The Boy Problem

by Kami Kinard

  A crashing wave of realization hit me! That hurricane was pounding down right on top of my uncle, aunt, and cousin! No wonder Mom was upset!

  Mr. Gheary sure was wrong when he said the storm wouldn’t affect us much. It’s affecting us already.

  Scenes flashed across the screen, showing underwater streets and power lines sparking big blue explosions. Mom pulled a tissue from her pocket and twisted it in her hands. Little white flakes fell to the carpet like dandruff.

  “Is Uncle Mike okay?” I asked.

  Mom’s eyes were red. “They went to a shelter.”

  “But are they safe there?”

  “Should be.”

  That didn’t sound great to me. “What do you mean? Are they safe or not?” I was particularly worried about my cousin Maddie. She’s in third grade and really tiny.

  “Mike called me to say they’d arrived at a shelter and not to worry.”

  “So why are you worried?”

  “Because what if they didn’t go to a shelter far enough away from the storm? What if something happens to them while they’re there? What if the roof blows off of the shelter?”

  “Mom, why don’t you just send Uncle Mike a text and see if he’s okay?”

  “I have sent him a text. I’ve sent ten! He’s not answering!” Mom was practically screaming in frustration. I knew she wasn’t directing it at me, but it still didn’t feel very good to be yelled at.

  “Maybe he’s annoyed with you for texting so much,” I said.

  “I AM NOT ANNOYING!” Mom threw down the rest of her tissue and stomped to the kitchen. I was tempted to follow her and list the ways she’s very annoying, but obviously this wasn’t the right time. (Yeah, like there’ll ever be a right time for that!)

  “Maybe a cell tower is down and he isn’t getting your texts!” I yelled after her.

  This must have made her feel better, because she came back to her seat. “You’re probably right, Tabitha. Thanks. I’m sure he’ll be okay.” Her eyes were glued to the set again. I got up and hugged her quickly, then went to the kitchen to make mac and cheese. Mom didn’t look like she was in good enough shape to cook. Hopefully, by the time dinner is ready, she’ll have heard from Uncle Mike.

  I spent most of the evening on the sofa with Mom, watching the Weather Channel while a knot in my stomach grew into a giant hard lump. Things in New England looked bad.

  My cousin Maddie is afraid of thunderstorms. She must be scared to death huddled in a shelter while screaming wind and pounding rain rage over her. We still haven’t heard from Uncle Mike.

  I’ve been trying to sleep, but it’s hard. I keep looking around my bedroom at my giant stuffed cat, my earring tree, and my framed pictures of family. The only ones in the house of me, Mom, and Dad together. What if I had to leave everything I loved and go to a shelter, not knowing if I’d ever see any of it again?

  My crush-dissing, cymbal-crashing, falling-on-butt bad day seemed a long time ago now. I don’t care about Malcolm anymore. All I care about is hearing good news from my family.

  I rushed downstairs at the first peep of the cardinals outside my window. Mom was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, chugging coffee. I knew what that meant.

  I walked over and kissed her cheek. She had a bad case of bedhead and was still wearing the clothes she wore to work yesterday. And I somehow feel disloyal to my mom revealing this, but I think it’d been over twenty-four hours since a toothbrush had seen the inside of her mouth. This gave me a clue to what her day would be like today.

  “Heard from Uncle Mike?” I asked. I knew the answer before she started shaking her head. “Try not to panic, Mom.” But even as I said this, panic was rising up in me like the floodwater I was seeing on the flat screen in front of us. Flowing water created rivers out of streets, making New England townships look like Venice, Italy. Except cars were floating down the streets instead of boats, and piles of rubble were sitting where houses used to stand.

  “I know it looks bad,” I said, “but consider how many millions of people live up there. Chances are Uncle Mike’s family is fine.” I wasn’t just trying to convince Mom of this. I needed to believe it, too.

  Mom groaned.

  “I’m staying home today,” I said. “You don’t need to be alone at a time like this!”

  Somehow, that rallied Mom. She dragged herself from the sofa and plodded toward the kitchen, coffee cup shaking in her hand.

