Authors: Don Aker
Keegan glanced down at the numerical puzzles that remained unsolved on his own paper. Easier than the puzzles in his head right now. Like why the hell his pulse had started racing.
“T
hank
God
your mother came over last night!” exclaimed Celia as she and Britney found Willa at recess.
“Your mom was a wreck, huh?” asked Willa, shoving her math book into her locker.
“If I ever get to the point where I’m wailing over getting dumped by a loser like Dewayne Eisner, just shoot me, okay?” Celia held up her hand as if she were swearing an oath. “No, scratch that. If I ever get to the point where I’d even
date
a loser like Dewayne Eisner, shoot me. Point-blank to the head. Multiple rounds.”
“How was she this morning?” asked Willa.
“Hungover. The two of them polished off a fifth together.” Celia looked at Willa, admiration in her face. “Your mom can really put it away.”
She’s had enough practice lately, thought Willa.
“Too bad she had to miss Casino Night to hold Mom’s hand,” Celia added. “Must’ve been a blast.”
“Yeah,” echoed Britney. “I didn’t even recognize the community college gym in those pictures you sent. Why didn’t we see one of you and Wynn?”
Willa sighed. She’d intended to phone them when she got home, but she’d been so annoyed at Keegan Fraser and the way
the evening turned out that she hadn’t felt like it. She gave them an abbreviated version now, ending with the bit about the new guy running off when the reporter asked to take his picture.
“What the hell’s his problem?” asked Britney.
“Who cares?” Celia demanded. “What about Wynn’s face? Is there gonna be a scar?”
“I hope not,” Willa replied, surprised she hadn’t worried about that herself. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Why not?”
“He’s at the community college. He’s got a spare first period, and his dad asked him to help put the gym back together.”
Willa felt Britney nudge her. She turned and saw her friend nodding toward a figure passing them—Keegan Fraser on his way to his own locker. She felt her irritation from the previous night resurface.
She’d ignored him when he finally returned and began restocking the refreshment table again, but it was like he hadn’t even noticed her silent treatment. Or cared. He’d seemed lost somewhere inside his own head, the way he looked now, his shoulders hunched, his eyes on the floor.
She suddenly remembered her parents taking her and her brother to see Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas a couple of years ago. Amid the constant flurry of onstage activity was a guy sealed inside a Plexiglas ball, which he continually rolled around the platform, narrowly avoiding the other performers. Keegan reminded her of that guy now, the way he moved around the groups of students milling in the hallway, like he was inside that bubble, a part of the crowd yet apart
from
it.
Weird.
Willa looked at the time on her phone again. She’d texted Wynn earlier that she would wait for him at the east entrance, but she could see Caldwell eyeing her from his post at the top of the stairs. Everyone knew the VP was every bit as anal about students being late for class as he was about in-school cell use, which was why Celia and Britney had left for English without her. She sighed and headed there herself.
She got there just as Mr. Richardson was starting the lesson. “So,” he said, “what do you think of the book so far?”
Several of the students, mostly guys, groaned. Todd Thomas spoke up. “
Way
too descriptive.”
“What do you mean?” asked the teacher.
“People, places, whatever. That Buckler dude goes on and on about
everything
.”
Richardson nodded. “Some readers find that a struggle. Since we’re on the topic of Buckler’s style, has anyone noticed how certain elements reappear in the story?”
Willa looked around the room, but no one offered a response.
“Seriously, people?” said Richardson. “Nobody’s noticed a recurring detail?”
Willa was about to raise her hand when she heard a voice. “Rugs?” It was Keegan who’d spoken.
“Care to elaborate?” the teacher asked him.
“The grandmother, Ellen. She’s always making them.”
“Good observation,” Richardson said. He scanned the classroom. “You’ll find that rugs are a motif that Buckler weaves throughout
The Mountain and the Valley.
As you continue your
reading, I want you to consider what the rugs are made of and how they serve to dimensionalize the story.” He turned to Keegan again and grinned. “I imagine you find the term
mountain
rather ludicrous here in Nova Scotia, right?”
“Um …” he began, and Willa could see uncertainty on his face. Apparently, so could the teacher.
