Mom opens the wrapper and actually bites her cookie open, which means she must be feeling better. She slides the paper out of the remaining shell as she finishes chewing.
“ ‘A light heart carries you through all the hard times,’ ” she reads. Surveying us all with a warm smile, Mom says, “Sounds like good advice to me. Got any good poop jokes?”
May 7
AP Stats tomorrow. LAST ONE. The probability that I will collapse into an exhausted stress heap tomorrow afternoon is 100 percent. Well, after I drive RJ home from Odyssey of the Mind, that is. I’m thinking of printing up a Sammy’s Chauffeur Service sign for the car.
Kidding. It’s not that bad. I’d much rather drive RJ than have to help Mom empty the drains. And RJ and I have had some interesting convos in the car. Maybe it’s because we’re not at home. Or maybe it’s the enclosed space that feels safe. It’s just us and whatever music we’re playing and what’s on our minds that day.
This afternoon when I picked him up from Photography Club, he showed me a picture he’d taken of Mom asleep on the sofa. Scruffles is curled up at her feet, his head resting on her leg. Her eyes are closed, but the dog is keeping watch with one eye open. RJ printed and matted the picture so it’s ready for framing.
“Do you think Mom will like it, or do you think she’s going to complain about how she looks asleep?” RJ asked me.
“Nobody looks good when they’re asleep except for babies,” I pointed out. “She’ll love it.”
He kept staring at the picture, the whole ride home.
“She’s going to get better, right?” he asked just as we were pulling in the driveway.
I didn’t know what to say. Tell him the probabilities? 93 percent should be reassuring, but RJ is my brother and he wakes up screaming from nightmares. I think there’s a pretty high probability that he’d start worrying about the 7 percent, too. Tell him I have no idea, and until Mom finishes chemo nobody else does, either?
RJ’s trying to be brave just like me, but he looked so scared in that moment that I decided to give him the comfort I wish I felt, even if it meant telling a white lie.
“Yeah. The chemo is going to make her feel worse for a while, but she’s definitely going to get better.”
It was worth it just to see the relief on his face, and the way he jumped out of the car and practically bounced into the house to give Mom the picture.
I sat in the garage after I pulled the car in, wondering if I did the right thing. I’d promised myself that I was going to be honest from now on. No more lies.
But like the fortune said, I’ve had to learn to adjust my sails of expectation to meet the changing winds. I won’t pretend it’s been easy. It’s been a lot harder than the AP exams I spent so many hours studying for and stressing about. For as long as I can remember, everyone has been telling me how important doing well on those AP exams is for the Rest of My Life—my parents, teachers, and the administrators at school. But isn’t learning how to cope when life derails your train from the tracks just as important?
I think it is. I know it is. Even if I never use AP Statistics again in my life, I know the probability of more bad things happening to me in the future is 100 percent—without even doing any calculations. It’s not because I’m pessimistic. It’s because that’s just the way life is. Stuff happens, even when you are doing your best to think positively.
After I finish my homework, I go down to the living room, where Mom is on the sofa attempting to do some work. Grandma is in the kitchen making dinner for us, and RJ came home on the bus, so I figure it’s okay for me to take a tiny break from being Daughter of the Year.
“I’m just going over to Rosa’s,” I tell Mom. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
Mom looks up from her laptop, frowning. “Grandma’s been here all day. She might need your help with dinner.”
“Seriously?” I blurt out, surprised. “I finished APs yesterday and I’ve been Cinder-Sammy ever since I got my license and you’re giving me a hard time about escaping to Rosa’s for an hour?”
“Did you forget that you were grounded?”
“How could I? I’ve been trying really hard to be the perfect daughter so I can earn back my privileges and go to prom.”
“Giving me attitude isn’t going to get you very far,” Mom snaps.
“I’m not giving you attitude! I’m just trying to stay sane!” I shout.
“I really don’t need this right now, Sammy,” Mom says. “I’ve just had surgery and I’m trying to catch up on work.”
