Fault Lines (11 page)

Through the maze of mostly empty halls, I ran as fast as I could to my locker in a dead-end alcove. I slumped to the floor and gazed out the ceiling-to-floor window at the browning grass turning dormant for the winter. I tried to think of anything but Mrs. Luna. I slapped my hands over my face. I squeezed my eyes. I forced her picture out of my head. But that made Ricky York reappear, standing like a boxer in the second before a knockout blow.

Then I heard a voice in my head – loud and commanding like my dog trainer voice, only dark and depressing. The nasty voice that attacked Ricky, now turning on me.
No wonder Maddy didn’t want you for a friend. You’re ugly, and you’re rotten, and now the whole drama club knows. It’s just like Grandma said; only it’s you, not Taylor. Your fool’s voice gave you away.

***

Todd stopped me before I got on the bus that afternoon. “Hey, what’s up with that Ricky kid?” he said, smiling.

“Nothing,” I said and turned to board the bus.

“Wait! What about doing Creeper tonight?”

I didn’t care. “Fine.”

“Same time, same place.”

I got on the bus and sat next to Justine.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“What?”

She nodded her head toward Todd as he walked down the aisle.

I waited till he passed. “Just something about the play,” I lied.

“Are you guys getting to be buddies or what?”

“Of course not,” I lied again.

She let that drop. Then she started trying to talk me into doing a dance routine with her in the talent show. Justine loves dancing. She used to have me record dance moves from music videos so she could practice them when her mom wasn’t home. She says dancing lifts her up and carries her to a happier place. But not me. Her living room was one thing, but I’d never do it in public.

“No way,” I said.

“Please, Dani? I’ll teach you. You’ll look great!”

“I’d make a fool out of myself,” I said, shaking my head “No” the whole time we were talking. “Uh-uh. No way. Never.”

She said, “Please” and “C’mon, she even tried “Chicken!” But she finally gave up and changed the subject. “I think my mom’s finally going to let me take a modern dance class.”

Justine had always wanted dance lessons, but her mom wouldn’t let her. Now, Mrs. Hammond was starting to get back to normal, only less strict.

“That’s great, Justine,” I said, and I meant it.

“We’re going to visit a dance studio this afternoon, then we’re going out to dinner.”

“Excellent.”

I was relieved I wouldn’t have to lie to her again later. Little did I know that night Bobby would confuse a soap bar for an egg, and Justine and everyone would soon know everything.

now

let the punishment – er, service – begin

I’m not looking forward to starting community service today, exactly one week before Christmas, but I’m trying to be positive – if only about getting it over with. Mom says the holidays are the busy season at New Horizons, the local food bank and homeless shelter for women and children. So that’s another bright side: being busy will make the time go faster.

First I have to make it through the last hour of school before the start of winter break. Not an easy task. The entire period will be taken up with an assembly previewing the best acts in tonight’s talent show, including Justine’s dance act, featuring her new gal pal and dance partner, Kailyn Whitehead.

I trudge into the buzzing auditorium with my sixth-period class, all of us filing into our seats and behaving like we’re in church because our assembly-hating math teacher has threatened us with detentions. Kids with more lenient teachers push each other, and switch seats to get nearer their friends, and stand to wave at people still coming in.

When the lights go out, it gets loud. People scream and whistle as balding, pear-shaped Mrs. Addison, the easy-grading Social Studies teacher and annual talent show director, steps out from behind the closed curtains to introduce the first act.

The show is what you’d expect, singers and musicians one after another, some shaky, some strong. One rock band plays so loud I think my ear drums might explode, but the audience loves it. I feel sorry for a kid telling jokes no one can hear. He’s booed twice.

So when Mrs. Addison introduces Justine and Kailyn, calling themselves “Dual,” I’m so nervous that I close my eyes. A few people whistle, and I peek to see the curtains sliding open. Justine and Kailyn stand frozen in place, wearing tight, white, long-sleeve tops tucked into baggy red sweat pants.

Their heads are bowed so we can only see their crooked red baseball caps. They each have one leg bent and twisted sideways, showing the white stripe down the side of their pants.

