Don't Make Me Smile

by Barbara Park

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  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Copyright © 1981 by Barbara Park

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-79703-2

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  (one)

  THERE ARE certain things that happen to you that you never forget. I’m not sure why that is. But I know it’s true. For example, no matter how old I get, I’ll never forget the first time I was in a school program.

  I was in the first-grade chorus. And since I was a very short first grader, I got to stand in the front row where everyone could see me.

  Boy, I really thought I was hot stuff, too. I stood up there and sang my guts out. I even used my hands the way the singers on television do.

  When it was all over, the audience started clapping like crazy. It made me feel great. I must have bowed about two hundred times. Even while we were walking back to the room, I was still bowing.

  I love going back to the room after a school program. You always get to horse around with the other kids until your parents come pick you up. The teacher tells you to calm down, but at night she doesn’t really care. She only gets paid to keep you calm during the day.

  Pretty soon, I saw my mother hurrying in the door. She was walking so fast, my father couldn’t keep up with her. I could tell she was pretty excited about my performance.

  Wow! I said to myself. I must have been even better than I thought. My mother looks like she wants my autograph or something!

  As soon as she spotted me, Mom ran over and bent down beside me. I closed my eyes and got ready for one of her big fat kisses. But instead, she leaned over and whispered, “Charles, your zipper was down.”

  I looked down to see. And there, sticking out of my navy blue pants, was this big fat wad of underwear all bunched up in my zipper.

  All I could think of was how stupid I must have looked on stage in front of all those people! How can you look like a big singing star with a bunch of underwear hanging out of your pants?

  So I started to cry.

  Okay, I know that there are a lot of first graders who wouldn’t have cared one bit. They would have just zipped up and forgotten all about it. But that’s not the kind of kid I am. To me, underwear is real private stuff. I don’t even like my cat to see me in it.

  After I fastened my zipper, I started yelling at my mother. Anytime you’re upset, you’re supposed to yell at your mother. They expect it. It’s part of their job.

  “It’s all your fault!” I said. “You’re the one who made me so short.”

  Mom tried to quiet me down. A couple of the other parents who had come in began to stare. Meanwhile, my father started looking around the room, pretending he didn’t know me.

  “Shh!” said my mother. “You don’t have to shout, Charlie. And besides, what in the world does being short have to do with your fly being down?”

  “Well, if you didn’t make me so short, I would never have had to stand in the front row,” I said. “And if I wasn’t in the front row, no one would have seen that my zipper was down.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have been talking so loud. Benjamin Fowler’s parents started to laugh. My father left the room and headed for the car.

  “Charles, please,” said Mom as she hurried me out the door. “I’m sorry you’re so upset about this. But I don’t think it’s fair to blame me just because you forgot to zip your fly.”

  “And stop calling it my fly!” I yelled.

  Fly. Isn’t that just about the stupidest name you’ve ever heard for a zipper?

  My parents finally took me home and put me to bed. Before my father turned out the light, he gave me a little talk on zippers. He told me that being caught with your zipper down is just part of wearing pants. He also told me I would get used to it.

  Well, he was wrong. I’m almost eleven years old now, and I’m still not used to it.

  My mother says it’s because I’m too sensitive.

  Sensitive means that certain things bother you a lot more than they bother most people. For instance, whenever our family watches a real sad movie on TV, I’m always the first one to start blubbering. I try not to. But just when I think I’ve got myself under control, someone in the movie goes and dies. That’s when the blubbering starts.

  Sensitive also means that you get your feelings hurt easily. I know this is true about myself. Sometimes, my feelings can get crushed over the least little thing. In fact, it just happened again a few weeks ago.

  It was my father’s birthday. And if there’s one thing around our house I love, it’s birthdays.

  But this particular birthday was going to be even more special than any other. For the first time ever, I was going to get to buy Dad a present totally on my own. My mother said I could even keep it a surprise from her.

  A few days before the big event, she drove me to the shopping center to buy his gift. She waited in the car while I ran in to get it. It didn’t take long at all. I knew exactly what I wanted.

  As soon as I got it home, I ran to my room to wrap it. I was afraid if I didn’t wrap it right away, my mother might look in the box while I was in school. I don’t mean to make Mom sound like a sneak or anything. But sometimes it’s better not to test her.

