Ida B Read online

  Then Ronnie stopped by and, for about the one hundredth time, asked me if I wanted to play dodgeball. And for the one hundredth time I answered, “No thanks, Ronnie.”

  But this time, instead of whispering it so nobody could hear me talking with somebody in a friendly way, I just said it out loud because I was so preoccupied. Ronnie sensed the change.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said irritably.

  “You’re doing something.”

  Now, if I was going to tell anybody anything, which I wasn’t, it would have been Ronnie, I think. But if I told him one little thing like, “I’m watching Claire,” I’d have to tell him many medium and big things, like why I was watching her and what happened over the weekend, too. And I wasn’t ready for Ronnie to get to know that particular side of me.

  So I just said, “Not now, Ronnie,” and he looked at me kind of mad for a second and then walked away.

  But it was better, I figured, to have Ronnie a little peeved than to have me a whole lot damaged and degraded, just because I’d let my guard down for three and one-third seconds.

  Claire toyed with me for all of recess, pretending to be up to nothing. By the time we went back to the classroom, I was so tired from watching and planning, I just wanted to put my head down on my desk and take a nap. I supposed that a moment of weakness and fatigue on my part was exactly the invitation to injury she had in mind, though.

  So I propped my head up on my arm, pinched my thigh about eight times, twisted it hard once, and stayed awake for the rest of the Claire-uneventful afternoon.

  Her genius was beginning to dawn on me.

  Claire didn’t try to get me back on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, either. I was getting exhausted from watching and waiting and planning, and she wasn’t revealing a single sign of a plot for my punishment.

  If she was passing out papers, she didn’t crumple mine or throw it on the floor. She’d just place it on my desk while she looked at the coat-room. She didn’t write notes about me on the lavatory walls, leave slimy things in my jacket pockets, or have her mother call up my mama and discuss my behavior. I was confounded.

  Truth is, I wanted Claire to retaliate. I wanted her to prove to me, Mama and Daddy, Ms. Washington, and the universe-at-large that she was completely deserving of a little foul treatment, and more. I wanted to be reminded, often and obviously, that the world needed protecting from people like Claire, and it needed me to protect it.

  Claire was not cooperating.

  Chapter 25

  There was a little idea trying to get my attention, and it kept getting bigger every day, even though most of the time I refused to pay it any mind.

  So it would wait till my guard was down and sneak up to the front of my brain. Then it would start out with small disguised-as-almost-friendly-up-to-nothing-in-particular questions like, “What if Claire isn’t quite as completely evil and nasty as you thought, Ida B?”

  But if I let that idea have any room and gave it any consideration, it would follow up with some bigger, harder questions that were just plain irritating. “What if,” it would ask, “when you scared Claire and her brother, you were yelling at the wrong people about the wrong thing at the wrong time, Ida B?” or “What if you weren’t a big, strong, righteous conquering hero that Saturday in the woods, Ida B? What if you went too far this time?”

  And if I didn’t cut it off right there, it would hit me with the big one, in spite of me letting it know it was unwelcome. “Ida B,” it would ask, “what if Claire was right and you are just plain mean?”

  I decided that I did not care to respond to that particular question at that particular time.

  Just because you’ve made a thought be quiet, though, doesn’t mean you’ve gotten rid of it. And this thought was clever. It was hidden and silent, but it was ready to attack the minute I left myself exposed. And it got me where I was most vulnerable.

  Ms. Washington had decided that the guest reader idea was a good one, and she’d been giving other kids the chance to read, including the Big-Headed One. I liked the idea, too, though, because it meant that some day my turn would come around again, and I was itching to have another chance. But I didn’t let her know that.

  So when Ms. W. said, on a Tuesday about a week and a half after I’d done my part to save the valley from invasion, “You’re about due for a turn reading, Ida. How would you like to read the next chapter of our book?” I’d had an answer ready for a long time.

  “All right,” I’d decided to say, not seeming too excited, but not leaving any room for confusion about my commitment, either.

  That’s what I’d decided, that’s what my mouth was ready to say, and that’s what my body was ready to do. But my brain did this instead: it thought about Claire.

  It thought about that magic that happens when you tell a story right, and everybody who hears it not only loves the story, but they love you a little bit, too, for telling it so well. Like I loved Ms. Washington, in spite of myself, the first time I heard her. When you hear somebody read a story well, you can’t help but think there’s some good inside them, even if you don’t know them.

  And I figured the same was true for me. That all of those kids who didn’t know me, and even Ms. Washington, who really hardly knew me at all, might think decent things about me just because I made my voice go up and down, slow and fast, soft and hard while I read. Just because I made that story come alive a little bit for them.

  But I knew there was someone out there who’d seen a part of me that none of the rest of them had. She would be sitting there, hearing my voice stop and start, slide and shake, and she would not be impressed. She would not believe in my goodness just because I could tell a story well.

  “I saw the real Ida,” Claire would say, “and she was cruel and selfish and bitter like lemon.”

  She knew I was mean. And all of a sudden, I did, too.

