by Beth Turley
So she sent me here. To the school counselor.
“The fight,” I say.
“I remember. You told me about the fight with the astronauts, and the yelling. But why that fight in particular, Hannah? Why did it upset you so much?”
“Ambrose is unable to forget one single detail of his life,” I say. A wet spot falls onto the paper. It mixes with some purple crayon. I smear the spot, and it looks like the Milky Way.
“What was that?” Ms. Meghan asks. She leans in toward me.
“It’s from ‘Lost in the Funhouse.’ Ambrose can’t forget anything. That’s what’s wrong with him.”
“You reread the passages?”
“I read them all the time,” I admit.
“What can’t you forget, Hannah?” Ms. Meghan urges.
If this were a story, I would be transformed into a stick of dynamite, lit and ready to explode with a secret I’ve been keeping for two years.
“Please, please don’t make me, Ms. Meghan. Don’t make me talk.”
“I want to help you, Hannah. Let me help you.” She puts her hand on my drawing.
I start with the first word. Talking feels like someone has struck the heaviness inside me with a pickax. The weight begins to break. I say the second word and feel even better. And then the truth spills out. The very worst day.
The Very Worst Day
If this were a story, this part would be a flashback, here to help you connect the dots, to help you understand why I cried in the line to music class and went to see Ms. Meghan and got the story “Lost in the Funhouse” and met Ambrose.
I lay on my stomach on the living room floor with a book in front of me. I kicked my feet against the ground like I was swimming through the hardwood.
“Can you stop that?” Dad asked from the couch. He put down his newspaper and took a sip of his drink. I stopped moving my legs.
I was reading a book about how to write stories. The chapter was on Freytag’s triangle, which is a structure that helps stories stay on track. All the scenes in a story should fit into the triangle. I tried to apply my new knowledge to the show Mom was watching on TV. Mom liked shows about outer space. The astronauts on the screen were currently huddled around a monitor with worried looks on their faces. The captain revealed that an asteroid was headed straight for the last planet with a known water source.
According to Freytag’s triangle, this is the rising action. The place where the tension builds.
“I don’t know why you watch this stuff,” Dad said. Mom didn’t answer. I peeked at her from under my eyelashes. She had her eyes fixed on the screen.
“Turn it down,” he said. Mom was silent.
The astronauts started programming their laser and adjusting their position. They planned to blow the asteroid into a million pieces. This decision built up the action, which put them closer to the top of Freytag’s triangle. The background music swelled.
“Did you hear me? I asked you to turn it down.”
“I can hardly hear it as it is. Can you just deal with it?” Mom snapped back.
“What did you say?”
“I’m sick of walking on eggshells, Michael. I’m watching a show.”
Dad stood up. I closed my book and hurried out of the way. The astronauts took aim at the asteroid.
“I don’t know what eggshells you’re referring to,” Dad said.
“The ones you’ve laid all over this place,” Mom answered. She didn’t look away from the TV. Dad stepped closer to Mom.
I knew which eggshells she was talking about. They had been scattered on the floor for as long as I could remember, crunching under our feet whenever the laundry was dirty or dinner was late or the day was too long.
The astronauts shot their laser. It hit the asteroid, but the giant rock didn’t explode. The asteroid was laser resistant. The astronauts realized that their plan wouldn’t work. Freytag’s triangle calls this the climax. The most intense point of conflict.
“Say that again,” Dad said.
“Day by day you’re making this house unlivable,” Mom said. Dad walked over to the TV and turned it off. Mom picked up the remote and turned it back on.
That’s when Dad’s arm reached back with his hand stretched out, positioned for a slap. Mom flinched. Dad didn’t bring his arm back down. He kept it pulled back like a threat of what he was capable of. I ran from the room.
I don’t know if the astronauts survived. The last part of Freytag’s triangle is the resolution. There was none.
And there has never been any since.
