“You know who she is. If you look into her eyes, you turn to stone.”
“Medusa,” Seth said.
“Yes!” Jackson said. “You drew Medusa.”
I flipped the page, trying to look cool. “Yeah. It’s no big deal.” But it was a big deal to me, because I hadn’t actually drawn Medusa. I tried to stay calm.
The next page was a pair of hands clasped together. I thought I’d done a really good job on them, so I stood a little taller.
“What’s that?” Arnie asked, pointing at the hands.
“Boxing gloves,” Seth told him without any hesitation.
“No, I think they’re clams.” Jackson tilted his head. “Or wait. Is that a dragon?” I thought Jackson was trying to be mean, except there wasn’t even a hint of a smile. He looked genuinely curious.
I took back my sketchbook and stuffed it into my bag. All three of my brothers looked surprised.
“What’d you do that for?” Seth asked. “We weren’t finished looking.”
“Arnie wants more!” Arnie said, pounding on the table.
I was already strapping the bag over my shoulder so I could hurry up to my room. “I’m just tired and hungry, that’s all. I want to put my stuff away so I can eat.”
I marched up the stairs, now frustrated with the entire day. Cosimia was wrong. There was no potential for greatness when it came to me and art. I was beginning to think I would never be phenomenal at anything.
I got my piece of paper out of its hiding place and made myself comfortable on my bed. I reread everything I’d written down about my mother.
Singer.
Artist.
Swimmer.
Mother.
Phenomenal.
I took a quick shower and got ready for dinner. I’d just put on my most fluffiest socks when I heard a quiet knock on my door.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Jackson.”
Ugh.
I swung open the door and glared at him. The last thing I wanted to hear was that I was too stupid to draw. Or that I looked like a donkey. Or that I was a complete failure at everything I tried and that I would never be as good as our mom at anything because she was phenomenal and I was just a mediocre eleven-year-old girl with no special talents of her own.
Or whatever else Jackson would come up with.
“What?” I snapped, my guard on high alert.
“Here. I wanted to give you this.”
He held out a piece of paper, and I took it from him. When I saw what it was, I gasped.
“Jackson! Where did you get this?”
“I drew it.” He went over to my dresser and began fidgeting with a box of hair ties.
I was staring at a portrait of our family, and I was amazed by all the detail. It was . . . beautiful. Our dad was in the center, with Seth holding Arnie on one side and Jackson and I on the other. He even drew Kota lying near our feet. But the very best part of the whole thing was our mother. She was draped in a yellow fringed dress, with a matching yellow feather in her hair.
“Um, Jackson?” I tried to ask gently, “Why is Mom wearing a feather in her hair?”
“Because she always wore them.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Yes, she did. She’s wearing one in the photo Dad keeps by his bed, so she obviously liked them.”
I tried not to smile. Our mom hadn’t gone around wearing feathers in her hair all the time. That photograph was from a costume party our parents had gone to. I glanced at his drawing again. Now I loved it even more because of the feather.
“It’s amazing, Jackson. Really. You definitely take after Mom.” At least one of us did. I was trying not to feel jealous when something occurred to me.
“Wait a second. There is no way you could have drawn all of this in one day. When did you do this?”
Jackson shuffled his feet. “I saw the commercial for the Family Tree contest a couple of days before you mentioned it. I know how much you love the show, so I was going to enter for you.”
I couldn’t believe it. Who was this imposter and what had he done with my brother? The look on my face must have shown what I was thinking.
“Whatever. Just take the thing.” He thrust the portrait at me and turned to go. I glanced at the sketch again. It was more than just amazing.
“Hey, Jackson.”
“Yeah?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “This drawing is phenomenal.”
Jackson beamed. “You think?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. And I know Mom would’ve thought so, too.”
