Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush?

by Jerry Spinelli

  “Look at the others. You’ll see what the matter is.” She grabbed the box and stomped off to her homeroom.

  Pretty soon I saw what she meant. The others’ shoe boxes, well, they no longer looked like shoe boxes. They were decorated—some with paper, some with paint, usually pink or blue. And there were little blankets inside, and little pillows. I felt bad, thinking of Sara carrying around a bare box. No wonder she was mad. She was looking like a bad mother. “Hey, Tofe,” one of the fathers called in the hall, “I see you named your kid Nike. That a boy or girl?”

  One of the mothers said to me, “Sara’s motherly instincts are being violated.” She was grinning, but I don’t think she was joking.

  I caught Sara coming out of French. I told her I was sorry I hadn’t fixed up the box, and sorry that her motherly instincts were being violated.

  “Who cares about motherly instincts?” she snapped. “I just want a good grade.” She ducked into a girls’ room.

  When I saw her after lunch I said, “Y’know, if you’d talk to me maybe things would be better. The other mothers talk to the fathers. We’re supposed to do what’s best for the baby.”

  “It is not a baby,” she seethed, “it is an egg.”

  After school, at her locker: “Sara?”

  She sighed. “What now?”

  “A lot of the parents are getting together tonight—”

  She stomped her foot. “Stop saying that! We are not parents!” She bashed her locker door shut and took off.

  The box was still on the floor. I picked it up. “Sara—you forgot something.”

  She screeched, whirled, stomped back, snatched it out of my hands, and took off again. I could hear the egg rolling and knocking in the box. I went after her. I grabbed her arm and led her through a door and down some stairs. I was surprised she didn’t fight back. On the landing halfway down she pulled out of my grasp. Her cheeks were red. She was glaring at me, hating me, breathing hard. Suddenly my head was out of words, and reasons for being there. What finally came out was: “I like that new scarf and hat you got. The powder blue.”

  “What do you want?” Her eyes were glistening.

  “Sara… look… I’m sorry.”

  She snickered. “Is that why you dragged me down here? Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix up the box.” She started up the stairs. I pulled her back down.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. That’s not what I’m sorry for.”

  “Oh, I thought it was.”

  “Well yeah, yeah, I am sorry for that. But that’s not the only thing.”

  “So what else is there?”

  “Well… you know—”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Well… Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer? Jennifer who?”

  “Come on, Sara.”

  Her glare was fierce. “Jennifer who?”

  Just then some ninth-graders came stampeding down the stairs. We froze while they passed.

  “Wade,” I said. “C’mon now. Stop acting like you’re not mad.”

  “You want me to act like I am mad?”

  “No no, c’mon, you know what I mean.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t know what you mean.” She started up the stairs. I held her by the arm. She sighed into the space above my head. “I think I’m getting tired of this game.”

  “Sara, I know you’re mad.”

  “What, pray tell, am I supposed to be mad at?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “You hate me. I can see it. You can’t stand me. You despise me.”

  She laughed. “Despise you? I don’t even think about you, so how can I despise you?”

  She wrenched free. This time I didn’t reach for her—not with hands anyway. “You asked me to kiss you,” I called.

  She was at the top step when she ran into the words, like they were a brick wall. She turned, real slow, looked down. “What did you say?”

  “That time at your house, after the fair, remember? You said, ‘Uh, you wouldn’t need a ticket to kiss me.’ Remember? And the time we were sledding. That’s all I’m saying. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I know you’re mad at me, and I can understand why, but what I’m saying is, I don’t think you really have a right to be mad at me, because, like I said, you asked me to kiss you.” She was moving down the stairs. “And, like, you asked me to go to the Conestoga fair. And you asked me to your birthday party. That’s all I’m saying. That’s all.”

  By now she was on the step above me. She glared down for a long time. Little parts of her neck were the only things moving. Then she said, slow and cold, “You could have said no.”

  “What did you want,” I said, “me to say no or to kiss you?”

