He was trying to reassure me, but it wasn’t working.
“Well, I really want to know. What would I do?”
I could see how much it hurt him to think about it, much less to talk about it. I think he was about to cry. But I needed to know. He told me that I would go live with my aunt Jennifer. She’s the aunt I feel closest to, so I guess that’s a relief. I sure hope David has someone like Aunt Jennifer in his family.
After thinking more about David and his disastrous life, I decide to reread some of the letters I got from friends. I keep them in my Mom Box, along with the other things I’ve collected. I also picked out some good ones from the basket of cards and letters from my parents’ friends. They do have good stories about my mom, like the one about her going to the movies with her high school friend. They brought in some sushi to eat during the movie. It was bad enough to bring fish into the theater, but then, thinking that the “green stuff” was guacamole instead of super-spicy wasabi paste, she popped the whole thing in her mouth, and she was going crazy with the hot, burning, spicy, eye-and-nose-watering stuff. That was before she got so into Japan and Japanese food.
Some of the letters are really sappy. One musician friend wrote, “I shall never forget the beauty of when your mother and I made music together. She lives deeply in our hearts.”
Another one from a parent of one of her viola students said, “She had a special gift of working with children and getting them to give their best and feel good about themselves.”
The letters from my friends are short and sweet. There aren’t very many of them. I’m still disappointed that so few kids at school or my soccer team could find the time to write at least something. I read a few of the ones that I did receive:
Dear Corinna,
You poor thing. Having your mom die must be the hardest thing. Please know you are in my thoughts.
Your Friend,
Lena
Dear Corinna,
I am so sorry about your mom. She was a great lady. I will never forget the good times we had together with her. What a huge loss. I hope you are doin’ ok.
Love,
Joci
Dear Corinna,
I am so sad for you about your mom. I am truly sorry for your loss.
Your friend,
Clare
Dear Corinna,
I just got back from camp and my mom told me your mom died. Sorry I missed the funeral. I’m very sorry about your mom. Maybe you can spend some time at our house.
Love,
Olivia
Dear Corinna,
Sorry to hear about your mom. Life sucks sometimes.
Doug
Yes, life does suck sometimes. I have to agree with Doug, a kid who I went to elementary school with but who I don’t know very well. I was really surprised that he wrote me. That was really sweet of him. I still can’t believe that Eliana and Juliette never wrote or called or even really said anything when I got back to school. I would totally say something to them if their moms died. At least Eliana came to the funeral.
It’s confusing how I want people to acknowledge my mom’s death, but I don’t want to have to talk about it if I’m not in the right mood or place, which is a lot of the time. I think that my father would call that an oxymoron or a conundrum or some other fancy teacher word. Someone should invent a signaling system for awkward but important topics. Green for “It’s a good time,” and red for “It’s not a good time; try again later.” Maybe that’s how I’ll make my million bucks.
After all that letter reading, here’s what I end up writing to David:
Dear David,
I am so, so sorry to hear about your mom. I know you must miss both her and your dad very much. My mom died, too, also from cancer. It has been the hardest thing in my life. You are a great guy, and I hope you have a lot of loving people to spend time with. I know I haven’t seen you in a long time, but please know you are in my thoughts.
Your friend,
Corinna Burdette
I’m definitely going to write anyone else I know if their parent dies, even if they are not a close friend.
Aloha
While we’re swabbing our flutes and packing them up after an early morning gotta-get-you-ready-for-the-concert band practice, Eliana whispers to me that she heard that her crush is going to be at the dance. The posters announcing the eighth-grade Aloha Dance have been plastered all over the hallways for weeks, and it’s all the girls have been talking about.
“Cool,” I say, placing my flute sections into the case’s red velvet slots. Eliana goes back to get her music off the stand.
“Hey, Corinna . . .”
I turn around to see who said that. My eyes practically pop when I see that it’s Alex.
“Do you know when that dance is?”
He’s twirling his drum sticks, looking gorgeous with his unbelievably blue eyes. OMG is what goes through my head, not the date of the dance. I honestly don’t know the exact numerical date or if it’s Friday or Saturday night, which is good because otherwise I might seem too interested.
“No, do you?”
I can’t twirl my flute case, so I twirl my hair instead.
“No.” His voice cracks a little, which makes me want to smile, but I resist.
It’s an awkward moment, like maybe he wants to say or ask something else. I almost ask him about kick flips or some other skateboard lingo to try to put him (and me) at ease. Luckily, I don’t ask him a stupid question about grinding, because that certainly has two meanings!!!
“See you later,” I manage to say, as I leave the room. I’m practically skipping down the hall, making my way to the girls’ bathroom closest to my locker. Joci passes me and I signal her to come in for consultation.
“Guess what?” I tell her.
“What?” She looks at me with a mix of excitement and dread.
“Alex asked me if I knew when the dance was,” I sing.
“No way!” She looks surprised and smiles.
“Yes way,” my voice continues to sing.
“So are you going with him?”
“Do you think he likes me?”
“Well, duh.”
“No, really?”
I can’t believe my ears.
“Why else would he ask you such a stupid question?”
