The Remarkable Journey of Charlie Price

by Jennifer Maschari

  Not Frank.

  Once Mrs. Dunliven had introduced him, he danced to his seat. Not slunk. Not walked. Danced. It was a little bit of break dancing mixed with something you’d see on YouTube and only wish you could be cool enough to move that way. And he sat right next to Charlie and stuck out his hand. Charlie remembered staring at it for a minute. The only people who shook his hand were his dad’s friends and his grandpa. Did kids his age really do this? But he found himself sticking his out as well. “Charlie. Cool shirt, man.”

  From that day on, Charlie would be at Frank’s house after school or Frank would be at Charlie’s. Frank’s dad loved to cook (his mom refused to), and they’d eat kimchi on the porch, listening to Frank’s grandmother tell stories about when she was young in Korea. They’d watch Korean dramas played on the Shins’ old VCR, and she’d take them to Joe’s Bowl-a-Rama every Sunday, even though she never bowled over a hundred.

  Frank always said he had two best friends: Charlie and Grandma.

  That is, until the summer after fifth grade, when Frank’s grandma died.

  It was the first time Charlie had ever been to a funeral. In less than a year’s time, he’d be going to another one. His mom’s.

  But he didn’t know that yet.

  So he stood with Mom and Dad in line at the funeral home, trying to loosen his blue-and-white tie, which somehow felt too tight around his neck. Everything felt too tight. And too hot.

  They finally reached the front of the line, where Mr. and Mrs. Shin and Frank stood next to a giant photo collage of Grandma. Dad put an arm around Charlie’s shoulder, and Charlie shook their hands as Mom hugged the Shins and said how sorry she was. And then she and Mrs. Shin cried a little bit together.

  Frank was quiet.

  Frank was still quiet when he returned to school after summer break. Then, little by little, the things that made Frank Frank started to disappear. Gone were the funny T-shirts and the goofy socks and the hot wing challenges in the cafeteria. Gone were the times when Frank gave the eulogy for the class goldfish that had accidentally jumped out of the bowl and the math debates they’d have over pies at the Leaning Tower of Pizza.

  He could feel Frank pulling away, telling him less, and when Mom would ask, “How’s Frank?” Charlie would have to say he didn’t know. Mom would worry to Dad, when she didn’t think Charlie was listening, about how Frank was doing.

  Frank, as Charlie knew him, was gone.

  Charlie didn’t understand, not yet, of course. He didn’t understand why Frank would sit in the back of class, and why, when Charlie passed him in the halls, Frank would just walk on by, staring out into space.

  Charlie’s mom had given him some pamphlets (probably from Dr. Miller) about how grief took time and how it was different for everyone. Pamphlets Charlie half read and probably could have used now.

  It was strange that someone could be there right in front of you, but not really be there at all. And then Frank actually went missing—one day he was there, and the next he was gone.

  Sometimes, after Frank had gone missing, Charlie would still get mad at him. Because every time he saw Mrs. Shin’s familiar minivan drive down the street, or spotted Mr. Shin at the grocery store, filling up the cart with good food—not frozen dinners or the wrong kind of bread—something red and hot burned in Charlie’s chest.

  If he had told Dr. Miller about that, she would have said that you can’t put value on someone else’s loss. But Charlie wanted to because Mom was gone. Not his grandma. His mom.

  But he couldn’t. So instead, he got mad at himself for being such an awful friend and not being able to do anything to bring Frank back.

  LET’S GO, PRESIDENTS!

  The gym was chaos.

  Charlie ran under the tunnel of pom-poms the cheerleaders had created near the doorway for the arriving students. “Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, too!” they cheered. “We’re going to get presidential on you! Go Lincoln Presidents!!”

  Charlie pushed the last of the pom-poms out of his face and looked up at the bleachers. They were almost full. He spotted Elliott near the top. She was standing, and even from where Charlie stood, he could see her eyebrows scrunched in and her mouth pulled into a straight line. June yanked at her sleeve and pointed in Charlie’s direction. At once, Elliott grinned and motioned for him to come up.