It crushed me inside, but in that moment, I knew what I wanted to do. I went over to my desk and emptied out the beautiful art bag Dad had just given me. “I want you to have this. It was Mom’s, and she kept her art supplies in it.” I held it out to him, but he just gawked at me like it was some kind of trick.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Why did you draw this picture for me?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m better at drawing and I wanted you to have a shot at winning.”
“Well, I’m giving the bag to you for the same reason. You’re the best artist in the family, Jackson, not me. You deserve to have something special of Mom’s.” Something occurred to me. “And look! It has two birds on the front, so they can remind you of the feather in Mom’s hair.”
Jackson slowly took the bag from me, his eyebrows raised into arches. “You don’t have to do this,” he said shyly.
“I know. But you didn’t have to draw that picture for me, either. Besides, I think Mom would want you to have it.”
“You really like the picture that much?” He was beaming, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“I already told you. It’s phenomenal.”
8
I gathered up my babysitting bag and slung it over my shoulder. It was heavy with the weight of four books, two movies, one craft project, and a stuffed otter I’d named Ollie.
“I’m leaving, Dad,” I called as I bounded down the stairs. I had one foot out the door before I heard my dad yell.
“What time will you be home tonight?”
“Mr. Salazar will drive me home around nine o’clock.”
“Remember to lock the doors when they leave.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And don’t forget to—”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And call me if you need—”
“Dad! I’m babysitting down the street. It’s not like I’m going to Argentina or something.” I kissed him goodbye and skipped out the door. Two minutes later, I was hurrying up the Salazars’ driveway, ready for an evening of fun.
Mrs. Salazar answered the door in a flowing green dress. They were going to a New Year’s party tonight, and she looked fancier than I’d ever seen her. She flipped her hair to the side as she greeted me in a hug.
“There you are, Blue. I was just getting ready to call you. Delaney’s in her high chair, just finishing up her spaghetti. You know the drill: Our numbers are on the fridge, and Mrs. Edgerly is next door if you have an emergency.”
I followed Mrs. Salazar into the kitchen and froze when I saw Delaney. Normally, she is the cutest little two-year-old you’ve ever seen. She has wavy brown hair and the most adorable dimples you could imagine. When she smiles, she wrinkles her nose and covers her mouth, and I just wanted to squeeze her—but right then all of that was forgotten. Delaney was covered in red spaghetti sauce and plastered all over with pieces of noodle. They were stuck to her forehead, arms, legs, and nose, and it looked like one was growing out of her ear. Who knows? Maybe it actually was.
Mr. Salazar came into the room dressed in a suit and tie. He laughed when he saw his daughter. “Did she get any food into her mouth?” He bent down to kiss her, but when he couldn’t find a clean spot anywhere, he gave up and patted her head. Then he washed his hands with extra soap.
“Do you think you could give her a bath tonight, Blue? Normally I wouldn’t ask,
but, well, as you can see . . .”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”
Mr. and Mrs. Salazar exchanged a look. “There’s something we should warn you about. Delaney is . . . how should I put this? Going through a phase,” Mrs. Salazar said.
Mr. Salazar added, “It seems like every time she takes a bath lately, she . . . well . . .”
“Sometimes she needs to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh.” Gross. “She pees in the water?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly.” Mrs. Salazar looked uncomfortable. “She actually tries to poop.”
I swallowed. “She poops in the bathtub?”
“Well, she tries to. If you watch her, you can pull her out fast enough and put her on her potty. She usually stands when she needs to go, so just keep an eye on her. If she stands, that’s your warning.”
“It’s really important that she doesn’t go potty in the bathtub. If she does, it’s a whole mess. You have to take her out, clean up, put her back in, and start the whole thing all over again.”
I glanced at little Delaney, swinging her chubby legs in her high chair and flinging noodles all over. It was going to be a long night.
“Got it. Give Delaney a bath, but don’t let her go number two in the tub.”
Ewwww.
The Salazars left, and for the first time ever, I was a little nervous to be alone with Delaney. With sauce all over her, the sweet little girl that I usually enjoyed babysitting now resembled a demon child . . . who evidently pooped in her bathtub.
