Or Not

by Brian Mandabach

  “Is that consistent with what the others had to say?” Mrs. Trumbull asked.

  “Pretty much,” said Mr. Bad, in his element as security officer. “Except that Nathan said Daniel—or DJ—attacked him for no reason, and then when he defended himself, Cassie jumped on him and attacked him too.”

  “Come on,” I said, “You were there, I was just trying to get him off.”

  “You should have left that to us. And you threw a pretty good elbow at Stephanie Powers—she’s going to have a big black eye.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t have grabbed me.”

  Dad patted my arm and Mom my knee, as if to tell me to be quiet, and he continued. “Witnesses generally agreed with Nathan, though one of them did say that Cassie had been trying to get the boys to stop.”

  “What about Daniel?” said Mrs. Trumbull, turning to Dr. Hawk.

  “He said that Nathan directed an epithet at Cassie, and when he subsequently requested a retraction, Nathan pushed him, and he hit Nathan. He said that Cassie didn’t do anything except try to stop them—but he was protecting her in the first place, so—”

  “That doesn’t make him any less reliable that this Nathan kid,” Dad interrupted. “What, may I ask, was this ‘epithet’ that was directed at our daughter?”

  Dr. Hawk looked at his notes and cleared his throat, “I believe it was, uh, ‘Taliban slut.’”

  “Taliban slut?” said Dad, and looked at Mom, then me. “Cassie, did this kid call you ‘Taliban slut’?”

  “‘American Taliban slut,’” I said, quietly—torn between desiring dramatic effect and wishing for the ability to make myself invisible.

  “My God,” said Mom.

  “DJ had the right idea,” Dad said. “Generally, I go for the nonviolent solution, but in this case, I might have clocked the little son of a bitch myself.” Dad delivered this in a quiet voice that brought silence to the room. I looked at him, my hero—a big man, leaning slightly back, at ease and in control as he turned his eyes on everyone around the table, ending with the principal.

  “I understand your feelings, Mr. Sullivan,” she said. “And if Cassie has been subjected to this kind of language, then—”

  “It’s not the fucking language that concerns me—” Again, he was cool and quiet, “but the malice it conveys. Cassie, is this the first time such ‘epithets’ have been directed at you?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of you know this was going on?” Mom asked.

  “I did not,” said Mrs. Trumbull. “Dr. Hawkens?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Mr. Badagliaccio?”

  “No ma’am.”

  What about the time somebody threw the football at me and they were yelling, “Osama”?

  “We seem to be as surprised as you are, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “You’d better tell us now what’s been going on, Cassie,” said Mom. “Did this start with choir?”

  “Before that,” I said. “But I was handling it myself, and until today, I thought it was over.”

  “Come on,” said Dad. “Spill it.”

  So I had to talk, and it all came out: the tripping and the flat tires, the bathroom wall, the notes in the locker—which Mr. Bad went to retrieve—the razors, the spilled books, the kicked chair, and what became infamously known as the “epithets,” beginning with “Osama O’Sullivan.” Dr. Hawk now included the part of DJ’s story he’d left out, how DJ claimed that I had been teased and taunted for weeks. Mrs. Trumbull seemed only slightly less horrified than Mom and Dad. I left out my own impression that Bad and Hawk seemed to hold the same opinion of me as my classmates, but I let Mr. Kimball have it for talking about me to the other kids. When Bad showed up with the notes from my locker, there was general outrage all around the room. Some of these were even worse than my first note:

  “If you hate America so much, why don’t you go suck the dicks of the whole Taliban army then go to Iraq and fuck for Saddam until you bleed.”

  But they weren’t all negative! Some were permeated with love: “I hope that you will repint so that you will not suffer an eternaty in hell with the other muslum sinners.”

  Nobody could believe that I had been trying to deal with this on my own. Mrs. Trumbull wanted the name of every single kid who had ever said an unkind word.

