She nods happily.
We all shuffle into their Mercedes. Prissy climbs into her booster seat and quickly puts her tiny tanned finger up her nose.
I try to catch Miri’s eye so we can secretly make fun of the entire scene, but she’s lost in her saving-the-world thoughts.
“ ‘You will soon discover a treasure!’ ” Jennifer reads, after breaking open her fortune cookie. “You know what that means,” she says, winking at my dad across the booth at Happy Palace, our favorite Chinese restaurant.
“What treasure?” I ask Jennifer as I chomp on an almond cookie. “You buried money in the backyard?” Can I have some?
“No,” she says, and then smiles. “I meant the new addition.”
“You’re adding another wing to the house?” I ask. Now Miri and I won’t have to share a room when we stay over.
Jennifer looks at my father. “Well, no,” she says.
No? “So what kind of addition?” I ask. And then it hits me. Smack in my face. I choke on the cookie, start coughing, and grab my glass of water.
Miri finally snaps out of her reverie. “Already?” she asks disbelievingly.
She’s pregnant? But . . . but . . . but I’m still not used to Prissy. And . . . where are they going to put the baby? Won’t they need a nursery? Does that mean we’ll have to bunk with Prissy? “When’s the baby due?”
“What baby, Mommy?” Prissy asks, sucking on a cookie. “What does due mean?”
My dad and Jennifer giggle. “We’re not pregnant!” she says, still laughing, her blue-green eyes twinkling.
Then what is she talking about? “Are you getting a dog?”
“Do you know how much work a dog is?” Jennifer says, flipping her gorgeous silky blond hair over her shoulder. “No way. We’re trying to have a baby. We’re just not pregnant yet.”
Is that really an image I need?
Prissy slams her small fist on the table, face puckered. “No more babies.”
Silence.
“Babies are fun!” Jennifer promises in her chirpiest voice. “You’ll get to be the big sister!”
“I don’t want to be a big sister,” she insists, shaking her pigtails. “I want to be the little sister.”
I decide to attempt to help. I can certainly relate: rumor has it when I was first told about Miri’s upcoming arrival, I spit up in protest. “You can be a big sister and still be a little sister,” I explain. “You’re so lucky. You get to be both! I wish I could be both.”
How awesome would it be if I had a big sister? Someone to tell me what to wear, help me with my makeup. Hmm. I’ve kind of been my mom’s big sister lately.
“I don’t want to be a big sister,” Prissy says calmly.
Miri laughs. “Too bad it’s not up to you.”
“No more babies!” Prissy screams at the top of her lungs, and reaches for her third cookie.
Everyone at the restaurant turns to stare.
“No more sugar,” Jennifer says, moving the cookie plate out of her reach.
The subject comes up again the next morning.
We’re sitting, sleepy eyed, in the kitchen, lazily enjoying our poached eggs and toast, when Prissy’s question lands flat on the table like a pancake. “Where do babies come from?” Her blue-green eyes are wide with innocence.
Miri starts coughing.
I take a long sip of my orange juice and try to see to the bottom of the glass. Would it be weird if I climbed under the table?
“Well . . . ,” my father begins.
Oh, God. Oh, no. Don’t say it. He’s not going to tell her, is he? I can’t think of anything more painful than having to listen to my dad discuss the birds and the bees. I remember when I first heard about the facts of life: Jewel’s older brother told us when we were in the second grade. I went home and asked my mom if the rumors were true. I remember feeling truly appalled. It goes in where? Anyway, I have never discussed this subject with my dad, and I certainly don’t want to start now. As far as I know, he doesn’t even know I know.
“Well . . . ,” my father begins again. I look at Miri, and her cheeks are the same cherry red as I imagine mine are.
Jennifer makes a stab. “When mommies and daddies love each other . . .”
Miri and I sink lower into our chairs.
“. . . they sleep in the same room, alone together,” she continues. (The detail on this plate is just amazing. Nice plate. Pretty plate. Pretty white square plate.) “That’s when they make a baby.”
