Rodent (17 page)

When I don’t say anything, she turns to me. “You didn’t like him?”

“He’s all right,” I say. That’s the best I can do. Mom once said about Claude,
A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where can they make their home?
Personally, I think they were both fish splashing around in the same dirty puddle. Two budgies fighting over one mirror. Now, her and Oliver—there’s a bird and a fish. At least I have no illusions about my relationship actually functioning outside my head. “I just need to get used to you being with someone again,” I add.

“Okay.” She kisses the top of my head and goes to find Maisie and Evan.

* * *

On Tuesday I tell Will about my Thanksgiving. He gets a good laugh from my retelling of “Oliver Saves the Neighbor’s Dog,” in which Oliver claimed to have performed chest compressions on a golden retriever.

“I was at my mom’s house this year,” he says. “Nothing exciting. My aunt and uncle came over.” Will’s parents are divorced, but in a normal, shared-custody sort of way.
Not like my dad or Claude. Will lives with his mom and spends weekends with his dad. Has grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. A dog.

He points to a poster as we leave the library. It’s for the Halloween Howler—the first dance of the year.

“Are you going to that?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.” I don’t know my life more than five minutes in advance. Why does he even ask?

“Maybe we can go together,” he says.

“Maybe.”

“And wear matching costumes,” he says, “like Raggedy Ann and Andy.”

I look up at him. “Shut up. Frankenstein and the Corpse Bride, more like.”

We spend the next two days thinking up stupid couples costumes, somehow getting stuck on toiletries.
Shampoo and conditioner
, I scribble on a note to Will in English class.

“Dental floss and that gunk between your teeth,” he suggests at lunchtime.

“Ew. You get to be the gunk.”

“Leg hair and a razor,” I say outside after school. It’s sunny but crisp, trees half naked now. A few scrappy leaves still clinging on. Groups milling, cars honking for rides.

Will laughs and pulls me toward him, my chest against his. I stiffen, pushing back until we’re side by side again. I look toward the girls sitting on the grass in front of us. He stops.

“You’re embarrassed to be seen with me,” he says.

Now they look up. I take his arm and drag him over to the hedge by the school.

“What are you talking about? Of course I’m not.” The sweetness of the moment is gone. If anyone’s embarrassed, it should be him—hooking up with the drunk-spawned, dump-living whore.

“You don’t mind me touching you when we’re in the library or the prop room, where no one else can see,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “Not anywhere else.”

“It’s not what you think.”
Excellent cliché, Isabelle
. Next I’ll be telling him,
It’s not you—it’s me
.

“You’re embarrassed.” A crease in his forehead. That crumpled look on his face. I did that. Sick sinking in my gut.

“It’s just—” How can I possibly explain it, that I can never bring him home to Crazyland? That I’ll have to pack up and leave any day now? Here, then gone. That life with me is not knowing what’s going to happen from one day to the next, one moment to the next. It’s changing wet beds and trying to feed mouths and running. How can Will—who explained to me the properties of cadmium—possibly fit into that world?

He waits for me to finish, his face a cloud.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” I say. Which says nothing. Which are stupid words that hold the lid on a big fat mess. I open my mouth to say more, to explain, but nothing comes.

He nods, staring at his feet now. His boat-size runners with the red stripes. Hands in the pockets of his slouchy jeans. “Okay, I get it.” He turns and walks away, stooped.

I’ve lost him in two break-up clichés. There is a special hell reserved for people like me.

Don’t move, Isabelle. Don’t chase after that blue T-shirt weaving through the crowd
. Because I’ve always known. I let it go too far, as if being with him in dark places didn’t count. But here, in the light of the sun, in the eyes of everyone—then we’d be official. Then we’d be something. And to lose that something, that would hurt. Even more than this hurts now.

I hold my breath to push down the rising knot. Turn and walk down the path, across the street, through the doors. Walk on.

Maisie looks at my face. “Did that girl hurt you again?”

“No, let’s go.”

I turn away from her on the bus, my forehead against the tinted window.

* * *

Days lose their color, like oatmeal left on the counter overnight. Bland. Crusty. One congealed mass. School is a crowd of muffled voices at the end of a tunnel. Every eye on me pricks my skin.

