Not If I Can Help It

by Carolyn Mackler

  “Hey, love,” says a voice. Ruby’s mom’s voice.

  I wrinkle my nose and look over at Benji. He’s intently watching Dad. I wonder if maybe he’s not as okay with the news as he acted the other night.

  “You’re on speaker,” Dad says quickly. “I’m driving the kids up to Ellen’s.”

  Ellen is my mom. It feels strange hearing my dad say her name to Ruby’s mom, like we’re all one big happy family. Which we’re not.

  “Oh!” Ruby’s mom says, laughing. “Hi, Willa! Hi, Benji!”

  Benji says, “Hey, Sandhya.”

  I mumble out a greeting.

  My dad says he’ll call her back on the drive home.

  As soon as he hangs up, there’s silence in the car. I’m half expecting Dad to apologize or to promise we’ll order veggie nachos every night next week. But before he can say anything, Benji asks, “What was up with ‘hi, love’?”

  “Yeah,” I say, glad to have my brother coming over to my side of things. “Are you guys going to be completely gross now?”

  Dad clears his throat. “As I explained on Thursday, Sandhya and I love—”

  Before he can finish, Benji goes totally second grade on him. “Dad and Sandhya sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” he sings.

  “Benji, stop!” I shout. I have to admit I’m disappointed. I thought Benji was upset, but really he was just revving up for more kissing jokes.

  “Benji,” Dad says in a warning tone.

  But Benji is steamrolling through the chant. I cover my ears for what’s coming next, but my brother is singing so loud it’s hard to miss.

  “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”

  “Thanks for the song, Benji,” Dad says. I can tell he’s forcing himself to sound cheerful. “But can we please pass on any encores?”

  Benji leans toward the front, stretching his seat belt as far as it will go. “You and Sandhya aren’t getting married or having babies, are you?”

  The car swerves slightly to the right. Dad adjusts his hands on the wheel and says, “No babies. I have you guys and she has Ruby. You’re plenty.”

  “Good,” Benji says. “Because you’re a geezer.”

  I snort loudly.

  “Thanks a lot, Benji,” Dad says, glancing quickly over his shoulder, “but are you forgetting who exercised with you and ten other eight-year-olds for an hour this morning?”

  “You’re not always a geezer,” Benji says. “You’re just too much of a geezer to have a baby.”

  Dad and Benji laugh, but I’m stone-cold silent. Because I just realized that when Benji asked my dad about marriage and babies, he only said no to the baby part.

  “Ready?” Mom asks. She sets two plastic cups of passion fruit juice on the patio table and pulls up a chair next to the hammock.

  It’s Sunday morning. I love reading in the hammock in my mom’s backyard, with the birds chirping and the wind tickling the leaves. My mom got this hammock for me last year. It’s made from a million colorful embroidery threads, and it surrounds my body like a cocoon. My stepdad tied a rope to a nearby tree so that I can pull myself back and forth. Glancing at my mom, I lay Because of Winn-Dixie across my chest and yank on the rope to make the hammock swing faster.

  “Ready for what?” I ask.

  “To talk,” she says. “Remember when you were falling asleep last night?”

  Oh yeah. That.

  Last night, when my mom came in to kiss me good-night, I kept wiggling my legs and flopping like a fish out of water because my nightgown was too hot and my pillow was too itchy. Even after I changed into a different nightgown and my mom switched my pillowcase, I couldn’t settle down. Finally she placed her palms on my back and pressed down, holding me in place. That’s what she used to do when I was little and couldn’t control my body. After a while I must have fallen asleep.

  “I haven’t seen you that uncomfortable in years,” Mom adds. “I’m guessing it’s about Daddy and Sandhya?”

  I push up from the hammock and take a sip of passion fruit juice.

  “I remember you were upset when Bill and I got married and bought this house. Remember how we talked a lot about how some things would change but other things would stay the same? It took a while but … it’s not bad, right? I think we’ve all adjusted.”

  I set down my juice and wiggle deep into the hammock. “It’s different with Bill.”

