Change Places with Me(28)

“Are you bullied? It’s a special interest of mine. I’m writing a book about it.”

Selena and Astrid could qualify as bullies, but even anonymously, Clara didn’t want anyone writing about her in a book.

“Do you get along with your parents?”

“My parents are dead.”

“Oh! I didn’t know. . . . Do you live with a guardian?”

“I wouldn’t call her that.”

“You are no stranger to death, then. Not to imply that you and death are friends, necessarily. That’s another interest of mine, a death in the family. I’m writing a book for children called When Some Bunny Dies. Young children must hear the truth, no sugarcoating. You should never say, about the deceased parent, ‘She’s sleeping,’ or the child will think Mommy is sure to wake up. You should never say, ‘We lost him.’ Then the child might go searching for Daddy. In my book, Mama Bunny tells it to Baby Bunny straight out—‘Papa Bunny dropped dead.’ Now I have to call your—what did you say she was?”

“Stepmother.” Clara gave her the number.

Ms. Gruskin made the call. She explained in a whisper, but loud enough for Clara to hear, why Clara had been sent to her. Then she hung up and turned around. “She didn’t sound surprised.”

That didn’t surprise Clara.

Ms. Gruskin frowned. “You’ll have to check in with me next week, or with Ms. Pratt if she’s back by then. So I guess that’s it, unless you wish to discuss the frog?”

Clara shook her head.

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

“Should I wait in the hall?”

“Yes.” Ms. Gruskin breathed out, sounding relieved.

Clara went back to the bench. School had just ended and Nick Winter was outside, throwing a basketball. He was tall and wore a team tank top, which left his arms exposed so he could flex them every time he took a shot. A few girls hovered, admiring him. Orange light from outside settled over Clara as she waited for her stepmother.





CHAPTER 16


Evil Lynn showed up looking marvelously put together, as always, not a single hair out of place even when the wind blew. She was curvy and athletic and wore clothes effortlessly, as if they had been designed for her, blouses and pants that on anybody else might look okay, nothing special.

As they walked, the sky, now smeared with dark orange, gray, salmon pink, and purple, caused people all around them to stop and point and admire. Clara, though, looked straight ahead and never slowed; such things were lost on her—nothing to write home about, as her dad used to say. Walking along Belle Heights Drive, she saw peeling paint on some of the storefronts and a mannequin in a thrift-shop window that was missing an arm. At Fully Baked, the window, filled with miniature glazed cupcakes, had a sign that had been there forever, promising “all the colors of the rainbow.” But that, as Clara made a point of noticing, didn’t include Cloudy Dead Blue. Off Belle Heights Drive, they walked along curvy, hilly streets where the rows of houses had straggly lawns out front. It wasn’t dark yet, but streetlights came on and cast a bluish glow.

“Acupuncture,” Evil Lynn said suddenly. “You’ve never tried it.”

Clara pictured herself on a dissecting tray. “Is that where they stick you full of pins?”

“You don’t feel it.”

Clara found that highly unlikely.

“Don’t forget—we already have an appointment tomorrow at Neuro Plus, a biofeedback place. It’s in the mall in Spruce Hills, but don’t let that fool you. It’s highly reputable. So don’t make any plans after school.”

As if Clara ever had plans.

Evil Lynn was persistent, you had to give her that, despite failure after failure. In her bedroom she had a whole bookshelf full of child-development books. Sometimes Clara flipped through them when Evil Lynn wasn’t home, and saw things highlighted in yellow: Some psychiatrists believe that true mourning is not possible until adolescence; only then can the older child process the younger child’s pain. Evil Lynn had underlined that as well with a thick black marker, and added: ???

Phrases Clara didn’t understand leaped out at her: Integrate the traumatic event of the death within the psychic structure of the bereaved . . . move beyond shock and numbness to despair and sorrow, and finally to remembering and mastering the events with an eye toward the reorientation and equilibrium of the self and object.

Just last month Evil Lynn had researched Chinese herbs and brought home bags of yellow and brown powders. She looked positively witchy, sifting powders together and placing the mixture in clear capsules that had no effect on Clara.

Clara felt her phone buzz.

But her phone never buzzed anymore.

She opened her phone and saw Selena’s ID pic jump out at her, big smile, freckles, dimples. Her message, however, had flames shooting from the words:

Mr. S got computer back on but Astrid had to rush & pierced the heart & we all got D-minus on the frog thanx to you meaning no thanx.

All at once Clara bumped into someone. It was entirely Clara’s fault—she’d been staring at her flaming phone. She glanced up and saw a girl about her age. She wore a jean jacket and her lipstick was dramatically red. She had short dark hair just above her chin; on one side her hair was behind her ear, and on the other it was in front. She held a leash, which led to a small dog in a sweater.