by Nan Marino
“And I’ll wear the one you made me, Mommy.” Janie Lee jumps up and down.
Mr. Grabowsky heads into the house and returns holding a large wedge of cheese. “Look, we can make a Swiss cheese carving of the moon.”
When I pull myself back into my room, it’s business as usual. Unless you count the fact that I’m grounded until school starts as news, there’s nothing happening at all in the Simpson house.
I head downstairs and find Shirley leaning out of the kitchen window, her neck strained in the direction of the Grabowsky’s backyard. I wonder if she’s been watching too.
“So, are we gonna watch the moon walk?” I ask.
As soon as she hears my voice, she pulls herself back into the room. “No, I don’t think so.” Shirley lights a cigarette, and I move away from the smoke. “If we were invited to the moon-landing party, we would have watched.”
“We’re never invited,” I tell her, in case she thinks we’re not going because I punched out Muscle Man.
“We were invited last year to their Summer Olympics party.” Shirley turns on the television. “And we’re always invited to the Rattle’s barbeques.”
“Those are different. Those are whole-block parties where everyone is invited, not special parties. We’re never invited to the special ones.”
Shirley sits up straight, waiting for her programs to flick onto the screen. “If you didn’t hit that boy…”
I want to tell her that we’re not invited because she watches too many soap operas and doesn’t trade recipes with the other moms and never gets her hair done.
Instead I say, “I have an idea.” I stand in front of the TV, like I did before. “Let’s have our own moon-landing party. We could get marshmallows and pretend they’re moon rocks. It’ll be fun.”
Shirley stares through me, like I’m not even there. “Maybe next time.”
“But next time isn’t the first time.”
Shirley pushes me aside, her eyes fixed on the television. “I said not today.”
Marshall’s answer is equally depressing.
“No matter how many men walk on the moon, how does it affect me? I still have to get up and take the 7:11 train to New York and work for Mr. Rendizzi at the Manhattan Plumbing Supply Company.” He’s sitting in his easy chair, wearing the slippers that Tim gave him last Christmas.
“But Dad, this is history.”
“You should have thought of it before you punched out that kid. Grounded means no television, too.” He buries his face in a book.
I run to the basement, hoping Tim will call. It’s been days since I spoke to him, and he doesn’t even know about the grounding. I tape the Jimi Hendrix poster up on the wall for the thousandth time. I dust off his pictures, throw myself in Grandma’s old rocker, and chant “Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Timtelephone. Timtelephone.”
The phone rings, and I creak my neck toward the upstairs floor.
“I know, I know,” says Shirley, “I can’t believe that Brad would do such a thing.” Shirley is talking about her soap operas, so she must be talking to my aunt Maria. Tim would never talk soaps. I let her voice fade into the distance, and I work on my magic powers. “Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Tim telephone.”
Ten minutes later it rings again, but it’s the St. Rose of Lima church reminding Shirley to leave her old clothes outside in a bag for collection.
Day creeps toward night, and I creep out onto the garage roof to check on the Grabowskys.
They’re gathered around a giant piece of cardboard and a dozen cans of paint.
“Do you really think that we can make a good replica of the lunar excursion module, Daddy?” I hear MaryBeth ask her father.
Mr. Grabowsky laughs. “I think that our version of the LEM will do everything but fly.”
I know it’s risky, but I lean my head off the garage roof so I can listen to Mr. Grabowsky explain how the astronaut Michael Collins will orbit the moon in the Apollo spaceship while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin fly the lunar excursion module to make the first landing.
“Can we drink Tang?” asks MaryBeth.
“What’s that?” asks Janie Lee.
“That’s a powdery drink the astronauts take to space,” says Mrs. Grabowsky. “I bought some this afternoon.”
MaryBeth gives Janie Lee a hug. “Just think, we will drink the same thing as the astronauts.”
Mr. Grabowsky holds up the cardboard LEM for them all to see. The others step back to admire their work. “This is an important night for history,” he says. “One day, your children will want to know where you were the night that the first man walked on the moon.”
