by B K Stevens
“Oh, the stupid bake sale.” Suzette laughed again. “My mom’s baking brownies. Oh, my God. Her brownies always taste like crap, probably because she’s too drunk to follow a recipe.”
She shouldn’t talk about her mother like that, I thought. Then I remembered what Graciana said, about how I shouldn’t joke about my mother’s cooking. At least, if my mom had a drinking problem, I wouldn’t invite people to laugh at her. But maybe making fun of a mother who’s always so nice and eager to help is even worse. I saw Suzette’s house and felt relieved. I wanted to get away from her, away from these thoughts.
She obviously expected me to walk her to her door and kiss her goodnight again, so I did. She looked as good as she had last Saturday, smelled as good, melted into my arms as sweetly. This time, I felt nothing. What do you know, I thought. The physical part really doesn’t count for much, not if you can’t stand the person you’re being physical with.
“Call me!” Suzette cried as I walked to the car. I lifted a hand, giving her a half-wave without looking back. No need to call. I’d see her at the bake sale Sunday, and I’d spend Saturday thinking up a way to end things without making a big deal.
I’d also spend Saturday helping my father put up a backsplash in Berk’s kitchen and studying for the test. I hadn’t planned to do those things, but I’d told Suzette I would, so I’d go through with it so it wouldn’t be a lie. Lying had never bothered me much before. I’d thought of it as a survival skill. But tonight I’d watched Cassie cry, and I’d spent hours listening to Suzette and her friends talk garbage, and now I hated lies.
I also had to come up with some way of helping Cassie, I thought as I pulled into our driveway. I looked at the second floor and saw her light on. So she was still awake, probably still miserable, probably hoping her big brother could find a way of fixing things.
How could I do that? I sat in the car for five minutes, feeling lost.
Then it came to me. I grabbed my phone and sent a text message: R U still up? Can I come over? It’s not about Coach, but it’s important.
In thirty seconds, I got an answer: OK. Come to the back door.
Good. I backed out of the driveway and headed off.
Twenty-nine
Graciana opened the door. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah.” Her kitchen reminded me of ours—long and narrow, with big windows over the sink. During the day, it’s probably a bustling, sunny place. Now, with the rest of the house dark and hushed, it felt like a bright, cool cave. “It’s about my sister,” I said.
I’d planned to hint at things, but Graciana kept asking questions, and I ended up telling her everything. I watched her eyes while she listened—sometimes large with sympathy, sometimes hard with anger.
“And her friends aren’t standing by her,” she said.
“No. It’s lousy, but they’re afraid those girls will start talking about them, too.”
Graciana drummed her fingers on the table. “Maybe we can get her new friends, ones who’ll be at school with her but won’t care what seventh-graders say. Are you bringing her to the bake sale?”
“I hadn’t planned to. She might come when my parents do.”
“Why not ask her to come with you and help? When I was that age, I loved it when my big brother included me in things. I’ve got a cousin who goes to Cassie’s school, Anita. She’s in eighth grade, and she’s pretty popular. I could ask her to help at the sale, and we could introduce them. I could tell her what Cassie’s going through—not details, just a general idea.”
“I’m not sure. If Anita’s popular, she might not take to Cassie. Cassie’s—well, dorky.”
Graciana smiled. “Anita studies a lot, too. And she hates it when kids are mean to other kids. You know what else you could do? Teach Cassie some martial arts moves.”
That sounded like an even worse idea. “Cassie’s not into sports or anything physical. She’s timid about stuff like that.”
“That’s why it might help her. Martial arts build self-confidence—I’ve read articles about that. Lots of anti-bullying programs involve martial arts. Even when the bullying isn’t physical, it helps to know you can stand up for yourself. You don’t feel like a victim.”
Was that why Graciana joined the martial arts club? I’d wondered about that. She didn’t seem into sports, any more than Cassie did. Suzette had said Graciana had a crush on Coach Colson, but that was probably garbage, like everything Suzette says. Had Graciana known people were talking about her? I pictured her sitting by herself somewhere, hurting like Cassie’s hurting, reading articles about how to build her self-confidence.
