“You take one pill every day. Every day, mind. Stop taking the pills, you’re not protected anymore. There are twenty-one pills in each packet. You start on the first day of your period. You take the pills for twenty-one days, at the same time every day. Then you have seven days off. That’s when your period will come.”
She lifted her hand to release the prescription.
“There’s three months’ worth. Come back and see me before you run out.”
Maddy took the sheet of paper.
“You’ll find the instructions say to allow seven days for the pills to become effective.”
“Seven days!”
“To be honest you’re protected after the first day. But I’d say don’t be in too much of a hurry. If a boy tells you he can’t wait, you tell him, phooey!” She laughed at that. “Phooey! you tell him. If you’re worth it, you’re worth waiting for. And you know what? That’s a good contraception all by itself. Just say phooey!”
Maddy did her best to smile. It seemed impolite not to share Dr. Ransom’s generous flow of good humor. But the truth was Maddy felt as if none of this had anything to do with her. Some other person of the same name was asking for pills and was being warned of syphilis and gonorrhea, of mood swings, nausea, and headaches. Some other person would have to remember to take twenty-one pills followed by seven days of no pills. The real Maddy, the one who was in love with Joe Finnigan, remained untouched. Let the other person make plans and fear consequences. Maddy herself was embarking on an adventure called love, a journey of the body and heart that would take her to unknown lands.
Love filled her waking thoughts and her sleeping dreams. Love was new, love was a revelation, love was magic. It had the power to transform her life. The transformation had already begun.
The other person, the practical, calculating person, went from the health center to the pharmacy and received, after an agonizing wait, a paper bag containing a small box. The pharmacist presumably knew what the pills were for, but she seemed not to be interested. Maddy stuffed the package into her bag and left without a word.
The box was white with a band of green. Inside was an instruction leaflet and three green strips of pills, with a day printed beneath each pill, and a line of thick black arrows running from one to the next in a clockwise direction. That was in case you didn’t know that Tuesday came after Monday. The pills inside their clear plastic bubbles were small and dull yellow.
She opened out the leaflet.
“Try taking Microgynon 30 while doing a daily chore,” she read. “Take it after brushing your teeth, for example.”
She was to take the first pill on the first day of her period. When would that be? She tried to work out how long ago her last period had been. As best as she could tell she was due in a week or so.
She put the white and green box away in her Indian jewel case, hidden underneath the little cushion on which her best earrings and necklaces lay. Her father had given her the jewel case for her twelfth birthday. It stood on top of her chest of drawers, its inlaid red and blue glass beads glowing in the light from her window.
After all the tension of going to the doctor she suffered a sense of anticlimax. Nothing would change for at least a week. Gemma’s two days away would not be such a golden opportunity after all. Once Gemma returned they would have to wait until Joe found the right moment to end it with her. In the meantime, they had their emails.
She opened her laptop. There was an email from Joe.
Is your sister really going out with Leo? If she is, warn her to be careful. Leo is unstable and can get really mean.
Maddy was puzzled by this message. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Leo was dangerous. That was part of his attraction. But she was surprised that Joe should choose to get himself involved in Leo’s affairs. She wanted to believe it was a sign of his feelings for her, but if so why didn’t he say? Even as she was framing this thought there came a ping from her laptop, and there was Joe again.
I know I shouldn’t interfere but Imo’s your sister. Leo is bad bad news. He hurts girls. I’m only thinking of you really. Don’t blame me for what Leo does to Imo. I’m not like Leo at all. Sorry I’m just rambling and it’s late and I have this stupid feeling you understand me.
Maddy emailed back at once.
I have that feeling too. It’s strange because we don’t really know each other at all. I’ll try to find a way to warn Imo. Is it safe for you and me to talk yet?
Joe replied:
Not yet. I’m worried about Gemma. I want her to be better before I say anything. I’m not like Leo, I don’t enjoy hurting girls.
Maddy was disappointed but she knew he was right. It made her love him all the more. He was behaving with honor. A very small voice did whisper to her that if he was truly honorable he wouldn’t even email her until he had made the break with Gemma; but he was only human. That too was part of what she loved in him.
So it was all going to proceed more slowly than she had at first supposed. No harm in that. Gemma would be out of hospital tomorrow or the day after. Allow, say, three weeks for her to get back to full health. Then Joe could tell her it was over. Another week for the sake of decency. That was four, maybe five weeks. By then she would be almost on to the second card of pills. That felt good and safe. So maybe it was all for the best.
She cuddled up that night with Bunby in her arms, whispering into his floppy ear.
“You’ll like Joe, Bunby. I know you will. You’re not to be jealous of him. Even if I do get to love him an awful lot, I’ll never stop loving you.”
15
Gay loser freak
“Take a seat, Richard,” said Mr. Jury. “Wonderful that you’re here.”
