Fifty-Four Things Wrong with Gwendolyn Rogers, page 8
“I gave you two yesterday!” he says. He sounds angry.
I shrug.
“OK, everyone, get to work. Gwendolyn, meet me at my desk, please.”
I whisper “sorry” to Thaís as I slide out of my seat and go to the front of the room.
“This pencil situation is getting ridiculous,” Mr. Olsen says. “You may have one today, but from now on you must have a pencil at the start of class or you’ll lose five percent on whatever graded assignment is next.”
“Five percent? Just for forgetting a pencil?”
“Today is the one-hundred-and-fifty-eighth day of school,” Mr. Olsen says. “And you see me at least twice a day. So I’d say that’s over three hundred and sixteen missing pencils.”
“But—”
Mr. Olsen cuts me off. “Unless you’d like to discuss this with Principal Dickens right now?”
My face burns. Anger wakes up hot and lodges himself into my throat.
Horse camp, horse camp, I remind myself. I won’t let Anger take over.
I sit back down next to Thaís.
“You OK?” she whispers.
I don’t answer.
6. Socially inept
At outdoor break, I sit in front of Tyler behind our imaginary glass wall as he does my hair. The braids are almost perfect, but I still feel gross. I can’t stop thinking about how Tyler swallowed that little blue pill. If I had a little blue pill like that, maybe I would remember my pencils. Maybe I wouldn’t yell when Mr. Olsen is sarcastic with me. Maybe I’d be perfect.
“Guess what I did yesterday?” Tyler asks.
“Tighter,” I say.
He drops my hair to start over, which feels worse.
“Guess what I did?” he says again. “After PowerKids?”
“Do it really tight this time,” I say.
“Guess,” he says. He pulls the first three strands of hair together and the world gets a little more clear.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“You didn’t even hear me?” Tyler pulls the next piece of braid but I can already tell it’s too loose. He’s distracted.
“I need to get a check mark,” I say. “Make it tighter.”
“What do your braids have to do with check marks?” Tyler asks. He keeps braiding but it’s too loose.
“I can’t lose my pencil,” I say. “Tighter, please.”
Tyler drops my hair and then pulls it as tight as it can go, which sort of hurts, but also feels perfect. Then he says, “Please! Guess what I did yesterday.”
“What did you do yesterday?”
He drops my hair completely. It’s loose around my shoulders. The wind is blowing and it’s tickling my face. It’s itchy and flowing. My hands shake. I’m so distracted I almost don’t hear what he says.
“I met Dandelion!”
Anger has been in his shell for days, eating and sleeping and eating and sleeping. He’s gotten bigger and bigger each time I locked the shell and didn’t let him out.
Now he explodes so suddenly, he sends shards of shell flying all through the schoolyard. He’s escaped. He’s all over my body, bruising up my organs, making me lose control.
“That’s not fair!” I scream. I whip around, yanking my hair out of Tyler’s hand so fast he has strands of blond in his fingers when I turn to face him. “That’s the most unfair thing I ever heard!”
Tyler falls backward, like my words are strong enough to knock him over. It feels good to see him fall like that so I keep yelling.
“You get help. You get medicine. Now you get Dandelion? You have everything and all I have is all the problems and a cracked brain.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler whispers.
He’s not getting back at me, which should mean Anger calms down. But I also know that the only reason Tyler isn’t getting mad is because he gets to have a little blue pill while I have to deal with Anger all by myself.
“You! You’re stealing all the good stuff from me!”
“Stealing?” Tyler says.
“First you stole ADHD. Now you stole Dandelion! I bet you stole our dad too!”
Tyler gasps. We don’t talk about our dad. It’s almost like a rule.
Suddenly there’s a shaky hand on my arm. I whip around and come nose-to-nose with Hettie. My arm almost swings to hit her but somehow some part of my brain makes it stop.
“Gwen?” she whispers.
I’m shaking. I can’t believe I almost hit my best friend just because I’m mad at my brother. That has to be some sort of fifty-fifth problem I don’t have a name for.
