Weird Girl, page 10
***
The next day, Mae tried a different scheme. Allowing Cleo to serve her potatoes, she walked toward her table and then shrieked and dropped her tray. All activity stopped. Having planned this so that she would be standing in the best possible light, Mae turned slightly to offer her best angle to the crowd and yelled, “There’s cat hair in my potatoes! It’s disgusting!” Pointing dramatically at Cleo, Mae then yelled, “Hey, Puss! Did you cough up a hair ball in the food?”
Everyone held their breath waiting for Cleo’s response. She was new, and didn’t have any friends, but most people had already concluded that she was really weird. Some were hoping for a fight. Others crouched down just a little waiting for the pig blood to start raining down.
Finally, Cleo smiled and called out in a loud, clear voice, “My apologies, Mae. Perhaps I could serve you some fresh potatoes?” She climbed down off of her crate and wrestled a new pan of potatoes out of the warmer. Her head reappeared above the sneeze protector and she held up her aluminum spoon. “Ready?” she called.
Mae smiled and walked slowly back to the serving line, leaving her tray and splattered food in the floor. After all, cleaning was somebody else’s job. Aware that she still had a captive audience, Mae was plotting her next move as she slid a clean tray down to Cleo’s station. The glob of (very hot) potatoes hit her in the chest and slid down her navy polo shirt before she had a chance to think.
“Whoops!” said Cleo. “Fresh mashed potatoes are so slippery.”
An ungodly sound echoed in all four corners of the building as Mae lifted her Tiffany necklace out of the starchy goop that still clung to her shirt. Everyone held their breath as the cafeteria manager charged like a bull from the kitchen. One of the French instructors (the one who always wore sunglasses) came forward to pull Mae away from the mess before she killed Cleo.
Cleo, feeling quite pleased with herself, stepped down from the milk crate and waited for the cafeteria manager to stop yelling long enough to take a breath. When the interval finally came, Cleo asked, “I get three strikes, right?”
Reluctantly, the large woman lowered her fist and nodded. Cleo nodded back, removed her apron, and said, “Well, I think one strike is enough for today, don’t you? So, I’m just gonna take off early. I kind of burned myself on the potato pan.” She was gone before the woman could think of a reply.
***
Cleo and Mae managed to avoid one another for the next several days, partially because of their differing schedules, and partially because Cleo’s supervisor stuck her in the kitchen chopping salad components for the rest of the week. Cleo stuck to her usual routine: class, homework, surveillance. This week, she was documenting the grooming habits of the girls who lived on her floor in the dormitory. (They had some fascinatingly complicated morning rituals.) It wasn’t until the Friday assembly that she and Mae were reunited. But, where Cleo had forgotten about Mae entirely, Mae had certainly not forgotten about Cleo.
Ms. Adams was addressing the student body about upcoming events, including a dance (which the girls nicknamed LesbiFest, since there were no guys and everyone had to wear polo shirts and shorts), and an Easter egg hunt/picnic. It was late March at this point, about three weeks into Cleo’s time at the school, and she was excited about the observations that could come out of LesbiFest (she had only recently learned what a lesbian was, and figured that the odds were good that the school had a few—her money was on a couple of faculty members in particular). For some reason, it made her think of Santo, and her daydream distracted her just enough that she didn’t notice the shift in the atmosphere until the hum of conversation changed. Looking up, she realized that Mae had been invited to the podium to discuss the dance (she was chair of the committee), and people had started to sit up straighter during the first few lines of her speech.
“…And therefore, the Spring Dance committee, of which I am honored to serve as Chairwoman, has not only decided on this year’s theme of “Scat Cats,” complete with jazz music and a forties dance contest, but we have unanimously selected the student who will serve as Dance Mascot. Although we have never had a mascot before, we, the committee, feel that it will truly make this a night to remember. From the dance decoration budget, we have set aside the funds to purchase a costume, which the mascot will wear for the duration of the event. And now, let’s hear it for our Pussssy Cat—Cleo St. James!” She smirked and began clapping until the entire audience joined the applause. Except for Cleo, who was slack-jawed at the idea of being stuck in a cat costume at a lady dance.
Weaving her way through the crowd and out of the gymnasium, she walked into one of the gardens and sat on a shaded bench to wait for the burning in her cheeks to fade away. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the chirping of the birds, and the slight breeze in her hair, and the smell of the roses at her back and the crape myrtle blossoms above her head, but just kept coming back to incredibly graphic images of things she could do to punish Mae. The voice from the bushes didn’t help matters.
“Well, that was quite an expression,” said Jackson. “What were you thinking about just then?” he asked as he casually leaned against the crape myrtle at her side, a navy fedora tilted back on his head.
Cleo gritted her teeth. “Go. Away.”
Jackson smiled and put his hands in his pockets, adjusting his position slightly for better support against the tree trunk. “Cat mascot, huh? I heard about you and Mae the other day. What has she got against you?”
Cleo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know. Honestly.”
“Well, you might want to figure it out,” he said. Taking his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, he slipped them on and added, “If you want to figure out how to stop her.” Then, he sauntered up the path, leaving her alone with her tree.
