“They offered me a job. A university in Georgia offered me a job.”
Mom, Brodie, and I gape at him, too stunned to speak. Our family has moved twice in my memory, always following the jobs Dad gets, but past experience doesn’t make it any easier to deal with this new bit of information.
“I’m not going to make the decision tonight,” Dad answers. “There are too many factors. We don’t even know if we can sell this house. But they’d pay me twenty-five percent more than I’m making now.” He runs his fingers through his long hair, clearly flustered.
Without a word, I go to the linen closet and bring out the box of fortune cookies. “You need to ask the cookies, Dad. They know all.” He laughs and picks one out. I sit down on his lap and watch as he opens the red-tinted cellophane.
“Okay, so this dessert will determine whether or not we move,” he proclaims.
I put my hand on his wrist. “Trust the cookie.” He cracks open the light brown shell and pulls out the scrap of paper. His eyes widen. I grab it from him and read:
YOU WILL TAKE A CHANCE AND BE GLAD YOU DID!
“I told you!” I gloat. I dance around the room, thrilled to have been right.
“It’s not official!” Dad groans, exasperated.
We’re moving! We’re moving! Ha-ha!
All of a sudden, reality sets in, and it feels like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. I can’t say good-bye to this place, to these people—Mr. Lawrence, Isabella, Dante, Leon, Ms. Corbeil and the Fishbowl. Even Carlos Sanchez’s inane questions, his irritating laugh, and his gay pigeons. I’m going to miss him too.
And then it hits me . . .
Kenzie! Holy cow, how will I leave Kenzie?!
Sunday, March 4
At church today Liliana and I teach a lesson to the five-year-olds’ class as part of a service project. If this were a wrestling match (which it kind of is), the headline would read: TEN DEMON CHILDREN VS. TWO UNPREPARED GIRLS.
If I’d seen the odds, I would’ve bet against me too.
Their ringleader, Sandy, never stops running around. While Liliana is trying to share a message about Jesus, I have Sandy on my lap, attempting to keep her from biting or screaming. She makes up a song about pooping. A regular Kenzie in training.
I made flyers to broadcast my babysitting service, but only got to hand out three today. It’s probably better that way. After today’s experience, I will definitely be careful about where I advertise.
Monday, March 5
Dad obeys the fortune cookie and officially accepts the job today.
I go back and forth between wanting to vomit and wanting to soar up through the ceiling. Fear and excitement. Sorrow and curiosity.
During lunch, Kenzie and I talk. I try to avoid bringing up the subject of major life changes and instead ask her if she’s excited for Spring Break. I haven’t told her yet. Every time I try to, I end up at a loss for words. It’s impossible.
“How could I be?” she groans. “My mom is sending me away to camp for the whole week,” she mumbles.
“Well, camp can be fun, I guess,” I’m trying to be positive. “What are you going to be doing?”
“I have to ride on a tour bus with a bunch of other Korean kids,” Kenzie groans, laying her head down on the table. She whimpers, “Our moms organized the whole thing.”
“Ouch. So, are you touring Texas?” I offer her half of my banana, which she accepts gratefully.
“Pennsylvania,” she sobs through bites of fruit. From the way she says it, Pennsylvania might as well be synonymous with Purgatory.
“I am so sorry.”
“And then we have to see the play Jonah and the Whale.” Her voice cracks.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “That sounds awful!”
“Please tell my mom that. I even cried when she told me, but she had no mercy.”
I feel so bad for Kenzie.
Still, it’s very funny.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
Laugh at your friends’ painful situations only after they give you permission to do so . . . or when no one else is around.
Even though I laugh, deep down the secret eats me alive. We’re moving. She’s my best friend, and I don’t even know how to tell her. I can’t.
What if she cries? What if she doesn’t? How can I handle it either way?
Tuesday, March 6
They appear today. The boxes. We’re not moving until July, and they’re already here, shoving their way into my life.
And yet, there’s a sense of excitement in the air, a charged energy. It reminds me that there’s a new adventure on the horizon.
Then again, the whole business kind of scares the girdle marks (yes, I still occasionally wear my girdle) off my four butts.
I’m so confused I seek out the wisdom of a fortune cookie.
YOU WILL BE SUCCESSFUL IN YOUR FINANCIAL ENDEAVORS.
I’m beginning to think that these things are magical. I check my e-mail, but no one has contacted me about my babysitting services yet. Next Sunday I’m going to have to cast a wider net. Oh, boy.
There is yet another approach to the art of having enough money, and that is cutting down on expenses—or in the plain parlance of platitudes, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” . . . ride a bike instead of the bus, write letters instead of making long distance telephone calls, and stay at home and play records instead of feeling obliged to see every movie that comes to town.
Okay, Betty, I’ll do my part to keep from spending my money on jukeboxes and pinball machines.
Wednesday, March 7
The hallways of our entire school are covered in lockers, but we aren’t allowed to use them because of concerns over drugs and weapons. Instead, the art teachers display their students’ projects all over them. As Kenzie and I walk slowly down the hall together we pass the dead pandas and vampire punk bands the Goth Art Chicks have drawn. I see Hello Kitty being swallowed up by a black hole, and I think I know how she feels. I can’t hold back any longer.
