by Lisa Wingate
Resting his chin on his hand, James watched Mindy dig the hole deeper. “I mean, like, you’re”—she searched for a word, and came up with—“cool. You’re not over forty. My parents are over forty.” She said it like there was some kind of terrible dividing line between her parents’ generation and the rest of the world. “How old are you, anyway?”
I refused to answer, and James raised an eyebrow, saying, “I remember the Beatles.”
Mindy’s face dropped, and she breathed, “Whoa,” in amazement. Then, “Radrat. Really?”
James was clearly amused, so he laid on a little more ancient trivia. “Yeah, and believe it or not, Karen here was once in a college production of Hair.”
“James!” I gasped, blushing. “How did you know that?” Hair was long before I met James. By the time we met, I was already a junior exec at Lansing—straightlaced, business suit, no sign of the girl who once put on a tie-dyed halter top and bell-bottoms and performed barefoot in Hair.
James winked suggestively. “I know all your dirty little secrets.”
Keiler and Mindy stopped eating and leaned forward, waiting for more dirt. Fortunately, Dell and Harmonious Heather arrived at our table and interrupted the Jerry Springer session of marital secrets revealed.
Heather gave us an apologetic look, nodding toward Dell. “I know she’s supposed to sit with the class, but she really wanted to sit over here with y’all. Is that O.K.?”
“Sure.” I scooted sideways, and James brought a chair over for Dell.
Heather grabbed Dell’s ponytail, giving it a playful tug. “You have to come back after lunch, though.” Winking at us, she whispered, “Dell’s my best student, but don’t tell everyone else I said so.”
Dell blushed and looked at the floor.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said, feeling a burst of parental pride, even though Dell wasn’t mine. “I heard her singing when we walked by the classroom. She sounded great.”
Heather nodded. “She’s a natural. She has a vocal range over three octaves, at least, and that’s really unusual, even for an adult. Especially when she’s never had any voice training.”
“You should see her on the piano,” I bragged. I couldn’t help it. I felt like I might burst.
Dell secreted a little smile beneath the curtain of hair, then slid onto the seat between James and me.
“Are you having a good time?” I asked.
Her smile broadened until she couldn’t hide it anymore. “It’s fun.” Leaning across the table toward Keiler, she proudly whispered, “Heather told me the Jumpkids secret.”
Keiler winked, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Dell nodded.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Keiler said.
“I won’t,” she replied, snickering.
I was jealous. I wanted to know the Jumpkids secret.
We talked for a while about Dell’s morning, and how things were going with the vocal music group. A little boy named Edwardo had been selected for the role of the young Lion King, and Heather was still trying to find some older boys and girls to play the grown-up lions and lionesses. Heather was trying to talk Dell into auditioning for the role of Nala, which would include a solo and a speaking part. Dell, on the other hand, didn’t want a solo or a speaking part. Playing an instrument in the orchestra pit sounded “easier,” she said, which meant that playing an instrument didn’t require getting up in front of people.
Pointing at her behind her back, Heather mouthed, “Nala,” winking and nodding at us. I had a feeling she would eventually talk Dell into it.
Heather left to join the vocal music students at another table. Sherita was still trailing the group, dangling a couple of scripts at her side, looking like she wanted to throw them at somebody. At the dance table, Meleka was talking to Mojo Joe. From their hand motions, it was clear they were discussing some of the dance moves the class had studied that morning. I couldn’t hear the words, just the hum of their conversation mixed with the other voices in the room. Meleka must have finally understood what he was explaining, because she stood up, looked around for a clear space, and proceeded to do a hitch kick, three-quarter turn, a perfect stride leap to a crouch, then a cartwheel that almost landed her on the condiments table.
She didn’t even notice. Her entire group were on their feet, giving her affirmations and a standing ovation. She broke into a grin so big that there was hardly any little girl left—just a shining row of white teeth.
“Good for her,” I said, realizing I was halfway out of my chair, applauding.