Rich was here because he’d been told to be here. He took a seat and clasping his hands between his knees he fixed his gaze on the rug before him. It was a modern pattern of bright reds and oranges, and exactly represented the Head’s chosen style of energetic good cheer. “We’re on the way!” the Head would declare at assemblies. “We’re motoring!” Once, famously, “The Beacon rocks!”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Mr. Jury said.
“Yes, sir.”
“This is just between you and me.”
Rich had no idea why he had been summoned. He looked up to find the Head nodding his handsome mop of hair and smiling. With soft disconcerting pat-pat-pat sounds he paddled the surface of his desk with his palms. He was proud of his nickname, the Fury, and had once been referred to in the local newspaper as a “firecracker”: always fizzing, always in motion, always on the point of an eruption of enthusiasm. Like every student in the school, Rich found him acutely embarrassing.
“So how’s it going, Rich? Looking good for the exams?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“We’re expecting great things. English best of all. Paul Pico has high hopes of you.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“You get along with Paul’s teaching style?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I only ask because not everyone does. Some students find him—what’s the word—eccentric? Not always entirely focused? I gather there are some students who don’t quite get the hang of what he wants of them.”
Rich said nothing. He realized he was being invited to criticize Mr. Pico, and he didn’t like it.
“I take it that’s not your experience.”
“He’s the best teacher in the school,” said Rich.
“The best? High praise. Tell me more.”
Reluctantly, Rich elaborated.
“He’s interested in us. He’s interested in how we develop our ideas. How we make sense of our lives. What it’s like being alive.” He stopped, frowning, feeling that his words were too thin and insubstantial to express his thoughts. “The ones who don’t like him, all they want is for him to get them through the stupid exams.”
“Ah, yes. The stupid exams.” Mr. Jury smacked the desk. “If only we could banish those stupid exams fo
rever. But we can’t. Fact of life, Richard. Obstinate reality.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You say Paul Pico is ‘interested in us.’ Those were your words, I think. How does he manifest that interest?”
He spoke with careful neutrality, but Rich saw the trap. He recalled how Mr. Pico had left the empty classroom as soon as he had entered it.
“It’s how he teaches us,” he said. “He gets us to talk about poems.”
“What sort of talk?”
“About what poems mean to us.” His irritation was deepening into anger. “It’s what you do with poems. It’s why poets write them.”
The Head silently noted his aggression, and Rich silently regretted it.
“I’m told you wrote about a poem recently.” He glanced down at some notes. “Something about love and wanting to be hurt?”
“No,” said Rich, feeling his face flush. “I wrote about dreams and waking. About how it’s better to love in dreams than not to love at all.”
“So nothing about hurting?”
“The waking hurts.”
“Well, Paul Pico certainly seems to agree. He singled your work out.”
“Yes.”
Rich saw where this was all going but he felt powerless to stop it.
“Don’t get me wrong, Rich. I have the highest opinion of Paul as a teacher. I have no problem with eccentricity. Whatever floats your boat, as they say. But I also have duties of pastoral care.”
Rich said nothing.
“Is there anything you feel I should know?”
Many possible answers raced through Rich’s agitated mind. You should know this whole school teaches nothing of any use to anyone, with the single exception of Mr. Pico. You should know that most people are stupid, vindictive, and dirty-minded. You should know that everyone imitates the way you swing your arms and laughs at your hairstyle.
“No, sir,” he said.
“Would you say Paul Pico is a friend of yours?”
“He’s my teacher.”
“But you meet him out of school.”
“No, sir.”
“In a café? In a bookshop?”
Jesus, Rich thought. What kind of police state do I live in? Everyone reports everything.
“That was just chance. That only happened once.”
“And Mr. Pico lent you a book.”
“Yes. He’s my teacher.”
“A book relating to your syllabus?”
“Mr. Pico doesn’t only teach the syllabus.”
“So what sort of books does he lend you?”
“One book.”
“Okay. One book. What book?”
“A psychology book.”
“Could it also be described as a sex manual?”
“No. It could not. Who told you that?”
The Head raised placating palms and made I’m-backing-off gestures in the face of Rich’s furious response.
“Okay, okay. I have to ask.”
“Read it yourself. It’s called The Art of Loving. It’s by Erich Fromm. He’s a psychologist.”
“I will. I will read it. I’m sorry, Rich. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s stupid,” said Rich. “People make up stupid stuff about Mr. Pico. It’s all just made up. They don’t understand him so they laugh at him. It’s so stupid.”
“But you understand him?”
“No. He’s my teacher. I learn from him.”
“And so you should.”
The Head got up from his chair and walked over to the window. He stood there, rising and falling on his toes, his back to Rich, swinging his arms.
“However, things have been said. Accusations have been made.”
Now he’s going to tell me Mr. Pico’s gay, thought Rich. He had expended so much energy in recent months resisting the playground slur, the cheap insult, the automatic label for anyone who didn’t conform, that he had never actually considered what it would mean if it were true.
