The Girl with More Than One Heart

by Geringer Bass, Laura;

  “Okay, here we go. The manger coming up,” he said.

  “My mom is looking at apartments,” I told him. “We can’t afford ours anymore.”

  Peter stared at me. “You’re moving?” he said, drawing back. I hoped he wouldn’t take his hands away.

  “I’ll still be in the neighborhood,” I said. “I won’t have to change schools. My mom promised.” Peter took his hands away. Game over. “Don’t tell Rebecca we’re moving,” I added. “She’ll tell Aaron. I haven’t told him yet.”

  Peter raised one dark eyebrow. “I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you,” he said.

  “You’re not me,” I said. “I’ll know when it’s okay to tell him.”

  Peter frowned. His blue eyes went dark. “That’s what my mom thought when my dad took off. It was my aunt who told me. My mom didn’t have the heart.”

  Peter had told me that before. It was as familiar as an old map that folds along different lines each time you close it. I touched his arm.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll tell Aaron soon.” I grinned, then giggled. “I have all the heart I need.”

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Peter. He looked hurt. I swallowed my giggles.

  “I’m not laughing,” I said.

  “You’re acting weird. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “There is not!” I lied.

  “How do you know you won’t be changing schools?” asked Peter.

  “My mother wouldn’t lie.”

  “She doesn’t have to be lying. She could just be leaving something out—like you are.” Peter scooped up the abandoned cat’s cradle, converting it into a slingshot. He aimed it at me.

  “Put that thing down,” I said.

  “I got no ammo,” he said in his best gangster imitation. He released his empty shot at the floor. “There could be a condition she’s not telling you about,” he said. “You won’t be changing schools if . . .”

  “If what?”

  “My mom has a million ‘ifs’: If she doesn’t run out of money. If she doesn’t lose her job. Or the one she likes best—if all goes well.”

  “Well, my mom can’t say that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Nothing goes well anymore. Not really,” I said.

  Peter softened. He pushed half his brownie my way, but I knew he wasn’t going to let me off the hook. Once he got an idea into his head, it stayed there until he proved he was right. He could tell I was keeping a secret.

  “At least now I can forget sometimes and pretend my dad is on one of his trips,” I said. “I think, Just hold on, he’ll be home soon. His clothes are there, his books, everything. It still sort of seems like he’s here. Sometimes, I hear his voice . . .” I stopped. I had said too much. Peter rubbed his neck, saying nothing. “If we move, he’ll be gone for good,” I said. “If we move . . .” I broke off and gazed at Peter’s worried face. “I’m not moving,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “You’re planning to live without your mom?” Peter asked.

  “There was a kid from Finland who sailed around the world alone when he was eleven,” I said.

  “Listen, just tell Aaron, okay?” said Peter.

  He rolled his napkin and mine into a ball and tossed them into the trash can. I liked the idea of something that had touched my mouth being mushed together with something that had touched Peter’s, even if it was only in the garbage. Someone had left a chewed-up piece of gum on the rim of the can. It was bright orange, like a buoy on a lifeboat.

  Suddenly, there was Sarah M., throwing her trash out, too. Her napkin had bright red kiss marks on it. She waved it at Peter. He walked over to say hi. Sarah rose on her tiptoes and whispered something in Peter’s ear. He blushed. She laughed and said something else. I wished I could hear what Sarah was saying, but the noise of the middle school charging out of the lunchroom drowned her out. Peter circled back to me.

  “See you later under the clock?”

  “Yeah, see you,” I said.

  Peter had math next. Sarah M. was in his class.

  “What did Sarah tell you?” I asked. He hesitated, embarrassed.

  “She asked me to Reena’s party,” he said.

  “You’re joking!” I couldn’t believe it! First the history project, then math homework at Sarah M.’s house, and now this.

  “What did you tell her?” I asked. “Peter? Did you say yes?”

  “Nah, see you later,” he said, sprinting away through the swinging steel doors. Before the doors shut, I caught a glimpse of Sarah M. waiting for Peter to catch up with her in the hall.

  WE’RE Here BECAUSE WE’RE Here

  “Aaron?” I called. No answer.

