Lockdown Page 6
Mina texted back:
Yeah boys cars that stink of old sox and dead things.
She waited—Sofia always sent at least three texts on the bus.
I swear im only gonna hang with boys who shower.
Speaken a dead things u see this mornings #speakforbee?
Mina flipped over to the hashtag for a look, and was a little sorry she did.
Really gross did u do it?
Naturally, Sofia hadn’t.
As if. Not sure its anyone in school.
It was true, the hashtag that started as a way to torment Bee Cuomo’s father had begun to show the kind of pictures not even the more hardcore middle-school students would come up with.
Totally creeps. Gotta go see u soon.
Mina dropped the phone. Funny how little Bee Cuomo—who’d been a sixth-grader (and a strange one at that), which meant she was only at Guadalupe a couple of months before she vanished—had more people talking about her now than when she’d actually been there. Would that be so, if she’d been straight-out killed? Sure, everybody figured Bee was dead (except maybe Nick Clarkson) because really, where would an eleven-year-old go on her own? But without finding her, it was like…like walking down a step that wasn’t there, or having a cut that wouldn’t close. How did families manage to go on, when one of them disappeared? It happened all the time, governments disappearing people. Her mother’s own family…
She made a face at the mirror. Maybe if she did something with her hair? Hack it off and dye it some outrageous color? Use the scissors—right now!
Yeah, right, might as well pierce her nose and give Mâmân a heart attack. But there had to be something she could do about that braid. Shouldn’t Career Day include how to look professional?
There must be cops with long hair. Did they pin it up tight? Not that she’d ever be tall enough to be a cop. Or old enough to put her hair up, for that matter—not if her parents had any say in the matter.
Her parents’ traditional backgrounds surfaced at the weirdest times. Whenever Papá remembered he was Brazilian, he got all patriarchal. And sometimes Mina thought her mother wouldn’t object to putting her into purdah. Like after the Taco Alvarez thing last year—Mina’d be paying for that until she was thirty.
The trick was for Mina to look like she was being absolutely open about absolutely everything—friends, clothes, school—while doing what she wanted behind the scenes. Like changing clothes every morning. Or like her schedule for Career Day, when she’d allowed Mâmân to override her fourth-period choice of Sergeant Mendez and sign her up for some University Professor—because giving way on that meant that Mina could have Sports Medicine for fifth period. Of course, Mina hadn’t mentioned that the reason she wanted that session was because Brendan Atcheson would be there.
Not that Career Day mattered a whole lot. She was going to be a police officer, period. And it wasn’t hero worship, as Mâmân insisted. Yes, Mina would never forget the sight of Olivia Mendez coming through the mouth of that cave, but it wasn’t that the sergeant had been terribly heroic, or even very impressive, dressed in old hiking shoes and mud-stained pants.
It was the look on the sergeant’s face—relief and fear and outrage and authority, all mixed together and shoved at the world: this is who I am and what I care about, so live with it. That was strength.
That was something Mina couldn’t imagine seeing in any mirror, ever.
7:03
Nick
The last few months, Nick Clarkson had taken to leaving the bathroom mirror standing open while he brushed his teeth. For one thing, that way he didn’t have to stare at his own face, which since October felt like it had COWARD tattooed across it. But he’d started leaving it open (and this was something he was not going to tell Dr. Henry!) because for a while after the Weirdman house, he kept seeing…things in the glass. Shadows, like, out of the corner of his eye. Sort of the reverse of vampires, who don’t show up in mirrors.
Or like Death in the Terry Pratchett stories: Death isn’t invisible, just that people don’t want to see him so they don’t. Except maybe cats and little kids. And crazy people. For a while there, Nick almost expected a voice to start TALKING IN CAPS IN THE BACK OF HIS HEAD, ASKING HIM WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO ABOUT BEE.
Lately, the shadows had stopped moving and the mirror had gone back to being just a mirror. Still, the face there wasn’t someone he was really proud of. Not someone a friend could count on.