The opening bass beat of a dance tune thumps out of the speakers. Their shoulders shrug up and down in perfect synch. The crowd goes nuts.

The music rises, launching them into a hip-hop routine straight from MTV. Even though a couple times Kailyn is off in her timing by a second or two, they rock.

By the time they hit their ending pose with the last note of music, the audience is on its feet, cheering, pumping fists and letting loose shrieking whistles. I shift my head from side to side to see past the people in front of me weaving and bobbing in applause. I watch Justine as the curtain closes. She cracks the slightest smile, still holding her pose.

I literally puff up with pride. I smile inside and out and silent-speak to my best friend:
Way to go, Jus! You did it!
How brave!
And it feels like maybe my happy, strong, positive dog-trainer voice is making a comeback.

I just as quickly deflate in shame. The mean voice steps in to remind me I’m not brave. Or a good friend.
Kailyn Whitehead has more guts than you do. She surely was terrified to dance for the whole school, but she didn’t let her sissy side win.

With the curtains closed, Mrs. Addison comes out to introduce the final act. As kids settle back in their seats, I sit up a little straighter to stay connected with my better side. I know what I have to do. I’ll apologize to Justine. A heartfelt apology, like I’m supposed to do with Creeper. And face-to-face, not in a letter.

I have so much to be sorry for with her – for lying, for avoiding her, for comparing my loss against hers instead of just offering all the sympathy I had to give. I don’t know if an apology will help, but I’ve got to try.

Just the thought sends energy pulsing through me as loud and strong as the music and dancing from Justine’s routine. I’ll catch up with her before she gets on the bus. I’ve got time before I have to catch the city bus to New Horizons.

Mrs. Addison leaves the microphone and out from behind the curtain comes Mrs. Hodge, the kindest teacher in school, always hugging everyone. She knows tons of kids by name, even though she only has a small number of students each year. She teaches Special Education, where the kids all have disabilities or learning difficulties.

I look at the clock on the back wall, two-fifty-five, just minutes before the final bell, and the last act hasn’t started. Can’t they get this moving?

“Thank you for your patience, children,” Mrs. Hodge says. “This next group is some of my students performing to the song, ‘The Rose,’ by Bette Midler. This is a beautiful song about being patient through the winter when things look bleak. Even then, the seed is just waiting for the spring so it can burst forth and flower.”

Mrs. Hodge smiles sweetly. Can’t she hear the restless murmuring of the audience? Clearly, I’m not the only person who knows the bell is about to ring.

“And, I have some exciting news! This group has been invited to perform at The White House in March! Isn’t that something! So here they are for your enjoyment, Silent Singers!”

All the stage lights go out, replaced by a single spotlight. The curtains lurch open to reveal three short rows of kids standing on choir risers, wearing floor-length black robes with the big, flowing sleeves – similar to a judge’s robe. Behind them a black-curtained backdrop makes their black robes barely visible. Clearly, their hands – all in white gloves, clasped at their waists – are meant to draw the audience’s attention.

“‘The Rose’ sucks!” a kid yells out, setting off a wave of laughs and hoots. Teachers stand up from seats all over the room, facing their classes like prison guards, silently warning us to quiet down, letting us know we can’t run out at the bell.

Scratchy, crackling sounds spew from the speakers as everyone waits. One white hand in the second row moves – the only one. Everyone else stands motionless.

The one moving white hand glides upward, and a white index finger juts out to poke at large plastic eyeglass frames. Ricky York. Pushing his glasses up. His hand drops back down, but I can’t tear my eyes from his face.

I shrink in my seat, staring at his bed hair and his pale face and the oversized glasses, knowing what this means. The first notes of music blare out. The singers unclasp their white hands and drop them to their sides.

Ricky York is in Special Education
.

Bette Midler’s voice – slightly distorted from the poor-quality speakers being pumped up too loud – sings the first words, “Some say love … it is a river …” Simultaneously, the black-robed students wave their white-gloved hands in sign language, translating the song’s words into graceful, musical gestures. Despite the awful-sounding speakers, it is beautiful.

