Words That Start With B (4 page)

I don’t see the ball coming. One second I’m walking out of the school, and the next I’m on my hands and knees on the pavement and there are yellow spots dancing in front of my eyes. I hear yelling, and my name, and then someone is kneeling beside me.

“Are you okay, Clarissa?”

The yellow spots are quickly being replaced by tears. I blink to keep them back and grit my teeth to stop myself from whimpering like a baby. My head is throbbing where the ball smacked it and my hands hurt. When I hold them up for inspection they’re pink and scraped. I rub them gently against my
T
-shirt to get rid of the gravelly pieces.

“We didn’t see you, I swear. Are you okay? Do you want me to get a teacher?”

Michael Greenblat is holding a dirty basketball under one arm and looking guilty. As he should.

“You should be more careful!” I manage to shout. “I could have a concussion!”

Michael’s ears turn pink and he looks like he might cry, although he isn’t the one who was viciously attacked by a bunch of moronic basketball players.

“I’m sorry, I really am. We were just tossing it around and then all of a sudden you were in the way. I mean, you weren’t in the way, but you weren’t there, and then you were and so was the ball …” Michael trails off lamely and I glare at him, pressing my hand against my forehead to try and stop the throbbing. It doesn’t seem to be working. In fact I think it’s getting worse.

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No, I’m waiting for Benji.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

I sniff and wait for him to slink back to his dumb basketball-playing friends, who keep calling after him, but Michael just stands there, staring at me. Where is Benji? I don’t know how much longer I can stand here without crying and I refuse to let Michael Greenblat see me cry. My head is really starting to hurt. I think I can feel a goose-egg swelling under my hands.

Wonderful.

Finally, Benji appears.

“What happened?” he asks.

“They hit me with their stupid basketball,” I explain.

“By accident!” Michael insists. “It was an accident.”

“I think I have a concussion,” I continue.

I don’t know who looks more worried, Benji or Michael.

“You should put ice on it,” Michael says.

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have to put ice on anything,” I say. “Come on, Benji, let’s go. See you tomorrow, Michael.”

I turn to leave but look back over my shoulder and add, “If I’m not in a coma, that is.”

***

Benji knows not to pester me about my head injury. I have to keep sniffing to stop myself from crying. When we get home, Mom doesn’t even acknowledge us. She’s too busy with a client.

Benji roots around in the freezer until he finds a package of frozen peas for me to hold against my head, while I go search for the children’s Tylenol, the chewable kind that tastes like grape Sweetarts. I think about telling Mom what happened but decide not to. She can’t even take two seconds to ask me about school. I’ll probably end up in the hospital with massive brain trauma. Serves her right for not caring enough to ask me how my day was.

We slink down the stairs and crash in front of the
TV
, homework spread out in front of us. It’s only the second day of school and already we have lists of projects and assignments. As if my head didn’t hurt enough. Benji flips half-heartedly through the channels.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks.

“Put in the Wizard,” I say.

My all-time favourite movie is
The Wizard of Oz
. I could watch that movie every day for the rest of my life and never get sick of it. I even tried to once when I was little. I would come home from daycare, put the tape in and settle down inches from the
TV
. Mom would holler at me to move back before I went cross-eyed, but I couldn’t move. I was too mesmerized. Finally she’d hook her hands under my armpits and yank me back until I was a safe distance away from the screen, muttering about lazy eyes and glasses.

Benji’s favourite part of the movie was when Glinda came down in the pink bubble.

“How do you think they did that?” he’d ask.

“
Shhh,”
I’d say.

We used to play Oz, pretending that the mat at the bottom of the stairs was the Deadly Desert — like in the books, which were way more exciting than the movie. You had to jump over the mat to get to safety. I was always Dorothy and used one of mom’s beaded belts as Dorothy’s magic belt. Benji would be all sorts of different characters, but his favourite was Glinda the Good, even though she was a girl.

We haven’t played Oz in a long time. It’s not the same anymore. We’re getting too old for that kind of make believe. Instead, we plop ourselves down in front of the
TV
and eat as many cookies as we can before six o’clock, when Mr. Denton bangs on the screen door and hollers down the stairs for Benjamin. The sound of his big fist rattling the window panes makes me jump right out of my skin every time. And it’s not just me overreacting, because under her breath, I hear my mother swear, “Jesus H. Christ.”

Now Benji is the kind of kid who has the sad look down pat, but I never see him look sadder than when his dad comes banging on the back door. He dunks his Oreo one last time before practically swallowing it whole.

“Cripes, Benji. Doesn’t your dad feed you?”

He takes his own sweet time getting up, sweeping the crumbs off the table, putting his glass on the counter and saying his goodbyes to Mom.

“Thank you, Miss Delaney.”

“Call me Annie, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Miss Annie.”

“Close enough. You’re welcome, Benji. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, Miss Annie. Well, goodbye again. Bye, Clarissa.”

