Chasing the Milky Way (7 page)

T
HE BELL RINGS.
W
E LINE UP
with the rest of the herd and head out toward the front doors. My hands seem to be jumping around on their own. Snapping and tapping my legs and acting all suspicious. I jam them in my pockets to keep them still. As we pass the water fountain I stop.

“Hang here,” I say. Cam slips out of line, too. He leans over and starts sucking down water while I stand against the wall. Once he's had his fill, I get some. Then we take time staring at the cheery mural and let the halls empty out a little bit. Just as most of the kids are leaving, just as I'm about to give up hope all together, Mrs. Clementine walks out of 221 and heads toward the office.

“Now, Cap'n?” Cam whispers.

“Let me go first,” I say, “then you follow in two minutes.”

I grip the strap of my pack and head back to the classroom. I look both ways before I slide the door open again and step in. Mrs. Shareze isn't going to like this when she gets in tomorrow morning. What a mess. I pick up a crumpled piece of paper and chuck it in the garbage as I head for her desk. I step around it and look at the tables and chairs. The whole room is different from this angle. It's kind of like a captain's control station. I scan the top of the desk for some compressed air. A notepad with some random scribbles sits to one side. Her computer is off, and there's a calendar resting right below her keyboard. She has multicolored Post-it notes everywhere. Worksheets we did today sit next to a letter from the sub.

The door opens and I dive down.

“It's just me,” Cam hisses, stepping in and sliding the door closed behind him.

I jump back up as he heads around the side of the desk.

“I can't find the compressed air,” I say. “It's usually up here next to her keyboard, isn't it?”

Cam pulls the top drawer open.

“Well, we'll need this,” Cam picks up a little key that says
laptop lab
on it. It's the key for the cart. I've seen her use it a thousand times.

“I don't know how I feel about going through all her stuff . . . ,” I say, looking at the picture of her and her daughter sitting next to a jar of pens and pencils. They both stare at me.

“Disregard that,” Cam says, placing the picture facedown.

I pick it up and put it right back. This is all sorts of badness. But then I remember this is for PingPing. This is for BotBlock. This is for Cam and Izzy and Mama and our futures. And for my promise to Gram.

“All right,” I say as Cam goes over to the rolling cart in the corner. I open the next drawer. Nothing but a bunch of extra pencils, pens, paper clips, a few push pins. I close that one and go to the other side. One of the drawers is locked. There's probably no reason to lock up compressed air, so I drop to the next one and try the handle. Bingo. There, sitting among bouncey balls, stickers, cool pens, and erasers, is the can of air. A straw sticking out of the nozzle. Thank god.

I grab it quick, take the laptop from my backpack, open it, and start spraying the keyboard. Dirt flies everywhere. I pinch my mouth closed so it doesn't get on my lips and tongue.

“Which number do you want?” Cam hisses from behind me. I turn real quick and see he is holding the clipboard.

I think numbers six through ten have Bot360, the robot programming software, on them. “Check the front for the program.”

Cam scans the front. Mrs. Shareze is very organized with her labels.

“Number six it is,” he says, flipping the pencil over.

I hear a squeak at the door. Cam and I both dive low as my heart catapults into my throat. Cam is shielded behind the door of the laptop cart, but he peers around it. I put my finger to my mouth.

“Who is it?” he mouths. I swallow hard. Maybe it's Mrs. Clementine. Maybe it's Mrs. Partridge. And if it is, how the heck are we going to explain this?

I lean down and set the canned air and the laptop gently on the tile. Then ever so quietly, I place my hands next to them and lean over to look under the desk. The door moves the slightest bit on its hinges, but no one is there. No hands, no faces, no feet. Not from where I can see. I sit up and peer over the top of the desk. Nothing.

“All clear,” I say, grabbing the compressed air again.

“Let's do this quick,” Cam says, echoing my thought.

I give the laptop one more spray. Hoping it's enough. Then I get up out of the thin layer of dust I've created. I hand Cam number eight and he hands me number six. I double-check the list on the top of the laptop. It says
Microsoft Office, Reading Buddy Solutions, Bot360.

“Mission accomplished, Mighty Hawk,” I say. “Let's fly home.” Cam locks the laptop case and we drop the key in the top of the desk. I pull the bottom drawer open and place the compressed air gently inside. Then I kick a couple of clumps of dust and grass away from the desk, so it doesn't look suspicious.

We head toward the door. As we get there, Cam starts to turn left toward the entrance of the building, but I grab the loop at the top of his pack.

“Let's go down the back stairs and out across the playground,” I whisper. “Mrs. Ginesh knows we don't do clubs.”

We swing right. I'm thinking we're scot-free as I slam the door to the stairwell open.

I stop dead in my tracks. Cam careens into me.

Destin.

