Falling Under (12 page)
“She was
disgusted
,” Shelby says. “Weren’t you, Faith?” Shelby stares at Faith until she nods.
“I saw her running out of the sauna right after. She had to go and puke, she was so revolted,” Shelby continues.
Bernadette’s cheeks are red, and you’re afraid she might cry. You get up, move closer. Bernadette and her attackers notice you at the same time.
“Leave her alone,” you say.
“Why don’t you tell us, Mara,” Shelby says. “Tell you what?”
“Everybody knows you saw.You saw her grabbing Faith’s tits and trying to dive for her beaver!”
“It wasn’t like that,” you say. “Mara, shut up,” Bernadette says. “But Bee, that’s not how it ha—”
“SHUT UP,” she says again, emphasizing the “t” and the “p.”
Suddenly you realize. Oh, fuck.
“I mean, it didn’t happen,” you say. “Nothing hap- pened.”
“Right,” Shelby says, and smirks. “Keep talking, rug- munchers.”
“This is bullshit,” Bernadette says, and stands up. “It’s all bullshit.”
“Exactly,” you say.
“
Please
shut up, Mara. You’re not helping,” she says, then picks up her knapsack and leaves the lunchroom. Peo- ple snicker and call her names as she passes. She stands up straight and doesn’t look back.
6
She doesn’t come to school for a week.
A few people, fueled by Aaron Deeter, call you dyke and lesbo. You stare them down and say nothing. A few times
you pick up the phone to call Bernadette, but after the way you screwed things up, why should she trust you?You search for a way to make it right, something you can offer for the return of her friendship.
One day, during calculus, you follow Faith into the bath- room. You get into the stall next to her, stand up on the toilet seat, and lean over the wall.
“Hi, Faith.” She screams.
“Shh,” you say, and put a finger to your lips. “What are you doing?” she says.
“I saw you,” you say.
“Saw me what?” She looks down at her bare upper thighs. “I saw you. You were even on top.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you kissing her back, touching her. You looked the opposite of disgusted to me.”
Her blond hair is not so pretty from this angle. With Guess jeans around her ankles, pink Calvins inside the jeans, and perfect nails—everything about her seems perfect except that she’s a liar and a fake and she’s ruining Bernadette’s life.
“What the hell do you want?” she asks.
“Tell the truth. If Bernadette’s a lesbian, then so are you.” “SHHH! Shut up! I’m not.”
“There’s no one here, and I can see the door,” you say. “I’m not,” Faith whispers. “I’m not like that. She might
be, but I’m not.”
“Then you need to take it back.”
“Can I please have some privacy?”
“Say you were lying. No one needs to know what part you were lying about.”
She tries to laugh, but it comes out like a sob. You’d feel sorry for her, but your pity is spoken for.
“Or you could say it was a joke,” you say. “Who’d believe that?”
“I don’t know. Don’t care, either. But it’s going to be a long year for you if you don’t fix this. My life isn’t so great right now, and I have lots of time to hound you. And I could tell everyone what I saw.”
“They won’t believe you. I’m more popular.” “Then you have more to lose.”
She stares up at you with tears in her eyes. “Please,” she finally says, “you don’t understand.” “I don’t need to.”
Now she starts sobbing for real.
“If my parents find out... People will forget, but my parents... Please don’t tell.”
“Sorry. No deal.”
You leave her weeping and go back to class.
6
Alone in her bedroom on the weekend, Faith English ingests so much rum that she passes out. Her parents find her and rush her to the hospital where she has her stomach pumped.You hear about it Monday morning and feel sick all day. They say her parents are sending her away to boarding school.
You’re early for school Tuesday, and therefore see a pinched, dark-haired woman emptying Faith’s locker. Un- able to stop yourself, you approach.
“Are you Faith’s mom?” you ask. She turns with narrow, glaring eyes.
“Sorry, I . . .” My God, she looks like she wants to kill someone. “I just wanted to know . . . is Faith all right?”
“Are you a friend?” she asks. “Sort of.”
“Your name?”
“Um, Mara. Mara Foster.”
She gives you a long, measuring look and suddenly you feel overly conscious of the pink streak in your hair and the deliberate rips in the knees of your Levi’s.
“I wonder,” she says, “do the parents of this school have any idea what kind of evil their children are getting up to?”
Evil? “Um.. .”
