I just shook my head and smiled a little. There is so much Claire doesn’t know about stuff not being fair.
Molly looked smug and not at all sorry. Her mother came to pick her up, and the practice was over.
The competition is tomorrow—Thursday evening. Assuming we win, we’ll have the Good Morning America appearance on Friday, followed by a trip to the White House. More sightseeing in D.C. is planned for Saturday, then we come home on Sunday. On Monday, hopefully, we’ll return to school as national champions. With that trophy.
So tonight we pack. I’ve never been on a trip away from home before, so we have some serious planning to do. I feel crazy excited, crazy nervous. Dad bought me a bright red suitcase with wheels. It smells like the inside of a new car. Touching it makes me smile.
Mom and I went shopping yesterday—something we don’t get to do much anymore. She let me choose a couple of new outfits—with jeans—none of those practical, baggy sweat suits for this trip!
As we rolled down the mall, we passed a card shop. I had a brainstorm and tapped out on my board, “Go in. Get card, please.”
“For whom?” Mom asked as we wheeled in there.
“Catherine,” I typed. “To thank her. For helping me get ready.”
“How very grown up of you!” Mom said, clearly pleased.
“One for Mrs. V, too?” I tapped out.
“Absolutely!”
The card we found for Mrs. V could not have been more perfect. The front was completely covered with hundreds of oranges, except for one blue one in the middle. Inside, it said: You’re one in a million. Thanks.
“She’ll love it,” Mom said.
For Catherine, I picked out a card that showed a desk full of computers and MP3 players and video games, and a young woman connected to all of them with earphones. It read: Glad you’re always there to plug in to me. Thanks for all you do.
“You couldn’t have designed those better yourself,” Mom said as she paid for the cards. Yep, pretty perfect.
Around seven o’clock the doorbell rings. It’s Mrs. V, coming over to help with the final packing preparations. She and Mom make a great team.
“I’ve made a checklist according to Mr. Dimming’s suggestions,” Mom says. “Black skirt and white blouse for the competition.”
“Check,” Mrs. V says as she neatly folds those two pieces into my suitcase.
“Sheck!” Penny mimics.
“Extra white blouse, just in case,” Mom says.
“Great idea,” Mrs. V replies, nodding.
Mom carefully folds in two more shirts and my favorite pair of jeans. “Comfortable outfits for sightseeing in Washington. Spending money for souvenirs. Sunglasses. Camera.”
“Check, check, check,” Mrs. V repeats.
“Pajamas, toothbrush, deodorant, hair clips.”
“All there.”
“A warm jacket—no telling what this March weather will do.”
“Sheck!” Penny cries.
“Power pack for Medi-Talker, extra batteries, tissues, and wipes.”
“Got it!”
“Umbrella?”
“For you or for Melody?” Mrs. V asks with a laugh. “Do you have your bag packed?”
“Yeah, I’m just about ready. I’m nervous too.” Mom pauses. “You’re the best, Violet. I know Penny will be safe with you while we’re gone—”
“And Butterscotch,” I interrupt.
They both laugh. Mom continues, “Frankly, without you, there is no way that Melody would be packing for this trip.”
“Get card, Mom,” I type. I reach my hand to the side, but I can barely touch the edge of my book bag hanging on my chair.
Mom reaches into the bag, pulls out the envelope, and sets it on my tray. I push it toward Mrs. V.
She opens it, reads it, then squeezes me so hard, I can hardly catch my breath. “This one goes on my refrigerator door!” she says quietly. “I want to look at it every single day.” She busies herself then with dusting off a pair of my shoes that have never taken a step.
“I’m a little scared,” I admit.
“Nonsense, Mello Yello,” Mrs. V tells me. “I fully expect to see you on Good Morning America with that ten-foot-high trophy!”
“That would be awesome,” I type.
“Now tell me once more,” Mrs. V says to Mom. “What time does the plane leave tomorrow? Penny, take Melody’s underwear off your head, you silly girl!”
