Rodent (14 page)

A noise. I bolt upright. The book tumbles to the floor. “Mom,” I say before I can stop myself. I must have fallen asleep—the light’s still blazing. I lie down again, dizzy.

“Shh, it’s just me,” she says. Silly grin, slipping off her skirt and tights. She hums down the hall to the bathroom.

I knew it wouldn’t last. Probably drinking with the bartender again. Just as well I didn’t get too attached to this school. Her boss probably won’t tolerate his employees getting hammered at work.

I must doze off again, because suddenly she’s right over my face, breathing down. She doesn’t smell like booze. Her hands tuck my blankets around me, quick and sure. I let her, something odd tickling at the back of my mind.

* * *

I wake to Evan beside me, shifting. Like he’s not sure he should wake me but wants me to wake up anyway.

He beams as I crack open one eye. “I’m hungry.”

I snatch the clock next to me. It says
8:43
. Forgot to set the alarm. I guess that takes care of the issue of seeing

Will in English. Zara’s probably having a fit right about now—the other class leader is
MIA
.

“Go, go, go.” I shoo him out of the room ahead of me.

I take a quick shower. My hair’s still dripping by the time we get to the day care, the wind whipping wet strands in my face.

I deliver Maisie to her school office. “Sorry we’re late,” I tell the admin assistant, who doesn’t seem to hear me. “Just go to your classroom,” I say to Maisie.

I’ve missed first period, and people are wandering in the halls on their way to their second-period classes. Not quite sure what to do with myself, I make my way to the cafeteria. That’s where we’ll all end up anyway.

A scroll stretches across the wall, about eight feet high and twelve feet wide. Instead of making the paper actually curl at the top and bottom, the Art Club drew and cut the edges to look like curling paper. I try to ignore the red letters leaping out across the bottom. They’ve put up a sign with
Get Your Poet On
in funky, lightning-bolt letters across the top. It looks great. I almost forget who made it.

While I’m standing there, gawking, there’s a bump at my side, and tight fingers pinch my arm. “There you are,” Zara says, cutting off my circulation. “Will said you weren’t here today.”

I blink at the mention of Will. “Just running late,” I say.

“Are you ready for your speech?”

“Speech?”

“The two class leaders usually say a few words at the opening. I’ve made mine sound like a poem”—she sniffs—“fitting with the theme.”

Run, Isabelle. Find a bathroom stall. Or go back home
. “No one mentioned a speech.”

“They do it every year,” Zara says. Like that means anything to me. “Help me bring some stools from the equipment room?”

After I help her haul out some stools and tables, I disappear into the bathroom, where I take a few deep breaths and finger-comb my hair. This
would
be the day I didn’t have time for makeup. I find a tube of Chapstick in the bottom of my bag and put some on. Good enough.

I track down Zara a few minutes later, still hovering around the display, replacing tape and rearranging pens. “Why don’t you sit down with me?” I say, pulling out two chairs at a nearby table. She wanders over, resigned.

We sit with our arms crossed, watching the scroll like it’s about to come to life. She pulls out her speech, written on a recipe card, and starts to read it over. I close my eyes. The lunch bell rings. Deep breath.

I wave at Nimra and Amanda, who come and sit by us. Damien gives us a wave as he dodges past with friends. People to see, things to do. Mr. Drummond bustles in with a microphone and cable in hand. He hooks it up, taps to test it. When he’s finished, he comes to stand by me and Zara.

“Ladies, you really outdid yourselves,” he says. Zara beams. I think he might ask me about missing English, but he doesn’t. “We’ll just wait for Mr. Talmage now.”

In the crowd forming around our scroll, I catch sight of a mop of dark hair. Wide glasses. A smile. Something in me calms. I smile back at him, for once.

Suddenly Mr. Talmage is testing the mic, getting started. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to an annual tradition here at Glenn Eastbeck.” He signals for applause. “We’ve been in school together for just over a month now.” Has it only been one month? “Words on the Wall is one of the ways we welcome each other to a new school year.” He talks a bit about its origins, how it began with a group of students promoting freedom of speech and creativity. He goes over the rules—no profanity, no vulgarity, no hate speech, et cetera. No writing on top of or changing another student’s work.

