Peas and Carrots (11 page)

Hope flinched. “Uh, I—” she began, then scowled. Jas was grinning. “Shut up,” she said, relieved. “You know I didn't mean that like it sounded.”

Jas elbowed her. “Naw, I know. At least you never thought I was Taliban. Remember when Grayson asked me that in seventh grade?”

“Jeez.” Hope shook her head as she reached her locker. “He hasn't gotten any smarter, either.”

“So, um, Jas? Hi.” Suddenly Dess was there, wedging herself into the space between Jas and Hope.

Hope sucked in a breath of irritation.

“Hi, Dessa.” Jas gave her his usual friendly smile. “What's up?”

“So, Jaswinder? Am I saying it right? Does it mean anything?” Dess questioned Jas as if she had handcuffs and an interrogation room.

Hope hesitated, then turned away to open her locker. She didn't
own
Jas or anything. He was friends with everyone in the whole school, and he'd talk to anyone…even someone like Dess. Unfortunately.

Hope slapped her history textbook on her locker shelf and grabbed her geometry book, ignoring the conversation going on next to her. Dess, looking up at tall, lanky Jas, had an intent expression on her face that almost made Hope believe she really cared about his answer. Jas was taking her seriously, treating her as he treated everyone. It bothered Hope that Jas was so nice to Dess. Didn't he see what she was really like? Of course not. Nobody did.

Hope sighed and resisted the urge to stab Dess with her own red pencil.

“It's called a pat-wha? How do you spell that?”

Oh, for—
Hope rolled her eyes. Dess had found any guy's favorite topic—himself. Jas would keep answering Dess's questions about his
patka,
his hair, and where he'd gotten the cool steel bracelet he wore on his left arm—forever. And it wasn't as if he wasn't supposed to. It wasn't as if Jas owed Hope his time or anything. She swiped on some lip gloss, glaring at herself in her locker mirror. She was being stupid and selfish, two things she hated. To make matters worse, she couldn't stop herself.

She slammed her locker in disgust and brushed past with a terse “Excuse me.”

Dess's smile was serrated. “Oh, sorry. Are Jas and I in your way?”

Jas and I,
as if they were already a thing. “Don't you guys have class?”

Jas jumped as if pinched. “Oh. Yeah. Geometry. I'm coming.” He smiled at Dess. “See ya.”

Dess beamed. “See you at lunch,” she said, sounding perky and cheerful.

Hiding out with a book and her lunch in the library suddenly sounded to Hope like the best idea ever.

A caseworker at the group home when I was thirteen had a red dot on her forehead. She was Hindu. I remember, because I'd never met anyone before with a dot on her forehead on purpose. It reminded me of when I was really little and Granny Doris picked me up from school with a black smear on her forehead. I bugged her about it all afternoon and just about drove her crazy. She finally told me she got it at Mass and to leave it alone—and
no,
she wasn't going to wipe it off and
no,
I couldn't have one. I remember I made a streak with a smelly black marker instead and got a smack for drawing on myself in permanent ink. Granny Doris just about scrubbed all the skin off my face trying to get it off. She always said I had more curiosity than was good for anybody.

Maybe it's true—I've wanted to ask for weeks about Jas Singh's
patka
and that little bracelet with the curly writing, that
kara
bracelet. I looked it up on the Internet, but there was so much it didn't say. Do guys
like
keeping their hair that long? And is it the same thing like that guy Samson from Sunday school with the long hair or what I saw on the Internet—those guys with fingernails so long they curl? Why would a religion care how long hair gets? I want Jas to stand and tell me stuff until I can't think of anything else to ask him, but I see how Hopeless looks—like I'm stealing her lunch.

Weak.
If I'd gotten too cozy with some girl's boy at Stanton High, she would have stomped down hard and made sure I knew. Instead, Hope's acting all hurt, like Jas is going to notice and do something.
Sucker.
Boys never notice
anything.
Girls do. Hopeless is stupid. She takes boys—and everything—way too seriously. I wouldn't have bothered flirting with Jas if I hadn't seen how badly it pissed her off. She won't come at me and just
say
something. She's all polite and pretending. I hate that.

