On the way out, some girl I don’t even know said to her BFFs in a very well-projected stage whisper, “Hey look, you guys, it’s Osama O’Sullivan.” And everybody laughed.
Journal Four
12 September
Pretty much the same crew showed up at Mr. Griffin’s room for writing group this morning as had been there at lunch yesterday. He had a big box of donuts, which are one of the few non-vegan foods I really miss. You can make them vegan, but you can’t buy them that way.
We circled the desks and passed out copies of a story by Julia, one of the seventh graders. It was about a girl who stumbles through a time portal or dimensional shift and finds herself with a dagger in her hand instead of a pencil. She seems to be somehow chosen or appointed to rescue another girl who is held captive by the Evil One—or she is the captive’s twin sister, or she is the captive, but in another dimension. It was interesting, but a little confusing.
A couple other people read short things they’d written in class, some cute poems and deep thoughts. Then Mr. Griffin suggested an assignment.
“An assignment!” said Tarah, another seventh grader. “We have enough homework already.”
“Okay, okay, don’t have a cow,” Mr. Griffin said. “Let me rephrase that. I had a story idea that you can all try out. It’s not homework, but if you’re not willing to put some time into your writing, you don’t have any business coming here and eating my donuts.”
Silence.
“You want to hear the idea?”
Various “okays” and “yeahs” showed how enthusiastic they were.
“I call it The Triumvirate,” he said. “You take one set of characters, one problem, one beginning, and you write a story … ”
“And make it your greatest triumph,” said Quill.
“Always, but that’s not what triumvirate is. What about the prefix, tri?”
“Three of something, like a trio or a triad?” I said.
“Or triage, like DJ’s face.” Quill again.
“Shut up, man,” DJ said, “or I’ll send you to tri-hell.”
“Shut up, man, or I’ll send you—”
“Both of you shut up,” said Mr. Griffin. “Yes, Cassie. It is a tripartite plan. I got the idea from a movie I saw once—Run Lola Run. Anybody see it?” Blank looks. “Good, it’s too old for you, but it’s a cool idea. It was three stories in one, starting exactly the same, but with one little tweak that made the timing different for everything else, so the endings were all different.” More blank looks. “For example, in the first story line, Lola is running across a street trying to get to her boyfriend to save him. She dashes across the street about fifty feet in front of a glass truck.”
“How can a truck be made of glass?” a seventh grader wondered.
“It’s carrying glass. But anyway, in the next one, she is a few seconds later, so the truck slams on the brakes and a big piece of glass comes flying off and shatters on the street.”
“Cool.”
“Excellent.”
“I get it.”
“So you’ll write the same story, three different ways. Just make the beginning the same and the characters the same. Don’t change the characters—the point is to see how the same characters react to the different things that happen. Also, it’s going to force you to revise. I’m sick of all these rough drafts.”
“What about the endings?” I asked.
“The endings would be different, resulting from the same characters responding to slightly altered timing or circumstance.”
“But what if,” I said, “the endings were the same? If your character is really strong, or if fate is working, it wouldn’t matter what happens—the same end would result.”
“Interesting. See if you can pull it off.”
“Do we have to write this?” somebody asks.
“You don’t have to do anything. But at our meeting two weeks from today, if you haven’t, you might as well sleep in because NO DONUTS FOR YOU!”
After writing group I ran into my buddy Matthew. I’d already been called Osama by two or three kids on the way to my locker, but it was extra special coming from Mr. “You’re going to hell.”
“Hey, if it isn’t Osama bin Sullivan,” he said.
“That’s O’Sullivan,” I said behind my hair. “I’m running the IRA as well as al Qaeda.”
“I didn’t think you looked like an A-Rab.”
“Don’t say A-Rab, it’s not polite.”
“I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think at all then, did you, Bible-Boy?” I slammed my locker, and bolted for class.
At lunch, I ducked into the library to avoid the caf, but I couldn’t concentrate on reading. I kept trying to think of possible comebacks for the next time I was called Osama, but I only succeeded in inventing a couple of new names for myself. Cassie bin Laden and Cassie O’Samavan were both good, but I had to hand it to that girl after the assembly yesterday—Osama O’Sullivan really rolls off the tongue.
How could I have thought that when I was done with Dr. Hawkens, I could put the whole thing behind me?
“I have been foolish and deluded,” said Pooh, “and I’m a bear of no brain at all.”
One thing was clear—if I wanted this to blow over, I’d have to swear off calling people Bible-Boy. Then I got to thinking about the poem I’d written yesterday in reading. WWJD indeed.
Turn the other cheek is what I should be doing, I thought, so I decided to make a new list. Invisibility was impossible now, but what if I could just keep my cool until they all got tired of bothering me? Here are the new guidelines:
Avoid political statements.
Avoid religious controversy.
When slapped, turn the other cheek.
Treat others how I want to be treated, not how they treat me.
Pretty simple recipe for getting along with others, don’t you think, Di?
