10
When Does the Struggle End?
Christmas.
It’s raining. Yuck.
I can hear the rain clearly. The noise is so loud, it drowns out everything else. I’m standing by my bedroom window, breathing on the glass to make it steam up. I draw a star with my finger. The glass is cold against my forehead. I feel like I’m in another world where the rain is drumming on my heart.
I don’t hear Mom shout to me to open my presents. It’s only when she lays a hand on my shoulder and says it’s time that I realize. I also remember I didn’t ask someone to give me a star-projector light.
It’s morning, late, and it will soon be time to put on my red-and-white checkered dress, the one that gives you sore eyes. We’re going to lunch at my aunt and uncle’s house. Thank goodness Cousin Andrea will be there with Ravina, his girlfriend with the third eye. At least I’ll have some fun with them. I don’t look at the dress laid out flat on my bed, and I follow Mom into the living room.
Miraculously, our Christmas tree is still alive. Mom and Dad are not very good with plants. We put the spruce near the French windows so it would be in the light, but the needles are already so dry, even the lighter-than-light glass balls are starting to drop off. The woman at the shop at the mall said it would last until spring. Ottimo Turcaret wasn’t supposed to wee in the pot, though. I didn’t see him do it, but I can smell it.
I sit on the rug near the tree and sniff the presents. I think they’re safe. Dad put them under the lowest branches late last night when he thought I was sleeping. How am I supposed to sleep when Santa Claus is coming? The really wonderful thing about Christmas, though, is that it comes for everyone. Even for people like me who can’t see anything but the moon without their glasses.
Mom puts her present in my hands. It’s a tiny parcel wrapped in gold paper, perfect, with a red ribbon all round it. Inside there’s an iPod with earphones to listen to music.
“I’ve put all your favorite songs on it.”
It’s a lovely present. I wasn’t expecting it.
“Can I put books on it too?”
Mom looks at Dad. He kneels down beside me on the rug. “How do you know there are books you can listen to?”
“The special-needs teacher told me.”
Dad strokes my head the way I do with Ottimo Turcaret. It feels quite nice. “What books would you like?”
I look at him, nudging my glasses up my nose with my index finger. “Your favorite.”
Dad smiles. “Okay. Give me a couple of days. I’ll download it for you.”
Then he gives me his present. It’s bigger than Mom’s, and soft. I take my time unwrapping it. I hope it’s not a sweater. When relatives give you clothes, they always get the size wrong and usually think you like a color that you actually hate. But you can’t say anything—that would be rude. Then whenever you go to see them, you have to wear the sweater you don’t like.
This isn’t a sweater, though. I pull a big, colorful blanket out of the wrapping paper and spread it out on my knees. It’s made of knitted squares, stitched together into a blanket, in loads of different colors—yellow, bright pink, green. All beautiful, bold colors. I run my hand over it. The wool doesn’t scratch like wonky sweaters; it’s silky and smooth. I feel like wrapping the blanket round me and lying on the rug to listen to the rain.
What a strange present from Dad. I think he notices I’m surprised because he sits down beside me and explains that the blanket was a gift from Grandma for my eleventh birthday. To finish all the pieces in time, she worked on it late at night. She started it not long before she went into the hospital. “Do you remember when we drove her there?”
I bury my face in the blanket so Dad can’t see my eyes. “Yes.” Then a thought comes to me. “Why didn’t she just do eight pieces? It would’ve been quicker. I turned eight the year she went to live in the tree.”
“She liked surprises. She didn’t want to blow it all on your eighth birthday. She wanted you to have something to remember her by later.”
“Did she want to come back?”
“Sort of.”
I feel happy. So happy I forget to give my presents to Mom and Dad. I’d only made them drawings of their faces, portraits I worked on in secret, copied very carefully from their wedding photo in the silver frame in the hallway. I’ll put them on their pillows tonight.
Before I start getting ready for lunch, something occurs to me.
“If this was meant as a birthday present, why are you giving it to me now?”
Mom and Dad catch each other’s eye. Mom replies, “We thought we’d bring the surprise forward a few months. We couldn’t hide the blanket any longer; it was too exciting.”
They remain by my side, silent, for a few minutes, then exchange their own presents. I’d like to tell them I understand, that they did the right thing giving me the beautiful blanket now. While I can still see it. I pull the blanket around my shoulders, holding it tight.
* * *
Ravina is beautiful today. She has her hair in a side braid that reaches down to her waist, and she has blue eye shadow. She’s wearing a fancy dress, though not an Indian one, and even though she’s not our religion, she smells of church. She always smells of church because she reminds me of the white smoke the priest sprinkles over people during mass. When she sees me, she gives me an enormous hug and then her present, which is a poster of a flamingo and a frog.
The frog is in the flamingo’s mouth, but it hasn’t been eaten yet because it has its hands round the flamingo’s neck. You can tell from the flamingo’s face that it wants to swallow the frog but can’t because of the hands round its neck. The words NEVER EVER GIVE UP are written below the picture. I ask Ravina about it.
“It’s telling you to hang on, whatever it takes. Just like the frog.”
