Never Fear, Meena's Here!

by Karla Manternach

  “Do what?”

  “Some people just aren’t that big of a deal. Just like some things aren’t.” I reach into the coffee can and hand him one of the metal rings. “Like this.”

  Dad blinks at it. “This?”

  “It’s called a washer,” I mutter, resting my chin on my knees. “I don’t know why, though, because it doesn’t even clean stuff. It doesn’t do anything.”

  He gazes at the ring in his hand for a long moment. “I hate to argue with you, but this is actually one powerful little doodad.”

  I glance up at him. “What do you mean?”

  He stands and gives my bike tire a spin. “You’ve heard of nuts and bolts, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  He points at the middle of my tire, where it’s attached to the frame. “The bolt is the long one there. It holds the wheel onto the bike. See it?”

  I nod.

  “And the nut is the thing at the end that looks like a hexagon. It holds the bolt in place. But look there. See what’s right next to the nut?”

  When I get up and lean in closer, I can see the edge of a washer, sandwiched right there between the nut and the bike frame. “But the nut and the bolt are doing all the work,” I say. “The washer is just sitting there.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Dad says. “Nuts and bolts get all the glory, but this baby helps them do their job.” He flips the washer like a coin and catches it in the air.

  “How?”

  “Well, if a nut and a bolt press together too hard, they can damage the thing they’re holding on to. They work better with a washer in between them to spread out the pressure.”

  “Huh.”

  “Or sometimes the nut comes loose from the bolt, because it doesn’t have a flat surface to grip onto. You could be pedaling along and have the tire fly right off your bike! But stick a washer in there, and it creates a nice flat surface for the nut to press against, so everything stays tight.”

  I stick my finger in the spokes and twirl the tire around. “So the washer helps the nut and the bolt do a better job? At the thing they’re already good at?”

  “You got it.”

  I peek again at the little sliver of washer next to the wheel. “I can barely see it.”

  “It’s not one to toot its own horn.” Dad gives my bike horn a squeeze: honk.

  I roll my eyes.

  “If it’s doing its job,” he says, “you don’t even notice it.”

  I nod. “It’s like a superhero without a suit,” I say slowly.

  He grins. “An everyday hero.”

  Like Sofía, I think.

  Maybe I could be one too—Ring or no Ring, seizures or no seizures. I could do helpful things. Invisible things. Things that don’t toot my own horn.

  I think I know where to start. “Can Eli ride bikes with us tomorrow?” I ask. “He could make his motorcycle sound the whole way. Or, no, wait…” I remember then, and my shoulders slump. “He won’t want to come while Riley’s home.” I sigh. At least I can still cheer him on at his concert tonight, no matter how much spit he sprays.

  Dad’s face darkens. “Actually,” he says, “your Mom talked to Aunt Kathy a little while ago. Riley didn’t make it.”

  “What?” I take a step back. “Why not?”

  “Something came up.”

  “Again?”

  “I guess so.”

  My stomach squeezes. “Something more important than seeing Eli?”

  “I don’t know, kiddo,” Dad says with a sigh. “His friends decided to stay a little longer, and he was only going to be home for a couple of days anyway, so…” Dad rubs the back of his neck. “He changed his plans.”

  “How can he do that to Eli?” I clench my fists. “Why is he always doing that?”

  “Because nineteen-year-old college boys are not the most considerate creatures on earth.”

  “But he promised!” I start pacing, remembering how happy Eli was yesterday, drumming his pencils, making train sounds with his mouth. I picture him running home after school, his jacket flying open, thinking Riley would finally be there.

  But he wasn’t. I predicted the future.

  I stomp my foot against the ground. Why couldn’t I have been wrong about that?

  “I’m going over there,” I say.

  Dad rests a hand on my head. “I know you want to help, Meena, but you can’t fix this.”

  He’s right. I can’t. I couldn’t save Eli at the pool, and I can’t change what’s happening now.

