Posted

by John David Anderson

  But it’s a mistake. The heat of the sun’s rays scorch her, like Icarus and his wax wings, and she catches fire. The paper girl turns to ash, a thousand tiny pieces scattered. And all of her is suddenly blown in different directions, sent to all ends of the earth, so that she can never be whole again.

  Because she’s not a phoenix. She’s just a girl who got too close.

  When I finished I tucked it away with the rest of my poems. Shoved underneath my bed with one pair of dirty underwear.

  THE BET

  THE SWOLLEN PURPLE PIMPLE OF THE SCHOOL’S ONGOING WAR OF words came to a pus-filled and potentially explosive head the day Deedee almost got dunked. Before that it had stayed mostly on the page—or in our case, the yellow square. But there was always the possibility that words wouldn’t be enough. That somebody would push it one step further.

  Deedee-Day. Which isn’t really funny, I know, but looking back, all of it—Rose, the catch, the game, the notes—they all seemed to be building to that moment in the boys’ restroom and the downhill slide that followed.

  There was no way of knowing it at the time. No portents of doom. No crows circling overhead. It wasn’t raining frogs. It wasn’t raining at all that Wednesday, just overcast and cold like it had been all week, everyone coming to school with pink ears because we are too cool to wear hats. The only thing strange that day was that Wolf didn’t show up. He wasn’t feeling well and convinced his mom to let him stay home—at least that’s what Rose said when she met me by my noteless locker that morning. “He texted me this morning to let me know.”

  “He didn’t let me know,” I said.

  “I’m letting you know,” she said.

  I shut my locker. They were almost all noteless now, thanks to Principal Wittingham’s proclamation and the darting eyes of the sweater-clad authorities prowling the halls. The open-field warfare had vanished. The number of notes decorating the halls dwindled from hundreds to dozens. Like the cell phones packed away in clear plastic tubs in the front office, the stacks of notes were tucked in the bottoms of our backpacks.

  But the war was far from over.

  The sticky notes were still a perfect weapon—secret and succinct—but you could tell the rules were changing. The volleys and retorts, once restricted to three square inches, spilled back over into conversations. Shouting matches could be heard down the hall. You’d go to watch and see two kids yelling at each other about who said or didn’t say what until a teacher’s voice hollered at them to get to class. The notes had brought out the worst in us.

  And some of us weren’t all that great to begin with.

  I do wonder if it would have gone differently if Wolf had been with us that day. I know it would have gone different if Bench had been, but I’d barely even seen him since “the catch.” He had stopped taking the bus in the mornings, and I’d heard he was hitching a ride with David Sandlin, the team’s tight end, whose father dropped them off on the way to work. It made sense—they lived only two blocks apart. But he only lived a few blocks from me too.

  When I did see Bench, in class or in the halls, his reaction depended on who he was with. If he was by himself, he’d stop and we’d talk for two minutes about nothing in particular, which is to say, not Wolf or Rose or where he sat at lunch nowadays or why he lied about going out to dinner with his family, because these weren’t two-minute conversations. If he was walking with someone else, though, he would just nod, which was my cue to just nod back.

  We were still friends, the nod said. But things were different now.

  Which is a shame, because had Bench been with us, I’m pretty sure Cameron Cole and his buddies wouldn’t have done what they did.

  At least I hope not.

  With Wolf out for the day, the seat between Deedee and me sat empty in English, and for a moment I expected Rose to come fill it, but she stayed in her usual spot by the door, as if she was worried about taking Wolf’s place. I passed Deedee a note while Mr. Sword was scrawling a timeline of ancient Rome on the board.

  Did Rose come to visit you yesterday?

  He mouthed the word Huh? The perplexed look on his face elaborated: Why would you even ask me that?

