I turned around to look at Badman’s book. Only one problem done and redone and scratched out with big heavy dirty lines. Just like mine. Badman thrust out his chin. He glared across at Jackson. “Look at him, sitting there like he’s got a firecracker up his butt.”
On the other aisle next to Jackson there’s Asim. He’s the best in the class at math but I think Jackson might beat him now. Asim is like a walking calculator, but he’s very quiet about being smart. He always looks puzzled, as if he’s listening for something that might suddenly explain everything. His English is quite good now, but maybe his confidence is still low. It’s strange, he lives only two doors down, but I’ve never really talked to him. Asim was watching the new boy, too.
I put the clean dinner plates back in their drawer and the glasses in the cupboard above the sink. Jackson Ford. Jackson Browne. I like the music in his name. I like, too, the way he wears his hair a little longer than the other boys, the way it curls like a fallen question mark over his collar. I could make a list of all the things I like about Jackson Ford. He made me feel special this afternoon. With his musical living room, his streetwise life, his amazing story. When I think he was telling it all, just for me, I get a shiver inside. It’s the same sort of feeling I have when I sing. But the shiver’s never happened before without the music.
I remember when we were sitting on the steps, he pushed up his sleeves as if he was about to fight that security guy, Rocky. I noticed then the muscles in his arms. He’s lean, but his arms are strong and hard. I wanted to accidentally-on-purpose brush my fingers against the skin, just to see what he felt like. But I took the last cake, instead.
Later, when I get into bed, I start at the beginning and go over everything that happened in the afternoon. I have this hazy, warm sort of feeling in my chest. It’s like falling asleep in the sun, in the backyard.
Jackson is really brave. When I asked him more stuff about that casino boss, Tony, he just smiled at me. Smiled. I told him I’d be terrified if a guy like that was after me, it would obsess me completely.
“I just try not to think about it,” he shrugged. “It’s not so hard.”
Jackson tries to handle things all by himself, I think. He’s very mature. Mature and good-looking.
Oh, no, how can I have said that?
I sit bolt upright and throw the sheets off my legs. You should never say such things, even if you think them. You should never let a boy know you like him, right at the start. Should you? It’s like, well, jumping off a tall building and hoping this stranger’ll catch you before you hit the ground. How can you know he will? It’s just stupid. He thought I was stupid. He didn’t even bother to reply. Just stared at me as if I was a complete fool.
“Brainy and good-looking.” Ugh! I remember the words just coming out of my mouth, like a burp or a dream. My cheeks flame at the thought of it, as if I’ve stepped into a boiling bath.
I lie down again and try to close my eyes. But it doesn’t work. What if he tells the other boys? How do I know he won’t? What would Badman do with that? My life won’t be worth living. Now I’ll never get to sleep. And I’ll be too tired to sing well at the concert tryouts. Oh, me and my mouth!
I’ve barely opened my eyes when Mom comes into my room. She sweeps back the curtains and the sun blares in like a trumpet.
“Ez, remember I’ve got an appointment with your Mr. Norton this afternoon.”
“He’s not my Mr. Norton.” I watch her marching around the room like a Russian soldier, doing five things at once, as usual. She picks up my school shirt and dirty socks and yesterday’s undies. Oh, why is she so … her.
“Why aren’t these in the dirty clothes basket? You know I wash on Wednesdays. Really, you’re so disorganized, that’s your problem all over. So, as I was saying, I’m going to ask Mr. Norton about strategies your father and I can put in place to help you with your math. You know, Ez, I look at it like this: at the end of the day, it’s your father’s and my job to help you secure your future. That is the bottom line. We will assist you in the process of setting your goals and draw up a plan for working toward them.”
“Will there be any interest involved? And if so, what percentage do you think?”
“I beg your pardon? I’m sure you’ll find it all very interesting, if that’s what you mean. Now, time to go and take your shower. It’s nine minutes past seven.”
Oh, why was I born?
