Mary Wolf (4 page)

“Everybody shut up!”

“Don't say
shut up
, Mary. That's not nice.”

“Polly, will you please—just put away your crayons.”

“I can't. There's too many. Will you help me, Mary?”

“Yes. But you start.”

“Then can I watch TV?”

“In a while. Okay, here's the opening sentence: ‘When I was a little girl, I left home on a big trip.' Take it from there.”

“Take it where?” Danielle says.

“Wherever you want. That's just the beginning.”

“It's boring.”

“Then make it interesting! Write whatever you want!”

“Does it have to be long?”

“No. But make it neat. I want to be able to read it.”

Erica writes: “When I was a little girl I left home on a big trip. We saw Mickey Mouse. Mama's having a baby.”

Danielle scrawls: “When I was a little girl I left home on a big trip. At first it was fun seeing all the different places. Now everywhere we go looks like this goddam trailer park.”

“That's great Danielle. That's swell.”

“You said I could write whatever I want.” She crumples up the paper and turns on the TV. Erica and Polly draw close to the flickering screen, as if it were a cozy fire.

Danielle knows we're going nowhere, that we're driving in circles. She remembers how life used to be, back home. A house without wheels. A yard of our own. Erica and Polly were little; their memories are hazy. Daddy loves to tell them stories about the old days. He makes our house sound like a fairytale castle; countless rooms, closets bulging with clothes, fluffy towels in gleaming bathrooms, a row of shiny bikes, a swing set and slide, a wide lawn swept with melting diamonds and the laughter of children playing in the sprinkler, the sun above us like a big white smile, shining down upon our family.

Daddy and Mama tell the girls we'll move back there someday.

They don't know I know the house is gone.

I heard them talking one night when they thought I was asleep.

“You sold it?” she repeated. “What do you mean, you sold it?”

“I sold it. It's gone. Aren't you listening to me?”

“You're lying,” Mama whispered fiercely. “You couldn't sell the house without my signature!”

He said, “Where'd you think all the money was coming from?”

“I don't know! We had money in the savings. We had money in the savings! That's what you said.”

“I made some investments. Things didn't pan out.”

His voice was flat. She asked no more questions. I lay in the dark, listening to Mama weep.

Daddy and Mama return, bearing sacks of groceries and a white paper bag from the bakery.

“Did you bring me something?” Polly leaps at the bag. Mama kisses her and hands her a cookie.

“I got hired at the furniture factory,” Daddy announces. “They make picnic tables and lawn chairs. I can do that in my sleep. The pay's not great but it's a start.”

“You'll be running the place in a week,” Mama says, cupping her hands under her big belly.

“We checked out the schools. They look good,” he says. “You girls can start tomorrow.”

“Do we have to?”

“Of course you have to, Danielle,” he tells her sternly. “It's against the law for children to be dumb.” He winks to show he's kidding. She smiles uncertainly. “After lunch we'll drive down and look around. I'm sure you girls are curious about your new town.”

Erica snuggles on his lap. “What's it called, Daddy?”

He has to think for a moment. There have been so many towns.

“Cloverdale. It's a pretty little place. I think we're going to like it here. And Mary, you'll be pleased to know we've ordered new tires. A complete set. Are you happy now?”

I say, “It's like a dream come true.”

Four

I thought Daddy would drive us to school the first day, but he said we should take the bus.

“It will pick you up at the bottom of the hill. You can make new friends right away,” he said.

Erica shrank. She's shy with strangers. “I want you to take us, Daddy,” she whimpered.

“You heard your father. Get dressed,” Mama said. “The bus will be here at seven thirty.”

My parents usually act like they can't breathe without us. Other times, we seem to suffocate them. It's strange.

Safely nestled in their bed, Polly watched us get dressed. “I can't tie my shoes,” Erica cried. I helped her. Then we gulped down our breakfast and left the RV, the fog enveloping the girls' bare legs. California's supposed to be warm, the climate kind to migrating birds and people.

