“You’re doing such a good job!” I do not know if Sam is talking to Jessica or the Blob.
The Blob even laughs, I think, although it sounds strange. He waves the blue pot at me. Sam is chuckling and sniffling at the same time.
Jessica, still smiling, rubs her head with one hand, opens the cabinet with the other, and takes down her mega-size bottle of aspirin. That is what she gets for encouraging the Blob to speak.
“Be careful what you wish for, huh?” I say.
“What?” She cannot hear me over the two blobs banging their pots.
I head upstairs but Sam’s big feet are following me.
“Hey, Matt? I was wondering if you’d like to play a game?”
I turn around and look at him. He looks like a fat little kid on the playground who wants to play Red Rover.
“A game?”
“Yeah!” He is still smiling.
Why is he not at work? I am thinking life must be a game for him, and then it comes out of my mouth. “Life?”
His smile fades. “I—I don’t have Life.” He smiles again. “How about Pictionary? That’s a lot of fun!”
He does not get it.
“Uh . . . I have homework.”
“Oh.” He looks like his whole day is ruined.
“Maybe another time,” I say, although I do not really mean it.
“Okay.” He moves his head from side to side as if trying to get jolly again. He turns to go back downstairs, then stops. “Do you have any interest in woodworking?”
Woodworking! “Not really.”
“Oh. Okay.” His face looks deflated but he does not give up.“You wouldn’t believe that I’m a pretty good shot at basketball, would you?” He grins.
“I did not know that. No.”
“Well, I am. So, if you want to play sometime, let me know.”
“Oh-kayyy.” I draw it out, hoping he will get the point. Enough already.
He shrugs and smiles. I turn to go up the rest of the stairs.
“Matt?”
“What?” I try not to sound as exasperated as I feel. I have to be careful because they might be the types who say, “We can’t help you, so you better go somewhere else.” And there is nowhere else.
Sam stands there swinging his arms stiffly at his sides. His smile is gone. His brow is creased. “I want us to do something together. I—I want us to get to know each other better. We could go bowling or—or whatever you like. Think about it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He smiles a little like maybe he has broken through. I wish he would not try. It is not worth it. People just get hurt. It is better to leave things alone, Sam.
I make it up to my room before I hear Jessica say, loudly, “Oh, no! Look at this mess!”
I freeze and listen, even though it could not have been me. I have not been here long enough to ruin anything.Yet.
“Whoa, I don’t believe it.” It is Sam this time.
The Blob starts to moan.
I hear taps on the keyboard from the kitchen, and Sam’s voice. “The office of Scottie Merrick, candidate for state senate, was found splattered with what police believe to be pig’s blood. A spokeswoman for Merrick’s campaign confirmed this evening that the candidate has received threatening phone calls targeting her lack of support for the war effort. Local police, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security are currently investigating the incident.”
“Maybe they’ll actually sit up and take notice,” Jessica says, a hard edge to her voice, “now that a public official is being attacked.”
“Well, you know what our chief of police says.” Sam’s voice is still soft. “The attacks are so random it’s hard to figure out what’s going on. It doesn’t look organized. Or maybe it is organized, and the attacks that don’t fit the norm are copycat attacks. It could be kids—except for those incidents that have happened during the school day. That’s the problem with terror tactics. You just don’t know when or where it’ll happen next.”
Jessica makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a whimper.
The Blob moans again.
“It’ll be all right, babe,” Sam says.
I am not sure about Jessica or the Blob, but nothing about this sounds all right to me. And I really do not like having that peace flag hanging outside.
That night, the Blob will not shut up with the moaning and I believe I have caught Jessica’s migraine. I wrap my pillow around my head to drown out the moans. No luck. I try stuffing tissues in my ears but that is not successful, either. Maybe it serves Jessica and Sam right to have to suffer his moans but it does not serve me right. I did not ask for the Blob to speak.
“Shut up, dork!” I finally yell from my bed. He actually stops, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Then he starts again.
“Shut up, dork!”
He stops briefly but then continues.
“Shut up, dork!”
He does not stop.
I hear footsteps up the stairs. Jessica pops her head in. “Language, please, Matt.”
“I am speaking English,” I inform her. “The Blob is speaking early Baboon.”
It is dark, so I cannot see her expression, but I am sure it is not friendly. It may not even be Christian. “He’s starting to speak, Matt. It’s a wonderful thing.”
“For whom?”
Moans from the Blob.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Can I go to a hotel?”
“No.”
More moans.
“Maybe I will end up with some other relatives soon.” I say it loudly. I do not know why.
“No.”
I sit up in bed. “What do you mean, no?”
Moans.
“We like having you here.” Her voice is sweet. I assume she is channeling Jesus, except that Quakers do not appear to be Jesus freaks.
I lie back down. “That will not last.”
“I think it will. We just have one hurdle.”
I am not sure I want to know about the hurdle. I finally decide not to ask.
But she answers, anyway. “We need for you to be happy with us.”
Excuse me? Apparently, she has misunderstood whatever Loopy said. My feeling is not a requirement. It never is.
“Good night, children,” says Jessica. “Love you. Sweet dreams.”
