Gotcha (3 page)

Paige and I glance at each other. Mr. Bell gives points to students who participate in classroom discussions. I wonder how many points Tyson will be getting for these less than enlightened comebacks.

“I see. And you believe that that’s a good enough reason to continue doing something, just because it’s always been done that way?”

Clearly Tyson can’t see where Mr. Bell is going with this. “Well, yeah. And it’s fun.” He smiles at what he perceives as his own cleverness and looks around to see who’s on his side. A few of his buddies high-five each other. I suspect each of these guys has managed to hang on to his bead so far. Otherwise they might not be having so much “fun.”

“Uh-huh. Fun.” Mr. Bell clasps his hands behind his back and paces the room a couple of times. We all sit back and get comfortable. When Mr. Bell gets derailed, there’s no telling when he’ll get back on track. You can practically hear the collective sigh of relief, knowing that with each passing minute there’s less time to get back to the study of literary elements. He stops abruptly and turns to face Tyson again.
“It wasn’t that long ago that principals were allowed to use the strap on students who broke school rules.”

Tyson sits up a little straighter, the stupid grin on his face fading away.

“That could be considered a tradition,” Mr. Bell suggests.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t
fun
.” Tyson laughs half-heartedly at his own joke, but I can see Mr. Bell’s point is finally dawning on him.

“And this country once had the tradition of allowing only men to vote.”

“Yeah, so?” Tyson looks around for support from the high-fivers, but except for a couple of smirks, no one is making eye contact with him anymore.

“Sometimes traditions and customs need to be evaluated and assessed,” Mr. Bell continues. I can hear a lecture coming on and slouch lower in my chair. “Questions need to be asked. Is this practice still a useful one for this community or society? Is the reason this tradition or custom came into being still pertinent today? Is the well-being of society served through this tradition? Would the implementation of a new practice make more sense, given the community’s circumstances? Is the practice of this tradition safe for the entire community? Is it...”

“But Mr. Bell, it’s just a game!” Tyson interrupts. He is clearly exasperated and no longer enjoying himself. “It’s not the same thing as voting or strapping.”

Mr. Bell considers this. “Maybe not, Tyson. But we’re all aware that this so-called game has been known to get
out of hand. Historically it has taken strong leaders to implement change to worn-out traditions or laws. I had thought that this year’s grad class had one of those kinds of leaders.” He looks directly at me. “I guess I was wrong.”

That wakes me up. I feel everyone’s attention shift to me. Is Mr. Bell implying what I think he is? Does he mean that if something goes wrong this year he’d consider me responsible?

I crack open my textbook. “I think we need to get back to the lesson on point of view,” I say.

I can feel Mr. Bell regarding me, and then I hear him walk over to his desk. “Clever, Katie. Okay, everyone, turn to page one hundred and eight in your textbooks, please.”

Mom, I told you! Keep the door locked at all times.” I turn the deadbolt and latch the chain. “And don’t invite anyone in. Even if I know them.

Even if they claim they’re here to do homework. Even if they say I invited them. Just shut the door and call me.”

“And I told
you
, Katie, I’ve heard that the game is trouble. I won’t shut the door on people, so don’t bring it up again.” She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her feet elevated and hooked on the rungs of another chair. Her hair is a frizzy halo around her head. She takes a big slurp of her tea, leans back and closes her eyes. I don’t know why she doesn’t go right to bed. This napping in the chair routine drives me nuts. She says she’s just resting her eyes for a minute, but the minutes tend to run together until we’re talking hours.

“Fine then.” I sneak a peek between two slats in the blinds. No sign of any lurkers. “Pretend it has nothing to do with the game. It’s just good sense to keep the house locked. Especially with Dad gone.” Maybe that will get a rise out of her. It’s like she hasn’t noticed that he doesn’t come home
anymore. Isn’t she supposed to reassure me that they’re just “taking a break”?

She answers, but without opening her eyes. “Like we have anything worth stealing.”

Mom works at a dry cleaner’s. You’d think with all the heavy work and the heat and the sweating she does she’d be as thin as a chopstick. Uh-uh. It’s a mystery to me how she can maneuver her bulk between the machines and the racks of clothes.

