Quaking Page 6

  I look over at his computer. Stuck to the side of the monitor is a piece of paper with typed questions. It has always been there but I finally decide to read it.

  Do you work to make your peace testimony a reality in your life and in your world?

  Do you weigh your day-to-day activities for their effect on peacekeeping, conflict resolution, and the elimination of violence?

  Are you working toward eliminating aggression at all levels, from the personal to the international?

  I imagine it is the Quaker version of “What would Jesus do?”

  I hear Jessica ask what I would like to do and I realize she must be talking about what I would like to do with Sam. “I—I am still thinking.” I am also thinking how much I do not want to be seen in public, even a grocery store, with Sam in his dork hat.

  “Okay.” She sighs and puts his sweatshirt in the laundry basket. “Well, how about helping me with the rest of the laundry?”

  I look at the pile of oversized Sam clothes in the basket. “I cannot handle laundry.”

  “Can you handle dirty underwear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “All your underwear is dirty. If you want it clean, you need to wash it.”

  “You have been taking care of it just fine.”

  “I was, but now that you’re settled, you can learn how the washer works.”

  Settled? I am never settled. “No, thanks.”

  She looks at me for just a moment. “It’s your choice.”

  So, no lecture, no making me do laundry. But she does not bother to do it, either. I ponder this. I never stayed anywhere before where I had to do laundry. Maybe I was not there long enough. Maybe I was too young. Or maybe they did not dare ask. I suspect it was that. Well, I have to give Jessica credit for asking me, at least. And holding out on not doing my laundry even longer than I can stand my rank underwear.

  That night, I tell her, “My underwear stinks.”

  “I’ll show you how the washer works.”

  I roll my eyes but she does not get nervous or angry. She just shows me how.

  Turns out it is not that hard to do laundry. When the washer stops, you throw the clothes in the dryer and push the button. I do not know why Jessica made such a fuss about it.

  The only bad part is that the washer and dryer are in the dark, dirt-floored basement. As I take my clothes out of the dryer, all I can think about is someone jumping out from behind the furnace and I run up the steps, two at a time, nearly crashing into Sam at the top.

  “Oh, hi, Matt! Come on in the kitchen. I brought you ladies something.”

  I follow him in. Jessica is sitting at the table with the Blob in her lap. He is chewing a book. Green Eggs and Ham.

  I stop. I stare at the orange cover. I remember this book. I had this book. I can still see M-A-T-I-L-D-A in penciled letters on the inside cover, starting large and getting smaller because I ran out of room. I can still see the pictures. I can feel the worn corners of the pages. I can hear the swoosh-crunch of each page turning. And I remember my mother reading it to me. I can almost hear the words. I can almost hear her voice. And my voice.Talking with her. As if she is a part of me and I am a part of her.

  “Matt?” It is Sam. “Are you okay?”

  I look at him. Why is my throat sore? Why am I blinking? It is just a stupid book, for God’s sake.

  Jessica grabs my hand.

  I step away and shake them both off. “I am fine. What is the big surprise you were talking about?”

  “Oh, right!” Sam carefully takes a white paper bag out of the pocket of his Michelin Man vest and puts it on the table. “These are for you two.”

  “Go ahead and unwrap it, Matt,” Jessica says.“I’ve got my hands full.”

  Even as she says it, the Blob rolls around in her lap so much that the book falls onto the floor. I bend slowly and pick it up by a dry corner.

  “I got that book for Rory,” Sam says, “because it was my favorite when I was a kid.” He grins.

  Mine, too. I have to hold it for a moment before I hand it to Jessica.

  I walk over to the table and open the bag.There are two newspaper balls inside. I unwrap one and soon hear a scraping sound. It is a small white porcelain box, round, with a lid, with little raspberries painted on top and around the sides.

  “Raspberries!” Jessica cries.

  Sam shrugs and smiles. “That one’s for you because you love raspberries.”

