by Rachel Vail
“Sure, sure,” Isabel said, nodding. “Because of your eyes.”
“No, I mean because we were on the sidewalk,” I said. “My glasses will be ready Monday, so, that’ll be the end of . . .”
“Oh, so you just . . . that’s all? That’s a relief.”
“A relief?”
“I thought I heard you saying something yesterday, about, that you were, possibly, going blind.”
“I don’t remem—oh! I was kidding.”
“Oh!” Isabel visibly relaxed, almost wilted. It was so pretty how she did it. “I was so concerned, I just kept thinking of you all night last night, how you’re tragically going blind, and how we’d all help you get around, and read the textbooks to you. We’d each take a night, and read you everything.”
“Wow, Isabel,” I said. “That’s—thank you.”
“I was thinking maybe you’d get a Seeing Eye dog.”
“I think I just need, like, glasses.”
“Okay,” she said. “I mean, if it turns out something is wrong, we’re all here.”
“Thanks.” You’re all at Ava’s, you mean, having a sleepover I am not invited to.
“So, it’s probably just some random meeting. Don’t worry, Niki. It probably isn’t about your vision. Even though your parents are both here during the school day today.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Probably not.”
“I have a cousin who’s visually impaired,” Isabel said. “She’s amazing. You should meet her.” Then she walked slowly, gracefully back over to Britney and Ava.
I decided to just read my book, on a swing, because when I looked over at Ava and Isabel and Britney, they all quickly turned away.
I guess Isabel was telling them about seeing my parents walking into school, or about me not going blind. The last thing I wanted to discuss was why my parents actually had a meeting today at school.
17
“MAYBE YOU COULD take Fumble for a walk,” Mom suggested. “To the park.”
“Or,” I said, “I could let Fumble out in the backyard and I could stay in my pajamas, enjoying the morning.”
“If nobody walks the dog, why do we even have him?” Dad asked. “Maybe we should take him to the shelter.”
“Whoa,” I said.
“Jake,” Mom said. “That’s not . . .”
“Your mother asked you to take the dog for a walk,” Dad said to me in that quiet, angry voice that means Don’t even think about arguing.
“I’m going, I’m going.”
After I threw on some clothes, I dashed back downstairs and opened the hall closet where we keep Fumble’s leash. He was practically doing backflips he was so excited.
Fumble isn’t that big and our yard is fenced in. There is no reason he can’t just go out there. He even has a doggie door so he can go whenever he needs to. But I will admit, he gets very excited when he sees that leash come out. Dad is right, I really should walk him more. We all should.
Speaking of which, Danny was in the family room, playing a video game. I noticed nobody was telling him to walk Fumble. Just me. One of the shows he watches like a religion drops Saturday mornings at eleven, so in half an hour. But he’d been playing that dumb video game for, like, an hour already.
“Bye!” I yelled when I got Fumble calmed down enough to hook the leash onto his collar.
“Have a good walk,” Mom called back from the kitchen, where she and Dad were drinking their coffee.
Milo and Robby were out on their lawn playing catch with a football. Why did they have to look so cute? Flirt with boys, Ava had said. Well, here was my chance. If I could flirt with these boys I’ve known my whole life, maybe get one of them to like me, maybe ask one of them out, right now, Ava would see I’m not a loser.
“Hey, Niki!” Milo yelled to me, and waved. “What’s up? Hey, Fumble!”
I ducked my head and went the other way, yanking Fumble to come with me instead of going toward those cute boys or the park like anyone normal would. The park is past their house, everything is past their house. But no, I walked up the dead end. What was even my plan? Great. No way I was walking back down, past them again, because what was I going to say? I got confused?
After I stood there for a panicked minute, I cut through the woods between the Bergers’ house and the Leses’, to get to the backyard of Ricky Landis, who is in the grade above me and once put mud on my head in kindergarten. I tiptoed quietly through his mother’s flower garden to come out onto Rivage Lane, and loop the long way around to get to the park. Fumble kept glancing up at me like, Really? This is our route? But also wagging his tail, down for the adventure.
