Finding Perfect

by Elly Swartz

  I squeeze another round of germ-killing disinfectant into her hands. “Just to be safe.”

  She stares at me hard so no lies can slide out. “You all right?”

  I look at my shoes. “I’m fine.”

  There goes one lie. Fine. The worst word in Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary. I’m convinced the word fine means nothing good. It actually means nothing at all.

  I hook my arm with hers and reroute the topic. “Let’s go to Indulge. Dad said I could take the T if we go together.”

  Two sentences. No lies.

  She gives me a smile full of braces. “Okay, but this time I’m only getting the sour apple, orange, and lemon jelly beans. Last time, the peach and watermelon made me sick.”

  Indulge is my favorite candy store, and it’s Dad-approved since it’s not far from the train station. I text Dad the plan. That’s our deal. I get freedom as long as he’s informed of my every movement. Our arrangement screams Ask Maggie’s back-to-school article in the September issue of Parenting magazine. The walk to the T is quick. Up Baldwin Street and down Lantern Lane. The Green Line feels surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday afternoon. I assumed everyone would already be where they needed to go by now. We move through a few sections of the train and finally find separate seats near the back. I take the one without stains, but decide to sit on my jacket anyway. The man next to me smells like rotten eggs. I try breathing through my mouth, but after two stops, I forget and take a big breath in. Gross. Thankfully, Egg Man gets off at Pear Crossing. Before Hannah can move over, another man sits down next to me, takes out a block of cheddar, and starts eating the brick. I can’t believe it.

  It’s Cheese Man.

  Hannah and I start to crack up. I text Mom.

  We get off at the next stop and I check my phone. Nothing from Mom. I know she’s probably selling her Beet-Kale-Pumpkin blend someplace where there’s no reception, but I get a tug of worry that she’s forgotten about me. I tuck my fear into my back right pocket. Mom says that’s what you do with worries that you can’t get rid of and can’t control.

  Indulge smells like the perfect blend of chocolate and sugar. Hannah fills her bag with jelly beans. “You know, staring at your phone isn’t going to make her text you back. I’m sure she’s just busy with all her juice stuff.”

  “I know.” I put my phone away and get Twizzlers for me, gummy frogs for Ian, and Skittles for Dad. Kate’s on a no-sugar thing.

  No sign of Cheese Man on the return trip. “Let’s drop the candy off for your dad and Ian, and then we can walk to my house to work on my application. I still need help with a few of the questions and the photo.” Hannah shoves a handful of lemon jelly beans into her mouth at once and then makes a scrunched-up sour face.

  “I have some stuff to do for my dad. So you head home and I’ll come over to help as soon as I’m done.”

  “What do you have to do?”

  “My dad told me I had to straighten my room and finish my chores as soon as I got home today. I left it sort of a mess this morning.”

  Not true.

  “I also need to write and practice my new slam poem,” I continue.

  “Okay. Got it. New better plan,” Hannah says, her hands dancing in the air. “Let’s stop by your house first. I can help you finish your chores. I can even be your practice audience for your poem. Then—this is the genius part—we can grab something from your closet for me to wear for my photo shoot.”

  I nod. She’s definitely going to need to borrow clothes that aren’t brown, beige, or tan for the shoot.

  Hannah’s still talking. “After that, we can head to my house together and work on the contest application. Besides, my dad invited you guys over for dinner. He’s making his famous chicken parm with garlic bread.”

  “Cool. Great idea about the clothes. I’ll ask my dad about dinner, but the other stuff, I can just do super fast myself, then meet you.”

  “You promise to pick out something good and be quick?”

  “I promise.”

  Behind my back my fingers are crossed.

  11

  bad things will happen

  WHEN I WALK INTO the house, I come inches from tripping over a gift from the Juice Lady. A case of the fall special—Kale, Carrots, Apples, and Harvest Spices—is sitting on the floor directly in front of the mudroom door. I check my phone. No new messages. I step over the case and go upstairs. I’m surprised to see Dad’s navy suit jacket dangling over the kitchen chair.

  “Dad?”

