“Just some things,” Dad says. Then he leans into the hallway and shouts, “Benji! I told you to turn off the water before you cause a flood!”
“It looked like you were telling them something and they were congratulating you,” I say. “Was it about you and Ruby’s mom?”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Dad says.
“What?” I ask.
“About how it looked,” he says vaguely. He’s turning his phone around and around in his hand.
“You should start thinking about things more,” I tell him.
There’s a splash from the tub. Dad sets his phone on the counter and rushes toward the bathroom. On my way into my bedroom I jump on the trampoline a bunch of times, but it doesn’t settle me down even a little bit.
On Monday morning, Ruby waves at me as she walks into the classroom. She’s wearing her Manchester United soccer shirt and her hair is back in a ponytail.
“I like your French braids,” she says.
“Thanks,” I reply. I try not to think about how she played soccer and Exploding Kittens with my dad yesterday. I try to imagine that everything is normal, like it was last week at this time, two best friends with our single parents who we didn’t know were secretly together.
It’s hard to pretend that though. As Ruby fishes her water bottle out of her backpack, I watch her closely. I’m trying to figure out if she knows if something new is up, like what my dad told my mom and Bill on the sidewalk and why he bought me the trampoline several stickers early. Finally, as Ruby sits down next to me, I decide to probe a little.
“I heard you played soccer with my dad in the park,” I whisper to her. No one else is around so it feels safe to talk about it for a second.
“Yeah—he’s really good. It was fun. We went to Hex too.” Ruby giggles. “He was so funny about the different kittens on the cards. He had these hilarious names for—”
“Did they talk about anything else with you?” I ask, cutting her off. I definitely don’t need to hear about his Dad Jokes. “Did you notice anything different between them?”
Ruby mashes her lips together, like she’s surprised that I don’t want to hear all about my dad’s totally not funny jokes. Well … sorry. Sorry not sorry.
“Anything different how?” she asks, and her voice sounds a little frosty. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I say, even though the truth is that I’m thinking about what Benji sang in the car, how first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in the baby carriage.
Ruby frowns. “Not really,” she says after a long pause. “They seemed happy but they didn’t kiss or anything.”
“Shhhh!” I say. I quickly look around to make sure no one heard.
Ruby shakes her head. “Well, you asked.”
“Not about that!”
I pick up my book and Ruby picks up her book and we stare down at our pages and don’t talk to each other. I don’t think we’re in a fight but it’s still kind of awful. Before last week, Ruby and I had never even had a second of tension between us.
A few minutes later, Ms. Lacey rings the bell to start the day. There’s a tissue in her hand and she keeps wiping her nose. First we have morning meeting, and then we have math, where we are doing decimals and fractions to get ready for middle school. At ten fifteen, we shift to science. We’re halfway through a lesson on alternative energy sources when Elijah, one of the LEGO-trading boys, raises his hand.
“Do you know when the middle school letters are coming?” he asks.
Ms. Lacey sighs. This happens at least three times a week now.
“Can this wait?” she asks. “Let’s finish talking about solar power.”
Elijah picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I really want to get into Maya A. like my brother.”
“I want to get into Cruz Hall,” says another kid.
“You’ll all get in somewhere,” Ms. Lacey says, sneezing twice. Then she turns away to blow her nose. When she turns back, Avery has her hand high in the air, her fingertips pointing upward like the star on the top of a Christmas tree.
“Yes?” Ms. Lacey asks.
“My mom says this is the worst allergy season in years,” Avery offers. “All the immunologists are saying it.”
“I would definitely agree,” Ms. Lacey says wearily. She looks tired and there are bluish-purple circles under her eyes.
“She could probably get you some free samples,” Avery says. “Pharmaceutical companies are giving her eye drops and nose sprays all the time.”
Ruby glances my way and rolls her eyes like there goes Avery bragging again. I have to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. It’s partially about Avery but also I’m relieved that Ruby doesn’t seem mad at me.
