¡Hola, muchacho! said Josh.
Blabbyblaba, Louie said. Where’s my cereal?
Josh had already poured it. At your servicio, señor.
The voice on the tape was reviewing yesterday’s lesson. ¿Donde está la estaciÓn central de autobus? he repeated.
Wendy studied Josh’s face as he stood at the stove, holding the spatula like it was a microphone. His hair was going in all different directions. He hadn’t shaved yet, and he was wearing the same old green sweatpants and his Yankees T-shirt from last summer’s subway series. He wasn’t handsome like her father, and he didn’t have her father’s six-pack that made Amelia call him a hunk when she saw his picture. Josh had curly black hair and the kind of face you’d like to see if you had a problem.
Powdered sugar on yours, miss? he asked. He set down a pitcher of maple syrup in front of her. Heated. She had told herself she was going to cut calories today, but now she poured a pool of syrup on her plate.
Mom up yet?
She’s a little tired this morning, he said. I told her she should call in sick, but she said she’d just skip breakfast instead and take a later train.
She was supposed to fill in my field trip permission forms and the one about who to contact in an emergency, Wendy told him. My homeroom teacher said not to leave it to the last day. Also, I wanted to talk to her about my clarinet. They gave me a really crummy rental. I was thinking maybe we could buy one instead.
It wasn’t the permission forms that were making the sharp sound in her voice, she knew, or the clarinet, either. She was thinking about the argument they’d had last night about her going to California. She wanted to visit her father. Her mother had said, That’s crazy. School just started.
You never let me do anything, Wendy had told her. As usual, Josh tried to make peace.
We’ll talk about the clarinet tonight, he said. Meanwhile, I’ll sign the forms. Let your mom have an extra ten minutes’ sleep.
It’s supposed to be filled out by a parent, Wendy told him.
For a second, Josh got a look on his face that reminded her of Louie when he stood at the bus with her that first morning she went off to junior high.
What do you say we give it a try this once, he said, reaching for the form. Father or no father, if you get injured in some knock-down-drag-out volleyball game, I’m probably the one who’ll come running down to school to get you.
Watching Josh as he took out the jar of raisins, arranging them on Louie’s plate in the shape of a man, Wendy felt crummy for saying what she had. Do you have any idea how lucky we are to have someone like Josh in our life? her mom said to her, times when Wendy treated him the way she knew she had just now. Do you even remember what it was like before he came along? Do you think Garrett would ever put himself out for you the way Josh does?
No.
I don’t know why I say the mean things I do, she told Amelia. My parents are just getting on my nerves so much lately. Sometimes these horrible remarks ooze out of me.
Maybe you’re possessed, Amelia said. We could perform an exorcism. Amelia had seen a video recently where that happened to a girl, and when they finally held the exorcism ceremony, all this horrible green vomit squirted out of her mouth and her head swiveled around like a cartoon character.
On TV, the weatherman was pointing to a map of New York and saying it looked like perfect weather clear through the weekend. Better grab yourself one last dose of summer, folks. No excuse not to get out and vote today.
Josh had been making her a sandwich. Now he was packing an apple in her lunch bag.
You got Macintosh, she said. I like Granny Smith, remember?
I didn’t want raisins, Louie told Josh. I wanted chocolate chips.
We don’t have chocolate for breakfast, Lou-man, Josh told him. As for you, Miss Picky, the Granny Smiths at the market weren’t any good.
But Sissy gets hot chocolate, Louie said. That’s chocolate. Just not in the shape of a chip.
Tell you what, son, Josh said. You eat the raisins, and tonight we’ll make ourselves some chocolate-chip cookies. Maybe you can bring in a few extra on Thursday for you know what.
I want Mama to come, too, when I go to preschool, said Louie.
Mama wouldn’t miss it, Josh said. That’s why she decided not to take the day off today. So she could be there with you Thursday.
Back when her mother first introduced her to Josh, she meant to hate him. She was only seven then. She’d seen a video at Amelia’s house around that time, called Parent Trap, where a couple of twins whose parents were divorced decided to get them back together, and it worked. Even though Wendy didn’t have a twin like the girls in the movie, that was her plan.
She was mean to him that first night at the restaurant. She didn’t order anything except water, even though sushi was her favorite. I was just wondering, Josh said to her as she sat there, not even touching the soybeans that she loved, what is your opinion of miniature golf?
She had never been miniature golfing but she always wanted to. There was a course called Dreamland they sometimes passed on their way to Fire Island that her mom said they’d stop at someday, but they never had. Josh took them there, and after that, when Wendy’s mother said it wasn’t really her type of activity, it got to be something he and Wendy did, on Saturday afternoons when her mom and Kate went to yoga.
They were at Dreamland when he told her about wanting to get married to her mom. I could understand if you aren’t too thrilled, he said. I know you’ve got a dad, and it’s understandable that you’d like it a whole lot better if he was with your mother instead of me. But I promise I’ll try hard to make her happy. And I’ll teach you every single thing you ever wanted to know about jazz.
Which was nothing.
