Brett McCarthy (6 page)

in•fer•no

So with Dad at work, Nonna and Mom off on some mysterious medical mission, and the rest of the world in school, I did what comes naturally when my stress meter hits code red. I polished off another brownie, then went home and crawled into bed. I don’t know how long I slept before the sound of a ringing doorbell dragged me from oblivion and back to the reality of my incredibly suckulous life.

I stumbled downstairs to the front door wrapped in my comforter, hair standing stiff, troll-like. I tend to wake up badly.

It was Michael.

“Oh, hey,” I said. “Since when do you ring?” I headed to the kitchen, comforter and Michael trailing.

“The door was locked. You’ve been sleeping?” he asked, surprised. We sat on opposite ends of the kitchen window seat. The sun was doing its late-day, mid-autumn slant thing, shining horizontally and into my eyes through the big windows. My soccer team was probably playing at that very moment. Mom and Nonna still hadn’t returned.

“So. Tell me. How bad is it?” I asked him. “And I don’t mean my hair.”

“Scale of one to ten?” he asked.

“With one being ‘life as usual’ and ten being ‘transfer to another school,’” I replied. Michael looked thoughtful.

“Depends,” he said.

“On?”

“Whether or not you think Jeanne Anne deserves a broken nose,” he said.

“No!” I groaned. “Is it broken? Absolutely?”

“Rumor has it,” he said.

“Ten!” I wailed, burying my face in the comforter.

“Nah,” Michael said. “Three. Okay, four, since we had to sit through a Zero Tolerance for Violence assembly. But you know, Brett, to some people you’re a hero.”

“Yeah?” I said, sarcastically. “Who?” Not Bob Levesque, I thought. Not anyone from the back-lot water fountain gang.

“Well,” Michael said, “Kit. Your entire soccer team. All the kids Jeanne Anne has been mean to, which is most of the eighth grade. Me.” The “me” came out sort of squeaky, like it was hard for him to say.

“Well, thanks for your undying loyalty. But I’m still hosed,” I said. “Kit will be mad she didn’t punch Jeanne Anne herself. My soccer team will be mad because I’m missing two important games. And you…” I trailed off.

“Too uncool to count?” Michael said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, instantly regretful. “That’s
not
what I meant. I don’t know what I mean. I’m really messed up, okay? I’ve gone from Model Scholar Athlete to Juvenile Delinquent in forty-eight hours, and it’s a little disorienting.”

Michael is probably the only kid I know who doesn’t flinch or blink vacantly when I use a word like “disorienting.”

There was a long silence before either of us spoke again.

“Why do you care so much what the popular kids think?” he finally said.

“I don’t,” I said instantly.

“Yeah, right,” he replied. “Why else are you prank-calling Bob Levesque’s mother? Why else would you get so mad at Jeanne Anne that you’d clock her? I mean, do you actually care what she thinks, or are you just pissed that she’s moving into the popular circle?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “First of all, the Levesque thing was not my idea. Second, Jeanne Anne is
un
popular pond scum. No offense meant, but maybe from a high honors math team perspective, a loser like Jeanne Anne seems cool, but trust me, she’s not.”

“You are in such denial,” he sighed. He heaved his backpack, stuffed tight with books, onto the window seat. No matter how much—or how little—homework we have, Michael hauls a library home each night. He pulled out a thin notebook, flipped through it, then slapped it open in my lap.

“Let me show you something I developed during Fifth Period.”

Fifth Period, commonly known as the Gifted and Talented Hour, is when about a dozen or so of the Über Students, like Michael, are siphoned off from the rest of the herd for “special work.” You can practically hear their brains pulsating from behind closed doors as they read impossibly difficult books, fold origami, and design engines that run on vegetable oil from the cafeteria’s fryolator.

“I’m really not in the mood to admire your homework,” I groaned. Michael continued, undeterred.

“Dante Alighieri was a thirteenth-century Italian writer who wrote a poem about Hell,” said Michael. “He imagined that Hell is divided into descending rings, with criminals suffering increasingly worse tortures the lower you went. He called it
The Inferno.
”

Inferno:
a place that resembles Hell; intense heat.

“Sounds lovely,” I remarked.

“It was incredible,” Michael said enthusiastically. “He worked out this whole hierarchy of evil and punishment, and then, to make things interesting, he told us who you’d find there. I mean, he named names. Popes. Rich men. Famous people. They thought they were golden, but Dante assigned them to Hell.

“Anyway, for one of my Fifth Period projects I thought it would be cool to compare the social hierarchy at Mescataqua to Dante’s Inferno.”

“Meaning you think we’re all going to Hell?” I asked.

“Meaning
we’re in
Hell,” Michael said. “At least those of us obsessed with popularity.”

I stared at the open notebook. Michael had drawn two stacks of rings. On the left Dante’s Inferno, where he’d sketched little pearly gates and angels at the top and a nasty flame pit on the bottom. In between was Dante’s order of evil from one through nine: Limbo, the Lustful, the Gluttonous, the Avaricious, the Wrathful, the Heretics, the Violent, the Frauds, and the Traitors. On the right he’d drawn the Mescataqua version: Undecided, Flirts and Hos, People Who Eat/Take More Than Their Share, the Greedy, the Perpetually Pissed Off, the Wishy-Washy, the Violent, the Backstabbers/Gossipers/Social Climbers, and the Traitors.

