Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle
Page 2
I wrap my fist around the necklace so tight that it hurts my hand. But MaryBeth sees it anyway.
“Did that say BF?” she asks, and I wonder if she secretly took Miss Evelyn Wood’s course in speed-reading.
I don’t answer.
“Who is BF?” asks Muscle Man.
“It’s not anyone’s initials. It stands for ‘Best Friend,’” says MaryBeth. “You only give it to someone very special.”
“It’s Kebsie’s,” I mumble.
MaryBeth turns to Muscle Man. “Kebsie Grobser lived here before you. She was a foster kid, like you. Mrs. Kutchner was her foster grandmother too.”
“Oh.” Muscle Man seems more interested in straightening out his shoelaces than in learning about Kebsie Grobser.
“Kebsie moved back with her mom,” adds MaryBeth.
“She did?” I ask. “How do you know that?”
“Everybody knows that. My mom told me.” She turns to Muscle Man. “I don’t remember when Kebsie moved out exactly, but it was a few days before you moved in.”
“Forty-two days ago,” I tell her. At least I know that much. But that was all I knew.
Forty-two days ago, I came back from a four-day visit at Aunt Maria’s and went to call for Kebsie, like I always did, and Mrs. Kutchner told me that she was gone.
“Well, aren’t you glad that I found it on the bottom of my closet?” he asks.
“That was very nice of you,” says MaryBeth.
“I happen to have superior vision,” says Muscle Man. “Dr. Dan, my eye doctor, says he’s never seen a human being who could see such a great distance. He said that I should be working as a top secret spy or something.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe you’ll be the next James Bond.” I mean it as a joke, just like I mean the name Muscle Man as a joke. He’s a pale, skinny kid with dirty hair and a runny nose. There’s nothing muscley about him.
But Muscle Man doesn’t get it, and as soon as I mention the name James Bond, he smiles.
For a second, no one speaks. MaryBeth and Muscle Man stare at me, as if they’re waiting for something.
“What?” I say, finally.
MaryBeth puts her hands on her hips. “Well…he did find the charm. Don’t you think this deserves a thank-you?”
Thanks? What does she want me to say thanks for? For taking the room of my very best friend? For eating Kebsie Grobser’s SpaghettiOs and drinking Kebsie Grobser’s Hi-C? For creeping around a house that, as far as I’m concerned, belongs to Kebsie Grobser?
I hold back about a million tears, making sure that not a single one escapes and runs across my face. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Muscle Man and MaryBeth Grabowsky.
My throat feels too lumpy to say anything anyway. I shove the BF charm into my pocket and race toward home.
Chapter Four
Full Moons, New Moons, Waning Gibbous
THAT NIGHT, I have an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that no amount of Oreo cookies can make go away. I am positive about the cookies because as soon as Muscle Man threw me the BF charm, I ran home and ate an entire box.
The emptiness started the day I learned that Kebsie moved from Ramble Street. Nighttime makes it worse, and sleeping is near impossible. Instead of wrestling with my sheet and pillows, I stare out my bedroom window and think of Kebsie.
There’s so much to wonder about. I wonder where she lives and if she has her Bobby Sherman poster on the wall and if she has new friends. Mostly I wonder if Kebsie is thinking of me, and if she has an empty feeling too.
I push open the window and climb outside to the roof of the garage. The warm air sticks to my skin. I wait for my eyes to get used to the dark and then find my way along the tar paper. When I reach the edge, I sit down and let my feet swing down toward Ramble Street.
In the entire town of Massapequa Park, there’s no place like the garage rooftop. It’s above the glare of the streetlights, so I get a clear view of the stars and the moon. When I look down, I can see every house on our block, from Old Mrs. Murphy’s house crammed with flowers to Conchetta Marchetta’s house crammed with kids.
But the best thing about the roof is that no one knows I’m here. I’ve been coming out since I was eight and haven’t got caught yet.