So Nick only closed the mirror after he’d put away his toothbrush, then went back to his room.
He liked his new bedroom, a lot. They’d moved here just before Christmas, and Grams and Gramps bought him a new mattress that wasn’t lumpy, and even a bookshelf. It wouldn’t last. Nothing did: houses, families, friends.
Was it normal to think so much about death? (The non-Pratchett kind.) Maybe everybody did. Even people whose best friend hadn’t vanished into thin air.
“Ready, Nicky? Oh, sweetie, your hair! A person would swear you didn’t have a mirror. Come here and let me comb it.”
“I don’t know why I have to go to school this early, Mom.”
“Sweetie, I need to be at work at 7:30. Wear your coat, hon—it’s chilly this morning.”
“Mom, the sweatshirt’s fine. School’s out of your way, and I don’t mind the bus.”
“Let’s just do this today, and we can talk about it over the weekend, all right?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Nicky, you’d tell me if you had a problem at school, right? Or on the bus? If the kids were, you know, bullying you or anything?”
“Mom, I’m fine. School’s fine. They don’t bug me on the bus anymore. Stop worrying about it.”
“You’re the most important thing in my universe, Nicky. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make your life easier.”
“Then let me take the bus.”
“Well, we’ll talk about it. Check the door, that it’s locked? So, you’re seeing Dr. Henry this morning?”
“Second period.”
“You like her?”
“She’s fine.”
“You’d tell me if—”
“Jeez, Mom, I promise, if anything ever goes the teensiest bit wrong, I’ll tell you and Gramps and Dr. Henry and Ms. McDonald and all six of my teachers and Tío the janitor and Mrs. Hopkins the secretary and the lunch ladies and—”
“Okay, I get it. It’s hands off Nick Clarkson. Fasten your seat belt, sweetie.”
Nick sighed. He bet Death didn’t have a mother.
7:04
Tío
Tío clicked shut the seat belt in the car of Señora Rodriguez. He did not like to use the good Señora as a taxi service, but he had needed to be certain of a tidy appearance today, and when yesterday’s newspaper predicted rain, he accepted her offer of a ride to the school. He knew by midnight that the forecast was wrong, but with no telephone, Tío could not tell her not to come. So he waited at the end of his drive and climbed into her backseat, giving polite greetings to the other two people she was transporting that day: a pregnant woman with a clinic appointment and an old man on his way to visit his wife in the hospital.
At least Guadalupe Middle School was on the way to the hospital.
The drive took less than ten minutes, and they spoke of various matters—the weather, the giant new store near the freeway, the Taco Alvarez trial, the lamentable state of the county bus service. When they reached the entrance to the school, Tío thanked the Señora, wished the young mother-to-be good fortune at her appointment, shook the old man’s hand, and waited politely until the car had joined the road again.
The first buses were arriving. Sergeant Mendez was there to greet the students, resplendent in her uniform, stern in her visage, yet also taking sips from a tall paper coffee cup. Tío gave the sergeant a nod of greeting and headed for the entrance arch, bright with the colors of its newly restored mosaic sides.
As he went in, his attention was caught by an object in the corner of the wall
and archway. He worked his way through the stream of noisy children to pick it up: a can of orange spray paint. But none on the tiles—or, perhaps a faint orange mist at one side. As if the task of ruination had been interrupted the moment it began.
The cap lay just inside the breezeway. He placed it and the can into his lunch bag and paced the length of A Quad, then back down B Quad, examining the walls, watching for other cans, and wondering if he should perhaps wait until tomorrow before mentioning this to the principal.
7:08
Linda
Good morning, bienvenidos, friends, guests, my fellow teachers, and students. Welcome to Career Day at Guadalupe Middle School. It has been a very difficult year, the one that has brought us here. Only a strong community could have come together as we have. As I stand up here, looking at our Guadalupe family gathered together under one roof, I also can’t help thinking of a word that’s used a lot these days: diversity. I can’t help wondering if a part of what makes us strong is our mix of diverse gifts and heritages.
