by Elly Swartz
“Well, soon we’ll be eating lunch standing up.”
“Here, this one’s perfect.” I wipe off the table with my napkin. “Don’t you girls agree?” I ask Bridgett and Arianna, who are already sitting at the table. They nod in unison.
“If you were going to wipe off the table anyway, why did it matter where we sat?” Hannah asks over the rumble of her stomach.
We slide into our seats, and like ants to a picnic, Ryan and Greg walk by.
“Hey, Molly,” Ryan says, waving and slowing down.
“Hi,” I say with my best beauty-queen smile.
“I like your sweater, and, uh, your mashed potatoes look good,” Ryan says. Big metal grin on a beet-red face.
“Thanks.”
“Well, um, have a good lunch.”
“Yeah. You, too,” I say.
When they walk away, our table bursts into fits of laughter.
“You’ve got some good-lookin’ potatoes,” Hannah says to me.
Our laughter explodes all over again.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Nate.
“Hey, can I sit here?” he asks, nodding to the spot next to me.
“Hi. Sure.” I make room for him to sit down.
The girls’ eyes fix on me. Then him. Then me again.
“This is Nate. Mrs. Melvin’s grandson.”
“Hi. You new?” someone asks.
Nate’s dimple is showing.
“Just started this morning,” he says.
A chorus of giggles.
“How’s your morning going?” I ask.
“Well, so far okay. It took me a while to find Room 107. But the burgers are good.”
“If you need help finding your other classes, let me know.” Hannah grins. So hard I notice she has a piece of lettuce wedged between her braces. I give her a look and discreetly point to my teeth. She picks up the signal and wriggles the lettuce free. She mouths, “Thanks.” Then asks me, “Why did Ms. P. come over to you during the quiz?” The numbers have been quiet, but the sound of Ms. P.’s name brings them back to life. 104, 108, 112, 116.
“Who’s she?” Nate asks.
“Our math teacher,” I say. “She thought I had a question.”
Lie.
I look down at my plate and notice my lumpy mashed potatoes oozing into my green beans and my burger. 120, 124. Why today? I’m so hungry. I don’t want to be weird around Nate. It feels like I’m trapped on the top of a Ferris wheel with no way down.
“What did you think of it?” Hannah asks as she sinks her teeth into her big, juicy burger.
“Of what?” I ask. I notice the potatoes dangling off the bottom of Hannah’s hamburger bun.
“The pop quiz?”
“It was fine.” I wish I could be like her. Maybe if I take the burger out of the bun I can eat it. 128, 132.
Through bites, Hannah says, “I thought it was pretty easy, but I got stuck on problem six. What did you get for that one?”
“I don’t remember.”
Lie.
I remove my burger from the bun, examine both sides for any hangers-on, and happily cut off a piece.
“Why aren’t you eating your bun?” Hannah’s eyebrows raise at the sight of a naked burger.
“Not that hungry.” 136, 140.
Another lie.
“Really? I’m starving. Anyway, problem six was the one where you had to figure out how many starfish washed up on shore. I got seven, but I’m not sure if that’s right. Is that what you got?” Hannah licks the mashed potatoes off the bottom of her bun.
“I really don’t remember.”
Nate’s plate is clean. Burger, bun, gravy, mashed potatoes. All gone. He turns to the girls at the end of the table. “It was good meeting you guys.” Then, “Molly and Hannah, I’ll catch you later.”
“You know how to get to your next class?” Hannah asks.
“I passed it on my way to the cafeteria, but I have to stop at the office first to fill out some forms. Thanks.” He picks up his tray and trails out of the lunchroom.
Hannah turns back to me. “Why won’t you tell me how you solved problem six? What’s the big secret?”
“I told you, I just don’t remember how I solved the equation.” I can’t tell Hannah that I turned in a blank quiz. 144, 148, 152, 156.
I look around the lunchroom. Jimmy “The Beef” Durkins, Reggie Lyons, and a few other football players are sitting at the table next to ours. Eating. Laughing. Normal.
I want to be normal.
