“A trampoline,” he said. “So you can jump to the sky!”
A trampoline! Never would I have thought that on the day a thousand doors opened, a day of paper tigers, I would also get a trampoline. The welcome waves were twelve feet tall now.
A trampoline. I saw them there, bouncing, all the boys from my new lunch table. Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Somersaulting circus tricks, laughing, clapping, having fun. A trampoline club. We could meet after school, not on Ecology Club days. We could all have Pringles and soar to the sky.
“I can hardly believe it!” I said. “A trampoleee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeene!”
“Let’s set it up,” said my dad. And we worked together then, laying out the ring first, connecting the metal pieces, my dad making sure each bolt was locked. Next were the springs, and as we rolled out the trampoline and started connecting it to the ring, it got harder and harder and harder. “The tighter the trampoline, the higher you can bounce,” he said. He was connecting the last ones himself. I couldn’t wait to bounce. Then he put on the spring protectors and he said I could jump, even though the safety net wasn’t up. It was nearly dinnertime.
I scrambled up. “Spot me,” I said to him.
“Ready,” he said.
“Have you ever seen me jump?” I said. I got going.
“To the stars!” I yelled. Split leap. Jump, jump, jump. “I’m a Top Five!” I hollered. Straddle jump. “Got new friends and got new clothes!” Tuck. “Had a new lunch and got a new club. Meatloaf’s good and Craisins are gone.”
I jumped some more, arms out to the universe. “Listen to me!” I said, looking at my dad. “There’s going to be one afternoon, every week. One afternoon when I won’t be home early. One afternoon when I’m in a new club!
“Now listen some more,” I said. “I HAVE NEW FRIENDS!” And I straddle-jumped again. “I’M GOING TO BE O —”
“KAY!” shouted my mom, home from work, grinning at me. I jumped off the trampoline and into her arms.
“I had a great day,” I said.
“Hooray,” she said, hugging me. “I’m going to make you dinner — whatever you —”
That’s when I remembered Matylda. I hadn’t fed her; I hadn’t said hello. I’d forgotten all about her. I darted inside, double-stepping up to my room. I’d forgotten my lizard. Left her alone all afternoon. She was curled in the corner. I’d forgotten her, too busy with my trampoline, too busy telling my dad about my new friends. “Matylda!” I said. “I’m sorry!” She kept her head down.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, no. Matylda, I don’t know how — how I could have done that. I didn’t even check your trap. I didn’t check for your triple f’s.” Here I was, with my overalls and new sandals, skin in my pocket, my meatloaf sandwich, my new trampoline — and I’d forgotten about her trap. I’d left her alone all day, come home and set up the trampoline.
I’d forgotten all about her . . . the welcome waves came crashing down.
I felt so small then.
Guy? Are you listening? Are you still there? I’m trying. But just when I get going, I fall behind again.
I ran to the fig trap. There was one juicy cricket there, sitting in the middle of the tiny seeds. I brought it upstairs. “It’s just one,” I said, “but it’s a fat one — not an über, but a nice one. Here it comes.” I watched the cricket’s descent. Matylda saw it land, but she didn’t stalk. Her eyes were blank, and she didn’t move at all; she’d been eating so well ever since we found her favorite flavor, but she wasn’t eating now. I’d let her down.
I had to make it up to her, never forget her again, no matter how many welcome waves I rode, new lunch-table friends and all. I didn’t want her to feel invisible.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” I said. “You don’t need Guy to eat and flourish.” His words had come out, just like that. They weren’t only his anymore.
I wore another new outfit to school the next day, my purple skort and my cherry top with the just-right sleeves. And even when I found out that Carter would be sitting right next to me, and that Mr. Mujica expected big things from him, too, I was thinking about making it up to Matylda. Even when I took out my brown paper bag at lunchtime with another new sandwich in it, this time turkey and cheese on potato bread with spicy brown mustard, I was thinking about her, at home, for six hours.
I had to make it up to her.
And when I told Wayne and Scott and Silas and Juan about the new trampoline, and how it had a fourteen-foot diameter and was called a JumperSportz, I wanted to make it up to Matylda. I was remembering not to forget her.