And that brings another word to mind: fascination. It fascinates me to think how we all happen to be here, to think of the tales behind each one of us, the ways our stories not only brought us here, but how they will change the way we go forward, together and apart.
Linda paused to re-read her opening words. Was she right, to touch on the trauma without using the name Bee Cuomo? By now, those syllables were hardly necessary, and she did make specific reference later in the speech. She let the paragraphs stand, although she did cross out the word tales and write in stories. Better to repeat the word than risk setting off an explosion of adolescent sniggers at the phrase tales behind us.
She continued, reading aloud under her breath. “What is your principal’s story, then? Well, I began in Indiana, and arrived in California by way of New Guinea, Nairobi, Fairbanks, and half a dozen other places and jobs.” She scowled, then remembered how old it made her look and tried for an expression of wide-eyed wonder instead.
Pah. She sometimes looked older than Gordon, who was sixty-seven—at least, his passport said he was sixty-seven. He looked fifty. And acted like the forty-year-old she’d thought him when they met, back in the Dark Ages.
Her pen hovered above the heavily marked-up printout. Did it sound like she was bragging about her exotic past? Most of the audience would never so much as own a passport. To focus on The Linda McDonald Story might actually distract from the purpose of her speech. It might also invite awkward questions.
Better to just introduce the guests and talk about dreams.
She’d already decided not to dwell on the fact that Guadalupe had been through a year of hell. Or that the school had all the huge and chronic problems associated with poverty and immigration—language barriers, divided homes, the harsh necessity of keeping away from the law. Few of her kids owned any books. Less than half could point to a high school diploma anywhere in the family—far less a university degree.
However, Linda McDonald had seen enough of the world to know that compared to some dark corners of the globe, even the poorest of Guadalupe’s children had their hands cupped around the future.
Her personal tale—Indiana farm girl to California school principal—would be a perfect illustration of what could happen when a person grabbed at chance. (And oh, those 3:00 a.m. thoughts: What if I’d done the expected, thirty years ago, and stayed where I was planted? What if she’d never known New Guinea as anything but some colorful pages of National Geographic? Never met a peculiar expat named Gordon Hugh-Kendrick…)
Of course, similar mixed histories could be found in half the people at school. When she’d opened the personnel files, Linda found all kinds of unexpected, even startling pieces of information. (And that was just the official ones—Linda still couldn’t decide how many of the last principal’s private notes were delusional. They were filled with pain—directional signs to the poor woman’s coming suicide.)
Which brought her back to the question of whether it was wise to put her own background out there, especially with an eager young newspaper reporter taking notes. And Olivia Mendez. Not that she had anything to hide. Not really.
No, she decided, drawing a black line through the words. Better to stay Plain-Jane Ms. McDonald, just as her office at school was blandly anonymous, with none of her African textiles, Inuit carvings, or Sepik wood figures; no photographs of elephants or Northern Lights or a laughing young Linda McDonald surrounded by small, black, bizarrely decorated men—far less the collection of ornate penis sheaths Gordon had blandly suggested she tack up to her office wall.
It was the same reason Linda had never considered asking Gordon to be one of the day’s speakers—although God knew this town would never meet a more “Unexpected Thread” than Gordon Hugh-Kendrick. (Four years since he’d dropped back into her life, and pretty much every day she felt as if she’d spotted a Bird of Paradise at the patio bird feeder. Or a hawk.) She’d had the sense to keep his name off the speakers’ list, which went to the Clarion. Bad enough she’d absent-mindedly given Olivia his name last fall, as one of the school volunteers. It was the closest they’d come to a real fight, and though she knew he’d forgiven her, she also knew he had not forgotten.
“Penny for them,” said his English accent.
“Not worth it. Is that a new shirt?” Crisp and white, perfectly fitted to his long arms, it looked custom-made. Probably was, by some shady tailor in Hong Kong who clothed drug lords and Third World politicians, charging more than she made in a week.
