Not If I Can Help It

by Carolyn Mackler

  I twist at the elastic on my KEENs. My arms and legs are starting to pulse with energy. If Sandhya and Ruby and I go to Polar Bear Adventures for Ruby’s birthday, we’ll all be living together at that point. We’ll pack our backpacks and carry them out to the car, just like a family. Or maybe by then I’ll be living with Mom and Bill during the week. I wish I knew what I was doing with that. Even though Mom and Dad keep saying we don’t have to make the decision until the end of summer, I want to have it figured out.

  “You should do a traditional Indian wedding,” Benji says. “I’ve read that they take place over a few days and you can invite hundreds of people.”

  Sandhya shakes her head. “We’re thinking more about City Hall in early July,” she says, laughing. “Ten minutes and done. Just the five of us.”

  I nod approvingly. I like ten minutes and done. I’ve been to weddings, like even Mom and Bill’s wedding, where you have to sit still for a solid hour. You can’t even bring a book or people will think it’s rude.

  We’ve just finished eating our burgers when Benji slurps up the last of his water and suggests we play beach volleyball.

  “The court is empty,” he says, gesturing to the net on the far side of the sand pit. “There’s even a ball down there.”

  “Why not?” Dad says, pushing back his chair. He takes Sandhya’s hands and pulls her to her feet.

  “It’s been years,” she says, holding on to Dad’s hand, “but I used to be pretty good.”

  Ruby is already sprinting down the stairs and across the sand. I swear, if you say the word ball around Ruby it’s like saying bone to a dog.

  “Willa?” Dad asks, though by the way he’s grimacing he knows that my answer is no. Dad is well aware that volleyballs and I are not friends.

  “That’s okay.” I reach for my water.

  “Come if you want,” Dad says. “We won’t be long.”

  I watch as Dad and Sandhya join Benji and Ruby at the volleyball net. It’s kids versus parents. The sun is glaring over the Hudson River, so harsh it’s making me squint. I’m sitting in a sharp metal chair watching this dream family: my dad and his soon-to-be wife and his sporty son and her sporty daughter. As if on cue, Ruby spikes the ball over the net, pumps her fist in the air, and high-fives my brother.

  I suddenly want to donkey kick and flap my arms. But then, just as I’m about to lose it, a woman in exercise clothes walks by with a golden retriever lumbering after her. She’s just starting to tie the leash to a metal gate when I hurry over.

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “I can watch your dog if you want. I love dogs.”

  “Sure,” the woman says. “Katie would love that.”

  The woman hands me the leash and explains that she’s going down to work out on the trapeze rings. She tells me that Katie is eleven and loves kids.

  “Golden retrievers are my favorite dog,” I tell her. I run my fingers over the bony bump on the top of Katie’s head. I love golden retrievers’ head bumps almost as much as I love the indent at the top of Cavalier King Charles spaniels’ noses, just the right size to press your thumb in.

  As I sit on the steps and pet Katie, I slowly start feeling better. Dogs are amazing that way.

  “Hey,” Ruby says, jogging over a few minutes later. “Cute dog.”

  “Her name is Katie,” I tell her. “Her owner is over there on the rings.”

  Ruby plops down next to me and scratches behind Katie’s ears. “She looks like that dog in the poster on your wall.”

  I nod in agreement. As Ruby wipes the sweat off her nose, I wonder if she came up here because she was tired of volleyball or because she wanted to be with me. Either way, I’m happy she’s here.

  “I once read that dogs’ paws smell like popcorn,” I tell Ruby. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “We can check,” Ruby suggests.

  I lift up Katie’s paw and bury my nose in it, breathing deeply. “A little popcorny.”

  Ruby leans across me and goes next. “I just smell dirt.”

  “We could invent a new popcorn flavor!” I say, patting Katie’s head. “We’d call it Dog’s Paws.”

  “Yuck!” Ruby says.

  “Thanks for yesterday,” I blurt out. “For grabbing Avery’s phone and deleting that movie. The video was from preschool. I looked like a total freak. I know you hate getting in trouble so I just wanted to say thanks for doing that for me.”

