“Right. I was sick on the day my class went last year.”
“You up for going this weekend?”
I agree to go, so on Saturday afternoon, we drive downtown past the monuments. We’re circling around F Street, looking for a parking spot along with hundreds of other cars. We’re both getting annoyed.
“I don’t get how this connects to biographies in your history class,” I moan.
“My class is reading various biographies connected to World War Two, and there are a lot of people in the exhibit — Julia Child, Alfred Dreyfus, Josephine Baker. I thought it would add an interesting angle to their research, but I want to be sure there’s enough there to make it worthwhile.”
After slowly making our way through the crowds of groups in their color-coordinated shirts, I’m standing on my tiptoes, trying to read the signs. We’re both admiring the totally cool James Bond gadget car, when I say to Dad, “Wow, so many secret lives. Do you think their families knew they were spies or helping secretly?”
“Good question. I suppose if it would have put the families in more danger, then they wouldn’t have told them.”
“But don’t you think it’s bad for families to keep secrets from each other?”
“Yeah, in general, I agree, but it depends on the situation.”
“So, if you were a spy, you wouldn’t tell me or Mom?”
“I’m not a spy, Corinna.”
He may not be, but I feel like a bit of a spy for sneaking into my mom’s notebook.
I remember to put the notebook back in the bag the next time Dad starts watching a basketball game, but not before I finish the page about their money problems.
How will we ever afford to buy a house? We don’t even have kids yet and I’m already worried about how we’ll be able to send them to college. At least we are rich in love.
Old Spice
Clare and I never finish the wedding conversation, but I guess there’s plenty of time before we have to figure out all that stuff. There are other things we have to deal with before our weddings to Alex and her crush, Tyler. Now that Clare and Joci are hanging out with each other, I have to be a little careful about how much complaining I do about Joci to Clare. Sometimes, I can’t help it, though, like tonight, when I call her after dinner.
“Clare! Joci keeps complaining about her mom not letting her talk on the phone past nine. She’s going on and on about it, every time I see her.”
“Ugh.”
“I hate it when she does that.”
“Me, too. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Guess what happened to me tonight?” Clare asks. “I was at a soccer goalie clinic and the trainer asked me if my dad was a soccer player. Even after three years, I get that dread when I meet new people and I start wondering if they know, or am I going to have to go through the whole story and all that. I still get that pounding feeling in my heart whenever the ‘Dad’ topic comes up.”
“Oh, Clare, that must have been so hard.”
The next morning, I make scrambled eggs and one of the eggs has two yolks in it. I call Clare immediately, to ask her if she thinks it’s a sign that something really special or magical is going to happen, like getting a message from my mom. She doesn’t laugh at me when I come up with stuff like that, and that feels really good.
Not all of our conversations are about Joci, Alex, or death, though. On Wednesday, Clare and I are at CVS, killing time while Dad is at his weekly faculty meeting. We spend five minutes debating between the Smartfood Popcorn and the Doritos. When we finally make our choice to get the popcorn, we get in line to pay behind this big group of boys in seventh grade. They’re all in their North Face jackets, each one chewing huge wads of gum, talking about the great qualities of the supersize red sport deodorant that each of them is buying. The cloud of spicy deodorant smell is so strong it makes us gag. They think they’re so big and cool, and we try hard not to burst out laughing. Yuck.
As soon as we get outside and around the corner, I let loose. “Did you see the size of those deodorant sticks? What’s up with that? It’s enough to last for five years!”
“Well, some boys really need it. Have you noticed how the school hallways have that BO smell? I think it’s about time they took some responsibility for their stink!”
I ask Clare if she remembers when she first started using deodorant.
“Yeah, I begged my mom to get me some in third grade. She told me I didn’t need it yet, so I went and bought one myself out of my own money. There were like fifty choices, so I started opening and sniffing each one. My nose couldn’t smell anything by then, so I chose a really gross one and didn’t use it more than a few times. I couldn’t stand the smell of myself.”
I laugh at Clare’s story and then tell her mine. “My mom told me the same thing, but when I asked again in fifth grade, she did get me one. She got me the same brand and scent she used.”
“I wonder if anyone’s parents actually suggest their kids start or if parents are like the last to realize the kid needs it?” Clare asks.
“Maybe they like their own kids’ smells!”
By the time I get home from CVS, Maki is desperate to go out for a walk. While I’m out, complaining to him about the stupid assignment Mr. Spinolli gave us over the weekend, two bicycles whiz by. I didn’t see who they were, but they looked like they were about my age. A boy and a girl. From a distance, I see the orange shirt on the boy’s back. My back stiffens. Could it be Alex? His house is on the other side of town. I looked that up in the school directory weeks ago. Why doesn’t he have a coat on? Who is he with? Why didn’t he say hi? He didn’t even turn around. Am I that invisible? Does he have a girlfriend who goes to a different school? I’m devastated. But I can’t be sure it was him. As Joci is always telling me, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I’m still devastated, though. It’s going to be another night with too much to think about.
At school the next day, I see Alex in the band room.