  Of course. I will get the leftover one that nobody wants. “Thank you, sweetie!” Jessica cries. “Come on, Matt, let’s see yours.” She is smiling like it is Christmas.

  I sigh and unwrap the other newspaper ball. It is another white porcelain box. With apples painted on top. And apple blossoms around the sides.

  “And that’s yours, because you love apples so much.”

  I do not know what to say. How does he know how much I love apples?

  “I hope you like it,” Sam says quietly.

  Finally, I can speak. “What is this for?”

  “Well, it’s a . . . knickknack . . . thingy.You ladies always need a place for earrings or—or whatever little treasure you have.”

  “No, I mean why are you giving these to us? Is it a Quaker holiday or something?”

  Sam and Jessica laugh.

  “Sam loves to bring home treats,” Jessica says. “And I don’t normally let him,” she adds in an almost scolding voice, “but once in a while, it’s very sweet.”

  Sam rolls his eyes somewhere between “aw shucks” and “give me a break.”

  I take my knickknack thingy upstairs. I sit at the foot of the bed and put it on my low dresser. And I stare at the apples for a while.

  When I take the lid off, it makes a granular swoosh-crunch sound because the porcelain is not smooth or glazed around the rim. I put the lid back on. It is like putting the lid back on Pandora’s box, trying to protect the emptiness inside.

  I open the dresser drawer and feel around until I locate the half-eaten roll of wintergreen LifeSavers. I open and close the box several times before actually putting the LifeSavers in. But they do not fit. Even a half-eaten roll is too large.

  Carefully, I peel back some of the foil, take out one LifeSaver, and put it in the box, slowly swoosh-crunching the lid back on. I start to put the LifeSavers back in the drawer and stop. What good are they doing me there? I lean across the bed and grab my backpack, open it, and find the secret inside pocket, the new home for my LifeSavers. Maybe they will live up to their name.

  I go to bed early because I am exhausted. I look at my knickknack thingy before I turn out the light. I decide it is an acceptable addition to the room.

  I wake up later and hear Sam reading to the Blob. The rocking chair in the Blob’s room is creaking and moaning with every sway of Sam’s large body. He reads several books about farm animals and puppies. It is almost amusing to hear him making all the barnyard noises and talking in his puppy voice.

  “Now, Rory, I saved the best for last.” I hear Sam take a deep breath. “I am Sam. I am Sam. Sam-I-am. . . .”

  It is Green Eggs and Ham. At first, I am mesmerized. And surprised at how all the words come back to me. That Sam-I-am. It is soothing in its rhythm and familiarity. That Sam-I-am. And I am lulled by the comfort and strength in Sam’s voice. I do not like that, Sam-I-am.

  And then I remember how dangerous it is to go to that place.The place you think is safe. Because it is not. It is fake, and if you do not keep your wits about you, you may start to believe it is reality. And the pain, when it ends, is all that much worse.

  I put my pillow and even my bedspread around my ears to block out Sam’s voice but it does not work. His low rumble is coming through the wall, through the padding, and into my soul. I pull the pillow tighter but I cannot block him out. I squeeze so hard that my eyes are watering.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mr. Warhead is so patriotic he is practically drooling red, white, and blue. The whole room is dripping in American flags. Ther
e is a flag draped over the front of his desk, like it is a coffin.There is a flag hanging from the whiteboard.There is a flag stuck in his pencil holder. There is a flag on his coffee-dribbled mug. The wall switch cover is a flag. The basket with books is a flag. His mouse pad is a flag. He wears a tie with flags and a flag pin on his lapel. I am sure that even his boxers have flags on them.

  As if he does not have enough flags already, today several giggly girls give him an American flag they have crocheted. Apparently it is his birthday. The giggly girls are his cheer-leaders. Mr. Warhead and the Rock-ets. I am ready to throw up.The man does not need any more flags.The place is flapping with them already. Why not give him what he really needs—nose hair trimmers?

  At least the crochet flag puts him in a relatively good mood and he decides not to give us a quiz, so I am free to scribble on my desk instead. I am determined to make something good out of the black and blue scars but I do not know what yet.

