by Betty Hicks
I can tell she’s searching for another cliché, but Storm Stories flickers onto the TV screen, and I know I’ve lost her for the night.
* * *
In my room, I open my closet door and hang up my coat. Then I sit down at my desk, open the top drawer, and arrange all the pens and pencils in it according to color. That looks dumb, so I move them around according to size. Better.
Tonight, I had practically a standing-ovation piano debut, and my parents want more proof. They want me to show interest longer.
How much longer? Ten years, like the Trojan War? More, like the amount of time dinosaurs roamed the earth?
What I could use right now is a friend. Or chocolate. I wonder what Jil is doing at this very minute. I picture her laughing. Hugging. Getting presents from family number two. Then I remember Mrs. Lewis’s gift, and reach for this year’s box of Hershey’s Kisses. Or maybe she gave M&M’s this time. Or Sour Patch Kids. Except it feels too light for any of those things. Whatever, I know it’ll taste good. Sugary. Comforting.
I untie the red ribbon. Then I roll it into small, smooth loops, which I secure with a paper clip, and place it neatly into my desk drawer. Carefully, I slide my finger under the tape to remove the wrapping paper without tearing it.
I open the box, and reaching into the tissue paper, I immediately feel something soft. It’s cotton—a big cushiony layer of cotton like the stuff clerks put in jewelry boxes. Confused, I lift it up and discover the Lewises’ tiny black glass piano. The hand-blown ornament they got on their trip to Switzerland. My favorite.
I hold it in my hands, almost afraid to breathe. I can’t believe it’s mine. But I know in a second that this ornament will never hang on our tree. Not on the tree that gets banged around and stuffed into the attic to get covered in dust every year.
I touch each delicate piano leg, marveling at the detail and the fragileness. I bet it was made by a master Swiss craftsman.
Maybe I’ll decorate my own tree. A real one. Miniature, like the one in the Lewises’ basement. For my room only.
An ache rises up in the back of my throat and I feel a tear spill over and slip slowly down my cheek.
But I’m happy. Aren’t I? So … why am I crying?
Holding the piano as if it were a snowflake, I lie down on my bed, faceup, and wish with all my heart that the Lewises were my parents.
Chapter Ten
January 4—my first day back at school, and so far, nobody’s remembered to make fun of my father’s Latin solo.
Yay.
I remember too vividly some of the nicknames they’ve tagged my parents with in the past. Papa Poet. Swamp Mama.
I look everywhere for Jil, whom I barely saw over the entire Christmas vacation.
“Graham!” I shout, spotting him standing in front of his locker. “Hey!”
Graham is one of the few eighth-grade boys who is actually taller than I am. Too bad he’s not my type. Way too messy. But he’s really cute—if you don’t mind all the holes in his clothes.
I do mind. Which is a good thing, because, after all, he is Jil’s boyfriend, not mine.
“Hey, Dez,” he says, trying to slam his locker door shut with his shoulder but without success because way too many papers are hanging out. “What’s up?”
I wonder if I should offer to clean out his locker sometime.
Of course not, Dez, I answer my own question. Years ago, I learned to keep the fact that I am a neat-oholic to myself. Messy is cool if you’re a kid. Messy is not cool if you’re a parent. I’m caught in a reverse generation warp. Who makes up these stupid rules, anyway?
“Have you seen Jil?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“How’d you like the wallet?”
“What wallet?”
“The wallet Jil gave you for—” Uh-oh. I stop myself midsentence.
“A wallet, huh?” he says with a goofy grin on his face. “So that’s what I would’ve gotten for Christmas if she hadn’t dumped me?”
“Graham,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
When I find Jil, I will kill her. After all, I talked to her Christmas Day. Before she and her parents left for their ski trip. Somewhere between all the stories of how great her Christmas was, and how great her new family is, and how great her new skis are, she could’ve mentioned that Graham was history, couldn’t she?
