Words That Start With B (6 page)

Somehow Terry DiCarlo has figured out how to break into Benji’s locker. He doesn’t seem smart enough to pick a lock, so maybe someone did it for him. When people are afraid of you, you can make them do pretty much anything.

The first time he stole all of Benji’s stuff and left it in the mud outside by the track: backpack, gym clothes, textbooks, everything. Most of it we just threw in the washing machine, but cleaning the textbooks was a real pain. We had to wipe the pages, blow them dry with the hair dryer and then pile them under encyclopedias to try and flatten them because the pages had dried all puffy and wavy. They’re still readable, but I bet the school will make him pay for them at the end of the year.

Now Benji carries his books with him from class to class, but he has to keep his coat and hat in his locker. Last week we found them in the lost and found. And then today, at lunch, we find Terry wearing them, dancing around pretending to be Benji, singing rude songs in a high voice that sounds nothing at all like the real Benji.

“What are you looking at?” he snarls.

“Nothing much,” I say, tossing my hair and shrugging.

Terry glares at us and then spits, barely missing Benji’s toe. Disgusting.

“Clarissa, let’s go,” Benji whispers. He’s tucked his head as far down into the neck of his sweater as possible, like a turtle, and pulled the sleeves down over his hands, which are red from the cold.

“Do you want to die of hypothermia?” I ask him.

“No.”

“Do you want to go home and tell your dad he needs to buy you a new coat?”

Benji shakes his head. “Definitely, no.”

“Well then.”

“But—”

“But, nothing. I have a plan.”

I lean over and whisper in Benji’s ear. “Start laughing,” I hiss.

Benji looks stricken.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

Miracle of miracles, Benji manages to force a half smile and a choking noise. Lucky for him, I am a great actress. I throw my head back and laugh loudly.

“What’s so funny, stupid?” Terry asks.

“Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Terry takes a step closer, followed by his gang of idiots.

“Try me.”

“Well, I was just saying to Benji here that you look really good in girl’s clothing.”

“Huh?”

“That jacket used to be mine. But it seems to fit you really well in the shoulders.”

Terry’s moronic friends look at each other and snicker under their breath, too scared to laugh out loud. Terry looks from them to me and back again.

“Whatever. This isn’t a girl’s coat,” he says, but he looks unsure.

I shrug. “Whatever you say, Terry. It really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Terry’s nostrils flare like a bull’s and for a second I wonder if maybe I’ve gone too far. But then he unzips the jacket and flings it to the ground, kicking it into a pile of slush.

“Freak,” he spits, glaring at Benji. “Only someone like
you
would wear a girl’s coat.”

Terry walks over Benji’s coat as he leaves, careful to grind it deeper into the dirty snow. One after another, Terry’s friends follow behind him, adding their own muddy footprints. When they’re gone, Benji fishes his jacket out of the puddle with a stick. It’s too wet and too dirty to put on.

“We can wash it at my house after school,” I offer.

Benji nods.

“Ahoy there, mateys!” Bundled up in a puffy jacket, Harry Potter scarf and a huge hat with ear flaps, Mr. Campbell is instantly recognizable. No other teacher has less style. “Tad cold to be out without a jacket on, Mr. Denton.”

Benji shrugs, but it’s hard to tell under all that shivering.

I look meaningfully at his jacket, dripping off the stick.

“It would be even colder if he put it on,” I say.

“Good grief! What were you doing, ice fishing?”

This is normally the sort of lame joke that would make Benji smile, but Terry DiCarlo has a way of ruining even the lamest of jokes for him. That plus the cold have rendered him speechless, and he just stares miserably at his feet.

Loud laughter makes us all turn around. Over by the tire swing, Terry DiCarlo is doing his Benji impressions again. Benji shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He looks positively blue.

“Sir Benjamin, why don’t you head on in early? If you hang your coat over the radiator it should dry out before you head home for the day. Here’s the washroom pass; you can go get yourself set up for math.”

