“Can I help you?” she asked me at last.
I jumped, turning away from the bulletin board of lunch specials. Nothing was vegetarian, but the students were allowed to leave for lunch, and I would go home to make sure Oma ate.
“I’m Keziah de Forest. I need my locker.”
“Did someone steal it?” She smiled.
“Um… This is my first day, and I don’t know where my locker is.”
The secretary pulled open a bottom drawer in a filing cabinet behind her desk. Her fake nails, ugly and long, tapped against the metal, and I fought the compulsion to remind her it wasn’t Halloween yet.
I received a padlock lock, and the secretary copied the combination and locker number onto an index card.
“Since you’re a senior, your locker is on the first floor of the high school wing,” she said in her nasally voice.
“Where’s that exactly?”
“Take the first hallway on the left. The lockers go in numerical order. If you need help, ask someone.”
As I wandered down the hallway toward the senior lockers, I couldn’t help thinking how it looked nothing like the high schools on television. The walls were cold and dirty, plain white. Blue paint peeled off the dented lockers. Nothing shiny and new, or inviting.
Students crowded together, huge masses of them, a blur of faces lost in a sea of nonsensical chatter. Someone bumped into me, knocking my shoulder bag down my arm. A hunk of hair caught in the strap.
I looked for someone like Tiffany, with funky hair and punk clothes. If there was anyone like that, he or she hid. The boys all wore T-shirts with words, and jeans, hair cut short. The girls wore jeans or short skirts, tank tops or T-shirts, hair pulled back in ponytails or brushing their shoulders.
I ducked into the first classroom with an open door. A young woman sat at a desk in the back corner, twirling a lock of hair around her finger while she studied a paper.
“Excuse me.” I crumpled the index card in my fist. “I can’t find my locker. I’m new here.”
“Your locket?” The teacher looked up, still winding her hair. The copper strands slid over each other in silky waves.
“Huh? Oh no, not my locket.” I touched my neck self-consciously. I’d worn my Celtic cross necklace, and it was still there. “I can’t find my locker.” I held out the ruined index card.
“Of course.” The teacher released her hair and took the card, reading the number and combination. “This way.”
She shied away from the other students, whispering, “Excuse me,” and “Pardon.” I almost wanted to protect her from them, to stand in front with my arms akimbo like a shield.
She tapped a locker and wound her hair again. “Here’s your locker.”
“Thank you so much. I’m Keziah de Forest.”
“You’re welcome.” The teacher retreated into the crowd with her head down.
I stepped toward the locker to squint at the number. Yes, locker number 312. I tipped the index card to read the combination. I turned the lock to nine, looked back at the card, turned it to four, twisted it to twelve, and tugged. Nothing.
“Shit.” I tried it again, but the lock still refused to open. I glanced at the boy next to me,with his boyish cute charm and a diamond stud in his ear reflected the dim light. “Excuse me.”
He continued to laugh with a group of other boys as they discussed dirt bike racing.
“Excuse me,” I repeated louder and tugged on his sleeve, so far the only hoodie I’d seen.
“Hey, don’t touch me.” He jerked his sleeve away, rubbing the spot as if I’d torn it. His gaze trailed over my body. “Whatcha want?”
I gulped. “I can’t get my lock open.”
He rolled his eyes at his friends and accepted the lock I held out, along with the index card. “Hey, are you really showing me your combination?”
Mama always talked about students stealing from each other. I couldn’t say no or yank the index card away without sounding rude, though, so I nodded, my face hot and red.
“You’re cute, you know that?” He fiddled with the lock and tugged, opening it. “So what kind of problem were you having?”
He thinks I’m cute? My mouth felt so dry I recalled an Oma saying. “It was so dry I could spit cotton.”
I wanted to say he was cute, too, and then wink because he really was. That earring was gorgeous.
“I mean, it worked for me,” he continued, “so it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.” He passed the lock and index card back. “I swear I didn’t memorize the combo or nothing.”
I stared at the lock in my hand. “I tried it, and it…it just didn’t work for me.”
“Here.” He snapped my lock shut. “Try it again.”
“Okay.” My fingers trembled as I turned the dial, cursing my nervousness under my breath. I got to the second number when he pressed his hand over mine, stilling me.
“You’re not turning it enough times. See, it’s more like this. You can’t just keep turning to each number. You gotta spin it, too.” By the end of his tutorial, I felt ready to melt into the floor from mortification. “Where you from? You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I’m from here,” Yay, a change in subject. “I mean, I used to live here. We moved to New York when I was ten.”
“New York? Like the city?”
“Yeah, but now … I’m back.” I’d been about to say I lived with my grandmother, but that just seemed … weird.
“Cool. I’m Matt.”
“Keziah de Forest.” Now would be a good time to shake hands, but I held the lock, and he made no move.
“Keziah,” Matt repeated. “I’ll look you up in my old class pictures. Maybe we had a class or two together.” He grinned. “De Forest is a cool last name, too. It means ‘from the forest,’ right? Anyway, see you around.”
The bell rang. I tossed my jacket into the locker and snapped the lock on, stuffing the index card into my bag. According to my schedule, the first class was economics. That sounded exciting.
