The Upside of Ordinary

by Susan Lubner

  “What’s with you, Jermaine? Stop it! Everyone’s trying to see,” she scolds. The aisles are filled with people trying to get a look at the mystery judge. The throng blocks the front of our booth. Holding my camera above me in one hand, I place my other hand on Mom’s shoulder and squeeze myself between her and the table. I hop up a bit so I’m half sitting on the table’s edge. “Jermaine, what on earth …?” my mother yells over her shoulder. I continue to inch my way sideways. “The pickles!” Mom cries. When I reach the corner of the table, I push off with all of my might into the crowd. I feel the front edge of the table dip downward. The next thing I hear is a loud thud and the sound of glass clinking together and then frantic voices behind me. I look over my shoulder. Mom is desperately trying to catch the pyramid of jars sliding to the floor. Dad grabs for the tipped table while Aunt Edie and Uncle Larry, stuck on the other side, watch helplessly. A couple standing nearby reach out to help. Nina and Zelda yell to me but I turn away. I must get to Rufus Carmichael!

  I squeeze myself into the thick crowd, rotating my body from side to side. My shaky legs carry me slowly and steadily toward the center of the room. The cameras are just ahead. Their lights make a golden circle around Rufus Carmichael. To think, he’s just steps away! I hug my camera to my chest. Wait until he sees my reality show! I’ll be famous by tomorrow … Sunday at the latest. I continue to weave and jostle my way through the crowd.

  “Watch out! Please! Let me through!” I say. “Mr. CARMICHAEL!” I scream. “MR. CARMICHAEL!” I see his hat just ahead of me. I recognize the dark hair poking out the sides from magazine photos. He turns just enough so I can see his profile. He looks much younger in person. I am steps away when he turns completely around and faces me. I stop. My camera slips out of my hand. It clatters to the floor. This can’t be. The mystery judge looks younger than my dad. Mr. Carmichael is as old as my grandfather.

  Then somebody standing next to me calls him Governor.

  23

  Release

  I am so close to the governor I can reach out and touch him. But I don’t. I feel my jaw drop. My mouth hangs open. The governor smiles my way, and then turns to shake someone’s hand. A lady holding a microphone steps in front of me.

  “Pardon,” she says, “I need to get in here.” My feet stay bolted to the floor, and she steps around me. My brain is so busy being confused it doesn’t tell my body to move out of the way, or to run from embarrassment. Or that I am an idiot. But that changes quickly. I reach down for my camera, in front of me and wedged between somebody’s dirty boots. I have to yank and twist it free.

  “What the …?” The man with the boots turns and gives me a nasty look.

  The crowd begins to thin out as I make my way back to the booth. What a stupid idea to have a mystery judge. Who invited the governor? Doesn’t he have more governer-ish things to do? Besides, a politician should be impartial to things like who makes the best pickle product.

  Ahead of me I see my mom kneeling, her back hunched and her arms busy. The table is sloped to the ground, like a seesaw, one end up, the other down, with one of the corners resting on a crushed cardboard box underneath it. The shiny pickle balloons, now anchored to the floor, sway and knock each other. Aunt Edie, Uncle Larry, and Dad rifle through a mess of broken glass. Something red and lumpy soaks into the stiff carpeting. My head is light. It feels too big for my shoulders. Mom’s relish is splattered all over the place. Her prizewinning product is a stain in the carpet. I don’t see Melinda or Nina anywhere, but Zelda and Katrina walk around the broken table, checking out the damage, their heads tipped at an angle. A man in denim overalls arrives. His whiskered face is serious, and he carries a large roll of shiny silver tape and some kind of metal tool.

  I did this. I ruined Mom’s display, her relish, and her chance to win first place. Regret shimmies up the back of my throat. I try to swallow it but everything inside me feels tight and broken. Then before anyone can notice me, I run toward the food court. My eyes, foggy with tears, are almost useless as I search for an empty table. I scoot underneath one, tucking myself out of sight thanks to the scratchy tablecloth that reaches the floor. I sit on the hard carpet and hug my knees so the seam of my pants presses through my shirt sleeve and into my skin. With my tongue I catch a tear that has come to rest on my top lip. I sit for a long time, invisible to everyone and barely breathing.

