Everyday Hero (6 page)

I wondered how she could walk into a closed door without hurting her nose. But perhaps
the door was open.

Or she walked into the door sideways.

“Was it a little open?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Was the door a little open, or maybe you were on an angle or—”

“Shuddup already!” Megan spoke loudly. Her brows had drawn together like the angry
face on the feelings chart my teacher at my old school gave me.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“Duh!”

“Are you going to hit me?” I asked, because she had hit Darren when she was mad at
him.

“No, I don’t hit.”

“You hit Darren.”

“Jeez, let it go already.”

I said nothing because I did not know what I should let go, as I was not actually
holding anything. I looked at my hands, which were empty.

“Sometimes it’s better not to know all the answers.” She stood. Crumbs fell to the
ground.

I watched as she turned and walked away, the rhinestone skull bright on her leather
jacket.
I tried to count her footsteps, but they were muffled by other footsteps,
the din of talking and laughter and lockers clanging.

Personally, I do not think it is ever better not to know answers. I like answers.
I like to know that two plus two must equal four. Answers are like rules—the safety
rails on a balcony.

I tried to think of a situation when it would be better not to know the answers,
but this made me feel like I did in Hawaii when the sand had shifted under my feet.
I started to rock. I counted the lockers opposite—one…two…three…

“She’s talking to herself again!” a girl said.

“That is so weird.” The guy next to her looked down at me, then turned away to open
his locker, finding the combination with a
tick-tick-tick
. “Probably schizo.”

Schizo
stands for
schizophrenic
.

Schizophrenia—a mental disorder characterized by a breakdown in thought processes
and often featuring auditory hallucinations and bizarre delusions.

“I am not schizophrenic,” I said, standing.

“She talks!” The girl laughed.

“Well, you’re weird enough. Maybe they just haven’t figured it out yet,” the guy
said to me.

Another girl spoke up. “Hey, don’t bug her.” Her voice had a nasal twang. “We don’t
want that wacko Megan fighting us. She’s butch.”

“Megan is my friend,” I said.

“Nothing to boast about.”

“I had a cousin who was schizo,” the boy added, grabbing a blue binder from his locker.

“What happened?”

“Locked her away.”

“Good thing,” the girl said.

“They should do that more often, my mom says. She says that crazy people turn into
drug addicts and become homeless.” He slammed the locker shut.

“That Megan should be locked away. She’s freaky,” the guy added.

Which is when I hit him.

It was not an effective hit. He did not fall to the floor or even stumble. He stepped
back, putting his hand to his jaw, which had fallen open.

“What the—? What was that for?” he asked.

“I don’t let people call my friends names,” I said before hurrying away to the quiet
of my favorite stairwell.

***

I pressed myself into the corner. I like corners.

Unfortunately, a kid sitting in a corner is noticeable.

The principal came. I didn’t look up but focused instead on his brown leather shoes
and his pants, which were of a thin beige fabric and should have been hemmed, because
they trailed onto the floor.

“Alice? Heard there was some pushing and shoving earlier,” he said.

“I did not push or shove,” I explained. “I hit someone, but I do not know his name.”

“This is a hands-off school,” the principal said.

I nodded. (This means we are not allowed to push or hit or shove. It does not mean
we have to remove our hands from our wrists.)

“We’ll have to phone your dad,” he said. “You’d better come to the office.”

I got up, following him away from the stairs and down the linoleum hallway.

He asked me to sit in the small room beside the office. I think it was likely also
a medical room. It had a bed and packages of Band-Aids. Shafts of sunlight filtered
through the blinds,
turning the dust motes into dancing flecks. I could hear phones
and talking and occasional laughter.

Then the bell rang.

The principal had not asked me to stay for detention, so I got up because the bell
means it is time to leave the school.

I went to the bus stop and took the After-School Special. Megan was not on the bus.
There were no seats, so I stood, holding on to the metal pole and catching whiffs
of hair spray and sweat.