Mom checks her papers. “Plane leaves at noon. That means we should leave here no later than nine, get to the airport by ten, get all checked in, make sure her wheelchair is properly taken care of and such, then we can relax until it’s time to board the plane.”
Mrs. V scratches her head. “I wonder why they chose the noon flight. That will get you into Washington around two. The competition starts at seven. That’s cutting it a little close.”
“Mr. Dimming told us the hotel has a late check-in policy. The TV studio is just across the street from the hotel, so we’ll be fine.”
As Mom closes and zips my suitcase, I feel tears come into my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening. In just one day I will be in Washington, D.C., on national television. I pray I won’t screw up.
I want to call Rose and see if she’s nervous too. I want to ask her what she’ll wear to the White House. Suppose we get to meet the First Lady—now, that would be the bomb! I want to know if we’ll be sitting near each other on the plane. I want to be like all the other girls.
I don’t sleep well that night. In the morning Mom gets me bathed and dressed and fed in record time while Dad gets Penny ready.
“Go see plane?” she asks repeatedly.
“Fly! Whee!” Dad says as he flies her around the room in his arms. She loves it.
We head outside, and Mrs. V hurries over, camera in hand. She snaps pictures of me getting strapped in, my suitcase being loaded, and my brave and hopeful victory smile. Then she does it all over again with Dad’s camcorder. No, we’ll never be able to forget this morning.
Penny darts about, chasing Butterscotch, running in circles around the car, which has been washed and shined. Mom, dressed in a cool denim suit and, surprisingly, a pair of late-style Nikes, loads our bags in the car, and we’re totally ready to go by eight forty-five.
Dad takes Butterscotch back into the house, then locks the front door on his way out. “All set?” he asks.
“Let’s do it!” Mom yells. Even Penny can feel the excitement. She claps her hands. I can’t stop grinning.
Even though I know we have plenty of time, I keep wanting Dad to drive faster. I’m so afraid that we’ll miss the plane or that we forgot my ticket or that I’ll throw up and we’ll have to go back home.
At the airport garage we have no trouble finding a row of empty handicapped parking spaces. We unload me, my chair, our bags, and Penny and Doodle. Mrs. V snaps more photos.
It seems like hours, but in minutes we’re at the check-in gate.
Mrs. V pushes me. Mom carries Penny. Dad pulls a cart loaded with the luggage and Doodle. It’s ten o’clock on the dot.
“Hi!” Mom says cheerfully to the uniformed lady at the desk. “We’re here to check in for the noon flight to Washington, D.C.” She hands the lady our tickets.
“The noon flight?” the woman replies with a frown. She types and clicks, purses her lips, then types some more. Finally, she looks up. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that flight has been cancelled. We’ve had loads of cancellations today—a late-winter snowstorm in the Northeast has caused backups all over.”
Cancelled? My stomach starts to gurgle.
“Snow?” Mom’s voice sounds thick. “But the weather here is sunny and clear.”
“They’ve got five inches on the ground in Boston already, and more is predicted for this afternoon farther south. The FAA won’t let planes take off in weather like that, so our whole system gets gummed up. Planes due to arrive here and then return eastward get cancelled, meaning our afternoon flights can’t
depart. It’s complicated. Sorry.”
The desk agent continues to type rapidly. She tells Mom, “I can get you and your daughter on the next direct flight out, however. It leaves here at 7:23 p.m. and will get you into Washington at 9:07. The weather service has predicted that the storm system will have fizzled by then, so we can start getting folks where they need to be. Actually, tomorrow it will all be rain.”
My heart is thudding now.
“Would you like me to rebook you now?” She smiles cheerfully. She doesn’t get it.
“But the competition starts at seven,” Mom mumbles weakly.
“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you,” the desk agent says.
I can’t breathe.
Mom speaks a little louder. “What about the rest of our group? We’re traveling together—a group of schoolchildren—a quiz team, actually. They were also booked on this flight. We’ve got a competition this evening.”
