Bull's Eye

by Sarah N. Harvey

  By the end of the week I have perfected my carved bull’s-eye, but I’m running out of wooden surfaces and I’m getting impatient. Carving a bull’s-eye takes too long, and you can’t carve brick or cement or drywall or do anything on a grand scale. I decide to graduate to spray paint. It smells bad, but it’s fast and forgiving. I find a half-used can of black spray paint under the kitchen sink. After a few practice runs on cardboard boxes, I can paint a bull’s-eye in less than three minutes with no drips. On Saturday I take the bus to a distant Wal-Mart and buy six cans of spray paint in a color called, appropriately, “Raving Red.”

  “Art project,” I say to the cashier, who stares at me blankly. She mumbles, “Thanks for shopping at Wal-Mart,” as she hands me my change. She won’t make much of a witness if I ever get busted.

  When I get home, Sandra is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking yet another cup of tea and reading a cookbook. She looks a bit better than she did last week. Not that I care.

  “Richard and Chris are coming for dinner,” she says. “I’m thinking of making this halibut dish. What do you think?” She holds the cookbook up to me and I glance at the picture as I walk past her on my way to my room. It looks amazing. She knows I love halibut.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I won’t be here, anyway.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “Please stay. Richard and Chris want to see you. They’re bringing dessert.”

  It’s going to take more than my favorite fish and a double chocolate mousse cake to get me to sit down for dinner with the un-mom. I have a sudden vision of me and Sandra and Richard and Chris laughing over the dinner table at my last birthday. Tears form in my eyes. I brush them away.

  “I’ve got plans,” I say. “Sorry.”

  She sighs and says, “We’ll save you some cake.”

  “Don’t bother,” I reply. “I’m on a diet.”

  Chapter Ten

  I paint my first big bull’s-eye that night. It looks amazing on the back wall of a gas station across town. Cheerful yet also slightly menacing. I go back the next afternoon to admire it, but all that remains is a faint pink shadow. It looks like blood seeping through a gauze bandage. A guy in paint-spattered coveralls is slapping whitewash over my handiwork. “Goddamn punks,” he says when I stop and stare. “It’s gonna take three coats. Reds are the worst.”

  I want to tell him that a) I’m not a punk and b) it’s stupid to cover up a work of art, but I’m not that crazy. Getting arrested isn’t part of my plan, so I mumble, “That’s really lame,” and head home, where I manage to avoid the un-mom by pretending to have killer cramps.

  Every evening after dinner, I go out. I lie to Sandra about where I’m going. I’m pretty sure she knows I’m lying, but she never says anything other than Don’t be too late, sweetie. She’s probably as relieved to get away from me as I am to get away from her, but I wish she’d at least fake an interest in what I’m up to. It’s not much of a challenge, lying to someone who doesn’t care.

  After the gas station, I decorate a Dumpster beside a convenience store. The next night I do a wall in an underground parking garage. I’m getting pretty good. I don’t get much paint on my clothes, and I wear surgical gloves so I don’t have to worry about my hands. I especially like brick walls. The paint doesn’t drip and it gives a weird 3-D effect to the circles. As I paint, I chant my little mantra—Circle One Emily, Circle Two Donna, circle Three Michael. Emily, Donna, Michael. It’s surprisingly calming. Or maybe that’s the effect of the fumes. Whatever it is, I feel better just hearing the little ball when I shake the can. I love the hiss of the paint coming out of the nozzle. By the time I’m finished I feel almost happy.

  Friday night there’s a jazz choir practice at school. I actually intend to go, so I don’t even need to lie to Sandra. Singing usually makes me feel pretty good, and I figure I could use the boost. I take paint and gloves because just having them in my pack makes me feel better.

  The closer I get to the school, the less I feel like singing or hanging out with people who think choosing a grad gown is an important life experience. By the time I get there, all I can think about is the paint can clanking in my pack. I notice, for the first time, that the walls of my school are brick. Beautiful brick painted a very pale peach.

