The Opposite of Geek (10 page)

and Ms Long hugs me

before walking to her car,

I know she’s right about one thing

at least.

Being this angry

isn’t working for me.

I need to find

an exit.

I am sitting on the bus

in an area of town I don’t know,

have never been to on my own

(small lie told about being with Ms Long),

going to a thing

I’m hoping can give me the key.

Rain lashes the bus windows

like a car wash.

I sit close to the back, opposite side to last time,

behind a couple with dreadlocks and huge army boots.

It’s louder, more crowded, more crazy this time.

I feel smaller, less sure I should have come.

But when the slam starts, I relax into the words,

into the banter and murmuring crowd,

the way the woman in front of me keeps squeezing her friend’s hand under the table.

The friend gets up to read, and her face — tired, wrinkled, but beautiful —

reminds me of my mother’s.

I feel impossibly homesick. I feel drowned.

She begins to read.

It’s her son, dead of cancer at eleven,

who fills the spaces in and between her words

and jumps off the stage

as she brings him to life,

as she makes him

make us laugh and cry.

I see him standing there, listening.

He is James. He is this woman’s son.

He is anyone who died too soon.

And it feels conceivable

that there is hope

at the bottom of all this.

a walker,

a step-at-a-time person.

An enjoyer of flowers,

clean air, good running shoes.

The other day I walked

for two hours, just through

the neighbourhood.

The places we used to think

were so boring and everyday.

Today I walk a new route,

along streets I’ve never seen,

and decide which house

I’d like to own. Cream with

dark blue trim. Front porch.

Bird bath in the front yard.

I stop at an intersection

and a mother with a stroller

pauses beside me. I glance

into the stroller, wondering

how cute the kid is,

and do a double take —

it’s full of wriggling puppies.

The woman tells me the puppies’ mother is missing. Someone stole her two days ago and the puppies are going to another dog who only has two babies so she can feed them.

The woman has pretty auburn hair and freckles and lets me pick up one of the pups. He squirms against me, warm and alive.

“We need to find their mom — they’re not ready to leave her for another three weeks. And we miss her.” The woman smiles sadly. She holds out a flyer, a lost poster, with the dog’s name, Sasha, boldly on the top and a photo of her.

Under it are the usual details: age, last seen, friendly, affectionate.

Something clicks in my brain. I put the pup back with its siblings, thank her, and take a poster home.

I speak to no one,

hunch over my computer,

type, cut/paste, download

and with all the artistic talent I possess,

create.

I feel skittish and small

walking into school,

my backpack stuffed with lost posters

to be taped to walls.

My hope is they stay up for a few hours

until Mr. Cunningham, the principal,

sees them and takes them down. By then,

maybe someone will learn something

they didn’t know before.

Ms Long meets me at my first class, English, to tell me that if I feel sad or ill I can leave to find her. It’s a little like kindergarten, but I feel safe. The bell hasn’t rung yet and there are five people in the class. None of them will look at me. I grit my teeth and step into the hall. It’s full. I stand there for a minute feeling like wallpaper. Nothing has changed.

Then Garth/Thor from the cooking club walks up to me, makes some D&D hand signal I can’t interpret and says somberly, “Gretchen, that poster is really cool. I literally almost cried. I’m sorry for being a loser that one day about you and —”

“It’s okay,” I say, trying not to sound like I ran up a flight of stairs. “Thanks.”

And even though I don’t hear a word of the English lesson, it feels not bad to be back.

most of the posters stay up for Tuesday, Wednesday, and by Thursday I’m getting looks in the hall, glances I can’t quite place.

I hear James’s name in the halls, and not as a point of ridicule. Mr. Marchand takes me aside to weep his gratitude that his star student has been immortalized with his favourite subject.

Mr. Cunningham calls me into his office and quietly congratulates me on a creative memorial. He commends me for using social media to get the word out. I stare at him blankly, think:
That would have been a good idea
. He shows me his computer screen, a page with photos of my posters, comments from people, dozens of likes.

Ashlyn meets me after French

and we walk to the cafeteria to get juice.

She fills me in on bake sale news —

“and Gerry’s got his aunt who owns

a bakery to donate some muffins, and

Julia will have a flat of doughnuts —

don’t ask me where they’re from —

and Mohammed’s mother will make

these special cakes …”

She goes on and on, not even stopping

to drink her apple/cran. “So that’s why

we’re meeting at three —

to go over logistics.”

I blink stupidly.

She grins at me. “That’s a ton

of baked goods. We need more tables.”

I sip my O. J. “But why are we getting donations?

I thought it was just us baking.”

Ashlyn looks at me kindly,

like a grandmother

telling a toddler why rain falls.

“Gretchen, this is bigger than us.

It’s bigger than The Foodies, even

this school.” She grins. “Trust me.

We need more tables.”

By P. E., almost the whole cooking club — and some people I don’t even recognize — have come up to offer condolences and smile secret smiles about “three o’clock.”

No one will tell me what this means. I feel blindfolded.

And it’s not really a secret. Mr. Cunningham knows. The grad class knows (they smile at me too, but in a sad, I’m-glad-it’s-you-and-not-me way).

Ms Long knows. She hugged me in the hall. People saw. I didn’t care. I hugged her back.

playing something

that might resemble

field hockey. Mud

finds its way

into my socks, shorts,

ears and nose.

I manage to hit the ball

to someone who can score,

and then notice

Shay and Nemiah

talking behind the fence

at the edge of the field.

They look at me,

talk some more.

Shay shakes her head

and walks away. Nemiah

stands there for a second,

watching me

watch her.

She looks so small, so kidlike.

Someone yells behind me.

I run after the ball as it passes.

When I look back,

she’s gone.

Ms Long, little Ms Long

with horse teeth and perching, bird body

takes the floor. Her voice carries

around the room like she’s got

a microphone.

The money from the bake sale

will go into a chemistry scholarship

in James’s name.

She tells us how proud she is

of everyone, who has been working

on this for days.

Everyone looks so excited — more excited

than you’d think they would look

to be selling baked goods

for a dead boy’s scholarship.

I glance at Ashlyn, who’s beaming.

Suddenly I’m seeing her

from a different angle. Light is hitting her

in exactly the right places.

I’m treated to a welcome committee when I get home late

from organizing baked goods — Layla, Mum and Dad are setting the table, tossing salad, pulling something spicy out of the oven.

“Gretchen, we want to say —”

My mother is interrupted by Layla’s bulldozing me against the wall.

“You’re so talented! I showed my class what you did.”

“You showed what?” I ask.

“The posters! Mum and Dad got copies from Ms Long and they printed some.”

“You printed some?” I watch my parents’ faces go from proud to nervous to bashful.

My phone is beside my head — I’ve been

expecting Ashlyn to call in a tizzy

about missing cream puffs —

and it rings me out of dreamless sleep.

His voice is low and scratchy.

I bolt awake. “Where are you?

Are you okay?”

There’s music playing in the background.

“Look, I’m sorry for not calling,” he says.

“I was an idiot when you were here.”

He clears his throat. “I’ve really missed you.”

We sit in silence, attached

by the phone, and even though I’m not the same

and he’s not the same

and this conversation is awkward,

I miss him too.

“I need to see you,” he says.

“Tomorrow’s the Spring Fair.”

“And you can’t get away?”

I start to explain, but stop.

He clears his throat. “Can you meet me

in the morning? Just for a minute. I’ll pick you up.”

Something crunches on his end —

gravel underfoot.