One for the Murphys

by Lynda Mullaly Hunt

  “Carley, I’m sorry. Did I do something?”

  “You know, maybe it’s not about you… ,” I say. She looks hurt, and I’m happy the pity look is gone. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you. Why don’t you… go home and iron something?”

  Her back straightens. “You have no right to speak to me that way.”

  “I only told you to iron something. It’s probably your favorite thing to do, right?” I hate myself.

  A busboy, who looks pretty young to be working here, comes by wearing an apron. He places a basket of rolls on the table. “Can I start you off with water?”

  I turn to him. “No, but can you bring me my mother?”

  He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

  Mrs. Murphy saves him. “I’m sorry. We’ll need just another minute.”

  I look at the kid. “Do you have unlimited rolls here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good,” I say as I grab the basket of rolls and, one by one, stuff them down the side of the booth, wedging them between the cushion and the wall.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Murphy asks.

  “These aren’t warm enough. I want more.” I want to see her reaction, see her go berserk.

  I read the kid’s name tag. I say, “Rainer? That’s your name? Do you have a brother named Thunder?”

  He looks at me like I’m a jerk. He’s probably right. When our waiter comes over to join him, Mrs. Murphy glares. “Carley, do you know what you want?”

  My stomach screws into a knot. “I told you… what I want.”

  She smooths out the napkin already on her lap. “Well, how about something on the menu?” Mrs. Murphy’s eyes bore through me.

  I can’t look at her, so I look over at Rainer. I can say what I want to him without consequences. Things I want to say to her but can’t. “Do you have parents on the menu?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, annoyed.

  “I want my own mother back. What’s so hard to understand?” My body is electric.

  “Do you want to order or not?” the waiter asks, also annoyed.

  “Did you know that ‘tips’ spelled backwards is ‘spit’? You know, if you bring me a bowl…”

  “Carley,” Mrs. Murphy says. “Can we please just end this? What do you want to eat?”

  I lean forward and stare her in the eye. “Bread and water. Like in prison.”

  Her long drawn-out sigh screams disapproval.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Mrs. Murphy says. “We’ll just have two grilled chicken sandwiches and two orders of fries.” The waiter scribbles it down and they both leave.

  I have to give Perky Murphy credit for ordering. I figured she would have left with her coat over her head by now. What will it take to get her to just give up? I call to Rainer, who, unbelievably, turns around to look at me. “Oh, Rainer… Don’t forget the rolls, will you.” I wink.

  “Carley,” Mrs. Murphy says, and she reaches across the table to me. I study her hand. Freckles. Neat fingernails. Why does she think that I will touch her? What planet has she beamed down from? I mean, reach out to her? I’d sooner kick a beehive.

  “I want to help you.”

  Liar.

  I look at her. “Why don’t you just send me back?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  I feel like if I move, I’m going to totally lose it. Like it would start as a little stream and end up as a raging river. So I don’t move. The sandwiches come. I don’t move. She takes two bites. I don’t move. She asks the waiter for a box, pays the check, and stands, telling me it’s time to go.

  She reaches for me. And I jump.

  “I’m sorry, Carley.” She sighs and steps back. “Why don’t we get going?”

  She’s apologizing to me?

  I follow her out. Rainer waves like a doofus, and I blow him a kiss. Mrs. Murphy shakes her head but lets it go.

  We get into the car. “Are you okay, Carley?”

  “I’m fine.” I watch a movie of myself running.

  Running and running and running.

  “I don’t think you’re okay,” she replies.

  “I told you not to play psychologist with me.” I count things on the dashboard.

  “It’s okay to cry, Carley. You have good reasons. I can see you’re filled right up to the top with it.”

  How can she see that? “I… never cry. What’s the point? It’s just weak.”

  “I know things are hard for you, but I think the release would make you feel better. You know, like shaking a Coke bottle. The pressure builds up.”

  “Don’t play science professor with me either,” I tell her.

  “People are meant to cry,” she says. “It’s human nature and it might do you some good.”

  “What about penguins?”

