Touch (13 page)

“Never did what?” I say.

“I never said that part about the money. That was all Kevin and Chris’s idea. I don’t even know where they got that from. They just decided to say that, if someone told, and from the look on Daria’s face that morning, that seemed like a done deal. If we got in trouble, they decided we would say that, and that we would make it seem like the whole thing was your idea. I was against it from the start. I couldn’t believe they’d actually go through with it. I knew how terrible you would feel if you ever found out.”

“Found out? I found out the next day! Were you around—were you
alive
—when all those kids were jingling coins in their pockets and they drew that…thing on the girls’ bathroom wall?”

“I don’t go in the girl’s bathroom,” says Shakes.

“But you knew I was going to find out.”

“I guess so. But I didn’t say it. I never said that thing about the money.”

“You swear?”

“I swear. You’ve got to believe me. I never said it.”

I look at Shakes even harder now. And the weird thing is, I
do
believe him. I’ve known him since preschool, I know him almost as well as I know myself. I can tell when he’s lying and telling the truth. But there’s this: If I can’t be sure about what really happened to
me,
how can Shakes be so sure? Maybe he
thinks
he’s telling the truth. For all I know, he was the one who came up with the idea to add the part about the money. But somehow I doubt it. I doubt it.

I say, “Did you tell anyone it
wasn’t
true?”

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. I already told you I was sorry.”

“If you didn’t deny it, if you didn’t stick up for me, you might as well have said it
was
true.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says. “Everything was happening so fast, and all these faces and voices and weirdness were all sort of swirling around, and everybody got very panicky and crazy even though the principal was
trying to be all reasonable and supercalm. I could see him sweating under his tie.”

“I know,” I say. “He does that.”

“I didn’t really get a chance to say what was true and what wasn’t. Everyone was sort of rushing from one thing to the next. It was like they were skipping from rock to rock in a stream.”

I remember when we did that. He
wants
me to remember. I want to say,
Bringing that up isn’t fair!
But how would I answer if he asked me why?

I say, “Not saying it’s a lie is pretty much the same as saying something’s true.”

“It isn’t. Not exactly. Don’t be so harsh, Maisie.”

“I’m not,” I say. “And you know I’m right.”

“Then what about the lie
you
told about how I held your hands down while it was happening and wouldn’t let you move? I heard about that from my mom. You know
that
isn’t true. You know that never happened.”

“It
is
true,” I say. But I’m thinking,
It isn’t? Is it?

It’s so confusing—and painful, I guess—that, all at once, we both simultaneously run out of energy. We run out of things to say. After that we just sit there side
by side on the bus seat, staring at each other. We’re both a little winded, as if we’ve run a long race—a marathon. Then we slump back against the seat, and our heads drift together until we’re leaning against each other.

It feels nice. Really nice. At the same time I can feel the whole bus looking at us. Behind us, everyone’s eyes are drilling into the backs of our skulls. I wonder where Kevin and Chris are, but I don’t care, it feels so good. It’s almost as if we’ve magically time-traveled back to that other time, that period of grace when I didn’t even know enough to appreciate what we had. We’re back where we belong. Beside each other. Together.

I think about all the time I’ve spent in the bad world of thinking that Shakes didn’t care about me or that he hated me or that he’d told all those lies about me. And now I feel that I’ve come back from a long, hard journey. I’ve returned to the good world where it’s just me and Shakes.

Sitting there with our eyes closed and our heads pressed together, I’m half blissing out on the moment and half trying to figure out—just in case a moment like this doesn’t ever come again—what Shakes and I had.
Or what we
have
, what we mean to each other. Were we in love? Did we have crushes on each other? Did we find each other exactly when we needed someone? We were friends, there was that. What do I know? Maybe it had nothing, or hardly anything, to do with the fact that I have breasts.

The truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive Shakes for not defending me. For not realizing that you just can’t say certain things, or allow certain things to be said about people. Especially your friends. I guess I’ll never forgive him for not being braver and more independent. Those are qualities you care about in a person—maybe even more than that person’s ability to get over his physical problems. Shakes was pretty brave, but not brave enough, when the going got really tough. And the truth was, I guess I hadn’t been all that brave or independent, either.

