by Douglas Rees
“What’s kinesthetic mean?” I ask. “Evil?”
“It means he learns through his hands,” Laura says. “My mom showed him her woodworking shop last weekend and taught him how to use some of her tools. She said she never saw anybody learn so fast.”
“What did he steal?” I want to ask. But I don’t. Because there is something in Laura’s voice that tells me this would not be a good idea.
“What about your dad?” I say.
“He wrote a poem about him,” Laura says. “Dad says it’s not very good yet. But he thinks in about five years it might be. Anyway, he says Blake’s like a cross between a romantic hero and a puncture weed.”
“And that’s good?” I say.
“Well, it’s not bad,” Laura says. “Not all bad, anyway. So, anyway. What do you think I should do?”
We are back to that.
I scrunch my face up, because I do not want to answer this question. I do not want to answer it because Laura is not going to like my answer. And I do not think I am going to like that.
But just in time, I take a step back. I thinksay, Interesting.
“What’s the universe telling you?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear it,” Laura says. “I was hoping maybe you did.”
What do I hear?
I hear the sycamore leaves rustling in the warm breeze in the corner of the yard. I hear Aunt Ariel say some bad words as she hits the wrong key on her computer. I hear Ratchy’s feet thumping across the floor. I hear Laura’s breathing. I hear mine.
So where’s the universe in all this ordinary stuff?
We are all flowing together.
That’s what I get.
So what does it mean?
And then I get it. Blake is flowing together now, and what is doing it is not that Victor will kill him if he doesn’t or that Leon will make him wish Victor had killed him. No. What is making him flow together is that he has hope for the first time in his creepazoid perverted rat life. And Laura is that hope.
Oh, wow. Sometimes the universe gets too crazy.
But Laura is still waiting for me to tell her what I hear. And she’s in my coven. I have to help if I can.
So I say, “Don’t take away his hope. But make him work for it.”
“Oh,” Laura says. “Good. I’m glad the universe thinks so.”
And I know that the universe does think so, because it is certainly not what I think.
And I’ll bet nobody ever paid so much attention to Blake Cump in his life. Which would probably make him very happy if he knew about it, which he never will.
25
BROWNIES
SATURDAY COMES. It is the second one in October, and although it is still hot in Jurupa, there is a feeling of fall in the breeze, and the shadows under the sycamore are a little darker.
José and I decide to celebrate by making brownies. I do not even like brownies. But they are easy, and they are José’s favorite. And I am so happy to feel a change in the weather that we end up making about six pans full of them.
That is way too many even for José. So I say, “Man, this is a mess of brownies. Why don’t we take them down to the dojo? Do you think Victor would like that?’
“Maybe,” José says. “If we don’t interrupt anything.”
“I would never interrupt,” I say. Which is true. The last thing I want is to stop Victor from demonstrating the Aztec death grip or something. Especially if he’s using Blake for a model. So we get on our bikes, and I have the brownies in my backpack.
“There’s no place to chain up our bikes,” José says when we get there. “I’ll wait out here.”
I walk into the dojo just as there’s this huge shout.
“Kiai!”
And a bunch of little kids are in lines, making like Ratchy, fighting the invisible bad guys. They flash like stars in their white uniforms on the blue mat.
Blake is sweeping around the edges of the room. I see he’s really careful with that broom. He’s getting into corners, reaching up to the ceiling to get cobwebs. There’s something serious about him.
Then he sees me and grins like a perverted rat.
He comes over. I stiffen.
“I get to do the bathrooms next,” he whispers. “Want to watch me clean a toilet?”
“Thanks, some other time,” I say. “Like never.” But then I say, “That was cool what you did about Laura. Thanks.”
“I was really bummed when the Queens said you set the fire,” he answers. “That was one of my best freakouts ever. And they gave you the credit.” Then he says, “Well, better get back to work. Otherwise el jefe will use me to demonstrate the Aztec death grip again.”
I grin, but not at Blake. At the universe. Because how many times do you think or say or hear the words Aztec death grip in an average day? Or life? So I know that it’s a signal from the universe that it is flowing in a good way now.
The spell Ariel and I cast worked. The universe made Blake Laura’s protector. Heck, the universe was already setting this up back when they were in fifth grade.
Way to go, universe, I thinksay.
I take a step back. Interesting.
And I understand why I have made the brownies.
I take a piece of paper out of my backpack and write FOR THE DOJO on it, and I put it on the brownies. Then I take another, write FOR VICTOR on it, and wrap up one of the two biggest brownies. Then I take a third, write FOR BLAKE on it, and wrap up another humungous one. And I say, “Blesséd be,” and I leave.
26
STICKS
THIS HAS BEEN STICK WEEK.
Tuesday, I get called into Garbage’s office. His head looks bigger and more like a basketball than usual. I wonder if his collar is too tight.