“And we can tell them all about our party,” says Janie Lee.
“And how we watched it all together,” says MaryBeth.
And for the first time in my life, I wish I was a Grabowsky.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Almost Reached the Moon by Myself
THAT NIGHT, I try to sleep, but there’s too much noise coming from the party next door. Every time I nod off, a string of laughter from the Grabowsky house pokes at me.
I can’t help thinking about Kebsie. I wonder if she’s at a moon-landing party drinking Tang and eating Swedish meatballs that look like meteors too.
I lean out my window so I can get a good look at the house next door. Big Danny and his parents hurry up the Grabowsky’s front steps. Big Danny’s mom holds a covered casserole. The Rattles are next, and I’m not surprised. Mrs. Rattle and Mrs. Grabowsky are always together, trading recipes that would make Betty Crocker proud.
It’s an important night for history, but if my children ask me where I was during the first moon walk, I’ll have to tell them that I spent the night grounded in my bedroom, watching the neighbors file into the Grabowsky’s party.
I think about sneaking downstairs to watch the moon walk on TV. But the television in the living room is so close to Marshall and Shirley’s bedroom that I’m sure I’ll get caught.
Instead, I flop on the bed and cover my head with the sheets while the laughter from the party next door fills up my room, making it feel stuffy and tight.
I climb out onto the garage roof. At least I can take a peek at the moon. At least it would be something to tell my children one day, that I saw the moon on the night of the first moon walk.
It’s foggy, and the moon is hiding behind clouds.
“There you are, Tammy. I’ve been waiting for you.” A voice right behind me makes me jump so high I almost reach the moon without any Apollo rockets to help me.
“Kebsie?” I turn around, and when I see Muscle Man and his stupid smile, I feel really dumb for saying Kebsie’s name.
“How’d you get up here?” I demand.
He points to the garden trellis. “I c-climbed,” he stammers, and I wonder why he’s not worried about getting another beating. “I wanted to see you.”
“Well, I’m here and grounded. I bet you’re happy about it.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry. I tried to give the letter to my caseworker, but she didn’t know where Kebsie was either. And I couldn’t be the one to tell you.” He kicks at a piece of ripped-up tar paper, and it flies to the ground. “I just wanted Kebsie to come back for you.”
The fog draws closer. “Me too,” I say, and I go back to my search for the moon. “I believed you because I wanted it to be true.”
“I wanted it to be true, too.” Muscle Man looks up at the sky. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.
“The stupid story about the hair ribbons. Kebsie would soon as grow bald than put a ribbon in her hair. Where’d you come up with that?”
There’s a long pause. “It’s how my mother met my father. She told me that all the time.”
A soft breeze touches the treetops but doesn’t quite make it down to the garage roof. Something inside me shivers.
Muscle Man tugs at my arm. “Come on, Tammy. Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I fold my arms in fro
nt of me and wonder if I look like MaryBeth Grabowsky when she’s being prissy.
Muscle Man turns to leave. “How come you have to be…” He sighs. “How come you have to be so tough? Why can’t you give me a chance?”
A chance? A chance for what. A chance to ruin my life with his stupid smile and his over-the-top lies that the entire town of Massapequa Park lets him get away with? A chance to take the place of Kebsie? Is that what he wants a chance at?
“A chance to be your friend,” he says, as if I asked him out loud.
The second he utters the word friend, an emptiness sinks inside me, causing my body to become so heavy that I bet I gain a hundred pounds. Tammy Simpson, seventy-nine-pound girl with one hundred pounds of emptiness.
Kebsie was my friend. No one else will ever come close. She’s the one I wish was here right now. Muscle Man with his wormy looks and his stupid stories can never be anything like Kebsie Grobser.
Never.
Even if I tried really hard to be his friend and even if he tried really hard to be mine back, it could never be like it was with her. And knowing that fills me with an unbearable sadness.
