Words That Start With B (13 page)

“There you are! Where have you
been?
Didn’t you get my message? I have so much to tell you!”

Before I can answer any of her questions, Mattie grabs the sleeve of my coat and pulls me behind the tire swings where we can talk privately before the bell rings. To be honest, I’m actually kind of glad, because ever since I arrived at school people have been staring at me and whispering.

“Well?” Mattie demands.

“I went to visit my mother,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Mattie’s eyes immediately go all soft.

“Is she okay?” she asks.

“Well, as good as one can be on chemo,” I retort.

Mattie nods knowingly.

“Chemotherapy is very difficult on your body,” she says, like she knows something about it. I resist the urge to say something snappy back.

“What happened on Friday?” I ask.

“You mean with Benji?”

“Of course, with Benji!”

“So you
did
get my message. I wasn’t sure because you never called me back.”

I can’t believe Mattie is getting all sulky at a time like this. I am
thisclose
to walking away, except she is the only one who I can talk to about Benji. I clench my teeth and force myself to smile at her. As Mom says, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“Sorry, Mattie, I was just overwhelmed with my Mom and Benji and everything.”

I sound fake, even to myself, but Mattie buys it anyway, making her sad eyes at me and patting my arm.

“Oh my goodness, of course! This must be so hard for you.”

I nod and wait for her to continue.

“Well. So, as you know, Friday was the day Mr. Campbell was going to pick the top three modern hero essays and read sections from them aloud.”

Oh no! The essay — I had forgotten all about it. You would think Mr. Campbell would have pulled me aside to remind me, or at the very least sent a stern letter home. Instead, he was just going to let me fail. Jerk.

“The first one he read was Julie Kennedy’s. I mean, he didn’t say so, they were all anonymous, but it was all about Dr. Wellington and the animal rescue centre. Everyone knows how crazy Julie is about animals and that she volunteers there on the weekends. It was pretty obvious.

“The next one was about some baseball player who gives all his money to charity and adopted like, three kids from China. I think it was Michael Greenblat’s essay, but that one I’m not sure about. And then he read Benji’s.”

I swear my heart stopped beating for a second. The thought of Mr. Campbell reading aloud to the whole class what Benji
had written about my mother made me want to turn around, run home and never come back to school. Those were personal, private things. How dare he share them with the entire class! What kind of a teacher was he? I was aware of Mattie staring at me, but I didn’t trust my voice to work.

“Did you hear me, Clarissa? The next one he read was Benji’s. Oh, Clarissa, it was so beautiful. Almost all the girls in the class cried.”

“I can’t believe him!”

Mattie is confused.

“Who?” she asks.

“Both of them!” I yell. “Putting my mom’s life on display! We aren’t entertainment! This isn’t a reality
TV
show!”

“What are you talking about? It wasn’t about your mom, Clarissa. It was about you.”

“What?”

Mattie’s hands fly up to her mouth.

“You mean you didn’t know?” she cries. “That makes it even more tragic!”

For a second I think she’s going to burst into tears. I grab her arms to shake some sense into her.

“Mattie! Focus! What did he say?”

“He said that you were the bravest person he knew, always sticking up for people, putting on a brave face even though your mother had cancer and might die—”

“She’s not going to die—”

“I’m just telling you what he said! And then he talked about Terry DiCarlo and all the things he did, what a bully he was and how, from now on, he was going to stand up for himself because of you! Oh, Clarissa, it was sooo inspiring.”

I can barely process this new and surprising information. I had read Benji’s essay. It was about Mom, not me.

“And then what happened?” I ask.

“Well, obviously we all knew it was Benji’s essay. No one else likes you that much, no offence, plus his face was totally red. And then, right before lunch, Mr. Campbell asked Benji to stay behind for a minute.”

Mattie pauses for effect and looks at me like maybe it might dawn on me.

“So?”

Mattie rolls her eyes.

“So, the next thing you know, Terry DiCarlo is called to the principal’s office and suspended. Because of Benji’s essay! Well, he was mad as anything, as you can imagine, and so after school him and a couple of his friends were waiting for Benji.”

Mattie takes a deep breath and looks like she might cry again. The thought of Benji walking home alone, unprotected makes me want to cry, too.

“Poor Benji. He didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t there, but I heard from someone who saw the whole thing that he actually tried to fight them off.”

I feel a surge of pride for Benji.