“My wife and I skied Grouse Mountain and Cypress, too,” said Richardson. “I figure since you lived in view of peaks like those, calling what we have here mountains must seem a little absurd.”
“Yeah, a little,” Keegan said.
But there was something in the way he responded, the way his face flushed as he said it, that seemed off somehow. To Willa, anyway.
“I hear the temperature’s supposed to climb even higher in the next few days,” said Greg as he pulled up his chair and sat down. His acne seemed even more pronounced as his face gleamed from the heat.
Richardson had asked the class to break up into groups of four to share their responses to Buckler’s writing style, and Willa had found herself a fifth wheel to Britney, Celia, Todd, and Jay’s quartet. As she’d scanned the room for other partners, Raven had appeared beside her asking if she’d like to work with her and Bailey, and Greg Phillips had just joined the three of them.
Raven nodded. “Humidity’s supposed to go up, too,” she said. “This place’ll be an oven.”
Willa looked at Greg’s glistening forehead and remembered
Ms. Ericson from last night, her gown dark under her arms. “I can only imagine what Ericson’ll look like.”
“Must be rough on her,” said Greg.
On
her
? thought Willa. What about her students who have to look at those crescent-shaped stains?
“Who’s Ericson?” Raven asked.
“Teaches political science,” said Willa. “The woman doesn’t use antiperspirant. Ever.”
“Yeah,” said Greg, looking at Raven. “My mom knows her really well. She has some kind of environmental illness, so a ton of products make her really sick.” He shook his head. “Can’t imagine what it’s like not being able to wear antiperspirant in this heat.”
Willa thought about Ericson’s rail-thinness and deathly pallor and remembered the comment she’d shared with Keegan about her. Now it didn’t seem so funny.
“So who wants to go first?” asked Raven, reminding them of the task Richardson had given them.
“Why don’t
you
start, Bailey?” said Greg.
Willa looked at Bailey, who appeared to be absorbed in the notes she’d made about the novel, but Willa knew otherwise—Bailey didn’t want Willa in their group. Out of the corner of her eye, Willa had seen her make throat-cutting gestures to Raven when she’d asked her to join them. And now she seemed to be trying not to look at Willa. More weirdness. Whatever. Like she cared about Bailey Holloway anyway.
“Maybe someone else could go first,” Bailey murmured.
“Okay,” said Raven. “What about you, Willa?”
Willa was annoyed at how Raven seemed to have appointed
herself the group’s leader, but she was bothered more by the awkwardness that seemed to have settled around them. “Sure,” she said. She glanced down at the journal she kept for reading assignments. “I think Todd’s right. Buckler really goes overboard with description a lot of the time. But in a way I think it serves a purpose.”
“How?” chorused Greg and Raven. Bailey said nothing.
“David, the main character, likes to save moments, right? He likes to draw them out longer so they’ll last. Like the day when he goes with his father and brother to climb the mountain.” Willa opened the book to a place she’d tabbed. “Although he’s excited to do it, David thinks—” She scanned the page and then began to read: “‘Let’s wait. I can be near the mountain and save it at the same time.’” Willa looked around the group. “When Buckler describes things in so many ways, he’s making sure we know exactly what those experiences are like. It’s as though he’s saving those moments, the way David likes to save them.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Greg. “I just kept getting hung up on how the author would compare one experience to tons of things. I was more interested in what the characters were doing, but Buckler kept slowing down the action, giving us one comparison after another.”
“I think his metaphors are amazing.”
They all turned to Bailey, who seemed to have found her voice. “Like that passage you mentioned, Willa? When Buckler writes about David’s excitement climbing the mountain, he describes David making a sun-shiver in his mind. That combination of hot and cold at the same time—isn’t it perfect? It’s more like poetry than prose. And then when his dad builds the fire to make tea—”
She turned to the page. “‘The brook water came to a boil in a sudden volcano.’ I’d never pictured a pot boiling that way, but when you think of it, isn’t a volcano exactly how that bubbling water would look to a little boy?” Bailey’s eyes were shining as though she were making a sun-shiver in her own mind. Then her cheeks began to pink. “Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. Somebody else talk now. Please.”
