“No.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me. No.” Mr. Watley’s arms were crossed over his chest. Thick sprouts of hair poked out from the cuffs of his shirt.
“But I feel I did an excellent job presenting my case.”
“You didn’t. And I’m not about to tell a teacher how to run his classroom. Also, and this is at the crux of my decision, it will do you good to work with someone else.”
“It won’t.”
“Petula, we’ve talked about this. You’ve told me you want to try to reengage with the world—”
“In bite-sized pieces, sir. And not with everyone in the world, and certainly not him.”
Mr. Watley tented his fingers under his chin. “Why not him?”
“Loads of reasons. For one thing, he doesn’t read. This speaks of poor moral fiber and probably poor intellect.”
“You’re being terribly judgmental. He seems like a decent and smart young man.”
“He’s a pain in the bum.”
“That, Petula, is a fine example of the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Sir!”
He stood. “You have YART in ten minutes. Go.”
“Your lack of civility has been noted,” I said as he shooed me out of his office.
I began my slow walk toward Youth Art Therapy.
The worst part of a bad week.
After Maxine died, my parents insisted I see a grief counselor. But money was tight, and counselors cost money. So I was sent to see someone at my very own school.
Carol Polachuk told me she specialized in grief counseling, which was a joke because she caused more grief than she cured. I didn’t say much in our sessions beyond yes and no. This bugged the heck out of her and her bulgy eyes.
One day, Carol—exasperated by my silence—said, “Look, it was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill your sister.”
She might as well have added, But you did.
I only meant to hit the wall behind her when I threw my mug of tea. I didn’t mean to clip her on the forehead, or splatter her with the contents. I certainly didn’t mean to draw blood. It was a stupid, impulsive move, and I regretted it instantly.
But the way Carol reacted, it was like I’d tried to murder her. She threatened to charge me with assault. My parents were called in. Mr. Watley got involved. Meetings took place.
A solution was found. Instead of one-on-one sessions with Carol, I would go once a week to Youth Art Therapy. Everyone at Princess Margaret knows that YART is where truly hopeless sad sacks get sent for an hour a week to express themselves through art.
Rachel and I had secretly dubbed it “Crafting for Crazies.”
In a million years I couldn’t have imagined a day where I’d be forced to join their ranks.
“You’ll be graded on assignments,” Mr. Watley explained to me and my parents. “It’s like a regular art class.”
“Except it isn’t,” I said. “Except I’ll be with people who may or may not be criminally insane.”
My parents wouldn’t listen. “This will be a good fit,” Dad said.
“You’ve always been a passionate crafter,” Mom added.
I tried pointing out the obvious: that I hadn’t done any crafting since Maxine died. They said I was being irrational. This would help me get back on my crafting feet.
“How can I get back on my crafting feet if I fear for my life?”
My protests fell on intentionally deaf ears.
I reached the doors to the counseling suite at the same time as Alonzo Perez. Alonzo is beautiful, with dark skin and a slender but muscular frame. He wore hot-pink pants and a formfitting T-shirt that read SLUT. One side of his head was freshly shaved. Of the people in our small band of misfits, I liked Alonzo best.
Alonzo was in Crafting for Crazies because he tried to kill himself after he came out to his ultrareligious family and they kicked him out of the house. Now he lived with an aunt on the east side.
“Hey, Petula. How are you feeling?” He held the door for me, because he knew I didn’t like touching door handles with my bare hands.
“Good, thanks.” Alonzo was in my history class as well as English, so he’d seen me faint.
“Glad to hear it.”
Ivan the Terrible was already sitting at the far end of the table. He’s the youngest member of YART, only thirteen, a chubby, sullen kid with black hair and a super-intense, scary gaze. He reminded me of a boy version of Carrie, from one of my favorite Stephen King novels. I wondered if one day he might light the entire counseling suite on fire with his mind.
Ivan also has what our almost-counselor Betty Ingledrop calls “periodic outbursts.” Like when he dumped glitter on my head. Or when he chased Alonzo around the room, wielding a mallet. Or when he tried to staple his own thumb to the table.
Ivan’s mom drowned two years ago while they were on vacation in Mexico. I tried my best to be nice to him. Partly because I felt bad for him, and partly because I secretly hoped that if he did light the school on fire with his mind, he might let me live.
Alonzo and I sat down. It was Saudi Arabia hot again, so I pulled off my old hand-knit Mr. Rogers–style cardigan, just as Koula Apostolos sauntered in.
Koula’s a year younger than me and she has the body of an Eastern European shot-put champion: wide, stocky, all muscle. She was wearing a barely-there top with jean shorts over fishnet stockings and a pair of work boots. Her shoulder-length hair was stiff with hair spray.
She once called my sense of fashion the Handmade Granny Look, so I called her sense of fashion the Eighties Slag Look. But I only said it once, because she threatened to punch me if I said it again.
Koula’s an alcoholic and a druggie. She was kicked out of Trafalgar Secondary a year ago and transferred here. There were rumors that she’d done something to Carol Polachuk. Something much worse than throwing a mug of tea.
“I’ve been sober for a month,” she said now, holding up her AA chip as she took a seat.
“Third time lucky?” said Alonzo, because this was the third time since September that Koula had shown us her one-month chip. The last two times she’d gone on a bender to celebrate.
Koula scowled. “Shut up, you fag.”
“Eat me, you skank.”
Then they started laughing. Alonzo pulled her close and hugged her. I could not begin to understand their friendship.
Betty Ingledrop stepped out of her office, holding a box of Timbits. “Hi, everyone!” She’s young but dresses older. Every week she showcases a different brightly colored suit with tan nylons and sensible heels. Today she wore hot pink.
