Rodent (16 page)

“No.” He pins her in place with a stare and hands me an envelope. “This is a letter from Seamus Holmes, who also played a part in this. Seamus is on the volleyball team. He’ll have to sit out the next three games.” I’d bet a million bucks that Seamus is that stupid blond from Social Studies. Hope he gets jock itch. I’ll save his load of crap for later, when my stomach is better. Maybe never read it at all.

“I’ll have you know”—Mr. Talmage looks at all of us now—“I take this very seriously, both the fighting and the bullying.”
Celeste starts to cry into her hands. She probably has her university application already filled out. Mom and Dad certainly won’t approve. “I encourage you to wipe the slate clean now and leave this nonsense behind you, or you won’t remain at this school. Don’t test me on that.” He rubs his stubbly chin. Does the man ever shave?

We all nod back at him, except Celeste, who wipes her face on her sleeve. When he sends us back to class, Celeste bolts from her seat, the first through the door. Ainsley and Pole Dancer give each other looks like,
That was stupid
. I watch them disappear in the hallway before I move. Don’t want some cozy scene with the three of us.

English has already started, and I don’t have the heart to walk in late. All those eyes on me. I doubt Celeste went either. I go to the library instead. Ms. Hillary gives me a nod, a little softer than usual. I’m sure she knows. I have a feeling she’s about to become my new best friend again.

I don’t budge when the lunch bell rings. I wonder if it’s possible to spend my entire high-school career in here. I have to go to the bathroom, but I’ll wait until the dancing stage. I sign out another stack of books instead, to distract me.

The chair next to me slides back. Will.

“Mr. Drummond said you might be back today,” he says. He fills me in on what happened. After the fiasco, Mr. Talmage asked students to come forward with information about the “incident” at Words on the Wall. People talked. “Janine and Seamus did the writing,” Will says.

“Janine?” I ask.

“The tall one.”

Right. Pole Dancer. I guess she has a name after all.

“But it didn’t take long for her to rat out Ainsley. Celeste turned herself in. There’s already a patch covering it on the scroll.”

I don’t think I want to see it.

Ms. Hillary’s mouth starts to twitch, so I say, “Pull out a book.”

After a minute, Will’s hand slides over, entwining my fingers with his. Sparks fly up my arm. I move our hands under the table, motioning to Ms. Hillary at her desk. She doesn’t tolerate any “hanky-panky.”

We stay like that the whole lunch hour, as I read the same page over and over. He runs his thumb along my fingers, our hands resting on my knee. When the bell goes and he lets go, my palm feels cold.

When I walk into Biology, something’s different. Eyes follow me. A head turns and whispers to the one behind. Too still. Too silent. It’s a relief when Miss Dennhart gets started, pumped to show us a YouTube video of an experiment gone wrong.

“Isabelle!” Damien runs to me in Spanish, crushing me with a hug.

Daniela won’t turn to face the front, won’t leave me alone. “No one likes those girls,” she tells me in a whisper the entire class hears. “I’m glad you came back.” My face heats up.

She turns around every few minutes to give me bright, bucktoothed smiles.

No one’s mean, but by the end of the day I feel like hiding in the prop room again. The eyes. The comments. The whispers. I know what I told Mom, but I don’t want to live every day under a microscope. I’m starting to feel nostalgic for my old school, where I went for three months talking only to my lab partner and the librarian.

As I walk down the hall toward our apartment door, Maisie and Evan holding my hands, I start thinking of what I’ll tell Mom. I can tell her everything that happened at the meeting except the part about her. She might want to read Seamus’s letter or hear what Daniela said. As I swing the door open, I almost expect her to be standing there.

“Mom?” I call out. No sign of her.

Not in the kitchen. I hear a noise in the bathroom.

“Mom?” I tap on the door and listen.

“Come in!” She’s in the bath, letting it all hang out.

I look at the toilet. “We’re home now.”

“Isabelle, will you get me another?” She waves the empty in my direction.

“No, Mom. I’m leaving for work now. You need to come out.” I pull the plug and hand her a towel. Get her bathrobe. She leans against my shoulder on the way out to the living room.

“Maisie, you’re just like a bunny rabbit in that pink shirt. Do you have a hug for Mom?”

