Maureen nodded. “If that happens I could still see you every Saturday.”
“But not twice a week like now,” I pointed out.
“For you, Willa, I would open the gym on Sundays,” Maureen said. “But like I’ve said before, I think you’d be okay scaling back to once a week. There are so many great occupational therapy opportunities near where your mom lives in the Hudson Valley. I have a friend who does OT with horseback riding. I could give your mom the name of the stable.”
“I like horses,” I said. “Not as much as I like dogs. But it does sound like fun.”
I guess that’s on my mind as I hide out in my bedroom—the fact that I didn’t freak out when I considered the possibility of moving to my mom’s from Monday to Friday and going to middle school up there. One plus of living in Tomsville is that I wouldn’t have to deal as much with Ruby and her mom living in our apartment after our parents get married. I could almost pretend it didn’t happen.
Thinking about this, I suddenly feel incredibly tired. I climb onto my bed, pull my knees to my chest, and close my eyes.
The next thing I know, Dad is sitting on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair back from my face. I roll over on my pillow and look up at him.
“When did you get home?” I ask.
“Just now.” He touches my cheek with his palm. “You must have fallen asleep. Are you feeling okay? Maybe you got what Ruby had.”
“I don’t feel sick,” I say, hugging my stuffed dog. I’ve had Woofers since I was three. To most people she looks worn and matted, but to me she’s just right. “Can you lie with me?”
“Of course,” Dad says. He wriggles out of his blazer and heaves himself onto my bed. I have to press myself sideways against the wall for him to fit.
“You won’t be able to do this when Ruby lives here,” I whisper.
Dad slides his arm under my shoulder. “It will be different but I’m sure I’ll be able to lie in bed with you. And I’ve been thinking about your sticker charts and checklists. We can still do them when Ruby lives here. We’ll just keep them on my desk so it’s more private.”
“But if Ruby and I share the big bedroom then wouldn’t it be weird for you to be lying in bed with me? Like with Ruby right there?”
“We’ll figure that out,” Dad says. “Can you trust me on this one? Sandhya and I are talking about it all the time, who will be in what bedroom and what will work best for everyone.”
I run my fingers over my dad’s scratchy chin. Usually I need answers about everything, every little detail, but maybe for now I can let myself believe that he’ll take care of it.
“If I live with Mom,” I ask after a minute, “will you be mad at me?”
Dad rolls over so he’s nose to nose with me. His breath smells minty and a bit like coffee too. “Mom and I were talking about the possibility of you going to middle school in Tomsville even before Sandhya and I got engaged, and I know she talked with you last weekend. Of course I wouldn’t be mad. Just like Mom hasn’t been mad because you’ve lived with me from Monday to Friday for the past three years.”
I rub my fingers around Woofer’s nose as my eyes prickle with tears. The thought of not living with Dad during the week makes me sad, but it also makes me sad that I don’t get to see Mom every day.
It’s all so confusing.
“What do you think I should do?” I ask.
“Of course I’d love for you to be here,” Dad says, “but I also think it would be wonderful for you to get to spend more time with Mom. I would miss you but you’d come here every weekend. Just like how you go to Tomsville now. And I’d come up for all the important events at your school just like how Mom does now.”
“What about Benji?” I ask. Even though my little brother drives me crazy I can’t imagine being apart from him. “Would he move too?”
“I’m not sure,” Dad says, sighing. “He still has three years left at The Children’s School.”
“I hate divorce,” I blurt out. I’m not trying to be mean, but it’s true. Everything would be easier if my parents were together and we didn’t have to think about all these decisions, all these constant changes.
“Me too,” Dad says, sighing heavily.
“You do?” I ask. “But then you wouldn’t be together with Ruby’s mom.”
“I love Sandhya … but it’s also sad. I know that. In a perfect world, parents stay together and no one has to go through this. But it’s not a perfect world. No one is perfect. Things happen … and we have to learn to adjust.”
