“Yeah,” Amy whispers. “She did.”
I never thought about that before, about my mom sticking up for me. Aren’t moms supposed to do that?
Max waves his hand in front of Trina’s face. “Earth to Trina.”
Trina is tracing the outline of her hand with her straw, using the napkin as paper. She looks up. “What?”
“How did you like my story?” I ask her.
She blinks at us.
“You might want to try taking those meds,” I say. “Just a suggestion.”
“Do they work for you?” she asks.
I take a second to think of the best way to describe it. “The medicine makes me sit. I can concentrate on one thing and get work done. Grown-ups tell me it works like a cup of coffee for regular people.”
“Maybe I should try coffee,” Trina says. “Not you, though, Abs. Hyper as a squirrel, that’s you.”
“Yup,” I say. “When I’m off meds, it’s like I’m zooming on a roller coaster all the time.”
“That sounds fun,” says Max. “I love roller coasters.”
“Me too, but it’s not fun in school, believe me. You try writing an essay on a roller coaster. Meds help me get off the ride for a while. I only take them for school, not on weekends, because I don’t have to sit all day on a weekend, unless I have a lot of homework. Plus, I eat better on the weekends when I’m off meds.”
We all eat and sip, enjoying our snacks. After a while, I add, “My mom only let me come today because we’re supposed to study.”
“My mother couldn’t care less where I am,” says Trina. “She doesn’t notice what I do.”
“I’d give anything for a mother who doesn’t notice what I do,” I say.
“My mother left me and my dad last year,” Max says. Trina stops chewing. Silent Amy stops sipping. “She found her high school boyfriend online and took off to go live with him and his son. Traded us in. That’s why my dad took the job offer out here. He says it’s because he’s making more money, but I don’t believe that.”
“What do you believe?” Trina asks.
Max shrugs. “I think he just couldn’t deal with living where everybody knew what Mom did. My hometown is small. People talk, you know?” We nod, stunned. “I never wanted to move.”
“That’s terrible” is all I can think of to say. “I’m so sorry, Max.” For once, I’m saying I’m sorry and it’s not for something I’ve done.
“It’s supposed to be a secret, but I trust you guys. My dad doesn’t want anyone to know. I don’t even know if my parents are officially divorced yet. Dad won’t talk about it. I haven’t heard from Mom in months.”
“That must be tough,” says Trina.
“It is sometimes,” says Max. “Like when I hear you all talking about your moms.”
Complaining about our moms. That’s what he really means.
Amy surprises all of us by reaching across the table and squeezing Max’s hand. It seems like something an adult would do, but it’s not weird, somehow, when Amy does it. She’s not good with words, so she shows she cares with gestures. We get it.
“It’s okay,” Max says. “I didn’t mean to be a downer. I used to be a real downer when it first happened, but I’m better now.” His light brown eyes are so sad and sweet, I have to look away.
No one is eating anymore. There’s so much I want to ask him, like if he’ll ever forgive his mom and if his dad has a girlfriend and are there still framed photos of his mom in his house?
Max pulls his outline out of his shorts’ pocket and slaps it on the table. “If this is supposed to be a study session, maybe we should do some actual studying.”
He’s right. We all take out our notes and start filling out our study guides. Actually, Trina and I can’t find ours, so we look at Amy’s paper. Same thing.
I’M ALLOWED TO WATCH NETFLIX AGAIN!!!!!
Sort of.
I got a ninety on my Shakespeare chapter test. A NINETY! So I’m allowed to watch it, but only in the family room. My bedtime is still nine o’clock, but I’ve gotten Mom and Dad to drag it to nine-thirty on weekends. So things are looking up.
Drew and I are in the family room eating popcorn and watching a Netflix reality show called 100 Strange and Unusual Things Removed from Human Bodies. This man had fifty-three toothbrushes in his stomach. Mom, Beth, and Grandma are talking while eating salads at the table next to the sofa.
