Dancing Girl (1940), Paul Klee

Today, There Has Been An Event

Ms. Grubman is playing with my hair in first period Social Studies again and Lucy looks at me out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow raised. If Ms. Grubman isn’t playing with my hair, then she’s braiding Lu’s. Today, it’s me. We’re the only two with long blonde hair in the class.  

We haven’t told our parents. We don’t want them to worry. Well, Lu just doesn’t want her mom and dad to go ballistic and my moms have too much to worry about as is. 

Nate looks over at me. “You okay?” he mouths. 

“Nate, do you have a question?” Ms. Grubman takes strands of my hair in her fingers, raises them up, and lets them fall down on my head.  

“No, ma’am,” says Nate. 

She’s lecturing about the Underground Railroad but she’s messing up the facts. She just called Harriet Tubman Phyllis Wheatley, who I think lived a lot earlier. I make a note. Sometimes, Ms. Grubman is 100% right about everything, and other days, she makes up the material. It makes it hard to know which is which, so I always make sure to triple check before the tests. 

Today is one of her bad days. I think it’s going to be a long week. 

Everyone calls Ms. Grubman “Grub Hands” or “Grubby.” Sometimes, when she tries my patience, I call her Grubby, too. Inside my head, of course, not aloud.  

We all think Grubby’s losing it. It’s been happening for the last month. 

Sometimes she sits and looks at her computer and her blue eyes fill with tears. Once she said the name Jason over and over again. Sometimes she sings to herself. One day, she put an entire row of Oreos vertically on her desk and ate them, one by one, in fifteen minutes, spitting them into the trashcan after she chewed them up. On Tuesday of last week, she came to school in her pajamas. 

Last Friday, she cut off all her own hair in our classroom with safety scissors and now it curls tight to her head, a brown fuzz. Ms. Grubman has a large body and a small head. It’s not a good look for her. 

In third period English, Mr. Franks asks Lu for updates. He’s asked every day for the last three weeks. When Grubby got mad last Thursday because Tyler accidentally took her favorite pencil and she wouldn’t let him leave the classroom, even after he gave it back and apologized, we went and got Mr. Franks. He made sure Tyler wasn’t late for his test in Pre-Algebra.  

Later, I saw him talking emphatically with Ms. Grubman in the teacher’s lounge. She rolled her eyes and he turned red. I think Mr. Franks hates Grubby. I don’t hate Grubby. I feel sorry for her because whatever is going on is a lot more than she can handle.  

Lu thinks that Grubby plays with our hair because she needs to ground herself in the present. She thinks she has anxiety. Lu’s mom is a high school psychologist. I told Lu we should maybe ground Grubby to the high school and let her mom take care of her which made her laugh. It was funny, but kind of not. A part of me wants Grubby to go away. Because sometimes when I see her, I feel so bad for her, I want to cry. 

 ***

During Mr. Franks’ class the next day, Nate asks me if I’m going to the Spring Fling on Friday and I tell him yes, me and my friends are going, and he says he’ll see me there. Then he asks, very quietly, “Ally, is everything okay?” 

I try to laugh it off.  I flip my hair behind my back and pull it up into a ponytail, snapping the tie around it. “Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t it be?” It doesn’t sound as casual as I want. 

“No reason, I guess. I just thought. . .” He pauses and I can tell he’s considering not saying more. Then he says, “You looked sad in Science yesterday.”  

It’s true. I did look sad. I don’t tell Nate that it’s because I got a text from Sad Mom. Sad Mom, who didn’t used to be Sad Mom. It’s not that I don’t love you and your mom, Sad Mom wrote. I’m just very sad. 

“Yeah, some family stuff,” I whisper. “With my mom.” 

“Which mom?”  Nate says which means he remembers I have two and doesn’t care. 

When I tell her later, Lu says that this means he loves me.  

I’m not sure about that but he is awfully nice. 

*** 

On Thursday, as Grubby teaches, Ms. Sanchez pops her head in at the half hour to see how class is going. 

