I stared down at that promise. Since then, I usually had tried to think ahead. But sometimes—okay, fine: lots of times—I still didn’t.
I closed the book and shoved it back onto the table. As I did, some papers fell out. I picked them up. My sad-animal drawings.
My father was saving them all.
Like the fruit that is my name, sometimes I feel divided into sections. Thursday morning, the last day of school, some of my Clementine sections were worrying about how hard it would be to say Good-bye, I sure grew a lot and now I’m ready for the challenges of fourth grade! to Mr. D’Matz.
I had stayed awake late the night before, remembering my promise to think about things before I did them. And remembering something else: when my grandparents moved to Florida, everyone said good-bye except me—it had been too hard. But afterward I felt even worse from not saying good-bye to them. I finally had to write a letter saying Good-bye, I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye, so I could stop crying.
So now some of my sections were thinking ahead, and worrying about how bad I might feel all summer if I didn’t say good-bye to my teacher today.
I sat by myself at the back of the bus so my two parts could argue it out on the way to school. Finally, just when the bus pulled into the parking circle, I knew: I was going to let my teacher say good-bye to me, and I was going to say it back.
But when I got into our classroom for the last first time of a third-grade day, I had a terrible surprise. Our substitute, Mrs. Nagle, was draping her jacket over the back of Mr. D’Matz’s chair.
“How come you’re here? Where’s our teacher?”
“He’s absent today,” she said.
“All day?” I gasped.
“All day, I’m afraid.”
“But he wouldn’t do that. We didn’t say good-bye, and today’s our last chance!” I pressed my hands hard to my eyes to let them know I did N-O-T, not want them to cry about this.
Mrs. Nagle scooted back in her chair so she could study me better. “I’m sorry,” she said, and I could tell she really meant it, as if maybe she had forgotten to say good-bye to somebody once, and then it had been too late. “I know he didn’t plan to be away today. He had a last-minute conflict. These things happen.”
She held out a tissue. As I reached for it, Mrs. Nagle looked down at the words over my wrist—BRING BUDDY TO PARK—NO CHASING PIGEONS! I could see her remembering that she had learned about arm reminders from me last time she was here.
“You’re Clementine, right?” she said with a little smile. Then she invited me to stay up at her desk while the other kids were still coming in. “You can help me get organized here.”
I stayed up at Mrs. Nagle’s desk even though she didn’t really need any help getting organized, and even though I was still pretty upset about my teacher being absent. Because I had remembered something about her, too.
Last time she was here, she’d brought a picture of her new baby nephew, and although he was wrapped up in a blanket, I could tell he was half rat. Since this is the kind of thing you usually only get to read about in a supermarket checkout line, I’d been thinking about this kid a lot.
“How’s your nephew?” I asked politely. “Is he squeaking yet?”
“Is he speaking yet?” she asked. “No, he’s still just a baby—”
“How about cheese?” I asked. “Do you notice that he likes cheese a lot? And do you have any new pictures in there?” I asked. “One that maybe shows him running around?”
Mrs. Nagle looked at me as though she had no idea what I was talking about and began digging around in her bag. All she took out was a plan book and a pen.
“Where’s your stuff?” I asked. “Where’s your mug and your tissue box and your stickers?”
“You have a good memory,” Mrs. Nagle said. “I did bring all those things last time. But I packed lightly this time. I’m only here for…” She looked at her watch. “Six hours and twenty minutes. Not long at all. Today we’ll just be…” She pulled out a note from her plan book and read it aloud. From the neat handwriting, I could tell it was from our teacher. “‘Reporting about our year, packing the last things up, saying our good-byes, and handing out report cards.’”
Right after the Pledge, she got started on the “reporting about our year” thing. “Mr. D’Matz has asked each of you to share with the class the best thing you learned in third grade. Who would like to go first?”
Charlie raised his hand. “The best thing I learned this year was how to get a vending machine to give out extra candy bars.”
