“So I can’t go, huh?”
“Dimpus, come on now, be a good girl.”
My eyes felt hot. “So. I can’t go.” I grabbed a buttermilk biscuit. “I can’t go to Dunkin’ Donuts because he”—I pointed at Grosso—“says I have to clean my room. He says.” I fired the biscuit at his head and stomped out of the room and up the stairs. Behind me I could hear glass smashing and my mother crying out and Toddie laughing and chairs knocking and my father holding Grosso back.
No one bothered me that night. Just me and Emilie’s picture on my dresser. How lucky she was! What a kid-hood! Out there in North Dakota, the prairie—no roaches, no brothers, no problems. I kept looking at the huge smile on her face, her eyes staring right at me, like she was saying, “Come on, Megin, come on out here. Let’s chase some critters, you and me!” Emilie never let people get the best of her. She never would have cleaned her room just because some brother was afraid of a bug. Not Emilie.
When I got home from lacrosse practice next day, Toddie kept giving me that silly smirk. Pretty soon I found out why. Inside my room was a broom and a plastic trash bag. Each had a cardboard sign in blue crayon letters. The signs said BROOM and TRASH BAG. I yelled to the whole house from my doorway: “I was gonna clean my room tonight but I ain’t gonna now!” I threw out the broom and bag and slammed the door.
They only called me once to come to dinner. They knew better than to try to force me. Toddie came up with a tray. He knocked on the door and left it outside. I could hear him running back downstairs.
I think I heard Grosso and my father arguing later that night. Grosso slept on the sofa again.
Next night I ate dinner with them. Nobody said anything. There were no biscuits on the table. When I finished and got up, my father said, “Tonight, Megin. Do it now.”
“I have homework,” I said.
“It can wait.”
“You want me to flunk?”
“Clean your room. Now.”
He wasn’t smiling.
I don’t know how long I was in my room, sitting on the bed. The door opened. It was my mother, of all people. “Can I come in?”
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
As she came toward me, something crunched under her foot. She winced but kept coming. She sat down on the bed. She folded her hands in her lap and sort of sightsaw around the room, like it was a strange place she was visiting for the first time, which was practically the case. She spotted Emilie’s picture. “Say, who’s that?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Oh. Gee, looks like an old picture.”
“So?”
“Can I pick it up?”
“It’s a free country.”
She picked it up like it was a bubble. She seemed fascinated. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”
“Wha’d you think it was?”
“I guess I thought it was a boy at first.”
That bothered me. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Short hair, I guess. The hat.” She shook her head. “What a picture. Is it real?”
“No, it’s fake. It’s gonna disappear any minute.”
“I mean was it staged? Is she wearing a costume? Is that a real rabbit?”
“ ’Course it’s a real rabbit,” I sneered. “A jackrabbit.”
She looked at me, amazed. “Really?”
“She caught it with her bare hands. Running. In North Dakota.”
She kept staring at it, still amazed. She put it back but didn’t take her eyes off it. “I, uh, thought maybe you could use some help,” she said at last.
“What with?”
“Your room. Cleaning it.”
This wasn’t making any sense. “Why do you want to do that?”
With the toe of her shoe she lifted a sweat sock and dangled it off the floor. “Oh, I don’t know. I just thought maybe you were having a hard time.” She looked at me. Right at me. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had looked at me that way. “You could use a little help, couldn’t you?”
All of sudden, crazy, I was crying. And blurting; “I tried—a couple times—I started—but I couldn’t—I couldn’t—”
She put her hand on my knee. “You couldn’t finish.”
“No.”
“You wanted to.”
“Yes.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“No.”
“You just… couldn’t.”
“No!”
I bawled even harder. She let me go on for a while, stroking my knee. Then she said, “Know what?”
“What?”
“You have cleanophobia.”
“What’s that?”
“Fear of cleaning your room.”
Jeez, now I was laughing, even though I was still crying. What was going on? Why was she doing this to me?