Then he creeps up the stairs in that annoying way he has,
where he can’t move onto the next step until both feet are on the stair before. It’s amazing he gets anywhere on time.

“Poor little thing. You be nice to him, Clarissa.”

“I am nice to him!”

“Not everyone is as lucky as you.”

Lucky? Who said anything about lucky?

***

Denise arrives just after six to get her roots done. So much for Power Hour. She sits with her feet up on the counter, drinking coffee and eating her way through a pack of powdered doughnuts.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I had,” Denise says. “I’m on my third coffee and I’m not sure if I’ll make it to eight o’clock.”

“What’s at eight o’clock?” I ask.

“Dinner with the Monster.”

The Monster is Denise’s sister Linda. Every few months they get together to brag about their lives. Linda is a travel agent with two kids, a dog and a husband. Denise calls her the Monster, but she sounds more boring than monstrous to me. Then again, she is related to Denise, so there must be something wrong with her.

“How was your day, baby?” Mom asks. Finally.

“Awful. I got hit in the head with a basketball.”

“Let me see.” Mom pushes back my hair and squints at my forehead. “It can’t be too serious. I don’t see anything.”

“Well it hurts!” I say.

“I’m sure it does, but it’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Ugh. It’s like she doesn’t even
care
.

“And Mr. Campbell is trying to ruin grade seven for me.”

“Not
Tony
Campbell,” says Denise. “I met him last week
at the grocery store. He’s a real cutie, if you like red hair.”

“You have red hair,” I point out.

“Thanks to your mama,” Denise winks and pops another doughnut into her mouth. The powdered sugar sticks to her lipstick. “He seemed like a decent guy to me.”

“Well, he’s not, and he’s married, anyway,” I say savagely.

Denise shrugs. “Want a doughnut?” she asks.

“No,” I sigh, eyeing their mugs. “What I really could use is a coffee.”

Mom shakes her head and holds her coffee cup close to her chest.

“Nuh-uh. Coffee stunts your growth and ruins your teeth.”

“You drink it.”

“I have no choice; I’m addicted.”

“Denise drinks it.”

“Denise is an adult. She can choose to ruin her teeth if she wants to.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, baby. But at least you’ll have good teeth.”

She reaches out to straighten a curl, but I duck away before she can get her powdery fingers in my hair.

“Mom, gross. There’s sugar all over your fingers.”

She looks down at them and licks the sugar off, one finger at a time.

“So there is. What would I do without you?”

Since it is clear to me that no one in this room cares about my day or how I’m going to survive an entire year with Tony the Tiger, I stomp up the stairs and leave them to their coffee and their highlighting.

In addition to being next-door neighbours, Benji and I are right next to each other on the class list because Denton comes right after Delaney in roll call. This means that every time we are split up alphabetically, which is a lot, we are put in the same group. It also means we end up sitting near each other in class. But not this year, the year of Mr. Campbell. He thinks it would be fun to “mix it up.” Every week he arranges us by something different: birth date, height, even zodiac sign. I told him I don’t go in for all that zodiac hocus-pocus.

“Astrology has a fascinating history, Clarissa. Whether or not you believe in it, people have done some very interesting things based upon their star sign.”

“Like seating arrangements?” I ask.

“Among other things, yes.”

“Well, it seems like a load of you-know-what, if you’ll excuse my language.”

“What is it about astrology that bothers you, Clarissa?”

“Well, it’s a lot like stereotyping, and we learned last year in Mrs. Miller’s class that it is wrong to judge individual people based on group assumptions. That is how things like racism and sexism get started. Are you telling us to be prejudiced, Mr. Campbell?”

“No, I am telling you where to sit.”

“Fine. But I want you to know that I think basing a seating arrangement on zodiac signs is inappropriate.”

“Spoken like a true Aries. Now please take your seat.”

***

More proof that Mr. Campbell is the worst thing to happen to Ferndale Public School: his idea of a school project is a radio station. Just before lunch he announces that he’s starting a radio club for anyone who’s interested in helping out. Poor Mr. Campbell. Doesn’t he know that no one listens to the radio anymore? I almost feel sorry for him.

“We’ll have two programs,” he explains. “A daily lunchtime program with music, school news and interest stories, and a ten minute special we’ll do once a month on a topic of our choice.”

Hands go up and Mr. Campbell answers all sorts of questions. Yes, the club will be open to the whole school; yes, there could be an all-request lunch hour; yes, they could interview outside people. Mr. Campbell is so excited about his club he forgets to assign us math homework. I guess there is a silver lining in every cloud.

***

We’re almost out the door when Mattie calls after us.

“Hi, Benji! Hi, Clarissa! Are you going to join the radio club?”

I snort.“No way.”

Benji shrugs. “I don’t like public speaking,” he says.

“It’s not like that at all, silly. You talk into a microphone in a room with no audience,” Mattie says brightly.

