“By yourself? Rain, maybe I’ll come watch you from the—”
“Maybe you should see if Frankie can go with you?”
They look at each other again and Mom nods. I can’t believe they actually agree for once. I don’t think they can believe it either. For five seconds I think maybe they’ll remember how great everything was when they used to agree with each other more and how much they should be together and how stupid they are for thinking they need space.
But then Dad lifts his laptop screen back up and Mom hustles into the bedroom to change.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see if Frankie’s up.” Then I take my keys and tie them into my shoelace, and let the door slam behind me. I can hear them both say, “Rain, wait,” as I leave, but I’m too fast, hopping down three steps at a time until I’m at Frankie’s apartment.
I knock quietly and she’s the one who answers the door.
“I need to run,” I say.
She nods like she doesn’t even need to know more. “Me too.” Then she disappears for one minute and when she’s back, she’s in her running clothes and tying her apartment key into her shoes the way I do. Héctor is outside watering the sidewalk and Frankie calls to him that we’re going for a run. He waves and we’re off.
And before I can tell Frankie that I was just thinking of doing some repeats up the hill to erase my brain, she’s leading me down 152nd Street and through a big cemetery, under a bridge, and onto a path that winds its way up the Hudson River. It’s different down here, away from traffic, from honking cabs, and double-parked delivery trucks, away from shuffling feet, and shouts, and blasting music, and people running after buses that are closing their doors and letting out big puffs of exhaust.
We’re running side by side past baseball fields, playgrounds, volleyball nets, and picnic tables, and all I’m thinking about is forward forward forward.
We pick up the pace and get to a straightaway past eight tennis courts that leads to a little gravel path and up to a red lighthouse perched right on the water. Frankie points to the lighthouse, and I know what she means. Race you to the end.
And we do.
My feet land on the ground just long enough to spring me forward again, and I feel like I’m flying. Frankie is a stride ahead of me and I’m pushing to keep up and all I’m thinking about is the next stride, then the next and the next until we slap our hands against the gate that surrounds the red lighthouse. Frankie first, then me one second behind.
We do the secret handshake and bend over our knees to catch our breath.
“I needed that,” I gasp.
“Me too.”
After a sip at the water fountain, we start to jog back easy, cooling down, and I’m wondering why Frankie needed to run, and if it has to do with Reggie. I wonder a hundred things about Reggie, actually. And before I can keep my mouth shut because no one wants to talk while running, I’m asking her questions, and I can’t believe she’s answering. Maybe it’s because we’re side by side and don’t have to look at each other, so it doesn’t feel so weird, but Frankie starts in.
“She was the only one in our class who was like me,” she says.
And even though I don’t really know exactly what she means, I understand how it feels to be a one-and-only. Like Ivan. And I’m sad that Frankie’s friend is all the way in Florida now.
“Reggie just gets me. And I get her.”
Then she’s telling me all about the day in fifth grade they gave each other their nicknames. “Regina and Franchesca became Reggie and Frankie,” she says. “Felt as free as running.”
I want to tell her that is a perfect twelve-word poem and she should write it down. I’m also thinking that I can’t believe her real name is Franchesca and I can’t imagine calling her anything but Frankie, because Frankie just fits.
“We buzzed off our hair together too. And she introduced me to Dacie and all the kids there. At least I have them now.” Then she exhales hard and I can see her shake her head out of my peripheral vision. “Well, maybe.”
We’re running long, slow strides as we reach the stairs that will bring us back up from the park to Riverside Drive.
“At the beginning, kids would sometimes joke about us in class, our names and the way we dressed more like boys, but we had each other and we both liked being who we were. That didn’t always fit with the other girls at school. But we fit together, so it didn’t matter.”
She picks up the pace as we run the stairs up from the park, and through puffing breaths she says, “Everyone at school’s used to me now, and no one really says anything, but Reggie was there from the beginning.”
She’s sharing so much with me, I almost tell her about my parents. Almost, but I don’t, because them deciding to take space is just the last part of a longer story that I don’t want to remember, and definitely don’t want to tell. A story that’s buried down deep. A story that started that night.
But as we wind along Riverside Drive toward home, I think of them making plans. Plans for my dad to move to New Jersey, plans to separate and make me travel back and forth between them on weekends, plans for who will pay for what, and how much time they’ll give it before they split for good. And I want to run faster so my brain empties out and all I can think about is forward, but with every step I’m thinking about what Dr. Cyn says, how the anniversary could be the hardest day, and how they need to find something to celebrate together, and how they should try participating in something they used to enjoy as a couple, and then maybe they could be that one out of four. That one out of four who makes it.
And I’m thinking how Ivan made plans. Plans to save the baby elephant Ruby from the zoo-themed mall so she could grow up in a better domain with other elephants like her. And how even though he’s just a silverback gorilla, his plans worked.
And before we turn the corner from Riverside Drive back to 152nd Street, I’m making my own plans. Plans to push my parents back together.
I’m going to win that relay race at the city championships.
Chapter 25
Operation Save Ms. Dacie’s
The next day in English class, Mrs. Baldwin announces that we have a small poetry collection due on Thursday June fourteenth, which is exactly seven days from now and exactly one day before the city championships and the worst day ever.
