My parents declare that I am too old to go trick-or-treating. I'm thrilled. This way I don't have to admit that no one invited me to go with them. I'm not about to tell Mom and Dad that. To keep up appearances, I stomp to my room and slam the door.
I look out my window. A group of little creatures is coming up the walk. A pirate, a dinosaur, two fairies, and a bride. Why is it that you never see a kid dressed as a groom on Halloween? Their parents chat at the curb. The night is dangerous, parents are required—tall ghosts in khakis and down jackets floating behind the children.
The doorbell rings. My parents squabble about who will answer it. Then Mom swears and opens the door with a high-pitched "Ooooh, who do we have here?" She must have handed out only one mini-chocolate bar to each creature—their thank-yous do not sound enthusiastic. The kids cut through the yard to the next house and their parents follow in the street.
Last year, our clan all dressed up as witches. We went to Ivy's house because she and her older sister had theatrical makeup. We traded clothes and splurged on cheap black wigs. Rachel and I looked the best. We had used baby-sitting money to rent black satin capes lined in red. We rocked. It was an unusually warm, wicked evening. We didn't need long underwear and the sky was clear. The wind kicked up, skimming clouds over the surface of the full moon, which was hung just to make us feel powerful and strong. We raced through the night, a clan of untouchable witches. I actually thought for a moment that we could cast spells, could turn people into frogs or rabbits, to punish the evil and reward the good. We ended up with pounds of candy. After Ivy's parents went to bed, we lit a candle in the totally dark house. We held it in front of an antique mirror at midnight to see our futures. I couldn't see anything.
This year Rachelle is going to a party thrown by one of the exchange students' host families. I heard her talk about it in algebra. I knew I wouldn't get an invitation. I would be lucky to get an invitation to my own funeral, with my reputation. Heather is walking with some of the little kids in her neighborhood so their mothers can stay home.
I am prepared. I refuse to spend the night moping in my room or listening to my parents argue. I checked out a book from the library, Dracula, by Bram Stoker. Cool name. I settle into my nest with a bag of candy corn and the blood-sucking monster.
In a post-Halloween frenzy, the school board has come out against calling us the Devils. We are now the Merryweather Tigers. Roar.
The Ecology Club is planning a rally to protest the "degrading of an endangered species." This is the only thing talked about at school. Especially during class. Mr. Neck has a steroid rage, screaming about Motivation and Identity and sacred School Spirit. We won't even make it to the Industrial Revolution at this rate.
I get hosed in Spanish. "Linda" means "pretty" in Spanish. This is a great joke. Mrs. Spanish Teacher calls my name. Some stand-up comic cracks, "No, Melinda no es linda." They call me Me-no-linda for the rest of the period. This is how terrorists get started, this kind of harmless fun. I wonder if it's too late to transfer to German.
I just thought of a great theory that explains everything. When I went to that party, I was abducted by aliens. They have created a fake Earth and fake high school to study me and my reactions. This certainly explains cafeteria food. Not the other stuff, though. The aliens have a sick sense of humor.
Heather has found a clan—the Marthas. She is a freshman member on probation. I have no idea how she did it. I suspect money changed hands. This is part of her strategy to make a place for herself at school. I am supposed to be tagging along. But the Marthas!
It's an expensive clan to run with; outfits must be coordinated, crisp, and seasonally appropriate. They favor plaid for autumn with matching sweaters in colors named after fruit, like apricot and russet apple. Winter calls for Fair Isle sweaters, lined wool pants, and Christmas hair ornaments. They haven't told her what to buy for spring. I predict skirts with geese and white blouses with embroidered ducks on the collar.
I tell Heather she should push the fashion envelope just a teeny bit to be an ironic reflection of the 1950s, you know, innocence and apple pie. She doesn't think the Clan Leaders, Meg 'n' Emily 'n' Siobhan, understand irony. They like rules too much.
Marthas are big on helping. The name of their group came from somebody in the Bible (the original Martha Clan Leader became a missionary in Los Angeles). But now they follow the Other Martha, Saint Martha of the Glue Gun, the lady who writes books about cheery decorations. Very Connecticut, very prep. The Marthas tackle projects and perform good deeds. This is ideal Heather work. She says they run the canned-food drive, tutor kids in the city, host a walkathon, a danceathon, and a rockingchairathon to raise money for I don't know what. They also Do Nice Things for teachers. Gag.
