“What?” Mom said, alarmed.
But Mimi was smiling, big. “The baby kicked! First time I’ve felt it.”
Mom jumped off the couch so fast she barked her shin on the coffee table and swore loudly before throwing her arms around Mimi. Both of them had bright, wet eyes.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs, and Rowan burst into the room. “Is everything okay? I heard yelling.”
“The baby kicked,” Mom said. She pressed her hand to Mimi’s belly. “Kick again, little girl. Come on, kick for Mommy! Kick!”
We waited for at least a minute, but nothing happened. Eventually Mom sat, disappointed.
“Be patient,” Mimi said. “That was a strong kick. There’ll be plenty more where it came from.”
“Tell me when it happens again,” Rowan said, and maybe it was my imagination, but I thought there was a little catch in his voice. “I want to feel it.”
“I will. You too, Hazel.”
I nodded, feeling nauseous. The baby kicking would only add to Mimi’s ever-brightening mood. It was as though she’d been collecting sadness like rain in a barrel for a long, long time, and the day of the memorial she’d spilled it all in the garden. These days, she hummed as she flipped through her papers at the kitchen table after dinner, and even though technically she was gaining weight, she seemed to grow lighter, her smile lifting her across the floor.
She was forgetting to guard her heart. She was forgetting to be afraid, and that made me afraid. If something went wrong, she’d suffer all the more. So would all of us.
It had been two years since I first felt Miles kick, a small but persistent thud. It had meant nothing in the end. I couldn’t remind my family of that, though. Rowan would have me tied to the railroad tracks before you could say kittens and rainbows.
Chapter 15
When Mrs. Paradisi handed back our family history assignments, I glanced at mine just long enough to see the red A at the top before tucking it in my folder to take home. So I was surprised when, at the end of class, Mrs. Paradisi said, “Hazel, could you stay a minute?”
I hesitated, watching the rest of the kids stream out of the room. “I can’t miss the bus.”
“I won’t keep you long.” She leaned back against a lab bench and clasped her hands in front of her. “I wanted to let you know I enjoyed your essay.”
“I know,” I said. “You gave it an A.”
“I did”—she smiled—“though to be honest, I’m always giving As to papers I don’t particularly enjoy. But yours was different. You painted a wonderfully detailed portrait of your family. I felt as if I’d gotten to meet everyone in person, and I feel I know you better as well.”
I fidgeted with my backpack straps, knowing this couldn’t be the real reason she’d asked me to stay.
“There’s just one thing,” said Mrs. Paradisi. “I couldn’t help noticing some discrepancies between your essay and your family tree.”
I frowned. Was this about Paul? Did she mean I should have included him in my essay? I hadn’t even thought about that. I readied myself to argue.
“On your family tree, on the branches for your siblings,” Mrs. Paradisi continued, “I saw three names. But you only wrote about your older brother, Rowan. Hazel, do you want to tell me about Lena and Miles?”
My heart caught in my throat. I felt like I was stuck in a bad dream. I’d erased Lena’s and Miles’s names, hadn’t I? I distinctly remembered doing it. I remembered doing it twice.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” she added. “I was just surprised. The rest of your essay was so detailed. It seemed like an odd oversight. I wanted to give you the chance to talk about them. But only if you want to.” She smiled again, encouragingly.
“No,” I said. “I mean, it’s okay. Because they’re cats.”
Immediately, I wanted to kick myself. Where had that come from? My mouth had been working faster than my brain again. And that wasn’t the kind of thing you could un-say, like, Oops, when I said cats, I actually meant to say my little brother and sister who died in utero.
Mrs. Paradisi blinked. “Oh. I see. Well, I can understand that, I suppose. My cats are furry family to me.”
“Right,” I said, feeling my face flush. “But it wasn’t scientifically accurate, so I erased them. Or I tried. I guess I didn’t do a good job. Sorry for the confusion.”
I hoped Mrs. Paradisi wouldn’t ask for details. I didn’t want to turn Lena into a calico cat who loved tuna, or Miles into a Russian blue who chased milk rings across the floor. On the other hand, nor did I want to tell the whole sad truth. Cats were a lot easier to talk about, even when they were imaginary.
