The Life of Ty

by Lauren Myracle

  I check to make sure I’m alone, and then I scooch like an inchworm until I’m lying on my back on the sofa. I lift my arms and legs. I wiggle them all around.

  “Bah,” I say. “Bah-bah goo-goo-gah.”

  I think Baby Maggie’s onto something.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I have a problem. A huge problem.

  I go find Winnie, who’s lying on her bed and typing on her laptop. She’s bobbing her head, which is connected by a pink cord to her computer.

  I stand in front of her and say, “Hey! You in the unicorn shirt—I need your help!”

  She takes out her earbuds. “Huh?” she says.

  “I have a recitation tomorrow, and you have to help me. Please?”

  “Recitations!” she says. “I remember those. Does everyone still end with ‘Any comments or questions?’”

  “Uh-huh, but that’s the easy part. The hard part is that I have to give a speech. I’m supposed to do an act of kindness, and that’s what the speech is supposed to be about.”

  “Can’t Mom help you?”

  “She’s busy, and anyway, we’re not supposed to bug her because Dad’s coming home late and she has to deal with us all on her own. Remember?”

  “Ah. Right.” Winnie studies me, then says, “One sec. Let me tell Cinnamon and Dinah I’ll be back.”

  Cinnamon and Dinah are Winnie’s best friends. I try to be patient while she types some more, but as soon as she closes her laptop, I plop down on her bed beside her.

  “And I promised Maggie I’d get her a pet,” I say, diving right in. “Mom says she doesn’t need a pet, but even so, I want to be a man of my word.”

  Now that Winnie is listening, my mind starts going way too fast, because there is so much trapped inside me. Like about Lexie and Breezie and Taylor. Like the neck-pinch-of-death. Like how Joseph will be coming home soon—yay! But only if he doesn’t get a cold—boo.

  I want to tell Winnie all these things, but before I can, my thoughts loop right back to where I started: No pet for Maggie, no pet for Maggie. No act of kindness, either.

  Aaagh. I press the heels of my palms into my eyeball sockets.

  “What’s wrong?” Winnie says.

  “Everything! I haven’t done my recitation, and it’s due tomorrow. Also, I keep thinking about things I don’t want to think about, and plus it’s been a crazy week. That’s what’s wrong. It’s been a crazy, crazy, crazy week!”

  “How so?” Winnie asks.

  I open my mouth. I shut it. I want to tell her, but my words are stuck in molasses.

  “Just tell me,” Winnie says. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”

  I hold my breath for a few seconds. Then, loudly, I let it out. “Well . . . it all started when Mrs. Webber whacked Lexie in the head with her clog.”

  “Exsqueeze me?”

  “No! Wait! Because before that, Sandra said how we don’t need any more pets because of Sweetie-Pie, and Dad said that same thing, too. But Sweetie-Pie is your cat, right?”

  “Whoa, go back. Mrs. Webber whacked Lexie with her clog?”

  “Uh-huh, her wooden clog. EXCEPT WAIT AGAIN, BECAUSE ALSO LEXIE GOT HER LEG TRAPPED!”

  “She got her leg trapped and she got whacked by a clog?!”

  My gut clenches. I should have been more careful. I should have remembered not to share the “trapped” part.

  “But she’s fine,” I hurry to say. “She doesn’t have a limp or anything!”

  “Ty?” Winnie says politely.

  “Yes?”

  “Please explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Everything. Now.”

  I gulp and do as she says. I talk and talk and talk.

  When I get to the end, I notice something strange. I pat my chest, and then I pat my shoulders and the tops of my arms. Once I’m sure of what my body’s telling me, I say, “Huh. I do feel better! I don’t feel like I’m being flattened by an anvil anymore.”

  “Mmm,” Winnie says. It’s more of a rumble than a word, but she doesn’t flick me or roll me off her bed or tell me to leave, so . . .

