Stealing Our Way Home Page 16

  “How about you, Pippa?” Susan asks now. “You going to wear anything special on Friday?”

  I shrug and fiddle with my peas. The truth is, what I’m going to wear is the absolute last thing on my mind. I have less than forty-eight hours to finish a paper I haven’t even started, and I don’t even know who I’m going to write it on. Maybe I’ll just make someone up. An Uncle Felix or some other imaginary relative who survived the sinking of the Titanic as a little kid and then grew up to be an Olympic swimmer. I’ll have both his parents die on the Titanic, maybe even create a scene where he drifted for a while, hanging only to a chunk of life raft in the middle of the ocean, before he was finally rescued. Actually, that’s perfect. Why didn’t I think of something like this before?

  “You have to wear something nice,” Molly says, jerking me from my thoughts. “I mean, it’s a formal presentation, Pippa. Lots of people are coming.”

  I shrug again, not because I don’t care, but because I suddenly feel lighter. Better. Like maybe Friday won’t be such a catastrophe after all. Even if the whole thing is a lie.

  But Molly narrows her eyebrows. “Is that all you can do?” She lifts her shoulders dramatically and then lets them drop. “Shrug? You look like a monkey, you know that? Shrug, shrug, shrug.”

  “Molly!” Susan gasps, watching me. Her eyes are huge, and her tiny hands are gripping the edge of the table.

  “Don’t you get it?” Molly is glaring at me. “All this ‘I can’t talk’ routine is just an act so she doesn’t have to do as much work as the rest of us.”

  “Molly, stop it.” Susan looks at her. “You’re just being mean.”

  “No, I’m not.” Molly stands up, holding her tray in front of her. “I’m just saying out loud what everyone else in this school is thinking. Including you, Susan.” And with a swish of her hair, she turns around, and stalks off.

  I look over at Susan. She’s watching Molly move across the cafeteria, the curtain of her long, blonde hair swishing across the middle of her back. I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking: that I’ll probably never talk to Molly again. That maybe such a thing will not be the end of the world.

  Then Susan looks over at me. Her cheeks are pink. “I’ve never thought that, Pippa,” she says. “Not once.”

  I believe her. And I’m glad that Molly’s not there when I slide my hand over and place it on top of hers. Molly would have rolled her eyes at such a thing. Susan, though, smiles and covers my hand with her own.

  “What’s the matter?” Shelby asks for the fifth time as the bus hurtles toward school. She’s all bundled up in the red scarf and army-green overcoat she’s been wearing for the last two weeks, since the temperature dropped below fifty. “I can’t believe you don’t think it’s freezin’,” she said the first day she showed up in it. “I can barely feel my feet.”

  Pippa and I looked at each other and grinned. “You think it’s freezing now?” I shook my head. “Wait until January. This is nothing.”

  That’s what I tell her now when she asks me what’s wrong: nothing.

  After Dad left my room this morning, I just sort of sat on my bed and felt nothing, too. All the panic and crazy heartbeating just sort of leaked out of me as he walked out and shut the door, as if another door, deep inside my chest, had closed too. A terrible silence filled the room and everything was very still, and for a whole moment, it felt as if I was suspended in space, or had settled somehow down to the very deepest part of the ocean. It was like watching myself in a dream—and not being able to do anything about it.

  I thought about that moment outside Friendly’s. Had that decision led to this one? And if it had, what would come next? How bad would things actually get?

  The moment passed, of course, and now I’m back in full-panic mode. But no one needs to know that.

  Shelby tickles my cheek with the fuzzy fronds of her scarf. “Come on, I know it’s something.” Her breath is soft against my cheek. She smells like strawberry Pop-Tarts. “You’ll feel better if you tell me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  And it’s true. I won’t. This isn’t like the talks we’ve had at lunch, or even like the ones we’ve been having on Finster’s Rock, where saying things out loud have helped break down some of the walls between us. This one doesn’t even involve a wall. It’s like being stuck inside a whole fortress. And there’s no way out. I can’t tell anyone about any of it, because if I do, Dad will get thrown in jail. And for as wrong as I know what he’s doing is, I’m not going to be the one to send him to jail.