Behind me I hear Tyler say, “I didn’t steal anything.” Then, quieter. “I don’t know him either.” His voice wobbles. I think he might be crying.
I sort of want to give him a hug. I sort of want to make sure he still loves me now that he’s seen how bad I am. Or part of how bad I am.
But I keep my eyes on Hettie.
She says, “Do you want me to do your braids?”
I nod. I didn’t even realize it but I’m crying too. Tears are falling down my face and into the collar of my T-shirt so fast it’s like a faucet has turned on. We leave Tyler sitting in the mud and go over to the picnic tables.
“Are you OK?” Hettie asks.
“Yes,” I say, even though I’m lying and she knows it.
I don’t usually lie. I’m really bad at lying because my mouth is faster than my brain. But no one ever wants the real answer when they ask how you are, so when you say good or yes or I’m OK, that’s not even a real lie.
Hettie is different.
“No you aren’t,” she says, twisting the hair on the top of my head into something that’s like a braid but way too loose.
“Tyler gets to see Dandelion,” I say. “And I never will again.”
“Oh,” Hettie says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I know you miss her,” Hettie says.
“I really do.”
And now I miss Tyler, too. I’m still mad at him but also, I miss him. It’s so hard to be someone with fifty-four problems and a big red angry triangle inside her.
Hettie finishes one braid and starts the other. I can’t tell her it’s too loose because we only have a little bit of time left in outdoor break, and Hettie isn’t that good at braids anyway.
“So are you and Tyler in a fight now?” Hettie asks.
I shrug.
“Are you going to start hanging out with me after lunch again?”
I shrug again, but also the tears turn back on. I don’t want to spend outdoor break with Hettie and Thaís and Margaret, who aren’t my friends anymore. I want to spend outdoor break with Tyler, and PowerKids with Hettie. Or not really. Really, I want to spend outdoor break and PowerKids with Hettie, and I want to just, like, live with Tyler. I want Tyler to be a given, so much in my life that he annoys me, the way Hettie’s brother, Nolan, annoys her. I want Tyler to be family in a way that means I don’t have to worry about losing him.
“We could race, or oh! We could work on our free throws so we’re ready to play basketball against the boys in PowerKids,” Hettie is saying.
“I don’t want to turn back into a girl who doesn’t have a brother,” I sob.
Hettie’s face falls and lights up at the same time. Like she just realized something, but the something she realized is very sad.
“Oh, Gwen. I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s going to be OK, though. You don’t have to spend outdoor break with me. Tyler will forgive you.”
I wipe my eyes and take a few shaky breaths as she finishes my second braid.
“You know Tyler sees you like I see you, right?”
“Huh?” I manage to say. “How do you see me?”
Hettie snaps the last rubber band in place and sits beside me.
“Just . . . you,” Hettie says. “How you really are.”
How I really am is a problem. I’m fifty-four bad things. I thought Hettie and Tyler were two of the only people who didn’t see me how I really am.
The bell rings and we have to go to class. Hettie says, “Race you!” Which is perfect. I run after her, my legs pounding to get closer to hers. My braids are too loose but hopefully running and Hettie will keep Anger inside me, even without his shell.
Later that afternoon, Hettie and I walk into the cafeteria for PowerKids, and I’m feeling a little better. We gather with the other fifth graders at one of the long cafeteria tables for afternoon meeting. One of the good things about PowerKids is that a lot of it happens the same way every day. First afternoon meeting, then art appreciation or coding, then free time outside, then homework hour, then dismissal.
As I slide into the seat next to Hettie, I glance over to the sixth-grade table to see if Tyler is looking for me. He almost always smiles at me as soon as I come into the cafeteria for afternoon meeting. But today I don’t think he will.
Tyler isn’t sitting in his usual spot. I scan the cafeteria and then I find him in the back, talking to Ms. Hayley. Ms. Hayley always sets up at the very back of the cafeteria where she can watch all the groups. She spreads her papers and computer and stuff out on the long table like it’s her own personal desk.
