by Judy Blume
“How?” Steph said.
“You don’t. You get it from a duck.”
Steph just looked at me.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “Down … as in feathers. Get it?”
“Oh, right …” Steph said. “Now I do.” But she didn’t laugh. Then she said, “Did you hear about Marcella, the eighth-grade slut?”
“No, what?”
“She got caught in the supply closet with Jeremy Dragon.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. Why would it be a joke?”
“I don’t know. The way you set it up, I thought you were going to tell a joke.”
“No, this is a true story,” Steph said. “It was the supply closet in the arts center. When Dana found out she went crazy, yelling and screaming in front of everyone!”
“Really?”
“Yes … then Jeremy goes, ‘How come it’s okay for you but not for me?’ And Dana shouts, ‘What are you talking about?’ Then Jeremy goes, ‘You know what I’m talking about!’ And he walks away, which makes Dana so mad she takes off his bracelet and throws it at him. It hits him in the back of his head. So he turns around and goes, ‘Thanks, Dana!’ Then he picks up his bracelet and puts it in his pocket.”
“You were actually there?” I asked. “You actually saw this happen?”
“No,” Steph said. “But everybody’s talking about it. Everybody knows!”
“What was he doing in the supply closet with Marcella?”
“What do you think?” Before I had a chance to respond, Steph answered her own question. “Pure animal attraction!”
“Yes, but the difference between humans and animals is that humans are supposed to think,” I explained, “not just react.”
“But let’s say you were alone in a supply closet with Jeremy Dragon …” Steph said. “Wouldn’t you react?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. I’m reacting just thinking about it, like any normal person.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not normal?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It sounded like you did.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Good, because I’m as normal as you!”
“If you say so.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Lighten up, Rachel, will you?” Stephanie said, shaking her head. “You’re never going to make it to eighth grade at this rate.”
I wanted to ask Steph exactly what she meant by that remark, but she went into the orthodontist’s office before I had the chance. It’s not as if I wouldn’t want to be alone with Jeremy Dragon. But I’d choose someplace more romantic than a supply closet at school!
When Alison came over that night, I asked if she’d heard about Jeremy Dragon and Marcella. “Steph told me,” she said. “I feel bad for Dana.” She walked around my room touching things—the framed photos on my dresser, my collection of decorated boxes, the needlepoint pillows on my bed. “I’d do anything for a room like this.” She sounded as if she were in a trance.
Since she goes through this routine every time, I decided to call her on it. “Okay,” I said, “on Saturday I’m coming over and we’re going to organize your room.”
“Oh no,” Alison said, “it wouldn’t work!”
“Why not?”
“I’d never be able to keep it like … this,” she said, opening my closet door, “with all my clothes facing the same direction, and my shoes lined up in a row.”
“It’s easy!” I told her. “You just have to put away your clothes when you take them off.”
“But you know how I am. You know I never put anything away until my closet is empty and all my clothes are piled on the floor.”
“You can do it if you want to.”
“I want to … but I know myself. I’m too tired at night to care.”
“Then you should go to bed earlier.”
“That’s what my mother says.”
“I don’t mean to sound like your mother, but you’ll never know until you try.”
“No, I’d just wind up feeling bad.” She sighed. “Maybe someday. Maybe next year, okay?”
I shrugged. “Whenever.”
“Besides,” she said, looking around, “Steph says it isn’t normal for a teenager to have a room as perfect as this.”
“Stephanie said that … about me?”
“Not about you,” Alison said, backing off. “About your room. We were just talking, you know, about this article in Sassy and …” I waited while she painted herself into a corner. “Steph didn’t mean it personally or anything.”
“I cannot believe Stephanie told you I’m not normal.”
“She didn’t say that!”
“You know what Stephanie’s problem is?” I asked. “Stephanie confuses normal with average. It’s true that the average teenager doesn’t keep her room as neat as I keep mine. But just because it isn’t average doesn’t mean it’s not normal.”
I absolutely detest the word normal. I detest the way Stephanie throws it around. And, I admit, sometimes I do wonder about myself. There’s no question, I’m different from most kids my age. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe when my mother jokes to her friends that Rachel was born thirty-five, she knows what she’s talking about. Maybe I won’t find out until I actually am thirty-five. Maybe then I’ll be more like everyone else.
Alison was running her hand over the books on my shelves. “So, can you recommend something good? I have a book report due on Friday and I forgot to go to the library.”
“They’re all good,” I told her. “It just depends on what you’re in the mood for.”
“Something about a girl who lived a long time ago.”
“Historical fiction,” I translated. “Let me think …” My books are arranged alphabetically by author so I know exactly where each one is. I pulled two off my shelf—Summer of My German Soldier and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn—and handed them to Alison.
“I’ll take this one,” she said, thumbing through the first.
“Good choice,” I told her. “I think you’ll like it.” I wrote down Alison’s name, followed by the title and author, in my library notebook. Even though every one of my books has a bookplate on the inside cover, some people forget to return them. They don’t mean to. It just happens. This way I know who’s got what. As I was putting away my notebook, Charles opened my bedroom door. “You know you’re supposed to knock!” I said.
