Now Laura says, “Well, I think I’d like to know what she does every day. It can’t be good.”
“She has a square object in her pocket that could either be an intergalactic remote control or a wallet,” I say.
“It might have something to do with space or shopping.”
“You’re not as stupid as you look.”
“Mysti!”
“Also, she doesn’t care what she has on or even if her hair is brushed, so we know she is not going to a fashion runway.”
I explain to Laura that it’s possible the woman is walking toward a TV show for the surprise makeover of her life. Her stringy hair will be brushed to a golden sheen and a hair artist will put blond highlights all around her face. She will wear sparkly pink lip gloss and just a hint of mascara. She will be dressed in dark jeans, sandals, and a flowing shirt spun from silkworms in Egypt. Her new earrings will feature diamonds and rubies from Queen Elizabeth because the queen woke up that day and said, Jewels for all the walkers of the world! When the Woman’s new makeover is revealed, she will walk onstage and smile a smile worthy of Miss America. Yes, she will be amazingly beautiful and the camera operators will faint. A TV director will shout, Get up, you camera operators, and then ask the Woman why she never got a makeover before. And the Woman Who Goes Somewhere will reply that she’d been walking around the world, picking up rocks and flowers and bits of grasshopper legs that when mixed together in a soup create a natural and tasty cure for cancer, so who has time to apply mascara.
“You should write that down, Mysti,” Laura says. “It’s one of your better stories.”
Laura is so easily entertained by stories, which is about the only quality in her I appreciate. But what I would love more than applause for my creativity is to really and truly unlock the mystery behind Woman Who Goes Somewhere. There are probably 267 possibilities. But do you know when I will be able to follow the Woman to find out where she goes? The twelfth of never.
“Merci beaucoup,” I say to Laura.
Here is a girl with storytelling that is admirable and colorful being awarded a giant unicorn, a new iPad, and a brilliant school wardrobe that would make people take back ridiculous requests for social experiments.
“Girls, oh my goodness, get down from there before you hurt yourself,” Mama shouts, and we do as she says.
While I wait for Dad to take me to get ice cream, I brush my hair into a ponytail and then rearrange the posters on my corkboard and place Mama’s painting on my nightstand. I flip through my new storybook and put it back on my shelf with all my favorite stories that are set in France (The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Madeline, The Red Balloon, Madame Pamplemousse and Her Incredible Edibles).
Now I smell the wonderful scent of fresh banana bread Mama is baking in the kitchen.
Larry plonks down in his space right next to my bed.
I sit by the window and wait.
Everything is nice. Everything is calm.
But you know what they say about calm. It always comes before the storm.
That’s when I heard the crackle, snap, boom.
The tired old tree branch gave out when Dad climbed on it to retrieve his car-washing towel. It sent him crashing headfirst onto the wet pavement. By the time we got to him, he looked peaceful, like he’d just decided to lie down next to the car and take a nap. The scene didn’t look as nefarious as it should have.
chapter 7
Here is a sad, sad girl watching an ambulance drive away in the bright August sun.
You’d think the giant tree branches would have at least given a whisper of danger. Don’t climb up here, Mr. Murphy. Stay where you are and let the wind remove the towel in its own good time.
No, there was just the sound of our next-door neighbor Mr. Jennings, screaming to the wind, “Call nine-one-one!”
And then Mama, whose ears are trained to hear 9-1-1 in her sleep, came out of her painting trance, dropped her paintbrush on the wood floor, and rushed out the door. She saw it all, and when I tried to go sit next to Dad, she pushed me and Laura away.
“Stay in our yard,” she commanded.
And then the ambulance. A huge neck brace. A muscled paramedic telling me to get out of the way, honey.
A hot cry rose up in my throat but it didn’t come out. Laura held on to my arm and watched it all happen and cried like the mushy girl she is. And Mama, her face was drenched with tears and her hands shook a little as the ambulance pulled away from the curb. Laura and I eased Mama to the porch.
