“You should’ve learned how to swim by now.”
“I’ve had lessons … and I—I even have a certificate.” I look all around his house and yard and the sky but I can still feel Mr. X staring at the prefrontal cortex of my brain, which I think is where guilt lives.
“Certificate?”
“Uh-huh, yeah.” My voice comes out so high and squeaky I have to clear my throat. “From swim class.”
“It’s a fake,” he says.
Asciugamano! How did he know? I must’ve leaked it out of my brain! “Don’t tell, OK?”
“How about you tell me the story?” Mr. X’s voice is stronger now.
“Fine,” I say because it’d shoot right out of my brain into his, anyway. Whether he knows it or not, he’s a uni-sensor just like me. I keep rolling and unrolling a strap from my life jacket.
“After the last class, the teacher was signing certificates which already had our names on them, and putting them on the chair next to her. Some mom distracted her and the teacher just signed them all automatically while she was talking even though she should’ve skipped mine. And it wasn’t a pool we ever went to except for this particular swim class for special needs kids which somehow Mom got me into, and the teacher told her to always wait in the car because her hovering made me more nervous. So when the teacher put my certificate on the chair, I quietly picked it up and walked to the locker room and out the door to the parking lot real smooth like I was Matt Damon in Ocean’s Eleven, which is an awesome movie, by the way, except that it has Ocean’s in the title.”
Mr. X stares at me for a moment like he’s catching up with all the words. “Didn’t the teacher call your mother?”
“Well … she might’ve left a message on Mom’s cell … which I might’ve accidentally deleted.”
Mr. X makes his grumbly noise. “So you still don’t know how to swim.”
“No. But I’m OK with that.”
“Maybe I should have a talk with your mother.”
“No! Not Mom. Or even Joan. Please?”
“It’s a safety issue. You live right by a lake.”
“That’s why I’m wearing a life jacket! A conversation about swimming is not necessary. If you want to talk to them about a dog, that’s fine, because I’m having a little trouble with that, but not swimming.”
He points to the addition, but I know he means the lake. “Do you see that water? Don’t you understand how important it is to—”
“Oh, I know, water is very important. Did you know that Matt Damon is trying to get clean water for people around the world? And toilets. Toilets are important, too. There are over seven billion people in this world and two-point-five billion of them don’t have toilets, not even a porta potty, so where do they go?”
I don’t stop long enough for him to answer even though he tries.
“Wherever they can, which means they pee in the same water where they wash and drink, and they poop in the open or, if they’re lucky, in newspaper and then wad it up and throw it as far as possible because who wants to be near their own poop? That’s called a flying toilet.”
Mr. X tries to speak again but I continue deflecting. I’m pretty expert now.
“I know it seems weird to talk about this stuff, but sometimes you have to address issues that you’d rather avoid in order to make progress. I learned that in therapy, but it hasn’t helped me actually solve the world toilet problem yet. It’s on my list.”
Mr. X holds his palm up to stop me but I keep going.
“I have a plan, though. On November nineteenth, World Toilet Day, I’m going to pass out toilet paper to everyone so I can increase awareness of the situation. It’ll be like going trick-or-treating, only in reverse because I’ll be giving something not taking it, and it’s toilet paper not candy. Pookie says I’m crazy and Mom says I may need to rethink the idea but Joan says she’s going to find a Costco and buy me a forty-eight-roll pack.”
Once I finally stop barfing all those words, Mr. X starts to talk but I stop him. “So I guess I’ll just go to bed now.” I give a fake yawn.
“I thought you were looking for comets.”
“Suddenly, I’m really sleepy. Good night, Mr. X!”
I wish I hadn’t told him that I don’t swim. I really, really, really don’t want him to mention it to Mom or Joan. Joan will say, Hey, kiddo! Let’s you and me spend some time swimming this summer. It’ll be fun! because she doesn’t want to embarrass me but she also doesn’t want to let me get away with not learning to swim. Mom will make me read more books about fear and anxiety and how to deal with it. And she’ll ask me to please stop worrying. But saying not to worry is like asking the Andromeda Galaxy to stop spiraling toward Earth or asking bullies to stop teasing you. Some things don’t stop even when you ask nicely.
And if she doesn’t make me read books, she’ll practice her movie therapy, which is even worse. She’d probably make me watch Titanic.
THE IMPOSSIBLE
Once Mom tried to help me deal with my fear of drowning by having me watch a movie about a tsunami, The Impossible. Even Joan, who’s pretty tough, said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” When people have to ask that, the answer is usually no.
My parallel universe friend Clara is also scared of drowning, so she watched it with me. When the family in the movie started getting swept away in the tsunami, spinning upside down under water with trees and trash hitting them, I couldn’t help it, I screamed. Mom jumped and said maybe this was a bad idea and I should stop watching. Clara yelled, It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? I can’t UN-see it now! What were you thinking? but Mom looked so upset I just said, “I’m OK.” And in the end, nobody in the family drowned and they all found each other so even though the movie was called The Impossible, I guess sometimes things seem impossible but they’re really not. Or it was just a bad movie title and should’ve been called something like Horrifying Story of Almost Drowning or How to Scare Julian to Death, because I still had drowning nightmares afterward—and I mean, a LOT.