He's standing in front of us, blocking the stairwell. A smile slips like a snake across his face.

“What's up, trailer trash? You guys get what you were looking for?” He crosses his arms.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Cam says.

“I'm going to go tell Mrs. Partridge all about your little classroom raid and get you expelled from school.”

“No you're not,” Cam says, as he comes out around me.

“Don't bother,” I say, grabbing his arm. Destin lurches forward and hits Cam in the chest and Cam flies back into the wall. I see his face crinkle up and without even thinking, I grab Destin by the collar and push him.

I don't think about the stairs. I don't think about the tumble to the bottom of the concrete. As he flies back, his foot balances for just a moment, and his arms go out. Three flaps. Then he falls, thumps, clumps down, down, down. And lies still.

C
AM AND
I
SIT OUTSIDE
P
RINCIPAL
Partridge's office and I press my hands underneath my thighs, trying to stop them from shaking, but I'm worried the trembling has transferred over to my arms to spite me.
Please don't be dead,
I think.

Mrs. Ginesh looks at me over her glasses like I'm some kind of a crook. It doesn't matter how many times you try to explain it, when one person is at the bottom of the stairs basically looking dead and another person is sitting just fine at the top of the stairs it seems like there's only one scenario. And in that scenario, I'm not coming up roses. I hear the siren come and then go. My legs get restless, like they want to carry me out of here. The principal's office door opens and Mrs. Partridge comes out. I feel my bones getting heavy in my body as she looks at me.

“Please come and take a seat, Lucy.”

She holds the door open. I feel as though I'm magnetized to my chair. But I fight the pull and make myself stand. I go in and sit on a chair across from her desk. This one has the same magnet in it. I keep my eyes on the floor, but out of the corner of my eye I see her go around the other side of the desk. I hear her seat click as she sits down in front of me.

“Ehhhrm.” She clears her throat and I force my eyes up. Stop looking so guilty, I think. She places her elbows on the table and her fingertips together.

“Destin is at the hospital now. He has a cracked collarbone, and a very mild concussion.”

I can't resist a sigh of relief. I won't be going to jail or anything. At least it sounds like it.

“I swear it was an accident,” I say, clasping my hands.

“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Partridge says, opening a drawer in her desk and pulling out a file, “I have to put in an incident report and get to the bottom of this. I'd like to hear your side of the story. Then we'll conference with your mother on the best next step.”

“My mother?” I ask, my mind flashing to Mama.

“Yes, I put in a call to her a little while ago. She'll be down shortly.”

“She will?” I say. “You spoke with her? She said she'd come?” Is the Meditation of Misery over? Maybe she went to see Dr. Vincent and maybe she's feeling better. Then again, maybe she didn't see Dr. Vincent. Maybe she's head in the sand. And that won't be good. Not at all.

“Listen, I-I don't think that Mama is going to be happy about coming over he—”

Mrs. Partridge picks up a mug and holds it between her hands. I can see her scowl over the rim.

“Oh, I'm sure she'll understand,” she says, taking a sip.

“I doubt it,” I blurt, then buckle my words up tight as she tilts her head and squints at me.

I press my hands underneath my thighs again. How do I explain to Mrs. Partridge that I'm not sure which Mama is coming?

“Maybe I better meet her—” I say, looking over her shoulder at the parking lot. No sign of the old Mustang yet.

Mrs. Partridge raises her hand like she is calming a whole class full of kids. “Is there something you need to tell me, Lucille?” she asks, catching my eyes. She places her mug down. I break the gaze and stare at my knees.

“Is everything okay at home?” She picks up the file in front of her and eyes it from top to bottom, like the answer is going to rise up out of those pages.

I stay silent and a second later she picks up her pen and starts scribbling.

“Everything okay with your mom and dad?” she says.

Dad?
I try to stop my nose from making a noise, but it does a little huff anyway. Once I asked Mama what my dad's name was.
Fat Useless,
she said. I wrote it down and went and looked it up in the phone book. Nothing.

“Lucille.” Mrs. Partridge waits for an answer.

My mind races. Do I have to tell her all about dads that disappear so well you figure they must be trained magicians? Do I have to tell her about Mama, who's been burying the china in the backyard? Do I have to tell her anything? Are her little notes and scribbles going to ruin my life? Will her scribbles make people come and take Mama away? I try to get my jaw to calm down, but my teeth are grinding so hard I wonder if they might disintegrate into quarks and leptons. If they send Mama away, we go to foster scare. If we go to foster scare, we're gonna lose our dreams. That's what Gram said. There's nothing
caring
about it. I picture PingPing collecting dust. His pigskin head deflating more, decade by decade, looking alone and scared in the carport, knowing I'm not coming back to him. I watch Mrs. Partridge's pen move across the page. Is she writing a warrant for my future?

“Everything's fine, ma'am,” I say.

