Along Came Jordan (11 page)
Authors: Brenda Maxfield
****
I went straight to the library at lunch, and Margo was already there. The librarian glanced up as I entered. She didn't look much older than me, with her long brown ponytail and bright orange capris â even though it was freezing outside. She wore a navy sweater thrown over her shoulders as though she was fresh off the tennis court at a country club. I was always amazed sweaters worn like that didn't fall straight to the floor, but the librarian managed it fine.
"Research?" she asked in a perky voice as I walked by.
"Yeah. Is it okay?"
"Knock yourself out," she answered and flipped another page of her magazine.
Margo saw me coming. "I've already searched 'my sister won't talk'. All I'm getting is useless stuff about family feuds."
I plopped onto the heavy oak chair next to her. "I'll log into this computer, and we'll both search."
"Okay. I'll try something else. How about 'not speaking', or 'closed mouth'?"
We tried everything. I kept glancing at the clock â twenty minutes of lunchtime was gone.
Margo started clucking her tongue. "
A
y
,
Emili,
mira
, look at this."
I peered at her screen. She had a site up called "Selective Mutism."
"It's a childhood anxiety disorder," Margo said. "Look here. It says there also might be developmental delays. Has it lasted a month? Because it's not selective mutism unless it's been a month."
I didn't answer. My eyes raced over the page, devouring the words.
"Does she have sleep problems?" Margo asked. "It saysâ"
"Margo, I can read," I snapped, and Margo stiffened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. And here you are helping me."
She touched my arm. "It's okay," she said in her lilting voice. "You're worried, is all."
I gave her a look of pure gratitude, and then we turned back to the screen.
"Why is your sister so anxious anyway? It's the main cause."
"New school, and it started super bad. The kids made fun of her every day, and they still do, I think."
"That's bullying. Have your mom go in and complain."
"My dad's been in. Not about bullying, though. At least, I don't think so. Yeah, maybe they could go talk to the principal."
"Umm, Emili, read this part." Margo pointed.
Effective treatment is
of utmost importance
for the child with selective mutism to improve. Otherwise, it could lead to chronic depression, emotional problems, social issues, and
growing
anxiety.
I rested my head on my hand. "Great. Just great."
"Yeah, but now you know what it is."
"Treatment costs money, right?"
"Everything costs money."
"That could be a problem. Can I print this off?"
"You get five copies free, then you have to start paying. You should already have an account from the day you enrolled."
"I don't think I have one, but if I do, this is under five copies so I'm going to print it." I pushed print as the bell for fourth period rang.
Margo got up and gathered her things. "Look, I was logged in. It'll go to my account. Don't worry about it. I've got lunch now, so see you later."
"See you. Thanks, Margo."
She brushed off my thanks with a flick of her wrist. "We're friends, aren't we?"
Moisture sprang to my eyes. I nodded and looked down at the keyboard. She'd already seen me tear up the other day, and she didn't need to see it again.
Â
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By fifth period, my stomach was growling. Three minutes between classes wasn't enough time to eat â my lunch sat neatly in my locker on top of my folded backpack. Skipping lunch had been worth it, though. I grasped my printouts from the library. Now I had some information, and maybe I could get Sarah the help she needed.
Fifth period was history with Mr. Dobson. He was an okay teacher, a bit boring, but nice enough. We were studying the Vietnam War. Mr. Dobson must've had an art epiphany or something, because he assigned us a poem â which, judging from everyone's groans, was out of character. We were to write a poem about the war, put some kind of symbol on it, and share it with a classmate.
I couldn't concentrate. My mind was fixated on Sarah. Laine was in history with me, and when the poem was assigned, she turned and motioned with her hand indicating we'd be partners.
Great. Exactly what I wanted.
I started my poem, trying to think of images of warfare in a steamy jungle, but what came out of my pencil were images of an eleven-year-old girl who didn't speak. I could pass it off as a war poem because I figured children in war could be traumatized into not speaking.
Once I started, I was a faucet â the words spilled from me. They gurgled forth with no effort, which was curious, since I wasn't a writer. I was surprised when Mr. Dobson told us our time was up. I read over my poem.
Â
Days too long
Too hard
What do I feel?
Words
stick.
