The Impossible Knife of Memory (7 page)

But he did my homework. And the look on Mr. Cleveland’s face was worth putting up with Finn. Cleveland hadn’t gotten around to grading our tests yet, so I left second period feeling almost, kind of, a little . . . happy.

Who says miracles don’t happen?
The day only got better after that. Brandon wasn’t in English, and Ms. Rogak showed a movie that lasted the entire period. I was awake enough in study hall to finish my Chinese homework and then health turned into an accidental study hall because the teacher was sick, so I was able to get a nap after all. The sub in forensics was a retired cop who told us real stories about blood-spatter patterns and estimating when a murder had been committed by the age of the maggots and flies on the corpse. Nobody fell asleep.
In Chinese, Ms. Neff gave me and a girl named Sasha extra points for our pinyin homework because we were the only people who had done it. As Sasha high-fived me, I decided that I might do more homework if they made it into a competitive sport.
Even social studies sort of rocked. Mr. Diaz was teaching about the Indian Removal Act of 1830 and he neglected to mention the Chickasaw people. I raised my hand (politely) and pointed out (respectfully) his error. His face turned angry red, but he spent a minute typing on his computer, then reading the screen, and then he said, “Thank you, Hayley. You are correct. The Chickasaw were forced to walk the Trail of Tears, too.”
I raised my hand. He grimaced, but called on me again.
“Because thousands of native people died on the Trail of Tears, shouldn’t we call it a ‘genocide’ instead of a ‘forced march’?” I asked. “If an African government today did the same thing to their indigenous people, we’d be screaming about it in the United Nations and raising money for the victims, wouldn’t we?”
The debate that followed was so awesome I didn’t doodle in my notebook once.

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24
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I should have known better.

The laws of the universe dictate that for every positive action, there is an unequal and sucky reaction. So the fact that Thursday had been a somewhat decent day meant that Friday was required to go up in flames.

It started just after midnight. I’d been half sleeping on the couch, waiting, because Dad had gone out for milk and bread right after I got home from school and hadn’t returned. Spock barked, that’s what startled me awake. The lights of the pickup truck flashed through the front window as it pulled into the driveway.

Spock went to the door, tail wagging. A few moments later, the door opened. Dad smiled when he saw me, grin lopsided, eyes not quite focused. Drunk. When I asked him where he’d been, he called me his sweet girl. He sat down next to me on the couch, leaned his head back, and passed out.

I checked his face and hands; there were no scrapes or cuts to show he’d been in a fight. I threw on a jacket and my sneakers and went out to the truck. No marks on the bumpers, no new scratches in the paint. I opened the door and found empty Budweiser cans in the foot well and an extra hundred and fifteen miles on the odometer.

Finn hadn’t said that he’d pick me up on Friday. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since I gave him the library article. But I sort of watched for him while I was standing at the bus stop. He didn’t show.

The bus smelled like fresh puke.
The cafeteria was being fumigated so first period was wasted in the auditorium being supervised by a teacher I had never seen before who clearly forgot to take her medication.
Not only did I flunk my math test with a 0 percent (that’s right, he didn’t give me any points for putting my name on the paper and remembering the correct date), but I also flunked my homework by getting every problem right.
SEE ME!
was scrawled at the top of my paper. In red.
Rogak forced a surprise quiz on the lotus-eaters down our throats, we had not one, but two lockdown drills during study hall (we were too loud during the first one), and then we had to go outside for gym because the janitors were doing something sticky to the gym floor.
I had dressed for fall, you know, long sleeves, jeans, boots. Summer had reappeared, choking us with eighty degrees instead of fifty. I had a heatstroke and that’s why I zoned in forensics and Chinese and didn’t rise to the bait when Diaz asked me what I thought about the legacy of Andrew Jackson.
The final bell rang and my classmates sprinted for the exits.
I trudged back down to the math wing.

“There’s cheating and then there’s felony cheating.” Cleveland shook my homework in my face. “It’s not even your handwriting, Hayley. How stupid do you think I am?”

I had so much fun thinking about possible answers to that question that I didn’t hear much of what he said for the next five minutes. Then an alarm sounded in my brain.