“Kenzie, I have to tell you something. You’re my best friend. You need to know first.”
The smile disappears from her face. “What?”
“I’m not going to the same high school as you.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice is soft and sad.
“Oh, Kenzie, we’re moving this summer. My dad got an amazing job in Georgia. It’s a nice place and all, but I’m going to miss you so much.”
She looks away. I stare at the rows of empty lockers.
Finally, Kenzie looks up. “You’d better Facebook me.”
“All the time,” I reply.
We sigh and stand there for a while. The bell for first period rings, and we give each other a sad smile. I walk quickly to algebra, filled with pain and relief.
The principal’s voice bursts out over the intercom. “Students, I must inform you of a sad event. Mr. Lawrence, one of our seventh-grade English teachers, passed away this morning.”
I look up. No. NO!
“Funeral information will be given at a later date. We will now have a moment of silence to honor the life of such an amazing teacher. . . .”
All first period, I’m in a daze. It’s not real. Not real. He can’t be dead. He’s my mentor, my friend. NO!
After class Kenzie grabs my arm in the hallway. Our eyes meet and I see compassion like I’ve never witnessed before. “Maya, I’m so sorry,” she says, pulling me into a hug.
“He’s dead,” I sob into her arms, leaving wet spots on her jacket. “He’s dead.”
“I know,” she says.
We stand like that for a long time, and in that moment, I know that Kenzie will never abandon me. We’re two outsiders who don’t quite fit in anywhere, but together find a place to belong. No matter where we are or what happens, she’ll alway
s be my friend.
We pull away, and I see the tears in her eyes too. Silently we leave for our classes: me to choir, her to band.
By this time the emotions are flowing freely down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them.
Dead. There it is again, that strange, impossible word. I can’t wrap my mind around it. I hug my arms around my shoulders and cry silently into my knees. I’m not the only one. Several other girls are sobbing into their boyfriends’ arms. How dare they cry! So many of them gave Mr. Lawrence a hard time when he was alive.
My feelings change though, as unfamiliar hands reach out and pat my back. The seventh graders all gather around and hug me, telling me how sad they are. People hand me tissues and run loving fingers through my hair.
I wonder if I should feel popular, but all I feel is numb. No popularity exists when tragedy strikes. All that’s left are human hearts and love and ache. We all love each other, deep down, and when we see another soul in pain we can’t help but hurt too.
I find my peace in the arms of total strangers who have never spoken to me before. In third period, I see Carlos Sanchez, red-faced, hiding his tears as he defensively states that girls crying makes him “feel weird.”
This is universal love, found in the most unlikely place.
This love is what keeps me going through the day, until I collapse into my mother’s and father’s arms and sob.
Thursday, March 8
At school today I feel as if everybody else has moved on. There are no more girls crying, so I save my sadness for when no one is around.
I go home and listen to the first CD I find in my closet, which happens to be ABBA. I lay down on my bed and cry. I don’t want anyone to see. This isn’t the dramatic sadness that I’m so used to. It’s too hard to admit that deep down I am broken, caught in a continual ache that doesn’t go away. I sob into a pillow, nodding my head along to “Money, Money, Money.” (Doesn’t that theme just keep recurring?)
I have to grieve on my own. Work through it in my own time.
Nobody has contacted me about babysitting. I guess that I’m not going to make any money this month.
My family has been going through boxes of papers and folders. Brodie finds twenty bucks left in his old birthday cards.
I look through tons of stuff and retrieve nothing.
Saturday, March 10
A fitted white blouse.
A black skirt.
A pair of black flats.
A big black coat that belongs to Mom.
The funeral home isn’t far away. Mom parks the car and we walk through the rain and into a little chapel full of hushed talk. On a large screen over a closed casket covered with an American flag, they play a slide show of pictures from Mr. Lawrence’s life: him with his grandchildren, his wife, his students.
I sit and listen as Mr. Lawrence’s sons tell stories about him and remind us of the things that he stood for. He always saw the best in people. He had so much courage. He was kind and loved his students so very much.
Tears stream down my face as we sing “Amazing Grace” and everyone gets up to pay their respects to the family. When I approach and tell them my name, they all smile. His wife hugs me, and all his sons shake my hand.
“I want to thank you for writing that letter,” the eldest says. “It meant the world to him.”
“He was always so proud of you. So proud.”
“So, you’re Maya. He adored you. I have a framed copy of the poem you wrote for him on my wall.”
“Thank you so much. You made such a difference for him.”
I’m so overcome I can hardly speak.
Mom and I walk to the graveside where veterans perform a military salute. In the silence that follows the firing of guns, the funeral director thanks us for coming.
Before Mom and I leave, I make my way to his casket. I almost can’t help but laugh at how small it is. How do you fit so much life into a seven-foot-long wooden box?
I rest my hand on the polished surface.
“How do I say good-bye to you?” I whisper, leaning in close. “You always told me I had a gift for words, and now here I am, unable to find any phrase that can tell you how much you mean to me. What made you believe in me?”