“Bloomingdale’s has the best baby department,” Mom announces as if she’s an expert.
“You need to find out which baby bottles have the best nipples,” Grandma says.
Drew and I pretend to barf all over each other.
“Oh, no, I plan to breastfeed,” says Beth.
I stick popcorn in my ears and whisper to Drew, “It’s bad enough we have to hear about your bore mitzvah, now we have to hear baby this and baby that.”
Beth winks at me. Earlier, she let me touch her belly, but there’s no kicking yet. It makes me feel special, knowing I’m one of the few people who knows her secret about being overweight when she was younger.
Max has been on my mind a lot since he told us his secret. I don’t blame him for being into magic or spouting off kooky trivia or being a little different. After your mother ditches you, you’re probably going to feel different from everyone else no matter what you do.
Drew munches away, watching the gruesome surgical scene. He has no problem eating or drinking during gross TV programs. Yesterday he ate pizza while watching a documentary on diseases of the human skin.
My cell rings. Mom jerks her head toward it on the kitchen counter like a bloodhound smelling a fresh scent. With Caitlin gone, I never get phone calls. Mom gets up and walks over to the kitchen counter, then reads my phone screen. “Who’s Max?”
“Ooh, a boy,” Grandma says, raising her penciled eyebrows up and down. “Is he Jewish?”
I snatch my phone off the counter and answer, “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”
Oh, no. That sounded as if I like him or something.
It doesn’t help when Grandma goes, “She was thinking about him,” again with the eyebrow action.
“Hang on a sec,” I tell Max, zipping to the stairs. “What’s up?” I ask, closing my bedroom door.
“I just wanted to remind you about my show tomorrow,” he says. “My dad said he could give you a ride. Can you be ready at one?”
“For your show,” I confirm, as though I don’t speak English.
“Yes, for my show. We need to make a stop first, so you’ll—”
“Max, I can’t…” I bite my lip until it hurts. “I can’t do it. I can’t.”
No sound from Max’s end.
“Are you there?”
“Why can’t you do it?” His voice is flat. Angry.
Because there is no way I’m making a fool of myself again, especially in a public place.
“What are you so afraid of, Abby?” His voice is back to normal.
“I’m not afraid of anything, but it’s not like doing magic with you at a Home Depot opening will give me a head start on my future, you know?”
Silence. Oh, man, I did it again.
“It’s not at a Home Depot opening, it’s at Millennium Lakes.” Then he goes, “You know what, Abby Green? You are a snob.”
Beep. He hung up on me.
Oh, no way, Max Finkelstein. I press CALL BACK.
Instead of saying hello, he answers, “You think you’re too good to perform with me. Too cool or something.”
“What?! I’m far from cool. Haven’t you noticed I only have one good friend in regular school? And she treats me like garbage, by the way.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to him.
“Ooh, I don’t know if there’s room for me in your life of glitz and glamour,” he mimics. “At least I’m putting myself out there, taking a chance. You talk about wanting to be famous, but look at you. You’re not doing anything about it.”
“I am too. I tried to do stand-up for Tony’s cl
ass. It was a ginormous disaster. I stink, remember?”
“So that’s it? You’re never going to try again?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, that’s stupid. And chicken.”
My breath catches in my throat. “I don’t think I’m too cool for you. You’re my friend, you dork.”
“Then why won’t you do a gig for me as a friend?”
I have no answer to that. A good friend would do it for him. “Don’t call it a gig. Gigs are when you get paid. Volunteering at an old-age home is not a gig.”
“You know what, Abby? You say things that are unbelievably rude, and you never know when to keep your mouth shut. You’re always fidgeting, running, talking a mile a minute! You’re a pain! An exhausting pain!”
“You’re an exhausting pain too!” I shout. This time I hang up on him. He thinks I’m exhausting? Max Finkelstein is the most exhausting person I know. He’s constantly pestering me about being in his magic shows, never letting it go. I hug myself, stinging inside.