  “I bet you wi-ll.” Shelby’s using that singsong voice she sometimes uses when she’s trying to be funny. She says “wheel” instead of “will,” which usually makes me laugh too, but right now, it just makes me feel annoyed.

  “Stop, okay?” I push her hand away. Move my head closer to the window. I can feel her tense up, hear her biting her fingernails.

  Pippa’s reflection turns in the window behind me. She catches my eyes and gives me a smile.

  I don’t smile back.

  I have gym last period, and since it’s getting pretty cold out, Mr. Michaels lets us play a game of team dodgeball inside.

  Team dodgeball is like regular dodgeball, except that there are two teams, and each player gets a chance to take someone on the opposite team out. I bend down and pretend to tie my laces as Ben, who’s one of the captains, picks John, Randy, and Matt, and then Sam, Owen, and Jimmy. I’m the last one, standing there like an idiot with all the girls, and I give Ben a look as I jog over to the other side and line up. But I don’t care. I really don’t. This stuff is a joke compared to what I’ve got to worry about.

  Ben takes out two of our players right off the bat, nailing them in the ankles. He was always good at dodgeball, maybe even the best in our class. He’s got a killer left arm, and his aim, even from a distance, is ridiculously accurate.

  But I’m good, too. And I can tell he’s getting frustrated as I peg three of his guys, one right after the other. He starts doing the thing with his shirt, sliding his fists up under it and then punching the material—one, two—as if what he’d really like to do is punch someone’s face. He yells as he misses Gary Jenkins by an eighth of an inch, and then he starts hopping up and down. Now I know he’s really agitated. When Ben starts hopping up and down, there’s no turning back. He’s out for blood.

  Pretty soon, it’s down to five of us—Ben, John, and Matt against Gary and me. Everyone else is on the bleachers, yelling and screaming. I fake a throw to the right and surprise John out of nowhere, smacking the ball against his knee and knocking him to the floor. The class screams. Ben jogs over and yanks John up, making a big show out of patting him on the back, pulling him in close, and saying something in his ear. Then he takes the ball. Nails Gary so hard against the hip that I can hear the intake of air as he gasps.

  Mr. Michaels steps in, blowing his whistle. “I appreciate the sense of competition here, gentlemen,” he says, “but let’s keep it clean.” He points at Ben. “Too close, Ben.”

  Now it’s just me against Ben and Matt. It’s my ball. I line up as if getting ready to hit Ben. Then I do another fake out and send Matt’s feet flying out from under him. Another scream from the bleachers. Matt limps off, shaking his head. Ben and I eye each other across the glossy expanse of floor.

  It’s his ball. There’s no way I’m going to let him get me. Not after what he said at the fishing hole. Not after ignoring me for the last four weeks except to rub it in my face that he’s with a new group of friends. Not after not picking me to be on his—

  Smack!

  The ball whistles through the air. I jump right, anticipating Ben’s famous left-hand drive, but it’s a mistake. The ball is flying to the right and I jump too soon—directly into its path. It hits me squarely on the knee, and I crash to the floor.

  For ten seconds, I don’t see anything. Just black, maybe a few pinpoints of something sparkly around the edges. A sharp, electric-like pain comes from under m
y chin, but it fades again as I shake my head. Out of the corner of one eye, I can see Mr. Michaels running toward me, across the gym. I turn my head until out of the corner of my other eye, I can see Ben standing there, fists in the air. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, rushing toward him.

  I charge like a bull, shoulders first, head down. I don’t know if he sees me coming, but I know he feels it. Seconds later, after we’ve stopped sliding across the floor and gotten our bearings, the pummeling starts.

  I swing wildly, blindly, grunting as my fists come into contact with his shoulders, his back, his neck. I feel a sharp pain along the side of my eye as Ben gets a few in too, and then suddenly, Mr. Michaels is pulling me off him and holding my arms down tight along my sides, yelling at me to stop.

