Mr. Campbell looked over, finally — along with the rest of the class.
“Shhh!” I hissed.
“Amanda?”
Amanda took her hair out of her mouth long enough to whine, “Mr. Campbell, Rocco is being rude and sexist.”
“Is that so, Rocco?”
Rocco dropped his hands and shook his head. “No.”
“Will someone tell me what he was doing? Clarissa?”
I shook my head and stared down at my notebook.
“Does that mean you don’t know, or you won’t tell?”
I shrugged.
“Use your words, please, Clarissa. Expression is a wonderful thing.”
At this point, I’m not sure who I hate more. Mattie Cohen or Mr. Campbell.
Somehow I managed to unstick my throat and say, “He was doing something rude with his hands.”
“What was he doing?” Mr. Campbell pressed.
“He was making — I mean he pretended his hands were—” I looked desperately at Amanda and Mattie for help. Amanda looked down at her book and chewed her hair and Mattie had worked herself up to a state of tears. So much for sisterhood.
“Yes, Clarissa?”
“He was pretending his hands were — you know.” I shrugged and looked down at my own chest, my cheeks flaming. If it were possible to die of embarrassment, I’d be dead right now.
Mr. Campbell smiled his big toothy smile and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t. He was pretending his hands were …”
“Breasts.”
I said it as quiet as humanly possible but it wasn’t quiet enough. Giggles popped up around the room like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Mr. Campbell cleared his throat and tried to gain control over the situation but the damage had been done. The entire seventh-grade class had heard me say the B word. There was a buzzing in my ears that I’m sure is some sort of primitive defence mechanism that helps people survive complete and utter mortification. It must have worked, because here I am.
***
“We have to do something about Mr. Campbell, Benji.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate him! He thinks he’s so smart and so funny, but I can’t spend a whole year listening to Tony the Tiger! We were supposed to have Miss Ross! It’s not fair!”
“What should we do?”
“Well, no one will listen to us; we’re just two lowly students. And my mom won’t get involved; she’s always going on about how life is unfair and you need to learn how to deal with it. Denise is obviously out of the question, but what about your dad? Everyone knows the Dentonator.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t really get involved with school much.”
“Benji, think!”
He looks offended.
“I am thinking,” he says.
“Well, think harder. We have to come up with something quick. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. This is our number one concern right now.”
Benji gives me a funny look.
“What about your mom?” he asks.
I glare at him, daring him to say anything more.
“What about her? I already said she won’t be any help,” I say firmly.
Benji squirms.
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
Blame
The answer to our problem walks into the Hair Emporium a week later.
Benji and I are crouched behind the Japanese screen playing one of my favourite games, Whose Shoes. We created it one day when we discovered you could still see people’s feet coming down the stairs to the salon through the gap at the bottom of the screens. The point of the game was to guess who the client was by her shoes. At first we almost never got anybody right, so instead we decided to make up characters to fit the shoes. Like the purple cowboy boots with the ratty looking fringe, maybe they belonged to a country singer who was in town hiding from her crazy husband with a bad temper. How disappointing it was to find out that they really belonged to Mrs. Gregorio, the drama teacher at the high school. So now whenever I meet someone I make sure to check out their shoes, kind of like research.
For example, Denise only wears high heels, at least two inches, usually with pointy toes. She says that as a sales woman, her appearance is part of the package, “and I make a much better package in heels.” But then she complains about how sore her feet are at the end of the day. She is forever rubbing them and moaning about her corns and bunions and calluses. I try very hard not to look at her feet when she says these things. I have never seen a corn or a bunion and I hope to keep it that way. She says it’s because she spends all day on her feet, but I think it’s because she spends all day in high heels. My mother spends all day on her feet and you don’t hear her complaining. Of course, she gets those white running shoes that nurses wear. That is because my mother is sensible and Denise is not.
Today we’re waiting for the next customer when the door opens and an unfamiliar pair of expensive but practical-looking boots (brown leather, with a medium heel and salt stains on the toe) comes walking down the stairs.
“She is an Alaskan movie star who just got back from a shoot in the Arctic,” Benji whispers.
“No, no. She’s a descendent of Viking hunters who made their fortune hunting and selling polar bear hides, and she’s just come back from a hunting trip.”
The Alaskan movie star/bear hunter spoils our fun by peering around the Japanese screen. She’s younger and far more glamorous than most of the clients at the Hair Emporium, with her long woollen coat, leather gloves and some kind of designer bag tucked under her arm.
“Hi, I’m Marion McKinnon. I have a hair appointment at four,” she says.
“You’re not really supposed to be back here,” I tell her, sitting back on my heels. “The waiting area is right there, on the other side of the screen.”
Marion smiles at me.
“Who are you, security?” she asks.
“My name is Clarissa Delaney. My mom is the owner and sole stylist of the Hair Emporium. And this is Benji.”
“I live next door,” Benji offers.
“Nice to meet you, Clarissa, Benji.” Marion nods at each of us in turn. “So what are you doing down there on the floor?”