“Abby!” Mom calls from downstairs. “Please come down and clean up your mess! There’s popcorn all over the couch where you were sitting! I am not your maid!”
Actually, there is one other person who might be more exhausting.
Yet another excellent Saturday. I was helping Dad at the store when I accidentally tipped over the bin of soccer balls, which messed up the display of golf clubs and a few other things. Dad went bonkers. I’m not allowed to work there anymore. So now I’m at Pewter Palace, my grandparents’ indoor flea-market stall.
Maybe I was extra clumsy because I’m overtired. I tossed and turned all night because of my fight with Max. You’re a pain! An exhausting pain! I’m so sick of criticism, of goofing up, of being me. I was just being honest about his dorky magic shows. At least I told him the truth. I’m not lying like I sometimes used to.
My grandparents gave me a few jobs to do, like wiping down all the serving platters and picture frames with some kind of spray, but Grandma complained that I used too much and made a mess, so then I started rearranging the displays and entertaining myself by popping open the cash register over and over. Grandpa finally just asked me to sit near the entrance and “look pretty.”
Max is on my mind. You talk about wanting to be famous, but look at you. You’re not doing anything about it. Snob. I wouldn’t help him now if he paid me a billion dollars. Even if he calls me to apologize, I won’t answer. I have nothing to say to him.
I called Trina after my fight with Max. It felt good to talk to her out of school. We call each other all the time now. She thinks Max likes me as more than a friend. “Why else would he still be friends with you after you insulted him in class and made fun of his magician career?” I told her she’s dead wrong, and it doesn’t matter anyway because I don’t like him that way. “Really? Because you talk about him all the time” was her answer. I do not!!!
“Hey, Grandma, what attracted you to Grandpa?” I ask.
“She couldn’t resist my charms,” Grandpa says, before honking into his handkerchief. Is there anything more disgusting than blowing boogers into a piece of cloth, sticking it in your pocket so it can get nice and soggy, then taking it out later to add more nose butter to it? No, there is not.
“Solly, do you have to blow so loud? You sound like a foghorn,” Grandma says. Then, to me, she says, “I knew your grandfather had class the minute I met him. That’s what attracted me.”
“Really?” Grandpa and I ask at the same time. I find this hard to believe. Family lore has it they met when Grandma slipped on a fallen orange peel at the fruit stand where he worked. This prompted Grandpa’s father, who owned the fruit stand, to say, “Solly, help the pretty girl up,” and Grandpa replied, “Pretty? I’ve seen better heads on lettuce.”
“How did you know he had class?” I asked.
“He offered me a white hanky to dab the juice stain off my blouse,” Grandma says. “A clean, white hanky. That’s class.” Okay, so logic doesn’t exactly run in my family. But it does explain Grandma being okay with Grandpa’s gross handkerchief habit. “And look at us now,” Grandma coos. “Fifty-four years later.”
“Don’t remind me,” Grandpa says. “I walked her home that day. My father said, ‘What do you have to lose? Give it a shot.’ ”
My phone rings. It’s Max!
I step outside the stall. “I’ve decided I’ll try a show with you,” I hear myself say.
Wait. What did I just say?
“I’m sorry I said those things to you,” Max replies. “You do have friends. Me, for example. Which proves you’re definitely not a snob.”
“Apology accepted. I’m at the Carnival Indoor Flea Market, by the way.”
“Really? I’m on my way there.”
“No way.”
“Way. Meet me at the food court.”
Max is easy to spot at Wok on the Wild Side. My heart leaps when I see him. I don’t know why. I should still be a little bit mad. “In China they serve turtle soup and snake,” he says, slurping up a noodle.
“Did you come to this flea market for the Chinese food? Or just to see me?”
“I came for the props at the joke-supply stall. You can help me pick some out, because you’re doing a show with me at Millennium Lakes in two hours.”
“Today?”
“Don’t worry. Since it’s your first time, you can just watch, get a feel for it.” He’s excited, energized. It’s like our argument never happened. We’re back to normal.