But he has not brought me down there to see his latest fashion statement. T&A are there. They look scared. Garbage looks mad.
“Ms. Murphy,” Garbage says. “You are here to explain these.”
He holds out some little figures made of sticks. They look like the kind of people first-graders draw, except they have no heads. They are held together with really complicated knots.
“Nice knots,” I say.
“And are you the one who tied them?” Garbage asks me.
T&A inhale like they’re afraid. Bogus, I think. But their eyes really do look scared.
“Nope.”
“Then who did?” Garbage leans forward. He makes his little temple with his hands and looks at me over it. The Temple of Garbage, I think, and try not to laugh.
“Somebody else,” I say. “Just my guess.”
“These were in our lockers,” Tiffany shouts. “Hanging up by their necks.”
“Oh, poor little sticks,” I say. “What a tragic way to die.”
“Was this an attempt to put a curse on these girls?” Garbage asks.
“Don’t ask me,” I say. “That isn’t my thing.”
“Then whose ‘thing’ is it?” Garbage practically shouts.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I do have a theory. Look for somebody who knows how to break into lockers and get away with it.” And I jerk my head toward T&A.
They let out a couple of yelps like I just stepped on their toes.
“You did this to us,” Amber insists. “Everybody else likes us.”
Now I do laugh. “Practically any kid in this school would have done this if they could have,” I say.
“That’s not true! We’re popular,” says Tiffany.
And Garbage says, “I tell you frankly, Ms. Murphy, that if you did not do this, I think you know exactly who did.”
“Then ask me and I’ll tell you,” I say. “A witch never lies.”
“Who did it?” Garbage says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I have an idea. If you two are really so scared of a couple of sticks, let me do a protection spell for you. Like the one my aunt and I did to keep you off of Laura Greenwood.”
“No,” Tiffany says.
“You k
eep your spells and things off us,” Amber says.
“Just trying to help.”
“Return to your classroom, Ms. Murphy. You have been warned,” Garbage says.
Yeah, I have. But about what? For the rest of the day I am wondering about those stick thingies.
Wednesday comes and I am back in Garbage’s office again. This time T&A have found the little stick guys in their gym bags.
There’s more hollering from them and from Garbage. But what can they do? Especially after I offer to cast a protection spell for them again. Back to class for me.
But the same thing happens Thursday. Stick girls in their backpacks. Then in their lockers again.
By now I am almost as anxious as they are to know who is doing this.
Friday comes. Spirit Assembly. And Garbage gives the fantastic plastic to the latest suck-up. Then he says, “And now I have to discuss a very serious situation. I am sure many of you already know what I am about to refer to. I refer to this.” And he holds up one of the little danglies.
“Someone has been using these objects to terrorize certain students in this school,” Garbage goes on. “It will not be tolerated. It is a form of violence. And this school stands by its zero-tolerance policy. If anyone has information on who is committing these acts, come to my office with it. Your confidentiality will be assured.”
There’s a buzz in the cafetorium. Whispers asking “What is it…? Terrorism…? What’s terroristic about that thing?”
And some kid in the back calls, “Can’t see it. Hold it up.”
Garbage does. He stretches his arm up as high as it will reach, but it doesn’t make the little stick thingy any bigger.
“Still can’t see it,” says another voice.
Then, “Higher!”
And then somebody wails, “Oh, my God, it’s a stick! Help! Save me!”
And a long slow wave of laughter starts at the back of the cafetorium and wanders up to the front.
“This is a serious matter,” Garbage says.
“It’s a serious stick!” someone shouts, and runs out of the cafetorium screaming and waving his arms over his head.
It’s Jason Horspool.
And then the big laugh comes.
“Be quiet, be quiet,” Garbage is shouting.
Teachers are holding up their hands and one of the coaches is blowing his whistle.
By now the place is starting to come apart.
And that’s when Laura gets up and walks onto the stage and says into the microphone, “Excuse me, Mr. Gorringe. I know who’s been making those figures.”
That gets people interested. Slowly, they quiet down. The coach stops blowing his whistle.
Garbage says, “Please come to my office with this information.”
But Laura says, “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s very important.”
She’s pretty far away from me, but I think she’s trembling. I can hear her voice shaking. But she’s like that little dancer statue she brings to coven. She’s not moving.
She says, “I did it.”
Now it gets a lot quieter. Everyone sits down. Even the teachers.
“A while ago, the Queens did something very mean to someone they didn’t like,” she goes on. “I told on the ones who’d done it. You can guess what happened next. They started to leave me notes. Everywhere. Every day. Threats. You know the kind of things they do. Then they put up that Web site.”
“That’s enough,” says Garbage. “I’ll see you in my office.”
But just as he takes the microphone away, Laura grabs it and says, “So I was worrying about what they were going to do next. And I told a friend, and he said I should try this. And he helped me do it. And these sticks aren’t spells or anything. They’re just sticks. The Queens are apparently afraid of sticks.”