Benji takes the pass from Mr. Campbell and scurries toward the portable, taking his coat on a stick with him.

“Should I go with him?” I ask.

“Mr. Denton knows his way,” Mr. Campbell says. “But perhaps you could fill me in on what I missed?”

Everything, I want to say. That’s the problem. Teachers miss everything. If I tell him what really happened, then Terry and company will know I ratted them out and they’ll make it even worse for Benji. Where was Mr. Campbell when Benji’s locker was broken into, or when his coat was being trampled? It shouldn’t be my job to clue him in on what’s been happening right in front of his eyes. He’s the teacher, not me.

When it becomes clear that I have nothing more to say, Mr. Campbell sighs and says, “It seems you’ve been struck with selective amnesia. Well, if you remember something, I hope you’ll come to me.”

Doubtful.

After school Benji and I are walking home, trying to guess which people in our class will be invited to Min’s birthday, when Benji points across the street and says, “Hey, isn’t that Betsy Blue?”

Betsy Blue is the name of our car. My mother has called it by that name for as long as I can remember. Sure enough, Betsy Blue is parked under a tree across from the school and mom is sitting behind the wheel, biting her nails, even though she knows Denise will give her heck for it later.

“What’s she doing here?” Benji asks. “Do you have a dentist appointment or something?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

As we’re crossing the street, Mom looks up and spots us. She smiles and waves us in.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, climbing into the front seat. “How come you’re not at work?”

Mom starts the car and heads toward home. “I didn’t have any clients this afternoon, so I thought I’d pick you up.”

I frown. It’s Friday afternoon; there are always clients on Friday afternoons. People like to get their hair cut so they can be fresh and cute for the weekend.

“That’s weird,” I say, but if she hears me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Benji, is it all right if I drop you off at home? Clarissa and I have some errands to do.”

“Sure.”

“Can’t he come with us?” I ask.

“Not this time, Clarissa.”

Something weird is going on. Benji is practically my brother. Sometimes I think Mom likes him more than she likes me. She’s always going on about his manners and work ethic and what a sweet kid he is. He comes over practically every day, even Christmas. What kind of errands do we have to do that he can’t come along for? Maybe I do have an appointment I forgot about. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I saw the eye doctor, or the dentist for that matter.

Mom pulls up in front of Benji’s house. “Have a nice evening, hon. Say hello to your dad for me.”

Mom smiles at him in the rear-view mirror.

I watch Benji get out of the car and trudge up his front stairs. He turns around once to wave. Mom backs out of the driveway and heads downtown. The health complex is in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I thought I’d take you for ice cream,” Mom says.

“Why couldn’t Benji come then?”

“Just us girls today,” Mom says. “We have some things to discuss.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s wait till we get our ice cream. How was school today?”

But I don’t want to talk about school. Why is my mother
taking me out for ice cream on a Friday afternoon when I know very well we have frozen yogurt in the freezer at home?

There aren’t very many people at the Dairy Queen, which isn’t all that surprising, since it’s late November and it’s getting much colder. Not that the temperature matters to me. Personally, I’ve never understood why people don’t eat ice cream in the winter. Just because it’s cold outside doesn’t make it any less delicious.

“Order anything you like,” Mom says.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Anything.”

I order a banana split with the works: three scoops of ice cream, chocolate, caramel and strawberry sauce, peanuts, whip cream and sprinkles. Mom gets a baby vanilla cone. I go to sit in a booth by the window, but Mom wants to sit closer to the back.

“It’s too loud up there,” she says. “Too many people.”

So we sit at a table in the very back, near the back door. There’s a bit of a draft, so I keep my coat on. I dig into my split, trying to make sure every spoonful has a little bit of everything in each bite. It’s a lot harder than you’d think. Sometimes I have to use my finger to scoop a peanut or a bit of sauce on top.

“Clarissa, I have something to tell you, and I’m just going to say it. I want you to listen and not say anything until I’m done. Then you can ask anything you want. Can you do that?”

