Sure Signs of Crazy

by Karen Harrington

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you find out these things, Sarah,” he says. “Ms. Broom is a colleague of mine. She teaches American History.”

  “She sent you an instant message on the computer last night,” I say, then quickly throw in, “when I was cleaning up the house and stuff.”

  They’ve had lunch and coffee several times. He would call them “good friends.” He wants to know if any of this bothers me. Of course, he’s dated women before and it didn’t work out well. So it makes me wonder why he even wants to try at all. So many of the women he’s taken for coffee or tea or even a taco at Taco Bell have been nice at first. Then he tells them about me, and things seem to go cloudy. I am doubtful PBroom is any different.

  “Is it serious?” I ask finally.

  “No,” he says, and I note a small turned-up expression around his eyes. He likes her, that’s for sure. She must be pretty.

  “Well, I think I’d need to meet this young lady if you’re going to spend so much time with her,” I say.

  He puts his dish in the sink and washes his hands. “I’ll get the pork chops on my way home.”

  When I tell Plant about this later, we both agree PBroom might be a trouble word. I write it down in my diary, adding it to the list. There are twenty-three trouble words so far.

  Chapter 20

  Today would be an ordinary day if not for two things: I got my period, and my dad interviewed Finn.

  But I didn’t know this when I walked to Charlotte’s house. I’d decided today was the day to solve the mystery of the Duprees’ car. Right away, I see the Duprees’ car still hasn’t moved.

  Next time I go to Walgreens, I am going to get a little notebook, the size of a shirt pocket. Also, a disposable camera. I need to track these details in case something is wrong. My gut instinct, which is what cops have about certain situations, tells me something is wrong.

  The thing I already know about the Duprees is that they used to own a green-apple orchard in California, which is interesting because apple green is the color of Mr. Dupree’s car and Mrs. Dupree’s kitchen countertops. I’ve only ever been inside their house once, when they invited me and my father to choose a box of apples.

  They never actually lived near the orchard, but they had apples sent to them all the time in big wooden crates, each one individually wrapped in paper the color of brown sugar. Mrs. Dupree said they sold the business to their son after they retired. She said Mr. Dupree still worked in produce, but at the local farmers’ market. They are always giving everyone colorful fruit and vegetables they can’t sell the next day, mostly because of how it looks. But Mrs. Dupree tells me it’s still good, just to peel off the outside layers and find the good stuff underneath. It also worked when she met Mr. Dupree. She said he was good underneath and solid as a ripe melon.

  When Mr. Dupree leaves each morning, his exit is the same as all the others as they leave the cul-de-sac in a parade of cars. And also, they always pick up their newspapers. Not that I am spying on them or anything. Today, walking across the street to Charlotte’s, I spot two papers on the lawn. There is a long blue flyer hanging from the front door as well. And the apple-green car is still there, parked at the same angle as yesterday. There is much to do today: find out about the Duprees, download music to my iPod, ask Charlotte to look at the list of professors at my father’s college, and find PBroom. I am also hoping there will be time later in the day to throw basketballs into the huge trees and send the cicadas flying. So the next eight hours are completely full. A glass of water you just poured.

  The Sanchez Lawn Service truck is in front of Mr. Gustafson’s house again. The workers are bringing out giant trays of yellow flowers—marigolds, I think. Looks like Mr. Gustafson’s house is getting a makeover, or at least a little lip gloss. I can already imagine how nice the flowers will look. I walk past the truck and make sure I spot the boy with the red cap.

  “Hola,” I say, which is the only Spanish I know. He says it back and waves. “Those are pretty flowers. I like plants.” Well, that was a genius thing to say. But he nods at me in a sweet way.

  “I drank coffee today,” I tell him. “It’s not bad. I can see why people like it.”

  “Sí,” he says.

  “And you’ve never done this, but I pretended to be my father last night. On the computer, I mean. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  The boy walks to the front of the house, drops to his knees, and starts making little valleys in the dirt for each plant. He waves to me as I go, and I guess we are friends now.

