Dive (11 page)

The moment finally came—when?—the end of last week, when we spoke. We were sitting in the back of French class. Jane and I had, coincidentally—or does anything happen by accident?—arrived early. There were only a few people around. I wanted to ask her about Rimbaud, this mysterious character who wrote stuff like

Over the roads, by winter nights,

without a home, without bread, a voice

would clutch my frozen heart: “Weakness or strength: you exist, it’s strength
—

You never know where you go or why: go everywhere, answer everyone
. . .”

But I couldn’t ask. It was as if I’d forgotten how to talk. Rimbaud seemed so brave. I wondered if Jane was too.

Then a couple of Romantics passed by and said to me, “Hi, Le Chien.”

That’s when Jane turned her smile on me. “Why do they call you that?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said.

And these are the first words we spoke.

Later that day I was standing in front of my gym locker, supposedly changing. Really what I was doing was staring at the lock because I couldn’t remember the combination. Did I exist? Jane showed up and was watching me.

“You haven’t told me why they call you Le Chien.”

“Oh. It’s from a poem.” Answer everyone, Rimbaud wrote.

“You were a dog in a poem?”

“No,” I said. But I was not in any frame of mind to tell any stories. I had just heard that my father was going to die. My father was going to die, and I had to go to school like he wasn’t. And so I suddenly couldn’t remember things like my lock combination, or how to talk sometimes. Then I looked over at Jane. Her face had gone pale. What did she care about me? I thought.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice swayed. “I’m wiped out.”

“I can tell.” She nodded in an easy way, bending toward her locker. Her impossibly long hair swept across my arm then, soft as wind.

I was ready to bust. There were no words I could think of. “It’s just, my dad, well, it’s . . .”

“Your dad.” Even her voice was soft. She was kind.

“You know?”

“Everyone does. Sorry,” she said, looking directly at me. She didn’t pretend I wasn’t there, like everyone else—or if I was, that I had two heads.

“Me too. Everyone’s acting like I’ve got a disease.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s just unbelievable. One day he’s fine—and now he can’t even swallow a pill.” I felt my face burn, but I didn’t care.

“What’re the numbers?”

“What?” I said.

“Your locker.”

“Twenty-two, three, seventeen.”

She opened my locker. “Change,” she said, “or you’ll be late.”

“So what.”

“So Greene will give you detention.”

“So?”

“So then we won’t be able to walk home after school.” Miraculously, I could think of nothing to say. At least one person in the world would speak to me.

Maybe I’m Not Ready

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I don’t know why. My eyes just open. I mean, there I am. If I don’t move when my eyes open, it’s easy to feel like I don’t have a body at all. Like it’s only what’s in my head that exists. If I don’t move, it’s my brain that feels the sensations my body would normally experience. My mind feels the blanket covering me. It’s warm in my mind, and peaceful. Not to have a body at all. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be dead. I wish my dad would wake up.

I open my eyes. Baby Teeth is staring at me.

“Do you ever sleep?” I say.

“I’m an early-riser individual, different from you,” she says.

“I’m awake,” I. say. “Isn’t that enough?” I yawn and listen for the usual stirring. Lucky yawns beside my bed. My dog warms me; my mind can feel it. I am alive.

“So the phone rang really early,” Baby Teeth says. I look at her nightgown, its frilly, short sleeves, its roses spreading over the white cotton. She’s holding a vanity mirror before her face as she sits on her unmade bed. With two fingers she tugs her mouth wide, peering inside for any sudden changes.

“Maybe you’ll be a dentist when you grow up,” I say as I blink the sleep away and lean on an elbow. My other hand reaches down to greet the dog. His wet nose nudges my hand.

“That’s not what I think. You know when you go to sleep and you have hopes?” Her dimples deepen.

I only nod. I would wait forever for an answer to that.

“Don’t be funny when I tell you, okay? Maybe I’ll have
real teeth
when I grow up.”

She’s serious, poor kid. “Of course you’ll have real teeth. Since you waited so long for them, they’ll be drop-dead gorgeous, I bet.”

“You know I hope so. Don’t you want to know who was on the phone?” She slides the mirror under her pillow.

