If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period Page 9
9:24. Please, Dorarian. Please.
9:25. What will I do if she doesn't show?
9:26. "You wouldn't believe how amazing it is to get a dress made for you—Kirsten, are you even listening?"
"Oh, sorry," I say. Why did I ever think I could do this?
And then Dorarian's blue glasses peer through the window. She strides confidently into class. "Matteo, I need to talk to you, sir." Her voice is irritated like it always is when a book is way overdue. There isn't the slightest hint she doesn't mean it.
Matteo's face caves. Oops. I forgot to tell him this part. He hurries after Dorarian with his head down like a bad dog.
Brianna is standing by Matteo's backpack. But so is Hair Boy. Will she steal it with Hair Boy standing right there?
I wave my arm wildly in the air. "Mr. Balderis, I think I'm supposed to be working with Hair Boy," I say.
"Kirsten!" Rory whispers. "Hello? We're working together? Where have you been?"
Hair Boy looks at me like I'm nuts. "I'm not doing extra credit," he tells Balderis. "I don't even know what she's talking about."
Balderis checks his book. "I've got you down with Rory."
"Oh. Yeah, that's right," I mutter.
9:28. When Hair Boy goes back to his desk, I have to believe Brianna's done. I take a deep breath, walk up to Balderis's desk, leave my note, and sit down.
Balderis doesn't see. He's busy arguing with Sophie about how many points she has. "I have the second assignment as late." He taps his book. "And that's twenty points off."
9:29. "It was not late," Sophie says.
"Sophie, it was late. End of discussion," Balderis says.
Good, yeah. End of discussion. Read it. Read it. Read it. He's never going to see it.
9:30. The bell rings. Brianna heads for the door. Balderis, come on. The note!
"Brianna," Balderis calls as she breezes past.
"What?"
"I need to check your backpack."
"Why?"
"I believe I saw you taking something that wasn't yours. I'm probably wrong. Humor me."
"You can't check my backpack," Brianna says, her tan skin suddenly going pale. "That's not right."
"Yes," Balderis says, "I can."
He takes her backpack and unzips it. Nothing in the front pocket. Nothing in the middle part. Nothing in the back part.
I dig my pen point into my leg.
"Your sweater, please?" he asks.
"Are you going to make me strip?" Brianna spits at him. "Because that's, like, illegal."
"No ... but I do want to see your sweater." He holds his hand out.
Her face gets red. She does nothing.
"Your sweater, Brianna," Balderis says.
Brianna slips off her sweater and hands it to Balderis. Balderis puts his hand in the pocket. He pulls out a battered green organizer. He opens it up: Two quarters and Matteo's library card fall out.
Thirty-Eight
Walk
Back in English class, two elbows are on Walk's desk even before the bell rings.
"You think I don't know you set me up?" Brianna asks.
"What are you talking about?" Walk says.
"Matteo would never do this. It was you who told Kirsten what to do."
"Nobody set you up. You stole Matteo's test and you got caught," Walk whispers.
"Do you know how much I've been looking forward to the talent show? It is my whole life. You don't know. I have nothing without this," she says in one sobby breath; her eyes well up, tears roll down her cheeks.
"Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, Brianna." Walk rolls his eyes.
She stops crying. Her eyes narrow. "I can make Matteo do whatever I want, you know."
"Oh, really? Well, if that's true, why'd you have to steal the test? Why didn't he just give it to you?"
She glares at Walk, grabs her pencil, and stalks off to the pencil sharpener.
When she comes back, she leans in real close. "I would be careful if I were you," she whispers.
"You do anything to Matteo's mom and I will—"
"What? What will you do?" She runs her hand along Walk's arm.
"Get off me." He shakes her hand away.
Thirty-Nine
Kirsten
My mom has a headache again today. She must feel really lousy to let me make dinner again. Usually she does everything in her power to keep me away from the refrigerator. I check on her, but she's lying on her bed with the blinds pulled.
I find some frozen taquitos in the back of the freezer and zap them in the microwave. Kippy and I take them to the basement to eat. We spend all evening down there until I see her with her eyes closed and her cheek glued with drool to her Life Cycle of Trees book. I get her up to her room and she crashes on her bed.
My dad comes home just after that. I tell him Mom is sick again and he goes up to their room and closes the door. He doesn't come out, so I head for the garage to the Costco stash.
My mouth is spicy, salty, corny, happy as I munch on Barb-B-Q flavored Fritos. I cram a bag of Ruffles potato chips in my pocket for later. I wonder if Dr. Markovitz could prescribe diet pills? I'm just imagining myself in a size three bikini when I hear voices. I dive behind my dad's new hybrid SUV, the crinkling and crumpling of the potato chip bag loud in my ears.
"Why is the light on out here?" my mom asks.
I don't move. Don't breathe.
"I didn't leave it on," my father says.
"You must have! You went back out to get your laptop in your car, remember?"
"That was last night."
"No," my mother barks.
"Yes it was."
"No it wasn't."
