Even though I’m soaking his shirt, he keeps holding me. When I start shivering, he holds me tighter.
“I think we’d better get you home, Ben.”
I nod, even though I don’t want to ruin Toothpick’s birthday.
Mr. Taylor holds me even tighter. I can hardly breathe, and I don’t care. It feels good. I don’t want him to ever let me go.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
I know it’s not, but his words feel good. His strong arms around me feel good. It’s okay, I lie to myself. It’s okay.
I’m glad no one comes into the bathroom, because I’m shaking and crying and snot is dripping out of my nose, and I don’t even have a lousy piece of toilet paper with me to wipe it.
“It’s okay,” Mr. Taylor says again, his warm arms still around me. His voice reminds me of someone. “It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay,” he keeps saying in that familiar voice as he rocks me back and forth. “It’s okay, son.”
I know that voice. It makes me relax a little and I whisper/cry the name of the person it belongs to: “Dad?”
Mr. Taylor pauses for a second, but then goes back to rocking me.
He hands me a couple paper towels to wipe my face, and we leave the bathroom just as two little kids barrel in, followed closely by their dad. Lucky kids.
I keep my head down so they can’t see how not okay I am.
Toothpick’s dad steers me to the tiny gift shop near the admission desk. “Wait in here, Ben. I’ll get Michael.”
I nod, glad the shop is empty, except for a lady working behind the counter.
I slink to the far corner of the small shop, near a rack of postcards, and keep my head down. I think the postcards would be good for my sweepstakes entries, because they have photos of the displays in the museum. They would definitely attract a judge’s attention, but I don’t have money to buy any, and I don’t care about sweepstakes anymore.
What have sweepstakes ever given me for all my years of hard work, other than some lousy plain oatmeal packets and a bunch of useless junk in my closet? Maybe I’ll never enter another sweepstakes or contest again. Why should I waste my time?
“Here you go, young man.”
I pretend I’m studying postcards and don’t hear the lady behind the counter.
She raises her voice. “Young man, you might like this contest.”
I glance up, hoping my hair hides my face, which I’m sure is red and blotchy from crying in the bathroom.
She holds a sheet of paper toward me. “It’s a costume contest,” she says. “First year the museum’s trying it. Should be fun.”
Did she read my mind? No more contests, lady behind the counter!
Since I can’t figure out how to get out of it, I walk over and take the paper from her. I mumble, “Thanks,” then wait outside the entrance of the gift shop so I won’t have to talk to her anymore.
I shove the paper into the pocket of Toothpick’s jacket without looking at it and hope Pick and Mr. Taylor get here before anyone else talks to me.
Toothpick and I sit on opposite ends of the backseat of Mr. Taylor’s car, and we’re already passing the Mr. Barstool store on Race Street and pulling onto Interstate 95 when I realize we haven’t said a single word to each other since I told him I was going to the bathroom back at the museum.
I come up with one word that might break through the invisible wall that’s formed between us: “Sorry.”
Looking out his window, Toothpick shrugs, like it doesn’t matter.
But I can tell he’s pissed that I ruined his birthday by making him leave his favorite place way before he was ready. “I’ll make it up to you,” I say, even though I have no idea how I’d do that.
“You know—” Toothpick whirls around to face me. The birthday candle sticking out of the fake wound on his neck droops. “I didn’t even get a chance to see their new exhibit! Why’d you come if you didn’t want to be there?”
“Michael!” Mr. Taylor barks from the front seat. “Watch your mouth!”
Toothpick looks at his lap and is quiet again.
I stare out the window at white-gray clouds of pollution billowing from the smokestacks of a chemical plant. Even though the car windows are closed, the stink seeps in, and I feel like I’m going to be sick again. I put my forehead against the cool window and wish I were home in bed, where I couldn’t mess anything else up for anyone.
After we pass a few exits and about a billion billboards advertising WaWa and Dunkin’ Donuts and Toothpick still hasn’t said another word to me, I pull the stupid paper from the jacket pocket and look at it, because there’s nothing else to do. “Pick?” I say softly.