In English class, Will always glances up as I sit down, says, “Hey.” I’ll give him that. Then he goes back to his book. It’s the best and worst part of the day. When I swing my backpack to the floor, the second before I slide into my seat, I see the arch of hair that ends below his eye. Long fingers along
the spine of the book. But I’m in my compartment, and he’s in his. No gangly feet under my desk.

Why did I say anything? I had to. Then I’m angry at Will for pushing me, making that happen when things were fine the way they were. Stupid. Like I could ask him to go on forever in an ambiguous blob of a relationship. I should say something to him, but what? It all sounds like excuses.
It’s not you, it’s me
.

Mr. Drummond gives up on calling on either one of us—an exercise in painful silence.
Hamlet
finished, he reads Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” aloud, moving between pensive whispers and a booming voice when the wife realizes her husband’s death means her freedom.

He pauses to scan our faces. “
What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! ‘Free! Body and soul free!’ she kept whispering
.”

I think of Maisie and Evan—even Mom. What could love count for in the face of freedom? Apparently a lot. Or I wouldn’t still be here, in this hellhole, playing mommy around the clock. Spending my paychecks on bread and coins for the laundry. Take that, Kate Chopin.

* * *

It’s even worse since Mom started seeing Oliver. Better and worse. She’s sober a lot more and actually goes to work. Giddy, tickling us, swatting bums. Making plans.

“Maybe we could get one of those dividers for the bedroom, Isabelle,” she says, “so you have a little more privacy. I’m going to start putting aside some tip money.” I hope that doesn’t mean Oliver will be staying overnight. Instantly I banish the image. Not fast enough.

He takes her out on her nights off, which pisses me off. She might be more sober now, but she’s never actually around anymore.

“Good thing I like you, kid,” I tell Maisie, who smiles, touching her now-loose bottom tooth.

“What would happen if you didn’t like Maisie?” Evan says, who asks a lot of “why” and “what if” questions lately.

“Then I’d leave her in the lobby for the guy in the bathrobe to look after.” They both squeal, Evan clambering onto my lap.

Oliver usually wants to come up and say hello before they go out. I try not to roll my eyes. Sometimes I succeed. Mom catches me tonight and says, “Why that face? Oliver likes you.” When that doesn’t impress much, she adds, “Would you rather I was still with Claude?” I’ve got nothing to say to that.

“Isabelle, Isabelle!” Oliver bursts in like there’s a matter of national security. “I was by the motor vehicles branch today and picked up this booklet for your learner’s test.”

Because we have a car?

“Oh, thanks,” I say. Mom beams.

“Everything you need to know is in here.” He flips through the pages. “Signs…right of way…” He’s going to read me the whole pamphlet. “…pedestrians…”

“Great. I’ll have a look.” I try to take it from his hand.

“School zones…speed limits…”

I’m starting to wonder if life was better when Mom was passed out silently in another room.

“And a whole little index at the back. Hi, kids!” He takes a break to wave at Maisie and Evan, sitting on the sofa, staring. He turns back to the pamphlet.

“You guys better get going,” I say. “You don’t want to be late.” For what, I have no idea. Mom shoots me a look when Oliver turns his back.

I call Jacquie when they leave. “He’s killing me,” I say. “They’re killing me.”

“At least he can’t stay overnight there,” she says. “You should’ve seen what crawled out of Dad’s room last weekend. The type who’ll steal your deodorant. Seriously.”

She has a point.

“How’s our apartment looking now?” she asks.

“Don’t tempt me. I’m weak. Oliver just read me an entire booklet about driving.”

We make plans for her to come over on Friday night and keep me company when Mom goes out with him again.

I start taking out my notebook at night. I don’t even have to hide it from Mom; she’s gone all the time. It’s mostly poetry lately:
No butterfly sleeps inside this cocoon, only binding layers that suffocate
. I write until my eyes feel heavy enough to sleep.

* * *

Cold dread fills my stomach at the sound of the alarm. I linger with Maisie at her school and walk her to her classroom. Say hello to Mrs. Williams. Slip into English just before the bell. Will doesn’t have a chance to say hello before Mr. Drummond starts. Did he even try? The worst will be that day when there’s nothing—that little “hey” is barely keeping me from falling somewhere dark.