Huh. Although she would rip out her fingernails before saying it out loud, maybe Jackson was onto something. It was time to spy on Mae.
***
Having an excellent memory, and a certain proficiency in Gregg Shorthand, allowed Cleo to merely eavesdrop on Mae and her posse during the day, and quickly transfer the information to her notebook while her roommates were fighting for mirror space down the hall. It was tricky for the first few days, but she figured out that:
Mae was a slut.
Mae was an only child of very rich parents, and often wondered how soon they would die so that she could inherit.
Mae terrorized other girls into doing all of her homework for her.
Mae’s eighteenth birthday was coming up.
Mae wanted to have sex with somebody for her birthday (see #1).
None of this information was helpful to Cleo’s immediate problem. Why did Mae hate her? Of course, she hated Mae right back, but she knew exactly why that was.
Meanwhile, the battle between the two girls continued. In the library one afternoon, Cleo crawled underneath a row of tables in order to eavesdrop on Mae and the girls. If she happened to also have a White Out pen handy, and if Mae’s navy suede satchel with her initials embroidered on the side happened to gain a few extra letters, it was just multitasking, really. Unfortunately, Mae decided to leave the library before Cleo was finished, so the other library patrons had to think for a minute about the meaning of the MOTHER FUC that Mae was sporting. (She was always so trendy, even in uniform.)
At the dining hall that evening, Mae once again staged a scene. Cleo had earned her way back onto the serving line (possibly by pretending to cut herself on the salad chopping job—a lot of pomegranates died to make those stains), and she pretended not to notice Mae glaring at her as she moved past the other servers. With a brilliant smile, Cleo said, “How may I serve you today?” and braced for the worst. Instead, Mae just said, “I’ll have some potatoes, thanks.”
Scowling suspiciously, Cleo plopped the food on a plate and handed it to Mae, who simply turned and walked to her table. Still not trusting her, Cleo tried to focus on serving potatoes to the masses, but she still wasn’t surprised a few minutes later when choking sounds drifted across the room from Mae’s general location. People started to notice, and a couple of instructors started to work their way across the room. Cleo had just started to believe that Mae might actually be choking, when two green eyes locked on hers and very slightly, Mae smirked. Cleo jumped off of her milk crate and ran.
“Everybody out of the way!” she yelled, waving her arms in the air. “Lady choking! Lady choking! I’ll help you, lady!” As she reached Mae’s table, she swept Mae’s tray from the table, splattering food all over the floor (and Mae’s open-mouthed friends), and climbed across the table. Before Mae could react, Cleo had jumped down beside her and yelled “Heimlich!” a split second before shoving Mae’s chair violently toward the table edge. Mae grunted as her abdomen met wood, and swiveled her head to scream at Cleo. She hadn’t even managed to refill her lungs with air before Cleo pulled back on the chair and yelled, “Again!” This time, the whole table shifted when Mae made contact, and she looked a little green. (As Santo had discovered, Cleo was a very strong little girl.)
The history teacher reached them first, tense with concern. She gently pulled Mae’s chair away from the table while thanking Cleo, who was slowly edging away from the fury that was about to be unleashed. She bent down to pick up the tray just as Mae launched herself. Unfortunately, Mae didn’t have well-honed reflexes like Cleo, and she went down hard when the tray clocked her in the face.
“Whoops!” said Cleo, to nobody in particular. “I told ya—potatoes are slippery!” As she turned, she walked face-first into the bosom of her supervisor, who had storm clouds brewing in her eyes. “Let’s just call this strike two,” said Cleo. She patted the woman on the arm and added, “We’ve both had an exciting day, so I’m just gonna take off early. I think you’ll agree that it’s best,” and she exited through the rear, whistling softly.
Of course, Mae had to retaliate. When Cleo returned to her room later that evening, her roommates were unusually silent (and all staring at different points in midair). The cause of their discomfort was explained when Cleo saw her bed. Someone had managed to procure a quantity of the material typically used by schools to pour on top of vomit—a substance very similar to cat litter. It was all over her bed, inside her pillowcase, between her sheets and mattress pad. It was in her spare shoes, and in every dresser drawer. And it was wet.
The girls had been trained to be loyal to Mae, mainly because they were terrified of her. But they nearly wet themselves when they saw the look on Cleo’s face. She didn’t even have to say a word. Within minutes, two girls had offered to bunk together so that Cleo could take one of their beds, and two other girls had meekly deposited their spare pairs of shoes at Cleo’s feet and backed away quickly. When her silence persisted, the rest of the roommates frantically piled their pillows on the donated bed, and from some secret place, a silk robe appeared. Cleo slept like a queen that night.
***
The next morning when she awoke, her roommates were trying to scrape the dried mess from her sheets. They were already dressed. As she rose from the donated bed, they looked at her warily. Cleo offered a half smile and then padded down the hall to pee and brush her teeth, the silk belt of the borrowed robe dragging behind her. The bathroom was deserted, which was unusual for this time of day, so she took her time, brushing slowly and thinking about Mae. Luckily, the screaming startled her out of her reverie before she completely wore away the enamel.
