Speak (7 page)

from veggies to eye color? I'll copy David's notes. I flip ahead in the textbook. There's an interesting chapter about acid rain. Nothing about sex. We aren't scheduled to learn about that until eleventh grade. 146 David draws a chart in his notebook. I snap my pencil point and walk to the front of the room to sharpen it. I figure the walk will do me good. Ms. Keen sputters on. We get half our genes from our mother and half from our father. I thought my jeans came from Effert's. Ha-ha, biology joke. Mom says I take after Dad's side of the family. They're mostly cops and insurance salesmen who bet on football games and smoke disgusting cigars. Dad says I take after Mom's side of the family. They're farmers who grow rocks and poison ivy. They don't say much, visit dentists, or read. When I was a little kid, I used to pretend I was a princess who had been adopted when my kingdom was overrun by bad guys. Any day my real parents, Mr. King and Mrs. Queen, would send the royal limo to pick me up. I just about had a seven-year-old heart attack when my dad took a limo to the airport the first time. I thought they had really come to take me away and I didn't want to go. Dad took taxis after that. I look out the window. No limos. No chariots or car- riages. Now, when I really want to leave, no one will give me a ride. I sketch a willow tree drooping into the water. I won't show it to Mr. Freeman. This one is for my closet. I've been taping some of my drawings on the walls. Any more classes as boring as this one and I'll be ready to move back in there full-time. My leaves are good, natural. The trick is to make them differ- ent sizes, and then crowd them one on top of another. Ivy was right. 147 Ms. Keen writes "Dominant/Recessive" on the board. I look at David's notes. He's drawing a family tree. David got his hair gene from his dad and his eye gene from his mom. I draw a family tree. A family stump. There aren't that many of us. I can barely remember their names. Uncle Jim, Uncle Thomas, Aunt Mary, Aunt Kathy — there's another aunt, she is very recessive. She recessed herself all the way to Peru. I think I have her eyes. I got my "I don't want to know about it" gene from my dad and my "I'll think about it tomorrow" gene from my mom. Ms. Keen says we'll have a quiz the next day. I wish I had paid attention during class. I wish I were adopted. I wish David would quit sighing when I ask to copy his notes. TEN MORE LIES THEY TELL YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL 1. You will use algebra in your adult lives. 2. Driving to school is a privilege that can be taken away. 3. Students must stay on campus for lunch. 4. The new textbooks will arrive any day now. 5. Colleges care about more than your SAT scores. 6. We are enforcing the dress code. 7. We will figure out how to turn off the heat soon. 8. Our bus drivers are highly trained professionals. 9. There is nothing wrong with summer school. 10. We want to hear what you have to say. MY LIFE AS A SPY Rachel/Rachelle has lost her mind. She has flipped. She went to the movies with Andy Beast and her exchange friends and 148 now she follows after him, panting like a bichon frise. 1 Ifl wears her buddy Greta-Ingrid draped around his neck like a white scarf. When he spits, I bet Rachel/Rachelle catches it in a cup and saves it. Rachel/Rachelle and some other twit natter about the movie date before Mr. Stetman starts class. I want to puke. Rachel/Rachelle is just "Andythis" and "Andythat." Could she be more obvious? I close my ears to her stupid asthmatic laugh and work on the homework that was due yesterday. It is usually easy to do homework in class because Mr. Stet- man's voice creates a gentle, white-noise sound barrier. I can't do it today, I can't escape the arguments circling my head. Why worry about Rachel/Rachelle? (He'll hurt her.) Had she done a single decent thing for me the whole year? (She was my best friend through middle school, that counts for something.) No, she's a witch and a traitor. (She didn't see what hap- pened.) Let her lust after the Beast; I hope he breaks her heart. (What if he breaks something else?) When class is over, I slide into the middle of the pack pushing out the door before Mr. Stetman can bust me for the home- work. Rachel/Rachelle shoves past me to where Greta-Ingrid and a short kid from Belgium are waiting. I tail them, always keeping two bodies between us like the detectives on televi- sion. They're on their way to the foreign-language wing. That's no surprise. The foreign kids are always there, like they need to breathe air scented with their native language a couple times a day or they'll choke to death on too much American. 