I don’t want to think about that now. For the moment, I’m comfortable, and almost happy. I feel relaxed and sleepy—for the first time in a long while. But I know better than to doze off. We’re not alone on the bus. Everything we do or don’t do is a statement. It
has meaning. We can’t pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s right there with us in all those rows behind us.

It makes me sad to realize that by the time I get home, I’ll have decided that no matter how much I like Shakes, no matter how good it feels to be leaning against him, the closeness between us can’t go on. It’s too late for us to be friends. I’ll never trust him the way I used to. We’ll be nice to each other when we see each other in school, but we’re no longer the same people we used to be. And it’s sad, because, whatever happened, he was my oldest friend.

I remember something Doctor Atwood said. “It’s unfortunate,” she said, “and no one likes it. But friendships die all the time. And other friendships are born.”

Shakes’s sigh rattles his scarecrow body. He says, “I meant it about being sorry. But you can do whatever you want. Get us expelled. We probably deserve it. I don’t care. I just wanted to sit next to you one more time.”

I say, “I appreciate that. I mean it, Shakes. I really do.”

“Well, good,” says Shakes. “I always really liked you.”

“I liked you, too. I still do. Just not the same way.”

“I understand that,” says Shakes. “I don’t blame you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,” Shakes says. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” I say.

But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.

Meanwhile, I can’t help wondering if Shakes, like me, couldn’t really remember if he’d done it or not. Because the part that’s a lie—that I’d said
no
and that Shakes held down my hands—had begun to seem more like the truth every time I told it.

I’m crying a little when Shakes gets off the bus, so I pretend to be looking out the window as I mumble, “Okay. See you later.” I’m thinking that I’ve got another ten minutes till I get to my house, so by then I’ll have a little time to think things through and decide how I feel about what’s just happened between me and Shakes. But in fact I spend those minutes trying
not
to think. I’m not ready to deal with it yet. Or at all. And I need more time. After everything that’s happened, ten minutes seems like nothing.

Outside, the snow has shrunk to dirty white patches.
The lawns are a muddy brown. Here and there, a greenish fuzz is sprouting after all those months of waiting under the snow. I feel as if I’m trying to memorize every spot we pass, every turn in the road, because soon this minute will be gone, replaced by other minutes. And by the next time I come back this way, everything will be different. It will never again look the way it did on the day Shakes told me he was sorry and that he still liked me, and I told him that wasn’t good enough. It all seems too sad for words, especially since I can’t believe that my life will ever get any better than it is at this moment.

I tiptoe into my house, shutting the door so softly that you’d need superhuman powers to hear. Which Joan has, obviously.

“Maisie,” she calls from the kitchen. “Come in here for a minute. I’ve made something special I want to show you.”

I walk in as slowly as I can, putting off the moment of seeing whatever gourmet gross-out Sitcom Mom has prepared for my delight. It turns out to be a chocolate cake.

“Get it?” asks Joan.

Ten minutes ago I was sitting with my head against Shakes’s head. And now I’m in the kitchen with Joan trying to figure out what I’m supposed to “get” about a cake.

“Get what?” I say. “It’s a cake.”

“No,” says Joan. “It’s a law book. Like the kind Cynthia has in her office.”

It hits me that, in Joan’s insane misguided mind, the cake is supposed to be some kind of celebration-in-advance, for when I give my deposition in Cynthia’s office, surrounded by books that look pretty much like giant chocolate blobs and are no less fake than a book made of cake. By this time tomorrow, my hour at Cynthia’s will be over, and the case will be ready for the hearing. And Joan’s sure we’ll win! Hooray! Let’s celebrate! Law-book cake for everybody!

“Cool,” I say. “Can I go now?”

