by Roth, Judith
Serendipity
&
Me
BY
Judith L. Roth
Viking
An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Viking
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Viking, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2013
Copyright © Judith L. Roth, 2013
All rights reserved
The three poems quoted in Serendipity and Me, “The Look,” “I Shall Not Care,”
and a section from “A November Night,” come from the collection Love Songs,
by Sara Teasdale (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1917).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Roth, Judith L.
Serendipity and me / by Judith L. Roth.
p. cm.
Summary: “Sara and her father start to heal from her mother’s death when a white kitten lands on their doorstep”—Provided by publisher.
[1. Novels in verse. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Loneliness—Fiction. 4. Cats—Fiction. 5. Animals—Infancy—Fiction. 6. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.5.R74Se 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012014395
ISBN 978-1-101-60280-5
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
FOR MARC, in gratitude and love—from that first
dorm kitty to children, grown, our life together
has been a blessing. . . .
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
SERENDIPITY AND ME
Acknowledgments
I remember
my mom quoting
“The fog comes
on little cat feet”
And my dad replying
“More like big elephant feet”
because the fog here
in Central California
is a dense gray wall
that bellows in its silence
Tule
sounds like toolie
named for grass
growing in wetlands
where this fog forms
Tule
sounds like boonies
like out in the boonies
where this fog is thickest
like out in the Tule boonies
where my mom
was lost to me
forever
It starts as a tickle
in the back of my throat.
But I can’t pay attention
because Mrs. Detweiler
(the other sixth-grade teacher, not mine)
is going over prerehearsal notes,
is saying, Channel your mother, Sara,
thinking she’s being cute
because you only channel someone
who’s dead.
She doesn’t know, I guess.
My teacher shoots her a look
and tells me, Just be gentle
when you tuck in the Lost Boys. . . .
Wendy is very nurturing.
I look down at Miss Conglin from the stage
and put my hand on my neck
that feels wider than usual.
Put my hand on my neck
where my throat feels
like it’s swallowing knives
and wish someone
was mothering me.
Today is Monday of our
last week of rehearsing
before the performance
Saturday night.
Our first day for dress rehearsal. . . .
I am in a nightgown
in front of Garrett.
It is long and thick and white
and buttoned high on my neck.
But still . . .
it is a little embarrassing.
He sees me blush and says,
Are you kidding me?
So you’re in a nightgown—
I have to wear freaking tights!
And just like that
he gets me smiling again.
He sees the smile and jumps into
his Peter Pan pose,
fists on hips
and chest held high.
How clever I am! he quotes from his lines.
And I am about to give him
a gentle Wendy-bashing
but I am too tired
and it’s not the nightgown
that’s making me feel sleepy.
My best friend Taylor is offstage
in her huge sheepdog costume
and I see Kelli lean over
and say something to her.
I can tell Taylor is annoyed
when she makes
an elbow-space between them.
After the scene, I ask her
What did Kelli say to you?
She lifts the shaggy dog head
so she can talk without shouting
and shakes out her dark hair.
She said you were dying out here
that she should have been Wendy
that you were typecast
because you’re blonde.
I sigh. All I can come up with is
Wendy’s not always a blonde.
Taylor says, She’s an idiot either way.
You’re the best one on this stage.
I wish.
Right now I almost feel
like I’m dying out here
for real.
By the time rehearsal is over
my head is pounding
and my eyes feel dry-as-the-desert
even though my nose
has sprung a leak.
Miss Conglin starts to snap at me
because I’m taking so long
getting my stuff together
then she takes a harder look
and lays her cool hand
against my forehead.
Her mouth twists.
<
br /> Someone coming to pick you up?
I nod.
She fingers the studs high on her ear.
Get some rest, Sara.
And drink a lot.
Does your dad keep juice in the house?
I shrug.
Miss Conglin pats me on the back.
See you tomorrow.
But she doesn’t sound
like she believes it.
Tuesday morning. . . .
In four days I’m supposed to be
asking Peter Pan
Boy, why are you crying?
but my throat is so raw
I can barely whisper.
Dad has fixed up the couch in the family room
with extra pillows
and the daisy quilt Mom made me
when I was four.
I have the remote control
a glass of juice
a box of tissues
and a phone to call Mrs. Whittier
from next door if I need something.
I am wishing I could just sleep and not feel
the head pounding
heat flashing
throat stabbing.
But I hurt too much to sleep.