I tried to slip out of the library early so I could get my books and avoid the crush, but Mr. Bad stopped me, asked me what I was doing in the hall, why I didn’t have a pass, why I wasn’t at lunch. This gave me a good workout as far as keeping cool goes. I guess I should add a number five to my new list: stay cool. Or maybe I should just call the whole program Stay Cool. Anyway, Mr. Bad grilled me until the hall filled up, releasing me right into the thick of things where I was promptly given a flat tire and laughed at. I didn’t even turn around to see who it was, but kept walking, trying not to lose my shoe or my cool.
In reading, I was told that they’d chosen a new book while I was serving my in-house suspension. I was irritated that they hadn’t told me yesterday, but it got me out of class with a pass that I presented to Mr. Bad, who was cruising the hallways.
The pass didn’t say when I should come back, so I stayed in the library to read. Not in peace, however, because the office of my old friend the GT lady opens into the library.
“How’s eighth grade treating you, Cassie?”
“Fine,” I said. Hello? I’m reading.
“What’s the book?”
I showed it.
“Number the Stars? That’s a little fourth grade for you, isn’t it?”
“My lit circle chose it when I was absent.”
“I hope you weren’t sick.”
Was she fishing, or was she out of the loop? My other teachers had all been briefed on my activities, judging from their attitudes over the past couple days.
“Not really.”
“But I should think eighth graders would be on Anne Frank for that subject matter.”
“I’ve read that too—fifth grade.”
I had just gotten rid of her when our new librarian came over.
“I hate to interrupt someone who’s reading.” She smiled. “But did I see
your pass?”
This is why I need to stay cool. At least she knew she was bugging me—she wasn’t so bad.
“Sorry, here it is.”
“Does your teacher want you back, Cassie?” She smiled again.
“I don’t think so, I have to catch up on the reading.”
“Okay. Well, I’m Ms. Tayebnejad. I saw you here at lunchtime, too, and you’re always welcome. I want the library to be open to anyone who wants to read.”
“Thanks, Ms. Tay … ” I looked at her ID badge, but I couldn’t get it.
“Tie,” she said, “-yeb-neh-zhad. It’s Farsi—Iranian. Tie-YEB-neh-zhad”
“Tayebnejad—Nice to meet you.” See, Di? I can be civil.
“Charmed,” she said. “Now quit chatting and read!”
I got back to class just before the bell. Sinclair didn’t mind me staying in the library to read, but he did check the return time on my pass, which Ms. Tayebnejad had added with her initials.
Dinner conversation tonight centered on my birthday, coming up this Saturday. I could have chosen dinner at the Mountain Café, my favorite good-karma restaurant, but I want a weekend at the cabin. Though they’re being mysterious about my present, I figured out that it’s one big thing, instead of several little ones.
Mom was happy to hear that I’m enjoying Mr. Griffin’s “extra-curricular activities.” They wanted to hear my ideas for the story assignment, but I don’t have any beyond the premise that the characters, the beginning, and the end should all be the same. Dad started going off on Shakespeare and the Greeks, wanting to know how I had become a fatalist. He’s a lot of fun, but I wasn’t in the mood for it.
I came upstairs feeling restless. Homework done, I’d already written all about the day—I was starting to feel bored, and I don’t get bored. So I tried to call Ally but just got the answering machine.
It was in the end of last May that I first met her. She and Sean drove his rattletrap station wagon in from Oregon, hitting a few rivers and hot springs along the way.
We had all wondered what she was going to be like, especially since Sean hadn’t had a serious girlfriend before. In high school, he’d spent most of his time with Charlie, his best buddy, and Jane, Charlie’s girlfriend.
About Ally, whom he’d met last year, he wouldn’t tell us much. When grilled over the phone he’d say, “She’s great, really smart, really cool, she’s an artist, you’ll love her.”
The night they got here, we had a big welcome dinner out on the patio, with Dad grilling steaks for everyone and a veggie-burger for me.
“Why are you a vegetarian,” asked Ally, “health or moral reasons?”
“Vegan,” I said.
“And for which reason?”
“Both,” I said. “My morals and the animals’ health.”
“Cool,” she said. “So your needs don’t fit into the decision at all?”
“Not really.”
“Cassie’s not concerned with self,” said Dad. “She would rather pine away and cease to exist than bind herself to the Karmic Wheel.”
“Impossible,” said Ally.
“Precisely,” said Dad.
“You two lay off, already,” said Mom. “Cassie’s very concerned about her nutrition—she educated herself when she gave up animal foods, didn’t you, Cass?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“And what about you, Ally?” she said. “Tell us about yourself. ”
“We’ve heard precisely nothing except that you exist,” said Dad. “Which may be enough for Seanie Kierkegaard, here—”
“Okay, okay,” said Mom. “Let the woman speak.”
