Dead Possums Are Fair Game

by Taryn Souders

  “Oh, I love your manicotti,” I said, rubbing a tissue over my cheeks in an attempt to look normal at the dinner table.

  Jolina pushed herself up from the floor and headed toward the door. “I’m ready to eat now if manicotti’s on the menu.”

  Mrs. O’Reilly laughed. “You girls are sweet. I just took it out of the oven so give it a few minutes to cool.” She went down the hall and we tidied up.

  “Let’s do mani-pedis after dinner,” said Jolina.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  Lucille zipped Jolina’s makeup bag shut. “I’m glad she made manicotti. That’s one of the few things everyone in our family agrees on.” Her four-year-old brother, Charlie, was the world’s pickiest eater.

  We all sat down at the dinner table and my stomach gurgled with anticipation. Everything smelled delicious. Mrs. O’Reilly had made two dishes of manicotti, a ginormous salad, and garlic bread that dripped with warm butter.

  Charlie had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on his plate along with his manicotti. He had a PB and J sandwich with every meal. It was his favorite food in the whole world.

  “I made a cake today at my four school,” Charlie announced to Jolina and me. The year before, Charlie had thought he was going to “three” school instead of preschool. So when he turned four, he naturally started saying he was going to four school.

  Charlie was always coloring pictures of trains and superheroes for me. A few days earlier, he had said I was his best friend and if he ever had a pet rooster, he’d name it after me. So I knew he’d want me to be impressed with his cake announcement.

  I flung my hand up to my chest in surprise like Mom would whenever Dad surprised her with flowers. “Amazing!” I said.

  “You didn’t make the cake, Charlie. You decorated it,” Mrs. O’Reilly corrected. She turned to us. “They are learning about insects in his class and his teacher made each student a bumblebee cake. The kids got to decorate their own and bring it home. We’ll all try some later.”

  “I named my cake Boogers,” Charlie said proudly.

  Mr. O’Reilly coughed into his water glass and Lucille snorted. Lucille adored Charlie and thought everything he said was funny.

  “People don’t name cakes, Charlie,” said Mrs. O’Reilly, unfazed. “They eat them.”

  “We’re going to eat my Boogers?” Charlie said.

  Mr. O’Reilly hid his face in his napkin as his shoulders shook, and Lucille almost fell out of her chair laughing.

  I’d been eating a ton of dark chocolate brownies lately and was not feeling any smarter. I was ready to try anything as long as it didn’t have dark chocolate in it—even a cake named Boogers.

  Mrs. O’Reilly raised her eyebrows at Charlie, who looked half-confused and half-delighted with his dad and sister’s reactions. “You, young man, won’t be having anything for dessert unless you eat all your dinner.”

  Charlie quietly concentrated on his meal after that.

  We helped Mrs. O’Reilly clear the table, and she suggested we hang out upstairs for an hour before she served dessert.

  Thirty minutes later, the three of us had cotton balls stuffed between our toes and were painting on nail polish.

  “We should do this more often,” I said. “Why can’t school be this fun?”

  Jolina repositioned her knee and leaned in closer toward her toes. “School is fun—most of the time. I just don’t like it when Ms. Carpenter talks about gross stuff like rigor mortis.”

  Lucille laughed.

  I grunted. “School is only fun for smart people.”

  “You’re smart, Ella—you just need to change your perspective,” said Jolina.

  “You always sound like an adult—you know that, right?”

  Jolina paused from her painting and looked up, grinning. “Thanks.” She screwed the lid onto the bottle she held and set it down. “Seriously, though, don’t let school get to you.”

  “I’m not going to let it get to me—in fact, I’ve got a plan.” I painted my pinkie toe. Some nail polish got on my skin and I wiped it off before explaining my idea; I hated it when my pinkie toes looked larger than they really were. “I’m going to bribe Ms. Carpenter with a bag of Sour Patch Kids every day. She told me once they’re her favorite.”

