Friction

by E. R. Frank

  “That’s this office,” I say, thinking how horrible the word molested sounds. That’s something real perverts do. The detective looks around the room and then scribbles another note.

  “I see, Alex.” He talks while he’s writing. “Then you can verify that event?” My father’s thumb stops moving.

  “No!” I glance over at Simon. He’s sitting straighter than I’ve ever seen him. “I mean, Stacy told me it happened. But—” The detective cuts me off.

  “What exactly did she tell you?”

  “She just said he did stuff to her when she broke her arm and was in here bleeding and everything.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Simon bursts out. He never interrupts. He looks at Maggie, but she doesn’t look back at him. The detective makes another note. “Ann,” Simon goes. “Jack.”

  “If you’d like to do this more formally, sir, you’re welcome to leave this interview and get yourself a lawyer,” the detective says.

  “I don’t need a lawyer!” Simon goes. “Tell them, Alex!”

  The detective leans forward and puts his forearms on his knees. “If you can just tell us which parts you know for a fact happened and which ones you know for a fact didn’t,” the detective says to me, “that’s all we need.”

  Simon lets out a big breath, like he’s relieved to hear that, and I think about what I know for a fact and what I don’t. It’s hard because I keep feeling his fingers brushing my chest, and I keep seeing his thing, thick and slippery in the night rain, and his mouth on Dawn’s, and then his hand on my thigh. It’s so hard because I only know what happened, but not what it means. And this might be the most important time ever in my whole life to be fair. To be a decent human being. For Stacy and for Simon. Otherwise, my parents wouldn’t be here, and Simon’s face wouldn’t be gray, and they wouldn’t all be looking at me like it mattered more than anything ever mattered before. And to be fair, I’m supposed to tell the truth. And telling the truth means telling the facts.

  “Simon’s touched me sometimes,” I start, and I feel my mother’s hand tighten around my father’s. Simon’s chair creaks as he shifts in it. The detective holds his arm out in front of Simon, like a seat belt, and I rush to finish because I’m scared. “Not in the way Stacy makes it seem,” I say. But then I have to tell it all. “I mean, nothing he did ever seemed like it was wrong until Stacy started talking.”

  “And then what?” the detective asks.

  “I don’t know.” I’m trying to think, but the detective isn’t giving me time.

  “Did you see this man’s penis?” he asks me.

  “Yes. But . . . he was . . . he was just using the bathroom.” That was an accident. I know that was just an accident.

  “There was a bathroom on a camping trip?” The detective sounds mad now.

  “We were near these latrine pits, where we were all supposed to go, and it was raining and dark, and it was just an accident I saw anything!” I say, but it sounds strange now, out loud. It doesn’t sound right.

  “What about the touching?” the detective asks, flipping his handheld closed, like he doesn’t even need it anymore. “In a tent and, I believe, at other times. At school.” He looks at Simon, even though he’s talking to me. “Yesterday. In a car?”

  “I told you,” I try again. “He’s touched me sometimes. But it was accidents or just—just . . .” I don’t know how to describe it. Simon’s shaking his head, his face the color of cinder blocks.

  “Alex,” my father reminds me, “take your time.” But there is no time because they’re all staring at me, waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to tell them something I don’t know. What?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.”

  18

  WHEN THE DETECTIVE asks if Simon ever tried to touch me with his penis, my mother doesn’t give me a second to answer.

  “Enough!” she says. “That’s enough!” She stands, yanking me up with her. “If you find it necessary to question my child further,” she tells the detective, “you’ll have to arrange a formal interview.”

  The detective slowly tucks the handheld back into his jacket. “It’s up to you,” he says as my dad stands up next to me and my mother. “But these things can get tricky.” Simon stays in his seat, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a blown-glass paperweight holding down Maggie’s desk. “Legally speaking, that is. Not to mention that I’m sure you’ll want to find out what—” My mother interrupts him.

