Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  Busted

  The last bell goes and people grab their books and bolt for the door. It’s what I would be doing if I hadn’t been asked to stay behind to have a chat with Mr. Campbell.

  “I’ll wait for you,” Mattie offers.

  I wave her off.

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Call me!” Mattie says.

  I shrug, which is not exactly a no, but it’s not a yes, either. Mr. Campbell sits at his desk and rifles through a pile of papers. He doesn’t even look up at me. Two can play this game. I take out the homework from Friday and pretend to get started on that. Every once in awhile I steal a glance through my eyelashes, but Mr. Campbell hasn’t moved. He clears his throat, but when I look up he still has his nose buried in those papers.

  After what seems like a year, he stops what he’s doing and smiles at me like he hadn’t noticed I was right there in front of him for ten whole minutes.

  “Clarissa,” he says, folding his hands in front of him. “Clarissa Louise Delaney.”

  I don’t like it when people use my full name, it makes me nervous. Not that I would ever let him know that. I smile brightly and say in my most chipper voice, “Yes, Mr. Campbell?”

  Mr. Campbell reaches into his desk and pulls out a fat folder. He walks over, tosses it on my desk and says, “I need your help with something. I received this from Principal Donner the other day. Take a look at these and tell me what you would do if you were in my position.”

  “Okay.”

  I open the folder and find a pile of letters staring up at me. I recognize them right away. Dear Principal Donner, I am writing to issue a formal complaint about a Mr. Campbell … my child comes home crying everyday because of something that Mr. Campbell has said … Mr. Campbell is a lazy and incompetent teacher … I have three children and never has any of them complained about a teacher more than my son has complained about Mr. Campbell. Reading them over, I can’t believe I was so mean. The letters are so angry, so full of hate. I am so ashamed that I can’t look up at him.

  “Well? What would you do?” he asks quietly.

  I don’t trust myself to say anything.

  “You know, it’s hard being the new guy,” Mr. Campbell says. “Especially when the shoes you’re trying to fill are so big. I gather Miss Ross was pretty out of this world.”

  He waits for me to say something, but all I can manage is a shrug. When he speaks again his voice is quiet.

  “Tell me about her.”

  And so I tell him about the bird’s nest, and how she brought me to this very room and told me I was an eagle and I believed her. I tell him how I had waited and waited for this year, and now that it is here and I am living it, nothing has gone the way I planned. As the truth comes out I realize that if Miss Ross knew about the letters she would be ashamed of me. I am ashamed of me. I feel less like an eagle and more like a worm.

  “An eagle,” Mr. Campbell says.

  I nod, feeling exposed and embarrassed, but Mr. Campbell doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me thoughtfully.

  “You’re a good mimic, Clarissa, and a great writer. In fact, I wish you would put as much effort into your assignments as you did into these letters. But you’re not that good. Principal Donner and I thought a lot about what we should do about these, about what sort of punishment would be appropriate. I asked her to leave it up to me.”

  Here it comes. I take a shaky breath and wait for the axe to fall. I’ll be suspended, held back a year, or worse, he’ll show my mother and she’ll take back all those things she said about being proud of me.

  “The thing is,” Mr. Campbell continues, “I think you’ve been punished enough.”

  What? There has to be a catch. When I look up, Mr. Campbell puts his big chin in his hands and looks right at me.

  “You’ve had a rough year, Clarissa.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Well? Haven’t you?”

  Somehow I find my voice. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Campbell laughs. “Sir! Now I know you’re feeling out of sorts. See, the thing is, I know these aren’t really about me,” Mr. Campbell taps the letters littered all over my desk. “They’re about your mom, Benji, Miss Ross and everything else, but they aren’t about me. When I read your essay, I finally got a glimpse of what’s going on up there.”

  Mr. Campbell points at my head. I’m confused. What essay? What is he talking about?