“How can I? I’m working at my grandparents’ stall.”
He leans across the table toward me, lowering his voice as if revealing information vital to homeland security. “Tell your grandparents we have to write a paper due Monday. They can’t say no if it’s for school. You owe me. You probably would have gotten arrested, losing an old man in a tree trunk.”
Something about the phrase losing an old man in a tree trunk makes us both laugh. “Probably,” I admit. “But if I get caught lying and skipping work, my life is over. I can’t lose Netflix again. That’s a big thing with me.”
“Come on, it’s not like you’re going to a party. What’s the harm in leaving here to do a good deed? You’re cheering up old people. Actually, just tell them the truth—you’re volunteering. You’re supposed to be doing that anyway.”
He’s right. Plus, it’s a good deed, a mitzvah. It would actually be an act of kindness to ditch this place and watch Max’s show.
“You won’t be sawing me in half today or anything, right?” I ask.
“No, but I do have this box I can put on your head and poke knives through it all around your face.”
“That sounds better than working at Pewter Palace. Let’s get to that joke-shop stall,” I say. “We only have two hours.”
But I have to tell Grandma and Grandpa first.
Grandma and Grandpa didn’t question me when I told them I had to leave with Max to do community service at Millennium Lakes. They gave me fifty dollars for my five hours and said they’d see me next weekend. It was like they couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. Grandpa slipped me another ten when Grandma wasn’t looking.
Max’s dad gives us a ride and doesn’t say one word in the car except “hello” to me and “don’t forget your prop case” to Max. Whenever I have a friend in the car, my mother interrogates them like Sherlock Holmes until she practically finds out their blood type, or at least what their parents do for a living.
Once we arrive, Max starts setting up props in the rec room, next to the platters of cookies and juice. I help myself to a cookie. If it makes me a little hyper for the performance, all the better. Hyper is probably a good thing for a magic show.
The chairs are nailed to the floor, which doesn’t make any sense because why would the patients who live here want to steal chairs? It’s not like they have houses to put them in at this point. I share my thoughts on this with Max, but he’s not listening. He’s smoothing a black tablecloth over a table. Then
he arranges oversized cards, multicolored handkerchiefs, metal rings, an orange, carrots, and a few other bizarre props. His big black prop case fits neatly under the table.
I’ve always wondered how those metal rings work. I swing them around, trying to figure out how they separate, but wind up bonking myself in the head. Max yanks them out of my hand and lays them out on the table with the care of a surgeon laying out his instruments before operating. “Can you stop touching everything?” he asks.
“I can’t help it. I love touching things.”
“That’s not even a real pack of gum. It shoots water.”
I open it and squirt myself in the face.
Max turns his attention to plugging in his microphone. I plunk down on a chair behind him and observe him tying on his black cape and putting on a top hat.
I tell him his hat looks dumb.
“What?”
“I’m just saying. Are you hiding a prop in it?”
“What do you think I am? That is so amateur.”
“Then take it off. Have you seen Criss Angel? He makes magic look cool because his hair flies free.”
“I didn’t ask you for your opinion.” But he takes off the hat.
Bonnie, the activities director, comes in while Max finishes setting up. “Mr. Meyers asked me to take pictures for our newsletter and website.” She holds up her phone. “Is that okay with the two of you?”
“Sure,” I tell her, getting an idea. “Would you mind taking a video too? And then you could text it to me?”
“Great idea,” she says. “I’d be happy to.”
The residents are rolling in now. And I do mean rolling, as in wheeled walkers and wheelchairs. Nurses and recreational therapists come in too. It makes me realize how lucky I am that my grandparents aren’t super old. They’re just a little bit old.
I keep looking for Simon, and, finally, I spot his bushy gray eyebrows. He stops his wheelchair right in front of me. “Hello there, Abby! Do you play chess?”
“Of course,” I say. I’ve never played chess in my life.
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 11