“Luckily someone ran and got the principal, but by the time he got there, Terry and his gang were gone and Benji was lying on the ground.”

Mattie leans forward for the next part.

“They had to wash his blood off the sidewalk,” she whispers.

I shiver.

“When the ambulance came, the police asked if anyone had seen the attacker. Everyone said no.”

“What? But I thought you said it was Terry!” I cry.

“Well, that’s what people said, but no one’s coming forward to say anything. Don’t you get it? Benji wrote about Terry in his essay and look what happened to him.”

“Well isn’t that proof enough?” I ask.

Mattie shrugs.

“They need a witness. Besides, it happened off school property.”

“What about Benji? What does he say?”

“Well, that’s the strange thing. You’d think that Benji would’ve told the police and Terry would have been arrested or thrown in juvie or whatever by now. But he hasn’t. That means Benji isn’t saying anything.”

I frown.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I say.

“Maybe he’s afraid,” Mattie suggests. “You weren’t there. It wasn’t your brains getting bashed in.”

“You weren’t there either,” I remind her.

Mattie’s lip wobbles.

“I’m just telling you what happened,” she says hotly.

My head is spinning with all this information. I don’t know what to do with it. When the bell rings, I am thankful. At least now I can sit in math class and zone out so I can think it all over.

***

I am an overnight sensation. People I don’t even know smile at me in the hall. One girl comes up to me and says, “Hang in there, Clarissa.” I’ve never talked to her before in my life! With Terry gone, the school seems friendlier and happier. More people are laughing in the hallways. It’s like Munchkinland when Dorothy drops the house on the Wicked Witch of the East; suddenly everyone’s singing and in Technicolor. I can’t believe how many people hate Terry. It makes me mad that none of them did anything about it. I am starting to feel a little guilty about all the
kudos and congratulations, though. After all, I didn’t do anything. It was Benji who wrote the essay; he’s the one who put it all out there. Correction, stupid Mr. Campbell put it out there for him. Cripes, how dumb can you be? Of course Terry DiCarlo is going to come for Benji after that!

For Benji’s sake, I decide to give Mr. Campbell the silent treatment and I am sure to glare at him extra hard when his back is turned. But he is having none of it. In fact, he smiles extra big when he sees me.

“Clarissa! Good to have you back. The classroom is so peaceful and dull without you.”

I nod but refuse to speak.

“Unfortunately, you missed a busy day, but I trust Miss Mattie will answer any of your questions about the homework.”

Mattie smiles brightly.

“Yes, Mr. Campbell,” she says.

Ugh.

“And if you don’t mind, I’d love for you to stay after class today. I want to return your assignment and talk to you about a few things. I’d see you at lunch, but I have a meeting.”

I shrug and slide into my seat.

“I’m sorry, Clarissa, I didn’t hear you,” Mr. Campbell says. He says it nice enough, but there’s an edge underneath that means business.

“Sure thing, Mr. C. After school,” I say.

“Grrrrreat!”

***

I miss Benji the most at lunchtime. Not because I’m alone, in fact I’ve never sat with so many people at lunch before in my entire life. Mattie leads the pack of girls who plunk right down beside me at the table. They keep saying “how brave”
I am, and that they’re, “praying for Benji and your mom.” When it becomes clear that I’m not about to share any juicy secrets, they sort of forget I’m there and talk among themselves about boys and some
TV
show I’ve never heard of because we only watch old reruns at my house.

Across the cafeteria, Michael Greenblat keeps looking over at me. I know he won’t dare come talk to me in front of all these girls, but I find myself wishing he would. Even geodes are better than all this talk about boys.

“Oh my God, Clarissa, Michael Greenblat is totally checking you out!” Amanda says. “What’s going on?”

I shrug.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “We’re sort of friends.”

The girls all look at each other and something passes between them that I must have missed, because they all start giggling.

“Sure,” says Min, rolling her eyes, “friends.” And then she dissolves into more giggles.

Benji isn’t a giggler.

The last bell goes and people grab their books and bolt for the door. It’s what I would be doing if I hadn’t been asked to stay behind to have a chat with Mr. Campbell.

“I’ll wait for you,” Mattie offers.

I wave her off.

“Don’t bother.”

“Call me!” Mattie says.

