“How do you even know from here, Jack? Stop kidding around.”
Jilly’s leaned forward already and says, “That’s a bald eagle, all right.”
Tiffany stares at it. “Really?”
“Really,” Dad says.
“God, it’s beautiful.”
Dad goes to say something probably sappy and gross about how Tiffany is beautiful too but he stops himself and concentrates on finding a parking space. We all get out and stop at the bathroom.
Tiffany can’t stop looking up.
“You should pee now. It’s a long trail,” I say.
“I didn’t even know we had bald eagles,” she says.
“Come on,” I say, and I take her to the last bathroom we’ll see for three hours.
We take it slow to the South Lookout. It would usually only take us fifteen minutes, but we talk. Mostly Jilly, really. I learn that Tiffany is: a big fan of mystery novels and coffee ice cream. She works at some place that sells insurance or something. She left home when she was fifteen and doesn’t really talk to her family.
“Not even your mom?” Jilly asks.
“Nope. Not even my mom,” Tiffany answers.
“What’d you do when you ran away?” I asked.
“I didn’t really run away,” she says. “I just moved out and started living with my aunt and uncle. Got a job. Moved in with my boyfriend eventually.”
“When you were fifteen?” Jilly asks.
“No. No—more like seventeen I think. I can’t really remember. It was a hard time.”
“Did you go to college?” I ask.
“No.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I want to try it now, but I still really don’t know what I want to do,” she says. “I think I want to help kids like me.”
“Insurance kids?” Jilly asks.
“Kids who were homeless. Stuff like that. Bad homes.”
“You were homeless?” I ask.
“There are a lot of different ways to be homeless,” Tiffany says. “It’s not just what they show you on TV.”
“We don’t watch TV,” Jilly says.
“Well, then it’s not just people sleeping on the street with all their stuff in bags,” Tiffany says. “There are a lot of people who don’t have homes. A lot of kids. Even your age,” she says. “I think it’s disgusting how we don’t help them.”
“You mean there’s ten-year-olds that are homeless?” Jilly asks.
“Yep.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yep.”
“I think you should go to college and help them,” Jilly says.
I don’t say anything because I’m so busy wondering why I thought I knew Tiffany when I didn’t know her at all. If you’d have asked me last night at dinner to write her childhood story, I’d have put her in dancing lessons and in front of department store mirrors, trying on different makeup. I’d have told you she was a cheerleader. I suddenly realize how judgmental I am.
I’m no different from Leah Jones or all the other kids who used to make fun of Malik for not being able to eat nuts. And what’s so wrong with cheerleaders anyway?
We get to the South Lookout and I climb out to the rocks. Dad looks concerned because I’m quiet and jumping from boulder to boulder. I’m not doing this because of Tiffany, like Dad probably thinks. It’s not about her. It’s not about Dad, who’s holding Jilly’s hand and pointing out birds circling the valley. It’s about me. And middle school. And divorce.
That’s my present constellation. Me, middle school, and divorce. It’s an angry constellation. It’s not even glowing red. It’s on fire.
I feel like I just lost a chunk of my life.
I gave up on myself.
I gave up on being an exception.
There are at least fifteen hawks flying around today. The eagle must have found something tasty to eat because it’s gone. Jilly says, “Look!” and points.
The kestrel. So little, and yet so powerful. So common, but normal people hardly ever talk about it.
Jilly and I sit on the edge of a rock while Dad shows Tiffany the view. Now that Tiffany lives with Dad, I’m wondering if I’m too late to make things right.
“So, Monday,” I say to Jilly. “I need you to do me a favor when you go to the library at school.”
“Okay,” she says.
“It’s a secret mission.”
“I’m good at those.”
“You can’t tell anyone about the mission,” I say. “And when it’s over we will never speak of it again.”
“Promise.”
“Okay,” I say.
“What’s the mission?” she asks.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow night. Once we’re home.”
