by Lisa Wingate
“Let’s concentrate on science for a while.” I was trying to sound positive, but the statement fell flat. I was tired from a full day with the Jumpkids, vaguely aware that I had grant writing work to do at home, and surprisingly hungry because we had skipped both snacks and rushed through our lunch to catch a few extra minutes of study time.
“I know the science a lot better.” Dell raised her eyebrows hopefully. “Mr. Duncan’s a really great teacher. We did most of the study sheet in class.”
“Good.” Finally, a bright side. “Let’s see.”
Opening the book to a diagram of the universe, she pulled out a study sheet that was at least ten pages long, front and back. I wanted to crawl under the bench, slink out the back door, and never be a guidance counselor again.
I was contemplating the idea when the door opened and Karen came in.
“Hey, you two,” she said cheerfully as she crossed the room. “So, how did your day go?”
“Great!” Dell chirped. “It’s gonna be a great play tomorrow … if the White Rabbits don’t go crazy. They’re kind of … well … bouncy.”
Standing beside the pew, Karen smoothed a hand over Dell’s dark hair, pulling it into a thick ponytail and circling it with her fingers. “Don’t you want to go outside and play softball with the other kids?” She tilted her head, giving the textbook a confused look.
Dell’s nose crinkled as she squinted upward, shrugging casually. “Nah, I’ve got some tests to study for.” The implication was clear—No problem, Mom. Walk in the park. Nothing to worry about.
“Need help?” Karen asked.
“Huh-uh. Ms. C’s helping me.” Sliding the partially finished study sheet between the pages, she closed the book, as in, Butt out, Mom. We’ve got this situation under control. No big deal.
“All right.” Releasing Dell’s hair so that it spilled over her shoulders, Karen patted her shoulder. “Let me know if I can help.”
“I will,” Dell answered, giving Karen a happy-kid smile as she turned and walked away.
I bit my tongue until she’d left the room. What I wanted to do was jump out of my seat and say, Time out! Wait! Everybody stop what you’re doing. We’ve got a serious miscommunication here.
But part of me knew that the truth needed to come from Dell, not from me. When Karen was gone, I turned to Dell, waiting for her to say something. Instead, she pulled out the study sheet, a silent cue that we should proceed with schoolwork, no discussion of other issues.
“Dell, you know that was wrong,” I admonished, frustrated and at a loss as to how to handle the situation. “You do need help, yet you’re telling your foster mother you don’t.”
“I don’t like it when Karen helps me, OK?” Her answer was edgy and impatient. Flipping the science book open so that it clattered against the pew, she picked up the pencil and bent over the pages, pretending to focus on her study sheet. “I hate all these big words.” Change of subject.
“No, Dell, it’s not OK.” Pushing the paper back into the book, I closed the cover and leaned forward with my hand holding it shut. “Karen and James obviously love you very much. It’s not all right to lie to the people who care about you. It’s little lies, and then it’s bigger lies to cover up the little ones, and pretty soon you’re so far down the hole, there’s no way out.” Everything in me wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and say, Listen to me. I know this from experience. “You can’t lie about who you are to try to make people love you.” Touching her face, I lifted her chin, so that she was looking at me, her eyes dark and desperate. I saw myself at thirteen, afraid of the world. Afraid of being unwanted. “Because then it isn’t you that they love. It’s someone made-up, like a storybook character. That kind of love leaves you empty inside. In your heart, what you really want is for someone to love you. The real you. People can’t if you won’t let them in.”
Her face said it all. How could anybody love me? My real parents didn’t.
The door opened and both of us jerked upright. Dell ducked her head, rubbing her face on her sleeve as Keiler entered the room carrying a plastic storage tub filled with percussion instruments and fluteophones. Setting down the box with a groan, he stretched his back and held his injured foot off the floor.
“Looks like you shouldn’t be carrying boxes around,” I said.