“He is sooooo cute. Don’t you just love it when he plays the drums?”
“If you’re into drums, yeah, I guess so,” Joci answers.
Somehow I get myself to math. I hope that I can concentrate enough not to bomb the quiz. If Mrs. Giamatti introduces new material today, there’s no way I’ll be able to absorb it with these butterflies jumping around in my stomach.
Later, with my mind obsessing about Alex, I nearly sew my fingertip into a seam. I don’t really want blood on my quilt.
Ms. Carey walks over when she hears my yelp and takes a look.
“You’ve done a great job on your quilt. It’s not easy to keep all those seams so straight. Are you ready to put the backing on, or are you going to add more squares?”
“Well, I want it to be small enough that I can take it on trips, but big enough that it can hold a lot of memories. I think I’m done. Can you show me how to do the backing?”
“It’s beautiful, Corinna.”
Her eyes fill with water. So do mine.
The Trail
I’m glad that smells can trigger happy memories, too, not just sad ones. Dad and I are walking Maki on the Billy Goat Trail along the Potomac River after my soccer scrimmage. Maki is always smelling everything, but this time I’m the one smelling the pine trees and remembering when Mom, Dad, and I would walk here. Maybe Dad’s affected by the smell, too, because he seems more talkative today than he’s been in a long time. His face is looking more normal, too. Less pale and wrinkled, but still a lot older.
I’ve got my eye out for caterpillars. Hairy wanderers, Dad calls them. I haven’t seen many yet this spring. Mom hated them. She used to make me and Dad spray
the caterpillar tents in our trees with the hose before they could get out and drop on her head.
Dad brings up the idea of us taking the trip to Japan we had been planning to take with Mom this summer. They had wanted to wait until I was old enough, whatever that means, and apparently fourteen is the right age. I’m surprised that he still wants to go. I’m pretty sure I do. Mom got me so excited about it. Japan was a big part of her life, ever since that time in high school when she lived with her host family. I think she probably would have wanted us to go even without her.
When we get back from our walk, we decide to make maki rolls for dinner. We haven’t done that in forever. We find all the ingredients at our usual grocery store, which is good because Mom used to go an hour away to the big Japanese grocery store. Making the rolls is so much fun. Kind of like old times, except Mom’s not here. Actually, it’s hilarious, in a crazy kind of way. We try to tightly roll the seaweed and rice around some cucumber slivers, but the rolls keep exploding.
“They don’t look very much like the ones at the Japanese restaurants,” Dad says.
“They don’t look like the ones Mom used to make, either,” I reply.
“We definitely need to work on our technique.”
They taste just as good, though, even with their jagged edges. I keep thinking about Mom and the last time we made them together. She would be happy to know we were back to our sushi-making. Maki is begging for some maki, but it would probably make him sick. He has a delicate stomach sometimes. He does, however, get to lick the dishes in the dishwasher, and the drips from the top drawer make his head all sticky. It’s like dog hair gel.
* * *
Joci and I spend our lunch period at the Kids for World Health bake sale table, which means we get to taste-test quite a few desserts. Miss Boppity Bop is one of our customers. She asks which things we made, but I didn’t make anything, so she buys two of Joci’s brownies.
By the time school ends, my stomach feels pretty gross. Olivia asks me to walk home with her today, and I agree to go with her. With Olivia, walking side by side is easier than face-to-face because she’s one of those close talkers who gets in your personal space and makes you feel like backing away.
“March is supposed to go ‘out like a lamb,’ but it’s more like a lion today,” she points out as the leaves are blowing all around us.
Then I start telling her about Maki’s dog hair gel situation. She doesn’t seem to find it funny the way I do. She can be kind of nice sometimes, but she has this clothing obsession. Sure enough, she goes immediately from the topic of dog hair gel to Norah’s shoes.
“Did you see Norah’s cowboy boots today? Aren’t they pukey? They’re not even real leather.”
“They’re okay.”
I’ve noticed that every time Olivia looks at things, she scrunches up her nose, like she’s smelling them. This time, she’s scrunching up as she looks at my new UGG boots that I bought with my saved-up allowance. I think she expects me to join in about Norah’s fake boots, but I don’t want to. It’s not like it makes me feel better about myself or my own clothing mishaps. If I’m really being honest, I’m probably jealous of Olivia’s clothes.
I try to come up with a safe topic.
“What are you doing this summer?”
“Camp,” is all she says.
We keep walking, without talking, and at the corner, she sort of blurts out, “I feel sorry for you because you don’t have a mom.”
I don’t know what to say, so I’m quiet for a while. Finally, I find some words.
“Yeah, it’s really hard.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to have a mom” is another thing that comes in to my brain, but my dry throat blocks it. One second later, she starts talking about this new girl’s outfit.
“Can you believe she wore overalls in eighth grade? She looked like a baby.”
“Whatever,” I say.
Later, I call Clare to complain. Clare agrees that Olivia can be clueless sometimes. Then she invites me to a sleepover this weekend, and for the first time in a very long time, the idea actually appeals to me.