I sat down next to her and picked up her spoon to help her actually get some of the food into her mouth. We were on our third scoop when she flung a handful of sauce-covered noodles at me. One of them hit me in my eye.
“Okay. We’re finished here,” I told her. She giggled while pounding her fists on the tray. I quickly grabbed her plate and placed it in the sink before she could knock it over. I turned back to the high chair—keeping an eye on the demon child—and took a really deep breath. How was I going to get her out of that contraption without getting covered in spaghetti sauce?
I found a towel in the linen closet and crept back toward the kitchen. I wrapped myself in the towel and then reached underneath Delaney’s arms to lift her out of the chair. I held her away from me as I sped down the hallway toward the bathroom. I sat her in the empty bathtub, clothes and all.
“Bath bath!” she squealed. “No clothes!”
I helped her remove her messy clothes and threw them, inside out, in a pile on the floor. I turned the faucet on and she played in the rushing water. When the temperature was perfect, I sat on the floor next to her.
I sang “Rubber Ducky” and even made up a cute little dance to go with it.
She splashed me in the face for my effort.
We played with some cute plastic dogs that I found lined up along the edge of the tub. I arranged them from smallest to biggest and gave them sweet little names.
She drowned them.
We played dolphin and mermaid. I was the dolphin, and she was the mermaid. I moved my hands like they were a fin and saved the mermaid from an evil stingray.
She thanked me by deciding mermaids like to cook dolphins.
I made lots of bubbles with a bubble wand and soap. They bounced in the air as I blew them toward the bathtub.
She tried to eat them.
Finally, I shampooed her hair until there was no more sauce to be found. She tilted her head back and I used a large plastic cup to rinse the soap off. I was turning around to reach for the bottle of conditioner when I felt warm liquid being poured over my head.
I screamed like a giant baby.
“What the—?” I spun around and found Delaney standing in the bathtub. She had leaned over the edge so she could pour an extremely large cup full of water over my head. She was still holding the cup and laughing her little butt off.
“That is not funny, Delaney!” The water dripping down my back made me shiver. “That was not very nice!” She wiggled around, doing what looked very much like a victory dance.
“Wa-wa-water! Wa-wa-water!”
“Look, Delaney. I’m going to go get another towel. Stay here.” I backed out of the bathroom and rushed down the hall to grab a towel from the closet. I was back in literally two seconds. What happened next was not my fault.
When I entered the bathroom, Delaney was still standing. Only now she was standing kind of . . . funny.
“Delaney? What are you doing?”
She looked at me and then closed her eyes. Her body shook just the tiniest bit, and then it hit me. She was going to drop a kiddie into the pool. Release the chocolate. Float a sea pickle. A Winnie the Pooh-Pooh. A poop-scoopin’ boogie.
I had to act fast. I rushed to the edge of the tub to pull her out, but she backed away and tucked herself into the corner. I watched in horror, knowing what would come next. It was too late. The poop would drop at any second . . . so of course I did the only thing I could think of.
I reached out, cupped my hands, and caught it.
Looking back, all I kept thinking was that if the poop landed in the water, everything would have poo-contamination. Delaney. The bathtub. The plastic toy dogs. The washcloth and the bottle of conditioner floating in the bubbles.
I should have just let her poop in the tub. Instead, hands full of her warm waste, I screamed my head off.
Startled by my outburst, Delaney began to cry. I didn’t care. I dropped the turd into the toilet and flushed it immediately. Also, I kept on screaming.
Stumbling toward the sink, I used my elbows to turn the water on. I scrubbed my hands together, as fast as I could. No matter how much liquid soap I dumped on my hands, there was never enough. I scrubbed and scrubbed some more. And some more after that. Delaney continued to cry, and I thought very seriously about joining her.