  “We’ll finish this ourselves,” she snaps, putting her hand on the small of my back and pushing me toward the door. “In the privacy of our own home.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” my dad whispers to Simon, as we walk out of there. I don’t say anything, because Simon’s new cinder-block face scares the voice out of me and because I don’t know what’s okay to say anymore.

  Nobody talks all the way home, and then, when we’re getting out of the car, my mother goes, “Did Simon ever do that?”

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Try to touch you with his penis?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure?” Our voices echo here in the garage, and I lower mine because I don’t like this stuff bouncing around back and forth.

  “I’m positive,” I say, glad to be sure of at least one thing.

  Upstairs, neither of my parents stretch out on their bed like they usually do. Instead, my mother picks up her hairbrush from the bureau and starts pulling silver strands out in clumps. She just stands there, pulling. My father paces. He goes from one side of the bed to the other. Back and forth. I sit cross-legged right in the center of the mattress.

  My mom pulls and pulls at her brush. “Alex,” she goes, “deep down . . . deep down inside of you—”

  “Ann, don’t,” my father says, and he stops pacing. The mirror on the wall behind him reflects the wrinkles in the back of his blue shirt.

  “Deep down,” my mother goes, like she hasn’t even heard my dad speak, “don’t you know what the truth is?” I can’t guess what she’s thinking. Does she believe Simon really is a pervert? Or is she mad because she thinks he isn’t and I said he touched me? “Alex?” my mom goes.

  “The detective said I should tell the facts,” I say. “And I did.” I look at my dad, hoping he’ll ask her to stop again or maybe tell me what they believe the truth is. But now he’s quiet. Waiting.

  “What is it you feel?” he asks. “What does your gut tell you about Simon?”

  My gut. Well, it’s angry at him for not being more careful at the latrine pits and for coming into our tent to sleep. And my gut feels sorry for him for the way all the kids stopped talking to him and for how his face looked today in Maggie’s office. And it’s confused by him because of the way he turned into a man when he used to be just my teacher. And I guess it loves him because he’s Simon. And when I think about that, think about who he is and how he’s always been with me, with all of us, I’m not confused anymore.

  “He’s not like that,” I tell them finally. “I know he’s not like that.” They know what I mean by that. My father takes a deep breath and lets it out really slow, and my mother drops the hairbrush onto the bed.

  “Why didn’t you just say so to the detective?” she goes. Her voice is soft, but her words feel like claws.

  “I was trying to tell the facts.” I can feel the weight of it in my throat. Don’t they know? “Everybody said I had to tell the exact truth.”

  “But, Alex,” my mom says, “the truth isn’t always only what the facts are. A lot of times it’s also what you feel.”

  And suddenly I’m so mad at them, at all of them. “I tried to tell you how I felt a long time ago!” It rises up inside of me like a tornado, twisting and bucking to leap out. “I tried and tried, and you wouldn’t listen! You just kept interrupting or going off on your big emergencies or saying how I should be fair! How I should be her stupid friend!” And I’m off the bed, down the stairs, and out the front door.

  I ru
n hard and fast toward Tim’s house. But I’m not even halfway there when it hits me what’s happened, what’s really happened, and my lungs hitch and my back kicks, and I stumble to my knees because it hurts so much to breathe.

  My father finds me bent over myself in the street, coughing and crying. “I ruined it,” I choke. “They’ll send him to jail!”

  “Alex,” my dad whispers, leaning over me. “We’ll fix it.”

  I’m so stupid, I want to say. How could I have been so stupid? But I’m shaking all over, shaking so hard with what I’ve done to Simon that my teeth are clicking, and I can’t speak. My father lifts me up, like I’m a baby, and I curl my legs around his waist and wrap my arms around his neck, and he carries me home.

  * * *

  Tim, Sophie, and I are sitting at the trapezoid table the next morning. The other kids want to know what’s going on, but other than swearing that Simon never did anything wrong, not once, my mouth is sealed shut. Simon’s not here, and it’s five minutes past flash card time. Stacy’s not here either.