  Instead of heading into the gym, I duck around to the back of the building. I find a blank wall next to the garbage bins. I’m in a hurry, so I do without gloves. I figure I can paint a small bull’s-eye and still get to choir practice, but the bull’s-eye grows and demands company. I paint another and another and another. I’m running out of paint when a car rolls into the parking lot behind me. I’m caught in the headlights—red-handed, literally.

  “Hey!” a male voice yells. “What’re you doing?”

  I’m not about to answer, so I lob the paint can into a garbage bin and take off across the soccer field. Whoever is in the car yells, “Stop!”

  I race through the park and make it home in record time. Sandra’s car is gone, so I’m safe for the moment. Safe and sound and really shaky. I don’t think the guy got a good look at me, and besides, it’s just paint. Nothing a coat or two of peach paint can’t fix.

  In the middle of the night, I wake up when someone pounds on our front door. I can hear Sandra talking to somebody and then my door opens. She says, “Emily, get dressed and come downstairs.”

  I mumble, “What time is it?” and try not to throw up.

  “Twelve forty-five,” she says. “Downstairs. Now.”

  I take my time getting dressed. When I get downstairs, Sandra is sitting at the kitchen table with two cops, having coffee. The smell brings another wave of nausea. Or maybe it’s the sight of my pack, sitting in the middle of the table.

  “Sit down,” says one of the cops, a woman with spiky, bleached blond hair. I sit across from Sandra.

  “That your pack?” says the other cop, a man.

  I nod.

  “Want to tell me what you were doing tonight?”

  “I went to jazz choir practice.”

  “I think you did a little more than that, Emily,” says the woman. “Can I see your hands?”

  I slowly bring my hands up from my lap and lay them on the blue placemat. There are red speckles all over my hands and wrists.

  “We’re going to have to get you to bring her to the station, ma’am,” the woman cop says to Sandra, who nods.

  The station, as in the police station?

  “Am I being arrested?” I squeak.

  “Kinda looks that way, doesn’t it,” says the guy as he stands up and heads for the door. “You know what they say—‘Don’t do the crime...’ ”

  I want to spit on him, but the look on Sandra’s face stops me. She doesn’t look angry. She looks the way she did when I broke my arm falling out of an apple tree. And when I got the flu so badly that I threw up for three whole days. And when I lost the sack race at the grade five sports day after I’d trained for weeks in the backyard.

  On the way to the police station she asks me one question. “What were you thinking?” I don’t know the answer to that, so I don’t say anything. I wonder if I’m going to get fingerprinted and whether they’ll throw me in a cell. I just want to get this over with so I can go back to sleep—somewhere, anywhere. I feel as tired as Sandra looks.

  When we get there, the two cops ask me questions and I answer them truthfully, since I don’t see any point in lying. I want a Pepsi in the worst way, but all I get is water. At the end of an hour I have confessed to vandalizing the school (they don’t ask about anything else) and my fingerprints have indeed been taken. I sign my statement and the woman cop says, “You can take her home. For now.” She smiles and her partner laughs at some inside cop joke. Sandra glares at them. “Someone will be in touch,” the cop continues. “Emily’s a good candidate for diversion.”

  “What’s diversion?” I ask in the car, thinking it doesn’t sound too awful.

  Sandra sighs and says, “Don’t get your hopes up, Emi
ly. You’re not getting away with anything.”

  That’s what she thinks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Turns out police diversion is a way of keeping first-time juvenile offenders out of the court system, which sounds pretty good to me. Until I hear that the offender (me) has to apologize to the victim face-to-face and do community service and go for counseling. I wonder if it’s too late to go to jail.

  “At least we’ll get free therapy,” Sandra says, cracking a tiny smile. Always the accountant.

  We, I think. We are going to therapy?

  My caseworker is a guy named Jeff with a very heavy Scottish accent.

  “Your mother and I have decided that this case requires a public apology, Emily,” he says. He sounds like a character from Brigadoon. Apparently I’m to stand up at a school assembly and tell everyone I’m sorry I painted bull’s-eyes on the school.

  “She’s not my mother,” I say.

  Jeff raises an eyebrow at Sandra. She shrugs as if to say, What did I tell you?

