Jake and Lily

by Jerry Spinelli

  “Maybe Jake shouldn’t be getting undressed in front of you.”

  “I won’t look.”

  “He’s a boy and you’re a girl.”

  “No we’re not.”

  “Oops, my mistake.”

  It was the day after Jake walked out. We were sitting on Poppy’s living room floor. There was no furniture yet. We were playing poker. Our money was the dried beetles Poppy collected from around the world. It’s the only thing he has a lot of.

  “Poppy,” I said, “you know what I mean. You’re missing the point. We’re not a regular boy and girl. We’re brother and sister. And we’re not regular brother and sister. We’re twins. And we’re not even regular twins. We’re special.” I squeezed his finger. “You know what I mean, Poppy. You’re the only other person who totally knows.”

  He smiled, nodded, patted my hand. “I know. Raise you one beetle.”

  “You know about the snow fort and the bruises. You know about the day at the beach. You know about our birthday and the train station. You know about goombla.”

  He patted. “I know…I know….”

  “So?” I said.

  “So what?”

  “So why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why everything? Why won’t Jake ride and play with me anymore or even hardly talk to me? Why did he change? Why is he so different now? Where did our goombla go? Raise you two beetles and call you.”

  “That’s a lot of whys—and one where.”

  “So give me a lot of answers.”

  “How about if I give you one? One answer fits all.”

  “Give it.”

  “He’s a boy. Three jacks.”

  “Bull,” I said. “Four queens.” I took the pot.

  He shrugged. He got up. “Let’s go shopping. I need furniture.”

  “Poppy, you have to have an answer. You’re old. Old people have the answers.”

  “Ask me tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have a better answer then.”

  So we went to Goodwill and got him some furniture. And he got a secondhand bike till he can afford his own car. And he looked for a job. I went with him the next day and the next. And every day, as soon as he opened the front door, I said, “Why?” And every day he said, “He’s a boy.”

  Until today, when he said, “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question.”

  I got excited. “What’s the right question?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  I pounded his chest and buried my face in his shirt and pretended I was bawling, but part of me wasn’t pretending.

  Jake

  As I said before, it’s not enough to just observe a goober. You have to mess with him. You have to.

  So day after day we pulled up to the curb at Soop’s house and we watched him hammer and saw away in his orange hat. He asked how our blisters were coming along, and we told him they were still pretty bad and we acted all sad because we couldn’t help him build the clubhouse.

  We asked him tons of questions, just to keep him talking. He was our daily entertainment. Better than the movies. For instance, when we asked him what his favorite subject was, he said, “Oh, I would say mathematics.” Not just Math. But Oh, I would say mathematics. Classic goober answer.

  If we didn’t get a good goober answer right away, we kept digging.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m still a little young for that.”

  “You like girls, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re people. I like all people.”

  “Do you think girls are as good as boys?”

  “Absolutely. I believe in gender equality.”

  Bingo! I believe in gender equality. It’s like digging for night crawlers. If you keep at it, sooner or later you’ll come to a beaut.

  Our questions got sillier and sillier.

  “How many bites does it take you to finish a hamburger?”

  “Where would you wipe your nose if you forgot your handkerchief?”

  “Did you ever pee while standing on your head?”

  By now we didn’t even try to hide it. We were hooting and howling at the stuff he said, and he was laughing right along. Goobers don’t know when they’re being laughed at. They just think they’re funny.

  I’ve been thinking about it, and here’s the thing. A true goober—you can’t insult him. You can’t hurt him. Physically, sure. But that’s all. So go ahead, mess with him. Insult him. Mock him. Embarrass him. Boo him. Everything rolls off the inhabitants of Planet Goober. They’re invincible.

  Anyway, that’s how it went—until today. Somewhere along the line Bump asked him where he moved here from and he said, “Gary, Indiana,” and Bump said, “Did you like it there?” and he said, “Yes,” and Bump said, “So why did you leave?” and there was no answer.

  We were all so shocked, it took a minute to reach our brains: He didn’t answer. It’s totally ungoober-like to not answer a question. He just went on hammering. “Must not’ve heard,” Bump whispered. So Bump said, “Ernie?”

  The hammer stopped. Ernie cocked his head. That’s another thing he does—he cocks his head when you say his name or ask a question, like he’s moving his ear to scoop up every last sound wave from your voice. So he cocks his head and says, “Hello?”

  And Bump says, “I guess you didn’t hear me. I asked you why you moved away from Gary, Indiana.”

  And Soop just stares at Bump. Stares and blinks, stares and blinks. Then he suddenly jumps up and says, “Oops, I just remembered, guys. I have to go in and do something for my mother.” He runs for the door. “Seeya later!”

  We all looked at each other, like, Huh? We hung around for a couple minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back out. As we coasted up the street we started talking.

  “He’s lying,” said Bump.

  We all agreed.

  “Unbelievable,” said Nacho. Because goobers don’t lie.

  “And he acted like he didn’t hear you the first time,” said Burke, “but he did. So that’s like a lie too.”

  We pedaled for a while, trying to make sense of it. I figured I might as well ask the obvious question. “So why’s he lying?”