  I shrugged. Just curious. Deedee flipped the note over and started to scrawl something on the back, but Mr. Sword turned around and Deedee was forced to tuck it into his lap. The Big Ham had already suspended four kids for using sticky notes, but some of the teachers were slower to enforce the rule than others. The reason Wolf wasn’t suspended for his dig at Jason was because Mr. Sword crumpled the evidence and threw it away. Mr. Sword, who just last week had encouraged us to share our most profound thoughts with each other on these same yellow squares. When he got hold of a note now he didn’t even bother to read it, just balled it and tossed it in the wastebasket. It was his way of protecting us from a trip to the office, he said, though I suspect he was trying to protect us from more than that.

  Mr. Sword finished his timeline of the events in Caesar’s life and turned to the class. “Why do you think Brutus kills himself at the end of the play?” he asked.

  “Um, spoiler alert?” Samantha said.

  “It would be, Ms. Bowles, if I hadn’t asked you to finish it last night.”

  I flipped through the pages like everyone else, hoping by looking busy I wouldn’t get called on.

  “Well, let’s start here. Why do you think Antony calls Brutus the ‘noblest Roman of them all’ at the end?”

  “Maybe they were into each other.” It was Noah Kyle this time, though I could hear a chorus of snickering from behind.

  “What was that, Mr. Kyle?”

  “Nothing. I just said that maybe they were besties or something.”

  Mr. Sword looked irritated, eyes narrowing, homing in. “Have you even bothered to read the play, Noah? Or any book this year for that matter?” Noah coughed and shrank down in his seat, but I could see the corners of his smug little mouth twitch.

  Mr. Sword shook his head. He called on Amanda, who’d managed to finish the play while redyeing her hair, apparently—it was green today. “The other conspirators did what they did because they were jealous of Caesar’s power,” she said. “But Brutus thought he was really doing what was best for Rome.”

  “Excellent. But does that make it right?”

  Again nobody raised their hands.

  “Seriously, people. Is it all right to murder one person in cold blood if it will improve the life of thousands of others. Is that justifiable? Yes, Simone.”

  “Who cares? I mean, it’s not like any of us is going to go out and kill anyone.” For some reason, half the class found this amusing. Mr. Sword did not.

  “We are speaking hypothetically, Simone,” he said, weaving between our desks. “And it doesn’t have to be murder. I’m sure there’s been some time in your life when you’ve used that same logic, some point where you decided the reward was worth doing something you knew was wrong. Maybe you stole something. Or maybe you cheated on a test. Or maybe you teased somebody, knowing it would help you to fit in better with your friends.” He stopped between Jason and Noah. “Would you pick on one kid if it meant a dozen more would like you?”

  “Everybody already likes me,” Jason said.

  From across the room Rose groaned. Jason shot her a dirty look. Mr. Sword bent down and spoke softly in Jason’s ear, but it was loud enough that I could hear. “That’s probably what Caesar thought, too.”

  At least that shut them all up for the rest of class, though once I looked back to find them passing a sticky note between them, Noah to Cameron.

  And I didn’t like the look on either of their faces.

  Deedee, Rose, and I walked to lunch together, stopping by Deedee’s locker so he could grab his lunch box and check for notes. More people had taken to folding the Post-its in half and stuffing them into the slatted vents at the top of the locker—that way the teachers couldn’t come by and peel them off. Nobody had left Deedee any messages. Not today at least.

  We walk
ed toward the cafeteria and Deedee and I stopped by the restroom, Rose joking that we were a couple of girls and saying she’d wait for us in the hall.

  Deedee took a stall—he always did his business behind closed doors, regardless of number. I stood and waited for him by the sink and read the two notes that were stuck to the side of the trash can. One showed a crude drawing of Principal Wittingham—you could tell by the glasses and the tie—except he was sporting a snout that took up half his face and the words “Pig on Patrol” were written underneath. The other note informed anyone who cared that Tracy F. was a word I’d rather not repeat. I didn’t know who Tracy F. was, but I took the note down regardless and threw it in the trash. I left the one about Wittingham up though. It made me smile.

  Deedee emerged and took the sink next to me. He looked at the principal’s piggish face and frowned. “Kinda rude,” he said.

  “Kinda funny,” I countered.

