Thirteen

by Lauren Myracle

  Lars stepped sideways, shuffling us to the left so that his back was pressed against the house and we were as far out of sight of the front window as we could be. He lifted my chin with his fingers, making it so I had to look at him. It was hard to hold his gaze. His body was so close. He was so close.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “I missed you, too,” I whispered.

  He leaned in, and I stretched onto my tiptoes so our lips could meet. Which they did, again and again and again.

  October

  ON THE LAST MONDAY OF OCTOBER, Westminster had a teacher workday. Trinity didn’t, which Ty thought was terribly unjust. He had a point: Westminster did seem to have a heck of a lot more teacher workdays than Trinity.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” Mom said as she picked up the crust of his Eggo to throw away. “Find your shoes. It’s time to go.”

  “But it’s not fair!” he complained, draping himself over the sofa like a sack of flour.

  “Welp, life isn’t fair,” I said. “Never has been, never will.” Which oddly enough failed to raise Ty’s spirits, so to appease him, I told him I’d come be a reading volunteer with Mom. At eleven. After a lovely long bath and an episode or two of Judge Judy.

  “For real?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said magnanimously. I could say “hey” to my old Trinity teachers and at the same time earn brownie points for being such a good and loving sister. Afterward, I could probably persuade Mom to take me to Pricci’s for a girls’ lunch.

  Mom and I arrived at Mrs. Webber’s room five minutes before Reading Workshop started, and I blinked at the bright colors and construction-paper-happy bulletin boards of the second grade classroom. Squishy beanbags for the kids to flop down on: check. Class snake in a glass tank: check. Poster of a kitten clinging to a tree with the inspirational message Just Hang In There: check.

  I felt old soaking it all in.

  There was still a soft spot in my heart for that scrappy kitten, though. When I was seven, I’d loved that kitten, and I’d imagined gently lifting him from the tree branch and lowering him to firm ground. “There you go, teensy bitsy,” I’d say. “Next time, don’t climb so high!”

  “Ellen, why don’t you start with Ty,” Mrs. Webber said, handing Mom the reading workbook and showing her what lesson Ty was on. Ty waved at us from his desk, which was pushed up against three other desks to make a cluster. A construction paper sign printed with the words “Crazy Crabs” hung above them from the ceiling. Other desk-clusters were labeled “Super Seahorses,” “Wonderful Whales,” and “Jiggling Jellyfish.”

  “And Winnie, I think I’ll have you work with Joseph,” she said. She handed me Joseph’s workbook and lowered her voice. “He could really benefit from a little one-on-one. Not that he’s struggling academically. Academically, he’s fine. But I just love that kid. I want to give him all the TLC I can.”

  The three of us glanced at Joseph, who sat at the “Dapper Dolphins” cluster. He didn’t notice us, but stayed bent over his spelling book, lower lip between his teeth. He wore a red knit cap, even though he was indoors. A plastic container of antibacterial gel sat on the corner of his desk.

  “How’s the chemo going?” Mom asked softly.

  Mrs. Webber frowned and shook her head, either to mean “Not now” or “Not good.” I wasn’t sure which.

  “So…do I just go over the lesson with him?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Webber said. She smiled and snapped back into teacher mode. “Why don’t you take him to the Commons? Find some place comfy to sit.”

  On an overstuffed purple sofa, I ran my finger under blocky black sentences while Joseph sounded out the words. The story was a juicy tale of suspense involving an inscrutable cat and an equally inscrutable rat. “The cat sat,” he read aloud. “The cat saw a rat. The rat sat by the cat.”

  Oh, the joy of short A’s. Might there be a bat in the cat’s future? A bat wearing a hat? Who knew! That’s what made it so exciting!

  Joseph sighed. His skinny legs dangled from the couch in brown corduroys, and his fuzzy sweater stretched past his pale wrists. It wasn’t the kind of sweater a boy would usually wear. It wasn’t girly, exactly, but it also wasn’t rough and tumble. It smelled nice, like laundry detergent.

  “Um…do you want to keep going?” I asked.

  He gazed up at me. His expression said, Would you?

  I bit back a smile. He was such a little man, martyred by the cat and the rat. And it was a dumb story.

  “Want to read something else, then?” Bookshelves lined the Commons, filled with picture books and chapter books and even big thick ones like Harry Potter.