“Oh, I remember those kids. They were here early this morning. Great group. So polite and well mannered. They told me all about the competition and the huge trophy they might be bringing home.”
“They came early?” Mom croaks.
“It seems they all went to breakfast together, then came straight here. It’s a good thing they did too, or they wouldn’t have gotten out.”
“Where are they?” Mom asks.
“Oh, they got switched to the nine o’clock flight—the last eastbound plane to get out before flights started getting cancelled. They had to run down to the gate, but they made it just in time. I made sure of it.” She looks down at her computer. “Yes, that flight left about an hour ago.”
“They’re gone?” Mom whispers.
I feel like I’m going to choke.
“Are you and your family going to D.C. to cheer them on?” the woman asks. She still doesn’t get it.
“No, my daughter is on the team,” Mom explains. “We must get to Washington. Isn’t there another flight— perhaps on another airline?”
The woman looks at me and blinks. “She’s on the . . . ?” she starts to ask, but then she catches herself, returns her gaze to her monitor, and begins typing furiously once more. I can hear her fingernails as they click on the keys.
Dad places both hands on the ticket counter and leans in toward the agent. I’ve never seen him so angry. “How could this happen? Shouldn’t we have been notified that the flight was cancelled?”
“We try, sir, but it’s not always possible,” the lady replies, sounding truly sorry. “We do always advise passengers to call ahead and check their flight status.”
“But this was the trip of a lifetime! You can’t possibly understand how important this is to my daughter!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Stupid elevator music floats from the tinny airport speakers. I hear no beautiful colors. I smell no lovely aromas. All I can see is the darkness behind my eyeballs.
“I’m really, really sorry, sir,” the lady says.
“What about a connecting flight? We must get her to Washington this afternoon!”
The woman types and clicks for what seems like hours. Finally, she looks up. “There are no other flights to D.C. on any other carrier, sir, nonstop or otherwise. That weather system has grounded everything. There will be nothing until later this evening. I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
I open my eyes because they are filling with tears.
Dad walks away from the ticket counter, his face scrunched into tight wrinkles, then, without warning, he smashes his fist into the wall right next to where I’m sitting.
I jerk my head up. I know that had to hurt.
“Ahhh! I shouldn’t have done that!” he admits, holding one fist in the other.
But if I could have smashed my fist against a wall, I would have as well.
Mrs. V looks from Dad to me. “I don’t understand how this could have happened either,” she says to Mom. “Shouldn’t someone from the quiz team have called you?” Her voice could crush bricks. “The teacher, perhaps?”
“Maybe there wasn’t time,” Mom says helplessly. “At least that’s what I hope. Surely they . . . surely they wouldn’t have left her behind on purpose.”
I still have not taken one deep breath.
“I really do apologize, ma’am,” the gate agent finally says. “I’ve even checked airports in nearby cities. There are no flights out of the area until this evening. I have plenty of seats on our seven o’clock flight if you’d like me to book you.”
“No, thank you,” Mom says quietly. “It’s too late.”
The entire airport feels like a vacuum to me. No sound. No voices. No air.
Mom walks slowly toward me.
I sit there in my new blue and white outfit with new matching tennis shoes, next to my new shiny red suitcase, feeling very, very stupid.
And angry. How could they do this to me?
And helpless. I hate feeling like this—like when I was little and got stuck on my back like a stupid turtle. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.
“How long does it take to drive to D.C.?” Mrs. V asks. I don’t even look up. I know the answer.
“Ten hours at the very least,” Dad replies, his voice soft.
“Go fly airplane?” Penny asks.
“No fly today,” Dad says, touching her gently on her head with his good hand.
Mom rolls me over to a bench on the other side of the check-in area. She kneels down in front of me. She’s crying.
I don’t think I’ll ever breathe again.
Mom hugs me. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. You’re still the best, the smartest, the most wonderful girl in the world. Somehow we’re going to get over this.”
No. I won’t.
Mrs. V wipes her eyes as well. She sits on the bench and takes both my hands in hers. “Oh, baby girl, I know this is hard. But there is just no way to get you to Washington.”
