Hate List (23 page)

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, rushing in and flopping onto the sofa. I reached out and grabbed the Coke that Dr. Hieler had set
on the coffee table for me, like he always did. “Had Saturday detention and it ran over because the teacher got off on some
lecture and lost track of time.”

“No problem,” Dr. Hieler said. “I had paperwork to catch up on anyway.” But I caught him toss a little sideways glance at
the clock. I wondered if he had Little League games he was missing today. Maybe his daughter’s gymnastics meet. Maybe a lunch
date with his wife. “Why the detention?”

I rolled my eyes. “Lunch. Didn’t eat in the Commons like they want me to. So I got detentions every day and then on Friday
Angerson gave me Saturday detention. Thinks he’s going to break me, I guess, if I have enough detentions. But it’s not going
to work. I don’t want to eat in there.”

“Why not?”

“Who am I going to eat with? It’s not like I can just walk up to some random person and go, ‘Hey, can I sit here?’ and they’d
be all ‘Sure!’ My old friends won’t even let me sit with them.”

“What about the other girl? The one in Student Council.”

“Jessica’s friends aren’t my friends,” I said. “They never were. That’s why Nick and I had them on the Hate—” I stopped abruptly,
surprised at myself for almost mentioning the Hate List so casually. I tried to shrug it off, switched gears. “Angerson’s
just got a thing about school solidarity so he doesn’t look bad on TV. That’s his problem, not mine.”

“Sounds like it’s not just his problem. Saturday detentions aren’t ideal ways to spend your weekend, are they?” I could swear
he flicked another glance at the clock.

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

“I think maybe you care more than you want to admit. What would happen if you gave it a try just one day?”

I had no answer for that.

Mom was gone when I got out of session. She’d left a Post-it note on the outside of Dr. Hieler’s door, saying she was running
an errand and would be right back, to wait for her in the parking lot. I got to the note before Dr. Hieler noticed it, ripped
it down, and shoved it in my pocket. If he saw it he’d feel obligated to stay longer and I felt bad enough as it was.

Plus, I was done talking.

I left the office building and stood outside for a moment, not sure what to do with myself. I was going to have to lie low,
so Dr. Hieler wouldn’t see me when he walked out. I considered scooting behind the row of hedges on the side of the building,
but wasn’t sure if my leg would let me do much scooting. Plus there was some sort of animal under there; I could hear things
rustling around and I saw the branches jerk twice.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and ambled across the parking lot, kicking pebbles with my toes as I walked. Soon I’d reached
the sidewalk. I stopped and looked around. It was either the hedges or the business district across the highway. Or be spotted
by Dr. Hieler and go back in for an extended session, no thanks. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and waited at the edge
of the sidewalk for the cars to pass. Maybe I could find Mom’s car at Shop ’N’ Shop in the strip mall just on the other side
of the highway. There was a clearing in cars and I jogged/limped across.

Mom’s car wasn’t in the lot at Shop ’N’ Shop; I’d looked them all over, twice. She hadn’t pulled back into Dr. Hieler’s lot,
either. That much I could see from the Shop ’N’ Shop parking lot. And I was getting thirsty.

I hoofed it into Shop ’N’ Shop and puttered around until I found the drinking fountain. I stopped at the magazine racks and
flipped through a few magazines. I walked down the candy aisle, wishing I had money for a chocolate fix. But it didn’t take
long for me to get bored.

Back outside I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck to see Dr. Hieler’s parking lot. Mom’s car still wasn’t there, and now neither
was Dr. Hieler’s. I sighed and sat on the sidewalk, my back pressed against the front window of Shop ’N’ Shop until the manager
came and told me I had to move on; customers didn’t like to see homeless people loitering in front of the store, he said.
It makes them nervous, he said. “This ain’t the City Union Mission, kid,” he said.

So I walked a few doors down, looking for a good place to sit.

The cell phone store was jumping, and so was the place where Mom used to take me to get my hair cut when I was little. I stared
in the windows, watching a little girl cry as her mother held her head so that the beautician could have a go at her blond
baby locks. I gazed into the cell phone store, too, where everyone looked angry, including the employees.

