by C. C. Payne
Mom took one last long look in the mirror and then said, “All right, it’s your turn.”
I tried on two itchy peach-colored dresses that Mom—naturally—loved.
“What don’t you like about them?” she asked, tilting her head to one side as she looked at me.
“This stuff,” I said, lifting the top layer of the skirt to show her the stiff, netted, cheese-cloth-like material underneath.
“Those are crinolines,” Mom said.
I raked my fingernails up and down my thighs.
“Well,” Mom said, “we can’t have you scratching yourself like that at the wedding, so I’ll go look for something else.”
The door to the dressing room had barely clicked closed before I had that dress up over my head and off. Then I just stood there awkwardly in my underwear, waiting for Mom to bring more dresses.
A few minutes later, I heard Mom coming down the hall, saying, “I’ve found it, Fizzy. This is the one. I just know it.”
I cracked the door and Mom handed the dress through. “But, Mom,” I said, “it’s purple.”
“To match your cake,” she said.
I loved the dress. Not only did it not have itchy crinolines, it was the most elegant shade of purple—kind of silvery.
• • •
After we’d paid for our dresses, Mom and I went looking for matching shoes.
“What do you think of these?” Mom asked, holding up a shoe.
I searched Mom’s face, trying to decide if she was joking. “Ummmm . . . those are gym shoes,” I informed her.
“I know,” she said. “When I saw Coach Bryant at Parents’ Night, he suggested that you bring an extra pair of gym shoes to keep at school.”
“Okay,” I said too quickly, hoping that would be the end of it, really hoping that Coach Bryant hadn’t said anything else—like how I scarcely participate in gym class, how bad I am at it when I do, and how I’m always last-picked for any team—these are not topics I’d like to discuss. At all.
But apparently, Coach Bryant hadn’t said anything else, because Mom moved right on to a delicate pair of pearl-beaded, whipped-cream-colored high heels.
• • •
“This is the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted,” Keene said that night at dinner.
“Fizzy made it,” Mom said proudly.
“Unbelievable,” Keene said.
I thought it was pretty good myself. In fact, I thought it was Southern Living Cook-Off good and I was glad I’d taken the time to jot down the substitutions I’d used.
As Mom and I cleared the dishes, Keene said, “So are you two ever going to show me those dresses?”
“Not mine,” Mom said right away. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. But you can see Fizzy’s.”
“Okay,” Keene said agreeably.
I rolled my eyes. He was just being nice for Mom’s sake. I knew he didn’t really want to see my dress. Who cares what you put on leftovers? You can dress them up and garnish them all you want, but they’re still leftovers and everybody knows it.
Of course, Mom brought my new dress down to the dining room and showed it to Keene anyway.
“I like it,” Keene said, nodding. “I like it a lot.”
Mom smiled at me, as if to say, See? See how nice Keene is?
I didn’t respond.
“I’ll just run upstairs and put this back,” Mom said, giving Keene some sort of look as she pulled the plastic back down over my dress.
I was still trying to figure out what the look meant when Keene said, “Have a seat, Fizzy.”
Oh, I thought. It was a talk-to-her look. I sighed and dropped into a chair.
“I really like your dress,” Keene said. “I like the color purple.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
He folded his hands into a steeple on top of the table.
I waited for him to speak, thinking of the nursery rhyme I’d learned at church when I was little: Here is the church, here is the steeple . . . open it up and see all the people.
“You know, Fizzy,” Keene said, “I don’t have any kids. I don’t really even know any kids.”
I just stared at him, not knowing what I was supposed to say to that. I know? Yes, sir, it’s pretty obvious? I’m sorry? Good for you?
Keene took a sip of iced tea and set his glass back down on the table. “And I’ve been by myself for a long time.”
I watched the beads of condensation slide down his glass.
“And when you’re by yourself, you can be selfish because you only have yourself to think about. Do you understand?”
I nodded absently, without taking my eyes off his tea.
Keene shifted uncomfortably. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m still learning.”
I nodded again.
He reached out like he was going to touch my hand, but I pulled it back—so that he couldn’t.
Keene sighed. “Look, Fizzy, I could tell you that I love you and that I’m excited about becoming your stepfather, but the truth is, you and I don’t know each other well enough for any of that.”
“I know,” I mumbled into my lap. “I don’t expect you to love me.”
Keene held up his index finger and said, “But I do. I expect to love you, in time, just like I grew to love your mother in time. It’s just going to take some time, that’s all.”
What is it with adults and time? An adult’s solution for almost any problem is time (well, except for Coach Bryant, whose solution is fresh air and exercise). In time, you’ll understand. You’ll get used to it in time. You’ll make friends in time. In time, it’ll all be okay. In time, maybe I’ll love you. Maybe. Maybe not.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, feeling the tears coming and not knowing why. I stood.
“Fizzy, please, listen to me,” Keene said.
I sat back down.
“I have every reason to believe that we can all be very happy together. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have asked your mother to marry me . . . and she wouldn’t have said yes.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did.
