Pollard is making more points... important ones. I’m writing—I think. But my head keeps snapping back and waking me up, so maybe I’m actually not awake. I’m dreaming I’m writing. Snap. I’m dreaming I’m meeting the Sunday Boy. Snap. I’m...
“Shawna. Pssst.”
Snap. Up comes my head again.
“He’s coming. Wake up.”
I look across at The Troll.
“Nix” she hisses. “Look out.” She buries her nose in her book and scribbles notes on the lined paper next to it.
“Miss Stone?”
I look up at my friend Pollard Nix and yawn.
“It seems I’m boring you today,” he says.
“No.” I’m awake now so I can answer and sound alert. “Not today.”
“Nice to hear. Please see me at the end of class.” He glances at The Troll, who has filled the entire page with... what? He walks back to the front of the room, white stuffing poking out even further from his jacket seam than the last time I looked.
The Troll slides me a glance and a grin. What does she want? Good grief, go away.
The bell ends my captivity in history, but Pollard wants more of me today, so I gather my books and shuffle to his desk.
He looks up from his seat and smiles. “How about a mini-review, Miss Stone?
I think it would do us both good to go over today’s lesson.”
I shrug and shift my books to my hip. He breaks a pencil.
“What was today’s lesson?” he asks, staring at the two pieces of yellow #2 in each hand.
“Industrial Revolution,” I reply.
He nods.
“And what are the main points I made today?”
“Children suffered. Some people organized the National Child Labor Committee in 1904. They wanted to stop the abuse of young workers. By 1907, about two million little kids worked and didn’t go to school. In 1912, Taft created the Children’s Bureau. He gave a woman named Julia Lathrop the job as head of the bureau.” I shift my books to my other hip.
Pollard Nix tosses the two pieces of pencil so they popped into the air. Without saying anything, he shoves his chair away from his desk and stands. He walks to the door, stops, and faces me. “And just think what more you could tell me, Miss Stone, if you’d remained awake?”
“There was more?”
He slams the door so hard, the picture of George Washington tilts left.
I wait for the seismic activity to settle, and then I walk out into the hall—smack into The Troll.
“So?” she asks.
I shake my head and walk to my locker. She trails after me. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble. That’s why I... you know, warned you.”
I spin the combination on my locker then turn around. “Look. I think it’s grand of you to, like, help me out. Really. But I don’t need your help. Put that in your notes. Do not help Shawna. She don’t want it! Okay?” I grab my books for English and dump history in their place. When I turn to leave, she’s still standing at my side.
“You always need a friend.”
Now I do one of Kay’s long blinks that screams fed up. Go take a bath, okay? I think it, but I don’t say it. Why even bother? I push past her and head to English.
Mrs. Heady is not giving us an essay today. What, is she like, sick? Alzheimer’s erase her lesson plan? The Troll takes her seat and doesn’t look at me. We have achieved separation, Houston. But I’m not in the greatest mood after Pollard Nix and his inquisition. I’m so not going to make it through this year.
Now Mrs. Heady is lecturing and writing and lecturing. I’m about over the top with learning, so I doodle until Monster’s face stares up at me. He’s beginning to look handsome. At least his clothes don’t rip apart to reveal their inside secrets. And he’s very patient. There’s a lot to like about him. If he just didn’t pick on me when I’m down, we’d get along better.
“Shawna?” It’s Mrs. Heady.
I look up and stare into the faces of half the class turned in my direction. And they want what? I crush Monster’s face into a ball and wait. Someone make a move already, ’cause it’s not going to be me.
“Say, ‘it’s about death,’” The Troll whispers from behind her book.
I close my eyes and say, “it’s about death,” but it comes out sounding like it’s about a pile of crap. When I open my eyes, Mrs. Heady is writing ‘death’ on the board. What has that to do with anything? I glance at The Troll, who nods and turns her book so I can read the title of the poem the class is discussing.
“Is there another metaphor that you found?” Mrs. Heady asks.
“The carriage,” The Troll answers.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Heady says while she writes that on the board as well.