Heather's first Martha Project is to decorate the faculty lounge for a Thanksgiving party/faculty meeting. She corners me after Spanish and begs me to help her. She thinks the Marthas have given her a deliberately impossible job so they can dump her. I've always wondered what the staff room looks like. You hear so many rumors. Will it have a cot for teachers who need naps? Economy-sized boxes of tissues for emotional meltdowns? Comfortable leather chairs and a private butler? What about the secret files they keep on all the kids?
The truth is nothing more than a small green room with dirty windows and a lingering smell of cigarettes, even though it has been illegal to smoke on school property for years. Metal folding chairs surround a battered table. One wall has a bulletin board that hasn't been cleared off since Americans walked on the moon. And I look, but I can't find any secret files. They must keep them in the principal's office.
I'm supposed to make a centerpiece out of waxed maple leaves, acorns, ribbon, and a mile of thin wire. Heather is going to set the table and hang the banner. She babbles on about her classes while I ruin leaf after red leaf. I ask if we can trade before I cause permanent damage to myself. Heather gently untangles me from the wire. She holds a bunch of leaves in one hand, twists the wire around the stem—one-two—hides the wire with ribbon and hot-glues the acorns into place. It's spooky. I hurry to finish the table.
Heather: "What do you think?"
Me: "You are a decorating genius."
Heather: [eyes rolling] "No, silly. What do you think about this! Me! Can you believe they're letting me join? Meg has been so sweet to me, she calls me every night just to talk." She walks around the table and straightens the forks I just set. "You are going to think this is ridiculous, but I was so upset last month I asked my parents to send me to boarding school. But now I have friends, and I know how to open my locker, and [she pauses and scrunches her face up] it's just perfect!"
I don't have to choke out an answer because Meg 'n' Emily 'n' Siobhan march in, carrying trays of mini-muffins and apple slices dipped in chocolate. Meg raises an eyebrow at me.
Me: "Thanks for the homework, Heather. You are so helpful." I scoot out the door, leaving it open a crack to watch what happens next. Heather stands at attention while our handiwork is inspected. Meg picks up the centerpiece and examines it from every angle.
Meg: "Nice job."
Heather blushes.
Emily: "Who was that girl?"
Heather: "She's a friend. She was the first person to make me feel at home here."
Siobhan: "She's creepy. What's wrong with her lips? It looks like she's got a disease or something."
Emily holds out her watch (the watchband matches the bow in her hair). Five minutes. Heather has to leave before the teachers arrive. Part of being on probation means she's not allowed to take credit for her work.
I hide in the bathroom until I know Heather's bus has left. The salt in my tears feels good when it stings my lips. I wash my face in the sink until there is nothing left of it, no eyes, no nose, no mouth. A slick nothing.
I see IT in the hallway. IT goes to Merryweather. IT is walking with Aubrey Cheerleader. IT is my nightmare and I can't wake up. IT sees me. IT smiles and winks. Good thing my lips are stitched together or I'd throw up.
GO______________ (FILL IN THE BLANK)!
The Ecology Club has won round two. We are no longer the Tigers because the name shows "shocking disrespect" for an endangered creature.
I know I'm shocked.
The Ecology Club made great posters. They laid out headlines from the sports page: TIGERS RIPPED APART! TIGERS SLAUGHTERED! TIGERS KILLED! side by side with color photos of Bengal tigers with their skins peeled off. Effective. The Ecology Club has some good PR people. (The football team would have protested, but the sad truth is that they've lost every game this season. They are happy not to be called the Tigers. Other teams called them Pussycats. Not manly.) More than half the school signed a petition and the tree huggers got letters of support from a bunch of outside groups and three Hollywood Actors.
They herd us into an assembly that is supposed to be a "democratic forum" to come up with a new school mascot. Who are we? We can't be the Buccaneers because pirates supported violence and discrimination against women. The kid who suggests the Shoemakers in honor of the old moccasin factory is laughed out of the auditorium. Warriors insults Native Americans. I think Overbearing Eurocentric Patriarchs would be perfect, but I don't suggest it.