  Mrs. Jimenez assigns us a major paper in English class. She goes around the room asking us what book we would like to write about. People are choosing books like George Eliot’s Middlemarch, Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and even Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. I select Little House on the Prairie.

  There are snickers when I say mine. For the first time, Mrs. Jimenez looks at me without shrinking. She is smiling and actually looks into my eyes. Maybe she is happy that I will not outwit her. Maybe she thinks it is adorable that I am being Little Girl in the Big World. Maybe she is trying to see past my IQ. I look away before she gets too close.

  I believe everyone should have to read Little House on the Prairie. It is a fantasy. Pure escape.The family is friendly and fuzzy and fake, but it is fun all the same. You just have to remember that it is fiction. Real people do not care about each other that much. Except perhaps Quakers. But they are an odd breed and are dying out, I believe. Except in Africa.

  Mrs. Jimenez tells us that if we have any problems we should come to her.

  I seriously doubt she can help me with mine.

  At lunch, I go to the library to start working on my English paper. I surf for information on Laura Ingalls Wilder so that I know what I am talking about. I did not know that her books were quite so autobiographical. I am stunned, momentarily, until I realize that the part about the friendly, fuzzy family is still fake. It is poetic license. Fantasy. I am sure of it.

  I look around and decide I should spend all my lunch periods here in the library. It is much more pleasant than the bathroom. I peek in my lunch bag.The school day officially improves from F-minus to F. Jessica put cheese in my lunch bag. I devour it when the librarian is not looking and wonder what I will say to Jessica. Maybe nothing. Silence gives consent.

  While I am still on the Internet, Mrs. Jimenez walks into one of the library conference rooms next to my computer. She is followed by a half-dozen students. They do not look upset, so I assume they are not in trouble.

  I go back to surfing until I hear her laugh. It is always a little odd when a teacher laughs. So I listen.The conference room door is open, after all, so I cannot help but hear.

  “No, I really can’t,” she says.

  I hear a chorus of “please,” “aw, come on,” “maybe if you . . . ,” but everyone is talking at once.

  Finally, I hear Mrs. Jimenez above the others. “I’m still new. Wouldn’t a peace club normally have someone like a World Civ teacher as a sponsor?”

  “Except we only have one, and he happens to be Franklin High’s registrar for the Selective Service. Not exactly a peace candidate, huh?”

  “Yeah,” a boy adds, “and Mr. Morehead is definitely not normal.”

  There is laughter, but a girl halfheartedly reprimands them. “You guys, come on.You know why he’s like that.”

  I know that voice! Susan from World Civ! The one with the frizzy hair. Like me. I wonder if—

  The door to the conference room closes and I look over at it, surprised, as if someone has suddenly muted the TV.

  “Hey,” a voice behind me says, “if you’re not using the computer, can you get off? I’ve got actual work to do.”

  I grab my stuff and leave. But I wonder what is going on behind the closed door.And why Mr.Warhead is the way he is.

  But I do not wonder for long because soon it is the end of the day and the bus ride is hell, as usual.The Rat’s greasy, stringy dark hair falls onto his desert army jacket. His skinny black legs stick out from the bottom of the jacket like two snakes that have been lulled into service holding him up and then died of shock when they realized who was looming over them. The Rat may be in camouflage but it does not make him blend in. His pointed-toe boots trip people coming down the aisle. He makes unsavory comments about one boy’s mother. He describes the blemishes on a girl’s face, loudly, until she is in tears. He gets up and struts farther to the back of the bus to avoid the “bawling bitch.”

  I am guiltily grateful that I am not the Victim.

  In the Quaker kitchen, Jessica is putting groceries away. I notice she has two large hunks of cheese. I watch her put them behind the margarine tub in the fridge drawer. It is not much of a hiding place but it will work for Sam.

  I hear the front door open.“Hi, family!” Sam calls.“How is everyone?”

