What Comes After (19 page)

It felt almost good to be angry those first few days back at school — which I was when I had to deal with the ferrets, and when I had to write something for school, and when I kept not hearing from Beatrice — because I was scared and depressed most of the rest of the time.

Some of my teachers pulled me aside to tell me how sorry they were about what happened out at the lake, but I excused myself as quickly as I could and hid in the back of whatever classroom I was in. I made sure not to make eye contact with Shirelle or Littleberry in English. I sat near the door so I could slip in at the last minute when the bell rang for the beginning of class and dash out when class was over. My arm was better but still ached, and I still limped when I was tired, which was just about always. I made sure to wear my hat or keep my hoodie up all day.

Someone spit on my locker again, and someone ran into me twice in the hall. It was too crowded to see who, and I didn’t bother lifting my head to look. I flinched, clutched my books tighter to my chest, and hurried to my next class, where I sat with my back to the wall. I was sure all the football players hated me because of Book. I hid under the stairs at lunch.

On Friday of that first week back, I saw those two guys from the field party, Drunk Dennis and Donny. They looked surprised to see me at first, but their expressions quickly hardened. I started hyperventilating and worried I might faint, so I ducked into the restroom.

Two girls were leaning against the sinks, smoking. I wondered if they were the same girls from my first day at Craven High. “What’s the matter, girl?” one of them asked. She took my arm and helped me sit down on the floor next to the far wall. “Here,” she said. “Put your head down between your knees or something. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“She doesn’t got any color in her face,” the other girl said.

I tried to tell them I was OK, but I couldn’t speak.

“It’ll be all right in a minute,” the first girl said.

“Yeah,” the other said. “It’ll be all right.”

I stayed that way for a couple of minutes, until my breathing turned normal again and I stopped shaking. Then I lifted my head and the girls helped me to stand. They threw their cigarettes in a toilet.

“You OK now?” the first girl asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for helping me.”

“You’re that girl, ain’t you?”

I nodded.

They didn’t ask me anything else, and I was glad.

I spent the next hour in the nurse’s office, curled up on the cot again under the thin white blanket.

The school counselor, Mr. DiDio, called me in to see him that afternoon. He was the one who had contacted the police a week and a half before, when I showed up at school after the beating.

I went down for the appointment during English. Mr. DiDio had on rope sandals and loose-fit jeans and a Hawaiian shirt — which might have been the same thing he was wearing when I saw him the day after the beating — and he was sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug on the floor of his office.

“
Namaste,
Iris,” he said.

“
Namaste,
Mr. DiDio.”

He smiled a big Buddha smile. “You want to sit on the floor?” He waved at a couple of beanbag chairs he had on the rug, one in the shape of a ladybug. “Or we can do the desk-chair thing if you want,” he added.

“Floor’s OK,” I said, surprised that they let him do that sort of thing in Craven County, North Carolina. I felt the rug with my fingers and liked it right away — the tight weave, the detailed patterns in gold and silk threads, the hard and the soft of it. Afternoon sun angled through the high window over our heads.

“So,” he said. “How are things going?”

“Fine. Great.”

Mr. DiDio nodded. “That’s cool. That’s cool.”

He uncrossed his legs, and then recrossed them the other way. “Well, the thing is, I spoke to your foster-care worker, Ms. Moran, and she filled me in on what’s been happening. Plus your English teacher, Mrs. Roosevelt, showed me the play that you wrote for her class. And I heard from the nurse that you’ve been down in her office a couple of times.”

I studied the patterns in the rug. How could I tell him, or anyone, about Aunt Sue and Book? About Beatrice? About Drunk Dennis and Donny? About the goats, who I still worried about all the time, even though Mindy kept assuring me Animal Control was taking care of them? About Dad? About everything? How could I even begin? And what if I did open up to Mr. DiDio, and couldn’t ever stop?

So I just shrugged. “Hasn’t been my best week, I guess.”

He tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Are you seeing a counselor or a therapist or anything?”

I nodded, but then shook my head. “Not yet. Mindy — Ms. Moran — said she was going to line something up.”

He changed the subject. “Mrs. Roosevelt says she thinks you’re a gifted student, based on your writing. She says you don’t speak up very often in class. Even before what happened...”

I shrugged again and traced the patterns with my finger, over and over. One direction smoothed the fibers down; the other lifted them up. I swept the rug with my open hand, too.

“So are you sleeping?” Mr. DiDio asked. “Eating? Exercising?”

“Yeah to sleeping. Too much sleeping,” I said. “No to the other two things, unless you count Fig Newtons and walking ferrets on a leash.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “The famous ferrets.”

I asked Mr. DiDio if he’d ever heard of a piloerection, and he said no. He looked at the door, probably wondering if he should have kept it open.

“How about dooking?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not that, either. Why?”

“They’re just ferret terms.”

Mr. DiDio’s face relaxed. He smiled a grim smile, leaned forward, and put his hands on his knees. “You’ve been through a lot, Iris. More than someone your age should have to go through, and I’m sorry. I just want you to know that it’s OK to let yourself fall apart sometimes. And I’m here if you need to do that, and need a safe place to do it, and a safe person to do it with.”

I thanked him and told him I would keep that in mind. I could tell he wanted to hug, but I didn’t want anyone touching me. Besides, there were pretty strict rules against that sort of thing, even in Maine.

Mr. DiDio and I uncrossed our legs and stood up from the rug. We shook hands. That’s as close as we got.

Beatrice finally called that night. “Oh, God, Iris,” she said. “What the hell is going on? Mom said you were living with a foster family. That you got attacked by your cousin and your aunt and were in the hospital.”

“Yeah,” I said. It was weird. For two weeks I’d wanted nothing more than for Beatrice to call me and ask me how I was doing and listen to me complain. But now that she was actually on the phone, I didn’t really feel like talking. “A lot’s happened since the last time we talked.”

“Are you OK now? Are you safe and everything?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m OK now. I’m living with this family, the Tutens. And I’m back at school.”

“Oh, God, Iris,” Beatrice repeated. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry my stupid parents screwed everything up so you couldn’t have just stayed with us. None of this would have ever happened.”

I pulled a blanket off my bed and wrapped myself in it. I had to change the subject. The last thing I wanted was Beatrice bringing up what might have been — what was
supposed
to have been.