School is weird. School is also a relief, because at least I know what I’m supposed to be doing with my days.
The bus is weird: the first day back, the Tuesday after Labor Day, I feel like people are avoiding me—not that I’ve ever been a people magnet, but what I mean is, now I feel like there’s a bubble around me and people are afraid to pop it. Some of the kids give me sympathy looks, some give me what’s-wrong-with-her looks, some act like I’m not here, some seem to want to keep their distance because of an ick factor that now attaches to me.
Here are a few whispered tidbits:
“I mean—she chased him in the street.”
“No. She threw the ball and he ran after it.”
“I wouldn’t take a stupid babysitting class. But it’s not like you need a class to know not to do that.”
“Killer essay for her college apps.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
Homeroom is more of a relief: Becca and I are in the same homeroom, since we both have S last names. We hug.
A guy from the newspaper staff distracts Becca by throwing a ball of paper her way.
“Let’s do lunch together tomorrow,” she says to me. “Today I have a newspaper thing.”
I nod, and she turns to the newspaper guy.
We do meet up for lunch the next day. Our school is right in the middle of a busy suburban shopping area, and once you’re a sophomore you’re allowed to walk off-campus for lunch. We head for the less popular of the two coffee places, which isn’t too crowded. It’s not our French place, but it’ll do.
“So,” Becca says once we’ve got our food, “we’re sophomores.”
“Oh, yes, pinch me,” I say.
We talk about school. We don’t have a single class together this semester. Becca’s newspaper duties take up not only a big chunk of her after-school time, but also a class period. She’s already loving it. Newspaper people came back early to get organized.
“It was us and the football players rattling around here last week,” she says. “So you can expect a lot of football stories in our first issue on Friday.”
“I’ll be sure to read every word,” I say.
“I know you’re a huge fan.”
“Actually,” I say, but then stop.
I shake my head. Actually nothing.
“How’re things?” Becca asks. “And by things, I mean—your state of mind.”
“It’s there, and it’s in a state,” I say. “You’ll be happy to know I have broken my vow of silence with Dr. Gilbert.”
“C’est merveilleux!”
“Yes. It’s merveilleux. I’m officially in therapy. Now I’m a walking, talking modern cliché.”
“I would concentrate on the ‘walking, talking’ part,” Becca says. “You have to talk about all this, Danielle. If you won’t talk to me”—she makes a disappointed pouty face—“for sure you should be talking to a therapist.”
The lunch hour—the lunch forty-three minutes, to be exact—is almost over, and we start walking back.
“I know you’re not ready,” Becca says. “But when you’re ready to talk, I’m here. I want to help if I can.”
“I know, Becca. I appreciate it. I really do.”
“I have an idea,” Becca says after a few minutes.
“Of course you do.”
“Really,” she says. “Maybe this will be easier for you. Maybe you’ll consider talking to me for the paper. It could be an amazing article.”
“An article?”
“A human interest article,” Becca says. “About how an experience like this affects a person. How it’s changed you.”
“Why would this be easier for me?” I ask.
“I’m just thinking it would be you getting outside of your head to look at what happened. You’d be talking to me as a reporter, not just a friend. Like you talk to the therapist as a professional, not just as a friendly adult. Maybe it helps to have that distance. You’d be stepping outside of yourself to think about it, to let other kids know what you’ve learned.”
“Obviously I’ve learned nothing. Remember the article about the Red Cross babysitting course?” I say.
“No, no, that’s not what I’m talking about at all. I mean what you’ve learned in a deeper way. You know, kids our age don’t think about death. You must be so far beyond that now.”
“Becca, I don’t think so….”
We’re walking side by side, and she squeezes my shoulders. “It wouldn’t be about the neighborhood conflict, or the immigration thing. Just you sharing your personal insights.”
“There’s an immigration thing?” I ask. “There’s a neighborhood conflict?”
Becca stops to look at me. She seems about to say one thing; then I see her shift gears. Oh, how Humphrey taught me to read the little wheels grinding away inside people’s heads.
“It’s probably not a huge deal,” she says. “I get all kinds of so-called inside scoop because I’m such a news junkie. I’m sure half of what I hear isn’t true.”
“Tell me the half that you think is true,” I say. We’re walking again.
“Just that some of your neighbors want to use the accident as a reason to make changes along Quarry Road, and others say changes would ruin the neighborhood.”
“And the immigration thing?”
“That the people in the van that—that hit Humphrey were illegal aliens. Or rather, undocumented immigrants. And that brings up a bunch of other issues, at least for some people.”
So the accident has become an issue, or a bunch of issues, and I’ve missed them. Including something that some people say will ruin the neighborhood.
“I had no idea,” I say.
“Like I said, probably normal people have no idea,” Becca says. “But—speaking of ‘walking, talking’—I’m a walking, talking blog. The neighborhood thing hasn’t gotten any publicity yet, but it will. And the immigration thing—it’ll probably come up at the county council, or even the state assembly.”
“Why would that happen?” I ask. “What does the state assembly care about an accident in puny Franklin Grove?”
“Because,” Becca says, “lots of other places have these laws against undocumented aliens who get in trouble for other reasons. For reasons other than being here illegally, I mean, like getting a traffic ticket. Like, if you’re an undocumented immigrant and you get a speeding ticket, instead of just getting a ticket, you also end up getting reported to immigration authorities, and they could kick you out of the country. So now some people want a law like that here, too. They think that’s a good way to fight illegal immigration. And whenever an undocumented immigrant is involved in a traffic accident, people always get up in arms and say things like, ‘See, if it weren’t for illegal aliens, that kid wouldn’t have died.’”
I wince; I can’t help it.
“Sorry,” Becca says. “I talk too much.”
I don’t say anything to that.
“My point was supposed to be that my article wouldn’t be about all that. Like I said, it would be about sharing your insights from going through something so profound. Very personal and deep. I think kids would really relate. I think it could help kids when they have tough stuff to deal with.”
We’re back at school.
“I’ll don’t know, Becca,” I say. “Sharing my insights—not really my thing.”
“It might be good for you,” she says.
It might be good for you, I think, but don’t say. Bare my soul for a newspaper article? Talk to Becca as a newspaper reporter, with some kind of “distance” that’s supposed to make it easier? Easier for who? Whom?
I’m thinking I might need to put those quotation marks around our “friendship” again.