The Moment Before

by Suzy Vitello

  Our school, which sits two miles east of the Portland boundary with high-tech Washington County, is known for those things every school wants to be known for: top test scores, winning sports teams and low dropout numbers. It’s also known as the school that had two suicides and an accidental death this year. Greenmeadow is ripe for one of those 60 Minutes exposés where they uncover all the student stress and drug use. If my parents go forward with a lawsuit, it’ll take more than a Thursday night art auction to refill the Tupperware containers with studio clay.

  Mom is preoccupied with the little rectangle of a phone in her hand. I can’t help it, but she’s driving me crazy, so I say, “Mom, will you just relax?”

  She stops in her tracks, yoga-breathes a sigh out her nose. Dad and me and her, our diminished family in a cluster on the walkway, people have to step around us as we stand still and gaze at the weeping cherry blossoms on a nearby tree. “This isn’t easy for us, Little Bird,” says Dad, still focused on the tender, graceful branches. “We know how important, how huge, really, this honor is. Our daughter, the artist.”

  “Thanks,” I manage, in robot-tone.

  The building in front of us, it’s like going to a wrecking yard and witnessing the scrap metal of a fatal car crash. They were there, in the bleachers. One second their oldest daughter was twirling on the tops of fingertips, and the next, down on the polished gym floor, her skin the only thing holding her head on. Ribbons of red ooze out her ear, her nose, her mouth.

  I was there, too. Hanging out with Desiree and Joni and Madison, all of us in a cluster at the far end of the bleachers—mad, because there’s this pressure to join in with rah-rah school spirit. We sat there, the group of us, sketching, journaling, doodling. Our pink and electric blue and emerald green hair. Our henna tattoos. Resentful, eye-rolling. Nobody knew what was about to happen. Especially me.

  When Sabine hit the floor instead of her partner’s basket-catching arms, I was sketching a pair of little girls sitting in the bleachers on the other side of the gym. They had these huge matching bows in their hair—sisters, probably. Aspiring cheerleaders. They were so cute, the girls. It wasn’t until their hands covered their mouths in one quick flash, and my ears took in the sound of two hundred fifty people in the gymnasium gasping together, that I realized something was wrong.

  Now, in the fading afternoon light, Mom reaches into her bag for her sunglasses. The tiniest of wrinkles around her top lip gather and deepen as she tightens her jaw. I’m not sure what they want me to say. Should I apologize further? Should I comfort them? Sabine died a couple days before spring break, and once school started up again, there I was, back in class. I’ve darkened the doors of this crypt every day for the past three weeks. My parents aren’t ready. I can still smell whiskey on my father’s breath. This was an enormous mistake, coming here. It’s too soon.

  When we reach the upper lot, there, as expected, is my grandparent’s Lincoln. Both front doors are ajar; the skinny, crippled limbs of my Nona and Nono emerging like the legs of a lunar vehicle. “Here we go,” mutters Mom under her breath.

  The unspoken assignment distribution. I get Nona, Mom gets Nono, and my dad, the Protestant heathen, can damn well keep his hands to himself. My Nona’s purse weighs more than she does, and I slip it around my arm as I help her out of the car. “Thanks so much for coming, Nona,” I say as my four-foot-ten grandmother grunts to a stand.

  As always, she presses her wrinkled hand against the flesh of my cheek, maneuvers my face so I’m looking down at her black eyes, her deep, red painted cheeks. Her penciled-in brows and the ever-growing mole on the side of her bulbous nose. “Mia nipote,” she says through tightly pursed crimson lips. “How beautiful you look tonight. Papi, doesn’t our girl look good?”

  Shuffling around the back bumper of the car, Nono holds up and waves his cane in greeting. Mom trails behind, still glancing at her phone every few seconds.

  Dad waits near the entrance of the school, his arms folded. He’s lost so much weight this month; he looks like he’s wearing borrowed clothes. He holds the door for us as we trudge on in under the brightly painted Art Night banner. My feet are beginning to ache in Sabine’s too-small sandals. I look up. The throngs of people we were supposed to be navigating the grandparents around are not here. A dozen arts-supporter type parents, mostly volunteers, mill about the hall. A mom hands out programs, which are really just advertisements for donations, with the scissor mark line and who-to-make-the-check-out-to language.

