Clementine and the Family Meeting

by Sara Pennypacker

  And suddenly, I did have tired legs. I slumped down to the floor in the middle of the closet mess.

  My dad sat down beside me. He tucked his keys back into his pocket, and a pack of gum fell out. “Huh,” he said, as if it was a big surprise to him. “Wonder how that got in there.” He unwrapped two sticks and gave me one.

  We sat there for a few minutes, chomping hard.

  “Everything’s changing,” I said after a while. “Cabbage is tall now. He’s having a talking spurt. Margaret is a makeup fiend, and she’s trying to move to California. We’re going to be five and not four anymore, but we’re out of rooms. And I’m stuck with Waylon for a partner in science.”

  “You’re right,” my dad said. “Things are changing. We can’t help that. It’s life. But I’m confused about Waylon. Didn’t you tell me last week you felt lucky that you’d gotten him for a partner?”

  “That was last week. Before I found out.”

  “Before you found out what?”

  “That he wants to walk through a wall.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  I chewed my gum for a while, then I explained the whole situation to him.

  “And you don’t believe in superpowers,” my dad said when I finished.

  I looked at him. “Well…I don’t know about that. But I don’t believe Waylon has any.”

  “That’s a tough one,” said my dad. “You don’t think there’s a science project there, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings. I wish I could think of something to help.”

  I leaned up against my dad and we chewed our gum for a while, until I realized I felt better. That is the miracle about gum. “Hey, Dad,” I said, side-smiling at him. “You know what might help? If I could wear your tool belt…”

  My dad side-smiled back. “Oh, too bad. It’s in the vault. I have to keep it locked up because it’s so special. That tool belt was given to me by the President of the United States in appreciation for my lifelong service to this country.”

  “Dad.”

  “Seriously. It was in the Oval Office. I wore a tux.”

  “Dad. It was in Hardware Depot. Aisle seven. You wore your raggedy green pants.”

  “Oh right,” my dad said. “I can’t believe your mother let me wear those pants out of the house.”

  “So where is it, really?”

  “Really? Well, really, your Uncle Frank was here this morning. He’s putting up some shelves in his kitchen, and I let him borrow it.”

  I jumped up and spit my gum out onto the back of my hand. “Dad! You let Uncle Frank borrow it? But you never even let me touch it!”

  My dad got up, too. “Clementine, what is the deal with my tool belt? I’ve never seen you so obsessed.”

  “It’s just…it’s just…” I said, trying to figure it out myself. “It looks so cool and it’s got all your tools, and if I wore it, I could build something anytime I wanted.”

  “And you want to build something?”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  My dad looked at me like he was seeing a new person. “I didn’t know that about you,” he said at last.

  “Well, I didn’t know it, either,” I admitted. “Until I saw that tool belt.”

  Thursday, all anyone could talk about at school was how great it was to have a new kid come into your family, as if babies were just cute pets, or really fun toys. The only person who wasn’t talking about that was Waylon. Instead, he talked about his new idea for our science project, which was to use his brain waves to cook food.

  Margaret was waiting for me on the bus home with a pot of orange cheek-glitter. When I threw up my arms to protect my cheeks, my backpack fell off and my IMPORTANT PAPERS folder flew out. I had to crawl under the seats to get all my papers back, and then I spent the whole ride trying to wipe the melted slush-mud off them.

  By the time I got to my apartment, let me tell you my mood was B-A-D, bad again. It was hard to keep it that way, though.

  Moisturizer was waiting at the door, and he jumped into my arms and started to lick my face. A little of the blueberry pancake smell from breakfast was still in the air, mixed up with the smell from the pine branches my mom had brought in to decorate with. Mrs. Watson upstairs was practicing her harp, which makes it sound like we have angels for neighbors.

  I felt my bad mood starting to melt. “I’m home!” I called.

  My dad came out and put his finger to his lips and pointed into the living room, where my brother and my mom were conked out on the couch having a nap together. They were covered in trucks and books, and they looked so cute, I wanted to draw a picture of them.

  “Growing a baby is a lot of work,” my dad whispered. “Your mom’s going to be a little tired these days.”

  He motioned to the kitchen. “I’m about to make some of my secret-recipe toast. You hungry?”

  I said yes even though his secret recipe is just “Put bread in the toaster,” because I was starving. When the toast popped up, we carried it to the table and spread it with almond butter, which is like peanut butter except it doesn’t make my little brother’s head explode from being allergic.

  I spread grape jelly over the almond butter and took a big bite. “See, Dad?” I said. “How nice our family is this way, two and two? Two in the living room and two in the kitchen.”

  Dad reached over and opened the marmalade, which is a kind of jelly that grown-ups pretend to like even though it has orange grinds in it, which we throw away for a reason. He spread it over his toast, all the way to the edge the way I taught him, then he took a big bite, too. “Yep,” he said after a while. “Four’s a good number. Five’s a good number, too.”

  “Two asleep and two awake,” I said. I spread a little extra jelly on a spot I had missed. “Four’s a perfect number.”

  My dad took another bite of toast. Then he surprised me. “Clementine, how old are you?” he asked.

