Rodent

by Lisa J. Lawrence

I know exactly who it is. I dash for it as she takes a few lazy steps, clamping my hand over the receiver the second before she reaches it.

  “Isabelle, what on earth?”

  “Sit down, Mom.” Then I tell her about punching the blond, making it out like she was a bloodthirsty maniac who tried to kill me. All while the phone rings endlessly behind us. It finally stops as I get around to mentioning my totally unjust suspension.

  She still manages to look shocked every time I get in trouble at school.

  “Isabelle.” She opens her pale mouth, struggling with the words, “I didn’t raise you…”

  “No, you didn’t raise me!” I holler, banging both fists against the table. Knocking over a salt shaker.

  My words seem to suck the air out of her. That’s how I leave her as I break for the door and head down the hall, small voices trailing behind me. I lose them at the elevator, ignoring the pull in my stomach as the doors slide closed before they reach me.

  I’ve forgotten my jacket. Low clouds dampen a gray skyline, making goose bumps prickle my arms. I walk for an hour, the wind scratching my cheeks red.

  When I get back, Mom is sitting at the table with the phone in front of her. She gives me a pointed stare. I gather Mr. Talmage has given her the your-daughter-beats-up-innocent-children-and-fluffy-kittens talk.

  I stare straight back. Just bring it up, Mom. Just try.

  She chooses each word carefully. “Your principal called.” Takes a breath. “He said you can go back on Monday, but he wants to see you in his office before your first class.”

  “Okay.” I can tell she wants to say more.

  “Isabelle.” She clears her croaky throat. I know what’s coming. I don’t want to hear any apologies today about her being a bad mother or not giving us what we deserve. As she continues to be a bad mother and not give us what we deserve. Not today.

  “Don’t, Mother,” I say, marching past her.

  She lays her head on the table.

  The moment I slam the bedroom door, that guilt bubbles up. I have the impulse to rush back and hug her, like I did when I was Maisie’s age. Can’t remember the last time I was hugged by anyone other than Maisie and Evan. Or that drunk guy at Jacquie’s birthday party, who I had to knee in the balls to get away from.

  No. She made this bed. This bed of vomit and piss and dirty sheets. Let her lie in it.

  A minute later I hear the shower run.

  *

  Over the weekend, I stay glued to Mom.

  “Stop it, Isabelle,” she says during dinner on Saturday, watching my eyes follow the beer bottle to her mouth. “I’m allowed to have a drink.”

  Later, when she’s taking too long in the bathroom, I burst in without knocking. She’s on the toilet, reading a mystery novel, and scrambles to cover herself. Like I haven’t seen it all a million times.

  “Cut it out!” She shoves me from the bathroom, pants still around her ankles. The lock clicks behind her.

  Still, she makes it to work both nights.

  *

  On Monday morning, my stomach flutters as I wind through the hallway on my way to Mr. Talmage’s office. Because of the weekend after my two-day suspension, it feels like I’ve been away a while.

  I keep my eyes peeled for the squinty blond and her friends but don’t see anyone I recognize. Might as well get the bowing and scraping over with so I can get on with this year and get the hell out.

  Mr. Talmage’s door is shut, muffled voices inside. Who’s with him? I knock. His hulking frame fills the doorway. He looks down at me like I’m a used Band-Aid on his breakfast plate.

  “Miss Bennett,” he says. “Come in.”

  As he pushes the door open wider, I see her in one of the wooden chairs. The blond. And she has an impressive bruise. I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. She looks up at me. I look away.

  Mr. Talmage gestures to an empty chair beside her. We both stare straight ahead, although I’m close enough to smell her fruity shampoo.

  “Miss Bennett and I have discussed the inappropriateness of her actions,” Mr. Talmage says, leaning toward the blond, “but I think she should know more about her victim.”

  Victim? He makes me sound like a serial killer.

  He looks me in the eye and gestures toward her. “Ainsley is an honors student and an active member of our students’ union. She has participated in fundraising for the food bank, after-school programs and jerseys for our sports teams.” The man has actually made a list. He inhales slowly to give me time to admire the wonder that is Ainsley.

