I call Mrs. Murphy to get permission to ride on Toni’s bus. I follow her off the bus as she turns up the walk of an L-shaped white house with two brick chimneys, black shutters, and a black front door. The dormers on the roof look like little separate houses. It’s like a house you’d see in a movie. What was she so upset about?
She unlocks the front door.
“God, Toni. This house is unbelievable.”
“Whatever,” she mumbles.
Looking up at the high ceiling, I ask, “Do you land your plane in here?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Do I need a tour guide to get from one end to the other?”
She grabs a loaf of bread.
“You hungry?” she asks. “I’m having peanut butter and fluff.”
“What’s that?”
“Wow, Connors. You really have been living under a rock, haven’t you?”
Duh.
She slaps something together and hands me a sandwich with white stuff oozing out of the sides. Reminds me of the caulk that Mr. Murphy redid the tub with. “Looks yummy.”
“Just try it.”
“Are you sure you’re not poisoning me?”
She leans against the counter as if she really considers it. “You won’t know until you eat it, now will you?”
I’m surprised at how good it is. Sweet and creamy. “So this is how rich people eat, huh?” I ask, licking my sticky fingers.
“C’mon. Let’s go upstairs,” she says with her mouth full.
“Can I have some milk?” I ask.
“Geez, Connors. Anyone ever tell you you’re high maintenance?”
“Yeah, actually,” I say, remembering that my mother had a much worse way of putting it.
Toni is putting the milk back when a door closes off to the side of the kitchen. “Oh, great,” she mumbles.
A woman comes into the kitchen carrying four shopping bags. She is tall and pencil shaped. Her hair is wavy and dark and she wears a blue suit. Her teeth are freakishly white.
“Oh, you have a little friend over?”
Toni grunts. “Yeah, we were just about to play ring-around-the-rosy.”
The woman’s face turns to stone. Then she turns to me, scans me, holds out her hand, and says, “Sarah Byars. So very nice to meet you.”
I take her hand, which gives me the creeps. “Nice to meet you too,” I lie.
“Toni,” she says. “Don’t you like the vibrant color of her shirt?” Her voice is sweet, but I get the feeling she could spit icicles. “Nothing wrong with a little color.”
“C’mon,” Toni says, picking up her backpack and heading for the stairs. “We have work to do.”
Toni leads me up to her room. Her carpet is bright green, and the walls are sponge-painted in a similar shade.
“Did Oscar the Grouch explode in here or what?”
She laughs. “It’s green in honor of Elphaba.” She points at me. “And don’t start or I’ll seriously… seriously hurt you.”
I believe her.
Posters of Broadway shows plaster the walls. There’s a pointed witch’s hat on the post of her bed. Her comforter is green and shiny. Okay. She really is obsessed.
She unzips her backpack. She is so much quieter—sadder. She looks upward. “I wanted to do the ceiling green, but my dad said no.”
“You have a dad?” I blurt out.
“Yeah, Connors. I have a dad. Ever take biology?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know that but… I mean…”
Toni piles books on her desk. “What’s wrong with you, Connors?”
I shrug, afraid to say anything out loud.
“My dad is awesome,” Toni says, “but he works in Japan mostly, so I hardly ever see him. It’s been thirty-two days now.”
So she counts the days away from her father while I count the days away from my mother.
She looks up at the wall. “He helped me do these walls, even though my mother complained that it didn’t fit the flow of the house.”
“Houses flow?”
“Precisely,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“I’m sorry I forced you to come to your house today.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I catch her glancing at me.
I think she must feel like she’s given something away, bringing me here and telling me about her father. I say, “I promise that we’ll ace this project, okay?”
She half smiles. “Whatever you say, Connors.”
“Whatever I say?”
“Forget it.”
After an awkward silence, I ask, “So, are you in the drama club at school?”
“Oh, you mean the trauma club? No way. I go to acting camp in the city, though. Every summer since forever. My dad promises to sign me up with a voice coach, too.”
“Cool.” I sit on her bed and bounce, studying the Broadway posters. “So how many of these shows have you seen?”
“Actually,” she says, looking around, “I’ve seen them all. Fortunately, my mother is all about culture too, so she takes me to all the New York shows. I especially love musicals. They’re all different—like people.”
“I’ve never seen a musical. I mean on stage.”
“You’re kidding!” She clasps her hands and her eyes spark. “Broadway is amazing! There isn’t any other place like it. One of the shows we saw, The Drowsy Chaperone, talked about how everything works out in musicals. And it’s the only place a person can burst into song without being labeled a weirdo.”
I want to tell her that anyone bursting into song would be a weirdo, but instead I say, “I guess it might be cool to see one sometime.”
“Ask your mom. She’d go.”
I burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me? No way.”
She looks puzzled, so I change the subject. “So, Wicked is your favorite?”
“Totally. It’s the best, and Elphaba is my favorite character.”
“You said it’s about The Wizard of Oz? I mean, don’t throw a chair or anything, but it sounds dumb.”
“You’d have to see it to understand.”
“Try me.”