She was the flower girl. All that day, she kept thinking about the Parent Trap video and waiting for her real father to come crashing in and say something like Janet, it was all a terrible mistake. Come back to me. What are you doing hanging around with this chubby guy with hair on his shoulders and love handles, when you could be with me?
Even after it was all over, and Josh’s mom was hugging her, and she had on so much perfume Wendy could hardly breathe, and saying how she’d always wished she had a granddaughter—even then, Wendy kept expecting something to happen that would make him disappear. But the next thing she knew, Josh was moving his clothes into her mother’s room and building a bunch of shelves for his collection of old jazz LPs. Sometimes at night, she could hear them having sex.
Josh was a stand-up bass player. He worked weekends mostly, usually Friday and Saturday nights, and sometimes he’d get hired to play at a wedding, but he was usually home during the day, except when he gave lessons. He loved to cook, and instead of take-out Chinese and pizza, he made them things like eggplant parmigiana and roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes.
One day he found a box of Duncan Hines brownie mix in their cupboard. He took it into the living room, where Wendy and her mother were watching a video of The Music Man.
Janet, he said in a voice that was so serious, Wendy actually worried he was mad. She’d never heard him get mad before. She was surprised at how scary it was, hearing someone who’s always nice to you sound angry all of a sudden. Not like her father, who she could remember sounding mad, even though she’d been so little when he left.
Now Josh was holding the box of Duncan Hines in front of her mother, like evidence. I hope and pray this is the last time an item like this ever makes its way into our kitchen. Just tell me it was temporary insanity.
I bought that a long time ago, her mother said. I didn’t think I’d ever know anyone who could make us brownies from scratch. I swear I’ll never in my whole life buy another box of Duncan Hines.
Then Wendy knew it was a joke, because the look on her mother’s face was like some character in a soap opera whose husband just found out she was in love with someone else.
When she said that, he put his arms around her and made a sound l
ike a bear in the forest—a low, happy growling noise, as if he’d just found a tree stump full of the sweetest honey deep in the underbrush. Something about the way the two of them looked at each other like that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the world.
It was Josh, not her mother, who seemed to know Wendy was feeling that way, because he looked up at her then.
Knowing your mother’s talents in the kitchen, he said, I can tell the only hope I’ll ever have of handing down my secret time-tested brownie recipe is if I teach it to you.
Wendy and Josh melted the chocolate over the double boiler. You melted the butter in with the chocolate. Butter, never margarine, he told her. He showed her how to sift flour and beat the eggs with the sugar till they made a golden-colored froth, and he let her be the one to pour the melted chocolate mixture into the eggs, very slowly, so at first it was part dark brown, part creamy yellow swirls, until gradually the chocolate was all mixed in. Then the flour.
Now for the most important part, he said.
Putting it in the oven?
Oh my God, he said. You have even more to learn than I thought.
He reached for a package of pecans and poured a bunch into a plastic sandwich bag. He took out his big wooden rolling pin.
Josh didn’t come with much stuff when he moved in with them. A box of clothes, his string bass, a picture of himself with his sister and his parents when he was around nine, and a stuffed rabbit, also from when he was little. Not a whole lot else. But the rolling pin was his. Wendy’s mom never owned one before.
Let’s say there’s this boy in your class who keeps getting on your nerves, making fart sounds when the teacher isn’t looking, he said. Do you know anyone like that?
The thing was, she did.
Or some girl who tells you she isn’t going to invite you to her birthday party, and even though she’s a major jerk, you really wanted to go because everyone else in your class was going to be there.
This also had happened.
Here’s what you do about it, he said. He held the rolling pin over the bag of pecans. He smashed it down with surprising force on the bag of nuts. Not so hard the bag broke. Just hard enough to crush the nuts.
That one’s for all the boys who make fart sounds, he said. This one’s for snobby girls who won’t invite you to their dumb party.
Wendy watched him for a minute. Then he handed her the rolling pin. Your turn, he said. It took her a second to get it.
Ms. Kempner, my gym teacher, she said. Who never picks me for dodge-ball. Wendy smashed the rolling pin down on the nuts.
People who are cruel to animals, she said. People who litter. People who sit down on the seats on the bus that are supposed to go to handicapped people and senior citizens. Mom’s boss, that makes her stay late all the time. People who give you dirty looks when you go into a store with breakable things, just because you’re a kid.
The nuts were crushed enough by this time, but the two of them kept thinking up more reasons to bang the rolling pin.
What’s going on in there, you two? asked her mother.
It’s not something you’d understand, Jan, he told her. It’s one of those things only brownie bakers appreciate.
In the kitchen now, Josh was saying the days of the week in Spanish, but instead of saying them, he was singing, like some performer on one of his old jazz albums. He had Louie’s spoon in one hand and he was beating out a rhythm on the counter.
Wendy wanted another piece of French toast, but she didn’t let herself reach for it. She poured herself a glass of water. Nice-looking outfit, he said when he finally sat down with his coffee. That’s one of the new ones you and your mom got at Macy’s, right?
She had changed three times this morning. In the end, what she put on was her old standby from last year, a denim skirt and a sweater. Standing in front of the mirror, she had decided she would give up bread, bagels, and granola bars until she lost ten pounds. There were so many skinny girls in her class now. She weighed 111 pounds, the heaviest she’d ever been.