  “She plays on the volleyball team and is president of the Art Club.” Is this winding up anytime soon? “She is an asset to our school.” And another word I can think of beginning with a. “Is there something you would like to say to Ainsley?” he says. I bite my tongue. In the silence, he prompts, “I think you owe Ainsley an apology, Isabelle.”

  Ainsley, who’s been sitting with her hands folded in her lap like a sainted nun up to this point, turns her pale face toward me, eyes open wide, and blinks.

  I wonder how long we’ll sit here if I say nothing at all. I mean, really, I have all day. That dark cloud of what if moves in my mind, always ending up at those two small faces. As much as this place is a dump, it’s right across from Maisie’s school. Being at another school wouldn’t work as well.

  I steel myself, look into her piggy eyes and say, “I’m sorry I hit you.” Mr. Talmage nods, like we’re just getting started. What? What else? “And I won’t do it again.” I feel about five years old. He keeps nodding, but I’m all out of words. He makes some kind of gesture for us to shake hands, which we don’t.

  Ainsley blinks again, gazing angelically at Mr. Talmage. I stare at a stapler on his desk.

  “Now, no more of this nonsense,” he says as the phone on his desk starts to ring. “There’s no reason you girls can’t be friends. Off to class.” He shoos us toward the door.

  We scrape our chairs back and try to maneuver around each other without touching or making eye contact. As we head for the door, I stop to let her step through first. Mr. Talmage laughs loudly into the receiver and swivels his back to us.

  “You’re dead,” she whispers in my ear as she pushes past me.

  FIVE

  The black girl—Celeste is her name—is in my English class. How did I not notice her before? She sits near the front by a different blond with red lipstick. Between the two of them, there’s constant whispering, giggling and sliding of bangles. She catches me watching her once and stares back. Not in a mean way—mostly curious. I disappear behind my paper.

  We’re starting with one of those stupid what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacation writing assignments, “to assess our writing abilities.” To assess my lying abilities, more like. I fought a bedbug infestation in the last place—lost. Mom got fired, again. Packed and moved. Cleaned up pee (Evan’s), puke (Mom’s). Sat around picking my nose, watching Maisie and Evan at the park. Tried to keep Jacquie out of juvy. Who wants to hear about all of that?

  Sometimes I think I feel eyes on me. I turn around and see Will, the tall guy, scribbling on his third sheet of paper. Everyone else is messing around with their phones behind their dictionaries.

  “Those phones are about to be mine,” Mr. Drummond says from the front of the class, not even looking up. There’s a mad scramble of hands in pockets and purses.

  I was right about the tall girl, the pole dancer, being in my Social Studies class. Great. Two out of three now. She catches my eye on purpose and laughs, like my mere existence is a joke. Some stupid-looking football type sitting beside her laughs too. Without the courage to look me in the eye though.

  Someone whispers, “It’s Mike Tyson!” as I sit down. Good. Now they know to leave me alone.

  Mrs. Clarke talks about a group project we’re starting next week. Excellent. I already know how this is going to end up—me and the pole dancer cozied up to a poster on World War II.

  Pole Dancer finds reasons to walk by my desk thre
e times during class. Mrs. Clarke doesn’t even notice people moving around. The last time she goes by, Pole Dancer drops a folded-up note on my desk, and I make a big show of getting up and throwing it straight in the garbage without opening it.

  “What are you doing, dear?” Mrs. Clarke says, singling me out of at least ten kids who are wandering around the classroom. “No reason for you to be out of your desk now.”

  Pole Dancer and her football friend snigger. I’m the first one out the door when the bell rings.

  Lunch. I need to find a safe place before everyone can regroup, talk, make a plan. I practically tackle the custodian as he weaves his cart through the sea of indifferent bodies.

  “Where’s the library?” I say.

  He stares at me for a second. I’m guessing not a lot of kids talk to him. “Down the stairs and to your left.” He motions with a finger.

  I push through the hall, hawk eyes on everyone. My heart pounds as I round the stairwell. The stairs would be the worst place—hard to get away, hard to defend myself, trapped.