149 Andy Beast swoops over their heads, folds his wings, and sets himself between the girls as they start up the stairs. He tries to kiss Greta-Ingrid's cheek, but she turns away. He kisses Rachel/Rachelle's cheek and she giggles. He does not kiss the cheek of the short Belgian. The Belgian and the Swede wave "ciao" at the office of the Foreign Language Department. Ru- mor has it that there is an espresso maker in there. The friendly momentum keeps Rachel/Rachelle and Andy walking all the way to the end of the hall. I face a corner and pretend to study algebra. I figure that's enough to make me unrecognizable. They sit on the floor, Rachel/Rachelle in a full lotus. Andy steals Rachel/Rachelle's notebook. She whines like a baby and throws herself across his lap to get it back. I shiver with goose bumps. He tosses the notebook from one hand to the other, always keeping it just out of her reach. Then he says something to her. I can't hear it. The hall sounds like a packed football stadium. His lips move poison and she smiles and then she kisses him wet. Not a Girl Scout kiss. He gives her the notebook. His lips move. Lava spills out my ears. She is not any part of a pretend Rachelle-chick. I can only see third- grade Rachel who liked barbecue potato chips and who braided pink embroidery thread into my hair that I wore for months until my mom made me cut it out. I rest my forehead against the prickly stucco. THIN ATMOSPHERE The best place to figure this out is my closet, my throne room, my foster home. I want a shower. Maybe I should tell 150 Greta-Ingrid. (My Swedish isn't good enough.) I could talk to Rachel. (Yeah, right.) I could say I'd heard bad things about Andy. (It would only make him more attractive.) I could maybe tell her what happened. (As if she'd listen. What if she told Andy? What would he do?) There isn't much room for pacing. I take two steps, turn, two steps back. I bang my shin against the chair. Stupid room. What a dumb idea, sitting in a closet like this. I flop in the chair. It whooshes out old janitor smells — feet, beef jerky, shirts left in the washer too long. The turkey-bone sculpture gives off a faint rotting odor. Three baby-food jars of pot- pourri don't make a dent in the stink. Maybe there's a dead rat decomposing in the wall, right near the hot-air vent. Maya Angelou watches me, two fingers on the side of her face. It is an intelligent pose. Maya wants me to tell Rachel. I take off my sweatshirt. My T-shirt sticks to me. They still have the heat running full-blast even though it's warm enough to crack open the windows. That's what I need, a window. As much as I complain about winter, cold air is easier to breathe, slipping like silver mercury down my lungs and out again. April is humid, with slush evaporating or rain drizzling. A warm, moldy washcloth of a month. The edges of my pictures curl in the damp. There has been some progress in this whole tree project, I guess. Like Picasso, I've gone through different phases. There's the Confused Pe- riod, when I wasn't sure what the assignment really was. The Spaz Period, when I couldn't draw a tree to save my life. The Dead Period, when all my trees looked like they had been 151 through a forest fire or a blight. I'm getting better. Don't know what to call this phase yet. All these drawings make the closet seem smaller. Maybe I should bribe a janitor to haul all this stuff to my house, make my bedroom more like this, more like home. Maya taps me on the shoulder. I'm not listening. I know I know, I don't want to hear it. I need to do something about Rachel, something for her. Maya tells me without saying any- thing. I stall. Rachel will hate me. (She already hates me.) She won't listen. (I have to try.) I groan and rip out a piece of notebook paper. I write her a note, a left-handed note, so she won't know it's from me. "Andy Evans will use you. He is not what he pretends to be. I heard he attacked a ninth-grader. Be very, very careful. A Friend. RS. Tell Greta-Ingrid, too." I didn't want the Swedish supermodel on my conscience either. GROWING PAINS Mr. Freeman is a jerk. Instead of leaving me alone to "find my muse" (a real quote, I swear), he lands on the stool next to me and starts criticizing. What is wrong with my tree? He over- flows with words describing how bad it sucks. It's stiff, unnat- ural, it doesn't flow. It is an insult to trees everywhere. I agree. My tree is hopeless. It isn't art; it's an excuse not to take sewing class. I don't belong in Mr. Freeman's room any 152 more than I belong in the Marthas or in my little-girl pink iK'iiroom. This is where the real artists belong, like Ivy. I i.iny the linoleum block to the garbage can and throw it in hard enough to make everyone look at me. Ivy frowns through her wire sculpture. I sit back down and lay my head on the table. Mr. Freeman retrieves the block from the gar- Mge. He brings back the Kleenex box, too. How could he tell 1 was crying? Mr. Freeman: "You are getting better at this, but it's not good enough. This looks like a tree, but it is an average, ordinary, everyday, boring tree. Breathe life into it. Make it bend — trees are flexible, so they don't snap. Scar it, give it a twisted branch — perfect trees don't exist. Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree." He has this ice-cream voice like a kindergarten teacher. If he thinks I can do it, then I'll try one more time. My fingers tip- tip over to the linoleum knife. Mr. Freeman pats my shoulder once, then turns to make someone else miserable. I wait until he isn't watching, then try to carve life into my flat linoleum square. Maybe I could carve off all the linoleum and call it "Empty Block." If a famous person did that, it would probably be really popular and sell for a fortune. If I do it, I'll flunk. "Be the tree." What kind of advice is that? Mr. Freeman has been hanging out with too many New Age weirdos. I was a tree in the second-grade play because I made a bad sheep. I stood there with my arms outstretched like branches and my head drooping in the breeze. It gave me sore arms. I doubt trees are ever told to "be the screwed-up ninth-grader." 153 GAG ORDER David Petrakis's lawyer had a meeting with Mr. Neck and some kind of teacher lawyer. Guess who won. I bet David could skip class the rest of the year if he wanted and still get an A. Which he would never do. But you better believe that whenever David raises his hand, Mr. Neck lets him talk as much as he wants. David, quiet David, is full of long, drawn- out, rambling opinions about social studies. The rest of the class is grateful. We bow down to the Almighty David, Who Keeps the Neck Off Our Backs. Unfortunately, Mr. Neck still gives tests, and most of us fail them. Mr. Neck makes an announcement: anyone who is flunking can write an extra-credit report on a Cultural Influ- ence at the Turn of the Century. (He skipped the Industrial Revolution so he could drag our class past the year 1900.) He does not want all of us in summer school. I don't want to see him in summer school either. I write about the suffragettes. Before the suffragettes came along, women were treated like dogs. * Women could not vote *W6men could not own property * Women were not allowed in many schools They were dolls, with no thoughts, or opinions, or voices of their own. Then the suffragettes marched in, full of loud, 154 in-your-face ideas. They got arrested and thrown in jail, but nothing shut them up. They fought and fought until they earned the rights they should have had all along. I write the best report ever. Anything I copy from a book, I put in quotes and footnotes (feetnote?). I use books, magazine articles, and a videotape. I think about looking for an old suf- fragette in a nursing home, but they are probably all dead. I even hand it in on time. Mr. Neck scowls. He looks down on me and says, "To get credit for the report, you have to deliver it orally. Tomorrow. At the beginning of class." Me: NO IUSTICE, NO PEACE There is no way I'm reading my suffragette report in front of the class. That wasn't part of the original assignment. Mr. Neck changed it at the very last second because he wants to flunk me or hates me or something. But I've written a really good report and I'm not going to let an idiot teacher jerk me around like this. I ask David Petrakis for advice. We come up with a Plan. I get to class early, when Mr. Neck is still in the lounge. I write what I need to on the board and cover the words with a suf- fragette protest sign. My box from the copy shop is on the floor. Mr. Neck walks in. He grumbles that I can go first. I stand suffragette tall and calm. It is a lie. My insides feel like 155 I'm caught in a tornado. My toes curl inside my sneak- ers, trying to grip the floor so I won't get sucked out the window. Mr. Neck nods at me. I pick up my report as if I'm going to read it out loud. I stand there, papers trembling as if a breeze is blowing through the closed door. I turn around and rip my poster off the blackboard. THE SUFFRAGETTES FOUGHT FOR THE RIGHT TO SPEAK. THEY WERE ATTACKED, ARRESTED, AND THROWN IN JAIL FOR DARING TO DO WHAT THEY WANTED. LIKE THEY WERE, I AM WILLING TO STAND UP FOR WHAT I BELIEVE. NO ONE SHOULD BE FORCED TO GIVE SPEECHES. I CHOOSE TO STAY SILENT. The class reads slowly, some of them moving their lips. Mr. Neck turns around to see what everyone is staring at. I nod at David. He joins me at the front of the room and I hand him my box. David: "Melinda has to deliver her report to the class as part of the assignment. She made copies everyone can read." He passes out the copies. They cost me $6.72 at the office- supply store. I was going to make a cover page and color it, but I haven't gotten much allowance recently, so I just put the title at the top of the first page. My plan is to stand in front of the class for the five minutes I was given for my presentation. The suffragettes must have 756 planned out and timed their protests, too. Mr. Neck has other plans. He gives me a D and escorts me to the authorities. I for- got about how the suffragettes were hauled off to jail. Duh. I go on a tour of the guidance counselor's office, Principal Prin- cipal's, and wind up back in MISS. I am back to being a Dis- cipline Problem again. I need a lawyer. I
