behind my friends.’
Claire stared at the dresser mirror, at her own tired face. At the reflection of her bedroom, which still had few pictures on the wall. It was merely a collection of furniture, a place to sleep, not yet part of a real home.
‘A widow needs her friends, Claire,’ said Margaret.
‘Maybe that was one of the reasons I had to leave.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s what I was to everyone – the widow. I’d walk into my clinic, and people would give me those sad and sympathetic looks. They were all afraid to laugh or tell jokes when I was around. And no one, no one ever dared to talk about Peter. It’s as if they thought I’d break down in sobs if they just mentioned his name.’
There was silence on the line, and Claire suddenly regretted having spoken so frankly.
‘It doesn’t mean I ever stop missing him, Mom,’ she said softly. ‘I see him every time I look at Noah’s face. The resemblance is so amazing. It’s like watching Peter grow up.’
‘In more ways than one,’ Margaret said, and Claire was relieved to hear the warmth had not left her mother-in-law’s voice. ‘Peter wasn’t the easiest child to raise. I don’t think I ever told you about all the trouble he got into when he was Noah’s age. That’s where Noah gets his streak of mischief, you know. From Peter.’
Claire had to laugh. He certainly didn’t get it from me, his boringly scrupulous mother, whose most serious crime was neglecting to get that safety sticker.
‘Noah’s got a good heart, but he’s still only fourteen,’ said Margaret with a friendly note of warning. ‘Don’t be too terribly shocked if there’s more mischief on the way.’
Later, as Claire headed back downstairs, she smelled the odor of burning matches, and she thought: Well, here it comes, then. More mischief. He’s sneaking another cigarette. She followed the scent to the kitchen and came to a halt in the doorway.
Noah was holding a lit match. He glanced at her, and quickly shook it out. ‘It’s all the candles I could find,’ he said.
In silence she approached the kitchen table. Her vision suddenly blurred with tears as she gazed at the Sara Lee layer cake he had taken out of the freezer. Flames danced atop eleven candles.
Noah struck another match and lit the twelfth flame on the cake. ‘Happy birthday, Dad,’ he said softly.
Happy birthday, Peter, she thought, and blinked away her tears.
And she and her son blew out the candles.
Mrs Horatio was going to pith a frog.
‘It doesn’t hurt them a bit, once you’ve penetrated their brain stem,’ she explained. ‘The needle goes in at the base of the skull, and you wiggle it around a little to destroy all the sensory tracts running up to the brain. This paralyzes them, stops any conscious movement, but it keeps their spinal reflexes intact for study.’ She reached into the jar and picked up a squirming frog in one hand. With her other hand, she reached for the pithing needle. It was humongous.
Though a ripple of nausea stirred in his stomach, Noah sat perfectly still at his desk in the third row. He was careful to keep his legs casually thrown out in front of him, his expression bored.
He could hear the other students squirm in their chairs, the girls mostly. To his right, a horrified Amelia Reid covered her mouth with her hand.
He let his gaze slide around the room and he silently pronounced judgment as he looked at each student in turn. Nerd. Jock. Kiss-ass preppie. Except for Amelia Reid, none of them were kids he cared to hang out with. None of them were interested in hanging out with him, either, but that was okay. His mom might like it in this town, but he didn’t plan on staying forever.
Graduate, and then I’m outta here, outta here, outta here.
‘Taylor, stop fidgeting and pay attention,’ said Mrs Horatio.
Noah glanced sideways, and saw that Taylor Darnell was gripping his desk with both hands and staring at the exam paper he’d just gotten back that morning. Mrs Horatio had scrawled a giant D plus in red marker. The test paper was covered with Taylor’s angry slashes in black ink. Next to the humiliating grade, he’d written: ‘Die, Mrs Whoratio.’
‘Noah, are you paying attention?’
Noah flushed and turned his gaze back to the front of the class. Mrs Horatio was holding up the frog for all to see. She actually looked like she was enjoying herself as she placed the tip of the pithing needle against the back of the frog’s head. Her eyes were bright, her mouth puckered and eager as she jammed the needle into the brainstem. The frog’s hind legs thrashed, its webbed feet slapping in pain.
Amelia gave a whimper and dropped her head down, her blond hair cascading over the desk. Chairs were squeaking all over the room now. Someone called out with a note of desperation: ‘Mrs Horatio, can I be excused?’
‘…have to move the needle back and forth with a certain amount of force. Don’t worry about the feet flapping around like this. It’s purely reflex action. Just the spine shooting off impulses.’
‘Mrs Horatio, I have to use the bathroom…’
‘In a minute. First, you have to see how I do this.’ She twisted the needle and there was a soft crack.
Noah thought he was going to puke. Struggling to maintain that look of utterly cool nonchalance, he turned away, his hands clenched under his desk. Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke. He focused on Amelia’s blond hair, which he’d often admired. Rapunzel hair. He stared at it, thinking how much he’d like to stroke it. He’d never even dared talk to Amelia. She was like a girl in a golden bubble, beyond the reach of any mere mortal.
‘There now,’ said Mrs Horatio. ‘That’s all there is to it. You see, class? Total paralysis.’
Noah forced his gaze back to the frog. It lay on the teacher’s desk, a limp, flappy carcass. Still alive, if you believed old Horatio, but showing no signs of it. He felt a sudden and overwhelming pity for that frog, imagined himself sprawled across that desk, eyes open and aware, body unresponsive. Darts of panic going nowhere, just exploding like firecrackers in your brain. He himself felt paralyzed and numb.
‘Now each of you pair up with a lab partner,’ said Mrs Horatio. ‘And scoot your desks together.’
Noah swallowed and looked sideways at Amelia. She gave a helpless nod.
He moved his desk next to hers. They didn’t speak to each other; it was a partnership based purely on proximity, but hey, whatever it took to get up close. Amelia’s lips were trembling. He wanted very much to comfort her, but he didn’t know how to, so he just sat there, his face assuming, by default, its usual bored expression. Say something nice to her, moron. Something to impress her. You may never get another chance!
‘Frog sure looks dead,’ he said.