  I really can’t explain why I wanted to keep this whole thing such a secret. I guess it just made it more special that way.

  Anyway, when my father’s birthday finally came, I couldn’t wait for him to open my gift. When he started to unwrap it, my heart began to beat very fast. I felt kind of dumb getting so excited about it. But I just couldn’t help myself.

  Slowly, Dad lifted the lid of the box and peeked under the tissue paper.

  I knew right away that I
was in trouble.

  “Oh, wow. Look at this,” he said. “Gee whiz, Charlie. This is just great.”

  He didn’t fool me a bit. Whenever someone opens a present and says, “Oh, wow. Look at this,” it only means one thing. They don’t know what it is.

  Think about it. What do you say when you open up a new shirt? Simple. You say, “Oh, wow. A new shirt.” And when you open up a new game, you say, “Oh, wow. A new game.” But if you’re not exactly sure what it is you’re looking at, that’s when you say, “Oh, wow. Look at this.”

  My father took his present out of the box and began examining it more carefully. He was trying his best to figure out what it was.

  Finally, he unfolded it and put his hand inside. “Oh, boy. I’ve always wanted one of these,” he said.

  It was so embarrassing I couldn’t stand it.

  “It doesn’t go on your hand, Dad,” I said at last. “It goes on your head. It’s a chef’s hat. You’re supposed to wear it outside when you barbecue.”

  Dad laughed. “Oh, right! A chef’s hat! Of course! A chef’s hat!” he said.

  He put it on his head. “Just call me Chef Boy-ardee!” he said in this ridiculous Italian accent.

  By then, my mother was laughing, too.

  I wasn’t laughing at all. The reason I wasn’t laughing was simple. It was not supposed to be a funny gift. If I had wanted to get a funny gift, I would have bought rubber vomit.

  Anyway, by this time I guess my father could see that my feelings were hurt. He took off the hat and stopped clowning around.

  He came over and hugged me. “Thanks a lot, Charlie,” he said. “I really do like it. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll barbecue tonight so I can wear it right away.”

  “Yeah, sure, Dad,” I answered, trying to act cool. But inside, I felt awful.

  Since then, my father’s worn the chef’s hat two or three times, probably. But I’m pretty sure he only put it on when he thought I was watching.

  And if that’s true, I guess I won’t be seeing him wear it very much around here anymore.

  Because two weeks after his birthday, my father moved out of the house.

  He and my mother are getting a divorce.

  DIVORCE—A DEFINITION

  Divorce. To me, that word never really meant much. I think it’s one of those words like death. You know that it happens to a lot of people, but as long as it’s not you, you don’t pay much attention.

  As a matter of fact, I don’t ever remember seeing divorce spelled before. I’m positive it’s never been on any of my spelling lists at school. Come to think of it, neither has death. I guess you’re supposed to learn how to spell all the sad words on your own.

  I looked it up in my dictionary. It said: divorce/dih-vors’/n. 1. a complete legal breaking up of a marriage. 2. complete separation.

  Well, that may be what the dictionary thinks divorce is, but I’ll tell you what it really is.

  Divorce is like watching your parents back the car over your brand-new bicycle. You can see what’s about to happen, but the car is already moving.

  You shout, “STOP! STOP!” But no one hears you. So you just stand there and watch the tires of the car crush your bike as flat as a pancake. And you get this terrible, sick feeling inside you, like you’re going to throw up or faint or something.

  You cry, but it doesn’t help. Your parents say they’re sorry, but that doesn’t help, either.

  Nothing helps.

  It’s all smashed to pieces, and it will never be the same.

  That’s divorce.

  (two)

  SO FAR, one of the worst things about my parents’ divorce is that I’m supposed to go around smiling all the time. When they were together, I never had to smile unless I felt like it. But ever since they split up, I have to keep looking real jolly and happy. If I don’t, it makes them feel even guiltier.

  “Cheer up. Cheer up.” That’s all my mother keeps saying. Then she tries to make me smile. If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s having someone try to make you smile when you don’t want to.

  “Come on,” she says, “let me see a little smile.”

  Sometimes, I try to resist. But I know she won’t leave me alone until I do it. So usually, I just shoot her a stupid grin to get her off my back.

  My mother isn’t the only one who keeps trying to make me smile, though. My father is just as bad. He even tried it the night he told me about the divorce.

