RODENT
LISA J. LAWRENCE
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2016 Lisa J. Lawrence
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Lawrence, Lisa J., 1975–, author
Rodent / Lisa J. Lawrence.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0976-5 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0977-2 (pdf).—
ISBN 978-1-4598-0978-9 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8623.A9266R63 2016 jC813’.6 C2015-904506-1
C2015-904507-X
First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015946330
Summary: In this novel for teens, Isabelle knows all about shouldering responsibility: she looks after her younger siblings because their mother is often drunk or absent. School is a nightmare, but one teacher seems to understand that Isabelle has talent to spare.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover images by iStock.com, Dreamstime.com and Shutterstock.com
Author photo by Michael Lawrence
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
To Mike: expert bug disposer,
computer fixer and fellow daydreamer
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
“I’m wet,” a voice whimpers in my ear.
My eyelids snap open as my head jerks from the pillow. Evan stands beside my bed, hair disheveled, naked from the waist down. Chicken legs shivering.
“What?” I blink, trying to clear my head.
“I’m wet.” Now the tears come.
“Evan!” I grab his wrist and drag him, wailing, toward his bedroom. “Not again!”
In the early-morning sun filtering through the blinds, Maisie is still asleep in her bed next to his, curled up with a matted lamb. I strip the blankets and sheets from the mattress, cursing under my breath. I fling everything in a pile at his feet.
“Disgusting,” I say, eyeing the foul wet circle. Rounding on him, I bring my finger right up to his pale face. “Tonight, you’re wearing a pull-up.”
“No! No diaper!” He sobs harder now.
“Yes, diaper!” I snap. “If you act like a baby, you have to wear a diaper.” Maisie stirs in her bed, makes a chirping sound and rolls over.
Evan gives up arguing now and shivers, tears running down his cheeks. He scratches at his peed-on legs. He looks so pathetic, I start to feel sorry for him. I check the clock for the first time. Mickey Mouse’s hands tell me it’s 6:15 AM. I was cheated out of an extra fifteen minutes of sleep.
“C’mon,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him to the bathroom. I mop him up and find a clean pair of underwear. The plastic garbage bag I always put under his sheet has slipped to one side in the night, so I scrub his wet mattress for a minute before giving up. What’s one more stain at this point? He waits on the sofa in his Batman underwear while I wake up Maisie and get started.
Breakfast. Shower for me while they’re eating. Lunches. I lay their clothes on the sofa and let them watch some alphabet cartoon while they dress themselves. That gives me ten minutes to get myself ready. Right before we leave, I try to wrestle a brush through Maisie’s straggly mess of cinnamon curls.
She shrieks, trying to writhe away. I clamp my hands on her shoulders and push her back down. “Sit still! You want to look like a hobo on your first day at a new school?”
She gives me a dirty look but gets her shoes on when I tell her to. I help Evan into his.
“All ready?” I say, trying to sound more cheerful. Evan nods slowly, and Maisie just stares. “Okay then.”
I lock the door behind me, and we shuffle to the end of the hall. The elevator smells like piss again. I blame the loser on the floor below us, who roams the halls in his bathrobe half the time.
“Don’t touch anything,” I tell Evan and Maisie, making them stand on either side of me. This place is even more of a dump than the last, and that’s saying a lot. In the lobby we follow a worn path across the dirt-colored carpet to the main door and step into the bright September sun. Once outside, Maisie perks up and starts to tell me about her dream, which involves a farm.
“I got to ride the pony as much as I wanted,” she says, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I pick up the pace. Evan almost runs to keep up, two fingers gripping my belt loop. We follow the sidewalk to a strip mall half a block away, stopping in front of a rainbow-striped sign: Little Treasures Day Care. Someone has thrown a rock through the corner of the sign, so the r in Care doesn’t line up anymore.
Mrs. Carrigan, the owner, smiles at me as I push through the streaked door. I nod at her and crouch to help Evan take off his shoes and sweater, which I drop into his cubby. Then I corner Elaine, who runs the three-to-five-year-old room. She reminds me of a donkey, with her flat, tawny hair and the way she brays at the kids. Evan’s only been coming here a week, and I already know Elaine’s useless. Government subsidy covers most of the day-care fee, but it still feels like we pay too much for this place.
I get straight to the point. “Can you make sure Evan comes home in the right socks today?”
“Those were his socks.” She frowns and pulls her head back, which gives her about four chins.
“My Little Pony?” I say, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think so.” Without waiting for a reply, I turn and herd Maisie out the door with me.
We have about thirty seconds to make it to the bus stop on the corner, so we cover the rest of the block at a full-out run. Maisie’s backpack thumps up and down with every step, and I hear her puffing behind me. I turn and take her hand, slowing my pace a bit.