Student Council is holding an election before Winter Break. Our choices:
a. The Bees—useful to agriculture, painful to cross
b. Icebergs—in honor of our festive winter weather
c. Hilltoppers—guaranteed to frighten opponents
d. Wombats—no one knows if they're endangered
My parents commanded me to stay after school every day for extra help from teachers. I agreed to stay after school. I hang out in my refurbished closet. It is shaping up nicely.
The first thing to go is the mirror. It is screwed to the wall, so I cover it with a poster of Maya Angelou that the librarian gave me. She said Ms. Angelou is one of the greatest American writers. The poster was coming down because the school board banned one of her books. She must be a great writer if the school board is afraid of her. Maya Angelou's picture watches me while I sweep and mop the floor, while I scrub the shelves, while I chase spiders out of the corners. I do a little bit of work every day. It's like building a fort. I figure Maya would like it if I read in here, so I bring a few books from home. Mostly I watch the scary movies playing on the inside of my eyelids.
It is getting harder to talk. My throat is always sore, my lips raw. When I wake up in the morning, my jaws are clenched so tight I have a headache. Sometimes my mouth relaxes around Heather, if we're alone. Every time I try to talk to my parents or a teacher, I sputter or freeze. What is wrong with me? It's like I have some kind of spastic laryngitis.
I know my head isn't screwed on straight. I want to leave, transfer, warp myself to another galaxy. I want to confess everything, hand over the guilt and mistake and anger to someone else. There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs. Even if I dump the memory, it will stay with me, staining me. My closet is a good thing, a quiet place that helps me hold these thoughts inside my head where no one can hear them.
My Spanish teacher breaks the "no English" rule to tell us that we had better stop pretending we don't understand the homework assignments or we're all going to get detention. Then she repeats what she just said in Spanish, though it seems as if she tosses in a few extra phrases. I don't know why she hasn't figured it out yet. If she just taught us all the swearwords the first day, we would have done whatever she wanted the rest of the year.
Detention does not sound appealing. I do my homework—choose five verbs and conjugate them.
To translate: traducir. I traducate.
To flunk: fracasar. Yo am almost fracasaring.
To hide: esconder. To escape: escapar.
To forget: olvidar.
Just in case we forget that "weareheretogetagoodfoundation sowecangotocollegeliveuptoourpotentialgetagoodjoblivehap pilyeverafterandgotoDisneyWorld," we have a Job Day.
Like all things Hi!School, it starts with a test, a test of my desires and my dreams. Do I (a) prefer to spend time with a large group of people? (b) prefer to spend time with a small group of close friends? (c) prefer to spend time with family? (d) prefer to spend time alone?
Am I (a) a helper? (b) a doer? (c) a planner? (d) a dreamer?
If I were tied to railroad tracks and the 3:15 train to Rochester was ready to cut a path across my middle, would I (a) scream for help? (b) ask my little mice friends to chew through the ropes? (c) remember that my favorite jeans were in the dryer and were hopelessly wrinkled? (d) close my eyes and pretend nothing was wrong?
Two hundred questions later, I get my results. I should consider a career in (a) forestry (b) firefighting (c) communications (d) mortuary science. Heather's results are clearer. She should be a nurse. It makes her jump up and down.
Heather: "This is the best! I know exactly what I'm going to do. I'll be a candy striper at the hospital this summer. Why don't you do it with me? I'll study real hard in biology and go to S.U. and get my R.N. What a great plan!"
How could she know this? I don't know what I'm doing in the next five minutes and she has the next ten years figured out. I'll worry about making it out of ninth grade alive. Then I'll think about a career path.
Mr. Neck storms into class, a bull chasing thirty-three red flags. We slide into our seats. I think for sure he's going to explode. Which he does, but in an unpredictable, faintly educational way.
IMMIGRATION. He writes it on the board. I'm pretty sure he spelled it right.
Mr. Neck: "My family has been in this country for over two hundred years. We built this place, fought in every war from the first one to the last one, paid taxes, and voted."
A cartoon thought bubble forms over the heads of everyone in the class. ("WILL THIS BE ON THE TEST?")
Mr. Neck: "So tell me why my son can't get a job."
A few hands creep skyward. Mr. Neck ignores them. It is a pretend question, one he asked so he could give the answer. I relax. This is like when my father complains about his boss. The best thing to do is to stay awake and blink sympathetically.