  He knocked on my door and asked if he could come in. I really could kick myself for not asking him what he wanted first. Then maybe he would have said, “I want to talk to you about the divorce your mother and I are getting.” And I would have said, “Well, in that case, you can’t come in. Not unless you promise to stay together.”

  And he would have said, “Okay. If you feel that strongly about it, I guess maybe we will.” And then all of us would have lived happily ever after.

  But instead, I just unlocked my door and let him in.

  Dad walked over and sat down on my bed beside me. He had this real grim look on his face, like something terrible had just happened. It really got me scared.

  “There’s something very important that I have to tell you, Charlie,” he said.

  By this time, I was sure that someone had died.

  I swallowed hard. “Was it Grandma?” I asked.

  My father looked puzzled. “Was what Grandma?” he said.

  “The one who died … was it Grandma?”

  “Oh no, Charles,” he said. “It’s nothing like that. No one has died.”

  I felt relieved. “Thank God,” I said. “For a minute there, you really had me worried, Dad.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” he said. “But still, what I have to tell you is very, very difficult.”

  As soon as he said this, I started getting scared all over again.

  “I know that I’m not going to be able to explain this as well as I want to,” he said. “But I’ll do the best I can.”

  My father took a deep breath. “For a long time now, your mother and I haven’t been very happy living here together.”

  “What do you mean you haven’t been happy?” I said. “You always act okay to me.”

  “I mean that when your mother and I got married, we loved each other very much,” he said. “And we thought that we would always feel that way. But sometimes things don’t always work out the way we want them to. Even though two people care about each other, they’re not always happy living together.”

  He shook his head. “They try, Charlie, but it just doesn’t always work. And after a while they decide to make some changes so that they can both be happy again.”

  Dad stopped talking for a second and looked at me.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, son?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. “You’re saying that you and Mom need to do something to make yourselves happier.”

  “That’s right, Charlie. We do,” he said.

  Now here is where I made my next big mistake. I asked an extremely stupid question.

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  Man, I wish I had never asked that. If I hadn’t asked it, maybe my father would never have said what he said. Maybe he would have changed his mind.

  Instead, he waited a minute, then he lowered his voice and said, “We’ve decided to get a divorce.”

  I just sat there staring at him. I couldn’t even speak, I mean.

  Dad reached out and put his arms around me. He must have thought that I was going to start bawling or something. But I fooled him. I don’t know why I didn’t cry. I just didn’t.

  All I could do was stare.

  Have you ever noticed that when you stare at somebody long enough, it makes them nervous? And when people get nervous, they say very stupid things. I know this is true. Because after I stared at my father for a while, he said the stupidest thing in the whole world.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  I mean, just t
hink about how stupid that is. Your own father comes into your room, sits down on your bed, and tells you that he and your mother are going to destroy your entire life. Then he asks you if you’re okay.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  As a matter of fact, it was such a stupid question, it deserved a stupid answer.

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m fine,” I said.

  He ruffled my hair. “Of course you are,” he said.

  He stood up. “Well, I think I’ve told you just about enough for one night. I know this is going to be hard on you. It’s going to be hard on all of us. But I don’t want you to worry, Charlie. It’s all going to work out fine. I just know it is.”

  He reached down and hugged me again. “How about a little smile just to show me you’re okay,” he said.

  I shot him a grin to get him out of my room.

  My father walked to the door.

  “We’ll talk about this again tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to think about it. Good night, son,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “Good night,” I said back.

  I waited a couple of minutes to make sure he was gone.

  Then I ran into the bathroom and threw up.

  (three)

  I’M NOT sure how long I stayed in the bathroom that night. It was long enough to make my mother nervous, though.

  She knocked on the door. “Charles, are you okay?” she called.

  I don’t know why she and my father aren’t happy together. They both ask the same stupid questions.

  “Great,” I said. “I’m just great.”

  I looked in the mirror. I was so far from great it wasn’t funny. My face was as white as a sheet.

  I started the water in the tub. “I’m going to take a shower,” I yelled.

  “Well, if you need anything, just holler,” Mom called back.

  Oh, I do need something, Mother, I thought. I need two parents who care about me. I need you and Dad to stay together. But I didn’t say it.

  I stayed in the shower for over half an hour. I washed my hair twice for no reason. By the time I got out, my skin was so wrinkled I looked even worse than before.