Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  “It’s a school night.” Denise says.

  “So?”

  “So you two need your beauty sleep.”

  “But I’m not tired yet. I never fall asleep before eleven.”

  I use my best sappy Michelle Tanner eyes. If Mom was here she would have sent Benji home earlier, but Denise doesn’t need to know that. For a second it looks like she’s going to fall for it, but something comes over her and she shakes her head.

  “Not tonight,” she insists.

  “I’d feel safer if he stayed,” I say. “What if there’s another fire?”

  Denise’s eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Benji, Clarissa will see you tomorrow.”

  Benji hops off the bed, gathers his backpack and coat and smiles at Denise as he leaves. “Okay. Thanks for the pizza, Denise. Bye, Clarissa.”

  “Bye.”

  After he leaves, Denise and I stare at each other.

  “Well, I’m going to watch TV and then I’ll make my bed up in the living room,” she says. “If you need anything, you know where I am.”

  She turns to leave and then looks back at me over her shoulder.

  “Good night,” she says stiffly.

  “Good night,” I answer.

  It feels weird. I can’t remember the last time Mom and I said good night; usually we just sort of wander off after dinner to do our own thing. I wonder what she’s doing this very minute, and if anyone said good night to her.

  Book

  I can’t sleep. I’ve been trying for hours. No matter what I do I can’t seem to get comfortable. Denise is snoring away in the living room. She sounds like a lawn mower. No wonder I can’t sleep. I punch my pillows into shape, throw off my duvet, pull it back up again, but nothing works. Instead I decide to read.

  I’m not really a big reader. I like reading fine; I just don’t spend all day and all night with my nose in a book like some people do. My favourite books are the Wizard of Oz books. I have read all fourteen books in the series, some of them more than once, like Ozma of Oz, which I might like even more than The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  I inherited all of my Oz books from Mom, which she had when she was little. They have delicate paper covers with old-fashioned paintings of a girl with blond curls and a short dress. She looks nothing like Dorothy in the movie. Apparently when Mom was my age she loved The Wizard of Oz, too. It’s hard to imagine her reading anything other than a magazine, let alone something as magical as The Wizard of Oz. She’s not really the fantasy type, but she read me the first Oz book and I’ve been hooked ever since. The others I read on my own, but I remember how exciting it was when she’d come into my room before bed and read me one chapter a night.

  Now I’m reading them all over again. They are just as good as I remembered. I read until my eyes are so heavy that I have no choice but to fall asleep. It seems to be the only thing that works.

  ***

  “I bought you some things for lunch,” Denise says.

  I look through the grocery bags and find a big jar of peanut butter.

  “I can’t eat this,” I say, putting it back in the bag.

  “When did you get so picky?” Denise complains.

  “I can’t bring peanut butter. I’m not allowed.”

  “Not allowed?”

  “Because of nut allergies,” I explain.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “When I was in school no one was allergic to peanuts,” Denise says.

  I snort. “Was peanut butter even invented back then?”

  “Fine, smarty pants. You can have bread and water then.”

  Figures. That’s what they serve criminals in prisons, isn’t it?

  Branded

  The first time I see the flyer, I don’t think anything of it. There are just some kids huddled around a piece of paper laughing. But then I see other people in the halls with the same orange flyer, and by lunchtime it seems like everyone has one. Everyone except me and Benji. I don’t like to be left out of a joke, especially a big school-wide thing, so I march up to Mattie and ask to see her flyer. She won’t look me in the eye.

  “Flyer?” she says sweetly.

  “Yeah, the orange thing you stuffed in your pocket. Can I see it?”

  “Why?” Mattie asks.

  “Because I lost mine,” I lie.

  “It’s nothing you want to see,” Mattie says.

  “Oh never mind.”

  I stomp off in search of another flyer, but they are maddeningly hard to find. That is until the bell rings and we head inside and find Benji’s locker covered in orange flyers. I rip one down to get a closer look. Someone has photocopied the definition of homosexual and pasted Benji’s yearbook photo underneath.

  I try to shove Benji out of the way so he doesn’t see them, but there are too many. Whoever it was — and I have a pretty good idea who’s behind it — has used packing tape, which makes it extremely hard to peel the flyers off. A group of people are pointing at us, me tearing at Benji’s locker and Benji just staring there all white-faced.

  “What are you looking at?” I yell. They don’t even look guilty. I really hate people sometimes.

  Suddenly Michael Greenblat is there, passing me a mini Swiss Army knife. “Here, use this.”

  He looks nervous, maybe because he doesn’t want to be seen helping us out, or maybe because he knows pocket knives are not allowed at school and he doesn’t want to be caught. I slip the knife out of his hand and slice through the packing tape.

  “Thanks,” I say, but when I turn to give it back Michael is already slinking away.

  “Keep it,” he mutters. “I have another one.”

  What am I supposed to do with a knife? I pocket it and hope that I don’t get caught with it.

  The warning bell goes and I hurry to stuff the flyers in the garbage can, but not before folding one up and putting it in my binder. Benji looks sick.

  “We need one for evidence,” I explain, but he doesn’t look convinced.