  Everyone is smiling as we pass. We’re the red carpet party at this affair. The family of the dead girl, plus, guess what, the family of the scholarship recipient. Does anybody smell a rat?

  My homeless guy and his dog sit on an easel just outside the entrance to the cafetorium. Nona stops me. “You work.” she marvels. “Oh, Nipote. This is good stuff. Papi, look at Brady’s art.”

  “It really is, Bird,” says Dad. “You take after Granny.”

  Nona tenses on my arm. She hates that Granny business. But she settles right down, and pats me on the hand. “I am so proud.”

  After we get everyone installed in their seats I hear the tell-tale voice of Martha enter the venue. Of course, she’s being helpful. Ushering the last minute stragglers to various chairs in front. Greenmeadow has a real auditorium, but the Art Awards Night didn’t rank high enough to get to use it. Plus, there’s a leak in the roof over the stage that isn’t fixed yet, and you can’t be too careful with scheduling an event in the rainy months. Which is every month, basically.

  There is the chit-chat of neighbors checking in with each other, a few cells phones clicking off. Martha slides into the seat next to me that I saved for her, and pinches my upper arm, “Nice dress.”

  “It’s Sabine’s,” I whisper. “And the family’s a little upset I’m wearing it.”

  At the cue family, Martha, ever the mannerly one, extends her hand to Nona on my opposite side, “Mrs. Panapento, so good to see you again.” Then she waves at the rest of the crew, who are dribbled out in the adjoining seats.

  “You didn’t answer my text, Brady. Can you go out after? I really want to catch up. I have something to tell you.”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s a school night and all.”

  The lights flicker, a little Pavlovian thing for the youngsters to quiet us all down. The audience fumbles their hands to pockets and purses; the very last of the cell phones get shut off. A dying murmur spreads throughout the cafetorium. Mom glances one more time at her device, and then slips it into her purse. Nona pinches my arm.

  The principal strides onstage and rambles about the importance of art—though, everyone here knows he’s ready to scrap it in favor of another AP Chemistry class. He introduces Bowerman, who, I have to say, does her best to hide her open hostility toward the admin suits. She’s in rare form, what with her dreads and parachute pants and super loud, deep voice. “In our struggle to understand the complexities of our times, art matters more than ever,” she says to the sound of polite applause.

  Ms. Bowerman really is terrific, and sincere. She’s that cool teacher who’ll stick her neck out for students, write long, detailed letters of recommendation to colleges. She’ll stand toe-to-toe against the committees that favor teach-to-the-test over creative inquiry. Words like creative inquiry, and public discourse, and cultural innovators fill the hall. Nona’s Chiclet breath moves in, “Why is she wearing those weird pants?”

  “Nona,” I whisper back. “Behave yourself.”

  Ms. Bowerman finishes off her speech with, “Now, let’s give a warm welcome to our favorite patron, Mrs. Lilith Cupworth.”

  Applause.

  Mrs. Cupworth takes the stage. She’s perfectly coiffed. All lilacs and tweed. She positions the microphone toward her lips, then doesn’t say anything at all, just stares out at the chairs. The silence gets awkward. Finally, out her mouth comes, “I’m disappointed.”

  A few throats clear.

  �
��By my count, there are fifty, maybe sixty at this event.”

  More silence, and Mrs. Cupworth slowly swivels her head from one side of the cafetorium to other. I glance at the principal who has taken a step toward the podium. Does he plan on pulling her off the stage?

  “If this were a pep rally,” she offers, emphasizing the p at the end of pep, “for a football game. It would be standing room only.”

  It’s like this woman is channeling me. Finally, someone not smothered in bullshit. I look at Martha, whose eyes are bulging.

  “If we continue to treat art as some sort of side sauce,” says Mrs. Cupworth, “I’m afraid we will soon have a society made up merely of Philistines and dullards.”

  I glance down at my pushed up boobs, my fancy red lap.