“Alex, were you out riding your bike yesterday?”
“What?” he says, looking up at me with his gorgeous eyes.
“I thought I saw you riding a bike on my street yesterday.”
Just then, Mr. Morgan taps his baton and everyone has to get to their seats and hold up their instruments to show “readiness.” He wants kids to take band seriously, so he threatens to reduce our report-card grades by one point for every time someone’s not quiet and ready to play. I’m going to have to find another way to bring up the bike thing with Alex.
Two long days pass before I see Alex again. Either he was absent or he was avoiding me. When I finally see him at his locker, his back is toward me and he’s talking to Juliette. I start freaking out. Does he already have a girlfriend? Am I just a blob to him? There’s no way I’m going to go up to him and risk total humiliation.
Since we’re not allowed to have cell phones on at school, I go to the bathroom and text Clare.
does Juliette like Alex?
Her reply comes at the end of the next period:
will investigate
The boys aren’t the only ones who smell up our school. Mr. Spinolli, my social studies teacher, has terrible blue cheese breath and a mean personality. He probably eats moldy cheese for breakfast every day. Everyone talks about how we dread having to go up to his desk because of his deadly smell, much less having him yell at us for getting something wrong. His poison goes beyond his smelliness.
“Miss Burdette, please bring your paper up here.”
“Umm, okay.”
Everyone is staring at me as I stand up and start walking toward his desk. I want to disappear into the walls.
“Miss Burdette, march yourself directly to the main office and wait for me there. I’ll be there as soon as this test is over.”
“But, Mr. Spinolli . . .”
“No buts.”
I can’t believe this. Is he accusing me of cheating? In front of everyone? How horrifying. And confusing. I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t cheating
. I didn’t look at anyone else’s paper. I didn’t have any notes on my arms or in my desk or on my water bottle. I wasn’t using my cell phone. What’s his problem? By the time I get to the office, I’m raging. Rage and confusion are not a pretty combination. My ears are burning, too. I sit on the bench for fifteen minutes before he comes stalking down the hall with a super-serious look on his face. His comb-over hair is partially flopped in the wrong direction, so he looks stranger than ever. I’ve had plenty of time to panic about the embarrassment this is going to cause my dad, the teacher. And to think about Alex the Magnificent witnessing my horror scene, even if he does like Juliette.
“What is this?” he demands like a fire-breathing, cheese-breathed dragon. He’s holding our textbook with a paper sticking out of it.
“A history textbook.”
“And it was under your desk, Miss Burdette.”
“But I keep mine at home. It’s in the kitchen on the bench.”
“Then why was this under your desk with some very important dates and vocabulary conveniently sticking out of the book? This is not the kind of thing you want following you and your records that go with you to the high school.”
“I don’t know; it’s not mine. I didn’t know it was there, Mr. Spinolli. I didn’t do anything, I swear.”
Mr. S. opens the book and his megabushy eyebrows go way up above his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hmm. Seems it was issued to someone else. I’ll have to investigate some more. You may go to your seventh period class now.”
No apology or anything. He should be fired for humiliating students. That is the worst — well, almost the worst — thing a teacher can do. Somehow, I get myself to my biology class. As soon as I sit down, Joci passes me a note that reads, “What happened?”
“Tell you later,” I mouth.
I brief her in the hall while we’re changing classes.
“I would have freaked if he did that to me.”
Her mouth opens superwide when she says the word freaked, which makes it seem even worse, but it also looks so funny that I start laughing.
“Yeah, I did freak.”
“But you survived.”
“Barely.”
Joci’s face lights up. “We should start a petition against him for that. That would teach him a lesson, wouldn’t it?”
I grab my flute out of my locker and rush to band. I wish I had eyes in the back of my head so that I could really check out the drum section and confirm if Alex is or is not looking at me like I’m a criminal or a piece of cardboard. Instead, I try to act normal.
Dad doesn’t want me dropping band in the middle of the year because it would mess up my schedule, but I have my own reasons to continue. And I don’t mean because Mom would have wanted me to. I make myself a promise during band that I will practice three times a week. I need to avoid any more humiliation in front of Alex.
As soon as I get home, I move the music stand up to my bedroom and perform my band pieces for Maki. It’s hard not to think that even if I am doing all of this for a cute boy, Mom would still be happy that I’m actually practicing my flute.
I Am
We have to do this poem thing for our next grief group meeting. It’s called an “I AM” poem. Here’s mine:
I AM . . . a daughter that loves her mother
I WONDER . . . if she could have lived if the doctor found the cancer sooner
I HEAR . . . her voice
I SEE . . . her face
I WANT . . . to ask her so many things
I AM . . . a daughter that loves her mother
I PRETEND . . . to be with her
I FEEL . . . sad without her
I TOUCH . . . her pictures
I CRY . . . at night
I AM . . . a daughter that loves her mother
I UNDERSTAND . . . she’s still part of me
I SAY . . . “But it’s not fair”
I DREAM . . . of when we were together
I TRY . . . to get through each day
I HOPE . . . it gets easier
I AM . . . a daughter that loves her mother.
