Liam has no new tricks. She dodges his feet and hands; she shakes out her books before opening them. His pranks descend into insults and throwing things: balls of paper, paper airplanes which cling to her hair. Imogene thinks of Mersault and tries to stay composed. She hopes he will become bored and find a new victim—Crystal just got a spaghetti perm and it looks retarded. Quince got his ear pierced. Every day at recess, Teddy Campbell dumps the water from his tin of Vienna Sausages on top of the pencil shavings in the class garbage can—someone should pick up on how gross that is.
In the spring, the grade nines play floor hockey in gym class. Phys Ed. is Imogene’s least favourite class, but floor hockey is better than volleyball and much, much better than the gymnastics unit they did this winter. At fourteen, Imogene’s legs compose two-thirds of her body. For gymnastics, Mr. Percy, the Phys Ed teacher, stood by the vault to help students with hand flips. For Imogene, he had to give both her legs a shove so she could hurl them over her head. She hated feeling her body escaping her. Everyone else looked bouncy and graceful, but it’s just tits over arse with her. Off an inch and crunch, she’s paralyzed. And since Liam is the biggest guy in class, the nuns will make him carry her up the stairs for the parts of the school with no ramps. He’ll pretend to trip, throw her down the stairs, and leave her there.
But it’s been raining all week and Mr. Percy wants them to run around. So, floor hockey in the gym. Everyone scrambles for equipment: plastic hockey sticks in yellow or blue, edges curved and warped with use. Nets and balls are dragged out of the storage room. The air smarts with rubber and old sweat. Sticks clatter over the long hardwood floor, the slightest drop gives a satisfying bang that echoes throughout the auditorium. Everyone runs around, hogging the orange balls with the people they like until being ordered to stop.
They are divided into mixed teams. Mr. Percy makes Imogene’s team wear the coloured bibs and they all groan because they probably haven’t been washed in months, if ever. Liam is a forward on the opposite team and Imogene is on defense. This is a relief; she won’t have to face off with him. But throughout the game he glares at her and mouths things like bitch and Cec. The other defense on her team is all ninety pounds of Gerald Constantine and he won’t get in Liam’s way. There will be no protection if Liam decides to hit her. And if he takes a shot and she does nothing, she’ll get shit from her classmates for the rest of the day. She figures if Liam gets the ball, he’ll charge forward as close as he can get to the net and she’ll have to make an attempt to stop him. She’ll try to do this without getting too close.
At the start of the second period, Imogene’s team is losing by one goal. Mr. Percy waits for them to switch sides, his silver whistle jutting out under his thin, silky moustache. After the faceoff, Liam gets a breakaway. Gerald moves like his feet are in quicksand. Imogene’s team screams at her: “Go, move, go!” Liam’s face is all teeth and evil and he keeps himself wide open. Screw it. She rushes forward; she’ll slap the ball away and run like fuck.
When she gets in front of him, he lets her take the ball for a second. Then he crashes into her, “Cec Cec Cec Cec,” under his breath. The ball is right there by her foot, she can get it and then he is leaning over her, back on to Mr. Percy, his teammates speeding towards them. His breath hot on her cheek, stale cigarettes and ripe perspiration, stick in one hand, the other landing square on her breast. “Slut,” he says. And he squeezes.
She means to push him away with both hands, but she is holding her floor hockey stick, so instead, she strikes him across the chest and collarbone with the broad edge. Liam gasps. His face is red and indignant. “You bitch,” he says. Like he is this precious, fucking little prince. Like he is about to declare How Dare You.
Imogene brings the blade of her stick up and across Liam’s hip as hard as she can. He screams. She does it again. He moves to the side and starts losing his balance. She makes sure to come forward and push him again. He falls. She kicks him in the ribs. And again. Now she is too close to keep hitting with the hockey stick. She drops it, sits on him and punches, his face, his neck, his head, his chest.
It is the first time Imogene has ever really hit anyone. Being one of the tallest means no one has ever seriously tried to fight her. She hits Liam over and over. She is impressed by how good she is at hitting—every time she strikes him something happens: a reaction, a brighter colour, a new sound. It isn’t until Mr. Percy pulls her off him that she feels the pain in her hands, holy, do they ever hurt. Her knuckles bleed, her wrists ache.
“Let’s go, Miss.”
Imogene’s feet move on invisible bicycle pedals. She can’t look behind her to see what’s going on. The gym rings in tight silence. “Help him,” Mr. Percy says. The squeak of scrambling sneakers. Mr. Percy pushes open the door and deposits Imogene in the hallway.
“Go to the office. Now. I’ll be there in a minute.”
His voice terse, his eyes avoid hers. She yanks off the smelly bib and moves down the hall on spastic legs. Past the library, past rows of grey lockers. Her T-shirt peels itself from her cooling skin all the way to the open door of the office and the closed green door of Sister Bernadette, Principal. She sits in one of the chairs along the wall. Wendy Martin, the school secretary, stops typing and assesses her.
“Yes, Imogene?”
“Mr. Percy told me to wait here.”
Her eyebrows rise, but she returns to typing. When Mr. Percy appears, he is flushed and out of breath. He raps on the green door. A murmur in reply. He steps inside and closes the door. More murmuring. The door swings open.
“Go on in, Miss Tubbs.”
Sister Bernadette’s office smells like rose-scented air freshener and instant coffee. Imogene expects her to look angry, but her expression is calm and blank. She sits behind a solid pine desk, bare except for a few pens, a phone and a few small ceramic figurines on the front edge—Jack and Jill, Little Bo Peep—the ones that come in the boxes of Red Rose tea. High above on the wall is a white crucifix with a gold plastic Jesus nailed to it. Mr. Percy leans on the wall beside the desk with folded arms.
“Hello, Imogene,” Sister Bernadette says. “Take a seat. I’ve already contacted your grandmother to take you home. Would you like to tell me what happened now or wait for her and tell both of us?”
Imogene shrugs.
“You can tell me and I can tell your grandmother, if you like. I need your story regardless.” Sister intertwines her fingers in front of her. “You’re usually a quiet girl and a good student. There must be a reason for this outburst.”
Imogene opens her mouth and closes it. Should she start with Liam’s hand on her breast? Or the Cec and Cecil and pokes and prodding? Will it go in a file? Her name on a paper with Liam Lundrigan’s and Cecil Jesso’s, all their names together.
“I hit him because he was being a real asshole, Sister.” She hears the quiver in her voice and clamps her mouth shut.
Sister Bernadette says things like temper and consequences. Mr. Percy says things like no excuse for this kind of behaviour and everyone needs self control and violence is not an answer. Imogene nods and picks her cuticles. When Nan shows up, Imogene is told to wait outside while Sister Bernadette and Mr. Percy speak with her.
Nan emerges from behind the green door. Her face is flat and unreadable. They leave. She says nothing in the car. Imogene doesn’t do any outdoor chores. She sits on the sofa with bags of frozen peas on her wrists. During the first commercial break for General Hospital, Nan speaks without looking up from her tea.
“What did that boy say to you, my dear? What did he do?”
“He called me a slut. And he grabbed my t—breast.”
She freezes waiting for Nan’s repulsion. Nan stirs her tea and nods with her eyes downcast. She clanks her spoon against the top and lays it on the saucer, with the tiniest flare.
“Good for you, my dear. If he does it again, go for the pain places. Crotch, bridge of the nose, Adam’s apple.”