A Mango-Shaped Space

by Wendy Mass

  FROM, ADAM

  P.S. DO YOU HAVE YOUR OWN COMPUTER? I DO.

  “What are you grinning at?” Zack asks as he walks in. His hair is sticking straight up, and he has toothpaste around his mouth.

  “Nothing,” I answer happily.

  Zack leans over me and peeks at the screen before I have a chance to cover it. “Who’s Adam?” he asks. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Get out, Zack. I’m busy.”

  “No way. It’s my turn to use the computer. You hogged it all last night.”

  “Isn’t there a violent cartoon you can go watch or something?” I ask.

  “I’m too old for cartoons.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since right now.”

  I’m in too good a mood to argue anymore, so I tell him he can use it in ten minutes. He grudgingly agrees, and I’m alone again with my blank reply screen. There are so many things I want to ask Adam, but I don’t want to overwhelm him.

  DEAR ADAM,

  THANKS FOR THE WELCOME. I HAVE TO SHARE THE COMPUTER WITH MY WHOLE FAMILY. IT’S A BUMMER, I KNOW. I’VE ONLY JUST LEARNED THAT MY COLORS DON’T MEAN I’M CRAZY AND THAT I DON’T HAVE SOME AWFUL DISEASE. I’M LEARNING MORE ABOUT IT FROM DR. JERRY WEISS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, AND IT’S KINDA COOL. WHEN YOU SAY YOU HAVE COLORED TASTE, DOES THAT MEAN THAT BROCCOLI TASTES LIKE (FOR EXAMPLE) THE COLOR BLUE? OR DOES THE COLOR BLUE TASTE LIKE BROCCOLI? W/B/S (WRITE BACK SOON).

  FROM, MIA

  P.S. THIS IS THE FIRST E-MAIL I’VE EVER SENT TO A BOY.

  P.P.S. I WON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE POETRY.

  I send off the letter before I lose my nerve. It’s so much easier to talk to people over e-mail than it is in person. I feel like I made a new friend, and I never even left the house! When Grandpa was alive he had a list of like fifty pen pals he met on-line and e-mailed regularly. He met them in different chat rooms, or on card-playing Web sites. He told me once that “youth is wasted on the young” and said it was a shame that other people his age had a fear of computers. When he died my father had to send an e-mail to all of Grandpa’s pen pals and tell them the news. I think some of the people still write to my dad. I’m about to open Jenna’s letter, when Zack returns and demands his turn. I log off and leave him to whatever mischief he has planned. Once, we got sent a month’s supply of nacho-cheese-flavored crackers because of some survey Zack filled out on the Web. They weren’t half bad either.

  I go up to my room and try to paint, but my mind keeps wandering. Mixing the paint on my palette only makes me think of my colored letters, which make me think of Jerry, which makes me think of my new friend, Adam, which makes me want to check the computer again. I force myself to work on my Lord of the Flies book report. Compared to the cruel kids in the book, my classmates suddenly don’t seem so bad.

  I decide to get some fresh air. Mango must be off hiding someplace again, and this time I don’t feel like searching for him. It’s a crisp, cool day, exactly as it should be for the beginning of October. There’s not a hint of rain in the air, and someone in the valley must have their fireplace going, because I can smell it. My Wild Child instincts take over, and I run across the lawn and jump into a pile of leaves that my dad just finished raking.

  “Errooowww!” something screams beneath me, and I hurry to my feet, slipping on the leaves. I wind up back on the ground, landing hard on my butt. I watch the pile of leaves quiver and shake, and out walks Mango, his fur bristling from being sat on. We stare at each other for a minute, and then I gently wrestle him to the ground. When he was a kitten he used to love pretending he was a dog. We’d roll around together, and he’d squeak and meow and then wait for more. After a few minutes I lie on my back, and Mango drapes himself across my chest and starts purring loudly. Fall was Grandpa’s favorite season. Maybe that’s why Mango’s purring so contentedly. I stare up at the bright blue sky and wonder what Adam looks like. I wonder if he wonders what I look like. It dawns on me that he could be an old man just pretending to be a fourteen-year-old kid. Now I’m nervous and decide to go back in and write to him again. Mango follows me in the kitchen door, but I lose him to the food dish. Zack is gone. I log on.

  DEAR ADAM,

  HOW DO I KNOW YOU’RE NOT AN OLD MAN PRETENDING TO BE A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD KID? I’M GOING TO NEED PROOF.