I kind of avoid Mr. X the next day because I don’t want to get into a swimming conversation. Usually he doesn’t come out during the day, anyway, mostly at night, which means he could be out soon because we’re eating dinner late so it’s almost dark. Pookie calls him a vampire or a ghoul. Mom says he’s a hermit, which is someone who lives in a cave and doesn’t have friends so they’re both wrong.
“That explains it,” Pookie says at dinner, stabbing the individual kernels of corn on her plate, “he and Julian are exactly the same.”
Mom starts to defend me, which will only start an argument, so fortunately Joan says something interesting. “My friend Allison said we could use her time-share on Maui this summer.”
“Wait,” says Pookie. “Maui as in Hawaii?” She almost looks happy.
“Impossible,” Mom says. “We can’t afford it.”
Pookie puffs herself up like a puff adder before it strikes. “The time-share is free, right, Joan?”
“It is—”
“But not the airfare,” Mom interrupts. She stares at Joan. “You weren’t seriously considering this, were you?”
Joan shrugs. “Just for a moment—I mean,” she says quickly when Mom’s mouth drops open, “only because it might be our last chance for a long time since we don’t know what’s going to happen here.”
Mom shakes her head sternly.
“Jeez, Mom! Do you have to ruin everything?” Pookie stomps up the back stairs.
As much as I hate her shouting, I hate the awkward silence she leaves behind even more. Especially since I can feel the strain between Mom and Joan.
“What’s a time-share?” I ask, to get Joan talking, and also because I don’t like not knowing things.
Here’s what I learn: A time-share is when you can’t afford to buy a whole condo in someplace cool like Hawaii so you pay enough to be able to visit it sometimes … which gives me an idea so great, I’m even going to risk talking to Mr. X.
I
stay up late looking through my telescope, but I never see Mr. X. Just as I finally go to my tree room his patio light comes on and there he is, lying on the bench with his eyes closed. I run over to him.
“Hi, Mr. X, it’s me!”
He actually jumps. I guess I woke him up. He squints at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I have a super massive awesome idea as big as a black hole!”
He makes his rumbling sound. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“I guess it could … but now that you’re awake it doesn’t have to.”
He grumbles some more and swings his legs to the ground so he can sit up.
Mr. X opens one eye, which is enough to glare at me, but I sit on the glider chair, anyway. “How would you like a time-share, Mr. X?”
He stares at me for a moment and then at the addition. “I’m not interested in sharing your addition.”
“Not that!”
“And I already have a condo in Florida.”
“Not the condo kind of time-share, either. The dog kind.”
“The dog kind?” He sounds a little bit almost interested, maybe.
“Yeah, it’s where you get to enjoy a dog but I do all the work.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You have to pay for everything. And he has to live at your house.”
“Wow, what a deal. Let me think a minute. Gee, I don’t even need a minute. The answer is no. Now go to sleep.”
“A dog would be good for you.”
“You mean, paying for a dog would be good for me.”
“You’d get to play with him, too. And go for walks with us. Walking would be good for you. So would playing, actually. And don’t worry about him drowning, because I have thirty-four dollars, which is enough to buy him a life jacket that matches mine.”
“No dog of mine is wearing a life jacket. If I get a dog, he has to swim.”
Suddenly I’m not feeling so good about my idea. “What if he doesn’t want to swim?”
“Then I’ll throw him in the lake.”
I jump to my feet. “What!”
“Dogs are natural swimmers. If you throw them in water they automatically start dog paddling. You’ve heard that before, right? Dog paddling? My dog is going to swim.”
“He’s not your dog.”
“I thought we had a time-share arrangement.”
“We do, but—”
“On my time, he swims.”
“I’m not sure about this arrangement.” I start rolling my life jacket straps.
“You can swim with him, if you want. Or you can watch from the dock.”
“I’ll watch from the dock.”
“Suit yourself.”
I keep rolling and unrolling my life jacket straps. I want him to be my dog. “His name will be Sirius.”
“Serious? Dogs aren’t serious.”
“No, Sirius. The Dog Star. Get it? Dog. And star.”
He grunts and shakes his head.
“OK, my second choice for a name is Tobin Maxwell.”
He stares at me. “What if it’s a girl?”
“Then her name would be Tobin Maxwell.”
“Who’s Tobin Maxwell? Another scientist?”
“No. I just like the name.”
“I don’t.” He sighs. “Fine. We’ll call him—or her—Sirius.”
I grin at him. “You’ll love Sirius, Mr. X. I know you want a dog.”
“I’m too old for a dog, but I’ll try to help you get one … if you think about swimming.”
“What? No. I feel like throwing up whenever I think about swimming.”
“That’s because you’re nervous.”
“No, it’s because I’m a uni-sensor, which means I’m highly in touch with the universe and it’s telling me that swimming is a bad idea.”
“So you’re going to avoid swimming your whole life? You need to get over this problem.”
“It’s not a problem. Really. Some people don’t drive. They take the bus or a cab or they walk. Some people don’t like elevators so they use the stairs instead. They’re probably healthier that way. I’m definitely healthier not swimming. Then I won’t drown.”
