Authors: Chris Crutcher
Sarah takes the brochures out of my hand. “Wonder what they mean by that?”
“Probably that they don’t pay much. But we go where nobody sees us before they know us. It’s a year-round residential outfit. This is the perfect time to apply because a lot of the summer employees go back to school now.”
“I don’t know, Angus.”
I sing: “A friend of mine is going blind but through the dimness, he sees so much better than me.” I sing it badly. “We’ll be in the dimness, Sarah.
Pleeeze!
We can go to college any time. I mean, we know we will. But this is a once in a lifetime. It’s beautiful, I mean, look at these pictures.” I hold open the brochure. “Pleeeze, Sarah, think about it.” I stop and smile. “See, I told you, you’d get tired of me long before the other way around.”
She takes the brochures. “I’ll think about it.”
Dinner’s over. The mess hall is clean; dishes washed, tables scrubbed. Sarah and I sit on the porch outside the main meeting hall, waiting to tutor some of the older kids with their homework. It’s a smaller group in the fall. Many of the summer campers have gone to their homes and back to school. The fall and winter kids are a little more troubled overall; some of them have no place but here. Sarah and I are here as aides. Room and board and seventy-five dollars a week. In my first days I felt anxiety retreat on a daily basis. Nobody looked at me with disapproval as I lumbered over the trails or talked a group through the intricate paths from the cabins to the meeting hall or the school. The considerations I make to accommodate my charges’ lack of sight are nothing compared to the relief of living with people who don’t judge me before they know me.
Sarah is a different person. She works with younger kids than I do, but she is
so
much better at it than I am. Such a natural. It makes me wonder what she would be by now if she hadn’t spent her life flying under her father’s radar and dodging the slings and arrows of her peers. A monstrous weight has been lifted.
“Tell me this wasn’t a good idea,” I say now, leaning
back on the steps and staring at the moon rising through the trees, nearly full.
“It was a good idea, Angus. I’m sorry I doubted you.” She laughs. “I’ll never doubt you again, Angus.” Clearly she’s retained her command of the facetious uppercut. Sarah Byrnes will doubt me on a regular basis.
“I guess you won’t,” I say anyway.
A little girl whose name I don’t know walks onto the porch. She’s maybe six or seven.
“Hey, Amanda,” Sarah says.
“Hey, Sarah.”
“Wanna come sit with us?”
“Uh-huh.”
She feels her way toward us, sits on the far side of Sarah from me.
“This is Angus.”
Amanda says, “Hi, Angus.”
I say hi back.
“Angus works with the bigger kids.”
“Can he see?”
“He can see, but he has everything else wrong with him.”
Amanda turns toward me. “What all’s wrong with you, Angus?”
“I snore. I drool. I eat children.”
“Huh-
uh!
”
“Sometimes I don’t go to the bathroom for a month.”
Amanda giggles, turns to Sarah. “They said the moon was big tonight.”
“Very big,” she says. “Almost a full moon.”
“What does it look like?”
“Well, it’s round, and very bright. It seems warm. If we were closer, it would be much bigger, but from here it’s about this big—can I show you with your hands?”
“Yes.”
“Point your fingers.”
Amanda extends her fingers. Sarah takes her forearms, points those fingers toward the moon, and draws a perfect circle around it. “It has lots of bumps and lines where the ground is uneven. You know, mountains and valleys and things like that. Like the ground here, only without bushes or trees.” Sarah looks at me and smiles. “It’s shiny,” she says.
Amanda nods.
We sit on the porch awhile. Amanda leans into the crook of Sarah’s arm. After a bit, she says, “Sarah?”
“Yeah?
“Can I touch your face? I forget what you look like.”
“Of course,” Sarah says, and turns toward her. Sarah Byrnes is so fucking brave.
Amanda touches her softly, traces her tiny fingers along Sarah’s scars, cups Sarah’s chin in her palms. She feels around Sarah’s eyes, and Sarah closes them and smiles. Amanda touches her smile and traces her lips. She withdraws her hands and giggles slightly.
“What?” Sarah giggles back.
“Sarah Byrnes has a face like the moon.”
Nak’s Notes
First Impressions
Transcribed directly from digital recorder
N
AME
:
Montana West (no fooling)
A
GE
:
17
R
EASONS TO BE PISSED:
Daddy’s chairman of the school board; that there by itself would piss most kids off. Adopted; early childhood abandonment. Locked in a power struggle with her daddy, who don’t leave her much wiggle room. Passive momma. (That’s a bad combo.)
