by Beth Turley
“Biker Dad is ready to go,” he announces. He poses with his arms crossed.
“You look tough, Mr. Geller,” Ryan says, and Dad gives him a high five.
Dad looks over at Mom on the couch.
“Why don’t you come with us?” he asks.
“Someone has to stay for the trick-or-treaters.”
“Is there a kid more important than Hannah?”
The receivers in my head start picking up static, like they sense sad-day sounds lurking somewhere in the airwaves.
“That’s not what I mean, Michael,” Mom says. Dad turns to me. His biker outfit suddenly looks more intimidating than goofy.
“Hannah, don’t you want your mother to come?”
I look at the candy bowl and feel everyone else looking at me. I’m stuck in the middle of the conflict like the caramel center of a chocolate bar.
“It’s okay. We just want to get to the candy before it’s gone,” I say. I take the plastic pumpkins from the counter and hand one to Ryan. Then I grab his arm and drag him to the door with me.
“Bye, Ms. Boring,” I hear Dad say to Mom before he follows behind us. It sounds mean, like it should be written on one of the bullying notes. I don’t want to hear anything else. My fixed receivers are still too fragile.
“Race you,” Ryan says, and takes off. His solution for all problems is to race them away. That means he thinks my parents are a problem. I chase the thought off and sprint after Ryan into the dark.
Dad catches up with us in the street. I take one last look at our house from the bottom of the driveway and see Mom at the door. The light from inside turns her into a trapped shadow.
“Where’s your girl Courtney?” Dad asks as we walk.
“She had other plans,” I say.
Ryan nudges me in the arm.
“They don’t know you’re fighting?” he asks quietly. I shake my head.
We walk to the busy neighborhood a few blocks away from mine, where the houses are big and the grown-ups give out full-size candy bars. My bones can tell that it’s Halloween. A spooky cold permeates the air.
“When do you think we’ll be too old for trick-or-treating?” Ryan asks me.
“Why should stocking up on candy have an expiration date?” I answer. He laughs.
“Maybe next year when we get to middle school,” he says.
I think about my pen pal, Ashley, and the Halloween party she told me about, where she’ll be dressed as Madonna. For the first time since we started writing to each other, I worry that she might not like me. The Scrabble piece costume starts to feel heavy.
“Yeah, maybe then,” I reply.
If this were a story, the moonlit, masked creatures in the street would be real. The pirates and fairies and zombies would coexist despite their differences. Maybe that’s not so much like a story. People do that every day.
“Mike,” someone calls out from the dark. A round man shuffles down the street toward us. There’s a tiny girl dressed as an angel running behind him.
“Is that you, Dave?” Dad shouts back.
“You got me.” Dave shakes Dad’s hand. I recognize Dave from the bowling alley. The little angel hides behind his legs.
“Enjoying the night?” Dad asks.
“Couldn’t be better. You want a smoke?”
Dad looks at me and Ryan.
“Can you two go on your own?” he asks.
“Sure, Dad,” I answer.
“Take Ruby with you,” Dave says, and pushes the angel out from behind him. Her eyes get round, and I notice in the streetlights that they’re similar in color to shiny pennies.
“Yeah, Ruby, come with us,” I say. She hesitates but follows Ryan and me. I watch Dave hand Dad a cigar and light the end. It burns cherry red.
I try to talk to Ruby.
“What grade are you in?” I ask her.
“Mrs. Thyme,” she says instead. My third-grade teacher.
“Ryan and I had her too.”
Ruby slips her hand into mine unexpectedly.
“My dad’s not supposed to smoke,” she whispers.
“Mine either,” I answer.
I want to tell Ruby more ways that she and I are similar. I recognize her quietness and the way she looks at everything with full-moon eyes.
If this were a ghost story, Ruby would do something to show me that she is really a reincarnation of me as a third grader, like she’d quote “Lost in the Funhouse” or draw her own word search with chalk on the pavement. She would talk about something that only I could know about, like the worst fight Mom and Dad ever had.
I’m glad this isn’t a ghost story, because honestly, that would be terrifying.
“We have to hit that house on the hill. Last year they gave out dollar bills,” Ryan says.
“I’d rather have chocolate,” Ruby says.
It looks like the whole neighborhood has heard about the dollar bills and is gathered on top of the hill to collect. A line runs down the brick walkway in front of the door. We wait behind two princesses. Ruby notices that Ryan and I don’t have candy yet and puts a few peanut butter cups and licorice sticks in each of our buckets.
We’re almost to the door when someone cuts in front of us from the shadows. Someone in a green checkered shirt and a Frankenstein mask.
“Dude, you just cut us,” Ryan says. The cutter turns around and pulls off the mask.
“I’m not a dude,” Kimmy snaps. She notices me, and the look on her face is scarier than any costume.
“Hi, Kimmy,” I offer. She reaches out her hand and slaps my plastic pumpkin to the ground. Candy spills over the bricks and onto the wet lawn.
“You told the counselor that I wrote those stupid notes.” she snaps at me.
“I . . .”
“I don’t care what you say, Hannah. I didn’t write them.” She takes a step toward me. Ryan gets between us and holds up his baseball glove.
