Quaking, Page 4

  But it is not silent in the Quaker kitchen anymore. Sam is back, carrying the Blob in a rare, clean moment.The Blob is moaning and reaching for the pot on the stove.

  “I need to do my homework,” I lie. I can easily do it during class and on the bus. But it is a good excuse to get away.

  “You know,” says Jessica, tilting her head and walking toward me, “the only thing you might want to try is pulling your hair back a little so we could all see you better. You have such beautiful skin and haunting eyes. You’re a very attractive girl, Matt.”

  I look away as she talks, like when someone is lecturing me.

  She smiles and strokes my hair as I turn to go upstairs. I pull away and take the steps two at a time. It is tingly and raspberryish where she touched my hair. At the top of the stairs, I stop before going into my room. I take a few steps down the hall and turn the bathroom light on. I peek in at the mirror briefly. Just out of curiosity, not because I care. And I am right.There is no very attractive girl in there.The girl in the mirror has a nose too big for her pinched-up face. She has dark, shifty eyes. She is a hideous tetrahedron frizz head. And she must remain unnoticed.

  I slap the light switch off.

  Quakers are blind, apparently.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I hate World Civilization. Not the concept. My class. And the Rat. And the teacher, whose name, I discover, is Mr. Morehead. It is not a good name for a high school teacher. For many reasons. Use your imagination. I save him from his unfortunate fate by renaming him Mr. Warhead because that is what he is. Truly. He is obsessed with war, fighting, and the way I see it, beating the crap out of every non-American. He calls it Bringing Freedom and Democracy to the World. My advice to anyone who hears those words in any country other than This Great Nation of Ours is “Run away!”

  Today he is fixating on the prime minister of Great Britain, whom he thinks is a “little snot.” I do not know the man personally, so I can neither confirm nor deny that assessment. However, when Mr. Warhead says “snot” for the million and tenth time, I cannot help but look at his nose. My stomach curls into a million and ten knots.The man has large hairs growing out of his nostrils, like someone shoved a bonsai tree up there and the roots are still dangling, looking for a place to plant themselves.

  I must have a look of sick horror on my face because Mr. Warhead sees me and squeezes his mouth shut in that odd way he has. “Yes, frightening, isn’t it?” he says in his nasal voice. “But, make no mistake, our troops are the best in the world and our flag will rise above it all.”

  I am picturing an American flag rising over his nose hairs.

  It is not a patriotic sight.

  I return to my position of anonymity in the back of the classroom. There is some safety in numbers and it is a large class. Unfortunately, Mr. Warhead believes in old-fashioned rows so he can walk up and down in between them when the mood strikes. I cannot stand that, especially when he turns and walks up behind me. I am waiting for him to smack the back of my head, even though I know teachers are not allowed to do this. It is hard for me to shake old habits. And what is to stop him, really?

  I do not want to see his red face or hirsute nostrils, so I concentrate on my desk. It is the usual fake plastic-wood kind, with a triangular gouge exposing the darker layer underneath. People have filled in the mark with varying shades of blue and black, like an oozing bruise. I do the same when I am not writing down Mr. Warhead’s rants.

  He spends twenty minutes telling us why the United States does not need to give in to “liberal” United Nations resolutions or even the Geneva Convention. After which he announces, “Pop quiz!”

  The class groans. Binders snap, papers rustle, and pens clack as everyone gets ready for the quiz. I wonder what it will be today. On Monday, it was “Middle Eastern Theater” geography. I was one of the few not to fail the quiz, although Mr. Warhead drew a big red question mark over my heading: “The Mid-East . . . U.S.”

  “Dude!” It is the Rat. “Don’t you want me to give my report?”

  It is so obviously a stall tactic.

  But Mr. Warhead turns around from the board and his face is all soft and mushy. “I’m sorry, Richard. Go ahead, but please try to be quick.”

  The Rat takes a deep breath, slowly, and cracks his knuckles. “Well, like, we’re fighting terrorists, right? The United States, I mean, with hardly anyone else helping us. Because the rest of them are all chicken-shits. So we’re out there doing it for everyone. And what do we get? People ragging on us. I mean, it’s like they’ve all taken some drug and they’ve lost their brains.”