His son wanted to be a firefighter, but didn't get the job. Mr. Neck is convinced that this is some kind of reverse discrimination. He says we should close our borders so that real Americans can get the jobs they deserve. The job test said that I would be a good firefighter. I wonder if I could take a job away from Mr. Neck's son.
I tune out and focus on my doodle, a pine tree. I've been trying to carve a linoleum block in art class. The problem with the block is that there is no way to correct mistakes. Every mistake I make is frozen in the picture. So I have to think ahead.
Mr. Neck writes on the board again: "DEBATE: America should have closed her borders in 1900." That strikes a nerve. Several nerves. I can see kids counting backward on their fingers, trying to figure when their grandparents or great-grandparents were born, when they came to America, if they would have made the Neck Cut. When they figure out they would have been stuck in a country that hated them, or a place with no schools, or a place with no future, their hands shoot up. They beg to differ with Mr. Neck's learned opinion.
I don't know where my family came from. Someplace cold, where they eat beans on Thursday and hang their wash on the line on Monday. I don't know how long we've been in America. We've been in this school district since I was in first grade; that must count for something. I start an apple tree.
The arguments jump back and forth across the room. A few suck-ups quickly figure out which side Mr. Neck is squatting on, so they fight to throw out the "foreigners." Anyone whose family immigrated in the last century has a story to tell about how hard their relatives have worked, the contributions they make to the country, the taxes they pay. A member of the Archery Club tries to say that we are all foreigners and we should give the country back to the Native Americans, but she's buried under disagreement. Mr. Neck enjoys the noise, until one kid challenges him directly.
Brave Kid: "Maybe your son didn't get that job because he's not good enough. Or he's lazy. Or the other guy was better than him, no matter what his skin color. I think the white people who have been here for two hundred years are the ones pulling down the country. They don't know how to work—they've had it too easy."
The pro-immigration forces erupt in applause and hooting.
Mr. Neck. "You watch your mouth, mister. You are talking about my son. I don't want to hear any more from you. That's enough debate—get your books out."
The Neck is back in control. Show time is over. I try to draw a branch coming out of a tree trunk for the 315th time. It looks so flat, a cheap, cruddy drawing. I have no idea how to make it come alive. I am so focused I don't notice at first that David Petrakis My Lab Partner has stood up. The class stops talking. I put my pencil down.
Mr. Neck: "Mr. Petrakis, take your seat."
David Petrakis is never, ever in trouble. He is the kid who wins perfect attendance records, who helps the staff chase down bugs in the computer files of report cards. I chew a hangnail on my pinkie. What is he thinking? Has he flipped, finally cracked under the pressure of being smarter than everyone?
David: "If the class is debating, then each student has the right to say what's on his mind."
Mr. Neck: "I decide who talks in here."
David: "You opened a debate. You can't close it just because it is not going your way."
Mr. Neck: "Watch me. Take your seat, Mr. Petrakis."
David: "The Constitution does not recognize different classes of citizenship based on time spent living in the country. I am a citizen, with the same rights as your son, or you. As a citizen, and as a student, I am protesting the tone of this lesson as racist, intolerant, and xenophobic."
Mr. Neck: "Sit your butt in that chair, Petrakis, and watch your mouth! I try to get a debate going in here and you people turn it into a race thing. Sit down or you're going to the principal."
David stares at Mr. Neck, looks at the flag for a minute, then picks up his books and walks out of the room. He says a million things without saying a word. I make a note to study David Petrakis. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.
The Pilgrims gave thanks at Thanksgiving because the Native Americans saved their sorry butts from starving. I give thanks at Thanksgiving because my mother finally goes to work and my father orders pizza.
My normally harried, rushed mother always turns into a strung-out retail junkie just before Turkey Day. It's because of Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, the start of the Christmas shopping season. If she doesn't sell a billion shirts and twelve million belts on Black Friday, the world will end. She lives on cigarettes and black coffee, swearing like a rap star and calculating spreadsheets in her head. The goals she sets for her store are totally unrealistic and she knows it. She can't help herself. It's like watching someone caught in an electric fence, twitching and squirming and very stuck. Every year, just when she's stressed to the snapping point, she cooks Thanksgiving dinner. We beg her not to. We plead with her, send anonymous notes. She doesn't listen.
I go to bed the night before Thanksgiving at 10 p.m. She's pounding on her laptop at the dining-room table. When I come downstairs Thanksgiving morning, she's still there. I don't think she slept.