  “I don’t think penguins cry.”

  I want to laugh at her. “No, but they have wings.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Yeah. Look, penguins have wings but they don’t fly. Nobody gets ticked at them. Hey…” I look her in the eye. “Why don’t we go down to Antarctica and shove some poor unsuspecting penguin into a cannon. Tell him that because nature gave him wings, he’s meant to fly. We’ll launch the sucker, and when he lands in a broken, mangled heap… we’ll ask Mr. Penguin if he’s better off. If it’s done him some good. What do ya say?” I pump two fists. “Are ya with me?”

  She starts the car.

  CHAPTER 11

  High Tops Girl from the Planet Oblivion

  After getting back from shopping, Mrs. Murphy does not argue when I tell her I’m going to bed. I crawl under the cold covers and think of the warmth of Vegas. How the sky is never dark, even at night. How I used to live there with my mother, and it was my home. How I only have one full day left before I have to go to school.

  The next day is Sunday, and I spend most of it with my nose in a book entitled Samurai Shortstop. It’s Daniel’s and it’s about baseball, but the twerp refuses to read it. It’s actually pretty good.

  Jack Murphy comes home after lunch. He does not say hello to me even though I’m standing right there when he comes in. Mrs. Murphy’s face screws into worry. She puts her dish towel down and follows him upstairs. I figure this is more interesting than TV.

  I stand at the bottom of the stairs and hear the deep sandpapery voice of Mr. Murphy—even rougher than usual.

  “Julie. I told you this would be a mistake.”

  “We don’t know that, Jack. We hardly know her at this point.”

  Oh my God. They’re fighting about me?

  “So are you going to tell me what happened last night?” he asks. “You came to bed crying and wouldn’t tell me why. I know she did something.”

  I made her cry?

  “And then… then,” he continues, “I open the checkbook this morning to pay the bills, and I see you’ve spent a fortune on her. What were you thinking, Julie?”

  She fires back. “It’s important for a girl that age to have the right clothes. I’m sorry, but I thought it was worth it. I won’t spend like that again. Besides, it’s not all out of pocket, Jack. The state gives us money.”

  “Not enough for this. Let’s look at what’s happened so far. She fought with Daniel…”

  “She didn’t fight with him. He got upset.”

  “Well, you cannot call me at the station to come home because of drama with this girl.”

  Mrs. Murphy mumbles something I can’t make out.

  Then I hear her coming. I scurry back through the living room, through the back hallway, and into the family room. When she comes back into the kitchen, I am lounging on the couch, but my heart bangs like a drum.

  My stomach aches. I feel guilty about the restaurant and I’d like to tell her how sorry I am, but I’m afraid if I stick my hand out, it’ll be lopped off. No doubt that Jack Murphy would happily sharpen the ax for the job.

  The younger boys come in from outside. Michael Eric walks over and leans in. �
�Carley Connors?”

  I am surprised he speaks to me. Poor kid doesn’t know any better. “Michael Eric Murphy?”

  His eyes get big and he smiles like I’ve said “Abracadabra!”

  Michael Eric pats me on the head. “Do you play? I mean, ever do you?”

  “Play what?”

  “Games and just other stuff.”

  Mrs. Murphy is at the sink, listening. I have a feeling that I can’t really say no this time. I suppose I owe her.

  I ask him, “What kinds of games do you like?”

  He jumps into the air and comes down with his feet far apart and his fists up. “Superheroes!” He kicks the air and growls, which is funny because he thinks he’s actually scary.

  “Which superhero is your favorite?”

  “Super Poopy Man!” He laughs hysterically.

  “And I’m Butt Man!” Adam yells, jumping up on the love seat. His flaming red hair bounces with him. “Butt Man farts so bad, he flies!” Then Adam runs in a circle making fart sounds.

  “Boys,” Mrs. Murphy says, coming to the edge of the carpet. “That’s enough. Let’s not spiral into oblivion here.”

  “Where’s oblivion, Mom?” calls Michael Eric.

