Just Like Jackie

by Lindsey Stoddard

  Then Harold’s husband, Paul, pulls up in his 1958 green Chevy pickup truck. I call her “She Roll” because the V and T are missing across the back hatch where it says CHEVROLET, so it looks like CHE ROLE. It’s kind of our thing.

  “There’s my ride,” Harold says and I walk to the parking lot with him.

  Paul hops out of the front seat. “She Roll!” he calls as soon as he sees me.

  “How’s she rolling?” I ask, which is my favorite question to ask Paul because his truck is so old you just never know when it’s going to putt-putt-putt and sputter to a stop.

  “Still rolling like the queen she is.” He pats She Roll on the hood. Then he gives me a hug before he hugs Harold, and even though I’m not a touching kind of person it feels pretty OK.

  Grandpa comes over too, and we wave good-bye as they drive off.

  It’s already getting dark and my stomach is growling. I help Grandpa pull down the big garage doors and watch him search for the right key to lock up. He tries two wrong ones before he slides the right one in and we can start walking home.

  On the way I tell him all about Alex Carter’s mom and how she doubted me because I’m eleven, and how I’m actually not so bad at talking to the customers, so I could do that again if he wants. I can tell he’s listening because he pats my shoulder, but he’s not saying anything. I sometimes wonder if he’s getting quieter and quieter because he knows he fumbles his words and gets embarrassed and shakes his head, and I hate that. And I’m thinking how if he gets too quiet I’ll never be able to finish my stupid family tree project because I don’t even know what my mom’s name was. And every time I’ve tried to ask, he snaps shut fast.

  And just when I think I’m getting the guts to try to ask him about my mom, he pats my shoulder again and says, “You did a glued job, Robbie.”

  So I just reach up and touch my baseball glove against his hand and say, “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  When we get home Grandpa looks out back toward the sugar maples. “This weekend we’ll boil the sap,” he says. “You can invest your friend.”

  And I know he means invite. And I know he means Derek.

  “OK, Grandpa.” Then I take the keys from his hand and find the silver one to the front door and let us in.

  Inside, he sits down on the bench by our front door and bends over to pull off his boots. I try to help him with his jacket, but he shakes me off.

  “I’m not a hundred years old, you know,” he grumps. And I know he’s not a hundred years old, but when it gets later in the day he always looks older than he did that morning.

  He starts toward the kitchen. “Let’s see about some breakfast.”

  “Dinner,” I say. “I’ll help, Grandpa.”

  He opens the cupboard and takes out a box of mac and cheese. “I’m fine. You must have some schoolwork to do.”

  I unzip my book bag and take out a worksheet that Mr. Danny gave us during gym class about heart rate. I have to find my pulse and time it for ten seconds, counting each beat, then multiply by six to figure out my beats per minute. Then I’m supposed to do the same thing after I run in place for a full minute. Then I have to write four sentences about what I notice about my heart and exercise.

  I’m sitting at the table, searching for the pulse on my wrist, but really I’m keeping an eye on Grandpa in the kitchen.

  He fills the pot with water and turns on the burner.

  I find the thump-thump in my wrist, and I’m trying to count but I can’t because I’m watching him hold the box of mac and cheese like he’s not sure what the next step is. He takes a knife from the wooden block on the counter and my heart jumps faster. He starts sawing open the box.

  I rush over. “Grandpa, like this.” I carefully take the knife from his hand and show him how to open the cardboard box.

  Then he pours the pasta shells in the pot, and even though the water isn’t boiling yet, I don’t say anything. He stirs it with the knife, and I don’t say anything about that either.

  After the water gets to boiling I dip in a wooden spoon and try one of the shells. “They’re done,” I say and turn off the burner. The bubbles die in the water and he looks down like he’s lost something in the pot. I keep waiting for him open the cupboard and grab the strainer, but he just keeps staring down in the pot until I can’t watch him look anymore.

  I fling open the cupboard and get the strainer myself. “Almost my turn for the cheese squeeze,” I say.