“Nah, it’s okay,” says Graham. “Really. This is good to know. I thought she broke up with me because she didn’t want to spring the extra bucks for a present. So”—he rolls his shoulders around like he needs to loosen up for the Olympics—“she’d already bought me something.” He nods and repeats, “This is good to know.”
He goes back to pushing his locker door. For a minute, I consider telling him how hard she tried to steal a street sign for him, but decide against it.
“Leather?” he asks.
“What?”
“The wallet. Was it leather? I mean, was it a good brand, like Coach, or something cheap?”
No wonder she broke up with him.
Graham’s eyes get big. “No, wait.” Like a cop trying to stop traffic, he pushes his open hand toward me. “That sounded wrong.”
No kidding.
“I don’t care how much it cost.” He kicks his locker. “I just can’t figure out why she dumped me. So, I just thought, if she got me an expensive present, then she really did like me. But if she got me a crummy present, then maybe she never cared in the first place, or—”
“She cared,” I blurt. “She cared so much she could’ve gone to jail for you.”
“What?” Graham looks at me the way I stare at Dad when he speaks Aramaic.
I fill him in on the freezing rain, the snow, me ripping my coat, and the street sign that we didn’t steal. He nods and grins, so I guess my story makes getting dumped less painful. What I don’t tell him is that Jil never keeps any boyfriend for very long. But he should already know that.
I leave Graham still trying to slam his locker shut, and head for the library to return my books. Hoping Jil will be there.
I’m returning the book about the girl on the rooftops, which I finished. It didn’t provide one single good plan for getting parents to take you on trips, but I did get a free make-believe trip to Libya out of it. Caravans, palm groves, and scorpions are way different from traffic, Southpoint Mall, and mosquitoes.
Maybe I’ll renew the other two books—the ones I didn’t get around to reading. I have a feeling that I’m about to have a lot of extra time to kill. After all, my best friend is never home anymore, and last night, Mom and Dad decided I can’t impose on Mrs. Lewis and her piano more than twice a week.
Which is so unfair.
I told them that she loves for me to come over. They said she’s being polite.
I said she misses Jil. They said that is not something I can fix.
I said they don’t know anything. They said go to your room.
I have other friends, of course. There’s a bunch of people I hang out with at school, or meet at home basketball games or the movies. But Jil is the only one who gets to see inside the cave that is my house. She may think a messy house that reeks of cigarette butts and dead socks is comfortable, but the rest of my friends would think it stinks.
“Dez!” shouts Jil. “Wait up!”
“Jil!” For a split second, I’m excited, but now that I know she’s alive and breathing, I’m instantly mad.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Graham?” I scream.
Jil hurries over. “What? Oh. Sorry,” she says. “You never liked him anyway. Remember?”
“But you could’ve at least—”
“Guess what?” she cuts me off. “Dad is letting Mom and Penny and me have all four of his tickets to the Duke–Carolina game!”
“What!” I shout. No way. The Duke–Carolina game is the biggest rivalry in college basketball. Nobody can get tickets to that game. Except the Lewises, who buy season tickets because they both went to the Univer
sity of North Carolina. And because they donate big bucks to the Rams Club.
“I know it’s still a month away, but—”
Who cares? I’m thinking—all four tickets! Jil, Mom-2, Penny. That’s three. Jil’s going to ask me to go with them. She’s got to—Graham is toast. And finally! I’ll get to meet her new family.
“Mom and Dad have to be out of town,” she continues. “They’re dying! Totally dying. They’ve never missed that game, but Dad’s got this business thing in St. Louis and they have to go to it, so guess what?”
“You have all four tickets!” I shout. I’ve been to lots of Carolina games with the Lewises. NC State, Virginia, Maryland. But never the Duke game. We grab each other by the arms and jump up and down.
“And Mom says Penny can bring a friend!” Jil exclaims. “I can’t wait.”
I let go of her arms as though they’ve burned me.
“Dez,” says Jil. “What’s wrong?”
“Penny’s bringing a friend?”
