Share my feelings? No way. Not with her.
Dr. DiLeo reached out and touched my arm. I recoiled. “You can do this, Antonia. I know you can. She needs your help.
I
need your help.”
Yeah, everyone in the world needed my help. So who was helping me?
M
y bus broke down on the way home, so I was half an hour late. The house was quiet when I rushed in. Too quiet. And it smelled like smoke. “Michael? Chuckie?” I dropped my pack in the hall and raced to the kitchen.
Mom was there, sitting at the kitchen table with Chuckie in her lap. It looked as if she’d just trimmed his hair. Good, he needed it worse than me. “Hello, Antonia.” She smiled up at me.
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry for what I said last night,” she began. “I know you’re doing the best you can. We all are.” She smiled weakly, like it hurt.
I wanted to rush over and hug her. But I couldn’t. My feet wouldn’t move.
Mom started rocking Chuckie and humming. That’s when I noticed what he was doing.
“Chuckie!” I charged across the room and grabbed the scissors out of his hands. Naturally he screamed bloody murder. “You’ll cut yourself,” I told him. “Here.” I retrieved a dump truck from under the table. “Play with this.”
Chuckie squirmed out of Mom’s lap and zoomed his truck over my foot and across the floor. Mom lit up a cigarette.
“What’s that smell?” I asked.
“Oh, we had a slight accident.” She waved toward the stove. The stove top was empty, but a smoking pan lay in the sink. Something was burned to the bottom. “I was going to make us all eggs and bacon,” she added. “Guess I forgot how to cook.” She sort of chuckled.
Wow. It’d been a while since she’d actually cooked us dinner. I noticed she was wearing a dress and had combed her hair. Maybe she was better. My spirits lifted.
The ashes from her cigarette floated to the floor and settled on a pile of laundry. “Where’s Michael?” I asked, shoveling up the laundry to save us from a flash fire.
“I sent him to McDonald’s.”
“Alone?”
She blinked down at me. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m a terrible mother.” She covered her face and burst into tears.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologized silently. “No, you’re not. He’ll be okay. I’m just a big worrywart. You know me.” It was meant to reassure her, although I didn’t feel reassured.
Mom continued to cry while I separated the whites from the colors. Then I remembered we were out of detergent. For some reason it made me mad at Mom. Stop it, I scolded myself. She’s sick. She can’t help it.
Feeling guilty, I rose and walked back to the fridge. “Do you want eggs and bacon? I can make you some.”
Mom snuffled. “No, thank you.”
“Mom,” I said. “You have to eat.”
She lowered her hands and held my eyes for as long as she could, which was about a second.
“You have to,” I repeated.
Taking a deep breath, she stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Eggs and bacon would taste good.”
“Good.” I smiled at her. Better. She is better. Inside the fridge, an opened package of bacon lay on the top shelf, half frozen and uncovered. It must’ve been in the freezer for a year. Did bacon go bad? What if I poisoned her? Yeah, what if? Antonia! Quit it.
Just then Michael returned with two bags of food. Thank you, God, I prayed. “Why don’t we have eggs and bacon some other time?” I said to Mom, shutting the door. “We don’t want to waste a real meal deal.”
Mom laughed. “What would I do without you, Antonia?”
Good question, I thought. I took a bag from Michael and began unloading.
Mom ate one french fry and shoved the rest away. Rising wearily, she said, “I think I’ll go lie down for a while. I’m not really hungry.” At the door she turned and said, “Oh, Antonia. I had to use some of your savings to pay the electric bill.”
A box of supersize fries slipped from my hand and scattered all over the floor.
Don’t think about the money. Don’t! I ordered myself. Think about something else.
I switched off my light and climbed into bed. Jazz materialized in my mind. Good. I wasn’t happy about counseling her, but I couldn’t let Dr. DiLeo down. Not if he really needed my help. And I was curious about Jazz’s real problem, don’t ask me why. The vision of her bald scalp came into view. I could just imagine her parents cronking. For some reason it made me smile, and I drifted off to sleep.
Over the weekend, I studied my peer counseling notes and handouts, and even practiced a few approaches. Dr. DiLeo was right: I needed to take control. That was the main thing, getting past step one.
