The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree

by Paola Peretti

  I puff my cheeks up like a hot-air balloon and blow so hard that some of the frosting spatters onto the carpet. I can normally blow all the candles out in a single puff, but not this year. One is still lit, and I have to breathe in again if I’m going to cast the room into complete darkness. Everyone claps their hands and shouts at me to make a wish. The smoke from the candles goes in my eyes. I shut them, thinking about my wish, but all of a sudden, I’m scared. I open my eyes very slowly, and the darkness is still there. I shut them again and count to ten while the others keep asking what I’m wishing for. I try raising just one eyelid a tiny bit. It’s okay; someone has turned on the light, and I can see nearly everyone now, and the cake and the rows of balloons Dad has strung from the ceiling right out to the corners of the room. (They look like cherries on branches.) It would have been awful to have ended up in the darkness, today of all days, on my eleventh birthday.

  Luckily, Mom has already started cutting the cake, so there are no more questions about my wish. Filippo comes to eat his slice beside me at the coffee table. He uses a fork, but he’s wolfing it down so quickly, he still manages to get the cake over most of his face. My aunt is watching him. She looks worried and also slightly disgusted. He turns to her and points to the cake with his fork, smeared in cream and lumps of cake. “Iw wealy wood!”

  My aunt looks even more concerned, but she replies, “Thank you, Filippo,” because she made the cake. I grin quietly to myself, like Ottimo Turcaret when Estella hasn’t seen him doing his business in the school vegetable garden.

  The housephone rings. With all the racket going on, I’m the only one who hears the first ring, although it almost felt like a whisper of air had brushed my face at the same time that I heard the shrill, piercing sound. Dad eventually hears it too and goes to answer in the other room. He comes back in quickly and calls me. “Someone wants to say ‘happy birthday.’ ”

  I follow him into the kitchen and sit down at the table. Dad passes me the phone and leaves me with Mom, who’s filling the dishwasher.

  “Hello.”

  “Happy birthday, little princess.”

  “Who is . . . ?”

  “The queen of the Amazons—don’t you recognize me?”

  The voice seems so very, very tiny—not the big, shouty one that yells at me to go back to the classroom or do something by myself—that I almost don’t recognize her.

  “Estella! Where are you?”

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  “Doing what?”

  Silence on her side. Quite a long silence. “I’m visiting a friend.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “No, not her. Let’s say she works here.”

  Maybe her friend who works in the hospital is Doctor Olga! I’m about to ask when she starts speaking again. “So, is your party good fun?”

  “Yes, but I’m sorry you’re not here.”

  “I’m sorry too. Parties are wonderful things. Try to have lots and lots of fun. I’ll make sure you get my present tomorrow at school.”

  “What do you mean, make sure I get it? Won’t you be there?”

  “No, not tomorrow. This friend of mine is here for a while, and I have to look after her.”

  “Can I meet her?”

  “Better not. No, better never. I will never ever ever let you meet her, Mafalda.”

  I’m a little jealous.

  “Okay, bye, then.”

  “Bye. Don’t forget your present. I’ll put it in the janitors’ room, in the chip drawer.”

  “Okay. Say hello to your friend.”

  There’s a long silence. Finally, in a strange voice, she says, “Happy birthday, Mafalda, my little princess.” And hangs up.

  My glasses are all steamed up. A thought occurs to me—maybe it was Estella who left the note on my desk a few weeks ago?

  “Are you coming to open your presents? Here, open mine first!” Filippo comes running into the kitchen and doesn’t put the brakes on in time. He sends the chair, the present, and everything around him flying into me, and we end up practically inside the dishwasher. Mom climbs over us in her high heels (she wore them today, even though it’s not a high-heel day), opens the fridge, takes out the fruit salad, and shuts the fridge door.

  “Yes, I think you should go and open your presents in the other room, Mafalda. Filippo’s dad is coming to pick him up in half an hour.”

