Or Not

by Brian Mandabach

  “Then?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s it. I guess I’ll do it, right? That’s what I’m trained to do. I’ll go through the motions over and over again. ‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow to the last syllable of recorded time . . .’”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do—no promises, this is going to be a hard sell, but I’ll talk to Mrs. Trumbull. You had me before Macbeth, by the way, but we’ll see if we can get you out of this ‘petty pace.’” She smiled.

  “Can I be there—or could you just be there when I talk to her? But maybe you could make the appointment?”

  “As you wish. I’ll see if I can get us in today—we need to move on this thing.”

  She wrote me a pass—I was late by now—and I headed off to class.

  The rest of the day was the usual until my meeting with the principal. When I came into lunch I saw my old friends, and I almost, on impulse, sat down with them. Sophia looked right at me, smiling, like she was about to say hi, but DJ came up and said, “Cassie, over here.” I gave Sophia a wave and followed him to where he sat with Quill and Liz and their friend Kelly, or Kel as he likes to be called. It felt funny to blow off Sophia, but it would have felt even funnier to sit with Gwen. Though it hadn’t been long since I’d met DJ and those guys, and I wasn’t sure I really fit in with them, they seemed more like my kind of people.

  In reading, when Ms. P. came to collect me for our visit to the principal, I was gratified that Sinclair was administering the latest standardized test preparation lesson.

  “See what I’m talking about?” I said.

  “Yes, little smarty-pants,” Ms. P. said. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

  “More or less what I said to you?”

  “More about your parents thinking this is best for your academic needs,” she said. “And less about you being bored out of your skull here. Remember, this is her school—she won’t like you running it down.”

  Made sense to me. Then before we went into the office, she said, “And she’s heard all about you from Mr. Kimble and Dr. Hawkens.”

  “I guess I figured that. Sometimes I do put my foot in it, don’t I?”

  “And can the English school-girl act.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  She laughed and we breezed past the secretaries to the head honcho’s door.

  Ms. P. tapped on it, and the principal looked up from her computer.

  “Cassie,” she said, smiling, showing a bit of lipstick on her teeth. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mrs. Trumbull. I understand you have an idea for us—that you want us to think outside the box.”

  “You could say that,” I said.

  “Have a seat.” She came out from behind her perfectly clean and clear desk—which is a bit suspicious if you ask me—and pulled out a couple of chairs at her round table.

  “First,” I began, “I want to thank you for meeting with me—I’m sure you have a busy schedule.” Though I’ve never understood what principals do that makes them busy. There was a big whiteboard on her wall, full of numbers—that gave some indication, I suppose. One section was labeled, “Enrollment” with current and projected lines. The other had our CSAP scores by grade level for the past two years, with last year blank because they hadn’t come in yet, thank my lucky stars.

  “My pleasure.” She glanced up at the clock.

  “Well, to start, I should tell you that when I was five, instead of sending me to kindergarten, my parents decided I should wait it out for a year.”

  “Lots of parents do that these days, they like to give their kiddos a leg up.”

  “But sometimes aren’t they a little advanced for their peers—I don’t mean to sound full of myself—”

  “Not at all. That’s why we have Mrs. Price, to take care of our kiddos who are a little ahead of the game. And here at Tabor Middle School, we pride ourselves on meeting the needs of each individual student.”

  Ms. Price broke in. “But we only have the one advanced class, math—”

  “Which Cassie opted out of, I believe.”

  “Yes, I did, and that was a mistake. And I don’t mean to say that this isn’t a top-notch school, Mrs. Trumbull, but my parents and I have decided that I should be with, that I should move up to the grade that I should have started with—to high school.”

  “I thought that might be where you were going with this, Cassie, but I’m not sure that’s possible at this point.”

  This was what I expected. They say the door is open, but before you so much as get a foot in, they slam it shut.

  “But can you at least consider it?”

  She was shaking her head as if she really regretted telling me no, but before she could say it, Ms. Price jumped in again. “Cassie really wanted to do this by herself, Jean—as I said earlier—but in my position, I felt I had to help her out. I have a responsibility to advocate for gifted students, and Cassie is truly gifted—heaven knows why she wasn’t identified before this. All her scores show she is far beyond anything we’re doing here. For more than two years, she has been suffering silently—until her little incidents with Mr. Kimble and Dr. Hawkens. I know you believe in doing what’s in the student’s best interest.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t we at least consider this, do a child-study to determine if she really would be better off in high school?”

  “Cassie, could you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. I guess I’d better go back to class.”

  “No, no,” said Ms. P. “Wait out on the bench there. We’ll just be a moment.”

  Waiting outside the closed door I could hear them talking in low voices, Ms. Price’s rising to a fierce whisper, but I couldn’t hear what they said. I stood when the door opened.

  “Miss Sullivan,” said the principal. “I’m not sure about this, but I’m persuaded to let you try. I’m going to give your parents a call, explain my reservations, get their take on things. Then I’ll run it by the deputy superintendent, and we’ll take it from there. How does that sound?”

