Tune It Out

by Jamie Sumner

  “Want to call Ginger?” he asks finally.

  I shake my head. I have to pretend like I’m fine, for Mom. I have to be able to handle this, so that when they decide whether to let us live together again, they’ll see we are strong, capable people.

  I pop the door open, and Dan steps aside as I get out. We both look up at the school, towering in the morning sun.

  “It’s now or never, kiddo,” he says.

  Since never’s not an option, I grab my backpack, check and double-check my phone and iPod, and follow Dan under the golden crest and into the shining halls of Chickering Academy.

  If the outside looks like The Sound of Music, the inside looks like Hogwarts. It’s all dark wood floors polished so they glow, and the levels open up in a big circle to show the floors above, all the way up to a massive chandelier with little candle-looking lights that have to be fake, because that’d be a fire hazard, right? Above that is a skylight that shows the sky still tinged with pink.

  “Palatial” is the word that comes to mind from one of the hotel brochures in Tahoe. It’s sweeping and epic like a palace, but it’s not a palace. It’s a middle school, and the high school is an even bigger and fancier version across campus. How am I going to have anything in common with these people? What if I scuff up this nice floor with my new shoes? Will I have to switch classes? How will I know where to go? Will there be assigned seats? What if there literally isn’t a desk for me? I chew at the corner of my thumb and follow Dan into the front office. He points to a big blue sofa, and I sink into it. I want it to swallow me whole. My head throbs and my ears are ringing. I put a fist to my stomach to ease the ache. This was a mistake.

  Dan leans against the front desk and starts talking to the secretaries. I’ve noticed this about him. Along with the knee bobbing, Dan’s also a leaner. He leans on everything, like he’s too tall to keep himself upright without support. Another few minutes pass where I switch from staring at Dan to staring at my shoes to staring at the clock, anything to keep from having to watch the students walking through the front doors. None of them look at me. I might as well be invisible. I want to be invisible. Eventually, after the herd of students passes through, two women walk in, and Dan stands to his full towering height and turns to me and grins. I sink a little farther into the sofa.

  “Lou, this is Betty Myers, our principal, and Andrea Scott, our guidance counselor and learning services coordinator.”

  “Hello, Louise, it is a pleasure,” Principal Myers says, and smiles. She is a tall woman, almost as tall as Dan, with short gray hair, and she’s dressed in a red pantsuit and bright red lipstick. She looks like a model for Dillard’s.

  I stand up but look at the floor. “Hello,” I say, as if to my shoes.

  “Lou, why don’t we all move into my office,” Ms. Scott says. “They’re about to do morning announcements out here.”

  I follow them around the front desk and down a hallway that is blissfully quiet, just the sounds of a distant copier and a phone ringing from behind a closed door. We walk all the way to the end, into an office that overlooks the football field and the trees behind. There’s mist rising from the hills like steam. It’s beautiful. If I could take all my classes in here, alone, it’d be perfect. But of course that’s not possible.

  I sit in a large cream chair that looks like it should be in the lobby of a hotel somewhere. Instead of going behind her desk, Ms. Scott pulls up a chair so our knees are almost touching. I swivel to the side.

  Principal Myers towers above us. “Louise, I have heard so much about you from Dan, and we are excited to have you here at Chickering. I know Ms. Scott will do whatever she can to make sure you feel at home and have the resources you need.” This sounds like a speech she’s given before. “And now, without further ado, we’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” she says, and then snaps her fingers at Dan. “And you, sir, have a homeroom class awaiting your presence.” She sounds a little frightening, but Dan just smiles at her like he’s used to it.

  “I’m on it, I’m on it,” he says, and adjusts his satchel on his shoulder, preparing to go. But as they’re both walking out, he turns and says, “You’re going to be just fine, Lou. I promise. I’ll come find you at lunch.” So it’s not total abandonment. But it sure feels like it once I’m alone with Ms. Scott.

