Chrissa Stands Strong Page 5

  I remembered running into Tara in the changing room at the store. No wonder she had seemed different then—softer. She was missing a tradition she’d shared with Sonali for years.

  “So you didn’t send a text message about me to Sonali?”

  She gave me an I-have-no-idea look.

  “Or ‘Watch out for Chrissa, the Llama-Faced Girl’?”

  “Huh?” She shook her head. “No way.”

  “Or the e-mails or postings this weekend?” I suddenly felt like a lawyer, cross-examining her, but I had to know.

  “No. I’m telling you the truth, Chrissa. You’re going to have to take my word for it.”

  I wanted to, but if Tara wasn’t doing this cyber-bullying, who was?

  When I biked home with Tyler, it rained again, soaking through to my skin. I decided it was a good day to work alongside Nana in the sunroom. Organizing my craft table somehow helped me feel a little better. At least it was something I could make sense of, something I could control.

  Nana and I worked quietly side by side for a couple of hours as Minnesota Public Radio played classical music in the background. I felt as if I could finally relax.

  “Uh, Chrissa?”

  I turned. Tyler had stepped into the sunroom. Draped around his shoulders, just like a fur wrap, lay Keefer; his eyes were closed and he purred loud enough for me to hear. “Um—you’d better come into the library and see what’s online now,” Tyler said quietly.

  That sick feeling rushed back.

  I groaned and followed him to the study, expecting to see more messages about Sonali or Gwen on the computer monitor. To my horror, a different message, complete with a photo, lit up the screen:

  Who just won the Ugliest Girl in the World contest?

  You guessed it!

  Chrissa Maxwell!

  Alongside the message was a photo of me. It was one that had been taken last week, when a photographer came to the pool to takes pictures of everyone on the team. Mine had been cut and pasted and then blown up. Someone had altered it with black marks and added a black mustache, huge ears, a wart on my chin, and snot coming out of my nose!

  Hot tears threatened.

  “Who’d post that?” Tyler asked, with genuine surprise in his voice. “Must be the same person the coach said would be suspended if he caught them, huh?”

  “I wish I knew who it was. I’d jail them if I could.”

  Tyler started cracking up. “You have to admit, Chrissa, it’s pretty funny! I mean, it does sort of look like you.”

  “Tyler, don’t start. It’s not funny! Maybe you did this. You love computers.”

  He tried to stop laughing but couldn’t. “No, honest, I didn’t. You’ve been pretty crabby lately, but you know I wouldn’t go this far.”

  I broke into tears.

  “Chrissa, I’m sorry.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away. “Hey, let it go. It’s just a picture. Just words.”

  “I’ve got to tell Mom and Dad,” I said. “I thought I was finally okay here, but no, I’m not. And whoever is doing this, they’re doing it to Sonali and Gwen, too.”

  I pulled on my raincoat and dashed out to Dad’s pottery studio.

  Dad was hunched over one of the electric pottery wheels, hands carefully pulling the sides up on a foot-high cylinder of clay. I stood near him, waiting while he finished. I knew that he couldn’t just stop in the middle of throwing a pot or a vase without having the whole thing wobble. Throwing requires steady hands and tons of patience. While I waited, I hung up my dripping raincoat.

  As the cylinder spun, Dad closed his hands around its top, reshaping it into an elegant vase with a narrow opening. He slowed the wheel until it stopped, and then he looked up at me.

  “Hi, honey. What’s up?” He reached toward my face, as if to wipe away a tear, but stopped with a quick glance at his clay-slicked hands. “Oops. Better not. Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

  I found a wooden stool and sat down, saying nothing.

  “So—talk.”

  “Okay, well, I have a problem,” I began, determined not to cry so that I could get through this. I told him about the text message, the mean postings on the message board, the e-mails to the team, and now this latest message. And I explained how Sonali and Gwen had suggested that maybe I’d done some of it.