  We came up with lots of theories:

  His father is in the mob and they’re in witness protection.

  His mother is a shoplifter and they were kicked out of Indiana.

  His parents lost their jobs and had to move.

  Soop has allergies (most goobers have allergies) and Indiana was bad for his health.

  Soop is a firebug and they had to get out before he was caught.

  They lost their house in a flood.

  Or an earthquake.

  Or termites.

  Soop is a shoplifter.

  We stopped to pick up hoagies and went to the hideout and kept making theories. Most of them were just silly and we didn’t believe them ourselves. We were mostly just laughing and scratching our heads over the whole thing, but then I started to notice something. The longer the list of theories got, the more it bothered us that we didn’t know the real answer. Then Burke said something. It seems pretty innocent, even now when I think of it and write it down. He said, “It was just a simple question.” That’s all. “It was just a simple question.” But now that I look back on it, and I remember his face as he said it and the sharp edge in his voice, I think maybe that was the moment things turned in a different direction. Because then the guys started saying stuff like:

  “Yeah, a simple question. ‘Why did you move here?’”

  “So why can’t he answer? Don’t we deserve an answer?”

  “He didn’t have to go in and do something for his mother. He made that up.”

  “He lied.”

  “We come over every day. We keep him company. Look what he does.”

  “He lies to us.”

  By the time we were done saying all th
is, something had changed. Soop was still funny, but funny wasn’t the only thing he was. Something else was in there too, I wasn’t sure what. Then Bump said, “He didn’t just lie. He lied to the Death Rays.”

  There it was. It was like the last skinny sunbeam went behind a cloud and the sky was dark and getting darker and you knew you better pedal for home before you got wet.

  And then Bump rolled his hoagie paper into a ball and threw it across the hideout and said, “He’s gonna pay.”

  Lily

  “I’m getting scared,” I told Poppy.

  We were in his kitchen. He was making me a PB&J sandwich. Without the J. He forgot to get jelly. There are lots of things his house doesn’t have yet.

  So he said, “This about your brother by any chance?”

  I told him it was.

  He handed me the sandwich. “Milk?”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “Do you have chocolate syrup by any chance?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “So—it seems like you were mad at first. Then sad.” He gave me a glass of milk. “Now you’re scared?”

  I stared at my lunch. “Yeah.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re writing our journals, you know? Like you said?”

  “Right. Good.”

  “Well, we always kind of knew what the other one was writing. But now I don’t know. I, like, try to tune in to him. But I can’t.”

  “Eat your sandwich.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m not going to talk to you unless you eat.”

  I took a bite. “Talk.”

  “So why does that scare you?”

  “Because it means I’m losing him.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not losing him.”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

  He came over to my chair, lifted me off, sat down, and plunked me onto his lap. “I don’t think it’s funny. I just think you’re wrong, that’s all. You’re never going to lose him. He’ll always be your brother. This is just a phase.”

  I pounded the table. “Phase, my hiney. It’s bad enough he doesn’t want to be around me anymore. But now our goombla is starting to go away.” I quick turned to look into his face. Our noses bumped. “Poppy…” In his eyes I found all the love there was, and still it wasn’t enough. “Poppy, we’re becoming untangled!” I was crying again.

  He hugged me and rocked me for a while. He put the sandwich in front of my face. Finally I took another bite.

  “I’d wipe your tears with a napkin,” he said, “except I don’t have napkins.”

  “You don’t have anything,” I sniveled. “Who ever heard of a house without jelly?”

  “Let me know when you’re finished feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “I have something to say.”

  I wanted to grump for a year, but I only lasted a minute. “Okay,” I said finally, “what do you have to say?”

  He tapped the table twice with his fingernail. “I think I know your problem.”

  “Big deal,” I said. “I know it too. It’s him.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think”—he pointed—“it’s you.”

  I sneered. “Right, Poppy. I’m being dumped by my own brother and it’s my fault.”

  He stared at me for a long time, squinting, then he said, “You know what you need?”

  “I can’t wait,” I said. “What?”

  “A life.”

  “Huh?”

  “You need a life.”

  I looked around. I couldn’t find a mirror. I pulled at my shirt. I poked my stomach. “Isn’t this me? Aren’t I real? Alive? What am I—a ghost?”

  “You’re too wrapped up in your brother. You need a life of your own. Not a Lily-and-Jake life. A Lily life.”

  “But you’re the one who said we’re entangled. Now you’re telling me I’m too wrapped up in him? Did you lie to us before?”

  “No, I didn’t lie.” He got up. He sat on the edge of the table. “It’s true, there is something very special between you and Jake. And it will always be there. But you can’t allow it to stop you from becoming your own person. There’s a life waiting for you away from Jake. You need to find it.”

  I turned away. I looked out the window. I saw backyards and fences and houses and sky. I remembered the day at the beach: Jake and me secretly grinning under our parents’ scolding, knowing we weren’t really lost, knowing—even if we were at opposite ends of the universe—we could never be lost. I tried to imagine life away from Jake. I couldn’t.