“Tellya something,” she whispered. “I used to have cleanophobia too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Hated to clean my room. Maybe not really hated it—just couldn’t. Didn’t know how. I had a mental block, I guess.”
“That’s probably what I have.”
“My poor mother, she gave up telling me to clean it. She just kept the door to my room shut all the time.”
“That’s what you do.”
She nodded and grinned.
“So,” I said, “can I go to Dunkin’ Donuts now?”
She laughed. “Why is it so important to go to Dunkin’ Donuts?”
“Because I have to get a french cruller.”
“I didn’t know you were so crazy about them.”
“I’m not.” I nodded at the picture. “It’s for her.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Emilie.” And then I told her about me and Emilie and the jackrabbit story and lacrosse and the Indian boys and all.
When I was done telling, she got up, clapped her hands and said, “Okay, first we’ll clean the room—together—and then we’ll go to Dunkin’ Donuts, and then we’ll go see Emilie.”
All I know is, I worked my butt off and did everything she told me and after a while she said, “That’s it. It’s clean.”
I looked. “It is?”
She laughed. “Try to remember now—this is what a clean room looks like.”
Off to Dunkin’ Donuts. Jackie snuck us two french crullers. She also gave us a bag of day-old honey-dipped. Before we left I made her show my mother her diamond fingernail. She didn’t want to, but she did. My mother was very impressed.
Emilie was her usual outrageous self. She snatched the crullers out of my hand, whipped the door shut, and gobbled them down right then and there. Only after that did she seem to notice my mother. And what’s the first thing my mother said to her? “Did you really catch that rabbit with your bare hands?” I almost kicked her in the shins.
But Emilie was nice. “Oh sure. Bare feet too. After the first hour or so chasing the critter, I took off my shoes. Boots actually. Then afterwards I went looking for them, but I couldn’t find them.” She chuckled. “Probably some gopher took them.”
“You never told me that part,” I said.
“Maybe not. It’s hard to remember all the parts at once.”
“Still,” said my mother, “it’s amazing.”
Emilie smacked her hand on a wheel. “You’re right. Amazing. That’s what I keep telling Megin. She didn’t believe me at first.”
“I did so,” I told her.
She grinned at me. “Anyway, I never said I was faster than the critter. I just wanted to catch him more than he wanted to get away from me, I guess.”
I told Emilie about my room and the whole hassle and my disease. I asked her if she’d ever had cleanophobia.
“Honey,” she said, “I had it so bad I almost died of it!”
The three of us almost died laughing.
“You’re lucky,” I told her. “You don’t have brothers.”
“Who says I don’t?” she snapped.
I was astounded. “You do? You nev
er said anything.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe that’s because he’s not worth talking about. He was just a baby out in Dakota, so he wasn’t much good to me. And now all he does is tell me to stay on my diet. No french crullers from him.”
“He visits you?” I said.
“Sure. All the time. You’ll probably bump into him one of these days.”
Emilie was glancing around the room, looking antsy. I knew what was on her mind. I nodded toward the doorway. “Emilie, shall we show her?”
Emilie’s eyes twinkled from my mother to me. “Check the hallway,” she said.
I checked. “It’s clear.”
“Let’s roll.”
I told my mother to stay and watch from the doorway. I pushed Emilie out of the room and down to the far end of the hallway. I swung her around. The whole long hallway was before us.
“Flaps down?” I called.
“Flaps down.”
“Brake light off?”
“Brake light off.”
“Parachute?”
“ ’Chute.”
“Ready for takeoff?”
“Roger.”
“Geronimo!”
A good heave and off we went. I pushed faster and faster as we passed the first five or six doors, then I climbed aboard the back and we went sailing and waving past my mother’s horrified face. About three doors from the end, I hopped off and brought us to a perfect stop.
Wheeling back to the room, I called out before my mother had a chance to holler at me: “It was her idea! Right, Emilie?”
“Right,” said Emilie.