Her feet joined the pounding of others as the floor residents rushed to the source. It was Cleo’s room. Heart pounding, she imagined what horrors could await within. Perhaps someone was dead. Judging from the frequency and pitch of the screams, there most certainly had to be blood. Probably a lot of blood. As distractions go, she decided this was the perfect one for breaking out of a funk.
There was no blood. No death, injury, or dismemberment. (Well, possibly a little bit of dismemberment.) Cleo squirmed through the mass of spectators and crawled through two sets of legs to get into her room, where she found her roommates pretty much where she had left them, except now they were screaming and pointing at the interior of Cleo’s second dresser drawer.
The girls, trying to be nice (and also because they were seriously leery of Cleo), had unanimously decided to clean up the mess that Mae (or her cronies) had left. Once the mattress was relatively clean, they had split the remaining duties: half would clean the pillowcases, shoes, and floor; the other half would clean out the dresser and try to salvage Cleo’s clothes. This was a great plan until somebody found the severed head rolled up in a sweater.
And with one swift stroke, Cleo’s world was turned upside down. One of the Hall Matrons arrived, stopped the screaming, dispersed the girls, and grabbed Waldorf by the hair and Cleo by the ear. In less than two minutes, they were both in Ms. Adams’ office. Cleo tried to explain, but Ms. Adams cut her off. “What the hell is this thing?” she asked.
“It’s Waldorf. He’s a shrunken head,” said Cleo, clearly doubting Ms. Adams’ intelligence. It should have been obvious.
“Why is it here? Why was it rolled up in a sweater?” asked the older woman.
“Because he belongs to me, and I wanted to bring him,” said Cleo.
“Well, I’m confiscating it,” said Ms. Adams. She gestured to a shadowy corner of her office. “Blue, throw this thing away. Put it in a HazMat bag or something,” she said, wrinkling her nose with distaste.
Cleo flew out of her chair, “NO!” She sounded just crazy enough that even Blue leaned back slightly. “That is one of my father’s specimens. It is very valuable. If you throw it away, I’ll make sure he sues you over and over again until you die,” said Cleo through clenched teeth. Blue and Ms. Adams each raised an eyebrow and looked at each other. Cleo continued to rant, eventually working in some highly colorful language, and pacing the room while punctuating her statements by hitting various pieces of furniture with her fist.
At the end of it, Ms. Adams decided not to dispose of Waldorf. Instead, he would be put in the confiscated items storage cabinet, and returned to Cleo upon leaving the school. It was partly mercy, based on the wet litter incident (for which Mae could not be punished, since there was no real evidence that she was involved), and partly because Ms. Adams was desperately afraid of being sued by parents (understandable, given her slightly unethical practices as headmistress).
Ms. Adams didn’t want to be in the news because some kid went crazy on the other girls while they slept, either. On the other hand, she loved Helen St. James’ money, so she was reluctant to lose Cleo as a student. Therefore, Cleo, because she was possibly a genuine loony, would be moved to a room of her own on an upper floor for the rest of the academic year (at least).
It at least provided a quiet place for reflection, and less competition for space in the bathroom. Cleo had a lot of time to think about Mae, whose sins had now doubled in severity. Not only was there a story about the litter for Mae and the other students to whisper and/or laugh about, but the incident had directly led to Waldorf’s incarceration (an innocent bystander!). Now, without roommates, and without Waldorf to talk to, Cleo was truly alone. She also had quite a reputation at this point. Students either laughed at her and gossiped just close enough for her to hear, or they avoided her entirely. One girl even deviated so far off the walkway to avoid brushing past Cleo that she stumbled in the grass and face-planted into a rosebush.
Cleo’s past was a mystery. Since she had no friends yet, she hadn’t confided in anyone about her life before Harper Valley. All anyone knew about her was that she was quiet, had an odd personality and a few dubious habits, and that she stared at people a lot. Because of the incidents with Mae, they had learned three more things: 1. Cleo was smart; 2. She had an impressively foul vocabulary for a nine year old; and 3. She had a scary temper.
Everyone expected her to get Mae back for the litter thing. So, the fact that Cleo just resumed her normal routine was simultaneously suspicious and disappointing (even to Mae, who was eager to make Cleo suffer again). Class, food, homework, the typical lurking in the shadows—it was just normal Cleo activity. The entire school was turning blue from all of the breath-holding taking place around Cleo.
12
To the careful observer, there were two differences about Cleo. First, she was even quieter, even more contemplative than usual. She often had an expression of such concentration that she could easily have been solving all of the riddles of the universe in her mind. The second difference was her hands. Anyone who paid attention to Cleo when she wasn’t writing, eating, or brushing her teeth would have noticed her fingers constantly in motion. Sometimes, she wiggled them. Or touched each one with the tip of her thumb. Even stranger, anytime that she sat at a desk or table, she would close her eyes, put her hands flat on the surface, and then lift her fingers in rapid sequences, as though she were playing a sonata on an invisible piano. Frankly, it creeped everyone out, even her teachers.
