by Beth Turley
I am relieved when Ryan’s class rushes out the door and he comes over to the swings.
“Where’s Courtney?” he asks. I point to the hill. Rebecca is braiding Courtney’s hair. Ryan sits next to me on the swing and starts pumping his legs. I see that his sneakers are falling apart.
“So there was another note,” Ryan says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.” I kick at the wood chips on the ground.
“What did it say?”
I start to swing with him. I understand words, but I don’t understand how two swings moving back and forth together will eventually fall out of sync. The physics of things confuses me.
“Why would anyone be friends with Hannah?”
Ryan drags his heels across the rubber mat to slow down. He grabs the chain on my swing, and I come to a stop.
“I’m gonna find out who wrote that note and tell them a thousand reasons why I’m friends with you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Ry.”
He keeps holding tight to my swing and lowers his brown eyes to the ground. They look a little stormy.
“My parents both lost their teaching jobs before school started,” he says. I blink at him, unsure what to say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It was hard for me to tell anyone. Even you and Court. But we have to be there for each other. If you’re feeling bad about these notes, you should talk about it,” he says.
Ryan smiles. His skin is a shade that reminds me of autumn, a brown that shines brightly. I wonder why people notice the difference between Ryan’s skin and mine, when he always makes me feel better in my own. Pimples and all.
“Tomorrow we’ll fix your shoes. I still have rolls left from our duct tape phase,” I say.
“You have that roll with the lightning bolts?”
“Yup.”
“Awesome.”
I want to tell Ryan about the fighting, about Ambrose and Penny, about the way my mind won’t turn off, but it’s easier to store words up like emergency supplies than open my mouth and use them.
“Mind if I swing alone for a while?” I ask.
Ryan shakes his head and then runs on his broken sneakers to play kickball with the other boys. I push myself off the ground and start to swing. Back and forth, back and forth. I tilt my head back to face the blue sky. If anyone could know who wrote the notes, it would be the sky. It must see everything.
“Who did it?” I whisper.
I find the sky’s voice in the breeze, light and wispy. It calls out each time I swing.
“They.” Forward. “Did.” Back.
I look around. The entire fifth grade is out on the playground. A whole bunch of possible theys.
“Can’t you give me a hint?”
“They’re.” Forward. “On.” Back. “The.” Forward. The sky is cut off by the sound of a whistle. Recess is over.
On the hill? On the parallel bars? On the sun?
I go to meet my class in line. I’ll have to solve the mystery without help from the sky.
Roller Coaster
My parents drive me to school on the day of the class meeting about the notes. Dad’s at the wheel and has his hand on Mom’s knee. Mom is quiet beside him. They haven’t been fighting as much since I handed them Mrs. Bloom’s bulletin.
“What will the counselor be saying to the class?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You don’t seem very concerned, Hannah. One of your classmates is bullying you.”
I don’t want to be concerned about the notes, so I think about a part of “Lost in the Funhouse” that scared me. Ambrose recounts the night that a roller coaster flew off the tracks and onto the boardwalk. Those things aren’t supposed to happen, but they do.
Thinking about it reminds me of this past summer when Courtney’s parents took us to the amusement park. It was around the same time that rose-colored zits were springing up on my face. Courtney and I were by the soda fountain, filling paper cups with free drinks.
“Dark soda causes breakouts,” Courtney said. I poured my cola down the drain and refilled with lemon-lime, clear and bubbly.
Courtney wanted to ride the roller coaster. I followed behind with my head bowed away from the hot sun, because sweat causes breakouts too. We lined up outside the ride. There was a sign hanging on the white fence. Pregnant women should not ride; people with heart conditions should not ride. I thought, who doesn’t have a problem with their heart?
“You should tell your mom to buy you foundation,” Courtney said.
“Why?” I asked.
“The best way to handle your problem is to cover it up.”
I didn’t feel old enough to have this problem surfacing on my skin or to go on the upside-down roller coaster. When we got to the front of the line, a ride attendant carried a measuring stick and walked along the row of riders. He held the stick out toward me, nodded, and walked away.
Can’t you see? I wanted to ask. I’m not tall enough to ride.
When the ride was over, I got out of the cart, walked to the bathroom, and quietly threw up. I had nightmares for a week that I was on the roller coaster from “Lost in the Funhouse,” sailing through the stars into nothingness.
I wonder if this is the type of memory Ms. Meghan wanted to loosen from my brain when she told me to reread Ambrose’s story. I put a hand to my bumpy cheek and hope that whenever I meet with her again, she won’t ask me about the part with the roller coaster.
“I am worried, Dad,” I say.
He smiles reassuringly at me in the rearview mirror. Stress causes breakouts.
The Pledge
My class sits in a half circle on the carpet, with our parents in chairs behind us. Ms. Meghan sits in her own chair in front of us. She has tried to tame her hair into a ponytail, but the curls still stick out in all directions.
“Who here has ever been bullied?” she asks.
Almost everyone in my class raises their hand a little. I forget to raise mine. My dad nudges me, and I quickly lift my arm.
“How did that make you feel?”
