to the rest of the class. I serve first, a nice shot with a little speed on it. Nicole hits it right back to me with a great backhand. We volley a bit back and forth. Then Ms. Connors blows her whistle to stop and explain the retarded scoring system in tennis where the num- bers don't make sense and love doesn't count for anything. Nicole serves next. She aces it, a perfect serve at about ninety miles an hour that kisses the court just inside the line before I can move. Ms. Connors tells Nicole she's awesome and Nicole smiles. I do not smile. I'm ready for her second serve and I hit it right back down her throat. Ms. Connors says something nice to me and Nicole adjusts the strings on her racket. My serve. I bounce the ball a few times. Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet. She isn't fooling around anymore. Her pride is at 169 stake, her womynhood. She is not about to be beat by some weirdo hushquiet delinquent who used to be her friend. Ms. Connors tells me to hit the ball. I slam into the ball, sending it right to Nicole's mouth, grin- ning behind her custom purple mouth guard. She twists out of the way. Ms. Connors: "Fault!" Giggles from the class. A foot fault. Wrong foot forward, toe over the line. I get a sec- ond chance. Another civilized aspect of tennis. I bounce the yellow ball, one two three. Up in the air like re- leasing a bird or an apple, then arcing my arm, rotate shoul- der, bring down the power and the anger and don't forget to aim. My racket takes on a life of its own, a bolt of energy. It crashes down on the ball, bulleting it over the net. The ball explodes on the court, leaving a crater before Nicole can blink. It blows past her and hits the fence so hard it rattles. No one laughs. No fault. I score a point. Nicole wins eventually, but not by much. Everybody else whines about their blisters. I have cal- luses on my hands from yard work. I'm tough enough to play and strong enough to win. Maybe I can get Dad to practice with me a few times. It would be the only glory of a really sucky year if I could beat someone at something. 170 YEARBOOKS The yearbooks have arrived. Everyone seems to understand this ritual but me. You hunt down every person who looks vaguely familiar and get them to write in your yearbook that the two of you are best friends and you'll never forget each other and remember class (fill in the blank) and have a great summer. Stay sweet. I watch some kids ask the cafeteria ladies to sign their books. What do they write: "Hope your chicken patties never bleed?" Or, maybe, "May your Jell-O always wiggle?" The cheerleaders have obtained some sort of special exemption to roam the hall in a pack with pens in hand to seek out auto- graphs of staff and students. I catch a whiff of competitive juices when they float past me. They are counting signatures. The appearance of the yearbook clears up another high school mystery — why all the popular girls put up with the disgusting habits of Todd Ryder. He is a pig. Greasy, sleazy, foul-mouthed, and unwashed, he'll make a great addition to a state college fra- ternity. But the popular kids kissed up to him all year. Why? Todd Ryder is the yearbook photographer. Flip through the pages and see who is in his favor. Be nice to Todd and he'll take pictures of you that should have a model- 171 ing agency calling your house any day now. Snub Todd and you'll look like a trailer-park refugee having a bad hair day. If I ran a high school, I would include stuff like this in the first-day indoctrination. I hadn't understood the Power of Todd. He snapped one picture of me, walking away from the camera wearing my dumpy winter coat, my shoulders up around my ears. I will not be buying a yearbook. HAIRWOMAN NO MORE Hairwoman got a buzz cut. Her hair is half an inch long, a new crop of head fur, short and spiky. It's black — no fake or- ange at all. And she got new glasses, purple-rimmed bifocals that hang from a beaded chain. I don't know what caused this. Has she fallen in love? Did she get a divorce? Move out of her parents' basement? You never think about teachers having parents, but they must. Some kids say she did it to confuse us while we are working on our final essay. I'm not sure. We have a choice. We can write about "Symbolism in the Comics" or "How Story Changed My Life." I think something else is going on. I'm thinking she found a good shrink, or maybe she published that novel she's been writing since the earth cooled. I wonder if she'll be teaching summer school. 