Brett McCarthy

by Maria Padian

  “Yeah, but I wrote it….”

  “I see…so that makes you…Dante?”

  Michael grinned.

  “You move people around,” I commented, noticing an erasure. “You had Kit in the Eat More Than Their Share ring, then moved her down to Greedy.”

  “Did you see what she did to that pizza we had on the half day?” he exclaimed. “I got one slice; she took five. She’s beyond hungry. She’s, like, a predator.”

  He’d placed Jeanne Anne, appropriately enough, in Ring Eight with the Backstabbers. Darcy was penciled in with Flirts and Hos, way too high as far as I was concerned. Brett McCarthy was…Undecided?

  “Why am I Undecided?” I asked, looking up.

  “I think I know you too well to generalize,” he said. “I put you there because…well, where do you think you belong?”

  “Given today?” I replied. “Holding steady in the lower reaches of Ring Seven. The Violent.”

  Then I noticed something that surprised me. Michael had originally stuck Diane in Ring Six, the Wishy-Washy, but crossed out her name and placed her in Ring Eight. He’d written “Social Climbers” next to her name.

  “Why’d you demote Diane?” I asked.

  “Because she’s trying to move into the popular group,” Michael said matter-of-factly.

  “How so?”

  “How about…trying out for cheerleading after school today.”

  I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Diane tried out for cheerleading?” My voice sounded stupid in my ears.

  “I almost didn’t recognize her,” Michael continued. “She had her hair pulled back tight, and it kind of stretched her eyes sideways. But there she was, with Darcy and the whole gang from the Second Ring.”

  My brain froze, then moved in slow motion as I processed this information. No one just tried out for cheerleading. You signed up in advance, practiced routines…usually with other girls. Other cheerleaders.

  “Wow,” Michael said. He was staring at me. “You didn’t know. I figured you knew. I mean, you two are so tight.”

  I shook my head. The Vocab Ace Queen of Denial was at a loss for words.

  “Wow,” Michael repeated.

  “Stop saying ‘wow,’” I snapped. I was suddenly really sick of Michael.

  “Okay, well, maybe I should…head home,” he said, gently pulling the notebook from my lap.

  “Whatever,” I said. A totally unfriendly response, especially since he was the only person from school who had bothered to check in with me that afternoon. But I’m not particularly nice when I feel stupid and betrayed.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said, shouldering his filled-to-capacity backpack and heading out the kitchen door. He practically ran over Mom, who was just walking in.

  “Hello, Michael!” she said brightly. “Just leaving?” He muttered something approaching hi-yup-gotta-go, and disappeared. Mom tossed her keys and purse on the kitchen counter, unbuttoned her jacket, and flopped onto the space of window seat just vacated by Michael. She closed her eyes briefly, then smiled.

  “How was your day?” she said. “I hope it was better than mine.”

  ob•tuse

  Here’s the thing about parents: Just when you think you’ve got them totally figured out, they surprise you.

  I would have bet my cleats that Mom’s Lecture of a Lifetime would be full of the usual Really Annoying Things Parents Say. What-Were-You-Thinking. I’m-So-Disappointed-in-You. How-Many-Times-Do-I-Have-to-Tell-You. I could go on, but it’s too annoying even to list them.

  Then she went and blew my assumptions out of the water.

  For starters, she didn’t lecture me. First she telephoned Dad (rather than launch into the sad story of my disastrous day, I directed her to Dad’s fridge note). They talked for a long time. After she hung up, she returned to the window seat and got right to the point. No Inquisition, no annoying lead-in.

  “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” she said quietly. “You punched Jeanne Anne because she made fun of your grandmother?”

  I nodded and waited for the storm. Instead, Mom wrapped her arms tight around me and held on for probably a whole minute. When she let go, I could swear she looked teary.

  “Good for you,” she said. “Don’t you let anyone make fun of Nonna. Ever.”

  I stared at her in amazement.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Whatever happened to ‘Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones’? You’d better watch it, Mom, or someone is going to make you attend a Zero Tolerance for Violence assembly. Trust me; they’re no fun.”

