The Messy Life of Blue

by Shawna Railey

  Seth finished painting my left hand, which now looked even better than the one I’d painted. I couldn’t help but smile—a really big one, with teeth and everything.

  “I didn’t get in trouble or anything?”

  Seth shook his head.

  “How much of Mom do you remember?” I picked at a piece of carpet and tried to sound casual as I asked him. I could feel him studying me as I stared down at the ground.

  “I don’t know. A lot, I suppose.” He sighed and pulled Arnie into his arms. “Why are you asking, Blue?”

  Even though his voice was gentle, I wasn’t ready to admit anything yet, especially to him. Seth was different than my other brothers; he was more special to me. It was important that he didn’t think I was a bad daughter, especially after hearing a story about how nice our mom was to me.

  “It was nothing.” I quickly changed the subject. “How did you do at the surf meet last week?” I barely listened as he started talking about “this, like, really epic barrel.”

  Even though we’d talked about my mom, I wasn’t sad like usual. Not only did I get to hear a fun, new story, but my brothers were actually hanging out with me. I would’ve bet a million dollars that they never would have done something like paint their nails, but here they were, laughing and sparkling themselves up right along with me. Plus wearing the nail polish meant we would each have a little piece of our mother with us. I loved that.

  I waved my nails in the air to help them dry while Arnie insisted that Seth paint his toenails. His fat baby toes looked like wrinkled mini sausages dipped in sparkly ketchup. I was tempted to bite one just for fun, but I wasn’t sure if that would go over very well. Arnie’s moods tended to shift rather quickly sometimes, but only because he was so young and all.

  When it was Seth’s turn, he asked me to paint only three of his fingers on one hand and two on the other. It looked so cool that I wished I’d been the one to think of it first. Seth did that a lot. He had a way of making most of the things he did look cool.

  When my dad got home with Jackson a few hours later, they found us spending quality time together: Seth was texting on his phone, Arnie was playing with Legos, and I was reading a book. But—and this is the important part—we were all in the same room. So that totally counts.

  Jackson came in all blustery and yelling, “I hit a home run! You should’ve seen it, I knocked it right out of the—Wait a minute. Are all three of you wearing red fingernail polish?”

  We glanced down at our hands just as my dad came into the room, and I held my breath. I hadn’t even thought about how he would feel seeing our nails; I’d been having too much fun with my dorky brothers. My face felt hot with shame. How could I be so insensitive? I should’ve just kept the bottle hidden. I would never forgive myself if I made my dad sad.

  His eyes bounced back and forth as he studied our hands. I watched for any sign of sadness as I tucked my fingers behind my back. I glanced at Seth squirming uncomfortably, and in that moment, I wished I could just disappear.

  My dad finally spoke. “Are those red fingernails?”

  I didn’t want to answer, but Seth was looking down at his hands. Luckily, we still had big-mouthed Arnie.

  “Arnie painted nails,” he said proudly.

  “I see that.” My dad rubbed his hand against his chin. “So can I have red fingernails, too, or do I have to make an appointment?”

  Relief flooded through me while Arnie clapped his hands, delighted at the thought of more painted nails. Dad gave Seth a wink, which made him smile and relax.

  “Paint mine, too, Dad,” Jackson said, and everyone froze. He raised his eyebrows. “What? You don’t think I’m going to be the only one with boring old regular nails, do you?”

  I went to my room and brought out the bottle of nail polish. I laughed as I watched my dad try to paint Jackson’s fingernails. He did a terrible job, even worse than I did. Jackson and I took turns, each painting one of our dad’s hands. When we finished, he looked down at his sparkling red fingertips and wiggled them. I wondered once again if it was going to make him sad, but when he smiled up at me, my heart skipped a beat. His smile wasn’t plastic at all. His eyes had their playful spark, and I knew then that his happiness was real.