When I yanked open the conference room door, Jazz was already there. She had earplugs on and was rocking out to music from her hand-held CD player. Probably some obscene shock rock. Her eyes were closed and her fingers tapped across the table as if she were working the keyboard. She didn’t even notice I’d come in.
I lifted an earplug and said, “Hello? Anybody home?”
She jerked back to reality and flicked off her CD player. Quickly, she dropped it into her jacket pocket. Too quickly. Which made me wonder where she’d stolen it.
I said, “Okay, Jazz. Let’s get going.”
“You go ahead.” She slumped across the table. “Wake me up in an hour.” She covered her head with her hands.
Take control, I ordered myself. “I want you to answer some questions.”
She grunted.
I began at the top of my list. “What’s your favorite color?”
She twisted her head toward me. “Black,” she said.
I jotted down her answer.
“What’s yours?” she asked.
My pen paused midair. “I don’t know. White, I guess.”
She lifted her head and snorted. “White is the absence of color. Duh.”
Control, I reminded myself. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”
“Lunch,” she said.
I snorted. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?” She cocked her head. “Lunch.”
I exhaled wearily. The urge to get up and go was strong, but I forced myself to forge ahead. “Do you have any brothers or sisters? Besides Janey.”
She blinked. “How’d you know about Janey?”
“You said you stayed with her last summer. She took you to a party.”
Jazz rolled her eyes. “I lied. Janey wouldn’t know a party if it crashed at her house and burned her butt. She doesn’t know what fun is. She’s just soooo special. So perfect. She reminds me of you.”
Just as I was about to spear her with my pen, she added, “But I still love her. You know?”
That brought me up short. Blinking away from Jazz’s piercing gaze, I wrote down,
Janey. Perfect.
“In answer to your question,” Jazz said, “I have only the one perfect sister. How about you?”
“No sisters,” I said. “Two little brothers.”
“Lucky.” She sounded as if she meant it.
“Oh, yeah,” I replied sarcastically.
“What? You don’t like them? Are they brats or something?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Like how?”
I sighed. “Do you mind? I’m asking the questions.”
Jazz threw up her hands. “Sorr-ee. What is this, let’s play police interrogation?”
I just looked at her. She probably was an expert on police interrogation.
She held up her right palm. “Continue, Officer Dillon. I promise to tell the truth.”
A snicker might have escaped my lips. “Who’s your favorite teacher?”
She choked. “You’re kidding, right?”
I waited.
“Well, wow. I just can’t pick a favorite. There are so many to love.” She studied her blood-red nails. “All teachers hate me. Surprise!” She framed her face with spread-out fingers.
Checking that question off my list, I muttered, “I can’t imagine why.”
“What?” Jazz glared at me.
I didn’t answer.
“You mean the way I dress?” she said. “How I look? So what? It’s a free country. My body is my temple. I can decorate it any way I want.”
“Don’t expect anyone to worship at your altar,” I mumbled.
She tossed her one side of hair over her shoulder and added, “My clothes are who I am. They make a statement.”
Yeah: Stay back, I might be contagious. I didn’t say it. What I did say was “What you see is what you get.”
Jazz shot to her feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I was afraid she was going to attack me. Really. No telling what weapons she had stashed in that leather jacket. Switchblades, handguns. Before I could escape, Jazz shoved her chair away and clomped over to the heater. Folding her arms and staring out the window, she said, “I’m not an imbecile, you know. People shouldn’t judge other people by the way they look.”
“Probably not,” I said. “But they do. Surprise!” I framed my face.
She twisted around and glared at me, then twisted back.
I checked my watch. Another twenty minutes to go? We were getting nowhere. “Okay, so you don’t have a favorite teacher.” What was the next question on my list?
“Do you?” she said.
My mind shifted back. “Mrs. Bartoli, I guess.”
“That witch?” Jazz said.
I shot eye-bullets at Jazz. “She’s a great teacher.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jazz clomped back to her chair. “First day of class I walk in and she sends me straight to the office.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Jazz batted her eyelashes at me. “What’d I do? I was born.”
Okay, it was a stupid question. Mrs. Bartoli didn’t put up with any crap. It was one of the reasons I liked her. Class was calm. We could learn without having to dodge spit wads or feel faint from nail polish fumes. Jazz must’ve said or done something, though.
