by Galaxy Craze
The bathroom door opened and Jolene walked out; two other girls came out after her, holding their noses and waving their hands in front of their faces. I went over to my cubby and hid the invitation between the pages of my maths book. I wouldn’t tell Jolene.
…
Every puddle was a danger. I kept thinking, What if I trip and fall? All my books would fly through the air like in a cartoon and the invitation would land in a puddle, the pink envelope sinking in the mud. Then I worried I might lose it, leave it somewhere on the bus. So I held the bag tightly, on my lap, like a baby.
Finally I had brought something back from school that I could shout about. It wasn’t a report card; it wasn’t a blue ribbon or a part in the school play. I had something better than that.
“Mum! Mum!” I said it like a song as I walked into the kitchen. She was on the phone. She put her finger up to her lips, telling me to be quiet. She had a pen in her hand; she was writing things down as she spoke. “Yes. . . . Okay, I will.” It was probably the bank. She would hang up the phone and say, “We’re broke.”
I sat down at the table and waited. I felt happy in a way I never had before, excited. The way my mother and her friends would get in London before they went out to a party or on a date. I stood up and practised doing plies. I wanted to get skinny before the party. When she put the phone down I said, “Look!” I waved the invitation in my hand like a flag.
“What?” She looked serious.
“I’ve been invited to Barbara Whitmore’s birthday party!”
I thought she would lift me up, hug me, swing me around. But she didn’t say anything. She just stood there in an old brown skirt and a big sweater that had so many different colours it looked like a sewing cloth.
“Isn’t she the one who’s mean to you?”
“Mean to me” stuck to my chest.
“No.” I stared back at her like she was stupid, but she was my mother and knew things about me. The first time we had swimming lessons at school I had worn a bikini. My grandmother had sent it to me from Rhode Island; it had red, yellow, and green squares on it and a tie string at the back. All the other girls wore the school swimming costume: a navy blue one-piece. My mother hadn’t bought me one. “They won’t care about a silly swimming costume. It’s a waste of money,” she had said, when we were in the uniform shop.
The teacher was standing at the other end of the pool talking to the lifeguard. Barbara swam up behind me and pulled the string undone, then Courtney grabbed the front and pulled it away through the water. I wrapped my arms around my chest. My body felt hot. The pool was a soft blue and I wanted to hide under the water. I started crying and my tears felt like blood; I thought they would turn the water red. They were laughing and pointing and calling each other’s names. “Catch the bikini top! Catch the bikini!” they shouted to each other.
Then a girl dropped a towel in the water for me. It was the podgy girl in our class, Jolene. I wrapped the wet towel around me. I could barely stand on the wet tiles; my body felt shaky. Jolene put her hand on my back and walked me to the changing room. I thought, I will never wear a bikini again, never.
“That was a long time ago!” I yelled this at my mother. I was new then. Things like that didn’t happen any more.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had become friends with her.”
“Well, I have. See?” I held out the invitation, but she didn’t touch it. “Only seven girls were invited. Jolene wasn’t invited, only the popular girls.”
I thought, She’s my mother, she should cheer for me.
“Why wasn’t Jolene invited?”
“Because they’re not friends. Anyway, Jolene doesn’t like her.” Jolene was scared of her.
My mother just stared at me.
“You should be happy for me that I was invited; it’s important.” My French homework, Barbara’s party, my father: three important things.
“Of course I’m happy, if you’re happy.” But she kept looking at me like something smelled bad.
…
I went to my room and opened the envelope with a knife, carefully, so it wouldn’t tear. Inside was a white card with tiny pink baby roses around the edges. In the middle of the green leaves and roses it read, You are invited to a birthday party! 18th of December at 6p.m. 7 Lamppost Lane. A tea party and overnight. On the top it said, To May, from Barbara. To May, from Barbara. I read that part over and over: To May, from Barbara.
I put it on my chest of drawers and leaned it up against the mirror, right in the middle.
I wanted to tell someone. Someone who would say, “Congratulations!” Like it was an award, which it was.
…
“Patricia!” I called her name as I walked down the hall. I already felt new again, excited.
A door opened slowly, the one across from Rufus’s room. Patricia stood there, in a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, something my mother would have worn. I wondered if she was sick.
“May.” She said my name softly, slowly, like a sad word.
“Guess what?”
“What?” Her eyes looked puffy.
“Barbara invited me to her birthday party!”
“She did? That’s great.” Her voice rose a little to meet mine.
“It’s an overnight. Only seven girls were invited.”
“That’s really great, May.” She smiled at me. “I knew they would like you. They just needed to know there was something special about you.
“Something special” lit a fire inside me.
“Come in and talk to me.” She looked as though something had been taken out of her.
I stepped into the room. The curtains were closed; there was an open suitcase on the bed.
She said, “Shut the door.”
I did, and when I came back she was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the wall. I sat down on the bed too. She leaned over and ran her fingers through my hair.