Granite in my throat
Scratching
Tearing, ripping
Holes formed
Truth seeps out
Falling
unnoticed,
on the dirt path
at my feet.
Â
I'd never written a poem before. Well, one time in seventh grade, Mrs. Enid insisted the class make a poetry book. My poem had been a sorry mess. I'd written down any rhyming word I could think of and had never shown my parents. The book had sat under my bed, until I'd crammed it into the recycling bin sometime during the eighth grade.
This Sarah poem was different. Getting the words down on paper made me feel better â if only for a few minutes.
Laine was waving her arm. "Emili, are you coming? We're supposed to be sharing."
I walked over and sat in the empty seat on her left.
"Okay, here's mine," she said, pride oozing from every gesture.
Â
War is bad.
It
'
s sad when people die
Helicopters fly looking for those
Who hurt
,
it goes over
And over the land watching
To give a hand to save
Their fellow man
.
Â
"Did you notice the internal rhyme? It classes it up," Laine said.
I didn't even know what internal rhyme was, but I knew better than to contradict Laine. "It's nice, Laine. Good job."
"Let me see yours." She yanked my paper out of my hands.
I watched her expression as she read. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of interest, perhaps even appreciation, but I was wrong.
"Emili, you didn't even attempt to rhyme. What's with the cement in the throat? What a disgusting image. I don't think you wrote what Mr. Dobson wanted at all, and you used a dorky mouth as your symbol."
I didn't care if she liked my poem or not. Writing it had made me feel better, and I was only too eager to grab whatever relief I could get.
Mr. Dobson was circling the room. "I'd like to hear some of your work. In fact, there's time enough to hear three or four pieces before the bell rings. Any volunteers?"
Laine raised her hand. "I'll read mine, Mr. Dobson." She walked to the front of the class, cleared her throat, and adjusted her posture. I hated to admit it, but whenever Laine adjusted herself, she was a knockout.
When she finished reading, there was a smattering of applause. Laine's eyes narrowed â not the raves she'd expected. Mr. Dobson nodded. "Thank you, Laine. I appreciate your willingness."
He didn't say it was good. Laine must've noticed the omission, too, because I saw her expression harden.
"Why not have Emili read hers?" she said.
I gave her the evil eye. Why did she have to take it out on me? Did she want Mr. Dobson to reject mine, too?
"Miss Jones?" he asked. "Will you share?"
"I'd rather not."
"Oh, come on, Emili. Your poem's so good." Her sarcasm was lost on Mr. Dobson.
"Miss Jones, please share. We have a couple of minutes."
I got up, walked to the front, and read my poem. Again, a smattering of applause. Mr. Dobson reached over and took my poem from me. "I'd like to read this again for all of you."
I looked around, not knowing whether to stay or to sit back down.
Mr. Dobson's voice was deep and smooth, and as he read, my words became a melody. I stared at him. It sounded magical when he read it. When he finished, the room was still, as if everyone were holding their breath. I felt all eyes on me, and knew my face was turning red.
"Emili has captured the anguish of a war victim with insight and grace," Mr. Dobson said. He faced me and held out my poem. "Well done, Miss Jones."
A flush of pleasure coursed through me, and I walked back to my original spot. I glanced at Laine, who was busy gathering her belongings as if accomplishing the most important task in the world. The bell rang, and I got up quickly to leave. Laine brushed by me, nearly toppling me over.
"Oh sorry, Emili. Didn't see you," she said sweetly on her way out the door.
I stood still for a moment and then headed for my next class. My better day had flipped fast enough. I could always count on Laine to take me down a peg, yet as I walked to sixth period, I still felt a kernel of satisfaction inside. My poem was good. Who cared if Mr. Dobson and the whole class thought it was about the Vietnam War? It was my secret tribute to Sarah.
Sixth and seventh period were boringsville, which was fine with me. Sometimes boring was the safest way to go. After school, I dashed to the bathroom for a pit stop before heading out to the bus. When I pushed through the doors, a group of girls were huddled in front of the mirror. One of them was sticking on false eyelashes.
"Rhonda, you look like â well, you know, one of
those
girls," said a girl with short black hair.
"Yeah, there's the look I was going for," was Rhonda's answer.
"Well, you do." The girl noticed me from the mirror. "Aren't you Emili?"