“It is good for her.” Keiler pushed his hair out of his face and started eating lunch, as if these moments of pint-sized personal triumph were an everyday occurrence. “You wouldn’t know by looking at her right now that she’s been in four foster homes already and held back twice in school.” Glancing at Dell, he seemed to realize he shouldn’t have said that in front of her. “That shouldn’t be repeated, all right?”
Dell nodded, and she actually gave Meleka a sympathetic look. “All right.”
I turned back around and said quietly to Dell, “So how are things going with Sherita?”
Dell shrugged. “Fine. She doesn’t wanna do anyone else’s part, so she’s not sayin’ a word to anybody. She’s just sittin’ in the corner reading the script is all. It looks pretty boring. I don’t know why she wants to do that.”
“She’ll figure it out.” Keiler stopped eating and butted Dell good-naturedly in the shoulder. “And let’s remember, you can’t help somebody by being critical.”
Taking a bite of her sandwich, Dell thought about that. “Grandma Rose says, ‘Hard words can’t turn a heart.’ ”
James and I smiled at each other, and Keiler gave Dell a look of respect. “That’s a good way of putting it. I like that.”
The first buzzer went off, telling us that in five minutes our lunchtime would be over. We hurried to finish our meal, then threw away our trash. In the doorway, we passed Kate and Jenilee coming in for lunch with the art group. Both of them were wearing painting smocks, and Jenilee had blue paint on her hands and in her hair.
“This stuff is supposed to wash out,” she said when she noticed us looking. “I’m not much of an artist. I told Caleb he should have done art and let me go outside and do baseball. I know baseball. My brothers played for years. I don’t know one bloomin’ thing about making a theater set.”
“It’s time to learn.” Kate nudged her playfully, and I could tell that surviving in the art room was a bonding experience for them. “You are not leaving me alone in there with Mad Marvin and his seventeen little Picassos. Your artwork looks just fine.”
Jenilee giggled, shaking her head, her brown eyes glittering. “There’s no telling how this set’s going to turn out. The trees look like celery stalks and the rocks look like giant cow pies.”
“Well, that’s a picture.” James laughed.
Jenilee rubbed the back of a blue hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of war paint. “You have no idea. There’s paint everywhere.”
Kate nodded. “I hope Brother Baker doesn’t come in there. He’ll have a fit. It’s just a good thing we draped plastic all over the room yesterday, because there is no way you can turn seventeen kids loose with paint and butcher paper and end up with a clean room.”
“Sounds like a challenge.” I had a feeling that was hard to describe—a sense of camaraderie, of family. No matter how much finger-paint was involved or how tired we were, it felt right for us to be here together, doing something good as a family.
“I’m glad we’re all here today.” My voice was choked with emotion.
Kate’s eyes welled up and she blinked hard, her lips trembling. Jenilee gave us a tender look, and the next thing I knew, we were sharing a group sister hug. The guys stood on the fringes and added a chorus of “Awww.”
Men.
We spent the afternoon rotating kids through the various stations, then finished the day outside with a disor
ganized baseball game as we waited for parents to pick up kids. James, who had been a small-town Virginia baseball star in high school, was the star of the show. The kids were awed by his fast pitch and amazed at how far he could hit a ball.
Kate and I stood at the fence, watching. “He’s pretty good,” she commented, rolling her head wearily from side to side and rubbing the back of her neck.
“I think he’s enjoying all of this.”
Kate gave me a thoughtful sideways glance. “He’s not the only one. You look like you’re having a blast. Jenilee and I were lucky to have survived the day, but you’re actually . . . well . . . good at this.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the organized chaos on the field.
I chuckled, noticing for the first time that Kate looked haggard, paint covered, and exhausted. “Yeah, who’d have thought?”
“I would have. You’re always good at everything. My gosh, Karen, you’ve never failed at a thing in your life.”
