At the bus line, Rama, who wisely wore a Beatty Middle School Blue scarf today, tugs my sleeve. “I saw you ditch the pep rally.”
“I am in charge of how I feel and today I choose happiness.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Sure. Hey, what was all that big laugh about during the pep rally?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“It involves the Gomez boy.”
“Did he impress somebody?”
“Everyone but me.”
“Well, you are hard to impress, Rama,” I say. “So what happened?”
“I heard that girl who wears the horse shirt telling the whole story. Anibal is a vocabulary vandal.”
Apparently, on Monday in Anibal’s Language Arts class, Mr. Vern had written the week’s vocabulary list on the board. The third word was circumspect, but when Mr. Vern wasn’t looking, Anibal changed the word to circumcise. Today, when the first three classes turned in their vocabulary quizzes, Mr. Vern got wise and canceled the quizzes for the rest of the day. Half the seventh grade had Anibal to thank for a vocabulary-free afternoon.
Anibal the cool hipster. Score.
Rama gets off the bus and bounces home, which happens to be at the opposite end of Fargo Drive from my house. A house with green shutters and a girl with the supercool name RamaKhan! was there all the time and I didn’t know it. Dad never drove down our street in that direction. Storm clouds come from that direction. Woman Who Goes Somewhere comes from that direction. I’ve always thought of that unexplored end of the street as part mystery, part danger.
The wind sweeps up the Raw Sienna leaves from that direction and pushes them down the block.
I wish for more leaves. More leaves on the street means we are closer to October. Closer to Halloween and the time when the red checks on the calendar can stop, and when Mama says she is fine, she will really mean it.
chapter 18
Here is a girl in search of eggs.
Monday.
Squeak. The turn of Mama’s door opening. Mama shuffles out, her dirty hair all pulled back in a ponytail. You can see a Warm Gray stripe of color framing her face, marking the difference in what God gave her and the color the box gives her.
“Laura!” she announces with cheer. Faux cheer.
“Happy birthday! I see you got your present, you sneaky mouse.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
Laura holds a framed certificate declaring that a star has been named for Laura Dawn Murphy in the Carina Dwarf galaxy. I got the same present when I turned eight, and it was the only time I’ve ever liked my name. Ever.
“Mysti, can I speak with you?”
Mama tells me to go and see about borrowing eggs from the Jenningses.
“I think I have all the ingredients we need here except for eggs,” she whispers.
We both know she hates to do this because she’s embarrassed that she can’t go to the store herself. Like they don’t already know that a woman who can’t go see her sick husband in the hospital can’t go buy eggs at the store.
“Great idea, Mama!” I, too, sound faux in my cheer. This is us, trying to be fine.
Mama gives me some tomatoes and green onions from our garden as a trade, and I’m out the sliding-glass back door. I wind through the garden, past the evil tree, and up the Jenningses’ driveway. This is where I stop. The garage door is open and there is an interesting smell in the air. Not interesting in an Oh, that smells tasty kind of way. More of an Oh, someone spilled a ton of nail polish kind of way.
“Hey, neighbor,” shouts Mr. Jennings. “What’s the good word?”
Egg. Egg is the word.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Whenever the missus says nothing, it usually means something,” he says.
“Actually, I want to know if I can borrow some eggs. We just ran out. I have tomatoes for you.”
“Hand me that hammer, will you?”
“What are you trying to build?” I am desperate now to know the source of all the mysterious sounds and nefarious smells. There are at least two tables set up in the garage with a variety of parts and tools, all things that looked like they could go in a car or a computer or a kitchen. A few are laid out on a white cloth like a surgeon lays out his instruments.
“Two great inventions, Mysti. Both with the power to create harmonious marriages and a nice retirement nest.”
“But I thought you worked as a mechanic,” I say. “Why start inventing now?”
Mr. Jennings looks at me like I’ve asked the strangest question in the history of question asking.
“Oh, my girl, you have to read all about the great Steve Jobs, like I told you,” he says. “He had a drive to create something new and different. He had a drive inside that told him he was special. All inventors possess those same attributes. You have to let it flourish.”
By now, Mrs. Jennings has come out into the garage and is shaking her head at her husband.
“He’s giving you the sermon, I see,” she says. “Well, he’s like the Great Wall of China. Impressive but meandering. Your lunch is almost ready, Thomas Edison.”
I ask her about the three eggs and she turns to run back into the house.
“She’ll see,” Mr. Jennings says. “She’ll be a believer! I’ll be on the Home Shopping Network and she’ll understand then.”
“With your collapsible measuring cup?” Mrs. Jennings asks over her shoulder. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t realize how many marriages this will save!” Mr. Jennings says, then turns to me. “Every time I open that cabinet, a thousand plastic measuring cups fall down on my head. So this collapsible contraption—I’m calling it the Amazing Multimeasurer—is going to be hotter than sliced bread!”
You have to like Mr. Jennings. He has hope. There is probably a whole story going on inside his brain all the time.
Here is a girl watching another character in another story.
