Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  “I heard you,” I mutter.

  “Do you want to do it, or shall I give them both a call?”

  “I will,” I say quickly.

  “Good.”

  Mom is cleaning at a much calmer pace. I breathe a sigh of relief and go back to my DustBusting. That was a close one. I have no intention of telling the Dentonator or Mr. Campbell about Terry DiCarlo, at least not yet. It would just make things worse. I know she thinks she’s doing the right thing, but she has no idea what goes on at school. How can she? She was the Dairy Queen! She probably just smiled at anyone who was giving her a hard time and they melted on the spot and offered to carry her books for her. She has no idea what school is like for regular people. Life must be so much easier when you’re beautiful.

  Boys

  Later that night the doorbell rings and my mother yells, “Clarissa, there’s a young man at the door for you.”

  I assume she means Benji, until I walk through the kitchen and see her and Denise smirking behind magazines.

  “What?” I say.

  They just shake their heads and glance at each other over the tops of Cosmo. It makes me so mad that when I open the door, I practically shout, “What is it?” only to find Michael Greenblat staring at me. He steps back a little and I feel bad about yelling at him.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, in a much more normal tone of voice.

  Michael’s face relaxes into a smile. “Hi, Clarissa, how are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good, that’s good.”

  Then we stare at each other for a few seconds, Michael just smiling away and me wondering what he came for and whether or not I’m supposed to ask him in, even though I don’t really want to.

  “Are you having a good night?” he asks finally.

  “I guess.”

  “Me too.”

  We look down at our feet and I’m just about to tell him I have to go, when he says, “I wanted to give you something,” and pulls a rock out of his coat pocket.

  “A rock?” I ask.

  Michael looks offended. “It’s not just a rock, it’s a geode,” he says. “I found it this summer at the cottage. Actually, I found a whole bunch of them at this old cave. But this is the best one. They’re pretty rare.”

  He puts the geode in my hands. It’s warm from his pocket and looks like an egg cut in half. The outside is pretty boring, just a regular old rock, grey and bumpy, but the inside is full of tiny little crystals that are just a little bit pink, like strawberry lemonade.

  “That’s all quartz on the inside,” Michael explains.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” I ask. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “You don’t do anything. You just look at it,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, I want you to have it.”

  I don’t know what else to say, and apparently neither does Michael, because he scuffs the toe of his shoe against the doorframe and doesn’t say a word. We don’t talk much in school unless it’s for a project or something. I start to get the feeling that if I don’t say something soon, he might stay there all night.

  “Well, thanks.”

  Michael brightens a little. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Bye, Clarissa.”

  I barely close the door before Denise is beside me.

  “Was that your boyfriend?” she asks.

  Ugh. “For your information, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, who was it?” she insists.

  “It’s none of your business,” I snap.

  “What did he give you?” Mom asks.

  “He says it’s a geode.”

  “A geode?”

  Mom takes the geode and turns it over in her hands.

  “It’s pretty,” she says, passing it to Denise.

  “Looks like a rock to me. But not the good kind.” Denise wiggles her fingers and cackles at her own joke. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s the only one laughing.

  “Oh, that poor boy,” my mother says. “I hope you were nice to him.”

  “I was nice to him!”

  Denise laughs. “Oh, Clarissa, you’re a real heartbreaker, just like your mama.”

  “You should have invited him in,” Mom says.

  “There’s always next time,” Denise adds.

  Right. Like I would ever submit anyone to that kind of torture.

  “If you don’t mind, I have homework to do,” I remind them.

  “Don’t forget your geode,” Mom says, grinning.

  I snatch it away from her and stomp off to my room, slamming the door shut behind me. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed — it’s Michael who should be embarrassed. Who does he think he is, giving me geodes? I consider giving it back to him tomorrow, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Besides, it is kind of pretty. I hide it at the back of my sock drawer where no one will see it and ask questions.

  When the phone rings, I’m not surprised to hear Benji’s voice on the other end.

  “Was that Michael Greenblat?” he asks.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than spy on people from your window?”

  “What did he want?”

  “He gave me a geode.”

  “Wow. He must really like you.”

  “He does not.”

  “Remember his summer writing assignment? All he could talk about was his rock collection and going to visit real stalactites and stalagmites. He wants to be a geologist.”

  I snort.

  “A geologist?”

  “It’s a person who studies rocks.”

  “I know what a geologist is, Benji. I just think it’s a stupid thing to be.”

  “Well, Michael doesn’t, and he must really like you if he gave you one of his geodes. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to do anything except hang up and pretend this conversation never happened.”

  “I think he’s nice.”

  “Good night, Benji.”

  “Good night, Clarissa.”

  Brainstorming

  “What do the following people have in common?”

  Mr. Campbell leans over the overhead projector and scribbles three names in big, sloppy red letters: Clark Kent, Peter Parker and Bruce Wayne. Every hand of every boy in the classroom shoots up. I continue to X out the eyes of the people in my history book.