“Fine,” Grubby says, her mouth tight. She glares at Ms. Sanchez, who glares back. Piper Montgomery, whose dad is a coach, tells us she heard that Ms. Sanchez is supposed to watch Grubby today. The teachers in our hallway are on rotation. 

Lu and I have been overhearing Ms. Sanchez talking to her husband Herman at lunch. She tells him about Grubby and how she doesn’t know when the school’s going to do something and they need to do something because what if something happens? What if she hurts some kid or herself? Lu says that Grubby would have to do something really bad for her to get help. Her mom told her so. Ms. Sanchez has a code with Mr. Sanchez. If everything is going okay with Grubby, she says, “There has been no event today.” 

Sometimes, Ms. Sanchez says, “There has been an event.” 

Then she describes it to her husband. I don’t listen in on that part because most of the time I’ve been there. 

*** 

Once, Grubby leaned over and told me that I was so pretty I should go into modelling. That all the men would like me then. They would like me so much that they’d break up with their girlfriends. 

Lu said, “What about me?”   

I thought this was weird at first —but Lu told me later it was a diversion, a psychological tactic her mother taught her.  

Grubby told Lu she was pretty, too, but not as pretty as me, which I think hurt Lu’s feelings. I bought her a pink lip gloss to make up for it, and she told me it wasn’t my fault. But it felt like it was. 

*** 

In Ms. Sanchez’s class, Nate leans over and says, “Grubby is getting gross.”  

Today she wore a stained tee and didn’t clean up her coffee when it spilled. Lu went and got towels from the restroom and mopped it up before it hurt the computer. Isabella muttered, “Freak,” under her breath and Damien gave her a high-five. 

Nate rustles his bag of Sour Patch Kids and pours some into his hand. He picks out the blue ones and hands them to me when no one’s looking because I like them best and my moms won’t let me have any because of my braces.  

Lu would say that this means he loves me but she’s in Orchestra this period. I’ll have to tell her at lunch since Ms. Sanchez doesn’t let us use our phones in her class. 

“I think someone named Jason broke Grubby’s heart,” I whisper to Nate.  

“That sucks,” he says. He stares at me. “I wouldn’t want a broken heart.” 

“No,” I say, and then I’m not sure where to take the conversation. “Me either.”  

The bell rings and I’m saved. 

*** 

I mostly like school. And not just because of Nate. It’s better than being home right now. Since Aunt Jessie died, Sad Mom’s just been sitting on the couch. She hasn’t been painting like normal. Usually I would find Mom doodles—moodles, I called them—all over the house. Usually, I’d have to take care not to run into wet brushes. But now, everything is exactly where we left it in the morning when we get home. I’m not sure if Sad Mom’s moved, not even to eat. Sometimes, there’s a fancy glass by her and a glazed look in her eyes. Worried Mom frowns whenever she sees this. But Sad Mom waves her ringed fingers over the goblet. “It was only a little,” she says. 

Worried Mom drives me to school and picks me up. She cuts up apples and cheese for a snack and we eat them outside in the patio chairs where I do my homework. Sometimes she tries to get Sad Mom to get dressed, or watch something on Netflix, but mostly she lets her sit on the couch. 

“It’ll get better,” Worried Mom promises. “It can’t stay like this forever. Grief lessens with time.” 

I want to believe her.  

Sometimes when I tell Sad Mom about Nate, she smiles and says he’s a nice boy, and I can almost believe Worried Mom might be right.  

In my dreams, we are happy again. Going to the movies or the park or even Walmart. 

In the morning, Sad Mom is on the couch and Worried Mom makes me breakfast. 

“Have a great day at school,” she says when she drops me off. She used to say, “make good choices,” but now she says, “just do your best,” and I sometimes wonder if she’s not talking to me, but Sad Mom. Or herself. 

*** 

At the Spring Fling, Grubby is a chaperone.  She stands in a too-tight silver dress, sipping from one of those little punch bowl cups. Stars made of reflective paper twirl above her.   

“Oh my God, she looks like a dirty Q-tip,” Lucy says under her breath.  

