Rodent (8 page)

We wander through the kids’ clothes and toys. I keep my eyes peeled for something for Maisie’s birthday. All the dolls look sad. Matted hair, felt marker on their legs. Lots of baby toys—blocks and rattles and stuff.

I’m flipping through a rack of size 8 girls’ clothes when I see a pink sleeve. I pull it all the way out to have a look. A light pink dress with embroidered flowers on the bodice and a ribbon around the waist. It would be the prettiest thing she owned. The hem is unraveling in one spot near the back, but I could fix that easy.

“Jacquie, lend me eight bucks?”

With Jacquie’s help, I also dig around the toy section and find a plastic truck and ramp for Evan. He has hardly any toys. We stored some stuff with a friend of Mom’s during the last move, and then she took off and abandoned the place. I guess the landlord ended up with it.

After we take a bus back, Jacquie remembers her promise to Maisie and Evan. I take her to my store to buy some candy, saving the other stuff for Maisie’s birthday.

Hasan is at the counter, and the only other customer is at the
ATM
by the bathroom. Hasan’s eyes light at Jacquie’s toothy smile and skin-tight shirt.

“Hasan, this is my cousin, Jacquie,” I say. He’s probably wondering why he got stuck with the boring cousin.

She shakes his hand, charm cranked to one hundred percent. “Pleasure.”

“We’re getting some candy for my brother and sister,” I say.

He comes around the counter to help, like it’s a really tough job. “You could try this one—a little bit spicy.” He shakes a box and winks at Jacquie.

She bends down, giving him a good eyeful, and grabs the Sweet Tarts off the bottom shelf. “Or this—sweet and tart.” She smiles. They go on for another minute, hands brushing, making a big show. I think I’m going to puke.

“Smarties it is,” I say, pulling three boxes off the shelf. They both wilt like a kid who’s just lost his helium balloon.

“See you Monday.” I wave to Hasan on our way out. We settle on the curb outside and crack open one of the boxes.

“I’d like to corrupt that one,” Jacquie says.

“I think he’s already been corrupted, Jacquie.”

It’s a warm day. I take off my sweater and tie it around my waist. Jacquie holds out her arms, willing the sun to shine on them. While she picks out the blue Smarties, I tell her about Ainsley and Co. and getting suspended.

“Do you want me to take care of them?” she asks, eyes flinty. She would too. Jacquie’s a ripple of lean muscle that moves like a flash. She’s only six months older than I am, but taller and fuller. She takes after Uncle Richie.

“No. I can’t mess things up at that school. It’s right by Maisie’s.”

“They don’t have to know we’re related.”

“They’ll figure it out when they do the police report,” I say.

She laughs and pops a handful of Smarties into her mouth. “Think about it.”

I almost tell her about hitting Mom and talking to Mr. Drummond—whatever that was about—but the words don’t come. We watch cars and trucks move in and out of the parking lot for a while before heading home.

* * *

When I hand in my monologue to Mr. Drummond on Monday, he gives me a wink. Like we’re two peas in the same crappy-mother pod.

“I’m looking forward to reading this, Miss Bennett,” he says.

I’m actually a little nervous about it. Mom didn’t have to work on Saturday night, so she sat with Maisie and Evan while I was holed up in my room, scribbling away. I noticed that most people’s papers were done on a computer. So what?

As I turn back to my desk, I catch Will watching me. For sure, this time. He looks away a little too quickly and makes a big deal of digging around in his bag for a pen. I’m tempted to give him the finger, but there’s something about him I recognize. Like he too wishes he could go through this entire year without saying a word to anyone. Like if he could live on a desert island and communicate by messenger pigeon and smoke signals, that would be fine. Whatever this staring is about, I don’t think it has anything to do with Ainsley.

It must be my day for freaks, because Clara comes and finds me in the library during the lunch hour. I thought her last visit was a one-off, that she had done her duty to God and country and moved on.

“Hi, Isabelle.” She sits down next to me without asking this time.

“Hey.”

She starts to pull out books to make it look like she’s working on something. “How was your weekend?”

“Hmm. My cousin came over on Saturday, and I finished an English assignment.” Yawn. Just another day in the tranquil life of Isabelle Bennett. “How about you?”

