by Ann Braden
Because they couldn’t be upset about something rational like Frank’s constant smoking or the fact that the three of us have to share a room together.
No, it’s the shape of the bedroom lamp that’s the real evil in the world.
We get to have hamburgers for dinner, though, because at least there’s plenty of ground beef.
When they’re finally asleep—thankfully Frank’s angry news program works even better than a story tonight—I carry them one at a time from the couch into their bed. I stare at their faces next to each other on the pillow, so quiet and peaceful, before any of Bryce’s nightmares have had time to grab hold. And then I find myself digging down through a pile of stuff on the floor until my hand closes around their comb. I perch on the side of their bed, and even though it risks waking them up, I can’t help myself: I start combing their hair. I comb all the hair I can reach, and then I shimmy some more of Aurora’s out from where it was smushed against the pillow and comb that, too.
Even though their hair will be back to being all ratty in the morning.
Even though it won’t be enough to stop other kids from saying things about them.
Still, I comb.
When I finally head back out to the main room, Frank has fallen asleep. I turn off the TV, and as soon as the sound cuts out, I hear something else: voices through the wall. It’s my mom and Lenny arguing again. They’ve been in there together since dinner, so she could supposedly take care of Lenny.
The voices don’t sound like anyone is sick, though.
A moment later I’m climbing back up onto the washing machine, and putting my unblinking octopus eye against the hole.
Lenny is pacing again. “You’re the one who’s got to answer for all of this. What was I supposed to think when I got into the car to drive to work and it’s almost on empty? How far can you drive in the two hours between my jobs?”
My mom is already crying. “I had to go to the pharmacy. And then to the grocery store. And then there were problems with our EBT card, and I had to hurry back home to get some paperwork for them, so it’d go through. And I didn’t think to look at the gas tank because I just thought it was real important to buy … ”
Ground beef.
“Yeah, you didn’t think, did you? You never do! And now we’re out two hundred and seventy dollars a week because of you.”
Wait. Two hundred and seventy dollars a week? Did Lenny lose his job?
My mom is shaking her head. “I don’t see how the gas has anything to do with—”
“I had just had to drive to work on fumes! My girlfriend couldn’t even do a simple thing like not use up all the gas in the car—and I’m somehow supposed to ‘stay calm’ after that when I’ve got a patient yelling at me that the trash smells? Who wouldn’t snap back?”
My mom swallows. “But you didn’t have to get so upset. You know you can’t yell at a patient like that because then—”
“What? Is Little Miss Clueless going to tell me what I should have said instead?”
I cringe as I watch my mom, Little Miss Clueless, shake her head as she turns to face the wall. Her mouth is stretched out like it’s all she can do to hold back a mountain of sobbing.
Little Miss Clueless.
And then I realize: Lenny is saying that on purpose. He knows what he’s doing.
He’s discrediting his opponent.
“Cry me a river, why don’t you?” he sneers. “You just want to manipulate this whole thing so it looks like it wasn’t your fault. Well, sorry! A million tears don’t change anything. They don’t change reality.”
Whose reality?
“What are we going to do?” my mom murmurs to the wall. “I was just about to start saving up for the down payment on a new washing machine, but … ”
“You should have thought of that when you used up all the gas in the car.”
“I just thought … I just thought … ”
“What? What did you think?”
“I just thought you said I should get more ground beef!”
“How dare you try to turn this around on me,” snaps Lenny. “When did I say that you should use up all the gas in the car just to buy stupid ground beef?”
My mom turns away from the wall to look at Lenny. Like maybe he’s kidding. Like maybe she’s not going crazy. She opens her mouth, but then she closes it again.
Because what’s the point? She’s Little Miss Clueless.
I press my hand against my octopus tattoo. No. She isn’t.
CHAPTER 18
The next morning it’s not snowing exactly, more like icing, and the wind is squeezing between the tightly packed trailers. Up ahead I see Silas coming down his trailer steps. He has his hat pulled down low, mute-mode style, and slowly plods forward. A death march to the bus stop.
If he was the shooter, the school or the police haven’t been able to prove it yet, because he wouldn’t be walking to the bus stop at all. He’d already be on his way to juvie. But that hardly matters because the judgment has already been handed down. Most of the seventh grade has already decided that he’s so different from them that they can imagine him trying to kill someone.
And why not lump in the rest of us dumb-as-rocks monsters.
Clearly we’re not fit to breathe the same air as them. And what if they’re right?
After school Matt and Lydia are already in their seats when I get to the library. This time in the empty space in the middle of the library there are two lone music stands facing each other.
“So, today,” Ms. Rochambeau starts off, “you’ll have just ten more minutes in your table groups to prepare your arguments, and then we’ll get to our first mock debate.” She walks over to the music stands. “These are our podiums, but no pressure. You don’t have to sing.” She’s made a joke, but she’s the kind of person who doesn’t even crack a smile, so it’s not that obvious.