  I push rewind on my camera. The disk works its way backward to the beginning. I press play.

  I watch Mom clean chicken and a few minutes of the scene on the Stairmaster. I fast-forward to Zelda eating lasagna, Susie licking the plate, Dad straightening out the pantry—ordinary stuff. Then Zelda screams as the microwave shoots out flames. There’s Aunt Edie marching in front of the stove at the Fourth of July dinner, singing and poking at those bobbing hot dogs; Melinda and her tattoos hanging out in her bathing suit; Uncle Larry counting rolls; Mom in shorts dripping wet and shivering, her teeth chattering; Dad smashing his head on the table; Uncle Larry picking his teeth. Celebrating the Fourth of July in the middle of February is weird.

  Here’s the mini hair salon scene. Zelda stomps out of the bathroom. Ro cries. Her hair is terrible and her nose is running.

  “Shut it off already, Jermaine,” I whisper at the little screen. I skip over more ordinary stuff, Melinda in the pet aisle at Walmart, then eating kung pao chicken. I stop at Harry the tarantula. Mom looks crazy. I wonder what her customers would think seeing the pickle lady flipping her lid like that. They’d be shocked to hear those bad words flying out of the same smiling mouth they see on the Nora’s Pickles labels. I watch Melinda cry by the cans of paint, missing her father. I can’t watch this part. I fast-forward some more. There’s Aunt Edie. She was so sad and I was filming her in her rumpled clothes. Here’s the scene in the barn last Sunday night. Why did I film myself searching for that ring? Maybe the ring didn’t end up in a jar of Mom’s pickles. But the whole world watching this would think that it did! There’s Uncle Larry eating pickles and waving his arms. He talks about the giant clothespin. He slams the glove on the table. He’s bawling. His bald spot takes up part of the screen while he leans his head into his hands and sobs. I cringe when I watch this scene. My Uncle Larry, who’s always cheery and coming up with silly ideas and funny balloon animals, seems so un-Uncle Larry. I wonder what he’d think if he saw himself like this on TV—or even worse, if he knew I was filming him the whole time.

  My audience might think my family is funny—not ha-ha funny, but strange funny. And I was worried my family was too ordinary. I guess there’s an upside to being ordinary.

  I fast-forward to tonight. Mom sets up for the Pickle Palooza. Dad arranges the jars, my aunt and uncle decorate with balloons. They found those special pickle-shaped balloons just for the Palooza. Mom is waving and smiling at the camera. Her apron is so yellow it looks happy—if that’s possible for an apron.

  I shut the camera off. For a split second I imagine myself stretched out on a cushy leather seat inside a limo. I’m sipping Sprite from the can, and wearing sunglasses even though the windows are tinted. But then I see Uncle Larry’s crying face; Aunt Edie’s wrinkled clothes; Mom’s flapping arms; Ro’s runny nose; the tumbling pyramid of pickles. It’s like a TV screen flashing image after image inside my head. The scenes play over and over again, so fast I feel my heart beating to catch up with them. Now there’s sound. Mom is screaming. Melinda is crying. Uncle Larry is sobbing. The jars are breaking. Right now, I am the opposite of famous. I’m somebody nobody wants to know.

  I reach up to wipe my wet face with the back of my sleeve. My brain is quiet. Then it starts again. But this time it’s not a playback from my reality show. It’s my own voice inside my head. It says that my reality show doesn’t tell the whole truth about my family. And it doesn’t tell the whole truth about me, either.

  I flop over onto my stomach, careful so my legs don’t poke out and give me away. I lift the hem of the cloth. There’s a long line waiting at the food counter. T
o the right and behind the pizza stand I see the tank of helium next to the back door. I pick up my camera and hold it in my hands. With my thumb I push down on the square button. The little door opens and I pop the disk inside it out. I feel for the balloon I know is still in my front pocket. I push the disk into the mouth of the balloon, tugging at the stretchy rim and squeezing it through the neck until it falls into its rubbery belly. Holding it tightly in my fist, I crawl out from under the table, leaving my camera behind. I sprint toward the helium tank. In less than a minute, the balloon is inflated and tied. My reality show is safe inside.