  Mr. Warhead is nodding but holds up his hand. “And, specifically, what have reactions been in our own town?”

  “Oh, yeah, well, we got these—what do you call those businesses that don’t even know how to make money?”

  Mr. Warhead smirks. “Nonprofits?”

  “Yeah, these nonprofits that decide we should stop fighting the terrorists.” He grins slowly. “So, their offices get bombed with pigs’ blood. Kind of a wake-up call. The police”—and his grin turns into a leer—“aren’t too upset, you know? Because, hey, the people who did the deed are, like, patriots.”

  “Patriots?” someone mutters.

  The Rat whips around, not to me, fortunately. “Yeah, patriots! Ever heard of the Boston Tea Party? When our rights and freedoms are being taken away, we have to fight back.”

  Against a nonprofit?

  The Rat turns back around. “Then the mosque gets hit because, well,” and he shrugs.

  Oh, I see, because they are Muslim and, by definition, are all terrorists? God! I may not believe in religion but I do believe in leaving people alone if they are not bothering anyone. I cannot believe the crap coming out of the Rat’s mouth.

  “All the public opinion polls prove,” the Rat says, “that Americans pretty much support the president and support the war because, like”—he looks around the room—“we’re Americans, right? The rest of them are chicken-shits!”

  I want to shout “Fact or opinion!” like Miss Barnes, my World Civ teacher at my old school. She did that all the time whenever we gave a report or even answered a question. It was so annoying. Now I wish she were here.

  His Vermin applaud loudly.A red-faced Mr.Warhead nods, seriously, his lips tightly shut, like he is believing all of it.

  “I mean, what’s with them?” the Rat continues. “Do they want the terrorists to take over? Don’t they care about freedom and democracy? I’m going to fight for this country and our way of life, whatever it takes.” He pounds his desk for effect. He is almost grinning he is so amused by his performance.

  He has pounded Mr. Warhead into a frenzy. The man’s face is now a purplish shade of red and his lips are squished together so tightly I think his head might burst. His mouth barely opens as he squeezes out, “Nice job, Richard.”

  He turns and writes on the board, hard, like he is trying to hammer through it. The marker squeaks and cries plaintively under his heavy hand. “Name the senators supporting the war effort.”

  He whips back around, looking at his watch. “You have five minutes!”

  “Aw, man.” The Rat rolls his eyes and the grin is gone.

  “Good try, dude,” the guy next to him whispers.

  “Yeah, whatever,” the Rat replies.

  Whatever? Whatever? How can he say that? He is such a Rat! A scavenger! Feeding on the emotions of other people. Like this warped teacher’s, who obviously has some serious problem.

  I make a heading on my page and scribble down the names of Mr.Warhead’s favorite senators while some people scratch their heads and others look earnestly out of the window at the snow. I look at them like they are idiots. How can they not know? Mr.Warhead talks about the Good Pro-War Senators constantly, as if they are all close friends of his. He quotes their brilliant sound bites like my favorite, “You’re either with us or with them.” Apparently, there is no room for debate in our democratic society.

  We pass our
papers to the front and it is almost time for the bell, finally.

  Mr.Warhead reminds us of the pages to read in our textbook and how we will need our class notes to be able to answer all of the questions at the end of chapter three and do we all understand, “Matilda?”

  I shudder, dropping my pen.The Rat snickers. I look up at Mr.Warhead and give him a jerky nod. Mr.Warhead insists upon calling me Matilda, which makes the Rat laugh, and I hate him for that. He does it on purpose. It puts a spotlight on me whenever he says my name, reminding the Rat that I am a potential Victim, and Mr. Warhead knows it. Just because the Rat marked me as someone who does not care. I have to scurry off to my next class before the Rat can catch me, hide on the bus so the Rat does not even realize I am there, and avoid my locker because, by some hideous twist of fate, our lockers are practically next to each other.

