Forever Amber Brown

by Paula Danziger

  “My cute little Amber,” she says. “Now just remember, I don’t want you to grow up too fast.”

  She starts moving the ponytails, one up and one down.

  I feel like a human seesaw.

  “Mom.” I grin at her. “If you don’t want me to grow up too fast, why are you always telling me not to be such a baby, to be more mature?”

  “I don’t say that much. . . . do I?” She starts tickling my nose with one of the ponytails.

  “Stop.” My nose is beginning to tickle.

  She continues.

  I sneeze.

  The sneeze lands on my hair and on her.

  “You can’t say that I didn’t try to warn you.” I sniff.

  Letting go of my hair, she stands up. “I was just getting ready to take a shower anyway. Max and I are going out.”

  “Who’s the Amber-sitter going to be?” I refuse to call the person who comes over to watch me a baby-sitter.

  “Brenda.”

  I am so happy. Brenda is my favorite Amber-sitter. We always have such a good time, except for one thing. “Mom, can we send out for pizza? You’re not going to ask Brenda to cook, are you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I tasted leftovers from the last time she cooked.”

  I remember that meal.

  Brenda made meat loaf with a hardboiled egg in it. She said her grandmother used to make it for her and it was one of her favorite meals growing up. I bet that her grandmother peeled the egg first.

  “Pizza,” my mother and I say at the same time.

  I have some other questions that I want answered: “What time will you be home? Are you going to bring back a doggie-bag for me, filled with cheesecake? Is Max going to come into the house for a while?”

  My mother starts to grin, gets up, and heads for the door.

  After she goes out the door, she turns around and says, “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” I can’t believe that she’s going to do another joke instead of answering my questions.

  “Orange.”

  “Orange who?” I grin.

  “Orange you glad this isn’t another dumb interrupting joke?”

  Then she laughs and leaves.

  I can’t believe her!

  She’s always telling me to act my age. . . . and then she doesn’t act her age.

  I wonder if other parents are ever like that.

  Chapter

  Four

  The doorbell rings.

  It’s Max.

  He’s got two bunches of flowers.

  One of them is for my mother—red roses.

  The other one is for me—purple flowers.

  These are the first flowers that anyone has ever given me.

  Once, when Justin was six, he gave me some flowers, but they were stinkweeds.

  Somehow I don’t think that this is the same, since when Justin gave them to me, he said, “Stinkweeds for a stinker,” and when Max gave us the flowers, he said, “For two of the most important people in my life.”

  If my dad lived closer, I’m sure that he would bring flowers.

  We go into the kitchen so that Mom can get vases for the flowers.

  The doorbell rings again.

  This time it’s Brenda.

  Her hair is a different color, sort of a weird pink, and she’s carrying a small piece of luggage.

  Her hair is always changing color.

  We give each other a big hug.

  If I had an older sister, I would want it to be Brenda.

  When my school pictures arrive, I’m going to give her one.

  We go into the kitchen.

  My mom and Max are kissing each other.

  I really wish they would stop doing that.

  “Ahem.” Brenda clears her throat.

  Max and Mom move away from each other, just a little.

  My mother blushes.

  Brenda goes over and gives Mom a hug. “Hi, Sarah.”

  Brenda used to call my mother Mrs. Brown. Then, when my mom changed her name back to Thompson, Mom decided that Brenda should just call her Sarah.

  Brenda smiles at Max. “Hi, Max.”

  My mother grins. “Hi. Nice hair color. And what’s with the suitcase? Are you planning on spending the night? Running away from home?”

  Brenda grins back. “Tonight I thought that Amber and I could play beauty salon after she works on her book report . . . if that’s okay with you, Sarah.”

  My mother looks at Brenda, then at me, then at Max, then back at Brenda. “You’re not planning to change my daughter’s hair color, are you?”

  “Can she pierce my ears?” I’ve been begging to get my ears pierced forever, but I have to wait three whole years, until I’m twelve. Twelve . . . . . . by that time I could be someone else’s baby-sitter.

  “Don’t worry.” Brenda opens up the suitcase to show her. “We’ll be putting on a face mask, playing with some makeup, trying out different hairstyles, painting our nails.”

  “Sounds like fun,” my mother says, then looks at Max and teases, “Maybe I should stay here and play beauty salon, too.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re beautiful just the way you are. We, my dear, are going out. I have plans for us.”

  Sometimes Max sounds so soppy, so goopy—just like one of those nighttime television shows.

  My mother doesn’t seem to mind.

  After they leave, Brenda says, “They look so cute together.”

  I’m not sure that I want my mother and Max to look so cute together.

  The doorbell rings.

  Pizza.

  And then we raid the freezer.

  Four flavors of ice cream . . . just little scoops. . .

  “Next time,” Brenda says, “I’ll make you my latest recipe—Velveeta whipped potatoes and spaghetti diablo.”

  Sometimes Brenda reminds me of Indian beaded jewelry . . . the way one bead can break the pattern and then the jewelry is not perfect. It’s like Brenda’s cooking is the thing that keeps her from being the perfect Amber-sitter.

