Fetching

by Kiera Stewart

  I can’t move.

  “Do you want to know why you like her so much?” Someone yells “Go, Mandy” in the audience, but it sounds defensive and forced. “You like her and all her little friends because you’ve been trained to. Trained like dogs. You’ve been rewarded with candy and staplers, and you’ve been treated like common house pets. The truth is, you couldn’t possibly like these cretins if you hadn’t been trained to.”

  She clasps her hands and looks around confidently. Then she says, “Lights, please.”

  I can’t exhale.

  The lights dim. The theater screen whirs and lowers. Brynne opens a laptop, and an image appears on the screen. “This, in fact, is my opponent just a few months ago.” It’s a photo of Mandy. Her hair is sprayed gray. Her lips are shockingly black. There’s even some accidental black Sharpie on her front tooth. There’s a gleaming yellow pustule over her eyebrow, where her piercing sometimes is. And she’s flipping off the camera. The audience takes in a collective breath of air. Delia’s nails drive into the back of my knuckles.

  “You know, she’s gone through two campaign managers,” Brynne says. “You might remember her first.” A photo of me pops up. Well, of me and my butt, with the gigantic ketchup stain spread across my irregular-sized khakis. I hear a few people suck in their breath at the sight, and other people in the audience start to shift and murmur. I am both mortified and paralyzed.

  “But that one left to pursue her true calling.” And then another photo appears on the screen. It’s me again, this time a picture taken at my house—something she must have snapped that weekend she stayed with me. In the background, Bella is squatting in a round-back position. In the foreground, I’m wearing a pair of Corny’s overalls and I’m bending over, scooping turds into a bag. Squeals of disgust ring out.

  “And then there was campaign manager number two,” she says, all snippily. A close-up of the surface of the moon pops up. Or at least that’s what it appears to be. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry about that,” Brynne says to the crowd. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. Not so soon after lunch.” The photo zooms out, revealing a cheek, a pair of root-beer-colored eyes. The zoom-out continues until you can see Delia’s face, turned toward the side, and her hand, obviously raised as a shield to the camera. The crowd ewws and moans.

  “Oh, Holy Mother,” I hear Delia say, in a strained whisper.

  I might as well just die right now.

  “This isn’t right,” Joey says, just in time for his rather large body to pop up on screen. He’s looks like he weighs about twelve hundred pounds, and he’s stuffing Funyuns into his mouth with his fist. His eyes are closed as if it is the most meaningful and enjoyable moment of his life. You can hear the roar of people starting to talk and laugh.

  “Nice,” someone in the row in front of us says in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “And last, but not—well, does it even matter at this point?” Brynne seethes. And up pops Phoebe, looking a little like a troll, but much, much paler. She’s staring adoringly at Brant, who appears to be completely oblivious to her. Her hand is grabbing the seat of her pants like she’s trying to adjust a wedgie. A laugh circles the room.

  The lights come back on. Everyone is looking around the room—looking for us. “It’s funny to me that this group of people, who I can’t legally call losers from the stage like this, is running this entire school. Are you all going to let yourselves be treated like dogs?”

  Mrs. Vander-Pecker appears onstage, grasps Brynne by the shoulders, and they disappear behind the curtain. The noise of the crowd starts to swarm, getting louder by the second.

  Delia releases my hand. “I thought you were going to fix things with her.”

  “I tried,” I manage to stiffly whisper back.

  Phoebe looks at me with eyes rimmed with red. She jumps out of her seat, and Joey starts to follow, but Mrs. V-P reappears onstage and does the thing with her neck again. “Everyone, sit down! And be quiet! We still have another candidate to hear out, and no one will leave this room until we do. He has been incredibly patient, and I ask—rather, I demand!—that you be just as patient with him.” She throws out a flustered hand. “Caleb. Austin.”

  Caleb floats onstage and stands there looking out at us like he’s God or something. And then he claps once. Then twice. Then after a third time, he breaks into a crescendo of applause.

  “Wow. That was great. Just fantastic,” he says. “Thanks, Brynne. Very entertaining.”

  He puts his fists on his hips and shakes his head, looking amused.

