Solving for M

by Jennifer Swender

  I know that Mom knows that I’m getting a little old for the whole Santa thing, but she seems happy. Plus, Santa is really the spirit of Christmas, right?

  Grandma Beau grabs a gift bag from the sea of Christmas crackers surrounding our tiny tree. She hands it to me. Inside there are two pairs of socks, which I didn’t even know I needed. Socks may sound boring, but one pair actually has Monet’s Water Lilies printed on them, and the other pair has Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  “Where did you find these?” I ask. “They’re so cool.”

  “Online, of course,” Grandma Beau says.

  “There’s this new thing called the internet,” I say to Mom with a silly nod. “Everybody else’s parents let them use it.”

  “Well, good thing I’m not everybody else’s parent,” she says with her own silly nod back.

  Next, Jeannie hands me a small box.

  “Sorry,” she says in Mom’s direction.

  I unwrap my gift. It’s an iPod Touch. Mom gives Jeannie a look.

  “It’s not a phone,” Jeannie says defensively. “It just plays music. And a few games. And you can text and—”

  “Thank you!” I say. I jump up and give her a big hug.

  “Okay, my turn,” I say. As I’m searching for my three small presents under the tree, the phone rings. Grandma Beau answers it.

  “Mika,” she calls. “Your father.”

  I go to the kitchen and trade Grandma Beau her present for the phone.

  My dad’s not calling from work, but it’s still hard to hear him because the dogs are making a racket in the background.

  “Merry Christmas, Mika,” he says. “Did you get the package from us?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Let me put Katie on,” he says. Like he just wanted to confirm that their gift had arrived, but he doesn’t have all that much more to say to me.

  “Hi, Mika,” says Katie. “We miss you. Merry Christmas. I hope we can see you soon. Happy New Year, too.”

  When I get back to the living room, I see Mom looking down at the stone in her hand. It’s so quiet I can hear her breathing.

  “Oh, Mika-Mouse,” she says.

  * * *

  —

  Each day of winter vacation, Mom seems a little better, more like herself. She cleans the house and helps me set up the real artist easel that Santa brought. She even leaves a message at the town recreation department about an after-school art class for me, starting in January.

  We stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve to watch the ball drop, just the two of us. And the next morning, Mom goes into her office, first things first, to catch up on some work.

  I can’t help thinking that we’re in some cheesy story like A Christmas Carol. Jeannie was in it last year in Memphis. She played Mrs. Cratchit. And just like in the play, all the good wishes for joy and peace and health and happiness are making Mom better, just like poor little Tiny Tim.

  “Mom seems better,” I say to Grandma Beau. I’m taking the ornaments off our tiny tree and putting them back into the holiday box. The tree looks almost relieved.

  “I guess the break did her some good,” Grandma Beau says.

  “I’m the one who had a break,” I laugh. “Mom’s actually working right now.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant,” Grandma Beau says with a wave of her hand. “You know, a break from thinking about her treatment options and whatnot.”

  I accidentally drop the salt-dough snowman that I made in kindergarten. Luckily, he’s a sturdy fellow and falls onto a pile of newspaper.

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “Well, you know, now that we’re through the holidays, she’ll start the next phase,” Grandma Beau says. Sometimes Grandma Beau says you know like I’m supposed to know something that I don’t.

  “Not going to be easy,” she mutters. Then she takes our popcorn garland off the tree and gathers it around her hand. She goes to the kitchen, and I hear her open the cabinet with the garbage can.

  I suddenly feel like there’s this balloon in my chest that I didn’t even know was there. And the balloon just got a huge hole in it and completely deflated. How was I supposed to know there was another variable that I didn’t even know about?

  “What next phase?” I ask the air. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “Vacations are fun, but now it’s back to the old grindstone,” Grandma Beau says, coming into the living room. “Speaking of which, back to school for you tomorrow.”

  “The average person spends one-third of his or her life asleep,” Mr. Vann says as he rummages in the top drawer of his desk. “We are four-fifths of the way through this school week. Approximately one-half of the students in this class identify as girls. One-third of the fifth grade is in Pod Two. The fifth grade makes up one-fourth of the student body at Highbridge Middle School. Approximately one-fourth of you attended Montgomery Hills Elementary. This class is now one-twentieth over.”

  “Chapter nine.” Dee Dee raises her hand. “I’m putting my money on chapter nine, fractions.”

  “Correct.” Mr. Vann smiles at her. “Twenty thousand points for correctly anticipating the question not yet asked.”

  “Chicken livers,” Dan tries.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Vann says thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

  Mr. Vann closes the desk drawer and leaves the classroom. Then he peeks inside. “Oh, right,” he says. “Please move the desks to the sides of the room. I’ll be right back.”

  We all stand up and start moving the furniture. A few minutes later, Mr. Vann returns, carrying one of those huge rolls of brown paper. He sets it down on one side of the classroom and starts unrolling it. Then he gets scissors and tape from his desk and secures a large piece to the floor.

