by C. C. Payne
“Get your things, Zachariah,” Mrs. Ludwig growled.
Zach did as he was told and Mrs. Ludwig moved on with our lesson on word problems.
I hate word problems. Hate them. Word problems are the brussels sprouts of math. Yuck.
When Mrs. Ludwig finally started winding down, I snuck a peek back at Zach: He’d built a fort out of the old textbooks stacked on the back table, and all I could see was the tip-tip-toppy of his blond head moving around in there! I don’t know why it struck me as so funny, but it did. I laughed out loud.
Mrs. Ludwig whirled around. “Fizzy Russo!”
I tried to stop laughing. But the harder I tried, the harder I laughed. I laughed so hard my whole body shook. I couldn’t stop. Not knowing what else to do, I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my face with both hands. And then, somehow, I laughed myself right out of my chair and onto the floor.
The whole class roared with laughter.
Mrs. Ludwig barked, “Out in the hall!”
I glanced back at Zach as I got up off the floor.
Zach rose from his seat just enough so that I could see his face above the fort. He winked and smiled at me. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Zachariah Mabry!” Mrs. Ludwig thundered. “You move those books this instant!”
Zach must’ve given a little push, because the fort suddenly toppled over and books crashed onto the table and floor.
Again, the class erupted in laughter.
Zach was right. Mrs. Ludwig glared at him, pointed at the door, and shouted, “You! Out in the hall, too!”
Zach followed me out into the hallway, where I stuffed my hands into my pockets and studied my shoes.
Mrs. Ludwig followed Zach. She came to a stop just two feet from us, towering over us, hands on her hips—looking very scary. “Zachariah, you will pick up every single one of those books.”
Zach shrugged.
“And you will come to my classroom to stay after school every day for the rest of the week.”
Zach smirked. “Mrs. Wilcox has already requested the pleasure of my company after school today. But I’d be happy to join you tomorrow and for the rest of the week—Monday, too, if you like. Thank you for inviting me, Harriet.”
My jaw dropped.
“Do not dare address me by my first name again,” Mrs. Ludwig warned.
I looked at Zach as if to say, Have you lost your mind?
“And you!” Mrs. Ludwig said, shaking a finger at me. “Get a hold of yourself, girl!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Now back to class, both of you.”
When math was over, I paused in the doorway, waiting for Mrs. Ludwig to hand me the sealed envelope I was sure she had for my parents.
But she just gave me a cold look and said, “You’re holding up the line, Fizzy.”
Out in the hall, Mike Anderson gave Zach a high five and said to me, “Best math class ever.”
I smiled. For a few minutes, I felt like I’d gotten lucky. Then it hit me: Mrs. Ludwig probably didn’t write to my parents because she planned to call them. She might as well have punched me in the stomach—what if Keene answered the phone?
Chapter 26
After school, I found Aunt Liz in her warm, buttery kitchen. Her eyes smiled when she saw me. “I was just making some more Benedictine for you and Miyoko,” she said.
“Thanks, but Miyoko couldn’t come today. She said she’d see you next time.”
“More Benedictine for you,” Aunt Liz said as she flipped the switch on her food processor and a loud humming filled the room.
I smiled because I’d arrived at just the right time—Benedictine is best straight out of the food processor.
When Aunt Liz turned the processor off, the phone was ringing.
“Hello,” she sang into it happily, just before her face changed. “Okay,” she said seriously. “Okay. . . . Uh-huh. . . . How long? . . . Okay, I’m on my way.”
I frowned. “I’m on my way” didn’t sound like good news for me—or my Benedictine.
“That was your dad,” Aunt Liz said, tearing off her apron. “Suzanne’s having the baby!”
“Now? But it’s not time yet,” I protested.
“The baby doesn’t know that—it’s coming,” Aunt Liz said. “C’mon, Fizzy. We’ve got to go—I’ll drop you at home on my way.”
“Why?” I whined. “Why can’t I go with you?”
Aunt Liz grabbed her purse. “Because we don’t know how long it’ll take. The baby could be born in a few hours or it could be tomorrow. C’mon! We’ve got to go!”
“You promise you’ll call, right?”
“Yes, I promise!”
• • •
As usual, my eyes went straight to the pukey recliner when I walked into the town house. The thing that was unusual was that Keene was sitting in it.
“Um . . . hi,” I said, feeling awkward, like I should’ve knocked or something.
“Hi,” Keene said.
I waited for him to say more.
He didn’t. He just stared at me.
Had Mrs. Ludwig called? I wanted to ask, but didn’t want to have to explain, so instead I said, “Any mail?”
Keene shook his head.
“Any calls?”
He shook his head again and continued to stare at me.
I decided Keene was probably busy making a mental list of all the things he hated about me—my meatball head on top of my toothpick body, the bump on my nose, my freckles, my raggedy old backpack. I couldn’t blame him. I hated all those things, too.
“Well, um . . . I guess I better call Mom and let her know I’m home.”
Keene nodded.
I dropped my backpack and kicked off my shoes before I remembered Keene’s pet peeve. Then I picked everything up and carried it into the kitchen with me.
“Mom, Keene is here,” I whispered urgently into the phone.
