Just Another Day in My Insanely Real Life

by Barbara Dee

  He ripped it in half.

  Right along the spine.

  Then he tossed half the book in the trash. And he stuffed the other half into his briefcase, which now clicked shut.

  “DAD!” I shrieked at him. “What did you just do?”

  He sort of shrugged. “Oh, that. Just an old packing trick, Cassie. Cuts down on bulk.”

  “But, Dad! It’s a book! How could you rip a book?”

  “Oh, come on, Cassie, don’t make such a big deal. I do it all the time. Anyway, it’s an airport book, remember?”

  “Yes, but you like airport books!”

  Now he put his hand on my shoulder. “Of course I do, Cassie, I like them a lot, but they’re not important, they’re just to pass the time.”

  My throat was getting croaky. “But what if you want to reread it someday?”

  “I never do.”

  “But what if someone else does?”

  “Listen,” he said, taking his hand back. “I really need to catch my train. There’s a lot going on at work, and I can’t afford to be late. Okay, Cassie? You need some money?”

  I shook my head.

  “Here’s twenty dollars,” he said, slapping a bill on the table. “Buy what you want.”

  “Never mind, Dad. I’m fine.”

  “Just take it, Cassie.”

  Then he ran out. I remember staring at the maimed little half-book sitting in the trash, but I didn’t fish it out because, really, what was the point? But now it seemed huge to me. Because I couldn’t stop wondering: Is that what he did to us—just threw us away, like an old packing trick?

  And what about how weird he’d acted, all jumpy and distracted? And asking if I thought he was a bank—he never said things like that. Did it have something to do with the missing money? Or with the fights Miranda overheard about “where the money went”? Or all those “private discussions” I kept barging in on all the time?

  I re-punched my pillow. Okay, now stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. This is DAD we’re talking about, remember?

  That was when I absolutely forced myself to remember all the nice things about him. Stuff I hadn’t allowed inside my brain for the last seven months.

  Like how he took us bowling, and pretended to throw gutter balls so Jackson wouldn’t feel bad. How he always gave us an extra scoop of ice cream if we said “please.” How he helped me practice my multiplication tables, and never got impatient with me, even though I couldn’t remember eight times six, no matter how hard I tried. How he was practically the only parent on our street who wore a costume on Halloween. How he always wrote each kid a silly poem for our birthday. I still remember the one he wrote for me when I turned eleven:

  Happy birthday, dearest Cassie

  Never was a nicer lassie,

  Feisty, funny, spunky, sassy,

  Here’s to you, O daughter Cassie.

  By now my eyes were stinging and my throat was feeling tight. I didn’t want to cry. If I cried, I thought, everything would just come crashing down, like the little pins on the Queen’s Battle Map. And then who would there be to pick them up? Miranda? Oh, right, sure.

  And besides, how can you defend somebody when you’re crying?

  I looked at my watch: eleven forty-five. I needed something to do, since obviously sleeping wasn’t an option. So I poked Buster. “Get up, you fat cat, and I’ll feed you,” I whispered.

  He opened one eye and glared at me. No one gives a dirty look better than a cat.

  “Listen, Buster, if I were you, I’d take that offer,” I said more loudly. “You never know where your next meal is coming from.”

  Cats are smart. And practical. He followed me into the kitchen, followed by Fuzzy, who always demanded equal service.

  I opened the cabinet where we kept the cans of cat food. Only three left: good thing Mom was doing the shopping tomorrow, because I certainly didn’t want to have to deal with nagging Miranda. I was just about to open a can of Turkey & Giblets when I heard a funny buzzing sound coming from the living room.

  “Hold on, you guys,” I murmured, taking the can with me in case I had to hurl something at a burglar’s head.

  But there was no burglar. Just Miranda, sprawling on the sofa with a bowl of Extra Spicy Doritos on her chest, watching music videos on our buzzy old TV.

  “Hi, Cash,” she said, her mouth all orange. “Wanna watch?”

