Amalee (8 page)

“You think you haven't taken care of me?” I asked. “Of course you have. And it's not like I've made it easy for you.”

Carolyn nodded her head and smiled, grateful that I'd let her off the hook.

Suddenly, Phyllis stood up. “Okay, it's official. I've got to do something.”

Phyllis grabbed her coat. “I've made a decision,” she said. I almost thought she was angry at me, she was so decisive. “You're getting in my car, and we're going.”

Where?

“C'mon,” she insisted, getting her keys and her purse. “We've got to go before I lose my nerve.”

“Where are we going?” I called out as we ran to her car.

“I am not going to let you be bullied. You made a mistake.” She started the car. “I'm forty-two years old, and I'll act like a parent if I want to.” She
sounded
like a twelve-year-old. “Let's face it —” she couldn't stop talking now — “your dad isn't dying, but we all had a good scare. And we didn't know what to do. And we didn't
know how to talk to you about it, because, well, you're eleven, even if you act older, and we didn't want to upset you….”

“You did the best you could….”

“True enough, but in the end, we were very confused. We just felt helpless.” She took a deep breath.
“Helpless.”

That was a huge word for her. Phyllis had never been helpless. She could be very unhappy, but she always, always had a plan. A plan to get her car out of the muddy ditch last spring, a plan to teach me multiplication (she wrote an equation in removable marker on every bathroom tile), and a plan to make the vegetable garden grow (it still didn't).

“But you aren't helpless with Dad!” I exclaimed. “You've helped him so much!”

Phyllis was silent for a full minute.

“You know, we have. Maybe that's why I have the courage to do this now. I'm not like Carolyn. I don't dislike Lenore, but we've got to set the record straight. You've gone through your father's sickness with almost no help from us. You're not going to do
this
alone.”

We pulled up to Lenore's house, where Phyllis had dropped me off a few times. Strangely enough, I almost felt better about seeing her house now than I had when
we'd called ourselves friends. I'd always hated going to her house. At least now, it was out in the open that Lenore didn't like me. Not that I wanted to go in the house at this moment, which was Phyllis's plan.

“Let's go,” she said, heading for the front door.

My first reaction was to push down in the seat, like a dog that won't go to the vet. But she walked with so much confidence, I only felt a small wave of dread as I jumped out and followed.

Phyllis gave the knocker two loud raps, then stood with her arms folded.

“Your father is going to be fine,” she repeated. We heard footsteps approaching. “But Lenore didn't know that. I don't want to be unkind about her, but I am really angry about this. Man, am I angry.”

Then the door opened, and I watched Phyllis's straight back sag a little, as if she suddenly wasn't so fired up. Uh-oh.

“Hi, Mrs. Nielson,” she said to the woman with peering eyes and short brown hair.

“Yes?”

“I'm Phyllis Francisco. I work at the middle school. We've met.”

“Oh. Is this … school-related?” Mrs. Nielson asked. “Would you like to come in?”

“We'd love to,” Phyllis replied. Mrs. Nielson jumped a little when she saw me.

“Amalee! Is this about …”

“Lenore and Amalee, yes,” Phyllis answered. “Can we sit down for a few minutes?”

“That's not a good idea —”

Phyllis interrupted, “I only went to one year of law school, but I know you can't hurt your lawsuit if you don't say anything. And also, we want to help.”

We sat down at the dining room table. Phyllis had gone to
half
a year of law school.

“And one more thing,” she added. “We want Lenore to be here, too.”

I slid down in my seat. Lenore appeared from behind a door that I could have sworn was to a closet.

“Hi, Lenore,” said Phyllis. “Thank you for sitting down with us.”

Lenore looked at her mother, and her mother looked at me as if we'd never met.

Phyllis continued, “Amalee doesn't think this matters, but” — she paused — “I think it's important for us to know that she was having a hard day. This happened at the end of the day, right, Amalee?”

I nodded. What was Phyllis doing?

“So at the end of the bad day, you, Lenore, invited
Amalee to sleep over at your house, and for some reason, which we can only guess at, she ended up pushing you. I know you can't speak, but I imagine that felt unfair, scary, all those things.”

Mrs. Nielson spoke up. “It was. She went to the emergency room. It was expensive, and our insurance won't cover all the things we need.”

“Well, Amalee should definitely pay for the rest. You don't need a lawsuit for that,” Phyllis said. “I just wanted you to know that this was an accident.”

“She pushed me!” cried Lenore.

“She did, but she was trying to push you away from her, not down the stairs. And she didn't even mean to push you. It's just that when you thought she was lying, well, you know, that's hard, especially since she
was
lying. She doesn't want to sleep at anyone's house right now, and she doesn't want to invite anyone over, mainly because her dad is sick.”

I expected Lenore to look over and call me a tattletale, but she was looking at the ground.

