The Center of Everything by Laura Moriarty
Authors: Laura Moriarty
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Romance, Contemporary, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Girls, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Modern fiction, Education, First loves, Girls & Women, Multigenerational, General & Literary Fiction, Grandmothers, Mothers and daughters, American First Novelists, Single mothers, Kansas, Gifted, Gifted children, Special Education, Children of single parents
Ads: Link
arms. “That man sure does spend a lot of time over at your house during the day, doesn’t he?”
I try to look over her shoulder, to see if Travis is behind her, inside. He’s been getting rides to school with Kevin’s friends in the morning, in an orange car with mud flaps painted with white silhouettes of naked women.
“I asked you a question,” she says. “I see that big truck of his parked out here for about an hour each side of noon almost every single day.” She smooths back Jackie O’s ears. “Is that what she does now? Sit around all day, waiting for him to come over?”
I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “Sounds like that’s what you do.”
“Don’t you sass me. Don’t you sass. Who is he?”
“That’s her boss. They’re having lunch.”
“Ha,” she says. “I bet they are.”
I start to walk away, but she calls after me, Jackie O barking in her arms. “You tell your mother that this is a decent neighborhood. You tell her this is a place for families. We don’t need any sort of indecency around here.”
My mother says that when Mrs. Rowley is mean, which is generally the case, it is really because she is just unhappy, and who could blame her with a husband like that, and Travis always in so much trouble. She says this is really the only reason people are ever mean—they have something hurting inside of them, a claw of unhappiness scratching at their hearts, and it hurts them so much that sometimes they have to push it right out of their mouths to scratch someone else, just to give themselves a rest, a moment of relief.
I look into Mrs. Rowley’s deep-set eyes, burning at me from behind her glasses with the gold chain looping down beneath them, and I think that what my mother says could very well be true. We can hear Mrs. Rowley’s unhappiness through our walls almost every night, yelling at Kevin and Travis, at Mr. Rowley, what sometimes sounds like strangled cries, but mostly just sounds like screaming.
At school, Ms. Fairchild tells us to have a good summer, but also to continue to feed our minds. She says she has a crystal ball, and that she will be able to look into it over the summer months to see which of us are being good, which of us are being bad, which of us are reading good books, and which ones of us are throwing our lives away watching television or some other kind of nonsense. She says if she doesn’t like what she sees in her crystal ball, she will cast a spell and cause our hair to turn green.
She shows us a picture of her grandnephew in California, tanned and happy, his blond hair tinted light green. “See?” she says.
“It’s from the chlorine,” Star whispers, rolling her eyes.
Before recess, Ms. Fairchild hands me a slip of paper.
Kansas State Fourth Grade Science Fair 1982
Washington School Gymnasium
July 21 2:00 P.M.
On the bottom, she’s written GOOD LUCK and her home phone number.
I am on the monkey bars when I see Star waving at me from behind the school. “Listen, I’m going to the fucking park,” she whispers. “You want to come?”
I think of Ms. Fairchild, my hair turning green. “We’ll get in trouble.”
“What are they going to do to us? It’s the last day.” She moves her eyebrows up and down, her magnetic earrings glimmering in the sunlight. “I do it all the time, and I’ve never gotten caught.”
Ms. Fairchild is standing by the basketball court. Her head turns slowly back and forth across the playground, like the light in a lighthouse. Even if she doesn’t catch me leaving, she will see my empty chair when the class goes back in from recess. She will push her skinny lips together and breathe out through her nose, shaking her head at the empty chair, disappointed, worried that I’ve already forgotten about being blessed.
But I also know that this afternoon, Traci Carmichael’s mother is coming in as room mother, giving out cupcakes for everyone because it’s the last day. On Valentine’s Day, she brought
I try to look over her shoulder, to see if Travis is behind her, inside. He’s been getting rides to school with Kevin’s friends in the morning, in an orange car with mud flaps painted with white silhouettes of naked women.
“I asked you a question,” she says. “I see that big truck of his parked out here for about an hour each side of noon almost every single day.” She smooths back Jackie O’s ears. “Is that what she does now? Sit around all day, waiting for him to come over?”
I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “Sounds like that’s what you do.”
“Don’t you sass me. Don’t you sass. Who is he?”
“That’s her boss. They’re having lunch.”
“Ha,” she says. “I bet they are.”
I start to walk away, but she calls after me, Jackie O barking in her arms. “You tell your mother that this is a decent neighborhood. You tell her this is a place for families. We don’t need any sort of indecency around here.”
My mother says that when Mrs. Rowley is mean, which is generally the case, it is really because she is just unhappy, and who could blame her with a husband like that, and Travis always in so much trouble. She says this is really the only reason people are ever mean—they have something hurting inside of them, a claw of unhappiness scratching at their hearts, and it hurts them so much that sometimes they have to push it right out of their mouths to scratch someone else, just to give themselves a rest, a moment of relief.
I look into Mrs. Rowley’s deep-set eyes, burning at me from behind her glasses with the gold chain looping down beneath them, and I think that what my mother says could very well be true. We can hear Mrs. Rowley’s unhappiness through our walls almost every night, yelling at Kevin and Travis, at Mr. Rowley, what sometimes sounds like strangled cries, but mostly just sounds like screaming.
At school, Ms. Fairchild tells us to have a good summer, but also to continue to feed our minds. She says she has a crystal ball, and that she will be able to look into it over the summer months to see which of us are being good, which of us are being bad, which of us are reading good books, and which ones of us are throwing our lives away watching television or some other kind of nonsense. She says if she doesn’t like what she sees in her crystal ball, she will cast a spell and cause our hair to turn green.
She shows us a picture of her grandnephew in California, tanned and happy, his blond hair tinted light green. “See?” she says.
“It’s from the chlorine,” Star whispers, rolling her eyes.
Before recess, Ms. Fairchild hands me a slip of paper.
Kansas State Fourth Grade Science Fair 1982
Washington School Gymnasium
July 21 2:00 P.M.
On the bottom, she’s written GOOD LUCK and her home phone number.
I am on the monkey bars when I see Star waving at me from behind the school. “Listen, I’m going to the fucking park,” she whispers. “You want to come?”
I think of Ms. Fairchild, my hair turning green. “We’ll get in trouble.”
“What are they going to do to us? It’s the last day.” She moves her eyebrows up and down, her magnetic earrings glimmering in the sunlight. “I do it all the time, and I’ve never gotten caught.”
Ms. Fairchild is standing by the basketball court. Her head turns slowly back and forth across the playground, like the light in a lighthouse. Even if she doesn’t catch me leaving, she will see my empty chair when the class goes back in from recess. She will push her skinny lips together and breathe out through her nose, shaking her head at the empty chair, disappointed, worried that I’ve already forgotten about being blessed.
But I also know that this afternoon, Traci Carmichael’s mother is coming in as room mother, giving out cupcakes for everyone because it’s the last day. On Valentine’s Day, she brought
Similar Books
