Em Garner - Contaminated

I’m in a sweat by the time we get to the gas station, just another half a mile to Opal’s school. My heart’s racing, not from pedaling but from the constant whish-whirr of cars and trucks passing us close enough to blow my hair into tangles. My hands hurt from gripping the handles. Still, the trip is better on bike than foot, and I get her to school just as the buses are pulling away after dropping off the other kids.

I walk her into her classroom, where she points out the girl who eats her scabs, then I head over to the office to see Mr. Benedict. He looks surprised to see me. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, and no wonder. I’m windblown and red cheeked, probably glistening with sweat, too.

“I was wondering if you could tell me about the bus,” I say.

“How did you get here this morning?”

“I rode my bike. But it would really be better if she could ride the bus like the other kids, Mr. Benedict.”

He takes me into his office. The secretaries look at us curiously as we pass, but I lose sight of their faces when he closes the door. Mr. Benedict sighs and takes a seat. He doesn’t offer me a chair.

“Velvet, this is a difficult situation.”

“I know it is.” My words come out a little too clipped to be talking to an adult. The principal. I’m hovering on the edge of disrespect.

But his words are just that—words. I’m the one who’s living them. Me and Opal, and all the other kids whose lives have been torn apart like this.

“There’s been some discussion about the bus routes—”

“The bus still goes by our neighborhood. I’ve seen it. Just not into it, I get it, but she can stand at the front of the entrance—”

“Have you considered that maybe it’s not the best place for you and Opal and your… mother…? All the way out there? You were living in assisted housing, perhaps you should—”

“They made us leave.” I bite out each word like it’s made of sticky candy, making my teeth and jaw hurt to chew. “We have no other place.”

“But surely other assisted housing—”

“Waiting lists. Mr. Benedict, we’ve been through this already. There are waiting lists for apartments, and even if we got approved, it would be for me and Opal. Not our mom.”

Who wandered off in the dark and is still missing. Maybe for good, this time. “That’s our house out there.”

“Is it?” He gives me a solemn look. “Still?”

I know he’s talking about mortgage payments, the freeze on accounts, that sort of thing. “Until someone makes us move out, it’s ours. My parents had money, Mr. Benedict. It’s not like they were behind on their payments. Whatever the banks decide at some point is when we’ll figure it out. For right now that’s our house.”

I have no idea if I’m right, but I mean what I said. It’s ours until someone comes along and makes us move out. It’s the only thing we have left.

“Your sister’s been having some trouble in school,” he says flatly.

“This is the first I’m hearing about it,” I tell him. “Like what? She does her homework. Her tests are good, I know because I have to sign them.”

“Not with her schoolwork. It’s behavioral.”

He hasn’t offered, but I take a seat, anyway. “So? Like what?”

“She’s a disruption to the other kids.” Mr. Benedict sighs again. He sighs a lot, like the weight of the world is pressing down on him.

I find it hard to believe. “Opal’s not disruptive, unless she’s talking too much.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s that the other kids know she’s a… well, about your parents. There’s been some teasing. She’s overreacted to it.”

I think I’m getting the picture. “She won’t put up with stuff like that. Are you saying you expect her to?”

“No. Of course not.” Yet his small smile says he actually does. “And she’s not the only student who’s lost a parent to this tragedy—”

“I’m sure she’s not!”

“But she is the only one in this school who’s lost both. There’s been a rumor that your family all consumed the water. That Opal, herself, might be…”

“Contaminated?” The word tastes dirty, twists my lips. “Are you kidding me?”

Mr. Benedict shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but no. I wish I were.”

“What are you going to do about it?” I demand.

He seems surprised by my tone, which has gone quiet and steady. I’m furious. He knows it.

“We’ve been considering removing her from class. For her own sake,” he adds hastily at the look on my face.

I stand and put my hands on his desk. “Are you telling me you’re going to kick her out of school?”

“Just her class. Not kick her out. Place her in a better learning environment…”

“With who? Bad kids? Troublemakers? Learning-disabled kids?”

His expression is my answer. “There’s been a severe cut in our funding, Velvet.”

“Let me get this straight. My sister’s being bullied and teased about something she can’t help and is probably the worst thing that will ever happen to her in her whole life—something worse than you can probably imagine or any of those little brats in her class. And your response, instead of, I don’t know, educating them or maybe just disciplining them, is to put her in a different class?”

“Where she’ll be better equipped to handle the learning experience.”

That’s double-talk, as far as I’m concerned. I lean forward. “What makes you think the kids in that class will be any nicer to her?”

He looks caught. “There’s always the chance that the other students will be… um…”

“Yeah,” I said. “So what you’re telling me is, you’ll let a kid who eats her scabs stay as part of the class, but you’re kicking my little sister out.”

He grimaces. “Velvet, c’mon, that’s not at all relevant.”

“Isn’t it?” My fingers curl against the wood of his desk.

“It seems to me that someone who eats scabs is pretty disruptive to the class.”

He makes a disgusted noise, and I can’t blame him. Just saying it is turning my stomach. I lean a little more forward, and say it again.

“Scab eating is socially acceptable behavior for fifth grade, but being a Conorphan isn’t?”

“That’s enough,” Mr. Benedict says quietly. “I know you’re upset, Velvet, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”

The problem is, I don’t know how to handle it. Opal’s not even my kid; she’s just my kid sister. I’m not supposed to have, at seventeen, a maternal instinct. I’m still supposed to be getting mothered, not being a mother myself.

“You can’t switch her to another class. It will break her heart. It’s not fair. She won’t do well; it won’t be a good educational opportunity for her. You know it. You’ve been principal here for a long time, Mr. Benedict. You could talk to her teachers from past years. They’ll tell you. Opal’s a good kid—”

“It’s not a question of her being a good or a bad kid,” he interrupts, and I can tell I’ve lost the fight. “It’s a question of what’s best for the class overall. We have to consider the safety of everyone.”

“Do you think someone’s going to hurt her?” I ask, shocked. Bullying’s one thing, but this is something else.

Again, he looks awkward and uncomfortable. Something passes across the desk between us as clearly as if he’d written it on a piece of paper and told me to read it aloud. Again, my fingers scratch against the wood, and he looks down at my hands with an anxious expression.

“You’re not talking about her safety. Are you?”

“We have to consider—”

“They’re just rumors!” I shout. “Stupid rumors, stupid talk from stupid kids! You handle stuff like that all the time! Why can’t you just stop it? Make them stop talking about my sister!”