Rodent (5 page)
“Okay, class, let’s get started.” She smiles, and four of us in the front actually listen.
She dims the lights and puts on a PowerPoint about the events leading up to World War II, reading through the whole thing—word for word—without looking up even once.
I could be attacked with a baseball bat, and she’d never know.
After a minute I feel a flick on the back of my head. Then another. I raise my hand to the spot and find spitty pellets of paper clinging to my hair. Disgusting. As I turn my head to see where they’re coming from, another one flies at me and sticks to my eyebrow. I brush it to the floor. Pole Dancer and her friends burst out laughing, banging their hands against their desks with a hearty
thump
,
thump
.
Mrs. Clarke presses on, undaunted. Can’t interrupt World War II now.
I’ll give it to Pole Dancer—she’s really starting to piss me off. I get up and move to an empty desk on my left, second from the front. It’s slightly out of their direct spitting range.
As Mrs. Clarke wraps up her PowerPoint, the noise level rises to one decibel below deafening. She grabs a stack of handouts off her desk and gets ready to pass them out. Standing at the front of each row, she counts the number of students, licks her fingers and separates the right number of sheets. She watches them being passed back from student to student until the end of the row, then moves to the next. Torture.
While I’m waiting for her, something slams me right between the shoulder blades and falls to the floor. I gasp. A red apple ricochets between chair legs and rolls toward the open space at the front of the room. Guffaws explode from Pole Dancer and her friends. Others yelp at the apple
bumping their feet. I swallow, stretching my eyes wide to stop the tears. My back throbs.
I will not wipe my eyes. Or sniffle. Or lower my head. That didn’t hurt me at all. I think of something faraway—pushing Evan on the swing at the park. Taking Maisie to see the birds at the pet store.
Mrs. Clarke finally settles at her desk and asks, “Who would like to read for us?” Of course, no one volunteers. “Okay, I’ll begin.” She starts to slowly read the first page of the handout, word for word, without looking up at the class. I’m not sure which is more painful—being attacked with an apple or listening to Mrs. Clarke’s version of teaching.
As she drones on, something light and feathery lands on my shoulder and slips down my arm. I sigh and look down. Someone’s dirty gym sock.
Giggles erupt.
Enough
. I jump from my seat and stand to face them. Satisfaction on their faces like,
Here she comes now
. I want to make this girl hurt in a big way. But I won’t. Won’t give them what they want.
Deep breath, Isabelle. Keep it together
. I stroll down the aisle between us, toward her.
As I get closer, there are some titters around Pole Dancer, although the stupid grin starts to slide from her face. With each step, the bodies around her edge away. Good friends she has. Her eyes dart from side to side, like she’s checking for reinforcements. She sneers, but I see the panic. She should be scared. Tall skinny bitch hasn’t had to fight and claw through every day of her life like I have. I could have her on the floor in less than five seconds. As I look in her eyes, she knows it.
“Excuse me!” Mrs. Clarke has just noticed the disruption to her flawless lesson plan. It was probably the quiet room that told her something was wrong.
I stand in front of Pole Dancer’s desk for a second and enjoy watching her squirm. Some idiot next to her starts to laugh again, then stops abruptly.
“Back to your seat, please!” Mrs. Clarke warbles.
In that moment of silence, I drop the dirty sock in the middle of Pole Dancer’s open binder. Her nose wrinkles.
“I think this is yours,” I say. “It smells like you.”
Her cheeks flush an angry red. All ears are listening. I turn on my heel and strut back up the aisle, her whispered cursing behind me.
Mrs. Clarke’s mouth hangs open, aghast at my rude behavior. In a flash, I pick up the apple—still whole—from underneath the whiteboard and polish it on my shirt. Placing it gently on the corner of her desk, I summon my most courteous voice. “So sorry—I have to go.”
She’s speechless.
All eyes are on me as I gather my books off my desk and pick my sweater off the back of my chair. At the door, I give a cheerful wave and shut it firmly behind me. The class erupts.
* * *
I close my eyes and breathe in the musty smell of the library. I had meant to catch up on reading for English but instead start writing a story about a girl who is bullied until she
snaps and beats another girl into a coma. It’s quiet now, the librarian having chased away the only other group working in here. (
Get your books and go! This isn’t a frat house!