  “Mr. Badagliaccio, run the security tapes from Friday, September 20th and Monday, September 23rd—let’s see who was stuffing that locker. Dr. Hawkens, start going through Cassie’s list. I want to interview each one personally. Mr. and Ms. Sullivan, I want you to know that Tabor Middle School is not the kind of place that tolerates this kind of behavior. I will personally see to it that we have, as of this moment now, seen the very last of this harassment. Cassie’s mistake was in not telling, but now that she has, she will be safe from bullying.

  “But,” she said, “you know we have a zero tolerance policy on fighting, too. Given the circumstances, her suspension will only be for the rest of today, which should allow time for the situation to cool off a bit.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Dad. “My daughter is harassed, her friend is attacked, she tries to stop the attacker, so she gets suspended?”

  “She did throw an elbow. What am I supposed to tell the other girl’s parents?”

  “Fine,” said Mom. “Come on Cassie, Gale, let’s go home. Mrs. Trumbull, would you call us with the details of how you’re handling this? And Cassie may be out tomorrow, too. I’ll call the attendance line.”

  “I’m not sure we can excuse—”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Dad.

  “Whatever you need to do, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Mom. “I’m sure we can live with the consequences.”

  So we went home for lunch and a little chat. Mom asked me if I wanted to stay home with her tomorrow.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “Mrs. Trumbull is going to fix everything, right? Nobody’s going to bug me anymore—instead they’ll treat me with kindness and respect. That’s what they always do to people who get them in trouble.”

  “You did not get them in trouble, Cassie, they did it to themselves.”

  “Duh, Mom—don’t I know that? But that’s not how they’re going to see it.”

  Dad had been very quiet since we left the school. “So is that why you kept silent—you feared reprisal?” It sounded so ugly, like I was so pathetic. And that’s all it took. I was crying again.

  “I ruin everything,” I said.

  “You ruined nothing,” Mom said. “Gale, this is not her fault.”

  “I know it’s not her fault. Cassie, I don’t blame you.”

  “Yes, you do. You think I’m a coward, and now I’ve ruined everything for DJ.”

  We were sitting around the kitchen/conference table and now they got up and went into comfort-mode with Mom standing beside me rubbing my shoulders and Dad pulling a chair next to me. Dad said that if he sounded mad, he was, but not at me. They both said that I was very brave, that they understood why I hadn’t told, but they wanted me to tell them everything in the future. How could they help me if I didn’t share my problems?

  They thought that I had been through “a tumultuous couple of weeks” and that I should take Friday off. Mom would skip rehearsal, cancel her lessons, and take me up to the cabin—tonight if I wanted.

  But I wanted to see DJ and Liz and Quill, or at least Liz and Quill, since DJ was going to be suspended. I also wanted to go back to prove that I wasn’t afraid.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” said Mom, “that I’d have to beg my girl to skip school and go to the mountains.”

  “I just can’t stand the thought of you going back,” said Dad. “I really wish we had gotten you out of there. To think that some little punk told my sweet girl—my sweet, pure-souled girl—that she w
as going to hell.” He was tearing up. “And then you thought I didn’t approve of you. I’m sorry, baby. Don’t you listen to them—you are good and brave and better than anyone.”

  “You are,” said Mom. “You’re the best.”

  It’s sweet of them to say, Di, but it’s just more self-esteem stuff.

  I tried to call DJ, but nobody answered. Then I tried to call Ally, same thing. At least I can see Liz and Quill tomorrow. I’m clinging to the hope that DJ’s compromise with Mommy will hold, but I’m afraid that she’ll send him away now, and once again, I’ll be all alone.

  Before she left tonight, Mom again tried talking me into taking the day off tomorrow. As if it would be a big selling point, she said that Dr. Velez might be able to fit me in, since we had missed our session today. I didn’t tell her, but I am not going back to that shrink. I’m not depressed, I’m not suicidal, I’m just mad.