Ms. Madeline starts our afternoon meeting, but I’m not paying any attention. I’m watching Tyler and Ms. Hayley. Tyler looks angry.
Ms. Hayley throws her arms over her head. She’s out of patience, which makes sense. She doesn’t have a lot of patience to begin with.
Tyler leans closer to her. I can’t hear him but I can tell by the way his body is tilted and the way his mouth is moving that he’s being rude.
Ms. Hayley points toward a corner. I can’t hear her either but I can tell she’s ordering Tyler to go sit on the other side of the cafeteria alone, which means he’s in big trouble.
I lean toward them, trying to hear.
16. Sneaky. For ex. eavesdrops
I’ve lost track of anything happening at afternoon meeting. Usually Ms. Madeline asks a question and everyone goes around and gives an answer. Which means I should whisper to Hettie so she’ll repeat the question for me like she does almost every other day (7. Inattentive). But instead I lean across her lap, trying to hear Tyler and Ms. Hayley.
Ms. Hayley is still pointing at the chair in the corner. I can see it clear as day when Tyler says, “NO!”
Will Ms. Hayley finally call his mom? Will he get Dandelion taken away too?
Finally, Tyler turns fast and it looks like he’s going to walk to where she was pointing. Then he stops. He holds out his arm and sweeps it across the table. Ms. Hayley’s papers fly and then her computer lands on the linoleum with a bang.
Now everyone is watching them. Everyone is silent.
Tyler laughs. I know that laugh. I know he’s not happy even though he’s laughing because sometimes I laugh when my brain is cracked, and when that happens, I’m never happy. No one except me can ever tell that it’s not a happy laugh, though. The same thing will happen to Tyler. Ms. Hayley will think it’s a happy laugh. Ms. Hayley will think Tyler is a terrible person who does awful things and thinks it’s funny.
Ms. Hayley will finally call his mom.
Tyler storms out of the cafeteria toward the bathrooms and I watch Ms. Hayley and her cell phone.
Anger is jumping, joyful. Tyler will be just like me. He’ll have to go home early. His mom will take away his riding lessons. Dandelion will be all mine again . . . even if I can’t see her.
After a minute Ms. Madeline says, “Gwendolyn, did you want to add anything to our discussion today?”
Anger dances in my chest. I watch Ms. Hayley’s hand move toward her phone. Call her. Call her.
“Gwendolyn?” Ms. Madeline tries again.
Ms. Hayley’s finger lingers over the phone for half a second, then she picks up a piece of paper instead, leaving the phone where it was.
I stand. Anger launches himself up my throat and into my brain.
I run across the cafeteria and stand right in front of Ms. Hayley. Usually she’s bigger and taller and stronger than me but Anger has puffed me up so that I’m the size of an elephant.
“You have to call his mom!” I demand.
“What?” Ms. Hayley says. “Gwendolyn, please sit down.”
A part of my brain tells me Ms. Hayley looks tired. I don’t care.
“No,” I say. “You have to call Ms. Christakos. Now!”
“This isn’t your business. Please go sit down.”
“It is my business,” I insist, my head growing taller than hers. She may not realize it but I’m towering over her. Anger has made me that powerful.
“It quite simply is not,” Ms. Hayley says, like she’s talking to someone normal and not the angry superhero I am.
“You always call my mom! You need to call his mom!”
“Gwendolyn, go back to your group. Your mother and Tyler’s mother have nothing to do with each other.” She’s still rearranging her papers. She can’t even be bothered to look at me.
“Yes they do,” I say.
“How so?” Ms. Hayley asks, like I’m exhausting.
“He’s my brother,” I say.
Now Ms. Hayley looks up, confused. “Your brother?”
“Call his mom.”
“He’s not your—”
“Call his mom!” I yell.
“You have the same last name but—”
“Call her. Now!”
“His mom is working and he’s not your—”
“You call my mom when she’s working.”
“Exactly . . . you have different—”
“CALL HIS MOM!”
“Stop lying!” Ms. Hayley yells. “You two are not related.”