Just then, Benji barges into my bedroom. He’s holding his flag book, which he’s been reading obsessively since Bill gave it to him last weekend. “Did you know that the red, white, and red on the flag of Austria comes from Duke Leopold’s white coat being drenched with blood during a battle?” My brother halts when he notices we’re on my bed. “Hang on, is Willa sick? Is she going to school tomorrow?”
“No, no, and yes,” my dad says, laughing. “And try to remember to knock next time.”
“Yes, she’s going to school?” Benji asks. “And sorry about not knocking … I just couldn’t believe that fact about the flag of Austria.”
“Do people at school ever make fun of you?” I ask. “For all the facts you know?”
“Not really.” Benji shakes his head. “It’s just who I am. Hang on, Dad—is Willa staying home sick tomorrow?”
“Yes, she’s going to school,” my dad says, “and no, she’s not sick. And no, I didn’t know that about the Austrian flag.”
“Supposedly the white was where the duke had his belt on. That was the only place that didn’t get soaked in blood.”
“Gross,” I say, groaning.
“It’s just a legend,” Benji says, wandering back into the living room, “but I believe it.”
I wait until Benji is out of earshot and then whisper, “What about how I lose my water bottle all the time? And what if Mom doesn’t pre-stretch my socks in the morning the way you do?”
Dad rests his hand on my arm. “Mom knows who you are and so do I. Your brain is dealing with other things, bigger things than water bottles. And we understand that your sock issues are very real. She’s not going to forget about that.”
I squirm around in my few inches of space between my dad and the wall. It’s so much to think about at once, middle school and where I’ll live and my dad and Ruby’s mom.
“You don’t have to choose between us, Willa,” Dad says, squeezing his arms around me. “This is about where you are Monday through Friday and Saturday and Sunday. This isn’t about choosing. You have us both.”
I try to stop wiggling and settle my body down but it’s hard. It’s not a perfect world, I hear Dad’s voice saying to me. I don’t have to be perfect. No one’s asking me to be. But it’s one thing to know that and it’s another to feel it deep in my body.
The next week is a really good week. Maybe for some people a good week is a surprise trip to Disney World or a shopping spree or a pop-music concert. But for me I just like it when people are nice and there are no bumps in the road. On Monday, I remembered to bring in two Race Car Driver minifigures to give to Sophie in exchange for the LEGO dog she gave to me. The minifigure gifts made her so excited I thought she might actually talk. Instead she gave me a huge smile and bounced up and down in her chair. Also things with Ruby are good. We haven’t discussed our parents at all, and they haven’t planned any last-minute dinners or meet-ups, so it almost feels like we’re back to our regular friendship. On top of that, the weather has gotten warm and I’ve been able to wear shorts every day without freezing my legs off, and I’ve had several comfy sock mornings in a row.
No bumps in the road. No bumps in my socks.
I’m going to tell Maureen that they should make a T-shirt that says that.
And now, on Thursday morning, our class is starting to plan our end-of-year Field Day, which will be in Central Park. Ms. Lacey is saying how she couldn’t possibly have considered going to the park unti
l now, but her allergies have finally settled down. The instant she says that, Avery’s hand shoots in the air.
“My mom says the tree-pollen season is better,” Avery offers. “I can show you the allergy index on my new phone.”
“Thanks, Avery,” Ms. Lacey says. “But no phones in the classroom. They stay in your backpack all day.”
Avery frowns, obviously disappointed that she’s not getting a chance to show off her new phone. It’s all she’s been bragging about at lunch and recess. She even got a sparkly case that matches her sparkly shoes.
At recess today, Avery smuggles her phone outside in the pocket of her lunch box. She has a group of girls crowded around looking at pictures of her and her sister getting manicures and pedicures. As everyone oohs and aahs about the pictures of shooting stars painted onto her toenails, I mutter to Ruby, “I can’t believe someone would pay to get their toenails trimmed. I would pay not to have someone touch my toenails.”
