by Betty Hicks
Somehow, Jil and I get up. And somehow, we drag ourselves through the school day. I can only hope that none of my teachers said anything that will ever show up on a test.
And somehow, I get through the next four months, February to May. With more sleep, but not a lot worth telling about.
The most exciting thing that happens in that entire time is Mom’s discovery of a rare spotted newt in one of her ponds. I try to share her joy, but honestly, it’s not even a cute newt. Just slimy.
The most embarrassing thing that happens is when Mrs. Macon gives me back a C on my Warren G. Harding poem. With red pen, in her tiny, pinched handwriting, she claims I didn’t include enough facts.
Facts! In a poem! Even I know that’s insane.
Dad’s reaction? You can probably guess. He goes 100 percent ballistic and publicly champions a major campaign to get her fired. Privately he rants about how he’d like to see her head and hands locked up in one of those wooden torture stocks that seventeenth-century people were put in to punish them. And, as if that’s not enough, he lobbies to require a poetry appreciation course for every eighth-grade teacher in the state, even if all they teach is P.E.
A bunch of administrators deal with it, and no doubt have lots of good laughs about my father, the peculiar professor-poet-parent. Lucky for me, no kids find out.
The most fun thing that happens is my very own, self-taught, sixty-day course in Fake Piano Playing. I discover an article on the Internet that explains how movie stars make it look as if they really are playing the piano when, in fact, they don’t have a clue about music. I rent a video clip of Vladimir Horowitz playing for real, and then I imitate him. His rhythm, fingers, posture, everything. The most amazing thing I notice is that his fingers never leave the keys.
Of course, real actors have real pianos to pretend their fake music on, and I don’t. So I get a big piece of poster board and draw black-and-white piano keys on it—to scale. It takes me hours to get it right. Then I sit in the den at home, playing fake piano in time to the real music streaming in from my headphones. I may look stupid, but it makes me feel like a pro.
Mom’s response is to pat me on the head on her way to turn on Local on the 8’s, saying, “Practice makes perfect.”
Dad strolls through, stops, stares, and mutters, “‘Have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?’”
Denver dances and twirls in time to the tunes that no one can hear but me, and says, “Dez hears secrets.”
Best of all, I still get to play for-real piano, twice a week, at the Lewises’. Which is great, except that lately, Mrs. Lewis seems smaller, as if someone has let a little of the air out of a beautiful balloon. And Mr. Lewis is quieter. As if someone cast a sadness spell over him.
The most frustrating thing that happens in all that time is that Jil never gets our shirt back from Penny, and she stops talking to me about it. She still goes to visit almost every weekend, but they always hand her some radically lame excuse like, “It’s dirty. We’ll wash it, and give it to you next time.” I can tell it embarrasses Jil to even repeat this stuff, so I stop asking about the shirt.
And as hard as I try to hide it, I also know Jil can sense that I don’t much like Jane and Penny anymore.
So. Overall, my life is mostly on hold. Not much to do until I get Jil back, or a piano, whichever comes first. Or ever.
At least I get out of town twice, even if it’s only in my imagination. Once to Venice, Italy, when I read The Thief Lord—a very cool adventure about parentless kids living on their own in an amazing city of water and canals. They make a home for themselves in an abandoned movie theater and outsmart all kinds of grown-ups.
My second imaginary trip is to Israel, when I read Samir and Yonatan. That book makes me sad, though, because it’s about a Palestinian boy stuck living with his enemies in an Israeli hospital. Sometimes I feel like that—not that my parents are enemies exactly, but they sure do seem foreign sometimes. The good thing is that Samir makes a best friend. The bad thing is that I seem to be losing mine.
The most potentially stupendous thing that happens is my how-to-get-a-piano idea. I think it up one day when Mom is moaning about the cost of summer day care for Denver.
“Sometimes I wonder if there’s even any point in my working,” she tells Dad, who is busy gathering up a wad of exam papers and stuffing them into his briefcase.
Denver is zooming a big plastic truck back and forth across our already scratched-up coffee table.
Mom sighs. “So much of my salary goes to pay for day care.”
