by Elly Swartz
The door to Dad’s office is slightly ajar. He’s still sitting at his computer, absorbed by a message flashing on the screen.
“Dad!”
“What?” he asks. “Why are you yelling?”
“I’ve called you four times.”
“Sorry, honey. I’m just so busy right now.” He spins around to look at me. “What’s up?”
“It’s late. Dinner. Remember?” I say in an attempt to jolt him back to parenthood.
“Oh, I didn’t realize the time. Kate called and she’s working tonight, so it’s just Ian and you.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” When Mom and Dad were Mom and Dad, he’d skip meals for a deadline, but that still left one parent sitting at the dinner table.
“Not now. I’ll join you when I’m done. I have to finish this article for tomorrow. It’s about the recession’s impact on consumers’ decisions to purchase safety equipment.”
“Fascinating.”
I wait to see if he’s done. Then, “Can we eat now?”
“Oh, right.”
He leaves the office and when he returns says, “Ian’s feeling a little better and wants pizza. Since it’s just you two, we can call Deno’s and have them send over a cheese pizza.”
“We?”
“Well, can you actually call since I’ve still got at least one more round of edits?”
It isn’t his fault, really. Dad’s just doing what he has to do to take care of us. And I guess so is Mom. If she hadn’t taken the job in Canada, her company would have dumped her. Some days I miss Mom huge and other days it feels like I’m used to not having her around. I’m not sure which is worse.
The kitchen seems sterile. I think back to last Thanksgiving, when the kitchen smelled like turkey, stuffing, and apple crisp. Mom was still living in the same house and country. That was the last time I remember the kitchen smelling like something other than cleaning solution or takeout.
I open the drawer stuffed with menus. Disorder screams out. I dump the menus on the counter and organize them alphabetically. Deno’s ends up on top. I grab the phone and dial. It’s going to be an hour. As I hang up, I stare at the telephone number again. All odd numbers. No pattern. Figures.
Odd.
Just like me.
13
regular mad or slam-the-door-and-walk-away mad
I RING HANNAH’S DOORBELL and hold my breath. I don’t know if she’s regular mad or slam-the-door-and-walk-away mad.
She answers. “What?”
“Look, I’m really sorry.”
Nothing.
I take it as a good sign and continue. “I have some time before I have to be back to feed Ian and figured we could work on your application.” Awkward pause. “Can I come in?”
Hannah stands there for a long minute and then slides to the right. “Fine, but first I need to make some bracelets.”
As we head out to the garage, Hannah’s dad is hunkered over the stove stirring something.
“Hi, Molly,” he says. His Dads Make the Best Cooks apron drapes over his round belly, protecting his tan pants from the spray of tomato sauce.
“Hey, Mr. Levine. Smells great.”
“Thanks. You and the family joining us for dinner tonight?”
“Not tonight. We can’t.”
“Of course. Another time.” Then, turning to Hannah, “I’m going to need you guys to run dinner over to Mrs. Melvin’s for me.” Mrs. Melvin had a stroke not that long ago; Hannah’s dad cooks for her and some of the other elderly people in the neighborhood. Everyone over the age of seventy tries to get on Hannah’s dad’s cooking list.
“Dad, maybe you should start charging for your meals. I mean, not a lot, but it could help,” Hannah says.
Mr. Levine puts the wooden spoon on the trivet. “I’ve been helping the folks in this neighborhood for years. I’m not going to start charging money for my meals now.”
“But things have changed. E. B. Rule Number 4: Be flexible. E. B. would say it might be time to reevaluate your business plan.” Hannah walks over to the pantry and digs her hand into a box of Thin Mints.
“E. B. is not your parent. Things will work out. Have faith.”
I wonder if Hannah’s going to tell him everything she heard, but she doesn’t. Hannah stuffs a cookie into her mouth and two into her pocket, and we leave the kitchen.