showed up every day this semester, sat my butt in every class, did some homework, and didn't cheat on tests. I still get slammed in MISS. There is no way they can punish me for not speaking. It isn't fair. What do they know about me? What do they know about the inside of my head? Flashes of lightning, children crying. Caught in an avalanche, pinned by worry, squirming under the weight of doubt, guilt. Fear. The walls in MISS are still white. Andy Beast isn't here. Thank God for small favors. A boy with lime-colored hair who looks like he's channeling for an alien species dozes; two Goths in black velvet dresses and artfully torn pantyhose trade Mona Lisa smiles. They cut school to stand in line for killer concert tickets. MISS is a small price to pay for Row 10, seats 21 and 22. I simmer. Lawyers on TV always tell their clients not to say anything. The cops say that thing: "Anything you say will be used against you." Self-incrimination. I looked it up. Three- point vocab word. So why does everyone make such a big hairy deal about me not talking? Maybe I don't want to in- criminate myself. Maybe I don't like the sound of my voice. Maybe I don't have anything to say. 757 The boy with the lime-colored hair wakes up when he falls out of his chair. The Gothgirls whinny. Mr. Neck picks his nose when he thinks we aren't looking. I need a lawyer. ADVICE FROM A SMART MOUTH David Petrakis sends me a note in social studies. Typed. He thinks it's horrible that my parents didn't videotape Mr. Neck's class or stick up for me the way his folks did. It feels so good to have someone feel sorry for me, I don't mention that my parents don't know what happened. They'll figure out what happened soon enough at the next meeting with the guidance counselor. I think David should be a judge. His latest career goal is to be a quantum-physics genius. I don't know what that means, but he says his father is furious. His dad is right — David was made for the law: deadly calm, turbo-charged brain, and a good eye for weakness. He stops by my locker. I tell him Mr. Neck gave me a D for the suffragette report. David: "He has a point." Me: "It was a great report! You read it. I wrote a bibliography and I didn't copy from the encyclopedia. It was the best report ever. It's not my fault Mr. Neck doesn't get performance art." David pauses to offer me a stick of gum. It's a delaying tactic, the kind that juries love. 158 David: "But you got it wrong. The suffragettes were all about speaking up, screaming for their rights. You can't speak up for your right to be silent. That's letting the bad guys win. If the suffragettes did that, women wouldn't be able to vote yet." I blow a bubble in his face. He folds the gum wrappers into tiny triangles. David: "Don't get me wrong. I think what you did was kind of cool and getting stuck in MISS wasn't fair. But don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself." Me: "Do you lecture all your friends like this?" David: "Only the ones I like." We both chew on this for a minute. The bell rings. I keep looking in my locker for a book that I already know isn't there. David checks his watch a hundred times. We hear Principal Principal bellow, "Let's move it, people!" David: "Maybe I'll call you." Me: "Maybe I won't answer." Chew, chew. Blowbubblepop. "Maybe I will." Is he asking me out? I don't think so. But he kind of is. I guess I'll answer if he calls. But if he touches me I'll explode, so a date is out of the question. No touching. 159 THE BEAST PROWLS I stay after school to work on tree sketches. Mr. Freeman helps me for a while. He gives me a roll of brown paper and a piece of white chalk and shows me how to draw a tree in three sweeping lines. He doesn't care how many mistakes I make, just one-two-three, "like a waltz," he says. Over and over. I use up a mile of the paper, but he doesn't care. This may be the root of his budget problem with the school board. God crackles over the intercom and tells Mr. Freeman he's late for a faculty meeting. Mr. Freeman says the kind of words you don't usually hear from teachers. He gives me a new piece of chalk and tells me to draw roots. You can't grow a decent tree without roots. The art room is one of the places I feel safe. I hum and don't worry about looking stupid. Roots. Ugh. But I try. One-two- three, one-two-three. I don't worry about the next day or minute. One-two-three. Somebody flicks the lights off. My head snaps up. IT is there. Andy Beast. Little rabbit heart leaps out of my chest and scampers across the paper, leaving bloody footprints on my roots. He turns the lights back on. I smell him. Have to find out where he gets that cologne. I think it's called Fear. This is turning into one of those repeat- 160 ing nightmares where you keep falling but