She’s gone, the mom I saw this morning. I close my eyes and take a picture of that memory. Tuck it away with Will’s poem.

* * *

In English, Celeste doesn’t look at me at all. She stares at her desk or talks to the girl in front of her until the bell rings. Never once turns toward the back half of the class. Fine by me. She started this whole mess by eavesdropping, but I believe she never wanted to do the poem thing. I guess if you actually have friends and some kind of status, you might fight to hold on to that. I’ll never like her, but I’ve put away my plans to make a voodoo doll in her image.

Mr. Drummond catches me on the way out of class. “Isabelle,” he says, “I trust yours was the Shakespeare. Good choice.”

Right. My poem. “Yes, that was mine.”

He cocks his head, sad smile. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

I nod, looking down. Silently apologize for blaming him.

“Not only was it inappropriate,” he says, “but it was a terrible poem. Really, really bad literature.” I smile. “Don’t let it get you down. There will always be some idiot.”

As I walk out the door, he calls after me, “
From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
”

The rest of the week is more of the same. Looking over my shoulder as I walk, pretending I don’t notice eyes on me. Random strangers telling me how wrong that was. Others hiding their mouths as they lean toward friends. I move around the school like a mouse, ducking into holes and shadows.

Still, there’s Will, his feet against mine under our desks in English. His hand in mine in the library. I look for his face as soon as I pull open those school doors, and there he is.

On Friday he asks, “Can I see you outside of here? I have to go to my dad’s on the weekends, but what about during the week?”

What, fugitive love in the library isn’t enough?
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s hard with me looking after my brother and sister.”

“What about after school?”

“I pick up Maisie from school and Evan from day care.”

“In the evening?”

“I’m with them when my mom goes to work.”

“Does she get a night off?”

I’ll give it to the boy—he is persistent.

“Sometimes, though she’s not always in any shape to look after them.” That’s all I say about Mom. It’s already too much. She’s been pretty good lately, but it’s hard to count on.

“You could bring them along,” he suggests, and we start laughing. Ms. Hillary darts out from behind a shelf. Actually, there are worse things I can imagine than spending an evening with Will, Maisie and Evan.

“It’s just hard,” he says, looking down at the table. He’s not used to darting for cover, hiding in a hole. For me, sneaky hand-holding in the library is living the good life. Again, fitting Will into my world seems impossible. Why do I tease myself? My usual high with him deflates, and I can’t shake the feeling.

I run into Ainsley and Pole Dancer that same afternoon, moving from Biology to Spanish. They’re never in that hallway, but
boom
. Face to face.

“Look, Janine,” Ainsley says in a singsong voice, “
it’s
still here.”

Pole Dancer throws back her head and cackles, which probably cracks her three inches of foundation.

I pretend I haven’t heard and step around them.

Ainsley calls after me, “Sorry for embarrassing you in front of the whole school with your little family secrets!”

“Sorry your mom is a drunk and dropped you on your head,” Pole Dancer joins in.

“Or on your face!” Ainsley says, and they both snicker.

I will not give them the satisfaction of even missing a step.

* * *

It must be the day for awkward conversations, because Mom calls me into the bedroom as soon as I get home.

Bright face. Getting fixed up for work. She has me sit on the bed, which always makes me nervous. Is this about the boyfriends again? Is she going to give me “the sex talk”?

“Isabelle,” she says, “I’m seeing someone new.”

SEVENTEEN

“What?” is all I manage. Didn’t see this coming.

“His name is Oliver.” She says
Oliver
like it’s something delicious. “I met him at work.”

This is not good. Should I skip all the drama and just call Child and Family Services now?

“I know what you’re thinking, but he’s very different from”—she clears her throat—“Claude.”

I stare in silence.

“You’ll like him!” she says, cheery bright. Translation:
I want you to like him
. I hate it when people talk that way.

“I highly doubt that, Mother. Who is he?”

“Well, he has a job helping customers over the phone, and he takes care of his parents, who are getting older.” Translation:
He works in a call center and lives with his parents
. Still, I’ll take that over an alcoholic sociopath. “He comes to see me every night at the bar. Very sweet.”

If all of this is true, the poor fool has no idea what he’s getting himself into. “What about us?” I say. “Does he know you have kids?”