  “That’s gotta be a first,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Some people will do anything for a vote. I’m sure that happens all the time. But to accuse us all of being dumb? Of being trained like dogs? I know I’m not a dog; what about you?”

  The crowd begins to murmur.

  “Look, be honest with me. Tell me you want my vote. But don’t—please don’t—insult me!”

  People start to clap. Someone throws a balled-up piece of notebook paper across the auditorium and yells, “Fetch!” The crowd laughs loudly.

  Caleb laughs too, and looks relaxed and amused. “So why aren’t you all just tripping over yourselves to catch that? I mean, come on, aren’t you all good dogs?”

  The laughing and hooting rolls across the aisles like waves. Each wave makes it louder.

  “Sit!” he calls out. “Oh, see,” he says teasingly, “maybe she’s right. You’re all sitting.” With that, the crowd begins to stand, and to cheer. “Hold on,” he calls out. “Bad dogs! I said sit!” More people stand. The cheering gets louder.

  The claps and cheers have reached a deafening level, like a 3-D, stadium-seating version of the applause that Mandy got, which seemed so fabulously loud at the time. People are barking, yelping, and literally howling.

  Caleb smiles. Over the excitement, he shouts, “Shall we move on?”

  “Speech!” someone yells out.

  And so he launches into it. He does promise soda machines in the cafeteria and better P.E. uniforms. He even mentions getting a pool built, but I don’t think anyone’s really listening. They’re having too much fun.

  They’ve just found their pack leader.

  WELL.

  The good news, I guess, is that Brynne does get in trouble. Not as much as she would have if her mom hadn’t made a case about her “going through some adjustments,” but still, trouble. She gets sentenced to in-school suspension, where she has to spend three days with the kid who broke his ankle when he hijacked the clinic’s wheelchair and rode it headfirst down the stairs in a botched attempt to simulate a thrill ride, and the kid who fractured his nose when an encyclopedia he threw at a library window bounced right back at him.

  And then there’s some weird news. Some really weird news.

  It happens a week after the election fiasco. I’m on my way to seventh period when I hear, gushed over the loudspeaker by an overly cheerful voice, “Olivia Al bert and Brynne Shawnson. Please report to the guidance office! Olivia. Al bert. Brynne. Shawnson. Thank you!”

  I stop in my tracks, and Little Kid bounces off my backside. I shuffle to the side and ready myself to head back down the hall toward guidance. And then I see her—Brynne—coming from the opposite end of the hall. We make eye contact and hold the stare. It’s like we’re heading toward a duel.

  She makes it to the office first and quickly goes in, not bothering to hold the door for me.

  “Good afternoon, ladies!” It’s Ms. Underwood, the guidance counselor, behind the musical voice. She smiles, displaying a friendly little gap between her two front teeth. “Just have a seat, please!” She motions to the only two chairs in the room, which, despite the vast space around them, are attached together just below the seat.

  Brynne avoids my eyes and sits down, no questions asked.

  “Um,” I say, inching closer to Ms. Underwood’s desk. I keep my voice low. “I was just wondering—why are we here?”

  “Oh!” she sings out, surpri
sed. “I thought you already knew. Peer mediation. The two of you are going to have a little chat with Carolyn. She should be here any moment.”

  Carolyn Quim.

  Brynne looks up with a panicked expression.

  “Oh, but, I didn’t know—” Brynne starts stammering. “Is Carolyn really qualified? I mean, she gossips.”

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t worry,” Mrs. Underwood says. “She took an oath. Con-fi-den-ti-al-ity,” she says, her voice working its way up an octave.

  Dear God. This could be awful.

  Or.

  Maybe not. Maybe I will exercise my mad forgiving skills. Maybe I will take the high road. Maybe I can harness the power of Carolyn’s gossip and right this horrible wrong.

  “Oh, looky-look!” Ms. Underwood says. “Here she is now!”

  Carolyn walks in. Brynne’s jaw clenches again.

  Mrs. Underwood shoos us all off to the conference room.

  I try to soften the tension by complimenting Carolyn on her clogs. Yes, clogs. But it doesn’t work.