  “I didn’t watch the video,” Ruby says, shrugging. “I’m sure you didn’t look like a freak.”

  “No … I did. It was from a performance where I threw my sneakers at the parents and ripped down the holiday lights.”

  Ruby snorts. “They probably deserved it for making little kids put on a show. I hate those performance things. I’m still nervous about fifth-grade graduation.”

  I nod, remembering our conversation in the school basement a few weeks ago.

  “Even though we have our red-and-purple outfits,” Ruby says, “I’m totally dreading it. I’m fine being watched on a soccer field. I don’t get stressed about that. But being on a stage with everyone holding up their phones at us? I hate that.”

  I think about what Sandhya said when we were at that vegan restaurant, about how Ruby has anxiety about things. “I’ll be up there on the stage with you,” I tell her. “Does that help?”

  Ruby scratches behind Katie’s ears. “But you’ll be in the back row with the tall kids. I’ll be in the front with the short kids. Front and center for everyone to see.”

  “You could wear stilts,” I offer. “Or platform shoes. Then Ms. Lacey will put you in the back.”

  “Or you could walk on your knees,” Ruby says, laughing.

  My dad, Sandhya, and Benji are still playing volleyball, and Katie is asleep at my feet, and the sun is sinking toward the river, and it’s actually pretty, sort of golden and peaceful. All of a sudden I decide that it’s time to tell Ruby. When Maureen suggested telling Ruby about Sensory Processing Disorder, I was like, No way, I’ll sound like a freak. But maybe there are worse things than being a freak. Like keeping things bottled up. Like hiding who I really am.

  “I was like that at the preschool performance because I have a disorder,” I say to Ruby as I run my hand back and forth across Katie’s back. “I’ve had it since I was little. It’s even why I do some things now.”

  Ruby raises her eyebrows. “What kind of disorder?”

  “It’s called Sensory Processing Disorder. Mostly it means that being in my body is harder than it is for most people.”

  Ruby nods like she gets it, so I tell her that I see an occupational therapist after school twice a week and not a math tutor. I tell her how I hate some textures and smells and tastes and love others. I tell her about my checklists and charts and how hard it is for me to find comfortable clothes. I tell her that socks are evil, the worst invention ever.

  “Is that why you had all those socks under your bed?” Ruby asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding.

  Ruby shakes her head. “I’m so sorry I made fun of you for that.”

  Just then, Katie’s owner comes over and thanks us for watching her. Ruby and I hug Katie and kiss her about a thousand times before she slowly lumbers away.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Ruby asks.

  “I guess because it’s embarrassing,” I say. “It’s private.”

  Ruby coughs. “I know my mom told you how I have a hard time with sleep, like how I’m scared to sleep alone. That’s why I’ve never come for sleepovers. Sleepovers seem so easy for most people but I can’t do them. I guess I’m a freak that way.”

  I sling my arm around Ruby’s shoulder. “I don’t think you’re a freak.”

  “I don’t think you’re a freak either,” she says, and then she rubs her eyes. It almost looks like she’s crying.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I guess.” She pushes her fists into her eye sockets. “Just a little tired. I don’t know … I sort of don’t fe
el well.”

  On the way out of the park, Ruby starts coughing really hard. Sandhya buys her a bottle of water from a food cart. It helps for a bit but then she starts up again. She’s still coughing when we get to Broadway and they descend down the stairs and into the subway.

  I know something is wrong as soon as Dad walks in the door on Monday evening.

  “Hey, Willa,” he says, kissing the top of my head. His face is pale and his lips are pressed tight together. He turns to Joshua. “Where’s Benji?”

  “He’s on a playdate with Max,” Joshua says. “He’s getting dropped off in a half hour.”

  “Oh, right,” Dad says distractedly.

  Joshua loads a few things in the dishwasher and slides his feet into his sneakers. The whole time Joshua is getting ready to leave, I watch Dad’s face to see if I can figure out what’s going on. I wonder if something went wrong at work? Or maybe he and Sandhya got in a fight and aren’t getting married after all? When I think about that I feel a stab of sadness in my stomach and I suddenly realize that I actually like them together and I want it to stay that way.

