Instead, I throw my hair up in the droopiest, saddest ponytail and run out the door to try to catch the bus to school.
LIKE SISTERS
Hazel looks like one of the models on the picture day posters.
I find her outside her locker with Lucy. They’re squeezed shoulder to shoulder, looking at their reflections in the tiny mirror she has hanging up, just like we did at the end of summer. Their hair hangs in smooth, flat sheets. Hazel pulls the end of one strand like she can somehow make it straighter.
They’re both wearing their navy team polos and matching silver ball earrings. If you just glanced over quickly, like you had spotted something farther down the hall, you would have sworn they were sisters.
I don’t stop. I don’t want her to ask about my hair or my splotchy face or talk about what happened with Mina that morning.
They don’t even see me walk by.
Anita’s sitting cross-legged in front of our lockers with Sara. Sara’s been meeting us here the last few days even though her locker is in a completely different hallway.
Anita has bright pink ribbons woven through each of her braids, and each of Sara’s braids ends in sparkly silver beads. Extra fancy. Picture day ready. They share an iPod, one earbud for each of them. “Letter M,” Anita exclaims when I get closer. “Hey, wait.” She taps Sara on the knee. Sara looks up, too. “Are you okay?”
I managed not to cry any on the bus, but now the tears start to well up again. I squeeze my eyes closed to try to shut them out. I could tell them about Mina and her promises and the terrible things I said, but all I can utter is “My hair.”
Anita and Sara exchange a look and pop up. “Come on,” Anita says. She grabs me by the hand and drags me into the girls’ bathroom down the hall. There are already some girls crowded around the mirror, but Anita gives them a look and they make room.
“Squat down a little,” Anita says. “We can fix this.”
Sara hands me my ponytail holder and they both examine my hair like I’m on one of those reality makeover shows. Anita runs her hands through it. “We could do a fishtail braid,” she says thoughtfully. “Or a lobster tail. That might be pretty easy.”
“Hmm . . . ,” Sara says. She grabs a front strand and starts twisting it around two others in a circular motion. “What about a crown braid.”
Anita steps back and taps her finger on her lips. “Perfect. Okay, be right back.” She rushes out the bathroom door.
By now, the other girls have left, too. “So did you wake up late or something?” Sara says. Her tongue is sticking out between her teeth in concentration.
“No. My sister was supposed to do it and then she couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. And she sounds like she really means it.
I hesitate, wondering how much to say, but I’m just so tired of holding things in. “She’s sick. My sister, that is. She was in the hospital for a while and now she’s back.”
“Is she better?”
I let out a soft breath. Is she better? “I guess. I don’t know. I thought she was, but—” I don’t finish my sentence.
Sara stops braiding for a second. Her sad eyes meet mine in the mirror. “That stinks.”
“Yeah. It really does.”
“You’re good at this,” I say after a moment, watching as her fingers start twisting and pulling my hair again.
She laughs a little. “I have four sisters. I have to be.” She thinks I’m talking about the braiding, and she is good. But I’m also talking about the way she knows the right thing to say. Sara’s good at being a friend. “I learned from Sasha—the cat business sister. She’s the oldest. And then there’s Sammy and Vonnie.”
“You’re all S names but one?”
“Vonnie’s short for Siobhan,” she says. “It gets confusing.”
The bathroom door swings open. Anita’s holding up two things in her hands triumphantly. “It took some asking around, but I’ve found it,” she says. She stands in front of the mirror facing me and opens a compact. “I borrowed this from Penny.” She dabs a circular puff in some powder. “Close your eyes.” She brushes it lightly over my face. “Okay, open.” My face still looks a little red, but to be honest, it looks a lot better. Smoothed out and more bubblegum than fire engine.
“Hand me your hair tie,” Sara says. I do and she wraps it around the end of the braid. Then she tucks it under a clump of hair on the back of my head. “It shows off your sparkly earrings.” They shimmer in the two fluorescent bathroom lights that are working. “Pretty.”
“Now pucker your lips,” Anita says. She demonstrates. She brushes a light pink shade onto my mouth. It’s not Very Berry, but it somehow fits me better.
“What is it?” I ask.
Anita turns the lip gloss tube over. “Cotton Candy Dream,” she says.
We look in the mirror, me sandwiched in between. We don’t look anything alike, but we’re all wearing braids and have the same slightly silly smiles. I can’t help but think that maybe, in this moment, we kind of look like sisters, too.
They call us down in previously assigned groups for pictures. They name each one after a different value or characteristic Eleanor Roosevelt had, like perseverance or fortitude. I think they figure if we hear the words enough, maybe they’ll sink in.
My group is called during Language Arts. Ms. Arnold’s in the middle of talking about the wonderful world of independent and dependent clauses, so it’s actually an okay time to go. “Will anyone in the Respect group please report to the gymnasium for pictures? Thank you,” comes the announcement over the loudspeaker.
Hector and I and a few other kids head down the hall.
The photographer stands at the doorway, collecting our money envelopes. “Height order,” he says. “Shortest to tallest.” I guess so they only have to adjust the camera a few times.