I nodded and headed for a stall.
The girl called Rhonda stopped mid-lash. "I need to talk to you. Come over here."
I paused with my hand pressed against the stall door. "Why?"
"I need some algebra done tonight. What's your rate?"
"My what?"
"Come on, the buses are going to leave in a couple minutes. Don't play dumb. I need your rate. I have ten bucks." She left her eyelashes dangling and started digging in the open purse on the ledge.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"Laine told us you'd deny it," said the girl with the black hair.
"There's not much time. We know you run a⦠well⦠Shall we call it a homework service? I stink at algebra. So, is ten dollars enough for the week?" Rhonda held the money out and waved it at me.
"Laine said I run a cheat ring?"
"No, no, of course not. Cheat rings don't exist at Edgemont High. Right, you guys?" Rhonda asked her friends.
The look I leveled on her was pure steel, and I refused to respond to such idiocy. All urgency to use the toilet disappeared, and I turned and strode outside. It was raining, and slivers of ice were forming on the sidewalk. I barreled over them, passing Jordan, who stopped to stare.
Good thing Laine didn't take the bus. I don't know what I might have said or done.
****
My mother was late again, missing dinner, but when she arrived, she was smiling. "Hello, everyone. Sorry I'm late."
Her cheer was so unexpected we all stared at her with gaping mouths.
"Fly-catching season?" she asked and laughed. "Close your mouths, family."
Dad stood up, his kitchen chair scooting back on the linoleum floor. "I'll get you a plate."
"No need," she practically sang. "I ate at work."
Dad gawked at her. "You ate at work? You took enough food in your lunch for dinner, too?"
Mom stopped and gave him a wide-eyed look. "There was food at work. But, no matter. I'm not hungry. Girls, how were your days?"
Sarah said nothing.
"I'm finished eating, so can I talk to you?" I asked, getting up. A good mood from mother was too rare to waste.
"Of course, let me change my clothes. Come on with me."
I followed her down the hall, stopping in my room long enough to grab the Internet papers. When I got to her room, she was down to her slip.
"Things might look up soon," she said then clamped her mouth shut.
"What do you mean things might look up?"
She walked to her dresser and pulled out a drawer. "Never mind. What did you want, Emili?"
I laid the papers on the end of her bed as if placing a sacrifice on an altar. "I did some research."
She walked to the bed and bent to pick up the sheets. She blinked as if to focus better.
"It's about Sarah." I pointed to the first page. "Selective mutism. I think it's what she has."
Mom skimmed the papers. I watched her face closely to see how she was taking it, but I couldn't tell anything from her expression. She went on to the second page. "Emili, I appreciate your efforts. I do. But we all know the Internet is full of information which is not necessarily valid."
"But, Mom, the description fits."
"I don't see it." She handed the papers back to me. "Granted, there's a problem, but I hardly think it's this serious. Sarah needs more time to adjust is all, and we need to be patient."
My voice went up a notch. "It's been weeks, and she's not adjusting."
"I know you're trying to help, but please let the adults handle this."
"You're
not
handling it!" I cried. I had become a teenage lawyer, fighting for my client.
Mother pulled herself up, and her eyes snapped. "Enough, young lady. You're out of line."
My shoulders sagged, and my hopes fell into a soggy heap. I shook my head. "Mom, she's not talking to anyone but me."
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second then moved her head from side to side as if getting rid of a kink in her neck. She refocused on me. "I tell you what, Emili. Leave me the papers, and I'll look over them again when I have a minute. Sound fair?"
I gave her the papers. "Fine," I said and left.
I should've given the info to Dad, but I thought Mom would be a better option since Dad was in a funk all the time. He couldn't handle it, and even though Mom was a crank, at least she was functioning.
My mistake.
My big fat mistake.
Maybe I s
hould call a counselor myself, but h
ow would I pay for it?
I was back around to needing a job.
I went to my room and sank down on my bed. On my bed stand was a photo of Sarah and me taken last summer. Of all places, it had been taken at the Bates playground. We were leaning against the same tree where Sarah had gone when she ran away. I'd taken the photo myself holding out my phone, so we were distorted with huge heads and scrawny necks. Sarah's smile was enormous. I'd been trying to look sophisticated, so my eyebrows were raised and pointy, and my expression was downright dorky. We had a blast. The picture was so silly, I'd sent it to Dad at work, and he'd printed it off on one of McDafe's fanciest printers. It had a textured gloss, and I loved it.