I slap my hand over my mouth. That thought just floated into my head and I said it before I realized it might sound weird. It’s like saying I don’t like to wash my hair. Then again, I do hate having my hair washed.
“That mood-changing nail polish Avery had was cool,” Ruby says. “I once had a mood ring like that.”
I stare at Ruby. We have an unspoken agreement never to side with Avery on anything. “Are you saying you liked Avery’s nail polish?”
“Just the mood-changing polish,” she says, shrugging. “But, yeah, pedicures sound boring.”
“Can you imagine being the mood-changing nail polish on Avery’s fingers?”
“It would show a bad mood,” Ruby says, kicking a soccer ball against the schoolyard wall.
“Twenty-four hours a day,” I say.
The ball rolls back to Ruby and she kicks it again. “Seven days a week. Three hundred sixty-five days a year.”
I’m just about to add decades and centuries and millennia when the teachers blow their whistles and recess is over.
That evening my dad’s phone keeps ringing. Every time it rings he snatches it up and walks into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. By the third call, Benji and I crawl down the hall. Resting on our hands and knees, we press our ears against his bedroom door, but all we can hear are muffled sounds. When Dad finally opens the door, he practically trips over us sprawled out on the floor.
“What is it?” Benji and I demand at the same time.
“What’s what?” Dad slides his phone into his back pocket. He’s doing his best innocent face even though a grin is totally busting through. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And why are you lying there with your ears under the door? Really. So strange.”
Laughing, Benji wriggles up my dad’s legs and onto his back while I wrap my elbows and knees tight around his right leg.
“It’s really strange,” Dad says, staggering toward the couch with Benji draped over his back and me attached to his leg like a barnacle. “I feel a little heavy, like there’s something on my back and leg. Or maybe my foot just fell asleep while I was on that super boring phone call.”
“What phone call?” I shout from the floor.
“Still so strange,” Dad says. “I hear voices but I can’t tell where they’re coming from.”
“Here!” Benji and I shout together.
Dad shakes his leg and shimmies his shoulders from side to side, but he’s unable to shake Benji and me off. Benji and I are laughing like crazy as Dad finally dumps us onto the couch and then flops between us.
“Okay,” he says, exhaling loudly. “I suppose I should tell you. I was on the phone with the woman from Manhattan Mutts.”
“Who?” Benji asks.
“The rescue place from Puppapalooza!” I say, springing off the couch and bouncing onto the trampoline.
Dad nods. “I emailed her and we’ve been going back and forth. She called my references and just had some follow-up questions tonight.”
I jump onto one leg and then shift to the other. “What did she say? Did we get approved to adopt a dog?”
“She said we sound like a great family for a rescue dog,” Dad says, grinning. “I even made a donation to Manhattan Mutts on the phone tonight, which is required for adopting.”
“Oh … Daddy! Thank you! I love you!” I’m spinning 360s on the trampoline and waving my arms in the air.
“I love you, too, Waggy,” Dad says. “I’m glad your dog dream is finally happening.”
“Who did you use as references?” Benji asks. He’s still on the couch, his head resting on a pillow and his feet in Dad’s lap.
“Mom,” Dad says, holding up his thumb as if to tick off one, “because the dog will be going up there whenever you guys do.” Then Dad holds up his pointer and says, “And Joshua. He’s in our home a lot and he knows we would take good care of a dog.”
“That’s it?” Benji asks, sitting up and crossing his arms over his chest.
After a brief hesitation Dad holds up a third finger. “And Sandhya. She will be living here, so it will be her dog as well.”
At the mention of her name I start bouncing harder on the trampoline, first on my heels and then on my toes.
“Does Sandhya even like dogs?” Benji asks.
I jump in a semicircle but don’t take my eyes off Dad. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t like dogs.
Dad clears his throat. “Sandhya is on board. She understands that we’re getting a dog.”
