by Nancy N. Rue
Mom nodded and let it stay quiet until we pulled into the garage. Then she hooked her hair behind both ears and left her hands on the back of her neck.
“You’re doing so well with the home exercises,” she said. “I hoped you’d changed your thinking about physical therapy.”
“You’re saying I have to do it.”
“I’m saying I think you should try it.”
“I just don’t get what good it’s gonna do when nobody wants me to play basketball for them—or with them. All anybody thinks about when they see me is that I’m the one who took the steroids. Nobody’s parents will let them even speak to me. I think teachers are getting memos about it now. ‘Watch that Brewster kid—she might go into ‘roid rage in your class.’”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I fumbled for the door handle. “I’ll do whatever you and Dad make me do … like I have a choice. But you oughta just save your money. No—” I got the door open and my good leg out. “Spend it on Aaron, since I messed up his life too.”
“Cass—”
“Just let me go finish the stupid Scarlet Letter, okay?”
I somehow got to my feet and unsnagged my bag from the door handle and half-hopped, half-staggered into and through the house. When I finally stumbled into my room, I slammed the door so hard my empty bulletin board fell off the wall. Something else slid to the floor too. Off of my desk.
That RL book.
I bristled all the way down my back. I knew I’d thrown it away, which meant somebody had been in my room “tidying up.” I was so sick of people trying to “tidy up” my life, I almost picked the book up and smashed it against the wall. But it was already a miracle Mom hadn’t called me out for almost splintering the door on its hinges, so I settled for hurling RL at the beanbag.
The book fell against the green vinyl and neatly plopped itself open. Then it waited, as if I hadn’t just tried to take it out for about the third time.
Okay—for Pete’s sake, it wasn’t alive. Yet I limped across the floor to it, because I had to see what it had fallen open to. The closer I got, the more powerfully it pulled me in. I was like a magnet in an MRI machine. I dropped into the beanbag and snapped the thing onto my lap.
Are you going to fight me? the words said. Or do you want my help?
I’d figured out last time that this had to be some kind of Bible something-or-other—and that Yeshua was obviously another name for Jesus. So if I was fighting it, that meant I was fighting Jesus. Which no doubt I’d been doing even before Pastor Varelli came into my hospital room and told me God had a plan for my life. Right now, I was suddenly too tired to fight anybody. My hissy fits were burning out faster, and not just because of the lack of steroids. They just weren’t helping much anymore.
“Okay,” I said to the book, “what have you got?” It didn’t sound very reverent, talking that way to Jesus, but it was the best I could do.
Here’s what I’ve got. Yeshua told a story about a guy who was a money manager for a rich boss.
I didn’t know that much about the world of finance, except that most money managers you heard about these days were basically crooks.
This one definitely was. His rich boss found out that he was running up big personal expenses on his business account: limos, first-class plane tickets, trips to Cancun. So the boss called him in and said, “It’s over for you, man. I want you out of here—and if you don’t want me to file criminal charges, you’d better give me a complete audit of your books.”
I wasn’t getting how this was supposed to help me, but I read on. I didn’t remember this story from Sunday school, so maybe there was a point I didn’t know about.
The manager stepped out of the boss’s office and said those familiar words, “I’m toast!”
Yeah. I knew those words.
He was like, “What am I supposed to do now? Managing money is all I know. I can’t get a construction job—I’m built like a stick figure. I’ll never make it on food stamps.”
And then he came up with a plan.
I slid down so I could prop my ankle on the edge of the bed. I could actually see this guy standing in that hallway, watching his life go down the toilet. I had so been there. Only I hadn’t come up with a decent plan.
I went back to the book.
The manager figured if he handled things right, people would be so grateful to him that they would take him in when he lost it all and became a homeless person. So here’s what he did: He called in each of the people who owed the boss money. He said to the first one, “How much are you in debt?” And the guy said, “It’s huge. Like a hundred jugs of olive oil.” The manager said, “Okay—here’s your bill. Write down fifty.” He did the same with all of them—if somebody owed a hundred sacks of wheat, he’d tell them to write down eighty; if it was five head of sheep he’d say make it two.
And this was supposed to help me how?
When the guy’s soon-to-be-former-boss found out about it, he was actually impressed.
But the guy was cheating him—
Yes, but he showed that he was shrewd, that he knew how to take care of himself. See, the streetwise people are always paying attention, always looking for a good angle. That’s how they survive. It’s a different kind of smart.
I knew that kind of “smart.” Rafe could get away with calling the teacher Miss Frankenstein, and Tank never got busted in study hall for wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with a skull on it. As for Uma …
Jesus wanted me to be like that? This wasn’t the Bible. I glared down at it, and as always it returned my stare until I read on.
Yeshua said, “I want you to be that kind of smart, only for what’s right. Let all the stuff you’re coming up against get you thinking, let it teach you how to survive, how to get back what you really need so you can totally live.”
“So, wait,” I said. “You’re saying I could get it back?”
I knew I sounded ridiculous. Who doesn’t when they’re talking out loud in a room all by themselves? But this book thing actually seemed to be listening to me. And it was the only being that was.
