It was a weird Saturday, but now it’s Sunday, and all’s right with the world.
Here are some facts about my mother:
Her closet is organized by season, type of clothing, and color.
She keeps our grocery list on her computer. Items we regularly buy are listed in order of where they appear in the store. Then she just checks off whether we need it or not.
She has only two colors of socks: white (for exercising) and black (for all other situations). All the same brand. She replaces them once a year.
She never forgets a birthday, but just in case, she has all of her friends and relatives listed in her computer, with a pop-up reminder seven days beforehand so she can go out and get a card.
Are you getting the picture? She’s the most practical, organized person I know. Chloe and I like to joke that she’s like one of the X-Men. Organizatrix, or something.
She’s already using her powers on the café. Any office she works for will run so smoothly, they’ll think they’ve been greased.
I just want her to get a job soon.
Last week, I overheard her on the phone with her sister, my aunt, Denise. “I just never thought I’d be forty-seven, divorced, and living with Mother again,” she said, and her voice sounded so heavy, like a stone falling through the deep ocean. “I don’t even have a job. I feel like a —” She didn’t finish, and I heard Aunt Denise’s voice soothing her through the phone lines.
Yes, a job would be good.
Soon.
It’s weird to walk into Adams Middle School by myself.
Artie and Marco and I all took the same bus last year, and we still take the same bus this year — only I get on earlier. But this morning, neither of my friends were waiting when the driver stopped up the street from Artie’s house. A sixth grader named Eve got on, and then we sailed away.
It’s raining, so Artie probably got a ride. Maybe they took Marco, too.
But that left me alone, and I felt a little drifty — like a balloon that’s been let go and sails off to float on the wind.
The hallways are crowded and bustling as I make my way down the wide corridor. As I near the seventh-grade lockers, I see Meghan Markerson walking out of Dean Whittier’s office. They’re both laughing. She catches my eye and gives me a little finger-wave, but the dean of academics doesn’t glance my way. It’s funny to see them together — Dean Whittier, tall and lanky, with a trim beard and a sweater vest, and Meghan, dressed in a red plaid skirt and black hoodie.
What could they possibly be laughing about?
It’s a mystery to ponder as I toss my books in my locker and grab my notebook for first period.
Artie smiles and waves as I walk into homeroom, but she’s already sitting with Kelley Kane and Chang Xiao. I know them vaguely, in that way that you kind of know everyone in your grade, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with either one of them. Chang and Kelley are dramaramas, and they look like it: Chang always wears this amazing dark eye shadow and eyeliner that I’d never be able to pull off, and Kelley has a thing for stylish jeans. Everyone says Chang is really funny, so I feel a little outclassed when I walk over to join them.
“Hey, do you guys know Hayley?” Artie asks as I slip into the seat behind hers.
“Sure,” Chang says.
“She was in our French class last year,” Kelley adds.
I wonder who they’re thinking of. I’ve never taken French, but decide to let it pass.
“I heard they’re going to do a second round of callbacks,” Kelley says to Artie.
“Oh, ugh, that is so Ms. Lang,” Chang gripes. “She’s such a drama queen.” She says it so dramatically that I feel confident she’s qualified to know.
“I don’t think I can handle another audition.” Artie glances at me. “I get nervous before each one.”
“That’s just a rumor; I wouldn’t listen to it.” Chang gives Kelley a dry, heavy-lidded look. “Personally, I never listen to anything Kelley says.”
“Chang!” Kelley tosses an eraser playfully at her friend, and I’m having the same feeling I had before with Devon — that feeling that I am watching a conversation happening inside the house next door. So close, but so … not part of it.
I see Meghan slip in right before the first bell, and a moment later, the PA crackles and morning announcements begin. Blah, blah, something about a pep rally; anyone wanting to join the chorus; don’t forget teacher in-service day. And then, “The administration also wishes to inform the students that this Friday there will be a special election. It has come to the attention of the principal and vice principal that a number of students are unhappy with the mascot. And so, this Friday during homeroom, we will hold a vote on whether to retain the Purple Pintos or adopt a new mascot of your choice.”
The class goes wild, with people stomping and clapping. Meghan stands up and takes a bow, blowing kisses all over the place. She has a goofy grin on her face.
Artie looks at me. She’s clapping, but grimacing my way. “I am not voting for the Giant Squids,” she says.
“How about the Crustaceans?” Chang suggests, and Kelley pipes up, “The Oysters!”
“How about the Purple Porpoises?” This is Chang again. Kelley and Artie crack up. I laugh, too. Somehow, the idea of going from the Purple Pintos to the Purple Porpoises strikes me as funny.
“I really can’t believe we’re going to take up school time with this election,” Artie says. I get what she’s saying.
School mascots aren’t really important. Except that they represent us. So, in that way, I guess they are.
Picking a mascot is actually kind of hard, once you think about it.
What are we? Proud, like eagles? Fighters, like wolverines?
Personally, I think I’m more like a lesser galago. That’s this wide-eyed, long-tailed African lemur-type thing I saw at the zoo once. They’re furry and a little silly-looking, not too threatening. But I don’t claim to represent the whole school.