  “Let’s beauty salon now.” I can’t even think about her latest recipe.

  “First, your homework.” She clears the table. “Brains are as important as beauty.”

  An almost perfect Amber-sitter . . . if it weren’t for her cooking and her memory of my homework assignments.

  She grins at me. “You don’t have to start your report now . . . . . .”

  I grin back.

  She finishes the sentence: “. . . if you let me make the spaghetti diablo for you right now.”

  Language arts homework, here I come.

  Chapter

  Five

  Book Report

  Using a book, or books, that you have read this marking period, make up a game that will be fun to play.

  I, Amber Brown, wouldn’t mind homework so much if it weren’t so much work and if I didn’t have to do so much of it at home.

  I, Amber Brown, actually like the book reports that we do in class. I like them after they are all done and we share them with each other.

  It’s just all the time it takes to do the work . . . . . . . at home.

  My author cards are already finished . . . . . ten authors, four books each.

  My game is like go fish and authors, only I call it “build your own library.”

  You ask for an author whose card you have in your hand, and then if the other player has any of that author’s book cards, you get it or them. When you have all four, it becomes a “boxed set,” and you get to put it into your library. The person with the most books in his or her library wins.

  I write real fancy letters, BUILD YOUR OWN LIBRARY, all over the gift box that my aunt Pam used to send me a new sweater. Then I put stickers all over the box.

  Inside the box, I put the directions sheet, which explains how to play and tells something about each of the authors that I have chosen . . . . . Avi, Judy Blume, Daniel Pinkwater, Bruce Coville, Walter Dean Myers, Margaret Mahy, Lois Lowry, Bever
ly Cleary, Robert Kimmel Smith, and Gary Paulsen.

  I, Amber Brown, have read every book that is on the cards. I love to read.

  Now that the book report is done, I am happy and proud that I did it. I hope that Mrs. Holt likes it. I hope that she doesn’t assign another report for a while. Fat chance! Mrs. Holt’s first name is Roberta . . . . . I think it should be Reporta.

  Brenda looks at the cards. “Amber, you did a great job. I think that these cards are going to get worn down and messed up pretty quickly if you don’t do something about it. Look, I can ask my father to laminate the cards at his office.”

  “Will he do that?” I hope so.

  Brenda nods her pink head and then laughs. “Sure. Actually, he’ll ask his secretary to do it. When they first got the machine, he tried to do it but got his tie caught in the laminator.”

  I giggle.

  So does Brenda. Then she mimes trying to get him unattached from the laminator.

  Brenda really is so fun.

  Until she started to Amber-sit, it used to be so boring. . . . Now I have a great time.

  I’m going to miss her when she goes to college next year. She wants to be a teacher or a librarian. . . . or a television stylist.

  I finish up, and beauty salon begins.

  Brenda mixes some water with some stuff from a box and smears the mixture on our faces.

  It’s so weird.

  At first, it feels like wet clay, like I’m in the middle of a Silly Putty box . . . . . and then it starts to dry.

  “Don’t move your face.” Brenda sounds a little like a robot. “Or it will crack.”

  No moving, no smiling, no frowning . . . . . I, Amber Brown, sit absolutely still. I, Amber Brown, have trouble sitting absolutely still.

  I wonder if this is what the presidents on Mt. Rushmore feel like.

  My nose starts to itch.

  I’ve got to sneeze.

  Concentrating on not sneezing, I look around my bedroom and try to concentrate on something else.

  My room looks so baby.

  I, Amber Brown, need a more grown-up room.

  After all, on my next birthday I will be a double-digit kid . . . . . the big ten. Even though that won’t be for a while, I should get a more grown-up room.

  The room hasn’t been decorated since I was six. Three of the walls are yellow. I used to like that color yellow . . . now it looks like the little river of “water” that Brandi’s new puppy leaves on the floor.

  The fourth wall has dancing ballerina wallpaper. And they aren’t even human dancing ballerinas. They’re hippos and ducks and elephants and rhinos and rabbits.

  I, Amber Brown, am a nine-year-old trapped in a six-year-old’s room . . . . . and it’s time for some changes.

  Chapter

  Six

  Cheerios. Milk. Bananas.

  I am eating my second-favorite breakfast and waiting for my mother to wake up so that I can convince her to let me redecorate my room.

  My first-favorite breakfast is English muffins with lots of peanut butter on both pieces . . . and M&M happy faces on the peanut butter.

  That is not my mother’s idea of a “healthy breakfast,” though . . . so I don’t get to eat it at our house.

  When my dad still lived in New Jersey, right after he and Mom separated, he let me eat my favorite breakfast at his apartment. Once, he even made one for me and one for him. But he made his with an unhappy face because by that time, he knew that his company was sending him to Paris, France.

  I look at the Cheerios and think of Justin. Once, when we were little, we had a contest to see who could stick the most Cheerios up our noses. Justin won because he also poured some milk in and made stuff mushier.

  Needless to say, our parents were not very happy with us.

