by C. C. Payne
After pushing most of my meat loaf and all of my peas and carrots around on my plate—I like mashed potatoes, so I’d eaten those—for what I thought was a fair amount of time, I said, “May I please be excused?”
I half expected Mom to inspect my plate and launch into her I-worked-so-hard-on-this-meal speech, but all she said was, “You may.”
I figured this meant Mom thought we’d had enough dinner difficulties for one night—I thought so, too. I picked up my plate and carried it into the kitchen.
As soon as I was out of sight, I heard Keene whisper, “Cecily, you don’t really believe she can win the contest, do you? She’s just a kid.”
“Of course I believe she can win,” Mom said.
Keene snorted.
“Fizzy’s very talented—it has nothing to do with age,” Mom said, sounding a little hurt.
“Oooooh-kay,” Keene said, but the way he said it sounded more like Boy, are you dumb.
“What?” Mom said, a pinch of anger rising in her voice. “What are you trying to say?”
Get him, I thought as I stood at the counter, holding on to my dinner plate so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
“Love is truly blind, isn’t it?” Keene said lightly.
I’ll say, I thought, because if it wasn’t, Mom would see what a jerk you are!
• • •
After that, in the privacy of my room, I made another list in my journal, which confirmed that I didn’t like Keene—and that I had reasons—good reasons! It read:
1)Prickly hair—like a porcupine!
2)Prickly personality—like a porcupine!
3)No manners. Shouldn’t a guest recognize their guest-ness? Especially when it’s pointed out to them? And shouldn’t they behave like a guest?—politely?
4)Inconsiderate—a guest shouldn’t talk about any of his hosts behind their backs—especially when I can hear him! Hosts have feelings, too!
5)Rude—see 3 and 4.
6)Doesn’t believe in me.
7)Doesn’t trust Mom enough to believe in her when she believes in me. (I’m pretty sure this indicates serious problems in their relationship.)
8)Gave me a hateful alarm clock for my birthday—which I’m pretty sure he received as a free gift with his Sports Illustrated subscription.
9)Re-gifts!—see 8.
Then, to be fair, I made a list of things I liked about Keene:
1)Practices very good hygiene.
2)Makes Mom happy—although I can’t see how—and causes her to wear her prettiest clothes.
This wasn’t exactly enough to win me over.
• • •
When I heard Mom coming up the stairs late that night, I slipped out of bed and into the hallway.
When she saw me, Mom smiled knowingly. “It stopped snowing an hour ago and the roads are fine—school isn’t canceled.”
“Oh no . . . I, um . . . Is Keene gone?” I asked as she reached the top step.
“Yes.” Mom reached for my hand and held it. “What is it, sweet pea? Why are you still awake?”
I begged her with my eyes, hoping she would try to understand even though she obviously felt differently, as I said, “Mom, I . . . I don’t like Keene.”
She sighed. “You will, Fizzy, you’ll see. These things just take time.”
There was something in Mom’s voice that kept me from saying more. She seemed so determined, desperate even, for Keene and me to like each other.
Chapter 8
When the—hateful—Genghis started yelling at me on Monday morning, my room was still pitch-dark. My thoughts went something like this: Who set that alarm? Is this some sort of joke? Because it’s not funny. It’s downright cruel. Naturally I blamed Keene. Until I remembered that I was the one who’d set my alarm clock.
I found Mom downstairs leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee.
Do you always do this? I wanted to ask, because in my opinion, a person who’s always “running late” doesn’t have time for leaning.
But Mom beat me to the questions. “What are you doing up so early?”
I shrugged. “I thought maybe I’d walk to school today.”
Wrinkles formed on Mom’s forehead. “Oh? And why is that?”
I looked down at my bare feet and mumbled, “I can’t be late for school anymore.”
Mom set her coffee down. “All right. Could you please explain?”
“It’s just that I don’t want to go to the principal’s office anymore,” I said softly.
Mom’s eyes bulged. “When were you in the principal’s office?”