never hit the floor. Only I feel like I just smacked into the ground at a hundred miles an hour. IT: "You seen Rachelle? Rachelle Bruin?" I sit completely still. Maybe I can blend in with the metal ta- bles and crumbling clay pots. He walks toward me, long, slow strides. The smell chokes me. I shiver. IT: "She's supposed to meet me, but I can't find her anywhere. You know who she is?" Me: IT sits on my table, ITs leg smears my chalk drawing, blurring the roots into a mossy fog. IT: "Hello? Anyone home? Are you deaf?" IT stares at my face. I crush my jaws together so hard my teeth crumble to dust. I am a deer frozen in the headlights of a tractor trailer. Is he going to hurt me again? He couldn't, not in school. Could he? Why can't I scream, say something, do anything? Why am I so afraid? "Andy? I've been waiting outside." Rachel sweeps into the room wearing an artsy-fartsy gypsy scarf skirt and a necklace of eye-sized mirrors. She pouts and Andy leaps off the table, 161 ripping my paper, scattering bits of chalk. Ivy walks through the door, bumping Rachel accidentally. She hesitates — she has to feel that something is going on — then she takes her sculp- ture off the shelf and sits at the table next to me. Rachel looks at me, but she doesn't say anything. She must have gotten my note — I mailed it over a week ago. I stand up. Rachel gives us a half wave and says "Ciao." Andy puts his arm around her waist and pulls her close to his body as they float out the door. Ivy is talking to me, but it takes a while before I can hear her. "What a jerk," she says. She pinches the clay. "I can't believe she's going out with him. Can you? It's like I don't know her anymore. And he's trouble." She slaps a hunk of clay on the table. "Believe me, that creep is trouble with a capital T." I'd love to stay and chat, but my feet won't let me. I walk home instead of taking the bus. I unlock the front door and walk straight up to my room, across the rug, and into my closet without even taking off my backpack. When I close the closet door behind me, I bury my face into the clothes on the left side of the rack, clothes that haven't fit for years. I stuff my mouth with old fabric and scream until there are no sounds left under my skin. HOME SICK It is time for a mental-health day. I need a day in pajamas, eating ice cream from the carton, painting my toenails, and 162 enjoying TrashTV. You have to plan ahead for a mental- health day. I learned this from a conversation my mom had with her friend Kim. Mom always starts acting sick forty-eight hours ahead of time. She and Kim take mental- health days together. They buy shoes and go to the movies. Cutting-edge adult delinquency. What is the world coming to? I don't eat any dinner or dessert, and I cough so much during the news my dad tells me to take some cough medicine. In the morning, I smear some mascara under my eyes so it looks like I haven't slept at all. Mom takes my temperature — turns out I have a fever. Surprises even me. Her hand is cool, an island on my forehead. The words tumble out before I can stop them. Me: "I don't feel well." Mom pats my back. Mom: "You must be sick. You're talking." Even she can hear how bitchy that sounds. She clears her throat and tries again. Mom: "I'm sorry. It's nice to hear your voice. Go back to bed. I'll bring up a tray before I leave. Do you want some ginger ale?" I nod. 163 OPRAH, SALLY JESSY, JERRY, AND ME My fever is 102.2. Sounds like a radio station. Mom calls to remind me to drink a lot of fluids. I say "Thank you," even though it hurts my throat. It's nice of her to call me. She promises to bring home Popsicles. I hang up and snuggle into my couch nest with the remote. Click. Click. Click. If my life were a TV show, what would it be? If it were an After-School Special, I would speak in front of an auditorium of my peers on How Not to Lose Your Virginity. Or, Why Se- niors Should Be Locked Up. Or, My Summer Vacation: A Drunken Party, Lies, and Rape. Was I raped? Oprah: "Let's explore that. You said no. He covered your mouth with his hand. You were thirteen years old. It doesn't matter that you were drunk. Honey, you were raped. What a horrible, horrible thing for you to live though. Didn't you ever think of telling anyone? You can't keep this inside forever. Can someone get her a tissue?" Sally Jessy: "I want this boy held responsible. He is to blame for this attack. You do know it was an attack, don't you? It was not your fault. I want you to listen to me, listen to me, listen to me. It was not your fault. This boy was an animal." 