“Darlings, do you want a ride to the hospital? Anything?” Mrs. Jennings asked. She’d carried over cups and a pitcher of ice-cold sweet tea and poured it out for us.
Mrs. Jennings. She’s the only person who didn’t realize the answer would be no. Mama couldn’t get into her car. Mama couldn’t get into any car.
Lord knows she’s tried it a few times, but just sitting in the passenger’s seat gives Mama a panic attack. She shakes and sweats and says she feels like she’s having a heart attack. Dad rushes over. Breathe into this bag, Melly. You’re all right. We’ll try again another day.
And Mama breathes into the bag, comes out of whatever mental closet she went into to hide, touches his cheek, and says, What would I do without you?
Me and Laura, we’ve watched the Mama Tries to Ride channel a few times. We are not fans.
Why does Dad keep forcing her? Laura asks me in private. It’s mean.
And I always say, I guess he wants her to go places.
But this day, the day of the falling tree branch, was not going to be the day Mama tried to go places. Not without Dad. Not even to go and see Dad. Worst of all, we were all thinking that same question. I could feel the imaginary bubble cloud form over our three heads:
What would we do without Dad?
Because if there’s one thing we all know about the topic we don’t speak of, it’s this: Dad does everything that requires outside-the-house activity.
From the paramedics and the scraps of conversation I heard, I knew at least this much. Dad’s head hit the pavement with such powerful “concussive force” that it might take a while to “assess his injuries,” and that “surgery to remove pressure from brain swelling” is a possibility. I don’t know much, but I knew we were going to be doing without Dad for a while.
Mrs. Jennings left and we sat on the porch, all three of us, in the hot afternoon sun. Melting. Worrying. Mama still had a streak of Violet paint across her cheek. It had smudged with her tears, and I tried without success to wipe it away. My fingers came away purple and salty, and she looked like she was bruised. I asked, “How long do you think Dad will be in the hospital?”
“I don’t know,” Mama replied.
“Are you going to stop crying?” Laura asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can we go to the hospital to see him?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
At dinner, we all sat down at the kitchen table to eat taco salad. The longer we sat in silence, the more the stupid hugging salt and pepper shakers irritated me. They stood there like nothing had changed and I hated them for it, which is stupid because salt and pepper can’t feel hate.
“It’s pretty serious,” Mama said. “What happened to your dad.” You could see in her still-watery eyes that she didn’t really want to talk about him.
“So what does this mean?”
“I’m not sure. They will know more after surgery.”
“But Mama, you can’t drive,” Laura stated. I gave her the evil eye. Laura is still too immature for her own good.
Mama stabbed at her lettuce.
“I know that, Laura,” she snapped.
I kicked Laura. “It’s going to be okay, Mama.”
“Eat your salad.”
If it comes to it, we can find someone to take us to the hospital. Maybe the Jenningses.
“Eat your salad,” Mama said again.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then pray for your father.” Her
nose was red. Her eyes were all glossy from the tears. Dad always tells jokes and it makes Mama smile.
I opened the joke book Dad gave me. “Did you know that time flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana?”
It worked. She smiled. A big, beautiful, straight-teeth smile. I love it when she smiles. My mother has days when she can be really beautiful. Especially when she lets her worries take a nap.
“Oh, bananas! I almost forgot the bread!”
Mama went to the kitchen and cut two nice thick slices of her fresh-baked bread.
Mama’s answer to a lot of things is a piece of homemade bread.
Two days later. Mama has pretty much napped around the clock. We learned that Dad is in critical condition.
He had surgery to remove pressure from his brain. His doctor is hopeful.
Well, now I am bone tired from worrying, so I think I’ll stop. The fact that Dad might wake up next to an empty vinyl chair is depressing. I’ve seen movies. I know there’s supposed to be a person sitting next to the injured patient when he wakes up.
“We’ll go see him soon,” Mama says.
