She laughs. “Silly Igor! I want to try something with the rope. But that tree is perfect.” She loops the rope over a low branch of the birch tree in the backyard. Then she dares Little Al to climb up the trunk and rappel down.
“That’s cool,” Igor says with real admiration. He kind of wants to try it himself.
Miranda smiles. “I saw it on TV. You know Treehouse Family, that reality show on cable?”
“Not really. Okay if I split so I can do a little reading before dinner? Since I’ll probably have to cook it?”
“Sure—I’ll watch the kids.”
He escapes to his room, which Little Al shares, unlocks Cornelia’s cage, and drapes the snake over his shoulders. She likes the warmth of his neck. Then he climbs to the top bunk and opens the envelope at last. He didn’t lie to Miranda about “a little reading,” since he doesn’t think it will take long to read whatever was in the envelope. But he’s wrong.
It’s a letter, all right. Handwritten. Igor feels his head wobble, because he’s never seen anything written by Bobby Price, not even a signature on a Christmas card.
But after the first glance, it’s a big disappointment. The letter is almost impossible to read. For three reasons: 1) the ink has run; 2) at least a fourth of it got chewed up in the garbage disposal; and 3) his father’s handwriting is terrible. Kind of like Igor’s, in fact—now he can understand what his teachers are always griping about.
He can make out a few words—like his own name. Not Igor, or course, but Jim. Somehow that combination of letters jumps off the page, even if smudgy: Jim. Or Jim…? Or even JIM! It’s like a whole lifetime of calls: calls to come in for dinner, or come and explain what happened to the bathroom mirror, or just come and say hello to the old man when he gets home from work. Calls he never heard, saved up in this letter to be spilled all at once. Big Al’s probably the best stepfather a kid could have, but he calls him Igor like everybody else.
“Jim” is his other life, running with ghost-steps alongside the real one. It may even be who he really is on the inside.
And it’s too much for now. Igor sits up in his bed, overwhelmed with too-muchness. Another reason why he can’t read the letter so good; his eyes are all watery. So he just sits there as Cornelia’s snaky heart beats against his neck and happy shouts ring from his half-siblings in the yard and a big gaping hole of silence fills the house.
After a while, he flattens the letter carefully and presses it between the pages of his math workbook.
Miranda’s poking around in the pantry when he returns to the kitchen, while Jade sits on the floor banging a set of measuring cups. “I don’t mean to be nosy,” Miranda says. “But your mom still isn’t feeling well, so I told her I’d see what we could do for dinner.”
“No; that’s great.”
“Here’s some tuna cans. How do the kids like tuna noodle casserole?”
“Not much.”
“Macaroni and cheese?”
“Barf. Don’t even think about it.”
They settle on teriyaki meatballs found in the back of the freezer, with rice and glazed baby carrots. Miranda pulls out a couple of pans while Igor rolls a can of pork and beans toward Jade, who shrieks with joy. “How’d you learn to cook?” he asks.
“Oh, I usually do two or three meals a week because my mom works late on Wednesday and Thursday. And I did most of the baking for Shelly’s bake sale last weekend.”
“Right. I remember.” Shelly was advertising the bake sale two weeks before and selling leftovers on the Monday after. “How’d that go?”
“Pretty good. We made sixty-seven dollars. And I gained three pounds,” she added, self-consciously tugging at her jeans.
Igor retrieves the can that Jade kicked under the pantry door, then rolls it toward his baby sister again. She kicks her feet and claps her hands. He wonders if Bobby Price ever played this game with him.
“Are you ready for the tests next week?” Miranda asks.
He groans out loud. “Why’d you have to say that? I’m trying to forget.”
“Sorry. But it might be better if you did just forget. Relax and let the answers come out of your subconscious.”
“My subconscious doesn’t have any answers. I don’t know why they do this every year. How does spending two days filling in little ovals with a pencil prepare us for adultery?”
Miranda pauses, staring at him. “You mean adulthood?”
