When My Heart Joins the Thousand(35)

There’s a burst of laughter. Ahead, I see a group of three boys clustered around a smaller, chubbier boy whose eyes are pink and puffy from tears. I recognize him. Last year, his father committed suicide. People talked about it.

“You know why he killed himself, right?” a voice says loudly. “It’s because he couldn’t stand having a fag for a son.”

More laughter.

The blood pounds in my head, louder and louder. A red mist slips across my vision. Slowly I approach.

One of the bigger boys turns toward me, grinning. “Hey look, it’s Robo-tard—”

My fist slams into his teeth, knocking him backward. His arms flail.

The fight itself is a blur. They pull my hair and grab me and try to push me down, but I just keep hitting and kicking them. Drops of blood spatter the tiles. A punch lands on my stomach, but I barely feel it. I bite down on a hand, and there’s a scream.

I’ve lashed out at bullies before but never like this. I’ve snapped. I don’t know why it took the sight of them hurting someone else to make it happen, but it feels so good that I can’t stop. When it’s all over, the boys are scurrying down the hall, and I’m slumped against the lockers, panting and sweaty. There’s blood on my knuckles.

Later, I sit in the principal’s office, fidgeting in the hard plastic chair. My left cheek aches. A bruise is already forming.

The principal looks at me with his tiny, dark, shrewlike eyes.

He doesn’t like me. I know this because, once, after a meltdown and a visit to his office, I pressed my ear to his closed door and overheard him talking to his secretary: There’s something unnatural about that girl. Sometimes she seems like a little adult, and sometimes she’s like a wild animal. I never know how to handle her.

“I’m not sure you really understand the seriousness of what you’ve done,” he says. “You injured three other students. Several witnesses have said you attacked them unprovoked. I know you have unique challenges, and I’ve tried to be tolerant, but I can’t have this kind of violence in my school. Do you understand?”

I glare. “What they said to that boy is worse than what I did to them.”

He breathes in slowly through his nose, then exhales. “You should have found a teacher, or come straight to me and told me about it.”

“I tried that before. I tried it when it was me being hurt, but nothing ever changed. If you think I’m going to keep taking it, you’re an idiot.”

His mouth is a small, flat line. He picks up the phone and dials.

Shortly after, Mama arrives in the principal’s office. He tells her what happened. She listens in silence, her face getting paler and paler.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Fitz. Your daughter needs more specialized care than we can give her. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are schools for children like her, which will be better able to provide for her needs.”

Mama clutches the strap of her purse. The skin around her fingernails turns white. “You can’t do this to us.” Her voice sounds small and shaky, like a little girl’s. “Please. She—she was making so much progress—”

“This will be better for Alvie,” the principal says. “For all of us, you included.” His voice changes tone, going soft and syrupy. “You’re under a lot of strain, aren’t you? Working full-time, caring for your daughter alone. You need a rest. Perhaps if you had some extra support—”

Mama lurches to her feet. The principal tenses, grabs a thick binder and holds it up in front of him like a shield. I shift in my chair. Mama is breathing hard, glassy-eyed. “You don’t know the first thing about me,” she says. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. Don’t tell me what I need.”

“Of course.” He fidgets. “I just mean—”

“What I need is for you to give my daughter another chance. She deserves to have a normal childhood. Do you understand?” Her voice is getting higher and higher. “If you expel her, I swear to God, I will sue you for everything you own. I’ll bring down this entire school.”

His face tightens. “Ms. Fitz, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. And take your child with you.”

Her fingers twitch and curl inward. She looks like she might lunge across the desk and grab his throat. “None of you understand.” The words are thick and choked. “You don’t know how hard she’s tried—how hard I’ve tried. You think you can just rip that away? Don’t you see—?”

“Mama,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

She blinks a few times . . . then the tightness in her face loosens, and her shoulders sag. She turns away. “Let’s go, Alvie.”

When we leave the school, the air smells like rain, and clouds hang low in the sky. Little bits of gravel crunch under my shoes as we walk to the car. During the drive home, Mama doesn’t talk. She doesn’t even turn on the radio. I kick my feet. Outside, crows sit on the telephone wires, watching us.

“Mama,” I say, “do you know that a group of crows is called a murder.”

Silence.

“They can be called a flock, too. But sometimes people call it a murder of crows.”

Still nothing.

“Crows are really smart. They break off pieces of leaves or grass and use them as tools to get at food.”