by Pam McGaffin
“Yes, please,” I say.
Her smile is back as she hands me a giant white bag that says “Bon Marché” across the middle in bold black letters. “Have a good school year,” she says.
I say thanks but Mom just turns on her heels and brushes past the mother standing behind us. The woman glares at her before plopping her items down on the counter. Mom heads for the escalator, leaving me to carry the heavy shopping bag. Its handles dig into my right hand, and I have to switch sides as I walk. I step on the escalator just as Mom’s getting to the bottom. I expect her to stop and wait when she gets off, but she just checks to make sure I’m behind her and then keeps on going. My anger rises with the pressure of that bag handle slicing my fingers. The ground floor is more crowded, and I actually have to try to keep her in my sights as we head for the exit. By the time we’re outside, I’m so mad I want to throw my new clothes in the street and run away, maybe hitchhike to California and become a hippie. See how Mom likes that.
Oh my God! She’s actually running to cross the street before the light turns. I enter the crosswalk with others hurrying to get across. Then I stop. The light changes. One car lurches forward and brakes a foot away from hitting me. The driver beeps his horn, which starts a chorus of honking and shouting. I ignore it.
“Ida!”
I don’t move.
Mom runs over and grabs my arm. I shake off her grip and hold my ground. People on the sidewalk have turned around to watch. An old man shakes his head. But I don’t care if they all think I’m crazy.
I start walking again, but slowly, taking my time. When I finally step onto the curb, the cars roll forward behind me. “Jesus, lady!” a driver yells as he drives past. Mom grabs me by the shoulders. I let the shopping bag drop to my side. The whites of her eyes have red veins running through them. Her glare says she would slap me if all these people weren’t around, and part of me wishes she would. Her face is so red, it looks like it could explode.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Don’t you ever, ever pull a stunt like that again!” We stand toe to toe in the middle of the sidewalk, Mom’s fingernails digging into my skin.
“What about you?” I shout back. “You just left me back there.”
She says nothing as the fury drains from her face. She lets go of my shoulders and her own shoulders shudder like she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry. I had to get out of there. This isn’t working …”
I remember her vow to make things up to me, starting with the brown loafers. We might have had enough money if I’d settled for saddle shoes.
“It’s okay,” I tell her.
We both grab for the shopping bag at the same time. “Here,” she says, fishing out the sack with my shoes. “You carry these. I’ll get the rest.”
My mind continues to sift through the afternoon as we walk to the car. I shouldn’t have scared her like that. But then, she shouldn’t have left me in the lurch. She did say she was sorry. I should apologize too, but something deep inside of me won’t let me say the words.
CHAPTER 4
School
A group of fish swimming in the same direction
In third grade, there was Marcie Horvat. In fifth, it was Zach Ribarevic. They weren’t really friends, but I played kickball with Marcie and said hello to Zach in the halls of Washington Junior High. After they lost their fathers in fishing accidents, I stopped talking to them. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
Now I’m that kid getting the sorrowful stares, but only a few. Most of my schoolmates are too wrapped up in their own nerves to pay me any mind. The heel of my left loafer rubs as I walk through Annisport High’s main entrance past wall murals showing Indians and explorers and men sawing through big cedar trees. “Welcome to the home of the Annisport Lumberjacks!” says a big banner over the doors to the auditorium. This is where all the sophomores are supposed to meet for an orientation.
I sit in the back middle section of seats, close enough to see but not so close that I’m sitting with the super-smart kids with their tight braids and stinky, Brylcreemed heads. Scattered as we are in pairs and small groups, everybody talking and craning their heads, our incoming class must be a pitiful sight for the adults on stage who have the job of teaching us.
I’m content to sit by myself, though I do see some friends I recognize. They’re not close friends so I just wave. I don’t go over. And they don’t come to me, thank goodness. I don’t want to have to talk about what happened to my dad and endure them feeling sorry for me. Maybe, if no one says anything, I can almost pretend it didn’t happen.
Almost.
