Nowhere in the manual did it say this. That your lizard might shed on your shoulder, against your shirt, just when you were starting over. Nowhere did it say your lizard could make a joke, either. But Matylda wasn’t any lizard — and I would do right by her.
I’m going to ride my bike,” I said to Matylda a few mornings later, still feeling new. “I’m going to get right on it and pedal.” It just came out. Matylda put her starfish feet on the glass and went vertical, like she was going to climb. I knew she couldn’t — she didn’t have toe pads — but she acted like she was going to try. I’d never seen her do that. “Is that a standing ovation?” I asked. She stayed in place. “No need to answer — I know it is.”
“I’m going to ride my bike,” I said again, this time to my dad at breakfast.
“You sure?” he said.
“Yes, I am, Mr. Reed,” I replied. “It’s been sitting in the garage all summer long, and it wants me to ride it.”
“You don’t have to, you know,” my dad said.
“I know,” I said. “But I want to.”
I got my bike out of the garage. If I could just get my feet to push the pedals. . . . I had my helmet and the new shorts. I had on my Cawoooooohah shirt. The tires were a little flat, so I got out my air pump and I plumped them up, pushing down the handle, up and down, up and down, quickly at first as the air went in, then slowly, heavily, harder to push as they filled.
The tires firm, I turned my bike upside down and rested it on its handlebars. It was just a simple machine, with two wheels, a chain, and a frame, and I began to turn the pedals with my hand, the hand Matylda liked now, the hand she’d crawled on, the hand that made me hopeful. Around the wheels went, around and around and around.
“Cawoooooohah!” I said, to nobody and to everybody. “Come on!” The chain was still well oiled, and I turned the bike right side up, placing the tires back on the ground. Put down the kickstand.
I backed up then, took a good long look at this simple machine.
It’s just a bike, I told myself. Come on Come on Come on! I put up the kickstand and straddled the frame. My feet could touch the driveway. Right foot on the pedal, and I began to go, very slowly, left foot now. . . . If I could take this first trip, in my new clothes . . . keep pedaling, don’t look down, that’s the trick, don’t look down. . . . Around the house I went, pedaling through the arbor, past the tiger lilies, the birdhouse, the vegetable garden, the cannas — fiery-red, sky-reaching flowers. . . . Through the backyard, past the rhubarb patch, the basketball hoop, down the driveway, across the front lawn, and I did it again. Did it again and again and again and again. And again.
“CAWOOOOOOHAH!” I hollered to the world. “Cawoooooohah,” I said, not hollering now, just pedaling. And then I pedaled some more; I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled and pedaled till I could hardly feel my legs, the no-leg feeling the best of them all.
I was pedaling again.
A week or so later, my mom came into my room, with a little bag in her hand. She sat on my bed and said, “School’s around the corner.”
I hadn’t thought about going back to school. And Matylda was just getting to know me. She climbed on my hand and up my arm; she nestled behind my hair. She let me know when to pick her up, and she had given me a standing ovation. She loved my fig-flavored feeders, and she blinked Morse code. We had a secret stash of worms, a secret wormy pact, and she had shed on my shoulder. I couldn’t go back to school now. I wanted to be with her; I wanted her to flourish. That wasn’t possible if I had to go to school.
It wasn’t okay.
“Mom,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s just getting used to me. I don’t want to go. I can’t go. I can’t leave —”
“Sussy —”
“No,” I said. “I have to take care of her. Please don’t make me go. Please, I —”
“It’s time to start over. You’re doing so —”
“No. I won’t leave her. I won’t I won’t I —”
“SUSSY!” she said. “You’ve been so brave,” she went on, softer now. “You can —”
“No no no no no,” I said. “I won’t —”
“SHHHHH!” my mom said. Which made me be quiet. Because it wasn’t a sound I was used to hearing from her.
“Listen,” she said. “Remember how you didn’t think you could go to LBI, and it turned out o —”
“She came with me,” I said.