  “Clarissa?”

  Figures. Mr. Campbell only calls on me when my hand is not up.

  “They’re not real.”

  “Yes, that’s true: these are all fictional characters. Anything else?”

  “They’re all boys.”

  “Yes, that is very observant. They are all men. Anything else? Michael?”

  “They’re all superheroes.”

  Mr. Campbell grins and high-fives Michael like he is some sort of genius. Mr. Campbell doesn’t seem to notice that he has red overhead marker smeared all over the side of his arm. “Exactamundo!”

  I swivel in my chair to roll my eyes at Benji, who, thanks to this week’s back-to-basics seating arrangement, is sitting behind me.

  Benji leans forward and whispers, “Your ears are going red.”

  I whip around and shush him. “They are not!” But even as the words come out of my mouth, I feel my ears getting warm. Ever since Michael came over to my house to give me that stupid geode I’ve been watching him and thinking about him. Not a lot, but more than I used to, which was never.

  Michael has floppy hair that my mother would call sandy blond and a mole on the back of his neck that is sometimes hidden by the collar of his shirt. His favourite sport is baseball and he has at least six different Blue Jays T-shirts. I don’t not like sports; there are just a million other things I’d rather be doing. But I could learn to like baseball. Maybe Michael will be the youngest Blue Jays player ever. I could go to every game and sit in the stands and cheer him on. Then one day, after he’d hi
t the winning homerun in the World Series, I’d run out onto the field and jump into his arms. And Michael would get down on one knee in front of the entire stadium, the TV crews and practically the whole wide world, and propose to me, Clarissa Louise Delaney. I like that dream a lot. Maybe more than I actually like Michael.

  “Now what’s the difference between a hero and a superhero?” Mr. Campbell asks.

  “Easy,” Michael says. “A superhero has a superpower, like superhuman strength, or controlling the weather and stuff.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Michael. A superhero is aided by something beyond the normal capabilities of human beings. As Clarissa said, they don’t exist, they’re not real.”

  A few people actually groan, like this is surprising news. Like maybe superheroes were just in hiding all this time. Cripes. Some people are so slow.

  “Now heroes are everyday people, like you and me, who have done something extraordinary without the help of a superpower. Who can give me an example of heroism?”

  People shout out their examples and Mr. Campbell scrambles to write them all down, smearing his arm with more red marker.

  “Going to war.”

  “Saving someone’s life.”

  “Firefighters!”

  “Starting up a charity!”

  Thankfully, the bell rings.

  “Time’s up folks!” Mr. Campbell caps his marker and makes a big show of wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, like he’s exhausted by all that writing. “Phew! What a list! Great job, everyone. I think all of these suggestions are really terrific. But I want to hear from each of you individually. For your independent project, I want each and every one of you to write a two-page essay about a modern-day hero, someone living today who adds something to our definition of heroism. It could be anyone at all. Think outside the box.”

  Finally, home time. The only box I’m thinking outside of right now is the Oreo cookie box.

  Boots

  Somehow Terry DiCarlo has figured out how to break into Benji’s locker. He doesn’t seem smart enough to pick a lock, so maybe someone did it for him. When people are afraid of you, you can make them do pretty much anything.

  The first time he stole all of Benji’s stuff and left it in the mud outside by the track: backpack, gym clothes, textbooks, everything. Most of it we just threw in the washing machine, but cleaning the textbooks was a real pain. We had to wipe the pages, blow them dry with the hair dryer and then pile them under encyclopedias to try and flatten them because the pages had dried all puffy and wavy. They’re still readable, but I bet the school will make him pay for them at the end of the year.

  Now Benji carries his books with him from class to class, but he has to keep his coat and hat in his locker. Last week we found them in the lost and found. And then today, at lunch, we find Terry wearing them, dancing around pretending to be Benji, singing rude songs in a high voice that sounds nothing at all like the real Benji.

  “What are you looking at?” he snarls.

  “Nothing much,” I say, tossing my hair and shrugging.

  Terry glares at us and then spits, barely missing Benji’s toe. Disgusting.

  “Clarissa, let’s go,” Benji whispers. He’s tucked his head as far down into the neck of his sweater as possible, like a turtle, and pulled the sleeves down over his hands, which are red from the cold.

  “Do you want to die of hypothermia?” I ask him.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go home and tell your dad he needs to buy you a new coat?”

  Benji shakes his head. “Definitely, no.”

  “Well then.”

  “But—”

  “But, nothing. I have a plan.”

  I lean over and whisper in Benji’s ear. “Start laughing,” I hiss.

  Benji looks stricken.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Miracle of miracles, Benji manages to force a half smile and a choking noise. Lucky for him, I am a great actress. I throw my head back and laugh loudly.

  “What’s so funny, stupid?” Terry asks.

  “Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  Terry takes a step closer, followed by his gang of idiots.