“Friday . . . and it wasn’t the first time,” I told her. “I’m late a lot, Mom.” I felt bad saying it. I really did.
Mom’s face melted into a sad sort of smile. “I’m still trying to figure out how I can do it all . . . by myself . . . and I . . . I . . .” She shook her head and then showed me her palms. “All right.”
I headed for the stairs but when I glanced back, Mom looked so sad. “Enjoy your coffee,” I tried.
Another sad—guilt-loaded—smile.
I felt bad for her and didn’t want to leave her like that. I took another step toward the stairs and stopped, grinning as the idea hit me. I turned to face Mom fully as I said, “You know, I’m sure you’d feel much better about all this walking if I had a cell phone.”
It worked: Immediately Mom hardened and said, “We can’t always get everything we want in life, Fizzy.”
I took the stairs two at a time and was already at the top when she called after me, “The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be!”
• • •
Mom caught me at the front door on my way out and said, “I almost forgot: I spoke to your aunt Liz and she wants you to plan on going over to her house after school every day this week to try out a bunch of recipes for the contest.”
I should’ve known something was up right then because Mom had talked to Aunt Liz—which she hardly ever does anymore—but I didn’t. So I just said, “Okay . . . but what about Thursday?”
“What about Thursday?”
“It’s Parents’ Night at school,” I reminded her.
“Oh, right. Keene and I will pick you up from your aunt Liz’s right after work,” Mom said.
“Why?” was the word that tumbled out of my mouth, as in, Why would Keene come? He wasn’t my parent. He wasn’t anybody’s parent.
“For Parents’ Night—isn’t that what we’re talking about?” Mom gave me a quick hug and headed for the stairs before I could think what to say.
• • •
It was a cold, gray morning. A few patches of snow remained in shady spots, with dead grass sticking up through them in an unruly way, which seemed out of place in Lush Valley, where yards aren’t only strictly ruled but sculpted—some bushes are even carved into shapes, like art—even in the winter.
As I walked, I thought about how happy Coach Bryant would be to know that I get all this fresh air and exercise outside of gym class. I thought maybe I should tell him. Maybe he would say something like, In that case, you’re excused from gym class for the rest of the year. Sit and read all you want. You’ve earned it, Fissy. (The way Coach Bryant says “Fizzy” sounds more like “Fissy,” which sounds a lot like “Fussy” to me. I don’t like it.)
That’s what I was thinking when I heard a door slam somewhere behind me. I turned to look: Zach Mabry, a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who was in my math class came thudding down his front steps, hugging an unzipped black backpack with papers sticking out of the top, his coat half on and half off. When he saw me looking at him, he showed me his teeth.
Was that supposed to be a smile? I wondered as I turned back around and resumed walking.
Within two minutes, I heard footsteps on the sidewalk right beh
ind me. I glanced over my shoulder.
Zach showed me his teeth again.
I decided not to look behind me anymore and picked up my pace.
But Zach stayed right with me. Until we reached the school. Then he jogged around me, moving ahead of me as he hurried for the door. But he didn’t open it. Instead he just stood beside it, staring at me.
I slowed, looking around, unsure. But then I remembered how I couldn’t be late again.
As I neared the door, Zach pulled it open and held it for me.
“Th-thank you,” I stuttered as I passed.
“It’s not working, is it?” Zach asked as he entered right on my heels.
I turned. “What?”
“My I’m-not-a-violent-maniac smile.”
“Oh,” I said. “Um . . . why do you need an I’m-not-a-violent-maniac smile?” Because wouldn’t only a violent maniac need one of those?
“When you come up behind kids who’ve lived on the street, especially girls . . . ,” Zach started, but then he shook his head and said, “never mind.” He smiled a real smile, winked, and added, “Have a nice day.” I was a little unnerved. Until I reminded myself how cool I must look as a walker, voluntarily showing up for school and all.
