Finding Perfect

by Elly Swartz

  Ian’s eyes glow and his lips smile like the world is awaiting his next move.

  My thoughts of envy come to a crashing halt when his greasy fingers graze my knuckle.

  “That’s disgusting! Don’t put your dripping, dirty hands on me. PLEASE.” I know this means another session at the sink washing my hands. I’m so hungry and tired. All I want to do is finish my pizza, do my homework, and go to sleep.

  I walk over to the sink.

  Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse.

  Again.

  I change the subject. “The next time you even think about coming into my room and playing with my glass collection, don’t!”

  “But they’re so pretty. Especially the horse,” he says sweetly with a mouth full of cheese. The black horse was from Ian. Well, technically it was from Dad, but Ian picked it out for me. Up until a year ago, I had a poster of a black horse above my dresser. Every Saturday morning, Ian would climb onto my bed and ask me to tell him a story about Harry the Horse. Harry went on many adventures with Ian and me.

  When I redecorated my room before middle school, I took down Harry’s poster, got an orange shag carpet, and painted my walls vanilla cream and my ceiling green. I wanted my walls fresh and clean. No more posters. A week later, Ian showed up at my bedroom door with a wad of newspaper. He handed me the printed ball and told me it was a birthday present, although it wasn’t even close to my birthday. When I unwrapped my gift, I found a black glass horse.

  My anger melts. He’s so little. Innocent.

  “Maybe this year you can take me down to Bridgeway Farms again and I can ride the black horse,” Ian says, wiping his cheesy face with the backs of his hands.

  “Maybe.” I slide my glass to touch the lip of my plate.

  Last year, I held Ian’s hand while he sat on top of the horse and walked him around the fenced-in area at least a dozen times. When we got home, my shoes were caked with mud and my hands were filthy. I didn’t even care.

  I miss that.

  16

  the smallest of peeks

  THE NEXT NIGHT WHEN I tuck into my bedroom, my thoughts trail to Mom. When I was little, she read me poems to music, and I’d dance and twirl around the room. Maybe when she calls next, we can Skype like Kate and Kevin. That way she’ll see me and remember that she wants to come home. After our last conversation, I sent her a text with a pic of me attached. I was wearing our matching birthday boots. She hasn’t texted back yet, but I hope she’ll send me a picture of her. Maybe she’ll be wearing the Best Mom pin that Ian and I gave her when she left. (Kate had refused to sign the card. She said, “Best Moms don’t leave their kids for a job.”) I spray the I Love You Forever perfume on my clothes and wonder if Mom still smells like jasmine and mint.

  I sit at my desk and work on my slam poem. I move the words around, cross them out, erase, and begin again. Round Two is on Friday. There’s so much to do. But I can’t get it right.

  I grab my notebook and write another Me-poem. Unseen and honest.

  I’m not the girl I used to be

  I don’t know what’s happening to me

  The sting of hurt it burns my eyes

  I organize and tell more lies

  Share my fear, it’s not forbidden

  To tell the truth that’s deeply hidden

  Someone find me, where did I go?

  Can you see me? I need to know.

  I sit back and wonder if anyone can see the real me anymore. Then I wonder if anyone should.

  My homework begs for my attention. I need to create a posterboard story of the Civil War. The scissors aren’t in my drawer.

  “Kate!” I yell.

  No answer.

  “Kate!”

  Nothing.

  I leave my room and find Ian helping Spider-Man save the video-game world. Kate’s in the basement; the only sign of occupancy is the R&B music escaping from the crack underneath the closed door.

  I stand for a minute and listen to the music.

  Knock. Knock.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Go away.”

  “Kate, I need the scissors.”

  “They’re in my room.”

  I pause, wondering if that’s really all I want.

  I decide it isn’t. She’s my big sister. “Can I, um, talk to you about something?”

  “Not now. I’m Skyping with Kevin.”

  “Please.” Don’t shut me out. I really need you.

  “Later.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Later, I promise.” The annoyance in her voice is less hidden now.

  I’ll still be crazy then. I walk away from the closed door and pick up a rare photograph of my family that sits on the table in the hallway. It was taken when we went skiing in Vermont. The snow was falling and we were laughing. I envy the girl in the picture.