  “I realize he’s not the parent of a friend of yours,” Mom says. “I know that’s feeling really hard.”

  I roll away in the hammock. Really hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. I feel like there’s screeching in my ears and tags searing my skin and socks rubbing my toes. All at once. All the time.

  “Why don’t we start with best part worst part,” Mom says, drinking some of her juice and setting it on the table.

  I turn back to her. There’s something about Mom’s voice that always feels calming to me, even when I’m upset. She has the same wispy brown hair and brown eyes as Benji, except she wears glasses. Her eyes are so bad that she even needs glasses when she brushes her teeth. She complains about her vision, but I can’t picture her without glasses. Plus it fits her professor personality. My mom teaches modern European history and is always surrounded by books on wars and economic crises.

  “Best part,” my mom says, leaning back in her chair, “is having you and Benji here. Worst part, it’s Sunday, and that means you have to leave. I love teaching on Mondays, but I also feel sad when the week starts.”

  I wrap the hammock tighter around me. “Where is Benji anyway?”

  “He’s at the park with Bill, trying out the new climbing wall.”

  My stepdad never had kids of his own, so whenever Benji and I are here he lives out his dad fantasies with us. Bill bikes with us to a nearby park to climb on playground equipment, and he drives me to the library or the dog run to check out breeds. Benji calls him Bonus Dad. I don’t go that far, but Mom’s right that I’ve gotten okay with having Bill around. I think a big part of it is that I don’t live with them full-time. Even when I hated the idea of Bill, he was just a weekend problem.

  “When are Bill and Benji getting back?” I ask.

  “Noon.”

  “What are we having for lunch?”

  “Probably grilled cheese or noodles.”

  “Can we have noodles?”

  “Honey,” Mom says, pushing the hammock so I sway back and forth.

  “Yeah?”

  “I get the sense you’re trying to avoid the subject.”

  I tug hard at the rope. “I just don’t get it,” I mutter.

  “Get what?”

  “Why Dad had to pick Ruby’s mom. Why couldn’t he have picked someone I don’t know? Or stayed single? Everything was going along fine.”

  Mom is quiet for a while. I once overheard her telling a friend why it didn’t work out between her and Dad. They were having coffee in the living room and I was reading in a tight space between the couch and the wall. They must not have known I was there because she started talking about how they married too young, and that Dad is an extrovert and she’s an introvert. I guess that means my mom is on the shy side and my dad is more outgoing. I never asked though. I didn’t want her to get mad that I heard.

  “Love is strange,” Mom says. “You don’t really pick who you fall in love with. It picks you. And I’m excited for Daddy. As I said the other night, he deserves happiness.”

  “Do you think Ruby’s mom is an extrovert?”

  Mom gives me a funny look. “I don’t know Sandhya very well, only through you and Ruby. She seems friendly, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I just don’t want anything to change,” I say. “I want everything to stay the same. I like things the way they are.”

  “I know,” my mom says. “Daddy and I both know that change is hard for you. That’s one of the reasons he waited so long to tell you. We all hope that you and Ruby get closer because of this, and that
Benji and Ruby will bond as well. We think it’ll turn out to be a good thing for all of you.”

  I start crying. My mom sets down her juice and leans toward me, wrapping me in a hug. The problem is, her arms are squeezing me too tight and her fingernails are scratching my collarbone and my hair feels tangled and fuzzy against her shoulder.

  “Why didn’t I get straight hair like you and Benji?” I ask, pushing away from her. “Why did I have to get Dad’s curls? They’re driving me crazy.”

  “I’ll get the detangler spray.” Mom stands up. “I’ll get a brush too. Want me to do braids?”

  “Two,” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “French braids.”

  My mom slides open the glass door and disappears into the kitchen. I sip the passion fruit juice and try to get back into my book, but I can’t concentrate on a single sentence.

  On the drive back to the city, Mom and Bill talk quietly in the front seat. My stepdad teaches chemistry at the same college where Mom works, so mostly they chat about their students and the other professors and who is working on what book for which university press. It’s pretty boring.