I bet you’re the prettiest one at your whole school, said Louie, patting her hair.
I definitely am not, she told him. Anyway, how would you know? You’ve never even been to my school.
I have superpowers.
She looked at the clock—Felix the cat, with a tail that swung in time with the seconds. Oh God, it’s five past seven, she said.
Why don’t you stick your head in the bedroom and say good-bye to your mom, Josh said.
I’m late already, she told him. She picked up her backpack and her clarinet case.
I’m going over to Amelia’s after school. Tell Mom to wear the new dress, she called from the stairs.
Wendy had been best friends with Amelia since first grade. In third grade, they’d tied their desks together, until the teacher made them cut the string. They had invented a language nobody else understood. Later they made up all kinds of other things, too. Like saying Bloody Mary ten times very fast for good luck and daring each other to give the cutest boy on their subway train a blue M&M right before they got off at their stop. Mostly, it was Amelia who thought up the stuff and Wendy who went along with it, like when she propped up a picture of Josh’s father, who was dead, and they stared at it for twenty minutes without taking their eyes off one time. Wait and see, his lips are going to move, she said, and after a long time, Wendy said, Oh my God, you’re actually right.
Last year when Amelia’s family got their new apartment in Brooklyn Heights, it felt like the worst thing that ever happened to Wendy.
This morning Wendy rode alone on the bus, as usual, listening to her Walkman. Today the CD was Sade—after Madonna, her favorite. Even though Sade sang a lot about having her heart broken by someone—and Wendy had never had that happen to her—it seemed to her Sade was the kind of person who would understand, even if she didn’t fully understand it herself, how it was she could be feeling so confused and unhappy so much of the time, even as everyone around her thought things were going fine. All you had to do was look at Sade’s beautiful, mysterious face to believe she knew what she was talking about when she sang about the king of sorrow. Even the comfort of a stone would be a gain. How desolate was that?
Wendy looked out the window of the bus, at the men with their briefcases, hurrying down the street to the subway, the women in their business suits and sneakers, a young couple leaning against a phone booth, kissing, teenagers on their way to school, or not. When she spotted a girl close to her age, she always calculated if the girl was thinner or fatter than her. The other thing that had her worried was the uneven way she was developing, so she was still almost totally flat on her right side and rounding out, as even Louie had noticed, on her left. She kept her notebook tight against her chest most of the day for that reason, but today was her first gym class of eighth grade, and already she was trying to figure out a way to change in the girls’ bathroom so no one would see.
I would give anything if I could just get out of gym, she said, but only inside her head.
This morning the halls at her school were covered with posters—elections for class officers. Back in elementary school, she knew all the names, but this school was so much bigger. Even though it was just the second week, she already had her routine down. She ate with Amelia and sometimes a boy named Seth, whose voice hadn’t changed. She knew the names of people in her classes but doubted many of them knew hers. All around her, people called out to one another, but except for one time when another clarinet player, who sat next to her in band, asked to borrow a reed, hardly anyone except Amelia and Seth had spoken to her so far this year.
At eight-thirty, the homeroom bell rang. Some people lingered in the hall till the last possible minute, but Wendy was sitting at her desk promptly as usual when the teacher came in.
Who’s got their permission slips and health forms? she asked. Besides Wendy, there was only one other girl.
The announcements came on. This month’s announcer was a
girl named Robbie from Wendy’s history class. When she was picked to start off the year as guest announcer, she said how perfect was that, since she was going to be an anchorwoman when she grew up.
Okay, guys, said Robbie. Get out your notebooks and write down these dates. Be sure to bring wads of cash to school Friday for the pep squad bake sale. But most important, mark down the night of October twenty-eighth for the absolute best ever Halloween dance, sponsored by the eighth grade. Don’t leave it to the last minute to ask someone special to go with you, either. Hint, hint.
Wendy didn’t write down the dates. She and Amelia might rent a couple of scary movies that night and color their hair black. Either that or she’d take Louie trick-or-treating around the neighborhood like last year.
She looked out the window. It was a perfect day. She wished she could be outside on her bike. She would put her colored pencils in her backpack and go to Prospect Park and spend the whole day drawing Japanese animation storyboards. She’d go to Ronnie’s Pets and imagine she got to pick one of the puppies. She’d go into the city to the Metropolitan Museum—never mind that her mother said she was too young to ride the subway alone—and sit in the room with the Tiffany glass windows and just think.
She’d take a cab to the airport and stow away in a plane to California. And when she got there, she’d call up her dad and say, Surprise, I’m here, and he would come to meet her with this huge bag of almonds from his own personal almond tree in his yard and never mention what her mother had said that one time: Not because you’ve got a problem but just to let you know, there’s twenty calories in every one of those.
In the seat next to her, Buddy Campion, one of the most visible candidates for eighth grade class president, was working on a poster. Wendy’s homeroom teacher was doing the annual back-to-school demonstration on the correct method for covering your books with brown paper bags.
The Usual Rules Page 2