Quaking (7 page)

“You mean chicken-shits?” the Rat yells.

His Vermin snort their approval. If people dare to disagree, they are only making themselves Victims. I steal a look at Susan. Her head is down.

Mr. Warhead says, “Let’s watch our terminology,” but he is still smiling.

The Rat grins, pressing his lips together hideously, mocking Mr.Warhead. But Mr.Warhead does not catch him, as usual.

I do not find the Rat amusing.

Mr. Warhead folds his arms and leans against his desk. “There are those who are conscientious objectors, but they still help the war effort by being medics or serving in some other noncombat capacity.”

“Chicken-shits,” the Rat calls under his breath.

“Often their religion won’t allow actual combat,” Mr. Warhead continues.

“Oh, like the Amish, right?” the Rat says.“Well, we don’t need their horse and buggies for fighting MIGs, anyway!”

More laughter.

He is so condescending.

Mr. Warhead shrugs. “And Quakers.”

I shudder and grab my desk to hold still.

“The ultimate chicken-shits!” shouts the Rat. He convulses his body into retchings and writhings.

Everyone laughs. Even Mr.Warhead is smirking although he is shaking his head.

It makes me want to retch. I cannot stand the look of the Rat quaking.The tornado starts inside of me. If he does not like Quakers, then he will be after me soon. He is not sneering at me now, so he does not know yet. But sooner or later, he will find out that I live with Quakers and I will be guilty by association.

But I am not a Quaker, Rat.

I am only quaking.

That is a quaker with a lowercase
q,
and it does not count.

I run all the way to English. Mrs. Jimenez gives us a “flash fiction” assignment. It is a short story that we write “off the cuff,” as she says. I write about a girl who toys with suicide. Successfully. I suspect Mrs. Jimenez will still give me an A. Even posthumously.

Madame assigns us a paper
en français
.We must write it in the existentialist style where life is random and absurd. We can pick our own subject. Hmm. A paper about Random Acts of Unkindness. Let me think about this for maybe two seconds. Ah, yes. The Rat. What a perfect subject.

I take my usual place in the restroom for lunch and open my bag. There is not one, but two apples. There is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And a yellow packet.That is more than any one person can eat, particularly in a reeking bathroom. I toss the sandwich, save the apples, and take a closer look at the packet. Fig Newton. A small tornado starts deep within me. I am nauseous. It is not the cookie. It is the name.

Fran Newton was a sweet old lady. My mother’s cousin. “Home” number three. It was hard to believe she was related to me. I think she actually liked me, although I cannot imagine why. Most people start out nice, but it is a temporary affliction.You know that at some time the niceness will end. Because, as in every tragedy, there is always a fatal flaw. Either they never really wanted children or they had three and could not handle more or having two girls the same age simply does not work or you are damaged goods even though it is not your fault and they are sorry but probably it is best if someone else handles you and God help them.

Fran Newton went on being nice for so long that I dreaded the end more and more. I finally had to escape her, before she escaped me. I had to be harsh. It was better for her in the long run, anyway. She was too sweet and delicate. Eventually, I would have disappointed her. I had to move myself on to “Home” number four.

Now every yellow Newton packet is like a packet of sunshine that will never be again and its brightness is too much to bear.

I wrap the Newton packet in brown paper towels and bury it in the trash. I leave the bathroom quickly. Even though it is odd to run away from a bathroom when you think you are about to throw up.

When I am at my locker getting ready to leave, I smell it. The Rat and his lesser Vermin are crowded around his locker snorting and hushing each other.They do this by randomly kicking and punching whoever is snorting the loudest at any given moment.They are obviously drinking. I can smell the booze.The smell stings my nostrils and tightens my stomach. It is sickening.

The Rat looks up and sees me. He sneers before I can look away. “What are you staring at, freak?”

He shoves me against my locker door and the lock digs into my spine and I want to cry out but I do not, I just keep my head bowed, hoping that maybe if I am lucky he does not recognize me from World Civ, and I run away. To the bus. Fast. I am sure he is chasing me.