Her eyes slide up to mine and then down my face to my neck. The bruise from my backpack. I pull the collar of my shirt up so it doesn't show.

“You sure there isn't anything you would like to tell me?” She taps the end of the pen on the desk.

“Not having to do with home,” I say. I think I better tell her about the laptop and Destin and the pond quick before everything starts to spin out of control.

Just then the door swings open and we both turn to look.

“I demand a meeting to discuss Desty's trauma!” It's Mrs. Hoffsteader. Mama calls her a pinhead with an inflated ego. Mrs. Hoffsteader breathes in and her nostrils go out as her cheeks suck in.

I turn to Mrs. Partridge. Her shoulders slump the teensiest little bit, but she squares them and says, “Well, you'll have to sit in the waiting area. I'm discussing the situation with Lucille at the moment.”

Once my name is out of Mrs. Partridge's mouth I wish it would fly back in. Mrs. Hoffsteader adjusts her jacket and her lips set in a mean line as she walks toward me. She stands just in front of me, but looks over my head and addresses Mrs. Partridge. “Ah, Lucille Peevey. Should have known it was one of
them.
”

“You'll really have to wait outside.” Mrs. Partridge stands up.

“She threw my son down the stairs and
I'm
the one who has to wait?” Her teeth click together on her last word.

I see Mrs. Partridge's hand begin to shake but she keeps her breathing normal and her words slow down like she's talking to a kindergartener, not a full-grown adult. I don't think Mrs. Hoffsteader likes that one bit.

“First of all, no one threw anyone down the stairs. Secondly, yes, you will have to wait.”

Well, that is when Mrs. Hoffsteader just about boils over. And I stand up in case I have to run for it.

“This child is nothing but trouble. Desty tells me she's been bullying him for weeks on end now. You of all people should know the history of her family. They're not well. They're mean and violent.” She glares into me and her chin quivers. Who's mean and violent? There's a difference between scared, and mean and violent. I want to stop my voice, but I can't.

“You leave my mama out of this. Your son is the bully. He threw me in the pond just yesterday. Today he slammed Cam into the wall and I pushed him to get him off my friend. He started it!”

“How dare—”

“Enough!” Mrs. Partridge hollers. “Mrs. Hoffsteader, you're leaving my office before I call security. Lucille, you're sitting down in that chair and everyone is going to obey my rules in my school. Is. That. Understood?”

With her final sentence Mrs. Hoffsteader's head is so red, I'm worried it is going to pop off her shoulders. I wish it would. Boom, fly right off her neck and into orbit so I don't have to hear her anymore. Finally, she fixes Mrs. Partridge with a glare. The air settles and Mrs. Hoffsteader hustles out of the room. The door slams and Principal Partridge drops into her chair and takes a deep breath. I start breathing again, too, as I sink into mine.

“Now, where were we—”

The phone rings. She rolls her eyes and picks up the receiver.

“What is it? . . . She said what? . . . Her lawyer?” Her nostrils flare. “All right, I'll be right out.”

Mrs. Partridge hangs up the phone and her eyes are kind of shiny. I get to thinking that maybe this would be a good time for me to sneak away.

“I hate to do this, Lucille, but would you mind going back out to sit in the waiting area while I meet with Mrs. Hoffsteader? I promise you I won't take very long and I'll get to you and your side of the story by the end of the workday.”

“Okay,” I say. But my insides are saying NOT OKAY. Because I have a feeling that Mrs. Hoffsteader is going to brainwash Mrs. Partridge against me.

Still, now isn't the time to disobey any rules, or get further into the muck than I already am. I gulp down my fear and I get up and go to the door. I look at her sideways to see if she's noticing how good I'm being. Hoping I can get some points. When I get back out there, Mrs. Ginesh raises her eyebrows and gives me a can-you-even-believe-this sort of a look. Mrs. Hoffsteader strides past me, looking like a peacock with its feathers out.

“You okay?” Cam whispers as the door slams in my face.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, glancing through the glass to the parking lot out front. I sit down next to Mrs. Partridge's door and I can hear Mrs. Hoffsteader through the wood. “That girl is dangerous. . . . Surely you . . . entire family . . . dangerous. Delusional . . .”

My stomach tightens like a fist has a hold of all my guts.

“I want her suspended. I want social services to look into . . . situation—”

“We have no grounds . . . social services—”

“She needs to be put into an alternative school.”

I think my tear ducts are swelling up so much that I'm getting a headache. One thing is for sure. I'm not dangerous. And I'm trying to form some words in order to express this, but then there's a crash at the main entrance door and standing there in the blaring sun is my mama. And I can tell from the look in her eye that she's not feeling better yet. Not quite. I know just then that this is about to get a whole lot worse. And no one, not even the best scientists, can predict what will happen next.