“What’d I say?”
She laughs and shakes her head, and all of a sudden, he has an idea.
It may be the kind of idea he should forget, but it’s like a booger that won’t shake off his finger. Even after dinner, and stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, and straightening the overturned chairs and coffee table in the living room, and checking on his mom (who is finally sound asleep), and bathing Jade and Samantha (Miranda is really working overtime), the idea sticks.
When the babies are in bed and Little Al is playing Alien Wars (which he’s not allowed on school nights, but Igor figures it’s educational because you have to count the aliens you vaporize), Miranda seems reluctant to go home. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’ll set the alarm so I can get up early in case Mom doesn’t.”
“But who’ll take care of the babies when you leave for school?”
“She’s usually awake by then. If not, I’ll wake her up.” Igor is sharing more about his family than he probably should. “I’ve done it before when she gets…nervous.”
“Does she get…nervous a lot?”
“No…I mean, not really, but… Hold on a minute.”
He’s made a decision. He runs to his room, grabs his math workbook, and runs back to the kitchen. After a glance at his mom to make sure she’s really out like a light, he sits down at the kitchen table and opens his notebook. “She got this in the mail today.”
Mystified, Miranda sits next to him. “Who’s it from?”
“From…my uncle. Her brother.” (Liar! Liar! he thinks.) “He’s in jail.”
To his relief, she doesn’t ask For what? He hasn’t made that part up yet. “What’s in the letter?”
“That’s just it. I’m not sure.” He opens his workbook to where the paper is, flattened but not quite dry, and smudgier than ever. “I think it upset Mom a little because she crumpled it and put it down the garbage disposal.”
“Oh.” Miranda carefully turns the letter toward her and squints at it. “Who’s ‘Jim’?”
“His, uh, little boy. I think.”
“You mean your cousin?” Igor nods, because it doesn’t seem as much like lying if you don’t actually say anything. Miranda goes on, “Okay, this says, ‘I’m taking a course in…psychology?…and reading about…’ Hm. That word’s totally gone. ‘I’ll be…something…parole.’ Maybe, ‘I’ll be up for parole.’”
“What’s parole?”
“It’s when you serve part of your sentence and you’ve got a good record so they think about letting you out early.”
“Really?” Igor’s voice comes out squeaky. “Like, if you’ve served maybe half of a fifteen-year sentence? Like eight or nine years?”
“That sounds about right.” Miranda is still studying the letter. “This says, ‘Tell Jim I’ll…’ uh…‘see him then’? ‘See him there,’ maybe.”
Igor feels a little twinge on the back of his neck. “Are you sure it says see him?”
“Not really. Maybe saw him. Or sew him.” She notices his face. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Look—down here? This says ‘Watch out.’ The ink’s run but it’s clear enough to read. And look—” She turns the paper over. “It’s marked so hard the impression’s on the other side.”
“Let me see.” He leans closer, and sure enough, the pen marks have raised the paper on the back. Like the writer re
ally wanted to emphasize that point. “Are there any more words like that?”
Miranda tilts the paper and sights down the slope. “Not that I can see. Wonder what she’s supposed to watch out for?”
“I don’t know.” Igor can feel his face freezing, like all the blood was streaming out.
“It might be a joke.”
“Yeah, but if he’s up for parole, it might mean he’s headed this way. Like, watch out for me.”
“Maybe.” She places the letter on the table and spreads out her fingers on top. “Is he…uh…violent?”
“No. No.” Unless pointing a handgun at a bunch of little kids could be considered violent. “No…I don’t really remember him.”
Miranda keeps smoothing the paper with one hand. “Are you worried?”
“I don’t know.” Though in fact, he probably was a little worried, and a few other things too, like anxious, excited, afraid…
“Look, Igor, it’s probably nothing to worry about—or be ashamed of either. Lots of families have a black sheep.”
“Like yours?”