  “There’s no proof,” Sophie whispers to Tim and me. She’s been cool about not telling the other kids anything either. “I heard my mom talking. Alex, the detective believes what your parents told him over the phone last night. And Stacy has no proof.”

  “Where’s Simon, then?” Tim asks. Sophie shakes her head.

  “What’s going on?” Sebastian asks for the millionth time. “I just want to know what’s going on!”

  Maggie walks in with some woman wearing huge hoop earrings and round glasses.

  “This is Sheryl,” Maggie announces. “She’s going to be substituting for us. Please make her feel at home.”

  “Maggie?” Tim goes.

  “Yes.”

  “Is Simon coming back?”

  Maggie looks down at her wedged heels and then back at us again. “I don’t have the answer to that.” What does she mean?

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, Marie?”

  “Where’s Stacy?”

  It’s a good question. I wonder what Stacy’s doing right now. I wonder if she’s thinking up more lies. If her arm hurts or if her father’s smashed anything else at their house.

  “I’m not . . . ,” Maggie begins, but then she changes her mind. “Stacy’s arm is infected, and she’s staying home for a few days.”

  Maybe Stacy’s talking to that detective right now. Maybe she’s got her hand on her hip, and she’s making him feel like an idiot.

  Maggie leaves our classroom, and Sheryl picks me. “You’re Alex,” she says. How does she know? “Maybe you could show me around a little. Let me know how things work here.” I drag myself out of my chair.

  “Everybody has a contract,” I say as I walk her into the silent study room. My voice sounds strange, like I’m a windup toy with the battery running out. Sheryl nods.

  “Maggie mentioned those,” she says.

  “Simon keeps his copy in there.” I point to his top right desk drawer. “And we each keep a copy in our locker.” That sounds funny to me. Copy in our locker. Copy in our locker. Clapper. Clock her. I giggle. Sheryl looks confused.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks. Her hoops sway from her earlobes. I stop laughing just as fast as I started. Sheryl touches the wire bridge of her glasses. She doesn’t push them up or anything. She just touches the wire.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Maybe you better ask somebody else to help you.” I leave her in the silent study room and walk right out of the upper school.

  “Where are you going?” Tim shouts after me, but I don’t even slow down.

  I walk through all the double doors and head for Maple Avenue. Nobody stops me. I keep going, turning off at the road my mother took when she drove me to Stacy’s that time. The heat still hasn’t let up, and water beads on my chest, in between my stupid starter boobs.

  I walk and I sweat. The trees lining Stacy’s neighborhood are huge, their leaves weaving a canopy over the streets. Magic Marker red-and-yellow tulips lift their faces toward the driveways and sidewalks, like little guards, keeping colorful watch. It’s cooler here, but the air still hangs over itself, invisible and thick.

  I make a right at Park Place and shove my hands deep into my shorts pockets when I see Stacy’s house. There’s a U-Haul truck parked in her driveway.

  “What are you doing here?” Stacy says, running to the screen door to meet me. She’s glancing over her shoulder like she’s nervous about something. Her arm has a fresh cast on it, white this time. The circles under her eyes are laced through with tiny blue veins. In another room somewhere behind Stacy, I see two men carrying a couch, and next to them her mom is holding its cushions.

  “Who are they?” I go.

  “Neighbors.”

  “Are you moving?” What a strange time to be moving.

  “You better leave,” she says.

  “No.”

  Stacy looks over her shoulder again, dips her head toward her chest for a second, and then looks out at me through the haze of mesh screen. I catch glimpses of neighbor movers carrying lamps and stacks of books—sometimes a box that hasn’t even been taped up.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she goes, slipping through the door and pulling me down her steps to the side yard.

  “So?” I say. “You got me and Simon in trouble.”

  “Why did you come here?” she asks.

  “I want you to tell the truth.”

