by Lisa Graff
The sniffling was coming from Dad’s office, where the door was partway open. I was a little bit afraid, but I peeked my head in anyway, just to get a look.
Mom was in there, wearing her bathrobe she always wore at bedtime, the fuzzy peach one with the satin trim. Just like normal. But what wasn’t normal at all was that she was sitting down at my dad’s desk, holding his wall calendar, and she was crying.
Then, while I watched from the doorway, she ripped the calendar right in half and threw the two pieces on the floor. Even from where I was standing, I could see the big red circle on the calendar around July 9, and the words Jared’s B-day!!! in giant letters.
I put my hands in the pockets of my pajama pants. “You can’t rip up all the calendars in the world, you know,” I told her.
Mom looked up then. “Oh, Annie,” she said. And she opened up her arms the way she used to when I was tiny and I’d crawl into her lap so she could read to me. And even though I was way too big to sit in her lap anymore, I did it anyway. She pulled me close and then she put her hand on my arm-scrape Band-Aid, patting it smooth a few times, like she was trying to make it all better with just her fingers. “I keep telling you you’re fine, don’t I?” she said, and she blinked out some more tears. “But the truth is none of us are. How could we be?”
I thought about that. Then I reached up to smudge away a tear that was tracing its way down her cheek. “We just need to close our umbrellas,” I told her.
Mom blinked a couple times. “Umbrellas?”
And so I explained about closing up the imaginary umbrellas, and how for Mrs. Finch that meant putting up fish pictures, and for me it meant reading books about pigs instead of books about diseases.
“So what do you think my umbrella is?” Mom asked when I was done with the explaining. I was still sitting in her lap, and she was rocking me soft. She had a few sniffles left in her, but she was mostly done crying.
I didn’t answer right away. Instead I stood up and grabbed Mom’s arm and made her walk with me into the hallway.
She stopped cold when we got to Jared’s door. “Oh, Annie,” she said, and she shook her head. “I don’t know….”
But I was the one who knew all about umbrellas, and I wasn’t going to let Mom get out of it. “We’ll do it together,” I told her. So Mom went to get the key, and when she came back, we reached out, our two hands together, and we turned it in the lock.
As soon as we opened the door, it was like Jared was standing there with us, because it smelled exactly like him—dirt on his sneakers and Tootsie Rolls and orange-scented hand soap from Tommy’s house. I didn’t even know Jared had a smell until right that very second.
“Come on,” I whispered to Mom, and we inched inside.
Parts of the room looked exactly like before Jared died, with his baseball posters on the wall and his robot collection on the shelf and his Einstein mug on his dresser filled up with quarters. But other parts weren’t Jared-like at all. The bed was made up nice, corners tucked in and everything, and his clothes were hung up neatly or folded away in his drawers, instead of spewing out all everywhere the way they usually were. And the floor was vacuumed, row after row of ruler-straight vacuum lines, not a speck in sight.
Mom took a deep breath and then walked across the room, her feet leaving Mom-sized footprints on the perfect floor. She sat down gentle on the bed and looked around her. She wasn’t crying anymore.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
I crossed the room and sat down next to her.
“I dunno,” I said with a shrug. “Just sit, I guess.”
I never thought that’d be how I’d spend the night before my brother’s twelfth birthday—up past midnight sitting in his room with my mom in her peach bathrobe. But actually, it was sort of okay. After a while Mom stood up and tugged open the middle drawer of Jared’s dresser. Then she pulled out a blue-and-green striped T-shirt and held it close to her face.
She looked over at me. “We should take his things to the thrift store,” she said. “His clothes at least.”
“Yeah?” I said.
She nodded. “People could use them, I think.” She buried her nose in Jared’s shirt again.
“I think that’s a real good idea, Mom.”
“You do?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Mom looked around the room for a minute. “Why don’t we organize tomorrow?” she said. “We’ll pack up his clothes, and you can help me go through his toys and things, and let me know which ones you might like, or if there’s anything we should give to Tommy, or one of his friends at school…”
I stood up then, and I hugged her. Right around the middle.
She laughed. “What was that for?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She hugged me back. “I love you, too, Annie,” she said.
So far the umbrella-down project had been working pretty well, it seemed like. But there was still one person I needed to work on.
“Mom?” I said. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything in the world.”
I pulled out of her arms and looked her square in the face. “I need you to teach me to make coffee,” I told her.
twenty-three
The instant I woke up Sunday morning, my brain reminded me it was Jared’s birthday. I stretched my feet out so they were straining tippy-toe straight, and I reached my arms to the very edges of my bed, fingers pointed, to make sure I was feeling okay. And it turned out I was. No headache, no earache, no sore throat, no stomach troubles. So I got up, dug through my laundry hamper until I found my favorite outfit—my yellow tiger T-shirt and the shorts with the flower for a pocket—and I got dressed. Then I padded into the hallway.
It was still early morning, with the sunlight just thinking about edging its way into the sky, and as far as I could tell, I was the first person up. I tiptoed down the stairs and opened our front door to get the newspaper off the porch where the paper boy threw it every Sunday.
