Friction

by E. R. Frank

  “Alex, please leave us alone,” he says after he hangs up.

  “What is it?” my mom asks him, and I don’t move. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

  “Alex,” he goes.

  “I’m not leaving,” I tell him. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  He waits a second, and then he looks at my mother. “There are no charges against Simon,” he tells her. “Apparently, Stacy’s family has moved. Their house is empty. Nobody seems to know where they’ve gone.” He crosses the kitchen and puts his arms around her. “I knew it,” I hear him whisper. My mom hugs him, and over his shoulder, I see her squeezing her face closed. “I knew it,” he whispers again, like he’s done something wrong.

  “What?” I say. My mother reaches to pull me into their hug. But I won’t budge, so they step apart. My father keeps his back to me.

  “We think it’s Stacy’s father; not Simon,” he finally says, in this clogged voice.

  “Stacy’s father what?” I ask, even though a little piece of me, somewhere deep in my brain, knows exactly what he’s trying to say. My dad won’t turn around.

  “We think it’s Stacy’s father who did those things to her,” my mom starts to explain, and then her words trail off as she dips her silvery head toward the floor.

  I don’t want to understand. I don’t want to know what they mean, but the thing is, I do. It’s so hard to think about it that my mind and my blood sort of stop for a while, and it’s like I’m up above somewhere, watching the three of us standing here in the kitchen, together and apart, silent and still.

  19

  ON MONDAY MORNING the double doors are propped open. The heat wave broke over the weekend, finally, and now it’s perfect cool spring weather. Sheryl’s at the front of the room with Simon’s flash cards. Loco, trans, cart. She’s going way too fast.

  “Slow down!” Sebastian goes. “Lady, you’ve got to slow down!” A couple of kids titter at that, and Sebastian offers to hold up the cards himself, and then more people titter, and then Simon walks in. He moves fast, right up to the science counter.

  My heart and my stomach kick right at the same time. It’s okay. Simon’s back, and he’s okay. Tim shoves at my knee. He’s grinning. He hasn’t smiled for days. But the others look worried. That’s because they still don’t know what to think, even though I’ve told them over and over what the truth is about Simon. The real truth. Not just the facts.

  Simon whispers something to Sheryl, and she nods and moves over a little to give him room. We wait for her to say Good-bye or Good luck or something, but she doesn’t. We wait for her to wave and pick up her pocketbook on her way out, but she doesn’t. She’s not leaving. Marie, of all people, figures it out first.

  “Why’s she staying?” she asks. Sheryl touches her glasses.

  “Sheryl is staying because I’m not,” Simon goes.

  “Are you sick?” That’s Teddy.

  “No.” Simon bunches his lips together and looks over at me and Tim. “Not sick.” He doesn’t loop one ankle around the other, like usual. He stands stiff, hands behind his back. “Just can’t stay.”

  “You mean, today,” Viv says, really steady, like a statement. Not a question.

  “No. I mean for the rest of the year,” Simon says. “The year after that, too.” It’s so quiet, we can hear the faucet dripping from the kitchen.

  “Why?” Tim asks. He’s sitting straight in his chair, as straight as Simon’s standing. Simon stares down the center of the room. Sheryl excuses herself, quiet, to the side hallway. We hear the bathroom door open and then close.

  “It’s no secret there’s been some unpleasant talk spreading around this classroom,” Simon goes. “About me.”

  “But none of it’s true,” I call out. To fix it, to make right what’s gone wrong.

  “Nice to hear you say that, Alex,” Simon says.

  He’s mad. He’s mad at me for not saying what I should have in Maggie’s office. Heads turn my way. They don’t know. They don’t understand. “The way I see it,” Simon goes on, “a lot of . . . unfortunate things have happened lately. And I made some poor choices that didn’t help matters.” Now he glances around the room at us and runs his hands through his hair. “It’s hard for you to learn when you’re not sure about the person teaching you, and I think some of you aren’t too sure about me anymore.” Simon sort of nods at all of us. “I guess it’s . . . hard for me, too. Hard enough that I have to leave.” He takes a breath. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry if anybody in this room feels I hurt you in any way. I sure didn’t mean to.” He looks right at Tim. “And I wanted to say good-bye.” His feet stay planted flat on the floor. We look at him. We don’t look at him. Nobody knows what to do. I don’t know what to do. “All right, then,” Simon says, and he leaves through the open double doors.

