The Upside of Ordinary

by Susan Lubner

  “Yes—definitely,” it says. It’s dead on.

  “Will Uncle Larry come home soon?”

  “Signs point to yes” is the answer.

  “Will I find Harry?”

  “Without a doubt,” it assures me. I am feeling much better now. Finding Harry solves the rest of my problems. Mom will come home and I’ll get my camera back! But I have one more thing I need to know.

  “Will I be famous?” I close my eyes and turn the ball around in my hands.

  “Ask again later,” it says. How much later, I wonder? I wait a few seconds.

  “Will I be famous?” I ask again.

  “Better not tell you now,” it says.

  “Why?” I shout at it. I ask a third time but reword the question in case it didn’t understand me the first two times.

  “Famous… is that how people will describe me?” This time I shake the ball for several seconds.

  “Don’t count on it” floats into the window.

  “What? You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I yell at the ball. But it dawns on me that if the ball is wrong about me being famous, then maybe it’s wrong about everything else, too! Maybe Uncle Larry isn’t coming home! Maybe Harry is lost forever! I’ll never get my camera back! And what about my mother … she has to come home eventually! Doesn’t she? I want to ask the ball. Instead I throw it roughly to the floor.

  “You don’t even know what a tarantula is!” I yell as it rolls under my dresser. Of course I’ll be famous! What does a stupid plastic ball know, anyway?

  Susie comes into my room wagging her tail. She lowers her head and nudges my shoulder. I scratch behind one of her ears. She whines and drops something beside me on the floor. “Sorry, Susie, I can’t play right now.” I reach between her paws for the furry toy. Before I have the chance to chuck it out my bedroom door, it moves in my hand. Susie tries to snatch it back, but before she can, I stand quickly. I lift Harry, safe in my palm, up and out of harm’s way.

  15

  Aunt Edie

  On the way to Aunt Edie’s, we drop Harry off at Tyler Gibbs’s house. That is where he will spend the rest of his February vacation. Thankfully, Tyler’s mom isn’t completely freaked out by Harry. Not that she’s a big fan of tarantulas, as she told us when we called. But she agreed to take Harry in.

  “Really, she moved out?” Mrs. Gibbs asks. It sounds ridiculous when you actually hear someone say it out loud. Dad and I stand on the front porch of their house. Dad shoves his hands into his pant pockets and hunches up his shoulders. I can tell he’s embarrassed.

  “Well, not really moved out, moved out.” He chuckles to make it all sound like a funny thing. He bobs his head like a weirdo. “Go figure!” he says in a voice too loud. “Well, here he is. Enjoy!” Dad smiles at me and I pass the cage to Tyler, who can’t take Harry out of my hands fast enough.

  “I should have taken him home in the first place,” he tells me.

  “That probably would have been best,” Dad agrees, head still bobbing. I say nothing.

  After we leave, we drop Katrina off at her house, pick up pizza, and head over to Aunt Edie’s. I haven’t been over since Uncle Larry disappeared. I have my camera back. Thank heavens for Susie! I’m going to see to it that she gets a steak for dinner one night this week.

  At Aunt Edie’s, Mom meets us at the door.

  “You, young lady,” she says to me, “we need to talk.” I wipe my boots on the dirty mat and avoid looking at her. Zelda pushes by me and hangs her jacket on a peg already covered with a puffy winter coat. It slips off and makes a knocking sound as the zipper hits the floor. Zelda keeps walking. Normally I would shout Pick up your coat, dummy, but instead I pick it up for her. I rearrange the other hanging coats so they are equally distributed on the other pegs. And then I re-hang Zelda’s jacket.

  “Here, Melinda, let me hang your coat for you,” I offer.

  “Thanks,” she says. She passes her coat to me and follows after Zelda. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother cross her arms over her chest. She is shaking her head back and forth. I spend a few seconds rearranging the coats again.

  Dad is holding the pizza boxes out in front of him. “Let me hold the pizza, Dad, so you can hang your coat up.” Unfortunately, Dad’s not wearing a coat. I hear Mom take a loud, deep breath.

  “Aren’t you being thoughtful.” She doesn’t try to hide her sarcasm. “You did a bad thing by sneaking that spider into the house!” she continues.

