Ruby on the Outside

  “Good morning,” Matoo answers.

  I don’t say anything which is not like me, but this isn’t a day care center. Nobody cares.

  “Table sixteen,” Officer Rubins says. He checks us off. Now it’s up to him when he decides to call the housing unit and let them know that prisoner 556731 has visitors.

  That is the number my mother has to recite when they do a count. Twice a day, every day, or more if they need to. Not Janis Danes, her maiden name. Not even Janis Sands, her married name. But prisoner 556731.

  Matoo had explained to me that the prison count was like Buddy count on a field trip. And I used to believe that. It reminded me of being at the Bronx Zoo when Mrs. Clark blew her whistle and shouted, Buddy count! We had to stop whatever we were doing, find our assigned buddy, and hold our clasped hands up in the air. We couldn’t lower our arms until Mrs. Clark had counted each and every one of us.

  I loved Mrs. Clark. She was one of my favorite teachers. You could just tell she cared so much about us. She wanted to make sure we were all safe and that she hadn’t lost anyone in the zoo.

  “This is a big, huge park,” she told us. “I want us to have fun, but I don’t want anyone to wander away from the group and be scared.”

  Matoo and I sit down at our table and wait.

  My mother let me get lost.

  And now I have to find myself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the longest time I thought that my mother got put in prison because she got in trouble. “Trouble” the way kids use it.

  Like: Don’t do that—you’ll get in trouble.

  Or worse: Better not do that you’ll get in big trouble.

  So for a long time, I was terrified of getting in trouble. Of being bad. And for some reason, I felt like I was always just a hair away from doing something wrong. And getting in trouble.

  But sometimes trouble just sneaks up and smacks you in the back of the head.

  “Ow.” I turned around.

  I watched a pencil roll across my desk and hit the floor. Someone had thrown a pencil at me. It was Trevor, I was sure.

  Trevor was a bully. He bothered kids for no reason. He didn’t seem to care who he hurt and he never got caught. I suspect that he was aiming for the boy in front of me but I got hit.

  I was only in third grade at the time, old enough to know better, but I leaned over and picked up the pencil. I even looked up at the front of the room and waited until I saw our Spanish teacher writing on the board. And then I threw the pencil back at him. It whirled through the air, tip over eraser, in a nice easy glide. I hadn’t meant to, but it was aimed right at Trevor’s face. He wasn’t expecting it, so he wasn’t looking and it hit him—just my luck—point forward, right in his cheek.

  It stuck there for what felt like ten seconds, was probably just a split second, but long enough to leave a deep black imprint, and then fell.

  Trevor jumped up.

  “Oh, God. I’ve been poisoned,” he shouted. “Ruby Danes stabbed me with a pencil. Look.” He couldn’t have seen it himself but he pointed right to the mark on his face. Of course, everybody looked. Including Señora Bavido.

  Trevor got sent to the nurse and I got in-school detention for two days. No recess. After lunch I had to report to my classroom and sit at my desk while everyone else was outside playing.

  I could look right out the window. There was Kristin running around with a bunch of girls. I wasn’t really friends with them, but I had known them for two whole years. I knew they were playing TV tag, a game that if you can shout out the name of a TV show and squat down before you get tagged you are safe. I didn’t have a best friend, but if I was out there, I probably would have been playing TV tag too.

  When Kristin ran right by the big glass window I lifted my hand to wave.

  I don’t even think Kristin saw me.

  Matoo knew I had gotten detention. She had to sign a piece of paper saying she knew.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ruby,” she told me that morning. “It wasn’t your fault. Just be more careful next time. Don’t throw pencils even if someone threw one at you first. You don’t want to get into trouble.”

  No, of course not. I didn’t try to get into trouble.

  I didn’t even try to hit Trevor. I could throw that same pencil a hundred times and not hit him like that ever again. I stand at the plate for Wiffle ball every year in gym class and I’ve never the ball once. Hitting Trevor right in the cheek with that skinny pencil was the definition of an accident and yet there I was. In detention.

  I looked outside again at the world that was kept from me and then it occurred to me. Was I being kept from the world?

  Had I been so bad that everyone out there was in danger of being stabbed in the face by a crazy pencil-wielding eight-year-old?

  I raised my hand.

  “There’s no talking in detention,” the detention teacher said. “But what is it?”

  “Why am I here?” I asked her.

  “You know exactly why you are here.” The teacher quickly shuffled through some papers on the desk that wasn’t hers, but she was using for this period, to guard me and the only other kid in the room, Carlos, who didn’t do his homework for a whole week and had no excuse.

  “I mean, why why? What good will it do?”

  “You will learn a lesson,” she said. She stopped looking for whatever she was looking for. “You are being punished. Kids today think there are no repercussions. Do you know that means?”

  I nodded. I did.

  “Consequences,” Carlos shouted from the back of the room. He was supposed to be doing his homework while he was here, so his detention made a little more sense to me.

  “Exactly,” the teacher said.

