The Throne

by Beth Goobie

  The door handle slipped under her sweaty grip, but after fumbling, she had it and was pulling open the door and stepping directly into her decision. Head down, she swallowed, swallowed again. Then, sliding into the flow of the crowd, she headed for home form. Surrounded as she was by hallway cacophony, she could no longer hear the rain hat rustle, but she could feel it—minor earthquake tremors resonating across her butt. To her surprise, no one else appeared to notice; at least, she didn’t hear anyone comment. Abruptly, the open doorway to Home Form 75 loomed, and she was stepping through it into the sound of familiar voices, a glimpse of Mr. Woolger in profile, conducting absent-mindedly at his desk, and the flash of Seymour’s dark eyes flicking across hers, then away, as she walked, heart pounding, toward the third riser and the throne.

  From where he was seated, Seymour couldn’t see her butt and had no way of knowing what the plastic strings tied around her waist portended. Keeping the daffodils carefully out of his line of sight, Meredith stepped onto the third riser. Today, for some reason, Seymour had arrived ahead of Gene and Morey and was sitting alone, but he didn’t acknowledge her arrival and she didn’t greet him. Quickly, Meredith scanned the drum seat for gum wads, and was about to sit down when a voice behind her demanded, “What’s that—some new kind of flower power?”

  Flushing, Meredith turned to see Gene and Morey approaching.

  “Don’t tell me,” grinned Gene, stepping onto the third riser and slipping past her. “It makes you smell like chocolate.”

  Meredith spurted laughter. The joke was what she needed, ejecting a hundred small pockets of fear from her body. “Whatever,” she said. “I crinkle as I walk.” With a flourish, she sat down into a small explosion of sound. “See?” she added, rocking back and forth. “It’s like applause, sort of, for every move I make.”

  Gene’s eyebrows rose. “Okay,” he said. “You’re a megalomaniac. But why be so obvious about it?”

  Meredith glanced at Morey, who had turned around in his seat, then at Seymour, who hadn’t. “Well,” she said, hesitating, then rushed headlong onward, “someone has this thing for sticking gum on my bum. Here at school. It’s happened three times this year already, so this is my defense.”

  Both Gene and Morey looked bemused. “D’you know who it is?” asked Morey.

  Again, Meredith’s eyes flicked toward Seymour and away. “No,” she said. “Not for sure.”

  “Not for sure?” repeated Morey. “But you think you know?”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter if I think I do,” stammered Meredith. Though she couldn’t see the invisible ears growing out of the back of Seymour’s head, she could feel them devouring her every word. “You have to have proof before you go around saying something like that, don’t you?”

  Gene and Morey sat mulling over what she had said. “Why would anyone want to go after you?” Morey muttered finally, just as the bell went and the PA kicked in with the national anthem. Settling back into her seat, Meredith didn’t know whether to feel complimented by Morey’s comment or not, but she had learned one thing from the guys’ reaction—there was no easy answer to this problem, or they would have come up with it. So she wasn’t a dork for not knowing the solution; she hadn’t missed anything obvious. Her only option, really, was to continue muddling onward in the hope things would eventually work themselves out in her favor.

  Once again, no one in the halls noticed the daffodils dancing across her butt. Perhaps this was due to the number of students packed in and rushing along together, or maybe the majority of them had better things to do than scrutinize someone else’s behind. Either way, it was fine with Meredith, and she slid, gratefully unnoticed, into her math class seat.

  Crinkle, crinkle, she thought, bouncing slightly, and still no one noticed—not even Reb, who had arrived ahead of her. But that was because Reb’s attention—her smiling attention, Meredith noted—was focused on Barry, the guy who had asked them to join yesterday’s lunch-hour basketball game. Standing beside Reb’s desk, he was leaned in and animatedly describing something, the words pouring from his mouth almost as quickly as he was chewing ... a wad of gum! Meredith realized. Horrified, she leapt to her feet and checked, but no—today’s math class seat held no freshly chewed gum wad, monster or otherwise-sized. Knees shaky, she sat back down, scolding herself for her overreaction. It’s just a guy chewing gum, she thought disgustedly. Not an amber alert.

