Get Real

by Betty Hicks

They’re dressed funny, and they’re all singing “Happy Birthday.” Loud, laughing, and completely off-key. Dad seems to be whistling the melody into a long wooden flute.

  Jil, Mom, Dad, Denver, the Lewises, plus a few of my friends from school. I spot Samantha and Michelle. Even Graham is here. Is he wearing a tunic? Why does Dad have on a chain-link fence instead of a shirt?

  I’m excited. I’m horrified.

  Don’t get me wrong. A surprise party is an awesome thing. But, at my house? With my parents in charge? That is scary. It’s the Tater T-shirts element multiplied by the Cheez Whiz factor. Plus, fourteen years of successfully keeping friends from seeing the inside of my house—straight down the drain.

  Jil flies across the room and throws her arms around me.

  Wait a minute. Isn’t she grounded? For life?

  Last week, when she confessed to her parents the real reason she bailed on her Mom-2 visit, her story got so tangled that, before she knew it, the whole truth spilled out. Stuff like sleeping on a toilet at Target. Even the Lewises couldn’t ignore that many lies and that much dumbness.

  But here she is, wearing a pointy princess hat with a peach-colored silk scarf floating down from its peak, and she’s shouting, “Surprise! Happy Birthday!”

  She squeezes me in a quick hug and whispers, “They freed me—just for tonight,” then pushes me into the kitchen.

  Everyone follows.

  Mom and Dad stare at me, almost shyly. Expectantly.

  A long fold-out Formica table has been set up in the middle of the room. Soup bowls filled with something smelly and lumpy are scattered across the top. Next to them sit thick slabs of fossilized bread covered with overcooked chicken drumsticks and slathered with … with … I don’t know what. Food that is green and gray and mushy and gross.

  “It’s a medieval feast!” exclaims Dad, flourishing his flute to include the whole room.

  Oh. That explains the shirt. It’s supposed to be chain mail—the part that goes under the armor.

  “Have some clarrey,” says Mom, grinning and offering me a heavy mug filled with golden liquid. She’s wearing a stained, baggy, no-waist dress that hangs to her ankles. I’m guessing she’s some kind of medieval scullery maid, but she looks about the same to me.

  “Clarrey?” I ask.

  “It’s wine,” says Graham, grinning and throwing down a huge swig, then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Next, he actually tries to pinch Michelle, who shrieks and blushes. I guess that means he’s getting totally into the character that matches his costume—tunic-wearing barbarian. More importantly, I guess it means he’s getting over Jil.

  But my brain is too busy to think about that. It’s still trying to process Mom’s handing me an alcoholic beverage. Parents can be clueless, but no way did mine confuse my fourteenth birthday with my twenty-first. I stare at the mug. “Wine?”

  “Clarrey,” explains Dad. “Or more accurately, vinum claratum. It comes from the Latin, meaning ‘clarified wine.’ In the twenty-first century, we call it claret.”

  “You’re serving wine? To minors?” I’m having trouble making sense of any of this. Especially the wine part.

  “Of course not,” says Dad. “It’s apple juice. But I made it from a medieval recipe that calls for mulling spices and wine. Obviously,” he pauses and winks at me, “I omitted the wine. Instead, I substituted apple juice, then added honey, cinnamon, cardamom, galingale—”

  “Galin … what?”

  “Galingale—it’s a spice. Made from a plant in the sedge family. With red flowers and aromatic roots. The Latin name, Cyperus longus—”

  “Dad!”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He bows apologetically to everyone in the room for accidentally inflicting a history/botany/Latin lesson on us. But he still can’t stop himself from adding, “I substituted ginger for the galingale. Food Lion hasn’t carried galingale for centuries.”

  Everyone laughs like Robin Hood’s band of merry men. They’re all having a blast.

  I’m mortified.

  “Thanks, Dad. Mom. Everybody.” I force a smile. “This is so fun.”

  “Are you really surprised?” asks Samantha.

  “Utterly,” I answer. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in days.

  “Let’s eat!” shouts Mom, slapping Mr. Lewis on his back.

  I want to die.

  We all sit around the table in folding chairs and slurp down the lumpy liquid that’s in the bowls. Apparently it’s cabbage soup with who-knows-what old-English ingredients simmered in.