“Back off,” he warns.
“Make me.”
It’s Ruby who makes her. She kicks Kimmy in the shin with her white shoe. Not hard enough to send her to the ground, but enough to make her twenty times angrier.
“You’re going to be sorry you ever messed with me,” Kimmy says.
“Come on. A dollar bill isn’t worth this. Let’s race,” Ryan says. We get out of line and run all the way back down the hill. We catch our breath at the bottom. Little clouds form in front of our mouths.
“What was she talking about?” Ruby asks me.
“Nothing,” I say. I don’t want her to know about the notes. That information doesn’t belong under her halo.
• • •
We find Dad in the same spot with Dave. The cigars are gone, but I can still smell them. Smoke hovers like a lost spirit in the air.
“Did you have a good time, angel?” Dave asks Ruby. She’s still holding my hand.
“Yes. I kicked a girl in the leg,” she says. Dad and Dave look at us, but I just shrug.
“It is the night of mischief,” I say.
“I’m glad you toughened this little one up,” Dave replies.
“Ruby’s tenacious. That means ‘strong-willed,’ ” I say. Dave looks confused.
“Hannah likes words,” Dad explains.
“Come on, tiger.” Dave takes Ruby from me. I wish she didn’t have to leave. I try using my magic to bring her plastic pumpkin to life. Something tells me that Ruby would be able to hear it speak, that she’s a believer.
We head toward the next neighborhood. Ryan takes his hat off and blocks his face when he whispers to me, “Did you really tell on Kimmy?”
“I thought she wrote them,” I say.
“If she didn’t, then who did?”
If this were a story, then this part would be the reversal. That’s when you think one thing is true, and then something happens and the plot takes a turn.
It’s like I’m being catapulted in a new direction.
As Told by the Plastic Pumpkin
You should talk to Ruby,” Hannah whis
pers as I walk away. Well, actually, I don’t walk. Ruby does, and I’m along for the ride.
“Okay. I’ll tell her those candy bars from the blue house are expired. Now she won’t crack her teeth!” I answer.
I like to call myself a comedian. The cackle-lantern. That’s a good one, right?
Ruby holds me in front of her face like she can hear me laughing.
“Pumpkin?”
Riley Jones
Something happened in second grade that’s become a sharp piece of my collection of memories. A boy in our class named Riley Jones died. He ran into the street after a Frisbee, and the minivan driving by didn’t have time to stop. I don’t know how you’re supposed to react to that sort of thing when you’re seven, but when we found out, all I could think about was the one time I talked to Riley Jones. He asked me if I wanted to have a handstand competition at recess, and I said yes. When he beat me, I told him I didn’t want to have competitions anymore.
Mom and Dad asked me how I felt about the accident a few days after it happened.
“We had a handstand competition during recess,” I said.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
I replayed my one memory of Riley over and over until I was clogged up with sadness. I constructed the feeling of losing a friend, like an unstable gingerbread house. It was the first time that I realized how real things could become in a person’s head. I wondered if maybe the universe itself was created by people’s overthinking.
A month later a tree was planted for Riley in front of the school. It was thin with small white flowers on the branches. There was a ceremony where we all dropped our heads and took a moment of silence for Riley. I used the time to think about our handstand competition, to miss the boy who had lived for only seven years, to imagine him dying in the street. A bird landed on one of the branches and sang, a happy sound for a sad day.
It scared me how sad I could be, how I could own heartbreak like a T-shirt or a choker necklace and keep it all buried inside me. I thought maybe Riley could live forever if his being gone hurt enough.
The tree is still there. It blooms with white flowers every spring. When I see it, I think about Riley and me turning the world upside down together.
If this were a story, this part would be the emotional development. It’s supposed to help you understand why a character is the way she is. I hope so at least.
As Told by the Stop Sign
I can’t go in there,” Hannah whispers. To the world.
She looks. Worried this morning when she. Crosses the street. She is. Bent over like she. Has a lot of weight on her back. My weather calculations tell me that it. Has nothing to do with the pressure of the wind.
I’ve watched Hannah. Cross that same street. From this same crossing guard’s hand. Since she was barely as tall as me. Her shoulders have never hung quite so. Low. I know a lot about traffic laws and history and octagonal shapes, but. I don’t know why Hannah needs help this morning.
It goes against everything. I’m designed for to tell her:
“Just go.”
Hannah looks around. I don’t think she expects that. It is me. After all, I’m a big. Red. Stop sign.
“Just go,” I try again, and her eyes fall. On me. I straighten myself. As much as I can.
“I can’t,” she says when she. Walks past and no one. Is looking.
I’ve learned from my years in this job. That stopping doesn’t get you. Anywhere.
“Yes, you can. Go.”
She is behind me now. I can’t see what she decides to do. Stop or go. There are other kids. To help cross the street. Other footsteps fading away but. I pretend they are Hannah’s. I hope that she decides. To persevere.
Counselor’s Notes: Thursday, April 30
Name: Hannah Geller
Grade: Three
Reason for visit: Emotional outburst and worrisome comments that are outside Hannah’s normal realm of behavior.
