Dark Song

by Gail Giles

  The school day was a disaster. The eyes of my friends, my not-friends, and my enemies seemed to either bore into me or avoid me with purpose all day. What did they know? Was Em mad enough to be gossiping? Nobody I knew well worked at Dad’s company, but what about someone else’s dad or mom or uncle? One of those people I never paid attention to? Freshmen? Losers? The NMKs (Not My Kind)?

  I couldn’t make sense of my best subject. My calculus test could have been hieroglyphics for all I could make of it. I scribbled on it a little, stared at it a lot, and mostly sat with my forehead resting against my hand. Even Edwin acted like I was radioactive.

  Math had always made sense. Nothing subjective there. Apply the rules and get the right answer. Not now. If I couldn’t read the problem, how could I hope to find an answer?

  I sealed off. Walked down the halls without making eye contact. Didn’t speak to anyone. I skipped lunch because I didn’t know what to say to Em. I sat outside on the steps and pretended to read.

  Em’s mom picked us up that day. For the first time I can remember, Emily sat in the passenger seat and I was alone in the back. Em’s mom appeared a bit surprised, but I guess she figured she’d get the 411 when she and Em were alone.

  Then she said something totally strange. “Ames, how are your mom and dad holding up?”

  “They’re fine…” I said, startled for a second. Then I found myself saying for the third time that day, “Mom just isn’t feeling well today and Dad’s playing hooky. Mental health day, y’know.”

  Em snorted. I shot her a death-ray glare that should have caused blood to leak out of her ears and eyes.

  Em’s mom nodded, but her eyes in the rearview mirror as she searched my face held… pity?

  What did she know? I felt like everybody was invited to the party but me. I chewed the inside of my cheek as Em yakked nonstop with her mom.

  As soon as I got home I slammed through the front door and headed straight upstairs.

  “Dad made cookies,” Chrissy yelled from the kitchen.

  I stopped. Turned and came back down the stairs.

  Dad and Chrissy were chowing down on chocolate chip cookies and milk. The counters and sink were cluttered with the signs of baking. One of Chrissy’s bears was seated on a couple of phone books and had a plate with cookies in front of him. The Beatrix Potter tea set that Mom had brought Chrissy from England was laid on a lace tablecloth and the good silver spoons were at Mr. Brown’s service.

  “We’re having a tea party, only with milk,” Chrissy announced with a grin.

  “I’ll get you a plate,” Dad offered.

  WonderDad was back. Amusing Chrissy. Making her feel safe and loved. Inviting me to the party. I sighed in relief.

  “Sure.” I pulled out a chair while Chrissy handed me a ludicrously tiny teacup and saucer. Dad poured a dribble of milk and the cookie overhung the plate by inches.

  “Chocolate chip, my fave.”

  We munched and sipped.

  “I don’t know about you, but I think Chrissy, Mr. Brown, and I make a mean chocolate chip cookie,” Dad said.

  “I agree,” I said. “But I hope Mr. Brown washed his hands if he handled the dough.”

  “He didn’t do anything but read the recipe off the bag of chips,” Chrissy said.

  “Since when can he read?” I asked.

  “Dad taught him today.”

  I put up my hand to high-five Dad. “Way to go, Big Man —”

  “I thought you were supposed to be getting a new job.” We looked up to see Mom standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “What did you say?” Dad’s tone was stunned.

  Mom’s angry burst of words popped like bubble wrap. “First it was you had to get supplies from the office store, then it was you would amuse Chrissy until Ames got home, and now all of you are here wasting time.”

  Dad stared for a moment. “I’m having a good time with my children. How is that wasting time?”

  Mom glared at Dad but spoke to Chrissy and me. “Go upstairs now and close your doors.”

  I didn’t want to leave Dad. He looked wounded, his shoulders drooping as he shook his head at me. “Your mother and I need to talk.”

  I turned to him and opened my mouth. Dad shook his head again. “Let’s not make this worse.” He nodded toward Chrissy. “Ames. Go ahead and take Chrissy upstairs and don’t say anything.”

