What Mr. Mattero Did

Table of Contents

 

 

ALSO BY PRISCILLA CUMMINGS

DUTTON CHILDREN'S BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by the Penguin Group

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Priscilla Cummings Frece

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any informa
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eISBN : 978-1-101-15704-6

[1. Music teachers—Fiction. 2. Teachers—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Honesty—Fiction.
5. Sex crimes—Fiction. 6. Family life—Fiction.] I. Title: What Mister Mattero did. II. Title.
PZ7.C9149Wh 2005
[Fic]—dc22 2004028225

 

 

Published in the United States by Dutton Children's Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders

 

“This above all: to thine own self be true . . .”
—
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

1

Claire

THIS WAS THE PLAN:
second period, when we had earth science together, we would meet by the girls' bathroom and go straight to the office instead of class. We would say we needed to see the principal, Mrs. Fernandez, right away. And if the secretary said the principal was “busy” or “in a meeting,” we would tell her it was an emergency. We would go together, the three of us—Jenna, Suzanne, and me. And if we got scared, like if one of us started to panic, we would reach out and hold hands, but we would not
break
down or
back
down.

Jenna would do the talking. There was never even a discussion about that. Only Jenna could lay out the facts without getting embarrassed the way Suzanne or I might. It's true. Jenna is, like, totally fearless. The third set of holes in her ears? She did them herself with a safety pin and an ice cube in her bathroom during winter break. Suzanne and I couldn't even watch, we were so freaked out. We jumped in the shower and pulled the door shut and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” really, really loud.

But even Jenna needed to practice once—not piercing her ears but, you know, to be sure she could say certain things out loud. So we huddled that morning before school by the water fountain. I practically chewed off the thumbnail on my left hand, the only decent fingernail I had left, while Jenna, in a low voice, rehearsed what she would say. When she finished, when she pressed her lips together and looked at us with raised eyebrows, we nodded enthusiastically. We gave her a thumbs-up. We had a hundred percent confidence that Jenna could do it. That she could tell the principal what Mr. Mattero did to us in the music room.

I'm telling you, for two days we agonized over it. Should we say something? Should we just drop hints? And for two days, we had argued only once—when Suzanne said she worried what the other kids would think. “I mean, what if they look at us like we're whatchamacallit—weird or something.”

I had frowned at her—I remember that—because I didn't know what she was getting at. Like, did she mean
victims
? Was she afraid kids would think we were victims? And so what if they did? What was wrong with that? Or did she mean something else, like did we do something to egg him on? I didn't know the word I was looking for then, but I know it now:
provoke.
Was she worried that kids would think we did something to
provoke
Mr. Mattero?

Jenna was just as confused as me. She had screwed up her face and leaned toward Suzanne. “What did you say?” She was already turned around on the bus seat in front of us and was sitting on her knees. She did that so we three could talk together, but it was incredibly noisy on the ride home after school. Sometimes, honestly, you have to get right in someone's face or practically shout to be heard.

“Weird! They'll think we're weird!” Suzanne repeated, very distinct and very loud, because you could tell she was a little bit angry, too.

Jenna laughed. She popped her gum. “Halfa them think we're weird anyway! So who cares?” Ouch. I think that hurt Suzanne. I know it hurt me. I mean, I never wanted kids to think I was weird or anything. Anyway, we're sort of getting off the subject here because what was far more important at the moment was that I, for one, did not think we should be
laughing
or
hollering
about any of this. “You guys! Shhhhhhh!” I warned, holding a finger to my lips.

Suzanne scooted forward and continued anyway, talking in that tiny little pleading voice of hers. Whiny, that's what Jenna calls it. Her whiny voice: “I was just thinking that maybe we shouldn't say anything.”

Jenna's intense eyes locked onto Suzanne's. “Look at me and tell me that you want to be in Mattero's music class the rest of the year.”

Suzanne looked down at her hands.

“Do you want to have to look at his ugly face every single day for the rest of the semester?” Jenna persisted.

Suzanne trembled, a little like my mother's cell phone on the vibrate mode. I mean, you could actually see her shake.

“Do you?” Jenna demanded.

Timidly, Suzanne shook her head in tiny back-and-forth motions.

“No. No! Of course you don't! Then we have to speak up, Suzanne. We don't have a choice. Claire and me, we'll go in there without you if we have to.” She glared at me. “Won't we, Claire?”

That's when I first started biting the rest of that good thumbnail off. And after all those weeks of leaving my nails alone! Reluctantly, I nodded, agreeing with Jenna.

Suzanne was sucking on her bottom lip, the way she does. I told her she ought to stop it. Not that
I
care—we go back a long ways, Suzanne and me, all the way back to kindergarten—so I'm not the one who's gonna give her grief. But she really ought to give up the lip thing 'cause the kids in this middle school are gonna call her a frickin' baby if she keeps it up.

“Hey,” I said, poking Suzanne's shoulder. When she looked up, I encouraged her with a teensy smile because I knew Jenna was watching.

“Okay
, okay.
” Suzanne gave up. She widened her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Good!” Jenna pronounced like that was that, and with a sniff, too, because she was on the brink of a cold. “We're best friends, remember?”

True. Now
that
was true. We were best friends. We had been best friends since the beginning of seventh grade—so, for what? Seven months? We were in almost all the same classes. We were online or on the phone with each other after school. And practically every Friday we had a sleepover, rotating to our different houses, but mostly to mine and Suzanne's because Jenna's mother was away so much.

There is no question that Jenna and Suzanne were the two best friends I ever had, although anybody who didn't know us might wonder what in the world we three had in common. I mean, Jenna's so blonde and has perfect skin and everything, while Suzanne and I are so—I don't know, ordinary. Okay, maybe that's cruel to say because once Suzanne gets her braces off—and when her skin clears up, she'll be incredibly cute. She looks good in clothes even if she thinks she's too fat. She is
not
fat! And her hair—wow—too much, too curly, too red, she says—but everyone else, including me, thinks it's really pretty.

For sure, I'm the one who's no raging beauty. Jenna says I just need to let my bangs and layers grow out. She says I'm really smart and that I have a classic Roman nose and awesome brown eyes and not everyone tans, just look at Suzanne, and wait till I'm older—I can use that dermabrasion stuff to get the freckles off. Oh yeah, and she says that lots of girls wish they were as skinny as me. She swears she's not kidding, but sometimes she just says stuff, you know?

Jenna was reaching out her hand to me on the bus while all that stuff went through my mind. “Claire, peachy, can I borrow your lip gloss? That sparkly one?”

“Oh yeah, sure.” I hauled up my backpack from the floor and unzipped the little pocket on the side where I kept the gum and Tic Tacs that warded off my constant hunger, a fistful of makeup, and change for the soda machine. When I found what she wanted, Snow Kiss, I placed it in her waiting palm.

“Thanks,” she said. She popped her gum again. “You're sweet.”

While Jenna dipped her pinkie in the lip-gloss pot, I brushed the wispy hair ends out of my eyes and glanced at Suzanne again. The way she sat, slouched back into the seat, it didn't look like she was convinced. And I have to admit, I was a little worried myself—but more about my mom than about what the other kids would say. I never said so to Jenna, though, because I didn't want her to think I was weak.

Later, after we got home that day, Suzanne and Jenna IM'd each other back and forth like crazy on their computers so that by the next morning Suzanne was gung ho in total agreement that we would tell the principal. I wasn't part of their online conversation because our family computer is in the kitchen, facing the island where my mother puts the salad and everything together. I didn't think I could take the chance of anyone looking over my shoulder.