Donutheart (6 page)

I wasn’t sure which made me more uncomfortable. I began plotting our escape.

“Okay, so what kind of show are you doing? What’s the theme?” Fiona asked, searching through the dresses that were hanging in the cabinet.

“I keep these in stock for emergencies,” she explained. “There are a dozen different styles here: jazz, country and western, waltz, classical…we need to match your costume to your music.”

My mother looked at Sarah, waiting for her to engage. Sarah looked at the floor. My mother looked at me.

It was a simple enough question. “She’s skating to the second half of Ravel’s
Bolero,
” I informed Fiona, trying to move things along.

“Aah…Spanish.” Fiona cupped her chin in one thin hand, yanked a dress off the rack, and held it up. “It’s basic black for
Bolero,
with maybe some red accents. We can modify a ready-made.”

She held the dress out, her eyes flicking from it to Sarah’s chest.

Sarah glanced up at the dress. “Yeah, that’s good,” she mumbled.

“Sarah,” my mother said. “You haven’t even tried it on yet.”

Fiona hung the dress back in the cabinet and unwound the measuring tape from around her neck. She advanced toward Sarah.

I closed my eyes, picturing a personal-assault lawsuit involving my family name.

“Come on, Sarah. I’ll help.” My mother stood up and put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Can I?” she asked Fiona as she held out her hand for the tape measure.

“Well, I guess so,” Fiona said, though clearly she saw this sort of activity as belonging to her. “She has to stand completely still. Moving around corrupts the numbers.”

As my mother’s hand closed around the tape measure, Sarah took a step back.

“The most important measure is the torso,” Fiona said, grabbing her clipboard and closing in. “Put the tape on the right shoulder, loop it between the legs, and return.”

My mother looked at Fiona as if she’d just instructed her to run the measuring tape between the legs of a Bengal tiger.

Sarah crossed her arms over her chest. “I changed my mind,” she said.

“I’m sorry…you what?”

At this exact moment of high tension, a cloud of red-and-white Pelican View Panther came plummeting down the steps.

“Ma, I gotta be back at school by three-thirty….”

I knew that voice. I tried to cover my face with my hands, hoping to avoid a scene more unpleasant than this one already was, but Chester’s hair still clung to my fingers…disgusting!

“Rebecca!” barked Fiona. “It’s business. What did I tell you…?”

“It’s not you…it’s just…” Sarah’s voice had risen to the point where
she
now earned our attention. She was speaking to my mother, the expression on her face having descended from sad to miserable.

“You have to know it! One of these days…
real soon,
I’m gonna look up and you’ll be gone….” Her voice trailed off as she turned away from my mother. “And I can’t…”

Sarah flung out her arm as if to take it all in: the sample dresses, Fiona chewing her thumbnail, the table piled high with skating catalogs. “I can’t do all this by myself.”

Everyone froze. Somehow, even Rebecca understood that what was going on at the other end of the room trumped the drama of whether or not she would be late for the game bus.

My mother was stunned. “Sarah,” she said. The tape measure dropped to the floor. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it happens every time,” Sarah said quietly, her eyes locked on the cement wall over my mother’s shoulder.

“Even you can’t change it.”

My mother took a step back, waiting I assume, for Sarah to explain just what she meant by “it.” She was trying to figure out what just happened. I wasn’t sure myself, but I think Sarah wanted us to tell her that whatever she was sure would happen wasn’t going to. I think Sarah Kervick wanted to be reassured.

“I know you!” Rebecca had snapped out of her stunned silence. “And you.” She pointed at Sarah.

“You two are supposed to do the presentation in health class on How to Tell If It’s Really Love.”

Without considering how this would affect things with Glynnis, or even how my words might correlate with future violent acts perpetrated on me by football players who would defend Rebecca’s honor, I said to her: “And I know you, Ms. Foster. Your face is in the dictionary next to the word
cretin.
”

“Huh?”

I thought as much.

My mother had pulled her wallet out of her back pocket. She handed a credit card to Fiona.

“I’ll be in the car,” she said.

Fiona glanced around helplessly. “But don’t you have a preference? Mothers always have a preference! Should I add pleats? A handkerchief hem? For a little extra, I could do rhinestone accents.”

“But I’m not the mother, am I?” Though she was answering Fiona, my mother was looking directly at Sarah. “Come on, Franklin.”

I, too, looked at Sarah. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. She seemed to have collapsed standing up. She looked so utterly sad that I almost begged my mother to make up and finish the job.

But then a most vile smell reached my nostrils, and I observed Chester exiting the litter box and advancing toward me, shaking out his hind legs.

And I fled.

As I hustled past Rebecca, she stuck out her tongue.

In an extremely thoughtless grade-school gesture, I stuck out mine, too.

