Rodent

by Lisa J. Lawrence

  Dangerous. I’m trying not to get killed at school or let my brother and sister die at home, dodging hunger, fists, homelessness, foster care. I’m pretty sure Hamlet is the least dangerous thing in my life.

  It must be clear on my face, because he straightens in his chair. “You’ll have to catch up on missed work after school today, if you intend to stay in this class.”

  “I can’t,” I say instantly.

  “Can’t? I think it’s time for you to prioritize. The decision is yours.”

  Heat creeps from my gut upward. I feel like driving an elbow right into that round paunch. Prioritize? What the hell does he know? And I just dropped Social Studies too. I don’t think I can lose another course.

  “I pick up”—I swallow hard, trying to drive down the lump in my throat—“I pick up my sister after school, across the street.”

  “Can she come here and wait with you?”

  “No, she—” I shake my head and look away. How can I explain the whole sequence, how it all comes down to me? Picking up Evan, my job, babysitting Mom and getting her off to work. A careful line of dominoes, all depending on my push to carry it through. Even half an hour late, and none of it will work.

  Voices float past in the hall. I wait for them to fade before trying again.

  “I look after my brother and sister when my mom…” I can’t continue. I feel the hot tears now. Hate him. I hate him. “When my mom…” I can’t push out that final word, beat one more lie out of that sentence. When my mom what? Checks out on a daily basis? I turn and watch the yellow leaves tumble across the sidewalk.

  Mr. Drummond leans in and tries to finish it for me. “Goes to work?”

  A laugh catches in my throat, like a bark. I sniff and wipe my face with my sleeve. I think the tears will stop now, but they keep spilling from the corners of my eyes. “Mostly drinks. Sometimes works.” I give a bitter laugh. How strange on my lips, the truth. I focus on his feet, scuffed loafers poking out from under the desk. I should run. Lock myself in the bathroom. Switch schools. But here I am, in front of this walrus, coming unglued. Something about my confession knocks me off-kilter, like the beams have fallen and the ceiling’s caving in.

  I turn from him now, walk to the window and cry. Now I feel it too, that awful, stinging shame from last night. I completely crumble. I have no idea what Mr. Drummond does while I blubber. I hear a scuffle of feet in the hallway, and Mr. Drummond crosses the floor and closes the door. The clock hums on the wall.

  Mr. Drummond drops a box of Kleenex onto the desk beside me and wedges himself into one of the chairs. “Look, Isabelle,” he says, “you’re not the first person to come from a crap family. At least you’re still here, in school. I didn’t finish high school until I was twenty-one.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I reach for a tissue and try to mop up, eyes stinging.

  “Are you able to do the reading and finish the assignment this weekend?” he asks. I nod. Don’t ask me to say anything else. Those four words—mostly drinks, sometimes works—are more than I’ve ever said. To anyone. “Okay, fair enough,” he says.

  I drop into a chair, my legs suddenly weak. Exhausted in every bone.

  “Didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” he says. Clearly I’m not as good at faking it as I thought. I shake my head. “Go to the infirmary now,” he says. “Get some rest.”

  I think I’ve lost the capacity to speak. I hear him calling the office as I leave.

  *

  The admin assistant waves me toward her as I enter. “Mr. Drummond called down. He said you were sick.” I see her examining my face, which feels swollen to three times its normal size. It’s probably not a tough sell.

  She leads me by the elbow to a room behind the main office area, like I’m about to collapse at any second. “Here you go.” She points to a sterile-looking bed pushed against the wall of a small room. A few cabinets run along the other wall, painted an austere white. “Do you want a glass of water?” she asks.

  “Yes, please.” I clear my throat.

  She brings the water and returns to her desk, the door hanging ajar between us. I close it, twisting the knob so it shuts silently. Pull the blinds closed, take off my shoes, lie down on the crinkly bed.

  Out in the office, I hear snatches of the most boring conversations imaginable. The click of fingers on a keyboard. On the other side of the window, the crunch of gravel under tires in the parking lot.

