by C. C. Payne
It couldn’t have been Mama’s fault. Mama is neat and organized. She likes for everything to have a place and for everything to be put in its place, not just left lying around. That’s why we have things like the shoe basket, the glove basket, the mail basket, the key basket, the loose change basket, the remote control basket, the catalog basket, and lots of other baskets. We don’t have a backpack basket though, so I picked up my backpack and carried it upstairs to my room.
When I came back down, Mama was off the phone. “Sometimes the other girls down at the shop just drive me crazy—I mean really crazy, like I’d like to rip out big fistfuls of my own hair, you know?”
Now I would’ve thought Mama was talking to someone else, had there been anyone else in the room. But since there wasn’t, I said, “Yes, ma’am,” as though I completely understood how the other girls down at the beauty shop might make a person barking mad, and I resisted the urge to ask, Is that what happened to your hair?
Mama looked at me as if to say, Where did you come from? But what she actually said was, “I thought you were going to call when you wanted me to pick you up.”
“Um…well…it’s such a pretty day, and…um…I thought…well, I just wanted to walk.” I stopped talking because it wasn’t exactly going well and shrugged my shoulders.
“How’d your audition go?” Mama asked.
“Um…fine,” I lied. “Hey, did you see the cherry blossoms?”
“What?”
“The cherry trees—when they bloomed, did you see them?”
“I’m sure I did,” Mama said in a way that told me she hadn’t really seen them any more than I had. “Listen, Lula Bell, you’re going to have to learn to iron. I’ll teach you, okay?”
I couldn’t believe I was being given extra chores now, on top of everything else—I hadn’t even complained or anything!
The phone rang again, just as the dryer buzzer sounded, letting us know that another load of clean clothes was ready for folding—and ironing. Mama picked up the phone and motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table, where she’d set out a box of cookies.
I sat down without touching them. Grandma Bernice had always said, “Cookies aren’t supposed to come out of a box; they’re supposed to come out of the oven!”
Mama scurried after her papers, her beauty supply catalogs, and her calendar, all of which were littered with yellow Post-it notes. Meanwhile, I tried to push the whopping lie I’d just told about auditions out of my head, along with Kali Keele—and the ironing that awaited me.
I wished Daddy were home. He knew all about auditions and might’ve understood—and been able to explain it to Mama. If not…well, at the very least, Daddy should’ve been here for ironing lessons—because most of the time he wore clothes that looked like he’d slept in them.
Who’s the Omega Wolf Now?
The first thing I learned at school on Thursday morning was that a few of the kids in my math class hadn’t done their homework, which was long, long, long division—not hard but still time-consuming. Anyhow, they didn’t have their homework, but they did have a plan. By the time math rolled around, they’d convinced everyone in our class to pretend that Mrs. Sharp hadn’t given us any homework, that she’d forgotten to assign it or something.
So late that morning, when Mrs. Sharp said, “Get out your homework,” nobody did.
Instead, we all looked around at each other like, Huh?
“What homework?” someone said.
“You didn’t give us any homework, Mrs. Sharp,” someone else said in a very helpful-like voice.
Mrs. Sharp looked like she was trying to think back to yesterday. “Yes I did. I know I did,” she said.
“Nuh-uh,” Zeke Baxter argued weakly. He’d probably done his homework, I thought—Zeke always did his homework.
Mrs. Sharp put her hands on her hips and looked around the classroom. When she locked eyes with Alan West, she shook her head and sighed a sad sigh. “I’m going to have to give all of you zeros on last night’s assignment.”
Alan swallowed hard, but he didn’t say anything. That is, he didn’t say anything until Mrs. Sharp picked up her grade book. Then, Alan’s hand shot up in the air.
“Yes, Alan?” Mrs. Sharp said like she had no idea what he was going to say. She knew what Alan was going to say all right—we all did.
Alan said, “This isn’t going to go on my permanent record, is it?”
“Well…,” Mrs. Sharp said. Then she hesitated and bit her lip, like she sure hated to give Alan West a zero on his permanent record.
