All Alone in the Universe (2 page)

The hot, stinging pain brought tears to my eyes, but I said, “I‧m okay. I‧m almost home anyway.”

“Okay,” she said. “I‧ll take your word for it.” And laid her head back down.

Other than that, though, it was a perfect day. Like every day with Maureen. They all were perfect.

 

three

 

 

O
N THE MORNING OF THE FIRST DAY
M
ARIE
P
RBYCZKA CAME TO
our school, the dawn‧s early light slipped softly into the bedroom where my sister, Chrisanne, and I lay sleeping. We floated through our sleep peacefully, like two pearls sinking through Prell, until the alarm clock ripped the quiet into two pieces, and the first piece fluttered out of sight forever. I pried one eye open so I could watch Chrisanne as she flung herself headfirst out over the foot of her bed and, tethered there by two fingertips, reached out with the fingertips of her other hand to plug in her electric curlers. Then she flopped back in a 180-degree arc onto her pillow and fell into solid, heavy sleep for ten more minutes. It was amazing and impressive. Especially since Chrisanne isn‧t very flexible. On most days she can hardly do a forward roll. It reminded me of dolphins leaping completely out of the water and flipping over in the air. You watch them and wonder, How is that even possible?

 

Our dog, Cupcake, curled more tightly into a doughnut shape between my knees, hoping that if he kept his eyes squeezed shut, we would abandon our stupid idea of getting out of bed. Alas for Cupcake, it was a school day. He watched us reproachfully as we dressed, ate breakfast, and, one by one, left the house.

 

I walked to Maureen‧s house, where I sat in the kitchen and talked with Mrs. Berck, while Maureen mined the vast mountains of clothing piled around her room, looking for enough different items to dress herself completely. She never started until I got there. I didn‧t mind. I liked being in the Bercks’ house. I liked the way everyone wandered in and out of the cluttered kitchen, picking up and leaving behind half-eaten pieces of cold toast. I liked how Mrs. Berck didn‧t seem to be concerned that there weren‧t any horizontal surfaces empty enough to sit down on. You got the idea that her mind was on more important things, like whether the cedar waxwings had returned. She kept binoculars and a bird book on the windowsill, and the tree in the backyard was hung with feeders.

 

I found a small piece of empty wall I could lean on and watched Mrs. Berck sew a button on what was probably a garment since it seemed to have sleeves. She was standing up, too, in the middle of the room.

“Maybe we should join that religion where they don‧t use buttons,” she said. “Since we can‧t seem to keep them on anyway.” She broke the thread with her teeth and knotted it again for the next button. “Although,” she went on, “holding your clothes on with straight pins sounds a little inconvenient, too.”

By the time Maureen came downstairs with most of her clothes on, it was late. Really late. We pretty much had to run the whole way to school, taking brief pauses so that Maureen could swallow bites of toast without choking. We ran down Maureen‧s street then down Prospect Hill Road, which is like running down the side of one of those Aztec/Incan/ Mayan step pyramids, but with trees and houses all over it. At the bottom there is traffic, so one has to stop, which if one is running, is done by grabbing hold of the street sign pole. Usually at this point one is hot, sweaty, and out of breath.

 

Maureen and I were. We had run down the hill, whooping and hollering like little kids, and we stood there, waiting for the light to change, breathing hard and laughing. Getting ready for the final sprint, Maureen looked up the street toward the school and said, “Who‧s that?”

I followed her squint. Marie and a guy were leaning against a car, passing a cigarette. I knew who she was. I had met her a few days earlier. She was the oldest daughter in the family whose moving van had knocked me off my bicycle.

“Her name‧s Marie,” I said. “Her family just moved into the Zolniaks’ house, on our street. But I thought she‧d be at the high school.” She seemed older.

We crossed the street, then stopped walking again. No one else was around. The late bell started to ring, and Marie‧s boyfriend drew her into an embrace. I guess you could call it a good-bye kiss. Well, some things are just too embarrassing to watch, especially first thing in the morning. Maureen and I turned toward each other.