Lilly is sitting with Mitch on the bench under the paperbark tree when I get to school. They’re looking at color printouts, and a few kids are clustered around, peering over their shoulders. Lilly looks up and beckons me over. As I walk up to them, calling out “hi!” I spot Jackson strolling down the path toward us. I blush again, all over my body. What, is this going to happen every time I see him?
Jackson is walking faster now, toward the tree. I don’t want to greet him, with everyone looking. I’m still red and sweaty.
I do a sudden dog-leg turn, miming something to Lilly about the bathroom.
But out of the corner of my eye I see Jackson raise his hand. “Hey, Esmerelda! ESMERELDA!” His voice is as loud as the school bell.
I turn back. All the kids look up at me. They glance from him to me and back again. But Lilly keeps her eyes on Jackson. I watch her take him in, from head to foot. And then she gives her neon smile.
“ES-MER-EL-DAAA!”
It’s Badman, mimicking Jackson in a soppy soprano voice. He minces out from behind the tree, wiggling his stupid Badman hips. “Oh, Esmerel-daaa!” he calls again.
I’m paralyzed, as if lightning really has struck. My face must be scarlet. Sweat is breaking out like a flash flood on my top lip.
I know I should just make some smart comment and ignore him. Normally, I would. I used to be queen of Badman insults. Now I should say “hi” to Jackson and smile back at him, cool as hell. But I can’t. This has never happened to me before. I just can’t take everyone looking. I mumble something no one can hear and start toward the bathroom. But as I turn I see Jackson’s face. It’s open and bewildered, with all his feelings rushing across it, clear as day. Then suddenly it closes over. He reminds me of those night flowers, the ones whose petals just fold up at dusk until you can’t see the heart at all.
“Hey, where you going, Es-mer-elda? Can’t you see the new jerk’s in love?” Badman makes a kissy face, with his stupid fat lips pursed up like a chicken’s butt.
I look at him and shake my head. That’s all I can manage. I’m thinking about the way Jackson said “Esmerelda.” No one says my full name anymore—well, only Dad when he’s angry with me and then he says it short and sharp like bullets firing, and you can tell he can’t wait to get it over. But Jackson, he said my name as if he relished it—he went the long way around instead of taking the short cut. He said it as if he was enjoying the view.
When I get back from the bathroom Badman and the rest of the kids are still gathered around the tree. Jackson is standing in the same position, his hands in his pockets. His face is red, too. Oh, why doesn’t he just go? Maybe he’s rooted to the ground with shame, like I was.
I hang back. I’d like to help but whatever I say here will only make it worse. Won’t it?
“What’s wrong, girlie?” says Badman to Jackson. He flicks back imaginary long hair and waggles his hips again. “Cat got your tongue, or maybe,” he grins evilly around, “did you leave it with Ez?”
“Why don’t you shut up?” says Jackson.
Oh, walk away! Leave it alone, Jackson!
“Why don’t you?” spits Badman. His tone changes. He’s not playing now and his voice is like gravel. “You’re a jerk, Jackass.”
“You’re a seven,” says Jackson, real softly.
There’s a strange kind of silence.
“A what?” says Badman.
Everyone is quiet, trying to think what new kind of insult this is. Deep, he must be very deep, this new guy. I remember the Italian crossbow story, and smile.
“You’re dead
, Badman,” I call out. “He’s just pointed the bone.”
Badman is staring at Jackson. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. “Whaddya mean?”
Jackson says nothing. He takes his hands out of his pockets and takes a slow step toward Badman. Only a few inches from Badman’s face, he makes the sign of the seven with the crossbow in the middle. There’s a moment of total stillness. Jackson’s eyes are fixed on Badman. Jackson doesn’t blink, and a weird wheezing sound comes from deep inside his chest. He looks as if he’s possessed, haunted. As if he belongs to some mysterious martial arts cult. The seven samurais, maybe. His face is solemn like petrified wood. No one breathes.
The bell screams into the quiet. Badman jumps like a cricket. He starts to say something, tries to laugh, then lopes off toward the science labs. The rest of us follow. I look back to say “Good for you, Jackson” or maybe give him a high five, but Asim is there, slapping him on the back. How amazing! Asim looks so different when he smiles. I realize he doesn’t do that very much. As they pass on the way to the classroom Jackson doesn’t even look at me. He’s too busy coughing and talking to Asim.