  “I know. But I did tell you I was bringing the class pet home over vacation.” I know that’s a lame response but I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Oh, that’s funny, Jermaine,” Mom says angrily. “I think you left out an important detail. You’ll be punished for this,” she tells me. A coat slips to the floor. I don’t pick it up.

  “I’ve been punished,” I say, turning to face my mother. “Dad took away my camera.” The camera hangs by its strap from my wrist. I grasp it with my hand.

  “Really,” she says. “What’s that you’re holding?”

  “I gave it back to her,” Dad interrupts. “We found the spider and it’s out of the house.”

  “I know that. You told me that already.” Mom sounds irritated with Dad, too. “But do you think she should be off the hook so soon? How about the total lack of respect she showed by sneaking that thing into the house in the first place? Not to mention letting it run wild!” Mom shudders.

  “That’s true,” Dad says.

  “I didn’t mean to let it run that wild …” I say weakly.

  “You know what I think,” Mom asks but doesn’t wait for me to answer, “I think you did it on purpose! I think this reality show of yours isn’t turning out to be such a good idea, that’s what I think. I think my sweet daughter is acting awfully sneaky these days!” I can’t look my mother in the eye when she says that. Thankfully Aunt Edie walks into the room. “We’ll discuss this later,” Mom whispers angrily.

  I turn to greet my aunt, who is holding her arms out to me. Her eyes look shiny and there are dark circles underneath them.

  “Hi, Aunt Edie,” I say. She squeezes me, resting her head on the side of my face. She smells musty, like hair that hasn’t been washed lately. That surprises me and makes me sad for her because she usually smells like soap or something fresh out of the dryer. Her clothes look rumpled and she’s not wearing any of her jewelry like she always does. The camera hangs from my wrist but I decide to leave it off.

  “I made a salad,” Aunt Edie says to no one in particular. “We’ll have that and pizza.” She releases me and smiles. I smile back. Then she lifts the boxes out of Dad’s arms and shuffles back toward the kitchen. “Come. We’ll eat soon,” she says halfheartedly.

  “Is she all right?” I ask. I’m hoping that my mother will put things in perspective and realize that a hairy spider is not such a big deal in comparison to what some other people are going through.

  My mother ignores my question. “You are going to work this off, Jermaine. I will keep you very busy in the barn. You’ll be cleaning jars and sorting cucumbers for the rest of your vacation and then some, you hear me?”

  “My whole vacation?” Rufus Carmichael would never be caught slicing cucumbers or wearing a goofy hairnet. Famous people do not work in barns. Especially when they’re on vacation! They have massages, and lounge by kidney-shaped pools. They sip fruity drinks with little plastic swords and paper umbrellas, and read magazines in hot tubs, and eat sushi. I try to stay calm. “I mean, that’s a lot,” I say.

  “Well, then why don’t I give you a choice?” Mom says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can work in the barn for the week or give up your camera for the week. You choose.”

  “That’s some choice,” I say angrily.

  “That was some class pet.” We stare at each other for a few minutes before she says, “You choose,” and then she walks into the kitchen.

  I let the camera roll when I join the res
t of my family. Zelda is filling glasses with ice cubes. Melinda carries several cans of soda to the table. One of the bulbs in the ceiling light is burned out, so it’s dim. It looks as gloomy as it feels. There’s a large stack of unopened mail, magazines, and several newspapers on the kitchen table. I can see that the blinds are open in the family room. I bet if it wasn’t for Mom, they’d still be drawn. Not that it matters, it is dark outside anyways. Dad points to the pile of mail.

  “Should we go through some of this after dinner?” he asks.

  Aunt Edie nods, then says, “You spoke to Larry today.”

  “Yes,” my father answers. She reaches for a can of soda and pulls the metal tab up with her finger. It hisses. Mom shakes the bottle of dressing. She opens it and pours some in a circle over the salad.

  Aunt Edie takes a small sip from the can and swallows a burp. “I have news to tell you all,” she announces. “Larry will be home tomorrow night.” My mom looks up. The salad tongs are frozen in mid-toss. My parents give each other a look.

