Finding Perfect

by Elly Swartz

  I spread a clean white sheet on top of the orange shag carpet and line up the boxes next to the files and the ziplock plastic bags. The antique mirror that Dad got to surprise Mom hangs to my right. Dad thought Mom would love it. She didn’t. She thought it was just old. I stare into the mirror and decide to keep my hair exactly the same until she gets back. We got our hair cut together the week she left. She didn’t even have an appointment. I did. But when Gwen-with-all-the-bird-tattoos finished trimming my hair, Mom whispered something to her. Forty minutes later, Mom’s hair was five inches shorter.

  She said she loved it. She needed a change. Something totally new.

  I look in the mirror and measure from roots to ends. Twenty-six inches.

  I get back to work. Next on my checklist, a sign. I grab some paper and the colored Sharpies (they don’t smudge when you write) from the art corner of the basement. I leave the red glitter in the cabinet. With my ruler and stencils I write my business name across the top of the paper.

  I hold up my new sign and stand in front of the mirror. I begin rehearsing my presentation when I notice the B in LABEL is crooked. I try to ignore it and continue, but I can’t. I straighten my glasses, tighten my hair clip, and rip my paper into shreds.

  4

  boogies on the wall

  BY THE TIME I finish everything for my presentation, it’s way later than my Dad-approved bedtime.

  I try to quietly sneak past Dad, who’s still sitting in his big brown leather office chair at the computer, making his way through a family-size bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips.

  “Honey, it’s late and tomorrow’s a school day,” he says, his eyes glued on the papers spread across his desk.

  So much for stealth mode.

  “It’s not so late. Bridgett never goes to bed before midnight.”

  Dad unsticks. “Well, last I checked, I’m not Bridgett’s father.”

  Dad always says that stuff. I don’t care what other kids are doing. I’m not such and such’s father. But then I spy the corners folded down in pages of his Parenting and Raising Kids Today magazines that I see every time I go into his office. Makes me think he kind of cares what other families are doing. But I know it’s a useless argument. Especially at this hour. I kiss him good night.

  On the way to my room, I hear, “Psst. Psst. Psst,” coming from Ian’s room. When I poke my head in, Spider’s staring at me from his cage and Ian’s sitting up in his bed. “I can’t sleep. Will you read to me?”

  “Buddy, it’s late.”

  He slides over and hands me Goodnight Moon, knowing I won’t say no.

  I straighten the tilted picture of both Spider-Man and Peter Parker on his wall, climb into bed beside him, and start to read. When I get to the end of the story, he says good night to Spider, the glass hippo I gave him, his favorite green shirt, the clown statue from Aunt Lucy, Spider-Man, and Peter Parker. I get up to leave.

  He tugs on the sleeve of my shirt. “Will you stay with me for just a little bit more?”

  I look over at Spider spinning to nowhere on his wheel. “Two minutes. Dad’s already given me his Parenting 101 lecture on my need for sleep.”

  As I settle in again, I count eighteen little brown balls stuck to his superhero wallpaper. “Ian, what’s all over your wall?”

  He turns away.

  “Buddy, what’s all over your wall?”

  “They’re my boogies,” he whispers.

  I swallow the spit rising in my throat. There are so many things wrong with this.

  I point to the tissue box on the shelf next to his bed. “You have tissues right here. Why are you putting your boogers on the wall?”

  “They’re too sticky.”

  “Ian, that’s gross. I don’t care how gooey they are. Anything that comes out of your nose goes into a tissue. Got it?”

  He hides under his covers. “Are you mad at me?”

  I lift the blanket and scoop him close. “No, just no more boogies on the wall.”

  I snuggle with him for a while, and when I think he’s fallen asleep I slide off the bed and tiptoe to the door. Before I leave his room, I hear his small, tired voice say, “I love you, Molly.”

  “Love you, too, Buddy. Sweet dreams.” He says he misses Mom most at bedtime. The other night I rolled over and found him curled up asleep in the middle of my floor. I laid my orange fuzzy blanket over him and whispered in his ear that everything was going to be okay.