Maybe my goal shouldn’t be astronaut or meteorologist but just to be as psyched about life and as confident in taking up space in it as Fumble, I decided.
When we got to the park, I threw a stick for Fumble to fetch a bunch of times. I should’ve brought a ball, I was thinking. I used to be good at throwing. So embarrassing, when I couldn’t catch that football. Maybe I could work on throwing and be the first girl quarterback on the boys’ football team in high school. Maybe I wouldn’t have to flirt with them if I could be their teammate. Would that be embarrassing or cool? I don’t trust my judgment on these things anymore. I used to know, I used to give Danny lessons in how not to carry his books (stack them in size order, Danny; if you put little ones in the middle, it’ll all topple!), but now all my instincts are off. Like my eyebrows.
They’d probably do a newspaper article on me, if I were on the football team, though. I’d be famous. Maybe I’d even get to go on Channel 2 News and meet meteorologist Breezy Khan. I decided I would throw the stick at least fifty times for Fumble. Get some practice in. I could be famous.
The sky was that great September-in-Maine cloudless blue. It’s the kind of sky pilots call “severe clear.” I love that: severe clear. So clear it’s almost harsh. Breezy Khan talked about that, in what to expect this weekend. Severe clear. Ahead of the monster storm Hurricane Oliana, which was currently destroying parts of Florida, and maybe making its way at us early next week. I love that idea. Not of Florida being destroyed. I’m not a monster. Of severe clear skies being pushed along in front of a gathering storm. “If the winds way high up in the atmosphere are too strong, they can shear apart a developing storm, keep it from turning into a hurricane,” Breezy Khan said last night on the news. “You need calm winds to brew a hurricane.”
“Maybe we really will get a hurricane, with these calm winds today,” I said to Fumble, getting ready to throw the stick.
Yeah yeah yeah, Fumble agreed.
“We’re in the cone of uncertainty,” I told him. “Which is, to be fair, my permanent address.”
I couldn’t even be mad at Mom and Dad for basically kicking me out of the house to walk Fumble all the way to the park. I was feeling more revived than I had all week. Despite having made a fool of myself around Milo and Robby.
Don’t think about that, I decided.
What if they are still outside when we get back? I wondered. What do I say about where I went, from up the dead end? I threw the stick for Fumble a few more times, contemplating never going home again, to avoid that terrible conversation. I could become a vagabond, is that what it’s called? Or is that a kind of old-timey suitcase? Fumble didn’t know either.
Fumble looked up at me, like, Think of a better plan, Niki.
“Maybe I should just wink at them if they ask what I did, and maybe say, I’ll never tell,” I tried. “That is definitely flirty, right?”
I swear Fumble nodded.
“I’ll never tell,” I practiced on Fumble. He poked his nose at the stick like, Sure, whatever. Throw.
“I’m gonna be more like you, is what my goal actually is now,” I told Fumble when he came back with the stick and dropped it at my feet. “Forget flirting. I’m just gonna be like, YES, life, that is AWESO
ME, everything, yeah, yeah, totally I agree. And if that makes me a baby, FINE.”
Fumble’s pink tongue flopping through all his black face fur was the only proof there was a dog there, instead of just fur and enthusiasm all the way down.
If I were like Fumble in girl form, everybody would probably like me.
I threw the stick again, a pathetic throw. My arm was heavy and tired. Maybe football won’t be my thing. Maybe I’ll just be super positive as my thing. I’m wholesome? Fine! Great! Yah yah yah.
“Wanna go home?” I asked Fumble.
He wagged his tail, totally psyched.
“Awesome,” I told him. I decided, so what if Milo and Robby are outside? I’ll just say, Hey, what’s up? right back to them. I don’t have to flirt!