What kind of a question is that? Apparently my own mother thinks I am an imbecile incapable of hearing someone out.

“Can you do that?” she asks again.

I nod.

“I want to hear you say yes, I can do that.”

“Yes, I can do that,” I say, rolling my eyes and licking caramel sauce off my plastic spoon.

“I picked you up today on my way home from the hospital. I had a meeting with an oncologist, Dr. Fairbanks.”

The hospital?

“An oncologist is a doctor who specializes in cancer. Clarissa, honey, I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

Mom stops and watches me, letting the words sink in. I wait for the punch line. It has to be a joke. Not a very funny one, but then again most of Mom’s jokes are pretty lame. The ice cream hardens in my throat. I manage to force it down, but I don’t take another bite.

Mom continues, “Dr. Fairbanks says there is no reason to panic, as they caught it at an early stage. I’m going to have surgery in a few weeks, followed by chemotherapy. I’ve asked Denise to come stay with us for awhile, to help out while I’m recovering.”

“Denise knows?”

“Clarissa, I asked you not to interrupt. Yes, Denise knows. She is my best friend. I asked her to come to the hospital with me. Sometimes you need another adult with you. I didn’t want to worry you until I knew what was going on.”

I want to tell her to slow down, start from the beginning. I hear all the things she’s saying, but they don’t make any sense. Her lips are still moving but my brain can’t seem to catch up.

“I’ll be working up until my surgery, and then I’ll have to take some time off. The General Hospital doesn’t have a cancer ward, and so I’ll be staying in London while I get my chemotherapy.”

Cancer? Surgery? London? Denise? Chemotherapy? There are so many things I want to shout, but I can’t. I don’t
even know where to start. I can’t believe that only ten feet away people are trying to decide whether to get a chocolate-dipped cone or a small Blizzard, completely unaware that my whole life is changing. Five minutes ago I was just like them, and now all of a sudden I’m a person whose mother has cancer.

“I know you’re overwhelmed, and you must have lots of questions. But I just needed to get it all out first. Now, ask me anything you want. Anything.”

Unbelievably, Mom is smiling at me. I recognize that smile, it’s the one she gives to little kids who don’t want to get their hair cut; the one she uses to charm them into letting her take her scissors to their head and chop away to her heart’s content. Well, she’s not coming anywhere near me with that smile, I know what she’s up to. I will not be talked down to. She reaches for my hand, but I pull it back. I don’t like being touched in public. She
knows
that.

“It’s important to talk about this, honey.”

I open my mouth to speak, but instead of words, ice cream comes rushing up my throat and I puke all over the table.

***

At home, Mom lays a bunch of pamphlets at the edge of my bed: Cancer in the Family; Breast Cancer FAQs; Cancer is a Word, Not a Sentence.

“I thought you might want to look at these,” she explains. “In case you have any questions you’re too embarrassed to ask. Next week we’re going to see Dr. Fairbanks, you can ask him anything you like then.”

“We?”

“He thinks it’s important for you to come along.”

I wait until she leaves before tossing the brochures in the waste basket.

Benji calls around seven.

“Wanna come over?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“My dad’s not here. He went to a hockey game.”

“Maybe.”

“We can watch
TV
.”

“There’s nothing good on Friday nights.”

“He left money for pizza.”

“Fine. But no mushrooms.”

“Can’t you just pick them off?”

“No, I can still taste them.”

“What if I ask them just to put mushrooms on half?”

“Fine.”

“Okay, see you soon?”

“I’m coming right now. I’ll bring pop.”

Mom is in her room on the phone, probably spreading the bad news. I wonder who she’s talking to, and why they have to know our business. I put my coat on, stuff two cans of root beer into the pockets and wait till I’m practically out the door before yelling, “I’m going to Benji’s!” Then I slam the door behind me and run to Benji’s before she can say anything back.

