He walked to the front, and Jesse handed him the half shell with the oyster in it. Angus carefully squeezed a lemon slice over it. When he had it loaded up with juice, I still wasn’t sure he could do it. But he ate that oyster. And then he shrugged and said, “Not as good as a brownie. But not bad.”
Audrey stood up, saying she’d had oysters lots of times before. She ate one. So did Dennis Mason and a few other kids. Then Mr. Home invited the parents to join us, and those oysters were gone as fast as Jesse could open them.
I’m pretty sure the colonists didn’t have lemon juice on their oysters, but Mr. Home didn’t say a word.
Dear Sonia,
Our colonial breakfast was great. The butter was good. Your dad came and opened oysters for everyone. Angus ate an oyster!
Carolyn Shattuck is sitting next to me, acting like nothing happened, but she was a jerk at the colonial breakfast. This morning when I saw her jacket in the coat closet, I took it off the hook and dropped it on the floor.
Carolyn poked me on the shoulder with two fingers. “What are you always writing?”
“Don’t touch me,” I said.
“Another letter, right? Who do you write the letters to?”
“I’m writing to my sister.” The words gave me a happy shudder.
“You don’t have a sister!” she said.
I ignored her and wrote, I hope Carolyn Shattuck goes to a different school next year.
“Seriously. What sister?” Carolyn had opened a bag of chips.
“When my dad gets married next month,” I said slowly, “I’ll have a sister. Okay?”
She laughed. “Oh, that kind of sister. Not a real one.”
What a feeling feels like: When I get mad, I feel cold. I don’t feel huge, like when I’m happy. It’s more like I’m filling up with something that runs over my edges and rises up behind me like a gigantic pair of bat wings.
“Carolyn,” I said. “Want to see a trick?”
I’d read about it in a book.
She pulled her chip bag close. “What kind of trick?”
“Hold out your hand.”
“Why?” But she did it.
I held the tips of her fingers and pretended to read her palm. “I can see from these lines on your hand exactly what you had for breakfast today.”
She laughed. “No way.”
I could feel my bat wings uncurling above me. I stared at Carolyn’s hand. “You had eggs. And ham. Ham and eggs.”
She shook her head. “Wrong!”
I pretended to look confused. “You did have ham and eggs. I can see it right here.” I tapped her palm. Then I leaned forward and sniffed. “Your hand even smells like ham and eggs!”
“It does not.”
“Yes, it does! Smell it yourself.”
My bat wings flexed.
Carolyn put her hand up to her nose to smell it.
And I bashed it into her face.
Carolyn’s eyes teared up. She cupped her hands around her nose for a few seconds and then took them away, slowly.
“Do you see any blood?” She was talking to me as if I wasn’t the person who had just hit her hand into her nose. In my head, I was saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but on the outside, I said, “No. There’s no blood. It looks okay.”
“God, Bea.” She wiped her eyes. “You’re mean sometimes, you know that?”
When I got back to table three after lunch, Angus said, “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I was in the lunchroom.”
He tilted his head. “You look upset.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“It was a really boring spelling party,” Angus said. “Mr. Home didn’t even turn on the radio. I mostly read my book.” He held it up, to prove it.
“Thanks,” I told him.
* * *
—
Mom was waiting for me after school. We were going to Dr. Thomas for our last bat shots.
As soon as she saw me, she said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” Sometimes I hated my face.
“Are you worried about getting the shot?”
“No.”
“You’re a pro now, honey. And remember, it’s the last one.”
“I know.”
* * *
—
“How’s your cousin doing?” Dr. Thomas asked me.
“My dad says she’s going home from the hospital. There’s no more tests to do.”
“Good news.”
“But she’s not better. Dad says they’re just ‘waiting for improvement.’ ”
She smiled. “Life is like that sometimes.”
“Dr. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“What does rabies feel like?”
“Luckily, neither of us will ever know.” She waved her shot plunger at me.
“I wonder if it feels like turning into an animal. A wild animal.”
“Most animals are completely rational, Bea.”
“But is it kind of like something bad in you…gets loose?”
“No. It’s not like that. Are you still worried about having rabies, Bea?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe this will help: if that bat gave you rabies, and my shots didn’t work, you would already be dead. Does that make you feel better?”
It didn’t.
* * *
—
“What were you talking about with Dr. Thomas?” Mom asked on the way home. “It seems like the minute I leave the room, you have questions. You know you can ask me questions, too, right?”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“Good.” She squeezed my hand. It wasn’t a code. It was just a squeeze.
Before dinner, I did my worrying with my spiral notebook in my lap. I started out just doodling. Then I drew some bats. I wasn’t worried about rabies anymore, but I was wondering if some kind of animal lived inside of me. I pictured Carolyn Shattuck with her hands over her nose and tears in her eyes.
I flipped to the front of my notebook and looked at the list of Things That Will Not Change. I drew an arrow that pointed from number six, We are still a family, but in a different way, to number twenty-three, Jesse is staying.
I thought about Jesse at the colonial breakfast, smiling and waiting for Carolyn’s giggling to stop. I thought about Angus standing up to eat that oyster.
