Serendipity and Me (9781101602805)

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.
r />   Something has happened

  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.