She seemed happy to do so, and we heard all about her. Mom asked the questions and made the polite responses. I sat back and observed, as did Sean, who watched and listened with the stink of the besotted drifting about him. Dad seemed pretty well enamored himself, which is not surprising, because she’s everything the ultra-liberal father would wish for his son.
She’s from suburban Seattle, a studio art major, the scourge of her conservative parents, and gorgeous. Her big, dark eyes and clear, suntanned skin—no makeup—glowed in the evening light and later in the breeze-flickering candles.
Mom, as far as I could tell, was already half in love, too—moving rapidly beyond the standard questions. She kept the reins of the conversation for a good while, and my admiration was for her. She wasn’t threatened by Ally, nor was she overshadowed. A few elegant lines animated her fine features, and her fair skin blushed with wine as she listened. Her dark hair fell across her forehead, and her deep eyes went gray in the twilight. I liked looking at her hands best, though. Taking up her glass or her silverware, she touched these things as artfully as she touched the bow of her cello.
“And what do they think, your parents,” Mom asked, “about your plans to cohabitate with our son next fall?”
“‘If you want to play house,’” she said in a low voice, imitating her father, “‘we can’t stop you. But we won’t support this sort of nonsense either, and you can pay your own room and board with your own money.’”
“And you have the money?”
“From my grandma, though I hate to think of her reaction if she were still around.”
“You never know—I told my grandmother when Gale and I moved in together—but not my parents,” said Mom.
“Well, she didn’t despise me,” said Dad.
“I wouldn’t say that—but I think she trusted me to make my own mistakes.” She stood up. “Anyone for coffee?”
“Yes, please,” said Ally.
“Yes, please,” said I.
“And let me help.” Ally jumped up and began collecting plates.
I deliberately sat still as Mom said, “Please don’t—Gale cooked, you two have been traveling all day, Cassie will help me with this. ”
“I will?” I said.
“No, Cassie,” said Ally. “You just chill. Besides, I have to ingratiate myself into your mom’s good graces.”
“Oh, you’re doing okay,” I said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” And please don’t, like, go all cool and say “chill” to me just because I’m thirteen.
Sean got up and opened the door as the womenfolk made their way, loaded with dishes, to the kitchen.
“You got yourself a good woman, there,” said Dad. “What do you think, Cassie?”
“She’s okay,” I said. I didn’t mind her personally—I just didn’t appreciate the way she inserted herself into the family with such ease. I probably would have liked her better if she hadn’t been so confident.
“She was really nervous about meeting you guys,” said Sean. “But I can tell she really likes you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I said. “About the nerves, I mean.”
“Don’t worry, Sean. She’ll come around, your sister will. Either that, or her skepticism will blossom into loathing. But I think her good sense will overcome her jealousy.”
“Give me a break, Dad.”
“It’s only natural. We don’t want to share him either, Cass.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
“Thanks for being so agreeable.”
Mom and Ally came back, and Dad continued with his silly verbal gymnastics over coffee. By this time Ally was asking them all about their work, and they were pleased to oblige. When she turned to me, on the other hand, I deflected her by getting all mock-teenagerish.
“I, like, love school, and I have the best friends, and, like, next year? Eighth grade? We’re gonna rule the school because we totally rule!”
“I know what you mean, ugh! Junior high was the worst.”
But I was ready to forget my own middle school life and times—I didn’t feel like hearing all about hers.
“Yeah, well, it was g
reat to meet you,” I said. “Night, everybody.”
“Where’s my hug and kiss?” said Mom, demonstrating that good old unconditional love.
“And mine,” said Dad.
“And mine,” said Sean.
I was afraid Ally was going to chime in, but she had too much sense. She just said, “It was great to meet you, too. See you tomorrow.”
I felt bad then about being so pissy, so after holding on to Sean for a good long hug, I put a quick and awkward arm around her shoulder and gave her a friendly good night.
13 September
Yippee! Mountain bound. Homework done. No problems at school except half a dozen “Osamas” and three flat tires. I was very cool and did not RSVP.
I have a new friend, it would seem, in the librarian. She came up to me while I was reading at lunchtime and asked me if I ever actually ate.
“I’d rather read,” I said.
“You could read and eat at the same time, you know,” she said. “I just went to Freshway, and I got the giant V-G—there’s no way I can eat more than half of it.”
“Thanks, but I try to stay away from dairy, and anyway, I brought a lunch—I’m just not hungry.” Actually I was ravenous but couldn’t face the caf.
“Well, there’s no food allowed in the library, but you can eat in my office, if you ever are hungry.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tayebnejad. If I ever am.”
That was nice of her. I was tempted to go get my lunch right then, but after pretending not to be hungry, I would have felt too stupid.
Today the lit circle was mad because I had passed them and was finished with the book. Just for spite, I “let slip” that the Jewish girl’s friend ratted her out to the Nazis and her whole family was killed. Not that that’s exactly what happens, or anything like what happens, but I was feeling mean.
Or Not Page 8