  “I guess,” Deedee said in that way that lets you know he doesn’t agree in the slightest. “I almost regret starting it now. The whole note thing.” He spoke with the resigned sigh of a superhero lamenting the fact that he has to go save the world yet again.

  “I think you’re giving yourself too much credit,” I said. “Besides, if it wasn’t this, it’d be something else.” I looked at the old markings on the stall doors, typical middle school graffiti, curse words and crude drawings done in Sharpie and thick pencil scratches. At least the sticky notes were easier to clean up.

  As if reading my mind, Deedee reached across me and crumpled up the note about Principal Wittingham. He tossed it toward the can, but it bounced off the rim onto the floor.

  He was bending down to pick it up as the bathroom door opened and Cameron walked in, followed by Noah and some kid a year younger than us that everyone just called T. I didn’t know what the T stood for. I didn’t know much about the kid at all except that he was taller than me and hung out with Jason and Cameron and them. He probably attended the same summer camp for how to most effectively be a jerk.

  Cameron’s eyes fell on Deedee standing by the sink. Noah and T stood by the door. They made no move toward the bank of urinals or the stalls, and I could feel that spreading, hair-tickling tingle that’s your body’s way of telling you to pack up and go. I looked at Deedee—a warning shot to suggest that he hurry up and finish drying his hands—then I walked past Cameron, squeezing between him and the wall.

  Just make it to the door. That was the key. Just make it to the door and the hallway and the rush of other kids headed to lunch and the occasional wandering glance of a teacher and the chance to blend back into the crowd. But as soon as I took another step, Noah Kyle stepped in front of me, blocking my way. He actually crossed his arms, pulling a page right out of the Hollywood thug handbook.

  “Excuse me,” I said, hoping to strike a tone that was polite but also a little threatening, but Noah acted like he couldn’t even hear me. I tried to sidestep him, but he matched my movement, continuing to block the door. I looked back over my shoulder. Behind me Deedee stood his ground, the used paper towel bunched in his hands, his Lord of the Rings lunch box still sitting on the edge of the sink. Cameron stood in front of him, between us, blocking Deedee’s way. He held out his hand.

  “All right, Aardvark. Let’s have it.”

  It was a name they’d used before. Close enough to Advik to supposedly be funny, though I never heard anyone but them laugh at it, ever. They also called him Apu sometimes, because it was the only other Indian name they knew—sometimes that would get a giggle. There’d already been one sticky note telling Deedee to get back to the Kwik-E-Mart this week. Probably left by one of these guys.

  Cameron snapped his fingers, then opened his hand again, right in Deedee’s face.

  Deedee handed over the used paper towel. Cameron swatted it to the floor.

  “Not that, dumbass. Your good-luck charm. Your little geek cube. Hand it over. I want to see it.”

  He meant the die. Deedee’s special die.

  Deedee flashed me a look. The meaning was obvious. Oh crap. That was a given. But also How does he know? Everyone knew that Wolf was a piano prodigy and that I wrote that one poem, but we had always kept that die to ourselves. Deedee’s lips moved, his mouth working, but no sound came out.

  “Just back off, Cameron, all right?” I took a step toward him, but as soon as I did, the kid named T came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off, but it popped right back, squeezing this time. Everything seemed to be escalating much too quickly, veering out of control. At least out of our control.

  “I just want to see it,” Cameron said again. “You keep it in your pocket, don’t you? I’m sure not going in after it.”

  The boys behind me laughed. “He’d probably like it,” Noah said.

  “Probably,” Cameron said, keeping his eyes on Deedee. “Just like his friend. Et tu, Patel?” T still had his claws dug into my arm. I could get free, if I wrenched hard enough, but I hadn’t figured out the step after that. If Wolf were here, it might be different. We’d at least be even. But as it stood it was three against two. If Deedee and I even counted as two. “C’mon. I just want to see if it’s true. Then I’ll let you go.”

  Deedee looked at me and I nodded. Sometimes it was just easier to give them what they wanted. Usually it was just a laugh at your expense. That’s probably all this was too. Deedee dipped two trembling fingers into his front pocket and fished out his ebony die with the gold-emblazoned dragon on it. He held it up.

