Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush?

by Jerry Spinelli

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, it’s not anything I knitted or cookies I baked or preserves that I preserved. Nothing grandmotherly.”

  “Bull,” I said. I tore the paper off. The box was from Beck’s, a high-class department store. What could it be? I opened it: donuts. A dozen—blueberry-filled, every one.

  “I know they’re your favorites,” she said. “I thought I’d fool you with the box.”

  I hugged her. “Thank you,” I whispered into her white hair, “thank you, thank you… Grandmom.”

  I felt her flinch. “I can’t knit.”

  I buttoned her lips with my finger. I kissed her on the nose. “Grrrr-randmom.”

  Instead of a party (“You had parties the last two years,” my mother whined), I was allowed to have two friends overnight. I asked Sue Ann, of course—and Zoe.

  “Zoe?” Sue Ann gasped when I told her. “Zoe Miranda?”

  “No, dummy, Zoe Murphy.”

  “Eeek.”

  “Sue Ann, you’re the one that was always telling me all about her. What’re you afraid of?”

  “I never thought I’d be sleeping with her.”

  I cracked up. I slapped her on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. You sleep with your monkey, I’ll sleep with Zoe.”

  In the kitchen that night, as I was helping get the refreshments ready, my mother whispered, “A little on the flashy side, isn’t she?”

  “Who?” I said, as if I didn’t know.

  “Your friend. Flo?”

  “Zoe, Mom.”

  “Zoe.”

  I whispered in her ear. “She’s from California.”

  Her eyebrows went up, she nodded—“Oh”—and went on scooping ice cream.

  Then my father came in. “Your, uh, friend—Bo?”

  “Zoe.”

  “Zoe. Didn’t you say she’s in seventh grade?”

  “She is.”

  He was staring at my face, but I knew where his thinking was: How can two bodies so different both be in seventh grade? He said, “What happened? Was she left back a couple of years?” I kicked him in the shin. He ouched.

  My mother whispered, “She’s from California.” He limped out of the kitchen.

  When the candles on the cake were lit, I went into my huff. (Never have I not gotten every candle on the first blow.) “Hold it!” my father said. “We’re not all here.”

  I looked around the table. “We are so.”

  “Greg’s not here.”

  “Who’s Greg?” asked Zoe.

  “The family animal,” I said.

  “Greg is Megin’s brother,” my mother butted in.

  “I’m Megin’s brudder!” wailed Toddie. “Greg is a animal!” He was standing on his chair next to Zoe. He had one arm around her, and with the finger of his other hand he was tracing circles inside the hoop of her earring. Toddie and Zoe had fallen in love at first sight, and they were already planning to get married.

  Zoe kissed him. “Don’t worry, Toddsie, he could never take me away from you. You’re too much of a man.”

  Toddie swelled up like a balloon. I prayed he wouldn’t fart.

  My father went to the foot of the stairs. “Greg, come on! We’re having the cake now!”

  Grosso’s voice came down. “I’m in the bathroom. Go ahead without me.”

  “Hurry up! We’ll wait!” my father called.

  “Daddy,” I groaned, “come on. Who cares? You know he’s just stalling. He doesn’t want to be here.”

  “Of course he wants to be here.”

  Barf. My father and his happy-little-family routine. Everybody has to be around the table for every birthday. “Daddy,” I said, “what’s the point? He’s not gonna sing anyway.” Grosso and I never sing at each other’s birthdays. My father didn’t answer; he just waited. Finally the toilet flushed upstairs, and about a year later Grosso showed up. Toddie hugged Zoe with both arms and scowled across the table. “Mine,” he said.

  “You’re right, Toddsie,” whispered Zoe, “he is an animal.”

  My mother scowled at Zoe.

  So everybody sang—every human being, that is—and I blew out the candles on the first try, all thirteen of them, plus the one to grow on.

  Most of the presents I got were nice, but sort of ordinary. I saved Zoe’s till last; I expected something pretty goochy. It was something to wear—silky, turquoise background with lots of little curlicues and big butterflies. Reminded me of wallpaper. I took it out of the box, held it up. “A robe.”

