“No, I don’t.”
Roger clears his throat. “My point—”
“You have a point? Yay! A point!”
“—is that life is what you make it. Saying, ‘Everything was so much better then’ is running away from reality.”
“But what if things were better then?”
“What if they were? You can’t go back in time.”
Huh, I think.
“You can have your ‘acquired tastes,’” he says. “That’s fine. That’s what makes you Carly.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“But you have to live in the present. You have to take the old and make it new—that’s my point.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say. “Back to theme songs. I think I’m going to have to go with Wonder Woman, because it’s so patriotic.” I belt out a sampling of the lyrics. “In her satin tights, fighting for her rights, and the ol’ red, white, and blue-oo-ooo!”
“That lady who played Wonder Woman . . . what was her name?” Vonzelle asks.
“Lynda Carter,” I supply.
“I used to think she had a really big butt,” Vonzelle says. “But now that I’m older and wiser, I don’t actually think she did.”
“I know,” I say excitedly, because I’ve thought the exact same thing. “It’s not that she had a big butt. It’s just how high up those star-spangled undies of hers came.”
“Like granny panties,” Vonzelle agrees.
“Which is worse: granny panties or thong?” I ask. I don’t think Vonzelle wears thongs, but we’ve never actually discussed it.
“Granny panties,” Vonzelle says with no hesitation.
Hmm. I don’t want thongs winning, so I say, “Granny panties or peekaboo thong?”
She laughs. “Carly!”
Roger rubs his temple. “Peekaboo thong?” he repeats in his deep, Dutch-accented voice.
Vonzelle and I crack up.
“Just be glad you’re a boy,” Vonzelle tells him.
“Back to theme songs,” he says. “Can we return to theme songs?”
“I thought that was living in the past,” I say.
“I’d rather live in the past than discuss ladies’ underwear.”
Vonzelle props her chin in her hand and considers him. “You are a rare breed, Roger. Not many guys could say that and mean it.”
“But you do, and that’s why we love you,” I say. “Now, give us your best.”
He contemplates. “I don’t know many ancient American sitcoms. But I’m going to have to go with . . . what’s that one called? With the rich white guy who adopts two black kids?”
“Diff’rent Strokes,” I say, “and no way.” I’m familiar with the show—chubby-cheeked Arnold, big brother Willis, white sister whose name I don’t remember—but I can’t even call up the theme song, which says it all right there. “Wonder Woman kicks Diff’rent Strokes’ butt any day.”
“Y’all are both wrong,” Vonzelle informs us.
I whip my head toward her. “Wha’choo talkin’ ’bout, Vonzelle?”
Roger laughs. I grin, feeling clever.
“The best theme song ever . . .” Vonzelle says, letting her sentence hang in the air.
“Ye-e-e-s?”
She starts singing the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies, and I groan in defeat. The Beverly Hillbillies theme song is toe-tapping, banjo-strumming great.
“. . . then one day he was shootin’ at some food,” Vonzelle croons, “and up from the ground came a-bubblin’ crude.”
I have no choice but to join in. “Oil that is,” I say in a slick TV host voice. “Black gold, Texas tea.”
Roger raises his eyebrows.
Vonzelle moves on to verse two. As she nears the end, I think quick, scrambling for the last spoken bits. Do I know them?
“So they loaded up their truck and moved to Beverly,” Vonzelle sings, giving me the nod.
“Hills, that is,” I say. “Swimmin’ pools, movie stars.”
Together we bring it home: “The Beverly Hillbillies!”
Roger claps, and so do a few other kids. One guy boos, but we don’t care about him.
“That is one rocking theme song,” I say, flushed and happy.
“Apparently,” Roger says. “And yet I must ask: Who are these Beverly Hillbillies of whom you speak?”
He says it all old-fashioned-ly and Dutch-accented-y, and I giggle.
“Just the coolest hillbillies ever.” I pause. “Do you know what a hillbilly is?”
He shakes his head.
“A hillbilly is someone who . . . lives in the hills,” I say. “Like, with overalls and rifles and potbellied stoves.”
“And smushed brown felt hats,” Vonzelle says. “That’s what Jed Clampett wore.”
