I look around me—everyone is writing furiously. I am feeling hot and cold at the same time. And nauseous. I stare at the blank piece of paper on my desk. And the photo on the board. And every time I look up and see the slain woman my eyes fill up so much I cannot see the lines on my paper, so it is impossible to write anything even if I could think of something to say.
“Time’s up!” Mr. Warhead announces, and he walks around the class collecting the papers.
The bell is ringing and I clutch my paper and slowly get up, too slowly because Mr. Warhead is standing in front of me. He grabs the paper out of my hand before I can escape.
“Just a minute, young lady!” he sputters. There is spit shooting out of his mouth. He clenches his teeth and wrinkles his nose as if my paper stinks. “Let me tell you something.” He looks up from my paper and grinds his gun-barrel eyes into me.“I’m tired of your flippant remarks and bad attitude. I spoke with your guidance counselor.You know, you’re not the first AP student I’ve taught. Just because you’re a little smarter than the average kid, don’t think you’re exempt from work.You’ll be getting an F.This will definitely have an effect on your grade this quarter.You’d better watch yourself or you’ll end up failing.”
I do not answer and stagger out into the hall but my heart is pounding. I have to pass this class.And he is the only World Civ teacher. There is no getting around him. He can destroy my chance to escape to Canada. To graduate early. Maybe even to graduate at all.
I start down the hall to biology and see the pointed-toe boot too late. My palms hit the linoleum with a slap and I am sprawled on the floor. I can smell the smoke of the Rat above me and hear his snickering. I scramble up as fast as I can and run past a blur of pushing, laughing, and shouting.
When I round the corner, I slow down enough to catch my breath. As I walk, I realize that I am sore, but I am not dead. I can survive the Rat. I am still shaking, however. I think it is partly rage. How dare he get away with treating people like this?
And I am enraged by Mr. Warhead, too. How dare he threaten me like that? Sure, I know how to pass his class. I can become the kind of perfect “Patriot” he wants to see . . . like the Rat. Ha! That will never happen, Mr. Warhead. Do not count your chicken-shits before they hatch. I will die before I become a Rat.
What am I saying? Why do I care? What difference does it make, anyway? I should just give Mr. Warhead what he wants, and then, hopefully, I can get what I want.
I pass the Armed Services posters by my guidance counselor’s office and think of the Dead Marine photo and stop and shudder. I look through the front windows of the school and see the snowstorm that has started. The snow is falling thick, heavy, with occasional swirls that twist in a dizzying, sickening pattern. It snowed just like this the day they told me my mother was gone forever. I remember that now.The snow poured out of the sky, whiting out everything. And I am not sure who cried more, the sky or me.
Back at Casa Quaker, Jessica is stirring a pot of soup on the stove. She is the only person I know who makes soup from scratch. It comes in cans now, Jessica. I believe Napoleon started that trend for his troops a few years back.
She looks at me, her eyes squinting. “Are you okay?”
I do not know how to answer this question. Is there anything at all about me that is “okay”? I do not bother to answer.
The Blob is saying his “awsh” noise and standing against the cabinet under the sink. I look at him because it is unusual for him to be upright on his own. He mistakes my look for interest and grins, reaching for me.
I step back, into Jessica. She strokes my hair and I pull away. It is not worth getting close. It will all get whited out in the end, anyway. When I go to Canada. I think.
She sighs. “It’s hard being fourteen, isn’t it?”
I am not so sure about that. I am thinking that being four and hiding under the bed to escape my father’s boots was tougher than this. Five was bad, too, having to go off to kindergarten, leaving my mother alone with the Beast. Did I ever do anything to help her? No, I just hid like a little dork.
But six was the worst.When I got off the school bus, and the police cars and ambulance were in front of the apartment. And I knew it was my mother. I tried to push through all the people but they refused to budge. When they finally looked down at me, they all stepped back so I was in the middle of a big empty circle. Everyone went silent and they looked like they had just eaten something bad and felt sick. They were staring at me, alone in the spotlight. Finally, the guy I thought was Mr. Christ pulled off his funny hat and hobbled over to me and tried to kneel down next to me, but his knees cracked so much, he bent down instead. He smelled of mothballs and oranges. His cheeks shook and I saw the tears streaming down the wrinkles in his face, and I screamed because I knew my mother was in those tears.