  Tim shoves his chair back, knocking it to the ground. He races after Simon, and we can all see and hear them out there.

  “You can’t leave!” Tim shouts. Simon keeps going, following the cheerful pansy-lined slate toward the lower school. “You can’t leave!” Tim screams again, grabbing a small stone from the ground and hurling it just when Simon reaches the end of the path. The stone hits Simon square in the back. He stops walking. Tim stays where he is. Simon turns around.

  “Timothy,” Simon says. Then he leans backward against the lower school doors. In a second he’s gone.

  20

  THE NEXT DAY we don’t do any work at all. Maggie meets with us at flash card time to try to explain things.

  “Simon’s going to take a job at a school in another county,” she says.

  “Why can’t he come back here?” Teddy asks.

  “He can,” Maggie tells us. “And I wish he would. But he’s made another choice.” She passes out Simon’s new work address.

  “No e-mail?” Sebastian goes.

  “He didn’t leave me an e-mail address,” Maggie says. “But he hopes you’ll write snail mail to him anytime you want about anything at all. He made me promise to let you know that he’ll write back.”

  “This is all Stacy’s fault,” Danny says while I watch Tim fold Simon’s address carefully and slip it into his back pocket.

  “We’re having a workshop today,” Maggie goes. “In about half an hour a few guest speakers are going to join Sheryl and me, and we’re going to talk together about what’s happened and how everybody’s feeling.” Danny rolls his eyes, just like Stacy used to do.

  “Stacy lied about Simon being a pervert, and then she disappeared, and then Simon left because we all made him feel so bad, and now we feel crappy about it,” he goes. “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Not crappy,” Maggie says. “Badly or guilty or sad are more descriptive and accurate words.” She waits a second to make sure we get her point. Who cares. “We need to talk about what it’s like when somebody leaves us unexpectedly. And we need to discuss this ‘pervert’ issue. It’s important to understand what that really means.”

  * * *

  We spend the morning talking about Stacy and Simon, and some of the reasons why they might have left, and whether we’ll see them again, and how we feel, and how they might feel.

  The other kids think Stacy disappeared because her family was embarrassed that she lied. But Tim and Sophie and I know it’s more than that. Stacy left because her dad made her. Because he’s the one who’s the pervert, and if the police find him, he’ll be in a lot of trouble. Tim and Sophie and I know that, but we don’t say it because Maggie doesn’t and because it’s way too horrible.

  In the afternoon Maggie and the guest speakers switch to talking about sexual abuse. About how nobody is allowed to touch you anyplace that a small bathing suit would cover unless you’re grown and you want them to. About how nobody is allowed to have you touch them either, in those places, until you’re grown and you both want to. About how an adult is never supposed to touch a kid anywhere in a way that’s different from a regular hug or a regular kiss, diff
erent from regular roughhousing. About how adults aren’t allowed to do that different kind of touching, even if the kid thinks it might feel good, because adults know the rules and aren’t allowed to get confused the way kids are allowed to.

  They talk about how you have the right to say no, to tell somebody to stop. How you should never make it up if it really never happened. They teach us how you should always tell someone you trust if bad touching happened to you, even and especially if the bad touching is from somebody you care about, because that person needs help to stop doing it. How it’s never, ever your own fault.

  We spend the whole afternoon in little groups and in big groups, inventing skits about it, raising our hands to ask the easier questions and writing down the hard ones on pale blue Post-its. Our guest speakers use words like penis, vagina, breast, bottom, assertiveness, discomfort, and courage. We listen and talk with red faces and tight voices, our eyes on the ceiling and floor. Maggie and Sheryl and the guest speakers try to make it okay, try to make it seem normal to use those words and talk about those things. But on top of how not normal it is, all I can think of is how it’s too late. For Stacy. For Simon. It’s too late.