“Not really, but… Well, for instance. Shelly’s Uncle Mike has been in all kinds of trouble with the law. It started in high school when he hung out with this wild kid who was, like, the prank king. Shelly’s told me about her uncle’s problems with bad checks and stuff, but I don’t think she even knows about the worst—” She stops herself abruptly.
“The worst what?” Igor asks.
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, because it’s like gossip. My mother just happened to write an article about it for her school newspaper in seventh grade. That’s how I know.”
“If it was in the newspaper, it’s not gossip,” Igor points out. Makes sense to him.
“Well…just to help you feel better about your uncle. This guy Shelly’s uncle used to hang out with—Jason somebody—wanted to do the ultimate graduation prank. So he got a bunch of guys to go along with the plan, which was to fill Ziploc bags with little balls—mostly bouncy rubber balls, but also marbles—and hide them under their gowns. Mike was a junior that year, so his job was to bring the bags in a box and hide them in a certain spot that the gang would know about. Nobody knows for sure how many were involved, but it was at least a dozen.”
“How did it work?” Igor is very interested in earning the title of Prank King for himself someday, so he’s always collecting ideas.
“Well. Back in the day, they had graduation in the stadium, and all the seniors were supposed to gather in the upper bleachers at the end zone. When ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ started playing, they all stood up and marched down to the seats in front of the speakers’ platform.
“So the music starts and everybody stands, and while they’re marching, all the seniors who were in on the plan opened their bags, and the balls and marbles fell out and bounced all over the place. They were supposed to wad up their plastic bags right after that and hide them in their pockets or clothes—which would be easy under a graduation gown—so nobody would ever know who actually did it.”
“Cool!” says Igor.
“Except for one thing. The seniors who didn’t know about it weren’t prepared, so there was some slipping and falling, especially with the marbles. That was supposed to happen. Nobody was supposed to get really hurt. But somebody did: Troy Pasternak.”
“Pasternak? Like the Pasternaks we know?”
“Yep. You’ve seen that plaque on the gazebo—‘In Honor of Troy Lawrence Pasternak’? He was Jay’s dad’s little brother. Jay’s uncle. He was senior class president and a football hero and all that. So he slipped as he was coming down those concrete stairs and couldn’t get his balance back and fell all the way down the steps and landed on his head.
“They didn’t know how bad it was at first—somebody called an ambulance, and as soon as he was off to the hospital, they went on with graduation. But Troy was in a coma for two months, and when he finally came out of it, his brain was totally messed up. He’s been in a nursing home ever since.”
“Oh.” Igor makes a mental note to pass on the bouncy-ball trick.
“None of the seniors admitted to anything, but everybody knew who the ringleader was. And somebody saw Shelly’s Uncle Mike with a box of Ziploc bags, so they searched his car and found extra bags with marbles—Shelly says he’s not too smart. Mike blabbed about whose idea it was, but the Jason guy skipped town right after graduation and nobody’s seen or heard of him since. That was all in my mom’s article. She did a good job of reporting.”
Miranda suddenly stands, and the letter flutters in the draft. “I’d better go! I told her I’d be home by nine, and it’s five past.”
Igor jumps to his feet. “Thanks again. For coming over and everything. Oh—and don’t mention this letter to my mom, because she’ll get all upset. Or anybody else, because…”
“Sure, I understand. Do you ever write to him?”
“Uh…no.” He’s never had the address.
But now he does.
“Sometimes it’s easier to communicate in writing,” Miranda says. “It is for me, anyway. Like, I’ve always had a hard time talking to my dad on the phone, but since Christmas, I’ve been trying to email once a week. I just write about what’s going on and stuff—nothing big—but he’s been writing back. Last Saturday when he called, we had a real conversation.”
“That’s good.” For some reason, Igor feels an overwhelming urge to throw his arms around her and squeeze hard, even though she’s two inches taller and not his mom. Also a grade ahead of him, even though they’re really the same age.
Instead, he sticks out his hand. “I guess I’ll…see you tomorrow.”