“You can’t take her to school,” my mom said. “It’s not realistic. You’ve got to go back —”
And I began to cry, ’cause there was no way out this time. ’Cause I had to leave Matylda, and I had to go to school without Guy. ’Cause I wasn’t ready and I had to be ready and I couldn’t be ready.
“How will I do it?” I said. “I don’t know how to go to school without him. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t think —”
“I wish I could tell you it would be easy,” she said, holding me. “I can’t do that. But it’s only six hours a day. Something you have to do, for yourself and your future. You can do anything for six hours a day, and we can help with Matylda.”
“I don’t know how to go without him,” I said again. “I miss him so much.”
“I know,” she said, moving her hand in circles on my back, slow, gentle circles, around and around. She sighed. “It’s just that you can’t stay in this room forever.”
And she began to cry, too, and we held on to each other for a while, and there was no magic wand, and there was no eraser, and there was no pressing rewind. There was no going backward.
“We have to move on,” she said. “Have to go forward.” And when I heard that, I wanted to be on the saucer with Guy again, sledding, not knowing where we were going, knees tucked in . . . but I couldn’t be, ’cause he was there and I was here. Sussy and Guy Not Together Anymore.
School, without Guy, going to school without Guy. Away from Matylda, leaving her alone, just when she’d started to like . . .
“I brought you something,” my mom said. “It used to be mine, but I wanted you to have it. It’s a little silly, but, I don’t know, I just thought it might help.” She handed me the tiny bag. “I’ll let you open it in private.” My mom closed the door behind her.
While Matylda hovered by the palm tree, I opened it. There was a long navy-blue jewelry box inside, wrapped in light-blue tissue — a silver bracelet. There was a single charm on it — and I understood. It was a brown fedora, the same one Indiana Jones wore. My mother had brought me a bracelet that would give me the strength of Indiana Jones, a magic bracelet that would help me stay strong. A magic bracelet and new clothes and I’d go to school. I had to. Six hours a day.
Matylda was watching me.
“Want to come out?” I said. She nodded, as if she knew our alone days were coming to an end. I lay on my bed, holding her right over my face.
“I have to go back to school, you know. But it’s just six hours a day. I’ll miss you,” I said, “but when I get home, it’ll be better than ever. It can be like that, you know. When someone goes away it’s even better when they come back.” I set her on my chest. “Six hours is just three hundred sixty minutes, it’s over in a flash. So don’t worry. I’ll come home right after we’re dismissed.”
Quieter then, I said, “It’ll be lickety-split. I won’t forget about you. Just six hours.”
My mom poked her head in later that evening, on her way to another event. She was dressed in green and she smelled like lavender. “It’s beautiful,” I said to her, ’cause I knew she was checking about the bracelet.
“Oh, I’m so glad. I was hoping so.”
“I love it,” I said.
She was my mom, and she’d chosen the name Indiana to give me strength. She was my mom, and she’d given me a bracelet with his fedora on it, to help me stay strong. She was my mom and she loved me and I had to go to school.
“You look pretty,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “That’s
nice.”
I held up my wrist and showed her how the bracelet looked.
“It suits you,” she said. “It’s lovely.”
First day of school, fifth grade. I’d wear the overalls today, and the new sandals with gems. It was still warm enough.
“I’m going to walk to school by myself, Matylda with a y. Never done that before.” I buttoned myself up at the waist and hooked the straps into their holders. “I’m going to miss you,” I said, bending over her, looking down through the top. “Very much.”
She took a drink of water, fast-forward licks from her pond. Her skin was all shed now. I still had the spine piece, and I held it up. “Okay if I carry this with me?” I asked.
She nodded, and I put it in my pocket.
“It’ll keep you close,” I said. She was looking at me.
“You want to keep me close, too?” I asked. “You do? Okay.” I unclasped my fedora bracelet and hung it from her tree. “You take care of this today. And every time you see it, you remember we’re like Indiana Jones.” Matylda shook her head from side to side again, like she thought that was funny.
I waggled my finger at her. “That’s not a joke,” I said. “You stop that right now.” I laughed. “And don’t you worry, either. I won’t be gone too long. Six hours.”
