Looks Page 7

  “Yeah, it’s like, really vibrant?” asks Becky. “Even though it’s really ugly, it’s like really clearly ugly?”

  “I like the writing in it,” boring Laurie drones.

  “It’s an interesting topic,” says Edith smally from the corner.

  “Yeah, I totally agree with all that. Sometimes life is ugly and disturbing, and it takes a lot of guts to write honestly about that,” Cara says simply, closing the case.

  Moira looks away, defeated. Cara follows her look and softens.

  “Okay, let’s compromise. I really get what you’re saying, Moira, and it’s so great that you’re making us think about this issue. The group really appreciates you taking a stand, but I think the group also really likes a lot of things about this poem, am I right? So I’m thinking, what if I go back to this writer and ask them if they have anything else on, like, a less controversial topic that they would like to submit? What about that?”

  The circle goes nuts nodding—everybody wins!

  Aimee tries to pick up her pencil from the desk but she can’t make her fingers close—her hands and feet have gone completely numb. The carrots now seem to be moaning softly on the floor. More than anything, more than anything else in the world, more than being a good writer or seeing Bill again or growing up and leaving this town, Aimee wants to put a carrot stick in her mouth right now. It would electrify her, it would change her, it would send feeling flooding back into her hands and feet. It’s all she can think about right now. The desire for a carrot stick is as cavernous as a cathedral all around her.

  “Great,” says Cara with finality. “That’s what I’m gonna do. Great discussion, everyone, really interesting discussion. Okay, moving on to page three?”

  The wind is up outside, warm and smelling of leaves. Aimee is hunched in a shallow alcove near the line for the late bus out in front of the school, vaguely aware of the plush gray sky above her, vaguely aware of the asphalt beneath her boots, vaguely aware of the brick biting into her shoulder blades as she leans against the wall. These sensations are there but they feel like they’re hovering about five feet away from her; right beside her, surrounding her like an embrace, is the pounding feeling of the carrot stick she’s about to eat. She got the first stick out of the Ziploc bag and she’s gripping it, pressing it against her thigh. It is going to be so incredibly good and so incredibly terrible—

  “So okay, what else do you have for me?”

  Cara materializes beside her, tendrils of red hair coming loose around her glistening face, clutching the Photon binder to her chest. As if she’s been caught with an illegal substance, Aimee shoves the carrot stick into the pocket of her skirt, out of sight.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in there, it must have been kind of weird and uncomfortable for you. But I know you have something else for me just as good. I’m positive of it.”

  “Uh . . .” Aimee says.

  “Listen, they’re really nice girls in the collective, I love them all, but they’re sort of—God, I don’t mean to be mean but they’re sort of a bunch of goody-goodies, you know?”

  Aimee feels a crooked smile crack across her face.

  “No I mean they’re nice and they’re totally smart, but they play it safe, is all I’m saying.”

  Aimee nods.

  “And I can tell that you don’t play it safe. I mean, you captured something really amazing and brave about that person. Moira was right, right? We did know who that poem was about.”

  Aimee nods.

  “I knew it, because it was so—I don’t even actually know how you did it, it was just so perfect. I could totally see in my head what you were describing. And if it were up to me that poem would be in the magazine so fast. But you know, it’s a collective, we have to make all our decisions as a group.”

  “It’s fine,” Aimee says finally. “I really don’t care.”

  At this Cara’s eyes narrow, just a fraction. She smiles curiously.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I mean . . . not really. No.”

  “I guess I don’t believe you,” Cara says, a mild note of mischief in her voice. “I sort of think you’re too good to not care. If you really didn’t care, why did you submit in the first place?”

  Aimee shrugs, opens her mouth to speak. Cara shifts her weight to lean in closer, and Aimee gets a whiff of her tangy-sweet perfume—it’s Body Shop, the same kind that Bill gave her mother last Christmas and that her mother wore every day until the day Bill left. Aimee feels her brain begin to drift into a slow spiral, like a falling satellite inside her skull—how does Cara unravel her like this, every single time?

  Aimee tries to talk, but she’s forgotten how to speak English again; her mouth hangs open like a trapdoor.