Benji and I wait for him to say more, but he clears his throat again and then pulls his phone out of his back pocket and stares at the screen.
Over the weekend, my mom and I finally have a good conversation about me moving in with her during the week. It’s not like we say I’m going to or I’m not going to but we’re able to talk about it without me flipping out. It’s Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, and Bill has taken Benji to Mom’s favorite bakery to get us cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I’m snuggling in bed with her and telling her about Manhattan Mutts and Field Day and who got into what middle school. I love morning snuggles with my mom. She knows just how to hold me, not so tight that it hurts my skin but not so floppy that I need to be squeezed harder.
“It’s scary to think about moving up here for school,” I tell her.
“Yes, I know.” She reaches across the pillow and runs her fingers through my hair, untangling some curls. Mom doesn’t wear her glasses in bed, so it feels like I get a special view of her that the rest of the world doesn’t see.
“How would I make friends?” I ask. “I wouldn’t know anyone and they’d all know each other.”
“It’s true that a lot of them would know each other,” Mom says, “but the sixth graders would be coming to the middle school from three separate elementary schools. It’s the perfect time for you to come because a lot of kids would be meeting for the first time. Also, I’d put you in some local camps. Tomsville Middle School does a LEGO-building camp in July.”
I nod. A LEGO-building camp sounds fun. Most camps make you chase and kick and dodge balls for the entire day. Either that or do arts and crafts, which aren’t really my thing either.
“Maureen says that change happens whether you want it or not,” I tell Mom.
“That’s true,” she says.
“She also says that sometimes being in a hard place and letting yourself be there is the only way for things to feel better,” I say.
Mom nods. “I’ve definitely felt that way sometimes.”
I wonder if she’s thinking about when she and Dad got divorced. It was a long time ago but I still remember walking in on her crying a few times.
“Maureen said there’s a horse place near here,” I say, quickly changing the subject. I didn’t mean to make her feel sad on Mother’s Day. “Like where I could do occupational therapy if I lived up here.”
“She emailed me about that,” Mom says, propping her head up on her elbow. “I was thinking we could drive over one weekend and check out the stable. T
herapeutic horseback riding is supposed to be great for people with sensory issues.”
“I’d like that,” I say, except all of a sudden I’m feeling sad, like a rain that comes out of nowhere on a clear spring day. I hug my arms around myself. “What’s wrong with me? Will I need to do OT and all this stuff forever?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me in. Her skin is warm and she smells like coconut body lotion, but not so strong that it’s gross. “I see parts of me in you, like how I need routine and solitude and could spend hours in comfy pajamas reading books. And I see parts of Dad in you. He’s always in motion, always fidgeting. He loves the noise and chaos of the city and his work and his phone constantly going. Sensory Processing Disorder is not your fault. As you get older, it will become easier to live with, and eventually it’ll be some of the most essential parts of what makes you you.”
“Sort of like how best part worst part makes a whole day?” I ask.
Mom kisses my forehead and then says, “Best part worst part makes a whole day. But you, Willa, are all best parts. Even the things you struggle with.” She pauses. “Especially the things you struggle with. That’s what makes you unique.”
“Or weird,” I mutter.
“Unique. Wonderful. Totally Willa.”
Ruby and I have struck a careful peace. We are okay as long as we don’t talk about our parents getting married and how she thinks it’s a good thing and I know it’s a terrible thing. It almost feels like we’re back to our normal friendship. No one at school—other than Avery—knows that our parents are together, so that makes it easier to pretend it’s not happening. I have to admit I’m grateful that Avery isn’t rubbing it in on a daily basis. Avery doesn’t know about their wedding plans, of course, but I would have thought she’d be taunting me with the information she does have. But I can’t let myself get too grateful because I have to be on guard with Avery. There’s always that chance she’s waiting, like a dog frozen in the seconds before it chases a squirrel, for the right moment to spread my news and maximize the humiliation.
Not If I Can Help It Page 11