  3

  It was only the second week of school, but I was completely ready for summer vacation again. The sun was already high in the sky as Jackson followed me across the street to Kevin’s house. I banged on the door, and a moment later, a skinny, redheaded kid emerged. We grinned our hellos, and with his backpack strapped across one shoulder, we headed down the street toward school. Jackson hung back, keeping his usual distance, which was fine by us.

  Conversation with Kevin O’Dell was easy. We’d been best friends our whole lives. He laughed when I told him about my brothers and their shiny red nails. He bored me to tears when he told me all about his mother’s quilting club. I had to hide my yawn when he started explaining the difference between batting and backing.

  I checked to make sure Jackson was out of earshot before finally blurting out, “I can’t remember my mom.”

  I was surprised at how relieved I felt the moment the words passed my lips. I think it was because I’d finally told someone. But Kevin didn’t respond. He just shot me a funny look, like the one he gave me when I licked the sidewalk on a dare. “Did you hear me? I said I can’t even remember my very own mother.”

  “I heard you,” Kevin said. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you think I’m a bad person? I mean, if there’s a master list somewhere of all the bad people in the world, where do I rank? Am I somewhere between wicked witches and ant killers, or am I in serious Voldemort territory?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

  “Of course not, dork.” He pushed me into a prickly bush hugging the sidewalk.

  “You’re just saying that because you’re all nice and stuff,” I said, pulling myself out of the bush and picking the spiky leaves off my sweater.

  “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Blue.”

  “Well, you’re thinking something. I can tell.”

  Kevin shrugged. “I just think it’s sad, that’s all.”

  There was something about the way Kevin looked at me that made my stomach flip-flop and my eyes tear up. “Well, guess what? I’m going to learn all about her, and it’ll be just like she’s still here.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m going to study all the pictures of her I can find until I can close my eyes and see her face all by myself again. And also, I made a list of everything I know about her, like how she liked to swim and read and sing.”

  “You like to read, too,” Kevin said.

  “I know,” I said with a smile.

  “Do you have the list with you?”

  I reached into my backpack and held out my treasured piece of paper. He reached for it and I paused, my hand frozen in midair. It was now my one lifeline to my mother, and I didn’t want to let it go so soon after making it.

  “Um, Blue? Are you gonna show it to me?”

  I sighed before I finally handed it over. I watched him carefully as he unfolded the list and scanned down the page.

  “Her favorite book was Charlotte’s Web? Have you ever read it?” I shook my head. “Blue, you have to read that book. Do we still have time to go to the library before school starts?”

  I grinned as we made our way into the school building. “There’s always time to go to the library, Kevin.”

  As far as I was concerned, our school had the best library in the whole state of California. Maybe even the whole world. And not just because it had rows and rows of beautiful books—although that was a giant plus. And it’s not even because it always had free bookmarks, and hot chocolate on Tuesdays, and book fairs twice a year—although I loved all of those things, too. It was mostly because of our librarian, Ms. McLeod.

  The librarians I’d met—and I’d met a lot of them—were always the same: They
smelled like cinnamon and when they hugged you, it felt like Christmas. Ms. McLeod was different. Where the others were toasted marshmallows and cozy sweaters and stars that winked at you in the night sky, Ms. McLeod was tinkling bells and sunlit adventures and coconuts on glistening sand.

  She was as tall as the highest bookshelf, with long blond hair that she always wore down, never in a ponytail or a braid. And she had freckles all over, even on her arms and shoulders. (She wore a dress once and they were even on her knees!) She is super-lucky that she got so many sprinkles when she was born. I only have a few on my nose that get dark in the summer, but then they fade away to almost nothing in the winter. Part-time sprinkles just aren’t as cool.

  I think it was around second grade when Ms. McLeod started passing me books. She put books she thought might interest me aside and then showed them to me when I came to the library. I always checked them out and read them, even the ones that didn’t actually look interesting at all. I would never want to hurt her feelings. Besides, it’s nice to have someone like Ms. McLeod think about me enough to save books like that.

  I waved to her as we walked in, the familiar book smell igniting my senses and putting a little bounce in my step. I sure did love this little place.