Kids shout questions in the air before she can say anything else.
“How many poems?”
“How long do they have to be?”
“Are you serious? Isn’t it basically summer already?”
I want to ask if poems can be twelve words long and if they rhyme do we get extra credit?
She doesn’t answer any of the questions. Instead she says, “On that Thursday, we will have a poetry slam celebration in class. You’ll choose your best poem and read it aloud to your classmates. I’ll bring cookies!”
Everyone’s calling out. Some are protesting, “There’s no way I’m reading any poem out loud!” and some are asking if they can bring chips and soda.
She starts passing out an assignment sheet with all the directions on it, and announces over all the calling-out voices, “Read this over, and then if anyone has any real questions, come talk to me. I don’t want to take away any more of your work time, so—ready, set, write!”
For the first seven minutes, kids are still complaining and telling each other they’re not getting up in front of anyone and reading anything, and how every time they’ve presented so far this year they got to do it in partners, and how come they have to write poetry anyway because it’s too personal.
One kid, Anthony, stands up from the back row and says, “Roses are red, violets are blue, this is my poem, how did I do?” Everyone laughs and claps and Anthony takes a bow and asks Mrs. Baldwin, “Does that count? I presented my poem.”
But Mrs. Baldwin doesn’t respond to any of it. She just opens her own notebook and starts writing, and I’m wondering if she’s doing that to get everyone to quiet down, or if she’s really worki
ng on a poem too.
Either way, it works, and little by little kids quiet down and move their desks to sit in pairs and start sharing what they’re writing about.
A boy in front of me, named José, says he’s been trying to write a poem about his dad but he definitely doesn’t want to read it out loud. He slides his notebook to his friend and his friend takes his time reading it.
When he looks up, he tells José, “You have to read this one. It’s really good.”
José says, “Nah,” but then his friend is sliding his own notebook over and saying, “If you read that one, I’ll read this one.”
And then I keep hearing little pacts like that around the classroom and seeing kids lean over each other’s notebooks, reading and asking questions, and I hear erasers scratching and big exhales as kids clear the dust from their lines and revise until everything sounds just right. Some kids stand up and move into the far corners of the room and practice reading aloud to an audience of three friends.
Mrs. Baldwin is visiting groups now and pointing to notebook pages and asking students how they chose this word or that word.
Before I can even open my notebook to the poems I have so far, Amelia walks over to the corner library again and starts pushing her pen fast across the page, and I’m thinking if anyone has the right to complain, it’s her.
Every once in a while, she stops writing and puts her head between her hands and looks down at her shoes.
I look over at Frankie to see if she’s noticing Amelia too, and maybe we should go sit with her, but Frankie has her desk turned toward Michael’s desk and is listening to him read his poem. Mrs. Baldwin is kneeling by their desks and listening too.
Michael’s poem is about basketball, and when he finishes they give him high fives and Mrs. Baldwin says, “I love the way you describe how it feels to be on that court. It makes me wonder how it sounds to be out there. What are some things you hear during a basketball game like that?”
He starts listing things like squeaking sneakers and panting players.
I see Frankie jot something in her notebook too, like that gave her an idea for her own poem.
Then Mrs. Baldwin is off to the next group and Frankie is reading a poem to Michael about running, which is what I’m going to write about too, and all of a sudden I realize I haven’t even taken out my notebook and there aren’t any other desks to turn toward and share.
I’m about to get up and go sit by Amelia, even if she wants to be alone, and tell her that it’s going to be OK and maybe she can pick a really short poem, like one that’s only six words, but the bell rings for next period, and this time instead of asking me to stay and chat after class, Mrs. Baldwin is asking Amelia if she’ll stay back for a minute before gym.
I hear someone behind me mumble something about how if she gets out of this it’s not fair, and I mean to bite my tongue and crack my knuckles and pack up my book bag, but I whip around in my chair instead and kind of whisper-yell right back to him, “No, what’s not fair is that she lives with her stutter every day and no one tries to understand what that might feel like.”
That shuts him up.
And when I look back down, there’s a little note scribbled on ripped paper on my desk. Thanks.
I smile at Amelia, zip up my book bag, and stop to wait for her outside the door so we can walk up to gym together. When Frankie comes out, she stops too and waits, even though gym is her favorite class and she never wants to waste even one minute.
I tell her that it’s OK, I can wait, and she says, “No competition up there without you guys anyway.” And that gets us laughing until Amelia comes out.
“What’d Mrs. Baldwin say?” I ask.
“Th-that I d-don’t have to do it out loud.”
“Good,” Frankie says. “That’s fair.”
And that’s a fact.
Then she scribbles on her notebook, She said a friend can read it for me.
I pat her on the back and say, “I’ll read it,” and she gives me a little smile, but she doesn’t look as happy as I thought she might, and I’m 91 percent certain it’s because she wishes she could read it on her own.
“L-let’s r-run,” she says. So we hustle off down the hall and up to gym.
That day at practice Coach Okeke calls over Frankie, Amelia, Ana, and me.