  “How can I?” I said, sitting down on the little patch of sofa that wasn’t taken over by Miranda’s smelly feet. “The TV’s broken. You can’t even hear anything.”

  “Duh. I asked if you wanted to watch.”

  “Okay. Just a little, maybe.”

  She drew up her knees to make room for me. “Why are you even up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about all that stuff you said about Dad. Why are you up?”

  “I’m always up,” she replied. “Mom’s so wiped out she wouldn’t know if I watched MTV all night.” She grinned evilly. “Or did something else.”

  “Well, don’t get any ideas,” I grumbled. “Hand over the chips.”

  “Take the whole bowl. I’m stuffed.” She sat up. “Listen, Cass, I didn’t mean to upset you by talking about Dad. I don’t even know anything.”

  “Anyway, you’re wrong,” I said, staring at the screen. “There’s no way he would do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “You know. Steal.”

  Miranda looked at me like I was speaking Javanese. “What are you talking about, Cassie? I never said anything about stealing!”

  “You said money was gone from the bank.”

  “Right. And I said I didn’t know what happened. But if you really want, I’ll tell you what I think.”

  I nodded.

  “What I think is that Dad lost a lot of money somehow, and he’s ashamed, and that’s why he isn’t in touch with us. I have absolutely no proof, but one day I’m going to ask Aunt Abby, and if she says I’m right, then I’ll just tell Mom I know. And I’ll tell you, too, if you want.”

  “Well, sure. Of course!”

  “Fine. But even if I’m right about this, it still makes him wrong, and I still hate him.”

  “You shouldn’t hate him, Miranda. He’s Dad. Remember those Halloween costumes? And those birthday poems?”

  “He had no right to just disappear,” she snapped, “and no right to pretend we don’t exist now.” She stood up then, and started brushing Doritos crumbs off her pj’s.

  “But he loves us, so if he needed to do that, don’t you think he must have had a really, really good reason?” I demanded.

  “Yeah, well, have fun in fantasyland,” Miranda said. “I’m turning in. Are you still watching the TV?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I will. For a while.”

  “Well, feed the cats, then,” she said. “Good night.”

  Friday was payday, and Mom did a mega-shopping expedition after work. Miranda had nuked us some Stouffer’s and then run out the door—guess where—to Madison’s (“Tell Mom I’ll be back by ten!”). That meant Jackson and I had to help Mom haul in the shopping bags when she drove up at nine fifteen. When we used to live in our big house with Dad, I used to hate putting away groceries. But now that everything was different and groceries were, like, this major issue, I couldn’t believe how great it felt to be putting away normal things like eggs and hamburger and bananas. Even Jackson, who was already in his pj’s and ready for bed, hopped around the kitchen like an excited bunny.

  “Oreos, hurray! Oreos, hurray!” he sang.

  Mom gave him a big smoochy kiss, then put him to bed. A few minutes later she came into the living room. “Cassie, can I talk to you a minute?”

  That made me a little nervous. “Sure.”

  “Sit, honey. I wanted to talk with you about how things are going around here lately.”

  “What things?”

  “You know, the whole routine. Chores, homework, cooking, everything. I’ve been working so late that I feel like I’m out
of touch with you.”

  I swallowed. Here was my chance to tell her everything, especially about Miranda, but for some reason I still couldn’t do it. This was a big mystery to me, even as I sat there on the couch with Mom. She had practically handed me an invitation to squeal on my lazy, selfish, irresponsible sister, and here I was just sitting there, pulling fuzzballs off my old red sweater.

  “Cassie, stop doing that to your sweater,” Mom scolded.

  I looked up at her. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and not from no-clump mascara. And I could see a few silvery threads in her brown hair. I’d never noticed them before. Were they recent? They definitely made her look older, but I sort of liked them. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Really. But I was just thinking that it might be better if you always took care of all the shopping.”

  “Why?” she challenged. “Has Miranda not been keeping up?”

  “No, no, it’s just that sometimes it’s hard for her to shop after school, with her busy schedule and everything. I guess we’re just eating a lot these days.”