“Because I plan to go to Harvard University. I’ve been planning it my whole life—‘Harvard’ was the first word I ever said,” Alan informed her.
Mrs. Sharp sighed. “Harvard has awfully high standards, and there’s a lot of competition. It’ll be tough to get in there, Alan…especially if—”
Before she could even finish, Mrs. Sharp had Alan West’s homework from the previous night in her hands. So everyone in our class—except for Alan, who’d gotten extra credit, too—got a zero on the previous night’s homework. When Mrs. Sharp had finished writing big, fat zeros in her grade book, she got up from her desk.
“I’m very disappointed in all of you,” she said quietly. Then she added, “Some more than others.” And she looked directly at me!
Grandma Bernice would’ve been disappointed in me, too, I knew. But that’s just because she never understood about trying to fit in. She said so herself. Whenever I’d tried to talk to her about fitting in, Grandma had always said, “I just don’t understand why you want to fit in when you’re made to stand out.” Then she always broke out singing, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”
For a minute I thought about getting up to turn in my homework. I glanced over at Alan. His eyes were already on me, desperate and urging. But I looked away, stayed in my seat, and left my homework where it was—folded inside my math book.
It was a good thing I did, too, because everybody was really mad at Alan. I was mad at him, too, but either he didn’t notice or he didn’t think it was that big a deal.
At lunchtime, as usual, Alan got in line behind me and followed me all through the cafeteria to the same table where he sat across from me every day.
“So,” Alan started.
“Could you please not talk to me, please,” I interrupted.
Alan glanced down at his mound of spaghetti and shrugged. “Okay, but why? Do you need to study?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, Alan. Only you would ever think to use lunch as a study period.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding as mean as it did.
“Right,” he said.
I looked around, lowered my voice, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m trying to fit in and make some friends, and you…you…aren’t helping.”
“Sure, of course, yes, I understand,” Alan said too quickly. His cheeks reddened so that the white, circular scar on his left cheek stood out; his neck was also turning red, as the angry rashy thing that always appears when Alan is upset began to bubble up; he scratched at it.
DEFCON two, I thought, moving over one seat to put some space between us so that it wouldn’t look like Alan and I were together. And do you know what? It worked! At least that’s what I thought when Emilou Meriweather stopped alongside my table on her way to dump her lunch tray.
“Hey, Lula Bell,” Emilou said, casting a quick glance behind her before she continued. “What’d you get on your social studies test?”
I’d gotten an A—I get mostly A’s—and I opened my mouth to tell Emilou so but closed it again. Something told me this wasn’t the right answer, the regular answer, the fitting in answer.
“Ummm, a C?” I guessed, hoping this was the right answer. Has to be, I told myself, because C is average, right? “What’d you get?”
“I got a B,” Emilou said, wincing, like she really hated to tell me.
Why? Why would—oooh, she feels sorry for me because I got a C, I
realized then. B! I should’ve said B!
Emilou tossed her wavy red hair, glancing back over her shoulder again. Then she leaned down and said quietly, “I just wanted to tell you that I planned to invite you to my birthday party…only Kali said I couldn’t.”
I didn’t know the right answer to that either: Thanks? Okay? Whatever? Fitting in was hard work, I decided.
Emilou straightened up and looked around the cafeteria nervously. Kali was coming with her tray, but before she could spot Emilou with me, Emilou was gone.
I shouldn’t have complained that Alan wasn’t helping me, I realized later, because for the rest of the day, he tried to do just that. Now, granted, Alan didn’t talk to me, because I’d told him not to. But still, he loaned me a pencil when I couldn’t find mine, rushed to pick up my library book when I dropped it, and grabbed my arm to keep me upright when I tripped over my own two feet during gym class. That was when I’d had enough.
I yanked my arm away from Alan and yelled, “Stop it! Stop it right now! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, ALAN!”
Sneakers squeaked against the gym floor, skidding to a stop. Everyone looked. First they looked at me, then they looked at Alan, and finally they looked at each other as if to say, Uh oh, she’s losing it! She’s losing it, man!