164 Jerry: "Was it love? No. Was it lust? No. Was it tenderness, sweetness, the First Time they talk about in magazines? No, no, no, no, no! Speak up, Meatilda, ah, Melinda, I can't hear you!" My head is killing me, my throat is killing me, my stomach bubbles with toxic waste. I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too? I take two Tylenol and eat a bowl of pudding. Then I watch Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and fall asleep. A trip to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe would be nice. Maybe I could stay with Daniel Striped Tiger in his tree house. REAL SPRING May is finally here and it has stopped raining. Good thing, too — the mayor of Syracuse was about to put out a call for a guy named Noah. The sun appears butter-yellow and so warm it coaxes tulips out of the crusty mud. A miracle. Our yard is a mess. All our neighbors have these great maga- zine-cover yards with flowers that match their shutters and expensive white rocks that border fresh mounds of mulch. Ours has green bushes that just about cover the front win- dows, and lots of dead leaves. Mom is already gone. Saturday is the biggest selling day of the week at Effert's. Dad snores upstairs. I put on old jeans and 165 unearth a rake from the back of the garage. I start on the leaves suffocating the bushes. I bet Dad hasn't cleaned them out for years. They look harmless and dry on top, but under that top layer they're wet and slimy. White mold snakes from one leaf to the next. The leaves stick together like floppy pages in a decomposing book. I rake a mountain into the front yard and there are still more, like the earth pukes up leaf gunk when I'm not looking. I have to fight the bushes. They snag the tines of the rake and hold them — they don't like me clean- ing out all that rot. It takes an hour. Finally, the rake scrapes its metal fingernails along damp brown dirt. I get down on my knees to reach be- hind and drag out the last leaves. Ms. Keen would be proud of me. I observe. Worms caught in the sun squirm for cover. Pale green shoots of something alive have been struggling under the leaves. As I watch, they straighten to face the sun. I swear I can see them grow. The garage door opens and Dad backs out the Jeep. He stops in the driveway when he sees me. He turns off the engine and gets out. I stand up and brush the dirt off my jeans. My palms are blistered and my arms are already sore from the raking. I can't tell if he's angry or not. Maybe he likes the front of his house looking like crap. Dad: "That's a lot of work." Me: Dad: "I'll get some leaf bags at the store." 766 Me: We both stand there with our arms crossed, staring at the lit- tle baby plants trying to grow in the shade of the house-eating bushes. The sun goes behind a cloud and I shiver. I should have worn a sweatshirt. The wind rustles dead leaves still clinging to the oak branches by the street. All I can think of is that the rest of the leaves are going to drop and I'll have to keep raking. Dad: "Looks a lot better. Cleaned out like that, I mean." The wind blows again. The leaves tremble. Dad: "I suppose I should trim back the bushes. Of course, then you'd see the shutters and they need paint. And if I paint these shutters, I'll have to paint all the shutters, and the trim needs work, too. And the front door." Me: Tree: "Hush rustle chitachita shhhh ..." Dad turns to listen to the tree. I'm not sure what to do. Dad: "And that tree is sick. See how the branches on the left don't have any buds? I should call someone to take a look at it. Don't want it crashing into your room during a storm." Thanks, Dad. Like I'm not already having a hard time sleep- ing. Worry #64: flying tree limbs. I shouldn't have raked any- 767 thing. Look what I started. I shouldn't have tried something new. I should have stayed in the house. Watched cartoons with a double-sized bowl of Cheerios. Should have stayed in my room. Stayed in my head. Dad: "I guess I'm going to the hardware store. Want to come?" The hardware store. Seven acres of unshaven men and bright- eyed women in search of the perfect screwdriver, weed killer, volcanic gas grills. Noise. Lights. Kids running down the aisle with hatchets and axes and saw blades. People fighting about the right color to paint the bathroom. No thank you. I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat. Me: "Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?" FAULT! Our gym teacher, Ms. Connors, is teaching us to play tennis. Tennis is the only sport that comes close to not being a total waste of time. Basketball would be great if all you had to do was shoot foul shots, but most of the time you're on the court with nine other people bumping and shoving and running way 168 too much. Tennis is more civilized. Only two people have to play, unless you play doubles, which I would never do. The rules are simple, you get to catch your breath every few min- utes, and you can work on your tan. I actually learned to play a couple of summers ago when my parents had a trial membership at a fitness club. Mom signed me up for lessons and I played with Dad a few times before they figured the monthly dues were too expensive. Since I'm not a total spaz with the racket, Ms. Connors pairs me off with Jock Goddess Nicole to demonstrate the game