“Thanks, Avery,” says Ms. Lacey, “but let’s move on from allergies to solar power.”
This other girl, Haley, raises her hand. “I heard the middle school letters are getting mailed out this week and I really want it to be Maya A. That’s my top choice.”
With that, it’s like vinegar poured over baking soda. Instant chaos. Kids are shouting out Cruz Hall and Maya A. and The Tech School and Upper West Secondary. Avery is saying how she’s auditioned for a performing arts school and she thinks she’s going to get in. Some kids are moaning into their hands. The twins ask permission to get out their phones and text their mom. Finally, Ms. Lacey taps a ruler on a table to quiet everyone down.
“I realize this is scary and exciting,” she says. “I’m not sure where you heard the news about the middle school letters, Haley. The latest we’ve heard from the Department of Education is that the letters are being mailed out next week, so—”
Everyone erupts again. I squeeze my hands on the edges of my chair. Maybe that’s what my dad was talking to my mom about? No, he would have told me if it had to do with middle school. I slip off one of my bracelets and weave it around my fingers in a figure eight. One table away, Avery is fiddling with her charm bracelet, clanking the dogs nervously together. She doesn’t look quite so braggy anymore.
Ms. Lacey never does finish the solar-power lesson. After calming us down about middle school, she tells us it’s time to line up for gym. I’m walking down the hall, dreading whatever competitive sport the gym teacher is going to make us play, when Ms. Lacey touches my shoulder.
“Remember?” she asks.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I reach down and stretch out the cuffs of my leggings.
“Remember you’re going to the guidance counselor during gym?” Ms. Lacey says. “You’re meeting that girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” The outcast kindergartner. I forgot about that. I wish I’d worn shorts today. I thought these leggings were comfortable when I put them on in the morning but now they’re pinching my ankles and squeezing behind my knees.
“If it works out, Mr. Torres will be expecting you in his office every Monday during gym.”
The class has gone quiet and people are staring at me. I feel like a minifigure that’s been separated from its legs. This is so embarrassing—much, much worse than the Think Chair. People get sent to the guidance counselor, Mr. Torres, for Big Problems, like if they’re getting bullied or they have a rocky home life.
“Willa is going to be a peer mentor,” Ms. Lacey tells the class. “There’s a kindergartner who needs her help.”
“No fair!” Avery calls out. “Why didn’t we all get asked to be peer mentors?”
I think about what my mom said, about how Avery is jealous of me. When she said that, I totally didn’t agree with her. Avery has made it clear since preschool that she thinks her life is better than mine. But as we pause in the hallway I notice her glaring at me, an envious look on her face.
Well, good. Let her be jealous.
I push through the doors, walk down two flights of stairs, and knock on the guidance counselor’s door.
Back when I was in second grade and my parents were getting divorced, I spent a lot of tim
e with the guidance counselor, playing board games or sometimes just crumpling paper into wads to get the fidgety feeling out of my hands. Mr. Torres is basketball-player tall with glasses and a shiny bald head. Now I only see him every few weeks in the halls. He always waves and high-fives me. I high-five him as quickly as possible. It’s not like I want people to think I’m a frequent visitor to his office.
Mr. Torres greets me at the door, holds up his hand for a high five, and tells me I’ve gotten tall. The thing is, that’s what every adult says to every kid they haven’t seen in a while, as if they’re expecting them to stay three feet forever.
There’s a small girl sitting at the table in his office, a huge bin of LEGOs open in front of her. She has braids in the front of her hair that twist into three pigtails, and she’s wearing a pink dress and striped leggings. She doesn’t look like an outcast. She looks like a regular kindergartner, maybe a little on the small side.
Mr. Torres gestures in her direction and says, “Willa, this is Sophie. Sophie, here’s Willa. She’s the fifth grader I was telling you about.”
“Hey,” I say to Sophie, smiling over at her.
Sophie squints at me and then looks back down at the little blue car she’s building. It has wheels and also wings and a bunch of lights on top.
