Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  I wonder if Denise told her about my (ugh) period, because she seems to know that I’m holding the most important thing back. Or maybe it’s just a mom thing. So I take a deep breath and tell her about history class, and Mattie finding me in the bathroom, and faking sick to go home. When I’m finished she turns in the middle of the sidewalk and wraps me in a big hug.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she says.

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not.

  “No,” Mom insists. “It isn’t okay. None of this is okay. I should be there for this stuff. I want to be there for this stuff.”

  For one horrible moment I think she might cry. I don’t know what I would do if my mother burst into tears in the middle of the street. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “It’s not like you wanted to get cancer and miss the worst day of my life.”

  She laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder. We keep walking.

  “Oh, Clarissa, I’ve missed you. I miss you every second of every day. Let’s get you a treat. Something to celebrate your transition into womanhood.”

  Ugh. I cover my ears with my hands but even my mittens are aren’t thick enough to block out those words.

  “Mom!” I protest. “Please!”

  Mom laughs.

  “Okay, okay. Not celebrate then, how about commemorate?”

  “Why would I want to remember it?” I protest.

  “Hmm.” Mom thinks about it. “What if it was to celebrate that the worst day of your life is over and done with?”

  “Can I have a coffee? A tall one with chocolate and whipped cream?”

  “I think you mean a mocha,” she points out.

  “Whatever.”

  “Yes. As a new woman on the road to adulthood, you may have a mocha.”

  “I accept.”

  We shake.

  ***

  Denise and I stay again on Friday night and take Mom out to the mall on Saturday. There is something so normal about listening to Mom and Denise argue about the price of jeans that I forget how much I hate shopping and have a great time. I am totally willing to spend another night, but Denise doesn’t want us to tire Mom out, so we head home after dinner.

  By the time Denise and I pull into the driveway, it’s dark. There are no lights, no signs of life over at Benji’s house. The curtains are absolutely still, so I know that he isn’t sitting there watching for me. My good mood sags a little bit. I was looking forward to seeing him.

  Denise slams the car door and fumbles with the keys.

  “Let’s go, kiddo,” she says. “Mini-break’s over. I’m pretty sure we left dishes in the sink. It’s going to take a minor explosion to get the crud off.”

  “What do you mean ‘we?’ You’re the one who put the dishes in the sink without rinsing them.”

  “Clarissa,” Denise’s voice has that warning note in it that Mom gets when she means business. If you ask me, she’s taking this temporary guardian thing way too seriously.

  I point out that I have homework to catch up on and Denise gives me a murderous glare.

  “Fine,” she says, “then you can call your little friend, get the assignment and sit in the kitchen and finish it while I do the dishes.”

  But we never get that far. When we get inside the red light on the answering machine is flashing, and when I press play Mattie Cohen’s voice bounces around the kitchen.

  “Clarissa, it’s Mattie. I don’t know where you are but I thought I should call you and tell you that Benji was beat up really badly today and taken away in an ambulance. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  Beat up

  There is no answer at Benji’s house. I hang up and call again, just in case the Dentonator was sleeping the first time and didn’t hear the phone. Still no answer. I slam the receiver in its cradle.

  “No answer?” Denise asks.

  I glare at her.

  “Obviously!”

  “He’s probably at the hospital.”

  “Thanks a lot, now I feel much better.”

  “Did you try your friend Mattie?”

  “She is not my friend and no, I did not, because half of what she says is made up anyway.”

  I can’t believe that Benji is really in the hospital. It doesn’t seem right. No matter how I try, I just can’t picture an ambulance coming and taking him away. I wonder who rode with him to the hospital. I feel sick thinking about it.

  “You have to call the hospital!” I shout at Denise.

  “They don’t just give out patient information, you know,” Denise starts. But when she sees how serious I am, she throws her hands up and says, “Okay, okay. Just don’t bite my head off when they tell me to get lost.”

  The phone rings and rings. Why isn’t anyone picking up? I can barely stand it.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Denise shushes me. Finally someone picks up and Denise puts on her best professional woman voice.

  “Yes, hello. I’m calling about a patient. Last name Denton, first name Benjamin, but everyone calls him Benji. He would have come in yesterday. Yes, yes, thank you.”

  Denise hangs up.

  “Well?”

  “He’s not there.”

  “Not there?”

  “He must be at home, probably asleep, poor lamb.”

  I rush over to the window and search Benji’s house for any signs of life. Nothing.

  “I’m going over there,” I say.

  Denise puts out an arm and stops me.

  “Honey, maybe it’s better to wait till morning.”

  “I can’t wait that long! I need to find out how he is! He may be dying!”

  Denise bites her lip and for a second I think she’s going to stop me, but instead she sighs and steps aside.

  “Okay, but if no one answers, don’t go breaking the door down. You come straight home and—”

  But I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I’m already out the door.

