Pinned (9780545469845) (13 page)

M
a knows my secrets. For instance, I sleep in the nude. I like the food in our refrigerator to be in nice, neat rows: pickles, mayonnaise, apple juice. They must be lined up one behind the other. Not alphabetically — mentally ill people do that. There is one more thing about me. I do not like to fail at anything.

I could never teach Autumn to read. Not that I'd want to. If I did, it wouldn't work out. Autumn is … Ma says I might want to quit calling her lazy. The other day I also used the
D
word. That disappointed Ma. I hate to disappoint her.

I think Autumn knows that I will not — cannot help her. She came into the media center today, and barely spoke to me. Mrs. Carolyn is meeting with her now. You cannot volunteer at the library and skip classes. Or
come to class late and neglect to hand in your homework. I know what she's been up to. Miss Baker is in here a lot, discussing Autumn's behavior. Mrs. Carolyn defends Autumn. “A library is a sanctuary,” she told Miss Baker the other day. “The students who come here … don't need to be perfect.”

Autumn is enjoying herself a little too much, Miss Baker said. That is funny to hear. Autumn is sad a lot. But she comes, even when she isn't volunteering.

The two of them are in the back room. I am watching the front desk, eavesdropping, which is something I don't normally do.

“People have been extremely patient with you….” Mrs. Carolyn wants Autumn to keep volunteering. But that's impossible, she says, if she refuses to participate in her own education. “It's not like you….” She's asking her over and over again, what she or Miss Baker or anyone here can do to get her back on track. “We're afraid, sweetie … your grades next semester will be even worse.”

If Autumn is talking, I cannot hear her. But it's unfair. A girl with her grades and habits has everyone chasing after her, begging her to be better and to do better.

Ralph walks over, carrying books. “I can check you out,” I say. He hands me books to return as well. A
biography of George Washington and
Manchild in the Promised Land
. I rush him off. “Return them in three weeks.”

Mrs. Carolyn asks her again, what is going on? “Do you think this behavior will get you back on the team? Are you striking?”

Autumn laughs. “I think, Mrs. Carolyn … I ain't volunteering here no more.”

Mrs. Carolyn is not expecting that. She follows Autumn into the main area. “I hate to see you go … but …” She hugs Autumn and lets her know that she may use the media center whenever she likes. Autumn asks if she may stay the period. “It's your lunch period. Come every day during this time and read or —”

Autumn walks away. Taking a seat beside me, she explains everything I've heard.

“You gonna miss me?”

Is she asking or telling me?

Leaning on one elbow, she stares into my eyes. It's been a long time since she has done that.
“Firstly,”
she says. “I still remember what that means.”

I'm surprised.

“Firstly …” She reaches past me, picking up the book
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
, and sits it back down. “That's a movie, ain't it?”

“Yes.”

Shaking her head up and down, she asks how many hours I study a day. “As many as I need to.” Swallowing, I think about her question. I hope she does not ask me again to help her read.

Taking paper from her pocket and unfolding it, she shows it to me. “
Stuck
.” It's her new word. If she tells me something, can I keep it to myself, she'd like to know.

“Yes.”

She has a jar — at her age — with words in it. Only a few. She whispers words into my ear.
Quandary. Quibble. Quaint.
Who doesn't know what those mean? I ask, feeling uncomfortable.

Walking over to the dictionary, turning pages slowly, she says, “Come here, Adonis.”

I am working. She calls me three more times.

“I like this meaning … it fits me.”

“
Definition.
You mean you like the
definition
.”

Sitting beside her, I read in my head while she reads aloud. “Stuck. Jammed. Im … mov … able.” She runs her finger under each word. “This problem's got me completely stuck.”

She's brought this word up before.
Stuck
. It's not as if I'd want it to happen, but other words pop into my mind as well.
Trapped
.
Wedged
.
Pinned
. In the pond, I
couldn't escape. Not on my own. Later they found my chair, wedged between an abandoned car and vacant house. Smashed with hammers.

She folds and slides the paper into her pocket, walking to a table to sit down. Then jumping up, riffling through magazines, she carries a handful over to her seat, humming. Then I get a text.