Over Mama's objections I'd worn my jeans. She thinks girls look more feminine in dresses. You don't want to stick out in a new school. No Kick Me signs. Jeans are pretty generic.

Most of the time I don't see my sisters clearly. They're too close for me to be objective. At the bus stop the girls come into focus. Framed in space, they look out-of-place, lost.

Danielle stamps her feet.

“You should've worn your coat,” I tell her.

“I hate that coat. I'm not cold,” she snarls. When Danielle's scared, she acts mad, instead. She got into fights at the last school she attended.

“Don't worry, you look fine.”

She rolls her eyes. Most of our clothes come from yard sales and thrift shops. Her dress is too short and her sweater's too big. She bangs her lunch bag against her legs.

“I don't see why he couldn't give us a ride,” she says. “It's not like he was doing anything.”

“He has to have a physical for his job today.”

“Not till later.”

“Maybe his stomach was bothering him.”

“His stomach's always bothering him,” she mutters, chucking a rock into the vineyard across the road.

“Don't worry, I'll take you to school this morning.”

“I can do it myself,” she protests, relieved.

“Me too, Mary?” Erica clutches my hand. She look so little in her blue plaid dress, her blond hair twisted into shiny braids. Danielle's hair was long until she hacked it off with scissors. Mama had a fit.

“You too, hon. It will be all right. You'll love being in school again. Wait and see.”

“I can wait,” Danielle says. Erica huddles beside me. She'd climb inside my pocket if she fit.

The bus looms out of the fog and groans to a stop. The door swings open and the driver greets us.

“Good morning, girls,” she says. “There's seats in back.”

I shove the girls up the steps and down the aisle, through a tunnel of goggle-eyed faces. We find seats together. Erica sits on my lap. She'd suck her thumb if kids weren't watching.

We pass farmhouses, barns, and misty vineyards, and ghostly oak trees draped with moss. We cross a bridge over the river and drive downtown, past beauty shops, markets, gas stations, the post office, the high school, to the grade school at the north end of town.

I get off with the girls. I'll walk to the high school. Mama and Daddy registered the girls yesterday, but we need to find out the location of their rooms.

The secretary gives us directions, then says, “Remind your parents that we'll need the girls' transcripts for our records.”

“They'll be here soon,” I promise. There are no transcripts. We've been everywhere and nowhere. And won't be here long enough for it to matter.

In the first-grade wing we meet Erica's teacher. Mrs. Donatelli kneels down and smiles at Erica, and shows her where to put her lunch bag and coat. Erica's pleased to have the teacher's attention, but when I move toward the door, she says, “Mary, don't go.”

“I have to, honey. I'll meet you out front, after school.”

“She'll be fine,” the teacher says. “We'll have lots of fun.”

“That's what they all say,” Danielle grumbles. We head down the hall to her fourth-grade classroom.

“I should be in fifth grade. I was last time.”

“Yeah, but you never caught up. Now you'll probably be the smartest kid in your class.”

“Oh goody,” she says, looking miserable.

Her classroom is empty. Her teacher's on the playground, supervising the kids before the final bell rings. I introduce my sister. He greets her warmly and says, “So tell me, Danielle, where did you live before this?”

“I'll see you after school,” I say. She shrugs.

I walk quickly toward the high school. It's an old brick building surrounded by portable classrooms. I'm glad I wore jeans; most of the girls wear pants. Class hasn't started; kids are milling around or standing in little groups. Radar tingling, they sense me immediately. I move through a restless sea of whispers.

In the office a bunch of girls who cut class are giving the secretary a dramatic excuse. “Well, that's just thrilling,” she says when they're through. They shriek their innocence while checking me out, quickly dismissing me as competition. Not ugly or beautiful, just there, like air. Invisibility is the look I'm after.

The school counselor gives me my locker combination and tells me to see him if I have any problems.