***

I heard Dad’s voice as soon as I came in the door. He was speaking loudly, almost
yelling.

“Of course she’s fine. You lot are all the same. You want cookie-cutter kids. You
don’t want anyone to be the slightest bit different—”

I closed the outside door and bent to take off my shoes, sitting on the first of
the three steps that lead to the main floor. I figured Dad must be on the phone,
because I couldn’t hear any other voices.

“No, she does not need a special program,” he said in the same extra-loud voice.
“Don’t you have more important things to do?…No, she hasn’t had
an assessment. She’s
doing great…She even has a friend. She doesn’t need one of your labels.”

Then he swore, and I heard the bang as he hung up the phone.

“Swearing is against the rules,” I said, climbing the stairs.

“What the—? I didn’t know you were home.” His voice sounded like he had been running,
and his face was flushed.

“I am home,” I said.

“What did you hear?”

“I heard you swear, which is against the rules.”

“Yeah, right—um—sorry,” he said.

I nodded, because I knew that sometimes people break the rules and then they are
sorry afterward.

“I am going to make a sandwich,” I said.

“Right,” he said.

I went into the kitchen and pulled out the loaf of bread, the jam and the peanut
butter.

“Um—anything happen today?” Dad asked.

A lot of things had happened, of course. Billions of things to billions of people,
so I stayed silent because I didn’t know what to say.

“How were your classes?” Dad asked.

“Math and English were the same as usual. I didn’t go to socials or gym.”

“Any reason?”

“I hit a guy.”

“So I heard. I thought we were done with hitting. Did the guy bully you or something?”

“I don’t let people call my friends names,” I said.

“Friends?” Dad’s eyebrows pulled together. “Is this about that Megan?”

I shrugged. I do not like questions.

I took out two slices of bread, spread them with peanut butter and then reached for
the jam.

Dad still stood in the kitchen. He walked to the window and then back, pushing his
fingers through his hair.

“I will watch
Phineas and Ferb
.”

“Right—um—good,” Dad said. “Alice—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” Dad sighed. “Look, I’m just going to the gym for a while. Maybe we can
talk about this later.”

It was Dad’s day off. Sometimes he likes to go to the gym on his days off.

“I don’t like gyms,” I said. “They smell.”

***

Fifty-seven minutes later I heard the knock.

At first I thought Dad had forgotten his key. I opened the door. Megan entered. This
was unusual. Megan visits in the afternoon but never in the evening.

She flung down a full backpack with a heavy clunk. This was also unusual. Megan’s
backpack is usually empty. Megan seldom does homework.

“Would you like potato chips?” I asked.

Dad had said I should be hospitable, so now I always offered plain chips whenever
Megan visited. I don’t like the smell of Doritos, Cheezies, French-onion chips or
nachos.

“I need a favor.”

Favor—a gracious, friendly or obliging act that is freely granted.

“My father said I should offer a snack when you come over. I have plain chips. I
don’t like the smell of Doritos, Cheezies, French-onion chips or nachos.”

“Forget the snack!” Her voice was loud.

We weren’t watching a hockey game, and there wasn’t an emergency.

“You have to help me.” Megan shoved her hand through her black hair. She had a cut
on her forehead. “If my mom’s boyfriend phones, you have to say we’re having a sleepover.”

I took a step backward up the first of the three stairs that lead to the first floor.
I did this because I am not comfortable with any change in routine. As well, Megan’s
boots were wet, and I could smell damp leather and foot odor.

“Tonight? But I asked Dad about Friday. Today is Wednesday.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not staying here. I’m going to Vancouver.”

“Why?”

“Visiting a friend,” she said.

“You have a friend in Vancouver?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you live in Vancouver?” I asked.

“No.”

“How did you make a friend in Vancouver if you did not live in Vancouver?”

“Online, okay? Just tell my stepdad I’m sleeping here.”

“Did you give any identifying information
online?” I asked, remembering Dad’s rules.
I like rules. They are like the railings on a balcony.

