True To Form (22 page)

Instead, I come into the hall, put the phone back, and then go out into the kitchen, where Ginger is getting things out of the refrigerator, getting ready to make dinner. “Leigh called while you were gone,” Ginger says. “She wanted to know if it would be all right if she dropped by.”

I shrug.

“I told her yes; I hope that's all right.”

“I guess.”

“Katie?”

“I'm just going to take a walk,” I say. “I'll be home for dinner.”

Hearing me say the word “walk,” the dogs look up hopefully. I might as well bring them—all you do is put their leashes on and they act like they've won the sweepstakes. They're lucky they can't talk. All they ever do wrong to each other is bite, and then presto, it's over.

I
WALK FAR OUT INTO
the fields, then let the dogs loose. They get busy right away, sniffing everything, running around. I wonder what they smell. You can tell the scents are all different: Sometimes they just take a little whiff and keep on running; other times they stop dead in their tracks and sniff forever. And sometimes they sniff very delicately, their lips drawn back a bit, as though they're saying,
Ewww, this smells
awful,
let me smell it some more.
That's something about dogs you have to accept: The worse it smells, the better they like it, and they will roll in it if you let them. When you have bad breath they want to kiss you.

I sit in some long grass, watch for a while to see if I can find some ants working. The thing about watching ants is, you see some order and elegance to the whole works. And also is it a time of you wondering who is higher, really.

But there are no ants. There are no grasshoppers, either. There is just me and the thought of Cynthia. Thinking of her used to be a comfort and now it is a problem. How will I ever solve this? Maybe there are things too big to say sorry for.

When I was about five, my mother read me a story about a little girl who had a bracelet that told her when she was thinking about doing a wrong thing. It would stick her like a pin, and then she would know not to do it. I used to wish I had a bracelet like that, because I was so interested in doing the right thing. I was a very sincere
little kid. And then I grew into the me I am now, and now feels like I am at a carnival of dazzling lights and rides and barkers making all false promises that sometimes I can't help believing. If, on the night of the party, I'd had a bracelet like in the story, it would have been sticking me like a porcupine. But what's really scary is, I think I would have ignored the pain. Or I would have taken the bracelet off,
Never mind, I'll handle this.

For the first time, I let myself fully imagine what it must have been like for Cynthia to hear me say those things. How she must have come up to the bathroom door all happy and excited like she'd been, and then she heard me say I had to bring her, and then she heard me say the rest. She must have felt so embarrassed and also panicked to look around and see that she was stuck there. And the thought of her own house, even with her crazy mother, must have seemed so comforting. I think of the dignified way she asked to use the phone, the straightness of her back going up those basement stairs, and I think of how I watched her go. I remember now so clearly what I was thinking. I was saying to myself, Oh well, I'll lose her but look who I'll have instead. And even though Father Compton has said my sins are forgiven, I know they're not really. Because I didn't say the biggest sin, which is this: Not only do I feel bad about Cynthia getting hurt, I also feel bad because I don't belong to that group any more than she does. What if they
had
accepted me in the real way? Would I still have wanted to be friends with Cynthia, even part-time? I wonder. And in my unsureness is such shame.

I rest my head against my raised knees, searching for the warm salt smell of skin. I find it, but it does not provide the comfort it usually does. It comes to me that I have hurt myself along with Cynthia, and that is what Father Compton meant when he asked who else did I betray. Inside me was the shimmering truth of how I really am and what I really believe, but I acted against it without even thinking, and now it does not shimmer so much. Now it is
dark and hard to find. When you realize that for your whole life you will have to be so careful making choices, it can make you feel tired. That is certainly how I feel; I am just so tired.

I lie down, then turn my head to look at the grass. I used to do this and pretend I was in the jungle, the grass so high it towered over me. I could hear the drums of the natives passing on some dark, urgent message, and the wild rhythm made my blood jump. Now it doesn't work anymore. I am in Missouri, and the grass only looks tall because I am lying down.

