Instead, she put on her blue jeans and a modest blouse whose hem touched the top of her empty belt loops.
By the time Anne-Marie got to the kitchen, her mother had gone to work, and her father was about to leave as well. He was trying to straighten the knot in his tie while drinking coffee at the same time. Since he liked to drink his coffee with a cup and a saucer, his task was all the harder.
While she was nibbling around the edges of a toasted bagel, but not actually eating much of it, her father said, “Your front fender is primed, and I’ve found a perfect paint match at Carl’s Auto Body.”
“I thought it was in the shop for a timing belt or something.”
“They replaced the timing belt, but as long as the car was there, I decided it would be good to go ahead and fix that ding in the fender.”
“Great,” she said, trying to sound as if she really meant it. She’d never had much enthusiasm for her father’s hobby of restoring old cars. A car was to drive, as far as she could see. “Is it okay if I drive it?”
“Not quite yet. I’ve still got the primer covered for protection. I can’t afford to get any moisture on it. You can drive the Chevy, though.”
Anne-Marie sighed. The Chevy was a green-and-white ’57 Bel Air, a real classic. A lot of people thought it was ultra cool, especially the boys at school. “Okay,” she said.
“Did you make any progress on the term paper last night?” he asked her.
“Only a little,” she lied. None whatsoever would have been more truthful.
“You have to stay with it, Anne-Marie. It’s important.”
She took a deep breath while she watched bagel crumbs tumble to her plate. She was calm. “I’m working on it,” she said again. “I know it’s important.”
Her father dropped the subject to say, “When your car has that new coat of paint, it’ll be just like new.”
Just like new, she thought. But now she knew that the only new that really mattered was her new self in Jesus. He makes all things new, the Bible promised. She must have been lost in thought after that, because the next time she looked up, her father had left.
On the way to school, she remembered how big and boxy the old Chevy was; it seemed like she was driving a train. As bad luck would have it, the first person she met in the school parking lot was Richard Bone. Currently her ex-boyfriend, but also one of the snares. One of the goats. She’d had sex with him several times, but no more. She no longer carried condoms in her purse. Although she now needed ways to fend off his groping, he was mostly good-natured about being rebuffed—usually because he was buzzed on marijuana. He tested her faith each time the two of them found themselves alone.
“Wow. How cool is it?” he said, referring to the Chevy.
“Probably not as cool as you think,” she replied.
“Bullshit,” he said. “This car is prime. It’s ultra prime.”
“If you say so,” Anne-Marie replied. She opened the back door to get her books. “But I don’t know why you have to say bullshit.”
He ignored the reprimand. “What’s up with your own car?”
“My dad is painting my front fender. The paint’s not dry enough or something.”
“He’s probably just got the primer on it. So why didn’t you drive the Beamer?”
“My dad would never let me drive the Beamer. You know that.”
Richard said, “Hey Anne-Marie; you want to mess around?”
It was just like him, coming out of the blue. “Get real.”
“No, seriously. We could just skip school and drive out to the lake. Look at the weather; is this a day to waste in classrooms?” He had the silly grin on his face. There was no telling if he was high or not. He often was. What he usually said was Anne-Marie, please show me your tits. So this was better.
“I decided not to try out for the play” he informed her. “I’m burned out on theater.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Anne-Marie declared.
“Give some other people a chance; that’s the way I see it. What did you hear?”
“I heard Mr. Burns kicked you out because you were smoking pot while you were building sets.”
Richard shrugged before he said, “The rumors are rampant, I guess. Either way, it’s the same result.”
“He could have turned you in, you know. Consider yourself lucky he didn’t call the cops.”
“Choices, choices, choices, Anne-Marie. Life is all about choosing, huh? Speaking of the lake—”
“Who’s speaking of the lake? Not me, that’s for sure.”
“The Chevy’s got that big backseat.”
“Oh please. Besides, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t like talk to me that way anymore. Backseats are just for extra passengers.”
“Oh, I forgot. You found Jesus.”
“And I’d appreciate it,” she said as politely as she could, “if you didn’t talk to me that way, either.”
“Well just excuse me all to hell.”
“It’s been two months since we broke up, Richard. Get used to it.”
“But you have cleft my heart in twain.”
“Shut up.”
“Never was pain so sweet as mine that I can ne’er forsake it.”
“Stop it!” He must be high. Even though he was one of the goats, in some ways she liked him better now that they weren’t in a relationship—she could enjoy him more as a friend than as a boyfriend. “Save your Shakespeare for the stage.” She put her books into her backpack.
“I’ve got condoms,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “It wouldn’t please the Lord if I had sex with you.” By this time, they were headed toward the building.
“But you want to anyway, is that what you’re saying?”
“Part of me does, but that’s the part I have to put behind me.”
“You’re really gone on this religious trip, aren’t you?”
“You could put it that way. The real thing is I’ve found the Lord and want to serve him.”
“How about a hand job sometime?”
“Then all I’d be is like a sexual toy to give you pleasure. You can take care of that yourself. You can even find mechanical hand jobs on plenty of Web sites.”