  He took the stairs two at a time and smooshed in next to Elliott, who had smooshed into June.

  “This makes me think we need a math cheer,” June shouted at him over Elliott. “Like, ‘Mathletes, Mathletes, we’re the best. We will beat you on an algebra test.’”

  Elliott and Charlie laughed. “That’ll drive fear into everyone,” he joked. “Maybe they’ll have a worst cheer competition, too.”

  “Hey!” June hit Charlie on the knee. “I thought it was pretty good.”

  The crowd quieted when their principal, Mr. Saldi, took the stage, except for the occasional “Go Lincoln.” Elliott’s foot tapped against the bottom of the bleacher.

  “Good afternoon!” Mr. Saldi said into the microphone. “It’s a great day, isn’t it?”

  “A great day to be a president!” the crowd yelled back. Even with what had happened earlier at grief group, Charlie couldn’t help but be carried away by the crowd’s energy when the mascot—a tall eighth grader with a pasted-on beard and a stovepipe hat and a suit that looked about two sizes too big for him—ran out onto the stage.

  Charlie also couldn’t wait for them to call out his name.

  “Question,” Elliott whispered into Charlie’s ear.

  It was something that Frank had started. He would say something like robots or zombies, and Charlie would have to choose. That way, if they were ever on a game show together, they’d be ready.

  Now, he and Elliott played. Charlie didn’t know as much about her as he did about Frank, but he was working on it.

  “Who would you rather be? Baldy Saldi or Mrs. Wolfenstein?” Ugh—that was a tough one. Mr. Saldi’s head resembled a sweaty bowling ball, and Mrs. Wolfenstein had an unfortunate patch of hair over her top lip.

  “No fair,” Charlie whispered after a minute. “But I think I’ve got to go with the Wolf. It’s almost impossible to grow back hair, but I could shave my mustache, right?”

  Elliott tried to hide her laughter behind her hand, but one of the teachers still turned around and glared at them. “Sorry,” Elliott mouthed, and smiled. She could get away with things like that.

  Some skit onstage involving Abraham Lincoln and a cougar was just ending, and Mr. Saldi took the mic again. “Fabulous work, all,” he said. “It’s clear we have a lot of theatrical talent at this school, and if what we just saw was any indication, our football team will roll over those cougars this weekend!”

  He waited until the applause died down.

  “Now, it’s time for us to recognize our fall sports and activities! When you hear your name, stand up and remain standing until we’ve recognized your whole group. First, we’ll hit the bull’s-eye with our brand-new archery team.” Everyone groaned at his joke.

  “Emma Benson, Kyle Bower, Logan O’Neil, and Elliott Roberts.” Elliott stood.

  “I didn’t know you did that,” Charlie said.

  Elliott kind of brushed it off. “It looked fun, and it gets me out of gym class sometimes.”

  June laughed. “Elliott does everything.”

  Elliott crossed her hands over her chest and sat down. “That’s not true.”

  But it kind of was true. She stood up for Pep Squad and Life Scouts and cross-country. Charlie stopped keeping track after she and June both stood for Science Olympiad. Mr. Saldi recognized Elliott as captain. “Were you always in this much stuff?” Charlie asked.

  Elliott shrugged. “I guess.”

  But it seemed to Charlie that maybe she wasn’t.

  “And now we have the Mathletes,” Mr. Saldi continued. “Coach Spencer has told me that this is a team that is sure to go to States.”

  Warmth spread throu
gh Charlie’s chest, spiraling out from his heart. Their team—maybe state bound. And he was part of it.

  “June Delatour,” Mr. Saldi said.

  “Yeah, June!” Elliott cheered.

  “Miranda Lerner.”

  “Rohan Mehra.” Rohan was down near the bottom of the bleachers, but even Charlie could hear him yell, “Let’s go, Mathletes!” while he pumped his fist in the air.

  “And last but not least, Charlie Price!” Elliott squeezed him on the knee and held out her fist. He bumped it with his and stood up.

  Charlie’s grin took up his entire face. This felt good. It felt right.

  He felt more like the Charlie he used to be than he had in a long time.

