I twirled the dials on my locker, completely forgetting my own combination. The numbers didn’t return to me until I was clapped on the shoulder by Sarah Kervick.
“You can quit worrying. He’s back,” she said.
CHAPTER NINE
Measuring Up
Okay, I admit it. I don’t like being home alone. Especially at night. Especially on a weekend. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that far more home invasions occur on weekend evenings than weekdays, but do you think the Lions Club takes this into account when they plan their Friday-night combination dance and fish fry, guaranteed to keep parents out beyond ten o’clock? And who decided that eleven-and-three-quarters years old was old enough to “hold down the fort,” as my mother says? It made me marvel, once again, at Sarah’s bravery. She stayed alone in that trailer for two nights and three days and didn’t complain about it.
As soon as I got home from school, I tried to distract myself from the knowledge that I would be alone all evening by reading my latest issue of Germs and Their Genesis. This did not prove to be a wise idea. The lead article focused on a study from Sweden that attributes the dramatic rise of pediatric asthma and allergy cases to—of all things—clean households. Dubbed the “hygiene hypothesis,” it warns that living in a world with antibacterial hand wash, tissues, and counter wipes is hazardous to your health.
It seems that European farm children have a very low incidence of allergies and asthma, as well as dermatitis, multiple sclerosis, Crohn’s disease, and type 1 diabetes. These so-called scientists suggest that ultraclean conditions do not properly prepare one’s immune system, leaving kids more vulnerable to allergies involving pollen, dust, peanuts, even their own body tissue in the form of flaky skin. Excuse me???
I forced myself to read on. The solution? Send your children to day care and get some filthy pets. In other words, expose them to all sorts of low-level bacterial dangers to strengthen their immune response. I expect, in some upcoming issue, the Swedes will have me sharing my bedroom with a couple of goats and a potbellied pig!
Sarah Kervick wasn’t the only one with overloaded circuits. What was I supposed to do with all this conflicting information? Was I now supposed to shovel in potluck casseroles without dissecting them for dog hair first? Especially my mother’s friend Penny’s? Should I stop flossing, walk into my bedroom with outdoor shoes, write with pencils that bear Sarah’s tooth marks?
To handle this bombshell, I needed to place an immediate phone call to the one person in the United States with the qualifications to address my concerns.
Gloria: Gwooria Unwots hee.
Me: Gloria?
Gloria: Sorry, Franklin, you caught me in the middle of my potato salad.
Me: That’s all right, Gloria. I’ll wait.
Gloria (still chewing): I picked up because I need to talk to you.
Me: Really?
Gloria: I’ve been asked to form a committee to study the relationship between curvature of the spine in adolescent boys and video-game playing. And since I am neither a boy nor a video-game player, I thought maybe you could help.
Me: Well, naturally, I’ve formed some opinions along those lines. On the whole, video games directed at boys are quite violent, Gloria….
Gloria: I’m not interested in your opinions, Franklin. What I need is information.
Me: Information?
Gloria: Yes, what are boys playing these days? Do they play alone or together? Do they lie on their stomachs, sit cross-legged, use straight-back chairs or upholstered furniture?…What was on your mind, by the way?
Me (I glance down at my notes, ready to launch an attack on the research methods used in the hygiene hypothesis or at least get some statistics on the possibility of a weekend home invasion, but somehow other words come out of my mouth.): Everything’s changing, Gloria. I keep forgetting to measure my arms and legs; my mother seems to have lost all sense, now that she has a boyfriend, and you know, Gloria, she wasn’t particularly sensible to begin with…. (My words gain momentum. Everything spillsout. Do I really have to give up my antibacterial hand wash? Is it possible that Bernie will move to Gary, Indiana? Sarah Kervick cried, for Pete’s sake!)
Gloria: Everything is not changing, Franklin. You are.
Me: I am? But why should I change?