“Oh,” says Prissy. Then her eyes squint into small commas. “But how do they make a baby?”
Silence.
“Out of love,” my dad says.
Could this get any more painfully embarrassing? I’d rather be writing an exam while a dentist fills my cavities. (Not that I have any; I have perfect teeth, unlike my sister, who must brush her teeth with Kool-Aid. I wonder if Will has any cavities. He does eat a lot of licorice. I bet Raf has perfect teeth. . . . No thinking about Raf! Better to listen to Jennifer’s sex talk!)
Prissy considers the new and extremely vague explanation and slowly nods. Then she shovels a forkful of egg into her mouth and the subject is forgotten—by her. I think I may be scarred for life.
We go to the mall in the afternoon, because Prissy has inexplicably painted Liquid Paper hearts on her black patent leather party shoes. Dad tells Miri and me that we can each pick out one new item for ourselves.
“New jeans! New jeans!” I beg inside Macy’s, leading them from the kids’ shoe department to the juniors department.
“You have jeans,” my dad says. “You’re wearing them.”
True. I could even use the multiplying spell for more if I wanted to.
“A girl can never have too many pairs,” Jennifer says, coming to my defense. I almost pass out from surprise by my new and unexpected ally. Honeymoon Jennifer is awesome! And so smart. I pile ten pairs over my arm and retreat into the dressing room.
Jennifer acts as commentator as I model each one. “Too big. Can we get her a smaller size?” And then, “Too dark. Lighter is really in style this season.” She’s right! London’s groupies are all wearing light jeans.
By the time we’ve whittled it down to two pairs, Miri, my dad, and Prissy are all asleep on the couch. “Which should I choose?” It’s like asking me to pick a favorite parent. I love them equally.
“Ring them both up,” Jennifer says. “Let’s hang ten! That means go for it.”
Viva Hawaii.
If Jennifer keeps this up, I may pick her as my favorite parent.
It’s not until we’re back in the car that I realize that Miri didn’t buy anything. “Where’s your one item?” I ask.
“Yeah, honey,” my dad says, reversing the car out of the lot. “I said you can have anything you want. And since we bought Rachel two pairs of jeans, you can have two any-things.”
“I don’t need anything material,” she answers. “But you could take my assigned money and donate it to the charity of your choice on my behalf.”
Oh, brother.
Jennifer whips her head around. “What?”
My feelings exactly. What a goody-goody.
My father also turns around (which probably isn’t that safe). But he smiles at my sister as if she said she’d been accepted to Harvard. “I’d be happy to do that. You choose the charity and I’ll double what I spent on Rachel’s jeans.”
That’s not fair. Sigh. I’m horrible. Of course it’s fair. “Thanks, Dad,” Miri says.
She’s so donating that to the prom.
I prepare to call Will before dinner. This will be the first time I call him; he’s phoned me every day for the last week. I close the door, sit on the bed, and pick up the receiver.
“. . . bought her the most adorable jeans. I think I might go back and get a pair,” I hear Jennifer saying. “Hello? Did someone pick up?”
Foiled! “Sorry. I’ll hang up.”
“Do you need the phone, Rachel?”
“I can w
ait.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get off. Irma, I’ll speak to you tomorrow, ’kay?”
I don’t know what’s come over her. First new jeans, and now she’s getting off the phone with her friends so I can use it? We must have put a spell on her by accident. Nah. Is it possible the fairy tales are all wrong? Once a Soon-to-Be Step-Monster officially joins the family, she becomes nice? I should enjoy it as long as it lasts. It could fade along with her tan. “Thanks.”
I wait for the dial tone. Then, palms all sweaty, I punch in the number. I don’t know why I’m nervous. He likes me. He told me to call. There’s absolutely no reason for me to be—
“Hello?”
Heart. Exploding. That’s why I should be nervous. It’s Raf. I should hang up. No, I can’t. He definitely has caller ID. Not that he’d recognize the Long Island number. But he knows that my dad lives out here. And he might call back. But what should I do? I can’t ask the boy I secretly still like if I can speak to his brother! This is so awful. Exponentially worse than my dad talking about sex. Why didn’t I block my number?
