Breathless
Was she afraid or did she slip away like someone falling into a familiar dream?
So after the thing with the mouse I’m in the office on the Group W Bench. That’s what my dad calls it. After my first time there he played me the song about Alice’s Restaurant and the bench where all the misfits have to sit. In the song it’s for the guys who might not be good enough to get drafted into the army. At my school it’s where kids wait to see one of the VPs when they get kicked out of class. I’ve been here before. It’s not like what I did today was so bad. No worse than littering, which is what the guy in the song did. He’s got a criminal record and it blows him away that the U.S. Army says he’s not fit to kill and maim because he’s a litterer. Plus he’s got to sit on the bench with all the mother rapers and father stabbers and father rapers. Miss Palmer would say that’s irony or something. I say it’s just stupid.
The guy beside me on the bench, Brayden, says, “What a pussy,” and snorts a laugh.
A kid’s losing it in the VP’s office. She’s got her face pushed against the narrow pane of glass beside his office door like she’s trying to escape and her tears and snot are marking up the glass. Her cheek is flattened into a series of red and white rings with a small circle of pale pink skin in the middle. Everyone on the bench is laughing at her. I can hear her sobbing.
The girl beside Brayden says, “Glad I’m not a janitor.”
“She’s always crying,” someone else says. I say, “Give her a break.” “Pussy,” Brayden says again. He means me.
The secretary who answers the phone and greets visitors says, “No talking on the bench. And Brayden, for the last time, take off your hat.”
“I’m having a bad hair day.” Brayden smirks.
“Too bad. Take it off.” Then she talks politely into the phone: “No one’s picking up in the math office. Can I put you through to his voice mail?”
I’d like to remind Brayden about the time he lost it. Tore the door off the youth worker’s office and pushed a teacher in the hall just because he thought someone had insulted his loser of a dad. I’d like to but I don’t. I can’t stand Brayden but I get it that he feels like he has to defend his dad. And I figure he acts tough because he’s afraid someday he might really fall apart in front of everyone just like the girl in the VP’s office. It’s one thing to destroy property, it’s another to break down and cry.
I think about my own dad. I know he’ll be disappointed if I get suspended today. Really, I’d rather stay at school, as lame as it is. It’s so quiet at home now with just the two of us. Even when my aunt comes by with food and brings my three cousins who never stop talking and jumping around, the house feels empty.
The last time I was on the bench was because of what happened in Cosmetology. When Miss Ortiz wasn’t looking, busy flirting with the automotive teacher who just happened to drop by the classroom, I told Jadyn to shave a patch of hair above my left ear. She did it, too. Miss Ortiz flipped out — yelled at both of us for being irresponsible and sent us to the office.
Miss Baker, one of the VPs, made those big sad eyes at me and asked if I wanted to talk to the youth worker. When I said no, she called my dad. I could tell he was upset but he didn’t say much. Later, when the grief counsellor tried to get me to talk about it, I just shrugged. What was there to say? Shaving beats cutting. Now Miss Ortiz watches me like a hawk. I don’t know what she thinks I might do but I guess she figures I can’t be trusted.
At home, later, I finished the job. Shaved the AC/DC lightning bolt into the stubble and it looked good. AC/DC. Best band ever. Best time ever? Grade 8 trip to Ottawa and the fireworks on the last night. We got on the bus and went across the river into Gatineau to the Museum of History and sat on the grass beside the river along with hundreds of other people — families with little kids, couples holding hands, old people on plastic folding chairs. There were food vendors and people selling glow-in-the-dark bracelets and glow sticks.
That night we watched Canada’s entry in a big competition. The fireworks were launched from a barge way out on the river and they were timed to music. For one part of the show the soundtrack was “Thunderstruck” and the fireworks were just black and white — all-white explosions against the all-black sky. They thumped into the darkness above the river and pulsed and shimmered until I couldn’t tell where the fireworks left off and the pounding of the music began. The two surged through me like electricity. I could barely breathe, it was so beautiful. I wanted to leap to my feet and dance and shout but I didn’t.
I wish I could live that night again — the smell of the river, the breathlessness of the crowd and Brian Johnson’s voice echoing across the water, rolling over all of us on the riverbank and rolling right up the hill to the Parliament buildings, filling everything up so there was no room for thinking.
Now Malcolm Young is dead. Bon Scott died even before I was born.
The VP’s door swings open and Mr. Marshall comes out with the crying girl. He walks her quickly through the front office in the direction of Guidance and the youth worker’s office.
“Brayden,” he says, “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Lookin’ forward to it,” Brayden mutters.
Mr. Marshall looks at me. “Grace. Again?”
I feel ashamed and it bugs me that he can do that to me so I shrug and say, “So what,” and Marshall frowns at me before he disappears into Guidance.
The main office door opens suddenly and Miss Dixon from History marches a kid right up to the front desk.
“Derek needs to see a VP,” she says to the secretary and it’s clear she’s pissed. “He’s refusing to change his T-shirt.”
Derek looks over at all of us on the bench and grins and we get a look at the front of his shirt. There’s a full-colour picture of the poop emoji and underneath is the word “Happens.” We all laugh and the secretary glares at us and tells us to be quiet.
“I believe my right to freedom of expression is enshrined in the Constitution,” Derek says. He knows his audience.
Marshall comes back from Guidance. Brayden shuffles after him into the small office and the door closes. I hear the low rumble of their voices and through the glass I see Brayden slouching in the chair in front of Marshall’s desk all cool-like. Thinks he’s so tough.
