CLARE: At school on Monday, everybody looks at me but no one will speak to me. I feel like Harriet the Spy after her classmates found her spy notebook. Walking down the hall is like parting the Red Sea. When I walk into English, first period, everyone stops talking. I sit down next to Ruth. She smiles and looks worried. I don’t say anything either but then I feel her hand on mine under the table, hot and small. Ruth holds my hand for a moment and then Mr. Partaki walks in and she takes her hand away and Mr. Partaki notices that everyone is uncharacteristically silent. He says mildly, “Did you all have a nice weekend?” and Sue Wong says, “Oh, yes” and there’s a shimmer of nervous laughter around the room. Partaki is puzzled, and there’s an awful pause. Then he says, “Well, great, then let s embark on Billy Budd. In 1851, Herman Melville published Moby-Dick, or, The Whale, which was greeted with resounding indifference by the American public...” It’s all lost on me. 

 

 

Even with a cotton undershirt on, my sweater feels abrasive, and my ribs hurt. My classmates arduously fumble their way through a discussion of Billy Budd. Finally the bell rings, and they escape. I follow, slowly, and Ruth walks with me.

　“Are you okay?” she asks.

　“Mostly.”

　“I did what you said.”

　“What time?”

　“Around six. I was afraid his parents would come home and find him. It was hard to cut him out. The tape ripped off all his chest hair.”

　“Good. Did a lot of people see him?”

　“Yeah, everybody. Well, all the girls. No guys, as far as I know.” The halls are almost empty. I’m standing in front of my French classroom. “Clare, I understand why you did it, but what I don’t get is how you did it.”

　“I had some help.”

　The passing bell rings and Ruth jumps. “Oh my god. I’ve been late to gym five times in a row!” She moves away as though repelled by a strong magnetic field. “Tell me at lunch,” Ruth calls as I turn and walk into Madame Simone’s room.

　“ Ah, Mademoiselle Abshire, asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait.” I sit between Laura and Helen. Helen writes me a note: Good for you. The class is translating Montaigne. We work quietly, and Madame walks around the room, correcting. I’m having trouble concentrating. The look on Henry’s face after he kicked Jason: utterly indifferent, as though he had just shaken his hand, as though he was thinking about nothing in particular, and then he was worried because he didn’t know how I would react, and I realized that Henry enjoyed hurting Jason, and is that the same as Jason enjoying hurting me? But Henry is good. Does that make it okay? Is it okay that I wanted him to do it?

　“ Clare, attendez” Madame says, at my elbow.

　After the bell once again everyone bolts out. I walk with Helen. Laura hugs me apologetically and runs off to her music class at the other end of the building. Helen and I both have third-period gym.

　Helen laughs. “Well, dang, girl. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How’d you get him taped to that tree?”

　I can tell I’m going to get tired of that question. “I have a friend who does things like that. He helped me out.”

　“Who is ‘he’?”

　“A client of my dad’s,” I lie.

　Helen shakes her head. “You’re such a bad liar.” I smile, and say nothing.