Demeanor: Hannah seemed surprised to be in the office, and confused by her own actions. Got off topic easily, as if she finds one thread in a sentence to pull apart and analyze. More observant than average student at this grade level. Shows evidence of literary gifts.
Visit: Transcript follows.
COUNSELOR: Can you tell me why you were crying, Hannah?
STUDENT: I already told Mrs. Thyme.
COUNSELOR: I’d like to hear too, if you don’t mind.
STUDENT: Why?
COUNSELOR: I’m here to help.
STUDENT: Do you forget things?
COUNSELOR: Sure. Sometimes on accident, and sometimes I forget things on purpose.
STUDENT: Did you know that a brain can only hold a certain amount of information? Kind of like a computer.
COUNSELOR: I did know that.
STUDENT: Well, I don’t think that’s true with me. I remember everything.
COUNSELOR: Like what?
STUDENT: Like how I couldn’t sleep at my first sleepover because there was a shadow on the wall that looked like a ghost, and what I ate for breakfast the day that Riley Jones died.
COUNSELOR: That must be taking up a lot of room.
STUDENT: I have unlimited storage.
COUNSELOR: Why were you crying, Hannah? What were you remembering?
STUDENT: The . . . astronauts.
COUNSELOR: Try to stay on topic.
STUDENT: I am. The astronauts were on TV. Mom wouldn’t turn the TV down, and Dad didn’t like it.
COUNSELOR: What happened?
STUDENT: They fought. They fight a lot.
COUNSELOR: I understand. You don’t have to say anything else.
STUDENT: Thank you.
COUNSELOR: Do you like to read, Hannah?
STUDENT: I love to read.
COUNSELOR: I do too. When I was in college, I read a story called “Lost in the Funhouse.” The main character really stuck with me. It’s way above third-grade-level reading, so I can’t give you all of it, but I’m going to give you some parts of the story to look at. I think you might like it.
STUDENT: I’m sure I will.
Next action: Call parents.
As Told by Ambrose
Do you remember the day we met, Ambrose?” Hannah asks me.
“Of course I do.”
I met Hannah two years ago, after Ms. Meghan called and asked Hannah’s parents about the fighting. Her dad held me around the ribs and brought me up the stairs into her bedroom. He sat on the edge of her bed and ran a hand over her hair.
“Hannah?”
Hannah rolled over and opened her eyes. She sat up when she saw her dad there.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I brought you something.” He handed me to Hannah. She scooped me up and held me out in front of her.
The thing about being a stuffed animal is, you never know whether the kid will want you or not. I could tell right away that Hannah didn’t want me. She needed me.
“I’ll call him Ambrose.”
“What’s that from?”
“A story.” She tucked me under the comforter with her, and I was home. Her dad took a breath and adjusted Hannah’s pillow.
“There’s something we have to talk about. The counselor told us you were upset that your mother and I fight. But I promise you, Hannah, we’re going to be fine.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“You won’t talk to anyone about this anymore, then, right?”
She crushed me tighter into her chest.
“Right.”
For as long as I’ve known Hannah, she has kept that promise.
Unable to Forget
I’m in Ms. Meghan’s office again. She has given me a piece of paper and a set of crayons to draw with. She watches me from across the table.
If this were a story, Ms. Meghan would hold up cards with different shapes of ink blots. I would say that one looked like an arcade game, and another looked like a willow tree, and ano
ther like a rotting pumpkin. She would write in her notes that I was crazy and send me away to the abandoned insane asylum on the other side of town, where kids go to scare themselves at night.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long since we’ve really talked, Hannah,” Ms. Meghan says.
“That’s okay.” I don’t want to be here. Being in Ms. Meghan’s office feels like standing on the edge of a mountain called Truth Point and being told to jump off without a parachute.
“I was hoping we’d have the bullying resolved, but it’s gotten more complicated now.”
I nod, and start to draw the objects that have spoken to me. Ambrose. Penny. The pencil sharpener. The plastic pumpkin. The crossing guard’s stop sign, which this morning called out to me to “go.”
“Hannah, can you write your name on that piece of paper for me?” she asks.
I write my name in the middle of the paper.
“Kimmy says she didn’t write the notes,” Ms. Meghan continues, and takes a sip of coffee.
“How do you know she’s telling the truth?” I ask.
“I don’t know for sure.”
I color the final shades of blue into a swatch of sky.
“Hannah, I want to talk for a few minutes about your parents,” Ms. Meghan says. I press the blue crayon into the paper a little too hard, and the tip crumbles into waxy shavings.
“Dad still scored a perfect game that night you talked to him,” I say.
She half-smiles at me. “I’m glad.”
The drawings start to get blurry.
“That’s not what you want to hear, is it?” I ask.
“Do you remember why you came to see me that first time?”
“Because I cried in the line to music class.”
“But why? Why were you crying?”
I remember that day. My class was walking in a straight line to the music room. The floor was squeaky clean and everything was normal, but then my chest broke open. I felt leaky and bruised. Mrs. Thyme saw me and took me out of line and asked what was wrong. I told her that lately there were more sad days than happy days, but she didn’t understand what I meant. I didn’t blame her, because I didn’t understand either.