A teacher monitors the line. Kids are standing back-to-back, comparing heights. I start to head toward the back because I already know I’m one of the tallest kids. Hector hesitates.
“Don’t be shy,” the teacher says, gesturing at Hector. “Shorter kids in the front.”
Joey Peters nudges elbows with another spiky-haired boy. He tilts his head in Hector’s direction. They both snicker.
The teacher claps her hands. She didn’t see. “The quicker we get in line, the quicker we get back to class.” That doesn’t motivate many people.
Over the noise, someone coughs “Shrimp” into their hand. Or maybe it’s “Soap.”
Hector doesn’t hear. Or maybe he pretends not to hear. But I think he does, because I watch his cheeks darken.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“What?” Hector asks.
“What those kids said. About you being a shrimp or whatever.” And now I’m feeling terrible because maybe Hector really didn’t hear them.
Hector smiles ruefully. “I am short. Can’t hide it.”
“But when people say stuff . . .” I’m not quite sure how to finish.
He shrugs. “Lots of people say stuff. Mom says you can’t let it get to you. People write her all the time about her articles. Ridiculous stuff. She says it’s easy to say things. It’s harder to say something that matters. Those are the words you let in. Like, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About me.”
His question takes me by surprise. I take a minute. Finally I say, “You’re nice and know a bunch of random stuff and are good at coming up with project ideas.” I grin. “And you like great books. And those snickerdoodles you brought over were super yummy.”
“Really?” Hector says. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets.
“Yeah.”
His smile grows bigger. “Cool.”
The teacher’s getting more frantic now because most of the kids are still milling around. “You, go,” she says, gesturing for me to move to the back of the line.
Hector gives me a salute and walks up to the front of the line, not even
glancing at Joey Peters or the spiky-haired boy.
I take my place, when Avery Williams from math class taps me on the shoulder. “We need to switch,” she says. “You’re a little bit taller.”
“I don’t think—”
“Stand back-to-back with me,” she says. I do and her hand hits the back of my head, just underneath my braid. She steps in front of me.
Hector and I are on the very outside of the group.
I’m the last one to get my picture taken. Hector waits for me by the door. On the way back to class, he tells me about a cool book his dad brought home for our project. It has a lot of great pictures we could show the class, he says.
I am barely listening, though, because now all I can think about is what I said to Mina that morning.
A PHONE CALL
I take the Pinehurst magnet into my room when I get home and close the door, even though no one else is home.
I figure I have fifteen, maybe thirty minutes to call Evie. I have to time it perfectly to make sure that it’s after Mina leaves Pinehurst but before she walks in the front door. I watch the horn on my unicorn clock spin round and round.
I already have the number keyed in when the clock turns 4:05. I figure I’m okay. It rings once. Twice.
“Pinehurst Residential Treatment Facility,” a receptionist says. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Evie Oliver,” I say. I wipe my hands on Mina’s pants that I’m still wearing. I’ve been rehearsing what I’m going to say all day long.
“I can put you through to her voicemail box if that’s okay.” That won’t do. What if she calls back when Mina is home?
“No. No, that’s not okay. I need to talk to her right now.”
The receptionist’s voice takes on more urgency. “Is this an emergency? Do you need help?”
“No, no. It’s not an emergency. But I do need to talk with her. Please tell her it’s Em Murphy. Mina Murphy’s sister.”
“All right, hon,” the receptionist says. “Please hold. I’ll see what I can do.”
There’re some gentle sounds. Crickets. Birds chirping. A babbling brook. It should be calming, but all it makes me feel is itchy and nervous, like I’m stuck out in nature.
I hear a click on the line and I know Evie’s there. I don’t even wait until she says hello. “You said it was supposed to be a mountain and I understand that mountains are hard to climb but this morning was really, really horrible. And Mina promised she’d do my hair but then she couldn’t and didn’t. I was so, so mad and I said terrible things.” I take a breath. “I said she was a bad sister and now I’m afraid she’s going to die and that the last thing she’ll remember is that I said that about her.”
I pause. Tears are streaming down my face now. “Is Mina going to die?”
“Emily, Emily.” Evie’s voice sounds so kind it makes me cry harder. “We can’t tell what the future holds, but we hope not. We hope that Mina’s going to be okay. She’s really working hard, but the truth is recovery can take years. And yes, it’s a mountain, but mountains have peaks and valleys. It’s not a straight path. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” I say in a small voice.
“And you’ve got to be gentle—”
“I know, I have to be gentle with Mina.”
“With yourself, Emily. This is not an easy thing. It’s okay to get angry or frustrated sometimes. You said what you did because you love her and want her to get better. I hope that maybe you’ll talk about some of these feelings at our next family session. Do you think you might be able to do that?”
“Maybe.”
NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM
“We meet again,” Dr. Franklinton-Morehouse says. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s always nice to have others on the journey with us. I hope you’ve stretched yourself. I hope you’re changing the shape of who you are, redefining yourself.
