Kat Greene Comes Clean

by Melissa Roske

  Halle and I cover our mouths to keep from laughing. Then we run.

  “That lady was something else,” I say, following Halle into her apartment. “Who gives out old bananas?”

  Halle whips around to face me. “We’re not doing this, Kat.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Pretending we’re friends.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong. Now, if you’ll get out of my way, I have candy to count.” Halle pushes past me and runs off to her room.

  Alone by the front door with my pillowcase of candy, I take off my striped hat and slide down against the wall. I’m dying to send Dad a come-and-get-me text, but he won’t be back to pick me up for another half hour. Changing plans would look fishy. Plus I can’t give up now. As Ole Golly tells Harriet, life is a struggle, but a good spy gets in there and fights. I get up and walk down the hall to Halle’s room.

  “Open up, Hal,” I say to the closed door. “Please.”

  “Go away!”

  I jiggle the knob, but the door is locked. “Come on, Halle. We need to talk. This is messed up.”

  Halle pokes her head out. “Messed up? You’re messed up for thinking you can be my friend again! You wouldn’t listen to me when I needed to talk about Michael, and you wouldn’t ask him out for me either.” Halle jabs an angry finger into my chest. “Do you think it was easy for me to get up the courage to talk to him, Kat? Do you?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “It was not. But you didn’t care. You were just thinking about yourself. Now go!” She storms back inside and slams the door.

  “Halle!” I yell. “Let me explain.”

  But she refuses to open up. She just puts on her music and cranks it up loud.

  While I’m figuring out what to do next, Mrs. Maklansky appears in her bathrobe. She’s ditched the carrot but is still wearing her bunny ears. “What’s going on?” she asks. “I heard yelling.”

  “Oh, that.” I try to think of an excuse. “We were just talking over the music. I didn’t realize we were so loud.”

  “Really?” Halle’s mom doesn’t look convinced.

  “Well…”

  Mrs. Maklansky knocks on Halle’s door. I hold my breath, worried she’ll ask Halle what’s really going on. But she doesn’t. She just wants to know whether she should order pizza.

  “No!” Halle yells through the closed door. “Kat’s not staying!”

  Mrs. Maklansky turns to me, embarrassed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, honey. That was incredibly rude.”

  I think of Harriet the Spy, when Sport’s dad asks Harriet to join them for a steak dinner and Sport shouts “No!” Harriet feels terrible, but she doesn’t cry. I won’t either. I tell Mrs. Maklansky I’ll wait for my dad in the lobby, and head down the hall to get my things.

  Mrs. Maklansky follows me. “Your dad isn’t due for at least thirty minutes,” she says. “I insist you wait here with me.”

  There’s no arguing with Mrs. Maklansky. Like mother, like daughter. Once we’ve sat down in the living room, she takes off her bunny ears. “Your dad told me what’s going on with your mom,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Kat.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wishing my dad would hurry up. “My mom will be fine.”

  “Of course she will.” Mrs. Maklansky gives my shoulder a squeeze. “But you know we’re here if you need anything, or if you want to stay over. You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Thanks,” I say again. “That’s really nice of you.”

  Mrs. Maklansky waves away my comment. “I’m not just being nice, I mean it. That’s what friends are for. And you and Halle are friends, by the way—no matter what’s going on between the two of you. Remember that.”

  “I’ll try,” I say, hoping Halle will too.

  —

  Later, after Dad brings me back to his place, I have trouble falling asleep. It’s not from the wheezy snores coming from Henry’s side of the room, or because the trundle bed is lumpier than a bowl of oatmeal. It’s because of Halle. Sure, we’ve had arguments before—over silly stuff, like who gets the window seat on class trips or the last slice of pizza. But we’ve never said mean things to each other, or just not talked. I can’t even tell her about Mom. It feels wrong, like wearing two left sneakers. I roll out of bed and find my phone.

  Are you there?

  I give Halle a few minutes to answer my text.

  I try again.

  I don’t want to fight

  I sit back and wait.

  Nothing.

