What I Carry

by Jennifer Longo

  “Cheers to that,” I said.

  Happiness. Aside from my baseline anxiety about being on my own alone in mere months, and my nagging concern for Zola’s safety and whereabouts, I had allowed myself, with these people, on this island, to dip my toe in the pool of happiness more than ever before.

  Salishwood, since Jane’s promised Natan exodus, was heaven on earth for me and Sean. She kept her interactions with me professional and brief, just the way I liked them, and she hired a woman to replace Natan, a thing she should have done a year ago, but all’s well, as Francine liked to say. Sean rested his hand on my knee, my head on his shoulder, me with friends and this boy I liked so much—at our regular lunch table. Holy cats, happiness is a hell of a drug. Dangerous.

  I should have guessed it would not last.

  Just days before winter break I sat in algebra, holding my head in my palm and concentrating hard, when a kid interrupted class to pass out bouquets of white daisies, a fund-raising thing that, in every school I’ve attended, I’d always considered cornball and stupid. Until I held a bouquet of white daisies with my name on the card written above the words Happy Solstice. XO Sean.

  So maybe not that cornball. It’s nice to raise money for the SPCA.

  I waited at our lunch table for Kira, Sean, and Elliot at second lunch that day, the flowers on my backpack like a snowball of happiness. I smiled to myself and at my fruit cocktail, liking the whole situation a little too much, but it was so hard not to. I watched the door and texted her Where you at? Katiana made their entrance, looked right to me, and strolled over. I pulled out my Rachel Carson book, but they stood beside me, weirdly close and smiling.

  I smiled back. “What?”

  “Dining alone?” Tiana said.

  I opened Rachel and tried to read.

  “Nice flowers,” she said.

  “Thanks. You going to tell me it’d be a shame if something happened to them?”

  Tiana frowned. “What?”

  I nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Oh,” Katrina said, “Muiriel, I’ve wanted to let you know my SAT sessions with Sean went really, really well?”

  Not to vocal shame, but their shared upspeak was truly grating.

  “Uh. Okay?” It was catching.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, “I learned so much?” They laughed.

  “I’ll bet,” I said. “He’s really smart.”

  “Yeah, he helped me. A lot?”

  Of all the ringleaders I’ve met, these two had to be the least skilled. Their repertoire was either inelegant and bumbling (destroying Kira’s artwork) or Hallmark-movie cheesy (I boned your boyfriend!). If the teachers or administrators would ever confront this kind of garbage, just once—it would be a miracle.

  “Wait,” I said, “hold up, I get it—do you mean, like, ‘learning’ is a euphemism for ‘Sean was teaching you exciting sex maneuvers’? Because of all the sex you two were having when you were supposed to be studying on that one day he tutored you? Sounds great, don’t forget to invite me to the wedding.” I went back to my book.

  They changed course.

  “All righty then,” Katrina said. “Say hi to Kira for us when you see her? If you see her? An artist’s work is never done.”

  Tiana shushed her and smacked her arm.

  “Ow,” Katrina whined, and let Tiana pull her to the “leggings” table.

  “Bye, girls! Great to see you!” I called.

  I marked my book page, looked again for Kira’s text, and heard Tiana laugh.

  An artist’s work is never done.

  I ran.

  * * *

  —

  The mural was erased.

  No violent defacement; it was just gone. The wall was blank, two fresh coats of flat interior white paint, maybe a layer of kill beneath them. No trace of the hours and days of intricate color and lines and beauty. Kira sat on the floor, staring at it. I sat beside her.

  “They must have come so early,” she said. “What time do the janitors open the building? Five? They worked fast.”

  I pressed my finger into the white. Tacky. But nearly dry.

  “What did Mr. Taxera say?”

  She shrugged. “He assumed I did it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s so deliberate. Look how careful they were. They put painter’s tape on the baseboards.”

  “No, why would he think you did this?”

  “Because…to demonstrate how beauty is fleeting, art is alive and fluid, it was a painting version of a sand mandala, time to blow it away, some Artist’s Way transcendental shit. I don’t know. He applauded my ‘bold statement.’ ”

  “But what did he say when you told him you didn’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “Kira,” I moaned. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “I have no proof! There is no proof. I don’t want to start it all again; I want to stay in class.”

  I stared at the wall, white-hot as my rage. I had a bold statement for that teacher. Kira had worked so hard, it was so beautiful—was he really so blind to Katiana’s cruelty, or was he just exhausted and willfully ignoring what was happening before his eyes so he didn’t have to spend his teaching time parenting a bunch of asshole teenagers whose actual parents couldn’t be bothered?

  So very many reasons to contemplate. All of them garbage.

  I stood up. “You are staying in this class. They are leaving.”

  “No.”

  “Kira.”

  “No.”

  Months ago I would have left this alone. Probably even left the room.

  Now I crouched down beside Kira. “Since I’ve lived here, which is approximately five months, I have witnessed those girls destroy your artwork three times. That’s not good math.”

  “Not three.”

  “The ferry cookies were art. She literally threw your art in the garbage, and you didn’t say a word.”