  For a second, I hope that Filippo’s box contains a T-shirt with my name on it, like the one he gave Emilia. What I actually find is so much better. I don’t understand what it is at first. It looks like a kind of miniature stereo. There’s also a microphone. A real one, not a plastic toy.

  “It’s a special karaoke machine,” Filippo says, picking up the box and weaving his way through the guests to the television. I watch him press a few buttons, then connect the microphone cable somewhere behind the screen. He starts the program with the karaoke machine’s remote control and explains. “Someone sings a song so you can listen and learn it. Then the music starts, and you can sing it on your own. If you can’t remember the words, you go back and listen again.”

  A song I’ve heard a few times on the radio in Mom’s car starts up on the screen. Andrea gets up from the couch and takes the microphone. “There was this guy who, just like me, loved the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. . . .”

  For a music teacher, he’s not that great a singer. The others don’t seem to notice, and they join in. I go over to Filippo and, slightly shouting to make myself heard over the others but also mumbling so no one will hear me, mutter “thank you” into his ear. “I love it.”

  It’s a pity I won’t be able to use my lovely present much, though. I wonder if I should tell Filippo about my plan to live in the cherry tree. He seems to be looking for something in the plastic bag the karaoke was in. “There’s a card, too,” he says, handing me a blue envelope.

  I take it without saying anything. I have a quick look around—no one is taking any notice of us, so I drag Filippo out to the hall.

  “I’ll read it in bed tonight. Is that okay?”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “Why not now?”

  I turn the card over in my hands. “Because I can’t read it.”

  “Use your magnifying glass.”

  My eyebrows climb so high up my forehead, they practically connect with my hair. “How do you know I have a magnifying glass?”

  “I saw you put it in your pocket one day. Go on, use it now. Why bother carrying it around if you don’t use it?”

  “I’m embarrassed. I never use it in front of anyone.” Filippo doesn’t move and says nothing. I give up.

  “Okay. But let’s go into my room.”

  We sneak along the hall to my bedroom. Ottimo Turcaret is on the bed and only lets out a solitary meow when Filippo pulls him by his front legs to put him on his knee. I sit beside them and open the envelope. Inside is a sheet of paper folded in half, with big black marks on it.

  “I used a jumbo marker pen,” he announces proudly.

  I take my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass out of my pocket. I bring it up to one eye and put the paper on the other side.

  Many happy returns on your birthday!

  Kisses from

  Filippo, Christine, and Mauro

  “Is Mauro your dad?”

  “Yes.”

  We sit quietly on the bed for a while. Ottimo Turcaret lets Filippo rub him behind his ears and I watch, although I can’t actually see much. I think about the names on the card.

  “Are you with him this week?”

  It’s the first time we’ve talked about it.

  “Just yesterday and today—the weekend.”

  “Aren’t you happy to see him?”

  Filippo shrugs and keeps patting Ottimo Turcaret. “No. It’s his fault I went a bit crazy.”

  “Who says?”

  “The psychologists. Even the one at school. She says I’ve been having trouble concentrating and I get angry too quickly since my parents divorced
.”

  “But you don’t do it on purpose.” It looks like Filippo’s clear glasses have steamed up, so I put an arm round him. He doesn’t move, just starts crying, sobs racking his whole body; his back, his legs, even his feet are shaking. Ottimo Turcaret jumps off Filippo’s knees because of the shaking and repositions himself on my desk chair. The only thing Filippo doesn’t cry with is his voice. We sit in silence in my bedroom until the grown-ups call us, ruining everything as usual, even crying that makes no noise.

  * * *

  “Mafalda, turn out the light.”

  I’m lying on the bed in my pajamas; Ottimo Turcaret’s on my tummy. My eyes are shut, for once. I don’t usually shut my eyes, except when I’m walking in the garden with the blindfold on. I’d rather keep them as wide open as the sky, so I can let in enough light to last for the rest of my life.