“You four,” he says, looking at each one of us. “This is your relay team. It’s official. The first-ever all-sixth-grade relay team I’ve ever sent to city championships.”
That makes us smile. Ana giggles.
“Rain leads off. Then Amelia, and Ana, and Frankie is your anchor.” Before he calls everyone else around to start practice, he looks back at us and says, “You’re going to show those eighth graders.”
Frankie puts her hand up and we all high-five together, and I’m thinking that even though in geometry a square isn’t as strong as a triangle, it feels good to have another side to our structure.
For the whole hour, we four practice handoffs. Coach Okeke gives us a baton and I practice running in and placing it in Amelia’s outstretched hand. It’s my responsibility to get it into her palm safe because she’ll be running forward and trusting that by reaching back she’ll feel the baton and can take off. We practice passing from me to Amelia to Ana to Frankie and before the end of practice we’ve got it down and Coach Okeke gives us all the secret team handshake before we go.
We’re heading down Broadway toward Ms. Dacie’s and we’re all so excited we’re still running and couldn’t stop if we wanted to. We’re crossing the streets against the walk lights, which my mom told me never to do, and kind of scares me a little, but it also feels good to rush out in the breaks of traffic and skip over the curb and weave between the people walking on the street.
“The first-ever all-sixth-grade team!” Ana exclaims.
“If we win, we’ll make history!” Frankie raises her fist to the sky.
“Let’s w-w-win.”
I’m thinking that we have to win, and have to make history, because that’s my plan to push my parents back together. They’re going to be there watching me race on the worst day ever, but when we win the relay, Mom and Dad will cheer and celebrate and then like they do in books, they’ll jump up and hug, even though they don’t exactly mean to, but then they’ll look at each other and laugh and smile and remember how good it feels to laugh and smile, and then they’ll want to bring the whole team out for ice cream, and maybe they’ll even remember the secret team handshake and decide they need one of their own. Then maybe Dad will stop looking at apartments in New Jersey. And the space that they think they need will shrink.
When we knock on Dacie’s door, Casey answers and calls, “Frankie, Rain, Ana, and Amelia are here!”
We pass the bulletin board with Frankie and Reggie’s picture and drop our book bags in the living room. But something doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t smell like cookies, and no one has turned on the record player.
Edwin twists one of his blue spikes of hair between his fingers and nods toward the other side of the room. A tall man wearing a black suit is carrying a briefcase and taking notes on a little pad with a short pencil that he puts behind his ear in between jots. The pencil sticks right in there and doesn’t move because his hair has something in it that makes it look shiny and hard and fake.
Dacie gives us a half smile. “I’ll be with you in one minute.”
She brings the man into the kitchen. He looks around and takes more notes.
“This is bull,” Trevor mumbles. He’s pulling a textbook out of his book bag. “That guy wants to buy Dacie’s place. Where else am I supposed to get free math tutoring?”
“I’m supposed to be coming to art camp here this summer,” Ana says.
“Ms. Dacie is like my mom.” Jer bows his head.
Cris sighs and Yasmin says, “This sucks.”
And that’s a fact.
The man follows Ms. Dacie down the hall and outside to the yard with all the tangled garden beds. I’m
hoping the overgrown weeds change his mind about wanting Dacie’s place, because he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who could spend a day getting dirt under his nails to make those gardens healthy again.
Then I start wondering what he wants this house for anyway. And if he’s thinking about changing it into a café or a new bar with chalkboard menus and what will happen to Ms. Dacie.
I bet Mr. Slick Suit won’t even try to revive the gardens. And I bet whatever he turns this place into won’t have anything that tastes half as good as a homemade cookie from Dacie’s kitchen.
And even though I already have one big plan to focus on, and even though I can’t think of the first step, I say, “We have to make a plan.” And that makes everyone pull really close into a circle right there on the living room floor and nod and say yes and I’m in and Alia starts erasing Ms. Dacie’s whiteboard easel, where she wrote out the recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies, and writes, Operation Save Ms. Dacie’s.
Then we all just kind of look at each other. I look at Jer, then Matthew, then Frankie. I look at Cris and Ana, and we all look at Alia because she’s the one standing up with the whiteboard marker ready to jot down our plan.
“We n-need m-m-money,” Amelia says, finally.
That makes everyone laugh, not because she stuttered, but because it was so obvious and none of us really had any.
“I have ten dollars,” Matthew says, holding up two wrinkled fives.
That makes us laugh even more, and even though we all know it’s ridiculous we’re emptying our pockets and among the eleven of us here, we have $52.55.
“We’ll never have enough,” Jer says.
“We don’t even know how much we need,” Cris responds. “Maybe we should ask Ms. Dacie.”
We all agree that we shouldn’t tell Ms. Dacie anything until we have a solid plan because she wouldn’t want us worrying and feeling responsible.
Then Trevor says, “We could have a bake sale. Do those things ever work?”
“We just had one at my school,” Cris says. “It was to raise money for the cheerleaders’ uniforms.” She shrugs her shoulders. “But it worked. They all have matching skirts and sneakers now.”
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