  “I don’t feel well,” he mumbles.

  I don’t know what to say. I can’t find the words to make Terry or the orange flyers or the whole thing go away. Instead I walk with him to class with my head up, daring anyone to say anything.

  ***

  Benji goes home straight after school, claiming he feels sick to his stomach. I call him a few times but no one picks up. Denise won’t be home till later, not that I’d tell her any of this stuff. She’d probably just overreact and call the police, although maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I can’t talk to Mom about it because she already thinks I went to the teacher and she’d be mad as a hatter when she found out I lied. Mr. Campbell is out of the question, and none of the kids at school care enough to do anything either. They’ve never really given Benji a chance.

  And so I decide to write another letter to Principal Donner. This time I tell her that Mr. Campbell is “not the sharpest tool in the kit,” and that he misses things that happen right before his own eyes. At least that’s half true. By the time I’ve printed and signed it, I’m starting to feel a bit better.

  I take the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and hide it at the back of my sock drawer, next to the geode Michael gave me. For a second I think about calling him but I don’t know what I’d say. Why did you help me this afternoon? Thanks for the rock and the knife? No, I can’t call him. It would be too weird. Besides I don’t even have his number. I don’t understand boys. Still, it’s nice to get gifts, even if they are rocks and knives.

  ***

  For some reason Denise thinks it is important for us to eat dinner together every night. She doesn’t make the mistake of trying her luck in the kitchen again, but sticks to the things she knows: pasta, takeout and frozen dinners. She pours a glass of wine for herself and lets me have a can of root beer, even though my mother would kill her if she knew. Some rules she sticks to like glue, but others she breaks without even batting a false
eyelash.

  “We almost never eat in the kitchen,” I say. “You know that. You’ve been here enough times.”

  “I just thought it would be nice,” Denise says. “So. Any cute boys in your class or have you got your sights set on an older man? Maybe someone in grade eight? What about that boy with the rock? What was his name again?”

  “His name is Michael, and it’s a geode, and I don’t like him.”

  “Okay, okay. Just trying to make a little friendly conversation.”

  We go back to eating our Lean Cuisine chicken pot pies in silence for awhile.

  “You know, when your mother was younger, she had men falling all over her, too. And just like you, she didn’t give them the time of day. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I look up but Denise is digging into her dinner like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

  “Really?”

  Denise nods. “You bet. I was positively sick with envy. I would’ve given anything for just one of those boys to look my way. Sometimes it was hard to be best friends with Annie Delaney.”

  I don’t know why Denise is telling me this. It makes me feel uncomfortable. But a small part of me knows exactly how she feels, the part of me that thinks that sometimes it’s hard to be Annie Delaney’s daughter. Not that I’d ever tell her that.

  ***

  Every night around eight o’clock my stomach starts to hurt. Nothing serious, just a little ache, like when you eat too much ice cream or are about to write a big test. It hurts right up until the phone rings and I hear my mother’s voice and then I can go back to feeling normal again. We always have the same conversation.

  “Hi, baby. How was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything funny happen?”

  “Not really.”

  “How’s Benji?”

  “Fine,” I lie.

  “Are you being good for Denise?”

  Am I being good for Denise? Like I’m some sort of little kid and Denise is my babysitter.

  “Yes.”

  This is the part where I’m supposed to ask her how she’s feeling, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If I were a better person maybe I could, but the truth is I don’t want to know. If I ask her how she’s feeling and the answer is bad, then I have to think about how maybe she won’t get better. Or that even if she gets better this time, cancer can always come back.

  “Good. It makes me happy to know you two are getting along together.”

  I didn’t exactly say that, but I let it slide. I don’t want her to worry about anything except getting better. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. She tells me funny stories about the people she lives with and they all seem so normal that I forget that she’s away getting cancer treatment. I imagine that she’s at a big stylist’s convention, learning about new products and trading hair secrets.

  “Well, put Denise on and I’ll let you get back to your homework.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye, baby. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  At least that much is true.

  Bathrooms

  Disaster strikes during history.

  “Mr. Campbell, may I have the washroom pass, please?”

  He barely looks up at me from the overhead on ancient Egypt. “You just got back from lunch, Clarissa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lunch or recess is the preferred time to use the washroom.”

  “I know.”

  “If you go now, you will miss out on the thrilling secret of Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

  “Isn’t it in the textbook?”

  Mr. Campbell throws his hands in the air. “Clarissa, Clarissa! Where is your sense of adventure? Of course it’s in the textbook, but I am going to reveal it to you piece by piece, as a sort of riddle. The Egyptians were crazy about riddles.”

  I don’t care for riddles. They’ve been ruined by teachers who use them to teach you something and take all the fun out of them.

  “I really need to go,” I insist.

  Mr. Campbell sighs and gestures at the pass, hanging on a nail by the door. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of nature,” he says.

  I slide out of my desk and saunter to the doorway as if nothing is out of the ordinary. I even take the time to shut the door gently behind me, which is more than I do in my own house. After I’m out of sight of the classroom, I walk as fast as I can without looking too stupid to the girl’s bathroom.