  She must still be counting her candy or reading Harriet the Spy. I’ll give her a few more minutes.

  Halle?

  Nothing.

  HALLE!

  Still nothing.

  I plug my charger into my phone and go back to bed. When I lie down, I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I switch positions, but the pain is still there. Thanks a lot, Halle. I’ll never get to sleep now.

  I sit up in bed and dig around for something to read. The book Olympia gave me is within grabbing distance, so I pick it up and turn to the first chapter, “Understanding OCD.” I dig out my flashlight and start reading. I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up the next morning, my flashlight is still on.

  The elephant is still sitting on my chest three days later. Halle is still not talking to me, and I feel even lonelier without Mom. I decide to call her after school. “I miss you so much,” I say, trying to keep my voice from wobbling.

  “I miss you too, Kit-Kat,” Mom says. “So much. The apartment feels empty without you.”

  “Then let me come home,” I say. “Please.”

  Mom sighs. “I wish I could, honey. But I need to focus on my therapy. On getting better.”

  “Why can’t you get better if I’m home with you?” I ask. “It’s not fair.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she agrees. “But OCD isn’t fair.”

  I have to think about that one. “What do you mean?” I finally ask.

  Mom pauses before answering. “Well, it’s something I have to deal with all the time, and I wish I didn’t have to. Life would be so much easier without it.”

  Mom’s right. Worrying about germs and keeping the house spotless and washing her hands all the time must feel horrible. It said so in Olympia’s book. I guess life isn’t fair for Mom either.

  “But how are you, Kit-Kat?” Mom asks. “How’s the Harriet project going? How’s Halle?”

  I hold back the tears. She’s asking the right questions, but I don’t want to add to her worries by answering them. “Good, Mom,” I say. “Everything’s good.” This is not true, but small lies that make people feel better are not all bad. Maybe my fib will make Mom feel better too.

  I’m still thinking about my conversation with Mom after we hang up, and, later, while I’m doing my homework. Talking to her was nice, but the elephant-on-my-chest feeling won’t go away. The two most important people in my life, Mom and Halle, have disappeared, practically overnight, and all that’s left is a huge, empty hole. I feel my eyes brimming with tears.

  As I reach for a tissue, I remember that Harriet felt the exact same way. She wrote about it in her notebook. I grab Harriet the Spy out of my backpack and find the page I’m looking for. I start reading: “There’s a funny little hole in me that wasn’t there before, like a splinter in your finger, but this is somewhere above my stomach.”

  I have the same hole. The question is, what can I do to make it go away?

  And then I have an idea.

  I get my laptop and open my email. But it’s not Olympia I’m writing to this time.

  TO: Halle.Maklansky@VillageHumanity.org

  SUBJECT: Forgive me

  DATE: November 3 4:43:02 PM EDT

  FROM: Kat.Greene@VillageHumanity.org

  Dear Halle,

  I know you’re mad and don’t want to hear anything I have to say. But I’m going to say it anyway. I never tried to steal Michael away from you. I’m your best friend and would neve
r do something like that. I could’ve been a better friend, though. As you said, working up the courage to talk to Michael wasn’t easy. I should’ve listened and helped you somehow. I miss you so much, Hal. I hope you’ll write back.

  Love,

  Kat xoxoxoxox

  I reread my email, deciding whether or not to say something about Mom. I leave it alone. If Halle writes back, I want her to do it because she misses me and accepts my apology, not because my mom has OCD and she feels sorry for me.

  I take a deep breath and press Send, imagining my email soaring through cyberspace and landing in Halle’s inbox with a soft, satisfying plink.

  The “funny little hole” in me continues to grow, until a week’s gone by and Halle still hasn’t answered my email. She’s also not talking to me when Jane tells us to choose bus partners for the field trip to the Tate Seashell Museum, in lower Manhattan. We’re leaving in ten minutes.

  “I still don’t see why we have to go to a seashell museum,” Michael says, getting up from his seat. “Can’t we go somewhere fun? Like Laser Quest? I think there’s one in Brooklyn.”