“Maybe we could be the Sloths,” I suggest, and that makes Artie and her new friends crack up.
“I couldn’t care less what they pick,” Chang says, as if she isn’t one of us.
“Anything but the Giant Squids,” Artie agrees. “Or the Purple Pintos.”
I nod.
But I don’t really mean it.
Seriously — can’t you just see the football helmets?
It’s always a little eerie to be in the school building after classes are over. I can hear the echoes of my footsteps as I click down the hall. A clump of three sixthies hangs by the lockers, laughing about who knows what. Students have covered the glass trophy cases with taped-up posters. SCREAMING MACHOS! reads one. GO, ELECTROLYTES! reads another. FIGHTING EAGLES has come undone, and is half-lying on the floor. Above it is a plain white poster with a large, cartoonish gray squid cut from construction paper. No words, but everyone knows what it means.
It’s Friday, and the elections for school mascot were held during lunch. There was a small contingent to keep the Purple Pintos, but most of the school seemed excited by the idea of having a new mascot. I voted for the Squids, of course.
Now I’m making my way down the hall, past classroom 108, aka Auditionville. I catch up to Artie just before she goes in.
“Good luck,” I say to her.
“Break a leg,” she corrects me.
I can’t make myself say that, so I just smile. “You’ll do great.”
She flashes me a sour face, then gives me a quick hug before turning to join the other auditionees. A group of five guys — including Devon — is singing a cappella in the corner. Others are poring over scripts, or just sitting and chatting. Everyone looks happy … and artsy. Artie’s wearing a jean miniskirt and a brown top that brings out the deep tones of her auburn hair. She’s also rocking a new pair of silver flats that I’ve never seen. She looks cool.
She looks like one of them.
I decide to go watch Marco practice for a little while. I ha
ve a surprise for him, anyway.
The afternoon light is dim as I swing open one of the double doors. It’s a cloudy day, strangely damp, and the cool air clings to me. It’s colder than I expected, and I dig one hand into a pocket of my Windbreaker. The other is wrapped around the handles of a paper shopping bag. I catch a whiff of woodsmoke in the air; someone is burning firewood. It is the first time I’ve smelled it this fall.
I cross the wide sidewalks and cut through the grass to the practice fields. Marco’s dark hair streaks toward the far goal. He’s running a drill, along with the rest of the team. There’s a clump of dirt on the back of his calf, and it flashes against his olive skin as his legs pump. One leg goes out, makes contact with the black-and-white ball — it sails just over the goalie’s gloved hands and into the net.
I let out a whoop, and half the team turns to look in my direction, making me feel like a Grade-A weirdo. But Marco trots toward me, a smile on his face. “What’s up?” he asks, slightly out of breath.
“Just waiting for Artie to finish up her audition.”
“Staying for practice? It’s going to be pretty boring.”
“I brought a book. And I have something for you.” I pull a small, round plastic container from my little shopping bag.
“Just what I needed!” Marco takes the cupcake like it’s a treasure. “Don’t tell the other guys — I’ll get mugged. What flavor?”
“Odd Romance,” I tell him. “Chocolate and ginger.”
Marco and I just stand there a moment, smiling at each other from across the bench. A crack opens up in the clouds, brilliant yellow behind the gray, and a curtain of light falls onto the practice fields. I feel the breeze lift my hair slightly, and I tuck it back into place. A moment later, the cloud passes over the sun again, casting everything back into pale shadow.
Ezra hustles over and punches Marco in the arm. “Hey, are you practicing, or what?”
Marco’s face blushes deep red, and he looks from Ezra to me with an odd look on his face. I feel a tickle of fear, wondering what the look means.
Ezra has been running, and his face is so pink that his freckles have disappeared. His hair is white as straw, and he looks almost like a flaming torch sending up a plume of smoke.
“I’m coming,” Marco says, and bends over to shove the cupcake into his practice bag.
“What’s that? Oh, a cupcake?” He smirks. “Sweets from the girlfriend, eh?”
Girlfriend? For a moment, I wonder what Ezra is talking about — and then I realize that he means me. I bust out with a honk of a laugh, which doubles back on itself into a snort. I cover my mouth and laugh even harder, out of embarrassment. “I’m not his girlfriend!” My voice is shrieky. “That’s insane!”
Marco just looks at me, and I’m aware that I’m probably humiliating him at this moment by snorting and giggling like an idiot. He probably wants to deny even knowing me at this point.
I keep expecting him to join in my giggles, but he doesn’t, and my laughter slowly dies away. Marco’s lips are pressed together, like they’ve been sewn shut, and his dark eyes are serious.
A wave of guilt breaks over me and I feel as if I’ve done something awful but don’t know what. I’m about to ask, but Marco shoves past Ezra and walks away, right off the practice field, toward the lockers.
Ezra smiles at me, a mean little smile. “Poor little Marco,” he says. Then he jogs off to join the drill.
I feel sick, because I know I’ve broken something that might never get repaired, and all it took was a laugh.
It didn’t seem that weird at the time. Only later. And still, sometimes I think, Maybe that never happened and I just dreamed it.
