by Lael Littke
Miss deWinter came down the aisle and stood looking at me. Was there a college course for education majors titled “Impertinence 101”? Did it tell teachers what to do when a student got lippy? Was Miss deWinter running through the list of alternatives?
“Maybe you'd better leave the room for a few minutes until you get a grip, Selene,” Miss deWinter said.
I'd never before in my life been sent out of a schoolroom. I scrambled to my feet, dropping my loose-leaf on the floor. Without bothering to pick it up, I ran past all the bloated, staring faces, out into the hall and down the corridor to the girls’ rest room, where I locked myself in a stall, put down the seat of the toilet, and sat on it, letting my tears splash on the floor. It was the second time in two days that I'd cried. I was glad Abby couldn't see me. She never could understand why I cried about so many things. She called me “Cloudburst” when I did.
I stayed there in the rest room until the redness faded from my eyes. The end-of-class bell rang as I was washing my face with cold water. I was still bent over the basin when Abby came in with a girl who'd been in my social studies class. The girl carried my purple loose-leaf. Apparently she'd been filling Abby in on my weird behavior, because they both stopped just inside the door to stare at me.
Then Abby walked over and put an arm around my shoulders. “I've got some Pamprin if you need it,” she said.
The other girl smiled understandingly, and I knew she would explain to the other class members that I'd fallen apart for perfectly natural reasons. “Hope you feel better soon,” she said, putting my loose-leaf on the shelf above the basins and leaving.
I hugged Abby. “Thanks. Guess I've really been freaking out.”
“Want to tell me why now?” Abby said.
“Somebody might come in,” I said.
Abby didn't press it. She dug in her purse, and I thought she was fishing for her harmonica so she could play a musical accompaniment to this little scene. What music would be appropriate? A funeral dirge?
But she pulled out a comb instead and ran it through her long blonde hair. Blonde. She was of Scandinavian descent, like practically everybody else in town. Everybody but me.
“I really will tell you everything, Abs,” I said. “At my house. After school.”
“Okay.” Abby put her comb back into her purse and went into a stall. Peering back over the top of the door, she said, “I saw on the list by Mr. Duvall's room that you got the part you wanted in that melodrama. Or parts. You're Astrid and Zorina.”
“Really?” I'd been so busy being angry all day that I'd forgotten to go by the drama room to check the cast list.
“Lex got the sheriff's part,” Abby said. “And guess who's going to be the hero.”
“I hope it's somebody appetizing, since Mr. D said there are a couple of kissing scenes.”
Abby grinned. “Is Bryan Embree appetizing enough?”
I put the back of a hand against my forehead to signify a swoon. “Oh wow, Ab. Bryan is gourmet! “
“Knew you'd be pleased,” Abby said.
Pleased? I was thrilled! Bryan was the chief hunk at Cedarville High, the small school on the other side of the county. Abby and I had seen him at church dances and had done a lot of plotting about how to get officially acquainted. Us and several hundred other girls. Bryan had kind of a reputation as a player, one I was willing to overlook in favor of his fabulously good looks.
Life had suddenly taken an upswing.
“Thanks, Abs. You've made my day.”
“Anytime,” Abby said. “See you on the bus.” I guess Abby was feeling better too, because as I left the rest room, she was playing her harmonica behind the closed stall door, and the sweet, fragile melody of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” followed me all the way to my German class.
I picked up my playbook from Mr. Duvall after the class, but I didn't have time to look at it until we were on our way home on the school bus. I spread the book across my lap so both Abby and I could read it.
Right away, on page 11, there was a kiss between the hero, Gilbert Gladhill, aka Bryan Embree, and Zorina, aka me.
“Zorina?” I said. “She's the bad sister. What's he doing kissing her? “
“Maybe she tricked him or something,” Abby said. “This is an unpredictable play. But what do you care? Either way, it's you he'll be kissing.”
I laughed. “A win-win situation if I ever saw one.”
