Beckoners (8 page)

“This lunchbox is filled with everything an assistant editor needs to do the job.” Leaf set the lunchbox on Mrs. Henley's desk. “It's been passed down from assistant editor to assistant editor since 1958. It's got your standard pens, pencils, notebooks, instant coffee and cigarettes.” The class laughed. “There are some modern conveniences as well, a mini disc recorder and a photocopier key. This year it goes to—” he checked the name, “—April Donelly for her essay about teenage mothers at Central, running front page in this issue, hot off the press.” He thumped the stack of papers. “Congratulations, April. April?”

The class was silent.

“Which one's April?”

“This is a joke, right?” Beck laughed. “You're not serious.”

Leaf turned to Mrs. Henley. “Is she here, Mrs. H?”

“April!” Mrs. Henley waved the paper at Dog. “You won! Stand up, say a few words, child. Congratulations!”

“Um.” Dog pushed herself up in her seat just a bit. “Um, thanks.”

Leaf's expression changed from curious anticipation to sinking dread and back in less than five seconds. A very quick recovery. “Hi. April. Donelly. Right.”

“Look at him, he had no idea it was Dog!” Beck laughed again.

“Beck, I've asked you before not to—”

“You absolutely have to pick someone else, Henley. She's not mentally fit for the job. Aren't I right, Lindsay?”

“A complete nutcase.”

“Jazz? Back me up here.”

“Big mistake, Mrs. H.”

“Enough! If you'd bothered to notice, the winner was selected by blind judging. I trust you all at least know what that means?” There was a definite edge to Mrs. Henley's voice. “So, it has already been proven that she has the skill. If you have such a vested interest, I suggest you enter the contest next year. April? Are you all right?”

Dog stared at her desktop. She'd watched Leaf's penny drop, followed immediately by his quick scramble to pick it up. The whole class had seen it.

“She's always like that,” Beck said.

“Zombie,” Lindsay said. “Completely brain dead. She should be institutionalized. It's very sad.”

“The two of you, that is more than enough! April, why don't you take this opportunity to check out the Dungeon with Leaf? I believe there's a desk there with your name on it. Leaf?”

“Yeah. Right. There is.” Leaf studied Dog as she got her books together, his brow furrowing. Dog scurried to the front
of the room, taking a circuitous route up an aisle well out of reach of Beck.

If only Zoe had spent more time on her essay. And why had she picked such a stupid topic? Nobody cared if there was no main entrée for vegetarians in the school café. Vegetarians were pathetic anemic losers, Zoe decided as she watched Dog leave, and she, Zoe Anderson was a complete and total idiot.

“There goes the paper,” Beck said as Dog left without so much as shaking Leaf's reluctantly stuck out hand as she passed. He dropped his hand and looked at Mrs. Henley, who was proudly passing a newspaper to each student. The look he laid on her was one of abject disappointment, as though she'd duped him on purpose, as though she should've known better than to let this happen. He stared at her back, and then collected the lunchbox and left the room without another word.

By lunchtime that day,
the school was barking at Dog with a renewed enthusiasm. Simon and Teo and Zoe walked behind her down the hall as Dog headed out of the school. Dog looked like she wanted to bolt, but was resisting. Zoe had to give her credit. If she bolted, it proved they'd gotten to her. Ignoring it was a small triumph that at least suggested that she didn't care. The barking stopped when Dog stepped outside, because of course all the barkers would look pretty stupid if there were no Dog to bark at.

“That girl is so marked.” Simon said as the door slowly shut behind her. “You'd think the air around her would be a different color.”

Zoe stopped at her locker to grab her lunch, and then the three of them went outside. There was Dog, whistling to Shadow, who'd been waiting at the curb across the street. He bounded over to her as best he could with his stiff legs. Zoe and the boys watched Dog make her way down the path between the portables to the little strip of grass she ate her lunch on, alone with her dog, every day.

If Zoe had Mrs. Henley's job, she would've taken Dog's essay out of the running. She would've slipped it out of the pile and tucked it in her satchel and fed it to the fireplace at home, because even if she was a hoity-toity English teacher at the sunset end of a fifty-year generation gap, Zoe would've known better than to keep Dog in the running. Never, ever, ever focus the spotlight on someone who is naked and alone and tiny in the world.