Benji is waiting for me at the door. He frowns as I burst into the house, gasping for breath.

“Did you run here?” he asks.

I can’t answer right away because I’m trying to catch my breath.

“What does it look like?”

“You never run.”

“I do so, just not in gym class. Did you order the pizza?”

“Yup. If it’s not here in thirty-five more minutes, then it’s free.”

“Great. Here’s your root beer. Anything good on
TV
?”

Benji’s house is set up exactly like mine. All the rooms are in the same place, except at Benji’s, nothing matches. David Denton has been married twice, and neither of those women was around long enough to spiff the place up a bit. Benji’s mom died in a car accident when he was only two, and his ex-stepmom Gayle wasn’t really the decorating type. Or the mom type, come to think of it. She was the bingo-playing, heavy-smoking, soap opera-watching type. She’s been gone for four years and their basement still smells like cigarettes. The worst thing about Gayle was that she hated dogs, and used to say terrible things under her breath whenever a dog walked by or started barking outside, almost like she was cursing them. We used to call her the Gulch, like Miss Gulch, the mean lady in
The Wizard of Oz
who wants to hurt Toto. The Gulch could be really fun, but she didn’t like much of anything and spent most of her time complaining. We could talk about the Gulch right in front of her and she never got it. I guess she wasn’t the smart type, either.

The only room that’s really put together is Benji’s room, but we never hang out in there because it’s pretty small and he doesn’t like things to get mussed up. We usually end
up in the basement. David has a big
TV
with over five hundred channels, surround sound and one of those extra-long corner couches that looks expensive but is really made of fake leather. He has a real leather La-Z-Boy, but we’re not allowed to sit on it. Not that I care. Who’d want to sit in an old chair when you can spread out over a whole couch? At Benji’s, you can turn the
TV
up as loud as you want and no one tells you to turn it down. But even with all this cool stuff, Benji still would rather be at my house. He says it gets too quiet here.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.

“Sure. But you figure it out. I can never get the thingy to work.”

Benji picks up one of three remote controls and a menu pops up with all the different movie choices. Most of them are Oscar types. Boring.

“Can you find something funny?” I ask.

“I’ll try,” Benji says.

While he wades through the long list of movies, I think about Mom and whether I want to tell Benji about the C word. Mom told me that I should, but I don’t know if I want to. He’ll probably get upset and cry and I hate when people cry. Plus he might want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not sure it’s even real. How can you tell someone you have the C word and then come home like everything is normal and blab on the phone to your friends all night? Maybe it will go away on its own, like when some people get the flu they are sick for days and other people get over it in twenty-four hours. How can I tell Benji about it when we don’t really know for sure,
for sure,
yet? I’d be worrying him for nothing.

The doorbell rings and I jump up.

“I’ll get it, where’s the money?”

“On the counter,” Benji says.

Pizza makes everything better. There is nothing that a hot slice of cheesy-tomatoey goodness can’t fix, especially with lots of salty pepperoni. Delicious. I scarf down three slices before Benji asks about this afternoon.

“Did you have a doctor’s appointment?”

“No.”

“Dentist?”

“No.”

I reach for my fourth slice. I am not about to let a bunch of Nosy-Parker questions ruin a good pizza.

“Was it about your dad?”

I hadn’t even thought about my dad. Talk about a perfect cover story; Benji would be too embarrassed to ask a lot of questions, and he’d never have to know about my mom. It would be a pretty big lie to tell though, and although I have nothing against lying, I’ve never been able to lie to Benji.

“No.”

Benji puts his pizza down and looks at me very seriously. He takes a deep breath before asking, “Are you moving?”

“No. It’s nothing like that,” I say, but I can tell that he doesn’t believe me.

“You don’t want to tell me,” Benji says. He looks disappointed.

“It’s just not important enough. I don’t want to worry you.”

Benji looks alarmed.

“If it’s not important, why would I be worried?” he asks.

This is going all wrong.

“It’s just my mom. She has to go see a doctor.”