• • •
Mr. Moss began science class by announcing that he was going to give each of us a marble for our experiment in force of motion, and then spent the next twenty minutes detailing all the terrible things that would happen if we lost our marble. For starters, we wouldn’t get another one and we wouldn’t be allowed to share with a friend. Blah-blah-blah. Cut to catastrophe: “Accidentally drop your marble down the sink? Too bad. No marble means no experiment, no data, and no points—you’ll get a zero if you lose your marble. Everybody understand?” We all nodded, ready to get going.
But Mr. Moss spent another ten minutes telling us about all the different kinds of marbles he’d collected over the years: cat’s eyes, devil’s eyes, rubies, butterflies, bumblebees, and so on.
When we—finally!—got our marbles, I saw the one belonging to the girl in front of me, Miyoko Hoshi, roll off her table and onto the floor. The girl at the table beside Miyoko’s, Ada Montgomery-Asher—one of Buffy’s friends—saw it, too, because Ada reached out with her foot, rolled Miyoko’s marble under her table, and kept it there, under her shoe. Miyoko must not have noticed, though, because she didn’t move.
I knew that losing her marble would upset Miyoko even though I didn’t really know her, because it’s obvious to everyone that she’s a very serious student. In addition to science, we also have math and gym/health class together. Miyoko’s not much better than I am at gym, but she tries a lot harder—and never forgets her gym shoes. Also she sometimes asks health questions that stump Coach Bryant—he always says, “Uh . . . I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
When Mr. Moss stopped talking, the room suddenly fell silent and everyone looked up at him. “Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for? We only have ten more minutes! Get to work!” As if he’d been waiting for us to stop talking this whole time. Right.
Miyoko moved things around on her table and bent to look underneath it, while Ada worked on her experiment and paid no attention to Miyoko.
I tapped Miyoko on the shoulder to get her attention and then crawled under Ada’s table and retrieved the marble from under her bedazzled shoe.
Ada gave me a surprised look, as if to say, Oh, I had no idea that was there!
I gave her a squinty look back to let her know that I knew better.
I placed the marble on the table in front of Miyoko, who looked at me like I’d just placed Julia Child’s famous beef bourguignon in front of her when she was starving to death—I thought she might cry. Since I’m against tears at school, I immediately dropped Miyoko’s gaze and hurried back to my table.
• • •
Miyoko sat beside me that afternoon during our health lesson, which was only fifteen minutes long, because Coach Bryant thought fresh air and exercise were way better for us than sitting around in the dank locker room where he had to teach health. We spent the remainder of our class time outside, but at least we were free to do what we wanted. I’d brought my cookbook—and my coat—just in case.
It wasn’t as cold as it had been this morning, but the sky was still the color of oysters, which made me hope for more snow. I sat down with my book beneath the big sugar maple that had turned bright candy-apple red back in October. I love candy apples. Hey, maybe Aunt Liz and I can make some this afternoon, just for fun, I thought.
Miyoko wandered over then and squatted beside me on the grass—she’d brought her coat to health class, too, I noticed. Miyoko had the same kind of dark, shiny hair as Aunt Liz— except that it was stick straight—with almond eyes and a perfectly straight nose. She was pretty, maybe the prettiest girl in the whole sixth grade. I smiled at her.
Miyoko smiled back.
“I’m Fizzy,” I said.
Miyoko nodded. “Thanks for this morning, Fizzy—with the marble.”
“Sure. Hey, can I ask you something?”
Miyoko nodded again.
“Does Coach Bryant ever get back to you on your health questions?”
“Never.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But he always gives me an A in health,” Miyoko offered.
“Well, he kind of has to, doesn’t he?” I said. “I mean, you know more than he does.”
“I think most people do, don’t you?” Miyoko said.
We both laughed.
After that, despite the fact that my behind was going numb from sitting on the cold ground, I felt something digging into it. I thought it was probably a rock and stood up to look. But there wasn’t any rock. I felt my back pockets. There was something in one of them. I reached into it and pulled out a gigantic black spider.