“Good ol’ Jed Clampett,” I say fondly. To Roger, I say, “Jed was the hillbilly dad on the show. He was all grizzled.”
“But with kind eyes,” Vonzelle says.
“And one day he fired his rifle into a swamp and discovered oil,” I say. “Voilà! Instant millionaire!”
“Ah,” Roger says.
“So he moves to Beverly Hills along with Granny—who does indeed wear granny panties—and Jethro and Elly Mae.”
“Jethro’s all brawny and dumb, and Elly Mae is a buxom farm girl in short shorts,” Vonzelle says.
“And the show is made of awesomeness, and so is the theme song.” I’m struck with a brilliant idea. “Ooo, ooo, we should make a video!”
Vonzelle laughs.
“Seriously!” I say, bouncing. I turn to Roger. “You’d be our film guy, wouldn’t you? We could post it on YouTube!”
Vonzelle chokes on her ham. “Carly, we are not posting the two of us singing the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies on YouTube.”
I widen my eyes as if she’s confused. “No, we are. It’ll be our one-hit wonder.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Four o’clock? Chez moi?” I glance from Vonzelle to Roger, nodding encouragingly.
“I’m free,” Roger says.
“Fine,” Vonzelle says at last. “But we are not posting it on YouTube.”
CHAPTER THIRT Y-FOUR
WHAT A WAY TO GO
At home after school, I scurry around like mad before Vonzelle and Roger arrive. There are several excellent props I want to gather. Plus, I’ve got to find the video camera.
“What are you doing?” Anna asks.
“Nothing,” I say as I rummage through the downstairs coat closet.
“Yes, you are,” she says. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m looking for the camcorder. Do you know where it is?”
“Why do you want the camcorder?”
“I just do. Vonzelle and Roger are coming over, and we need it.”
She trails me to the living room. “For what?”
“We just do.” I squat and start going through the bottom drawer of the armoire where the Christmas ornaments are stored.
“Are you making a video?”
“Anna, I don’t have time for this. They’re going to be here in twenty minutes.” I spot the camera beneath a box of red glass bulbs. Aha!
“Well, can I be in it?” Anna asks. I almost knock her over when I stand up. She stumbles back.
“No,” I say. “I love you, but go away.”
“‘I love you, but go away’?”
“Yes. Go. A. Way.”
Her eyes darken, and I feel bad. She and I haven’t spent a lot of time together since the day at Urban Outfitters. In fact, for the last couple of weeks she’s seemed kind of . . . off. Like, moody. Like, a return to the Hills watching scowler of yore.
I overheard her talking to South Dakota last night, and it sounded like they were fighting. I meant to ask Anna about it, but I forgot.
But it’s not my job to always take care of her, is it? I’m allowed to have fun with my friends without her. I’m allowed to be just Carly, and not Carly, sister of (superhot) Anna. Esp
ecially when video making is involved. Especially when images are to be captured on film.
“Tonight let’s watch TV together,” I say. “Okay?”
Anna regards me sullenly. “Are you trying to buy me off?”
“Or not,” I say, because if she’s going to have an attitude, forget it. Sisterly love is a two-way street.
“Fine,” she says, and turns on her heel.
Behind her back, I pretend to strangle her. Then I return to the task at hand. I check off items on a mental list:
—Camcorder. Check.
—Batteries. Check.
—Anna’s toddler-sized red plastic car from when she was three, the one she could putter around in by using her feet. Check.
—Computer printout of my revised theme-song lyrics with hilarious references to Buckhead and power ties. Heh heh heh, I think. This is going to make history, baby. Check, check, check.
Only one item left to acquire, so I trot upstairs to find Mom. Anna’s in her room listening to music, but her door is open, and she peeks out when she hears my footsteps. She’s like a puppy at the pound, wanting me to suddenly change my mind and say, Oh, why not. You can sleep at the foot of my bed and be in my movie!
I stride past her down the hall. “Hey, Mom,” I call. “Can I borrow your leather hat from Australia?”