I wrote:
24. Jesse is brave.
25. So is Angus.
And then, underneath my bat doodles, I started writing another letter.
Dear Carolyn,
I’m really, REALLY sorry that I bashed your nose in the lunchroom. You hurt my feelings and made me angry two times this week. You laughed at Jesse during the colonial breakfast. And then today you said I would never have a real sister. That’s a sore spot, because I always wanted one more than anything. I was seeing red. But I shouldn’t have hurt you. I hope your nose is okay.
Also, I forgive you for stabbing me with a pencil in second grade.
Bea
On Monday, I ripped that page out of my green spiral notebook and put my letter facedown on Carolyn’s chair. I felt really weird when she came in and picked it up. After she read it, she shoved my shoulder with one hand and said, “It’s okay. I like your bat pictures.” She didn’t apologize for the things she had done. I still didn’t like her. But I felt a little better anyway. About myself.
(I’m almost thirteen now, and I haven’t bashed anyone, on the nose or anywhere else, since that day in the lunchroom. I think my bashing days are over.)
* * *
—
That night, Dad called. “I’m packing up. Angelica’s home from the hospital. An
d guess what? She’s getting better!”
“She…is?”
“The virus is going away, just like they thought it would. It took longer than usual.”
“Really?”
“Really. In a couple of weeks she’ll be like herself again.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
“Sure. Why don’t you make her a get-well card? She’d love that.”
Mom hung up the phone for me, smiling. “Great news, right?”
It was great news. I felt good.
But I didn’t feel great.
A week before the wedding, there was a knock at Dad’s door, exactly twenty minutes after we ordered from Pizzeria Pete’s.
Sheila yelled, “Food!” swung her boots down from the coffee table, and jumped out of her chair. But when she opened the door, she just stood there.
“Sheel?” Jesse leaned into the living room from the kitchen. “Do you need money? My wallet is on the table.”
“No,” Sheila said. “But I’ll take a bucket if you’ve got one. I think I’m going to be sick.” Her hand dropped from the doorknob and she walked straight back to my bedroom, leaving the front door wide open. There was a man there, holding a green duffel bag. He had short hair and he wasn’t smiling.
Jesse was coming from the kitchen. “Sheel?”
When he saw the man, he stopped.
The man hadn’t moved. He was waiting, I think, to be invited inside. He said, “Hey, Jesse.”
Jesse stepped forward. “Come on in, bro.”
“And the man invites him in!” Sheila shouted from my room. She was walking around in there. We could hear her boots smacking the wood floor.
Jesse smiled, and the man smiled back in a way that changed his whole face. I liked his smile. He came in with his duffel bag and closed the door behind him. That was when the word bro sunk in. Bro. Like brother.
“Bea,” Jesse said. “This is my brother, Mission. Mission, this is Bea.”
“Nice to meet you, Bea.” He gave me a little bow. Then he turned back to Jesse. “I’m trying to think of the right words.”
Sheila’s voice came sailing through again. “I have a whole lot of words! A whole lot of not-nice words!”
“Bring out your dictionary, then, Sheel!” Jesse shouted.
Mission. He was here. And Jesse was smiling.
Then the door banged open and Dad walked in with our pizza, saying, “I mugged the delivery guy in the elevator!” Which is Dad’s idea of a joke, but then he saw Mission.
“This is my Daniel,” Jesse said. “Dan, this is Mission. You’ve heard all about him.”
“Of course,” Dad said, smiling. Carefully.
Mission gave Dad one of his little bows and said, “May I shake your hand, sir?”
“You may,” Dad said. “Let me put down this pizza first.”
After he shook Dad’s hand, Mission turned to me. “And may I shake your hand, Bea?” He was so formal. And I wasn’t sure why Sheila had asked for a bucket. I said, “You better not. I might have rabies.”
Nobody laughed.
“Bea,” Dad said, “will you get us some plates?” He flipped the pizza box open on the coffee table.
“Sheila!” Jesse called. But Sheila had stopped talking, and I couldn’t hear her boots on the floor anymore.
“Hungry?” Jesse asked.
Mission said, “I never say no to pizza.”
Jesse laughed and said, “Well, I’m glad some things never change!” But then his smile fell. They looked at each other.
Dad said, “Bea. Plates, please.”
Jesse, Dad, and I shared the couch, and Mission took Sheila’s chair. He sat up straight and kept his feet flat on the floor, the opposite of Sheila.
Dad was mostly quiet while Jesse asked Mission friendly questions: if he wanted a Coke, if he’d taken the bus, if he was on his way to somewhere else. Mission reached into his jacket and pulled out a bent envelope, ripped open across the top. Two “love” stamps.
Dad saw the writing on the envelope, and then his eyes went right to me.
“I wanted to be here,” Mission said. “For your big day.”
Jesse stared at the envelope. His eyes looked full, but nothing spilled. He nodded and said, “I’m real glad you’re here.” Then he turned to Dad and gave him a tight hug, like they’d just gotten good news.
Mission dropped his eyes to his plate when Jesse did that.