The nerve of some people! Before I get a chance to tell her that it is, in fact, none of her business what I choose to do in my own house, Benji blurts out, “We like your boots.”
Marion positively beams. People love it when you compliment their shoes. Not even Alaskan movie stars/bear hunters are immune.
“Thanks, they were in great shape until this weekend. I went up to Ottawa and they have snow already. I haven’t got around to wiping off the salt stains yet.”
“What’s in Ottawa?” I ask.
“Besides snow?” Marion says. “There was a rally.”
“Like a pep rally?” Benji asks.
Marion smiles. “More like a political rally.”
Before we can find out what someone with such fancy boots was doing at a rally, my mother and Dolores Pincott appear at the salon door. Dolores is almost eighty years old and comes every Monday to get her white-almost-blue hair set in round curls all over her head. Every week she gives Benji and me a white and red striped candy from her purse. They taste like they’ve been there for thirty years but we don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“You have a good week, Dolly, and be careful of that hip!” Mom says. She has pet names for everyone. It’s one of the reasons her clients are so loyal. When you give someone a nickname, they feel special. It’s like they’re visiting with an old friend who just happens to be a hair stylist. She was the one who came up with Benji. He used to go by Ben, but it didn’t really suit him. “Doesn’t capture any of his sweetness,” Mom said. Now even our teachers call him Benji. As far as I know, the only one who still calls him Ben is his father. But then again, the Dentonator doesn’t go in for anything that’s even a little bit sweet.
Mom helps Dolores/Dolly with her coat and then walks her up the stairs, but not before
smiling over at Marion and saying, “You must be Marion. I’m Annie. I’ll be with you in just a minute. Clarissa will show you in.”
Benji and I spring to action, taking Marion’s coat and asking if she would like a glass of water or a cup of tea.
“Tea, please,” she says, sinking into one of the red chairs. I sit in the one next to her while Benji runs to get her tea.
“What were you rallying about?” I ask casually, twirling around on the chair.
“I’m part of a group that is lobbying the government for electoral reform.”
“Hmm,” I say, nodding to appear interested. The words lobbying, government and electoral make me think of social studies class. Who knew someone who looks so glamorous could be so boring?
“We just ended a pretty successful letter-writing campaign,” she adds.
“What does that mean?” I ask, imagining a room full of people writing letters and licking stamp after stamp. Not very rally-like if you ask me.
“It means we had people write letters to the government expressing their concern about the current electoral system, and we finally sent enough letters to get their attention. Now we have an audience with the minister and have a real opportunity to effect change. Are you interested in politics, Clarissa?”
I don’t really care all that much about the government part, but what really interests me is the bit about the letters. I need more information.
“So you sent in tons of letters and now you get to meet with someone?”
“Basically,” Marion says. “And if we’re successful, maybe we can change the way things are done in this country.”
Before she can say anything more, Mom breezes in and puts her hand on my shoulder, which is her signal for “I can take it from here now.”
“Marion, so nice to meet you. I trust my daughter has kept you entertained.”
“We’ve just been talking about politics,” Marion says. “It’s so nice to meet a kid who’s interested in government.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise, but only for a second.
“Yes, well, Clarissa is full of opinions,” she says.
“Here’s your tea, Miss McKinnon,” Benji says, passing her a cup and saucer.
“Thanks, Benji. I don’t know what I’d do without my hired muscle,” Mom jokes.
Marion laughs and Benji blushes, looking equal parts pleased and embarrassed.
“Now, if you’re going to be a big-time activist like Marion here, you’d better get to your homework,” Mom says, giving me a look.
Marion shakes our hands and says, “Nice meeting you, Clarissa, Benji.”
We say our goodbyes and then leave the salon as Mom asks Marion, “Now were you looking for a trim or shall we try something new?”
In the den I turn the TV up as loud as I can without Mom hollering at us to turn it down.
“I know how we’re going to get rid of Mr. Campbell,” I whisper.
Benji looks worried. “Get rid of him?”
“Yes. We’re going to start a letter campaign.”
***
“There, finished.”
I sit back in the chair and marvel at my first letter staring back at me from the computer screen. It looks so professional, double-spaced and everything. Benji scoots his chair closer and peers over my shoulder.
“Let me read it. I’ll check it for typos.”
I give him a shove.
“Get out of here! I spell-checked it already!”
“You know, if we want to make it really professional we should use a letterhead,” Benji suggests.
I frown.
“Where are we going to get one of those?”
“We could make one,” Benji says. “Maybe there’s a template we can use.”
I’m not much of a computer genius so I let Benji search for the template while I get us a snack. Ugh. I was hoping for Oreos or maybe Ritz, but ever since the diagnosis Mom has been filling the house with healthy snacks, like raisins and carrot sticks. I’d rather starve than eat that rabbit food for snack.
“Sorry, Benji, nothing to eat. Wanna go to the 7-Eleven and get sour balls?”
“Sure,” Benji says.
“How much money do you have?” I ask.