They weren’t in their yard anymore, so I didn’t have to try out my new personality on anybody right away. Fumble’s tail was wagging so hard, it whapped my leg like a metronome while I sang to him, out loud, walking past Milo and Robby’s.
We stumbled into our house, happy and delighted with ourselves and the world. I was about to yell hi, and that we were back, but something stopped me. Not sure what. Something about the tension in the house, or the pitch of Mom’s voice, or, I don’t know. Barometric pressure. The severe clear of my house.
I knelt down next to Fumble to unhook his leash, whispering shhhh to him.
They were in the family room, just around the corner. I closed the front door quietly and sat down against the wall in the front hall, with Fumble cuddled up in my lap, to eavesdrop on the rest of my family.
18
“. . . THAT IT’S TRULY nothing to worry about,” Mom was saying. “So you really shouldn’t take it as . . . Danny?”
“Danny,” Dad said. “Maybe if you would take off those sunglasses in the house, and look at us when we talk to you, it would . . .”
“My eyes hurt from the light,” Danny said. “I told you.”
“Yes, you did,” Dad said. “But—”
“Maybe the sunglasses are not the exact topic we need to be discussing right now, Jake,” Mom said. “Danny, what I was trying to—”
“My show is on,” Danny said.
“You’re recording it,” Dad said.
“Mom said I can’t get more storage,” Danny said. “Therefore, I need to watch—”
“Okay, but, Danny?” Mom interrupted. “Hey, buddy? Look at me please?”
Danny hates interruptions. He grunted loudly at her.
“Please just give me another five minutes,” Mom asked. “Okay? We need to discuss . . . you need to . . . Danny?” Mom said again.
Danny grunted again. “I need to WATCH!”
“Do you understand what we’re explaining about the testing, Danny?” Mom asked. “Because it’s scheduled for next Thursday morning. But if that’s too soon, for you, if you feel rushed? We can move it. There’s no rush! It’s not an emergency. It’s not like, Oh no, something is terribly wrong! Hahahaha. Not that that would be funny. If something were wrong with somebody. I just mean, you might be a candidate to get extra services, and bonus time! And other bonus things!”
“I need more data storage,” Danny said.
“We’re not talking about storage now, Danny.”
“I am,” he said.
“Right, sure, but . . . Danny, I need you to, Danny, please listen for one more minute,” she started again. “Look at me please.”
Ugh, Mom, don’t. Why can’t she see he’s not listening to her?
“Do you have any questions about the testing?” Dad asked.
“My show is on,” Danny said.
“Or should we focus on your party tomorrow?” Mom asked. “Is there anything we haven’t thought of, that we should do or take care of today? For your party? Danny?”
No response.
I knew what was happening even though I couldn’t see any of them, or hear anything but the stupid theme music of Danny’s stupid show: They were standing there staring at him. And he was happily watching his show, completely ignoring them.
Fumble looked up at me like, What’s gonna happen?
I shrugged.
“Fine,” Dad said. “Watch your stupid show.”
“Jake.” Mom hates the word stupid.
Nothing, no response from Dad. Or Danny.
The theme music from his show was blaring like a fire alarm in my head.
“If you have questions?” Mom tried. “Danny?”
Danny grunted, like, Shut up.
“Okay,” Mom said. “Well, if you . . .”
She didn’t bother finishing.
Footsteps, coming toward me.
I pretended I was still taking Fumble’s leash off. Fumble got all excited, as if maybe we were going out for a walk again. I smiled at him, but his delight wasn’t as contagious this time. Every bit of me felt heavy. My heart, my fingers, my eyelids.
“He needs to process it,” Mom whispered to Dad. “I know that. I just don’t want . . .”
“I know. So don’t I,” Dad whispered back. “Be clam.”
When I glanced up, they were hugging. Mom’s head was bent so her face, turned toward the kitchen, was hidden, her ear pressed against Dad’s sweatshirt. His arms were wrapped around her and his head was resting on hers.
