by Betty Hicks
“I give up,” groaned Mom.
“Does that mean I don’t have to pick up my toys?” asked Parker.
Mom rolled her eyes, which was her way of saying, Duh—of course you do.
“Eric has to help,” Parker argued. “He played with them, too.”
“I doubt that,” said Mom and Frank both at the same time.
Eric slouched by on his way down the hall.
“Tell them!” shouted Parker.
“Tell them what?” mumbled Eric from beyond the doorway.
“That you played with my stuff.”
Eric sauntered back into the room. He leaned his tall, thin body against the door frame, closed the fat paperback he’d been reading, and examined the clutter on the floor. Tugging nervously on the bottom of his black T-shirt, he stretched it over his long, baggy gym shorts.
“Yeah. Okay,” he said matter-of-factly.
Frank and Mom traded looks. Mom’s showed surprise. Frank’s hid something else. Irritation?
“What?” Parker blurted, eyeing them both angrily. “You thought I was a liar?”
Frank turned to Parker with concern all over his dust-streaked face. Even his glasses were sprinkled with tiny particles. “No, Parker. Of course n—”
“Mud Boy,” sighed Parker, wondering how clearly Frank could actually see him through the grit.
“Of course we don’t think you’re a liar,” Frank continued. “We’re just surprised that—”
“That I was playing Star Wars?” said Eric, tossing his book on a chair and bending over to scoop up a tiny Luke Skywalker and three hooded jawas.
“Well … yeah,” said Frank, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a wad of his sweatshirt.
“Come on, Mud Boy,” muttered Eric. “Let’s get this mess out of here.”
“See!” Parker exclaimed with satisfaction. “Eric knows my name.”
Parker thought Eric was about as cool as it gets. Only, for some reason, he was a lot more fun when nobody else was around. In fact, this whole new stepfamily thing wasn’t bad, except for some of the new rules. Like not recording over a TV show without having to ask a million people if it’s theirs. Or taking turns talking at the dinner table.
Not that the whole idea hadn’t freaked him out the first time he’d heard about it. Mom had sat him down, all serious like, facing him on the sofa and holding his hand.
“I didn’t do it,” Parker had announced.
“Do what?” Mom asked.
“Whatever it is you look so worried about.”
“Parker, honey,” she’d said. “You like Frank, don’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty fun.”
“Well, good. Because Frank thinks you’re pretty fun, too.”
“He said that?” Somehow pretty fun didn’t sound like something Frank would say.
“Honey,” said Mom. “Frank and I want to get married.”
Maybe that hadn’t been the very next thing Mom had said, but it was the part he remembered. That and the funny feeling in his stomach. Followed by all the questions that flooded his brain. Where will I live? Will Eric and V live there, too? Will they boss me like Lily does? Will this make Frank my dad? What about my real dad? Will Mom still read me books at bedtime? And go to movies on Saturdays? Or will she be with him all the time? Does Lily know yet? I bet she hates it. She won’t be the oldest anymore. But I’ll still be the youngest. I’ll always be the youngest.
“Sweetie,” said Mom. “What are you thinking?”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
Mom’s face sagged so far Parker thought it might slip right off her head and slide across the floor.
“We’ll have fun,” she pleaded, almost in a whisper. “You’ve always wanted a brother. Remember? And a dad who doesn’t live a thousand miles away, and—”
“A younger brother,” said Parker. “I wanted a younger brother.”
“But Eric is great. And he’ll have his license next year. He can take you—”
“You don’t get it, Mom.” Parker looked her in the eye. “I’ve always been the youngest.” He crossed his arms and squeezed them against his ribs as if he were suddenly cold. “Now,” he grumbled, “I’m going to be even younger.”
The muscles in her mouth twitched. “Oh, Parker,” she said gently, wrapping her arms around him.
He was pretty sure she was trying not to laugh, and it made his face flush red-hot as he buried it in the softness of her sweater.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Mom soothed. “You’ll see.”
And she was right. Everything was fine.
