by Lisa Graff
“Moving?” I said at last. “That’s all the way across the park!”
Erlan nodded, staring down at his macaroni and cheese that was only for the weekends. “Yeah,” he said. “But my parents said you can still visit.”
I nodded too. “Okay,” I told him, because what was I supposed to say? There was nothing good to say when the worst thing ever happens.
• • •
Dad said Erlan’s family was probably moving because their show got picked up for a full second season. When I asked what that meant, Mom said, “The TV show, Albie. It got very good ratings.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good for them, I guess.” But I didn’t mean it.
I was pretty sure I finally figured out what was so bad about having a famous TV star for a best friend.
one vote.
I didn’t win vice president. Candace decided she was going to run too, so she won it. I peeked when we were raising our hands for voting, and I only got one vote, and that was from me. No one else voted for me. Not even Betsy.
thoughts.
Calista was always drawing in her sketchbook, but she wouldn’t let anybody see. She’d show me the pictures she drew with me at the table when we were making superheroes, but not the ones from her sketchbook. When I asked if I could see just one drawing, she said, “Albie, sometimes people need their own private space to think.” Like that was that. But I didn’t see how you could think inside a sketchbook.
I took a peek one time, when Calista was in the bathroom. I knew I probably shouldn’t, but I just wanted to.
There weren’t any thoughts in there. It was all drawings, like I figured, mostly of people. I flipped through and saw people on the subway, people in coffee shops, even people I recognized from going to the park. They were really good drawings.
Then I saw one of a boy that made me stop flipping. I smoothed my hand across the page. He had his hair cut short, cropped above his ears, and the drawing was in pencil so you couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but they were dark, and wide, and sad. You could tell he was sad, even though he was just a drawing, not a real boy you could talk to. The boy was looking off, far away, looking like there was something he wanted, real bad. I wondered what it was. I wished I could get it for him so he’d stop looking so sad.
Then I noticed the tiny speck, a mole, right above the boy’s left eyebrow, which is exactly where I have a mole—right above my left eyebrow.
I snapped the sketchbook shut and put it back in Calista’s purse before she came out of the bathroom. All afternoon, I wanted to ask her why she’d draw a picture of a boy with a mole just like mine, being sad.
But I didn’t. And I didn’t look in her sketchbook anymore either. I figured maybe she was right. Sometimes people should be left alone to think their private thoughts.
vulcan salute.
A new family moved into Erlan’s apartment. Now when I looked through my kitchen window, I didn’t see Erlan in his bedroom. I saw some baby.
I bet it would take that baby at least two years to learn the Vulcan salute.
birthday
cupcakes.
I told Mom I didn’t want her to get me any cupcakes for my birthday, that I didn’t need any cupcakes, that I didn’t like cupcakes as much as donuts, that my birthday wasn’t till Saturday anyway, that I didn’t even feel like celebrating my birthday at school. But she just said, “Nonsense, Albie. Everybody likes celebrating birthdays.” And then she took me early to the cupcake place on Lexington and got me two dozen mini cupcakes in a big white box, enough for everyone in my class. There were all different sorts—chocolate with chocolate frosting, chocolate with vanilla frosting, red velvet, Oreo flavor, peanut butter, sprinkles, caramel. Everything. Mom hailed a cab to get to school instead of walking like we normally did so none of the cupcakes would get smooshed. Sitting there in the back of the cab with that big white box on my lap, those cupcakes sure did smell good. The sugar and chocolate and caramel scents were all floating out of the box, landing in my nose, and even though I’d eaten breakfast, my stomach gurgled. I started to get just the littlest bit excited about my birthday. I couldn’t wait to eat those cupcakes. I couldn’t wait to see everyone’s face in my class when they saw how good they looked.
“Have a wonderful day, Albie,” Mom told me when the cab stopped outside my school. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I told her. She gave me a kiss on the cheek.
Maybe it was going to be a good day-before-my-birthday after all.
That’s what I thought.
But when I walked into Mrs. Rouse’s class and sat down at my desk with my huge white box, the first thing that happened was that Sage poked me in my side. Hard.
“What is that?” he asked me.
I turned around in my chair to look at him. But I was careful not to knock over the cupcakes.
“They’re cupcakes,” I told him. “For my birthday tomorrow.” I smiled at him. Sometimes Sage could seem mean, but I figured he had to be nice to me if he knew it was almost my birthday.
Sage did not seem to be happy that it was almost my birthday. And he didn’t do anything nice either. What he did was start screaming, “Mrs. Rouse! Mrs. Rouse!” and running toward the front of the room. Which I thought was weird.
There was a poke in my other side. I turned around in my seat that way.
It was Darren. He didn’t seem happy about my almost-birthday either. “Don’t you know that cupcakes have eggs in them?” he asked me.
“What?” I asked. Because I thought that was a weird question. And I was confused.
Sage was still shouting, “Mrs. Rouse! Albie brought cupcakes into the classroom!”
I looked back at Darren. “What’s wrong with cupcakes?” I asked.