  Still, she mused, her gaze flicking back to Barry’s chomping jaw, all things considered, his behavior could be deemed suspicious. Was it possible his pronounced gum-chewing was some kind of warning that Seymour had cooked up after spotting the rain hat this morning in home form? She hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off it entirely—when the bell had rung signaling the end of the period, he had remained in his seat until she had been forced to leave first, and she had felt his stare glommed onto her butt all the way to the door. If Barry’s prominent gum-chewing display was something Seymour had indeed arranged, Meredith pondered, he would have had to work fast, math being her first class. But say he had had a post-home-form meeting pre-planned with Barry ...

  Thoughts in a crazed whirl, she sat staring at the chatting Barry and Reb. Then, like a train putting on its emergency brakes, she got a grip. Stop this! she shouted inside her head. It’s crazy! You’re letting this drive you insane! Immediately the inner whirl let go and she sank back, relieved, into her seat. Around her, students continued to chatter; Reb giggled at something Barry said; Mr. Jiminez got up to chalk some mystery equations onto the board. Other than the rain hat tied around Meredith’s butt—which no one in her class appeared to have noticed—everything looked normal; it was only inside her that the world had gone skewed, distorted, crazy.

  Don’t let Seymour get to you, she counseled herself, taking a wobbly breath. He’s not God or Satan, and this is just about a few over-chewed gum wads. It can’t go on forever.

  Shifting in her desk, she listened to the ensuing crinkling. Yeah, baby! she thought, reassured—the rain hat was still in place. And as long as it was, no gum could reach her bum. So for the present, she was safe—unless Mr. Jiminez got it into his head to call her up to the board to solve another of his murderous math equations ... in which case, all things considered, she might as well have an overdone gum wad for a brain.

  One desk ahead, Barry chewed out a last comment to Reb and headed to his seat. As he passed Meredith, he didn’t greet her—didn’t, in fact, even glance at her. It was possible, of course, she thought, that, bedazzled by Reb, he simply hadn’t noticed her. For now, she was willing to live with that option. It was better than any of the others.

  Shifting in her seat, she listened to her butt rustle.

  The first comment came as she was headed to English, her second morning class. Even Reb hadn’t noticed the rain hat in Math, but as Meredith stopped to scan a Student Activities bulletin board mounted outside the front office, a voice behind her exclaimed, “Daffodils! Don’t you think that’s kind of perverted?”

  Flushing, Meredith turned to see several Grade 11 students eyeing her. “It’s a rain hat,” she said lamely. Inexplicably, now that someone had finally noticed, every one of her preplanned explanations had fled her mind, leaving her with a dork’s repertoire of responses. “That’s why it’s got daffodils on it.”

  The two girls in the group lifted their eyebrows. The guy grinned. “I was hoping you’d let me pick one,” he said.

  Again, Meredith flushed. “It’s because of gum,” she said desperately. “Someone keeps sticking gum there, and I got tired of pulling it off.”

  The girls’ eyebrows rose higher. “Pampers,” one said helpfully. “Put one on outside your jeans. I think they come in large sizes.”

  “You can get adult diapers for seniors,” added the other girl.

  “Yeah, but kids’ diapers have cartoons on them,” said the first. “That’s better than daffodils.”

  “I dunno,” said the guy. “I like flowers. How about some Venus fly-traps?
That’d scare the bugger off.”

  “On my butt?” Meredith asked faintly, and the three laughed as they moved on. Watching them go, Meredith felt her flush begin to recede. That hadn’t been so bad, she mused. Actually, it had been kind of fun.

  Turning again to scan the bulletin board, she granted the passing crowd a full view of her flowery butt. Try to relax, she thought. No one’s going to go after it with a BB gun. But in spite of the list of club activities before her, it was difficult to concentrate. Her butt felt neon, like a nuclear-powered pincushion waiting for someone to stick in a radioactive pin. As expected, the pin wasn’t long in coming.

  “My goodness,” drawled a voice, breaking into her thoughts. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?”

  Realizing her butt had once again been noticed, Meredith turned around. “Cockleshells and puppy-dog tails,” the speaker continued as they came face to face, “and daffodils all in a row.”

