When You Believe (6 page)

Tanner.

Tasker.

Tattersall.

Ah, there she was.
Tatum, S.
Lydia seized the paper from its place and squired the St. Clair County School District Emergency Information Form back to
her quiet cubicle, reading the entire time.

Social security number, birth date, insurance policy. Mother or guardian’s name
: Tamara Tatum Olin, who resides at 913 Sweetwater Court, Shadrach.
Physician:
Dr. Stanley Lerch, with his clinic in Osceola.
In case of emergency contact:
Mr. Milburn Woodruff, same address, different number.
Relationship to student:
grandfather.
Yes, the box was checked, my child may have Tylenol and topical first-aid preparation. No, my child does not have any known
allergies. Yes, my child may participate in field trips.

There were no notes saying:
Yes, this child can exaggerate. Yes, this girl often tells stories for attention. Yes, she sometimes fibs and causes problems.

Lydia dragged her telephone across her desk, punched a button for an open line and dialed the establishment listed as mother’s
workplace.

“Shadrach Land Title,” a girl answered like she was singing a Branson country song. “You can’t
lien
on us.”

“Tamara Olin, please.”

“Just a moment, please.”

What has happened at your house, Mrs. Olin? Why isn’t your daughter in my office today?

A quiet whirring came, and the line was connected. Someone else picked it up, asked, “You looking for Tammy?”

“Yes.”

“She isn’t in, I’m afraid. Some sort of family emergency or something.”

The adrenaline buzz began in Lydia’s ears again, heavy and unnavigable, stealing her senses.

“Perhaps someone else in the office can help you.”

“No… I mean, well, this is a personal call.”

“She may be at home. You might want to try her there.”

“I will.”

Lydia dialed a second string of digits and waited, her hand gripping the earpiece as if everything depended on it; if she
clasped the receiver hard enough against her head, Shelby might answer the phone.

I didn’t know the name you were going to give me was Charlie’s.

After all I coaxed you to say, you have to find someone else to do this for you. I can’t get tied up in this, do you understand?

The answering machine picked up and all the breath went out of her. She sat through a garbled message and a long series of
beeps before she finally admitted that no one would be answering at the house.

Where could they be, if Shelby was sick? If she was trying to change a lie? Or if she had broken down, trying to make them
hear her?

The fourth period bell rang. From outside the counseling office, conversation spilled in. “At senior night there were seven
of them, a couple of big girls that are coming up, two sophomores, and one little point guard. But I don’t—”

The conversation faded down the hall.

Oh, Father. How do I know what to believe?

On Lydia’s desk sat a half-empty jar of candy Kisses. She dug for one, took it out and twisted, twisted the wrapper until
the foil fell to pieces between her fingers.

Of course, I believe Charlie. I’m in love with Charlie.

With painful care, she set the tear-shaped chocolate on her desk. She stared at it until it began to swim before her eyes.

IN MAYHEM CENTRAL
, the copier was acting up. Patrice Saunders stood leafing through the Xerox instruction booklet while some unknown staff
member—unrecognizable from the body parts that protruded from the midsection of the machine—yanked wads of paper from its
path of rubber rollers. Some sophomore with a bloody rag under his nose stood dripping on the floor while the secretary, Marie
Jones, went in search of Mo. At Marie’s station, the telephone was ringing and three holding lines flashed off and on at the
same time.

Lydia returned the Tatum form to its place. As she did, she was the first to notice a woman standing at the counter, her fingers
in a prim, tight weave, leaning on her elbows.

When Lydia turned back to her files, the woman rang the bell for help. Lydia glanced over a shoulder toward Marie’s chair,
a little disgruntled because no one else would step up. “Hello,” the woman said to Lydia’s shoulder blades, her voice as thin
as a ribbon. “I just need to pick up my daughter’s homework. I’m Tamara Olin.”

The metal drawer trundled all the way open of its own accord. Lydia got ahold of the handle and clanged it shut. “You’re Shelby
Tatum’s mother?”

In a warm, embarrassed voice the woman said, “I know I should have called earlier to excuse her.”

“We’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“Oh, you know.” The woman waved it away as if she was shooing a fly. “It’s been one of those crazy mornings.”