Dante’s Inferno was just labeled rings, but Mescataqua’s had people’s names.

“Hey, you’re not in it!” I said, my eyes scanning the diagram. “No fair.”

“Yeah, but I
wrote
it….”

“I see…so that makes you…Dante?”

Michael grinned.

“You move people around,” I commented, noticing an erasure. “You had Kit in the Eat More Than Their Share ring, then moved her down to Greedy.”

“Did you see what she did to that pizza we had on the half day?” he exclaimed. “I got one slice; she took
five.
She’s beyond hungry. She’s, like, a predator.”

He’d placed Jeanne Anne, appropriately enough, in Ring Eight with the Backstabbers. Darcy was penciled in with Flirts and Hos, way too high as far as I was concerned. Brett McCarthy was…Undecided?

“Why am I Undecided?” I asked, looking up.

“I think I know you too well to generalize,” he said. “I put you there because…well, where do
you
think you belong?”

“Given today?” I replied. “Holding steady in the lower reaches of Ring Seven. The Violent.”

Then I noticed something that surprised me. Michael had originally stuck Diane in Ring Six, the Wishy-Washy, but crossed out her name and placed her in Ring Eight. He’d written “Social Climbers” next to her name.

“Why’d you demote Diane?” I asked.

“Because she’s trying to move into the popular group,” Michael said matter-of-factly.

“How so?”

“How about…trying out for cheerleading after school today.”

I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.

“Diane tried out for cheerleading?” My voice sounded stupid in my ears.

“I almost didn’t recognize her,” Michael continued. “She had her hair pulled back tight, and it kind of stretched her eyes sideways. But there she was, with Darcy and the whole gang from the Second Ring.”

My brain froze, then moved in slow motion as I processed this information. No one just tried out for cheerleading. You signed up in advance, practiced routines…usually with other girls. Other cheerleaders.

“Wow,” Michael said. He was staring at me. “You didn’t know. I figured you knew. I mean, you two are so tight.”

I shook my head. The Vocab Ace Queen of Denial was at a loss for words.

“Wow,” Michael repeated.

“Stop saying ‘wow,’” I snapped. I was suddenly really sick of Michael.

“Okay, well, maybe I should…head home,” he said, gently pulling the notebook from my lap.

“Whatever,” I said. A totally unfriendly response, especially since he was the only person from school who had bothered to check in with me that afternoon. But I’m not particularly nice when I feel stupid and betrayed.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, shouldering his filled-to-capacity backpack and heading out the kitchen door. He practically ran over Mom, who was just walking in.

“Hello, Michael!” she said brightly. “Just leaving?” He muttered something approaching hi-yup-gotta-go, and disappeared. Mom tossed her keys and purse on the kitchen counter, unbuttoned her jacket, and flopped onto the space of window seat just vacated by Michael. She closed her eyes briefly, then smiled.

“How was your day?” she said. “I hope it was better than mine.”

ob•tuse

Here’s the thing about parents: Just when you think you’ve got them totally figured out, they surprise you.

I would have bet my cleats that Mom’s Lecture of a Lifetime would be full of the usual Really Annoying Things Parents Say. What-Were-You-Thinking. I’m-So-Disappointed-in-You. How-Many-Times-Do-I-Have-to-Tell-You. I could go on, but it’s too annoying even to list them.

Then she went and blew my assumptions out of the water.

For starters, she didn’t lecture me. First she telephoned Dad (rather than launch into the sad story of my disastrous day, I directed her to Dad’s fridge note). They talked for a long time. After she hung up, she returned to the window seat and got right to the point. No Inquisition, no annoying lead-in.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” she said quietly. “You punched Jeanne Anne because she made fun of your grandmother?”

I nodded and waited for the storm. Instead, Mom wrapped her arms tight around me and held on for probably a whole minute. When she let go, I could swear she looked teary.

“Good for you,” she said. “Don’t you let anyone make fun of Nonna. Ever.”

I stared at her in amazement.

“Whoa,” I said. “Whatever happened to ‘Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones’? You’d better watch it, Mom, or someone is going to make you attend a Zero Tolerance for Violence assembly. Trust me; they’re no fun.”

She laughed, wiping her eyes. What’s up? I thought. She’s crying.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Daddy’s coming home early. I’m going to get started on dinner. Why don’t you head over to Nonna’s and ask her to join us tonight?”

I looked at her suspiciously.

“No lecture?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“You aren’t angry?”

She paused.

“I don’t know what I am,” she said. “I’m in a place so far beyond angry that I can’t quite recognize it. Call it ‘numb.’ At any rate, enjoy it now, because I’ll have plenty of time to get mad at you over the next few days. Now get going. Tell her I’m making pasta. She loves pasta.”