  It was, she saw immediately, Neil Sabom, the principal’s son ... and a personal buddy, she knew from last week’s yearbook scrutiny, of Seymour Molyneux. “It’s a rain hat,” she explained quickly. “Someone keeps sticking gum on my bum, so I’m wearing it as protection.”

  Neil’s expression grew pained. “Protection?” he repeated. “Daffodils?” Leaning toward her, he contorted his face as if it was a reflection in a house of mirrors, and singsonged, “Daffodils. Daffydils. Da-ffy-dil-dos.”

  Then, without saying anything further, he pulled back and walked off into the crowd. Mouth open, Meredith watched him go. What in the world? she wondered weakly. Daffodils, daffydildos? Had Neil Sabom’s bulging cranium just released a flash of psychosis, or was the principal’s son inhaling hallucinogenic chemicals between classes?

  Braced for further weirdness, she headed off to English.

  “Daffodil, daffydildo?” Dean repeated wonderingly. Cell phone ringers off, the Philosophical Feet were once again lying under the willow, gazing up into a gold-tinged afternoon and drinking in its warm, rich scents. Breaths of air glowed in Meredith’s lungs, and the deep earth pressed solid against her back. Nobody could get at her here, she thought, contented. She was with friends; they would protect her against all comers.

  “I mean, what is a daffydildo?” asked Dean. “Was he just talking nonsense?”

  “Not nonsense, exactly,” said Reb. “A dildo is a vibrator. You know—like they use in sex.”

  “Oh,” said Dean, falling silent, and Meredith realized she hadn’t known the meaning of dildo. Neither had Meredith, actually, and as she took it in now, a painful flush swept her face.

  “Great!” she burst out. “Neil Sabom is going to send his crappy little joke all around school, and everywhere I go, I’m going to get comments about that. And I don’t have a choice. I have to wear the rain hat or I’ll get stuck with more gum wads.”

  Toxic despair blew through her and, for a moment, it was difficult to breathe. Daffodils on her butt was one thing, buggery quite another.

  “Not everyone,” Reb said swiftly. “Kids like you, Mere. I heard some of them talking today about your rain hat. They think it’s funny that you’re wearing it—that you’re smart. Neil Sabom is the one who’s perverted, not you.”

  “Yeah, but I still have to wear it,” muttered Meredith.

  For a moment, the three lay silently, watching the surrounding canopy of leaves shift and breathe. There didn’t seem to be any reply to Meredith’s comment; no matter how lovely or truthful something was, once someone smeared shit over it, shit was all it was.

  “Maybe,” Dean said cautiously. “But you don’t have to wear his mind.”

  “What’re you talking about?” muttered Meredith. What with gum on her bum and daffodil vibrators, today she didn’t have time for philosophizing.

  From beside her came the sound of Dean taking a careful breath. “I mean,” her friend said tentatively, “it’s all in how you see things, isn’t it? I look at your rain hat with its yellow daffodils, and I see your sense of humor and it makes me laugh, and I like you all the better as my friend. It makes me proud of you for standing up for yourself and not letting someone else order you around.”

  Dean’s voice trembled slightly, and Meredith realized she wasn’t the only one blinking quickly. “And someone like Neil Sabom looks at your rain hat and sees dildos,” Dean continued disgustedly. “I mean, what kind of mind is that? Most kids would never think of that, never. And I mean ... well, I mean ... I mean,” she faltered. “Well, you can let one jerk come along and wreck everything that is you, and what you think, and who you are, or you can say, Okay, that’s the way he thinks, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me! Neil Sabom doesn’t rule the world, he doesn’t rule your mind—”

  “And he doesn’t rule my bum!” interrupted Meredith, finishing Dean’s sentence for her.

  “No, he doesn’t!” Dean agreed emphatically.

  Again, the three fell into a hard-thinking silence, loud with vivid beating hearts. “He didn’t even get the rhyme right,” Reb said finally, reaching over and squeezing Meredith’s hand. “It’s silver bells and cockleshells, not puppy-dog tails. And it ends with ‘pretty maids all in a row.’ There aren’t daffodils in it anywhere.”

  “What a moron!” snapped Dean, her tone speaking for all of them.

  “Your butt is going to take up space this year, Mere,” Reb said softly, squeezing Meredith’s hand again, and Meredith felt something inside herself—delicate and beautiful as a dandelion seed-head—swell and burst, then float off into the wild, perfectly blue yonder.

