Just Another Day in My Insanely Real Life

by Barbara Dee

  Happy birthday, dearest Cassie

  Never was a nicer lassie.

  Suddenly I felt like I just couldn’t ride one more minute. I got off my bike and sat down on a peeling green bench and just stared at the volleyball court, watching the leaves swirl around and around in mini-tornadoes. I wasn’t even sure how much time passed; I was wearing a watch, but I hadn’t checked what time I’d sat down, so what was the point of trying to figure it out? And anyway, I already knew I was pathetically late getting home. If I actually knew what time it was, I would just feel even worse. So I didn’t even look.

  But I was starting to get really cold now, and the wind was picking up, and I was thinking that it was probably time to leave. Maybe just a few more minutes, I told myself. And then three teenage boys I didn’t recognize came skateboarding in my direction, doing those fancy skateboard moves that probably have special names.

  “Hey, little girl!” one of them shouted. “Okay if we borrow your bike?”

  The other two started laughing; the shouter pushed them both, and then he started laughing too.

  My heart flipped over. I didn’t even answer them, I just got on my bike and pedaled like crazy right out of the park.

  But I didn’t go home. By now it was definitely, officially dark, and I was cold and tired and hungry. But I couldn’t go back to the ratty little “unit” and deal with everything there, all the yakking and fighting and buzzing. I had one more place to go, and fortunately it was right nearby.

  Seven houses down from Bradley Park, just past the Langleys, was our old blue house: now painted yellow, but still definitely ours. Only Dad lost it somehow, or Mom did, or maybe both of them. From carelessness? Something bad? Some stupid mistake that couldn’t be fixed, even though Miranda said Dad could fix just about anything, even computers and washing machines?

  The house just blinked at me like a cat, not giving anything away, no matter how hard or how long I looked at it.

  I’m defending you, Dad. And I’ll keep on defending you. But eventually I’ll want some answers, okay, Dad? OKAY?

  Finally I couldn’t stand there waiting any longer. I got on my bike and rode home as fast as I could, mostly just to keep from freezing.

  When I walked into the living room about twenty minutes later, it was total mayhem.

  Miranda and Jackson were there, and so was Mrs. Patella, and so was Mom. First Miranda yelled, “It’s Cassie!” and then Jackson jumped on top of me like a ten-month-old yellow Lab, and then Mom came running over, screaming, “CASSIE, IT’S ALMOST SEVEN O’CLOCK. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Then she threw her arms around me and burst into tears.

  It’s a funny thing about crying. When you’re doing it, you think, okay, this is just the way I feel right now. And when another kid is doing it, you think, poor kid, I wonder what’s wrong. But when a grown-up is crying, it’s just awkward and embarrassing, and you want to be anywhere else.

  Fortunately, she didn’t cry for very long. After about half a minute she let go of me and looked me up and down and demanded, “WELL?”

  “You scared us out of our wits,” Mrs. Patella chimed in, before I could even answer. “Lucky I was home to get Jackson when he got off the bus!”

  “I was here too,” Miranda reminded her. “Don’t forget that!”

  “WELL?” Mom repeated, not taking her eyes off me.

  I sank down on the sofa. “First I had something to do at school.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mom said, sitting down beside me and putting her arm around my shoulders. “Mr. Mullaney called me at work. He said you were very upset and he was concerned, so I came straight home.”

  “Yeah, well, I was upset, but then I was fine, but I needed to ride around for a while and clear my head.”

  “Even though you’re grounded?” Mrs. Patella demanded.

  Mom turned to her and smiled. “Listen, Rose, you’ve been an enormous help, and I can’t thank you enough. But now that Cassie’s home, I think we just need a little family time.”

  So Mrs. Patella was getting kicked out again. Suddenly I felt sorry for her. But I still wanted her to leave.

  Mom walked her to the door, thanked her again, and then sat back down on the sofa.

  “So,” I asked nervously, “am I in trouble?”

  “You are with me,” snapped Miranda. “Why didn’t you call me from school?”

  “Miranda, please,” Mom said. “After all you’ve been up to, you have no right to scold Cassie. About anything!”

  Miranda turned Crayola Crimson, but she didn’t storm out of the room. She just shrugged and muttered, “Okay, Mom, okay.”

  I stared at Mom. “Then you know?”

  She nodded slowly. “Well, I think I have a pretty good picture of what’s been going on around here lately. It seems you’ve been taking care of practically everything— shopping, cooking, taking care of Jackson, helping him with his schoolwork—without tattling or complaining one little bit.”