  ***

  At first there’s no answer. I ring the bell and bang on the door as loud as I can, and when that’s not enough, I kick the door with the toe of my boot. Finally a light comes on and the Dentonator opens the door.

  “Clarissa,” he says. “Christ, I thought the apocalypse was here.”

  “I need to see Benji.”

  David Denton shakes his head and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

  “He’s asleep,” he says.

  “But it’s not even nine,” I protest.

  “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Well, he looks like a kid who’s been in a fight, but he’ll be okay. No permanent damage.”

  The words permanent damage make me feel queasy.

  “What about temporary damage?” I ask.

  “He’ll live. I’ve seen a lot worse in my day.”

  I had almost forgotten I was talking to Benji’s dad, the famous Dentonator, former hockey star, genuine tough guy.

  “But you were a hockey player,” I protest. “You probably started half those fights. Benji doesn’t believe in fighting.”

  “No, he doesn’t, and frankly I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he may not have thrown the first punch, but he definitely started the fight. And from what he tells me, the other guy deserved it. Looks like you rubbed off on him.”

  Now I’m totally confused.

  The Dentonator looks at me, I mean really looks at me, before continuing.

  “You’re a good friend to my boy,” he says. “I know you’ve put yourself on the line for him in the past. You come back Monday; I know he’ll be happy to see you.”

  Then he puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes it and slips back into the darkness of the house.

  Blood

  “There you are! Where have you been? Didn’t you get my message? I have so much to tell you!”

&nb
sp; Before I can answer any of her questions, Mattie grabs the sleeve of my coat and pulls me behind the tire swings where we can talk privately before the bell rings. To be honest, I’m actually kind of glad, because ever since I arrived at school people have been staring at me and whispering.

  “Well?” Mattie demands.

  “I went to visit my mother,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Mattie’s eyes immediately go all soft.

  “Is she okay?” she asks.

  “Well, as good as one can be on chemo,” I retort.

  Mattie nods knowingly.

  “Chemotherapy is very difficult on your body,” she says, like she knows something about it. I resist the urge to say something snappy back.

  “What happened on Friday?” I ask.

  “You mean with Benji?”

  “Of course, with Benji!”

  “So you did get my message. I wasn’t sure because you never called me back.”

  I can’t believe Mattie is getting all sulky at a time like this. I am thisclose to walking away, except she is the only one who I can talk to about Benji. I clench my teeth and force myself to smile at her. As Mom says, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  “Sorry, Mattie, I was just overwhelmed with my Mom and Benji and everything.”

  I sound fake, even to myself, but Mattie buys it anyway, making her sad eyes at me and patting my arm.

  “Oh my goodness, of course! This must be so hard for you.”

  I nod and wait for her to continue.

  “Well. So, as you know, Friday was the day Mr. Campbell was going to pick the top three modern hero essays and read sections from them aloud.”

  Oh no! The essay — I had forgotten all about it. You would think Mr. Campbell would have pulled me aside to remind me, or at the very least sent a stern letter home. Instead, he was just going to let me fail. Jerk.

  “The first one he read was Julie Kennedy’s. I mean, he didn’t say so, they were all anonymous, but it was all about Dr. Wellington and the animal rescue centre. Everyone knows how crazy Julie is about animals and that she volunteers there on the weekends. It was pretty obvious.

  “The next one was about some baseball player who gives all his money to charity and adopted like, three kids from China. I think it was Michael Greenblat’s essay, but that one I’m not sure about. And then he read Benji’s.”

  I swear my heart stopped beating for a second. The thought of Mr. Campbell reading aloud to the whole class what Benji had written about my mother made me want to turn around, run home and never come back to school. Those were personal, private things. How dare he share them with the entire class! What kind of a teacher was he? I was aware of Mattie staring at me, but I didn’t trust my voice to work.

  “Did you hear me, Clarissa? The next one he read was Benji’s. Oh, Clarissa, it was so beautiful. Almost all the girls in the class cried.”

  “I can’t believe him!”

  Mattie is confused.

  “Who?” she asks.

  “Both of them!” I yell. “Putting my mom’s life on display! We aren’t entertainment! This isn’t a reality TV show!”

  “What are you talking about? It wasn’t about your mom, Clarissa. It was about you.”

  “What?”

  Mattie’s hands fly up to her mouth.

  “You mean you didn’t know?” she cries. “That makes it even more tragic!”

  For a second I think she’s going to burst into tears. I grab her arms to shake some sense into her.

  “Mattie! Focus! What did he say?”

  “He said that you were the bravest person he knew, always sticking up for people, putting on a brave face even though your mother had cancer and might die—”

  “She’s not going to die—”

  “I’m just telling you what he said! And then he talked about Terry DiCarlo and all the things he did, what a bully he was and how, from now on, he was going to stand up for himself because of you! Oh, Clarissa, it was sooo inspiring.”

  I can barely process this new and surprising information. I had read Benji’s essay. It was about Mom, not me.

