I knew I could never be that brave. It was like she was daring him to do his worst, but whatever that was, it wouldn’t make her cry.
I wanted to go up to her once Brent and Jerry finally walked away, but when she looked my way, I just stared at the floor. I couldn’t even meet her eyes, and she just looked right through me, the way everybody else does.
But I fell in love with her all the same.
* * *
I took to following her around when she was at school. I’d always make sure she was in my line of sight in the cafeteria. I’d find someplace to stand in the halls or out in the schoolyard where I could look at her, but she wouldn’t notice me. Not that I had to worry. For all that was special about her, she paid no more attention to me than anyone else ever did.
I know—it sounds so creepy. But I just wanted to look at her. I’d have liked there to be more. I had a hundred scenarios worked out in my head as to how we’d meet and she’d realize how we were meant for each other and how she couldn’t live without me. Sometimes I stepped in and saved her from Brent or one of the other guys who was bothering her. Sometimes we just happened to be in the library at the same time, reaching for the same book. Sometimes we just bumped into each other in the halls.
But it was all perfectly innocent.
Well, not totally innocent. Once she realized how much she wanted me, we’d do things. We’d have sex everywhere. In the girls’ bathroom. In a pile of blankets by the furnace in the basement. Under the bleachers.
But that was only in my head, and I knew it wasn’t something that would ever really happen.
When I say my following her around was innocent, I just mean nothing was ever supposed to happen.
Whatever else, you have to believe this: I never meant to hurt her.
“God, I heard about you and Brent,” Maxine said at the end of the day
She’d told her mom that morning that she had to do some research at the library after school, so we had a little time to hang out. I tried to get her to go to one of the coffee shops further down Williamson Street—I was totally getting the scoop on the neighborhood by now—but she felt uncomfortable about not going where she’d said she would. I couldn’t imagine living in such a strict environment, but I didn’t try to push her into doing something that would distress her. Besides, when we got there, I discovered the Crowsea Public Library was pretty cool, too.
The only thing that came close back in Tyson was the old courthouse, and who’d want to spend time there? I knew too many people who walked in there and then ended up in juvie.
The library was a nice old building, all stone and ivy, with gargoyles on the cornices and big, beautiful leaded windows that were arched at the top and had seats built into the deep sills at the bottom. The steps going up were wide and welcoming, and there were stone lions sitting on their haunches on either side of the door. Inside, it was all polished, natural wood—the bookcases, the floors, the crown moldings—and it smelled like books, old, but not musty. A friendly smell.
Maxine led me upstairs to the nonfiction floor, and we got comfortable in one of the window seats that looked out on Lee Street. Outside, we could see the wind blowing the last leaves from the trees and then chasing them up and down the pavement. People were already walking with a cold-weather hunch in their shoulders. Here, where we were, it was cozy and warm.
“I’m sure it sounded worse than it really was,” I told her. “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”
“Are you kidding? I’m scared of everything. I just try not to show it. Bullies sense weakness—if they think you’ll back down, that’s when they really move in for the kill. I should know. We had enough of them at my old school.”
“Well, you should still be careful around Brent. He can be really mean, especially when the team loses a game. Everybody tries to keep out of his way then, even Valerie.”
“Why, does he beat on her or something?”
Maxine shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, why would she keep hanging around with him if he did?”
For a hundred reasons, I thought, and none of them good.
“But I’ve heard he’s said some really mean things to her,” Maxine added.
I could hear Brent’s voice in my head.
I’ll squash you like the weird little bug that you are.
“Been there,” I said. “Didn’t impress me.”
“How’d you get to be so brave?” Maxine asked.
“Or stupid.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know. But they almost go hand in hand, don’t they? I guess it’s because I’ve been beat up before, so it doesn’t scare me as much as it probably should. Or I’m just too ornery to let it scare me.”
Maxine smiled. “Ornery’s a good word.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Maxine’s smile faltered. “I got hit once—really hard, right in the chest. Jerry Fielder punched me, and it really hurt. Enough to make me cry, which I so didn’t want to do in front of everybody. I stayed sore for a long time and I had a bruise for a couple of weeks after.”
“I met him. He was with Brent on the stairs today.”
“It’s just,” Maxine went on, “getting hit like that didn’t make me brave. Instead, it made me more scared. I do everything I can to keep out of the way of that crowd. It doesn’t work though, because I’ve got classes with some of them, and they’re always knocking down my books or pushing me in the hall. But I’m too scared to do anything.”
“Which was the whole point of him hitting you.”
“So how do you get brave?”
“You have to not care.”
“But how can you not care?”
I shrugged. “It’s only pain. Here, look.”
I turned and pulled the edge of my sleeveless T-shirt up enough so that she could see the tattoo of a blue swan on my shoulder.