Whenever Bette Midler holds a note for emphasis, the performers stretch out their arms, elongating the signed word. When Bette sings quickly, their hands flash rapidly. It looks magical, impossible, like perfectly synchronized white doves flying in formation to the rhythm of the song. It is so hypnotic that no one moves when the final bell rings distantly in the background.

I watch Ricky’s hands communicating, keeping time with all the others. My own hands clench the edges of my seat. He must have challenges, obstacles that make learning difficult. Yet he knows every word of “The Rose” in sign language.

The song ends with the performers touching one side of their nose, then the other, apparently indicating the last word, “rose,” and placing their hands at their sides.

The audience applauds enthusiastically. The performers bow. The lights come up, and everyone scrambles for exits. I shift sideways in my seat to let people around me, but I don’t stand. I listen to trampling feet and excited voices of kids starting winter break.

In a few minutes, the whole place clears out.

I sit there, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I stare at the red stage curtain, drawn closed but still swaying. In the silence, my ears ring from the show, and my head swirls with thoughts of Ricky.

I know instead of screaming at him, I should have offered to help him learn lines. It doesn’t require a ton of brain power to realize that. But still I sit and think.

How is it I go to Ricky York’s school and know nothing about him? He’s just a kid wanting to act in the play despite his problems. He’s not lazy or stupid, but he’s probably endured enough teasing to last a lifetime.

I keep sitting and thinking. I wait until I’m certain there’s no chance of me running into Justine. I listen to the dark voice in my head.
She’ll never want to be friends with anyone as cruel and unfeeling as you. Give it up.
Then I walk outside to catch the city bus to New Horizons.

now

it’s suddenly real

I don’t feel I have much to contribute at New Horizons, but the lady in charge does. I’ve barely been inside five minutes, and she’s already got a mile-long list of jobs for me. She’d probably already have me working if her cell phone hadn’t started ringing.

“Just a minute,” she says to me. “New Horizons, Deborah Jenkins speaking.”

She puts a finger in her other ear and walks through an arched doorway into the kitchen. I’m glad for a minute to gather myself and look around.

The sign outside says this shelter is a state historic site, which sounds nicer than saying it’s old. It’s a really old three-story house on a busy street. Maybe it was fancy one-hundred years ago, but now the carpet is worn. The thick, bumpy walls need chips repaired and new paint. The furniture all looks like stuff I’ve seen sitting by the curb with a “Free” sign: stained chairs, sunken couches, scratched tables, a small old TV on a wooden crate.

The low-ceiling living room leads into a dining room with a green shaded lamp hanging over an enormous table with mismatched chairs for twelve. The kitchen is next to the dining room. A narrow stairway winds upstairs from the living room.

It’s awkward standing alone in the middle of the room, but I don’t want to sit. What if someone comes in? What do I say? I feel like an alien that crash-landed on the wrong planet.

When a red-haired woman and little girl tromp down the stairs, I worry they might gawk at me, but the woman just glances. Lines criss-cross her thin face. She nods hello, then grabs the TV remote from the couch, sits on a creaky recliner and flicks on
Ellen
. The little girl peeks from behind the stairway railing.

I move into the dining area to get out of the way and rest one hand on the back of a slatted chair, trying to look relaxed. Ellen says, “You know it’s Friday, and it’s almost Christmas, so I’m feeling festive. Today we’re going to have fun in the best way I know how. First with a dancing cat video and then with us dancing to the dancing cat video. Whaddya think?” The studio audience cheers wildly.

The girl comes up behind me. “Who you?” she says.

Her round face is dotted with freckles the same color as her straight red hair, parted precisely down the middle and pulled tightly into two neat braids over each ear. Her high-water jeans call attention to her beat-up tennis shoes.

“I’m Dani. What’s your name?”

“Jasmine, but Mommy calls me Jazzy. How old are you?”

“Thirteen. How old are you?”

“Four,” she says, but she holds up five fingers.

I’m not sure what that means, so I look at the mother.

“She’ll be five this summer,” the mom says, and she goes back to watching TV.