The screech of the microphone makes all heads turn to the stage, where a man in a black suit and thick, black-rimmed glasses stands at a podium. He introduces himself as our principal, Mr. Hargrove, and says he’s proud to be welcoming the “class of 1970” to Annisport High School, which sounds momentous, it being a new decade and all. Behind him, sitting on either side are the tenth-grade teachers, the vice-principal, and the school nurse. He introduces each one, and we clap, then he talks about “our proud Annisport High School family” and its “tradition of excellence,” and we clap some more.
The assembly takes about fifteen minutes. We get five minutes to find our first-period classes. Should we get lost, we can ask for help from one of the “student guides,” seniors wearing felt vests in our school colors of green and gray.
I have US History first period. So do a couple of my friends from junior high school. Janet Brand is one of the super-smarts, but nice. And Shelly Ford was in my PE class last year. I became her friend for life when I gave her a dime for the Kotex machine. The three of us claim neighboring desks in the back corner on the window side just as the bell rings.
Our teacher, a squat older woman with a wide mouth like a frog, writes her name—Mrs. Holland—on the blackboard before taking the roll. Being a P-name, I’m always toward the end, along with the other Slavs, all of whose names start with late letters and end in “ich” or “ic.”
After Hayley Zanich says “here,” the door opens, and a girl in a green and gray vest walks in and hands Mrs. Holland a note.
“Ida Petrovich?” She looks straight at me like she already knows who I am.
“Here,” I say again.
“You’re to go to the principal’s office.”
THE girl’s vest reflects off the floors of the empty halls I just walked. What could the principal possibly want from me? In my old school, being called to the principal’s office meant you’d done something seriously bad. Even if I was the type of student who gets into trouble, which I’m not, I haven’t been here long enough to do anything, right or wrong.
A secretary escorts me back. When he sees me, Mr. Hargrove stands up from the chair behind his desk, which is huge and covered with glass, and asks me to take a seat. My knees shake as I lower myself into a wooden chair with an indented seat for my butt. The man I just saw on stage sits back down, folds his arms in front of him, and looks me in the eyes.
“I was very sorry to hear about your father.”
Oh. Now I understand why I’m here. “Thank you.”
“You need to know that the loss you’ve experienced is about the biggest you can have in life, and you’re just a teenager,” he says. “You’re probably feeling a jumble of emotions and a whole lot of sadness. And you’re probably going to feel that way for a good long while. I’m not going to say ‘until you get over it,’ because I don’t think anyone gets over the death of a parent. But you’ll start to feel better after a while. I just want you to know that we’re here for you if you need to talk to someone, so please don’t be shy.”
“Okay.”
His face brightens. “Your mother says you like to read.”
My mother talked to you? is what I want to say, but I just nod.
“That’s great. That’s just great. We have an excellent library.” He pauses. “You have a relative here, don’t you? Diana?”
“Dena. She’s my c
ousin.”
“Oh, yes, Dena Petrovich. Nice girl. She can help you get settled in. Welcome to high school, Ida. We’re happy to have you. And remember, don’t be shy.”
Mr. Hargrove reaches for a small pad of pink permission slips. He scribbles his signature, tears off the slip, and hands it to me. “This will get you back to class.”
He may give boring speeches, but Mr. Hargrove is a pretty nice man. Maybe high school won’t be so bad.
WHEN I get back to class, Mrs. Holland stops talking and everyone turns. As I take my seat, I catch Shelly’s sympathetic stare.
“Ida, we’re discussing the question, ‘What is history?’” Mrs. Holland says. “Bridget, would you care to repeat what you just said?”
“It’s when important things happen,” says a small girl with a cute upturned nose.
“And who decides what’s important?” Mrs. Holland asks.
“President Johnson?” offers a boy with grease lines through his hair.
“Yes, certainly the President, but he’s just one man. Who else?”
A girl named Connie reads the names on the cover of our new history textbook. “James Maxwell and Dean Cornish?” she asks hopefully.