  Maisie is safe in her class, being the helper. Evan is with Mom. She won’t leave while he’s there. My head spins in a dizzy circle when I close my eyes. I sleep without dreaming.

  NINE

  Jacquie stops by before lunch on Saturday, all cleavage in a little tank top.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask.

  “Hey, you got it, flaunt it.”

  Jacquie once tried on one of Maisie’s shirts and said, Not bad. Her belly-button ring was peeking out the bottom and her boobs bursting out the top.

  Not bad for a stripper, I had said.

  “Wassup, pup?” She bends down to Maisie, tickling her. Maisie screeches and runs for the sofa. Evan tackles Jacquie’s legs, sitting on her foot and wrapping himself around a calf. She drags him around the room—her thin dark hair swaying—before asking, “Where’s your mom?”

  “Still sleeping,” I say.

  “Hard night?” Jacquie winks.

  “I don’t think so. She had to work late.”

  It’s weird. The day after the “incident,” I had come home to Mom and Evan sitting on the sofa, coloring. Crayons spread out on a cushion. Mom was drawing pictures on lined paper and giving them to Evan to color in. I didn’t know she could draw a frog.

  “I ate some toast!” Evan said. Maisie squeezed in to join them.

  Mom smiled at us, not meeting my eye. A slight red blotch marked her left cheekbone. She got up to have a shower once I was in the door. I gave her space.

  When she was in the bedroom, I went in, shutting the door behind me. “Mom.” Not sure what to say next. She turned away from me, almost shyly, and kept getting dressed. “Mom, I’m sorry for…what happened.” Still couldn’t say those words out loud.

  She stopped, one leg in a pair of tights, her back to me. “Isabelle, do you really believe”—she pushed the words out—“that I never should’ve had children?”

  That was what upset her the most? “No, Mom. I don’t really believe that.” Don’t I? “I just get really mad at you sometimes.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’ll do better,” she said.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’ll do better.”

  I had left before the anger could take root and rise up again. But she has been sober the past two days and even helped make school lunches before she left for work.

  “Do you think we could leave the brats here for a while?” Jacquie reaches down and pinches Evan’s nose.

  “I want to come!” they howl in unison.

  “If you stay here, I’ll bring you back a surprise,” she says. Howling stops. She sees my face and says, “What? I’ve got a bit of money.”

  “Wake Mom up if you need help,” I tell Maisie.

  We take a bus to Goodwill to check things out. We wander around, looking at all the stuff we would need to move out together. We do this at least once a month, talk big.

  “Look, a lamp for five bucks,” Jacquie says.

  “Ugly.”

  “So what? It gives light, right?”

  “Look, this teapot has a cat on it.” I hold it up to show her.

  “And that’s better than the lamp?”

  We test out the reclining chairs and shake the book-shelves for sturdiness. I find an area rug that matches one of the chairs.

  “It wouldn’t take that much,” I say, “now that I’m working. We could have everything we need in a couple of paychecks.”

  “I could pay the rent if I left school.” Jacquie tries on a pair of ski boots disca
rded near the shelves.

  “You want to be a dishwasher all your life?”

  “Look at you, Little Miss Ambitious.”

  The truth is, I haven’t thought a day past my high-school graduation. I picture the school doors opening and me running away as fast as I can. A quiet apartment. A job in a coffee shop, maybe. Jacquie tells me about the parties we’ll have, and maybe that will be okay. I don’t think much about that part.

  We wander through the kids’ clothes and toys. I keep my eyes peeled for something for Maisie’s birthday. All the dolls look sad. Matted hair, felt marker on their legs. Lots of baby toys—blocks and rattles and stuff.

  I’m flipping through a rack of size 8 girls’ clothes when I see a pink sleeve. I pull it all the way out to have a look. A light pink dress with embroidered flowers on the bodice and a ribbon around the waist. It would be the prettiest thing she owned. The hem is unraveling in one spot near the back, but I could fix that easy.

  “Jacquie, lend me eight bucks?”