****
Too bad economics class sucked. The teacher, an older man with a balding head, yelled as soon as I walked through the doorway: “Don’t have your shoulder bag in class! All bags must be kept in lockers. Go put it away. Didn’t you read the security measures?”
During roll call, instead of saying my name as “Kez-eye-uh,” he said “Kaz-ee-yah.” When I tried to correct him, he brushed me aside and went on to the next student.
Matt sat on the other side of the room. I tried to talk to him when we filed to the front desk for textbooks, but he turned his back before I could approach and started conversing with another boy.
The material mentioned in class confused me, and I had no idea what any of the terms meant. The class was an hour and a half, since the high school indulged in block scheduling. On the plus side, the day consisted of four classes. By the time the bell rang, I wished there were more with shorter times.
The next class was probability in mathematics, a topic Mama had never concentrated on during home schooling.
Lunch came after that. I ran home only to face an angry Oma.
“I woke up and had no idea where you were,” she shrieked.
“I was at school!”
“I was going to call the police. How was I supposed to know where you were?”
“You were sound asleep when I left. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I was so worried. I can’t believe you’d be so ungrateful.” She burst into tears.
I popped a TV dinner tofu casserole into the microwave.
****
The next class, gym, followed the pattern of being far less than perfect. The other students had their uniforms from the year before, and went into the locker room to change, but no one had mentioned I needed one. The gym teacher gave me a locker combination, but made me sit on the bleachers while everyone else played basketball, since I didn’t have appropriate attire.
“How long have you taught here?” I asked the
instructor. “My mom used to teach at the elementary.”
He blew his whistle. “You need to start paying attention to what’s going on around you.”
Aren’t you a ray of glorious sunshine? I’m trying to make conversation.
Ten minutes later, a ball hit me in the side of my head.
The next and last class was English with the teacher who liked to wind her hair.
“Hello.” I grinned at her, this familiar face, but the teacher stared back with puckered lips. She must have forgotten the locker assistance.
We watched a Shakespeare movie in black-and-white, Hamlet, and I almost nodded off.
Walking home, I listed the day’s good points. My head didn’t hurt so much from the accident with the basketball. English concentrated on Shakespeare, works I wasn’t too familiar with, so it could prove fun. I’d learned how to use a padlock. Oma might not be so mad anymore.
A car pulled into my neighbor’s apartment building as I drew near. Michael. My gut sunk long before he turned off the car and emerged. Last thing I wanted him to see was disheveled me with a tiny bruise on my forehead.
“Hey, kid-oh.” He tipped his baseball cap.
“Hi,” My mind drew a blank when I tried to think of something sophisticated to say. “Thanks for helping wash the car.”
“No problem. How are you?” He leaned against his trunk.
“Well. How are you?” I hoped he’d stop talking so I could wash the dirt off my hair from the basketball.
“You heard, didn’t you?”
I shifted my stance. “Heard what?”
“You know the Dwyers own this place.” He nodded at the building.
“Yes.” No, I’m stupid.
“Muriel Dwyer died while visiting her brother.”
My jaw dropped. “She did?” If you’re kidding, I swear I’ll never talk to you again.
“A sudden heart attack. Her husband’s really broken up. Are you going to the funeral?”
So you’re not kidding. I can’t believe the woman who always called me Rebecca is gone. “I don’t know. Oma will probably want to go. When did Muriel die?”
“Late last night, I guess. If you and your grandma are going, I’ll walk down with you.” He pointed his thumb in the direction of Seashell Lane. “Just thought you should know.”
“Thank you for telling me.” I finished walking home in a stunned daze.
****
I am eleven years old. On Monday, we will move to New York City, but today is Friday. Every Friday, since I was two years old, I have spent the night at Oma’s house.
Mama walks me up the street after school. She pushes Phebe in the stroller. I bring a duffel bag with me to take home my extra pairs of clothes from Oma’s dresser. I will need them in the city.
She microwaves macaroni-and-cheese TV dinners because she doesn’t like to cook. We sit at the kitchen table and work on a lighthouse jigsaw puzzle. We’re almost through, but now it will have to wait until I visit again. I pretend I’m not moving so I won’t cry.
After dinner, we sit in the living room chair and snack on a bag of chips while we watch cartoons. When it is bedtime, we curl up together against her pillows, and she reads to me from Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The copy belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather. It is from the 1800s, so Oma is careful with the brittle pages.
When she turns off the light, we play a guessing game.
“I’m thinking of an object,” I say.
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“No.” I snicker.
“Is it hot?”
“Sometimes.”
We keep playing until she guesses correctly. I was thinking of a match. Then, it’s my turn to guess. Her object is a refrigerator.
In the morning, Oma squeezes fresh orange juice. “Liquid sunshine.”
I gulp it while she prepares a bowl of Cream of Wheat.
“I wish I wasn’t moving.” Tears make me blink.
“You’ll be back.” Oma trails her fingers through my hair.
“But what if I don’t?” I press my face against her shoulder. Her clothes smell like a blueberry sachet.
“You have to because we belong together.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Family never abandons their own kind.”
