What felt like a long time later, she had the strange feeling she was being watched. And when she lifted her head and looked up, there they were, all four of them, high up and perched on different branches of the big pine above her. They’d come right on time. But it wasn’t her whistle that was doing it, because today not only had she forgotten to whistle, she’d forgotten to put the bread out entirely.
On the following Friday, seven horrible dreadful days after Alvin died, Figgrotten was sent to the principal’s office for the first time in her life. Mr. Stanley actually took her there. He marched her without saying a word other than “Frances, follow me, I am taking you to Mrs. Flynn.” And down the hall they went, Mr. Stanley with his shoes clicking sharply and Figgrotten following behind with her cheeks on fire. It wasn’t humiliation that made them hot this time. It was fury.
It was the end of a very strange week. On Monday everyone who rode on bus number 8, Alvin’s bus, had had to go to the cafeteria for a group session with the school psychologist. That had been downright terrible, because Figgrotten felt like everyone was looking at her the whole time, knowing Alvin was her best friend. And as sad as they were, they all knew that she was sadder. But the fact was, she didn’t feel sadder. She just felt angry that Alvin had been taken away from her. So instead of sad, she felt mean.
The psychologist’s name was Mr. Hammer, and he was short and bald, and the minute Figgrotten laid eyes on him she decided she didn’t like him. He was the kind of person who pretended he understood everyone around him, including her.
“Let’s start by talking about Alvin Turkson, kids. Who would like to say something about him? Anyone.”
The group was dead quiet, and when Figgrotten glanced up, sure enough, everyone seemed to be staring at her.
“Okay, well, let me get you all started, then. Tell me a little about Alvin. Was he a kind person?”
Everyone nodded and agreed that he was very nice.
Figgrotten did not move.
“Was he funny?”
There were then a lot of shrugs.
Figgrotten did not move.
“Was he smart?”
“He liked to read,” Ben Ekhart suddenly said. Ben was sitting next to Christinia and across the table from Figgrotten. “He read a lot. He was more than just regularly smart.”
This made Figgrotten lift her eyes briefly and she was surprised that his eyes met hers. She’d always considered Ben just one of the unruly boys from the back of the bus, but that changed right there and then because the look he gave her was the kind of look a friend gives you. A knowing look. A look of camaraderie.
“Alvin was a genius,” Christinia added. “He knew everything.”
Figgrotten glanced up and saw that Christinia was looking at her. She didn’t have her usual angry expression on her face. She just looked sad. This made Figgrotten suddenly feel like she could easily start to cry.
“Did any of you ever worry he might be so old he might die?”
Again there was a lot of shrugging and shaking of heads.
“In some religions, when someone you know dies, you really make sure you mourn their loss. You make sure, every day, that you think of them and spend some special time remembering them, missing them and grieving for them. I’m not telling you all that you should do this. I’m just telling you that in many parts of the world, this is done. And I think it’s not a terrible idea. Because otherwise you can have sad feelings for a long time about all this and really not even know it.”
Suddenly Figgrotten put her hand up and every single person turned to look at her, interested to hear what she was going to add.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“Oh.” Mr. Hammer seemed a little startled. “Well, by all means, go.”
At which point Figgrotten stood up, walked out of the cafeteria, went into the girls’ room, and leaned against the wall next to the sink for fifteen whole minutes, and when she came back out, to her great relief the meeting about Alvin was over.
That was on Monday. On Thursday morning Mrs. Schlosser, the substitute bus driver, was replaced by the new permanent bus driver, and he was far worse than anything Figgrotten could have dreamed up. He was round and pimply and he wore a fluorescent orange hunting hat, and the first thing Figgrotten thought about him was that he was stupid. They had replaced Alvin with someone dumb. And from the minute he pushed open the door and grunted, she absolutely couldn’t stand to look at him.