  “Isn’t bribery illegal?” said Lucille.

  I shrugged. “I’m still working out the kinks.”

  Jolina laughed. “Ella, you can’t bribe Ms. Carpenter with candy so you’ll get an A on the project.”

  I was about to respond when Mrs. O’Reilly came into the room and pretended to stagger toward the window. “Good grief, girls! The air in here is poisonous. Let’s open a window, shall we?” She lifted the pane and took a deep breath. A kitchen towel was flopped over her shoulder and she took it off, using it to fan the smell of nail polish out the window.

  “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.” She sat down on Lucille’s bed and put the towel next to her. “Personally, Ella, I would love it if someone gave me a bag of candy every day, but Jolina’s right—you can’t bribe your teacher.” She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows at me. “Not that I actually thought you were going to do that anyway.”

  I smiled. “It seemed like a good idea.”

  “You can’t control your circumstances, but you can control how you react to them.”

  “You moms all sound the same,” I said. I knew she was right—but only about the bribery part. I was still sure there was a way I could control my circumstances and that I just hadn’t found it yet.

  Mrs. O’Reilly laughed and picked up the kitchen towel. “How about I bring in a couple cots and blankets? You don’t have to set them up now, but you can if you want.”

  “That’d be great. Do you need help?” Jolina said.

  “No, they’re not heavy. I just need to see what Charlie is up to first—it’s been too quiet for the last few minutes.”

  Charlie destroyed things in the O’Reilly household on a regular basis. Lucille said he didn’t mean to ruin things; he was just curious about stuff. The bathroom was where he was usually the most destructive. Lucille kept a running tally of things he’d tried to flush down the toilet so far. We knew that Matchbox cars, LEGO bricks, and markers made it down, but the cowboy hat on his Woody doll and a full roll of toilet paper wouldn’t.

  Lucille was screwing the cap on her blue nail polish when we heard Mrs. O’Reilly from down the hall.

  “No! No! No!”

  We raced as fast as we could on our heels, making sure to keep our freshly painted toes up off the carpet. We looked like a horde of zombies with our funny waddle and our fingers spread out to keep from smearing our wet nails. Once we were in the hallway we were able to move faster; it was tile and not carpet, so we didn’t need to walk on our heels. We sprinted down the hall toward the bathroom … which was not smart.

  We found out later that Charlie had attached the vacuum cleaner extension hose to the bathroom faucet and left the other end hanging down. When he turned on the faucet, water poured out the door and down the hall, creating the world’s first vacuum cleaner water slide. When our feet hit the wet floor the three of us put on a skating show that would have earned us an Olympic gold medal.

  I landed with a splat and hydroplaned into the linen closet door. Jolina fell on top of me, and Lucille fell on top of Jolina.

  Four hours later, I walked out of the emergency room with Mom, Dad, and a broken wrist. The bright pink cast on my right arm stopped just below my elbow. The nurse thought I got two black eyes from the fall as well until I explained that was just Lucille’s attempt at doing my makeup.

  We got home late—close to midnight. At least the next day was Saturday and I could sleep in. I whispered goodnight to Mom and Dad and, since Aunt Willa was sleeping, tiptoed into my room. Chewy was sacked out, snoring on my mattress again. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Chewy was one situation I was going to control whether he liked it or not—I just
wasn’t sure how. I couldn’t shove him off my bed before and I sure wouldn’t be able to with a cast on.

  Grabbing my pillow and blanket, I headed for the sofa, feeling sorry for myself. My wrist throbbed, I couldn’t sleep in my own bed, and I never did get to eat any of Charlie’s Booger cake.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BOMBSHELL

  bomb·shell

  noun bom-shel

  —something that comes as a great surprise

  Each day, I realized more and more that Aunt Willa had turned into one disappointing roommate. I’d had certain expectations, and she hadn’t met any of them. The hours of girl talk, a photography lesson or two, and a clean, organized room were all nonexistent. She didn’t even draw anything cool on my cast—she just signed it.

