The Moment Before

Chapter Fourteen

FOURTEEN

There are stains the next day. On my cheek, in the driveway. Black and blue marks made by a fist and rubber tires. Mom left a note on the table.

            Hope you’re OK. Had to go into work early. Have asked Dr. Stern to meet us this afternoon at 4:00. Please don’t be late.

My feet are two throbbing, bloody slabs of meat. There is a smear of charcoal-black under my eye and around my cheekbone. If ever there was an excuse to not go to the school … but I’m not sure I can stay home, either. Dad never returned last night, and I’m certain he’ll show up, hungover and apologetic. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. With or without our therapist.

            Plus, my feet the way they are, there’s no way I’ll be much good on foot.

            In Sabine’s room I find some padded Smartwool socks and the orthopedic nurse shoes she’d wear when her own feet were bunioned up from dance class. To complete the frump look, the abused housewife ensemble, I choose one of Nona’s dusters leftover from her hip-surgery stay with us, under which I’ve donned a Spandex unitard. After I add a pair of I-walked-into-a-door sunglasses, I’m ready to go, and be the weird, artsy outcast they’ve come to know and avoid.

           

In school, Mrs. McConnell isn’t buying it. She seems distracted all period, and her thoughts on Faulkner and duplicity and existentialism are stalled out. Even Cathi and her ever-raised hand can’t get a rise out of her. I’m not surprised when, again, she keeps me after class.

            “Take them off, Miss Wilson,” she says, pointing at my ten dollar RiteAid shades.

            My face is the sort of lopsided swollen of movie-of-the-week heroines. I can feel it. But Mrs. McConnell is an experienced sleuth. She says, “I am a mandatory reporter, you know.”

            “I was in a car accident,” I spit out. “The other day. I was driving my sister’s car, and I stopped suddenly, to avoid a dog, and my head hit the wheel. I don’t have a license. My parents don’t know I drove. Report if you must, I know I deserve it, but it’ll only add to their troubles.”

            My Classics teacher ponders my lie. She’s had decades of bullshit, and her meter is honed. But, I’m learning how to lie pretty well these days. Getting some sort of latent crash course. It’s easier to poker-face when only half your face looks normal. Finally, after circling me, and scrutinizing my outfit, she lets it go. “Ms. Bowerman told me about the Art Show investigation.”

            So now it’s an investigation?

            “Mrs. Cupworth is rankled,” I say. “But she’s been very gracious to me. And Bowerman—Ms. Bowerman—too. I hope it all works out, the article. You know, with the vote coming up and funding on the line and everything.”

            “Well, politics aside, I’m not sure if it’s the right time to be bringing you into the middle of a battle. And, I’ve said as much.”

            I’m not sure why Mrs. McConnell has taken such an interest in my well-being. Language Arts has never been my forte. I’m a solid “B” student in this class, not exactly a genius.

            “Art is pretty important to me,” I manage.

            “I know, dear. And I’ve seen your work. Promising. You have an eye for truth.”