  But I’m going anyway. “Can I take my bike?” I ask.

  Dad flips it onto its wheels. “It’s all yours.”

  19

  I grip the handles of my bike and pump the pedals as hard as I can. Soaring down the sidewalk, the wind whips my hair, and I pass by houses so fast that it almost feels like I’m flying.

  I turn onto Eli’s sidewalk, leaping off my bike before it stops and dumping it in the grass. The garage is open and empty, so Aunt Kathy must be out, but Eli might still be here. I knock hard on the front door and wait.

  Nobody answers.

  The window on the door is cut into a zillion little triangles of glass. I press my face against it and squint down the hall. A bright smudge glows from the door of Eli’s room, so I know he’s home, but nothing is moving—nobody loping toward me with a gerbil in one hand and a pooper scooper in the other.

  I pound again. Maybe he’s still ignoring me. I guess I deserve it.

  Then I remember how he kept his eye on the pool entrance that day—how he kept watching for Riley after we knew he wasn’t coming.

  If Eli could hear me when I first knocked, he would have come running. And if he can’t hear me, then…

  I know where he is.

  I jump down from the stoop and hurry around the house. It’s weird being back here by myself. It’s lonely and still. I feel like I have to keep quiet for some reason, so I tiptoe through the grass, toward the back porch and the little chirping sounds of Eli’s chickens. I hear a metallic rattle as one of them bangs against the side of the coop. The step creaks when I put my foot on it. I take a big breath and climb onto the porch.

  Our milk jug igloo is still in the corner. It’s saggy and lopsided now, mostly because we tried to move it into the yard to make room for the new chicken coop.

  It turns out that thing isn’t exactly portable.

  I can just make out what looks like a shadowy figure inside the frosty pile of jugs. I step toward it. “Eli?” I whisper.

  No answer.

  I creep closer. The rotting wood planks groan under me with each tiny step. I smell the musty floorboards and the wood shavings that line the coop. One of the chickens pecks at the wire. Finally, I’m close enough to crouch down and peer into the igloo.

  Eli is sitting with his back to me, his head on his knees, cursive letters slanting across the back of his red wool jacket—Riley’s jacket. The one with the pins and patches and medals that prove how great Riley is.

  The jacket he left behind.

  I look for a way in, but Eli is blocking the door, the igloo like a fortress.

  Or maybe it’s more like an island, crumbling into a lake of fire.

  “Eli,” I say again. It’s not a question this time. It’s me reaching my hand across the lake.

  “What,” he answers finally. It’s not a question either. It’s Eli, pulling up a drawbridge, staying out of reach.

  “Can I come in?” I ask quietly.

  He shakes his head no.

  My heart squeezes in my chest. “I want to help.”

  “I don’t want help.” His voice is dull and wilted. “I don’t want anything.”

  My hands clench. My legs twitch. I want to barge past him into the igloo. I want to pull him to safety. If he’d turn around and let me…

  But he won’t. He still doesn’t want to be saved.

  Maybe he doesn’t need to be.

  I sink down onto the floor outside the igloo, facing the other wa
y. I tip my head up and stare at the porch ceiling—wood slats like I’m sitting on, only smaller. Tighter. Closer together.

  “What can I do?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  So that’s what I do.

  Nothing at all.

  Because I’m not a hero, and I can’t fix this.

  All I can do is stay here by his side while the island crumbles beneath us.

  I swallow hard and rest my chin on my knees. I don’t say anything reassuring or WHOOSH any positive thoughts over to him. We just sit together, back to back. Silent.

  For a long time, I close my eyes and listen to the soft clucking of the chickens and the swishing of the pine trees.

  When Eli finally speaks, his voice is so quiet that I barely hear it over the sound of the breeze. “He said he’d come.”

  I open my eyes.