“We do it all the time, right, Emilie?”
“Right.”
“And guess what, Mom? Guess what we’re gonna do next?” My mother just kept gaping at us. “I’m gonna teach Emilie to play ice hockey. Soon as Homestead Lake freezes over. Right, Emilie?”
“Right.”
When we got back home, the sheet, blanket, and pillow were gone from the living room. On my bedroom door there was a blue ribbon and a sign that said:
1st PRIZE
WORLD’S CLEANEST
ROOM
Greg
THE EXTERMINATOR was on his way out when I came home from school on Friday. I asked him if he’d seen the roach. He said no, but not to worry. He patted his silver tank. “No bug could ever live through that.” Maybe not, but I’d still have felt a lot better if I could’ve seen the corpse.
So, since the roach was dead (supposedly) and Megamouth’s room was clean (supposedly), and since I was sleeping in my room again and everybody was happy (supposedly), and since my father’s one free Saturday a month was coming up tomorrow, he decided we should all go for a drive in the country.
He was at his most gruesome, cheerful worst the next morning. He let Toddie have whatever he wanted for breakfast, which turned out to be tea and licorice. He kept tickling Megamouth to make her laugh and show her dimples. And he kept giving me little punches in the arm and asking me serious questions about weightlifting and health food.
Most of this stuff slid off me, since my mind was on other things. Such as Sara’s birthday party that night and a certain person named Jennifer Wade, who, just as I figured, was also invited. Only one thing I wanted to know from my father: What time would we be home? Six o’clock, he said. No problem. The party wouldn’t start till eight.
I knew my father was really off his rocker about this happy-little-family business when I saw his seating arrangements for the ride in the country: my mother up front with him, the three kids in the back. That might not sound like a big deal, but for us it was front-page news. Usually one kid sits in front and my mother sits in the back, in the middle. That way, no matter how you look at it, no two kids are right next to each other. It’s how my mother survives long car rides. Short ones too.
“No, Frank,” she kept saying, trying to be pleasant but also trying to climb into the back seat. “I think it’s enough that we’re all in the same car.” But my father wouldn’t let her. Not that he physically stopped her, but he was just so nice and smiley and peachy about the happy little Tofers that she finally stopped arguing and dumped herself into the front seat.
We hadn’t even reached the end of the driveway before the first fight started. Toddie was in the middle of the back seat, but of course he wanted a window. So, nice guy that I am, I put him on my lap. Sure enough, Megamouth started screaming, “Mom! He’s taking Toddie!”
“What do you mean taking him?” my mother said. Every once in a while, when my mother decides to deal with us, she tries using logic.
“Just what I said,” Megamouth ranted. “He’s taking him.”
“You mean,” said my mother, “like stealing?”
“That’s right. He’s stealing him.”
“Well, do you mind me asking, how can he steal his own brother?”
Megamouth stomped her foot. “You know what I mean. He doesn’t have a right to pull Toddie out of his seat.”
“Toddie,” my mother called, not turning around, “did Greg pull you out of your seat?”
“Say no,” I whispered to Toddie.
“No,” answered Toddie.
“Mom! He’s telling Toddie what to say! He’s whispering to him!”
“Is Greg whispering to you, Toddie?”
“No,” I whispered to Toddie.
“No,” said Toddie.
Megamouth stomped both feet. Spit flecks were shooting from her mouth. “Mom! Jeez—turn around—look! He’s even laughing at you! Look!”
It was true. I was grinning like a champ, because I knew my mother would never turn around. Which she didn’t. All she did was tilt her head toward my father and say, “There’s your happy little family, dear.”
Megamouth didn’t know what to do next. The parts of her face were twitching and jerking in fifty different directions. Her skin was changing colors. I thought she was going to disintegrate right there in the back seat. She snarled at Toddie and sort of hissed through clenched teeth, “Don’t you ever come over on this side.” And then she punched him.