Just then, several cheerleaders came charging in. One of the most anticipated events for Shadrach homecoming was the annual
powder-puff football game. In a turn of roles each year, the eleventh- and twelfth-grade girls played against each other in
a gridiron match-up while the boys rooted them on from the sidelines. This year a group of senior boys had offered to dress
up as cheerleaders and do stunts. The kids had been whispering about it for weeks.

The girls were excited. “Is Kevin here yet? They said they were sending somebody from yearbook.”

“Why is somebody from yearbook coming?” Lydia asked.

“Didn’t you hear?” At last, Marie returned with Mo and a first-aid bag in tow. “L.R. caught wind that the boys have decided
to dress up in skirts. He’s making all of them come in today to have their outfits approved.”

“Right now?”

“He won’t let them dress that way unless the school board says yes.”

“Do you have homework for Shelby Tatum?” Lydia asked Marie.

“Right here.” The wire baskets were stacked as high as a St. Louis skyscraper. Marie pointed to the top tier. “If anybody
put stuff together for her, it would be there.”

Lydia thumbed through. Sure enough, she found a folder with Shelby’s name scribbled on it. She opened to the first page and
saw that Mrs. Brubaker had slipped a note and an assignment inside. Mr. Newkirk had added a reading list for French II. Lydia
closed it, handed it over.

But Mrs. Olin didn’t quite get a grip on the folder. Papers fell out and scattered everywhere. “Oh, so sorry.” Mrs. Olin shook
her head in frustration and began scraping everything across the counter toward her. “I’ll get this.”

Lydia remembered her grandma saying once, “There’s no reason having a double-duck fit, saying things you don’t want to say.
A conversation doesn’t please you, you just don’t have it.” She touched the strap of the woman’s wristwatch; there was a long,
poignant meeting of eyes.

“I’d like to discuss something with you.”

The woman’s eyes moved to the countertop again. “Oh, sorry I dropped all of this.” She finally had the papers organized, almost
in a stack. That’s when Lydia noticed the top corner of one page sticking out, a note with Shelby’s name on it, scribbled
in Charlie’s hasty, heavy hand.

“I just—” Lydia reached for it.

“Oh, no. No.” Tamara Olin picked Shelby’s assignments up and tamped them on the counter. “I’m the one who scattered these
all over the place.” Unceremoniously, she slid them back inside the folder for safekeeping and tucked the folder under one
arm.

“If I could just—” Lydia’s fingers stopped in mid-air. The familiar shape and form of Charlie’s script, the slanted, slender
forcefulness of the
S
, the
h
a pointed tent as distinct and identifiable as a thumbprint.

Oh my word, Charlie. What are you doing?

Just then the door flung open; the hooting and catcalls rang out. In traipsed an entire roster of senior boys, raucous and
free in their status—
It’s almost over, we’ve almost survived Shadrach and are escaping soon to taste the rest of the world—
ready to display their outrageous attire to L. R. Nibarger, the principal.

Nibarger had put the word out that in no uncertain terms were the actions of the students to detract from, as he put it, “the
diligent pride and upstanding character of those who have attended this institution before us, and the strong sensibilities
of the community of Shadrach that has given us so much support over the decades.” These boys looked to be doing everything
they could to push the envelope. Will Devine entered carrying his aunt’s Hawaiian muumuu. Ian McNeil had his outfit—an embroidered
peasant blouse that, Patrice Saunders had told them, came from Natalie Stokes’s rummage sale—on a hanger in a plastic bag
from Run O’ The Mill Dry Cleaners.

Yearbook photographer Kevin Champa crouched low with a Pentax screwed to his eye. A burst of light from the camera’s flash,
and Lydia knew she couldn’t let Tamara go without mentioning something about Shelby. One carefully worded phrase.
Something.

“I talked to Shelby just yesterday.”

You did?
she expected Tamara would say. Or,
Oh yes, she told me.

But, “I’ve
wanted
her to talk to you,” the woman said, smiling, and Lydia’s throat closed with disbelief. “I’ve been
encouraging
her.”

“You have?”

