The Moment Before

Chapter Four

Dusk has gone black outside. Only one bank of lights shines in this room, aimed at a scroll of hieroglyphics. A mobile of mummies hangs above us. Next year, this might be the only art the students of Greenmeadow get to do. Recreating history, one pyramid at a time. Maybe they could combine it with math class. Martha. She squeezed my hand in the cafetorium. She sat down next to me and my family and all the time, she knew?

“Oh, Brady, Honey. You poor thing.”

Ms. Bowerman takes a crumpled napkin from the pocket of her parachute pants and dabs at my mascara-blackened tears.

“I can’t go out there,” I sniff. “Not yet.”

“No, no, you can’t, dear. Sit down. Give yourself a few minutes. I’ll come back and get you once the crowd clears out a bit.”

I want to tell her to let my parents and grandparents know where I am, but it would be worse to have them trudge in here all full of pity and disgust. I settle into one of the all-in-one-chair-desks and rest my forehead on my arms.

Bowerman turns out the light and the door clicks closed behind her.

I don’t know how much time passes, but the next thing that happens is my shoulders are being rubbed, and a soft voice says, “You OK?”

I keep my eyes closed. Feign sleep. Be on your way, Brutus.

“I told your parents I’d take you home,” says the voice of betrayal.

“I’ll walk,” I mumble into my arms.

“I have something else I need to talk to you about, Brady. You can’t keep ditching me.”

With that, I lurch up and knock into her chin. I turn around and she’s rubbing her jaw. “Ditching you? I’m ditching you? Please.”

“Sorry. Word choice. Bad. Let’s start over.”

I glare at her, this fake-tan Miss Greenmeadow who just (minutes? hours?) stood in my spotlight and received a ginormous poster with the words five-hundred dollars scripted across it. The words Cupworth and Prize.

“Of course, I want to share the money with you,” she says.

Really? Give me a break.

“The whole thing was so…complicated.”

 “I’m trying not to punch you in the face right now.”

Martha grins.

“I didn’t mean that figuratively.”

“Do you want to slap me around while we’re eating bacon maple bars?”

Bacon maple bars. As if a stupid doughnut will make everything OK again. Martha’s face is so hopeful. She can’t stand to have people mad at her. Even as a kid, the few times she got in trouble for talking during class, she’d spend recess helping the teacher straighten the coat closet or staple math worksheets together.

“I’m not stepping one foot outside this classroom until everyone is gone,” I tell her. “Plus, you need to find me a sweater or something.”

Martha and her thick, chestnut mane of hair, her perfect skin and C-cup boobs, nods. And because she’s Martha, she peels her vegan leather jacket off her torso and drapes it around my shoulders. I sigh. I’ve been friends with Martha since first grade. I guess we’re going to go get some doughnuts.

There’s the usual line out the door and snaked along 3rd Avenue at the doughnut shop, where you can partake in pastries named for body parts, sex acts and super heroes. You can get married here, or have a funeral. If you’re gay, you can have a commitment ceremony. Or if you’re not, you still can. What Martha and I are doing, according to Martha, is having a counseling session. She’s the counselor and I’m the patient. “Client,” she corrects.