I cradle my forehead in both hands and do my best to look like I’m studying the textbook. I read that poem and I hated it. That poet didn’t know squat about waiting for death. It’s not that way. The bell rings and I’m out of my seat, hurling Monster into the trash and shoving my way out the door.
Chapter 19
Kay
Kay woke to one of those bright October mornings. The sun slanted across the earth and washed it in a golden light that signaled the end of California’s Indian Summer. It was the kind of day when Kay loved to take the gray out for a long ride, sit under a tree, and watch the creek slide past. But, yesterday, when Robby Green had called, asking her to come in, he’d sounded urgent. She’d agreed to meet with him at ten this morning.
By a little after ten, she sat in the principal’s office across from Shawna’s English teacher, Mrs. Heady. Robby sat at the end of the small conference table. Both wore expressions a lot like people sitting in the family section at a funeral.
“We’re very concerned, Kay.” His voice sounded tight like his throat was cinching down on his words.
Kay folded her hands in front of her on the table. Here it comes, she thought. What has Shawna done, said?
“Have you seen anything that might signal Shawna is depressed enough to have thoughts of …” he cleared his throat, “…suicide?” Robby Green spoke the word softly, but it struck her like a blow across the face.
If she’d been standing, Kay knew she would be holding onto something to keep from falling. Yes, he’d sounded serious when he called her yesterday, but she’d come ready to talk about Shawna’s language or her antisocial behavior, not suicide!
She shook her head. No. She’d never suspected anything like that. Was she blind? Stupid? Naïve? How can a sixty-four-year-old woman be naïve? Wait. What makes him jump to the idea of suicide when he’s dealing with a sixteen-year-old whose emotions roller-coaster hourly?
“Of course, we can’t be sure,” he continued, “but, ahem... well, Shawna’s essays... are—” he signaled to Mrs. Heady.
Mrs. Heady leaned forward as if she wanted to share a secret. “Mrs. Stone, I’ve spoken several times with Mr. Green about Shawna’s withdrawal and her sullen attitude, and the fact that I see it worsening almost daily.” She cleared her throat, “There are adults that haven’t experienced what your granddaughter has. I haven’t, so I sometimes don’t know how to respond to her work.” She held out a crumpled piece of paper. “And I don’t often retrieve things students toss into the waste basket, but Shawna was in a darker mood than usual on Monday, and I noticed her doodling. She wasn’t on task at all, but when I spoke to her, she did go back to work and complete her assignment. When she left class, she threw this away. I... well, I had to know what was on this paper.”
Kay took the paper and read the scrawled words. “Pity is for the living, envy is for the dead.”
Kay knew that quote. She knew it too well. She’d tortured herself with it after Nicholas died. After Peter left. When her life wasn’t worth living anymore.
“Monster. Monster. Just a little longer.” The note continued.
Underneath these words, Shawna had drawn a ghoulish face with black, pinpoint eyes and a grin filled with razor sharp teeth. Tiny dr
ops of blood dripped from the gaping lips and pooled at the bottom of the paper. It was childish, except for the ugly face. She held it away and leaned back in her chair, suddenly drained of energy, numb all over, like her arms might feel if she’d slept on them.
Kay let the paper fall to the table and buried her face in her hands.
“I’m very sorry. This is a shock, I know. I hesitated to make such an assumption, and kept thinking this could just be a young girl adjusting to her new life and feeling lonely. But we can’t take a chance, especially when we have Mrs. Heady’s observations about Shawna’s increasing withdrawal from social contact. She has no friends, talks to no one, and she barely participates in class. I feel we need to intervene and get Shawna some help, and we need to do it immediately.”
Kay couldn’t respond. Her mouth seemed full of sand, and the fears she’d struggled to push aside were popping up like shooting-gallery ducks. What if she couldn’t handle this troubled sixteen-year-old? What if something happened to this girl while she was taking care of her? She wasn’t even her legal guardian. What if she failed as a grandmother the way she had as a mother? As a wife?