  THE SADNESS OF SPAGHETTI

  Charlie took his time walking home. The sun had warmed the day just enough that he could push his jacket sleeves up to his elbows, which made the shortness of them not very noticeable at all.

  He dug around in the front window’s flower box for a key. Two of the flowers Mom had planted still bloomed bright red, even though it was fall. They were her favorite. She liked that she could see them from her place on the couch when she was sick.

  Charlie hoped they would hang on a little longer.

  Imogen swung open the door before he could even unlock it. For a moment, Charlie thought it was Mom. That happened sometimes. They had the same blond curls, the same rosy cheeks, and the exact same lopsided grin. But then he saw the construction-paper crown on her head and the oversize red heels on her feet. That was all Imogen.

  She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the family room. She had set up the miniature stage Dad had made for her two years ago in the center of the room. It had a curtain and everything. “Okay, sit there,” she said, pushing him onto the couch. “I need you to watch.”

  “Are you ready?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, Toto.” She hugged her stuffed dog closer to her chest. “I just want to be back with Auntie Em and Uncle Henry. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Imogen waited a moment after she had finished, then looked up at him expectantly.

  Charlie applauded. Imogen grinned and took an exaggerated bow. “Mrs. Talley wanted me to practice that part. Did it sound like I meant it?”

  “Really believable.” Charlie didn’t know much about acting, but it sounded good to him. “What’s with the crown, though?”

  “It’s for my birthday,” Imogen replied. “Lily made it for me, but she didn’t want to wait till tomorrow. Do you think Dad would let her come over tonight? We really have to practice.”

  Charlie laughed. Imogen always really had to do something. “Ask him after dinner. I thought we could try to cook something tonight. Special. We can celebrate early, too.”

  Imogen’s eyes grew wide. “What?”

  “That spaghetti Mom used to make.” Charlie’s stomach rumbled thinking about the sauce, which was somehow spicy and sweet at the same time.

  Imogen got a faraway look in her eyes. “We haven’t had that in forever!” She paused. “You don’t cook.”

  Charlie shrugged. “It can’t be too hard.”

  “And then Lily can come over and we’ll practice.” Imogen’s words started to run together as she danced around the room. “Will you practice with us, Charlie?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll even be Toto. Woof.”

  At this, Imogen laughed, and to Charlie it was the best sound in the world. He just wished he heard it more often.

  Dad’s specialties, when he got home in time to cook, were frozen meals or peanut butter and olive sandwiches. Mom, on the other hand, always seemed to just know how to make everything. A sprinkle of this, a pinch of that. She was like one of those TV chefs who dumped things in bowls and somehow pulled something amazing out of the oven.

  Her spaghetti sauce recipe was just another thing that she had taken with her when she died. Maybe if Charlie’s version of her spaghetti worked out, they could have it more often. It could be like keeping a little bit of her alive. Charlie opened the pantry door. A few random boxes of dried beans. An outdated can of enchilada sauce from the Mexican fiesta night they were supposed to have had months ago—another Before. A half-eaten loaf of bread.

  Finally, he spied what he was looking for. A can of tomato paste and a box of noodles. He opened it—half-empty. How was he supposed to make spaghetti when they didn’t even have enough of the most important ingredient? He felt the tips of his ears start to burn but forced a smile on his face as he turned around. He needed to do this for Imogen.

  “This is going to be easy,” Charlie said. He ignored the tilt of Imogen’s head and the doubtful expression on her face.

  “I don’t know if that’s enough tomato stuff,” Imogen said. She hopped down from her stool at the counter, her bare feet making sucking sounds against the linoleum. She hadn’t taken the birthday crown off. She opened up the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of ketchup. “Maybe this would work. I think Mom put in red pepper and garlic, too.”

  Charlie started a pot of water on the stove and pulled out the spices. He could do this. He scooped out the tomato paste and smooshed it down with a spoon into a saucepan. Then he squeezed the ketchup over the top of it. “How does that look?”

  Imogen leaned over the saucepan. “Good,” she said. She shook a few flecks of the pepper into the sauce, followed by some salt. “Now the garlic.” She studied the container. “This isn’t garlic, it’s ginger.”

