Icy Sparks (17 page)

“What else?”

“Once I caught her brushing Deirdre's teeth with a hairbrush. She's jealous of Deirdre. Hates that she has a pretty name.”

“Doesn't she like her own name?” Dr. Conroy asked.

“Would you?” I said, cocking my head to one side, opening wide my eyes.

“What's wrong with Wilma?” she asked.

“W-I-L-M-A.” I growled out the sound of each letter. “Listen to it! W-I-L-M-A!” I rocked forward on my knees. “I wouldn't want a name like that.”

“‘What's in a name?'” Dr. Conroy recited. “‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Shakespeare,” she answered. “It doesn't matter what something is called. It matters only how something is.”

“
Wilma
is something bad,” I said vehemently. “She's bad, and her name's bad—low down and ugly.”

Dr. Conroy was quiet before putting her hands squarely on the chair's arms, leaning so far forward that she looked like she might tip over, and saying in a stern voice, “Icy, how would you know what Wilma does? Have you ever seen her drown kittens in a tub of water?”

My mouth fell open. “N-n-o, ma'am,” I stammered, realizing that I had stated fantasy for fact. “I mean, I ain't seen her do those things, but I bet she does.”

“Imagining something doesn't make it true.”

“Well, I didn't imagine her making fun of Ace, and I didn't imagine her brushing Deirdre's teeth with a hairbrush. I saw her do those things with my very own eyes.”

“Why should I believe those things when you lied about the others?” she said.

“'Cause they're true,” I said adamantly.

“But Maizy's never complained about Wilma,” Dr. Conroy added. “If she saw Wilma doing something she shouldn't, don't you think she would?”

“Maizy's afraid of her,” I said. “Even Delbert's scared of her and so is Tiny.”

“Icy.” Dr. Conroy shook her head. “Know what I think?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I think you're scared of Wilma. Not everybody, just you. That's why you make up stories about her.”

I could feel my face burning with hurt and rage. Even the skin on my arms turned crimson. Digging my fingers into the fluffy blue rug, I began to shake all over. Curse words zoomed through my brain, banged against my skull, and demanded to get out. I stretched out my neck. My eyes leaped forward. Sweat rolled down my forehead. “Pot calling the kettle black. Damn liar! Goddamned liar! Shit and piss on you! Shit and piss….”

Dr. Conroy leaped from the rocker. With one large step, she was in front of me, scooping me into her arms. “It's okay, Icy,” she said, holding me against her chest. “It's okay.”

But I couldn't hush. The curses kept coming—louder and angrier—until, exhausted, I slumped against her shoulder and sobbed.

S
itting on the fluffy blue rug, I experienced the deadening calm which comes after any good cry and the relief of feeling nothing. After five minutes, though, the numbness faded, and the first traces of panic set in. “Lordy sakes!” I said out loud. “What have I done!” I jumped up, nervously wringing my hands. Like a record player stuck in a groove, my mind replayed each moment with Dr. Conroy. I heard myself screaming, “Pot calling the kettle black. Damn liar! Goddamned liar! Shit and piss on you!” I dug my fingernails into my hands. Blood trickled over my skin. Red blood as punishment, I thought, staring at the droplets. Red stains of sin. Oh, God! I thought. What will become of me now? Dr. Conroy will think I'm crazy, and I'll never get to leave this place! “Lordy mercy!” I said. “She thinks I told tall tales on Wilma.” What'll I do? I asked myself. What'll I do? I paced around the room; my heart ping-ponged against my chest; my breathing grew shallow. “What'll I do?” I whispered. “What'll I do about my disorder?” Panic-stricken, I paused in front of my stack of books, bent over, and, out of the blue, grabbed the dictionary which Mr. Wooten had loaned me.

Breathing in calmly, I tried to steady myself and focus on the task at hand. “Don't worry, Icy!” I said, reassuring myself. “Everyone here has a disorder, but you're not like everyone here.” I wondered about the word's meaning and about how the meaning could apply to me. “Icy, we need to understand your disorder,” Dr. Conroy had said. This was the reason they gave for not letting me go home, for not letting my grandparents come to see me. I had a disorder, yet I was not a disorderly person. My room was clean and tidy—not as tidy as Dr. Conroy's office, but tidy, nonetheless.

Resolved, I sat down on the floor, opened the dictionary, and quickly turned the pages until I came to the
d
's, then I slowly flipped over each page until I located the word I was looking for—
disorder
. According to the
Webster's
in front of me, disorder meant “a lack of order, disarrangement, confusion.” None of these words described me. So my eyes followed my finger down the column until they came to the phrases “a breach of order, disorderly conduct, a public disturbance.” These definitions, I realized, spelled trouble. Even the following one—“a derangement of physical or mental health or functions”—seemed bad. Determined to find a more positive meaning, I switched tactics and decided to concentrate on
disorder
the verb. “To derange the physical or mental health or functions of,” the dictionary said. This meaning sounded worse than the one before it. I was really worried.

Alarmed, I scanned what was left of the column; all at once, the word
synonyms
caught my attention. Miss Emily had taught me all about these words with similar meanings. “Brawl, disturbance, uproar,” I read. Gasping, I closed my eyes and saw clearly the writing on the wall. “Pot calling the kettle black. Damn liar! Goddamned liar! Shit and piss on you!” I had screamed. With my eyes still shut, I quietly closed the
Webster's
. “It's true,” I whispered, flicking open my eyes. “I can brawl with the best of them.” My eyes took in the insipid curtains, the pink dresser, and the flag-painted rocker. “I'll never leave this place,” I cried.