“What don’t you like about seven?” Asim is asking. He doesn’t seem to be scared of Jackson’s wheezing bark or his weird cult impression. Just interested. “Is it because it is odd or a prime number or bad luck? Or is it because of the seven deadly sins?”
“Odd numbers make me anxious,” says Jackson.
I’m glad Badman isn’t around to hear that!
But Asim nods. “Have you heard of the idea of seventh heaven?”
Jackson shakes his head.
“Well, in the Muslim faith seventh heaven is the furthest of the concentric spheres containing the stars. It includes the dwelling place of God and the angels.”
Jackson’s face is all lit up. “That’s really interesting. I always felt seven had a mystical sort of power. Negative, of course, being odd. Murderous, sort of. But maybe I’ll have to reassess it—take this new angle into consideration.”
Asim nods solemnly. “It is good to see all the evidence before you make a judgment. About anything.” And he gives Jackson a long stare.
The way they walk into the classroom, you’d think they’d known each other all their lives.
“Hey, Ez, I’ve got the CD. Will we go to the music room and rehearse?” It’s Lilly, tugging my arm at lunchtime. “Mrs. Reilly said the tryouts for the concert will be straight after lunch.”
My mouth is full of peanut butter sandwich. I’ve been saving Mom’s lemon delight cake for last. Nothing is going to stop me from savoring that. I know it will be the best moment of the day.
“Ooh, is that a lemon delight?” says Lilly, peering into my lunch box. “Could I have it? I forgot my lunch today, probably because Mitch came by and we walked to school together. I forgot everything.” She giggles happily.
The light-as-air, custard-filled heaven is in her mouth and swallowed before I can even say, “Well, actually, I…”
She looks at my face. “Oops! … I did it again!” she sings.
That is the name of the Britney Spears song that we are about to go and perform before the entire school. It’s hard to think of a more cretinous title. Lilly waves the CD in my face and jumps up.
“I’m so nervous,” she says, hopping from one foot to the other. “Imagine, Mitch’s never heard me sing before. Thank heavens you’ll be there to keep me going. You know, Mitchell really likes you. He said we should go out in a foursome sometime. Who could you take? I know, that new boy. Jackson. He’s very cute, Ez, isn’t he? You know if it weren’t for Mitch, well—” Her eyes go wide and impossibly blue.
“Oh, come on, let’s get it over with.” I throw my wrappings in the bin, stuff my lunch box in my bag and stomp off toward the hall.
I can hear her running prettily behind me. My legs feel like blocks of concrete. Fat concrete.
“Lilly Pierce and Ez Marx, come up to the stage now.”
Mrs. Reilly peers down into the hall. We are sitting near the back with the other kids in our grade, so we have to pick our way through the crowd of crossed legs and feet. Mrs. Reilly has put her glasses on to read the program. She frowns.
“Lilly and Ez will perform a song by Britney Spears. It is called—”
“Oops! … I Farted Again,” Badman calls out. The boys all around him break up, guffawing like hyenas. They make farting noises under their armpits.
“What’s going on down there?” Mrs. Reilly’s voice booms into the microphone. “Who’s responsible for this noise?”
There’s a sudden deathly quiet in the hall.
No one whispers or even scratches an itchy place.
Lilly and I are left standing on stage like cakes going stale.
“You!” Mrs. Reilly tears the silence open. She’s pointing at Badman, her finger shaking with rage. I stare, fascinated, watching the way her jaw clenches, imagining her teeth locking into position behind the thin line of her mouth. It’s like watching a snake—you want to run, but you’re mesmerized.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Bruce? You who made that disgusting comment!”
Badman is staring so hard at the floor, you’d think he’d fall through it.
“Stand up, young man.”
He stands, clutching the neck of his guitar.