It was the day my parents announced that Dad was moving out. Mom and Dad called us into the family room, where our family meetings were always held. They sat me and Chloe down on the couch, and my mom proceeded to explain that while both of our parents loved us very much, they weren’t going to be able to live together anymore. “Dad is moving out next week,” Mom explained. “You girls will still live here, with me. And you’ll see Dad on the weekends.”
“You mean you’re getting divorced?” Chloe asked. Her voice broke on the last word, making her sound small and helpless.
Mom’s eyes welled up, and I guess she couldn’t speak because Dad chimed in and said, “Yes, Chloe. We’re getting divorced.”
Chloe started sobbing then, wailing and crying, and Mom hurried over to comfort her. I guess I’m a bad sister, because I remember just feeling annoyed about it. I guess I wasn’t as surprised as Chloe was. I hadn’t told her, but I’d caught Dad pulling sheets off the couch the week before. He’d folded them up and put them away in the closet. He didn’t want us to know he’d been sleeping there, I guess.
So Chloe went on making a big, sloppy scene, and Mom finally just picked Chloe up and carried her to her room, and Dad and I were left there together.
“Do you want to talk?” Dad asked.
“What about?” Seriously, I had no idea. Like, did he want to hear about what I was studying in school?
“About … your feelings.”
“My feelings.” I wasn’t feeling anything. I felt the way I felt during math. a + b = c. Mom + Chloe + Me - Dad = Our Family. That’s the result. Okay. Next problem.
Dad came and sat down next to me. “It’s important for you to understand that this isn’t your fault.”
“Why would it be my fault?” I snapped. Fury surged through me suddenly. My fault? Even though he’d just said that it wasn’t my fault, I felt like he was suggesting that it really was my fault. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I got up and left him there.
Of course, I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom.
I just closed the lid to the toilet seat and sat down. Then I picked up a magazine. The New Yorker. Usually, I just skim through the cartoons, but this time I started reading a long article about a small fishing village. I finished it, then read a short story about two kids in Iowa that I liked even though I didn’t really get it. Then I read a few poems.
Dad knocked on the door. “Hayley? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said.
He paused. “Well, maybe we can talk later.”
“Fine.”
There was no sound for a moment. Then I heard his footsteps, walking away. I read another article, then flushed the toilet and opened the door. I guessed that Mom was still trying to get Chloe to stop crying, so I stepped outside onto our back deck.
It was a warm day in early spring — all the snow had melted except a small patch in the shadow between my house and Marco’s. Three brave purple crocuses and a bunch of snowdrops were the only things blooming in our brown garden bed. Marco was in his backyard, kicking around a ball. Our yards weren’t separated by a fence or anything, so when he saw me, he just said, “Hey, Hayley,” and walked on over, kicking the ball the whole way.
I was perched on the top step, and he sat down beside me. “Are you okay?” he asked, looking into my face.
“My parents are getting divorced,” I told him.
“Oh.” He looked down at the ball in his hands, then put it on the step.
“Dad’s moving out next week; Chloe’s still inside, freaking out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever.” I shrugged, but I felt my throat choking. A tear rolled from the corner of my eye, trailing down the side of my nose, and I remember thinking, Why am I crying? I don’t even feel sad.
Marco wiped the tear away with his thumb. He placed his palms on either side of my face and tipped my forehead forward to meet his. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, and I smelled his peppermint toothpaste.
I looked into his dark eyes. “How?”
He didn’t answer, but we stayed like that for a long moment, with our foreheads touching. And then his head tilted and he kissed me, a sweet, soft kiss that lingered on my lips like warm cocoa.
I felt my throat choke
back a sob, and even though my eyes were closed, I could feel hot tears leaking out of them and suddenly I was crying, not as loudly as Chloe had been, but just as violently, as if the veins in my face might burst.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Marco said, and I wanted to tell him that it was okay, but I couldn’t get the words out. Then I heard a rumble and when I looked up, I saw my mom bustling out of the sliding door and heading over to me.
Marco stood up quickly. “I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, Marco, you don’t have to —” Mom said.
“It’s okay.” And he darted off so quickly that he left his ball behind.
Mom watched him for a moment, then looked down at me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I didn’t answer, just wiped the tears from my face and into my hair.
“Oh, Hayley.” She sat down beside me and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry that Daddy and I won’t be together anymore.”
The tears started again, and I said, “That’s not why I’m crying.”
But I didn’t know why I was crying.
All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. I put my head on Mom’s soft shoulder and let her hold me for a long time. I cried, letting my nose run, letting drool spill from my mouth. Mom didn’t complain or say anything; she just hugged me and let me cry. I noticed that her sleeve was already damp, and supposed that my tears were mixing with my sister’s on the fabric of my mother’s shirt.
I took a few shaky breaths, and eventually managed to stop the endless flow of water. Mom took my hand and squeezed it gently, and after a while, Chloe came outside and asked what was for dinner.
I looked up and realized that the sunlight was fading.
“I don’t know,” Mom said.
“Can we have French toast?” Chloe’s green eyes were clear, and she was smiling. I guess her despair just passed through her like a summer storm, leaving her fresher, cleaner.
Mine had rolled over me like a freight train. I was wrecked.
Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! Page 6
