All Good Children - Catherine Austen [32]
The moment the door closes, Mom launches into a lecture about the messy house, forgotten chores, unfinished homework.
“I’m saving it for Sunday after cross-country. That’s when the teenage brain is at optimal performance level.”
She doesn’t even smile.
I follow her into the kitchen. “Are you okay? I can do the dishes.”
She shakes her head, sighs, pulls a paper document from her handbag. “Ally has to go to another school.”
The hair on my neck stands up and squirms. “What?”
“She’s been transferred.”
“To the school for throwaways?”
“Don’t call them that.”
“But is that the school you mean?”
“That’s the only other school there is.”
I sink into the counter. “I should have helped her more with homework.”
Mom runs her hand over my hair. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Max. She can’t keep up. A hundred grade ones are together with one teacher now, and the new curriculum is just too hard.”
“Where is the school for throwaways? How will she even get there?”
She moves her hand under my chin and forces me to meet her eyes. “You have to stop calling them that. It’s a trade school. They’re children.” She keeps her hand there until I nod. “It’s near the core, less than a mile from here, where the interactive carnival used to be. She’ll walk with some other children in the building. I have a list of names. Your old friend Lucas is on it.”
I groan with guilt. I passed time with Lucas when we first moved to the complex, but he’s feeble and in a different social tier, so I dropped him. Hard.
“I’ll call his parents tonight to make sure she can walk with him,” Mom says. “Their school starts at eight and runs till four.”
I bang my head on the counter, grinding my forehead into a mess of toast crumbs. I picture Ally training eight hours a day from the age of six to recycle copper wire and disentangle plastic from food waste. “Does she know?”
Mom nods. “They told us at the meeting. They made it sound like fun. Maybe it’s fun.”
“But—”
“Don’t.”
I bite my tongue.
SIX
Ally wakes me early on Saturday morning, so I take her to the park before coaching. Summer vanished in the night, chased by a cruel cold front. We shiver in sweaters while the wind blows all the color off the trees.
“Fall was Daddy’s favorite season,” she says. I don’t know how she remembers that.
Zachary and Melbourne are at the park with their mothers. They swing and slide carefully, speak pleasantly to each other, smile for their proud parents. Zach’s mom says, “Time to go, sweetheart,” and her little brat walks right over and takes her hand.
“I don’t like it here today,” Ally says.
“Do you want to go home?”
She shrugs.
“Do you want to decide with a rhyme?” I ask. “If it lands on me, we stay. If it lands on you, we go.”
She points back and forth, whispering, “One, two, three, the bumblebee. Stung my nose and away he goes.” She’s pointing at herself.
I smile. “Let’s go.”
She hangs her head.
I bend down and kiss her cheek. It’s wet. “Ally, are you crying?”
She pulls a handful of sunflower seeds from her pocket.
“Hey hey, we don’t have to go. Do you want to feed Peanut?”
She sniffles and wipes her eyes. “Yes, please.” She takes my hand and leads me past zombie Melbourne to the oak tree.
“You only had to say so,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “It’s not good to speak out.”
At the middle school, half the kids I’m coaching are not right. All the seventh graders seem altered, though I can’t pinpoint the change. It feels like they’re falling behind the grade eights, but they run just as fast, hit as hard, follow plays as closely. It’s as if there’s a cushion around their thoughts. Their arrogance is gone, and it’s hard to see what’s left.
There’s a muddy dip near the end zone where the water ran when they washed my painting off the conservatory wall. The eighth graders sidestep the puddle. Frankie and Chicago squelch through. When a small kid fumbles the ball, Frankie shouts, “Try again!” When a big kid limps off the field, Chicago apologizes for his rough tackle.
“What’s going on with the younger kids?” I ask Mr. Hendricks.
He smiles. “Nesting.