He’s silent.
“Pick?” I say a little louder, thinking he didn’t hear me the first time.
“What?” he snaps.
He heard me the first time. My heart sinks a little, but I’m glad his dad doesn’t yell at him again.
I pass the paper to him, like an apology.
His lips move as he reads it. “So?” he says.
I point to the grand prize money—fifteen hundred dollars—and raise my eyebrows. “We should do this.”
Toothpick stares at the paper, then a tiny half smile forms. “We should,” he says, excitement creeping into his voice. “I could do the makeup.”
“Yes,” I say, because that’s exactly what I was thinking. “And I could … I could … make an, um … I could make a toilet paper wedding dress for the costume. That way, I could use it again for the Cheap Chic Toilet Paper Wedding Dress Contest in the summer. How cool would that be?”
In the rearview mirror, I catch Mr. Taylor grinning.
“Can you actually do that?” Pick asks. “I mean, will it hold up for the judging and all? Not fall apart?”
I think of the videos of toilet paper wedding dresses other people made. I think of the free rolls of Royal-T I’ve been saving in my closet. For a toilet paper emergency. “Yes,” I say. “I think I can.” I look across the backseat at my best friend and the droopy candle dangling from his neck. “Pick, I know I can.” A part of me wishes I’d given the toilet paper to Zeyde, though, instead of saving it, because then maybe Barkley would still be alive.
Toothpick wiggles in his seat. “Okay, you’ll make a toilet paper wedding dress, and I’ll do the makeup. It could be a zombie-bride costume or something.” Toothpick bites his lip. “Who will we get to wear the wedding gown? If you’re making the dress and I’m doing the makeup, then neither of us can wear it.”
I lean back. “Not that we’d want to.”
“Right,” Toothpick says.
We both face front.
“Don’t look at me,” Toothpick’s dad says, glancing in the rearview mirror. “There’s no way I’m wearing a toilet paper wedding dress. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” He laughs. “What the heck are you guys talking about anyway?”
“A contest,” I say.
“Costume contest at the Mütter Museum,” Toothpick adds.
“In two weeks,” I say. “On a Saturday.”
“Can you drive us?” Toothpick asks.
“Doubt it,” Mr. Taylor says. “I usually work Saturdays. You know I asked for today off because of your birthday.”
“Yeah.” Toothpick sounds disappointed. “I know.”
Something unpleasant settles in my gut. I turn to Toothpick and mouth the words “I’m really sorry,” because I not only ruined Toothpick’s favorite thing to do on his birthday, I wasted Mr. Taylor’s day off, too.
Pick mouths the words “Don’t worry about it.” And we bump fists.
That’s when I know it really is okay between us again, and I feel much better. I’m sorry I messed up his birthday, but I’m glad we’re still friends. Even if Toothpick is a weirdo who sticks birthday candles, nails and broken pencils in fake wounds on his body, I’m glad I didn’t lose his friendship. Because right now, I couldn’t stand to lose another thing.
I lean back in my seat and tap the paper. “We’re totall
y going to win.”
“You know it,” he says, plucking the candle out of his fake neck wound. “It’s going to be an epic costume. Extra epic!”
“Extremely excellently extra epic!” I shout, thinking that all that alliteration would be great for a sweepstakes entry. That’s when I know I could never give up sweeping. It’s too much fun to think about all the great prizes I could win, even if I don’t end up winning them.
Toothpick and I crack up. Even Mr. Taylor laughs. Probably at us, though.
And even though we’re almost at my apartment, and I’ll have a lot to deal with when I get there, I feel better than I have in a while. I’m not hot, dizzy and nauseated anymore. And I feel like something returned that’s been missing—some small thing that makes a huge difference.
Hope.