I won't. My parents don't like problems, don't like coming to school for meetings. There are too many questions they can't answer. They're ashamed to explain that we live in our RV. In big cities there are lots of homeless people, but in little towns you feel like a freak. So I'm friendly and polite, but I keep my distance. It makes saying good-bye easier.

The bell rings and I go to my English class. The room is crammed; a custodian hauls in my desk and sets it in back by the door. The teacher gives me a copy of
Moby-Dick
. I've studied it twice before.

The girl across the aisle catches my eye and smiles, so I smile back, then look at my book. At a new school, you don't know what's what or who's who. Lots of lonely people glom onto the new kid and try to make you their instant best friend. Sometimes they're lonely because they're so nice, and sometimes because they're crazy. Like this girl Eileen I met in Missouri. She invited me to spend the night the very first day. She said the kids hated her; that they were really mean. But she was mean, too, in her own way; she was bossy and asked a lot of personal questions. I felt like she was trying to crawl inside my brain and read my mind. I wasn't sorry when we moved away.

After English, I had history, home ec, and p.e. I didn't have gym clothes, so I sat on the bench and watched the girls play softball, crashing into each other and screaming with laughter when they thought any boys were looking.

The worst times at a new school are breaks and lunch. You can get through breaks by hanging out in the bathroom and combing your hair. Lunchtime is awful. It's way too long. I walk around eating, trying to look busy. Some schools have areas that are off-limits. At one school I was eating lunch in a deserted courtyard and two girls came by and said, “You can't be here. You're not a senior.” They waited till I left, then they left too.

I go to my locker and pretend to arrange it. The girl from my English class instantly materializes, as if she's been lurking nearby.

“Hi,” she says. “I'm in your English class, remember?”

“Yes.” I smile, then glance into my locker as if it commands my attention.

“So how do you like the school so far?”

“It's okay,” I say. “I haven't been here very long.”

“I know. I saw you in the office this morning. Where do you live?”

“In the hills,” I answer vaguely.

“Where'd you live before this?”

“Oh, different places.”

“Like where? Have you ever been to Redding? That's where my dad lives. I wish we could move there. The people there are really nice. But my mother's got this boyfriend and he lives here.” The girl made a face. “Oh. My name is Beth. I forgot to tell you.”

“I'm Mary.”

“Your hair's so long. Has it always been like that?”

“Not when I was born.”

The joke clears her head. “I mean since you were big.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It might look better short. I mean, no offense. It's just that nobody wears their hair like that. I mean, you can if you want. It looks real pretty.”

“Thanks.” I plow through my purse as though I'm hunting for something crucial; my class schedule, the meaning of life, the key to the car that will drive me away.

“So do you want to eat lunch together tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I say. “I might be busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I might have to see a teacher or something. You know, to catch up on my assignments.”

“It must be hard to be new in school and not know anybody. I know everybody here. We've been together since kindergarten. It's nice, you know, but it's kind of disgusting. I mean, you get tired of the same old faces. That's why I want to move away.”

“It's nice to meet new people,” I say. “Well, there's the bell. See you tomorrow.”

After lunch I have science and math. This math class is way ahead of me. The teacher suggests that I come in after school for extra help.

“I have to pick up my sisters after school. How about lunchtime tomorrow?” I suggest.

All across the country, schools are pretty much alike. The sameness is a comfort, in a way. It's like going to Howard Johnson's; you can count on getting pancakes. No flaming shish kebabs, no singing waiters. Bored kids, worn-out books, tired teachers trying hard.

Some schools have more money than others. There are plenty of books and supplies and field trips, and the classrooms aren't so crowded. At one school I went to in Colorado, most of the kids had their own cars.

This school's in the middle, not rich or poor. I wouldn't mind staying until graduation. If I do, people will think I'm nice but most of them will never know my name. You know who I mean; the new girl, they'll say. In my yearbook they'll write:
To a great kid
. I would like to be in a yearbook someday. I would like to go to a class reunion.