“Yeah, my stomach just hurts,” I said, loosening the napkin. “I’m hungry.” That was partly a lie, though. My stomach did hurt—but not because I was hungry.
“I’ll find out what’s taking the pizza so long,” Stacy said. “Want to come?” she asked Ana, who nodded.
After they left I glanced over at Scott and Ellen, who were sitting next to each other and playing a game on Scott’s cell phone. Then I leaned my head against the glass window. Outside, cars splashed through puddles of rain and the streetlights looked fuzzy, like angels with colorful halos. It was warm and steamy inside the pizza place, but I felt something icy gripping my stomach.
I always figured if I never told Ellen—or anyone else—about Mom and Dad’s problems, then in a way, they didn’t exist. I could pretend that Dad really was away working somewhere, and there was no one to tell me any different. Tonight though I would see him for the first time in months, and I wasn’t so sure I could pretend anymore.
Stacy slid into the booth and placed our pepperoni pizza on the table. Ana slid in next to me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stacy asked, handing me a slice of pizza.
“You look upset,” Ana added.
I thought about giving them my usual answer, and telling them I was fine. But I felt words bubbling up inside me. Words I wanted to say out loud.
“My parents don’t always get along,” I said hesitantly. Stacy and Ana waited while I took a bite of pizza. I swallowed. “So my mom kicked my dad out of the house. He’s been living in northern California. I’m actually seeing him tonight.”
“Hey, are you guys all right over there?” came Ellen’s voice. She had detached herself from Scott, and was looking over at our table with a frown.
Stacy glanced at me, and I shook my head. “Yeah, we’re fine,” she called back.
Ana squeezed my shoulder and asked, “How long has he been gone?”
“Since August.”
“Since August?” Stacy repeated. “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning my head back against the window. “It is a long time.”
When I got home from the pizza place, I decided to write a story about my dad. It would be the best one I’d ever written. A story so great it would show him how much I missed him these last several months. He would be the star of my story, in one of the roles I usually gave him: a prince, a noble knight sworn to protect an ancient treasure, or a martial arts master fighting off a sea of enemies with his bare hands.
But as I sat in my window seat wearing my glasses and tapping my pencil against my journal, the words wouldn’t come.
Behind me, I heard my door open and Mom say, “What are you doing? Your father will be here soon and the towels are still sitting on the couch. I told you to fold them before you leave.”
“Are you physically incapable of knocking?” I snapped. Then I looked down at my journal and said, “I’m—writing an essay for English class.”
Mom opened her mouth, and then closed it. But I knew what she almost said, because the screen appeared by her, and I saw her thoughts scrolling across: She’s not studying. She’s got that same look on her face her father gets when he’s lying to me. Maybe you should tell her—oh forget it—the last thing you need is a fight so she can tell Nathan how horrible you are.
Sometimes I really hated wearing the glasses around Mom. A lot of days I felt like she didn’t even see me. Even if she was looking right at me, she was too busy thinking about my dad to really see me. If Mom hated him so much (right now, anyway) and I reminded her of him, then how did she feel about me?
The words on the screen hovering next to Mom changed: I need to clean the house before Nathan gets here. Remind him that Sarah is allergic to milk. Remind him about Callie’s play. Should I change into something else?
I watched Mom as her thoughts scrolled across the blue screen. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, and had a faraway look in her eyes.
“Do you miss him?” I asked.
Mom lowered her arm. “Miss who?”
“Dad.”
“He’s your father, Calliope. Of course I miss him.” But that’s not what her thoughts said: I miss the couple we used to be.
I wondered what that meant. Were my parents different people now than when I was younger? Somehow I couldn’t picture my mother, the person in front of me now, letting my dad name me Calliope Meadow. But she did, didn’t she?
After Mom left, I took off my glasses and opened my closet. I wondered if I should change into something else too. What did you wear for a “Daddy Date” when you haven’t seen your father in months? What was the right combination? What dress would say please, come home?