  “I want you to know that I am not the enemy here. If you need to talk about something, if you want to yell and scream, you can come to me. And in the meantime, we’re going to make a deal. I will forget I ever saw those letters, and in return you will help out with the Lunchtime Lineup from now until the end of school. Put those writing skills to good use and find me some interesting stories about the students and the staff right here at Ferndale. You certainly have a flair for dramatics, there’s no doubt about that, but this is your chance to make a difference. ”

  He can’t be serious. It’s too good to be true. As lame as the student radio station is, it’s better than detention or suspension.

  “Well? Do we have a deal?”

  Mr. Campbell offers me his hand. I shake it, and he smiles.

  “A wise choice, Clarissa. Now, let’s get rid of the evidence, shall we?”

  And with that, he sweeps the letters off my desk and dumps them into the recycling bin.

  “Before you go, here’s your essay back. And for what it’s worth, I think you should show your mother. I think she’d be very touched.”

  I take my essay from him, except it’s not my essay at all. It has a drawing of my mom on it, with the title Annette Delaney: Local Wonder Woman written just like the comic book across the top. It’s Benji’s original essay, except on the bottom, Benji has erased his name and replaced it with mine.

  ***

  Benji is sitting in bed with a whole stack of pillows propping him up, watching the TV his dad brought in and set up on his dresser. His left eye is still puffy looking, but the bruise has started to turn yellow and green at the edges. There is a cut in his lip and his right arm is held across his body in a sling.

  Benji lists off his injuries. Each one makes me angrier and angrier.

  “Cracked rib, black eye, minor concussion. You know, regular hockey type injuries.”

  Benji smiles at his own joke, then winces, touching his lip gently.

  “Here, I brought this for you,” I say, handing him a makeup bag full of concealer, foundation and correction sticks. “So you can do your face up for school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back yet,” Benji says. “Besides, I was thinking of going au naturel. Everybody knows anyway.”

  “Hey Benji, how come the principal is still looking for the people who beat you up?”

  Benji looks down but doesn’t say anything.

  “Didn’t you tell anybody?”

  “They’d think I was a tattletale.”

  “I heard all about your essay, Benji, the whole school did! Terry already thinks you’re a tattletale. The difference is now you can really get him.”

  Benji chews thoughtfully on his Oreo and refuses to look at me.

  “What is it, are you afraid?”

  “Look at my face, Clarissa. Of course, I’m afraid.”

  “But everyone knows now, the teachers, everyone. You’re safer now than ever.”

  “I’m not afraid for me, I’m afraid for you. Terry told me that if I said anything to anyone they’d come after you.”

  A little warning bell goes off in my head but I ignore it. Surely he wasn’t serious. Terry DiCarlo is an idiot, but he can’t be that stupid.

  “And you believed him? I’m a girl; he’d never do anything to me. And no offence, Benji, but I’m a better runner than you are. I can outrun Terry and his friends.”

  Benji shakes his head.

  “You weren’t there, Clarissa. You don’t know how crazy Terry can get.”

  I don’t really want to
know how crazy that is, and from the way Benji fidgets with the edge of his blanket, I can tell he doesn’t really want to get into it, either.

  “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, changing the subject. “Mr. Campbell gave me my essay back, or I should say, he gave me your essay back.”

  Benji squirms.

  “Why did you do that?” I demand.

  “You didn’t tell him, did you?” he asks.

  “No! But I should have. He knows about the letters, Benji. He kept me after school and asked me what I thought he should do about them.”

  “What did you say?”

  I throw my hands up.

  “Nothing! What was I supposed to say?”

  “Did you cry?”

  “No, I did not cry … although I thought I might,” I admit.

  “I would have cried for sure.”

  “Well, that’s not saying much, you cry at everything. The point is, he knew it was me, and instead of punishing me, all I have to do is collect material for the stupid Lunchtime Lineup. Can you believe it?”

  “Yes,” Benji says. “I like Mr. Campbell. He came with me to the hospital, you know.”

  This bit of information is new and surprising.