“A lot of homework. And I have riding lessons on Saturdays.”

Riding lessons. Of course.

Ms. Hillary gives us a warning look. We lower our heads over our books and get back to work. I’m grateful, actually, because I don’t have anything else to say to her. I try to finish my reading for English. Who knows if I’ll get a chance tonight.

A burst of voices and the
bang
of books dropped on a nearby table. My gut freezes. They’ve found my hiding hole. I don’t look up. Don’t need to.

“Look, it’s master and slave!” That will be Pole Dancer. I wonder which of us is the master and which is the slave?

More giggling and banging around.

Ms. Hillary is all over them. “Are you girls here to work or not?”

As she turns away, one of them mimics her. “
Are you girls here to work or not?
” I suck in my breath. They’re more stupid than I thought. Ms. Hillary seems to let it go and returns to her desk. I’m not fooled.

Celeste pulls out her phone, and they whisper with their heads together. After more giggling, I hear a click, and a light flashes in my direction. Did they just take my picture? I gauge for damage control. I’m in a library. Fully clothed. Studying. How bad could it be?

Next to me, Clara’s pale cheeks flush pink. She hasn’t turned the page of her math text since they sat down.

It’s Ainsley’s own suicide when she pulls out a soda can and takes a long swig, not even trying to hide it.

“You lot, out!” Ms. Hillary barks from the desk.

“I was just taking some medication,” Ainsley says.

“Out!”

There’s a round of cursing. Pole Dancer knocks over a chair behind her and leaves it tipped, legs in the air. Ms. Hillary mutters and tidies up behind them.

Clara and I wait for a minute after the bell rings before leaving. I go out first, just in case they’re waiting. No one. I head to my locker, take out my jacket and load all my books into my backpack. It strains at the zipper and bends my back at an unnatural angle. I feel like the old lady with the walker.

I’m a few minutes late for Biology. It’s the one class where I feel totally anonymous. No Ainsley, Celeste or Pole Dancer. No one stares or even says hello. Miss Dennhart nods at me
but doesn’t stop talking about photosynthesis. My empty seat at the back is ready and waiting.

In Spanish, the bucktoothed girl asks if we can be partners when it’s time to practice introducing ourselves. I wonder if I’ve become a magnet for all the school freaks. She’s nice though.

“
Me llamo Daniela
,” she tells me in a way that makes it sound like she’s a llama.

At the end of Spanish, I approach Mr. Dent. “Can I wait here for a minute? I could help you, if you need it.”

“
Claro que sí!
” he says, which I take as a yes. He gets me to erase the board and gather up loose sheets of paper for recycling.

“What are you waiting for, Isabelle?” he asks.

I’m about to tell him I’m waiting for my mom to come, but I’m tired of lying to people. It’s getting harder to say the words. “It’s just better for me,” I say.

He looks at me oddly but doesn’t press. When I’m done with the recycling, he asks me to take down students’ old posters from a bulletin board. After ten minutes I tell him “
adiós
” and head for the main doors of the school. I have everything with me and don’t need to stop at my locker. It’s a sure fixed point where they know to find me. Might as well strap a blinking red light to my head. I won’t be visiting the Blue Beast for a while.

From the main doors, I see a group of stragglers waiting at the shelter. No sign of Ainsley and Co. I bolt to pick up Maisie, bracing myself for her reproach.

* * *

The next morning in English, I decide I’ll be brave if Mr. Drummond asks me to read. I’ll be totally expressionless, with no sound effects and hand movements like that Rachael chick, but I won’t say no.

He doesn’t ask me, but I try to pay attention for once. Someone named Brittany gets the part of Ophelia, and Brandon is chosen to be Reynaldo, a servant.

Then Mr. Drummond scans the room for a new voice to play Ophelia’s father, Polonius. “Will,” he says. “You’ll make a fine Polonius.”

Silence behind me. I imagine Will crawling under his desk—all six feet four inches of him.

He doesn’t say yes or no but starts reading a flat, “Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.”

“I will, my lord,” Brandon says, with about as much enthusiasm as Will.

“Marry, sir, here’s my drift; And I believe, it is a fetch of wit: You laying these slight sullies on my son…” He presses on, with giggling behind him. Will is the worst Polonius ever, like he’s reading a menu. I kind of respect him, though, for doing it anyway.