“Me?” I gaped at Kate, wondering if she really meant that. It was exactly what I’d always thought about her. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the math whiz, the science genius, the president of the physics club, and now you’re Martha Stewart and Grandma Rose all rolled into one. I can’t even begin to compete with that. Let me tell you, it’s not easy always being shown up by your little sister.” It was a surprisingly honest admission, one I’d kept to myself all these years. Right now, I couldn’t imagine why.
Kate was speechless. Her surprise slowly melted into a sardonic smirk. “You’re just trying to make me feel better because I look like such a basket case right now, and you’re”—she threw a hand up and let it slap against her leg—“well, you haven’t got a hair out of place. You’ve got the nice highlights and the snappy little shoulder-length bob. You look like a darned fashion model. You’re the one who’s impossible to keep up with.”
A puff of air stole past my lips, and I stood shaking my head, fully understanding in that one strange moment the paradox of our relationship. We’d never been able to stop competing long enough to just love each other. “You know what, Kate? I’m not just saying that. I really do mean it. You’re incredible. You’ve always been incredible, and now here you are, raising two wonderful kids, doing a great job of keeping up the farm, volunteering at church, and cooking big meals in Grandma Rose’s kitchen to boot. If I’ve ever made you feel like you’re less than incredible, I’m sorry. I’m no one to compete with. As of last Friday, I’m unemployed, for heaven’s sake.” As soon as I said it, I wished I could swallow the words back down my throat.
Kate’s eyes flew wide, and she clung to the chain-link fence, blinking at me. “What?”
“I’m unemployed. Laid off. Jobless,” I admitted. “Lansing’s in financial trouble. Last Friday they cut my department and they cut me.”
“Karen,” Kate breathed, as if someone had just died. In a way, someone had—her imaginary big sister with the perfect life. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sor—I mean, you’ve been at Lansing forev—” She laid a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I know this must be really hard.”
The sympathy was completely genuine, her horror over my situation absolutely heartfelt. I knew what she was thinking. What will Karen do without Lansing Tech? It’s her life. How can she survive without the bonuses and the promotions, the high-powered meetings and the big, fancy incentive trips?
She was reacting exactly as I’d thought she would. The strange thing was that I didn’t feel the way I thought I’d feel. I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed or worried that Kate finally knew. I was relieved. For the first time in . . . well . . . ever, I didn’t feel like I had to build myself up into something I wasn’t. I could just be who I was.
Kate was doing a little mental algebra. “That’s why you sounded so strange when I called Friday night. Geez, Karen, you should have said something. We could have talked.”
“I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”
Kate nodded, her brown eyes filled with understanding but also a hint of disappointment. She obviously wished we could have sat down and shared a good girl cry. “But if you need somebody . . .”
“I know,” I said quietly, and then the strangest thing happened. I felt as if Kate were not just my sister, but my friend. “I’m sure I’ll get to that point, but for now I just want to hibernate.”
“And that’s why you finally came back to the farm? To hibernate?”
I searched Kate’s face, wondering how to tell her that this trip had been so much more than that. “I just wanted to feel . . . grounded.”
“O.K.,” Kate said quietly, and slipped her arm around my shoulders. “You’re officially grounded. Anything else I can do?”
“No.” Stepping closer, I rested my head against hers. “Lay off the perfection thing a little, O.K.? I can’t take the competition right now.”
“I will if you will.”
“Deal,” I whispered, and we stood there leaning on each other, basking in the biggest epiphany of our lives as sisters. Both of us turned back to the game, because there wasn’t much more to say.
On the field, James was pitching a no-hitter. Suddenly, Sherita stood up from where she’d been sulking and marched past the dugout. Yanking a bat away from Edwardo, our chubby little future lion cub, she walked to the plate.
In the parking lot, the church van started honking and Brother Baker called for the bus kids to load up so he could take them home.
Meleka grabbed her stuff and hollered, “C’mon, Sherita, we gotta go!”
Sherita never looked away from the pitcher, just narrowed her hazel-gray eyes and said, “This won’t take long.”