I finish my math homework and snap my textbook shut. The noise makes my mom start, and she snorts in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake up. I don’t know how she can sleep sitting up like that. Her mouth is gaping, and a thin line of drool is meandering down her jaw. No wonder Dad hasn’t come back.

Placing a pot of water on the stove, I turn on the element and open a can of spaghetti sauce. While I’m waiting for the water to boil, I check my e-mail.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: How are you?

Your mom’s okay? And how’s school?

It turns out the job I wanted (and thought I had) requires you to train for 6 weeks at your own expense and I can’t
afford that. It’s back to square one for me, but I know something will come up soon.

I sure miss you. All my love,

Dad

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: How are you?

im sorry bout the job dad. y does bad luck seem 2 follow u everywhere? i still dont understand what happened 2 yur last job. i know it was boring but it paid the bills + u seemed 2 get along fine w/ mom in those days. ok ill go back 2 minding my own business. mom is snoring in her chair right now while i make dinner. some things never change. the gotcha game has started @ school. everyones gettin paranoid. not me. i think its stupid that ppl get so crazy over a silly game. i wish I hadnt signed on 2 play. stupid stupid.

i still dont know where u are, but I guess u have yur reasons 4 not telling me.

katie

“I’ve got to start thinking about a grad dress, Mom. There’s only three months left.”

I watch as she presses her fork into the spoon and twirls the noodles around the prongs. She hasn’t left the chair she had her nap in, but woke up when I slid a bowl of spaghetti under her nose. For some reason this irritates me more than ever tonight. I don’t know why I’m feeling so cranky, but I think it has something to do with the chipper tone of Dad’s e-mail. I’ve been a wreck since he left, but he sounds as cheery as ever.

“Three months seems like a long time to me.”

“Not really. I’ve got school and exams and work. There’s not that much time for shopping.”

Mom is quiet for a moment, chewing her food. “I was really hoping you’d think about sewing one, Katie. I could help you.”

“We don’t have a sewing machine.”

“We could use one at the cleaners. Ed wouldn’t mind. It would be fun, a project for us to work on together.”

“Omigod.” I drop my fork with a clatter. “I’d feel like Cinderella or something. How pathetic.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asks, puzzled, but then continues, “I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the banquet, the dance, the photos and everything else. Buying a new dress just isn’t an option.”

“Just to jog your memory, Mom, Cinderella was left at home sewing her own ball gown when everyone else had left for the party. And anyway, you won’t need to worry about
the banquet and the dance and the photos if I don’t have a dress.” I know how mean I sound, but I can’t help myself.

“Don’t be silly, Katie. If you don’t want to make it we can find a secondhand one somewhere. After all, most of them only get worn once.” She shovels an overloaded forkful of noodles into her mouth. Spaghetti sauce dribbles down her wobbly chin and I have to look away. “And don’t forget, honey,” she says between giant mouthfuls, “it was Cinderella who ended up with the prince.” It’s a valiant attempt at humor, and she looks up and smiles.

“Yeah, but that was thanks to her fairy godmother. I can’t count on one of those.”

“I wonder if one of last year’s grads would lend you theirs?” Mom muses. “Luanne’s was lovely, and you’re about the same size.”

“Jeez, Mom. I can’t wear Luanne’s. Everyone would know.”

“Know what?” Her voice rises in pitch as she loses patience. “That your mom works really hard at a demanding job in order to pay the bills, and there’s never anything left over? What exactly would everyone know, Katie?” Her eyes have narrowed as she waits for my answer.

“You don’t remember anything about being my age, do you, Mom.”

“Maybe not, but I do know that you’d look just as beautiful in a worn-one-time-only dress as you would in a new and overpriced one.”

Mom begins shoveling food in at record speed. The angrier she gets, the faster she eats. I have to look away.

“Maybe you could work more shifts at the restaurant, Katie. Then you could buy your own overpriced dress.”

Maybe you could eat a little slower, Mom, and nag a little less. Then you might still have a husband, and I’d have a father
.

