Or Not

by Brian Mandabach

  I don’t know what business I had giving him a lock of my hair anyway, unless I wanted to encourage the crush he seems to have, so I guess I did want to. Maybe I do have a sort of tingly feeling around him. I think I like it, and if nothing else, it’s nice to feel admired.

  After writing group, before class, I found a note in my locker. For an instant I hoped it was from my admirer, but then I saw it was addressed to “The Bald and Hairy Bride of Osama.”

  Hey bitch butch ben Ladin! Maybe you can be one of the verjins that Aluh give the TERRERIST !! If you die soon. Oops! Too late for the verjin part you ho! Fuck you, bitch! America Rules! And shave your skanky legs!!!

  I’m not sure that I got it word for word, or that I captured all the misspellings, because I decided not to treasure it forever.

  I kept getting strange looks all day, mostly from Matt and Jenny’s friends. Before reading class, a bunch of them were standing around in a knot outside the door. When I said, “Excuse me,” they ignored me, continuing their huddle and giggling. When someone else showed up, they opened an aisle, but closed it before I could slip through. Do you think I made a scene? Oh no, not me. I just got a drink and came back right after the bell. They were inside by then, all in their seats with their books out, and I was late.

  I had been blaming Matt in all this, but I think Jenny is really behind it. I keep seeing those two, very tight. She was at his locker after school and they totally ignored me, but they thought something was extremely humorous.

  So that was my day, Di. I was thinking of the high school plan the whole time, and it’s taken me so far away from where I was Monday, buried in the cold sand of my mind.

  I should have talked to Sean yesterday—I can’t believe I didn’t even ask if he was there. I should try him now.

  Luckily, he was home and had some great ideas. Since Mom and Dad might not be easy to convince, he thinks I should write a letter to persuade them. At first he said I should include stuff about what a hard time I’m getting at school, but I don’t want to get them all riled up about that. Keep it focused on academics, we decided, and I’ll have a better chance. My main idea is that I don’t fit in academically in middle school, so I should move up to the right level. But Sean has some doubts, too—he’s not sure this is going to solve all my problems.

  They’re going to think about it.

  I typed up my letter, made some changes, and printed two copies. I couldn’t watch them read it, so I paced around the house until they called me in. Dad called it “intriguing,” but said they’d need some time to consider. Beautiful. While they’re considering, I’m left hanging.

  More from the summer—

  Back at the end of July, when Ally returned, I’m not sure who was more excited, her boyfriend or her adopted sister. For me, it was like she had never left—as easy and natural as ever. For them, it seemed a little strained at first.

  After touching up the tipi-painting and taking a million pictures of it, Ally worked a lot in her sketchbook. She did pencil sketches of the tipi, the Goat-horn, the Carrock, the cabin. She also drew Sean a lot and did a couple of Mom and Dad. Sometimes she would draw me, sprawled out on the Carrock or by the falls. It got a little uncomfortable on the hard, rough rocks, but the really uncomfortable thing was being drawn. I would glance over and see her looking as if she were not really seeing me.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “Look at the sky, look at the rock, look inside yourself. But don’t look at me.”

  I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I’d see her glance at my face, or my foot, or somewhere in between, and it gave me a funny tingle, as if she were touching me. It was a weird sense of being exposed yet safe. I wouldn’t have bared myself like that for anyone else. I don’t even like to look at myself in the mirror, but I trusted her.

  When she showed me the drawings, it was strange, not like seeing myself in a mirror nor yet like seeing myself through her eyes—it was like seeing someone else, someone I recognized but didn’t know.

  20 September

  Morning Di. I wonder if they talked about the plan. I can’t believe they wouldn’t even discuss it last night. Okay, it was kind of late. I’ll see if they want to talk this morning—casually go in to borrow one of mom’s hippie skirts and ask if they want to chat.

  They didn’t. The only thing Dad would say is that after reading my letter, he might consult me on some of his opening and closing arguments. And that my “puzzle metaphor” almost worked. That’s good, isn’t it?

  They better say yes. I’m not sure I can handle many more days as wonderful as today.

  I was still trying to Stay Cool, but it didn’t seem like it was helping. In the hall I got called hairy-legged mountain girl, which made me think even more that Jenny was behind this. I even began to consider getting some sort of help. Dr. Hawk isn’t exactly my best friend—I wondered if the counselor could do anything. Probably just talk to me about my feelings, or worse, make me go to some sort of “problem solving” or “conflict resolution” group. Like that would help. Anyway, I decided, I better not make trouble if I’m really hoping to get out of here. But things were pretty unpleasant.

  In math, Steven Boylan, who sits behind me, kept putting his feet up on the legs of my chair and tapping. I was determined to ignore him, but the more I did, the worse it got. I scooted up as far as I could, my desk almost on top of the chair in front of me. Finally, Steven seemed to get bored. He left me alone for about ten minutes, and then all of a sudden he slammed my chair legs with both feet so my neck snapped back, my waist hit my desk, and my desk rammed the chair in front of me.