In the forty-two days since Kebsie left, I’ve learned that there’s only one thing that can help when I’m missing her.
A howl at the moon.
“Argooo!” My first try sounds like a squeaky sneeze.
Kebsie would be disappointed. She was the expert. Full moons. New moons. Crescent moons. Waxing gibbous. Waning gibbous. Quarter moons. Kebsie knew about every phase of the moon and howled at each and every one.
It drove the adults on Ramble Street crazy. You should hear the fuss they all made. MaryBeth Grabowsky said her parents complained about Kebsie every morning. Shirley said that all those TV shows about werewolves and vampires did a job on Kebsie’s brain.
At first, I didn’t know what to think. A howling girl is not exactly a common thing to find on Ramble Street. But Kebsie didn’t care what anyone thought, even me. She was fearless. And I loved her for it.
I never howled when Kebsie was here. I was too afraid to try. She’d climb on top of Mrs. Kutchner’s garage roof and make a racket, while I pressed myself flat against my own roof, trying my best to looking invisible, worried my parents would catch me. Nights like tonight, when the moon is full and bright, made me especially nervous.
I take a deep breath and give it another try.
“Argooooo!”
Better, but still not great.
I look across the street to Mrs. Kutchner’s empty garage roof and try again.
“Arrooo!” My last one is almost perfect. I can see why this was Kebsie’s joy.
I’m about to give it one more try when Marshall calls.
“Tamara! Is that you? Are you making that noise?” His voice is muffled so I can tell he’s still in his bedroom.
I climb back through the window and slink under my covers. “No, Daddy.”
I hear footsteps, quick ones, heading my way. They stop at the foot of the stairs. “Do you have any idea how early I have to wake up?” Marshall yells, and I’m suddenly grateful that my parents are stair shouters and not face-to-face yellers like Big Danny’s mom and dad. For now, my garage roof secret is safe.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Nothing, Daddy.”
“Do you know what time my train comes in the morning?”
“7:11,” I say, because he tells me all the time.
“Do you think it’s easy having to take the Long Island Railroad into the city and then work eight long hours and then take the train all the way back to Massapequa Park every day?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Are you trying to make my life difficult? Is that what you’re doing up there?” he asks.
Every bone in my body wants to scream, “You betcha!” If Kebsie were here, that’s what she’d say. No. If Kebsie were here, she’d say, “You betcha, Marshall,” because Kebsie believes you shouldn’t take any flack from anyone, and she calls everyone, even grown-ups, by their first names directly to their faces and not just behind their backs, like I do.
You should have seen Mrs. Webber’s jaw drop the day Kebsie marched into the classroom and said, “Hi, Agnes.” Even my older brother Tim wouldn’t have had the guts to do that, and he’s in college.
“Tamara, I’m talking to you. Are you trying to make my life difficult?” my father asks again.
I think of Kebsie, and I mouth the words “You betcha, Marshall.” But my out-loud words are, “No, Daddy.”
“Then for Pete’s sake, get to sleep!” His footsteps fade back toward his bedroom.
I grab the BF charm and tuck it under my pillow. I lie in my bed with my head where my feet should be so I can get a good look at the moon. And I wonder if Kebsie is howling, wherever she is.
Chapter Five
An In-Person Friend
I try scrubbing it with a washcloth, but it’s no use. The red BF outline stares back at me. The last thing I need is for MaryBeth Grabowsky to see me like this.
Even though morning is slipping away, I’m not leaving my room until the marks are gone. If Kebsie were here, she’d know what to do. She was an expert at stuff like this. I remember how she used some of Shirley’s makeup to disguise a bruise I got last year when I fell from the oak tree my parents told me not to climb.
I rummage through the things on my dresser, searching for something to make the redness go away, but all I have is a mess of papers and some colored pencils. Instead of staring at my blotchy face, I decide to write Kebsie a letter.