  Earlier, after everyone had gone home from the party, Dad took down the lines of balloons from the ceiling and I asked him if I could keep one. I put it under the bed because it’ll come in handy as a hot-air balloon to fly away from the cherry tree if I can’t stay there any longer, maybe because of the cold or when I’m getting old.

  So I have to rest my eyes tonight. I’m not tired, honest, but my eyes are. I reach behind me to my lamp, to where I know the switch to turn it off should be. Mom comes into my room, so I open my eyelids a tiny bit to see what a mom looks like in the dark. The mint-ice-pop smell reaches me first. Then I see her shadow, with long hair but no face, wearing black clothes full of the night, which is a bit darker than my bedroom with the light off. It’s weird. I thought everything would just be black in the dark, but moms can make themselves seen even in the darkest dark. Maybe they can even see in the dark, like cats. To find their children when they’re in danger. If this is true, then maybe I can be a mom too. I push myself up with my elbows. “Mom, can you find me in the dark?”

  Mom sits down beside me and strokes my hair. “I can’t see you in the dark, Mafalda, but I’m sure I could still find you. Time for lights-out, though; it’s really late.”

  Mom bends over and gives me a good-night kiss. Her hair swashes against my pillow, springing back like cotton candy, only brown, not pink. I run my fingers through it until she leaves. It’s so soft.

  I didn’t tell Mom that the dark I was referring to was mine. But she’ll find me anyway.

  * * *

  I don’t want to talk to you or Grandma tonight, Cosimo.

  The two of you have everything sorted there. You use ropes to go from branch to branch, you read books, and I’m sure you haven’t noticed there are only sixty steps to the cherry tree now. Did you hear that, Cosimo? Thirty meters. That’s not a lot.

  Your brother once talked to a wise old Frenchman about you, and he explained that you lived in the trees because, to see the earth, you have to be at the right height, or so you believed. How close do I have to be to get a good view of my tree?

  17

  Having a Paper-Ball-in-the-Basket Competition

  Doctor Olga has green eyes, I remember.

  I try to check if I’m right, but the gray cloud in front of her face is not budging. That’s why I’m still here, with Mom and Dad on either side of me, on the same uncomfortable chairs as the last time.

  Doctor Olga places a long, smooth wooden stick in my hand. It’s a pencil.

  I run my fingers up to the top and feel the usual dinosaur eraser.

  “I couldn’t find one with Egyptians, sorry.”

  It doesn’t matter. I don’t really like erasers. They’re not essential. To be polite, I say thank you anyway and keep the pencil in my hand as if I’m pleased with it. Doctor Olga has a spotless white notepad on her desk, and I know she lets children draw on it. It’s right in front of me, so I start doodling and pretend I’m not listening while the grown-ups speak. There are so many things you need to pretend to do when you’re a kid, like pretend that the light’s on, that you’re not crying, that you’re not listening. When I’m grown up, I’ll have to pretend I’m not talking about someone who is actually right beside me, like Mom and Dad are doing now.

  “How’s she doing, Doctor?” Dad asks.

  “Not too bad.”

  Another thing you have to do when you’re grown up is say everything the wrong way round, starting all your sentences with “not.” If you ask me, “not too bad” means very bad indeed. It’s like when the teacher goes to the hairdresser’s, then comes back to school and asks us if we like her hair. I’m sure all the boys want to say it looks awful, but they say “not bad, miss” to please her and make her not give us a test.

  Doctor Olga keeps talking. “Have you started studying braille?”

  Dad says yes, that I’m practicing. “More than a little.”

  Another sentence that means the opposite. The only thing I’ve read in braille dots is The Little Prince. It was beautiful, though.

  Mom’s voice has tears in it. “Doctor, isn’t there some kind of technology that could make things easier for her?”

  “There are glasses with a camera that projects images of the outside world onto undamaged areas of the eye.”

  More glasses? I hope not. They sound quite complicated, and if you ask me, they’d hurt, too.

