Coraline
Mr. Hamm drones on at the front of the room, and I pretend to be taking notes, but I’m actually just doodling. Seriously,
I could teach a class on The Scarlet Letter. Poor Hester Prynne and the big red A she was forced to wear for her adultery, and her witchy little child, Pearl, and her revenging old husband, and her secret
lover the minister (spoiler alert!) whose guilt and shame was slowly killing him.
I have to ask myself—in a woke world, why do they still teach the Nathaniel Hawthorne cautionary tale? Women beware! Take
dominion over your body, your sexual life, and be condemned to a life of shame and suffering! Are we supposed to look back
at it and marvel at how unjust, how awful the world was for women back in the seventeenth century? Because there are lots of problems now, too. Do women have any more control over their bodies and their lives? Maybe on
the surface things look better. But women are being sterilized against their will in prisons—like right now. And Roe v. Wade has been repealed. And if I got pregnant because someone raped me, in some places I wouldn’t have the right to do anything
about it.
Why is that okay?
Autumn is sitting ramrod straight beside me, foot tapping, diligently taking notes.
The girl is a wreck. She’s neck and neck with Micha for class valedictorian, and anything less than perfection now will have her in the number two spot.
Which for most of us would be fine, awesome even. But not for Autumn.
And Micha—well, let’s be honest, he’s a cheater and a shameless suck-up. This is not the common opinion. With his blond floppy
hair and pretty face, he’s every girl’s crush and every teacher’s favorite. Micha is homecoming king, and he sings in the
school choir; he even volunteers at the local animal shelter.
And, rumor has it that he bought the answers for the last AP chemistry test from a senior at another school who had a special
test-taking date because of his alleged ADHD. And so Micha got a 103% with extra credit, and Autumn got a 99%. With just weeks
to go before college decisions come in, Autumn is losing it.
I also know that she’s cutting herself again. A thing she made me swear to keep secret and promised me that she would stop doing. But when we changed for PE last Wednesday, I saw the tiny slices on the inside of her thigh
up above the hem of her shorts.
So now I have this secret that my friend is hurting herself. I should tell someone. But I can’t because if I do she’ll hate
me forever. And I know that Micha is cheating, but I’m no snitch. So, as my mother would say: Coraline, how are you going to solve these problems?
“Coraline? Thoughts?”
Crap. I look up from my notebook and everyone’s staring at me. Someone snickers and Autumn looks down at a piece of paper
on her desk. In big letters it reads: Witches!
“There are a couple of characters that might have been witches or who Hawthorne alluded to as witches,” I say, looking at Mr. Hamm, who nods.
“Mistress Hibbins, who was a reference to a real woman executed as a witch in 1656—she’s always trying to tempt people into the forest, which clearly represents sin and paganism.
Hawthorne describes The Black Man as a necromancer because of his knowledge of herbal medicines from his time with indigenous people.
Even Pearl, who is a child, is often compared to a witch. ”
“And how do we think that Hawthorne feels about witches?”
“I think he views their persecution as unfair. He was a critic of the Boston Puritan society, even though his ancestors were
notorious prosecutors in the Salem witch trials.”
Mr. Hamm nods and goes on, talking about the various descriptions of Pearl in the book, Hester’s child, the product of her
adultery and the proof of her sin. How descriptions of her veer between cherubic and demonic, how she’s compared to an imp,
a fairy, a rosebush.
I glance over at Autumn, who flashes me a grin.
See what I mean? I might have to drag her through Red World, but in flesh school, she’s got my back.
Later we meet at my locker, then walk to the lunchroom where Micha is holding court at the table of popular seniors. He sits
at the head of the table, everyone turned toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. We grab our usual spot by the window,
looking out on the field covered in snow, the barren black trees.
Other notable things about Micha. When we were in first grade he pushed me off the jungle gym and I chipped my tooth. He did
it on purpose, but no one believed me. Because I was the difficult one, and he was the class angel, beloved by all. The angrier I got about it, the
less convincing I became. The only one who believed me was Ana. The world is populated by men like that, she told me. The world thinks they’re one thing, but underneath that glimmering facade, there’s black rot. Only some of us see it. And
when we call it out, no one believes us.
In eighth grade, he texted naked pictures of his ex-girlfriend to all his friends, and many of them went on to send them to
their friends. One of the little fuckers sent the images to Pornhub and they went up online for all the world to see. Brittany Lamb was suspended from school for allowing pictures of herself to be taken. Eventually, she and her family left town.
Did anything happen to Micha or his evil friends?
Take a guess.
No.
Ethan slides in beside me and proceeds to open the bento box that his mother, Charlie, packs for him every day, each little
square filled with berries or nuts, baby carrots or hummus.
“Are we eating in silence?” asks Ethan after a few minutes of chewing. “What’s going on?”
He follows my gaze. “Oh.” Eye roll. “You know, Coraline. This obsession has to end. Like, let it go. We were in first grade.”
“You don’t get it,” I say. “Because you’re a man.”
“This again.”
“Seriously,” says Autumn. “There’s a kind of man that other men, good men, don’t recognize. He’s a cheater, a user. A predator.”
“I mean look at the world,” I say. “It’s run by men who literally get away with rape, assault, and murder.”