Muscle Man is leaving. He’s halfway down the trellis. “Are you coming?”
I turn to the moon for an answer.
And get nothing.
But the new round of laughter from the house next door is too much to take.
“I’m not going there.” I point to the Grabowsky’s.
“‘Course not. I have somewhere else we can go.”
I follow him down the garden trellis, and we make our way down Ramble Street. The street is empty now, but neither one of us says a word. Too many houses have lights on and windows open.
All we need is one well-meaning neighbor to come outside and wonder what two kids are doing walking down the street at night and our journey will be over. I’ll be grounded until high school.
We turn down Clark Boulevard and find our way to Broadway. The streets are slick and shiny from the recent rain. We walk down to the part of town where a few bars line the street across from the railroad station. I’m not supposed to go here because Shirley calls it “seedy.”
We stop at Canyon’s Pub. On summer nights, the door is always open. Swirls of cigarette smoke pour out onto the street. The light from the television inside the pub flickers the way a lighthouse does during a storm.
Muscle Man squats low and creeps inside. I follow him, on my hands and knees, across the beer-soaked floor.
No one notices two kids crouched just inside the door. I bet we could have walked right in and maybe even taken a seat at the bar. Even the bartender is watching the grainy picture on the television hanging on the wall.
“That’s the LEM,” whispers Muscle Man.
“The lunar excursion module,” I tell him, because the last thing I need is a lecture from Muscle Man McGinty.
On TV, the hatch opens up, and a man in a space suit climbs down the ladder. When he gets to the last rung, he jumps.
And with that, Neil Armstrong, commander of the Apollo 11, takes his first step on the moon.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
One Small Step
“ON THIS JULY TWENTIETH, nineteen hundred and sixty-nine,” says the announcer on TV, “Neil Armstrong becomes the first man to walk on the moon.”
The crowd at Canyon’s cheers. Outside, the town of Massapequa Park cheers. I bet the whole state of New York is cheering and the whole United States and maybe even the world.
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” a voice crackles through the television.
“Did you hear that? The very first words!” says Muscle Man.
“I heard them.” I try to shush him so I can pay attention to what’s happening.
“I’m gonna do that someday. I’m gonna be an astronaut and walk on the moon,” Muscle Man says. “I’m gonna be just like him.”
He points to the man he once tried to tell me was his uncle. I think about reminding him of that and of the fact that NASA doesn’t take runts. I am sure that somewhere before they were trained, those astronauts took an honesty test. But instead I stay glued to the television set.
“What about you, Tamara? Would you be an astronaut?”
I shrug.
Muscle Man won’t shut up. “They said this couldn’t be done. Things they say are impossible happen all the time.”
Neil Armstrong takes another step, and it takes my breath away.
“Imagine, that this is happening right now. Right as we’re watching it,” I whisper.
“I believe in impossible things,” announces Muscle Man McGinty.
“Good for you,” I say.
“Mrs. Kutchner says that one day, all us kids might live on the moon.”
“Mrs. Webber, my teacher, told us that too.”
“Would you go?”
I’d never thought about it. “I’m more worried about when I’ll get ungrounded.”
“Come on, Tammy, stop being such a stick in the mud and dream a little. Would you go?”
“Dunno,” I tell him. I think about living on the jagged surface of the moon. Then I think about the houses that look the same on Ramble Street. I try to decide which place I’d like best. “It’s a hard choice.”
“Not for me. I’m going,” he says again. “I’m going to walk on the moon.”
Two large feet step between us and the television set.
“What are you kids doing here?” says the man. I notice he’s the guy who was standing behind the bar. “Where are your parents?”
I stammer, not knowing what to say. Since Muscle Man’s such an expert at lies, I hope he’s got a good one now.
For a compulsive liar, he is strangely quiet.
“Hey, Lenny, it’s okay,” says a voice from the darkness. “I know these kids. Let them stay. I’ll watch them.”