“I know I’m not a loser,” I whispered. “I don’t care what everybody says—I’m not.”
I took a breath and waited for the Frenemy to shout back that I was not only a loser, but nuts too. There were no screams in my head. An anxious stirring in my chest, yes, but nothing saying, “No, seriously, you’re done.”
So I stared into the book and whispered again. “I belong in the game, right? And you’re saying I should try to get back in?”
The words that stared back at me were still clear.
” get back what you really need so you can totally live.”
It stopped there. I wanted more, but that was evidently all I was getting for now. So I didn’t slam dunk the book this time. I tucked it under the beanbag and limped out to the family room where Mom was setting up for my exercises. It was time for a plan.
“When can I start therapy?” I said.
“Right now,” she said, shaking the pillow in her hand.
“No, I mean rehab, like with a professional. No offense to you—”
Mom stopped with a pillow in mid-shake. “None taken. I’m thrilled.”
“I’m gonna get it back.”
“Of course you are.”
“All of it.”
Mom tilted her head.
“I am.”
“Then I think that decision needs to be sealed with some chocolate,” she said. “Dark or Swiss?”
*
I never knew before then that chocolate was my mother’s solution to just about everything. I even found some in my lunch the next day—a delectable little square of organic sixty-percent cocoa wrapped in gold foil. I was savoring it at my private table when someone dropped heavily into the chair next to me.
“Hi,” Ruthie said.
Actually, she kind of huffed it out, as if having gotten across the cafeteria to me was right up there with running a marathon. There was
a thin film of perspiration on her forehead, which she wiped off with the back of her hand. For a second I thought she, too, had a tattoo, but it was only some homework assignment, penned across her knuckles in Sharpie.
“Hi,” I said.
“I thought I’d sit here,” she said. “Y’know, since you don’t have anybody to eat with either.”
My immediate response was to grope for a way out. Sorry, I’ve got to start on War and Peace—floss my teeth—brush up on my Swahili.
And then I felt bad. Really bad. Like how-much-better-am-I-than-Uma bad.
“Sure,” I said. Though I still looked around to see if anybody was looking at us. No one was. Somehow that was even more depressing.
“Oh,” Ruthie said, “you’re having candy too.” She pulled a Snickers bar and a bag of M&M’s out of a plastic produce bag and dropped them on the table. “You can have all you want. I’ve got more.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said.
She nodded and ripped open the Snickers bar and bit off half of it. She chewed with focus, mouth open, mushed caramel and peanuts oozing from its corners. I could almost hear Kara whining, “Ohmigoshohmigoshohmigosh.”
“That must be good,” she said.
I was about to tell her that, yes, organic chocolate was good but that I didn’t have a bag full to share—but she was pointing to The Scarlet Letter.
“You’re always reading it,” she said.
“I have to for my English class.”
“What’s it about?”
“What’s it about?”
She nodded and shoved the other half of the Snickers bar into her mouth.
Oh. My. Gosh.
“Uh, well, yeah, it’s about this woman who gets pregnant and has a baby, only she isn’t married. Everybody shuns her and they make her wear a big A on her chest.”
“Why?”
“It stands for ‘adultery.’”
“Is that anything like ‘gestating’?”
I looked closer to see if she was kidding. She was licking her fingers. I totally couldn’t tell.
“It was supposed to be a shame thing,” I said. “So everybody would know she’d broken one of the commandments.”
“What about the guy?”
“What guy?”
“The one that got her pregnant. Did he have to wear an A?”
“She wouldn’t tell who he was.”
“What if she had? Would they make him wear one?”
I stared at her for a second as she tore off the top of the M&M’s bag. That was exactly the question I’d wanted to ask since chapter one.
“No,” I said. “But he ends up pretty much losing it because he can’t stand the guilt.”
“What is he, a priest or something?”
“You’ve totally read this!”
Ruthie shook her head. “But it sounds good. Can I borrow it when you’re done? I have to finish reading the one I’m on first. It’s not for a class. They’re still on Great Expectations, which I finished in two days, so I started reading this other book—it’s by Tad Williams. Have you ever read anything by him? His series is so good. My cousin had the whole set. Well, she’s not really my cousin—she’s my cousin’s wife. I guess she’s like a cousin-in-law. I didn’t like his first wife that much because she was, like, an alcoholic, but this one’s pretty cool, except I don’t get to see her that much because she works fulltime at a daycare …”
I could feel my eyes glazing over as she went on. And on. And on. A small bag of Cheetos came out, got opened, and got eaten without her missing so much as a syllable. I was pretty sure I could have gotten up and left without her even noticing I was no longer there saying “Uh-huh.” I was actually considering it when I heard laughter. Loud, pointed laughter. The kind you know is meant especially for you.
Even as I told myself not to look to see where it was coming from, I did. Rafe was lounging against the counter with the condiments on it, ketchup on one side of him, Uma on the other.
“You’re gettin’ it, Roid,” he called to me. “Didn’t take you long to see who you gotta hang with now.”
He laughed and then stuck a toothpick between his incisors. Uma gave him the usual punch on the arm and shoved him.
