All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  The bus braked with a huff and the doors flapped open. Mr. Kiernan, skinny as a skeleton, leaned out of his seat holding the handle. His fingers were so bony that it didn’t seem there could be enough muscle to do anything.

  “Hi, Mr. Kiernan.”

  He gave her a friendly nod and grunted as he pulled the door shut behind her. Alison’s was the next to the last stop—the kids closer to town had to walk—so the bus was almost full. It was also pretty loud, in a bubbly way. Alison spotted Maggie, Delaney’s best friend, and J.J., who was friends with everyone, sharing a seat near the back, and scanned around them for an empty one. A lot of the kids, the boys mostly, were pushing one another and scrambling in and out of their seats like the cushions were electrified, so it was hard to see the free seats.

  An eighth grader next to her shouted, “Look, everybody! Twins!” He pointed a few rows back where Dolores Gordon sat by herself.

  Alison couldn’t believe it. Dolores had on the same shirt as she did. The exact same shirt. One kid after another looked at her, looked at Dolores and burst out laughing. Her cheeks burned. She took a step back. Maybe she’d get off the bus, tell her mom she felt sick. But the bus started moving—it had to be a slugfest before Mr. Kiernan would say anything, much less stop driving—and she grabbed a seat back to brace herself for the sharp turn coming just past the bridge. If she could’ve crawled under the seats, she would’ve. Abashed. Such a better word than “embarrassed.” “Embarrassed” was soft and silky. “Abashed” hit you in the teeth.

  Dolores had been staring out the window. All the shouting got her attention. She noticed the pointing fingers swinging between her and Alison and broke into a wide grin, showing a mouthful of yellow buckteeth and her gums. Everyone hooted louder, and some boys started chanting, “Twins! Twins! Twins!” Dolores laughed, too, snorting and wiping her nose with her palm and slapping her other hand on the seat in front of her, rocking back and forth, back and forth.

  Alison stood frozen in the aisle and avoided all the faces, especially Maggie’s and J.J.’s. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She glanced at Dolores Gordon, hoping somehow she was magically wearing a different shirt. No such luck.

  She’d always felt sorry for Dolores. She got teased a lot about her teeth and her greasy hair and the fact that she was bigger than anyone in the seventh grade, boys included. And there was way more than her looks to feel bad about. The Gordons lived down by the old mill, ten of them in a couple of trailers, and Jim Gordon, her father, was a mean drunk. The Gordon boys—all six of them—carried bruises on them as they ranged down River Road and through town on errands of mischief and worse. Dolores was the middle girl and had problems in school like Lester, although she missed a lot of school. It made no sense because school had to have been way better than those trailers, especially in the winter. Anyway, Dolores might have looked a little scary, with her sticking-up hair and her hands like catcher’s mitts, but she was sweet. Anyone could see that.

  The boys had shifted around and blocked the other empty seats, forcing Alison to take the only one left, next to Dolores. Alison moved down the aisle and plastered a smile on her face, which she knew for a fact was as red as her hair.

  “Hi, Dolores. Can I sit here?”

  “Sure!” she yelled. Everyone started laughing again, including her.

  Alison sat and arranged her book bag on her lap. Two boys from her class spun around in the seat in front and gawked at them.

  “Take a picture, it lasts longer,” Alison said. She twisted to face Dolores. “By the way, I like your shirt.”

  The bus ride took two forevers. Alison got off and headed straight for the girls’ room near the gym, the only one they were allowed to use before school started. She passed a couple of girls who said, “Hi” and waved. Alison rushed past, letting out a “hi” in a squeaky voice she didn’t know she had. She whizzed around the corner by the trophy display and ran smack into someone, an adult.

  “Alison! Where’s the fire?” Aunt Janine held her by the shoulders.

  “I’m going to the bathroom. I’m—” Tears stuck in her throat. She hid her face by staring at the floor and squeaked her shoe on the freshly polished linoleum.