“I’d like to thank this year’s committee,” he says and runs through all of our names. “I’m going to turn this over to the class leaders now to say a few words.” He holds the mic in our direction. Zara bolts out of her seat, lest her precious poem be missed.

“Creative spirit abounds in all,” her voice booms through the cafeteria, “honoring that special call.” I hear a cackle at the back that sounds a lot like Damien. “We will meet it where it stands, hold it in our youthful hands.”

A murmur through the crowd as heads turn to each other. She continues, “When we write the words we feel, we will really know what’s real.” I feel like crawling under my chair on her behalf. Sniggers break out as she presses on, head high. A ripple through the crowd.

“So come, good friends. Come one and all. Write your words upon the wall.” She pauses. Is that the end? “Thank you.” Yes, that’s the end. There’s a scatter of confused applause.

She meets my eye as I rise to take her place, triumph on her face. It’s possible that Zara is a species unto herself.

My heart bangs in my chest as I center myself in front of the scroll and look up. Will’s steady eye. Pole Dancer’s sneer. Deep breath. It’s pin-drop quiet. They’re probably waiting to see if I’m going to do an interpretive dance or something.

“Hi, everyone. I just want to say what a great experience it has been to be a part of this. I’d like to thank Mr. Drummond, Ms. Furbank and my other group members. A thank-you also to the Art Club for its work. Enjoy!” As I hand the mic back to Mr. Talmage, applause booms from every direction. It wasn’t a great speech, but it was my first, and I didn’t blow it.

The circle around us starts to dissolve as people make their way to the table for pens and then approach the scroll. Nimra and Amanda come over to hug Zara and me. I’m floating, giddy. I look up to see Will’s face twisting through the crowd toward me. I start in his direction, ready to make some crack about forgetting the cowboy boots.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Celeste. I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

FIFTEEN

Celeste tugs on the sides of her jeans and looks past my head. “Can we talk for a second?” she says. She must think I’m a total idiot. I’d rather not volunteer for an ambush today, thanks. Reading my face, she adds, “Just you and me.”

She follows my eyes to the center of the cafeteria, where I see Ainsley sitting with her crowd. Pole Dancer is leaning against the table behind her. They don’t seem to notice us.

“We’ll just stand right outside the door.” She points to the main cafeteria doors.

“Okay.” I follow her as she moves through the bodies. I have no idea what this is about. Out of the corner of my eye, I already see splashes of color across the scroll and the quiver of scribbling feathers.

Once we’re outside the cafeteria, she pulls me away from the door and off to the side. We stand there, looking at each other. A thousand cutting comments rush to the tip of my tongue, but I’m too curious to say anything at all.

“I asked to talk to you”—she takes a deep breath and sighs—“to say sorry about…what’s happened between…you and my friends.” It’s like the words have to climb out of her mouth by themselves. She doesn’t talk that way in English class—she must really be bad at apologies.

“That’s okay. Water under the bridge, right?”
That’s it?
It seems like a good time for a clean start. I’m tired of worrying about those three. I turn to head back inside and she grabs my arm, pulling me back.

“Um, what I mean is”—she looks up at the ceiling—“we treated you badly. How…how do you feel about that?”

This is getting weird now. I look around for a spy camera from the Dr. Phil show. “Well, to be honest,” I say, “I didn’t think you were a big part of it.” Relief on her face for an instant. “And I did punch your friend in the face.” She chews on her lip and nods, her hoop earrings swaying.

“Yeah, I guess you did,” she says, and we both break into a tight laugh. “You know, sometimes these things just snowball…” She goes on and on. My mind drifts back through the doors, where my friends are waiting and people are writing on a scroll I helped create. I don’t want to miss it all. “…and people react irrationally. After all, Ainsley did say you apologized, right?”

While she talks, her eyes glance toward the cafeteria door, then back to my face. I’m starting to feel edgy, like someone might burst through those doors any second and drag me away. “…especially that one time at your locker.
That wasn’t necessary. Three against one isn’t even a fair fight…” Now I’m just getting bored.

I’m finally about to interrupt her when she stops herself mid-sentence and says, “I’m glad we talked. See you in English.”