 

U gonna teach me 2 read better?

 

It takes me a minute to decide to delete the message. Afterward, I go back to work.

Teachers here depend on me. I cannot be distracted by every single little thing. Autumn Knight should know that.

I
quit the library 'cause. I just quit, that's all.

Loving him is in me forever and always, like the blood in my veins. It's just that I'm all mixed up. Baffled. Stuck in places nobody can see. It ain't just wrestling that got me this way. I'm stuck in love with Adonis, who don't care 'bout me not one bit — even me reading better.

I'm stuck back on a sixth-grade reading level, while everybody else is moving ahead fast as Harry Potter on that train.

“Keep this up,” Mom said this morning, playing back messages from my teachers, “and you won't never graduate.”

Six weeks done passed. How many times I been to vice principal's office?

People see me at school laughing on the phone. Inside I am on the mat. Squashed. Not able to get up. Teachers, what do they know? Opponents ain't all in the circle or sitting next to you in class. They inside you, slowing you down. Some days I think — I should drop out.

Looking over my shoulder. Staring at Adonis. I put my head down so he don't see me spying.

Seeing Peaches's father again the other day, finalized my mind. Married when you don't want to be. Forced to stay when you wanna go. Stuck. Me making Adonis stick to me when he don't want to. Fourteen years old used to be easy, I bet.

“Zup, Autumn.”

I make room for Jaxxon. “Hey.”

“You not working?” He plucks my magazine, leaning over, laying his head on the table. He staring up, smiling. “Oh, I forgot. You got fired.”

He works, he says. Doing a little something something for a teacher after school. But I shouldn't ask, Jaxxon say, 'cause he not gonna tell who he is. He so stupid, I gotta laugh.

“You dropped out?” he asking, like I'm not in school right here, pushing his arm off my shoulder. “Mr. E. got people looking for you, Autumn.”

“What?” I was in his class yesterday. This morning … I had a headache.

Jaxxon got his hands on my wrist. “He told us … bring her in … anyway … anyhow.”

Laughing, pulling my hand loose from his, I ask if he crazy.

Adonis pass by. Jaxxon following him with his eyes. “That dude don't never have any fun.” He bending back the ends of my magazine. Sitting quiet, sitting close, he asking me to the movies.

I'm laughing, 'cause I don't like him like that. Me and him too much alike. He say, “Peaches and you. Y'all both cute. Let me see your cell phone.”

He not calling her from my phone, I say. Then right before I leave, I remember the B he got in math the other day. “How you do it? Cheat? I won't tell…. Sometimes you just gotta do that, I guess.” I think about Peaches. We got our third-quarter midterm grades. She got a A in math so far this quarter. Maybe I really am stupid. Everybody else in that class cheating. Honest Autumn, failing every test.

Raven walking by, waving. Jaxxon leave for a little while. Coming back, he can't stop smiling. “Got her number.” He holding it up, waving. “Cute girl like her”— he kisses air — “need somebody.”

Shoving him, I ask why he always putting on, chasing girls who could care less about him. He give it back to me, pointing at Adonis. “And he want you?”

Both of us sitting with our arms on our legs, looking across the room at him. “No.” I say it out loud. So I'll believe it, too.

Changing the subject, I ask about Mr. E. “He still getting that operation? Don't need it. He a little too skinny now.”

Jaxxon shaking his head, asking why a girl who can beat boys wrestling can't see when a teacher lying to her.

M
r. Epperson asked if I would help a struggling student. Someone with potential, who cannot seem to grasp the fundamentals of algebra. I said I would see if I could help. Mr. Epperson has been a little under the weather.

“Good morning, Mr. Epperson.” I move at his pace, following him into the library. Six of his students are sitting at a table. Raven and two guys from my AP statistics class are here to tutor as well. State tests are coming up. Mr. Epperson swears that with all the brain-power in our honors and AP programs, we can help improve the scores of struggling students at our school as quickly as any teacher.

He gives each student their marching orders. They disperse throughout the library along with their tutees.
I am all set to ask which student he wants me to work with, when he points toward her. She is slouched in a black beanbag over by the wall, her back facing us.

I freeze.