  Janine lifted Alison’s chin. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Her aunt had on a hot pink cardigan over a blouse the color of vanilla ice cream. Her hair hung over her shoulders in perfect waves. She was so pretty, all the time. “It’s stupid. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. Come in here a minute.” Janine led her down the hall to a quiet corner by the girls’ locker room. “Okay, so what’s the story?”

  Alison told her about the shirt, how she only had two new ones, how she knew it was stupid to get upset about a shirt. She started crying and felt even stupider.

  Aunt Janine pulled a tissue from her skirt pocket and dabbed Alison’s face. “You know, I’ve got some things at home I never wear that I think you might like. Nice things. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  Alison wasn’t sure she wanted grown-up clothes, but anything was better than the plaid shirt, which she could never wear again. “Thanks. That’d be great. And do you think you could give me a ride home after school? If you’ve got stuff to do, I can wait.”

  “You bet. Now you better skedaddle. The bell’s about to ring.” She gave Alison a quick hug and hurried down the hall to the office, heels clicking.

  Alison watched her go and fought off the sickening guilty feeling that came from a moment’s wish that her aunt was actually her mom.

  • • •

  They filed into the gym behind the other sixth grade class for assembly. Alison scooted in beside Delaney and, to her great shock and happiness, Delaney didn’t do what she did last year when Alison did the exact same thing: tell her to take a long walk off a short pier. Instead Delaney said to her, “Isn’t Mr. Bayliss the bee’s knees?”

  “Yup. And the cat’s pajamas, too.”

  J.J. was on the other side of Delaney next to Maggie. “What about Mr. Bayliss’s pajamas?” They all groaned. “Okay, so don’t tell me,” J.J. went on. “And just so you know, Mrs. Dorfman is super copacetic.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Wait till she sits on you.”

  Mr. Kawolski, the principal, called everyone to attention and made the two new teachers get up and say something. The first one taught third grade. She was short with a tiny face surrounded by tons of frizzed-out hair, like one of those monkeys in National Geographic. The other one was Miss Honeycutt, Lester’s new teacher. She could’ve walked right out of the Sears catalog. Her hair was even shinier than Delaney’s, plus she was a blonde, which mattered for reasons Alison had never understood. Miss Honeycutt didn’t seem stuck-up, though. She stood in front of the microphone and her hands pulled at each other.

  Davey Weiner was behind Alison and whistled under his breath. “Get a load of the fox.”

  Tommy said, “Makes me wish I was a retard.”

  “Wish granted, spaz.”

  All Alison could think about for the rest of the assembly was that Delaney was not just her summer friend, something to be tossed away when school started like a worn-out pair of flip-flops. She was her actual friend. For keeps.

  Back in the classroom, Mr. Bayliss told everyone to start reading White Fang. He went around the room, talking to each kid about the books on their summer-reading list. Finally he made it to Caroline LeClerc, who was sitting behind Alison. Caroline was shy and whispered her answers.

  Alison looked up from her book. Mr. Bayliss was standing next to her. She’d never been this close to him before. Unless you got into trouble, you never got close to a teacher until you were in their class. She felt nervous having him right there. But good nervous.

  “Nice to meet you, Alison.” He picked up her list off her desk and read both sides. “I’m really impressed with this.” He smiled at her
.

  He had a great smile. Mr. Bayliss was so nice, even nicer than everybody said. “Thanks, Mr. Bayliss.”

  “Your parents must be very proud of you.”

  Alison could tell he expected her to say that they were, like it was automatic. Alison felt tears gathering behind her eyes. She looked down at White Fang and bit her lip. All she could think about was her mother, how she didn’t seem to care about her much anymore. Her belly twisted and she bit her lip harder. The words in front of her ran together into rivers of sentences that slid off the page. She would not cry. Not again. Not in front of Mr. Bayliss.

  He squatted next to her and touched her arm. “Are you all right, Alison?”

  She nodded. What else could she do? She was not going to cry.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

  Alison made herself look at him and nodded again. It wasn’t okay, but while she was here, where Delaney was her friend and Mr. Bayliss was her teacher, she’d pretend it was.

