In November, things got better. Maybe it was the influence of Wavonna’s father, who started dropping her off and picking her up most days. That was the same time she started writing Wavy on her papers instead of Wavonna.
When the crazy mother and the Hell’s Angels father failed to show up for parent-teacher conferences, Lisa mailed a letter to the house. Then she called, but no one answered.
Finally, she did what she’d been too cowardly to do in the first place. At the end of the day, she walked Wavy out to where Mr. Quinn waited on his motorcycle, his hands resting on ape hanger handlebars. With his leather jacket hanging open, Lisa could see sweat stains under the arms of his greasy T-shirt. He was huge and meaty, and if Wavy hadn’t been there, Lisa might have backed down from her intention to confront him.
“Hi! I’m Miss DeGrassi. I’m Wavy’s teacher.”
He nodded.
“I was sorry we didn’t see you and Mrs. Quinn at open house, but I’d like to meet with you to talk about how Wavy’s doing. I sent a letter about conferences. Maybe you didn’t get it?”
“Uh, sorry,” he said.
“Maybe you could come in right now? It would only take a few minutes.”
He looked at Wavy, and Lisa had the weirdest feeling he was waiting for instructions. All the lights were on but nobody was home?
Wavy nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
In her classroom, Lisa kept two adult chairs for parent conferences, but even they seemed too small for him. As big as he was, he hardly seemed old enough to have an eight-year-old daughter, but Lisa had learned her lesson on that subject. Grandfathers who turned out to be fathers. A mother so young, Lisa mistook her for a student’s older sister. Mr. Quinn looked young, sitting across from her like a kid who’d been called to the principal’s office.
“Wavonna—Wavy is already over the big hurdles in third grade: multiplication and learning to write longhand.”
Lisa had kept back a sample of Wavy’s penmanship to show him, a little essay she’d written about the Voyager 1 and 2 launches. He looked at it long enough to read it, but didn’t say anything.
“But she’s still not participating in PE class. I was wondering if we could find a way to encourage her.”
Mr. Quinn shifted in his chair and said, “What’s PE?”
“Gym class. They call it Physical Education now. PE for short.”
“Oh.”
“The other thing that concerns me is Wavy’s speech. You don’t have to decide today, but I want you to think about having Wavy meet with the school’s speech therapist. It won’t cost anything. It’s part of the district’s services that are provided to all students and I really think—”
“I don’t need a speech therapist,” Wavy said.
Until then Lisa had heard Wavy say exactly three things: “Don’t,” “No,” and “Asshole,” which earned her a trip to the office, where the principal butted his head against her indifference to punishment.
“Oh,” Lisa said.
At a look from Wavy, Mr. Quinn stood up, his wallet chain rattling against his leg.
“That it?” he said.
“Um, thank you for coming in.”
After that, Lisa gave up. No wonder Wavy didn’t talk. Her role models were a crazy woman who wouldn’t shut up and a man who barely spoke. What could you do with a child who had that at home?
7
KELLEN
November 1977
At the bike shop in Garringer, Marilyn came around the counter with a big smile and said, “Oh my god, where did this angel come from? I didn’t know you had a little girl.”
“She’s not my little girl,” I said.
“Who is she then? Who’s little angel are you? That hair is just baby fine, isn’t it?”
Marilyn reached out to touch Wavy’s hair, so I shifted to block her.
“She needs a helmet,” I said.
Sitting there with that teacher thinking I was Liam, I realized it was plain reckless to let Wavy ride without a helmet. Never mind Liam, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I wrecked and got Wavy’s brains scrambled.
Marilyn brought out three kids helmets. A plain black one, a blue and white striped one, and a pink one.
“I bet I know which one you’d like,” Marilyn said.
Yeah, like hell Wavy wanted a pink helmet. She pointed at the black helmet, which was just a small version of a Daytona with a visor. It fit her, so that was a done deal.
While Marilyn rang up the helmet, Wavy walked down the boot aisle, running her fingertip across the toes. Her old snow boots looked cheap and worn out, so I said, “See any you like?” She nodded.
Marilyn stuck right with us, kept trying to get close to Wavy. The way Wavy looked, all sweet and blond, people were probably all the time trying to paw her. A lot of times I’d almost go to touch her hair before I remembered not to. The way I figured it, she’d let me know when it was okay.
To keep Marilyn from touching her, I had to get down on my knee to adjust the shoe sizer against Wavy’s toe.
She smiled at me, her cheeks a little pink. I could see what she was thinking.
“I’m not a shoe salesman,” I said.
That made her smile bigger, almost showed her teeth.
“So she’s not your daughter?” Marilyn said.
“No, she’s not my daughter.” What was I supposed to say? She’s my bike bitch? Not everything has a simple answer. I said, “She’s a friend of mine.”