  “But I didn’t do anything on purpose.”

  “There are consequences for accidents, too. Young people need to learn to be responsible for their actions.”

  I thought about that. It didn’t make sense. I knew I could have chosen not to throw the pencil but I still didn’t see why sitting here instead of playing outside was teaching me a lesson. It was just making me sad and mad and lonely.

  Now I just really hated Trevor Sullivan for being a bully and for never getting caught and for getting me trouble because of his big mouth.

  “Yeah, Ruby. No one made you throw that pencil,” Carlos said. I think he liked talking more than doing his math homework. He didn’t want the conversation to end.

  “Is that what happened?” the teacher asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But the other kid threw it at me first. I’ve never thrown a pencil before.”

  “And I bet you’ll never do it again. Huh, Ruby?” Carlos added.

  That was true.

  “Maybe that’s the best we can do,” the teacher said.

  “So that’s my lesson?” I asked the teacher but I knew the answer. I was being punished and Trevor wasn’t, and that was just the way it was. So sure the world was a safer place but not for me.

  At the end of the period, Carlos bolted out the door. I just sat there.

  “I know it seems unfair.” The teacher came over and stood by my desk.

  If she was now going to tell me that life’s unfair, I thought I was going to throw a pencil at her.

  “And in many ways it is, Ruby. I know.”

  It is?

  “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you didn’t get to play outside today. But I have to say, I did enjoy talking with you. Maybe you’ll get detention again and we’ll get to spend more time together.”

  I knew she was joking.

  She meant to be nice, but I didn’t think it was funny at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  Right now, while Matoo and I are waiting at table sixteen, I can see there are three little kids in the children’s center: two little girls, and a boy who loo
ks like he’s about five years old. They are coloring and playing games because they don’t understand.

  Maybe one of them will try and ask the corrections officer to let her take her mother home. Maybe that little girl thinks today is soon enough. Today she’s waited for so long, and she’s been so good, done everything everyone told her. So why isn’t her mother coming home with her?

  To cook her dinner. To tuck her into bed. To tell her she’s good and pretty and loved. Help her with her homework. And tell her that everything’s going to be okay.

  Life is unfair. Everybody knows that. Teachers and parents say it all the time. But if everyone knows it, why do they let it happen?

  Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?

  Life wouldn’t be so unfair if people did something about it.

  I know that what my mother did was a lot worse than throwing a pencil. She left her daughter alone in an apartment and went with her husband to hold up a store, because he asked her to, and someone who didn’t deserve to, someone who was totally innocent, lost their life.

  No, someone didn’t lose their life that day.

  Two people did.

  Josh Tipps. And me. I lost the life I was supposed to have that day too.

  Maybe if she hadn’t gone, Nick wouldn’t have gone. Maybe if she had just been a little stronger and said, No, this isn’t right, he wouldn’t have done it. At least not that night, not the night that Margalit’s brother, Josh, was working behind the counter.

  Maybe if my mother had loved me more than she wanted Nick to love her, none of this would have happened at all. If my mother loved me at all, she wouldn’t have let this happen.

  I hate her now for not loving me enough. I hate myself for not being lovable enough.

  I hear that sound, the door cranking open. And there she is, walking in through the door behind the big desk where Officer Rubins is sitting, the big desk with the paper chimney.

  I am angry. I am so angry. It’s not going to work.

  My mother ruined my life and it’s only going to get worse. The first best friend I’ve ever had is going to find out who I really am. She’s going to find out what my mother did. Sooner or later she’s bound to find out.

  And then she’ll hate me forever and I didn’t even do anything.

  And even if Margalit never finds out, I’ll know. I’ll know that I’m lying to my best friend every day.

  My mother doesn’t see us right away. She walks into the visitors’ room and I watch her looking all around. She is, of course, in green, all green. Visitors are not allowed to wear green, but that’s not a problem for me. I’ve made sure I don’t own one green thing. Not a shirt, or a sweater, a sweatshirt, or pants. Not even green socks.

  My mother’s hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looks young, I think. Younger than other moms I’ve seen at school. I’ve only ever seen her this way. Her hair up or her hair down. Sometimes she wears a little makeup. Sometimes none at all. But always in green. She doesn’t seem to get older. But I have.

  She hasn’t seen us yet, because usually I call out her name and start waving from my seat. Today I can’t. My inside and my outside are colliding. Everything is about to spill over the top, making a mess on the stovetop.

  And I make a little sound, that same little gasp that came out of Larissa’s mouth when she saw her mom come into the room. It comes from a place that is so deep, so old, and so wounded. It just escapes from your heart without your consent. Like finding a piece of your own body that was broken off and now, there you see it. It’s so close. There it is.

  My mom sees us.

  I can tell by the look on her face, even from this far across the whole room: recognition. She knows me.

  I am her daughter.

  And she is my mother.

  And Rebecca? Where is she now? She didn’t keep anything inside and look where that got her. Look how it hurt her. I imagine her on the streets somewhere, all alone. Just standing there, waiting. Except no one knows where she, is so she’s waiting for nothing.