As I sit down at the table across from her, Mr. Torres runs his hands over his smooth head and says, “I’ll work at my desk while you two play.”
“Build,” I say out of habit. “Not play.”
Anyone who loves LEGOs knows the difference. If you’re acting out a story, you’re playing. But if you’re making something from scratch, it’s building.
I glance around the office. The same posters are still on the walls from back when I was in second grade, like the one that says ROCK ON! with a picture of stones piled haphazardly on top of one another and lots of posters of puppies and kittens with cute captions. Kittens. Exploding Kittens—I really don’t want to think about Ruby and my dad playing games yesterday so I quickly push that thought away.
“What do you want to build?” I ask Sophie.
She shrugs.
“You’re making a car-plane?” I ask.
She shrugs again.
“I have a Race Car Driver minifigure that I never use,” I say. “I’ll bring it in next time and you can have it. I’m really into LEGO dogs. I’m building a dog kingdom at home. I’ve connected three baseplates, so it’s going to be huge.”
She doesn’t look up, so I grab some green bricks and start building a car-plane too. I add gliders next to my wheels so it can take off from water as well as land. I think I’m supposed to be talking to her, so I ask her a few questions like who her teacher is and where she lives, but she never responds. After a while she starts humming a song from Moana. I hum along with her even though if anyone in my class heard me humming “How Far I’ll Go” I’d be laughed out of fifth grade.
“Okay, girls!” Mr. Torres says brightly. He’s standing above us and clapping his hands together.
Sophie and I both jump, startled. I was so busy building that I sort of forgot where I was. I think Sophie did too. I love that about LEGOs. They suck you in in the best possible way.
“It’s time for me to bring Sophie back to her classroom,” Mr. Torres says. “Willa, you can go up to the fifth floor on your own. This seemed to work out well. Same time next week?”
“Sure,” I say.
We follow Mr. Torres into the hallway. We’re about to say good-bye when Sophie holds up her fist and says, “Rock on, fifth grader.”
Her voice is husky, lower than I expected, and she’s missing one of her top teeth, so she looks like a jack-o’-lantern. Also, rock on? Like the poster?
“Rock on,” I say, fist-bumping her back.
Maybe it’s dorky but it’s not like anyone is around to hear me. I watch her pigtails swing as she walks down the hall, and then I take the stairs two flights up and wait for my class to return from gym.
I have a special way of walking to Maureen’s office so that no one from school knows where I’m going. I head over to Columbus Avenue, slip into the pharmacy that has stuffed giraffes and Playmobil sets in the window, and browse the LEGOs in their small toy section. Sometimes I buy a pack of gum if I have money, or I read the insides of the greeting cards on the rack next to the school supplies. I love cards with puppies on the front. After a few minutes I can see through the front window that the crowd of people leaving school has thinned out, so I cross over Columbus and walk up to Ninety-Fifth Street.
Back when a sitter took me to Maureen’s, we’d grab a bagel or I’d eat a cereal bar on the way to my appointment. Tons of kids leave school with nannies or parents and go to lessons and classes. It doesn’t look suspicious. But as soon as I started walking alone, kids were like, Where are you going? Want to go to Dunkin’ Donuts? Can you come to the park? Which is why I just say I have a math tutor. There’s no way I’m telling people I go to an occupational therapist.
I ring Maureen’s bell and wait for her to answer.
“Hi, Willa,” she says, standing in the doorway of the gym and beckoning me inside. She pushes some hair off her face and adjusts her ponytail. Today she’s wearing a blue T-shirt that says THIS ABILITY NOT DISABILITY on the front. “You know the routine.”
Knowing the routine is a big thing for Maureen. And yet, as I walk into the gym today, I start hopping from side to side like popcorn pinging in a scalding pan. In my head, I’m hearing the routine—untie sneakers, backpack in the corner, take out my water bottle, help set up our first activity. But even though I know I should be doing those steps, I can’t because I’ve just realized that I haven’t seen Maureen since I found out about my dad and Ruby’s mom.