  Zoe sighed. “It’s a kimono.”

  “Ouuu, very nice,” cooed my mother.

  “Stunning,” piped my father. “Come on, Dimpus, try it on.”

  I put it on. “Ah, gee, Zoe, it’s a little big.”

  My parents and Zoe laughed. “You wrap it around,” said Zoe. “Wrap it around.”

  I guess I didn’t wrap it around right, because pretty soon Zoe was standing behind me, reaching around and doing the wrapping. I felt like a mummy. I was beginning to wish she had gotten me a nice ordinary pair of sweat socks. Sue Ann was snickering. I grabbed Zoe’s hands, unwrapped myself, and shoved the kimono at her. “Here, Zoe, you put it on. You model it.”

  Well, that was like telling Bugs Bunny to eat a carrot. Zoe carried the kimono out through the living room and partway up the stairway, where we couldn’t see her. When she reappeared, coming out of the darkness into the light of the chandelier, she was the most gorgeous person I ever saw. The kimono came down to her feet, which were bare. Her turquoise toenails matched the kimono perfectly. And the way she moved—not regular walking—I guess it’s what slinking is. Toddie was all boggles, like he was seeing Santa Claus. In fact, everybody was boggles. Dead, boggled silence, except for some faint, gulpy sort of noises that I think were coming from my father.

  The doorbell rang, startling everybody. Grosso answered it. “Oh no,” I heard Zoe say. It was Valducci. Grosso led him upstairs, but not before Valducci crashed into the coffee table and tripped over the first step, gawking at Zoe.

  “What’s he doing here?” I demanded.

  “He’s staying over with Greg,” my mother said.

  “Mom! The only reason Grosso asked him over”—I looked at Zoe, who was taking off the kimono, “—ah, never mind. I thought this was supposed to be my birthday. My friends.”

  She got up and started clearing the table. “Don’t worry. They won’t bother you.”

  Right, Mom. As soon as we headed upstairs, the trouble started. “Uh-oh,” went Zoe. She had left two silver boots on the steps. Only one was there now.

  I was in Grosso’s room in a microsecond. “Okay, where is it?”

  “Get outta here,” snarled Grosso. “This is my room.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The boot.”

  “Boot?” Grosso and Valducci looked at each other like I was speaking Greek. “What boot?”

  I started yanking drawers open. He slammed one shut, almost decapitating my fingers. Then, from behind me: “Val-dooooo-cci. Where’s my boooo-ty?” Zoe was purring against the doorway, fluttering her turquoise fingernails into the room. Valducci, like he was hypnotized, reached under the bed, brought out the boot, and handed it to her.

  “Ninth-grade punks,” I said as we turned and went out.

  When Zoe got to my room she screamed. I rushed in. ‘What’s the matter?”

  “Look!”

  “Look at what?”

  “Your room!”

  Sue Ann was giggling. I kicked her. “Doggone that Toddie,” I said. “He musta been in my room again. He’s always slopping up the place.” I used my hockey stick to sweep a path across the room. “Madam”—I bowed—‘your bed.”

  As soon as we were settled into my room, I phoned for a pizza (part of my birthday present from my parents). I ordered a large. One-third pepperoni (me), one-third extra cheese (Sue Ann), and one-third anchovies (Zoe, ugh!). About a half-hour later, we were deep into a gam
e of poker (Zoe was teaching us) when there came a knock on my door. “What is it?” I called.

  “Pizza,” said a voice. Sounded Italian.

  I jumped up, opened the door. It was Valducci, holding a pizza box. “Itsa you pizza, ma’am. Somma pepparone, somma extra cheesa, somma anchovy. Eh, who wantsa de anchovy?” His eyeballs were crawling over my shoulder and into the room. I grabbed the box and shut the door.

  That’s kind of how things went. We would be doing stuff, and one way or another we kept getting interrupted. Once, a piece of paper came sliding under the door. It was a letter from a talent scout looking for a female lead for a movie version of Romeo and Juliet. Other times Toddie was sent in with weird messages. Other times there were strange noises outside the door. Once there was a strange smell. There were also tapping noises on the windows. One time Sue Ann went to the back window and screeched. We rushed over. Down in the backyard, in the dim light from the kitchen window, I could make out a person, a body, sprawled facedown, with something—a tomato plant stake—sticking out of his back. I just shook my head and pulled down the shade. “Gotta hand it to him. Almost looks real.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Zoe.

