What Comes After Page 14

  Mrs. Roosevelt said that the book was based on the author’s life, so she had to be honest in writing her memoir.

  Shirelle fidgeted in her seat. She clearly wasn’t happy with that answer.

  The discussion didn’t go on for too long, though, because Rasheed jumped in. He wanted to know if Marguerite was supposed to be a lesbian, even though she had sex with a boy to try to prove she wasn’t.

  I looked over at him when he asked that, and when I did, I saw Littleberry. He mouthed the words “You OK?”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the mall, the night of Aunt Sue and her company and her gun. So much had happened since then — and not all of it had been in the paper.

  Mrs. Roosevelt gave us a homework assignment at the end of class. We were starting another composition unit, and she wanted us to try writing a one-act play. Littleberry was still looking at me, wanting to talk, but the minute the bell rang I grabbed my backpack and bolted from class. Shirelle called out to me as I was leaving, but I didn’t turn around to see what she wanted. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to remain invisible.

  DINNER AT THE TUTENS’

  A One-Act Play by Iris Wight

  Setting: A stupid house in Stupid Town. Ferrets swarm over all the furniture. They run into walls and fall down.

  A middle-aged woman hovers over the stove, cooking Hungarian goulash. She frowns when she thinks nobody is around to see her. Otherwise she smiles so wide it has to hurt her face. She wears an apron that says, What part of IT’S MY KITCHEN don’t you understand?

  A teenage girl sits on a bed with a disgustingly frilly bedspread in a yellow bedroom next to the kitchen. She wishes she had an iPod so she could listen to the Clash, or the Kinks, or Modest Mouse. She is trying not to gag at the disgusting smell of potpourri, which lingers stubbornly, though she is grateful that it mostly masks the even more disgusting smell of ferret musk and poop, and of Hungarian goulash.

  Middle-Aged Woman (calling out toward the bedroom): Oh, Iris!

  Teenage Girl: Yes, Mrs. Tuten?

  Middle-Aged Woman: It’s almost dinnertime, and Mr. Tuten will be home any minute. Can I get you to take care of the litter box?

  Teenage Girl looks up to heaven and asks God to kill her, please. Nothing happens. God hasn’t been answering her prayers for a while now. She gets up off the bed, goes into the laundry room, scoops ferret turds into a bowl, and brings them into the kitchen. Middle-Aged Woman thanks her, takes the bowl, and studies the turds. She stabs one with a toothpick and lifts it to her nose. She sniffs, nods, returns the turd to the bowl, and hands it back to Teenage Girl. Teenage Girl exits.

  Cue sound of toilet flushing.

  Middle-Aged Man enters the house. Happy ferrets leap into his arms, and he kisses and greets them: Oh, Hob! Oh, Jill! I missed you. Did you have a good day? Did you miss Daddy?

  Middle-Aged Man puts ferrets back down, then shouts into kitchen: Honey, I’m home!

  Teenage Girl is reminded of Jack Nicholson in The Shining; makes mental note to write “Redrum” all over the walls with her own blood after Middle-Aged Woman and Middle-Aged Man go to bed. Or, better — ferret blood.

  Middle-Aged Man and Teenage Girl both enter the kitchen and sit at the dinner table.

  Middle-Aged Man: Well, well, well, well, well. And how are my favorite girls in the whole world today?

  Teenage Girl wishes she didn’t have to answer, especially since she’s only been living with Middle-Aged Man and Middle-Aged Woman a week, but knows he’ll keep it up until she says something back: Fine, Mr. Tuten.

  Middle-Aged Woman puckers lips and blows kiss at Middle-Aged Man from across kitchen.

  Middle-Aged Man, puckering lips and blowing kiss back: And is that Hungarian goulash I smell?

  Middle-Aged Woman, smiling even wider, which Teenage Girl didn’t think was possible: Yes, indeedy.

  Teenage Girl: Is it vegetarian?

  Middle-Aged Woman: It’s mostly vegetarian.

  Teenage Girl: What does that mean?

  Middle-Aged Woman: There are vegetables in it.

  Teenage Girl: Oh, God.

  Middle-Aged Man: Language — language.

  Teenage Girl, getting up: Any crackers and cheese?

  Middle-Aged Woman sets humongous soup tureen in middle of kitchen table and ladles out three bowls of Hungarian goulash. Whatever is actually in it is anybody’s guess, since it’s all black. Teenage Girl, returning to the table, pushes hers away. Middle-Aged Man and Middle-Aged Woman dig in. Teenage Girl nibbles on crackers and cheese like a malnourished rat.

  Middle-Aged Man: Any homework tonight, Iris?

  Teenage Girl: I did it in study hall.

  Middle-Aged Woman: And what were your assignments?

  Teenage Girl: Algebra. Read two chapters for Government. Write a one-act play for English.

  Middle-Aged Man: A one-act play! That sounds like fun. What about?

  Teenage Girl: Living here.

  Middle-Aged Woman, taking her turn at the interrogation: You wrote about living here with us?

  Teenage Girl: Yes. It’s called Dinner at the Tutens’.

