Aimee Bender - An Invisible Sign of My Own

What city please? the operator asked.

It’s all the same town, I spat, and you know it.

She coughed. Pardon me, she said. What number please?

I said this needed to be fast and I wanted to be connected right away right now to Mrs. Eudora Beeze, at the butcher shop. Inside the kitchen, the art teacher was washing brushes in the sink from her last art class, and that science teacher with the steady back and speckled arms was stooping down, speaking softly to Ellen, the best-behaved kid in the entire school.

They’re all sick, I said, shrill, to the art teacher. Something is catching.

She didn’t hear me over the faucet. As the line connected to the butcher shop, I concentrated hard on not touching my face and spreading this thing to myself. The phone rang two times.

Ring. Ring. A voice picked up. Hello?

I was thinking hot water, germs, meningitis, and my eyes grazed over the science teacher, who was wearing a bright red shirt that made me

feel warm, but my ears focused and this time I picked up his conversation with Ellen. I’ll keep my word, he was saying, and I promise you can do scurvy next week if you do a really good consumption today.

Hello? the voice on the phone said again. Butchery. Anyone there?

I pushed the receiver hard against my cheek. Ellen was nodding.

What are my symptoms again? she asked. She leaned on the side of her foot.

He held her hands in his. Fatigue, he said, fatigue and a cough.

Got it? Now … go!

Is anyone there? John’s mother asked again, loud, too close to my ear where I was pressing down the plastic.

lhungup. What is going on? I said mildly, pointing. The words were difficult to pronounce. The art teacher, scrubbing, didn’t react. The science teacher was smiling at Ellen, who was walking out of the kitchen and smiling back. I walked over and tapped the art teacher on the shoulder.

She turned. Hey Mona, she said. She had green paint on her chin.

I repeated my question. My voice was higher than usual.

You didn’t know he had a background in theater did you? she asked. She beamed at the science teacher. We’re so lucky, she said, that you’re so multi talented

In the background, outside the kitchen, I could hear Ellen, the notoriously obedient Ellen, begin to cough.

I backed out the door and peered into the hallway. John was still fetal on the ground. Ann was writhing. Ann had no problem going full-out for this teacher.

My lips tightened into wires. I faced Mr. Smith.

“You. Are. Fired.” I said.

Hey, aren’t you done for the day? he asked. He raised up from his heels and pushed the hair out of his eyes with his wrist.

The art teacher pointed at me with a wet brush. By the way, she said, I think you guys live on the same block. Isn’t this the coolest way to teach science? What’s it called again?

Life Acting, he said. It helps them understand the symptoms for our Health segment. It’s hands — on. Where do you live again?

He’sfired, I said.

You can’t do that, he said, laughing, actor, jovial, funny, ha-ha, ho-ho. You’re not the boss. You’re as new as me, he said.

He scratched the back of his burn-marked hand. I did not smile. He looked me straight in the eye. I’m not fired, he said.

I actually spit on the floor. They stared at me, then at it, MY spit, a pearl brooch starting to disintegrate on the tile. The art teacher giggled. I backed out of the room. The taste in my mouth was so bad I wanted to spit until I filled a bucket. A dirty pail, toxic, that would kill people.

In the big room, more kids were now strewn over the floor, like miniature Civil War soldiers.

Stand up! I called out, clapping my hands. Now! Science theater stupid class is over! Let’s go!

The four I could see jumped to their feet immediately. I could hear the art teacher still giggling in the kitchen.

Ten laps around the floor, I called out. Stick to the wall. Then twenty push-ups.

They groaned.

Ellen is in charge, I said. She will make sure you do TEN laps.

Now, GO, I said.

Their Velcro-tie sneakers began a steady plod around the circumference of the room.

Danny, stay close to the wall, I called again. John, that’s your job. Keep them close to the wall. Okay Ms. Gray! John piped in, legs moving twice as fast as anyone else’s.

I opened the doors of classrooms, looking for extra fetal-balled children. The handwriting teacher, in the middle of a difficult lesson on cursive G, gave me a nasty look, but I ignored her.

I discovered one on the floor of my math room and one wilting against the wall of the spelling room; I assigned both laps. I kept looking, eyes burning, and finally, in the empty science room with Saturn mobiles turning very slowly from the ceiling, bingo, I found Lisa Venus curled in a ball underneath a table.

Uhhh, she groaned. Ow.

I walked over to her.

Get up, Lisa, I said. You are not sick. Uhhh, she said again.

Now, I said. NOW.

She held herself up limply on her elbows. I can’t, she said. I feel awful.

Get up! I yelled it.

She pulled to a sitting position. You’re mean, she said. You’re healthy, I said back.

She blinked. At night, she said, I pretend I’m dead.

I bent halfway and stared at her underneath the flesh-toned table. Come on, Lisa, I said. All the way up. I don’t want to have to put your name on the board again.

I have cancer, she said. She dropped back down and curled into an even tighter ball. Uhhh, she said. My side hurts.

1110 Pi I felt like evaporating, poof, I’m gone. I’m done. Of course she had cancer. Of course.

Did he assign you that? I asked, voice raising again, high. Did he do that?

No no, she said. I asked for it special.

I dropped down on my heels and touched her clump of hair. My mom has cancer, she said.

I remember, I said, you told me. Eye cancer. That’s very hard, I said. I thought you didn’t even get colds.

She wears a red wig, Lisa said. It’s real hair.

She flopped her hands loose on her wrists, like fish. And I don’t get colds, she said. This is acting class.

Lisa. I kept my hand on her small head. Why would you ask for cancer?

She rolled out slightly, so that she was on her back, facing the ceiling. I like it, she said. See, this way later, she said, when we watch TV? I can keep her company, she said.

I sank off my heels and sat down completely. I kept stroking down the bumps of her hair. We could hear the thumping of the kids running laps outside the science classroom door and Ellen’s high voice, calling out: No, that’s only eight! We have two more! I made a mental note to give Ellen a sticker.

My mom’s wig is really red, Lisa said. I know, I said.

You knew it was a wig? Lisa asked. She pulled in her knees and hugged them high up, heels nearly kicking her stomach.

No, I said. You told me.

It’s made of human hair, she said. They had ones that weren’t human hair but you could tell. My mom said it’s worth the money to get real human hair.

C’mon, I said, Come on, Lisa. Please. Acting class is over. Hang on, she said. I have a little more cancer to do. She squeezed her eyes shut.

I sat and watched her. She rolled back and forth, scrunching up her eyes, and after two more minutes, sat up.

Okay, she said, I’m done.

She stood and gave me a spontaneous hug.

You know my dad is sick too, I said to her then.

Her face opened with interest, and she hopped from foot to foot.

Does he have eye cancer? Lisa asked, ready to drop down again and roll around some more.

No I I said, not cancer at all.

What does he have? She edged toward the door. Outside, her classmates had stopped running and were laughing about something.

I don’t know, I told her. It doesn’t have a name.