V didn’t boss him much at all. She bossed Lily instead.
Frank let him hammer stuff with all his leftover wood scraps. Mom still read to him, not quite as much as before, but enough. He had a cat and a dog. And Eric was even better than a snow day.
ERIC
Journal Entry #169
“I’m growing older but not up.”—Jimmy Buffet
He got that right.
Journal Entry #170
Dad’s on my case.
Again.
“You’re the oldest. Act like it.”
Maybe he didn’t say that, but he thought it. I heard it in his voice.
If only I could talk to him. About Ben. About how I’m not Ben.
Is this new family supposed to replace him, or is that still my job? For sure, I could use the extra help. But there’s too many people. I have to stake out the TV hours ahead. Dinner’s so jammed I can’t cut a pork chop without somebody catching an elbow—or an attitude. Six of us. We need a bigger table.
Eight if you count Bubbles and Snowman. That cat and my dog get along better than the people. Which is not to say they get along well. Just better.
And what’s the deal with V? All of a sudden, my sister’s seriously whacked. Bosses everybody. OK—Let her be the oldest.
Lily—she’s OK. Just quiet.
Mud Boy—he’s the best. One very cool little kid.
If Ben were here, could I go back to being me? Or would it just be more flipping crowded?
Lily
I will not call my brother Mud Boy.
V
Call me Saint V.
I bought Lily sunflower seeds—with my own money—and I showed her how to plant them.
I even squeezed my tomato plant project closer together to give her a spot with the best sun.
“I’m very proud of you,” Dad told me.
My insides bubbled up—happy. Even better than when I get to buy new clothes.
And Dad doesn’t know the real reason I’m growing tomatoes. That’s going to be a surprise. He’s bound to think that sending soccer balls to kids in Iraq is an awesome idea.
Ben was one of the best soccer goalies in Chicago—before he got sick.
And my plants are already so green and leafy, I’ll make a fortune—enough for lots of balls. I plan to charge two dollars a plant, which is a lot, but that’s going to include me actually planting them in the yards of the people who buy them. Besides, it’s a good cause.
And—who knew—Lily’s not so bad. A little stubborn maybe, but smarter than you’d guess if you just went by the grades she gets in school.
She actually saved Snowman’s life.
He’d been flying around the backyard in a total frenzy while we planted Lily’s sunflowers. He was leaping up, over and over, like he used to do before he got too old to catch a Frisbee.
Only now, old or not, he was trying to snatch buzzing cicadas right out of midair.
At first I thought they were locusts and we’d been stricken with a miniature biblical plague, but Dad said no, they were cicadas. I figured they were just one more weird North Carolina phenomenon, like all the tea being sweet and iced, or traffic stopping voluntarily for a funeral procession, or sneakers being called tennis shoes … I could go on and on.
Anyway, our yard had a bunch of screeching insects flying around, and a dog that loved to bite moving bugs.
He’d swallowed who knows how many cicadas when he started gagging. The coughing changed to wheezing. All of a sudden, the poor little dog was desperately sucking in air that had nowhere to go.
Lily dropped her prized seed pack and sprinted over, grabbed him up like a doll, and administered the Heimlich maneuver for babies. I know because I learned it when I took my Red Cross babysitting course, but I would never have thought of using it on a dog.
It worked!
Maybe it was a coincidence, and he would have coughed up all those scratchy bugs blocking his throat anyway, but I have to give Lily credit for fast thinking.
She’s clearly got potential, and I think I could be an awesome sister.
I could teach her tons. Like when I told her to water her seeds with the sprinkling can, not squirt them with the garden hose, or they’d wash away.
Or maybe I could talk her into wearing clothes that actually fit. Lily isn’t really fat, but in my tight-fitting hand-me-down tops, she’s shaped more like a grape than a girl. Her oversized T-shirts aren’t much better. They make her look like an underage bag lady.
I wonder if she’d let me cut her hair.
Lily
My sunflower is the only thing that’s mine.