“And so here she was thinking she was protecting your feelings, and I think” — Phyllis looked at the ceiling as if she were consulting God, and then she plunged in — “I think when she heard that you thought she was lying, and even that she should be grateful for an invitation,
because some people think her father is dying …” She was looking at Mrs. Nielson now.

“Oh, Lenore!” Mrs. Nielson stood up. Mrs. Nielson was the one who had told her daughter my dad was dying. Now she knew her daughter had passed along her prediction. Lenore looked surprised and embarrassed. Actually, so did Mrs. Nielson.

“I think Amalee was just trying to get home, and she didn't know what to do,” Phyllis went on. “I think Amalee didn't mean to push you, Lenore.”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Nielson said.

Phyllis went on. “You and Lenore must be very concerned about Lenore's injury, and I am concerned, too. And I know Amalee is very sorry.”

“I am,” I said.

“Never mind that,” Mrs. Nielson muttered. “It's not the point, obviously.” She stood.

Phyllis and I got up and headed for the door.

“David Everly is expecting to pay any bills you have,” Phyllis said.

“Tell David to concentrate on getting better. And how is David …?” Mrs. Nielson started.

“He's doing much better, thank God. That's the good news. He's doing better every day. I would not say that he's … in trouble anymore.”

“I'm so glad to hear that,” Mrs. Nielson said, and I knew she meant it. “And I believe it. I'm sure the last thing anyone needs is loose gossip about his health.”

“Well, you know, we try to take everything in stride,” said Phyllis.

I could tell Mrs. Nielson was trying to apologize to Phyllis. “We weren't going to actually sue anybody. We were just talking to a lawyer. I wasn't trying to make any trouble.”

“Of course not. I can certainly understand your concerns about money. It's a crime what those insurance policies
don't
cover, don't you think?” Phyllis was being chatty, trying to change the subject. She must have known that things weren't as bad as Lenore was saying at school.

Now Mrs. Nielson turned to Lenore, who was trying to slink out of the room.

“Don't move,” she told her daughter. Then she bit her lip and turned to me. “Amalee, how are you doing these days?”

“I'm fine,” I said. “And I am so sorry. I should have known better. I'm sorry, Lenore.” It felt good just to say it.

“No, Amalee, we're sorry. We're very, very sorry.”

And so it was Friday, my last day of school before a week of suspension.

I walked into English class early. Only a few kids were there. Ms. Severance was leaning up against the desk, her back turned. She was talking with Phyllis.

Phyllis stopped talking when she saw me.

Ms. Severance swung around and said, “Hi.”

“Amalee, come outside for a second,” said Phyllis. She took me around the corner. “I don't want Lenore to see us talking. She must be so embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” I said.

“Trust me,” she said, “you're not being suspended, you're not getting detention, and I can't imagine anyone's going to sue you. Mrs. Nielson called the office this morning.”

“Wow,” I said.

“I agree! Listen, I've got to go, but …” Phyllis shuffled her papers around. “I, um, I've never been a mother before. I don't know if I had any right to do what I did yesterday. It's just, well, everybody gets to tell their side of the story. I believe that, and I just wanted to be efficient. I wanted to find the most direct way for you to tell your story. That's all I was thinking. Are you angry at me?”

I was stunned. “Why would I be angry at you?”

“Because I sort of ratted on you last night, you know, by repeating what Lenore had said to you about your dad.”

“I know why you did that, Phyllis,” I told her.

“You do?” she asked.

“Yeah, you wanted to clear the air.”

“Exactly!” she said.

“And it looks like it worked.”

“Whew, yes, I was relieved,” she said. “It looks like Mrs. Nielson is nervous about the hospital bills, and they thought they'd need a lawyer to get the money from us.”

“How much will I owe them?” I asked.

“Nothing, I think. Mrs. Nielson is raising three kids alone. She doesn't have time to read all her insurance information or call the insurance company four times a day. I'll do that for her. I think she's covered, though.”

“I could give them money. I could earn it for them,” I protested.

“It would probably be about five hundred dollars,” Phyllis warned me.

I sucked in my stomach. “That's a lot of lawns to mow,” I said, “but I could do it.”

“Sit tight for now. If she's still got that neck brace today, we'll know that she has some real neck problems, and we should offer to help,” Phyllis agreed. “But if she doesn't have a neck brace, we'll assume that she's okay, and you won't have to mow lawns for eight hours a day. Fair enough?”

I nodded and asked, “Phyllis, you know what I liked the best? I mean, do you want to know how I really feel?”

“How's that?” she asked.

“I feel forgiving.”

“That's nice,” Phyllis said, surprised.

“I forgive myself, I think. I forgive Lenore, her mom, Mr. Shapiro.”

“And me?” Phyllis asked.

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“You don't know what I did this morning,” she muttered. Then she confessed, “I told Ms. Severance about your dad. I told her everything. I broke my promise.”

“Why did you do that?” I gasped.