  I took Chrissy to her room. “Why is Mommy so mad?” she asked, on the verge of crying.

  “I think she just needs to vent.”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  “She just needs to get mad at somebody, anybody, because she’s upset. Then she’ll calm down and be fine.”

  “How does that help? Doesn’t it just hurt people’s feelings?”

  Chrissy was six and smarter than all of us put together. Were we all born smart and then learned to be stupid? Do we lose our honesty when we lose our innocence?

  ANGER IS EASY

  I put the PRIVACY PLEASE sign on my bedroom doorknob. It was a present Mom and Dad had given me on my thirteenth birthday. A super-size symbol of mutual trust. Not to be overused. Only when the need to be alone and getting my thoughts in order was crucial.

  Before I could catch hold of a single thought, notion, or idea, my cell rang.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Em demanded. “Do you know how totally embarrassing it was for my mother to know every last detail and there I was, clueless? If I didn’t feel, like, so sorry for you, I’d never speak to you again.” Em talked so fast her words were like handfuls of rocks thrown against my window, clattering too fast and too loud to make sense.

  Embarrassing for her?

  I hung up.

  It rang again. God, I hated speed dial.

  “Okay,” Em said. “I’m talking too fast. This is, like, huge and I’m hyper and so shocked. So, where do we start? Tell me everything. Are you going to be poor now? Will you have to wear ugly clothes?”

  That did it. I fell onto the bed and laughed. Seriously lost it. Stomach-hurting, eye-leaking, nose-snorting laughter.

  “Em, we already wear pleated plaid skirts, flannel blazers with a godawful crest, and a white shirt that has a Peter Pan collar… and brown shoes? We look like refugees from a World War II movie. I’d love to be poor enough to wear public school clothes.”

  “Don’t squab with me. I mean our civilian clothes. But anyway, what gives? How come your dad got fired?”

  “He was downsized.”

  “When was he upsized?”

  I snorted again. “Good one. Em, I don’t know what’s going on.” I sighed. “Dad says his company let a bunch of people go, that he got a big wad of money and nothing will change, that it will just take a while for him to get a new job and blah, blah. But they don’t want anybody to know about it. Mom’s been crying since yesterday and…” I stopped again. “Dad’s acting strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t grab hold of it. The only thing I can say for sure is that he didn’t hug us last night.”

  “Definitely criminal behavior. I’m calling 911 this minute. Arrest the man.”

  “Em, I’m serious. I feel like I’m being lied to…”

  “I am sorry, Tweety Bird, but welcome to the club. I’ve been trying to get this through your head since we were, like, ten. Parents lie. It’s what they do. And it’s why it’s only fair that we lie back to them.” Em sighed. “You’ve been such a late bloomer.”

  “I guess. But I hate it. It felt good to believe them.”

  “They’ve been lying to you since they told you that Santa brought your Christmas gifts. I haven’t trusted them since,” Em said.

  “Santa Claus was fun.”

  “He was bogus.” The singsonging on “bogus” strung it out.

  I remembered how confused I had been when I had seen all the Santas in downtown Denver. How Mom explained them away. “Point for Emily’s team.”

  “Look, Tweety, after your very
untrustworthy parents go to sleep, put a magnet against the security alarm contact on your window and bail. Call and I’ll pick you up. There’s more to your dad’s story. I don’t know much. But Earl is involved and that can’t be good. I’ll tell the little I know and we’ll have a frisky night. It will be payback for your dear ones ruining your day.”

  I thought a second. Em’s stepdad Earl was a high-priced criminal lawyer. Em was right — if he was involved… it couldn’t be good.

  “Why the hell not,” I said.

  * * *

  Dinner was quiet. Almost. The only one talking was Chrissy.

  “Dan got in trouble today in kindergarten,” she said. She loves to say “kindergarten” because it’s such a long word.

  Mom picked at her salad and Dad acted like buttering his roll took all of his brainpower.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “When Ms. Riley handed out the cookies, he grabbed three when he’s only supposed to take two.”

  “That wasn’t polite,” I said.

  “He said he’s bigger and needs more,” the little reporter said, without judgment.