  “Beware the poky-Polk butt,” she murmured, fighting back tears.

  “You bet,” said Reb. “Butts and boobs.”

  “Beware all our butts and boobs,” Dean added firmly. “Cuz we’re right here with you, Mere. No one comes after your butt without having to deal with ours, too—right, Reb?”

  “Of course, right,” said Reb.

  “Beware, Polkton High!” cried Dean. “Just beware. Beware!” Letting loose with a long howl, she pounded her fists and feet on the ground. Quickly Meredith and Reb joined in, howling and pounding until all thoughts of Neil Sabom and his depraved daffydildos faded into reverberating nothingness.

  “That feels better,” said Meredith, when their breathing had once again calmed.

  “Does it ever,” agreed Reb, letting out a sigh.

  “You two are the best friends in the entire world,” added Meredith. “The very best.”

  Dean and Reb lay quietly, but Meredith could feel them smiling.

  “Well, and maybe the hungriest,” said Reb.

  “Pocky, anyone?” asked Dean.

  “Pocky, everyone,” replied Reb.

  They dragged themselves out from under the willow and indoors to indulge.

  chapter 8

  It was later that evening. Not yet ready to start in on the year’s first homework, Meredith was sprawled on her bed, idly eyeing the three photographs on her night table. Pictures of dead people, she mused. Sometimes she wondered if it should creep her out that six dead ancestors watched every move she made in this room. If she thought about it, the situation was a little like living in a cemetery ... a friendly cemetery, of course, and a decidedly small one—but a place reserved for the dead, nonetheless.

  She decided not to think about it. Instead, reaching over, she picked up her parents’ wedding photograph. This particular copy had been with her since she had turned eight; previous to that, she had mauled a series of loose prints to fragments—carrying them everywhere she went, cuddling them as she watched TV, and kissing them goodnight and tucking them in beside her before she went to sleep. Aunt Sancy had never displayed any resentment over Meredith’s attachment to this photograph; indeed, on her niece’s eighth birthday, she had given Meredith the framed, glassed-over version that currently graced her night table. While this had interfered somewhat with the cuddling process, Meredith had continued to kiss the snapshot and tuck it in beside her at bedtime for seve
ral more years, before finally ditching the routine.

  She still talked to the photograph, though. Not often, and rarely out loud—but there were times, even now, when she got the urge to take her parents’ radiant faces, prop them up on her chest, and converse. How, she thought, smiling pensively at her father’s image, would you handle the Mol? Pampers? I bet it’d be something better than a daffodil rain hat. And I bet ... no, I know for sure you’d never give up the throne. Once James Polk parked his butt there, it’d be his until he graduated from poky-Polk Collegiate.

  Yeah! she thought decisively. That was the way the Polks were; they played for keeps. Not that they were warlords or anything—her father had been a lawyer, not a mafia kingpin. Well ... almost a lawyer, Meredith corrected herself. At the time of his death, James Polk had been scheduled to officially enter the lethal profession the following year, after he had completed articling.

  Tentatively, she touched her father’s face. It looked so confident, ready to take on the world. Why exactly, she wondered, a frown crossing her own, did her aunt dislike James Polk so much? And, for that matter, Johanna and Dave Polk? For, truth be told, Meredith didn’t know. While Sancy Goonhilly’s antipathy had always been obvious, she had never given an explicit reason for it; the few times Meredith had tried to worm one out of her, her aunt had hemmed, hawed, and otherwise danced around the question. For hours afterward, the atmosphere in the apartment had been titchy, almost allergic, and, over the years, an unspoken commandment had come to rule the five small rooms Meredith and Aunt Sancy called home: You are a Polk by name, a Goonhilly by blood.

  Getting to her feet, Meredith padded down the hall and into the living room, where she plopped down onto the couch beside her aunt. On the other side of the room, the TV screen flickered.

  “Aunt Sancy?” said Meredith, propping her parents’ wedding picture on her knees.

  “Mmmm?” responded her aunt, her attention focused on a tea cozy she was crocheting. As far as Meredith could tell, the tea cozy was taking on the shape of a motorcycle. Aunt Sancy invented her own patterns.