  I called Liz, hoping she could come over. She couldn’t. I told her about DJ’s compromise, but she didn’t seem overjoyed.

  “We’ll see how long that lasts now,” she said.

  “We can hope, can’t we?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know—I just wish … ”

  “What?”

  “I told you not push it with her. Now look what happened.”

  “You’re right—it’s all my fault. He’s going to be in trouble now, and you’re mad at me, and I can hardly wait to get to school tomorrow and see what Matt and his gang have in store for me.”

  “He’s suspended, I heard, and a bunch of others too, but you’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”

  “What happened? Tell me now.”

  “I gotta go, Cassie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Excellent. This is going to be even worse than I thought. I really am all alone.

  25 October

  It seems that my old wish for invisibility came true today, but it’s not what I had in mind when I wanted to be left alone. Only Quill still talks to me, though Liz did for a few minutes.

  When I got to school with just enough time to hit my locker and make it to class, I could feel people looking at me. But when I turned to them, they turned away. A few people looked at me with curiosity, but the majority gave me the sides of their heads. I didn’t see Matthew, Jenny, or Nathan, and it wasn’t until later that I heard the story on that.

  In class it was strange too. Though it was nice not to have people saying rude things, kicking my chair, or tripping me as I walked to my desk, it was another kind of insult to be treated as if I wasn’t there. The teachers ignored me too, except for Sinclair—not to the point of avoiding eye contact, they just didn’t engage me. Or was I being hypersensitive?

  I saw Quill after first block, on my way to science.

  “How’s DJ?” I asked.

  “Thank you for greeting me,” he said, “in such an artfully mannered manner. I return your salutations.” At least he was still normal—for him.

  “Come on,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”

  “Master Dwarf is grimly beset by a host of enemies. But he is stouthearted and will not fall. The sons of Aulë are made of the very stuff of the mountains, and they will endure. Even in death, ’tis said, they wait in some dark and silent deep, eyes faintly gleaming like bits of phosphorescence in the mountain’s heart until the final melodies of the song are heard.”

  “Do you stay up all night composing these things?”

  “And you, good Cassandra, how do you fare? How, noble heart, in this foul, fetid air?” He said fee-tid—or feet-ed? I always thought it was feh-tid. And was he talking in rhyming couplets?

  “If Master Dwarf prevaileth, so can I—” I paused, searching for the rhyme. “But I would see him before by and by.”

  “Good luck,” said Liz, suddenly behind me. “He got sent to Christian school.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Ask Quill.”

  “Quill?”

  “She made him get a haircut.” He lapsed back to the stoner-surfer voice. “And burned his CDs, and his Anti-Flag T-shirt. And then, then she fed him to the Christians, at SCCS.”

  “Oh, my God. She snapped. She totally snapped.”

  “You know, Cassie,” said Liz, and then she stopped. “I gotta go.” She turned and walked away.

  “Liz?”

  She waved back, over her shoulder.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Quill. “She should be pissed at DJ’s mom. But don’t worry, the Lizard doesn’t hold a grudge.” A rare and serious moment with Mr. Quillen before he turned it on again. “We’re, like, late dudess—we better make like bananas and split or, like, we’re going to get a detention. Catch you on the flip-flop, pop-top.”

  I wandered into class half-stunned. Cut his hair? Burned his CDs? Christian school? Mommy had snapped. That moment of reasonableness, all shot because of one little fight, one suspension.

  But DJ. My DJ. Would I ever see him again?

  Liz was not around at lunch. I sat with Quill and Kel, who told me what I had missed yesterday. The whole eighth grade had been buzzing with excitement, as always happens after a fight. People were getting called out of class and some weren’t returning. Some still hadn’t today.

  Sixth hour, Mrs. Trumbull came to the reading classes. She said that an eighth grade girl had been the victim of severe harassment. Those responsible were being punished, and if anyone had a part in it to confess, they could see her privately.

