Bad Apple (10 page)

“Do you have problems shopping in grocery stores?”

“No, it’s just an example! You are being so weird! Every reaction you have is all wrong! And everyone thinks I’m the crazy one.”

“Not everyone.”

“Please,” she spits. “You don’t even try to understand what I’m going through.”

I’m about to ask what
Madge
is going through, with her straight As and her gap year and the fact that no one is writing talk-show-inspired blogs about
her
, but for once I stop myself. I see the red eyes, the dark circles draped underneath. She’s going through something. Just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not real. She has a paper bag hanging out of her back pocket. She’s exhausted. For the first time, I wonder how much she’s sleeping. If she’s sleeping at all.

“What kind of task would he give you about Mr. Rosentople?”

“Run him over with the car.”

“You’d have to drive for that,” I say.

“I’d get Mr. Doctor to run him over.”

“Does it count if you use a proxy?”

“Proxy? Have you been studying your vocab?”

“Mr. Lambright rubbed off some, I guess.”

“Mr. Lambright. I liked Mr. Lambright. I miss him.”

Her tone sounds wistful, like she really means this. “You miss Mr. Lambright?”

“I miss writing five-paragraph essays. I miss topic sentences and supporting statements. I miss integrating relevant quotes with appropriate notations. And I miss conclusions. You don’t know how much I miss conclusions.” She sits up and starts to wheeze. I pull the paper bag from her pocket. She hunches over it, elbows on knees, the bag crackling.

(
comments
)

We are in limbo. Because we’re still waiting for the school board to make a decision about Mr. Mymer. Because we are slogging through the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas break. Because we are slogging from here to eternity.

Outside, the world has turned to gray slush overnight. We don’t wear boots to school the way our parents warn us to.
Boots are so lame.
We compensate by layering scarves. Our necks are warm, but our soaked sneakers leave footprints in the hallways, like the markings of ghosts. We slip and we slide on the tile, losing our balance, waving our arms wildly to compensate, the scarves lashing the air. Cell phones skid and shatter.

The kids are still talking about me and about Mr. Mymer, but they’re more subdued now, muffled by all the scarves and the cold, which every year catches us by surprise. I look for Chelsea Patrick around every corner—
Who’s that tripping
over my bridge?
I think she’s the one who created The Truth About Tola Riley in the first place. But also I think she’s just biding her time.

June waits for me in the cafeteria. She’s ditched her mom’s cheese sandwich and is dipping a hot dog into a little tub of mayonnaise.

“Gourmet,” I say approvingly. I tell her about our mayonnaise project in cooking, and she tells me she likes her mayonnaise “unadulterated.”

The NASA phone beeps, and she glances at the screen. “Have you heard about the true story of the three little pigs?”

“Yeah,” I say. “The wolf was framed.”

“No, actually. Some weird little girl kidnapped all the pigs. Did you get suspended?”

“No. I have to see the school psychologist. And I have to take biology over the summer.”

“Could have been worse.”

“I don’t see how,” I say.

“Mr. Anderson could have pickled you with the pigs.”

“I think he wanted to.”

“Do you blame him? You kidnapped a pig. What’s next?”

“I’m plotting my next move.”

“You mean you’re plotting your own expulsion. Do you want to be thrown out of school?”

“No, I just want them to listen to me. I want them to hear me.”

“And you get them to listen by stealing a pig?”

“Think of it as performance art.”

“Think of it as C-R-A-Z-Y.”

“Everyone already thinks the worst of me. I might as well take advantage of it. I might as well enjoy it,” I say.

“Right,” she says. “You look like you’re having a great time.”

She’s scooping out a wad of mayo with her finger when a note lands in the middle of our table.

ART TEACHERS DO IT IN SHADES.

“Speaking of ecstasy,” I say. “It’s for you.”

Pete Santorini, Ben Grossman, and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name gasp when June puts her finger into her mouth and sucks it clean.

“Sorry, boys,” she says. “Who needs an art teacher when we’ve got each other?”

Whoop. Hoot. High five.

“Thanks,” I say. “I can imagine the rumors you just started.”

June considers me. “What do you care? I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

“Not so much. I ran into Chelsea Patrick.”

She sighs. “What did she do?”

“Grabbed me and drew a smiley face on my face. With red lipstick.”

“I guess it could have been worse. She could have rammed your head into the toilet bowl.” She touches her
hair as if this has happened to her.

“Are you trying to make me feel better? I know she’s the one who started all these rumors. She already ruined my life.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Mr. Mymer’s life seems to be a little more ruined than yours.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re just a teenager. People might think you’re weird or crazy, but no one’s going to keep you from going to college or whatever, right? But Mr. Mymer’s an adult. And he doesn’t have a job.”