“Excuse me, sir, could you please repeat that?” “I said I’ve arranged a tutor for you.”
“I don’t need a tutor.”
He picked up his red pen and circled my test grade again. “Okay,” I said. “I don’t want a tutor.”
“It’s the only way you’re going to pass this class, and

that’s assuming you work your tail off.”
“I’m actually kind of, you know, smart,” I said. “I don’t
need a tutor.”
He laughed so hard he could barely catch his breath.
“Wow.” He pulled a couple of tissues out of the box on his
desk and dabbed at his eyes. “Whew! I haven’t laughed like
that in a while.” He blew his nose and chucked the tissues in
the trash. “Finnegan Ramos has agreed to tutor you.” “No. I want somebody else.”
“You want a pony, too? Most of life is doing things we
don’t want to do, Hayley.”
“Thanks for the wisdom, sir, but it doesn’t apply here.” “Then I’ll set up a meeting with your,” he glanced at his
screen, “father and Ms. Benedetti so we can discuss which
lower-level math class you belong in.” He typed on his keyboard and looked at the screen again. “It says here that your
father’s phone number and email don’t work. How can I get
in touch with him?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. How would Dad react?
How would he handle himself in a meeting like that? What
if Benedetti mentioned Trish?”
“What do I have to do so that you don’t call my father?” He looked at me over the monitor, eyes serious. “Tutoring sessions until you catch up on the work you’ve blown off. Do your own homework and get your grade out of the toilet by the end of the semester and pass all tests.” He stood up. “Also, it wouldn’t hurt if you wrote a few more satire pieces for what we hope is going to be a newspaper one of
these days.”
“Excuse me?”
“Finn showed me your article. He said you wanted a
regular opinion column. It might be a good idea, as long as
your grade comes up and you don’t get controversial. No
abortion, no religion, and nothing about today’s botched
lockdown drill, okay? The board is on the fence about releasing the money for the paper; the last thing we need is
to upset them with an actual opinion about something that
matters.”
I opened my mouth, but words didn’t come out. He handed me back my fake homework. “Your first tutoring session starts now. He’s in the library.”

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25
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I tried. I really did, but it was ten million degrees in the library, and Finn was being a obstinate jerk. The fans set up in the stacks sounded like jackhammers, and my brain was melting.

I might have said a few things to him that were less than nice.
Finn finally stood up and slammed his book closed. “This isn’t going to work.” he said. “I’ll email Cleveland.” “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean

that.”
“You’re not even trying.”
I almost argued with him about that, but then I remembered that screwing this up meant Dad would get involved and that would end badly.

“I stayed up too late gaming,” I said. “Sleep deprivation makes me cranky. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
He sat back down. “Why do you have such a crappy attitude about math?”
“I don’t. I have a crappy attitude about everything.”
After that, I did a better job of listening and, eventually, the concept of rational functions started to make a little sense. At least it seemed like Finn was finally explaining it to me in English. The library slowly emptied and we both relaxed a little and before I knew it, an hour had gone by.
“Library closes in thirty minutes,” called the aide at the front desk.
Finn started shoving books into his backpack. “Did Cleveland talk to you about your next article?”
“More satire for a column I don’t want?”
“I didn’t get a chance to mention that, did I?”
I stared at the sea of equations on the page. “Do you really think he’ll cut me some slack?”
“He won’t pass you just for helping out with the paper.” Finn scratched his chin. “But let’s say you brought your F up to an almost C—”
“Impossible,” I said.
“Stranger things have happened,” he continued. “I bet a couple articles might take you from almost C into definite C territory. Or at least really-super-close to a C. Couldn’t hurt. What are you doing tonight?”
“Why?” I asked, hackles instantly up.
“Home football game, under the lights. I need you to cover it.”
“I don’t like high school football.”
“Neither does half the team.”
“I thought you were the sports writer.”
“And editor,” he reminded me.
“So why can’t you do it?’
He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Got a date.”
“Nobody says ‘date’ anymore.”
“Corner table,” scolded the library aide, waving her stapler at us. “Keep it down, please.”
We leaned our heads together. His body spray was at a less-than-toxic level.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispered, his lips close to my ear.
I tried to ignore the shiver that ran down my spine. “What?”
“I’ll pay you ten bucks if you cover the game.”
“Fifteen.”
“Done.” He stood up.
“We have another half hour,” I said in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“I have to get ready, remember? Big night.” He scribbled a number at the top of my problem sheet. “Call me tomorrow if you forget how to do polynomial functions.” He put his books in his backpack. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”
“How about ‘Keep your pants zipped’?”
“Do I have to?”
“First date?”
He nodded.
“If you want a second one with her, then, yeah, you should keep your pants zipped. And your belt buckled.”
“Do I get to kiss her, Grandma?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On if she feels like kissing you. God, Finn, haven’t you ever gone out on a date before?”
“Millions of them. I’m a world-class Casanova, women on five continents swoon at the mere sight of me,
People
magazine—”
I held up my hands. “Spare me the details. I’ll see you Monday.”