I trail Hannah into the garage. I want to say something comforting and helpful, but all I can think about is the sheet of dust covering the floor.
Hannah either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the dirt everywhere. She sits on the gray concrete and hands me balls of colored rope.
“Cut four orange, four green, four red, and four pink.”
I measure the strands against the white rope Hannah gives me and make clean cuts. “Can I get a blue one?” I dig into my pocket and hand her my money.
She shoves it into her ziplock bag and writes the amount down on her sheet of paper. There are eraser marks all over the page. I focus on the pegboard on the sidewall of the garage and count the holes that fill one side. Each board’s covered with the same number of holes. Really beautiful.
I watch Hannah braid the bracelets for Sophie, Gretta, Ryan, and Miguel, and then me.
I slide the blue rope onto my wrist and smile.
“Peace be with you,” Hannah says.
That’s the plan.
We exit the garage, leave behind the conversation of uncomfortable things not said, and head to Hannah’s room to fill out the application. I realize I forgot to bring the clothes for the photo shoot. I survey her closet and only see varying shades of brown.
“I promise to bring the clothes next time. At least we can get the questions done now,” I say.
The smell of her dad’s dinner follows us through the halls.
“Okay. After school I filled out the basic stuff,” Hannah says, showing me the screen.
Your Information:
Name: Hannah Anne Levine
Address: 88 Morris Lane, Lantern, MA
Date of birth: August 12, 2001
Age: 12
E-mail: [email protected]
School: Lakeville Middle School
“Then I got to the first question and got stuck. ‘Why do you want to start this business?’”
“Okay, well, why do you want to start Color Me Bracelets?” I slide her desk chair over to the side of her bed.
“To help my dad. To be the next E. B. A little of both, I guess.”
I take out a piece of paper and begin to make a list of all the reasons Hannah wants to start the business.
“Well, maybe I should answer the last question first. It asks what I would do with the money. I know that one.”
“You’re going to have to fill out the whole application anyway, so it makes sense to just do the questions in order.” I roll my peace bracelet up and down my wrist.
But Hannah’s already typing. She doesn’t care about order or lists.
Mid-answer, her fingers stop moving. “Maybe I misunderstood him. Maybe I don’t even need to enter this contest. Maybe there’s no way we’re moving.” She gets up from her desk.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to ask my dad.”
“Now?” I stare at the unfinished application.
She nods.
“Why don’t you wait until I leave?”
She grabs my hand. “I’ll chicken out if you’re not here.”
We make our way back to the kitchen.
“Oh good, I’m glad you guys are here. I need you to deliver this to Mrs. Melvin.” The counter has a tin tray filled with chicken parm and garlic bread.
I pick up the tray.
“Dad, I, um, heard you talking to Gram the other day. I know you’re having a hard time finding a new job,” Hannah says in a voice I don’t recognize.
I put the tray down.
I hold my breath and wait for Hannah’s dad to tell her what my mom didn’t tell m
e. That there’s nothing to worry about.
He doesn’t.
“I’ll find a job. You’ve tasted my chicken parm. No one can resist,” Mr. Levine smiles as he adds garlic and onion to his next batch of sauce.
“What if you don’t?”
“I will.”
“But what if you don’t? Will we have to move?”
I wait again for Hannah’s dad to tell her what my mom didn’t tell me: No one is leaving.
He doesn’t.
I pick up the tray and we head out the door.
14
perfect doesn’t travel well
HANNAH AND I SLIP into the side yard of Mrs. Melvin’s house, and sit cross-legged on the steps to the back door, setting the tray down next to us. The cement feels cold against my legs.
“You okay?” I ask, swallowing my own frustration. I don’t get why our parents can’t just tell us that no one is leaving and everything’s going to be okay.
She shakes her head no.
“We’ll figure something out. You can’t move,” I say. The dead silence lingers in the air. “Kate thinks my mom’s never coming back,” I finally say.
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s wrong.”
Hannah reaches for my hand.
