We don’t have a nurse at our school. If one of us has a temperature, Miss Otis calls our parents. If it’s an emergency, of course, she’d dial 911. But if it’s only a bump or a scrape or a cut or a bruise, Miss Otis takes care of it herself.
“Wow!” she said when she looked at my arm. “Now that looks nasty, doesn’t it?” She guided me into the little room just off the office. It has a sink in one corner, a cot, a blanket, a basin, and a chair. She led me over to the sink.
“Now, this is going to hurt a little, Alice,” she told me, “but we’ve got to get the dirt out. I’ll be as gentle as I can.” Her brown eyes searched my own, and her brown shoulder-length hair brushed against my cheek. She had almond-shaped eyes and skin that always looked tanned, even in winter. She was new to our school this year, and all the boys called her sexy.
I gritted my teeth and tried not to look as she washed my arm with soap and water, but she made me laugh a little the way she kept saying “Ouch” for me. Her fingers were long and slender, and her nails had rose-colored polish on them.
When the wound was all cleaned out, she examined my arm again. “It’s really not a deep scrape, but sometimes these shallow cuts and scrapes bleed like crazy,” she said.
She had me sit down on a chair next to the cot while she put some ointment on the wound. After that it didn’t hurt as much. It was when she was wrapping a bandage loosely around my arm that I thought what a kind and beautiful stepmother she would make.
I watched her as she taped the bandage. She didn’t look anything like the pictures of my mom. Mother’s skin was freckled, and her hair was strawberry blond, like mine. Miss Otis reminded me more of a green olive than a strawberry, but my dad likes olives, too. I decided right then that I was somehow going to arrange for Dad and Miss Otis to meet each other.
At lunch all the girls wanted to sit next to me, and they cast angry glances at the boys’ table. But while I was eating my cheese and cucumber sandwich, I was thinking of all the reasons Dad could come here to school and meet Miss Otis. Back-to-school night had already come and gone, and unless I got into real trouble, Dad wouldn’t be called to the office. Even if he was, it would be to talk with Mr. Serio, our principal, not Miss Otis.
The only thing I could think of was my arm. I might never be sick again the rest of the year. This might be my only chance. So that afternoon, around two’clock, I went up to Mrs. Swick and told her I didn’t feel so good.
“Really?” she said. “Is it your arm?”
I nodded. “I think maybe it’s infected,” I said.
She put her hand on my forehead. “Are you sure this doesn’t have something to do with math?” she asked. She had just told us to do all the problems on page forty-seven.
“No, it really hurts,” I said. “Maybe I’m going to throw up.”
“Then if you’re feeling that sick, you’d better go back to Miss Otis,” she said. “Dawn, would you please walk her to the office?” Teachers always do that when you’re sick—ask another student to walk with you to make sure you don’t faint on the way or something.
Dawn put her arm around my waist, and I moaned a few times as we went down the hall. She gave me a pitying look and left me just inside the door.
“Now what?” Miss Otis said when she’d finished talking with someone on the phone.
“I don’t feel so good,” I said. “I think maybe you ought to call my dad to come and get me.”
“Are you feeling warm or what?” Miss Otis asked.
“Sort of like I might throw up,” I told her.
When Miss Otis took me in the sick room this time, she sat me on the cot and placed the basin on the floor between my feet. I wondered how many other kids had thrown up in this very basin and imagined pink and green and brown stuff splattering all over their shoes and socks.
“Did you just now start feeling this way?” she asked.
“No, it was right after I hurt my arm. I think it’s infected,” I said.
She looked at my arm again. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
I remembered how Dad acted when he saw that scrape on my leg after I’d tried to shave it. “You’d better call him,” I said. “He told me he needs to know when I get hurt.”
She studied me seriously for a minute or two. “Did you hurt your head when you fell, Alice?”
“I’m… not sure,” I said.
“Okay. Is your father at home or at work?” she asked.
