I once found out about a fish that if you rubbed it on your skin, you would fall down on the ground and die but you really wouldn’t be dead.

You would appear dead.

Your pulse would be nothing.

Your heart would be nothing.

Your breathing would be nothing.

But you’d be alive.

Everything slowed down so much that they’d all bawl for you and they’d have to prepare a funeral for you.

And your body would lie on the bed and people would talk about the nice things you did. And how you saved their lives.

And how you won more contests than any other living person in the world.

And how you became an explorer.

And how you and your father were reunited and how he was held as a hostage for a time and that’s why he couldn’t communicate with you but you figured it out and you were able to find him when he was in a cave surrounded by deadly scorpions that were unusually large because of a genetic mutation and you battled them and you set him free.

And how he wasn’t trashy at all.

And how he didn’t have a girlfriend.

And how he’d been waiting for you, waiting and waiting.

They’d talk about all these things and your little sister would be sad and she would be hugging her doll that has no hair and Carlene and Lala and even Bonnie would be sobbing all over the place.

And Bart.

Bart would be there. And he’d be holding a tuna fish sandwich with Doritos and his eyes would be wet but he wouldn’t cry. Not then. He had to be strong.

But most of all, your mom. Your mom would say, “I could always count on her. My Olivia. I could always count on her.”

And then, when they were all so sad they could barely speak, you would cough.

Your dead body letting out a quiet peaceful cough.

Just one itty-bitty cough.

The entire room would freeze.

Could it be?

Then you’d cough again. A little louder.

Your dad would yell, “Olivia! Olivia!” And he’d run to your side.

And your mom would say, “Keith, is it true?”

And he’d turn and there would be tears streaming down his face and he’d say, “Yes! She’s here! She’s here! Our child is alive! She’s alive!”

And then you’d sit up and everyone would shout and cry and hug each other.

And Mr. Brown would not be saying Olivia, “Do you know the answer to the question?”

I looked at him.

I looked at the clock behind his big head. It was 10:13. In the morning. I was in pre-algebra. I was in pre-algebra. He was asking me a question.

Berkeley was here.

She was in the supply closet we found upstairs.

In seven minutes I could check on her.

I’d already checked on her once and she was doing her coloring book.

“Olivia? Is something wrong?”

Someone whispered, “Retard.”

And people laughed. Mr. Brown said, “Jared. Stay after class.”

Then Mr. Brown said, “Are you okay?”

And I said, “I just have a headache.”

And then he folded his arms and said, “You stay after class, too.”

And Jared or whoever he was said, “BUUURRRRRN.” Which it was not a burn.

And then you sit there.

And you think, I wish the fish didn’t work and I wish I was dead.

~

Mr. Brown talked to Jared first while I sat at my desk.

He said, “Do you think it’s appropriate to ever use that word.”

Jared said, “Yes.”

Mr. Brown said, “Yes?”

And he said, “No.”

“That’s right. No. It’s not appropriate. Ever. What do you have to say to Ms. Hales?”

Jared, who I’d never even seen before, looked at me. Then he said, “Sorry,” and when Mr. Brown turned to look at me Jared made a pig face.

I looked at my desk.

“Do you accept his apology, Olivia?”

“Yes,” I said.

He looked at Jared, who was now folding his arms and looked very concerned.

“Please don’t ever let me hear you using that word ever again.”

“Okay,” said Jared. Then he said, “Can I have a pass?”

And Mr. Brown said, “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I’ll get a tardy.”

“Not my problem.”

Jared glared at me. Then he grabbed his bag and walked out the door.

The bell rang which meant my next class was already starting which meant I wasn’t going to get to check on Berkeley which meant she was going to be scared and what if she had to go to the bathroom and I had some crackers in my bag that I’d forgotten to leave with her and what if they’d found her because what if they used that closet even though it looked dusty and smelled like old rags and was clear out of the way but even though that, what if they found her?

Mr. Brown sat in the desk next to me. He smelled like my dad’s spice shaving cream but he was about fifty years old and had rings of sweat under his arms.

“I’ll give you a pass. Don’t worry.”

I said, “Okay.”

“First of all, I’m sorry about what Jared said. People can be jerks.”

I said, “Okay.”

Then he said, “Second of all, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about what’s been happening. We, your teachers, have met with your mom a few times and she told us you’ve been sick.”

He’d met with my mom? When? And what was he talking about? I’d been sick?

He was watching me.

Was I sick?

Was this something Mom hadn’t told me? Or Dad? Maybe that’s why he left. Maybe he couldn’t take it. Maybe I was dying. Was I dying? Or was this just something she told them so she wouldn’t have to go to court.

Right then I felt sick to my stomach for real. If she’d told them that, things were getting really bad.

He was staring at me still. A sweat ball starting on his forehead.

I said, “Yes. Very sick.”

He paused for a minute. Then he said, “How are you feeling now?”

“Better,” I said. “A little better.”

He kept staring, like he was studying me to see if I was telling the truth, which I was not.

“Did you get the note that you may have to go to summer school?”

I nodded. “Miss Hill gave it to me.”

Miss Hill is a school counselor who told me she was my friend.

“Did your mother mention that?”

“Mention what?”

“Summer school.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Just Miss Hill.”

“Huh,” he said.

Then he said, “Did Miss Hill talk to you about your illness?”

I said, “No.”

The counselor and this dumb-bum teacher. Had Mom told the principal I was sick? Who else had she told? I started to feel itchy.

I’d read an article about a mom who lied and told everyone her kid had cancer and got a whole bunch of money and then ended up in prison.

Prison.

Had my mom told them I had cancer?

He kept talking and I tried to focus. “Your mom said you were sensitive about it. How it was contagious. She really didn’t want us discussing it with you now that you’re on the mend.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling woozy.

“I want you to know that I’ve had some medical issues.” He coughed. “That were not pretty.”

I looked at my hands.

“I didn’t want to talk about it either,” he said.

He waited.

I said, “Thank you?”

And he said, “You’re welcome.”

Then he said, “If you can stay on task and get some help, I think you can catch up in this class before the end of the year. You’re very smart.”

I looked at him. I wasn’t sure he knew who I was. Maybe he thought I was someone else.

“Do you still have that headache?”

I nodded.

He wrote me a pass and said, “Go to the nurse for now and get some medicine. I’ll try to find you a tutor so you can catch up.”

I said, “Okay.”

And that was it.

~

Things were much worse than I thought and my mom might be going to prison.