S
IGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS:
Real perty; don’t know what to do with it. Personal exterior decoration. Writes real good. Maybe a little identity trouble.
C
OPING SKILLS:
Does that thing they call goth—all kinds of metal in her—famous tattoo, likes to use the school newspaper like a weapon. Another smart one. Kinda in your face.
P
ROGNOSIS:
Look the hell out. She’s gonna be just fine.
N
AME
:
Trey Chase
A
GE
:
17
R
EASONS TO BE PISSED:
Not a lot. This boy don’t seem to let a lot get under his skin. Lost his parents.
S
IGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS:
Dead-on handsome, got that bad-boy thing going. Good athlete. Might be smart but ain’t gonna let you see it.
C
OPING SKILLS:
Seems to soothe his savage self with the company of the ladies, sits back and checks things out, doesn’t show his hand real quick.
P
ROGNOSIS:
This boy could be president.
“M
ontana, we’re going to have to change the lead story.”
“Change it how?”
“Dump it. We ran up against the censors. Again.” Dr. Conroy shakes her head. “We didn’t have much of a chance with this one.”
“How does it get censored? It’s a story about medical marijuana, for crying out loud. It’s, like, about cancer and terminal illness. I put a lot of work into that.”
“Mr. Remington and Dr. Holden both say the whole thing is a ruse to legalize marijuana, make it so anyone can get their hands on it.”
“So because that’s what they
think,
I have to report it that way. What do
you
think?”
“You know what I think about censorship,” Dr. Conroy says. “But I don’t have the power to change their minds.”
“Which means you’re not a concrete worker. Did you show them the article? There isn’t one thing in there about recreational use.”
“Of course I showed them the article.”
“And…”
“And I doubt either one of them read it. In fact I’ll bet Remington is as far as it got.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s as fair as it would be if he showed it to Dr. Holden. Mr. Remington is a Kennedy compared to Dr. Holden.”
“So I wrote it for nothing,” Montana says.
“You wrote it for an A,” Dr. Conroy says back. “Just because we can’t publish it doesn’t mean you don’t get a grade. Look, in another year, you’ll be in college. Your university newspaper would print this in a minute. You make your point; you have great quotes. It’s succinct. A work.”
Montana stares at the article. “I didn’t write it for a grade. I can get an A anytime. I wrote it to publish.”
“I know, Montana. But you had to realize there wasn’t a great chance. I mean, how many of your articles
have those guys stopped? You did hunting, which you called ‘slaughtering animals for fun’ you did scientific experimentation on animals, which you called the same thing. You did an article comparing Christianity with Greek mythology. What else?”
“Gay marriage.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Isn’t there a way around this?”
Dr. Conroy smiles. “We can take any one of those articles all the way to the school board.”
“Right,” Montana says. “To my dad.
He
makes
Holden
look like a Kennedy.”
“Lessons in relativity, huh?” Dr. Conroy says.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, ‘How far right do you have to go to make
blank
look like a Kennedy?’ I’ll bet it’s close to infinite.”
“Huh. If you get much further right than my dad, you’re in outer space.”
“He means well, Montana.”
“He means ill.”
“I believe your father thinks he’s keeping people…
children
…safe when he makes those decisions.”
Montana lays her books on Dr. Conroy’s desk and hoists herself up. “How did this happen?”
Dr. Conroy says, “How did what happen?”
“I’m young and supposedly optimistic. You’re old and supposedly cynical from experience. How come I get it that my dad is intentionally a dick and you cling to a possibility that isn’t possible?”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m just glad I’m adopted,” Montana says. “At least I don’t have to worry about his DNA getting on me.”
Dr. Conroy loves the way Montana sees and says things, though political correctness doesn’t always allow her to say so. She’d give a chunk of her paycheck to have more writers like her.
“God is a wonderful entity,” Montana says. “Takes one look at my father, recognizes the cosmic mistake, and gives him zero sperm count.”
Dr. Conroy laughs out loud. “How in the world would you know that?”
“I heard them fighting. That’s a real weapon, I think; sperm count. When she said it, he shut
up.”
“Well, it’s an adult weapon. You need a license to use it.”
“Yeah, I know. I took it for a trial run.”
“Grounded?”
“Till I’m thirty.”