“I’ve got a couple of others, too,” I told her. “It hurts a little when you’re getting them done, but once you’re past the pain, you’ve got these cool tats to show for it. It’s the same thing with bullies. It hurts when they hit you, but if you stand up to them, afterward you have the satisfaction of not having let them cow you. Mind you, you’ll have to nurse your bruises ...”
“It shouldn’t have to be like that.”
“Of course it shouldn’t. But what can we do? ‘Zero tolerance’ policies never seem to do anything to stop the bullies.”
“So were you like this in your old school?” Maxine asked.
“Pretty much. I guess Jared got all the peace, love, and flowers in our genes.”
“What do you mean?”
“We grew up on a hippie commune outside of Hazard, and the whole vibe of the place just took—with him.” Maxine was looking a little wide-eyed. I forgot sometimes how exotic my family could be to people who’d lived their whole lives walking the straight and narrow.
“We lived there until I was eleven,” I said. “But then it all kind of fell apart because everybody was doing their own thing and nobody was really taking care of upkeep and taxes and basic stuff like that. And some of them started growing dope back in the hills and smoking too much of it. Anyway, before we had the bailiffs knocking on our door, my parents smartened up enough to move us into a little apartment in Tyson.”
“Was that strange for you?”
“Well, it was a big change, all right, but Jared and I were so ready to be living in a place where we could get cable, eat fast food, and go to music stores and thrift shops and that kind of thing. Our parents weren’t any more together than they’d been on the commune, but somehow they managed to keep the apartment. Jared and I did odd jobs. We collected bottles for their deposit and went curb crawling— anything to make a buck.”
“What’s curb crawling?”
I grinned. “You go out on garbage day and check out what’s been left at the curb. You wouldn’t believe the stuff people throw away that can be resold to junk shops and antique stores. I me
an, the stores ripped us off, because they’d go on to sell it for way more than they ever gave us, but it wasn’t like we paid for the stuff in the first place.”
“Really?”
“Sure. We’re going to do it here, too, as soon as we figure out the pick-up schedules and suss out the right shops to sell to. You can come if you want.”
“I don’t know ...”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—my mom’d kill me if she ever found out I was doing something like that.”
“She doesn’t have to find out, but if you’re not comfortable keeping secrets from her, you shouldn’t do it.”
“There’s nothing comfortable in our house, not like you think a family should be. You know, close and loving. I mean, I know Mom loves me, but she’s always on my case about something or other.”
“What about your dad?”
“They separated last year. I stay with him on weekends sometimes, but he’s pretty busy.”
“Yeah, we’ve got the dadless household, too.”
“So you just live with your mom and Jared?”
I nodded. “Like I said, Mom and Dad were both hippies—second generation, if you can believe it—but Mom decided to make the big change in her life: go back to school, get her life back on track.”
“What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s sweet, but he’s almost always stoned. I don’t think marijuana’s particularly bad for you—except for all the tar in it—but it sure does make you stupid when you do enough of it on a daily basis. If they really wanted to stop kids from smoking, they should bring in guys like my dad to talk to them. Nobody’s going to want to get high if they figure they’ll end up like him.”
“Is that why your mom left him?”
“Partly. They still get along great, except she’s finally getting on with her life. Thirty years too late, maybe, but better late than never.”
“I guess it was weird for you.”
“I suppose in some ways. But it’s funny: they might have been spaced out most of the time, and I guess Jared and I ran a little wild, but they also gave us a real sense of our own worth. I know, that sounds kind of weird, considering how totally untogether they were. But it’s true. All the freedom they gave us made us more determined to do something with ourselves.”
“I wish my mom would give me a little more freedom,” Maxine said.
“How so?”
“Well, she’s totally focused on my having good grades and getting into a good university and just basically not having any fun. Forget boys.” She fingered the knee-length skirt she was wearing. “And look at these clothes.”
“You don’t like them?”
“Do you?”
“Well, they’re not me,” I had to admit.
“They’re not me either. But anytime I try to pick something I like, she tells me it’ll just make me look like a whore or a bum.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I love the way you dress. At least,” she added with a smile, “since you stopped trying to pretend you were a nerd like me.”
I’d told her how I’d been trying to be invisible when I started classes earlier in the week, and we all know how well that worked out.
“First of all,” I said, “you’re not a nerd.”
“No, I just act and dress like one.”
“And secondly, we can fix this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll take you shopping.”
“You don’t understand. My mom won’t let me wear anything except what she picks out.”
“We’ll keep your new clothes at my place.”
“And how could I ever afford them?”
“Your mom gives you some money, right?”
“Well, sure.”
“So, you’ll do like me and shop the thrift stores. You won’t believe the stuff you can find in there—like designer jeans for under five bucks.”
Maxine shook her head. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“Not really. All the big questions still have me guessing.”
“You know what I mean.”
I shrugged. “Anyway, if we go to hang out somewhere—she does let you hang out, right?”
“Some.”
“You can just come over to my place and change first.”