  Chewy still shoved me off the bed each night, but I decided to keep quiet about it. I figured sleeping on the sofa was better than listening to him bark all night if Aunt Willa put him outside. Mom and Dad didn’t even know I was on the sofa—I usually was up and ready for school before either one of them ever made it out to the kitchen.

  The biggest bummer, though, was the fact I was no longer allowed to use my own bathroom. Aunt Willa had completely taken it over with her photography junk. The chemicals she used for developing her photos stank to high heaven. She often tried to mask the stench by lighting a scented candle in the bedroom, but that made things smell even worse. The scent was called Sandalwood. Half the name was right. It smelled like sandals … sweaty gross ones.

  On Sunday, I’d decided that another pedicure would be the perfect way to spend the afternoon. Friday night’s slip-n-slide fiasco in the hallway had completely messed up the polish on my toes and I’d been wanting to redo them. Aunt Willa had gone to check on the renovations at her condo, so I stole a peek behind the heavy black curtain she’d hung in the bathroom doorway.

  The nail polish collection I kept on the countertop was nowhere to be seen. I had a particularly complicated system for grouping my nail polish. It had taken me hours to come up with it and a whole Saturday to arrange all the bottles just right. The entire structure was based on color, whether or not there was glitter, and glow-in-the-dark ability. I had no idea where any of the bottles were, and I was pretty sure whoever moved the collection hadn’t kept the bottles in the right order.

  I walked into the kitchen and slumped down on a stool. Mom was pulling a sheet of dark chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

  “Why the sour face?” she said.

  “Aunt Willa moved my nail polish and I don’t know where it is,” I said, picking at a piece of lint on my cast.

  She shut the oven door and cocked her head. “What do you need your nail polish for?”

  “I want to redo my nails since they got messed up Friday night. I’ll be able to do it—I can still move my fingers,” I said. I held up my right arm and wiggled my fingers around. “See?”

  “It’s probably under the sink or something. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But it took me forever to organize it all. I don’t like it when people move my stuff,” I muttered.

  “Ella,” Mom said. “It’s nail polish. That’s all.”

  “It’s not all. It’s the fact that my stuff got moved and nobody even asked me! My dresser’s in my closet, my top two drawers were emptied out, I was kicked out of my own bed, I can’t even use my bathroom, and now my nail polish is gone.” I took a deep breath and continued. “Plus, I’m stuck listening to Aunt Willa’s Peruvian panpipe music every time I walk into my room.”

  Mom chuckled.

  “It’s not funny.”

  Mom slid another cookie tray in the oven and then pulled out the stool next to me. “You’re going to have to be flexible for the next few weeks, hon. I know you’re used to having things done a certain way, but don’t let pettiness get in the way of a good relationship.”

  “I’m not.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay, maybe just a little,” I said.

  “You need to process these feelings, Ella—don’t keep them bottled up inside. Talk it out with your aunt and enjoy this time. You never know, you might learn something new.” She handed me a warm cookie.

  “Like what? How to move other people’s stuff around and annoy them with weird music?” I replied.

  She smacked me on the head with her potholder and stood up.

  “No. More like just because you’re an only child doesn’t mean things will always go your way. I know Aunt Willa has her faults, but nobody’s perfect.”

  I felt like she was treating me like one of her counseling clients again. I took my cookie and walked back to my room. Mom’s words stung. I didn’t always get my way. I just wanted things done a certain way. Surely I wasn’t asking too much.

  A couple hours later, Aunt Willa came into the room carrying a set of architectural plans under her arm. She plopped down on her bed and patted the spot next to her. “Want to see what I’m doing at the condo?”

  I shrugged and walked over.