“We‧re late,” said Maureen, as if she had just realized that.

“I know,” I said. “Let‧s go in the back door.”

So we did. We had to climb a fence. It‧s not a high fence, and it‧s one of the ones that are made of a thick wire twisted together so there are footholds all over. Like this:

 

Usually easy to climb, but the tops can be tricky because sometimes the ends of the wire stick up above the top rail. As I make this drawing of the fence, I realize that it also looks a lot like the fishnet stockings I was wearing that day, which got caught on those wire ends sticking up. Suddenly there was a resistance to my descent and a burning pain as the wire ends dug deep gashes into the back of my thigh.

“Aaaii-eeee!” I yelled, clamping down in mid-yell since we were trying to sneak in late. Marie and her boyfriend looked over; the faint sound of their laughter rippled down the sidewalk Maureen ran back and held my stuff while I unhooked myself and walked, half hopping, over the lumpy, battered roots and dried-up powdery dirt behind the school.

My bloody wounds seemed to be a good enough excuse for being late. Mrs. Radisz was too busy even to ask what happened. She just sent me to the nurse, who cleaned me up, checked my records for tetanus, and plastered greasy ointment, gauze, and adhesive tape in a large bundle around my leg. Fortunately, when I rolled my skirt down a couple of times, it covered up the whole mess. I threw the fishnets in my locker and wore my gym socks all day.

I don‧t know why I took those stockings home instead of throwing them away at school. I was taking them out of my purse when I heard my mother coming up the stairs. I didn‧t want her to know I‧d been late for school again; it makes her crazy that I leave home so early and still get to school late. My mom tells a lot of madcap tales from her youth, but apparently she was always on time. Now she‧s a schoolteacher, so she‧s even more on time. I tossed the tights under my bed and dropped to my knees to hide my bare legs. I dumped my purse out onto the carpet and pretended to be sorting it out.

Mom peeped her head around the door frame. “How was your day, honey?” she asked.

“Fine, Mom,” I said. “That Marie Prbyczka is in some of my classes at school. Study hall and gym.” When you don‧t want someone to notice something, it‧s always a good idea to introduce a contrasting topic.

“Really?” she said. She was surprised. “Isn‧t she Chrisanne‧s age?”

“No,” I said. “Fourteen. She flunked a grade.”

My mother can raise her eyebrows one at a time. I wish I had inherited this, but I didn‧t I also didn‧t get tongue curling.

“She seems pretty friendly,” I said, “but I don‧t think we‧re very much alike.”

“No,” my mother said. “No, I don‧t imagine you are. Well, I suppose I‧d better go start dinner. I need you to peel potatoes.”

“Okay,” I said. “I‧ll be right down.”

As I was changing into my jeans, I thought about Marie for a minute. She was fourteen, but she looked older. Like thirty. She was the kind of girl the principal keeps changing the dress code for, but it won‧t make any difference unless he makes a rule that says, “No one may be Marie Prbyczka.” I guess he could try, “You must open your eyes the whole way, walk like a nun, and look enthusiastic,” but it would be hard to enforce.

I didn‧t think that Marie was beautiful, but I couldn‧t tell. She wore a thick layer of orangy-pink makeup that stopped suddenly at the edges of her face, making her neck and ears seem pale and dingy in comparison. Her long, heavy bangs were like window shades drawn down to let just a crack of daylight in. She wore beige lipstick that made her lips, which, were thin anyway, practically disappear, except for the line where they came together. Her fingernails were long, chipped, and pearlescent There was a bump on her nose.

I was surprised when she sat behind me in study hall that day and said my name. I was surprised mat there was so much warmth in her voice. I turned around and saw sparks of life in her eyes. I liked her.

“Did you get hurt?” she asked. “We shouldn‧t of laughed, but you looked so funny.”