  “Stop it!” I yelled.

  “Cut it out,” said the kid in front of me.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Sullivan?” demanded Mr. Math Teacher.

  “Steven keeps kicking my chair.”

  “Mr. Boylan, knock it off.”

  “I just lightly rested my feet on her chair,” Steven said. “I don’t know why she has to get all psycho.”

  Math heaved a sigh. “Miss Sullivan, you don’t have to shriek, do you? I hope I make myself clear—I don’t think we need these interruptions.”

  I was embarrassed, thinking of DJ witnessing my humiliation from the back corner, where he sat now.

  “Do I make myself clear?” said Math.

  “Abundantly so, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Now, let’s get back to work, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you really need to answer that, Miss Sullivan?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Be quiet and get to work and do not answer any questions until I instruct you to do so—is that clear? Don’t answer that.”

  I figured I had better shut up even though I really wanted to answer. I had taken enough lately and was ready to start dishing. Stay Cool wasn’t working at all, but what did I expect if I used some ridiculous Bush administration-type moniker? As absurd as it sounded, I might as well have made it “Operation Stay Cool.”

  But no matter how absurd, I decided to try to keep on staying cool. In a week I’ll be off to Oregon, and with a little bit of luck, I’ll be out of here for good.

  At dinner Mom and Dad were finally ready to talk. I’m still in limbo, but I think it went okay. They had been discussing my idea, they said, and what they wanted from me was an explanation of “the whys and wherefores,” and then they would render a decision. Here’s how it went:

  “First, learned Father,” quoth I. “The whys and wherefores are identical, the two terms being synonymous—”

  “Touché,” he said.

  “Let’s leave it at why, then,” said Mom, “and maybe we’ll get some answers.”

  “But even though we haven’t had an answer per se,” Dad went on,
“her response may indicate that the child is too big for her britches and may require, shall we say, a larger size.”

  “If Miss Smarty-pants would let me take her shopping, then we could get her some double XLs, but maybe we should have her start by reading the letter, and then we can discuss pros and cons.”

  So I read the letter, which I’ll paste here for the record:

  Dear and Esteemed Parents,

  I have an IDEA that I want to share with you, and after talking it over with Sean, I felt that a letter might be the best way to get my thoughts together. I need your support, and I hope after you read this I will have it.

  So here it is: I want to skip the rest of eighth grade and go straight to high school. Sounds crazy at first, but read on:

  I know you both thought that I should wait a year before I started kindergarten, and at the time, you were probably right. But now, it seems right for me to move back to my age-appropriate level. I know you want what’s best for me, your daughter, both socially and academically, and so I will explain why moving immediately to high school will benefit me.

  The social reasons are perhaps the least compelling. Since I have felt like a misfit for most of my school years, you may wonder why moving ahead would make any difference. It may not. Yet it may. I have some intelligence on these matters from Ally and Sean, and they report that a middle school is one of the least tolerant atmospheres they have experienced. High schools are also notoriously intolerant, but Sean has told me that Parker—where I would be going—is an exception. There, I am told, nonconformists like me can more easily find a niche.

  If it was my lack of maturity that caused you to keep me from entering kindergarten at the usual time, then by now I think you have seen me surpass others at my grade level. Would it not be appropriate now for me to join a group more in keeping with my own level?

  I have made a couple of new friends this year, so it would be a drawback for me to leave them behind just as I am getting to know them. But they’ll be coming along in another year, and I’m not so close that I’ll miss them too much. Another reason that I mention this is to demonstrate that I am mature enough to make new friends. So please don’t think that my misfit status indicates that I am not ready to move ahead. On the contrary, I think not “fitting in” means that I’m not in the right place and that I have better chances of fitting in somewhere else.

  One reason I think I’ll fit in better in high school is that I hope to find the work more challenging. I try not to complain about it, but the fact is that school bores me to the point of extreme frustration. Going to middle school has seemed to be a waste of time from the beginning. I can’t remember being challenged since fifth grade. The last two years have been endless review and constant drill for pointless, useless tests. If the purpose of school is learning, then there is little purpose in my finishing eighth grade. It is the increased academic opportunity and challenge of high school that has the promise of fulfilling that purpose.

  I realize that, in the past, I have resisted being challenged. You’re thinking about accelerated math, perhaps? If I was content to coast by with As in regular math instead of working for them in accelerated, then why am I so anxious for a challenge now? It’s hard to say. Maybe I just didn’t see the point, and now I do. Maybe not accepting small challenges has made me ready for this big one. I only know that, in my mind, I never saw myself as a show choir kid, or an accelerated math kid—it just didn’t seem right for me. But when I imagine myself in high school, it seems right.

  So I end with what I thought of in the beginning as the least compelling reason for skipping to high school—a vague feeling that I’m a puzzle piece put away in the wrong box. I could spend the rest of the year trying but never become a part of this picture. Wouldn’t it be better to move my piece over to the other puzzle where it has a chance of working?