“You think I need this right now? Do you think I need any of the stuff that’s happened? Jeez, Mom, listen to yourself.”
I’m so furious at her that I storm back up to my room, slamming the door and flinging myself on the bed to explode into an angry scream into my pillow. It’s so unfair. I’ve been working my butt off at school and putting myself out to help at home. I’ve done things that freak the heck out of me because Mom needs my help. But nothing I do is ever enough. They always expect more.
After I scream myself out, though, guilt seeps in. I’d vowed to be nicer to Mom, and I just yelled at her for having cancer. Who does that?
But I can’t help it. There’s too much to deal with while trying to hold it all together and be perfect. If I stay grounded, if Mom and Dad don’t let me go to Faux Prom, I’m afraid I’ll lose it. It’s probably not the best time to talk to them after I’ve just had this blowup with Mom, but I need to know I have this to look forward to. Definitely. Positively. Not maybe, if I hit some ever-raising bar.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Sammy? It’s Grandma. Can I come in?”
“Okay,” I say, sitting up and fixing my mess of hair.
Grandma Sally opens the door and comes in, taking a seat on the end of my bed. She pats my leg comfortingly.
“It’s been tough for you, I know.”
“At least someone does.”
Grandma sighs. “Your parents do, too, Sammy, even though it might not seem that way.”
“It definitely doesn’t seem that way. Not at all. They just expect me to slay it in school and help around the house and be perfect in every single way. And the one time I mess up, it’s like I’m the Demon Child from the Planet Fail.”
Grandma laughs. “You do have an amusing way of putting things, dear.”
“Mom and Dad don’t find it amusing. They call it attitude and they don’t have time for it.”
“Sweetie, they’re overwhelmed with their own problems and anxieties right now. It’s making it hard for them to see the big picture.”
“But they’re my parents,” I complain, sitting up and leaning forward, legs crossed, to make my point better. “They always tell me my job is doing well in school. Parenting is supposed to be their job.”
“Yes, but nobody’s perfect. Going through especially stressful times can bring out the best in people, but it can also sometimes reveal … their less attractive traits.”
I think about how Margo was so quick to throw away our friendship.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I sigh.
“Your mom and dad love you so much, Sammy,” Grandma says. “And so do Grandpa and I. We’re all going to get through this.”
“But, Grandma, I need a break …” I have to stop and blot my eyes. “It’s all too much. I need a light at the end of the tunnel, something to look forward to.”
“I know. When your father gets home tonight, talk to your parents again. Be calm. Be polite. But tell them how you feel.”
“They won’t listen. You heard Mom just now. She wasn’t listening.”
“Keep trying,” Grandma urges me. “You’ll be surprised what actually sinks in.”
She gets up and kisses me on the forehead. “Dinner’s all ready to go. I spoke to your dad and he promises that he’s on the way home and will be here in half an hour. All you have to do is turn on the oven to three fifty and heat it up,” she says. “I’ve already set the table.”
&
nbsp; “Sorry, Grandma,” I say, feeling guilty all over again. “RJ and I have been taking turns doing that. Tonight was my night.”
“I know. I saw the chart on the refrigerator,” she says. “But it was obvious you needed a night off.”
I lean forward and hug her. “Thanks, Grandma,” I say.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she tells me. “Just take care of yourself.”
“If it’s so obvious to you I need a night off, why doesn’t Mom get it?” I ask.
Grandma looks down at her hands, twisting the wedding rings on her finger. “Sometimes mothers don’t see their teenage daughters clearly,” she says. And looking me in the eye, she says, “But the same goes for teenage daughters and their mothers.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“Listen to me, Sammy. Age might give me aching bones and liver spots, but it’s also taught me a thing or two,” Grandma says. “Your mother loves you, just like you love her.” She stands up and strokes the hair back from my forehead. “Now tonight, when your father gets home, I want you to sit down with your parents and have a conversation about going to the prom. Tell them what you told me.”
“They won’t listen.”