Tears stream down my cheeks as I remember the last words I heard him say: “She’s going to be a famous author someday.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Lawrence. Good-bye.”
Mr. Lawrence, this book is for you. This book that you will never read.
I promise, I won’t ever forget.
Sunday, March 11
During church, Natalia lines up all her Beanie Babies on the pew in front of us. One falls back, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. The man in the bench in front of us leans over to retrieve it. Nat rips the toy out of his hands.
“Say thank you,” encourages Brodie.
Natalia looks the man straight in the eyes and does as she’s told. Except, Natalia can’t pronounce her ns, and the Th sound comes out like an f.
Betty Cornell doesn’t give much advice about how to smooth over the situations created by an autistic little sister.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
When you have eccentric younger siblings, it is extremely important to learn the art of apology at an early age. You will need it. I hand out some more babysitting flyers. Maybe something will come of it.
Tuesday, March 13
Mom and Dad go to a friend’s house tonight and leave me to babysit for a couple hours. They even pay me ten bucks, getting me closer to my fifty-dollar goal. As a paid professional, I decide to spend some one-on-one time with Natalia instead of letting her watch Wonder Pets for far too long.
In order to amuse the children during the time that you are responsible for them, you could take them to the park, to the playground, or to the beach . . . On rainy days you could use your own home . . . and read them books and supply them with crayons and paints.
Due to my lack of transportation options, I opt for the reading and art supplies. I watch as Natalia points to and identifies the illustrations in a book.
“Cat. Meow! Sheep. Baa! Cow (it’s actually a horse). Moooooo!”
She gets almost all of them except for ladybug, but really, what kind of madman puts an insect in a book about farm animals anyway?
After that, I tell her it’s time for bed. I try to tuck her under her blankets, but she refuses to go to sleep. “NO!” she screams until I’m forced to tickle her. She laughs and wants to return the favor. Natalia’s tickles involve a lot of painful jabbing in the breast area so I’m not overjoyed to endure it, but she just giggles and keeps going. “Tickow?” she begs over and over. She really is adorable. But next time I’ll wear one of those atrocious cone bras from the 1950s. Then she won’t poke my boobs, for fear of being impaled.
Sunday, March 18
Two moms approach me during church and say they want to have me babysit soon. One actually gave me a DATE! I will watch two of her three kids on the thirtieth of this month. A little late, Betty, I know, but still better than nothing. I figure if I make a good amount I can reach my goal.
Wednesday, March 21
Some of the noteworthy things that happened today:
1st Period
“What’s Caucasian?” one Basketball Girl asks. (Basketball Girls are about an 8 3/4 on My School’s Popularity Scale, just below the Football Faction.)
“Oh, that’s easy,” answers a Volleyball Girl, “it means white and American. You know, a hillbilly.”
3rd Period
Carlos Sanchez scrapes his desk on the floor, making farting noises.
4th Period
HEALTH EXAM! Ms. Welch, who’s been talking loudly to a Volleyball Girl about boyfriend problems, suddenly tells us to clear our desks. “It’s time for our testicle. Ooh, I mean test.”
7th P
eriod Lunch
Kenzie pulls out a fifty-dollar bill (one of three, she tells me) from her wallet, and goes to buy some “real food” at the snack bar. She gets a generous allowance. Kenzie buys two chocolate chip cookies and a bag of ranch-flavored Doritos. I have been careful not to spend my money on such frivolous things.
A way of saving that will repay you in other ways than cash in the bank is the curtailment of eating snacks between meals. With this method, five cents saved on a candy bar will also be 100 calories saved from settling on your hipline.
Thursday, March 22
Francisco gets made fun of during lunch today. It’s been happening more and more often since he came out last summer. I had no idea until Kenzie told me about it when we came back to school in September. I think it was so brave of him. Two Football Faction members sit on either side of his hunched shoulders. He’s trying to make himself as small a target as possible.
“Hey, girlfriend! You have on some nice makeup today. It makes your eyes just sparkle,” one says bumping into Francisco’s shoulder.
“Yeah, where’s your boyfriend? I’m sure he thinks so too,” the other replies, laughing.
Francisco looks down. I want to yell at them, tell them to go away. They have no idea what they’re saying. Still, I bite my tongue. Speaking will only make Francisco’s position worse. Defended by a GIRL is the ultimate of lows. Boys have gotten beat up for that. So I stay quiet, trying to send him support through my facial expressions, but he doesn’t look up. He just sits, staring at his hands while they torment him. They eventually run off, but it’s so not right.
I hate the Football Faction.
Friday, March 23
Mom pays me five bucks to write a short poem to put in the party favors for a baby shower she’s hosting tonight. It’s not very good, but I get fifty cents a line. Not too bad. Adding the payment I got for doing odd jobs around the house, this brings my grand total this month to thirty dollars.
All I need is twenty more!
Friday, March 30
I fidget with the sleeve of my nice, clean sweater as Mrs. Blanco pulls up her fancy car to our house around six o’clock to pick me up.
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