Soon I was at the end of the strip and was just about to turn around and head back to Shop ’N’ Shop, when I saw a door open
on the side of the building. A giant-breasted woman wearing a denim smock busy with fabric paint and costume gems stepped
out and shook a cloth into the air. Glitter flew everywhere when she shook it; she looked like Cinderella’s fairy godmother
behind the cloud of all that glitter.

She saw me watching her and smiled at me.

“Sometimes we have a spill,” she said brightly, and disappeared back inside, pulling the glittery cloth in with her.

I’ll admit it, curiosity got me. I wanted to know what kind of spill would look so glorious, so shiny. Spills are usually
ugly and messy, not beautiful.

As soon as the door closed behind me I could feel the whole world shut out. Inside, the place was crammed, dark, and smelled
like church on Easter Sunday. There were rows and rows of ceiling-high shelves nearly toppling under the weight of plaster
busts, ceramic bowls, wooden trunks. Baskets, pots, interestingly shaped cardboard boxes. I wandered down one of the aisles,
feeling dwarfed.

At the end of the aisle I was dumped into a clearing and I gasped. There were easels everywhere, at least a dozen of them,
and a long table covered with newspapers next to an eastward-facing window. All around were baskets and boxes of supplies—paints, cloth, ribbons, lumps of clay, pens.

The denim-smocked lady that I’d seen outside was perched on a stool in front of an easel, stroking wide purple stripes across
a canvas.

“I think the morning sun is most inspiring, don’t you?” she said without turning around.

I didn’t answer.

“Of course, at this time of day all the people in that grocery store are getting the brilliant light. But I…” she raised her
paintbrush and poked the air with it. “I get the most inspiring sun of the day. They can have their sunset. It’s the sunrise
that gets people’s attention. Rebirth always does.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even entirely sure she was talking to me. She still had her back turned to me and was
working so intently on her painting I’d wondered if maybe she was talking to herself.

I was rooted to the spot anyway, not sure where to look first. I wanted to touch things—run my fingers along plaster vases
and smell the insides of boxes and squish my hands into a lump of clay—and was afraid if I moved, even moved my lips, I’d
give in to my whim and be lost in this labyrinth of un-creation forever.

She added a few dabs of purple in the corners of her canvas, then got off her stool and stood back, admiring her work.

“There!” she said. “Perfect.” She placed her palette on the stool and balanced the paintbrush across it, and then, finally,
turned to face me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Too much purple?” She turned and studied it some more. “Never too much
purple,” she muttered. “The world needs more purple. More and more, dontcha know.”

“I like purple,” I said.

She clapped her hands twice. “Well, then!” she said. “That settles it! Tea?” She bustled behind the cash register and I could
hear china clattering around. “How do you take it?” she asked, her voice muffled.

“Um,” I said, shuffling forward. “I… I can’t. I have to get back outside. My mom.”

Her head popped up—a lock of frosted brown hair had come forward over her forehead. “Oh! And I was hoping to get some company
today. This place always seems so abandoned after my classes leave. Too quiet. Great for mousies, not for Bea, that’s me.”
She sipped out of a tiny teacup with rabbits printed on the front of it—a teacup from a child’s tea set. She held out her
pinky while she drank.

“You teach classes here?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. She came around the counter with a flourish. “I teach classes. Lots and lots of classes. Pottery, painting,
macramé, you name it, I teach it.”

I moved to my left just slightly and pushed a finger into a bucket of wooden beads.

“Can anyone take a class?”

She frowned. “No,” she answered, staring at my hand in the bead bucket. I pulled it out with a jerk and two beads fell, danced
across the floor. She smiled when I blushed, as if my embarrassment were endearing to her. “Oh no, I don’t teach just anyone.
Some teach me.”

I was just about to leave when she reached out and grabbed my hand. She flipped it palm-up and studied it, her penciled-on
eyebrows shooting up into her nest of hair. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh!”

I tried to pull my hand back, but didn’t put much oomph behind it. As weirded-out as I was getting from her touching me, I
wanted to know what her “oh’s” were about.

“I should go,” I said, but she ignored me.