  It was seven o’clock the morning of Aaron’s parent conference. His rumpled sheets and comforter were thrown back. He wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t in the bathroom either.

  Down the hall, Mom’s bedroom door was ajar. I peered in. Mom wasn’t there. Neither was Aaron. I went back to his room, checking under the bed and in the closet. No Aaron. I backed out of Aaron’s empty room.

  I thought about my three wishes. Had Aaron disappeared? Was it my fault? What if a criminal had captured Aaron and was still in the house? What if he had Mom, too? What would I do if he loomed up out of the shadows when I turned the corner in the hall? My Dad heart quaked and pounded. My legs swayed like sea kelp in a storm. My breath came in gasps. It was hard to walk. Lurching back to my room, I grabbed one of Dad’s yellow bats from my closet. I doubled back toward Mom’s room, listening for footsteps.

  I clutched the bat. It steadied me. I stopped by Mom’s door, swallowing hard. I heard the front door creak open. Someone was sneaking out!

  Still clutching the bat, I crept down the hall. Caught half in and half out, propping open the door, was Aaron’s old baby stroller. A pale hand, palm up, flopped out of it on the left, trailing the wooden floor like a dead thing.

  I stood on tiptoe so I could see over the back of the stroller. The hand belonged to Aaron, dressed for school. He was slumped down fast asleep. His hair was a wild tangle. His shoes were on the wrong feet.

  From the kitchen, Mom’s voice called, “One minute, sweetheart! We’ll be on our way as soon as I drink my coffee.” I made no sound, too scared to breathe. Was I dreaming? I ran my hand over the bumpy wall. It was real, flaking in the right places, the ugly shade of green it had always been. I stepped back, hiding behind the bulky file cabinet that held Mom’s baking recipes.

  Mom came out of the kitchen. I watched her struggle with the stroller, buckling Aaron in. She leaned forward over his head, opened the front door all the way, and pushed the stroller through. Clumsily, she bumped it down the steps to the lobby and then out to the street. Aaron’s feet dragged. He slept on.

  I followed at a distance. Mom never looked back. She pushed the stroller past the grocery store, past the Laundromat, past the faded foot chart in the qigong parlor, past the T-shirt Spot, past the block garden, all the way down the street to the empty playground. It was a chilly day, gray without a trace of sun. I hovered by the iron gates. Had Mom and Aaron come out like this before, while I was sleeping? Aaron had never mentioned it. Was it a secret?

  Mom woke Aaron and helped him out of the stroller. He looked around him, dazed. He rubbed his eyes. “Monkey bars?” Mom offered. “Swings?” Aaron yawned wide and pointed to the swings. Mom parked the stroller. She took Aaron’s hand and walked him over. She settled on a silver swing and pulled Aaron onto her lap. He pointed to his shoes, giggling. Mom pulled them off and put them on the right way. She pushed off, singing softly. Her voice quavered. Together, Mom and Aaron rose up and fell down, up and down, up and down.

  We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here . . . We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here . . .

  Like the song of a lost soul, the verse to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne” sounded sad, so sad. Softly, I sang along with Mom the way I used to Bef
ore Aaron, when she was mine, before the song was sad. We’re here because we’re here because we’re . . .

  Find her, said my Dad heart . . .

  I’m in my stroller. Daddy, up! I yell. Dad lifts me and hugs me close.

  She’s her daddy’s girl, says Mom. I hug Dad tight. Mom smiles at me.

  Hot potato, says Dad, and passes me to Mom. I giggle and hug Mom. She hugs me back. Her hands smell like apples.

  Hot potato, she calls out, and passes me back to Dad. He runs ahead bouncing me up and down in his arms. His hands smell like peanuts. I let out deep growls of laughter.

  Mommy, up! I yell.

  Hot potato, Dad shouts, and passes me back to Mom again. Over and over I yell for one parent, then the other. They pass me back and forth, back and forth. Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad. Mom. Their big, round faces are like the sun and the moon in the sky at the same time.

  Mom. Dad . . .

  Mom.

  Find her, said my Dad heart, louder this time.