  She weighed what I said. “Okay, then. Fine. I do think this is something Miranda should be able to handle, but fine. From now on I’ll just leave Miranda to look after Jackson and cook supper. Thanks for telling me, Cassie.”

  She paused. When she spoke again, her voice had that strangled sound, like mine did when I asked Mr. Mullaney if he’d even read my story. “Listen, honey, I’m really sorry things have been so tight these past few weeks. I know we’ve been running low on things, and I know that the TV needs fixing. It’s just that we’ve had a lot of big bills this month, but they’re all paid now, and things will be better. Okay?”

  She was asking me? “Okay.”

  And then my heart started bumping around in my chest because I was thinking, All right, Cassie, this is when you demand information about Dad. But the words just clotted up in my throat, and I sat there like a barf-brained blob.

  “Good, then. So how’s school?”

  Should I tell her? What for? It was all so insanely stupid and mindless anyway. “Fine.”

  “And how are Hayley and Brianna? I haven’t seen them in a while.”

  Imagine that Why do you think that is, Mom? “They’re fine. Just really busy with swim team. Oh, by the way, have you spoken to Jackson’s teacher yet? She keeps calling here.”

  Mom blew out some air. “Yes, she called me at the office twice. I tried calling her back this afternoon, but she’d already left school for the day. I’ll try again first thing Monday morning. Why, has Jackie said what this is about?”

  Another chance for me to talk. But after blowing it with Miranda, I had to be careful, so that Mom wouldn’t also think I needed to “get a life.” “Not really,” I said. “But I think he may be struggling a bit with his reading. I’m not sure.”

  She blinked. “Well, yes he is, but it’s being addressed. Mrs. Rivera is an excellent teacher, and she’s working very hard with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. You know, reading is hard for some kids at first. Not everyone is as precocious as you were!” She smiled at me, then stood up. “What time did Miranda say she was getting back from Madison’s? We have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure.” She’d said ten, of course, but it was already nine fifty-five, so I thought I’d just give her a few extra minutes to walk in the door. Knowing Miranda, she probably needed every second she could get.

  “Well, I’m turning in. I’m absolutely exhausted.” She kissed me, not the same kind of smoochy kiss she’d given Jackson. Then she looked me right in the eyes. “Thanks again, Cassie. I know I can really count on you,” she said.

  And she went to bed, and didn’t hear Miranda walk in the door at two fifteen a.m.

  Weekends were all pretty much the same for us. On Saturdays, Mom “slept in,” which meant she got up around seven thirty, then read the newspaper and drank big mugs of coffee. Then we ran around shopping for socks or screwdrivers or random boring things like that. Sometimes we had haircuts, sometimes we went to the orthodontist, which was like this big middle-school hangout, especially on Saturdays. (Once I saw Danny Abbott there, but he pretended not to notice me.) And at four we took Jackson to the rec field in town for his soccer game, the one extracurricular activity we kept in our schedule, because it was free.

  Then Mom cooked us a real dinner, not some radioactive microwaved box of a dinner like we ate during the week. Then we did mountains of laundry, and sort-of-watched a video. Sometimes Mom and Jackson fell asleep on the couch before it was even over.

  Every other Sunday morning we all piled into our old Caravan and headed ninety minutes north to visit Grandpop in his nursing home. I kind of dreaded this, to be honest, because he barely recognized us anymore. But it was really important to Mom, so we never complained, not even Jackson, who was just a toddler when Grandpop had his stroke. About once a month we drove up to Aunt Abby’s house, which was another hour from the nursing home. Aunt Abby’s house was always great: Jackie and I usually got to play outside with our cousins, Cody, who was eleven, and Nell, who was nine. We did stuff like fish for minnows in a stream they had in the back of their house, and in the winter we went sledding and snow-boarding down this incredibly steep hill and had huge snowball fights.