  13

  Carole

  Carole happened to be out by the pumps when Janine drove up. Someone had emptied their ashtray onto the pavement right next to the trash can and it was up to Carole to deal with it. Walt was under a car, of course, and Lester was organizing screws and bolts, talking to himself or to his father or brother—Carole honestly couldn’t tell. Warren was in the garage somewhere, too, or on an errand. She’d given up keeping track of everyone. From her desk she’d seen the driver dump the ashtray and drive off and had headed out with her dustpan and a resentful lump in her chest. Not that she minded cleaning. How could she mind it? It would be like minding her life since it seemed she spent it tidying scrubbing sorting filing adding (subtracting) washing polishing. Walt did, too, come to think of it, fixing cars that had met with disaster or simply worn out from use or the passage of time. So much of life, maybe all of it, was making right the disordered decaying broken world.

  Creation. Whatever happened to creation much less recreation? She created breakfast or a meat loaf or chocolate pudding from a mix but that was about it. God had his seven days and since then all people could do was try to keep up with it all coming to pieces falling apart falling down we all fall down.

  Ashes ashes.

  She swept the butts and ashes into the pan and slid them into the garbage wincing at the smell wondering if the insides of the lungs of whoever made the mess smelled as bad as that. Would serve them right if it did and messes in places deep and hard to reach are hard to clean up. A laugh bubbled up and she didn’t know what was funny. She turned to go inside where it was quieter or not actually quiet but inside she knew where to expect the crowd sound to come from, how to hum into her ears loudly if she was by herself to drown out the other ones that weren’t in the crowd. They had ideas of their own that weren’t hers but were in her head yet were hard to shake away break away drown. Drown out. Down and out. So she hummed them out.

  Voices pursued her. She couldn’t make out the words and was almost inside the side that was in not the side that was out inside out like a sock pulled off in a hurry. Keep your insides in. Keep your outsides out. Sounded simple simple Simon Simon says touch your nose touch your head. Touched head. Dead.

  “Hi, Mom!”

  This voice came from the outside, she was sure. But it also came from the inside. Maybe it had always done that. She hesitated at the door. Her daughter appeared at her side.

  “Oh. Alison.” Her face was overflowing with happiness and it rushed into Carole. She smiled at her, reached out to touch her face but fell short and brushed her daughter’s arm. She looked past Alison and noticed a red LTD backing up on the lot near the road. Janine’s car. Janine scar. Scarred. Barred.

  Alison said, “Aunt Janine gave me a ride.” She showed Carole a shopping bag. “We stopped at her house and she gave me some of her old clothes, only they aren’t really old at all.”

  “Clothes? Oh.” She concentrated on her daughter’s face and ignored the rivers of unanswered questions flooding her mind and pulled up an idea that she quickly inspected and called normal. “Ask her if she wants to come in, okay?”

  “She’s coming. She has paperwork for you.”

  Paperwork. So much paper. So much work. Carole didn’t want it. Too late. Janine was crossing the lot.

  Alison stared at her. “Are you okay?”

  “Hmm? Yes. Of course.”

  Her daughter frowned. “Aren’t you going to ask about my first day?”

  Janine said, “Hi, Carole.”

  “Hi, Janine.”

  “I sent the form to you, remember? For Lester?”

  “Did you?” Carole noticed Alison staring at her, mad. Bad.

  “We talked about it on the phone. It has to be on file. Same thing every year. It isn’t like you to forget.” She sighed and waved the papers in her hand. “I brought copies.”

  Janine was mad, too. Everyone was mad bad sad. Carole wanted to run away inside or out. She stepped back.

  Janine said, “Aren’t we going in?”

  Alison yanked open the door. “I am. I’m starving.”

  “I can’t do them now.”

  Her sister gave her a look and thrust the papers at her. “Have it your way.” As she started for her car, she said, “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carole said. Too late.

  She followed Alison into the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Mom! My favorite.”

  There on the table was a cake, pineapple upside-down right side up. She’d made it in the morning she remembered now because mornings were best and she didn’t want to forget. She’d created something and she smiled at Alison because she’d created her, too, red hair and freckles and boundless energy and secret thoughts and arms and legs that kept getting longer.

