“Becca!” she yells, jerking open the oven door. Smoke pours out and fills the air, and Mom starts waving her hands frantically through the thick haze. “Did I or did I not tell her to turn the oven to ‘warm’ at seven o’clock?” she groans, looking at me.
“You did,” I answer quietly, coughing a little from the burning cloud of smoke hanging in the air. The oven clock says 8:15.
Becca stumbles into the kitchen and says, “Oops,” as Mom removes a glass pan holding a very burnt, very blackened, very crisp-looking lasagna.
“Would you look at this?” Mom fumes, setting the pan down and parking both hands on her hips. Her glasses fog up and her eyes sort of disappear for a minute. She pins her lips together tightly and marches over to a drawer. She pulls out a spatula and jabs at the top of the crusted lasagna.
“So what! Aren’t I allowed to forget something once in a while?” Becca stamps a foot. “You don’t understand! I’m under a lot of stress right now!”
She flounces from the kitchen, tripping on her way out, as Dad and Alex come in from the garage. The four of us stare at the lasagna.
“Well,” Mom says sharply, “we’ll just have to deal with it. This is dinner tonight, because I don’t have time to cook anything else.”
Within five minutes, we are all sprawled around the table. Alex is shoving crackers into his mouth, Dad is still beaming about the last shot of the game, Becca contorts her face and props her ankle on an empty chair, and Mom is sawing off uneven chunks of the hardened lasagna and plunking them onto plates.
Despite the fact that we are struggling to cut off a bite of lasagna, let alone chew it, Dad says we should make the best of the situation and he begins the usual dinnertime ABC game. We are named in alphabetical order—Alex, Becca, Calli—and every night, Dad goes from child to child, asking us what we accomplished that day.
There have been times I’ve wanted to ask my parents if they thought this through fully when they named their children. Didn’t they consider the consequences of having a third child who would forever be branded a C? I know they thought it was cute and clever. But I bet if one of them was number three with a C, they would see things quite differently.
“A-man,” Dad calls to my brother, who answers, “Wha?” and dribbles cracker crumbs from his mouth, which makes Becca cringe and moan, “Ew! Do you have to be so disgusting?”
“Huge accomplishment today.” Dad compliments Alex for the hundredth time. “Winning a critical game. Playing your best. I’ll tell ya, Son, you’re the whole team.”
“Yeah.” Alex grins, slurping from his glass of soda pop. “Plus I got an A on my biology test.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Alex, your napkin is right in front of you.” Mom picks it up and waves it near his face.
“Way to go,” Dad says, and high-fives Alex. He turns to Becca and peers over at her ankle. “Injury? That’s the life of a skater. You need to be tough. To skate with the big girls, you gotta take the pain.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Daily accomplishment?” he says to her, as if we are all in one of his big company meetings.
“My skating team finally got the pass-through down,” Becca announces, smiling for maybe the first time today. “Ruthless was actually happy with us.”
I lick my lips and swallow. My turn is coming. My forehead feels hot and my palms grow sweaty.
“In fact,” Becca adds, “she pulled me aside today to tell me how well I’m skating. She said if I continue like this, I’ll move up to the higher team next year for sure.”
“There you go,” Dad says, banging his fist on the table. The dishes and glasses clatter. “See? Hard work, determination, never giving up. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t I always say you can do whatever you set your mind to in this world?
“And,” he continues, looking in my direction, “what kind of accomplishment can you report today, Miss Calli?”
Everyone looks at me.
What should I answer? I tried to help some kid lying under the hockey-game table but he didn’t want my help. I finished all my homework at school, then I rode around with Mom in the van and watched Becca’s practice and Alex’s game and noticed the streaks of color in the sky.
“Well,” I say.
“Yes?” Dad asks, gnawing on a piece of the lasagna.
“Um …”
He smiles and reaches over to rumple my hair like he did at the basketball game. Then he tucks his hand under my chin and lifts it a bit. “There’s always tomorrow,” he says kindly. “I know you’ll have something big to report one day.”