  Mom pushed her salad away and stood up. “Dan should have realized that and saved up a little.” She stormed out of the room.

  Chrissy looked at the swinging kitchen door. “That wouldn’t work. He’d have less cookies each day if he was saving them, right?”

  By this time Dad was up and going after Mom.

  I looked at Chrissy. “Eat your dinner. This isn’t about cookies,” I told her. As if I had a hint what it was really about. Now I felt like I was lying to my sister, too.

  Great. Just great.

  The clattering of silverware seemed deafening even though it was just two forks — mine and Chrissy’s — making the racket. After we finished, I started clearing the plates.

  I want everything to feel normal again, I thought.

  Right that minute I would’ve given anything to be cleaning plates and chatting with my mother. When we cleaned, it was the closest we came to fitting. It was a wind-down time. I think it was her strange way of hugging. Cleaning was Mom’s drug of choice. She gets mellow and happy when she cleans. Probably because she’s a clear thinker and cleaning must keep the thought pathways open for business. I liked to be around her then, since we would rarely butt heads.

  I kept hoping Mom or Dad would come back downstairs and join me. No such luck. So when I finished the dishes, I headed for Dad’s study. The French doors were closed, and I could hear his beyond-bad country music. We used to tease him about it. His back was to the doors so I tapped on the glass pane. He glanced over his shoulder… and waved me away.

  Mom and Chrissy were in Chrissy’s room, where Chrissy was giving Mom the rest of the kindergarten scoop. I went in.

  “Ms. Riley read us a book about wild things. This boy named Max was bad to his mom. She called him a wild thing. Max became the king of the wild things. And they rumpused.” Chrissy paused. “I don’t know how to rumpus. But it looked like fun.”

  Mom smiled. “It’s a wonderful book, Chrissy. I read it when I was a girl.”

  “Can you buy it for me?” Chrissy said. “I want to read again about the rumpusing.” I loved the way she was so precise when she talked.

  Mom got up. “We’ll check it out from the library.”

  “I want to buy it,” Chrissy insisted. “I want to put it on my shelf.”

  Chrissy pointed to her shelves clogged with books, dolls, and toys.

  “You have too many books as it is.” Mom’s voice was sharp as she left the room.

  Chrissy looked wounded at Mom’s tone.

  “It’s not about the book,” I explained. “Just like it wasn’t about the cookies. Mom’s mad at Dad, not at you.”

  “I don’t like them when they fight,” she said.

  I hugged her. “She tells no lies,” I said. “Give the kid a prize.”

  “Will you teach me to rumpus?” Chrissy asked.

  “As soon as I learn,” I told her.

  Mom’s abrupt exit from the bedroom was a bitter contrast to the story time of the good old days. Get in bed and then I’ll come read to you, Mom would say, the sentence that meant magic would be happening tonight. I’d run upstairs and climb into bed, curl into a nest of pillows, duvet, and stuffed animals. Mom would turn the bedside lamp down low. She wouldn’t cuddle in bed with me, but instead sat in a big chair so the circle of light fell on the pages. Mom’s voice would drift out of the pale glow as the fairy tales she read came alive. Every character had a different voice. High, low, sneering, sweet, harsh, comical, flutelike, or rolling bass.

  The happy memory turned to a shiver as I remembered the night when Mom closed the book and held it against her heart. She had turned the lamp back up, stood, and threw metaphoric ice water onto my warm nest.

  “The world doesn’t work that way, you know. You don’t get rescued. You always have to make your own way.”

  “I don’t want to be rescued, Mom. I just want the prince to come and then I’ll be the princess.”

  “You’d be better off concentrating on being the king,” Mom said.

  “Women can’t be kings,” I said.

  “Not if they never try,” Mom told me.

  I wanted to hug her for bringing me the story, and hide under the pillows and cry for taking it all away.

  And then she told me I was capable of ruling kingdoms.

  She was wonderful. She was cruel. I loved her. I hated her. She was the mystery that was my mother. Now any little soft places she had were hardening.

  But had we done anything wrong?

