Audrey

Like every morning, we drop Clare off at school first. She’s not wearing her usual clothes today. She’s wearing Adam’s sweatshirt, the black one with the tree made of bones. She’s only a few feet up the path when Sharon and the others swarm her.

Clare in her new life without me.

My stomach tightens. Like every morning.

We drive past the diner on the way to Peak. Mom always keeps her eyes on the road and talks to me or hums when we pass it. After Adam died, she asked if we could drive a different route. She didn’t wait for my answer and just turned onto a different street. Just like that. I had a panic attack and we had to drive home and then back again with the proper route.

I’m sorry, she told me. The diner reminds me of Adam.

We have to go that way. It’s important.

Mom nodded and we didn’t talk about it anymore.

Today I wait until the diner is the size of a toy in the rearview mirror. Then I ask Mom for her and Dad’s decision.

You’ve had nine days to think about it, I tell her. (Eight hours and thirty-five minutes short of nine days, but hopefully they’re not counting.)

Not yet, sweetie, she says. It’s a big decision. She runs teeth along her bottom lip. We need to consult Dr. Jackson, and you just saw him the night before you asked to switch schools.

Why?

Why what?

Why do we have to consult Dr. Jackson? This should be a family decision.

It’s not that simple. Sometimes parents need advice. Despite what kids think, we don’t have all the answers.

We’re silent for a while. I count seven dogs during this silence. That is very good luck because seven is a good-luck number. They are the following breeds:

Dr. Jackson will say no, I tell Mom. A neon sign with the single word flashes behind my eyes.

NO. N-O.

Mom looks at me. For a long time. It’s kind of scary because she’s not looking at the road. Not necessarily, she says.

I can tell she isn’t saying the truth.

And it makes me mad.

You’re lying! You’re lying to me right now! My eyes flood with tears until the road in front of us blurs. I feel my chest tightening and expanding until I can hardly breathe. I can’t breathe at all now. The air in the car is too close, too tight. The car no longer has any oxygen! It’s full of carbon dioxide! Help! Help! I grab at the door to open the window.

Shh, sweetie. Calm down. Mom pulls over to the side of the road and turns on the hazards. She reaches across me to open the glove box, pulls out one of the brown paper bags.

Deep breaths, Audrey. Deep breaths.

I hold it to my mouth and breathe in, breathe out. A long time passes.

I take the bag from my mouth. Mom is sitting with her hands in her lap and staring straight forward. There are tears in her eyes.

I’m sorry, she says without looking at me.

I’m still upset but I tell her I’m okay so she’ll start driving again. She doesn’t say another word about Dr. Jackson.

Nous sommes arrivées. Mom comes to a stop the closest she can get, which isn’t very close. Cars and vans idle while parents and nurses help kids from cars. That was my first hint that everything was going to be different. But on my first day, I missed it. At that point I was just scared about not going to school with Clare. We’d gone to school together our whole lives. We’d always been in the same class, too.

Now it’s like going to school without the other half of my body.

Mom?

Yes?

I look down at my sweater. Pick at a loose thread. I wish I hadn’t spoken because now she’s waiting. I can’t ask why Clare doesn’t want me around. I already know the answer.

Sometimes I wish I could be Clare, I say.

Mom sighs and rubs my back. Oh, sweetie. You’re turning fifteen. It’s a tough age, but it’s also very special. You’re straddling childhood and adulthood. The only difference between you and Clare is that she’s already made the leap.

Is that it? Is that what’s wrong with me? I wonder. Maybe in a few years I’ll feel like I want to grow up. Then everything will change.

Mom gives me a kiss on the head. Time to get out.

After Adam died it was decided. New school for a new semester. I would attend Peak. (The name is meant to inspire our highest potential. But no one reaches their highest potential at Peak.)

Sharon told me people call it Freak. She said, Oh my God, you’re going to Freak? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.

I made the mistake of asking what she meant.

Basically everyone calls it that because only freaks go there.

That’s not true, I told her. It’s a school for gifted students too. Not everyone learns the same way, you know.

She laughed. Yeah, right. That’s just what parents tell their kids so they don’t feel bad about themselves.

Mom and Dad didn’t want to send me to Peak. Not at first. At first they just took me to see Dr. Jackson because Ms. Pearl said I needed an assessment. Ms. Pearl was my grade eight science teacher. She looked like a pinhead with eyes like a fish.

And she hated me.

She hated when I talked to friends in class. She called me loud. She called me obnoxious. She yelled at me in front of everyone when I came back late from lunch. I always stopped to pet the neighbor’s dog. When I drew in class, she ripped the pages out of my notebook.