“So why are you asking me now?”
“Just wanted to make sure you’re on the team,” I say.
“You okay?” she asks. “Isn’t it weird that Tiffany lives there now?”
“It’s totally weird,” I say.
We decide to skip going to the movies. We’re all tired after a whole day on the mountain. By the time we left, we were starving. I had two grilled cheese sandwiches at the diner on the way home. Tiffany had a grilled cheese sandwich, too. Dad didn’t roll his eyes at either of us.
Jilly has to go to the bathroom before dessert so I go with her and she says, “She’s not as bad as I thought.”
I say, “Yeah. She’s okay.”
Jilly seems to relax when I say this because I think she looks up to me. This whole divorce business makes her watch me for cues. So I figure I better keep my cues right.
“Dad seems happy,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “I hope Mom gets a boyfriend.”
“Mom doesn’t need a boyfriend.”
“I know. But I hope she does. You know—because it’s nice to have someone to hold hands with or something.”
Jilly has been married at recess twice. She probably knows what she’s talking about.
When we come back from the bathroom, Dad has a bright idea about going stargazing in our old favorite spot—down by the nature reserve, where it’s darker than dark if the moon isn’t out, which it is. “You can show Tiff the stars. What do you think?” he says.
I know Jilly is watching me for cues.
I say yes.
It’s a full moon, but clear. Dad puts two blankets out and Tiffany sits on one while Jilly and I lie back on ours and look up at the sky. Dad has to go back to the car for a sweatshirt and Tiffany takes the opportunity to have us alone.
“I really appreciate you girls being so nice to me this weekend,” she says.
“You’re nice,” Jilly says. “We’re nice.”
I point up. “You missed it. Meteor. Two o’clock.”
“Crap,” Jilly says.
“You saw a meteor?” Tiffany says.
“Shooting star,” I say. “Same thing.”
“Oh. Phew. I thought you meant something else.”
“I think Liberty should have a boyfriend,” Jilly says.
“Shut up,” I say. “Tiffany, look up. You’re going to miss the next one.”
Dad brings her a sweatshirt and Tiffany moves back to where Dad is and curls up in the crook of his arm. Jilly doesn’t see it and I’m glad. About five minutes pass.
“Seven o’clock! Did anyone see that?” I point.
“Darn it. I was looking over there,” Tiffany says.
“Missed it,” Dad says.
“You need paper for a map?” he asks me.
“Nah. I don’t do that anymore.”
He sits up. Mission accomplished.
“I’m getting cold,” Tiffany says.
“Me too,” Dad says.
“I’m not,” I say.
We leave anyway. As I get in the car, Dad lifts my chin so he can meet me eye to eye and I do it, but I think I look mad. I probably am mad. I don’t know. I’m not dumb, but I don’t need all that lovey crap right there in front of my face. Dad was never subtle about stuff, I gu
ess.
The stars aren’t subtle either. I know because I couldn’t see anything in the sky tonight but the ring. I can still see Mom and Dad hugging in my head. How she whispered something in his ear. I know this whole bargain is like buying a lottery ticket, but I’m trying to think positive. Deep down, I already feel bad for Tiffany when Dad tells her he’s coming back to us.
I fall asleep the minute I hit our bunk beds and Jilly wakes me up early because she’s awake and Dad and Tiffany aren’t yet.
Jilly says, “You should show her the meteorite.”
“What?”
“She doesn’t know anything about science.”
I rub my face. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“So?”
“You know the rules,” I say. I turn toward the wall and curl up.
“Those rules are for when we’re at our house. This is different.”
I try to close my eyes and fall asleep but I know Jilly’s lonely. I can’t leave her like that, even if I’m lonely, too.
I sit up. Hit my head on the ceiling. Say “Ouch!” as loud as I can so Dad and Tiffany will wake up. It’s two weekends a month. Dad can get his Sunday sleep-ins during the two weekends he doesn’t have us.