  She put her forehead on her knees. “This is my penance,” she said. “I am not being dramatic, I’m not self-flagellating; this is what I deserve.”

  “For what?”

  She closed her eyes tight. “For being them. In California. I was the top of the food chain. I watched people get ignored and made fun of and I didn’t give a shit. I cared about what I wanted, which was cutting class to get high and surf with my cool, fucking drunk and high friends. That was it. I was an asshole to kids like you, and I got away with it because, even cutting class, I still pulled grades, so no one said no to me.”

  “So you deserve this? Katiana is your real-time karma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, first of all, full disclosure, I know basically nothing about karma, but wouldn’t this crap be punishing you for your bad intentions in a previous life versus a few semesters ago?”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “No, it’s not! Karma’s a thing people believe in! Not me, but I am a fan of personal responsibility, and you swim in that.”

  “I do not.”

  “Kira. Yes, you do. It’s not easy to admit you’ve been awful to people—we all do it, but hardly anyone admits it and tries to stop. You could have kept being mean or selfish or what the hell ever you were doing, but instead you’ve found your way back to who you were before all that. You’re the kindest person I’ve known, and I’ve known a lot of people. You can’t just decide to be that out of the blue. It’s who you are. Who your parents missed and wanted back.”

  She would not look up. “You’d be amazed how much your personality changes when you stop drinking before noon,” she said.

  “I bet.”

  “I need a tissue.”

  “Okay.” I grabbed the whole box from the teacher’s desk. “Where is everyone? I’ve never seen it not filled with randos sketchi
ng and stuff.”

  “They’ll be back after lunch. They’re scared of me in here crying.”

  “Listen, we have a chance to do for Katiana what your parents did for you.”

  “Send them to another state?”

  “Your parents said no. They brought you here to get you away from the noise and out of the spiral. They parented the shit out of you! Katiana doesn’t have anyone to say no to them. No one else is going to be the goddamn adult in this situation, so we have to do it. Come on.”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m fed up. Aren’t you?”

  She held a giant wad of tissue to her eyes and reached out to touch the white paint. “Yes.”

  “Good! Stay that way. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  The principal’s desk was bigger than it needed to be, super ostentatious, but I was grateful to have its weight between us. Her nameplate, at least, was understated. Principal Barbara Langford. My sweaty hands were leaving prints on my jeans. Here I sat, on purpose, in her office, a white woman in her forties, hair parted in the middle and up in a bun. Standard blouse-and-jacket combo. Terrifying. Kira and I in wingback chairs, facing her.

  Kira wasn’t thrilled, but most definitely she’d had experience in principals’ offices before. She spoke first. “It’s been going on since last year,” she said, quiet but at least out loud.

  “Well, that’s quite a long time.” The principal smiled. “What made you decide to say something so late in the game, Kira?”

  Blaming Kira already. “Wait,” I said, startling myself. “Shouldn’t Tiana and Katrina be here, too?”

  “I can hear what Kira has to say without Tiana and Katrina in the room. I don’t pull students out of class without a valid reason.”

  “This is a valid reason. They’ve been after her since she got here: They’ve destroyed her homework. They painted over this mural….Shouldn’t they have to explain why?”

  The principal glanced at her desktop screen and found my name. “Muiriel,” she said. “I appreciate your concern for your friend, but you will not dictate the terms of this meeting, young lady.”

  I sat back, stung. Nothing shuts me up faster than a young lady.

  “They should be here,” Kira said.

  The principal sighed. “Girls, I have known Tiana and Katrina since they were in kindergarten. This is a tight-knit school, but the students here are welcoming and kind, including and especially those girls. Now, our island community may not be what you’re used to, where you’re from—”

  Where you’re from?

  My hackles raised, and Kira sat up and forward, both hands on the giant desk.

  “We are a fourth-generation island family,” she said, her voice loud and steady. Her eyes were. Lit. Up.

  Yes.

  “Well,” the principal said, “but you are new to this school, and we don’t—”

  I held my breath, waiting for the Classic White Person Line: But where are you really from?

  “I am from this island,” Kira said. “My family built this island. This is my home. We are not new. We belong here. I belong here, and I need help to get Tiana and Katrina to leave me alone.”

  I wanted to stand up and applaud.

  The principal turned and sat there reading her computer screen. She wouldn’t even look at us. She jotted something on a Post-it note and walked out, leaving the door wide open. We heard her voice low, talking to the secretary.

  “Um,” Kira whispered. “What the…”

  “Should we stay?” I whispered back.

  “I think so? This is weird. I hate it!”

  “She’s probably hoping we’ll leave. Let’s just…sit.”

  So we did. Kira pulled out her phone. “I’m telling Elliot what’s up; I don’t know if he’s even seen the mural yet.” She sat and typed, and I wondered whether I should tell Sean where we were. But was that too weird and clingy?

  Why hadn’t this happened on our group lunch day?

  We sat there for close to twenty minutes, getting more and more nervous, and then out in the reception office, another voice.

  “Okay, then, let me talk to her. Where is she?”

  Kira and I looked at each other.

  Francine?