  “Well, maybe one little bit,” Miranda said, grinning.

  Mom smiled, but it was a serious smile. “And I was probably way too harsh with you the other day, Cassie, and I’m sorry. But before now I just didn’t understand everything you were dealing with. I really wish you’d told me!”

  I swallowed hard. “Me too.” Then I decided to go for it. “Does this mean I’m not grounded anymore?”

  Mom shook her head. “No, sweetheart, the punishment stands, because you lied to me, and that’s something I just can’t ignore. But I’ll overlook what happened today, because you’re obviously due for a break.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, I guess. So all I said was, “Thanks.”

  She took my hand and pressed it between hers. Her hands were so warm that it made me realize how cold mine were. “Cassie, I’m just so proud of how you’ve coped with everything here. And on top of all that, Mr. Mullaney says you’ve produced the beginning of a whole novel, plus sixty-three pages of comedy writing for his class!”

  SHEEPSKIN! He called it “comedy writing”? Well, at least that was better than telling her it was a cry for “serious attention,” or something equally humiliating and pathetic.

  “So, did he say anything about the comedy writing?” I asked, wincing a little.

  “Actually, he said it was—what was his word? ‘Provocative.’ He said he thought you needed an audience, and that you’re clever and funny and very talented. But of course, I already knew that.”

  She gave me a big hug. And then I needed to ask an important question, so I pulled away. “But, Mom, how exactly did you find out everything?”

  “From Mrs. Patella.”

  “She spied on us?”

  “Of course not. Where did you get that idea? No, she heard about it from Jackson.”

  “You ratted, you little monster?” I screeched, making raptor claws with my hands.

  He giggled, looking like the cute little brother he used to be. “Are you mad at me, Cassie?”

  “Yes! I’m so mad I’m going to eat you up!” I tickled his chest while he laughed his head off. Mom laughed too, which was good to hear.

  “Of course, now I’ve been grounded for the rest of my life,” Miranda complained.

  “We’ll discuss your situation later, Miranda,” Mom said. “Right now I’m just so relieved that Cassie’s home and everything’s fine. Sweetheart, please don’t ever take off like that without telling us where you are!”

  I grinned. “Yes, Mom, I never will. I absolutely promise.”

  And then she ordered us a pizza to celebrate.

  The next Friday we got our first-quarter report cards. Not surprisingly, Mr. Mullaney failed me in English. But this is what he wrote for a comment:

  After conferring with Cassie I am certain that she now understands the nature and purpose of her ongoing assignments and will henceforth submit only her very best work. I daresay she will endeavor to learn the grammatical concepts explored in class, including pre
positional phrases. She is a gifted writer (who/whom) is capable of great things. I look forward to awarding her the A she richly deserves.

  Mom gave me a that’s-very-strange look when she read this. “When I spoke with Mr. Mullaney on the phone last week, he had nothing but praise for you. In fact, he told me you’re the best writer in the class. So how could he possibly fail you?”

  “I made a big mistake,” I answered. “In fact, about sixty-three big mistakes. But it’s really okay, Mom. I know how to fix them.”

  “I bet you do, Cassie,” she said. “I have a lot of faith in you.”

  And the weird thing was, she decided to lift my punishment, which meant I could go over to Bess’s house and hang out in that blue-sky bedroom and play with Rudy, who still had no manners. And then Bess asked if she could come over to the “unit.” That made me nervous, because compared with her house, it was definitely ratty. But she didn’t seem to notice; in fact, she actually seemed to like it. She even played chess with Jackson, who practically fell in love with her.

  One day we were in my bedroom talking about our next novels. I hadn’t exactly given up on my Cat story, but I was stuck at the ending, not knowing what should happen with the King. I needed a big finish, but none of the alternatives (killed the Mystyck Beast/killed by the Mystyck Beast/in hiding/in disguise/in disgrace/invisible) made absolute, perfect sense. So I decided to take a little vacation from Cat. I was planning my next heroine, the brilliant and daring Princess Azure.

  “Princess Azure. That’s a really good name,” said Bess. But she was wrinkling her nose in a way I was starting to recognize with her.

  “Okay, you hate it.”

  “No, I don’t. Not at all.”

  “But what?”

  “But nothing. I just think, if you want a blue name, Cerulean is better.”

  “Princess Cerulean? You’re kidding, Bess, right?”