  I inhale deeply before I enter Kate’s room. It’s a mess. An empty Cheetos bag on the floor and half-finished water bottles on her desk, dresser, bed, and nightstand. She may look like Mom, but the stuff-littered-all-over gene she got from Dad. I step over the jeans she wore two days ago and grab the scissors that are sitting on top of her jewelry box. The other day she said she got something special from Kevin for her birthday last month, but then went all secretive. I take the smallest of peeks inside the jewelry box. There’s a black rope bracelet with a small red star.

  As I take a closer look to see if it’s inscribed, my heart shatters into a million pieces. I can’t believe what is lying next to the bracelet.

  17

  rainbow of beautiful colors

  THE BEADED NECKLACES KATE and I made for Mom are floating in the bottom of Kate’s jewelry box next to the bracelet Kevin gave her. I feel my anger rising from someplace I don’t recognize. She had no right. The necklaces were a gift for Mom. They weren’t Kate’s to take. They don’t belong here. I reach in and grab mine, then I grab both. I roll them between my palms four times and leave the room quietly, closing the door behind me. I’m halfway to my room when I realize I left the stupid scissors. Back to Kate’s room, get the scissors, close the lid to the jewelry box. Check the lid. No one has to know.

  I run into my room to find the perfect hiding spot for the necklaces. A safe place away from Kate. I take out my metal locker—a gift from Papa Lou. It has a lock. I grab the small key that I tucked into my orange socks in my bottom drawer and slide it in. Click. The locker opens. Inside is my favorite ruler, a handmade birthday card from Hannah, and the note Mom left for me when she headed north.

  Dear Molly,

  I know this is very hard. For all of us. But it’s important to me that you know how much you are loved and how much I love being your mom. Remember that I am not running from, but going to something. The year will fly by. Visit often.

  I love you.

  Mom

  I stare at the note and then at the necklaces. I sink into my bed and remember the day we gave them to her. It was Mother’s Day and the house smelled like the roses Dad had bought for Mom. Kate and I were in Kate’s room beading the surprise necklaces for Mom. Mine was a pattern: Red. Red. White. White. Black. Black. Until I ran out of red beads. Kate insisted it didn’t matter and I could just add more black or white to the back. She said Mom’s bushy hair would cover it and no one would even see that part. But I couldn’t. I needed to continue the pattern.

  Kate’s necklace was done. It wasn’t a pattern and she didn’t care.

  I love that about her.

  I asked if I could have her red beads. Unfortunately, they were in the middle of her necklace.

  She looked at me for a long time. Then said, “Sure,” and dumped her finished necklace on the bed and handed me all the red beads.

  I remember wishing that I didn’t care. Wishing my necklace could be a rainbow of beautiful colors.

  In any order.

  I tuck the necklaces safely into my locker and lock the latch. When my plan works and Mom returns, I’ll g
ive these back to her. She won’t leave us again once she sees the necklaces.

  * * *

  I WALK DOWNSTAIRS AND out the door. I need some air.

  Bridgett’s standing outside my house. She grabs my hand and leads me to the curb to sit down. “Thank God you’re home. I so need to talk to you,” she says. The sun has already set, so the trees look lost against the dark sky.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “My mom had a meeting at some guy’s house nearby, so I asked her to drop me off. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. So I just came by.” She stuffs the newspaper in my face. “A true obituary emergency.”

  “You know there’s no such thing, right?”

  She nods, like of course, but rattles on breathlessly anyway. “Section D, page fourteen, four paragraphs and picture, the obit of a forty-eight-year-old who got shot going to choir practice. Apparently, it was a case of mistaken identity. Same page, half-page write-up about a sheriff and his wife who were gunned down in their home while eating chicken pot pie. Then, same section, page fourteen, column seven, tucked into the last line, is Mr. Gerald Nathanson, a seventy-three-year-old man who died in his bed three days ago.”

  Bridgett pauses like I’m supposed to understand.

  “Gerald barely got a mention and no one even knew he was dead! The others got photos and glowing remarks about their life’s accomplishments because they got shot. Do you see?”