  FROM, MIA

  P.S. WHAT COLOR IS MY NAME TO YOU? YOURS IS PALE YELLOW LIKE THE INSIDE OF A GRAPEFRUIT (NOT THE PINK KIND) WITH A TEXTURE KIND OF LIKE GRAPEFRUIT TOO, BUT THE OUTSIDE.

  Now, I suppose I could sit here all day and wait for a letter back. That would be a little too pathetic. But I don’t see anything wrong with checking every hour. Or every half hour even. So I manage to occupy myself for the next half hour. I do three math problems (probably incorrectly) and eat a bowl of cereal. When a half hour has passed, I log on again only to find the letters from Jenna and Kimberly that I hadn’t read before. I still don’t feel like reading them.

  Half an hour later. Nothing.

  Mom finds me and makes me help her clean out the pantry.

  An hour and a half later. Still nothing. I read Jenna’s letters. They tell me all the same stuff she already told me last week.

  I help Dad wash the helicopter. He lets Zack and me sit in it when we’re done. Zack straps himself into the pilot’s seat and looks over the gauges as if he knows what he’s doing. He asks Dad when he can start flying lessons, and Dad tells him he can take lessons when he’s seventeen. Zack in the sky is a very scary thought. While Zack is busying himself by making vroom, vroom noises, Dad motions for me to step back outside. He tugs at the collar of his flannel shirt. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was nervous.

  “Is everything okay, Dad?”

  “I was going to ask you that very question.”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Why?”

  “Do you remember a few summers ago we sent you to that day camp where the swimming instructor wouldn’t let you advance from tadpole to guppy?” I nod and wonder if my father’s been out in the sun too long.

  “Do you remember what I did about it?”

  “You marched down there and got me into guppy?”

  “Right. Exactly.”

  He leans casually against the chopper with one hand, and I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I ask, “So what’s your point?”

  “My point,” he says, “is simply that I’m here for you. If you need me.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep that in mind.” I decide not to tell him that I ended up being sent back to tadpole after almost drowning another camper while I flailed around in the deep end.

  Two hours later there’s still no e-mail from Adam. I’m trying not to be discouraged. I hope my last letter didn’t scare him off. Unless he wasn’t who he said he was after all. I finally read Kimberly’s letter. She has a crush on some guy in her gym class. He’s only in the seventh grade, but she says he looks much older. She asks me not to tell anyone. I can see that she forwarded the same letter to Molly, Jenna, and Sara, so who else is there to tell?

  After dinner I sit down one last time in front of the computer. I try sending out good vibes as the modem dials. Maybe I can ask Beth to cast a spell on Adam to make him write back. I must really be getting desperate.

  The vibes must have worked, because there are three letters from him. Three!

  Letter number one:

  DEAR MIA,

  YOU’RE FUNNY. I NEVER THOUGHT I WAS CRAZY, BECAUSE MY MOM HAS COLORED HEARING TOO. I HATE BROCCOLI, SO I NEVER EAT IT. LET’S TAKE CHOCOLATE. IF I’M EATING A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE, I’LL SEE A RECTANGULAR PATCH OF PINK WITH A GREEN STRIPE AT THE BOTTOM. IT JUST APPEARS IN FRONT OF ME AND KIND OF LOOKS LIKE A FLAG WAVING IN THE BREEZE. IF IT’S DARK CHOCOLATE, THE PINK WILL BE ALMOST RED. THIS ONLY HAPPENS WITH A FEW KINDS OF FOOD, BY THE WAY. THE IMAGE FADES AS I KEEP EATING THOUGH. PRETTY WILD STUFF. WE SYNESTHETES HAVE TO STICK TOGETHER — WE’RE THE ONLY ONES WHO REALLY UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER. BY THE WAY, I’VE MET JERRY BEFORE. HE�
��S NICE.

  I PROMISE I’M NOT AN OLD MAN OR EVEN A MAN YET. I GUESS I’M A YOUNG MAN, SINCE WHEN MY MOM IS MAD AT ME SHE ALWAYS GOES, “STOP THAT, YOUNG MAN!” IN FACT, SHE SAID THAT LAST NIGHT WHEN I MISSED CURFEW FOR THE ZILLIONTH TIME.

  — ADAM

  He must have a much more exciting life than I do if he misses curfew that often. I think Mom would have a few more choice words for me if I did that.

