Figgrotten sat back and stared out the window and felt once again the knot in her stomach tightening. On top of everything else, she was worried that Alvin wasn’t acting like himself.
* * *
—
Because of the extra-early cawing alarm clock, Figgrotten was ready for school early each day that week, and she’d sit in the kitchen with her mom, eating toast and watching the clock. Upstairs she’d hear Christinia stomping and slamming the door, the shower going, the hair dryer howling. Each time a door slammed, she’d roll her eyes and she and her mom would exchange a quick look.
“You’ll see,” her mom would then say. “It will happen to you.”
But Figgrotten was determined to not let it happen to her. She doubted Margaret Mead had ever acted like this.
She thought a lot about Mead lately. She kept thinking about how she might have handled certain things. The girls in the bathroom, for instance. What would old Margaret have done? Figgrotten was pretty sure she knew. Mead would have been able to look at the whole incident as an observer. She probably wouldn’t have taken it personally and would have just questioned what made seventh-grade girls act like that. Figgrotten wished she could do that. But it wasn’t easy. Going over the episode still made her stomach tighten into a hard knot.
But without her wanting it to, something had started to shift inside her. Now at night when she lay in her dark cold room, she could sense a change. It had started with Christinia saying that she was a freak, followed by the incident with the stupid girls in the bathroom. Now when she pulled her big hat on to keep her ears warm, the word would come into her head. Freak. She kept imagining how she’d been sailing along before that word was used on her. Just breezing along, in fact. But suddenly there was a feeling that all that nice breeze had stopped. And her sails had drooped. And she was stalled. And if she could come up with a noise inside herself, it was this: blah. Just that. Just blah.
* * *
—
Luckily, that Friday Mr. Stanley made his whipped-cream cupcakes for Martin Luther King’s birthday and had everyone sit around in a big circle listening to King’s “I Have a Dream” speech while he served them on his little blue glass plates. They were chocolate with a whipped-cream filling, and they were the greatest thing Figgrotten had ever eaten. Mr. Stanley made them four times a year. Once on the first day of school. Once on the day before Thanksgiving. Once on Martin Luther King’s birthday, and finally in June, on the last day of school.
Figgrotten had heard Dr. King’s speech a bunch of times now, and every time, it gave her goose bumps up and down her arms. But this year felt different. This time the speech filled her with a strong urge to actually do something to make sure people were never treated unfairly. And it made her angry to know that Martin Luther King had died just because he stood up for what was right. Same with Gandhi. It showed that their peacefulness scared people almost as much as if they’d been waving a gun around. Suddenly, while she listened to Dr. King’s voice, she had an awful feeling that she was about to start crying. The speech made her sad every time she heard it. She glanced around the circle and saw that none of the other kids looked upset; they were eating their cupcakes and horsing around. The only other person who looked as sad as she felt was James. He sat listening, his head tilted a little to one side, and his cupcake was uneaten on his plate.
She could tell James got the speech the way she did, and Figgrotten once again felt a jab of something mean and she narrowed her eyes at him, though he was too caught up in the words of Martin Luther King to notice.
* * *
—
As she rode home on the bus that same day, there was yet another huge riotous whooping and hollering from the back seats. But once again Alvin didn’t do anything. He wasn’t looking up into the mirror as usual. Figgrotten had a feeling this time that she really should not turn around again. Don’t do it, she told herself. Do not turn. But the whistling and the laughter coming from back there was a new level of loudness and wildness. So she glanced over her shoulder very quickly, but her eyes were able to take in the situation fully. Then she spun back around and stared straight ahead. Her mouth had dropped open. What she’d seen was this: Becky Moss was now sitting alone in the back seat. And Ben Ekhart was sitting next to Christinia, who for the first time in a long time was smiling.
* * *
—
Once Figgrotten was outside on the rocks, waiting for the crows, she put it all together. Becky had liked Ben too and had tried to claim him (or maybe even steal him), but it now looked as if Ben had rejected Becky and chosen Christinia.
Figgrotten didn’t like any of it. She didn’t like Becky. She didn’t like Ben. And she hated Christinia. The whole thing made her dread being in eighth grade. It seemed there was a lot of meanness happening in middle school.
The fact was, she didn’t know who Christinia was anymore. She knew she was a good student; she knew she was a fast runner and a good guitar player. She’d started playing guitar last year, and lately Figgrotten could hear her often in the next room playing. But suddenly, as she sat there on the rocks and looked down at the house, it occurred to her that Christinia was actually now pretty as well. Maybe even more than pretty. Maybe she was even beautiful. And Figgrotten hadn’t ever really thought this before. It was as if she’d never really seen Christinia, because she’d seen her so much. But now, thinking of Ben choosing her to be his girlfriend made Figgrotten view her sister in another light. She pictured her long shining dark hair, her big brown eyes, her long legs. This made Figgrotten feel jealous, and she hadn’t felt all that jealous of Christinia before. She looked down at her wool coat and boots and a feeling of unhappiness came over her. Suddenly her clothing seemed old and weird.
