Calli Be Gold

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  Wanda narrows her eyes. “I bet it’s dyed.”

  When I get home, the first thing I do is take a yellow Post-it and write Friendship Fair 7 p.m. Then I pull a stool from the counter over to the Calendar. I climb up and find the right Thursday.

  I see a pink Post-it and a blue one already on that day. Becca’s says skating competition, time TBA, and Alex’s says home game, 5:30 p.m.

  I’m standing there atop the stool, holding my measly yellow Post-it, when I hear Mom’s voice behind me. “Calli! Be careful! What are you doing?”

  “I have something to put on the Calendar.” I turn, waving the Post-it. Then something awful happens. My foot slips. The stool shakes. Then it topples out from under me and I go flying through the air. As I’m falling, I desperately clutch at something. The Calendar. I hit the kitchen floor with a big corner piece of it in one hand and my little yellow Post-it in the other.

  Mom lets out a scream. “Are you okay?”

  I stand up sheepishly and rub my side. “I’m fine.”

  She looks me over. “You sure you’re not hurt? Can you walk? Do you feel dizzy?” She puts a hand on my forehead.

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  She sets the stool upright, then slowly gazes up at the Calendar.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with a gulp.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers. She reaches for the corner I’ve torn from the Calendar, then opens a drawer and takes out a roll of tape. She fits the ripped section back into place, then secures it with several long pieces of tape. A few Post-its fluttered to the floor when I fell. She picks those up and firmly places them back on the correct dates.

  “I don’t think I could live without this calendar,” she says with a nervous chuckle. “What were you doing up there, anyway?”

  “Here,” I say, handing her my Post-it. “This goes on the Thursday before winter break.”

  “What is it?” Mom looks at the note.

  I reach inside my backpack and pull out the flyer. “This explains everything. It’s a big thing at school. We’re doing this Friendship Fair with our second-grade peers. Part of the Peer Helper Program. Remember I told you about it?”

  “Oh,” she says, and takes the flyer from me, reads it, then holds my Post-it up to the Calendar. She sticks it just below Becca’s and Alex’s, then turns to me. “Honestly, Calli, I don’t know how we’re going to squeeze this in.”

  I stare at her, unable to speak. My heart starts to pound.

  “Becca has her first competition, and the Lady Reds will be there. And this is a crucial game for Alex,” she says. “Those things were already on the Calendar.”

  I cross my arms. “So?”

  “Well, let me think.” She rubs her forehead. “We certainly can’t be in three places at once … and I don’t even know the exact time of the competition at this point. I guess Dad and I can split up, and one of us can bring you to the fair when either the game or the competition ends.”

  Something inside me boils up, and my skin gets hot and prickly. My voice rushes out like I’m not in control of it. “I can’t be late. And are you saying either you or Dad wouldn’t come? All the other families will be there. This is something important! To me! Don’t you understand?”

  I grab my backpack and stomp upstairs, then slam the door to my room. I start kicking and throwing pillows and stuffed animals off my bed; then I thrash around and mess up my comforter. Even though my lip is quivering and my eyes feel watery, I promise myself I won’t cry.

  Finally, when I feel tired out, I hang upside down from the bed with my head nearly touching the carpet. I dig deep inside me and find the courage to whisper the truth. “Sometimes I really hate this family.”

  No one calls me for dinner. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe Mom cautioned everyone to let me cool off. She’s big on that when someone has a fit. At six-thirty, I decide to go downstairs. Everyone is in their usual seats and Mom is putting a plate of chicken on the table. Before I sit down, I glance at the taped-up Calendar and I’m happy to see that my yellow Post-it has not been removed. Yet.

  Dad has already started the ABC game and Alex is telling him something about a new basketball play. Mom slides a piece of chicken onto my dish as Dad moves on to Becca.

  “My L.A. teacher said only one student got a hundred on the pronoun quiz, and that one student was me,” Becca declares proudly.

  “Way to go.” Dad nods, then turns to me.

  I have that boiling, prickly feeling again.

  “Number three?” He raises his eyebrows. “Your turn.”

  That does it.

  I take a deep breath. “I have an actual, real, important activity that I put on the Calendar today, but it seems that this family is too busy to care about me or anything that I might want to do.”

  The four of them stare at me.

  Becca glances toward the wall and says, “What happened to the Calendar?”

  “Why is Becca’s and Alex’s stuff more important than my fair?” I cry.

  No one says anything.

  “All this family cares about is what everyone can do, not how people feel.” I stand up and march out of the kitchen. Even though I’m really hungry, I decide not to eat so they will feel even more awful.

  As I’m going upstairs, I hear Becca mutter, “What’s up with her?”

  A few minutes later, after I’ve cried about a thousand tears (I couldn’t hold them back this time), there’s a light knock on my bedroom door. Mom walks in and sits down next to me on the bed.

  “Calli,” she starts.

  “Don’t talk to me,” I yell. “I don’t want to hear your reasons why I have to be late and you can’t come.” I stuff my face in a mushy pillow.

  She pats me on the back. “All I came up to tell you is that we’ll find a way to work it out,” she says, smoothing my hair. “You know, these are good problems to have. It’s good to be busy. That’s what life’s all about.”

