The Owl & Moon Cafe: A Novel (No Series) (34 page)

Mrs. Shiasaka had gone home sick, so they had Dr. Ritchie for both science and “Life Paths, Life Questions.” Lindsay got chills when she asked for final progress reports before Science Project Judging and Parents’ Reception, which was only a couple of days away. Lindsay looked over at Sally, and Sally looked back. She wasn’t smiling, but she also wasn’t making her usual mean face. What did that mean?

“Sally DeThomas and Lindsay Moon?” Dr. Ritchie said, looking up from her clipboard.

The girls stood on opposite sides of the table. Lindsay spoke first. “I posted the finished draft of our essay on Blackboard.”

“How about your models and visuals for Presentation and Judging?”

Sally took over. “We’ll set them up as soon as we get access to the classroom. By the way, will there be security? I don’t want anyone kyping our ideas.”

Dr. Ritchie looked at her. “The door is locked at night, and only Ms. Haverfield and the janitor have keys.”

“Is the janitor bonded?”

Dr. Ritchie gave her a hard look. “Sally, sit down. Belva Satterly?”

Belva launched into her research on the insidious way fast food leaves its mark on cells, droning on in such a monotone that Lindsay wondered what medications she was on for her many allergies. “That’s sufficient, Belva,” Dr. Ritchie said, interrupting her, and everyone sighed in relief.

Then Sally did a strange thing. She not only fake-laughed, she blurted out, “Omigod, Belva, that project is so last year! Don’t you, like, have any other interests besides animal fats and extruded chicken? How about nuclear waste or smart bombs? Or don’t they have those on your planet?”

The posse laughed hysterically, but Lindsay knew that that was over the top, even for Sally. Belva looked like she might cry.

Dr. Ritchie said, “Sally, when Mrs. Shiasaka told me about your outbursts I thought she was exaggerating. No recess for you. Instead, you can stay in and clean the rabbit’s hutch.”

“That should be a breeze,” Sally said, “since I have previous experience with the iguana.”

Dr. Ritchie ignored her. “Now that we’ve finished our science project reports,” she said, “let’s return to your ‘Life Paths, Life Questions’ journal projects.” She read down a list. “Lindsay Moon, it seems we haven’t heard from you yet. How about you read us a passage?”

“How about I don’t?”

“
Excuse
me?”

Lindsay could feel all eyes riveted on her. “Can’t I just turn it in and have you look at it instead?”

The posse snickered, and even Belva gave her a snotty look.

“Lindsay, did you complete your journal?”

Lindsay picked at the edge of the notebook. “I completed it. It’s just kind of personal.”

“Well, pardon me, but isn’t that the idea of creating this journal? To dialogue with one significant person from another walk of life? How painful can it be for you to share with your classroom community when they are here to support you?”

Lindsay watched the posse collapse in laughter. She swallowed hard. There were a lot of things she could have said, but she was sick of words. She would rather bus tables. At least you got money for it, even if it was only a quarter. Mrs. Shiasaka would have let her off the hook, but Dr. Ritchie was like the salesman who came into The Owl & Moon, pressing pamphlets in your face. He wouldn’t take no for an answer until Gammy got down the giant ladle and threatened to smack him.

“Lindsay,” Dr. Ritchie said, “the class is very interested in your choice, as am I.”

Lindsay looked around the room, wishing right then that a California earthquake would strike and they’d all have to brace themselves in doorways to feel safe. “I chose the one person who made science live and breathe for me.”

“Live and breathe!” Cheyenne Goldenblatt whispered. The posse snickered.

“Carl Sagan.”

“Carl Sagan, the scientist?” Dr. Ritchie said, smiling.

The posse’s giggles exponentially increased until Avril shrieked, “But he’s a dead man!”

Lindsay’s face heated up. Her stomach followed suit. “So what? Do only live people matter? Carl Sagan talks to me sometimes.”

“Lindsay’s gone mental,” Siouxie said.

“Probably from you guys torturing her,” Belva said. “I’m going to ask my mom to transfer me to public school.”

Sally pinched Siouxie. “Shut up for a second, will you?”

It was like Dr. Ritchie heard none of it. “Carl Sagan talks to me, too,” she said. “In his books. Which one’s your favorite?”

“Why do I have to pick one when all of them matter?” Lindsay said. “When Carl Sagan died, the world kind of forgot about him, but I didn’t. It’s sad when anyone dies, but it’s tragic that no one will know the ideas that he didn’t live long enough to explore. He wasn’t a soldier who died in battle, or a pop singer or a movie star, he was just a man who died from stupid old cancer, which can kill whoever it wants to.”

She began to cry before the last syllable was out of her mouth. The one thing you could never do at school was cry. The only thing worse was peeing your pants. The rest of December was guaranteed to be ten times worse than how she felt right this moment. “Lately,” she said, hiccupping extra syllables as her sobs wound down, “I think about how Carl Sagan got sick, how it all started with the diagnosis that was really only a warning, not even the real disease, which is mostly manageable with certain medications that are very expensive like the ones my grandmother is on where they make you pay twenty percent up front even if you do have insurance. So he had a bone marrow transplant, which is also common these days, according to Netdoc, who says the success rate for bone marrow transplants is seventy-nine percent, which sounds really good until you think about the twenty-one percent that he fell into. So then I had to research that, to see if any progress has been made since Professor Sagan died, if they were any closer to a cure.”