  I suffer through World Civ four times a week, at different time slots, depending on the day. I imagine it is somewhat like experiencing random terrorist bombings throughout an otherwise frightening but mostly uneventful week.

  In English, on the other hand, I am all-powerful. Mrs. Jimenez must have seen my IQ test results. She treats me as if I am the Mighty Queen of World Literature. She cowers as she walks by my desk, so much so that she has to look up at me even though I am sitting. It is as if she is frightened to speak in front of me, in case she makes a mistake and I am forced to yell, “Off with her head!”

  She gives me As on anything I write. I believe she would give me an A for writing my name. Even if I misspelled it. She does not tell me what she really thinks. She simply writes meaningless words like outstanding, superb, amazing in the margin. She is not grading my writing. She is grading my IQ.

  Lunch is the usual horror. I spend it in the girls’ bathroom, the one place where I am certain the Rat cannot find me. I open the lunch bag from Jessica. An apple, some grapes, a juice box, and a granola bar. I manage to drink the juice because it is apple but I save the food. It is hard to eat when you are hovering on the edge of nausea.

  The bell rings and I groan, remembering where I have to go next.

  PE.

  Putrid Exercise.

  Painful Exhibitionism.

  Please Erase.

  I cannot compete with the Amazon Women Jockettes. Nor do I want to. After a week of being trampled in volley-ball, basketball, and some form of cruel obstacle relay that looks like it came out of Alice in Wonderland, I decide to escape. I already know that Miss Splits—I kid you not, and she was a gymnast—checks the bathroom and the bleachers for runaways, but once in a while I can get away with it. I find the perfect hiding place. A locker. It is like being under a bed, only vertical. Somewhat cramped, but it beats the alternative. I simply get out when I hear the girls’ voices coming and act as if I am the first one to arrive. One girl looks at me, her eyes narrowing. But then her Cool Blond Friend asks her if she brought that Cool Blond shampoo and I am off the radar screen again. Life returns to normal for the time being.

  Until 3:40 P.M., to be precise.

  I am opening my locker, taking my World Civ notes out. For some stupid reason, I look up. And see him.

  The Rat.

  He is strutting his camo legs over to me, leering at me, sneering, his nose twitching like he smells fresh kill.

  The quaking begins. I look down at my notes. World Civilization is trembling in my hands. Do not make eye contact! I look away. Hide! I drop to my knees, shaking. I scrounge. Around the bottom of my locker. To hide my arms. Which are flailing, jumping. Pray! In case there is a God.

  I see a tattooed arm. It grabs the lock on his locker. I flinch. Waiting for his other arm to attack. Tuck your neck in! I crouch. Brace your shoulders! I do. But they are still jumping. Like an electrified frog. Even after it is decapitated.

  The Rat does a war whoop. I am sure it is The End.

  “Hey!” his oily voice booms in my ear.

  I jump. I see his greasy black hair. Close your eyes! Do not look into the blackness! I hold my breath. My head will burst. My body will explode.

  I hear the crash and jangle of metal. A body slammed against a locker.

  It is not mine.

  But I still jump.

  I hear a groan.

  It is also not mine.

  But it makes my eyes water just to hear it.

  The Rat laughs. He hisses something I cannot make out.

  “I—I don’t know, man!” a strangled voice yelps.

  And everyone else laughs, the nervous laughter of the terrified, teetering on the edge of being Victims themselves.

  My body shivers and quakes even more, and the nausea rises from my stomach to my throat like a mushroom cloud. I clench my mouth shut. I hold my arms down for fear they will start flailing wildly, uncontrollably, and the Rat will notice me. I hope he cannot see my twitching legs, my shaking body, or his beady eyes will catch me and I will be Rat meat.

  I want to tell him to stop, to stop hurting the Victim, but mostly I want to run and hide. I wish there were a bed to crawl under. I have been there before. I pretend I am not here. I am hoping that will make the Rat disappear.

  The second dismissal bell rings.There is noise and commotion and I do not feel the Rat near me anymore. I refuse to look up, though, just in case. I shut my locker door and run all the way to the bus.