  I push the heavy metal door with my shoulder and step outside. The door clanks shut and the frosty night air bites at me. Above the parking lot the moon hangs like a lost balloon in the sky.

  Pale moonlight spills onto the tops of the cars. A frozen field beyond shines like a sparkling white ocean, the Paul Bunyan statue looming like a massive, dark cloud in the center of it.

  From outside I hear the buzz of the Palooza. The table is probably fixed now. The unbroken jars, if there are any, have been restacked. Somebody, I’m sure, is looking for me.

  The wind tugs at the balloon between my palms. It’s eager for me to let it go. I open my hands and release it. The balloon spins into the night, silently, like a secret. The winter air blows and lifts it higher, carrying it over the parking lot. It pitches left, then right, sailing toward the river, up above bare treetops and, finally, out of sight.

  24

  Little Stuffers

  From my bedroom window I see the light in the barn. I imagine my mother working furiously to make more red pepper relish.

  By the time Zelda found me sitting by the information booth, the Palooza was closed for the night and the place was mostly empty.

  “Your life as you know it is over,” she told me. I refused to move out of the metal folding chair, but Zelda grabbed me by the arm and yanked me up. “You’ve caused enough trouble. Come on. Everyone wants to go home.” My aunt and uncle were kind enough not to hang around while I got yelled at by my parents. They scrammed once they knew I hadn’t run away, offering to drop Katrina and Nina at home. Dad did most of the yelling. Mom was too upset and disappointed to say much of anything. She could hardly look at me. When we got home I was sent straight to my room not knowing what was in store for me in the way of punishment. My parents hadn’t figured that out yet. The crashing table did not qualify under Aunt Edie’s “no crying over spilled milk” rule. This was different.

  I left my camera under the table at the Palooza. When someone finds it I will not claim it from the lost and found. Maybe the person who does find it will keep it. It doesn’t matter. My career in reality TV is over. My show is on its way to Canada. Or depending on which way the wind blows, maybe France or China, if it makes it across the ocean. I hope it gets lost at sea forever.

  My stomach growls from hunger, but I don’t feel like eating. I can’t sleep, either. I hug my pillow and let my face fall forward. The tears soak into the pillowcase, and I sit up to wipe my cheeks and nose. I wonder if Mom will be mad forever. I hope not, but I wouldn’t blame her.

  I get up to find my Magic 8 Ball. I slide open my desk drawer. Where is it? I need some answers. I slam the drawer shut and tug the one underneath it open. It’s not there, either. Then I remember last week, looking for Harry. I chucked it across the room. It wasn’t very reliable … but maybe if I don’t overload it with too many questions … if I ask it just one … I look under my dresser and feel a rush of relief. It’s still there. But then I see the crack that zigzags across the plastic window. The liquid from inside the ball is gone. I see the blue stain in my carpet where it has leaked out. My Magic 8 Ball is broken. It’s out of order. I can’t go to it for answers anymore.

  At first she doesn’t see me. Mom is standing at the center island staring at an empty colander. A cutting board and knife lie in front of her, unused. When I slide the barn door closed she looks up.

  “What are you doing in here, Jermaine?” My mother is angry.

  “I want to help you make more relish for tomorrow,” I say softly.

  “Well, that’s not possible,” she says tersely. “I don’t have any red bell peppers left to make the relish.”

  “Oh,” I say. “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s a good question,” she snaps. “What does one do when they need to create a new prize-winning product in less than twenty-four hours?” She rubs her eyes, then her cheeks, before she drops her hands and slumps against the counter, resting on her elbows and hanging her head.

  “I’ll help you,” I tell her. Mom looks up at me.

  “There’s nothing to help with, Jermaine. I won’t be able to participate in the Palooza contest.” Mom carries the cutting board and knife over to the sink. She leans the board on its side against the basin. She opens a drawer and drops the knife inside. Then she unties her apron and folds it up, tossing it onto the countertop.