  I figured it was time to start dishing it out. And what I had in mind was some real pain. I waited till the “dead body” had time to get up and come back upstairs. I knew they would be in Grosso’s room watching TV, probably with the door open. I handed Zoe the kimono and told her to put it on. “Now,” I said, “I want you to go slinking down the hall to the bathroom. Slow.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Past their room?”

  “You got it.” She started off. I whispered after her: “Slink!”

  Boy, did she slink. Must have taken her ten minutes just to go from one side of their doorway to the other. She stayed in the bathroom a minute, then slunk back. As soon as she passed their room, an eyeball popped out of the doorway.

  “Go back,” I told her when she got up to us. “We’re gonna kill him.”

  She took off again, down the hallway, back. This time, besides the eyeball, there were noises—scratchy, squeaky noises—coming from the doorway. I shoved her out again. “Go, girl, slink. Die, Valducci.” This time Zoe even out-slunk herself. She oozed. As she went past the doorway, a hand came out, clawing the air after her.

  Four more times I sent Zoe down the hallway. After the fourth time, we stood there, listening. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn there was a cage down there with a hungry, hyper, constipated chimpanzee trying to get out. Zoe looked at me. “Enough?”

  I nodded. “Enough.” We slapped hands and closed the door.

  The rest of the night was ours: cold pizza, TV, poker, talking, laughing. Only once more did a knock come at the door. My mother: “Okay, girls, you can stay up as late as you want, but try to keep the noise down. Better get your pj’s on.”

  Sue Ann and I looked at each other: Uh-oh. Usually when Sue Ann stays over, we take turns going into my closet to get changed. But now, with Zoe Miranda in the room, things were different. I wasn’t sure how, just different.

  Well, while Sue Ann and I were there gaping at each other, Zoe strolled over to the bed and started taking things off—like there was nobody around! I stopped breathing. Off and off the clothes kept coming, till there was nothing left except two hoop earrings and twenty turquoise toe-and fingernails. Then she sat on the bed, hoisted one foot up, examined it, reached into her travel bag, fished out a nail file, and proceeded to file away at her big toenail. Then she did the other big toe. Then she stood up, full-front to us, more naked body than I ever saw except for Toddie as a baby, and she started across the room, toward Sue Ann. Instantly two things happened: Sue Ann grabbed her monkey, and I flicked off the bedroom light.

  As it turned out, Zoe was heading for the picture of Emilie. “Hey,” she growled, “leave the light on. I can’t see this.”

  “We can see the TV better this way,” I said.

  “Megin! Turn it on!”

  I turned it on. Sue Ann was now in the farthest corner of the room.

  “Who is this, anyway?” said Zoe.

  “Oh, just some friend of mine.” I turned off the light.

  “Megin!” I turned it on. “Hey, is this—?” Uh-oh. Now she was coming over to me. I couldn’t think. How can you think when there’s a stark-naked Californian standing right next to you? “Is the rabbit real?” she said.

  “Uh, yeah, real.”

  “Weird,” she muttered and put the picture back. I turned off the light.

  Zoe, like nothing had ever happened, went back to her bag and put her pj’s on—if you can call baby-dolls pj’s. Sue Ann and I went to work in opposite dark corners and finally got ours on too.

  The sleeping arrangements were: me and Zoe on the bed, Sue Ann on blankets on the floor. Zoe offered to trade with Sue Ann. “No, you stay,” I told her. “First-time visitors always get the bed. And the window side.” Then she suggested that Sue Ann climb in with us, since I have a big double bed. “Wouldn’t work,” I said. “The monkey can’t stand heights.” We all laughed, Sue Ann hysterically.

  We settled into watching TV. First a rerun of Saturday Night Live. Then a movie about giant worms taking over the earth. By the time the worms were crawling up the dome of the Capitol in Washington, D.C., I was pretty zonked out. “ ’Night,” I said.

