Quaking

by Kathryn Erskine

  I hear real crowd noises coming from a classroom. It is a double-wide classroom, the dividing curtain opened to make a huge room. There is much talking and laughing. I walk toward the open door and see Rob writing “Peace Ideas” on the whiteboard.

  The peace club has found a new home. I look around the hallway. They have guts to hold this club in the shadow of the American flag hanging over Principal Patterson’s Patriotic Office. And the posters for the Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marines surrounding the guidance counselor’s broom closet down the hall.

  I hover in the doorway, watching Rob draw a peace sign next to his heading on the whiteboard. I actually have some ideas for the peace club.They could bring in speakers to give the other side of the war story. They could set up a debate between Mr. Warhead and someone who is actually sane. That I would like to see. They could put out a newsletter about what is really happening in the “Middle Eastern Theater” because, the truth is, most students are ignorant of world events in general. I bet most would not even know where those countries are, for God’s sake. Until recently, most people would probably have thought that Islam was one of the many “I” countries. There could be articles on what life is like in those other cultures so people could begin to understand them and realize that they are not like us and that, in some ways, not being like us is not such a bad thing. There should be a list of websites so that people could go check for themselves if they do not believe what is in the newsletter. It would be easy. They are already bookmarked on Sam’s computer.

  I notice Mrs. Jimenez at a desk in the front of the room talking with a group of kids. She is laughing. Now she is leaning back in a chair, stretching her arms behind her head and flipping her long black hair. It is gorgeous. She does not look very teacherlike. Several students are joking with her, including Rob, as if they are equals. They are all slapping each other on the back, even slapping Mrs. Jimenez’s back. She does not look like she is going to give them a detention, either.

  It is like watching a sitcom on TV. Everyone is laughing and happy. I always wonder if real people can have sitcom lives. Apparently, it is possible. My life is the serious docudrama. Or horror flick.

  And then I hear the snort of the Rat behind me. My chest tightens. I whip around so as not to be attacked from behind.

  He is coming out of the principal’s office.

  I am a lone target in the hallway.

  “You!” he hisses.

  I want to run. Or hide. Step into the peace room. Maybe there are enough people there to stand up to the Rat. Maybe.

  But I cannot even turn away. My legs are wobbling and my hands, no, my entire arms are shaking. I can hear my heavy breathing.

  He is speaking at me but his Rat face and his Rat words are swimming before my eyes. Do not look into his eyes. I am cowering, trying to get away from his Rat eyes.

  “I know you’re the one who told Patterson!”

  I do not even know what he is talking about.

  “Don’t look so innocent. You told him about the booze!”

  Now I remember the Rat and his friends drinking at his locker. I shake my head and finally break the tractor beam and I can look away.

  “Well, girl, you’re dead.”

  “Richard! What are you doing?”

  I recognize Principal Patterson’s voice from the morning announcements and realize I have never seen him in person before.

  The Rat whips around.

  “The late bus is that way.” Patterson points his long bony finger down the hall.

  The Rat swaggers off, but not before he stares at me with his black eyes, and mouths the words again: “You’re dead.”

  I am quaking so much I think I will either explode or implode, I am not sure which.This is it. I am dead.The Rat’s gray lips tell me, over and over, that I am dead.

  “And what are you doing here, young lady?” It is Principal Patterson’s voice again.

  I jump. I do not have an answer. I simply stare at his ill-fitting navy blazer and clashing brown shirt. And I see the Rat disappear around the corner to the left at the end of the hall.

  “Are you here for a particular activity?”

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  He looks me up and down, squeezing his lips together, perhaps noticing my dark fashion statement. “Well, there’s no loitering after school. Go on home!” He turns around and disappears into the office.

  I walk shakily down the hall, casting a last glance at the peace room. I pull my shawl around me. The hall is now empty, almost eerie, and my footsteps make too much noise. I move slowly, barely inching along, hoping the Rat has already made it to the buses. At least I will be turning right at the end of the hall, away from the Rat.