  When I get to Charlotte’s, I tell her about my investigative research, wanting to start with the Duprees, and working my way to PBroom.

  “The Duprees’ car hasn’t moved in two days.”

  “So?” she says.

  “So I need to know why.”

  “What’s the second thing you need?”

  “We’ll need the Internet,” I say.

  “Ah, the type of research one does from afar.”

  My stomach still has a weird, floaty feeling, and I wonder if this is the coffee’s fault. Tomorrow I will pour a lot of milk in it. Work my way up to the way cowboys drink it.

  In Charlotte’s room, I find it easy to confess how I pretended to be my father for the briefest of minutes and discovered PBroom. Her face brightens, never once judging, as if she is entertained by this fact. Then she swivels around in her chair and begins typing so quickly it makes your head spin. In not one minute, there on her computer screen is a black-and-white photo of PBroom—Patricia Broom, professor of American History, to be exact.

  “What next?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to see what she looked like.” Now I feel stupid for even wanting to look at her. It changed nothing. She is pretty and looks thin, if you can tell this from the neck up. There’s nothing in her eyes to indicate she would hate kids. I have learned to find this expression in women. They hold an unnatural smile for too long. They force a laugh from their lips. And just as if the universe felt bad for me and wanted to reverse my mood, it gives me something else to think about. My insides give me a tight squeeze. I leave Charlotte’s room. I close the bathroom door, hold my stomach. I almost want to cry and laugh at the same time.

  Of course, I have an idea of what to do. I’m no oblivious Darla Jacobs. When a bunch of girls talked about it at a sleepover, she had no clue. We had to give her one.

  “You know, Darla. What kind of punctuation do you put at the end of a sentence?”

  “Um, a period.”

  “Duh.”

  Action is required for sure. Products needed. Maybe something special to eat. If you believe commercials, I should be out riding horses on the beach, miraculously gifted with equestrian skills. If you believe the Bible, I can be married off now, miraculously eligible just because I can bear children. I don’t want to ride a horse or be married. These are things girls with mothers would know.

  I want to curl into a ball, be alone, and have Charlotte with me at the same time. What is it with these opposite thoughts again? It is too much.

  I can ask Charlotte to take me to CVS to get Funyuns and then, while there, I’ll get products. I’ll go up to the counter and pay for them both, as if I’ve done it all my life. Maybe throw in a pack of gum to show how casual I am.

  “Sarah, you all right?” Charlotte asks through the door.

  “Yeah.”

  “We thought we’d all go for a walk and hit those trees at the park with basketballs before it gets too hot. I told Finn you liked doing that.”

  Darn! How fun this would be with all three of us. What to do? I’ll just have to be honest. After all, I am a woman now.

  “Charlotte,” I say, “um, I think I need your help.”

  She opens the door, and then I close it behind her. “I’ve started.”

  “What?”

  “You know,” I say, pointing south.

  “Ohhhhhhhh,” she says. “I thought you already had… well, this.�
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  I want to ask her did I already look like a woman? But this is no time. “I guess I will need something for it.”

  “I have a few things, and then we can run out later and get your own. We need to get you some chocolate for this, too.”

  Oh, this is wonderful. I almost want to cry a little and ask her to brush my hair. I feel a laugh/cry come up inside me again.

  “What is it? Does it hurt? Do you feel bad?” Charlotte asks.

  The strangest idea pushes its way into my head. What if this had happened when I was staying with Grandma and Gramps? Now I know something my aunt Mariah said is true in a way I cannot explain. The universe is listening. I thought I would have to find out all my knowledge in books, yet here is some surprise, some comfort standing right in front of me. Maybe you have to be a woman to know about the chocolate. Later, I will make a list of the new things that come with being twelve.

  I tell Charlotte, “No, I feel fine.”

  I reach out to hug her, and we stand still a moment. Her embrace is solid, tight in a good way. I might come apart if she lets go. It’s funny how you don’t know you are a bunch of pieces until someone hugs you together.