  * * *

  At dinner I hand over the letter to parents that Maggie asked us to bring home. It has Simon’s address and explains that we’re going to have more workshops each week until the end of school, which isn’t too far away now at all. The letter lists the names of all the guest speakers. It invites the parents to join an after-school workshop just for adults next week.

  “How did it go today?” my father asks, after he reads it. He pokes at his food with a fork. We haven’t eaten very much. Baked potatoes and greasy chunks of broiled chicken are hardening on our plates.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Do you have any questions for me or Mom?”

  “Uh-uh,” I lie.

  My mother pushes aside her plate and puts her elbows on the table. “Alex,” she says, “you might not want to discuss things now. But later, maybe next week, maybe in a month, you might want to talk.” Her eyes dart over to my dad.

  He’s nodding. “You can come to us anytime.” For some reason, I feel tears fill up my eyes.

  Why didn’t Stacy’s mother help her? I want to ask. How could her father treat Stacy like that? But somehow, by now, I know it’s pointless. Will Simon ever forgive us? Those questions are the kind that don’t have any good answers. And the thing is, even though my parents are doctors, and even though they’re decent human beings, they didn’t really know how to help. So I shake my head and blink my eyes and keep quiet.

  “You’ll write to Simon,” my father says after a while. He’s not asking.

  “I don’t know what to write.”

  “We’ll help you,” my dad says.

  “I can’t,” I argue.

  “You have to.” They say it loud, both at the same time.

  * * *

  A few days later, after Tim gets his hair cut, we go to see E.T. They’re showing it in a movie theater, so kids can see it on a big screen, like the way it was when it first came out. When we get to the ticket window, I step out of line.

  “What’s the matter?” Tim says. They chopped off all his curls. It makes him look older, tougher.

  “Let’s not pay,” I go.

  “What?”

  “Just to see if we can get away with it.” He doesn’t like that idea. So we sort of silently compromise. He gets back in line to buy his ticket while I wait. Then we walk to the man in the bow tie who tears the stubs before letting you in. Tim hands over his ticket, and I look at him.

  “Don’t you have mine?” I go. I flash my dimple. “Shoot.” I check my pockets. “I just had it a few minutes ago.” The bow tie man looks aggravated. “Do I have to buy another one?” I make my eyes go wide. He lets me in. Easy as pie.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Tim goes.

  “I’ll pay them back on the way out,” I promise.

  The movie’s good. We both cry in the middle, when we think E.T. dies, and then again, when he has to leave Earth and go home. At first I feel stupid for crying, and then I feel stupid that Tim’s crying too. But when nobody in the whole audience gets up after the movie’s over, and you can hear people sniffing and blowing their noses, I don’t feel so dumb. I put my head on Tim’s shoulder, the way I used to do with Simon, and he rests his head on top of mine. It feels good.

  “Don’t tell anyone I cried,” Tim says when we finally stand up.

  “Don’t tell anyone I did,” I go.

  Our sneakers crunch and stick on popcorn and candy wrappers as we make our way down the aisle. I think we’re headed for the video games, but instead, Tim leads me out to the parking lot, behind a van.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. He kisses me on the cheek. Light. Then he moves away.

  “Don’t tell anybody,” he says. I lean forward and kiss him on the mouth. Fast.

  “Don’t you tell anybody,” I say right back. We kiss a few more times. I don’t exactly feel that melting thing because I’m too nervous that I’m not kissing right. But it’s pretty nice anyway.

  * * *

  I try to write that letter.

  Dear Simon, yesterday there was this chipmunk that got into the upper school somehow, and . . .

  Dear Simon, I’m really sorry that I didn’t . . .

  I try, but it’s too hard.

  * * *

  That was about a month ago, and school is practically over now. Things aren’t the same at all. Everybody’s been sort of grumpy with everybody else, and nobody even talks about Stacy or Simon, except for the guest speakers on workshop days. Sheryl’s okay, but she does things different from what we’re used to. Plus, she’s not Simon.