“Of course it’s worth it,” says Dad, trying to fasten the clasp, but there are too many papers sticking out. His briefcase looks like Graham’s locker. “You love your work,” Dad adds, glancing distractedly around the den.
“Vroom! Vroom!” goes Denver.
“I’ll look after him,” I announce.
Mom laughs.
“Sooooper Truuuck!” shouts Denver in a sing-songy way. His truck goes sailing off the table and crashes into a lamp.
“Denver!” yells my mother. “How many times do I have to tell you—?”
“Sorry,” whispers Denver, his body shrinking so pitifully that it’s incredibly cute.
“Where’re my car keys?” asks Dad, picking up a stack of old magazines and looking under them.
“No, really. I will,” I say.
“Will what?” asks Mom.
“Look after him,” I repeat. “It’ll be my summer job. And with the money you save, we can rent a piano. Maybe even buy one.”
I happen to know that day care costs a lot.
“You’re too young for a summer job,” says Mom.
“I’m not too young to babysit. All my friends do it. Michelle. Samantha—”
“Not all day, every day.”
“But this would be different. This is my home. And Denver is family.”
“Frenetic family,” says Mom.
“Frenetic?”
“Frenzied,” says Mom. “As in, wild. Without an intermission. No rest for the weary.”
“‘Double, double, toil and trouble,’” says Dad, picking up an old pair of tennis shoes and shaking them upside down.
“I can read him the poems he loves,” I proclaim. “All day. Every day.”
Dad stops searching for his car keys and focuses on me, as if he’s seeing me for the first time ever.
“At least give me a chance,” I beg. “Let me look after him the first week that school’s out. Just let me try. Please.”
Mom looks at Dad. Dad looks at Mom. For both of them, it’s that knowing look, the smug one that parents use on little kids when they agree to let them do something everyone knows is impossible. As in, sure, you can walk to Florida and join the circus. We’ll help you pack. Meanwhile, we’ll wait two miles down the road to drive you home because we know you’ll quit.
Dad gets down on his hands and knees and looks under the sofa. He pulls out seven Legos, a tangled wad of fishing line, one chewed-up sock from when we used to have a dog, and a cereal bowl with furry lumps of blue mold growing on what might have once been milk.
“I think we should let her do it,” he says quietly into the scary cave under our couch.
“Yes!” I scream, and dive directly onto Dad’s back to give him the biggest hug ever.
“Oomph!” His breath bursts out in one big whoosh. He almost collapses under me.
“Sorry.” With my arms still wrapped around Dad, I look up at Mom. Expectantly. Pleadingly.
She shrugs and says, “Fine.” Then, in a voice filled with serious doubt, she shakes her head and adds, “I guess you just can’t learn that fire is hot until you touch it.”
“Yes!” I shriek, clambering off Dad’s back.
He pulls himself to standing and returns my hug. I’m pretty sure he’s winking at Mom over my shoulder.
Who cares?
I run to thank Mom next. She gives me a loving squeeze, but it’s the kind with sadness in it—th
e kind that whispers, I hate to see you fail, but life is all about trying.
I know they’re setting me up for defeat, but I’ll show them.
Chapter Fourteen
Today is the last day of eighth grade. I can’t wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow is when I start Denver duty. Full time.
I’m cleaning out my locker when Graham strolls by. He stops and says, “You gotta be kidding.”
“Huh?” I look up at him. He is cute. But his shirt is buttoned lopsided because he must have matched the buttons wrong, and now one side is three inches longer than the other.
“That’s your locker?” he asks, squinting.
“Uh-huh. Why?”
“It looks like the inside of a … of a…,” he stammers, and gives up. “I can’t think of anything to compare it to.” He leans into the open door. “I’ve never seen anything so neat.” He backs away. “Except maybe Jil’s kitchen.”
“Yeah, well. I lugged most of my stuff home yesterday,” I lie.
“Oh. Okay.” He seems relieved.
That’s when I notice that he’s holding a big black trash bag full of something. He lifts it up and explains. “Useless accumulations of eighth grade. On its way to the first Dumpster I find.”
