True Blue (9 page)

Mom really began to get ill after that. The vandalizing of the Whites’ home broke through any illusions she was able to hold onto that Galloway would somehow come to its senses and become a decent place to live again. She was angry at everybody.

Well, no, that’s not exactly accurate. I was with her sometimes in the nursing home. She’d come in to help me strip beds or carry stinking sheets to the laundry room, and she’d be just as kind and gentle as a saint. She’d go over to some old lady who was crying with embarrassment and have her feeling good again in two seconds flat. She wasn’t patronizing, either, the way some of the other nurses were, talking to the old people as if they were small children. She knew all the residents’ names, too, and knew things about them the nurses didn’t.

Back out in the street, though, she let everybody have it. She didn’t discriminate. We were in the grocery store the Saturday after the incident. Mom went up and down the aisles, starting arguments with every shopper she met.

“Do you think Casey White is guilty?” she asked.

The shoppers, surprised by the question in the middle of reaching for their Captain Crunch or their pork luncheon meat, would answer truthfully, “Yes, I think she did it.” Then Mom would let them have it—old or young, small children in the cart or not, she didn’t care.

I had to take her arms several times and pull her away from people. One man in particular looked like he was about to hit her. I pulled her away more for his safety than hers. When Mom gets going, she’s more than a match for anybody.

I could tell in an instant who knew Mom and who didn’t. Those who didn’t know about her actually started engaging her in discussion. Those who knew her—well, I saw their eyes glaze over and their faces grow tolerant as soon as they realized that Mom was off on one of her tirades.

It’s just Vivian gone mad again
was what their expressions said, and they excused themselves as quickly as possible. This, strangely, made her even angrier than those who argued with her. By the time we got to the checkout, she was beyond all boundaries of rationality. The poor girl working the cash register, a girl who was a grade behind me in school, got the full force of it. Nothing I could do would calm Mom down. Everyone was staring at us.

Finally, the manager called the police and Mom was escorted onto the sidewalk. The cashier was too upset to continue ringing up our groceries, so the manager sent her back to the locker room to compose herself while he finished up. All the while, Mom was pressed up against the plate-glass window, banging it and yelling at everyone.

“Don’t bring her in here again,” the manager said to me as he handed me my change. “You got that?”

I wanted to argue that I could no more control my mother’s behavior than he could, but I just nodded, picked up the groceries, and walked out.

“Let’s go home, Mom,” I said, trying to nudge her away from the window.

She spun around and snapped at me. “How can you condone them? Who
are
you?”

I left her and went home by myself. We had walked to the grocery store and the bags I carried were heavy. By the time I got home there were deep red welts in my fingers where the bag handles had pressed into my skin.

Dad and I walked on eggshells after that.

“Can’t you do something?” I asked him that evening. Mom had not prepared anything for supper, so Dad and I had driven to Hamburger World on the edge of town. We took our food over to a picnic table.

“It’s not time yet,” he replied. “She’ll never agree to go voluntarily, and they won’t commit her unless they can prove she’s a danger to herself or others. You know that.” He bit into his burger, I think, to avoid having to say anything more.

“You should have seen her in the grocery store,” I said. “I’ve never seen her like that, not even in the early days. There was something different about her, more focused than usual, maybe. I don’t know.”

I kept describing the incident, even though I knew Dad didn’t want to hear it. He even turned himself away to try to deflect my words before they reached his ears. I told him things I usually only told Casey.

I always told Casey about Mom’s strange behavior. Often, she was there to witness it, and we would discuss it after. When I said all I needed to say, Casey would say, “You think that’s strange, well, let me tell you about the shore fly, which actually breeds in puddles of crude oil.” Off she’d go, describing one of her insect friends. Sometimes that was annoying, but I could always count on it, and that made it comforting. Mom was strange, but she was only one of the many strange things in this universe. No big deal.

I talked on and on to Dad about Mom, but Dad had nothing comforting to say. He had no newspaper to hide behind so he took a tremendous interest in the cars going by on the highway.

Dad started giving me supper money every morning before he left for work. He stayed late at his job, which saved him from dealing with either Mom or me. I was grateful for the money. I used it at The Cactus after school. The kids kept asking me and I kept accepting. They didn’t mention Casey and I didn’t mention Paint Night. It was expensive, belonging to the good crowd, and I hated having to use the money I worked so hard for, so the regular handouts from Dad really helped.