  Why do they always have to say that? And why does it always have to trip my smart-ass wire? Sounds like, I thought, you’re not such a tough old broad after all. Either that, or it sounds like you’re going to try to make us think you’re on our side while you get the whole deal nixed by your boss.

  “That sounds excellent, Mrs. Trumbull,” is what I said. “I really appreciate your time and consideration. Thank you so much again.”

  When I talked to Mom and Dad, I found out that, by the time we’d had our little chat at school, Mom had already spoken with the deputy superintendent and the high school principal. I bet Trumbull was surprised when she found out they’d agreed to consider me!

  They told Mom they would look at my records and wanted “feedback” from the middle school as soon as possible. Mrs. Trumbull would distribute “child-study” surveys to all my teachers, then forward them with her recommendation to the high school on Wednesday. They set up a tentative meeting for that afternoon.

  Thanks to Mom, things were moving along. Also thanks to Ms. Price. Mom and Dad both thought that “bringing her on board” was an inspired maneuver.

  After we were done discussing my grand plan, as if she’d been reading my mind, Mom asked me if I wanted to go shopping. “My things don’t really fit you, and you seem tired of your same old, same old,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Okay, sounds great,” I said.

  “What?” she said.

  “Yes, I want to go shopping.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said you wanted to go shopping with me.”

  “You asked me, Mom. You don’t have to get—”

  �
�Wonderful,” Dad said. “She’s finally turning into a mall rat.”

  “But not the mall,” I said. “Any place but there.”

  “Good,” said Mom. “How about downtown, and maybe Manitou?”

  So tomorrow after school, she’s picking me up. What’s going on? Who am I turning into? No more hair, and now, new clothes? And these moods! I’m as up now as I was down twenty-four hours ago.

  24 September

  What a wonderful morning of middle school. Instead of telling me I was going to hell, Bible-Boy should have said that hell was coming to me.

  When I opened my locker, paper cascaded out onto the floor. There must have been at least twenty notes in there, cleverly folded and stuffed through the vents. Addressed to “Osama’s Slut” as well as Osama O’Sullivan—could I be both?—I didn’t have to read them to know they didn’t have postscripts of BFFL and W/B/S. Leaving open the possibility, however remote, that I’d use them as some sort of evidence in the future, I stacked them in the bottom of my locker.

  Then on the way to class, somebody gave me a shove that sent me right into a group of girls who were walking with their arms linked.

  Did I miss hearing them yell, “Red Rover, Red Rover—send Cassie right over”? I guess not, because they didn’t even try to hold their ranks, just broke apart saying “Eyew!” as if touching me would soil their little AbercrombieFascistEagle uniforms.

  Then someone pulled at my books, which fell to the floor, and a few people scattered them with kicks. It was all I could do not to cry, and somehow it got even harder when DJ came over and helped me pick everything up.

  “What the hell, man?” he said when somebody kicked my history book that he was about to pick up. He retrieved it and handed it to me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I choked. “Thanks, I’m gonna be late.” And I bolted for class.

  I made it through the rest of the day okay, reminding myself of my shopping trip with Mom, Oregon with Ally, and the possibility of checking out of the hellhole. To make sure things were progressing on the latter, I checked in with Ms. P. and asked if she knew anything.

  “Not yet,” she said. “But I am urging your teachers to get those forms filled out ASAP—sometimes they don’t have a great sense of urgency on these things.”

  “Thanks again,” I said.

  After school, Mom and I started our shopping at a downtown boutique full of candles and furniture as well as jewelry and clothes. Very chic for this one-horse town, I guess, and I wasn’t sure I could deal with it. Nothing looked right, and I was almost instantly sick of taking off clothes and putting on clothes that were much too old for me and, especially, looking at myself in the mirror. I was just so big and gawky. I started to hate my hairless head, and with all the weird clothes, I hardly recognized myself.

  I was ready to bag it—starting to feel irritated and prickly about everything—but Mom suggested the Indian store and then Manitou.

  “And afterwards we can hit the Mountain Cafe for dinner.”

  “What about Dad?”

  “He can meet us—or not. He’ll survive on his own.”

  The Indian store was full of wild printed skirts, woolen jackets from Nepal, little cotton halter-tops, and Hindu and Buddhist statues. I couldn’t help relaxing in there, surrounded by Indian classical music and the scent of incense. I got a couple of skirts and tops, including a really cool T-shirt with an eight-armed Hindu goddess on it. I’m not sure which one, but she stands in front of a lion, holding a sword, trident, bow, incense burner, and a lotus blossom, and she is twirling this thing around her finger that looks like the Milky Way.

  Then we drove up to Manitou and hit the “natural fibers” store. After trying on a few things herself, Mom found me checking out their display of makeup.

  “Makeup?” she said. “All right, who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”

  “Very original, Mom. Anyway, forget it, this garbage would look stupid on me.”