And there she went again! What was it about nerves that summoned the most absurd ideas? Gordon was her husband, he was English, he was as old as his passport said. He’d bought his shirt from an online guy on the East Coast. Anything more was a reflection of her own self-doubt, and nothing to do with his honesty—or his past. His suspected past.
“Oxford cloth.” Gordon flipped up the collar to settle his necktie into place—her Christmas present, uncharacteristically bright and whimsical—and then noticed the direction of her eyes. “Hope this one is okay? I thought a bow tie might be a bit much.”
“You’d probably start a school-wide fad for them. Sweetheart, you don’t really have to go today.”
“I got the impression you wanted me there.”
“I do. I mean, it’s up to you, but…”
“But my presence would give you a bit of support. I’m happy to, Linda.”
“You’ll be bored to tears.”
“Never. I can always go talk with Tío.”
Tío, she mused. Yet another example of unseen histories. Several parents (as well as the ubiquitous Señora Rodriguez) had recommended him for the job of janitor after the old one had abruptly retired five weeks into the school year (shown the door by the new principal, whose sense of smell was well honed when it came to alcohol). Tío was not particularly qualified—Mrs. Hopkins, the school secretary who had seen so many principals come and go, later told her that Tío had made his living pushing an ice-cream cart through the streets. But his English was good, he looked her in the eye, and he could start immediately. She hired him on a two-month trial, thinking to find a more solid candidate, but the man proved reliable, and the possessor of some unlikely skills, from re-wiring a sparking outlet (against union rules) to coaxing conversation from kids who gave no one else the time of day. He’d been there since October, and was now indispensable. More than just a janitor, somehow. It almost felt as if he was the one who’d hired her.
“Are you sure…” No. Her chair scraped as Linda rose to carry a half-eaten bowl of cereal to the sink.
“Am I sure what?”
“Gordon, you talk with Tío. You’d have spotted if he was up to something, wouldn’t you? You’d have told me?”
“What sort of something?”
“He just…he seems to spend a lot of time with the kids, for a janitor.”
“Tío Jaime is no pedophile.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of…supplementing his income.”
“Drugs? No. Absolutely not.”
“Good. I like him, he’s just, well, odd.”
“Linda, I know this has been a tough year, but there is no call to see hobgoblins behind every push-broom.”
“You’re right. Lord, look at the time!”
As she checked her bag for the day’s necessaries, it occurred to her that Gordon hadn’t exactly answered her question. But then, silence was woven deep into their relationship, and had been from the beginning. Silence, and trust.
He would tell her, if there was something she needed to know. There might be a lot of gaps in Gordon’s history, but she knew him well enough to be sure of that.
THIRTY YEARS AGO
Gordon: his story (2)
Linda was given little time to speculate about what kind of place this was that she’d come to, because Mrs. Carver came in to say that the mission’s replacement transport had arrived from Australia, and would leave at noon. In the morning, Linda repacked her clean, dry possessions and was driven to the air strip—where she was faced not with an Air Niugini plane, but a winged contraption so tiny the pilot had to haul off a sack of potatoes to compensate for her weight.
The thirty minutes that followed were terrifying, spine-bruising, ear-splitting, and unforgettable. However, once that had been survived, her life became surprisingly tranquil. Within weeks, it was the letters from friends and family that began to seem exotic. She worked hard, ate simply, learned more than she taught, and made friends not only with her white countrymen, but with the local people. These hillmen lived on the edges of malnutrition, surviving on corn, plantains, and the sweet potato they called kaukau, calories supplemented by the occasional scrap of protein brought home by hunters. She was there to teach English and basic medical realities to tiny aboriginal people one narrow step out of the Stone Age, the oldest of whom vividly recalled the first white face to appear in their mountain fastness. She discovered a people who understood both joy and hardship—more alive, more human, than many of the college students she knew.