  I speed up to pass the military posters and my guidance counselor’s closet and get to my corner because now I sense an urgency to get out of here. I need to turn the corner fast.

  That is when the Rat leaps out in front of me—from my corner—and a scream sticks in my throat and blocks my airway so I cannot even breathe.

  “I’ll get you,” he hisses, directly at me. He puts his fingers around his neck and jerks it to one side, making a choking sound.“Sometime, somewhere, when you’re not looking, I’ll get you.” He drops his hands from his neck and lunges at me and I stumble back and turn and run and I can hear him behind me, his snide laughter and his boots, but they are getting farther away. He is not following me. I stop, panting, and listen to his boots pounding down the steps. On the stairwell that he snuck down, then up, so he could jump out and scare me.

  I stand there for a long time, not knowing where I can go to be safe.The voices from the peace room drift into my head and catch me. I want to turn and follow them but it is too dangerous.What if the Rat sees me going into the peace room? It will only make things worse.

  I go to the opposite end of the building and hide in the shadow of the north stairwell, quaking, until I hear the late buses leaving. I strain to look out the window to see if the Rat is on any of them. I wait for a while, scanning the parking lot and the playing fields, wanting to be certain that the Rat is not waiting to pounce on me.

  Finally, I take Maggie Mahone’s shawl from my waist and put it over my head. I am hoping the Spirit of Maggie Mahone will protect me. I am hoping she can make me invisible. I leave the school building and the door slams behind me. I shudder, as my eyes dart around the parking lot. It appears to be empty.

  I think about the Rat’s threat and how painful it is. I remember that pain. It has been a long time now, but I remember. It was after he ripped me from my mother’s arm and threw her aside. He pulled my arms behind me so hard that I heard them pop and when he finally let go, they hung awkwardly at my sides and I thought they would not work again. But I forgot that pain when his arm came around my neck and I was choking and could not breathe and like a snake his grip became tighter every time I tried to yell until there was no air at all and I passed out.

  A truck roars past and blasts its horn at me, nearly knocking me into the highway. When I turn off the main road, I am still shaking. It is almost dark and the lights are on at Casa Quaker. And Jessica is outside, without a coat, holding the phone in one hand, looking up the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jessica comes running and grabs me. “Matt, are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” I lie, but I cannot seem to make my voice sound strong. Soon I will be dead. That is what the Rat said.

  “What happened? Did something go wrong at school?” She is bending down, looking at my face, trying to see inside me.

  “I—I just missed the bus.”

  “Oh, honey! If that ever happens again, please call me. I’ll come get you if I have the car; otherwise, I’ll get hold of Sam and he can come get you, okay?” She is peering into my eyes, clutching me.

  I have to look away. I cannot answer. My throat hurts too much.

  Jessica puts her arms around me and gives me a long hug. I do not hug her back. I do not know how. But now I n
otice the cold air. It is stinging my eyes.

  “Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll make some hot chocolate to warm you up.”

  But she still does not let go. She keeps hugging me, squeezing me, like she will be there forever.

  My throat is dry, but the lump in my throat is so large that I cannot even swallow.

  Stop, I say to myself, hoping Jessica will hear. Please do not be so nice to me when I am already down, Jessica. It is too much for me to handle. I am too weak to fight. My armor is only so strong.

  She walks me inside and makes me take my backpack off. I let the heavy, cumbersome weight slide to the floor and I am lighter. I sit at the table and Jessica puts a mug of hot chocolate in front of me, with miniature marshmallows in it. It smells hot and creamy and comforting and encouraging. Jessica’s mug of raspberry tea is next to me, and the fruity scent is blending with the chocolate into something soft and kind. My hands are thawing around my hot mug.