Some people laugh. Some clap. Most just sit there.
Laura hands the microphone back to Garbage and leaves the stage.
“Way to go, Laura,” someone calls out, and there is more clapping.
“This assembly is dismissed,” Garbage shouts.
So I’m pushing along through the hall and hearing giggles about sticks and wondering why Laura didn’t say anything about this to me, when José comes up beside me.
“Want one?” he says.
It’s a little stick guy on a loop. José already has one around his neck.
“You knew about this, too,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me, Laura, Blake, and Blake’s guys.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“So you wouldn’t get in trouble,” José says. “Duh.”
“Oh. Yeah. That works. Thanks,” I say.
“It didn’t work out how we planned it,” he says. “It was supposed to go on longer. Laura getting up there was her own idea. But I think it worked out better.”
I take the little guy and hang him from my neck.
“Whose idea was it first?” I say.
“Well, yours, kind of,” José says. “Laura starts telling Blake how scared she is of the Queens, and he gets all mad. But he knows Laura won’t like him if he does anything really mean. Plus, they’re at the dojo. So he tries to think ‘What’s honorable?’”
“No way!” I say.
“Way,” José tells me. “So he comes to me and we talk. And then Blake gets the idea, and I think, ‘This is what Kestrel meant. Using our majix to help each other.’ So Blake teaches me how to tie the knots and we start making them. And Laura helps, and pretty soon we have almost a hundred. And maybe Jason breaks into the Queens’ lockers and leaves them there. Anyway, now we’re going to pass them out to every kid that wants one.”
That afternoon, we spend our time in the coven making them. When I tell Ariel what’s going on, she laughs and gets some of her coven in on it. All weekend long, a bunch of us make little stick dollies guaranteed to frighten the Queens.
By the end of Monday, half the kids in school are wearing them.
Tuesday there’s a message from Garbage. “Stick figures are not authorized to be worn with the school uniform.”
Wednesday, which is today, practically every kid in school is wearing a stick around his neck. That’s it. Just a stick.
And when the teachers say to take them off, the kids say, “Why can’t I wear a stick? This school has zero tolerance for sticks?”
And one of the girls has a father who works for the newspaper. And he does an article about it. And then one of the TV stations picks it up.
HERE’S WHAT WAS ON
TV WOMAN: This is Richard Milhous Nixon Union High School where the administration is being plagued by an onset of sticks. That’s right—sticks. Students are taking to wearing sticks around their necks as a symbol of—well, let’s ask one of the students just what it is a symbol of. This is Coventry Squires, a fifteen-year-old sophomore. Coventry, why are you wearing a stick around your neck?
COVENTRY: ’Cause wearing a steering wheel around my neck would look stupid.
TV WOMAN: But why a stick?
COVENTRY: It’s cooler than a whole tree.
TV WOMAN: This is Luís Sandoval, who also wears a stick around his neck. Luís, what does the stick mean to you?
LUÍS: It doesn’t mean anything, man. That’s the point. Get it?
TV WOMAN: Your principal, Mr. Gorringe, says that the sticks are an occult satanic symbol. What do you say?
LUÍS: I say what’s an occulp—what you said?
GIRL: Hi, I’m Monica Whitman, and I have a stick, too!
TV WOMAN: How about you, young lady? Does your stick have any special meaning?
GIRL: Of course. Every stick is special. I mean, there’s no two alike, you know?
TV WOMAN: And now for the administration’s point of view. We spoke to Principal Dewayne Gorringe. Principal Gorringe, why are you so concerned about the presence of sticks around your students’ necks?
GARBAGE: The wearing of sticks began very recently and is the outgrowth of an attempt by a smal
l group of students to terrorize another group by the use of witchcraft. This school has a zero-tolerance policy and sticks will not be tolerated.
TV WOMAN: Sticks are a kind of witchcraft?
GARBAGE: At this school, they are.
TV WOMAN: Can you explain how that works?
GARBAGE: Some people feel that the sticks have an occult power to harm other students.
TV WOMAN: The students we talked to said they were just sticks.
GARBAGE: The sticks were originally much more elaborate figures. I have an example here.
And Garbage reaches into his desk and pulls out one of Blake’s little guys. But an arm has come off and so has a little stick that was supposed to be a head. It doesn’t look like much.
TV WOMAN: This is supposed to be satanic?
GARBAGE: It may not look like it, now, but when I first saw it, believe me, it did.
TV WOMAN: Some students are saying that the sticks are actually a protest against the behavior of a particular group of socially prominent students and don’t have anything to do with witchcraft or satanism. What do you say to that?
GARBAGE: They may be honestly mistaken. In some cases. But I know witchcraft when I see it.
TV WOMAN: How?
GARBAGE: I’m a trained professional.
TV WOMAN: Not a professional witch, presumably.
GARBAGE: No, I am the principal of this high school.