  Her daughter dropped her bags on the floor and threw her arms around Carole, who took one sharp breath in and Alison was away again and taking down plates and opening drawers and pouring milk.

  “You have some, too, okay, Mom?” Alison was fast. The knife was already in, slicing a lifesaver-shape of pineapple into two pieces that couldn’t save even one life. One knife.

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  They sat at the table and Carole had milk and couldn’t remember the last time she had or why she hadn’t but she didn’t have long to think because Alison was talking about her teacher and Delaney and a new teacher and another new teacher and Lester and White Fang.

  She caught it as it whizzed past. “White Fang?”

  “Uh-huh. Jack London. Did you read it?”

  Carole paused in her concentration on her daughter’s words to turn inward, where her memory of WhiteFangJackLondon would be kept if it was kept anywhere and the crowd noise was there louder now that she was staring in and not out inside out upside down and a sinister figure colossus loomed guarding the tall library stacks where she first thought to look for WhiteFangJackLondon so she backed away in her mind and shut it out but without knowing it, did it on the outside too. She opened her eyes and Alison was staring at her so she spoke over the voices loud now.

  “I’m not sure I have. Maybe in school, like you.”

  Her daughter hesitated as if she’d seen something disappear around a corner and thought about chasing it. She finished her cake in two bites two bits two bites and Carole was glad over the noise everywhere she contained and shrunk from.

  Alison pulled clothes out of a bag at her feet. It was like a magic trick with colorful scarves coming out of a hat one after another.

  “And these three are golf shirts, but no one would know that, they’re just really good shirts and they’re a little big but the colors are pretty, don’t you think?”

  Carole nodded.

  “And she gave me these cardigans. The green is my favorite. And next time she goes to Burlington—she goes all the time, I never knew that, did you, Mom?—she
’s going to pick up some school shoes for me. She knows my size now and I told her you would pay her back.”

  Pay her back payback. Alison was talking and the pile of clothes on the table became all the clothes her daughter had worn since she was born. A pile of tiny dresses and hand-knit sweaters in white and rose-petal pink with appliqué flowers and one with rabbits on the collar Alison’s favorite when she was older and put them on her stuffed animals. Piles of tights and overalls and shorts sets and dresses with bloomers and more piles of coats and sweaters and rain jackets and shoes boots sandals hats mittens a length of yarn between the pair to keep them together never lost.

  “All this stuff is so neat, isn’t it, Mom? And this dress, I just love the sailor collar, don’t you? If you have time, maybe you could take it in and hem it. Aunt Janine said it would be perfect. Do you have time, maybe?”

  “Time?”

  Alison held up a navy shift dress. “To make it fit.”

  “Sure. Sure I do. Just leave it in my room.”

  “Cool! I’ll go put it on and you can pin it.”

  And she was gone.

  • • •

  The next morning, after the children had left for school, Carole pulled the ironing board from the hall closet, set it up in the kitchen and brought down the pile of wrinkled clothing from the flowered chair in the bedroom she couldn’t remember ever being used for anything else. On top was the navy dress. She flipped it over and saw the pins and went upstairs again for her sewing kit. To make it fit.

  Carole sat at the kitchen table, poked thread through the eye of the needle, and pulled it through with pinched fingers. She secured the folded hem to the skirt with practiced movements, darting in and out of the fabric, stitches spaced evenly and pulled taut until invisible. The motion stirred memories of splitting the seams of her own clothing and remaking them for Janine.

  After their mother went to Underhill to rest, her aunts bought her clothes, beautiful clothes, more than once a season, more than she could begin to wear out. Summer dresses and matching hats from boutiques on Cape Cod, woolen coats and cashmere scarves and fine cotton underclothes and flannel nightgowns from Barneys and Macy’s, shoes and boots in fine, soft leather, always appropriate for her age and in fashion, but never flashy. It was, after all, Vermont, and the Giffords were staked to tradition.