  “Thanks, Winnie,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  “And you’re welcome for saying ‘you’re welcome,’” I say. “Now, can we focus here? We have a recitation to write!”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we! I’m so glad we agree. And now I will build us a rabbit hutch so we can think better.”

  I have to push Winnie to the side so that I can get to her pillow, because I need all the pillows I can find. I arrange them the way I want to make the walls of our hutch, and I prop them up using Winnie’s sheets and blankets. When I’ve made a tight square, I pull Winnie’s comforter over the whole caboodle. The comforter is the roof and the front door flap. Oh, and I don’t know why Winnie and I call this kind of fort a rabbit hutch. We just do.

  “Come on in,” I say to Winnie, wiggling to the back and holding the door flap open. As Winnie crawls in, I ask, “Do you think Mom would let me get a cute little rabbit? And it could hop cutely through the house and sleep in my bed?”

  “No,” Winnie says. “Anyway, I thought the point was to get a pet for Maggie, not you.”

  “I know. I’m just saying the rabbit could sleep with me, because Maggie might squish it.”

  “Maggie doesn’t even roll over yet. How would Maggie squish it?”

  “Her blankie could squish it. And rabbits are so cute! And we could name it Little Bunny Foo Foo—or Pinkie, because bunnies have pink noses, and Baby Maggie loves pink!”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “Because all girls love pink. Geez, Winnie.”

  “Um, no. Some do, some don’t. Geez, Ty.”

  “Whatever,” I say. It’s cozy and safe in our rabbit hutch. The rest of the world is good, too, but it’s nice to take a break from all that bigness.

  I cuddle up to Winnie and think about things. I think about tomorrow, when Mrs. Webber will say, “Your turn, Ty,” and everyone will stare at me and wait for me to come to the front of the room.

  “I guess I’ll have to drop out of school,” I say. “I’ll have to be homeschooled, I guess.” I sigh. “We don’t even have a playground, or a water fountain.”

  “Ty, you’re adorable,” Winnie says. “You are also ridiculous. You’re going to drop out of school why? Because you don’t know what to do for your recitation?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But you’ve done a gazillion acts of kindness this week. Just pick one and write about it.”

  “A gazillion acts of kindness?” I say. “I haven’t done a single act of kindness! Not one!”

  “Hmm,” she says. “Let’s review, shall we? After Mrs. Webber clobbered Lexie with her clog, who went and got Mrs. Jacobs?”

  “Um . . . me?”

  “Yup, and when Lexie had to leave early and almost left her shoes, who grabbed them for her?”

  “M-me?”

  “Exactly, and stop sounding so tentative—which means uncertain. It was you. You, you, you.” She leans back and puts her feet in my lap. “And there’s more. Who told Breezie not to worry and that Lexie wouldn’t end up with a dent?”

  “Me,” I say. Because she’s right. I did.

  “Who saved the fly from being eaten or having its wings torn off?”

  “Me!”

  “Who didn’t tell on Lexie for doing the deadly neck-pinch on you?”

  “Me again!”

  “And how about this one: Who didn’t punch Lexie in the face even though he wanted to, and who even apologized for the whole bad playdate thing?”

  “Me, and also I made her fake money with a picture of Cyber-Grape in the middle.”

  “And you’re a good friend to Joseph, and you’ll help him out when
he returns to school, which hopefully will be next week.”

  “Yes, but I can’t do my recitation about something that hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says . . . I don’t know! The President of Obama!”

  A rain cloud sneaks into our rabbit hutch and turns everything gray again. For a millisecond, Winnie’s list had made me feel better. Now it all falls apart. “And, Winnie. All those things you said I did?”

  “All of those things you did do,” she says, jabbing me with her toe.

  “None of them was on purpose,” I say.

  “So?”

  “So how can I give a speech about an act of kindness that was secretly just an accident?”

  “Were they accidents?” Winnie asks. “Or were they just you being you?”

  My heart is lumpish in my chest. I don’t see how there’s a difference, really.