  “Going for a refill?” I asked hopefully.

  “Going to get you breakfast — you have school today!”

  Poop.

  The bright blue sunny sky with its happy white clouds doesn’t reflect my mood today at all. It’s weird that in one part of the world, people are looking at boards sticking up like tombstones where their homes used to be, while in a cafeteria miles and miles away, other people are doing something moronic like throwing Cheetos at each other.

  I peeked at the phone hidden in my lunch box. Mom promised she’d text me if she heard from Uncle Mike.

  No new texts.

  Pri reminded me before school that we still needed to bake together again to decide on a probability project. I don’t know about baking … but she’s right about one thing. We do need to decide on a probability project for algebra! Note cards stating predictions are due next Friday. A lot of cards are up on the bulletin board already. We’re way behind!

  I’m hoping Pri will like my idea: using the project as a way to find out if there are things a girl can do to increase her probability of finding a boyfriend. If Pri okays it, I know exactly what to write on our note card.

  Sounds pretty good, right? Oh! BRB! Just got a text!

  Shoot! I hoped it’d be news from Mom, but it was only Pri. I have a feeling I’m gonna regret giving her my number.

  Pri: Hi, Tabbi. How’s it going?

  Me (groaning inwardly): Fine

  Pri: You didn’t look fine in algebra. R U OK?

  Me: Worried bout uncle. The hurricane hit his town.

  Pri: Is he OK?

  Me: Don’t know

  Pri: Hope u get good news

  Me: Thnx. Bye

  It’s pretty nice of Pri to care, but still …

  Mom is on the phone with Uncle Mike! Which means he’s alive! I’m sitting here trying to figure out what they’re talking about by writing down their conversation. Well, one side of it, anyway.

  Mom: “Thank goodness you’re all okay.” (pause) “When will they let you go back and see the house?” (pause) “Oh no.” (pause) “Terrible.” (pause) “Oh, Mike, I can’t imagine.” (pause) “I understand, but call after you go home. Mmmm. Hug Maddie for us. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

  Mom sank into the recliner. She looks relieved, but very sad. I’m going to get the details.

  Mom stopped tucking me in a long time ago, but tonight she came and sat on my bed. She gave me a hug and kissed the top of my head. Even though we found out Uncle Mike’s family is safe, I think the hurricane is making her feel extra-emotional. She smoothed my hair and sighed. “I can’t believe your cousin’s school was destroyed. I went to that school, you know.”

  “I know, Mom. But the important thing is that our family is safe.”

  Mom squeezed my arm. “So true. I wish we could do something to help. When I think about all the damage done to that little town …” Mom’s voice got caught in her throat, so the rest of her sentence didn’t make it out of her mouth.

  The best thing to do seemed to be to hug her.

  “I love you sooooo much,” she whispered.

  I guess hugging her was the right thing.

  I woke up to the sound of my mom’s yelling voice. This is NOT my favorite way to say hello to a new day. I’d seriously rather have a rooster crowing at the foot of my bed than Mom calling me from three rooms away.

  Yes, I would.

  Because at the end of the crowing, the rooster would at least hop off my bed and then go on about his business. But when Mom stops calling, she keeps hanging around and gets up
in my business. And she always wants me to do something. Something besides sleep, which is my preferred activity of the moment.

  When she called a second time, I suddenly remembered the hurricane. I leapt out of bed. What if she had bad news about Uncle Mike? Panic closed in on me as I scrambled into the hallway.

  “Tabitha, you up?” she asked, looking up at the landing. Her voice was cheerful, not upset.

  “Mmmmmmhunh!” I said. My voice hadn’t warmed up to being awake yet, so it sounded croaky like rusty hinges.

  “Phone’s for you!” Mom called again. She was waving the house phone. I shielded my eyes from the sunlight invading our hallway and trudged downstairs.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-five!!!! WHO CALLS at seven forty-five on a Saturday morning? I’m one hundred percent sure that all of my friends are still sanely SLEEPING. Plus, none of them use my home number anyway. They call my cell.