“Cassie says those girls keep sticking their hands in her face, asking her to high five,” I said. “I could show her some blocks.”
“Sounds good,” Graciana said, and we talked until I realized it was after midnight. If my parents were waiting up, they’d be worried.
Graciana walked me to the door. “I’m glad you told me about this. I really want to help.” She paused. “Why did you tell me?”
I hadn’t expected her to ask. “Because you’re a girl, and I thought you’d understand. Plus I knew you’d keep it to yourself, and you’re about the smartest person I know.”
“Those are nice reasons.” She didn’t quite smile. “Was it also because people tell stories about me, too? Is that why you thought I’d understand?”
She looked so sad, and so brave, that I felt awful. “So you know about the stories.”
“They make sure I know.” Her voice had a new bitterness. “It’s no fun unless I know. I was hoping you didn’t know. But when I heard you were going out with Suzette, I figured—well, so much for that.”
“I’m never going out with her again. Until Cassie opened up to me, I never realized how much stories like that hurt.”
She half-nodded. “Did you believe the stories?”
Two hours ago, I’d decided I’d never lie again. Now, that didn’t seem so smart. “Not really. So what if Mr. Bixby closes his door when you’re with him? That doesn’t mean—”
She laughed, once, harsh and loud. “Do you think he’s a fool, Matt? You think he wants to lose his job and maybe go to prison? He never closes his door when he’s alone with a student. We work late on the newspaper, but it’s always a group of us. Once, when it was just Mr. Bixby and Andy Sloan and me, and Andy went to the bathroom, Mr. Bixby practically sprinted out to the hall. I heard him talking to his wife on his cell phone—‘Hi, honey, it’s 8:37, and Andy stepped out, so I decided to call, check on the kids.’ He didn’t come back in the room until Andy did. It was almost funny.”
“He sounds paranoid.”
“No, he’s sensible. Think about it. Do you know any teacher who stays in a room alone with a student? Maybe Dr. Lombardo warns all the teachers not to. It’s dangerous—they might get accused of something they didn’t do. Mr. Bixby’s marriage is fine, by the way. I babysit their kids sometimes, and everybody’s happy. And he doesn’t go to church with his family because his wife’s raising the kids Catholic, but he’s Baptist. They’ve always gone to different churches.”
So she kept up to date on the stories—reporter’s instinct, I guess. “This must be hard on you. Knowing about things people are saying, I mean. If it was me, I’d feel like dropping off the newspaper.”
“I almost did.” Her eyes turned fierce again. “But I couldn’t let them drive me away from doing something I love. Then I’d really feel like a victim, maybe for the rest of my life. That’s the most important reason Cassie shouldn’t go to Cleveland, or keep pretending she’s sick. We’ve got to make her feel like a fighter.”
“Whether she wins or not,” I agreed. I felt so close to Graciana, and so grateful, that I wanted to hug her. I didn’t, partly because I was afraid I’d enjoy it in ways I shouldn’t after such a serious talk. We could shake hands, but that seemed lame. Graciana’s eye
s met mine, and she laughed like she understood. She held up her hand.
“High five, Matt,” she said, and I gave her a slap and headed home.
***
Saturday morning, I got up early. Dad’s eyebrows nearly shot off his face when I said I’d go to Berk’s with him. When we got there, Mrs. Widrig said Berk was still asleep, but he’d be glad to see me when he got up. She pointed us to some cinnamon rolls she’d baked and bustled off to work.
Naturally Berk can sleep in, I thought. He may not see his dad much, but at least both his parents have real jobs. Then I felt ashamed about thinking that, and picked up a sponge and helped wash down the wall area where the backsplash was going.
As we worked, Dad asked questions about Cassie, casual-like. When I’d come downstairs last night and said Cassie didn’t want me to tell them anything, Mom and Dad had tried to accept that. Of course, they’d said, a thousand times. If that’s what Cassie wants, we respect her wishes. But, they’d said.