Alan showed me his palms as he backed away from me. For a split second, he looked so hurt, I thought he might cry. It passed so quickly, though, that afterward, I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it—maybe I’d just imagined it. But I did see Alan’s face turn red and big splotches erupt on his neck as he lowered his head and nodded at his feet. And I wondered, Who’s the omega wolf now?
Temporary Insanity
When I finally climbed onto the bus that afternoon, relief washed over me. Another day was almost done. I’d almost made it. I plopped down on a seat in the middle of the bus, alone, and put my backpack next to me so that Alan couldn’t sit there. Then, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.
As kids poured into the bus, it filled with chatter and noise, but still, I kept my eyes closed. When someone behind me bumped my seat hard, I kept my eyes closed. When the doors clattered closed and the bus began moving, I kept my eyes closed.
I kept my eyes closed right up until I felt something hit my shoulder. I looked up just in time to see a brown, wadded-up lunch bag bounce off me onto the floor. It reminded me of the brown paper bag Grandma Bernice had brought to school for me when I’d forgotten my lunch at home. It reminded me of how I’d skittered right past Grandma in the hallway, like maybe I didn’t even know her, when she was so happy to see me.
I thought about how happy I would be to see Grandma Bernice now, anywhere, anytime, how I would run to her and throw my arms around her. If only I could have one more chance. I leaned my head back and blinked at the metal ceiling, trying to make the tears in my eyes go back to where ever they came from.
Just then, I heard Kali Keele call out from behind me, “What’s the matter, Lula Bell? You look like you lost your best friend. Awww, that’s right. You did! You lost your only friend! Your grandma’s finally gone, isn’t she? Well, I’m glad, because—”
“Kali!” someone gasped.
And then silence.
Suddenly I was fully alert and shaking with so much hurt and regret, anger and outrage that I thought I might explode.
“I’m her friend,” Alan said from the seat across the aisle, loud enough so that everyone on the bus could hear him.
I didn’t need or want his help. Hadn’t I made that clear?
“Shut up, geek! No one’s talking to you!” Kali snapped.
I turned around in my seat. “You shut up, Kali! Nobody here is interested—nobody here even likes you! They’re just scared of you, that’s all.”
Kali held on to the back of the seat in front of her and stood up to look down on me. “What did you just say?” she asked.
But of all the things I felt, none was fear, so I said louder, stronger, and with more certainty than I’d ever felt in my life, “I said people don’t like you! They’re just scared of you because you’re so mean!”
The bus was silent. No one so much as moved a muscle.
Ashton Harris, the girl sitting beside Kali on the bus, stared at me with terrified eyes, and I knew that what I’d said was right. Ashton was scared of Kali, and she was even more scared now that her secret was out.
The bus jerked to a halt, hissing, and the doors squeaked open. I looked around and recognized my stop. Calmly, I gathered up my stuff, climbed down off the bus, and started walking home, never looking back.
In our yard, Grandma’s pink tulips and yellow daffodils shifted slightly with the breeze. They seemed to be waving me in, like cheerful little fans waiting at the finish line. Thanks, girls, I thought.
I zipped up the front walk, let myself into the house, and shut the door behind me. I wiggled out of my backpack and dropped it on the floor. Then, I hurried to the front window to get a look at Alan and Kali as they passed by. Alan lagged far behind Kali, shifting his eyes back and forth between Kali and my house. Meanwhile, Kali trudged on, occasionally swatting at her face. She looked like she might be crying.
Good! I thought. Only I didn’t feel good. My stomach felt sick, and I still wanted to scream—or cry—or both. What I didn’t want to do was talk—to Mama. Besides, I’d reached my feeling-sorry-for-myself limit with her.
“Lula Bell? Is that you?” Mama called from somewhere upstairs.
I stepped back from the window and hollered, “It’s me! I’m going outside to ride my bike!”
“Good!” Mama hollered back. “Be home before supper!”
With that, I ran for the garage. I grabbed my bike, hopped on, and pedaled down the street, away from my house, as fast as my legs would take me.
Rules Are Made to Be Broken—Right?