  The Rat struts onto the bus, on a violence high from slamming that boy against the locker.You would think that choking someone would be enough of a thrill for one day and that maybe the Rat will be happy now and back off. But no.Violence is a drug and the Rat is an addict. He will always want more, crave more. I know that. I touch the scar at the nape of my neck. I know.

  He kicks my backpack and laughs. I reach out and grab it, pulling it toward me. I do not come up for air. I stare at the muddy brown footprints smeared on the rubber-ribbed floor of the bus. I see a wad of gray gum stuck to the side of the bus. I examine a torn piece of spiral notebook paper under the seat in front of me and count the frills remaining from where it was ripped from the spiral.

  The Rat is laughing his hideous laugh. I do not know if he is laughing at me or another Victim. I am shaking again. The tornado rises from inside and spins around until I think there is no way to stop myself from spinning in circles. I wrap my arms around my legs. But that does not stop the shaking. It does make me into a small quivering ball, though, and maybe I am small enough that the Rat will not notice me.

  It works for today, but someday my luck will run out.

  And I do not know how to handle bullies. I never have.

  I should be an expert. However, it is my belief that no one can stop Beasts. Only Beasts can stop themselves. By getting arrested, killed, or because they want to reform. Personally, I only meet the reformed kind in books, so I am forced to deal with the others. Over and over.

  I want to put them all on a rocket to Mars. Not a space shuttle. Shuttle implies that they would come back again. And what good would that be? I have been in school for so many years now that I have an entire fleet of rockets booked.

  In grade school they tell you just to give the Beasts “I” messages:

  I feel hurt when you kick me.

  I do not like it when you tease me and make me cry.

  I would appreciate it if you would stop shoving your fist into my ribs repeatedly.

  By second grade, even the stupidest kids figure out that saying “I feel bad when you hurt me” only encourages the Beasts. The Beasts have their own “I” messages:

  I feel great that I am hurting you.

  I am happy that you are suffering.

  I will continue terrorizing you, now that I know how successful I truly am.

  “I” messages do not stop them from saying that you are ugly. Or stupid. Or that they are bigger and stronger than you and they will get you somewhere, sometime, no matter what.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I get off the bus and I can breathe again.When I reach the house, Sam is driving up in the Subaru. He gets out, smil
ing and waving. “Hi, Matt! How was your day?” I shrug. It is nicer than saying “crappy.”

  He grabs about a dozen plastic grocery bags at once from the backseat of the car, closing the door with his foot.

  I decide I can hold the storm door open for him.The top of the door snags the hem of the PACE flag.

  He looks up at it. “It’s starting to sag. Guess I need to fix that.”

  “What is the deal with this, anyway?” I know now that their last name is Fox.

  He stops and stares at me. “You’ve never seen one of these? It’s a peace flag. Pah-chay. That’s Italian for peace.”

  Oh. Italian is not one of my languages.And I am not sure that marking your house with a flag that screams “peace” is such a good idea these days.

  I sigh and follow Sam inside.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” he yells into the house.

  He and Jessica are always calling each other love names. I am embarrassed for them. They have no idea how ridiculous they sound.

  We are greeted by the Blob making odd gurgling noises at the top of his lungs.The gray streaks in Jessica’s long brown hair look like they have multiplied. Her eyes are red and her face is creased in places I had not noticed creases before.

  Sam drops the grocery bags on the floor.“Is he okay? Are you—”

  The Blob lets out a loud sound. “Maaaaaa!”

  Sam’s whole body jolts. “Is he—is he—”

  Jessica nods jerkily.Then she breaks into a smile. “I think he’s starting to talk. He keeps looking at me and saying ‘Maaa.’”

  Sam makes a breathy, moany sound like the Blob and gives Jessica a big bear hug. He sits down on the floor next to the Blob and starts banging pots with him.

  Jessica wipes her eyes. “We’ve been banging pots all day. He bangs, and I say ‘pot.’ I’m sure he knows what I mean. When I pick up the blue pot, I even say ‘blue pot,’ and I think he knows what I’m saying. He’s trying so hard to talk, but he can’t quite make the sounds.Yet.”