“Tell me, Bruce, do you think you can be so rude to another performer and still have your turn?” Her voice has frozen into ice, quiet and deadly. And then it cracks. “Well, that’s not how Homeland High School works! Look at you, a seventh grade boy, and still behaving like a infant! Everybody, look at Bruce.”
Three hundred pairs of eyes look at Bruce. I gaze over his head, out the window.
“I want you to apologize to your school, Bruce, for your rude and inconsiderate behavior.”
Badman shifts his feet. His face has turned a dull purple.
“Do you understand the word ‘apologize,’ Bruce?” Mrs. Reilly speaks in slow motion, as if she’s training a dog. “Maybe this is too hard for you. Can anybody be so kind as to tell Bruce what this very difficult word means? What about one of our little elementary school visitors?”
“Sorry,” blurts Bruce.
“I beg your pardon, Bruce,” sneers Mrs. Reilly. “We didn’t hear you.”
“I’m SORRY!” says Badman. His eyes are glittering, catching the sunlight from the window. He’s holding them wide open so the tears won’t spill. I know that trick.
Mrs. Reilly stares at him. I can see her hesitating. She really wants to stretch out the agony, see if she can totally break his back as well as his tear banks. But another teacher in the hall coughs restlessly and she pulls herself up straight.
“Well, Bruce, we don’t accept your apology. Now leave the hall and go to the principal’s office at once. Tell Mr. Phillips that Mrs. Reilly sent you. And leave that guitar here.”
“No!” yells Bruce. “It’s real expensive—it’s my father’s!”
“Do as I say or you will have another suspension! And you will have to apologize again to the school and to Lilly and Ez for disrupting our concert tryouts.”
“Oh, Mrs. Reilly—really, it’s okay,” I say. “We don’t mind!”
Mrs. Reilly whips around like a cobra striking. “You be quiet—I mind. Now, get out of my sight, Bruce Bradman.”
We watch as Badman carefully leans his guitar against the wall, whispering something to the other kids sitting near it. He’s probably telling them he’ll stick toothpicks up their fingernails if they even breathe on it.
“OUT!” screams Mrs. Reilly.
He pats the guitar one more time and slouches through the door.
“Now, girls, quickly, get on with your song. We’re running late.”
Wow, what a great way to begin a performance. I glance at Lilly. She’s taking a deep breath, going into fake-smile mode as if nothing has happened. Mrs. Reilly bends over the CD player. The instrumentals come on; it sounds like artificial sweetener, the kind that leaves a nasty, chem
ical taste on your tongue.
Lilly nudges me, beginning her first note. For a moment I’m so angry I’m scared I might blow up. My throat feels like concrete, too. How can you sing like this? I feel like a traitor—to music, to myself most of all. Badman was right: this stupid song deserves a fart in its title. But then I look at Lilly’s face, and she’s starting to wobble—she can’t hold a tune on her own—and there are tears in her eyes and I burst out with the nerdy words.
Lilly gives me a shaky smile and as we sing I’m thinking about Badman waiting in the office. He’s probably picking his nose, pretending he’s not. I’m thinking what a damn shame it is that Badman is such a fool. He’s the best guitarist this school’s ever seen, but now he won’t even be allowed to try out for the concert. There’s no hope in heaven that I could sing with his band now. Even if he wanted me to. Which he probably wouldn’t, seeing as, he says, like Bart Simpson, that girls have “cooties,” and holds his nose clothes-peg style when any female walks by. Well, any female except for Lilly.
Truth is, I hate him and his crappy behavior, but I hate Mrs. Reilly and this song even more. It’s weird that no matter how awful Badman is, it doesn’t seem to make any difference to how I feel when I hear him play.
As we sing the last line, I realize that most of me has been absent for the entire song, sailing away into fantasy land. The rest of me is slogging away, getting the notes out right, dying quietly like I do in math.
And that’s no way to make music. Is it?
3. Jackson
“Norton’s given me loads of extra math homework,” I hear Esmerelda groan behind me.
We’re on the bus going home. It feels like a hundred and twenty degrees in here. My legs are sticking to the seat.
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