  And just like that, it’s over.

  I sit in my regular spot on the bus after school, waiting for Jack and Shelby. They’re late today. Real late. In fact, they’re still not there when the bus driver shuts the doors and starts moving. I look around anxiously, peering through the windows, but I don’t see either of them. Where could they be? Why aren’t they here?

  Just as the bus starts rounding the corner, a sharp banging sounds near the front. The driver slams on the brakes and flings open the doors.

  “Sorry!” Shelby says breathlessly. “I got held up. Thanks for stopping.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over,” the driver growls. “Get in.”

  Shelby scans the bus quickly before heading down the aisle toward me. Her face is pinched with worry and she’s biting her nails. “You hear about Jack?” she asks, sliding into my seat.

  I clutch her arm, shake my head.

  “He got in a fight. During gym. Him and that Ben kid. I wasn’t there, but I heard about it. Everyone’s sayin’ it got pretty wild. Mr. Michaels took him to Principal Moseley’s office. Your dad’s on his way down, I guess. Big meetin’.”

  I stare at Shelby, trying to make sense of what she’s just said. Jack? A fight? I’ve never known Jack to hit anyone in his life, not even me. I’m the one who slugs people—well, him, mostly—when I get mad enough. Jack’s never raised his hand to anyone. I take out my pink notebook.

  “Is he in trouble?”

  Shelby nods, taking her nails out of her mouth. “I think so.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Depends on the school rules, I guess. We had a kid down in Texas who brought a slingshot to school and only got a detention. But you know, this is Vermont. Things could be different here.”

  I bend my head, write again. “Was Ben hurt?”

  “Someone said his nose was bleedin’. But that’s all.”

  “Was Jack?”

  Shelby shakes her head. “He was holdin’ a paper towel or somethin’ along the bottom of his chin, but I couldn’t tell if it was bleedin’ or not.”

  “You saw him?”

  She nods. “Right when they were bringin’ him into Principal Moseley’s office.” She looks down at her hands. “I waved, but he didn’t see me.”

  I stare down at my little pink notebook, trying to imagine Jack being led into the principal’s office after a fight. His shirt was probably wrinkled, his hair all messed up. He would have been clenching his fists, looking at the floor, embarrassed, angry … “Did he look sad?” I write.

  Shelby reads the question and looks up at me. “Did he look sad?” she repeats slowly. “Yeah Pippa, you know what? I would’ve said mad, but I think you’re right. I think he did look sad.”

  There’s a note on the kitchen counter from Dad:

  Pip,

  Had to go over to the school to see about Jack.

  Nibs will be home in ten minutes. Stay with her until we get home. She knows.

  Love,

  Dad

  I take a banana out of the bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. Then I head upstairs. I sit in the middle of Jack’s bed, unpeel the banana, and eat the whole thing, one bite after the other. Then I lay down. I pull Jack’s covers over the top of me and close my eyes. His bed smells like dirty socks and the spicy deodorant he’s been wearing ever since Shelby got here. Gross. I throw the covers off again, stare up at a crack in the ceiling.

  Once, a really long time ago, while Mom was reading Charlotte’s Web to Jack in bed, I crept in and slid under the covers. Jack tried to make me leave. He didn’t want me to go on Wilbur’s journey with them, whatever that meant. He said I was annoying, and that I would just get in the way. But Mom shook her head and gave both of us a kiss. She said that we needed to remember that we were the most important people in each other’s lives. And that having the right people with you—on any kind of journey—was everything. Even if we could sometimes be a little annoying. I burrowed down real tight under the blankets next to Jack, with just my head poking out at the top, and stared up at the same crack in the ceiling as Mom read. I didn’t have any idea what was going on—there was a pig and a mouse and some goose that stuttered when she talked—but it didn’t matter. I remember feeling safe, warm, and completely happy.

  I close my eyes against the sting of tears and roll over, pressing my face into the pillow. Maybe those kinds of moments only exist when you’re little, because you don’t know any better. Because you were just a stupid little kid who thought that nothing bad would ever happen. That nothing bad could ever happen because you were tucked inside a sea of blankets next to your big brother, listening to your mother’s voice in the dark.