  I wanted to rumpus. I wanted to be like those dogs that go crazy in a yard, running up and down along the fence, barking and running and running and barking until they are so tired their tongues hang out and all the crazy is gone.

  RUMPUS SCHOOL

  Rumpus school was in session as soon as I put a magnet to the window contact. I boosted over the sill and into the totally convenient tree growing next to the house. Dad had even mentioned once that it was a great fire-escape route.

  I hit Em’s number on Favorites while I was still on the big limb.

  “I’m out,” I said.

  “Cut through the back and meet me a block over in ten. Hide out in that big bush next to the corner.”

  This covert ops thing already had my adrenaline boosted. A grin pushed its way onto my mouth as I ran, zigzagging for no real reason. I wasn’t dodging bullets, but it seemed right to maneuver my way through the dark rather than to walk quietly. I nestled in the leaves of the big bottlebrush-like shrub.

  Em pulled up in her mom’s car. I got in and she pulled away slow and easy. A serious driver. In control.

  “The best way to get a cop’s attention is to act like a teenager,” she said. “So we don’t smoke in the car. It shows our faces too much. We drive like old ladies and we keep to the side streets. Don’t drink in the car, even if it’s a soft drink. The cops aren’t stupid.”

  “Rumpus school has a lot of rules. You’re sounding a lot like Earl.”

  “Rumpus school? I like that, Tweety. And don’t dis Earl. He’s the only good husband Mom’s had. He acts like he might hang in. If he starts looking like he might bail — I might even straighten up a little to keep him here.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” I said.

  “Could happen,” Emily said. “Now, no guys for tonight. We need to ease you into rebellion — I mean, rumpusing. Last time you drank and smoked dope you threw up. You don’t know when to stop. I’m going to play hall monitor and we’ll stick to weed tonight.”

  Well, if I was going to be a barking dog, I might as well break the law. Going crazy wasn’t supposed to be about halfway.

  Em drove out of Boulder and found a secluded parking spot that couldn’t be seen from the road. Still bundled in our coats, the leather seats with their warmers keeping our rumps cozy, the heater set on toasty for the rest of our bodies, we rolled down the window
s a crack so we could let the spruce-scented air drift in and the dope drift out. The satellite radio found a station we agreed on and the music thumped in time with my pulse.

  “Open the glove compartment.”

  A thick baggie full of marijuana and roller papers were front and center.

  “I raided Mom’s stash. It’s the good stuff. That stuff you got sick on was street shit. Mom only smokes the best.”

  “Your mom…?”

  “Oh Ames, wake the hell up. Your parents might not now, but trust me, they have. And your grandmom? Give me a break. If I can’t find a stash and a bong in her place, I’ll kiss your ass at a school assembly.”

  I handed the baggie to Em and she busied herself rolling a fat doobie. Doobie. I heard that term from Grandmom. She of the Birkenstocks and the Grateful Dead CDs. Hippie holdout stereotype. Rockin’ Robin, my dad called her. He was crazy about her. But Mom never even called her mother “Mother.” She said that Grandmom never bothered to act like a mother, that she’d wanted to be a “friend.”

  “Mom always complained” — I made finger quotation marks in the air and mocked my mother’s voice — “ ‘Robin has no boundaries. Never gave our lives any structure.’ ”

  Em licked the joint, sealing it. “Frankly, I think Robin brought the wrong baby home from the hospital. One of those switched-at-birth things. I can’t see your mom sharing any DNA with your grandmom. Seriously.” She waved the joint around like a pointer at a blackboard. “Robin’s loosey goosey. Your mom is a control freak. Check your pantry. Not one box of oatmeal, but three. Like there’s going to be an oatmeal famine day after tomorrow. How many rolls of toilet paper do you have in your house right this minute? Have you ever gotten down to the last clean towel?”

  I had a flash of my mom’s face as she folded and smoothed the thick, fluffy towels, scented with lavender. She always folded and put away the towels herself for some reason, instead of letting Carmen do it.

  “I have to admit, if the freezer and refrigerator and pantry aren’t full to overflowing, she says someone has to shop before we all starve to death,” I said.