  As soon as Joshua is gone, Dad turns to me. “Willa.”

  He says it like a sentence with a period at the end, like he’d rather not keep going.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Let’s sit on the couch,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  Generally with things like this I get a burst of energy, but looking at Dad’s face right now makes me go limp inside, like pasta that has been cooked too long. I sink onto the couch next to him.

  “Sandhya took Ruby to the doctor today,” he says.

  “Yeah, Ruby wasn’t at school. Did she get sick? She was coughing a lot in the park on Friday.”

  “She’s not sick.” Dad stares at his hands. I notice he’s chewed his fingernails again. He gave that up two years ago. Benji and I celebrated by buying him nail clippers and several packs of gum.

  “They went to an allergy doctor and did some tests,” Dad continues. “They found out that Ruby is allergic to dogs. That’s why she got sick in the park on Friday. You girls were petting that golden retriever. And remember Puppapalooza? How she didn’t feel well and had to leave early?”

  “But wouldn’t they have figured that out before?” I ask, my voice rising.

  “Ruby hasn’t had a lot of exposure to dogs,” Dad says. “Also, it sounds like she’s gotten asthma attacks over the years and the allergy doctor says that’s probably the reason.”

  “But she’s already lactose intolerant! How can she also be allergic to dogs?”

  “Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” Dad says, rubbing my back.

  “I know that,” I say, clenching my teeth. “It’s just … are they sure?”

  My dad hangs his head. “Unfortunately … yes.”

  “So what about us?” I kick my heels back and forth against the couch. “What about our dog?”

  “We’re not positive,” Dad says. “We’ve just learned about this.”

  “What about Manhattan Mutts? You already made the payment! The rescue dogs are arriving from South Carolina in a few weeks!”

  “I need to call them and cancel,” Dad says, “at least until we can think this through a little more.”

  “No!” I shout. I’m breathing fast and tears are flooding my eyes. “But you promised!”

  “I know.” Dad starts massaging his temples with his thumbs.

  “What if I move up to Mom’s?” I ask, but even as I’m saying it I realize a decision is forming in my head. “Then can I get a dog?”

  “I thought about that, too, and I suppose it is a solution. I’ll have to talk it over with Mom and Bill, only the dog couldn’t come here along with you. As I said, we’ve only just found out, so—”

  I don’t wait for Dad to finish. I’m on my feet and running into my room, where I slam the door. This time when my golden retriever poster falls down, I rip it up and kick the pieces under my bed. Next I destroy my dog kingdom, knocking off dogs and pens and fences. I pause before tipping over the white poodle from Sophie, and then I push her over too.

  “Willa,” Dad says, knocking on my door. “Can I come in?”

  “No!”

  “Want to call Mom?” he asks. “Or even Maureen?”

  “No!” I shout again. I hit PLAY on the iPad and crawl into my body sock, listening to Old Yeller. I’m right before the sad part where I always stop the story, but this time I keep listening, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  When I see Ruby at school the next day, she says hi and I say hi and it’s out there, in the air between us, that she is the reason I can’t get my dog. I know it’s not her fault, so I’m not mad at her. But it feels sad and heavy like a towel that’s been drenched with water and dumped in a heap on the bathroom floor.

  It’s the same on Wednesday and Thursday. Ruby and I eat lunch together and chat during classroom transitions, and we play follow-the-leader around the recess yard, and I get to be the leader. But we don’t talk at all about the fact that she’s allergic to dogs. It’s like the elephant in the room. Or the 180-pound Saint Bernard.

  On Friday morning, we walk quietly together up to the Maya A. orientation. Mr. Torres is the chaperone who brings us. All the Children’s School students going to middle school there are invited in today for a tour and to see our sample schedules for the fall.

  As soon as we walk into this enormous middle school, all long hallways and new faces, I start sliding my KEENs back and forth even though the soles are squealing loudly on the floor. I can’t help it. I wish I’d brought gum. I wish I could do wall pushes right now or leap down a flight of stairs.

