by B K Stevens
“I called Grandma Brewster today,” she said.
“Did you, dear?” Mom said. “I’m sure my mother was delighted. How is she?”
“Fine. She says I can visit her and Grandpa in Cleveland whenever I want.”
“By yourself, you mean?” Already, Mom looked troubled, probably about how much a plane ticket would cost. “That might be fun. Maybe in July, or August.”
“I want to go Sunday.” Now Cassie talked in a rush. “A flight leaves Richmond at 1:37. I’ve got enough allowance saved to pay for half. And there’s a middle school a few blocks from their house. I bet they could get me registered Monday. I wouldn’t miss any school.”
“Honey, that doesn’t make sense,” Dad said. “You can’t go to school there for a few days and then—”
“Not for a few days. I’ll stay till the school year ends and come home for summer, and next fall I’ll go back to Cleveland. The teachers here are stupid. And Grandma and Grandpa are old, and I should spend time with them before they die, and I could help around the house. I really want to, and it’d make them really happy.”
Mom and Dad and I all looked at each other. I put down my fork. At least it was an excuse not to eat the trifle.
“Sweetheart,” Dad said, “that wouldn’t work, and we’d miss you too much. If you’re unhappy at school, we’ll talk to your teachers.”
“No,” Cassie said. “They don’t know anything. I’ve thought and thought, and this is the only way. Can I go? Please?”
Mom reached across the table, but Cassie wouldn’t take her hand. “Whatever problems you’re facing, you need to face them here, with us. We’ll help you. Just tell us about it, sweetie. Or you and I can go to your room—”
“No. I told you what I want to do, and you won’t let me. Fine. I’ll handle it. I don’t want your help—your stupid, stupid help.”
She ran to her room—she’d been doing that a lot lately. Mom stood up. “I’ll go.”
Dad and I listened to her walk upstairs, listened to her knock softly and call Cassie’s name. “Do you know what’s going on?” Dad asked.
“How would I know? She’s seemed weird lately, but I don’t know why.”
“Me, neither. Maybe she feels unsettled because I’ve changed jobs. And Mom’s putting in extra hours at the store to help with cleanup. We’re probably not spending enough time with her.”
Mom came back. “She won’t open her door. She won’t say a word to me. Matt, could you try?”
“Me? If she won’t talk to you, she sure won’t talk to me.”
“She might,” Dad said. “You’re Cassie’s hero—the athlete, the popular guy, the one who isn’t afraid of anything. She looks up to you.”
News to me. I glanced at the clock. Almost an hour before I had to pick Suzette up. “It won’t work, but I’ll try.”
I knocked on her door. “Cassie? Can I come in? If there’s anything…”
She opened the door, then sat on the edge of her bed, clasping her hands in her lap and staring down at them, wispy light orange hair half-hiding her face. She looked really small, really sad, but she wasn’t crying. I sat in her desk chair.
“So, something’s wrong at school,” I said. “Teachers or kids?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then she looked up. “Kids.”
I thought back. “Is that why you dropped Special Chorus?”
Her eyes turned fierce. “That stupid, stupid chorus. I wish Ms. Lambert had never picked me. All the other girls she picked are pretty. I didn’t fit in.”
“Sure you did. You’re pretty, too. You’re—”
“I’m not!” She sounded angry, like she thought I was lying to her. “I’m ugly. My hair’s weird—I look like a pumpkin. And my nose is huge, and I’m fat.”
“Your hair’s fine. So is your nose. And you’re nowhere near fat.”
“I am! I’m obese. My arms are flabby, and my stomach sticks out. The other girls didn’t want me in chorus because I made it look bad. They said nobody would want to listen to us because of me.”
She had to be imagining things. “Did anyone actually say that to you, Cassie?”