At the dinner table that night, Christinia was not her usual miserable self. In fact, she was acting sort of cheerful to both their mom and dad. None of that mattered to Figgrotten; the wall of ice between her and Christinia still stood. Their eyes never met and they never spoke a word to each other. Figgrotten had heard the term cold war a bunch of times, and she could only imagine this was what that was. No explosions. Just ice. Ice and coldness between them.
At the end of the meal, instead of stomping off up to her room, Christinia stayed and helped clear the table. “That’s so nice of you, sweetie,” her mom said to her, looking a bit baffled.
Figgrotten made a face like she was going to be sick. Christinia was acting like an angel because stupid Ben Ekhart had sat with her on the bus?
Figgrotten left the kitchen, and now it was her stomping up the stairs and into her room. She even shut her bedroom door so forcefully that it slammed, shaking the branches that leaned near it.
She stomped around the room for a bit, then finally plopped down on the floor and opened up one of the volumes of her encyclopedia that was sitting nearby. It was the one that went from the letters P through R, and she started at the beginning and turned the pages slowly. She sat the way James Barren sat, hanging over the book, shutting the world away. She read about the painter Pablo Picasso, and about the razor-sharp teeth of piranhas, and then, most fascinating of all, she read all about Pompeii, the city in Italy that was buried underneath the ash of a humongous volcano. She’d heard about Pompeii before, but she’d never really known that people were found in the exact positions they were in when they had died. Doing the laundry, taking baths, walking down the street. “Oh wow,” Figgrotten heard herself say out loud. “Wow.” She decided she needed to get a whole book just about Pompeii and all the stuff archaeologists found when they uncovered the place.
So, luckily, when she went to bed, she was no longer thinking about Christinia being prettier than her or having a stupid boyfriend. Her mind had switched over to many other more interesting thoughts and ideas, and when she fell asleep she was putting together a list in her mind of all the things she could talk to Alvin about on Monday m
orning.
But she didn’t even get to go out and wait for the bus Monday morning before she knew something was wrong. She was standing in the doorway, still cradling Clark in her arms and scratching under his chin, when she heard the bus coming around the bend, five minutes earlier than usual. The gears were grinding and the bus was going much faster than usual and right away she knew Alvin was not driving it. Alvin was a slow and steady driver. A feeling of panic started coming up through her stomach.
A few seconds later, when the bus came roaring into view, Figgrotten could see through the windshield that she had been right. The bus pulled up, the door opened, and Figgrotten stood looking up at the driver. It was a tall, skinny woman with dyed-red hair.
“Where’s Alvin?” Figgrotten asked, her voice coming out super high and panicky sounding.
“Beats me. I just got the four a.m. call. Climb on, girly. Got to get this route over with so I don’t get canned from my regular job.”
Figgrotten climbed up the steps slowly but she was thinking that maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she should run back inside and tell her mother that she needed to find out where Alvin was. But before she knew it, the door had shut and the bus was rolling and Figgrotten was thrown into her seat.
Only after they’d rounded the bend and were hurtling into town did she remember about Christinia, who hadn’t been lucky enough to hear the early arrival and had missed the bus. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered other than Alvin was not there. And she had a terrible sinking feeling about it.
* * *
—
When she got into her classroom, she didn’t know what to do. Somehow telling Mr. Stanley didn’t seem right. He didn’t know Alvin or know about their friendship. So she sat down and started staring at the clock, counting the minutes until she could get back on the bus. Alvin had to be there to drive her home. Then everything would be all right.
She barely heard a word of what Mr. Stanley was talking about all morning, nor was she able to answer any of the questions he asked her. She didn’t even care that James answered practically every question, sometimes without even raising his hand. Her eyes stayed on the clock.
But at the end of the day, as she was rushing to get ready to leave, Mr. Stanley said, “Frances, would you mind sticking around for a second?”
Figgrotten sat back in her chair and waited for the rest of the kids to leave the room, and she almost started crying. She wanted to race out to the bus.
Mr. Stanley was wearing a bright orange shirt and a blue bow tie, which was normal for him; he always looked super bright and sharp.
“Now, Frances,” he said, walking over to her desk. “I know something was really bothering you today.”
Figgrotten just sat looking down at the floor. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. First she shrugged, then she took in a breath and said quietly, “Mr. Stanley, do you know Alvin Turkson, our bus driver?”
“Yes, of course. I know he was having heart trouble yesterday, and I believe he’s in the hospital.”
“He’s what?” Figgrotten’s voice barely came out as she gasped.
“Yes, this is what I’ve heard. I’m sorry you didn’t know, Frances. He’s a friend of yours?”
Figgrotten nodded and her eyes filled with tears. “People can die from their heart being bad,” she whispered.
Mr. Stanley came over to her desk. “Frances, honestly, I don’t know how Alvin is doing. He could be on his way home for all I know. So don’t jump to any conclusions. I’m very sorry. I didn’t know you were worried about him.”
“He’s my good friend—he’s actually like my best friend,” Figgrotten managed to say, though she had started to cry and her voice was breaking.
“Ah, well, that explains a great deal. Well…let me think for a second.” He still had his hand on her shoulder, and she could tell he was doing what he did when he was thinking. He was gazing upward.