The thing is, I’m not so sure anymore.
On my fourth-grade report card, my teacher described me as “nice and pleasant, an average student.” Dad hit the roof. “We are the Golds! We’re golden!” he boomed at me. “No Gold is average!” His face was flushed and puffy, like I had done something really wrong, something against the law maybe. Not the real law, but the Gold law. That was when they started me on all the activities—the gymnastics and violin and all that. Even though nothing has worked so far, Dad says finding a passion can take time and he keeps reassuring me that I just haven’t hit on the right thing yet. Soon, he says, I will have lots of Post-its and accomplishments too.
Alex stabs his chunk of lasagna with his knife and raises it above his head, making Dad and Becca laugh. “Ladies and gentlemen, here we have the first ever radioactive lasagna,” Alex says, and even Mom laughs then. The rest of them pick up their lasagnas with their knives and they all crack up in unison, but I just sigh to myself.
Being a part of this family reminds me of the baby chicks I saw once at an exhibit at the science museum in the city. On one side of an incubator were eggs that hadn’t hatched yet, but on the other side, there were lots of newly hatched baby chicks. They were funny and fluffy and I could have watched them for hours.
A girl was shaking a charm bracelet close to the window, and the chicks were going crazy, chirping and running around and bumping into each other. But there was one chick that was simply sitting in the middle of the commotion, huddled in its feathers, not moving, just blinking its tiny eyes. I wanted to reach inside and gather up that quiet little chick in my hand and tell it I understood completely.
Mom opens the tub of margarine and smears a glob across a piece of bread. I can tell she’s ready to burst out with her list of accomplishments, because, as she often reminds us, even though she’s not working outside the home, that doesn’t mean she’s not achieving things too.
She clears her throat proudly and we all look her way. “My turn,” she says. “I found out the PTO raked in over one thousand dollars on the school clothing sale. The sale I coordinated, mind you. And, the costume company sent us the wrong costumes for Becca’s skating competition, but we brought it to their attention and they’re making the right ones for free. So the girls will actually have two costumes!”
Dad applauds for her and she stands up at the table and takes a bow.
“Way to go, Karen,” Becca drones.
“Thank you,” she says, “and by the way, ‘Mom’ would be just fine.”
A few minutes later, the usual after-dinner rush begins. Mom starts clearing dishes. Alex’s cell phone rings, and I gather from the lowering of his voice that one of the cheerleaders is on the other end. Becca begins to complain again about her ankle and asks me in an overly sweet voice to get her a cookie.
I bring her the package of Oreos and she takes the last two. “Mom,” she moans, pulling one apart. “Do we have any crutches?”
Mom purses her lips. “No, we do not, and I doubt you need crutches. Your ankle looks fine. It’s not even swollen. Rest up and you’ll be good as new tomorrow.”
“How do you know?” Becca huffs. She licks the white Oreo filling and dumps the cookie ends onto her plate. “When did you get your medical degree?”
Mom doesn’t reply to that. Everyone knows better than to start up with Becca at a time like this.
“Help me with the dishes, Calli?” Mom says. “As long as you’ve got nothing else to do.”
Alex and Dad drift away, and Becca finally hobbles out of the room. My sister is way past being a drama queen. She’s more like a drama empress.
At last, the kitchen is calm, with just Mom and me. I carry a stack of dishes from the table and set them to the side of the sink. “Mom?” I ask. “Can I tell you about what we did in science today?”
She nods absentmindedly and starts filling the lasagna pan with water, sloshing it around with her hand.
“We talked about how all the ice is melting in the Arctic.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, reaching for the bottle of soap.
“It’s scaring me,” I admit. “What will happen to the polar bears and all the other animals?”
She pushes a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “I’m sure they’ll find a way to survive.”
“No, see, that’s just it. They won’t. They need the ice to live. That’s what they said in this movie we watched.”