“Yes. He loves kids but hasn’t had a chance to have any of his own—hasn’t met the right girl yet.” She gets a dreamy look when she says this and rummages for a pair of earrings. Of course he loves kids. And probably volunteers in soup kitchens and rescues orphaned puppies in his spare time.

“The best part is”—
wait, there’s more?
—“he wants to stop by on Thanksgiving to meet you kids.”
That’s the best part?

“I thought we couldn’t afford a turkey this year.” That’s all I’ve got.

“Oh, it’ll just be a little lunch. He’s bringing some salads and cold cuts. I’m sure we could manage a pumpkin pie, right?” We purposely didn’t make plans for Thanksgiving this year. Mom said it was because of money, and she’s not wrong. I think it’s more about Maisie’s birthday fiasco, and letting things settle. We haven’t heard from Uncle Richie since then.

I feel like saying,
Fine, then I’m bringing my boyfriend too
. Will would probably be thrilled to see me outside the library. But is he even my boyfriend? It would be a lot of weirdness all at once. I don’t say anything.

* * *

On Monday the boyfriend stops by.
Oliver
. Exactly how I pictured him. A few years older than mom, a little doughy.
Hair thinning across the top. Wearing a striped button-up shirt. Wide smile, crooked teeth.

“You must be Isabelle,” he says, shaking my hand.

He walks in and starts unloading a bag on the kitchen table. Mom walks by, and he catches her in his arms. “Hello, gorgeous.” Gives her a kiss on the neck. I shudder.

“I brought corned beef. You like that, Isabelle? Potato salad, pasta salad. I bet those little ones like pasta salad,” he goes on. I’m not sure what about
those little ones
gave him the impression they like pasta salad.

Maisie and Evan stand two feet away, completely silent, watching like it’s a puppet show in the mall. I don’t think Evan really remembers Claude, his dad. I know Maisie does, although she doesn’t say much. Sometimes she asks me where he went, always afraid of him. Still, she’s never seen another man touch her mother like this.

When he’s done unpacking, Mom bustles off to get some plates. Oliver joins me on the sofa. “Your mom’s so beautiful,” he says, like he’s paying me a compliment. I’m not sure why men tell me that. “The first time I saw her, I thought I was looking at an angel. Isn’t that right, Marnie?”

“Oh, go on.” She giggles. I definitely made a mistake not inviting Will. Or Jacquie. Someone I could escape with. Now I’m here, stuck in this middle-aged-love scene. At least we didn’t cook a turkey. Those meals take hours.

As it turns out, Mom and Oliver possess the rare gift of stretching out sandwiches and potato salad to last for hours.

“Tell Isabelle about the time you tried to rent the car in Mexico,” Mom says, patting his leg.

“So I was in Mexico—Puerta Vallarta, to be exact—and wanted to rent a car. Something nice, you know? And I wanted air-conditioning. You definitely need air-conditioning…” Here we go, another delightful tale from Oliver. Maisie and Evan have wandered off to their room very quietly. “…and he comes out with this Chevette. A Chevette! Have you ever driven one of those? Now I don’t mean the ones built around 1979, 1980—those weren’t too bad. Do you have a driver’s license, Isabelle?” He rambles on without waiting for an answer.

Somebody kill me now. This is absolute torture
. Then I remember Claude, squeezing Mom’s wrist in his hand, and Oliver doesn’t look so bad. Plus, she’s only had one drink this whole afternoon—too busy hanging off his every word.

Oliver’s visit is one fascinating story after another: the time he wrestled a policeman, got the chicken pox, threw up at his best friend’s wedding, performed
CPR
on accident victims. I’m wondering if she gets any work done at all when he comes to see her.

He finally looks at his watch and jumps. “All this chatting has made me late,” he says, like we were the ones keeping him here. “Mom needs her heart pills.”

He gets out of his chair and stands close to me. I’m scared he’s going to hug me, but he pats my shoulder instead. “You really are the special girl your mom talks about.” He hollers down the hall, “Bye, kids!”

Mom walks him to the door, and I hear some loud smacking noises. I pretend to be somewhere else. Can’t wait to tell Jacquie about this visit. I think it might be lost on Will—he’s too nice.

Mom comes back all breathless. “You see what I mean?” she says. “Now there’s a real gentleman.”