I push back the sadness that’s creeping up from my toes. “I really miss her.”
“Why don’t you visit her in Toronto?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. I know she’s right, but perfect doesn’t travel well. I keep that part to myself.
We sit like this until we hear Mrs. Melvin’s voice through the open screen door. “Hannah! Hannah!” Mr. Levine must have told her we were on our way. We pop up and grab the food.
“Hi, Mrs. Melvin. I’m with Molly. We have your dinner.” We step into the kitchen, and I lift the tray of chicken parm onto the mauve countertop as Hannah hands Mrs. Melvin the foil-wrapped garlic bread. The farmer painting winks at me from behind the kitchen sink.
“Oh my, that smells delicious,” Mrs. Melvin says. “Why don’t you girls stay for a while? We can start a new Scrabble game, the three of us.”
She’s already sitting at the table turning over the letters and mixing them up. “Heavens, I forgot my glasses and can’t see a blessed thing. Would you dears grab them for me? They’re resting on my nightstand in my bedroom. It’s the second door on the left at the end of the hall.”
“Sure.” Her glasses are on top of the novel Carried Away by Love. On the cover is a picture of a handsome man with a woman in his arms. I pick up the book and show it to Hannah. We both laugh.
The drawer to the nightstand is open.
“Did you find them?” Mrs. Melvin calls from the kitchen.
“Um, still looking,” I say, putting down the book.
Hannah slowly pulls open the drawer a little wider. I’m hoping it doesn’t creak. Hundreds of fifty-dollar bills and a ballerina statue swim in the bottom of the drawer.
“I thought they were on the stand to the left of the bed. Not the ones on the right—those are for driving. For goodness’ sake, I couldn’t see a single tile through those lenses.”
Hannah nudges me.
The bills are crumpled and scattered. Does no one understand the concept of a wallet? I look in again. Or a bank?
Hannah whispers, “No way Mrs. Melvin even knows how many bills are in here.” Then she leans back to peek into the other room. “She’s still sitting at the Scrabble table. I bet she wouldn’t even notice if some went missing.”
I pick up Mrs. Melvin’s glasses.
Hannah grabs my arm. “Wait. The contest entrance fee.”
“Don’t,” I say.
“You know my dad’s never been paid for his cooking. Never. Not a dime. And if you think about it, this money wouldn’t even cover the cost of the meals we’ve brought her. In fact, Mrs. Melvin probably owes us money.”
“Don’t, Hannah. It’s wrong.”
“But I would only use it to help my dad, and then I’d pay it back.” She looks at me as I continue to shake my head. “Didn’t you ever do anything wrong so you could do something right?” Hannah asks. “Ever?”
That’s a trick question.
The doorbell rings. I hear Mrs. Melvin talking to someone.
Hannah peers into the money drawer.
“Don’t,” I repeat as I walk out of the room.
When I make my way back into the den, I hand Mrs. Melvin her glasses. “They were right where you thought they were.”
“That’s better,” she says, putting on her wire-rims. “Now I can see everything.”
There’s a tall boy around my age with brown curly hair standing next to a now-beaming Mrs. Melvin. “You remember my grandson, Nate. He’s going to be staying here a while.”
“Oh, hi.” I cough, thankful I did a food inventory of my braces before I left my house. I think the last time I saw Nate we were five.
Hannah walks back into the room, her sweatshirt now zipped. I stare at her, but she avoids my eyes and smiles at Nate.
“Hey.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“Where are you from?” I ask, trying not to think about the cranberry juice stain on the right corner of the sofa or how Nate’s Save the Whales Save the World T-shirt makes his eyes look like spring grass. I barely notice the four pimples decorating his forehead.
“DC.”
“His parents are wrapping things up there. They’ll move here permanently in a couple of weeks,” Mrs. Melvin says.
“Until then, I’m crashing with Gram.” He puts his arm around his grandmother.