  “Try me.”

  “Well, I was just saying to Benji here that you look really good in girl’s clothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “That jacket used to be mine. But it seems to fit you really well in the shoulders.”

  Terry’s moronic friends look at each other and snicker under their breath, too scared to laugh out loud. Terry looks from them to me and back again.

  “Whatever. This isn’t a girl’s coat,” he says, but he looks unsure.

  I shrug. “Whatever you say, Terry. It really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  Terry’s nostrils flare like a bull’s and for a second I wonder if maybe I’ve gone too far. But then he unzips the jacket and flings it to the ground, kicking it into a pile of slush.

  “Freak,” he spits, glaring at Benji. “Only someone like you would wear a girl’s coat.”

  Terry walks over Benji’s coat as he leaves, careful to grind it deeper into the dirty snow. One after another, Terry’s friends follow behind him, adding their own muddy footprints. When they’re gone, Benji fishes his jacket out of the puddle with a stick. It’s too wet and too dirty to put on.

  “We can wash it at my house after school,” I offer.

  Benji nods.

  “Ahoy there, mateys!” Bundled up in a puffy jacket, Harry Potter scarf and a huge hat with ear flaps, Mr. Campbell is instantly recognizable. No other teacher has less style. “Tad cold to be out without a jacket on, Mr. Denton.”

  Benji shrugs, but it’s hard to tell under all that shivering.

  I look meaningfully at his jacket, dripping off the stick.

  “It would be even colder if he put it on,” I say.

  “Good grief! What were you doing, ice fishing?”

  This is normally the sort of lame joke that would make Benji smile, but Terry DiCarlo has a way of ruining even the lamest of jokes for him. That plus the cold have rendered him speechless, and he just stares miserably at his feet.

  Loud laughter makes us all turn around. Over by the tire swing, Terry DiCarlo is doing his Benji impressions again. Benji shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He looks positively blue.

  “Sir Benjamin, why don’t you head on in early? If you hang your coat over the radiator it should dry out before you head home for the day. Here’s the washroom pass; you can go get yourself set up for math.”

  Benji takes the pass from Mr. Campbell and scurries toward the portable, taking his coat on a stick with him.

  “Should I go with him?” I ask.

  “Mr. Denton knows his way,” Mr. Campbell says. “But perhaps you could fill me in on what I missed?”

  Everything, I want to say. That’s the problem. Teachers miss everything. If I tell him what really happened, then Terry and company will know I ratted them out and they’ll make it even worse for Benji. Where was Mr. Campbell when Benji’s locker was broken into, or when his coat was being trampled? It shouldn’t be my job to clue him in on what’s been happening right in front of his eyes. He’s the teacher, not me.

  When it becomes clear that I have nothing more to say, Mr. Campbell sighs and says, “It seems you’ve been struck with selective amnesia. Well, if you remember something, I hope you’ll come to me.”

  Doubtful.

  Betsy Blue

  After school Benji and I are walking home, trying to guess which people in our class will be invited to Min’s birthday, when Benji points across the street and says, “Hey, isn’t that Betsy Blue?”

  Betsy Blue is the name of our car. My mother has called it by that name for as long as I can remember. Sure enough, Betsy Blue is parked under a tree across from the school and mom is sitting behind the wheel, biting her nails, even though she knows Denise will give her heck for it later.

&
nbsp; “What’s she doing here?” Benji asks. “Do you have a dentist appointment or something?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  As we’re crossing the street, Mom looks up and spots us. She smiles and waves us in.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand, climbing into the front seat. “How come you’re not at work?”

  Mom starts the car and heads toward home. “I didn’t have any clients this afternoon, so I thought I’d pick you up.”

  I frown. It’s Friday afternoon; there are always clients on Friday afternoons. People like to get their hair cut so they can be fresh and cute for the weekend.

  “That’s weird,” I say, but if she hears me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

  “Benji, is it all right if I drop you off at home? Clarissa and I have some errands to do.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can’t he come with us?” I ask.

  “Not this time, Clarissa.”

  Something weird is going on. Benji is practically my brother. Sometimes I think Mom likes him more than she likes me. She’s always going on about his manners and work ethic and what a sweet kid he is. He comes over practically every day, even Christmas. What kind of errands do we have to do that he can’t come along for? Maybe I do have an appointment I forgot about. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I saw the eye doctor, or the dentist for that matter.

  Mom pulls up in front of Benji’s house. “Have a nice evening, hon. Say hello to your dad for me.”

  Mom smiles at him in the rear-view mirror.

  I watch Benji get out of the car and trudge up his front stairs. He turns around once to wave. Mom backs out of the driveway and heads downtown. The health complex is in the opposite direction.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I thought I’d take you for ice cream,” Mom says.

  “Why couldn’t Benji come then?”

  “Just us girls today,” Mom says. “We have some things to discuss.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s wait till we get our ice cream. How was school today?”