  Usually on the drive home, Benji and I play I Spy or we try to find as many states as possible on license plates, but this evening he conks out as soon as my mom buckles him in. It’s better than puking and it’s definitely better than him belting out love chants. Mostly I look out the window. It’s staying light later now, which means summer is coming. That means I’m getting close to getting my dog. Mom and Bill have said I can bring her back and forth with me from the city to their house in Tomsville every weekend. Wow. In two short months I’ll have a furry little Waffle or Maple sitting on my lap.

  “I have to pee!” Benji shrieks.

  We’re just pulling into Manhattan. He’s awake now, rubbing his eyes and bouncing around in his seat.

  “We’re almost there,” Mom says. Then she turns to my stepdad. “Can you text Greg and ask him to come down?”

  “Sure thing,” Bill says.

  As she double-parks in front of our building, Dad is already outside. I grab my backpack and jump out of the car, quickly followed by Benji, who is clutching his gut and doubling over in pain.

  “Hey, guys,” Dad says, wrapping us both in a hug. “Hey, Ellen. Hi, Bill.”

  Mom and Dad and Bill all greet one another with handshakes and cheek kisses. It’s like this every Sunday night. If Mom can find parking they often come upstairs for coffee. Benji and I joke about how grown-ups will do anything for coffee.

  “I really have to pee!” Benji says. “My bladder feels like Niagara Falls and Victoria Falls and have you ever heard of Inga Falls? That’s in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

  I have no idea how my brother finds ways to incorporate geography into a bathroom emergency. Also I’m trying not to think about how he sounds like Ruby shrieking about having to pee all the time. It’s not that I’m mad at Ruby. I just want to pretend that she and her mom don’t exist right now.

  “Can you please take Benji upstairs?” Dad says to me. “I want to talk to Mom and Bill for a minute.”

  “About what?” I ask. If it’s about me I want to be around to hear it.

  “I seriously have to pee,” Benji pleads.

  “Is it about me?” I ask.

  “No,” Dad says. “It’s not about you.”

  “Willa,” Mom says. “Listen to Dad and take Benji upstairs.” She leans down and gives us both a kiss. “Love you guys. Talk tomorrow.”

  Benji mad dashes into our lobby, but I take my time crossing the sidewalk. I can see my dad stepping closer to my mom and gesturing with both hands.

  Actually it would be good if they were talking about me, like Willa refused to let me trim her toenails or Willa couldn’t settle her body. That’s normal. That’s what always happens. But if the conversation isn’t about me, then it’s probably about my dad and Ruby’s mom. And judging by the way my mom is smiling and my stepdad is clapping my dad on the back, I’m guessing there’s news. And I’m guessing it isn’t good.

  When I get upstairs, there’s a mini-trampoline in the middle of the living room. It’s got royal-blue padding around the edges and a black mesh center. It’s the exact trampoline we’ve been looking at online. The thing is, I’ve only gotten twenty-seven stickers on my chart. I’ve earned them for things like controlling my energy level or remembering my lunch and keys when we leave for school or not losing my water bottle on a weekly basis. My dad and I had a deal that I needed forty stickers before he would order the trampoline.

  I flop facedown on the couch and donkey kick my feet behind me. I can hear the toilet flushing and the faucet running, and then Benji comes out of the bathroom rubbing his hands on his shorts.

  “Cool!” he says, jumping onto the trampoline. “I thought you had to fill up that chart though.”

  “Exactly.” I snap a bracelet against my wrist. Maureen lets me pick out a prize at the end of every session, and recently I’ve been getting rubber bracelets. “Dad is totally guilty of something.”

  Just then, Dad unlocks the apartment door. He scoops up both of our backpacks from the foyer and carries them into the living room.

  “You found the trampoline,” he says, smiling. “I figured you guys would be jumping. Don’t forget to unpack your backpacks and put in your school stuff for tomorrow.”

  “Of course we found the trampoline,” I say, rolling onto the floor and bicycling my feet in the air. “It’s not like you hid it.”

  “Willa says you’re guilty of something,” Benji says. He’s doing jumping jacks on the trampoline, his brown hair flying up like a minifigure’s hair that has come detached from its head.