  “You know. Eight and a half.”

  “No, I mean exactly,” he said. “How old are you exactly?”

  “Down to the hours and minutes?”

  “Just the days.” He took another bite of toast.

  “Three thousand one hundred and fourteen.”

  My father looked up and stared at me. He dropped his toast. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I almost missed this. Finish up and get your coat on, Sport.”

  My dad wouldn’t tell me where we were going, just left a note for my mom and started driving.

  To Hardware Depot. Like on Sunday. He went right to aisle seven again.

  “Dad! Did Uncle Frank lose your new tool belt?”

  “No. He returned it this morning.”

  “Well, then, did you lose it?”

  Most of me wanted the answer to be no, because it was so special to him. But a little teeny-tiny part of me wanted him to say yes. Yes, Clementine, I lost something important.… It happens to people all the time. No big deal, he’d say. So you shouldn’t get upset when it happens to you. Like if you lose a special hat, for instance.

  But he didn’t say any of that. “Clementine,” he said instead, “in my family, a person’s three thousand one hundred and fifteenth day is a very special day. It’s the day when—”

  “Three thousand one hundred and fourteenth day,” I corrected him.

  “Oh, right. You look older than that today. It got me confused.” He winked. “Anyway, it’s the day when the people in my family get their first tool belts.” He spread his hands out over the display. “Which one would you like?”

  There were so many to choose from, which meant so many to not-choose, which I hate. A lot were brown and leathery, like my dad’s, but they were different brownnesses, and different leatherinesses. And some other kinds were black and some were red, and some had Velcro fasteners and some had regular belt buckles. They were all beautiful. I picked up one that was butterscotch pudding–colored with silver hooks, like my dad’s, and started to wrap it
around my waist.

  “May I help you?”

  In Hardware Depot the salespeople wear yellow aprons with name tags on them. The one who had snuck up on us was named Chuck.

  “My partner and I are getting a tool belt today,” my dad said. He put his arm around my shoulders.

  Salesman Chuck bent his head way over, as if it was a really long way down to look at such a little kid, and then he looked up at my dad and winked. “I think I have just the thing for you folks,” he said. “Follow me.”

  There was something about the way he winked at my father that I didn’t like—like he was sharing some kind of grown-ups-only joke with him— but I dropped the belt and we followed him anyway.

  And you will not believe where he took us!

  I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for my dad to explain to Salesman Chuck that it was my three thousand one hundred and fourteenth day, which meant I got a real tool belt, not a pretend one from the “Li’l Carpenter” section, thank you very much!

  But my father just said the “Thank you very much” part, and then he picked out a little blue plastic tool belt and dropped it into our cart!

  “But—but—but…” I started. And then I couldn’t talk anymore because I was too confused from feeling crashed down and furious all at once. And besides, if my dad didn’t know he’d just ruined the whole day—maybe even my whole life—I was never going to speak to him again.

  He touched my shoulder and pointed to the dumb blue tool belt. “This ought to keep your brother happy,” he said. Then he turned to the salesman. “We’re going to head back to aisle seven now,” he told him. “My partner needs a real tool belt.”

  And then we left Salesman Chuck, who wasn’t winking anymore, and went back to aisle seven. This time I didn’t have any problem not-choosing—I picked the one that looked the most like my dad’s, wrapped it around my waist twice, and buckled it. “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Not yet, Sport.” My dad picked out a wide blue wristband and fastened it around my wrist. It was heavier than it looked. “It’s magnetized,” he explained. “For holding the nails and small tools you need for the job.”

  And we still weren’t finished! “Not much sense owning a tool belt if you haven’t got any tools to keep in it,” Dad said.

  We marched over to the tools section, and I picked out a tool for every holder on the belt: a hammer, a screwdriver, a wrench, two kinds of pliers, a chisel, a tape measure, and a little level. My dad showed me how to hold each one the proper way, so I could see which one felt right in my hand. I didn’t pick the biggest ones, but they weren’t little either. They were just right.

  I filled that tool belt, which was all M-I-N-E, mine now, with tools that were all mine now, too. When I turned around they felt big and bumpy and heavy, but good. And then we clunked over to the cash register and paid for everything and said good-bye, which felt good, too.

  My dad started up the car, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

  I reached over the seat and tilted the visor down until I could see my new tool belt in the mirror. My dad was right—I did look older than three thousand one hundred and fourteen days.

  “The baby can’t touch this tool belt,” I said.

  “Absolutely not,” my dad agreed.

  “And not Carrot, either,” I went on.

  “No, not your brother either,” Dad said. “He’ll have to be satisfied with the one we bought him.”

  “It’s just for me.”

  “It’s just for you.”

  “Because I’m the oldest.”

  “Right. Because you’re old enough for the responsibility. The responsibility of wearing an heirloom from the Ming dynasty—”

  “Dad! Don’t wreck this!”

  “Okay, sorry. Really.”

  I put my hand on the hammer and squeezed hard. “I’m sorry, too,” I said.

  “For what?” Dad asked.

  “For saying it’s unfair about the baby. He’s just a baby—he doesn’t mean to be unfair.”