  I leave his door wide open. Another post-Mom-departure habit. Tiredness pours over my body. I flop onto my bed. Clothes on.

  “Molly, why is your light still on?” Dad calls from downstairs.

  How can he even see into my room? I pick up Daisy, the stuffed cow I got for my eighth birthday, and stare into her black, beady eyes. Then I stick out my tongue. I figure if Dad’s planted some kind of spy camera, he’ll have something to say about that.

  No comment.

  “I’m turning it off right now.” Flick light switch off. Doesn’t feel right. Flick it back on.

  “Honey, what’s going on in there?”

  I pick up Daisy again. Turn her upside down to see if there are any wires or batteries hidden in her udders, but find nothing.

  “Uh, I just forgot to put something in my bag for tomorrow.”

  Lie.

  Dad comes upstairs and walks into my room. “Enough. It’s bedtime. And it’s late. Even for Bridgett.” The bright red lights on my clock flash 12:10 a.m. Dad smiles, leans over, and kisses my forehead. His loose, hanging tie brushes my cheek. “You okay?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Then good night. And leave the light off.”

  I’ll try.

  “Night, Dad.” He’s gone. Relief. I grab my glasses, hop out of bed, and close my bedroom door. I use the flashlight I keep next to my bed to find my earbuds and my reggae playlist. By now I know it’ll take at least three songs to finish my bedtime routine.

  I want to rehearse my presentation before school. But is my alarm on? I think so. I checked it. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll check it once more. Alarm’s on. Perfect.

  I’m mesmerized by the rhythm of the music. When Dad comes back into the room, I’m organizing my socks in the glow of my flashlight.

  “Molly.”

  He’s standing at my door. I slowly slide my earbuds out one at a time.

  “I was just—I was just—um. Looking for something,” I manage to say as the lie unscrambles in my brain.

  He sits on the edge of my bed and motions for me to get under the covers. My clock flashes 12:35 a.m. His tie’s gone, replaced with a white T-shirt and his Middlebury College navy sweatpants. He’s carrying his briefcase. Still working.

  “Mol, you can’t keep doing this.”

  I freeze and stare at him too long, but he doesn’t continue. I exhale. “Well, you can’t keep working all night.” I glide into bed.

  “Agreed. I will try if you will.”

  I nod. “I just need to recheck my alarm and then I’ll really be ready.” I start to fold back the comforter.

  My dad pats my shoulder. “Stay in bed. It’s so late already. I’ll check your alarm. Good night, sweetheart,” he says, closing the door behind him.

  “Night, night, night, night,” I say softly to the back of my door.

  5

  the remains of the breakfast burrito

  MY SHIRT’S IRONED, HAIR’S straightened, and supplies are ready to go. I put on my new glasses and stare in the mirror, hoping they look more newscaster than librarian. Then I check my list one more time to make sure I have everything I need for my presentation.

  • Principles of Organizing poster

  • Index cards

  • Six-page paper complete with fancy see-through cover

  • Organizing supplies

  − Boxes

  − Sharpies

  − Labels

  − Files

  − Baggies

  − Colored pencils

  In the kitchen, Ian’s making w
ords with his alphabet cereal. Spelled out on the wooden table is: MOM SPIDE (no R) MOLLY GOAT. I stare at the words and hope goats aren’t nocturnal. Dad may have to buy him one of those, too.

  “Have a good day, Buddy,” I say on my way out the door.

  As I get to Mrs. Melvin’s house, I see Hannah running toward me. Her black-and-blue pixie blows wildly in the cool September wind. Mrs. Melvin lives in the white ranch right smack between my house and Hannah’s.

  “Love the glasses,” Hannah says as she catches her breath and wipes the sweat from her upper lip.

  “Thanks. Do you think they look more librarian, scientist, or TV news anchor?”

  Hannah stops, steps back, and takes a good look. Then she shrugs. “I don’t know. They just look like glasses.”

  I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m so nervous about the poetry slam.”

  “Pretty sure I’m done, but you’ll definitely move on. No one got more claps, cheers, and snaps than you. You’ve totally got this.”

