Counting by 7s(6)

My mom, who up until this point was unloading the dishwasher, turned around. I could see her face. She looked pained. Like maybe she had just put away a whole load of dirty dishes, which is something that had happened before.

Her face smoothed out and she said:

“What an interesting idea, honey. But I’m wondering . . . will people make the connection? Maybe it’s better to wear a brighter color. Like something red. You love red.”

They didn’t get it.

The first day at middle school was a chance to make a new introduction. I needed to convey to the group a sense of my identity, while keeping a few of the basic elements of my character under wraps.

I couldn’t stop myself from explaining:

“I’m making a statement about my commitment to the natural world.”

I saw them exchange quick looks.

My dad had fudge frosting on his front teeth, but I wasn’t going to point this out, especially after he said: “Of course. You are so right.”

I looked down into my breakfast bowl and began counting the flax seeds, multiplying them by 7s.





It’s an escape technique.



The next afternoon, a Teen Vogue magazine just appeared on my bed.

All of these publications at that time of year centered on going “Back to School.”

On the cover a teenage girl with hair the color of a banana had the widest smile that I have ever seen. The headline read: DOES YOUR OUTFIT SAY WHAT YOU WANT IT TO?

No one took responsibility for putting it there.





Chapter 4





My parents made a few more strange suggestions before the first day of classes began.

I decided that they both must have been traumatized as teenagers.

On that first morning at an entirely new school, I packed my red, wheeled luggage (designed for the frequent business traveler but purchased to transport my books and supplies), and we headed out the door to the car.

My father and mother both insisted on dropping me off. But neither parent, per my direction, would accompany me inside.

I had reviewed the floor plan of the actual buildings, memorized everything from the ceiling heights to emergency exits to electrical outlet locations.

I was pre-enrolled in English, math, Spanish, physical education, social studies, and science.

With the exception of P.E., I knew a lot about the subjects.

I had calculated the amount of time I needed to walk the halls, as well as the cubic feet of the storage closets.

I could recite the entire Sequoia student handbook.

As we pulled out of the driveway, I was anxious, but I knew for certain one thing: I was ready for middle school.



I was wrong.

The place was so loud.

The girls were shrieking and the boys were physically attacking each other.

At least that’s how it appeared.

I hated to remove my red panama hat.

It was my signature color, but the hat was designed, after all, for sun protection.

I had only taken four steps into the mob when a girl approached.

She came right up to me and said:

“The toilet in the second stall is broken. It’s totally gross.”

She waved her arm in the direction of more meat-eaters and then she was gone.

I took a moment to process her statement.

Was she giving me some kind of informational heads-up?

I could see her talking to two girls next to a row of lockers and she didn’t have the same intensity.

I looked through the swarm and I saw a slight, dark-haired man pulling a wheeled cart. It was loaded with cleaning supplies. Two mops were attached to the back.

I stared at him and realized that he and I were dressed alike.

But he was pulling a cleaning trolley, not luggage with wheels that have a 360-degree rotating option.

And then I had a distressing thought: It was possible that the girl believed I was some kind of maintenance worker.



I lasted less than three hours.

The place made me severely nauseated. For health and safety reasons, I went to the office and insisted on calling home.

I waited outside at the curb and just the sight of my mom’s car in the distance made it easier to breathe.

When I climbed inside, my mother instantly said:

“First days are always hard.”

If I were the kind of person who cried, I’m sure that I would have, but that’s not in my character. I almost never cry. Instead, I just nodded and stared out the window.

I can disappear like that into myself.

Once we were home, I spent the rest of the afternoon in my garden.

I didn’t till the soil or weed the flowerbeds or try to graft a tree limb; I sat in the shade and listened to my Japanese language instruction.

That night, I found myself staring out the window at the sky and counting by 7s for what ended up being a new record.



I tried to roll with it.

But what I learned and what was being taught had no intersection.

While my teachers labored over the rigors of their chosen subject, I sat in the back, pretty much bored out of my mind. I knew the stuff, so instead I studied the other students.

I came to a few conclusions about the middle school experience: Clothing was very important.

In my opinion, if the world were perfect, everyone would wear lab coats in educational settings, but that obviously was not happening.