As soon as the last bell rang, I went to her — ran right home and up to my room, to my warrior girl. I picked her up and sat back on my bed, leaning against the pillow. “I was thinking about you all day,” I said. “I’ll never forget you again.” It seemed like the peek-through yellow spots on her skin got brighter as I spoke. A good sign, but her face from yesterday — like she felt she didn’t matter — I couldn’t erase it.
“You’re not nobody,” I said. “You’re what I have left.” I held her, brought her to my face, up close. I had to make it up to her.
Give her a present, the stealing girl said. That’s what you can do. Get the hamster ball, the red glittery one. Make it up that way. Give her a present.
The stealing girl was right. I could get her a present. “You want that hamster ball?” I said to her. “Of course you do, yes. I’m going to get it for you. I’m going to get you a present.” Her skin got even brighter. “You need exercise, don’t you? Yes, you do. Sitting in that vivarium all day. Gotta work out. That’s right. It’s no trouble,” I said. “I’ll get you the ball.”
I put Matylda back in her vivarium, and I emptied my backpack and put it on again. “I’ll return,” I told her. “With a present.”
“Dad,” I yelled downstairs, “I’ve got to run back to school — left my agenda there.”
“Okay, Suss. You have another banner day?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, whatever he meant. I had to get the glittery ball for Matylda. I walked to Total Pets, very fast, all the way along Kermit, turning right onto Elm. Going to get the ball.
“Hey,” said Mike as I walked through the door. “Welcome.”
“Hi,” I said.
“How’s your gecko? Still talking to her, I hope.”
“She’s not doing that great,” I said. “She needs something, just not sure what.”
“Have a look around,” Mike said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Okay,” I said. He went to greet a customer, and I went to aisle 3 — the red glittery ball was there, still new-looking, still shiny. That’s a good present, the stealing girl said. Put it in your pack. No one’s around. I unzipped the pack and dropped it in. That’s right, she said. I zipped up my pack.
The ball is safe, the stealing girl said. Move through the aisle and on to the next. Have a look around. Put your hands on this, put your hands on that — you’re making up your mind. Don’t rush now, and you won’t get caught. Pick up the Silent Spinner, have a look around. You’re doing it right. Don’t rush now. You’ve got the ball; it’s safely in your pack. Count to one hundred. Count to one hundred before you leave.
Turn the Silent Spinner — you might buy that. Take time to read the label. Would Matylda want that? Thirty-one, thirty-two. Would Matylda get dizzy? Forty-nine, fifty. Count to one hundred before you leave. Deep breath now, the ball is safe. Sixty-eight, seventy. Wait now. Count now. . . . Ninety-nine. One hundred. You can walk away. It’s all okay. Walk like your backpack’s empty. It’s okay, Mike’s nowhere to be seen. Probably getting fatties for somebody else.
Walk. Through the door and outside, walk by the carts. Walk. Through the parking lot, don’t look back. Keep going to the sidewalk and walk like your backpack’s empty. Keep moving.
Down Elm Street, keep walking. Left onto Kermit, keep walking. You’re safe, just you and the ball. It’s a glittery present. Matylda might love it. Open the door, close the door.
“I’M HOME!” I yelled.
“Hello!” Dad yelled back. He didn’t come upstairs. Everything was good now — he didn’t need to hover, didn’t need to lurk.
“Now,” I said to Matylda, unzipping my backpack, “do you feel like getting some exercise?” I held up the ball. Matylda looked curious, even if she wasn’t nodding. “Monty loves his hamster ball.” I took off the lid and put Matylda inside.
She looked nervous in there. She put one foot forward and the ball turned — Matylda adjusted her weight, got her balance. She started going forward again and peered up at me.
“Do you like it?” I said. “Is it a good present?” She was unsteady on her feet. “Do you want to roll in it?” She just sat there. “What’s wrong?” I said. “Not what you wanted?” She lay flat, and that told me everything. I hadn’t chosen the right accessory.
They have other stuff, the stealing girl said. All kinds of stuff. All kinds of presents. Get her something else.
I could try something else. You can go back! So much to choose from, so many presents. Yes, I’d go back.
“They have other stuff you know,” I said to Matylda. “What would you like?”