Gloria: You shouldn’t, necessarily. You just are. It’s called “growing up,” Franklin. You are beginning to notice that other people have needs wholly unconnected to your health; important things happen to them that have nothing to do with you. You are beginning to recognize that they have feelings.
Me: Really?
Gloria: Yes, really. It’s a good sign, Franklin. Remember the Roseto Effect?
Me: Of course I do! I was fine until that study came along.
Gloria: Let’s review it, shall we? For me?
Me (heavy sigh): In some little town called Roseto, Pennsylvania, people were doing everything wrong: smoking and drinking too much, eating lots of fatty foods…. But they were living longer than the people in the towns around them. Scientists figured out that it was because they had good friends and family close by. They enjoyed spending time with their loved ones. Come to think of it, they probably had filthy dogs lounging on their couches waiting for them to get home, just like in the hygiene hypothesis!
Gloria: But most important, they felt their lives had meaning, Franklin. You want the same thing. You want your life to have meaning.
Me: But my life does have meaning, Gloria.
Gloria (choking noise): Sorry, wrong pipe.
Me: Gloria…did you change?
Gloria: Of course I changed. I’m an adult now…with responsibilities.
Me: But I’m not an adult yet.
Gloria: That may be true, Franklin. But some people age faster than others, and I’m afraid you’re one of them.
I thought about all this as I sat in the hall listening to the conversation coming from my mother’s bedroom. What exactly did Gloria mean when she said “Some people age faster”? She disconnected before I could get a thorough explanation. Was she trying to say that one part of me was growing faster than the other, something like the left and right sides of my body? Could my brain be getting bigger at a rate faster than my skull could accommodate? Or was Gloria just being sarcastic, as she has a tendency to be when I ask questions she doesn’t want to answer?
“Would you hurry up?” my mother said to Penny. “It’s almost five. He’s going to be here any minute.” Paul was coming extra early so he could show my mother off around town before the dance began.
“I’m a makeup artist. You can’t make art on a schedule. Hold still.”
I wanted to ask Penny if she’d sterilized the Q-tips she was using to apply makeup to my mother’s face, but it was made clear to me that I was to stay out of the room until the artist was finished. It was just my luck that my mother chose a friend who liked applying makeup and grooming her three rescued greyhounds.
“Not eye shadow. Really? Do I have to?”
“Listen, when I put this mocha in the crease, your eyes will pop.”
“I didn’t know the pop-eyed look was in.”
“Honestly, Julia, you know what I mean. Now hold still.”
The doorbell rang.
“Franklin!”
I answered the door, trying my best to look stern. I didn’t want Paul to think he could keep my mother out past midnight just because he’d bought a couple of twenty-five-dollar tickets to a charity affair.
“Paul?” The man standing in front of me wore a navy-blue suit with a light-blue dress shirt and a gray tie. With the hair on his head combed and the dirt under his fingernails scrubbed away, Paul looked almost, well, presentable.
“Franklin, my man. Well, what do you think? I don’t get to wear these duds too often.” Paul completed a full turn for my benefit. “Seriously, do you like the blue on blue? I was debating.”
“The blue on blue looks very nice, Paul, but I think we should talk
about what time you’ll be bringing my mother home this evening.”
“Honestly, Franklin, you’re worse than my dad when I was seventeen.”
Paul whistled softly through his teeth. My mother was framed in the doorway with the light from the hall shining down on her hair. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled. She looked like she belonged on television pointing at game-show prizes.
“A pretty girl,” Paul sang, sticking the box he’d brought along into my hands, “is like a melody. Come here.”
You could see through the plastic top of the Fields’ Flowers box. I looked at the flowers Paul had brought as my mother took hold of his lapels.
“Mmmm. You smell good, too.” There followed sounds of kissing.
“Didn’t I tell you, Pen, she’d look great in a dress?”
“Yeah, yeah. She looks great. But what about her makeup? C’mon. Don’t you think this should be Julia’s new look? I call it natural sophistication.”