  I spend thirty seconds tracing the lines on my skirt with a fingernail because I don’t know what to do next.

  Then Ms. Scott says, “You can call me Andrea,” and I make myself look up. She’s sifting through papers, my file, I guess, so I let myself study her. If there is a total opposite to Principal Myers, it’s Andrea. For one thing, she’s short, shorter than me, maybe. With her long braid and no makeup, she looks kind of like a hippie gnome.

  “Lou,” she says, tapping a pen on one of the sheets she’s laid out on the big ottoman next to us. “It looks like you did fairly well in your last school. Croft Elementary in… Biloxi, right?”

  I nod.

  I am good at school, when I get the chance to go.

  “Grammar, reading, math, science”—she moves her pen down the page—“all within average to above-average range. However—” And here she stops and looks up at me over a pair of square, purple glasses. “The counselor there noted several behavioral incidents, during music and recess, where you had to be removed from the rest of the class?”

  I remember those “incidents.” There was the day in music when the teacher passed out cymbals and everybody slammed them together all at once, over and over, until it felt like my eardrums would explode and I ran screaming into the corner. And recess. Jump-rope games I wouldn’t join because I couldn’t handle the feel of the rope slapping my legs if I missed. And the swings. The creak of those rusted swings was so loud I hid under the slide until everyone had gone inside. They let me sit with the teacher most days after that.

  So much for faking normal. All the junk has followed me here.

  “Lou, it’s okay. I promise. I’ve seen this before,” Andrea claims.

  It was the same thing Maria said, but I saw how spooked she was on the plane. I saw how totally out of her element she was with someone like me, because there is no one else like me. I pick back up where I left off, following the pattern on my skirt.

  “Lou, listen. I used to be an occupational therapist in my former life. Do you know what that is?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s like a physical therapist, except an occupational therapist is someone who helps kids do the things in their everyday lives they find extra hard. I helped them with fine motor skills like eating and coloring and writing with a pencil.”

  “I know how to eat. And color.” It sounds snotty, but she just said I was smart, so why does she think I need to learn how to hold a pencil?

  “I also helped a lot of kids who were extra sensitive to certain things—textures of food and fabric, physical contact with other people, unexpected noise.”

  Oh.

  She reaches over and hands me a sheet of paper. “I know we’ve just met, but would you do something for me, Lou?” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “We have thirty-five minutes until the bell rings for the next class. Will you try answering these questions as honestly as you can? There’s no right or wrong here. I just want you to do your best.”

  When she stands, she’s not much taller than me sitting. It’s hard to be intimidated by that, so I murmur “okay,” and she moves to the door. Her long braid swings behind her like a kid. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  I look down at the paper in my hand and read Adolescent Sensory Questionnaire.

  Great.

  The memory of Mrs. Guidry’s whispered words comes back. Already someone’s trying to label me. If Mom were here, she’d pitch a fit. But that never got us anywhere either. Just requests from the school for testing, followed by a quick exit from town. With a start, I realize that maybe Mom’s way wasn’t the best.

  I dig a pencil out of my bag and begin. I’m supposed to
check the ones that apply:

  __ bothered by “light touch,” someone lightly touching your hand, face, leg, or back

  __ distressed by others touching you

  I check both, but they seem like the same thing, which is a little unfair. Also, who isn’t a little creeped out by “light touch”? I move down the list.

  __ have to fidget and “fiddle” with things all the time: change in your pocket, your keys, a pen/pencil, paper clip, rubber band, anything within reach

  I almost don’t check this one, but then I think of the iPod, the phone, the fringe on my suede jacket, the guitar case, and I have to scratch an X next to this one too.

  __ often touching and twisting your own hair

  Well yeah. Of course. But that can’t be weird. Every girl does that, right?

  __ feel uncomfortable wearing new or “stiff” clothes that have not been washed or soaked in fabric softener

  I look down at my skirt and sigh.