  And I knew I couldn’t read that day. Someone who has a cold, hard rock for a heart and likes it, who won’t look at people or say “Thank you,” who scares children and doesn’t care if they cry, who doesn’t mind if the whole world weeps because at least they’d know how it feels, too, well ... Even if I could read the words out loud, and make them sweet and sour, long and short, high and low, all I would be hearing in my own head was “You’re mean.” And I knew I couldn’t bear it.

  “I can’t. I don’t feel well,” I told Ms. W.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said to my feet because I couldn’t look at Ms. W.’s eyes.

  Ms. W. put her hand on my arm. “Another time then, Ida.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

  My head was so heavy I had to set it down on my desk, and my body got so cold I had to wrap my arms around it. My eyes were so tired I had to shut them tight, so there was just deep blue inside them.

  Patrice read, and I was glad for the sound of her voice in the blueness. Not so much the words, just the voice.

  Chapter 26

  On Wednesday at recess, Ms. W. sat down next to me on the steps, just like always. Just like always she asked me, “Anything you want to talk about, Ida?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said right away, because that’s what I always did.

  And thank goodness Ms. W. always stayed for a few extra minutes. Because I was thinking that if I didn’t talk to somebody pretty soon, all that stuff I’d been holding inside of me was going to bust out screaming, bursting through my outsides so it could get some air and find an ear. There would be little screaming pieces of Ida B splattered across windows and in kindergartners’ hair, and landing on top of you’re-not-supposed-toeat-them-outside sandwiches.

  “Ms. Washington?” I said.

  “Yes, Ida.”

  Both of us were looking straight ahead, like nobody would think we were talking.

  “Did you ever do something that seemed right at the time, but later it seemed kind of wrong?”

  Ms. W. was
waiting. Like she was letting me have plenty of space to finish, just in case something important came into my head a little late.

  “Yes, I have, Ida,” she said after some moments.

  And we both let the comfort of that settle into me for a bit.

  Then I asked, “Did you ever do something because you were really mad, so mad and sad that you just had to try something to make things better, and it seemed perfect at the time but then later it felt a little wrong?”

  This time Ms. W. waited even longer. But now, instead of liking her waiting, I was wondering if she’d realized that maybe she didn’t want to be sitting so close to somebody like me.

  “Yes, I have,” she finally said, and when I peeked at her face out of the corner of my eye, she looked sad.

  Now I took a pause, because the big one was ready to come rolling out, but I was afraid to say it out loud so someone in the world would hear it and know it and it would be real. My insides were still rumbling, though, and I knew I needed to say it or next thing it’d be Ida B’s flesh-and-bone confetti raining down on the schoolyard.

  “Did you ever do something because you were so angry and upset, you were just boiling inside, and you had to let it out, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but after a while it didn’t feel so good? And what you did, well it . . . it . . . ”—and now I was looking real, real hard at the blue house across the street, not even seeing a bit of Ms. W. at the edge of my eyeball— “ . . . it made people cry, and they think you’re mean.” My voice was catching and cracking, so I let it rest for a second.

  “And you didn’t really want to hurt anybody,” I went on, a little quieter. “You just wanted the bad things to stop.”

  I took a deep breath and looked down at my shoes, and everything else that needed to be said tumbled on out of me. “And after you did it you didn’t tell anybody else, and now you feel like a sink that’s backed up and it’s full of dirty water and cat hair and old whiskers, and if somebody doesn’t get the plunger pretty soon, that nasty old water’s going to overflow onto everything.”

  Now, that was just about the longest question I’d ever asked, and it took me a minute to catch my breath when I was all through. As soon as those words were out of me, though, right away I had a better feeling than I’d had in a while. That space in my chest that my heart used to fill was feeling warmer and a bit more crowded than it had in a long time. And I liked it.

  But I was also still scared about what Ms. W. might be thinking and waiting for her to say something. I was looking at her sideways, worrying a lot.

  I watched her put her elbows on her knees. Then she put her hands together so they hugged each other. Her head dropped down, and she pushed the right toe of her shoe back and forth, just like Ronnie.

  “Ida,” she said, dark and slow like the water at the bottom of a river, “I have done something very much like that.”

  Well, I was so relieved, because Ms. W. understood and she was still sitting there next to me, that all of a sudden it felt like my heart was light and free and rising up and taking me along with it.

  I only got about two inches off the ground, though, and then I landed right back on that concrete again. Because when I looked at Ms. W. full on, she was staring at the blue house, but her face was tired and sad and she looked about ten years older in ten seconds’ time. She was remembering, and then I was remembering, too.

  The sadness came back over me, and I knew I had to say something else or we’d both be stuck in that sadness with each other until at least the end of recess, and maybe for always.

  “What did you do about it?” I asked.

  Ms. W. looked at her clasped hands like there was an answer inside there if she could only get them to open up.

  “Well, Ida,” she said, low and calm and sure like the deepest knowing, “I just had to say ‘I’m sorry.’”

  And that was it.

  That was all she said, all either of us said for the rest of recess. She sat there beside me, both of us looking out, blinking every once in a while, and I let what she said to me settle into my heart. After a couple of minutes, a peace rolled out from that place into every part of me, so even my head felt light and a tiny bit dizzy. When the bell rang we both jumped a little.