  “You really think so? Honest, honest?”

  She nods and crosses her heart, then sticks her wrist in my face. “Like them?”

  Seven different braided bracelets cover her arm. I stare at the bracelets and wish she had made just one more.

  “Braided bracelets. They are really popular in California. Each color strand has a different meaning. E. B. Rule Number 16: If you see a trend, embrace it.”

  Hannah lives by the book E. B.’s Rules to Becoming a Successful Businesswoman. A gift from her Dad after her first business, Lemonade on Laurel Lane, flopped. It was the start of last summer and we spent two hours making lemonade and waiting in the hot sun for the customers who never came. I washed my hands forty-four times that day. Forty-four. I don’t know what was weirder: that I washed my hands so many times or that I counted. I remember standing at the sink in Hannah’s kitchen.

  Soap.

  Water.

  Rub.

  Rinse.

  The pink lemonade mix was sticky like syrup. Even when I saw the bubblegum shade of water disappear down the drain, I couldn’t stop. The mix felt trapped in my skin. I told myself not to be so weird. It worked then.

  Sort of.

  Hannah’s voice snaps me back. “So this is my business. Color Me Bracelets. What do you think?”

  “I love it.”

  She smiles. “Now I need a favor. During my presentation, when Ms. P. asks for comments or questions, you have to raise your hand, say something positive, and place an order.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Got it.”

  “Promise?” she asks.

  “Promise. But first you have to get the cream cheese out from between your braces,” I say.

  Hannah swirls her tongue across her teeth and smiles big. “Is it gone?”

  I nod.

  It takes us just five more minutes to get to the bench outside of school. Hannah looks all serious. “I need to tell you something. It’s big. Sit with me.”

  I stare at the bench. Peeling paint. Dried mustard. Dirt. I stuff my hands into my pockets and try a cleansing yoga breath, but my Zen moment sticks in my throat. “Um. I’m good here.”

  Hannah dumps her backpack next to her and I silently pray it doesn’t land in the mustard. She leans in to tell me her news when Bridgett shows up.

  “Richie Keegan threw up on the bus this morning,” Bridgett says, completely ignoring Hannah.

  Bridgett looks at me. “Why are you just standing out here?”

  Before I can answer, she shrugs and continues. “First, I love the glasses. So totally country-singer star meets New Yorker.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Second, I’m freaking out about the slam. I need to know who’s moving on. Third, and so much more critical, did you see the obits today?”

  How can she possibly think the obituaries are more important than the slam? The slam is everything.

  “Page six, column three. Three paragraphs on the nineteen-year-old boy who died when he collapsed on the football field. Some undiagnosed heart thing. Page seven, half a page on Bart Linden, founder of some revolutionary microchip, who died at age seventy-two from a heart attack. Page six, column five, Gertrude Klein, eighty-six-year-old woman who died in her sleep. Two lines. She lived until eighty-six and only got two lines.”

  “So?” I stare at the remains of the breakfast burrito stuck to Bridgett’s hands. I pull out my hand sanitizer and squirt some into her palms.

  “You’re so weird.” She rubs her hands together. “Don’t you see? We have to die young or famous for anyone to care enough to write about us when we leave this earth.”

  There’s still cheese on her pinky.

  The school bell rings. We grab our stuff and head into Room 820.

  “I promise if you live a long life, but die before me, I’ll write an obituary for you that will be at least half a page.”

  “Me, too?” Hannah chimes in.

  I nod.

  “It’s not funny.” Bridgett bites a hangnail off her thumb. “What if you die first?”

  I smile. “Then you’ll have no choice but to become famous.”

  6

  wishing for sandal season

  MS. P. HOLDS TWO fingers in the air to signal us to stop talking. I know what’s coming. Round One results. My insides swim like guppies.

  “Class, all the students who participated in the Poetry Slam competition did an outstanding job. The two students from our class who will be moving on to Round Two are Josh and—”

  Please let the next name be mine.

  One last check of my colored pencils. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet. Perfect.

  “—Molly.”