  “Now, there’s a brilliant idea,” Madeline says, putting down her magazine. “Laser tag in Brooklyn. Funsies.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Halle to stick up for her crush. To say that going all the way to Brooklyn to play laser tag is the best idea she’s ever heard. She doesn’t. She asks Sam to be her bus partner.

  Huh? I knew Halle wouldn’t pick me, but Sam? What happened to Michael?

  I try to make sense of this weird new development while Jane herds us onto the school bus, and later, hurries us in line to get tickets at the museum. But I can’t wrap my head around it. Instead, I focus on our tour guide, an old lady with hair the color of pigeon poop. Her name is Mrs. Stouffer, Jane tells us, and we’re free to ask questions.

  Kevin raises his hand. “Are you wearing a wig?” I look over at Halle to exchange eye rolls, until I remember she’s ignoring me.

  Jane blushes a deep red and gives Kevin a stare down. “You don’t have to answer that, Mrs. Stouffer. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  “Very well, then.” Mrs. Stouffer coughs into her hanky and continues. “Before we begin, children, you should know that the shells in this exhibit represent a tiny fraction of the offshore populations hidden under the sand or among the corals, sponges, and sea-fan meadows of our local bodies of water.”

  I feel my eyes glaze over. It’s as if Mrs. Stouffer is trying to lull us to sleep. Or worse, hypnotize us into spending lots of money in the gift shop. Little does she know that the last time our class came face-to-face with consumer goods—last year, at the Museum of Natural History—Kevin got caught shoplifting a plastic dinosaur.

  Sam, who’s been taking notes, looks up from his legal pad. “I was wondering…How many shells are in the museum’s collection?”

  Mrs. Stouffer reaches for her glasses. “You’re not asking for an exact figure—are you, dear?”

  Sam nods.

  “Oh, my.” Our tour guide titters nervously. “I don’t really know. The curators have counted them, of course, but—”

  “Just ballpark it,” Sam says. “I’m really curious.”

  Out of habit I try to catch Halle’s eye, but she’s staring at Sam as if he’s asked the most fascinating question ever. I wonder if she’s feeling all right.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Stouffer has shuffled over to a giant Wheel of Fortune–like contraption—the Shell Classification Wheel, she tells us—and asks Kevin to give it a spin. “I’d like to buy a vowel!” he yells.

  I want to laugh, but the Clean Sweep disaster is still fresh in my mind.

  After identifying an apple murex, which looks nothing like an apple, and a horse conch, which looks nothing like a horse, Mrs. Stouffer stops spinning and suggests we have a look at the museum’s exciting array of scallops.

  “I’m allergic to scallops,” Hector announces.

  “Me too,” Kevin says. “I get a rash all over, and I itch really bad.”

  “Badly,” Jane corrects him.

  “I have eczema,” Sam adds.

  “An oatmeal bath is good for itchy skin,” Liberty tells him, adjusting her nose stud. “Or a poultice made from dandelion, yellow dock root, and chaparral.”

  “I’ve already prescribed a steroid cream,” Wilson says, pointing to Sam’s arm. “Let’s not complicate things.”

  “Steroids are filled with chemicals,” Liberty sniffs. “Sam shouldn’t have to—”

  “If there are no more questions,” Mrs. Stouffer says, “I think we should wrap it up.”

  “Excellent idea!” Jane steps forward to thank our guide for the wonderful tour and asks us to follow her outside. When I turn around, Mrs. Stouffer is massaging her temples with her fingertips.

  On the bus I sit toward the back with Coco. Sam and Halle are in the row in front of us. Their heads are so close together, they look like the Two-Headed Monster from Sesame Street. “That’s silly,” Halle says, giggling. “How could a Chihuahua lift a horse? There’s no way!”

  Sam says something I can’t make out, and Halle erupts in a fresh fit of giggles.

  Coco gives me a poke. “Looks like someone’s got a new boyfriend.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “She’s just being nice.” I’m still mad at Halle for ignoring me, but I can’t have Coco making things up about my ex-best friend.

