“Michelle, do you think you could …?”
But Cal was already on his feet, starting toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of her. Be back in a minute.”
June watched as Michelle’s eyes followed her father out of the kitchen, but when her daughter’s gaze shifted and she seemed about to speak, June quickly busied herself with the eggs. There just wasn’t anything she could do. She felt helpless, and inadequate, and angry — at herself, and at Cal.
“Here’s my girl,” Cal said as he returned to the kitchen, Jenny cradled in his arm. He seated himself at the table and began bouncing the baby gently, making her laugh and gurgle with pleasure.
“Can I hold her?” Michelle asked.
Cal glanced at her, then shook his head. “She’s happy where she is. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Without answering, Michelle suddenly rose from the table.
“I forgot something upstairs. Call me when it’s time to go, okay?” Cal nodded absently, still engrossed in Jennifer.
“That was cruel,” June said when Michelle was gone from the kitchen.
“What was?” Cal looked up from the baby, surprised at the expression on June’s face. What had he done?
“Couldn’t you have at least let her hold Jenny?”
“I beg your pardon?” Cal’s baffled look told her that he hadn’t the vaguest idea of what she was talking about.
“Oh, never mind,” she said. She began serving the eggs.
As they drove into Paradise Point that morning, neither Cal nor Michelle spoke. It was not a comfortable silence, not the kind of close, companionable silence they had enjoyed back in Boston; instead, it was as if there were a gulf between them. A gulf that was growing wider, which neither of them knew how to bridge.
Sally Carstairs tried not to listen as Susan Peterson’s voice droned on.
They were sitting under the maple, eating their lunch, and it seemed to Sally that Susan just wouldn’t shut up. It had been going on now for nearly fifteen minutes.
“You’d think she’d go to another school,” Susan had begun. They’d all known whom she was talking about, since her eyes were fixed on Michelle, sitting by herself at the top of the steps. “I mean, do we really have to look at her, gimping around like some kind of a freak? Why don’t they send her to one of those schools for special children? If you can call retarded special.”
“She’s not retarded,” Sally objected. “She’s just lame.”
“What’s the difference?” Susan said airily. “If you’re a freak, you’re a freak.”
She went on, her voice vibrant with malice, listing her objections to Michelle’s being in the some school with the rest of them, let alone the same classroom.
Sally kept trying not to listen, but Susan’s voice was like a bee buzzing in her ear. Every few seconds, she glanced over to see if Michelle could hear what Susan was saying, but Michelle seemed to be ignoring them. Then, just as Sally decided she’d heard enough, and was about to get up and go over to Michelle, she saw Annie Whitmore run up to her. She could see the two of them talking, then Annie took Michelle by the hand, and started pulling her to her feet. As the rest of the group under the maple became aware of what was happening, Susan’s voice fell silent. They watched as Annie led Michelle down the steps, then walked with her to a spot a few yards away, where the rest of the third-graders were gathered. A moment later Michelle was holding one end of the jump rope, Annie the other, and the littler girls were starting to take their turns in the middle.
“Don’t tell
Michelle tried to ignore the sounds, telling herself that they were laughing at something else. But she knew it wasn’t true. She could feel them: looking at her, whispering among themselves, laughing. As the first twinge of anger knotted her stomach, she tightened her grip on the jump rope and forced herself to concentrate on Annie Whitmore, whose feet were lightly skipping in rhythm to the chant as she began her turn.
But as the laughter from Susan Peterson’s group increased, Michelle found it more and more difficult to ignore it. Her anger grew; she could feel her face growing hot. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that by shutting her classmates out of her vision, she could shut them out of her mind.
When she opened her eyes again, something seemed to have happened. The sun, so bright a moment before, was fading into a gray mist. And yet, it was too early in the day for the fog to be coming in. The fog always came in late afternoon, not lunchtime.…
In her ears, Susan Peterson’s taunts grew louder, carrying through the mist, tormenting her.
Turn the rope, she told herself. Just turn the rope, and pretend nothing’s happening.
Her vision was fading rapidly, and soon she was aware of nothing but the rope in her hand. She increased the tempo of the chant, turning the rope faster to keep up with the rhythm.
The happy grin on Annie’s face began to fade as she tried to keep up with Michelle’s suddenly furious pace. She skipped faster and faster, and soon gave up using the little intermediate hop that filled the time between the rope’s rotations. She was jumping now, facing Michelle, trying to make up her mind whether she should keep going or try to run out. But the rope was going too fast: she couldn’t run out, nor could she keep up.
The rope slashed against her ankles, and Annie screamed in pain, tripping, stumbling to the ground.
It was the scream that got through to Michelle.
Drowning out the laughter from Susan Peterson, it cut through the fog, piercing the mist like a shaft of lightning.
The rope, jerked from her hand when it hit Annie, lay at Michelle’s feet. She couldn’t remember dropping it, couldn’t remember what, exactly, had happened. But there was Annie, rubbing her ankle and looking at Michelle with more reproach than fear.
“Why did you do that?” Annie demanded. “I can’t do hot peppers.”
“I’m sorry,” Michelle said. She took a step forward, but Annie seemed to shrink away from her. “I didn’t mean to turn it so fast. Really, I didn’t. Are you all right?”
Again she moved toward Annie, and the little girl, seeing nothing but concern in Michelle’s face now, let herself be helped up.
“It hurts,” she wailed. “It stings!” A welt was rising on her leg, and she rubbed at it once more before getting to her feet. A small crowd had gathered, watching curiously, pointing first to Annie, then to Michelle. As Susan Peterson approached, Michelle hobbled away as quickly as she could. She was at the foot of the steps when she heard Sally Carstairs’s voice behind her.
“Michelle? What happened?”
Michelle turned to face Sally. Though there was nothing but curiosity in Sally’s eyes, Michelle was distrustful. After all, only a few moments ago Sally had been under the maple with Susan and the rest of them.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just turned the rope a little too fast, and Annie tripped.”
Sally watched her carefully as she spoke, and wondered if Michelle was telling the truth. But as the bell rang calling them back from lunch, she decided not to press Michelle. “Do you want me to walk back in with you?” she asked.
“No,” Michelle replied, her voice sharp. “I just want you to leave me alone!” Hurt, Sally stepped backward, then hurried up the steps. By the time Michelle regretted her words, it was too late — Sally was already inside the building. Slowly, Michelle started up the stairs, relieved to see the rest of the children streaming past her, chattering among themselves, the incident with Annie forgotten.
“I saw what you did,” Susan Peterson hissed in her ear.
Startled, Michelle nearly lost her balance and had to grab at the railing to keep from falling.
“What?”
“I saw it,” Susan said, her eyes glistening with malice. “I saw you deliberately try to trip Annie, and I’m going to tell Miss Hatcher. You’ll probably get expelled!” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried inside. Michelle, suddenly alone in the schoolyard, paused and looked back at the playground, as if she might somehow see what had really happened. She hadn’t done it on purpose. She was sure she hadn’t. But she couldn’t really remember what