  __ drink excessive amounts of coffee or caffeinated beverages

  I think of the coffee this morning and all the coffee that has come before it. But I disagree on the “excessive” part. I’m not marking that one.

  __ notice and bothered by noises other people do not seem bothered by: clocks, refrigerators, fans, people talking, outdoor construction, etc.

  __ sensitive to loud sounds or commotion

  I think of the blender, horns honking, the airplane engine, the cymbals in music class, the creaky swings.

  __ cannot attend certain public events or places due to excessive noise

  __ avoid crowds and plan errands at times when there will be fewer people

  __ hide or disappear when guests come over

  This is every single public performance. Every time I had to get up in front of people and sing. Every karaoke stage. Every farmer’s market. Every street corner. I drop the pencil and start to cry.

  I want my mom.

  * * *

  I’m trying to find a tissue on Andrea’s desk so I can blow my nose. It’s an avalanche of papers and Post-its, and there’s even a half-knitted scarf. Then I spot them next to a framed picture of a dog in reindeer antlers. I bump into her keyboard when I reach for one. The computer springs to life with a burst of sunflower background. The screen is cluttered with icons. But it’s not asking for a password. I take a breath. And then another. Because I have an idea.

  It takes one Google search to find Bagels and Joe in Tahoe City. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this the minute Ginger handed me the phone this morning. I dig it out of my pocket and dial with one hand while blowing my nose with the other.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  I’m about to hang up when there’s a click and a man’s voice.

  “Bagels and Joe. Joe here.”

  I hear the clink of cups and hiss of the steamer from the espresso machine in the background. I close my eyes and see it. The warped wood floors and coffee beans shelved as neatly as library books.

  “Hi, Joe,” I say after a minute.

  He lets out a little whoosh of air. It’s a staticky wind down the line. “Lou. Oh man. You okay?”

  The sound of him makes me happy and sad at the same time. “Yeah. I’m all right.”

  “Where are you? The lady from the child services didn’t say.”

  “Maria? She came by?”

  “Yeah, and the police.”

  I swallow hard.

  “What’d they want?”

  “They just wanted to know what I thought about your mom. Asked me if they thought she was looking out for you. Asked me how you seemed.”

  “What’d you say?”

  He pauses so long I check the phone to see if we’ve been disconnected.

  “I said I thought she was probably doing the best she could. And that you seemed okay. Maybe a little lonely.”

  I close my eyes. Was it that obvious?

  “How’s my mom? Have you seen her?”

  “Lou, I’m not supposed to talk to you about this.”

  “Please, Joe. They won’t even tell me where she is.”

  He sighs. I wait. Someone yells out an order for a cappuccino in the background. Heavy on the foam.

  “She’s doing okay. She’s bunking down with Amelie.”

  “Who?”

  “Amelie, the manager from Christy’s.”

  The one who chased us off when I had that last meltdown? The one Mom yelled at as we were walking away from the crowd, me with gravel still in my knees? Now they’re buddies?

  “But—”

  “Lou, she’s trying real hard to get on her feet. The truck’s in the shop, but it’ll be a while.”

  If she’s got a place to stay and is “getting on her feet,” why hasn’t she called? I can’t talk anymore. The ache in my stomach is back.

  “Okay, thanks, Joe.”

  I start to hang up but hear him say right before I can press end, “Hang in there, Lou. And, uh, check in every now and then, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I put the phone in my pocket and toss the tissue in the trash. By the time Andrea comes back, I’m in my chair with the form facedown in my lap. She takes it without looking at it and walks me to second period with an easy smile. I pretend to be normal. I stick to the plan. But inside I feel something crumbling. The picture of who I thought Mom was is falling apart.

  Well is waiting outside math class. I stop short. It’s enough to distract me from what Joe said. Is Well waiting for me? He was so nice the other day, but I figured that was just him and I was nothing special. He’d probably make friends with a tree. But now he’s holding out his arm like he’s asking me to dance. Today his nails are black.