  With Jacquie’s help, I also dig around the toy section and find a plastic truck and ramp for Evan. He has hardly any toys. We stored some stuff with a friend of Mom’s during the last move, and then she took off and abandoned the place. I guess the landlord ended up with it.

  After we take a bus back, Jacquie remembers her promise to Maisie and Evan. I take her to my store to buy some candy, saving the other stuff for Maisie’s birthday.

  Hasan is at the counter, and the only other customer is at the ATM by the bathroom. Hasan’s eyes light at Jacquie’s toothy smile and skin-tight shirt.

  “Hasan, this is my cousin, Jacquie,” I say. He’s probably wondering why he got stuck with the boring cousin.

  She shakes his hand, charm cranked to one hundred percent. “Pleasure.”

  “We’re getting some candy for my brother and sister,” I say.

  He comes around the counter to help, like it’s a really tough job. “You could try this one—a little bit spicy.” He shakes a box and winks at Jacquie.

  She bends down, giving him a good eyeful, and grabs the Sweet Tarts off the bottom shelf. “Or this—sweet and tart.” She smiles. They go on for another minute, hands brushing, making a big show. I think I’m going to puke.

  “Smarties it is,” I say, pulling three boxes off the shelf. They both wilt like a kid who’s just lost his helium balloon.

  “See you Monday.” I wave to Hasan on our way out. We settle on the curb outside and crack open one of the boxes.

  “I’d like to corrupt that one,” Jacquie says.

  “I think he’s already been corrupted, Jacquie.”

  It’s a warm day. I take off my sweater and tie it around my waist. Jacquie holds out her arms, willing the sun to shine on them. While she picks out the blue Smarties, I tell her about Ainsley and Co. and getting suspended.

  “Do you want me to take care of them?” she asks, eyes flinty. She would too. Jacquie’s a ripple of lean muscle that moves like a flash. She’s only six months older than I am, but taller and fuller. She takes after Uncle Richie.

  “No. I can’t mess things up at that school. It’s right by Maisie’s.”

  “They don’t have to know we’re related.”

  “They’ll figure it out when they do the police report,” I say.

  She laughs and pops a handful of Smarties into her mouth. “Think about it.”

  I almost tell her about hitting Mom and talking to Mr. Drummond—whatever that was about—but the words don’t come. We watch cars and trucks move in and out of the parking lot for a while before heading home.

  *

  When I hand in my monologue to Mr. Drummond on Monday, he gives me a wink. Like we’re two peas in the same crappy-mother pod.

  “I’m looking forward to reading this, Miss Bennett,” he says.

  I’m actually a little nervous about it. Mom didn’t have to work on Saturday night, so she sat with Maisie and Evan while I was holed up in my room, scribbling away. I noticed that most people’s papers were done on a computer. So what?

  As I turn back to my desk, I catch Will watching me. For sure, this time. He looks away a little too quickly and makes a big deal of digging around in his bag for a pen. I’m tempted to give him the finger, but there’s something about him I recognize. Like he too wishes he could go through this entire year without saying a word to anyone. Like if he could live on a desert island and communicate by messenger pigeon and smoke signals, that would be fine. Whatever this staring is about, I don’t think it has anything to do with Ainsley.

  It must be my day for freaks, because Clara comes and finds me in the library during the lunch hour. I thought her last visit was a one-off, that she had done her duty to God and country and moved on.

  “Hi, Isabelle.” She sits down next to me without asking this time.

  “Hey.”

  She starts to pull out books to make it look like she’s working on something. “How was your weekend?”

  “Hmm. My cousin came over on Saturday, and I finished an English assignment.” Yawn. Just another day in the tranquil life of Isabelle Bennett. “How about you?”

  “A lot of homework. And I have riding lessons on Saturdays.”

  Riding lessons. Of course.

  Ms. Hillary gives us a warning look. We lower our heads over our books and get back to work. I’m grateful, actually, because I don’t have anything else to say to her. I try to finish my reading for English. Who knows if I’ll get a chance tonight.

  A burst of voices and the bang of books dropped on a nearby table. My gut freezes. They’ve found my hiding hole. I don’t look up. Don’t need to.

