The Moment Keeper (12 page)

Chapter 20

Olivia’s in her bedroom on her phone. When she isn’t at the dance studio or with Emma, that’s what she’s doing. Daisy’s chewing on a plastic squeaky toy on the floor beside her. When Olivia’s home, Daisy’s never far from her side.

“Libby,” Elizabeth calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Come here.”

Olivia walks downstairs and sees her mom waving a piece of white paper.

“We got your interim grade report today in the mail, and I’m not happy.”

Olivia’s left eye and thumb twitch. She knows she’s in trouble, especially since she got zeroes because she didn’t hand in a couple of assignments.

Olivia follows her mom into the kitchen and plops on a wooden stool.

“Lib,” Elizabeth says. “I’m really disappointed in this report. You got zeros in math class because you didn’t hand in work. That’s totally unacceptable.”

“But I—”

“No. There are no excuses for not doing your work. Up until now, I haven’t been checking your grades online. That changes today. From now on, I will check every day. I will see the grade for every assignment, every test in every class. I want to see these grades improve and improve significantly.”

“But I hate math. It’s hard. And I’m really not crazy about science either.”

“Well, you can’t major in socializing in college. Right now, you’re in junior high and these grades won’t matter like the ones in high school will when you apply to colleges. But you have to establish good study habits now so that when you get to high school, you’ll be prepared to handle a much more rigorous workload. If you need help with math or science, ask for help. If Dad or I can’t help you, we’ll find someone who can.”

“OK. But do you have to check my grades online?”

“Yes. But I’ll make a deal with you. If you bring these grades up to where I think they should be and maintain them, I’ll stop checking every day.”

“Cause you’ll make me nervous if you check every day and freak out over one little score. Kind of like what you and Dad are always telling me about looking at the bigger picture. If I have a bad day and get a bad score and you flip out, that’s just going to make me more nervous and it could be that that one bad score isn’t enough to mess up the overall score.”

“Like I said, I’ll stop checking every day when you bring these grades up. Bs or better. If you have to stay after school to get extra help, you can do that and I’ll pick you up. In the meantime, lay off the cell phone. I don’t understand why you have to text or talk to your friends all night when you’ve seen them in school all day anyhow.”

“But it’s not like we’re talking all day in school, Mom.”

“Well, you don’t have all night to talk either because you have homework to do. Between school work and dance, I’d say you’re a very busy girl with little time to waste chatting or texting.”

“Did you tell Dad?”

“No, not yet. But I will and he might talk to you about it, too. Do you have homework tonight?”

Olivia nods.

“Then get it done. And if you need help, ask me.”

Olivia slides off the stool and, with her head hanging, heads to her room. She has a test tomorrow and she knows she has to study, especially since her mom will be checking her grades online.

Unlike Olivia, I loved math. It was the one thing I was good at. And I liked it because there was only one correct answer. It was black and white; no gradients. Unlike English where if you were a good bullshitter, and I wasn’t, you could write something and make it sound as if it were the greatest thing ever. Lots of gray in essays and totally subjective. Math? You either got it right or you didn’t. I like the straightforwardness of the subject. No bullshit.

Whenever we had to take the state assessment tests, I always scored advanced in the math modules but below average in the English ones. I sucked at grammar. I never understood what the big deal was if I said “good” and I should have said “well”. It’s not as if there were grammar police that would arrest me if I used the wrong word when I got older.

I remember the time I left a poem I had written for class on the kitchen counter and Grandma found it.

He

He hated me.

He resented that I lived and my mom died.

He never called me by my first name. (I was “she” or “her” or “that kid” or “that girl”. Never “Sarah”.)

He was a drunk.

He was a freeloader.

He was an abusive jerk.

He was Matt.

Never my dad.

And now he’s dead.

I’m glad.

Grandma looked up from the piece of paper. Tears slid down her saggy cheeks and she grabbed some tissues from the box in front of her.

“I’m sorry, Gram. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Grandma pulled out the metal kitchen chair and held onto the table as she eased herself down. “I didn’t know he had hurt you this much, that you felt this way. That you realized as much as you did. I thought you were just a kid and that you’d forget.”