“Yes, he lives there now, Fizzy,” Mom said matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Right.” Then why did it still feel like there was a guest in the house?
After I’d told Mom that school was fine and I was fine—in fact, about to become a big sister any minute—I put the phone back. Then I thought about the guest-y feelings some more. I remembered Keene’s outburst during The Meat Loaf Dinner: “I am not a guest!” he’d insisted angrily.
It was then that I realized he was right: Keene wasn’t the guest.
I was the guest! In my own house!
• • •
I looked at Genghis every five or ten minutes and waited for the phone to ring all night, hoping it would be Aunt Liz—and not Mrs. Ludwig. But it never did. So after I’d—likely incorrectly—finished my math homework, I went downstairs and sort of hovered at the edge of the living room.
Mom and Keene were watching Survivor Steve, who was talking about primitive man’s survival instincts: “Primitive man did not use a pillow. He listened for danger with both ears while he slept . . .”
I waited for a commercial and then gave a little cough.
Keene looked at me like, Darn. Are you still here? and muted the TV.
“Mom, I’m sure the baby’s been born by now. Please drive me to the hospital, please,” I begged. “You don’t have to get out of the car or anything—you can just drop me off.”
“No, Fizzy. I’m sorry, but you can’t go wandering around a hospital by yourself. You’ll just have to wait,” Mom said. Then she went back to watching TV with Keene, just like she used to watch TV with me.
I took a bath and went to bed without saying good night to anyone, because somehow I knew that another interruption would irritate Keene—even more.
The next thing I knew, Mom was sitting beside me on the bed, saying lightly, “Fizzy . . . Fizzy,
honey.”
I opened my eyes and propped myself up on an elbow.
Mom switched on the lamp on my nightstand. “Your dad called.”
I pushed the hair out of my eyes.
“You have a new baby brother. He came four weeks early but is going to be just fine. They named him Robert, after your father.”
I nodded. “So you’ll take me to the hospital now? Dad—or Aunt Liz—I’m sure somebody can meet me.”
Mom smiled. “No, visiting hours are over—it’s almost midnight. But I have a little something for you now.”
That’s when I noticed the mixing bowl in Mom’s lap. I leaned over and peered in: some kind of chocolate batter and two spoons.
I had to hand it to Mom: She really surprised me sometimes. I scooched over in the bed to make room for her. Mom handed me the bowl and climbed in, under the quilt.
We ate brownie batter and talked about the new baby and what it means to be a big sister.
“As he gets older, your baby brother will look up to you,” Mom said. “He’ll want to do everything you do—so you’ll need to set a good example.”
I nodded.
“And be patient with him. Be patient when he keeps hanging around and you wish he’d go away. Remember that he does this because he worships you and wants to be just like you.”
“I guess I could stand being worshipped,” I said.
We laughed. We laughed a lot. I felt happy and comfortable.
I felt comfortable enough to risk asking, “Do you really like the pukey recliner downstairs?”
Mom laughed again. “No, but Keene loves it, and I love Keene. Love means compromising. Compromising means sacrificing. For love.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought compromising meant meeting somewhere in the middle.”
“It does.”
“Well, that chair doesn’t look like you met Keene in the middle,” I said. “It looks like . . . a big, sick sacrifice.”
Mom laughed some more. “We met in the middle, Fizzy. There are things of mine that Keene isn’t fond of either.”
Like me? I wondered, but I didn’t say it.
Mom stayed in bed with me until the oven timer beeped downstairs. We decided to save the actual brownies for tomorrow, so Mom got up, tucked me in, and kissed me good night.
As I drifted back to sleep, I realized that for the first time in what seemed like a long time, I didn’t feel like an interruption or an inconvenience, or a leftover or even a guest. Being home is a good feeling. But I knew it wouldn’t last.
Chapter 27
I woke up to the sound of electronic screeching, thunder, and a heavy downpour of rain. I turned the sickening, screamy Genghis off, rolled over, and went back to sleep—because who in their right mind would get up and out in this kind of weather? It seemed like good thinking at the time, when my brain was still fuzzy with sleep—like my teeth.
Thirty minutes later, daylight must’ve registered with some primitive part of me that is still concerned with survival. Survivor-me apparently didn’t like our chances of surviving another visit to the principal’s office, so she alerted sleeping-me that there was a problem. I opened my eyes. My room was filled with dim blue-gray light, but I could see. I could see! “No, no, no! That can’t be the time!” I told Genghis. Even if I started my morning with a run through the rain, I’d still end up in Mrs. Warsaw’s office—for being tardy.
“It’s all right,” Mom said when I came barreling out of my room, into the hallway. “Keene’s going to drive you.”
I stopped short and blinked at her.
“He is always on time,” Mom promised. “Oh, and I hid the shoes you left in the kitchen yesterday in the cabinet under the sink, if you need them.” She gave me a look like, Didn’t I tell you not to leave your shoes out?
I lowered my eyes and nodded.
I found Keene waiting for me in the kitchen, where I retrieved my shoes as quickly and as casually as possible. I slipped them on my feet and said, “Um . . . I’m ready.”
“Don’t you need to eat something?” Keene asked.
