Bad Apple

by Laura Ruby

  “Very funny. If I test out of all the basics, I can graduate early.”

  “And do what?”

  “Whatever I want.”

  “Which is?”

  There’s silence. Then: “You’re being an asshole.”

  “No, I’m making a point. How about doing something you want to do for a change, instead of something your mom thinks you should do?”

  “And you honestly think I want to help you break into a school?”

  “Of course you do. You’ll be helping me to be a rebel while turning into a rebel yourself. Plus, when was the last time we did something together outside of lunch in the cafeteria?”

  “I made out with you in the art room.”

  “What have you done for me lately?”

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “Fine. I’ll meet you.”

  “And in case my mom calls, tell your phone that I’m sleeping at your house. We’re going to a seminar.”

  “If you get me arrested,” she says, “it’s not going to look good on my applications.”

  School, hospital, school, hospital. I spend the next few days going back and forth between the two. Sometimes Grandpa is better; sometimes he’s the same. The doctors tell us to be patient, that the pneumonia is gone, he’s off the antibiotics, and his body will return to normal. And then they remind us that Grandpa is a very old man and that “normal” is relative. Helpful, those doctors. My mother grills them so hard that they now run the other way when they see her coming.

  It’s Saturday afternoon. I tell my mom that June and I are going to the movies and then attending a Sunday seminar on college admissions. Mom’s thrilled. She buys me a brand-new notebook and a pack of fancy pens so that I can take notes. She says she will kiss Grandpa for me.

  The school parking lot is packed, and random groups of kids roam the grounds. The building lights are off, but someone has shoved a piece of cardboard between the side entrance door and the jamb. We slip inside without anyone noticing. June is disappointed, because she really wanted to try out her father’s tools.

  But she gets her chance when we get to Mr. Mymer’s art room. The outer door isn’t locked, but the door to the supply closet is.

  “The first step,” she says, “is to insert the tension wrench into the keyhole.”

  “Bored!”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  She kneels by the door, inserts the tension wrench—which looks more like a skinny screwdriver—and then another pick. She jiggles the picks around, listening for a click. She has to jiggle for fifteen minutes before the door opens.

  “Remind me never to rob a bank with you,” I say.

  We creep into the dark closet and close the door behind us. We’ll have to hide for a couple of hours, long enough to make sure that the school is empty. I brought a backpack with my paints, brushes, a camera, a deck of cards, and a flashlight.

  “What? No snacks?” says June.

  “Crap,” I say.

  Two hours and a nap later, we’re pretty sure the coast is clear. We carefully open the door to the supply closet and sneak from the room. In the hallway, we listen for sounds of football players or cheerleaders, janitors or teachers. Nothing. It’s horror-movie dark. It’s horror-movie quiet.

  “Boo,” I whisper.

  “Oh, shut up,” June says.

  We creep to the front of the school, to the long white hallway across from the principal’s office. It’s freshly primed, blank, and perfect.

  While June randomly texts, I unpack the paints and brushes I brought. Like I thought, I’ll need more paint. We go back to the supply closet and load up on big tubes of acrylics and some larger brushes. I grab an extra palette for mixing colors, some charcoal for sketching, and a roll of paper towels. We make one last trip for a short stepladder. And then I’m ready.

  There’s a banging noise. I jump. June grins.

  “What’s that?”

  “Snacks,” she says. She runs around the corner. I hear her unlock the front door. A familiar voice echoes in the hallway.

  June comes back around the corner, Seven behind her. He’s carrying a thermos and a tin box with snowflakes all over it. He opens it and shows me about a dozen expertly frosted cupcakes. All have the number 7 on them.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where did you get these?”

  “I made them,” he says.

  “You made them? From a mix?”

  “Are you kidding? Didn’t I ever tell you? I want to be a pastry chef.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You really are.”

  “I really am what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  While I sketch out what I want to do on the wall, June and Seven sprawl on the floor. They play cards and take turns holding the flashlight for me. We ask one another what’s your favorite color; what’s the most embarrassing song on your iPod; what would you do if you won a million dollars in the lottery; if you had to choose between riding an elevator for six months straight or being completely bald for five years, which would you pick?

  After they fall asleep, I hold the flashlight for myself.

  At about two in the morning, I take a coffee break. It’s cold and it’s gross, but I drink it anyway. Then I slip June’s phone from her hand and creep down the hall so that I don’t wake them up.

  I know he’s still awake. He never sleeps.

  “Wha? Hello?”

  Okay, now he sleeps.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Tola? Is something wrong?”

  “No, everything’s okay.”

  Sheets rustle. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I thought you’d be awake.”

  “Is she crazy?” a woman’s voice moans. “It’s two A.M.”

  “Look, Dad. Sorry I woke you. I just wanted to let you know that the school needs to see you on Monday morning for a meeting.”

  “This couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, it couldn’t.”

  “Monday? What’s this about?”

  The woman: “We’re not available Monday.”

  “That’s pretty short notice, Tola. I just don’t see how I can swing it. I’ve got work, and Hannalore is preparing to show a new artist at the gallery. I hope you understand.”

