Bad Apple (15 page)

“Don’t rub it in.”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a curse. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out why I feel so crappy all the time, combing through my memories. Like, there must have been some point where I went wrong.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. “I’ve been thinking the same thing because I
can’t
remember anything.”

“Well, it doesn’t help. You read books about girls who are depressed, and a lot of times there’s a certain reason. They were robbed or raped or their fathers beat them or something. So, our parents got divorced. But plenty of people’s parents get divorced and their kids don’t cry all the time. They don’t feel like they’re drowning. And then I realized that it wasn’t any one thing. It was me. It was
in
me. In my head. What do you do about that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I remember—I’m sure this is my
own memory, that this doesn’t come from some book or movie or whatever—taking baths with my sister when we were very, very small. I remember a yellow plastic fish with a spout in it, a mermaid doll with pink hair. (Tiffany always made me play with the fish.) And that one day, Tiffany-who-was-not-yet-Madge informed me that her imaginary friend Po Po would be joining us to play, and that Po Po would need to borrow the fish. I told Mom that I wanted to take my own baths alone, and my mom said it was time for that anyway.

I wonder if this means that we left Madge before she left us. I put my hand on her knee.

“I asked this stupid therapist that question. What do you do if the problem’s in your head? What if you can’t find the exact moment everything turned to shit? And he said forget the past. You start from today. From right now. You say, fine, I’m depressed. And it sucks. So how am I going to help myself?”

“How do you?”

She sighs, a sigh so hard that it seems to come from the bottom of her lungs. “I do my therapist’s bloody homework. I keep journals. I started…” She swallows hard. “I started taking medication.”

“I know,” I say. “I saw the bottle.”

“It scares me. It might be dangerous. It might not work. But staying the way I was scares me more. Anyway, I’m lucky I’m
able
to do something about it. Some people can’t even get out of bed.”

I realize that my mom has turned the water off. Pib meows suddenly, piteously, until Madge rubs his belly.

“Remember when we were little kids, and Mom was always yelling at us to get out of the bathtub?” Madge says.

“I remember that you stole my plastic fish. I think that’s the only memory I have of my entire childhood.”

“I think it’s time to get over the fish,” she says. “But do you remember the way we used to call Mom when we wanted to get out of the tub?”

“Uh…”

“God, you are totally hopeless, aren’t you? Can you remember your own name?”

“Sister of Satan?”

“We used to call Mom by saying ‘Mommy’ really, really soft. And then again a little louder. Then louder, and louder, and louder until we were screaming.”

“If you say so.”

“We should do that now.”

“What?”

“Scream ‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.’”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just think we should do it.”

“I’m not doing that,” I say.

“Why not?”

“’Cause it’s stupid.”

“You weren’t too proud before.”

“What was I? Three years old?”

“So?”

“And people think I’m weird,” I say.

“Everyone’s weird,” says Madge.

“If everyone’s weird, then no one is.”

Madge grins, actually grins, suddenly, mysteriously delighted. “Finally, she’s catching on.”

“Madge.”

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s not something you do very often.”

“I’m on drugs,” she says bluntly.

“But…” I say. “It hasn’t been long enough. What if it’s just that placebo effect? What if it’s not real?”

“As long as it works, it’s real,” she says. “Come on, let’s do the Mommy thing. She’ll like it.”

Madge unceremoniously shoves a surprised Pib off her lap and crawls to the bathroom. I can’t leave her to make a fool of herself, and I want to keep her happy as long as possible, so I follow. We crouch by the door. She holds up fingers: one, two, three. And together, softly, as soft as we can, we whisper:

“Mommy.”

We wait another few seconds, and do it again, just the slightest bit louder: “Mommy.”

And louder: “Mommy.”

Louder: “Mommy.”

And then suddenly something in my moth-eaten memory clicks. I can feel my wrinkled fingertips, the suck of moisture in my chest, and the cooling water on my skin. I can smell the coconut and pineapple of the store-brand bubble bath. I can hear us both, our little voices, starting quietly and then building. I must be smiling, too, because Madge’s grin blazes back. I let myself remember that I once had a mom and a dad, a big sister and a plastic fish, a sunny grandma and a grandpa who would push me on the swings and tell me that one day I would be a great artist. That there was a time before the divorce and sickness and the misunderstandings, a time where nobody told me I was weird and maybe didn’t even believe I was, or if they believed it, they didn’t care. And I’m still screaming—mommymommymommy—but it’s different now. I’m laughing and crying at the same time, because the remembering is so good but so sad.