“You don’t forget that the guy who is supposed to be your dad can’t even say your name.”

“He couldn’t help it, Sarah. He was just too messed up after your mom died.”

“Yes, he could have helped it, Gram. And he could have helped me. Stop making excuses for him. He was a drunk and a lazy ass and, if you ask me, not much of a son. He took from you and what you didn’t give, he stole.”

I had never said such horrible things about Matt to Grandma and I felt bad that I had made her cry. Grandma was the last person I’d ever want to hurt.

“Who’s seen this?” Grandma asked.

“My teacher.”

“Anyone else?”

I shook my head. “But I don’t care if anyone else does. It’s how I feel. The only thing I’m sorry about is that you found it.”

“I know it’s your poem, Sarah. You have a right to write it and a right to feel the way you do. But I’m going to ask you something. Can you please not share this with anyone else? At least till after I’m gone.”

I nodded. “But it’s not a reflection on you, Gram. It’s not your fault Matt turned out the way he did. You’re always telling me that people have choices and that the choices they make determine what kind of life they lead. Matt made his choices; you didn’t make them for him.”

Grandma took a deep breath. “Can you help me up the stairs?”

I walked over and helped Gram off the chair and to her room.

“I’m tired, Sarah,” Grandma said. “And all I want to do is sleep.”

“Lib,” Elizabeth calls. “Dinner’s ready.”

Olivia runs down the steps.

“Walk!” her mom yells. “You sound like a herd of cattle coming down those steps.”

Olivia slows to a walk and enters the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“He just called. He’s working late so we’re going to eat without him. Can you grab the Parmesan cheese from the fridge?”

Olivia opens the refrigerator and grabs the green can of cheese from the side door. She turns around. “Did you tell him about the grade report?”

“Not yet,” says Elizabeth, looking up from setting the table. “Do you want to?”

Olivia shakes her head.

“How’s the studying going, anyway?” Elizabeth asks.

“OK. I hate word problems, though. I like words on their own, but I don’t like it when they’re
mixed with numbers. It confuses me.”

“If you need help after dinner, let me know. It’s been a long time since I’ve done word problems, but I could probably figure it out.”

“Did you like math when you were in school?” Olivia asks her mom.

“Not as much as science, but I did well in it.”

“Were you popular?”

“Not like you,” Elizabeth says. “You’re involved in so many things and have so many friends. I was an Army brat and we moved a lot. Never stayed in one place long enough to make any really good friends, like you and Emma.”

Olivia twists the spaghetti around her fork. “I wouldn’t like that. I couldn’t imagine not having Emma to talk to.”

“You’re lucky,” Elizabeth says. “Some people have no one.”

Elizabeth is right about that. Rachel moved when we were in junior high. She was the only friend I ever had. When she moved, it was as if someone put a veil over the sun. Life was never as bright and when bad things happened, the darkness seemed darker.

I wasn’t popular like Olivia and I wasn’t involved in all of the things she’s involved in. After Rachel moved, I just kept to myself. Was easier that way. Didn’t have to explain why I lived with Gram. I heard their whispers from time to time, mostly mocking my clothes. And when the middle school French teacher commented in class that I could be a model, I thought Tracey Carmichael and the other girls were going to explode.

If their looks could kill, I would have been dead a hundred times that day. And that was the day when things got worse in school. The day their whispers became black whipping tongues, taunting me and lashing out every chance they got.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you should be a model?” Miss Murphy said.

She was looking at me but I thought she was talking to the student behind me. I turned around and there was a boy in that chair.

“I’m talking to you, Sarah,” Miss Murphy said.

My hand slapped my chest. “Me? Uh, no. No one has ever said that.”

“Well, you should think about it. I have a friend who’s involved with a local agency. If you want, I can give you her business card.”

I could feel the burning eyes of every girl in the class. Rachel always said I was a “natural beauty” but I never thought I was anything special. I didn’t wear designer clothes or go to a salon to have my hair done.