Simon and Teo went on ahead while Zoe watched Dog take her lunch out of a paper bag and line it up in front of her on the grass: apple, cheese sandwich on brown bread, juice box, granola bar, carrot sticks in a baggie. She gave Shadow half the sandwich, looking up to see if anyone was watching. Zoe ducked. Squatting there just outside the main doors with students passing, wiping the strange looks off their faces when they realized it was a Beckoner hiding there like she was about to take a dump in the bushes, Zoe discovered she was actually a little jealous of Dog. Zoe had to admit she'd rather be Dog, sharing a quiet, private patch of grass with Shadow instead of looking forward to yet another lunch hour in the smoke hole, fending off Heather's psychic vampirism and the general inanity of the Beckoners.

The night of Beck's
sixteenth birthday changed everything.

Zoe wasn't going to go. She didn't want to, and it was at Heather's, so she'd assumed that even if Beck wanted her there, Heather wouldn't let her through the front door.

“What the hell do you think?” Beck had said when Zoe told her she wasn't going. “You're a Beckoner. You go. Don't be an idiot.”

Alice was covering an overnight shift at the shelter, so she'd arranged for the young mom who lived next door to babysit Cassy. Her name was Wish. Zoe expected a willowy hippie girl
with messy dreads and flowing skirts and moccasins and silver bangles on her wrists, the kind of mom who breastfed her kid until they were four. Wish showed up half an hour before she was supposed to, and she was no hippie.

Standing there, clutching a squalling, writhing toddler in her arms, was the most pierced person Zoe had ever seen. In addition to the small thick rings lining her ears, she had metal in her nose, lower lip, both eyebrows, and in the space between her eyes, which was hard to see above her silver-rimmed, rhinestoned cat's-eye glasses.

“Zoe?” She shifted the kid to her hip and held out her hand. “I'm Wish, hi.”

“You're early.” Zoe tried not to stare at the stud in her tongue.

“Yeah, uh...look, I've got to take Connor to Emergency.” She put her palm to his brow. “He's got a massive temperature. I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” Zoe was relieved to have an excuse not to go, an excuse even Beck had to buy. “I'll stay home, it's no big deal.”

“Oh, you can still go. Mrs. D's daughter is coming. I called your mom. She said that was okay.”

“Really?” Zoe hesitated. “She said it was okay? You're sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. You can call her if you want, but she said it was no problem. Make it quick though, because I got to go.”

“No, no. That's okay.” Zoe watched a black tow-truck with silver lettering on the side pull in, its diesel engine idling, thrasher music pulsing from the cab. Wish pushed a chunk of purple hair out of her eyes and waved at the driver. From the doorway all Zoe could see of him was that he had freaky black hair and a huge bullring through his nose.

“That's T-Bone. I have to go.”

When the doorbell rang half an hour later, it was Dog standing there, dressed in saggy-kneed overalls, notebook sticking out of her pocket. Shadow sat at her feet, tail wagging.

“What are
you
doing here?”

“I thought you were out.” Dog's words were just as sharp as Zoe's. “I thought your mom was here.”

“She's at work. You're Mrs. D's daughter, of course.” Zoe smacked her forehead. “Mrs.
Donelly.
I thought everyone called her Barb.”

“You didn't know it was me?”

“No, I didn't.”

“I'll go.” She gestured back towards her house. “I'll just go.”

“No, no. I was just surprised, that's all.” Zoe checked both ways, just in case Janika was on her way. “Come in.” Janika was supposed to pick her up and Zoe did not want her to see Dog being ushered into her house. But here was a perfect opportunity to show Dog that she wasn't like the others. “Come on in.”

“You're sure the coast is clear?” April said sarcastically.

“I was just seeing if my ride was here.”

“Uh-huh,” April said. “Can Shadow come in? I won't babysit for you unless he can come in.”

“Whatever, sure.” Zoe checked the road again. No Janika yet. “Just come in.”

Shadow trotted in happily, turned around in circles by the couch and plunked himself down under the coffee table, grizzled chin on his big paws.

“He won't make a mess or anything.”

“Whatever. It's fine with me, really.” Zoe gave her a quick tour of the place, apologizing for the lack of junk food and the fact that they only had two channels.