Those days seemed a hundred years ago.
I caressed the photo with my fingers and closed my eyes, still caught in the remembering. My phone rang, jarring me back to the present. I didn't even look at caller ID. "Yes?"
"Emili? It's Jordan."
I jerked upright. "Hi."
"I saw you racing to the bus after school."
"Yeah, I was in a hurry."
"You looked upset." I heard his concern.
I'd forgotten about Laine and her ugly tricks. The dull ache in my heart had re-focused on Sarah.
"Emili? You still there?"
"I'm here. Yeah, I was upset."
"Since we're friends now, you could tell me about it." His voice was steady and warm, and in my mind I could see his eyes locked on mine.
"Why don't you come over?" As soon as the words sprang from my mouth, I clapped my hand over my lips. He'd think I was making a move. Or worse yet, that I was desperate.
"I'll be there in ten," he said and hung up.
I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it. He was coming? He didn't even hesitate. Ten minutes? I jumped from my bed, pulled off the shirt I'd worn to school, and tossed it in my hamper. I grabbed the purple sweater from my drawer and wiggled into it. I perused my different perfume concoctions. I didn't want to smell like a girl greeting her boyfriend, so I nixed the heavy floral scents. I decided on the spicy scent I'd created last month. I uncapped the bottle and sniffed.
The tangy cinnamon didn't smell like a date. I splashed some on my neck. I kicked off my tennis shoes and slipped into my brown flats. I ran a brush through my hair and glanced into my full-length mirror. Apart from being skinny as a rod, I looked quite presentable.
I stared into my own brown eyes until I could see down into my naked heart. I had to admit, I was primping like this was a date. I grimaced, and my brain kicked right into action, calling myself dumb and foolish. I sighed and reined in my thoughts. I wouldn't want to look like a slob, no matter who was coming over. I would've done the same thing for Sally or Margo or some long-lost relative from Jupiter.
I was lying to myself and I knew it.
All lies.
Truth was, I wanted Jordan to think I was pretty.
The doorbell rang, and I ran out to get it. Dad was sitting in the living room flipping channels. When he saw me, his eyebrows raised and his gaze went to the door.
"It's Jordan. We have school stuff to do," I said.
I opened the door, and Jordan grinned at me like we'd planned this meeting for months. He wore a heavy khaki army jacket with a brown scarf wound around his neck. The tips of his ears were red, and his hands were enveloped in huge, quilted black gloves.
I grasped the doorknob to keep from walking straight into his smile.
"Emili, it's freezing out here."
"Oh, sorry." I stepped aside. He brushed against me, and the familiar jolt of electricity zapped through me. I paused, letting my body readjust to normal.
Dad got up and stretched out his hand. "It's Jordan, right?"
Jordan pulled off his glove and shook my dad's hand. "Yes, sir."
"I'll get out of your way, then. Nice to see you again." Dad nodded and headed toward his bedroom.
"Want to sit down?" I asked.
Jordan took off his coat, and when he relaxed into the couch, I couldn't help but notice the tight muscles under his shirt. His dark-washed jeans fit so well, I had to consciously keep my eyes from looking. I perched on the other end of the couch.
"So what gives, Emili?"
I loved the way he said my name, drawing it out like a caress. "Problems with Laine."
He laughed. "Sorry. It's not funny."
"Then why are you laughing?"
Jordan stretched his arm across the back of the couch, and again I was conscious of every muscle in his arms. "I don't know. Everyone has problems with Laine. Struck me as funny."
"She's spreading the rumor that I run a cheating ring."
Jordan's eyes widened. Then he threw his head back and belted it out.
"It's not funny!" I argued. He ignored me and howled. He looked so joyous, I giggled. Pretty soon, I was cracking up along with him.
Laughing was like a rush of fresh air rolling over me. The tension in my stomach relaxed â I hadn't felt so good in weeks. I wiped the tears from my eyes.
"Why am I cracking up? Jordan, I'm telling you, it's not funny."
"There's nothing Laine won't do," he said, wiping his eyes, too.