I used to be so excited for “Daddy Dates.” An eager beaver, he called me. But now I felt all confused and twisty inside. A part of me couldn’t wait for my dad to get here, but another part of me just wanted the night to be over.
I put my glasses back on. Then I looked in the mirror and waited. But no screen appeared beside my head. I sighed and took them off again.
What good was a pair of magic glasses if they couldn’t even help you figure out your own thoughts?
The night didn’t start well. First Sarah didn’t want to go. She hugged Mom’s legs, teary-eyed, until Dad said she could order a huge sundae for dessert.
“She most certainly can not have that for dessert,” Mom said.
“Cheer up, Sleepy Jean. It’s just one sundae. Let the kid live a little.”
“She’s allergic to dairy, Nathan. If you give her a sundae, her eyes will swell shut.”
When we finally arrived at the restaurant, Dad got irritated over the long wait. His mood didn’t improve when Sarah started whining that she would rather go to McDonald’s.
Once we were finally seated and the waiter brought us ice water, Dad said, “So Callie Cat, have you written any stories about your poor old man?”
I started to tell Dad he wasn’t old. But when I looked at him, he actually did seem older to me. His brown curls were streaked with gray, and there was a crease between his eyes I hadn’t noticed last summer.
“I haven’t written any lately,” I answered instead.
“Oh, well, I guess you’re too busy, what with the play tomorrow. Tell me again, what part are you playing?”
“I’m the understudy for Cinderella.”
“Understudy? You mean you won’t actually be onstage?” Dad frowned and the crease between his eyes grew deeper.
“Well, no. But I’ve helped Ellen—she’s playing Cinderella—a lot. And I’ve painted a lot of the set pieces. I mix the colors just the way you taught me to.”
“Speaking of paint, I’ve just finished some pieces I’m very proud of. Really, being in Napa has been wonderful for me.”
“I paint too, Daddy,” Sarah said. “Every day Miss Tammy lets me paint and she says—”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re a great painter, Sarah Beara, just like your poor old dad. But the sights in Napa are inspiring. The hills are the greenest you’ve ever seen, and the trees look like big bushes of broccoli sprouting right out of the ground.”
“Broccoli?” Sarah said, wrinkling her nose. “Ewwww.”
“No, it’s wonderful. And with Daddy’s new job, it gives him tons of time to paint.”
Dad flashed me his special smile, the one that usually lit me up inside. But this time it left me feeling cold. If he had a new job in Napa, did that mean he was planning to stay there for a while?
“What new job?” I asked in a small voice.
“I’m selling hotel furniture for a supplier up there.”
The waiter came then to take our orders. Just as I opened my mouth to ask for spaghetti, Dad said, “I’ll have the shrimp scampi, and the ladies will have the salmon.” With a flourish, he handed the waiter our menus.
I’d forgotten how much Dad liked to order for us. I used to think it was so cool, how he’d go out of his way to order the most expensive item on the menu, an
d so what if I didn’t like fish? I’d smoosh it around my plate so it looked like I’d eaten it. Dad never seemed to notice, and even if he did, he let me order chocolate cake for dessert anyway.
But this time, it didn’t seem cool. It just seemed annoying. And maybe it showed on my face, because Dad said, “Really, Callie Cat, you’re wearing your mother’s scowl. It’s quite unbecoming of you.”
“Sorry.” I fidgeted with my glasses, which I’d hidden on my lap under a napkin. There was one question I wanted to ask him—and I wanted the truth. With a deep breath, I pulled out the glasses and put them on.
The air waved and shimmered, the blue screen launched up by Dad, and his thoughts scrolled across: What ghastly glasses. No wonder she hates them so much. I’ll have to speak to Jean about that.
I flinched, and tried not to get distracted. “So, Dad, when are you coming home? I mean, I’m sure if you asked, Mom would let you come back, just like last time.”
“Um . . .” Dad paused. What did Jean tell them?
“Yeah, Daddy. When are you coming home?”