We make it with ten seconds to spare. The bus is packed. I finally find one seat near the back door and point for Maisie to sit down. Holding the bar above my head, I sway as the city slides by: cop cars, dogs, old people raking leaves, pawn shops, parking meters.
Maisie unpacks her backpack in her lap and shows me where she wrote her name on all of her school supplies. “I like this one,” she says, pulling the cap off a glue stick. “The glue is pink.”
After ten minutes, I ring the bell. The bus slides to a stop in front of Sir John A. Macdonald Elementary School, where we squeeze out with a few others. The bell has already rung, and the hallway’s a solid wall of children. Two boys wrestle each other, swinging backpacks and laughing. When they trample on my feet, I give them a good shove and say, “Watch it.”
We weave our way to the grade-two classrooms and scan the class list outside th
e door for Maisie Bennett. This is it. Her teacher, Mrs. Williams, strikes me as the cookie-baking-grandma sort. Silver hair pulled back in a hippie ponytail. Laugh lines around her eyes. She extends her hand to me as I leave Maisie at the door.
“Isabelle,” I say, shaking it. “I’ll be back to pick up Maisie after school.” I give Maisie a pat on the head and push my way through the swarming hallway.
Back out on the sidewalk, I look up and see my final destination across the street—Glenn Eastbeck High School—where I’m about to begin my first day of grade eleven.
TWO
One of the women in the office assigns me a locker. Mine’s a sickly blue and looks like it’s been attacked by a battering ram. I look around as I unload my empty binders and loose-leaf paper. An emo couple is making out three lockers down. A group of girls talks at a decibel level that could shatter glass. Everyone else pretends not to be texting when a teacher walks by. This all looks pretty normal. And I consider myself somewhat of an expert on what’s normal in high schools (and schools in general).
There have been five schools in the past three years, not to mention all the ones I passed through before I even hit junior high. I’ve seen it all. If I keep my head down, after two more years of this I’ll be free. Then it won’t matter if Mom has a good day or two when she finds a new job, drags us off to some other hellhole, then brings the whole thing crashing down. I won’t be a puppet in this stupid game anymore.
I don’t realize how hard I slam my locker until the girl next to me jumps. I give her a look like, What? and march off. Then I have to pull out a map of the school because I have no idea where I’m going. English. Room 102. Okay.
When I find it, I make a beeline for the back row, which is already taken by other students trying to be invisible or goof off. I end up sitting in front of a tall guy with a mop of dark hair and glasses that look like they belong in the sixties. He’s reading a thesaurus. To my left, a chubby girl with stringy hair picks at her split ends. I think I’ve found my corner.
While the teacher, Mr. Drummond, goes through the course outline, some tool in the back row starts throwing paper balls.
“Hey, Will!” he whispers. I hear the whoosh of a ball land right on the desk behind me—the tall guy’s desk. As far as I can tell without turning around, Will does nothing.
Then things get quiet. Mr. Drummond strolls down the aisle between us, his scuffed leather loafers not making a sound. His belly hangs over a pair of crisp khakis, and I can’t see his mouth under a bristly mustache. Thick graying hair sticks up on his head, like he just walked through a windstorm. For some reason, we all look straight ahead as he gets closer, even those of us who haven’t done anything.
I glance up at him for a split second as he pauses beside my desk. With that flicker of a look, square in his eyes, I see he’s a man who can silence a room with a stare. I look away, but he doesn’t move from beside my desk. He slowly scans the back row. Not a sound. Across the street, bus brakes hiss.
“That’s quite enough,” he says, his eyes moving from desk to desk. There’s some foot shuffling and squirming, but nobody speaks.
After an eternity, he turns and walks back to the front of the class. He picks up where he left off, telling us that we’re reading Hamlet this year. At least it isn’t Romeo and Juliet, which I’ve read at my last three schools and didn’t like the first time.
No one acts up again. When Mr. Drummond dismisses us, Will drops the paper ball in the garbage on the way out.
Social Studies. I check my map again before leaving English. Second floor. I elbow some girl out of the way for the last free desk at the back. The teacher, Mrs. Clarke, hands out a course outline. It’s quiet for a minute before she starts reading it aloud. Then the whispers start. A guy gets up to sharpen his pencil. Pretty soon people turn in their desks and talk to friends beside them. Out come the phones. Mrs. Clarke keeps going, the paper an inch from her face. I follow along with her because I have nothing else to do. I feel kind of sorry for her. She lets us go fifteen minutes early.
At lunchtime I find the cafeteria by following the flow of bodies. Standing near the door, I survey the long tables—a rippling ocean of heads, arms and mouths. It seems everyone except me has made Best Friends Forever and can’t stop talking, teasing and touching each other for even one second. I haven’t had a chance to find the library yet, so I have no book to hide behind.
