by Betty Hicks
“I did,” I answered as casually as I could manage under the circumstances.
Mary Beth appeared in the doorway. “You did?”
Or, to be fair, maybe it was “You did?”
But I’m betting my money on the first one.
I waited for her to notice that the den had been dusted and vacuumed.
“V,” she said warmly, “thank you so much. Imagine”—she turned and wandered back into the kitchen—“I can get out a pan now without an avalanche.”
Silence. Then the sound of sizzling sausage drifted out, followed by the smell.
I felt half happy, half cheated.
“Did you notice the den?” I called after her.
“What, honey? I can’t hear you over the sausage.”
“The den!” I shouted.
“What men?” she shouted back.
I sighed, pushed myself up off the couch, and strolled into the kitchen.
“I vacuumed and dusted the den,” I said.
Mary Beth flipped a sizzling patty, then lowered the spatula and stared at me through her hair straggles. She pushed them back with the back of her hand and said, “You did what?”
Emphasis definitely on what.
“Are you all right?” she asked, not even trying to hide her puzzled look. Hadn’t Parker or Lily ever done anything around here besides make their beds and empty a wastebasket? They’re not babies.
Are they?
“Do you have friends coming over?” she asked, as if that were the only answer that made sense.
“No,” I said. “I just like to help out. You know, I helped Dad a lot.”
Her blank face clearly stated that she didn’t know. She followed it with a curious head tilt. Yes! I had her attention! Finally.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Sausage biscuits and cheese omelets,” she said, slowly turning over another hot patty. I watched the evidence of a useful V trying to force its way into her closed mind.
“Do we have any blueberries?” I asked.
Her head popped up so fast you’d think I’d said something weird, like do we have any rare Egyptian pomegranates?
“None fresh,” she answered. “There’s some frozen. I could go to the store.”
“No!” I shouted. Then quieter, “Frozen are fine. I’ll make dessert. Okay?”
She looked up at me with the same eyes that Lily had yesterday. Super-wide-open, staring at the fairy that no one believed in, but there she was. Real.
Me.
Parker
“This isn’t about you, Parker,” said Lily. “It’s between V and me. We’ll work it out. Stop worrying.”
But he couldn’t—because it was about him. But he wouldn’t confess. Ever. He just couldn’t.
Last night he’d dreamed he was in the middle of a game of dodge ball, but there was nowhere to dodge. He balanced on the top of the Fishers’ gravel pile while Eric, Mom, Lily, V, and Frank threw basketballs at him. Whap! The ball hit his hand and his hand fell off. Blap! A direct hit to his leg, which broke off above the knee and tumbled, bloodless, down the mountain of gravel. Boom! Off went his head.
All his body parts kept growing back, faster and faster, only to be knocked off. Again and again.
Stop! Don’t! he tried to shout in his sleep, but no real words came out, just crazy mangled sounds.
He remembered Lily waking him up, soothing him, saying everything was okay.
If only.
Next time she wanted to play cards, he would.
Lily
I knock on Eric’s door.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” he answers.
He is so weird.
“Lily!” he says, looking up from a skinny blue book. He’s sitting on his bed, propped against a pillow with his knees bent up like mountain peaks.
He sounds surprised. That makes two of us, because I’m surprised to be here.
I glance around his room, amazed at how incredibly bare it is compared to mine and Parker’s. We have stuff everywhere. Eric has nothing. A bookshelf full of old, beat-up books. A desk. One notebook computer with a skull drawing pasted on top. Tennis shoes that stink lying on the floor next to three socks. None of the socks match—unless you count the fact that all of them are dingy. Tan sheets on his bed—I guess Belks doesn’t carry black ones. No bedspread. No posters.
It’s as if he doesn’t plan to stay more than one night.
“What’s up?” he asks.
I panic. I haven’t thought this out. What do I say first?
I have a plan to send soccer balls to Iraq? I have a plan to undo what I did to V’s tomatoes? I have a plan because I’ve really missed having plans?
“I need your help,” I say.
“Me?” I swear, his eyes make a quick trip around the room to see if there’s anyone else I could be talking to.
“You want me to rename your cat?” he asks.
“Huh?” Is he nuts? He’s grinning though, so I guess it’s some kind of a joke. For the first time, I notice some of V’s movie-star good looks in Eric’s face. He should smile more.
“Your cat. You know—Bubbles.” He shrugs and slowly shakes his head. “Her name is as bad as Snowman’s.”
“What’s the matter with ‘Bubbles’?” I blurt out defensively, even though I know exactly what’s wrong with it. It’s a name I’ve wanted to take back a hundred times. I named her after a Powerpuff Girl a million years ago—when I was into all that.
He raises his eyes at me without lifting his head.
“Okay,” I confess. “It’s a dumb name. I know. And it doesn’t fit. But what’s so bad about ‘Snowman’? He’s white. He’s male. He’s round.”
“It’s a name only a little kid would dream up.” Eric puts his book down on the bed, stretches his bony elbows up toward the ceiling, and yawns. “No imagination.”
“But when you named him, you were a little kid,” I argue.