  “Really?” I ask.

  Benji nods.

  “Yup. And he stayed with me until Dad showed up. I think he might be the nicest person I know. Besides your mom. Too bad he’s already married; they would make the world’s nicest couple.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Great. And now he thinks I wrote an essay that you actually wrote, which makes me a liar, and he wants me to show it to my mom.”

  I sit up as a horrible thought occurs to me.

  “What if he shows it to her on parent-teacher night?”

  “He gave it back to you, right?” Benji points out.

  I sigh and fall back on the pillows.

  “Right. Phew. That was close.”

  “So, you’re not going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know yet. I got an A.”

  “You mean I got an A.”

  “Right, whatever. Besides, I think if he had read my Oprah essay he probably would have punished me way harder.”

  “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t,” Benji says.

  “You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

  Benji shrugs.

  “You had a lot going on. I knew you’d forgotten all about it.”

  “So?”

  “So, I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Besides, it was already finished.”

  Sometimes you love a person so much that you can never find the words to tell them without sounding goofy or fake. If I hadn’t bawled my eyes out a few days ago, or maybe if I were Mattie Cohen, I’d be crying right now and hugging Benji’s bony little body so hard he’d be one big bruise. But I am Clarissa Louise Delaney, so instead I look him right in the eyes and tell him, “You can borrow my homework whenever you need to for the rest of our lives until we’re done school.” I hope he gets that I mean so much more than that.

  Broadcasting

  When Mr. Campbell assigned me to the Lunchtime Lineup, I thought, well, it’ll be boring, not to mention a total waste of my lunch hour, but how bad can it be? Anything is better than having to tell my mom what I did, or having to tell her what I did and being suspended, too, right? Wrong. Mr. Campbell forgot to tell me that for the rest of the year I am basically going to be Jessica Riley’s personal slave.

  Jessica Riley is the queen of grade eight, and, therefore, the entire school. At least she thinks she is. But having blond hair with a natural wave and being president of student council does not make you queen of everything. Not that I would ever tell Jessica that. It’s easier just to nod and do what she tells me. Later, at home, I do impressions of her for Benji. He thinks they’re hilarious. I can only do one or two, though, because he laughs so hard his bruised rib hurts. I think doing impressions is excellent training for when I am an actress.

  At first Jessica was excited to have “an assistant,” and she flitted around the radio station pointing everything out to me. But since I’m not allowed to touch any of the sound or recording equipment, I didn’t pay very much attention.

  “This is a very important job,” Jessica had said, speaking slowly so that I understood just how important the job is. “We are the voice of Ferndale. The student body relies on us to bring them interesting stories that they can relate to. Like the piece I did on the orphans in cages in Romania.”

  Even though I was dying to, I didn’t ask how we, the students of Ferndale, were supposed to relate to babies in Romania. I bet most people couldn’t even point to Romania on a map. I know I can’t. I also bit my tongue and refrained from reminding her that particular story made at least three people cry, and that Mr. Campbell had asked the Lunchtime Lineup crew to focus on local issues from then on. I didn’t say any of this. All I said was, “Right.”

  “So, do you have any leads?” Jessica asked me. I shrugged. Jessica cocked her head to one side in a way she probably thinks is cute. When she spoke again, her voice was sticky-sweet. “I was thinking maybe I could do a story about your mom. Maybe I can interview you and your mom together, you know, about your experience.”

  “No.”

  Jessica smiled and patted me on the shoulder. She has a lot of very white teeth. Like a shark. “Of course,” she said. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

  I’d shaken her hand off my shoulder and glared at her. Her smile disappeared and she turned and flipped through her binder, which is covered in pictures of boys cut from magazines. Barf. Without looking up, she said, “Well, if you don’t have anything to offer, you can make yourself useful and get sound bites about March Break. You know, what people are doing, are they going on a trip, blah, blah, blah. And don’t get too many grade sevens. They can barely string a sentence together.”