But he paid no attention. “I was hoping for a quick game of torture,” he said, standing in the doorway.
“We are not interested!” I tried to force him out by closing the door but he blocked it.
“What’s torture?” Alison asked.
“Torture is having a conversation with my brother. Torture is enduring his witty comments.”
Alison didn’t get it. But Charles pushed past me and said, “An excellent definition, Rachel.” He looked at Alison. “You just don’t know how refreshing it is to live with a child prodigy.”
Alison didn’t get that, either. She sat on the edge of my bed, not knowing what to say. Charles smiled at her. She smiled back, clearly flattered by his attention.
“So, what’s your ethnic heritage, California?” he asked.
“None of your business,” I told him, answering for Alison.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Charles said to her smoothly, “but I’m very interested in ethnic heritage, given my background.”
What background? I wondered.
“Well, I’m adopted,” Alison said. “I don’t know anything except that my birth mother was Vietnamese.”
“I’m adopted, too,” Charles said. “I wish our family were as open about it as yours.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, totally shocked. “You’re not adopted!”
“You mean you never guessed?” he asked me. “You never put two and two together?”
“You’re lying!” I shouted. Then I turned to Alison. “He’s lying!”
“Here are the facts,” Charles said quietly to Alison, as he sat beside her on my bed. “I’m one-eighth Korean, one-eighth Native American, one-quarter Irish, one-quarter Eastern European, and one-quarter Cuban.”
“How would you know all that if you were adopted?” I asked.
“I’ve seen the papers.”
Alison was confused and so was I. “Get out of my room!” I shouted at Charles, holding the door open. “Now!”
“Goodnight, California,” Charles sang as he left. “Until next time …” He blew her a kiss.
I slammed the door after him. “I’m sorry,” I said to Alison. “He’s so obnoxious.”
“No … it’s okay,” she said.
“It’s not okay! He’s playing with your mind.”
“Maybe he is adopted.”
“He’s not!”
“You’re younger,” she said. “Maybe you just don’t know. Some people don’t talk about it.”
“It’s not possible!” I said, feeling lost. “Grandpa Robinson said—” I stopped in midsentence. “I mean, he looks like my father … don’t you think?”
“Not really,” she said.
But Mom and Dad would never keep such a secret, would they? No, they believe in honesty. On the other hand, Mom is a very private person. She holds everything inside.
As soon as Alison left, I went directly to my parents’ room and knocked on their door.
Dad called, “Enter ….” He was grading papers at his desk. I heard water running in the bathroom. Mom was probably taking a shower.
I pulled a small chair over to Dad’s desk and waited for him to look up from his work. When he did, he said, “What can I do for you?”
“I have a very important question,” I said.
“Okay … shoot.”
There was no easy way to do this. I focused on Mom’s collection of glass bottles. There are eleven of them sitting on top of her dresser, each with a silver top.
“Rachel …” Dad said.
I looked at him, then back at Mom’s bottles. Finally I managed to say, “Is Charles adopted?”
Dad didn’t answer right away. He reached for my hand. “I know it must feel that way to you …”
“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” I said, “but that’s what he just told Alison! He told her he’s one-eighth Native American, one-eighth Korean, one-quarter Irish and …”
Dad started laughing.
“I don’t find it funny at all!”
“He’s not adopted,” Dad said. “He probably just feels that would explain things.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” I asked.
Dad stroked my arm. “I was there at his birth, honey. I held him in my arms, same as I held Jessica and you when you were born. Not that I wouldn’t love any of you just as much if you were adopted …”
“It’s cruel to lie to someone who really is adopted, trying to make her think they have something in common.”
“I’m not excusing him,” Dad said, “but maybe he likes Alison and is trying to impress her.”
“What do you mean by likes?”
Dad kind of smiled and said, “You know … boy meets girl …”
“You mean likes her that way!” I didn’t give Dad a chance to respond. I jumped up. “That’s out of the question. She’s my friend. My friends are off-limits to him. You’ve got to do something, Dad! You’ve got to get him out of my life!”
“Rachel, honey …” Dad stood, too, and wrapped me in his arms. “It’s going to be all right. I know these are difficult times …”
“So were the Crusades!” Mom said, coming out of the bathroom in her purple robe.
Charles has a tutor. His name is Paul Medeiros and he’s tall, about six feet, with dark hair and dark eyes. He wears rimless glasses. He’s Dad’s student teacher. He’s going to come to our house every afternoon for two hours. This means Charles will not be finishing ninth grade at my school. What a relief!
When I met Paul a few days ago, he was wearing jeans and a black pocket T-shirt. He had a pencil smudge on the side of his face. He said, “So you’re Charles’s older sister.”
“No,” Charles told him, “this is my baby sister.” Charles was wearing a T-shirt that said ALL STRESSED UP AND No ONE TO CHOKE. I felt like choking him!
“She doesn’t look like a baby,” Paul said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Charles said. “She’s just thirteen.” He said thirteen as if it were the plague.
I could see the surprise on Paul’s face. But I liked him for not making a big thing out of it. “Then you’re the musician?” Paul asked.