  “You’re modest,” Cara fills in when Aimee fails to answer her. “That’s it, isn’t it? No, it’s really nice, it’s a hallmark of true genius. True geniuses are incredibly humble people. They never want any of the glory for themselves, they just want to be brilliant and think their brilliant thoughts and make their brilliant art and be left alone to be invisible. That’s you, isn’t it.”

  “Maybe.” Aimee manages a small smile. Her smile ignites Cara’s pearly grin and they stand there for a second, smiling dumbly at each other.

  “Come over,” Cara says suddenly, brightly. She reaches out and there’s her hand on Aimee’s arm again, where it keeps ending up.

  “Uh . . .” Aimee falters.

  “Not right now, silly, not this second! Sunday! Come over Sunday to my house and we can like, have brunch and share our writing and stuff. You can bring your poems and I’ll bring mine and we can read them out loud to each other!”

  “I don’t—” Aimee starts.

  “Okay, please do not try to tell me you don’t have billions of poems because you have billions of them and I just know it. In that notebook you’re always carrying there must be hundreds, so don’t try to pretend you don’t have any poems.”

  “No,” Aimee says, “okay.”

  “And you don’t have to be shy about it because we’ll both be sharing. And then we can give each other feedback, oh my gosh, this is going to be so much fun!”

  “Awesome,” Aimee says.

  “Totally!” Cara opens the Photon binder and peels a pink Post-it off of the inside cover. “Okay, so here’s my number and my address—I wrote it down for you ahead of time because I was hoping you’d say yes.”

  Cara hands the Post-it to Aimee. Her handwriting on it is round and careful, like the model handwriting on a third-grade penmanship worksheet.

  “Cool,” says Aimee.

  “Perfect!” says Cara, and grins.

  On the late bus, when it finally arrives, Aimee finds her favorite spot two-thirds of the way down on the left side. She sits down and shoves herself into the corner, compacts herself against the window into as small a space as she can fit herself. She slides her hand into the pocket of her skirt, as delicately as if she’s playing a game of Operation , waiting for the electric shock to come when she touches the carrot stick. But when her fingertips brush it, it’s as if someone has pulled its plug. The carrot is as cool and dull as a piece of wood.

  7

  “Good morning students faculty. And staff. Of Valley Regional this morning we will begin as we have been beginning. With eh short meditation period. Thee poem for thee day is by noted American poet . . .” Ms. Champoux breathes into the microphone, then inhales audibly, as if gathering strength. “Emory Dickerson. Will all students please be respectful and quiet during thee thirty-second silent meditation period after it is done Dr. Dempsey does ask.”

  Pop—the PA snaps off. Next to Meghan in the back row of homeroom Monica Balan is painting her nails a slutty purple. The room reeks of chemicals, and Meghan breathes through her mouth.

  The PA sputters briefly again, then holds its peace.

  “For the love of—” growls Mr. Cox. He shakes his pink waxy head and looks out at his homeroom for affirmation. “Takes a y
ear to get this over with every G.D. day. I don’t know whose bright idea this was, but I got athletic announcements to get through.”

  “Do it, Coach,” J-Bar drawls from the side of the room.

  “I mean, this is ridiculous,” Mr. Cox rumbles, encouraged. “Whoever’s bright idea this was doesn’t respect the fact that I’ve got announcements up here. All right, listen up, people. Ears on me.”

  Mr. Cox holds the sheet with the athletic announcements on it up in front of his face.

  “But the poem hasn’t started yet, Mr. Cox,” Kaitlyn Carmigan chirps from the front row. Facts about Kaitlyn Carmigan: She’s the oldest of five kids, and Meghan sees her around town all the time herding the littler ones, pushing them in strollers and hauling them by the hand. She makes her boyfriend, hapless colorless sap Paul Muldoon, wear a tie when he comes to church with her and her family every Sunday. She is still a Girl Scout. “And plus we’re supposed to observe the silent meditation period after.”

