Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  “You came by to see the prisoner?” he says, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “My suspension is over, Dad,” says Heather. “I’m free.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” says her father. “I was getting tired of sliding food under the door. And the noise of that tin cup rattling the bars.” I’m happy to see Heather laugh. Her father goes over to the refrigerator. He takes out a can of Mountain Dew, which fits perfectly with the ponytail and flannel.

  “Mom called,” says Heather. Her dad flips the top of the can, but he doesn’t move.

  “And?”

  “She’s sending me a sarong.”

  “A sarong?”

  “It’s a dress,” I say. “With flowers.” After I say it, I realize that he probably already knew that.

  “She says she’s in love with Hawaii,” says Heather.

  Heather’s dad has that same sad look that Heather had before. I feel like it’s up to me to get things going again. I can’t think of anything else, so I blurt out, “Are you making progress with the bronze birch borer beetles over at Cloverdale?” Unlike things I’m going to be quizzed on, certain phrases stick in my brain and never leave.

  Heather’s dad gives a surprised laugh. “How did you know about that?”

  “Heather told me. She said you could get rid of them. She said you’re an expert.”

  “She did?” He smiles and moves back behind Heather’s chair. “Well, I’d say we have them on the run. We’re going to lose a couple of trees. We were too late to save all of them. But I think most will come back healthy in the spring. You can come over to the course sometime and I’ll show you.”

  “Great,” I say, although I’m not sure I want to go to a golf club where Charlie is a member.

  “Well,” says Heather’s dad, “I have some paperwork to do. Nice meeting you, Joseph.” He reaches across the table and we shake hands. His palm is rough from working and cold from the soda can. He gives me the kind of wink I wish I could master. When I practice in the mirror, I just look like I have something in my eye. He kisses Heather on the head, then touches his nose and pulls on his ear before heading down the hall.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Oh. Baseball signals. He coached my team in Cherryfield. I liked that one. It doesn’t mean anything. You just do it to make the other team nervous.”

  It’s really time for me to get home, but first I tell Heather about the French quiz on Tuesday. It’s about the verb “to be,” which is so confusing it makes me wonder if French people just don’t want anybody else speaking their language.

  “Want to study for it?” Heather asks. “I can come to your house Monday, after practice.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound like I have friends over all the time. I take a last gulp of hot chocolate, tipping the cup way back to hide my smile. It’s the best part, all thick and sweet and muddy.

  That night when I get into bed, I think about how unfair it is that Heather’s mom isn’t here. Maybe the rules change when you grow up. Maybe there are times when you can quit, for a while at least. But I don’t think you should be allowed to quit on people. And nobody should be allowed to quit on Heather.

  It’s nice and warm under the covers. It feels good, being home, listening to the rain outside. My muscles ache, from the meet, from practice, from my run home from Heather’s. I didn’t mean to run. It started as a walk, but soon I was going faster. I was thinking about what Heather told her dad, “She says she’s in love with Hawaii,” and I dug my sneakers harder into the dirt. I heard Charlie’s voice, “My mom loves me a lot,” and I kicked at the stones by the road. I pushed against the ground and my thighs clenched and my arms pumped. It hurt, but it also felt good, in a way I’ve never felt before.

  My mom comes in and sits on the bed next to me. I can’t imagine her not here with me and my dad. If she wants to go to Thailand, she doesn’t say so. There must be times when things aren’t what she expected, when I’m not what she expected, but if there are, she’s never let me know.

  My arm wants to hug her, but I don’t let it because she’d get all worried, with me suddenly hugging her like a four-year-old. So I just sort of stiffen my arm muscle around her and bury my face in the pillow, sort of like a silent hug. I don’t think she notices anything different from usual.

  But when she turns out the light and kisses the top of my head, I say, “Mom? Do you and Dad want to see me run?”

  She stops in the doorway and says, “Of course we do!”

  “The last meet is at Lakeview. It’s the league championship. If you want to come, it’s okay.”

  She comes back and sits on my bed and gently pushes the hair back off my forehead. “You sure we won’t make you too nervous? You won’t get distracted and run into a tree?”

