Kat Greene Comes Clean

by Melissa Roske

  Later that night Mom and I are playing Monopoly in the living room when the phone rings. “Ignore it,” I say, moving my thimble three spaces. “I just got out of jail.” But Mom can’t let a ringing phone ring, so she jumps up to get it. Before I can ask who’s calling, she’s taken the phone into the kitchen.

  My mind goes into overdrive as I wonder what happened. Maybe Mom’s OCD is worse than I thought and she needs to go away for treatment. Maybe Dad is on the phone now, arranging to pick me up early so Mom can pack. But that’s not likely. Mom ditched her bandanna, and she’s talking in Group. That’s got to count for something.

  While I’m trying to figure out why Mom would take the phone into the other room, she comes back and takes her place at the Monopoly board. She doesn’t look upset, though. She’s grinning.

  “Who was it?” I ask.

  “You won’t believe it.” Mom’s smile gets bigger.

  “Tell me!”

  Mom crisscrosses her legs. “Bing Monroe.”

  Huh? “Why would he be calling you?” I ask.

  Mom picks up the dice and starts fiddling with them. “He said he feels bad about what happened on the show and asked whether I’d like to return for another chance at the big money.”

  Oh no. If Mom goes on Clean Sweep again, after everything she’s been through—after everything I’ve been through—I don’t think I could take it. “What did you tell him?” I brace myself for bad news.

  Mom hands me the dice. “I thanked him for his offer but said I don’t have time.”

  Relief hits me like a tsunami, until I realize Mom isn’t telling the truth. She has plenty of time. She doesn’t have a job, and I know she’s not cleaning or washing her hands as much. I can see it with my own eyes. Plus we’re playing Monopoly, which can take hours. The last time I played with Halle, we had to take snack breaks! I ask Mom to explain.

  She holds up her hands and wiggles her fingers. “What do you see?” she asks.

  I lean over for a closer look. “Your hands aren’t as chapped,” I say. “Or as red.”

  “Exactly. Which means…”

  “You’re not washing them as much.”

  “And…?”

  “Your therapy is working?”

  Mom nods. “What else?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admit.

  “Therapy takes up a lot of my time,” Mom says. “Five days a week, plus every other weekend.”

  “Which means you’re too busy to go on Clean Sweep,” I say, finally getting it.

  “Bingo,” Mom says. “There’s a group for family members too, if you’re interested.”

  I think about my jelly-bean sessions with Olympia, and about her book. “That’s okay,” I say, handing Mom the dice. “It’s your turn now.”

  Mom looks at me and smiles. She knows I’m not talking about Monopoly.

  On the Monday before the Thanksgiving assembly, Olympia is standing next to Jane as she bangs the gong for attention. “I’ve noticed some tension in the room,” Jane says, “and I think we should talk about it. Olympia has kindly agreed to join us for an emergency rap session.”

  “Emergency?” Wilson leaps out of his seat. “I’ve got a defibrillator in my locker.”

  “No one is sick, Wilson,” Olympia says, gesturing for him to sit down. “This is an emergency of an emotional nature.”

  “Oh.” Wilson flops back in his seat. I almost feel sorry for him. Unlike Madeline and Coco, who haven’t stopped gossiping for weeks, Wilson doesn’t know that Jane is talking about me and Halle. But I don’t want to talk about Halle. After all the jelly-bean sessions with Olympia, I’m all talked out. Besides, Halle won’t talk to me.

  Then again, I can’t sit around and do nothing. But what can I do? Or, better yet: What would Harriet do?

  I shut my eyes and picture all the jams Harriet gets herself into—on her spy route, with her parents, with her classmates. Especially with her classmates. Harriet doesn’t know what to do, but Ole Golly does. Ole Golly has the answers to everything!

  I can’t remember what Ole Golly says exactly, so I reach into my desk and pull out my copy of Harriet the Spy. There it is, in black and white:

  1) You have to apologize.

  2) You have to lie.

  Otherwise you are going to lose a friend.

  I can do that, I tell myself. I’m not wild about the lying part, because look where that got me when I lied to Dad. But I can certainly apologize to Halle. Maybe I’m-sorry emails aren’t enough.