  “Um…,” I manage when he doesn’t move.

  “I’m trying to be gallant,” he whispers. I smile a tiny bit even though it hurts a little. I’m still not taking his arm, though. My body wouldn’t let me even if I tried. Luckily, he turns the whole thing into a bow so low that his tie drags on the floor.

  “After you, miss,” he says as I pass by.

  * * *

  It turns out Well’s in both math and geography with me, and I am better than him at both. Mom is terrible with money. She handed our tiny budget over to me a long time ago. And as the designated “navigator,” I’ve spent a lot of time with a map on my lap. The best part is that I don’t have to do the standard “stand in front of the class and tell us about yourself” routine that every other school has made me do. These teachers are all business. Roll call and get to work. Maybe that’s what middle school is like, or maybe they just know that every twelve-year-old’s worst nightmare is to stand alone in front of everybody else. With the exception of Well. I bet Well would introduce himself every day if he got the chance.

  Even though it isn’t as terrible as I thought it would be, and Well stays next to me through second and third period, and the bells between classes sound like wind chimes and so don’t startle me at all… even then, by lunch, I am shaky and tired. I forgot what it was like to be around so many people my age. As promised, Dan is waiting for me in front of the cafeteria when I come down the stairs with Well. It’s on the bottom floor and opens onto a grassy area with picnic tables.

  “Maxwell, thank you for showing Lou around.”

  “Oh, it’s a pleasure, Coach. Lou is the first new kid in our grade in about three years. Tour guide is a new gig for me.” He puts on a game-show voice and turns to me. “And to your right, you’ll see our lovely dining hall. You better not call it the lunchroom, because lunchrooms don’t have homemade chai granola and a smoothie bar!”

  “Seriously?” I ask, because surely not.

  “Seriously,” he says, and Dan nods. My last school had pizza and Fritos and ice cream cups that had melted and refrozen so often by the time you opened one, there was just nothing there.

  “We had fish sticks back in my day,” Dan says. “You’d think San Diego could do better than that with seafood.” That Dan is from California is
news to me. I try to picture him surfing on a Saturday morning or hitting up the skate park in the afternoon. Or bumming a ride out to Tahoe on the weekend to snowboard. I just can’t see it. He seems so much more at home in his ties with the crossword puzzle tucked under his arm.

  While I’m squinting at him, trying to picture him with sunglasses and a tan, he hands me a small plastic card that looks like a credit card. It has my name printed on it and the same gold crest as the school.

  “This card links to your student account. You can use it to get lunch, anything out of the vending machines, and clothes or school supplies from the Bird’s Nest.”

  I stare at it. My very own kid-size credit card. I wonder how much Dan put on it and how I will ever pay him back.

  “What’s the Bird’s Nest?” I ask instead.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Well says, not looking up from my new phone, where he is adding himself as a contact. “It’s the school pep store. I am not letting you buy a single thing with a crest or a bird on it. Ridiculous.”

  “Why a bird?”

  “We’re the Chickering Sparrows. That’s our mascot,” Dan explains, pointing to the giant gray bird painted above the doors leading outside to the picnic tables.

  “Worst mascot ever,” Well says, and swipes the card from me. “Come on, Lou. I’ll take it from here, Coach.”

  “You kids have fun. And keep an eye on the clock. Fourth period starts in twenty-eight minutes.”

  “Oodles of time. Let’s go.”

  I follow Well between the tables and try not to make eye contact with anyone. But most people are texting or doing homework, so nobody looks up.

  “Lunch is the only time we can have our phones out during school,” Well says when he sees me staring. Am I the only kid here who didn’t own a phone until today?

  We wind our way past the smoothie and salad bars, the baked potato and soup stations, and a prepared-food line. It’s like a tiny supermarket. We stop at the end by the cash register, and Well grabs two Snickers ice cream bars from a deep freezer and a bag of Doritos off the rack. He piles them all up in front of the lunch lady and hands her his card.