He smiled confidently. Sometime today, he’d lost the rabbit ears and gone back to the ski hat with MENTAL on the front. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll be kickin’ up fresh powder again in no time.”
I chuckled as he hopped closer. “I think you’re off the half-pipe for a while, radical dude.”
His lips spread into an even white smile. “You like to ski?”
“Love it. My parents used to have a cabin in Durango. We went every Christmas and spring break when I was a kid.”
Clearly, Keiler was impressed. “Ski or snowboard?”
“Depends on the snow,” I quipped, then felt compelled to admit the truth. “I’m really not that good, but I love the mountains.”
“Yeah, me too,” he agreed wistfully; then the conversation ran out, and he tipped his head to look at Dell’s schoolwork.
“Studying science?”
Dell frowned up at him, opening the book and displaying her worksheet. “There’s nine-week tests on Monday in English and science, and I’ve got to get the rest of this study sheet filled out.” Why she’d suddenly decided to tell someone the truth, I couldn’t guess. I hoped it was something I’d said.
“Ahhhh.” Keiler raised an eyebrow. “I’m no good with English, but you’re looking at Mr. Science.” Pressing a splay-fingered hand to his chest, he feigned modesty, then grabbed a chair from the Wonderland stage, brought it back to the pew, and sat down. “Let me see that review sheet.”
Dell handed the paper over as if it were a hot potato and she lacked an oven mitt. “Ms. C is helping me with the English.”
Keiler winked at me. “I can see you’re in good hands. Did Ms. C happen to ask you why it’s two days before the test and you’re just now getting the study sheet done?”
Dell’s head sagged against her arm. “Yes.” She sighed, sensing another lecture coming on. “She already asked me that.”
Leafing through the papers, Keiler nodded. “Well, then, I won’t bother repeating the question.” Laying the paper on the bench, he pointed to an empty line blank. “This one is ‘atmosphere’, and the next one is ‘hydrosphere’.” He studied the page while she wrote in the answers. “The one at the bottom of the page is probably ‘nitrogen’, but let me see the book for a minute. Mmm-hmm, see, read this sentence.” He pointed to the book. “ ‘The most abundant gas in the Earth’s atmosphere is …’ ” He let Dell fill in the blank.
“Nitrogen.” Sounding out the word, she wrote it in and pointed to another question. “What about this one? It’s, like, an essay question, and I don’t know what he means.”
“Let’s see …” Keiler read the question, then started flipping through the chapter and finally pointed to a diagram. “It’s asking how and why the atmosphere on Earth is different from other planets. So why is it?”
Dell rolled her eyes. “Because God made it that way.”
Keiler chuckled. “True, but how does it work?” Limping over to the instrument box, he pulled out a fluteophone and played a few notes. “For instance, would you be able to hear this on … say … Venus?”
“Well, no, because you’d be dead on Venus.” She cocked her chin to one side, silently adding, Duh.
“Exactly.” Wheeling a finger in the air, he sat down in his chair again. “Why?”
“Because you can’t breathe the gases in the atmosphere there.” She held her palms up, impatient with the elementary line of questioning.
“And why does Earth have an atmosphere you can breathe?”
“Because the plants make oxygen and the ozone layer keeps out the radiation from the sun.”
“Rrrr-ight!” Grinning, Keiler marked an invisible scoreboard hanging
between us. “See? You just answered an essay question on why the Earth is different from other planets. So, think about what you know, and then explain it in writing just like you’re explaining it to me. The secret to essay questions isn’t knowing everything; it’s making good use of what you do know.” Propping his injured foot on the pew, he rested an elbow on his knee and watched as Dell started writing the answer with more enthusiasm than I would have thought possible. I sat marveling at him, amazed, impressed, and, in an odd way, envious of his ability with kids.
Brown eyes twinkling beneath the MENTAL hat, he grinned at me and made the OK sign behind Dell’s head.
“I wish English was this easy,” Dell muttered, and my mind went back to the English study sheet. If only she could whip through that as quickly as science.