“Work. He’s the manager of the Melody Inn Music Store,” I said. “He knows everything there is about music.”
“Hmm,” she said. But finally she went back to her desk and looked up my folder. Then she called the Melody Inn.
I couldn’t hear what she was saying because some kids came in the office just then and they were arguing about something and Mr. Serio was scolding them. Finally, though, Miss Otis hung up and came back in the sick room.
“Alice, your dad says he can’t get away just now because he has to fill in for a violin instructor, but he’s going to call the high school and have your brother come by to pick you up.”
“No!” I said. This was working out all wrong.
“High school lets out in twenty minutes, Alice. He’ll be here soon. I think you can hold out until then,” she said.
I lay down and closed my eyes and tried not to think of throwing up for real. For the next half hour I listened to people coming in and out of the office, the phone ringing, teachers talking, and—at last—Lester’s voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he seemed to be taking his time getting in here.
Finally he followed Miss Otis through the doorway and looked down at me.
“Hey, meatball,” he said. “How you doin’?” He reached for my arm and looked it over. “I don’t see any red streaks. No gangrene.”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, I’ve got my bike outside. Think you can hold on long enough for me to get you home?”
Wordlessly, I got up from the cot. Miss Otis had sent someone for my jacket, and Lester helped me put it on.
“Thanks,” he said to Miss Otis. And then he added, with a twinkle in his eye, “And any time you want a ride on my bike, just give me a call.”
She laughed. “I’m afraid my boyfriend would have something to say about that.”
She had a boyfriend?
“Darn!” said Lester, smiling at her again. And then, turning to me, he led me outside and over to his bike.
“Hop on,” he said, holding the bike steady while I climbed up on the bar and grabbed hold of the handlebars. Then, swinging one leg over the seat, Lester got on, and a minute later we were careening out the school driveway, past the crossing guards, who didn’t even try to stop us.
“Man!” said Lester. “That Otis babe is hot!”
“Oh, shut up, Lester!” I said. “Just shut up.”
11
A VERY DARK DAY
BY THE TIME APRIL ROLLED AROUND I decided that fifth grade was just a joke. One of my best friends had moved away, there was an ugly scrape on my arm, I was going to grow up with a hairy leg, and Miss Otis already had a boyfriend. If I ever got a stepmom, it would probably be Mrs. Sheavers, and the only thing worse than waking up each morning to find her making pancakes would be to find Donald sitting at our table eating them.
Lester’s life was going okay, though. He had already applied to Montgomery College for the fall semester, Dad was going to buy him a used car as a graduation present, and the senior prom was coming up in May. He had been saving his money and was making plans for where he and Lisa would go after the prom.
It takes a lot of money to go to a prom, and Dad wasn’t very sympathetic, I could tell.
“In my day,” he said one evening at dinner, “we bought the tickets, the corsage, borrowed our dad’s car, and took our dates to the Chicken Basket first for dinner. Nobody rented a tux, nobody rode in a limo… . It’s ridiculous, Lester.”
“So tell that to Lisa!” Les said. “What do you want me t
o do on prom night? Take her to McDonald’s?”
“I already told you that you could use my car. A limo will put you back… what? A couple hundred?”
“We’re going in with two other couples on the limo, and Lisa’s paying for the photographs,” Lester said.
“Well, in my day—”
“This isn’t your day!” Lester said impatiently. “When you were dating, did you always do whatever your dad had done when he was in high school? I don’t think so! Times change, Dad.”
Dad chewed silently for a minute or two. Finally he said, “You’re right. But when I think of all the things the money could buy…”
“Let me have this one night without having to think of all the things the money could buy,” Lester said.
“Fair enough. But I want to know your complete plans for the evening, Les. I’d like to be able to go to sleep that night without worrying.”
“That’s why we’re renting a limo, Dad, so you won’t have to worry about our driving,” Lester said.