  “Excuse me, is this your class?” Mr. Cox barks. Kaitlyn flinches into the neck of her sweater like a startled turtle. “Is this you standing up here with the athletics announcements?” Mr. Cox waves his sheet of paper back and forth. Every one of his movements is stiffened by the thick layer of muscles he’s wrapped in, hemming him in. “Is this you up here talking right now? No, this is me up here talking right now, which means this must be my class, I must be the teacher up here. So settle down and listen up.”

  Kaitlyn’s nose twitches pitifully, like a bunny’s, and she stares up at the ceiling to keep a baby swell of tears from overflowing the cup of her lower eyelid. Mr. Cox shakes his head.

  “JV lacrosse is at home today versus Gateway,” he reads grimly.

  The PA crackles to life again.

  “I’m nobody,” whines Ms. Champoux.

  “Varsity lacrosse will be away at Hamp.”

  “Who are you. Are you nobody too.”

  “JV wrestling is away at Minnechaug.”

  “Then there’s eh pair of us don’t tell.”

  “Varsity wrestling is at home against Auburn.”

  “They’d banish us you know. How—”

  “Varsity girls’ softball is—”

  “—dreary to be—”

  “—home against Whately—”

  “—somebody how public—”

  “—JV girls are at Sacred Heart—”

  “—like eh frog—”

  “—and cross country is . . . did she just say frog?”

  “To tell your name thee livelong June to an admiring bog.”

  Ms. Champoux exhales with audible relief and the PA snaps off. Mr. Cox pushes back his chair and hoists all 250 pounds of burl to his feet.

  “Okay, I’m serious, who was listening to that?” he demands, looking out at the room. “Because I think we just heard a poem about a frog during valuable morning announcement time. Am I right? Did we just hear a poem about a frog? Like in a cartoon?”

  About half the class, including J-Bar, laughs lazily. Next to Meghan, Monica Balan blows across all ten of her wet purple nails.

  “No, I’d honestly like to know, what the H. kind of poetry is this? While we’re wasting valuable morning announcement time hearing stories about frogs, I could be telling you about things that actually affect this school, like the fact that”—he scans his announcement sheet rapidly—“uh, the FBLA fund-raising chocolate bars will be in Ms. Schwank’s room for pickup after school today, and the Mock Trial scrimmage will be held at three fifteen in the cafeteria annex, and—”

  Pop! The whole class winces as the PA bursts back on with a swell of feedback.

  “Attention!” Ms. Champoux sounds out of breath, like she’s been running. “Please (pant, pant) observe thirty seconds of silence (pant, pant) to meditate on what thee poem means to you. Dr. Dempsey asks.”

  “Fine,” Mr. Cox growls, slapping the announcement sheet down flat on his desk and thumping back down in his chair. “If Dr. Dempsey wants meditation instead of announcements, that’s what Dr. Dempsey’s gonna get. G. D. poetry.”

  There are no words for F period, which is double today, and which is gym.

  It’s a fine line for Meghan between sparing Mr. Cox the pain of having to look at her and not flunking his class. She has to be present enough to pass, but not so present that he has to actually deal with her, because Mr. Cox doesn’t have a clue what to do with Meghan. Her very existence embarrasses him. If she were a guy he’d probably murder her and string her big fat body up next to the basketball hoop as a warning to others about physical fitness, but since she’s a girl his face just sours with disgust every time he has to lay eyes on her. Meghan knows that Mr. Cox wishes she would disappear, and every single F period she tries in some way to make his wish come true. But today would make the fifth F period in a row that she’d have clocked with Mrs. Chuddy—five in a row is one too many; she can’t miss a solid week. She has no choice but to go to gym.

  The unspeakable misery of the locker room. The hiding, the hunching over, the clumsy bra tricks inside her shirt. The smell of mildew and rotten sweat, the smarm of the grimy tiles beneath her bare feet. The shame of the corner she huddles in to change, the pinch of the waistband of her hateful sweatpants from the Kmart men’s big and tall section—oh, the pants, the hideous pants!

  The Kmart pants are the worst part of gym, because they’re so big and so violently royal blue that they break any and all invisibility spells. They’re like the sheet the Scooby Doo gang throws over the transparent “ghost” to reveal him: they make Meghan appear. Nobody can’t see these pants. If there were any other any other any other pants in the world she could wear to gym she would, but these are the only pants Meghan could find that both meet the phys. ed. clothing requirements and fit over her butt.