  We made our way to the back of the room. Having mapped out the entire library long ago, I already knew the section my book would be in. I turned left at the READING IS FUN! poster and stopped at the first shelf, following with my finger as I scanned the list of last names, looking for E. B. White. A moment later, I was holding Charlotte’s Web in my hand.

  Would I love it as much as my mother had? What chapter was her favorite? Which character did she like best? I looked down at the book and fanned its pages, anticipating what it had in store.

  And that’s why I didn’t see the most horrible boy standing right in front of me, just waiting for me to knock him down. Which, of course, I did.

  “Hey! Look out!” Crybaby-Jared said in his whiniest voice. I didn’t offer him a hand as he picked himself up from the ground.

  “Watch where you’re going,” I said.

  “I wasn’t going anywhere, Beulah. I was just standing here and you ran me over, remember?”

  For the love of blueberry muffins, why did his voice have to sound like a screeching elephant? It made me want to stuff cotton into my ears and then duct-tape them closed.

  “I did no such thing, Crybaby-Jared, so get out of my way before I knock you down for real.”

  Crybaby-Jared looked back at his friends, and then he did the unthinkable. The unimaginable. The meanest, most awful thing a fifth grader could do.

  He sang.

  “Beulah and Kevin sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage—”

  “You shut your mouth right now, Crybaby-Jared!”

  He stopped singing long enough to snicker. “I can say whatever I want. Like, remember that time in first grade when we had a field trip to the zoo and we were at the gorilla—”

  I gasped. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”

  “ . . . and wherever you walked, the gorilla would follow you? Do you remember, Beulah . . . ?”

  “If you don’t stop right this second, you’ll regret it,” I said as calmly as I could. I didn’t show my fear, but my insides were all jittery. I knew how this story was going to end.

  “. . . and the tour guide told everyone that the gorilla thought you were her baby!” He clutched at his sides while he laughed and laughed. His friends joined in.

  It really wasn’t so funny.

  Kevin moved forward, but I held him back with my hand. We were better than this. We were too mature and sophisticated to give in to Crybaby-Jared’s trap. He just wanted a fight.

  “Let’s go,” I told Kevin. As I turned to leave, I glanced at the book Crybaby-Jared was holding. I couldn’t help myself once I saw it was by Dr. Seuss.

  “Can you even read that book? It must have a lot of big words in it.”

  “Very funny, Beulah. I’m getting it for a friend.” Except he looked like he was lying, because his eyes went all shifty when he said it.

  Instead of responding with one of my snappy comebacks, I decided to stick to my original plan and just walk away. And Kevin and I really were going to leave. We were already halfway down the aisle.

  But then Crybaby-Jared said this:

  “Blue the bluebird likes to eat worms, don’t you, Baby Bluebird?”

  And then Crybaby-Jared did this:

  He marched down the aisle, grabbed Charlotte’s Web out of my hands, and slammed it on the ground.

  Look, it was one thing to tease me about Kevin. Or to tell everyone about the time I was mistaken for a gorilla baby. Or to say I like to eat worms, even though I totally don’t. But taking his hatred of me out on my mother’s favorite book, which was innocent and never did anything to anybody, was going too far. I picked that precious novel up, readjusted its jacket, and then hit him upside the head with it.

  Not my best idea, no. And I’m not making excuses, but I didn’t even hit him that hard. Like, if I did it to Arnie, he probably wouldn’t even cry.

  But because his name is Crybaby-Jared, and not Poetry-Reading-Jared or Apple Pie-Eating-Jared, he did what he always does.

  He cried.

  What a surprise.

  Ms. McLeod stepped from around the corner at the exact moment of impact. She must have been triggered by the sound of Jared slamming the book down in the first place. I heard a gasp, followed by “Blue! What are you doing?”

  “She hit me!” Crybaby-Jared’s finger trembled when he pointed at me. It wasn’t shaking out of fear but because he was still crying. You know. Like a crybaby.

  “Blue? Whatever would possess you to do such a thing?”

