Runt

by Nora Raleigh Baskin

There was some controversy when a few of the parents thought “The Tropics” was in bad taste, considering all the damage done from tropical storm Helen, but in the end it remained. Two large blow-up palm trees flanked the entrance to the cafeteria and leis of brightly colored plastic flowers were wrapped around each banister leading up the stairs. Inside, with the tables folded and pushed against the wall, four rounded stacks of yellow balloons stood in the center of the cafeteria. Tall shoots of green balloons poured from the top, creating the effect of giant pineapples, and the usually bare walls were hung with papier-mâché parrots. It was all very lovely and, well, tropical.

  But Elizabeth Moon was a girl with a mission.

  Revenge is a dessert best served cold, or something like that.

  Speaking of dessert, Maggie was right there, standing at the refreshment table. The table itself was draped with dried grass and more leis. Maggie was dipping into a watermelon-shaped bowl of punch.

  It was the perfect time.

  “Can I have in on it?”

  Elizabeth unlocked her eyes from her target and turned around. “Huh?”

  It was Zoe. “I can tell you’ve got something in mind, something nasty. To be perfectly honest, I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d do worse.”

  “Worse than what?” Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time Zoe Bellaro talked to her directly, or even indirectly. Oh—yes, she did. At the lunch table just before the storm, Zoe was making fun of what Elizabeth had said in class about her poem. It felt like a year had passed since then.

  “Whatever you’re planning, I can see it in your eyes. So tell me, what is it?”

  Maggie had moved away from the refreshments and they couldn’t see where she went. A couple of kids were actually dancing in the center of the room. The DJ music was loud. Lights swirled on the ceiling.

  “What are you talking about?” Elizabeth said slowly.

  For all Elizabeth knew, Zoe had been part of the Smelly-Girl person2person page too, and just posted a comment to throw people off. And maybe Larissa and probably Justin Benton and who knows who else? And even if Zoe hadn’t been part of it, she could have been, in a heartbeat.

  It was like one of those scary movies where all of a sudden, all the faces in the room reveal themselves in their true form, scaly green skin and long reptilian tongues, or decomposing flesh and hanging eyeballs, or furry tall ears and fangs.

  “Holy moly,” Zoe said out loud. “Look at that!”

  Zoe’s face looked pretty much the same as always. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes smiling. She was pointing to the center of the cafeteria-turned-dance-floor where Stewart Gunderson stood with his pants around his ankles and half his underwear pulled down in back.

  “Now that’s what I call payback,” Zoe said.

  • • •

  What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  Swing around and punch this asshole right in the face? Who did it, anyway? Whoever it was is gone. Who had the nerve to pants me? Me?

  Zoe is just staring at me, waiting. So are Maggie and Matthew, Ethan. Everyone. Even Coach Fogden and Miss Robinson, standing there, and no one is doing anything.

  • • •

  What I feel like doing is running. Just running away.

  But I get it.

  I get it. I feel the whole pack of them, waiting. To see what I’m going to do.

  What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  When Jolie can’t do something, when she’s tired, or too sick, or when she has to go into the hospital for oxygen treatments, I watch her face. I know her so well. I knew her face before I recognized my own. My mom says only Jolie could comfort me when I was first born. I was colicky, whatever that is.

  She’s the one in a wheelchair, but she’s my big sister. When I was really little, like three or four, I tried to imitate the sounds she made. My grandmother was visiting.

  “Don’t you ever make fun of your sister.” I thought she was going to hit me. She never believed me.

  Making fun of my sister?

  Why I would do that? I would never do that. Jolie was my “big sister”. I just wanted to be like her.

  I didn’t understand back then, but I do now. People assume the worst and very rarely does anyone listen. I stopped trying to convince my grandmother what really happened a long time ago.

  I do know that when my sister’s face says hurt and pain, she makes a joke. She laughs to make us feel better.

  “Okay. Show’s over. No worries, I wasn’t dropping my pants to pee on anyone. Just needed a little air, that’s all. “

  And that was all.