Betty’s our art therapist—sort of. She told us when she started that, technically speaking, she wasn’t an art therapist yet; we were part of her “clinical practicum.”
“So you’re a student,” Koula said.
“Not exactly. I’m only six months away from getting my diploma.”
“So you’re a student,” said Alonzo.
She’d smiled sweetly at us. “We’re all students in the school of life.”
Betty is nothing if not unflappable.
We also found out that she wanted to work with much younger kids, but this was the only practicum she could get. It went a long way toward explaining her juvenile art projects.
Now, as she approached the table, she swept one arm behind her. “I’d like you all to welcome a new addition to the group.”
He’d followed her out of her office. He was tall. He had a bionic arm.
He was Jacob.
No. Nononononononono.
It was my fault. I’d let him know he had options.
He took the seat beside mine. This time he wore a grayish-white Icelandic sweater, which he started to pull off because of the heat. It took him a while, thanks to his bionic hand. Underneath he wore a white T-shirt, which rode up past his belly button till he had a hand free to pull it back down.
Everyone but me stared at his bionic arm. I stared at the line of dark hair that ran down into his jeans.
Betty asked us to go around the table and introduce ourselves. Then she said, “Jacob, would you care to share your story? This is a safe place.”
“Sure.”
We all leaned forward in anticipation, because it’s true what they say: misery does love company.
“I was in an airplane,” Jacob began, “flying over the Andes with my rugby team. The plane crashed. Some of us survived, but no one came to our rescue for quite a while. We ran out of food. We had a tough decision to make: starve, or eat our dead friends.”
I shook my head. Alonzo guffawed. But Ivan’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “You mean, like cannibals?”
Jacob nodded.
“What did you do?”
Jacob leaned in close to him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Ivan’s eyes got even wider.
Koula crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I call bullshit.”
“Clearly,” said Alonzo.
Jacob grinned. “Busted. Good movie, though. Alive. Directed by Frank Marshall, who also directed the lesser-known Arachnophobia.”
“So you didn’t eat human flesh?” asked Ivan.
“No.”
Ivan looked deeply disappointed.
“Okay,” said Jacob. “Here goes. I was sailing with my brother, Buck. A storm came up. Buck died; I lived. Buck was always my mom’s favorite—”
“Ordinary People,” said Betty, her mouth turned downward.
Jacob nodded, impressed. “Very good. Won the Oscar for best picture in 1981.”
“Freak,” said Koula.
“Movie freak,” said Jacob.
Our Almost Counselor cleared her throat. “Since you’re clearly not ready to share, let’s move on.” She opened a folder. “We’re going to make origami birds today.” She held up an example. “Each bird represents an anxiety or fear. You can write the fear on the side of each bird. Then we’ll go outside and release them—symbolically cast them away.”
“So, litter,” I said.
“Petula’s going to be here all day,” Koula snickered. “She only has about a jillion and one fears.”
“They’re not fears if they’re based on research and facts.”
“Says the girl who won’t walk past construction sites because she’s afraid she’ll get killed by falling debris.”
Jacob’s thick eyebrows shot up, and I knew Thursday’s walk was suddenly making sense to him.
“And you reamed me out one day for listening to my iPod on the way to school,” Koula continued.
“You reamed me out about that once, too,” said Alonzo.
My stomach clenched. “I was merely trying to point out that when you’re plugged in like that, you’re not aware of your surroundings. You’re not going to hear a truck coming, or a rapist—”
“Here, have a Timbit,” Koula interrupted. Her weasel eyes on mine, she stuck her man hand into the box, making sure her fingers touched every single doughnut hole before she passed the box over.
I stared into the box. “I’m not hungry.”
Koula laughed. “Har! Har! Har!” Like a dog’s bark. “Yep. You’re going to have to make a whole flock.”
I wanted to punch her.
“Koula,” Betty said. “Remember our motto: Be kind.”
Ivan let rip with a loud toot. “FYART!”
Fifty minutes later, we all traipsed into the field behind the school, carrying our birds. I’d made six, not because I needed a flock but because I was good at origami. Alonzo had made a few. Ivan and Koula had made one each. Jacob had made none. “I can do a lot with this, but origami? Forget it,” he told Betty, indicating his bionic arm.
Betty, ever practical, replied, “Perhaps Petula would be willing to give you a couple of hers.”
I handed Jacob two birds. He read what I’d written on each. “Biological warfare. Airplanes.”
“Told you,” said Koula. “She’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”
“Actually,” said Betty, “I’m proud of Petula. She took the assignment seriously. She’s attempting to work on her issues.”
Koula gave Betty the finger when her back was turned.
“All right, everyone, are we ready? Release your fears!”
We tossed the birds into the air.
They pinwheeled straight to the ground.
We stared at them, lying in the mud at our feet.
“In the movie business,” said Jacob, “we’d call this an anticlimax.”
Minutes later the bell rang and we trudged back to the counseling suite to gather up our things.
“This group,” Jacob said after the others had left. “It’s like a twisted version of The Breakfast Club. Koula’s like a scarier Ally Sheedy. I’m like a cheerier Judd Nelson. You’re the Molly Ringwald character, only more uptight.” Before I could respond, he took out his phone. “Can I have your number?”
“Why?”
“So we can book a time to work on our assignment. What’s your last name?”
“De Wilde.”
He laughed. I didn’t. “Seriously?”
“It’s Belgian. And I don’t see what’s so funny, Jacob Schlomo Cohen.”
“It’s just that you’re so De Not. De Cautious would have suited you better.” He slipped his sweater back over his head. “Hey,” he said, his voice muffled by the wool, “can you help me get this on?”
I saw my out and hurried away.