  She shook the plans out of the tube and handed me one rolled end. She unfurled it and held onto the other side. Numbers, dimensions, symbols, and lines filled the page.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “I know this might look confusing, but I’ll explain.” She showed me her bedroom and where the walk-in closet was being built. Then she pointed to a double line in the kitchen. “See this wall here? It’s going to be taken out so the kitchen can be enlarged.”

  “How big are you making it?” I asked.

  “You tell me. See the dotted line here?” She pointed to the plans.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The dotted line is where the new wall will be. How do you find the area of something?”

  “Really? You’re giving me a math test right now?”

  “It’s not a test, goofy.”

  I sighed. “Fine. I think area is length times width.”

  “Good! Now look at the dimensions right here.” She tapped the plans with her finger.

  “Eleven by fifteen?” I said. “I multiply those two together, right?”

  “Yep.”

  I stood and walked to my desk.

  “Where are you going?” said Aunt Willa.

  “To get a calculator.” I opened the top drawer. “There’s no way I can multiply that in my head.” I plugged in the numbers. “One hundred and sixty-five square feet,” I said.

  “Bingo!” said Aunt Willa. “My current kitchen is only one hundred square feet so this will add a lot of extra space. You sure know your geometry.”

  “Geometry really isn’t my strong point.” I paused. “Actually, math in general isn’t my strong point.”

  “That’s okay. Your strengths lie in other areas. Not everyone was made to be a math whiz. But you still need to be able to handle everyday math.”

  “You don’t use math,” I argued, putting away my calculator. “That’s one of the reasons I want to be a photographer. That, and I think it’d be a lot of fun to travel.”

  She laughed. “I use math all the time—especially when I’m traveling.”

  I spun around to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “I have to estimate the weight of my baggage so I don’t bring too much. There are different time zones to work with and various currencies to exchange. When I turn in expense reports, I have to make sure everything adds up to the right amount. I need to estimate distances correctly when I’m taking pictures to ensure I use the proper lens. And as I develop photographs, if I don’t measure the amount of chemicals correctly, I could have a serious problem.”

  She rolled up the plans and stuffed them back in the tube. “You can’t think of it as a test every time you do something math-related. You’ll freak out if you do that. Anybody would.”

  I gripped the edge of my desk. “You sound like my mom.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She pushed herself off the bed. “I’m going to work in the darkroom for a bit.” She placed h
er panpipe music in the CD player and disappeared behind the curtain, oblivious to the fact that she’d just destroyed my hopes of dodging the math bullet by becoming a photographer. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why do adults have to ruin everything?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MEATLOAF

  meat·loaf

  noun meet-lohf

  —ground meat molded into a loaf pan and baked; often topped with brown sugar and ketchup

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, rain poured throughout the afternoon, which must have prompted Mom and Dad to decide to start a weekly meatloaf night. Sundays were the unlucky chosen night. Because of the rain, Chewy was allowed to come inside early. He made himself comfortable under the table and fell asleep. Since he wasn’t disturbing anyone, Dad let him stay there when we sat down for dinner.

  A ketchup-covered, grayish-brown slab of meatloaf the size of Texas was plopped onto my plate, along with some mac and cheese and green beans. I felt a nudge against my leg.

  I looked down.

  Chewy looked up.

  His eyes begged for meaty goodness. I thought of telling him that meaty goodness did not exist at the table that night, but then I had a brilliant idea.

  I scanned the table as I stabbed a piece of meatloaf with my fork. When no one was looking, I plucked it off and gave it to Chewy. He licked my fingers clean. No one noticed. I cut off two more pieces, each a little bigger. I quickly slid them one at a time under the table. They disappeared in seconds. My plan was working. The meatloaf was now about the size of Arkansas, but I knew Mom and Dad would get suspicious if they saw it was disappearing faster than usual. I pushed some green beans around my plate for a while and took a couple bites of mac and cheese.

  I glanced over at Aunt Willa. Most of her meatloaf was gone already! Apparently she really missed it while in Africa. She seemed tired, too. I lost track of the number of times she dropped her napkin and reached down to pick it up.