  The chicken-and-bread stack is called a trencher. That, as Dad couldn’t wait to tell me, is a chunk of stale bread with roasted chicken, eggs, asparagus, potatoes, and miscellaneous yuck heaped on top. Apparently, before plates were invented, people just slopped everything in a gross pile on top of very old bread.

  Mr. Lewis picks up the whole thing and chomps into it as if he’s been eating like a pig all his life. Denver is rolling meatballs to Jil. She is actually rolling them back, but the ones he doesn’t catch are hitting the floor.

  “Dogs and vermin generally cleaned up the spillage,” says Dad, clearly disappointed that we don’t have any rats.

  I look around at our messy, dirty house and decide that I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if one or two showed up.

  That’s when I realize that this party is the perfect cover-up for my parents’ bad habits. I bet all the guests think that my parents went out of their way to make it dirty and messy especially for the party.

  I almost laugh out loud.

  Elegant Mrs. Lewis, dressed in a flowing blue brocade robe, gnaws on the last bite of her chicken, then tosses the bone over her shoulder and onto the floor.

  As Mom would say, that brings the house down. Everyone laughs until we practically fall out of our chairs. Actually, Graham does fall out of his chair. Not to be outdone, Denver tries to do a headstand in his and falls over backward, crying but, miraculously, unhurt.

  From that point on, I have fun.

  There are only two disappointments. The first is the cake, which isn’t a cake at all, but a bunch of authentic medieval poached pears with fourteen very unmedieval birthday candles pushed into them. The pears taste great, but still … a pear is not a birthday cake. A pear is fruit.

  The second disappointment is my present from Mom and Dad. It isn’t a piano. Even when you know, 100 percent, that you’re not getting something, you still hope.

  What I get instead is a new winter coat. Mom had noticed, at the Lewises’ Christmas party, that maybe I needed a dressier coat. I definitely give her major points for noticing something so un-Momlike, but excuse me, it’s June. How excited can I get about a wool coat?

  Finally, as everyone leaves, Jil pulls me aside and whispers, “Can you believe it?”

  I say, “No. I really can’t,” shaking my head in disbelief, then adding, “But who would have thought—this was really fun, wasn’t it?”

  Suddenly, I remember that she’s grounded. And I’m not. My shoulders sink. Sooner or later, I ought to tell my parents what happened, too. But I promised Jil I wouldn’t.

  “I’m sorry you’re in so much trouble,” I say. Then, I straighten myself up and exclaim, “But I’m so glad they let you come tonight!”

  “Me, too!” shrieks Jil. Then she gets a serious look on her face, and says, “Dez, I know I can never, ever repay you for everything you did for me, but I tried.”

  “You tried?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I tried to make it up to you.”

  “Thanks. What’d you do? Help with the party?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tell Mom I needed a coat?”

  “Nope.”

  “Jil. What did you do?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Jil!”

  “Bye.” She waves casually on her way out the door. Her eyes are dancing again. “Happy Birthday!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mom and Dad have piled all the dirty dishes in the sink—a leaning tow
er of soup bowls. At least there aren’t any dinner plates. Just a garbage disposal stuffed full of stale bread chunks and a trash can full of chicken bones. I know I should help load the dishwasher, but I hate stacked bowls—the food gets smeared all over the bottoms. Why do people do that?

  Mom has collapsed onto the sofa, and Dad is lying back in his recliner, looking even paler than usual but satisfied. Denver is already in his bed, fast asleep.

  Quietly, with his eyes closed, Dad whispers, “‘And pomp, and feast, and revelry, with mask, and antique pageantry, such sights as youthful poets dream, on summer eves by haunted stream.’” He opens one eye, smiles at me, and says, “John Milton.”

  I smile back and say, “‘Goodnight room, goodnight moon’—Margaret Wise Brown.”

  I slip away to my room to put away my birthday presents. I can’t wait to use the label maker that Jil gave me. That has got to be the best present anyone’s ever heard of.

  But what did Jil mean? What did she do to help me? Help me with what?

  “Dez,” calls Mom. “Can you come here a minute?”

  I carefully slide the Beginner’s Book of Piano Classics that the Lewises gave me into my desk drawer. I’ll need to redraw my fake piano keyboard so I can use it. Heaving a huge sigh, I join Mom and Dad in the den.

  “Thanks again for the party,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, Dez. Sit down, please.” Dad’s voice is weird. Tense? Tired? I can’t tell.

