Remembering Raquel

H
ARCOURT
, I
NC.
Orlando Austin New York San Diego London

Copyright © 2007 by Vande Velde, Vivian

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Vande Velde, Vivian.
Remembering Raquel/Vivian Vande Velde.
p. cm.
Summary: Various people recall aspects of the life of Raquel Falcone,
an unpopular, overweight freshman at Quail Run High School, including
classmates, her parents, and the driver who struck and killed her as she was
walking home from an animated film festival.
[1. Death—Fiction. 2 High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.
4. Popularity—Fiction 5 Overweight persons—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V377Rem 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006035769
ISBN 978-0-15-205976-7

Text set in Adobe Garamond
Designed by Cathy Riggs

C E G H F D B

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction All the names, characters, places,
organizations, and events portrayed in this book are products
of the author's imagination Any resemblance to any organization,
event, or actual person, living or dead, is unintentional.

To school library media specialists—
because a library is the heart of a school

It's amazing how much dying can do for a girl's popularity.

I mean, I'm sitting here in the funeral parlor watching Erin McCall and my other classmates standing around Raquel Falcone's dad, each one of them acting like Raquel's best friend. I don't know if Erin's just doing her usual center-of-attention thing, or if she's actually trying to make Mr. Falcone feel better. That's what you do for a dead person's family—tell them she'll be missed even if you never once had a nice word for her or about her.

I know what I'm talking about: I was there in homeroom when Mrs. Bellanca broke the news. She told us all to sit down, and I have to believe that was at least partly so she could see where the empty desk was—I don't think she was exactly sure which one to connect Raquel's name to. Certain kids have a tendency to be invisible.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," Mrs. Bellanca said.

Her plan to prepare us did the opposite. I couldn't have been the only one who suspected that another standardized test was about to be announced. Or an assembly, because the administration had decided that the first springlike day of the year was a good time to talk to us about the evils of drugs, alcohol, bullying, or sex. Or maybe, since it
was
a nice day, there was going to be a fire drill; a certain number are required each semester, but the principals in upstate New York generally try to schedule them for days without snow and ice rather than run the risk of personal-injury lawsuits.

A little chatter of speculation started as people tried to guess what the bad news could be.

Mrs. Bellanca rapped her knuckles against the desk to get our attention—one step up from middle school, where they have this little rhythmic handclap thing they do to get the students to quiet down.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you," Mrs. Bellanca said, "that the school has suffered a loss." Which still could have been something minor. She might have meant that one of the teachers was going on maternity leave—or one of the students. (Though usually there's no official word on
those
situations.) But then she finally came out and said it: "Raquel Falcone was killed in a car accident last night."

People glanced around. Even after seven months of classes together, they had to look to see who was missing, who Mrs. Bellanca meant.

I knew immediately. Not that Raquel was a particular friend of mine or anything. I sit behind her in homeroom, so I'd already noticed she wasn't there, because I could see Mrs. Bellanca without having to crane around Raquel's bulk.

My first thought, on hearing that Raquel was dead, was:
Oh, crap. That makes me the class fat girl.

Which lets you know—just in case there was any doubt—exactly how nice I am.

So now, all those kids who couldn't have been bothered to talk to Raquel when she was alive are leaving flowers at the little impromptu shrine at the street corner where the car hit her. They're taking up a collection to buy a Raquel Falcone memorial park bench to put on the school's front lawn. And they've even started a letter-writing campaign to get the speed limit lowered on that stretch of Poscover Road to prevent further accidents—even though nobody's 100 percent sure what happened. Why should not knowing what happened stop anybody from commenting ... or crusading?

They say she was leaving a movie, talking and laughing. Maybe Raquel stepped off the curb without watching what she was doing.

Maybe someone jostled her—which leads to two more questions: Was it accidental? Or intentional?

Or maybe Raquel knew exactly what she was doing when she stepped in front of that car. Maybe she'd had enough of being nobody's particular friend, of being "that fat girl" in ninth grade.

A fast, fatal step to popularity is a possibility to keep in mind.

But meanwhile, I'm happy to note that Lindsay Lapjani might actually look wider than I do. She says she's not fat—it's a cultural thing. And I'm certainly not going to be insensitive enough to bad-mouth anyone's culture.

All those years of schooling. All those years of paying off the loans for that schooling. Years that stretched out because teachers are notoriously underpaid.

As opposed, for example, to my sister Emily, who went into business communications—whatever, exactly, that means.

Never mind, I know what it means. It means she has beautiful clothes because she doesn't have to be on her feet all day in a building where, in the winter, the heat doesn't quite make it to the third floor; and, in the summer, there is no air-conditioning because the voters turned down the building-improvement bond, figuring there aren't many days that we'd need it. Try standing in front of thirty bored ninth graders on a June afternoon and then tell me you don't need air-conditioning. And, yes, my shoes look orthopedic. That's because they
are
orthopedic. The girls make snide remarks about them based on what styles they're wearing. The boys are always trying to look down my neckline or up my skirt. And they're
all
eyeballing the size of my butt if I'm wearing pants. As far as hair, Emily gets hers done every week to maintain what she calls "that nice professional look." For a teacher, "professional" means not a ponytail. Except on those days when we really need that air-conditioning—then a ponytail is fine.

Not that I'm complaining: I didn't fall into being a teacher; I chose it as my career. I wanted to make a difference, and usually I don't compare myself to Emily. Except when she sits us down in front of the computer at some family function and makes us check out the latest digital photo album of the latest wonderful vacation she and her husband have taken. Meanwhile, my husband and I have had to postpone for another year getting a new car, since the old one doesn't really stall and leave me stranded all
that
often.