Mrs. Paradisi said, “That’s all right. As I said, I just wanted to make sure you had the opportunity to talk about them.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “I should go now. Bye.”
I was almost to the door when I heard her call, “Anytime you want to talk, Hazel. About anything.”
I didn’t answer.
It wasn’t until I’d burst outdoors and scrambled onto the bus that I pulled out my H&HD folder to look at my family tree. There they were: two names, faint yet visible through the eraser smudges, like fish under the ice on a frozen pond, alive and swimming below the surface.
My talk with Mrs. Paradisi left me heavy. I wasn’t good at secrets. But this fall, I was holding so much inside, and more was getting stuffed in me every day. I felt like a grain sack wearing through at its seams. Soon I would spill.
The worst part was that even though everyone—Mom, Mimi, and Mrs. Paradisi—was so eager to talk, I didn’t know what to say to them or how to say it. I missed Becca more than ever. It had never been hard to talk to her. I decided to do what I’d been avoiding the past month. I’d tell Becca about Mimi. She’d know how I felt. She’d know what to say.
I got the phone from the kitchen and went up to my room. Becca didn’t pick up on her own phone, so I called the Blumbergs’ landline.
“Hey there, Hazel,” Mr. Blumberg said. “What can I do for you?”
“Is Becca there?”
“No, she isn’t home yet.”
I looked at my watch. It was 7:33, which seemed late. “Where is she?”
“At the game,” Mr. Blumberg said. “Didn’t you know? Osterhout played Finley this afternoon. I thought Becca said you were going. I would’ve been there, too, but I’m drowning in grading.”
I felt suddenly chilly. I’d forgotten Becca’s invitation almost as soon as she’d made it, but if I dug deep I could dredge up the gist. Bring your whole family, she’d said, and we’ll hang out afterward. Next Thursday, she’d said, and that was today. I hadn’t been excited at the prospect, and she hadn’t bothered to remind me. Still, how had I put it out of my mind so completely? I felt betrayed by my own memory.
“I wasn’t able to go,” I said, which was technically true. I couldn’t have gone if I hadn’t remembered to.
There was a slight pause, and I couldn’t help thinking Mr. Blumberg knew better. He said, “Well, the game must be over by now, but the cheer team goes out for burgers, or whatever it is cheerleaders eat, afterward. That’s probably where she is. I’m sure she and her mom’ll be home soon. I’ll ask her to call you, if it’s not too late.”
“Yes, please.”
As I hung up, I wondered how bothered Becca would be that I’d forgotten the game. She knew it wasn’t my thing, at all—not the football, not the cheering, not the crowds. And there must’ve been hundreds of other people there. What difference would my presence have made? Still, it would’ve been nice to hang out afterward, even under the circumstances. I regretted that.
I retrieved On the Origin of Species from my desk and opened it to my bookmark. Over the past few days, I’d slogged halfway through the first chapter, “Variation Under Domestication.” A better name for it would’ve been “Humans Are Never Satisfied.” It was all about the ways humans had been breeding crops and livestock to suit their fancy—that was Darwin’s word, fancy�
�since the dawn of civilization. Corn not plump enough? Rabbits not furry enough? Breed them until you get them exactly how you want them.
I knew domestication wasn’t all bad. We wouldn’t have the herd without it. Kali was hard enough to handle, but a wild goat wouldn’t let us get anywhere close without dealing us a kick in the teeth. And, of course, we wouldn’t have Arby. Still, it bothered me that humans couldn’t leave well enough alone. It was one thing to want to change yourself, not that I’d ever felt a particular need. But what gave you the right to change anyone else, much less an entire species?
As I waited for Becca to call, I read Darwin’s discussion of pigeon breeding. He argued that all pigeon species, despite their differences, were distant descendants of the rock pigeon. Judging by the number of pages he spent writing about them, Darwin was obviously a fan. Inspired, I set aside my book and pulled out the Guide to Misunderstood Creatures.