“They never said anything to me. Not even hello. When I tried to talk to them, they’d stare at me like I was crazy and walk away. But they’d talk to each other, loud enough so I could hear, and they’d say I was ruining chorus, and everybody would think it’s a joke because of the way I look. I tried to ignore them, but they kept doing it, so I thought, fine, I’ll quit chorus, and they’ll stop.”
Maybe not, I thought. Not if they’d seen how miserable they could make her, and they were mean enough to enjoy that. “But they didn’t stop?”
She shook her head, so hard her hair brushed against her face. “They started saying worse things, spreading them all over school. Even Cindy and Joanne won’t eat lunch with me, because they’re afraid people will say things about them.”
Cindy and Joanne had been Cassie’s best friends for years. I felt anger building, like a slow weight pressing against the inside of my chest, crowding up into my throat. “What are those girls saying, Cassie?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s too awful.”
“No, tell me. I’ll find a way to help.”
“No one can help,” she said, but I could see she wanted to get it out. “You can’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? Promise?”
“If that’s what you want, I promise. What are they saying?”
She took a deep breath. “Do you remember Duffy?”
“Sure.” Duffy’s a custodian at the middle school—he has Down Syndrome or something. “What about him?”
“Well, you know he’s sort of different, but he’s really nice, and he loves giving people high fives. Most kids, though—when he says hello, they don’t answer. They act like they didn’t hear him. When he holds up his hand, they won’t give him high fives. They keep walking and leave him with his hand in the air. Some kids make fun of him behind his back.”
Listening to her made me feel guilty. I’d never made fun of Duffy myself, but sometimes, when other people had, I’d laughed. And I’d walked past him and pretended not to hear him say hello, too, and I’d never given him high fives when other people were around. Back then, I hadn’t known better. Or maybe I had, but I’d been more focused on fitting in than on being decent. “Yeah, I’ve seen that myself. But what’s that got to do with you?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I like Duffy. He’s so cheerful—no matter how people treat him, he keeps trying. So I always say hello to him and give him high fives. Between classes, I ask him if he’s having a good day, like that. And he likes to show people pictures of his dog, but most kids won’t look at them. I do.”
She’s more mature than I was at her age, I thought. And nicer. “That’s why those girls are talking about you?”
She nodded, looking straight at me for the first time. “That’s why everybody’s talking about me. They say Duffy’s my boyfriend. They say I—well, that I let him touch me. You know. Now they’re saying he got me pregnant, and that’s why my stomach sticks out.”
I stood up and started pacing. I wanted to smash things. “You’re sure, Cassie? You’re sure people are saying those things?”
“Some say it to my face.” She raised her voice in a mocking tone. “‘Did you and Duffy have another hot date last night, Cassie?’ ‘When’s the baby due, Cassie? Are you going to name it Duffy?’ And they come up to me in the hall, all the time, and they stick their hands in my face and say, ‘High five, Cassie! High five!’ I hate it, Matt. I hate it so much!”
She started crying, not covering her face, keeping her hands clasped in her lap and staring straight ahead, sobbing in this loud, ragged way that scared the life out of me. I was afraid something inside her would burst. It reminded me of the way Marie Ramsey had cried at the tournament.
I
sat down and put my arms around her, and she leaned against my chest, still sobbing in that awful way. “It’s okay, Cassie. We’ll find a way to make it better.”
Dad knocked on the door. “Is Cassie all right?”
That made her stop crying. “I’m fine. Matt and I are talking. Go away.”
I waited until I heard Dad go back downstairs. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I knew you were upset, but I thought it was because of something physical. I never guessed it was something like this.”
“I didn’t want you to guess. I hoped they’d get bored and stop. But it keeps getting worse.”
“What about going to the principal? Mr. Wheeler’s not a bad—”
“No! He’s nice, but it’s the whole school, Matt. He can’t punish the whole school without making everyone hate me. And what if he believed it, even part of it? Duffy might lose his job. That’d crush him—he’s so proud of his job. What if they sent him to jail?”