“Give it a rest, Penny. Do you have to go on?” my mother said.
“She doesn’t need anything. She’s perfect the way she is.” More kissing. Before I even had a chance to look away! I guess Paul Bernard knew all the lines. I handed my mother the box of flowers to get it over with. My mother is crazy about flowers.
“Paul…” She lifted the little bouquet out of the box and clipped it around her wrist. “They match my dress perfectly. How did you know?”
Paul winked at Penny. “I did a little snooping.” He took my mother’s arm and folded it across her chest, admiring the match. “They look pretty good, don’t they?” Paul waited for Penny and me to agree enthusiastically before continuing. “Well, we don’t want to be late. I promised the bowling league a look at Julia in a dress, so we have to make an extra stop at Lincoln Lanes.”
“Paul!” my mother said, covering her mouth and blushing like a…well, like a middle-school girl.
I cleared my throat. “Your coat, Mother? And about that curfew…”
“Not to worry, Franklin.” Penny walked over and put her arm around me. “We have it all taken care of. It just so happens that I am free tonight, and they’re showing all the old Lassie movies at the Wealthy Theater. We won’t get home until after eleven.”
Paul opened the door for my mother and stood back.
“You’re not going to start opening doors for me, are you?” she asked him. But you could tell she liked it.
Honestly, after three Lassie movies, I think I’m going to have to nominate Timmy to replace Stuart Little as the most accident-prone character in literature. I mean, how many ravines can one kid fall down?
Timmy wasn’t the only one in mortal danger over the weekend. As I reviewed my school planner on Sunday afternoon, I recalled that it had been Sarah’s weekend to have custody of our baby.
“Where’s Keds?” I asked as soon as I saw Sarah outside science class on Monday.
Sarah hitched her thumb over her shoulder. “Takin’ a nap.”
“In your backpack?”
Sarah pulled me into the classroom, dropped her backpack unceremoniously on the floor, and began rummaging through it. I glimpsed Keds upside down, sandwiched between Ven Conmigo and Science Interactions.
“I got something for you.” She pulled out a wrinkled plastic Megamart bag and pushed it at me.
“A present?”
“Nah. It’s just something…well, in case I…I can’t go with you…” Sarah bent over to zip her pack. “Go on, Franklin.”
I thought about mentioning that our health grade might be compromised if Keds had ink stains on his face, but I was overcome by a sudden wave of feeling: Sarah Kervick had purchased something for me. And it was in a store bag, which meant she actually paid money for it.
“Well, look at it.”
I peeked in the bag and pulled out a CD entitled Water Sounds.
“I know you have a player. You even have a special pocket at the top of your backpack.” She reached over my shoulder to yank on the zipper, but I pulled away. The CD-player compartment was where I kept my stash of Mercurochrome and antibacterial hand wipes.
“You can go in the john, in the stall, and turn this on. They got waves, waterfalls, river rapids. It’ll work, don’t worry.”
“But where will you be?”
Sarah took a long breath and let it escape through her nose.
“Oh yeah. There’s something else. It blew off her head the other day and I nabbed it.”
I looked down at the wrinkly piece of fabric Sarah pulled out of her pocket.
“That’s not…”
“Yup. Glynnis’ head thing. You really should give it back to her, Franklin.”
I wondered what Glynnis’ kerchief would say if it could talk. Did it go home with Sarah Kervick and eat dinner in front of the television set? Visit the dogs? I took the crumpled square of cotton from Sarah and folded it as best I could before stuffing it in my backpack.
Sarah tossed hers over her shoulder and pushed past me. I followed her. The alcove created by the skeleton and the jars of vital organs gave us a little privacy as other students streamed past.
“Why wouldn’t you be able to go with me? Is something wrong, Sarah?”
Sarah looked at me, sizing me up. She swept her hand across her forehead, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her eyes.
“He lost his job again…at the door-panel factory.”