“Well, I love music but I’m not that good,” I told him.
“She’s only a child prodigy,” Charles said.
“Charles … I am not!” I wish he would stop calling me that! I’ve met real prodigies at music camp. Some of them are only ten or eleven and they’re already studying at Juilliard. It was a shock when I realized I’ll never be as good as they are, no matter how much I practice.
Paul gave me an understanding smile, then playfully shoved Charles back toward his room. “Okay, time to hit the books.” He turned for a moment and said, “Nice to meet you, Rachel.”
When he said my name, I felt incredibly warm inside. At first I thought I was having what Mom and her friends call a hot flash. But I don’t think you get them till you’re older. I’m not sure if what I feel for Paul is pure animal attraction or not. Either way, from now on I’ll have to be very careful because if Charles ever finds out—or even suspects—I have an interest in Paul, he will deliberately humiliate me in front of him. Not that I think Paul would let him get away with it. Still, the damage would be done.
That night I lay on my bed reading sonnets to the cats. I imagined I was onstage and the entire audience, including Paul, was mesmerized by my voice.
Suddenly I had the feeling I wasn’t alone and when I looked up, Charles was standing in my doorway. “You read Shakespeare to the cats?” he asked.
“They’re very good listeners,” I told him. “Now please leave!”
“You know, Rachel … when people start reading to their animals …”
“Out!” I said again. “Right now!”
I could hear him chuckling even after he’d closed my door.
I began to think of Paul every night when I went to bed. Thinking about him is very relaxing. It’s better than anything I’ve read in Psychology Today. My jaw hasn’t hurt at all since Paul started coming to our house. But whether that’s due to my new dental appliance or to Paul himself, I really can’t say.
I wonder if Tarren knows him since he’s graduating from the same college where she is a junior. Next time I see her I’ll have to ask.
But the next time Tarren came over, she pressed a screaming baby into my arms and said, “Where’s your mother?” Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair damp and matted around her face.
Mom was at the dining room table, working on what could be her last big jury trial before she is appointed a judge. “Tarren, what is it?” Mom asked, pushing back her chair.
Tarren threw her arms around Mom and cried, “Aunt Nell … my life is just one big mess! I don’t think I can take it anymore.”
Roddy continued to scream. Mom said, “Rachel, take the baby into the kitchen and give him a bottle or something.”
Tarren pulled off her shoulder bag and passed it to me. “There’s a bottle inside.”
I took Roddy into the kitchen, but since there’s no door between the kitchen and the dining room I could still hear everything.
“All right,” Mom said to Tarren. “Now calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
Tarren sobbed, “I got another ticket … for speeding. I was only doing sixty-seven, but they gave me points.” She blew her nose. “If I lose my license I won’t be able to get to school and if I can’t get to school I’ll never graduate, and if I don’t graduate and get a teaching job I’ll never be able to support myself and Roddy and I
’ll never get out of my parents’ house, or have my own life, or …” She was crying again.
Mom sounded firm. “Listen to me, Tarren. We’ve been through this before. You are responsible for your own actions.”
“But it was a mistake,” Tarren cried. “I didn’t know I was going over the speed limit.”
“We all make mistakes,” Mom told her. “The point is, you can’t fall apart every time something goes wrong. You’ve got to learn to be strong!”
“I don’t know how to be strong, Aunt Nell. I want to be like you … you know I do … but I just don’t know how.”
“Then you’re going to learn, right now,” Mom said. “You’re going to start by telling yourself, This is not a life-threatening situation. This is not a serious problem.”
“It’s not?” Tarren asked.
“No, it’s not!” Mom said.
Roddy lay in my arms, sucking on his bottle, his fingers playing with my hair. I love Roddy. I love the way he smells and feels. I love his sweetness.
“And I don’t want to hear you sounding like your father, Tarren,” Mom continued. “Your father still hasn’t learned to be strong, and he’s forty …” Mom hesitated.
“Forty-four,” Tarren said.
“Yes, forty-four,” Mom repeated. Mom says Uncle Carter takes after Grandfather Babcock, who drank too much and wasted his money on get-rich-quick schemes. I never knew Grandfather Babcock. He died when Mom was just nineteen. I think she worries that Charles will turn out like him or Uncle Carter.
“Life is an obstacle course,” Mom said.
I know Mom’s obstacle speech by heart. We all have to make decisions. I’m not saying it’s easy. But you don’t have to collapse every time you come face-to-face with an obstacle.
“An obstacle …” Tarren repeated, her voice trailing off.
As Mom and Tarren were talking, Charles breezed into the kitchen. “Hey, Roddy, baby … how’s it going?” He lifted Roddy off my lap and held him high over his head. Roddy shrieked, loving it.
“He just finished a …” I began to say, but by then it was too late. Roddy spit up half of what I’d just fed him, right on Charles’s head.
Charles shoved Roddy back at me and ran for the sink. He turned on the faucet full blast and stuck his head under it. When he’d had enough, he turned off the water and shook his head like a dog who’s been for a swim. Roddy clapped his hands and laughed. Then Charles laughed, too. “Very funny, Roddy,” he said. “Ha-ha-ha.”