Some people—even Mimi, even though I’ve asked her not to—call pigeons (COLUMBIDAE) “rats with wings,” as if it’s a bad thing. That’s unfair to both pigeons and rats. Like roaches, their only real crime is their success. They’ve spread through our cities and towns, and why not? Humans have put roofs over their heads, given them easy access to food, and eliminated their predators. How can we expect them to say no?
The weird thing is, know another term for pigeon? “Dove.” Doves are symbols of peace. They get released at weddings. Call a pigeon a dove, and suddenly it’s respect—
The phone rang. I snatched it up and said hello halfway through the first ring.
“Hello, Hazel,” Becca said. Her tone was oddly formal. “My dad said you called.”
“I’m sorry I missed the game,” I blurted. “I forgot.”
“I noticed.”
“Who won?”
“We did.”
We. We as in the Osterhout Otters. Becca didn’t say anything else. I almost thought the call had dropped, except I could hear faint music on the line—pop music, and nobody in my house ever played pop music, at least not from this century.
It was my turn to speak, but I didn’t know what to say anymore. It seemed like hours ago that I’d called her, desperate to tell her about the baby. “I’m really sorry I forgot,” I repeated.
“Maybe,” Becca said, and I shivered at the sheen of frost on her voice. “Or maybe you were never planning to go in the first place.”
“I wasn’t not planning to go,” I said. “I made a mistake. Besides, if it was so important, you should have reminded me.”
“You have a better memory than anyone I know,” Becca said, “and you knew it was important to me. I think you didn’t remember because it wasn’t important to you.”
I hated what she was saying—not because she was wrong, but because she was right. Viewing the situation through her eyes, I didn’t come out looking good at all.
“I don’t understand why you can’t be supportive of me.” Hurt pricked through her words. “When everyone called you Goat Girl, and Skunk Girl, I was there for you, even when it hurt me too. When Mimi had her . . . problems, I was there for you. Why can’t you be here for me?”
“I’m trying,” I said, temporarily ignoring the way Becca had called Lena and Miles problems. “It’s hard.”
“Supporting me is hard?”
“No. I mean, this whole thing—me going to Finley—you cheerleading—”
“But what does me cheerleading have to do with anything?” asked Becca. “Is this still about Kirsten?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know.” And I didn’t. Kirsten was only one knotty string in the snarl, but she was the simplest to talk about.
“I’m sorry,” I said one last time. “I’ll try to do better.”
“Okay.” Becca sighed. “Why did you call, anyway?”
I couldn’t remember Becca asking that ever before. There’d never needed to be a reason. Of course, there had been a reason. I’d been going to tell her how strange and scary this fall was. But suddenly it seemed like one more thing I was asking of Becca without offering anything in return, one more weight tipping the scale of our friendship in my favor.
So I said, “I was wondering about Halloween,” though I’d only thought of it that moment.
“What about Halloween?”
That’s when I knew Becca hadn’t forgiven me for missing the game. We’d gone trick-or-treating together every year since fourth grade. We always went in her neighborhood, since where I lived you could walk half a mile between houses, plus there weren’t any sidewalks. She didn’t need to ask what I meant.
“You know,” I said. “Costume shopping. Trick-or-treating. All of it. I bet Rowan’s already planning.”
My moms’ patience for trick-or-treating only lasted a block or two, but Rowan was happy to go for hours. Every year he made his own costume with blinking lights and moving parts. The longer he had to show off, the better. One year he wore a robot costume he programmed to sing musical requests. Another year he was a Christmas tree with lights that blinked in Morse code. Rowan might’ve been a pain in the neck sometimes, but he was the perfect Halloween chaperone.
“I can’t,” said Becca. “We’ve got a game in the afternoon, and Kirsten invited me and the team to trick-or-treat at her house and watch a movie.” After a pause, she added, “Sorry.”
There was an awkward silence as I struggled to think of something to say. I didn’t want to say okay. It felt like admitting defeat, accepting that the cheerleaders had a bigger hold on Becca after a month than her best friend had after five years. But I didn’t want to fight with her, either. That left only one solution I could see, though suggesting it went against my nature.
I took a deep breath. “What if I went to that game? And then went with you after?”
“Went with me? To Kirsten’s?”