“Why?”

“Because she might—” but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.

“Die?” Benji whispers.

“Cripes! Don’t be so dramatic! It’s just, I mean she might have—” I lower my voice before finishing “—cancer.”

There. I said it. Benji is staring at me like I said she had to have a face transplant or something unbelievable like that. When he speaks his voice is hushed, too.

“Cancer?”

I shrug.

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“Well, this one doctor thinks so, but she’s acting like it’s nothing, and she doesn’t seem sick, so maybe he was wrong. She’s going to see another doctor next week.”

“Okaaaay,” Benji says, “but one doctor already said she had it?”

“Yeah, so? She needs a second opinion. People are always getting second opinions.” At least on
TV
they are.

“What kind is it?”

A red hot flush rushes up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.

“Can we please talk about something else? You’re ruining my pizza.”

“Sorry, it’s just, wow. Cancer. I’ve never known anyone with cancer before.”

“
Maybe
cancer.”

“Maybe cancer. I’m sorry, Clarissa.”

“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything. Besides, I said I wasn’t talking about it anymore.”

“Right. Sorry.”

We chew in silence until I can’t stand it anymore. I can
practically hear Benji feeling sorry for me. That won’t do at all.

“So did you get the thingy to work?” I ask.

Benji nods. “Yup.”

“So what are we watching?”

“
Miss Congeniality
.”

On a scale of one to five, I’d only give
Miss Congeniality
two stars. But Benji loves anything with a makeover in it, and I’ll do anything to keep him distracted enough to forget about my mom, so
Miss Congeniality
it is.

***

A little bit later the phone rings. Benji answers. After a second he hangs up.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Benji shrugs.

“Wrong number,” he says.

Ten seconds later the phone rings again. Benji looks at it but doesn’t make a move to answer.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“It’s probably the same people.”

“What if it’s for your dad?”

Benji hesitates and picks it up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

This time he hangs up right away.

“Same guy?”

He nods but doesn’t say a word. When the phone rings for the third time he doesn’t even look at it. This is starting to get annoying.

“Cripes!”

“Just leave it,” he says.

“They probably wrote the number down wrong. Here, I’ll get it.”

Benji puts an arm out to stop me but I’ve always been way stronger than him. I grab the phone and check out the number, but the screen says blocked
ID
.

“Benji, what are you doing? Let me get the phone!”

“It’s not worth it, let’s just watch the movie.”

“Hello?”

“Don’t hang up on me, freak! What’s the matter? You on a date with a boy? Are you doing each other’s hair? Playing dress up?”

“Who is this?” I demand.

But no one answers. There’s a click and then the drone of the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Benji turns up the
TV
and pretends to be totally engrossed in Sandra Bullock and her silly beauty pageant antics.

“Have you got phone calls like that before?” I ask.

Benji feigns surprise. “Like what?” he says.

“Don’t be stupid, Benji. Do they call here a lot?”

“Was it a wrong number?”

“Cripes, Benji! Does your dad know?”

Benji pales, but he refuses to tear his eyes from the
TV
screen.

“Of course not. And don’t tell him. He’d just get angry.”

I grab the remote and turn off the
TV.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the phone calls?”

“You weren’t going to tell me about your mom.”

“That’s different!” I explode. “That’s personal! This is, this is—” but I can’t think of an appropriate word.

“They’re just crank calls,” Benji says.

“So? I still think you should tell your dad. No one would ever call here again after the Dentonator gave them an earful.”

“He’d probably think I brought it on myself.”

“No he wouldn’t,” I protest, but part of me knows that Benji is right.

“Can we please turn the movie back on now?” he asks.

I’m far too angry to sit still and watch a movie, but Benji looks so pitiful that I can’t say no. Try as I might, I can’t get back into the plot. My mind feels like it’s racing a hundred miles an hour. I can’t get that ugly voice out of my head, and I wonder if there is anything else Benji isn’t telling me.