  No, I think, that’s not what life is all about. “I’m going to the fair. I’m not going to be late either. We have to be there an hour before to set up.”

  Mom stares at me.

  “I’m not going with one of you to the game or the competition,” I say. “I’m going to the fair. I don’t care if any of you come or not, but I’m going.”

  ow not only is Becca acting cool around me, Mom is too. I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like quiet Calli is being taken over by a mad, emotional Calli who keeps having outbursts. And every day when I walk into the kitchen, the rip in the Calendar is a reminder of my tantrums. The worst part is that there’s no one to talk to about all this. Not Becca, never Becca. Alex is busy with basketball, and as close as I am with Wanda and Claire, they don’t really understand what life is like in my family. It would be nice to have someone who would get it without my having to explain.

  At school, Mrs. Lamont tells us that we’re having a shortened gym period so we can get together with our peers and plan the Friendship Fair. I’m happy because I’ll get to see Noah, and gym is not my favorite subject. We still have to change into our gym shoes, though.

  This turns out to be a waste, because all we do is sit and listen. Ms. Pector informs us that after winter break, we will be starting the health unit. Today is a little overview.

  “Puberty,” Ms. Pector begins, and the boys immediately erupt into fits of laughter. “Quiet!” she commands. “Puberty is a time of wonder,” she continues. “We will be learning about the remarkable changes that will be happening to each and every one of you.”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Wanda sneaking a peek at her chest. Claire pokes her in the back. Tanya Timley is sitting up straight and tall in front of me, and when I look at the back of her shirt, this time I do see the outline of a bra.

  I point it out to Wanda, who gasps. Claire jabs both of us.

  Ms. Pector is saying these embarrassing, private words with no shame, and all the boys are laughing again, plus snorting and slapping thei
r legs. Jason starts chanting the word “uterus” over and over, making it sound like he’s cheering for the uterus team. Pretty soon all the boys are chanting it along with him. “U-ter-us! U-ter-us!”

  Ms. Pector blows her whistle loudly and the boys stop. “Might I remind you,” she says, “that you will be tested on all of this information, so it is to be taken seriously.”

  With the boys still whispering, “U-ter-us,” we walk to Mrs. Bezner’s room, and when we get inside, I see that Noah’s chair is empty. I find him under his desk.

  I duck underneath and I’m about to ask him why he’s there, but he pulls a deck of cards from his pocket—the most tattered, worn deck of cards I’ve ever seen.

  “Want to see a trick?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  I know we’re supposed to be talking about the fair, but I watch as Noah fans out the deck. “Pick a card.”

  I pull one out; then he closes up the deck, has me stick my card in the middle, and shuffles. Noah starts laying out cards on the floor. “Is this your card?” He points to the seven of spades.

  “No,” I say.

  He nods. “This one?” The three of hearts.

  I shake my head.

  “Right,” he says, “because it’s this one.” He holds up the two of diamonds.

  “That’s it,” I reply. “How did you do that?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He gathers up the cards and stuffs the deck back into his pocket.

  “That was amazing, Noah!”

  The two of us sit there for a while. I can hear the others planning away.

  “So,” I say, “do you have any ideas of what we can do for the Friendship Fair?”

  He makes a face at me.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You’re not good at thinking of ideas.”

  He nods, but I think I see a little smile too.

  “Is that why you’re back under here?” I ask softly.

  “Maybe.” He looks down at the carpet.

  “Let’s try to think of something together. We have to think of something, or else you and I are going to have an empty table the night of the fair.”

  “Why do we have to?” Noah asks.

  “Well, everyone else is, and besides, maybe it will be fun. Did you ever think about that?”

  He doesn’t say anything. A feeling of panic creeps into my stomach. After I made that big scene with my family, now I’m not going to have a booth even if a miracle happens and they do manage to come. “Everyone is thinking of ideas,” I say, peeking out from under the desk.

  Noah pulls up his knees and buries his face between them. “You should work with someone else.”

  I think about how he said I was a pink heart. “I don’t want to work with someone else.”

  “Why not?” His voice is very small, like him.

  “I don’t know … I just want to work with you.”

  “But why?”

  I can’t help laughing. “Why do you ask so many questions?”

  Now Noah’s voice is soft and scared-sounding. “Because no one ever answers them,” he says.

  I look at him, all tucked into his body. I gently touch his arm. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

  He jerks his head up and looks like he might cry. “People don’t tell you stuff when you’re a kid. They keep all kinds of grown-up secrets.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like about what’s wrong with you.”

  I wait as Noah twists his hands. “One doctor says one thing and another doctor says another thing, and I don’t know what any of them are talking about. Mom says between me and my sister and her job, she’s going to have a nervous breakdown.”

  “Your mom works a lot?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, then frowns. “They keep telling the doctors they just want me to be normal. Like everybody else.”

  “Your mom and dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  I nod. “Parents are like that,” I say, thinking of Dad, and how he wants me to be a Gold like the rest of my family.