Kyla raises her hand. “Ms. Rochambeau, are we just supposed to talk about regular people killing people, or are we going to talk about the times when cops kill people, like black people specifically?”
I look at her. Really? Cops don’t kill people, do they? Life is hard enough as it is.
Ms. Rochambeau raises her eyebrows, but it isn’t the Raised Eyebrow of Disappointment—it’s like a Raised Eyebrow of Very Impressed.
“That is a very good question, and you can most definitely bring it up in your debate.” She pauses and looks at the rest of us. “Maybe we should even have our next debate topic focused entirely on that. There are plenty of examples to discuss.”
So wait, that’s true? Cops have really killed black people? How can that be a thing—a thing that has ‘plenty of examples’?
“Okay,” Ms. Rochambeau is saying, “I’m going to tell you who our first debate participants will be, but I’m not going to tell you which side they’ll be presenting yet. Lucas … ” Over at the eighth grade boys’ table one of them leaps out of his chair with a “YES!” and does a little dance like he just scored a touchdown. “And … ” Ms. Rochambeau eyes our table. “Zoey.”
Lydia glares up at Ms. Rochambeau. “Seriously?” she mutters under her breath.
Matt crosses his arms. “Oh, that is so not fair.” He turns to me. “I mean, no offense.”
I don’t say anything. Mostly I’m trying to melt into the floor.
“Well, at least it’ll be easy for you if you get assigned the pro-gun side, right?” Lydia says with a smirk. “Here, I copied down a bunch of the ridiculous talking points from the NRA website last night at home. You can copy them into your notebook unless you already have them memorized.” She shoves her notebook toward me. “And the page before is the reasons why guns are evil. I’d copy those points down, too, just so you’re ready—and so you can try to fit them into your brain,” she adds under her breath.
I force myself to take her notebook and skim the bullet points she’s written out: the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun … protection against a tyran
nical government … All lines that I can hear Frank saying word for word.
I try to keep reading, but I can’t. It’s not just having to stand up and talk in front of people. It’s having to say words that people are already sure you believe—when you’re not sure at all.
Because since when does “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” mean “prepare yourself for a shoot-out”?
I flip to the page before it, to what Matt and Lydia both think … evil killing machines …
I don’t think that either. Is a fishing rod evil because it catches someone’s dinner? No. It’s a tool. Just the way a gun is. Just the way a chain saw is. Just don’t give it to the wrong person.
I keep reading what it says … why would any moral person need a gun when it’s clear that too many people are dying?
I think about the faces of the kids on that website Lydia pulled up and close my eyes. I don’t want anyone to die. Maybe I should just believe what they say about guns. Believe what they say about Silas. Believe what they say about me.
I wanted to be like Matt and Lydia. With their notes and their laptops and their smug little faces. All so confident that they’re right.
All looking down on me.
Little Miss Clueless.
No.
The word comes from deep inside me.
I touch my octopus tattoo. I refuse to get put in a box. I refuse to stay trapped.
I am an octopus.
I stand up from my chair, and Lydia looks up at me with a start. But when I grab my jacket and backpack, she sure doesn’t stop me. And I walk out.
“Zoey?” Ms. Rochambeau calls after me.
But I don’t stop, and when I get out the door and around the corner, I run.
I run down the hall and out the double doors by the office. I don’t stop running until I’ve reached the far side of the parking lot.
I drop my jacket and backpack down onto the snow. Where am I even going?
I glance back at the door. No one has followed me out.
Was that standing up for myself or just running away?
The wind whips around me. This is where I need Ms. Rochambeau to drive me across town.
But the only thing I know for sure is that there’s no way I’m crawling back, groveling, to ask for a measly ride.
I pick up my coat, pull it on, and then I swing my backpack over my shoulder and shove my hands in my pockets.
I’ll walk.
I get home with twenty minutes to spare, but my feet feel like toeless blocks of ice. All I want to do is curl up on the couch and watch that angry guy news program with Frank. Except he isn’t here. And then I remember it’s the monthly bingo tournament at the senior center.
I look around at the perfectly aligned end tables and the alphabetized collection of DVDs, but instead of feeling good, all I feel is Lenny. And those words: Little Miss Clueless.
Like a giant foot on top of us.
Who cares if his feet are clean and his toenails are clipped just so?
Who cares if his movies are alphabetized?
Who cares if his undershirt drawer is perfectly organized?
I push into Lenny’s bedroom without even taking my coat off and pull open that stupid undershirt drawer. And before I even know what I’m doing all of my tentacles are grabbing at the shirts, pulling them out of their perfectly folded squares, yanking them out and flinging them around the room. The perfectly organized room where he tells my mom and convinces her that she’s worthless.
I fall back onto the bed amid the scattered undershirts and squeeze my eyes shut.
My mom was right, of course. Nothing’s going to change.
Why can’t I just accept that?