I wonder if she is talking about something she did in the past.
Chapter 10
I wore the dress I’d packed because Mama said boys couldn’t resist a girl in a dress. Matt was going to adore me in it. The bright yellow fabric represented the color of happiness, and it had a full skirt like something from the Renaissance. The bodice laced up the sides in green velvet, even though the back had a zipper. I skipped eye shadow and stuck with mascara. Best to let the dress do all the talking.
Back in the city, Tiffany had a friend who always dressed in that style. Everything was lace and brocade, thick chokers and heavy corsets, layers of the Renaissance reborn purchased off the Internet. I puckered my lips in the bathroom mirror, imagining that girl with her fake accent and scrunched breasts. I could be her and work this look, minus the gigantic chest.
Everyone I passed in the school hallway stared and whispered. I clutched my bag to my chest and hurried through the crowds.
While I opened my locker, a girl walked by and tapped my shoulder.
“Are you going to a masquerade?” she asked. “Your dress is really unusual.”
Back in the city, everyone did his or her own thing, and I ignored him or her, only concentrating on my own affairs.
“Yeah,” I said. “Aren’t you?” In my opinion, that was the greatest comeback in the world. Television worthy. The other girl should become flustered and thwarted.
She shrugged and walked away.
“Screw you,” I muttered.
I finished my combination and opened my locker. The rusty bottom always smelled like vomit. Wrinkling my nose, I hung the bag on the only hook remaining in the locker. Someone must have stolen the others, unless they’d broken.
“Yeah, man, sounds great,” Matt said from behind.
I ran my fingers through my hair. I’d found sponge rollers in the bathroom under the sink, so I’d curled my tresses the night before. Soft ringlets bounced around my shoulders. My heartbeat sped. Matt would be my first boyfriend.
I rested my hand on the side of the locker, leaning back with a smile. Matt clapped a high-five with another guy.
“Hey,” I purred. “What’s up?”
“Hey!”
His expression lightened and my heart skipped a beat.
“I looked you up in my old pictures, you know? We were in fourth grade together.” He wiped his hand on the front of his T-shirt, black with a clown head on the front.
“Wow, really?” I couldn’t remember much about fourth grade other than the teacher’s name. Mrs. Long…or maybe Mrs. Longmire. Okay, so I didn’t remember that either.
“Yeah.” He tossed his backpack into his locker.
“So do you live around here?”
“Just over there a few blocks.” He nodded behind him. “I walk. How about you?”
“Yes, me too.” I opened my mouth to ask if he’d like to walk to Ann’s for lunch, but another guy walked up behind him.
He rested his hand on Matt’s shoulder and Matt turned around, his face blossoming as if it had its own sun. Matt wrapped his arms around the boy’s neck and tilted his head, his lips parted, and the boy did the same. Their tongues touched, and then their mouths crushed together.
Blood drained from my head, and my hand tightened around the locker door. Matt, my heartthrob, had a boyfriend. A lover even, if how they were going at it in the hallway indicated activities they participated in outside of school.
My face burned as I yanked my books out of my backpack and slammed the locker shut. I hoped a teacher walked by and busted them for their make out session.
****
“Aren’t you going to tell me about your day?” Oma asked when I walked in after school. “You never tell me anyt
hing. It’s like I don’t even exist.” She narrowed her eyes and her cheeks flushed. I got my easy blushing from her it seemed.
I tossed my bag onto the chair in the hallway. “It was good.” My heartthrob is taken…and gay, so I don’t ever stand a chance. “I’ve got a lot of homework. Did Mama call?”
“She never calls.”
I noticed a piece of paper taped to the living room doorway. Oma’s handwriting read Mama had phoned about Muriel. Oma had spelled “Muriel” as Meerall.
“Are you going to Muriel Dwyer’s funeral?” I asked for the hundredth time since I’d told Oma about the death.
“Poor Muriel.” Oma’s face softened. “She was such a nice lady. It will be weird without her next door.”
“So, do you want to go to her funeral?”
“No, oh no. You go. She’d like that. She always liked you. Go with Jan.”
I peeled the note off the wall and a piece of paint came with it. “This says Mommy called.”
“She wants you to get some nice clothes for the funeral. She said you didn’t pack any.”
I glanced at my yellow dress. It wouldn’t do for a funeral, or school.
“There’s a store near Ann’s, down in the village,” Oma said. “Go buy something. They have dowdy old things.”
Dowdy old things. Yay. “Are you sure?”
“I won’t have my granddaughter going down there looking like a rose.” She waved her hand at my dress and departed for the bedroom. She returned with two fifty-dollar bills.
“Oma, this is a hundred dollars.” The bills were crisp in my fingers, bright and friendly. They begged to be spent.
“Bring back the change. Pick up dinner while you’re at it. Order it at Vighesso’s, it’s right next door. Then, you can pick up the take-outs on your way back with the clothes.”
It made sense, impressive even, coming from the new Oma.
****
Vighesso’s happened to be a cigar bar, or so the awning over the front door read. Even though it was five in the afternoon, people filled the bar. There weren’t any cigars, though, and No Smoking signs hung on the walls.
The Goat Children Page 7