  “You, Ty, are a kind person,” Winnie says. “Deal with it. But if you’re going to sit there and be all mopey, then do something about it.”

  “Like what?” I say.

  “Like . . . like pick someone in our family and do an on-purpose act of kindness. It’s not that complicated.”

  I think about that. Then I think about puppies. Puppies and kittens and little mousies!

  Winnie does her mind-reading trick and shakes her head. “No, sir,” she says. “You can’t do your kindness for Baby Maggie, because getting her a pet isn’t going to happen. Not tonight.”

  “But—”

  “Put that one on hold. And not to be a party pooper, but don’t act-of-kindness me, either. I’ve enjoyed our time together, but all good things come to an end.”

  Hmmph, I think. She just wants to get back to chatting with Cinnamon and Dinah on her computer.

  “You could try Sandra,” Winnie suggests.

  “Sandra?” I say. “And do what?” The only kindness Sandra would want would be for me to leave her alone.

  Winnie makes a sound low in her throat, because she knows I’m right. She scrunches her forehead. “Well, who’s the only other person left? Mom. And who needs help tonight, anyway?”

  “Mom!” I say “Because Dad’s doing his late thing!”

  “Exactamundo!”

  We high-five each other in the rabbit hutch. One of the walls falls down.

  “So there you have it,” Winnie says. “Imagine your husband’s staying late at work, and you’re worn out, and you have a baby who you love, but who sometimes cries . . .”

  “I don’t have a husband or a baby.”

  “Imagine, I said. Imagine all that and then come up with something kind to do for Mom. Easy-peasy pudding-and-pie!”

  Easy-peasy pudding-and-pie, huh? Well . . . I am good at imagining stuff. I’m also good at winking each of my eyes separately, plus I can wink them one after the other, rapid-fire like wink wink wink. Winnie calls me a winking fool.

  Winking at Mom wouldn’t count as an act of kindness, though. She might even say “Ty” that way she does sometimes, like I’m wearing her out.

  So, okay, what wouldn’t wear her out? What would make her smile and put her in a good mood for the whole entire night?

  I do my air of wisdom to help me think, which means tilting my head and stroking my beard.

  Winnie breaks down the rest of the rabbit hutch. She says, “Good-bye, Ty. Go do your air of wisdom somewhere else.”

  But I don’t need to, because I’ve got it!

  I scramble off Winnie’s bed and make a beeline for the kitchen. Humming, I get to work.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On Friday morning, Mrs. Webber doesn’t wear her wooden clogs. This is her non-random act of kindness, I think, even though she doesn’t say so.

  We sit on the carpet for morning meeting, and Mrs. Webber tells us the good news about Joseph coming back to school. I already know, but I don’t act braggy. I just grin and say “yay” with everyone else.

  “Will he still be bald?” Taylor asks.

  Joseph is a temporary baldie because of being sick. Because of the medicines and stuff the doctors gave him for his leukemia. Except he must not need them anymore if he’s coming back to school!

  “He will,” Mrs. Webber says. “His hair will grow back eventually, but—”

  “Will he wear his red woolly hat?” Elizabeth asks.

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out,” Mrs. Webber says. “I do know that he’ll still need to be careful about germs—”

  “Like having that bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk all the time,” Lexie says.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Webber says. “And we’ll all need to be careful about helping him stay healthy.”

  “Like not sneezing on him,” Taylor says. He turns to Chase. “Ka-CHOO!” he says, sneezing a pretend sneeze all over him.

  “Thank you, Taylor,” Mrs. Webber says, giving him a look. “Thank you for showing the class what not to do.” Then she claps her hands, a single clap that says it’s time to move on. “Now, I know you’ve all worked hard on your recitations,” she says. “Who wants to go first?”

  Lexie’s hand flies into the air like a rocket. She waves it around and bounces on her bottom. Taylor jams his hand into the air, too. He adds in what he always adds in, which is, “Ooo! Ooo! Pick me, pick me!”