  “Really,” Melinda squeals, “tomorrow night?” Melinda knocks her fists together and bounces in her seat.

  “Really.” Aunt Edie looks across the table at my parents. She smiles. For a second I recognize her. “We’ll celebrate with a homecoming party,” she tells us.

  Mom looks surprised. “Are you sure, Edie?”

  “Larry will want to see everyone. He’s missed us all.” Aunt Edie sniffs and wipes a tear off her face. “Besides, he’s very anxious to apologize.” Then she lets out a sigh. And the sad Edie reappears. I scan my camera around the table.

  Zelda puts her hand on top of it and pulls it down. “Not now,” she says softly.

  Instead of telling her to mind her own business, I shut the camera off.

  “That’s fine,” Mom is saying to Aunt Edie. “Whatever you want us to do. We are happy to come celebrate. You let us know when.” She walks around the table and hugs her sister.

  Then Dad joins them. Mom and Dad stand together with their arms around Aunt Edie. Melinda gets up to join them, too. I can hear someone softly crying. For a moment I wonder if I will cry. I’ve never seen my family like this before. Zelda gets up to join the group hug. I stand up. What do reality-show producers call a pivotal moment like this? Mrs. Finn calls it the climax of the story … or is it the resolution? What if Aunt Edie reveals the reason Uncle Larry ran away in the first place? Isn’t this too important not to film? I turn the camera on but quickly shut it off. Not now. I step around the table to join the hug. Then before I do, I quietly move my camera to the top of the stack of mail, aim it at my family, and press record.

  16

  Pickles

  If I ever get to be on that reality show Trading Parents, and get to swap families with another kid, my new parents would be lucky to have me. I make my bed almost every day. I wash the pots that are too big to fit in the dishwasher. I help shovel the walk after snowstorms. I know, most kids have chores to do around the house. But I dare anyone to find a kid who can pickle thirty pounds of cucumbers.

  “All of these?” I ask my mother. I zoom in on the crates of cucumbers.

  “Not all today,” she tells me. “You have your whole vacation, remember? We’ll need extra stock after the Palooza. I hope to have a big jump in sales.” Then she points at me. “Put the camera down!” she orders. She hands me a hairnet and a pair of plastic gloves.

  “Do I have to wear this thing?” I ask.

  “You know it’s the law, Jermaine,” she tells me.

  “Well, I think they should have a law against wearing anything that makes you look like a geek.” The plastic gloves are way too big for me. Mom carries another box of cucumbers out of the cold-storage room. She plops it onto the counter behind me.

  “Use the Kirbys,” she instructs. “Don’t use the big ones. They don’t belong in the dills.” I carry the first batch of cucumbers to the sink. I carefully clean the miniature cucumbers with the spray hose, picking out and setting aside the oversized ones. The water sounds like a rainstorm as it gushes out the small holes of the colander and hits the bottom of the basin. I wonder how in the world I am going to get Uncle Larry on film when he comes home tonight. I never did record why he ran away in the first place. It was never brought up. But I did record my parents’ look of utter horror when I asked Aunt Edie if I could come over and film Uncle Larry’s return. And I have Zelda announcing that I’m an imbecile.

  Sixty glass jars are spread across the top of the work-table in the pickling barn. It will take me all day to fill those jars! I know this because it’s not the first time I’ve been sentenced to a day of pickling. If history is any indication of what the future holds, it may not be my last.

  Two tall vats of brine heat up on the burners across the room. I’m glad I’m making dill pickles today. It’s better than making the hot and spicy pickles, which need to be “chunked.” That means slicing is involved. Slicing a gazillion cucumbers and hot peppers can get tedious … not to mention dangerous, especially if the juice of one of those peppers squirts in your eye. Forget the gloves and hairnet—you need safety glasses for those suckers.

  “Remember, garlic first, then dill,” Mom instructs me. “Each jar holds twelve or thirteen cucumbers, so don’t short them!”

  “What if I can only fit eleven?” I ask.

  “I just told you what the jars hold, Jermaine. If you’re only fitting eleven, you’re using the wrong size cucumber!” she says.

  “Okay, geez.” As if the world would come to an end if someone had eleven pickles instead of twelve! “Can I phone a friend to help?” I ask hopefully. Mom sighs and rolls her eyes.