Janika hollered from out front. Zoe stiffened. She stepped in front of Dog, so Janika wouldn't see her right away if she barged in.

“Uh, I don't know when I'll be home.” Zoe pulled on her jacket and backed towards the door. “Is that okay?”

“It doesn't matter. It's not like I have plans or anything.”

Janika pounded on the kitchen window, her dark saucer eyes peeking in. Zoe waved at her and she disappeared. Zoe
hesitated at the door. Dog stood there, hands stuffed into her pockets.

“Well, thanks,” Zoe said. “For doing this on such short notice and everything.”

Dog shrugged. “I wasn't doing anything anyway.”

“Still, thanks—” Zoe was just about to call her Dog to her face, but she caught herself. “Thanks, April.”

At Heather's, Lindsay flung
open the front door. “Janika! Girlfriend!” she slurred. “Get your skinny black ass in here!” She smelled of beer and of her musky perfume, which she'd put too much of on, as usual. She pointed her drink at Zoe and practically hollered, “You brought
her
! Man, Heather's going to freak!”

Zoe watched the taxi pull away, brake lights disappearing around the curve. She was stranded.

Zoe wandered through the crowded house and found Beck in the kitchen, sitting cross-legged on an island counter in the middle of the room. Heather stood in front of her, leaning against Beck's legs. Brady was in front of Heather, his hands gripping her hips. Zoe stood in the doorway for a while, watching Beck. People bee-lined to her, bringing her drinks and birthday gifts. She had a red feather boa draped around her neck, and a tight black T-shirt with the words
sugar & spice
on it in curvy silver letters across her chest. She evaluated each of the gifts when the giver left the room, either flinging it over her shoulder or adding it to the little pile beside her. She was tanked, her movements exaggerated and sloppy.

After a long while, she noticed Zoe. She winked slowly at her.

“Zooooooooooooe. What the hell kind of name is that, huh? Zoooe. Zzz, ooooh, eeeee.” She kicked a red boot in her direction. It skidded onto the counter near her, sending a full whiskey bottle smashing to the floor. Everybody laughed except Heather.

“What the hell is she doing here? I told you I didn't want her in my house, ever.”

“It's my party, right?” Beck leaned into Heather's face. “And I want her here.”

“You should've told me.”

“You would've said no.”

“Exactly.” Heather pushed her away and scowled at Zoe.

Zoe picked up a dishtowel and bent to clean up the mess. Beck pushed herself off the counter, staggered over and grabbed her shirt.

“No, no, no. Slave boy will do that.” She snapped her fingers. A boy, maybe ten years old, dressed in a sheet draped like a toga leapt to attention from where he'd been washing wineglasses at the sink. “Clean it up, slave boy.”

He curled his lip at Beck and turned back to the sink.

“Move it, Malcolm!” Heather pointed a fake-nailed finger at him. “And I swear, you tell Mom, I'll pull your teeth out with pliers. You got that?”

Malcolm scurried towards the broken glass.

“I'll help him,” Zoe said.

“Yeah,” Heather said, “You do that, sweetie.”

“No, no, no you don't,” Beck said. “He's mine and I want him to do it all by himself and I want him to sing too. I want a singing slave boy. Sing something!”

Malcolm muttered something nobody could hear over the music.

“What?” Beck leaned forward, nearly toppling off the counter. “WHAT?”

“I don't know any songs.”

“You do so.” Beck squinted at him. “You have Mrs. Allan, right?”

He nodded.

“Then you know ‘Michael Row Your Boat Ashore.' Sing that.”

He shook his head.

“Sing it!” Heather chucked a plastic cup at his head. “Don't piss her off, Malcolm. She owns you. Do what she says.”

Malcolm started singing, his voice a tiny little warble under the bass thump from the dining room.

Poor Malcolm. He kneeled in the pool of whiskey, ducking his head to hide the tears, his blue underwear peeking out from the folds of the sheet, singing his song over and over as he picked up the glass. He looked so pathetically embarrassed and wilted, Zoe wanted to steer him out of there and take him home and keep him until he was big enough to punch Heather in the face and do some real, lasting damage that would require reconstructive surgery that could be conveniently botched.