  Once Olympia has arranged our chairs in a circle, I put out my hand for the talking stick. When she gives it to me, her smile says it all: “Go, Kat!”

  Clutching the stick, I look over at Halle. She’s staring at her sneakers, but I know she’s listening. “Halle, I’m sorry for not being a better friend,” I tell her, “and for not listening when you needed me to. I shouldn’t have kept things from you either, Hal—things about me, and things that had to do with your crush. It was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.”

  Halle sits there stony-faced, her chin resting on her chest. When she looks up, her eyes are shiny with tears. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Kat,” she says, reaching for the talking stick. “I mean, crushing on Michael? What was I thinking?”

  Michael, who’s been cleaning under his nails with a paper clip, is now on his feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Halle lowers her voice. “Sam told me how upset you were, Kat, but I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just saying that to get us back together.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And I overheard you talking to Coco on the bus, on the way back from the field trip. You stuck up for me, but I ignored you.” Halle wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I’m a horrible person.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say. “I wasn’t a good friend. Friends don’t have to like—or want to talk about—the same things. I should’ve known that.”

  Halle’s eyes find mine. “After you left on Halloween, my mom told me about your mom. She wanted me to call you, but I wouldn’t.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “You were mad. I get it.”

  Halle hangs her head. “Still. I should’ve been there for you.”

  “Maybe, but—” Before I can say more, Halle jumps out of her seat and bolts out of the room.

  “Halle?” Olympia calls after her. “Halle!”

  It’s too late. My best friend is gone.

  My heart feels like a raisin, all dried up and shriveled. How did this happen? I apologized, just like Ole Golly tells Harriet to. But unlike Harriet, I didn’t lie. Did I do something wrong?

  Suddenly I hear the squelch-squelch of sneakers on the linoleum outside the classroom. Halle runs back in, holding a lumpy plastic bag. “Here,” she says, thrusting the bag at me. I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. Halle breaks into a wide grin. “Camels have three eyelids,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah?” I say, grinning back. “Slugs have four noses.”

  “Interesting,” Halle says. “A snail breathes through its foot.”

  “And the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows,” I add.

  Halle stops smiling. “What’s that got to do with a snail breathing through its foot?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just another interesting Snapple fact.”

  Halle steps closer. “I’ve missed you, Kat.”

  “I missed you too, Hal.”

  Before you can say, “Pass the talking stick,” Halle and I rush at each other like long-lost relatives and hug each other tight. We stay that way for a long time, even though some of the boys are laughing at us. But who cares? I have my best friend back, and that’s all that matters.

  The Thanksgiving assembly is today and Mom won’t be going. She told me last night on the phone. “I’m sorry, Kit-Kat,” she said. “I thought I could do it, but I’m not ready. I hope you understand.”

  I do understand. I’m just disappointed.

  Now, as I’m peering through t
he dusty red curtain, waiting for my moment to wow the crowd as The Boy with the Purple Socks, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Sam, as Pinky Whitehead, carrying an empty glass.

  “For milk,” he explains.

  “Nice touch,” I say, hoping the audience will get the reference. As Harriet says: “Pinky was so pale, thin, and weak that he looked like a glass of milk.”

  “I like what you’ve done too,” Sam says, pointing to the sign I’m wearing:

  ASK TO BE TOLD

  THE LEGEND OF THE PURPLE SOCKS

  10 CENTS

  “And look.” I show Sam my feet. “Green socks.”

  “Sweet!” Sam says.

  I’m glad I remembered this detail. By the end of the book, the purple socks are up a flagpole.

  As Sam runs off for milk, I watch as my classmates gather in the wings. Wilson has ditched his lab coat and is dressed as Sport, in a baseball cap and rumpled clothes; Coco, as Janie, has made pigtails and dotted her face with fake freckles. Madeline and Kevin, in matching plaid dresses as Marion Hawthorne and Rachel Hennessey, are off to the side arguing over who gets to go on first. Kevin is wearing his Burger King crown as usual, so I’m guessing they’ll argue over that too.

