Shrinking Violet (8 page)

"You want her to be Helen Keller?" Kayla points to me, like she can't figure out who Gavin's talking about.

I don't know why I never thought of Helen Keller before in all my years of losing sleep and throwing up over oral reports. "Okay." I tap my hand on my desk.

Gavin looks up from his drawing. An enormous dog is spread over the page. It's eyes are fierce. "Cujo."

"God, help us," Kayla murmurs and flips to a fresh notebook page. She writes down the names of our author picks in big bubbly letters. "This is going to be one weird meeting."

I stare down at the dog. It's a Saint Bernard.

***

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89

It would be cool if I could fast-forward the school day to English class. We're working on our group projects today. That means no one's going to call on me and hopefully no one's going to humiliate me. I know eventually we'll have to stand up in front of the class to deliver our presentations, but as long as I don't have to talk, I can hack it. And in the meantime, I get to scoot my desk next to Gavin---the highlight of my day.

My morning classes blur by with a sub left over from the Dark Ages in pre-calc and a sociology pop quiz designed to stump even the reigning
Jeopardy!
champ. I hope Ms.

Collins pities us and uses a huge sliding scale when she grades the quizzes.

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I'm not looking forward to lunch because Audrey's absent today, which means I have to eat alone. How dare she get a sore throat? Definitely poor planning! I should really think about getting a backup friend. There are a couple of girls in my pre-calc class that I could sit with, but they usually end up droning on about the homework. Not a relaxing way to spend lunch.

I chow my blueberry muffin at my locker. Now what? I still have twenty-eight minutes left until class starts. It's time to loosen my vocal cords so I can talk to Gavin and Kayla. I want to seem at least halfway intelligent in our group discussion, so I head to the language lab.

On the way, I pass the band room. Maria, one of the French-horn players, is standing at the door. She waves me over. "Hi, Tere. Where's Audrey?"

"Sick."

"Is she okay?" Maria's brows connect. I mean, really connect. I fold my arms. "Sore throat."

"We need her to prepare for competition this weekend." Maria sighs. "Hope it's not strep."

Doug pops his head out of the band room. "I called her last night. She sounded bad."

"Hope you don't get it." Maria smirks. Doug asked Audrey to the prom months ago. Not that he needed to ask her, because they've basically attended every school function together since they met in ninth grade band. It's like they have a mutual understanding that unless one of them finds their soul mate, they're

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going to be together. I wonder what will happen next year when they're at separate colleges.

Doug makes kissy sounds and steps closer to Maria.

"Gross." She shakes her head. I swear the band geeks are one incestuous group!

And on that note, I say good-bye and keep on walking. I guess I could've eaten lunch with them. But then I'd probably have to hang in the band room, and that's usually filled with people jabbering nonstop.

When I open the door to the language lab, Mrs. Tripp is seated at her desk, eating a salad. I wonder if she counts each bite that she chews. Not a paper is out of line on her desk. Her hair is neatly slicked back in a low ponytail. She looks so methodical.

I fill out my info on the sign-in sheet and clear my throat. She sets down her fork.

"German again?"

I nod.

I'm the only one in here today, which is good because I really have to work on enunciating. I was reading a report online last night that said if you enunciate well but speak softly, people can still understand you easier than someone who speaks loudly but slurs their words together.

I flip the German workbook to page five where I left off yesterday. Days of the week. I can handle this.

Sonntag. Montag. Dienstag. Mittwoch, Donnerstag. Freitag. Samstag.

I pause the CD and repeat each word slowly again, making sure I pronounce every syllable. I don't stop until the corners

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of my mouth are wet. I fish in my bag for a tissue and wipe my lips. I wonder if the Germans go through more tissues per person than Americans. Even the work
Kleenex
sounds kind of German.

"I'm a dorkstag," I hear someone whisper.

Did someone record over the CD? But it's on pause. I fiddle with the buttons just to make sure.

I hit play and repeat the days of the week. This time a little softer.
"Sonntag. Montag ..."

"Dorkstag. Geekstag. Freaktag . ."

There it is again. What the hell is going on? I double-checked to make sure no one else was here when I came in. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.

"Mittwoch. Donnerstag ..."

The other voice speaks again, "Loserwoch. Dogstag . ."

I'm afraid to turn around. My ears are burning like red-hot pokers. Is there a Kick Me sign on my back? I reach over my shoulder blade and feel around to make sure nothing's there. I know it sounds like I'm paranoid, but it's happened before. In the seventh grade I wore a Kick Me sign half the day until the custodian pulled it off my back. I knew this kid named Heath put it there in homeroom because he used the other side of his detention slip.

I turn my head slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a long tanned leg stretched out from the booth behind me. Well, it's definitely not a guy.

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I tilt my head around even farther, hoping Mystery Bitch will go away, but she speaks again, "I'm a dork, I'm a dork . ."

I lean back a little more, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

She leans forward, her straight golden-brown hair framing her face.

Damn, it's Stacy. I should've known. What's she doing here? Doesn't Mrs. Tripp hear her creepy voice?

I turn to the front of the room, but Mrs. Tripp isn't there. I wouldn't be surprised if Stacy swallowed her whole.

I pop out the German CD and pack up my stuff. My cover has been compromised; I have to motor out of here.

"Leaving so soon?" Stacy laughs.

I don't move, but I can feel the heat from her eyes burning holes in the back of my head.

She screeches her chair on the linoleum. "At least we know you're not mute."

I will not turn around.

I make my way up to the front of the room as Stacy throws one last dig at me. "A mutant, maybe." She laughs big this time.

I leave my book on Mrs. Tripp's desk, sign out, and quickly zip out the door before Stacy comes up with any other award-winning insults.