COLOSSAL COSTUME CONTEST
WHERE: MÜTTER MUSEUM OF THE COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS OF PHILADELPHIA, 19 SOUTH 22ND STREET
WHEN: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31, NOON
WHAT: MAKE AND MODEL YOUR SCARIEST, MOST CREATIVE COSTUME
WHY: $1,500 GRAND PRIZE
$500 FIRST PRIZE
$250 SECOND PRIZE
$100 THIRD PRIZE
I feel pretty good, that is, until Mr. Taylor honks twice, Toothpick waves wildly from the front seat and they pull away. I left Pick’s jacket in the car, so I shiver when a cold breeze smacks against my back.
As they drive away, my hope races off with them. A thousand people will probably enter that costume contest. There’s no way Toothpick and I will win, especially not the grand prize.
I’ll probably never win a grand prize.
And we’ll be kicked out of our apartment after Mom’s court date, which is just over two weeks away. Not to mention that on November 1, we’ll owe twelve hundred dollars more. But Mom said our lease gives us a five-day grace period to pay that. As if that will even help!
Standing inside our apartment building, leaning against the row of mailboxes, I feel so alone. Able to glimpse the orange eviction notice on our door. Alone. Imagining waking somewhere else, without Dad’s galaxy overhead. Alone.
Without Barkley.
Alone.
I need a hug from Mom. Right now.
As I take the steps two at a time and stick my key in the lock, I hope she’s home. “Mom!” I yell. “Hey, Mom?”
There are a bunch of papers spread on the table, and my sweepstakes supplies are pushed to the side.
No one’s in the bathroom.
I knock and go into Mom’s bedroom. Her bed’s neatly made, and a thick study guide lies on the foot of her bed. Where could she be? I glimpse Dad’s he-man photo on the table beside Mom’s bed, back out of her room and close the door.
I take a deep breath before opening my bedroom door, not sure I’m ready for what I’ll find inside.
On the daybed, Zeyde’s lying on his back with his hands folded across his chest. I close my eyelids for a couple seconds, because I can’t stand seeing him positioned like that. That’s how Dad looked in his coffin, hands folded across his chest. But Zeyde’s snoring softly, so I know he’s okay—just taking a nap.
I allow my neck to swivel slightly, and I push my glasses up on my nose so I can see the desk and what’s on top of it. Or what’s not.
Barkley’s tank is still there, but it’s empty—completely cleaned out—no gravel, no castle, no bits of lousy toilet paper.
No Barkley.
I swallow past the boulder in my throat.
Where’s Mom?
Zeyde’s snores increase in intensity, and I can’t believe I thought I missed that sound when I was sleeping at Toothpick’s last night.
I look at the ceiling stars. They seem dimmer.
A loud snore startles me, and I know what I have to do.
I take a shaky breath, go into the living room/dining room/kitchen, grab a butter knife from the drawer and drag a chair into the bedroom. My legs are still stiff and achy, I guess from all the walking I did yesterday, so I climb onto the chair carefully and steady myself before looking up. I’m glad our bedroom ceilings are low enough for me to reach.
Zeyde snores so loudly, I hope I don’t get rattled and fall off the chair.
Before I change my mind, I dig the butter knife under the first plastic star. It falls off and lands on the floor. I slip the small knife under the next star and jimmy that one off, too. Plunk. And another one and then another. Plunk. Plunk.
Soon plastic stars litter my bed and floor, and I’ve gotten into a determined rhythm. Reaching up to pry off the last little star, I hear, “Benjamin, what are you doing?”
I whirl around and nearly topple off the chair.
Mom’s looking up at me from the doorway, her curly hair a frizzed-out mess, arms outstretched and palms up, like she’s handing me an invisible box of Kirk’s pizza. “What on earth are you doing? And why aren’t you at the Mütter Museum with Michael and his dad?”
I pull my scrawny shoulders back and say, “If we’re leaving here, these stars are coming with me.” I look at the rest of Dad’s galaxy—the part he painted, the part that matters—and my heart hurts because I can’t use a butter knife to take that with us.
“Oh, sweetie.”