“Is that what people are saying?”

“Who? What people?”

“The people you’re texting?”

“I’m texting some kids from my Youth Leaders of America seminar.”

“Because this isn’t my fault.” Even to me, my voice sounds too high and tight.

“I didn’t say it was,” she says. “I’m just saying that some people might have it worse, that’s all.”

The NASA phone rings. She snatches it up. “Hello? What? I didn’t call you. You called me. No,
you
called
me
. Yes, you did!” She hangs up.

I use the call as a cue to change the subject. “Seven Chillman came to my house before Thanksgiving.”

“He did? What happened?”

“Nothing, really. He found Pib in his backyard and
wanted to bring him home. We talked in my kitchen. Then my mom threw him out.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“No. Well, he kissed my hand. But he also asked if we could go to a movie or something.”

“He did? Why didn’t you text me?”

“Well, it’s not like I can actually go. My mom will never let me. I’ll be lucky if I can date before I’m thirty-five.”

“So sneak.”

“I can’t do that! She’ll ground me.”

June laughs. “Tola, your reputation is shot. You just said you kidnapped a pig because you don’t care what people think about you. You said it was ‘artistic.’ What does it even matter what you do now?” She pops the last bit of hot dog into her mouth. “If you really want to be some sort of crazy art rebel, you’re going to have to put a lot more work into it.”

“I don’t want to be a rebel. I just want to be…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“I think you need to paint something. You get cranky when you’re not painting.”

“Can’t. I need a muse or something. And not an imaginary one. A real one. Someone I can see every day.” I’m about to say
someone I can touch
, but the words curl in my mouth.

After school, I go to see the school psychologist for the first time. She’s not happy to see me.

At home, the world has begun to pull in on itself. We eat dinner in the dark. Pib moves from window to window, looking for the best view. He sleeps on one of the bookshelves, curled around the clay vase I made my mom in the fifth grade. The furnace drones like a living thing, muffling sounds and words. A thousand times I think I’m going to tell my mom that Madge told me what she did, but it only reminds me what I did. I hover in the doorway: not in this room, not in that room, neither here or there. It takes me a second to recognize the ring of the phone. The number’s so new that only a few people know what it is. We hardly ever get any calls.

“HELLO?” Grandma Emmy shouts into the phone no matter how many times you tell her she doesn’t have to, like people who write their emails in all capitals.

“Grandma?”

Grandma Emmy doesn’t like to use the phone. Though she’s had them in her house her whole life, she acts like they are alien things, strange contraptions designed so that telemarketers could interrupt a decent person’s dinner and harass her into buying even more contraptions. She says that my cell phone will give me earlobe cancer and makes me put it in the other room when I’m over for dinner. She says that she hates talking on the phone, any phone, hates the way everyone sounds so fake and hollow and small.

Grandma does not sound small. “HELLO? HELLO? WHO’S THIS?”

“Grandma, it’s Tola.”

“WHO?”

“Tola, Grandma.”

“TOLA?”

“Yes, Grandma, it’s me. Is everything okay?”

“YES. NO. YES. GET YOUR MOTHER FOR ME.”

I run for the living room, where my mother is slumped in her favorite green chair. She’s staring off into space, appearing, in my opinion, stupid. Grandma’s voice bleats from the handset, “TOLA? ARE YOU THERE?”

My mother snaps out of her trance. She grabs the phone and presses it to her ear. “Mom?” she says. “What’s up?”

I hear Grandma shouting on the other end, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

“Okay, Mom. I can hear you. Stop yelling. And slow down.”

She does. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting. As if she can smell trouble, Madge drifts down the stairs. “What’s going on?” she asks me.

“Grandma’s on the phone,” I say.

“Grandma?” she says, incredulous.

Mom is listening and nodding. “No, of course it was okay to call me. I know everything will be fine, but I’ll be right over to make sure.” She hands me the receiver. “I have to go to the hospital. Grandpa still isn’t feeling well, and you know how Grandma gets. She called an ambulance.”

Madge says, “What? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s coughing a lot and having some trouble catching his breath,” my mom says.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Madge says.

“What?” I say. “You knew what was going to happen?”

“He’s dying.”

My mom’s mouth tightens. “No, he’s not dying. He’s having some trouble catching his breath.”

“That sounds like dying,” Madge says.

“It sounds like bronchitis,” says my mother crisply. “He skipped the doctor’s appointment I made, that’s all. I don’t know why people don’t listen to me.” She sits up and shoves her feet into her boots. “I’m going to see what’s up. I’ll be back.”