I can’t see a thing since Lenny the bartender looms in front of me. But Muscle Man worms his way around Lenny. “Hey, Mr. Pizza! Thanks.”
Mr. Pizzarelli steps out of the shadows.
“Keep them away from the bar,” Lenny mumbles.
Mr. Pizzarelli motions for us to follow and then motions for the waitress to bring us two Cokes. We all sit down, facing the television, in a wooden booth—one that seems as sticky as the floor.
Canyon’s Pub and Grill grows quiet.
“What’s happening now?” asks Muscle Man.
“Another man is going to step outside soon,” says Mr. Pizzarelli.
“Buzz Aldrin,” I add.
When it’s Buzz Aldrin’s turn, I hold my breath, waiting for his first words.
“Beautiful…beautiful,” he says. And then he adds, “Magnificent desolation.”
“Desolation. What does that mean?” I whisper.
“Emptiness,” says Mr. Pizzarelli.
“Magnificent emptiness,” I repeat under my breath.
“Look at them. Hundreds of thousands of miles away from the nearest human,” says Muscle Man. “Alone on the moon, just the two of them.”
I wonder if they’re missing their family and friends. I wonder if that awful feeling of missing someone can follow a person all the way to the moon. “It must feel very far away,” I say.
Muscle Man nods. “Away from everybody, away from people they love…I bet it’s very lonely.” And I realize he’s not talking about the moon or Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldrin. He’s talking about himself.
“I bet it is, too,” says Mr. Pizzarelli. And I know he’s thinking of Vinnie.
I glance down at my Coke. “It’s lonely here on Earth, too.”
Muscle Man nods. Mr. Pizzarelli squeezes my arm.
Here we are, three of the loneliest souls on Ramble Street, sitting in Canyon’s Pub watching the first men walk on the moon.
And knowing that we are all lonely together makes me feel not so lonely anymore.
For a moment, Kebsie leaving, Tim being gone, and MaryBeth Grabowsky’s party become as blurry as the picture on t
he TV set. For a moment, sitting right here next to Mr. Pizza and Muscle Man is exactly where I want to be.
Shink. Shink. Shink. The Slinky inside me untightens a tiny bit to let me know what I’m thinking is true.
I close my eyes, trying to take in every detail of every moment. This is history. I want to remember everything. The astronauts’ first steps. The pitted surface of the moon. How the American flag on the television looks just like the one on the wall of Canyon’s Pub. The musty smell of the bar. The warm Coke on the table. Some day, I will tell my children all about it. I will tell anyone who asks me.
It’s getting late, but the grainy images of men on the moon keep pouring into the pub. As much as I want to stay awake, my head feels as heavy as a twelve-pound bowling ball. Muscle Man has already dozed off. His head rests on Mr. Pizzarelli’s shoulder.
“Come on, kids, it’s time to go.” Mr. Pizzarelli pays the waitress, and we head back home toward Ramble Street.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One Giant Leap
WE WALK OUTSIDE along the sidewalk across from the railroad tracks. Even though it’s late, there are a lot of cars on the road. They flash past us; their headlights cutting through the fog.
I’m grateful that Mr. Pizzarelli doesn’t ask me questions like if my parents know I’m out. He doesn’t ask Muscle Man either. We walk home in silence.
Muscle Man rubs his eyes, trying to shake out the sleep.
“Mr. Pizzarelli.” I clear out the lumps in my throat before I can speak. “I never told you about Vinnie, about how he wrote to Tim and told him that things were quieting down.”
“Tim told me about the letter when he was here.” Mr. Pizzarelli doesn’t look in my direction, and I don’t blame him. I wonder if he’ll ever look at me again.
We walk some more. Muscle Man is more awake and turning back into his gabby self. He points to the sky above. “Do you think they’re up there?” he asks.
“They’re up there,” I say.
“Hey, Mr. Pizza, do you think they’ll come back?” asks Muscle Man.
Mr. Pizzarelli sighs and looks up at the heavens.