  “This is not a social opportunity,” she says. “You’re being punished.”

  “Fine!” I leave the clean cucumbers in the sink and carry the garlic and dill over to the large center island. I drop a clove of garlic and some fresh dill weed into each open jar.

  “I’ve got some Palooza stuff to do on the computer in the house. By the time I’m done, you should be finished filling the jars,” she says. “I’ll pour the brine, Jermaine. It’s hot and I don’t want you to burn yourself.” I’m surprised she cares.

  “Okay,” I say. Mom grabs her coat and flings her scarf around her neck. When she slides the barn door shut, I pull the plastic gloves off my hands and toss them into the garbage pail. They are too big, and too annoying.

  I continue stuffing the pickles into the jars, counting two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, sometimes thirteen. Okay, sometimes eleven, but who’s going to know? I wash another batch of cucumbers and repeat the process, counting, stuffing, washing until I am down to my last batch. After all the jars are complete, I add another clove of garlic and some more dill to each one. I’ve just finished the last jar when Mom returns to the barn.

  “How’s it going?” she asks. She smiles at me. I swear she hasn’t smiled at me since the Harry episode yesterday. She notices my hands right away, and her smile fades. “Where are your gloves?” she asks.

  “I’m done,” I tell her. “You just need to pour brine.”

  “Great job, Jermaine!” Mom gives me a hug. It feels like she’s starting to like me again. “The labeling will have to wait until tomorrow,” she tells me.

  “Do I have to?” I ask.

  “The jars need to cool before the labels can go on,” she says.

  “No, I mean do I really have to do this for my entire vacation?”

  “You have to put the labels on. I’ll date the stickers for the jars.” Her voice is gentle. “If you start early tomorrow, you’ll be done in just a couple of hours. And maybe,” she winks at me, “I’ll let you have the rest of the day off.”

  “Thanks, boss,” I say. She laughs and gently taps her finger against the end of my nose.

  “What time is Uncle Larry coming home tonight?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she answers.

  “Can I go over there to see him?” I ask. I figure I’ll give it one last shot.

 
; “I told you already, Jermaine, tonight is not the best time to visit,” she says. “You’ll see him Thursday night at the homecoming party.”

  But that’s not the same thing, I want to say. Filming Uncle Larry when he first arrives home is not the same as filming him after all the drama has settled down. My viewers want to see when he first walks through the door. That’s when all the good stuff is going to happen.

  Mom washes her hands at the sink. She slips on a pair of gloves and a hairnet. I help her transfer the jars onto the rolling cart and push them over to the stove. While my mother ladles the brine, I put the garlic and dill away and wipe down the counters.

  By six o’clock the jars are filled, the lids are on, and the water bath is done. Mom and I transfer the ready-to-be-pickled cukes to the cooling table. We’ll leave them there overnight to properly seal. I am about to untie my apron when it dawns on me just how important it is to wear plastic gloves after all. I notice the lucky skull ring is no longer on my finger. I feel inside my apron pocket and search the floor around me. My heart pounds and it feels hot inside this chilly barn. My eyes scan the dozens of jars spread across the table. And I have a feeling—a sick, uneasy feeling—that Ro’s ring is getting pickled, and what’s left of my good luck is, too.

  17

  Pop

  I have to wait for everyone in the house to fall asleep before I make my way down the dark staircase. I slide my foot slowly across each tread until I feel the edge of the step. It’s a good thing Susie is a lousy watchdog. I hear her snoring softly at the other end of the hallway.

  Downstairs by the back door, I grab any coat and wrap it around me. I slip my bare feet into a pair of furry boots. They must be Mom’s because they feel too big.

  The walk to the barn is short, but dark and cold. My flashlight makes a spot of light on the path in front of me. The sound of my own footsteps makes my heart race a bit faster and I pick up my pace. The trees look shadowy in the moonlight, their branches creaking slightly when the wind blows. The bushes, covered in frozen drifts of snow, remind me of ghosts. One of the few birds foolish enough not to fly south for the winter lets out a trill that makes me jump. I keep my eyes on the path. If there’s something other than a bird out here, I don’t want to know.