  She slapped me. I didn’t even see it coming. I knew it was hard, by the way her face shot out of my vision, but my skin didn’t feel it. Then suddenly, a rolling sound—egg on cardboard—she was losing her balance, lurching forward, tripping down into me, the shoe box rattling along the stair posts, tilting, tilting, the egg rolling to the lip, over the edge, she screaming… I caught it, before it hit the step. Smooth, gleaming, cool—so perfect—in my hand. Saved. For a long time there was only our breathing in the stillness. I put the egg, carefully, into a corner of the box. I wanted to look up, to her face, but I was afraid of what I’d find. I saw only the box rise in her hand, and then she was moving, running, down the stairs and out the door.

  When Sara handed me the box next day, it was decorated: pink-and-white wrapping paper on the outside, and on the inside a little white mattress and pillow and a pink blanket. The blanket came up to the baby’s chin.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “I want an A,” she said.

  Okay, I was thinking that night, you want an A, I’ll get you an A. I found some lace and pasted it around the edges of the box. I reinforced the inside of the box and then made two plywood half-moon rockers for the bottom. I made a hood for the top to keep the sun out of Camille’s eyes. And finally I got from my mother an old baby rattle of mine and laid it on the blanket.

  My mother was looking more and more suspicious. “You sure this is for Health class?” she said. “Or am I going to be a grandmother soon?”

  I laughed.

  I didn’t say anything when I gave Sara the box next morning. Her eyes snapped open when she saw what I had done, but she didn’t say anything either.

  Later that morning I heard that one of the couples, Jeff Peterson and Ashley Vote, had lost their baby. Cracked on Jeff’s kitchen floor. Rolled off the kitchen table as he was working on the box. “Ashley’s crushed,” a mother told me. Ashley looked it, when I saw her at lunch: red eyes, feebly poking at some Jell-O cubes, surrounded by girls trying to console her.

  Next day, Friday, I took the box from Sara again without a word. It wasn’t till third period that I noticed only the very tip of the egg was showing. I pulled the cover down, and that’s when I saw the little pink pajamas, with feet, and the name Camille stitched in purple thread.

  I felt great, super. I sailed through the rest of the day. I was tempted to try talking to Sara, but I figured now that she was starting to thaw out, I’d better not press my luck. Besides, I was still trying to work up the nerve to ask her to keep the baby on Sunday, which was supposed to be my day. Sunday was going to be the big hockey game: us Homestead House players against the Rink Rats from the Skatium. Hanging around the lake could be dangerous for a baby, egg or not. I was sure now that Sara would be willing to baby-sit an extra day, if only I could make myself ask her. I wished by some miracle she would call me and take the pressure off.

  The miracle happened. About noon Saturday. When I heard her voice, I tried not to sound too thrilled.

  “Hello? Greg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Sara Bellamy.”

  “I know. Hi.”

  “Have a question to ask. Well, favor, sort of.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “About
the, uh, project. Would you mind keeping it today?”

  “You mean the baby? The egg?”

  “Yes. Will you?”

  “Well, if you want, I guess.”

  “Thanks, bye—”

  “Sara.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, uh, by today, does that mean tonight too?”

  A short pause. “Uh-huh. Okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “Bye.” She hung up.

  Only then did my brain start working. In a couple seconds I was calling her back.

  “Sara?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Greg again.”

  Pause. “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering, how come you can’t take the baby today?”

  “Well, I’ll be busy.”

  “Busy tonight?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Like on a date with somebody? Like with Leo Borlock?”

  Long pause. “Is that any of your business?”

  “Yeah, maybe it is, since you’re asking me the big favor.” Silence. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You going out tonight?”

  “What if I am?”

  “And you don’t want to be dragging a baby along, right? You don’t want it to get in the way between you and Leo, right?” Silence. “Right, Sara?” More silence. “Well, I got news for you. I’m bringing the baby over to your house. Right now. It’s your job. You’re the mother.” She hung up.