“Scared,” Rebecca offers.
“Sad,” Courtney says. I watch Courtney’s mom run her fingers through Courtney’s hair.
“Like I wanted to fight back,” Kimmy says, and she looks at me when she says it. She has no parents sitting in a plastic chair behind her.
“Scared, sad, angry. All those emotions can arise when a person feels singled out. And when those feelings do happen, it can be very hard to make them go away. Like when you drop a glass onto the floor. It’s hard to reassemble those pieces to fit just right again, isn’t it?”
The class nods.
“Does anyone have any questions?”
“Is someone going to get in trouble for the notes?” Kimmy asks. Everyone looks at Ms. Meghan like they were all wondering the same thing. Ms. Meghan’s mouth goes up in a half smile that seems disappointed.
“We’re not meeting today to talk about a punishment. I’m here to ask that the bullying in this class stop. You’re all fifth graders now. That means you are role models for the younger students at Brookview. This time of your life is a big deal. You’re almost in middle school. Not a single one of you should be hurting because of bullying.” Ms. Meghan’s eyes scan our half circle. I look away when she gets to me, then remember that looking away implies I have something to hide. I lift my head back up, but she has already moved on.
“Today we’re going to sign a pledge.” She reaches into the bag she brought with her. There are cows printed on the outside. She pulls out a set of paints and a rolled-up piece of paper.
“We pledge to treat one another with respect,” Ms. Meghan reads from the paper, “and speak to one another with kind words. We pledge to stop bullying when we see it. We will use all of our knowledge, heart, and strength to make our school a safe and happy place for everyone.” She lays the paper on the floor in front of us.
“You’ll s
ign this pledge with a painted handprint. Come pick your colors.”
My classmates crawl across the floor to grab a paint bottle and brush.
“That’s it? Finger painting?” Dad chimes in from behind me.
“Sir?” Ms. Meghan replies.
“My daughter is being targeted.”
“We are going to figure out what happened. Hannah, is there anything you would like to say?”
Everyone stops painting to look at me.
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. My cheeks turn hot like they’re being toasted.
“I feel like I’m in a story,” I say.
Kimmy laughs, until Mrs. Bloom glances over from her desk.
“You’re right. These things can seem a little unreal,” Ms. Meghan says. I move away from Dad and pick a purple paint bottle, so that everyone knows I’m done talking.
When we finish signing our pledge, Mrs. Bloom dismisses the parents. They stand up from their too-small chairs. Dad squeezes my shoulder and whispers that he’ll see me at home. Mom gives me a hug and tells me to have a good day, and then she follows him.
Our pledge is hung on the back wall. I have been trying not to think about the person behind the pencil, but now all our handprints are on a piece of paper, and it’s hard not to realize that one of those hands wrote the notes.
Counselor’s Notes: Thursday, October 15
Name: Ryan Grant
Grade: Five
Reason for visit: Ryan came on his own to discuss his concerns about a friend.
Demeanor: Ryan maintains a smile throughout visit, even when discussing his thoughts about his friend. Starts the visit by making friendly small talk. He is a serious delight.
Visit: Transcript is as follows:
COUNSELOR: You’re here to talk about Hannah?
STUDENT: I’m worried about her. About the notes.
COUNSELOR: What’s worrying you the most?
STUDENT: Well, she won’t talk about it. She won’t talk about anything. Ever. She just keeps saying she’s fine.
COUNSELOR: What do you think is holding her back?
STUDENT: I don’t know. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, but she still doesn’t trust me.
COUNSELOR: This might not be about trust. This is an obstacle that Hannah has to overcome within herself.
STUDENT: But I’m her friend. I want to help her.
COUNSELOR: I’m sure you help her more than you know.
STUDENT: There’s nothing I can do, then?
COUNSELOR: Just keep being there.
Next action: Make this student president of the United States.
Suspects
If this were a story, my class would become suspects in a lineup behind glass. They would wait to be identified as the perpetrator. No one would be ruled out, not even Mrs. Bloom. The other side of the glass would be invisible to them, so they couldn’t see me with the police and lawyers and school principal, trying to decide who was guilty.
I sit at my desk and take the investigation into my own hands. While everyone else works on math problems, I start collecting clues. Rebecca walks to the back of the class to sharpen her pencil.
Reasons it might be Rebecca Snow:
The note was found by the pencil sharpener. She sharpens her pencil at least ten times a day, due to status as overachieving note taker.
Rebecca walks back to her desk and starts writing again, using every inch of the paper. I cross her name off the list. She would never waste valuable space by ripping corners out of her notebook.
The lines on my paper fill with detective notes.
Reasons it might be Theo Baywood:
He told me he liked me in fourth grade, and I ran away.
Reasons it might be Joanie Lawson:
I didn’t stop Courtney from teasing her when Joanie peed her pants during a scary movie.
It might be Courtney, because she has hardly spoken to me since the day the note asked her why anyone would be friends with me.
I close my notebook. It’s too gloomy to think about the reasons why someone wouldn’t like me. Maybe I’ve done some things I shouldn’t, but I hoped that people would be able to see past my mistakes.