“What?” he said. The toothpick came out. “I’m just tryin’ to give her a little support. She’s one of us now—look at that. And hey, way to go, Ruthie. Nice job.”
Uma’s shove was harder this time. I suddenly realized she wasn’t laughing with him.
“Listen,” I said to Ruthie, my face burning like I’d stuck it into a toaster oven. “I’ve gotta go … do stuff.”
“You should just ignore them,” she said. “That’s what I do.”
“Yeah, and how’s that workin’ out for ya?”
I caught my breath, because I really hadn’t meant to say it out loud. I watched Ruthie pull her head back down into her shoulders, like a turtle retreating into its shell.
“They’re not worth it,” she said.
By the grace of God the bell rang.
*
And by that same grace Rafe was missing from both art class and Loser Hall. Without him to perform for, Tank and Lizard didn’t seem interested in tormenting Ruthie. They zonked out in the back row, leaving Uma to text to her heart’s content while Ms. Edelstein graded yet more papers.
At last I could finish that final S.L. chapter and be done with Hester Prynne and her little demon child. I still felt bad about hurting Ruthie’s feelings, especially when I was so down on everybody else doing it, but at least I had some peace and quiet.
“I brought you this.”
I lowered my book and looked across the aisle. Ruthie was holding out her dog-eared paperback.
“I finished it fifth period. We had a sub, which meant we weren’t doing anything, so I hurried up and finished it so you could have it. It’s not the first in the series but that doesn’t matter—you’ll still get what’s going on because he gives a lot of background, plus you’re smart. Anyway, since you’re almost done with yours I thought you could read it over the weekend or something—”
“Ruthie, shut up already. Some of us are tryin’ to sleep.”
She didn’t glare at Lizard. She didn’t even look at him. She just continued to hold the book out to me.
“Thanks,” I said to her and took it from her hand.
She nodded and pulled another thick one out of her backpack. Within moments she was gazing into its pages, lower lip hanging, finger twirling a limp strand of hair. I returned to Hester Prynne, but every few minutes I could feel Ruthie looking at me. And smiling.
*
The melting snow was dripping from the roof when I pulled my bedroom curtains open that afternoon. Sunlight rushed the glass like it had been waiting for me to know it was there. I wasn’t exactly ready to greet it like a friend I’d been missing, but I didn’t yank down the blinds. After all, I didn’t have that many friends left.
Like none, except for Ruthie. Who—
Well, that was the reason I slid the RL book out from under the beanbag. All the way home and all through my exercises I’d been hoping it would give me a little assist. Yeshua—Jesus—had to hang out with loser-types—and so did I. Okay, he did it by choice, or maybe because it was part of his job description—
Whatever. Into the book.
Except that I didn’t know where to turn in it. Every other time it had just fallen open when I threw it and I’d started reading from there. I guessed I could give it a toss, but I didn’t really want to. And that scared me a little. If I didn’t stay angry, did that mean I was giving up?
No freakin’ way. This was an inanimate object, even if it was kind of the Bible. It didn’t have a will of its own. I was the one with the will. Right?
I tried to open it to a random page but the book smacked itself shut, like that two-year-old down the street I babysat. Once. I tried it again. Same thing.
“Fine,” I said, and I picked it up and dropped it into my lap. It splayed
open and gave me the look. I swear it did. And I stared back.
Yeshua’s follower-friends had a request, the words said.
Yeah, well, I do too. Could you please tell me—
They wanted more faith.
That wasn’t my question.
But Yeshua said, “Look, you don’t need more faith.”
Exactly!
“It’s not like you can measure it—you either have it or you don’t. If you have the smallest seed of faith—like the poppy seed in your salad dressing—you could say to Pike’s Peak, Relocate to Nevada, and it would do it.”
I huffed out an exasperated sigh. Okay, first of all, I knew plenty of people who were all about Jesus-can-do-anything, and I hadn’t seen them perform any miracles yet. Pike’s Peak was pretty much where it had always been. If this was about me having a faith healing—
Frenemy attack. I shifted in the beanbag and listened to its plastic stuffing beads crunch beneath me. I did not need to go on a guilt trip. I didn’t need, “If you would have just a little bit of faith you would be back on the basketball court right now.” Evidently I didn’t have faith. All I had were points of anxiety driving into my chest. So could we please get on with a plan—
It’s not like that.
I flinched, hand still pressed to my collarbone. Wonderful. Now I was hearing voices, and I didn’t have a speck of drugs in my body. But they were there—those words—in my head. It’s not like that.
And when I looked down at the page, they were there too.
It’s not like that. I’m telling you stories so you’ll understand your own journey.
Then by all means continue, I wanted to say—bitterly— between my teeth, my jaw set like a parking brake. And then I did say it, because the thing apparently read my mind anyway.
“All right,” Yeshua said to them, because they were obviously as confused as you are, “Let’s say you had a personal assistant.”
I wish.
“And she came in from running your errands and taking care of your business all day. Would you say, ‘Hey, kick your shoes off— you must be whipped. Put your feet up and I’ll fix us both something to drink and order a pizza.’ Would you say that?”