  “No, I’m not, Cassie. I think Cerulean is excellent.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe for a boy: ‘Prince Cerulean.’ ‘King Cerulean.’ Actually, I sort of like that.”

  “Well, you can’t have it,” Bess said, giggling. “It’s mine.”

  I threw my pillow at her. Suddenly I realized Miranda was standing in the doorway, staring at us.

  “Yes?” I demanded.

  She just stood there with a funny look on her face. Finally she spoke.

  “Male,” she announced.

  “Male caller?” I hadn’t heard the phone ring, but now my heart jumped. Was it Danny again? Adam Klein? Mr. Mullaney?

  “No, Casshead,” she said. Then she thrust something toward me. An envelope. I stared at it like a brain-dead moron. “Mail,” she repeated. “I got one too. So did Jackson.”

  “It’s from Florida,” I said stupidly.

  “Why, yes it is. Bravo, Captain Obvious.”

  “Listen, Cassie, do you want me to leave?” Bess asked.

  “No,” I said quickly. “Don’t.”

  She nodded, but then she stood up. “Okay. I’ll be in the living room.”

  We watched her walk down the hallway. Then I sat down on my bed.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to open it?” Miranda asked.

  My hands were shaking, but somehow I did.

  Dearest Cassie,

  It’s hard to believe that it’s been seven months since I’ve seen you. They’ve been the toughest seven months I’ve ever spent. But I’m writing to tell you I’m on my way back to Emerson, and I can’t wait to see you again.

  I have so much to say to you. First, the easy part: I love you. Don’t think because you haven’t heard from me lately that anything’s changed in that department, because it hasn’t and it never will. That’s a promise.

  But now for the harder part: explaining what happened. It’s complicated, Sweetheart, but it boils down to the fact that I did something very wrong at work, and I told Mom about it, and she was upset. We agreed that we needed time apart to figure things out and that I should speak to you kids in my own words, in my own May. I think she’s been incredibly patient, Cassie. Whatever happens between mom and me, I want you to know that I think she is a special person.

  You probably don’t understand why you haven’t heard more from me. The honest truth is that ever since I left Emerson I’ve been thinking about what to tell you, and no words ever seemed good enough. But I couldn’t let any more time pass without contacting you, so please try not to judge this letter too harshly. I know isn’t great, but of course you’re the writer in this family, not me.

  Here’s to you, O daughter Cassie. See you very soon.

  Love,

  Dad

  When I got to the end, my eyes jumped back to the beginning, then sort of ping-ponged all over the page. “Something very wrong at work,” “coming back to Emerson,” “what to tell you,” Mom’s “a special person.” What did it all mean? I wasn’t sure. I had just about as many unanswered questions as when I opened the envelope.

  But for some strange reason I felt happy. Even if it wasn’t the absolutely perfect conclusion I was hoping for.

  “So, what do you think?” Miranda asked, searching my face.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “I want to hear what he has to say. But I’m glad he’s coming back. Are you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. I’m still mad at him, though.”

  “Me too.” It was the first time I’d ever said that, and it surprised me. Then something else occurred to me, and I sprang from my bed and raced down the hall into Jackson’s room.

  He was sitting on his floor, staring at a chessboard.

  “Jackie, did you open that letter just now? The one from Dad?”

  He nodded, still staring at the chessboard.

  “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  “You don’t have to, Cassie.”

  “Really, Jackie boy? Are you sure? Because I will—”

  Just then the phone rang. It was Mom, who said she knew about the letters, and she was taking an early train home. So I told Bess the whole story, and she gave me a hug and said she’d probably better be going. By the time Bess left, Miranda was already yakking away on the phone with Madison, telling her the news. So I tossed some potatoes into the oven and didn’t set the temperature to five hundred degrees, and then I sat down at my insanely cluttered desk.

  Maybe I’d work on my Cat story after all, I thought. Maybe it was finally ready to end.

  But just when I’d located a black extra-fine-point Rolling Writer, I realized someone was standing in my doorway. It was Jackson, and he was holding something in his hand.

  “Cassie? Can I tell you something?” he asked.

  I wanted to throttle him, but I didn’t. “Yeah. Okay, Jackie. What?”

  “Guess what,” he said, waving a tiny paperback. “Remember Farmer Joe’s Busy Week?”

  “Yes, of course I do. How can I forget?”

  “Well, guess what, Cassie. I can read it. What a dumb book!”