Bubbles

by Abby Cooper

  So we stood around and looked at rocks. And then this girl who never said anything and always sat twirling her hair and staring at her shoelaces started crying. Like, thick, heavy, the-world-is-ending tears. Right in the middle of the not-so-rockin’ rock store. Was she literally bored to tears? Was she sad that she couldn’t buy any of the weird rocky souvenirs? What was the deal?

  I grabbed her without thinking about it and dragged her to a corner of the store. My teacher gave me a nod and a smile, like I was doing a helpful thing. I liked being helpful almost as much as I liked not having to listen to the Rock Lady talk about rocks.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “Please don’t make me do anything,” she whispered back.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re the girl always hanging upside down on the monkey bars.”

  I looked around. Were there monkey bars in the store that I hadn’t noticed? Because that would be awesome.

  “I mean at recess.”

  “Oh.” I had no idea what that had to do with anything.

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “Of monkey bars?”

  “Yup. And of here.”

  I looked around, trying to find something scary, but all I saw were rocks.

  “I don’t like field trips. I like to stay at school. I know what’s going to happen at school.”

  “But nothing is going to happen here. Nothing.”

  She giggled a little.

  “Well, maybe that guy is going to hurt himself, but that’s really it.” I glanced over at the boy spinning around in circles, staring at a fancy clock made out of rocks hanging from the ceiling like it was putting a magical spell on him. That boy looked like fun. Why had I never noticed him before?

  “Come on.” I offered Kaya my hand. “You can stand by me and everything will be okay.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have made promises I didn’t know for sure I could keep, because after I got the teeniest of smiles on her face, that fun boy plowed right into us, and we fell down, and then some fancy rocks next to us fell down, and we all got in Very Big Trouble, and I swore I would never ever talk to That Boy ever again or even go near him.

  But then he came up to us the next day and gave Kaya and me our very own rocks that had SORRY written on them with chalk, and after that, we pretty much became best friends.

  And now we were all going to try a triathlon.

  Kaya the Scared Rock Store Girl would be super proud of herself.

  If Kaya the Somewhat Less Scared Sixth Grader was able to do it.

  And if that was going to happen, that meant Adventurous Girl Sophie was going to have to show up and help her, but what if I tried to bring her back and it turned out she wasn’t there?

  I was going to need to totally concentrate on the race, which meant I couldn’t be stressed out about anything else.

  I took out my phone and wrote a text to Mom as fast as I could, and then I hit send before I could change my mind. I want to go to the therapist.

  You got it, girl. Proud of you , she wrote back.

  If we were going to do this triathlon, the bubbles had to go.

  9

  TEN P.M.

  Even though it had been a whole week since I’d seen it, I couldn’t get Pratik’s bubble out of my mind. He missed us. He really missed us, like how we missed him. So why wasn’t he doing anything about it? And why weren’t we?

  I needed more information. For Mom. And maybe a little for me, too.

  That’s what I told myself as I snuck out for the second time. It wasn’t breaking the rules; it was research.

  “Stay in bed,” said Mom. “Love you.”

  I waited until I heard her door close and her imaginary lock lock, then I waited for half an hour before slipping out of bed and pulling on my blue bathrobe. This time I threw a coat on over it, too. Mom would be proud of me for that. Protecting myself from frostbite and everything. I gave myself a pat on the back. Maybe you have to do those kinds of things for yourself, sometimes, like if your mom’s asleep, which she was. I made sure there was no light coming from underneath her door.

  I went outside and ran to my trusty tree, practically twisting my ankle on my way. I stopped and gave it a quick rub. How did that even happen? Maybe it was my own fault for trying to move too fast. I should have known better. When my feet ran, trouble followed.

  I kept going—slowly—and noticed that there was a big FOR SALE sign in front of the condo next door. Maybe Pratik could move there while he and Mom sorted everything out; then he’d be at least a little farther away.

  When they broke up, Mom and Pratik got into a big you-move-out-no-you-move-out fight. They thought I was busy with Kaya and Rafael, but the truth was that all three of us were in my room, our ears pressed against the door, listening to every word. Also eating cheese balls.

  “I’ve lived on this block for seven years,” Pratik said. “I have seniority. I got here first.”

  “I have a daughter,” Mom said. “She goes to school around the corner. I’m not going to uproot her right after the start of sixth grade.”

  “You uproot her all the time,” he said.

  “I uprooted her once.” Mom’s voice got louder. “When we moved here from our tiny apartment two blocks away. That’s not uprooting—that’s progress! And you only moved into this building a year before we did, when it opened. That’s barely seniority.”

  They went back and forth for what felt like hours. It might have actually been hours, because I remember when I finally pried my ear away from the door it was numb, like that same kind of feeling your foot gets when it falls asleep. Only it turns out that it’s a lot harder to wake up an ear than a foot.

  Since they couldn’t agree on who would move, no one did. And I don’t know much about major life decisions, but I feel like that was maybe not the best one they could have made. I would have rather moved if that meant Mom could act normal again.