We go downstairs and Jilly puts the TV on. I put some bread in the toaster and press the lever down. Twice. Three times. Until the smoke alarm goes off and wakes everybody up.
By the time we drive home, Dad is chatty and normal.
“Are you gonna fight to have us part-time?” Jilly asks.
Dad is quiet.
“I think it’s good the way it is,” I say.
I miss Mom. Two days and I miss her. I don’t know what I’d do if I’d have to spend a whole week away from her. Not like I’m not independent, but I just need her around, is all.
We take the right turn onto Lou’s lane and I try to think of something else to say but I can’t think of anything. I want to go to my room and tell the rock about Tiffany. I want to eat dinner with Mom. I want to sleep in my bed.
Our goodbyes are fast. Jilly gives Dad a hug and I do, too. Then Dad puts his hand out for a fist bump and I give him one but it’s weird.
“You’ll get used to middle school, I promise,” he says.
I didn’t say a thing about middle school the whole weekend. “Middle school is fine,” I say.
He nods—real cool-like—and says, “Tiffany told me it can be a real hard place. That’s all. And I miss my Liberty.”
You’d really think he’d know what my name means by now.
I wonder if Dad’s watch stopped on January 18 when he moved out. I think he wants me to be twelve-year-old Liberty forever.
It’s complicated but it will all be over in a few weeks. I’ll be able to look at the stars and maybe even make maps again. And Dad will move back in with us. Maybe Tiffany can live in Dad’s town house by herself. That would probably be great for her.
Mom is talking to Jilly when I walk inside from Dad’s car. Jilly’s talking really fast and isn’t really looking at Mom’s face. I’m looking at Mom’s face and something is wrong.
“She really didn’t think we had bald eagles here!” Jilly says. “So then we saw one on the way to the parking lot. Anyway, she’s nice and she makes good French toast.”
“Not as good as yours, though,” I say.
“Hey, kiddo!” Mom says. I give her a big hug. “You guys had a good weekend?”
“It was nice, yeah. Hawk Mountain is always good,” I say. “Jilly got to see her kestrels and we went down the River of Rocks.”
Mom smiles. “You can talk about Tiffany if you want.”
“She’s nice,” I say.
“She was homeless!” Jilly says.
Mom looks surprised.
“When she was a kid,” I say.
“That’s horrible,” Mom says.
Jilly says, “Did you know there are kids my age who’re homeless?”
“It’s sad,” Mom says.
“I’m going upstairs,” I say.
Mom’s gone back to looking like something’s wrong.
Mom tells Jilly to get her laundry together and add it to mine so she can do the wash. I flop down next to the meteorite.
“Mom isn’t herself,” I say.
“She’s fine,” the rock says.
“I think Jilly talked too much about Tiffany,” I say.
“She’s fine,” the rock says.
“Did she cry at all this weekend?” I ask. “I’m worried that she doesn’t cry.”
“She cried a lot before your dad left,” the rock says. “You just didn’t know it.”
“Huh.”
Maybe I think Mom is my mom the way Dad thinks I’m his Liberty. I shouldn’t expect her to do certain stuff. I should just let her be whatever she is.
Jilly bursts into tears before we’re halfway through dinner. Old-New Jilly. She’s inconsolable because she thinks that she hurt Mom’s feelings by talking about Tiffany.
“I’m fine,” Mom says. “Really. You don’t have to feel bad at all.”
“If he doesn’t love you anymore, then he doesn’t love us, either,” Jilly cries.
Mom stops eating and thinks about that. If I was to guess, it hurt. “Love isn’t something you can just turn off,” she says. “Your dad and I had a lot of great years together. We have you two together and we always will. One day maybe I’ll get a boyfriend, too. I won’t be doing it to hurt anyone. It’ll just be because I found someone nice to hang out with. That’s all.”
Jilly looks angry. She says, “Well it’s not fair that he found someone first.”