  The cheese squeeze was my part for as long as I can remember. Grandpa always let me cut open the top of the silver pouch and squeeze all the orange cheese on the hot shells and mix it up. Then I’d lick the spoon. He would call me for dinner by hollering, “It’s time for the cheese squeeze!” and I would come running. I used to have to stand up on a stool to reach the pot, but I don’t need that anymore.

  I do almost all the parts now. Not just the cheese squeeze.

  “My part, remember?” I touch Grandpa’s arm, and he moves away from the stove. The pot of mac is heavy and this has never been my part, but I get it over to the sink and pour it perfect into the strainer without even one of the shells missing and falling down the drain.

  “You didn’t have to . . .”

  “It’s OK. I like cooking, Grandpa.” Which isn’t actually true, but it comes out anyway.

  I pour the shells back into the pot, and it feels so good to squeeze all the orange cheese out of the pouch. I slide my fingers down both sides and it comes out smooth and all in one big melty, snakey glop. Then I squeeze the pouch hard in my fist to get all the last bits out. I grit my teeth and crush it and squash it and pretend it’s Alex’s stupid face when he calls me Robin, or when he says, Why don’t you call your mommy? Oh, wait! You don’t even have one! I crush and squeeze and get it all out. Then I stir it all up. But I don’t lick the spoon anymore like I did when I was little.

  Later in bed I listen through the wall to Grandpa’s room, and wonder if he’ll open his door in the middle of the night to go find those sugar maples he said he was looking for out back. Or hike up to the Appalachian Trail shelter without me. I listen for the springs in his old bed when he turns over, and I listen for his snores. And I wonder if his memory is going to be rested tomorrow because if he can’t remember that we only tapped the front twenty sugar maples in the backyard, or how to open a cardboard box of mac and cheese, how will he remember to tell me who my mom was and how she died and if I’m like her?

  I’m trying to count my heartbeats like Mr. Danny taught us, but my brain keeps wandering and before I know it, I’m trying to think of a haiku for Grandpa. It’s hard to count out all the syllables in my head without a pencil to write it down, but I think I have one.

  Grandpa, sorry. Don’t

  wander away. Promise I’ll

  be just like Jackie.

  chapter 11

  The next morning, Ms. Meg says, “Happy Tuesday!” like it’s some special day even though I know we’re just going to work on our stupid projects. Then she tells us to share with our table groups everything we’ve written in our notebooks about our families so far and that soon we’re going to start making our trees. Derek opens his notebook. Candace does too, but she makes a big annoyed sigh and puts both elbows on the table with her face pressed between her fists.

  “Tell us about your grandpa,” Derek says. “And how he knows all about making maple syrup and how I get to come over and help when you boil the sap and we eat sugar on snow and how your grandpa can fix anyone’s car.”

  He’s trying to make me feel better because he’s my best friend and because his page is full of a million family members and all I have written down, still, is Grandpa.

  “You share,” I tell him.

  “But no one in my family is as cool as your grandpa.” Even though he’s trying too hard, that does make me feel kind of better. But I’m still not sharing because this project is stupid and I’m not making a family tree anyway.

  Ms. Meg is walking toward our table, which means we
have to get on topic or else she’ll sit down with us and then we’ll all have to share before she moves on to make sure another group is on task.

  “Fine. I’ll start,” Candace says when she sees Ms. Meg approaching. “My mom is a professor and my dad does something with computers.” She tells us how every once in a while her mom gets to travel with her class to London and how she gets to go with her this summer.

  Ms. Meg walks by our table. “I’m also really close to my aunt Jane,” Candace continues. “She lives an hour away, but we see her on the weekends.” Candace keeps talking about her aunt Jane and her three cousins while Ms. Meg passes by. That’s why you always need someone like Candace in a group.

  “I also have a sister,” she adds. Then as soon as Ms. Meg pulls up a chair at another group’s table, Candace sits back in her chair and stops talking like she doesn’t have one more word to say. I’m about to ask her if her sister is younger or older just so I don’t have to share my stupid blank notebook but Derek asks her first.