  “We’re not allowed,” he said.

  “What? That’s silly. Sure we are.”

  He looked dubious, but I felt utterly confident of my position. Maybe I wouldn’t if I still went to Trinity, but I didn’t. I was in junior high, and next year I’d be in high school. Joseph and I could read whatever we darn well pleased.

  I strode to the shelves and pulled free a book with a bright green spine. It was Shrek. It wasn’t the Hollywood version, but the real live story, which I guess came before the movie. I hadn’t known there was a pre-movie version.

  “How about this?”

  Joseph quickly nodded. He was shy, which I found appealing, and it was clear he wasn’t the type of boy who was a yeller and a hitter and a kicker. Another kid from Ty’s class, his name was Taylor, had come home from school with Ty a week ago, and he’d dumped all of Ty’s toys from their plastic bin and lobbed them at the wall. Then he called me “Whiny McTattletale” when I told him to quit. I thought that was so obnoxious.

  I read to Joseph about the trials of being an ogre. By the middle of the story, Joseph had scooched close enough that our bodies were touching, and by the last page, his cheek was against my arm as he peered at the illustrations. Joseph was a skittish woodland creature, that’s what went through my head, and it was my job to stay still and not scare him off. Maybe a chipmunk? Or an owl, with that fuzzy sweater of his. I thought about how he had leukemia. It made me sad.

  At break time, Ty ran out to the playground with the other kids. Joseph, too, except he didn’t run. He walked. Mrs. Webber waited till the room was empty, then said, “Oh, Ellen. That poor kid.”

  Mom put the last workbook on the stack and joined Mrs. Webber at her desk. “Is he not doing well?” she asked.

  “He never complains,” Mrs. Webber said. “And the other kids, they’re so good. They just know that this is Joseph, and he lost his hair, and he’s absent a lot. They don’t make a big deal of it.” She pressed her lips together. “But, no. The treatment’s not working the way the doctors wanted.”

  “Oh, no,” Mom said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, I know.” Mrs. Webber’s eyes were worried. “Things could change, there’s still hope, but…”

  Mom touched her arm. I thought of Joseph, touching my arm. All the touching. All the humans.

  I was proud of Mom for not saying something fakey, because that would have been wrong. I told myself, This is what you do when there’s something sad. Just touch.

  “I am such a fool,” Mrs. Webber said, putting her own hand over Mom’s and patting. “Do you know what I said to him yesterday? He told me he wouldn’t be at school on Halloween, because he’d be with his mom. That they were spending the day together. And you know what I said? I said, ‘Oh, how fun! What are you two going to do? See a movie? Go to the museum?’”

  Mom clucked, but not unkindly. More like, oh, dear.

  “What are they going to do?” I asked. I understood that Mrs. Webber’s question had been the wrong one, but I didn’t get why.

  Mrs. Webber turned toward me, surprised. Had she forgotten I was there?

  “I suspect they’ll be at the hospital,” she said. “He’s due for another round of chemo, and there I was asking if he was off to the museum.”

  “Oh,” I said. Now I felt dumb.

  Mrs.
Webber gave Mom’s hand one last squeeze. “Well. Enough of my gloom and doom—and you with a brand-new baby on the way! What in heaven’s name is wrong with me?”

  Mom smiled. She slung her purse over her shoulder and said, “Winnie? You ready?”

  I hopped off the desk I’d been sitting on. It belonged to the “Hilarious Humpbacks” cluster. The dangling sign showed a sky blue whale.

  “I hope things take a turn for the better,” Mom said to Mrs. Webber. “I hope Joseph and his parents get good news.”

  Mrs. Webber bobbed her head in a series of short, quick nods. “Oh, Ellen. I do, too.”

  Mom dropped me off at Cinnamon’s, because I ended up not wanting to go out to lunch after all. I wanted to be with my friends. I needed to be with my friends. I needed the reminder that most of life was happy.

  Cinnamon and Dinah met me at the front door, but instead of welcoming me in, Cinnamon took me by my shoulders and turned me right back around. She and Dinah were wearing their jackets. They both smelled of “Very Irresistible,” Cinnamon’s favorite perfume.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as they led me down the walk.

