“Not right to say what I said. How I said it! Oh, God.” She starts pacing again.
“Just relax!”
“Relax?! I’m going to get fired—for what? For you? You don’t even like me!” We face each other in the hall. Casey stares me down, panic-stricken, waiting for me to say something. But I can’t. I don’t know what to say. She’s right, isn’t she?
She turns her back to me and changes directions twice more before deciding to go into the main office. She shuts the door before I can follow her inside.
—
Students flood the hall between periods. Casey still hasn’t left the office. I wonder how long I should wait for her. I wish I knew what she said to Mr. T; it must have been pretty harsh. Damn, that would have been fun to know. I work my way to my locker, slowly, giving Casey more time. If she doesn’t come back soon, I don’t know how I’ll make it through the rest of my classes. I’m not voluntarily going into that office, though. I’ll wait.
I unlock my locker but the door jams and gets caught on something. I pull harder and it jerks open. A paper bag falls to the floor. The folded top must have been crammed between the hinges of the locker. “Hey, HERE” is written on the front.
How does YP keep getting into my locker? I don’t want to open the bag in the hall in front of everyone, but I’m growing more invisible by the day. No one’s going to notice anything.
The contents of the bag:
Three spray tops: one stencil cap (fine lines), one pink dot cap (super-fat spray), and one gold dot cap (a happy medium).
A disposable respirator.
Black vinyl gloves.
A note written on a “Hello, my name is” sticker:
I put everything back in the paper bag and push it down into my black bag, which I’ve just started using as my normal, boring backpack. My folks have given up on the at-home inspections.
Why do I even bother locking this thing anymore? I slam the door shut before I realize I’m in the hallway by myself. The door to the office opens and the vice principal, I think, steps out. He searches around, catches my eye, and waves for me to come over.
“Your——is—-—-so—say——to—tha—--ifthatsokaywithyou.” He talks so fast and jittery I’m surprised I caught even that last bit. I take my phone out of my coat pocket. The screen has a big red splotch of paint on it. I try scratching it away with my nail. Seeing it sets something off in him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and points to the phone, annoyed.
“No phones—-a the——s—.” He points to my cell one more time to drive his point home. I leave the paint alone for now and type into the notes app.
I do not understand you. i am sorry.
He takes the phone from me and his eyebrows arch up, his mouth makes an O shape, and he starts feverishly typing.
Your translator has quit. I asked her to finish out the day, but she refusd.
What i do now
Go to your classes.
How will I understand?
try fora bit someone else is on th way.
He hands the phone back to me and shoos me off to class in the wrong direction.
—
Going to class without a terp would be the biggest waste of everyone’s time. I can’t believe she actually left. That was the plan, get her to quit, but I didn’t think she would really give in. She seemed tougher than that. I don’t think I can even take the credit for what set her off anyway.
With her gone, nearly everything is going how I pictured it, with the exception of YP breaking into my locker. I wonder who can see me now. Anyone?
I stand as still as I can in the entrance of the school. Main doors in front of me, gym directly behind. Cafeteria to my left, office to my right. How long will it take for someone to notice me standing here, doing nothing?
I start pacing along the front doors, all the way around and back. I switch and go in the opposite direction. Still nothing. Everybody’s in class. Pacing gets boring. I sit under the pay-phone bank. I wonder why we still have them. I’ve never seen a kid pick one up and use it.
I take out the paper bag again. There’s no way I’m going. She can paint all on her own. I might go after, to see what she does, but I don’t have to be there for it, or participate. Plus, I can’t exactly copy her tactic for buying paint. Not so easy to flirt it up when you don’t speak the same language.
Which doesn’t matter, because I’m not going. When class lets out, I pace around and around again. Waiting for someone to bump into me or call me out for cutting. To yell at me to get back to class, to throw something at my head. Anything.
—
Nothing.
I did it. I’m actually invisible.
No one cares.
Perfect.
I take out one of my mops and tag both of the pay-phone receivers.