  “So,” Carolyn says. “What are we here to talk about?” She looks at Brynne, but Brynne stares down at the table.

  I’m pretty sure the school just wants us to make peace so there are no more crimes like ketchup harassments or slide-show assaults. So I say, “I’ll start. I’m sorry, Brynne.”

  Carolyn holds up her hand. “Wait, wait! Jeez, let me get my handbook out.” She pulls the book out of her backpack, scans a page, and says, “Okay, Brynne, your turn.”

  Brynne still says nothing.

  “Oh my God. Seriously?” Carolyn says to her.

  “It’s okay,” I say, very maturely. “She’s probably still mad at me. I wasn’t exactly a good friend to her.”

  “Your turn,” Carolyn says to Brynne. “Again.”

  “Well, she’s right about that,” Brynne says, quietly. “She wasn’t a good friend. She was just using me.”

  “But I—”

  Carolyn whips her head around. “Wow, really? It’s not your turn yet, Olivia. You’ve already gone twice!”

  “I was done talking,” Brynne says.

  Carolyn leans her head back and sighs. “Okay, maybe you should say ‘over’ or something, just so I know.”

  Brynne still won’t look at me. “Okay. Over.”

  Carolyn turns to me. “Olivia? What do you have to say to that?”

  “I was just going to say that I did really like her. Over.”

  Carolyn looks confused but turns to Brynne. “She says she really liked you.” Then I hear her clear her throat with a little grunt. Her cue. “To each her own, I guess.”

  “I heard.”

  Carolyn says, “So, over?”

  “No, not over!” Brynne raises her voice. “I still have a question. If you liked me so much, why did you ruin my life? OVER!”

  “I didn’t mean to ruin your life, but you know what? I liked you a whole lot better after I did. I’m sorry! And I’m not even mad about what you did up onstage anymore—”

  “Really?” Carolyn interrupts. “’Cause seriously? I’d be pissed.”

  I continue. “I just know that I hurt you pretty bad, and I wish you would just forgive me. Over.”

  Brynne finally looks at me. “You act like that’s so easy to do,” she says through a stiff jaw and with little slits of eyes.

  I find that it’s not always easy to have patience with someone who talks to you with a stiff jaw and slitty little eyes, and I start to stumble off the high road. “Brynne, you know what? You used to be pretty awful to me, if you remember!”

  Carolyn interjects. “She didn’t say ‘over.’ Neither one of you are saying ‘over’ anymore. Do you want to get mediated or not?!”

  Despite the fact that I’m getting annoyed, I know I need to do this. “Look, the truth is that we haven’t always liked each other, but I wish we had. You’re nice and smart and funny when you want to be. And I screwed up. And I’m sorry. Over.” There. Now let that get around the school. I hope Carolyn’s not taking her peer mediator confidentiality oath too seriously—this is one of those times when I’m actually hoping the gossip will fly.

  Brynne turns her stare back to the table.

  Carolyn consults her handbook. “So, okay. Brynne, do you accept this apology?”

  Brynne shrugs. “Fine. But it doesn’t mean we have to be friends.”

  “Excellent!” Carolyn says. “Okay, so you’re supposed to apologize, too.”

  Brynne leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Sorry,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

  Carolyn looks back down at her handbook. “So I guess we have a resolution, right?”

  “Yes,” Brynne says. “Yes, we do.” And then she glares at me and says, maybe a little too pointedly. “Over.”

  Okay, then.

  “Oh my God, really?” Carolyn jumps back in. “You’re going to be like that? I don’t get you, Brynne. Why the heck did you even re—”

  She stops talking. We both see it happen. Brynne’s face starts to melt.

  Well, not actually melt, but that’s what it looks like. Her eyebrows, her eyes, her mouth—everything starts to slide downhill in slow motion. Her forehead moves like high tide, taking up more than its fair share of face space. Her mouth forms a downward oval. It takes me a minute to realize it, but she’s crying.

  Crying.