“And we still have time. I promise you, Fizzy, if I ever start to think we can’t be happy together, all of us, then your mom and I won’t get married—at least, not for a while.”
“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes—so the tears couldn’t escape—and drawing a ragged breath.
“For now, let’s try to get to know each other,” Keene said. “Let’s try to become friends, okay?”
I opened my eyes. “You want to be my friend?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, I do. I can be a good friend, Fizzy. I’m a really good friend.”
Not to be outdone, I said, “I’m a good friend, too.”
Keene smiled.
I smiled back.
• • •
That night, I added to my Things I Like About Keene List:
3)Likes my lasagna.
4)Likes the color purple.
I like those things, too. And after all, I’d started friendships over lesser things. Recently, I’d started one friendship over a marble, and another over a common route to school.
Plus, I had to give Keene some credit for not hating me the way I hated leftovers. Okay, so he didn’t love me, but he didn’t hate me either.
Chapter 15
Standing outside the massive double front doors at Miyoko’s house before my first sleepover in Lush Valley, I felt very small—and nervous—about everything, especially where I lived. I hoped Mr. and Mrs. Hoshi wouldn’t ask which big Lush Valley house was mine, because somehow I knew the answer would disappoint them.
Naturally, as soon as Mrs. Hoshi opened the door, she said, “Hello, Fizzy! We’re so glad you could come. Did you have to come far? Where do you li
ve?”
Mrs. Hoshi was petite and pretty, like Miyoko, and very well dressed—except for the house shoes on her feet.
I turned and waved at Mom—who’d stayed in the car—and then stepped onto the fancy marble floor in the foyer. “Actually, my family has two houses,” I heard myself say.
“Oh, how nice!” Mrs. Hoshi said. “Where are they?”
“Um . . . well, my mom has a town house here in the valley,” I said as Miyoko took my suitcase and set it at the bottom of the staircase.
“I know just where that is,” Mrs. Hoshi said, helping me out of my coat.
Of course she did. They were the only town house complexes—the only small homes—in all of Lush Valley. “And my dad has a house outside the valley, on Candlelight Way.”
“Shoes go there,” Mrs. Hoshi said, pointing with a manicured hand to a black rubber traylike thing hidden under an ornately carved bench.
I didn’t really want to take my shoes off because I hadn’t expected to and therefore hadn’t inspected my socks. But I did it anyway. My socks seemed okay: no holes and not too dingy.
Mrs. Hoshi hung my jacket in the coat closet and said, “Come on in the kitchen and I’ll make you some spiced tea.”
Miyoko and I followed Mrs. Hoshi into the chef-quality, state-of-the-art kitchen, where she fixed each of us a cup of hot tea.
“So your parents don’t live together?” Mrs. Hoshi said, looking concerned, as she handed me a steaming mug.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “But everything’s okay.”
“Are they married?”
“Um . . . not to each other,” I said. Then I took a sip of tea, which tasted a lot like mulled apple cider, only not sweet.
Mrs. Hoshi looked at me like, Then how could everything be okay?
Exactly, I thought, but what I said was, “They still like each other and everything—they’re still friends.” It’s best for everyone if you just say whatever the adults want to hear.
Mrs. Hoshi pursed her lips. I figured either she didn’t believe me or she didn’t think friendship was enough. Since I didn’t know which, I didn’t know what to say next.
Luckily, Miyoko did: “Mom, I’m going to take Fizzy upstairs and show her my room now.”
“Leave your tea here,” Mrs. Hoshi instructed.
Fine by me, I thought, because what good is tea without sugar?
• • •
It turned out that Miyoko didn’t have a “room.” What she did have was a “suite,” complete with sitting area, study area, bedroom, and full bathroom.
“Wow,” I said. “This is . . . really nice.”
“Thanks,” Miyoko said, quietly closing the door behind us. “Listen, I’m sorry about my nosy tiger mom.”
I shook my head. “That’s okay. And anyway, I didn’t think your mom was vicious or tigerlike.”
Miyoko laughed. “‘Tiger mom’ is an expression for a very controlling mom who demands perfection in all things.”
“Does yours demand perfection . . . in all things?”
“Pretty close.”
I plopped down on the bed. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t live here.”
“Yeah,” Miyoko said, perching on the edge of the bed beside me. “It’s not much fun.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Miyoko nodded. “I’m sorry about your parents, too.”
I started to say no, to defend my parents. But then I realized I wasn’t having much fun with them either lately. Instead, I just said, “Thanks.”
There was an awkward silence.
I broke it by confessing, “Um, I just have a regular room.” I wanted to get that straight right up front, because it was the truth.
“That’s fine—that’s great—I’m sure your room is great,” Miyoko said.
Since I was already confessing, I continued, “And I don’t know why I said that—about my family having two houses—it was obnoxious.”
Miyoko shrugged. “My dad says that when people start talking about the things they have, or the things they’re going to get, it means they’re scared.”