“Of course I have. She’s going to have so many opportunities when the time comes. If Missouri and Ol’ Miss both offer her
the scholarships we’re expecting, I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

“I wasn’t—”

“If it wasn’t against the rules, she would already have been hearing from coaches by now. She’s going to have a very difficult—”

“Okay, Leavitt.” Nibarger made a small notation on an index card he’d pulled from his rear pocket. “The skirt is fine.”

“This conversation wasn’t about college. It was a little more serious than that.” Lydia moved a vase of wilted mums an inch
to the left; it had been sitting there in the same spot for at least two weeks. “Perhaps we should sit down somewhere. Maybe
we could visit about this.”

“Visit about what? Did she say she has some kind of problem? Shelby doesn’t have any problems.” The words suddenly high-pitched
and tumbling. “And besides, you know how it is. You can’t always believe everything a teenager says. You know how teenage
girls are sometimes.” A careful shrug. “You know you can’t take adolescent drama—”

“No.” Nibarger gestured wildly toward Tommy Ballard as the entire counseling staff, excluding Lydia Porter, applauded. “No,
not that. You may not wear a coconut brassiere.” He pronounced it as if the very word was distasteful to him. Bra
-zeeeer.
He held out his hand. “In fact, why don’t I just confiscate that right now?”

Tommy handed it over with obvious pride, two halves of coconut shell bound at strategic junctures with twine.

Strange how humans are,
Lydia thought. When Mrs. Olin said not to take Shelby seriously, Lydia began to take her even more so.

“Do you talk to your daughter, Mrs. Olin?”

“Oh, we talk all the time. We’re very close, especially since I married Tom. She’s so happy now.” The woman was passionate
in her sincerity. “When I was married to Shelby’s father, our lives were insane. He spent money like it was growing on trees.
Do you know that his mother wanted to pick the names of our children?” Tamara ran on and on. “Since I met Tom, I don’t think
I could ever have another life. Gosh, Tom just loves Shelby. Like his own daughter, he says. He wouldn’t miss a soccer game
if his life depended on it.”

It was an old counseling joke and it popped right into Lydia’s head.
Denial,
counselors always laughed.
It ain’t just a river in Egypt.
This woman rattled on and on as if someone had dropped a quarter in her slot.

“Last Mother’s Day, she made me certificates. Good for one foot rub before you go to bed. Good for one manicure. Good for
one car wash. Now who would have known how she’d come up with something like that? She helps with vacation Bible school at
Big Tree, and those kids sit in her lap; they tumble all over her like puppies. Drives her crazy but don’t let her convince
you she doesn’t like it. Shelby’s a drama queen sometimes, but you couldn’t ask for better. I tell you, she’s one person I
know who’s got the world by the tail.”

Sam Leavitt joined them then, pulling his mother’s skirt around his pelvis, working it off past the basketball shorts that
he wore underneath.

“Hey, Miss P. Hey, Missus Olin, where’s Shelby? I ordered her this big red flower for homecoming and I’ve got to tell her
to find something to wear that’ll match it.”

Maybe the note Lydia had seen, with Shelby’s name scrawled in Charlie’s handwriting, had been only a class assignment. Maybe
it was only that. Lydia’s heart seemed to lift up out of itself with the indecision, as if it was weightless, pushing up against
her chest.

Could this woman’s house be on fire and she doesn’t see it?

Could it be the stepfather maybe?
Tom, she’d said. Gosh, Tom just loves Shelby. Like his own daughter, he says.

If she won’t listen to me, she isn’t listening to Shelby.

Nobody’s listening to Shelby. Not even me.

Lydia walked the hallway back to her office in a daze during fifth period, her peripheral vision spinning gray around her.
In a building she knew so well that she could have found her way blindfolded, she made a wrong turn up A-hall.

She backtracked, angry at herself for being so distracted. She found Carol Hawkes, the other guidance counselor, on the opposite
side of the college catalog bookshelves. “Carol? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

“I need help.”

“So, what else is new?” But Carol’s voice sobered when Lydia didn’t laugh. “Help with something professional? You’d better
tell me.”

So much going on in her heart, and Lydia knew she had to remain sophisticated about this. “A student came into my office late
yesterday and she…” This wasn’t the first time something had happened like this, even in Shadrach. She knew what to do.
She had to present the idea as formally and as professionally as if the perpetrator wasn’t someone she cared about.