  Hector—aka Mrs. Welsch—surprises everyone by wearing a sequined cocktail dress and a long string of pearls. “My husband is holding my mink stole,” he says, grinning at Liberty, who is wearing an altered tuxedo as Mr. Welsch.

  Liberty holds up the stole. “It’s not real fur,” she says. “In case you were wondering.”

  “You look great, guys,” I tell them. “Very authentic.”

  “Yeah, but look at me!” It’s Michael, dressed as Ole Golly, in a tweed jacket and matching skirt. Halle, who’s standing next to him as Harriet, looks even better. She’s wearing an old pair of jeans, a dark-blue sweatshirt, blue sneakers with holes over each pinky toe, and black-rimmed glasses without lenses. To top it off, she’s carrying a black-and-white composition notebook.

  “Jane took away my Boy Scout knife,” Halle says, patting her tool belt. “But I have everything else.” I inspect her spy gear and see that she’s right. There’s a flashlight, a leather pouch for Harriet’s notebook, a case for extra pens, and a water canteen.

  At that moment, Jane appears with her clipboard. “Two minutes, Purple Socks. You too, Pinky Whitehead. Janie and Sport…” She cranes her neck for Coco and Wilson. “Stand by!”

  I start to panic. “Where’s Sam?” I scope the room for my partner. “Sam!”

  “Right here,” Sam says, reappearing with his milk. “You look scared.”

  “I am,” I admit.

  “We’ve gone over this a thousand times, Kat. You’ll be fine. Stop worrying!”

  Sam probably thinks I’m worried about messing up my lines, but he’s wrong. I’m worried I might cry. I understand why Mom can’t be here, but the thought of looking into the audience and not seeing her in it makes me sad. “I’m okay,” I say, yanking up a droopy green sock. “Just a little nervous.”

  “Don’t be. You’ll be great.” Sam gives me a little push in the direction of the stage. “It’s now or never.”

  I’d prefer never, but I give Sam a wobbly smile, take a deep breath, and walk out past the red curtain.

  “Kitty-Kat!” It’s Henry, yelling from the front row. He climbs off Barbara’s lap and windmills his arms. “Over HERE! With Mommy and Daddy! Look!”

  My cheeks start to burn. Why couldn’t Dad have dropped Henry off at preschool or left him with a babysitter? It would’ve saved everyone a lot of embarrassment, especially me. I’m so flustered I’ve forgotten my lines.

  Sam runs onstage to save me. “This is The Boy with the Purple Socks,” he says, pointing to the sign hanging around my neck. “His real name is Peter Matthews. He’s new to school and has a story to tell. Don’t you, Peter?” Sam gives me a gentle nudge. “Go,” he says under his breath.

  As I’m about to open my mouth, I hear whispers in the front row, followed by loud shushing. Oh no. What is Henry up to now?

  But it’s not Henry who’s making all the fuss.

  It’s Mom.

  In shock, I watch as she climbs over Barbara’s legs and takes a seat next to Dad. When she catches my eye, she waves.

  I know I’m supposed to start speaking. To tell the audience why I wear purple—and now green—socks. But how can I focus on socks? Mom is here when she said she wouldn’t be. It’s a miracle. Still, the show must go on. “My name is Peter Matthews,” I say, “but everyone calls me The Boy with the Purple Socks. I’m wearing green ones now”—I lift up my pants leg to show off my socks—“but this is a big change for me.”

  And that’s when I realize that The Boy with the Purple Socks isn’t the only one who’s changed. I look to my family beaming up at me from their front-row seats, and my heart feels ready to burst. I manage to keep it together until Sam takes over as Pinky Whitehead, but my hands are still shaking when I run offstage. I can’t believe I got through it. And Mom was there. Wow, and more wow.

  “You were great!” Sam says, giving me a high five.

  “No, you were,” I say. “You totally saved me!”

  “I’ve always got your back, Kat,” Sam says. “You know that.”

  I do.

  —

  After the entire class takes a bow together, Jane invites the guests to the classroom for punch and cookies. It’s a hectic scene, with parents congratulating one another and kids running around in their costumes. Kevin has ditched his Rachel Hennessey dress but is still wearing the Burger King crown. Some things never change.