I had to get the right thing. What would I get? I didn’t know — had to get something to make it up to her. She didn’t like the ball. She wasn’t answering me.
“It’s okay,” I said as I put her back in her vivarium. “There’s more where that came from.” She scooted under the tree. “You really like this tree, don’t you?” I said. “You like the shade.” It seemed so — I had that right. She was under that tree, on her belly again — relieved to be out of the hamster ball.
I hid the sparkly ball in a pillowcase in the back of my closet, behind my sleeping bag. The worms were starting to smell. I’d forgotten about them — she was so happy with the triple f’s. I checked the waxworms; they were dying — hard, sour crescents. I opened my window and dumped them out. I popped the lid off the supers — their smell was awful, rotten, old and foul, and they didn’t even look like worms anymore; they were becoming beetles before my eyes. I dumped them out, too. Then I checked the mealies; they smelled bad. Threw them out. I had to get new worms.
“I’ll get you more stuff,” I said to Matylda. “And I’ll get you new worms. I’ll get you the best stuff they have.”
So many presents, so many worms. Get them all for her! Make it up that way. Show her who you are!
“I’ll make it up to you, Matylda with a y. Just you wait.”
Buy something small and take something big, the stealing girl said, waking me up the next morning. So many presents. Get her what she wants — make it up to her. As soon as the store opens! And I felt like it was meant to be, because it was Saturday and when we finished breakfast, my parents said they were going to Home Fixings to buy a new grill. Their timing was perfect, ’cause I knew it would take forever for them to agree on the best one.
I left the house right after them. Yes, buy something small and take something big, she said again. It’s easy! Retrace your steps, Kermit to Elm to Total Pets.
“I’m back,” I said to Mike, walking in.
“Hey,” he said. “Busy day here. Lizard okay?”
“I still haven’t found the perfect thing for her,” I said.
“Well, I’m here, even if I’m swamped. It can take a while. No two lizards are the same.” Mike was always helpful, never in a bad mood, even when he eye-rolled the fish customers.
Back to aisle 3, the stealing girl said, that’s where you go. I went to aisle 3.
Unzip the pack. No one around. Drop the Spinner in — hurry up now. Take a Climber Block — she might like that. Barrel Roller too.
I was moving quickly, keeping up.
Still room left. No one around. Hurry up now! Flying Saucer Wheel, put it in your pack. Faster faster faster — Igloo too! Nut Knot Nibbler? Yes yes yes. Hurry hurry hurry! You can take it all! YOU CAN TAKE IT — footsteps, footsteps — zip the pack, zip the pack, ZIP THE PACK NOW!
“Made up your mind?” said Mike.
Heart beating fast, but you’re okay. You’re all zipped up. Collect yourself and talk to Mike NOW!
“Mike,” I said. “I . . . I . . . I just don’t know! I want to make her happy and —”
“You have school today?” said Mike.
You don’t have school. Answer him now!
“It’s Saturday!”
“Right,” he said, “it’s just . . . just your back —”
“This?” I laughed. “I’ve always got this thing on.”
That’s right — distract him from the pack!
“What does Monty like?” I asked. “I mean, besides a hamster ball?”
“Let’s see,” Mike said. “I guess —” He paused, looking at me. “I guess he likes the Comfort Cupboard best.”
“How does it work?”
“I — I attach it to the wall of his viv,” Mike said. “And Monty does the rest. He even likes Cupboard peek-a-boo.”
Keep talking.
“Not sure Matylda would do that,” I said. “She mostly likes eating.”
“I — I just unloaded a new case of mealies,” Mike said. “Maybe —”
“Oh, man,” I said. “That’s it. Fresh mealies!”
Buy the mealies and leave! Get out of the store! GET OUT OF TOTAL PETS!
I took the mealies and paid at the checkout.
Walk. Walk ahead. Straight no look back keep walking past the carts through the parking lot don’t look —
“SUSSY!” yelled Mike, running toward me. “YOU FORGOT SOMETHING!” He had my tub of worms. I’d left them behind.
He knows, the stealing girl said. Get out get out get out. NOW!