  I was about halfway down the stairs when it hit me. Malcolm! He’d probably realized what a jerk he’d been to ask me out and then start crushing on The Vine. I hurried down the rest of the steps, trying to think of what to say. I mean, everyone makes mistakes, right? If he asks me to the skate park again, I guess I should give him another chance….

  “I already said it was fine,” said Mom, smiling and handing me the phone.

  WHAT THE HECK? Told who? What?

  “Hi, Tabbi!”

  UGH! It wasn’t Malcolm. Or any other boy. Pri’s cheery voice was brighter than the sunlight. And more annoying. Of course it makes sense that a girl whose wardrobe consists of neon-colored T-shirts and sparkly shoes is a morning person. “Your mom told me your uncle is okay! I’m so happy to hear that. Anyway, my mom said we could bake over here today!” She sounded super-excited. Translation: She sounded completely normal — for Pri.

  “I … uh …” Honestly, I couldn’t think of what to say. I still wasn’t fully awake, so it was like my brain was doing a mud run or something. It was still moving forward, but at one-tenth its normal speed.

  “Your mom already said it was okay! See you at ten!”

  “Uh … okay, bye.”

  “Byeeeeeee, Tabbiiiiii!” sang Pri, like a bird twittering.

  GEEZ! Why do some people have to be so CHEERFUL all of the time? And shouldn’t I have a CHOICE about going to Pri’s?

  Apparently not, since Mom and Pri worked out the details while I was minding my own business, doing what everyone else SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING: SLEEPING!

  I got to Pri’s house at the INSANE hour of ten o’clock this morning, half dreading the day and half looking forward to the cupcakes we’d soon be eating. Pri answered the door, wearing a cheerful yellow T-shirt that said Baking a Change, One Cupcake at a Time. Her shirt was so bright that it took me a minute to see the person standing behind her.

  Kara!!!!!

  “I knew you were feeling bad about your family and needed cheering up,” said Pri, stepping aside to let me in. “So I invited your BFF, too.”

  Suddenly, the day was looking as bright as Pri’s shirt.

  Their kitchen smelled delicious — rich and spicy — before we even started baking. When I said this, Pri said I was probably smelling curry, a sweet and savory spice blend that her mom cooks with. Lucky Pri!

  Even though my mom is NOTHING like me, I somehow expected Pri’s mom to be like her — loud and enthusiastic, wearing bright clothing covered with silly sayings. But her mother was quiet and … well, elegant. She did wear bright clothing, but it was a colorful dress called a sari, and it made her look tall and thin. I liked her the minute I met her. She swept into the kitchen with folds of colorful fabric flowing behind her, holding Pri’s little brother on her hip. He had big brown eyes like Pri’s.

  Mrs. Gupta peeked into the mixing bowl. We were making double-chocolate cupcakes. She stuck a finger into the batter and swished out a taste.

  “Priyanka, darling, this is quite good. Have you considered using a pinch of cayenne?”

  “I thought about it, Ma, but I decided to go with plain cocoa powder.” Pri’s mother nodded as if she was seriously considering her information. After that they talked back and forth, sharing ideas. Mrs. Gupta was smiling, appreciating her daughter’s input. Pri seemed just as happy getting her mother’s advice. They’d obviously talked a lot about baking in that warm kitchen.

  Watching them made an odd thing happen to me. A little lump of unhappiness seemed to be growing right below my rib cage, rising like a yeast roll. I thought about how much my mom wouldn’t care what I thought in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter. How our relationship is mostly her telling me what to do.

  While the cupcakes were cooling, Pri’s mom made us a delicious lunch — chicken with that curry spice on it and something called naan, which is flat, oval bread. I SWEAR to you it tastes as good as cupcakes! For dessert, Pri, Kara, and I each had a cupcake. They were sooo delicious that it set off an unbelievable chain of events!

  First, Kara said, “Mmm. We could make a ton of money selling these.”

  Then my eyes landed on the words written across Pri’s shirt.

