by James Howe
Skeezie:
All right! Here’s our food.
Joe:
What’s true?
Addie:
About me being behind the signs that are up and all. So I swear him to secrecy and I tell him that it is true, and then I tell him about the No-Name Party and then he swears me to secrecy and says that even though he wants Drew to win—and himself, of course—that he also hopes I win, because he thinks I deserve to. And then . . . and then . . .
Joe:
Take a breath, Addie. And chew your food.
Addie:
And then I ask him if he wants to stop at the Candy Kitchen—I can’t believe I had the nerve—to have a soda or ice cream or something, and he says he can’t but maybe another time. And then we said goodbye. I can’t believe it. I’m actually going out with Colin Briggs!
Bobby:
What makes you think you’re going out with him?
Addie:
Please. 1. He showed up. 2. He gave me all these compliments. 3. He said he’d go with me another time for a soda or ice cream. What more is there?
Skeezie:
You’re lovesick, girl, and it is not a pretty sight. And these stinkin’ french fries are cold. Hey, hey, you, HellomynameisSteffi.
Addie:
Skeezie, stop snapping your fingers!
Skeezie:
I’m telling you, this place has gone down the toilet ever since they took out the jukebox.
Bobby:
You know what I don’t understand? Why is it suddenly such a big deal to be going out with somebody? It’s such pressure.
Skeezie:
I’m not going out with anybody. Ever. Except maybe HellomynameisSteffi. If she brings me hot french fries, I might even ask her to marry me. Anyway, Addie, I’m happy for you. Seriously. Because that’s what you want, right? To go out with Colin.
Addie:
And you helped, Skeezie! You are such a good friend. I hope you’ll know what it’s like someday.
Skeezie:
What?
Addie:
Love.
Skeezie:
Not interested. Sorry.
HellomynameisSteffi:
You snapped?
Skeezie:
Yeah, like five minutes ago. These french fries are cold.
HellomynameisSteffi:
Well, we can’t have that, can we, Elvis? Here, hand me that plate and I’ll get you some fresh ones.
Skeezie:
Honest? Wow. Will you marry me?
HellomynameisSteffi:
I don’t know. Are you smart or just cute?
Skeezie:
I, uh, uh . . .
HellomynameisSteffi:
You think on that while I get your fries.
Skeezie:
What? What are you looking at?
Addie:
You. Just seeing what Mr. I’m-Never-Going-to-Fall-in-Love looks like when he falls in love.
Skeezie:
What makes you think I’m in love?
Addie:
And I quote: “I, uh, uh . . .”
Skeezie:
Get out.
Joe:
Hey, guys, can we get down to business? I need to get home.
Addie:
Sure, of course. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help ... I just had to tell you. You’re my best friends.
Joe:
I know. And I’m happy for you, too, Addie. Really. You and Colin, you make a nice couple.
Addie:
Thanks, Joe.
Skeezie:
So about the Lame-Brain Party . . .
Addie:
Stop calling it that. That’s the whole point: No names!
Skeezie:
Right. Sorry.
Addie:
Well, we have to come up with a candidate for president by tomorrow, so we can get our posters up on Thursday. I was thinking about asking Royal, but—
Bobby:
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Addie:
Do you have a better one?
Bobby:
I think you should run for president. And, Joe, you should run for vice president.
Joe:
Me? I’m not big on politics.
Bobby:
Come on. What could make more sense than the Gang of Five running on the same ticket together? Look at all the names we came up with for the signs we put up. Those are our names. We are the No-Name Party!
Addie:
You’re right. It’s brilliant, Bobby. Joe, please say yes.
Joe:
Will I have to do anything?
Addie:
Nothing more than you’re doing already. And if we’re elected, well, then you have to go to student council meetings, I guess. Oh, please say yes, Joe. It will be fun.
Joe:
Okay. All right. Who knows, maybe it will be the start of my meteoric rise to stardom!
Bobby:
A toast to the No-Name Party!
HellomynameisSteffi:
Hot french fries comin’ through! There you go—hot fries for the hot dude!
Skeezie:
Stanks.
HellomynameisSteffi:
What?
Joe:
What did you say?
Bobby:
You said stanks!
Skeezie:
I said thanks.
Joe:
You said stanks.
Addie:
Look, Skeezie’s blushing.
Skeezie:
Am not.
HellomynameisSteffi:
You guys need anything else? What about you, Elvis? Still want to marry me?
Skeezie:
Huh?
HellomynameisSteffi:
Forgot already, huh? You cute guys are all the same. All talk, no action. Okay, seriously, I hope those fries are hot enough for you. You guys holler if you need anything else.
Addie:
Skeezie’s in lo-o-o-ve!
Skeezie:
Shut up with that!
Joe:
You are so blushing.
Skeezie:
I am so not.