  There in the stall my worst fears come true. I hadn’t been imagining things in class. There is a spot on my underwear. A brownish red spot. At first I’m not sure what it is. I thought it would be more red. How can this be? I am as flat as flat can be and yet here I am, with a dark stain staring up at me from the inside of my underwear. You are supposed to develop first and then get your period. That’s what the video said in health class. Everything is backward.

  I check my jeans and hallelujah, there’s no stain; it hadn’t leaked through my underwear. I ball up a wad of toilet paper and start dabbing at the stain, but then I remember the time when Denise spilled red wine on my mom’s good (well, only) tablecloth, and Mom told her not to wipe at it because it would rub it in and she’d never be able to get it out. What if blood is like wine, and I am ruining my underwear forever? Not that it matters. The second I get home I’m going to throw them out so no one will ever find them. If I ever get out of the bathroom, that is.

  How long have I been sitting here? Two minutes? Ten? Sooner or later Mr. Campbell will notice that I’m not back yet. He’ll send someone to come check on me. Then what? I could say I was sick, that I had bad ham in my sandwich and now I’m throwing up all over the place. I could blame Denise, who isn’t used to making lunches, and say she must have forgotten to check the expiry date before piling on the meat. All it would take is for Mr. Campbell to look in our fridge and he’d believe it in a second.

  But even if I do make it back to class, how can I possibly act like everything is normal? I feel like a preschooler who has wet her pants, except this is way worse. When you’re a little kid no one cares if you wet your pants. Everyone has accidents once in awhile and everyone forgets about them the next day. People even bring spare underpants with them. But this is different. This, I’m supposed to be prepared for. Seventh graders are mean. And they never forget. I’ll never live it down.

  And then there’s the problem of further stain prevention. There is a dispenser on the wall of the bathroom, but how am I supposed to get there with my underwear around my knees? Whoever designs bathrooms should really put a dispenser inside every stall. I hate this stupid bathroom in this stupid school. I hate being a girl. It’s not fair. Nothing happens to boys.

  Now I’m actually starting to feel sick. My lunch is starting to bubble in my stomach and I’ve got that sour taste in my mouth that usually means I’m about to throw up. It’s getting harder to swallow the lumps in my throat, but I will not allow myself to cry.

  Just then the door swings open and a pair of fussy black shoes with straps and ladybug buckles appears. You don’t need to be a genius at Whose Shoes to guess who it is. Only one person would wear ridiculous shoes like that.

  “Clarissa?” says Mattie.

  I resist the urge to draw my feet up onto the toilet seat. What good would it do? She already knows I’m here. There is only one girls’ bathroom on the second floor and she probably saw my feet when she walked in.

  “Clarissa, are you okay?”

  The last person I want to talk to is Mattie Cohen. She probably volunteered to come and check on me. What a suck-up. This has to be the universe punishing me for being such a bad daughter.

  “Clarissa?” She knocks on the stall. “I know you’re in there. Are you sick?”

  “No. Well. Sort of.”

  I watch as Mattie’s feet take a big step back from the stall. “Did you throw up?”

  “No.”

  There’s a long pause. I begin to hope that she’s left, but t
hen her feet reappear by the stall.

  “Is it — I mean, do you need, like, something from the dispenser?”

  This is my chance. I can sit here until school gets out and hope no one else comes looking for me, which is unlikely, or ask Mattie Cohen to get me a pad. I know what the right choice is but that doesn’t make it any easier. Mattie can’t keep a secret. In ten minutes the whole class will know that Clarissa Delaney has her period. But what other option do I have?

  “Yes.” There. I said it. The jig is up.

  “I’ll get you one! My mom gave me an emergency quarter for this sort of thing but I’ve never had to use it. I haven’t gotten mine yet. You’re so lucky, Clarissa.”

  I don’t feel lucky. I feel heavy. Plus, my stomach is really starting to ache. Maybe these are my first cramps. On the other side of the stall, Mattie kneels and passes me a pad wrapped up in a light pink wrapper.

  “What does it feel like?” she asks.

  “Wet.”

  “Ewww, that’s gross.”

  “Of course, it’s gross. It’s blood.”

  The pad is huge, like someone cut a fat strip out of a diaper. I stand up. It even feels like I’m wearing a diaper. Will people be able to tell? Oh, well. It’s either ruin my clothing or wear the diaper — or worse, a tampon, and I don’t even want to think about that process. I flush the toilet and emerge from the stall, almost smacking Mattie in the face with the door.

  “Cripes, do you have to stand so close?”

  Mattie jumps back and looks me up and down, like she’s searching for proof.

  “Do you feel different?” she asks.

  “Not really. My stomach hurts a little.”

  Mattie nods. “Cramps. My mother says the best thing to do is to lie in bed with a hot water bottle and avoid sugar.”

  I’m pretty sure we don’t have a water bottle. Maybe I can convince Mom to get me one. Then the realization hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach. Mom’s not home. I’ll have to tell Denise. She’ll probably cry and insist on doing my makeup to welcome me to womanhood. Barf. If only there was a way to keep it secret from her, but someone needs to go to the drugstore and buy me my own supply of pads, and I don’t think I can stand any more embarrassment.