  “Does Super Poopy Man come from the planet Oblivion?” asks Adam.

  Mrs. Murphy glances at me. “I will never understand their love of bathroom humor.”

  I get an idea. “Hey, guys, let’s play a different superhero game. I can be the bad guy.” I lean over and look into Michael Eric’s shimmering eyes. “And you can try to catch me.”

  The boys jump around like they’re in the end zone of the big game. I jump up. “First, superheroes need capes!”

  “Yeah!” Michael Eric yells.

  Mrs. Murphy makes eye contact with me for the first time since the mall. She looks happy that I’m there, and I’d rather see her looking like this than the way she looked at the restaurant. I guess I don’t want her to think helping me is a mistake.

  But I can’t believe I made her cry.

  I lead the boys upstairs and take some towels out of the closet. I find a sewing kit in the closet and grab some safety pins. “Okay. Time to make capes!”

  Adam stares at the pins and looks unhappy. “Real superheroes don’t wear safety pins.”

  I want to tell him they don’t wear towels either, but instead I find some towels that are big enough to knot. I laugh to myself about the terror a villain would feel in seeing someone coming after him wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine cape.

  “I’m going to be Super Poopy Man again!” Michael Eric proclaims.

  “What’s my superhero name?” Adam asks.

  His red hair is the first thing I think about. “How about Flame Thrower?”

  He smiles. Then he frowns. “Daddy wouldn’t like that one, I don’t think.”

  “Oh yeah. Well… how about Red Sox Man? He hits home runs every time.”

  “Can I also have a wicked fast car and a freeze ray gun?”

  “Sure!”

  His big smile shows off his missing teeth.

  I grab the first thing I see—a big rubber beetle—and proclaim, “I am”—I look down at my shoes—“I am Super High Tops Girl! I’ve captured the magic bug. With a power such as this, soon I will rule the world!” I end with crazy maniacal laughter, stick the bug under my arm, and rush past them.

  Adam yells, “Get her! She must not escape! We must get the magic bug or the world will meet its doom!” Clearly, they’ve seen a lot of cartoons. Michael Eric echoes whatever his brother says by repeating his last two words and then yelling, “Yeah!”

  “You’ll never conquer me, for I am the most powerful Super High Tops Girl! I will destroy you with the toxic smell of my shoes!”

  Adam jumps toward me and points his finger like a gun. “I’ll shoot you with my freeze ray!”

  “Freeze ray, yeah!” Michael Eric jumps.

  Daniel watches.

  I throw up my arms. “No, no! I’ll block you with my heat gun and turn your freeze ray to steam!”

  “Aw, cool,” Adam mumbles.

  We chase each other around until it’s dinnertime. Before bedtime, Michael Eric comes over while I sit on the couch and kisses me good night on the knee.

  Mr. Murphy seems surprised. His gaze lingers longer than is comfortable. “I guess you’ve won him over, huh?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  Soon enough, I go up to bed. I worry about school the next day, but decide I’d better just set my thoughts on playing Super High Tops Girl and how much fun I had. Or how Mrs. Murphy smiled more at dinner than she has in a couple of days. I wonder how I had planned to be a bad guy but ended up with a hero’s name.

  From the planet Oblivion.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thou Art a Wing Nut

  It is my sixth day here. My first day of school.

  Mrs. Murphy, the boys, and I all pile into the car. I hold the lunch that Mrs. Murphy made for me, relieved that there are no smiley faces drawn on the bag. The boys are making up disgusting ice cream flavors as we pull into the Smith Middle School driveway. I wonder if the feeling in my stomach is from the thought of ant juice and broccoli ice cream or starting school.

  I look up. Way nicer than my old school. Pillars the size of cars. Huge lawn with a row of perfect trees. All the same size. No leaves.

  Mrs. Murphy turns to me. “The office is right inside the front door. Would you like me to walk you in?”

  I’d kind of like her to, but I glance into the backseat and imagine two boys running in circles around us, and decide I’d rather be more invisible than that. “No, thanks.”