Dr. Conroy stares at the medical marijuana article.
“I’d have a backup to this if you want to keep your name above the fold.”
Montana twirls her cheek stud between thumb and forefinger. “Hmm.”
“Pick your battles, darlin’.”
“Maybe I’ll do that feature on how cheerleaders get such muscular calves.”
“The PE department would love it.”
“Yeah, I could get back in their good graces for my ‘Why I Need PE to Get into Bryn Mawr’ article.”
“If I remember correctly, the entire text of that article was ‘NOT.’”
Montana waves without looking back as she exits.
Interesting kid, Dr. Conroy thinks as the door closes in slow motion against the hydraulic arm. Two years ago, as a sophomore, Montana was a beauty queen. Long dark hair, killer brown eyes, the lean, muscular body of a dancer. Dated the senior tight end on the football team. Came back this year with piercings where most girls don’t know they have places, the famous worm tattoo, and an attitude toward authority that made her new dark appearance look like child’s play. I guess they have to find their places to stand.
Montana opens the front door to see her sister facing the corner opposite the front door. “Hey, little sis, what’d you do this time?”
“Nothin’.”
“Put you in the corner for nothin’, huh. Better not ever
do
anything or they’ll skin you alive. Where’s Mom?”
“I don’t care.”
“Maybe I can negotiate your release.”
“In the kitchen. Making poison.”
“I’ll put food coloring in it,” Montana says. “So we can trace which food she puts it in.”
The kitchen door swings closed behind her. “Hey, Mom.”
Her mother is stirring a pot, doesn’t turn around. “Hi.”
“How long is the rat in the corner for?”
“Until she can tell me why I put her there in the first place.”
How familiar is
that?
“Mom, do you know what kids like her think about in the corner?”
“What.”
“We think about outlasting you. And how we’re gonna get even.”
“We?”
Montana rolls her eyes. “Mom, I smeared poop in the dryer, turned it on high, and hid in the closet. I’m one of those kids.”
“You
were
one of those kids.”
“We’ll see,” Montana says. “Now how does Tara get out of the corner?”
“She tells me what got her in there.”
“Which was…”
“Ask her. Montana, don’t get too used to her. I don’t know that we can keep her. Nothing seems to work. I’ve tried every kind of star chart and sticker chart her therapist or I can think of, and she just gets worse. I’m at wit’s end.”
“Come on, Mom. I smeared shit inside the
dryer
and you didn’t get rid of me.”
“We call that poop around here, young lady, and I was younger then. I thought there was a chance for you. This little girl turns everything sour. Everything.”
Montana walks back into the living room.
“Hey, little girl.”
“I hate her.”
“Yeah,” Montana says.
“They’re gonna give me away.”
“Naw, nobody else wants you.” There’s a moment of silence, and Montana sees Tara’s shoulders slump.
“’Cept me,” she says. “Let’s get you out of this corner. What did you do to get in here?”
“Nothin’.”
“Did that nothin’ have to do with poop?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Did it have to do with poop that didn’t go into the toilet?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Is it somewhere in your room?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Where Mom can’t find it, even if she can smell it?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Let’s go get it. Let’s find the poop and put it where it belongs and set you free.”
Tara is quiet.
“Little sis, what are you doing? Mom’s not kidding when she says you can’t stay if you keep doing that. And you don’t
wanna
see Dad get all crazy like he does.”
“I know.”
“Stay here a minute.”
Back in the kitchen she says, “Tara and I are going on a scavenger hunt, okay?”
“Tara’s in the corner.”
“Well, I’m taking her
out
of the corner so she can go find what you put her in the corner for and put it in the
toilet. Then she’ll come in and tell you why she was in the corner.”
They go into Tara’s bedroom, where Tara sits on the bed, staring at the door.
“Jeez. What did you eat? Show me where it is.”
Tara sets her jaw.
“Don’t mess with me, little sis. That might work with Mom, but you know it gets no play with me.”
“Under the bed,” Tara says.
“Gawd. This place smells like an outhouse.”
“What’s that?”
“A place that smells bad.” Montana is on her hands and knees, looking under the bed for the offending excrement. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s kinda rubbed.”
Montana furrows her brow. Tara joins her on her hands and knees.
“Kinda rubbed? This carries the hint of premeditation.”
Tara stares questioningly.
“It means you did it on purpose. You thought about it before you did it.”