But. Look here. On a blade of grass right in front of me is an ant. Carrying something on his back that looks way too big for him. But there he goes, doing his job without wasting any time. Every day he does this, whether anyone is watching him or not. Every day he makes a Herculean effort and offers not one word of complaint.

I stand up and whistle for the dogs. Too soft. I try whistling with my fingers in my mouth, something I've been trying to do for years. Lo and behold, it works. The dogs run to me. My wish is their command. I am Captain Katie, in charge of my own life.

W
HEN
I
GET HOME,
I see Leigh's car in the driveway, her mother sitting in the front seat, waiting for her. And then the front door opens, and Leigh comes out, spots me coming down the road. She holds up her hand to wave, says something to her mom as she passes the car, then comes out into the street to meet me.

“Hi!” she says, all like a cheerleader. She flashes her gorgeous smile.

“Hi.”

“Are these your dogs?”

“Yeah.” I pull back on the leashes; they'd like very much to sniff Leigh to death.

She reaches down to pet Bones. “I just met your stepmother.”

I look up to the house to see if Ginger is looking out. No sign of her.

“She's so
adorable.
And so's your little
house.”

I start to say thanks, then don't.

Leigh looks at her watch. “I have to go. But I brought you something, Katie. I'm going to be running for class president and I want to get going on posters so they'll all be done when school starts. I brought you a sample and some supplies—just make them like the sample.”

“I'm sorry. I don't think I have time.”

Leigh stands there, blinks once. Twice. Then she says, “Well, we're
all
doing them.”

“That's good. Probably then you'll have enough help without me.”

She smiles, confused. And behind her confusion is her anger.

“And now I have to go,” I say.

“Well, if you're not going to help, I'm going to take the poster board back,” Leigh says.

“Okay.”

She sighs. “Are you
sure
you can't do some?”

I know exactly what she's asking. “Yeah, I'm sure,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow, then spins around and walks ahead of me toward the house to get her things. I slow down so she'll be out by the time I go in.

A
FTER DINNER
I
LIE ON
my bed holding a pillow to my chest. I am thinking about Father Compton saying, “Cynthia is not just Cynthia,” and I think I know now what he means. She stands for something. For many things.

I look at my watch. Seven o'clock. She'll be just starting the Girl Scout meeting. She'll be sitting there wearing her uniform, and her mother will be all excited and acting like a jerk. Cynthia will go along with whatever they're doing. I've heard Girl Scouts make planters from tin cans, purses from the plastic boxes strawberries come in.
Oh, Cynthia,
I think, and feel so bad for her.

I go over to my desk, pull out the letter from Cherylanne I got yesterday, reread the last page.

One thing that I am thinking so much about lately is how fast something big in your life can happen. How you don't even know sometimes that you're making a choice when you are. Now I am going to be a mother when I thought I would be who knows what after senior year. I want my baby and I know I will be a good mother, but it is something strange that so many other options are no longer available to me. Not to be like a movie star, but they are gone with the wind. I think about you a lot Katie, and only last night I was on the back steps thinking of how we used to drink pickle juice, which I don't care I still say is a
good treat on a hot summer day and also scientific because it gives you back salt. I guess we never will do that again. Sometimes I think of how at the very instant you think
now
it is over. I mean that moment. I guess all you can do is look forward or you'll drive yourself crazy.

Another girl name I am thinking of is Katherine. Which guess why, as if you didn't know. The names are up to me because I asked Darren
again
what if it's a girl and he said “I have no idea,” all flat and staring out the windshield straight ahead. “I have no idea” is also his brilliant suggestion if it's a boy.