“I wish I could be here. I would blow-dry your hair straight and put my special cream in it that makes it smooth. I could make you look pretty.” Her voice sounded faded.
I thought maybe someone had died.
“Barbara wants a photo of Jet.” I thought she would think that was funny.
She looked up and smiled at me. “She wants a photo? That is so sweet. I have some with me. I wish I was your age. Everything’s just starting for you, and everything’s ending for me.”
She’s dying, I thought. She’s dying.
She stood up and walked over to the chair that her clothes were piled on. She picked up the baby-blue shirt she had worn yesterday, folded it, and dropped it in the suitcase. I sat on the bed, watching her walk back and forth, picking up clothes, folding them, dropping them in the suitcase. She hardly picked up her feet when she walked, like an old person.
Then she fell into the chair, right on top of her clothes, and put her face in her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. She made loud crying sounds, like a baby. I thought she was pretending, but when she looked up her cheeks were wet and her eyes were red.
“He wants me to leave,” she said.
“What?” The words were so quiet I hardly heard them.
“Rufus wants me to leave. He said it was better if he was here working alone.”
That was a lie, I thought. Working, he never worked. He was always in the kitchen with my mother.
“He’s at the library today. I mean, I could do that for him.” She took a deep breath and then she said, “I think they’re having an affair. He didn’t want me to sleep in his bed; he wouldn’t even try to kiss me.” Her voice cracked and then she started again, with her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking.
I thought I should walk over to her and put my hand on her back, the way my mother does with me and Eden, but I just sat there on the edge of the bed watching her cry. Suddenly she stopped and looked up at me.
“Are they?”
“They’re just friends,” I said. It was true; I’d checked. They slept in di
fferent beds, and I had heard her say it to Suzy on the phone. “We’re just friends,” she said. She would have told Suzy. And I would have seen it. In London she always kissed Paul in front of me. They would lie down on the sofa together. I could hear them breathing and moving around behind me while I watched the telly. Then my mother would say, “We’re going to take a little nap,” and the two of them would go into her bedroom and close the door.
“What do they do together?” Patricia asked.
“What?”
“What do Rufus and Lucy do together?”
I squinted, like I was trying to remember. “They play Scrabble sometimes.”
“Scrabble?” Her eyes lifted a little. “That’s boring.”
I nodded. “And once they went grocery shopping.”
“Grocery shopping?” Her voice began to sound like it usually did.
I nodded again. She put her thumbnail in her mouth and stared at the floor. Then she jumped up and walked to the mirror.
“Are you sure my hair looks good this short?” She looked at herself sideways. Then she said, “Well, has he ever taken her out to dinner?”
I was thinking about Patricia blow-drying my hair straight, while I looked through her makeup bag. Two girls in the bathroom getting ready for a party.
“No.” I said it like it was the last word in the world.
She walked around the room, back and forth, pacing. Something had woken up in her; she flung her arms down at her sides. “Then why is he being like this?” she asked, looking up at the ceiling, as if it would tell her.
“Maybe he’s acting like a cat,” I said.
“A cat?” She said it slowly, like she was looking for something in it.
“My mother left me with my grandmother in America when I was little once. And when Mum came back to get me at the railway station, I wouldn’t talk to her. I wouldn’t even look at her. She said I was like a cat because that’s what cats do; they get mad and won’t talk to you if you leave them.” I didn’t remember it happening; my mother told me.
Patricia stood in the middle of the room, nodding.
“You’re right,” she said. “Maybe he’s cross that I left before.” Her eyes were wide. “May, you’re so smart.”
“Do you know how to speak French?” The word “smart” reminded me.
“I understand a little.” She looked around the room like it was the first time she had ever seen it. “You’re right. I can stay if I want to; it’s a hotel.” She nodded as if she were agreeing with herself.
I remembered my mother saying, “It’s a hotel; we need the money, darling.” A room for anyone.
She pulled the curtains open, but no light came in the room. It was already dark out. She turned on the lamp by the bed. She was busy now, opening the bedside drawer, looking for something. I stood up to leave. She took out a thin black leather book, opened it, and ran her finger slowly down the list of names and telephone numbers.
“I have to do my homework now,” I said, because I was just standing there.
She looked up, holding her finger in place.
“I’ll see you later, May,” she said, waving her other hand at me.
…
On my way upstairs I saw Rufus; he was standing by the front door carrying a book. I tried to walk past him.
“Hi, May.”
I stopped. He had a brown coat on, it was buttoned up wrong.
“Hi.” I started to walk up the stairs.
“Do you want me to help you with your French? I can come now if you want.”
“Right now?” I asked. I was serious; I needed to do it.
He nodded.
“Thanks,” I said.
He followed me up the stairs. His footsteps sounded heavy behind me. He walked slowly, holding on to the banister.
“I got invited to a party.” I couldn’t help it. Telling people was the funnest part.
“A party?” he said, behind me.
“My friend Barbara’s birthday party.” I told him so he would know it wasn’t just any party.