  She laughed, wiping her eyes. What’s up? I thought. She’s crying.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Daddy’s coming home early. I’m going to get started on dinner. Why don’t you head over to Nonna’s and ask her to join us tonight?”

  I looked at her suspiciously.

  “No lecture?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You aren’t angry?”

  She paused.

  “I don’t know what I am,” she said. “I’m in a place so far beyond angry that I can’t quite recognize it. Call it ‘numb.’ At any rate, enjoy it now, because I’ll have plenty of time to get mad at you over the next few days. Now get going. Tell her I’m making pasta. She loves pasta.”

  Obtuse. Means lacking sharpness or quickness of sensibility. Also means stupid. Clueless.

  Because I finally got it. The pasta made it all clear. Here I was, suspended and temporarily banned from soccer, which in my definition is a Big Bad Deal, but all Mom could think about was…noodles. Nonna’s favorite food.

  There had been a zillion signs. Ever since Nonna had returned from Spruce Island. But I had been too obtuse to notice until now.

  Something was wrong with my grandmother, and Mom was worried sick.

  an•tip•a•thy

  Nonna was busy at the stove. She promptly turned down the invitation to pasta.

  “I’ve got Beady coming over tonight,” she said. “Tell your mother thanks anyway.”

  I settled into a kitchen chair. Nonna had replaced the clutter on the table with two place settings. The room smelled like something burning. Despite my antipathy for Mr. Beady, I felt sorry for him. Nonna was a world-renowned bad cook. Unless she was cooking with chocolate. It was one of her odd little defining qualities. Her chocolate desserts were amazing, but everything else she cooked…yuck.

  Antipathy: dislike engendering feelings of extreme annoyance.

  “So,” she said as she scraped the pan, “did you finally tell her?”

  “Yup,” I replied.

  “And how did it go?” she asked.

  “She seemed a little preoccupied,” I said.

  Nonna shut off the burner and turned.

  “Her daughter gets suspended from school and she’s preoccupied? That doesn’t sound like your mother.”

  “Well, I think she’s worried about you,” I said.

  Nonna frowned. “What did she tell you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. But even someone as clueless as me can tell something’s up. Why were you guys at the doctor’s today?”

  Nonna sighed and pulled up an adjacent kitchen chair.

  “I’ve never seen such overreaction,” she said. “You know, I hate to surprise you all, but I’m an old lady! These wrinkles are real! And I think I overdid it at the island this summer. I felt tired, came back early, and next thing I know, your mother is dragging me to the doctor because she doesn’t like my ‘color.’ My color! ‘Have you ever seen a suntan before?’ I asked her. Then Dr. Fischer starts asking me all these questions, and gets all wide-eyed when I tell him I think I caught a bit of brown-tail moth. I’ve been itchy for weeks, and the cortisone cream isn’t helping. Next thing you know, he’s sending me for bloodwork and an MRI!”

  “MRI?” I asked.

  “Magnetic resonance imaging,” she said. “Takes a picture of your organs. He wanted to peek at my pancreas.”

  “What’s
a pancreas?” I asked.

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s an expensive distraction!” Nonna said, returning to her smoking pan. “I’m having an allergic reaction to something, and these doctors want to order up unnecessary tests! Meanwhile, I’m itchy and irritable and your mother is so worried that she’s not taking care of business. Which means reprimanding you for hitting someone at school!”

  “Maybe I should send Dr. Fischer a thank-you note?” This conversation was making me feel much better. Nonna sure wasn’t acting sick.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” she said. “Since your mother is too ‘preoccupied’ to deal with you, I’ll hand down the sentence. And you know how I feel about violence.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “There’s no excuse for hitting someone, Brett.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. I wished, really wished, that I saw it her way. But I’m not as good a person as my grandmother.

  “I’d say a little community service is in order. How long are you suspended?”

  “The rest of the week.”

  “That’s just enough time to help me sort out the entire garage and get organized for my sale. We’ll hold it this weekend, you’ll be in charge, and we’ll donate all the proceeds to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center.”

  I groaned. Not that I had anything against the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. But Nonna’s garage was a mess. Dusty, rusty, moldy junk was stacked floor to ceiling. I didn’t want to touch it.

