Interference by Michelle Berry

stop “overreacting.” But he is there. After a while he appears wearing a down jacket. She can’t see his face clearly with his heavy jacket on and a scarf and a toque, but Becky knows it’s the same person. He has this casual way of standing, like he’s happy to wait there for the rest of his life, like he doesn’t ever need to move. Most people move from one foot to the other, they shift their weight, but this guy stands like a statue and watches the schoolyard. Same way the guy who raked the leaves stood. Becky has, however, come to the conclusion that he isn’t there to see her. Because when she runs back and forth he doesn’t move his head to follow her movements. She isn’t sure who he is looking at. Maybe he has his eyes closed, Becky can’t tell.
    And every time she draws attention to him, every time she tries to point him out, he isn’t there anymore. He is gone.
    Because of Annabel’s “overreaction” to the janitor in the bathroom, the kids in her grade seven class have to go to the bathroom in pairs. Girls with girls. Boys with boys. Down the long hallway, down the long staircase, to the basement of the school. Becky has been forced to pair up with other girls in her class even when she doesn’t have to pee. She wouldn’t pee at school anyway, not even if you paid her. The toilets are disgusting. No one bothers to flush. And the floor is wet and sticky with toilet paper. Becky usually stands just outside the door to the washroom and tells whomever it is she’s escorting that she’ll wait for her there. Becky won’t even lean against the wall while she is waiting. She stands stiffly, trying not to touch anything. Her tongue bleeds where she rubs it against the chip on her molar.
    Sometimes she has a stomach ache from holding her pee in all day, but Becky knows that a stomach ache is better than all of the things she would catch if she used the bathroom.
    The nightmares Becky has been having for half her life — since she was six — are getting worse. She used to wake crying only once a week — these days she’s up most nights, clutching her pillow. But because she is twelve, Becky doesn’t bother her parents anymore. She stays in her clean, tidy room, trying to stop her heart from exploding out of her chest, trying to remember what it is that is scaring her. She doesn’t know. Becky can’t remember her nightmares anymore than she can remember to feed the dog before school. When she wakes up sweating, the visions disappear as quickly as the guy standing outside of the schoolyard fence. As it gets closer to Christmas the visions stop, to be replaced by dreams about the Grinch and Santa and angels and bells. She remembers these ones. One night Becky dreams about eating an entire turkey on her own, just grabbing the meat off it as it sits on the kitchen table. Scarfing it down. When she wakes up, her stomach growls fiercely and when she goes downstairs for breakfast, she throws up in her bowl of cereal.
    â€œYou’d better stay home today,” her mother says, feeling her forehead. “You’re sick.”
    Becky slumps back up the stairs and into her room. She disappears under her duvet and, feverishly, sleeps until noon.
    â€œI’ve got soup for you.” Becky’s mother places a bowl of soup on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œUh.”
    â€œUh as in better? Your fever has gone down.” Becky’s mother takes her cool hand off Becky’s forehead. “Would you be okay if I went out? I have some errands to run. I’ll take my cell phone. Or you can call Dad at work if you need anything.”
    Becky nods and falls back into her pillows. She doesn’t care where her mother is, as long as she can go back to sleep.
    When she wakes up, Becky hears nothing. Silence. The house is still. Her mother is gone. Becky knows, in her feverish state, that if she