  Out in the gym Meghan hovers, concealed, in the corner where the bleachers meet the gym wall. The class is sprawled across the bleachers waiting for Mr. Cox: a few little wispy-pretty girls, Lucas Treischler and Timothy Lyme off to one side in a knot of bony knees and elbows, a bunch of boring normal kids, a pair of stoner kids dressed for a Phish concert or a game of Hacky Sack.

  Meghan would like to make her way up onto the bleachers, to insinuate herself into this crowd. First of all the mix of kids up there is interesting—gym class does that, throws people together who ordinarily never come within ten feet of each other—and she can see just by people’s posture, the way they’re huddling up with the other kids in their groups, that valuable nuggets of talk are being exchanged. The smart thing would be to just stay in the corner, close to the wall and close to the exit. But when, from only five feet away, she hears Jason Hogan, the stoner kid in the hemp hoodie with the ratty blond dreads, say to his buddy Isaac Leitch, “Dude, you are not gonna believe what went down last night behind the 7-Eleven,” the itch to get into listening position overwhelms Meghan’s sense of caution. She takes a deep breath, tries to blur herself enough to make even the Kmart pants disappear, and floats out of the corner, around to the front of the bleachers. Directly into the sightline of the class.

  The very moment Meghan emerges into view, across the room the double doors of the boys’ locker room swing open and the jocks emerge, moving as one: a rippling pride. They make their way in a muscular saunter toward the bleachers, sneakers squeaking authoritatively as they walk—a perfect gym sound, the sound of guys who own this floor.

  It’s too late to return to the corner. Turning her back is not an option, backing up is not an option. Furiously Meghan tries to evaporate into nothing at the same time as she’s clambering gracelessly up onto the bleachers. Lifting her leg to clear the first row is hugely awkward—she becomes aware of her whole heaving lower half—butt, thighs, calves, feet—her focus scatters. As she sits down, hyper-carefully but still feeling the entire structure resound with the impact of her butt hitting the wood, she can feel her invisibility fray into tatters. The other kids’ gazes turn to land on her one by one. They’re as warm as beams of lig
ht; they heat up her skin as they fall on her; in seconds the looking starts to burn.

  “Looking sexy, Butter Ball.”

  J-Bar has appeared behind her, leaning in to purr in her ear. He must have broken away from his herd while she was tangled up in the problem of climbing and sitting. She should never have left her corner, never have taken her eye off the room. She should never have taken her eye off J-Bar for a second.

  “You look smokin’ hot in those pants. Did you wear those just to turn me on?”

  May the pants burst into flames. May they burn to ash. May her thighs burn with them, and her butt, and her stomach—every part of her that makes him treat her this way.

  “I know you want me, it’s okay to admit it. You want to sit on me and crush me, don’t you? You want to hump me like a dog. A big horny Saint Bernard.”

  Meghan’s temperature spikes and she feels the air shimmer briefly; then the whole gym goes up in a blinding white blaze. Meghan sees nothing, hears nothing anymore but the quiet, stomach-turning croon in her ear.

  “Why don’t you answer me when I talk to you, Butter Ball? I say all these nice things to you and you never even thank me. You playing hard to get? You want me to—”

  The door to the gym office opens and Mr. Cox lumbers through it. As suddenly as he appeared, J-Bar melts off Meghan’s back. She feels the light, cool air in the space where he just was. A damp breeze blows the flames out in the room all around her.

  J-Bar lopes along the front edge of the bleachers, then breaks into a lean, long-limbed run and half-hurls himself up into the pack of his friends. They draw him into their midst and thump on him a little as he settles himself, grinning, onto the second bleacher row, tanned elbows on tanned knees, cued up and ready to play.

  “Listen up, people!” Mr. Cox claps his huge paws as he approaches them. “Listen up and settle down!”

  Mr. Cox plants himself squarely in front of them and folds his arms, clamping his clipboard to his chest inside them.