“How about this,” he now said. “Let me go and call your mom and see if there’s any way we can go visit Alvin this afternoon. Or at least find out how he is. I do think it’s better to know the facts than to let yourself wonder. Let’s see what your mom thinks. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She heard his shoes click off down the hall. The bus was probably about to leave and she was going to miss it. But nothing mattered anymore. Alvin was in the hospital.
Several minutes later Mr. Stanley came back down the hall. “Your mom agrees. She thinks it’s a good idea. So instead of you getting on the bus today, I will drive you to Fairview Hospital and your mom will meet us there. Does that sound good?”
Figgrotten could only nod. But it didn’t sound good. The fact was, she was terrified to see Alvin sick in the hospital.
Mr. Stanley’s car was as neat and tidy as he was. There was his mint gum that fit perfectly in the little compartment by the gearshift. There was a filled bottle of water in the cup holder, and there seemed to be a steady stream of jazzy music playing at a low volume over the radio.
The car zipped along and Mr. Stanley shifted gears very quickly and smoothly.
Mr. Stanley seemed different once they pulled out onto the main road. He let out a big breath and looked over at her. “So, tell me a little about Alvin, Frances. I don’t know him well. He’s an unusual character, though, isn’t he?”
“Well,” Figgrotten said, “he reads so many books every week and knows about everything. Not just about stuff, but he’s smart about people too. And the world, you know. Like, life.”
“Ah,” Mr. Stanley said. “He sounds rather remarkable.”
“Yes,” Figgrotten said quietly, but none of it was right. Alvin was impossible to describe. He was…just…Alvin. Unlike anyone else. “He goes to the library like every day and always has a new book that he reads during his free time. He’s just…he’s just such a nice person too.”
Her stomach began to ache. The knot was back. And it was worse than it had ever been. She was scared.
When they pulled up to the traffic light on the main street, Figgrotten looked out and scanned the trees until her eyes landed on two crows sitting up in the naked branches. Somehow she needed to see them right then. So she homed in on them, watched them looking down at the ground, and then saw one open its mouth and make several caws.
A few minutes later, Mr. Stanley put his blinker on and they turned in to the hospital parking lot. Figgrotten felt her stomach tighten further. After they found a space and Mr. Stanley turned off his car, she didn’t move. She was biting her fingernails and staring through the windshield.
“Hospitals are nerve-racking,” Mr. Stanley said.
“What if he doesn’t want to see me?”
“You can wait outside with your mom and I’ll go in to see if he’s taking visitors. Don’t worry. I think it’s good we’re here.”
* * *
—
Figgrotten’s mom pulled up in the spot next to them and waved at Figgrotten through the window. She looked worried and sad. Her glasses were up on her head, and her hair was a little messier than usual. She climbed out of her car and took Figgrotten’s hand and they walked into the building. Figgrotten had only been in the hospital once before, when she needed a blood test because her mom was worried she had been bitten by a tick. She’d been littler then but the smell of the place brought it back immediately. The smell was very strong and Figgrotten couldn’t quite make out what it was, but unfortunately it smelled a bit like pee.
Mr. Stanley asked at the front desk where Alvin Turkson’s room was, and the lady looked on her computer and told him, “Room five forty-three. Take the elevator to the fifth floor and then take a right and you’ll see the nurses’ station.” They turned and looked for the elevator, which was directly behind them.
Figgrotten kept holding her mom’s hand on the elevator ride up while Mr. Stanley and her mother chat
ted about the cold weather. But she was thinking about Alvin. When the doors opened onto the fifth floor, Figgrotten’s mother had to tug a little at her hand to get her to walk.
Mr. Stanley, as always, took the lead and walked briskly up to the nurses’ station. “We were wondering if Mr. Turkson, in room five forty-three, is taking visitors at the moment.”
The nurse sitting behind the desk was less friendly than the woman downstairs, and she looked up slowly at Mr. Stanley and then called over her shoulder, “Brenda, is room five forty-three awake?”
Brenda, who was very large and leaning on the counter chatting with a bunch of other nurses, leaned back and looked into one of the nearby rooms and said, “Uh, I think so.” Then she went back to chatting.
Mr. Stanley glanced at Figgrotten’s mom, then shrugged. “I suppose that’s a yes. Let me go in and see Alvin first and make sure he’s up for a visit.”
Figgrotten and her mom went and sat down in the dingy waiting room. There was a coffee table with tattered old magazines piled on it. The whole place was airless and just plain awful, as far as Figgrotten was concerned. It was about as opposite of the out-of-doors as you could get.
“I don’t like it here,” Figgrotten said to her mom.
Her mom sighed. “I know what you mean. But when you need the place…”
“Mommy, is Alvin going to die?” This finally burst out of her. She’d been too scared to ask before, but now she had to know before she went in to see him.
“Oh, Frances, Alvin is very old. I really don’t know when he’s going to die, but he is old and heart trouble isn’t good in an old person. But there’s plenty of heart trouble that can be treated. So I really just don’t know.”
A few minutes later Mr. Stanley came down the hall and said, “Well, he’s very, very pleased you’re here, Frances.”
The Heart and Mind of Frances Pauley Page 6