  • • •

  Dumping a vat of pig’s blood on top of Maggie’s head while the whole grade stood watching sounded wonderful but hard to pull off. Getting her to sit down on a chair with special invisible liquid that turned bright yellow and smelled like urine upon contact with fabric also sounded good, but such a concoction might not even exist. Cutting off all of Maggie’s hair while she stood at the sink washing her hands might even be dangerous. But armed with her newfound information and a feasible plan, Elizabeth was able to attend the first Preston Middle School sixth-grade dance with an odd, if uncomfortable, confidence.

  But then seeing Stewart with his pants down, so scared, and so frozen, and so embarrassed, gave her second thoughts. Elizabeth ran outside and sat down in the hall to get up her courage.

  It was funny, right?

  Stewart Gunderson had been taken down a notch or ten. Standing there with half his butt exposed, desperately reaching for his jeans and having to bend all the way down to find them, while clutching his underwear in his other hand. Now, that’s funny.

  No, it was mean.

  Whoever did it was just plain mean.

  “Are you all right, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Robinson leaned down, with her hands on her knees, and spoke softly.

  Elizabeth looked up. Mrs. Robinson was chaperoning with her new husband, Mr. Robinson, although right now she seemed to be alone.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I sit with you, then?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  “On the floor?”

  But Mrs. Robinson was already beside her, sitting with her legs straight out, probably because she was wearing a skirt.

  “I like your shoes,” Elizabeth said.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Robinson said. “You know, you are a sweet girl. Very special. And very talented.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the tile floor, inspecting every smudge and crack, and didn’t say anything.

  “In fact, I’d love to see you submit your poem to a real poetry anthology. I mean, one that isn’t just for our class. A national publication for students.”

  Elizabeth felt her eyes lift from the ground and settle about midway at the wall in front of her. She could see Mrs. Robinson’s hands folded on her lap.

  “I can’t promise you anything, because this publication doesn’t accept all the work they receive, but I know you’ll be read. And I know you’ll stand out even if they don’t choose your poem.”

  Mrs. Robinson went on. “Or you could just keep writing. And you can show me your work whenever you’d like. You are only thirteen.”

  “Twelve,” Elizabeth said.

  “See? You’re a good writer, Elizabeth. You have something to say and you say it beautifully.”

  Elizabeth finally looked up. “But . . .”

  “And it’s okay to know that.” Mrs. Robinson smiled. She pressed her hands to the floor and started to stand.

  “Poor Stewart,” Elizabeth said.

  “Stewart’s fine,” Mrs. Robinson told her. “Boys will fight and let it go.”

  “Is the kid who did it going to get in trouble? I mean, did anyone see who did it?”

  Mrs. Robinson shrugged. “Let’s not worry about that. Come on inside and get something to eat from the luau.” She laughed.

  “Worry about which?” Elizabeth asked, but Mrs. Robinson was already heading back into the cafeteria.


  • • •

  I hate dances. I hate dresses. I never wear them but my mother said you have to wear a dress to dance. (The truth is, my mother forced me to come when Nadine told her the whole grade would be here, and sometimes you just have to pick your battles. Especially with your mother.) Then Nadine begged me, for once, to be normal, so here I am, at the dance in a dress.

  Right now I am expecting to hide in the bathroom, read my book, and wait out the duration of this luau. I really didn’t need to see Stewart Gunderson’s bare backside—yet another reminder of how stupid middle school is. Anyway, this is a really good book.

  No one goes in the last stall, not since it was rumored that there was a peephole from the boys’ room, which isn’t true, I’m sure. When I hear someone come in, I lift up my feet and wait.

  Girls are funny in the bathroom and most of them come in groups and just stand at the sink and talk about their faces and their hair and then walk out again. Then I hear Maggie, and I know it’s Maggie because she’s humming to herself, and Maggie always hums to herself. It’s this song her dad used to sing to her, she once told me, and I am just about to come out, because I think I should just come out and say hi to Maggie. It’s been a long time and maybe we could be sort-of friends again. Let bygones be bygones and all that, right?