  “But the way things stand, they wouldn’t be of any benefit. It would be better not to make her work any harder than she already is.”

  That was a close shave. No doubt the glasses she was talking about are ugly, and I bet they would’ve put the camera on my head. I would have been a laughingstock at school.

  After a few moments’ silence, the doctor makes me almost jump out of my chair when she says, “What a lovely drawing, Mafalda! It looks like Van Gogh’s Starry Night!”

  I look at the sheet of paper and I’m pretty sure I only drew circles, lots and lots of gray circles. This Van Gogh man must have the mist too, if he draws like me.

  * * *

  The visit to see Doctor Olga wasn’t a total waste, though, because I now know what to do with the dinosaur pencil she gave me yesterday.

  There’s complete silence in the classroom. We’re doing a geometry test, and it’s a hard one. I did it with the plastic shapes you can touch. Fernando the special-needs teacher gave me a score of check minus, and now he’s reading his Chinese book at an empty desk at the back of the classroom. He nearly always gives me check minus. Check for hard work and the minus because a perfect score would be too much, he explains.

  I turn round slowly. Kevin is poring over lines of symmetry. He finds it really difficult.

  “Psst.”

  He looks up from the test but then straight back down again.

  I need the teacher to go and get a coffee. Since I’ve finished my test, I offer to get one from the machine for her, hoping it will make her start to want one. “Miss,” I say quietly, leaning over her desk, “can I go and get you a coffee today?”

  She shoves her phone hastily into her bag—I know she’s been playing games because her phone dings quietly at every point, and I’m the only one who hears it—and says no. “I’ll go. You keep a note of anyone who talks.”

  She lays a sheet of paper on the desk, picks up her bag, and goes out. Good. I can try again now. Kevin is tapping his black-and-yellow pencil on the edge of his desk, which he’s hanging over side of. He just doesn’t get lines of symmetry. I try to bring Fernando into focus, at the back, near the cupboard. I don’t want him to see what I’m up to. He looks quite relaxed. I rest an elbow on Kevin’s desk and whisper, “Hey, do you want a dinosaur?”

  I know he likes stuff like that. Snakes, reptiles, anything green and dinosaur-like. Unsurprisingly, he bolts upright from being flopped forward and says yes right away.

  “Let’s swap, then.” I put a hand over my mouth. “See this pencil?”

  I pull the pencil with the dinosaur eraser out of my pocket.

  “Cool!” Kevin says.

  “Shhh,” Fernando says, without taking his nose out of his book.

  I lay my penc
il out for Kevin to inspect. “It’s yours if you bring me something.”

  “What?”

  “I really like your waterproof jacket, the poncho one that you bring on school trips. Want to swap it?”

  Kevin doesn’t waste any time thinking about it. “Not a chance. I can get a pencil like that in the shops.”

  It didn’t work. My glasses steam up. “You can’t get these in the shops. No one else has a pencil like this, only me. If you want it, you need to give me your poncho.”

  “Well, give me the pencil and your detective magnifying glass.”

  My magnifying glass? I have to decide quickly. Well, I won’t be needing it much longer. I dig it out of my pocket and give it to Kevin, who hides it under his desk. Then he puts his pencil case up in front of my face.

  “So, will you bring it tomorrow?”

  “No way,” he says, just as the teacher returns with her coffee. I usually like the smell of coffee from the machine, but it stings my nose today and makes my right eye water, like when I’m tired and tears come out. Only I’m not tired, I’m furious, and I couldn’t care less about the pencil or the poncho anymore. All I want is to shut my eyes and draw a giant line through everyone—except Estella and Ottimo Turcaret—and everything, except my tree.

  My tree.

  Every now and then I think about what it will be like living in it, and I imagine a house made of leaves beside the birds’ nests. The cherry tree always has lots of birds’ nests. When I’m feeling lonely, I’ll knock on the trunk, and I’ll hear Grandma’s voice say, Who’s there?