My mind drifted to the matter of talking to Karen. One way or another, I had to make her aware that Dell needed help, and more study time—whether Dell wanted to admit it or not.
When the science worksheet was finished, Keiler sent Dell outside to get a little exercise before she started in on English again. Sliding over to the pew, he leaned back with his fingers intertwined behind his head. “Long day.”
“A little,” I agreed. “But it was good.”
He motioned to Dell’s schoolwork. “So, I take it that classes aren’t going so well.”
It probably wasn’t the right thing to do, but I told him the truth. “No, they’re not, and she doesn’t want to admit it to her foster parents.”
“That’s pretty typical.” Picking up the fluteophone, he moved his fingers over the holes, listening to music I couldn’t hear. “When you’re a foster kid, there’s always this honeymoon period during which you convince yourself that if you’re helpful enough, and sweet enough, and charming enough—perfect enough—the new family will love you and let you stay. I was just a little older than Dell when I finally got out of the foster care system, and even though I wanted it, moving into a permanent family was a tough adjustment.” His eyes were soft and contemplative, focused on the colored light from the wavy stained-glass windows. “James and Karen love Dell, but it’ll take her a while to understand that. Love is like Santa Claus—if you don’t believe when you’re young and innocent, it’s hard to buy in later. But it’s not impossible.” He shifted his focus until we were tangled in an intertwined gaze. “I believe in Santa Claus.”
“You’d think, being Mr. Science, that would be a little hard. Considering the physics of flying reindeer, and so forth.”
“I’ve worked it all out,” he said softly.
“I’m not quite there yet,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I had the kind of blind faith he was talking about—the ability to trust in things I couldn’t see. When I was passed out on the dressing room floor, I dreamed I saw Grandma Rice as an angel. The doctors said it was the result of an electrolyte imbalance—probably true, because I continued to hallucinate everything from angels to jungle animals for days, until my electrolytes leveled off.
“Of course, I have the benefit of having seen a few flying reindeer after surgery a couple years ago,” Keiler joked, and I had the odd sense that he’d read my thoughts. “Saw the Easter bunny, Napoleon, the Wicked Witch of the West, and Super Mario chasing Pac-Men around the room, too. But the flying reindeer were real.”
“Me, too.” My focus narrowed, came inward until I was aware of breath coming in and out of my lungs, and the pulse drumming steadily in my neck. I felt a kinship with Keiler that I couldn’t explain. “I had some pretty wild hallucinations when I was in the hospital for …” I stopped just short of blurting out the whole truth. “Well, long story, but they said it was caused by my electrolytes being out of whack.”
He nodded, and I felt, in the strangest way, validated. “For me, it was a brain tumor, but the principle is the same.”
I drew back, surprised, at who he was. Former foster kid looking for love, brain tumor survivor, Santa Claus enthusiast, NYU grad, and Mr. Science, masquerading as a guitar-playing ski bum with a broken foot. There was much more to Keiler Bradford than met the eye.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I was staring at him, wondering why he didn’t seem like damaged goods. How did he find the strength to lumber through life with a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye? Why couldn’t I do that? Why couldn’t I convince myself to drop the load of guilt and self-loathing, let go of the past, and move on with the business of living?
Playing the “Theme to The Pink Panther” on the fluteophone, he lightened the moment, then set the instrument aside, rested his head in his hand, and said, “So, how’s the skiing in Durango?”
We fell into an easy conversation about ski resorts and wild spring-break trips with busloads of college classmates. I gleaned that he was not always the clean-living, bunny-ear-wearing nice guy he was now. His foster parents, he said, deserved to be nominated for sainthood for taking him in at fifteen, a kid with a hardened heart and a bad attitude, and showing him unyielding patience until he finally grew up. Now they were both retired from professorships at NYU and living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—conveniently near skiing, Keiler noted.