  Still nothing.

  “So now we either have to die young, die famous, or get shot while eating chicken pot pie to get a decent mention in the obits.”

  I start to laugh. “I would have thought this would make you happy. Before you assumed you could only get a good write-up if you died young or famous. You’ve just discovered a whole new category.”

  “But I’m a vegetarian.”

  18

  today is the day

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. My alarm sounds at 6:00 a.m. I quickly slap the button. Silence. My dad still thinks I naturally wake up early. I started setting my alarm about three months ago, when my organizing and cleaning began getting in the way. It feels like it takes me longer and longer to get ready each morning.

  Rise and shine.

  Kate and I need to take Ian to school this morning. The other day, Dad said something about a big interview that he can’t reschedule.

  I pull back the covers and pray Kate hasn’t noticed the missing necklaces, then I slip my right leg and then left out of bed. Right leg and then left out of the pajamas. Right arm and then left out of the tee and over the head. Fold neatly and place in the hamper. Close the lid. Check the lid. Open the lid. Close the lid. Check the lid.

  Now to pick out my outfit. I grab my chocolate-brown corduroy pants and my pink-and-brown long-sleeved tee. Right leg, left leg. Right arm, left arm, head. I straighten my shirt and stand in front of the mirror. Shoot. It’s wrinkled. I can’t wear this! I pull off the shirt. Right arm, left arm, head. Turn it right-side in, fold it, and place it neatly in my hamper with a note that says, “Please iron.” It takes me four tries to get the note just right.

  6:10 a.m.

  Luckily, my brown-and-cream sweater is clean. I put that on and glance in the mirror. My hair looks like Medusa’s. I pick up my brush. Right side. Left side. Back. Again. Right side. Left side. Back.

  Again.

  No.

  You have to!

  Right side. Left side. Back. Again. Right side. Left side. Back. Again.

  6:20 a.m.

  Socks to match. Right foot. Left foot. Brown boots. There’s dirt on the bottom of the left one. I walk quietly to the bathroom, pick up a towel, wet it, and wipe clean the bottom of my left boot. Then the right. Just in case I happen to miss the dirt. Then the left. The right. The left. The right. The left. The right.

  Tick. Tock. 6:30 a.m.

  I walk back into my bedroom to make my bed. I strip off the fluffy cream comforter and tightly pull the bottom sheet. The silky feel of the wrinkle-free fabric makes my heart hop. I run my palms over it again and again.

  I pull the white-and-chocolate-checked top sheet up and let the airy feel of the sheet brush against my cheek. Pure. Free. I lay the sheet neatly atop its twin, and again run my fingers across the plane, removing any remaining creases.

  6:45 a.m.

  I’m making good time. I hear Kate turn on the shower. I know in twenty minutes she’ll be downstairs ready to go. Last step. I grab my blanket and spread it over my bed. I pull the top right, bottom right, top left, bottom left. Smooth. Almost done.

  My door noses open. I turn to look. Before I can react, Oscar jumps on my bed and burrows under my comforter.

  “Get off!” I yell at my eighty-pound fur mound of a dog. His tail stops mid-wag and anchors between his legs. His ears slump. He hops off the bed, runs to the corner of my room, and melts into the carpet with a whimper.

  “Sorry, big O. I know you didn’t mean it.”

  I look at my bed that now looks like Dad’s version of no big deal. Hives pepper my neck.

  I plunk down on my untidy nest and rest my face in my now-clammy hands.

  “What’s going on?” Dad pokes his head into my room. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything’s not okay. Look at my bed. Oscar did this.” My hands wave over the mess that is now my bed.

  “Honey, it’s—it’s—”

  “What? No big deal?” I say, mimicking my father.

  “I understand it’s upsetting, but it’s getting late. I have to leave and all of you need to get to school.” He pauses and motions for me to stand. “Let’s go. I’ll help you make it.”

  I look at his unshaven face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. If it has to be done, then let’s do it.”

  Love you, Dad.

  He lifts up one end of the comforter to help me straighten it.