I spend the last ten minutes of lunch in the bathroom stall reading my sociology book. I have to remind myself that people like Stacy have nothing better to do with their time than make fun of the unpopular. But it still hurts.

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I make sure I'm in Ms. Peters' class before Stacy. If I'm nestled . between Kayla and Gavin, then she can't bother me. Besides, she joined Prank's group, and it seems like he's her latest conquest. Hopefully he'll keep her away.

Kayla plunks down with her monstrous pink backpack. "Where do you guys want to meet?"

"We're meeting right now," Gavin says.

"Yeah, but that's only for half the class period." Kayla rolls her eyes like Gavin has no idea what he's talking about.

"The project isn't due until May first. That's six weeks away," he says.

"Great, that gives us a lot of time to make sure it's perfect." Kayla smiles. "Besides, it's spring break next week and I'll be out of town."

Gavin sighs, then turns to me. "Have you gotten your book yet?"

I shake my head.

"Well, if we meet first, then we can have an idea of where the project is going. Anyway, how long does it really take to read a book?" Kayla pulls out her laptop.

"I know King pretty well already," Gavin says.

"And I finished
Summer Sisters
in a weekend." Kayla holds up the paperback again.

They both stare at my face. Great, now it's all up to me. I bite my lip and nod.

"We could meet on Sunday. You can get the book today and 95

finish it by then, right?" Kayla leans in close and speaks real slow, like she's talking to a three-year-old.

When her gaze doesn't move from me, I respond, "Okay."

"Whose house?" Kayla asks. "My grandparents are visiting, so mine's out."

How convenient. Well, I can't have them at mine. Mom would be hovering over us the whole time. Then after they left, she'd tell me how I should've sat up straighter, spoken louder, and acted peppier. No thanks.

I remember once when I was in seventh grade this new girl, Daria, came over to my house to work on a science project. She talked more than a TV commentator and ended up chatting with my mom the whole time. I felt like I was invisible that day and ended up finishing the whole project myself, while Daria gave Mom a tutorial on Internet shopping. It was like I wasn't even there.

"My mom's sick," I blurt out. "Is she okay?" Gavin asks.

"Yeah." I twist the drawstring of my sweatpants.

It's not a total lie. Mom could quite possibly be sick by Sunday. After all, she is sick in the head.

A voice comes over the PA asking for Stacy Barnes to report to the main office. I hope she's suspended. Indefinitely this time.

"My place is fine," Gavin says.

We agree to meet at Gavin's house at three, after Kayla goes to church and plays two hours of tennis. After I wake up at

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noon and watch MTV until it's time to throw on a pair of sweats.

I wonder what Gavin's mom looks like. All I can picture is a smaller version of him with the same black hair. Maybe she has tattoos and piercings and wears all black. Too bad I can't find out in advance and dress accordingly.

Right after school I check out Helen Keller's autobiography,
The Story of My Life,
from the school library. There are a few biographies, too, and a book she wrote with someone else, but I want the real deal. I want to know how Helen did it. How she conquered life being deaf and blind. It's a nice day, so I climb up the bleachers and read until it's time to catch the bus to the station. I read for almost an hour without taking a break.

Helen has so much to say that it seems like she hardly ever had time off. She took the crappy deal that she got out of life and actually made something out of it. Even after only reading the first few chapters of her story, I already feel guilty. Guilty for thinking that there's no worse fate in life than having to stand up in front of my English class and present an oral report.

I close my eyes as I make my way down the metal steps, but I stumble on the second step and snap them open. I don't know how Helen did it. Entered a world she couldn't see or hear.

When I was little, around four or five, I sometimes used to walk around the house with my eyes closed, feeling the walls. It drove my mom crazy. She said it gave her the heebie-jeebies.

That's one of the things I like about music, you don't have to 97

see to feel it. I whip out my iPod and let the sounds of Grade May pump through my veins. I wonder how Beethoven composed music deaf. How did he feel the beat? My sneakers move to the rhythm as I make my way down Marlin Avenue. I picture myself in a music video, gliding down the street, surrounded by fancy cars. I move, one foot at a time. One beat at a time. Until I see the bus pull up and I'm still about one hundred feet away. This time I have to motor faster than the beat or I can kiss getting to the station on time good-bye. My foot hits the last step as the door hisses to a close. I slide my bus pass through the turnstile and slowly catch my breath.

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99

Pop-Tart doesn't disappoint. She's at the front desk in a skintight Lycra tee with the word
Huh?
stretched across her breasts. She's moving her hands back and forth at a rapid pace like she's directing airport traffic. If only the person on the other line could see her now. Of course, if it's a guy, he'd be frothing at the mouth.

She finishes her call and waves to me. "Sorry, they didn't understand my directions.

What's up?" she says slowly as she elaborately mouths the words, her lips stretched wide.

"Nothing." I sign in with her fluffy purple pen. Definitely not radio station issued.

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"You read lips?" Pop-Tart asks. "No." I squeeze past her.

"Oh, sorry," she says. "I don't know sign language." I turn around to face her. "Me neither."

"Okay." She tilts her head to the side. Her big clunky hoop earrings swing back and forth like pendulums. "This is going to be hard."

The phone rings and she breathes a sigh of relief. Wouldn't want her to think too long; her lightbulb might burn out.

Jason's walking out the door when I reach the on-air studio. "Red Bull run."

I just nod. Does this poor guy do anything else besides play fetch for Derek?

I slide my book bag off my shoulder and lean against the wall. Derek's bound to turn around soon. I stare at my raw cuticles in the meantime. I could definitely use a cleanup.

Next time Mom's on the attack, I'll let her fix up my nails.