172 LITTLE WRITING ON THE WALL Ivy is sitting at my art table with four uncapped colored markers sticking out of her bun. I stand up, she turns her head, and bingo — I've got a rainbow on my shirt. She apologizes a hundred million times. If it were anyone else, I would figure they did it on purpose. But Ivy and me have sort of been friendly the last few weeks. I don't think she was trying to be mean. Mr. Freeman lets me go to the bathroom, where I try to scrub the stains. I must look like a dog chasing its tail, twisting and twirling, trying to see the stains on my back in the mirror. The door swings open. It's Ivy. I raise my hand as she opens her mouth. "Don't say it anymore. I know you're sorry. It was an accident." She points to the pens still stuck in her bun. "I put the caps on. Mr. Freeman made me. Then he sent me in here to see how you're doing." "He's worried about me?" "He wants to make sure you don't pull a disappearing act. You have been known to wander off." "Not in the middle of class." "There's a first time for everything. Go in the stall and hand over your shirt. You can't wash it while you're wearing it." 173 I think Principal Principal should have his office in the rest room. Maybe then he'd hire somebody to keep it clean, or an armed guard to stop people from plugging up the toilet, smoking, or writing on the walls. "Who is Alexandra?" I ask. "I don't know any Alexandras," Ivy's voice says above the rush of water in the sink. "There might be an Alexandra in tenth grade. Why?" "According to this, she has pissed off a whole bunch of people. One person wrote in huge letters that she's a whore, and all these others added on little details. She slept with this guy, she slept with that guy, she slept with those guys all at the same time. For a tenth-grader, she sure gets around." Ivy doesn't answer. I peer through the crack between the door and the wall. She opens the soap container and dips my shirt in it. Then she scrubs the stains. I shiver. I'm standing in a bra, not a terribly clean bra, and it is freezing in here. Ivy holds the shirt up to the light, frowns, and scrubs some more. I want to take a deep breath, but it smells too bad. "Remember what you said about Andy Evans being big trouble?" "Yeah." "Why did you say that?" 174 She rinses the soap from the shirt. "He has such a reputation. He's only after one thing, and if you believe the rumors, he'll get it, no matter what." She wrings the water out of the shirt. The sound of dripping water echoes off the tiles. "Rachel is going out with him," I say. "I know. Just add that to the list of stupid things she's done this year. What does she say about him?" "We don't really talk," I say. "She's a bitch, that's what you mean. She thinks she's too good for the rest of us." Ivy punches the silver button on the hand dryer and holds up the shirt. I reread the graffiti. "I luv Derek." "Mr. Neck bites." "I hate this place." "Syracuse rocks." "Syracuse sucks." Lists of hotties, lists of jerks, list of ski resorts in Colorado everyone dreams about. Phone numbers that have been scratched out with keys. Entire conversations scroll down the bathroom stall. It's like a community chat room, a metal newspaper. I ask Ivy to hand over one of her pens. She does. "I think you're going to have to bleach this thing," she says and hands over the shirt as well. I pull it over my head. It's still damp. "What did you want the marker for?" I hold the cap in my teeth. I start another subject thread on the wall: Guys to Stay Away From. The first entry is the Beast himself: Andy Evans. 175 I swing open the door with a flourish. "Ta-da!" I point to my handiwork. Ivy grins. PROM PREPARATION The climax of mating season is nearly upon us — the Senior Prom. They should cancel school this week. The only things we're learning are who is going with who (whom? must ask Hairwoman), who bought a dress in Manhattan, which limo company won't tell if you drink, the most expensive tux place, and on and on and on. The gossip energy alone could power the building's electricity for the rest of the marking period. The teachers are pissed. Kids aren't handing in homework be- cause they have appointments at the tanning salon. Andy Beast asked Rachel to go with him. I can't believe her mother is letting her go, but maybe she agreed because they're going to double with Rachel's brother and his date. Rachel is one of the rare ninth-graders invited to the Senior Prom; her social stock has soared. She must not have gotten my note, or maybe she decided to ignore it. Maybe she showed it to Andy and they had a good laugh. Maybe she won't get in the trou- ble I did, maybe he'll listen to her. Maybe I had better stop thinking about it before I go nuts. Heather has come bellycrawling for help. My mother can't be- lieve it: a living, breathing friend on the front porch for her 176 maladjusted daughter! I pry Heather out of Mom's claws and we retreat to my room. My stuffed rabbits crawl out of their burrows, noses awiggling, pink bunny, purple bunny, a ging- ham bunny from my grandma. They are as excited as my mother. Company! I can see the room through Heather's green-tinted contacts. She doesn't say anything, but I know she thinks it looks stupid — a baby room, all those toy rabbits; there must be a hundred of them. Mom knocks on the door. She has cookies for us. I want