“Breakfast is ready,” my dad called up. “And I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m going to walk,” I said, coming down. “Gotta break in my new sandals. They’ve got gems, you know.” He slid my egg-in-the-hole out of the frying pan.
A piece of bread, a square cut out of its center filled with egg and neatly fried. Ketchup on the side. Even though I’d had it so many times, the whole package pleased me, with the extra cutout square grilled in the same pan.
“Well, you are prepared,” said my dad, browsing through my well-organized backpack. “I don’t think your mother missed anything on the list.”
“I suspect not,” I said. I stood up then and put my dishes in the sink, rinsed off my hands and brushed them on my sides. “No yogurt and Craisins this year,” I said.
“Gotcha,” my dad answered, opening the fridge. “Then it’s going to be . . . meatloaf! How about a meatloaf sandwich and a side of chips?”
“Why not?” I said. Somehow that joke never got old.
I picked up my lunch bag, knowing I had to leave. “I’ll be going now,” I said, puffing up, feeling like a thousand doors might be opening in front of me, or that they might be locked.
“You know where to find me,” Dad said. “Say the word and I’m there.”
“Good-bye Mr. Egg-in-the-Hole,” I said. I did a little skip step to keep it light.
I’d said good-bye, to my dad and Matylda. Nobody was circling back to pick me up. Nobody was telling me when the sun had risen and when it would set. Nobody was telling me the weather. Nobody knew I was looking for money on the ground.
Walking by myself, I was Sussy of the Sandals with Gems. Okay, girl, I thought. Just a walk. Two blocks south, turn to the left. Three blocks. With each step, Guy not here became more real. Whistle now. Guy taught me how last year — let’s see, tongue against my bottom teeth, lips pulled in, and blow.
As I got going, the song announced itself — from Disney World. Years back, my first trip there, sitting between my parents, riding the boat through It’s a Small World. Funny this song came out now, straight from the Magic Kingdom. I was maybe four when I heard it the first time, before I ever knew Guy. The song took me right back. Just me and my parents, in a boat, whistle, whistle, whistle. I was on my way again, in my magic kingdom with my magic clothes. The sandals were comfortable, overalls loose. Nearing the school.
Like nothing had changed, Wayne Hoffman stood by the bike rack. Same white T-shirt. Didn’t know what he’d say. There was no “Hello, Guy” to go with “Hello, Red.” Wayne Hoffman surprised me.
He said, “Woof.”
Got my attention. He knew. And he knew that I knew that he knew. We connected with woof. His way of telling me he’d heard about the Airedale.
“Yes,” I said to Wayne, keeping puffed up. “I’m on my own.”
“Red,” said Wayne, “I’m walking you in.”
“’Kay,” I said, feeling a wave of welcome. So much better to walk in with somebody than to walk in alone.
Nobody else said a thing about Guy that day, and I didn’t either. You wouldn’t know he’d ever existed. Nobody asked me what happened, and I didn’t tell them, just like at Carter’s. Nobody else said woof. Nobody talked to me much at all, and I was thankful for that. I was moving on. I didn’t have Mrs. Bueler anymore — she was from last year. It was the same school, but we were in a different wing. None of the teachers I remembered were there to see me.
“Sussy Reed,” said Mr. Mujica, my new homeroom teacher.
“Here,” I said.
“I’m expecting big things from you.” He didn’t know a thing, or if he did, he didn’t let on.
I ran into Amanda in the lunch line.
“Buying hot?” she said.
“Just milk,” I said. “Got a meatloaf sandwich.” I shook my paper bag.
“I’m buying hot,” she said. “Still got the lizard?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She just shed.” I grinned.
“Gross,” said Amanda. The summer hadn’t changed her, so I didn’t tell her I had Matylda’s skin in my pocket — it was drier now than when it first came off, but it wasn’t brittle. It was safe with me.