I guess it's good to know they talk directly to each other once in a while, even if it is just to fight. I put my hands on the cold cement floor to take some of the pressure off my knees. Inch by slow inch I slide forward and put my butt down. The chip bag makes a slight crinkling, crackling noise. My whole body freezes. Can they see me?
"You're making too much of this," my father says.
"How can you stand there and say that?"
I breathe out slowly, silently. They didn't hear. They think they're alone.
"Didn't you see them last week?"
"I saw them. They're friends. What is the big deal?"
"Rebecca says they're more than friends," my mom says. "Rebecca says Kirsten is more than friends with several boys."
"But you asked Kirsten and she said no. And I believe her. I've never liked Rebecca, you know that."
"Oh, you're so infuriating! Don't you even care about this?"
"Yes, I care. I just don't think it's worth getting all worked up about."
"You just like hurting me, don't you?" my mom asks.
"For Christ's sake, Rachel, it has nothing to do with you. How many times do I have to tell you that?"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that this might be awkward?"
"We've been over this a hundred times. I didn't think you'd find out."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why would you lie to me?"
"I never lied."
"Oh, don't even ... You have a secret love child and you have the gall to tell me you didn't lie."
Wait a minute. "A secret love child"?
"I didn't lie. I just didn't mention it. He's my son. What do you want me to do? Just pretend he doesn't exist?"
"Why now, all of a sudden? Why didn't you send him to private school before?"
"I didn't realize how bad his school was. Look, I'm trying to do the right thing here. Don't I get any credit for that? Sylvia asked me to help with this."
"I bet she did."
"I owe her that much, Rachel."
"There are other private schools in Marin County. Why this one? Did you want this to come out?"
"You're the one who looked into every school in the entire county. You're the one who picked Mountain. You said it was far and away the best. Those were your exact words." He sighs. "Look. I didn't marry Sylvia, I married you. Please. I'm asking
, I'm begging. Can we move on?"
"Your daughter and your son may or may not be having some kind of romantic..."
"So what is it you'd like me to do, Rachel?"
"I want you to tell me the truth. I don't want to worry my daughter is dating her black half brother. I don't want to be humiliated in front of my friends!"
My mom slams the door so hard the latch pops the door in and out again, leaving it wide open. I hear the swish of her robe and the angry flap of her slippers on the stepping stones.
My father watches her go. He leans on the workbench and rests his head in his hands. Then he follows my mother into the house, gently closing the door behind him.
I'm shaking so hard it's like I'm freezing, but I'm not cold. Is this why they've been fighting so viciously the last few months? Because my mother found out my father had a son? This can't be true. I must be dreaming. I must be.
Forty
Walk
Monday morning, when Sylvia drops Walk at school, Kirsten jumps out at him like she's a big old jungle cat. "I—I—" Her eyes are shiny like she's on something. She grabs his arm.
"What?" Walk asks.
"You never say much about your dad. Does he live with you?"
"He's dead."
"Your dad? How do you know?" she asks.
Walk juts his chin out. "How do I know?"
Her cheeks get all red. "I mean, when did he die?"
"He was a pilot in the Air Force. He died before I was born."
"You never met him?"
"Nope."
She bites her lip. "Do you have a picture?"
"Why?" Walk asks.
"I'd just like to, you know, um, see it sometime? Does he look like you?"
They're in Balderis's class now. Walk stops. "I don't know."
She looks at the room like she doesn't know where she is.
"When's your birthday?"
"My birthday?" Walk glances around for Matteo, but he's not here yet. "Why? You gonna bake me a cake?"
"I have to know." She follows Walk to his seat.
"August eighth," Walk tells her.
"Mine is June second," Kirsten whispers, her eyes all lit up shiny again.
"Kirsten, I'm glad we're having this little bonding moment, but..." He motions with his head to her desk where she's supposed to be sitting now.
The second bell rings.
Balderis is still in the hall. He doesn't see her. "Go, Kirsten," Walk hisses. She seems to wake up and scuttle on over to her desk.
What is that girl's problem today?
Forty-One
Kirsten
In my sock drawer are photos of my dad when he was Walk's age. For the last three days I've been obsessively comparing them with a picture of Walk I Googled. My father has blond hair. Walk has black curly hair, or so it seems. He shaves his head so it's hard to totally know. My father has blue eyes. Walk has brown eyes. And of course Walk's skin is dark. But not that dark. If I take away the idea that my dad and Walk are different races, there is a strong resemblance. Their noses and jawlines are similar, as is something else about their faces.
But Walk and I are both twelve ... we're only two months apart. How could my father have...
And then there's the fact that I now have a brother who is black. What does that mean? What have I thought about black people? Nothing, really. I haven't even known anyone who is black. The guy at the post office. Some kids in my preschool. Everybody in my neighborhood is white.
I guess I thought different. Poor? Did I think poor? Oprah isn't poor, but she's a celebrity.
I don't think I ever thought much about Walk being black, because I know him and he's just Walk. What does he think about being black? What does it feel like?
I wonder if this makes me part black, too? Maybe it does. Is this a weird thing to think?
What does it mean to have a different skin color? I don't even know.
Forty-Two
Walk
Matteo has never missed school before. He never missed tutoring last summer, either. Once he told Walk he didn't miss a single day all last year. Not one.