Just as I was scooping up the paper, I noticed a small white envelope propped up between two slats, about five inches from my foot.
I picked it up.
Miss Annie Richards
That’s what it said on the envelope. I didn’t know who it was from, but I figured it was all right to go ahead and open it, since it had my name on it.
There was a folded-up letter in there, and something else small and flat—I couldn’t tell what it was. I went for the letter first.
Dear Annie,
Thank you for returning the book, and for your nice note. It meant a lot to me. I think you are a much better Sunbird than you know.
Your friend,
Joanne Harper
I poked my fingers inside the envelope and took out the flat thing, then laid it in my hand. It looked just like a Junior Sunbird badge, the same size as a lid on an olive jar, with stiff purple fabric and yellow thread all around the outside. Only it wasn’t an official badge—I could tell Mrs. Harper had made it herself on her sewing machine, because the letters on the inside were a little bit more lopsided than normal, and they spelled out “Apology Badge.”
I ran my thumb across it as I walked back inside with the newspaper.
Four whole badges.
Fifteen minutes later I was sitting at the table with the newspaper folded up in front of me when Dad came down the stairs. He rubbed his eyes when he saw me.
I pushed his mug across the table toward him. It was filled up with coffee, fresh and steaming, just the way Mom had showed me how to make it the night before. I’d put in the perfect amount of milk that he liked, too, until it was the same color as the inside of an almond. “Good morning, Dad,” I said. “Care to read with me?”
Dad blinked once. Then twice. Then he smiled a twitch of a smile and sat down in the chair next to me. “I’d love to,” he said.
And that morning, for the first time since Jared died, Dad and I read the newspaper together, the whole thing. While we were starting up the cros
sword puzzle, Dad leaned over and squeezed me tight into a sideways hug. “I’ve missed this, Moonbeam,” he said, his voice tissue-paper soft. “Thank you.”
We stayed in that hug for a bit, and that plus the Moonbeam made me feel warm all over.
“Twenty-six across is ‘llama,’” I told him.
After a while Mom came into the kitchen, and she smiled at us and said, “The coffee turned out okay, then?” I nodded. I could tell by the way her eyes were shiny-wet in the corners that her brain had reminded her about Jared’s birthday too. But Dad poured her a cup of coffee and she sat at the table and helped us with the crossword and we ate breakfast together. When we were finished eating, I told Mom and Dad I had something to show them. Me and Tommy’s surprise.
“At Lippy’s,” I said. “I think you’ll like it.”
When we got down to the store, sure enough, there was Tommy, putting up our flyer on the bulletin board just like he’d promised. He stuck it right in the center, with a thumbtack in each corner. It wasn’t as big as a movie poster, just regular flyer size on plain white paper, but it had giant letters at the top that said “Happy Birthday, Jared!” so I knew lots of people would notice it. Tommy stepped back so we could all read it.
* * *
Happy Birthday, Jared!
from Annie Richards and Thomas Lippowitz
Jared Richards was a real good friend and a real good brother. Today, July 9, is his birthday.
Here are some ways to remember him:
Eat Jared’s favorite kind of ice cream (chocolate chip with crumbled-up animal crackers)
Roller-skate down Maple Hill with one eye closed
Play the burrito game (Annie will teach you how if you don’t already know it)
Go miniature golfing
Start a robot war
Make turkey meat loaf and add loads of ketchup
* * *
Then we’d left lots of blank lines under that, so other people could add their own ideas. Dad scratched his head for a bit while he read our list, and then he picked up the pen that Tommy had hung from the bulletin board by a string, and he wrote “Play baseball in the park.” Mr. L. came outside and added his own too, which was “Make up silly knock-knock jokes.” Mom took a long time thinking about hers, but finally she put down “Be extra kind to the people you love,” and then she gave me a kiss on the forehead.
We stayed there a long time, looking at the list, and watched while people came by and added things. And everyone had nice things to say about Jared.
When we were getting ready to leave, I went to find Tommy inside the store. He was opening up a package of Ding-Dongs.
“They got damaged,” he told me.
I was starting to notice that when Tommy was around, it was only things made of chocolate that got damaged, but all I said was “Jared’s birthday turned out pretty good, I think.”
“Me too,” he said. He held out the Ding-Dongs. “Want one?”
“Thanks.” I grabbed one out of the package. “Well, see ya,” I said.
“Hey, Annie?”
I turned around.
Tommy was looking down at his shoes. “I still miss Jared,” he said.
“Yeah,” I told him. “Me too.”
“But…well, you’re not too terrible to hang out with or anything.”
I took another bite of Ding-Dong. “You’re pretty okay too,” I said.
twenty-four
When we got back home, there was a leaf stuck under the front door. And sure enough, when I checked the answering machine, there was a message from Rebecca.
“We’re back from church!” It was all loud hollering. “Come on over as soon as you get this! I have to show you something important!”
I heaved Dr. Young’s dictionary off my bookshelf so I could return it to him, and then I went to the garage and put on all my gear—helmet, elbow pads, kneepads, ankle bandages. Then I looked at my bike, sitting in the corner by Dad’s car.