“Try them,” Grandma says. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
Surprised is definitely what I will be, but I promise her that I’ll attempt the conversation before she kisses me and leaves to go home.
Dad gets home in time for dinner. Grandma made us a roast chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. She’d already carved the chicken and made a gravy from the pan drippings, so all I have to do is heat everything up. It’s the best dinner we’ve had since the last time Grandma cooked for us. Takeout and whatever I’ve been cobbling together for dinner is no competition for Grandma’s cooking.
“It looks like I might have to go down to Washington next week,” Dad says. “I’m being called to testify before the House Financial Services Committee.”
Mom’s fork clatters to her plate. “You have to travel? Now?”
“It would just be overnight,” Dad says. “I still have a bank to run.”
“I know,” she says. “But I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“I wish I didn’t, either,” Dad says.
“Can’t you tell them that Mom’s sick?” RJ asks.
“I’m the chief executive officer of the bank, RJ. When things go wrong, people look to me to find out why.”
RJ pushes his string beans, which he’s been trying to avoid eating, around his plate with his fork. “But why can’t it wait?” he asks. “Till Mom’s better?”
“ ’Cause that’s not the way the world works,” I tell him. “You can’t tell Congress to wait.”
“Why not?” RJ says. “It’s not like they do anything on time. They always vote on the budget at the eleventh hour.”
Mom and Dad stare at RJ and then look at each other and burst out laughing.
“What?” he asks. “What’s so funny?”
“Your eighth-grade political punditry,” Dad says.
“It’s so on target,” Mom agrees.
RJ looks confused, but I give him a look like See, they do think you’re smart, and he glows in the light of their approval.
Just like I do, I guess. But I’m exhausted from the struggle of trying to get it.
Still, I promised Grandma that I’d try, even though the thought of it makes me feel like Sisyphus and the boulder will just roll back down the hill.
“Mom, Dad … Can I talk to you about prom?” I ask. “It’s only two and a half weeks away, and I want to know if I can go. I’ve been working really hard, I’ve been responsible, and I think I’ve earned it.”
I have to swallow the lump that rises in my throat, because Grandma told me to be “calm and polite” and I’m pretty sure by that she meant “don’t cry.”
“Besides,” I continue, “it’s been hard with exams and how things have been at school because of the hack, and now Mom’s cancer. It would really help to have something fun to look forward to. Especially since I still have to study for the SAT and Mom’s going to start chemo in two weeks.”
Mom looks down at her half-eaten meal and doesn’t say anything. The lump in my throat feels like it’s going to choke off my breathing. If they say no, I don’t know how I’ll go on.
“Please,” I say to Dad, since at least he’s still giving me eye contact. “I need this.”
Dad looks over at Mom and my heart contracts.
Don’t shut me down. Please.
“Helene? What do you say?” he asks her. “I think Sammy’s earned back the right to go, don’t you?”
No. Words. For. What. Feels. Like. Hours.
Till finally Mom raises her head and says, “Yes, Dick. I think she has.”
I can’t believe it.
“For real? I can go?”
Dad smiles. “Yes, Cinderella, you can go to the ball.”
“Sammy’s got a date already,” RJ reveals. “His name’s Noah. He’s her boyfriend.”
My father raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend, huh? That’s news to Dear Old Dad.”
“And to Dear Not-So-Old Mom,” Mom adds. “Not Ice-Cream Parlor Boy, I hope.”
“No way!” I exclaim. I glare at RJ. “And Noah’s not my boyfriend.”
Yet, at least. We’re friends, who like each other a lot. I think he’s cute and funny and thoughtful. But I’ve been too busy with exams and Mom’s cancer and being grounded to think about putting a name on what we are. But my heart beats a little faster thinking about it.
“Can I take you dress shopping before I start chemo?” Mom asks.
“Definitely! Well … as long as you don’t mind going to Goodwill,” I tell her.
Dad almost chokes on a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Goodwill?” he sputters. “Sheesh, Sammy, things aren’t that bad. I’m still employed. I can afford to buy you a prom dress.”