  I knew she was waiting for me to explain. And I really, really wanted to tell her. Ms. McLeod, I would say, I am defending the honor of your books. I am saving the weak from the strong. I am preserving the safety of the library.

  I am a bibliophile superhero.

  Unfortunately, I live by a strict set of rules, and one of the most important rules is this: NO ONE LIKES A TATTLETALE. There are obviously exceptions to this rule. Like if someone is getting hurt or is bleeding. Or if you see an armed robbery. Or if someone takes the last piece of cake even though it’s your birthday, so you should be the one who gets the last piece.

  So when Ms. McLeod asked me again, “Blue, why did you hit Jared?” all I could say was, “I’m sorry, Ms. McLeod.”

  Crybaby-Jared’s fake tears suddenly dried up. “She is a hoodlum, Ms. McLeod. You don’t know her like I do. She is an evildoer who likes to—”

  “That is enough, Jared. I am perfectly aware of what kind of character Blue Warren is. Do you need to see the nurse?”

  Crybaby-Jared had the nerve to act like he needed to think about it. “I don’t think so.”

  Ms. McLeod nodded once with pursed lips. “Very well then. Perhaps it’s better if you went to class.” She turned to me, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes. “Blue? Come with me.” She sounded sad when she said it, which made me feel sad, too. “You too, Kevin.”

  We followed her out of the library and down the hall. It was empty now that the school day had officially started, and I was grateful that no one was around to watch my walk of shame. I wasn’t surprised that we were heading toward the principal’s office.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this,” Ms. McLeod said. I felt my chin start to tremble, so I put my finger on it to try and hold it still. “This school doesn’t tolerate that kind of behavior, even if ‘this school’ thinks you must’ve had a reason to hit that boy on the head. . . .” She looked at me, and I knew she was trying again to get an explanation, but I didn’t say anything. I’m a bibliophile superhero! I screamed inside my head. She just sighed. “Very well. I just hope you understand.”

  I understood. But it still didn’t feel good.

  When we got to the principal’s office, she waved us toward t
he chairs that lined either sides of his door. Kevin and I sat side by side while she knocked, then went inside. A few minutes later she emerged with Mr. Nelson by her side. Mr. Nelson was short and wide with a full head of black hair. He looked funny standing next to my tall, thin, sun-kissed librarian.

  Ms. McLeod gave me a wink before leaning down and saying, “Come see me before you go home today. We just got in a brand-new book that I think you’ll love.”

  I nodded and tried to smile, but it was kind of wobbly. She gave my shoulder a squeeze before leaving us to face Mr. Nelson, our normally-friendly-but-looking-rather-annoyed-at-the-moment principal.

  Mr. Nelson cleared his throat. I was perfectly aware that there was no need to do so and this was a signal for me to look at him. And I really would have, except there was suddenly a most fascinating pattern on the carpet that demanded my attention.

  “Beulah?”

  “Huh? Yes, Mr. Nelson?”

  The principal was holding his door open. “Why don’t you and Kevin join me in my office? I know you know the way.” I continued to avoid his eyes as I did what he instructed.

  There was a stack of photos on the corner of his desk, with one of a chubby-cheeked toddler on top. He looked like he was covered in spaghetti.

  “Is that your grandson?” I asked politely, pointing at the photo.

  “What? Oh, yes. That is Adam. He just turned two.” He reached for the pictures. “This is Adam at the zoo,” he said, pulling another photo out of the stack.

  “He’s super-cute,” I said. “Do you see him often?”

  “Yes, my daughter and son-in-law live close by. They come for dinner every Sunday.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said a little too enthusiastically. I needed to keep him talking. It was part of my plan. “What did you have for dinner last Sunday?”

  “My wife made lasagna, and my daughter brought over some banana bread for dessert.”

  “Oh! I love banana bread. Does she use chocolate chips or walnuts?”

  “Both,” Mr. Nelson smiled. “It’s my wife’s recipe, actually. Handed down for generations.”

  “I would love to try it sometime. Do you think I could have the recipe? I’d love to make it for my brothers.”