Joe:
Hey, Skeezie, pass the ketchup, will ya?
Skeezie:
Here ya go.
Joe:
Stanks.
Skeezie:
Very funny. You guys can stop laughing now.
Bobby:
Sorry, Skeeze, but it is funny.
Addie:
Really. Oh, Bobby, you had something you wanted to tell.
Bobby:
Oh, it’s not that important. Just, my boss wasn’t at work today and I waited on four customers and made three sales. And not just ties, either. Junior, he’s the guy who was filling in for Mr. K—he said I was a really good salesman. And you know what? I think I am. Selling is fun. I might even want to do it when I grow up.
Skeezie:
So what happened to the Grim Reaper?
Bobby:
Mr. Kellerman? Oh, his mother—
Skeezie:
Guy doesn’t look like he has a mother.
Bobby:
Well, he does. Did. She died yesterday. That’s why he was out of work today. His mother—
Addie:
Oh, gee.
Bobby:
Yeah. She died.
18
I GET to thinking about this on the walk home. “This” being the fact that Mr. Kellerman’s mother died. It is weird thinking about the way I just tossed that into the conversation back there at the Candy Kitchen, like, Oh, yeah, by the way, somebody’s life ended yesterday please pass the salt I mean, the man’s mother died. She was a person.
I remember when it happened to me. I was seven, almost eight. Life was going along like normal, you know? My dad was working for the same nursery he works for now and my mom was an actress. She wasn’t a famous actress or anything. She hardly made a living at it. Mostly, she did community
theater and taught a few classes. Sometimes she would go out on the road for a couple of months, if she got a part in something, or do a show in Albany, which isn’t that far away, or fly down to New York City for a day or two to shoot a commercial. She told me once that she had agreed to marry my dad and live in Paintbrush Falls as long as he didn’t make her give up her dreams. She always told me to follow my dreams, too, do whatever it was that made me happy.
My dad was never much of a dreamer. He let my mom do the dreaming for the two of them. It was on account of her that he tried to get his own landscaping business going. I remember how excited he got talking about it at dinner some nights. My mom would sit there with her eyes glued on him, as if listening to him talk about what kind of shrubs did best in what kind of soil was the most fascinating thing in the whole world.
They were happy.
I was happy back then, too. I liked school. I wasn’t fat yet.
Then one day my mom picked me up after school —I was in the second grade; it was April, I think—and my shoes were muddy, but she didn’t tell me to scrape them off first the way she usually did. So I didn’t, because I figured she must have her reasons, like maybe—in my seven-year-old mind, this made sense—maybe she wanted some mud in the car for a change. So I jumped in the car, mud and all, and she said, “How was your day, sweetie?” but there was something wrong with her voice, like she’d fallen on it and flattened the air out of it. I looked up at her and said, “Fine.” I remember I was mad at Addie because she had told the teacher I’d been picking my nose and sticking the boogers under my chair and Mrs. Esley had scolded me and hadn’t said one word to Addie about being a tattletale. Talk about no justice. Well, the point is that when I looked over and saw my mom’s face, I didn’t say a word about it, even though it had been the first thing I’d wanted to tell her. I could see something was wrong, and whatever it was, was a whole lot bigger than having your friend rat on you to your teacher.
I didn’t ask what was going on. I didn’t know how. I was only seven. What I found out later was that a couple of hours before she picked me up she had learned she had cancer.
She got sick really fast, so they couldn’t hide the truth from me for long. My dad would have lied to me the whole time, I think, but my mom convinced him that I should know.
It’s funny, my mom was always the one putting the big smiley face on everything. Everything was always going to be better in the morning. The glass was always half full. Anything was possible. Even when she would look in the mirror and groan about putting on weight (she had a sweet tooth, same as me) or get real angry after she’d lost an acting job, she’d find a way to turn things around and look on the bright side. My dad was just the opposite. He didn’t even see the point in trying most of the time, so it was kind of a miracle that he was actually going to start his own business. Of course, the miracle was my mom.
When she got sick, my dad acted like it wasn’t happening at first. He kept telling me she was getting better, but it wasn’t because he wanted to protect me, as much as he wanted to believe it himself. My mom, she told me the truth straight out. She told me she was going to die, but that she would always be alive in my heart and that I would always have my dad and my dreams.
The summer between second and third grade, she was in the hospital most of the time. My dad began staying overnight there with her. I stayed with Addie and her mom and dad. One morning while we were sitting there eating breakfast, my dad showed up at the door, his face looking like it had caved in, like it was in ruins or something. Addie’s mom said, “Oh, Mike,” and she jumped up and held on to him while his knees gave out.
I can’t remember if I cried. I just remember Addie’s dad squatting down in front of me and asking me if I understood that my mom had died, and me saying yes, and then asking when was she coming home.