As soon as Walk gets home, he grabs the phone and settles into the sofa with his legs kicked over the arm. "Hey, where were you?" Walk asks when Matteo answers.
"My cousin had a baby. I had to watch her other kids while she was in the hospital."
"Everything okay?"
"Sure, it's a boy. A little bebito."
"No, I mean with your mom and ... her job. When you weren't there, I was..."
"Oh. Yeah. So far."
"Did you tell her about what happened with Brianna and the test—"
"No."
"Would she tell you if—"
"If she gets accused of something she didn't do?" Matteo snorts. "Yeah, I'd know. She'd be crying so loud, you'd hear her all the way at your apartment. Hey, we get any new math homework?"
"Nope."
"Good. Okay, well, you know, thanks—"
"For what?" Walk switches the phone to the other ear.
"For bein' a butthead, what do you think?"
"You call me a butthead, you end up flat on all sides like a GameCube. A broken one. All cube, no game."
Matteo laughs. "I'd like to see that."
"Come to school tomorrow, I'll give you a little demo," Walk tells him.
"I'll be there, man," Matteo says. "I will."
Forty-Three
Kirsten
I tried to talk to my mom, but she was gone all day Sunday on a yoga retreat—didn't even say goodbye. And then as soon as she got back, she was out the door to Madison's mom's house to address auction invitations. Last night she was busy reloading the dishwasher because no one ever loads it the way she likes and filling out a big stack of application forms so Kippy can go to a gifted kids program on Saturdays.
Okay, maybe she wasn't that busy. Maybe I didn't really want to talk to her about this. But I have to talk to someone.
In the kitchen Kippy is standing on the step stool stirring a big mess. She's making the kind of concoction she usually creates with bubble bath and shampoo in the tub only now she's mixing tea bags, coffee grounds, and tuna fish.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Making compost."
"For what?"
"The tree."
"Oh yeah. The tree. Are Mom and Dad up yet?" I ask, though one look at the kitchen should tell me the answer to that question.
"They had a big fight last night."
"Again?"
"I slept in their room, but it didn't help."
"You sleep in their room so they won't fight?"
She nods.
"Ah, Kip." She looks so small in my old Scooby-Doo pajamas. I put my arm around her and give her a hug. Hey, shouldn't she be dressed? This is a school day.
"Mom's got to drive us to school...," I say.
Kippy shrugs. She cracks an egg and adds the shell to the mess in her jar. "What's the matter with them?" She looks up at me and waits.
"Mom and Dad?"
She nods.
Mom sometimes lies to Kippy. She tells her robbers don't know our address, kids don't ever die, and moms don't have children they don't love. Kip always knows when Mom's feeding her a load of crap, though, and she comes and talks to me about it.
"Mom found out something Dad did a long time ago and she's really mad at him."
"What'd he do?"
I rest my elbows on the counter and watch Kippy. She's grown, I suddenly realize. Her face isn't as round as it used to be. "You hear anything weird when they argued?"
"No. What'd he do?" she asks again.
"I don't know for sure, Kip."
She looks at me, then back at her jar. I can almost feel her thinking terrible things. When you tell Kip you don't know, she figures it's because the glaciers are melting and we won't live through the week, anyway.
"I don't," I repeat, jutting my chin out.
Her eyes continue to stare at me. She doesn't blink.
She nods.
"He's our half brother. His dad is our dad, but he has a different mom." I laugh at this. I laugh so hard I can hardly stand up.
Kippy does not laugh. "Is this a true story?"
I get quiet now. "Yes."
She bites her lip and her eyes go straight up like she's trying to add a big column of numbers in her head. "So Dad's sperm went inside Walk's mom, but how did it get in there?" she whispers.
"God, Kippy, do you have to be so literal?"
"Well?" she asks, her little forehead still furrowed like she's trying to make sense of this.
"Ask Mom about that. Oh no! Don't ask Mom about it! Don't! Don't say a word to Mom about any of this! Mom's going to flip out. Look, I'll explain later, okay?"
"At least it isn't lymphoma," Kip says, pouring olive oil into her jar.
"Lymphoma?"
"The silent killer," she whispers. "That's what they said on Mom's radio program. Nobody has lymphoma, right?" Her forehead furrows again.
"Nobody has lymphoma," I tell her.
"Is Walk going to move in with us?"
"I don't think so."
"Is he going to come to Thanksgiving?"
"I don't know."
"Does he have any pets?"
"I don't know that, either. Kip ... just promise you won't say anything to Mom, okay?"
"Okay." She shrugs. She's back to work now, cracking another egg into her jar.
"Kirsten?" she asks as I dig through the refrigerator looking for something better to eat than lemon yogurt. "You'll always be my sister. That's never going to change ... is it?"
Forty-Four
Walk
Walk's deep in his science homework when the phone rings. Gotta be Sylvia. Walk would bet money on it, if he had money, but like a fool he spent it all on Jamal's soap.
Walk grabs the phone. "I'm busy doin' drugs, Momma, what do you think?"
"What?" a little girl's voice asks.