“Hello?” Raf repeats.
Although . . . maybe it’s not Raf. How do I know? Their hellos sound identical. It’s probably Will. Of course it’s Will. “Hello!” I say, attempting to sound optimistic. I try to use my nonexistent powers of persuasion. Be Will! Be Will!
“Hello,” the voice says again. “Who is this?”
It’s not Will. Will would know it was me. Wouldn’t Raf know it was me too? I should hang up. Don’t hang up! I could claim I got disconnected. Be mature! My palms are now so sweaty that the receiver slips out of my grasp. “Rachel,” I squeak, pressing it firmly against my ear.
“Rachel who?”
Is he (whoever he is) joking? Which one of them doesn’t know me? “Rachel Weinstein.”
“I’m just kidding you, Rachel. It’s Mitch.”
“Oh, hi.” I slap my sweaty hand against my forehead. I forgot about brother number three. He’s not on my daily radar since he’s at NYU. But I thought he didn’t live at home. Why is he answering the phone? Just to make me feel like an idiot?
“So who do you want to speak to?” he asks, laughing. “Raf or Will?”
“Raf, please. I mean, Will. Will!” Now I’m confused.
He laughs again and hollers, “Will, phone!”
Glad to be an amusement.
Seconds later Will picks up. “Hello?”
They all sound the same! “Hi, Will.”
“Rachel! How you doin’?”
“Headachy.” As of now. “You?”
“Good. Kat and I went site hunting and we found some cool places. I’ll bring pictures and prices to show on Monday.”
“Great. What are you doing tonight?”
“Wishing I was hanging out with you, but going to some party with Jerome and the boys. Hey, on Friday? I was thinking Patsy’s.”
Yum. Only the best pizza place in the city. “Sounds delicious.” And romantic. I can already see a string of mozzarella stretched between us like the spaghetti in Lady and the Tramp.
“Great. My parents love it there, and they want to meet you.”
“Your p-parents?” I’m not ready for a meet and greet. Doesn’t that happen much later on? Like when we’re engaged? What will I wear?
“Don’t worry. It won’t be just them. My brothers, too.”
Really foiled this time.
“Time for all of us to hit the hay,” my dad says, turning off the TV. I stand up and stretch.
“I’m not going to sleep,” Prissy says, still firmly planted on the couch.
Jennifer laughs. “Oh, really? You certainly are.”
“No, I’m not,” Prissy says again. She turns around and stuffs her head between two pillows.
Jennifer picks her up by the waist and carries her toward her room. “Yes, young lady, you are.”
Prissy begins kicking and screaming, “I want to sleep with you!”
“What is wrong with you tonight? Big girls sleep in their own beds.”
Miri and I quickly say good night, leaving them to the parenting trauma, and after washing up, we head to the privacy of our lemon-meringue room. “We have a lot to talk about,” I say.
“I know. But let’s wait until everyone’s asleep.”
I don’t know why she wants to wait, but I’m too tired to argue. Might as well get in a few winks.
I nod off into dreamworld, and the next thing I know, Miri is shaking me awake. “Are we ready to talk about prom?” I ask groggily.
“Yup,” she says. “But let’s do it in France.” She waves two batteries and some sort of purple potion in front of me. “I found a clean-water spell.”
So that’s why she wanted to wait. But do we have to do this now, when I’m feeling like a zombie? “Are you kidding me? Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard on this helping thing?”
She squats on the ground. “Get on. We’ll discuss this once we’re there.”
I sigh and climb aboard the Miri express. I wonder if I’m accumulating any airline points. I’d like a free trip to the Bahamas, please.
A few seconds later, we land on a soft beach. The sunrise is casting shades of pastel pink and orange on the water—if only I had a camera—and the air smells salty and delicious. Excuse me . . . délicieux.
Miri goes to work on the oil issue. I make a snow angel in the sand. “I’ll be here if you need me,” I say.
“Yeah, thanks.”
