Yup, I know the geography of California.
Wish I didn’t.
I glance at the clock and realize I’ve wasted precious test-taking minutes thinking about Dad and what he did to me. For some reason, no matter how many times I think about it, the pieces won’t fit together and make sense. Nikki was my best friend. Stella is her mom. How could Dad do something like that?
I return my focus to the paper on my desk. And I’m surprised that I know the next six answers after the oceans question. But then I get stumped on a question about the equator. I poke myself in the forehead a few times, but it doesn’t jog any information loose.
As I sneak a peek at the class scribbling on their test papers, I remember a Sesame Street episode I watched a couple years ago with Charlie. He loved Sesame Street—used to sing the show’s theme song in the bathtub. “Sunny day sweepin’ the clouds away …”
In one segment, they showed a yellow boot, a yellow banana, a yellow sun and a red umbrella. Then they sang a song that asked which one didn’t belong, which one didn’t go with the others. Charlie said the banana didn’t belong because you can’t eat the other things. Smart kid. But the answer was the red umbrella, because the other objects were yellow. The red umbrella didn’t belong; it didn’t go with the others.
Right now, looking at this room full of kids who are probably writing all the correct answers on their test papers, who probably have best friends to hang out with and happy families to head home to after school, I feel like the red umbrella.
On my way home from school, Tucker catches up to me at the corner of Kindred and Rutledge, our street. He’s chewing on something red and talks with his mouth full. “How’d you do on the geography test, Bean?”
I take a deep breath and consider sprinting for home. I could get there before him if I run the whole way, but for some reason I don’t have the energy. “Okay,” I lie. “How’d you do?”
“It was easy,” he says, which makes me want to kick him. “You remembered the five oceans, right?”
“Right,” I lie again.
“Name them,” he says, practically bursting with conceit.
“The Atlantic,” I say. “The Southern, the Indian, the Pacific.” And then I mumble something incomprehensible, hoping it sounds like the name of an ocean.
“Ha! I thought you might have missed one, Bean. It’s the Arctic.”
“Oh!” That’s it.
“Lucas’ll give you partial credit, though.”
“You think?”
Tucker nods and stuffs a thick red licorice rope into his mouth. He doesn’t offer me any. I wouldn’t have accepted, anyway. He’s probably had it in his pocket since last Halloween. Tucker’s gross like that. His shirts are always 40 percent tucked in, 60 percent hanging out and 100 percent wrinkled. His hair always looks ruffled, like he uses his head as a Habitrail course for his hamsters, Gypsy and Rose. And Tucker always, always has a food product smeared across his shirt. Today, it looks like ketchup … or maybe it’s red licorice slime.
We stop at the bottom of our steps. “So, what are you doing later?” Tucker asks.
The question startles me. Tucker never asks what I’m doing or where I’m going. He’s usually too busy picking on me with Matt Dresher. And we haven’t done anything together for about two years. Why is he being nosy all of a sudden?
“Um, I watch Jeopardy! at seven-thirty.” I feel like a dork, but it’s the first thing that pops into my mind. Then, all at once, I’m mad at myself for sharing that bit of information with Tucker. Jeopardy!’s the one thing Dad and I always did together, our special tradition, and I didn’t mean to tell Tucker about it. Although, he probably remembers that back when we were friends—when he used to be nicer—I’d go home every day at seven-thirty to watch Jeopardy!, no matter what we were doing.
“Cool,” Tucker says, gnawing off another bite of licorice. “My grandma watches that show.”
“Oh.” Now I feel like an uberdork, knowing I have the same social life as Tucker’s grandma.
“It’s pretty funny,” he says, chomping his licorice. “She won’t even talk to us if we’re at her apartment while it’s on, and if we call between seven-thirty and eight on weekdays, she doesn’t answer the phone. I think she has a crush on Alex Trebek or something.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Tucker smiles.
My cheeks heat up. I can’t believe I’m having a normal conversation with Tucker Thomas.