“Oh-ho!” James coughed, then said to the outfield, “Back up, boys. We’ve got a hitter!”
Pursing her lips, Sherita gave him a sneer. After a whole day of sitting around being nothing, she wasn’t in the best mood. “Gimme a pitch.”
James lobbed a ball across the plate, and she swung. The bat connected with a metallic ping, and the ball sailed over the heads of the outfielders, who hollered, “Woah!” and “Awesome! She’s good!”
Sherita didn’t even flinch, just gave a little head jerk and challenged, “Gimme a real pitch.”
He did, and she sent that ball to the outfield, too.
“Not bad.” James braced his hands on his hips.
Sherita tried not to seem pleased by the comment. Tossing the bat by the fence, she gathered her things, then glanced back at James. “You gonna be here tomorrow?”
James paused. I could tell he wanted to say yes, but he knew he would be heading to Kansas City in the late morning for his next trip. “No. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Figures,” she said flatly and headed for the van without looking back. There was a world of anger and disappointment and dropped expectations in that one little word.
James watched her go as Kate helped herd the remaining kids into the van. “Guess I wish we didn’t have to head out tomorrow,” he said as we stood by the fence.
I didn’t miss the we. “I was thinking I’d stay through the day tomorrow, at least.” Bracing my hands on my hips, I stretched my back. Kate may have thought I didn’t have a hair out of place, but every muscle in my body was aching.
He reacted exactly as I thought he would, with a look of concern that said I ought to be getting back home and back to business. “You sure you’re up for another day?”
“Yeah.” The truth was that I felt good. Exhausted, but good. It had been years since I’d ended the day with such a profound sense of accomplishment. I thought about all the kids who’d filed through our class, learning to play simple string and percussion instruments. Occasionally, they tried a smattering of piano or guitar. Some, like Dell, pushed for more and more and more until the class time was over.
What would those kids have been doing if they hadn’t been at Jumpkids camp—watching TV, playing video games, wandering idly around town, sitting in foster homes wondering how long it would be before someone came for
them? Instead, they’d had a day that was completely out of the ordinary. Off the map. Music, dance, art—but it was more than that. It was a chance to express themselves, to accomplish something, to be special. Who could say where that might lead?
Who would have ever guessed that part of me would be secretly glad I’d been laid off, so that I could spend the day a thousand miles from home at a camp for kids? Who knew I’d cross a major bridge with my sister while standing on the sidelines of a baseball game? Some things defy logic. . . .
“You’re in another world.” James was waving a hand in front of my face, and I hadn’t even noticed.
“I was just thinking.” I had the strangest urge to tell him what was on my mind. Maybe it’s time for a change. What would he say?
Keiler caught up with us from behind, and the moment was lost. “It was a good day.”
Both James and I nodded, and James said, “It was good—a little tiring for the over-forty crowd.”
Keiler slapped James on the shoulder. “Too bad you’re not going to be here tomorrow. We could use you in recreation. You sure made some points with Sherita.”
“She’s a good ballplayer.”
Keiler nodded. “She’s good at a lot of things. You should see the essay she wrote to get into camp. It’s ten pages long, and she wanted to try everything—singing, dancing, playing an instrument, you name it.”
“Then why isn’t she doing it?”
Keiler sighed, shaking his head slowly. “She changed foster homes since she wrote that essay. That’s hard, especially in your teenage years. You start thinking nobody’s ever going to want you for good.”
Something in his voice told me he was speaking from experience. That surprised me. I had pictured Keiler as an Ivy League kid from a good family who nursed him through brain surgery, who loved and encouraged him despite the long hair and rumpled clothes. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” I said carefully.
“I was a foster kid from the time I was ten.” The words were matter-of-fact—like “I have brown eyes” or “I’m five foot eleven.” “When I was fifteen, I got lucky. I found someone who wanted to keep me.” He grinned. “Of course, they didn’t know they were going to end up paying for an NYU education and brain surgery, but hey, by the time that happened, they were already attached.”