She takes a deep breath. “Do you… ?” Her mouth kind of twitches like she can’t decide whether to say it or not.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t understand. Look at you, for God’s sake!”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re like Glinda.”
I crack up. “The good witch? Uh, I don’t think so.”
She looks sad. “Do you ever feel like you… don’t fit in? Like everyone else gets something you don’t?”
“God, yeah.” She has no idea.
“But do you ever think that maybe… it’s not you who is off base but other people? That people label you as something you aren’t?”
“Yeah.” My own voice sounds far away. I think back to all the times people assumed I was dumb because I had mismatched or dirty clothes. My science teacher accused me of plagiarism because my paper was “too good.”
“Well, it’s like that with Elphaba,” Toni says. “She’s ostracized because she’s green. And she’s labeled wicked when she isn’t.”
“I know what it’s like to be labeled like that,” I say slowly. “I met someone once who drew all these conclusions about me based on the clothes I wear. A clone, I think she said.”
Toni lets out a little laugh as if to say, well, what do you know? She folds her arms and leans back against her pillow.
“What?” I say. “Speechless? We should throw a parade.”
“Okay, Connors. I get it.” She sits up fast. “But look at you! I mean, why do you want to look like everyone else?”
“Because I never have before.”
Toni looks puzzled again but says, “Well I, for one, would rather fail miserably at being unique than just be another clone. Like my mother.”
“She didn’t seem that bad.”
“She’s like cardboard. Superficial,” Toni says. “Deeply shallow, as they say in Wicke
d.”
“Fully empty,” I add.
She laughs. “Yeah. It wouldn’t matter to her if you were a serial killer as long as you wore the right clothes.”
“So… you think she doesn’t like you?”
She looks shocked but talks fast. “I think I’m the only thing in her life that doesn’t fit the perfect picture, and she wishes that she’d had a different daughter.” Her eyes are wide at first; then she closes them like it hurts to look at anything.
I kind of want to tell her about my mother, but I don’t want her labeling me as the pathetic foster kid. A throwaway; who’d want to be friends with someone like that?
“Hey,” I say to Toni, who now stares at her green carpet. “Is your mom going to be downstairs when I leave?”
“I guess.”
I laugh. “Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me,” I say. “Turn around and don’t look until I tell you.”
She does. I take off my shirt really fast and put it back on inside out and backward. The tag of the shirt is on the front now. “Okay. Turn around.”
She does.
“Am I ready for one of your mother’s fancy lunches, or what?”
Toni Byars finally smiles.
CHAPTER 23
Truth Hurts, Huh?
Back at the Murphys’, Daniel is tormenting himself with that basketball again. I’m feeling brave, so I go out.
“Hey, Daniel. How’s it going? How about a little one-on-one?” I ask.
“I’m practicing.”
“No better practice than getting your butt kicked by me, right?”
He glares.
“C’mon. I’ll take it easy on ya.”
“I don’t want to. I’m practicing. Besides, the teams aren’t fair.”
“So what?”
“Go play in the road.”
“Harsh.” I laugh at him. “I’m just trying to help you.”
He grits his teeth. “Leave me alone. No one asked you.”
“Look. You’re a wussy mama’s boy, I know. The truth hurts.”
He stops and turns. “Well, at least I have a mother.” He glares. “Truth hurts, huh?”
He won’t get me with that again. I remind myself not to get mad.
He dribbles but the ball hits his foot and rolls into the grass. He glares at me like it’s my fault.
“Look, Daniel.” I fold my arms. “It just so happens that I was the high scorer on my basketball team back home.” Okay, this is a stretch. But I was pretty good. “I want to help you.”
“Why?” he asks, picking up the basketball.
“I really don’t know. But I am willing to help you if you want. I’d kind of… like a truce, I guess.”
He turns the ball over in his hands. Probably thinking about how he may be making a deal with the devil.
He begins to dribble. I go over, steal it easily, and go in for a layup.
He folds his arms. “Give me my ball back.”
I stand, smiling. “Come get it.”
He can’t get it from me. I dribble and talk to him at the same time. “Look. See how I dribble really close to the ground? You dribble as high as your neck, which screams, ‘Come steal the ball from me.’ Also, it’s harder to control that way. The closer to the ground, the better.”
I hand him the ball. “I’ll try to take it from you now.” I go for the ball but never actually take it. Whenever I move in to get it, he finally learns to shorten his dribble.
When he stops to take a squirt from his water bottle, I ask him, “Doesn’t your dad practice with you? He’s obsessed with sports. He must love this stuff!”
His face darkens. “Not really.”
“Why?”
“My dad loves baseball and wants me to play that, but I just don’t want to.” He looks into my face without hatred for the first time ever. “It’s just that I love basketball. I love to watch it and play it. Baseball is boring to me. You stand in the outfield and do nothing for most of the time.” He bounces the ball once. Hard. “Do you know what my middle name is?”
I shake my head.
“Dale. As in Dale Murphy, this amazing baseball player from before I was even born. My name is Daniel Dale Murphy because my father planned, from the time I was born, that I would play baseball. He’s so mad that I don’t. I hate it.”
“He probably doesn’t mind that much. He seems like the kind of guy that would like all kinds of sports—a real jock type. Have you even asked him?”