  A funny look flickers across my dad’s face. I consider refusing to touch the trampoline until I can get to the bottom of this. Except Benji is making the trampoline look like the best jumping experience ever and I can’t resist much longer.

  “Benji, time for your bath,” Dad says. “It’s Sunday night so I need to wash your hair and trim your nails.”

  Benji stops jumping. “What about dessert?”

  “You can have dessert after your bath,” Dad says. “Willa, come have dessert while Benji’s in the tub. Then you can trade.”

  “But Mom braided my hair,” I say as my brother skips into the bathroom. “I don’t want to get it wet. I want to wear it like this tomorrow. And please no nails. Or at least just fingers. Please no toes.”

  “Meet me in the kitchen after you’ve unpacked,” Dad says, tossing me my backpack. “You can take your bath without getting your braids wet. And I’ll check your nails to see if we can put it off a few days.”

  Before I can protest, Dad goes into the bathroom to start Benji’s bath. I realize that most eleven-year-olds have graduated to showers, but I can’t stand them. Too many prickles poking my skin, too much water in my eyes. I’m not crazy about getting wet in the bath, either, but there’s no way Dad would let me skip hygiene altogether. One time, after a big anti-bath protest, he said, “You don’t want to be the kid at school with the stinky armpits.” When I suggested I prevent stinky armpits by wearing deodorant like Norie and Zoe, who’ve been using it since fourth grade, Dad rolled his eyes and said, “Just … bath … now.”

  Once I’m in my room I put my dirty clothes in a pile for the hamper, and then I shake my clean clothes into a drawer. That’s the deal that Dad and I have. As long as my clean things aren’t dumped onto the floor, I can organize my clothes however I want. At Mom’s house, she makes me fold my shirts and match my socks in pairs and put my underwear in the top drawer, my jeans in the bottom drawer.

  “I don’t get it,” I say to Dad a few minutes later. I’m at the kitchen table eating apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon.

  “Get what?” Dad asks, leaning against the counter. He’s drinking seltzer with a slice of lime in it.

  “Why did you get me the trampoline before I finished my chart? I had thirteen stickers left to go.”

 
“Hang on.” Dad calls for Benji to turn off the water in the tub. Benji shouts something back and then Dad says to me, “I figured you could use the sensory input. I definitely would have given you a sticker for the way you unpacked your backpack without a lot of reminders.”

  Sensory input is a big thing Maureen talks about. It means that my body needs pounding and squeezing and swinging and hard pressure in order to feel calm like a regular person’s body.

  “Benji can also use it for his parkour,” Dad adds. “You can share the trampoline.”

  “So what about my chart?” I ask. “Do we just throw it away? Or do I start trying for something new?”

  “I haven’t really thought about that,” Dad says. “I guess we’ll consider that chart filled up. We can start the next chart soon. I’ll email Maureen and ask her what she suggests.”

  Dad goes over to the sink and starts rinsing out our water bottles and filling them for school tomorrow. My water bottle is green and Benji’s is red. My brother has the same water bottle he’s had all year. When I started the school year I had a purple one, but I lost it by the end of September. Then I had a striped one, then one with little blue monsters on it. I’ve had this green once since early March, which is a record for me.

  “Did you see Ruby this weekend?” I ask. “The other day at I Scream you asked if she wanted to play soccer.”

  Dad puts our water bottles in the fridge. I can tell he’s stalling for time because he doesn’t turn around for a while. Finally, he says, “We met this morning for bagels in the park and kicked around a soccer ball. Then it started to rain so we checked out Hex. You know that game-playing place on Broadway? Ruby plays a mean game of Exploding Kittens.”

  The apple suddenly feels sour and scratchy in my mouth. I spit the chewed-up bits into my hand and then hide them under the other apple slices. Dad hates when I spit out food but sometimes it’s necessary, like if an avocado chunk is sliming up my salad, or if I just found out that my dad and Ruby played Exploding Kittens at a game store on Broadway.

  “What were you talking about with Mom and Bill on the sidewalk?” I ask.