to ask if she's feeling sick. I hand the bag to Heather. She takes one cookie and nibbles at its edges. I snarf five, just to spite her. I lie on my bed, trapping the bunnies next to the wall. Heather delicately pushes a pile of dirty clothes off my chair and perches her skinny butt on it. I wait. She launches into a sob story about how much she hates being a Marthadrone. Indentured servitude would be bet- ter. They are just taking advantage of her, bossing her around. Her grades are all the way down to Bs because of the time she has to spend waiting on her Senior Marthas. Her father is thinking about taking a job in Dallas and she wouldn't mind moving again, nope not one bit, be- cause she's heard kids in the South aren't as stuck-up as they are here. I eat more cookies. I'm fighting the shock of having a guest in my room. I almost kick her out because it's going to hurt too much when my room is empty again. Heather says I was smart, "... so smart, Mel, to blow off this stupid group. This whole year has been horrible — I hated every single day, but I didn't have the guts to get out like you did." 777 She completely ignores the fact that I was never in, and that she dumped me, banished me from even the shadows of Martha glory. I feel like any minute a guy in a lavender suit will burst into the room with a microphone and bellow, "An- other alternate-reality moment brought to you by Adoles- cence!" I still can't figure out why she's here. She licks a crumb off her cookie and gets to the point. She and the other Junior Marthas are required to decorate the Route 1 1 Holiday Inn ballroom for the prom. Meg 'n' Emily 'n' Siobhan can't assist, of course; they have to get their nails painted and their teeth whitened. The privileged, the few, the Junior Marthas have been laid waste by mononucleosis, leaving Heather all by her- self. She is desperate. Me: "You have to decorate the whole thing? By Saturday night?" Heather: "Actually, we can't start until three o'clock Saturday afternoon because of some stupid meeting of Chrysler sales- men. But I know we can do it. I'm asking other kids, too. Do you know anyone who could help?" Frankly, no I don't, but I chew and try to look thoughtful. Heather takes this to mean that yes, I'd be happy to help her. She bounces out of the chair. Heather: "I knew you would help. You're great. Tell you what. I owe you, I owe you a big one. How about next week I come over and help you redecorate?" 178 Me: Heather: "Didn't you tell me once how much you hated yom room? Well, now I see why. It would be so depressing just to wake up here every morning. We'll clear out all this junk." She kicks a chenille bunny who was sleeping in my robe on the floor. "And get rid of those curtains. Maybe you could go shopping with me — can you get your mom's American Ex- press?" She yanks my curtains to one side. "Let's not forget to wash those windows. Sea-foam green and sage, that's what you should look for, classic and feminine." Me: "No." Heather: "You want something richer, like an eggplant, or cobalt?" Me: "No, I haven't decided on colors yet. That's not what I mean, I mean no, I won't help you." She collapses into the chair again. "You have to help me." Me: "No, I don't." Heather: "But, whiii — iiiiy?" I bite my lip. Does she want to know the truth, that she's self- centered and cold? That I hope all the seniors yell at her? That I hate sea-foam green, and besides, it's none of her business if my windows are dirty? I feel tiny button noses against my back. Bunnies say to be kind. Lie. 179 Me: "I have plans. The tree guy is coming to work on the oak out front, I have to dig in my garden, and besides, I know what I want to do in here and it doesn't include eggplant." Most of it is half true, half planned. Heather scowls. I open the dirty window to let in fresh air. It brushes my hair back off my face. I tell Heather she has to leave. I need to clean. She crams her cookie in her mouth and does not say goodbye to my mother. What a snot. COMMUNICATION 101 I'm on a roll. I'm rocking. I don't know what it is; standing up to Heather, planting marigold seeds, or maybe the look on Mom's face when I asked if she would let me redecorate my room. The time has come to arm-wrestle some demons. Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't. I must talk to Rachel. I can't do it in algebra, and the Beast waits for her outside English. But we have study hall at the same time. Bingo. I find her squinting at a book with small type in the library. She's too vain for glasses. I instruct my heart not to bolt down the hall, and sit next to her. No nu- clear bombs detonate. A good start. She looks at me without expression. I try on a smile, sizi; medium. "Hey," I say. "Hmm," she responds. No lip curling, no rude hand gestures. So far, so good. I look at the book she's copying (word for word) from. It's about France. 180 Me: "Homework?" Rachel: "Kind of." She taps her pencil on the table. "I'm go- ing to France this summer with the International Club.