“But if we’re going to do that,” Maxine said, “my mom’s going to want to meet you. And, well, you know. Once she sees you ...”
“Don’t worry. I clean up really well.”
“I don’t know ...”
“Trust me with this,” I told her. “It’ll all work out.”
* * *
Meeting Maxine s mom for the first time entailed my trawling through a number of thrift shops for just the right costume. I had lots of plain blouses, but nothing in the way of the skirts or shoes or jackets that a serious student would wear. I could’ve worn some of the pants I’d had on earlier in the week, but judging from the fact that I’d only ever seen Maxine in a skirt or dress, I got the sense her mom didn’t really approve of pants.
It took me a while, but eventually I found everything I needed, and for under ten bucks, too. I’m just so good.
“Please tell me you’re not going out like that,” Mom said as I was about to step out the door.
She was lying on the couch, hippie-casual in a tie-dyed T-shirt and faded, frayed jeans, one of her textbooks open on her lap. She looked over the top of her reading glasses so that she could check me out in sharper focus.
“God, you look like my grandmother,” she said.
“Oh, come on. Don’t you keep up on anything? The goody-two-shoes look is all the rage.”
She shook her head, sad rather than disapproving. “I just really thought I’d brought you up better than to slavishly follow the trends laid down by the fashionistas. And you know as well as I do that they get their marching orders from Big Business.”
That’s my mom for you. Every little thing’s a part of the big conspiracy picture.
I crossed over to the couch and kissed her on the cheek.
“I love you, too, Mom,” I said, then headed out on my mission.
It was a little like dressing up for Halloween, except nobody was handing out treats. But the best part of all of this was seeing Maxine’s face when she opened the door and found me standing in the hallway outside her apartment.
I wasn’t wearing any makeup and my hair was neatly brushed, the sides held back behind my ears with barrettes. I had on a three-quarter-length conservative wool coat and sensible oxfords; a dark, pleated skirt that decorously covered my knees; and a white top with a bit of lacy frill around the collar, pinned at the throat with a cameo.
“Imogene?” she said.
I gave her a wink and put a finger to my lips when I saw she was going to bring up the obvious question of what I thought I was doing.
“So s your mom home?” I asked.
She gave a slow nod and stepped aside so I could come in.
Her mom wasn’t the fierce dragon I’d built up in my mind. Instead, she was that most insidious creature: a nice, ordinary woman who went through life with the quiet assurance that she knew better than anybody else How Things Should Be. I could tell within the first few minutes of meeting her that while she might be pleasant, and even kind—in her own way, on her own terms—no one was ever going to change her mind once she had it made up about something. How’d I know? It’s hard to say. Maybe it was the set of her shoulders, or the steel I saw in her eyes.
I just hoped she couldn’t read minds.
“It’s very good to meet you, Mrs. Chancy,” I said when we were introduced.
“It’s Ms. Tattrie,” she corrected me. “Maxine might have decided to keep her father’s name, but I most certainly have not.”
Ho-kay.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Tattrie,” I said. “I had no idea ...”
“Of course you didn’t. Would you like some tea before you girls b
egin your study session?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
Ms. Tattrie turned to Maxine. “Why don’t you see to it, dear? That will give me the chance to get to know your friend a little better.”
Here comes the third degree, I thought, but Ms. Tattrie surprised me.
“I’m so happy that Maxine has finally found a friend,” she said once Maxine was out of the room.
Unspoken, but tangled there in her words if you were looking for it, was the relief that the friend was as obviously prim and tidy as she thought her daughter was. But hey, that’s the image I was trying to project, so I couldn’t complain.
“She rarely goes out, unless it’s to the library or the bookstore,” Ms. Tattrie went on, “and I can’t remember the last time she had someone over. This past year’s been the worst. I think losing her father has been particularly hard on her.”
I guess Mr. Chancy had been the buffer between his wife and his daughter, making it a little harder for Ms. Tattrie to run completely roughshod over Maxine. But it sure was weird the way she made it sound like Mr. Chancy had died. My own mom said that happens when some couples break up, when it’s really messy and bitter. It wasn’t at all like that with Mom and Dad—they still had long talks on the phone every couple of days.
“Well, I just feel so lucky to have met her,” I said.
We sat in the living room while Maxine made the tea— no hanging around the kitchen table in this house, I guess. It was one of those sterile spaces that made you wonder why they’d call it a living room because, for all intents and purposes, no one actually lived in here. The furniture was all tasteful—sleek, polished wood tables; white couch and armchairs. The walls had generic landscapes, one per wall, no more, no less. On the mantel, flanked by silver candlesticks, was a formal portrait of Ms. Tattrie and Maxine. The coffee table had a fan of magazines—Time, In Style, Life, National Geographic, and the like—spread just so.
I didn’t have to work to remember my posture and keep my knees together. I wasn’t likely to relax in here—not in this room, or under Ms. Tattrie’s watchful eye.