  I slide my hands under Jack’s pillow, bunching it up to get more comfortable. But my fingers touch something soft. Silky. I pull out the Batman mask. And then the Spider-Man one. Inside the Batman mask is the neatly folded article about the bank robbery in Middlebury. Inside the Spider-Man mask is the other article that I found with the fish story on the back. I stare at both of them for a long time.

  Red and black and blue.

  Pig and mouse and goose.

  Jack and Dad and me.

  Once, a few years back, when Dad and I went to pick up Ben to go play basketball, it started to rain. After a few minutes, Dad had to pull the car over because it was raining so hard that you couldn’t see anything. Sheets of water were just pouring down, like we were inside a car wash. Finally, it stopped and Dad started the car, and we headed back down the road. But after about two minutes, he had to stop a second time because a huge tree had fallen across a telephone pole. “Cool!” Ben and I shouted, dashing out of the car to inspect the damage. “Hold on!” Dad shouted. “Don’t go any farther!” He was right to be alarmed. Because not only was the road blocked, but the electrical wires from the telephone pole were alive, snaking across the road like bullwhips. Little white sparks shot out of the bottom every time one of them snapped against the pavement, and the air, still heavy and wet, smelled burnt.

  If I ever get around to talking to Ben again, that’s what I would tell him I felt like when I saw him standing there with his fists in the air—as if one of the wires inside me just sort of snapped. I felt burnt and electric and maybe even a little bit dangerous, too.

  “I’d like to hear from you first, Ben,” Principal Moseley says. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  We’re all at a big conference table, Dad and me on one side, Ben’s mom and him on the other. Mrs. Crenshaw, who has always been nice to me, looks at me now with the same pitiful expression she had at the funeral. I look away quickly, pretend that I haven’t seen it. Principal Moseley, who has frizzy brown hair and glasses with bright red frames, is sitting at the end of the table, right in front of the window, and Mr. Michaels is on the other end, opposite her.

  Ben shifts in his chair. Lowers the ice pack from his nose. “Like I said, he pushed me to the floor and we got into it.”

  “Who pushed you to the floor?”

  I stare at Principal Moseley as she pushes her glasses up along her nose. She is not a dumb person. Mr. Evans even told us she went to Harvard. So why is she asking such stupid questions?

 
“He did.” Ben points at me without looking in my direction.

  “Jack did,” Principal Moseley says.

  Ben nods.

  “Why did he push you?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” Ben shrugs, raises the ice pack again to his nose. “We won the game and the next thing I know, I’m on the floor.”

  “The volleyball game?” Principal Moseley asks.

  Ben lifts his eyes. And I can tell, as he looks at her, that he’s wondering about that Harvard education, too. “Dodgeball,” he says quietly.

  “Dodgeball.” Principal Moseley folds her hands. Looks over at me. “Would you agree with that version of events, Mr. Kendall?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dad pokes me in the ribs.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I correct myself.

  “Anything else you would like to add?” she asks.

  I shake my head, feel something swishing around behind my right eye. The skin under it is hot, and when I reach up to touch it with my fingertips, it feels puffy.

  “Would you like some ice for that eye?” she asks.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “How about the cut on your chin?”

  I lower the paper towel, stare down at the red ink blot in the middle. “It’s not bleeding anymore,” I answer. “I’m okay.”

  I stare out the window behind Principal Moseley’s head as she launches into a whole speech about safety and respect and physical boundaries. The late afternoon light looks like liquid gold, the way it sometimes does on the lake on very bright sunny days. The leaves on a tree to her right are orange; the one to her left, a deep red, almost cherry color. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the words three days and mandatory in-school suspension.

  “That’s kind of a lot, don’t you think?” It takes me a moment to realize that the question has come from Ben’s mouth. “I mean, I was kind of rubbing it in. After I won and everything.” He sneaks a glance in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I probably would’ve freaked a little, too.”