  “Ouch,” he said. “This is serious, Chrissa, and I’m glad you finally came to me. I’ve been worried about you. I don’t know that much about how these things work, but we’ll talk this over with your mom as soon as she gets home, and we’ll figure something out together. In the meantime”—he stood, grabbed a chunk of clay from a plastic bag, and handed it to me—“why don’t you work this into something while we wait.”

  I didn’t really feel like it, but I took the clay anyway. I slammed it down on the large wooden table and kneaded it to work out any bubbles that might be inside. Then I rolled it into a smooth gray ball. Finally I settled at the other electric wheel. I dipped a small sponge into the water basin and wet the clay, and then I cupped my hands around it firmly as the wheel spun. When I was sure that I had centered the clay and it was turning in a perfect circle beneath my hands, I pushed my thumb into its center and began to pull outward, turning a blob of clay into—I hoped—something useful.

  “It’s good therapy,” Dad said, working at his wheel. “Helps with thinking a problem through.”

  For the next hour, I was content to sit at the wheel. It calmed me down to work alongside Dad. He isn’t a big talker, but I know he’s there for me.

  As Mom often does when she drives in, she stopped first at the studio. “Hi, Paul,” she began. “And Chrissa! I didn’t expect to see you here, too. Are you turning into a potter like your dad?”

  “Not really, Mom,” I said. “I mean, I like it, but that’s not why I’m here right now.” I sat back from the pot I’d just thrown and told her everything.

  She tilted her head, meeting my eyes. “Oh, Chrissa honey, this is terrible! Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know, Mom.” My voice was tinged with whining, but I couldn’t stop myself. Like the hot springs we’d once visited at Yellowstone, my emotions bubbled up, ready to explode.

  “Is someone other than Sonali and Gwen mad at you? Those girls from last year? Wasn’t Tara, who was just over here, one of them?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think she’d do that after coming over and acting like a friend?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe Sonali and Gwen had been right all along about Tara and Jadyn. Or could it have been Sonali and Gwen who had posted this last mean message about me? Everything was so twisted.

  “Who else might be mad at you?”

  “Mom!” I wailed. “I—just—don’t—know!”

  Then the flood that I’d been holding back broke through. I faced my wet-clay pot and sobbed.

  Mom leaned over and wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders. Her perfume sweetened the air as she pushed her cheek against mine and held me as if she wouldn’t let go. “It’s gonna be okay, Chrissa,” she murmured. “We’ll get through this together.”

  I appreciated her hopefulness, but I couldn’t see how this nightmare would ever end. Finally, when I caught my breath again, Dad handed me a box of tissues. “Here, sweetie.”

  While I blew my nose and dried my eyes, my parents discussed what they knew about cyber-bullying, which wasn’t much. “But it’s clearly part of the same problem from last spring,” Mom said. “Whether it happens online, in text messages, or face-to-face, it’s still bullying. Plain and simple.”

  “Chrissa,” Dad concluded, “we’re going to put a stop to this.”

  “Dad, no. Please don’t do—” But then I stopped myself. I was scared that whoever was behind the bullying might make things worse. But that wasn’t what had happened last spring when my parents had stepped in. Things actually got better. And anyway, the way things were going, I didn’t see how life could get much worse.

  “This has go
ne too far already, Chrissa,” Dad said. “As I said, I’m pretty ignorant about computers, but we’ll investigate and get to the bottom of this, okay? We’re here to help you stand strong and get through this.”

  At first I couldn’t answer. My throat was all choked up again.

  “Okay?” he repeated.

  Though my hands were still muddy with clay, I jumped up and walked to where he sat at his wheel. Being careful not to touch his clothes, I hugged him as much as I could and whispered, “Okay.”

  I turned, ready to hug Mom, too.

  She put up her hands and said with a laugh, “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my hug after you clean up and come in for dinner. I can hear your stomach rumbling, Chrissa. But it’s no wonder you haven’t been eating lately.” She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go in. Nana’s probably waiting for us right now with her Monday chicken dinner.”