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20
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All of the bus windows were open on the ride home, but the air that poured through them came straight out of a volcanic eruption. I closed my eyes and thought about a long, ice-cold shower. After that, I’d eat a box of Popsicles and then, I’d call a limo to take me to the megaplex and I would watch movie after movie in air-conditioning so cold I’d need to buy a sweatshirt to prevent hypothermia.

Except that I was broke, so most of that plan was a mirage brought on by the ungodly temperature of the bus.
The shower would feel good, though. Maybe I’d eat a Popsicle in the shower, cool my inside and outside at the same time.
The bus stopped, wheezed open the doors, and let off another group of bedraggled students.
I didn’t want to go to the football game. It would be safer to ride my bike than ask Dad to drive me, and that meant I’d be sweat-soaked and gross again by the time I got there. And I’d be even grosser by the time I got home. I should have held out for twenty bucks. Maybe fifty.
The bus stopped in traffic, and the sun beat on the roof, broiling me like a cheap steak set too close to the coils at the top of the oven.
A cold shower, Popsicles, and then I would fill the bathtub with ice cubes and lie in it. The books I’d checked out of the library earlier in the week were still stacked on my bureau, whispering my name and begging to be read.
If Finn wanted me to write about the game, then he’d have to find a way to get me there and home again without me risking heatstroke. I checked the number he’d written in my notebook, dialed it, and listened to it ring twenty times before hanging up.
Who doesn’t have voice mail?
The Big Date must have already started. I started to text Gracie to ask if she knew who Finn was going out with, but I deleted the message. The information wasn’t worth alerting her Early Warning System. It was probably a girl from another school, anyway. He was a big flirt with an inflated opinion of himself. In fairness, he was sort of funny. And not entirely unattractive. My thoughts drifted to what he must look like in a Speedo, but I yanked them firmly back. The heat was causing my brain to short-circuit.
I stepped off the bus, wiped the sweat off my face, and started walking. Maybe I’d skip the game. I’d find a way to borrow the team statistics and eavesdrop by the jock table Monday morning to pick up a few quotes. That would work. Totally work.
The closer I got to home, the better I felt. I’d treat myself to a reading marathon all weekend. All the ice cream I could eat, all the pages I could read.
Heaven
.
The mood lasted until I saw the trucks crowded in our driveway: two shiny pickups, a battered SUV, and a Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, along with three motorcycles. They were stuffed full of camping equipment, fishing poles, coolers, and covered with military bumper stickers.
The windows of the house were open, shattered, maybe, by the deafening volume of the music being played in the living room. The song stopped and a loud chorus of voices, men’s voices, burst into laughter, name-calling, and cursing.
I opened the door. The living room and dining room beyond it were crowded with a dozen guys all older than me and younger than Dad, with military-short hair, black ink on jacked-up arms. They wore T-shirts stretched tight, silver dog-tag chains slipping under the collar. Despite the heat, they all wore long pants, jeans, or camo. A couple had knives hanging off their belts and sat with knees bouncing, eyes restless, darting on involuntary perimeter checks. Soldiers, for sure. Active duty infantry, on leave.
Dad sat in the middle of the couch, pale and tired compared to them, but looking more like himself than he had in months. He raised a can of soda high.
“Hayley Rose! Just in time!”