“My father says that baseball is the thinking man’s game and basketball is for morons. He’s such a jerk about it that even if I liked baseball—which I don’t—I could never play it.”
I am shocked he told me this. I’m even more shocked that the Murphys aren’t perfect after all.
CHAPTER 24
Bagged
Today, we have a social studies field trip to Mystic Seaport. Whatever it is, it sounds better than being in school. I get on a bus, wondering which would be worse, sitting with a jerk or sitting alone.
“Hey, Connors,” Toni calls.
Relieved, I fall into the seat next to her, holding my bagged lunch. I try to hide Mrs. Murphy’s handwriting on the bag. “Carley Connors, Period 1.” I love sitting here, feeling just like everyone else. Normal.
Mr. Ruben steps onto the bus with what looks like a band uniform and a tricornered hat and most of us laugh. “Good morning, ye lads and lasses! As you can see, I am your captain!” he says in a bold voice.
“Aye-aye, Captain!” Rainer says to Mr. Ruben. Always the suck-up.
The bus driver pulls out of the driveway. Mr. Ruben is holding sheet music, thinking that we’ll all sing sea shanties. He has a better chance of getting this bus to land on Mars.
Once on the road, Toni asks, “So, that’s some lunch you’ve got there. You carrying a full Thanksgiving meal or what?”
I think about how nice Thanksgiving would be at the Murphy house. I shrug.
“How can you not know what’s in your own lunch?” she asks.
“I didn’t pack it.”
“Seriously, Connors? Your mother still makes your lunch?”
Change the subject. “Where is your lunch?”
She pats her pocket. “Right here. Two Andrew Jacksons will take me through lunch and to the gift shop.”
My mother used to quiz me on which presidents are on money. “You’ve got forty bucks for lunch?”
“Sure, Connors,” she says. She leans over and looks at the writing on my bag. Here comes the teasing. “So open the bag. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I guess she must be hungry. I open the bag and pull out a turkey sandwich, red grapes, banana bread, Fruit Roll-Up, and two juice boxes at the bottom. There is a note too. “Have fun. Be safe. Love, Mrs. M.”
“Mrs. M?” she asks.
“That stands for Mrs. Mom. A joke we have.” I pause. “I know. It’s dumb.”
“Does she write notes like that a lot?” Toni asks.
“Yeah. She likes notes. She leaves sticky notes over the sink and stuff. Kind of sappy stuff.”
Toni is quiet, turning to stare out the window.
“So, have you been to Mystic before?” I ask.
“Yeah. Lots of boats. Thrill a minute. Lunch counter isn’t bad, though. Burgers and fries.”
“Really?”
She turns toward me. “Soda too. Listen, Connors. I’ll do you a favor. How about I buy your lunch off of you for twenty bucks? Then you’ll have money for the lunch counter and gift shop.”
“Are you kidding me? Sure!” I take the note out and hand her the bag.
“No. You have to leave the note.”
“But why would you want that?”
“It’s part of the lunch, Connors. That’s why.”
I stare at it. I really want it. But twenty bucks is so much money.
“Okay, deal!”
She starts digging through the bag. Eating grapes. Reading the note. “You’re all right,
Connors,” she says.
CHAPTER 25
Mrs. Murphy’s Big Idea
So,” Mrs. Murphy asks, “do you have any plans for the weekend?”
“Yeah. Running with the bulls in Spain, maybe… photographing polar bears. Same old boring stuff.”
She chuckles. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Sounds dangerous,” I say.
She points at me with a spatula and a slight smile. “Watch it there, kid.”
“Why? You going to flip me?” I say, pointing at her weapon.
She shakes her head. “What a clip.”
There’s another one.
“So, do you like that Toni girl? Would you say… that you’re yourself around her? I always think that’s the true measure of how good a friend is.”
I think that I am comfortable around her now—except that she doesn’t know who I really am. I’ve been thinking I should tell her. But I’m afraid she’ll change her mind about me. I’m not sure how to answer Mrs. Murphy.
“She’s… not into stuff you shouldn’t be into, right?”
“Actually, she is.”
Mrs. Murphy looks concerned.
“Broadway musicals. A sickness.”
Mrs. Murphy laughs and turns back toward the sink. “Why don’t you invite her over for dinner tomorrow. Would you want to do that?”
“Uh, I can ask her, I guess.”
“You sound nervous.”
Funny how she does that. Knowing what I’m thinking. “Maybe a little.” I shrug.
“Can’t hurt to ask!” she says.
I’m not so sure…
Toni steps into the kitchen with a plate of brownies. “Here you go,” she says to Mrs. Murphy. “My mom sent these.”
“Brownies!” Michael Eric and Adam yell.
“After dinner. Not before,” Mrs. Murphy says, holding the plate out of their reach.
Michael Eric looks at me but points at Toni. “Which superhero is she?”
Toni laughs. “You guys have high expectations here.”
I bend over and look Michael Eric in the eye. “No superheroes now. Maybe later, though. Okay?” He goes back to a pile of blocks with Adam.
One for the Murphys Page 8