“That wouldn’t happen,” I said, but I understood. Probably, Cassie should go to Mr. Wheeler. Probably, I should go to Lieutenant Hill. Sometimes, though, there are things you can’t do, even when you know you should. “Then maybe you should avoid Duffy. If you stopped talking to him and high-fiving him, it might die down.”
“I won’t.” She looked at me straight again, and I could tell she wouldn’t give in on this, either. “Especially since this started, I’m almost the only kid at school who ever talks to him. If I could stop going to school there, fine. He’d get used to that. But if I keep going, and I stop talking to him, he’ll feel hurt. He hasn’t done anything wrong, Matt. I don’t want to make him sad. It wouldn’t be fair.”
I took a good look at her. A gawky, sort of funny-looking kid. Lots of times, I’d felt almost embarrassed she’s my sister. Lots of times, I’d thought of her almost as a joke. Right now, I admired her like hell. “You’re much braver than I am, Cassie.”
She shook her head. “I’m not brave at all. I could never do the things you do, like martial arts. Even watching basketball scares me, the way people keep charging each other.”
“You’re braver in more important ways,” I said. “Are you sure you won’t tell Mom and Dad? They might be able to think of something.”
“I don’t want them to know what’s going on. You know how they are. They’re so happy—they always think everything’s wonderful and perfect. You can handle this, but they couldn’t. Maybe you can talk them into letting me go to Cleveland, without telling them why.”
Now it was my turn to shake my head. “They won’t go for it, and it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Let me think it over. We’ve got until Monday. We’ll come up with something.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully, and looked at the dorky Cinderella watch she got for her seventh birthday and still wears every day. “You should get dressed for your date.”
“It’s not a date, and I’m not dressing up this time.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” She picked up a stuffed tiger and plunked it on her lap. She didn’t cuddle it, or stroke it, or even look at it. When I left her room, she was still sitting on the edge of her bed, staring straight ahead, the stuffed tiger ignored on her lap.
Twenty-eight
Megan’s party turned out like I’d expected—mostly sophomores, mostly girls, Suzette and her friends talking and laughing extra loud and fast so everyone would see what a good time they were having. It was boring but okay, and the pizza tasted good. I never get pepperoni at home, so I was grateful. Suzette hung onto my arm, and once in a while she’d whisper some nothing comment into my ear and giggle. I couldn’t walk away without being rude, but I didn’t have much to say. I don’t think anyone really wanted me to talk. I think I was just supposed to stand around so Suzette could hold onto my arm.
So I stood around. Obviously, she was showing me off. That was sort of ridiculous, but sort of flattering. And she looked awfully pretty, her hair brushed shiny and full, her jeans welded to her so snugly it was clear she didn’t have even an ounce where she didn’t want it, her top dipping just low enough to make you think about what you couldn’t see. She could’ve had almost any guy she wanted, and she’d picked me. That made me feel good.
Mostly, Suzette and her friends talked about people who weren’t at the party—how weird this girl’s new haircut was, how much weight that girl had gained, how they bet it wouldn’t be long before some couple broke up. Someone mentioned Graciana, and Suzette took off.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you see the shirt she wore today? I couldn’t believe it!”
“Well, they like bright colors,” another girl said. I wasn’t sure what she meant by “they.”
“Maybe Mr. Bixby’s the one who likes bright colors,” a third girl said, and they all laughed.
“Sherry walked by his classroom after school ended yesterday,” Suzette said. “His door was closed. She thinks Graciana was there with him.”
“No, Graciana talked to me after her last class yesterday,” I said. I hadn’t spoken in about fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t let that pass. “And then she left school.”
“Oh.” Suzette gave me a sour look, like I’d broken a rule. “Maybe Sherry said Wednesday. But I know they spend lots of time there together. Do you think they actually do it there?”
“I bet,” another girl said. “They can’t go to his house, since he’s still living with his wife—but that won’t last much longer.”
They laughed again, not that anything was funny. “What’ll he do when she goes to college?” the third girl asked. “His poor heart will be broken!”