  Telling them everything must have helped. For the first time in days, I actually felt hungry.

  But in the morning, everything felt wrong again. I was exhausted from tossing and turning, tormented by that snotty-nosed, big-eared image of myself. My stomach ached. Even if we found out who was doing this, I didn’t see how I could face anyone again. It was so embarrassing. Though it had helped to tell Mom and Dad, I couldn’t bear going to practice today. The sender had to be someone on the team.

  I pushed back the covers and made my way down to the kitchen. Mom was at the table, drinking coffee and reading the Star Tribune. “Mom, can we move back to Iowa?” I asked.

  She patted the empty chair beside her and I sat down. “No,” she said.

  “Please?”

  “Chrissa,” she said softly, “if you run away or quit, you let the bully—or bullies—win. That’s what they want.”

  “But, Mom, it’s so awful.”

  “Yes, and that’s why we’re going to get to the bottom of this. You took the first step, Chrissa, by telling us. Now we’re going to find out who’s behind this.”

  “But Mom, I’m worried that I’ll be called a tattletale.” My shoulders sagged, and I didn’t have the strength to lift my head to meet her gaze.

  She lifted my chin and met my eyes. “You’re telling, Chrissa, not tattling. You’re doing what must be done. What’s happening is not okay, is it?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She kissed the top of my head. “You might feel like it right now, but you’re not alone, honey. We’re here for you and we’re going to get through this together. I promise.”

  I biked with Tyler to practice, and in the locker room I avoided eye contact with everyone. I didn’t know who was friend or foe, so I just kept to myself. In the pool, I concentrated on my form and my breathing. During our relay practice, I felt heavy, as if weighted down by a bag of rocks. To my amazement, I got my best time yet.

  The whistle blew, and Coach called out, “Okay, swimmers! You have about fifteen minutes before the next group arrives. I’m going to be working with some of you in the shallow end. The rest of you—now would be a good time to practice anything you want—or just have a little fun.”

  Fun, I mused. Now that is almost funny. Huddling in my towel would be more fun than facing Sonali, Gwen, Tara, or Jadyn. Or was it someone else on the team?

  While the diving area was empty, I hurried over to practice a dive. Above the din of voices, I bounced on the high board, and tried a forward one-and-a-half, just the way Tyler had done it at home. My body turned as I dropped, and the water sped up to meet me faster than expected, but I managed to hit the water with my hands over my head, even though my legs slapped the surface.

  “Hey,” Tara called out when I came up. “Are you trying to be the best girl diver at Edgewater? I thought that was my place.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was mad or not.

  Then she laughed. “Chrissa, I’m joking.”

  “Yeah, don’t be so thin-skinned,” Jadyn added, huddled in her towel. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  “Really, Chrissa,” Tara said. “That was a good try.”

  I swam to the edge and pulled myself up. By now Tyler and a few others were there, too, ready to dive. Sonali was on the board, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her do a nice back dive. Practicing from the swim raft all summer had made a difference.

  Tyler, his hair dripping and half in his eyes, glanced down from the ladder as he climbed to the top. “This next move is going to launch me to the Olympics,” he announced. “Just watch!”

  “Tyler, you’re such a bragger,” I called back. Then half out loud and half to myself I said, “Someone ought to teach him a lesson!”

  Suddenly, Tara started up the ladder after Tyler. “I will!”

  “Tara, stop! I didn’t mean—”

  Coach had made it clear that for safety reasons, only one person was allowed on the board and the ladder at a time.

  But Tara didn’t hear me. Or else she ignored me as she climbed. What in the world was she doing? She had something in mind, and suddenly I was afraid it was because of my stupid comment. Why did she have to take a simple comment and go to the extreme?

  I looked for the coach, but he was busy in the shallow end. I knew I should call out to him, but I was afraid to add “tattletale” to my list of names, especially when things seemed to be going a little better with Tara.

  Tyler was at the end of the board, facing the water, his body taut in concentration. I worried for him and started up the ladder after Tara, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to be on it. “Tara!” I called up. “Get off the board!”