"I know. She's something else."
"Yes, she is," Jordan agreed. "Did you know she and I were going out?"
I stiffened. "You are?"
"According to her, we might be getting married soon." We started laughing all over again.
"I feel kind of sorry for her," I said, catching my breath. "Have you seen her house?"
"Uh, yeah, which makes me wonder why you feel sorry for her. She has everything, including
staff
."
"Yeah, but it's weird over there. I don't know how to describe it." How could I explain the hollow feeling I'd had lying in her bedroom with every convenience and gadget known to mankind displayed like an exclusive shop.
"I guess money isn't everything," Jordan said.
We fell silent, and every inch of my body was aware of his nearness.
"I saw Marc the other day," I blurted.
Jordan's eyebrows shot up. "The boyfriend you hurt? Where'd you see him?"
"At the library."
"A planned meeting?"
"Hardly. He was there with his new girlfriend." I shrugged, trying to make it sound nonchalant, but talking about it brought back the shooting emptiness.
"Ouch. How was it?"
"Every girl's dream."
Jordan scooted closer. "I can't imagine how I'd feel if I saw Pamela. There's not much chance, though, since she's about a million miles away."
"I hid."
He looked at me in surprise. "You hid?"
I rolled my eyes and the humiliation settled on me anew. "I saw them at the computers, and I tried to duck behind a bookshelf. It didn't work, though. Marc saw me."
"Double ouch."
"Yeah, he came over. I tried to play it cool, but my stomach was upside-down."
What was I thinking, confiding in Jordan? I hadn't talked to a guy like this since⦠well, since Marc.
Jordan scooted closer still. "That's rough, Emili. Sorry."
"It's what I deserve, anyway." I tilted my head to look up at him and tried to shrug off the experience, but his expression was so tender, my voice faltered.
"I doubt you deserve it," he said.
"You didn't tell me much about Pamela. Only about her moving."
Jordan looked down and started clenching and unclenching his fists. "Pamela Riggins. I loved her."
I spoke in a faint whisper. "I know."
"Her dad got a job in Texas. He's a banker. It was a transfer, a big step up for him. No one in the family wanted to go, Pamela least of all. We'd been dating forever. Not only dating, she was my good friend. To get them to go, her dad had to promise everyone he'd send them back to visit."
"Has she ever come back?"
"No."
"What happened?"
"When she found out she had to move, she started crying. I think she cried for two weeks straight. It didn't matter what I did, she wouldn't stop. We pledged our love forever." He shot me a look. "I know it sounds stupid, but we meant it. I figured we'd get married right out of high school and go to college together."
"What went wrong?"
"I'm not sure. I can't figure it out. We were totally committed one minute, and the next minute, she pulled the plug. After two weeks of nonstop tears, she got quiet. You have to know Pamela. She was always talking or laughing or singing. I don't think she was ever quiet. I loved that about her."
"She sounds nice."
"She
is
nice." Jordan rubbed his forehead. "But then she started ignoring my calls. When we were together, she'd hardly say anything."
Sarah's face flashed through my mind.
"I kept asking her what was wrong. I even asked Margo and Sally for help."
"Did they find anything out?"
"No. They said she acted weird with them, too."
"So were you talking when she moved?"
"Her mom asked me to dinner the night before they left." He looked at me, and the sadness in his eyes made my breath catch in my throat. "Her mom liked me. Anyway, we went to Smorgy's Pizza. Everyone was trying to be cheerful, but it was a sorry attempt. We ate pizza, fake laughed our way through dinner, and then I walked Pamela home."
Jordan shifted, backing away from me a bit. "It wasn't a long walk, but it seemed like a thousand miles. I tried to be funny. I wanted to see her smile. My insides were dying, and there I was trying to be a clown. Pathetic."
He was quiet. I reached over and touched his arm. Again, electricity burned through me. I pulled my hand back into my lap.
"We were over." Jordan sat straight and shook his head. He rolled his shoulders, and his bones cracked. "I've talked way too long about it. Let's talk about something else."
"Didn't you write or text?"
"I texted her a few times. No answer. So I stopped. No one wants to be a stalker."
"Yeah, I stopped texting Marc, too."
His deep brown eyes searched mine. "Do you still love him?"