She looks up at me in my robe and bunny slippers. "Oh, damn," she says. "The turkey."
I peel potatoes while she gives the frozen turkey a hot bath. The windows fog up, separating us from the outside. I want to suggest that we have something else for dinner, spaghetti maybe, or sandwiches, but I know she wouldn't take it the right way. She hacks at the guts of the turkey with an ice pick to get out the bag of body parts. I'm impressed. Last year she cooked the bird with the bag inside.
Cooking Thanksgiving dinner means something to her. It's like a holy obligation, part of what makes her a wife and mother. My family doesn't talk much and we have nothing in common, but if my mother cooks a proper Thanksgiving dinner, it says we'll be a family for one more year. Kodak logic. Only in film commercials does stuff like that work.
I finish the potatoes. She sends me to the TV to watch the parades. Dad stumbles downstairs. "How is she?" he asks before he goes in the kitchen. "It's Thanksgiving," I say. Dad puts on his coat. "Doughnuts?" he asks. I nod.
The phone rings. Mom answers. It's the store. Emergency #1. I go into the kitchen for a soda. She pours me orange juice, which I can't drink because it burns my scabby lips. The turkey floats in the sink, a ten-pound turkey iceberg. A turkeyberg. I feel very much like the Titanic.
Mom hangs up and chases me out with instructions to take a shower and clean my room. I soak in the bathtub. I fill my lungs with air and float on top of the water, then blow out all my breath and sink to the bottom. I put my head underwater to listen to my heart beat. The phone rings again. Emergency #2.
By the time I'm dressed, the parades are over and Dad is watching football. Confectioner's sugar dusts the stubble on his face. I don't like it when he bums around the house on holidays. I like my Dad clean-shaven and wearing a suit. He motions for me to get out of the way so he can see the screen.
Mom is on the phone. Emergency #3. The long curly cord snakes around and around her thin body, like a rope tying her to the stake. Two drumstick tips poke out of an enormous pot of boiling water. She is boiling the frozen turkey. "It's too big for the microwave," she explains. "It will be thawed soon." She puts a finger in her free ear to concentrate on what the phone is telling her. I take a plain doughnut from the bag and go back to my room.
Three magazines later, my parents are arguing. Not a riproarer. A simmering argument, a few bubbles splashing on the stove. I want another doughnut, but don't feel like wading through the fight to get it. They retreat to their corners when the phone rings again. Here's my chance.
Mom has the phone to her ear when I walk in the kitchen, but she isn't listening to it. She rubs the steam from the window and stares into the back yard. I join her at the sink.
Dad strides across the back yard, wearing an oven mitt and carrying the steaming turkey by one leg. "He said it would take hours to thaw," mutters Mom. A tiny voice squeaks from the receiver. "No, not you, Ted," she tells the phone. Dad lays the turkey on the chopping block and picks up his hatchet. Whack. The hatchet sticks in the frozen turkey flesh. He saws back and forth. Whack. A slice of frozen turkey slides to the ground. He picks it up and waves it at the window. Mom turns her back to him and tells Ted she's on her way.
After Mom leaves for the store, Dad takes over the dinner. It's the principle of the thing. If he gripes about the way she handled Thanksgiving, then he has to prove he can do a better job. He brings in the butchered dirty meat and washes it in the sink with detergent and hot water. He rinses off his hatchet.
Dad: "Just like the old days, right, Mellie? Fellow goes out into the woods and brings home dinner. This isn't so difficult. Cooking just requires some organization and the ability to read. Now get me the bread. I'm going to make real stuffing, the way my mother used to. You don't need to help. Why don't you do some homework, maybe some extra-credit work to pull those grades up. I'll call you when dinner is ready."
I think about studying, but it's a holiday, so I park myself on the living-room couch and watch an old movie instead. I smell smoke twice, wince when glass shatters on the floor, and listen in on the other phone to his conversation with the turkey hot-line lady. She says turkey soup is the best part of Thanksgiving anyway. He calls me into the kitchen an hour later, with the fake enthusiasm of a father who has screwed up big-time. Bones are heaped on the cutting board. A pot of glue boils on the stove. Bits of gray, green, and yellow roll in the burping white paste.
Dad: "It's supposed to be soup."
Me:
Dad: "It tasted a bit watery, so I kept adding thickener. I put in some corn and peas."