Hands down, the strangest conversation of my life. “Okay” is all I manage. She’s at my shoulder as I reach the cafeteria door. I swing it open and hold it for her.

She opens her mouth to say something, then shakes her head. “Isabelle, I’m sorry.” Afro bouncing, she turns and jogs down the hall. Disappears. And I thought she was the normal one.

Back inside the cafeteria, some of the crowd has dispersed, found tables and settled down. A clump still lingers around the scroll, packed close to it. I scan the room, looking for a familiar face. Off in the far corner, Will is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his back to me. Nimra, Amanda and Zara are there too, laughing. Amanda waves to me. I wave back and start to make my way over, between tables and over feet. Will turns, meets my eye.

At that moment I hear my name from the other direction, by the scroll. More like a hiss or a whisper, so I’m not even sure I heard it. No, there it is again. I stop, turn. Heads turn in my direction, some bent low, eyes flickering. Others smirk, waving more friends over. I freeze. A steady trickle joins the group at the scroll. Some laughing. Others talking in an urgent stage whisper—the angry buzz of hornets.

I look back to where my friends stand, waiting. They read my expression and stop smiling, chins up like they smell something. Back at the scroll, the group grows and churns.

“Isabelle, I have a dollar!” some guy shouts. Whatever that means.

I turn and go back between tables, back over feet. One step at a time toward the scroll. A crowd blocks my way, some stepping aside as I get closer. Others step in front of me.

“No, you don’t want to,” one dark-haired girl tells me, blocking my path. “Come back later.” I move around her, closer to the scroll. There’s the blond guy from Social Studies, a grin splitting his stupid face. He steps aside, bowing, and points the way. I should turn back now. If he wants me to see it, I won’t like it. But I can’t stop now. I jostle shoulders, elbows out, to clear the rest of the way.

Will’s red poem is in front of me, with scrawls to the left and right. Does this have something to do with Will? Did Damien say something?

I glance up, breath caught in my throat. There, beside my Shakespeare,
Isabelle
leaps out at me, written bigger and bolder than the words around it. A photograph is taped beside it. Once I see my name, my mind gathers all the words and forms them into sentences. In thick, black marker, for all the world to see:

My name’s Isabelle,
I’ll make your life hell.
My mom is a drunk,
I live in a dump.
I’ll have a go
For a dollar or so,
If you can put up with the smell.

Beside it is the picture Ainsley took of Clara and me in the library. Someone has used a ballpoint pen to draw Clara as a pimp—goofy hat, cigar, bills in her hand. Me, bare boobs hanging over the table and stink lines coming up from beneath it. Speech bubble above my head:
I do it for free
.

Ice falls over me. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t even shift my eyes from the horror in front of me.
My Mom is a drunk, I live in a dump
. My agony for all these people to see, laugh at. I close my eyes, wishing for my heart to stop.

The crowd rolls behind me now. Voices feeding off voices and multiplying. Arms out—some pat, pull, hold. I shake them from me. Friend, enemy—I don’t know the difference. That incessant buzzing in my ear. I hear myself yelling and push, wild to get away. The doors in my sight. I run.

In the hall, I scramble over books and outstretched legs. Trip over someone’s bag, hear the cry behind me as I’m on my feet and off again. There’s only one place, one safe place. My feet pound down the hall. Throat dry. Voices die behind me as I get closer—farther from everywhere else.

The door’s unlocked. Through the dark and another door. I curl up in the corner, in the musty body-odor smell. Safe. I sob, head pressed to my knees, a searing pain in my chest. That didn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. I hold myself together
by the strength of my own arms, my body in a tight ball to keep myself from falling to pieces, blowing away.

The door clicks as it opens and closes. From darkness to darkness. I hold my breath. Feet shuffle toward the center of the room, total blackness. Hands tug me upward. I know these hands, these feet I stumble over. I press my face into his T-shirt. Close my eyes and breathe in fabric softener. Cheek against his flat chest, I cry until my throat aches—hands holding me up. My arms, first limp at my sides, wrap around him now. His breath in and out under my fingers.

When I’ve cried myself out, he pulls me back to sit on the floor along the wall. I lean against his chest, my head under his chin. His long arm around me. I never want to move from here.