At Risk (24 page)

On her good days she insists on going to school. Her parents have stopped trying to persuade her to stay home. Her mother packs a healthy lunch, which she never eats. Her father makes her take a vial of vitamins, which she always empties into a trash basket. On good days she goes to practice, and she always wears her leotard. She’s so skinny she knows she looks awful, but she just couldn’t stand to be in the gym without her leotard.

She’s been wearing her good-luck necklace to practice and, in spite of his strict rule about no jewelry, the coach never says a word about it to her, although last Tuesday he caught her sneaking a Life Saver and he treated her just like everyone else.

“Farrell,” he called across the gym, and Amanda still doesn’t know how he could possibly have spotted her from that distance. “Spit that out now!”

Today the coach has been really rough on the girls, and there’s a wave of discontent on the bench. The next meet is against Clarkson, a school in a rich district; most of the girls on that team go to fancy gymnastics camps in the summer. The coach always goes crazy before a meet with Clarkson, and maybe that’s why he’s so hard on Jessie when she messes up her backflips.

“If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all,” the coach shouts. “Take it out of your routine.”

Jessie walks back to the bench scowling and drenched with sweat. It’s awful for anybody when the coach yells at her, but much worse for Jessie, since she has to go home with him. Amanda watches as Jessie sits down beside Evelyn Crowley. They’ve been spending a lot of time together, and now they put their heads close and whisper. Amanda knows what the problem is. Jessie’s not tucking her legs in enough. Amanda could do a backflip in her sleep. She dreams about gymnastics moves, and in her dreams her body is strong, her legs don’t ache.

Amanda waits until Evelyn Crowley goes to start her routine on the balance beam, then she goes over to where Jessie’s sitting. Amanda has a slight limp now, but she doesn’t think anyone can really notice. She sits down next to Jessie, but neither of them looks at the other.

“He’s down on everybody today,” Amanda says as she watches Evelyn mount the beam.

“He’s a bastard,” Jessie says. Anyone could tell how hard she’s trying not to cry.

“He just wants you to be as good as you can be,” Amanda says. The coach himself has told them this a million times.

“As good as you,” Jessie says. She glares at Amanda. “That’s what you mean.”

“You forgot the ‘was,’ ” Amanda says.

Jessie looks at her blankly.

“As good as I was,” Amanda says.

They look away from each other and stare at the coach. He has a clipboard and a scoring sheet and he’s rating every girl’s performance.

“Coaches have to be mean,” Amanda says. “That’s their job.”

“And obnoxious and fat and stupid,” Jessie adds.

They both crack up over that.

“Evelyn’s doing okay,” Amanda says.

“Yeah,” Jessie says grudgingly. “She’s okay. She’ll never be as good as you.”

“Yeah,” Amanda says. “Well, she might be.”

As soon as they see the coach heading toward them they shut up, fast. The coach doesn’t go for conversations on the bench.

“What the hell is this?” Jack Eagan says when he reaches them. “Get off your butt,” he tells Jessie. “You’re not leaving here until I see a perfect backflip.”

Jessie shoots him a murderous look, then gets off the bench to practice.

“She needs to tuck her legs in,” Jack Eagan says. He sits down next to Amanda, the clipboard between them. “Think we have a chance against Clarkson?”

Amanda starts tc‘ shrug, but when she looks at him she re alizes he’s serious. He wants her opinion.

“Evelyn’s got a real good chance at scoring.”

The coach nods, so Amanda goes on.

“Sue Sherman could rate really high on her vaulting.”

“You could be right,” Jack Eagan says. “Do me a favor.”

Amanda nods, speechless.

“If you’re going to wear that necklace to the Clarkson meet, wear it inside your leotard. I don’t want a mutiny just because one girl is wearing jewelry. Okay?”

“Okay,” Amanda says. She had no idea she’d be allowed to go to an away meet with them; she hasn’t really been certain that she’s still on the team anymore.

“If you get a chance you might want to mention tucking her legs in to Jessie,” the coach says. “She sure doesn’t listen to me.”

“If you want me to I will,” Amanda says.

“Atta girl,” Jack Eagan says. “I knew I could depend on you.”