  “In here,” he yells from the home office he lives in when he’s not working in Boston.

  I poke my head in. Yesterday’s Boston Globe sports section is on the floor, along with an empty bag of pretzels and a container of chocolate-covered almonds. His eyes are stuck on his computer, and he’s running his hands through his recently grown goatee. “Why is there a case of juice downstairs and why are you home?” He usually makes an appearance closer to six, when Ian’s afterschool day care ends.

  He takes off his Red Sox cap to scratch his head. “The case is compliments of your mother.”

  I don’t want her juice. I just want her. Home.

  “And I got a call from Mrs. Washington that Ian was sick.”

  Mrs. Washington is Ian’s teacher. I freeze and try to remember if I realigned all my colored pencils.

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  Dad types something.

  I cough to remind him I’m standing in the doorway. “Dad, what’s wrong with Ian?” I have to know. It’s my job to take care of him now. Mom’s in Toronto. Dad’s on deadline all the time. Kate’s got more post-school work hours at Belts, Bags, and Bangles.

  “He’s just got a bad cold.”

  I exhale.

  Dad then goes for the obligatory “How was your day?” but his eyes never move from the screen. “Shoot. I can’t believe this guy.”

  “Day was fine. I made it to Round Two of the Poetry Slam Contest. My presentation went well. But then this one boy—”

  “Oh, before you go into your room, I need to prepare you. Ian got into your glass collection. I got him out before he did any real damage.”

  My worry changes to anger. “What?! You have to be kidding. First, the jerks at school knock over my desk and now my brother messes up my stuff!”

  My head feels like there’s hot metal swirling around.

  “Sweetheart, it’s really no big deal. He’s little and was just playing.”

  No big deal.

  “My door was shut. Who let him into my room?”

  “No one. He must have gotten in while I was on a conference call for work. I’m sorry. I really am.” His eyes momentarily unglue from the computer screen. “I was going to clean it up myself, but then got swamped with an article I need to finish for tomorrow. I’ll come help you as soon as I finish this one thing.”

  Pause. Deep breath.

  “Molly, I truly am sorry. I was in a bind. Ian was home sick and I did the best I could.”

  “This is all your fault! Ian. Mom. All of it!”

  “Molly, that’s not fair.”

  I toss the Skittles on his desk, drag my backpack up the stairs, and slowly crack open the door to my room, afraid to see what no big deal looks like. The giraffe is on the floor. Knocked over in a pile with the gorilla, lemur, bald eagle, and African elephant. I open the door a little farther. The rabbit, cow, and horse are facedown, grazing on my orange carpet. The panda, sheep, goat, ibex, skunk, wolf, dolphin, starfish, hippopotamus, cheetah, spider monkey, donkey, piglet, lion, tiger, brown bear, and bobcat are like my papers that Josh and Greg knocked over today—scattered about in no order. No order. No big deal. Is he for real?

  The fox is lying on its side on my nightstand with Huey the raccoon.

  My collection started with Huey. He was from Nana Rose. I sat next to Papa Lou, my grandpa, on a counter stool in the Rockville Diner for our special Sunday lunch, just the two of us. After our piled-high corned beef sandwich with Russian dressing and ex
tra pickles, french fries, and chocolate milkshakes, he slid this beautiful animal out of his wool coat pocket and placed him in front of me. He told me the raccoon had been Nana Rose’s and she always wanted me to have it. “Find the perfect spot for him, Molly.” Papa died two months later. Ian says he went to heaven to find Nana Rose.

  My phone blasts B. B. King. It’s my daily reminder—thirty-one days until Mom’s visit. Unless my plan works. Then it could be as soon as the end of next week, when the winner of the slam is honored at the banquet. It’s not just some dinner with school turkey and hot dogs. Kate’s wrong. It’s a big deal. There will be fancy tablecloths and waiters, and the Boston Globe always interviews the winner’s family for the G section of the paper. Mom will love it.