“Because she's a new teacher, and I like her, and I thought she could help you if I told her some of the things new teachers don't always know.”

“She doesn't like me,” I protested. “She thinks I'm a bad student.”

“She likes you, Amalee. She likes you a lot.”

I felt like I'd just eaten one of the apricots from Carolyn's enchanted garden.

“I like
her
a lot,” I whispered.

“Well, if you can trust that I broke my promise for the right reasons — and, by the way, I felt like I could because John had already spilled the beans, obviously — if you can forgive me, I think you're also going to be asked to forgive someone else.”

“Who's that?” I wondered.

“Ms. Severance.”

Ms. Severance?

I walked back into class and sat down. I couldn't even look at Ms. Severance. Then Lenore walked in. The neck brace was gone. She looked much smaller. She didn't look at me or Ms. Severance. She didn't look at anyone.

The bell rang, and Ms. Severance was silent. We waited for her to speak.

When she finally did, it had nothing to do with the
word of the day or grammar. She said, “When I came here, a year ago, I thought this job would be fun, because I think learning is fun. When you know more things, you understand more things, and you can do new things. In that way, learning gives you power.”

Her voice was quiet and steady, as it always was, but she seemed a little nervous.

“But when I started teaching,” she continued, “I don't know how it all happened, how things changed. I had a few kids in my class who were bullies. They made fun of me and the other kids. I was truly surprised. All I wanted was to help them learn all this great stuff, and they wanted to fool around and make fun of people.

“So I went and spoke to an expert here at school, and he said I had failed my students. He said it was my failure, because I hadn't given my students enough order. He said my class was in chaos. He said I shouldn't have expected to have fun. I shouldn't have thought we could laugh and enjoy learning together. He said I had to be strict, and that the biggest gift I could give my students was order, structure, and seriousness, because then nobody could misbehave, and I could get my job done.”

This sounded familiar. I put two and two together. She was talking about Mr. Shapiro, the principal. I bet
that Phyllis had been in here this morning telling her she didn't have to listen to him! I realized he had said all these things to Ms. Severance and made her feel unsure of herself. Poor Ms. Severance, trying her hardest to be orderly and serious, when she really wanted to be nice. Phyllis must have gone ahead and told Ms. Severance what all the students knew, that Mr. Shapiro was a loon.

“I think the expert was wrong,” she was now saying. “And I think I even hurt some students in the process, because the other piece of bad advice he gave me was this: If you have one or two very able students, students who have a strength in English and social studies, you should be the strictest with them. If they think they're smart, they will get conceited. They must believe they haven't tried hard enough yet.”

Her eyes only flickered in my direction, but I caught the pain in them.

Somehow this was the Ms. Severance I had been wanting to see all year, the one who went with the beautiful mossy green sweater and the sparkly earrings.

Now things made sense — her cold looks that went with my good grades, the fact that she never smiled when I answered a question correctly.

“The truth is, you are a fabulous group of students, and you've learned more than I ever thought you could in
one year, and I think you deserve to know that. So, congratulations! Now, on to the word of the day.”

Everyone looked happy, even Lenore.

 

I was afraid of getting too excited as I left Ms. Severance's class that day, but I dared to think that now I could be happy about waking up and coming to school. I could show up for Ms. Severance. I could let her know how much I loved the books we read, the words she taught us, and even her North American history assignments.

And now that the Lenore nightmare looked like it was coming to an end, what about the rest of the picture? Did I have any friends? Did Sarah still like me? It's easier to forgive than to ask for forgiveness. But she never seemed to be mad at me. No, I didn't have to ask her to forgive me for what happened with Lenore. I just had to talk with her.

I saw a girl named Marin walking down the hall. She was friends with Sarah. Here was an opportunity. I would talk to her. If I wanted friends, I'd have to find a way to be a friend.

“Marin,” I almost whispered as she passed.

“Did you say my name?” She stopped and looked at me.

“I — I saw the stained-glass project your team did in
art class,” I stammered. “We're doing them next week, and Ms. Hutton showed us the one you did as an example.”

“The ones our class did, you mean?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“No, the one you did by yourself. She showed us all the details on it and said it was one of the best ones she'd ever seen. Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Marin said shyly.

“Well, it was really good,” I said, starting to walk away. Clearly what I had said made Marin uncomfortable.

“Wait!” she called, then caught up with me. “I'm friends with Sarah Smythe. We're in
Bye Bye Birdie
together. She told me about what happened, and she said — Lenore Nielson told her why you pushed her.”

“She did?”

“Lenore knew it was because she said your dad was really sick.” Marin looked away and murmured, “I felt bad for you. So did Sarah. We thought we might have done the same thing.”

“You put yourself in my shoes,” I said. “That's what Ms. Severance always says.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't usually push people,” I added.

“I didn't think you did! How is your dad feeling?” she asked.

“Much better,” I said. “Thank you for asking.”

We headed off for our classes. I didn't even care if I was late.