She tips the pan over and dumps out the murky water.
“All those animals could become extinct,” I tell her.
“That’s probably an exaggeration. I doubt it will really happen.”
I clutch her arm. “But it could. Scientists are saying it could.”
She fills the pan again, turns off the water, and looks at me with a tired expression. “Oh, Calli,” she sighs. “I know how you worry about things like this. I’m sure the polar bears will be fine. Truthfully, honey, what can we do about it, anyway? I have too much on my plate right now to think about saving the world.”
I place a couple of glasses in the sink.
“Oh, thanks,” she says. “Could you get the rest of the things from the table?”
I go back to the table and gather up the silverware.
Just another normal day in the life of the Gold family.
am sitting with Wanda and Claire at our usual lunch table the next day when Tanya Timley strolls by.
“Look at her! She’s wearing a bra!” Wanda whispers.
“Who?” I ask.
Wanda tips her head in Tanya’s direction.
“Really?” I say. “How do you know?”
“You can see it,” Claire says matter-of-factly, taking a bite of her peanut-butter-with-no-jelly sandwich. “Look at the back of her shirt.”
I peer over at Tanya, who is in line at the salad bar. If anything’s there, I can’t detect it. All I notice is that the front of her shirt says WONDER GIRL in shiny gold letters.
“You have to look up close,” Wanda informs me. “She doesn’t even need one, anyway. She’s just wearing it to be cool and act like she’s so grown-up.” Wanda sighs and glances down at her chest. “I asked my mother for a bra, but she said all I have is baby fat.”
Claire and I don’t say anything, because this is probably true. Wanda is a little on the chubby side. Claire is skinny as a stick and I am somewhere in between. I guess you could call me average in that area too.
Tanya drifts past our table with her plate of salad. She’s taller than any other girl in our grade and she wears a different-colored headband every single day. She tells people it’s her signature look. She has one to match every outfit, and somehow, they all look good with her fiery long red hair.
“How come all she eats is salad?” I ask Wanda and Claire. “You’d think she’d want a bag of chips once in a while.”
Claire, who pretty much has an answer for everything, says, “I’m sure the modeling agency tells her what she can and can’t eat.”
Everyone knows that Tanya Timley models and in her spare time attends fifth grade at Southbrook Elementary.
Claire motions for the two of us to lean toward her. “I heard Tanya say that she’s up for some big TV commercial,” she whispers.
“Well, good for her,” Wanda scoffs.
“What’s the commercial for?” I ask.
“Toothpaste,” Claire replies.
“How do you know?” Wanda questions.
Claire shrugs. “She sits in front of me in math.”
Wanda makes a face and sticks her tongue out. Then she holds up an invisible tube of toothpaste and smiles insanely from ear to ear. “I’m Tanya Timley,” she drawls. “The only toothpaste I use is for people who are better than everyone else.”
Claire and I giggle as Wanda stays frozen in her ridiculous smile.
When we settle down, I glance across the cafeteria at Tanya, who is sitting with a few other fifth-grade girls. All of them are eating only salad. Becca has started eating salad a lot lately too, and I wonder if they know something I don’t. Is there an unwritten rule that girls are supposed to start eating salad at a certain point? I hope not, because I don’t even like salad.
A few minutes later, the lunch lady comes over to our table with her spray bottle. “Almost cleanup time,” she warns. “Move it along, girls.” She aims the spray toward the middle of our table and some droplets land right on Claire’s sandwich.
“Well, I guess I’m done with that,” Claire mutters under her breath, and glares at the lunch lady.
Wanda zips her lunch bag. “The bell’s about to ring anyway,” she says to Claire.
As the lunch lady begins to wipe off our table, we crumple up our garbage, toss our water bottles into the recycling bin, and walk toward the door of the cafeteria. Luckily, this year, Wanda, Claire, and I are all in the same class.
