Gravity Brings Me Down (13 page)

“Don’t call her that.”

Sharon throws her Gauloise to the ground, grinding it out with her shoe. She looks like a fire-breathing dragon, the smoke pouring from her nostrils as she shouts, “I saw
you go in there. You’re
such
a liar!” She fumbles another cigarette from her pack, lighting it violently.

“I haven’t lied about anything. You have no idea what’s going on.”

“Yes, I do,” she says, punctuating the words with stabs of her cigarette. “You’ve gone
totally
nuts.”

“I have not!”

“Yes, you have. You’ve been ditching me, sneaking around, acting all weird—and for what? Some old woman you barely even know! And everyone thinks you’re going out with Tod.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Me? Do you know how this looks? Everyone thinks you’re some kind of…
loser
.”

“What?”

Sharon takes an angry drag on her cigarette. “It’s fine by me if you want to throw everything away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away.”

“Fine. Suit yourself. But don’t come crying to me when your life is over.”

“Oh, come on, Sharon!”

“No,
you
come on!”

She struts away, leaving me standing at the bottom of the church stairs.

B
ack in my room. I’m still stunned from my exchange with Sharon. I just can’t believe some of the things she said. Where does she get off?

Donning my inspiration, I grab Morta and plunk down at my desk to begin my war of letters:

Who does she think she is, following me? And how dare she call me a loser?

…no, that doesn’t sound right…

What difference does it make if I help Mabel? Why is Sharon so freaked out?

And who told her I was going out with Tod? The whole thing is so stupid. I still can’t believe her gall. I’m a loser? She should talk. She’s such a poser, pretending to be so tough all the time when she’s really just a wuss. If it wasn’t for me, she’d be on the bottom of the monkey chain, that’s for sure. It’s just so bizarre.

I look at the words I’ve written on the page. All at once I’m struck by the oddest feeling.
Maybe Sharon is right
. I mean, why should I care if old women are booted out of choirs? I’m not Mabel’s real daughter. I never asked for any of this. Yet here I am, writing letters on her behalf while people call me a loser and accuse me of going out with Tod.

A shiver runs up my spine. Oh my God …
I have gone totally nuts!

Just then, Peggy comes in.

“Have you seen my—?”

“Get out of here!”

Peggy slams the door as loudly as she can. Morta streaks from my lap, clawing my legs for the second time in two days. “Ahh! Morta!” Crumpling the letter, I whip it in the garbage and tear off my wings. I’m done. Finished. I can’t take it any more. It’s just too much. I’m sorry that Mabel’s life is so terrible but it’s not my responsibility. She’ll be fine. Besides, I’m only sixteen. I have to get on with my own life—with school and projects and stuff. The shiver runs up my spine again as I consider how close I came to falling into the barrel.

I spend the rest of the weekend strategizing. Reclaiming my position in the monkey chain isn’t going to be easy. I have to plan carefully.

I start by skipping morning classes on Monday. I get to school just in time for lunch break. Sharon and the PIBs are already huddled on the sidewalk across the street, smoking. Sharon doesn’t acknowledge me as I take my place in the chain. I light up, talking like everything’s totally normal.

“Hey, I thought maybe we could take a few shots down by the train tracks for my CPP. Talk about morose. It’s really dark and alienating down there.”

Sharon gives me a look, flicking the ash from her cigarette on my shoes. She’s still completely pissed. I persevere.

“There’s an old boxcar that’s got major creep factor. If ever there was a good place to die, that’s it. We should definitely check it out.”

Sharon curls her lip. “Maybe we can get some pictures of you and your grandmother.”

The PIBs raise their eyebrows through the smoke. I feel myself slipping to the bottom of the chain. Scrambling for something funny and noncommittal to say, I come up empty. My mind spins as the mouth of the barrel looms. And then something miraculous happens: Chocko bursts from the school to confront us.

“Chocko!” Sharon says, dropping her cigarette to the sidewalk and hiding it under her shoe.

The PIBs do the same.

But I don’t. This is my opportunity to glide back into the upper echelons of monkey society. I keep smoking.