Mom bought a gorgeous leather hat when she and Dad went down under for a “luxury safari” through the Australian outback. It looks like a high-end version of Jed Clampett’s crumpled felt hat, and supposedly Nicole Kidman has one just like it.
Mom doesn’t respond. She’s not in the bedroom, so I try her extra-spacious bathroom, where I spot her sitting on the upholstered stool in front of her vanity.
“Hey, Mom?”
She turns toward me from her mirror, and I gasp. There is a miniature plunger stuck to her eyeball.
“Mom! What the . . . ?!”
Mom starts laughing, and it makes me doubt her sanity, because there is a miniature plunger sticking out of her eye.
“Carly, thank goodness,” she says.
“What is that?”
“It’s what I use to take out my contacts. I’m so glad you’re here so you can pull it out for me.”
“Exsqueeze me?”
She can’t stop laughing.
“Quit laughing!” I tell her.
“I forgot I’d already taken out my contacts. That’s the problem.”
“So it’s stuck to your actual eye?” I might vomit, especially if I don’t quit thinking about the swimmy texture of the human eye. Stop thinking about the swimmy texture of the human eye. Stop it right now.
“I’m afraid to pull too hard on it. I don’t want my eyeball popping out.”
“So you want me to do it?”
“If you can just wiggle it enough to break the suction . . .”
“Ew. Mom!”
“Carly, please.”
I make a growly sound. Then glare at her. I step closer and gingerly grasp the tiny plunger’s handle between my thumb and forefinger. When I pull, there’s resistance, and Mom’s head comes toward me. My toes curl. I release the handle.
“You didn’t get it,” Mom informs me.
“Yes, Mom, thanks,” I say, as the fact that she still has a stick jutting from her eye hasn’t escaped me. “Why did you buy that thing?”
“To make taking my contacts out easier.”
“Uh-huh. And how’s that working for you?”
She laughs, and I marvel at how differently we see the world. She sees it as an unending parade of fancy dinners and manicures and daylong shopping excursions spent in the part of Neiman’s dedicated to “The Woman Who Has Everything.” Her contact-lens remover would be found in this department, as would her gold-plated Miss Army Knife with its perfume-bottle attachment and pullout pillbox.
At least she finds it amusing, the whole foreign-object-embedded-in-cornea thing.
“How long has it been stuck?” I ask her. “Why didn’t you call Anna to come help you?” Anna’s music is audible from here, so Mom surely knows Anna’s upstairs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mom says. “You’re more suited for this sort of thing. Anna would be . . . squeamish.”
“I am squeamish, Mom. I am right here in front of you being squeamish.”
“Well, perhaps. But you can push past it.”
“And Anna can’t?” I’m indignant and pleased, both. I am the stronger sister. Even Mom knows it.
She turns serious—or at least, as serious as one can be with a miniature plunger protruding from one’s eye. “You know, I’m a little worried about Anna, Carly. Does she seem . . . depressed to you?”
I groan. I’m glad I’m the stronger sister, but just because I am doesn’t mean I want to have a let’s-talk-about-poor-sad-Anna chat. Not right now. “I don’t think she needs to be on antidepressants, if that’s what you mean.” I fidget. “I’ve kind of got to go, Mom. I’ve got people coming over.”
Mom holds open her plungified eye with her thumb and forefinger. “All right, try again. I’ll keep my hand here just in case.”
“In case what? Your eyeball pops out?”
“Go ahead and pull.”
With extreme squeamishness, I grab the handle again. I tug, and there is a splop, wet and awful. I lean on the bathroom counter and hand the miniature plunger to Mom. I don’t look at it. I hope never to look at it again.
“Much better,” Mom says. “Thank you, Carly.”
I’m light-headed. I need to regroup before Vonzelle and Roger arrive.
“Sweetie, did you need something?” Mom calls as I veer unsteadily out of her bathroom.
“No, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“I’m positive.” That Australian leather hat? Mine. I earned it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE BALLAD OF TED CLAMPETT
“I don’t understand,” Vonzelle says. “Why am I getting into a toy car?”
She’s not, actually, which is why I push on her shoulders to make her scrunch down. “’Cause you’re Granny,” I say, urging her into the passenger seat of the red plastic Cozy Coupe. “Good girl. There you go.”