  “We are going to create a collaborative fraction mural,” Mr. Vann announces. “That is to say, you may draw whatever you’d like, but the items you draw must fit into specific categories. Over the course of the unit, we’ll find as many fractions in the scene as we can. For example, one-seventh of the animals might be cats. Two-elevenths of the cars might be blue. Five-fourteenths of the people might not be wearing any shoes.”

  I get my colored pencils and head over to the corner where Dee Dee and Chelsea are sitting.

  “No fair,” Dan says as he takes a seat across the mural. “The super-smarty-pants are all in the same group.” He uses his pencil to point at me, Chelsea, and Dee Dee.

  “I doubt it has anything to do with pants, dear Dan,” Mr. Vann says with a smile.

  Huh. I never thought of myself as one of the super-smart kids before, especially not in math. But this year, I feel like I kind of am.

  Dee Dee starts drawing the solar system above the people I’m working on. Chelsea is drawing different kinds of fairies in the air. One-sixth of them are flower fairies.

  “So guess what,” Dee Dee says as she draws. “My sister has been begging my parents to go away over February break. Usually I can’t stand all her whining, but this time they gave in. We’re going to see my cousins in North Carolina.” Dee Dee stops talking long enough to draw a huge sun in the sky.

  “Hey!” a kid named Peter yells. “I already drew the sun.”

  Dee Dee draws a smiley face in the middle of her sun. “Now one-half of the suns have smiley faces,” she says. She gives Peter a thumbs-up.

  “Where in North Carolina?” I ask.

  “Don’t know,” Dee Dee says. “And don’t care. As long as it’s warmer there than it is here.”

  We look out the window at the huge icicles hanging down from the roof. “I bet you could spear somebody with one of those things,” Dee Dee says.

  “Don’t forget the sunscreen,” Chelsea says with a serious nod. She looks at me as if she’s told Dee Dee this on my behalf. It’s okay. I kno
w she’s just trying to be helpful.

  “I’m going to theater camp that week,” Chelsea says. “What are you doing, Mika?” It seems we’ve barely gotten back from one vacation and all anybody can talk about is the next one. I think for a minute.

  Mom hasn’t sat me down on the couch for another big explanation, but I hear her talking to Grandma Beau and Jeannie and to my dad on the phone.

  A few days ago, Mom started the next phase of her treatment. Grandma Beau takes her to the medical center every day while I’m at school. They don’t bother writing the appointments on the fridge.

  The doctors are giving her some kind of medicine that’s supposed to help keep the cancer from coming back. I guess the thing about a bad spot on a peach is that even after you scoop it out, there’s a chance that the spot will go bad again.

  Grandma Beau says we’re lucky because after a couple of weeks, Mom will be able to take the medicine at home, and she won’t have to go to the hospital every day. She can give herself a shot “right in the caboose,” Grandma Beau jokes. But it’s not funny.

  It’s not the kind of cancer medicine that makes your hair fall out. It just makes your hair a little thin (apparently the reason Mom decided to get hers cut short a few weeks ago). But it does make you feel like you have the flu, and it gives you a whopper of a headache that sends you to bed for most of the day. I won’t bother pointing out that the medicine seems to make Mom sicker than the sickness ever did. The side effects are supposed to get better after a while. I just have no idea how long that while is.

  Grandma Beau’s back at our house 24-7, but she spends most of the day in front of the computer in Mom’s office. Jeannie’s off doing a limited run of Kiss Me, Kate in Connecticut. Our house is gray and still. It feels like everything is hibernating.

  “Earth to Mika,” Dee Dee says, giving me a gentle elbow. “What are you doing for February break?”

  “Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “I’m not doing anything.”

  * * *

  —

  But a few days later, a postcard comes from my dad. Mom hands it to me as I walk in the door. “Your dad would like you to come visit over February vacation. I think it will be fun.” She says this like she’s going to come, too. But I know she’s not.

  The postcard has GREETINGS FROM ORLANDO on the front. The first O is an orange. The last O is a lemon. The letter L is a palm tree. It all looks so colorful and happy.

  “Your dad and Katie would like to spend some time with you.” Mom’s talking in a fuzzy way.

  I turn the postcard over. I read: Hi, Mika. We would love to spend some time with you. Love, Dad and Katie. I can tell that Katie did the writing.

  I’ve never gone to Florida during the school year before. I always go in the summer. Mom says it’s less disruptive.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  Mom sits down at the kitchen table with a sigh.

  “I’ve got Grandma Beau,” she says.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Grandma Beau calls from Mom’s office. “Oh, and Mika, email for you from Ella. She’s having a birthday party. Next Saturday at three.”

  I guess Grandma Beau is checking Mom’s email now, too. “Thanks,” I say.

  It feels a little weird that Ella invited me to her party. It’s not like we talk that much anymore. We just pass in the cafeteria and wave a little. Then again, we’ve always celebrated our birthdays together, so it would probably be even weirder if she didn’t invite me.

  Mom starts to say something. I assume she’s going to ask what I want to do for my birthday, which is only ten days after Ella’s. In elementary school, our moms would have to coordinate to make sure that we didn’t plan our parties for the same weekend.