  I know she’s joking, but that is actually a possibility.

  “I’ll try not to,” I say.

  “Then we’ll be there.”

  “And Mom,” I add, “remember that girl I told you about? The one who beat Charlie in soccer that day? Her name is Heather. Can you cheer for her, too?”

  Her hand pauses on top of my head, just for a second. I can feel her curiosity glowing through the darkness.

  “She’s new, and her mom is away,” I explain.

  I hear her take a breath, like she’s about to ask something else, but then she doesn’t. She just kisses me again and says, “Of course. Just point her out to me.”

  “Oh, I won’t have to,” I say. “You’ll know. She’ll be the fastest one there.”

  Chapter 22

  I haven’t had very good luck being friends. When I was little, my parents made play dates for me, but my mom had to drive me because I cried if somebody else’s mom picked me up. At Jayden Probst’s house, the babysitter gave us a snack called ants on a log without telling me that they weren’t real ants. I hid in the bathroom until she promised they were gone. And Liam McFarrin wouldn’t let me use any of his new crayons. He gave me a separate box and they were all broken, with about eight blues and no reds at all.

  By the time I was seven or eight, school days seemed to last forever. Play dates felt like more homework—one more thing that always came out wrong. I hated going to some kid’s house just so he could cream me at video games or trounce me at baseball.

  But who knows? Maybe things have changed.

  I try to picture my house the way Heather will see it when she comes over: the pictures of my family, my mother’s little Post-it note reminders all over the refrigerator.

  And Grandpa.

  I love Grandpa, but what if he says something embarrassing? What if he says I’m afraid of lima beans or tells her about the time I ran away from Mr. Peanut in the mall? What if he calls me Superhero or asks her how she got so tall?

  So, on Monday morning, I decide to head him off at the pass. “Grandpa,” I say in my most casual voice, “a friend of mine is coming over after school to study with me. She’s in my French class.”

  His eyebrows go up and he says, “A girlfriend?” Just what I was afraid of.

  “No,” I answer. I try to sound firm and not amused. “She’s just someone in my French class.”

  “She’s smart?” he asks.

  I nod. “Especially in French. And she’s on the cross country team. She’s a really good runner.”

  “So she likes you,” says Grandpa.

  “She doesn’t like me,” I answer with what even I know is a pathetic whine.

  “I don’t mean kissy-kissy likes you. I just mean, people have choices. She could tease you, she could ignore you, but instead she’s coming over. She wouldn’t do that if she hated you.”

  “She’s just nice, that’s all,” I say. This whole line of questioning isn’t territory I want to explore, so I add, “Anyway, it’s no big deal,” and “Not important.” Then I throw in, “Nothing to worry about,” and finally, “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  So, after practice, when we come in the back do
or, I’m hoping Grandpa has gone out for a walk or taken up bowling or bird-watching. But no, he’s sitting in the kitchen with his back to us. His laptop is on the table in front of him.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” I say.

  “Be right with you, Superhero.”

  I try not to blush at the nickname and say quickly, “Uh, Grandpa? This is Heather.”

  Heather looks especially tall in our kitchen, and I think she feels it, too, because she’s ducking her head just a little. When Grandpa turns around, she gives a shy little wave.

  “Heather,” he says, with a charm that surprises me. “What a wonderful name.”

  Heather shrugs. “Not everybody thinks so.”

  “Why not?” asks Grandpa. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  I can’t believe he says something so embarrassing, but Heather actually smiles. Maybe I’ve underestimated Grandpa. Or maybe you just get away with stuff like that when you’re seventy-nine.

  “It’s just that ‘Heather’ sounds all breathy and wispy. People think of that song ‘The Heather on the Hill,’ and they think it’s some dainty little flower that grows on a hillside. Then they look at me and I’m . . .” She holds out her arms and sticks out one leg, to demonstrate just how un-wispy and un-dainty she is.

  “Well,” says Grandpa, and he moves his mouth the way he does sometimes, like he’s tasting the words before he says them, “besides having a pretty purple flower, heather is a tough plant. It grows where practically everything else gives up, and comes back stronger every year.”