“Really?” Fiona was waving her clipboard, agitated. She followed us up the stairs and into the gloriously fresh outdoor air. “No preference for sleeve length? Maybe a jewel neckline? Beads? Red? Black?”

“Whatever you said,” my mother replied, without turning around. “Make it go with her music.”

We sat in the van for exactly eleven minutes in complete silence. My mother didn’t even turn on the radio or chew gum. I tried to distract myself by finding additional safety and health violations in the Fosters’ yard: an upended rake, a roller skate in the driveway, an unsecured, industrial-sized bag of TrevorTime cat food (regularly hawked on the cable-access channel by pet expert Trevor Thompson).

But I was unable to get the expression on Sarah Kervick’s face out of my mind.

Why? What did her crazy comment or her body language or her miserable expression have to do with the tenets set forth by our thirty-second president of health promotion, risk avoidance, and mental improvement? Had FDR overlooked something? Was a tenet missing?

I resolved to check out my new tome on adolescence,
What’s Going On Down There,
to see if this new concern for others was related to a surge in my hormones. Through the passenger-side window, I watched Sarah walk slowly up to the van and get in. My mother studied her fingers before starting the engine. I took the credit card Sarah passed to the front seat.

Fiona came up the steps in a rush and launched herself toward the van, her high heels piercing the lawn, her hands clamped around a ring of keys. Rebecca followed her. She looked toward the van and shook her fist at me before hopping into a late-model Ford Taurus with a dangling tailpipe.

Fiona rapped on the driver-side window. “You’re sure about this? It’s highly unusual,” she said, squeezing the fuzzy dice on her key chain.

My mother cracked the window. “Does it go with her show?”

To my horror, Fiona put a key in her mouth and sucked on it, thinking.

“Yes, but it’s nothing I’ve ever—”

“Then you did your job. When can we pick it up?”

“How about Monday? After four? I work out on Monday, is all. Helps with the stress.”

The last few words I had to lip-read as my mother chose to drive away midsentence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Positive Electricity

My mother is nothing if not stubborn. She said “a sandwich after” and that meant “a sandwich after,” even if the three people now sitting in a booth at Perkins’ Drug Store, the combination pharmacy and sandwich shop with the real soda fountain dating back to 1955, had no appetite whatsoever.

I tried to be chipper. “Maybe I’ll try the taco salad,” I said, “without taco meat, of course.”

“That’s an expensive way to get lettuce and tomatoes.”

“And cheese,” I added. “I don’t think I’ve achieved my USDA-recommended amount of calcium today.”

Sarah sat across from us, looking at the menu. “I’m not very hungry.”

She glanced over at my mother, obviously longing for something that was not on the menu.

“Just order what you usually get,” my mother said. “You can eat it later.”

It was clear to me that they both felt bad about what had happened, but “feelings” were not a specialty of Sarah Kervick or my mother. I might have attempted to at least pull them to the center of the ring to shake hands, but the waitress—otherwise known as Mrs. Perkins—approached our table.

“Julia, Franklin, Sarah…hello, dear.” She slid in next to Sarah and put her arm around her. “Julia’s been telling us all about your big day.”

There was something about Mrs. Perkins that let her get away with touching people. She had that rosy-cheeked, Mrs. Santa Claus look, and she always smelled like cinnamon rolls, which—though I avoided them like the plague due to their high fat content—did give off a very nice aroma.

“Why so glum, everyone? Bad day at school?”

This completely reasonable question was met with another silence.

Instead of pressing the issue, Mrs. Perkins stood up, slapped her apron, and said: “I’m just going to have to make you all a chocolate shake. And Sarah, I’m putting a couple of eggs in yours. When Davy was in training for the Pelican View AAU Swim Team, I used to give him a shake with a couple of raw eggs in it every evening. All that extra protein shaved two full seconds off his hundred-meter backstroke.”

I was about to acquaint Mrs. Perkins with a deadly little germ that lurked in raw eggs called “salmonella” when I happened to glimpse a familiar pair of legs pressed up against the makeup counter.

“I need the Vermilion Sunset, both the lipstick and the nail polish.”

There, in a pair of spandex shorts and a
GET THE PI PHI HIGH
T-shirt, was none other than my sixth-grade health teacher, Miss Mathews, looking to all the world like a college co-ed on spring break, and ordering
lipstick
from a smiling Mr. Perkins.

Mr. Perkins set two enormous grocery bags on the counter.

“Those on the EMS account, too?” he asked.

“Well, I
am
their number one volunteer,” Miss Mathews replied, “but I don’t think the county’s emergency medical service is willing to buy my lipstick ration, do you, Mr. Perkins?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Miss Mathews was flirting! With a married man.

“Franklin, dear? Are you all right?” Mrs. Perkins reached over and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” she said, frowning.

“It’s the egg thing,” my mother presumed. “You know, raw.”

“Oh…I suppose you’re right. Egg Beaters then. That will do the trick.”