Benji shrugs. “Maybe a dollar.”
“Well, I have a toonie. That’ll have to do. Come on, print the letter and we can drop it off in the mailbox on the way.”
“Where are we going to get a stamp?” Benji asks.
“Don’t worry, I got it covered. Follow me.”
I lead Benji up the stairs and into Mom’s room.
“Are you sure we should be in here?” Benji whispers.
“The door was open,” I explain. “If she didn’t want people to wander into her room she should have locked the door. Or at least shut it.”
Mom keeps all her outgoing mail, bills and such, in a box on her desk marked To Mail. Right next to it is a roll of stamps. It looks like there are at least fifty on the roll; surely she won’t miss one tiny little stamp. I slip the letter into an envelope, run my tongue over the edge to seal it and then press the stamp in the corner.
“Now, you find the school’s address,” I instruct Benji. “There should be a letter from the school around here somewhere.”
“I think it’s illegal to open someone’s mail,” Benji says.
“But we’re not opening it,” I reason with him. “We’re not even really reading it. We’re just looking at the outside. If that were illegal then every single mail carrier would be in jail right now.”
This seems to calm him down.
“Here it is,” Benji says.
“Do you think I should address it to Principal Donner or Mrs. Donner?” I ask.
“Maybe Mrs. Donner, then comma, then Principal,” Benji suggests.
“Perfect.”
I copy the address in my neatest handwriting and slip the letter carefully into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Come on, let’s go.”
***
I practically skip all the way to the 7-Eleven and back. It feels good to be doing something about Mr. Campbell.
“I think we should take turns writing the letters,” I say, popping a yellow sour ball into my mouth.
“Why?” Benji asks.
“Because that way they’ll sound different. It’s more authentic.”
Benji looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I want to write any of them,” he admits.
“Benji, do you want to effect change or not?”
A wrinkle appears above his nose as he frowns.
“What do you mean, effect change?”
I sigh.
“It’s a political thing. You wouldn’t understand. Do you want Miss Ross back or not?”
“Do you really think the letters will help?” Benji asks.
“Better than nothing. How’s your sour key?”
Benji rips a big piece with his teeth and grimaces.
“A little stale,” he admits. “How’s your sour ball?”
I open the mail box and drop in the letter, closing and reopening the chute twice to make sure it goes all the way in.
“Never been sweeter.”
***
Every time Mr. Campbell says something stupid or irritates me, I make a note in my workbook so I can refer to it later when I’m writing my latest letter. I’m getting really good at writing letters. I was reading them aloud to Benji, but he’s gotten cold feet about the whole letter campaign, so lately I’ve been writing them after he goes home and mailing them myself. He probably thinks I’ve stopped.
It’s good practice for when I’m an actress. Each time I pretend I’m someone else, a stay-at-home mom, a nurse, a lawyer, a real estate agent — I even pretended to be Denise once, but I never signed her name. I used lots of exclamation marks and phrases like “well I never,” and “believe you me.” I never sign any names, not even fake ones. Names can be looked up and checked against school records. Instead I use “anonymous” or “a concerned parent.”
If the school found out the names were fake, they wouldn’t take the letters seriously. I use the thesaurus on the computer to find new words and make each letter sound slightly different. It makes me feel better to know that I am doing something about the problem instead of just sitting back and letting things happen like everyone else in the world.
***
“Have you chosen your modern day hero?” Benji asks.
“Not yet. You?”
Benji scratches his nose and passes his paper to me without a word, a sure sign that something is up. Across the top he has written the title Annette Delaney: Local Wonder Woman, with the words “wonder woman” done up in fancy lettering, just like on the comic books. Benji is a great artist, but if you tell him that he’ll just shrug and tell you he’s a great copier. Never one for compliments, which is good, because I sure wasn’t about to give him one for this paper.
“What is this?” I demand.
Benji looks at me like I’m dumb or crazy or maybe both. “It’s my essay.”
“I know it’s your essay, stupid. I mean, what are you doing writing about my mom?”
Benji shrugs again and clams up like he does when he’s nervous, but I am not about to let him get away with that. When you have known someone almost your whole life, you don’t suddenly get nervous around them unless you know you have done something wrong and are trying to get out of it.
“Well?”
“Well, first of all, she’s an entrepreneur.”
“So?”
“So that means she started her own business.”
“I know what entrepreneur means, Benji. So what? Lots of people have their own businesses.”
“And she’s a single mom.”
“Oh, I get it. And I’m such a difficult child, right? So it was ten times harder for her than for all the other single moms.”
Benji looks a little sheepish but he doesn’t exactly jump to say otherwise.
“And she’s battling—”
“Don’t say it!”
“—breast cancer.”
“You know I hate that word.”
“Sorry. Why are you so mad?”
“I am not mad!” I protest, but even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. I am mad, but I’m not sure why. So what if Benji chose my mom? The things he said are true. By Mr. Campbell’s standards, she is a regular modern day hero. And yet all I want to do is grab Benji’s essay and rip it to shreds.
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