  We are just picking up our purses and saying bye to Finn when there he is: my father, holding a manila folder. I’ve seen this before when I’ve started a new school or gone to an after-school-care program. He pulls a background check, then makes a list of questions. If anything comes up strange, he calls his lawyer down in Houston and they gather more information on the person than even they knew existed. Then he sits down and has a talk with them, telling them he is to be apprised of all things concerning my welfare. Blah. Blah. Blah. I’ve heard it dozens of times.

  “I’m taking Sarah to the store,” Charlotte says.

  “Is it just your brother here, then?”

  I shoot a look to Finn. He has no idea about how he is about to be interrogated. He is a suspect, and my father is one of those tough cops on TV. I’m hoping there’s not even a traffic ticket in that folder.

  I want to shout at my dad, tell him not to embarrass me, but right now my insides are so twisty I can’t. I look at him hard, letting him know the unhappy-face golf ball will appear tomorrow. Be prepared, I say with my mental powers. But it’s no use. When my dad is wide awake, in a suit, and not drinking, there is no one more prepared, more interested in my life. I have two fathers. The drunk and the detective. This can’t be normal.

  Still, I’m hoping what he found will give Finn the One-Condition Tom Nelson Seal of Approval: one infraction in his record and it will be grandparent city for me.

  Chapter 21

  I am in the shower, wishing the water could rise up to my neck, let me float, and be weightless. I would like to invent a machine that could take a person right out of the shower and—poof—they’d be dried and dressed and in bed. Skip all the boring steps in between. It would be heaven.

  I’ve been an official woman for eight hours and officially feel tired. The only thing I like about womanness so far is my new mascara. Swipe, swipe. I look at least fourteen when I apply it.

  Now I’m going to lie on my bed with a hot washcloth over my belly. Charlotte told me this would help the cramps in my stomach. When she took me to CVS this afternoon, she told me everything I would need to know. It was a good thing, too, because if you stand in the aisle with all those products too long, you start to feel dumb. What I want to know is, why are there so many? She told me that I might have to try a couple of different brands to find the one just for me. All my life, I thought this would be a one-size-fits-all kind of thing, but no, it is not.

  After, we went to the makeup area so Charlotte could shop for metallic eye shadow. I’m no expert on the art of these products, either, but I do like seeing all the rows of colors. Charlotte says you can pretty much put any color on your eyes. Easy. Just sweep it across and—voilà—you are a supermodel.

  I thought of all the things I’d like to buy in the store. The colors of lipstick, for example, made me want to have one of each just for their names. Cherry Ice. Pink Sugar. China Red. Peach Crystal. I pictured myself lining them up on my bathroom counter so I could choose a different one each day. Am I in a Pink Sugar mood today? I could ask.

  I made my way down the entire cosmetics wall and stopped at the mascara. I don’t wear any makeup now, only lip gloss sometimes. Mascara seemed like something even I could do right. One or two swipes and I would have a new look. I chose Black-Brown. A present for my new status.

  “Are you ready to go now?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes,” I told her.

  Then, pure embarrassment.

  There was only a guy cashier at the front of the store. I felt my neck go red as I looked in my basket. It was so obvious why I came here. The pink-and-white box practically screamed to the world, Sarah has her period!

  Charlotte went ahead of me and bought eye shadow for her, chocolates for me. So I looked around quickly, added a pack of gum, a disposable camera, and a magazine to my basket. The cashier guy smiled at me, then scanned the box. I made a mental note to myself: Find out if you can order one year’s supply so you don’t ever have to go through this torment. Maybe Lisa will know. We can place a double order.

  The washcloth on my belly is cold now, so I set it aside, pull down my pajama shirt. I get out my composition notebook (which I now hide between my mattresses) and think about writing something for the Mr. Wistler Assignment, see if my new woman self has something better to say than my girl self. After all, I looked up period on Wikipedia. I was relieved to find out my strange thoughts are sort of normal if you are a real woman.