  He walks into the kitchen and the Blob claps for him. Jessica gives him a kiss and he practically steps on one of the grocery bags on the floor.

  “Whoa!” he says, stepping back and then peering into the bag. “Hey, did you get me any cheese this time?”

  She gives me a quick, crafty smile. “Uh, no.”

  I have to give her credit. She is not lying. She did not buy the cheese for him. She bought it for me.

  “When am I ever going to get cheese again?” he asks with a pouty face.

  “When your cholesterol goes way below 312 like it is now!”

  “But my good cholesterol is high, too,” he protests.

  “Good thing,” Jessica says, patting his puffy cheek.“It can go to work on all that ice cream you sneak when I’m not watching.”

  He sticks his hands in his pockets, slumps his shoulders, and sticks out his bottom lip. “You’re a meanie,” he says, sounding like a two-year-old, and I can tell that he is barely able to keep from laughing. “I’m going to go find a wife somewhere else.” He starts backing out of the kitchen.

  Jessica pulls a package of napkins out of a grocery bag and flings it at him. He catches it with a grin and they both start laughing as Sam rushes at her, grabs her, and kisses her, which starts the Blob laughing, too.

  We sit down to dinner with the new napkins. Purple. Again, they clash with the décor.

  Over our dessert of apple slices and nonfat cookies, Jessica tells Sam that Our Lady of Peace was attacked a second time. “I thought it had just been threatened before,” she says. “Did you know there was already an actual incident?”

  Sam glances quickly over at me like he has been caught and looks at Jessica. “Uh, yes, I did.”

  Jessica’s mouth drops open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  We both look at Sam. He squirms and sinks in his chair, pulling on his bracelet.

  Jessica puts her hand on his. “I don’t want you to be in danger, honey.”

  “I won’t be,” he says, but his voice is a little too high and defensive. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Why would Sam be in danger? Our Lady of Peace is Catholic. He is not.

  Jessica shakes her head. “I guess you heard about Park Street Baptist early this morning, right?” Jessica’s voice is a little too high and offensive.

  He looks down at his plate and nods.

  What is going on here?

  “Oh, Sam! What if—”

  He squeezes her hand. “We’re such a small group, we’re hardly worth addressing.”

  “But we do a lot—you do a lot . . . like what about every Thursday night?”

  Thursday? The night Sam comes home late?

  He shrugs. �
�People think Quakers are just kind of . . . odd.”

  “No argument there,” I say, putting a large piece of apple in my mouth.

  They both turn to look at me.

  What? I am simply agreeing. “Nothing personal,” I manage to squeeze out through my apple wedge.

  Sam chuckles and looks back at Jessica. “Honey, we have to move forward. We can’t let this stop us.”

  Jessica sniffs loudly and covers her mouth.

  I am about to ask where, exactly, they are moving to but the Blob starts crying.

  “Oh, Rory,” Jessica says, picking him up out of the high chair, “I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

  Once she has him with his head on her shoulder so that he is facing the wall, she nods at us knowingly. “See?” she mouths, barely above a whisper.“He can tell we’re upset. He picks up on our emotions.”

  Sam covers his mouth and his face is so crinkled in pain I am afraid he is going to start wailing louder than the Blob.

  I look at the crying Blob and then at Jessica. “He probably has gas.”

  Jessica’s mouth drops open.

  “Seriously. Little kids cry because of stuff like that all the time. It does not mean anything.”

  “Oh, but it does, Matt. He always picks up on my emotions. When I cut my finger chopping potatoes yesterday, I cried out in pain, and Rory started crying, too.”

  “You probably scared him.”

  She shakes her head. “When I was cutting the onions for the casserole tonight, I started tearing up and sniffling from the fumes, and Rory immediately started crying and grabbing for me.”

  I shrug. “I am still not convinced.”

  She stares back at me hard.“You know how you run into things in your room first thing in the morning?”

  “That would be the bed.”

  “And you usually let out a cry or—or—”

  “A curse word,” Sam says, chuckling.