  “I wanted to show him my walnut collection. And the robin’s nest out back. I wanted to go to the pool and ride our bikes and work on our sound effects… but we didn’t have to do any of those things if he didn’t want to.” He takes a shuddery breath. “I just wanted to see him.”

  “I know,” I say.

  I think about the last time I saw Riley, at a family dinner before he left. He spent the whole time texting his friends. Whenever he did look up, he was wearing mirrored sunglasses that made him look like he was closed for business.

  I wonder if he’s a good brother. Because I know Eli is. He’d do anything for Riley.

  “Why doesn’t he do what he says he will?” Eli asks.

  I sigh. “He was probably having such a good time that he didn’t think about you.”

  “That’s even worse,” Eli says.

  He’s right. It’s worse not to be thought of.

  I do that sometimes, though. I forget to think about other people. I did it to Eli when he tried to show me his sound effects. I did it to Sofía when she kept asking to play four square. I did it to Rosie when she wanted to make bracelets.

  I do it to Rosie all the time.

  Sure, I let her hang around, if I’m in the mood and if she’s not in my way. I’m not really thinking of her, though. And isn’t that the worst thing of all?

  I wonder if I’m a good sister. Because I know Rosie is. She’d do anything for me.

  What would I do for her?

  “Why didn’t he want to see me?” Eli asks.

  I swallow hard. “Maybe because he knows you’ll always be here,” I say, “because you always have been. I know he’s your hero, Eli, but he isn’t perfect.” I let out a big breath. “Nobody is.”

  One of the chickens flutters inside the coop. I watch her stretch out her wings and then tuck them back in. Eli has gotten so many new animals this year—more than he ever had before. He takes them in and takes care of them. He plays with them and pays attention to them. He lets them know they’re wanted.

  I wish Riley would do that for him. Somebody should.

  “Eli?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I look over my shoulder at him. “Can I see your walnut collection?”

  For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then he does one of those wavy shrugs that doesn’t mean no. “Okay,” he says.

  When he turns around, there are streaks on his face where I can tell his tears dried. He reaches into the pocket of Riley’s jacket and sets a walnut in between us. He pushes it across the floor, out the door to me.

  “I found this one last fall. It was still in its husk, but I peeled it off.”

  I pick it up and admire the wrinkly brown shell.

  He digs into his pocket and takes out another one. “This one still has teeth marks in it.” He points to the tiny scratches. “A squirrel dropped it when he saw me coming.”

  “Huh.” I squint at it and nod.

  He fumbles in his pocket again. When he lowers his head, I can see a freckle on his scalp, right at the spot where his hair sticks straight up.

  He sets another walnut in front of me. “This one is cool because it looks like a grandpa.”

  I pick it up and turn it over. It looks exactly like the other two.

  He keeps handing me nuts. To Eli, each one is unique. I take my time examining them, listening to their stories, learning about where he found them and what makes each one different from all the others.

  But I’m not really thinking about them.

  I’m thinking about how Eli shares his favorite chips with me at lunch because he knows they’re my favorite too. How he chained my chair to the bike rack even after our fight at the pool. How he stood by me in line with Sofía when nobody else would come near.

  I’m also watching the tips of Eli’s ears turn pink while he talks. I’m listening to the bounce come back into his voice and seeing the light come back into his eyes.

  “Eli?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  I hand back his last walnut. “I know we don’t get to pick our brothers and sisters, but if we did, I’d want you to be mine.”

  He freezes. For a few seconds, he stares at me.

  Then his whole face collapses. “What the heck, Meena?” he groans.

  I blink. “What?”

  A big shudder starts in the middle of his chest and rattles through his body, right to the ends of his floppy white sleeves. “I’m glad I don’t have a sister if they go around saying stuff like that!”

  “Hey!” I slug him in the shoulder. “I was trying to be nice.”

  He snorts. “Well, stop it.”

  I cross my arms. “Fine. I was going to ask you to show me your armpit farts, but—”

  “Really?” His face brightens. “Because I’m getting pretty good.”