My nana gave me fancy writing paper for my birthday. I was supposed to write letters to my Great-Aunt Lil, who moved to a nursing home in Holbrook. Since I never have much to say to Aunt Lil, I have a ton of it left over. Kebsie is worth the special paper.
I pull out a pale yellow sheet from the middle of the pile and begin to write.
Dear Kebsie,
Guess what? MaryBeth Grabowski got another Barbie doll. It could be one of those talking ones. I’m not sure. If it is, I suspect I’ll find out soon enough. You know MaryBeth. She’s probably strutting around Ramble Street showing off her stupid dolls this very second. I hope she drops all 13 of them in the mud.
I got through the end of 5th grade without you. But on the last day of school, Mrs. Webber glared down at me and said that even without my partner in crime, I was still trouble. I think she meant you. I always thought I should be your partner in crime, since you had all the great ideas.
Remember that charm that you made me get the day we rode our bicycles to the candy store? Not the Beatles one you bought with your own money, but the BF charms that we both got. Well, you forgot yours when you moved.
I wouldn’t have gotten one, especially if I’d known that you’d leave yours at the bottom of a closet. I told you it was corny anyway.
From your bf,
Tamara
To tell the truth, I feel silly writing a letter. Kebsie was an in-person friend and not a pen pal friend. Instead of scribbling messages on paper, I should be able to march down the street and talk to her face-to-face.
I read my note again and add a quick P.S.
How come you didn’t even tell me you were moving? How come you didn’t call me or write?
All those days I spent with Kebsie, she never mentioned her mother, even once. My mom, Shirley, was a favorite topic of conversation.
Whenever I complained about Shirley’s soap opera obsessions and burned TV dinners, Kebsie would talk about her foster grandmother, Mrs. Kutchner.
Personally, I never thought Kebsie had much to complain about. Mrs. Kutchner makes lemon drop cookies, has a pocketbook full of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, and knows as much about baseball as Mr. Grabowsky.
I stick the letter and the BF charm in the envelope. I scribble on the back.
I still have mine. This one is yours. No sense in my having two of them.
By the time I finish writing the last word, I am so filled up with emptiness that my eyes grow blurry. I push everything inside me. The tears. The empty feeling. I seal up my misery the same way that I seal the envelope. No sense in getting all weepy about a girl who didn’t even tell me where she was going.
When I get to where I write the address, I stop.
I don’t know where to send it. All I can do is stare at a blank envelope.
Chapter Six
The Battle of Life
“TAMARA ANN SIMPSON! Are you going to sleep all day or are you going to help me with some vacuuming?” Shirley calls from downstairs. “Come on, Tamara, we’re burning daylight.”
I jam the note into my back pocket and hurry to the living room, where my mother is dusting in one place. The rest of the furniture is still grimy, but the table in front of the TV is spotless.
“Are we having company?” I ask. Shirley only cleans for a reason.
“Your brother is coming home this weekend,” she says as she throws a dust rag at me.
I catch it with one hand. “When?”
“You know your brother. He never tells us anything. But he said that it might be next Friday, as soon as his final exams are done.”
I try to remember the last time I saw Tim. Maybe it was last Christmas. No wonder Shirley’s starting her cleaning frenzy early.
“Hey, Mom, did you hear anything about Kebsie?”
“Who?” Shirley picks up another rag, but her eyes are glued to the TV, where a man dressed in a jumpsuit is counting out jumping jacks. “One and two and three and four.”
I should know better not to begin conversations when Shirley is watching Jack LaLanne.
“What’s he doing now?” I ask, knowing full well that she’ll have to tell me about her program before she’ll answer my question. I nod and pretend to be interested while Shirley explains how Jack can do push-ups using only his fingertips and how he says it’s important to stop sitting around on your gluteus maximus.
I gotta hand it to him. Jack LaLanne has muscles. Real ones.
As soon as he’s finished his deep knee bends, he straddles a wooden chair and faces the camera, looking very serious. “I have a story to tell.”
Shirley motions me to be quiet even though I hadn’t said a word.
