Too much?”
“Gluten in the finger paints.” She tries to say it with a
straight face but can’t help breaking out in a smile of sorts. It’s not a happy
smile, more like the kind that says, My life is ridiculous and I’m in on the
joke . I know the feeling.
“But who eats finger paints?” I ask.
“Son of Psycho Mom does, actually. This little fucker
loves the green. Licks it off his fingers like it’s candy! And he’s allergic!”
“Well, that’s not funny.”
“But his mom is the one who bought the paints for
me in the first place because they were ‘environmentally friendly.’ She tried
to petition the school board about it, remember? Get the whole district to
change over their art supplies?”
“Okay, now it’s funny.”
The woman stresses me out and I don’t even know her. It should be illegal to carry a reputation like that. Poor Kat’s taking
this really hard. I mean, she’s a tough one, generally speaking, but here she
is, laughing so hard she’s crying.
Like, hysterically.
After a minute or so, she still hasn’t stopped. It’s the
kind of laugh/cry combo made by a sociopath in a movie right before he cuts out
someone’s guts and eats them, so I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable. I
scan the room for the blunt scissor caddy and am glad to see it’s safely on the
art cart, on the other side of the room. Next to the finger paints.
Kat is now rolling on the carpet and clutching her side.
Snot and tears are everywhere. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was
rabid.
I check. “Have you recently been bitten by a squirrel?”
Kat goes on making this “he-he-he” sound from the back of
her throat.
“Shall I call 911?” I ask in a British accent, trying to
sound authoritative.
She shakes her head, now tucked in the fetal position.
“Varka, then?”
Again, she shakes her head.
It’s good that she’s responding. But I’m still freaking
out. I mean, I’ve been drunk with Kat and high with Kat and I’ve even grieved
with Kat when her mom died. But I’ve never seen her like this.
I tentatively approach the blubbering blob on the
circle-time carpet. “Are you on something?” I ask. “Is this, like, a Pulp
Fiction moment? Do you need me to shock you in the heart with a hypodermic
needle?”
I reach out and touch the curve of her protruding
backbone. She’s so thin, I think. Since when?
Kat takes a deep breath. It rattles her whole body, but
she seems calmer suddenly. She’s probably too exhausted to respond to me, but I
try again.
“So…” I begin. (I didn’t say I try well. )
She uncurls herself and sits up. I hand her a tissue from
the nearby box. She blows her nose.
Again, I wait.
At some point pretty early on in our friendship, I
discovered that pushing and prodding and asking lots of questions causes Kat to
clam up. The trick is to wait.
Which takes some getting used to.
I stroke her back and hand her another tissue while trying
nonchalantly to glance at my wrist and see what time it is. I’ve got to get
back into my own classroom soon and sort things out for tomorrow’s substitute.
As I begin to go off into a daydream about the joys of
jury duty—sleep late, eat lunch out, meet new friends, read a cheesy novel—Kat
clears her throat. I snap back to attention. Her bloodshot green eyes find
mine.
“Peter wants a divorce. For real, this time.”
I am momentarily startled. I was in Psycho Mom mode, and
so this is surprising. Although, in most ways, it makes perfect sense. I shake
my head, shifting gears, and manage to get out some words of support. “Oh damn,
Kat. I’m so sorry.”
She produces another candy cigarette from a pocket in her
blazer, holding it out to me with a shaking hand.
“You sure he doesn’t want to work it out? That he isn’t
just being hotheaded like usual?” I ask, taking the sugary stick.
She shakes her long black ringlets back and forth
emphatically, like a woman selling shampoo on TV. “He bought a
“Gluten in the finger paints.” She tries to say it with a
straight face but can’t help breaking out in a smile of sorts. It’s not a happy
smile, more like the kind that says, My life is ridiculous and I’m in on the
joke . I know the feeling.
“But who eats finger paints?” I ask.
“Son of Psycho Mom does, actually. This little fucker
loves the green. Licks it off his fingers like it’s candy! And he’s allergic!”
“Well, that’s not funny.”
“But his mom is the one who bought the paints for
me in the first place because they were ‘environmentally friendly.’ She tried
to petition the school board about it, remember? Get the whole district to
change over their art supplies?”
“Okay, now it’s funny.”
The woman stresses me out and I don’t even know her. It should be illegal to carry a reputation like that. Poor Kat’s taking
this really hard. I mean, she’s a tough one, generally speaking, but here she
is, laughing so hard she’s crying.
Like, hysterically.
After a minute or so, she still hasn’t stopped. It’s the
kind of laugh/cry combo made by a sociopath in a movie right before he cuts out
someone’s guts and eats them, so I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable. I
scan the room for the blunt scissor caddy and am glad to see it’s safely on the
art cart, on the other side of the room. Next to the finger paints.
Kat is now rolling on the carpet and clutching her side.
Snot and tears are everywhere. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was
rabid.
I check. “Have you recently been bitten by a squirrel?”
Kat goes on making this “he-he-he” sound from the back of
her throat.
“Shall I call 911?” I ask in a British accent, trying to
sound authoritative.
She shakes her head, now tucked in the fetal position.
“Varka, then?”
Again, she shakes her head.
It’s good that she’s responding. But I’m still freaking
out. I mean, I’ve been drunk with Kat and high with Kat and I’ve even grieved
with Kat when her mom died. But I’ve never seen her like this.
I tentatively approach the blubbering blob on the
circle-time carpet. “Are you on something?” I ask. “Is this, like, a Pulp
Fiction moment? Do you need me to shock you in the heart with a hypodermic
needle?”
I reach out and touch the curve of her protruding
backbone. She’s so thin, I think. Since when?
Kat takes a deep breath. It rattles her whole body, but
she seems calmer suddenly. She’s probably too exhausted to respond to me, but I
try again.
“So…” I begin. (I didn’t say I try well. )
She uncurls herself and sits up. I hand her a tissue from
the nearby box. She blows her nose.
Again, I wait.
At some point pretty early on in our friendship, I
discovered that pushing and prodding and asking lots of questions causes Kat to
clam up. The trick is to wait.
Which takes some getting used to.
I stroke her back and hand her another tissue while trying
nonchalantly to glance at my wrist and see what time it is. I’ve got to get
back into my own classroom soon and sort things out for tomorrow’s substitute.
As I begin to go off into a daydream about the joys of
jury duty—sleep late, eat lunch out, meet new friends, read a cheesy novel—Kat
clears her throat. I snap back to attention. Her bloodshot green eyes find
mine.
“Peter wants a divorce. For real, this time.”
I am momentarily startled. I was in Psycho Mom mode, and
so this is surprising. Although, in most ways, it makes perfect sense. I shake
my head, shifting gears, and manage to get out some words of support. “Oh damn,
Kat. I’m so sorry.”
She produces another candy cigarette from a pocket in her
blazer, holding it out to me with a shaking hand.
“You sure he doesn’t want to work it out? That he isn’t
just being hotheaded like usual?” I ask, taking the sugary stick.
She shakes her long black ringlets back and forth
emphatically, like a woman selling shampoo on TV. “He bought a
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