“She may not make it to college.” Suzette paused, looking from one girl to another, like she was warming up to say something major. “Now, I didn’t see this myself. But one of my friends saw Graciana in the shower after gym, and she said her stomach was sticking out.”
The third girl gasped. “Oh, my God! She’s pregnant! You think it’s Mr. Bixby’s?”
Suzette sighed. “With Graciana, who knows? But probably. Do you think she did it on purpose, to pressure him into leaving his wife? You think she’ll have an abortion if he won’t marry her?”
That did it. “I’m getting more pizza,” I said, and turned away. Suzette called after me, telling me to get her a diet Pepsi, but I pretended not to hear.
I walked out and stood on the front porch. God, the cool felt good. I closed my eyes and let it wash over my face, the music from the party now a dull rumble in the background, the air heavy with something sweet—dogwoods, or something growing in the garden. I liked that rich, fresh smell.
I tried not to think. It didn’t work.
She’s like those girls talking about Cassie, I thought. And I’d mostly believed it, and I’d let it affect the way I thought about Graciana. What if it was all based on nothing, like the things those middle-school girls were saying? I thought about the last thing Suzette said. She already had her backup story ready. For a few months, she and her friends would talk about Graciana being pregnant. When nothing happened, they’d say she must’ve had an abortion. They’d talk about Mr. Bixby leaving his wife. When nothing happened, they’d say he must’ve dumped Graciana. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, they’d find garbage to say.
Why did they do it? Did they have some reason to hate Graciana? Those middle-school girls couldn’t have a reason to hate Cassie, except she wasn’t like them. Was that enough? Did they enjoy hurting people? Were they jealous? Of what? I didn’t understand.
And I didn’t understand why I’d believed the things Suzette said. None of them fit with anything I knew about Graciana. Nothing she’d ever said or done fit with the idea she’d fool around with a teacher, a married man, a man with children. So why had I believed it?
I’d always assumed girls were nicer than guys. I’d seen guys push weaker kids around, but I’d never seen
girls do that. Maybe talking garbage was worse. Maybe it hurt more.
I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness. I couldn’t figure it out, not now. I felt like just leaving, like never talking to Suzette again. But I’d brought her here, and I had to bring her home. I went back in the house.
I lingered by the food table, talking to a guy on the JV soccer team who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Suzette found me, hooked her hand through my arm, and dragged me over to another cluster of her friends. I didn’t listen more than I had to, didn’t bother trying not to look bored. Finally, people started drifting off. The party was breaking up.
“It’s getting late,” I said. “I should take you home.”
Suzette smiled. “Getting impatient, huh? Okay. I’ll say goodnight to Megan.”
I watched her walk over to Megan and yet another cluster of friends, watched her point at me and giggle, watched her shake her head prettily as they made jokes. God, I thought. She must be saying I can’t wait to be alone with her. Doesn’t she ever stop?
When we got in the car, she shot me a flirty glance. “You still want ice cream? We’ve got lots in the family room fridge. And if you wanna watch a movie, we’ve got a big-screen TV—and a nice, big couch.”
How blatant can you get? Did she want stuff to tell her friends, or did she think if I went pretty far with her, I’d have to keep taking her out? “I’d better get home. Like I said, my father wants me to help him tomorrow, and we’re starting early.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t see her face—it was dark, and I was staring straight ahead—but I could hear how surprised she was. “We could watch a movie tomorrow night, then. We wouldn’t have to go out first. You could just come over.”
Give it up, Suzette, I thought. This is the last night I waste on you. “No, I blew an English test. The whole class did, and Ms. Nguyen’s giving us a retest Monday. I better study.”
She laughed. This time, it sounded genuine. “Get serious. Nobody studies on Saturday night.”
“I do, sometimes.” This’d be the first time, but she didn’t have to know that. “And the bake sale’s Sunday—my mom’s baking a bunch of stuff, and she may want help.”