  I spot Dad right away, helping himself to chocolate-chip cookies. He grins when he sees me. “Brava!” he says, handing me a cookie. “Or, should I say, bravo?”

  I giggle. “Where’s Mom? Did she leave with Barbara and Henry?” I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. As she told me over the phone last night, she’s still adjusting to her thoughts about wanting to clean things and avoiding germs.

  Dad says, “I’m afraid so, honey. You know…”

  I feel my heart sink. I don’t blame Mom for leaving, but it would’ve been nice if she’d stayed to congratulate me. Oh well. I swipe another cookie off Dad’s plate and dive back into the crowd.

  I’m fighting my way to the punch bowl when I feel a tap on my shoulder. My heart beats fast as I turn around. I knew Mom wouldn’t let me down!

  But it’s not Mom I see. It’s Olympia.

  “You were wonderful, Kat,” she says, leaning in for a hug. “Congratulations!”

  I try to hide my disappointment, but Olympia sees right through me. “Your mom isn’t here, is she?”

  “No,” I say, feeling my shoulders sag. “She was for a little while, but she had to leave.”

  “Yes, but she was here,” Olympia reminds me. “And that’s what counts.” She gives me a wink. “Remember that.”

  “I will,” I say, deciding she’s right. “Thanks.”

  Olympia smiles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a cookie with my name on it. Enjoy the party!”

  While I’m watching Olympia head for the food table, Kevin appears and plops the Burger King crown on my head. “Nice job, Sock Boy!”

  “She was good, wasn’t she?” It’s Sam, a milk mustache above his upper lip.

  “You weren’t so bad yourself,” I tell Sam. I’m about to ask how he remembered all his lines when Halle races up to us, the tools on her spy belt jangling.

  “We did it, Kat! We survived!”

  I laugh, knowing what she means by “survived.” Michael acted silly and flubbed most of his lines. If it weren’t for Halle, their presentation would’ve been a disaster.

  “I like what you did with The Boy with the Purple Socks,” Halle tells me. “It was a real crowd pleaser.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but I messed up at the beginning. If it weren’t for Sam, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” I look over at Sam to trade grins. We both know he came to the rescue, in more ways than o
ne.

  Sam turns to Halle. “You were great as Harriet,” he says. “Everybody said so.”

  “That’s right,” I agree. “You were a rock star, Hal. No one could’ve done it better.”

  Halle looks at me in surprise. “You mean it?”

  “I do,” I say, smiling wide. “I honestly do.”

  A huge bouquet of flowers is waiting for me on the kitchen counter when Dad and I get back to his place. “They’re beautiful,” I say to Barbara. “Thank you!”

  Barbara smiles. “I’d love to take the credit, but they’re not from me.”

  “They’re not?”

  “Nope.” She points to a small white envelope next to the flower vase. “Take a look at the card.”

  I tear open the envelope and start reading:

  Congratulations to my favorite Purple

  (and Green) Sock Boy. You rocked it, Kit-Kat!

  All my love,

  Mom xoxo

  The goofiest grin spreads across my face. Mom didn’t stay for the party, but this is the next best thing. I can’t wait to thank her when I see her at Thanksgiving. But first, I want to tell Halle about my beautiful flowers.

  “Can I make a call from your office?” I ask Dad after Barbara tells me that Henry is napping in our shared room. “I have something to tell Halle.”

  “Oh, of course,” Dad says with an exaggerated head slap. “It’s only been thirty minutes since you girls last spoke.”

  “Very funny, Dad.”

  I head for Dad’s office to call Halle, but first go over to the window in the living room and take a look outside. The city looks different from Dad’s apartment. It’s quieter in Yorkville, with fewer cabs and bikes. There are fewer people on the sidewalk, walking dogs and pushing strollers. I don’t hear jackhammers or yelling. It all makes me feel a little lighter. Happy, even. Not happier than living at Mom’s, of course. I can’t wait until she’s ready for me to come home. But living at Dad’s hasn’t been horrible either. Just different.

  And maybe, just maybe, different is not so bad.

  Acknowledgments