I shrug, which is not exactly a no, but it’s not a yes, either. Mr. Campbell sits at his desk and rifles through a pile of papers. He doesn’t even look up at me. Two can play this game. I take out the homework from Friday and pretend to get started on that. Every once in awhile I steal a glance through my eyelashes, but Mr. Campbell hasn’t moved. He clears his throat, but when I look up he still has his nose buried in those papers.

After what seems like a year, he stops what he’s doing and smiles at me like he hadn’t noticed I was right there in front of him for ten whole minutes.

“Clarissa,” he says, folding his hands in front of him. “Clarissa Louise Delaney.”

I don’t like it when people use my full name, it makes me nervous. Not that I would ever let him know that. I smile brightly and say in my most chipper voice, “Yes, Mr. Campbell?”

Mr. Campbell reaches into his desk and pulls out a fat folder. He walks over, tosses it on my desk and says, “I need your help with something. I received this from Principal Donner the other day. Take a look at these and tell me what you would do if you were in my position.”

“Okay.”

I open the folder and find a pile of letters staring up at me. I recognize them right away.
Dear Principal Donner, I am writing to issue a formal complaint about a Mr. Campbell … my child comes home crying everyday because of something that Mr. Campbell has said … Mr. Campbell is a lazy and incompetent teacher … I have three children and never has any of them complained about a teacher more than my son has complained about Mr. Campbell
. Reading them over, I can’t believe I was so mean. The letters are so angry, so full of hate. I am so ashamed that I can’t look up at him.

“Well? What would you do?” he asks quietly.

I don’t trust myself to say anything.

“You know, it’s hard being the new guy,” Mr. Campbell says. “Especially when the shoes you’re trying to fill are so big. I gather Miss Ross was pretty out of this world.”

He waits for me to say something, but all I can manage is a shrug. When he speaks again his voice is quiet.

“Tell me about her.”

And so I tell him about the bird’s nest, and how she brought me to this very room and told me I was an eagle and I believed her. I tell him how I had waited and waited for this year, and now that it is here and I am living it, nothing has gone the way I planned. As the truth comes out I realize that if Miss Ross knew about the letters she would be ashamed of me. I am ashamed of me. I feel less like an eagle and more like a worm.

“An eagle,” Mr. Campbell says.

I nod, feeling exposed and embarrassed, but Mr. Campbell doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me thoughtfully.

“You’re a good mimic, Clarissa, and a great writer. In fact, I wish you would put as much effort into your assignments as you did into these letters. But you’re not that good. Principal Donner and I thought a lot about what we should do about these, about what sort of punishment would be appropriate. I asked her to leave it up to me.”

Here it comes. I take a shaky breath and wait for the axe to fall. I’ll be suspended, held back a year, or worse, he’ll show my mother and she’ll take back all those things she said about being proud of me.

“The thing is,” Mr. Campbell continues, “I think you’ve been punished enough.”

What? There has to be a catch. When I look up, Mr. Campbell puts his big chin in his hands and looks right at me.

“You’ve had a rough year, Clarissa.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Well? Haven’t you?”

Somehow I find my voice. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Campbell laughs. “Sir! Now I know you’re feeling out of sorts. See, the thing is, I know these aren’t really about me,” Mr. Campbell taps the letters littered all over my desk. “They’re about your mom, Benji, Miss Ross and everything else, but they aren’t about me. When I read your essay, I finally got a glimpse of what’s going on up there.”

Mr. Campbell points at my head. I’m confused. What essay? What is he talking about?

“I want you to know that I am not the enemy here. If you need to talk about something, if you want to yell and scream, you can come to me. And in the meantime, we’re
going to make a deal. I will forget I ever saw those letters, and in return you will help out with the Lunchtime Lineup from now until the end of school. Put those writing skills to good use and find me some interesting stories about the students and the staff right here at Ferndale. You certainly have a flair for dramatics, there’s no doubt about that, but this is your chance to make a difference. ”

He can’t be serious. It’s too good to be true. As lame as the student radio station is, it’s better than detention or suspension.

“Well? Do we have a deal?”

Mr. Campbell offers me his hand. I shake it, and he smiles.

“A wise choice, Clarissa. Now, let’s get rid of the evidence, shall we?”

And with that, he sweeps the letters off my desk and dumps them into the recycling bin.

“Before you go, here’s your essay back. And for what it’s worth, I think you should show your mother. I think she’d be very touched.”