I press my lips together, determined not to say another word to him, but it’s hard because Tucker says, “Talk to you later, Bean.” Then he looks at me with his blue eyes. How come I never realized he had blue eyes? Pale blue, like a summer sky.
Eww!
I grab the key from the string around my neck and give a hard tug to snap me out of this. “Whatever,” I say, and march up the steps to my house.
Tucker calls from the bottom step: “Watching Jeopardy! sounds way better than what I have to do tonight.”
Wind whistles, and I watch gray clouds motor across the sky. I shiver and, against my better judgment, turn and ask, “What?” I think maybe Tucker and his blue eyes have to go to the dentist to get a tooth pulled or to the doctor to get a shot. But you don’t do those things at night.
Tucker stands lopsided, like the weight of his backpack is too much for him. He almost looks like one of the cool kids. Almost. That’s if one of the cool kids had a red stain a mile long across his shirt and a glob of something half-chewed showing in his mouth.
Tucker trudges up one step, stops and looks at me. “Dad’s making me go to the Phillies game with him. Last game of the season.”
A strong wind whips my hair, and I pick strands out of my mouth. “Baseball? With your dad?” I squeeze my house key till it bites into my palm. “Tucker, that sounds fun.” I’d do anything for my dad to take me to the Phillies game tonight.
“Fun?” Tucker says, his cheeks turning as red as the licorice he’s chomping. “Fun?!”
Tucker’s anger surprises me. I take a step back, so I’m pressed against my front door.
“Bean,” Tucker says. “On a fun scale from one to ten, baseball, for me, is a minus three thousand.”
“Are you nuts, Tucker?” The one Phillies game Dad took me to was during the World Series. The World Series! And Dad took only me; Charlie had to stay home with Mom. As soon as we handed the guard our tickets and stepped inside the stadium, Dad bought me a green Phillie Phanatic doll—a plump creature with a snout like an anteater, who wears a Phillies jersey and baseball cap. Oddly, though, no pants.
I named my doll Phil. I still keep Phil on my bed and hug him every night before I go to sleep, even though somewhere along the way, Phil lost his jersey and he now has stuffing coming out of a hole under his armpit. I think Phil’s adorable, even if he is almost the same color as the throw-up-green carpet covering my bedroom floor.
During the World Series game, Dad was hunched over in his I-can’t-hear-you mode, but it was still great. The energy from the crowd was amazing. When the Phillies hit a home run, a Liberty Bell lit up and bonged, bonged, bonged and the crowd went wild, waving their red and white towels above their heads. I held on to Phil’s sneakered foot and waved him high above my head. It was the most fun I’d had with Dad since Disney World.
When the game was over, Dad rocketed out of his seat and punched his fist in the air. “Yes!” he shouted, and gathered me in a tight hug. He even hugged the people around us. Everyone did that, but I think Dad had a bet on the game. Judging from Dad’s reaction when they won, it must’ve been a hefty bet.
After the game, Dad took me to the Country Club Restaurant—my favorite—and let me order anything I wanted, including a slice of lemon meringue pie and a vanilla shake.
How could any normal person not like doing that stuff with his dad? Then again, who said Tucker Thomas is a normal person?
I look at the glob of licorice puffing out Tucker’s cheek and poking out of his mouth. It makes
my stomach flop, and I have to look down so I don’t get queasy. “Maybe you’ll have a good time,” I say, thinking that I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. “That stadium is really fun. They have lots of stuff to do besides watching the game.”
Tucker tilts his head like he’s annoyed with me, clomps up the steps and faces me. “Bean, you’ve known me long enough to know baseball’s my dad’s thing. He wishes it were mine, but it’s not.”
Then Tucker shakes his head like I couldn’t possibly understand what he’s saying, pivots and disappears inside his house.
I feel empty, like the wind could blow right through me, which is completely ridiculous because Tucker Thomas and I aren’t even friends anymore. We used to be great friends, going over to each other’s houses all the time, but that was a long time ago—before my dad left and before the unfortunate hula hoop incident in fifth grade.