“Do your parents know?”
Shit. She knows about Bernadette. She knows about you threatening Faith. She’s going to kill you, brand you, chase you with a hot poker!
“The Lord will punish,” she says. “The Lord will pun- ish you.”
She certainly knows something.
“Look to your salvation, the fires of hell are nigh.”
Whoa. If her eyes were the fires of hell, you’d be burning right now.
“Cigarettes! Whoring and drinking! Satan’s music!” she says, and then points at Faith’s Bon Jovi poster. “Now I know. Faith was an innocent before she came to this school, and she will be an innocent again.”
Yikes.
“Listen,” you say, “I don’t think Faith was, ahem, whor- ing or smoking or—”
Her arm whips out and she points a finger at you. “Jezebel! Stay away from my daughter.”
“Um.. .”
She moves closer and stares fiercely up into your eyes. The smell of mothballs and stale sweat nearly overcomes you. “Stay away. You and all of your friends—tell them to stay away from her.”
You blink.
She turns back to the locker, rips down the poster. Pulling out two chemistry books from the shelf, she jams them into her purse.
You should be running, but you just stand staring.
Mrs. English slams the locker door. The sound jolts you. You are backing away when her hand reaches out like a claw and clamps on to your arm.
“I want my daughter back,” she croaks, and tears come to her eyes. “Give me my daughter back.”
Holy shit. You pull your arm away and take another step back.
“Give me my daughter back!” she repeats, louder this time. Oh my God, oh my God.
You keep moving, but she follows you.
“GIVE ME MY DAUGHTER BACK!”
You bump into someone behind you and then pivot and run as fast as you can, out of the school, into the yard and all the way to the bus station.
You can’t stop seeing her, those eyes ripping into you with their pain, her voice on the verge of lunacy. Too late, your heart is filled with horror for Faith, who must be living in her own kind of hell.
T
he sun is beating down on my face. The sheets are sticking to me, I have to pee and my stomach is growling.
What day is it?
I shuffle to my desk and check my computer for the date.
I’ve been sleeping for over twenty-four hours. Again. I scream when I see myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair is gone.
Worse than gone—I look like a drunken elf has ridden a lawnmower all over my head. Who did this to me!
Oh. Wait...
It all comes back—the blob, the paint, the scissors, the glue.
I groan.
Whatever I did back there in the studio, it’s guaranteed to be frightening. I don’t even want to see it.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Maybe.
In the kitchen, my message light is flashing and I play two messages from Bernadette, one from Dad, and then (thump, thump) one from Hugo.
“Hi, Mara. Thanks for, uh, having me over and... all of it. Now that we’ve got each other’s digits, maybe we could make a real plan? Tomorrow night? Call me.”
Oh boy.
I eat some leftover gnocchi and then, avoiding one prob- lem with another, call Dad.
“Hola!” he says. “Hey, Dad.”
“Buenos días,” he says, mangling the accent on even this simple Spanish.
“Aren’t you jolly.”
“Yes I am!” he says. “Shauna and I are moving to Mexico.”
Uh oh. “Really.”
“Sí. We’re buying a house in Puerto Vallarta.”
Purchase of property anywhere, much less in Mexico, is both unlikely and unwise when you’re my dad.
“Really,” I say.
“So we’re learning Spanish,” he says.
Yep. I hear “Yellowbird” in the background and I’m sure “Guantanamera” isn’t far behind.
“And we’re doing the cha-cha,” Dad says. “Or is it the merengue?”
This is going to be good.
“So why don’t you bring your boyfriend over later. We’re having—”
“Let me guess. Margaritas?” “Banana daiquiris, actually,” he says.
“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend.” “Sure you do.”
“Not for a few years.”
“Well, get one, sweetie! Get one and bring him over. We’re having a party! Invite Bernadette and her latest chippy if you want.”
“Chippy?”
“Chicky, chippy, whatever. Call her.” Double groan.
“Shauna would love to see you, too, honey.”
“I’ll see,” I say, and get off the phone before I have to hear any more.
I fret and pace. I do laundry, clean the kitchen, wash the front hall, check e-mail, read the news.
Lunatic art in the studio. No hair.
Bring your boyfriend. Frightening.
I eat chips until my taste buds are burning, then give in and call Bernadette.