  I stick my chin out. “Prove it.”

  So he does.

  Boy, does he.

  He squeaks out a full minute of them. He does his drop-of-water cheek flick next. After that, he chugs out a helicopter sound that sprays so much spit I have to cover my face with my arms.

  It’s a whole concert.

  When he’s finished, he beams at me, wiping spit on Riley’s sleeve.

  “That’s awesome, Eli,” I say, and I mean it.

  All this time, while I was working on superpowers I didn’t have, he was getting good at something that was all his own—something original.

  “Now teach me how to burp the ABCs,” I say.

  He grins.

  Then he backs away from the igloo door so I can scootch inside.

  20

  BAM!

  I jump in front of the automatic door outside the hardware store.

  WHOOSH!

  I spread my arms wide as it opens.

  “Get inside!” I say over my shoulder. “Can’t… hold it… long!”

  Mom leads Rosie into the store.

  POW!

  I leap inside, whirl around, and wave my arms back together as the door closes. “We made it!” I gasp.

  Rosie giggles. We stop and wiggle our feet on the mat of rubbery prickles then run for the gumball machines. I dig around inside my pocket. I helped Eli clean cages yesterday, so I have my own quarters this time, but I brought the washer, too. I still might see if it fits in one of the machines. Before I decide what I want, Rosie plugs two coins of her own. She lets the gumballs fall into her hand and holds them out to me. “Want one?” she asks, gazing up at me with big brown eyes.

  I pick the orange gumball and leave the pink one for her. “Thanks,” I say, popping it into my mouth. It only tastes like gum for five seconds, but it was still nice of her. I turn to Mom and rock back on my heels. “If you want, you can go get your garden stuff first,” I say.

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “Oh, can I?”

  “Sure. We’ll just be in the paint department.” I bat my eyelashes.

  She narrows her eyes and points at me. “No funny business.”

  I trace an X over my heart and grab Rosie’s hand. “Come on, squirt,” I say, dragging her down the aisle.

  Standing in front of the bay of colors is even
better when you’re actually there to pick one out, not just stuffing your pockets full of cards, which seems to bug the staff, even though they’re free.

  I soak up the colors for a minute, breathing in the whole rainbow. “Are you excited?” I ask, glancing down at Rosie. “We get to wake up to a new color tomorrow!”

  Rosie shrugs. “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess?”

  She sighs and unclips her little pink purse then and pulls out the paint card.

  I take a good look at her, standing there in her little pink shoes, her hair tied up with little pink ribbons like a girl in an old storybook. Sofía is right. I don’t need to use mind control to make Rosie pick what I want. She’d do anything for me.

  I turn back to the display—to the hundreds of shades that aren’t mine.

  “You know,” I say, “I’m not sure you picked the right color.”

  She frowns up at me. “I didn’t?”

  I slide the card out of her hand. “I’m a little worried about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…” I take one last look at that beautiful bluish-purple card. Then I pull my eyes away and look at Rosie instead. “It’s kind of bright, isn’t it?”

  She stares up at me. “It’s very bright.”

  “And it’s called Storm Cloud,” I say. “Is that what you want to think about every morning? Maybe it’d be better to wake up to something with a little more sunshine in it. What do you think?”

  She blinks. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. What would you pick? If it were up to you.”

  “It is up to me,” Rosie says. “Mom said.”

  I have to bite my lip for a second. “Right. So what color do you want? It’s your room too, you know. Besides, I have my workshop, so I guess…” I swallow hard. “It might be more your room than mine.”

  She turns to the display. “Any color?” she asks, wrinkling her forehead.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “What do you want to see in the morning?” I ask, nudging her with my elbow. “What do you want to think about as soon as you wake up every day?”

  She smiles at me then, her eyes shining. “Fairy wings,” she breathes.

  Fairy wings? I almost scream the words, but I force myself to keep a straight face and nod. “That sounds like you.”