I just sit there. The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.
CHAPTER 29
When we get home, I ask my mother to put me in bed. I refuse to eat lunch. I try to sleep, but quiz questions and why questions keep flying into my head.
Why didn’t they call me?
Why didn’t they tell me about breakfast?
Why can’t I be like everybody else?
I finally cry into my pillow. Butterscotch nudges me with her nose, but I ignore her.
They left me on purpose! How could they do that? They left me on purpose!
I feel like stomping on something. Stomping and stomping and stomping! That makes me even crazier because I can’t even do that! I can’t even get mad like a normal kid.
Penny peeks into my room, then, when she sees I’m awake, she climbs up on my bed and snuggles close to me. She smells like watermelon bubble bath. She tries to count my fingers, then tries to count her own, but all she knows is one, two, three, five, so she says that over and over. Then she tries to teach Doodle to count. “Two, Doodle! Two!” I feel myself relaxing a tiny bit.
“Oh, here you are, Penny!” Dad says from my doorway. “Are you making Dee-Dee happy?”
“Dee-Dee good girl,” she tells Dad.
“Yes, she is that. The very best,” Dad agrees. “You okay, Melody?” he asks as he comes over to stroke my hair.
I nod. I point to Dad’s left wrist, which is wrapped in an Ace bandage.
“Yeah, it hurts,” he says. “That was a dumb thing to do, but I guess it made me feel better.”
I nod again.
He lifts Penny from my bed with his right arm. “Ready for a snack, Miss Penny?” he asks her.
“Hot dogs!” she demands.
“Do you want me to fix you something, Melody?” he asks me.
I’m not hungry. I shake my head, then point to the clock.
“Maybe later?” Dad says.
I smile at him, and he quietly leaves the room with my sister.
The phone rings.
I hear Mom say, “Oh, hello, Mr. Dimming.” She
walks quickly into my room, portable phone to her ear, her palm so tight around the receiver, I can see the veins on the top of her hand.
“No, I don’t understand,” Mom says curtly. “Why weren’t we called?” She listens to him for a minute, then bursts out angrily, “We could have easily been at the airport an hour earlier. We could have been there at dawn!” She’s almost shouting. “Do you know how much this has devastated my daughter?”
A pause.
“Yes, I’m aware she’s probably the brightest person on the team. Was. The word is WAS. There is no IS.” Mom pauses to listen again. “You’ll make it up to her? You’ve got to be kidding!”
Mom hangs up on him and flings the phone into a corner. She wipes her eyes, pulls a tissue from a box on my desk, and sits down heavily on the chair next to my bed. I listen to her blow her nose, then I turn over.
“Oh, Melody, if only I could make your hurt go away,” she says plaintively.
I blink at my own tears.
She pulls me up onto her lap. It isn’t the snuggly fit it used to be, but it feels good. She rocks me, humming softly. I finally fall asleep listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
CHAPTER 30
What happened today was all my fault. I should have listened. We should have all stayed home and spent the day together. But we didn’t. Because of me.
When I awoke this morning, it was raining. Thunder. Lightning. Wind. A constant, soaking downpour that laughed at umbrellas and raincoats. The air itself was gray and heavy, thick with too much moisture. I could hear it pounding on my window.
Dad came into my room and sat down in our old reading chair. He held his wrist carefully. Mom had put his arm in a sling. “Messy day out there,” he said.
I nodded.
“Your team got beat in one of the late rounds in D.C. last night,” he told me. “They got ninth place—a little bitty trophy.”
But they weren’t my team anymore. I tried to pretend like I didn’t care. I blinked real hard and faced the wall.
“I wish I could fix this for you, Melody,” Dad said quietly as he headed out of my room.
That made the tears fall for real.
At first I didn’t want to go to school. I’d been excused because I was supposed to be in Washington, and if I went in, I’d have to sit all day in room H-5 with Willy and Maria and Freddy. It seemed pointless.
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