  Aaron was singing now, too. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because . . . From his perch on the swing he spotted me. He waved. Mom looked at me, her green eye widening. Her face was puffy, as if someone had been punching it. I approached her swing and stood there, my hands on my hips, waiting for it to slow and come to a stop.

  Aaron jumped off and ran to my side, leaving Mom sitting there, her knuckles white on the metal chains. A wind was coming up, stirring through the trees behind her.

  “Why did you take Aaron out without telling me?” I demanded. “Why did you put him in his baby stroller? He’s too big. You scared me to death.”

  Her brown eye turned black. “Not to death,” she snapped. “I don’t like that expression.”

  “If you can take Aaron to the playground, why can’t you come to school today?” I begged.

  “Today?” she asked. “What’s today?” I could see her struggling to remember. That frightened me more than the thief I thought had stolen my brother.

  I turned to Aaron. “It’s time for school,” I said. “We can’t be late. Grandpa Ben is meeting us there. It’s conference day, remember, Aaron? Parent conference day,” I added, tossing Mom a look.

  “It’s something I always did with Dad,” she whispered.

  “Can’t you do it without Dad?” I asked. Mom. Dad. Mom.

  Find her, said my Dad heart.

  Mom shook her head, not meeting my eyes. She opened her mouth to say something else, then shut it again. She looked like a fish with a hook in its jaw. Caught.

  “I’ll come for the play,” she said. “Pygmalion. I promise.”

  Aaron followed me toward the gate. I forced myself to look back at Mom. She was slumped on the swing, watching us leave. Her green eye was dull and almost as dark as the brown one. She didn’t look like someone whose strong arms had once tossed me in the air like a football and passed me to Dad. She didn’t look like someone who laughed. She didn’t look like someone who would ever figure things out. I hesitated. “Should we take you back?” I asked. “Can you get home, Mom?”

  Mom nodded. “Go ahead,” she said. “Don’t be late for school.” Her voice was choked. She stared at my hand, puzzled. She pointed. “Where did you find that?” she asked. I looked down to where Mom was pointing.

  I was still carrying Dad’s yellow baseball bat.

  LIGHTS ALIVE

  Didi made Grandpa Ben smile by showing him the vocabulary box where Aaron banked words he wanted to learn how to spell. Aaron’s words were Gorgon and Medusa. Grandpa Ben beamed, taking credit for Aaron’s interest in Greek mythology. I saw that Didi thought she had won Grandpa Ben over. Just to be sure, she mentioned Aaron’s talent as an actor in Pygmalion, the class play. “He’s going to sing a solo,” she said. “That takes courage.” Grandpa Ben beamed some more.

  Didi settled Aaron in the library nook, leaving the door to the terrace open. Dead leaves swirled around under the seesaws and the slides.

  “But,” she said, when Aaron was out of earshot. She took a seat behind her desk. Grandpa sat up straight on the little wooden chair Didi had offered him, all attention. “Aaron marches to the beat of his own drum,” said Didi.

  “Yes?” said Grandpa Ben. He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. I offered him Dad’s baseball bat. He raised one questioning eyebrow at me and accepted it, leaning on it to pivot forward and get into a more comfortable position. It was as if Dad were there with us, giving Grandpa Ben a hand. I considered bringing the bat to school with me every day.

  “I can’t move Aaron from one thing to another,” said Didi. “He won’t go with the flow. Let me give you an example.”

  “Please,” said Grandpa Ben. He had stopped beaming.

  “Aaron has his own distinct style of painting,” said Didi. Today her hair was in fat ringlets.

  “So did Picasso,” said Grandpa Ben.

  “Other children mix their colors. Aaron never does. He paints the same picture every day.”

  “Like the sandwich he eats for lunch. Blueberry jam on whole wheat with the crusts cut off,” I said, trying to lighten things up.

  “He starts with red, the red brush,” said Didi. “From the top of the page, he makes a straight line to the bottom. If there’s a drip, he starts again. Then he puts that brush back in the juice can and does the same thing with the next, and the next, color after color. When he has six vertical lines, he stops. Sometimes, he varies the order of the colors from left to right, but he always starts with red.”

  Grandpa Ben’s face darkened.

  “Red is his favorite color,” I said.