“Should I call the office?” It’s Saturday and Mr. Doctor is seeing another boatload of elementary school kids and middle-schoolers. But I’m sure he could reschedule. Mr. Doctor always drives.

“No, don’t bother calling. I’m fine.”

“Who’s going to drive?” I say.

Mom frowns. “I have been driving for more than twenty-five years, you know. Quite successfully.”

“I want to come with you,” Madge says.

“That’s not necessary.”

“This is my grandfather we’re talking about.” Madge’s voice saws through the room, the jagged edge of it threatening to cut us to pieces. “I have a right to be there.”

“There’s no need to be so melodramatic,” my mother
says. “He has a cough.”

“Just because I
care
about people, just because I have an actual
heart
, doesn’t mean I’m melodramatic.”

Mom takes a deep breath, the kind you take when you’d really like to flatten someone with a frying pan but remember that’s not the best way to show your understanding and concern. “You’re right. You can distract your grandmother. She’s a little nervous.”

They’re making me nervous. “I want to come, too.”

Mom considers this. “Tola, I really don’t think this is an emergency,” she says, glancing askance at my sister. “Your grandpa will be fine. Really.”

“If Madge is going, then I’m going.”

“Her name is Tiffany.”

“Whatever.”

At the hospital, we stop at the emergency room. I was there once six years ago when Madge broke her wrist while running backward (she claimed I talked her into doing it). I remember being so bored that I sneaked past the nurses at the nurses’ station and into the treatment area. I watched a teenager, a boy, beaten and bloody, getting his head stitched up like Frankenstein’s monster until one of the orderlies noticed me.

This time, we’re told that Grandpa Joe has been admitted, so we have to go around to the regular part of the hospital to find him. On our way, we stop in the cafeteria to get sodas,
and then we stop at the gift shop to get balloons. Then we take the elevator to the eighth floor.

I thought that the regular floors would look different from the emergency room, that they would look the way they look on TV, sterile and bustling with tortured but brilliant doctors running around with defibrillators or maybe freshly baked goods given to them by the families of grateful patients pulled back from the brink of death. No one warned me about the smell, which is a combination of alcohol, piss, and gravy. No one told me about the half-dressed old people slumped in wheelchairs in the hallways or the visitors with pinched faces and tears in their eyes at the nurses’ station.

I don’t like this place.

Neither does Grandpa Joe.

“Tell me you’re here to spring me from the slammer,” he says as soon as he sees us.

“Hi, Dad,” my mom says. “How are you feeling?”

“Did you bring the pie with the file inside?”

“We brought balloons!” says my mom way too cheerfully. The balloons are tied to a weighted teddy bear that she plunks on the bedside table.

“I guess that means no,” he says.

“Hi, Grandpa!” I say, also way too cheerfully, because I can’t stand the alcohol-piss-gravy smell.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Grandpa says when Madge and I kiss him. His cheek is pale and papery. He’s in a hospital gown that exposes stringy arms. An IV pumps drugs or
fluid or whatever into him, and he’s got clear tubes up his nose for oxygen. Grandma Emmy is sitting on the chair in the corner. The chair is so big that it looks like it’s trying to swallow her. She gets up so that we can dump our coats and hats on it.

A guy comes in the room. He looks like my history teacher. Except he says he’s a doctor. He points to his name tag with the little
M.D.
on it, as if that proves anything. He tells us that my grandpa has some pneumonia in one lung and he needs antibiotics to get rid of it. Because of his age, they’re going to watch him closely.

“Hey,” says Grandpa Joe. “Watch what you say about my age.”

The young guy grabs my grandpa’s foot. “Ha ha,” he says. I don’t think the doctors should go around grabbing people’s feet. I want to tell him that, but he walks out before I can.

“See,” my mom says. “The doctor says Grandpa Joe is going to be fine.” I’m not sure who she’s talking to. Maybe all of us. Maybe herself. “Tiffany, did you hear what the doctor said? Just a few days and he’ll be out of here.”

Madge folds her arms across her chest and clamps her mouth shut.

Grandpa Emmy tucks the blankets tighter around Grandpa. “That was a doctor? How old was he? Seventeen?”

“Oh, he was at least nineteen,” my mom says. I think he looked about forty, but nobody’s asking for my opinion.

“How’s your breathing feel now, Dad?” my mom says.

Grandpa Joe shrugs. “Better. A little better. Still tight in there, though.” He pats his chest.

Madge unclamps her mouth. “I know how that feels.”

“Tiffany,” says Mom.

“What?”

“Be quiet.”

“What?” says Madge. “What did I say?”