“You have to come to Dad’s with me tonight.” “Hello to you too,” she says. “Where’ve you been?”
“Uh . . .” I glance toward the back of the house and the studio, which I’ve been avoiding. “I’ll tell you later. Dad’s learning the cha-cha and moving to Mexico.”
“Uh oh.”
“They’re having a fiesta tonight, and I think I need to check on him.”
“No kidding. Sounds fun though.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, it sounds like a better idea than... what was the last one?”
“Coed strip clubs,” I say, and wince.
“Right,” Bernadette says, “Mexico sounds innocent in comparison to that. I’m in.”
“Thanks. Can you come over here first?” “What time?”
“Now?”
“Now?” she repeats. “Now-ish?”
“Some of us work,” she says.
“Some of us make excuses to leave early whenever it suits us.”
“Well . . .” she considers, “it’s three now.. .” “You can bring a chippy,” I say.
“A what?”
“Dad’s word, he said you could bring a ‘chippy’.” Bernadette snorts. “Cute.”
“And I might invite a boy,” I say. “A boy?”
“A man... guy... person.. .” “A man-guy-person?”
I clear my throat. “A date.” “What!?”
Ha, that’s got her.
“What date? What guy? Start talking!” “And I might need some help with my hair.” “Okay, what is going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” I say.
“Give me an hour.”
While I wait, I listen to Hugo’s message a few times and memorize all his phone numbers.
I walk to the studio door, but can’t bring myself to go in.
Great use of Sal’s money, Mara. Great way to use up a month’s worth of supplies.
Oh, yes, no doubt the avant-garde of Toronto’ll be peeing their pants to see my split ends displayed on canvas.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Forget it for now, just forget it.
“You’re kidding me,” Bernadette says when she sees my hair. “Did someone attack your head?”
“Gremlins?”
She marches past me and into the kitchen. “Scissors,” she says.
“Can we do that later?”
“Okay,” she says, and frowns at me. “So, the man-guy- person... Is he the reason you cut your hair?”
“Not directly.” “Who is he?”
I duck my head and mumble, “Hugo. The guy from Sappho.”
“Holy shit! I need a drink.” She goes to the cupboard and takes out Sal’s grappa.
“Hey, it’s not such a big deal.”
“Okay, the world is shifting on its axis here. You’ve mas- sacred your hair and you’re suddenly interested in a guy. It’s a big deal.” She takes a swig directly from the bottle and nearly chokes. “Jeez, this stuff is strong!”
“Sorry, I should have warned you.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Hair, Hugo.
Dish.”
I still don’t know how to explain the hair, so I tell her about Hugo. She grills me for details until she has the whole story, minus my troubles leaving the house and the painting marathon.
“So you like him.” “Yeah.”
“And you want to invite him to your dad’s?” I nod.
“Hmm,” she says. “What?”
She gets up and starts looking for food in the fridge.
“Are you sure you’re not trying to scare him off?” she asks, and wrinkles her nose at the contents of my crisper. “You eat like a rabbit.”
“He doesn’t scare that easily.” “So I’m right!” she says.
“No, not anymore. I was, but I’m past it.”
“Right,” she says. “You’ve never officially been on a date, and the first time you plan one, you’re inviting me along— with or without ‘chippy’—and taking him to meet your Dad, who’s—”
“Nuts,” I supply.
“Slightly unstable,” she says. “Let’s be nice.” “Okay.”
“Not to mention you’ve cut your hair so you look like a prisoner of war. And you’re telling me you’re not trying to run him off?”
“Well, when you put it that way.. .”
“Exactly. So, if he doesn’t run screaming?” I look her in the eye. “Then I’m in trouble.” “You’re in trouble already.”
She has a point.
“So, when’s he coming over? We’ve got to fix your hair.” “Oh, I haven’t, um, called him back yet.”
Bernadette buries her face in her hands and moans. “I know, I know. I memorized his number though.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s very helpful, Mar, good job.” She picks up the cordless and passes it to me.
Oh yikes.
I take a deep breath and dial his home number. He answers on the first ring.
“Hi,” I say.
Bernadette gives me the thumbs up. “Mara? Hi!” he says. “You called!” “Yeah.”
“How are you?” he asks. “Umm . . . fine. Good.” “Good.”
“Listen,” I say, “I’m not great with telephones.” “Somehow I’m not surprised,” he says, and laughs.