I was afraid to go to school. I always made a mistake.

Mom asked Clare to stop going to friends’ houses at lunch and come home with me instead. She wanted Clare to walk me back to school so I made it on time.

Clare yelled, She’s ruining my life!

One day Ms. Pearl called home and gave my parents the bad news. There was something wrong with me.

Mom was on the landline in the kitchen and I snuck upstairs to listen in.

Ms. Pearl said, I’ve done everything I can but it’s just no use.

What’s that supposed to mean? Mom asked.

I think you should take her to a children’s psychologist.

Are you saying there’s something wrong with her?

You need a professional opinion.

Mom was pretty upset after that conversation. I remember she cried.

I suspect she has ADHD, Dr. Jackson said. Then he gave me a million tests and asked me a zillion questions and told me to play while he watched. Afterward he determined I didn’t pass but I didn’t fail.

Only that didn’t matter in the end.

Fit is important, Dad told me after Adam’s accident. You’ll be happier in a new school.

I knew what he meant. I’d finally failed the test.

The other students are at their desks when I enter the classroom. Marianne is making the rounds greeting everyone with her usual smile. Monsieur Martin is at the back of the room doing his paperwork. I go to the back and stand over his desk. Clear my throat. He doesn’t look up.

Bonjour, Monsieur Martin.

Bonjour.

I’m thinking of switching back to public school.

Is that so? He still doesn’t look up.

My parents and sister know but I’ll need your cooperation.

Now I have his attention. He puts down his pen and looks up at me. My cooperation?

Yes. I know you like having me here about as much as I like being here.

He rubs his nose with finger and thumb. The gesture makes him look old. He’s one of the youngest teachers I’ve ever had.

Which isn’t very much, I take it?

I don’t answer because it feels like a trap.

Audrey. He says my name like the effort of vocalizing it makes him very, very tired. I don’t dislike having you here. It disappoints me that you push back against the very people who are trying to help you. It disappoints me further that you continue to treat this school and everything it stands for with derision. It is one thing for outsiders to treat our students with a lack of respect, but it’s quite another coming from you.

At the end of his speech he gives me a hard look.

I’m sorry, I say. I just want to return to school with my twin.

He studies me for a long time. I fidget with my hands, wondering if I should apologize for calling the school Freak. But does he know about that? I can’t be certain.

Eventually he sighs. How do you require my cooperation?

Well, I assume my parents will ask for your opinion on the matter, I say, trying to sound as professional as possible. I would like you to tell them I am ready to return to the regular school system. S’il vous plaît.

I’d considered saying the entire thing in French because I knew it would impress him more, but the risk of losing my message was too large.

You feel you’re ready? Audrey, I called home just days ago. I found you outside on the playground in the middle of class. Then I found you drawing said playground instead of listening to the lesson.

Those are very good points and I apologize.

How can I possibly recommend that you’re ready when you haven’t mastered the basic rules of the classroom? That is pillar number one.

I knew he’d say that, so I have my reply ready.

I’m going to be the perfect student from now on and show you I can follow the rules. Then we can both be free of each other forever.

I don’t know why you would say something like that, Audrey. I don’t dislike having you here.

But think about how much easier your life will be! I make my voice sound upbeat and excited like he won a prize. Then I return to my desk so he can’t accuse me of being late.

At lunchtime I decide to do something mature (the meaning is the same in French as it is in English). I decide to leave the school grounds during my lunch hour like I’ve seen other kids at Peak do.

I always eat my lunch under the tree in the southeast corner of the schoolyard. My forehead begins to sweat as I pass the tree. My hands start to shake as I go through the gate. On the main street the cars that pass are very loud. I count two red, one black, four silver. Then I cut off the main street and arrive at a park. There’s a homeless man asleep on a bench. I take a deep breath and run past him. To be safe. When I look back he’s still asleep.

I’m walking along the path that cuts through the park when I see the yellow string. It’s a few feet ahead of me. No, not string. Tape with CAUTION written across it in bold letters. It’s attached to a black block. I squat and peer at it. On its surface is a wire contraption like a mousetrap.

What is that? I wonder out loud.

Gopher trap, says a voice behind me.

I jump to my feet and turn around. The voice came from a guy about my age holding a long wooden stick tied to a smaller stick. It looks like a cross. He has blond hair that sticks up all over the place and is wearing a T-shirt, long shorts, and flip-flops.

What does a gopher look like? My voice sounds small. I’m afraid of sounding ignorant.

But he just smiles. Like squirrels but cuter. People say they’re a pest because they leave holes everywhere.