I hop off the chair, drop the butter knife on my bed and put my arms around Mom. She feels so thin. “Mom—”
“Shhh,” she says, and holds me, just like Mr. Taylor did. Then Mom takes my hand and leads me out of the room. “Let’s let your zeyde sleep. He was up late last night. He felt bad about what he did and was worried about you.” She touches the tip of my nose. “I was worried, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, for what feels like the zillionth time. “We left the museum because I didn’t feel well.”
Mom presses a hand to my forehead as we walk. “You’re not warm. Feeling okay now?”
“I guess so.”
“Good.” Mom leads me to the table in the living room/dining room/kitchen. “Sit,” she says.
I sit.
“Benjamin, I know you’re feeling lousy about having to leave here. I feel the same way.” I catch Mom looking at Dad’s football recliner. “Believe me.”
I think of the costume contest at the Mütter Museum in two weeks, of the fifteen-hundred-dollar grand prize. I know there’s probably no chance we’ll win, but I say, “There’s a small chance that—”
“I’m not done.”
I press my lips together.
“But you can’t do something stupid like leave school. Not ever. Do you hear me?”
How could I not hear her? She’s sitting right across from me and raising her voice.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I’d almost forgotten about ditching. With all that’s happened, it feels like such a long time ago. The thought of facing Angus at school Monday makes my stomach twist.
“The counselor called and said you skipped your afternoon classes Friday.”
“I did, but—”
“Stop.”
I’m glad Mom stops me from talking, because I don’t want to tell her why I skipped. I don’t want to tell her about Angus hurting me and stealing our rent money. Or that I walked about a million miles to Dad’s grave.
“Your dad would never have wanted you to do something like that, and I certainly don’t.” Mom grabs my chin. “You need to promise it will never happen again.”
I pull my chin from her grip. “It won’t.”
“Good,” she says, sitting back, “because I was scared to death when I got that phone call. Until I saw you were okay, I thought I’d lost …”
Mom doesn’t finish her sentence, but I can guess what she thought. And even though I should, I can’t bring myself to apologize again, so I lower my head and feel rotten about worrying her.
She touches my cheek. “And I’m so sorry about Barkley, sweetheart. I know he meant the world to you.” Mom shakes her head. “Boy, you had a rough day yesterday.”
I nod, because I did have a rough day yesterday—worse than Mom will ever know�
��and if I try to say anything right now, a few tears might leak out.
“That’s why I need to fill out these forms.” Mom fiddles with the papers spread on the table. “Mrs. Schneckle brought them over. God bless that woman. We’re going to put your zeyde in a memory-care program during the day, you know, while we’re out of the apartment.”
“A what?”
Mom smiles. “It’s a good program, where Mrs. Schneckle volunteers. They have breakfast and lunch and entertainment, like people who play music and sing the old songs Zeyde enjoys. And the people in the program play card games. I think Zeyde will love it.”
“It sounds good, I guess.”
Mom bites her bottom lip. “And if he gets worse, like where he couldn’t safely stay with us anymore at all, then he’ll go back down to Aunt Abby’s. She found a great place for him there—Cozy Corners Assisted Living and Memory Care Facility.”
“He’d live at Cozy Corners?” I ask, thinking about the nice use of alliteration. “Away from everyone?”
“Away from Aunt Abby’s fourteen cats.” Mom winks. “She has only six, by the way. I asked.”
“Only six?”
“Yup. The other eight are outdoor cats that she feeds sometimes.”
“And by ‘sometimes’ you mean like twice a day?”
“Yeah, probably, knowing your aunt Abby.” Mom smiles, then hands me her key. “Hey, go get the mail. I don’t think we’ve gotten it for days. Just think of all the bills we might have missed.”
When I touch Dad’s nameplate, open our mailbox and pull out the envelopes, Mom’s right. There are a couple bills, but there’s something else among the bills.
And I can’t believe it.
My hands tremble as I slide my finger under the envelope’s flap.
I touch Dad’s name on the mailbox—TODD EPSTEIN—and whisper, “Thanks.”
Then I bound into the apartment, waving the mail. “Mom!”
“Shh!” She puts a finger to her lips and points down the hall, where Zeyde’s snoring like a lawn mower. “What is it?”
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