I start to giggle. “He’s definitely in for it!”
Ravina taps me on the nose. “Not yet, Mafalda. Not yet.”
“So, when does the struggle end?”
“When one of the two gives up.”
“Who do you think will give up first?”
Ravina looks at the poster for a few seconds.
“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to never ever give up.”
I move closer to the poster to get a better look. The frog looks really uncomfortable. His head is right inside the flamingo’s beak, and his back legs are dangling in midair.
“Okay, but it looks like hard work.”
“Well, would you rather be chewed and swallowed?”
“No! That’s disgusting!”
“Soooo . . .”
“Never ever give up. I get it. Thanks. I’ll put it up in my room when I get home.”
11
I Know!
Mom only puts high heels on twice a year, apart from when she takes me to the doctor. She wears them on her and Dad’s wedding anniversary, which they usually celebrate at home with a special meal that she cooks, and on New Year’s Eve, which is today.
I hear her tip-tapping around the kitchen, laying out glasses and the snacks she has just made with Dad. They gave me a sparkling apple cider, then sent me to my room to get changed. Mom has left me out two sparkly hair ribbons and some of her perfume—it’s too strong for me, but I like it because it’s hers.
Standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, trying to bury the sparkly ribbons in my hair, I realize that Mom and Dad are talking about something they don’t want me to hear—they’ve lowered their voices and are whispering to each other. I want to eavesdrop, although I know I’m not supposed to. I tiptoe silently over to the door. Mom’s heels are still tapping around the kitchen. I listen hard to pick up what she’s saying and understand why she’s speaking so quietly.
“It’ll be difficult at first.”
A chair scrapes on the floor. Dad must have stood up. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. We have no choice.”
“Can’t you just take leave?”
“Why bother? Things are only going to get worse. I’ll have to be with her all day.”
That will be me.
I hear them sigh, standing still. There can’t be any more dishes to sort.
“Have you spoken to your boss yet?”
“I mentioned it. He says he can’t change my hours because I already have permission to be absent for Mafalda’s appointments. He suggested I hand in my notice and he’ll give me a decent payoff.”
Her notice? What does that mean?
“Let’s hope so. When would you stop?”
“First of February.”
“Okay. Maybe it’s for the best. I’ll take extra hours at work. We also need to start thinking about the house.”
I don’t understand. My head fills up with worrying thoughts, like the white butterflies that flutter around the cherry tree.
“The agency has given me some contacts. On Monday we start viewing apartments beside the school.”
“Did you explain we can’t have stairs?”
“Yes. And that we have a limited budget.”
A sneeze squeezes out—I can’t stop it in time—and everything goes quiet in the kitchen. The whole house falls quiet for a second.
“Mafalda, are you ready?”
I go into the hallway. “Yes, Mom.”
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and I’m sleeping in my aunt and uncle’s bed while the grown-ups drink from tiny glasses and speak in hushed tones in the living room.
I’m not actually asleep. I keep thinking about the conversation I overheard earlier. If they’re seriously thinking about moving to a new house, what happens to me? What will I do if we get a house where I can’t see the moon from my bedroom window? And I wouldn’t be able to see Grandma’s house anymore, even though the new neighbors who never say hello live there now. And what about Ottimo Turcaret? What if he doesn’t like the new house? He’s used to this one, and I don’t know if he’ll want to move somewhere else.
I have to do something. My backpack with my clothes for tomorrow is sitting by the bed. It’s also got my pencil case, some paper to draw on, and the iPod Mom gave me for Christmas. I feel around for the iPod in the dark, put my earphones in, and press the round play button. I’m listening to Dad’s favorite book. The story resumes in the powerful voice of a man who sounds old.
“Where are you going?”
Through the glass door we saw him in the hall, picking up his three-cornered hat and his small sword.
“I know!” He ran into the garden.
Shortly afterward, through the windows, we saw him climbing up the holm oak.
I press stop and sit up with a jolt. I know what to do. I’ll go and live in a tree, like Cosimo. If I move to the school cherry tree, I can watch lessons through the window and no one will see me hidden in the branches.
I need to get organized because I’ll be in the dark soon and I won’t be able to go up and down the tree with all the things I need. I should make a plan. I get a sheet of paper and my pencil out of my backpack and start playing the old man’s voice again.
He was dressed and coiffed with great propriety, as our father wanted him to come to the table, thougwh he was only twelve: hair powdered and ponytail tied with a ribbon . . .
I make a note on my list to look up what “powdered” means, but at least I have a ribbon. So, what’s next?
Part Four
* * *
Forty Meters
12
See What My Face Is Like When I’m Grown-Up
A saucepan to cook food in.
A mattress to sleep more comfortably.
iPod.
Grandma’s blanket.
Pens, notebooks, pencils.
A big umbrella to stay dry.
A—
“Mafalda, what are you doing?”
I slip the list of things to take up the tree into my notebook. The teacher sees me. I’m in the front row, right beside her desk, but she pretends not to. She tells me to pay attention and nothing more.
I pick up the dinosaur pencil Doctor Olga gave me and pretend I’m going to write something, and the teacher turns back toward the board.
