Just Like Jackie

by Lindsey Stoddard

  Grandpa puts the lobster pot on the metal bars and the fire starts to heat up the bottom. Then he lets Derek pour the sap from our gallon jugs into the pot until it’s three-quarters of the way full.

  “Now we wait,” Derek says.

  Grandpa nods. “Until the staff boils down to half.”

  And I know he means sap. I look quick at Derek and his mom to see if they noticed, and I don’t think they did, but I can’t tell.

  “Then I get to add more sap. Right, Mr. Hart?” Derek asks.

  Grandpa nods again and stirs the sap with the big slotted spoon we brought out from the kitchen.

  Derek wants to make a snowman while the sap’s boiling, but the whole time we’re rolling the snow across the yard I’m watching Grandpa as he sits next to Derek’s mom on the stump chopping block. I wonder what they’re talking about or if they’re talking at all and if Grandpa’s words are staying straight, so I keep pushing the snow toward them to see if I can spy in.

  “Beautiful day.” I can hear Derek’s mom’s voice. “Perfect for boiling, isn’t it?” she asks. “Derek always starts getting excited when it’s cold at night and warms up during the day. Nothing he loves more than Maple Day.” Grandpa nods.

  “That’s right,” I cut in. “Grandpa taught me to recognize perfect sap-running weather when I was little.” I stand up from the big snowball we’re pushing around for the base of our snowman. “And I taught Derek.”

  Grandpa slides his work gloves off his hands, lays them on the ground by the stump, and says, “I bet we’ll get a few more . . .” Then he looks like he looked the night he wandered off, except this time it’s his sentence that wanders off and he can’t follow it.

  “. . . A few more boiling days before the end of the season,” I finish for him.

  Derek’s mom smiles. “Well, that’s great! Your syrup is the best in all of Vermont, Charlie.” And that’s true. And that’s saying something.

  Derek points to the corner of the yard. “Let’s set up our snowman over there.”

  We push our big snowball across the yard, collecting more and more snow as we roll, and it gets big fast, so by the time we get it over to the corner of the yard it’s up past my knees. But it’s also far from the stump chopping block, where Grandpa’s forgetting the ends of his sentences, and I can’t make a snowman and spy in on him at the same time.

  Derek’s asking me about how deep into the woods the hiker’s shelter on the Appalachian Trail is from here and saying maybe he’ll go with us one day this summer. I want to tell him it’s only a mile, though he’d still never make it, but I’m trying to listen to Grandpa from across the yard.

  Then I hear Derek’s mom squeal. “Oooooo!”

  When I look over, the pot is bubbling over and making hissing sounds. Grandpa stands up quick and Derek and I run over fast. I can tell by the look on Grandpa’s face that he forgets this step, he forgets what to do if it boils over.

  Even Derek’s mom remembers. “Did you bring out the vegetable oil?” and she’s running to the kitchen in her big boots, all slow and off balance while Grandpa is frozen to his spot.

  “Lift it off,” I tell him. “Lift off the pot, Grandpa.”

  And before I know it he’s reaching for the big metal handles on the pot except his gloves are still in the snow next to the stump and I try to shout, “Wait!” in time but I don’t because Grandpa’s yells are filling the cold air and the pot is overturned and spilling sap into the snow.

  Derek is screaming now too.

  And Grandpa’s shaking his hands and tears are streaming down his face and getting all caught up in his deep grooves.

  “Oh my God, Mr. Hart! Mom! Mom!” Derek yells.

  She hasn’t even gotten to the front door yet and now she’s running back and yelling. “What happened?”

  I hold Grandpa’s elbow and tell him to sit in the snow and he kneels down slow and then sits crisscross applesauce like we learned in pre-K. I make a snowball and tell him to hold it. And I keep saying I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, because if I hadn’t told him to lift the pot, then his hands wouldn’t be screaming red and he wouldn’t have to cry in front of Derek and Derek’s mom and if I had remembered the vegetable oil in the first place I would have added a few drops in the foam and it would have simmered down like Grandpa taught me when I was a little kid and if I hadn’t been so far away making a stupid snowman in the corner of the yard, then none of this would have happened.