  “Looks like more than ‘just being nice’ to me,” Coco says with a smirk. “I think it’s luuuuuv.”

  Before I can tell her off, the bus is rounding Seventh Avenue and pulling up in front of school. I grab my backpack, zip up my jacket, and head down the aisle. Halle is standing right in front of me. She’s so close I can smell her green-apple shampoo. I tap her on the shoulder.

  Halle turns around and scowls. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing much. Just wanted to say hi.” I offer her a cheery smile, hoping she’ll return it.

  She doesn’t—but she doesn’t say anything mean either. I take this as a good sign.

  When I visit Mom for the first time over the weekend, she’s wearing jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt—and there’s no red bandanna in sight. It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen her, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. “Your head is naked,” I say, pointing to her blond curls.

  Mom touches her hair awkwardly. “It’s part of my therapy. Not my idea, but if it helps…”

  We’re in my room, sorting through last year’s summer clothes to give to Goodwill. Most of my stuff still fits, but a few of the T-shirts look like they belong on an American Girl doll. Some of the shorts too. Mom takes a too-small T-shirt from a pile on my bed and places it in the giveaway bag. “Aren’t you proud of me, Kit-Kat?” she says, gesturing to the bag at her feet. “I’m only tossing out the stuff you don’t want.”

  Mom joking about her OCD = A very good thing.

  Mom stops folding and sits down on the bed. She motions for me to join her. “I need to talk to you about something, honey.”

  I sit down next to her. “Okay…”

  “I never apologized for frightening you the way I did,” Mom says. “Or for hiding out in my room after I fainted. I should never have put you through that. It was wrong of me—and selfish.”

  I feel my throat catch. “It’s not your fault, Mom. You couldn’t help it.”

  “Maybe not,” Mom says, offering me a sad smile. “But no parent wants to cause her child pain. And my OCD has done that to you—I know it.” She reaches for my hand. “I don’t expect you to understand this completely, Kit-Kat, but I need you to try.” She pauses before looking into my eyes. “I’ve always been an anxious person, ever since I can remember. I was able to deal with my anxiety pretty well for years—and even downplay it, to some extent. But it’s finally caught up with me.”

  I nod, letting her know it’s okay to go on.

  “That’s why I couldn’t handle Clean Sweep, or the humiliation I fel
t afterward,” Mom says. “I felt out of control and incredibly anxious. So I shut down.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never thought of my mom as an anxious person, just overly cautious about things—like making me wear floaties in the pool after I’d already learned to swim, or triple-checking my hair for lice after outbreaks at school. It was Mom just being Mom. But now that she’s admitting she’s always been anxious, her behavior kind of makes sense. “I think I get what you’re saying,” I tell her. “But isn’t it normal to worry about stuff that’s bothering you?” Like how I worry about Halle being my friend again—or how she couldn’t stop worrying about her crush.

  Mom gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re right, Kit-Kat. Everybody feels nervous sometimes. But OCD goes beyond that. It’s an anxiety disorder, and the rituals you see me doing—cleaning obsessively, washing my hands—help me feel in control. I can’t explain it fully, but I know it’s not healthy. I’m learning new coping skills in therapy, though. Talking in Group helps too.”

  Group, Mom explains, is basically a rap session without the talking stick. It borders dangerously close to dirty-laundry territory if you ask me, but Mom must think it’s helping her or she wouldn’t do it. Still, I’m surprised she isn’t embarrassed.

  “Doesn’t it feel weird to talk about your problems in front of a bunch of strangers?” I ask, remembering how hard it was for me to share in rap session the first time, and later, during my jelly-bean sessions with Olympia.

  “It was at the beginning,” Mom says. “But it’s gotten easier. I actually enjoy it now.”

  I look at her in surprise. “You enjoy talking about your problems?”

  Mom laughs. “Okay, enjoy is too strong a word. Talking about OCD is hard, and no one likes to admit they have a problem. But I think I’m up for the challenge.”

  I smile. I couldn’t agree more.

  —