  Letter number two:

  DEAR MIA,

  WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE? DON’T TAKE THAT THE WRONG WAY. I JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD BE EASIER IF I COULD PICTURE YOU. IT DOESN’T MATTER. OH, NEVER MIND, FORGET IT. I’M GOING TO DELETE THIS LETT —

  Letter number three:

  DEAR MIA,

  I MEANT TO DELETE THAT LAST LETTER. PRESSED THE WRONG BUTTON. ARGH. REALLY, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. BUT, OKAY, I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT ME. I’M MR. JOE AVERAGE. AVERAGE HEIGHT, AVERAGE WEIGHT, BROWN EYES, AND CURLY DARK HAIR THAT LOOKS REALLY BAD WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING. BUT YOU CAN PICTURE ME ANY WAY YOU WANT. NOT THAT I’LL DO THAT TO YOU. OH, NEVER MIND!

  FROM, ADAM (WHO DOESN’T USUALLY SOUND THIS STUPID)

  I’m all jittery and wonder if this is what Kimberly feels like every time she gets a crush on a new boy. Not that I have a crush on Adam. I mean, I don’t even know him! But I’ve never had a boy send me e-mail before. I twist my head to make sure the door to Mom’s office is closed, and then I start typing.

  DEAR ADAM (WHO DOESN’T SOUND STUPID),

  WHERE DO I START? THAT FOOD/COLOR THING SOUNDS REALLY COOL. I’M JEALOUS! MAYBE I’LL KEEP EATING CHOCOLATE UNTIL I START SEEING THINGS TOO! JUST SO YOU CAN PICTURE ME, I ALSO HAVE BROWN HAIR — IT’S WAVY AND KINDA MESSY SOMETIMES, TO BE HONEST. MY EYES ARE GREEN. I’M ON THE SHORT SIDE. MY GRANDFATHER ONCE SAID I WAS SO SKINNY I COULD FIT BETWEEN THE RAINDROPS. BUT THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. DO YOU EVER WISH YOU WERE NORMAL? I’M FAILING SCHOOL! WELL, NOT ALL OF IT, BUT ENOUGH!

  FROM, MIA (P.S. DO YOU THINK JERRY LOOKS LIKE A YOUNG PAUL NEWMAN? MY MOM DOES!)

  I’m shutting down the computer for the night, when Mom walks in with her stern-mom face on.

  “What did that boy Roger want last night?” she asks.

  “He’s in my group for that history project,” I say, hoping that will satisfy her. I try to leave the room, but she doesn’t move from the door.

  “Exactly which history project is that?” she asks, pursing her lips.

  “I told you about it,” I insist. “You know, the one about an event in American history that Americans are ashamed of now?”

  She shakes her head.

  “The one that’s half our grade?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Oh,” I say. “Huh. Well, that’s the project. ’Night.”

  “Not so fast,” she says, sticking her arm out in front of me. “You’ve been very distracted lately. Sometimes I worry the roof could fall on you and you wouldn’t even notice. Your math tutor comes in a few days, and you need to be ready. Maybe we should try to find a doctor who can clear this up faster.”

  I look at her in horror. I couldn’t possibly see any more doctors. Especially one who would “clear this up.”

  “That boy Roger sounded pretty concerned on the phone,” she continues. “I hope you’re not playing around with the computer instead of —”

  “Mom,” I interrupt, “I’ve got it all under control. Don’t worry.” I push my way past her and head up to my room. I repeat this to myself as I climb the stairs. Under control. Under control. I pull my art project out from the closet and stare at it. Karen said it showed a good understanding of Kandinsky’s style, but that I went overboard in composition. All I did was paint what I saw. I stick it back in the closet and find myself wondering what Adam would think of it. I open my math book and then shut it again. I wonder if Adam likes math.

  In the morning, Zack, Jenna, and I shiver as we wait for the school bus.

  “I heard there’s a new driver this week,” Zack announces.

  “Great,” Jenna moans. “The last time we had a new driver, we didn’t get to school until second period.”

  “And that was a bad thing?” I ask.

  “By the way, Mia,” Jenna says, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “You were supposed to call me yesterday. I thought we had a” — she glances at Zack and lowers her voice to a whisper — “a PIC mission.”

  I whisper back, “We did?”

  She pulls me aside. “The love potion?” she prompts, then rolls her eyes when she sees I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “We were going to take some of your sister’s magic stuff and make a love potion for Kimberly!”

  “For that seventh-grader she likes?” I ask. “I just read her e-mail about that this weekend.”

  “We’ve been talking about it at lunch all week. Haven’t you been listening?” I’m about to argue that I did listen, but we both know it would be a lie.