Things started disappearing from the house. Mom had been taking casseroles and muffins over to the Whites for a while, but that was no longer enough for her. She emptied all the food from our cupboards and took it to Casey’s house. She took them other things as well—our good china, the toaster oven, lamps, my old toys, anything she could carry. It’s like she was saying, “Here, take this, let me try to make up for all the bad things the town is doing to you.” Dad made frequent trips to the Whites’ to pick up our stuff.

The days went by like that. I’m tempted to say they fell into a routine, just for the convenience of saying that, but there was nothing routine about those days. The only thing I could count on was waking up at two o’clock each morning.

A few days later, I had two encounters with teachers, neither of them pleasant.

The first was with Ms. Simms, the cross-country coach. I’d successfully avoided her for over a week, since I’d started going to the restaurant after school instead of to practice, but that morning she came right into my history class. She must have worked out an arrangement with the history teacher beforehand, because as soon as she showed up at the door, he sent me out into the hallway to talk to her.

“What’s going on?” Ms. Simms asked, in her usual direct way.

Beating about the bush with her would have been a waste of time. For such a small town, Galloway sure had a lot of strong-willed women.

“I’m busy after school,” I replied.

“You’re hanging out with losers,” she said. “They’re just high-school popular. It’s all smoke, no substance. It doesn’t translate into anything in real life.”

“They’re my friends,” I protested feebly.

“Friends would insist you show up for practice,” Ms. Simms said. “These kids use people. They want something from you, but you won’t believe me, so let’s not waste time with that. Here is my message. Start showing up for practice or I’ll drop you from the team.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. No team meant no chance at a scholarship. No scholarship meant no university. I didn’t want to be a gym teacher but I did want to get out of town. A scholarship was my easy escape.

“I’ll train in the mornings,” I promised.

Ms. Simms didn’t like my answer but she decided to accept it. “I’m at school by seven-thirty anyway,” she said. “I expect to see you waiting for me in the parking lot when I arrive. Be dressed and ready to work out. If you miss a day, or you’re late, you’ll be cut from the team.” She spun on her heel and headed back to the gym.

I didn’t blame Ms. Simms for being angry with me. She’d put in a lot of time with me over the years, helping me train. She’d gone out of her way many times, especially when Mom was ill, to make sure I got a ride to track meets and that I had the proper clothes and shoes.

The thought of training in the morning didn’t thrill me. Since I’d stopped sleeping through the night, I was sleeping until the last possible minute in the mornings. I’d have to get up at six-thirty to get to school on time. Ms. Simms didn’t fool around. She wouldn’t give me another chance if I blew this one.

The second teacher encounter came just as I was about to have lunch. I had fifteen minutes to eat after my cafeteria shift ended and my next class began. I had just sat down with my tray when the announcement came over the public address system: “Would Jessica Harris please report to Miss Burke in Room 313.”

I groaned, not in the mood for another lecture about my poor academic performance, but a summons was a summons. I quickly shoveled spaghetti into my mouth, washed it down with some milk, and ate my apple on the way to the biology lab, even though eating in the hallway was against the rules. I dropped the apple core into a trashcan just outside the classroom.

Miss Burke looked up as I entered. Her face was pale. “Jessica, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Are you all right?” One doesn’t usually ask such questions of teachers. If they’re ill, it’s none of our business, but she looked so ghostly and troubled it just popped out of me.

“No, Jessica, I’m not all right, but I’m hoping you can help me. Close the door, please.”

My last biology quiz had come back with an okay grade, so I didn’t understand what she was getting at.

“Come back into the storage room. I have something for you.”

I followed her into the small room off the biology classroom, where extra supplies and things were stored. Casey was the only student trusted with a key to this room. I had helped her clean and organize it one Saturday.

The first things I noticed were the glass cases displaying the large insect collection Casey had caught and pinned for the school. I hadn’t even noticed that the cases had been taken down from the classroom walls.

Miss Burke saw me looking at them. “I thought they’d be safer locked in here, given the current mood of the school,” she said, running her hands gently over the glass. Casey’s father had made the cases in his woodworking shop. There were more of them in Casey’s house.

“I’ve been teaching for forty-three years,” Miss Burke said. “I’ve never met a student with a scientific curiosity to equal Casey’s. She’s the type of student a teacher will spend her whole career hoping to come across. Casey takes such joy from learning things! You’re her friend, so you know this, but I wonder if you truly appreciate how gifted she is. She could be a pioneer, a Jane Goodall of the insect world. But now there’s this dreadful mess.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. To my horror, Miss Burke began to cry.