At that moment, as if by design, I spotted the heating vent in the baseboard near my dresser. I stood, and with the dictionary in my hands, walked over to the vent and placed the book on the floor. Loosening the screws, I pried open the vent's cover with my fingers. The space behind the cover was large, large enough for my dictionary; so I shoved the book inside, replaced the grated cover, secured the screws, and sighed. Only I would be privy to this damning definition, I thought. My disorder was now hidden away.

O
n the floor, near the window, rearranging my stack of books, sat Gordie. From the doorway, I watched as he frantically picked up one of the thickest, glanced at its cover, then, exasperated, shoved it between two others. Immediately his hand moved toward another book, wedged in the center of the second pile. It was my book on Kentucky wildflowers, the one which Miss Emily had given me. After he pulled it out, he looked at the title, made a grunting noise, and slammed it back on top. He's looking for my dictionary, I thought, all at once realizing what he was doing.

Then, abruptly, he jumped up, stared at the closet, and headed toward it. Just as he was about to put his hand on the doorknob, I cranked up my courage, strode noisily into the room, and announced. “This is my room, not yours.”

He pivoted on his heels, quickly facing me.

Determined, I stared into his angry black eyes, shook my head ferociously, and snarled, “This is my room. Those are my books. You better get!”

He scrunched up his forehead and swayed forward. His face glowed purple. His nostrils flared. His lips jutted outward. His forehead twitched.

“Get out!” I screamed, stepping back.

He grunted loudly and shuffled his feet. Swinging his head from one side to the other, he emitted a skunklike odor. I smelled his stench, felt his knife-edged stare, and knew the butt was coming.

“Get out!”
I bellowed, leaping straight up.
“Get going!”
I screamed, then cartwheeled two times across the floor, landing right in front of him.

His eyes grew large. His jaw dropped. His legs bent slightly.

In that instant, I threw back my head, popped out my eyes, opened wide my mouth, and let out a gigantic
CROAK
.

“MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he grunted, straightening his legs. “MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he groaned, his eyes darting back and forth. “MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he growled, pushing me to the side, heading for the door. Then, mechanically, he turned around, took one last look at me, and strutted out.

“Croak,” I enunciated the word clearly when I heard him in the hallway. “Croak! Croak!” I giggled as his footsteps faded. “Croak!” I tittered to the silent, empty space.

Relieved, I collapsed on the floor and began to chuckle. At first the laughter was faint; but before too long, great guffaws ripped from my lungs and tore out of my mouth. I laughed so hard that I could feel my organs shaking, my skin vibrating. I roared so long that when the fit was over, I closed my eyes and fell asleep right there on the floor, at peace with the knowledge that, for the first time since the croaking began, I had called the shots. I had used my disorder and made myself powerful. No actress could have performed better: I had contrived my first croak.

A
few days later, I stood outside, savoring my victory. Now, whenever Gordie saw me, he quivered his nose, shrunk his eyes, swiveled around, and marched away. In the distance, I saw Maizy Hurley, bundled up, resting on a bench, all by herself beneath a leafless maple tree. Her hair was fluffed out around her head, and her face seemed to glow with urgency.

“Hey, Maizy!” I called as I ran over to her. “I want to tell you something.” But she didn't look up. “Maizy, you're not listening. It's about Head Butt-er.”

“Butter?” Maizy said.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked. “You're not listening to me.”

“I'm sorry, Icy,” Maizy said. “I'm worried about Rose.” Soft, yellow waves of hair framed her face. “I've been trying to feel what she feels.”

“How?” I asked, sitting down beside her, forgetting about Gordie.

“The other day, I got down on my bedroom floor,” Maizy said, “and twisted my body up like hers.”

Astounded, I turned to face her. “Did it hurt?”

“Really bad,” she said.

“I bet,” I said, shaking my head.

“Picture her arms,” Maizy said. “They look like they're strung from a tree.” She pointed up at a large branch.

My eyes followed her finger. “Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

“Well, I made my arms do the same thing.”

I glanced back down at my hands. “Ouch!” I said. “I bet that hurt even more.”

She nodded. “But I didn't really look like her. So I tried even harder. I jerked my head one way and my legs so far the other way that I thought my skin would rip.”

I made an awful face. “Why?”

“Because I want to understand her,” Maizy insisted. “I want to feel the same hurt she feels.”

I shook my head. “I can't figure out what you mean,” I said.

“Em-pa-thy.” Carefully, Maizy pronounced each syllable. “I want to feel what she feels—completely, utterly, totally. What I mean is, I want to love her.”

I was dumbfounded. My jaw fell and my lips parted. “But you do love her.”

“Not really,” she said. “Not until I feel her pain like I feel my own.”

“That won't be so easy.” I grimaced. “Her disorder is awful.”

“But I can try, can't I?”

“You go right ahead. But Icy Sparks, here”—I pointed my thumb at my chest—“wants no part of it.” I eyed her; she wasn't listening again.

Instead, she began talking with that dreamy look in her eyes. “When Reid was a baby,” she said, “he ate lead paint, and it made him sick. That's why he's the way he is.” She flicked a strand of hair off her forehead. “Last year, I scraped some paint off the trim in my bathroom.” She lightly ran her fingernail down her cheek. “I wanted to eat a little poison myself.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “You see, I wanted some of his magic, too. To leave this world. Be reborn as a bird and fly high above it. But I didn't follow through.”

“Why not?” I wanted to know.

Her eyes flashed open. “I got scared,” she said.

“Lucky for you,” I said, breathing easy.

“Maybe,” she said, “but in a way it's sad, 'cause I really wanted to understand him. For just a little while, I wanted to be him.”

“What about Ace?” I asked, fixing my eyes on her. “Do you understand him?”