Bubbles used to be mostly my cat, but now, because V likes to feed her, she hangs out with both of us. Which is okay, but that’s not all.
I have to share my room with Parker. I have to share Parker with Eric.
And I have to share my Mom with everybody—Frank, Eric, V, Parker, five carpools, her computer customers, and every cashier at Bi-Lo.
Mom makes so many trips to the grocery store that they all know her by name and purchase profile. I bet she’s the only customer in town who buys bread, milk, orange juice, six kinds of cereal, a gallon of ice cream, two bags of Doritos, and is right back in line four hours later because it all ran out.
“I can’t seem to get the hang of feeding six people.” She pushes her hair back, grabs her car keys, and bolts out the door … again.
Even my clothes used to be V’s. The hand-me-down tops that she outgrew or, more likely, that went flying out of style about two seconds ago.
My friend Cassie claims this is a good thing.
“V has the coolest clothes on the planet,” she says to me as we walk to English class.
“Look at me,” I say, pulling down the hem of my shirt, hoping it will stay stretched.
Obediently, she checks me out.
“You look soooo good!” she shouts, emphasizing “soooo” by flinging her hands wildly into the air.
“Cassie,” I say flatly, “my stomach is showing. On V, that is hot. On me, it is not.”
“Well…” Cassie hesitates, clearly confounded by the undeniable truth I have just uttered. “You have great teeth.”
I do have great teeth. Straight and white, not too big. They’re my best feature. But a winning smile doesn’t hide any of the leftover baby fat clinging to my short self.
“I am a baggy T-shirt person,” I state. “Not a show-your-belly-button style-queen.”
“Okay,” she concedes, “so maybe it’s not you. But I would love”—she flings her hands again—“to have her wardrobe.”
“Wardrobe?” I shriek. “How old are you? Fifty? A hundred? Wardrobe?” I start laughing hysterically. “How about her garments? Would you like to have her garments?”
“Outfits!” she shouts at me, her face flushing deep red. “I’d love to have her outfits.”
I stifle my giggles. Cassie and I cannot help that we are uncool. Besides, neither one of us has what it takes to wear V’s clothes. Popularity, confidence, and amazing abs. That’s what it takes.
Where V has sleek, Cassie and I have slump. But I don’t tell her that.
After all, Cassie and my sunflower are the only two things I don’t have to share with a million other people.
So, I try to remember to be extra nice to Cassie, and I water my sunflower every day.
V showed me how to plant it—where she wanted it to go. And she paid for the seed pack—$1.19 at Wal-Mart.
It’s that kind of stuff that confuses me. Is she being a power freak … or helpful? Generous … or tricking me into owing her?
Either way, most of the seeds washed away because, when V wasn’t there, I squirted them too hard with the hose.
One came up, though. And it’s mine. A green shoot that pushed up through the earth, as thick as a broom handle and almost as sturdy. It’s growing faster than Jack’s beanstalk, and just as determined to reach the sky.
Parker
“The Spicewood Cafeteria!” Parker cried out enthusiastically. It was his favorite place to eat, and Frank had just asked everybody where they wanted to go for dinner.
V made a face like she’d swallowed a bee.
“Pizza Hut,” suggested Lily.
“Mort’s Deli,” said Eric.
V put her face back together and said, “I could cook spaghetti here.”
“We’re eating out,” said Eric in a voice that implied, What’re you? Stupid?
“Fine,” she muttered. “Then let’s go to Vito’s. We haven’t had Italian in forever.”
“Pizza Hut is Italian,” said Lily.
“No, it’s not,” said V firmly. “Pizza was invented by Americans.”
“Since whe—,” Lily started to disagree, then stopped, sagged, and returned her attention to the word puzzle she’d been working at the kitchen table.
Parker was surprised that his sister shut up so easily. She never used to do that. Where was the Lily who played War and Slapjack with him and argued over every single rule like it mattered?
Who knows? At least she was still smart-Lily. He was forever amazed that his sister could do the daily jumble in the newspaper. He could do the kiddy one—the one with three- and four-letter words. But Lily solved the grown-up one, almost every day.