  “Muiriel,” she said, breathless and in her chicken jeans and her raincoat, the ones she wore to clean the coop. Her not planning to get out of the car, I’m just dropping you off outfit. “Kira, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

  The principal came in, dragging a third chair for Francine.

  “Thanks, Barb, I’ll stand.”

  Barb?

  Francine really did know everyone on this entire island.

  Barb smiled. “So,” she said, “the girls and I were just having a conversation about friendship. About how sometimes it’s not as easy as we’d like it to be. Now, ladies, I know it’s hard to believe, but Francine and I were both teenagers once, and I think we could tell some pretty harrowing stories about times when maybe there was a squabble or a misunderstanding between our gal pals. Am I right, Francine?”

  Francine turned to Kira and me, puzzled. “Are you two in a fight?”

  Kira groaned and brought Francine up to speed—the bullying, the sculpture, the mural.

  Francine put her hand on Kira’s cheek and squeezed it, near tears, and then she turned to Barb. “Where are Tiana and Katrina? Why aren’t they here?”

  “Francine, I’m not pulling innocent students out of class for some she-said/she-said nonsense; the friends can work it out on their own.”

  “We are not friends,” I said, more to Francine. “They ruined the mural; they do weird manipulative shit all the time. They’re why Kira isn’t in art this semester; I was in the room when Tiana smashed her sculpture.”

  “Language,” Barb said sharply. “You saw Tiana do it? You watched her do it on purpose?”

  “I was in the room; she pretended it was an accident—”

  “And you watched them paint over this mural?”

  Kira looked down.

  “Did anyone see them do any of these things?”

  “I was in the room,” I said again. “Please just ask them.”

  Barb sat back in her swivel chair. “So, you girls would like me, with no evidence whatsoever, to punish Tiana and Katrina, just because you say so—is that right?”

  What had I done? Poor Kira. This was a horrible idea; she would hate me for this.

  “Barb,” Francine said, “come on. I know Muiriel; I’ve known Kira all her life. Look at her—she’s asking for help. They’re telling the truth. Let’s just get Tiana and Katrina in here and figure this out.”

  Barb shook her head.

  “Then why did you call me?” Francine said. “Did you call Kira’s parents? More to the point, did you call Tiana’s and Katrina’s parents?”

  “No, I called you because I see here you are Muiriel’s guardian, and—”

  “Foster mother,” Francine corrected.

  “Right,” Barb said, “and so I thought, as a foster parent, you could give me some insight about certain patterns of behavior that might shed some light on this situation.”

  Francine was genuinely perplexed. “Patterns of behavior? I don’t know Tiana or Katrina well enough to know their…patterns.”

  “No, Francine, it’s…” Barb smiled and glanced at the computer. “I’m seeing Muiriel’s school records are…There’s a lot of starting and changing schools midyear, and I’m wondering if the reasons for her erratic school attendance might explain her behavior today.”

  Color rose in Francine’s face like a rash. “Girls,” she said in a tone I’d never heard her use, “wait by the door.” I grabbed Kira’s hand and we moved fast. Francine went to the desk where Barb sat, hands folded ti
ght. “Muiriel’s behavior today was coming to you for help, to ask you to help Kira. How dare you—”

  “Francine,” Barb said, “you know Katrina and Tiana are both very overwhelmed with academics, and that can cause stress—”

  “I’m sure they’re very busy,” Francine said. “The thing is, I don’t give a shit. I want them off my girls’ radar now.”

  Warm, happy tingles prickled my scalp.

  “Kira!” Now Elliot came running in the office, also breathless.

  If it wasn’t so tense and awful, this would have been an exciting afternoon.

  “The grass!” he said.

  Oh, Elliot. Jesus, now Barb would think we’re selling weed. Kira looked miserable.

  Elliot held up his camera. “Time lapse! I set it for one frame per minute on the grass boxes in the classroom, all through the night until seven this morning. The mural was in the shot.”

  Barb’s face kind of lost some color.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said to Kira. “We’ll re-create it; I took a million pictures. They’re all here, and every frame of Tiana and Katrina painting over it.” He smiled brightly at Barb. “I’ll email them to you. Is it Barb dot edu?” Then back to Kira: “Oh, and I almost forgot—these are for you.” He put a winter daisy bouquet in her hands. Kira dropped back into the chair, beamed up at Elliot, and then turned, smiling, to Barb.

  “So, Principal Langford,” she said, taking off her cardigan sweater, all calm confidence and wicked tattoos. “Let’s talk patterns of behavior.”

  My hero.

  I surreptitiously pulled my phone from my bag.

  You will not believe the shit going down in Langford’s office. Wish you were here.

  Sean responded immediately.

  Are you okay?

  Very.

  Francine came to where I stood, leaning on the doorframe. She put her arm around my shoulders for one strong, tight hug. “Still mad?” she whispered.

  “Furious.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  —

  “You have your phone?” Francine called out over Tony Bennett’s overwrought rendition of “Winter Wonderland” the afternoon school let out for winter break. “And your house key?” I held up both for her to see, finished emptying the dishwasher, and went back up to the bedroom to put on more of the lip gloss Kira had given me as an early Christmas present.