I stare at Tucker’s closed door for a couple seconds, trying to comprehend what just happened. I decide, simply, that Tucker Thomas is an idiot.
Mr. Thomas is taking him to the last Phillies game of the season, and it’s totally unfair. Tucker doesn’t even want to go. Take me. Actually, what I really wish is that Dad were here and he would take me.
Even though I rarely miss a show, I’d miss Jeopardy! for that.
The smell of frying onions tells me Mom’s home. I tiptoe toward the stairs, hoping I’ll make it to my bedroom before she comes out and asks about the geography test I bombed.
My hand is on the banister when I hear “Livi? That you?”
Mom strides in from the kitchen, wearing an apron over her blouse and slacks. She wipes her hands on a small towel as she approaches. I know the first thing she’s going to say is How did you do on that test? I want to forget about it. It’s over. Damage done.
“Hi, Mom, I—”
“Listen, Livi,” she says. “Neil’s working at the library till nine.”
I get a happy feeling inside. Neil working until the library closes means Alex Trebek and I will have our date at seven-thirty without annoying interruptions. It means I get to answer all the questions myself without Neil distracting me or yelling the answers before I have a chance.
Mom steps closer. “I need to leave soon to cover a municipal meeting for the newspaper. Dinner will be ready in twenty. Okay?”
“Sure,” I say, swallowing hard, waiting for Mom to ask about the stupid test.
“Okay, then.” Mom nods and walks back into the kitchen.
I wonder why she didn’t ask about the test. She always asks about tests, quizzes and homework, not to mention my pitiful social life, which consists of sitting at lunch with Brooke, Carly and Julia, who are best friends. With each other. They all live on the other side of town, so I never see them outside of school, and they always laugh at inside jokes I never understand. But at least I don’t sit alone anymore. Lunch period went swiftly downhill after Nikki left. I wonder who she eats lunch with at her school in California. Probably a lot of really cool girls. And maybe even a few boys.
Mom pokes her head out of the kitchen. “One more thing.”
“Yes?” I can’t believe I almost want Mom to ask about the geography test now.
“Since both Neil and I will be out, you’ll be responsible for Charlie until Neil gets home.”
“That it?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says.
Here it comes. I formulate the most positive answer I can. I’m sure I’ll ace the next test, even though I’m sure I won’t.
Mom says, “It would be a huge help if you could wash and dry the dinner dishes.”
“The dinner dishes?”
“If you don’t mind,” Mom says, and heads back into the kitchen. “Thanks, Livi!” she calls. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Life Savers were invented in 1912 by Clarence Crane, a chocolate maker who wanted a candy that could hold up to summer heat better than chocolate. Pep-O-Mint was the first flavor created. Edward John Noble purchased the rights from Crane for a mere $2,900.
Sometimes, I wonder how my measly three-pound brain holds so much information. “No problem,” I yell, and head up to my bedroom, thinking that at least I’m off the hook about my test … until the grade comes in.
But I also think it’s a little strange that Mom didn’t even ask.
I’m assaulted by the brightness of my yellow room. I wouldn’t mind if it were painted mellow Big Bird yellow, but this shade is obnoxious. It’s like the sun … on steroids. It’s been like this since we moved in, and Dad always promised he’d repaint any color I wanted, but he left before that happened. And even after he’s been gone two years, my room is still a blinding reminder of things left undone. I shield my eyes and wish I had a pair of sunglasses.
“Hi!”
I stumble backward. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Charlie sits cross-legged on my vomit-green carpet, racing Matchbox cars over piles of books. My trivia books! He set them up like ramps and has a car in each fist, zooming them over the covers and along the spines.
DJ, our orange tabby, is curled beside him. He opens one eye to check out what’s going on, then closes it again. Then he sneezes. On my trivia books!
“Absolutely not, Charlie Bean.” I drop my backpack with a satisfying whump and bend to pick up the books. I put my face right in front of Charlie’s and can see the freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You know not to touch my books. Do you want me to tell Mom?”