  Now Pratik’s light was on, like I knew it would be. He was on the couch facing the TV, and there was so totally something bubbly coming out of his head. I scooted a little closer, but—holy pancakes!—what was that? I whipped around and tried to figure out where the crunching sound was coming from, but it was impossible to tell. I held my breath and stood as still as I could as the footsteps got louder. Maybe whoever it was wouldn’t see me, or they’d think I was another tree or something. A really short tree, but a tree. Maybe a shrub. Whatever.

  “Ahhhh!”

  I slapped my hands over my mouth and turned around to see who’d tapped me on the shoulder and scared the living pancakes out of me.

  “Sophie, calm down! It’s me, Ms. Wolfson. What are you doing out here all by yourself in the middle of the night?”

  I let out a long, chilly breath.

  “It’s like ten, Ms. Wolfson. It’s late, but it’s not the middle of the night.”

  “When you’re old like me, that’s exactly what ten p.m. is.”

  I giggled. “Then what are you doing out here?”

  She tucked some of her long silver hair behind her ears. “Sometimes I like going for quick walks before bed to clear my head. It’s nice to be in the dark for a bit.” Then she held up a flashlight and grinned. “Of course, it’s not smart to be completely in the dark.” She took a step toward the stairs. “I’m heading in. You coming? Your mother must be expecting you.”

  “Nah. My mother doesn’t even know I’m gone. She’s in her room.”

  Locked in her room, I almost added.

  “Then who’s that?” Ms. Wolfson pointed to a dark figure standing at the top of the steps.

  I gulped and slowly turned my head, even though I knew exactly who it was without having to look.

  Mom.

  10

  WEIRD WHIMPERS

  Maybe it wasn’t Mom. Maybe I was imagining things. It was close to droopy-eyelid time, and droopy-eyelid time can lead to lots of confusing, wrong things.

  But then I heard her voice.
r />   “Sophie. Elizabeth. Mulvaney.”

  Oh yeah, that was definitely Mom. And she did not sound happy.

  She was in her pajamas, robe, and Minnie Mouse slippers, which were the same as mine but a little bigger. (We got the same ones when we went to Disney World, as a souvenir to remember how we chased Minnie into the bathroom because the line to meet her was out of control.) Now Mom’s eyes and the skin under them were as red as the bow on Minnie’s head. They were puffy, too, like she hadn’t slept in a really long time. Of course, Mom’s hair was perfect no matter what time it was or how much sleep she got. She was one of those people who could run a hand through it and it would magically fall into place like she was in a commercial for shampoo.

  “Get over here right now,” she said, and I slowly walked toward the stairs. Ms. Wolfson followed close behind. She was probably scared of Mom, too. Don’t be fooled by the flowy hair with all the curls always behaving perfectly—Mom could be really terrifying when she wanted to be.

  “Hi, Ms. Wolfson,” she muttered as we all made our way into the building.

  “Hi, Molly.” Ms. Wolfson shot Mom a sideways smile, then turned her flashlight off and went inside. “Hey, Sophie,” she whispered to me. “I miss our sleepovers. It’s been way too long. Let me know if you ever want to get creamed in cribbage sometime.”

  “Let me know if you want to get creamed,” I said. Obviously it had been so long that she’d forgotten who the champion was.

  “I’m always here,” Ms. Wolfson said to me. But it was weird—as she said it, she looked right at Mom. But then her gaze went back to me. “You girls have a good night.”

  “You too,” I told her.

  Mom didn’t say anything. She just pulled me into the elevator.

  * * *

  Mom wasn’t a yeller or anything, but I was sorta expecting her to start shouting at me when we got inside. I definitely deserved it. But it was worse—she barely said anything at all. Didn’t even look at me. When we got to our door, she unlocked it and went straight in. Then she said, “I know you’re seeing bubbles and it’s weird and scary and stressful, but that doesn’t make it okay to do exactly what I asked you not to. I’m really disappointed,” and then she went to her room before I could say anything. She didn’t tuck me back in, didn’t pull the covers up to my chin and tell me to stay put, didn’t lock the imaginary lock and throw away the imaginary key. She just went into her room and that was it. Not knowing exactly what to do, I went to mine, too.

  But I couldn’t sleep. I could barely even close my eyes for two seconds before they popped open again. Did parents get some kind of book when they had kids that said Telling your kids you’re disappointed will make them feel way worse than if you’re just mad? Because I felt more rotten than the eggs in our fridge that were going bad because no one had turned them into pancakes.

  Since sleeping wasn’t going to happen, I got up out of bed and went into the living room, to the big, tall white cabinet, and took out Mom’s box that she kept on the bottom shelf. The box was filled with old posters, decorations, numbers from races, and a lot of other stuff that used to be hung up in the living room. I don’t think Mom ever won any of the races, but she finished them, and that’s what the announcer people were always saying was most important. So why did she hate them so much now? And it wasn’t just races. She hated doing stuff, period. Except for moping around. She was really good at moping around. I was anti-adventures now, but I wasn’t anti-everything.

  I shoved the box back where it belonged, knowing I should get back to my room before Mom heard me. But I didn’t make it to my room, because there was some weird whimper sound coming from hers. I pressed my ear up against Mom’s door. It had been a long time since I’d done this. There had been all the conversations and fights with Pratik I’d eavesdropped on, but I’d never eavesdropped on Mom being by herself. Maybe that was a good thing, though. It didn’t sound like she was having very much fun.