That’s how it started. But if it’s serious, we’re sure you’d find a way to tell us. But if we can help, we know you’d say something. But this, but that, but something else.
Now Dad started in again. “It’s wonderful you show such respect for things Cassie tells you in confidence,” he said, glancing back and forth from a sketch to the tiles he was setting out on the counter. “But if she asked for advice, and if you’re not sure what to say, we’re eager to help.”
“I know. But I promised Cassie I wouldn’t tell you.”
“All right.” He sighed, pointing to the counter. “This is the pattern Mrs. Widrig wants. When the wall’s dry, we’ll put down the adhesive and set the tiles, starting at the center. We’ll have to cut some tiles to make everything fit. That takes time. Measure twice, cut once—that’s the rule. We’ll keep checking to make sure everything’s level, and we’ll wipe off excess adhesive as we go. Then we let the adhesive dry, and tomorrow I come back and grout.”
“It’s more complicated than I thought.”
“To make everything come out exactly right, yes. But Mrs. Widrig will end up with an attractive backsplash. It’ll change the look of the whole kitchen, make her happier every time she fixes a meal here. That’s not a small thing. I’m not ashamed of working with my hands, Matt. As long as I’m helping people, I’m satisfied. If that’s what Cassie’s upset about—”
“It’s not.” I hesitated. “I was surprised by your decision. Maybe you didn’t like some policies, but is that worth quitting over?”
“In this case it was.” Dad touched the wall tentatively, then leaned against the counter. “The way I see it, my job was to help customers get the best possible result at the lowest possible price. Neil Edson sees things differently. If one company will sell us an inferior product—plumbing fixtures, say—at a price that lets us make a bigger profit, Neil thinks that’s the product to push. I tried to go along with him. It’s not my job to challenge my boss in public, so I kept my mouth shut when other people were around. Several months back, Neil decided that wasn’t good enough. He said I had to show more enthusiasm, speak up when we met with customers and support whatever he said.”
“He asked you to lie?”
“Essentially. I can’t do that. Keep my opinions to myself sometimes, yes. Lie, no. So I left.”
I thought about my talk with Graciana. “Isn’t it better to fight back?”
“It’s hard to fight back against the person who signs your paycheck. Neil said if I wanted to be on his team, I had to be a team player. I guess he has a right to say that, since he owns the company. So Mom and I decided I couldn’t be on Neil’s team, not on his terms.” He paused. “You think that was a mistake?”
I shrugged. “It sounds like taking the easy way out.”
As soon as I’d said it, I felt sorry. Dad winced. “This isn’t so easy. At my age, going door to door, asking people if I can please fix their toilets for a few bucks—you think that’s easy? And of course I’m worried about money. Mom is, too. But if I’d lied and acted enthusiastic when Neil gave customers bad advice, I’d be sacrificing my integrity. I’d hate going to work every day, and I’d be setting a damn shabby example for you and Cassie. Sometimes, walking away is the best way to stand up for yourself.”
He’d been bullied, too, I realized—not the way Cassie and Graciana were, but Neil Edson had tried to push him around. Dad had fought back the only way he could, and it’d taken courage. Lots of people would’ve given in to save their jobs. “I’m sorry, Dad. I never knew you were going through that.”
“Mom and I didn’t want to worry you until we’d made a final decision. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe, if we’d let you know what was happening, it wouldn’t have been such a shock when I said I’d quit.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to criticize him at such a tough time, but this was important. “And maybe—well, you and Mom always act like you don’t have any problems. Sometimes, that makes me feel like if I have problems, something must be wrong with me. It makes me think if I tell you things, it’ll burst your bubble, like, and you won’t be able to handle it.”
“My goodness, Matt.” He looked at me like he’d never seen me before. “I’m sorry. We always thought we should protect you and Cassie from worries. We thought if you felt you had a secure base at home, you’d be able to deal with outside problems better. I guess we were wrong.” He gave me another super-close look. “Is there something going on now? Some problem you haven’t wanted to tell us about?”