Jack continues, “You know, I like to think of life as a battlefield. Every morning when we open our eyes and wake up, we have a battle on our hands…”
“Isn’t he handsome?” Shirley sighs.
“I guess.” I shrug.
“So many people are unhappy because they have lost the battle of life,” says Jack.
“The battle of life,” says Shirley. “Isn’t that clever?”
“I guess.”
“Either life is working for you or you’re working for life,” says Jack.
“Working for life.” Shirley repeats his words.
Jack ends his talk with an “Okay, you with me? Good.” And Shirley sighs.
When the show is over, I ask again, “Do you know what happened to Kebsie Grobser? The girl who moved away?”
“I told you about asking those poor children about their background. It’s not polite and it’s none of your business why they have to live in foster care.” Shirley adjusts the rabbit ears on top of the television set. “You don’t question them, do you?”
“Never,” I say through gritted teeth. “But MaryBeth said that Kebsie moved back with her mother.”
“I suppose Mrs. Kutchner would know.”
“She didn’t know much the day Kebsie moved away. All she said was that Kebsie didn’t live there anymore.” I stare at the commercial on TV. A knight on a white horse is zapping dirty laundry with his lance.
Shirley sprays some lemony wax on the coffee table. “Sometimes when grown-ups speak to you, Tamara, you have a way of turning them off.” She wipes the wax with a rag. “Did you listen to what Mrs. Kutchner said?”
“When she told me about Kebsie?” I say.
Shirley nods.
Of course, I didn’t listen. Not one bit. When you go over to your best friend’s house expecting to spend the afternoon playing Bobby Sherman records and instead you find out she’s moved away for good, you’re too busy trying to figure out how to hold back those deep, heavy sobs to listen to the details.
I answer with a shrug.
“Maybe you should ask Mrs. Kutchner again. Maybe she has some more information,” says Shirley.
I’m not sure if she means this very minute, but I run outside before Shirley can protest.
Even though I’ve knocked on Mrs. Kutchner’s door a hundred times before, something about this time feels strange.
Instead of Kebsie, Muscle Ma
n’s older brother Greg appears. He grunts hello, and I wonder if he’s staring at the BF mark.
“Can I speak to Mrs. Kutchner?” I put my hand over my face to hide my cheek.
He grunts again and leaves me outside.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Kutchner comes to the door.
“Hello, Tamara.”
“I want to ask you about Kebsie.”
“Come in.” She leads me to the living room. I work my way around the table full of knickknacks and flop onto the couch. The plastic slipcover squeaks.
In the forty-three days since I’ve been here, nothing much has changed. I look around for the statue of the old lady holding a small child, the one that Kebsie and I broke during a pillow fight. We glued it together before Mrs. Kutchner found out about it.
I find it, tucked in the back behind a statue of a man riding a horse and a collection of baby elephants. But even from far away, I can see the crack and the dried-up glue. I wonder if Mrs. Kutchner noticed.
“I want to know what happened to Kebsie.”
Mrs. Kutchner shifts in her chair. “Kebsie is back with her mother now. They moved away. I don’t know where she is.”
I stare down at the letter I have in my hands. When I look up, Muscle Man’s standing in front of me.
“Hiya, Tammy.” He grins.
“Douglas, would you be a dear and pour Tamara and me a glass of lemonade?” asks Mrs. Kutchner.
“Sure, Grandma,” he says. Grandma. That’s another lie. All of the foster kids call her that.
Mrs. Kutchner waits to hear the clinking of the lemonade glasses before she continues. “Tamara, I’m sorry. I don’t know where she is. They’re starting over. And it’s best that we don’t know where they are.”
“But I have a letter…”
“Tamara, honey, did Kebsie ever mention her father? And what he did to her?”
Neither parent. Never. I shake my head.
“He hurt them both. They don’t want him to find them, so they didn’t tell anyone where they were going. That’s why we don’t know.”
“But I have a letter,” I say again.