I felt almost like my old self as we giggled over my lines in the play. And when Chester let us off at the end of the long lane that led to my house, I cheerfully promised all the Nelsen kids that I would make Grandma's famous fudge brownies for them if they'd go on home while I talked to Abby.
Keith hung with us as we walked down the lane, but I didn't mind because he already knew what I was going to tell. Besides, he added to the drama as I told it by saying, “You should have seen how pale she was,” and, “I thought she'd been murdered or something, the way she screeched in the night when she had the nightmare.”
When I finished telling about the letter and my kidnapping and the pictures and everything, Abby said, “Oh, Selene. That's really rough. Now I know why you couldn't talk about it. You poor thing.”
I should have known Abby would give me all the right strokes. She was my friend.
“So when are you going to meet this new family?” she asked.
“Meet them? You think I should meet them?”
Abby's eyes widened. “Well, of course. They're your family.”
“I've got a family,” I said.
“I mean your birth family.” Abby looked at me a little uncertainly. “You have to meet them, Selene.”
“You're as bad as Mom and Dad and Lex,” I said. “I don't want to meet them. They mean nothing to me.”
“Mean nothing to you?” Abby's voice rose.
“Why should they mean anything to me?” My voice rose too.
We were at the house now, and Keith threw his backpack on the porch. “I better go check on the new calf,” he said.
“Go ahead,” I said. “You probably think I should go live with the Russos too. Like Abby does.”
Keith shook his head. “No, I don't.”
“I didn't say live with them,” Abby protested. “I said meet them. Look at it this way, Selene. You've got two families. It's a win-win situation, like the part in the melodrama. You get to be loved by both of them. And if you get ticked off at one set, you can go to the other.”
“It's not the same thing at all,” I howled. “What's the matter with all of you? Why are you all trying to push me out of here? Well, maybe I'll just go pack my things right now.”
I stomped up the porch stairs. I was being unreasonable, acting like a bratty ten-year-old. I knew that. But why couldn't anybody understand why I didn't want to open up that part of my life again? Who knew what I'd find there? What would the Russos expect of a long-lost daughter named Micaela? If they had loved her so much, why had they lost her?
And what about the Woman with the Big Black Hat?
“Selene,” Abby said. “I'm sorry. Let's talk about it. Show me the pictures.”
“Sure,” I said. “I'll show you the pictures. I'll show you the letters. I'll let you dictate what I should say when I call the Russos to tell them I'll be catching the next plane out of Salt Lake City. That will make everybody happy.” I was ashamed of myself for being so snappy, but I couldn't seem to help it.
“No, it won't,” Keith said. “Selene, we don't want you to go.”
I looked back at him. He stood there at the bottom of the steps, his arms hanging inches out of his too-short sleeves. Who was he? No relative of mine. A skinny, blond boy who bore no resemblance to me. How could I call him a brother?
And Abby. Suddenly a stranger. Someone who thought I should trot off to spend the rest of my life with a bunch of people I didn't want to know. How could I call her a friend?
“I'd better go home,” Abby said stiffly. “I'm really sorry this is happening to you.�
�
She turned and started back down the long lane. Halfway down, she dug in her big denim bag and brought out her harmonica. I couldn't tell what it was she played.
Mom came out of the house. “I'm glad you're home, Selene,” she said. “You have another letter.”
So the day hadn't yet delivered its full payload.
Mom peered down the lane. “Why didn't Abby stay for a while? We still have a lot of cake. She should have had a piece.”
I didn't answer. I wondered if things would ever be the same between Abby and me.
Mom held the letter out toward me, another long, white envelope with the Russo name in the return-address corner.
I took it from her as the notes from Abby's harmon-ica faded away to silence.
Chapter 5
For what seemed like an hour I stood there holding the envelope while I considered my options. I could (1) give it back to Mom and tell her to trash it; (2) trash it myself; (3) put it in a time capsule and bury it until the year 2050; (4) give it to Grandpa to start a fire in his old stove; (5) start a fire with it myself; (6) return it to sender with the notation “Disappeared, no such person.”