Panic seizes me. We can’t let them kill them! These holes are their homes.

I look at his stick. Let’s stop them.

He looks at it too. Shrugs and passes it to me.

I approach the first box slowly. Timidement. I hook the stick under the wire and close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Then I flick the stick up.

The block unearths itself to reveal legs and a tail.

I scream and drop the stick. Now I understand how it works. The trap sits on top of the hole. It gets them when they’re trying to exit. When they want to see the sun or go out and run.

I imagine myself as a gopher. Leaving my family in the den to travel the tunnels and risk going outside for food. I swear this is the way out. Why is it so dark?

Hey now, the boy says and takes a step closer to me. It’s okay. There might be others we can save. Look at that one. The trap hasn’t snapped yet.

He gently takes the stick from me and lifts the trap away. See? When the wire is down, the trap is empty.

There’s still time.

We run around the park removing the traps. There is only one other gopher that we don’t save in time.

We should say a few words, the boy says. It’s only right.

Goodbye, Mr. Gopher, I say. I hope you’re in heaven with your gopher friends.

Build tunnels in the clouds, Mr. Gopher.

I smile at the boy and he smiles back. Indents appear at the sides of his mouth. Dimples. His eyes are a soft brown like puppy fur.

You’re kind of cool, he says.

Really?

I think the gophers would tell you that you’re the coolest person in the world for saving their lives.

I laugh. You saved them too.

That’s true. In that case, I guess I’m kind of cool too.

He grins at me and then something really weird happens. My cheeks get kind of hot. And then it feels like I can’t control my face. I turn around so he can’t see and put my fingers to my lips. I’m smiling super large. My lips are stretched out and I can’t stop.

I pretend I turned around to walk back to the playground. The boy follows. I can control my face again by the time we get to the swings.

What’s your name? he asks. He swings slowly from side to side rather than forward and bumps into me softly.

Audrey.

I’m Calvin.

I like the name Calvin, I tell him. I swallow and look at my shoes. I don’t just like his name. I like him. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this. It must have been in elementary when I still had friends.

Why aren’t you in school? I ask him.

I don’t go to school. I’m homeschooled. I live right there. He points at a little white house across from the park.

He asks if I go to Clare’s school and I don’t respond, but I’m on an upswing and he takes it as a nod. I don’t correct him. I don’t want him to think I’m a freak like the other kids do.

Calvin begins to pump. So, Audrey, what do you like to do when you’re not protecting the little guy?

I don’t know how to answer the question. I know normal fourteen-year-olds don’t play scenes.

I like to draw.

What do you draw?

I wish I could lie and tell him I draw a lot of stuff. I like to draw me and my dog.

Oh, you have a dog? I wish I had a dog.

I wish I had a dog too. That’s the truth. Calvin frowns and I can tell he’s confused.

Why are you carrying a cross? I ask quickly.

Oh, this? It’s actually a sword. Ever heard of LARPing? I shake my head and he says, Live-Action Role Playing. I’m hoping to participate in a LARPing event soon. I’ve been practicing with my friend Frank.

Practicing what exactly?

Sword fighting. Basically it’s a game where players act out their characters and have battles and stuff. I’ve seen them dressed like sword fighters from medieval times and practicing in the park. There’s a lot of grunting.

So LARPing is kind of like playing make-believe?

Totally. It’s like when grownups started telling us we were too old to play pretend, LARPers asked why. Calvin grins and tilts his head to the side. Are you scared now? Are you wishing you were anywhere but here?

I’m not. I’m realizing Calvin might be like me. I want to tell him that I play scenes but the words don’t come out.

The other players are a bit older than me, probably in their twenties, Calvin says. They have swords and full costumes that probably cost them a lot. I don’t have anything so I have to practice with this stupid stick. My mom doesn’t let me bring “weapons” into the house, though, so I have to hide it under the pine tree in front of our house.

The front door of the house opens and a large woman comes out. She cups her mouth and yells, CALVIN!

Calvin’s face turns a bright red and he jumps off the swing, stands so that’s he’s blocking the view of his mom.

I’ve gotta go, he says. But can I have your number?

My what?

Your phone number. His face turns even redder. He pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. What’s your phone number?

I give him both numbers.

But I never use my cell, I tell him, and quickly look down so he can’t see that I’ve turned red too.

I’ll call you, he says. Then he runs away across the park.

My face is still hot when I arrive back at the path with the uprooted gopher traps lying beside it. There’s a warm feeling in my stomach too.

Did that just happen? Did a boy just say he’s going to call me?

I can’t stop smiling.