  Derek’s mom tries to look at Grandpa’s hands, but he pulls them away.

  “It’s nothing,” he mumbles. “Just a stupid mistake.”

  His brain is supposed to be hardwired for this. Hardwired for boiling sap into maple syrup, hardwired for all the steps and details.

  I hand him another snowball and he holds it between his hands. I can tell they’re stinging bad, because he squeezes his eyes closed tight as the snowball melts.

  “Charlie,” Derek’s mom insists, “let me see.” And she reaches out again for his hands. She uncurls his fingers and looks at his palms.

  “I’m really fine. It’s nothing.” He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his red flannel shirt.

  “It looks like a first-degree burn,” she says. “Let’s go inside and treat this before it gets worse.”

  Derek is kind of crying and he’s sniffling and wiping the snot off his nose with his work gloves. That’s what happens when Derek gets scared. He starts crying and doesn’t know what to do. That’s why I play third base and he stands behind me.

  “I saved some of the sap.” He sniffles. The pot is right side up again in the snow, and the fire is still burning hot flames from the brick pit.

  “Good job, Derek,” I say because I don’t want to ruin his day too. That makes him smile, which makes things feel a little more OK. But not really.

  We’re following his mom and Grandpa inside when I remember that we’re not supposed to leave the fire blazing if we’re not outside to watch it. I don’t want to put it out because it’ll take too long to start it all over again and that means that Maple Day is ruined for good. But I don’t want to stay outside with it while Grandpa’s inside with his stinging hands and Derek’s mom’s asking him questions. So I take a shovel of sand from the bucket in the shed and carry it out to the yard and dump it on the flames until they die out.

  When I get inside Derek’s mom is holding a cold cloth on Grandpa’s hands. Then she rubs some lotion on his palms and tells him he might want to take some Advil for the swelling. Derek’s dad is a doctor. I wonder if that’s how she knows all this stuff. Or maybe it’s just that she’s a mom, and moms know stuff.

  “Thank you,” Grandpa says. “And Derek, don’t you worry. Melted day will . . .”

  And I know he means maple, and his face looks lost again.

  “Maple Day will happen again soon. Maybe next weekend.” I look at Derek and his mom. “We’ll collect more sap to boil by then anyway.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it!” Derek says. “I’m sorry about your hands, Mr. Hart.”

  I walk them to the door, and Derek’s mom says she’ll call to check on us tomorrow. “And please call me for anything.” Then she’s taking a long look at Grandpa. “Let me write my number down just in case,” she says, and I know she’s worried because she’s raising her eyebrows and wrinkling up her forehead and her eyes look really sad. “Make sure he keeps those hands moisturized. Call if you see any blisters that are bigger than your pinkie fingernail.”

  Derek’s mom pats my shoulder, and before I know it my eyes are getting all burny and I have to blink really fast and look up at the ceiling so I don’t cry like some baby.

  “You’re taking good care of him, Robbie.”

  I shake my head like that’s not true because it’s not. “He takes care of me.”

  chapter 18

  On Monday morning I’m trying to braid my own hair before school so I don’t make Grandpa’s hands worse, but no matter how many times I start over I can’t keep all the pieces tied i
n tight and my curls end up popping out and spilling down to my shoulders. And there is no way I’m wearing my hair down like that to school. I try to pull it back in just a ponytail, but I hate the way the loose ends feel brushing on my neck and I don’t want to wear it any different because then everyone will make a big deal about it and it’s just stupid hair.

  “Need some help?” Grandpa’s poking his head in my bedroom.

  “But your hands—”

  “They’re good as new.” He opens and closes his fingers to prove it.

  But I know they’re not good as new because I spied on them last night when he was sleeping. One hand was flung to the side over his bed and the other was across his chest. I used my hiking headlamp to examine each palm, turning them over softly in my hands so he didn’t wake up, and making sure they didn’t have any blisters bigger than my pinky fingernail like Derek’s mom said. They were red and puffy and looked as hot as the flames from the fire pit.