“Uh-oh.” Dad looked away from me and smiled at Sarah. “Do I hear an echo bird in here, Sarah Beara?”
Sarah laughed. But I didn’t. I stared at the screen hovering next to him, which held one sentence: Did Jean tell them about Brenda?
“Who’s Brenda?” I asked.
Dad squirmed in his seat, and stared at the salt shaker like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. So she did tell her. Jean will do anything to make me look bad.
“Yeah, Daddy. Who’s Brenda?” Sarah asked. “See? I’m an echo bird.”
Dad glanced at me, and then at Sarah. “Brenda is Daddy’s special friend, Sarah Beara.”
“I have a special friend too, Daddy. Her name is Milly Carson . . .”
I looked down at my hands as Sarah chattered away. Maybe I didn’t know a lot about love and all that stuff. But I knew what it meant when your father told you he had a special friend named Brenda.
It meant, this time, he wasn’t coming home.
“Is Brenda the reason why she kicked you out?” I asked, cutting Sarah off.
The words on the screen hovering near Dad changed: Jean let them think she kicked me out? That was kind of her. Out of character, but kind.
The screen changed and I saw an image of Dad packing a suitcase, while Mom stood by him, crying. She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off and kept packing.
“Yes, Callie Cat,” Dad said, looking again at the salt shaker. “I suppose it was.”
“How did it go?” Mom asked after she’d put Sarah to bed.
I shrugged and went back to the TV program I’d been watching. “Dad ordered for us.”
“Oh. Fish, right?”
“Yeah.”
Mom headed for the kitchen. “Then you must be hungry.”
I slipped my glasses out from under the throw blanket I’d cuddled up under, put them on, and followed Mom into the kitchen.
“He’s not coming back this time, is he?” I asked softly.
Mom silently layered deli meat on a piece of wheat bread. The screen appeared by her and I read her thoughts: How do you tell your daughters their father just isn’t the family type?
“It’s too early to tell,” she said finally.
“Why did you let me think you kicked him out?”
Mom froze, a knife full of mustard raised in midair. She didn’t even notice when a glob splatted onto the counter. “It was just easier that way,” she said. But her thoughts said something else: Because I know he’s your favorite.
“I’m not like him,” I said. “I may like to write. And I like to paint like he does. But I’m not like him.”
“I know that,” Mom said in a husky voice. “I really do know that, Callie.”
I watched Mom as she finished making the sandwich. She was always here. She was the one who made dinner, and the one who took Sarah to the sitter’s each morning before heading to work. The one who paid the Visa bill and wondered how she’d keep us all together. And I loved her for that. Maybe Mom hadn’t seen me lately. But I hadn’t seen her, either. Not really. Not for a long time.
Mom put the sandwich on a plate and passed it to me. “So what else did you and your father talk about?”
Why are you even asking her? The words scrolled across the screen. She’s not going to talk to you.
I took the plate. And I decided I was going to try. “It went fine,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Except at first, Sarah told Dad she wanted a Happy Meal.”
Mom laughed. “I bet that went over real well.”
I laughed too. “Yeah, she also told him her fish was stinky.”
We talked for a while. When I went upstairs later, somehow I knew that although Mom and I would probably be fighting again tomorrow, we’d be okay.
Chapter 18
Super Freaky Glasses Rule #17
Know when it’s time to take the glasses off.
TWO HOURS BEFORE THE PLAY STARTED I WAS TEARING MY room apart—trying to find my Cinderella script—when the phone rang.
“Callie!” came Mom’s voice from downstairs. “Ana’s on the phone for you.”
I picked up my phone. “Hey—sorry I’m running late,” I said, rummaging around my desk. “I just have to find my script and then I’ll come over and we can walk to school.”
“That is why I called,” Ana said. “I woke up this morning with that flu that is going around. I cannot be in the play.” Ana blew her nose loudly. “Sorry.”
“You can’t be in the play?” I asked. “But—”
“I already called Mr. Angelo and he said not to worry about it.”