Benji is not convinced. “Still—”

“Well, I am,” Mattie breezes on. “I think it’s a great idea. I don’t know if you remember, but I did morning announcements last year.”

I roll my eyes.“We remember.”

“So, I already have experience.”

“Sounds good.”

“Can I walk with you?”

Benji and I exchange glances.

“If you want to,” I say.

“Great! So what do you think about having a Guess That Song contest?”

Mattie talks about contests and giveaways all the way to the corner of Blair Avenue and Chestnut Street. Benji suggests getting gift certificates from local businesses.

“That’s a great idea!” Mattie says. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the radio club?”

“Well, maybe behind-the-scenes stuff,” he says.

“Do you think your mom might donate a gift certificate for the salon?” Mattie asks me.

I shrug. “Maybe. Well, this is where we turn,” I say.

Mattie stops.

“Oh,” she says. Something about the way she stands there fiddling with her skirt makes me think she’s waiting for me to ask her over, but that doesn’t make any sense. Mattie has lots of friends who are much more interested in things like clothes and the radio club than I am. Maybe she just has to go to the bathroom.

“So, see you tomorrow?”

“Okay! Don’t forget to bring your newspaper article for current events!”

“I won’t.”

“And ask your mom about the gift certificate!”

“I’ll think about it. Bye, Mattie.”

“Bye, Clarissa! Bye, Benji!”

We watch her turn and go.

“Is she skipping?” I ask.

“No, she’s just a bouncy walker,” Benji says.

Cripes.

***

“We ordered pizza,” Mom says. I don’t feel like talking. I grunt instead.

“Pardon me?”

I grunt a little bit louder.

“We don’t speak caveman,” Mom says sweetly. Denise slaps her thigh and explodes into her big honking laugh.

Anger crackles underneath my skin. I swear, if someone touched me right now they’d get such a big electrical shock they’d probably fall down dead.

“Not hungry,” I say shortly.

Mom reaches out and grabs my wrist as I squeeze by.

“Where are you going? Tell us about your day,” she says with her you-can-talk-to-me-I’m-a-good-mother smile. It makes me even angrier.

I yank my arm back.

“I don’t want to.”

Mom sighs dramatically. “I can’t wait till we’re through the angsty period.”

She’s talking to Denise, but she makes sure to say it loud enough so that I can hear. When I get to my room, I am sure to slam the door hard enough to make the pictures on the wall in the living room rattle.

***

A little bit later there is a knock at the door. I consider pretending to be asleep, but I can smell the pizza from here and it’s making my stomach growl.

“Clarissa? The pizza is here.”

My hunger melts away any bit of resolve I had left. When I open the door Mom is standing there with the pizza and an armful of movies and I forget to be mad at her.

“I thought maybe you needed some Julia Roberts,” she says.

Mom has seen every Julia Roberts movie about seven hundred times. Her favourites are
Steel Magnolias
, because it’s about a hair salon, and
Pretty Woman
, because every stylist loves a makeover story. She knows all the words to both and gets choked up at the same parts every time. It’s one thing for Benji and me to obsess over movies, but my mother is a grown woman. After a particularly bad day she’ll say, “That was a Julia Roberts kind of day,” and then I know we’re in for popcorn and manis and pedis. My job is to pop two bags of microwave popcorn while my mother sets up a mini nail salon.

She clears the
TV
guides and junk mail off the coffee table and lays out what Denise refers to as Annie’s Arsenal. All Mary Kay, all supplied by Denise. My mom keeps her nail supplies in a plastic case under the bathroom sink. It’s full of Q-tips, cotton swabs and all kinds of nail polish. There are emery boards, cuticle pushers, nail clippers and even a buffer pad. The emery boards look like Popsicle sticks covered in pink sandpaper. Usually I get to pick my nail polish, but tonight Denise has all sorts of opinions.

“Nothing too pink, Clarissa, that’s a summer shade. And nothing too red, it’ll stain your nails.”

My favourite colour is called Ocean Pearl, and it goes on light pink with white swirls in it. It makes my fingernails look like the insides of tiny seashells.

Usually it’s just me, Mom and Julia Roberts, but tonight Denise is overstaying her welcome.

“I just love that Richard Gere,” she says. “How come I can’t find a man like that around here? You know they say he’s a Buddhist.”

“
Mmmm
.” Mom paints my nails one stroke at a time. I love the way the polish feels on my nails, cool and silky. It takes almost the whole movie to finish. First you have to put on a base coat, let it dry for ten minutes, then follow up with two thin coats of colour. After that sits, you finish with a top coat, which takes at least ten minutes to dry. The bottle says quick-dry, but Denise says you never can trust a label. She would know; she sells the stuff. We start with our toes and finish with our fingernails.

“Aren’t we a sight? All spiffed up and nowhere to go.”

I want to tell Denise that she is welcome to leave anytime, but my beautiful nails are putting me in such a good mood that I don’t bother.