)
Ms. Hillary
, her name placard says. I consider asking her to whip Mrs. Clarke’s class into shape.
When I open my eyes, a redheaded apparition stands in front of me. I blink. I had actually forgotten about this pale wisp, the catalyst for my current misery.
“I followed you in,” she says, her voice falling to a whisper. “I hope that’s okay.”
I nod. Not sure what to say to this girl.
“I never had a chance to thank you for sticking up for me.” She’s found her voice now.
I shrug. “She had it coming.”
“Well,” she says, “no one’s ever done that for me before.” She looks down at the floor. I see Ms. Hillary eyeing her. We’ve run out of words.
I expect her to leave now, but instead she says, “Do you mind if I sit down?” She gestures to the empty chairs at my table.
“Be my guest.” I slide my books to one side and tuck my story into a biology textbook. “You’d better do some work, though, or the librarian will kick you out.”
“She’s scary,” she whispers.
“Even I wouldn’t take her on,” I say, and we try not to laugh.
“I’m Clara.” She reaches out to shake my hand, which surprises me a bit. Clara, like some kind of porcelain character out of a Jane Austen novel.
I shake it back. “Isabelle.”
“I know,” she says, a little shy.
I snort. “Who doesn’t by now?”
* * *
At the end of the lunch hour, I march up to the admin assistant in the office. “I need to drop a class.”
She tears herself away from the computer screen, annoyed. “You’ll have to see the guidance counselor before making any changes.” She points to an office not far from Mr. Talmage’s. “Miss Yee’s in right now.”
“Miss Yee.” I throw open the door; the doorknob whacks the wall behind it, leaving a round circle in the paint. “I need to drop Social Studies.”
“Call me Lily.” She smiles, pretending not to notice the doorknob mark. She is one of those natural beauties—the kind who looks hot even when she’s camping or running a marathon. High cheekbones, shiny black hair falling over her shoulders. She probably has half the staff sniffing around her like a pack of dogs. “Let’s see your schedule then.”
She looks it over and says, “You can drop it now and have a spare instead, but you’ll have to take a full schedule next semester.”
“That’s fine.” Then, as an afterthought, I ask, “Does anyone else teach Social Studies besides Mrs. Clarke?”
She gives me a searching look and doesn’t answer right away. “There is one other teacher—Mr. Arjun—but he’s full this semester.” The kind voice kicks in. “Is there a problem in that class, Isabelle?”
“No.” I shrug. She knows I’m lying, of course.
“Okay then.” She hammers at her keyboard for a minute. “Done.”
As I get up to leave, Miss Yee says, “Isabelle, you know you can talk to me anytime, right? About anything?”
“Sure.” I give her a quick smile and head for the door. Poor Miss Yee. Bless her beautiful, clueless heart. Kind and lovely, like a benevolent queen looking down on her subjects when she’s never actually scrubbed a floor or peeled a carrot. “Thanks.”
My chest is a little lighter as I leave.
* * *
When the bell rings at the end of the day, after Spanish class, all I can think about is getting to higher ground, like there’s a flood coming. I need some way to watch the three of them in the school—where they’re going, what they’re doing. That’s nearly impossible, though, because I don’t know where any of them are at the end of the day. Other than at lunch, I don’t see Ainsley at all.
Outside would be easier. Most people go out the main door, get picked up, drive themselves or catch the bus.
If only I could scale the flagpole or hide in a strategically placed bush.
Then it comes to me. The Spanish classroom won’t work for my idea. I slip out with the crowd but don’t go to my locker. Instead, I go halfway down the hall, eyes peeled, and try one of the doors on the other side. This one would be perfect.
Chemistry
, it says on the door. It’s locked. I try the next door over. The handle turns easily in my hand. I knock as I slip inside.
A young teacher with dark hair and thick glasses sits at her desk, looking up as I enter. Near the back of the class, a guy wrestles with an over-stuffed bag.
“Um, yes.” I come right up to the teacher’s desk, almost whispering, “My mom is picking me up after school, and I’ve forgotten my jacket.” I point to the gray drizzle outside. “Do you mind if I watch for her from the window?”
“Not at all. Go ahead,” she says and turns back to marking a stack of worksheets.