“No,” said Greg, “I see what you mean.”
“Me, too,” said Raven. “It’s like what
happens
in the novel isn’t as important as how people
perceive
what happens. David experiences everything on such a deep level that it makes sense Buckler would pile on the details to help readers appreciate how David sees and hears and feels things. Everyone else in the story misses the beauty that he notices all around him, which kind of comes back to us reading. When we get bogged down in all that detail, we’re just like those characters who don’t appreciate David’s special way of seeing things.”
“I know how he feels,” murmured Greg.
“How’s that?” asked Raven.
He shook his head. “Sorry, just thinking out loud. It’s not important.”
“No,” said Bailey, “I’d really like to hear this.”
He smiled at her, and Willa got the impression that he was willing to share only because it was Bailey who’d asked. “I get how difficult it is for him. Like when he tries so hard to fit in but it never works out for him. He’s always on the outside no matter what he does.” He glanced away, clearly embarrassed.
“I just caught the end of your discussion,” said Mr. Richardson, who’d approached them unnoticed, “but it sounds
like you made some interesting connections.” The teacher smiled at Bailey. “I especially enjoyed your comment about Buckler’s writing seeming more like poetry than prose.”
Greg nodded enthusiastically. “No wonder her poem won that writing competition, huh?”
Bailey flushed. “It didn’t win—”
“Second place out of three hundred entries is a win in my book,” he said as he grinned at her.
Second place in a writing competition? thought Willa. Bailey Holloway?
“I’m asking each group,” said Richardson, “to choose someone to summarize what you talked about. I’m anxious to see how the rest of the class reacts to your comments.” He moved off to chat with another foursome.
“I think
you
should do it, Bailey,” said Raven.
Bailey flushed. “Not me. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Say exactly what you said before,” said Willa. “It was great.” And she meant it.
A cellphone hummed in one of the backpacks at their feet.
“I think that’s yours, Bailey,” said Raven.
Bailey’s eyes widened. “No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it is,” said Greg, reaching for her canvas bag and handing it to Bailey. “If you don’t want to lose it, you’d better turn it off.”
Bailey’s face blanched, reminding Willa of how Keegan had looked last night when that reporter offered to take their picture. Bailey thrust her hand into the backpack and fumbled around, clearly trying to power down the phone without taking it out, but
it kept vibrating. Frustrated, she yanked out the cell, hit Ignore and then the power button, and shoved it back into the bag, a flurry of movement that took only seconds.
But it was long enough for Willa to notice something about the way Bailey had done it. She’d put her fingers deliberately over the display, as if hiding the caller’s number.
From Willa.
“About
time
you showed up!” said Willa as Wynn slid into the seat beside her. She and her friends almost never ate in the school’s cafeteria, but none of them had the energy to go anywhere today, so she’d texted Wynn to meet them there.
“Ouch,” said Jay, pointing at the bandage on Wynn’s face. “Any stitches?”
Wynn shook his head. “It’s not that bad. I’m just keeping it covered for a while so no dirt gets in it.” He leaned over to kiss Willa. “Sorry I’m late, babe. Took the Rotary guys longer than they planned to get all the casino stuff out of the gym. Did I miss anything in English?”
“Only Bailey Holloway pretending she’s Mensa material,” Britney replied.
“Christ,” moaned Celia. “I thought she’d
never
shut up about all that metaphor shit.”
Everyone chuckled except Willa. “I kind of liked what Bailey had to say.”
“Yeah, right,” Celia chuckled.
Willa felt herself grow defensive. After all, she was the one who’d encouraged Bailey to speak for the group. “No, seriously. She was pointing out how Buckler’s use of imagery—”
“Hey, guys,” interrupted Jay, making a time-out sign with his hands. “Class is over, right? We’ve got better stuff to talk about.”
As if proving that point, Todd nodded toward Russell Shaw in the cafeteria lineup, his tray laden with food. “Is it my imagination,” he asked, “or is Russ starting to show some definition?”
“If you’re talking about his breasts,” Britney crowed. “The guy should seriously think about getting a bra.”
“They’d have to supersize
those
cups,” Celia drawled, and everybody hooted.