If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period (2 page)

"I can't. I have no talent. Unless keeping the tops on my gel pens counts."

"No, really, you could, like, dance or something. C'mon. Kir, you have to."

"Hello? Take a look at my butt. Do you really think I should be wiggling it
in front of people?
"

"C'mon ... guys check you out all the time."

"They used to. Now they just try to figure out how to get around me in the hall. Butt approaching on the left: steer right, steer right!"

"Your butt is not that big and you know it."

"Seriously, you haven't seen me in six weeks. Am I like a walking condominium now or what?"

Rory bites her lip. "You look great, Kirsten. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're lying."

"Really, Kir, this talent show is like the most exciting thing that's ever happened to us! Ever! I heard the budget is twenty-five thousand dollars and we're going to have real costumes."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars for the talent show?
Our
talent show?"

Last year the high point of the talent show was when this weird kid named Hair Boy did barking seal imitations. Who would spend twenty-five thousand dollars on that?

I don't say this, though. I don't want to spoil her fun even if rehearsal might cut into lunch period, which is practically the only time I get to see her. Besides, Rory actually does have talent. She can really sing.

I wait in line with her for the rest of lunch, sketching costume ideas for her.

He met Matteo last January on his tryout day at Mountain School. They gave Walk a bunch of tests that day and he had to spend the afternoon in class. Apparently you can't just apply on paper. They have to meet your live body and make certain you aren't defective. The teacher assigned Walk a buddy like it was kindergarten. The buddy was Matteo.

Walk couldn't figure Matteo at first. His upper body was all pumped like whoa, watch out, but his hair was flattened down like he was six and his momma combed it for him. And the way he kept his binder so neat it looked like the surgical supply closet at the hospital where Sylvia works.

But the thing Walk really didn't like about Matteo was how he let them call him "Burrito Boy." "Why you let them do that?" Walk asked that first visit-the-school day.

Matteo shrugged. "I like burritos."

"They call me corn bread or collard greens, gonna be trouble."

Matteo laughed.

"I'ma call you Matteo, okay, man?" Walk said.

"Yeah, okay." Matteo nodded, but Walk couldn't tell what Matteo thought about this. It was hard to know what Matteo thought about anything that first day.

Right after Walk got the letter that said he got into Mountain, he got one from Matteo. It was Matteo's buddy job to make Walk feel the love, which was pretty lame, except then they ran into each other over the summer. Sylvia signed Walk up to tutor little kids in reading and math. She thought it would look good on his high school applications. All the other tutors were girls so Walk and Matteo hung out together a lot. They were friends now. Real friends.

Walk wishes Matteo were black instead of Mexican, though. He doesn't like being the only black kid in his grade—one of three at the whole school. It makes him feel like there's a giant bull's-eye painted on his naked brown booty.

By last period all Walk can think about is going home, and blasting his tunes so loud he can't hear his brain yakkity-yakking in his head anymore. He looks at the poster on the wall. It's a kid's drawing of people of all colors holding hands around the earth. ONE WORLD: CULTURAL DIVERSITY AT MOUNTAIN, it says.

Diversity ... yeah, right. Everyone here is white. Is this place for real or what?

In the kitchen after school, I head straight for the ice cream. We have two kinds: vanilla for Kippy and mix-in peanut-butter Snickers for my dad. When I pull the top off the mix-in Snickers, I recognize my signature spoon work.

"No more," I tell myself, grabbing some grapes. I walk by the hall mirror quick, without looking. I'm going to be thin soon, no point in looking at myself fat.

Only thing about fruit is I swear it makes me ravenous. The next thing I know, I'm walking back to the kitchen in a trance—the sugar is calling me:
Come to the Mother Sugar.

I pick all the Snickers bits out. Now the ice cream looks like vanilla. Why stop now? Dr. Dad won't notice. Dr. Dad is busy, busy, busy.

Back in my room, I spread my geometry homework out on my bed and try hard on the first problem. It doesn't make sense, so I switch on my computer to see if Rory has emailed me back.

YOU HAVE NO NEW EMAIL.

When was the last time she sent me an email? How come I always email
her
now?

Don't be silly, Kirsten,
I tell myself. That is
so
elementary school. Best friends don't worry who was the last person to email. Besides I just had lunch with her. She wasn't mad. Not one bit.

I'm just about ready to send her another email when Kippy pounds down the hall. She sticks her head in my room with a wad of lettuce in her hand. "You want to feed the rabbits?"

I follow her downstairs. My mom is on the phone in the kitchen. Instantly, the ice cream goes radioactive in my stomach. She can see it in there, I know it. But luckily she's talking to someone from my school's auction committee. She just got voted to be something or other and she's very excited about it. Maybe she won't notice. I give her my most winning smile and follow Kippy down the steep basement stairs.

Kippy and I love our basement. For a while she was obsessed with getting bunk beds so we could live down here, but my mother wouldn't go for it. When we were younger we used to play flashlight tag in the basement for hours. I was always Krypton One and she was Krypton Two. Kippy likes chemicals. She's going to be a chemist when she grows up, if she doesn't blow us all up first.

Plus Kippy has her favorite books here—all nonfiction stuff like
The True Story of Dirt.
She refuses to read anything that's "fake." I have a TV and an Exer-cycle my mother installed smack in front of it. My mother is subtle, isn't she?

With our rabbits, Mr. and Mrs. Bunn, munching happily on their dinner, Kippy heads for her chair and cracks open
The Wonderful World of Worms.
I move a chair over to the TV and click it on. Every day my mother takes the chair away. Every day I drag it back. Today I push the Exercycle so hard it nearly tips over.