  “They said I might have some kind of syndrome. But they don’t know yet. They give me tests and ask a lot of questions.” He glances at me. “What’s a syndrome?”

  “I don’t know. Like a disease?”

  “I guess.” He shrugs. “The doctors all said one thing. That it’s hard to diag—What’s that word again?”

  “Diagnose?”

  “Yeah. That.” Noah looks at me. “Don’t tell anyone,” he adds nervously. “It’s a secret.”

  “I won’t.”

  Noah and I sit quietly under the desk for a few more minutes; then he adds, “You promise?”

  “I do. I promise. It’s our secret.” Then I stare wide-eyed at Noah.

  “What?” he asks.

  “That’s it,” I say. “Noah! Friends keep each other’s secrets. That can be our theme for the Friendship Fair!”

  He gives me a confused look. “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, the best kind of friends tell their secrets to each other but they keep them, right? A good friend would never tell, like how I just now promised you that I would keep your secret.”

  He nods slowly.

  “So can we make a project or something about that?” I ask.

  Noah’s face looks crumpled and worried.

  “I know. You told me. You can’t make stuff.” I bob my head. “But we’ll come up with something that doesn’t require doing a lot of art. Whaddya think?”

  He doesn’t answer, then says very softly, “Are you my friend?”

  My heart is flying. “Yes,” I say without taking a breath. “I am.”

  He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He gives me that little half smile. “I think we have an idea.”

  “We do,” I say, and I can’t help it; I reach a hand out and smooth down his messy hair. It perks right back up again, and I laugh.

  On the way out, I hear Wanda and Claire enthusiastically describing their booths to each other. Wanda needs Play-Doh and Claire is worrying about how she and her peer will have enough time to create their complicated exhibit. Tanya says her booth is going to “blow everyone else’s away.”

  I don’t care. Not one bit.

  Noah and I have an idea.

  he next time I’m going to the rink, I cross my fingers and hope that Noah will be there so we can talk about our idea. Most of the groups are way ahead of us. Becca spends the entire van ride telling Mom about a girl on her team who takes every opportunity she can to toss a mean comment at her. I wonder if it was the girl who Becca almost tripped at the exhibition.

  “Can’t you do something?” Becca twirls a piece of hair with a finger.

  “I think you’re going to have to work this one out yourself,” Mom says. Becca huffs but I want to applaud.

  I’m thrilled to find Noah inside the rink, even if he is under the hockey-foosball table. I see the hoodie kid heading my way—he probably wants to bond over the improv experience—but I kneel down by Noah and say, “Hey.”

  Noah motions for me to get under the table, and when I do, he says, “I think I know what we can do.”

  A feeling of excitement spreads through me. “You do?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  He squares his shoulders and draws himself up so he seems a little taller. “It’s called the Secret Friendship Booth. We put a sheet or a blanket over a table, okay? Then two friends can go under and tell each other a secret. We charge everybody a quarter for one secret-telling and then we give the money to the school so they can buy some good stuff, like library books.”

  I tilt my head and stare at Noah. “Did your dad give you that idea?”

  “No.”

  “Your mom?”

  “No.”

  “You thought of that all by yourself?”

  He nods solemnly.

  “Wow … this definitely has possibilities … but don’t you think we sh
ould have something on top of the table, like pictures of friends, maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or little sayings about friendship?”

  “We could print them from the computer,” Noah suggests.

  I wonder what the other kids are planning. “Well, maybe our booth won’t be the most amazing one, but at least we’ll have something.” I give Noah a soft punch on his arm. “Hey, I thought you weren’t good at coming up with ideas.”

  Noah shrugs. “It wasn’t so hard, I guess.” He glances toward the man with the laptop and the phone earpiece.

  “Is that your dad?”

  He nods.

  “He works a lot too?”

  Noah nods again.

  “Your sister’s on the skating team?”

  “Yeah.”

  What if Noah’s sister is the girl who is being mean to Becca? “Which one is she?” I ask.

  “She’s new. So they made her the alternate.”

  “Oh.” Not the mean girl, then.

  Noah squints at me. “Why do you ask so many questions?”

  I remember when I asked Noah the same thing. “Are you making a joke?”

  He bobs his head and lets out that croaky laugh.

  I squint back at him and laugh too.

  The next PHP time can’t come fast enough; I’m so excited for Noah and me to get started on our booth. When the day finally arrives, I help Wanda carry twelve small jars of Play-Doh in neon and regular colors to the classroom but she won’t tell me why. “You’ll just have to see for yourself the night of the fair,” she says mysteriously. Claire is hauling a stack of library books and she won’t say anything about her booth either. There are certainly a lot of secrets going around.

  Tanya asks Mrs. Lamont, “Can Ash and I go out in the hallway to work in private?” She’s holding a video camera.

  Mrs. Lamont puts a hand on Tanya’s shoulder. “Only if you won’t disturb other classes.”

  “We totally won’t.” Tanya plucks Ashley by the arm as soon as we step into Mrs. Bezner’s room. Today the two of them are wearing crocheted caps pulled down low over their long hair. “This is so fun!” Tanya exclaims. They let out their identical high-pitched giggles as they move toward the doorway.