Off to the left, a line snakes from the cafeteria counter. People leave with stacks of French fries, piles of chicken nuggets and cans of soda tucked under their arms. I can see that one of those meals costs the same as two loaves of bread and a gallon of milk, so buying lunch isn’t an option.
I find a bench along the wall rather than a table—there’s no awkward stranger to avoid making eye contact with. I wolf down my bologna sandwich and banana at record speed and go looking for a garbage can. There’s one near the door, conveniently close to my escape route.
In front of me, balancing a tray of empty wrappers and an apple core, is a girl with bright-red hair. Blunt bangs and long wavy curls down her back. Translucent white skin. She just stands there, not moving. How long is this going to take? I glance over her shoulder.
Three girls block the garbage can, smiling. I’d know that sort of smile anywhere, in any grade, in any school. The kind of smile that makes my stomach clench up.
The blond in the middle has thick, round shoulders. Stocky build, like an ox. Her shiny hair falls in a curtain over her shoulders. Small squinty eyes that look like a pig’s when she smiles. The brunette on her right is tall, athletic. She’d be gorgeous except her makeup is so thick she looks like a pole dancer. I recognize her from my Social Studies class. On the other side stands a black girl with an impressive afro and shimmery eye shadow. Silver bangles and purple-painted nails.
“Pick it up,” the blond says, still smiling, nodding to a crushed milk container and ketchup-covered napkin on the floor.
“It’s not mine,” the redhead says, all breathy.
“It is now, so pick it up.”
“No.” She sounds a bit edgier now, like she’s either going to stand her ground or start to cry. “I don’t want to.”
I don’t know if it’s the blond’s smug expression or her petty show of authority, but I feel like jamming that milk container right down her throat. When she takes a step forward and opens her mouth to speak again, my words fly out all by themselves.
“Pick it up yourself,” I say in a quiet voice that somehow echoes through the entire cafeteria. Every table within twenty feet falls silent. My heart starts to pound.
The ugly smile slides from the blond’s face as she glances past the redhead to the stranger behind her. She looks me over. Probably doesn’t think much of what she sees: wiry, on the small side, long brown hair and hard, hard blue eyes. I don’t blink.
“What did you say?” she whispers. Her two friends start to shift, looking around.
“Pick it up yourself,” I say again, louder. Something grinds inside me. The redhead flees.
It happens in an instant. The blond narrows her eyes and moves to take a step toward me. Between the eye-narrowing and when she lifts her foot, I form a fist. I know how to make a decent fist. My cousin Jacquie taught me—thumb on the outside, knuckles not too tight. It has served me well, especially at these ghetto schools I usually end up in.
The blond opens her mouth to say something, shoulders squared for a fight. Before she can get the word out, I slam her in the face. She staggers back into the arms of her friends. Grabs her nose to stop the gush of blood spraying down her turquoise tank top. Shock is all I see on the face of every single person, including her. They weren’t expecting this. Ice floods my gut. Tears form in her squinty eyes. Then something else, something I recognize instantly: rage.
She twists herself away from her friends’ arms and straightens up. Eyes locked on mine, face on fire. Here it comes. As she’s about to spring, a woman in a hairnet shows up beside me, gripping my
arm. “You, come with me,” she barks, dragging me through the door. “Take her to the nurse!” she calls over her shoulder to the blond’s friends.
She marches me through the half-empty hallway, every person turning to gawk. I feel like I’m being dragged to a public hanging. Hairnet woman is still squeezing my arm in her bony fingers, so I yank myself free. She turns like she wants to grab me again but sees the expression on my face and lowers her hand. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll slug her too.
“I’m capable of walking by myself, thank you,” I say in my coldest voice.
She purses her lips and marches ahead of me. I consider making a break for it, but to where? I still have to pick up Maisie at three thirty. Don’t exactly want to hang out in a locker or bathroom stall for three hours. No, better to face these things kicking and screaming.
We round a corner, and we’re back at the office again. The admin assistant who assigned me the locker looks up and stops typing as we parade by.
“Sit.” Hairnet points to a punishingly hard wooden chair outside an inner office. A black plaque on the door reads
Andrew Talmage, Principal. Hairnet knocks and slips through, giving me one last evil eye before she shuts the door behind her. I sit for an eternity. The phone rings endlessly, and the admin assistant answers a long list of the most boring questions and requests imaginable. “He won’t go on the bus today then? Okay, I’ll let him know to meet you out front…” “The students are dismissed at 3:25…” “If you paid your fees, we have no record of them. You’ll have to send another check…” My knuckles throb.
Why am I sitting here? How easy would it be to just get up and leave? I could walk a few blocks down, to where no one would see. Get on a bus to anywhere. Disappear. Never come back to this stupid office and this hard-as-a-rock chair, never listen again to people go on and on about the trivial crap in their silly little lives. No one would even notice.
Rodent Page 1