“We can afford,” Mom says, laying down her fork like a gauntlet. “I work, too, in case that slipped your mind, dear.”
Dad throws her a sheepish look. “We can still afford to buy you a prom dress,” he corrects himself.
“It’s not that, Dad,” I say. “It’s because I’m going to Faux Prom and—”
“What on earth is a Faux Prom?” Dad asks.
He doesn’t sound amused by the idea. I hope this doesn’t change his mind about letting me go.
“It’s just that since the hack, things have been really awful at school,” I confess, finally telling them just how bad things have been. “Margo completely ditched me. She doesn’t even talk to me anymore. In fact, she trash-talks me to anyone who will listen. Even Rosa didn’t even talk to me for a while, but we’ve made up now.”
Dad opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. I don’t know if he’s really hearing, but since he’s still listening, I go on.
“This girl BethAnn—the one who got tormented online because she said no after being pressured into saying yes to a fancy promposal—well, she was actually nice to me because of what I’d written in my journal about her. She knew I understood. And she understood how I felt. And … well, neither of us felt like going to prom with the same kids who have been jerks to us, so we decided to throw an alternative prom instead. Her parents agreed to host it at their house and they’ll totally be home and I really, really want to go there instead.” I take a deep breath. “And that’s Faux Prom.”
My father is now the one staring at his dinner plate like his half-eaten chicken leg holds the clues to the secrets of the universe.
“But, Sammy, what does that have to do with buying a prom dress at Goodwill?” Mom asks, picking up the slack.
“Oh. Because we decided to make it the anti-prom. Prom is so out of hand. The promposals. The dresses and tuxes. The limos. The corsages—I mean, what’s even the point of those?”
“Tradition, I guess,” Mom says. “Besides, flowers are pretty.”
“Tradition! Tradition!”
RJ pipes up, singing the song from Fiddler on the Roof.
“Thanks for the musical interlude, weirdo,” I tell him. “I know flowers are pretty, Mom, but I don’t need to wear them on my wrist.”
Mom nods. “Okay, if this is what you’re doing, I’ll take you to Goodwill.”
And the strange thing is, I find myself looking forward to it.
May 10
Rosa came to Goodwill with Mom and me to help find a dress for Faux Prom. Besides dressing from Goodwill, everyone has to bring some cans or dry goods for the food bank.
“That’s a cool idea,” Rosa said. “Why don’t we do it at Real Prom?”
I didn’t have a good answer. Maybe because everyone’s so busy worrying about creating and/or getting the most viral promposal, and then getting the most photogenic dress/tux combo and then renting a limo and getting invited to the right after-parties that the food bank isn’t exactly on their minds?
Even though Rosa already bought her prom dress, she still tried on some of the retro offerings with me at Goodwill. We had a blast. I ended up getting a sixties scoop-neck sheath, in shocking pink. Mom said it made me look like Audrey Hepburn. I laughed and said, “Yeah, if Audrey Hepburn were Jewish and had curly hair and curves.”
It helps so much to have something fun to look forward to, even if it wasn’t what I’d originally hoped for. In some ways, though, it’s turning out to be better. It’s like getting on a train thinking you’re going to one place that you really wanted to go, but ending up at a different destination that turns out to be even more interesting.
Mom starts chemo in eleven days. We went out wig shopping and she bought two wigs, one in her usual color and one in purple, just like she promised. After Goodwill, we stopped at the pharmacy and I bought her some Glittery Grape nail polish to match her wig. That night, I did Mom’s nails for her and she put on the wig and she said she was going to be the funkiest mom in the carpool line.
RJ immediately reminded her that she’s promised not to wear the purple wig in public, but I think it suits her, so I said she should totally break that rule. RJ eventually gave in, after I got him alone and gave him my Grandpa Marty “It’s better than the alternative” imitation. It’s amazing how that puts things in perspective.
In Case You Missed It Page 18