I open the door to my classroom just as the bell rings. It's language arts, which three days a week is English and two days a week is Spanish. Spanish is pretty cool. Señor Jacobo is writing our homework assignment on the board. He has the fanciest handwriting I've ever seen. The first day of class, he made a swan out of the
J
in his name, and he teaches us a new piece of letter art at the end of every class, which is cool. He even makes vocabulary fun.

I scribble down the assignment as Señor Jacobo takes out two goofy cardboard dolls with button eyes and black yarn hair glued to their heads.
“¡Buenos días, clase!”

“Buenos días, Señor Jacobo,”
the class mumbles. Behind me, James Gilberto says loudly, “Whassup, Mr. J?” His friends laugh. Señor Jacobo ignores him.

“Estos son mis amigos Larry y Roy.”

“Hola, Larry y Roy.”
Last week his puppets were named Peter and Paul.

“Les gusta…¿Señorita?”
Señor Jacobo points to me.

Crap. They like to what? “Um
…¿Les gusta bailar?
”

“Ah, sí!”
Señor Jacobo makes his puppets dance.
“¿Señor Jaime?”

Señor Jacobo's puppets move around the room with our teacher as they go to
el baño
(James's disgusting contribution, but Señor Jacobo only has them wash their hands), play ball, eat, run, and do whatever else as the class uses up as many verbs as they know from our Spanish I book.

Even though the puppets and the costumes Señor Jacobo has are dumb, I love Spanish. When I was eleven and on the street, this one Mexican grandma gave me a couple of apples when I was hiding from the rain at a bus stop. All I knew how to say then was
“Gracias,”
but now Spanish is one of my best classes—which is why I am pissed when the door opens behind me and I hear my name.

Señor Jacobo glances up and smiles, then gives me a nod.
“Adelante,”
he says, making a little shooing motion with his hands. Then he turns to the rest of the class.
“Grupos de tres, por favor, señores,”
he instructs them. “Groups of three.”

Resentment scratches like a tight wool sweater as I shove my book in my bag and slouch into the hallway, ignoring the small Asian woman who's waiting for me. I cram my bag in my locker for safekeeping, slam the door, and head outside.

I tried to skip this therapy before—like that made any difference. When I didn't show up the first time, Ms. Wang—Stella—came and sat in the back of the classroom. I ignored her, so she followed me to lunch and sat at the table behind me the whole time. And then she followed me to the class after that one. Ms. Aiello came, too.

“It's thirty minutes, twice a month,” Ms. Aiello said, sounding out of patience. “I wish someone wanted to listen to anything I said for that long.”

Ha. Nobody wants to listen to anything Ms. Aiello says,
ever.

Stella said it was either do therapy or have her following me to every class all day so she could tell Bradbrook how I was doing. So I sat down on a bench in the hall and said, “Fine. Right here. Go.” And we did therapy, which was Stella asking me little questions and me either pretending to answer them, totally lying, or, mostly, ignoring her.

Whether we've sat on a bench or outside on the lawn, it's been a total waste every time.

The Loop runs in front of the admin building, around the upper field, and behind the cafeteria. Aiello has a fancy name for it, the Headwaters Memorial Path, but everybody just calls it the Loop. The wind ruffles Stella's razor-cut hair as she falls into step next to me. At least I don't have to sit at a desk or anything with this therapist. Stella says it's therapeutic to walk.

The cement under our feet is mixed with blue and green glass and pieces of shell. Every few feet there are “waves” of fancy mosaic tiles in all shades of bluey green and white, which just shows you how rich this school is, because anywhere else they'd have to have somebody scrub off all the paint and put the tiles back right every single day.

Stella walks so quietly I can barely hear her, even though she's wearing stomper boots with platform soles. Her voice is just loud enough. “How are you, Dess?”

I shrug. “Okay.”

“Classes going all right?”

It almost seems like my shoulders hear before my brain does. “Fine.”

“Things going all right at home?”

A third shrug.