Then came Friday. Friday was when Fiona, in her mouse voice, attempted to answer a question in class. Mr. Stanley had asked if a preposition went before a verb or after. And Fiona had raised her hand and was just beginning to talk when James, who also had his hand up, burst out with the answer and drowned her out. The worst part of this was that Mr. Stanley didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s correct, James.” Mr. Stanley said, and began to explain further the role of prepositions in a sentence. And Figgrotten could hear the air go out of the mouse next to her. It wasn’t exasperated huffy air like before. It was Fiona’s spirit deflating.
And that, at the end of the worst week of her life, was when Figgrotten finally lost it.
First her face felt super hot; then she stood up out of her chair and started shouting at Mr. Stanley. “WHY DON’T YOU STOP HIM? HE DOESN’T GIVE ANYONE ELSE A CHANCE TO ANSWER. WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING?”
At first a deadly silence fell over the classroom.
Then there was a sniffle, which came from Fiona, who suddenly stood up and ran out of the room.
And then the worst part was, James stood up and rushed out of the room as well. His eyes were red and Figgrotten had a sinking feeling that he too might have started crying.
At which point Mr. Stanley told the class not to make a sound and stay in their seats and he said, “Frances Pauley, come with me this instant. We are going to the principal’s office.”
Mr. Stanley left Figgrotten alone in the waiting area of the principal’s office while he went in and spoke privately with Mrs. Flynn. Then he came out and told Figgrotten she could go in and he walked back toward the classroom. Figgrotten stood up slowly and went into Mrs. Flynn’s office and sat down on the chair in front of her desk.
Mrs. Flynn didn’t seem all that upset with Figgrotten. Clearly she was used to troublemakers, and Figgrotten, in comparison, was a lightweight case.
“So, Mr. Stanley tells me you lost your temper in the classroom, Frances.”
Figgrotten nodded and looked down at her hands, which were holding on to each other in her lap. “James is ruining our class,” she said quietly. “He thinks he knows it all.”
“Well,” the principal said in a tight, impatient voice, “that is Mr. Stanley’s business, not yours. Do you understand, young lady?”
Figgrotten nodded. Her anger had fallen away and she felt deflated.
“Fine, then. I don’t want to hear another word about it. You may go back to your classroom now.”
Luckily, when Figgrotten got back to the classroom, everyone was in the Art Room, so she didn’t have to walk back in with people looking at her. She hated being stared at more than anything else. She went and sat down at her desk and gazed miserably across the room.
A minute later Mr. Stanley came in and saw her. He stopped, furrowed up his eyebrows at her, then let go of a big breath. “Everything is a lesson, Frances. Things that bother you and make you angry and make you sad. And the lesson is just this: how to make it through life without hurting yourself or hurting anyone else.” He walked over to his desk and shuffled through his stacks; then he sat down and began correcting papers.
Figgrotten sat without moving for a minute, then she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. Very sorry.”
Mr. Stanley looked up at her. “I know you are, Frances. It’s okay.” His voice had softened back into its usual ton
e. “I do wish you had come to me about all that with James. He’d had a really hard go in his last class, and I guess I was allowing him to take the lead because I was worried about squelching him. So I too am sorry, Frances. I realize it’s been a truly difficult week for you. However, it’s important you take care of your sad feelings so they don’t erupt elsewhere, like today. Now, can we start over and move on and just forget this happened? However, I of course expect you to apologize to James.”
She sat and looked out the window. She wished Mr. Stanley hadn’t taken her to the principal’s office. It felt starkly apparent suddenly that he was, after all, just her teacher, not her friend. A wonderful, brilliant teacher. But he wasn’t like Alvin had been, nor would he ever be. Alvin would not have ever marched her to the principal’s office. He would have understood her. This thought deepened her already horribly lonely feelings.
* * *
—
It was not even twenty degrees out, which meant indoor recess. This, as far as Figgrotten was concerned, was ludicrous. Fifteen degrees was nearly perfect, not something dangerous. It was probably a rule that Mrs. Flynn made up. Just like keeping the kids out of the woods.