No one notices. I sit underneath them and sketch out more signs in the dictionary I’m sketching for Katz. I add the signs for fire, liar, and hurt. Being invisible is boring.
—
You know what, I’m not giving YP the chance. Or the satisfaction. I’m retaliating right now. Not waiting for the end of the week and the wee hours of the morning, to show up and be shown up. This. Ends. Now. I zip up my bag and stride toward the art room, invisible and unstoppable. I’m Julia. I’m on a mission. I’m HERE.
Unsure if there’s a class in session, I approach Room 105 very slowly. The art gods, once again, shine down on me. The room is empty and dark. Most important, it’s unlocked. This will only take a minute.
The door swings open and I beeline for the supply cabinets. I don’t waste any of my attention on the latest art projects hanging on the walls. I’m here for only one thing. Paint.
Last time I took the first three cans I could reach. But this time, I’m putting an end to our war. It needs to be better than anything we’ve done together. I pull out a few more cans and inspect my color options.
I’m instantly drawn to a can of yellow. Old habits die hard. I shake it up. No good: I can feel it’s almost empty. I’m going to need a lot. I’m not planning this one out. No more plans. I have to take the fluorescent orange, that’s for sure. I shake it up and put it in my bag.
Shake-test a can of red, a can of teal. Take ’em. Shake up a can of white, take it. Shake up a—
The lights flick on and off, and the can of purple I was holding falls to the ground. Can I make it to the window? I don’t want to turn around, can’t bear to see the look on his face. The lights flash again. I’m frozen, breathing deeply, trying not to have a panic attack.
“Julia.” Mr. Katz comes over to me and signs. His eyes, they stab me in the heart. I can’t look at him.
“Julia, please…” He points to himself. I look up, my lip trembles. I’m mortified. I can see he is having a hard time figuring out how to talk to me. It’s the longest minute of my life. Silence is the loudest sound.
“Where C A S E Y?” he finally asks.
“Q U I T,” I tell him, head hanging down toward the floor. When I look up, he’s no longer disappointed. He’s pissed.
“Let’s go.” He takes my bag and gestures for me to follow him out of the classroom.
Mr. Katz didn’t plead for leniency on my behalf, but he evidently didn’t bring up the paint, and I’m sure as hell not about to. I could have sworn he told the principal that he would call my parents to address the situation, but that never happened. I would take a whole week of in-school suspension in exchange for sparing me from that phone call. I was only sentenced to a day. God bless you, Mr. Katz.
The only good thing about being stuck in ISS is that I don’t feel the need to look for an interpreter until I’m released. I spent an hour here yesterday, sitting in utter silence with the temp terp they must have called in, phone obscuring his face all afternoon like Magritte’s apple. Nobody’s on my case to find a new terp until I wait out my sentence and I’m allowed to talk again.
I sit here in the tiny cell of a room, door open, across from the offi
ce. Alone. I was told to wait for a pile of work from my classes. So, I’m waiting. And waiting. They gave me a sheet with the rules so I don’t get “confused.”
IN-SCHOOL SUSPENSION RULES AND REGULATIONS
1. No talking at any time.
2. You are permitted to do only the work provided for you by your teachers. If you do not complete the provided work, you will receive a zero grade for the day.
3. No reading.
4. No drawing.
5. No cell-phone use.
6. You will sit in your assigned seat with both feet in front of you, facing your desk.
7. You will keep your area neat and clean. Trash can be disposed of only on a break or at the end of the day.
8. You will be allowed to purchase a lunch. You must eat your lunch in the ISS room.
9. No other food, gum, candy, etc., will be permitted.
10. Bathroom and water breaks will be provided. If you must use the bathroom, speak to Mrs. Gomez. You are permitted to be in only the ISS room and the office.
11. Sleeping is not permitted.
ISS is all about waiting and no gratification. I put my head down to wait for my assignments and Mrs. Gomez comes in and starts yelling at me, pointing at the intercom over and over. I take out a notebook and write out: “I AM DEAF. SORRY.” She crosses her arms over her giant boobs and taps her foot.
