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  BLUE ROSES

  After last night’s interrogation, I try to pay attention in biology. We are studying cells, which have all these tiny parts you can’t see unless you look at them under a microscope. We get to use real microscopes, not plastic Kmart specials. It’s not bad.

  Ms. Keen is our teacher. I feel kind of sad for her. She could have been a famous scientist or doctor or something. Instead, she’s stuck with us. She has wooden boxes all over the front of the room that she climbs on when she talks to us. If she’d cut back on the doughnuts, she’d look like a tiny grandmother doll. Instead, she has a gelatinous figure, usually encased in orange polyester. She avoids basketball players. From their perspective, she must look like a basketball.

  I have a lab partner, David Petrakis. Belongs to the Cybergenius clan. He has the potential to be cute when the braces come off. He is so brilliant he makes the teachers nervous. You’d think a kid like that would get beat up a lot, but the bad guys leave him alone. I have to find out his secret. David ignores me mostly, except when I almost ruined the $300 microscope by twisting the knob the wrong way. That was the day Ms. Keen wore a purple dress with bright blue roses. Baffling. They shouldn’t let teachers change like that without some kind of Early Warning Alert. It shakes up the students. That dress was all anyone talked about for days. She hasn’t worn it since.

  STUDENT DIVIDED BY CONFUSION EQUALS ALGEBRA

  I slide into my desk with ten minutes left in algebra class. Mr. Stetman stares at my late pass for a long time. I pull out a clean sheet of paper so I can copy the problems off the board. I sit in the back row, where I can keep my eye on everyone, as well as whatever is going on in the parking lot. I think of myself as the Emergency Warning System of the class. I plan disaster drills. How would we escape if the chemistry lab exploded? What if an earthquake hit Central New York? A tornado?

  It is impossible to stay focused on algebra. It’s not that I’m bad at math. I tested at the top of the class last year—that’s how I got Dad to pay for my new bike. Math is easy because there is no room for debate. The answer is right or it is wrong. Give me a sheet of math problems and I’ll get 98 percent of them right.

  But I can’t get my head around algebra. I knew why I had to memorize my multiplication tables. Understanding fractions, and decimals, and percentages, and even geometry—all that was practical. Toolz eye kan youz. It made so much sense I never thought about it. I did the work. Made honor roll.

  But algebra? Every single day, someone asks Mr. Stetman why we have to learn algebra. You can tell this causes him great personal pain. Mr. Stetman loves algebra. He is poetic about it, in an integral-number sort of way. He talks about algebra the way some guys talk about their cars. Ask him why algebra and he launches into a thousand and one stories why algebra. None of them makes sense.

  Mr. Stetman asks if anyone can explain the wangdiddler’s role in the negative hotchka theorem. Heather has the answer. She is wrong. Stetman tries again. Me? I shake my head with a sad smile. Not this time, try me again in twenty years. He calls me to the board.

  Mr. Stetman: “Who wants to help Melinda understand how we work our way through this problem? Rachel? Great.”

  My head explodes with the noise of fire trucks leaving the station. This is a real disaster. Rachel/Rachelle clogs up to the board, dressed in an outrageous Dutch/Scandinavian ensemble. She looks half-cute, half-sophisticated. She has red laser eyes that burn my forehead. I wear basic Dumpster togs—smelly gray turtleneck and jeans. I just this minute remember that I need to wash my hair.

  Rachelle’s mouth moves and her hand glides over the board, drawing funny shapes and numbers. I pull my lower lip all the way in between my teeth. If I try hard enough, maybe I can gobble my whole self this way. Mr. Stetman drones something and Rachelle flutters her eyelids. She nudges me. We are supposed to sit down. The class giggles as we walk back to our seats. I didn’t try hard enough to swallow myself.

  My brain doesn’t think we should spend any time hanging around algebra. We have better things to think about. It’s a shame. Mr. Stetman seems like a nice guy.

  HALLOWEEN

  My parents declare that I am too old to go trick-or-treating. I’m thrilled. This way I don’t have to admit that no one invited me to go with them. I’m not about to tell Mom and Dad that. To keep up appearances, I stomp to my room and slam the door.

  I look out my window. A group of little creatures is coming up the walk. A pirate, a dinosaur, two fairies, and a bride. Why is it that you never see a kid dressed as a groom on Halloween? Their parents chat at the curb. The night is dangerous, parents are required—tall ghosts in khakis and down jackets floating behind the children.

  The doorbell rings. My parents squabble about who will answer it. Then Mom swears and opens the door with a high-pitched “Ooooh, who do we have here?” She must have handed out only one mini-chocolate bar to each creature—their thank-yous do not sound enthusiastic. The kids cut through the yard to the next house and their parents follow in the street.

