by C. C. Payne
Mom nodded.
“Take your shoes up with you when you go,” Keene said.
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
I was halfway up the stairs when Keene called out, “Oh yeah, you got some mail today, Fizzy. I put it in your room, on your dresser.”
My heart started hammering in my chest at the thought of mail—possibly from Southern Living!—and I rushed to my room. But it was only an advertisement, “a special offer” to subscribe to Young American magazine. I wadded it up and threw it in the trash angrily. Then I asked myself, Why are you so mad? Of course, I decided it was Keene’s fault.
I didn’t like it that Keene had come into my room when I wasn’t here. And I didn’t like it—still—that I’d had to give him my mailbox key. And my TV-watching spot. And my mom. And I really didn’t like it that I was hardly allowed to do any cooking, and wasn’t allowed to leave my shoes on the floor as if I lived here!
I searched my room for signs of snoopage. That’s when I noticed a pair of panties lying on the floor, next to my hamper. Keene had seen my panties! On the floor! How awful! At least they’re normal panties and not Big Booty Judy Bloomers, I told myself, but it didn’t help.
I took a bath to try to calm myself. I wrapped my wet hair in a towel, put on my sleep T-shirt and shorts, and picked up my room so that nothing was left on the floor—except the furniture—and so that no one would see anything I didn’t want them to see. Well, unless they were snooping, which would be wrong, very wrong—do you hear that, Keene Adams?
After that, I planned Friday’s dinner: fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, buttermilk biscuits, and homemade peanut butter ice cream for dessert.
Then I got out my Keene lists. On my Dislike List, I added:
14)Sneaks into my room when I’m not around—Suzanne’s mom was right: There is nothing worse than a sneak!
15)Took my TV-watching spot!
16)And also MY MOM!
17)Makes me feel like a guest—in my own home!!!
On my Like List, I—begrudgingly—added:
7)Is punctual.
But my Dislike List was still way longer than my Like list. So there, I thought.
Chapter 28
Miyoko loved my house. Well, okay, maybe not the house itself, but the absence of tiger mom inside it. And she loved the food. When we were all seated at the dinner table, the night of our sleepover, Miyoko closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, and swooned a little. Keene said, “I just want you all to know that I’m willing to loosen my pants if I have to—for seconds.” As she ate, Miyoko gasped and moaned with pleasure. Keene responded, “I know, I know,” with a mouthful of food.
Miyoko said that being at my house felt like a vacation to her. I felt proud and told her she could come over anytime she wanted, and I didn’t even think about ruining Miyoko’s vacation spot by mentioning my guestness—or hers. I’d wanted her to feel at home and when she did, it gave me hope—hope that maybe I’d feel at home someday, too.
And hey, maybe someday I’d even get to meet my new baby brother.
• • •
But another three days passed, making it five whole days since my brother had been born, and I still hadn’t seen him! I didn’t know the first thing about him!
I was mad at Dad because he’d never called back to talk to me—or arranged for me to visit the baby and Suzanne in the hospital. I was mad at Mom because she wouldn’t let me have my own phone I was sure Dad would’ve called if I’d had my own phone and he hadn’t had to worry about getting stuck on the phone with Mom again.
And I was really mad at Aunt Liz, who hadn’t been home when Miyoko and I had stopped by her house, and who hadn’t called even though she’d promised.
When Mom gave me the message that Aunt Liz had—finally!—called, I decided to ignore her right back. Maybe I’d return her call in a few days. Or maybe not. Because it was obvious that when her new nephew had been born, Aunt Liz had forgotten all about her old niece, which was wrong, very wrong. And . . . well, I expected more of Aunt Liz, that’s all.
I mean, ever since my parents’ divorce, I felt like I’d lost a really important grocery bag, the one with all the important ingredients—for my life. Substitutions had then been made: new house, new neighborhood, new school, new friends, new stepmother, new stepfather, and now a new brother! These are all highly noticeable changes in the recipe of my life, which means they aren’t good substitutions, because good substitutions aren’t noticeable. But these were so noticeable, I felt like I’d been given someone else’s ingredients, for someone else’s life. But I just had to keep on living it—what else could I do?
And while I was living it, the one person I’d been able to count on—until now—was Aunt Liz. Through it all, Aunt Liz had stayed the same as always. Whenever she saw me, she gave me the big smile that reached her eyes—even when she was busy—instead of that tired what-now? look I usually got from everybody else. Aunt Liz was always happy to see me. And I was always happy to see her because when I was with her, I felt the same as always, too: comfortable and right at home—wanted—loved. Sometimes when I was with her, I even forgot how I’d lost so many important ingredients. But now . . . well, Aunt Liz was probably saving the Big Smile for Baby Robert. I wasn’t sure how I’d stand it if she ever gave me the tired look.
• • •
Zach walked up the hill to meet me that Monday morning.
“You’re going the wrong direction—school’s that way,” I said, pointing.
He grinned. “Wasn’t looking for school.”
I felt shy all of a sudden, so I just nodded and we started walking—toward school.
