by Roth, Judith
Too late, he tries to look modest.
See you tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I say
offhand.
But I feel
the same lurch I felt
that first time in rehearsal
when he pulled the arrow
out of my heart.
The rain starts after lunch
drizzling slowly
down the kitchen windows
making it warmer inside
somehow.
Fortunately
making the hanging of
free kitten posters
impractical
for now.
We pile on the couch
to watch the play.
We’re like an ice-cream sundae—
Dad lying on one side
me on the other.
Dad ignoring the
marshmallow
topping.
Kelli plays a different Wendy
than I did.
Older or louder or something.
When Wendy offers Peter a kiss
and Peter holds out his hand . . .
Kelli should have paused longer
before handing him the thimble.
It would take time to think
how not to shame him—
for not knowing what a kiss was.
I watch closely for a while
hoping to see her make other mistakes
even though I know that’s mean.
I think she got the mothering part down
but I was more graceful in the flying
and I feel like I was more
Peter Pan’s Wendy.
I watch to see if Garrett gives Kelli
the same sweet mischievous glances
he gave me.
The camera is too far away
to tell.
I watch as much as I can stand.
But when Peter hands the thimble kiss
back to Wendy
and they turn away
with tortured looks
that is enough.
I wanted to share tortured looks
with Peter.
I wanted to fly out my window
and get shot down by the Lost Boys.
I wanted to fight with Tinker Bell
and get captured by Hook
and walk the pirates’ plank.
I wanted Peter
to fly in my window
one
last
time.
I hit Stop on the DVD
and throw the remote.
Dad just looks at me
then he pats my leg and says,
Well, enough of that, I guess.
He goes into his study
muttering something about test grades.
I sigh and slide onto the floor
to collect the batteries
that fell out of the remote.
I had a favorite line in the play
when I sprawled leaning like this
on the stage.
I say it softly, now.
Don’t go, Peter,
I know such lots of stories.
But Peter Pan is gone
and there’s no
getting that chapter back.
I throw myself on the couch.
Serendipity bounces up in the air
from the impact and then
gets a crazy look on her face.
She races out of the room
slides around in the kitchen.
She can’t get traction.
She needs sneakers
on her slippery feet.
In an instant she’s back.
She takes a mighty leap
and lands like a Velcro jumper
limbs splayed
against the side of the couch.
She’s stuck.
I can’t help laughing,
she looks so ridiculous.
I wish I had my camera handy.
I would catch this moment forever
put it on the mantel
make it part of our family memory.
Dad leans out of his study door.
Better start making those posters,
don’t you think?
It’s like he can’t stand to hear laughter
in this house
like he has to squash
any happiness.
And now I have to advertise
a free kitten
to whoever is able
to keep her.
Anyone not like me.
This was a stupid idea.
I wonder how I can make Serendipity
seem undesirable.
Impossible.
But there might be
something I could do. . . .
It comes as a brilliant flash—
I will make the posters
with the right phone number
and show them to Dad.
But when I put up the posters
I’ll change the number one
to a four
so anyone
who dares to call
will get the wrong number.
This should foil
anyone who tries to take
my slipper-sized kitten
away.
I surprise myself
with my own deception.
I never used to be sneaky.
But now there’s a cat at stake.
A cat who’s still stuck
to the side of the couch.
I take a pretend picture
and mime placing a tiny print
across the room on the mantel
nestled among the rest
of the family pictures.
I suddenly remember
the pictures of family life
I need for school.
I glance back at the mantel
to see if those will do.
There is a picture of toddler me in a pumpkin patch
seven-year-old me in a redwood grove
kindergarten me on Santa’s lap
baby me propped against a teddy bear
on our same old blue couch.
I unlatch Serendipity from the couch
and take her with me to look closer.
No pictures of Mom
no pictures of Dad
only pictures of me
from before Mom died.
In the back of my mind is a memory—
a silver frame set here
that Mom used to change every year
with a new family picture.
I wonder when that picture disappeared.
Where did that family go?
And why am I
the only one
on this mantel?
There are probably digital pictures
on Mom’s old laptop
but I need pictures I can take in
and our printer’s messed up.
I think I remember a box full of pictures—
I guess no one around here
was organized enough
for photo albums.
The box was pretty
with roses on the sides
and it used to sit beside the rocker.
It’s not there now.
Missing, like the silver-framed
f
amily picture.
No family pictures
on the family room walls.
Unless you count Shakespeare as family.
The kitchen has pictures of strawberries
and blue dishes.
The hall has pictures of paths through woods.
The grown-ups in this family are missing.
There are just those old pictures of me.
And a space beside the rocker
and on the mantel
where a family used to be.