  “Every day, he volunteers for the painting corner,” Didi continued, not noticing the storm building in Grandpa Ben’s eyes. “Every day, he does the same painting. Last week, I told him he had to mix his colors. That was the last time he wanted to paint.”

  “So you made a mistake?” asked Grandpa Ben.

  “I’m not making myself clear,” said Didi. She put her pencil through a ringlet and re-curled it. “Let me give you another example,” she said.

  “Please,” said Grandpa Ben, glaring at her.

  “I’m worried about the way Aaron plays Lights Alive.” Didi rearranged two more curls. Grandpa Ben sat back in his chair, clutching the yellow bat for support.

  “This game—it’s a game, right? It’s in the curriculum?” he asked. He gave Didi a look, as if he had suddenly landed on Mars.

  “He works on the board for hours, but he doesn’t turn on the lights to see the patterns he’s made,” said Didi. She waited, and so did Grandpa Ben. They looked at each other. Didi cleared her throat.

  “That’s the whole point,” Didi said. “The other children understand that.”

  “Let’s see,” said Grandpa Ben.

  “Excuse me?” asked Didi.

  “Let’s see what he understands and doesn’t understand,” said Grandpa Ben. “Aaron!” he called.

  Aaron’s head popped up from behind the bookshelves. He was holding a Wooly Willy. “Yes, Grandpa?”

  “Come over here a minute. I want to ask you something.” Aaron put his magnet toy down and trotted over.

  “You like this game, Lights Alive?” asked Grandpa Ben gruffly.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how to play?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Show me how you do it,” said Grandpa Ben.

  Didi glanced at the classroom clock. She opened her mouth, then shut it. This wasn’t going well. Mom should have come.

  “Okay,” said Aaron. “Briana, do you want to play, too?” he asked. I shook my head.

  “I’ll watch you play,” I told him.

  I settled my backpack on the floor and took out my English notebook. I had been trying to write “Rockpunzel,” the sequel to “Little Rock Riding Hood,” for Mr. Woodman and Daisy. Daisy was way ahead of me. She had already almost finished the illustrations. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and this time Daisy was coming to my house. No Neil, just us. I was worri
ed that Mom would act as weird as she had this morning, but she said she wanted to meet Daisy, so I hoped she’d be okay. She’d probably bake cookies.

  Aaron had pulled Lights Alive out of the stack of toys on the floor. He squatted down beside it like a happy bullfrog on a lily pad. He began building patterns in the dark, black on black. “The other kids like to put the lights on right away, Grandpa,” he said.

  “And you don’t?” asked Grandpa Ben.

  “No, I like to keep the switch off as long as I can.”

  “How do you see what you’re doing?” I asked.

  “It’s harder to see that way, but it’s worth it,” said Aaron.

  “Why?” asked Grandpa Ben, meeting Didi’s eye.

  “With the lights on, there’s no surprise,” said Aaron.

  I pulled out my lucky pen. It looked like green marble, but if you looked closely you could see the pattern in it was really shredded money. It was cinched in the middle with a pretty gold band, like a miniature wedding ring. Dad had brought it home for me from one of his sales trips.

  “Rockpunzel,” I wrote. I paused, twisting my pen and staring at the back of Grandpa Ben’s head. He had gotten his white hair cut too short. I could see his scalp peeking through like underwater strips of sand wedged between beds of seaweed.

  “Rockpunzel was a rock with pale hair like beach grass bleached in the sun,” I wrote. That was pretty good. “Most rocks don’t have hair, but Rockpunzel did because the child who made her had glued it on her head.”

  This time, I didn’t need Tina to tell me who was who. I was Rockpunzel, shut up in a tower by her rock mother, the Witch. Peter was the Prince. Tina and Reena were the Chit Chats. They were jealous of Rockpunzel because the Prince loved her.

  That was the great thing about writing. I could turn Tina and Reena into Chit Chats who gossip all day long about hair. I could turn myself into a beautiful princess who runs away from her mother with a prince. I couldn’t wait to see how Daisy had drawn the Witch and the Prince. And Rockpunzel. I skipped to the middle of my story, scribbling furiously.