Ethan crunches a baby carrot. “Fair. Still—Micha? He’s not that bad.”
“How can you say that?” I ask, incredulous. “After what he did to you?”
Ethan’s shoulders hike. “I don’t know. Maybe it was an accident. I mean, he works at an animal shelter.”
“That’s his cover,” I say, voice coming up an octave. “See. It’s working.”
He glances over at Micha, then gives me a nudge with his shoulder and we both start to laugh.
Autumn still looks miserable. “If I’m not valedictorian my parents are going to disown me. I wouldn’t mind so much if I just
got my ass kicked fair and square, but how much cheating has he done?”
“It’s a rumor,” says Ethan. “You don’t know that he cheated. Maybe he really is just smarter than you are, Autumn.”
She gives him the finger. Why do men always seem to do that, stand up for each other, even the best ones for the worst ones? It’s like some biological bro code.
Just then, Micha breaks into song—really hamming it up, standing up on his stool, belting out the lyrics of a show tune—“Tomorrow”
from Annie. He is, of course, pitch-perfect. Oh, right, did I also mention that he’s the lead in the school play?
“Okay,” says Ethan, frowning. “You’re right. He’s a tool.”
I reach into my bag and take out two little pouches, slide them over to Autumn.
“Oh,” she says, glancing shyly at Ethan. “Thanks.”
“The tea bags in the pouch with the pink ribbon are for your cramps. Evening primrose, chamomile, red raspberry, and ginger.
That’s Great-Aunt Agnes’s recipe. The tea bags in the pouch with the blue ribbon are for focus—black cohosh, matcha, peppermint,
and blackberry. That’s my Aunt Ana’s recipe. She says it got her through college.”
“And this.” I hand her a little metal tub of salve. “This is my recipe. Yarrow, echinacea, calendula, comfrey, beeswax, olive oil, and some other stuff,” I tell her. “It’s for cuts and
scarring.”
This is my way of telling her that I know she’s cutting again. From the way she lowers her eyes I’m guessing the message was
received.
Ethan picks up the pouches, inspects them. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Family recipes,” I say with a shrug. He holds up the label I created. On the front is a C comprised of vines and flowers, on the back a list of ingredients. Everything is organic from Agnes’s garden. “This is nice,”
he says, nudging me.
I’m proud of the label that I designed on my iPad and printed on sticker paper.
“Got anything for me in there?” he asks, peering into my bag.
I reach over to close the zipper and our hands meet.
There’s like a little shock at the softness of his skin.
We’ve known each other all our lives, but since something weird happened at homecoming, things are different.
I’m ignoring it and I think he is, too. Our eyes meet and I feel myself blush like an idiot.
I also feel Autumn watching us, which brings up even more heat.
“There’s no tea to stop someone from being a dork,” I say to cover my embarrassment.
“Ouch,” he says, putting a hand to his heart with mock dismay.
I ruffle his hair, and then I see he’s blushing, too.
“Huh,” says Autumn, eyes back on Micha.
When Ethan gets up to toss his trash, I lean into her.
“Hey,” I say. “Would it be the worst thing in the world to come in second? It’s still amazing.”
She gives me a look, then starts packing up her things, holding up the salve to me, which I take to mean she’s going to stop
again. She puts it and the tea in her bag.
“If you’re not first, you’re last. That’s what my dad always says.”
In what twisted world view I wonder does that make sense? And what does that make me? I think my class rank is like number
ten or something. But honestly, I don’t take Autumn’s psychosis personally.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Meanwhile, isn’t your dad just like a middle manager at some third-tier investment
firm? Life’s not just about who’s first, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” she says, looking up at Micha, who seems to intuit that she’s watching and looks our way, gives her an easy wave
and a smile that’s almost a sneer.
I think about my chipped tooth, which luckily was a baby tooth and fell out a few weeks later. That feeling of anger at not
being believed when you were telling the truth; I still remember it. I think about those images of Brittany and how she had
to leave school because people were so cruel to her, calling her a slut and saying she shouldn’t have taken her clothes off for him.
But no one said a thing about what he did, taking advantage of her innocence and trust. And no one did a thing about a place like Pornhub where she gets exploited over and over—forever because of a mistake she made when she was thirteen years old.
“He’s not going to win,” I tell Autumn.
“How do you know?” she asks.
“Trust me.”
Autumn shoots me a worried frown.
“Hey,” says Ethan. “What’s this one? Why does it have a skull and crossbones on it?”
He holds up a little black pouch that he lifted from my bag. It’s inside a plastic baggie.
Shit.
“Coraline,” he says in that way he says my name, knowledge, patience, worry. “What are you up to?”
I snatch it back from him. “Mind your beeswax,” I say. “And go wash your hands.”
He issues a laugh.
“I mean it,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom. He obeys. I’ve taught him a thing or two, so he knows to listen.
“What is it?” asks Autumn, as I bury it deep in my bag.
“It’s an old family cure.”
“Cure for what?”
We both look at Micha, who’s started singing again, drawing all eyes to him. There’s something about him. That unearned arrogance,
the willingness to hurt others to get ahead. It reminds me of Ana’s ex Paul, who obviously needed correction and got it.
“For assholes.”