“Huh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are they gonna gimme away?”
“I don’t know,” Montana says. “Why do you care? I mean, you always pick the thing that makes them the maddest. It’s like you
want
to be given away.”
“
You
pick the thing that makes Daddy West the maddest.”
“Everything makes Daddy West the maddest. And that’s different. I’ve been here long enough I can be a bitch. You can’t start out like that.” Montana swallows her lie. This kid could
be
her, back before her adoption when she came into foster care. Seven placements in three months. It wasn’t a record, but it would do until she found what the record was. Hell on wheels at four years old. Ached for a mother she can barely remember now, and for whom she still aches. Tara is six, but that’s about the only difference.
“Why do you keep hiding your poop, little sis? How are you going to make Momma want to keep you? You have to make them think they’re doing something good for you. Do you
want
her to give you up?”
“I hate methamphetamine,” Tara says. She pronounces it perfectly.
“That’s a good thing to hate,” Montana says back. “I hate methamphetamine, too.”
“If I could throw methamphetamine in the ocean, I could get my real mom back.”
“You sure could,” Montana says. “But the only person who can throw methamphetamine in the ocean is your mom. So far she’s not doing so hot, and until she drowns it, you’ve got to be good so you can stay here, and that means you have to stop hiding your poop.”
“I get so
mad
. And my poop is mad, too. If it could talk it would say, ‘I’M SO MAD!’ I poop ’cause I’m mad I can’t live with my mom. It wasn’t her fault, it was Greg’s. He was always asleep when he was s’posed to take care of me when my mom was usin’ meth. My mom’s not gonna do what she’s s’posed to do to get me back. I’m really scared she doesn’t
want
me back. That’s the worst thing.”
“Yup. When you and your poop get so mad, you gotta hide it in the toilet. It’s not Mommy West that’s making you mad.”
“It’s CPS.”
“Yeah, but we’ve talked about this. CPS doesn’t make your mom use meth. Your
mom
makes your mom use meth.”
“If I was there I bet I could make her stop.”
“Bet you couldn’t. You could make her not use it in front of you, but you know meth.”
“Yeah, but if I could be there I could trick the CPS lady again. I could make it look like Mom’s not usin’ it.
I did it before. Besides, sometimes CPS makes her feel bad and that’s when she uses it. You use meth when you feel bad.”
“Other way around, little sis. You use meth and you can’t get your kid back and then you feel bad. Your mom’s making a big mistake giving you up to Mommy West. But if you don’t be good, which means quit hiding your poop and sneaking around at night trying to find things out, Mommy and Daddy West will give you up too. Listen, you’re mad ’cause you’re scared. I was just like you. If you talk about being scared, you might not have to poop. Get mad. Yell and scream. You don’t see me pooping when I get mad.”
Tara grimaces. There’s no answer.
“So can you do it? Do you know how bad I’m going to feel if they give you up?”
“I don’t want to go away from you. I’ll try to use words to get it out instead of poop it out.”
“That’s my girl. You have to remember, if you don’t want to give
me
up, you can’t do things that will make Mommy West give
you
up. If you can’t have your mom,
while
you can’t have your mom, you want Mommy West, right?
“I WANT HER TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD!”
Montana grabs Tara and holds her tight. Tara
squirms a moment, then surrenders. How do you tell somebody that? How can she tell her mother that feeling bad feels
right
when everything in your world is wrong; that at first you need your foster parents to make things
familiar,
which in this case means fucked up. It makes such sense at a heart level, but even for a wordsmith like Montana West, it’s impossible to articulate. It’s
so
true, and it sounds
so
crazy.
“We’re going to get a hot wet rag and some cleaner,” Montana says, “and I’m going to lift up the bed and you’re going to scrub the poop off and then you’re going to go tell Mom what you did to get in the corner, which is you crapped in a no-crapping zone. Got it?”
The third period bell rings, and Montana hangs back. “I’m thinking of dropping this class,” she says.
“Look over there at the door,” Dr. Conroy says, and Montana does.
“At that area on the floor right in front of the door.”
Montana does that, too.
“Now picture my dead body lying there,” Dr. Conroy says, “because you will have to step over it if you try to drop this class.”
“I can’t write any of the stuff I want to write.”
“Well, then write the hell out of something you
don’t
want to write.”
“Like what?”
“You can’t think of anything you don’t want to write? How about the football playoffs?”