Derek’s beside me on the bench. His shirt makes me think of the time my mom gave my dad a T-shirt for Father’s Day. It was white with bold black print that said “Will marry for money.” My dad laughed like crazy when he saw it. He put it on right away. Then he grabbed my mom in a big bear hug and kissed her.
“Didn’t know that was a thing,” he said. “l thought you had to marry for love.”
Suddenly Brayden yells, “F—k you!” We hear him right through Marshall’s closed office door and when I look, Brayden’s sitting bolt upright all his gangster cool vanished.
“That’s gotta be worse than the poop emoji,” Derek says.
Looks like I’m going to be on the bench for a while longer.
Thinking this makes me tired. I’m pretty much tired all the time. It’s like every day is a rerun of the one before and the only thing that breaks the monotony is a clown like Derek or a fight in the hall, one of those times when something unscripted busts loose. Sometimes, though, a person should maybe look away because what’s happening is too private.
First period in Grade 10 History, some smartass always asking, “Miss, can I go to Timmy’s to get a coffee? I’ll get one for you.”
“I can’t give you permission to leave the school. I’m responsible for you while you’re in this class.”
“Then can I go to my locker for a pencil?”
“Okay — but take the hall pass. And watch out for traffic.” Cue the snickering. In Science, it’s chaos. Kids screw around with the lab equipment and hide in the little sink cabinets, all folded up like origami shapes. It’s always noisy and usually something gets broken. Sometimes Mr. Cahill gets on the class to behave. Most days he acts like he doesn’t notice or care.
We’re supposed to be learning about the respiratory system. Today’s lesson was about the effect of CO2 on breathing. That’s why I’m sitting on the Group WBench.
Cahill put a white lab mouse in a small sealed terrarium. Then we all had to sit and watch while the mouse’s breathing gradually produced more and more carbon dioxide. It didn’t take long. Pretty soon the mouse was in trouble. You could see its little sides moving with the effort to breathe. Then its whole body was heaving and the mouse was on the floor of the terrarium, dying.
Cahill was giving us a running commentary: “Suffocation is caused by carbon dioxide poisoning, not by a shortage of oxygen. The increase in the level of CO2 is directly related to the rate of breathing. A person at rest breathes at a slower rate and produces less carbon dioxide than someone who is active or stressed. It’s likely that the mouse is feeling some stress in this situation. You’ll notice how, within a fairly short period of time, it’s reacting to the impact of increased CO2 .” I stood up. “We get the point.” Cahill, confused. “Excuse me?” “You can stop now.” Everyone quit fooling around and the room went quiet. “Sit down, please, Grace,” Cahill said. “I won’t until you let the mouse out.” I’m pretty sure my voice was getting louder.
“Grace, sit down while we finish our observations.”
“We’re not idiots,” I said. “We get it that the mouse is suffocating. You don’t have to kill it to prove you’re an asshole. We can observe that.” Pretty sure I was shouting. Cue the snickering. Cahill kicked me out. Marshall’s door opens and he and Brayden come out.
“Sit there,” Marshall tells Brayden, pointing to the bench. Then he says to the secretary, “Brayden’s father’s coming to get him and I want to speak to Mr. Green when he gets here.” “Of course,” the secretary says. “Grace?” Marshall signals to me. Here’s what I don’t say out loud: I think about my mom all the time. I think about her and my thoughts get all coiled up. It’s like she was a lot of different moms and I remember them all and I can’t keep her or my feelings straight.
When I was a little kid she was the kind of mom who noticed cool things and made sure I saw them, too. Like the time she showed me how the sand in the sandbox was rippling and shifting and I couldn’t figure out why. Suddenly tiny baby toads popped up to the surface, sand exploding around them in small puffs like the smoke in magic tricks. I shrieked and my mom laughed and hugged me tight.
When I was little, our house was always full of family and friends. That changed the year I turned 9. My mom started spending a lot of time alone because she said having too many people around made it hard for her to breathe. She was a good cook, but she said food didn’t interest her. My dad started doing most of the cooking. She had trouble sleeping and prowled through the house at night. Sometimes I woke up, knowing she was standing in my bedroom in the dark. She never said why she was there. She was selfish sometimes. Other times she was too generous, gave away things that weren’t hers. Like the time she gave away my bike without even asking.
Usually she seemed sad. She mostly forgot about me. If she saw things in the world that delighted her, she didn’t share them.
Then she started hurting herself and there were trips to the hospital. After the third time, she was away for three months and when she came home she was so thin and pale, locked away in her own thoughts all the time, already halfgone from us.
And the last time she came home, sitting in the back seat with me while my dad drove, and it was after a rainstorm and she said, “Oh, smell that air. Isn’t it beautiful, Gracie? So soft and fresh. There’ll be a rainbow somewhere—”
She held my hand and stretched forward to put her other hand on my dad’s shoulder and the three of us were together. I thought she was going to be okay from then on.
I don’t think she left us a note. I’m pretty sure Dad would’ve told me. Picturing her at the end curled up like Cahill’s lab mouse, sides heaving, worries me. I can’t put it out of my head. Was she afraid or did she slip away like someone falling into a familiar dream? Did she think of me at all? Did she think how it would be if I found her?
Dad says it’ll get better with time. I’d like to believe him but most days I figure it won’t.
I don’t say any of this to Marshall. He tells me Cahill says the mouse is fine. I start to cry. I can’t help it. I can’t stop seeing the mouse, gasping, poisoning itself while we all watch.
So I cry but I’m careful to keep my back to the window beside Marshall’s office door.