Polly is waiting for Amanda after practice, parked in the semicircular driveway reserved for buses right in front of the school. It kills Polly to see how slowly Amanda is walking, but she stays where she is instead of jumping out to help; she lets the motor idle. She can no longer tell the difference between her anger and her sorrow. Her house might as well say CONTAMINATED on the front door. When she walks into a shop. even when she goes to the gas station to fill up the Blazer, people ignore her, people she’s known for years, neighbors she used to have coffee with, shop owners who know her by name.

If Amanda had cancer or a brain tumor, they’d be bringing her casseroles and cakes. They’d be filling up her gas tank for free.

Polly hates her neighbors, but it’s herself she blames. She’s guilty even in her dreams. Last night she dreamed there was a deserted silver trailer on the edge of town. Everyone in town knew about the trailer; they tried to stop Polly from going inside, but she opened the metal door. Inside there were piles of filth, the kitchen cupboards held no food, there was no running water, a dozen white cats darted beneath the furniture.

The woman who lived in the trailer tried to hide herself once the door had been opened. She was skin and bones, along her arms were welts the color of violets. The whole town knew about her; it was they who kept her there. Shut the door, they called to Polly. Shut it fast.

Polly stood in the doorway and cursed everyone in town; frogs came out of her mouth, and her words turned into wasps. She vowed she would find this woman a decent place to live, even if no one else cared. She would get her food and water, heat, a bed with clean sheets. The woman crawled out from her hiding place; her face was wet with tears. In gratitude she reached up for Polly and kissed the back of Polly’s hand. In her dream, Polly grew cold because she knew what no one else in town knew. She knew that the minute everyone’s back was turned, she would find some running water, the hotter the better, and wash away that kiss.

When she woke from her dream, Polly was sick to her stomach. She still despises herself for her own dream, she feels tainted by her own night fears. It’s as if the idea of a plague can unlock a terrible, deep panic that no one can stop, not with hard facts or with dreams. More than ever, Polly is convinced that she did not protect her baby, she could not stop this from happening to her little girl.

Amanda is beaming when she gets into the Blazer. Jessie actually listened when Amanda suggested she tuck her legs in tighter for her backflips. Amanda can’t stop thinking about the coach asking for her help. She feels very grown-up, like an assistant coach or something.

“You’ve got to talk to Dad,” Amanda tells Polly as soon as she gets into the car. “I have to go to the Clarkson meet. The coach is depending on me.”

“I’ll discuss it with him,” Polly says, knowing Ivan won’t like the idea.

“Don’t discuss it,” Amanda says. “Tell him he has to let me go.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Polly says.

Today at lunch Polly met Laurel Smith at the South Street Café, across the street from the gift shop. Laurel wore a plaid skirt and a bulky gray sweater and her hair was twisted into French braids. Polly was struck by how young she looked. Polly has begun to wonder if women without children don’t age as quickly; they’ve had all those extra years of sleeping through the night.

Polly ordered a spinach salad and coffee, Laurel a hamburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. It was less like eating lunch with a friend than taking one of her daughter’s pals out for a treat. After they’d eaten, Laurel pushed her plate away, then leaned toward Polly, her elbows on the table.

“Amanda has a wish,” Laurel said.

Polly put her coffee cup down. She didn’t want to hear about wishes; one more thing Amanda wouldn’t be able to have.

“She wants her braces off,” Laurel Smith said.

They stared at each other and then they both burst out laughing.

“Not Bruce Springsteen over for dinner?” Polly managed to say. She knew from the pitch of her laughter that she was getting hysterical. “Not a trip to Hawaii or Disney World?”

Polly gasped for breath. Laurel handed her a glass of water and she gulped some down.

“Oh, God,” Polly said. “It’s such a little wish.”

And now, driving home with Amanda, Polly tries to think what her last wish would have been when she was eleven going on twelve. She would have wanted to be taken out to a night-club, to be allowed to stay up till midnight and drink pink champagne with cherries floating in the glass. Given the choice of anyone, she would have wanted her father to be her date for the evening. He would have worn a tuxedo, the kind with tails, she would have worn a pair of blue silk high heels.