I do not have sweet dreams. I have nightmares of being out on the street where a dark, camo-clad, tattooed figure keeps tripping me and laughing, then asking me if I am happy and laughing some more. It is an endless loop. I am looking all around the street but there is no bed to hide under.
I wake up quaking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
School provides no refuge. Mr. Warhead is morphing into Hitler. He has those same insane eyes. And he plasters his remaining black hair over the bald part of his head so it looks like he just stepped out of Adolf ’s Hairdressing Salon. The worst part is the Hitler mustache, although I do not believe he is intending to grow a mustache. I believe his nose hairs are growing down so far that they are creating a Hitler mustache. I wonder if that is how Hitler grew his?
He is continuing to teach us about world events, the way he sees them, at least. We are fighting in Iran and Iraq and Israel and God knows what other “I” countries in the “Middle Eastern Theater.” We are sending them “I” messages. From what I can tell, the messages sound something like this:
I do not understand your culture.
I wish you people could just act normal—you know, like Americans.
I can help you get a McDonald’s adjacent to your current encampment.
We are also sending them troops to show how serious we are about our “I” messages. But the other countries are serious, too, and our troops are up to their “I” balls in unfriendly fire. Including Mr. Warhead’s brother, who is some kind of contractor over there. Now I understand why Mr. Warhead hates “the Enemy” so much.What I do not understand is why Mr.Warhead’s brother would put
himself in danger voluntarily. Is it for the money? Because he does not really have to go. He is not even in the military, for God’s sake.
Mr. Warhead hands back our quizzes on which senators support our troops. All of my answers are right, but he gives me a B. He draws a big red X over my heading, “Warmongers.” I believe the term is a matter of opinion and does not merit being knocked down a whole letter grade. However, his face is so red when he slams the quiz on my desk that I would not bring it up even if I did talk to teachers.
But I close my eyes and reserve him a spot on the next one-way rocket to Mars. I am hoping it will leave soon.
He is generally displeased with how the class did on the quiz, so he announces another one.
The screaming marker bleeds the words on the board. “Name the countries supporting the war effort.”
I give the very short list of nations and believe they are all accurate. But at the bottom I cannot resist writing, “Perhaps we should listen to the United Nations?” I spend the rest of the quiz time coloring in the gashes on my desk.
Leering at me, Mr.Warhead says that he does not understand why some people who call themselves Americans want us to get out of the “Middle Eastern Theater.”
“I think,” a girl’s voice says, softly, tentatively, “some people want to be patriotic. They just don’t want . . . you know . . . more soldiers killed.”
The room goes silent as Mr. Warhead’s face gets redder and his lips press tighter together.
I peek between the rows and see a girl with frizzy hair, like mine only lighter. She is slumped down in her desk, also like me.
Mr. Warhead’s voice is steely when he finally speaks. “Susan, you need to understand that many Americans feel that not supporting the war undermines our troops. That’s why you hear the saying You’re either with us or with them.”
“Yeah!” The Rat pounds his desk.
Mr. Warhead smiles at him. There is applause from the Rat’s fan club.
“Now,” Mr. Warhead continues, “as we know, some people are pacifists—”
“You mean chicken-shits?” the Rat yells.
His Vermin snort their approval. If people dare to disagree, they are only making themselves Victims. I steal a look at Susan. Her head is down.
Mr. Warhead says, “Let’s watch our terminology,” but he is still smiling.
The Rat grins, pressing his lips together hideously, mocking Mr.Warhead. But Mr.Warhead does not catch him, as usual.
I do not find the Rat amusing.
Mr. Warhead folds his arms and leans against his desk. “There are those who are conscientious objectors, but they still help the war effort by being medics or serving in some other noncombat capacity.”
“Chicken-shits,” the Rat calls under his breath.
“Often their religion won’t allow actual combat,” Mr. Warhead continues.
“Oh, like the Amish, right?” the Rat says.“Well, we don’t need their horse and buggies for fighting MIGs, anyway!”
More laughter.
He is so condescending.
Mr. Warhead shrugs. “And Quakers.”
I shudder and grab my desk to hold still.
“The ultimate chicken-shits!” shouts the Rat. He convulses his body into retchings and writhings.
Everyone laughs. Even Mr.Warhead is smirking although he is shaking his head.
It makes me want to retch. I cannot stand the look of the Rat quaking.The tornado starts inside of me. If he does not like Quakers, then he will be after me soon. He is not sneering at me now, so he does not know yet. But sooner or later, he will find out that I live with Quakers and I will be guilty by association.
But I am not a Quaker, Rat.
I am only quaking.
That is a quaker with a lowercase q, and it does not count.
I run all the way to English. Mrs. Jimenez gives us a “flash fiction” assignment. It is a short story that we write “off the cuff,” as she says. I write about a girl who toys with suicide. Successfully. I suspect Mrs. Jimenez will still give me an A. Even posthumously.
Madame assigns us a paper en français.We must write it in the existentialist style where life is random and absurd. We can pick our own subject. Hmm. A paper about Random Acts of Unkindness. Let me think about this for maybe two seconds. Ah, yes. The Rat. What a perfect subject.