  “The cheap thrill. The ball through the goal posts. The titillation of bosoms on the Internet. These are easy ways to fleeting, surface reaction. Art does not come cheaply, ladies and gentlemen. One must nurture the soul in order to grow one’s appreciation for beauty. For aesthetic. If we care more about sport than the very foundation of humanity, we are doomed.”

  The principal licks his lips, nervously.

  What’s with the disrespecting of sports, Sabine wants to know.

  Or maybe it’s Martha who says that.

  I can’t, now, take my eyes off of this Mrs. Cupworth. I watch her manhandle the microphone, her elderly fingers caressing it, bending it, letting it go, and then she pivots, one hand on the stem of the mic, the other, j’accuse, directed at our fearless leader. She barks, “Every year you chop, chop, chop. When will it end? We have but one substantive visual art class in the curriculum, and with the others, you’ve bastardized the content to blend in technology studies and, God help me, P.E.”

  It’s true. We have a class called dynamic arts, where you take a sketchpad and walk up to the water tower. If it’s decent weather, you draw up there. If it’s raining, you take pictures with your phone, then download the images in computer lab and manipulate them in Photoshop.

  You could hear a Bobby pin drop. Everyone is holding their breath. The principal’s face is the color of virgin canvas. Ms. Bowerman, on the other side of the stage, is doing something with a dreadlock. Is she chewing it? And still, Ms. Cupworth’s finger wags. “Take a stand. As the administrator of this bastion of secondary education, you have an obligation to do so.”

  Now he walks swiftly up to the podium, clapping his hands as cue that applause is called for because this speech is over. The audience obeys. Nona, next to me, proceeds to lurch out of her chair and I join her. We will give Mrs. Lilith Cupworth a standing ovation, why not?

  The principal reaches the mic and says, “Quite an inspired and passionate speech from our dear benefactor. What do you say, ladies and gentlemen? Let’s give it up for Mrs. Cupworth and proceed to honor our art students with this year’s awards.”

  There is sweat on his forehead. I can see the beads of it under the lights. Ms. Bowerman joins them at the podium once again, and reveals a stack of manila envelopes. Nobody but Nona and I are standing, so we stop clapping and sit back down. Martha squeezes my hand. I feel like I’m at the Oscars, when they scan all the faces of the nominees and you try not to look disappointed when you don’t win. Bowerman told me I’m getting it, but, with the craziness of tonight, anything could happen.

  There are honorable mentions. Third and second prizes, which are gift certificates to Blick. It is announced that Dobson Caruthers and Brittany Hasslebrock get those. Mrs. Cupworth, back to being sweet and ladylike, hands the envelopes to them as they trot on stage. She shakes their hands. Dobson trips a little, on the edges of the podium, but he recovers.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” says the principal a little too close to the microphone. “This year’s $500 Lilith Cupworth Grant goes to …”

  I wonder if my hair looks too goofy. If Sabine’s dress is too short. My legs too white. Nona pushes her suddenly very strong hand against my back and I start to rise from my seat.

  “Ms. Martha Hornbuckle.” reads the principal off of the paper he peels from the hand of the art teacher.

  Sabine says, Holy cow.

  four

  The refreshments table goes on for miles. Deli platters all fancied up with endive. A tiered cupcake server. Plastic bowls of M&Ms. Sushi that looks like it’s been rolled in Rice Krispies. Immediately following the awards ceremony, I walk out of the cafetorium to hide in the hall behind the food. I can’t face my parents or Nona or anyone. Martha included.

  At the far end of the table there’s some cheese and crackers. I grab a little paper plate and heap it with Ritz and mottled squares of Swiss and Colby. Goosebumps have sprouted on my arms. The red dress is too summery. I’m chilled.

  My homeless guy and dog has been replaced by Martha’s Mount Hood. I don’t know what they did with my sketch. People are trickling out of the ceremony, like recently chastised grade school kids; they all walk with their heads down. Then, out in the hall, they become art patrons. They back up a bit, as though in a museum, stroking chins and clearing throats. My family is still making its way down the aisle. Martha seems to have disappeared.

  My heart is beating fast. Why am I so upset? Why does my head and heart feel like they’ve just been smashed with a wooden club?