Me:
Dad: [pulling wallet from his back pocket] "Call for pizza. I'll get rid of this."
I order double cheese, double mushroom. Dad buries the soup in the back yard next to our dead beagle, Ariel.
I want to make a memorial for our turkey. Never has a bird been so tortured to provide such a lousy dinner. I dig the bones out of the trash and bring them to art class. Mr. Freeman is thrilled. He tells me to work on the bird but keep thinking tree.
Mr. Freeman: "You are on fire, Melinda, I can see it in your eyes. You are caught up in the meaning, in the subjectivity of the effect of commercialism on this holiday. This is wonderful, wonderful! Be the bird. You are the bird. Sacrifice yourself to abandoned family values and canned yams."
Whatever.
At first, I want to glue the bones together in a heap like firewood (get it?—tree—firewood), but Mr. Freeman sighs. I can do better, he says. I arrange the bones on a black piece of paper and try to draw a turkey around it. I don't need Mr. Freeman to tell me it stinks. By this point, he has thrown himself back into his own painting and has forgotten we exist.
He is working on a huge canvas. It started out bleak—a gutted building along a gray road on a rainy day. He spent a week painting dirty coins on the sidewalk, sweating to get them just right. He painted the faces of school board members peering out the windows of the building, then he put bars on the windows and turned the building into a prison. His canvas is better than TV because you never know what is going to happen next.
I crumple the paper and lay out the bones on the table. Melinda Sordino—Anthropologist. I have unearthed the remains of a hideous sacrifice. The bell rings and I look at Mr. Freeman with puppy-dog eyes. He says he'll call my Spanish teacher with some kind of excuse. I can stay for another class period. When Ivy hears this, she begs permission to stay late, too. She's trying to conquer her fear of clowns. She's constructing some weird sculpture—a mask behind a clown's face. Mr. Freeman says yes to Ivy, too. She waggles her eyebrows at me and grins. By the time I figure out that this might be a good time to say something friendly to her, she is back at work.
I glue the bones to a block of wood, arranging the skeleton like a museum exhibit. I find knives and forks in the odds-'n'-ends bin and glue them so it looks like they are attacking the bones.
I take a step back. It isn't quite done. I rummage in the bin again and find a half-melted palm tree from a Lego set. It'll do. Mr. Freeman hangs on to everything a normal person would throw out: Happy Meal toys, lost playing cards, grocery-store receipts, keys, dolls, a saltshaker, trains … how does he know this stuff could be art?
I pop the head off a Barbie doll and set it inside the turkey's body. That feels right. Ivy walks past and looks. She arches her left eyebrow and nods. I wave my hand and Mr. Freeman comes over to inspect. He almost faints with delight.
Mr. Freeman: "Excellent, excellent. What does this say to you?"
Darn. I didn't know there would be a quiz. I clear my throat. I can't get any words out, it is too dry. I try again, with a little cough.
Mr. Freeman: "Sore throat? Don't worry, it's going around. Want me to tell you what I see?"
I nod in relief.
"I see a girl caught in the remains of a holiday gone bad, with her flesh picked off day after day as the carcass dries out. The knife and fork are obviously middle-class sensibilities. The palm tree is a nice touch. A broken dream, perhaps? Plastic honeymoon, deserted island? Oh, if you put it in a slice of pumpkin pie, it could be a desserted island!"
I laugh in spite of myself. I'm getting the hang of this. While Ivy and Mr. Freeman watch, I reach in and pluck out the Barbie head. I set it on top of the bony carcass. There is no place for the palm tree—I toss that aside. I move the knife and fork so they look like legs. I place a piece of tape over Barbie's mouth.
Me: "Do you have any twigs? Little branches? I could use them to make the arms."
Ivy opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Mr. Freeman studies my homely project. He doesn't say anything and I'm afraid he's pissed that I took out the palm tree. Ivy tries again. "It's scary," she says. "In a weird way. Not clown scary, um, how do I say this? Like, you don't want to look at it too long. Good job, Mel."
That's not the reaction I was hoping for, but I guess it was positive. She could have turned her nose up, or ignored me, but she didn't. Mr. Freeman taps his chin. He looks way too serious to be an art teacher. He's making me nervous.
Mr. Freeman: "This has meaning. Pain."
The bell rings. I leave before he can say more.