  “Here, turn around,” Grandpa says, and he grabs the comb from my dresser and starts dividing my hair in two even parts.

  “Maybe I’ll just cut off all my hair,” I tell him, imagining how good a buzz cut would feel. “I don’t know if I’d look stupid, though.”

  Grandpa snorts a little laugh and bends over my shoulder and kisses my cheek. Normally I say ewww when he does stuff like that, but it feels pretty OK this morning, so I just stay quiet.

  “I know for a fact,” Grandpa says, “you’d look great.”

  “You can’t know for a fact.”

  He’s braiding the left side, pulling each section tight over and over, but I can tell his hands are fumbling more than usual, which means my curls might start popping out before the end of the day.

  “Eddie always wore her hair short,” he says. I can’t believe Grandpa said her name like it was so easy all of a sudden.

  “How short?” I ask.

  “Boy short. Quarter inch off her head, if that.”

  And I’m picturing my mom walking down the street and everyone’s moving out of her way because she’s that tough. And she’s giving people fist bumps and nodding with a quick jut of her chin to say what’s up?

  Grandpa asks for the rubber band. I hand it to him and he wraps it around the bottom of my first braid.

  “Grandpa?” I try. “What happened to my mom? I mean, I know she—but what exactly—”

  “Enough of that, Robbie,” he cuts in. “Time for school.” His voice is hard, but I don’t give a crap because she’s my mom and I should get to know how she died. I should get to see pictures and hear all about her. I don’t have the guts to tell Grandpa that all of this is bull crap and he has to start telling me stuff before he can’t remember anything anymore, so I just huff loud and sit there.

  He hurries through my second braid and ties the rubber band. It’s not tight like it’s supposed to be. It’s rushed and loose, and I can feel it unraveling hair by hair before I even grab my book bag.

  At school Ms. Meg reminds us that our projects are due Thursday. “And what’s even more exciting,” she announces, “is that your teachers have planned a fun open house for your families and you’ll be presenting your family tree projects as part of it!”

  She starts passing out neon blue fliers. One lands in front of me on my table.

  YOU’RE INVITED!

  Please join us for an open house on Thursday, March 24,

  in Ms. Meg’s classroom.

  Student presentations begin at 3:30 p.m.

  I crumple the blue piece of paper into a tight ball and flick it off my table. No way am I presenting my family tree project in front of anyone. Derek dives onto the floor and picks up the crumpled flier fast before Ms. Meg can get on my case.

  “Put this in your book bags right now so you don’t lose it,” Ms. Meg shouts over everybody else’s excitement. “And don’t forget to tell your families!”

  Not going to happen.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see another crumpled blue paper fly. It came from Alex’s table, and he’s leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a hat today too, which he never does, probably because he’s so proud of his flowy, feathery hair, and the brim is pulled down low over his face like mine.

  Usually an open house would be another chance for him to show off his perfect life and make fun of other people’s projects under his breath. But he just sits there looking down at his shoes. And I remember how he shook and sobbed in Ms. Gloria’s room. I guess even bullies might have crap going on.

  Everyone else is working on their projects, and all of them are creative and good. Eric is making a tall 3-D tree out of popsicle sticks and Amy brought in an actual potted plant and is hanging little drawings and names off the leaves. The Chelsea/Brittany girls have papier-mâché trees taller than baseball bats planted in the back of the room, and now they’re wearing matching pink smocks and covering the floor with newspaper to paint the trees green.

  I don’t have anything else but what I scribbled in my notebook last week. Just names of people I know nothing about. And I can feel my hair poking out from the right braid, which Grandpa rushed through, and I wish I could tighten it up or chop it off.

  I don’t even hear Ms. Gloria creak open the classroom door because everyone is so excited about their projects that they can’t even talk like normal people. Everything is a squeal or a scream.

  Ms. Gloria catches my eye and motions toward the door like she’s asking if I want to get out of here. I grab my stuff. “See you later,” I say to Derek.

  “Meet you on third base,” he says.