  “Bryce’s,” Cinnamon said. She was wound up; I could tell from the spots of color on her cheeks. “Lars called, looking for you, and said people are going to Bryce’s to play pool.”

  “Oh,” I said. I’d been counting more on quality girl time, but pool with the guys would be fun. Unless…

  “By ‘people,’ did he say who he meant?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Is Nose-Ring Girl going to be there?”

  “Ew,” said Dinah. She and I shared a look. Hers was sympathetic; mine said, Uh, yeah, that would not be good.

  “Winnie? Dinah? Chill,” Cinnamon said. Her pace was brisk and determined. “If she’s there, we’ll ignore her. But we’re going, and that’s final.”

  Dinah and I shared another look, this one about Cinnamon’s burst of attitude. Did anyone suggest not going? No. Did anyone throw out the barest hint of not going? No.

  “Oka-a-ay,” Dinah said.

  Cinnamon glanced at her. “What?”

  “What do you mean, what?” Dinah said.

  “You know what I mean. Why are you acting weird?”

  “Me? I’m not acting weird. You are!”

  “You both are,” I said.

  Dinah let out a yelp of betrayal.

  “Could we get a move on, please?” Cinnamon said. “I want to get there before they cue up.”

  “Is that so?” I said. “You suck at pool.” I waggled my finger. “Something’s fishy, missy. I’m keeping my eye on you.”

  Dinah thrust her head forward so that her actual eye was pressed against Cinnamon’s arm. “Me, too,” she said, giggling. “I’m keeping my eye on you.” She walked hunched over and took hoppity steps to keep the position.

  Cinnamon shrugged her off, but a smile flicked at the corner of her mouth. “God! You are such freaks, both of you!”

  By the time we got to Bryce’s, the guys—Bryce, Lars, and two other sophomores—were heavy into a game.

  “Winster!” Lars called. He beckoned with his hand. “I’m kicking some serious booty. Come be my good luck charm.”

  Nose-Ring Girl was not there—happy happy joy joy—so I went over and let him pull me into a squeeze.

  “Hey,” he said, kissing my nose.

  “Hey,” I said back.

  Dinah came and stood beside us, while Cinnamon took on the job of cheering for Bryce. She was feisty and high-spirited, full of “Dude!”s and high fives, and it dropped into my brain with a clunk: Cinnamon was crushing on Bryce. Cinnamon was crushing on Bryce! Of course!

  By the looks of it, Bryce was totally willing to take her on. He checked to make sure she was watching before making a tricky shot, and when he sunk the stripy “nine” ball into the corner pocket, he cried, “Yes!” and gave her a supposedly spontaneous bear hug. But I knew how these things worked. That hug was planned. That hug was a move.

  Oh my frickin’ God. Cinnamon was going to start going out with Bryce, and we’d become a foursome: Me and Lars and Cinnamon and Bryce. And five thousand years from now, we could have a double wedding.

  Only, where did that leave Dinah? I scoped out the other two pool players, checking for potential. Adam, who had curly blondish hair, already had a girlfriend, I was pretty sure. Amy something-or-other? Who played the flute?

  But Dave was single—at least as far as I knew. He wasn’t all that cute, but he wasn’t hideous. He had bad skin, that’s all. And his hair was on the greasy side. And his jeans—let’s face it—came way too high on his waist. Maybe that was a good thing, though. Not the jeans, but his whole not-a-stud-muffin package, because even though it wasn’t fair and I shouldn’t even think it and it certainly wasn’t Dinah’s fault…well, odds were a stud muffin wouldn’t be Dinah’s perfect match. Someone like Dave maybe was?

  After Lars won the pool game and thrust his pool stick into the air and did a victory dance—go Lars!—the group took a break for Cokes and Doritos. Cinnamon sat on Bryce’s lap, which I thought was extremely brazen, and perhaps even a bit much. But, whatever. I did a quick scoocheroo on the other sofa so that there wasn’t room for Dinah beside me, forcing her to sit by Dave instead. I found Lars’s hand and squeezed it.

  We talked about Halloween and whether anyone was going to the school party—the consensus was “no”—and whether people were going to go trick-or-treating.

  “Candy, dude,” Dave said. “You think I’m going to let that wealth go to waste?”