“Maisie! Maisie! What’s wrong? What happened to you at school today? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Was the bus ride home sheer hell for you? I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Short of dragging that darn piece-of-garbage SUV to the dealership myself, there’s no way
I could have gotten there in time. And of course your dad insisted on buying me something so fancy and foreign that the nearest dealership is forty miles away. I had to wait for them to get here and bring me a loaner. It ruined my entire day.”

“Did you get the car fixed?” I ask. Joan smiles. Even thought it’s broken, she’d still rather talk about her car than about whatever problems I might have been having at school.

“They think there’s some computer glitch, which isn’t supposed to happen. But no one can be sure, I mean, no carmaker can play God, right? They can do what they can do, but there’s a limit!”

“I guess,” I say.

“And no matter what kind of fortune you pay—”

“Stuff happens,” I say.

“Exactly,” says Joan. “So how was the bus ride? Traumatic? Tell me it wasn’t so bad. Oh, you poor sweetheart!”“

“It was okay, I guess.” I’m never going to tell her how it really was. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—I couldn’t explain.

“Good,” says Joan. “But believe me, after tomorrow, you’ll never have to do anything like that again. Of course, we’ll have to be patient—these court cases drag on and on like
Bleak House
. But eventually, and I mean starting tomorrow, this will be settled. It will, I promise. There was just a case, down in South Carolina somewhere. Cynthia was telling me last night. There was a fairly considerable settlement awarded to some poor girl. Boarding school, then college. Medical school, if you want.”

“I don’t want to go to medical school,” I say. “I don’t want to be a doctor.” Then I say, “Speaking of doctors, do you think I could go see Doctor Atwood this afternoon?”

“It’s unusual,” says Doctor Joan Marbury, Therapist, snapping to attention and instantly emerging out of Sitcom Mom’s head.

“She said I could,” I tell Joan. “She said she’d be willing to schedule an emergency appointment.”

“Emergency! I knew it! I knew something was wrong. What happened? Something. I know it. It’s my fault, because of the car and the bus ride and…to say
nothing of the fact that the deposition’s coming up, and I know it’s worrying you, though I’ve told you a thousand times there’s nothing to worry about—”

I say, “It has nothing to do with you.” Which is true, but only sort of. If Joan’s car hadn’t broken down, I wouldn’t have taken the bus, I wouldn’t have had that talk with Shakes. “I really think I’d like to see Doctor Atwood.
Now
.”

“Why, that’s wonderful. Not wonderful that something happened to you that’s made you want to see Doctor Atwood on an emergency basis. But wonderful that you feel you can trust her, that you
want
to talk to her and work your feelings out with her in a crisis situation.”

“It’s not a crisis. Can I go see her or not?”

“Why don’t you call?” Joan hands the phone to me. Doctor Joan Marbury knows that a kid who sounds like a wreck will have an easier time of persuading a busy shrink to stay late in the office.

“You call.” I hand the phone back to Joan. She’s going to have to come though for me, at least this once.

She takes the phone into the other room.

When she comes back, she says, “She’ll see you at
five. I’ll drive you over. Throw some water on your face, dear. Let’s leave a little early. You never know how these loaners are going to behave in bad weather.”

“The weather’s perfectly fine,” I say, but Joan doesn’t seem to hear.

A few blocks from Doctor Atwood’s office, we pass a guy—tall, skinny, ordinary looking. He’s standing on the edge of the sidewalk, leaning into the street, and from a block away, I can see he’s spitting into the gutter. As we get closer, we watch him retching.

“My God, that’s disgusting,” Joan says. “Someone should alert the sheriff. That could be a health threat. Or a quality-of-life issue. Have you been reading about that guy who traveled around the world with that super-deadly strain of tuberculosis?”

Then, for just a moment, Joan the Human Being wins out over her other multiple personalities, and says, “That poor man. Do you think he’s in some kind of trouble? Sick? Do you think he might need help?”

We slow down, and, as we approach, the guy is still coughing and spitting.

Suddenly, I think,
I’d know those sounds anywhere!

“Phlegm Man!” I say. It seems like a sign, but I can’t tell what it’s a sign
of
.

“You
know
that person?” Joan says.