The bathroom door flies open and she stands over us, so tall, tall as that mom from a long time ago. She bends and gathers us both in her arms like we’re three years old and six years old, quaking with the cold and the damp and the sudden realization that we’re all alone in the world.

(
comments
)

It takes me a couple of days, but I tell my mom the whole story. That I touched Mr. Mymer, but he didn’t do anything to me. I tell her that Chelsea was the one spreading the rumors. That she posted the video. That she was probably the one who started the Truth About Tola Riley blog, though I didn’t have actual proof of any of it.

She wants to call the cops. She wants to call the counselors. She wants to call the president. I tell her she should worry about Grandpa. That I’m okay. And that when Grandpa was okay, too, we could go back to the school board. I would tell them the truth. I would tell everyone.

She’s too tired and too worried about Grandpa to argue.

And, anyway, I’m lying again.

I call June. “Hello?” She sounds cautious and hesitant.

“It’s me. Tola.”

“Did you call me?”

“Of course I called you. Your phone rang, didn’t it?”

“It keeps calling other people.”

“That’s because it’s alive,” I say.

“It’s been calling Pete Santorini and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name.”

“Ew.”

“They’re not so bad.”

“They’re not?”

“No, they can be nice. They send me photos. They have decent bodies.”

I figure her phone must have shoved some sort of electronic tentacle into her brain and vacuumed out an important lobe. The sanity lobe. The dignity lobe. “Listen, June. You have to meet me at the school on Saturday night. Seven o’clock.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Bring your dad’s tools.”

“You want me to break into the school?”

“We might not have to. There’s a football game, and the doors could be open. If not, though, I’ll need the tools. Besides, I need supplies and stuff and the janitors always lock the closets.”

“Why do you need to get into the school?”

“Chelsea gave me an idea.”

“Chelsea? What kind of idea?”

“She reminded me of ‘The Goose Girl.’ It’s a Grimm’s
story where this creepy girl tries to steal the throne by impersonating a princess. But the king finds out. He asks the fake princess how she’d punish a usurper. She says that she’d strip the girl naked, put her in a barrel studded with nails, and drag her through the streets until she’s dead. And the king says, ‘Okay, that’s what we’re going to do to you.’”

“What a sweet story. I’ll tell it to my children. What does it have to do with Chelsea?”

“Let’s just say that she’s kind of like the fake princess. She gave me the idea for her own punishment. So, are you in?”

“I can’t, Tola. I have to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Saturday night.”

“Would it help if I told you that your phone wants you to meet me?”

“My mother says—”

“It will look good on your college applications, I know,” I say. “June, what are you going to study in college?”

“What do you mean? What everybody studies. Lit, math, science, that kind of thing.”

“And why are you taking all these AP classes and college courses?”

“Why are you asking me these stupid questions, Tola? You know why. So I can place out of—”

“All your college classes. So let me ask you again. What classes are you taking in college? After AP Calculus, AP History, AP English, AP Bio, AP Chemistry, AP Physics, AP AP, the peacemakers seminar, the leadership seminar,
the seminar to learn how to take seminars, and ‘Whiteness: The Other Side of Racism,’ what’s left?”

“Very funny. If I test out of all the basics, I can graduate early.”

“And do what?”

“Whatever I want.”

“Which is?”

There’s silence. Then: “You’re being an asshole.”

“No, I’m making a point. How about doing something
you
want to do for a change, instead of something your mom thinks you should do?”

“And you honestly think I want to help you break into a school?”

“Of course you do. You’ll be helping me to be a rebel while turning into a rebel yourself. Plus, when was the last time we did something together outside of lunch in the cafeteria?”

“I made out with you in the art room.”

“What have you done for me
lately?
”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Fine. I’ll meet you.”

“And in case my mom calls, tell your phone that I’m sleeping at your house. We’re going to a seminar.”

“If you get me arrested,” she says, “it’s not going to look good on my applications.”