  “ ’Night,” said Zoe. “ ’Night, Sue Ann.”

  Sue Ann didn’t answer her, not right then anyway—not till a couple minutes went by: “ ’Night, Zoe.”

  “Wow,” said Zoe, “that’s what I call a delayed reaction.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I knew why Sue Ann hadn’t answered right away: she’d been saying her prayers. She always does. Which reminded me to say mine before I conked out completely.

  When I opened my eyes again, Zoe was still sitting up, but she wasn’t facing the TV. She was holding the shade aside and looking out the window, toward the sky. I was going to say something to her. I was going to ask her if she missed California. But then I figured I’d better not, because she might be saying her prayers, to Halley’s comet. I could see twinkling stars framed in the hoop of one of her earrings.

  Greg

  I COULD HAVE SKATED on the look Sara was giving me from across the room. Mrs. Ackerman had just read off the list of egg couples, ending with: “Tofer-Bellamy.”

  There were thirteen shoe boxes on Mrs. Ackerman’s desk. She put one egg in each of them. Then she called us up and gave a box to each couple. She came around in front of her desk, smiled. “Congratulations. Each of you is the proud parent of a healthy new baby. I don’t have any speeches to make now. We’ll let the experience speak for itself.” Then she gave us the rules:

  For the next seven days we would never call the egg an egg. It was a baby.

  We would never let the baby out of our sight, and would always keep it close enough to be able to hear it cry.

  Mother and father would alternate taking the baby home overnight. Fathers would have the first night.

  Decide what sex your baby is, and give it a name.

  She said our grades will depend on two things: (1) if the baby makes it through the week; (2) a report each couple will have to write. If your baby doesn’t make it through the week, the highest grade you can get is a C. And no sneaking in a substitute for a broken egg—each egg has a special mark.

  Then she asked for questions. One boy—father—asked why the babies were in shoe boxes. Couldn’t they be in something more convenient? “Who says babies are convenient?” she said. A mother asked, giggling, if she could do something to make her baby more comfortable in its box. “It’s your baby,” smiled Mrs. Ackerman.

  When class was over, Sara handed the baby to me and took off. I went after her. “Hey, how about that? We wound up as a couple.”

  “Amazing coincidence.”

  “You’re not mad, are you?”

  “No, I’m overjoyed. Can’t you tell?”

  “Well, wh
at’s it gonna be?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care? You’re the mother.”

  “Don’t remind me. Pick whatever you want.” She went into her English class.

  “How about a girl?” I called.

  She returned to the doorway long enough to sneer, “Fine. Then you can name it Jennifer.”

  Well, I didn’t exactly feel like a proud papa the rest of the day. At lunch most of the other couples sat together, their shoe boxes on their tables. They seemed to be enjoying it, really getting into it. Families.

  After school, when the fathers took the babies home with them on buses, the mothers waved from the the sidewalk.

  “New sneakers?” my mother said when I got home. (My shoe box said NIKE on it.)

  “No,” I said, “it’s not sneakers.” I knew she wouldn’t ask me any more about it, so I told her. “It’s a school project for Health. We all got eggs”—I showed her the egg, “—one egg for each couple. It’s supposed to be a baby.”

  She winced. “A what?”

  “Baby. We gotta pretend it’s a baby.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The experience is supposed to speak to us.”

  “Well,” she said, heading off, “that baby better not speak to me. I’ve had enough babies speak to me.”

  Boy or girl? That wasn’t hard. I knew I wanted it to be a girl. But what to name it? Sara? No, shouldn’t be the same as her. But something to do with her. Something she would like. It came to me: something French. I got the dictionary, turned to the back, where it said “Names of Women.” I went down the list, stopping at the names with “Fr.” after them, until I came to the right one.

  “Camille,” I said as I came up behind Sara at her locker next morning.

  She didn’t bother to turn. “What?”

  “Camille. How’s that for a name?”

  “Fine.” She got her books, smacked her locked shut, and for the first time looked at the shoe box. She snarled. “Oh great.”

  “What’s the matter?”