I touched the wall. “Feels dry. Should we start the adhesive?”
As we worked, we talked. When I said I was worried about college, he shook his head. “You’re going to college. Mom and I have college money set aside for both you and Cassie, and nobody’s touching it for any other reason. Plus we’ll take out loans. Almost everybody does that these days, and Mom and I will pay them off, so you won’t have to start out burdened by debt. And maybe you’ll get a scholarship.”
“I wish. But I’m not good enough to play Division Two basketball, let alone Division One, and Division Three colleges don’t have athletic scholarships.”
“It wouldn’t have to be athletic. Colleges have more general scholarships—for academics, leadership, community service. You could try for those.”
“With my grades? I don’t think so.”
“You do fine in math and science. I bet you could pull your other grades up, too. You’ve still got time to make a difference for this semester. Next fall, if you push, you can show colleges what you’re capable of. And you’ll probably be captain of the basketball team. That shows leadership, and your work on this memorial issue shows community service.”
Except Dr. Lombardo canceled the memorial issue, I thought, and she may not let me play basketball at all. But I couldn’t tell Dad that.
Around eleven, Berk came downstairs, still in pajamas, eyes half-closed. When he saw me, his eyes popped wide. He grabbed some cinnamon rolls, mumbled about making phone calls, and ran back upstairs. He’s embarrassed, I thought. He feels sorry for me. That’s dumb. I felt almost proud I was up and working, while Berk was still lying around.
When half the tiles were up, Dad and I ate the arugula sandwiches Mom had packed. “I’ve had a decent first week,” Dad said. “Slow, but that’s how small businesses start. So far, I’ve only gotten handyman jobs, but if I do good work and keep my prices reasonable, word will get around. Contracting work will come. I hear some out-of-town investors might buy Twin Dogwoods Manor, finally bring it back to life. Maybe I could get that job.”
Twin Dogwoods Manor—the burned-out resort on Lake Charlotte, not far from where Nina Ramsey died. Thinking about it made my shoulders go stiff. I felt close to Dad today, closer than I had in years. It’d be a relief to let loose and tell him everything that was going on. But that’d be crazy. Or would it?
He had me set the last tile. “Take a s
tep back,” he said. “What do you think?”
I looked it over—an intricate pattern of beige and warm browns and almost-pink, every line straight, every color blending smoothly into the next. “It looks fantastic.”
“I think so, too.” He put his arm around my shoulders, sort of awkwardly. “Thanks for your help. Without you, this job would’ve taken much longer and wouldn’t have turned out half as well. And I’m glad we had a chance to talk.”
“Me, too.” He should’ve told me about his problems at work sooner, I thought. He and Mom should’ve trusted me to handle those worries. Should I trust them to handle my worries? “I want to talk to you some more,” I said. “To you and Mom both. I have something to tell you. But not until Cassie goes to bed. I have something to tell her, too, and something to show her.”
Thirty
We stood in the backyard, facing each other, out by the pink-trimmed playhouse Dad built for Cassie years ago. She doesn’t play there anymore—she’s too old, she says—but she still brings a book out sometimes and sits at the little kitchen table to read, and she still sweeps it out and rearranges things in cupboards. Now, she stood a few feet from the front door, looking at me doubtfully.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said. “I don’t think it’ll help.”
“I bet it will. And it’s easy. You can definitely do it.”
“I don’t know. Anyhow, I can’t hit people in school. I’d get in trouble.”
“You won’t hit. You’ll block. When people get obnoxious, you’ll protect yourself. You won’t get in trouble for that. You won’t hurt anyone.”
“And I won’t get hurt?”
“Not a chance. Come on. Show me what they do. They come up to you in the hall, and they—what?”
She took a step toward me. “They say, ‘High five, Cassie!’ And they stick their hands in my face, like—”