It’s getting harder to put one foot in front of the other, to keep my chin up. I give up on chin up and settle for one foot in front of the other. With those little bursts gone—those pockets of warmth with Will—the hallways seem long, voices echoing. Rooms too big. My library, my refuge, feels like an empty house the day after a party. Only pizza crusts left, broken streamers, tipped bottles. I start going to the computer lab instead.

One day I see Nimra in the cafeteria, her back to me. She’s sitting in a small circle of friends. What would they say if I sat there too? If Amanda, Damien or even Zara was with her, I’d go. I don’t recognize any of the other faces. Can’t bear that awkward pause, eyes darting, too polite to send me away.

“Whatever happened with you and that Will guy?” Damien asks in Spanish.

I pretend not to hear him—two feet away from me—and keep writing.
How much does the fruit cost? Cuesta veinte dólares
.

The next day, darting between classes, I see them. Will and Amanda. Two figures disappearing down the hall,
his thin line next to her sturdy frame. He leans in to hear something she says and laughs. The good laugh. My chest shrivels. Mouth is sucked dry.

What right do I have to feel this way? I sent him away. They make a good couple, actually. Both a little weird and reclusive. And he could probably even hold her hand in the light of day. Go on a date. Visit her family without risking his life. If I really care about Will, I’ll want him to be happy, right?

I spend all of Biology in a bathroom stall.

Walking to Spanish, a coin brushes my leg and hits a locker.

“Hey, Isabelle. I got a dollar,” someone calls behind me. Chorus of laughter.

I’ll have a go for a dollar or so.

“I don’t mind the smell!” he shouts to my back.

Walk on
. I’m already far away.

* * *

I have to pick the right time to tell Mom about John E. Hartwell High School, only ten minutes from Maisie’s school. If I drop Maisie off and get the right bus connection, I might slip in on time. Maybe two minutes late. Still. Coming back should be the same. Maisie could wait in the office for a couple of minutes if she had to.

I’ll tell Mom before she goes out with Oliver. She’ll be excited, a bit distracted. No, dismissive maybe. After?
Maybe on Sunday afternoon, if I can keep that idiot away for more than an hour. I’ll make her understand somehow. It isn’t only about Ainsley and Pole Dancer, and strangers throwing coins at me. Maybe I should tell her about Will. Even worse—running from a boy. I don’t know exactly what’s dragging me down, just that my feet feel heavier every day. And someday soon they’ll stop.

On Friday I walk into English, head down. As always, I find my desk, drop my bag, look for him.

But something’s different. Before I even drop my bag, I hear his voice already talking. I snap my head up without thinking.

Turned in his desk, elbow resting on the top, legs taking up the aisle. He chats with Amanda, smiling. Like how he smiled when he teased me.
Raggedy Ann and Andy
.

In that split second between dropping my bag and sliding into my seat, nothing. Not a glance. Not a nod.

This is the day.

EIGHTEEN

“Have you seen my green dress?” Mom says. “The one with the little flowers?”

I trail after her, clipping her heels. “No, Mom.”

“How many places could it be?” She digs through a drawer, tossing clothes over the side.

“Mom, do you remember me saying I wasn’t happy at this school?”

“Oh, it has a stain,” she says, pulling it from a basket of dirty clothes. “That ruins everything. What was that, Isabelle?” She drops the dress back in the basket and starts to rifle through hangers in the closet. “Too bad you’re such a Skinny Minnie. I could borrow your stuff.” Her voice sounds muffled through the clothes. All of my clothes are hand-me-downs from Jacquie, fairly decent.

She emerges with a black velvet skirt that strains as she zips it up. “Well, it’ll do.” Goes to find a blouse. I give up and look for Maisie and Evan.

They’re in their bedroom, making a road on the floor out of Popsicle sticks and Hot Wheels. Barely look up as I walk in.

I wander out to the living room, toss some crayons back into their container. Check the sink for dirty dishes—none. Pick up and put down a newspaper Mom brought from the bus stop.
Jacquie, when are you coming?

After a few minutes, Mom comes out, all ready. Makeup, little hoop earrings. She has found a purple sweater—which gives her great cleavage—to go with her skirt.