  “What?” she hissed back at me in a whisper. “I thought you said someone should teach him a lesson. I’m just having a little fun! Telling him about my corkscrew dive.”

  Behind me Jadyn laughed.

  By the time I scrambled to the top step, Tara was partway out on the board—just as Tyler was pushing off. At that very moment, Tara jumped on the center of the board and yelled, “Corkscrew!” at Tyler.

  Tyler was airborne.

  His body soared up for a reverse tuck. At the full height of his dive, as he brought his knees to his chest and looked back for the board, his eyes grew wide. The double bounce had changed everything. Instead of aiming for the water, he came down crooked. His head hit the edge of the board with a terrible whap!

  Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he fell, flopping into the deep end.

  “Tyler!” I called out, heart in my throat and sick at what I’d just witnessed. “Coach! Coach!” I screamed. “Help!”

  I scrambled back down the ladder as fast as I could move.

  Tyler was in the water, floating facedown. I grabbed a pole, hoping to snag his swim trunks and drag him to the edge. But before I could remove the pole from the wall, Coach was there. He dove in. Grabbing Tyler by the shoulder, he flipped him faceup, swam with him toward the edge of the pool, and heaved him onto the concrete floor.

  “Chrissa, tell the receptionist to call 911 and then call your parents!”

  I returned to Tyler in less than a minute. The pool area had grown eerily quiet. Swimmers clustered around my brother. He was covered with a blanket, and his legs were elevated. I slipped closer and kneeled beside him, next to the coach. To my relief, there wasn’t much blood. An ugly red egg-sized welt grew from the center of Tyler’s forehead. His chest rose and fell, so I knew he was alive, but he was knocked out.

  “Coach,” Tara said, her face pale. “I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen.”

  “It’s my fault, too,” I said, speaking up and reaching for one of Tyler’s hands. “I saw what was happening and I didn’t stop it.”

  “It was going to be a joke,” Tara said.

  “Sounds like you both broke rules,” the coach said sternly. “Believe me, we’ll deal with consequences later.”

  The sound of a siren loomed closer, and in moments the doors to the pool swung open. A team of medical workers hurried in. I couldn’t believe they were coming for my brother. When they determined he
could be moved, they eased him onto a stretcher, careful to support and then brace his head.

  I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and watched them take my brother out to the ambulance. Dad’s truck was just pulling up. I grabbed my shorts and jacket and ran out to meet him.

  Dad spoke quickly with the medical workers and then motioned me toward the truck. “Chrissa, hop in! We’ll follow.”

  The ambulance siren blared and its lights flashed as it pulled away from the Community Center. Dad drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as we followed close behind.

  When I glanced back, I spotted Sonali and Gwen, their faces filled with concern as they waved at me.

  I lifted my hand in return, grateful that they were true friends.

  Finally, Mom stepped through the double doors of the intensive care unit. She’d turned her clinic appointments over to a resident doctor the moment Tyler entered the hospital. Now she sat down beside Nana, Dad, and me.

  “Concussion,” she said. “The scan shows no signs of fracture. No spinal injury. It could have been much worse. Right now they have to keep the swelling down and monitor him closely.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “In just a few minutes. They’re transferring him to a regular room now.”

  Once nurses had moved Tyler from intensive care to room 203, I was able to visit him. The body under the white sheets was Tyler, but I hardly recognized him. In a light blue hospital gown, he rested, a cold pack secured to his forehead. Bruising from his forehead extended toward the top of his nose and just above his closed eyes. His lips were bluish purple, and an IV line was taped to his arm.

  I mustered up courage and tiptoed closer, then bent down and kissed him on the cheek. But he didn’t wake up. I fought back tears. He didn’t deserve this. So what if he had been getting a big head about his diving? He’s good. He was just excited about making progress. Maybe it was Tara’s actions that had caused him to hit his head, but my words—and my fear of tattling—made me responsible, too.