School, hospital, school, hospital. I spend the next few days going back and forth between the two. Sometimes
Grandpa is better; sometimes he’s the same. The doctors tell us to be patient, that the pneumonia is gone, he’s off the antibiotics, and his body will return to normal. And then they remind us that Grandpa is a very old man and that “normal” is relative. Helpful, those doctors. My mother grills them so hard that they now run the other way when they see her coming.

It’s Saturday afternoon. I tell my mom that June and I are going to the movies and then attending a Sunday seminar on college admissions. Mom’s thrilled. She buys me a brand-new notebook and a pack of fancy pens so that I can take notes. She says she will kiss Grandpa for me.

The school parking lot is packed, and random groups of kids roam the grounds. The building lights are off, but someone has shoved a piece of cardboard between the side entrance door and the jamb. We slip inside without anyone noticing. June is disappointed, because she really wanted to try out her father’s tools.

But she gets her chance when we get to Mr. Mymer’s art room. The outer door isn’t locked, but the door to the supply closet is.

“The first step,” she says, “is to insert the tension wrench into the keyhole.”

“Bored!”

“You’re hopeless.”

She kneels by the door, inserts the tension wrench—which looks more like a skinny screwdriver—and then another pick. She jiggles the picks around, listening for a click. She has to jiggle for fifteen minutes before the door opens.

“Remind me never to rob a bank with you,” I say.

We creep into the dark closet and close the door behind us. We’ll have to hide for a couple of hours, long enough to make sure that the school is empty. I brought a backpack with my paints, brushes, a camera, a deck of cards, and a flashlight.

“What? No snacks?” says June.

“Crap,” I say.

Two hours and a nap later, we’re pretty sure the coast is clear. We carefully open the door to the supply closet and sneak from the room. In the hallway, we listen for sounds of football players or cheerleaders, janitors or teachers. Nothing. It’s horror-movie dark. It’s horror-movie quiet.

“Boo,” I whisper.

“Oh, shut up,” June says.

We creep to the front of the school, to the long white hallway across from the principal’s office. It’s freshly primed, blank, and perfect.

While June randomly texts, I unpack the paints and brushes I brought. Like I thought, I’ll need more paint. We go back to the supply closet and load up on big tubes of acrylics and some larger brushes. I grab an extra palette for
mixing colors, some charcoal for sketching, and a roll of paper towels. We make one last trip for a short stepladder. And then I’m ready.

There’s a banging noise. I jump. June grins.

“What’s that?”

“Snacks,” she says. She runs around the corner. I hear her unlock the front door. A familiar voice echoes in the hallway.

June comes back around the corner, Seven behind her. He’s carrying a thermos and a tin box with snowflakes all over it. He opens it and shows me about a dozen expertly frosted cupcakes. All have the number 7 on them.

“Hey,” I say. “Where did you get these?”

“I made them,” he says.

“You made them? From a mix?”

“Are you kidding? Didn’t I ever tell you? I want to be a pastry chef.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “You really are.”

“I really am what?”

“You’ll see.”

While I sketch out what I want to do on the wall, June and Seven sprawl on the floor. They play cards and take turns holding the flashlight for me. We ask one another what’s your favorite color; what’s the most embarrassing song on your iPod; what would you do if you won a million dollars in the lottery; if you had to choose between riding an eleva
tor for six months straight or being completely bald for five years, which would you pick?

After they fall asleep, I hold the flashlight for myself.

At about two in the morning, I take a coffee break. It’s cold and it’s gross, but I drink it anyway. Then I slip June’s phone from her hand and creep down the hall so that I don’t wake them up.

I know he’s still awake. He never sleeps.

“Wha? Hello?”

Okay, now he sleeps.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Tola? Is something wrong?”

“No, everything’s okay.”

Sheets rustle. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I thought you’d be awake.”

“Is she crazy?”
a woman’s voice moans.
“It’s two
A.M
.”

“Look, Dad. Sorry I woke you. I just wanted to let you know that the school needs to see you on Monday morning for a meeting.”

“This couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“Monday? What’s this about?”

The woman:
“We’re not available Monday.”

“That’s pretty short notice, Tola. I just don’t see how I can swing it. I’ve got work, and Hannalore is preparing to show a new artist at the gallery. I hope you understand.”