  Before I could think of a way to wriggle out of my sentence, Mr. Beady tapped on the door.

  “Come in, Beady!” Nonna said. “I’m running a little late.”

  Mr. Beady carried a paper bag. I could see the top of a wine bottle and a bag of corn chips poking from the top. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me.

  “Well, if it isn’t the local boxin’ champ!” He grinned. “How’s it goin’, sluggah?”

  Mr. Beady is not a native Mainer. He’s “from away.” Born in Connecticut, actually. And when he tries to imitate a Maine accent, it’s really annoying.

  “How’d you hear?” I asked him.

  “Oh, it’s all the talk of the grocery stow-ah,” he said. “Sorry, Eileen. I forgot salsa,” he added to Nonna.

  “Look in the fridge,” she replied.

  “Miss Brett, will you be joinin’ us tonight for…” Mr. Beady peered into Nonna’s pan. “Blackened gah-lick?”

  “No thanks,” I said, getting up. “Mom’s serving edible food at home.”

  “Ah, we will have to check in another time for tales of your ignominious day.” He chuckled. Ignominious. I had no clue what that meant. When he wasn’t imitating a lobsterman, Mr. Beady sounded like a professor. He was being even more annoying than usual this evening.

  “Good night, sweetie,” Nonna said, blowing a kiss in my direction. “Come by in the morning, and we’ll get started.” I nodded, heading out. It was dark already, and as I pulled the door shut against the warm glow of the kitchen light, I heard Nonna speak.

  “Beady, what does a pancreas do?”

  re•con•sti•tute

  Frugality is practically a religion in Maine. Even those who can afford full price at the mall brag that they bought it for peanuts at Goodwill. And yard sales…the Promised Land of the Thrifty…are a pretty big deal and fairly competitive.

  Even by Maine standards Nonna’s Super-Sized was wildly popular. An annual Mescataqua event, actually. More like a wacky block party, or a science fair on steroids, than a garage sale.

  For starters, she didn’t sell anything useful. The pros always stayed away. That’s because they knew they wouldn’t find a single item that anyone in their right mind would want. No treasures or bargains, no practically new bicycles, no vases, bookcases, or ski boots. Still, most of Mescataqua came.

  That’s because Nonna specialized in what she called “reconstituted” items. My dad says when he was a boy, “reconstituted” orange juice was a big thing.

  Reconstitute: to restore to a former condition by adding water. Like powdered milk.

  With Nonna’s items water played a minor role. But duct tape was key. Superglue. Nails, screws, soldering equipment. Anything it took to stick egg cartons onto wooden dowels, or join lengths of rusty pipe, or attach bedsprings to the bottoms of old boots. A little tape here, a little hinge there, and presto! A Ping-Pong catapult. Or pogo boots. Or a hamster hotel. Reconstituted from promising pieces of cast-off stuff she’d collected all year, and irresistible to your average child.

  I loved the annual Super-Sized. Mr. Beady, Michael, and I would stay up late the night before, hard at it in the garage, arguing over things like why the Teddy Bear Carousel powered by the NordicTrack ski machine flywheel kept getting stuck. Diane, who always worked it with us, would help with the bake-sale component. She was hopeless at construction (she couldn’t even unwind duct tape, let alone attach it to anything), so she always ended up in the kitchen, where she and Nonna turned out pan after pan of fudge brownies and choco-coconut dream bars.

  Diane would also make her signature treat: madeleines, little French cakes baked in a specially molded pan. Nonna loved them but, true to form, was hopeless at making them. That’s because madeleines don’t contain one bit of chocolate, and Nonna could work her magic only if chocolate was involved. Diane, however, was a madeleine whiz.

  On Super Sized mornings my parents would appear with hot chocolate, coffee, and Dunkin’ Donuts. They never really got involved in the Super-Sized. Just spectated from afar. I think they appreciated that it was one of Nonna’s special things.

  But not this year. You’d think they were flies on sticky paper, the way they hung around. They’d shut the whole operation down early the night before, just when Michael and I were trying to put the final touches on the Ped-o-Sled (an old Flexible Flyer that we’d rigged up with fat tires, a seat, and pedals, perfect for pedaling over a snow-covered frozen lake).

