in this town, I expect Kat will get drawn in somehow.
Sammy spots me first, drops her chalk and scrambles over to greet me. I grab her under the arms and twirl her around. When I put her back down she squeezes my legs in a tight hug. She reminds me of Kat at that age, but unlike my sister, who was born deaf, Sammy lost her hearing about a year ago during a life-threatening battle with meningitis.
Sammy grabs my hand and tugs me over to see her artwork. “Wow!” I sign and say simultaneously. Her responding grin is the best thing that has happened to me all day.
“Hi, Kat,” I sign to my sister.
“Hi,” Kat says, giving me a quick glance before returning to her chalk drawing.
I nudge her with the toe of my shoe. She looks up. “How was your day?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Same as always,” she replies. With a sinking heart I realize she’s still mad at me. She usually has a million little stories to tell about school. Kat notices Sammy’s puzzled expression and repeats herself with her hands. We “talk” slowly in front of Sam, trying to help her learn the language.
Watching the girls draw, I wonder, for about the millionth time, what it must be like to live in a silent world.
After a while, Sammy drops her chalk on the driveway. She climbs to her feet and wraps her arms around herself.
“Are you cold?” I ask her, using my hands.
She nods.
“Then let’s go in,” I suggest and point at the door.
Kat has already finished collecting the pieces of chalk, and she snaps the lid on the bucket.
Mrs. K meets us in the doorway. She puts her coat on as we take ours off.
“Samantha’s had a busy day,” she tells me as she gets ready to leave. “Make sure, won’t you, Darcy, that she’s had her dinner and her bath before her dad gets home. That way he can put her right to bed.”
I promise to do that and then ask, using my hands
and
my voice, “What should I give her for dinner?” Samantha’s not the only one who needs practice with sign language.
Mrs. K smiles at me, fully aware of what I’m doing. “The lasagna is in the fridge,” she signs slowly, spelling out the word lasagna. “I left the directions on the counter.”
I agree to follow them and hold the door open for her. She tends to hesitate right before she leaves, as if she thinks she might have forgotten to tell me something. I notice Sammy gets tense at this point too, picking up on her mom’s anxiety, and she’s getting a little worse each day, so the sooner I can get Mrs. K out the door the better. Today Mrs. K seems more fretful than usual, but as it turns out, it isn’t the evening routine she’s worried about.
“Darcy,” she says, even though she has one foot out the door already. She’s making no effort to sign. In fact, she’s turned her back to Kat so that there’s no risk my sister will read her lips. “I saw the morning newspaper. I read about your mom.”
My heart sinks. It starts already.
“Are you ready to deal with it?” she asks.
“I’m not dealing with anything,” I answer. “Nothing is going to change.”
“Really?” she asks, sounding downright skeptical.
“Really,” I answer, trying to sound confident.
“Because, you know, I’ve got Samantha to consider and all…”
So that was it. She might not think there is a murder gene you can inherit, but she does think the murderous mother might suddenly endanger every small deaf girl in town, especially the one the son is babysitting.
“If you’re uncomfortable with me watching Sammy because my mother has been released from prison,” I say, looking her directly in the eyes and forcing her to look back, “I’ll understand. No, actually, I won’t understand,” I correct myself. “But I’ll quit, if that’s what you want me to do.”
“I don’t want you to do anything like that,” she says, unable to meet my gaze any longer. She studies the artwork on the driveway. “I’ve told you that I think you and Katrina are wonderful with Samantha. I just wanted to know what you thought, that’s all.”
“I think everyone is making a big deal out of nothing,” I say, trying not to sound as angry as I feel. “And I think you should go quick,” I say, looking around, “while Samantha’s preoccupied.”
With one last apologetic glance in my direction, Mrs. Kippenstein hurries to the carport and climbs into her Honda Civic. I watch as she backs it out of the driveway and onto the road. With a beep of her horn, she’s gone.
I wish I could make my anger disappear as quickly. With a heavy heart I shut the door and go look for the girls.