  All of a sudden, I feel Ruby slip her hand in mine. “Sensory moment?” she asks in my ear.

  “Totally,” I say, squeezing her hand. When I was in kinder-garten and my line partner used to complain that I was squeezing too tight, my teacher used to tell me to pretend there was a butterfly in the space between our hands. We always had to remember to maintain that pocket of space to keep the butterfly alive. I couldn’t ever do it though. I always killed the imaginary butterfly.

  Ruby squeezes my hand back. No space. All squished butterflies. “What helps when you’re having a sensory moment?” she whispers.

  The tour guide, the sixth-grade humanities teacher, is walking backward, pointing out the art rooms and the science labs. Kids in the classrooms peer out at us, and we look back in at them, like they’re exhibits in the zoo called middle school. I wonder if any of them are kids we saw that day at I Scream when Dad and Sandhya told us the news. I can’t believe how long ago that seems now. Also I can’t believe Ruby and I are talking about the fact that I’m having a sensory moment. I’ve never talked about this with a friend before.

  “This helps,” I say tentatively, tugging at Ruby’s hand. “And jumping. Also reading helps. It distracts my brain from my body.”

  Still holding my hand, Ruby raises her other arm in the air.

  “Yes?” the humanities teacher asks, pointing at Ruby.

  “You have a library here, right?” Ruby asks. “I saw it on the tour in the fall.”

  “We do,” she says. “It’s one of the things we’re most proud of at Maya Angelou. It’s got twenty thousand volumes of fiction, nonfiction, graphic novels—”

  “Can we go there now?” Ruby asks. “Take a few minutes to look around?”

  The teacher glances at her watch. “I suppose we can. It’s one flight down and around the corner. Sure … why not?”

  “Thanks,” Ruby says to her. Then she whispers to me, “And let’s jump the whole way down the stairs.”

  I smile at Ruby, my feet calm beneath me.

  That afternoon, I call my mom.

  “Everything okay?” she asks as soon as she answers.

  We often don’t talk on Fridays because we’re about to spend the weekend together. But I decided something for sure today and I can’t wait until tomorrow to tell her.

  �
��I’ve decided I’m staying in New York City next year,” I say. “I want to stay here and go to Maya A. and keep coming up to you on weekends.”

  “Okay,” Mom says slowly.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Oh, Willa … of course I’m not mad. Dad and I only want what’s best for you. It’s been working just fine as is and we’ll keep doing that.”

  “I’m going to call Dad at work,” I say quickly before she can ask if I’ve told him yet. “See you tomorrow? I can explain more then.”

  “I can’t wait,” Mom says, and then we say good-bye.

  As soon as Dad answers, I say to him, “I’m staying here in New York City and I’m keeping my room.”

  When Dad doesn’t respond, I continue.

  “I’ve thought about it and I love my room. It’s my Girl Cave and I need it and it’s really important to me. Also Benji and Ruby are both neat so they should share a room. And then Ruby doesn’t have to sleep alone, which I know she doesn’t like.”

  “I can see you’ve thought it all out,” Dad finally says.

  “I have,” I say. I’m about to add and I’m not changing my mind but I know I can’t do that. This is not just about me. It’s Ruby’s and Benji’s lives, too, and they should get a say.

  “It’s funny,” Dad says, “Sandhya was also saying that about the bedrooms. She and Ruby have been talking about it and Ruby doesn’t want you to give up your room. Benji says he’s okay either way as long as I install a chin-up bar in the apartment. And you’re right … Ruby and Benji do have similar, uh, sanitary styles.”

  “Meaning they’re not slobs?” I ask, laughing.

  Dad laughs with me. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I still feel really bad that Ruby is allergic to dogs,” I say.

  “I know you do,” Dad says.

  “It’s not her fault … but I still hate it.”

  “I get it,” Dad says. “I definitely do.”

  That evening, I’m stretched out on my bed reading Tintin when Ruby calls me on FaceTime. We don’t talk a lot and, if we do, it’s mostly making goofy faces back and forth into the screens.