Counselor’s Notes: Monday, November 2
Name: Hannah Geller
Grade: Five
Reason for visit: The issue with the notes is still unresolved. I hoped to engage with Hannah about the reason for her very first visit to the office, to see if issues at home are still affecting behavior.
Demeanor: She appeared stressed. Was willing to provide handwriting sample and pursue requested drawing activity. Drew a series of seemingly unrelated objects. Did so with a level of distress.
Visit: Admittedly, Hannah may have been pushed too hard during this visit. Relived a particularly painful argument between parents. I was aware of this argument but not to the extent described in this session. I have reason to believe that this is the first time that information of this nature was shared by Hannah.
Next action: Delay communication with parents. Continue to build trust. Argument happened two years ago. While it has impacted her mental state, she indicated that there have not been any similar episodes. Meet with Hannah again to assess what is happening in the present.
Side note: Someone please just give this girl a hug.
Invisible Volcano
On the night before the spelling bee, it rains. I wait for the phone to ring. I worry Ms. Meghan will call and ask my parents about what I told her. I don’t want to be around when it happens, so I tell Mom and Dad that I have homework and hide upstairs.
I sit at my desk by the window with my library book in front of me, watching the sky turn pink. Ambrose is in my lap.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told her,” I say.
“You did the right thing,” Ambrose reassures me.
“One word came out and then they all did. It felt good.”
“Did you tell her that it’s still happening?”
“It’s not. That’s the only time Dad almost hurt Mom.” I turn the page of my book.
“If you say so, Hannah.”
The phone rings. My pencil slips from my grasp to the ground. There’s another ring, and then silence. Someone has picked it up. I slide my hand into my lap, and it leaves a sweaty mark behind on the desk.
“Is it the school?” I ask Ambrose.
“Ohm.” He makes a sound like a psychic looking into the future. “I got nothing.”
It makes me laugh a little, since his speech is usually so formal.
“Thanks for trying.”
Everything is completely still for another minute. Then the yelling starts.
“Did you forget to give me a message from John?” Dad asks in his loud voice.
“No, I wrote it in the notebook. It should be right there on the desk,” Mom answers in her voice that tries to make a fight stop before it starts. It doesn’t work.
From behind my door I can hear Dad search the desk, toss pieces of mail to the side, slam the drawer. Drop a cup full of paper clips to the floor. It sounds like an orchestra playing with out-of-tune instruments.
“It’s not here, Jane. I had no idea he wanted to meet today. He plans to take his business elsewhere now. Are you happy?”
“Yes, Michael. I’m thrilled to death that you’re losing business.”
“How could you forget to tell me? It’s the one thing I ask you to do, take the messages!”
“The same way you keep forgetting to fix the broken TV screen. How long could it possibly take to get a replacement?”
Hearing the argument through my closed door is like sensing
an eruption from an invisible volcano. You don’t know which way the lava is coming from, so you just run.
“I don’t have the time, Jane. I mean, what are people going to think now? That I’m so unreliable, I can’t respond to a simple message?” Dad questions.
“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry,” Mom exclaims.
“That doesn’t help now!”
“So stop using the house phone for clients! Stop bringing your work into this house every single day!”
I shake Ambrose.
“Do something,” I plead.
“I can’t,” he says in a strained way.
“You’re magic.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Hannah.”
“Then just shut up!”
There’s still yelling, so I go to my door and open it loudly enough for my parents to hear. That way they’ll know I’m there and I’m listening. The fight pauses. I stay at the door. My parents and I wait in a silent standoff for someone to make a move.
“I’m going out for some air,” Dad says. I hear the front door slam, and then his truck grumbles out of the driveway.
I lean my head against the wall.
“Go to sleep, Hannah,” Mom calls out.
I close the door and sit with Ambrose again.
“I’m sorry for telling you to shut up.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Ambrose? Did you hear me?” I bang on the desk he sits on. His puffy gray body tips to the side, but he doesn’t speak. I clutch him to my chest.