  I turn on some music and sit in the middle of my floor, hoping it will swallow me. I take off my glasses and spin them around eight times and pray I can find a way for this to feel like no big deal. I see the chimpanzee on its side. In my heart, I want to leave this mess and go to Hannah’s. Last year, I could’ve left. I would have picked up my animals, put them back in their places, and been on my way. But now it takes so long to feel right.

  I slide my glasses back on and separate the glass figures by habitat and color. Then I reach for my wooden ruler. There’s a light tap on my door. Dad pokes his head in before I can tell him to leave me alone.

  “Hey.” He surveys the room and then me and my ruler. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard.”

  He sits next to me. A drop of sadness finds me.

  “This isn’t how I want things either.” He lays his calloused hand on top of mine. “But it’s no one’s fault. It just is.”

  I bite my lip on the inside so he can’t see.

  “Look, I know I’m not always so good at this, but I’m working on it. I promise.”

  He starts to hum to the music. I used to love when he hummed. Now it just reminds me of what used to be. “Want one?” He holds out a palm of all different colored candies.

  I take two green and two yellow.

  “Hey, glad your presentation went well today.” A warm smile spreads across his face.

  I can’t meet him in that happy place. My smile has slipped away. “I still have a lot to do.”

  “Want help?” He reaches for the rabbit.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Very proud of you for making it to the next round in the slam contest,” he says as he leaves my room.

  I realize when he’s back downstairs that I forgot to ask him about dinner at Hannah’s. I’m sure he’ll be working anyway. I spray my neck with Mom’s perfume, pick up the cheetah, and begin aligning the animals again. One inch between figures. Next, the elephant. Then, the monkeys. Two kinds—gorilla and spider monkey. Nope. The spider guy needs to slide back. It’s too close to the wall behind it. A little farther. Back a bit. Up. Back. I hate this. I could be at Hannah’s now. Good. Pause. Not good. Bring the gorilla up, too. All right, that’s better. Feels right. Now for the farm animals. Cow.

  The buzz from my cell phone jars me.

  Uh-oh.

  “You said you’d be super quick and come right over,” Hannah says.

  I envision her standing with her hands on her hips.

  “Where are you?”

  “Home,” I say.

  “Still?”

  “Yes. My dad was busy working. No surprise. And Ian got into my glass animals.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s it. I had to clean them up. You should have seen them. I haven’t even gotten to finish my poem yet.”

  “Mol, you promised.”

  “I know. I’m really sorry,” I mutter, desperate to share what I can’t say aloud. If things aren’t in order, then I don’t feel right. I have to find the right balance. Otherwise, everything will tip.

  Out.

  Of.

  Control.

  “You totally blew me off. You said you would do your stuff and then bring the clothes and come over.”

  “I didn’t realize that so much time had passed.”

  “What were you doing?” Pause. “Really.”

  “I told you. Cleaning.”

  Please don’t make me explain. Please believe me.

  “No one takes that long to clean up her stuff.”

  Silence. Thick as sludge.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I have only a few more to put away, then I’ll work on my poem just a little and come right over.”

  I promise.

  I don’t say that part out loud.

  More silence on the other end. Hannah had hung up.

  The horse is still nose-first in the carpet and the lion’s more than an inch away from the giraffe, which means I have to realign each animal from the lion back.

  Just stop.

  I can’t.

  Why not?

  If I don’t do it right—if they’re not aligned perfectly, then …

  Then what? I yell at myself.

  Bad things will happen.

  To Ian.

  What bad things? The sane part of me wants to know.

  The mixed-up part of me doesn’t answer.

  12

  cheese man sighting

  MY PHONE RINGS AGAIN. I think it’s Hannah calling back, but it’s Mom.

  “How’s my girl? Did you get the juice?” she wants to know.

  “Got the juice. And I’m fine.” I rub the sea glass and try not to think about what Kate said. Mom wouldn’t stay in Toronto. She wouldn’t break her promise to come back in a year.

  “You don’t sound fine.” Mom always knows. Maybe it’s better she lives so far away and can’t see the real me. But then I have to live with the empty hole in my stomach from all the missing.

  I tell her about the poetry slam and let her flood the phone with oohs and ahhs and I’m-so-proud-happy-exciteds.