He was describing their house on Lake Michigan when Dell came back in with Karen. They crossed the room looking purposeful, and for an instant, I fanned a hope that they’d had a heart-to-heart about the upcoming tests, but Dell seemed much too pleased to have been discussing the issue of school. When they reached us, she stood with her arms clasped behind her back, looking expectantly up at Karen.
“We were hoping you’d come on out to the farm and have supper with us.” Karen smiled pleasantly, obviously unaware of Dell’s situation. “It really is the least we can do after you saved our lives today. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner, but we would love to have you.”
“Oh, I don’t …” Pausing, I caught Dell’s hopeful gaze. I was momentarily torn. On the one hand, I really wanted to join her and her family for dinner. On the other hand, I had a pile of work to do at home and so far, no substitute teacher for algebra class next week. If I had to teach algebra again I would go crazy, first of all, and second of all, it would be impossible to finish the grant application in time. “I really shouldn’t—”
“Pleeeease?” Dell curled her hands under her chin in a begging-dog imitation.
Karen frowned sideways at her. “Dell, Ms. Costell might have things to do.” She turned to me. “We understand, if you do. We can give you a rain check… .”
Needling me in the arm, Keiler shrugged toward Dell and mouthed, C’mon… .
The decision sifted through my mind as everyone watched me. Maybe I could make substitute teacher calls on my cell phone… . “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”
Keiler gave me the thumbs-up.
“Oh, no, of course not. We’d love to have you,” Karen reiterated.
“Yes!” Dell cheered, like her team had just hit a home run in the World Series.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so wanted.
Chapter 17
While the rest of the crew was busy arranging Jumpkids materials for tomorrow’s performance, I went to my car to make calls on my cell phone. I started by dialing home to check on Bett and tell Mom and Dad I’d be late. Waiting for Mom to answer, I drafted a mental list of explanations for my all-day trip to some little town she’d had probably never heard of. Fortunately, Dad picked up. Mom was still over at Bett’s, making chicken soup to help my sister along the road to recovery.
Dad was stuck home babysitting Joujou and gathering his income-tax materials for the CPA. When he was finished with that, he had an online meeting with his fantasy baseball club. Every week without fail, Dad gathered with numerous other perfectly sane adults who, as nearly as Mom and I could decipher, pretended to be the managers of major league baseball franchises. Before the season started, they drafted teams, and then all summer long they carefully tracked the imaginary progress of their imaginary players, in hopes of eventually winning the prete
nd World Series. Dad had never even made the division finals, but struggled on through the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, dreaming of one day achieving fantasy baseball glory.
“How’s the baseball draft going?” I asked, after he’d run through his list of evening activities and finished complaining about income taxes and how this year would surely leave him in the poorhouse. “Hope those fantasy baseball players work for fantasy paychecks.”
Dad gave a sardonic laugh. “You all can ridicule me now, but when I win the World Series, you’ll be sorry. I won’t invite you naysayers to the awards ceremony in Las Vegas. Joujou and I’ll go alone. Just the two of us.” I could tell he was cuddling Joujou close to his face. She was growl-whining into the phone, enjoying her daddy time.
“Be sure you buy her something nice to wear.”
“Very funny.”
“Just think, you’ll fit right in with the high rollers in Vegas, with that fine-looking blonde on your arm, or … well … in your arms … or on a leash. Anyway, she’s blond.”
Dad scoffed indignantly. “At least Joujou believes in me.” No doubt this was one of those times when my father wished he’d been blessed with a houseful of boys, rather than three women and a neurotic Pekingese.
“I believe in you, Dad.” It felt good to be joking with him rather than talking about food, or Mom, or what I was doing and when I would be home.
“I know you do, honey,” he said tenderly.
I was filled with a rush of warmth that I couldn’t put into words. These past months, Dad had been a rock, always solid, always on an even keel when the rest of us were falling apart. I wished I could tell him how much that meant. Instead, I talked about baseball. “Hey, I heard that one of the teachers at school might have a pair of Kansas City Royals season tickets to sell. I thought maybe I’d check into it—what do you say?”