In the afternoon, I climb onto her bed and curl up next to her. She strokes my long red hair in the way that I love.
“You have about four different colors in your hair, Mysti,” she says. “Chinese Red. Copper. Naples Gold. Poppy.”
“You’ve told me that forever.”
“Well, it’ll be true forever.”
“It won’t ever grow in gray like yours?” Mama’s roots are showing. The roots are the color of a dusty squirrel. The rest of it is French Roast Brown, or so it says on the hair-color box.
“I hope it doesn’t, sweetie.”
Judge Judy, Mama’s favorite show, pops up on her TV and we lie there together, watching Judy tell people when to talk, how to straighten up, and to dare not try coming into her court with a lie, which in her world means something is baloney.
Today, there is a lady who walks up to the defendant’s stand wearing a shirt with part of her belly button showing.
I say, “Ooh, she’s gonna get it from the judge.”
“What was she thinking this morning when she scanned her closet? Oh, this shirt will impress the judge?” Mama laughs.
Sure enough, Judge Judy asks Girl with a Bad Shirt if she forgot she was coming to court today. The girl looks clueless. She probably forgets a lot of things.
“Don’t worry. Mr. Jennings will drive us to the hospital,” I say.
“Maybe.”
Girl with a Bad Shirt ends up having to pay the plaintiff. Who didn’t see that coming a wardrobe away?
When Mama is asleep, I cover her with a blanket and go in search of a snack. I eat the yummy banana bread leftovers.
It’s obvious to a blind flea that we will really need to talk about the subject we don’t talk about. We need to take that question outside and shake it out like a rug. Because I looked up information about brain injuries on the computer, and I know one thing for sure: That big flat-footed monster called Change is coming for us, and he doesn’t deliver groceries.
chapter 8
Here is a girl preparing to enter seventh grade with a dented dad, no obvious friend, no new school shoes, and the horrific realization that she’d only shaved one leg.
The first day of school.
It doesn’t feel like we are ready for the first day of anything.
Every morning for the past four days, Mama sits in her room and watches TV.
Every afternoon for the past four days, we get a little report from Dr. Randolph at the hospital about Dad’s condition. He is stable and his vital signs are good.
Every night, we eat a garden salad and wish there were four plates to wash instead of three.
This time last year, my greatest concern was if I should bring a purse to middle school.
I miss having that problem this morning.
I have problems that include a limited supply of new school clothes. A backpack with holes in it. Sneakers that already have 102 miles on them. And, of course, one unshaved leg. This last problem is entirely my fault.
I look at the clock to see if there’s time to race to the bathroom and make my legs match, hairwise. The clock says, No, and you can’t even slip on jeans, those capris will have to do.
Stupid clock.
Before we leave for school, Mama does the kind of organizing where she’s trying hard not to show she’s upset. She wipes down countertops that are already clean and alphabetizes pantry products that just don’t care.
Sniff. Sniff.
Wipe. Wipe.
Flour. Soup. Sugar.
Today, she has her dark hair pulled up in a Coral Orange scarf, and a smear of Revlon Rose lipstick on her mouth. She looks like a worried cheerleader. But I guess she’s trying not to be so obviously depressed.
“What are you doing?”
“Well…” She pauses. “Taking inventory, actually. Seeing how we can stretch what we have.”
“Want to hear the joke of the day?” This is me, trying not to worry about Mama being home alone.
“Oh, Mysti,” she says, a little startled. “Yes, please tell me a joke.”
“How do you make a tissue dance?”
“How?”
“Put a little boogie in it.”
“I like that one.”
“Thanks.” I give her a big hug, and she gives me lunch and a reminder of the safety rules. Don’t talk to nefarious strangers. Keep your eyes open. Stay in a group or with a safety buddy.
“There is safety in pairs.”
Yes, I know. Stay in twos.