My life is becoming a one-way police mirror. As hard as I try to see what lies ahead, the glass stays dark. All I can see is my shadowy reflection.
Caterpillar Tables
The tables in the cafeteria look like colorful caterpillars, long and broken into segments. The segments separate one group of friends from another. If this were a story, the tables would turn into butterflies when people defaced them with swear words and stained them with pizza sauce. All of the damage would turn into beautiful designs on their wings, and one day they would fly away through the cafeteria’s emergency exit. We’d all be left in awe and with nowhere to sit.
Courtney, Ryan, and I always sit on the far end of the blue caterpillar (I mean “table”) at the back of the cafeteria, in front of the stage. On the Monday after making our pledge to Ms. Meghan, Courtney walks into the cafeteria with Rebecca and her friends. They all have blond hair and clear skin. They head toward the green caterpillar (I mean “table”) in the middle of the room.
“Court!” Ryan calls out from our corner. Courtney rolls her eyes. She says something to her new blond friends and comes over to us.
“I’m sitting with Rebecca today. You can come if you want, Ryan,” she says. Ryan looks back and forth between the two of us.
“Why can’t Hannah come?” he asks.
“No room,” Courtney says. I turn in my seat to look at her.
“Are we not friends anymore?” I ask. Courtney throws her hands up. It almost feels like déjà vu, because Courtney has stopped being my friend so many times in my head.
“Stop being dramatic. Are you coming, Ryan?”
Ryan tilts his head at me, and then picks up his meatball grinder.
“I’m okay here,” he says, and digs in.
Courtney walks away, and my heart fills with holes like a caterpillar-bitten leaf. I never thought her footsteps would be a sad-day sound.
From Hannah’s Pages of “Lost in the Funhouse”
In the fun-house mirror-room you can’t see yourself go on forever, because no matter how you stand, your head gets in the way.
Hang in There
A week passes. No one comes forward to say they wrote the notes. Mrs. Bloom gives us new letters from our pen pals. I feel better when I hold the envelope.
Dear Hannah,
Are you okay, girl? You seem a little down lately. I realize that a letter is not the best way to ask someone if they’re doing all right. Things can change a lot day to day.
To answer your question, I’d probably go with the magic penny. I don’t really like Slurpees.
Hang in there, girl. I’ll be seeing you soon.
XOXO, Ashley
Ashley transforms in my head again. Now she looks like a 1970s schoolgirl from the pictures in our history books, or from Mom’s old photo albums. I imagine Ashley with sandy brown hair and wire-rim glasses and a schoolgirl skirt. She carries books tucked under her arm. In her bedroom she has a lava lamp and that popular poster of a kitten dangling from a branch saying, HANG IN THERE.
Dear Ashley,
Of course I’m okay, because you like magic pennies too. I’ll add that to the list of reasons why you’re my favorite pen pal.
Love, Hannah.
Human Knot
In gym class a few days before Halloween, Mr. West splits us up into groups and tells the members of each group to stand in a circle. I’m with Courtney, Kimmy, Rebecca, and three boys. Mr. West tells us to cross our arms and hold hands with two other people in the circle.
I reach for Courtney, but she shifts and reaches for Rebecca. I end up holding the slippery hand of one boy, and the other goes to Kimmy. She squeezes harder than she needs to, and I want to cry. Our tangled arms form a human knot.
“This is the Halloween Spiderweb Game. Work together to free yourselves with
out letting go of your classmates’ hands,” Mr. West says, and blows his whistle. His whistle is almost always in his mouth. He blows it no matter what game we’re playing. I think he would blow it even if we were playing the Quiet Game.
My group starts squirming around without a plan. The boys hurtle over our arms and twist us into an even bigger mess.
“Guuuys, you’re pulling me,” Rebecca says.
“Stop whining,” Kimmy snaps back.
I’m quiet while I stare at our knot of limbs. It looks like an unsolvable problem. I start to panic. I wonder if we will be stuck like this forever. I wonder if I will ever be able to clean up the mess that the notes left behind, if Courtney will ever speak to me again now that everything has gotten so twisted. My lungs feel full of water, and I can’t breathe. I let go of the hands that keep me fastened to the human knot and backpedal out of the circle.
“You’re not supposed to do that, Hannah,” Rebecca says. Courtney glares.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Those notes were right,” Kimmy mumbles under her breath.
That’s it. The answer. The way to fix things.
If this were a story, then this part would be called the turning point, the moment when new information is revealed and some of the pieces fall into place, like a half-finished puzzle.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I run to Mr. West and ask him if I can go see Ms. Meghan. He says through his whistle that I can.
Ms. Meghan’s door is open. Her wild hair seems to expand even farther when she sees me.
“Hannah, please, come in,” she says. I come inside but don’t sit in the chair.
“I know who did it. I know who wrote the notes,” I say. She tries to get me to sit down, but I won’t. I want this to be over. I want to be free of the knot.
“Who did it?” Ms. Meghan asks.
“It was Kimmy. Kimmy Dobson wrote them.”
Counselor’s Notes: Tuesday, October 27