“So, there are two types of muscles—long and short. . . .”
Muscles. Who cares if they are long and short? I stop listening immediately but keep looking so the teacher doesn’t suspect anything, secretly going over the list in my head as she speaks.
A saucepan to cook food in.
Ah, I still haven’t thought about where I’ll get food once I’m in the tree. I could bring a few supplies to begin with. Then there’s the problem of the bed. I need a blow-up mattress to lay over two adjacent branches. Chiara has a double one. Her mom and dad took it to the lake the last time we went on a day out, all of us together with our moms and dads. That was a long time ago, but they should still have it. Or maybe they’ll have bought a new one. They are quite well-off. I wonder if Chiara would lend it to me. Probably not. We aren’t that close anymore. I’ll have to borrow it without asking. Didn’t Robin Hood do that? He stole from the rich to give to the poor. Chiara is rich, and it’s as if I’m poor, now that I have to go and live in the tree by myself. If I were older, I could buy all this stuff with my own money, but if I wait until I’m big enough, it might be too late, as the dark in my eyes is getting bigger much faster than I am.
I look around to see who else in my class is rich enough for me to borrow something without asking. This means turning to look behind me, but the teacher is busy drawing muscles in red chalk. My classmates don’t notice that I’m spying on them—they’re all busy drawing too, although I bet they’re not copying muscles from the board. Kevin, who sits behind me, is holding a green pencil, so he’s definitely drawing snakes. He’s crazy about them, and I know he’d like to have one but hasn’t got the money to buy one. He’s not rich.
I’m not sure what’s happening at the back of the class, but there’s a lot of fidgeting and agitation, I can feel it. I think Chiara and Martina are playing truth or dare with the boys in front of them, Christian and Lorenzo, and everyone around them is giggling. Christian is rich. He has a swimming pool, and every year he gets a new backpack for school. On school trips, he always brings a fancy pack that unfolds into a poncho when it rains. That would be useful.
There’s a massive “Aaa-choo!” in the row by the window.
“Ugh! You sneezed all over my notebook!” I hear Francesca exclaim. She’s a friend of mine who moved from Sicily this year. Poor her, she’s right. She has Rory, whose nickname is Roly, sitting next to her. He’s not very tall and is round and pink, like a beach ball. He never stops eating, even when it’s not break time. There are bits of bread, lettuce, and mayonnaise sprayed all over his and Francesca’s notebooks. Even I can see them—it was some sneeze.
The teacher goes over to her desk and asks Roly to clean it up. She yells at him for eating during class, and he pulls a pretty box out from under his desk. It must be a food container. I’ve seen something like it before—it keeps food warm. Dad has a green one that he uses to take his lunch to work. If I had one, I wouldn’t have to worry about heating up my food in the tree. But I can’t take Dad’s; he needs it.
I’ll have to take Roly’s, which makes me feel bad because he’s not very rich. The teacher is still busy sorting out Roly’s splatter. Good. I pull out the sheet of paper hidden in my notebook, the one with the list on it, and write down everything I’ve decided this morning.
We’re packing our bags to go home. There’s a knock at the door, and Estella comes in with a letter.
She wouldn’t tell me what checkup she had last month, the day she didn’t come to school. “You don’t need to know,” she’d snapped. Then, when she saw I was staring at her, she added, “The dentist. Too many crunchy chips.” That made me smile, and when she and I start laughing, it’s impossible to go back to being serious.
“Children, listen u
p a second, please—this is about your school trip. You have to write the time and place you’ll be leaving in your agendas.” I’d forgotten that next week we were going on a skiing trip. This could be a stroke of luck for me because everyone will have the things that I need with them. The teacher dictates the details, and I doodle the words randomly in my agenda—I’m so distracted by my Robin Hood adventure. Estella, who’s waiting for the teacher to sign a copy of the letter, looks at me and shakes her head. She leans over my desk and murmurs, “Come to my room after, and I’ll stick the letter into your notebook.”
So I go to Estella’s room.
I always go, even though she’s often in a sulk, or wants to scrunch me up like a sock, throw me in the washing machine, and give me a spin. That’s probably why I go back to her, because she never pretends. Mom and Dad do. The teachers do, and the children in my class do. Only Estella and Ottimo Turcaret tell the truth, and that’s important to me. Or maybe I like being with Estella because of the stories she tells me.
We’re reading a book called Heart this month. She says it’s a bit sappy, but I love the character Garrone, especially when he takes the blame for someone else and the teacher can tell purely by looking in his eyes. It wasn’t you, the teacher says to him, and Garrone goes back to his desk, sad, but he did a wonderful thing. I throw my bag under the desk in the janitors’ room and sink into the swivel chair. To start spinning, I push against the desk, and my fingertips brush against Heart. I pick it up and bring it close to my face as I spin round. Since there’s no one around except Estella, who’s photocopying the letter about the school trip, I dig my magnifying glass out of my pocket and use it to read the author’s name. Edmondo De Amicis. An Italian writer. I’d forgotten.
The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree Page 4