I wasn’t planning to go there. Honest, I wasn’t. When I left the house, my only thought had been, Away. And when I reached the stop sign at the end of our subdivision, all I knew was that I had to keep going. Now, I am not allowed to ride my bike outside of our neighborhood. I knew this, had always known this, had never once broken the rule. Until now. I didn’t even know why I was breaking the rule; all I knew was that something inside me said, Keep going. So I did.
When I arrived at the cemetery, I figured as long as I was there, I might as well say hello. I got off my bike and parked it in the grass by the big, scrolly, black iron gate. Then I tiptoed around, careful not to step on anybody, until I found her.
The flowers were gone, but Grandma Bernice’s headstone had been put in place. It was smooth and shiny and read “Bernice Francine Bell.” Below her name were the dates of Grandma’s birth and death, just like she’d wanted, and below that it said, “She left the world a nicer place.”
For a minute, I thought Grandma’s headstone was missing the word for, as in, “She left the world for a nicer place.” But then I remembered how many times had Grandma Bernice said, “Always leave a place nicer than you found it,” and I understood.
I stretched out on the grass beside Grandma and laced my hands together behind my head. I wished that we were both stretched out on her bed at home, talking and giggling like we used to do, but then I closed my eyes against the blazing late-afternoon sun and pushed forward the way I had all week.
After a little while, I began talking. I told Grandma Bernice everything that had happened since she’d died. I even told her what had happened on the bus that day. Grandma didn’t answer me. I hadn’t really expected her to—I probably would’ve jumped out of my skin if she had. But I had expected to feel better in some way, and the fact is, I didn’t. I just felt lonely and even sorrier for myself.
The insides of my eyelids turned from red to black. I opened one eye a slit.
Mr. Jimmy, the gravedigger, was standing over me, blocking out the sun. “She ain’t here,” he said.
“You’ve already told me that,” I informed him. “And honestly, it’d be a lot more helpful if y
ou could tell me where Grandma Bernice is instead of where she isn’t.”
“Don’t know,” Mr. Jimmy said. Then he stepped aside, causing the sun to practically blind me. I squeezed my eyes shut.
After a few minutes, I blinked and sat up. I didn’t see Mr. Jimmy anywhere. I stood and dusted off my backside.
“Well…um…bye, Grandma,” I said to the polished rock with her name on it. Then I looked around, hoping nobody had heard me.
That’s when I decided Mr. Jimmy was right: Grandma Bernice wasn’t here. But where was she, then? How could I know, really know, that she was anywhere? What if she wasn’t? What if Grandma Bernice wasn’t there, wasn’t in heaven—what if there wasn’t any heaven? What if Grandma Bernice was just gone, really gone, forever? These questions piled up, one on top of another, on top of me, all the way home, until they were almost more than I could bear.
I pedaled faster and faster, as if I could somehow escape them if only I went fast enough. I held onto the handlebars so hard my hands hurt, and I pedaled with all my might. But I still wasn’t fast enough.
I stopped pedaling and coasted. The cool breeze should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t soothing at all.
The Trouble With Death, Curly Q Shampoo, and Fitted sheets
Our kitchen was clean—or at least cleaner—when I got home. The only remaining mess was made by the cleaning products themselves, still sitting on the counter: powders and sprays and brushes and sponges. A mop stuck out from one side of the sink, while the other side held a bucket full of dirty water.
“Supper’s almost ready,” Mama said. “Go wash up.”
Mama’s hair was up that day, but pieces of it had fallen down around her face, and she’d left them right where they fell. Also, even though I’d ironed it, Mama’s blouse was a little wrinkly, but she seemed too busy to know or care, and I surely wasn’t going to point it out.
When I came back from washing up, what I noticed wasn’t the two perfect place settings Mama had put out for us but the empty spot where Grandma Bernice’s place setting should’ve been. It was as if death had torn through our kitchen like a meteorite, leaving a giant hole in our table, our lives, our hearts. And now, three and a half weeks later, Mama was trying to pretend it had never happened, like the holes weren’t there. I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think I could stand to sit there that night, facing the great, gaping hole that Grandma Bernice had once filled.