The room closed around her. She was suffocating. She shoved her chair back, walked to the window, and pushed it open. Leaning out, she inhaled the Indian Summer air as though it was her last breath.
She’d learned to value her life, but it wasn’t until she’d gone down to the mat with death that she’d learned to truly appreciate it.
It had taken Kenny Fargo, a derelict cowboy with more common sense than any man she’d ever met, to put her back into balance. He’d stood in her office door that morning, his grimy hat in his hand. Ten years ago? That long? Yes. A half-hour before, she’d watched Peter drive off down the rutted road for the last time.
“So you’re gonna bail out on us, I see.” Kenny set the crease in his hat like it was the most important thing he had on his mind at the moment.
“Go away!” she shouted.
“Sure. I can do that real easy. What do you want me to do with the body? How about your horses?”
She looked up at him. The skinny, brown-toothed old devil was grinning at her. And here she was, sitting with a shotgun propped up against the floor and aimed at her chest. What was so funny?
“Seems to me you ought to have thought all that out before you settled yourself down to do what it is you’re planning. If I was you, I’d put your wishes down in writing and give them to me before you get on with this little drama.”
Kay laid the gun across her desk. “Little drama,” she repeated, slumping back in her desk chair. She looked up at Kenny, who was leaning against the doorjamb like he’d dropped in for a Sunday visit. “It would be little, wouldn’t it?”
“Afraid, so. Of course, you’d sure have showed him, right? Well, you put down what you want, and I’ll do it.” He pushed away from the door and took a step back. “Oh, and you have to take the safety off if you want that gun to fire.”
She pulled the window closed and returned to her seat across from Robby Green. He no longer resembled her grade school chum or the high school president she’d sat beside and tutored through algebra. And for that she was grateful. She could pretend they didn’t know each other as she faced him, her privacy stripped, her fear exposed. “What do you suggest I do?”
He reached across and put his hands over hers. “I have several possible sources for help, and we’ll work with you, too, so you won’t be alone dealing with this crisis.”
“Shawna has English next period. Do you want me to send her here?” Mrs. Heady asked.
“Give Mrs. Stone and me some time to go over options. Send her after class.” He scribbled on a pink pad and handed Mrs. Heady the small slip of paper.
Mrs. Heady rose, came around the table, and stopped next to Kay. “She’s such a bright girl. I know we can help her get through this.”
Kay looked at their two faces, so different from each other in all ways except for the tightness around their mouths and the deep creases in their foreheads. She could only imagine what her face must look like. The Titanic had just run into the iceberg.
Chapter 20
Shawna
“Hey, Shawna!”
I look behind me. The Sunday Boy with the great jeans is coming my way. Now what? I should pretend I don’t hear him, but like a jerk I’ve made eye contact already. I lean against my locker and watch him as he weaves his way through students on their way to class.
He looks just like he does every Sunday—T-shirt with rolled sleeves and the same kind of jeans. He’s a head taller than most of the guys in the hall, and seems older than the others in his senior class. Is it the way he clutches his books in the crook of his arm? The easy way he walks or looks directly into people’s eyes when he speaks to them? What do I like about him besides the way his clothes fit? Wait, like him? Not in this lifetime.
“Guess you’re in a hurry,” he says, standing in front of me.
“Why?”
“You passed me like someone late for a date. Didn’t you see me?”
“I wasn’t looking at anybody. I’ve got English in a couple of minutes.” I put a hard edge on my voice like I used to when Mom came home with a new friend for me to meet.
“You’re not easy to talk to. Do you know that?”
“Never had any complaints before.”
“Right.”
“Now that you’ve got my attention, what do you want?” I work at sounding nicer than before, but it doesn’t happen.
“Nothing. See you next Sunday.” He walks down the hall and steps into a classroom before I realize I have my mouth open to say something.
“Hell with you.” I twist the combination on my locker, grab my English book, and slam the tinny door. Get to English and forget Sunday Boy.