After a few minutes I asked, “Do you ever feel uncomfortable in your house?”
“Uncomfortable how?”
“I don’t know, like you’re intruding or . . . interrupting or . . . like maybe you’re not supposed to be there.” I was sorry I’d said it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I risked a quick glance over at Zach while I waited for him to say something like, No. That’s weird. You’re weird.
Zach’s face had gone all serious. “Not anymore,” he said, “but I know what you’re talking about: You feel like you don’t belong.”
“Yeah,” I said, and I felt so relieved that someone understood, even a little bit, that I wanted to cry. But I didn’t—and that’s what’s important.
“You belong,” Zach said, staring off into the distance, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “With me, you belong. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered, still trying not to cry. It took me the whole block to pull myself together. But I did it.
• • •
Just before math class ended that afternoon, Mrs. Ludwig handed back our word-problem pop quizzes. When she laid my quiz facedown on my desk, I knew I was in trouble. And I was right: When I turned my paper over, there was a big red D on it, next to the words Parent Signature Required. My stomach felt queasy as I considered my options. If I showed my quiz to Mom, I was sure she’d force Keene to help me with word problems. If I showed it to Dad, he’d be mad—plus, he was obviously too busy to help me with anything—or even remember that I exist.
My mood remained gloomy and doomy as Miyoko and I walked home together, even though it was a near-perfect afternoon, the sun moving in and out of poufy white clouds that made me think of meringue pies.
“What’s wrong?” Miyoko finally asked.
“I got a D on my math quiz and I have to have a parent sign it.”
Miyoko winced and sucked in air through her teeth.
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “What’d you get?”
Miyoko ducked her head and admitted, “An A.”
I slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Right. Duh.”
“But I have to get As. I have to, Fizzy.”
I knew
she meant because of her tiger mom.
“Hey,” Miyoko said. “Maybe we could stop by Aunt Liz’s house and she could sign your quiz for you.”
I shook my head.
“She wouldn’t do that?”
I shrugged. “Probably not, but I’d have to go to her house and ask to find out for sure . . . and I’m never ever going there again as long as I live.”
Miyoko frowned. “Fizzy,” she started, and I could tell that she was about to try to talk some sense into me. I hate it when Miyoko tries to talk sense into me, because she’s usually right. I don’t want her to be right; I mostly just want her to be on my side.
Someone yelled, “Hey! Fizzy! Miyoko! Wait up!”
We both turned.
Zach was jogging to catch up. When he slowed to a stop in front of us, Miyoko said, “You don’t have to stay after school today?”
“Nah,” Zach said, sounding a little disappointed.
Miyoko gave me a puzzled look; she’d heard the disappointment in Zach’s voice, too.
“You don’t like staying after school, do you, Zach?” Miyoko said.
“Why not?” Zach said. “Sitting in the air-conditioning doing homework that I’d have to do anyway beats sweating it out in the heat and then doing homework.”
“So that explains it,” I told Zach. “You said it’s best for everyone if you just say whatever the adults want to hear, but you never say what Mrs. Ludwig wants to hear—because you want her to keep you after.”
“Yeah, I guess it depends on what you’re trying to accomplish,” Zach said, smiling. “My social worker says that I use good and bad behavior equally to get what I want—she says that’s my way of taking back some control over my life.”
“Oh,” was all I said.
Zach continued, “She also says that I have trouble with some authority figures . . . but I like old Ludwig . . . and she likes me.”
“Ludwig does not like you,” Miyoko informed him as we all started walking.
“She doesn’t like me either,” I added so he wouldn’t feel as bad.
Zach grinned some more. “Y’all are wrong. She likes me.”
“How do you figure?” I said, because I knew Ludwig didn’t like me—and I didn’t cause her half the trouble Zach did.
“Think about it,” Zach said. “If she didn’t keep me after school every day, she could go home. But she doesn’t. She stays. With me. So she must really enjoy my sparkling personality.”
Miyoko and I laughed.
Zach added, “And she drinks soda after school, which she shares with me—come to think of it, y’all are right: She doesn’t like me; she loves me.”
“I can’t even picture that!” Miyoko said, still laughing.
Then I got serious. “Well, I’m not sure if Mrs. Ludwig likes you . . . but we all know Buffy Lawson definitely does.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “So?”
“So you don’t like her at all?” Miyoko said like she didn’t believe him.
I wanted to believe him. But it was hard.
“Nah,” Zach said. “I’ve known lots of Buffy Lawsons—there’s at least one at every school. You two, on the other hand, are originals—much more interesting.”
Miyoko and I both smiled at the compliment.
Zach stepped off the sidewalk, into his front yard.
Miyoko and I just stood there gaping. The bushes! Great gravy! The bushes around Zach’s house had been cut down to sad little nubs. Their chopped-off limbs and leaves were scattered all over the place. I felt like I was looking at a botanical crime scene—a very violent one.
Zach followed my line of vision, looking behind him, and then said, “Oh. I did that. Yesterday.”
“Why?” I asked. I mean, it just seemed like such an angry thing to do to bushes. After all, what could the bushes possibly have done to Zach?
