“Ugh, poor thing,” she concludes, and I let her believeit.
Ten minutes later, I push open the heavy, spring-loadedclassroom door and step inside. The lights are off, and a hazy afternoon sunleaks through the windows. Finger-painted animals cover one wall, while a giantcalendar with movable felt pieces hangs on another. A blue shag circle rug sitsempty in the middle of the room. Spider plants hang limply over the teacher’sdesk. I hear a scratching sound and remember the hamster. What the heck didthis year’s class name it? Hammy? Something original like that. A low, muffledsound belonging to a human voice startles me.
“Kat?” I whisper loudly. Something about empty classroomscreeps me out. I flick on the lights and try again, louder this time. “Kat!C’mon, I know you’re in here. You’ve called me three times since twelve thirty!”
And then I see it—a curling black telephone cord vanishinginto the supply closet at the far end of the room.
Inside, Kat is crouched on a wooden, three-legged kiddiestool, like a teenager on a toilet seat in a bathroom stall hiding from theprincipal during math class. She has the phone cradled under her left ear and acigarette clamped between two fingers in her right hand.
“What the hell?” Kat calls out, squinting into the suddenlight. She momentarily loses her balance on the stool and has to put out herright hand to steady herself.
“Kat, I think the question is ‘What the fuck?’ andI’m supposed to be the one asking it.”
She rolls her eyes and speaks into the phone. “I gotta go.No, it’s not the administration. It’s just Lauren. Yup. Me, too. TTYL.”
Kat emerges, brushing a stray black curl from her eyes.“Hang this up for me, will you?” Then she gestures with the cigarette. “Do youhave a light?”
“Is that a candy cigarette?”
“Insert second eye roll here. Duh, Lauren. You reallythink I’d smoke around those frigging five-year-olds?”
“Such colorful language.”
“I’m outta matches is all. I’ll be golden once I take apuff.”
“Fine.” I move my thumb across the knuckle of my pointerfinger and hold it out to her. “Use my lighter.”
Kat presses the dusty white sugar stick to her lips andcloses her eyes. “Much better. Thanks.”
“Who was that on the phone?” I ask.
“Just…no one.” She takes a bite of the hard candy andstarts chewing.
“It was Varka, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Chew, chomp, puff.
“I thought we talked about this. I thought we agreed thata ten-dollar-a-minute psychic was not the answer.”
Kat is complete nonchalance. “Depends on the question.Mercury is in retrograde right now, and Mercury rules travel andcommunications, among other things. It means things are gonna be kooky for thenext few weeks.” A smile plays on her lips. “Lauren, Varka has me worried forour safety.”
“Oh puh-leeze! You know, I don’t need this. I’m ‘off duty’at school this week. I promised myself I wouldn’t step foot into this buildingunless completely necessary.”
“Technically, this is the elementary wing, so you’re not reallyin the middle school, you know.”
“Technically, go to hell.”
“Such colorful language.”
There is a break in our banter, neither of us knowing whatto say next. I meet Kat’s eyes and see for the first time that she must havebeen crying. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. I wait.
“Psycho Mom is at me again.”
“What’s the complaint this time?” I ask. “Air toxins? Notenough visual stimuli in the kindergarten? Too much?”
“Gluten in the finger paints.” She tries to say it with astraight face but can’t help breaking out in a smile of sorts. It’s not a happysmile, more like the kind that says, My life is ridiculous and I’m in on thejoke. I know the feeling.
“But who eats finger paints?” I ask.
“Son of Psycho Mom does, actually. This little fuckerloves the green. Licks it off his fingers like it’s candy! And he’s allergic!”
“Well, that’s not funny.”
“But his mom is the one who bought the paints forme in the first place because they were ‘environmentally friendly.’ She triedto petition the school board about it, remember? Get the whole district tochange over their art supplies?”
“Okay, now it’s funny.”
The woman stresses me out and I don’t even knowher. It should be illegal to carry a reputation like that. Poor Kat’s takingthis really hard. I mean, she’s a tough one, generally speaking, but here sheis, laughing so hard she’s crying.
Like, hysterically.
After a minute or so, she still hasn’t stopped. It’s thekind of laugh/cry combo made by a sociopath in a movie right before he cuts outsomeone’s guts and eats them, so I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable. Iscan the room for the blunt scissor caddy and am glad to see it’s safely on theart cart, on the other side of the room. Next to the finger paints.
Kat is now rolling on the carpet and clutching her side.Snot and tears are everywhere. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she wasrabid.
I check. “Have you recently been bitten by a squirrel?”
Kat goes on making this “he-he-he” sound from the back ofher throat.
“Shall I call 911?” I ask in a British accent, trying tosound authoritative.
She shakes her head, now tucked in the fetal position.
“Varka, then?”
Again, she shakes her head.
It’s good that she’s responding. But I’m still freakingout. I mean, I’ve been drunk with Kat and high with Kat and I’ve even grievedwith Kat when her mom died. But I’ve never seen her like this.
I tentatively approach the blubbering blob on thecircle-time carpet. “Are you on something?” I ask. “Is this, like, a PulpFiction moment? Do you need me to shock you in the heart with a hypodermicneedle?”
I reach out and touch the curve of her protrudingbackbone. She’s so thin, I think. Since when?
Kat takes a deep breath. It rattles her whole body, butshe seems calmer suddenly. She’s probably too exhausted to respond to me, but Itry again.
“So…” I begin. (I didn’t say I try well.)
She uncurls herself and sits up. I hand her a tissue fromthe nearby box. She blows her nose.
Again, I wait.
At some point pretty early on in our friendship, Idiscovered that pushing and prodding and asking lots of questions causes Kat toclam up. The