  As I get out, Michael Eric yells, “Bye-bye, Carley. See you after school!”

  The wind whips as I walk, staring at my reflection, toward the glass doors of the school; I am unfamiliar to myself in my new clothes. I head into the office. “Hi. I’m a new student here? Eighth grade?”

  I give the secretary my name; it’s kind of nice talking to a secretary who doesn’t know who my mother is. She shuffles some papers and smiles. “Looks like you’re all set, Carley! Welcome to Smith!”

  I am not breathing funny anymore by the time I find that the combination to my locker works. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe this will be okay.

  “You’re kidding me!” the girl next to me yells, hitting her locker. “What a simp I am. I can’t believe I left it at home.” She leans her forehead against her locker, straightens, and then turns to me. “Can you believe what a simp I am?”

  She takes off a very cool black jacket with scenes from New York embroidered on it. Her shirt reads WICKED and has a small green witch on a broom.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Well what?”

  “Can you believe what a simp I am?”

  This is a test, but I don’t know what to say. I’m not standing in my own skin.

  She leans in. “You don’t know what simp means, do you?”

  I lean back.

  “As in simpleton?” she asks. “Or is that too long of a word for you?” She laughs. Her eyes get smaller and stare until I look away first. She swears and says, “What do you pathetic clones know, anyway?”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  She shifts her weight and then motions toward me. “Nice getup. Why, you’re a real trailblazer.”

  I’ve always been fast on my feet in situations like this, but I just stand there. I look down at myself. I’ve wondered all morning if I’d be accepted more because of these popular clothes.

  She slams her locker door and storms away, ranting about whatever it was she’d forgotten.

  My breathing is funny again.

  First period is social studies. I walk in and the teacher smiles at me. “Welcome. I’m Mr. Ruben. You know, like the sandwich?” He covers his stomach with one hand and waves the other in the air. “However, thou may address me as Sir Ruben.” He takes a deep bow and I notice he’s wearing orange Converse high tops. “Y
ou must be Maiden Carley Connors?”

  “Uh-huh.” Talk about a screw loose. He must be the original wing nut.

  “Why don’t thou takest a seat?”

  I want to ask where I should takest it, but I see there is only one empty desk.

  Unfortunately the seat is right next to the girl I met at the lockers. Talk about unlucky.

  She rolls her eyes. “You have got to be kidding me,” she mumbles.

  Then I look to my left and it gets worse.

  I recognize him immediately, but he isn’t looking at me. He turns and then bam! He remembers. The guy from the restaurant the other night. Rainer. The guy I not only gave a hard time to, but also made it personal. He’s chewing gum slowly as he stares me down. “Well, what do you know. It’s our little orphan, Oliver Twist. Want some more rolls?”

  The girl on my right looks at him like he’s contagious. “Shut up, Rainer.”

  For some reason he backs down.

  “Quiet down, ye villainous milk-livered minnows!” Sir Ruben’s voice is deep. Mr. Ruben goes from student to student to see if everyone has their assignments; everyone does until he gets to the girl next to me. He asks, “And you, Princess Toni?”

  “I’ve no interest in being the princess. I’ll be the queen, if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Ruben smiles out of one side of his mouth. “Well, that will depend on whether thou art holding thee project!”

  “Nope. Don’t got it.” She slumps back in her chair and folds her arms.

  “Alas, Peasant Toni!” Mr. Ruben swings his pointer as he makes his way up the aisle. “Why in the world do thou want to give me a lumpish day?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby” is her flat response and the class laughs again. I feel better to know she treats other people like that.

  He turns and strolls back toward the front of the class. “Alas, Miss Toni Byars. You can always make me laugh. For this, I will let you live, pardon you even, and give you another generous and magnificent day to follow through on that most important assignment of yours.” He turns to look at her. “Minus ten points, of course.”

  “Thank you, your worship.”

  When a long-haired kid says he hasn’t finished, Mr. Ruben’s eyebrows dance and he slaps the kid’s desk with his pointer, exclaiming, “To the dungeon, ye pigeon egg!”