  Candy, I thought. Very good—Dinah likes candy. I nodded at her encouragingly, and she crinkled her eyebrows in confusion.

  “You gonna steal it from some little kid like you did last year?” Adam said. He laughed, and Lars made the mistake of joining in. I elbowed him. Stealing candy from innocent children was not good. One point for Dave, one strike against.

  “We’re going trick-or-treating, right, Winnie?” Dinah said. “I love trick-or-treating.”

  “Um…” I said. I was hesitant to commit, since maybe trick-or-treating, like the school party, was passé this year. And then I scolded myself for caring.

  “Better not,” Cinnamon said, patting her tummy. At first I thought she was poking fun at herself, because she did have a little tub. But the way she was arching her eyebrows and giving Dinah a knowing look—an intentionally over-blown knowing look—clued me in that her comment wasn’t aimed at herself.

  The guys laughed, and Cinnamon grinned. Dinah turned red.

  “We had our fat index measured last week?” Cinnamon said. “In PE?”

  Adam and Dave nodded; they’d been through it as freshmen themselves. The PE coach used these barbaric metal pincher things to squish our fat, and it was all very public and humiliating.

  “Dinah scored the highest of anyone,” Cinnamon said. “Didn’t you, Dinah?” She said it like a tease, like something cute and funny to share with the guys, and I thought, as I’d thought so many times before, that Cinnamon was the master of underhanded digs. It was her delivery that complicated things, because her tone was joshing and friendly and we’re-all-in-this-together. And because of that, you felt like you couldn’t really blame her, or get mad, without it seeming as if you were overreacting.

  But bringing up someone’s fat index score was not joshing. Bringing up someone’s fat index score was not friendly. And I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to do this anymore, sit silently while Cinnamon made herself look good at Dinah’s expense.

  I opened my mouth to speak, only no words came out, and it was because we were at Bryce’s house, that’s why. And Bryce was chuckling, and so were Adam and Dave. And Dave could just forget about marrying Dinah in a fabulous triple ceremony with matching bouquets, because it wasn’t going to happen. He was a jerk. Dinah was way too good for him.

  Cinnamon must have read something on Dinah’s face, or maybe my own, because she backed off and said, “Oh, swee
tie, I didn’t mean to make you sad! Who cares what your fat index is?”

  Dinah looked stricken.

  “I know—we’ll go on an exercise plan together!” Cinnamon said. “We’ll start jogging, ’kay?”

  “Gonna have to jog a long way,” Dave said under his breath, making Adam crack up.

  “Don’t be mean,” Cinnamon said to Dave.

  “Yeah,” Bryce said, and it was hard to tell if he was adding to the joke or not. He tightened his arms around Cinnamon’s waist, and Cinnamon flushed happily.

  “Seriously, Dinah,” she said, “you have nothing to feel bad about. It just means there’s more of you to love.”

  Bad Cinnamon. Bad me. That’s what kept repeating itself in my mind the next day. And bad Dinah, too, for not just telling Cinnamon off once and for all! Instead, Dinah cornered me in the bathroom and said, “Am I fat? I want you to tell me the truth. Am I?”

  “No,” I told her, just as I’d told her the night before on the phone, and over IM, and in response to her multi-exclamation-pointed e-mails. “No, no, no, you’re not fat!”

  “Well, do these pants make me look fat?” she pressed.

  “God, Dinah, don’t you have anything better to worry about?” I said. “People are dying! Babies are starving! Do you think you could maybe be a little less self-absorbed?”

  She blanched. And then, because she was Dinah, she blinked and said in a chastened voice, “Babies are starving? Omigod. Where?”

  It wasn’t starving babies I was thinking about, though. It was Joseph with his red knit cap and fuzzy sweater. The container of antibacterial gel sitting on the corner of his desk. Yet I didn’t tell Dinah that, because I didn’t want to…I don’t know, turn Joseph into a pity case? Make his disease more real by talking about it? Use the sadness in his life as a topic of conversation?

  But later, alone in my bedroom, snuggled under the lovely, fluffy comforter I’d had since I was Ty’s age, I felt like it was all so stupid, this business of being a human and caring what we looked like, for goodness sake. Although I cared, too. I knew that. And to some degree maybe physical appearance did matter, but certainly not as much as, say, being alive.