My first thought was to ask why. But did it matter? There were so many possibilities: drinking, fighting, smoking around volatile chemicals.
“That’s not his only job,” I said, finally.
“Oh, c’mon, Franklin. And he fell asleep, by the way. He couldn’t help it.”
I’m sure he couldn’t.
Class was set to begin. Sarah gave me a searching look, as if I might have some ideas for how to restore her father’s job. “Let me think,” I told her. “We’ll talk about it later, after class.” My attention was drawn to the front of the room, where someone was humming the “Happy Birthday” song. I took my seat and observed Mr. Spansky standing at the sink, his back to us, energetically washing his hands.
But later never came. Even after school, as we sat together in the backseat on our way to pick up Sarah’s costume, there was never a good time. Penny was up front. She was anxious to see Sarah’s costume since my mother had convinced her to do Sarah’s makeup for the exhibition.
As we drove, Penny chattered about the girls’—that is, her dogs’—latest exploits while Sarah stared glumly out the window. Though I was hoping to review the articles I’d printed off the Internet during free time in the media center, I found myself instead stealing glances at Sarah.
I had no experience with the situation she was in. My mother’s job seemed quite secure. Cable access was not going away. When it did, she would get trained in the new technology. They needed small, flexible types in her kind of work. She had worked for Cable Country for seven years. Before that it was ComTrast.
Since Penny was in attendance, I was not required to enter the filthy home of Fiona Foster. As soon as my mother, Penny, and Sarah exited the van, I settled in to review the latest findings of the American Council of Cheerleading Coaches and Advisors, or ACCCA. I was shocked to discover that, according to at least one report, more than half the catastrophic injuries to females during the high school and college years involve cheerleading accidents.
Could Glynnis be in danger? The research suggested that the girls highest on the pyramid were the most likely to suffer injury. I thought of Glynnis and her slender frame, her rounded shoulders, her soft elbows. My mind took a very unscientific turn then as I imagined our clean hands clasped together on the school steps, as I had observed certain eighth graders doing that very morning before the bell.
I reached into my backpack for the crumpled kerchief. I sniffed it, wondering if I could distinguish the scent of Glynnis from all the other scents it must have picked up over the last few days. But all I could pick up was the faint smell of smoke. Sigh
. Despite my fantasies, Glynnis and I seemed to get further apart by the day. Still, I would have to return this kerchief, and, at least, Glynnis would know what I was capable of in the laundering and ironing department when that happened.
“I’m wondering,” I began as my mother got back in the driver’s side, “if we could have a talk later tonight about, well…” I trailed off. “Just a chat.”
But my mother did not hear me. “I have reservations about this,” she said, tossing a cardboard box onto the backseat for Sarah. “You’re sure it’s okay with Debbi?”
“She said for the exhibition,” Sarah responded, keeping her head down.
I tried again. “As I was saying…”
“Sorry, Franklin. What?”
“I think it opens up interesting possibilities,” Penny interrupted us, climbing into the van. My mother started the engine and used one hand to execute a three-point turn.
“And what might those be?”
“Well, I know it’s not the traditional—”
“I’m not arguing about it, I just said I have reservations.” My mother stopped talking to concentrate on flying around an elderly woman, who—according to a quick mental rate-of-speed calculation—was driving the speed limit. “You know, in all these competitions and exhibitions, have you ever seen a girl in pants?”
“It is different, I’ll give you that. But it does have possibilities. That’s all I’m saying.”
Sarah was not participating in the conversation. She stared straight ahead, concentrating on the back of my mother’s seat.
The natural question was, Why is Sarah competing in pants? But my mother and Penny seemed to be well beyond the “why” and into the “how.” I sighed and put my research back into the folder I’d cryptically labeled: WGP, for “Winning Glynnis Powell.”
“Can we just stop back at your house for a couple minutes?” Penny asked my mother. “I’ll have her try it on for me. I might have an idea.”
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