Mrs. Nagle’s head shot up at that. “Really? Your teacher taught you that?”
Charlie looked confused. “No. Baxter taught us that.”
Baxter had only been in our school for four days in September, but four days with Baxter was plenty, let me tell you. He was a one-kid gang of criminals, and when he left, we all figured it was to go to prison.
Willy went next. “Baxter taught me how to pick a lock with a hairpin,” he said. “Without leaving finger-prints. Want to see?”
We all did, of course, but Mrs. Nagle stood and clapped her hands. “From now on we’re going to hear about school things,” she said. “The best lesson, the best project, the best book—that kind of thing.”
Half the kids’ heads clunked to their desks, including mine.
“Who’d like to share one of those things?” Mrs. Nagle asked.
Nobody raised a hand.
“Never mind,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s move on to the packing and saying good-bye.”
We got out the boxes we’d brought in and started filling them up. I packed my cardboard Sphinx, my “Welcome to the Future” rocket hat, and my Charlotte’s Web barn diorama. With each thing that disappeared into the boxes, our classroom looked a little lonelier.
While we packed up, we visited each other and said good-bye. And I learned something: it wasn’t saying good-bye I hated, it was not knowing if I’d see the person again.
For instance, I couldn’t say good-bye to our hamsters Zippy and Bump, because they were going home with Mr. D’Matz and I didn’t know if they’d ever be back at school. “Have a good summer,” I told them. “Hope that dud baby isn’t too boring for you.” But I didn’t actually say good-bye.
But to the rest of the kids, I did. And it was fine! “Good-bye, see you next year,” I said to all the kids in my class. Well, all the kids except Olive, who likes you to talk Olive-talk to her. “Golivood-bolivye, solivee yolivou nolivext yolivear,” I said to her. And that was fine too.
But every time I said a good-bye, it reminded me of the one I hadn’t said. The hardest one. The one to Mr. D’Matz.
At recess, I told Rasheed and Maria the idea of making Buddy practice with pigeons.
“That’s good,” Maria said. “Because if Buddy chomped up a bunch of doves, it would probably ruin that fairy-tale effect thing Margaret’s always talking about.”
“Did you watch Danger Rangers last week, Clementine?” Rasheed asked.
“What? Yes. Now, Margaret also said to remind you about the bells. The hundred doves are supposed to fly out of a bell place when they start ringing. She said Maria has to pick out a good bell song.”
Rasheed was looking at me with melty eyes and a goofy smile. “Make it a song you like, Clementine,” he said. “Because now I love you.”
Maria and I both glared at him. “Me?” I said. “You can’t love me. You love Maria.”
“I used to,” Rasheed agreed. “But Maria’s mother doesn’t allow television, and you get to watch Danger Rangers, so now I love you.”
“Rasheed, being in love isn’t like breakfast cereal! It’s not like one day you love oatmeal and the next day you change your mind and it’s Frosty Pops and hold the bananas. Tell him, Maria!”
Maria was squint-eyeing me. “Am I the oatmeal or the Frosty Pops?” she asked.
“What?”
“In that thing you said. Am I the oatmeal, or the Frosty Pops?”
; “I…well, you’re the first thing, I guess. The oatmeal. But the point is, he can’t just stop loving you and boom! start lov—”
“I don’t want to be the oatmeal. I’ll be the Frosty Pops. You be the oatmeal.”
“I don’t want to be the oatmeal or the Frosty Pops!” I yelled. “I don’t want to be any cereal at all!”
“Well, I’m not going to be in love anymore, if it means I’m just a glump of oatmeal.” Maria raised her hand and swivel-waved it. “Remember,” she said to me, “above the shoulder, below the crown.” Then she skipped off.
I turned to Rasheed. “You can’t love me,” I told him. “I don’t allow it.”
“Too late,” said Rasheed. “It’s already happened. I know because I feel glozzled when I look at you.”