  I follow Alex, Oscar, and Candace down the hall to Ms. Gloria’s room, where at the very least it’ll be quieter.

  Ms. Gloria says we’re going to do a quick check-in, then she’ll give us time to work on our projects together again. Alex has the talking wand, and I’m waiting for him to tell us all about his day off from school last week and how great his four-day weekend was, and how he’s so much cooler than we are. But instead he yells, “I’m an effing zero!”

  My jaw actually drops because I’m pretty sure Ms. Gloria knows what effing means.

  Then he passes the wand to Oscar, but Oscar just stays quiet for at least a whole minute because we’re all still watching Alex.

  The brim of Alex’s hat is pulled down far over his face and his shoulders are shaking and he’s making these loud huffing sounds. Candace stands up and stretches all the way across the table and pats his shoulder. She can barely reach him, and the edge of the table is digging into her belly, but she keeps patting his shoulder and says, “It’s OK.”

  At first I’m kind of mad because Candace is supposed to be our friend, and not nice to a bully like Alex, but then Alex pulls his knees up to his chest and cries loud with his whole body heaving hard. It’s like watching that fancy BMW lose control again and drive wild into a brick wall, all its parts coming loose and fluid leaking all over the pavement.

  “It’s OK,” Candace keeps repeating. “You can talk to us.”

  Alex sniffs and says between choking sobs, “You think I want to talk to you?” He shakes his head and mumbles. “I don’t want to talk to some dumb, fat girl.”

  Candace pulls her hand from his shoulder and I’m trying to count to ten, but I don’t make it past three because Candace already has her sister and her sister’s friends calling her chubby and she’s just being nice to Alex, which she doesn’t even have to do.

  “You jerk!” I shout. “You’re crying like a baby and you still can’t even be nice? What the eff is wrong with you?” I figure if he can say eff I can say it too.

  Ms. Gloria stands and claps her hands one time really loud and we all look up. Her windshield-washer-blue eyes are no-nonsense, and I’m sure I’m about to get it because I’m always the one who gets in trouble. But instead she says to Alex, “We can see that you’re hurting, Alex, and we are all sorry for that and want to help, but that doesn’t mean that you can lash out at others. That’s not
right.”

  “Whatever,” he sniffs.

  “Not whatever,” she demands. “Turn your hat around.” Alex does it slowly and his face is a mess, red, with tears and snot running everywhere.

  “You’re not obligated to tell us what sadness you have in your life right now,” Ms. Gloria tells him. “That’s your business to share if you want. But you do owe Candace an apology for being mean to her.”

  “Sorry,” Alex mumbles under his breath.

  “A real one,” Ms. Gloria says. “When it’s real and you actually feel sorry, that’s when you should apologize. We are here to listen whenever you are ready.”

  Ms. Gloria nods to Oscar, who is still holding the talking wand and I’m wondering if we’re just going to go on like Alex isn’t sniffling and blubbering. How can a kid whose mom gives him a new snowboarding jacket every year, and a whole day off school for no reason, be crying so hard?

  Oscar starts to say that he’s a seven because now he at least has an idea for his project and it doesn’t feel so bad to work on it, when Alex interrupts. He’s not even holding the talking wand, but no one says anything because he’s crying so hard we can hardly understand him.

  “I’m sorry!” he yells. “I’m really sorry! I mean it!”

  Oscar hands Alex the talking wand, and all that power locked up inside with the purple and silver glitter falling from top to bottom must have made him feel safe to share, because he starts blubbering everything.

  “My dad—cancer—moved his bed—living room downstairs—” He’s gasping and sputtering between every few words and grabbing his stomach and doubling over and crying so much it sounds like he can hardly breathe and his back is shaking like crazy.

  Candace gets up and walks around the table to stand next to Alex’s chair. She’s rubbing her hand across his back now and I’m not even mad at her for being nice to a bully because I want anyone to do anything that will make him stop crying like that.

  He’s still sobbing hard, and his words come choking out. “Thursday I had to stay home from school—alone with him—Mom had school conference for my brothers and—can’t be alone.” He lays his head on the table and just keeps crying big, big cries.