Mr. Jennings reaches for the thick copy of his biography of Steve Jobs. “There’s a passage in this book where young Mr. Jobs realized that he knew more than his father. That was a great turning point for him. I, too, felt that way about my former boss. It’s hard for a sapling to grow under someone else’s shade. Get what I mean? You have to keep starting sentences with questions. Know what I mean?”
“I think I know someone like that,” I say, thinking of Wayne Kovok. “He’s a dork at school. Maybe I should tell him to read that book. I think he could relate.”
Mr. Jennings winks. “Take it from a fellow dork, kid. Today’s dorks are tomorrow’s inventors.”
“I’d like to see that when it’s done,” I say. “I would buy it in a hot second.”
“Oh, of course, Miss Mur—”
“Okay!” Mrs. Jennings interrupts. “Here are your eggs, dear. Now you tell your mother that if there’s anything we can do, just give us a ring and I’ll send Mr. Invention right over.”
I take myself back home, walking slowly, thinking about how much mystery and movement stirs around me. Woman Who Goes Somewhere takes daily walks in bad clothes to some unknown destination. Dad is in the hospital trying to get better each day. And right next door, some invention with the power to change marriages is being generated in Mr. Jennings’s garage. With all of that, maybe the Anibal Gomez experiment isn’t so bad. Everyone I know is trying to get to somewhere or get better. That’s all Anibal is trying to do, too. I am just part of a hypothesis that he’s trying to prove. A variable. A person can be ignored if she knows she is doing it in the service of science. This is what I tell myself. This experiment, like all science experiments, has parameters. It has rules and an end date. If you know something will eventually come to an end, you can handle it.
In the kitchen, Mama mixes the ingredients for lemon cake. Soon the house smells golden, and it reminds me of the world before the stupid tree changed everything.
When I was little, Mama baked banana bread and I would sit on t
he counter, staring at the oven glass, watching the batter turn from gooey yellow to golden brown while she braided my hair. I’d have that soft, floaty feeling inside from her hands working through my red hair, while at the same time smelling the wonder of home-baked bread.
I loved that part of my story. I loved it when Mama played that character in our book.
“Mama, about the food situation? I was thinking that I could—”
“I transferred money into your school cafeteria accounts,” she says. “And I have a solution that will get us by for the next two weeks. You know, until your dad comes back.” She walks to the calendar and checks off another day.
She is still holding on to the optimistic view of Dr. Randolph. She believes that Dad’s body knows it’s supposed to automatically wake up on October 31 and ask for Halloween candy. As for me, I’m not so sure, because I looked up more facts about coma patients on the Internet. Unless Dad is playing the role of coma patient in a movie, it is unclear if he will really sit up and ask for a candy corn. The Internet says everybody is different. Tell me something I don’t know.
“What is your solution?” I ask Mama.
Here is a girl helping her mother unpack the unappetizing contents of an emergency supply kit.
The contents of Mama’s solution fit on our couch.
12 assorted meals ready to eat (MRE)
A can opener
15 protein bars
3 boxes of granola
1 jar of peanut butter
3 packages of dried fruit
1 can of nuts
2 boxes of crackers
12-pack of canned juice
1 box of nonperishable pasteurized milk
1 jar of multivitamins
1 sleeping bag
1 jug of household chlorine bleach
1 fire extinguisher
Matches in a waterproof container
Feminine hygiene items
Paper cups and plates, paper towels, and plastic utensils
Paper and pencil
2 puzzles for children
The box doesn’t include dog food or toilet paper.
“Apparently you aren’t supposed to have a pet or need to pee during an emergency,” I say to Mama.
“Or need to color your hair!” Mama laughs. I look at her roots. Dad’s been gone a quarter inch at least.
“Well, someone in the government should think of that,” I say. “People need to use the bathroom and have nice hair in an emergency.”
“Nice hair is not a priority in an emergency,” Mama says, a little laugh in her voice. “And the kit did have toilet paper, but I believe your dad used it. You know how nervous he got when we ran low.”
How nervous he got.
We both lock eyes. She just talked about Dad in the past tense as if he is already gone. Quick, I see Mama’s brain turning, trying to clean up what she said out loud.
“Well, we’ll laugh about this when your dad is home in a few weeks. He’ll be back before there is a true emergency,” Mama says, leaning into the word true. “And the garden will sustain us.”
I knew it. Turnips will be part of this plan.
“There are ants in these crackers!” Laura says.
“Maybe they had an emergency,” I say.
“How did they cross the chalk line?” Laura asks.
There is a giant chalk line around our house. Chalk dust coats every baseboard in our house because Mama read someplace that ants won’t crawl over chalk. This is another example of how our family fixes problems. There is the normal way and there is the Murphy family way. Can we get bug man out here to murder these annoying creatures? No way. Instead we pretend that ants are afraid of chalk and that we don’t mind white dust everywhere.
“I think I know how the ants crossed.” Laura looks at me, pulls me to her room. “You have a new story, I can tell.”