Darren rolled his eyes at me. “Sage is allergic to eggs, dummy. That’s why there’s a sign on the door.” He pointed to the door and the sign with the crossed-out egg. “It’s been there all year.” I knew it had been there all year. Darren didn’t have to tell me that. He didn’t have to call me “dummy” either. That was just mean.
Then it seemed like everyone was up out of their seats, shouting or talking or coming over to see what was going on. Mrs. Rouse was flicking the lights on and off, but it wasn’t helping any.
“Why’d you bring eggs in the classroom?” Nicole asked me. “Did you want Sage to get sick?”
“Mrs. Rouse gave all the parents a letter, remember?” Tia said. “You don’t remember?”
“Albie, you know you’re supposed to leave outside food in the cafeteria.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I wanted to tell them all that I just forgot. That I thought cupcakes were different. That I didn’t remember about the food rule, because it was my birthday. That maybe I never knew cupcakes had eggs in them, because I never made a cupcake before. Or maybe I did know that, and I just forgot. But everyone was yelling at me, or talking at me, or asking me questions, and the lights were flickering, and I couldn’t think. My brain wasn’t working. I sat in my desk with those stupid cupcakes in their stupid white box, with everyone around me staring. I just bit my lip and stayed quiet.
I was not allowed to cry.
Finally the lights flicked enough that everyone stopped talking. Mrs. Rouse told everyone to go back to their seats, and they finally did.
“Simmer down, class,” Mrs. Rouse said. “It’s okay.”
Mrs. Rouse said it wasn’t a big deal, Sage would be fine. “Albie, we’ll put your cupcakes in the cafeteria, okay? And then you can pick them up to take home after school is out. Would someone like to volunteer to take them, please?”
I should have paid attention when Darren volunteered to take the cupcakes. I should’ve known. But I was still biting my lip so hard, thinking about eggs and birthdays and allergies and not cryin
g, and I didn’t think about it.
I guess that’s something I do a lot—not thinking.
• • •
After school Mr. Paul, the lunch aide, let me into the cafeteria kitchen to get the cupcakes. He pointed to the fridge, and I opened it and found the white box on a shelf. Someone had written my name on the side in black marker so it would be easy to find. Albin Schaffhauser, Room 317.
“You need help with the box?” Mr. Paul asked me.
“No, thanks,” I said, and I slid it out of the fridge. The box was cold.
DUMMY
That’s what was written on the top of the box, in big scribbly letters, so fat I couldn’t miss it.
I bit my lip again and then, after I checked to make sure Mr. Paul wasn’t looking, I opened up the box.
The cupcakes were still there. Two dozen, lined up in neat little rows.
And every single one had a fat, smooshed thumbprint, right in the middle.
I slapped the lid back closed and dumped the box into the trash can. The whole thing.
“Hey!” Mr. Paul called after me as I stomped out of the kitchen. “Kid! Don’t you want your cupcakes?”
I didn’t even bother to answer.
something
you’ll really
love.
We had a birthday dinner on Saturday, just me and Mom and Dad, because I said I didn’t want a party. I didn’t want a party because Erlan couldn’t come anyway because of filming stuff, and Betsy was still mad at me, and Calista had that day off, and I hated pretty much everyone else, so who cared. We had Chinese food. Big whoop.
When Mom asked me how everyone at school liked the cupcakes, I said, “They were great.” Which was a lie, but so what.
Mom got me a book. Something about a hatchet, whatever that was. “Because you loved Johnny Tremain so much,” she said.
Dad’s present was in a big box. “I think it’s something you’ll really love,” he told me. I got excited when I first pulled back the wrapping paper, because I saw a wing, an airplane wing, on the cover of the box, and I felt my heart leap up in my chest. It was a new model airplane, I knew right away. Another airplane just like my A-10 Thunderbolt, maybe a bomber or one of the gliders, and Dad was going to help me work on that one too and then we could display them both in the living room, and it would be awesome.
It wasn’t another airplane.
Well, it was an airplane. But not another one.
“A real live A-10 Thunderbolt!” Dad said, smiling like he thought he got me the greatest present in the whole universe. “Isn’t that marvelous? It’s just like the plane in the museum you liked so much. Don’t you remember, Albie? I thought we could put it together, just you and me. Albie? Where are you going?”
I didn’t even say anything. Just slammed my bedroom door.
flying.
It turned out that dumb old A-10 Thunderbolt from the Sea, Air, and Space Museum didn’t fly at all. I don’t know if it was because I put it together all wrong, or maybe it was never going to fly in the first place, but all I know is that when I cranked open my window and shoved it outside, it slammed right down to the ground eight stories below without even trying to soar. A man on the sidewalk who was walking right nearby looked up and cursed, but he couldn’t tell it was me who did it, and anyway I wouldn’t’ve cared if he could. All I could think was how I spent a whole year and a half working on that stupid airplane, all by myself, and now it was smashed to bits on the sidewalk. Pieces everywhere.
Good.
I hoped Dad would say, “Hey, Albie, I just remembered I already bought you an A-10 Thunderbolt a year and a half ago. Where is it? I’m ready to help you finish it now.” Then I could say, “I threw it out the window. It’s nothing but smithereens now.” And then I could see the look on his face.