  I took the box to her house and left it on the porch.

  It was a long Saturday night for me, thinking about Sara and Leo. Together. Somewhere. At first I was glad I made her take the baby. Keep them from concentrating too much on each other. But then I wasn’t so sure. Didn’t I hear somewhere that babies bring people closer together? A long, long Saturday night.

  Next day, when I left the house for the big game, I found the baby back on my porch.

  Megin

  MY MOTHER’S WORDS stabbed me like an icicle to the heart: “Megin, I want you to take Toddie to the library tonight.”

  “Library?” I said. “He can’t even read.”

  “Children’s Story Hour. Puppets too.”

  “Can’t Greg take him?”

  “Greg took him last month.”

  “Can’t Daddy take him?”

  “Saturday night. He’s working.”

  “Can I just leave him there and come right back?”

  “Take him, stay there with him, and bring him back. Alive.”

  I took a deep breath and asked the big question: “What time?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  Arrrrgggh! I wanted to scream “No! Never!” and throw things through windows. But I didn’t. I controlled myself. Remember Zoe, I told myself—how good an actress she is. Be an actress. Act.

  So I acted. I nodded and said, “Okay, no problem.” I even smiled a little. I got up from the dinner table and strolled away, all calm and cool. I didn’t say a word about the Wayne Gretzky special on TV that night. At seven o’clock. I didn’t say they were going to be talking with him and showing highlights of his best games, his most fantastic shots. I didn’t tell my mother that nothing—not a flood coming down the street or the earth colliding with another planet or the Children’s Story Hour—was going to keep me from being in front of my TV set at seven o’clock.

  I had to work fast. It was already after six. By six-thirty I was ready. I left my bedroom door open, so my mother could hear. She was coming up the stairs, heading for my room, just steps away—now, girl, act! I toppled off my bed, hard, onto the floor: thump.

  First I heard my mother’s voice in the hallway: “What was that?” Then she was in my room. “Megin! What are you doing?”

  “Nothin’, Mom. I’m okay.” I made my voice sound grunty but friendly.

  “What did you do? Slip on an old pizza crust?”

  I chuckled painfully. “Maybe it’s an attack of cleanophobia.”

  “Well,” she said, “if it is, you better get over it pretty soon. It’s almost time to go.”

  “I will, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “To tell you the truth, Megin, I wasn’t all that worried. I just want you on your feet and ready to go.”

  “Right,” I grunted. I reached up for her arm, clawed up to her shoulder, and pulled myself up. I put all my weight on her, so she was practically on her knees by the time I was standing.

  She started to walk away. I collapsed to my knees. She turned. “Megin! What is going on?”

  “Nothing, Mom,” I answered cheerfully, clutching my stomach. “I’m okay. I’m ready to go. Is Toddie ready?”

  “Megin, stand.”

  She took a quick step backward, so this time I had to pull myself up with my dresser. “There,” I said, smiling, panting, “okay?”

  She looked suspicious. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing, Mom, really. Just a little cramp, that’s all.”

  “Cramp? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Around here.” I pointed to a place.

  “Maybe just a bad enough cramp to keep you from taking your little brother to the library, huh?” She was looking very suspicious.

  I straightened up. “Mom, honest, look. I’m okay. I want to go. Really. C’mon now.” I pushed her ahead of me into the hallway. “Let’s go down. I gotta get my coat.”

  The next time I heard my mother’s voice, I was in the living room ready to leave with Toddie. I had his hand. She howled from the kitchen. “Megin!”

  “What, Mom?”

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Goin’ to the library, Mom.”

  “Crawling?” She’d noticed that I was down on all fours. “Are you planning on crawwwling all the way to the library?”

  “Mom, it’s okay. It feels better this way, that’s all. No big deal.”