  “Yes!” cries Heather. She pulls out a chair and sits down next to Grandpa. “Exactly! It grows in Scotland, on the moors. And in Alaska. It’s not delicate at all!”

  “So, it’s a perfect name, then,” says Grandpa. “Joseph tells me you’re a good runner. Right, Joseph?”

  Heather looks at me like she’s forgotten I’m here. She doesn’t seem unpleasantly surprised, just surprised.

  “I guess,” she says. “I like running. I also want to throw shot put in winter and discus in spring.”

  “Heather told me about this girl,” I break in. “She won a gold medal in discus.”

  “Stephanie Brown Trafton,” says Heather. “Beijing Olympics—”

  “Two thousand and eight,” I finish, because I remember that’s what Heather told me.

  “You don’t say,” says Grandpa. “Is discus the flat one or the round one?”

  “The flat one. It’s like a heavy Frisbee. Shot put is like throwing a cannonball.”

  “Maybe you can get Joseph to try that.” They both look at me and start laughing. Not at me, but . . . well, at me.

  “No,” says Heather, now perfectly serious. “Joseph is going to run distance. Indoor track in winter, outdoor in spring.”

  I am?

  While I’m processing that little detail, Heather points to Grandpa’s laptop. “What are you doing?” she asks him. She scooches her chair over, like they’re old friends.

  “I was just updating my Vintage Cupid profile,” says Grandpa.

  That gets my attention. “Your what?” I ask.

  “Vintage Cupid.”

  “Is it like a dating site?” I say.

  “It’s exactly a dating site.” I must look shocked. “What, you think I should just be playing bingo? Sitting around with the other old men kvetching and grepsing?”

  Heather looks at me for an explanation and I look at Grandpa.

  “After you eat, you sit around, kvetching.” He waves his hand in circles, trying to find the right word. “Grousing. Complaining. And grepsing.” He demonstrates with a long, exaggerated burp.

  I now want to hide under the table or maybe in the broom closet, but Heather lets out a big laugh.

  Then she points to the screen and asks, “Have you found anybody nice?”

  Grandpa shrugs. Not the up-and-right-back-down kind of shrug, the kind where his shoulders stay up there. “I’m sure they’re all nice ladies,” he says. “But Sophie and I were married for fifty-three years.” Now his shoulders drop and he looks at Heather. “You know the phrase ‘my better half’? Well, Sophie was at least three quarters. Maybe seven eighths. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any of me left at all.”

  Heather reaches over and pats Grandpa on the arm. “I think there’s plenty of you left,” she says. “More than most people I know.”

  Grandpa puts his hand on Heather’s, and for a second I’m afraid Heather is going to add her other hand to the pile, too, but thank goodness she doesn’t.

  “Here,” says Grandpa, turning the laptop toward us. “I’m going to take a nap. Do your French, then look for yourself. Tell me what you think.” He takes a few steps and turns back. “But no golf. No long walks on the beach. They all want long walks. On the beach, in the woods, in the rain. Who wants to walk when it’s raining outside? I want to see a movie, go to an opera. Not run a marathon. I’ll leave that to you two.” He turns to go. “And skip the ones who say they’re seventy-nine,” he adds.

  “But, Grandpa, you’re seventy-nine,” I say.

  “Trust me. The ones who put seventy-nine, they’re eighty-five if they’re a day.”

  “But what if somebody really is seventy-nine?” asks Heather.

  “I’ll wait until she’s eighty,” says Grandpa.

  When Grandpa’s gone, we take out our worksheets and start on French. Heather tries to explain the different ways of saying “to be.” The first one is être, but saying it makes me choke. Then we go over the rest, including three different ways to say “are,” and two “you”s.

  After about half an hour, my head is spinning with “je suis” and “tu es” and “nous sommes,” so it seems like the right time to take a look at Grandpa’s computer. There are lots of pictures of smiling ladies. The ages they put down range from sixty to eighty-five, but nobody looks that old. I wonder if maybe the pictures are from a long time ago.