I want to laugh but I can’t. Something horrible must have happened to Grubby. Something or someone must be making her like this. 

When we get closer to her, Grubby stares at me for a bit before she says, “You look so pretty, Ally.”   

Lu gives a little huff and grabs a couple of cookies.  

“I like your dress, Lucy,” Grubby adds absently. 

“Thanks, Ms. Grubman,” Lu smiles politely.  

I nod because it’s always easier when Lu does the talking. Silence. Grubby stares at me. Lu makes a little noise: a sigh. More silence. 

“We’re going to dance now!” I blurt.  

I grab Lu’s hand and try not to feel bad that Grubby looks sad. I hustle us back towards the other kids, Lucy clinging to me in laughter. 

“Bro,” she squeals, “why is she so obsessed with you?”  

I’m about to say I don’t know when a voice comes from behind us. 

“Hey, Ally, wait!” 

I turn back to find Nate hurrying up to me. His friend Bryson slides up to Lu and asks her to dance. She beams and they head out to the dance floor. He’s one of three boys brave enough to dance in public. Nate moves to stand behind me, and I twist to see what he’s doing.  

“Here, hold still.” Nate’s hand rests gently on my shoulder. “Your back is undone.”  

He fixes the zipper and I feel the tightening fabric against my back, the loose edges coming together. 

“That’s better!” he announces. 

I turn and thank him, and he smiles at me and I smile at him, and then, it gets awkward. 

I say, “I have to find Lu.”  

At the same time, he says, “The guys are waiting.”  

We walk in opposite directions but I’m so happy all I see is that everything is glittering in the purple lights. Even Grubby. When she lifts her hand in a little wave, I wave back. 

*** 

Sad Mom comes to the school play I’m in the next Tuesday night. She even dresses like she did six months ago. A black dress and sparkling earrings. I tell her how pretty she is and she kisses my head.  She doesn’t seem so sad. Worried Mom holds her hand. She doesn’t look so worried. 

On stage, I’m a sword swallower in a circus, but I want to quit and become a doctor.  The play is called Swords to Scrubs and Tony Bucca, who never says two words, wrote it and it’s really good. On stage, I explain how, as a doctor, I’ll be a different kind of sword swallower. I explain how important it is to follow your dream but help people at the same time. 

Afterwards, Mr. Franks comes up and tells me in a whisper I was the best thing in the play. Lu squeals and gives me a hug. Nate, Bryson, and Tyler wave at a distance, Nate beaming. Ms. Sanchez introduces me to Herman, who lets go of Ms. Sanchez’s hand long enough to shake mine. They tell my moms that they should be so proud of me.  

This is the best I’ve felt in a long, long time. 

Afterwards, Mom and Mom and I go for ice cream and Sad Mom tells me I’m a great actress.  

“Aunt Jessie was an actress, too,” Worried Mom says, smiling a little at Sad Mom. “She was brilliant. Like you.” She rubs my arm. 

Sad Mom nods and looks off into the distance, then goes to the restroom.  

“Cancer sucks,” Worried Mom says, referring to Aunt Jessie, and I agree. 

When Sad Mom comes back, the smell of alcohol clings to her. Worried Mom and I exchange glances. We finish our ice cream, but the spell is broken.  

I take a shower and watch the stage makeup swirl down the drain. In the mirror, I look at myself. The armor of the sword-swallower is gone. I hate feeling so naked. I quickly scramble into my pajamas and dive under the covers. 

Later, I hear Worried Mom’s worried voice in my parents’ bedroom. She tells Sad Mom she has to get it together. For Ally, she says. Sad Mom says she’s trying. Then she cries and I hear Worried Mom make comforting noises. 

Their lights go off and I hear them snoring a few minutes later as I lie awake in the dark. I don’t want Sad Mom to get it together for me. I want her to do it for herself. 

In the morning, I leave a post-it on Sad Mom’s book, the one she isn’t really reading. I put it right on the cover. Cancer sucks. I’m sorry you’re hurting so much. I love you. A.  