Most kids went down to the gym and screamed and ran around. Other kids stood around in the commons and talked. Others watched a movie. Figgrotten went into the library and walked around looking at books. She found one on anthropology that she’d never seen before, and she sat down on the floor, cross-legged, and opened the book and slowly began turning the pages. There were a lot of photographs of tribes of people. People in Africa and Australia and New Guinea. Figgrotten was more interested in the faces of these people than anything else about the book. They all seemed to have a bit of the same expression. It wasn’t happy or smiling or crying or angry. She sat squinting and thinking. It was as if each person was thinking only about the camera and nothing else. Maybe, from the looks of it, they didn’t know what a photograph even was.
Suddenly Figgrotten heard giggling coming from nearby and she looked up and there were the two bully girls, the same ones from the bathroom the day when she went home early.
“Oh, gag,” one of them said. “What is that on the floor?”
They were talking about her and she knew it. Figgrotten went back to looking at the book, but her heart was racing hard in her chest.
The other girl whispered to the first one and they fell against each other in a heap of hysterics. Figgrotten was aware that she had just been sent to the principal’s office for screaming at the top of her lungs, so she knew she couldn’t do that again. Besides, she felt so furious she couldn’t think clearly. She couldn’t even see the book that she was pretending to look at now. She sucked in a breath and sat horribly still.
The giggling kept on for another minute; then it stopped abruptly and she heard someone walking toward where she was sitting. She realized it was a boy because she saw his black sneakers. He squatted down and seemed to be searching the bookshelves right next to her. He was humming under his breath but she could tell it was fake humming. It was the kind of humming you do when you’re pretending to be busy. Figgrotten imagined reaching out her arm and slugging him, whoever he was, because she was sure he was in on the joke with the two other girls. But then, when he pulled out a book and said under his breath, “Those two ugly dorks are gone now,” she realized he was on her side. Only then did she glance through her hair, which was hanging down over her face, and see him as he stood and walked away. It was Ben Ekhart.
* * *
—
That afternoon, for the first time in her life, Figgrotten didn’t sit up in the front seat of the bus. She got on and, without so much as a glance at the new stupid pimply driver with the orange hunting hat, marched to the third seat from the back and plunked down. She heard one kid in the back seat make an “Ooh” sound at her, but she hunkered in close to the window and stared out and did not acknowledge it. She hadn’t planned on sitting back there, but when she stepped onto the bus, that same sickly sad feeling had come over her at the thought of sitting in her regular seat right behind where Alvin should be, so instead she’d just kept walking. Now, as she watched the kids pour out of the doors, she could feel her heart thumping in her chest. “Change,” Mr. Stanley had said many times in the past, “is good for everyone.” But the change really was Alvin being gone forever, and that, as far as Figgrotten could see, was just plain terrible.
A few minutes later Ben and Christinia climbed on and sat down two seats in front of Figgrotten. She kept her face turned toward the window for fear of meeting a nasty look from Christinia. But when she took a quick glance, she saw that Christinia didn’t actually look angry at all. For the second time since Alvin died, Figgrotten saw something in her sister’s expression that was more like sadness than anything else. Figgrotten frowned and turned back to the window. Her promise to not speak to Christinia again was set down hard inside her. It was like a big old block of concrete, cold and unmoving.
Once they were seated, Figgrotten found herself studying the back of Ben’s head. He wore a wool hat that poked up a bit on top of his head, which Figgrotten liked because she thought it looked sort of funny.
When at last the bus lurched out of the school lot, she breathed a sigh of relief: no one had sat down next to her. This would be her new seat. She’d have to endure a few rides to establish that it was hers, but the first step, she was certain, was the hardest. It wasn’t happiness that she felt as she looked out the window. It was more the feeling you have when you finish something you’ve been putting off forever. It was relief, she realized.