I sat down on my window seat and looked over at the Garcias’ house. I wished I could see Ana inside. Her voice sounded strange. Not like she was sick. More like she was trying not to cry.
“Okay. But is everything all right? Because you sound—”
“I have to go, Callie. Tío needs to use the phone.”
Ana hung up, and I decided to call her back after the play. Then I spent a few more minutes hunting for my script. Finally, I gave up. I was just Ellen’s understudy. It wasn’t like I’d actually need it.
Inside the multipurpose room, chaos reigned. Students scurried around, making last minute adjustments to costumes and set decorations. Scott set up rows of folding chairs. Mr. Angelo barked orders to a group of students while he checked the sound system. Raven yelled at a student who spilled water on her costume. Charlie paced back and forth in a corner, muttering his lines to himself.
Gretchen Baxter hurried over. “I’m so glad you’re here. We need your help.” Onstage, she showed me the pumpkin patch set piece—with a huge black splotch in the middle. “Scott accidentally kicked over the black paint. Mr. Angelo said we would just have to fix it and not worry if it didn’t dry—but no one can mix the colors like you do.”
“All right,” I said, taking off my jacket and kneeling. “Get me a few rags and the yellow, orange, white, and brown paints.” Gretchen and I, along with a few other students, set about fixing the scene.
“Callie!” Stacy said, hurrying up the stairs to the stage “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You need to come backstage.” She sounded annoyed and excited and panicked all at the same time.
“But we’re not done yet,” Gretchen protested, “and we still need Callie to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stacy said, cutting her off. “Mr. Angelo said Callie needs to go backstage. Right now.”
“Ellen is sick, I don’t think she’ll be able to go on tonight,” Stacy said after I handed Gretchen my paintbrush. “And Mr. Angelo said Ana can’t make it, either. He asked me to take over her part. It’s not a lot of lines, and the Fairy Godmother is never onstage with the Wicked Stepmother. Mr. Angelo asked me to try on Ana’s costume, but I can’t find the wand that goes with it.”
Stacy led me backstage as she talked, past a group of students dressed as mice, and into an old storage clo
set that had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. Ellen, whose face was a pretty funky shade of green, sat slumped in an old barbershop chair. She stared glumly at her reflection in a gold-framed mirror mounted to the wall.
“She’s sick,” Stacy said.
Ellen spun her chair around. “I am not.”
“Mr. Angelo said he thought Ellen would have to drop out of the play,” Stacy continued.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not even that sick,” Ellen said, “I just—”
Ellen broke off and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.” She stood up shakily and dashed out of the room.
“She’s been puking all day,” Stacy said.
“When did she get sick?” I asked.
“Beats me. But you know what this means, right? You’ll have to take over. You’re Cinderella now.”
The thought of going onstage made me want to join Ellen in the bathroom and barf my guts out too. “No. No way, not going to happen. You guys will figure something out.” I took two steps backward and bumped into Mr. Angelo, who held a box of props.
“Callie! Stacy! Just the girls I wanted to see. I heard you were looking for this.” Mr. Angelo pulled out a plastic wand and handed it to Stacy. “As you’ve no doubt heard, Callie, we’ve a situation on our hands.” From the box he pulled out a plastic pair of glass slippers, and a plastic tiara.
While he talked, I took my glasses out of my pocket and put them on. If I was going to argue myself out of this, I wanted every advantage.
The air shimmered and the screen appeared by Mr. Angelo: We’ll have to adjust the costume for Callie, but I think it’ll be okay. Good thing Ellen insisted on writing cue cards.
“Yeah, I heard,” I said. “And I’m telling you right now, I’m not doing it. Find another Cinderella, because I’m not going onstage, cue cards or not.”
“Must I remind you that I once did something really nice for you?” Mr. Angelo said. “This is why we have understudies. You will go on as Cinderella tonight. And that’s that.” Mr. Angelo squashed the tiara on my tangle of curls and thrust the glass slippers into my hands. “Now start getting ready.”
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