So I’m thinking about all this as I’m closing in on Shadow Glen Trailer Park, pondering how Mr. Keller-man has had his mom go and die on him, too, and wondering if maybe—even though he’s a grown man and his mom was an old lady and all—just maybe he feels the way I did, knowing his mom has died but waiting for her to come home.
My dad is standing by the phone when I walk in, and he greets me with, “Know what I’m making for dinner?”
“A call to Pizza Place?” I go. “I want pepperoni.”
“You got it,” he says, and starts hitting the buttons.
There’s a lot I could tell him, a lot that’s on my mind, but what comes out when we’re sitting there with our slices and the salad he’s made because he tries to make sure I get balanced meals, is this:
“Dad, when did you start going out with girls?”
He laughs. “I’ve been wondering when we’d have this conversation.”
I roll my eyes. “Daaad, I just asked you a simple question.”
“I had my first girlfriend when I was ten,” he tells me.
I am shocked to hear this. “Ten?” I go. “What were you? Some kind of fiend?”
“Why do you say that, Skip? I just liked this girl and I told her so. We decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s all. It was simple then. I don’t think we ever actually went out or anything. We played together. She liked sports. We had a good time.”
“But ten,” I repeat, apparently unable to process a simple piece of information. “I’m twelve. Is there something wrong with me?”
This gets my dad laughing so hard he puts his hand up to his mouth to keep the pizza in.
“Glad I amuse you,” I go.
Eventually, he calms down, but his eyes are all watery.
“I hope you realize I am humiliated,” I tell him.
“No, no,” he goes, the way parents do when they try to tell you you’re wrong about something you happen to have firsthand experience of.
“I am,” I say.
“Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just. . . Skip, you’re twelve. Good grief, you’re just a kid.”
“But you were ten.”
“So? Like I say, it was easier then, simpler. Nobody thought it was a big deal to call somebody your girlfriend. But I had friends who didn’t have their first girlfriend until they were in high school. Grady Buckower, know who I mean?”
I nod. Grady was my troop leader for the eight months I managed being a Cub Scout.
“Grady didn’t have a girlfriend until he was in college—and then he married her! So what’s behind all the questions?”
I thought, How do I tell my dad I like a girl?
“You like a girl, is that it?” he goes. “And you don’t know if she likes you. Am I right?”
“Oh, I know,” I tell him. “I know she doesn’t like me. Well, what I mean is, I’m not so sure she doesn’t like me, but I am sure she likes somebody else. But the somebody else doesn’t like her, I mean, not as a girlfriend, he only likes her as a friend, so how do I let her know that I like her as, like, girlfriend material, and then what do I do if she laughs in my face, which I don’t think this particular girl will do, but you never know, she might get hysterical.”
My dad shoves a slice of pizza in his mouth, and I bet anything he is doing it to stifle a laugh. When I am a father, I swear on a stack of pancakes I will never laugh at my children.
I wait for him to chew and swallow.
“Think you can keep it under control now?” I ask.
“Cut me a little slack,” he tells me. “I’m only human. Look, kiddo, the direct approach is best. Hard as it is, just go up to the girl and tell her you like her. You don’t have to ask her to be your girlfriend or anything, not right off the bat. Just say, I like you. Do you want to get together sometime?’ Why not include her with your gang when you go to the Candy Kitchen?”
I think this over and figure it is not bad advice. I say, “It’s a good thing I’m a boy.”
This one really takes him by surprise. Me, too, for that matter.
“If I were a girl,” I explain, “then I’d be missing Mom even more than I do, because I’d be at an age
where I’d need, you know, to talk with a woman about stuff. But I’m a boy, so I’ve got my dad to talk to about guy stuff.”
My dad looks like he’s having trouble swallowing. He nods his head, slowly.
“Yep,” he goes, “we’re lucky we’ve got each other, all right.”
I tell him then about Mr. Kellerman’s mom dying and he tells me he heard, on account of it being a small town and news travels fast. And this gets us to talking about my mom dying, which I guess is what I really wanted to talk about all along. We do not talk about this often, not because my dad won’t discuss it, more because what is there to say?
This time I think of something.
“How come after Mom died,” I ask, pushing the uneaten lettuce and cucumbers and tomatoes around my plate, “you gave up on starting your own landscaping business?”
He answers this so fast I know he has thought about it before.
“I needed her,” he says. “I’m not real good on my own.”
“Don’t say that, Dad. You are good.”
He looks over and shakes his head at me. “That’s just what your mom would have said. You’re so much like her.”
“You always tell me that,” I say.
And this is when it hits me. No matter how many times I have heard my dad tell me I am just like my mom, I have always thought I was just like him—a get-along guy, somebody who doesn’t want to make waves, who doesn’t know how to dream for himself. All of a sudden, I’m thinking maybe I am more like my mom, not just a dreamer but somebody who can make things happen.