Amalee (6 page)

I was relieved it was the weekend. The week in school had its moments, but I liked the peace of having a full weekend to do my homework. Dad's friends were more … predictable than anyone at school.

Phyllis stayed for the whole weekend, checking in on Dad, who did not eat again, but who clearly felt better. John dropped by on the way to the bank on Saturday morning, very excited about something, but when I asked him what was so exciting, he just said, “Life. Life itself, my little daffodil.”

Monday morning arrived. It was April Fool's Day, but in the morning, there was no joke, just a good feeling in the air. Dr. Nurstrom came very early and took out the IV.

“I don't understand it,” he said. “But it happens often
enough. You don't need this anymore. I just can't believe you are so ahead of schedule. You're accepting the drugs better. It looks like your liver is functioning at a much higher level than it was last week, and overall, your immune system seems to be working more smoothly.”

He shook his head. I thought of the roots and twigs Carolyn had given my dad for his immune system, his liver, and depression. Did he seem less depressed to the doctor?

As if he were reading my mind, Dr. Nurstrom said, “You're in better spirits, too, and you have better color.” He reviewed his charts. “I haven't changed anything. The only explanation for this progress is my undeniable charm.”

Dr. Nurstrom cracked a joke? He must have, because my dad smiled. Dad turned to me and said, “Amalee, could you make me an egg?”

“It's remarkable that you want to eat,” the doctor said.

“I know,” Dad told him. “I wish I could have eaten John's eggs the other day. He put the plate under my nose, and I wanted to eat them — as much as I wanted to throw up!”

Oh, gross! I started out of the room. “Do you want two eggs, Dad?” I asked.

“No, just one.”

Everything was turning out better than expected this morning, and all I could do was shake my head and laugh.

I brought my dad the egg, made myself a scrambled egg sandwich, took an apple and a big piece of cake, and headed off for school.

I got to my locker and panicked. I had no pens or pencils, and my English and social studies notebooks weren't there.

“Idiot!” I said out loud. Everything crashed down. I was so angry at myself. Ms. Severance would hate me. I was so busy playing in enchanted gardens and thinking about my dad's doctor that I left my notebooks at home! I could have sworn I hadn't even brought them home, just the books and assignments, but I must have.

I went to English class. Ms. Severance looked at me with a cold eye. I was a minute late. “As I said, please take out the test I handed back on Friday. Let's go over it.”

I had nothing. I opened my science notebook to take notes. Then I saw an anatomy test in the folder. I unfolded it and pretended it was the English test, my stomach looping into bigger and bigger knots as Ms. Severance strolled toward my desk. I was able to hide the test the first time around. I pretended to be checking some other notes in my notebook.

I did this again the second time she came to me. As she circled my desk, I looked straight down at my notes, and then I heard, “That isn't my handwriting.”

The bottom of the anatomy test was sticking out.

“Amalee, what test are you looking at?”

“Science,” I said. A few kids laughed.

“That isn't funny,” said Ms. Severance.

“No,” I said. “I left my English notebook at home.”

“So you didn't come to me at the beginning of class — oh, that's right, you were late.”

I wanted to scream out,
“Please! You're the only teacher I like. Why do you hate me?”

I couldn't say anything. I looked over at Ellen and Hally. They were laughing behind their hands.

I was in shock all through math class. Whatever good happened in school, there was always the bad lurking around the corner. School was just a house of needles, always about to collapse. Every day, I felt a little pinprick underfoot, a reminder that it was all about to fall apart.

That day at lunch, I looked down at my bag. I'd lettered it myself, trying to make it look like Carolyn's handwriting. It looked sloppy, silly. Then I heard a rustling sound. In the darkness, I saw a figure. It was another girl. I watched her stand in front of the ropes that drew the curtains.

She tucked her long hair behind her ears nervously, and then she ran her hands down the ropes, nudged her foot against the sandbags, looked up at the lighting beams, and finally looked over at me.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, surprised to see me.

“I won't get you in trouble,” I said.