How did a person go about disappearing? How had Selena Marie done it?
I had one other option: (7) open the letter and read it.
Mom watched me. Taking a deep breath, she muttered, “I'd like to burn it.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I took a deep breath too. “But they'd just send more.”
Mom nodded. “I know. Selene, just remember that you're our daughter, no matter what.” She stepped forward and gave me a hug. “Let's take a look at it together.”
“Okay,” I said, settling into Mom's embrace for strength. Carefully I opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper, holding it so that Mom could read it too.
I recognized Mrs. Russo's back-slant handwriting. Mrs. Russo. I couldn't think of her as my mother. No, my mother was right there beside me, hurting as badly as I was over this unwanted intrusion.
“Dear Selene,” the letter said. “It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I guess I'm too filled with happiness that you're alive.”
I steeled myself to go on. I wasn't going to let her get to me.
The next line said, “I need to talk with you, Micaela.”
Ha! She'd slipped. She'd promised she wouldn't call me by that name. She'd said she knew I remembered only being Selene and that she would honor that. She'd promised.
“I'm not Micaela,” I said aloud.
Unexpectedly, Mom burst into tears.
“Mom!” I said.
Dashing over to grab a tissue from the box by the sink, Mom said, “I'm sorry, honey.” She scrubbed her eyes with the tissue. “It's just that… Selene, you're her baby. For all these years she hasn't known whether you were alive or dead. How must she feel now that she's found you?”
“She's happy,” I said. “Can't she just let it go at that? Can't she just leave me alone to live my own life? Can't she just forget it now?”
Hearing my own words, I knew how unfeeling they were. Of course she couldn't just forget it now. If I was hurting, how must she feel?
Looking back at the letter, I read, “I said in my last letter that I wouldn't push you, that I would let you have time to adjust to all of this. But I need to hear your voice, to connect with you. Could you call me soon, Micaela?”
She signed it, “Your loving mother.” Underneath that was a telephone number.
Mom stood silently, except for a couple of sniffs. I wished she would tell me what to do.
This wasn't something that was going to just go away. Micaela was here to stay. Even if the Russos never again intruded in my life, I would know that there were two of me. Selene and Micaela. Like Astrid and Zorina in the melodrama.
“What time is it in Minnesota?” I asked.
• • •
That phone call was another dividing line in my life. There'd been that one I didn't remember, when I was kidnapped. But I didn't count time from then. This was the biggie for me. For the rest of my life I'll think of things as happening before or after that phone call.
I waited for half an hour after I made the decision. I told Mom it was because the Russos were probably in the middle of dinner and I didn't want to disturb them. “I'd be as bad as those phone salesmen who always call at dinnertime because they know somebody will be home,” I said.
“Not quite the same,” Mom commented. “I don't think they'll be hanging up on you.”
The real reason I waited was, of course, that I had to pull myself together. Otherwise I might have been fragmented, splitting neatly into two pieces, Selene and Micaela, and never be able to paste myself together again.
Maybe it wouldn't be possible to ever paste myself together again.
I had to go upstairs to my room and know who I was by looking at my photograph album, my first-grade report card, my CTR ring, the fragile flower Lex had given me when we were in sixth grade, pressed now between the pages of my dictionary. Why had I saved that? It was just an ordinary flower, picked from the hill behind my house. Lex was just an ordinary friend.
Finally, fortified by the artifacts of my life, I went downstairs again and dialed the Russos’ phone number. I'd rehearsed what I would say. “Hello,” I'd say, “this is Selene Swensen. I just want to assure you that I'm alive, I'm fine, I'm happy. Maybe sometime soon we can get together.” I would be calm and firm.
But I panicked as I heard the ring on the other end, and when a soft female voice said, “Hello,” I totally lost it.
“Hello,” I blurted. “This is Micaela.”