  Symptoms may include fatigue, mood swings, irritability, nervousness, confusion, depression, tearfulness, and anxiety.

  Bingo. I have many of the symptoms, especially confusion. For example, did I get a magazine for me at CVS? No. I didn’t even look to see what I was doing and grabbed Good Housekeeping instead of Glamour. To make matters worse, there is a big article in it about how to look your youngest. How will that help me?

  After I look through the magazine, I am not so tired, but don’t feel good, either. I feel mad, but at no one in particular.

  There’s a blank page in the composition book staring back at me. What? I want to ask it. But I am not about to start talking to a notebook. I am already talking to a plant. I send two texts to Lisa, telling her about my change and my mascara, but all she can talk about are the boys at camp and how much fun they are having swimming and making crafts out of safety pins. Well, I am just fine without her today, and I know it makes her mad that Charlotte is helping me. I don’t want to make her mad, maybe a little jealous. I want someone else to feel frustrated. I am mad at so many things that don’t make sense.

  Normally, I don’t even care that I can hear Dad’s stereo playing the Beatles. Again. But right now I want to throw a basketball at the stupid thing, break it into pieces. Simon is in my thoughts today. I’m trying to work out a dream I had about him last night where he put a note in my backpack. I’ve had dreams of him before, but he is usually just sitting and listening to me. And I guess I am mad at my mother, too. Because of her, my grandmother is the one to buy me underwear and socks, which, hello, I’ve outgrown and am desperate for now. But who can I tell about this? Answer: no one.

  That awful sad/mad feeling washes over me again, which Charlotte keeps telling me is normal. She said I should embrace it because not everyone can hold two feelings at once, but what she doesn’t know is that there is a crazy gene in me that could be causing me to feel like two different people. It feels heavy. I am a glass of water about to spill over at the slightest nudge.

  I get up and head for the kitchen to get something to eat. Dad is at the stupid wobbly table as I pass by. He looks at me with a grin and starts to laugh.

  “What happened to you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Around your eyes,” he says. “Not sure that’s the look you were going for.”

  I check my
warped reflection in the toaster. Mascara circles both eyes and makes me look like a creature from a horror movie.

  He tries to hide his laugh behind one hand, but I can tell it’s still there. “I think you’re supposed to wash that off, honey.”

  I cannot get out of the kitchen fast enough.

  I slam the door to my room. I am so stupid. I don’t know a lot about a lot, but I’m pretty sure a mother would not be laughing at me right now. So, I’m sorry, Lucas McCain, hate might be too strong a word for my dad, but right now I’m not looking up another synonym. Hate will have to do.

  And for my mother? I am so mad at her. You would think she could at least write useful things to me. Tell me about products and makeup. Something better than Twelve is such a wonderful age. Blah. Blah. Blah. If she thinks it’s so great, she would not leave me with this humiliation.

  It comes to me that there is something worse than having a mother who can’t show up in a Family Tree Project. It’s having a mother who doesn’t show up at all. Which don’t I know all about? Yes, I do.

  Dear Atticus,

  This letter will sound mad, but I am not mad at you. This is one of those times I could really use your advice. I flat-out don’t know what to do about my father. Here I was having a good day (some interesting things happened to me today), and my dad has to be the most insensitive person on the planet. I know you’ve come across some insensitive people in Maycomb, and you would tell me their issues were worse than mine. That is true. But the people who are insulting people in your town (especially the way black people are treated) are ignorant, as you say. And they don’t even know the people they are calling names. So I ask you: Isn’t it worse to be mean to someone you supposedly know and love? Well, I’m getting pretty worked up, but that’s how I feel. There should be a law that forces people to follow that saying If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything. I tell you, that would be a good trick if you could make it happen. But then there would be a million more people in jail. You would never run out of clients. (Though I would hope you would be the prosecutor on those cases.) The guilty person (like my dad) would have to take the stand, and you could fire questions at them like, “In your opinion, Mr. Nelson, did you think it was wise to laugh at the defendant in her time of despair and hardship?”