Bridgett’s shrill voice jars my attention back to our lunch table.
“You have to give Arianna her money back for the bracelet,” she barks at Hannah.
“There are no refunds,” Hannah says, taking a bite of her ketchup-soaked fries.
“Look, she got a pink one. The love thing didn’t work out. You’re a liar and your business is a joke.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t find love. But if you read the rules, you would know that you can’t—”
“I don’t care about your stupid rules. Just give her the money back,” Bridgett shouts. Other kids start to stare.
I need to say something, do something, but I can’t. 160, 164. I’m consumed with how I’m going to eat my lunch now that the burger, potatoes, and beans have melded together. Then Bridgett turns to me. “I told you she’s like the woman on page fifteen of the obits who died alone after cheating all her friends and family out of their money.”
All I can finally say is, “Bridgett, don’t.” 168, 172.
Then she asks, “You got the blue one. But tell me, Molly, have you found your peace?”
25
say something
I NEED TO SAY “yes” or “shut up” or anything. Instead, the color drains from my face. I yell at myself to lie. 176, 180, 184, 188. But I realize this is the one thing I can’t lie about.
“See, it’s a fake. You’re a loser.” Bridgett says, getting up and walking away.
Hannah’s not the fake. I am, I say to no one.
* * *
AFTER SCHOOL, I’M WAITING at my locker for Hannah when Ms. P. calls me into the classroom.
“Molly, I need to speak with you about your quiz today. What happened?”
The numbers creep in. 4, 8, 16, 20.
“I don’t know,” I say softly. The thought of Hannah overhearing our conversation knocks my volume down a decibel.
“Molly, it’s not like you to turn in an incomplete quiz. Is everything okay?”
24, 28, 32, 36.
“Yes. I told you when you came over during the quiz. My eraser broke and made all sorts of black marks on my quiz, so I had to use another one from my pencil box to wipe away the mess from the paper. I rubbed and rubbed and just when the paper was coming clean, it ripped. So, of course I couldn’t turn in a ripped quiz. Luckily, I had tape. I tore off a piece and fixed the sheet. Then I put my name at the top, and unfortunately, that was when you said it was time to put our pencils down.” 40, 44.
“You completed none of the problems.”
“You really didn’t give us adequate time.” 48, 52.
“Molly, everyone else finished, and you’re one of my top students. I just want to make sure there’s nothing wrong.”
“I had an off day.”
Not totally false. I’m having an off life.
“That can happen. I’ll give you a chance to retake the quiz. I want to make sure you understand the material.”
“Thank you, Ms. Piper.”
56, 60, 64, 68.
My head throbs as I walk to my locker. Hannah’s standing there. “Sorry I’m late. I had to help Ms. P. with something,” I say.
Another lie wriggles out.
“Oh,” Hannah says.
I search her voice to see if she believes me. She has her angry eyebrows on.
“First, I can’t believe you didn’t stand up for me with Bridgett,” she huffs.
At least she believes that I was helping Ms. P.
“Second,
we need to talk about the fifty dollars. My working theory is that Mrs. Melvin meant to give me a five and handed me a fifty by mistake. She had all those fifties swimming around her drawer, but she can’t see without her glasses, and she wasn’t wearing them when she gave me the money.” Her angry eyebrows slowly fade.
“The fifty was from this morning?”
“Yes. Oh wait, you thought I took that money from her drawer?”
I shrug. It’s hard to accuse her of anything while I’m counting and hiding every real thing about myself.
“I didn’t. I was tempted, but I didn’t steal the money. Mrs. Melvin gave it to me this morning. But what if she didn’t mean to?”
“Just ask her.”
“If she gave me the money but didn’t mean to, and I use it, is that still stealing?”
72, 76, 80, 84.
“Why don’t you just ask her?” I repeat.
“Because she might take it back, and then I won’t be able to pay the entrance fee, and then there will be no chance that I can help my dad.”
How can she just say exactly what she’s thinking?
I hide my envy. 88, 92, 96, 100.
“About Bridgett, I’m really sorry about what she said. I love my bracelet.”