*** 

That afternoon, I finish my Science test early, so I get to leave the classroom and wait for my next class in the hallway. Nate, who finished early too, and I tiptoe by the other classrooms. This is my favorite kind of silence: the kind where you know everyone is occupied, studying or goofing off, but within reach. Yet, you still get to slide peacefully through a quiet space.  

Nate is telling me how yesterday, his youngest brother Edgar, who is seven, discovered Santa Claus isn’t real. Edgar is pretty pissed to know magic doesn’t exist in the adult world. I tell him I’m Team Edgar. Nate laughs as he goes into the boys’ restroom, and I swing through the door to the girls’, smiling to myself. 

I stop. Plenty of sunlight is streaming in from the small windows that line the top of the room, but the regular lights are off. I can’t figure out why and I’m instantly put on edge. 

Then, I hear someone crying. 

I check the stalls around me, but all the doors are open. I think maybe I’m imagining it when it comes again: a low, desperate moan. 

I slowly turn around. 

Beneath the farthest sink, Ms. Grubman sits on the floor, rocking back and forth. Her head is buried in her arms which are crossed over her knees. Her tuft of hair shakes.  

I walk toward her and lean down. I extend my hand to touch her arm, but then have second thoughts, and pull it back. I don’t want to startle her. She smells as if she spilled something on the navy hoodie she’s wearing, like egg or milk. 

“Ms. Grubman?” I ask gently. “Are you alright?” 

When she looks up at me, her eyes are glassy and strange. Dark. I never thought blue eyes could look so dark, but they do.  

I don’t think she recognizes me, so I say, “It’s me, Ally.” 

“What are you doing in here?” she demands. She says it quietly, but her jaw juts out. “No one said you could be in here.” 

“It’s the girls’ bathroom,” I say, because it is.  

Ms. Grubman turns to me and narrows her eyes. She makes a sudden lunge forward, lifting herself up from the ground. I stumble backward against the sink.  

“You shouldn’t exist!” she blurts, looking furious. 

I’m confused. I know I should run but I just stand there frozen. 

“It’s girls like you!” She points at me and spittle flies from her mouth. 

I can see myself and Ms. Grubman in the mirrors above the sinks. In the reflection the girl I am is taller than Grubby. But she looks scared. Really scared. Weirdly, Grubby looks scared, too.  

“What is it?” I plead with Ms. Grubman again, my voice breaking. “What’s happened? Can’t you tell me? Maybe I could help you.”  

Ms. Grubman gnashes her teeth at me. “You? You’re such a slut!”  

I gasp. What? Tears prick my eyes. Ms. Grubman stalks forward, eyes wild. I back up toward the stalls, then shift toward the door. I feel like the world is unfolding in slow motion like a pop-up book about something horrible. 

“Get out!” she screams. I don’t understand what’s happening and shake my head. No. 

“You little witch, get out!” Grubby raises her hands, fingernails clawed. These same hands braided my hair last week but that’s not their intention now. 

Instinct kicks finally in and I flee.  

Once I get into the hall, Grubby slams the door behind me.  Just before she shuts it, I see her face in the little crack of the door: mascara running down her face, her lipstick smeared. Then, she twists the lock.  

I feel someone touch my arm and I flinch. But it’s just Nate. “What’s happened?” he asks, eyes wide. 

“I have no idea,” I say, my voice hitching. “Grubby’s in there.” I point toward the closed door. 

Nate nods, then very firmly, states, “I’m going to get somebody.” I nod. “Wait for me, okay?” He points at the water fountain down the hall.  

I agree to wait. I listen to the way his sneakers pound across the floor as he goes running. A minute later, the bell rings and students burst forth from classrooms with a wave of noise. From the water fountain, I watch all my classmates converge near Ms. Sanchez’s room, which is next to the bathroom.  

My mind is still on Grubby, her expression, her hands. What happened between this morning and now? What did I do?  Why did she call me that? 

Isabella tries the bathroom door, then asks, “Why’s the door locked?” 

She pounds on it. 

“Ms. Grubman’s in there,” I say to Juan, who is nearer. “She locked herself in.” 