We have to do a report to prove we're serious." Me: "That's great. I mean, you've always talked about travel- ing, ever since we were kids. Remember when we were in fourth grade and we read Heidi and we tried to melt cheese in vour fireplace?" We laugh a little too loudly. It's not really that funny, but we're both nervous. A librarian points his finger at us. Bad students, bad bad students. No laughing. I look at her notes. They are lousy, a few facts about Paris decorated with an Eiffel Tower doodle, hearts, and the initials R.B. + A.E. Gack. Me: "So, you're really going out with him. With Andy. I heard about the prom." Rachel grins honey-slow. She stretches, like the mention of his name wakes her muscles and makes her tummy jump. "He's great," she says. "He is just so awesome, and gorgeous, and yummy." She stops. She is talking to the village leper. Me: "What are you going to do when he goes to college?" Argh, an arrow to her soft spot. Clouds across the sun. "I can't think about that. It hurts too much. He said he was go- ing to get his parents to let him transfer back here. He could go to La Salle or Syracuse. I'll wait for him." 181 Give me a break. Me: "You've been going out for, like, what — two weeks? Three?" A cold front blows across the library. She straightens up an snaps shut the cover of her notebook. Rachel: "What do you want, anyway?" Before I can answer, the librarian pounces. We are welcome to continue our conversation in the principal's office, or we can stay and be quiet. Our choice. I take out my notebook and write to Rachel. It's nice to talk to you again. I'm sorry we couldn't be friends this year. I pass the notebook to her. She melts a bit around the edges and writes back. Yeah, I know. So, who do you like? No one, really. My lab partner is kinda nice, but like a friend- friend, not a boyfriend or anything. Rachel nods wisely. She's dating a senior. She is so beyond these freshman "friend-friend" relationships. She's in charge again. Time for me to suck up. Are you still mad at me? I write. She doodles a quick lightning bolt. 182 No, I guess not. It was a long time ago. She stops and drawl a spiraling circle. I stand on the edge and wonder if I'm g I to fall in. The party was a little wild, she continues. But it wtU dumb to call the cops. We could have just left. She slides t h e notebook over to me. I draw a spiraling circle in the opposite direction to Rachel's. I could leave it like this, stop in the middle of the highway. She's talking to me again. All I have to do is keep the dirt hidden and walk arm in arm with her into the sunset. She reaches back to fix her hair scrunchie. "R.B. + A.E." is written in red pen on the inside of her forearm. Breathe in, one-two-three. Breathe out, one-two-three. I force my hand to relax. / didn't call the cops to break up the party, I write. / called — I put the pencil down. I pick it up again — them because some guy raped me. Under the trees. I didn't know what to do. She watches as I carve out the words. She leans closer to me. I write more. / was stupid and drunk and I didn't know what was happening and then he hurt — I scribble that out — raped me. When the police came, everyone was screaming, and I was just too scared, so I cut through some back yards and walked home. I push the notebook back to her. She stares at the words. She pulls her chair around to my side of the table. Oh my God, I am so sorry, she writes. Why didn't you tell me? I couldn't tell anybody. 183 Does your mom know? I shake my head. Tears pop up from some hidden spring. Damn. I sniff and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. Did you get pregnant? Did he have a disease? Oh my God, Are you OK????????? No. I don't think so. Yes, I'm OK. Well, kinda. Rachel writes in a heavy, fast hand. WHO DID IT??? I turn the page. Andy Evans. "Liar!" She stumbles out of her chair and grabs her books off the table. "I can't believe you. You're jealous. You're a twisted little freak and you're jealous that I'm popular and I'm going to the prom and so you lie to me like this. And you sent me that note, didn't you? You are so sick." She spins to take on the librarian. "I'm going to the nurse," she states. "I think I'm going to throw up." CHAT ROOM I'm standing in the lobby, looking at the buses. I don't want to go home. I don't want to stay here. I got my hopes up halfway 184 through the conversation with Rachel — that was my mistake. It was like smelling the perfect Christmas feast and having the door slammed in your face, leaving you alone in the cold. "Melinda." I hear my name. Great. Now I'm hearing things. Maybe I should ask the guidance counselor for a therapist or a nosy shrink. I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a mid- dle ground. Someone touches my arm gently. "Melinda?" It's Ivy. "Can you take the late bus? I want to show you something." We walk to- gether. She leads me to the bathroom, the one where she washed my shirt, which, by the way, still has traces of her markers, even .ifter the bleach. She points to the stall. "Take a look." GUYS TO STAY AWAY FROM Andy Evans He's a creep. He's a bastard. Stay away ! ! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He should be locked up. He thinks he's all that. Call the cops. 185 What's the name of that drug they give perverts so they can't get it up? Diprosomething. He should get it every morning in his orange juice. I went out with him to the movies — he tried to get his hands down my pants during the PREVIEWS ! ! There's more. Different pens, different handwriting, conversa- tions between some writers, arrows to longer paragraphs. It's better than taking out a billboard. I feel like I can fly. PRUNING I wake the next morning, Saturday, to the sound of a chain saw, the noise biting right through my ears and splintering my plans of sleeping in. I peer out the window. The arborists, the tree guys Dad called to trim the oak's dead branches, stand at the base of the tree, one guy revving up the chain saw like it's a sports car, the other giving the tree the once-over. I go down- stairs for breakfast. Watching cartoons is out of the question. I make a cup of tea and join Dad and a group of neighborhood kids watching the show from the driveway. One arborist monkeys his way into the pale green canopy, then hauls up the chain saw (turned 186 off) at the end of a thick rope. He sets to work pruning the deadwood like a sculptor. "Brrrrr-rrrrowww." The chain saw gnaws through the oak, branches crashing to the ground. The air swirls with sawdust. Sap oozes from the open sores on the trunk. He is killing the tree. He'll only leave a stump. The tree is dying. There's nothing to do or say. We watch in silence as the tree crashes piece by piece to the damp ground. The chain-saw murderer swings down with a grin. He doesn't even care. A little kid asks my father why that man is chop- ping down the tree. Dad: "He's not chopping it down. He's saving it. Those branches were long dead from disease. All plants are like that. By cutting off the damage, you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch — by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block." I hate it when my father pretends to know more than he does. He sells insurance. He is not a forest ranger, wise in the way of the woods. The arborist fires up the mulcher at the back of their truck. I've seen enough. I grab my bike and take off. The first stop is the gas station, to pump up my tires. I can't remember the last time I rode. The morning is warm, a lazy, slow Saturday. The parking lot at the grocery store is full. A couple of Softball games are being played behind the elemen- tary school, but I don't stop to watch. I ride up the hill past Rachel's house, past the high school. The down side is a fast, easy coast. I dare myself to lift my hands off the handlebars. 187 As long as I'm moving fast enough, the front wheel holds steady. I turn left and left again, following the hills down without realizing where I'm heading. Some part of me has planned this, a devious internal compass pointed to the past. The lane isn't familiar until I glimpse the barn. I squeeze the brakes hard and struggle to control the bike on the gravel shoulder. A wind rips through the phone wires overhead. A squirrel fights to retain her balance. There are no cars in the driveway. "Rodgers" is painted on the mailbox. A basketball hoop hangs off the side of the barn. I don't remember that, but it would have been hard to see it in; the dark. I walk my bike along the back edge of the property to where the trees swallow the sun. My bike leans into a col- lapsing fence. I sink to the shade-cold ground. My heart thuds as if I were still pedaling up the hill. My hands shake. It is a completely normal place, out of sight of the barn and house, close enough to the road that I can hear cars pass- ing. Fragments of acorn shells litter the ground. You could bring a kindergarten class here for a picnic. I think about lying down. No, that would not do. I crouch by the trunk, my fingers stroking the bark, seeking a Braille code, a clue, a message on how to come back to life after my long undersnow dormancy. I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears? I dig my fingers into the dirt and squeeze. A small, clean part of me waits to warm and burst through the surface. Some 188 quiet Melindagirl I haven't seen in months. That is the seed I will care for. PROWLING When I get home, it's time for lunch. I make two egg-salad sandwiches and drink an enormous glass of milk. I eat an ap- ple and put my dishes in the dishwasher. It's only one o'clock. I suppose I should clean the kitchen and vacuum, but the win- dows are open and robins sing on the front lawn, where a pile of mulch with my name on it is waiting. Mom is