I say, “Dad?”

“What, honey?”

“Hannalore can bite my apple.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t think that’s called for.”

“And so can you.”

“Tola, I—”

“Bye, Dad. See you Monday, bright and early, seven thirty.”

I paint all night.

When I get back home on Sunday afternoon, tired and wired, I find my mom at the door, jangling her car keys. “They’re transferring your grandfather to a rehab center,” she tells me. “We have to sign some paperwork, move him by ambulance, and get him settled into the new place.”

“A rehab center? Does that mean he’s getting better?”

“I hope so,” she says, and hugs me. She’s been hugging us a lot since that day we screamed in front of the bathroom door, hugging us so much that Madge bleats, “
Will you
please
get off me, Mother?
” even though you can tell she doesn’t really mean it.

It’s just me and Mom on either side of Grandpa Joe’s bed. Madge and Grandma Emmy are at the nurses’ station asking about Grandpa Joe’s favorite sweater, which Grandma insisted
she left in the closet and is now missing. Grandpa is dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He looks about ten years older than he did just a month ago. But his eyes are open, and he’s sitting up.

“When do I get out of here?” he says.

“When the nurse comes, Dad,” my mom tells him.

“You said that a half hour ago.”

“Mom has them looking for your sweater.”

“I can buy another sweater,” he says.

“Tell that to Grandma,” I say.

He sighs. “She made me that sweater. She’ll turn the whole hospital upside down until they find it.”

“So you answered your own question,” my mom says. She strokes his hand like you’d stroke a wounded animal. He
is
a wounded animal. There are purple bruises on his arms where the IVs had been.

“I hope they have better food at this place you’re taking me to,” he says.

“If they don’t,” my mom tells him, “we’ll bring you food from home.”

“You can bring me my stove from home, and I’ll cook myself. The rest of you are hopeless.”

My mother’s eyes fill with tears. Because she isn’t hopeless, I guess. The hope is what keeps her going. And maybe what kills her.

“I love you, Mom,” I say.

She’s startled. “I love you, too.”

Grandma Emmy and Madge walk back into the room empty-handed.

“No luck?” my mom asks.

“No,” says Grandma. “I hate this place.”

“You said it,” Grandpa adds. “Can we go now?”

“The nurse will be in soon.”

“Where have I heard that before?” says Grandpa Joe, but as soon as he says it, the nurse with the eighties hair and the gun-toting husband shows up with a wheelchair.

“Are we ready?” she says.

“I was ready a month ago,” says Grandpa Joe.

Mom and the nurse help Grandpa Joe into the wheelchair. I grab his bag.

“Tola,” my mom says. “Check the closets and drawers one last time, okay? I don’t want to leave anything else behind.”

I check the closets and then the drawers. Behind the curtain, Grandpa’s roommate coughs.

I peek around the curtain. He’s sitting up, too, his broken ankles propped up in strange casts that look like space boots. And he’s wearing my grandpa’s sweater. I’m about to say so when he sees me.

“Babydoll?” he whispers.

Maybe he needs the sweater more than we do.

“Good-bye,” I say. “Stay warm.”

After we get Grandpa settled at the rehab center, I tell my Mom that the school wants to have a meeting early Monday morning.

“Is this about Mr. Mymer?”

“I think so,” I say.

Now that Grandpa seems to be doing a little better, she’s ready to kick some ass. Mr. Doctor drives. Madge tags along. Grandma Emmy does, too, because she’s getting bored at home all alone.

On the way to school, Mr. Doctor thumps his palms against the wheel and the vents blast warm air. My sister jams to her iPod, and Mom and Grandma zone out. It’s snowing, the light kind with the big, fat flakes that land softly on the windshield. I open one of the windows all the way. I lean outside and catch the snowflakes on my tongue.

“Tola! It’s bloody cold, you idiot!” says Madge.

Mr. Doctor just laughs.

My family files into the school, stamping the snow from our feet. I lead them around the corner to the principal’s wing. The principal is waiting outside his office with the school psychologist and a few teachers, staring at the newly painted wall.

“Wow,” says Madge, stopping to gape.

“Did you paint that?” says Grandma Emmy.