And my mind is replaying
the way Garrett squirms and laughs
when I sew the shadow
back on Peter Pan’s foot.
Who will do that now?
What if his tickled smile
is for someone other
than me?
I keep seeing that smile.
Maybe if Mom was here
I wouldn’t ask her.
But since she’s not
I wish I could ask
Why do I feel this way?
I can’t talk to Taylor
because she still
punches boys in the arms
like that’s what they’re made for.
And I can’t talk to Dad
because he’s Dad.
Already bad enough Mom can’t
see me in my first ever play. . . .
If Mom were here she would
tuck my stuffed kitty next to me
watch a movie with me
keep my juice refilled
check my temperature
with her lips
on my forehead . . .
explain to me about boys.
Wednesday—two days into this illness.
I am still not feeling better.
Dad had to go to college chapel—
he was presenting something about
poetry and spirituality—
so Mrs. Whittier stayed back.
She has just come to check on me
when Dad gets home.
She leans over to take
the thermometer from my mouth
her long silver hair swinging forward.
She reads the numbers
and hands Dad the thermometer.
You might want to call the doctor
she says quietly.
She is trying her best not to interfere
so she can stay in our lives.
I know this because it’s
exactly what she told me
when I asked where she’d been
lately.
Dad looks at the thermometer,
mutters, Still 102,
and reaches for the phone.
He pushes my bangs off my forehead
while he waits for an answer.
He looks surprised
by how wet it is.
My freshmen were supposed to come over
tomorrow night, he says.
Looks like I’ll have to reschedule.
I look out the window
and across the street
at the small college campus.
Some crazy kids are braving the March chill
and having an early water fight
between classes.
I watch a biker duck under
a stream from a water blaster
and land in the bushes
under a girls’ dorm window.
I should be sad we’ll be missing
the freshman meeting
the only time our house
has life in it.
But right now I
just don’t care.
The quick strep test—
the one where you
sit outside the doctor’s lab
and feel like a germ factory
and gag on the swab
the nurse sticks down your throat—
comes back negative
which means it’s a virus
and there’s nothing they can do for me
and I have to just get through it.
Miss Conglin calls
to ask how I’m doing.
Dad tells her I won’t be in school
for at least another day
that I’m really not doing well
and I’m motioning for him to
stop talking
stop making her think
I won’t be ready for the play
and he doesn’t get it
thinks I want to talk to her
hands me the phone.
Sara?
I can hear music in the background
something with a heavy beat.
Sara? How are you?
I want to say, Horrible.
I want to say, Ready to perform.
I want to say, Please don’t replace me.
I can still be Wendy.
I can still fly
second to the right
and straight on till morning.
What I say is Fine.
It comes out a whisper.
It comes out a scratch.
Oh, sweetie, Miss Conglin says.
Get better.
I’ll send Taylor over
with your makeup work.
But we both know
schoolwork
is not the real issue
here.
If I get well in time
I will be the perfect Wendy.
I will be so nurturing
the Lost Boys will miss their mothers.
John and Michael
will forget I’m only their sister.
I will even help Peter Pan
grow up gracefully.
This is what I think
when my daisy quilt becomes
too hot to lie under
and then not warm enough
when I’m shaking from chills.
If I get well in time
I will be the best mother.
Even though
I don’t have anyone
anymore
to show me
how.
Taylor comes over after school Thursday
her arms full of books.
She dumps them on the floor
beside the couch
and backs away.
All the work,
Tuesday through Thursday.
If we get more tomorrow,
I’ll bring it.
I look up at her through puffy eyes.
What’s happening at rehearsal?
Taylor softens her
force-field-against-germs attitude.
Miss Conglin put in Kelli for now.
Is she
any good?
Taylor shrugs.
She knows the part.
I decide to ask Taylor something
I’m not sure she’d even notice.
Is, um . . . does Garrett
still act goofy?
Taylor rolls her eyes.
He’s always a goof.
Kelli laughs her head off at him.
Just what I was afraid of.
It is time for drastic measures.
I need to get well now
so I can make it
to the last practice tomorrow.
It used to be our nightly ritual.
Mom and Dad would come to my room
at bedtime
and we’d pray together.
After Mom died
things were so confused for a while
and then one night
I asked Dad to come pray again.
He stood in the doorway for a minute
then sat on the edge of my bed.
You start, he said.
But when I prayed
Bless Mommy and Daddy
a sob burst out of him
then he laid his hand on my head
and lurched out of the room.