  “She’s older. And she reminds me of it all the time.” Then she puts her head down on the table again. I nudge her, but she just stays like that, so I look at Derek, and shrug my shoulders and tell him it’s his turn to start talking.

  He’s telling us about his mom when Ms. Meg announces to wrap up our conversations, that it’s time to share out with the whole class. Candace doesn’t pick her head up, and I kind of want to tell her she should before Ms. Meg notices because she’s not supposed to be a head-on-the-table kind of person. But I don’t know what to say or how to get her attention without touching her, so forget it. I see Ms. Meg looking at Candace and she crinkles up her forehead and jots something on her clipboard.

  “Candace?” she says softly, and Candace lifts her head back to her fists.

  Ms. Meg smiles at her. “OK. Now who’s ready to share?”

  I look at my Nike Air Griffeys and pull down my Dodgers hat because I’m not saying crap about my family out loud.

  “Robinson?” Ms. Meg chimes. “You haven’t shared with us in a while. Why don’t you start?”

  My heart beats fast in my chest like I’m stealing home because she never just calls on us like that when we don’t have our hands raised. I shake my head no way, but she doesn’t move on.

  “How about you share something about the day you were born?”

  My heart won’t stop pounding, but not because of Ms. Meg or the stupid kids in this class. I shake my head no again. “Anything that someone has told you about that day is fine,” she says. “Any little detail.”

  And I’m wishing more than I’ve ever wished that Ms. Gloria would poke her head in and pull us out for Group Guidance, because even sitting in a small room with Alex Baby Carter would be better than this.

  I try not to think about what I know about the day I was born. But with Ms. Meg asking and everyone staring, I can’t help it, and no matter how many baseball stats I know I can’t remember any right now because I can only imagine my mom and feel that feeling in my gut that I get when I remember that she’s dead because I’m alive but I don’t even know why because Grandpa is closed up so tight. And that I don’t know anything else about my birthday.

  “Robinson?”

  I bite down hard on my back teeth, but it’s hard to take three deep breaths when I’m doing that.

  One of the Brittany/Chelsea girls behind me giggles because I’m just sitting there staring at my Air Griffeys and making huffing sounds that probably make me sound like I’m crazy.

  And before I know it my eyes burn and my teeth hurt from biting so hard and I’m trying to think what would Jackie do when Derek turns fast in his seat and says to the Brittany/Chelsea girl, “What’s so funny? Nothing. That’s what I thought.” It’s the meanest Derek has ever been, and I’m kind of proud of him, and really glad that I don’t have to shove anyone.

  Then he tells Ms. Meg to call on someone else already, and she actually listens to him and does.

  Derek knows not to put his arm around me or anything like that, so he just shoves my shoe with his shoe and I know what he means. He means everything is going to be OK. But he’s wrong.

  Kids are still sharing about their moms and dads and cousins when Ms. Gloria pops her head in. I stand up fast and grab my bag before she even says my name.

  “See you later,” I say to Derek. And I kind of nod my head at him, which means Thanks, and he gets it.

  We’re sitting in that circle around the table again and Ms. Gloria is telling us that we had a rough start yesterday as a group but that’s perfectly fine. It takes time and practice. We go over the chart paper of norms again, and she tells us we may meet a few extra times this week before we get in a groove. “So let’s check in!”

  Candace starts, but it still kind of looks like she wants to have her head on the table.

  “I’m a five,” she says and passes the talking wand to Ms. Gloria.

  Ms. Gloria’s a seven. Oscar is a four, which he barely whispers. Alex is a nine, and he says it like a snot because he is one.

  I hold the talking wand in my hand and let the sparkles inside fall to the bottom. I’m about to pass because I’ve done enough talking for one day when before I know it I say, “I’m a three.” Then I hand the wand to Ms. Gloria.

  “Does anyone want to say more about their number?” Ms. Gloria is holding the wand out, but no one’s reaching for it, and before I know it again there’s my hand moving toward the talking wand even though I don’t want to talk any more about anything. But I grab right on to the wand and squeeze it tight in my fist.