I take my usual place in the restroom for lunch and open my bag. There is not one, but two apples. There is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And a yellow packet.That is more than any one person can eat, particularly in a reeking bathroom. I toss the sandwich, save the apples, and take a closer look at the packet. Fig Newton. A small tornado starts deep within me. I am nauseous. It is not the cookie. It is the name.
Fran Newton was a sweet old lady. My mother’s cousin. “Home” number three. It was hard to believe she was related to me. I think she actually liked me, although I cannot imagine why. Most people start out nice, but it is a temporary affliction.You know that at some time the niceness will end. Because, as in every tragedy, there is always a fatal flaw. Either they never really wanted children or they had three and could not handle more or having two girls the same age simply does not work or you are damaged goods even though it is not your fault and they are sorry but probably it is best if someone else handles you and God help them.
Fran Newton went on being nice for so long that I dreaded the end more and more. I finally had to escape her, before she escaped me. I had to be harsh. It was better for her in the long run, anyway. She was too sweet and delicate. Eventually, I would have disappointed her. I had to move myself on to “Home” number four.
Now every yellow Newton packet is like a packet of sunshine that will never be again and its brightness is too much to bear.
I wrap the Newton packet in brown paper towels and bury it in the trash. I leave the bathroom quickly. Even though it is odd to run away from a bathroom when you think you are about to throw up.
When I am at my locker getting ready to leave, I smell it. The Rat and his lesser Vermin are crowded around his locker snorting and hushing each other.They do this by randomly kicking and punching whoever is snorting the loudest at any given moment.They are obviously drinking. I can smell the booze.The smell stings my nostrils and tightens my stomach. It is sickening.
The Rat looks up and sees me. He sneers before I can look away. “What are you staring at, freak?”
He shoves me against my locker door and the lock digs into my spine and I want to cry out but I do not, I just keep my head bowed, hoping that maybe if I am lucky he does not recognize me from World Civ, and I run away. To the bus. Fast. I am sure he is chasing me.
I find a seat near the front of the bus but far enough back so I am not the first thing he sees when he gets on. I am crouching, head down, so the Rat will not notice me here. The bruise on my spine is throbbing. Please, do not see me, Rat. I am not even here. I am far away.
In my head, I am sitting in church next to my mother. I am five. It is the first time I have been in a church.
We are not exactly a religious family.
I think Jesus H. Christ is the old deaf man with the cane and funny hat who lives across the hall because my father is always yelling his name at the top of his lungs, but Mr. Christ never comes.The big guy in the white robe at church seems to know Mr. Christ, too, because he is also talking about him.A lot. Other people in white are walking down the aisle with palm branches. I think they are building a fort and I sit forward to watch. But all I see is the big guy at the front of the church pouring things in and out of decanters.The audience is walking up to him and getting free samples. I am hoping it is ice cream but I know better. I sigh and tell my mother we picked the wrong day. Today’s sample must be salad because the big guy is making salad dressing.
I hear her speak but I do not see her face. Why didn’t I look up? Her voice is soft and sweet. “That is the sacramental wine, honey.”
“Oh,” I say, “like Daddy drinks.”
The
re is silence for a moment. Her voice is not sweet now but I know she is not mad at me. “No,” she says slowly, “your father drinks the sacrilegious variety.”
I make it off of the bus without being attacked by the sacrilegious Rat.
CHAPTER NINE
Jessica corners me. She is folding laundry in the kitchen. She asks me if I want a snack or hot chocolate or, her favorite, raspberry tea. She asks me if there is anything at all I need. She asks me about school.
I tell her it is under control. I wish she would stop trying to be like a mom. It is not worth it.
“What about friends?”
For a split second I think of Susan from World Civ. If I were interested in friends, I might start with her. But I am too practical for that. I will be gone before long, anyway.
“I have no friends.”
She stops and looks at me. “Doesn’t that make you feel a little sad and lonely?”
“Jessica, may I remind you that I do not have feelings?” I do a fake smile.
Jessica does not.“Children can be very cruel, can’t they?”
She is scraping at my gut, trying to pull the feelings out of me. But I will not let her. I simply swallow hard and shrug.
“Okay,” she says, “what about boys?”
“They are toads.” Or Rats.
She smiles and her skin is all crinkly around her eyes. “Better not kiss one. He might turn into a handsome prince.”
“Not in this world.”
“Someday it could happen.”
“Not likely.”
She smiles a faraway smile and folds one of Sam’s sweat-shirts. “What if you meet someone like Sam?”
Oh, gosh, I have no idea. Run?
“You know, Matt, Sam wants to take you bowling or something that you might like to do.”
“I know.”
I guess she can tell from my voice that bowling is not on my list of top ten thousand things I am dying to do.
“Even if you went to the grocery store with him, he’d like that. He just wants a chance to talk with you and get to know you better. He grew up with all boys, and he lost his father early on. . . .” She rattles on for a while about Sam. It is Thursday and he is always out until after dinner, so I suppose she is taking this opportunity to talk on and on about him.
Quaking Page 5