She takes it, and it’s funny, but he gets the feeling that she would have hugged him back. “Okay. I hope your mother’s better soon.”
• • •
His mother seems to be feeling okay in the morning. She’s stirring oatmeal for Jade when Igor stumbles into the kitchen yawning, because he and Little Al stayed up past eleven playing Alien Wars. “Thanks for taking over last night,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“’S okay.” He takes a bowl from the cupboard and a box of raisin bran from the corner cabinet. “Miranda helped a lot.”
“She’s such a nice girl. I’m glad you thought of calling her.”
“Uh-huh.” Next, a gallon of milk from the fridge. “Mom, do you ever, like, write to anybody?”
“What do you mean?” A spoon stops halfway to Jade’s mouth.
“Like letters. Or email.”
“Sure I do. That’s how I keep up with your Aunt Beth. I’d rather call, but she likes the emails. Or that crazy Facebook. I just can’t get into that stuff.” She shoves a spoonful of oatmeal in Jade’s mouth and goes for another. “I mean, why stick yourself up on some website where anybody can find out all about you?”
Igor takes a breath. “Do you ever write to…my dad?”
His mother’s hand stops again then glides on toward Jade’s mouth. “Why should I? He calls almost every night when he’s gone.”
“You know who I mean.”
The spoon dives into the oatmeal and sticks up like a flag. “Do I?”
“Come on, Mom. What if he gets out on parole?”
Her eyes shift to the disposal and back again—really quick, but he sees it. “I’m not going to talk about it.”
“But, Mom—”
“I’m not talking about it!”
“Not even when he shows up?”
“What do you mean?”
“He will sometime, won’t he? He’s not dead!”
Jade winds up her I-want-my-breakfast siren, but the spoon is now flipping little chunks of oatmeal at Igor. “Keep your voice down!”
“Why? Afraid the neighbors will find out my dad’s a jailbird?”
“Shut up! And listen, mister, I don’t know what k
ind of game you’re playing with all these questions, but don’t think I haven’t noticed!”
“Noticed what?”
“All these questions!”
“About what?”
“You know what!”
“I don’t know what,” says Little Al, now dragging himself into the kitchen. “What?”
“Out!” yells their mother, standing up and pointing to the door while Jade cranks the decibel level up to a ten.
“But I haven’t had breakfast yet!” Little Al yells back.
Mom fumbles in the cabinet for a package of Pop-Tarts and throws it at them. “There’s breakfast! You can share.”
“But—”
“Out!!”
Igor is already on his way. He snatches their jackets off the hook by the back door. “Let’s go, Ally.”
“But my lunch! And I didn’t brush my teeth!”
“That never bothered you before. Come on!”
They leave without lunches, snacks, or even backpacks; if anybody asks, Igor intends only to say that his mom threw him out of the house ten minutes early.
“What’s the matter with her?” Little Al whines as they trudge across the common.
Igor shrugs, even though he knows. But he doesn’t know enough! That’s why the crazy thought that occurred to him last night, which seemed so far out it might have been Jupiter, is now speeding toward earth like a comet.
It’s a soft spring morning, all pink and cream about the edges with a touch of lilac in the air. Bender and Matthew are already at the gazebo, arguing over some science thing. Jay arrives soon after, flinging his backpack on a bench and collapsing beside it. Spencer is close behind.
“What’s the matter?” Bender asks Jay.
“Shut up.”
“He lost the soccer game last night.” Spencer climbs the gazebo steps with his backpack over one shoulder and his guitar case in the other hand. Lately he’s been taking the guitar to school on Tuesdays so he can jam with the junior high jazz band during lunch. “Had the ball lined up with the goal and kicked it with the side of his foot so it went out of bounds. Coach ripped him a new one, right there on the field.”
“Soccer’s a stupid game,” Jay mutters, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Sissy, European runaround.”
Somebody on This Bus Is Going to Be Famous Page 18