  “Couldn’t I just write a letter?” I plead. The thought of apologizing in front of the whole school is terrifying. I’d honestly prefer a cell with an open toilet.

  Jeff ignores me and continues. “You can do it any time in the next two weeks. Just let me know so I can be there. You also have to paint out your, uh, artwork and choose your community service from this list.” He shoves a piece of paper across the desk.

  I shut my eyes, circle my finger in the air three times—Emily, Donna, Michael—and bring it down on the paper. Bull’s-eye.

  I open my eyes and see that my finger has landed on the words Faircrest After-School Program—Cleanup next to a name and a number. I hand the paper back to Jeff, who says, “Faircrest? Good choice.”

  I stop listening as Sandra and Jeff bond over the details of my community service and “our” therapy. My thoughts are tumbling in my head like socks in a hot dryer. Everyone will laugh at me. I won’t have any friends. The kids at the day care will hate me. I won’t graduate. I’ll get kicked out of my house. I’ll end up on the street. I’ll start drinking and I’ll get depressed. In other words, I’ll turn into my mother. My crazy biological mother. Tears well up in my eyes and start to trickle down my cheeks. I feel a hand on my shoulder and Sandra’s voice says, “Come on, Emily. We’re done for today.”

  She takes my hand and leads me out of Jeff’s office. By the time we get to the car I am doubled over, sobbing uncontrollably. Snot is streaming out of my nose and into my mouth, which is open in a wail. Sandra props me against the car and takes me in her arms, stroking my hair and singing into my ear, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” She’s as crazy as her sister.

  I decide to get the apology out of the way, since it’s the thing I’m most worried about. I can’t stand feeling sick to my stomach all the time, even though the weight loss that goes along with it is kind of cool. There’s a regular assembly every second Wednesday, so I let the principal know that I need a few minutes to make an important announcement. She doesn’t ask what it’s about, so I assume she already knows. Probably the whole school knows. I only hang out with Jared and Christa now anyway—all my old friends are keeping their distance, maybe because I never return their calls.

  On Wednesday I throw up three times before the assembly—or, to be more accurate, I retch three times, since there’s no food in my stomach. When Ms. Appleton calls me out onto the stage, I can see Sandra and Jeff in the front row beside Richard and Chris. They are all smiling encouragingly, as if I’m about to play a violin solo or give a speech about helping the homeless. A little farther back, a tiny hand waves and I see Christa and Jared, who never come to assemblies. I feel weirdly honored.

  I clear my throat and say, “My name is Emily Bell. I painted bull’s-eyes on the back wall of the school and I’m very sorry.” That’s all I mean to say, but my mouth starts to move again. “I’m also going for therapy and doing community service and painting over the bull’s-eyes. I know there’s lots of rumors flying around, so here’s the truth: I’m not going to jail and I’m not quitting school and I’m sorry if I hurt anybody.”

  I look down at Sandra and she’s smiling at me and suddenly everyone is clapping and cheering and stomping their feet, as if I’d just announced that there would be free beer at school dances.

  Painting over my bull’s-eyes turns out to be almost as much fun as doing them in the first place. I have to buy the paint and brushes with my own money, and I find out that what the guy at the gas station said is true—red is a bitch to cover. But the whole thing is a totally backward Tom Sawyer experience—everyone wants to help, and I have to tell them that they can’t. So they hang out and talk to me while I paint and bring me Pepsi and Reese’s Pieces. Vanessa loads my iPod with new tunes, and Rory brings his speakers. Jared arrives with brownies that he says he made himself (who knew?), and Christa promises to give me a manicure and pedicure when I’m finished. Three coats and three days later, I’m done. The bull’s-eyes have disappeared. Ms. Appleton inspects my work and pronounces it excellent.

  After dinner that night I tell Sandra I’m going upstairs to work on a school project. In my room I write three letters of apology: I address one to the company that owns the Dumpster, one to the gas station and one to the people who run the parking garage. Inside each envelope is money for enough paint to cover my art and to pay someone to do the painting. I don’t sign any of the letters. I’m not crazy. Not yet, anyway. What I am is officially broke.