  Ms. Bowerman is walking toward me. Quick, but trying to seem not quick. She looks right, left, over her shoulder, then grabs me and pulls me into an empty classroom. World History. There’re colorful posters of Egyptians and a papier mâche Sphinx on a table near the window. Outside, it’s dusk. Purple and rosy sky. A dark gray bank of cloud on the horizon. Something that would come out nice with an iPhone camera. Especially if you had one of those panorama apps.

  “I tried calling you, Brady. Several times. I’m so sorry,” says Ms. Bowerman.

  The red dress clings to my thighs. I wish I had a sweater to cover my boobs.

  “It’s a legal thing, Brady. Ridiculous.”

  “A legal thing?” I’m in some parallel universe here. I have no idea what my art teacher is talking about.

  “Counsel advised that offering you the prize would look like a bribe. Given the circumstances of your parents’ pending lawsuit. But that’s not what they told Cupworth.”

  Outside the door, the low conversations, some laughter, a saxophone starts up. Ms. Bowerman sees the puzzled look on my face. “The company line is, Brady Wilson is on academic probation, and is therefore ineligible.”

  “I am? On academic probation?”

  “It doesn’t help that you’ve been skipping class, Brady. And Mr. Garrison says he saw you getting high in the parking lot.”

  The retired-cop-hall-monitor guy? Saw me with Connor? “I don’t really care about the damn scholarship. It’s just, my parents. My grandparents. Putting them through this embarrassment. It’s not fair.”

  Ms. Bowerman covers my scantily-clad self with an arm-over-the-shoulder. A hank of dreads scratches against my collarbone. “I know, Brady. It really sucks.”

  She whispers conspiratorially, “Giving the award to Martha? She’s not a fraction the artist you are. I guess that’s what bothers me more than anything.”

  Martha painted that picture from a postcard. The sort you can buy at the Japanese Garden gift shop. I remember that she wanted to get together with me afterwards. “Did she know?”

  Ms. Bowerman doesn’t want to tell me. She sighs, then says, “We had to make sure she was coming tonight.”

  Given that my heart feels like a million little needles just punctured it, Voodoo Doughnuts would be the perfect place to be right now.

  Dusk has gone black outside. Only one bank of lights shines in this room, aimed at a scroll of hieroglyphics. A mobile of mummies hangs above us. Next year, this might be the only art the students of Greenmeadow get to do. Recreating history, one pyramid at a time. Maybe they could combine it with math class. Martha. She squeezed my hand
in the cafetorium. She sat down next to me and my family and all the time, she knew?

  “Oh, Brady, Honey. You poor thing.”

  Ms. Bowerman takes a crumpled napkin from the pocket of her parachute pants and dabs at my mascara-blackened tears.

  “I can’t go out there,” I sniff. “Not yet.”

  “No, no, you can’t, dear. Sit down. Give yourself a few minutes. I’ll come back and get you once the crowd clears out a bit.”

  I want to tell her to let my parents and grandparents know where I am, but it would be worse to have them trudge in here all full of pity and disgust. I settle into one of the all-in-one-chair-desks and rest my forehead on my arms.

  Bowerman turns out the light and the door clicks closed behind her.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but the next thing that happens is my shoulders are being rubbed, and a soft voice says, “You OK?”

  I keep my eyes closed. Feign sleep. Be on your way, Brutus.

  “I told your parents I’d take you home,” says the voice of betrayal.

  “I’ll walk,” I mumble into my arms.

  “I have something else I need to talk to you about, Brady. You can’t keep ditching me.”

  With that, I lurch up and knock into her chin. I turn around and she’s rubbing her jaw. “Ditching you? I’m ditching you? Please.”

  “Sorry. Word choice. Bad. Let’s start over.”

  I glare at her, this fake-tan Miss Greenmeadow who just (minutes? hours?) stood in my spotlight and received a ginormous poster with the words five-hundred dollars scripted across it. The words Cupworth and Prize.

  “Of course, I want to share the money with you,” she says.

  Really? Give me a break.

  “The whole thing was so…complicated.”

  “I’m trying not to punch you in the face right now.”