“You—-—-can pretend——but I know——that never——ever—” I cut her off by waving the paper again. This time I speak, so she’ll actually believe me.
“I’m really Deaf. I’m sorry.” She turns three shades of red, and I sit a little taller having put my jailer in her place.
“Oh!” She raises her thick arms to make a desk and puts her head down on it. Then she wags her finger back and forth.
“No, no, no, okay?”
“Okay,” I laugh as she bustles out the door.
Twenty minutes later, still no assignments. I count the tiles on the floor. I count how many people pass by in green shirts. Blue shirts. Red flannel. Mr. Katz walks by ISS swiftly, glancing back over his shoulder as he disappears out of view. Making sure I’m there. I look up at the ceiling and count those tiles.
Mrs. Gomez is back, arms crossed, at the door. She looks down the hall and crooks her finger in the air as if to say, “Come here.” She punctuates it by pointing at the floor, sharp and stern: “NOW.” She holds out her hand, and Kyle Fucking Stokers reluctantly hooks his backpack over it. Mrs. Gomez tells him where to sit, shuffles in behind him, and hands him a copy of the same welcome-to-hell sheet. She opens his backpack and hands him one notebook and a pen from inside. The rest she zips back into the bag, which she brings into the office with her. I wonder what happened to my black bag.
KFS slams his notebook down on the desk and pushes the chair against the wall. He yells something at the door, spit flying from his mouth. A vein in his neck is raised and purple. It’s intimidating. I try not to stare. Either Mrs. Gomez is using the intercom, or he’s having a conversation with the ceiling, or God. Whoever it is, KFS is pissed.
“What’re you looking at, retard?” I guess I am staring. I sign the word for nothing and look back down at my desk.
“Listen…” He gets in my face, pointing.
Before he can let it rip, Gomez is back in the room, scolding him. I can see why they put her in charge of the ISS kids. She doesn’t stand for any shit. Except instead of yelling, she sort of scolds you, like a mom. A very strict, no-nonsense mom.
“You’re———it worse, Kyle. I don’ wanna——ackere——orrow, kay?” I bet she’s got an accent.
“Whatever.” KFS slumps in his chair.
“Good boy.” Mrs. Gomez smiles and turns on her little kitten heel.
—
Eventually, someone drops off a pile of papers for me and another for him. I start on my math sheet. The rest of the papers look like busywork; they have nothing to do with what we’ve been working on in class. KFS sits staring at the door, not even looking at the stack of papers on his desk.
Isn’t he bored out of his mind? Sure, I don’t want to be sitting around filling out worksheets, but the alternative is staring into space for six hours. I wish I had that kind of resolve.
“You need the bathroom?” Mrs. Gomez asks from the doorway. Kyle practically bum-rushes her on his way out. I don’t have to go, but a change of scenery would be nice, even if it’s only toilets and sinks. Mrs. Gomez waits between the bathroom doors for us to finish before ushering us back to our cell.
My head hurts. I need caffeine. I slide my head down onto my history paper and close my eyes. This only lasts a moment before I’m jolted back into reality. KFS kicks my chair. “————head up, re-mem-ber?” I give him a thumbs-up.
“Shut up with that,” he snarls.
“What?” I act out, raising my shoulders, arching an eyebrow.
“You know,” he says.
“No, I don’t.” I shake my head.
He turns to face me and starts in on a rant, talking so fast I don’t even try to lip-read. Instead I focus on his expressions, but he really exhibits only one. Contempt. I didn’t get him sent here. I don’t know why he’s here with me. What’s he so pissed at me for? I raise my shoulders again, trying to get him to stop. I hold up a finger and write out in my notebook:
I cant understand you
He rips the notebook from my hand and starts scrawling his response.
stop acting like your so fucking cool. your not. all you are is a bitch.
and youre a dick. what do you care anyway
i dont care about you at all. but if she gets sick again. thats on YOU.
Mrs. Gomez shuffles back into the room: it’s time for lunch.