“Very good, my lord.”

Brittany eventually joins in, reading in this sort of high falsetto which gets really annoying, “O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”

Will manages to make it through to the end of the scene, where Polonius leaves to see the king about Hamlet’s madness. He sighs and falls back in his chair, the marathon of humiliation finished.

“Very good,” Mr. Drummond says. “Now I’d like to share something with you.” We all watch as he walks to his desk and picks up a stack of papers.

“For the sake of privacy, I will not share the names of the authors,” he continues, “but I’d like to read some excerpts from the best monologues I received last week.”

A nervous hum in my stomach. Will he read mine? I don’t want him to. Do I? I trace and retrace the lines on the bottom of my paper.

He lifts the first paper and starts, “
My father, where art thou now?
” My heart sinks—relieved and disappointed. Definitely not mine. It’s written from Hamlet’s point of view, about missing his father, in attempted Shakespearian language. Which I definitely didn’t do. From all the giggling in the corner, I’m guessing that Celeste’s blond friend wrote it. Possibly less stupid than she looks. Polite applause at the end.

Mr. Drummond finishes reading and shuffles the papers in his hands. It’s there. The only handwritten monologue in the pile. Was there someone else? Will, maybe. I can’t see the color of pen from here. I lean my head closer to my desk.

He pulls it to the top. “
Every day, I put on my mask
,” he begins. The blood rushes to my head, drowning out the
next few lines. Can they tell it’s mine? I don’t look up to see heads turning around, looking for the telltale laughter and blushing that would give away who wrote it.
Perfectly still, Isabelle. Don’t even breathe
.

Mr. Drummond presses on, clearly unaware of my agony. I wrote my monologue from the point of view of Hamlet’s mother, the fear and isolation she must feel. That she senses her son’s coldness and anger. That she misses her dead husband but didn’t feel like she could reject his brother’s marriage proposal. She’s still queen and needs to carry on, alone. Applause at the end.

“Who wrote that one?” Brittany asks, scanning the room.

Mr. Drummond makes a lips-locked gesture and shrugs. I telepathically thank him. He reads two more after that, both from the point of view of the ghost of Hamlet’s father.

At the end of class, I slip out before he can see me smiling. Mine was one of the best.

TEN

I go through the next week waiting for that moment when all of this peace will explode, like a blender without the lid on. The calm makes me jumpy, but something else too—a bit slow. An early spring fly, bumbling against a pane of glass. Crawling stupidly, taking in the warmth. The kind of fly you feel like putting out of its misery, it’s so disoriented.

Still. The warmth.

When Mr. Drummond passes back our monologues, a phantom voice behind me says, “I thought that one was yours.”

I jerk my head around and stuff the paper in my binder at the same time. No one looks at me, but I know who said it. I look him straight in the face. Enough of this sneaky staring and creeping around.

“How’d you know?” I ask.

He meets my eyes now, floppy hair below one eyebrow. Pushes up his glasses over his brown eyes. “I could tell.”

I roll my eyes and turn around. Was that a compliment? So hard to tell with that one.

* * *

Clara still finds me at lunch sometimes. When she’s not with me, I also see her in the cafeteria with this other short girl named Emma. So what? Normal people have more than one friend, right? I thought for a second that the three of us could be friends. But once, when I said hi to them together, Emma looked like she was about to wet herself. So that’s not going to work.

When Clara does find me, though, I feel like maybe I don’t exist in an entirely different dimension after all.

I let her do most of the talking. She likes this guy in her math class named Chad. Wish I could offer her some kind of advice. Running, hiding and acting invisible are my specialty. If she wanted never to be noticed, then I’m her girl.

In Spanish, that Daniela girl keeps talking to me, even when I try to ignore her. Her friend Damien, who has pink streaks in his hair, has started joining in. Mr. Dent even called us out once for talking when we weren’t supposed to, and that doesn’t happen to me.

Damien flipped through his dictionary until he found the right words. “
Lo siento, Señor Dent
.” He lowered his head.

Mr. Dent seemed to accept his apology and didn’t separate us.

Damien looked back at me, eyebrows raised, like,
Phew
.

* * *