  My dad was quiet for a minute. Then he pulled the car over and turned the key off, which meant Here Comes a Serious Talk. He turned around to look at me.

  “Clementine, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I tried to put myself in your place, and I asked myself, What if my kids told me they were getting another dad? That they loved me just fine but they thought our family had room for another father, and they hadn’t asked for my opinion. How would I feel about that, I asked myself. And the answer was that I would feel a lot like you seem to feel.”

  “But that’s not the same thing at all,” I told him.

  “Well, not exactly, no. It’s different with parents, of course. But the point is, it helped me understand how you felt. I just want you to know that I get it.”

  When we got home, my mom was in the kitchen making dinner. I started to give her a big hug, but then I realized something: I was hugging the new baby, too. I stepped back and hugged her on the side. Then I gave her belly a really small pat.

  “How’s Mushroom Soup doing today?” I asked.

  “Mushroom soup?” my mom asked. “I’m starting a casserole here. No mushrooms at all.”

  “No, I mean the baby. The baby has to have a food name,” I explained. “You like soup. How about a soup name? Like Mushroom Soup—how about that?”

  My mother laughed. “We haven’t thought about names yet,” she said. “But when we do, I doubt Mushroom Soup will be a top contender.” Then she looked down and saw what I was wearing.

  “Bill, this isn’t safe!” she said, turning me around. “She’s going to trip over these tools. Plus, they’re mauling her. That wrench is going to crack her little shinbone.…”

  My dad stood up for me. “The people in my family are known for their extra-hard shinbones. We all develop extraordinary strength and balance from wearing tool belts as children. So it’s actually a plus.”

  I could see my mom was getting ready for a big argument, so I thought it was smart to get out of there while my dad was ahead. “I’m going to go visit Margaret for a minute,” I said. And then I ran out.

  I clunked into the elevator and used my wrench to press the floor number five button. I rang the bell with the screwdriver. Mitchell opened the door, and his eyes nearly popped out when he saw what I was wearing. “Dude-ette!” he cried. He gave me a high five. “Awesome!”

  Mitchell calls me great names like Dude-ette because he wants to be my boyfriend. So far, I haven’t let him be my boyfriend, because I don’t want one. But if I ever do want one, which I won’t, and if it’s ever Mitchell, which it won’t be, now I knew what I should wear on our first date: my tool belt!

  “Hey, Mitchell,” I said. “What was your science fair project when you were in third grade?”

  Mitchell squinted and scratched his head. “Third grade is ancient history. Oh, I remember! Worms. I grew worms, measured how they made the soil better or something.”

  “Was that a good project?”

  “Good? Are you kidding? It was awesome. Margaret didn’t come in my room for a whole month!”

  “No, I meant…oh, never mind. I don’t have a month to grow worms. I need an instant, just-add-water kind of project.”

  “How come?”

  I explained the whole Waylon problem.

  Mitchell shook his head sadly when I was done. “Dude’s going to pay,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That kid gets up in front of everybody, says he can walk through a wall and then doesn’t do it?” He shuddered and made the baseball “You’re out!” sign. “Dude’s toast. Burnt toast.”

  I hadn’t thought about that.

  Margaret came into the hall just then. “What’s the matter with you? Why are you looking so worried?” she asked me. Then she saw my tool belt. “Did you break your back? Is that a brace?” She leaned in for a closer look. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” she muttered. “You are crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy, Margare
t!” I said, following her down the hall to her room. “Now I can build things. Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up. That’s not crazier than you being a makeup artist.”

  Margaret turned around then, with a dreamy expression on her face from the magic words you being a makeup artist.

  “I might not even have to wait until I grow up,” she said. “When my father finds out how good I’m getting, he’ll probably let me start working in his studio right away.”

  “You’re not going to California, Margaret,” I reminded her. “Because your mother’s not having a baby. Besides, even if she did, maybe you’d like it. Lots of kids like having new babies in their families.”

  Margaret looked at me like I was out of my mind. “If I were you I would be moving out right now. I would be on the next plane to California. With my makeup bag… Hey!” Margaret snapped her fingers. “I should practice now, on you!”

  “No way,” I said. “I’m never going to wear makeup.”

  “You’ll have to someday. If you want people to like you, you have to wear makeup.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. Especially if you’re going to go around wearing a tool belt.”

  “There’s no rule about that!” I cried. “My mother doesn’t wear makeup, and lots of people like her.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Your mother is pregnant,” she reminded me.

  Which I knew.

  Margaret looked into her mirror and flipped her hair. Her face melted into a dreamy smile again. “And another thing—in California, I could have a new hairdo anytime I want. There are hairdoers who practically live at my father’s commercial-making studio.”

  Suddenly I couldn’t stand to hear one more word about Margaret going to California. “Okay, fine,” I said. “You can put makeup on me.” This is called Throwing Someone Off the Track.

  I guess Margaret was afraid I was going to change my mind, because she shoved me into the seat at her dressing table and slapped a towel around my shoulders before I could say another word. She shut the door and rubbed her hands together. Then she pulled a big pink case out from her closet.