She sounded as skeptical as if I’d told her—well, as if I told her I wanted to go to a football game and hang out with my archenemy. But I wanted her to know I was trying. “Yes.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Sure, I do.”
Becca’s laugh was brittle. “I know you. There’s no way you want to go to Kirsten’s.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I’ve . . . maybe I’ve changed?” The words came out as a question.
“See?” said Becca. “Even you don’t believe it. Anyway, if you did come, it would be weird. Not because you’re weird, but because it’s just the team. You could come to the game, of course. It’s open to the public and all. But nobody else is bringing a friend to Kirsten’s.”
The more she said, the less I heard and the worse I felt. My brain was stuck on the phrase not because you’re weird. I could interpret it two different ways. The first way—the nicer way—was, Just because the situation would be weird doesn’t mean you’re weird. The second way was, The situation would be weird, although you being a gigantic weirdo, which you totally are, wouldn’t be a contributing factor. Once, I never would have doubted Becca meant it the first way. Now, I wondered.
But this was Becca. I could trust her. Of course I could.
So why didn’t I want to tell her about Mimi, and the family tree, and sex ed? Instead of easing my fears, Becca had become one more thing to worry about. She’d promised me nothing would change our friendship. Maybe she hadn’t lied, exactly, but she’d definitely been wrong.
I guessed it could’ve been worse. Kirsten could’ve turned Becca against me entirely. But maybe Kirsten had forgotten about me now that she had Becca. It was like the girls in our class were collectible dolls. As long as I’d been around, Kirsten hadn’t been able to get The Becca. Now that I was gone, Kirsten had a complete set. Probably I should be grateful for whatever bits of Becca were left over for me.
I said, “I understand.”
“I really am sorry,” said Becca. “I bet Rowan’ll come up with something amazing, as usual. Post pics, okay?”
“I will,” I said. “You too.” My voice sounded as hollow as my words.
Ch
apter 16
It rained all weekend, which was fine by me. It wasn’t as if I had any plans for it to ruin. At the farmers’ market, Mom and I huddled at our table as water streamed off the edges of our canopy. The market was practically deserted, and even though it was bad for business, that was fine by me too. I wasn’t in the mood to be friendly to customers. I wasn’t even in the mood to count change.
At home, I dug an umbrella from the hall closet and sprinted to the pasture, my notebook tucked under my sweatshirt to keep it dry. The windows of the half-ton fogged as I composed more entries for the Guide to Misunderstood Creatures, occasionally consulting Grzimek’s for accuracy. I wrote about snakes. Sharks. Spiders. Opossums. The downpour had sent the herd trotting for the shelter of the barn, and there weren’t any of the usual bleats and bellows and brays—just the clatter of rain pelting the roof, my pen scratching against the page, and the clangs and whistles as trains roared by.
The longer I wrote, the farther away the sad, scary things in life drifted, until they were washed out of sight. The baby? Not a problem. Becca? Not a problem. Sex ed? Not a problem. By the time I returned to the house for dinner, my shoes and clothes were thoroughly soggy, and my hair frizzed wildly around my face. But in the rain, a sort of husk had grown around my heart, like the thick casing of a seed, keeping it safe and dry.
Of course, that feeling didn’t last forever.
Monday in H&HD, we were greeted by a cart at the front of the room, piled high with white paper packages. Mrs. Paradisi called our class to order. “Okay, everyone. To continue our exploration of family, for the next two weeks you’ll be caring for a helpless little baby.”
Someone said, “Uh, Mrs. Paradisi? I’m pretty sure those are sacks of flour.”
“And by next Friday, you’ll be extremely grateful for that,” she answered with a smile. “If these were real babies, you’d be taking care of them for eighteen years—or, if my own kids are any indication, considerably longer.”
The room buzzed.
Mrs. Paradisi went on. “You’ll need a partner for this project—any gender, it doesn’t matter. We’re a twenty-first-century classroom. It’s up to you to decide how to co-parent, but I should tell you this project has written and visual components that will be hard to fake. If one person is slacking, both partners’ grades will suffer.” She gave us a hard look. “We’ll spend class studying human development from conception to birth, but for purposes of this project, we’ll assume you already have a baby by whatever means necessary.”
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