"You okay, Krypton One?" Kippy asks over the sound of my channel surfing.

"I'm okay, Krypton Two."

Surprise, surprise, my dad is home tonight. I scoot into our breakfast nook, where we always eat dinner. The chairs in the dining room are white silk. Even my mother is afraid to sit on them.

"So," my father says, sawing his chicken very carefully, as if he is being judged on how straight he cuts, "how are my brilliant girls? Studying hard, I trust?"

"Yes, Daddy," Kip says.

"And you, Kirsten? How's the math going? Do you want some help?"

I shake my head fast. I'd rather flunk than make a mistake in front of him. Drowning, smothering, and burning to death would be better, too.

"Tell your father to leave you alone," my mom says.

"Tell your mother I'm just asking," he tells me.

Here we go again. "Hey, guess what?" I say. "I'm going to school Saturday morning for ... extra credit."

"Extra credit?" he asks hopefully.

"Okay, well, it isn't exactly extra credit. More like detention but, hey, that's close enough, isn't it?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Kippy jumps in. "You didn't ask about second grade. We are doing an in-deep study of the letter
P. P
is very important. How could you spell psoriasis without a
p?
Jenna W. said everyone knows psoriasis starts with an
s.
And I said, excuse me but it starts with a
p.
I can spell all the McKenna diseases: Corns. C-o-r-n-s. Vaginitis. V-a-g—"

"No. Oh please. You didn't say that," my mother interrupts, her neck flushed.

Kippy nods, her little face dead serious.

"What did Mrs. Hamsterhead say?" I ask.

"Mrs.
Hamstall.
" Kippy glares at me. "She said some words you only spell in private, but how's she going to know I can spell them if I only spell in private?"

"All right, Kippy, we get the idea," my mother says.

"Ask your mother how her day was," my father says to me.

My mother's eyes drop to her plate.

"Tell your father who we saw today," my mom says.

"Who did we see today?" I ask her.

"The new boy," my mom says.

"Mom, what was that all about, anyway? It almost seemed like you were trying to chase down his mom's car."

"I'm the new volunteer coordinator," my mom snaps.

"Yeah, so? His mom didn't volunteer for anything and now you have a warrant out for her arrest?"

My father laughs, a weird laugh like maybe he's choking.

"I just want to meet her is all," my mother says. She gets up from the table and grabs the plates. If you want to finish a meal at our house, you have to bolt your plate to the table or my mom will whisk it away.

"What's for dessert, you might be wondering? Anybody wondering?" she asks. "I've got some delicious kiwi for Kirsten and me. And I brought home a boysenberry pie for Kippy and..." My mother sticks two pieces of pie in the microwave.

"Tell your mother I've got my heart set on a bowl of Snickers ice cream," my father says.

All the blood drains out of my face. "You know, I think I'll have the kiwi later, Mom. I'm going to get cracking on my homework." I scooch in my father's direction hoping he'll get the hint and move out of my way.

My mom's eyes waver. A line appears between her eyebrows.

"Excuse me, Dad, could I get by?" I ask as politely as I can.

"Tell your father I got the pie fresh from the bakery. It will taste a lot better today than it will tomorrow." My mom presses at her temple with her thumb.

"Tell your mother I'd rather have my ice cream." My father points his spoon at me.

The microwave chirps. Kippy's lips start moving. She is probably reciting insect subgroups. She does this when they fight. My father stands up, and I get out of there as fast as I can.

"Tell your father
your sister
ate his ice cream," I hear my mother tell Kippy as I climb the stairs. "Tell him your sister has gained thirty pounds in the last six months. Tell him maybe he should ask himself why."

"You're going to blame me for
that?
Why not just blame me for global warming, too?"

"Oh yes, you're totally blameless..."

I shut the door of my room so I can't hear them anymore. Then I take all the clothes out of my dresser. I fold each piece and put it back in the drawer as neatly as I can.

I do this perfectly. Totally and completely perfectly.

How did it go?" Sylvia asks. She takes the day off just so she can pick up Walk at 3:00 instead of at 5:30 like she usually does. Sylvia tries to pretend it's no big deal, but she never takes a day off for something like this. Never.

"Fine."

"Who did you meet?"

"Kids."

"And their names are?"

Walk frowns at her.

"But it went all right?" she asks.

"It went fine."

Sylvia sighs. She pulls into the 7-Eleven and hands Walk a five. "Get whatever you want."

Sylvia is handing him money for
junk food
...now that's unusual.

Soon as Walk enters the store, the guy comes out from behind the counter. He follows Walk down the aisle to the chips and stands making a lot of noise straightening the fruit pies while Walk picks out his snack. The guy's an idiot. Somebody could steal the whole cash register while he makes sure Walk doesn't stuff a pastry in his pocket.

He follows Walk to the cooler where he gets his Gatorade and then back to where Walk puts his stuff on the counter. The guy's shoes make a squooshy sound like his socks are wet.

"That
everything?
" the man asks.
That's what clerks always say,
Walk reminds himself, but he knows the words are meant differently for him. He's not sure why this bugs him so much. It happens all the time.

Back in the car, Walk slams the door and rips open the pastry with his teeth.

"
You
in a mood now?" Sylvia asks.

Walk doesn't answer.

When they get home, Sylvia gets out of the car and marches all around it to make sure nobody scratched up her baby. She does this every day.

"Jamal called," Sylvia says as she unlocks the door to their apartment.