  With my bed made, Dad closes the door behind him. “I’ll see you downstairs.” The smell of his pine cologne lingers. I take a deep breath. I have five minutes to brush my teeth.

  Not likely.

  I walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I concentrate as I carefully spread the green-foam toothpaste across my toothbrush. Get it straight and you won’t have to do it again. Slowly I squirt the paste along the bristles. Nice and perfectly aligned. My stomach grumbles. My hand starts to shake. No. Concentrate.

  Slosh! The toothpaste falls off my toothbrush and into the sink.

  Again.

  Four times and I finally get my flawless line.

  Exhale.

  When I get back to my room, I stand in the middle and stare at my perfectly aligned glass menagerie, my wrinkle-free bed, my neatly folded clothing, and realize that I can’t keep doing this. Things are getting worse. I’m losing control. I have to tell someone.

  Today.

  19

  say cheese

  I LOOK DOWN THE stairs and see Dad digging in his briefcase for something. Maybe I should tell him.

  He looks up. “It’s late, people. Everyone downstairs now.” He stares at his watch. “I’ve got to go. It took me six months to get twenty minutes with this guy.”

  Maybe not Dad.

  “Go. We’ll be fine,” Kate says.

  He surveys the two of us. “You sure?”

  We nod.

  “Okay, then. Love you guys. Text me when you get Ian to school.”

  I grab three protein bars from the pantry. I toss Kate the sugar-free peanut butter one. She says, “Thanks.” I exhale a little. Seems the rescue-of-the-necklaces remains a secret safely hidden in my closet.

  I look around. “Where’s Ian?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  “Ian,” I call upstairs.

  Nothing.

  I run back up to his room. Ian’s sitting on the floor in his Spider-Man costume holding his pet hedgehog. “Hey, Buddy, you might want to change. It’s time for school.”

  “I’m not going to school today. Spider really missed me yesterday.”


  “I know, but he’ll be right here waiting for you when you get home. And isn’t Raheim in Mrs. Washington’s kindergarten class, too?”

  He nods.

  I wish Mom was here. At twelve, I’m just not good at this parenting thing.

  “I have an idea,” I say. “Look up, smile, and say cheese. Both of you.”

  Click.

  I take a picture of Ian and Spider, and print out two copies in Dad’s office. I tape one to the outside of Spider’s cage and hand one to Ian. “Put this in your backpack. It will be like Spider is coming with you to school.”

  He gives me a toothless grin and stuffs the picture and a photograph of Mom and Dad from his corkboard into his bag, returns Spider to his cage, puts his little hand in mine, and says he’s ready to go to school.

  When we get downstairs, Kate starts to say something about his Spider-Man costume and I shake my head. Subject dropped.

  Mrs. Washington’s kindergarten room looks just like I remember it. I hold Ian’s hand and I bring him over to the block corner. I take a moment to organize the blocks by color so it’s easier for him to find what he’s looking for. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue.

  I look around the room. Mrs. Washington is talking to Elle’s grandmother, and other moms and dads are still hanging around their kids. Not Kate. She’s already outside. As I get up to leave, Ian tugs at my pant leg.

  “Two more minutes,” he pleads.

  We build a castle and I’m relieved when Raheim walks over dressed as Batman. Ian doesn’t even look up when I leave.

  Outside, Kate’s sitting by the large maple tree we used to have snacks under when we were still in elementary school and Mom was still living in the United States. As I walk over, I take a deep breath and decide to tell Kate. She’s my sister. She can’t disown me. No matter how crazy I am or what I may have stolen from her jewelry box.

  “I used to come with Mom to drop you off at kindergarten,” Kate says. “You spent the entire time organizing the blocks then, too.”

  “Actually, about that, I, um…”

  “Mom should be here. Ian needs her,” Kate says.

  “I know, but she had to go to Toronto to keep her job.” I think back to the morning she left. I prayed for a flat tire on the way to the airport or a canceled flight, but neither happened. Mom had clasped my hand around my turquoise sea glass, hugged me close, and said, “Hold on tight to this until I get back. It’s only for a year, Molly. You can visit anytime and we’ll talk every night at six. I promise.”