“Well, yeah. I wanted to ask you, but Mom reminded me that you’ve been to a million games, but Penny’s never—”
“Mom/Jane said that, or Mom/Mom?” I ask her guardedly.
“Mom/Jane,” she says. “Is that okay? I mean…” Jil stares at me, then slumps. “Oh, Dez, I’m sorry. I just thought you’d been to lots of Duke–Carolina games, and—”
“It’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You have, haven’t you?” She looks dazed.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Once.”
“Really? Just once? Well”—she puts her hands back on my scorched arms—“you can definitely count on next year!”
“ZZZZZZZZZZ!” The buzzer rips the air to let us know we’re about to be late for our next class.
As Jil hurries away, I shout at her back, “Come over after school. I want to hear about—”
But she’s already gone.
At least she freaked out when she realized what she’d done. After all, I am her best friend.
Besides, Dad teaches at Duke. Maybe he’d hate it if I went and cheered my head off for Carolina. People at Duke hate people at Carolina. It’s tradition.
Who am I kidding? I’ve been a Carolina fan ever since the Lewises took Jil and me to our first game when we were seven. We wore Carolina blue T-shirts, Carolina blue socks, and even tied Carolina blue ribbons in our hair. We stuck fake tattoos of little blue feet on our faces. Then we bought pom-poms and screamed, “Go, Tar Heels!” until we hyperventilated.
Dad could have cared less. Just because he’s a professor at Duke doesn’t mean he’s a sports fan. The only giant rivalry he even knows about is the one between God and Satan in Paradise Lost, a three-hundred-page poem that, for no good reason, repeats everything the Bible already said in Genesis.
Besides. It’s only a stupid game.
I wouldn’t go if she begged me.
* * *
Four weeks later, I still wouldn’t go if she begged me. And I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her. Oh, sure, we IM and talk on the phone and at school, but I mean really talk. About important stuff. Like her new family—and her old family.
I go to the Lewises’ twice a week to practice piano. On Saturdays, when Jil’s usually with Mom-2, and again on Tuesdays, when Jil has volleyball practice, because that’s the best time for Mrs. Lewis.
It’s still unfair though. Just when my fingers get all limbered up and stretched out and used to finding the right keys, I have to go home and not come back for half a week. Mrs. Lewis is teaching me everything—even posture. Body centered. Elbows out just a little. Wrists flat.
Mom and Dad said we should pay her, but at least I talked them out of that bad idea. Mrs. Lewis would be so insulted if I gave her money. Don’t they know that?
So I take her something each week, like a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, or a few flowers from the grocery store. All of which dents my allowance, but it’s worth it, because Mom and Dad will have to notice that I’m serious.
Won’t they?
Mostly they notice the stupid stuff, though. Not the important things.
Like tonight, I’m cleaning up the dinner dishes while Mom gives Denver an emergency bath. He tried to juggle eggs. Dad hands me a dirty plate and asks me about my homework.
“A few math problems, and a poem,” I say, squirting liquid soap into the sink, which is slowly filling up with water.
Dad freezes in the middle of passing me a gunky casserole dish with baked-on chars of lasagna stuck to the sides. “What kind of poem?” he asks.
I am so stupid! I have just informed my father, the poetry professor, that my homework involves a poem. I plunge my hands into the sink full of soapy water and know that I deserve whatever I get.
“Nothing much,” I mutter in the general direction of my navel.
“What’s your assignment?” he persists. “Read a poem? Write a poem?”
“Write a poem,” I whisper.
“Wunderbar!” he exclaims. “They are teaching you something! What kind of poem?”
“A sonnet.” I wish I could disappear down the garbage disposal.
“Ah,” he approves. “I have a book of Shakespearean sonnets. We can read them together after we finish the dishes. You can hear the meter, feel the rhythm—”
“Thanks, Dad, but Mrs. Macon gave us a bunch of guidelines, and—”
“I thought Mr. Trimble was your English teacher.”
“He is,” I answer. “This poem is for History.”
“You’re writing a poem for History?” Dad puckers his mouth, making his beard twitch like a nervous red mouse.