Here are about one hundred ant leaders. They gathered for an early-morning meeting outside on the sidewalk. Andy Ant, who is the chief, says to the others: Get your troops ready, men! Today we are taking down 4520 Fargo Drive. It’s going to be a long mission, going underground and inside the small weep holes, but I know you can do it. Early recon tells us that there are several Cheerios under the refrigerator. The littlest girl dropped a peppermint candy and it’s near the garage entry. We’ll need delta crew to move that one. So who is with me?
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! shout the ant leaders in reply.
Then, the ant leaders and their army of thousands encircle 4520 Fargo Drive. They make great progress, doing the army crawl over and under. But then suddenly, the ant leaders panic and shout Turn back! Turn back! Turn back! There’s a line of chalk, I repeat, line of chalk. No entry possible. Abort the mission!
And the ants regroup and move down to the next house.
“Mysti, I love your stories.” It is Mama who says this. I didn’t even know she was listening, because she was all the way in the kitchen. But then, that is how small our house is. Every word is all out there in the open. Except for the things we don’t talk about. Like the origins of her fears. If Dad is going to wake up, put on his slippers, and drive straight to Tom Thumb to get groceries.
And how we will get toilet paper and dog food into this house.
I do my homework and then contemplate the still-unfixed crack in my ceiling.
It lengthens.
It moves.
It grows wider.
I don’t know if that is significant, except that I do not like spiders and their ability to enter and exit through cracks when I’m not looking.
chapter 19
Here is a girl listening to songs that speak to her soul and staying up too late texting when her parental unit shouts to shut it down.
Are you adjusting your hat?
Some people like it.
Yeah. I heard girls talking about you.
Who?
Not SS
Who?
Try more Axe deodorant
Who? You’re killing me! Calling u now.
I let my phone ring three times before answering. Let Anibal sweat it out a little bit. But when I hear his voice and it is a private conversation between two friends, I am happy.
“How’s your dad?” Anibal asks, and it makes me realize the old Anibal still lives underneath his stupid new hat and stupid new ironic T-shirts.
“Same. Not worse.”
“Coolio. So tell me about these girls already.”
“I thought this experiment was all about Sandy.”
“It is. But if other ladies are enjoying my hotness, I should know about it.”
“I was just kidding,” I lie.
“I bet people have said stuff and you just haven’t heard it yet. Anyway, I just can’t seem to get Sandy’s attention,” Anibal says.
I was already working on a way to get her attention. I’d seen her trying without success to make a bracelet out of Starburst wrappers. All the girls had them. Her cheer squad friends seemed to be making them every day, and Sandy lagged behind in her skill at folding, which was her only obvious flaw. So I’ve been working on a shoelace bracelet in the colors of blue and white. Shoelaces I stole out of Dad’s presently unused shoes. Shoelaces I will replace when I replace the stolen TP as well. My plan is to finish braiding the bracelet in front of her and get her to notice how easy it is. If I can get her to start the next bracelet trend, I can get a nice friendly text from her, right?
“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Music. Find out her music.”
“Who cares about her music? It’s probably not hipster.”
“Songs say things girls wish they could say.”
“Oh. Is that really true?” Anibal asks.
I don’t know a lot of girls, but this feels true in my bones so I just say to him, “Yes, it’s a universal truth. Songs are a different kind of girl language.”
chapter 20
Here is a girl opening a military meal so that her dog can eat two chicken-on-a-bun sandwiches.
&nb
sp; Right before lunch, I put a song together in my head.
I want a different life.
My dad is sick.
My dog is hungry.
My mother sleeps a lot.
And my sister, la, la, la, cried herself to sleep last night because she got in the special regional choir and can’t accept because there’s no one to drive her to practice and even though she’s a brat, it made me so mad. So mad because of the subject we don’t talk about.
La. La. La.
That’s how the song goes. It’s called “Put Some Duct Tape on It.”
I don’t say anything when I sit down at the Island. I just keep my head low and eat my lunch: a spaghetti-and-meat-sauce MRE.
“Did you know those were first issued by the military in 1981 and most have about twelve hundred calories?” Wayne says. Wayne Kovok got very interested in my lunch. I’ve managed to cleverly conceal the MRE packaging most days, but not today.
“It’s part of my science project,” I lie. “Try out MREs.” This MRE tastes gross. I eat two bites and put it away.
“Wow.”
“You’re incredible, Wayne,” Rama adds.
Wayne blushes for no good reason. Rama’s insults fly under his radar sometimes.
Life on the Loser Island continues. It has taken my appetite away and I don’t eat.
“You’re in Advanced English, too, right?” Wayne asks me.
“Yep.”
“Are you doing that poetry block now? I don’t get that at all.”
“I can help you with it.”
“Poetry is not my thing.”
“I’m shocked.”
I’m making actual conversation at lunch while the sound of Anibal’s laughter carries across the cafeteria like a bad song. So I change the channel and pretend Wayne said the funniest thing ever said in a lunchroom.
“Are you okay?” Wayne asks.
Then Anibal Gomez comes by the Loser Island and pretends to be friendly.
“Hey.”
Courage for Beginners Page 7