  Baking a Change,

  One Cupcake at a Time

  I felt a flash of inspiration. “Hey,” I said. “We could sell cupcakes like these at our school to help raise money for my cousin’s school. Maybe to help buy new books for their library.”

  Kara nodded, her eyes shining. “It’d be easy to set up a card table in the cafeteria,” she suggested.

  “And we could call it …” Pri paused to think. “Cupcakes for Catastrophes.”

  “Cupcakes for Catastrophes,” said Kara, smiling at the idea. “That’s a great name!”

  “Let’s use the number four instead of the word for, and call it C4C,” I suggested.

  “We should think about getting T-shirts printed with C4C on them,” said Pri thoughtfully. “I’m thinking electric green.”

  Of course she was! But I was so thrilled with the name she’d come up with for us, I didn’t even roll my eyes.

  Mom had pulled into Pri’s driveway, and I was heading out the door when I realized Pri and I had forgotten to do something really important.

  “Our probability project!” I cried. “We spent all day together and never discussed it!”

  Pri winced. “We were having so much fun that I forgot. It would make a lot of sense to do something about cupcakes now, since we’ll already be baking for C4C.”

  “No,” I said. I was not falling for that! “How about this: Since we’re already kinda doing a project with cupcakes, let’s use our probability project to learn about something else. I still want to do it on boys. Okay?”

  “How can we do a project on boys?” asked Pri.

  Mom tapped the horn. I’ve learned not to ignore that particular sound.

  “I’ll call you later and explain,” I said. “Let’s do it on boys, okay?”

  Pri didn’t look too excited, but she said, “Okay, call me.”

  When I got home and told Mom about our C4C plan, she looked about as happy as I’ve ever seen her look. “It’s so sweet of you to think of your family like that,” she said, hugging me. I’m pretty sure she was about to tear up over it, but then she got this look in her eye — the look that’s always followed by one particular sentence:

  “I just had another brilliant idea!”

  Oof! There it was! Mom’s “brilliant ideas” aren’t always so brilliant, so I braced myself for the worst.

  “Our firm has a program that matches funds for charities.”

  She grabbed her laptop and showed me the company website.

  “How will this help Cupcakes 4 Catastrophes?” I asked.

  “I can apply for matching funds for your project through my work, and then you’ll make double the money!”

  “You mean for every dollar we make, we’ll actually make two? That’s AWESOME.” Mom’s idea really was brilliant!

  “Well … it’s not exactly THAT simple,” said Mom. Her eyebrows scr
unched together and I wondered if she was thinking about the time Mr. Rinehart, a partner at her accounting firm, asked her out. My parents had only been divorced for, like, ten minutes when he’d come swooping in like a jolly old beardless Santa. He even showed up at our front door with a wrapped package (it contained oven mitts — yikes!) and a request for the pleasure of Mom’s company.

  I’ve never seen my got-it-together mom look so uncomfortable. She stammered something about swearing off men, then spent the next three weeks worrying about how to act at work.

  “Worried Mr. Rinehart will reject our application because you rejected him?” I asked.

  Mom’s face got a little pink, but she waved my comment away. “No, he’s not like that.” She looked at the application again. “I meant it’s going to take a lot of work, that’s all. You’ll have to make six hundred dollars on your own to get the funds,” she explained.

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  “And you’ll have to do it by October 26.”

  Wow! That was about a month and a week away!

  “Tabbi?”

  “It’ll be hard, but we can do it,” I said.

  As Mom downloaded the application, her smile was almost as big as Pri’s. “I think you can, too.”

  As soon as I told Kara about the matching funds idea, she checked our school website and saw that all fund-raisers needed to be approved by our principal, Mr. O’Neal. She even went ahead and filled out the application. Kara rocks!

  Then she said she had big news for me. The rest of our convo went something like this:

  Me: What kind of news?

  Kara: The kind you’re going to love.

  Me: What?

  Kara: Remember Thursday, when we made that Faceplace survey?

  I’d forgotten all about that! It was as if the hurricane had blown boys right out of my mind! I’d even forgotten to call Pri today to explain my boy-related probability project idea.