“Please don’t leave.” I let a tear fall onto his head and hope it might work like fairy dust to bring him back. Instead it soaks into his skin and disappears.
If this were a story, I would come home from school as though it were a normal day. I would take off my shoes and put my backpack away. Then I’d turn on the news and an anchorperson would announce that Ambrose the stuffed elephant has died, even though elephants should live for almost a hundred years.
I hold Ambrose in my arms and turn back to my book. Someone has torn the corner off page 125. I run my finger over the frayed edge and wonder why.
From Hannah’s Pages of “Lost in the Funhouse”
At this rate our protagonist will remain in the funhouse forever.
The Spelling Bee
I take deep breaths in the bathroom stall on the day of the spelling bee finals. I’m thinking too much about the fight. My parents are somewhere in the gym ready to watch me compete. I wonder if the yelling is always with them, just waiting to burst out, like a snake that’s grown too big for its skin. I think about disappearing.
“No. Not now. No,” I say, and leave the stall. I remind myself that spelling is my happy place where everything can be okay if you take a minute to sound the problem out. Break it into syllables until it makes sense.
The bathroom door opens. I see Courtney standing there.
“Mrs. Bloom told me to come get you,” she says, then walks into a stall and slams the door.
“I miss being your friend,” I say before I can stop myself.
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t want to go, not while I have her here alone, but I also don’t want to have a heart-to-heart through a stall door. I leave for the spelling bee.
The gym is turned into an auditorium full of folding chairs, like when we did Romeo and Juliet. The whole school is invited to come watch the spelling bee, and every grade has their own finals. I sit onstage with the other fifth-grade finalists, Kimmy and Rebecca. The bright lights above the stage are turned on, and I start to sweat from the heated glow. I can see far enough past the glare to find Ryan near the back, and another small hand waving in my direction. Ruby from Halloween grins at me. It warms me in a good way, and I brush my hair back from my face, ready to emerge v-i-c-t-o-r-i-o-u-s.
The school librarian, Mrs. Raymond, is our moderator again. I turn her opening speech into practice. We will a-l-t-e-r-n-a-t-e spelling words from the list. One wrong answer leads to e-l-i-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n. We can ask for a d-e-f-i-n-i-t-i-o-n if we need it. The words will get increasingly d-i-f-f-i-c-u-l-t. Cheating is not t-o-l-e-r-a-t-e-d.
I clear my mind of everything but my brain dictionary. I leave no room for the mean notes or the loss of Ambrose or the way Kimmy’s eyes burn craters into the side of my skull.
The fifth-grade finals are last. Rebecca is called up and spells “gratification” correctly. Kimmy spells “delirious” before Mrs. Raymond even finishes saying the word. I take my place at the microphone.
“ ‘Participant,’ ” Mrs. Raymond says.
“ ‘Participant.’ P-a-r-t-i-c-i-p . . .” I trail off. The word is simpler than a chocolate chip cookie, but I can’t remember if it’s an e or a before the n-t. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, a scary-day sound.
“You may start over one time if you need to.” Mrs. Raymond looks at me over her glasses. I turn the pages in my brain dictionary so quickly, my thoughts practically get paper cuts.
“A.”
I look out into the hushed audience to see who shouted out the answer. No one looks back at me. No one else seems to have heard.
“A.” The voice sounds like it’s coming from the curtains and the spotlights and the wooden floorboards. The stage is talking to me. Helping me, even though I didn’t speak to him first. The way my magic works must be changing.
“ ‘Participant.’ P-a-r-t-i-c-i-p-a-n-t,” I say.
“Correct.” I sit back down in my chair and ignore the stage’s whispers.
If this were a story, I would take the microphone into my hands and admit to having wires in my ears. I would tell everyone that a team of spies is outside in an unmarked van with a dictionary, feeding me the answers. Kimmy would win the bee and go all the way to nationals, and my punishment for cheating would be thirty seconds in a cage with a swarm of actual bees.