  Last year, our clan all dressed up as witches. We went to Ivy’s house because she and her older sister had theatrical makeup. We traded clothes and splurged on cheap black wigs. Rachel and I looked the best. We had used baby-sitting money to rent black satin capes lined in red. We rocked. It was an unusually warm, wicked evening. We didn’t need long underwear and the sky was clear. The wind kicked up, skimming clouds over the surface of the full moon, which was hung just to make us feel powerful and strong. We raced through the night, a clan of untouchable witches. I actually thought for a moment that we could cast spells, could turn people into frogs or rabbits, to punish the evil and reward the good. We ended up with pounds of candy. After Ivy’s parents went to bed, we lit a candle in the totally dark house. We held it in front of an antique mirror at midnight to see our futures. I couldn’t see anything.

  This year Rachelle is going to a party thrown by one of the exchange students’ host families. I heard her talk about it in algebra. I knew I wouldn’t get an invitation. I would be lucky to get an invitation to my own funeral, with my reputation. Heather is walking with some of the little kids in her neighborhood so their mothers can stay home.

  I am prepared. I refuse to spend the night moping in my room or listening to my parents argue. I checked out a book from the library, Dracula, by Bram Stoker. Cool name. I settle into my nest with a bag of candy corn and the blood-sucking monster.

  NAME NAME NAME

  In a post-Halloween frenzy, the school board has come out against calling us the Devils. We are now the Merryweather Tigers. Roar.

  The Ecology Club is planning a rally to protest the “degrading of an endangered species.” This is the only thing talked about at school. Especially during class. Mr. Neck has a steroid rage, screaming about Motivation and Identity and sacred School Spirit. We won’t even make it to the Industrial Revolution at this rate.

  I get hosed in Spanish. “Linda” means “pretty” in Spanish. This is a great joke. Mrs. Spanish Teacher calls my name. Some stand-up comic cracks, “No, Melinda no es linda.” They call me Me-no-linda for the rest of the period. This is how terrorists get started, this kind of harmless fun. I wonder if it’s too late to transfer to German.

  I just thought of a great theory that explains everything. When I went to that party, I was abducted by aliens. They have created a fake Earth and fake high school to study me and my reactions. This certainly explains cafeteria food. Not the other stuff, though. The aliens have a sick sense of humor.

  THE MARTHAS

  Heather has found a clan—the Marthas. She is a freshman member on probation. I have no idea how she did it. I suspect money changed hands. This is part of her strategy to make a place for herself at school. I am supposed to be tagging along. But the Marthas!

  It’s an expensive clan to run with; outfits must be coordinated, crisp, and seasonally appropriate. They favor plaid for autumn with matching sweaters in colors named after fruit, like apricot and russet apple.
Winter calls for Fair Isle sweaters, lined wool pants, and Christmas hair ornaments. They haven’t told her what to buy for spring. I predict skirts with geese and white blouses with embroidered ducks on the collar.

  I tell Heather she should push the fashion envelope just a teeny bit to be an ironic reflection of the 1950s, you know, innocence and apple pie. She doesn’t think the Clan Leaders, Meg ‘n’ Emily ‘n’ Siobhan, understand irony. They like rules too much.

  Marthas are big on helping. The name of their group came from somebody in the Bible (the original Martha Clan Leader became a missionary in Los Angeles). But now they follow the Other Martha, Saint Martha of the Glue Gun, the lady who writes books about cheery decorations. Very Connecticut, very prep. The Marthas tackle projects and perform good deeds. This is ideal Heather work. She says they run the canned-food drive, tutor kids in the city, host a walkathon, a danceathon, and a rockingchairathon to raise money for I don’t know what. They also Do Nice Things for teachers. Gag.

  Heather’s first Martha Project is to decorate the faculty lounge for a Thanksgiving party/faculty meeting. She corners me after Spanish and begs me to help her. She thinks the Marthas have given her a deliberately impossible job so they can dump her. I’ve always wondered what the staff room looks like. You hear so many rumors. Will it have a cot for teachers who need naps? Economy-sized boxes of tissues for emotional meltdowns? Comfortable leather chairs and a private butler? What about the secret files they keep on all the kids?

  The truth is nothing more than a small green room with dirty windows and a lingering smell of cigarettes, even though it has been illegal to smoke on school property for years. Metal folding chairs surround a battered table. One wall has a bulletin board that hasn’t been cleared off since Americans walked on the moon. And I look, but I can’t find any secret files. They must keep them in the principal’s office.

  I’m supposed to make a centerpiece out of waxed maple leaves, acorns, ribbon, and a mile of thin wire. Heather is going to set the table and hang the banner. She babbles on about her classes while I ruin leaf after red leaf. I ask if we can trade before I cause permanent damage to myself. Heather gently untangles me from the wire. She holds a bunch of leaves in one hand, twists the wire around the stem—one-two—hides the wire with ribbon and hot-glues the acorns into place. It’s spooky. I hurry to finish the table.

  Heather: “What do you think?”

  Me: “You are a decorating genius.”

  Heather: [eyes rolling] “No, silly. What do you think about this! Me! Can you believe they’re letting me join? Meg has been so sweet to me, she calls me every night just to talk.” She walks around the table and straightens the forks I just set. “You are going to think this is ridiculous, but I was so upset last month I asked my parents to send me to boarding school. But now I have friends, and I know how to open my locker, and [she pauses and scrunches her face up] it’s just perfect!”