“You visit pornographic Web sites?” he asked.
“No. Brooke tells me about them.” They fell in with other groups of students approaching the front door.
“Have you ever seen Jesus of Montreal?” he asked her.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a movie.”
“No. I’ve seen Jesus of Nazareth. He’s the only one that counts.”
“You sound like a programmed windup toy, Anne-Marie. Anyway, in Jesus of Montreal, there’s this woman who services this priest from time to time. Her friends ask her why. Want to know her answer?” They were waiting in line for their turn to squeeze through the doors. Richard was now concealing a burning joint in his cupped hand.
“Not really,” she said.
“Her answer is, ‘It gives him so much pleasure and it’s such a small sacrifice on my part.’” He dropped the joint and crushed it beneath his shoe.
“That’s supposed to impress me? That’s just lame.”
“No it’s not. It’s a unique way of looking at it. If Shakespeare were alive today, he’d probably wish he’d thought of it.”
“Okay, then you and Shakespeare can think about it. Richard, all I can do is be your friend. If you can’t accept that, then I’m sorry.” Maybe she didn’t like him better this way—it gave him too much leeway to be a smart-ass if he didn’t have anything to lose.
“Maybe I can do that; let me think it over. Flexibility has always been one of my strong points.” Then he added, “See you round the flagpole, huh?”
“Stop being obnoxious.”
Second-hour English class was both a breeze and a relief. Mr. Shamsky got so wrapped up in Hamlet that he quoted long passages theatrically, instead of asking any of his hard questions that put people on the spot. Just b
efore the end of the period, though, Anne-Marie got a slip from one of the runners. She read it over twice while Mr. Shamsky explained how Hamlet was modernized in the movies by Mel Gibson and Kenneth Branagh. The note was from Vice Principal Rosario and said, “See me sometime soon about make-up work.”
When the bell rang, Anne-Marie decided to skip the resource room and go to regular study hall, because she liked the atmosphere better.
She found an empty computer and tried to work. She wrote: “There’s a controversy about Canada geese in the northwest suburbs.” She stared at the sentence. She changed it: “There’s a controversy about Canada geese in northwest suburbs like Hoffman Estates and Crystal Lake.” That was better. It was more specific. Even so, she found herself stumped.
Then Brooke showed up; without a word, she pulled one of the computer chairs over. She read the sentence on the screen. “How’s the term paper going?”
“You’re looking at it. One sentence.”
“This is all you’ve got?”
“It’s all I’ve got, okay? Isn’t that what I said?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
“It’s just … it’s just … I can’t seem to get anything going.”
“That’s called writers’ block. Want me to help you?” asked Brooke. “I will if you want.”
“No. I have to do this myself.”
Brooke said, “I’ve been reading about the Canada geese thing in the Sun-Times. The most disgusting part is the way they go about getting to the nests so they can shake the eggs.”
“What’s that? What do you mean?”
“I mean the mother geese are nasty about keeping their nests safe. They are even known to attack. That’s why park workers and forest officers use metal garbage can lids as shields to keep them away while they invade the nests and shake the eggs.”
“But that’s disgusting,” said Anne-Marie.
“Totally.”
“I’m glad you told me though,” said Anne-Marie, “because I can use it in my paper.”
“Well, that’s good then,” said Brooke with a laugh. “I guess I helped you after all.”
“I guess. But think about this: You know more about my own subject than I do, and I’m supposed to be the one doing research. How am I supposed to feel about that?”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’ll do fine. It will all work out.”
“It will all work out for you. Here’s how it’s all working out for me.” She showed Brooke the note from Rosario.
Brooke merely shrugged. “So? It doesn’t mean you have to go today. It just says sometime soon.”
“Maybe I will go today,” said Anne-Marie. “It might be better to get it out of the way.”
“Up to you.” Brooke shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”
“Maybe I should just do it now. This is study hall.”
“Not now,” her friend replied quickly.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got something to tell you. You’ve got to hear this.”
“Tell me what?”
“Chris Weems asked me out.”
“He asked you out? But you said he’s gay.”
“He is gay. But he asked me out anyway. Can you believe it? He tells me he’s gay, then asks me out.”
“Shut up.”
“No, for real. He wants to take me out so he can overcome being gay.”
“But what does that mean?” Anne-Marie already felt sorry for Chris Weems, despite the fact she didn’t know him very well. It was too fascinating, though; Rosario’s note would have to wait.
“He said I was beautiful,” Brooke replied.
“Well, you are.”
“And the same to you. I only wish I had that bustline of yours. Anyway. He said if he went out with me, he might be like attracted to a girl. Or at least he would have a good chance.”
Anne-Marie was still confused. “Did he mean you were supposed to do something about it? Did he mean he wanted to make out?”
“Maybe. I didn’t ask. But can you believe it?”
“So what did you tell him?”
Before she answered, Brooke took her small mirror from her purse and began to check her makeup. “I told him maybe,” she said.
“Maybe?”
“I told him if he took me to the Billy Joel concert over at Ravinia, I might think about it.”