But Dad would never ask. I knew he’d never ask.
I decided I didn’t like birthdays anymore.
changing
channels.
When I woke up the next morning and opened the door, that new A-10 Thunderbolt from Dad was sitting right outside my bedroom in its box, with the bow still on top.
I thought about throwing it out the window. I really did.
Instead I scooped it off the floor and put the box on the top shelf of my closet and put five towels on top of it so I couldn’t see it. Then I closed the closet door.
• • •
When I propped up the cardboard TV Calista made against my bedroom doorway and lay flat on my stomach, I could see all the way down the hallway, straight through to where the Living Room Channel was playing.
Dad on his treadmill, that’s what was on that channel. Running, running, running. Getting sweaty under the armpits. Not answering the phone when it rang. Not noticing the drippy faucet in the kitchen that would’ve driven Mom crazy. Not asking what happened to the A-10 Thunderbolt box with the bow on top. Not seeing me, for twenty minutes, lying on the floor of my bedroom, staring at him through a cardboard TV.
I pushed all the buttons on Calista’s cardboard remote, but the channel never changed.
sad.
Before I even tugged down the covers on Monday, I knew it would be a day not even donuts could solve. I told Calista that when she came over early to help get me ready for school.
“It’ll be all right, Albie, I promise.” That’s what Calista said. “Get up, okay? We have to leave soon or you’ll be late. And I’ll be there to pick you up when school gets out, and I have a special birthday present for you, and we can get donuts too if you need them. Three kinds.”
I curled tighter into a ball under the covers. “No,” I told her.
“Albie . . .” Calista sat down on the foot of my bed. You’re being silly. That’s what I thought she was going to tell me. That’s what Mom would’ve said. You don’t have a choice, so just get out of bed already. That’s what Dad would’ve told me.
Calista didn’t say those things.
Instead, she pulled the covers gently back from my face, and when I felt her do that, I opened my squeezed-shut eyes to look at her, even though she was blurry from the tears I’d been trying not to cry.
“Oh, Albie.” That’s what she said. “What happened?”
And so I told her. I sat up, and I sniffled, and I wiped at my face, and maybe I even cried a little bit more while I said it all, but right then I didn’t even really care that much. I told Calista everything.
I told her about the stupid baby who didn’t even know the Vulcan salute.
I told her about how much I missed gummy bears.
I told her about how it stunk to not be a famous TV star, even though I never knew before I wanted to be one in the first place.
I told her about how I hated Darren Ackleman more than a million hissing cockroaches.
I told her about the A-10 Thunderbolt, the first one and the second one, and the smashing and the smithereens.
I told her about the cupcakes.
I told her about “retard” and “freak baby” and “dummy.”
I told her that I couldn’t go to school. Not again. Not ever.
And when I was done with all the telling, I got back under my covers and curled into a ball, my knees against my stomach, and Calista rubbed my back in tiny circles, and I let her.
“You’re right,” she told me softly. “This is too big for donuts.”
• • •
After Calista left me under the covers, I kept waiting and waiting for her to come back and tell me it was time for me to get ready already. But she never did. And after a while, I was pretty sure it was past when we should’ve been out the door. And after a long time, I knew it was past then. But Calista never came to get me. So I just stayed under the covers, curled into a ball, knees to stomach, and I cried.
After a while I ran out of tears, so I pushed back the covers and looke
d around my bedroom. No Calista. I set my bare feet down on the floor and walked to the door and peered into the hallway. No Calista. I walked down the cold hall into the dining room.
Calista was sitting at the table, reading one of my dad’s magazines about money. She jumped up when she saw me. “Oh, good!” she said, and she seemed really happy to see me, not mad that I probably almost definitely was late for school. “You’re up!”
“I think I’m late,” I told her.
Calista looked at the clock. “Yup,” she said. “About forty minutes.”
I scratched at my hair, which was still messy from sleeping. “Then I guess we should probably get going so I’m not even later, huh?”
Calista tilted her head to the side, like she was the one who was confused. “I thought you said this was bigger than a donut day,” she said.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Everyone deserves a sad day once in a while,” Calista told me. “Sometimes things are too big for cheering up. Sometimes the best way to make things better is just to let yourself be sad for a little bit.”
I sat down at the table, and Calista pushed a plate of toast at me. She’d already spread jam on it—strawberry, my favorite. I took a small bite.
“Thanks,” I told her.
She watched me chew for a while.
“What do people do on sad days?” I asked when I was pretty much done with my toast. “If they can’t be cheered up?”
Calista thought about that. “Did you know I’ve never been to the Bronx Zoo?” she asked me after a while.
• • •
I didn’t think going to the zoo on such a gray, gray day would be any fun, because for one thing there wouldn’t be anybody there. But Calista said that was exactly why it would be fun, because we’d have the zoo all to ourselves. So after I finished all my toast and two glasses of orange juice too, I changed into my warmest clothes plus my puffy jacket, and Calista grabbed two umbrellas, and we headed to the subway.