  “There,” he mumbled. “Happy?”

  He went to stuff it back in, but Cameron snatched it from Deedee’s hands and took it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the dull halogen lights, catching its reflection in the dingy mirror. He shook his head.

  “Can you believe this?” He turned and showed the die to his friends, the ones I could hear breathing behind me. Deedee made a move to snatch it back, quicker than I would have thought him capable of, but Cameron cupped it in his fist and pulled it away.

  “You’ve seen it, all right. Now give it back.” Deedee’s face burned. I looked at the reflection of the door in the mirror, thinking somebody was bound to come in and break this up any second now. More likely they would see what was happening and then turn the other way, but even that might be enough. Times like this, a kind of spell seems to take hold and you feel like time has stopped for everyone but you. Unfortunately the door stayed closed.

  “Seriously, Cameron. Just give him the die back,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Cameron exchanged looks with his two buddies, some predetermined signal. He took a step toward one of the closed stalls.

  “Is it true that you actually roll this thing to make decisions?” he asked.

  “Who told you that?” Deedee said through a shuddering breath. I could tell he was doing his best to hold it together. Begging or crying would just encourage them. He could run. That was an option. T wasn’t holding on to his shoulder. Deedee could bolt for the door and maybe slip past Noah Kyle, go find a teacher or something, but he just stood there watching Cameron’s hand.

  Cameron ignored Deedee’s question. “So, what?” he said. “I pick a number and if it comes up, then that’s what I do?” He kicked the stall door open. “All right. Let’s try it. I’ll roll. If it comes up evens, I’ll flush this thing down the toilet, doing you a favor. Giving you the freedom to grow up and start making your own decisions for a change. But if it’s odds . . .” He turned and grinned at his friends. “If it’s odds, we’ll have to try something else.”

  The boy behind me laughed again. Noah said, “He’s probably small enough to fit.” Deedee held his stomach with both hands and bit hard into his upper lip. He looked at me, desperate. I’d had enough.

  I wrenched my arm free with a painful jerk and took a step toward the stall where Cameron was standing. “All right. Freaking hilarious, like always. Now just give him his stupid die back.”

  I didn’t get more than tw
o steps before Noah and the boy named T teamed up, each of them taking an arm now, trapping me between them. Deedee still stood by the sink, paralyzed. “Please don’t,” he croaked, but Cameron ignored him.

  “So how about it? Evens or odds?” And without waiting for Deedee to answer, Cameron tossed the ten-sided die against the wall. Deedee suddenly came back to life, collapsing to all fours and scrabbling across the filthy bathroom tiles, but Cameron crouched down and grabbed his shirt, pulling him backward. The die rebounded and spun for a moment before settling down, dragon side up.

  “That’s a one, isn’t it?”

  Deedee didn’t say anything. Just stayed there on his hands and knees.

  “Not your lucky day, I guess.”

  Cameron lifted Deedee up the by armpits, locking his arms and dragging him toward the bathroom stall. I couldn’t see Deedee’s face, but I could hear him pleading, breathless. “Please don’t, Cameron. Please don’t. Please, please, please . . .”

  “Not my call,” Cameron laughed. “The die has spoken.”

  I couldn’t help but think of how many times one of us had used that exact phrase.

  There was the sound of scuffling feet, of Deedee kicking the walls of the bathroom stall. I tried to wrench my arms free, grunting with the effort, but the other two held tight. Deedee screamed just as the bathroom door swung open, then squeaked closed. The grips on my arms slackened as the two kids holding me twisted around, twisting me with them.

  Rose stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, periwinkle eyes taking everything in. She let out a low whistle. The other two boys let go of me and I took a cautious step toward her.

  Cameron stood halfway in the stall, arms still wrapped around Deedee. “This is the men’s room. You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said.

  “If it’s really a men’s room then neither are you.” Rose smiled, almost daring him to laugh. Or maybe daring him not to. I’d seen that look before. “Let go of him,” she demanded.