  I don’t have to choke out an answer because Meg ‘n’ Emily ‘n’ Siobhan march in, carrying trays of mini-muffins and apple slices dipped in chocolate. Meg raises an eyebrow at me.

  Me: “Thanks for the homework, Heather. You are so helpful.” I scoot out the door, leaving it open a crack to watch what happens next. Heather stands at attention while our handiwork is inspected. Meg picks up the centerpiece and examines it from every angle.

  Meg: “Nice job.”

  Heather blushes.

  Emily: “Who was that girl?”

  Heather: “She’s a friend. She was the first person to make me feel at home here.”

  Siobhan: “She’s creepy. What’s wrong with her lips? It looks like she’s got a disease or something.”

  Emily holds out her watch (the watchband matches the bow in her hair). Five minutes. Heather has to leave before the teachers arrive. Part of being on probation means she’s not allowed to take credit for her work.

  I hide in the bathroom until I know Heather’s bus has left. The salt in my tears feels good when it stings my lips. I wash my face in the sink until there is nothing left of it, no eyes, no nose, no mouth. A slick nothing.

  NIGHTMARE

  I see IT in the hallway. IT goes to Merryweather. IT is walking with Aubrey Cheerleader. IT is my nightmare and I can’t wake up. IT sees me. IT smiles and winks. Good thing my lips are stitched together or I’d throw up.

  MY REPORT CARD:

  SECOND MARKING PERIOD

  GO______________ (FILL IN THE BLANK)!

  The Ecology Club has won round two. We are no longer the Tigers because the name shows “shocking disrespect” for an endangered creature.

  I know I’m shocked.

  The Ecology Club made great posters. They laid out headlines from the sports page: TIGERS RIPPED APART! TIGERS SLAUGHTERED! TIGERS KILLED! side by side with color photos of Bengal tigers with their skins peeled off. Effective. The Ecology Club has some good PR people. (The football team would have protested, but the sad truth is that they’ve lost every game this season. They are happy not to be called the Tigers. Other teams called them Pussycats. Not manly.) More than half the school signed a petition and the tree huggers got letters of support from a bunch of outside groups and three Hollywood Actors.

  They herd us into an assembly that is supposed to be a “democratic forum” to come up with a new school mascot. Who are we? We can’t be the Buccaneers because pirates supported violence and discrimination against women. The kid who suggests the Shoemakers in honor of the old moccasin factory is laughed out of the auditorium. Warriors insults Native Americans. I think Overbearing Eurocentric Patriarchs would be perfect, but I don’t suggest it.

  Student Council is holding an election before Winter Break. Our choices:

  a. The Bees—useful to agriculture, painful to cross

  b. Icebergs—in honor of our festive winter weather

  c. Hilltoppers—guaranteed to frighten opponents

  d. Wombats—no one knows if they’re endangered

  CLOSET SPACE

  My parents commanded me to stay after school every day for extra help from teachers. I agreed to stay after school. I hang out in my refurbished closet. It is shaping up nicely.

  The first thing to go is the mirror. It is screwed to the wall, so I cover it with a poster of Maya Angelou that the librarian gave me. She said Ms. Angelou is one of the greatest American writers. The poster was coming down because the school board banned one of her books. She must be a great writer if the school board is afraid of her. Maya Angelou’s picture watches me while I sweep and mop the floor, while I scrub the shelves, while I chase spiders out of the corners. I do a little bit of work every day. It’s like building a fort. I figure Maya would like it if I read in here, so I bring a few books from home. Mostly I watch the scary movies playing on the inside of my eyelids.

  It is getting harder to talk. My throat is always sore, my lips raw. When I wake up in the morning, my jaws are clenched so tight I have a headache. Sometimes my mouth relaxes around Heather, if we’re alone. Every time I try to talk to my parents or a teacher, I sputter or freeze. What is wrong with me? It’s like I have some kind of spastic laryngitis.

  I know my head isn’t screwed on straight. I want to leave, transfer, warp myself to another galaxy. I want to confess everything, hand over the guilt and mistake and anger to someone else. There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs. Even if I dump the memory, it will stay with me, staining me. My closet is a good thing, a quiet place that helps me hold these thoughts inside my head where no one can hear them.

  ALL TOGETHER NOW

  My Spanish teacher breaks the “no English” rule to tell us that we had better stop pretending we don’t understand the homework assignments or we’re all going to get detention. Then she repeats what she just said in Spanish, though it seems as if she tosses in a few extra phrases. I don’t know why she hasn’t figured it out yet. If she just taught us all the swearwords the first day, we would have done whatever she wanted the rest of the
year.

  Detention does not sound appealing. I do my homework—choose five verbs and conjugate them.

  To translate: traducir. I traducate.

  To flunk: fracasar. Yo am almost fracasaring.