Chapter 6
I don't remember much about my conversation with the Russos. There were more emotions than words. Mrs. Russo (I couldn't think of her as my mother) wept, and Mr. Russo (a total stranger) was so choked up he couldn't speak. The kids (my siblings?) were in better shape.
“Mom says you'll share my room when you come here,” Heather said. “I have twin beds.” She spoke so softly that I could hardly hear her, and I thought her short speech sounded forced. As if someone was prompting her.
I thought about telling her not to be in any hurry to change the sheets on that spare bed because I wouldn't be coming.
But all I said was, “That's nice.”
Brittany was friendly and talkative. All I needed to do when she was on the line was say “Really?” and “I think so too,” a couple of times.
Kenyon seemed a little hostile. Maybe it was because, as he said in his letter, he didn't need any more sisters. But he did give me his e-mail address and ask me to send him a message.
Chelsea was overcome by sudden shyness, although she managed to tell me that she'd just got a kitten and she'd named it Micaela.
“But you said in your letter that you named your doll after me,” I told her. “Do I get a kitten named after me, too?”
“The doll's name is Selene,” she said. “The kitten's name is Micaela. They're not the same.”
I didn't correct her.
What was there to correct? They weren't the same. Selene was me. I. First person. Micaela was somebody else. She. Third person.
“I love kittens,” Chelsea said. “I wish I could have more. But Mom said we have enough cats already, with one.”
Didn't they have enough kids already? Why did they need me?
Mrs. Russo came back on the line after Chelsea said good-bye. “Micaela,” she said. “When can we see you?” Then, when I hesitated, she said, “Could you send me a picture, Micaela?”
“I guess so,” I said.
I could probably do that. Maybe then they'd stop talking about my coming to see them.
I couldn't handle the idea of actually seeing these people, these strangers. It was all I could do to absorb the fact that I was related to them.
“I'll see if I can find a good picture.” I had some school pictures. I could choose one of them.
“Thank you, Micaela,” Mrs. Russo said softly. She cl
eared her throat. “Tell me a little about yourself, would you?”
“Like what?”
“Oh,” she said, “like where you live. Where you go to school.”
Good. She wasn't trying to get into the really personal stuff.
“We live way out in the country,” I said. “I ride a school bus every day, fifteen miles into Prentice.”
“Fifteen miles,” Mrs. Russo repeated. I knew she was just trying to prolong the conversation, to hang onto me for a little longer. “That's a long way to ride a school bus.” There was a small pause, then she said, “There's so much I don't know about you, Micaela. Has it been good? Your life, I mean?”
“The best,” I said. “Maybe I'll send you a picture of my whole family.”
Then she could see how good my life had been, here with the people I loved. The ones who loved me.
That wasn't fair. She had loved me once too. But not now. How can you love somebody you don't even know?
But she said, “Oh, please do that. And tell me about what you do. What your interests are. Your hobbies. What kind of food you like.”
“Food?” I laughed. “Meat and potatoes. That's what Mom cooks.”
“What do you like when you go out to eat?”
“Burgers and fries,” I said. “There's not much choice in Prentice, although there's a new restaurant that serves Chinese food and pasta.”
“Wait till you come here,” Mrs. Russo said. “We'll introduce you to cannelloni and manicotti and the best linguine with clam sauce you've ever eaten.”
“I've never had any of those things.”
“Yes, you have,” Mrs. Russo insisted. “That's what I cook, and you used to like all of it. You loved Italian cooking.”
“I have to go,” I said quickly. “I have homework and stuff.” That was rude, I knew, but I needed to cut it off. I didn't want to hear any more about what used to be.
“I love you, Micaela,” Mrs. Russo said before I could hang up.
For a moment my throat closed. Finally I managed to say, “I'll send the photo tomorrow. ’Bye.”
Mom had come into the kitchen during the last part of the conversation. She didn't say anything when I hung up. Just came over and put her arms around me.