“Now, I want us to start thinking outside ourselves. So many times, when we start thinking about our interior growth, we forget the people on the outside. For your next challenge, I want you to surprise someone special. This will feel good, yes. But it will also help reinforce the fact that you, too, can cause change. You can impact the life of someone else in a positive way.”
In my notebook, I write down the people in my life who I could surprise:
Mom
Dad
Ms. Arnold
Hector
Anita
I write Mina’s name down underneath all of them. I circle it and I cross it out. It’s been days since the hair incident.
I lie back on my pillow and look at the ceiling until it’s time for Dad to drop me off to meet Hector at the museum.
In the car, Dad’s tapping his hands against the steering wheel to the beat of the music again. I’m thinking maybe he should’ve been a drummer. Maybe for the next midlife crisis.
When we slow to a stop at a red light, he turns the music down.
“So, Button.” He turns to me with soft eyes. “I heard you and Mina got in a fight.”
I grip the notebook in my lap harder. “From who? Mom?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“I didn’t know you guys talked so much.”
“Of course we do. We’re your parents.” He takes a deep breath. “I think you should talk to Mina.”
I frown. I know I need to. There’re a thousand things I want to say to her. I’m sorry and I’m terrible and can we start over? But the words seem to lock up tight whenever I see her at dinner or in the bathroom, and the hurt feels fresh all over again. “I think you need to talk to her, too.”
“I know.” The light turns green, so Dad can’t look at me, but even from the side I can tell his eyes are wet. “I messed up. I really messed up. I guess, I don’t know. This is dumb thinking, but I guess I thought that maybe I was to blame for all of it and it would be better if I just stayed away.”
“Really?”
“And—” There’s a tear trailing down his cheek now. He brushes it away roughly with the back of his hand. I don’t remember the last time I saw him cry. “It was just awful to see her so sick. I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t want to think about what could happen. And maybe that’s why I came on so strong with the bowling and everything. I didn’t want to lose both my girls.”
“You haven’t lost Mina,” I say. “Or me.” I reach out and pat his hand gingerly with my own. “You could call her. You could come on Wednesday with Evie—she’s actually really smart and helpful.” I think about how kind she was on the phone to me, and my eyes start to sting. “You could invite Mina to bowling night.”
“You still want to do bowling night?” He’s hopeful.
I shrug. “Sure. If’s Mina’s there. And we don’t call ourselves the Turkeys.”
Dad laughs. “I think that name’s taken anyways.”
It’s still early Saturday morning, so the museum isn’t crowded at all. Dad drops me off at the front and gives me a kiss good-bye on the forehead. “You’re a smart kid, Button.” I pretend to wipe it off but grin. He waves to Hector and his dad, who are already there waiting.
We follow Hector’s dad through the special employee entrance. The security guard greets him. “Hey there, Dr. Garcia. I see you’ve got two visitors today.”
“I didn’t know your dad was a doctor,” I whisper.
“Just a history one,” Hector whispers back.
Dr. Garcia sounds pretty fancy and important. He puts his hand on Hector’s shoulder. “Ed, you remember my son Hector. And this is his friend Emily. They’re researching for a school project. They’re going to check out the Earth History exhibit.”
“Well, this is the place to be.” Ed prints off two special passes with our names on them. We stick them to our shirts. “Be sure to check out the dinosaurs, too. They’re my favorite.”
Hector’s dad tells us that he’s going to work a little in his office but we can meet him in the food pavilion at eleven o’clock for lunch.
“There’s a book where kids live in a museum,” he says, unfolding it. I think Hector has an interesting fact for just about everything.
“This museum?”
“No, the Met in New York. It’s an art museum. They hide in the bathrooms and go on tours with school groups and take baths in the fountains. Wouldn’t that be awesome? To live here and learn cool things. I bet you could sleep in the dinosaur exhibit.”
“What happens in the end? To the kids,” I say.
Hector grins. “You need to read it.”
“I won’t read it.”
He shrugs. “Then you’ll never know.”
I groan, but I follow him down a long winding corridor to a huge sign that says Earth History, complete with volcanoes and mountains that look like they’re rising up out of the wood. I unzip my backpack and pull out my notebook and pen. I flip to an empty page.
The exhibit is set up chronologically and starts at the beginning, like you’ve traveled back in time to the very earliest days of earth. There are written signs and gigantic picture panels that have movable parts or light-up components where you can answer questions about what you just learned.
I take a lot of notes because everything is pretty fascinating:
EARTH HISTORY
Earth used to be made of lava and was pretty much a giant volcano.
We could not have breathed in early atmosphere. (Eek!)
Earth is 4.5 billion years old.
Earth change is always happening! Evolution of animals (simple, one-celled to us; extinction), continents moved around because of shifting plates.
I stop when I get to the display that says Plate Tectonics at the top. Hector’s already there. He’s pressing the button that shows the movement of the continents. Every time he presses it, the glowing continents appear to move—going from one giant landmass to where they are today. There’s a section called Evidence, too. It has a little detective and magnifying glass at the top.
Things That Surprise You Page 13