She smiles. “He’s enrolled at Lakeville School. Isn’t that where you girls attend?”
As Hannah nods, her uneven bangs flop in her eyes.
Mrs. Melvin pats Nate’s shoulder. “He’s very smart.”
Hannah looks up at the white clock stuck to the checkered wallpaper and says, “I should head home.”
“What about Scrabble? Nate can join us,” Mrs. Melvin says, already back at the table.
“Next time. I have a science test tomorrow,” Hannah says.
I try to decode her words. I didn’t think she even had science tomorrow. Did she take the money? Hannah turns away. Then I look out the window and see the Deno’s truck driving down the road. “My dinner is about to ring my doorbell. I’m sorry, but I have to go also.”
Nate smiles.
A dimple.
15
i see you
I RACE HOME AND meet the Deno’s guy at the front door. Shiny crater skin and hair that has no business being in a ponytail.
I put the pizza on the table and go to the sink to wash my hands. I used to just wash my hands, and then I started washing my hands a lot, and now I scrub them raw.
Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. Good. Not yet. Again.
Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. Good. No. Again.
Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. Good. No. Again.
Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. Good. Finally.
I dry my hands on the towel. “Put Spider back in his cage and make sure you wash up before we eat,” I say to Ian. He stands hip-high, his curly blond hair capping at my waist.
“Why do you do that?” he asks, his aqua-blue eyes staring at me.
“I wash my hands before I eat so they’re not dirty.”
“No. I mean why do you do it over and over again?”
You’re little. You’re not supposed to notice. Nobody else sees me.
“I guess I just want to get super clean for our yummy pizza. Come on. The sooner you return the creature to his cage and wash those paws of yours, the sooner we get to eat pizza,” I say, praying I can reroute the conversation.
“He’s not a creature,” he says as he runs to his room to put Spider away.
Success.
When he comes back down with clean hands, I help him take a slice of pizza and pour him a glass of orange juice.
“Thanks,” he says. He proceeds to pull off and eat all the cheese, orphaning the tomato
sauce on the dough, which he refuses to eat. Eating with Ian is like watching a science experiment that’s gone terribly wrong.
“Feeling better?” I ask, taking a bite of my slice.
He nods, and he says, “I miss Mommy.”
Sometimes I forget how little he is. “Me, too.”
“I miss brinner.” Our once-a-month breakfast-for-dinner tradition. Pancakes, fried eggs, bacon, and sausage.
I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’ll be okay.” I fold my napkin in half. It doesn’t feel right. I hand it to Ian, who doesn’t even notice the crooked line.
Quiet fills the space between us as Ian catches the dangling cheese with his fingers. I stare at him wondering what it would be like if Mom was here.
My thoughts are interrupted when Ian wants to know if I will dig for worms with him.
He used to do this with Mom. They called it their annual bug expedition. The thought of putting my hands in the dirt makes my school lunch rise in my throat. I cough. “Not now, Buddy. Maybe another time.” I want to be the kind of big sister to him who digs in the dirt, hunts for worms, and slurps the cheese off pizza, but I just can’t.
I fold another napkin. Nope. And another. Nope. And another. Okay. I lay the fork neatly on top of my napkin. A little closer to the plate. I move the fork. Better.
“I see you,” the little voice across from me says.
I didn’t realize he was watching me.
“I see you, too. We’re sitting across from each other. It would be magical if we couldn’t see each other.”
“No. I saw you fold your napkin a ton and make sure your stuff’s all neat and in a row.”
Caught.
“I like to be neat. That’s all.”
He inhales a long strand of mozzarella cheese through the hole in his mouth where his tooth used to be. “It’s weird.”
I know.
Pause.
“No, weird is eating only the cheese off your pizza.”
“That’s not weird, it’s yummy.” Ian smiles, scooping up another strand of melted cheese.
Crisis averted.
“You should try it,” he suggests.
“I think I’ll stick to eating the whole slice.”