  “And then what happened?” I ask.

  “Well, obviously we all knew it was Benji’s essay. No one else likes you that much, no offence, plus his face was totally red. And then, right before lunch, Mr. Campbell asked Benji to stay behind for a minute.”

  Mattie pauses for effect and looks at me like maybe it might dawn on me.

  “So?”

  Mattie rolls her eyes.

  “So, the next thing you know, Terry DiCarlo is called to the principal’s office and suspended. Because of Benji’s essay! Well, he was mad as anything, as you can imagine, and so after school him and a couple of his friends were waiting for Benji.”

  Mattie takes a deep breath and looks like she might cry again. The thought of Benji walking home alone, unprotected makes me want to cry, too.

  “Poor Benji. He didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t there, but I heard from someone who saw the whole thing that he actually tried to fight them off.”

  I feel a surge of pride for Benji.

  “Luckily someone ran and got the principal, but by the time he got there, Terry and his gang were gone and Benji was lying on the ground.”

  Mattie leans forward for the next part.

  “They had to wash his blood off the sidewalk,” she whispers.

  I shiver.

  “When the ambulance came, the police asked if anyone had seen the attacker. Everyone said no.”

  “What? But I thought you said it was Terry!” I cry.

  “Well, that’s what people said, but no one’s coming forward to say anything. Don’t you get it? Benji wrote about Terry in his essay and look what happened to him.”

  “Well isn’t that proof enough?” I ask.

  Mattie shrugs.

  “They need a witness. Besides, it happened off school property.”

  “What about Benji? What does he say?”

  “Well, that’s the strange thing. You’d think that Benji would’ve told the police and Terry would have been arrested or thrown in juvie or whatever by now. But he hasn’t. That means Benji isn’t saying anything.”

  I frown.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s afraid,” Mattie suggests. “You weren’t there. It wasn’t your brains getting bashed in.”

  “You weren’t there either,” I remind her.

  Mattie’s lip wobbles.

  “I’m just telling you what happened,” she says hotly.

  My head is spinning with all this information. I don’t know what to do with it. When the bell rings, I am thankful. At least now I can sit in math class and zone out so I can think it all over.

  ***

  I am an overnight sensation. People I don’t even know smile at me in the hall. One girl comes up to me and says, “Hang in there, Clarissa.” I’ve never talked to her before in my life! With Terry gone, the school seems friendlier and happier. More people are laughing in the hallways. It’s like Munchkinland when Dorothy drops the house on the Wicked Witch of the East; suddenly everyone’s singing and in Technicolor. I can’t believe how many people hate Terry. It makes me mad that none of them did anything about it. I am starting to feel a little guilty about all the kudos and congratulations, though. After all, I didn’t do anything. It was Benji who wrote the essay; he’s the one who put it all out there. Correction, stupid Mr. Campbell put it out there for him. Cripes, how dumb can you be? Of course Terry DiCarlo is going to come for Benji after that!

  For Benji’s sake, I decide to give Mr. Campbell the silent treatment and I am sure to glare at him extra hard when his back is turned. But he is having none of it. In fact, he smiles extra big when he sees me.

  “Clarissa! Good to have you back. The classroom is so peaceful and dull without you.”

  I nod but refuse to speak.

  “Unfortunately, you missed a busy day, but I trust Mi
ss Mattie will answer any of your questions about the homework.”

  Mattie smiles brightly.

  “Yes, Mr. Campbell,” she says.

  Ugh.

  “And if you don’t mind, I’d love for you to stay after class today. I want to return your assignment and talk to you about a few things. I’d see you at lunch, but I have a meeting.”

  I shrug and slide into my seat.

  “I’m sorry, Clarissa, I didn’t hear you,” Mr. Campbell says. He says it nice enough, but there’s an edge underneath that means business.

  “Sure thing, Mr. C. After school,” I say.

  “Grrrrreat!”

  ***

  I miss Benji the most at lunchtime. Not because I’m alone, in fact I’ve never sat with so many people at lunch before in my entire life. Mattie leads the pack of girls who plunk right down beside me at the table. They keep saying “how brave” I am, and that they’re, “praying for Benji and your mom.” When it becomes clear that I’m not about to share any juicy secrets, they sort of forget I’m there and talk among themselves about boys and some TV show I’ve never heard of because we only watch old reruns at my house.

  Across the cafeteria, Michael Greenblat keeps looking over at me. I know he won’t dare come talk to me in front of all these girls, but I find myself wishing he would. Even geodes are better than all this talk about boys.

  “Oh my God, Clarissa, Michael Greenblat is totally checking you out!” Amanda says. “What’s going on?”

  I shrug.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “We’re sort of friends.”

  The girls all look at each other and something passes between them that I must have missed, because they all start giggling.

  “Sure,” says Min, rolling her eyes, “friends.” And then she dissolves into more giggles.

  Benji isn’t a giggler.