her lemmings were pointing toward me and whispering. As this was part of their daily or even hourly ritual, it didn’t much grab my attention. But they seemed especially worked up, huddled together and muffling their shrieks of affirmation.
Can’t I just make it through math. Against my better judgement, I left Baert alone in the library after making him promise at least seven times he would stay out of sight and “silent as a wee clipe”, whatever that meant. But he had sworn to do as much very solemnly and even saluted me, so I obliged him and darted off toward math class. A lot of good it did me; Mr. Simmons had already counted me tardy. I zipped my hoodie up and dug my hands into my pockets. I slumped down into my metal desk chair when a banana peel came whizzing past my face. Libby’s distinct chortle accompanied it.
“Um, trash girl!” she sang out over a chorus of giggles, “Can you, like, depose of that for me?”
“It’s dispose, Libby,” I sighed and reached down to fetch the errant peel. It lay near a pile of snack-size Nutter Butter wrappers – I recognized their red plastic wrapping immediately. If ever I had any change saved, Nutter Butters were definitely my favorite vending machine item to treat myself to (and conveniently forget to tell my mom about). But the only vending machines are kind of far away in the corridor outside … the library.
I gasped. Where. Was. Baert.
“Geez, trashgirl. Don’t cry over it.” Libby flipped her ponytail away and took her seat, which was instantly followed by a horrifying scream coming from her shrill mouth.
“What did I sit in?!” she squawked, flapping her arms. She spun around and glowered at me. “What,” she hissed. “What. Did. You. Do. Tell. Me. Now.” She did that thing angry parents do where every word is detached and over-enunciated in a lowered voice. I called it the whisper-yell and it sends shivers down my spine no matter who it was coming from.
“I didn’t do anything, honest!” I said, standing up, being met with the judging stares of 22 other students. “You all saw me come in and immediately sit here, I haven’t moved!” I exclaimed.
Libby wiped some sort of creamy mess from her backside. I figured it to be chocolate, but a less mature mind might go to other more incriminating assumptions. I spotted a chocolate cupcake wrapper in the trashcan.
“There!” I pointed. “In that garbage can next to you! See? It wasn’t me!”
“So, you admit it! How else would you know where the evidence was stashed?” one of the lemmings crowed out.
“Eve. Come on.” It was Mr. Simmons now. “Can’t we just have one day without your … your … you?” Mr. Simmons sighed dramatically and sat down, the old metal chair squeaking in dismay. He stretched out his arms and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and revealing two equally large and upsetting wet spots in either armpit. I shook my head and looked away, embarrassed for him and almost pitying my teacher. It seemed a little early in the day for that level of perspiration. I didn’t want to look directly at him. It was then that I spotted a tiny set of bright eyes, blinking behind Mr. Simmons’ chair. I watched a small pair of hands cover those eyes, then look at me and make a hushing gesture. It was Baert. Of course. I groaned.
Mr. Simmons and his colony of facial hairs yammered on about respect or bees or something, I don’t know. I was focused on the terrifyingly careful elf crouched underneath the teacher’s squeaking chair. With a mischievous gleam now in his tiny eyes, Baert smiled at me and again brought his finger to his mouth and motioned “sssshhhh”. My eyes widened with horror as I watched him wiggle his fingers in the air and then bring them swiftly around a bolt and pin that were no doubt keeping the squeaking chair intact and upright. He looked up at me, his mouth open in a smile, and nodded. I shook my head tensely and fiercely. He nodded again. I shook mine again. Back and forth we went, nod, shake, nod, shake.
“Eve, are you even listening? What is going on with your head? I really need you to … AAAAAaaaAAAhHHHHHHhhh!” Mr. Simmons’ feet flipped up and back he fell, the back of his chair completely disconnected and giving way under his weight. Down he went. And as he went, he let out a most uncomfortable and awkward man-scream, deep but cracking.
I froze. Every muscle in my body was tense. My fists were clenched, my jaw tight. I felt warm, wet stuff gathering at the corners of my eyes and then trickling down my cheeks. Nooooo, I groaned inwardly, don’t cry-don’t cry-don’t cry-don’t cry, I repeated to myself over and over.
The thing about accidental lacrimation is that it is so often accompanied by some kind of perceptional warping – objects around you lose their shape and people blur together in one big heinous mocking lump and sound becomes nothing but the engine-like whirring of your sniffles and muffled sobs. I stared fiercely at the floor, hating myself in that moment and counting the number of tiny salty teardrops that hit the tops of my untied Converse.
But, I felt a smile creeping in, “accidental lacrimation” would be a pretty rad name for a garage band. I made a mental note to learn an instrument to add validity to said band/name idea. Do garage bands have bassoons? My tears subsided as my brain wandered down into an orchestra pit I had watched once when I attended an opera with my mom. The opera was cool and everything – disappointingly there were no fat guys with strange hats, which is what I had assumed opera was – but those musicians in their secret lair at the base of the stage are what really fascinated me. All the strings kept in time with each other, the other instruments, and the conductor; the bows of the violins waved quickly to and fro together while the bells of the brass instruments bobbed rhythmically en masse, the cellos nodding nobly to the side. I had watched in wonder as a bassoon presented itself dominantly, the rest of the instruments audibly retreating while this quirky fellow oozed its deep sugary notes in a splendid bass solo.
“Eve!” I heard a man’s voice whimper. “Eve, are you even listening to me? What do you have to say for yourself?!”
My head shot up. My musical reverie dissipated.
“It was the bassoon!” I blurted out unexpectedly. Peers snickered around me.
“You guys. It was a baboon that made her cry,” Libby shot out snidely between giggles. More snickering.
“Eeeeeeeve,” came my teacher’s pitiful voice again.
Mr. Simmons had turned my name into a groan. Neat. He stopped writhing around under his broken metal chair and was now on all fours on the floor in an attempt to get up. Or maybe taking the opportunity to practice some yoga, downward-dog style? He was a lean man, but I never considered how absurdly weak he was. Why was it taking so long for him to get up? Was this grown man really conceding defeat to a chair?
“Eeeeeeve,” he groaned once more, “you need to go.”
He was squatting now, his palms on the top of his desk. He looked like that awkward kid at the public pool who didn’t have enough upper body strength to pull himself up and out of the water and instead just keeps popping up at the side of the pool, bobbing along and gasping for breath.
“Go where?” I asked.
“Away. Just … away.”