Before it happens, I see everything flash before me. The smart part of my brain sees it all. Horse camp flashes and disappears. All good things flash and disappear. Lunch at Tyler’s: gone. PowerKids: gone. My mom loving me: gone.
It still happens.
“Tyler is my brother!”
Crack.
9
A Bad Kid
When Mom arrives, she puts her arm around me. Tyler is outside playing basketball like nothing happened. They didn’t call his mom of course.
We walk over to Ms. Hayley so Mom can sign me out. “For your edification,” Mom says in the snooty voice that only comes out when she’s defending me for something that I definitely shouldn’t have done, “Tyler is Gwendolyn’s paternal half brother.”
Take that, Ms. Hayley, I think, wiggling my head. My braids are too loose.
Ms. Hayley looks at Mom, her eyes as hard as marbles. “She threw my computer at me.”
“She did?” Mom asks.
As soon as Ms. Hayley says it, my muscles sort of remember. The swing of my joints as I pulled the computer back. The release when I let it go. My body remembers but my brain doesn’t, not really. I know I had thoughts. I know they were there because my brain was screaming them right up to the moment of the crack. I know I probably threw that laptop to see if Ms. Hayley would call my mom and not Tyler’s even if we did the exact same bad thing. But I still don’t remember deciding to do it.
Now Ms. Hayley doesn’t have to apologize for trying to take away my brother. Why is it that adults get away with doing something awful just because I also do something awful?
Mom signs the paper and we leave. She doesn’t say anything until we’re in the privacy of our car.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Ms. Hayley told you,” I say.
“I mean, why Gwen? Why did you throw her computer? What’s wrong with you?”
Fifty-four things. Everything.
Mom sighs from the front seat. “I don’t see how you can be around horses if you’re throwing computers.”
Even though I knew she’d say something like this, Anger ramps up again. He starts running laps around my heart, ready to springboard back into my brain if he needs to.
“Horses don’t even use computers!” I wail.
“I think you know that’s not the point,” Mom yells. “The point is that you need to control yourself.”
“But I can’t!”
I buckle my seat belt. My braids are too loose. I rub my head on the back of the seat, trying to give my body a feeling that I can focus on. It’s a thing I do when my braids aren’t working. I create friction on my head another way so that I can still concentrate a little. I rub my head fast enough that the fabric starts a tiny burn on my neck. It almost makes up for the braids.
“Stop doing that,” Mom says, but I don’t.
After a few minutes she adds, “Let’s start over. What happened? Why did you get so angry?”
Rub, rub, rub.
“My braids were too loose,” I say.
25. Picky about her appearance
“Good grief, Gwen. You threw a computer because your braids were too loose?”
I shrug. I can control myself better when my braids are tighter, so yes.
“Don’t shrug.” Mom glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Speak! What happened?”
I rub my head again.
“It’s not fair that—” I start.
“I don’t want to hear that word,” Mom interrupts.
“Well you asked,” I spit back. I keep rubbing my head.
“Stop shaking your head,” Mom says. “Listen to me. You can’t go throwing computers and then claim life isn’t fair for you.”
I rub my head harder. Faster. “Every time Ty—”
“I asked you to stop doing that,” Mom says. “Sit still. Pay attention.”
“Rubbing my head helps me pay attention!”
“Gwendolyn!” Mom says. Now her voice is high and fast.
“I’m trying to answer you!” I say, still rubbing. Can’t she see that I am paying attention? I’m totally focused. “Tyler gets to—”
“Stop comparing us to them.” Mom is even louder than before. “And stop that thing with the seat. You’re driving me crazy!”
Mom hasn’t yelled like this in a long time. I need her to see why I got so angry. I need to answer her question.
“But he—”
“Gwendolyn, stop!” Mom says.
“Then stop asking me questions if you don’t want the answers!” I explode.
“Fine.”
Mom doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I. I keep rubbing my head on the seat though. I know it’s making Mom angry and, even though she’ll never believe me, I’m actually trying to stop moving my head like this.