“I'm hearing positives,” Stella says. “Ms. Aiello's really proud of you.”

Yeah, yeah. Ms. Aiello expected me to be some kind of lowlife thug just because Trish is in jail and I'm in foster care. Whatever. School is fine. It's always the same—no big changes, no big surprises, the bell rings and everybody knows where they're supposed to be. No matter what Aiello thinks, I know it's good for me, and I'm not going to jack it up.

Stella zips her black corduroy jacket as we walk on, facing the wind. “What's your check-in number, Dess?”

I make a little
Hmm
noise while I think. Stella does this thing where I give her a number from one to ten to check in with, one being evil bad and ten being exceptionally good. I give a halfhearted shrug. “Five, I guess.”

“Five. Okay. Not affected by your grandmother's letters?”

I frown. I forgot I told her about those. “No. Bradbrook just keeps telling me every time he gets one, but I don't really care. He's supposed to shred them.”

Stella just makes a little noise in the back of her throat that might mean “Supposed to?” or “How does that make you feel?” Or maybe she was just clearing her throat. I can hear shouting from the soccer field at the end of the track. Kids are running drills and kicking balls back and forth with their socks pulled up to their knees. Soccer outfits are straight
stupid.

Stella's voice focuses me. “Anything you're dreading in the next little while?”

A pause. “Nope.”

“Anything you're looking forward to?”

I snort.
Please.
How am I supposed to know what to look forward to? “Nope.”

Stella glances over at me. “Anything you wish you could tell me, or anyone else? Are there any messages you'd like me to pass along to the people in your life?”

“Nope.”

Stella never bothers getting mad that I don't answer. She always asks, “You're still feeling stubborn about our meetings, hmm?”

“Yep.” That answer always stays the same.

“Stubborn isn't always smart, Dess.”

Stella hasn't said that before. I scowl. “I
know
that.”

“I'm available to talk to you, whether it's just on our walks or anytime, Dess. Anytime you start to feel stressed in a classroom situation or angry or frightened, you can ask for a pass and come and see me in my office.”

I stop in the middle of a tile wave, a shudder fingering my spine. “Why?”

Stella stops, too, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“Yeah. Why would you say that now? Is something happening? Did you…did my social worker call you or something?” I wrap my arms around my torso, feeling my pulse in my throat.

Stella leans away from me, studying me closely. “No, Dess, no one called me. No one from the school has spoken to me, except in positive reference to your grades. I tell you every time that you can always come and talk to me.”

I shake my head, rubbing my arms. “No, you don't. You don't say it like that.”

Stella watches me a moment, then cocks her head. “Like what, Dess?” she asks, her voice patient and slow. “How did I say it?”

I back away. I don't like how she looks at me, and I don't want to talk anymore. “Forget it. Are we done?”

Stella doesn't even glance at her watch. She's still studying me, looking at my face like she can see through my skin into my head. “Do you feel like we're done, Dess?”

I manage a nod, arms still tight around myself.

A long pause, her dark eyes steady on mine. An abrupt nod. “Okay, then.”

She takes the lead, cutting across the corner of the science building and behind the admin building. We walk until we see the plate-glass windows of the cafeteria.

This is the back side, and mostly students don't come in from this side. Freshmen from first lunch are still there, but most of them are getting up and putting their trays away and going out the exit.

I expect Stella to break off and disappear into her office in the basement, but she keeps pace with me all the way to the cafeteria. “I think I'll get a cup of coffee before I go back,” she says, her voice even and calm, as always. She holds the door open with a smile. “Enjoy your lunch.”

When she's gone, I rub my arms, trying to figure out what she just said. Does she think I'm going to be “angry” and “frightened” and have to call her? Screw that.

I told Aiello and them, I don't need help. These people need to recognize I'm just here to see about Baby while Trish is messing around testifying, and then I'm out, I'm done. They'll take me back at the group home. I can keep my head down and go to school and get out of the system. I don't need this therapy shit and everybody getting in my face.

I told Stella and Aiello, and Foster Lady, and everybody: Just leave me
alone.