  My whole body is thawing in the warmth of the kitchen and the sound of Jessica’s voice as she stands at the stove chattering away about how the kid has grown an inch and Phyllis from Meeting has joined the Library Committee, which will be so good for her, and how much Sam is enjoying being a bus driver because the younger kids are so cute and the older kids need someone to talk to and Sam is such a good listener.

  The kid is making his sounds like “awsh,” and “Saaa,” and “Maaa,” as well as banging his blue pot on the floor. Strangely, the noise does not bother me. The light, the sound, the steam from the pot on the stove are all insulating layers, like Maggie Mahone’s shawl.

  Jessica sets a cutting board, knife, and some peeled potatoes in front of me. “Little pieces, for the soup,” she says.

  Still I cannot speak. I just nod and do what she says.

  Jessica keeps chattering away, occasionally patting my back or squeezing my shoulder or stroking my hair.

  Now I am chopping celery. I do not even like celery but the smell does not bother me.

  Sam comes in with a “how’s my girl?” I think he is talking to Jessica. By the time I realize he is talking to me, he is walking over to Jessica to give her a kiss. Then he picks up the kid.

  “Saaa, Saaa,” the kid gurgles. “Saaa-uh-Saaa, Saaa-uh-Saaa!”

  Sam and Jessica laugh and cuddle with the kid.They turn to look at me, to see if I understand. I nod my head. I know that the kid is saying “Sam-I-Am” from hearing Sam read Green Eggs and Ham a thousand times. Jessica gives me a hug and Sam winks at me, as if I am part of it. I suppose I am, in a way, because we are the only three people in the world who could possibly know what the kid is saying.

  We are sitting in the warm, tingly, steamy kitchen with soup bowls in front of us. The kid is now singing, sort of, and Sam and Jessica are laughing.There is laughter and chatter all around me. It is like no kitchen I have ever known.

  I am looking at my soup. I love this soup. I want to hide in this soup, among its carrots and potatoes and celery and chicken and warm breath. I could read myself to sleep with the words I would string together out of all the tiny alphabet noodles. I want to fall asleep in this soup, wrapping myself in its wide noodles and using a soft lima bean for a pillow.

  The kid puts his chubby little hand gently on mine, then squeezes my hand several times, with a cooing sound. His hand is warm and sticky but for some reason I do not mind. Usually I cannot stand someone sticking to me.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen that,” Jessica says softly, as Sam’s hand moves on top of hers.

  I know that the kid sees Sam and Jessica do it all the time.

  I stare into the soup and imagine I am in its warmth.

  Then I hear Jessica’s voice, soft, coming through the soup. “I think our Matt had a rough day.”

  Jessica leans her head toward me. Her hair is touching my hair. Now the solid firmness of her head is against my head. It is somewhat odd but not unpleasant. I decide that it is all right to relax my neck a little and let my head rest against hers. Her head is already there, anyway. So it hardly counts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It is breakfast. Jessica forces me to eat now. We have an agreement. I will eat one piece of not-too-burnt toast. With the good kind of raspberry jam. Seedless. Black raspberry, not red. And she and Sam must keep their coffee mugs on the other side of the table so I am not predisposed to puke.

  But this morning I feel like puking and it is not the coffee’s fault.

  Sam sits down at the table with a grin.“Guess what! I get to be the sub on your bus starting tomorrow, Matt!”

  I drop my toast. “What? Why?”

  “Because Wanda had her baby last night.”

  I pick up my napkin. “Who is Wanda?”

  “Your bus driver.”

  I start shredding my napkin. “My bus driver?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you even know her name?”

  In truth, I did not even know she was a woman. She was a nameless, faceless, shapeless mass that propelled the Bus from Hell. That is all.

  “She had a little girl,” Sam says, as if I am interested.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” croons Jessica.

  It is not wonderful. I am thinking of the implications. “There must be other substitute drivers, Sam. Surely one of them can take my route.”

  “Don’t you want me to drive your bus?”