He drops his arms and looks at me funny. I wonder if he’s wishing he was still a little kid. His dad expects a lot sometimes.
Whoa! I think, picturing him sprawled on the floor, playing with Parker, shooting baby laser guns at Darth Vader and the Incredible Hulk. Does he want to be younger?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Doesn’t he read college-level books?
I still play with dolls sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to be the oldest again.
Weird—we both want to be the opposite thing.
Then I think about the fact that we both gave our pets stupid baby names, and that we both wish we could undo them.
What else did we have in common?
I think about the lame names some more.
“We can’t rename them, you know. If we did that, they wouldn’t be them.”
“No,” he says, sounding tired, then looking up at me with what I can only describe as respect. “They really wouldn’t.”
ERIC
Journal Entry #177
The old man is fighting the fish. Still. He is tired, surprisingly strong, and lonely.
Lily showed up in my room today. When was the last time she did that? When we moved in? When I told her what a metaphor was? No wonder she never came back.
Now, she needs help with a project—V was sending soccer balls to Iraq.
Who knew my sister could be so cool?
Actually, I knew, but not lately. Lately she’s been toxic waste.
Lily wants to round up aluminum cans for the next four months—until I get my license. Then I drive them to the recycling center with her, and collect money.
I said sure, but I doubt she’ll find enough cans to buy a Ping-Pong ball, much less a soccer one. She can’t drive anywhere, and our neighborhood has about as much aluminum can litter as the front porch of the White House.
Is she doing it to make V happy? Or to make her feel guilty for not apologizing?
She seems too put-together for that.
Should I stay out of this? O
r should I help her come up with a better idea?
Would that fulfill Dad’s leadership requirement?
Parker
Eric came up with the best idea in the history of the world—a Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament. Parker couldn’t wait.
One—it was going to be so much fun.
Two—it was going to make everybody forget about who killed Lily’s flower.
Eric was in charge of buying prizes. Lily would head up advertising, because she’s great with words, even if she thinks she’s not. V was supposed to figure out all the math, like how much they could spend on prizes and still make enough money for soccer balls. Only, so far, she wasn’t interested.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she’d said, then gone back to cracking eggs into a big mixing bowl. Yesterday she’d made the best blueberry cake Parker had ever tasted. Everybody, even Lily, said it could win the Pillsbury Bake-Off contest. No problem.
He couldn’t wait to see what she was cooking next. Yummy cakes seemed a lot more useful than adding up a bunch of numbers for a tournament. But still, it made him sad she wasn’t more excited about it. After all, the soccer balls had been her idea in the first place.
Parker was in charge of refreshments.
“You know,” said Eric. “Make lemonade or something.”
But Parker had a better idea. He’d been dying to try Papa Bud’s suggestion. Cicadas. Low in calories. No carbs.
V
Eric has lost his mind. A Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament. To raise money for my soccer balls.
Who would enter? Eric has no friends. Lily has maybe two. Parker has plenty, but none of them have any money.
What a joke.
I didn’t even care about the soccer balls anymore. And I didn’t care that I was grounded. I had better things to do.
I made a blueberry cake yesterday and Mary Beth loved it. She asked what else I could cook.
“I have a terrific fudge recipe,” I’d said. “Do we have any Baker’s chocolate or Eagle Brand milk?”
Mary Beth opened the pantry cabinet and searched. She pulled out a dead-looking half of a chocolate bar. One whole corner was the color of chalk. “Just this,” she said. “No Eagle Brand. I’ll run to the store.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
Here came that look again. Surprised. Puzzled. The one where she’s discovering me for the very first time. How long would it take for her to get it?
In the car, I told her she should give me some chores to do at home. That I didn’t mind. “I like vacuuming better than dusting. But I’m the best at organizing cabinets.”
“V,” she said, gripping the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver, “I appreciate the help. Really I do, but…”
She stopped at Sharon Road and looked both ways so many times I thought we’d take root.
“Mary Beth,” I nudged her out of the coma she’d fallen into. “There’s no traffic.”
“Oh.” She jumped, startled. She looked both ways again, then turned right.
“I don’t know how to say this,” she spoke softly.
“Say what?” Did she have some kind of disease where she had to do everything herself—no help allowed? Or did she think I would smash up her furniture with my lethal rake?
“Honey,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered. Please, whatever it is, just spit it out.
“You’re not just trying to get yourself ungrounded, are you?”
If I’d been driving, I would’ve slammed on the brakes, gotten out of the car, and walked home.
“No,” I snapped. “I’m not.” What was wrong with this woman? All I wanted to do is what I’d always done—help Dad around the house. Hadn’t I told her that? Should I tell her again?
“Mary Beth,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth, “I know the only thing that will get me ungrounded is apologizing to Lily.”
She turned toward me, her eyes warm and glistening. Oh, no. Did she think that meant I would apologize to Lily? For something I didn’t even do?
“I just like to make myself useful, okay?”
She nodded unconvincingly and pulled into the parking lot.
At Bi-Lo, I was so helpful I could’ve won a prize. I took half her grocery list, and met her with my part finished before she’d even pushed her cart midway down the produce aisle.