“I don’t want to be Granny,” she complains. “I want to be Elly Mae.”
“But Granny’s funnier.”
“But Elly Mae’s hotter.” She reflects. “You know who should actually be Elly Mae?”
“No,” I say.
“Anna. Anna would make a perfect Elly Mae.”
Maybe so, but I don’t want Anna to be Elly Mae. I don’t want her looking all sexy-farm-girl on top of the Cozy Coupe, especially with Roger manning the video camera. A prickle in my chest tells me I’m being—selfish, but aren’t I allowed to be selfish sometimes?
I love you, but go away.
Pushing past my guilt, I say, “Fine, Vonzelle, you can be Elly Mae. But that means you have to sit on top of the car, like Elly Mae sits on top of Jed’s rattletrap truck.”
“Oh, sure, now you tell me,” Vonzelle says from her cramped position within the Cozy Coupe. She swings her feet out of the plastic car and plants them on the floor, but she’s unable to free her hips from the narrow door. When she attempts to rise, the Cozy Coupe rises with her, attached to her bottom like a big, red turtle shell.
“You seem to be stuck there, toots,” I say.
“Would you help me, please?”
“Sure, sure, of course.” I hold out my hand so she can grab it. “Why’d you get in there anyway? That was kind of silly, don’t you think?”
She tries to shove me, but the plastic car attached to her butt throws her off balance. And even with me pulling on her, she stays stuck.
“Get me out of here!” she cries.
Roger puts down the camera, walks behind her, and grabs the Cozy Coupe. One good yank, and she’s free.
“Thank you,” she says to him as she rubs her butt.
“No problem,” I say. “However, you’ve wasted precious time, so let’s away to t
he powder room, shall we? I’ve rethought my vision. That’s where our art film should begin.”
“Art film?” Roger says.
“Grab the iPod and the camera.”
I lead them to the downstairs bathroom, where I position myself squarely in front of the gleaming toilet. I cock my Australian hat, hitch both thumbs through my belt loops, and nod at Roger. “‘The Buckhead Hillbillies,’ take one. Vonzelle, you’re just backup in this first scene. Your moment of glory comes in verse two.”
She scans the page. “Oh, Carly, nuh-uh.” She giggles. “You’ve got to change the name.”
“Sorry, can’t.” I nod at Roger. “Three, two, one . . .”
“Action,” Roger says. He lifts the video camera, then reaches over to my iPod and hits the play button. The instrumental version of “The Ballad of Jed Clampett” song blares through my mini-speaker, and I squat up and down to the beat, knees splayed.
“Come and listen to a story ’bout a man named Ted. Not a lick of money, barely kept his family fed.” I hunker down on the toilet, though of course I keep my pants on. “Then one day he was sitting on the ca-a-a-a-n! And out of his butt came a bubbling plan.”
Vonzelle’s having a hard time keeping it together. “Law school, that is. Clever lies, power ties.”
I rise and link arms with Vonzelle. Roger keeps the camera trained on us as we skip back to the den, singing the second verse. I catch a glimpse of Anna at the top of the staircase, watching from behind the wrought-iron railing, but I’m in character and the show must go on.
“Well, the next thing you know, ol’ Ted’s a millionaire. Got himself a Realtor and moved away from there. Decided Atlanta, Georgy, was the place he ought to be-e-e-e-e! So he loaded up his truck and moved to West Wesley.”
“Buckhead, that is,” Vonzelle says. “Country clubs, folks to snub.”
I nod to indicate that it’s rattletrap-truck time, and she hops on top of the Cozy Coupe and strikes a sex-kitten pose.
“The Buckhead Hillbillies!” we cry. I fling my arms out wide and accidentally whack Vonzelle, who topples off the Cozy Coupe and lands with a thunk.
“Ow!” she says, laughing.
“Cut!” I yell.
Roger lowers the camera. “Sakkerloot.”
“That was so fun,” I say, flushed and riding high. I glance at the door to the den, half expecting to see Anna. I tell myself that if I do, I’ll invite her in.
Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Page 15