Gram still set up a makeshift salon in the kitchen, spreading an old shower curtain on the linoleum floor and putting one of the kitchen chairs in the middle. She’d been cutting my hair ever since I had hair to cut. It was all I knew and it seemed to work OK for me. Plus it saved money. That was the real reason Gram cut it. It was also the reason why she stopped getting perms. She figured the money she spent on perms she could spend on me. Especially now
that I was older. I needed more girl stuff – like tampons and deodorant and shaving cream.

After class, Miss Murphy gave me her friend’s business card. I didn’t want to take it. I knew that Tracey and the others were watching.

Miss Murphy shook the card in her hand. “Here, take it. At least think about it.”

I took the card and looked down at the floor and walked out the door, past Tracey and the others. And I threw that card away at the first trash can I came to making sure that Tracey saw me. But it didn’t do any good. I was labeled pretty and there was no one who was going to be labeled pretty in the whole junior high but Tracey Carmichael.

Chapter 21

“I can’t decide on a theme for my locker,” Olivia tells Emma. They’re hanging out in Olivia’s bedroom, painting their nails with the new polish they bought at the mall earlier in the day.

“I thought you’d choose dance like last year,” Emma says.

“Yeah, but that’s so expected. Of course I would choose dance because it’s my favorite thing in the entire universe. But, I was thinking about doing something unexpected. Like maybe focus on a particular color. Like pink or purple or blue and brown like my bedroom. What about you?”

“Think I’ll pick Tink. She’s my all-time favorite Disney character and I’ve seen lots of Tink stuff in stores.”

“Tink is good.”

“You don’t think it’s too babyish?” Emma asks.

“Nah! You’re never too old for Tink. My grandma even has a Tink sweatshirt.”

Last year was the first year the girls decorated the inside of their lockers. It turned into quite a competition in their eighth-grade wing. The school allowed them to decorate as long as they used materials that could easily be removed and didn’t damage the surface or leave a sticky residue.

Most of the girls got really creative. One girl made a mailbox by mounting a decorated tissue box on the inside of her locker door below the slits. Friends could “mail” notes whenever they wanted. Olivia thought that was the coolest idea ever.

Of course there were the usual magnetic mirrors and photo frames and pen and pencil holders and whiteboards. And most everyone hung a string of battery operated lights. And some sort of air freshener was a must.

“What about a tropical theme?” Olivia asks. “I have tons of photos from our trip to Hawaii.”

“And leis,” Emma says.

Olivia smiles. “Yeah, lots of those.”

“That could definitely work.”

“Or maybe a Hollywood theme, like glitz and glam,” says Olivia, tightening the cap on her Outta Sight Orange polish. “I know. I could make the inside of the locker look like a strip of film and get photos enlarged to fit in the spaces. Maybe it could be my life in film and I could include dance photos.”

“I like it,” Emma says. “What’s the name of that black board with the white lines they snap when they make movies?”

“That’s a clapboard,” Olivia says. “I don’t think I’d have room for a full-size one, but I’m sure I can think of some way to incorporate it. Maybe I can find a plastic thumb, glue a magnet to the back of it. Then, depending on what kind of day I’m having, I can turn it up for thumbs up or down for thumbs down. Like the movie reviewers do.”

“You’re definitely on a roll with this,” Emma says. “I like it.”

Olivia and Emma continue to discuss locker décor, coming up with ideas for their friends who might need some help. They decide that Robin, a forward on the basketball team, should mount a Nerf basketball net on the inside of her locker door and that Becca, who’s in chorus, could line her locker with sheet music.

My locker was of the standard drab gray variety. The bottom was rusty so I threw in an old towel to protect my books. That was as far as I went with my locker overhaul, and that was mostly because I didn’t want to be charged for damaging my books at the end of the year when the teachers collected them. I wasn’t one of those girls who turned the back of their locker door into a photo gallery. It was definitely not a place I wanted to spend any time at or any money on. Its only purpose as far as I was concerned was to hold books so I didn’t have to lug them to every class. And, after what happened the one day in ninth grade, I definitely didn’t even like having to use it for that.