  She pokes a tail of hair into her mouth and chews it for a while. “I can’t tell you the truth,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Simon never touched you, did he?” She won’t answer. I know he didn’t because I can feel it. I felt it the whole time, really, but she confused me. “Did he!” I ask again. I need her to be honest. Just once. She shakes her head a tiny, tiny bit. There.

  We listen to the voices and thumps, the calls and bangs coming from the house and truck. I hear a phone ring. It rings and rings and rings.

  “Why don’t you just go?” Stacy says.

  “Why are you moving?” I say back.

  “My father doesn’t like it here anymore.”

  “That’s not fair,” I tell her. Stacy snorts. “Can’t he wait until the school year is over?” It doesn’t make sense. Stacy shakes her head. Not such a tiny shake this time. “I wish you hadn’t lied,” I say.

  “Nobody believes the truth anyway,” she says. I don’t understand why she thinks that. She can tell I don’t understand. I know by the way she groans and rolls her eyes at me. “Look. I’m sorry,” she goes. “Tell Simon I’m sorry, okay?”

  “What about Tim?” I say. “And everybody else?” She ignores that.

  Instead, she whispers, “Alex—”

  “Stacy!” I hear her father yell. She jumps.

  “Stacy!” I know he must be inside the house somewhere, but his voice is so loud, he could be right next to us.

  “Alex,” she says, still in a whisper, but fast, “I have to tell you something.”

  “Stacy!” He’s nearer now, maybe by the open front door, just behind the screen. She turns toward it and then turns back to me.

  “What?” I ask, but I already know that whatever it is, I’m not going to believe her. She tosses her hair. It shines under the sun. “What!” I say.

  Stacy flicks her eyes toward the house again and goes still. She doesn’t move for the longest moment. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe. Then she makes a noise in her throat, a scratching noise I’ve never heard before, and she lifts her chin, like she’s just thought of something, and she looks me straight in the eyes.

  “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever known,” she says. And she’s gone, loping toward the front door, her cast bright and clunking at her side, skinny legs quick and sharp, carrying her forward and away.

  * * *

  A police car slows to a stop next to me. I’m sitting under some trees. Just sitting. I’ve been here for a bunch of hours. Prac
tically the whole day, I think. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” the cop yells through the window.

  “Yeah,” I yell back. He drives me, and Maggie’s lips are pressed tight when we show up at her office door inside the lower school.

  “That’s a nice wall,” the officer tells her, pointing to our mural on his way out.

  “Thank you,” she says. When he’s gone, Maggie clamps her hand on my shoulder. “I thought you were down by the stream all this time,” she says. “I had no idea you left the premises.” I wait. “Where did you go?”

  “To see Stacy.”

  “You went to her house?”

  I nod. “They’re moving,” I say.

  “What do you mean, they’re moving?”

  “There was a truck there this morning, and they were loading furniture into it, and Stacy said her dad thinks it’s time to go.” Maggie loosens her grip on me.

  “You may be excused,” she tells me, her hand snaking toward the phone. “I expect you to return to class.”

  But I don’t. I walk up to the soccer field. I walk right to the center and lie on my back. It’s still hotter than anything, but I don’t care. I close my eyes and try to figure out what it means if I’m the nicest person Stacy’s ever known. Because I never really thought about it before, but now that I am thinking, I don’t see how it could be close to true.

  So maybe Stacy hasn’t known such great people.

  Which confuses me even more. Especially because, even though her lies were the sickest ones I’ve ever heard, even though she pulled my hair that time, Stacy was nice, underneath all that. I remember the way she taught Teddy three-card monte. When she gave the good marshmallow stick to Marie, and how she grabbed my hand that morning when I thought Tim might die during his oral report.

  I want to know why she lied.

  * * *

  My dad picks up the phone on the first ring, right as he and my mom walk in the door from work. It’s Maggie, but I guess she forgets to tell on me for skipping almost a whole day of school because while my dad listens to her, he doesn’t even glance my way.