“Oh no—I don’t eat breakfast.”
Keene looked like he didn’t believe me. “Cecily?” he called.
Mom practically came running. Of course.
“Fizzy says she doesn’t eat breakfast,” Keene said in a very snitchy way.
Mom glanced at me and then explained to Keene, “She’s never cared for breakfast—it’s fine. She eats a good lunch, don’t you, Fizzy?”
I nodded, even though this wasn’t entirely true. Granted, breakfast has never been my favorite meal, but I used to like oatmeal with maple syrup back when I lived at home—and Mom and Dad lived there, too. But now I wake up with the homesickness in my belly and eating—especially oatmeal—just makes me feel sicker. As for eating “a good lunch,” I eat what the school cafeteria serves, so I guess it depends on your definition of good.
Keene gave Mom an unsure look, then shook his head, grabbed his keys, and said, “Okay. If you say so.”
• • •
Keene didn’t say a word in the car, so we just sat there in total silence—like two strangers seated next to each other on an airplane. Naturally, Keene’s car was spotless—no straw wrappers or crumbs from fast food restaurants, no dirt on the floor mats, no dust in the vents.
As we rode, I thought about Zach. If he was still on his porch, I planned to lower the window and wave at him as we passed by, but Keene took a different route to school. One part of me hoped Zach had gone on to school without me, and the other part hoped he’d sit on his front porch waiting for me all day.
I thanked Keene for the ride when he dropped me off, and checked the clock as I entered the school hallway. Mom was right: Actually, I arrived at school seven minutes earlier than usual. Which just gave me extra time to dread math class.
At lunchtime, Miyoko and I couldn’t find Zach, even though Miyoko said she’d seen him at school this morning. We decided he must be doing some kind of detention. I hoped to see him in math class—if I absolutely had to go to that.
I still didn’t want to go to math that afternoon, because I figured the mere sight of me would remind Mrs. Ludwig to call my parents, but I went anyway—what choice did I have?
“I waited for you this morning,” Zach said as soon as I sat down at my desk.
I smiled and said, “I knew it: You missed me. Bad.”
The second bell rang and when Mrs. Ludwig entered the room, naturally, something horrible happened: a pop quiz on word problems.
To make matters worse, I was the last one out after class and I saw Zach and Buffy standing together in the hallway, talking. I did a double take and when I looked back at them, Buffy was performing a perfect hair toss. Zach rewarded her with his crooked grin. I felt more than just a teensy bit nauseated.
• • •
When the phone rang that night, I ran to answer it. But it wasn’t Aunt Liz or Dad—or, thankfully, Mrs. Ludwig.
Instead, Miyoko’s voice said, “Okay, I can spend the night tomorrow . . . on a few conditions.”
“Conditions?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she said, and then she started running down The Conditions.
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I think I need a pen and paper.”
• • •
I stood at the edge of the living room, waiting for a commercial, as Survivor Steve said, “All survivors have three things in common: the ability to accept their situation, adapt to it, and move forward—quickly. More on that when we return.”
The commercial started: “Does your house smell like a litter box?”
Keene muted the TV, and he and Mom both looked at me expectantly.
“Um, Miyoko can spend the night . . . on a few conditions,” I announced.
“Conditions?” Mom repeated.
I
nodded and read my list aloud:
1)Miyoko is not allowed to watch TV, play on the computer, or use any electronics, because she’s on restriction for the B she got on her English paper.
2)Miyoko may go outside but we must stay together at all times, and we aren’t to wander off.
3)If Miyoko injures herself in any way, she must call home immediately.
4)Miyoko is to be in bed no later than ten o’clock.
5)She must be up, dressed, packed, and ready to go on Saturday morning by nine.
I looked up.
“Is that all?” Keene asked.
I nodded.
Mom turned to Keene. “What do you mean, ‘is that all’? Isn’t that enough?”
Keene shrugged.
Mom turned back to face me. “Honestly, Fizzy, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry—for myself or for Miyoko.” She shook her head. “I don’t even know what to think.”
“Please, Mom,” I said, because I really wanted Miyoko to come.
“All right, I guess . . . but—did something happen when you were at Miyoko’s house—was there some sort of incident?”
“No, ma’am,” I said quickly.
“Did you use your manners?”
“Yes, ma’am, I ate tofu and broccoli at dinner and everything.”
Mom did some thinking and came up with, “You didn’t discuss private family matters, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why do Miyoko’s parents seem to think you’re being raised by wolves—or nobody at all? I mean, ‘no wandering off’? And ‘if Miyoko is injured’? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Um . . . Miyoko has a tiger mom,” I informed her. I was tempted to add, Also, she wears Big Booty Judy Bloomers just so Mom would understand how NOT normal Mrs. Hoshi really is, but I didn’t feel comfortable discussing panties in front of Keene.
Keene elbowed Mom to indicate that Survivor Steve was back on.
“Fine,” Mom said. “But you better start thinking about what you’re going to cook for Miyoko, because a girl who’s been eating tofu deserves a decent meal.”
“Yeah,” I said. “With sugar. And butter. And salt. Wait—so I get to cook? For Miyoko?”