I turn and glare at one of the undershirts next to me. Like I have to pick all of these undershirts back up because otherwise he’s just going to take it out on my mom.
I can’t glare at them hard enough. I want to squirt my black octopus ink all over them.
I finally push myself up to sitting. I pull the closest undershirt over and smooth it out like he does to get ready to fold it. It isn’t until I see spots of wetness dotting the undershirt that I realize I’m crying.
I fold every single one of those stupid undershirts. I fold them into those stupid squares he cares so much about.
And I hate myself for doing it.
I turn back to the open drawer. That’s when I see it. In the far back corner, tucked under the only remaining undershirt.
A piece of paper.
As soon as I’ve got it partway open, I know exactly what it is.
The form for the power company. The one my mom spent a whole day filling out. The one that Lenny swore he turned in.
By why would he turn it in? When not turning it in would be such a good reminder for my mom of her incompetence.
My hand is shaking as I fold it up and stuff it in my back pocket, but this time it’s a good kind of shaking.
Because when I watch my mom argue with Lenny it’s like watching her try to grab hold of a blob of grape jelly. No matter where she tries to grab it, it splurches out around her fingers.
But this. This is the evidence that supports her position. The blob of jelly has become a solid Jell-O popsicle. Not only can you can pick it up, but you can wave it around.
And that’s what I intend to do.
CHAPTER 19
When I get to the Pizza Pit, Connor is sitting in a booth with one of the regulars and has Hector on his lap. My mom comes out of the kitchen when she hears the bell on the door jingle. She reaches for the menus like she’s ready to seat me before she realizes it’s me. “Oh!” She glances back at Connor. “I thought today was one of your get-home-late days.”
“It was,” I say. “But I’m here now. I need to talk to you.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I was thinking we could go somewhere private,” I say, looking around. “Maybe the bathroom?”
My mom glares at me because clearly I’ve done something horrible to warrant having to hide in the bathroom to talk about it. She drops the menus back onto the hostess stand. “You’ve only got three minutes.”
“I know.”
As soon as we’re both in the bathroom, she pulls the door shut behind us. Ricky has never been much of a decorator, but there is one black-and-white photo of a funny-looking car on the wall. Maybe it’s supposed to be an Italian car, but I’m not sure.
“Okay … so … ” I stammer. Who thought this was a good idea? Maybe I can make up something different to tell her.
I finger the folded-up form in my pocket. No. This is about not letting people mess with you. Maybe it’s going to be awkward, but Ms. Rochambeau would probably just tell me to suck it up.
“You know that hole in the wall over the washing machine,” I start. “You can see into your bedroom through it.”
“Are you serious, Zoey? This is what you need to tell me?” My mom starts fixing her makeup in the mirror.
“And I saw the way Lenny blamed you that night we lost power and … ”
“You’ve been spying on us?”
I take a deep breath, “And how he keeps doing it. Blaming you for every—”
“That is none of your business,” my mom snaps. “And, of all people, you know how lucky we are to get to live with him. It’s not like he hits me. We are lucky.”
“But the way he treats you, Mom!”
She bares her teeth to the mirror and wipes a smudge of pink lipstick off one of them. “He just gets frustrated sometimes. He’s allowed to get frustrated like anyone.”
“He doesn’t have to take it out on you!”
She shrugs. “Well, when it’s my fault, it makes sense.”
“Except when it isn’t.” I pull out the form from my pocket and hand it to her.
She unfolds it and stares at it. “How do you have this?”
“He had it, Mom. He had it all along. He never turned it in like he said he did.”
My mom looks up at m
e, and her eyes are like firebolts. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for her to be furious with him. I’m ready to hug her and tell her that I love her and that I’m so sorry she’s having to live with this.
“How … dare … you,” she says.
Me? How dare me?
“How dare you give this to me? What are you trying to do? Stir up trouble?”
“What?” I sputter. “No! I’m not trying to make trouble. I just wanted you to know the truth!”
Her eyes widen, and I hardly see her hand slicing through the air before the slap lands on my cheek, hard, angry, and stinging.
“You want the truth?” she snarls as she rips up the form and hurls it into the trash. “Here’s the truth: if I catch you spying on us ever again you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!” She pulls open the bathroom door and storms out.
I sink down onto the toilet.
Alone.
Thursdays are my mom’s short shift because it’s trivia night at the Pizza Pit and Ricky likes to work the floor himself those nights. My mom doesn’t look at me when she gets home, though. Just bustles right into the kitchen, pulls out a box of spaghetti, and puts water on to boil.
“You home, Mommy!” Aurora squeals and runs over to hug her. “Are we gonna have ’paghetti?”
My mom leans down to hug Aurora. “We sure are.” She nods to Bryce who’s skulking up behind them like he wants to hug her, but he doesn’t think he should.
“How was your day at school, Bryce?” she asks.
He shrugs. “Okay.”