  Charlie tried to ignore the double-tied shoelace knot that was tightening in his stomach. He was already messing up.

  He had pulled the jar from the fridge, and it had smelled fresh enough. “They both start with G. And they kind of look the same. I think you can substitute it.” Charlie had seen Mom replace one ingredient with another when they were out of something. “Go ahead and add it.”

  Whenever Mom had made her spaghetti, she had always put on this completely ridiculous Italian accent that really didn’t sound Italian at all—more Russian. And she would say, with a white chef hat plopped on the top of her head, “And look at these a-meat balls. One’s the size of your head.” And they were. Totally huge and delicious.

  Charlie looked in the fridge for a thing of ground beef. Nope. No ground sausage, either. Just a few pieces of turkey. Turkey meatballs were healthier anyway, right? He puffed up his cheeks and let the air leak out like a whoopee cushion, just without the noise.

  It would have to do. “We’ll chop these up and sprinkle them in the sauce.”

  Imogen wrinkled her nose. “Lunch meat?”

  “It could be really good, I think,” Charlie said, though he wasn’t quite sure he believed it. Beads of sweat formed over his eyebrows. This cooking stuff was much harder than he’d anticipated. Charlie and Imogen watched and waited as the sauce simmered and noodles boiled. The kitchen kind of smelled like Mom’s spaghetti. A good sign, he hoped. Maybe everything would turn out okay.

  Charlie glanced at the clock and then at the spaghetti. “Dad should have been home by now.” The truth was, Dad seemed to get home a little bit later each day. Yesterday was 6:55, and the day before that, 6:45. It seemed that there was a direct mathematical relationship between the amount of time that had passed since Mom had died and the amount of time Dad spent away from home.

  “Do you want to eat now?” Charlie asked. He stirred the sauce. It was thick, like paste. This didn’t seem right at all.

  “We can’t have a birthday dinner without Dad.”

  Charlie strained the noodles, put the lid on the sauce, and hoped Dad would come home soon. He wasn’t sure dinner would survive the wait.

  Forty minutes later, Dad finally burst in from the garage. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I was caught up at the office, and then I had to stop and get something for our birthday girl.” He set a grocery bag down on the counter and his briefcase on the floor and winked at Imogen.

  “Ooh, what is it?” Imogen asked.

  Dad pulled a Post-i
t from his pocket and waved it in the air. “I remembered that you can bring in a treat to share with your classmates for your birthday.” He sounded so proud; that was something Mom had been in charge of. “So I bought something for you to bring in.”

  Charlie held his breath as Imogen looked in the bag. Her face fell.

  “Sandwich cookies.” Imogen wouldn’t look at the bag anymore.

  Dad looked uncertain now. “The kind you like. Right? I thought they were your favorite.”

  “I guess.” Charlie could see Imogen’s bottom lip start to tremble. “But not to bring in to share. Other kids bring homemade stuff.”

  “You could bring them in for just this year and then next year we’ll make something.”

  Imogen shrugged. “Maybe.” But she closed up the bag and turned away.

  “I made dinner,” Charlie said, even though it was obvious. He needed to say something. “You and Imogen sit down and I’ll finish getting everything ready.”

  Dad kneaded his forehead with his hand and closed his eyes for a second. “That’s great. Thanks, Charlie.”

  When Charlie lifted the lids off the pans, everything looked cold and mushy and gross. Even more than before. But maybe it would taste better than it looked. He dished out everything into bowls and buttered three pieces of bread, one for each of them. “Happy early birthday, Imogen,” Charlie said, raising his fork, and watched as she took a bite.

  Her lips pulled in as she moved her mouth up and down. She choked back a cough. “This is gross.” She pushed the plate away from her with her fingertip.

  “Be nice,” Dad warned.

  “I’m just being honest,” she said.

  Her words knocked all the air out of Charlie. “Dad?”

  Dad took a bite and nodded a few times. Finally, he swallowed hard. “Interesting flavors. A good first try, I think.”