The next thing I remember, a lady in a white uniform told me my mother had gone to heaven. I kept wondering why it was taking her so long to get back from that place. I wished she’d gone to Wal-Mart because it had everything you could possibly need. Then I wondered if she had to go grocery shopping, too. Sometimes the lines there took forever. She should have picked the IGA. It was quick and the checkout lady always gave me a lollipop.
I had heard about hell from my father. In fact, he told us to go there on numerous occasions. I knew it must be a bad place. But I never knew what heaven was. Grown-ups talked about it like it was special. After a while, I decided heaven must be a place like Disney World where people go on vacation. I was mad at my mother for going on all those rides and not taking me with her. Finally, I stomped my foot at some grown-up and asked her if she had any idea when my mother was due back from heaven. She said never.
When I got older I decided that heaven is really the same thing as hell. It just has more vowels.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I
t is First Day again. For some reason, it seems to come around more often than Sunday. Jessica and the Blob go downstairs to First Day School and the play group afterward.
I grab a newsletter and sit down on a creaky metal chair. I am beginning to recognize some of the regulars in Meeting. Like Phyllis. Like the man who wanted to sing last week, Chuck. And the woman next to him. Laurie, I think. Their names are in the newsletter. They are always holding hands.
Sam sits next to me in the quiet Meeting room. He swallows. Loudly. I glare at him but his eyes are closed. It is amazing how noisy a swallow is in a silent room. And how much you feel the need to swallow, too, when you hear it.
I am focusing so hard on preventing copycat swallowing and keeping the saliva in my mouth that I think I might choke.
I look down and peruse the Quaker shoes around me. Old, peeling running shoes. Dirty boots. Sandals with socks. They go well with Sam’s cap.
I am still trying not to swallow, so I read an article in the newsletter I picked up in the hallway. It is more about the Peace Testimony and why war is not the answer. And there is a line from the George Fox song we sang last week. “You can’t kill the devil with a gun or a sword.” I want to show the article to Mr. Warhead. Or leave it on his desk when he is not around. Maybe if a Quaker came to school, if they do that, someone could disarm him. Or at least make him see the other side of the story.
I jump when a woman’s voice cracks through the air. “I’m sitting here pondering our commitment to peace,” she says, “and thinking how we, as Friends, should put ourselves out there more, like at the schools, to get students—and teachers—thinking about peace.”
Oh, my God, it is like Sam said! I must be thinking in Quaker. It must be this room. My thoughts are running around and planting themselves in people’s brains without their even thinking! Like an Immaculate Perception.
I see the woman sit down and realize that she just finished speaking and I missed the rest of what she said. Because I am still in shock that somehow my brain waves are broadcasting in Quaker. I am not sure if this is a good thing or frightening.
I hear the cell phone bird and look out the windows trying to find it. The sun is streaming in and I realize that it is warmer in the Meeting House today. Finally I see the bird peeking in at me. I am actually enjoying the sound the bird is making. And the fact that I can sit here undisturbed.
I watch a man hunched over, elbows on knees, head hanging, eyes closed. And the younger version of himself next to him, maybe a college kid, in the same position. And I realize they look similar not just because of their shape but because of their faces. They must be father and son. And I wonder what it must be like to pray with your father instead of pray against him.
When Meeting is over, a woman stands up and looks at Sam. He smiles back. She says we have decided to introduce ourselves after Meeting. I am thinking this is silly, considering it is the same people every week. How can they possibly not know each other? Even I can recognize them after only coming here a few times. I am also thinking that since I had no part in such a decision, I can just slip out the door, but Sam’s hand closes on mine and pulls me back to my chair. He stands up, still holding my hand so it is dangling in space. I look away, trying to divert people’s eyes from my conspicuous arm.
“Good morning.” Sam smiles and looks around the room. “I’m Sam Fox.”