I kick a purple yoga ball across the gym, then lean over and press the top of my head into a mat. It’s not like I planned to do it. My body is moving without my mind telling it where to go.
“Your mom called this morning,” Maureen says. She doesn’t mention that I’m still wearing my sneakers and I’m currently upside down with my head pressed into a mat. “She said you were having a tough time settling your body this weekend.”
I belly flop onto another yoga ball. As my backpack slides up and knocks my head, Maureen reaches into a drawer and hands me a weighted vest. I love weighted vests. They remind me of those heavy shawls they drape over you at the dentist when they’re taking X-rays. I love those too.
“Your mom told me about your dad,” Maureen says, sipping from her water bottle. “And your friend Ruby’s mom.”
I toss my backpack into the corner, slip the weighted vest over my head, and pry off my sneakers, one heel at a time. Usually Maureen wants me to untie my sneakers, but today she doesn’t correct me. She knows when to push and when to let me be. Also, I like that Maureen talks to me like I’m a real person, not a kid. While I stretch and swing and roll on yoga balls, we always talk about our lives. I know that she’s divorced and has a daughter and two grandsons. She’s told me that she went into working with kids because she struggled growing up. She says that now people would call it ADHD, but back then she was just in trouble all the time.
“Want to swing?” Maureen asks. “It looks like you could use it. Why don’t we set up the dachshund-dog swing?”
I smile gratefully. The vest is helping me feel more settled in my body. I don’t even know the real name for the swing. It’s a hot dog–shaped cushion that you sit on, and you pull yourself forward and backward. I once told Maureen that the swing looks like a dachshund, and the name stuck. She says she even calls it that with her other kids.
I find the dachshund-dog swing stored on a mat in the corner of the gym. It’s heavy, so I have to wrap both my arms tight around it to carry it to the center. Maureen helps me hook it to the ceiling with ropes and thick metal clasps. I hop on, squeeze my knees in, and thrust my body back and forth. Once I’ve been going for a few minutes, a quiet calm washes over me. It reminds me of drinking lemon mixed with hot water and hone
y when I have a sore throat.
I started working with Maureen the winter that I turned five. I’d been seeing a different OT at a gym that had a clanky elevator and a chilly draft. That Christmas, we had a holiday performance at my preschool, and according to my mom, I got so overwhelmed by all the parents watching us that I took off my sneaker and threw it into the audience. If that wasn’t drama enough, I also tried to hang from the twinkling string of lights, ripping them down. After that, my mom decided it was time to switch occupational therapists. She got me in to see Maureen, and I’ve been working with her twice a week ever since.
“I’m guessing the news from your dad upset you,” Maureen says as I zoom past her on the swing. “It seems like it threw you out of sync.”
I nod, remembering how my parents had a book when I was younger called Your Out of Sync Child. My mom stuck Post-its all over it. One morning they got in an argument about that book. That was back when they were fighting a lot. I remember wriggling under couch cushions and making Benji jump on me. Then they got mad about that and sent us both to our bedroom.
“I can’t believe my dad is in love with Ruby’s mom.” I glance across the gym at Maureen’s mini-trampoline. It’s just like the one in our apartment. “Also, I think something else is going on and no one’s telling me. Did you know that my dad gave me the trampoline last night? I still had thirteen stickers to go on my chart.”
“That’s nice you got your trampoline!” Maureen says. “I know you really wanted it.”
I lunge my body forward but don’t say anything. Yes, I wanted it. But I also want the truth about why I got it thirteen stickers early.
“I’m sure your parents have told you that change is inevitable,” Maureen adds. “It’s going to happen whether you want it or not.”
I pull harder at the rope. Everyone says that about change but that doesn’t make it easier to handle.
“I’m sure it still makes you feel awful,” Maureen quickly adds. “All jumbled up and mad and maybe even wild inside.”
Not If I Can Help It Page 6