"I will make my classes interesting," I told myself when I was studying. "I will have a multitude of lesson plans, to reflect the strengths and interests of each year's incoming students."

I anticipated endless energy. I anticipated making learning fun. I anticipated students who could, eventually, be won over.

I never pictured students who refused to give me half a chance, or parents who wouldn't come to parent-teacher conferences, or buying supplies with my own money because the district is—yet again—on an austerity budget.

And I never pictured myself having to tell a classroom full of kids that one of them had died.

Articles removed from locker #3245, Falcone, Raquel M.:

algebra book (level 1)
world studies book
biology book
3-ring binder (marked
DEADLY BORING NOTES ON DEADLY BORING CLASSES
)
1 artist's sketchbook (marked
TOP SECRET, KEEP OUT LEST THE CURSE OF THE DEADLY LAKE ONTARIO SEA-KELPIES BE UPON YOU
)
1 white mitten (left hand)
1 pink glove (right hand)
pamphlet from NutriSystem
receipt from 24 Hour Fitness
mechanical hamster that plays "Yankee Doodle"
do-not-resuscitate order, from Highland Hospital, not filled out

Raquel and I met in first grade when our teacher, Mrs. Scarborough, arranged us alphabetically. I was fortunate to have Raquel sitting behind me because at that point in my life my parents didn't realize I needed glasses. When Mrs. Scarborough would write on the board, I'd tell her that I couldn't read her handwriting, and she took that as a personal criticism of her, rather than as evidence of a problem with my eyesight.

She told me to concentrate and to try harder.

Raquel, however, began leaning forward and—very quietly—reading out loud whatever Mrs. Scarborough had written on the board.

Lucky for me, Raquel was both kindhearted and a good reader.

In second grade, our teacher, Mr. Thesing, suggested to my parents that they might want to take me to have my eyes checked, which was when I got glasses. But I figured I was forever in Raquel's debt. Mrs. Scarborough, I was sure, would have kept on insisting that I wasn't trying hard enough, so there's a good chance I'd still be in first grade if it hadn't been for Raquel.

Not that her kindhearted deeds always worked out. In third grade the two of us dabbled at being Brownies, and Raquel talked the troop into going to Harborview Manor Nursing Home to sing Christmas carols to the residents. The attendants wheeled all these old people into the front room. I mention the wheelchairs so that you understand our audience hadn't necessarily volunteered to come. Mrs. DeLuca was the troop leader, and she also was the one who played the piano. She played, we sang, and most of the old people snoozed right through our performance. Except for one little old lady who covered her ears and moaned repeatedly, "Make them stop."

To this day Raquel will insist we were a major hit.

Oh damn.

I was thinking of inviting Raquel to next week's spring formal.

Of course, first I asked Stacy Galbo, even though I knew it was a real long shot, her being the most popular girl at Quail Run High.

"Oh, that's sweet," she said in a voice that made my knees wobble. "Thank you, but I already have a date."

I looked down at the lunch tray I was carrying, so she wouldn't see the disappointment on my face. "Okay, sure, I understand," I said. "I shouldn't have waited so long." It wasn't that I'd waited
that
long; the dance was still a month away at that point. But I know girls like to plan these things years in advance. In any case, I'm not sure how much of what I said she heard, because by the time I looked up, she'd walked away.

"Did you ask her?" Ned demanded before I even set my tray down at our table. I should have never admitted to anybody that I'd planned to talk to her at lunch that day. Yeah, well,
admitted
isn't exactly the right word. Ned and Paul had been pressuring me all week to either put up or shut up about inviting Stacy. I know them well enough to suspect there was money riding on whether I'd ever actually get up the nerve to invite her.

Now Paul, reading my face, said, "
Ahh,
she turned him down."

Ned glanced from me to Paul and back to me, as though Stacy turning me down was inconceivable.

"Yup," I admitted, concentrating more than was absolutely necessary on opening my milk carton.

"How come?" Ned asked.

"Waited too long," I said. "She's going with somebody else."

"Who?" Paul asked.

I shrugged.

Paul snorted, obviously suspecting that Stacy Galbo would lie to get out of going with me, as though she'd risk not going at all rather than go with me.

The next girl I asked was Zoe Kanisky. While Stacy is the most popular girl in the ninth grade, Zoe is the best looking. She's got this incredible blond hair, and blue eyes, and boobs she's not afraid to show off. I cornered her in the library's reference section while Mrs. Shesman was busy checking out books before the bell rang at the end of the period.

"I'm sorry," Zoe said, her eyes big and innocent. "Who are you?"

Maybe it was the new haircut I'd gotten the day before. "Jonah," I reminded her. "Jonah Proia."

"I'm sorry," Zoe said, even more brightly than before. "Who are you?"

At least I knew enough not to wonder if this was a case of sudden-onset hearing-and-seeing loss. Erin McCall and a couple of the other girls were listening in, always a bad sign, and snickering, an even worse sign.

Zoe asked, "Are you, like, on the football team?"

I couldn't think of anybody on the football team who she could possibly mistake me for.

"No," I admitted.

She laughed, still sounding friendly. Too friendly. "Well, and we can certainly see that you're not on the basketball team."

Translation: Jonah Proia is short and dumpy.

"Could you, perhaps, be a member of the yearbook staff? Or on the forensics team? Or in the drama club? Is your daddy rich? Is there any reason I should even be talking to you?"

No, no, no, no, and—sigh—no.

I slunk away before Zoe's friends could gather any more people to personally witness my ego being ground into dust. It was bad enough knowing that everybody would soon enough be
hearing
about it.