  Mrs. Webber does what she always does, which is to pick someone with a raised hand who isn’t doing any waving, bottom-bouncing, or ooo-ing.

  “I like how Hannah is raising her hand so politely,” she says. “Hannah? Would you like to come to the front of the room?”

  Hannah does—and she brings doughnuts! In a box! She passes the box around, and I choose a maple-glazed one. Yummy!

  She makes her speech, and she calls on me when it’s time for comments or questions.

  I say, “My comment is thank you very much, and also I like your shirt.”

  She glances at her shirt, which has a gold star in the middle of it.

  “Okay,” Hannah says.

  She calls on a few more kids for comments and questions.

  Then it’s time for the next kid to give his recitation, and that kid is me. I stand up. I go to the front of the class. I face everyone and clear my throat.

  Lexie giggles, and I almost giggle, too. But I stuff that giggle down because Mrs. Webber likes us to be serious during recitations.

  I shake out my piece of paper, and Lexie giggles again. Maybe because I remind her of Abraham Lincoln? Because I’m being so serious?

  I ignore that girl and read my speech aloud:

  “Last night, my dad wasn’t home. That meant my mom was the only one around to take care of us, and she’s always really tired because of our new baby.”

  “Teensy Baby Maggie!” Lexie calls out. “Who is also bald, like Joseph!”

  “Lexie, shush,” Mrs. Webber says. “Ty, please go on.”

  I have to find my place. “Um . . . um . . . Mom’s also the only one who takes care of us in the mornings, usually. And she’s never able to eat breakfast because she’s too busy running around. So last night, I didn’t want that same thing to happen, and so guess what? I made dinner for the whole family. I did it sneakily, while my mom wasn’t in the kitchen, and I made sure it was healthy, too.”

  I take a breath.

  “It made me feel happy inside, and it made my mom feel full of food. It also made her kinder, because she was less frustrated.”

  I glance at the class to see if they’re impressed. They are. Good.

  I look back at my paper. “She told me, ‘Ty, thank you so much. That was a huge help.’ Also, she let us watch one family TV show, even though it was eight o’clock! And I told my mom that I would fix dinner the next night, too, and every night from now until infinity, or until I move out of the house. The end.”

  I let the hand which is h
olding my paper fall to my side. “Any comments or questions? Yes, Taylor?”

  “What did you make?”

  “For dinner?” I say. “Graham crackers with peanut butter, mini-marshmallows, and raisins. For drinks, everyone got to choose between orange juice, milk, or water. Oh, and I used fancy glasses.”

  “What about dessert?” Taylor asks.

  I answer quickly, because after a recitation, you’re only allowed to call on three people for comments or questions. I don’t want Mrs. Webber to think Taylor is my number one and my number two person.

  “More mini-marshmallows,” I say.

  I move on to the next question. “Yes, Mrs. Webber?”

  “What did your mom say when you volunteered to make dinner every night from now on?” she asks.

  “That we’ll play it by ear, but what a nice offer.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Webber says. “Smart woman.”

  “Uh-huh.” I only get to pick one more person, but even so, almost everyone has his or her hand up. But friends are supposed to pick friends, so I call on Lexie.

  Lexie sits up straighter. “I thought you were going to get a pet for your baby sister, Maggie. What happened to getting her a pet?”

  “I still will,” I say. “Because during dinner we talked about that! And my sister Winnie reminded my mom that when she was a kid, my dad said that if she could catch a bird, she could keep it.”

  “A bird bird?” Lexie says. “Like, from a tree?”

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Webber murmurs.

  “And so Winnie asked if the same was true for me, and my mom said, ‘Well, your father made that deal. Not me.’ But we said, ‘Only you’re the parent in charge, since Dad isn’t here. Sooooo?’”

  Even Breezie is leaning forward out of curious-ness. “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Oh, good heavens,’” I tell Breezie. “And then she said, ‘Fine. If you can actually catch a bird, Ty, then sure. You can keep it.’”

  “Ha,” Breezie says. “Because she knows you can’t.”