“V,” she said, “I’m sorry about what I said in the car.” She reached out, touched my arm, and smiled.
It was a start.
Lily
Eric trashed my aluminum can idea, and V is sucking up to Mom. I bet she thinks that if they become friends, she can get ungrounded without apologizing to me.
Ha! Mom would never fall for that.
Either way, I’m over it. I ripped up what was left of my sunflower. Frank said the busted stalk might recover and sprout another stem.
“Miracles,” I told him, “don’t happen anymore.” I’ve learned about lots of them in Sunday school, but I can’t name one thing that’s happened lately. I figure Earth has rotated out of that cycle until further notice.
Besides, it makes me too sad to look at it.
My aluminum can–plan bit the dust, too, but that’s okay. Because Eric’s idea is even better. A Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament.
I’m in charge of advertising. All I need is a name. The Hands Down Shakedown or maybe All Hands Get Decked? What about Hands Up! Your Money or Your Soccer Ball?
The best part is that Parker and Eric and I are doing it together. If V wants to be a pain, that’s her problem. I just wish I could figure some way to make it count as a science project.
Maybe I could get a stopwatch and time reflexes. Like whose hands move the fastest—male or female, young or old, fat or skinny? Or rich versus poor, smart against dumb, real against phony. What about people who destroy personal property and apologize for it, compared to people who don’t?
According to Eric, Rock-Paper-Scissors is a science. There’s actually a World RPS Society, founded in 1842, in London. They have strategies, rules, their own magazine, and a Player’s Responsibility Code. No kidding. They even have personal trainers.
Eric already ordered an authentic RPS T-shirt as first prize for our grand champion. Winners of individual matches will get to take home an RPS sticker.
We haven’t figured out the entry fee yet, because V won’t do it. I’m useless with numbers and Parker’s math hasn’t gotten much past double digits yet. Eric could do it, but I think he’s holding out, hoping V will join up.
He went ahead and ordered the prizes, though, because they take two weeks to get here, and we need to do this before school gets out if we expect anyone to show up.
There’s a note on my door in Eric’s handwriting.
RPS Meeting NOW My Room
When I walk in, Eric and Parker are already psyched.
“You wouldn’t believe how many guys in my grade have already checked out the Web site. They’re asking me questions like crazy. Major interest.” He pulls me over. “Can you make up flyers for the school bulletin board?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “I’ll have them ready by tomorrow. Plus extra ones to nail on telephone poles in our neighborhood. How about the grocery store?”
“Yeah, sure,” says Eric. “Why not?”
I give them my suggestions for names. Eric likes the Hands Down Shakedown. Parker wants All Hands Get Decked. I’m leaning towards Hands Up! Your Money or Your Soccer Ball.
We grin at each other and stick out our hands.
Pump, pump, pump.
My scissors immediately get smashed by two rocks.
Eric eyes his opponent, raises and lowers his eyebrows three times, and says to Parker, “I have mastered the Mystical School of RPS. My inner force is telling me what you’re going to throw next.”
“Wanna bet?” sneers Parker.
Pump, pump, pump.
Two rocks. No winner.
“What happened to your inner force?” jeers Parker.
“I’m just setting you up to fail,” taunts Eric.
They raise their fists high into the air, then lower them slowly. They square off like two gunslingers at high noon.
Pump, pump, pump.
Eric’s paper covers Parker’s rock.
“I told you!” gloats Eric.
“Aw,” groans Parker. “You got lucky.”
“Not a chance,” says Eric. “You blink twice every time you’re about to throw a rock. You avalanched, man, and I saw it coming a mile away.”
“Avalanched?” Parker and I ask at the same time.
“Three rocks in a row,” explains Eric.
“Whoa!” I say. “Where’d you learn that?”
Eric taps his computer and grins. “There’s a million of them.”
“Cool,” says Parker. “What else?”
“Gambits. That’s what you call three throws in a row. They have names—like Avalanche. A Scissors Sandwich is paper-scissors-paper.”
“Wait,” I say. “I need to write this down. For my ads.”
“Too much stuff,” says Eric. “Just list the Web site.”
“Good idea.”
“Wait till I tell you what my refreshments are,” says Parker. “They’ll make more money than the tournament.”
“Lemonade?” I ask.
“No!” he shouts. “Cicadas!”
“Sweet,” says Eric.
“Chocolate covered, French fried, or hacked up into crunchy black sprinkles for ice cream.” Parker’s grin is stretched so tight across his new, permanent teeth, his lips could split.
Cicadas? Please tell me he’s kidding.
Eric high-fives him. “Way to go, Mud Boy!”
Okay, I decide. Why not? He’s got friends who would actually eat them.
Then an even better idea hits me.
“I know!” I exclaim. “We buy donuts—the ones with no holes—stick cicadas in them, and call them Insect-insides.”
“Insecticides?” Eric tilts his head at me.
“Not insect-i-cide,” I say. “Insect-in-side. Get it?”
Eric high-fives me.
Even Parker gets it. “Way to go, Lily,” he says.