From the window, I have a perfect view of the mass of people leaving via the main doors and also of the bus stop in front of the school and the loading zone.
I pull up a chair and begin my vigil. Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. I can’t wait much longer without worrying Maisie again.
There. Is it Celeste? I see a crazy afro break away from the crowd on the front lawn and stroll toward a white Lexus in the loading zone. Why am I not surprised? Then Ainsley, Pole Dancer and two other girls head for the bus stop. Pole Dancer wears a jacket but hasn’t pulled up the hood.
Ainsley is in a T-shirt. Dark water stains creep down her shoulders. They drop their bags by the bench and keep talking. Okay, they’re catching a bus.
After twelve minutes, the bus pulls up. Everyone piles on and leaves.
“Thanks so much,” I say to the teacher on my way out. I may need her again.
I jog down the front path and across the street, checking for unwanted faces coming my way. Nobody.
I catch Maisie with Mrs. Williams as she locks her classroom door.
“Isabelle,” she says. “I was just dropping Maisie at the office.”
I try to catch my breath. “Sorry, something came up.” I gesture toward the high school, shaking my head like it’s too long and complicated to explain. Which it is. “Actually, I may be a few minutes late every day.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Williams hoists her bag over her shoulder and starts to walk down the hall with us. “I’ll have Maisie wait in the office if I have to leave before you get here.”
I thank her and pull Maisie toward the bus stop.
“Hurry now,” I say. Outside, I take her hand and start to jog. “It’s another fifteen minutes if we miss this bus, and I have to work today.”
Maisie drags her feet, straining against my arm. “You were late again.” Raindrops splatter her pink tights. The elastic has slipped from one ponytail and it hangs limply, lower than the one on the other side.
“Maisie, it was important.” No soppy apology from me today. She may hate it, but I need to make sure I’m not leading three psychopaths straight to her. I’ll take her anger. “Now move it.”
As we cross the street, I see the bus coming at the end of the road. Just in time. We find two empty seats together.
I’m barely sitting down before Maisie asks, “Can Jasmin come to my birthday party?”
“I don’t want to talk about birthday parties today, Maisie,” I say, deflecting her question.
“She’s my new friend. Can she come? I said she could.”
“I don’t know if we’re having that kind of party, Maisie,” I explain for the millionth time.
“Why not?” she asks for the millionth time.
Too poor. Ugly apartment. Drunk mother. She doesn’t realize I’m saving her a lot of embarrassment. When I was in grade two, I knew which kids were poor, which had weird parents. I wonder if Maisie has figured out yet that we fall into both categories. “Our apartment is too small. There’s only room for family.”
“We could have it at The Party Place,” she says. I actually looked into it once. You can rent a room for an hour. There are slides and ball pits—some kind of kiddie paradise. Costs a fortune. Everything that doesn’t involve having people at our apartment is really expensive. Even if I did fix up our place, there’s no promise that Mom wouldn’t come staggering out of her room and wreck it all.
“Let me think about it,” I tell her, just to end the conversation.
When we get to the day care, Evan’s lying on a mat in the corner instead of tearing around the room with Patrick.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Elaine.
She shrugs and keeps stapling artwork to a bulletin board.
Stupid cow
. His cheeks are hot under my hand. He whimpers.
“I want to go home,” he says and starts to cry.
“Come here, little man.” I scoop him up and struggle to my feet, then turn to Elaine. “He’s sick. Did you call home?”
She shakes her head and picks up another picture to staple. I feel like ripping it from her hands and stapling it to her forehead. “Why not?” I say, trying not to shout.
“He seemed fine at lunch,” she says. “He even asked for seconds.”
“Does he look fine to you?” I march out of the room before I say something I’ll regret, which has happened a lot lately. Maisie trots at my heels.
“Something wrong?” Mrs. Carrigan asks as I work Evan’s hot arms into the sleeves of his sweater.
“Can someone please call home or my school if Evan gets sick.” I say it like a statement, not a question. I’m trying really hard not to go postal on everyone here.
“Oh, he’s sick?” she says.
Not a word, Isabelle. Just go
.
I leave before I curse out the entire staff of Little Treasures. Stupid dump. He’d have a better life if I stayed home with him myself. What am I learning at school anyway, besides how to sneak around like a secret agent? What exactly is the point?