“Oh!” She clutched her heart. “I did theater in my old school. My mom says all theaters smell the same, so I should come smell the new stage.”

“Does it smell the same?” I asked. I watched her relax a little.

“Yeah, it does, actually,” she said, laughing a little. “I guess it smells like old costumes and dusty curtains.” She banged on one of them. We both coughed.

She stood for a second. She had light brown hair. It was the new girl. For one moment, we were perfect strangers, perfectly nice and perfectly well-meaning. I already liked her. I liked the way she looked at things and the way she beat the curtain. I liked the way she liked things that didn't have to do with people.

“I'm Sarah,” she said. “Sarah Smythe.”

“I'm Amalee,” I said. “Amalee Everly. As you can see, I really like the cafeteria.”

I held up my lunch.

“I understand,” she said. “I think all cafeterias smell the same, too.”

“Here, you have to try this.” I reached into my bag for John's cake. I couldn't believe what I felt at the bottom. There were two pieces. Even though I had packed the lunch myself, I could hear John laughing in my head, saying, “Honey, I just know when you're gonna need a little extra!”

So we sat there and ate our boulders of cake, and then we disappeared.

I forgot about Sarah during science class, realizing I had social studies next, again with Ms. Severance. And no notebook for that class, either. Science was a long walk from social studies. I always had to run just to make it on time. And today, of course, there was a teacher behind me. “No running!” she said. “And I'm going to walk behind you to make sure you walk.” I walked quickly for a while, and when she went into her classroom, I started to sprint. And that's when I tripped.

Everybody thinks boys are mean, but it's girls. Their laughter echoes more in the hallway. Nobody helped me up, nobody helped me with my books. Nobody asked if I was okay. My knee hurt. I was late for social studies. This time it was a surprise quiz, but we were al
lowed to use our notes, if we had our notebooks, of course.

I wrote an answer for every question, even if it was just a guess. I looked up and saw Ms. Severance frowning at me. She didn't wish me well, no matter how hard I was trying.

After class, I heard a voice behind me.

“Amalee, wait up!” It was Lenore. “Can you stay at my house this Friday?”

“I already said I couldn't.”

“Well, that's just the thing. My mother says you're lying.”

“I'm what?” I didn't stop walking.

“She said she doesn't believe you have an aunt from Canada. She says you shouldn't lie to people.” Lenore was panting as she tried to catch up with me. If I could just get to the stairs, go down the stairs, through the door, into the woods — “She said you should be grateful when someone offers to help you.” We were close to the top of the stairs. “And she says,” Lenore sounded very smug and victorious, getting right up behind me, “that your dad is dying.”

She knew.

And it was as bad as I'd thought. My shell of secrets was broken, and the mean words and anger were all
swooping in, like birds who like to punch their beaks into eggs so they can suck everything out.

She stood about an inch from my ear, breathing. I swung around and pushed her away from me. And then she was nowhere. Behind me was open space. I had pushed her down the stairs.

She yelled as she went down, hitting her head once and crumpling at the bottom.

Other kids came to the top of the stairs. I started running down.

“You pushed her down the stairs!” someone yelled.

“You killed her.”

Hally and Ellen joined the crowd.

“What have you done?” Ellen cried out like a bad actress in a worse film.

She looked like she was going to faint.

Hally pulled something out of her bag, looking disgusted. “Here!” she yelled, throwing two notebooks down the stairs. English, social studies.

Lenore sat up and batted paper away from her. “Lie down,” I said.

The nurse was already there. “She's right, lie down,” she said. “Is this the only place you hit your head?”

“Yes,” said Lenore. “She pushed me.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

Lenore looked me straight in the eye and said, “I'm going to sue you for all you're worth!”

“Okay, okay,” the nurse interrupted, “we're calling an ambulance, and if you promise to lie very still, maybe I'll call your lawyer.” She shook her head and shined a flash-light in Lenore's eyes. “Take the other staircase!” she yelled up to all the kids. “Everything's fine. We had an accident. The buses are waiting. I mean it!”

The crowd scattered.