On Saturday morning, a week before Alvin’s memorial service was to be held at the library in town, Mrs. Pauley leaned into Figgrotten’s room and said, “Fiona Peterson’s mom just called to ask if you’d like to go to their house today.”
Figgrotten, who was still in bed, scowled. “No way,” she said, then went back down under her covers and pulled the sheets up over her head.
She heard her mother sigh. After that there was a long silence, which worried her. It meant, most likely, that her mom was angry at her. She knew her mom didn’t like it when she acted antisocial, like when she was reluctant to go to birthday parties. And then, a few seconds later, when she heard the tone of her mother’s voice, she knew she was indeed mad. “Get dressed, Frances. You’re going.” She didn’t exactly slam the door, but she didn’t shut it delicately either.
Figgrotten sat for a long time not moving. Whenever she was told she had to do something in that way, something inside her turned into a lump of concrete and she couldn’t move. She knew what this was—it was stubbornness—but there was nothing she could do about it. Her mom had pointed it out to her many times. (When she’d told her she needed a new coat was an example of this.) But finally Figgrotten got out of bed, and very, very slowly she got herself dressed. If you could call it that. She kept her flannel pj pants on and put her boots on right over them.
Figgrotten didn’t believe for a minute that Fiona had wanted her to come over to her house. She knew it was coming from Fiona’s mother. Mrs. Peterson must have heard about the screaming incident and somehow must have thought Figgrotten was Fiona’s friend. Or something. Who knew? All Figgrotten knew was that her morning plans were now ruined. She’d wanted to spend the entire day up on the rocks, out in the bright cold air. Alone. But now she had to go over to Fiona’s house and she didn’t want to.
She’d only been on a few playdates in her life, and she’d pretty much hated them all. First, they were inside, and that was one huge problem. Second, she didn’t have anything in common with the girls who’d invited her over. They had mostly played with dolls, and although she had nothing against dolls, they always had bored her. The girls also liked things on TV that Figgrotten didn’t. Cartoons with high-pitched voices that were supposed to be funny but just seemed sort of dumb.
In the car on the way to Fiona’s ho
use, Figgrotten sat slumped down in her seat with a sour expression on her face. She had refused to eat breakfast and her tummy was now grumbling. And because Figgrotten had put up a fuss about going, her mother still seemed a bit mad. She drove in silence.
When they pulled into Fiona’s driveway, Mrs. Peterson came out and greeted them by the car. She had brown mousy hair like Fiona’s and she was wearing a thick sweater that looked like she had made it herself.
“Hi, Frances, Fiona is so happy that you wanted to come over. You can go in the house, she’s inside. I’ll just chat with your mom for a minute about getting you home later.”
Figgrotten shuffled along the walk to Fiona’s front door. They lived in a tiny little house that looked hot even from the outside. She climbed the concrete steps and looked through the glass door. Fiona was standing there looking out at Figgrotten. It surprised Figgrotten to see that she looked almost as miserable as Figgrotten felt. Fiona pushed the door open and held it so Figgrotten could step inside.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Figgrotten replied, looking around. The place was very tidy.
“What do you want to do?” Fiona said in her little wispy voice.
Figgrotten shrugged.
“Do you want to see my room?”
Figgrotten shrugged again and followed Fiona down a short hallway. Her room was as boring as she was. There was a lot of pink stuff. Pink bedspread, pink walls, pink curtains. And there were pictures of horses all over the place and a few pictures of puppies that had been cut out of magazines and taped to the walls.
Figgrotten wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
“Do you have any pets?” she asked.
“Just a bird.”
“A real bird? Like in a cage?”
Fiona nodded and led the way back out of her room, down the hall, and into another little room, and sure enough, there was a large cage that seemed to take up half the space, and inside it was a green parrot with shiny red feathers on his tail.
The Heart and Mind of Frances Pauley Page 8