  “We’ll do it tonight, okay?” I promise her, even though I had been planning on trying out the music-in-the-bathtub experiment. But I don’t want Jenna to be any angrier with me.

  “I guess so,” she mutters. “But you’re the one who has to tell Kimberly why we don’t have it.”

  By the time the bus finally lurches to our stop, I’m more than happy to get on it.

  Just as I break the news to Kimberly at lunch, I feel a hard tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see Roger. He doesn’t look happy.

  “Yes?” I say. The rest of my table is watching, except for Sara, who keeps her nose buried in a book as usual.

  “We’re supposed to be having lunch together,” he says, smiling through gritted teeth. Kimberly whistles and Roger’s face reddens.

  “The history project,” he says, “Remember?”

  I think for a minute. “I remember there was something I forgot. Does that count?”

  He doesn’t look amused. “Can we please go work on this now?” He gestures to a table in the last row of the cafeteria. “Everyone else is waiting for you.” He turns and sort of shuffles away. I remember he hurt his ankle in gym class last month. See? I don’t forget everything.

  “I think he’s really mad at you,” Jenna says.

  “Gee, how could you tell?” I ask.

  “Even the tips of his ears were red,” she replies. “Were you just going to blow him off?” I know she wants to add “Like you blew me off yesterday?”

  I toss my half-eaten sandwich into my lunch bag and feel myself starting to get angry. “So what if I was?”

  Sara lifts her head from her book. “That’s pretty irresponsible, Mia,” she says.

  “Great,” I say, pushing my chair back from the table. “I didn’t think any of you would understand what I’m going through. I’m sorry if schoolwork isn’t my first priority right now. Or even my second.”

  I grab my stuff and head toward Roger’s table, but not before I hear Kimberly ask Jenna what my problem is. Like I’m the one with the problem.

  I sit down with my group and give them a halfhearted smile. Nobody smiles back, but at least Roger nods in my direction. Jonah and Laura are in the middle of an argument. I sip my chocolate milk and listen.

  “I just don’t think dropping the atom bomb qualifies. It was war, after all,” Jonah says, pushing his long hair away from his eyes. His hair is so long he could braid it like a girl’s. “Plus, besides slavery, everyone’s going to choose it.”

  “So what’s wrong with something obvious?” Laura responds, after swallowing a huge forkful of chocolate cake. I can see it stuck in her braces from where I’m sitting. “It would make the research easier, right?”

  “I want our project to be unique,” Jonah says. “We’ll get a better grade that way. How about the Rosenbergs?”

  “Who?” Laura asks. I don’t know who they are either.

  “In the 1950s the government accused them of being spies and executed them,” Jonah says, his hair swinging around him as he speaks excitedly. “It was
the first time a married couple had been executed. Also something about the first time American citizens were executed for spying in peacetime. It was very controversial.”

  “Were they really spies?” asks Laura.

  “It’s possible they were framed,” Jonah replies. “I think the government was trying to make an example out of them. It could be the perfect project.”

  “Wait,” Roger says eagerly. “I know what we can do. So does Mia.”

  I almost choke on my milk. “I do?”

  “Remember in fifth grade you did that model of a slave ship for art class?”

  “Roger, we already decided against slavery,” Jonah says. “What’s wrong with the Rosenbergs?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with them,” Roger replies quickly. “But this is a slavery story that I don’t think many people know about.”

  “No one else here knew anything about the Rosenbergs,” Jonah mutters into his soda.

  “You remember my slave ship after all this time?” I ask.

  Roger shrugs. “I thought it was really good. It floated and everything.”

  I smile at the memory. “Only for about ten seconds. Then it fell apart, and the papier mâché clogged up the drain in the art-room sink for a month.”

  “What’s so unique about a slave ship?” Laura asks. I’m tempted to tell her about the cake in her braces.

  “This is a particular slave ship,” Roger answers impatiently. “Our art teacher told us about it. Remember, Mia?”

  I did remember, what with history being my best subject and all. I sit up straighter now that everyone is expecting something from me. “She told us about this slave ship full of people from West Africa. They called themselves ‘Ibos.’” I pause for a second, picturing the colors associated with the date. I translate them back into numbers and come up with 1803. “The ship landed in America in 1803, and the people on board decided they would rather die than become slaves. So they sang a hymn and marched right into the water. Most of them drowned, and the slave traders were really mad.”

  “So what do you think?” Roger asks, eyeing everyone in turn.