  “Weirdest thing that happened to you today?” she asks.

  “Did you get my text? I saw Cheese Man.”

  “I did.” I hear her laugh. The sound of it used to make me feel like nothing bad could ever really happen. Now it just reminds me of what’s missing. “I meant to text you back, but was stuck in a juice convention. So, you met Mr. Cheddar. That totally qualifies as weird.”

  I lie down on my bed, look up at my ceiling, and imagine she’s lying next to me.

  “What about you?”

  “You ready for this one? I walked into a bathroom at the convention and turned to the woman waiting at the door and said, ‘Oh, when are you due?’ And she said, ‘I had my baby four months ago.’”

  “No way.” Despite myself, I laugh.

  She laughs, too. It was like the time we took care of Aunt Lucy’s parrot, Bertie. Mom tore open the bag of bird food and it spilled all over the floor. Mom shouted a very un-mom-like word that Bertie began to repeat. Over and over and over again. We laughed for the next hour as we swept up the bird food and listened to Bertie chant the very un-mom-like word.

  It feels good to hear her voice. I miss it. I miss her. We talk for a while longer. She tells me about Toronto and the Canadian juice market.

  Then she says, “Your room’s ready whenever you want to visit.”

  “Thanks,” is all I say. Kate already told me she’s never going to Toronto, and Ian says he’ll only go with me.

  An awkward pause floats between us.

  “I know it’s a big trip. Just missing you. That’s all.”

  “Miss you, too. But even if I don’t make it to Toronto, you’ll be back in thirty-one days,” I remind her. Or hopefully earlier if my plan works.

  She’s silent.

  “Right?”

  Nothing.

  “That’s the date you told me that you were coming back to visit. Remember? It was right before you went to the airport.”

  “I remember. Mol, things are complicated.”

  “What’s so complicated about getting on a plane and coming home when you promised to come home?”

  “I gave you that date before I officially st
arted working. I was hopeful, but it’s a new job. I’m not sure I can leave when I want to.”

  I say nothing. My words are stolen by the breath leaking out of my lungs.

  “I’ll try. I promise,” Mom says. “And even if I can’t come back on that day, we’ll pick a new date.”

  Silence.

  “I love you very much,” she says.

  Then her voice disappears and the silence tugs at me. The missing feels bigger than my whole body. I need her to come back, and I believe in the pit-of-my-heart-where-I-miss-her-most that the only way to make sure that happens is to win the slam. Once she’s at the slam banquet with Ian, Kate, Dad, and me, she’ll remember how great it is to be together, how much she’s missed us, and she won’t want to leave. Not again. I grab my red leather journal, sharpen a new No. 2 with an untouched pink eraser, and write:

  Catch me please, I’m falling fast

  Can I come back or will this last?

  As time slips, it’s hard to hide

  To keep my crazy tucked inside.

  Peeks through cracks, to show its face

  Why can’t it just stay in one place?

  I wonder if this is what it feels like to free-fall. My stomach grumbles. I look up. It’s 6:30 p.m. We’re usually eating dinner by now. I stay in my room until I finish aligning each animal and then step back to admire my work. Beautiful. The stiffness in my neck melts. The worry retracts.

  The pounding fear that bad things will happen to Ian is new, though. When I can’t find perfect, my mind spins with thoughts that he’s alone and sick or hurt or worse—even if I know he’s building a Lego castle in the room next to mine.

  I put my journal away, step out of my room, but still no sign of dinner from Dad. Hannah’s dad is a great cook. I wish we were eating dinner over there. Our house just smells like take-out pizza, Chinese food, or cleaning supplies all the time. No smell of Mom’s peanut butter–chocolate chip cookies or her homemade cinnamon applesauce with the lumps still in it. No pans banging about in the kitchen.

  “Dad,” I call.

  No answer.

  “Dad!” I say a bit louder.

  Nothing.

  I march down the stairs. Through the window I see the orange glow of the setting sun. Ian is on the couch watching cartoons. Do not even think about talking to me, Mr. Destroyer. I peek into the kitchen. The table is bare and the counters are clean.