  “Look, it’s master and slave!” That will be Pole Dancer. I wonder which of us is the master and which is the slave?

  More giggling and banging around.

  Ms. Hillary is all over them. “Are you girls here to work or not?”

  As she turns away, one of them mimics her. “Are you girls here to work or not?” I suck in my breath. They’re more stupid than I thought. Ms. Hillary seems to let it go and returns to her desk. I’m not fooled.

  Celeste pulls out her phone, and they whisper with their heads together. After more giggling, I hear a click, and a light flashes in my direction. Did they just take my picture? I gauge for damage control. I’m in a library. Fully clothed. Studying. How bad could it be?

  Next to me, Clara’s pale cheeks flush pink. She hasn’t turned the page of her math text since they sat down.

  It’s Ainsley’s own suicide when she pulls out a soda can and takes a long swig, not even trying to hide it.

  “You lot, out!” Ms. Hillary barks from the desk.

  “I was just taking some medication,” Ainsley says.

  “Out!”

  There’s a round of cursing. Pole Dancer knocks over a chair behind her and leaves it tipped, legs in the air. Ms. Hillary mutters and tidies up behind them.

  Clara and I wait for a minute after the bell rings before leaving. I go out first, just in case they’re waiting. No one. I head to my locker, take out my jacket and load all my books into my backpack. It strains at the zipper and bends my back at an unnatural angle. I feel like the old lady with the walker.

  I’m a few minutes late for Biology. It’s the one class where I feel totally anonymous. No Ainsley, Celeste or Pole Dancer. No one stares or even says hello. Miss Dennhart nods at me but doesn’t stop talking about photosynthesis. My empty seat at the back is ready and waiting.

  In Spanish, the bucktoothed girl asks if we can be partners when it’s time to practice introducing ourselves. I wonder if I’ve become a magnet for all the school freaks. She’s nice though.

  “Me llamo Daniela,” she tells me in a way that makes it sound like she’s a llama.

  At the end of Spanish, I approach Mr. Dent. “Can I wait here for a minute? I could help you, if you need it.”

  “Claro que sí!” he says, which I take as a yes. He gets me to erase the board and gather up loose sheets of paper for r
ecycling.

  “What are you waiting for, Isabelle?” he asks.

  I’m about to tell him I’m waiting for my mom to come, but I’m tired of lying to people. It’s getting harder to say the words. “It’s just better for me,” I say.

  He looks at me oddly but doesn’t press. When I’m done with the recycling, he asks me to take down students’ old posters from a bulletin board. After ten minutes I tell him “adiós” and head for the main doors of the school. I have everything with me and don’t need to stop at my locker. It’s a sure fixed point where they know to find me. Might as well strap a blinking red light to my head. I won’t be visiting the Blue Beast for a while.

  From the main doors, I see a group of stragglers waiting at the shelter. No sign of Ainsley and Co. I bolt to pick up Maisie, bracing myself for her reproach.

  *

  The next morning in English, I decide I’ll be brave if Mr. Drummond asks me to read. I’ll be totally expressionless, with no sound effects and hand movements like that Rachael chick, but I won’t say no.

  He doesn’t ask me, but I try to pay attention for once. Someone named Brittany gets the part of Ophelia, and Brandon is chosen to be Reynaldo, a servant.

  Then Mr. Drummond scans the room for a new voice to play Ophelia’s father, Polonius. “Will,” he says. “You’ll make a fine Polonius.”

  Silence behind me. I imagine Will crawling under his desk—all six feet four inches of him.

  He doesn’t say yes or no but starts reading a flat, “Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.”

  “I will, my lord,” Brandon says, with about as much enthusiasm as Will.

  “Marry, sir, here’s my drift; And I believe, it is a fetch of wit: You laying these slight sullies on my son…” He presses on, with giggling behind him. Will is the worst Polonius ever, like he’s reading a menu. I kind of respect him, though, for doing it anyway.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Brittany eventually joins in, reading in this sort of high falsetto which gets really annoying, “O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”