  I wonder if, right now, in Alabama, Justin is eating Cheerios and milk and bananas . . . or sticking them up his nose. I wonder if he still remembers that we did that.

  Maybe he’s eating some weird Southern food like grits and hush puppies. He once wrote and told me that he’s eating that stuff now. It kind of sounds like now that he’s moved, he’s eating dirt and has turned into an animal cannibal.

  My mother walks into the kitchen, yawning.

  Before she even has time to get a cup of coffee, I jump up and say, “Mom, I NEED to have my room decorated. It’s just so baby. And you got yours redone after Dad left . . . so now it’s my turn.”

  My mother lowers one eyelid and says, “Amber.”

  I can’t stop myself. “You’re always saying that I should take better care of my room . . . well, if I’m proud of it, I’ll take better care of it.”

  “Amber.” My mother closes both eyes for a second, then opens them wide and points to the chair that I’ve just left. “Sit.”

  What does she think I am, a trained dog?

  She’s got a look on her face that makes me sit.

  “Arf, arf,” I say, trying to make her laugh.

  She pours a cup of coffee.

  I hold up the papers that I worked on last night, the chart and lists that explain why I should have my room redone. “Please,” I say. “Just look at these papers. I worked soooooooo hard on them. After you look, I just know that you’ll say yes.”

  Actually, I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m not handling this the way I should . . . that maybe I should have let her wake up first and maybe asked her about her date with Max.

  But I’ve already started and I can’t seem to stop . . . kind of like the time the brakes on my bike stopped working and I ended up hitting a tree.

  My mother is beginning to look like that tree.

  She sits down next to me and looks at the papers.

  She starts to frown . . . then she smiles at something.

  Maybe I have a chance.

  Then she frowns again.

  She is definitely not being a happy-face mother this morning.

  She sighs.

  Then she sighs again.

  Then she speaks. “Amber, some of these are very good reasons for redoing your room. Some are not. In fact, some are pretty annoying.”

  “Please. Ignore the ones that don’t work. Just look at the ones that you agree with.” I place my hands together so that it looks like a combination of begging and praying. “Oh, please. Oh, pretty please. Oh, pretty please with sugar on top.”

  My mother starts to smile.

  I stick my face right in front of hers. “Puleeze.”

  She moves back a little. “Amber Brown, I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  “I do.” I grin. “You’re going to say, ‘Yes, my darling daughter, I will help you redecorate your room. I realize that you’re growing up and need the change.’ ”

  My mother shakes her head, a little sadly. “No, honey. There are several reasons why we can’t do it right now. One is that I’m a little short of money at this time.”

  “I’ll give up my allowance for six months,” I offer. “And I’ve got a little bit of money saved up. We can use that, too.”

  My mother puts her hand on my arm. “There’s another reason, honey.”

  I look at her.

  She continues. “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be living here.”

  I feel like someone has thrown a medicine ball at my chest. “Why?”

  She tells me. “Last night Max asked me to marry him, and while I’m not sure of my answer, I do know that it’s not a good idea to make any long-term plans involving the house.”

  I don’t say anything for a minute, and then I ask, “What about Daddy? I always thought that when he came back to America, the two of you would try again.”

  She shakes her head.

  I say, “So why can’t things stay the way they are . . . you and me together . . . you going out with Max . . . but not getting married?”

  She sighs.

  “It’s too soon,” I say. “You’ve only been going out since the summer. It’s only October.”

&nb
sp; “I know,” she says. “I said that to him already. But you know, Amber, he really loves me a lot. And I love him, too. And he loves you.”

  I was beginning to like Max . . . a lot. But love . . . that’s Big Time.

  My mother takes a sip of coffee. “I’ve got to do some serious thinking about this . . . so I’m sorry, but your room is not going to be redecorated right now.”

  My room . . . I forgot all about it.

  One minute, I want to get one thing in my life changed, and the next minute, I find out that my whole entire life might change.

  I, Amber Brown, will never complain again about stupid dancing animal wallpaper.

  In fact, now I want things to stay exactly as they are.

  Chapter

  Seven

  “Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin.” Brandi sits down next to me in Elementary Extension.

  Having to stay after school until your mother picks you up after work isn’t so bad when your best friend also has to stay after until her mother picks her up.

  I, Amber Brown, have two best friends . . . one here, Brandi . . . . and Justin, who is in Alabama.

  I don’t like one better. I just like them differently.

  “Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin,” Brandi repeats. “Major breaking story.”

  “How did the story break? Did you drop it?” I tease.

  “Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin.” Ever since Brandi decided that she wants to be a newscaster when she grows up, she’s been saying, “Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin,” for everything.

  Ten minutes ago, she said it when she reported that the janitor had just changed a fluorescent light bulb. So I don’t take her announcements very seriously.

  She sees something and then she immediately reports it as if it’s the most important thing in the entire world.

  You could say that she’s faster than a speeding bulletin.

  “This one is major . . . . major . . . major.” She grins at me.

  Ms. Smith, the Elementary Extension teacher, walks in and sits down at her desk.