“Barbara’s birthday party? That will be fun.” It was dark on the stairs. You had to walk carefully, looking before you put your foot down.
“When’s Lucy’s birthday?” He wanted to know when my mother’s birthday was.
“The seventh of February.”
We walked down the hall to my bedroom. We passed Eden, who was sitting at his desk, swinging his legs underneath like he was listening to a song. “Hi, May! Hi, Rufus!” He waved to us. Sometimes he was like that, excited to see me. “Look, look!” he shouted, running out with a piece of paper in his hand. He held it up in front of us. There were two gold stars on it.
“It had three but one fell off.”
“Congratulations!” Rufus said, taking the piece of paper from him. Congratulations. Someone finally said it, but not to me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“My report about trees.” Then he stared at Rufus like something was wrong with him. “Why are you wearing a coat?” he asked, squinting up at him.
“I just walked in. I haven’t taken it off yet.”
“Oh.” Eden sounded relieved, like everything was better now he knew.
“Well done, Eden.” I said it like a teacher, because I could, because I was his older sister.
Down the hall, I saw my mother pull her bedroom door closed, softly, like a secret.
“Come on,” I said to Rufus, and walked to my room.
He sat down in my chair at my desk.
“Aren’t you going to take your coat off?”
“I forgot.” He unbuttoned his coat and dropped it on the floor next to him. I put the two French books in front of him and sat on my bed.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Everything.”
“What’s that?” He pointed to the window.
“A window.” I tried to roll my eyes.
“In French.”
“La fenêtre”
“Good.”
“What’s that?” He pointed to the lamp.
“La lampe” That one was easy. You just had to say it like you were looking at the end of your nose.
“What’s that?”
I didn’t know. He was pointing to my trainers on the floor, lying toe to toe, like two old rats having a chat. I hoped they didn’t smell.
“Chaussures de tennis,” he said. “You need to make flash cards.”
“We have to do the pronouns.” I was getting impatient. Today’s blank lines in the cahier needed to be filled in, like plants that need to be watered. Night was coming. I took my clothes off the chair by the wall and dragged it over to the desk so I could sit next to him. I was hoping he would do the work and I could just watch.
“May, did you bring the post up?” It was my mother. I heard her voice before she walked in the door.
“No.” I never bring the post up, I just look through it downstairs to see if there is anything for me. She knew that; she just wanted to come in my room.
“Oh . . . okay.” She stood there for a moment, looking at the books on the desk. She was wearing different clothes and her hair was down, brushed smoothly.
When she turned to leave, Rufus said, “Lucy?”
“What?” It was the first time she had looked at him.
“How are you?”
“I’m well; thank you,” she said, looking at her hands.
“I went to the library today.” He sounded eager, like Eden.
“The one in town? It’s the size of a postage stamp.”
She was trying to be funny, wanting him to laugh and say, “I know,” and they could talk about the man who worked there with the hump on his back, but instead he said, “I like small libraries. I get confused in big ones.”
“Oh. Did Patricia go with you?” She hadn’t seen him since Patricia arrived, and now she was acting like she hardly knew him.
“No. Patricia’s going back to London tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t
you need her to help you?”
“No. I can type.”
“She should stay longer. Isn’t it nice for her to be out of the city? I haven’t even seen her yet.” This was my mother pushing Patricia towards him, giving her to him on the palm of her hand, like a small statue.
“I didn’t know you wanted to see her.” He sounded annoyed.
She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything to him. She looked at me and said, “May, are you sure you didn’t bring the post up?”
I flipped through the pages of my book, so she would know I was ignoring her.
“All right, I’d better make supper,” she said, and then she left.
Rufus watched her walk out. But she didn’t go to the kitchen. I heard her walk down the hall into her bedroom and close the door.
He ran his fingers through his hair, then rested his forehead in his hands. He stayed like that, staring down, with his head in his hands. I thought he was thinking about the French, but then he shook his head and said, “Sorry. Let’s try to figure this out.”
Thirteen
I was late for school the next day. The playground was empty; everyone was inside the classrooms, at their desks. I had heard the bells ringing when I was crossing the main street with the lights. I walked down the hall. All the classroom doors were closed, my footsteps sounded loud beneath me. It was early in the morning and my stomach hurt. This is what school is like for me: the private park in London that only certain people have the key to.
…
In London, there was a park near where we lived with an iron railing around it. The tops pointed up like arrows, so that no one could climb over. Large white houses with long windows stood around it. At night, if the lights were on, you could see inside the rooms; they had deep red walls and heavy curtains. The square-shaped park was just for them.
Our upstairs neighbour in London was an old man, and sometimes I walked his dog for him. The dog’s name was Bert; he was a Scottie. He was very old but the man said he was going to live a long time because he always cooked him chicken, rice and vegetables. He made it into a mash; otherwise Bert would just eat the chicken—“Like a naughty boy,” the old man would say, shaking his finger, talking in a deep voice, pretending to be angry.