Chocko starts shouting before he even crosses the street, pointing his sausage finger at me. “Smith! You know the rules! No smoking on school property!”

I take a long, slow drag, waiting until I can see the red in Chocko’s eyes before exhaling. “Yeah … that’s interesting. But this isn’t exactly school property.”

Chocko’s eyes turn fifty deeper shades of bloodshot and then his head blows completely off. “Get your
ass
to detention hall—NOW!”

This is the big climax, the pivotal point of my entire social career. If I run scared, everything I’ve worked for will be lost. I take another deep drag, finishing the entire cigarette. Chocko stands in my aura, hands on his hips like some old woman. From the corner of my eye, I can see admiration radiating from Sharon and the PIBs. No matter what happens with Chocko, this little performance on my part is worth its weight in monkey gold.

“See ya,” I say, flicking my butt to the ground as I step off the curb.

Chocko shadows me, glaring inches from my face the whole way across the street, through the school doors, up the stairs, and down the hall to detention. I can hear the jagged cogs in his brain, formulating whatever gut-searing speech he’s about to lay on me. But when we walk into detention, Miss B. is playing prison warden for five other reprobates. Chocko knows Miss B. won’t take kindly to one of his chauvinistic tirades so he changes his approach.

“Smoking on school property,” he reports. “It’s their health I’m concerned about.”

Miss B. considers me. Secretly, I bet she likes a good smoke once in a while. But she’s got to keep up appearances with a charade of disapproval.

“Were you smoking on school property?” she asks.

“Kind of.”

“
And
she resisted arrest,” Chocko adds, thinking he’s being funny.

I give Miss B. a downtrodden look. “He called me an ass.”

Miss B. cranks her turret in Chocko’s direction. Chocko shifts uncomfortably, rapping his knuckles on top of her desk, the way Biff did on mine. Must be some kind of monkey secret code.

“I suggest twenty to life,” Chocko quips, then excuses himself with a nervous laugh.

Miss B. watches him go before turning to me.

“How’s your project coming, Sue?”

I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“You were supposed to hand in your outline this morning.”

“I’ll get it to you tomorrow… I promise.”

She studies my face. “How are things at home, Sue?”

“Pretty good … I guess.” I keep it ambiguous and open to interpretation.

Miss B. nods, searching my every gesture for clues of some painful childhood trauma.

“Okay… well… good. You can hand your outline in on Friday.”

Friday? What a score! I totally
love
Miss B.

My strategy worked better than I could ever have imagined. Not only is Sharon waiting for me outside detention hall when I’m released, but I have until Friday to hand in my CPP outline because Miss B. thinks I’m suffering from some kind of latent emotional distress. I still haven’t even started my paper for Mr. Farrell but I should be able to pull it off in a night, no problem.

Sharon and I decide to skip class and foray to the Tip.

“It’s my treat,” she insists.

The whole way there, she waxes poetic about what a seditious goddess I am. I’m hoping Tod won’t show up and ruin everything but I’m not that lucky. I hear his moped from ten blocks away. When he cruises up, Sharon turns on him like a wild dog.

“Why don’t you get lost, you freak!”

Tod looks to me for confirmation, his nose swollen where Biff punched him. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. But it’s him or me right now, so the decision is clear.

“Yeah … you should just go.”

Tod sits there, staring at us. This sends Sharon off the deep end. She shoves his shoulder, practically knocking him from his moped.

“All right,” he says, revving the engine and rolling away, but not before giving me this really mournful look.

It’s sludge for two and our usual seats at the Tip. Sharon’s still blathering about Chocko. She thinks we can push him to quit. I’m not so sure.

“Oh, I have something for you,” she suddenly says. Reaching into her purse, she produces a little package and slides it across the table.

“Wow, thanks.”

I open the package. It’s a book called
Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death
. It’s printed on thin, translucent paper, like parchment. There’s only one haiku per dead monk, which must have been difficult. I mean, to sum up your life in a haiku—that can’t be easy. I’ve filled at least thirty-five journals already and I’m only sixteen.

“This is so amazing,” I say.

Sharon smiles. “It’s a translation. I found it at the used bookstore. I thought you could use it for your CPP.”