“I don’t make any accusations myself.” The Head pulled back his elbows and squeezed his shoulder blades together, as if limbering up for some form of contact sport. “Paul’s private life is his own affair. But it must remain private. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Suppose your teacher had been taking advantage of his position.” He turned round, the exercises over, ready for action. “Taking advantage of his students’ need for approval. I would have to act, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes, sir. But he hasn’t. Who says he has?”
“What I’ve been told, I’ve been told in confidence. I have to respect confidences, Rich. You understand that. Just as I respect yours.”
“But you’re asking all these questions.”
“What am I to do? Ignore the rumors?”
“People will say anything. They don’t care.”
“But I do. I’m paid to care. I care for my staff. I care for my students. I care for the whole Beacon family.”
Sometimes they were a family, sometimes a team, sometimes a community. Rich had never realized before how much he resented the casual and arrogant manner in which he was presumed to belong to the Beacon. It was a school. That’s all.
“The buck stops here, Rich. I will not duck the—” For one glorious moment he was about to say, “I will not duck the buck.” But he caught himself in time. “My head is over the parapet, Rich. Let them shoot at me if they must. I took this job to make a difference. Sometimes there are hard choices. If I’m wrong I’ll be the first to put my hand up. I say to every one of you, if you believe in me, I’ll believe in you. The Beacon’s on the way, Rich. There’s no stopping us now.”
Inadvertently the Head had fallen into one of his assembly speeches. Rich saw no need for a response. A short silence followed.
Mr. Jury returned to his desk.
“Good, good. Thank you for your openness. Thank you for your trust. Come back any time. My door is always open.”
This was Rich’s permission to go.
As soon as he was out of the Head’s office Rich felt an almost physical sense of revulsion. The stupidity and cruelty of it all sickened him. As he emerged from the Admin Block onto the Oval he found it was crowded with gossiping groups of students. It was chatterers like this who were spreading rumors about Mr. Pico. Suddenly Rich found that he hated them. He hated the school. By what right did these giggling imbeciles presume to stand in judgment over Mr. Pico? Were their own lives so wonderful? The sound they made reached his ears like the bleating of sheep. Just because they all flocked together they thought they were safe from contempt and failure and pain.
You’re all losers, Rich cried out in his mind. You’re all going to suffer. No one’s safe in the end. No one wins.
He launched himself into the midst of the throng, heading for the peace and quiet of the library. And there ahead of him, crossing the Oval, on a path that meant they must meet unless he turned away, was Grace Carey.
His rage evaporated. She hadn’t seen him yet. Still time to take evasive action. But then she might think he was afraid of meeting her. Better to allow the casual encounter. Keep it light, exchange some meaningless words, move on.
The interview with the Head was now forgotten. The wrong done to Mr. Pico slipped into the past. What should he say to Grace? Nothing heavy. A nod, a greeting as they passed each other. He might learn something from her look, but she must feel no pressure from him. No neediness.
He kept to his path. He formed his expression into what he hoped was an easy smile. He wasn’t looking at her. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Grace had stopped dead. She was staring at him.
“Hi,” he said.
He too came to a stop, closer to her than he had intended.
“Everything okay?” he said.
“You fucking little freak,” said Grace.
“Sorry?”
“Where do you get off, writing me letters like that? I don’t even know you.”
“I just thought—”
“It’s not a game.” Rich hardly knew what he was saying. “It’s not meant to be a game.”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse what it is.” She hissed at him with real venom in her voice. “Just stay away from me. And don’t talk to my friends about me. You gay loser freak.”
She walked off. Rich remained where he was, motionless, in shock.
Other students passed by, many in tracksuits, heading for the sports fields. He heard shouts and laughter. No one paid him any attention.
I’m not here, thought Rich. I’m invisible.
A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.
Someone on a faraway planet in a forgotten galaxy had called someone else a gay loser freak. Someone else was in pain. That was all happening light years away. The pain traveled slowly. By the time it reached the here and now it would all be long ago and forgotten.
“Rich!”
Voices from the faraway planet. People calling names. People jostling people, wanting to cause distress, but nobody actually feels anything. Pressure, motion, but not pain.
“Rich!”
Maddy Fisher was standing in front of him, touching his arm. Trying to get him to respond to her.
“Rich!”
Her friendly face, smiling, worried.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine at all.”
“Aren’t I?”
Voices echoing in space. Words with no meaning. Drifting in waking sleep.
“I saw you with Grace. I was trying to find you. I wanted to tell you not to bother with her. I wanted to save you the hassle.”
The hassle. Also known as the humiliation. The pain. The heartbreak. The hearing of words that you won’t ever forget for the rest of your life.
Let it go. Let it all go far away. Slip into sleep.
“I wasn’t looking for her,” said someone. “We just bumped into each other.”
“Was she horrible? She can be such a bitch. I was going to warn you.”
“Oh, well.”
What happens happens. Big eyes gazing with concern. Someone wants to cry. Someone wants comfort, kindness, love. But not here. Not now.
Rich and Mad Page 10