  I pretended not to hear that the last bit and slipped the handheld recorder into my backpack. “Anything else?” I asked sweetly.

  “Yes,” Jessica said. “Get me a Diet Coke.”

  And so my punishment began.

  ***

  Back when Lunchtime Lineup was new, people used to run up to Jessica or whoever had the recorder to give their opinions. Now people are pretty bored of it, and I practically have to beg them to talk into the microphone. At first it was hard walking up to a group of people and interrupting them for an interview, but it’s gotten easier. Sometimes Mattie tags along. She loves talking to people, even strangers.

  “Hi, there! We’re with Lunchtime Lineup. Can we get a moment of your time?”

  I guess something about her enthusiasm is contagious — I always have more luck when she’s around. When she’s not with me, I pretend to be her: perky and smiley and totally committed to the show. It usually works, even though I feel like a phoney the whole time. The other kids don’t seem to notice.

  Most of the stories aren’t very exciting: 6A has raised $1000 for the Alzheimer Society, the floor hockey team is having a bake sale, auditions for the school musical are coming soon. But sometimes I’ll be talking to someone, and they’ll have a really cool story. Like a few days ago, I was talking to a kid in grade six whose family just adopted a baby girl from China. Today, I met this other kid whose dad had been an Olympic curler. I mean, it’s not like he was a famous hockey player, or one of those skiers who does crazy tricks in the air, but still, he went to the Olympics. I thought that interview was pretty good. But no matter how lame or how cool the story is, Jessica barely acknowledges me.

  “Just leave it on the desk and I’ll get Mike to edit it,” she says. Then she adds, “I hope we can use it.”

  Bonding

  In class, I pass Mattie a note during a movie on the life cycle of the salmon. In order to get it to Mattie, I first have to pass it to Min who looks at Mattie’s name in my handwriting and then whips around in her seat to stare at me. Her eyebrows go up.

  “Is your name Mattie?
” I hiss.

  She frowns and rolls her eyes.

  “No, obviously.”

  “Well then, keep passing!”

  Min taps Mattie on the shoulder and slips her the note. Mattie takes it, grins and immediately pretends to be studying her science book, letting her hair fall over the page. Nosy-Parker Min leans as far forward in her chair as possible, trying to get a glimpse of the letter, but Mattie is a pro. As much as Mattie loves passing notes, she hates to get caught, so she has perfected the sneaky art of reading a note in class.

  After a second she scribbles a reply and leans back and pretends to ask Min for a pencil, slipping her the note. Min passes it back under my desk and I grab it, opening it to read Mattie’s reply, written in pink pen, underneath my original message:

  Dear Mattie, Would you like to come over after school? From Clarissa.

  I would love to!!! I just have to ask my mom!!! This will be soooo fun!!

  Cripes. Even her handwriting is perky.

  When I look up, Mattie is smiling and waving at me. But then Mr. Campbell clears his throat and she whips around, immediately engrossed in the salmon jumping up the river. I bet if you gave her the choice between being a teacher’s pet and being the coolest girl in school, she would pick teacher’s pet. Once a goody two-shoes, always a goody two-shoes. I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I’m sort of relying on Mattie to help me with a plan I’ve been cooking up to get Terry DiCarlo once and for good. I guess I’ll find out after school.

  ***

  “So, have you seen Benji? Is he okay? When is he coming back to school?”

  “Yes, sort of and I don’t know.”

  “Was anything broken?”

  “No, but his shoulder was dislocated and he cracked a rib.”

  “I’ve never broken a bone in my life. My mom says the pain is unbearable. I have a very low threshold for pain. I don’t think I could stand it. That’s why I always drink lots of milk and I stay away from contact sports.”

  “What about dance?”

  Mattie frowns

  “What about dance?” she asks.

  “Couldn’t you break a bone in dance class?”

  “No, I’m more likely to strain something. Besides dance isn’t a sport, it’s more of an art form.”