  Usually I put a lot of thought into my birthday party. Last year’s theme was Paint in Your PJs. It was basically a sleepover with lots of art projects. Mom found these mini artist palettes with real paints and teeny, tiny brushes to put in the goodie bags.

  But I don’t think now is the right time to tell Mom I’m getting a little old for that kind of birthday party. I was thinking of just inviting a couple of friends over for pizza and a movie or something. But then I remember that we’re not talking about my birthday anyway.

  “It will be nice to spend some time with your dad,” Mom says, like she’s the one who’s going. She starts rubbing her temples with her fingers.

  “Yeah,” I answer, and my throat suddenly aches. I can see the algebraic expression the grown-ups are putting together.

  Let Dad + Katie = Mom.

  Math Journal Entry #13

  Use fractions to express a whole idea, in all of its glorious parts.

  “Who would hang their hat on a plate?” Dan asks. He’s peeking over my shoulder on his way to the pencil sharpener.

  “You’re not supposed to read other people’s journals,” I say.

  “It’s a math journal,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s not like it’s a real journal.”

  “Dear thinkers, what is two weeks from Tuesday?” Mr. Vann asks as soon as Dan sits down.

  I’m not about to raise my hand and say that it’s my birthday. Plus, I’m pretty sure that’s not what Mr. Vann is talking about.

  Chelsea flips through her day planner. “February second,” she answers.

  “Not incorrect,” Mr. Vann says. “But there happens to be an important city ballot measure under consideration, and although there is still a very long time before you fine young citizens are able to vote, this important decision takes place exactly two weeks from Tuesday.”

  “What’s the vote about?” Dan asks.

  “Not sure,” Mr. Vann says, “but still…extremely important. And even more important, it will also be our dear Mika’s birthday.”

  Chelsea’s hand shoots into the air. “May I bring in cupcakes?” she asks.

  “That is a question,” Mr. Vann says, “that does not require asking.” Chelsea received four trillion bonus points for her cupcakes from the holiday party.

  “And can I please make a birthday chart?” Chelsea asks next. “I know it’s not a middle school thing, but it would really help me with cupcake planning.”

  “I would love to say yes,” Mr. Vann answers, “but as representing and interpreting data won’t be covered until chapter seven, and we are currently stuck at chapter nine…But back to fractions. Let’s imagine that one-half of eligible voters turn out to vote. And of those, one-fifth vote yes. What fractional part of all eligible voters will have voted yes?”

  Dan throws his hands up. “What are they voting about? I think we need some more information before we can tackle the problem.”

  “Actually,” Mr. Vann says, bowing in Chelsea’s direction, “you have all the information you need to solve the problem at hand. Let us not get distracted by ruminations that do not serve us or questions that have yet to be asked.”

  Mr. Vann is right. The actual multiplication is simple. One-half times one-fifth equals one-tenth.

  And besides, the whole idea sounds like good advice. I’m not going to think about things that I don’t need to think about right now. I’m not going to think about Ella’s party and whether it will be weird to be there. I’m not going to think about what it will be like at my dad’s over February break. I’m not going to think about how much longer my mom has to keep taking this medicine (one year, to be precise). And I’m not going to think about how much time it will take for everything to go back to normal.

  Math Journal Entry #14: Numerate! Denominate!

  Devise some fractions, then choose an operation and operate!

  I’m the only person at Ella’s birthday party who’s not a Onesie. I’m also the only person who brought a present. Apparently, the email said it was “no gifts,” but Grandma Beau didn’t exactly attend to precision when she communicated the
details of the invitation.

  Every other kid here probably has her own email address, as well as her own phone to read her own emails on. But I show up at the door with a dorky gift bag and a huge homemade card.

  “It’s supposed to be no gifts, Mika,” Ella whispers to me. She takes the bag and card and drops them on a bench by the door. I hear the Friend stone go clunk as the bag lands. (I never got a chance to give it to her at Christmas.) Now I wish I had just left it at home or maybe never made it in the first place.

  The Onesies spend most of the party talking about teachers and kids I don’t know. Or they don’t really talk as much as say things and then start laughing.

  “Mr. Hammersmith!” Hysterical laughter.

  “David Perez!” Hysterical laughter.

  “Peanut butter pretzels!” Hysterical laughter.

  After the cake, I tell Ella that I should probably get back home to check on my mom. Then I ask to borrow her phone so I can call Grandma Beau to come pick me up.

  Dee Dee sits down across from me in the cafeteria. She, Chelsea, and I eat together pretty much every day now. Then, when we’re done, we can just head straight to math.

  Dee Dee digs a piece of paper out of her pocket and hands it over. I unfold it. It’s a printout of some article from the web.

  I read the headline. A scientific study somewhere says that approximately two-thirds of cancer cases can be blamed on plain old dumb bad luck. I skim through the article. It doesn’t say that it’s okay to start smoking and going to the tanning salon every day. It just says that sometimes there’s no clear reason for things.

  “Thanks,” I say. I fold the paper back up and put it in my pocket. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better.

  Chelsea comes over and sets down a plastic container, specially designed for transporting her famous cupcakes. She opens the cover.