  Middle-Aged Man, taking his turn again: Tell us about it.

  Teenage Girl: It’s a tragedy.

  Middle-Aged Man and Middle-Aged Woman, together: Oh, dear!

  Teenage Girl: I mean, it’s a comedy.

  Middle-Aged Man and Middle-Aged Woman, together again: How wonderful!

  Cue ferrets.

  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.

  “What about you?” I asked. “I heard you were in Portland. Are you OK?”

  “I don’t know,” Beatrice said. “I guess I’m OK. I’m sort of still in shock.”

  She said her dad had been having an affair. He confessed it to her mom.

  “I didn’t even have time to call you when it happened,” Beatrice said. “Mom woke me up at about two o’clock in the morning. We practically had to carry Sean downstairs and throw him in the van. We drove down to my grandparents’ in Portland. Mom wouldn’t let us talk to Dad or call anybody for a couple of days. I just watched TV and went for walks. Sean acted like we were on a big vacation, but when Mom said we weren’t going back home, that she and Dad were separated, he wouldn’t stop crying.”

  “So what now?” I asked.

  “I already transferred to Portland High,” she said. “The Bulldogs! Can you believe that? And they already have a starting pitcher, so I’ll probably have to play right field or something.”

  “Have you seen your dad at all?” I asked.

  Beatrice erupted. “Forget him, Iris! He cheated on my mom. Forget him. I wish he’d just leave. Just totally leave, so we wouldn’t ever have to have anything to do with him again.”

  As angry as I was at Mr. Stone, the thought of Beatrice not talking to her dad made me sad.

  “I don’t know, B.,” I said. “Your dad used to come to all our games. He drove us to tournaments and stuff. He was our coach in seventh grade.”

  “So what?” Beatrice said. “So the hell what?”

  I couldn’t figure out why I was defending Beatrice’s dad. He’d always been nice enough to me, but I knew that didn’t really mean anything. He had lied to my dad about keeping me in Maine. He had lied to his own family, lied to Beatrice’s mom.

  Beatrice lowered her voice. She whispered into the phone. “I think my mom is cracking up, Iris. I really do. She’s on these anti-anxiety pills, and sleeping pills. She’s in her old bedroom that she grew up in when she was a girl. I even caught her holding her old dolls.”

  Just then I heard Mrs. Stone’s voice in the background. Beatrice muffled the phone for a minute, and when she came back on, she said she had to go. “My mom needs me. We’ll talk more later.”

  I sat for a long time with the phone still in my hands. I’d forgotten where it went, which room the cradle was in, and didn’t think I had it in me to get up and look. I probably could have felt the earth move under me if I hadn’t been so numb — shifting tectonic plates, Maine separating from the rest of America, sliding off into the Atlantic, migrating toward some other continent, falling farther and farther away from me all the while.

  On Saturday I asked the Tutens if I could go out to Aunt Sue’s farm to check on the goats. I hadn’t seen them in almost two weeks. I was frightened at the thought of being out there again, but I missed the goats terribly and couldn’t stop worrying about them — no matter how many times Mindy mentioned Animal Control.

  Mrs. Tuten said no, she was sorry.

&nb
sp; “Your aunt’s house is private property, Iris. You don’t live there anymore, and Mindy said it’s not allowed. We thought she already told you.”

  I tried arguing with Mrs. Tuten, but she wouldn’t budge. Mr. Tuten looked at his shoes the whole time and didn’t say anything. The ferrets circled nervously, then Hob bit my shoe. I kicked him off and went to my room. Now that I had decided I was ready to go back to the farm, I was desperate to be there. The goats needed me. I couldn’t let them think I had abandoned them, too.

  And nothing — not the Tutens, not Mindy, not Animal Control — was going to keep me away from them any longer.

  My chance came the next day, a Sunday, when the Tutens went to visit Mr. Tuten’s great-aunt, who lived in a nursing home in Kinston, an hour away. They invited me to go, but I said I had to catch up on some homework, so they just reminded me to please look after the ferrets and said that they would be home in time for dinner.

  As soon as they left, I filled the ferrets’ bowls, then went into the backyard. Mr. Tuten had a work shed out there, which I’d never been in. I pulled the door open, hoping to find a bicycle I could ride out to the farm, though I was determined to walk if I had to. I found what I was looking for right away, leaning under a dusty blue tarp — an old three-gear bike that probably hadn’t been ridden in ten years. The chain was rusty, but the gears still operated OK. The back brake didn’t work, but at least the front brake did, mostly. I adjusted the seat to my height. The frame was too long, but there was nothing I could do about that. The tires were flat. I searched some more and found a pump. Miraculously, both tires held air.

  It took me an hour to get out to Aunt Sue’s farm. My ankle hurt from pedaling, and holding on to the handlebars made my shoulder ache. I ran out of breath easily and kept having to stop and rest. I refused to turn back, though. Pedaling got harder once I made it to County Circle Road, just outside the city limits. There were steeper hills but nicer scenery. More trees, less concrete. Finally, I turned onto Cocytus Road, a winding canopy road with hardly any cars.