So now I have another question
to ask Dad
in the quiet of bedtime.
Not just
Is that the same book
in Mom’s fairy tale?
but
Where are the missing pictures?
I have another question
that will only be asked
in the quiet of my mind:
If there are no family pictures
does that mean
there’s no family?
Dad comes out of his study again
this time carrying his laptop.
I found some templates you can use
for the free kitten posters.
Why is he so eager
to make this house
emptier?
By bedtime
I’m so worked up
I almost don’t even want
to ask him anything. . . .
Which question do I ask first?
I cuddle Serendipity
and wait until he comes to say good night.
I wait until he straightens my covers.
I wait until he whisker-kisses my forehead . . .
until he stands at the door
then I start with the easy one.
Dad, that book you were reading today—
what’s it about?
Dad looks at his watch.
It’s a book of poems.
He hesitates at my pointed And?
That’s a long story, Sara.
I’ll tell you more about it later,
all right? It’s late. . . .
And now I can’t ask
my question about family pictures
because how could that answer
be a short story?
Our cottage
is sweet in the daytime
almost like a gingerbread house.
Blooming vines climb
the outside walls
but they rustle against my window
in the dark
and I am afraid
of their shadows
until
Serendipity appears.
It is hard
to be afraid of the dark
when a cat
is standing on your face.
Dad doesn’t have time this morning
to make scrambled eggs.
He tosses a Pop-Tart at me
clunks down a glass of orange juice
thwaps down a container of yogurt
slides a spoon across the table
before I have a chance to move.
But what about Serendipity?
I ask.
He throws his head back
shoots air out of his mouth
then shoves a tiny bowl at me.
Run next door and ask for some cat food
he says.
We’ll buy our own this afternoon.
I tuck my kitty into my sweater
race across wet grass in bare feet
and knock on Mrs. Whittier’s door.
I see our reflection in the window.
I haven’t brushed my hair yet
and it’s sticking up wildly
like Serendipity’s head of fur.
We are dandelions of the morning.
Mrs. Whittier opens the door with a laugh
and clasps her hands together.
You have a kitty!
For now, I say.
For a little bit, anyway.
She tilts her head
sets her silver earrings swinging.
She may know more
about my father and cats
than she’s ever let on.
You can tell me about it later—
aren’t you running late for school?
Yeah, I say, but I need some breakfast
for Serendipity.
Named her already?
She takes the bowl
and when she brings it back
Shoji—her tabby—is following her
his eyes on the bowl.
When she gives it to me
she reaches out the other hand
as if to smooth my hair
then draws it back
without touching me.
May you find a way to keep her, Sara.
Her solid voice has become soft.
If there’s anything I can do. . . .
Miss Conglin looks up from her computer
when I put my papers on her desk.
Good to have you back, Sara
she says with a smile.
Did you understand all the makeup work?
I nod.
Did Garrett get the recording to you?
Yes. Thanks.
I wonder if I should say something more
about the play
and then three Lost Boys
and Tiger Lily
shove through the door
with their furs and feathers
all ready to be put away
in the costume closet
and it seems like old news
that has nothing to do with
empty-handed
me.
I feel the Pan’s presence
when he enters the room.
The performance has
left its mark on him.
A sixth-grade celebrity.
The air tingles around him
and when I look his way
he’s almost shiny.
I want to see the smile I saw
at my door.
I want him to smile at me
like when I was his Wendy.
But I can’t even
catch
his
eye.
Already I’m missing
the feel of her in my arms.
Six hours is a long time to wait
for a cuddle.
Six hours of clock-watching
and busywork.
Six hours of hard chairs
and hard pencils.
Six hours is too long
without her.
What will I do
if she has to go?
Kelli looks different today.
She’s sitting even straighter
and tossing her shiny hair
and laughing
without covering her mouth.
I think that could be me
if I were glowing from stardom
but I feel pasty from the flu
and I have nothing at school
to laugh about.
Then Taylor raises her fingers at me
like silly cat claws
and she grins
and laughter
bubbles out of my body
just as free and light
as the ting-a-ling
of a Tinker Bell chime.
while I’ve been gone.
It seems to revolve around the thimble
that Wendy gave Peter
and Peter gave back—
a substitute for a kiss.
There is a kind of energy
in the classroom
that has to do with giggling girls
and oohing boys
and thimbles appearing mysteriously
on people’s desks.
I’m not sure
if the pretend kisses
are real wishes
or just teasing.
But I’m pretty sure
I’m not a part
of any of it
anymore.
Garrett gets up to sharpen his pencil
and I can’t help but watch him.
He moves so easily and confidently.