  A real smile finds its way across my face while my insides do a happy dance. Like when Mom and I made chocolate chip–oatmeal cookies (no kale or swamp juice) and ate the entire batch before dinner.

  The class applauds. Mac is high-fiving Josh, Hannah jumps up and gives me a hug while B says, “Way to go” from across the room. My guppies are now champion swimmers.

  “Round Two will be held during the last period of the day on Friday. Molly and Josh will be competing against the winners of the other seventh-grade English classes.” Ms. P. congratulates us and then begins discussing the format for our business presentations. I don’t really listen. I hold tight to my happy feeling so it can’t slip away.

  Ever.

  Bridgett goes first with her Never Too Soon Obituary Writing Service, and then Ryan introduces the class to his Revolutionary Foul-Shot Basketball System. I wish he’d worn matching socks or long pants.

  And then it’s my turn. I remind myself to refocus on the yahoo-you-are-moving-on-to-Round-Two moment and not on mismatched socks. Deep breath. I set Principles of Organizing on the lip of the whiteboard, stare at the neatly aligned books on the back shelf (thank you, Ms. P.), and begin. The words pour out like a poem. When I reach the last syllable, I exhale and take my seat.

  Hannah’s presentation comes just after Mac’s Car Wash Service. She prances to the front of the classroom to present her Color Me Bracelets business. Last night, she told me she was going to wear her ballet flats instead of her green high-top sneakers so she wouldn’t worry about tripping on her shoelaces.

  Hannah shows the class her bracelets. The color chart is behind her.

  Her letters are crooked. I scan the class. Bridgett’s trying to get Greg’s attention, and Josh is doing something on his calculator.

  “There’s a color and bracelet for everyone,” Hannah says in her best E. B. voice. I glance over at Gretta. She’s drawing a picture of the blue jay sitting on the ledge outside our classroom window. Hannah clears her throat and I smile at her.

  “I can weave a bracelet with up to five colors for only three dollars. Today, these bracelets sell in California for twenty-five dollars.”

  “What? That’s a total rip-off!” Mac calls out.

  “Mac, it’s
impolite to yell out,” says Ms. P. “There will be time at the end for questions.”

  “While our assignment called only for a business plan, I’m actually starting this business today,” Hannah continues.

  Maybe this is what she wanted to tell me.

  “And for a lot less than it costs in California. I’ll be taking orders when we go outside for morning stretch. Thank you. Any questions or comments?”

  Hannah looks straight at me. I’m supposed to place my order. Now. I’ve decided on blue. All blue. I start to raise my hand when I notice Greg’s socks out of the corner of my eye. One is tall brown and the other is short gray. I scan the classroom from the knees down. Most kids’ socks are all messed up. Mac’s are half up and half down. Josh’s are completely scrunched down. Hannah’s don’t even match. Thankfully, Bridgett wore black argyles pulled neatly up to her knees.

  Other hands shoot into the air while I do a sock survey.

  Bridgett’s hand waves like there’s someone she knows across a large, crowded room. Hannah calls on Gretta.

  “That’s a cool idea, Hannah.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bridgett’s hand still dances in the air.

  “Um—um, Greg.”

  “Yeah, do guys wear these things?”

  “Sure.”

  “We have time for one more question or comment,” Ms. P. says.

  Raise your hand. Tell her you want a blue one. Think of something to say. But I can’t. My mind crowds with socks. Out of the twenty-two kids in our class, only four (thankfully four) are wearing socks that match and are pulled up. I really need it to be the summer when everyone can just wear flip-flops.

  Hannah calls on Bridgett reluctantly.

  “This is, like, a total scam. It’s not like I’m going to die if I wear a black one.” She glances at Arianna, her shadow puppet, who robotically nods in agreement. “Hannah’s like Lily P. Grant, the con artist who died Saturday at the age of sixty-three after scamming a bunch of old people out of thousands of dollars.”

  “That’s enough, Bridgett,” Ms. P. says.

  “It’s not my fault; it’s the truth. You can read it for yourself in section C, page four of the obituaries in today’s Boston Globe.”