We left Sheila a slice of pizza, but she never came back to eat it. Dad said to give her some time alone, so I did my homework at the table while everyone watched baseball on TV. Dad spent a long time in the kitchen by himself, making popcorn.
When I went into my room for bed, Sheila was asleep on my orange couch, knees pulled up, still wearing her boots.
Dad came and checked my hand. I had been doing a better job with the ointment. Then he sat on the edge of my bed and said, “Bea.” He didn’t have to say anything else because I knew what he meant. He meant about sending the invitation.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Dad looked over at Sheila, and then whispered back, “Why?”
“I was afraid that Sonia wouldn’t come back. If no one else was coming to the wedding from Jesse’s family. If it was just us.”
“Sonia is coming back no matter what. She’s part of this family.”
“Mission and Jesse are part of a family,” I said.
He took a deep breath.
“He came all the way here,” I said. “That’s good, right? It means Jesse has a brother again.”
Dad said, “I hope so.”
“Dad?” I whispered. “Don’t tell Sheila, okay? Don’t tell her it was me.”
He nodded.
“Promise?”
“Promise. Don’t worry, Bea. You didn’t do anything bad. Okay? This is grown-up stuff.” Then he said good night and closed the door, very quietly.
* * *
—
In the morning, I looked at my orange couch—no Sheila. I got up and listened into the hallway, but I didn’t hear Jesse’s radio. I got dressed, packed my bag for school, and went into the living room.
Mission and Sheila were on the couch. He was sleeping with his head on her shoulder, and her eyes were closed. Without opening them, she said, “Is that you, Bea?”
“Yes.” I held my breath.
“Don’t worry, honey. It’s okay.”
“It is?”
“Yes, honey. Whatever happens, it’s okay.”
Dad came out of his room and waved me into the kitchen, where he poured us two bowls of cereal. “You said you wouldn’t tell her,” I whispered.
He put some pumpernickel bread in the toaster and pushed the lever down. “I didn’t. She figured it out.”
“Is he going to stay here?” Mission, I meant.
Dad shook his head. “He’s staying at Sheila’s until the wedding. Then I guess he’ll go back home.”
“How’s Jesse?”
“He’s happy,” Dad said. “And sleeping late.”
“So, everything is—good?”
“Yes. Everything is good.” But his face looked tight.
We ate our cereal. Then I said, “Hi.”
But Dad just smiled.
When I let myself in at Mom’s the next afternoon, there was a cardboard box on the floor under the coat hooks. On the box was a picture of an orange spoon.
“Mom?”
The toilet flushed.
“Mom?” I knocked on the bathroom door. “Did you buy a giant orange spoon?” I was thinking of the gigantic fork I saw at the department store with Jesse.
“No, silly!” she called back over the sound of running water. “That’s dinner!
I’m going to cook it!”
“Is Melissa coming over?”
The door opened. Mom’s face looked just-washed, but not like she had been crying. “Nope,” she said. “All me.”
The box turned out to be full of ingredients, all just the right amount to make dinner for two: Two tomatoes. A small square of Parmesan cheese. One zucchini. Two carrots. A red pepper. Some little green peas. A skinny box of pasta. A teeny bottle of olive oil. A tiny plastic bag of salt.
And there was a shiny recipe card that said exactly what to do.
“Pasta primavera!” Mom said, waving the recipe card. “Did you know that ‘primavera’ means spring in Italian?” She held up the little bag of peas and smiled at it.
“Is this one of those dinner kits?” I said. “Dad always makes fun of them. He calls them ‘kiddie kits.’ ”
Mom was reading the recipe. “I know he does. But this is great, right? They give us exactly what we need, and there are pictures showing exactly what to do. It says here to put half the salt into a pot of water.” She dumped the salt onto the counter and began to divide it into two piles, pushing salt grains back and forth with a butter knife and then standing back to squint at them.
“I don’t think it has to be exactly half the salt, Mom.” I was thinking of the way Dad just threw big handfuls of salt into his pots.
“I know that,” Mom said. “What am I going to do, count it? Ha!”
She followed the directions. The pasta primavera was very good.
There was no dessert in the box, so I served us each two Oreos on a square of paper towel. “Good dinner, Mom,” I told her.
“It was good,” she said, looking at my face. She wasn’t looking for eczema. She was just looking at me, smiling. “It’s warm in here,” Mom said. “Feels like summer. Let’s open some windows.”
“What about the bats?” I said.
We still didn’t have window screens. But we were rabies-proof now, and we decided to take our chances.
It’s funny. The whole time my cousin Angelica was sick, I never even came close to talking about what had really happened that summer. And then, suddenly, she was better, and everything was officially great: Mission had come, Jesse and Sheila were happy, Mom learned to cook something that wasn’t eggs, we didn’t have rabies, and Sonia was so excited about the wedding that she Skyped me almost every night. But I couldn’t smile anymore. Not a real smile. And nobody noticed. I went dress shopping, and Sheila practiced doing my hair and we sent pictures to Sonia, and everyone told me how excited I must be. Part of me was excited. But part of me was really tired. I had been carrying something for a long time. I needed to put it down.
The List of Things That Will Not Change Page 11