I tried to get Sarah Kervick’s attention, using my eyebrows to indicate the direction her gaze should take. She glanced up at me and shrugged, obviously not willing to take the time to see what I’d discovered.

Having completed her purchase, Miss Mathews struggled past us, carrying her bags full of medical supplies for the EMS. But then, like everybody else, she had to stop to say hello to Mrs. Perkins. I was sinking lower into the booth, my hands on the edge of the table for balance, when she spotted me.

“Franklin? Sarah? So you two really are friends.”

Mrs. Perkins performed the introductions, using Miss Mathews’ first name.

“Hey, Elaine,” my mother said before returning to study her menu. I felt the urge to give her a poke to make her sit up straight and be pleasant.

But my mother was clearly not in the mood to be social.

“Did you know Sarah’s a figure skater, Elaine?” Mrs. Perkins said into the awkward silence. “She’s quite talented, I hear.”

Miss Mathews balanced her bags on the back of the booth and looked at Sarah Kervick with interest. “I love to watch skating on TV. Not much chance of me being a skater, though, growing up in Arizona.” She made a little snort through her nose.

“Can I come watch you sometime?”

Sarah tilted her head to look up at Miss Mathews.

“You can come to the exhibition with Mr. Perkins and me,” Mrs. Perkins said, putting her hand on Miss Mathews’ arm.

“Sarah’s going to have a whole section of cheerleaders.”

First raw eggs in the milk shake. Then Miss Mathews in spandex, and now the mention of cheerleaders?!

“Franklin, there you go with that look again. He might need a couple of cold cucumbers and some time on the sofa when you get home, Julia.”

Sarah reached across the table and tugged on my mother’s sleeve. “I have to tell you something,” she said, casting a long cool glance at the rest of us. “In private.”

My mother looked at her over the top of the menu.

“Well, I’ll get started on that shake.” Mrs. Perkins brushed off the front of her apron, even though there was nothing there.

Miss Mathews sighed and picked up her bags. “I need to get going as well.”

Can you say
Get lost
with your eyebrows? My mother was making every attempt as she stared at me.

I refolded my napkin.

I felt a surge of hope that Sarah would share the details of her missing father with my mother, which would then take the burden off me for knowing that she was being left alone—all night!—with nothing but a couple of wild dogs to look after her.

“Maybe I could…that is, Miss Mathews, do you need some help with your bags?”

“What a gentleman, Franklin,” my mother said enthusiastically.

“That is so sweet,” Miss Mathews said. “I had to park a few blocks away.” She heaved a sack into my hands before I’d replaced my napkin on the table. Before I knew it, I was walking down Main Street side by side with our health teacher. In her athletic attire!

“My car is just down by the post office,” Miss Mathews said from behind her bag.

I glanced into mine and saw roles of adhesive tape, Ace bandages, rubbing alcohol. I tried to formulate a polite question about emergency medical needs, but I felt much more comfortable pushing my face into the brown paper bag.

Miss Mathews was chatting away happily. I suppose, like most of her students, her mood lifted considerably after school, too.

“Next, I go to the grocery store. After doing this for two years, I feel like I’m shopping for my own family. Len Spansky eats only shaved-tavern-ham–and–horseradish-mustard sandwiches, and Pearl is a vegetarian. I have to go to Harvest Health to get the ingredients for her tempeh Reubens….”

“Mr. Spansky’s in the EMS?” I blurted out, thinking of the unfortunate accident victims over whose wounds our science teacher hovered. Did he bring his spray bottle to the EMS?

“Oh no, not our science teacher. He’s Arthur. I’m talking about his brother, Leonard. Here we are.” Miss Mathews pointed to a very small convertible, the kind they advertised as “sporty.” My mind reeled with the possibilities for tragic accidents in this vehicle.

After she tossed both our bags into the backseat, Miss Mathews put her hand on my shoulder. I tried to exhibit excellent posture and look Miss Mathews in the eye as Emily Post recommends, but unfortunately, I had to confine my gaze to her pink athletic shoes.

“Your mother is right, Franklin. You are quite a gentleman,” Miss Mathews said, squeezing. It wasn’t a Sarah Kervick squeeze, I can tell you that. It sent pleasant little prickles of electricity down the short side of my body.

“Well,” she said, opening the door and sinking into the seat of her sports car, “off to D & W to get the groceries.” She pulled a kerchief out of her glove compartment and tied it over her head. Not like Glynnis, who tied hers at the back underneath her hair. No, Miss Mathews tied hers beneath her chin.

As if she knew what I was thinking, she said: “Keeps my hair from whipping around.”

Then, with lightning speed and very little concern for oncoming traffic, Miss Mathews reversed out of her tight spot and sped away, waving one arm all the way to the traffic light.