  “It is not a good group of kids, Sam.” I say it partly to put him off because no, I do not want him driving my bus. For my own self-preservation, I cannot be associated with Sam the Quaker. Also, I say it for his own good because I think the Rat will make scrapple out of the grinning Incredible Quaker Hulk. “You may want to choose another route.”

  He smiles and shrugs his shoulders up, holding them there a moment. “I thought it’d be kind of fun for us to be together.” He looks, as usual, like a happy, oversized child.

  He really does not get it.

  Jessica’s eyes are searching my face and she puts her hand on mine.

  I sigh. I know what she is telling me. Do not be mean to him. He cares. “Fine, Sam. Do not say I did not warn you.”

  Jessica smiles at me.

  Sam smiles even more and takes a large bite of scrapple.

  I cannot eat a thing. To be honest, part of me is relieved that Sam will be on the bus because I do not believe Sam will let the Rat murder me. However, I am wondering how a Quaker can prevent a murder without using violence, since violence is entirely un-Quakerish. So I am not entirely comfortable. And I really do not want Sam to blow my cover. If he starts spouting his Quaker-speak, and I am identified as being associated with him, then the Rat will make scrapple out of both of us. My lap is covered with shredded napkin.

  The phone rings and I jump. Sam and Jessica look at each other. Jessica pushes back from the table but Sam’s chair is closer and he only has to stand up and reach to grab the receiver from the wall.

  “Hello?” His forehead is wrinkled. “Oh, good morning, Jake.”

  Jessica is staring at him but his face reveals nothing.

  “Uh-huh . . . okay . . . anything else?” He nods. “Okeydoke! I’ll see you shortly. Bye.” He hangs up, sits down, and starts to take another bite of scrapple.

  Jessica gives an exasperated cry. “Well?”

  Sam looks up with the innocent face that he does so badly. “What?”

  Jessica narrows her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  He sighs and puts his fork down. “Someone called the Meeting House this morning. And about half a dozen other houses of worship. Probably kids. Just a prank, I’m sure.”

  Jessica’s voice is hard and her eyes are boring into Sam. “What did they say?”

  “Just something about watching ourselves.”

  Jessica’s voice is shrieky. “I knew it! They’re going to attack again!”

  The kid wails a chilling scream that stops her.

  Sam shakes his head fast. “Not now, honey. Rory.” She stands up and turns away from the table, her sho
ulders dropping and her hands covering her face.

  Sam stands and picks up the kid. “Jake called the police and they’ll be at Meeting this morning, so nothing’s going to happen.” He huddles the kid against his chest with one arm and reaches for Jessica with his other, pulling her into his chest, too, and resting his cheek on the top of her head. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he says, and I do not know which one of them he is speaking to.

  Suddenly it does not matter that Sam will be a bus driver on my bus.What matters is that he may never make it to the bus. It is First Day today. I hope it is not his Last Day. The rest of us are staying home.

  I cannot look when Sam leaves. I hear Sam and Jessica saying good-bye. They are using their love words, like honey and sweetheart. I do not begrudge them those words today. This may be their Last Chance. The door closes and I bite my lip, harder when the kid calls out,“Saaa-uh-Saaaaa!” I listen to the noisy Subaru pull out and I wish it would break down before it even reaches the main road.

  I mumble something about homework and run upstairs to my room, shutting the door, trying to shut out the kid. Sitting on the bed, I stare at my knickknack thingy. It looks small and weak. Still, I check to see if the LifeSaver is inside. It is, but for some reason the swoosh-crunch of the lid is not comforting me. I pull A Beautiful Mind from the bookshelf but no matter how hard I try, I cannot focus on it. It could be because of the moans from the kid. I try another book, Nathan’s Run. It is all about a scared boy who is alone, being hunted down even though he is innocent. I know I should put it back but somehow I am pulled into the story and stay there until a particularly loud wail from the kid jerks me free. I am panting, like the boy in the book. I have gotten far enough to know that Nathan cannot run forever and is going to have to trust someone. I run downstairs to the kitchen.