What my mom doesn’t need to know is that I do have some money saved, probably even enough for a grad dress, but that money is going into my college fund.

“There aren’t any more shifts, Mom. It’s really slow, and besides, if I worked more, I’d have less time to study and then I wouldn’t have a chance at getting those scholarships I need.” There’s no way I’m going to be working at a dry cleaner’s when I’m forty years old. Scholarships and college are my ticket out of here.

We eat in silence.

“Dad will help me out.”

That works. An unchewed noodle must have lodged itself in her throat. She starts hacking and gagging. I turn away, disgusted, but when the noise of her gasping becomes too much I fetch a glass of water. Eventually she heaves herself out of her chair and begins cleaning up. I’m rummaging through my backpack, waiting for the inevitable lecture, but it never comes. When the two pots have been washed and put away and the plates have been stacked in the dishwasher, Mom trudges heavily out of the room, but not before I see her wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. A few minutes later I hear the sound of the bath water being run.

A lecture would have been far easier to take than this shame I’m suffering for being so mean. I know it’s not her fault that money’s tight. I just wish it was.

Paige is waiting for me outside the restaurant when I get off work. It’s Friday night, she has her mom’s Volvo, and Mariah’s riding shotgun. I climb in the backseat beside Tanysha.

“What’s happening?” Before I’ve even fastened my seat belt I can tell something is up. That crazy Gotcha energy is pulsating through the car.

“I figured out where he lives.” Paige backs out of the parking stall. As we pass under a streetlight, I can see the crazy glow in her eyes.

“Who? Elijah?”

“Well duh.”

“So? Where?”

“On Friar street. Right next to the Anglican church.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“I looked it up in the phone book. Clever, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “So what are you going to do? Sit outside his house all night, waiting for him to come out? He’s probably rented a good movie and is in for the evening.”

“Oh no he’s not.”

“He’s not?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Then where is he?” Her elusiveness is driving me crazy.

“We’re on our way to get him.”

“We are?”

“We are.”

“C’mon, Paige! What’s going on?”

Mariah turns to fill me in. “I phoned and asked him out for coffee.”

“And he agreed to go?”

“He sure did.”

“What dorky guy would turn down a date with Mariah?” Tanysha asks. Even in the dark I can see the smug expression on her face. Mariah gives her a scathing glance.

“A guy playing Gotcha perhaps?” I ask. “He’s not stupid. In fact, I hear he’s particularly smart. He’s going to know exactly what’s going on.”

“Apparently not.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yep.”

“So Mariah is going to bring him out to the car. He’s going to hop in with all of us, totally unsuspecting. Paige is going to tag him, and that’s it.”

“That’s it.” Paige turns and glances at me.

I sit back. “Something’s not right.” I can’t believe she’s bought into this.

“Everything’s right, my friend.” Tanysha pats my knee. “No worries.”

No worries. Right. It’s Gotcha season. There’s plenty to worry about.

A few minutes later we pull up to the house, which sits right beside the graveyard that belongs to the church.
Totally creepy. Mariah pulls down the sunshade and the mirror on the back lights up. She checks her reflection. “All set?” she asks Paige.

“All set,” Paige says.

Mariah climbs out of the car and saunters down the driveway and up the path to the front door. Motion-detector lights have kicked into life, illuminating the entrance. We watch as she knocks at the door. She glances back at us and flashes a smile. Then she knocks again.

The door opens but we can’t see who’s there. Mariah appears to be in an animated conversation with someone. A figure steps out onto the front landing with her. The conversation continues, but now Mariah is taking small steps backward. The figure moves toward her. Suddenly she turns and hightails it back toward the car. The figure races after her.

“She’s been set up!” squeals Paige. Tanysha screams and links her arm through mine. Mariah races toward the car, but she can’t slow down to link with one of us because he’s so close behind her, so she keeps on running, right through the cemetery and into the night. I feel like I’m an extra in a low-budget horror flick.

“Who was that?” shrieks Paige. “It wasn’t Elijah, was it?”

“I don’t think so.” Tanysha is clutching my arm with both of hers. “C’mon, Paige! We’ve got to go help her. Step on it!”