“You go, too,” she told me. “She'll be fine.”

I didn't think I should go. “Go!” the nurse ordered.

I snuck out the side door, hid behind the school, then cut home through the woods, watching the ambulance lights bounce off the trees. The loud voices on the walkie-talkies followed me all the way home.

 

I walked through the front door and immediately heard my dad's voice. “Hey there!” he tried to call out.

I rushed to his room, so he wouldn't hurt his throat. He was sitting up with a small bowl in his hand. “Who made this soup?” he asked.

“John did.”

“That's not what he told me,” Dad proclaimed, smiling proudly. “He just left. He said you made all this stuff with him. It's excellent, Honey. John certainly has more
bounce in his step these days. Have you noticed? I told you he wasn't angry at you.”

It was no good. Sure, I helped John with the soup. Sure, he wasn't angry at me. But soon we'd get a call from a lawyer, saying we'd have to sell the house. For all I knew, Lenore was dead, and my father was next. This would kill him.

My father saw that I was unhappy.

“Hey, guess what? I feel better! I really do!” I thought about Lenore's mom. How did she find out about Dad? She worked at the bank. I could just imagine Joyce and John talking about it within earshot of Mrs. Nielson. And now, if one person in school knew, everyone knew.

“That's great that you're feeling better, Dad,” I said. “I'm just thinking about all the things I have to do.”

“Oh, of course. Well, could you get me that book over there before you go? Phyllis brought it for me. It's about the Congo. You know what's amazing?”

“No, what?”

“Gorillas. I can't get enough of them!”

I knew why Phyllis had gotten him that book. She was helping him on one of his paths to recovery. He was seven years old again when he looked at these books. Dad's friends had done amazing things, and I was about to undo everything.

I hid in my room and couldn't do any homework. Later that night I brought more food to my dad. “Hey, Amalee, do you want to eat together?” he asked. It would be the first time since he got sick. I turned away as I started to cry. I wanted to give him, and me, the gift of one whole, almost normal dinner together.

But I couldn't eat. I said I'd already had dinner, and he looked disappointed.

I lay in bed that night, thinking of all the things I should have done.

Why couldn't I just say, “Lenore, you're right. I lied. I just didn't want to stay at your house”? Why did I push her? I knew better. Why didn't I talk to her?

I woke up around three in the morning. Had somebody tied me down? My arms were stuck to my sides, and my stomach was so clenched up it hurt. I could barely breathe, let alone move. I wasn't a good kid who had done a terrible thing. I was terribleness itself, trapped and frozen in this thing that I couldn't take back.

Everything I loved was about to disappear, and it was my fault.

I didn't go to school the next day. I kept on freezing up again in the morning. I still couldn't eat. I told my dad I'd come down with something.

“Well, I'm a little sleepy,” said Dad, “so you can borrow the gorilla book if you want.”

That was a generous act for a seven-year-old.

I skimmed through the big pictures and wished I were a gorilla. I felt every minute of the school day. It was slower than school.

At around two-thirty, Phyllis came over. She had two big books for my dad, one about Madagascar and one about iguanas. “Stay here, Amalee. I'll be right back.” She brought the books in to my father who thanked her enthusiastically.

Then Phyllis came out and sat down at the kitchen table. “Sit down,” she said. “You're in trouble, Amalee.”

I sat and looked out the window. Now I'd lost Phyllis. She had heard the news. She didn't like me anymore. None of my dad's friends would after this. Even Dr. Nurstrom would be angry. “I'm sorry, Phyllis,” I started.

“You're not in trouble with me,” she said, surprising me. “You're in enough trouble at school. I want you to tell me why you did what you did, but no matter what, I want to help. I don't want your father to find out. Have you told him yet?”

“Of course not,” I whispered.

She pulled some papers out of an envelope. “Rumor
has it that the school wants to suspend you for a week and give you detentions until the end of the year. Lenore came to school in a neck brace today, and I've heard she wants to sue you, or your dad, of course.” She stared at me. “There's got to be another side of this story, Amalee. You have to tell me what happened.”