“You should have told her to shut up. I can’t believe you said nothing.”
Now she seems mad with a dash of sad. I knew I should’ve done something, but the mashed potatoes ruined everything. “I was spacing about the slam. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.” 188, 192. Wait, what was my number? Can I just start here? Are there rules to the counting?
“Then do something about Bridgett. She’s your friend.” Pause. “And just so you know, I’m not giving one penny back.”
196, 200. I nod, close my locker, and we head home. I try to change the subject. “The party will be fun.”
She stops walking and stares at me. “Are you kidding? I’m not going to the party now. Ms. Death will be there.”
“You can ignore her and just hang with me.” 204, 208.
“You should have thought about that before you sat there and said nothing,” she says.
“I told Jared you were going and he seemed psyched he’d see you there.”
Hannah says nothing. But she’s twisting her mouth, which I know means her no is now at least a solid maybe.
26
goodnight moon
WHEN I GET HOME from school, Dad is multitasking with the phone and the computer. He gives me a slight nod and a how-was-your-day-but-don’t-answer-me-now wave. Ian’s back to not feeling well and is flopped on the couch, and Kate’s at work.
I feel Ian’s forehead with my hand the way Mom used to do. He’s lukewarm and his eyes are shiny, and not in the good way. “Hey, Buddy, how are you doing?”
He grunts, rolls over, and falls back to sleep.
Ian starts to snore. I kiss his forehead, drop my bag, and go for a walk. I pass by Mrs. Melvin working in her garden. She’s bent over the tomato plants with a big-brimmed hat resting on her head. “Hello there, Molly,” she calls.
“Hi.” I wave and look around.
She comes over with a basket. “Here, want some? Freshly picked.” Her hand shakes a bit as she holds out the sun-warmed cherry tomatoes.
“Thanks.”
“Your new glasses really suit you. Come sit with me a minute. I need a rest.” She heads over to the wooden rockers on the back porch as if I’ve already agreed.
“Uh, okay.”
We settle in and rock with the tomatoes between us. For a moment, I forget everything bad. I realize the counting has stopped. Maybe it won’t come back. Ever. I don’t question it. Maybe the rocker or the tomatoes or Mrs. Melvin made the numbers disappear. I’m just grateful for the quiet in my brain.
“You and Hannah helped me plant this garden when you were little.”
I can’t imagine sitting on the cold, wet ground and digging. The thought of the brown dirt stuck to my hands and the dirt wedged under my nails makes the sweet tomato taste bitter. I return the other tomato to the basket.
“It’s mum season. I’ll need some help getting those potted in the front.” She points to a ledge of about twenty mums. Yellow. Burnt orange. And cranberry. “I’ve already recruited Nate. You girls are welcome to pitch in.”
“Sure.” I know it’s a lie, but I can’t tell her the truth.
The front door swings open.
“Hey.” It’s Nate.
“I was just telling Molly about the mums.” Mrs. Melvin gets up. “I need to get out of the sun for a bit. Why don’t you take my chair?” Nate lets his grandmother kiss his cheek and then joins me.
Brown curly hair. Dimple. Green eyes. We sit for a while talking about the Red Sox’s run for the World Series and the school’s lack of soda machines. I fill him in on the good and bad teachers and the kids to avoid. Then I tell him about Mac’s party Saturday night.
“Will you and Hannah be there?”
“Yep.” I hope that’s not another lie.
We rock for a few minutes in silence. I realize we’ve run out of stuff to talk about. Awkwardness finds its place between us. I say a quick goodbye and stand up to continue my walk to nowhere. When I get back home, Dad’s still on the phone, but I have a plan.
I call Bridgett. After she goes on and on about the two paragraphs devoted to Blake McGinty, a country singer who died from a drug overdose, I tell her I won’t write her obituary unless she promises to be nicer to Hannah.
“Fine, but technically you’re going back on your word. You had already agreed to write my obit if I died first, and now you’re agreeing to write it only if I die first and I’m nicer to Hannah.”
“I’ll be sure to include that in your obit.”