  Then Elizabeth Moon walks in. And I think, Uh-oh.

  I guess Elizabeth could just turn around and walk back out when she sees Maggie—and not me, remember, I am hiding in the last stall with my feet up on the seat. But she doesn’t. I heard the door open and I heard Elizabeth’s voice.

  Oh, Maggie. You’re in here.

  And I hear the door close but nobody’s feet are moving.

  Oh, Elizabeth. Hi.

  Hi.

  Now, this is an awkward silence. Everybody thinks that Maggie made that mean Smelly-Girl person2person page with Elizabeth’s photo, but of course nobody knows for sure.

  I know you did it.

  Did what? I hear Maggie answer, and so now I know Maggie did it. There’s no way she doesn’t know what Elizabeth is talking about. Maggie’s lying.

  Don’t bother, Maggie. I was going to get you back tonight but I changed my mind. I’m a better human being than you are.

  I really should come out of the stall and get out of here, but for some reason I feel like it’s already gone too far. I am already in deeper than I wanted.

  Oh, yeah. And how were you going to do that?

  I have a love letter you wrote to Mr. Edelman. I was going to read it over the DJ’s sound system.

  Another beat of silence. I thought I was the only one who knew about Maggie’s crush on the school psychologist, Mr. Edelman. She’s been in love with him for years, ever since her parents got separated and she used to go talk to him once a week. Did she write him letters? And how would Elizabeth get a hold of one?

  No, Elizabeth is bluffing.

  But Maggie is too freaked out to think logically. She’s the worst poker player. She’s not the person you want next to you in battle, let’s just put it that way.

  You can’t do that.

  Wait, Maggie really did write love letters to Mr. Edelman?

  Don’t worry. I’m not going to. I won’t stoop to your level. You have to live with yourself and what you did.

  Okay, Elizabeth, take it easy, I think. You don’t say that to Maggie Carey and get away with it. But still, I don’t move and I don’t say a thing. I think my foot is falling asleep.

  You don’t have any letter, do you, Elizabeth?

  Oh, yes I do. It’s in my locker.

  Elizabeth is a worse poker player.

  Good grief.

  Look, Elizabeth. I’m really sorry about the person2person thing. I mean, I didn’t do it, but it was awful and I bet you feel terrible. We have to stop this kind of thing.

  I could hear Maggie’s voice change.

  Didn’t you see what just happened to Stewart? Wasn’t that mean? Maggie was really working it now.

  I really think we girls need to stick together. This storm really taught me something. I think it’s changed all of us, don’t you?

  I don’t know, Maggie.

  Wait, I’ll text Zoe and Larissa we can all go back out and dance a little bit. Okay? You wanna come?

  I hear feet moving. The water turns on and off.

  So why don’t you go get the letter and give it back to me and we can be friends?

  I hear a paper towel being ripped from the metal rack.

  Really?

  Sure. C’mon. That letter is silly, anyway. How did you get it, by the way?

  You’ll be mad.

  No, of course not. We’re going to be in high school in a few years, and we’ll look back at this and laugh.

  Elizabeth laughs. Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll go get it.

  I hear the bathroom door open. The sounds from the hall and the dance filter in as together, Maggie and Elizabeth’s footsteps walk out, and I can’t hear what they are saying any more.

  I check my cell phone: 9:14. Forty-five minutes to go.

  • • •

  Ethan found himself staring at Maggie in spite of himself. She was wearing a very tight, short black dress that sparkled under the moving pink and orange lights above, so that the dress seemed to shift and undulate even as Maggie stood still at the refreshment table talking to Zoe and Larissa. It was sort of hypnotizing.

  When she tossed her head back, laughing at something Zoe had said, her dark hair unwound from around her shoulder where she had been twisting it and spread out along her back.