“I just hope the meet isn’t on the same day as the orthodontist,” Polly says at a stop sign on Ash Street. She looks over at Amanda, who’s staring at her. “You didn’t think you were going to wear your braces forever, did you?”

Amanda leans over and throws her arms around Polly. “You’re the greatest mother in the world,” she crows.

Polly laughs and untangles herself from Amanda. “I’m driving!” Polly says, but she reaches for Amanda’s hand and squeezes it.

“It can’t be on the same day as the meet,” Amanda says. She thinks it over. “It has to be before.”

“Dr. Crosbie may be busy,” Polly says. “Did you ever think of that?”

“He just has to take some pliers and pull them off,” Amanda says. “Maybe he can do it today.”

Polly grins and tells Amanda she’s certain the orthodontist is booked for this afternoon, but as soon as they get home she phones Crosbie’s office. She’s shocked to discover his appointments are filled, not just for today but for the next three weeks.

“We can’t wait three weeks!” Polly tells his secretary. “My daughter is dying! She can’t wait three weeks.”

Crosbie’s secretary puts Polly on hold, and while she’s listening to the taped Muzak, which is automatically switched on, Polly opens the refrigerator so she can think about supper instead of Amanda. There’s enough lettuce and cucumbers for a salad. There’s a small steak she’d like Amanda to have, but it’s not enough for all of them and she doesn’t want Amanda to feel uncomfortable about being singled out for a special meat. Polly decides she’ll just make her quick meatloaf. She’s mixing bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese into the chopped meat when the secretary finally takes her off hold to tell her there are no appointments. Polly rips a paper towel off the roll above the sink and wipes off her hands.

“He must have an appointment free for her,” she tells the secretary.

“I just want to make certain. This is Amanda Farrell we’re talking about, right? Dr. Crosbie can’t see her,” the secretary says firmly.

“He has to make time for her,” Polly says.

“Dr. Crosbie isn’t seeing patients with AIDS,” the secretary says.

Polly hangs up the phone and sits down. Of course, she thinks. She can even understand it. She just can’t believe it. There are still some bread crumbs on her hands. She can hear Charlie down in the basement, and she wonders if he’s spending so much time alone not out of choice, because he’s lost Sevrin, but because the kids at school don’t want any more to do with him than Dr. Crosbie wants with Amanda. Polly goes downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Charlie has all four hamsters in one cage while he cleans out the other two cages. His field mice are in an old bird cage and he’s already fed them and filled up their water bottle. Polly goes over to him and grabs him. Charlie faces her, frightened.

“Are the kids saying anything to you?” Polly asks.

“What kids?” Charlie says.

“The kids at school!” Polly says. “Are they not friends with you because of Amanda?”

“I’m not friends with them,” Charlie corrects her. Then he adds, “Your fingernails are hurting me.”

Polly drops his arm.

“They wouldn’t play with me before we had the assembly, but they’re okay now,” Charlie says. “Not that I care. I mean, I need them if I want to play soccer, but that’s all.”

Polly sits down on a wooden stool. Charlie watches her, sweating. Most of what he’s told her is the truth, but he’d say anything to get her out of the basement. The Minolta is on the shelf by the hamster food. Next to the camera are two rolls of undeveloped film and a light meter he stole from the darkroom, which he’s been hoping to use the next time he goes to the pond.

“People are stupid,” Polly says.

“Yeah,” Charlie quickly agrees. If she turns her back for a minute, he thinks he may be able to throw a plastic garbage bag over the camera.

“They’re frightened when they shouldn’t be and they’re not frightened when there’s really something to be scared of.”

“I know,” Charlie nods.

That’s when Polly sees the Minolta.

“People are definitely weird,” Charlie says.

If this were July or even the beginning of August, Polly would have his head for fooling around with the Minolta. She’d ask him why in hell he didn’t ask her first. Why he thought she’d ever let him use it when there’s an old Polaroid she might consider lending him. But it’s October, and it’s cold down here in the basement, and she doesn’t care about her camera. Although, clearly, somebody does. The Minolta is in its case and the rolls of film are in a neat line.

“Do you ever see Barry Wagoner? Isn’t he in your class?” Polly asks.