When I finally felt clean, my hands were raw from scrubbing. I started to calm down. Going back to Delaney, I took the towel and dried her off.
“It’s okay, Delaney. You’re okay.” I picked her up and held her.
She stopped crying and sniffed. “You touch poo-poo?”
Ugh.
“Yes, Delaney. I touched poo-poo.”
I carried her to her room, and we sang songs as I helped her put pajamas on. Then I took her downstairs and put on a princess movie to keep her occupied while I tried to clean up the high chair area. It was a total disaster. I had almost finished wiping down the floor when someone banged loudly on the front door. Delaney was too busy playing with a plastic phone to notice. They banged again, louder.
I crept toward the door and through the window, saw the silhouettes of two very large men.
“Hello? Please answer the door!”
No, no, no, no, no. I rushed to Delaney and scooped her into my arms. My heart raced as I heard a small sound coming from her toy phone. I put it to my ear and almost dropped her when I heard, “—police should be arriving now.”
“Hello?” I said into the phone. The plastic toy phone I thought Delaney was playing with turned out to be one very real phone.
“Ma’am? Is everything okay there?”
“Yes. Who is this?” What had Delaney done now?
“This is 9-1-1. I believe there are police officers already at your residence.”
I plopped Delaney on the ground and, with the phone, made my way to the front door. The banging was louder and more urgent. When I swung the door open, two police officers stood before me, looking annoyed.
“Hello. We received a call. Is anyone else here?” the closest officer asked me. Afraid to speak, I just shook my head. He peered around me. “Do you mind if we come in and take a look around?” I nodded and moved out of their way. While one of the officers searched the house, the other one stayed behind to ask me questions.
“Are you home alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are your parents?”
“I’m babysitting.”
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“No.”
“Well, someone called 9-1-1.”
I gestured toward Delaney, who was sitting on the couch, swinging her legs back and forth and mimicking my earlier screams.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Is the child injured?”
“No.” Not yet.
The other officer rumbled back down the stairs.
“I saw Delaney playing with the phone, but I just assumed it was a toy. I think she may have been the one who called.” I was trying really hard not to cry. “I’m really sorry.”
“Is there an adult you can call?” he asked nicely. I nodded and immediately called my dad.
My dad showed up less than five minutes later, and I was relieved. He talked for a few minutes with the police officers and then they left. But not without telling me for the fifty-sixth time how important it was not to dial 9-1-1 unless it was a true emergency. Which I already knew, because I was not the one who called.
As soon as they were gone, I called the Salazars and explained what happened. They agreed that it was better if they just came home. My dad insisted on staying with me while we waited for them, and I was secretly glad. Delaney, unaware that anything unusual had occurred, played happily the whole time. Except for when I stopped her from tearing the pages out of a book. And from hitting the family cat on the head with a blow-up beach ball. And from drawing on the wall with her crayons.
When I started cleaning the rest of the spaghetti mess, my dad offered to wash the dishes while I dried and put them away.
“Delaney never used to be like this,” I told him, stretching to put a plate on a high shelf. “I don’t understand why she’s changing. She used to be so sweet.”
“You know, I seem to remember you doing similar things when you were just about her age,” he said with a chuckle. “Jackson, too. And you were both so close in age that you were constantly getting into trouble together.”
“Really?” The idea of us actually working together made me giggle with surprise. “Like how?”
“Let’s see,” he said, looking deep in thought. His face lit up when he thought of something. “When Jackson was two and you were three, we had a hard time keeping Jackson’s clothes on. He’d take them off constantly.” I snickered again. “One day, your mom looked out the window and found you with Jackson in his underwear, lying down in the grass. When she went outside, she found a bottle of baby powder you’d taken from Jackson’s room and completely emptied in a pile on the lawn. You were rolling Jackson back and forth in the white powder, covering him in it. When she asked you what you were doing, you told her, ‘Look Mommy! Jackson’s fried chicken!’”
The Messy Life of Blue Page 7