  Also, Danny likes me, which makes me nervous because Marie came to school with, of all things, a blue streak in her hair, and she’s been flirting with Danny, and I just like him as a friend, and I don’t want anybody to get jealous of anybody else. Nobody knows Tim and I kissed that night at the movies, and we haven’t done it again, and things are pretty much the same with me and him. Except our parents don’t let us have sleepovers anymore. I miss having him in the next bed sometimes. I miss making tent forts and sneaking down to the kitchen with him to have cold chicken legs and Oreos in the middle of the night.

  “It’s not like we’re going to have sex or anything!” I yelled at my parents after they made Tim go home one night after dinner.

  “Alex!” my mom screeched.

  “We’re not perverts!” I screeched back at her, and then, of all things, she laughed at me, and I ran up to my room and slammed my door so hard, the clock fell off the wall.

  One kind of cool change is that Viv’s got us organized so we do our own drills and stuff for the first half of recess, and we scrimmage for the second half. We want to be ready for next year, even if we don’t have a coach yet. Simon would be proud of us. But I don’t think anybody’s written to him yet, including me and Tim, which I don’t understand, really, and which leaves this pain somewhere inside that flashes up from my stomach into my throat. It’s not the same kind of pain as when Danny smashed into me on the soccer field a few years ago. It’s worse.

  Walking home from school with Tim our last week, I decide to bring up Simon.

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind and come back next year, at least to coach,” I say. We stop on the path in the woods. Some crows start complaining at us from the treetops.

  “I don’t care,” Tim answers.

  “Liar.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Tim says. “I’m not coming back next year.”

  “What?”

  He kicks at a pile of rotting twigs with his sneaker. “My parents said it’s about time I go to a real school, and my grandmother’s going to help pay to send me to St. John’s.”

  “St. John’s!” The crows fly off, their wings sounding like sheets being snapped in the wind. “But next year’s our last year!”

  “I
hate Forest Alternative now,” Tim goes. He starts walking again. I follow. “Don’t you?” I don’t want to admit it, but I do.

  “It’s not the same without Simon,” I say instead. “I miss him.” Tim spits on the ground. His spit hits a beetle. “Don’t you miss him, Tim?”

  I’m worried that maybe he doesn’t. But he nods. Then he snaps a branch off a tree and throws it out into the brush. We can hear it clacking and crinkling through the leaves.

  “Still,” I say, “you can’t go to St. John’s.”

  “I know,” he goes. “But they’re making me.” I speed up and pass him. Then I have to hold a prickly stem to the side so he won’t get whipped in the face behind me.

  “But then I’ll be stuck all by myself,” I tell him, imagining how awful it will be with Sebastian complaining about every little thing. And Marie pissed about Danny. “You can’t leave!”

  He pulls me to a stop, tugging at my waist and turning me around to face him. “Don’t be mad,” he goes. “We’ll still hang out.” He’s holding on to my waist. His hands are warm.

  “They hate girls,” I remind him. “Their team wouldn’t even cover me.”

  “I’ll cover you,” he says, and then he starts to smile. I don’t get what’s so funny. I feel miserable. “Hey.” He touches my face where that rope got me and runs his finger down where the cut used to be. “It’s all healed,” he goes. Then he pulls me close. We haven’t really hugged before, even that night after the movies. He holds me pretty tight, and this time I get that sliding feeling, all over. I don’t want it to end, so when he starts pulling away, I won’t let him, and then he starts to laugh, and then he stops.

  21

  DEAR SIMON, I hope you know how bad I feel that everything got so . . .

  Dear Simon, Sheryl is really not that smart or good of a teacher, and everybody really misses you.

  Dear Simon, Teddy was telling us about Zeno’s paradox, only . . .

  * * *

  My parents went to bed a long time ago, right after they tried to help me figure out why it’s so hard for me to think of what to write. My dad said I had to come up with a letter, and soon. That it’s not fair, me taking so long. But I couldn’t get anywhere, and now my mind is spinning, and nothing is making it quiet down. I’ve tried counting sheep, I’ve tried remembering every play of the St. John’s scrimmage. I’ve tried deep breathing. But my brain won’t shut up.