I stifle a desperate urge to grab it and go through every grimy sock and gum wrapper. There’s bound to be some good stuff in there somewhere. What if he’s throwing away his watch, an unused notebook, or a perfectly good pen?
“Seen Jil?” he attempts to ask casually.
“Yeah. Some.” I shove the neat stack of books on my top shelf into a heap so it’ll look less perfect.
“She still going to visit her real family all the time?”
It’s all I can do not to yell that the Lewises are her real family! Instead, I say, “Beginning tomorrow, she’s spending the whole month of June with them.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, see you around, Dez.”
“Yeah. You, too, Graham. Have a fun summer.”
I watch him trudge down the hall, dragging his trash bag behind him. Poor guy. It’s been five months since she dumped him. And he’s still asking about her. Well, he’s got all summer. That ought to do it.
“Good luck,” I whisper as he vanishes around the corner.
I straighten the pushed-over pile of books and slide them into my backpack. Then I pull out a handful of pens that are held together by a rubber band, and zip them into the see-through outside pocket of my backpack.
All that’s left for me to do is return a library book and then find Mr. Trimble. I want to thank him for the reading suggestions he gave me.
After I leave the library, I find him in his classroom, all bent over, lowering stacks of books into a big cardboard box.
“Hey, thanks, Mr. Trimble,” I say. “You put me onto some very cool imaginary travel this year.”
He straightens up, arching his back like it hurts, but his face is filled with pure joy. He’s flashing me a grin so huge you’d think I’d just informed him that his whole life was worthwhile and now he could die happy.
“So tell me. Where did all that reading take you?”
“Lots of places. Africa. Israel. Italy.”
“No kidding? That’s great. What’s next?”
“China,” I answer, but I’m making that up. I doubt I’ll do any reading this summer, with Denver to look after. Except for maybe a million or two trips to Whoville. Denver loves Dr. Seuss.
“Well. Have a great summer!” I wave and back out the door before he can ask me to name the China book.
Whump.
I plow straight into Mrs. Macon on her way down the hall. The last person in the entire world I want to see.
Look down and keep walking, I tell myself.
“Dez.” Her lips are as pinched and tight as her handwriting. “I do hope you have an interesting summer planned.”
Obviously, she doesn’t mean that. Not that I blame her. After all, my dad tried to get her fired.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I’m babysitting my brother. Every day.”
“That’s nice.” She turns to leave.
“Uh … Mrs. Macon, I’m sorry about all the trouble my dad caused you.” I figure it’s the least I can say.
She swings back around to me. Slowly. “You should be proud of your dad.”
“Excuse me?”
“He has things he’s passionate about, Dez. Like poetry.” She pauses, stares out somewhere over my head, and coughs up a nervous little laugh. “I’m passionate about the presidents, you know.” Then she heaves a long, deep sigh, and adds, “But I can’t fault anyone for doing what he thinks is right.”
“Well, yeah. For sure,” I answer. “And that’s, uh, nice of you to say so. Especially, uh—” I falter. She is being nice, right?
“Give him my best.” She dismisses me with one of those cheery bye-bye-for-now hand gestures.
“Yeah. Sure. I will.”
I watch her disappear down the hall.
Go figure.
But then I remember that I have more important things to do than try and understand a teacher who may be even weirder than my dad.
So, good-bye, Mrs. Macon. Good-bye, eighth grade.
Hello, Denver duty.
Chapter Fifteen
7:00 A.M.
My alarm goes off.
“Dez-Dez-Dez! Dez-Dez-Dez!” Over and over. “Dez-Dez-Dez!” I cover my head with my pillow. There it goes again. Muted, but relentless. “Dez-Dez-Dez!”
My alarm is a small, very loud three-year-old boy named Denver, wearing dinosaurs on his feet.
7:01 A.M.
I groan.
7:04 A.M.
I get up.
7:05 A.M.
I start to make my bed, but Denver needs to go to the bathroom and he wants me to accompany him. On the way there, he remembers that his plastic pig won’t go oink anymore, so we look for a new battery.
7:14 A.M.