  I perch on the edge of our worn-out plaid armchair and wait.

  “Tomorrow, we’re having a piano delivered,” says Dad.

  “What!” I leap out of my chair. “For me? A piano for me? You’re kidding, right?” I look from Mom to Dad, then back to Mom. They’re smiling.

  “Really? You mean it?” I sit back down. Frozen. Afraid to believe them.

  “We thought it was just a phase. But we were wrong.” Mom leans forward and takes my hand.

  “Apparently you’ve been doing some growing up when we weren’t watching,” Dad adds.

  “I have?”

  “That was quite a sacrifice you made,” says Dad.

  “It was?”

  “Jil told us everything,” explains Mom.

  “Everything?”

  “Honey,” says Mom. “You sound like an echo.” She squeezes my hand. “We’re very proud that you were willing to give up something so important for a friend in need.”

  I’m speechless.

  “And Jil told us you practically play air piano in your sleep.”

  Did she tell them I played air piano in a bathroom at four A.M.?

  “So, we’re going to let you try out a piano. We rented a small upright, with an option to buy.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that if you practice, and continue to play, we can buy the piano, and all the rental money we’ve paid will count toward the purchase price.”

  I jump up and hug Mom. I fly across the room to Dad, who, in order to brace himself better this time for one of my tackle hugs, has quickly popped his recliner into the up position.

  “Mrs. Lewis gave us the name of a real piano teacher she thinks you’ll like. She said your talent needs fostering.”

  “Oh, Mom. Dad. Thank you. You won’t be sorry.” I’m jumping up and down, not looking mature at all, but I don’t care. “I’ll practice every day. I’ll help pay for my lessons. I’ll get a job. I’ll keep Denver. I’ll—”

  “Dez,” says Dad, holding up his hand. “Enough. First, you have to pay Jil’s parents back the money you charged on their credit card.”

  “What on earth were you thinking?” exclaims Mom. Dad nods in total agreement.

  “Start by helping out around the house while you’re grounded. Then you’ll need a real job. Your mother will pay you to ride along with her and take field notes for her pond research.”

  I sit back down with a whump. “I’m grounded?”

  “Well, let’s see,” says Mom. She holds up all the fingers on her right hand and starts counting. “You lied about where you were going. You lied about what you were doing. You lied about—”

  “But it was all for Jil. I hated doing that. You said—”

  “That we were proud of you,” Dad finishes my sentence. “And we were. We are. You sacrificed your credibility about wanting a piano, just to help Jil. And she needed you, Dez. You helped her with a dangerously difficult problem—understanding who her parents are.” Dad smiles and lowers his chair back into the recline position. “You should have heard all the complimentary things she said about your good sense … your intelligent thinking.”

  “But,” says Mom, “you lied like a rug. And running around all night on your own…” She shakes her head in a series of disbelieving little jerks. “You could have been harmed. Anything could’ve happened. We’re absolutely furious about that part!”

  My head’s spinning. Jil told them everything—I did a good thing. Jil told them everything—I did a bad thing. Jil told them the truth about things she didn’t want anyone to know—ever. I don’t have to keep her secret anymore. I’m getting a piano. I have talent that needs fostering. I’m intelligent. So, how come I understand Jil’s parents and not my own? Or do I? They’re messy—I’m neat. They’d walk seventy miles in a blizzard for me. I’m grounded. I may be spending half my summer in a hard hat. With spotted newts. And my mother. Will that be interesting? Or muddy. It’s all way too much to sort out.

  For now, I think I’ll just concentrate on one thing at a time. First things first, as Mom would say.

  I press three fingers of my left hand—pinky, middle finger, thumb—carefully into the air in front of my left elbow. A perfect chord. The key of C. The fingers on my right hand dance lightly across the empty space to my right. A brisk melody, playful and easy. My posture is centered, elbows slightly out, wrists flat. And my fingers never leave the keys.

  Also by Betty Hicks

  Out of Order

  Busted!

  Animal House and Iz

  I Smell Like Ham

  Copyright © 2006 by Betty Hicks

  A Deborah Brodie Book

  Published by Roaring Brook Press

  Roaring Brook Press is a division of

  Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership

  143 West Street, New Milford, Connecticut 06776

  All rights reserved

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First edition September 2006

  eISBN 9781626723788

  First eBook edition: March 2015