I can write an essay on the bazillion reasons I hate guys, but do I have the time to waste? I edge into my seat and lean back. My goal today is to count the ceiling tiles, a simple multiplication problem, but Mrs. Heady is not her usual five minutes late, so I pull myself up and prepare to plow my way through another of her essays.
She starts the class, and then patrols the aisles. When she walks down my aisle, she hands me a hall pass.
“You can take care of this at the end of class today.”
The Troll shoots me one of her ferret-looks, but I stare her down. She has no idea who she’s dealing with yet, but if she keeps it up I’m going to show her.
“Please come to the Principal’s office after English today. R. Green.”
Now what? I haven’t done anything.
The Troll is craning her neck to see what’s on the paper. I shoot her a killer look, and she bends over her paper so far her nose almost touches it. I fold the pass and stick it into my notebook.
My essay is lame. I’m too busy thinking about why Mr. Roly-Poly Principal Green wants me in his office.
I’ve been clean since I came here. Mostly because there isn’t much choice. This place squeaks—no grime, no crime.
At the break, I dump my books in my locker and walk into Mr. Green’s office as though there’s nothing unusual in my visit—as if I do it everyday. But right away I wish for unusual, because awful is what greets me.
Mr. Green, looking like a funeral director, closes the door and pulls out a chair for me. I sit down like that chair has electrical wires attached.
“Shawna, I’m going to show you something, and then I’m going to ask you a difficult question.” Mr. Green shoves a piece of crumpled paper across the table. “Is this yours?”
The picture of Monster’s face stares up at me. I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and wait.
“Your grandmother has told me how you came to Sweet River and a little about your life before.”
Kay doesn’t know anything about my life. She doesn’t know anything about me at all, so what’s this crap he’s spewing?
“How do you feel about being here?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
; “What does that mean, exactly?” Mr. Green is pulling out his principal language. Principals sound a lot like cops when they’re mining for information.
What does it mean? I don’t know what it means. It means okay. I get food. I sleep in a bedroom with a door and in a real bed. Everybody that comes to Kay’s is somebody she’s known since the earth formed. I haven’t seen a cop in a month. I work my butt off, but I’m getting used to it. I have a dog, sort of, and sheep and horses. You know, it’s okay.
Aloud I say, “It’s regular.”
He nods. “And are you happy, living with your grandmother?”
Oh, this is way bad. Am I happy? Happy is not in my dictionary. I don’t feel too edgy at Kay’s. I get along with Kenny Fargo okay now, and that Sunday Boy... what is his name anyway? I’m getting used to horses and Buster’s flea epidemics. I don’t even mind those sheep, now that their fur or hair or whatever they have is starting to grow back. Aloud I say, “Yes.” At the same time I make two fists and jam my hands onto my lap to keep them steady.
Tell him what he wants to hear, Shawna.
Is that Monster? At school? Damn!
“I’m concerned about a couple of things,” Mr. Green drowns out Monster. “When I look at your face you don’t seem to be listening. Are you somewhere else?”
That is one stupid question. I’m in your office, sitting in an electric chair across from a nosey fat man. I’ve got Monster skulking around here someplace, and you want me to answer something that’s totally obvious.
Aloud I say, “I guess I’m just surprised by your questions. Maybe that’s why I look the way I do.” I wish I could see how I look right now. Where’s Tuan’s mirror when you need it? I shift in my seat and tuck my hands under my butt. That helps.
“Well, then about this drawing. Tell me about it.” He pushes my picture of Monster across the desk.
No. It’s nobody’s business.
You tell him, Shawna. Monster’s still lurking.
“Sorry about that. I had an argument with this guy just before class and I was really upset. That’s a picture of him.”
Oh, Shawna, you are good, Monster croons.
“So when Mrs. Heady noticed you were in a dark mood, it was about this argument?”
“Yeah.”
“Dark moods can be scary.”
This is going nowhere. I’m not talking about my moods. They’re mine, and they’re private. Mrs. Nose-in-My-Business Heady can butt out, and so can you, Mr. Principal.
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