So naturally Toddie started to howl. And my mother gave my father another smirky look.
About thirty seconds later, Megamouth’s voice was all sweet: “Tah-dee—come over he-ere a minute. Look what’s over here.”
“Tell her you can see good from here,” I said to Toddie.
“I can see good from here,” he said. She punched him again. Howl. Smirky look.
Next time she called “Tah-dee,” she was grinning over a stick of cherry licorice. She held it out, Toddie reached for it, she pulled it back. He kept reaching, she kept pulling back. Like a cobra—Valducci would have been proud—I flashed my hand out and snatched the licorice. I gave it to Toddie and he started chomping away on it. Suddenly—I don’t know how she did it—her hand flashed out and snatched the licorice right out of his mouth. So that’s how she finally got Toddie: dangling the chewed-up licorice stick until he climbed down from me and went over to her.
And all this happened before we even got out of town.
Give my father credit: he didn’t give up. He kept gabbing with everybody, pointing out fascinating points of interest. “That’s the hill I used to sled down when I was a kid.… That’s where my first girlfriend used to live.…” Fascinating. No wonder people buy refrigerators from him—it’s the only way to shut him up.
When we got out to the country, he was even worse: “Look, Toddie—moo-cow, moo-cow.” And Toddie would jump to whichever lap was closer to the moo-cow, and my father would go “Mooooo” and Toddie would go “Mooooo” and I would go “Baaaarf.” After a while my father stopped announcing the animals by name. He would just go “Moooo” or “Oinnnk” or “Baaaa” or “Quack-quack.” And of course Toddie had to do likewise. We were a regular rolling barnyard.
Then they sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” By “they” I mean my father and Toddie. They must have gone through thirty or forty verses. It came to a halt when my father sang, �
��And on the farm he had some platy-puses,” and my mother screamed, “STOP!”
We pulled in at a place called Barney’s Barn. It was like a flea market. People selling stuff at tables. Mostly junk. I took one look and was ready to head back to the car. Then I figured as long as I was there, maybe I should pick up a cheap birthday present for Sara. I looked through doorknobs and rusty old tools and World War II helmets and candles. Then I came to a table with jewelry. Most of it looked pretty old and ratty. I was ready to give up, when a bracelet caught my eye. It was a silver chain with a fancy silver letter hanging from it. The letter was J.
I knew right away I had to have it. I was meant to buy that bracelet and give it to Jennifer. The tag on it said eight dollars. I told the lady all I had was five. “Take it for five,” she said. What else could she say? She was putty in the hands of fate.
When we left Barney’s Barn, we rode around some more. By the time we pulled into a place to eat, it was the middle of the afternoon. “I wanted everybody to get good and hungry,” my father said, “because now we can all make pigs of ourselves.” The restaurant was attached to a farm. It was smorgasbord style. Everybody paid the same price; then you could eat all you wanted.
Megamouth and Toddie were the biggest pigs. Megamouth went back to the food tables seven times. Toddie was even more sickening. He ate three helpings of roast beef, three pieces of chocolate cream pie, two dishes of ice cream, five snowflake rolls with apple butter, and a pickle. I ate okay, but probably not my money’s worth. I just wasn’t real hungry. I kept touching the bracelet in my pocket. Once, I went to the bathroom just for a chance to look at it.
It was nearly five o’clock when we left the restaurant. I figured we would head home then. Wrong. My father decided that since it was almost Thanksgiving, he wanted to share with his happy little family something he hadn’t had since he was a kid: fresh pumpkin pie made with a real pumpkin. My mother tried to tell him canned pumpkin tasted better, but it was a losing cause. “Okay,” she finally sighed, “find a pumpkin.”
So we started riding all over the place looking for a pumpkin. Now I was getting a little nervous. My father noticed. “What time’s your date?” he called back.
Megamouth pounced. “Woo-woo! Muscles got a big date! Who’s it with, Muscles? Betty Barbell?”
Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush? Page 7