Same thing with Laura. I stand on the porch and hear all three brass locks click, click, click. And then her voice through the door: “Mysti, I can still see you. Go on, now. I’m going to paint today. I’ll be just fine.”
I try to be fine, too.
During the morning announcements, I hide my unshaved leg behind my smooth one and scan the room for a safety buddy. (Or what other seventh graders might call a friend.) Until Anibal returns from hipster land, it would be nice to cultivate another friendship. I didn’t really reach out to any girls last year, owing to the fact that my friendship needs were satisfied. In retrospect, this was not a great strategy.
Among the sea of new kids, there are new clothes and not a pimple to be seen, all obliterated by fifty dollars and a 1-800 call to Proactiv. There are two girls I recognize, but they are so busy whispering they do not notice me. One of the girls is known for drawing a turtle next to her name. Last year, Anibal Gomez asked her outright, Why do you always draw a turtle?
With surprising volume, the girl yelled back, It’s a tortoise, not a turtle!
Kids like to make fun of her now, but she is bulletproof about it. Why? Because she has a friend named Girl Who Likes Horses. For some reason, there is always a girl in school who likes horses. Even Laura agrees. It must be one of the universal laws in the book of education.
The cafeteria must smell vaguely like cold soup and sneakers.
At least once, students must receive a beat-up textbook that appears to have been dunked in mysterious liquid.
There must be that girl who likes horses.
Beatty Middle School’s Girl Who Likes Horses owns a ton of horse T-shirts and carries around a thick Encyclopedia of Horses.
From where I sit, I do not see that these girls have an opening for a girl like me, mostly because I lack an animal obsession.
I hide behind my hair like it’s a curtain, wondering where Anibal Gomez is at this moment. I can’t help thinking about him. It’s like he owns something of mine and I want it back.
I overhear Girl Who Likes Horses say, “Have you seen him? The hat?”
“Don’t you think it looks so hipster?” Girl Who Draws Tortoises asks.
Can they be talking about Anibal? Is a hat such a significant fashion statement to talk about on day one of school? Maybe there’s something to his experiment. Note to self: Locate cute hat.
; Last year, I would have told him about Girl Who Likes Horses and Girl Who Draws Tortoises and he’d have drawn a picture of a tortoise with a horse head. Man, he is good at drawing. I attempt to create my own doodle of a hortoise, but it looks like a donkey with a stomach disorder.
Anibal would do better.
After math class, no one has even waved at me. It is a little lonely and my mind drifts to the Sad Dad channel. By third period, I switch to the Wishing I Was at Home channel, but all that’s playing there is How to Enjoy Cantaloupe with Your Mother.
The next bell rings. Time for lunch. I’m certain to see Anibal in the cafeteria. I had sent him a text and know that we both have the B lunch period.
And there he is.
Anibal with a hat.
Anibal the hipster.
Anibal who was more than a little round in the middle last year and is now less round. In fact, he is half of his former self. Anibal Gomez is now in the category of cute boys. Boy-band cute. Truth-or-dare, who-do-you-have-a-crush-on cute.
Not that I do.
But I do have to admit that he looks cool. And that his secret plan to be a Sandy Showalter Attractor might just work.
I’m so happy for him that my happiness makes me forget all about our agreed-upon pact. I go right up to him and smile without even thinking about my tragic lack of orthodontia. A big, open dork smile that shows my gap.
“Hey,” I say. “Who do you have for Texas History?”
Anibal is with two other boys who glance at me like I’m leftover meat loaf. We are all waiting for the introduction. The introduction is key. It is code for I know you. Silence is code for Why are you talking to me? Silence is what a lot of popular kids do right before they are going to cut you down.
I can hear the ticking of my watch. It mocks me.
Awk-ward.
Awk-ward.
Awk-ward.
So I decide to help him out.
“So, are you going by Ani this year?”
We discussed this once. He’d go by Ani. I’d go by Myst. New and improved, we said. New names for a new year, we said.
Courage for Beginners Page 3