“But why? Why would you want to go out with a guy who’s gay?”
“Just for fun, I guess. I mean, in a way it’s kind of a hoot, don’t you think? Besides, I just love Billy Joel.”
“Billy Joel is out of touch,” said Anne-Marie.
“Billy Joel is never out of touch,” Brooke said. “He writes all of his own songs, arranges them, performs them, and always draws huge crowds even with high-priced tickets. People who are great musicians are never out of touch.”
Anne-Marie didn’t feel like arguing. She didn’t even know what arranging a song would involve. Brooke was a violinist, so she had a much stronger grasp of music.
What did seem to matter was the integrity of it. “But that would be like just using him,” she said quietly. “Those tickets would be expensive.”
“Don’t worry about it. He changed his mind. He said he couldn’t go to the concert because he had to go to another one of those tabernacle meetings.”
“You mean with Brother Jackson?”
“If that’s his name. He’s moving on to some other place, so Chris says he doesn’t want to miss out.”
Brother Jackson is moving on? “When is he moving on? Where is he going?”
Brooke shrugged again before she answered. “How would I know? Wow, that guy really got to you, huh?” She snapped the mirror back inside her purse.
Anne-Marie felt a sudden nervous stomach at the center of a whirlwind of pressing emotions. If Brother Jackson was leaving, where was he going? When? Was it any of her business? Chris Weems was gay. That was a sin, pure and simple. Still, you were supposed to love the sinner at the same time you hated the sin.
“I think he’s real spiritual,” she finally said to Brooke.
“Whatever.”
Agitation plagued Anne-Marie all the way to the counseling center. She was supposed to be headed to biology, but a sudden burst of guilt and apprehension about her term paper stopped her.
The counseling center had a large waiting room outside the actual offices. Anne-Marie took a seat at one of the round tables. At the next table a couple of boys wearing Sacramento Kings athletic jerseys were seated. One of them was Marcus Toney a basketball star. Wearing their Kings caps backward, they sprawled in their chairs, laughing and talking. How could they be so insolent? Anne-Marie wondered. They could be given detentions or even suspensions within the next few minutes. Don’t they know where they are? And yet, a part of her admired their indifference.
While she waited, she found her mind wandering into the past, landing on a stinging memory that took her back to October, when she and her parents met with Mrs. DeShields. Anne-Marie had expected the garden-variety pep talk about organizing study time more effectively, but Mrs. DeShields had dropped a bomb: “I’d like to test Anne-Marie for attention deficit disorder,” she said.
For some moments, Anne-Marie and her parents were speechless. “Attention deficit disorder?” her mother had finally responded. “I don’t understand.”
“I believe a good deal of Anne-Marie’s academic difficulties may have something to do with a learning disability. I don’t think we’re talking here about a lazy student who simply won’t apply herself. She and I have talked a number of times about her distractibility and inability to focus when she does her schoolwork.”
“A learning disability?” Her father had immediately dismissed the entire notion. “Are you trying to tell us our daughter ought to be in special education?”
Anne-Marie had been horrified enough to echo her father’s words: “You want me in special ed?”
“No, not exactly,” the counselor
had replied.
“You want me in LD/BD classes?” The idea was simply mortifying.
“No, not exactly, I said. But I would like to test you for ADD to see if it may be a factor in the academic underachievement that seems to be your pattern.”
Her father had leaned forward in his chair with his hands on his knees. “This is crazy. Anne-Marie is a college-bound young woman. And in the middle of her senior year in high school, you’re trying to tell us she’s learning disabled?”
Then her mother joined the conversation. “What is attention deficit disorder? Even though I’ve heard a lot about it, I’m not sure I understand what it is exactly.”
“It’s an inability to focus,” Mrs. DeShields had replied. “Or maybe better said, it’s the inability to maintain focus. People with ADD don’t seem to be able to get on task or stay on task. They can’t sequence. Their distractibility and restlessness undercut their ability to stay connected with projects. Particularly academic projects. They seem to return to the same material again and again without moving ahead productively.”
Anne-Marie had wanted the conversation to end right then and there. But her mother wanted more information: “If Anne-Marie has this learning disorder, why are we finding out about it now? She’s already seventeen years old!”
“We may not be finding out anything,” the counselor had replied. “That’s why I’d like to test her. As for your question, all I can tell you is that the system is not perfect. Special needs students aren’t always identified by the ongoing testing that students participate in. Sometimes people slip through the cracks.”
“Are you telling me,” her father had demanded in his stern cross-examination tone, “that our daughter may have had an undiagnosed learning disorder all these years?”
“I’m telling you it’s possible.”
“And that could happen after twelve years in school, twelve years of achievement tests, aptitude tests, and all the other standardized testing that students go through?”
Mrs. DeShields had simply repeated herself by saying, “Yes. It’s possible. As much as we test, our systems aren’t perfect.”
Her father had kept boring in: “If the school systems’ assessment patterns could be that incompetent, what would be the purpose of another standardized test at this point? Is there any reason to believe this one would be more accurate or useful?”
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