“Well, okay.” I can tell by Mrs. Holland’s smirk that she’s not getting the answer she wants.
I raise my hand. “What’s important to one person may not be important to another person,” I say. “Anyone can decide what’s important, what’s history. I mean it can be as small as, um, starting high school …”
Several kids laugh.
“Or as big as the Vietnam War,” I continue. “President Kennedy getting shot.”
Mrs. Holland’s mouth spreads open in a silent “aah.” “Do you agree or disagree?” She scans the room. Several hands shoot up. Soon we’re debating what’s important and whether or not anyone knows if something’s important at the time. One girl, whose parents collect antiques, points out that everyday objects gain value over time, which prompts a boy in back to hold up his Pink Pearl eraser and say, “You mean a hundred years from now, this will be worth something?” More laughter, more hands. The bell rings, and the kids whose hands were up groan. As I pass Mrs. Holland she gives me a grin with that frog mouth of hers, and my lungs fill with the rich air of recognition.
I start to relax. In math, I actually catch myself yawning. Then comes lunch, and my self-consciousness pops up like a jack-in-the-box. So far no one but Mr. Hargrove has mentioned Dad, although everybody must know. Annisport’s a small town, and it was all over the front page of the Annisport American. Dena showed me. There were our names in black and white: “Petrovich is survived by his wife, Christina, and daughter, Ida.” Damn newspapers. I wish they wouldn’t do that. I really don’t want to go through high school as “the girl whose father presumably drowned.”
Sorry, Dad, I know I’m being selfish worrying about such things. You know I’d do anything to have you back. I feel that sharp pit of sadness well up inside of me. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. With my eyes full of tears and my tray full of food, I search the crowded cafeteria for a place to hide. No such luck. All the tables are filled or almost filled. Then I spot Dena. Or rather, she spots me. Only Dena would wave me over like I was a taxi cab to be hailed. And only Dena would wear a Day-Glo pink and orange dress and matching headscarf the first day of school. Surrounding her are more conservatively dressed girls, all with sack lunches.
I blink away my tears, but there’s no wiping them from my face with this tray in my hands. Dena’s friends make room so I can sit across from my beautiful, older, and more popular cousin.
“Oh, dear,” she says when she sees my face. She hands me a crumpled napkin that smells of bologna. I blot my eyes and cheeks, and feel something cool on my skin.
I expect more sympathy, but Dena starts to giggle. “You’ve, um.” She points at a spot below her right eye. I wipe my fingers over the spot and come away with a glob of mayonnaise.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “I didn’t mean to give you a facial.”
I giggle.
“Well, at least you’re not crying anymore.”
She introduces me around, but the only names I remember are the two girls sitting on either side of her—Sophie, a long-faced blonde with pale blue cat-eye glasses, and Gerry, short for Geraldine, a plump redhead. I take an immediate liking to Gerry when she asks me if I want my garlic bread.
“No,” I say, “you can have it.” As I hand it over I think about offering her the rest of my lunch, too, but decide against it. She may take it wrong.
Dena delicately unwraps a Twinkie with her hot pink fingernails, then leans forward and asks how I’m doing.
“Okay,” I say. “I had to go to the principal’s office.” I get the raised eyebrows I expect from everyone but Dena. I didn’t want to talk about my family, but now I have no choice. “He told me to ask for help if I need it.”
Several of the girls nod. And one, who somehow missed the news, asks if I’m Special Ed. “I mean, it’s okay if you are.”
For her benefit, I fill everyone in. “My dad drowned in a fishing accident last month. At least, that’s what they think happened.”
“So they’re still not sure?” Gerry asks in between bites of my garlic bread.
I shake my head. “They didn’t find anything.”
“Wow,” Sophie says.
Dena folds her plastic Twinkie wrapper. “Steve was my uncle, and a super-cool guy. It’s been so hard. Ida’s been so brave.”
I’m not as brave as I’m trying to appear. God, am I really using my father’s death to impress Dena’s friends? My shame must show because she asks me if I’m going to cry again.