“On Warren G. Harding,” I explain.
“Warren G. Harding, the president?”
“Yeah.”
“And that would be … because…” He waits for me to fill in the blank.
“Because everybody in the class got assigned a different president,” I say.
He drops the plate he’s holding onto the counter. “No!” he cries out, clearly in pain. “You don’t write a sonnet about something assigned! You write a sonnet about something you feel in your soul.”
“Dad,” I say in my most convincing voice, “I love Warren G. Harding.”
Dad glares at me and stomps over to the drawer where we keep the phone book. “I’m calling your teacher,” he says, picking up the phone with one hand. With the other hand, he jerks open the drawer so hard, the whole thing flies out and lands on the floor.
Blam!
Dried-up Magic Markers, green twist ties, dry-rotted rubber bands, and old refrigerator magnets spill onto the floor.
Fiercely, he spits out a strange-but-powerful word that’s probably a curse in Greek.
“Please, Dad, no. Don’t call. You’ll embarrass me. Just let me write the stupid sonnet. It’s not important—”
Dad staggers as if he’s taken an arrow through his heart.
“No. Wait,” I add quickly. “Sonnets are important—just not this one. This one is for a History grade. Mrs. Macon thought it would be a fun way to learn facts. Something different. You know. Bring history to life.” I’m talking faster than Denver can find dirt.
“Facts.” He exhales it slowly and sadly, the way someone might say their grandmother died. He’s staring at the telephone when it rings in his hand.
If Mom were here, she would say, Saved by the bell.
“It’s for you.” Dad hands me the phone and leaves the room, stooped like an old man.
I dry my hands and pick up the phone.
“Dez!” cries Jil. “Guess what!”
Before I have time to think, much less guess, she says, “Penny’s friend has the flu so bad she’s throwing up buckets. Can you come to the Duke–Carolina game tomorrow night?”
Chapter Eleven
I am sitting in row M, seat 8, under a sea of blue banners that represent all the championships the University of North Carolina has won. Twenty-three thousand screaming fans are blasting out more decibels than a million je
ts taking off. Dick Vitale is interviewing Coach Roy Williams, live on ESPN, right in front of me, and shouting, “It’s awesome, baby!”
Sometimes people lie to themselves. Each and every one of those times that I swore I would never come to this game even if Jil had begged me, I was flat-out lying.
Did I know I was lying?
Probably. Deep down.
* * *
Mom-2 and Penny picked Jil and me up at my house, right on time. Since Jil’s parents are out of town, she’s going to spend the night with me after the game.
“You’re going to love Mom and Penny!” Jil exclaimed just as her new family blew the horn to let us know they were in the driveway. Jil’s saying that is no big deal, except that in the last hour she’d said “You’re going to love Mom and Penny” fourteen times. I counted. But each time, she jerked on her earlobe.
Who was she trying to convince?
But as soon as I set eyes on Mom-2 and Penny, I could finally understand some of Jil’s excitement. They all three looked alike. It was amazing. Not just the blue eyes and turned-up noses that Jil had already told me about. No. It wasn’t any one feature so much as it was that they just looked alike. The whole petite, cute-as-a-button package.
It took about forty minutes to drive the fifteen miles to Chapel Hill because the game traffic was awful. For the first ten minutes, Jil and Mrs. Simmons both tugged at their earlobes. I guess nervous habits are inherited. But then we all settled in and talked and laughed. Mrs. Simmons and Penny talked the most. And Jil was right. They are nice.
Mrs. Simmons said she was glad to meet me, and then, yay! did not spend the next hour asking me all the dumb questions that grown-ups usually ask some poor kid they’ve just met. Like, How’s school? What grade are you in? What’s your favorite subject?
Instead, she told me all about Penny. How she likes school and gets good grades and loves math.
Then Penny told us all about her school and her dog named Patches and how she wants a horse for her birthday.
“I want a piano,” I volunteered.
“That’s nice,” said Mom-2.