I take my essay from him, except it’s not my essay at all. It has a drawing of my mom on it, with the title
Annette Delaney: Local Wonder Woman
written just like the comic book across the top. It’s Benji’s original essay, except on the bottom, Benji has erased his name and replaced it with mine.

***

Benji is sitting in bed with a whole stack of pillows propping him up, watching the
TV
his dad brought in and set up on his dresser. His left eye is still puffy looking, but the bruise has started to turn yellow and green at the edges. There is a cut in his lip and his right arm is held across his body in a sling.

Benji lists off his injuries. Each one makes me angrier and angrier.

“Cracked rib, black eye, minor concussion. You know, regular hockey type injuries.”

Benji smiles at his own joke, then winces, touching his lip gently.

“Here, I brought this for you,” I say, handing him a makeup bag full of concealer, foundation and correction sticks. “So you can do your face up for school tomorrow.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back yet,” Benji says. “Besides, I was thinking of going au naturel. Everybody knows anyway.”

“Hey Benji, how come the principal is still looking for the people who beat you up?”

Benji looks down but doesn’t say anything.

“Didn’t you tell anybody?”

“They’d think I was a tattletale.”

“I heard all about your essay, Benji, the whole school did! Terry already thinks you’re a tattletale. The difference is now you can really get him.”

Benji chews thoughtfully on his Oreo and refuses to look at me.

“What is it, are you afraid?”

“Look at my face, Clarissa. Of course, I’m afraid.”

“But everyone knows now, the teachers, everyone. You’re safer now than ever.”

“I’m not afraid for me, I’m afraid for you. Terry told me that if I said anything to anyone they’d come after you.”

A little warning bell goes off in my head but I ignore it. Surely he wasn’t serious. Terry DiCarlo is an idiot, but he can’t be that stupid.

“And you believed him? I’m a girl; he’d never do anything to me. And no offence, Benji, but I’m a better runner than you are. I can outrun Terry and his friends.”

Benji shakes his head.

“You weren’t there, Clarissa. You don’t know how crazy Terry can get.”

I don’t really want to know how crazy that is, and from the way Benji fidgets with the edge of his blanket, I can tell he doesn’t really want to get into it, either.

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, changing the subject. “Mr. Campbell gave me my essay back, or I should say, he gave me your essay back.”

Benji squirms.

“Why did you do that?” I demand.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” he asks.

“No! But I should have. He knows about the letters, Benji. He kept me after school and asked me what I thought he should do about them.”

“What did you say?”

I throw my hands up.

“Nothing! What was I supposed to say?”

“Did you cry?”

“No, I did not cry … although I thought I might,” I admit.

“I would have cried for sure.”

“Well, that’s not saying much, you cry at everything. The point is, he knew it was me, and instead of punishing me, all I have to do is collect material for the stupid Lunchtime Lineup. Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” Benji says. “I like Mr. Campbell. He came with me to the hospital, you know.”

This bit of information is new and surprising.

“Really?” I ask.

Benji nods.

“Yup. And he stayed with me until Dad showed up. I think he might be the nicest person I know. Besides your
mom. Too bad he’s already married; they would make the world’s nicest couple.”

I roll my eyes.

“Great. And now he thinks I wrote an essay that you actually wrote, which makes me a liar, and he wants me to show it to my mom.”

I sit up as a horrible thought occurs to me.

“What if he shows it to her on parent-teacher night?”

“He gave it back to you, right?” Benji points out.

I sigh and fall back on the pillows.

“Right. Phew. That was close.”

“So, you’re not going to tell him?”

“I don’t know yet. I got an A.”

“You mean
I
got an A.”

“Right, whatever. Besides, I think if he had read my Oprah essay he probably would have punished me way harder.”

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t,” Benji says.

“You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

Benji shrugs.

“You had a lot going on. I knew you’d forgotten all about it.”

“So?”

“So, I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Besides, it was already finished.”

Sometimes you love a person so much that you can never find the words to tell them without sounding goofy or fake. If I hadn’t bawled my eyes out a few days ago, or maybe if I were Mattie Cohen, I’d be crying right now and hugging Benji’s bony little body so hard he’d be one big bruise. But I am Clarissa Louise Delaney, so instead I look him right in the eyes and tell him, “You can borrow my homework whenever you need to for the rest of our lives until we’re done school.” I hope he gets that I mean so much more than that.