  I point to a chubby lady holding a platter of what look like rugelach—a kind of pastry my grandma used to make. “She looks nice.”

  “Nope, look. Seventy-nine,” says Heather. “How about her?” She clicks on a skinny woman with bright red hair.

  “No,” I say. “Golf.”

  We scroll through a few more listings. Grandpa’s right. There are lots of old ladies who want to walk on the beach. And who love the rain. And lots of seventy-nine-year-olds.

  Finally, we get to one picture of a white-haired lady sitting in a big chair reading a book. It’s David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens. She looks familiar. I lean in closer and suddenly I realize why.

  “Isn’t that . . .” starts Heather.

  “Mrs. Fishbein,” I say.

  “Mrs. Fishbein, the school librarian?”

  I nod.

  “Good books, movies, and music,” Heather reads out loud. “Hot chocolate by a fire. Romantic moonlit nights . . .”

  I slam the laptop shut before she can read any more. “Ew.”

  “But she’s nice, isn’t she?” Heather asks.

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Just because she’s a teacher doesn’t mean she doesn’t get lonely,” says Heather.

  I think about those times I’ve seen Mrs. Fishbein leaving late, taking the bus home. “But Mrs. Fishbein hates computers,” I say. “What’s she doing on Vintage Cupid?”

  “Maybe she hates being alone more than she hates computers.”

  Heather may be right, but I’m not at all ready for the idea of her and Grandpa and a moonlit night.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I don’t think my grandpa would like her. She’s really old-fashioned. She doesn’t like anything new.”

  I hear the toilet flush and Grandpa rustling around. This must have been one of his quick naps. He comes into the kitchen and shakes a finger at the notepad sitting in front of me on the kitchen table, like it’s done something wrong. “Joseph, write down, ‘bar of soap.’ Bar of soap. Some smartypants decided to bottle up the slime from a soap dish and everybody thinks
it’s wonderful, just because it’s something new. I want a regular old bar of soap.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. She’s too old-fashioned. They’d just hate each other,” Heather says, drumming her fingers on the laptop and looking at me like I’m the dumbest person in the world.

  I write it down, making the letters of BAR extra large and underlining it. Grandpa looks over my shoulder to see that I’ve gotten it right.

  “Well, I will retire to the den. It was a pleasure meeting you, Heather,” Grandpa says, giving a little bow. “I hope I see you again soon.”

  “Maybe at the league meet. Are you coming?” Grandpa looks at me and then Heather says, “Joseph, you didn’t invite your grandfather to the meet?”

  “I meant to.” Heather looks at me like I’m somebody’s annoying little brother. “You should come, Grandpa. I’d like you to,” I say.

  “Then, I’ll be there,” says Grandpa.

  Heather waves to Grandpa as he heads into the den. We hear some opera start up. I think it’s in Italian. It doesn’t sound any easier than French.

  Heather quizzes me a few more times on those “to be” words. Then she looks at her watch. It’s time for her to go home. She gathers up her stuff, but before she leaves, she stands in the doorway, glancing around the kitchen. “I like your grandpa. You’re lucky,” she says, and I think she’s talking about more than Grandpa. “See you tomorrow.”

  I walk with her to the sidewalk and then watch her take long, leggy strides down the block. When she turns the corner, I go back inside and into the den, where Grandpa is settled in the recliner. I take my usual place on the chair arm.

  “You know, I miss Grandma, too,” I say. When I say it, I realize how much I really do miss her—her hugs, and her plum cake, and the way she decorated my birthday cards with little hearts and flowers. I even miss her off-key singing. I feel my eyes start to tear up.

  “She was a grand lady,” says Grandpa. “We met in third grade, you know.”

  “Really?” I didn’t know that. Something else I never asked about.

  “We were in Mrs. Offerman’s class, and your grandma was sitting next to me. Someone the year before had ripped a page out of my math book. So, when Mrs. Offerman asked me the answer to question eight, I said I didn’t have a question eight. She didn’t believe me.”