“I wanted to play basketball with some neighbors,” Zach said, “and my grandmother said I could, after I finished my chores. But when she told me what all I had to do, I knew I wasn’t going to get to play—I knew it’d be dark before I was done. It’s always dark before I’m done.”
I just kept staring at those poor bushes. How had I missed them this morning? I wondered. Then I remembered: Zach had met me at the top of the hill and by the time we’d passed his house, I’d been busy with Operation Don’t Cry.
“Gran should’ve just said no when I asked to play basketball, you know?”
“But how . . . w-why?” Miyoko stuttered.
Zach shrugged. “I had to mow the grass and trim the bushes . . . so I made sure the bushes wouldn’t need trimming again for a long, long time.”
“Did you get to play basketball then?” I asked.
“No, and now I’m grounded. Not that it makes any difference—I get chores when I’m good and chores when I’m bad,” Zach said.
“You’re like Cinderfella,” Miyoko said.
Zach grinned. “Nah, Gran and I just have different life philosophies, that’s all.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Gran grew up on a farm, so her idea of good parenting is no shenanigans and lots of chores,” Zach explained. “I like lots of shenanigans and no chores.”
Miyoko and I laughed.
The front door opened then and Zach’s gran appeared. “Zach! Chores!”
Zach nodded and gave us a look like, See? I told you. “Later,” he said.
Miyoko knelt on the sidewalk and retied a loose shoelace.
I waved at Zach’s grandmother.
She didn’t wave back, and when Zach passed her in the doorway, she smacked him on the back of his head.
Yikes.
Chapter 29
On Friday, I was finally going to meet my baby brother. Thankfully, nobody—like Keene—was home after school, so I was able to pack for the weekend at Dad’s without feeling nervous and rushed.
A car horn honked outside, announcing Dad’s arrival.
“Oh, good,” Dad said when I opened the back door and hung my church dress on the little hook inside.
“Oh, good, what?” I said irritably, because I was still mad at him.
“Suzanne was hoping you’d bring that dress,” Dad said.
I got into the car and pulled the seat belt over me.
“We’re having a photographer come to the house this weekend to take pictures of the family.”
I didn’t respond.
“Ready?” Dad said.
I nodded.
As he steered the car away from the curb, Dad said quietly, “Your necklace looks nice on you.”
“Thanks. Thank you. For the necklace . . . and stuff,” I said. Then I turned to look out the window: The whole city was in bloom for Derby Day tomorrow.
“How’ve you been?” Dad tried.
“Fine,” I mumbled.
“How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“Excited about meeting your new baby brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad nodded. “He’s healthy, whole, and . . . perfect.”
Perfect, I thought. Unlike me. That explains a lot.
It was almost six o’clock when Dad and I arrived home—because of all the extra Derby-weekend traffic—but Suzanne was still wearing her nightgown. She sat rocking the sleeping baby in front of the TV. I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t look too happy.
“Colic,” Dad whispered to me.
I nodded like I knew what that meant and stayed back.
“What’s for dinner?” Dad asked.
For a split second, Suzanne looked like she wanted to kill Dad and eat him for dinner. But then she smiled sweetly and said, “You can make anything you want.”
“Pizza it is,” Dad said, removing his jacket and folding it over the arm of the couch.
Dad went to Suzanne, kissed her cheek, and then carefully lifted the baby out of her arms.
Suzanne stood and stretched. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Dad nodded. “Come here, Fizzy,” he said. “Sit down.”
When I was settled in the rocking chair, Dad bent and placed the baby in my arms. “Make sure you support his head,” he instructed.
“I will.”
Dad stepped back and smiled at the two of us. Then he said, “I’m going to order the pizza. Stay right there while I’m on the phone—don’t move.”
I nodded.
Baby Robert was wrapped in a soft blue blanket. He was smaller than I expected, but heavier, too. He had lots of dark hair and a nose as cute as a cupcake! Also, he smelled really good—sweet, but not like cupcakes or cookies. I stared at him and breathed his milky sweet scent.
Baby Robert’s blue eyes popped open. Somehow, I felt like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. For a minute, we just stared at each other. Then a deep, grapefruit-pink color appeared on his forehead, spread to his ears, and moved downward as he opened his mouth and started to cry. Really loud.
“Oh no . . . no, no, don’t do that,” I said. I tried rocking him, but he kept right on crying.
When Baby Robert’s sweet smell was replaced by some other—hideous—smell, I nearly started crying myself. “Help! Help!” I shrieked.
Dad came rushing over.
“Take him! Take him!” I said, gagging.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Dad said, gathering the baby in his arms.
I didn’t know if he was talking to me or Baby Robert; we were both pretty shaken up.
That night, I learned what colic means. It means the baby cries whenever it’s awake. I wished we’d gotten a puppy instead.
• • •
It was still dark when Dad came into my room and woke me up. “The photographer will be here in an hour,” he said.
I sat up and tried to make sense of what Dad was saying. Then I remembered the family portraits. “We’re having our pictures made in the middle of the night?”