  Miranda kept insisting I was too old to be playing like this. But what was I supposed to do, yak on the phone and practice putting on no-clump mascara? Lock myself in a room, crank up some stupid “music,” and dream about Danny Abbott? I loved playing with my cousins, and being in a real house again, with a real backyard. I didn’t care what Miranda or the stupid Hayley-Brianna-Lindsay voice in my head kept saying. Aunt Abby’s house was where I felt like I could breathe.

  Early, like around five, Aunt Abby and Uncle Keith would make us a big supper, and Mom would actually look relaxed and happy while we all crammed ourselves around the table. Cody would tell these really dumb, complicated jokes that everyone would groan at, but then everyone would try to top him with even dumber jokes that all ended up sounding the same. We always had ice cream for dessert, even when it was cold out, and Mom always had a coffee “for the road.” Then we’d clear the table, hug and kiss good-bye, get in the car, and drive all the way back to our ratty little “unit,” which was definitely the saddest, longest, worst car ride you can imagine.

  But this weekend was different. For starters, Miranda didn’t get up until noon on Saturday. This wasn’t exactly surprising, considering how late she’d come home on Friday. I didn’t think Mom knew what time Miranda had finally shown up, but then I heard Mom go into Miranda’s room to wake her. They had a huge fight about being responsible and obeying curfew and deserving trust, blah blah blah.

  When Miranda finally came out of her room, she looked furious. “You are so dead,” she hissed at me.

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “You don’t know? I’ll tell you later.”

  Jackson and I did the Saturday thing with Mom (bank, Blockbuster, library, soccer) while Miranda stayed in her room playing “music” behind her shut door. Right before supper she stomped into my room.

  “So, I’m not doing the shopping? I’m not being ‘responsible’?”

  “I never said that! Did Mom say I said that?”

  “I never go shopping on the way home from school? Who just the other day went out and filled the freezer? Who bought peanut butter and cat food and Ring Dings, which just miraculously ‘disappeared’ when Madison came over?”

  “Miranda, I never said you were irresponsible. I could have, you know I could. But I didn’t. I chose not to.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really! I was actually covering up for you, for some stupid reason!”

  “Oh yeah, well, thanks a lot. Now I’m grounded for a month, thanks to how you ‘covered up’ for me!”

  “Listen, Miranda,” I said. “It’s not my fault you came home last night at two fifteen, without telling anyone where you were! You knew
that was wrong! Mom has every right to punish you for that!”

  Miranda looked shocked for a second. Then she exploded. Totally exploded.

  “Oh yeah, Cassie, there you go again, judging everybody else’s ‘problems.’ You’re just on your own perfect little planet, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you something: You really do need to get a life, and one of these days you’ll realize it, instead of sitting in your little room doing your ‘homework,’ or your psycho ‘word lists’ or whatever it is you’re writing all the time, instead of having any friends. That’s what it is, isn’t it—you’re really just jealous of me because I have friends, and you don’t, right?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about! You just hide behind your desk and criticize everything I do! And it’s so easy for you, isn’t it, Cassie, because you’re just sitting there by yourself scribbling, while I have to deal with all this academic pressure and try to have some kind of social life, even though I can’t do anything or go anywhere because I have to come home every afternoon and shop and babysit and cook supper and then on weekends visit boring relatives I don’t even have anything in common with!”

  “But, Miranda, listen. You offered to watch Jackie, it was your idea, remember?”

  “Yeah, well, you always have an answer, don’t you, Cassie.”

  Then she stomped out of my room.

  On Sunday she didn’t come with us to visit Grandpop and Aunt Abby.

  And that week, for some weird reason, it wasn’t even fun.

  On Monday morning Mom took a big gulp of coffee, then frowned. “Okay, Miranda. You’ll be coming home straight from school today, and not going to Madison’s under any circumstances. For supper you’re making hamburgers and baked potatoes, and there are greens I already washed for a salad.”

  Miranda glared at her, then chomped on her burnt bagel.

  “And Jackie, I need to call Mrs. Rivera back this morning. Did anything happen at school on Friday that I need to know about?”