Walking would be the safest thing.
But biking would be quicker.
I dumped the dictionary in the front basket, took a deep deep breath, and swung my leg over my bicycle. And I headed down the street to Rebecca’s.
Dr. Young answered the door. Before he could even say anything at all, I asked him a question.
“I don’t have Ebola, do I?”
Dr. Young scratched his chin and thought about it. “Most likely not,” he said.
“That’s what I thought. Because some of the symptoms fit, but not most of them.”
He looked at me, and it was a serious look but not the dead-brother one this time. This one was more gladness behind the eyes. “You know something, Annie? You could grow up to be a very good doctor one day.”
And even though I’d never thought of that before, I sort of liked it. “Well”—I held out the dictionary—“anyway, I just wanted to give this back. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
“You’re welcome. Did it come in handy?”
I nodded. “I found a word for your wall,” I told him.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Instead of that old one. Despondent. I found a better one.” I pointed to where I’d marked it with a Post-it.
Dr. Young opened to the right page and scrolled his finger across the word I’d highlighted with purple marker. “Radiant,” he said, and then he looked up at me. “That’s a good word, Annie.”
“It’s from a book,” I told him. “Charlotte’s Web.” The dictionary said it could mean either “glowing brightly” or “emanating great joy, love, or health.” “It’s not…” I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked up at him. “I’m not sure I’m ‘radiant’ yet,” I said, “but maybe one day I will be.”
“Annie,” Dr. Young said, shutting the dictionary, “I think you are very close to radiant.” And that might’ve been just about the nicest thing anyone ever told me.
Rebecca raced out onto the porch then, plowing right into her dad in the doorway. “There you are!” she shouted. She was wearing her bike helmet. “Come on! We’re going to Doug’s!”
“Doug’s?” I said as Rebecca yanked me off the porch. But she didn’t explain, just hopped on her bike and motioned for me to follow her. We pedaled fast as cougars the whole way.
Doug was waiting for us when we got there, and he was wearing his bike helmet too, but he wasn’t on his bike. He was standing in the middle of his yard, and there were pool noodles everywhere, sticking out of the ground like tent poles, and balanced between chairs, and hanging down from the branches of the elm tree.
“What happened to your yard?” I asked him.
“It’s an obstacle course!” Rebecca hollered. “We made it!”
I whacked down my kickstand and put both my feet firm on the ground. “But I don’t want to do an obstacle course,” I said, and I hoped I was being extra glary at Doug while I said it. “I told you. Obstacle courses are—”
“It’s not dangerous,” Doug said. “Not this one. We got pillows.” He pointed to a giant pile of them under the tree.
“And duct tape!” Rebecca shouted, pulling a roll out of her bike basket.
I took turns staring at both of them. They were acting nuttier than pecan pie. “Huh?”
“It’s called pillow races,” Doug told me. “Me and Rebecca made it up. So you could play.”
“Yeah!” Rebecca nodded her head up and down all excited. “The rule is you can only race if you’re wearing pillows! And bike helmets!”
“Well…” I looked around the yard, at all the pool noodles everywhere. It must’ve taken them forever to set it up. “What if I just watch you guys play?”
“Nope,” Doug said, and he shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”
That’s when Doug and Rebecca strapped the pillows to me with duct tape, one in front and one in back. Then they strapped pillows to each other, too.
And even though I felt stranger than a green flamingo, I had to admit the obstacle course looked pretty fun.
/> “Okay!” Rebecca shouted, her arms poofed out to her sides because of the pillows. “I got the stopwatch! Annie goes first!”
“Where’s the start?” I asked.
Doug punched himself twice in the belly where his pillow was, and it made a nice low thudding sound. “Over on the porch,” he said. “You have to slide down two steps on your butt, and then you cross over to that chair”—he pointed—“and do a ninja leap. And then we’ll tell you the rest as you go.”
“Got it.” I waddled over to the porch.
I had just plopped myself down on the second-to-last step when I felt something scrunch in the back pocket of my shorts. I wrestled my arm through the pillows until I reached my pocket, and I pulled the thing out.
It was a folded-up piece of paper with the word INDESTRUCTIBLE underlined three times.
“What’s that!” Rebecca shouted from across the yard.
I looked at the paper in my hand for a second, and then I looked up at Rebecca and Doug, waiting for me under the elm tree like two giant grinning marshmallows. And then, without even thinking twice about it, I ripped my will in half.
“Nothing!” I shouted back.
“You ready?” Doug asked. Rebecca’s thumb was hovering over the stopwatch.
“Yup!” I cried, dumping the pieces of my will on Doug’s porch. “I’m gonna win, too! The slowest racer’s a”—I tried to think of a really good word from the word wall—“rabble-rouser!”
Rebecca laughed at that. “Trundle bed!” she hollered.
“Halitosis!” I screeched.
“Needle-nose pliers!” Doug wailed.
Then Rebecca shouted at me that she was starting the timer, so I was off!
And somehow, while I was busy sliding and leaping and dancing and dodging, my brain managed to figure something out.