I hang up and my phone sings its B. B. King reminder—twenty-nine days until what was supposed to be Mom’s visit. I write, erase, and write again the lines to my new slam poem. I tell myself to focus. I need to win. Mom wouldn’t miss the banquet. She’ll come home.
To us.
To me.
We’ll be back together. All of us.
Then she’ll stay.
She wouldn’t leave twice.
I get stuck mid-poem. It’s not working. The restlessness creeps back in. I wonder if Ian is okay. I rub my fingers across the sea glass and wish my life was different. I wish I was different.
The music I downloaded last night fills my room. I’m hoping it calms me. It doesn’t. The counting starts again. 4, 8, 12, 16. The numbers help, but not enough. I look around my room. I know to Hannah, Kate, Ian, and Dad, things look neat, but they’re wrong. I dump my sock drawer, re-ball my socks, and organize them by color. White, cream, yellow, orange, red. I stand back and admire my masterpiece. 20, 24. That’s a little better.
I move on to my shirts, pants, shoes, and finally glass figurines. I organize everything and anything. I hear the clock ticking. Time passes. Is Ian all right now? He’s fine. Dad said he just had a cold. But what if it’s something worse? Lyme disease, EEE virus, or the bubonic plague. All those illnesses start like a normal cold. I run downstairs to check on him. He’s still lying in front of the television sleeping. I get real close to make sure he’s breathing. He stirs, and when he opens his eyes, my face is two inches from his. 28, 32.
He looks at me funny. “What are you doing?” Ian asks.
“Um, just making sure you don’t need anything.” Like medicine, a doctor, or a hospital.
“I’m kind of hungry.”
This wasn’t part of my plan. I need to work on my slam poem and make sure my colored pencils are sharpened and in order. From the couch, I see the door to Dad’s office is closed. It’s article deadline day. I don’t bother knocking.
“Want brinner?” I ask.
He pops up and smiles. “I knew it. Is she hiding in the kitchen? My room?”
“Who?” I look around.
“Mom.”
“Buddy, Mom’s in Toronto. Remember?”
He sinks back into the couch. �
��I thought she came home to surprise me.”
“Why?”
“I thought she came back to make brinner for me because she knows it makes me feel better.”
My heart shatters. Like the day she left and he cried so hard into my favorite aqua tee that it left water stains.
“I’m going to make you brinner! Pancakes, fried eggs, bacon, and sausage.”
He hugs me tight for a long time.
After brinner, I tuck him into bed, and read him Goodnight Moon. I’m grateful there are no more boogies on his wall.
“I love you, Molly,” he whispers as I leave.
“Love you, too, Buddy.”
When I return to my room, my slam poem stares at me, unfinished. Good night counting, good night organizing, good night all weird stuff. I wait, but it doesn’t work. I scribble the poem that fights with the numbers for my attention.
In the dark of night I often pray
For normal me to find her way
To see the world
Bent and torn
To love the chaos
And the worn.
In a whisper I count by four
And mourn the me that is no more.
I wait, but the numbers return. 36, 40. I dump my sock drawer on the carpet and begin arranging again. I have to. I know it’s not over. Is this what crazy feels like?
Ms. P. always says, “Knowledge is power.” I open SearchMaster and type: Am I crazy? No, delete. Be specific. Like things perfect clean neat. I hit Enter and hold my breath.
27
in the closet
I RELOCATE TO MOM’S closet. I want her with me when I find out if I’m crazy. The smell of jasmine and mint surrounds me as I settle onto the floor of the closet. I put my sea glass down next to me.
Before I can even look at the search results, the door flies open. Kate stands there glaring at me.
She knows.
“You had no right sneaking around my room!” she growls, her face the color of Mom’s disgusting beet juice.
“I didn’t sneak around your room. You told me to go in there to get the stupid scissors,” I say, hoping she’ll go away. 4, 8, 12, 16.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t.
“What did you do with them?”
The numbers scatter and spill. I have to start over. 4, 8.
She ignores me. “Let me guess, you sent them back to her? Well, guess what? She doesn’t want them.”