Anniversaries
The day after my fun sleepover at Clare’s is April Fools’ Day. April first is the one year anniversary of Mom’s diagnosis. I remember Ms. DuBoise, the counselor, saying that anniversaries are important, but I can’t remember what else she said about them. I text Yasmine to see if she remembers. She seems very good at remembering details.
My phone vibrates.
Something about finding a way to honor their memory and make them part of your day.
“So, Dad, what are we doing for April Fools’ Day?”
“Well, it’s not the same as it used to be, is it? Why don’t we light a candle and play some of Mom’s favorite viola music?”
“Okay.”
Then he looks right at me and adds, “Maybe we should do something totally crazy, like eat green eggs and ham and drink Mango Tangos.”
I’m glad April first is on a Sunday so I don’t have to go to school and deal with the April Fools’ stuff.
I decide I want to do something of my own for Mom, too, but I’m not sure what. By the afternoon, I get an idea. I examine my shell and rock collection, picking out my favorite ones. I use a Sharpie pen to write some words on three of the rocks — LOVE YOU, MISS YOU, MOM, and I arrange them together with some shells I collected with her on a pretty scarf that she wore a lot, and put them on top of the heater box thing in my room.
Dinner is hard. We light a memory candle, the kind that burns for 24 hours, and eat turkey chili from the deli, not green eggs and ham. We share a Mango Tango in two wine glasses. Dad plays some of her favorite viola music on the CD player, and then we listen to the Corrs, the Dixie Chicks, and U2, which she also loved. When the Sophie concert is over, I put on some of my music. We need something nice and upbeat. I end up choosing Hairspray.
As we’re cleaning the table, Dad says, “I want to talk about doing something that will help us hold on to our memories of Mom. I know you’ve been going through all those old pictures, but maybe we could also make lists of memories and her favorite foods and songs and silly things about her or expressions she used.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds good,” I tell him with a smile.
“Maybe we could even ask other people who knew her to write down a memory and include them, too. Friends from her high school and college, and people from her music world. Deborah suggested it to me. Her mother did something like that for her after her father died.”
I’m kind of shocked, because I think it’s the most he’s talked about Mom since she died. It’s almost like he was waiting for the one year mark or something.
Up in my room, I start thinking about Deborah. I’ve been putting off having lunch with her since August, but now there are some things I want to ask her. I just have to get in a brave enough mood.
The next day, I’m walking home from school along the brook, thinking about how to tell Deborah I’m ready to have lunch together. It’s a beautiful spring day, but super-windy. I zip my fleece jacket, trying to warm up. My heavy backpack is jammed full of the usual notebooks and my flute. Carefully tucked in the top is my newly finished quilt. The sewing isn’t perfect, but I love it.
It’s almost like Mom’s spirit is swirling around me, along with the wind and leaves. Instead of being sad, though, it’s comforting. I notice a duck with a bright green neck and head. He’s all alone on the water, which is strange because I learned that ducks mate for life. Had his partner died over the winter? I keep walking, watching the duck. About ten minutes later, I see another duck, this one very plain brown, swimming around the bend, dunking down for food. As they get closer, they still act very uninterested, but when they are right next to each other, they start communicating in their duck way. I can tell they belong together and that makes me feel sad and glad at the same time.
I walk up to our house and notice that the first daffodil has opened in our front yard. Tho
se daffodils come up each year, no matter what. They don’t care if someone died. Mom and I planted those bulbs when I was in nursery school. She did the major digging, and then I put in each bulb. I wore my dad’s huge work gloves and I could barely hold on to the bulbs because my hands were lost inside the giant gloves. Daffodils and spring flowers are nice, but spring is also the time when Mom was seriously sick. Sick plus sweet equals bittersweet, and bittersweet still equals sad. I wish I could find another way to solve that equation.
Invisible
I thought getting invited to a dance would be magical, but it turns out, it’s a nightmare. Of all the disgusting boys I’ve ever met, Hank Greene could be the worst. He farts all the time in class and then announces that his daily breakfast consists of a full can of baked beans. He actually thinks that makes him cool and works hard to keep his farting reputation. And, horror of horrors, he’s who asks me to the Aloha Dance. Thank goodness Joci is with me and helps me think fast about our big plans with a group of girls for that night.
“We’re going together with all our friends,” Joci says quickly.
“Well, I hope you’ll be dancing with me,” Hank replies in his cocky voice.
“Umm. Maybe,” I croak. “Well, I’m down for that.”
I walk as fast as I can down the hall toward the bathroom, with Joci close behind.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving me from that disgusting boy.”
“Did you hear what he said, ‘I’m down for that’? Come on!”
The only problem is, if Alex does invite me, which I don’t think he will, Hank will totally give me a hard time. But maybe it’s for the best. I would be so nervous to go with Alex. I get butterflies just thinking about it. Besides, I’m used to dancing with my friends. I wonder if I would have talked to my mom about this boy stuff. I can’t really imagine talking to Mom, much less Dad, about it in any detail. How could Dad know what it’s like to be a girl? And it would be unbelievably embarrassing. I wonder what my mom’s eighth-grade crushes were like . . . and whether she would have shared them with me if I had asked. I sure hope Dad wasn’t like Hank Greene!
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