A few minutes later, she’s done and I’m in heaven. The lull of the surf is sweet music to my ears. Can I move to France?
“All right, whales saved; let’s go home,” Miri announces, crouching down beside me.
Already? I pat the spot beside me. “This piece of beach has your name on it, missy. What’s the rush?”
Miri shrugs and plops onto her back. “Two minutes. And then I have to get back to work.”
I groan and flick a grain of sand toward her. “Stop being such a freak. And speaking of which, I can’t believe you didn’t get new clothes today.”
She sighs. “How could I take home clothes when there are people in the world who are freezing?”
I don’t want to sound selfish or anything, but what she just said makes absolutely no sense. “Whatever. What charity are you going to give your money to?”
“I don’t know yet! That’s the problem. There are so many causes. The homeless, peace in the Middle East, AIDS, animal rights . . .”
Wrong answer. “The prom! We need the money for the prom! Remember our discussion about how we had to help earn money? This is it! So help!”
She props herself up on her elbows. “The prom is not a charity.”
“Actually it is. JFK alumni have shelled out thirty thousand dollars for school repairs. Because of the cows. Your cows. The school is using the prom money to fix the gym, so we need to raise money to rent a ballroom.”
“I’m not giving up peace in the Middle East for a stupid prom.”
Hello? Does she feel no accountability here? “But you ruined prom! You should feel responsible!”
Miri bursts into tears.
Oops. I sit up and put my arm around her. She starts sobbing silently, as though afraid that any sound she might make will . . . scare the whales?
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I feel”—sob—“so”—sob—“awful. That I ruined p-p-prooooooooom.” Snot dribbles along her upper lip. “And I”—sob—“don’t know how”—sob—“to fix it. And there are so many bad things in the world. And I have to fix them, too. And I know I’m supposed to be happy that I’m a witch and that I have all these powers, but I feel so”—sob— “responsible for everyone. There’s this huge weight on my chest, like someone’s sitting on it all the time.”
My poor, sweet sister. I need to make her laugh. Not knowing what else to do, I sit on her stomach. “Like this?”
She giggles but quickly starts crying again. Then snorting. “You’re hurting me,” she s
ays, and I roll off. I got sand all over her shirt.
“I know what will make you feel better,” I say.
“What?”
“The Eiffel Tower! Let’s go to Paris!”
She shakes her head. “I’m tired. Can we just go home and go to sleep?”
Party pooper. “All right, but can we at least get a baguette?”
She squeezes the batteries in her little hands and motions to her back. “Another time.”
When we return to Long Island, I climb straight back between my sheets.
“What are we going to do about the prom?” Miri asks, getting into bed.
I think for a minute before I answer. “We need to raise money. And we can definitely use your help with that. So stop worrying. We’ll figure something out. Now, about your feeling responsible for the entire world—”
Suddenly, we hear the door next to us open, followed by little feet scampering down the hallway, then my dad and Jennifer’s bedroom door opening.
“Prissy?” my dad says. “What are you doing in here?”
“No more babies!” she declares. “From now on I’m sleeping with you. I don’t want a sister.”
Miri and I start laughing. After a few minutes of debating with my dad and Jennifer the merits of her staying, Prissy tires them out and wins the argument.
My eyelids feel heavy. “Let me just rest for two seconds and then we’ll continue talking.” I close my eyes for two seconds, but the next thing I know, the light is streaming through the blinds, Miri is at the desk making lists, and it’s morning. All this globe-trotting is definitely exhausting.
“Hello?” I say, turning on the hallway light. “Mom?”
“It doesn’t look like she’s home,” Miri says, dropping her weekend bag onto the floor.
Huh? She’s always here when we get back. Always. “Maybe she’s sleeping,” I say. I open her door and flick on her bedroom light. Nope. Her unmade bed looks a lot like mine, covered with clothes.
“This is weird,” I say. “It’s eight o’clock and she’s out? Did she have a date tonight? It’s Sunday! She should be home to greet us.” With cookies and milk and . . . Oops, been watching too many retro shows.
Frogs & French Kisses Page 12