“Ohhhh,” someone says, exaggerated, chuckling.“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
Another chuckle. “You mean, like, here?”
“No, I was thinking at the peace rallies on Thursday nights.”
“Oh, yes, I think he’s been there . . . once or twice.”
More friendly laughter.
Sam gives a wry smile, then squeezes my hand and looks down at me.
What?
I say with my eyes.
He tugs at my arm a little and his eyes answer.
Aren’t you going to stand up?
I shake my head and look away.
He coughs. “This is Matt.”
There is a chorus of “glad you’re with us,” “welcome,” “hello.”
I can feel my face burning and my arm tingling.
“Matt’s fourteen and she goes to Franklin High. She’s in the ninth grade, but she’s mostly taking classes with the juniors and seniors because she’s a very smart young lady.”
For God’s sake, Sam, they do not need to know my entire life history!
“She’s part of our family now.We hope she’ll be with us for a long time.” He squeezes my hand again and smiles at me and I wish he would just let go.
There is an awkward silence and finally Chuck stands up and introduces himself. Sam sits down and loosens the grip on my hand. I let out the long breath I have been holding inside.
As soon as the circle finishes the recital of names, I run for the front hall and am the first one out the door.
I hear the steady
clump-clump
of Sam’s boots coming down the Meeting House steps behind me. He must realize that I have had my fill of socializing and it is okay to leave now because he does not call me as I head down the street toward the Subaru.
Suddenly, I hear sharper, quicker footsteps getting louder. I turn and see a man storming up behind us. He does not look like a Quaker. He looks angry.
“That sign is an insult!” he shouts, pointing to the peace banner on the Meeting House.
I step behind Sam.
“It’s not meant to offend—” Sam begins.
“My son is over there fighting, and you idiots are back here hanging signs like this while he’s risking his life for your goddamn safety!”
I am torn between running away to save myself and trying to pull Sam with me because he obviously does not know he should run away now.
“I understand,” Sam is saying calmly, “and I appreciate what your son is doing, believe me.”
I stand with my arms folded and my head pointed down. It is like saying “shut up” without moving your lips. It also keeps my hands from shaking because I do not like angry men yelling at me or anyone. I have heard that when you are part of a crowd in a play and you are supposed to be making background chatter, you say “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” and it does the trick. I am wondering if saying “rhubarb” in my head will also cover up the angry man’s voice.
Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.
The rhubarb does not work.
I hear Sam’s voice clearly. “I don’t believe our safety was at risk—”
“You’re poisoning your daughter’s mind!” the man is yelling. “Hey, girly!” The man tries to step around Sam, but Sam is too quick for him. And I am glad of Sam’s size.
“Matt, go to the car,” Sam says quietly.
I am too scared to look up. Or move. I feel the tornado inside me. And my whole body is shaking. All of a sudden, I realize that I am surrounded. By a wall of legs. And I almost scream. Until I see the shoes. Old running shoes. Dirty boots. Socks in sandals. These are Quaker legs. Attached to Quaker bodies who enclose me like a Quaker Cloak and shepherd me. Toward the Subaru.
I am inside the Subaru but the Quaker Cloak still surrounds me. It parts only when Sam opens his door and joins me.
“Everything’s okay,” he says. “We just needed to talk it out.” He looks at me. “Are you all right?”
“Are you crazy?”
He stops putting the key in the ignition. “What do you mean?”
“Did no one teach you to run from bullies? Not confront them.”
“Aw, he wasn’t a bully, Matt. Just an upset father. And I don’t blame him.” He starts tugging at his silver bracelet. “We . . . we agreed on a lot of things. I explained why my feelings . . . run so deep.”There is a catch in Sam’s voice and his face goes red. I wonder what he means but he coughs quickly and goes on. “It was a good opportunity for us to understand each other, to tolerate each other.”
“It was also an opportunity for disaster. For God’s sake, Sam! Why not talk about peace somewhere safe, like a school, instead of talking with crazy people on the street?” I exhale loudly. “What if Jessica is right? Maybe they are targeting actual people now, not just buildings. Like that guy—Rabbi Sterns? You could be in danger.”