“More than anything.”

“It was the hospital.”

“That’s not funny.” I sit up.

“No, really, it was.” Baby Teeth stands. “Daddy’s awake!” Her hands rise above her in victory, then she jumps on top of me. “Really awake! Sitting-up-and-eating awake!”

I can’t even breathe, but I don’t care. My arms grab the roses as the thrill rushes through me, and I hold on.

| | | | | |

I usually walk to school, but since today is already a special event—he’s really awake!—I decide to take the bus. I’ll see my dad later, of course. He’ll be sitting—he’ll make sense when he talks. I’m going to meet Edward and Baby Teeth at home, after school. Baby Teeth has chorus today, so she’ll be late.

It’s really spring. The air’s still dewy, but there’s a crisp edge to it as I cross the lawn on the way to the bus stop. The grass is a lush, deep, unmowed green. Nothing will ruin this day. Even the bus is on time.

| | |

I climb the two steps, and the first thing I see is the cloud of Eileen’s hair in the back of the bus. Oh, delight. But wait, no hat. It’s a positive sign—maybe things can be the same. I decide to sit next to her, bump my way down the aisle, and even smile as I approach. My best friend’s eyes jump wide as they see me, then shoot to the window. Oh, please.

I sink into the thick black seat. “How’s it going?” I say in a regular voice. I decide to ignore that she’s been ignoring me. How long has it been? Two weeks almost.

“Pretty good.” Her hands grab the pile of books from her lap, and she holds them in front of her, some kind of barricade.

She’s wearing a bracelet I’ve never seen, silver with turquoise stones.

“Nice piece,” I say. I lean over and drop my books to the floor. I step on them so they stay in place.

“Yeah, thanks.” She laughs like I don’t know her.

What’s your problem, I want to say. When did your new life that doesn’t include me actually start? Maybe she’s waiting to see if I’m mad at her. She must know what an idiot she was for telling everyone about my dad. Well, I won’t let it ruin this day. My dad’s awake. Change the subject, my mind says. What can I say? Well, every sophomore in school is reading it. Go ahead. “So what do you think of
Romeo and Juliet?”
I say.

“No big surprise—it’s too sad for words.”

So are you, my mind says. Guess I’m still mad.

Eileen is looking out the window as she speaks. “And it’s not easy to read, with all those wherefores and what fors; I have to stop at every line and try to figure out what they’re saying.”

“What’s so sad about it?” I ask, trying to be nice as I speak to the side of her head.

“You’re kidding. Aside from the fact that Romeo gets banished and Juliet is tossing down poison and all these other people are getting
killed
. . . they both
die.”

So she can actually say the croak word. I’m impressed.

“They die? I guess your class is further along than we are.” I play dumb. I just want her to look at me, something she hasn’t done since I sat down.

“Everybody knows the story, Virginia. It’s famous, so I guess you’re just being an idiot.” She looks at her watch, not at me.

“We’re only up to Romeo getting banished, in Sanders’ class.” I still play innocent, though I’d like to kill her for that. When did she get so mean? Do people just wake up vicious one day? It’s like
I’m
the one being banished.

“Oh.”

There it is again.
Oh.
Okay, my friend, we can both play. In the story, Romeo is only trying to stop a fight between a band of Montagues and Capulets, and a Montague is murdered. Romeo gets attacked by the murderer, who
he
murders—that’s why he gets banished.

“Yeah. So their
death
is the sad part?” Maybe if I just rub it in, the tears will leave my eyes. Maybe
I’ll
feel better.

But Eileen doesn’t get it; she just looks at her watch again. “It was so drawn out and fatiguing, what could be worse?”

Your hat, I think, that stupid, filthy, dust-covered rag. I am stone.

The bus jolts to a stop. Kids pile on. Oh, great, there’s Sullivan. Eileen seems to sway next to me. Have I been missing something here? The Romantics are the swaying types. Don’t even think it. Is there something going on between Eileen and Grant? I glance at her, but she has turned to the window again, so I get a good view of the back of her head.