  “What’s up, man?” Matthew came up behind him and slapped him on the back.

  “Not much.”

  Matthew followed Ethan’s gaze across the dance floor. “Maggie Carey?”

  “I know. Screwed up, right?”

  “Pretty much,” Matthew answered.

  Maggie gathered her hair and began twisting it in front of her other shoulder. She was deep in conversation.

  “She’s the one that made that person2person page, you know,” Matthew offered.

  Ethan looked away. “I know. I took the profile picture.”

  Matthew looked surprised. “You did?”

  “I didn’t really know what it was for. Maggie asked me to get a good close-up photo. You know, I just did it.”

  “Not cool.”

  “I know.” Ethan felt a slight relief in confessing his guilt, even if in this very safe way, but not much. Maybe it was like his mother used to say, no mistake is too big as long as you learn from it.

  Very few kids were dancing. Most of the grade seemed pressed against the wall or sitting at the open tables. There were fans blowing wind over the hula-skirted refreshments table, but that was about all that was moving in the room. Stewart was wisely standing with his basketball teammates, reestablishing his status. Elizabeth Moon walked by, smiling. She was holding something in her hands.

  “What’s that all about?” Matthew watched as Elizabeth went directly toward Maggie, Zoe, and Larissa.

  “No idea, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “Maybe it’s a letter bomb and Elizabeth’s going to blow that freakin’ smirk right off Maggie’s face.” Matthew put his arm around Ethan. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  They both watched as Elizabeth handed the letter to Maggie. They watched as Maggie unfolded the letter, glanced at it, and then stuffed it into the tiny black purse that dangled from her wrist. Elizabeth just stood there in some kind of anticipation.

  “She’s not the girl for you,” Matthew said. Both boys watched the scene before them unfold like a silent movie. The three characters—Maggie, Zoe, and Larissa—started to step away from the table. The fourth character, Elizabeth, began to follow. It seemed that she was saying something to them.

  Matthew added, “You’re the sensitive type.”

  “I am not,” Ethan said.

  The three girls in front suddenly stopped, presumably to the sound of the fourth girl’s voice, and turned around in
unison.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Matthew told Ethan. “Just hide it better.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  Across the room Maggie started laughing first, as if she had just heard the funniest thing in the world.

  “Nah,” Matthew said. “I’m the jester. You know, the court jester? The one who makes everybody laugh but inside he’s really laughing at everyone else? Especially the king. I am especially laughing at the king.”

  “Like that?” Ethan gestured with his chin toward the girls. Zoe and Larissa had joined in to whatever was so hysterical, although apparently Elizabeth didn’t find it funny at all. Elizabeth stood with her eyes down and her whole body limp. She didn’t move, but she didn’t cry.

  “No,” Matthew said. “Nothing like that. Nothing like that at all.”

  INSIDE OF A HUMAN

  * * *

  Freida and Elizabeth sat on the curb outside of the school, both with their knees bent and pressed into their bodies, huddled close to each other.

  “Another reason I hate dresses,” Freida said. “My legs are freezing.”

  Elizabeth was quiet.

  Most of the other kids had gone home, though a few late rides were still trickling in. There was a police officer in the street directing traffic, and the chaperones were checking to make sure everyone was in the right car.

  “My mother is always late,” Elizabeth said finally.

  “Mine never is, so I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Another car pulled up in the dark.

  “Yours?”

  “Nope. Yours?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, the cold is good for you. It makes you tough,” Freida said. She jumped up. “C’mon, let’s dance around and get warm. That way I can tell my mother I danced at this stupid dance tonight and not be lying.” Freida spun once and waved her arms around. “There. Done.”

  She sat down next to Elizabeth again.

  “I’m the furthest thing from tough,” Elizabeth said.

  “Why, because you didn’t take Maggie down? And lower yourself to her level?”

  Elizabeth looked at Freida. “How did you . . .”

  “Never mind, just trust me. You are better off in the long run. With girls like Maggie it never ends.”