  Not the angry, splattery type of cry that she had on the day of my confession, but a deep, mournful one. You know those whale sounds you hear on those shows on Animal Planet? Well, if you were anywhere near water, that’s exactly what you’d think you were hearing.

  Carolyn softens, her eyes round and worried. Over the sobs, she whispers to me, “You think I should touch her?”

  “Um, maybe?” Brynne’s sadness is pulling me in, but I, too, feel completely helpless.

  Carolyn clears her throat. “There, there,” she says loudly, patting Brynne’s shoulder.

  Brynne shakes Carolyn’s hand off, puts her forearms on the table and places her wet face on them.

  “You know,” Carolyn says, slowly scooting her chair back. “I’m—I’m thinking you guys need a minute. I’m just…” She sticks her thumb out and motions it over her shoulder. “Gonna go, then.” She gathers her handbook and papers and speed-walks out of the room.

  I get up and go around to Brynne’s side of the table. I sit down next to her. “I’m so sorry, Brynne. I really did, you know, like you.”

  She sits up. She takes a deep breath. Her arms lift. My hands instinctively fly to protect my neck. Her arms wrap around me. Her face burrows into my shoulder. “I—I—I liked—” Snort. Sniffle. Hiccup. “I liked—” Gasp. Snort. “You. Too. A. Lot.” It takes her about twenty minutes to get it out, and by the time she does, the shoulder of my shirt is soaked. Which is kind of ew, but still, a small price to pay for a truce.

  Finally, her cries subside and she sits up straight. She doesn’t look at me as she dabs at her face and blows her nose. “Okay, so there’s that,” she says with a little laugh. “We probably should go before they kick us out of here. Two more minutes and we’ll officially be loitering.”

  I surprise myself with a nose-laugh. Now who’s ew?

  “You should probably go before that happens,” she says. She gives me a half smile.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, still sniffling a little. “Look, I just need a minute alone, okay?”

  “You sure?” I ask. I don’t know how I feel. I mean, I did like her. And despite all that’s happened between us, maybe I still kind of do.

  “Yeah.”

  I get up to leave. I’m almost to the door when she calls my name. I turn around.

  “I really am sorry,” she says, without meeting my eyes. “For the mean things I’ve done. Sometimes I just don’t know how else to act. And for my campaign speech. I was just, you know, in a really bad place. I mean, I thought we had something, and then—” Her voice s
tarts to warp a little. “Anyway, that’s really all I wanted to say. That’s why I requested peer mediation.”

  Wait. My mouth drops open.

  “You requested this meeting?” I’m honestly baffled. And sort of touched by it all, too.

  “I know. Dorky thing to do and all, but—” She shrugs, still avoiding my eyes. “I didn’t know how to do this. You know, I’ve never apologized to anyone before. Without being forced to, I mean.”

  I open my mouth to say something—maybe to thank her. She holds up her hand. “No, you know what, Olivia? Don’t say anything else, okay? It was just supposed to be an apology—not a conversation.”

  It’s Brynne, all right. And despite the edge in her words, I’m kind of relieved. Nobody can say I killed her spirit. It suffered a little damage, but it’s far from dead.

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, I’m in the kitchen washing dishes when there’s a knock on the door. Oomlot breaks out with a bark that makes him sound mean, and races to the foyer. Queso follows, yapping. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and walk down the hall toward the front door. Through the screen, I see Moncherie crouched on the porch, rubbing the belly of Ferrill, our hopeless guard dog.

  “Mon—” I start to say her name and remember I can’t pronounce it without sounding like I’m practically choking on phlegm. “Hi?” I ask, rather than say. “You want to come in?”

  “Actually, I think you should come out here,” she says, smiling.

  “Uh. Okay?” I toss the dish towel over the banister and step out onto the porch. Oomlot squeezes past me, eager to get outside. And then I see why.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Moncherie gushes.

  I think my gasp is loud enough for her to hear. The strangest-looking dog I’ve ever seen—and I’m being polite here—is sitting in the backseat of Moncherie’s car. The dog’s eyes are so droopy and wide-set that it looks almost fishlike; its coat looks like a used Brillo pad; its ears are ragged and crooked. An unidentified object dangles from its mouth.