  “No, try it, try it,” said a saleslady. “Not that you need it, with your face.”

  Did she think I was stupid enough to fall for that?

  “And Hoyoka Canyon does not make garbage,” she continued. “Just all-natural skin accents made from all-natural plant ingredients—totally vegan, mostly organic.” She swabbed up some lip color from a sample tube. “Come,” she said. “Don’t be shy.”

  I ended up walking out of there with a new pair of hemp sandals, two embroidered peasant tops that look nouveau-’70s cool, a couple of probably-passing-dress-code tanks, and, unbelievably, makeup. I know, Di, it doesn’t seem like me to me either, but with my new short hair, I liked the look of just a little color on my lips and around my eyes. And it was vegan, no animal testing, organic ingredients. So I got a lipstick, lip gloss, mascara, and eyeliner. I even wore one of the tops and some of the makeup out of the store and to dinner.

  At the restaurant, our busboy kept our water glasses very full and I confess, to you alone, Di, that I liked the way he kept looking over at me. Mom kept staring at me, too, until I said, “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You keep looking at me.”

  “Well, you’re so different,” she said. “But I keep seeing my little girl looking out at me from inside this beautiful young woman.”

  Parents always think their kids are “beautiful”—I didn’t really believe it, but I felt my face flush all the same, and I said, dismissively, “I haven’t been a little girl since fourth grade.”

  “I know, but all this—haircut, shopping, makeup for God’s sake … Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted a change.”

  “But why?” She twirled some linguine around her fork, using the silence to draw the words out of me.

  “I’ve been trying to be invisible for a long time. Now I want to be seen.”

  She nodded and smiled, and I was afraid I was going to get another “why,” but she just said, “You should be seen.”

  Throughout the rest of the meal I told about the Tolkien group and the people in it, and I allowed that school was just fine, no more problems with the “insubordination,” and the art class was okay. She wondered why I was in the library at lunch when I told her about meeting Ms. Tayebnejad, so I admitted that things were a little weird around some of the kids after getting kicked out of choir. She was so pleased with me, I didn’t see any reason to let her know that I was being harassed on a daily basis. And I knew that telling Mommy and Daddy and having them talking to the principal and the counselor was a surefire way to make things worse.

  I figure that, even with me changing my whole look, they’ll have to get bored with me sooner or later. And if they don’t, maybe I’ll be gone soon.

  I was afraid Dad was going to give me a hard time when we got home, so I almost wiped the makeup off—but Mom wanted to see his reaction, so she helped me re-apply. He was in his office, up to his elbows in files, and didn’t even look at us at first.

  He was so sweet when he did look up—I can be corny with you, Di—he just smiled and said, “Looks like a successful shopping trip.” He came over and kissed my head. “You look very pretty.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Gotta go!” And I ran upstairs with my bags and hangers, and here I am—feeling totally weird and somehow normal and very hyper.

  I haven’t started on my three-part story, but I think I’ll try a poem for writing group.

  Rock and Self

  I

  Longhaired Cassie on the rock in sunset colors,

  Sky and distance filling the land.

  Lichen on the rocks, waiting, unconscious—

  Nonconscious rocks wait for the rain.

  Do they love the frost? Do they want the sun?

  Billion years from magma—Do they want to melt?

&n
bsp; II

  Nonconscious rock,

  are you meant

  for something else?

  Quartz and feldspar,

  do you desire

  the freezing water

  to break you apart?

  Streams rolling,

  sanding you into sand,

  into molecules

  dissolved,

  dispersed?

  III

  Is there any dead stuff just to step on and to use,

  Or is everything alive?

  Teaching a stone to talk, you practice.

  I practice the stones teaching me:

  Mute, un-conscious-able, teaching me to sing.

  There is nothing dead, but everything is alive—the more silent, the more perfect.

  Rock teaches me to sing like sky like stars like rock like silence like darkness like non-being.

  IV

  New-cropped Cassie on her bed, alive and breathing.

  Back and neck aching on the pillows,

  writing, propped.

  The princess stretches and considers herself,

  Towered high in luxury above her realm.

  Below they die like insects, poisoned as larvae—

  Born as good as dead as good as dying re-born.

  “Tomorrow,” she thinks,

  “I’ll wear my Hindu goddess—”

  A T-shirt in their honor—living busy being born.

  V

  “If I cannot be stone I will be blood-wet and red,” she says,

  searching her mattress for that damned pea that keeps her awake

  and alive

  too many hours

  of every

  single

  day.

  25 September

  I’m going to high school. I can’t believe they said yes, but they said yes.

  Now I’m terrified again, of course. What if it’s too hard? What if everybody hates me even more? Who cares, I’m out of here! I wanted to tell DJ, Liz, and Quill, but I didn’t find out until after school. I’ll tell them tomorrow. I called Ally and Sean. She wasn’t home, but he congratulated me and said I had nothing to worry about. He also gave me advice on what teachers and classes to try to get, but it doesn’t seem like I am going to get much choice.