“If you learn to swim you won’t drown.”
I can’t believe he just said that. “Are you kidding? People drown all the time!”
“Well, if they get in over their heads and—”
“Over their heads? You can drown in three inches of water! It’s happened to people!”
“What people?”
“The dead ones!”
He rolls his eyes.
“No, really! My mom read this book called Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight.”
Mr. X scrunches his face up.
“I know, the title is grammatically dubious, but Mom says you have to get past that and into the story, and what happens is this little girl trips and her face lands in a duck pond that’s only ankle-deep and guess what? She drowns! That’s what!”
He waves his hand. “That’s just fiction.”
“No! It’s a memoir which means the memory of someone’s actual life and it actually happened to this girl’s actual little sister!”
He throws his head back like he’s looking for a particular constellation. “Just think about a dog. And that time-share. Then maybe you’ll be interested in swimming.”
“If I think about it but decide not to swim, can we still get Sirius?”
He puts his palms on his forehead like Joan does when she has a migraine. “Maybe. But the dog, at least, is going to swim.”
I clutch my life jacket as I leave and mutter, “I’m still buying him a life jacket.”
“Dream on!” Mr. X calls after me.
DREAMS
I don’t want to dream about drowning, again, so I try to think of other dreams. At school we always wrote “I Have a Dream” poems in February in honor of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. Last year mine went on for sixteen pages, and Mr. Reynolds said he really appreciated my heart but my hand might appreciate a rest so I stopped. I could’ve gone on.
Here are some of the things I wrote that I still dream about, a lot:
I have a dream that everyone will have a place to sleep that is not on a sidewalk.
I have a dream that everyone will have food to eat, even if it’s only nutritious food.
I have a dream that kids won’t have to work in sweatshops.
I have a dream that animal abuse will only happen in history books and when people read it they’ll go, “How could anyone have DONE this?!”
I have a dream that people won’t go to prison when they’re bad (just the REALLY bad ones) but make up for what they did by fixing whatever they broke and getting to know the people they hurt and doing nice things for them.
I have a dream that people who have mental issues will have nice places to live, therapists to help take care of them, friends they can make, and a telescope.*
I have a dream that no one will be mean to people for being gay or Muslim or an immigrant or marginally overweight or anything that is just the way they happen to be.**
*Because the cosmos can calm people down. It’s magical that way.
**It’s OK to call anyone out on being obnoxious, no matter who they are. No one gets a free ride. That’s what Joan says.
I have a lot of other dreams, too. Here’s one of my new ones:
I have a dream that Pookie will find her dad but still decide to stay with us.
And I would like to live long enough to see Pookie happy, but even dreams have their limitations.
Mom is just getting off the phone when I walk in the kitchen for breakfast. How I know is this: She always says, “Ohh-kay,” in a singsongy voice whenever she’s about to hang up.
I grab my chance and blurt out, “Do you want to look through my telescope tonight?”
But her eyes are all spacey. “Mr. X is a sweet man, isn’t he?” She moves her and Joan’s mugs around on the table until they’re touching. “I mean, he h
as his issues, but I think he’s mellowing with age.”
“Were you just talking to him?”
She nods. “I’ve been talking to him quite a bit.” She gives me a smile that I can tell is fake. “You know, Julian, he really would like to see you be more comfortable in the water. I don’t think that swimming class you took was very helpful.”
My whole body goes hot and then cold and then hot again. I feel like my face is burning. I give a fake smile, too. “I’m OK with not swimming.”
Mom sighs. “I’d feel a lot better if you were a more confident swimmer.”
“We’re going to be moving away from the lake, anyway.”
“We don’t know that yet. Things might work out.”
I keep deflecting. “Joan says there’s no way to compromise on this.”
Mom looks at her hands. “I know. I keep hoping for a miracle. I don’t want to move. And I know you’d miss Mr. X.”
I’m not so sure I’d miss Mr. X since he just ratted on me. I TOLD him not to talk to Mom about swimming!
“I know how you could make him happy. I think he’d be really pleased if he saw you swimming in the lake.”
How did she deflect back to swimming again?
She grins. “Don’t look so upset. I can watch you. I’ll be your cheering section!”
Asciugamano! That’s all I need. Mom has been much less helicopter-y than in DC because she’s so distracted. Now she’s remembering to hover. Thanks a lot, Mr. X! Next thing you know she’ll be finding me a doctor.
“By the way,” Mom says, “I think I’ve found the right pediatrician for you. He’s—”
I groan. I did it again! Sending thoughts straight to Mom’s brain!
“What? Did you want a female doctor? I’ll try to find one if you’d prefer. The important thing is for you to be comfortable and happy.”
I was comfortable and happy before this whole conversation started.
Pookie yells a really big swear word and comes pounding down the back stairs.
Mom jumps up. “What is it?”
“The toilet overflowed!”
Mom runs for the stairs. “What did you try to flush?”
“It’s not my fault! It’s this stupid, ancient house! We should’ve stayed in DC!”
The Incredible Magic of Being Page 8