“Look,” said Mike, handing me the worms. “I wasn’t sure what — I . . . I mean — I’m — I know about your friend!” he said. “I know what happened. And I’m — I’m sorry and . . . I’m worried . . . I know you took —”
Run run run — Mike knows what you’ve got! Run run run — Mike knows that you steal. Run run run — Mike knows what’s in your pack! Get out get out get out get out. Run run run — he sees who you are! Run run run — Matylda needs the stuff! Run run run run RUN WITH YOUR BACKPACK NOW!
I took off then, I ran and I ran and I ran, to get away from Mike. He knew what I’d done. I ran, out of breath, backpack clanking, blew through the door, and straight up to my room . . .
And there was Guy.
Sitting on my bed, in his orange polo shirt, his jeans, and his Converse. His Dying Day clothes. Looking at him like that, thinking about him demanding that I love her as he lay in his coffin, I understood.
I’d been wasting my time.
Because I could never love Matylda the way he did; I could never love her enough, feed her enough, buy her enough, or do enough. Seeing him there, I got it. I went to him then, stuffing one of my socks in his mouth; it was good to see him like that, silent sock-mouth Guy, a paper tiger, too. It was my turn to talk.
“These are the worms I got for Matylda today,” I told him. “The stealing girl helped me. I wanted Matylda to have fresh mealies — that’s what you would have done.” I opened the tub and poured them on Guy.
“And here is a Nut Knot Nibbler,” I said, showing it to Guy. “To see if she likes to chew.” I set it on the bed. “And this,” I said, taking out another toy, “this is a Climber Block. I hope she likes it.” Looked in my pack. “Here’s a Barrel Roller,” I said, holding it up. “See how it turns?” I spun it for him. “It’s meant for mice and hamsters, but she can use it, too.
“Oh, and this,” I said, my voice getting louder, “is an Igloo.” I brought it right up close. “I thought this might be fun in case she didn’t like the Barrel Roller. You know she can be finicky — she didn’t like the hamster ball I got her.
“And how could I forget this?” I asked, pulling the Silent Spinner out. I gave it a whirl. “So many possibilities,” I said. “Can you believe it? I got her all these things. . . . But you kno
w what? It’s not enough. It will never be enough. I finally get it.” I talked faster. “I went to Total Pets, and I listened to the stealing girl — I filled my backpack with things I didn’t pay for, for Matylda, for you, for that promise. . . .”
I hated him.
I hated Matylda, too.
And most of all, I hated myself as I yanked the screen off her vivarium and threw the Nut Knot Nibbler down on her. Hated myself when I threw the Silent Spinner, right on her tail, and the Climber Block next. Hated myself, throwing the Barrel Roller in, throwing the Igloo on top.
Hated myself more as I hurled the Flying Saucer Wheel, hard, like a Frisbee, right at the glass. Picked it up and hurled it again.
I looked around the room. Grabbed my comforter and covered Guy, laid myself on top of him. “I hate you,” I whispered.
And the spokes came rushing back, the same ones from my dream, and I couldn’t push them down — they came rushing and roaring through me, and they were bicycle spokes, shiny spinning steel, and they were coming to crush me crush me crush me again, and I left him there and I ran out the door, ran from the spokes if I didn’t run faster they’d crush me and I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran. . . .
I ran to Guy’s.
I burst in the door, slammed it behind me, and the spokes crashed against it, waves of crashing, as loud as the car on Witchett, the driver not prepared to stop, as loud as the crash that killed Guy. I could still hear it.
I tore up the stairs to his room.
“I HATE YOU!” I yelled. “I hate you,” I said, feeling the coils of his braided rug under my feet, the same rug we played on so many times, so many games, so many days — I looked around his room. . . .
It felt so familiar. Four pillows on his bed, as always. Yankees shirt, neatly folded, on the back of his chair. His mother must have done that. Paper airplanes. Skateboard, butterfly net. These things I knew. But in the middle, there was more.
The waffle iron. A dozen knitted hats I’d never seen, each with an orange base and lifesaver stripes, each the same. I picked one up, the yarn was so soft, fresh-baby soft, the same orange color as his Witchett Road shirt. I put it on my head.
Matylda, Bright and Tender Page 10