Now, even though I should’ve known the spider wasn’t real—and I sort of did—I threw it down like it was the deadliest spider known to man.
Miyoko gasped and sprung up to a standing position.
I laughed a nervous little laugh and picked up the spider, to show her that it was fake.
Miyoko laughed, too. “What? . . . Why? . . .”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
• • •
At the end of the day, I found Miyoko waiting near my locker. “Do you like spiders?” she asked seriously, like this was the most important question in life.
“No way,” I said.
Miyoko appeared relieved. “Me neither.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t I like them?” Miyoko asked, as if this was pure crazy talk.
“No, why do you care whether or not I like them?” I clarified.
Miyoko shrugged. “Oh, I don’t . . . I just . . . well . . . I’m not sure I could be friends with a person who likes spiders.”
I smiled then. Because we were friends.
• • •
As I walked to Aunt Liz’s house, I tried to figure out how that spider might have gotten into my jeans. But I couldn’t. So I tried to remember the last time I’d worn them. It had been Saturday. It was only then that I remembered the snake I’d left in Suzanne’s bathtub. So not only did Suzanne know how to take a joke, she knew how to play one! She did have a sense of humor! I laughed out loud. At that moment, I fully committed myself to maybe, just possibly, perhaps, liking Suzanne, instead of working so hard to stay mad at her all the time.
Chapter 9
Aunt Liz already had her apron on and was ready to get cooking as soon as I arrived that afternoon—well, almost. I followed her into the kitchen, where she plucked a garbage-bag tie out of a drawer and used it to pull up her hair in about three seconds flat, after which Aunt Liz looked like she’d just come from the salon, where the chicest updo ever had been created on her head. Wh
at can I tell you? Aunt Liz is the only person I know who can make something so elegant using a lowly garbage-bag tie—I wished I had some garbage-bag ties at home but we buy drawstring bags—and somehow I knew I’d never master this technique, not with all the garbage-bag ties in the world.
Anyway, after Aunt Liz performed her hair magic, we turned on the radio and sang and danced, cooked and tasted, and laughed and laughed. I was as happy as a birthday cake, right up until Aunt Liz said, “Listen, Fizzy, when I called your house to make plans to cook with you this week, your mom asked me to talk to you about Keene.”
I froze right where I stood.
Aunt Liz put an arm around my shoulders and gently guided me to the kitchen table.
When were both seated, she said, “What is it, Fizzy? Why don’t you like Keene?”
I still didn’t want to tell Aunt Liz, but I knew I had to now. Because Mom was so determined for Keene and me to like each other, she had broken one of the A.D. Rules. As far as I can tell, the A.D. Rules are these:
1)Mom and Dad don’t speak to each other. If they absolutely have to communicate—about me or my schedule—they do it by email or text. If they end up on the phone with each other—while trying to reach me—they say “one moment, please” and give me the phone, or they take messages in a polite way, like they’re speaking to someone they’ve never met. (Occasionally, they speak of each other to me, but they never say the other’s name and they always put a “your” in front of it, like “Your mom wants you home at two o’clock,” or “Your dad wants you to call him,” as if to say, Don’t forget: These are your people. Not mine. Yours. All yours.)
2)Mom and Dad don’t see each other. Whenever they’re in the same place at the same time, like at a school play, or even in front of their own houses when I am being dropped off or picked up, they each pretend not to see the other. There is no waving, no smiling, no nodding, no nothing. (I’ve decided they think waving, smiling, and nodding are too friendly—or maybe too forgiving. They do not feel friendly or forgiving toward each other. At all.)
3)All of these same rules apply to most of the extended family, which is to say that Dad’s side of the family no longer exists as far as Mom’s side of the family is concerned, and vice versa. Except for Aunt Liz, who doesn’t seem to know any of the new A.D. Rules. Also, sometimes Mom waves at Aunt Liz—but only sometimes—when she’s in a good mood. (Mom and Aunt Liz used to be close.)