  Ms. W. put her hands on her knees and raised herself up. “Well,” she said, “let’s get back in.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing up too, both of us still looking straight ahead.

  We walked back to the room with her a little bit in front of me. I could feel the breeze her body made on my face, and I could smell peanut butter and summer flowers.

  Chapter 27

  Right away I started planning.

  I would apologize, I decided, but I had not abandoned my resolve to avoid any possible pain or public humiliation at Ernest B. Lawson Elementary School.

  That meant quick. That meant no friends, classmates, teachers, parents, brothers, or supermarket cashiers nearby or within earshot. It meant multiple escape routes and backup plans.

  Now, say there were one million possible ways Claire could respond to “I’m sorry.” And say fifty percent of those possible responses were kind, decent ones, like, “That’s okay, Ida. No problem.” Well, out of all of those thousands and thousands of friendly, cordial, or just plain tolerant replies Claire might give me, I could only think of three. And I didn’t believe a single one of those three would happen.

  I didn’t have any trouble thinking of the bad responses, though—the ones where crowds laughed, body parts disappeared, or foul-smelling, rotting things kept turning up in my personal belongings.

  “You’re a snake, Ida Applewood,” I could hear Claire say in front of a crowd of hundreds. “A slimy, green, sleazy snake. So go slither back to your hole and swallow some worm-filled mice that are carrying a deadly disease so you get it and your skin turns green and shrivels up, your eyes bulge out and explode, and you die the most hideous, painful death imaginable.”

  No, I had no problem thinking of the bad ones. And since most of the bad ones involved some kind of complete and horrible degradation in front of large groups of adults and children, my first priority was figuring out a way to get Claire alone.

  But you’re never alone at school. Never, except for maybe a couple of seconds. Definitely not in the classroom or on the playground, in the office, the auditorium, or the gym. Even in the lavatory, there’s almost always a first grader with a small bladder who just has to go at the same time as you.

  Only the custodian’s closet promised privacy, but that meant stealing a key and kidnapping Claire, closing the door without her screaming her head off, somehow convincing her not to tell on or pummel me, and fitting an apology in there, too. All in less than five minutes.

  After carefully considering my options, I decided that the lavatory was my best chance for success. Only two people could go at a time. And if I could work it so those two people just happened to be me and Claire, and if, at that moment, the small-bladdered people just happened to be in the gym or the lunchroom, I might be able to achieve an instant of utter aloneness with her. Just enough for a quick “I’m sorry.”

  At the sink or, better yet, in the stall next to her, I’d say, with that metal partition between us, “Claire?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ida.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry about the day in the woods.”

  And then I’d be done. She could slam the door, flush the toilet till it overflowed, spit under the partition. I wouldn’t care. I’d have done what I needed to, and I’d be on my way back to the classroom.

  Chapter 28

  If you’re going to intercept somebody in the lavatory, you get, at best, about two chances a day: one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

  On Thursday morning, Claire faked me out. We were in the middle of free time, when we could walk around the room without getting permission. So instead of raising her hand and asking, she went right up to Ms. W
.’s desk, talked to her, and was out the door. By the time I realized what was going on, Judy Stouterbaden had asked, too, and we were at our limit.

  The morning was a waste. I focused on the afternoon.

  After lunch, during silent reading time, as soon as Claire’s hand went up, so did mine. Waving a little so it couldn’t be missed.

  “Yes, Claire,” Ms. W. said.

  “Are we supposed to read the story all the way to the end, or just to the chapter break?”

  That was not the question I’d hoped for. I yanked my arm down and shoved my hand under the desk so Ms. W. would forget it had been raised.

  “To the end, Claire,” Ms. W. said. Then she turned to me. “Did you have a question, Ida?”

  Now, if I said “No,” a clever Claire might figure something was up, and that would not be good. But I had not planned for this particular turn of events. I did the best I could.

  “Um, I was wondering in what grade you need to know how to spell the word ‘predicament’?”

  Twenty heads turned to look at the person who would ask such a question. Twenty brains started turning that question into a big juicy teasing. Twenty bodies, I was sure, got ready to jump all over me as soon as I walked out the door at three o’clock. My efforts to avoid humiliation seemed to be wasted.

  Ms. W. smiled. “I don’t know that ‘predicament’ is on any specific spelling list, Ida. Why?”

  Paralyzed, my face on fire, I could only look at her, shocked at what I had done. Ms. W., thank goodness, let it lie.

  Still in that state of shock, I didn’t even notice when, about two minutes later, Claire raised her hand, asked another question, and left the room. I was just starting to function close to something-like-normal again, when I saw her walk back in. And slowly I realized what had happened.

  At 2:12 P. M., my last chance for reaching my goal on Thursday was gone.

  On Friday, wherever Claire went, so did I, about eight and a half paces behind. While she browsed for books in the classroom library, I sharpened my pencil till it was just a point and an eraser. Every time she walked near Ms. W.’s desk, I got into the sprinter’s start position: legs bent, right leg out front, feet ready to spring, arms ready to pump.