DJ stands, stretches and darts out of the room. Smart cat.
Charlie shakes his head so hard his fine hair flies around.
“Because I will,” I say. “And she’ll take your cars away. All of them.”
He grabs my cheeks in his little palms. “Livi, no!”
I glare at him, even though it’s hard to hang on to my anger with his damp palms pressed against my cheeks. “Then help me clean up.”
He shakes his head again.
“What? You want me to tell Mom?”
“Uh-uh,” he says. Then, in a tiny voice, “I want one.”
“Huh?” I ask, fitting the trivia books back onto the shelf in size order.
He points to the books. “I want one.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at my bother. “You want a book to race your cars on?”
He shakes his head. “To read.”
I raise an eyebrow. Yesterday, when he read my Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, he smeared chocolate on one of the pages. “You want one of my trivia books? To read?”
He nods so hard I think his head is going to fall off and plop into his lap.
“There’s very little gross trivia in them, you know.”
“I know,” Charlie says. “I don’t only like gross stuff, Livi. Just mostly.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. And I can’t help but think Dad would be tickled to know that Charlie is turning out just like him. And me. Trivia addiction is definitely an inherited Bean gene.
Part of me wants to encourage Charlie to study trivia—to encourage him to do anything other than smash Matchbox cars into things and run around pretending to be Armpit Bacteria Man—but another part knows exactly the kind of condition my book will be in when it’s returned. If it’s returned.
In the past, when Charlie “borrowed” books from me, he’s ripped out pages and spilled drinks on them. Once, years ago, when he was getting ready for his bath, he dunked my favorite book in the toilet, thinking it was waterproof like his bath books.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “You don’t know how to take care of things.”
Charlie crosses his skinny arms over his chest. “Then I’m not helping clean up.”
I continue to replace books on my shelf. “I don’t need your help.”
“Please, Livi. I want to have a big brain like yours.”
I suddenly don’t feel so bad about my lousy geography test … or the fact that Dad’s not here, taking me to see the last Phillies game of the season. “I don’t have a big brain,”
I tell Charlie. “It weighs about three pounds, just like everyone else’s.” I ruffle his hair. “Knucklehead.”
He grins, like calling him knucklehead was a big compliment.
A light goes on in my three-pound brain. I remember I have a series of boxed cards called Brain Quest on the shelf in my closet—too high for Charlie to reach—and they have tons of trivia for kids in different grades.
“Livi?” Charlie asks.
I’ve been staring off into space again. I have a tendency to do that when I think. I shake my head. “Charlie, I have something special for you.”
Charlie’s eyes grow wide. He touches my wrist with his sweaty hand.
“But it’s not a book.”
His shoulders slump.
“It’s better than a book.”
He sits tall.
I reach up to my closet shelf and check the boxes until I find the collection of questions designed for first graders. Charlie’s only in kindergarten, so getting first-grade questions will make him feel smart.
“Got it.” I sit on the floor with him and hand him the box.
Charlie runs his fingers over the words at the top and reads slowly. “ ‘It’s Fun to Be Smart.’ ” He shows me. “It’s fun to be smart, Livi.”
If only, I think, remembering Andy Baran kicking my chair in fifth grade and hissing at me to stop showing off, when all I’d done was answer most of the questions the substitute asked during the boys-against-girls Brain Blaster competition. Even though I helped the girls win, some of them whispered nasty comments, too.
“It sure is,” I say, hoping it’s a long time before Charlie has the awful feeling of answering a tough question in class and having kids stare like he just grew a third leg out of his butt and danced the hokey-pokey with it.
“Thanks, Livi!” Charlie clutches the Brain Quest to his chest and rockets out of my room.
Mission accomplished!
I finish putting my books away and get that empty feeling again. What’s with me today? First, I feel empty when Tucker goes inside, then again when Charlie leaves. And I wanted him to leave!
Olivia Bean, Trivia Queen Page 3