I thought about this. “He’s right,” I decided out loud. “I felt scared.”
Miyoko smiled. “That’s okay. There are a lot of scared people in Lush Valley.”
I knew what she meant: There were a lot of obnoxious—scared—people in the valley. I didn’t want to be one of them. Note to self: When you’re scared, don’t talk.
• • •
At dinner, which seemed a little strange and a lot healthy—tofu, brown rice, and plain steamed vegetables—Mrs. Hoshi placed an egg timer on the table and set it for thirty minutes.
“Is your dessert still in the oven?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” Mrs. Hoshi said. “We don’t eat sugar.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s . . . good.” I guessed it was good but I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the Hoshis. They probably didn’t have any butter either. What’s a life without sugar? And butter?
“I’m a slow eater,” Miyoko explained. “Dinner is thirty minutes. When the timer goes off, it’s over.”
“Oh, sure, okay,” I said, like timing a family dinner was the most natural thing in the world, even though I’d never heard of such a thing.
“It’s important not to waste time,” Mrs. Hoshi said, “because time is what your life is made of, Fizzy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Mrs. Hoshi lowered her eyes, to the little pile of broccoli on my plate—which I had planned to hide under some tofu. “There are children starving to death in Africa,” she informed me.
Please, feel free to ship my share of broccoli to them . . . for the rest of my life, I thought, but I said only, “Yes, ma’am.” And then I ate some broccoli. It was pretty bland—it was all pretty bland—I don’t think the Hoshis have salt either.
• • •
After dinner, Miyoko took me upstairs, where she apologized for both of her parents.
“It’s okay,” I said easily. “They’re parents.”
Miyoko just stared at me.
“All parents say dumb stuff,” I explained. “My mom says stuff like, ‘Close your mouth and eat your dinner.’”
Miyoko giggled. “Yeah, I fail to see how eating my broccoli helps starving children.”
“You’re probably just too young to understand. Give it time.” I grinned.
Miyoko grinned back. “In the meantime, well . . . you’re only young once!”
“Thank heaven,” I said, “because it’s harder than it looks.”
“Just be yourself,” Miyoko said.
I rolled my eyes. “Do I have any other options?”
We laughed until we could barely breathe.
• • •
After that, Miyoko taught me some pretend-karate—some chop-choppy things and some kick-kicky things. “Have you seen The Karate Kid movie?” she asked.
“Yeah, a long time ago.”
“Okay, here’s how you do the big kick at the end,” Miyoko said, lifting her arms high while effortlessly balancing on one foot.
I tried to mirror her, raising my arms and one leg—I was a little shaky.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said confidently. And then I promptly fell over on the carpet. WHUMP!
“Oh! Are you okay?” Miyoko crouched beside me.
I couldn’t answer her because I was laughing so hard. Miyoko laughed, too.
“What’s going on up there?” Mrs. Hoshi hollered.
“Nothing!” Miyoko hollered back. Then she lowered her voice and said, “We should probably save that one for another day . . . but we could watch the movie—study the moves.”
I propped myself up on my elbows and nodded.
• •
•
We started The Karate Kid. But we didn’t finish it because Mrs. Hoshi came upstairs and announced that it was bedtime.
“It’s not even ten o’clock,” I whispered as I watched Miyoko floss her teeth in the bathroom.
She removed her fingers from her mouth. “I know, but my dad says it’s better for your body to stay on the same schedule all the time—he’s a doctor.”
“Oh,” I said. “My dad’s a dentist—he’ll be thrilled to know you actually floss.”
Miyoko smiled. “Sorry we have to go to bed.”
“No, it’s okay—really,” I said. “I’ve had a great time at my first sleepover in the valley.”
“Me too,” Miyoko said. “I’ve had a great time at my first sleepover. Ever.”
“Ever?” I repeated.
“Ever. My mom says school isn’t for making friends; it’s for learning.”
I shook my head sadly. “And here you’ve gone and made a friend when you were supposed to be learning,” I teased.
Miyoko smiled. “I know. I’ve gone wild.”
• • •
“Miyoko?” I whispered into the darkness, not sure if she was still awake.
“Hmmm?”
“Do you know Zach Mabry?”
Miyoko rolled onto her back and whispered to the ceiling, “The guy Buffy Lawson likes?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Yeah—he’s cute.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Miyoko seemed to wait for me to say more.
“Do you think Zach will invite Buffy to the Valentine’s dance at school?” I asked, because everybody knew about Buffy’s crush on Zach. Plus, Buffy goes out of her way to be all . . . pretty right in front of Zach’s eyes. I happen to know that after math, Buffy’s next class is down the hall on the right, but she always walks left out of math because Zach does—then she has to race back before the second bell.
“I don’t know,” Miyoko said. “Buffy’s so . . . Buffy.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and I’m so . . . not Buffy.”
“I’m glad,” Miyoko said.
I smiled. “G’night, Miyoko.”
“Night,” she said, and then she rolled back onto her side.