  Was this what she did at night after I went to bed? I always thought she read more magazines or something—seriously, BFF Britta gave us a never-ending supply—not just sat there making weird, sad-sounding noises. I sat down with my ear pressed up against the door and listened. How could I have done this to her? She was already upset because of everything I’d done, and then I’d gone and made it worse by sneaking out.

  I reached for her doorknob, but then I pulled back. I opened my mouth, but then I closed it. Everything I thought of saying or doing seemed stupid, and not being able to come up with anything made me mad at myself. I should be able to do something, because Mom always knew what to do for me when I was sad or mad, and now was my chance to really help her, and I couldn’t. Think. Of. Anything.

  I was an even worse daughter than I had thought.

  So instead of opening the door and saying something helpful and brilliant and amazing, the kind of thing that would make her tears disappear like the bubbles did after I read them, I just kept on sitting there, trying and trying and trying to think of something, until my eyes eventually got so heavy that they closed and stayed that way until the morning.

  11

  UN-MANIFESTING DESTINY

  On Saturday I had my first therapy session.

  “We have a lot to do,” I said as I unfolded the list I’d made on the bus ride over with Mom. “One, I need to know how to cheer up a sad mom. Two, I need to bring back my adventurous self, but the kind of adventurous self who doesn’t mess up and ruin things. Three, I really need to make these bubbles go away.”

  I tucked the list back into my pocket. Maybe I should’ve said something more like hi when I met my therapist for the first time, but I didn’t want to waste time. I needed to know how I could help Mom. Falling asleep outside her door hadn’t done anything good for either of us, and neither had my super awkward apology first thing in the morning. She’d been cool about it—she said it was okay; she knew the bubble business must be tough for me, but that didn’t mean I could break the rules. Then she gave me a little hug. Still, the whole thing left me with a big headache—but a bigger sense of determination. This mess had to be fixed, and it had to be done today, before anything got worse.

  “Oh, and do you think I’m crazy?” I added. “Is there something really wrong with me? My friend goes to a therapist, and she’s not crazy, but … I don’t know.” I squirmed around in the fluffy brown chair where he’d told me to sit. It was giant and had all these squishy pillows, and you’d think it would be the comfiest thing on the planet, but it didn’t feel much better than the hard floor outside Mom’s room.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” Dr. Carter laughed. His voice was soft and friendly, kind of like what I imagined a llama would sound like if a llama could talk. If I weren’t totally nervous about this, I might think that he reminded me of a llama, and I might think that was sort of awesome.

  Dr. Carter was a giant dude who kinda reminded me of Walter Payton, only he was even taller. (I knew all about Walter from when Mom did a TV report on the most famous Chicago Bears players ever in the history of Chicago Bears. He was one of the best running backs of all time.) I had pictured therapists to be little old ladies who knitted and had cats and played bingo and stuff, so it was a major surprise when Dr. Carter turned out to be such a big guy with a llama-like voice.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be the only surprise today. Maybe he’d be like, “Surprise! The bubbles were actually an early April Fools’ joke. In fact, everything that’s happened the past few months was an early April Fools’ joke. Gotcha!”

  But he didn’t say that. Instead, Dr. Llama looked down at the clipboard in his lap, and then he looked up at me. “First of all, no, Sophie, you are not crazy. I don’t really like that word, anyway. What is crazy? Everyone has problems, tough stuff they have to deal with. Does that mean we’re all crazy? You are brave, Sophie. You’ve entered into a new situation here without knowing much about it other than the fact that it might help you. Not everyone is willing to put in the time and the w
ork.”

  I gave him a look. Work? No one had said anything about work. Wasn’t he the one with the job here? He was supposed to listen to me and fix everything.

  Dr. Llama leaned forward. “We can discuss whatever you want, but first I have a few questions I need to ask you, okay? First, how are you?”

  “Uh, fine?” That was a pretty normal question in life, but here it felt like a weird one to start with, especially after everything I’d just said. He didn’t respond, so I asked it back to him, since that was the polite thing. “How are you?”

  He blinked, smiled, and wrote something down.

  “Have you ever tried to hurt yourself?”

  Well, that was a weird answer to the question. Most people just said “fine” or “good.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “I hurt myself all the time, but I’ve never tried to. It just happens whenever I run. Like this one time—” I paused. “Wait, why are you asking me that?”

  “This is just protocol,” he said. “Kind of like a set of rules I have to follow. I have to ask new clients the same questions. Just go with it, okay?”

  I nodded and crossed my legs. The chair still wasn’t comfy.

  Dr. Llama continued. “Do you ever hear voices?”

  No, but I see words, I wanted to say. Can we talk about that now, since, y’know, it’s why I’m here?

  After about a million more weird questions, he got to a topic that actually made sense. “So, tell me about your family.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “My family? Well, there’s me and Mom, and that’s pretty much it.”

  I thought of Mom in the waiting room. I hoped she wasn’t too bored.

  Dr. Llama looked at me like he was waiting for more.