  I turned to Poppy. He was getting blurry. I felt my lip quiver. I croaked, “I don’t have a life!”

  Jake

  All of a sudden some of that funny stuff about Soop doesn’t seem so funny anymore. It’s like we see him with different eyes now. Yesterday he made us laugh. Today he makes us mad.

  But I don’t think it’s happening just because Soop didn’t answer a question. Let’s face it, he didn’t really lie to us. Okay, maybe, technically, it was a lie about having to go see his mother, but that’s a pretty harmless lie. And knowing how honest most goobers are, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.

  No, the fact is, whether he did or didn’t answer some question, sooner or later this was going to happen. It happens with all of them. I can’t explain it. For once, don’t blame the goober. The goober never changes. He still says ahnt instead of aunt. Or he still wears a beaded belt with reindeer on it. Or he still can’t bounce a basketball twice in a row. No, it’s not the goober. The goober is forever. It’s you. It’s you who changes. Something inside you that used to tickle—now it feels like a pinch. You’re done laughing. You just want to smack him.

  So today it was different as we parked at Soop’s house. For one thing, we were now off the street and on the sidewalk. And we were calling him Soop right to his face. Of course, goobers being goobers, he probably didn’t even notice.

  We got an early taste of the new deal when Soop looked up from his work, which today was digging holes. He said, “So guys, how are those blisters coming along? Ready to jump in yet?”

  And Bump said, “Nah. We ain’t jumpin’ in.”

  Soop looked surprised—“Oh”—and then sympathetic. “Boy, you guys must have yourselves some awful blisters. Do they really hurt bad?”

  “Nah,” said Bump. “They don’t hurt at all. In fact, we don’t even have blisters.”

  I could see Soop getting a little confused. “Oh…well…that’s good.”

  “Yeah, that’s good,” said Bump. “In fact we never did have blisters. We just told you that. We lied.”

  Now Soop was standing there blinking at us—goobers blink a lot—the spade hanging in his hand. All he could say was, “Oh.”

  “Yeah, we didn’t want to help, so we made up that lie about the blisters. We’d rather just sit here and watch you do all the work.”

  Burke picked it up. “Yeah, Soop, and then when you’re done making the clubhouse, we’ll all move in with ya.”

  At that point a normal person would have sneered and said, “Yeah, right,” and thrown the hammer at us, not to mention a mouthful of choice words. But goobers…goobers are like sponges. They take all the crap you throw at them and just soak it up and nothing comes back. So Soop just breaks out this massive grin and pumps his fist and says, “Yes!” As if the only thing he heard was we’ll all move in with ya.

  Nacho jumped in. “Hey, Soop, how come you wear goggles and gloves?”

  Soop jammed the spade into the ground. “To protect my hands and eyes,” he said.

  “Did your mommy make you wear them?”

  “I wouldn’t say she made me,” he said. “She suggested it. And I thought it was a good idea, so”—he held up his gloved hands so all the world could see—“I did it!”

  I had been holding back, but now the words just came blurting out: “You da man, Soop!” And he gave a fist pump and another “Yes!” And I’m thinking, Hey, yeah, I can do this.

  “But Soop,” said Burke
, “nobody else would be caught dead wearing gloves and goggles. Don’t you feel like a dork?”

  And Soop actually leaned on the spade for a second and frowned like he was seriously thinking over the question. Then he gave a quick snap of his head and said, “Nope,” and went back to digging.

  That’s how it went, us asking dumb question after dumb question. If you could compare it to a boxing match, we were jabbing him in the nose—bam bam bam bam—round after round.

  “Hey, Soop—you look bald. Why don’t you let your hair grow a little?”

  “Hey, Soop—where’s your Mickey Mouse shirt?”

  “Hey, Soop—is everybody as cool as you where you came from?”

  “Hey, Soop—where did you get that hankie from? Your grandpa? Is it fulla boogers?”

  And Soop—bless his little goober heart—he answered every question all serious like it was on a test.

  Lily

  Poppy says there’s two of me. There’s the Jake-and-Lily me. And there’s the Just Lily me. It’s the Just Lily me who needs a life. Because right now she’s nobody.

  “So how does Just Lily get a life?” I asked him. I was combing Poppy’s long white hair. I had pulled the rubber band off the ponytail.

  Poppy thought about it. “Attitude,” he said. “I think it starts with that. Attitude.”

  “Don’t I already have attitude?” I said.

  “The Jake-and-Lily you does,” he said. “But Just Lily? She’s”—his hands went thumbs-down—“fssst.”

  “What’s fssst?” I said.

  “Blah. Empty. Zip. Zero. Nada.”

  “There’s a lot of ways to say nothing,” I said.

  He nodded. “I should know. I was nothing for a long time.”

  The comb went through his hair a lot easier than it goes through mine—when I comb it once a month. “Was that after Grandma died?” I said.

  “It was,” he said. “Bad time for your Poppy.”

  “So how did you get out of it? Did you get attitude?”

  He thought. He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I did, come to think of it.”

  “Do you have another rubber band?” I said. “So what attitude did you get?”