  There has to be something we can come up with. Several jars of Mom’s pickle products are set out on the work table. The little pickles in the sweet pickle mix remind me of fingers. It makes me think of Ro’s lost ring. I feel a stab of panic. I push thoughts of the ring out of my mind. Instead I think about the things that go well with pickles, like hamburgers and ketchup. Hamburgers and ketchup lead to thoughts of other stuff you might like on your burger—tomatoes, onions, and lettuce, and other vegetables. Then all of a sudden these thoughts start smashing into each other … and there’s that big tidal wave building up inside my head again. This time it’s an idea for the pickle contest. Mom starts collecting the empty mason jars to put away.

  “Wait!” I tell her. “Hold on!” I say excitedly.

  “What now, Jermaine?” She sighs. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

  “I have an idea!” I grap a jar of sweet pickles and a jar of pickled veggies.

  “What are you doing?” Mom shouts. “Please, Jermaine,” she whines, “I just cleaned up.”

  “One more second.” I take one of the small onions and very carefully cut a hole through its center. I do the same with a carrot chunk. Then I stuff a small piece of pickle into each of the holes.

  “Look! Your new product! Little Stuffers,” I say, beaming. My mother’s expression is completely blank. Then she shakes her head side to side. She opens her mouth to say something. My smile fades. She thinks it’s a stupid idea.

  “Jermaine,” Mom says, “it’s … it’s … fantastic!” A huge smile lights up her face. Mom races around the barn. She pulls out a big pot and reaches for a ladle hanging on the wall. “I’ll make the brine … I’m going to add cinnamon and ginger! When we’re not in such a rush, we might add cauliflower and cherry peppers to the recipe. But this will do quite nicely.”

  Together, side by side, Mom and I chop, stuff, mix, and pour. It’s almost midnight by the time the Little Stuffers are packed inside their jars. We slide them into the refrigerator. They will be all set in time for their debut at the Palooza tomorrow evening.

  On our way back to the house I walk slightly behind my mother. The night is quiet except for the snow crunching under our boots.

  “I’m sorry I knocked the table over,” I tell her. My throat aches like a needle is sticking into my windpipe.

  Mom doesn’t answer. She keeps walking.

  “I will never use my camera again.” My voice shakes.

  “I think you need a break from filming,” she suggests.

  “I wasn’t very good at it anyways. Not good enough to be famous.” I try to keep my voice steady and to stop the tears from spilling. But I can’t. She stops and turns toward me. I see the moon’s reflection in her eyes. A soft shine dances across her face. But the warm look she gives me, I know, comes from inside her. Her cold hand strokes my cheek.

  “It takes time to be very good at something,” she tells me. “You don’t need to be famous so soon.” Then Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me in. Her jacket smells like winter and the pi
ne hand lotion she keeps by the sink. I feel her breath in my hair and the gentle kiss she presses against my head. She holds me for a long time like that—long enough for me to realize that even without that skull ring, I am lucky.

  “So you thought up a new idea for a pickle,” Aunt Edie says proudly. She inflates balloons while Melinda hands them out.

  “Yup,” I say.

  “Your Uncle Larry could learn a few tricks from you,” she laughs.

  “No hard feelings,” Uncle Larry says, patting my head. Mom is chatting with Palooka customers while Zelda and I sit behind the table waiting to hand out samples. Dad arrives with a big carton of jars. “Here we go,” he says, pulling out a couple of jars and topping off the pyramid, which has dwindled a bit. Then he slides the carton under the table with the rest of the stock. All of a sudden Zelda smacks my arm. I’m just about to smack her back when she whispers so no one can hear, “Look! There’s a skull in one of the pickle jars.” I slap my hand over my mouth like a person would do when they are totally surprised. At the very top of a pyramid, from inside a jar, the skull seems to smile at me through the glass.

  “That’s Ro’s missing ring!” I whisper back. “How did that jar of dills end up here? They’re not even pickled yet.”

  “How did Ro’s ring end up inside it is the bigger question,” Zelda says quietly.

  Stay calm, I tell myself, I look around to make sure no one’s paying attention. Before I can lift my arm to snatch the jar, Ro rushes up to the table.

  “Hey!” she says to me.

  “Ro! You’re back from Florida. Did you have fun?” My eyes shift back and forth from Ro to the skull ring just inches away.

  “It was a blast,” she tells me. “Don’t I have an awesome tan?” She pulls the neck of her shirt off her shoulder to show me her bathing-suit line.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m ready for my close-up in your reality show,” she tells me.