who wants to use the washroom—who isn’t Sonny, of course—it’s “out of order.” We practiced it dozens of times before we left the Phillipses’ last night.
There’s no time to waste. I push past people I barely recognize because I’m so nervous and feel up under my shirt for the packet of Crisco. In front of the boys’ washroom I look over my shoulder quickly just to make sure Sonny’s not right behind me. The coast is clear so I rush past Forsyth, who’s mouthing something to me and waving her arms around, but I push through the door to the boys’ washroom so I can carry out our plan.
Oh. My. Lord.
I hear the door shut behind me and rest my eyes on not one, not two, not three, even, but about twenty—twenty—boys! Boys from every grade. Boys standing with their backs to the door. Boys facing the wall. Boys with their pants practically down to their ankles. Boys combing their hair. Boys leaning against the tiled wall. Boys in every nook and cranny of this washroom!
“Lookee-lou, it’s Scary Carrie,” a hollow voice bounces off the tiled walls and mixes into all the laughing that breaks out like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
Everything happens so fast I cain’t even tell you what I said or how I got out of there. I just know that as I fly out the door I see Sonny, smiling and sauntering up to the door without a care in the world.
The girls’ washroom is right next door but I want to get as far away from here as I possibly can. So I run. I run down the hall, past Emma, who’s looking at me weird, past Mr. Stanley, past a million laughing kids I never want to see ever again, and out the double metal doors that lead to freedom. They can arrest me if they want, but I’m not going back into that school. I hear the door slam behind me and soon Emma’s beside me on the second step of the rickety old bleachers by the baseball diamond.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Forsyth,” I sob, “Forsyth …” It’s all I can manage to say. I’m crying too hard. I’m the laughingstock of the school.
“Forsyth what? What happened?”
Then it comes back to me … oh, Lord! Forsyth’s lips moving. Her arms swishing back and forth like windshield wipers. She was trying to warn me. She was trying to warn me.
I wish I could disappear.
“It’ll be okay,” Emma says. “Don’t cry. It’ll be okay. You’ll see. It’ll all be okay.” Her hand rubs circles in the middle of my back.
“How?” I sniffle. “How will it be okay now?”
But she’s quiet so I know she was just trying to make me feel better.
“If anyone makes fun of you I’ll beat ‘em up, that’s how.”
“You cain’t beat up the whole school. And that’s who’s going to make fun of me.” I wipe my runny nose on my sleeve.
“We’ll think of something,” she says, “but we better go on back. Mr. Streng’s going to be after us if we cut out altogether. Come on.”
The halls are empty when we go back through the double doors—everyone’s in third period, I reckon. After my eyes adjust, I head toward my locker and Emma pads alongside me. Even in echoey halls she doesn’t make any noise.
“Here’s what you do when third period’s over.” She hurries up to in front of me so she can face me. “You pretend you’re deaf so when anyone says anything—or even laughs at you—it doesn’t make a lick of difference. Just pretend you can’t hear a thing.”
What she doesn’t realize is I’ve been trying this all my life. It never works.
“Caroline, you knew this stuff backward and forward yesterday.” Mr. Stanley’s mouth is all twisted up, like it’s fed up with talking to me altogether. “What I wonder is how on earth you could completely forget multiplication.”
Am I supposed to answer him?
“Young lady? Young lady, I’m talking to you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you forgot to do your homework, say so. But don’t give me this little act like you think I don’t know what you’re up to. I’ll see you after school.”
When on earth did we learn multiplication? I swear I have no idea how an x between two numbers is supposed to change what they’re worth. Mr. Stanley keeps looking over here like I’m going to make a run for it and I suppose I could, but where would I go? Home to Richard? Here’s the thing Mr. Stanley doesn’t get about me: I don’t mind school. Mary Sellers, Tommy Bucksmith, Luanne Kibley and all them can pretend to love it all they want in front of the teachers, but I hear them in the lunchroom talkin’ trash about it. I like everything about school—except for the other kids, a’course. I like getting out of the house all day long. It’s like a field trip every single day.
“Caroline!”
Mr. Stanley’s voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it.
“Yes, sir?”
“The bell rang five minutes ago. Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”
“Yes, sir.” I swear I didn’t even hear the bell ring. I’m the only one left in the classroom. Just before I get through the door his gravelly voice throws words at me: “Remember, after school.”
“Yes, sir.”
Emma’s going to have to wait for me. I bet Momma won’t even notice we’re not home on time. She don’t care. To tell you the truth, I bet she’s glad to have us out of the house as we are to be gone. She’s got to manage her piles and I reckon she can do it a whole lot better with some peace and quiet. All day she sits there folding letters into three sections, stacking them in tall towers until the envelopes all have the address stickers on them and then she stuffs those with the letters. We’re not allowed to read what the letters say; Momma’s sure we’ll crinkle the paper and she’ll get fired. I don’t care what they say, anyway, since Momma looks so bored doing all this it cain’t be interesting. Momma’s so smart she didn’t even have to go interview for the job. She answered an ad in the newspaper about working from home, making you a ton of money. They liked her so much on the phone the job was hers, they said. Emma and me try to figure out why it is we haven’t seen the ton of money they promised Momma, but I think it’s babyish to think a truck is going to pull up to the back of your house and unload bagfuls of cash like a bread truck delivering to the grocery store. Emma’s still waiting for the truck.
“You’re late, Caroline.” Miss Hall looks about as happy with me as Mr. Stanley did. “That’s the third time this week.” She made a little mark next to my name in the book on her desk.
I don’t ever set out to be late but my mind sometimes takes a detour. Like when I write with another kind of handwriting. I know which way the letter k is supposed to face but then, whammo!—there it is backward. And usually when there’s a backward k, it’s in the other handwriting I surprise myself with; it almost looks like I could be in Emma’s class with this handwriting. It’s really shaky and big and, like I said, the letters are sometimes mixed up.