—
I thought having Casey sit with me at lunch was bad. This is so much worse. Everyone knows, and everyone gossips. We aren’t allowed to go to the cafeteria and come back alone. Mrs. Gomez waits in the lunch line with us. Our ankles might as well be shackled together.
We both point to our selections. Even though KFS can speak, he doesn’t. Mrs. Gomez chats happily with the lunch ladies and other kids in line. Everyone loves her. Everyone who’s not in ISS, anyway. It feels like all eyes are on us when we leave the kitchen. I miss my little table outside, looking in.
I spot YP: floral-print yoga pants, white top, suit jacket. Her hoop earrings are so huge you could use them to hula. I hate that my first thought is: Shit, she looks cool. She doesn’t have a lunch tray. She’s texting or Tumblring, sucked into her phone. Frowning.
“What—-—-do, man?” a guy in a jersey asks KFS. He glares back, and the guy takes the hint. What did you do?
Mrs. Gomez chaperones us through lunch. Once we’re back in our cell, I can see she’s lecturing KFS, but not in a condescending way. She obviously cares: her gestures are gentle and expressions are soft. Every now and then I get a sympathetic glance, but nothing more.
Once she leaves, I flip open my notebook.
Shes not my responsibility
See you are a bitch. i knew you werent really friends with her
you dont know what you’re saying. i was a really good friend for her.
then you ditched her or some stupid shit right?
how you know any of this
you got all friendly and fucking ditched her, and all im sayn is if she gets sick again its your fault.
MY FAULT? YOU DITCHED HER all because she got FAT. YOU BROKE HER HEART.
shut up
YOU broke up with her when she got FAT
fuck you
I throw the book at his chest. He stands up, his chair crashing into the desk behind him. He glares down at me. I’m not afraid, I stand straight up and meet him face to face. Try me.
“You,” he spits, “you don’t…” Kyle slumps back into his chair and looks up at me. “You don’t—————. It can’t -- -- me anymore.” His eyes water, he turns away to hide them. Why wouldn’t it be on him? He’s the one who broke her.
I pick my notebook up off the floor and hand it to him.
She never had friends, she always hung out in the art wing doing her art thing whatever. No one gave a shit about her cause she was fat i guess? thats what she said to me. i took a class with her. i was like the only dude to ever talk to her. so she went and got herself all skinny and pretty and made cheer and friends. and she said she was happy, and i liked her and yeah we went out and shit. but i noticed that she never ate, and was always sick and she said she was happy but she wasnt.
He wipes his nose with his sleeve before going back to the note.
and one day she fainted at my house and it was just too much for me to handle. okay??? i have my OWN shit to worry about too you know? im not her dad im just a guy. so i told her dad and he sent her to get help. but after that i was just done. she’s a chill person or whatever but i can’t handle that. I didn’t break up with her cause shes fat. i dont give a shit if she weighs a fuckton. i got her better and thats all i could do. and NOW you’re fucking it all up.
The rest of our ISS sentence flies by. It’s 2:45 and we’re reunited with our backpacks and cell phones.
“Be good—-,” Mrs. Gomez urges as she locks the door behind us. Free to go. Thankfully, there aren’t many students hanging around to stare, so we brave the halls on the way to the parking lot. I break away for my car, but Kyle stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“What now?” I use my voice; I’ve had enough of him for a lifetime. Especially after today.
“Don’t fuck it up.” He thrusts his finger into my chest. I swat him away, ticked.
“Don’t touch me, okay? Stop that. You understand me?” I’m talking to him out loud, my throat feels dry and scratchy.
“Yes.” He backs off. “It’s just—”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He speaks slowly, wanting me to understand him. “Because I really did try to help her and—”
“I get it, but listen—” I start. “You listening?” Kyle nods but doesn’t hesitate to roll his eyes. “I know you did what you had to do. I understand why. But that doesn’t make you some kind of saint.” I feel my voice catching in my throat on certain words, but he looks annoyed, which means he must understand what I’m saying. “You were horrible to me. All year. Awful. You don’t get a free pass.”
You're Welcome, Universe Page 17