impressed when she drives up at dinnertime. The front lawn is raked, edged, mowed, and the bushes are mulched. I'm not even breathing hard. Mom helps me carry the plastic deck furniture up from the basement and I scrub it with bleach. Dad brings home pizza and we eat on the deck. Mom and Dad drink iced tea and there is no biting or snarling. I clear the dishes and throw the pizza box in the trash. I lie down on the couch to watch TV, but my eyes close and I'm out. When I wake up, it's past midnight, and someone has covered me with an afghan. The house is quiet, dark. Cool breeze slides in between the curtains. I am wide awake. I feel itchy inside my skin — antsy, that's what my mother would call it. I can't sit still. I have to do something. My bike is still leaning against the pruned tree in the front yard. I ride. 189 Up and down, across and diagonal, I pedal my sore legs through the streets of a suburb mostly sleeping. Some late-night TVs flicker from bedroom windows. A few cars are parked in front of the grocery store. I imagine people mopping the floors, restacking loaves of bread. I coast by the houses of people I used to know: Heather, Nicole. Turn the corner, downshift and pedal harder, up the hill to Rachel's house. The lights are on, her parents waiting for the fairy prom-goers to come home. I could knock on the door and ask them if they want to play cards or something. Nah. I ride like I have wings. I am not tired. I don't think I'll ever have to sleep again. POSTPROM By Monday morning, the prom is legend. The drama! The tears! The passion! Why hasn't anyone made a television show out of this yet? The total damage included one stomach pumped, three breakups of long-term relationships, one lost diamond earring, four outrageous hotel-room parties, and five matching tattoos allegedly decorating the behinds of the se- nior class officers. The guidance counselors are celebrating the lack of fatal accidents. Heather is not at school today. Everybody is griping about her lame decorations. I bet she calls in sick the rest of the year. Heather should run away and join the Marines immediately. 190 They'll be much sweeter to her than a swarm of angry Marthas. Rachel is in her glory. She ditched Andy in the middle of the prom. I'm trying to piece the story together from grapevine gossip. They say she and Andy argued during a slow song. They say he was all over her with his hands and his mouth. While they danced, he was grinding against her and she backed off. The song ended and she swore at him. They say she was ready to slap him, but she didn't. He looked around, all innocent-like, and she stomped over to her exchange- student buddies. Ended up dancing the night away with a kid from Portugal. They say Andy's been really pissed off ever since. He got wicked drunk at a party and passed out in a bowl of bean dip. Rachel burned everything he ever gave her and left the ashes in front of his locker. His friends laughed at him. Except for the gossip, there is no real point in coming to school. Well, there are final exams, but it's not like they are going to make any difference to my grades. We have — what? Two more weeks of classes? Sometimes I think high school is one long hazing activity: if you are tough enough to survive this, they'll let you become an adult. I hope it's worth it. PREY I'm waiting for the clock to end the daily torture-by-algebra session when WHAMMO! — a thought slams into my head: I 191 don't want to hang out in my little hidy-hole anymore. I look behind me, half expecting to see a sniggering back-row guy who beaned me with an eraser. Nope — the back row is strug- gling to stay awake. It was definitely an idea that hit me. I don't feel like hiding anymore. A breeze from the open win- dow blows my hair back and tickles my shoulders. This is the first day warm enough for a sleeveless shirt. Feels like summer. After class, I trail behind Rachel. Andy is waiting for her. She won't even look at him. The kid from Portugal is now Rachel's numero uno. HA! Double HA! Serves you right, you scum. Kids stare at Andy, but nobody stops to talk. He fol- lows Greta-Ingrid and Rachel down the hall. I am a few steps behind him. Greta-Ingrid spins around and tells Andy exactly what he should do to himself. Impressive. Her language skills have really improved this year. I'm ready to do a victory dance. I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I'd like to keep some of my tree pic- tures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, as long as it doesn't have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year. Haven't been able to get rid of the smell. I leave the door cracked open a bit so I can breathe. It's hard to get the tree pictures off the walls without tearing them. The day is getting hotter and there's no circulation in here. I open the door wider — who's going to come by now? By this point in the year, teachers take off faster than