Obtuse.
Means
lacking sharpness or quickness of sensibility.
Also means
stupid. Clueless.

Because I finally got it. The pasta made it all clear. Here I was, suspended and temporarily banned from soccer, which in my definition is a Big Bad Deal, but all Mom could think about was…noodles. Nonna’s favorite food.

There had been a zillion signs. Ever since Nonna had returned from Spruce Island. But I had been too obtuse to notice until now.

Something was wrong with my grandmother, and Mom was worried sick.

an•tip•a•thy

Nonna was busy at the stove. She promptly turned down the invitation to pasta.

“I’ve got Beady coming over tonight,” she said. “Tell your mother thanks anyway.”

I settled into a kitchen chair. Nonna had replaced the clutter on the table with two place settings. The room smelled like something burning. Despite my antipathy for Mr. Beady, I felt sorry for him. Nonna was a world-renowned bad cook. Unless she was cooking with chocolate. It was one of her odd little defining qualities. Her chocolate desserts were amazing, but everything else she cooked…yuck.

Antipathy:
dislike engendering feelings of extreme annoyance.

“So,” she said as she scraped the pan, “did you finally tell her?”

“Yup,” I replied.

“And how did it go?” she asked.

“She seemed a little preoccupied,” I said.

Nonna shut off the burner and turned.

“Her daughter gets suspended from school and she’s preoccupied? That doesn’t sound like your mother.”

“Well, I think she’s worried about you,” I said.

Nonna frowned. “What did she tell you?” she asked.

“Nothing. But even someone as clueless as me can tell something’s up. Why were you guys at the doctor’s today?”

Nonna sighed and pulled up an adjacent kitchen chair.

“I’ve never seen such overreaction,” she said. “You know, I hate to surprise you all, but I’m an old lady! These wrinkles are real! And I think I overdid it at the island this summer. I felt tired, came back early, and next thing I know, your mother is dragging me to the doctor because she doesn’t like my ‘color.’ My color! ‘Have you ever seen a suntan before?’ I asked her. Then Dr. Fischer starts asking me all these questions, and gets all wide-eyed when I tell him I think I caught a bit of brown-tail moth. I’ve been itchy for weeks, and the cortisone cream isn’t helping. Next thing you know, he’s sending me for bloodwork and an MRI!”

“MRI?” I asked.

“Magnetic resonance imaging,” she said. “Takes a picture of your organs. He wanted to peek at my pancreas.”

“What’s a pancreas?” I asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s an expensive distraction!” Nonna said, returning to her smoking pan. “I’m having an allergic reaction to something, and these doctors want to order up unnecessary tests! Meanwhile, I’m itchy and irritable and your mother is so worried that she’s not taking care of business. Which means reprimanding you for hitting someone at school!”

“Maybe I should send Dr. Fischer a thank-you note?” This conversation was making me feel much better. Nonna sure wasn’t acting sick.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” she said. “Since your mother is too ‘preoccupied’ to deal with you, I’ll hand down the sentence. And you know how I feel about violence.”

“I know,” I said.

“There’s no excuse for hitting someone, Brett.”

“Hmmm,” I said. I wished, really wished, that I saw it her way. But I’m not as good a person as my grandmother.

“I’d say a little community service is in order. How long are you suspended?”

“The rest of the week.”

“That’s just enough time to help me sort out the entire garage and get organized for my sale. We’ll hold it this weekend, you’ll be in charge, and we’ll donate all the proceeds to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center.”

I groaned. Not that I had anything against the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. But Nonna’s garage was a mess. Dusty, rusty, moldy junk was stacked floor to ceiling. I didn’t want to touch it.

Before I could think of a way to wriggle out of my sentence, Mr. Beady tapped on the door.

“Come in, Beady!” Nonna said. “I’m running a little late.”

Mr. Beady carried a paper bag. I could see the top of a wine bottle and a bag of corn chips poking from the top. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me.

“Well, if it isn’t the local boxin’ champ!” He grinned. “How’s it goin’,
sluggah
?”

Mr. Beady is not a native Mainer. He’s “from away.” Born in Connecticut, actually. And when he tries to imitate a Maine accent, it’s really annoying.

“How’d you hear?” I asked him.

“Oh, it’s all the talk of the grocery
stow-ah,
” he said. “Sorry, Eileen. I forgot salsa,” he added to Nonna.

“Look in the fridge,” she replied.

“Miss Brett, will you be joinin’ us tonight for…” Mr. Beady peered into Nonna’s pan. “Blackened
gah-lick
?”

“No thanks,” I said, getting up. “Mom’s serving edible food at home.”

“Ah, we will have to check in another time for tales of your ignominious day.” He chuckled. Ignominious. I had no clue what that meant. When he wasn’t imitating a lobsterman, Mr. Beady sounded like a professor. He was being even more annoying than usual this evening.

“Good night, sweetie,” Nonna said, blowing a kiss in my direction. “Come by in the morning, and we’ll get started.” I nodded, heading out. It was dark already, and as I pulled the door shut against the warm glow of the kitchen light, I heard Nonna speak.

“Beady, what does a pancreas do?”