  My mother is walking this way. She has a big smile on her face.

  And Tevin?

  I do miss Tevin. He was always so hopeful. It was infectious, like he would never give up and he never had to. Not in my mind, where he lives now. In my mind, he will always believe in soon.

  My mother must not see the hard, steely expression on my face because she bends down and hugs me just like it’s any other regular visiting day. Just like nothing has changed. Because for her, nothing has. But for me, everything has changed.

  “Oh, my sweetie. My sweetheart. My Ruby heart,” my mother says.

  I try and tell my outside to stiffen up and protect me, but my inside doesn’t listen and when my mother’s arms are all the way around me, my inside breaks into a million little pieces.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” my mother is saying. She doesn’t let go. She holds me tighter. “What is it? You can tell me. Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m so mad at you,” I yell. I think I yell. It sounds like a yell inside my head. I say it again and I wait for the whole world to fall apart but instead I feel my mother’s strong arms around my shoulders, pressing my whole body into hers. Her voice is my mother’s voice, will always be my mother’s voice. Her skin is her skin, is her skin is her hair, is my skin and my hair, and her eyes and her hands, and my heart and her heart.

  And now all I can do is cry.

  They make me leave the visitors’ room. They don’t allow outbursts of excessive emotion. I guess it’s like a yawn. It can trigger everyone else to start yawning. Or sobbing, as the case may be. I make a beeline for the bathrooms just past the first set of doors.

  I’m outside now. I can’t go back in without going through all those procedures.

  And then, Matoo is sitting in the bathroom with me.

  Just thinking about how awful my mother feels right now, because of me, makes me sick to my stomach. The scene I made, she was powerless to prevent, powerless to help, powerless to even stay and wait for me to calm down. They will take her away now. They will put hours, days, weeks of metal bars between us, all because I couldn’t control myself.

  I can’t control myself.

  “I’m going to be sick, Matoo,” I say.

  “It’s okay. Here.” She walks me into the stall, pushing open the door with one hand and holding back my hair with the other.

  I puke. I mean I really puke.

  “It’s okay,” Matoo says when I am finished. “Rinse up. Splash some water on your face.” She walks me over to the sinks.

  My mother is gone.

  She’s gone. There nothing and no power on earth or in heaven that’s going let me see my mother again today. I sent her away. I did that. I hurt my mother. I know she’s a mess now, wondering what’s wrong with me and not being able to do anything about it. She’ll want to call, but she can’t just use the phone whenever she wants to.

  I know she’ll want to.

  I start sobbing all over again and now I feel like I’m going to throw up a second time. I am thinking about my mother and Margalit, and Josh Tipps. And Margalit’s mother, who will hate me forever. How could she not?

  She should.

  I hate myself.

  And if, by some miracle, she didn’t hate me, she’d never be able to look at me the same.

  It’s all ruined. I’ve lost my best friend and I’ve lost my mother.

  “Breathe,” Matoo says. “Try and calm down. Then tell me what’s going on.”

  I don’t throw up again, but I feel my legs getting weaker. My knees give out and my whole body slides down along the wall until I am sitting on the floor.

  I can see it in Matoo’s face: Oh, that dirty floor. That dirty wall.

  Ruby, she wants to say, what’s the matter with you? It’s filthy in here
. Straighten yourself up. Stand up. Pull yourself together.

  Get over it. Put it lid on it.

  But she doesn’t.

  I watch as Matoo slithers down, her back against the wall, until she slides right next to me. She doesn’t let her bottom touch, but instead she kind of balances on the heels of her shoes.

  “Tell me, Ruby. What’s going on?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once upon a time, a long time ago, before I was born, there were two sisters who lived in an apartment alone with their mother; just three weeks earlier their dad had run off with another woman. So now it was just the three of them, and because the mom started spending a lot of time in bed, the older sister had to do a lot, like making meals and making beds and making sure the two sisters got to school on time.

  And the mother kept sleeping a lot.

  And then one morning the mother didn’t wake up forever.

  Since their dad was nowhere to be found and their mom was now gone, the two sisters went to live with strangers but at least they got to stay together. Things in that house of strangers were not always nice. But still, the older sister tried to keep things as normal as she could, as tight as she could, as controlled as she could. She vowed she would always take care of her little sister.

  But the world around them was out of control.

  And then the two sisters grew up. One stayed as close to the rules and limits as she could, pushing only the buttons she knew would work. The other sister, the younger one, kept running around, edging close to the limits, peeking over the top, pushing any button she could, as if she was trying to find the one that would wake up their mother that morning and make everything safe again.

  “That was my mother?” I ask Matoo. “The younger sister?”

  “Yes, sweetheart. That was your mother.” Matoo is still crouching with me on the bathroom floor. A few people have come and gone. They take one look at us, do their business, wash their hands and leave. No one seems to think it’s strange.

  Here, nothing is strange. No one is judged because everyone has been judged already.