“No. I’m okay,” I lie.
I finish the fruit cocktail but only manage a few bites of spaghetti before the bell rings. I give Gerry my milk. As I stand up to take my tray back, Dena stops me.
“I almost forgot to give you this.” She takes a folded piece of paper from her math textbook and tucks it into the pocket of my blouse.
“What is it?”
“Don’t get too excited,” she says. “It’s from Grandma.”
“Thanks … I think.”
Dena giggles and walks away, calling, “See ya later, alligator.”
“After a while, crocodile,” I answer, but she’s already disappeared around the corner.
ON my way to my fourth-period class, I hear a familiar voice.
David.
He’s standing next to his locker talking to a couple of buddies. The Mackeys must have been among the first non-family members to find out about Dad. What will he say to me? What do I say back? He turns around. I duck into a classroom and get a startled look from a teacher sitting at her desk eating lunch.
“Sorry,” I mumble, backing out into the hall. I muster the nerve to say hello to David, but he’s already walking away with his friends.
As I pass by the spot where he was just standing, I catch a whiff of something sugary, familiar. But it isn’t David’s lingering sweetness. It’s just a girl sharing a box of Dots with her friends. They were Dad’s favorite candy when we went into Seattle for Sunday matinees. He’d even eat my green ones. Oh, God, don’t let me cry again.
THE second half of the day goes better than I expect, though I have PE. I get some sympathetic stares in the halls but I also reunite with two good friends from ninth grade: Alice Peters, who was always right ahead of me in the alphabet, and Kathy Simon, another big and tall girl. Alice is in my Home Economics class, and Kathy is in PE with me.
Kathy gives me a hug when we meet in the girls’ gymnasium before class starts. “If you need a shoulder to cry on …”
I tell her thanks and fix my eyes on the lines bisecting the polished floor.
There’s an awkward pause, then she says, “I’m sure glad we have PE last period. We won’t have to shower or even change out of our gym clothes.”
“And today we won’t have to change into our gym clothes,” I add, stating the obvio
us. None of us have them yet.
Our teacher, a tiny, unsmiling woman in grey sweats, tells us what to bring and gives us a hygiene lecture before distributing combination locks for the baskets where we will keep our things.
All in all, it’s a remarkably easy first day, except for the now broken blister on my left heel where my shoe has been rubbing. I take the shoe off as soon as I sit down in the school bus, then I hobble with one shoe on and one shoe off for the block and a half between the bus stop and home.
“SO, how was it?” Mom sits at the dining room table, reading glasses on, shuffling through papers.
“Fine.” I walk past her to the kitchen to make myself a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Now that I’m home, I’m starving.
“Why are you limping?”
“Uh, I have a blister on my foot.”
“Are those shoes going to be okay?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Because I’m not getting you new ones.”
I hear the bait in her voice. She wants me to argue with her, but I know better. As I make my sandwiches, her loud sighs vie for my attention. She wants a fight. Maybe she has been waiting for me to get home, her anger building. I sit down at the kitchen table to eat. When I’m done, I try to ignore her as I cross the dining room to get to the stairs, but she pounces before I can take the first step.
“Do you know what these are?” she asks, picking up the papers in front of her.
“No.”
“No, of course you don’t. These are bills, Ida.” She throws them into the air. They flutter down around her and onto the floor. “You see, the city doesn’t care whether your husband just died. They still want their money. And you know what? We don’t have any.”
“Not any?” That slipped out. I’ve just thrown a log on her fire.
She turns toward me, not bothering to pick up the fallen bills. “Let’s see. We have this house, which Dad mortgaged to the hilt to buy the boat. We won’t be able to get insurance to cover the loss because he isn’t legally dead. He won’t be legally”—she makes quote marks in the air—“dead for another seven years. Meanwhile, we have to pay for the water, the lights, and the garbage. Thank Heaven it’s warm and there’s no heating bill, because I don’t know how we’re going to pay the utilities and buy food, and clothes and, oh yes, shoes that don’t fit!”