“Tell me about your friends, Clara. In the cafeteria, do you eat at a big crowded table with lots of kids, or with only one special friend?”
“I eat by myself.” She would do a crossword puzzle and eat a poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese and three chocolate chip cookies that came in a pack. The bushy-haired kid at the scanner sometimes said things like “Why don’t you surprise me sometime, with oatmeal-raisin cookies instead? Astound me with a sesame-seed bagel! I hope my heart can take it.” Clara always ignored him.
“Are you bullied? It’s a special interest of mine. I’m writing a book about it.”
Selena and Astrid could qualify as bullies, but even anonymously, Clara didn’t want anyone writing about her in a book.
“Do you get along with your parents?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh! I didn’t know. . . . Do you live with a guardian?”
“I wouldn’t call her that.”
“You are no stranger to death, then. Not to imply that you and death are friends, necessarily. That’s another interest of mine, a death in the family. I’m writing a book for children called When Some Bunny Dies. Young children must hear the truth, no sugarcoating. You should never say, about the deceased parent, ‘She’s sleeping,’ or the child will think Mommy is sure to wake up. You should never say, ‘We lost him.’ Then the child might go searching for Daddy. In my book, Mama Bunny tells it to Baby Bunny straight out—‘Papa Bunny dropped dead.’ Now I have to call your—what did you say she was?”
“Stepmother.” Clara gave her the number.
Ms. Gruskin made the call. She explained in a whisper, but loud enough for Clara to hear, why Clara had been sent to her. Then she hung up and turned around. “She didn’t sound surprised.”
That didn’t surprise Clara.
Ms. Gruskin frowned. “You’ll have to check in with me next week, or with Ms. Pratt if she’s back by then. So I guess that’s it, unless you wish to discuss the frog?”
Clara shook her head.
“Anything else you’d like to share?”
“Should I wait in the hall?”
“Yes.” Ms. Gruskin breathed out, sounding relieved.
Clara went back to the bench. School had just ended and Nick Winter was outside, throwing a basketball. He was tall and wore a team tank top, which left his arms exposed so he could flex them every time he took a shot. A few girls hovered, admiring him. Orange light from outside settled over Clara as she waited for her stepmother.
CHAPTER 16
Evil Lynn showed up looking marvelously put together, as always, not a single hair out of place even when the wind blew. She was curvy and athletic and wore clothes effortlessly, as if they had been designed for her, blouses and pants that on anybody else might look okay, nothing special.
As they walked, the sky, now smeared with dark orange, gray, salmon pink, and purple, caused people all around them to stop and point and admire. Clara, though, looked straight ahead and never slowed; such things were lost on her—nothing to write home about, as her dad used to say. Walking along Belle Heights Drive, she saw peeling paint on some of the storefronts and a mannequin in a thrift-shop window that was missing an arm. At Fully Baked, the window, filled with miniature glazed cupcakes, had a sign that had been there forever, promising “all the colors of the rainbow.” But that, as Clara made a point of noticing, didn’t include Cloudy Dead Blue. Off Belle Heights Drive, they walked along curvy, hilly streets where the rows of houses had straggly lawns out front. It wasn’t dark yet, but streetlights came on and cast a bluish glow.
“Acupuncture,” Evil Lynn said suddenly. “You’ve never tried it.”
Clara pictured herself on a dissecting tray. “Is that where they stick you full of pins?”
“You don’t feel it.”
Clara found that highly unlikely.
“Don’t forget—we already have an appointment tomorrow at Neuro Plus, a biofeedback place. It’s in the mall in Spruce Hills, but don’t let that fool you. It’s highly reputable. So don’t make any plans after school.”
As if Clara ever had plans.
Evil Lynn was persistent, you had to give her that, despite failure after failure. In her bedroom she had a whole bookshelf full of child-development books. Sometimes Clara flipped through them when Evil Lynn wasn’t home, and saw things highlighted in yellow: Some psychiatrists believe that true mourning is not possible until adolescence; only then can the older child process the younger child’s pain. Evil Lynn had underlined that as well with a thick black marker, and added: ???