“Glozzled? Glozzled isn’t even a word.”
“Yes it is. It’s exactly the word for how you feel when you’re in love, and I feel it when I look at you.”
“Well, just feel glozzled by yourself, okay?” I said. “Because I definitely don’t feel glozzled back.”
After school, Margaret came to my apartment, because her mother was working late at the bank and Mitchell had a baseball game.
We made a tall stack of toast and brought it to the kitchen table. Margaret waited until my mother sat down, then she chose the chair opposite her. Ever since Margaret learned my mother was pregnant, she has been keeping a safe distance away, as if she suspects our baby is a bomb just waiting to explode all over her. I used to think she was being ridiculous, but I’ve seen my mother’s belly up close now, and I’m kind of keeping my distance too.
“So,” my mom said, “Clementine says you have big plans for the summer, Margaret.”
Margaret beamed. “I’ve worked out a brand-new cleaning schedule for my bedroom: Mondays—reorganize my closet; Wednesdays—wash and fold all my clothes; Fridays—vacuum and polish. It’s going to be a great summer.”
“Not that, Margaret!” I cried. “The good thing!”
Margaret looked confused.
“California? The commercial?”
“Oh, right,” she said. “My dad’s filming a commercial for a water park in August. I’m going to be in it. I can be either one of the lucky kids who gets to go there, or one of the sad ones who doesn’t, whichever I want. But about my summer cleaning schedule. I forgot to say the best part: Every other Saturday, we’re going to steam-clean my rug!”
Margaret’s face melted into the magical dream of this extra-clean summer. My mother and I raised our eyebrows at each other in secret You-Must-Be-Kidding faces.
“Well,” my mom said at last, “I bet you’re excited about the wedding.”
This crashed Margaret right out of her magical dream. She scowled and shot me the secret You-Must-Be-Kidding face.
I explained to my mom about Margaret being an expert on royal weddings. “If this country ever goes back to having a king and a queen,” I added, “and they have princes and princesses who need to get married, Margaret’s going to be the one they call.”
“Maybe you’ll grow up to be a wedding planner,” my mother said to Margaret. “That’s someone who organizes everything about weddings.”
Margaret dropped her toast, and she didn’t even jump up to get the DustBuster. “That’s a job?” She gasped. “And people would pay me? Because I’d pay people to let me do it!”
“What about makeup artist?” I reminded her. “I thought that was going to be your career.”
Margaret looked torn for a moment, but then she brightened. “I know. I’ll organize the wedding, and I’ll do the bride’s makeup. I’ll call it the Full-Service Treatment.”
Then she sank her head to her arms. “And that’s another thing,” she groaned. “My mother says the only makeup she’s going to wear on Saturday is some lipstick, and she wants to put that on by herself. I don’t know why she is even bothering to get married. There’s only one reason in the world to get married, and that’s to have a great wedding, the kind that’s really fancy. This isn’t going to be a real wedding at all.”
“A real wedding is whatever the two people getting married want it to be,” my mom said. “And your mother and Alan want it to be simple. I think simple weddings are the nicest.”
This time I joined Margaret in the You-Must-Be-Kidding face—everyone knows that fancy is better than plain.
My mom hoisted herself out of her chair. She sponged off the table, then she eyed the high chair in the corner.
“Mom,” I said, “it’s clean. You wash it every day, plus you just painted it. It’s covered with brand-new, never-been-dirtied paint.”
My mother ignored me and started running hot water into a bucket.
Margaret tipped her head and watched my mother with a funny expression on her face, as if she’d never seen her before.
I leaned over and whispered into Margaret’s ear. “She’s gotten obsessed with cleaning and organizing stuff lately. It’s called nesting. She’ll be back to normal after the baby’s born, but for now, she’s a little crazy.”
Margaret shot me a look that said she thought I was the crazy one here. She got up and stood right beside my mother, never mind the exploding belly, eyeing the high chair. “How about we boil it?” she suggested. “That would clean it and kill all the germs.”