  I say, “Dad?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Hannalore can bite my apple.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t think that’s called for.”

  “And so can you.”

  “Tola, I—”

  “Bye, Dad. See you Monday, bright and early, seven thirty.”

  I paint all night.

  When I get back home on Sunday afternoon, tired and wired, I find my mom at the door, jangling her car keys. “They’re transferring your grandfather to a rehab center,” she tells me. “We have to sign some paperwork, move him by ambulance, and get him settled into the new place.”

  “A rehab center? Does that mean he’s getting better?”

  “I hope so,” she says, and hugs me. She’s been hugging us a lot since that day we screamed in front of the bathroom door, hugging us so much that Madge bleats, “Will you please get off me, Mother?” even though you can tell she doesn’t really mean it.

  It’s just me and Mom on either side of Grandpa Joe’s bed. Madge and Grandma Emmy are at the nurses’ station asking about Grandpa Joe’s favorite sweater, which Grandma insisted she left in the closet and is now missing. Grandpa is dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He looks about ten years older than he did just a month ago. But his eyes are open, and he’s sitting up.

  “When do I get out of here?” he says.

  “When the nurse comes, Dad,” my mom tells him.

  “You said that a half hour ago.”

  “Mom has them looking for your sweater.”

  “I can buy another sweater,” he says.

  “Tell that to Grandma,” I say.

  He sighs. “She made me that sweater. She’ll turn th
e whole hospital upside down until they find it.”

  “So you answered your own question,” my mom says. She strokes his hand like you’d stroke a wounded animal. He is a wounded animal. There are purple bruises on his arms where the IVs had been.

  “I hope they have better food at this place you’re taking me to,” he says.

  “If they don’t,” my mom tells him, “we’ll bring you food from home.”

  “You can bring me my stove from home, and I’ll cook myself. The rest of you are hopeless.”

  My mother’s eyes fill with tears. Because she isn’t hopeless, I guess. The hope is what keeps her going. And maybe what kills her.

  “I love you, Mom,” I say.

  She’s startled. “I love you, too.”

  Grandma Emmy and Madge walk back into the room empty-handed.

  “No luck?” my mom asks.

  “No,” says Grandma. “I hate this place.”

  “You said it,” Grandpa adds. “Can we go now?”

  “The nurse will be in soon.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” says Grandpa Joe, but as soon as he says it, the nurse with the eighties hair and the gun-toting husband shows up with a wheelchair.

  “Are we ready?” she says.

  “I was ready a month ago,” says Grandpa Joe.

  Mom and the nurse help Grandpa Joe into the wheelchair. I grab his bag.

  “Tola,” my mom says. “Check the closets and drawers one last time, okay? I don’t want to leave anything else behind.”

  I check the closets and then the drawers. Behind the curtain, Grandpa’s roommate coughs.

  I peek around the curtain. He’s sitting up, too, his broken ankles propped up in strange casts that look like space boots. And he’s wearing my grandpa’s sweater. I’m about to say so when he sees me.

  “Babydoll?” he whispers.

  Maybe he needs the sweater more than we do.

  “Good-bye,” I say. “Stay warm.”

  After we get Grandpa settled at the rehab center, I tell my Mom that the school wants to have a meeting early Monday morning.

  “Is this about Mr. Mymer?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  Now that Grandpa seems to be doing a little better, she’s ready to kick some ass. Mr. Doctor drives. Madge tags along. Grandma Emmy does, too, because she’s getting bored at home all alone.

  On the way to school, Mr. Doctor thumps his palms against the wheel and the vents blast warm air. My sister jams to her iPod, and Mom and Grandma zone out. It’s snowing, the light kind with the big, fat flakes that land softly on the windshield. I open one of the windows all the way. I lean outside and catch the snowflakes on my tongue.

  “Tola! It’s bloody cold, you idiot!” says Madge.

  Mr. Doctor just laughs.

  My family files into the school, stamping the snow from our feet. I lead them around the corner to the principal’s wing. The principal is waiting outside his office with the school psychologist and a few teachers, staring at the newly painted wall.

  “Wow,” says Madge, stopping to gape.

  “Did you paint that?” says Grandma Emmy.

  “Huh,” says Mr. Doctor.

  “Let me guess,” says my mom. “You weren’t at June’s. And you didn’t go to any college seminars over the weekend.”

  “Mrs. Riley,” the principal says. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  A few minutes later, my dad and Hannalore make their way down the hallway, glancing at the crowd of us in confusion. My dad has a new haircut that makes him look like some over-gelled reality show host. Hannalore has lost some weight on her black rice and fish diet, but not in a good way. It’s made her pale and hunched and raw-boned, like an underfed polar bear.

  “Dick,” says my mom. (To be fair, it is his name.)

  “Anita,” says my dad.

  Mom turns to Hannalore. “Hello, Hanna.”

  “Hannalore,” says Hannalore.

  “Right,” says Mom.

  “Hi, honey.” Dad hugs me with his free arm. Hannalore puts her large head near my face, massages the air with pinched red lips, and then smoothes her white-blond updo as if the effort to be affectionate was too much for her hairpins.