  The harassment was to stop immediately: not one more note, not one more nasty name, not even one more rude look. It all had to stop. If it continued, those responsible would face disciplinary action and possible criminal prosecution.

  And furthermore, “That’s just not the way we treat people here at Tabor Middle School, kiddos. We’re a kind school with kind students.”

  In Kelly’s class, some kids tried to put the blame on me. She told them that I might be wrong, but two wrongs didn’t make a right, and they still had to leave me alone.

  So that is what they were doing, leaving me alone. It didn’t matter much, though.

  DJ was gone. Who knows when I’d see him again. I kept forgetting that, thinking of how we’d talk about all this, and then I’d remember, “Oh, right. He’s gone.”

  I asked Quill to tell him that I was going to call, and that he should call me as soon as he could.

  “I hate to sound like Liz, but good luck,” he said. “His mom has this blocking thing on the phone so he can’t call when she’s not home, and she has caller ID for when she is.”

  “Will you tell him I’m sorry about what happened, that I have to talk to him, I have to see him?”

  “He blames himself for getting in the fight, but I’ll tell him. As for seeing him—you’re not getting past his mom. She’s a walking fortress. He might as well be in the dungeons of Melkor.”

  “But what if I were Lúthien?”

  “He thinks you are—but even she couldn’t get through.”

  I made it through the day all right, I guess, phasing in and out of realizing that DJ was not going to be there. I fantasized that Mommy was going to come to her senses, revert back to the original plan. But I didn’t really believe it.

  When I got home, Dad was happy with my reassurance that nobody was harassing me and my promise to tell if they did. I skipped the news about DJ—I couldn’t bear to talk about it.

  Now I’m going to listen to every side of my Neil Young triple album. It should help pass the night away. For some reason I’ve got one of the songs, “Soldier,” stuck in my head. Just one looping lyric, over and over, “Soldier, your eyes shine—like the sun. I don’t know why … ” Then, at the end, you can just barely hear that he changes “soldier” to “Jesus.” I don’t know why.

  I also need to hear “Cortez the Killer” b
ecause it’s so long and slow and has all that sad guitar that pulls me right into the middle of the sadness and somehow makes me feel good about it, right about it, as if nothing else could be so true as long sustained guitar notes and the way they make me feel. I know that any normal girl in my circumstance would turn to Creed or Godsmack for solace in a time like this, but Neil Young is one of the best. He’s the one who taught me about the Kent State shootings and Richard Nixon. (Though Dad says Nixon does not have soul, anywhere, no matter what Neil says.)

  Dad was tickled when he heard me listening to this record, when I first got it, and he explained the historical references—so I guess I should say Dad taught me, not Neil. He also took me to Red Rocks to see Neil and Crazy Horse, and it poured rain on us the whole second half of the show. During the encore it started raining harder and harder, and everyone was leaving. Then, when the place was three-quarters empty, they came out and played another encore. Dad and I were totally soaked, but it was the greatest.

  So, Di. Here we are. More stories of yesteryear, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. What’s going to happen next? Trip to the mountains tomorrow, without DJ. Back to school on Monday, and no DJ. Tuesday, no DJ. Wednesday, et cetera. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Thank you. Good night.

  26 October

  The cold weather is holding on, and we almost didn’t come up to the cabin. Mom thought we’d better, though, because her concert season starts next week and it’ll be a while before she gets another chance.

  I broke down the tipi for winter, and we’re all cooped up inside. Mom and Dad are reading downstairs, and I’m up in the loft, feeling bored. I should make some sort of new plan for dealing with all those tomorrows. But I’m done with plans. I’m also done with suicidal fantasies, and I refuse to get depressed. I think I’ll take a nap.

  Slept away the afternoon, then there was dinner and the big family discussion.

  First was the matter of my report card, which had arrived Thursday, but we hadn’t yet discussed. A few Bs aren’t the end of the world, but combined with everything else, Mom and Dad don’t think it’s a good sign.