Dad wasn’t the only one who was worried about Lester and prom night, though, and it wasn’t just about his driving. On Sunday, when Dad and Lester went out to look at used cars, Aunt Sally called from Chicago.
“Alice, sweetheart, how are you?” she asked.
“Okay. Dad’s fine and so is Lester,” I said, knowing that’s what she’d be asking next. “They’re out looking at used cars. It’s going to be Dad’s graduation present to him.”
“Oh, my! He’s growing up, isn’t he?” said Aunt Sally.
“We’re all growing up,” I told her.
Aunt Sally always saves her most important question till last. When she was quiet a moment, I knew she was worried about something.
“I suppose Lester’s going to the senior prom?” she said.
“Yes. He’s taking a girl named Lisa, and they’re going to rent a limo,” I said.
“Oh, gracious!” Aunt Sally said. “Has he talked to your dad about it?”
“About the limo?”
“About everything.”
“You mean, about sperms and eggs?” I said.
“Oh, my goodness, Alice, you’re only in fifth grade!” she said, flustered. “Well, I was calling because there was this article in our paper about high school proms and about the things that go on, even in limousines!” she said. “I just thought your dad should know.”
I was curious. “Like what?”
“Well, some limousines, Alice, have Jacuzzis in them.”
“Jacuzzis? You mean, hot tubs?” I said.
“Would you believe it?”
“You mean, people take a bath on the way to the prom?” I tried to imagine it.
“Well, I don’t know about a bath, Alice, but you can hardly get in a Jacuzzi with your clothes on, so that can only mean one thing.”
“That they’re taking off their clothes in the limo,” I said.
“And you’re not too young to be told that once you take off your clothes, anything can happen.”
“I know,” I said importantly. “Like fertilizing an egg.”
Her words ran right over mine, she was so breathless. “So tell your father that I called and that he should make sure Lester doesn’t rent a limo with a Jacuzzi in it.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said.
As it happened, Dad and Lester didn’t find any car they liked enough to buy, so Dad dropped Lester off here at home and then went back to the Melody Inn to do some paperwork.
Lester came in and got a Pepsi from the fridge.
“No luck?” I said.
“We were just doing some pricing, seeing what’s out there,” Lester said.
“Just don’t buy a car with a Jacuzzi in it,” I said, grinning.
“Huh?”
“Aunt Sally called, and she’s worried you’re going to rent a limo with a Jacuzzi.”
“Is she nuts?” said Lester.
“She’s worried you’ll take off your clothes.”
Lester laughed. “As a matter of fact, we are. We’re renting a pool at a Holiday Inn after the prom, and about thirty of us are going to have a swim party when the prom’s over.”
“Just make sure there’s no fertilizing going on,” I told him.
On Monday, I was walking home from school beside Donald Sheavers, and he said that Killer, his dog, was blind now. The dog’s real name is Muffin, but they keep a water dish on their back porch with the name “Killer” on it so if a burglar comes by, he’ll think there’s a vicious dog inside.
“How does he find his way around?” I asked.
“With his nose,” said Donald.
“How old is he?”
“Twelve,” said Donald. “That’s old for a dog.”
“What if he loses his sense of smell? Then what happens?”
“I guess we’d have to carry him around wherever he wants to go,” said Donald.
I went on up the walk to our house, and Donald went next door to his. I took the key from around my neck and opened the door. Then, dropping my book bag on the couch, I went out to the kitchen for a snack.
Oatmeal was lying in her favorite spot of sunshine, and I stepped over her to get a vanilla pudding from the fridge. Oatmeal likes it when I choose vanilla because I let her lick out the container when I’m through.
I got a spoon and pulled the tab off the top of the pudding. Usually this makes her sit up and walk over. But Oatmeal didn’t move. I looked down at her, lying there in the sunlight. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Her sides didn’t rise and fall.
“Oatmeal?” I said, dropping the spoon and crouching down on the floor beside her. Her mouth was half open. So were her eyes. The pupils were glassy.