We stop at our lockers. Wanda and I share one. When I open it, Wanda checks her braces in our little mirror like she always does after lunch. “I have a piece of apple stuck in there,” she wails, trying to pick it out with her fingers.
“Wanda!” Claire whispers. “Do you have to do that in front of everyone?”
“What?” Wanda says innocently.
Claire shakes her head and slams her locker door. Wanda shrugs at me.
Before we enter the room, I know that Mrs. Lamont has taken her shoes off. The smell of her feet drifts out into the hallway. She says she does that in the afternoons because her shoes start to get tight and her toes need to breathe. I guess this makes sense, but honestly, she could use some foot deodorant. One of the boys once put a little jar of foot powder on her desk, but she didn’t seem to get the hint. She just raised it in the air and asked, “Who does this belong to?”
Claire, Wanda, and I all pinch our noses as we slide into our seats. Today Mrs. Lamont’s socks have yellow bumblebees on them. Yesterday it was ladybugs. I’m not sure why she likes to have insects decorating her feet, but some people are just weird about certain things.
“Take your seats, boys and girls.” Mrs. Lamont motions to the desks, smiling broadly. “I have a big surprise to announce.”
Tanya is in our class this year too. Her seat is right next to mine. She pretty much towers over me. I check the back of her shirt, but I still can’t see anything. Tanya folds her hands across the top of her desk and sits up very straight. She makes me realize that I’m slouching, so I try to sit up straight too.
Mrs. Lamont walks over to the board and writes Peer Helper Program in huge letters. Then she twirls around, clasps her hands, and grins. “For years,” she says, “I have been trying to implement my idea for a peer program in this school, and I’m thrilled to tell you that the principal has finally given me the go-ahead.”
Mrs. Lamont strolls down the middle aisle between our desks. When she passes by, Wanda fans the air in front of her face. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Educational research has shown that when students of different ages work together, the benefits are great for both,” Mrs. Lamont explains. “The older students mentor the younger ones, which helps them learn to become leaders, and the younger students also teach their peers something in return.”
“What’s she talking about?” I hear one of the boys say.
“Shhh,” Claire whispers.
Wanda raises her hand, and Mrs. Lamont say
s, “Yes?”
“Exactly what is a peer, anyway?” Wanda asks.
“Well,” Mrs. Lamont says. “Good question. A peer is a colleague, a coworker, a contemporary … Really, a peer is simply a friend.” She glances around the classroom. “I think you’ll all be excited about this once you understand what it is.”
“Okay, but does it mean more homework?” Jason interrupts.
“No,” Mrs. Lamont says. “Our class will meet once a week with the second graders in Mrs. Bezner’s class to form relationships, read, help with classwork, and perhaps join together for a special project in the future. So, right now, what I’d like you to do is pull out the spirals I asked you to bring today.”
I let out a small gasp as all the other kids in the room reach inside their desks for their shiny, unwritten-on, brand-new spiral notebooks. My shoulders drop as I think of Mom rushing around with all those Post-its attached to her steering wheel. Claire sees me and mouths, “Did you forget?” I nod.
These are the times when I love Claire. She pulls a spiral out of her desk like a magician and passes it down to me. “I bought some extras at the beginning of the year,” Claire whispers, and I mouth, “Thanks.”
Mrs. Lamont starts explaining about the Peer Helper Program, or PHP. Most of the kids are making notes in their spirals, but although I’ve opened mine to the first page, I’m not sure what I should be writing down. As Mrs. Lamont keeps talking, my mind drifts and I look out the window and watch leaves flutter from the trees one after the other, as if each one knows exactly the right time to fall. Does the tree or the leaf let go first?
All of a sudden, everyone is standing up and getting into a line.
“Where are we going?” I ask Claire.
“Weren’t you listening?” She frowns at me.
“I sort of stopped paying attention.”
“We’re going up to the second-grade classroom for the first PHP get-together,” Claire says importantly. “We’ll be matched up with our partners. I hope I get a second grader who can at least spell.”
Calli Be Gold Page 3