“You should hear the things they say about her in the staff room. Teachers are supposed to be enlightened people, but they sound like they come from the Dark Ages. And I haven’t done anything to help Casey. I spoke up for her once, but my colleagues said I was only trying to secure my legacy, that if Casey was guilty it meant that all the years I’ve put in have been for nothing—no star pupil, no lasting impact. I am ashamed that I allowed their comments to silence me. Why should I care what they think? I know in my heart what is true.”

I didn’t know what to do. Should I pat her shoulder to comfort her? That didn’t seem appropriate, so I just stood there with my hands in my pockets, feeling inadequate, embarrassed and angry at having been put in this position.

Miss Burke composed herself without my help, drying her tears with a snowy-white linen handkerchief.

“But I don’t have to continue to be ashamed,” she said. “I’m not going to sit back and let them take Casey’s academic year from her. And this is where you come in. I’d like you to find out from Casey’s parents if she can continue with her studies while she’s in jail. If she can, I’ll arrange with her other teachers to get course assignments to her. She’s bound to be found not guilty at her trial, and if she can keep up with her studies, she can still graduate this year and get a science scholarship, like we’d planned. Her trip to Australia—well, there will be other opportunities, other trips. It’s a shame, though. She worked so hard for it.”

She turned away and pulled something out of a drawer. “Also, see if they can get this book to Casey. I know how fond she is of beetles.”

Miss Burke handed me a very large book called,
The World of Beetles
. It was just the sort of book Casey would drool over, with close-up photos of hundreds of beetles doing all the strange things they do.

The bell rang. I could hear kids coming into the classroom after the lunch break.

“Thank you, Jessica,” Miss Burke said. “You’re a good friend. Maybe now I can start looking at myself in the mirror again.”

Class began. I hid the beetle book inside my binder so that no one would ask me about it. Anyone who saw me with an insect book would know it was for Casey, and I didn’t need that.

The gang at the restaurant found it, though. Nicole grabbed my binder to check on the work assigned for History and, of course, pulled the bug book out for everyone to see.

“What’s this?” she asked, as if she deserved an explanation. “You taking up the Weird One’s hobby?”

Up until that moment, The Cactus gang had completely refrained from mentioning Casey in my presence. When I was with them, I was almost able to forget Casey existed. Now, suddenly, she was at the table with us. I began to panic.

“Old Lady Burke gave it to me to take to Casey’s parents,” I said.

“You’re not going to do it, are you?”

I had to come up with something fast. “Well, my bio grades have been slipping. She kind of hinted that she’d give me a break if I did her this favor.” Then I told the group about our discussion in the storage room, playing up the crying scene to make them laugh.

“She’s senile,” Nicole said. “They would have fired her years ago if she hadn’t had union protection.”

“It’s not surprising that she likes Casey so much,” Amber said, stirring sugar into her Diet Coke. She did that every day, and the clink of the spoon against her glass annoyed me. “They’re two of a kind.”

I took the bait. I shouldn’t have, but I did. “Both crazy about bugs?”

“Well, sure, but more important, they’re both
not
crazy about boys.”

“You mean Miss Burke is a dyke?” Nathan asked with a grin.

“Duh!” Amber frowned. “
Miss
Burke! Never married, all those stories in class about traveling the world with other old-maid science teachers. You don’t think they just crawled around looking at bugs, do you?”

“Oh, that is so gross!” Nicole sputtered. “Burke is so old and ugly!”

“She wasn’t always old,” Cliff, another group member, pointed out. “I say, God bless and go to it.”

“You
would
!” Amber said. “But I think it’s scandalous, allowing her to teach all these years, having contact with female students. We should report her to someone.” Amber turned to me. “Is that what made Casey gay, Jess—or was she gay before?”

“I…I don’t know,” I stammered. “I guess I really don’t know her that well.”

“You’d better not be gay,” Nicole said.

“Yeah—we’d have to kill you.” Nathan said this and laughed, but I wasn’t sure he was joking. “Gay people should all be killed. Hitler was right about that.”

That started the gang off, listing all the other people Hitler should have killed when he had the chance—game-show contestants, slow waitresses, chess-club members—and I breathed a sigh of relief that the attention was off me.

Shortly after, I excused myself and went into the ladies’ room. I kept my head down while I was washing my hands. I washed them over, and over, and over.