Autumn has not spoken much to me lately. At the library, she talks to her new friends. They've taken to really liking it here: eating their lunches in the caf, and then loafing in the library three or four days a week. Laughing. They do a lot of that.

She wasn't expecting me. When I say hello, she practically jumps out of her skin. Tiny papers in her lap fall to the floor like confetti. “Adonis.” Looking over at Mr. Epperson, she reaches down. “You don't have to help me.” She picks up her red jacket, folding it in two. “I know you don't want to.” Standing up again, she looks around, for another place to sit, I think.

She has a notebook and a ruddy pencil. Most students have their math books here as well. When she sees my eyes on the things in her hands, she squeezes them to her chest. “I ain't want to come anyway….”

I'm thinking about what she told me once.
Ain't
is her favorite word.

She picks at the feather in her hair. She's back to wearing feathers. “Mr. E. promised me”— she turns around, with her head high — “extra-credit points.”

Moving quickly, I try to keep up with her. My eyes stay glued to her legs. Her purple tights disappear under her short gray skirt like smoke in the sky. Her curls dangle from her head like black, shiny ribbons. Stopping, sitting in my chair in the middle of the media center, I ask myself,
Why would I ever chase after Autumn Knight?

There is a dictionary to my right. I'm pretending to riffle through it when I notice her name carved on the wooden stand. I look at Mrs. Carolyn and then Autumn, who is almost at the door.
Undisciplined
. She ought to look that up.
Careless
.
Irresponsible
. Those are good words for her to learn. When I see my full name written underneath hers in calligraphy, with a plus sign in between, my head practically explodes.

I am a private person. Something like this — written for everyone to see — is not me. A girl like her … is not me. For me. If she knew me, she would know this.

I hear her black heels on the linoleum by the front door. Tapping like hammers on nails, they walk her out into the hall. I am wondering what to do about my name, when I hear tapping again. Her shoes. Her voice — saying hello to Raven, cheery and high. From the moment she returns, her eyes are on mine. She looks upset. What nerve.

“Adonis.” Her hands go to her hips.

Raven passes by, staring.

“Autumn, why did you —?”

We are both talking at once. Turning pages in the dictionary, I ignore her. I stop at the
P
s, my finger jabbing the page. I ask if she can read that word. “
Privacy
.” As clearly as I am able, I explain how she has violated my right to privacy by writing my full name on this desk. I do not expect her to apologize.

Practically falling into my lap, she turns more pages. She finds her own word.
Apologize
. She writes the word down. I watch her put the letter
I
in front of it. Not saying a word, as if she left her voice in the hallway along with her notebook and jacket, she finds other words:
Disappointed
.
Mad
.
Sad
.

She closes the dictionary carefully, rubbing it as if it were a magic stone. “You don't like me, Adonis. I know that now.” She breathes in deep. “And not 'cause you treated me mean … or ran from me all those times.” She steps out of her heels, holding them in her hands. “I know 'cause when I asked you to help me with my reading, you ain't say yes. You ain't say no.”

If I had said yes, it would have meant I wanted her to do better, she says. Had I said no, it would mean to forget it, “Get somebody else to help you.” Not to
acknowledge her request meant “You don't care if I sink or swim.”

Her shoes move from hand to hand. Her feet stay put. Her orange toenails, painted with white dots, look like springtime, not winter outside, freezing everything.

“If I saw you at that pond, Adonis … I woulda jumped in and saved you. Even if I ain't know how to swim.”

Stepping closer to me, her knees touch the edge of my chair, like they did in my dream. She stoops. “But I been thinking lately….”

I smell baby powder when she sits her shoes on the floor.

“I'm good at swimming. I ever told you that?”

She leans forward, taking a deep breath — kissing me.

My back stiffens.

Her mouth opens.

My hands, limp in my lap, are as cold as the metal they made my chair with.

Tasting peppermint.

Feeling her fingers, smooth and soft on my cheeks.

I kiss her.

And let her sweetness in.

Pulling away, Autumn takes my first ever kiss with her.

“Good-bye, Adonis.”

I swallow. The students around us shout and cheer.

Autumn and those shoes walk out of the library. This time, she does not come back.