I couldn’t breathe for a moment myself. I put my hand on her body. It was stiff. I screamed. I stumbled out on the porch and just stood there, screaming.
The screen door banged next door.
“What’s wrong?” asked Donald.
“Oatmeal!” I cried. I just kept screaming it. “Oatmeal!”
Donald ran over, but I could hardly see him through the tears. It wasn’t fair! Donald had a dog. Muffin was so old, he couldn’t see and it was probably time for him to die, but Oatmeal was still a young cat!
And suddenly I started beating against Donald Sheavers’s chest with both fists.
“It isn’t fair!” I wept. “It’s just not fair!”
12
HATING THE WORLD
I DIDN’T KNOW IF I WAS MORE SAD OR angry. Mrs. Sheavers had heard me screaming and came hurrying over, but I rushed back inside and locked the door and wouldn’t let her in. When Lester came home, I was still in a rumpled heap in a corner of the couch—Oatmeal’s corner. I cried until the arm of the sofa was wet and stained.
Mrs. Sheavers had stopped him outside and told him about Oatmeal. When Lester came in, he just sat at the other end of the sofa and watched me cry. I only quit because I was too tired to cry anymore. He reached out and lightly touched my ankle, but I jerked my foot away.
“Sometimes,” Lester said, “life really stinks.”
“It’s not fair!” I yelled again, as though it were all his fault. “Muffin should have died instead! Even Donald’s had a longer life than Oatmeal did!” I paused a second, realizing what I’d said. “Why do bad things happen to our family? Why do they have to happen to me?”
“I don’t think there is a why, Al. Sometimes they just do.” He was quiet a moment, and then he said, “I know how you feel, though. I felt the same way when Tippy died.”
I remembered Lester’s dog then. The way he ran across the street once to greet Lester and got run over. I was real small then, but I still remember how they rolled Tippy’s body up in a rug and put him in the trunk of our car.
“I’m angry at God, too!” I went on. “If He can’t even keep a little kitten alive, what good is He?”
“Yeah, I felt that way too.”
“He couldn’t keep Mom alive, He couldn’t help Sara’s family pay the rent, He—?
??
We heard Dad drive up just then, and I knew immediately that Mrs. Sheavers had probably called him at work and told him what happened.
“Honey, I’m so sorry about Oatmeal,” Dad said when he came in, and that started the tears all over again.
Lester went down in the basement to look for a box to bury her in, and Dad took his place on the couch. I crawled down to Dad’s end and curled up against him.
“It’s my fault,” I wept.
“Now, why do you say that?”
“Because I knew something was wrong with her. She wasn’t as frisky as she used to be and… and sometimes when she was r-running, she’d just stop and pant,” I said. “But I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid of what it might mean.”
“I think we all knew that she was slowing down, Al. You remember when we took her to the vet for the first time? And he said she was fine except for a heart murmur? He told us that a lot of kittens outgrow that, but some of them don’t. It was just something she was born with, and we’d have to wait and see.”
I sort of remembered and sort of didn’t. I remembered the way Oatmeal kept pouncing at the vet’s fingers there on the examining table while he was talking. And I think I remember Dad asking me if I wanted to take her back and trade her for another kitten in the litter, but of course I didn’t. This was the one Dad had picked out for me, and that made her special.
“Well,” Dad said, “Oatmeal just turned out to be one of those kittens who didn’t outgrow it. And her heart condition got worse. There was nothing we could have done, but think of the happy life we gave her while she was alive.”
That didn’t help. “Why does everything in this family die?” I wept angrily. “First Mom and then Tippy and then Uncle Charlie and now Oatmeal?” Who would be next? I wondered. “I’m mad at God,” I said again.
“I know.”
“He could do anything if He wanted! How much work would it take to heal a little kitten’s heart?”
Dad patted my shoulder. “Maybe that’s not His job.”