I find a seat near the front of the bus but far enough back so I am not the first thing he sees when he gets on. I am crouching, head down, so the Rat will not notice me here. The bruise on my spine is throbbing. Please, do not see me, Rat. I am not even here. I am far away.

In my head, I am sitting in church next to my mother. I am five. It is the first time I have been in a church.

We are not exactly a religious family.

I think Jesus H. Christ is the old deaf man with the cane and funny hat who lives across the hall because my father is always yelling his name at the top of his lungs, but Mr. Christ never comes.The big guy in the white robe at church seems to know Mr. Christ, too, because he is also talking about him.A lot. Other people in white are walking down the aisle with palm branches. I think they are building a fort and I sit forward to watch. But all I see is the big guy at the front of the church pouring things in and out of decanters.The audience is walking up to him and getting free samples. I am hoping it is ice cream but I know better. I sigh and tell my mother we picked the wrong day. Today’s sample must be salad because the big guy is making salad dressing.

I hear her speak but I do not see her face.
Why didn’t I look up?
Her voice is soft and sweet. “That is the sacramental wine, honey.”

“Oh,” I say, “like Daddy drinks.”

There is silence for a moment. Her voice is not sweet now but I know she is not mad at me. “No,” she says slowly, “your father drinks the sacrilegious variety.”

I make it off of the bus without being attacked by the sacrilegious Rat.

CHAPTER NINE

 

J
essica corners me. She is folding laundry in the kitchen. She asks me if I want a snack or hot chocolate or, her favorite, raspberry tea. She asks me if there is anything at all I need. She asks me about school.

I tell her it is under control. I wish she would stop trying to be like a mom. It is not worth it.

“What about friends?”

For a split second I think of Susan from World Civ. If I were interested in friends, I might start with her. But I am too practical for that. I will be gone before long, anyway.

“I have no friends.”

She stops and looks at me. “Doesn’t that make you feel a little sad and lonely?”

“Jessica, may I remind you that I do not have feelings?” I do a fake smile.

Jessica does not.“Children can be very cruel, can’t they?”

She is scraping at my gut, trying to pull the feelings out of me. But I will not let her. I simply swallow hard and shrug.

“Okay,” she says, “what about boys?”

“They are toads.” Or Rats.

She smiles and her skin is all crinkly around her eyes. “Better not kiss one. He might turn into a handsome prince.”

“Not in this world.”

“Someday it could happen.”

“Not likely.”

She smiles a faraway smile and folds one of Sam’s sweat-shirts. “What if you meet someone like Sam?”

Oh, gosh, I have no idea. Run?

“You know, Matt, Sam wants to take you bowling or something that you might like to do.”

“I know.”

I guess she can tell from my voice that bowling is not on my list of top ten thousand things I am dying to do.

“Even if you went to the grocery store with him, he’d like that. He just wants a chance to talk with you and get to know you better. He grew up with all boys, and he lost his father early on. . . .” She rattles on for a while about Sam. It is Thursday and he is always out until after dinner, so I suppose she is taking this opportunity to talk on and on about him.

I look over at his computer. Stuck to the side of the monitor is a piece of paper with typed questions. It has always been there but I finally decide to read it.

I imagine it is the Quaker version of “What would Jesus do?”

I hear Jessica ask what I would like to do and I realize she must be talking about what I would like to do with Sam. “I—I am still thinking.” I am also thinking how much I do not want to be seen in public, even a grocery store, with Sam in his dork hat.

“Okay.” She sighs and puts his sweatshirt in the laundry basket. “Well, how about helping me with the rest of the laundry?”

I look at the pile of oversized Sam clothes in the basket. “I cannot handle laundry.”

“Can you handle dirty underwear?”

“Excuse me?”

“All your underwear is dirty. If you want it clean, you need to wash it.”