“I didn’t say or do anything,” she said, as if reading my mind. “She just hated me from day one. I got A’s on all my tests and she still gave me a C for my final grade. She said I had an attitude problem.” Jazz stuck out her tongue. Was that a stud glistening on the tip?
It took me a second to stop shuddering. Wow, I thought. That didn’t seem fair. If Jazz had earned an A, she should’ve gotten one.
“Teachers.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “They’re all alike. Every adult is. They always judge you on the way you look, not who you are.”
“I thought you said the way you look is who you are.”
She met my eyes and frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”
My eyes dropped to my list. Next question?
“I bet you get straight A’s,” Jazz said.
I didn’t answer.
“Yeah, I figured. Just like Janey. Suck-ups rule.”
That was it. I slapped my folder closed, got up, and stormed to the door. Wrenching it open, I snarled, “I earn my A’s.”
“Yeah? Well, so do I,” she snarled back.
A
pink slip came for me during history class. The message summoned me to Dr. DiLeo’s office immediately. Good. It’d save me from having to stop by after school. I hated giving up so easily, but Jazz and I were never going to make it past step one. She was so crazy, she was making me crazy. Pretty soon that’d be the one thing we had in common.
Dr. DiLeo’s door was ajar, so I knocked lightly. His voice carried through the crack. “Come.”
When I pushed in the door, my chin hit the floor. Jazz twirled around in Dr. DiLeo’s chair. “Hey, Tone,” she said with a wave.
I bristled.
“Antonia, come in,” Dr. DiLeo said from the student seat. “We were just talking about you.”
My whole body tensed.
“Shut the door,” he added.
I eased the door closed behind me. Turning back around, I began, “Dr. DiLeo—”
He held up a hand. His eyes widened on Jazz.
She smiled somberly. “I’m sorry about today. I was an ass. An assho—”
“We get the picture,” Dr. DiLeo said.
My eyes focused on him. He looked at me, sort of helplessly. “Okay.” He stood. “I’ll leave you two to work this out.”
“No!” I moved to block his exit. “I can’t do this, Dr. DiLeo.” My voice lowered to a murmur. “She’s a psycho.”
Jazz howled, “See, DiLeo? I told you she was good. She already has me figured out.”
He pointed a stiff finger at Jazz. “That’s
Dr. DiLeo
to you. Show some respect.”
Jazz curled a lip at me. She stood and saluted him. “Yes, suh!”
Dr. DiLeo searched my face. He must’ve picked up on my panic, or sense of helplessness, because he resumed his seat and said, “Let’s set some ground rules. First of all, you both need to respect each other’s space. You’re very different people—”
“No duh,” Jazz interrupted.
He shot her a warning look. “But that doesn’t mean one of you is better than the other. Or right. Or wrong.”
Jazz’s eyes hit the floor the same time mine did.
“Second,” he said, “you understand the oath of confidentiality. There’s a reason for it. It allows you to speak freely. So speak freely. Be honest. Trust that whatever you say goes no further than your peer counselor’s ears.”
Jazz snorted.
“Third,” he said, ignoring her, “listen. Discuss. Don’t react. If you disagree with something the other person says or believes, that’s fine. Everyone’s entitled to his or her opinion. There’s no need to go running out of the room.” He locked in on me.
My eyes burned holes in the knees of his khakis.
He paused a minute, then added, “I have an assignment for both of you. I want you to answer this question: If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
Jazz’s eyes met mine and we both blinked away.
Dr. DiLeo stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about that.” Somehow he slipped out around me.
Jazz made a face at his back. “Stupid,” she said. “Does he think we’re in kindergarten?”
“Apparently,” I mumbled.
She shook her head. “Such a wasted question. If I could change the shit in my life, I would. What’s the use of talking about stuff you can’t change?” She looked at me. “So, what would you change?”
“Everything,” I said.
Her eyebrows arched.
“But you’re right,” I added quickly. “What’s the use of talking about things you can’t change?”
Jazz hoisted herself up onto Dr. DiLeo’s desk and spun in a circle on her rear. “You want to look through his confidential files? See who’s whacking out? I could probably pick the lock.”
My eyes narrowed.