I took several deep breaths to allow my blood flow to return to its normal route and went back to Perkins’ Drug Store. Through the window, I saw Sarah and my mother deep in conversation. The food had been delivered. My plate of lettuce garnished with tomatoes and cheese did not look very appetizing.

“Franklin,” my mother said when I returned, “we couldn’t wait. We were starving. How long does it take to help someone to their car?” She cast a sideways glance at Sarah. “Maybe Miss Mathews takes a little longer.” Sarah’s mouth was full, so she pressed the back of her hand against it to keep in the food while she laughed.

“If you’re trying to cover up for the fact that you’ve started eating without me, it’s not working,” I told my mother, before excusing myself to use the facilities.

“Don’t be sore, Franklin,” Sarah said as I rounded the corner. “We got you the no-salt chips.”

At least Sarah seemed in better spirits, I thought, as I hummed my way through three leisurely verses.

But she’d told my mother nothing. For we dropped Sarah off at her house as usual, and my mother acted like this was just an ordinary day.

“I wonder where her dad is,” I mused, looking out the window as we drove away.

“He’s working late this week. Sarah told me.”

I bet she did.

What, then, should I do? I was sworn to secrecy. I wanted to confide in someone, but who? Gloria? After a restless night, I resolved to call her before school and casually ask about the legality of leaving minors unattended. Not for the day, but for days! Two to be exact. Maybe even three. But when I called her at approximately 6:40 a.m. eastern standard time, I got her message machine. Ever since Gloria installed caller ID, I noticed that her machine picked up a lot more often, especially in the morning.

There was nothing left to do but go to school. I distracted myself by thinking about Glynnis. Even before seven, the thought of her hair pulled into a neat ponytail, and the starched collar that encircled her neck, gave me hope that my world might someday return to its previously tidy and ordered state.

At 6:57 a.m., I rang Bernie’s doorbell. Mrs. Lepner opened the door. She was wearing her chenille bathrobe and had not yet brushed her teeth. I kept the small talk to a minimum as she bundled Bernie into a goose-down coat to ward off the chill morning air. Kissing his forehead, she positioned his shoulders parallel to the door frame and launched him onto the front stoop.

After the slightest pause to ensure the weight of my backpack was evenly distributed, I said: “Bernie, I need to confide in you. A rather delicate matter of the heart.”

Now, Bernie Lepner is not what I’d consider an expert in matters of the heart. In fact, the only thing Bernie is well-versed enough in to be considered an expert is
The Encyclopedia of Mythical Beasts.
But he was my friend, and so I felt he should be willing to stretch a little.

“Bernie?” I grabbed the back of his jacket to detour him around a jogger who had stopped to tie his shoe.

“Okay, Franklin.”

“You may have noticed that last year I spoke rather enthusiastically about Glynnis Powell. I think I even mused in your presence about what literature she might read. This should give you some indication of the depth of my feelings toward her.”

“I like Glynnis, too. She’s my tutor.”

“Excuse me?”

“My tutor. She helps me with stuff.”

“You have regular contact with Glynnis Powell and you never told me?”

“Are you okay, Franklin? You almost stepped into the street on a flashing hand.”

It took me a moment to return to myself. Of course. I had yet to confide my tender feelings, so Bernie would have no way of knowing how deeply this information would affect me.

“What sort of
stuff
does she help you with?”

“Oh, I have trouble being organized. I forget to write things down. Sometimes I don’t turn in my assignments. Glynnis helps me with all that.”

“That’s what I do for Sarah, Bernie.”

“My mom said that, too. But you complain a lot about it, so I figured you weren’t interested. Miss Rhonda set me up with Glynnis. She gets community-service hours for helping me.”

We walked along in silence as I digested this. Glynnis and I had even more in common than I realized. I didn’t know you could get community-service hours for helping out a fellow student. This tutoring thing made even more sense in my case, as Sarah Kervick’s considerable energy might take an antisocial turn were she not continually occupied on the skating rink
or
at our dining-room table inserting chopsticks into my electric pencil sharpener.

Maybe there was an after-school club where fellow do-gooders could relax with serving-sized pouches of organic popcorn and bottles of purified water and discuss the finer points of motivating our peers to academic excellence. Well, proficiency. Maybe, in certain cases, a legally acceptable attendance record and a GPA in the low C range.

“Bernie,” I said, unable to meet his gaze. “My feelings toward Glynnis go way beyond friendship. I have”—here I paused to put an ice-cold hand to my burning cheek—

“pledged my affections to her and to her alone.”

My mind traveled from the ecologically conscious cloth napkins she used in the lunchroom to the sprinkle of freckles across her nose—which could be attributed to her Norse ancestors and certainly not a lack of sensible sun protection.

“Do you think, Bernie, that Glynnis might consider sitting with us at lunch?” I asked in an agony of longing. “Even though she’s a cheerleader?”

It was then I realized I’d misinterpreted Bernie’s silence.