We go through three rounds before Rebecca spells “anthropomorphism” wrong. I’m avoiding my own anthropomorphism by spelling my words before the show-off stage can feed me the answers. Rebecca goes to sit back in the audience, and Kimmy walks up to the microphone. Her green shirt has been replaced by a white polo. Her hair is clean and tied into a tight ponytail. She has polished herself up to beat me.
“Spell ‘metamorphosis.’ ”
Kimmy clears her throat.
“ ‘Metamorphosis.’ M-e-t-a-m-o-r-p-h-a-s-i-s.”
“I’m sorry, Kimmy. That is incorrect. Please take your seat.”
I’m glad Kimmy is turned away from me, so I can’t see if her face crumbles. She walks back to her chair with her head down.
“Hannah, if you can spell this word correctly, then you will represent Brookview at the citywide spelling bee. Spell ‘introspection.’ ”
It isn’t fair that I get this word. I know it better than the lines in my palm. It’s the reason why, even on the verge of winning the spelling bee, I am thinking about Kimmy, about how her heart must be tearing in two, about how she must want to tear me in two. It’s why at any given minute I can feel each drop of disappointment or pride or anger or joy that I’ve ever felt, as if it’s happening right then, all over again.
“ ‘Introspection.’ I-n-t-r-o-s-p-e-c-t-i—”
“O,” the stage says.
I know, I say in my mind.
“Hannah?”
“O-n. ‘Introspection.’ ”
“That’s correct. You’ve won the school spelling bee. Congratulations.”
The audience cheers with as much excitement as they can manage for a spelling bee. Ruby stands up in her chair to wave at me again. My parents clap their hands. They look proud.
“Thank you. Oh, thank you. You’re too kind,” the stage says, as if the audience were throwing roses at his feet.
I don’t realize until now how long it’s been since I had a moment without any weight pressing down on me. I feel full of bright lights and good words, like my whole body is smiling. I won.
• • •
We’re supposed to mee
t in the library after the spelling bee for cookies and lemonade. The parents are invited too. I don’t see Kimmy in the line on our way there. Courtney is ahead of me, consoling Rebecca. She whispers into Rebecca’s ear and then looks over her shoulder at me. Some of the happiness in my heart leaks out like from a water balloon with a hole, but I manage to hold on to most of it.
I won. I won. No one can take that from me.
“Don’t go to the library! Come here!” I hear from somewhere in the hallway. I recognize the voice, the way it’s more of a scream. Penny. How did she get here?
I put my hand over my mouth.
“Where are you, Penny?” I whisper.
“Follow my voice! We’ll play Hot or Cold!”
I see my parents through the glass walls outside the library. They stand with their arms crossed, close together but not talking. The sight of them pushes me out of line like real hands on my back.
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Bloom asks from behind me.
“Bathroom!” Penny shouts.
“Bathroom,” I tell Mrs. Bloom.
“Quickly.”
I walk fast down the hall and into the bathroom. I wait for Penny to guide me, but it’s quiet.
“Penny?” I whisper.
“You’re cold!” she answers. I step farther inside, toward the sinks.
“Warmer!”
I step again.
“Really warm!”
I’m in front of the sinks now. I look up into the mirror.
“You found me!”
“This is a mirror, Penny.”
“You found me!
Tears burn in my eyes and make the blue in them turn so light, they’re almost clear, like a window into all the sad things I think about. I use pieces of my hair to cover my face like a black curtain, so I can’t see myself anymore.
“You’re burning up!”
I shake my head and open my eyes to look through my hair. There’s a green backpack on the floor. Penny must be talking about the bag, not the mirror. I know I shouldn’t touch someone else’s things, but I crouch down and move the backpack to look underneath.
A door flies open behind me, and Kimmy walks out of the stall.