  “We’re here for the meeting,” my dad says.

  “What meeting?” sings Madge. “There is no meeting.”

  “There’s no meeting?” Dad says.

  Hannalore points at the painting on the wall, sighing in annoyance. “But I think there’s a showing.”

  On the wall, I’d painted a mural in a bunch of different panels:

  Rapunzel Gets a Cat

  Prince Charming Is a Brown Dude

  The Evil Queen Weeps

  Beauty Sleeps

  The Robber Bride Butchers the Devil

  The False Princess and the Barrel Full of Nails (or, Chelsea P. Answers Her Own Question)

  A cat dashes between each panel. The border is a chain of clasped hands.

  I painted it way too fast. The proportions are off. The colors are off. Not everyone will get it. Most people won’t. And that’s okay. The most important story you can tell is the one you tell yourself.

  June and Seven come a few minutes later. So do Pete Santorini, Ben Grossman, and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name.

  “Tola!” June shouts, and runs over to me. Her cheeks are round circles of red, her pupils black and dilated.

  “Why are you shouting?”

  “I’m not shouting!”

  Behind her, Seven jerks his head toward Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name. I don’t understand. He jerks his head again, raising his eyebrows.

  And then I get it. June and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name? Is this even possible?

  “What is going on with you?” I whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  I lean in and whisper, “Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name?”

  June gets even redder and drops her head. “My phone kept calling his phone. That’s got to be fate, don’t you think?”

  I take the NASA phone and toss it in the water fountain.

  Me, my mother, and my father confer with the principal and the psychologist.

  “You broke into the school,” says the principal, Mr. Zwieback.

  “No, I didn’t,” I say. “There was a game. The door was open. I walked right in.”

  “We can’t leave this mural up,” he says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “But we can leave it up for the day, can’t we?” says the psychologist. She’s wearing yet another flammable suit. She must have a whole closet of them. “I think this is very important for Tola’s healing journey.”

  “We can’t have the school hallways used for students’ healing journeys,” says the principal. “And some of this material is not appropriate.”

  A voice pipes up behind us: “Are you saying that you’re going to censor this student’s artwork?”

  We turn. A woman points a huge camera at us.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Zwieback wants to know.

  “I’m Dana Hudson. Reporter for the North Jersey Ledger.”

  “We don’t allow reporters on the school premises, Ms. Hudson. You’ll have to leave.”

  “I have a responsibility to report the news,” the reporter says.

  “I have a responsibility to protect my students,” says Mr. Zwieback.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “She can stay.”

  “Good Lord,” says Mr. Zwieback as more and more students wander to the mural just to see what’s going on.

  For the record:

  1. “Hey,” says Pete Santorini. “Why does Rapunzel get a cat?”

  Ben Grossman sneers. “She’s trapped in a tower, stupid. It’s not like she can get a dog.”

  “Yeah,” says Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name. “Where would she walk it?”

  2. Seven stands back from the exhibit, admiring, grinning. “I already have my favorite picked out.”

 
; “I bet you do,” I say. I painted Seven as I saw him in my jock-punched dreams, bronze skin, silver eyes, crown winking with jewels.

  3. Dressed in her finery, a queen fills a porcelain tub with her tears. “Well,” my mom says dryly. “The evil queen seems to bear a remarkable resemblance to the artist’s mother. Everybody, be sure to get a shot of that one.”

  Hannalore laughs.

  My mother says, “You laugh now. Just wait until you have a couple princesses of your own.”

  4. Grandma Emmy stares at Beauty Sleeps for a long time. In it, an old grandpa dozes peacefully on a bed of rose petals. We stand together, her hand resting light as a kiss on the back of my neck.

  5. Madge is transfixed by The Robber Bride Butchers the Devil. It’s Madge, in the middle of a dark wood, with an ax slung casually over her shoulder. In front of her, a horned man in a vaguely German military uniform kneels with his head on a stump, waiting for the bite of the blade.

  6. “What is that supposed to be?” says Chelsea Patrick, stabbing a finger at The False Princess and the Barrel Full of Nails (or, Chelsea P. Answers Her Own Question).

  I could tell her the story, but I don’t feel like it. Art should stand on its own without any explanation, right? And I think the message is clear.

  I’ve painted a barrel lying on its side. Chelsea’s body spills from it, bloodied from the nails visible on the inside of the barrel.

  “It’s just a little project I’ve been working on,” I say. “It’s based on a fairy tale. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “What the hell does it mean?”

  I give her a hint: “It means you are your own punishment.”

  I could have tried it her way. I could have made up a website, pretending to be her, saying the most terrible things I could think of. I could have followed her around, filming her, and then doctored the footage any way I wanted. I could have spent a lot of time learning computer programs and technology to hide what I was doing.

  But that’s not me.

  I watch as she stares at the image, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself. I wonder how it feels to be this exposed. I wonder if it feels different to be painted rather than to be videotaped, if there’s something worse about someone drawing your bloody naked body stroke by stroke—every bump, every curve, every mark—and then nailing you in the heart.