  On Monday I meet the therapist, whose name is Dr. Byron Handel. Sandra comes with me and we set up a schedule. I’ll go once a week and Sandra will join us once a month, which is a lot better than having her there every time. Dr. Handel doesn’t do much on the first visit other than ask me whether I understand the terms of my diversion and whether I’m willing to, as he puts it, give therapy my best shot. I nod and am surprised to find I mean it.

  Tuesday after school I take the bus over to Faircrest Elementary. As I walk up to the door that says After-School Care, a woman comes out and asks me if I’m Emily Bell. When I nod, a little girl with straight red hair barrels out the door, screeches to a halt in front of me and sticks out her hand. “I’m April,” she says. “Who are you?”

  “That’s a very good question,” I reply as I shake her grubby little hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twice a week I go to the after-school program, where I prepare snacks, wash dishes, wipe runny noses, sweep the floors and tidy up the toys the kids leave lying around.

  My partner in all these activities is April Cummings, who attaches herself to me like a limpet. A very chatty limpet. Most days, if I get all my other jobs done, I help her with her schoolwork. If we have time before her mom picks her up, we bake in the center’s tiny kitchen. April stands on a chair beside me at the counter, hands me ingredients and keeps up a running commentary—in song. “First we melt the chocolate, the chocolate, the chocolate,” she sings as we make brownies. “Then we add the sugar, the sugar, the sugar.” By the time the brownies are ready to go into the oven, April is covered in flour and chocolate and I am in hysterics. Her songs are so silly, yet they make me unreasonably happy.

  The first day we bake together, April peers suspiciously at the electric mixer and says, “What’s that?”

  “A mixer—you know, for the cookie dough.”

  “Oh. We don’t have one.”

  “How do you make cookies then?” I ask, scraping the sides of the bowl.

  “We don’t make cookies,” April says. “We buy them. In really big yellow bags. And my dad gets all the ones with chips in them.”

  “These’ll be better,” I tell her, “and you can have the ones with the most chips.”

  Her green eyes bug out and she starts to hum and then to sing a chocolate chip cookie song. She’s heavily influenced by Raffi, but that’s okay. Most musicians are sampling someone.

  My therapy isn’t as much fun as my community service. Dr. Handel doesn’t en
tertain me with silly songs, and I have to talk about myself, which I hate. He’s a patient guy, though, and pretty smart. He waits me out, even on the days when I lie down on his couch (yes, there really is a couch) and announce that I have nothing to say. He asks me a couple of innocuous questions and suddenly I can’t shut up. The next thing I know he’s pointing at his dumb Fritz the Cat clock and telling me our time is up.

  I’m not sure what happens in therapy—I don’t think anyone, even therapists, knows for sure—but I don’t feel as confused and angry and hurt as I did when I first found out about Donna. I’m still pissed at Sandra for lying to me, but I’m beginning to think she didn’t have much choice. I don’t tell her that, though. I’m not that evolved.

  By November, life has settled into a comforting rhythm. Two afternoons a week at the day-care center, one session a week with Dr. Handel. As long as there are few disruptions to my routine, I feel okay. Not fabulous, but okay. I’m like a baby who thrives on regular mealtimes, strict naptimes, familiar faces. I go to jazz choir and I study and I start eating the meals Sandra prepares. I have dinner at Duck Soup with Richard and Chris and Sandra. I call Tina every weekend and tell her how my week has gone, and she tells me about nursing school and her crazy roommates. I invite her for Christmas without asking Sandra if it’s okay. I know it will be.

  One day in late November, April and I are making gingerbread and she asks me, “Where’s your daddy?”

  I blink and tell her the truth. “He’s dead.”

  She stops stirring and says, “I wish my daddy was dead too.”

  “What?” I say, momentarily stunned. She’s only seven. I stare at her, but she looks the same as always: red hair, green eyes, small scar on her cheek, scabby knees, dirty fingernails. “Why?” I stutter, but it’s too late. She’s started a gingerbread song with about eighteen verses. The next time she mentions her dad is the following week, when she tells me he ate all the gingerbread she took home the week before. Maybe she wants him dead because he eats all the good stuff.