“It’s not a race,” Mom says.
“I just don’t like that she lives there,” Jilly says. “It means we’ll never get Dad to ourselves again.”
“We will. Or maybe we won’t. Maybe we can teach Tiffany how to make a campfire and stuff like that. Or maybe she can teach us whatever she knows,” I say.
Mom gets up from the table and puts the rest of her dinner in the trash can. She doesn’t do it fast or angry, but something isn’t right.
While Jilly and I finish dinner, she cleans out the toaster.
I say, “Jilly, can you take your bath first tonight? I need to talk to Mom about algebra.”
“Sure,” she says. “But remember—you promised me a bedtime story … about the library.” She winks at me.
When I hear the bath running and Jilly’s singing echoing around the bathroom I go to Mom, who’s still wiping the countertops down in the kitchen. She turns to me and says, “He didn’t tell me she moved in. I had no idea.” And then she cries. Big tears. She sits at the kitchen table and puts her hands over her face and I stand next to her and rub her back and tell her it’s going to be okay. She says she’s sorry and I tell her there’s nothing to be sorry about. She says, “He didn’t tell me,” and I say I know and that it’s okay. I get her the box of tissues. Jilly keeps singing a song in her bath and doesn’t know this is happening.
Mom says, “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
I say, “There’s nothing wrong with crying. It’s okay, Mom. It really is.”
At this, she sobs out another hundred sobs and her tears drop onto the tabletop and start to make a puddle.
Time moves in a different way when you have a sobbing mother. It feels like Jilly just got into the bath but she’s already in her room, still singing. I keep rubbing Mom’s back and being fine.
“I don’t want Jilly to see me like this,” she says. “I’m going to take a walk. You go have your shower. Tell Jilly I’ll tuck her in when I’m back.”
“I promised her a bedtime story,” I say. “Take your time. It’s gonna be okay, Mom. I promise.”
Jilly is excited about the mission, but she doesn’t know what the mission is yet.
I say, “This is a sister mission. Totally secret, okay?”
“Of course,” she says. “We covered that.”
&nbs
p; “This isn’t going to make me look like a good person. But you have to let me explain.”
“Just tell me the mission. I can do it,” she says. “You look like you’re about to cry. I don’t want you to cry.”
“I need you to get something from the West El library for me.” I get a piece of paper and draw a diagram. “So if you go to the R section in fiction, you’ll see this shelf,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
“Right under the second shelf, this one here,” I point, “you’ll see three plastic circles in the wooden shelf. They’re about the size of a quarter. A little bigger. They cover big holes—like a plug in a drain. Like those,” I show her a smaller version in her bedside table.
Jilly nods.
I point to the one on the right. “You have to pry off this one—it’ll come off easy enough if you use your student ID card or something thin and flat like that. Once you pop it off, inside will be an item,” I say. I can’t even say the right word. “Get the item and put the plastic circle back into its hole.”
“Item?”
“It’s a ring,” I say.
“Whose ring is it?” she asks.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” I say. “And you can’t get caught.”
“I won’t. I already told you. Secret sister mission. I get it. But you gotta tell me whose ring it is.”
I say, “Put the ring in your pocket or wherever is safe so it won’t fall out. Bring it home to me and don’t show it to ANYONE.”
“What kind of ring is it?”
“It’s like a diamond ring. Looks like a diamond ring anyway.”
“Why did you hide a diamond ring?” Jilly asks.
“Long story. And from now on, let’s call it the item. It’s like a code word.”
I look at Jilly. She looks like she knows I’m lying. But then she says, “Okay. No problem. I’ll report back tomorrow with the item.”
“Don’t get caught,” I say.
“I won’t get caught.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. My stomach turns and I feel clammy.
“You sound like you robbed a bank or something.”
“If you feel in any way like you’re going to get caught, drop the mission.”
The Year We Fell From Space Page 11