“Well, I can spot another artist anywhere. And you are one, yes? Of course you are. You like purple!” She turned and clasped
my hand harder, pulling me behind her. She took me to the canvas she’d just been working on. With her free hand she picked
up the palette and brush on the stool and pointed to it. “Sit,” she said.

“I really think I should…”

“Oh, do sit! The stool doesn’t like it when its invitations go unnoticed.”

I sat.

She handed me the paintbrush. “Paint,” she said. “Go on.”

I stared at her. “On this? On your picture?”

“Pictures are taken by photographers. This is a painting. So paint it.” I stared at her a beat longer. She pushed my hand
toward the canvas. “Go on.”

Slowly I dipped the brush into the black paint and made a stripe across the canvas, perpendicular to the purple.

“Hmmm,” she said, and then, “Ohhhh.”

The best way I can describe the feeling was that it was miraculous. Or maybe soulful. Or maybe both. I don’t know. All I know
is that I couldn’t stop at that one line or the next splotch or the tree-like dots I made along one border. And all I know
is that I felt faraway when I was doing it and that I could barely hear Bea’s little exclamations behind me, her humming,
her talking in baby voices to the colors I dipped into (“Oh, yes, it’s your turn, ochre! Does wittle cornfwower want a chance?”).

Before I knew it I was ripped out of my reverie by a buzzing in the front pocket of my jeans—my cell phone startling me
away from the canvas, which suddenly just looked like a canvas again.

“Oh, dratted technology,” Bea muttered as I answered. “Why can’t we communicate by carrier pigeons anymore? Beautiful feathers
with a lovely note attached. I could use some pigeon feathers around here. Or peacock. Oh yes, peacock! Only nobody ever communicated
by peacock, I don’t think…”

“Where are you?” Mom’s voice bleated on the other end of the phone. “I’ve been worried sick—no Dr. Hieler, no you. For God’s
sake, Valerie, why can’t you just stay put like I asked you to? Do you know where my mind was going?”

“I’ll be right there,” I mumbled into the phone. I got up from the stool as I shoved the phone back into my pocket. “Sorry,”
I said to Bea. “My mom…”

She swatted the air with one hand, picking up a broom with the other, making a beeline for a pile of sawdust under a woodworking
table by the far wall. “Never be sorry about a mother,” she answered. “Be sorry for a mother, yes, but about one, most certainly
not. Mothers almost always love purple. I should know—I had a very purplish mother.”

I scurried down the aisle I’d come in through—feeling like I was fleeing a dark and mystical forest—and had just about
reached the door when Bea’s voice floated across the store.

“I do hope I’ll see you back next weekend, Valerie.”

I smiled and plunged outside. It wasn’t until I’d ducked into Mom’s car, breathless and sweaty from hurry and exhilaration,
that I’d remembered I’d never told Bea my name at all.

Lunch was some sort of petrified Mexican pizza, which was just fitting for a Monday, if you asked me. I felt like petrified
pizza on most Mondays too, being forced out of my little cocoon of happiness in my bedroom and into the spotlight of Garvin
High.

Other than Saturday morning, my weekend had been blissfully uneventful. Mom and Dad weren’t speaking for whatever reason,
and Frankie was off at some church retreat with a friend. Not that our family ever went to church, something that was brought
up time and again in the media right after the shooting, but apparently there were a couple girls that went to his friend’s
church and Frankie was determined to get some time alone with one of them. Truth be told, if Frankie could get his hands on
a girl at some point during the weekend, he’d do it without thinking twice—church retreat or not—which I thought was so
wrong, but at least trying to get to third base at a church retreat kept him from having to endure Mom and Dad’s cold war
at home.

I could endure it just fine by staying in my room. Not like my parents expected anything different from me. They didn’t even
ask me to come down for dinner anymore. I’m guessing they probably didn’t even have dinner. I just crept down when I figured
everyone was off doing their own thing and rummaged something out of the fridge, ferreting it back up to my room like a raccoon
with garbage can spoils.

Once, Saturday evening, I crept down into the kitchen after hearing the front door close only to find Dad at the table, hovering
over a bowl of cereal.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you guys were both gone.”

“Your mother went to some support group,” he said, staring straight into his bowl. “There’s nothing to eat in this goddamn
house,” he said. “Unless you like cereal.”