  So far, so good. I notice some people staring or smiling as I walk by. I must have made quite an impression in the cafeteria. Stupid, Isabelle. I don’t care about making friends, but it’s the invisibility factor that usually gets me by.

  Okay, down the stairs and to my left. There it is, like some kind of oasis. Something about a library instantly calms me. The sharp smell of pages, yellow and old, crisp and brand-new. The shuffling of paper, quiet clicking on a keyboard, the scratch of a pencil. Like nothing bad could ever happen in a library.

  There is also a direct correlation between how cranky a librarian is and how well the library is run. The crankier the better. At my last school, the librarian was this sweet, soft lady who was always humming and letting kids listen to stuff on their iPhones. People dropped books wherever, always talking. It felt like desecration.

  “Watch out there,” the librarian says, looking up from her desk and gesturing to an open box of books near my feet. She has a pointy nose and one of those beaded chains for her glasses. She’s wearing a sweater the color of baby poop. I smile.

  Her eyes stay fixed on me as I find the perfect table—a good view of the door but not backed into a corner. She seems appeased once I pull out my English and Social Studies textbooks. I’m supposed to read the first two scenes of Hamlet by tomorrow. I don’t think I missed anything at all in Social Studies during my two-day holiday.

  I stay the whole lunch hour, breaking off bits of my peanut-butter sandwich when the librarian turns her back or disappears behind a shelf. I’m careful not to leave any crumbs behind. I need this woman on my side. Little does she know I’m about to become her new best friend. I sign out a stack of books near the end of the lunch hour—my escape at home and school.

  I wait until the bell rings before making a move to my next class—Biology—to let the halls fill with people. Easier to get lost in the shuffle, and there’s safety in numbers.

  Now that I have two of the three musketeers in my morning classes, I’m fully prepared for Saint Ainsley to bless either Biology or Spanish with her presence, but no. No squinty blond ox in either one. My shoulders unclench a bit.

  In fact, in Spanish a brunette with buck teeth leans over to me and whispers, “I hear you punched Ainsley Peters.”

  “Yeah?” I say, more defensively than I intended.

  “How’d that feel?” If I’m giving off a negative vibe, she’s not catching it.

  “Pretty good, actually.”

  “Yeah.” She nods and smiles, turning back to her book. “Pretty good.”

  Apparently I’m not the only one who wants to punch Ainsley in the face. Happy to have been of service to losers everywhere.

  By the end of the day, though, I’m tired of sneaking around like a criminal. I did apologize (insincerely), and this is my school too (unfortunately). As I head toward my locker, I throw my shoulders back and stare down any looks that come my way. No more tiptoeing.

  As I turn the corner to my locker, I see three ugly, smiling faces. My stomach drops. Mid-step, I think of ten different escape routes. No. I can’t. Won’t. Head up, shoulders back. March on.

  My fingers tremble as I turn the combination on my lock and the voices start around me.

  “Well, look who’s back.”

  “Look who has a death wish.”

  They go round and round, a swirl of empty, stupid threats. I don’t say anything, head down as I try to gather my jacket and books as quickly as I can. I can’t have any more trouble at this school.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Ainsley and Pole Dancer are doing most of the talking. Celeste stands with her arms crossed, looking on. I balance my books and backpack in one arm and try to swing my locker shut. Pole Dancer sticks her foot inside while Ainsley elbows my books to the floor. They crash. Heads turn.

  “Whoops! Let me help,” Ainsley says, bending at the same time as me. Her hand touches mine, almost gently, as we reach for the same binder. We both stop. Quietly, even too quietly for her friends to hear, she whispers, “Your day is coming, princess. You’ve been warned.” Then she stands and leaves me to my mess.

  I think they’ll leave now, but they watch me scrape the pile of papers off the floor and stack my textbooks again. My cheeks are on fire. I haven’t said a single word. I manage to shut the locker this time, and they trail down the hall after me.

  “Look who thinks she’s something special.” Again with the comments.