Sullivan ignores us and takes a seat several rows in front. I watch the back of his head, waiting, I guess, for some kind of sign. Sullivan and I never speak to each other anyway. It’s an unspoken rule. Well, I don’t know about this day anymore. Let the wind in, I think—maybe as it blows past, I’ll realize this moment will too. Baby Teeth knows what she’s talking about.

| | | | | |

I’m disturbed. Now there’s an understatement. No, really. I feel like I’m floating. Ever since I got off the bus. It’s not anxiety. It’s some whatever trying to surface inside me, and I just can’t grasp it. It’s like attempting to climb the gym rope, but my hands keep slipping. It’s not even a feeling; it’s deeper than that. It’s something I
know.
Except, only a part of me knows it, not all of me, so it doesn’t connect to the rest of my thoughts yet.

I’m sitting in math trying to concentrate. I’m watching Mr. Giamano’s big math head as he scribbles algebra problems on the blackboard. I’m trying to concentrate, but it’s hopeless. Algebra is nonsense. There is no emotional meaning to math at all. It occurs to me that I would never say this aloud, even though I think it.

That’s it. I wonder when I stopped saying what I thought. I’m suddenly aware that I seem to have stopped talking. I mean, I didn’t say what I
really
thought on the bus this morning with Eileen. That I was hurt and angry and why was she avoiding me, and by the way, only fools wear hats. I know we used to talk; all we did was talk. Now I feel I’m getting somewhere. I’m climbing to the knowing. What is it?

I must be staring because I hear my name. “Virginia.”

It’s Giamano.

“Yes?”

“Have you finished the problems?”

“No,” I say, looking at the yellow scrawl on the blackboard. “I haven’t even started.” Then I smile at Giamano’s dark math eyes, because I have actually just learned something.

He looks at me blankly. He must think I’m the one who isn’t making any sense. But I am. It was the day of the hit-and-run, back there when life was cruel, in April, when I stopped talking.

| | | | | |

I’m standing in front of school watching everyone stampede toward the buses, deciding whether I will walk home or not. I have time before Edward and Baby Teeth get there. Jane appears by the door. “Want to walk?” she says.

“Sure,” I say. I’ll
try
again to be myself, the one I was before all these questions started hounding me, I think. “Let’s go the back way. It’s nicer.”

“So did you grow up here?” she says as we walk past the redbrick side of D wing.

“You could call it that.” Stop it, I think. Be straight. “I was born two towns away. We moved here when I was three.” That’s better.

“I’ll show you the woods. Have you been there yet?” I ask. We are behind the school now. I look into the English class windows because I can’t look at Jane. I don’t know why. Stop asking.

“Uh-uh, not yet. This girl, Loretta somebody, was telling me about it in the bathroom the other day. You go?” Jane is subtle. I’m impressed. “Not really . . .” Just say what you
mean,
V. “Only on my way to somewhere else—I don’t hang out there.”

Jane nods in that easy way. “One look at Loretta was enough to keep
me
out of there.”

We laugh.

We reach the dirt path and start down the hill. The trees are green and full again; the air is fresh. It really is spring—there is nothing cruel in the air. I love the way the dust tumbles when my feet hit the ground.

“Do you like sports?” Jane is behind me.

“Some.” That’s true. The only thing I hate is gymnastics.

“I’ve noticed you’re pretty good,” she calls.

“Years of slavery, you know?” Am I good? At the bottom of the hill I stop. “How about you?”

“I want to faint when I see a field hockey stick,” she says.

| | |

The smile doesn’t leave my face. “I like your jacket.”

“Oh, thanks. But I see you have
natural
ability, good coordination. It’s obvious in basketball, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know.” That’s true too. My face starts to burn. Why? Because she’s been watching me?

“Yeah, it’s great down here. It smells
so
good.” The leather of her jacket crunches in the nicest way as she spreads her arms open. “I just want to take it all home with me, you know?”

I look around the clearing at the bottom of the hill. There are some branches on a few dogwoods that still hold their pale buds, but otherwise the open flowers rise from the branches like small clouds. “Me too. We can sit down for a while, if you want. You can tell me, I don’t know, what you think of the neighborhood, or whatever,” I say.