I can’t imagine reading it out loud to the group, so I think I’ll plan on asking Ms. DuBoise to read it for me or use the “I pass” rule.
After I write my “I AM” poem, Joci calls and starts asking all kinds of questions about the group. I explain to her for the tenth time that we’re not supposed to talk about what goes on in the group.
“Come on, Corinna. No one’s going to find out if you tell me what happened to Max’s father.”
“Yeah, but if I tell you, then he might tell someone else one of the things I shared in group.”
“But he’ll never know.”
“Sorry, Joci. I just can’t.”
As soon as I get off the phone, I dial Clare.
“You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What? Tell me.”
“You know how we’re supposed to respect the privacy of our group and what people say? Well, Joci called and she was trying to get me to tell her some gossip about Max’s dad.”
“Poor Max.”
“I know, right?”
“So what’d you tell her?”
“I told her I couldn’t tell her anything, but she sounded pissed.”
“She probably wanted to know all the gory details.”
“Well, so do I, but if he doesn’t feel comfortable telling us in our group, then he certainly isn’t going to want everyone else to know!”
“I totally agree.”
“So what should I do about Joci?”
“I have no idea,” Clare moans. “I guess we can’t expect her to understand.”
“Yeah, I guess she didn’t mean any harm, but it still bugs me.”
“Guess what?” Clare asks, her voice sounding very chipper.
“What?”
“I have some news for you.”
“Yeah . . .?”
“Juliette does not like Alex.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s better than that.”
“What?”
“Alex was asking her about you!”
“No way.”
“Way.”
Happy Birthday
My birthday is coming at the end of February, and I’m not sure how we’re going to celebrate it. A birthday without Mom is beyond my imagination. My dad thinks we should invite some family, like my Arizona grandparents, or Aunt Jennifer and her kids, but I’m not so sure. Having houseguests means you can’t be alone when you want to be. I don’t really feel like having a party with my school friends, either. My mom and I used to have such great parties with themes that we worked on for weeks. Mom loved doing that stuff. She even kept a little notebook with lists and party themes, games, and favors. My favorite was the rainbow theme. Dad isn’t good at those things and, besides, it just wouldn’t feel right. He’d be better at planning a camping trip. I’m starting to think that maybe we should go on some kind of a trip, so we won’t be sitting around the house. Maybe going to Aunt Jennifer’s would be good. That would also make it easier if one of my friends asks me what I’m doing for my birthday.
A few days later, Dad brings up my birthday again. I get brave and tell him what I really want: “How about we take a trip to California?”
He seems to like the idea and says he’ll check on flights and all that. I’m still hoping for the UGG boots that I’ve been wanting forever, the chocolate brown ones. I’m tired of people saying, “Nice boots,” when I wear my clunky winter ones. Another thing I want really badly is pierced ears. My mom said I couldn’t get my ears pierced until my sweet sixteen because she got some terrible infection that spread all over when she got hers pierced. She was worried that I would, too.
That doesn’t seem like much of a worry now. The thing I am worried about is if Aunt Jennifer or I will get cancer, since she’s the sister and I’m the daughter and we have a lot of the same genes. I’ve heard that some cancers can run in families, so
I decide I better Google that or ask my dad to ask my doctor, to see if I need to be doing something to prevent getting it.
At dinner, Dad tells me he talked to Aunt Jennifer and the airlines and we’re good to go to California for a long birthday weekend. I can’t believe my ears.
“Dad, that’s great. Thanks! What’s for dinner?”
“Um, how about breakfast food?”
I’m tired of breakfast for dinner. We’ve been doing that at least twice a week for months, even after he made his famous shopping list right after New Year’s.
“Okay . . . unless you want me to make some soup and grilled cheese.”
“Actually, that sounds much better.”
I serve up the tomato soup and grilled cheese, and we sit down in our usual chairs. The empty one is awfully empty.
“Dad, am I going to get cancer, too?”
“No, honey, of course not.”
“How do you know?”
“Mom’s situation was really unusual.”
“How?”
“It just was.”
I go back to blowing on my soup.
The Chair
Our next group session is almost a disaster. I forgot to pack the picture of Mom and me and only remembered the plan when Maki stole the teddy bear off my bed and started throwing it around, playing catch with himself. I did forget my “I AM” poem, but maybe that was sort of on purpose. Max forgot to bring everything, and I feel bad for him. He acts like he doesn’t care, though. Seeing everyone else’s pictures of the person who died is pretty powerful. It makes them even more real.
After sharing the stuff we brought from home, we answer a list of questions about the person who died and write them on sticky notes. Each of us has an extra chair next to us, and we plaster it with sticky Post-its. Then we take turns introducing our chair.
“This is Ralph. His nickname was Ziggy. He was thirty-six. He loved steak and fries and pumpkin pie. His favorite music was jazz. I miss his cooking the most. He taught me how to play drums. If I could, I would tell him that I miss him and he was a great dad. I feel bad that I didn’t get to say good-bye to him.”
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