  I feel panic rising on top of the broiling mess already churning in my gut. I have to pick up Maisie now. How can I possibly bring this freak show to her? They’ll see where I’m going. They’ll know I have a little sister. What could Maisie do against this, against their ugly words? Would they hurt her? My chest pulls tight. She’ll be waiting by now, standing at the door with her backpack on. I’m already late.

  “We’ll see who’s laughing when she’s bleeding on the floor.” Pole Dancer’s voice behind me. Idiot. Who’s laughing now? Who ever laughed?

  Something comes to me at the end of the hall, as I head down the stairs to the main doors. I hold the railing, just in case I get a push from behind.

  At the bottom of the stairs, instead of turning right to leave, I turn left toward the office. A few stragglers watch us move by, then turn away, pretending not to see.

  “You can give it, but you can’t take it, eh?” Ainsley says.

  Then they realize where I’m headed.

  “Running to tell Daddy?”

  I walk on.

  At the office door, I turn to see what they’ll do. They stand a few feet away from me in the hall, waiting, watching. Celeste steps back and looks away, raising a nail to her mouth.

  Mr. Talmage’s door is shut—good thing. The admin assistant cradles the phone at her ear as she clicks across her keyboard. I sit in the wooden chair outside his door, the chair, like I’m waiting to see him.

  They shift outside the office door, leaning together to whisper. If Mr. Talmage comes out, I’ll have to say something to him, make something up. It beats getting jumped in the hallway. They stand around another minute before Ainsley motions with her hand and they leave.

  The admin assistant finishes her call as I creep to the door and peek out. “Can I help you?” she says. I shake my head and give her a wave.

  The second I hit the doorway, I break into a run. Maisie, I’m coming. My heart pounds with every stride. The school parking lot is mostly empty now. What will she think? Is she still waiting for me?

  A car honks as I step into the street. I keep running. Up the walk. Through the main door. Past the custodian. Down, down, down the hallway to Mrs. Williams’s classroom. The door is locked. A stab in my throat. I turn and lope back toward the main entrance, to the office. As I step through the door, the ancient admin assistant squints at her computer screen. Her pink scalp shows through her thinning hair.

  There, on a chair in the corner. My six-year-old with the cinnamon tangles. I look
down, blinking the water from my eyes.

  “You’re late,” she says.

  “I’m sorry, Maisie. Something happened at my school, but I’m here now.”

  “Nobody came to get me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She seems to see me for the first time now, sees how the past twenty minutes have played on my face. “Are you going to throw up?” she asks.

  “I might.” It’s true. A thick, sour paste coats my mouth. Piercing pain in my chest. I fall into a chair next to her and drop my head into my hands. She watches.

  After a long pause, I stand. “Maisie, I’ll always come get you.” I pull her up and wave to the old lady, who didn’t seem to notice us coming or going. I get a long drink from a very short water fountain. “Now, let’s go get Evan.”

  The bus is crowded, the beginning of rush hour now, which gives me an excuse to sit Maisie on my lap and hide my face in her tickly hair. She’s getting heavy now. My right leg falls asleep, so I jiggle it. I don’t want to say another word for the rest of the day.

  “What happened at your school?” Maisie asks.

  I don’t answer immediately, choosing careful words. “I met a girl who was pokey.”

  Maisie perks up. She tries to turn her face toward me. “Did you smack her?”

  I swallow. “I did, Maisie.” The bus lurches to a stop, and someone crushes my baby toe. The press of people around us shifts toward the back of the bus as new bodies file on. “And she smacked back.”

  SIX

  No sign of my three stalkers before class the next day. I’m jumpy, ready to tackle total strangers as they brush by me in the hall. I find a pink princess sticker on my locker. The kiss of death on the dented blue metal.

  Celeste ignores me entirely in English, which is nothing but good news as far as I’m concerned. Doesn’t turn her head in my direction even once.

  Mr. Drummond gives us a pop quiz on the characters and events in the first two scenes of Hamlet. I started reading it in the library yesterday but didn’t get too far, being mostly focused on not getting killed. I only know three out of the ten questions for sure. The rest I leave blank. When I hand it in, Mr. Drummond gives me a hard look. I pretend not to notice and retreat to my corner of misfit toys.