  “Because this family tree art project is bull crap,” I sputter. “Maybe not everyone wants to share about their family.” I’ve got my Dodgers hat pulled down so far I can only really see the edge of the table and the wand that I’m spinning in my hands, but I look up a little because I think I hear weird hard breathing or sniffling and I think it’s coming from Alex. His face is red and his lips are pushed tight together like he’s trying not to burst. “Or maybe not everyone has enough family for a whole dumb tree,” I finish.

  I pass the wand to Candace, and I’m thinking she’s going to say something about why she’s only a five, but instead she says, “Robinson?”

  Ms. Gloria reaches her hand beneath my brim and motions to me to turn my hat around and look at Candace.

  She’s wearing a pink sweater with cotton-ball lambs on it that I can’t imagine anyone ever agreeing to wear. “I’m sorry you’re a three,” she tells me. And it’s stupid but it makes my eyes do that burning thing and I just focus on the pink lambs on her sweater and think about how ridiculous they are. “I could help you with your project if you want.”

  I want to say how I don’t need anyone’s help and I can do it on my own and it’s none of her business, but Ms. Gloria makes the wand go all the way around the circle first in case anyone wants to add in. Everyone says “Pass,” and by the time I get the wand again I don’t really feel like attacking her anymore for sticking her nose in my business. So I just say, “It’s OK.”

  I pass the wand to Alex, who still has his lips pressed hard together and they’re kind of trembling and he looks red and I’m thinking he might have a fever, which means he might have to go home sick and stay there for a few days. I wonder if he knows that I saved his car yesterday. Or that I think his brothers are almost as annoying as he is.

  Then the weirdest thing happens. This gigantic jerk bully who makes fun of everyone then sweet-talks teachers starts sobbing. Really sobbing. He’s holding the glitter wand so tight his knuckles are turning red and white, and his chest heaves these big breaths and his bruised crooked nose is running and I want to laugh and point and say Who’s tough now? but all I can do is stare because it’s like watching a high-class, fully loaded BMW break down literally right in front of you. Lost brakes, locked steering wheel, wild swerving, and flat tires running on wobbly rims. It’s pathetic.

  Before anyone knows what to say, the bell rings and Ms. Gloria tells Ale
x he can stay in for recess if he wants. Even if I feel kind of bad that he’s so pathetic, I definitely am not going to miss recess to figure out why he’s crying like that, especially a recess he’s not there for. So I get up fast and go outside to look for Derek.

  Some kids from my class are laying out their book bags for a snow baseball game, and Mr. Danny is circling the yard with his whistle around his neck. Derek is rolling a snowman across the outfield. I wave to him and take out my glove and head for third because that’s my base.

  “Rob!” Derek sees me and starts running over. The mittens clipped to his jacket bounce as he pumps his skinny arms. He couldn’t look any more like a kindergartner if he tried. He’s out of breath when he gets to me, but that doesn’t stop him from sputtering out, “Ms. Meg told us the family tree is due next Thursday. I’ll help you, though.”

  For some reason knowing the due date for the project makes it worse. Like it’s not just going to go away. “I’m not doing it.”

  I punch my fist into the pocket of my glove and get ready.

  “You can’t just not do it! What if you don’t pass fifth grade?”

  “I’m not doing it.” I slam my fist in the pocket again.

  Everyone is shouting, “Where’s Alex?” because he always shoves people out of the way so he can be up first like he’s some good lead-off hitter, but he’s not, he’s just a bully who can hardly even hit the ball. He’s probably batting .150.

  I bet everyone here would love to know that Alex Carter is crying like a baby in Ms. Gloria’s room. And I would love to tell them. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because of norm number five, that we aren’t supposed talk about anything that happens in Group Guidance outside of Group Guidance, and I wrote my name, Robinson Hart, on those norms. Or maybe it’s just because I want to get this game going already. Recess is the only class that passes too fast.