Coming out of the line, I scanned the cafeteria. I hadn’t thought about this — hadn’t thought about lunch, my table, sitting at my table without Guy. We sat together, just the two of us, Guy with his tomato and American cheese on rye bread and me with the Craisins. Now the room was so big, so much bigger than I remembered. Without Guy, without my lunch buddy, I was like a new girl, on her own. Where did a new girl sit? Rows and rows of tables and noise and trays and voices and . . .
“RED,” said Wayne Hoffman, less than a foot away from where I stood. “Sit here, Red. Sit with us.” A whole new table, the boy who said woof, the boy who said, “I’m walking you in.” That was where I sat. Magic clothes and a magic table. Skin in my pocket. I took my sandwich out of the bag.
“You’re all right, Red,” Wayne said. And I felt all right. As I sat there with them, I felt new, I felt like I was more than walk to school / walk home / Pringles / ginger ale / play Monopoly / or maybe Yahtzee / two square once in a while. I felt like more than all that minus Guy plus Matylda.
Now I felt like Red. This boy, Wayne Hoffman, was kind. And the sandwich wasn’t bad. I’d agreed to meatloaf just to get away from Craisins, but it was tasty. Four boys at the table who were new to me.
“Doing Ecology Club?” the boy with shiny black hair asked.
“What is it?” said Wayne.
“Mostly just a place to get together,” the shiny-black-hair boy said. He was Scott.
“Not doing it,” Wayne said. “Not unless Red does.” He looked over at me, and I looked at him. I’d never been asked to join a club.
Da-da-da-dum: Get a new suit, get a new friend, get an invitation. Da-da-da —
“Well, Red?” Wayne asked.
I smiled.
“You’re gonna do it,” he said.
And I said, “That’s right.” It all sounded fun and funny, and it was light. But it didn’t feel light inside. It felt like another ocean wave of welcome, bigger now. An ocean wave of these boys wanting me at their table when I didn’t know where to go. As if they caught my SOS of where do I sit / how do I do this / this room is huge. And all because of Wayne.
Da-da-da-dum hello overalls, hello Wayne, hello club. I felt like skipping rope to that tune. I felt like skipping rope forever. Hello, Wayne! Hello, new table!
“When does it begin?” I said.
“Two weeks,” said Scott, who was on the other side. “We meet in Mujica’s room after school on Wednesdays.”
“He’s my homeroom teacher,” I said.
“Condolences,” said Wayne, laughing. “My brother had him. Did he tell you he expects big things from you this year?”
“He did!”
“Then you’re probably in his top five,” Scott said.
“What’s that?”
“The kids he counts on to score well, who bring up the average of the rest of the class,” Scott said.
“That’s okay,” I said. I didn’t mind if I was a top five. It was another sign that everything was going my way. I wouldn’t have to try to fit in — I’d be assigned a table, a team. . . . Da-da-da-dum! First day of school and the top five rule! Da-da-da-DUM-DUM-DUM!
Yahoo hoo hoo!
Cawoo hoo hoo!
I skip-stepped home with a hoo hoo hoo. An A-OKAY and a two-thumbs-up.
“Dad!” I yelled. He was pulling two boxes across the lawn. They fell to the ground as I jumped into his arms. “It was good today.” I scrunched myself as tight into him as I could. “It was really okay. Wayne Hoffman was nice to me. And I was asked to join a club. Amanda Pittock hasn’t changed, but I have new friends in the lunchroom.” My dad held me tight.
“The meatloaf sandwich was really great,” I said. “And I’m in Mujica’s top five. I’m going to help his class average go up.” I held my dad as hard as I could. “I did okay. I did okay.”
And then we sat down on the steps, and some tears came down, because all of the fear I’d been holding inside, the magic clothes and magic bracelet and all, the thousands of doors that I wasn’t sure would open, that I thought might be locked, all the worries weren’t there anymore.
“Paper tigers,” my dad said. “Thank goodness for paper tigers.”
“What are paper tigers?”
“Things you worry about that end up being harmless.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It was all paper tigers. It’s going to be okay.”
He held me there, stroking my head. It was so nice to know it was paper tigers. “What’s in those boxes?” I said.
Matylda, Bright and Tender Page 9