My mother looked at Margaret as if this was an incredible, brilliant, genius idea. Then she sighed. “I wish,” she said. “But I don’t have a big enough pot.”
“No problem,” Margaret said. “We’ll take the tray off, and then unscrew the arms and the legs…”
I got out of there quick, in case whatever was wrong with them was catching.
Friday morning I slept as late as I wanted to. After breakfast, Zucchini and I made our parents a card. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! it said. WE SURE ARE GLAD YOU TWO MET!
“If they hadn’t,” I explained to my brother, “we wouldn’t be here. We’d be…”
Asparagus’s jaw fell open. “Extinct? Like dinosaurs?”
“No, not like dinosaurs. We’d just be…not. Don’t think about it, though, because it will make your head hurt.”
Next, we built a fort out of the boxes the new air conditioners had come in. We made secret escape tunnels out of the leftover duct hose, and booby-trapped it with water balloons.
It was fun, but all the time I was waiting for it to be four o’clock, when my ashtray would be ready. The glazes we had painted on Wednesday night had looked like gray mud. But Astrid had promised that in the kiln, they would harden over the clay in bright colors, like melted jewels.
Finally the time came, and my mother and I drove over to her friend’s pottery studio.
When Astrid opened the door, she smacked her cheeks and made pop-eyes at how big my mother’s belly was. Then my mom admired Astrid’s belly, which was about halfway pregnant. They side-hugged so their bellies wouldn’t squash into each other.
We followed Astrid into her studio. “I’ve got to cover some wet pots, then we’ll open the kiln,” she said. She handed me a lump of clay, because artists know that other artists like to make something while they are waiting, and then she left. I started mold-ing the clay into a toy mouse for my kitten, who’s going to have a birthday in the summer.
“Actually, I’m glad we have this time alone together,” my mom said. She patted the space on the bench beside her.
This meant it was time for a serious talk, so I sat down and put on my I-Am-Seriously-Listening-to-You face, which I invented early in my career. Here is how you do it: find a place on your parent’s face that is right between the eyes. Stare there, and move in close enough that you feel your own eyes starting to cross just a little bit. Let your mouth hang open, as though you are so fascinated by what your parent is saying, you are powerless to close it. This face always fools them.
“Clementine, I really hate it when you do that thing with your eyes—please stop. I want to talk to you about this feud you’re having with your father.”
“The sad
-animal drawings?”
“No, not those. I like that you’re doing those, in fact. You’re presenting your side of something you care about. That’s what artists do: when they care about something, they make art about it. And sometimes their art makes other people care too, although sometimes it doesn’t. The problem is the other thing: your not speaking to him. Clementine, I’m sorry, but you can’t force other people to believe something, no matter how much you believe it. And when you’re having a disagreement with someone, it’s always better to talk than not to. You need to start talking to your dad.”
I dropped my head. My clay suddenly looked like a teardrop. I squished it into a ball. “I want to. I miss him so much. But I don’t think I can anymore—every time I see him, I think about that cow. I’m still so mad, and it’s as if the mad is blocking my throat. It feels like a big, sour lemon is stuck in there.” As I said it, I felt my throat close down, as if the lemon was a dangerous one, one that could make me cry.
“I get that. But it happens: people you love are going to do things you hate sometimes. You can’t stop talking to them, though. I’ll leave it up to you to find the right thing to say to your father, and the right time to say it.”
Just then Astrid came in. She walked over to the kiln and checked the temperature gauge.
I stood and gave my mom a tug up. “Thanks,” she said. “Now let’s go see our pottery.”
When Astrid opened the kiln, I have to admit I was a little disappointed. I guess I was expecting it to be like an oven where there’s something delicious baking. It didn’t smell like cookies or lasagna—in fact, I couldn’t smell anything at all. And at first, I couldn’t see anything either.
Completely Clementine Page 3