  Five minutes later I was in my bed (Mother’s orders), under the covers with my Gretzky stick, watching TV and listening to Grosso squawking downstairs: “Mom, I’m telling ya, she’s lying! She’s faking it! She just doesn’t wanna take him! I took him last month!”

  Gretzky was great. He was great just sitting there talking in the studio, great being mobbed in the shopping malls, great waving in the parades. But most of all he was great on ice, weaving through the Black Hawk defense, beating the Canucks single-handed, hat-tricking the Maple Leafs. Gretzky was making mincemeat of the Jersey Devils when suddenly my bedroom light blazed on and my father came rushing in. He knelt by the bed, right in front of me, so I had to crane my neck to see Gretzky mopping up the Devils. He put his hand on my forehead. “Yep,” he said, “you do seem a little warm.”

  I pushed his hand away. “Daddy, I’m watching.” He turned off the TV. “Dad-deeee!”

  “Calm down, Dimpus, easy, easy, no getting excited.” He was petting me like a dog. “You dressed?” He pulled down my covers. “What’s this?”

  “My hockey stick.”

  “Oh—okay. Now, think you can stand up?”

  For the first time I took a good look at him. His hair was messed up. He still had his coat on. He was breathing hard, like he was excited, or upset. Something dawned on me. “Hey—aren’t you supposed to be working tonight?”

  “I was. Mommy called me.”

  “Called? What for?” As soon as I asked the question, the answer hit me. “Daddy, did she tell you I was sick? I’m okay now. I just had a little cramp, that’s all. Look—” I hopped out of bed, flicked the TV on, and started doing jumping jacks. My father tackled me, gently, turned off the TV, and dumped me back on the bed. He pinned me down with his hand. “Don’t—move.”

  “Daddy, I’m okay.”

  “You can’t be okay. Not from what I heard. And you know Mommy—she wouldn’t call me unless it was serious.”

  He was right about that. I must have done a great job of acting. “Yeah, but Dad, it feels a lot better now. Especially since I was watching TV. It was distracting me. Can I put i
t back on?”

  He wasn’t even listening. He was just giving me this silly grin and wagging his head and looking really goofy. Suddenly he was hugging me and mumbling into my hair. “I’m really proud of you, you little trouper.”

  “Wha’d I do?”

  “Mommy told me how you tried to take Toddie to the library.”

  Maybe I’d done too good a job of acting. “Well, y’ know, I’m a hockey player. You gotta play with pain. You can’t let every little twinge stop you.”

  He kissed my nose. “That’s my trouper.” He stood up. “Okay, come on, we gotta hurry. Can you stand?”

  “Hurry? Where’re we going?”

  “Hospital. C’mon, try standing.”

  “Oh no!” I screamed and dove under the covers and rolled myself into a ball in the corner of the bed.

  “Come on, honey.”

  “No.”

  “Dimpus.”

  “No.”

  I could feel his hands all around me, trying to find a way through the covers. Something was making it. A finger. It reached my knee. I bit it. He howled. The finger left. “Megin, come out.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital just for a little cramp.”

  “Megin, you were having pain, weren’t you?”

  “So?”

  “You were having so much pain you couldn’t stand up, true?”

  “I was. It’s gone now.”

  “And do you know what you were pointing to when Mommy asked you to show her where the pain was coming from?”

  “I don’t know. My stomach or something.”

  “Your appendix.”

  “My appendix is fine.”

  “Let me tell you a story, Megin. A man at work, in floor coverings, Mr. Eckersley, has a daughter. Last year she had pains in that spot. They took her to the hospital. The doctor said she had acute appendicitis. He said if they had gotten her there a couple hours later, it might’ve been too late.”

  The jig was up—hospital or the truth. I took a deep breath: “I was faking it.”

  He laughed. He patted me where he probably thought my head was; actually it was my butt. “No, Dimpus, you weren’t faking it. If Mommy thought you were faking it, she never would have called me. And if I thought you were faking it, I never would have rushed home from work. Especially when the man I was talking to wanted to buy two refrigerators.”