We’re still looking for a battery.
7:15 A.M.
Denver wets his Frog and Toad pajamas.
7:16 A.M.
I sponge up wee-wee. Change Denver’s clothes. Put his pajamas in the washing machine. Look for carpet shampoo.
7:25 A.M.
No carpet shampoo. I decide to cook him breakfast. No eggs. No milk. I mix dry cereal with some blueberries, give Denver a spoon, and place him in front of the TV. I find Dragon Tales for him, but he wants to watch the Weather Channel. I stifle a scream.
7:28 A.M.
I try to wipe up blueberry stains, which can’t be done, so I search, one more time, for carpet shampoo.
7:34 A.M.
I look for Band-Aids. How can anyone cut his toe on a spoon? Eventually, I find a Big Bird Band-Aid in the drawer with the telephone book, but Denver wants a Frog and Toad Band-Aid. He is very into Frog and Toad.
7:45 A.M.
I decide to read him Frog and Toad, hoping that will make up for no Band-Aid.
8:32 A.M.
We are still reading, and rereading, Frog and Toad. It’s a good thing I like these stories.
8:33 A.M.
Denver needs to go to the bathroom. Number two. This time he wants to go by himself. I say, “No. You need help when you wipe.” He screams, “I can do it!” and shuts the bathroom door in my face. It locks.
8:34 A.M.
Mom calls out, “I’m off to work, Dez. Call me if you need me.” I yell back, “I can do it!”
I try not to cry.
8:38 A.M.
I find a knife and pop the lock. The good news is that Denver has not gone number two yet. The bad news is that he flushed his plastic pig down the toilet and stopped it up. Water is running over the commode basin and covering the floor.
8:39 A.M.
Dad knocks on the bathroom door. “I’m leaving now. You guys okay in there?”
8:40 A.M.
“We’re fine,” I answer. “Have a good day.” Denver shouts, “We
’re swimming!” I cover his mouth to shut him up.
8:41 to 11:48 A.M.
I unstop the toilet, help Denver go number two, mop the floor, put his Frog and Toad pajamas in the dryer, read him four books, work seven puzzles, take his pajamas out of the dryer, go for a walk, wash the mud out of his hair, fix him a snack, remember that I never ate breakfast, fix myself a snack, play Go Fish, teach him his numbers, let him fill the kitchen sink with bubbles and throw toys into it, make a megaphone out of a cardboard paper-towel tube, answer the phone, tell the telemarketer we don’t want any, find Denver, glue the broken picture frame back together, wonder what Jil is doing at Jane’s house, wonder if I really want a piano bad enough to do this for an entire summer, wonder if I can even do it for one whole day.
11:49 a.m. to 12:03 P.M.
Lunch.
12:04 to 2:29 P.M.
I make a bet with Denver that he can’t sit on a basketball and bounce for thirty minutes. I make a bet with Denver that he can’t run up and down the driveway for twenty minutes. I reward Denver for winning both bets by making him slice-n-bake chocolate chip cookies. I wash the cookie sheet. Scrub melted chocolate out of the carpet. Add milk, eggs, and carpet shampoo to the grocery list. Answer the telephone and tell Dad we’re fine. Answer the phone and tell Mom we’re fine. Find Denver. Make him put all the silverware back in the drawer.
2:30 P.M.
Naptime. Both of us.
4:00 P.M.
Talk Denver into watching a two-hour movie with me.
4:20 P.M.
Turn off the movie. Bet Denver that he can’t put all his puzzles together without my help.
4:25 P.M.
Help Denver put all his puzzles back together.
4:45 P.M.
Mom comes home.
“You’re early!” I cry out, trying to hide my joy.
“I thought you might be climbing the walls,” she says. At the same time, I know she’s eyeing me for telltale signs of defeat, exhaustion, or serious blood loss.
“I’m fine,” I say, radiating total success.
“Really?” She seems stunned.
“Yep. We had fun, didn’t we, Denver?”
“Uh-huh.” He nods like a bobble-head. “Mom”—he tugs on her hand—“can Dez day-care me tomorrow?”