  “Let’s wrap it up,” Mom had said. “Nonna needs a good night’s sleep.”

  There was an edge to her voice, and I got the impression that she didn’t approve of the Super-Sized this year. She kept making comments to Dad about “overdoing it” and “not necessary.” I could tell she was getting on Nonna’s nerves.

  When I arrived at the Gnome Home kitchen the morning of the sale, Nonna was slicing brownies into Super Sizes and wrapping them in plastic.

  “There you are,” she said. “Another minute and I was going to eat that last Boston kreme myself.” She nodded toward a pink-and-yellow donut box on the table. I am mad for Boston kreme donuts. I flopped into a kitchen chair and helped myself.

  “Is Michael here yet?” I asked.

  “He and Beady are finishing up your Ped-o thing in the garage,” she said. “It’s hard to get it to move on the grass, but they think it’ll work fine on ice or snow.”

  “Awesome,” I said, taking a huge bite. The pastry-chocolate-custard combo was eavenly.

  “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different this year, and it finally occurred to me last night,” said Nonna. “Diane hasn’t come by to help. I can scarcely remember a Super-Sized without her.”

  “Umm,” I replied, filling my mouth with donut.

  “What’s she up to these days?”

  “No clue.” I shrugged. “Her mother won’t let her talk to me, and I’ve been kicked out of school, remember?” The truth, the half truth, and nothing but…the half truth? I could imagine Michael’s expression if he heard this exchange.

  “Well, I miss her,” said Nonna. “I needed her in the kitchen last night. Speaking of which, start slicing dream bars. And make ’em huge.”

  The weather was perfect, and cars by the dozen started cruising up the driveway or parking along the side of the road earlier than we’d expected. Like I said, the Super-Sized was an annual Mescataqua event.

  We all had our “positions.” Nonna worked the bake-sale table, making a point of telling everyone that there was no charge
for the goodies but contributions to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center could go in the glass mayonnaise jar. Two of the Kathies (who turned out to be volunteers at the Domestic Violence Prevention Center…go figure) helped people carry stuff to their cars. Michael and Mr. Beady were out back, blasting the bazooka. They’d put together “Build Your Own Bazooka” kits, complete with PVC pipe and instructions, and were trying to drum up business with exciting demonstrations. From the squeals and applause I heard, I could tell it was a big hit. But I didn’t actually see anything. I’d gotten stuck at the Ping-Pong catapult table.

  Ping-Pong balls really get on my nerves. I don’t know, there’s something about that irritating little sound they make when they bounce that crawls right up my spine. Stationing me at the catapult table, which turned out to be a seven-year-old-boy magnet, was torture.

  To amuse myself I started firing balls at little kids. Families would stroll past my table, and I’d take aim at an unsuspecting childish leg and—ping!—bounce a ball off someone’s socks at ten feet. Ironically, they all thought it was a big game and would come running over for more. Great.

  I was squaring off with a pretty aggressive five-year-old (he’d already nailed me twice between the eyes) when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Wow, that sure looks like fun. Maybe Brett can let you boys give it a try.”

  It was Mr. Pelletier. Merrill was with him, and another little boy I didn’t recognize. My eyes darted, looking for Diane, but I didn’t see her.

  “So what do you call this?” Mr. Pelletier said cheerfully. Heartily, like someone who’s trying to convince himself…and others…that he’s having a good time.

  “It’s a Ping-Pong catapult,” I answered, looking at Merrill and the boy. “Want to give it a try?”

  The Merrill I used to know and despise would have knocked me over for a turn with the catapults. This sort of semiviolent plaything was right up his hyperactive alley. When he wasn’t zoned out in front of the television, Merrill was whacking, bashing, tossing…you get the picture.

  Not this Merrill. He stared down at the Velcro closures on his dusty Spider-Man sneakers and shrugged at my invitation. His companion, a slightly smaller blond boy with large, owleye glasses, did no better. He looked nervously at the catapults, biting his lower lip. He didn’t seem at all like the usual juvenile delinquents Merrill associated with. Then a fourth person arrived on the scene and made everything clear.