Before Mom had married Frank, Lily also made decisions about where they ate out, because just about anything was fine with Mom and Parker. And Lily had great ideas.
But tonight Parker had a preference.
“The Spicewood Cafeteria,” he begged. “Please.”
He wanted to ask Papa Bud about the cicadas. He’d been collecting dead ones in a shoebox. He’d seen billions more on the news though, covering up places like Washington, DC. Would Charlotte, North Carolina, get that many? Papa Bud would know.
And, he couldn’t stop picturing the plates—fried chicken, Jell-O, strawberry shortcake—which he would slide out from under the protective glass as he pushed his tray down the line. He always picked the same food at the cafeteria. Since the Jell-O sat on a piece of lettuce and had canned peaches jelled into the middle, Mom let him count it as a fruit and a vegetable.
“Chicken Cacciatore,” V tempted her dad. “With a side of spaghetti.” Then she flashed her perfect smile at Mom and cooed, “Eggplant Parmesan. With a bruschetta appetizer. Come on, you guys have been counting carbs all week. Splurge!”
Mom smiled back. “I’m just happy we’re all doing something together. You kids decide.”
Was she loony? thought Parker. Was this the same mom who claimed he didn’t pay attention! Everybody had made different choices. Four restaurants. How had she missed that?
There was only one way to decide. Parker shoved his balled-up fist toward Eric, who was leaning against the kitchen counter.
Eric straightened up and pushed his fist out to meet Parker’s. They both pumped them up and down three times, then Eric ended with his palm open. Parker stopped with his index and middle finger extended out in a V.
Scissors cuts paper.
“I win!” shouted Parker. “That means Eric has to side with me.”
“No way!” shrieked V.
Lily continued to work her puzzle.
“Let’s vote,” gloated Parker. “All in favor of the cafeteria…”
Parker and Eric raised their hands.
“I
guess that’s it then,” acknowledged Frank, grabbing his car keys off the dragonfly hook by the door. “Let’s go.”
“Shotgun!” claimed Parker.
“Dream on,” grumbled V.
“Not so fast, Mud Boy.” Frank reached out and snagged him by the collar with his index finger. “Your mother has permanent privileges for riding shotgun. It was one of our wedding vows.”
“Aw…”
“And go put on a clean shirt.”
Parker looked down at his T-shirt. He knew it had a huge locomotive somewhere underneath the dirt and used to say “Tweetsie Railroad” before the “Tweet” part got ripped off. He’d spent most of the afternoon playing King of the Hill with five other boys on a gravel pile behind the Fishers’ unfinished house.
He had lost twelve out of fourteen times.
“Way to go!” Eric had said when Parker told him about it. He’d held up his hand to high-five him.
“Huh?” Parker had returned the congratulating slap, but he didn’t know why.
“Do the math a better way,” Eric said.
“Huh?” Parker repeated.
“Mud Boy,” said Eric. “Think. It means you won twice.”
Parker bolted down the hall, happily remembering Eric’s praise, and into the room he shared with Lily.
“Don’t leave me,” he shouted back over his shoulder.
Hurriedly, he riffled through the neat stack of laundry that Mom had left on the bed for Lily and him to put away. An extra-large, super-old, Powerpuff Girls T-shirt, two much smaller jazzy pink and lavender tops, a bra. Well, Lily called it a bra, but it was so flat it didn’t even have cups. It had puckers.
Maybe he was only nine, but he knew what a bra was supposed to look like. He’d seen one of Aunt May’s hanging on a clothesline in back of her house, and it had cups so big eagles could have nested in them.
It was weird having girl stuff in his room.
Mom said it was only for two years, until Eric went away to college. Then everyone would have his own room. He didn’t really mind, though. It meant he never had to be alone.
“Wait for me!” he yelled, pulling on his favorite shirt, the one with a triceratops’s head wrapping around to the front. It was clean, except for a blueberry stain that would never come out.