Juan spreads the word. 

“Grubby? Why?” 

“She finally lost it.”  

“Do you know what happened?”  

I bend down to the water fountain to avoid the flurry of conversation near Ms. Sanchez’s door. The water fountain’s broken, but I pretend there is water. I pretend that the water is cold. That it slips like a liquid sword down my throat.  

Nate comes back with Principal Conlin in tow, just as Ms. Sanchez approaches from the teacher’s lounge. Principal Conlin is wearing a purple dress and high heels, her hair in a tight, efficient bun. For some reason, I hear the rapid clicking of her heels above all the other noise. 

Principal Conlin goes to Ms. Sanchez and speaks in hushed tones. Ms. Sanchez tells all the kids in the hall to come with her to the library—but I can’t move. The wall behind me is so solid; it’s the only thing that seems stable. Unshifting. I put my hands flat against it. 

Everyone gets up off the floor and throws their backpacks over their shoulders and heads down the hall with Ms. Sanchez. I know I’m supposed to go, too, but I can’t. Nate comes over as everyone moves away, twisting in the stream around us.  

Then it’s only him and me. Principal Conlin asks if I’m hurt, and I shake my head. She tells us to wait, she’d like to talk to us. Then, she unlocks the door to the bathroom with a master key and goes in.  

“What happened in there?” Nate asks me. His eyes are kind, sympathetic. 

I open my mouth, but I can’t force words to come out. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “We can talk later.” 

The bathroom door swings open with a rattle and a bang. Principal Conlin helps Grubby out of the room. Her arm is braced around the younger woman’s shoulders, as if she’s holding her up. Grubby has pulled her sweatshirt’s hood over her face. She looks like the criminals they catch on TV.  

Principal Conlin nods at us, then leads Grubby to the nearest exit. I stare after the sad, shuffling figure who moments ago was screaming at me. The two women pass through the glass door and maneuver the parking lot. 

“They’re gonna help her, right?  They’re gonna help her? They have to help her.” I want to repeat it a thousand more times. 

“They will, Ally,” Nate says as if he knows it’s true. He makes shushing sounds. 

I can feel the tears streaming down my face. “Why did she call me that?  What did I do?” 

“You didn’t do anything. She’s messed up,” Nate assures me. 

My tears just keep coming. I bow my head and they drip on the floor. One lands on the canvas top of Nate’s shoe, a damp dot. I stare at the floor. I think I might be sick. 

“Ally,” Nate says. He dips his face under mine, and looks up at me. “Ally, it’ll be okay.” 

I shake my head and sob once. Then again. I want to stop crying, but I can’t. 

Suddenly, he pulls me closer to him, into a hug. “It will, it will,” Nate repeats. 

“It’s nothing,” I say into his shirt. “It’s nothing at all.” 

“Of course it is,” Nate says. “It’s an event.” He’s overheard Ms. Sanchez talking to her husband, too. 

“I wish it weren’t,” I say. “I wish it were ‘Today, there has been no event.’” 

“Me, too,” Nate says, releasing me. “I wish it was always like that.” 

We stare at each other for a moment—understanding passing between us—then we walk slowly to the door overlooking the parking lot and peer outside.  

Next to her car, Ms. Grubman is holding onto Principal Conlin as if she’s drowning against the blue of the sky and Principal Conlin is a lifeguard. The older woman rubs her back, just like a mom would, as they stand by the driver side door of Grubby’s car. Then, Grubby dips her brown fuzzy head into the car and I can’t see her anymore. 

Principal Conlin lifts her hand in a little wave, then stands there as Grubby starts her car. She and me and Nate watch, still and silent, as the small grey car turns from the lot onto the street and disappears around the corner. 

---

CHRISTINE BUTTERWORTH-MCDERMOTT is the author of two chapbooks and three books of poetry, the latest of which is The Spellbook of Fruit and Flowers (2023). Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Beloit Fiction Journal, Bellowing Ark, Lunch Ticket, Uncharted/Voyage YA, and Thimble, among others. She currently lives in Texas and is working on her first novel.

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