They looked like a statue, perfect and complete.
If I were a real sculptor instead of an eighth-grade maker of messes, I would sculpt them like that. I’d call the statue Sadness.
You could feel the ripples of grief coming off them all the way across the foyer.
They hadn’t even seen me and Fumble there, left out and jittering in the entryway.
19
MOM NUDGED THE red paper tablecloth an inch to the left and then the same inch back to the right again. It was the third time she’d done that. It kept looking the same: like a red tablecloth over the picnic table on our back deck. But each time she adjusted it, she stood back and frowned at the tablecloth to see if her change made a difference.
There were five silver balloons that spelled out my brother’s name in capital letters, bumping one another over the picnic table. Their strings were tied to weights covered in red crepe paper. Danny’s favorite color is red, but the red balloons sometimes pop and balloons popping ruins everything for Danny so we don’t get those anymore. The silver balloons don’t pop as easily. You need to stick a knife into them, eventually. When they deflate so much they’re just sad, hovering inches above the floor, it’s time for them to go. They don’t pop, even then. They just sigh like whatever when you eventually stab them to death. I remember from last year when Danny turned eight.
Please let this year’s party be better than that one was.
I caught Mom checking her watch. She let out her breath and forced a smile at me. Not her normal smile like when a good song comes on the radio in the car, or Dad brings in flowers he cut from the garden. Her big fake smile that shows all her teeth, even the molars.
“You okay?” Dad asked her.
“It’s three o’clock,” she whispered.
“They’ll come,” Dad said. “Did they say they’d come?”
“Well, Julia said they had to be out of town for that wedding, so I know Andrew and Alicia won’t be—”
“Right, but the other people?” Dad asked. “How many responses did we—”
“Danny handed out the invitations at school,” Mom whispered. “To his whole class. I told you.”
“I know. I just . . .”
“Don’t start again about we should’ve emailed—I told you Danny wanted—”
“I didn’t say anything,” Dad whispered, turning away.
“He’s in fourth grade. Nobody emails. . . .”
“I know.”
“He wanted the invitations with the—”
“I didn’t
say anything,” Dad growled.
I hate when they fight.
“I tried to call some of the—”
“Yup,” Dad said.
Last year a few kids came to Danny’s party, with their moms or dads. Madeleine came along with her sister Margot and helped me put out slices of pizza on the paper plates while the kids played the games my mom had set up. Danny hung back. I tried to act like no big deal, in front of Madeleine, and wished I had invited Ava to come so it wouldn’t just be me with one girl from the Squad. Madeleine was perfectly nice, as always, but obviously we’re not close. I knew she’d tell the rest of the Squad every detail of what a weird family I had. This is why I don’t let anybody come over, I growled silently behind my fake smile. When the clown lady showed up, Danny started growling out loud, at Mom. The other kids all gathered around to watch the magic show, but Danny didn’t like the clown so he had a major tantrum in front of everybody, and then stayed inside until the clown left, which was just before the cake.
“I don’t like parties,” he said to Mom, when she told him to make a wish, sweetheart, on his candles. After the guests left, she had a bad headache and had to lie down while Dad and I cleaned up.
This year Mom had gone to Party City and bought fire helmets for all the kids for the firefighter theme. There were three big tilting stacks of plastic fire helmets on the card table near the back door. I really don’t know why she was doing this to herself, to us all, again.
“Maybe you should try on your fire helmet,” Mom suggested to Danny. Not the first time she’d made this suggestion. It had been a long morning of setting up and trying to get Danny involved.
“It hurts my scalp,” he said.
Mom checked her watch. “Maybe you could put it on just for a sec, so I can get a picture of you in it.”
He moved his trucks around on the table, without looking up.
“Or maybe later,” Mom said, like it was an exciting idea she just had.
“I doubt it,” Danny answered.
I mustered a smile at Dad. He gestured for me to come up to the field with him.