  I have the honor to remain,

  Your humble servant,

  And Daughter,

  Cassandra Marie Sullivan

  “Very impressive,” said Dad. “As I said this morning, your puzzle metaphor almost works.”

  “Almost?”

  “Just because this puzzle isn’t right, doesn’t mean that puzzle will be.”

  “I guess that’s my concern too,” said Mom. “The academics will be more challenging and varied in high school, and that may help you socially, too—making you feel more at home. But … I don’t know.”

  “It may not be all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Sean and Ally may be right about high school being a little more open-minded, sweetie—”

  “But you do hear a lot of stories about it being just the opposite.”

  “And I’m afraid it will be hard in ways you haven’t thought of.”

  “You don’t think I can do the work?”

  “Not the work,” Mom said. “Other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Parker is a big school, we don’t want you to get lost.”

  At this point I became so disgusted I started sounding like a typical teenager. “So we’re back in kindergarten, right? ‘Cassie’s smart, but she’s too much of a baby to handle it.’ Please! You should have home-schooled me and kept me a baby forever.”

  “You know that’s not what we want, but are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Please, Mom. Like I’m going to get lost and not find my classes?”

  I actually said “please” again? Please!

  “I think your mother isn’t speaking literally,” Dad said. “What she means is sometimes it’s better to be a big fish in a small pond.”

  “Gee, Dad. Thanks for the interpretation. And the vote of confidence.”

  “You don’t have to get snippy.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I need you guys to support this. I was beginning to wonder how I’m going to get through this year, and then Ally had this idea—”

  “I thought this might have been her brainchild,” said Mom, “although you didn’t mention it.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No-o, but having an older friend can make you want to grow up a little too fast.”

  “I am FOURTEEN. I am older than, like, everyone else in my class. I should be in high school already!”

  “I’m sure there are others your age, Cassie. It’s only a matter of one day, it’s not like—”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t breathe in that place. I need to get out.” I was about to lose it, and I really didn’t want to. You can’t argue that you’re all grown up when you’re bawling like a two-year-old. “I’m sorry.” I breathed. “I thought you would be excited about this idea too. So, are you saying no?”

  “It’s all so sudden. We want you to think about this, not rush headlong.”

  “I have thought about it.”

  “For one day or two?”

  “Why don’t you make a list,” Dad said, “of the pros and the cons. Write it in your diary. You don’t have to show us, but think it over yourself. And if you are resolved, we’ll decide tomorrow. Also, you better come up with a plan on how to convince the schools. If you think we’re tough, just wait.”

  So here I am, still hanging. I guess I should make my list of pros and cons. Really, I think they are just trying to make me sweat. They’re going to say yes. They have to.

  Let’s start with the cons:

  Leaving my new friends, including DJ. (Mentioned that already, in my letter, and I can still see them after school and next year.)

  Starting in the middle of the semester will be weird, I’ll be the new kid. (see pro #10)

  Starting out behind in all my classes. (I can catch up, no problem.)

  Classes harder. (But also more interesting, see pro # 3)

  Big school will be weird and scary.
(I’ll get used to it. Middle school seemed big at first, too.)

  Scary juniors and seniors and sophomores, and even freshmen—because now I will be the youngest one in my class instead of the oldest. (If I can handle the evil Tabor kids, I can handle anyone.)

  What if everyone there hates me too? (But what if they don’t?)

  Getting up earlier in the morning. (pro # 8)

  People might think I think I’m “all that” because I skipped eighth grade. (I can just say that I started late, and wanted to come up with the class I should have been in.)

  What if I go through all this and nothing is any better at all, or what if it’s worse? (I have to try, because of pro # 11.)

  Okay, now the pros:

  Never see Dr. Hawk, Mr. Kimble, etc. again.

  Get away from Matt and Jenny and all those people for almost a year.

  New classes, more interesting, possibly get into honors and AP and a real French or Spanish class instead of just le bateau, la baguette, le cinema. (see con # 4)

  Go out to lunch downtown—open campus.

  More freedom, adult atmosphere.

  More open-minded people—more diverse.

  Finish school and go to college a year earlier.

  Get out earlier in the day.

  Study hall, open scheduling.

  “Fresh start.” Don’t people want to make friends with the new kid? (con # 2)

  What if it’s all just a little bit better, or even a lot better? What if I’m happier?

  There you have it. After I did the pros, I went back and put the positive spin on each of the cons. Mom and Dad really have to say yes now, because I am more convinced than ever.

  Now, how am I going to get the middle school to let me go and the high school to take me? Ally and I had some basic ideas, talk to the GT lady, the principal. And Sean said I should concentrate on the academic aspect. Now I really wish I had taken accelerated math and algebra.

  Oh, FUCK!

  I was lying here daydreaming, thinking about how it will be in high school, when I realized, with glee, that if I can pull this off, I’ll only have two more years of CSAPs. And then I remembered, with horror, what I did last year.