“And?”

“They aren’t. People care more about backpack brands than they do cancer.” She stopped there, exhausted. “Can I sit down now?”

“Certainly.” Dr. Ritchie calmly walked over and handed her a tissue. “Girls, that’s what I mean by passion. Lindsay Moon, A plus for you today.”

Sally held up her hand. “Can I ask one question?”

“No, Sally. You may not. Your question quota was reached long ago. You’ll have to wait until after the New Year.”

She threw up her arms. “Fine! Censor me. Forget the First Amendment already.”

The chorus began before they were halfway out the door for lunch and recess. “Humanity! Humanity!”

“Lindsay Moon loves a dead guy!”

“The only kind of boyfriend she can get is a zombie!”

Then she felt a hand grasp her arm. She turned, and saw it was Sally. “Don’t listen to the freakazoids,” she said. “They’ll turn anything into an insult, because that’s a whole lot easier than trying to understand it.” Then she twisted Lindsay’s arm just a little so the others saw, and Lindsay cried out. “In about ten seconds,” Sally whispered, “Taylor will be around the corner. Sneak back in, okay? We have to talk.”

Lindsay rubbed her arm. “How was your birthday party?”

“Oh, mega-fun!” Sally said. “It rained, Savannah had to win all the games or she’d cry, and my presents were freaking useless.”

Lindsay had planned to buy Sally a Moleskine blank writing book before they had their fake falling out. “You didn’t get even one good present?”

“Taylor got me ten flavors of lip gloss. Buy me some saddle soap, I told her. That I can use. Or a gift certificate to the bookstore. Gah! I don’t think Taylor ever reads, unless it’s her mother’s
Star.
”

“We haven’t done our project presentation yet, so why are you talking to me?” Lindsay said. “You never answer my emails.”

Sally pulled her into the classroom, toward the rabbit cage, which stunk, even though herbivores generally had nonsmelly excrement. Rabbit urine was another matter. “When I said I was being blackmailed I meant totally blackmailed. Taylor made me tell her my password! She checked my outgoing mail every day.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie? She is on me like stink. This is the first time I could get alone long enough to tell you.”

Lindsay shrugged. Sally was a writer. If someone snapped their fingers, she could make up a story on the spot. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m your friend, that’s why!” Sally flipped open the rabbit hutch and let the rabbit onto the floor, where it immediately peed, then hopped away. “Come on, Linds! Why would I make up such a stupid idea? You know I’m smarter than that. You’re my best friend.”

“Really? You’re not mine. Not anymore.”

She stood there while Sally tried not to cry. It was somehow a relief to watch Sally wad up newspaper, clean the cage without help, and replace the rabbit’s dishes, clean and filled with food and water while tears tracked down her face. When Sally went to the cloakroom, Lindsay followed, watching her rifle through backpacks until she found carrots and celery, which she then put in the rabbit’s cage as well, because she was spoiled rotten and saw nothing wrong with helping herself to whatever she wanted. “Help me catch that idiot rabbit,” Sally said. “Honestly, this animal belongs in grade three, not eight.”

“No.”

“What?”

Lindsay hated the fact that her heart was beating so quickly, urging her to take the hard words back, but something inside her had torn loose, and the bad scene at Thanksgiving had started it. She watched Sally wash her hands, looked out the window where the posse had gathered under Lindsay’s “tree of life,” and were picking off bits of bark and throwing them at each other.

“We’re almost there,” Sally said. “All we have to do is pretend we hate each other until after Science Fair.”

“I don’t have to pretend.”

Sally didn’t try to stop the tears now. “Come
on,
Lindsay!” she begged. “We can’t let Taylor tell on us this close to Science Fair. We have to win the prizes. Our future depends on it.”

“What future?” Lindsay said. “Even if I win the money that’s no guarantee I’ll get into college. People like me, we can work our hardest and still end up in crappy jobs. Screw the project. I don’t care anymore.”

She walked out the classroom door, down the hallway to the nurse’s office because her stomach hurt and she was out of antacids, and that big bottle of Tums sounded better than birthday cake or rabbit stew or chocolate anything.

“I need to telephone my grandfather,” Lindsay told the nurse, who was watching a talk show on the office TV.

“Are you sure?” the nurse asked. “Wouldn’t you rather talk to your mother?”

In Lindsay’s hand, the business card Dr. G had given her was growing damp from her clutching fingers. “No, ma’am. He’s also my doctor, and he’s concerned about my stomachaches.”

“I’m glad to hear somebody is. You certainly have enough of them.” She handed Lindsay the receiver. “Don’t forget to dial nine and wait for the dial tone. I’ll leave you alone so you can make your call in private. Then I’ll need to speak to him to get you released.”

Lindsay punched in the numbers of the pager, and then when prompted, pressed in the school telephone number, and the suffix, 9-1-1*. Dr. G had told her it was code for I really need to talk right this minute. She hung up, and sat down on her favorite cot, which had a red plaid flannel comforter. She thought of all the days she spent there, waiting for her gut to calm down. Little bits of her DNA were here in this office, all over the place. Lindsay knew she had ulcers, and she knew it was time to tell someone about it, and that it had to be the right someone to tell to make it better.