I am glad we write to each other. It is like a hand to hold and don't think
I
don't know how important that is. Especially when my other friends like
CAROLYN DELANEY
and
SHERRY DUTTON
and
EVERYONE ELSE
have shown their true colors. Of black. Their hands are nowhere to be found except covering their mouths as they talk about me, their favorite hobby. One thing to say about you, Katie, is that you are true. You should be proud of it, and don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

I fold the letter up, put it back in the drawer. She is wrong. I am not true. I only used to be. I sigh. There is Cherylanne, in Texas. Here am I, in Missouri. And Cynthia is in a Girl Scout meeting a few blocks away, yet she is farther from me than Cherylanne. I wonder if she misses me at all.

I go to my closet to get out my robe. I'm just going to get in my pajamas and read myself to sleep, I don't care how early it is. On the floor of the closet, I see the Girl Scout manual Cynthia's mother gave me. I take it over to my desk, open to the first page. In the introduction, they ask if you know about Anna Shaw, the American pioneer girl who became a preacher and a doctor. And do you know about Marie Curie and Florence Nightingale. They tell you about Phyllis Wheatley, the first Negro poet in America,
whose poetry was praised by George Washington. I never even heard of Phyllis Wheatley or Anna Shaw. It makes you feel odd to know you can learn something from something you made fun of.

I look through the rest of the manual. Here is something about Sacajawea, who was an Indian guide and interpreter for the Lewis and Clark expedition. She could read the sun, the stars and the trees. And here is Louisa Alcott, whose writing helped provide for her family. Amelia Earhart was a gardener and liked dress designing; she made her own clothes. Knowing that seems to make her more 3-D.

There is stuff in the manual about how to eat, how to have good hygiene, how to nurse someone who is ill, how to silk-screen and tie-dye, how to row a boat or pitch a tent or determine map distances. There is information about turtles and tadpoles, something that says that if your pet understands and responds to ten words, he is very smart. You can tell birds by their nests. The General Assembly of the United Nations has five parts to it. Three dots is S in Morse Code. All snakes have teeth. And here is something astounding: The needle on a compass does not point to the North Pole. Instead, it points to the magnetic deposit known as the magnetic North Pole, fifteen hundred miles away from the true North Pole. If you live in Portland, Oregon, the needle points 22 degrees east of north. In Portland, Maine, it points 15 degrees west. So you have to factor in the variation if you want to find the true direction. This is one of those scientific facts that you run through your brain and you feel awe, but then you run it through your heart and it's like music. Because it is about everything.

In the back are all the badges you can earn: Salt Water Life, Folk Dancer, Wood, Glass, Pottery. Handywoman, First Aid, and Adventurer. Garden Flower, Wild Plant, and, I swear, Cat and Dog. One badge shows the most beautiful insect, with butterflylike wings and a beautiful, segmented, arching-up tail. “Swimmer” has a curled wave and two seagulls, and “Dancer” has a foot with a ballet
slipper and a wing at its heel. There are badges for Reader and Puppeteer, Aviation and Traveler. For Farmer and Homemaker and Cook and Adventurer and First Aid to Animals. And here is one with a picture of a scroll, with words written on it. It is the badge for Writer, and to earn it one of the things to do is to write a poem.

I think of how once I was standing in a church on Christmas Eve. There was a spicy scent of pine in the air, candles glowed, and there was baby Jesus in a crèche on the altar. There was a sermon about love and joy, about redemption. And then everyone began to sing “O Holy Night.” Next to me was a woman who could not carry a tune. At first I was so annoyed, listening to her. I wondered,
Why does she sing so loud when she doesn't even know how?
Then I looked at her and she was so pure, staring straight ahead, her face lit from within. Something moved into my heart at that moment that I did not really understand, but I understand it now: It is never about how good your voice is; it is only about feeling the urge to sing, and then having the courage to do it with the voice you are given. It is about what people try to share with each other, even if so many of us are so off-key when we do it. It is about saying we are somewhere, when what we mean is we are as close as we are able to get.

I go back to my closet, find the uniform Mrs. O'Connell gave me, and put it on. It's not so bad.