“You have been taking care of it just fine.”

“I was, but now that you’re settled, you can learn how the washer works.”

Settled? I am never settled. “No, thanks.”

She looks at me for just a moment. “It’s your choice.”

So, no lecture, no making me do laundry. But she does not bother to do it, either. I ponder this. I never stayed anywhere before where I had to do laundry. Maybe I was not there long enough. Maybe I was too young. Or maybe they did not dare ask. I suspect it was that. Well, I have to give Jessica credit for asking me, at least. And holding out on not doing my laundry even longer than I can stand my rank underwear.

That night, I tell her, “My underwear stinks.”

“I’ll show you how the washer works.”

I roll my eyes but she does not get nervous or angry. She just shows me how.

Turns out it is not that hard to do laundry. When the washer stops, you throw the clothes in the dryer and push the button. I do not know why Jessica made such a fuss about it.

The only bad part is that the washer and dryer are in the dark, dirt-floored basement. As I take my clothes out of the dryer, all I can think about is someone jumping out from behind the furnace and I run up the steps, two at a time, nearly crashing into Sam at the top.

“Oh, hi, Matt! Come on in the kitchen. I brought you ladies something.”

I follow him in. Jessica is sitting at the table with the Blob in her lap. He is chewing a book.
Green Eggs and Ham
.

I stop. I stare at the orange cover. I remember this book. I had this book. I can still see M-A-T-I-L-D-A in penciled letters on the inside cover, starting large and getting smaller because I ran out of room. I can still see the pictures. I can feel the worn corners of the pages. I can hear the
swoosh-crunch
of each page turning. And I remember my mother reading it to me. I can almost hear the words. I can almost hear her voice. And my voice.Talking with her. As if she is a part of me and I am a part of her.

“Matt?” It is Sam. “Are you okay?”

I look at him. Why is my throat sore? Why am I blinking? It is just a stupid book, for God’s sake.

Jessica grabs my hand.

I step away and shake them both off. “I am fine. What is the big surprise you were talking about?”

“Oh, right!” Sam carefully takes a white paper bag out of the pocket of his Michelin Man vest and puts it on the table. “These are for you two.”

“Go ahead and unwrap it, Matt,” Jessica says.“I’ve got my hands full.”

Even as she says it, the Blob rolls around in her lap so much that the book falls onto the floor. I bend slowly and pick it up by a dry corner.

“I got that book for Rory,” Sam says, “because it was my favorite when I was a kid.” He grins.

Mine, too. I have to hold it for a moment before I hand it to Jessica.

I walk over to the table and open the bag.There are two newspaper balls inside. I unwrap one and soon hear a scraping sound. It is a small white porcelain box, round, with a lid, with little raspberries painted on top and around the sides.

“Raspberries!” Jessica cries.

Sam shrugs and smiles. “That one’s for you because you love raspberries.”

Of course. I will get the leftover one that nobody wants. “Thank you, sweetie!” Jessica cries. “Come on, Matt, let’s see yours.” She is smiling like it is Christmas.

I sigh and unwrap the other newspaper ball. It is another white porcelain box. With apples painted on top. And apple blossoms around the sides.

“And that’s yours, because you love apples so much.”

I do not know what to say. How does he know how much I love apples?

“I hope you like it,” Sam says quietly.

Finally, I can speak. “What is this for?”

“Well, it’s a . . . knickknack . . . thingy.You ladies always need a place for earrings or—or whatever little treasure you have.”

“No, I mean why are you giving these to us? Is it a Quaker holiday or something?”

Sam and Jessica laugh.

“Sam loves to bring home treats,” Jessica says. “And I don’t normally let him,” she adds in an almost scolding voice, “but once in a while, it’s very sweet.”

Sam rolls his eyes somewhere between “aw shucks” and “give me a break.”

I take my knickknack thingy upstairs. I sit at the foot of the bed and put it on my low dresser. And I stare at the apples for a while.