“Huh?”

“Identifying information means your name and address, not your dental records.”

“What? I—look, just say I’m here, okay?” Megan’s hands balled into fists. She wore
black nail polish. Her right wrist was red and swollen. “Probably no one’s going
to phone anyway.”

“You said your stepfather might.”

“Alice, please, all you have to do is say I’m here.”

The smell of her boots was strong. I went up the three steps and into the kitchen.
Megan followed. I opened a bag of plain chips and emptied them into a bowl. They
were plain chips because I do not like the smell of Doritos, Cheezies, French-onion
chips or nachos.

Or spicy sweet—another flavor.

I put the bowl on the coffee table in the living room. Megan stood in front of the
mantel. She didn’t sit on the couch or eat the chips.

“Alice, friends help each other.” Megan reached out as if to touch me, but then she
stopped. “Please, Alice, please. I don’t think he’ll call,
but sometimes—just stall
him until the bus has gone.”

Stall
means
a stable for an animal
. My hands got sweaty. Then I remembered that stall
also means
delay.

Or
engine failure
.

I do not like words with multiple meanings.

I started to sway.

Megan swore.

There wasn’t a hockey game or an emergency.

I don’t like it when people swear. It is against the rules. I don’t like it when
people break the rules. I don’t like things that are unusual. I don’t like foot odor.

I counted the tiles around the fireplace. One… two…three…

“Why would I even expect you to help? You can’t even help yourself. You live in a
dream world. You actually believe your mom’s coming back.”

Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

“She’s not, you know. She’s left you and your dad. Gone-zo.”

Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…

“She’s gone. You know, not coming back.”

Gone—no longer present; departed.

“My mother is in Vancouver,” I said.

“And you think she’s coming back? She’s not. Maybe she and your dad had a fight.”

“They don’t fight—or not often.” Then I remembered how Dad had said on the phone
that he wanted Mom to look after her parents and to let him look after me. “Except
they did on the phone.”

“That would be it then,” she said. “Adults always lie. My mom lies. Her psycho boyfriend
lies.”

Megan paced across the beige carpet in our living room, which measures ten feet by
ten feet. Her feet made a rhythmic
pad…pad…pad
.

I did not know what
psycho boyfriend
meant. I picked up the dictionary.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“I am looking up
psycho
,” I said.

She started to laugh. People laugh when they find something funny. I was glad Megan
was laughing. It was better than swearing, which is against the rules.

Then she stopped laughing and ran from the room. I heard her footsteps race down
the steps and out the front door.

The door banged shut.

Eight

“Is Mom coming back?” I asked.

“What?” Dad had come home from the gym and was standing at my bedroom door.

“Is Mom coming back?” I repeated.

“Yes, of course. Grandma and Grandpa’s house has sold. She just has to finish getting
them packed up.”

“When?”

“What?”

“When is she coming back?”

“Soon. Do you know when the game starts?”

Dad loves the Canucks.

I shrugged.

“Want dessert? I picked up ice cream on the way home,” Dad said.

I shook my head even though I usually like ice cream. Dad left my room. I heard him
switch on the television in the living room. I heard cheering. The hockey game must
have started.

When we lived in Vancouver, Dad and Mom had gone to the Canucks games sometimes.
I didn’t go because I did not like the noise or the crowds or the smells from the
concession.

All adults lie.

All—the whole quantity of a group.

I walked out of my room. I turned on the tap. The water splattered as I filled up
my water glass. I took a drink and went into the living room.

“Yeah!” Dad shouted at the
TV
.

The Canucks had scored.

“Do you lie?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Do you lie?”

“What’s with all the questions tonight?”

“Megan says all adults lie.”

Dad swore. “That girl has problems.”

“You swore,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Swearing is against the rules,” I said.

I stopped. I stared at the
TV
. I stared at Don Cherry, who wore a scarlet coat embroidered
with flowers. Dad’s swearing made me remember his earlier conversation, when he had
used swearwords on the phone.