Mom is just out of the shower, wearing her ratty terrycloth robe, drying her hair with a thick, purple towel. Her hair is black, like mine, but super short. It only takes about five minutes for her to dry it. When I’m thirty-eight, like my mom is now, I’ll probably have short hair like that, too. For now though, at almost eighteen, I like my hair long. Danny likes my hair long. He says it’s lavishly luscious. That makes the thirty-minute drying time worth the effort.
Mom holds the phone out for me with her free hand.
My ten-year-old sister, Rochelle (Rocky for short), jumps up and down. “I’ll bet it’s your husband,” she says.
“Don’t be so silly,” Mom says, handing me the phone.
“Erica’s married, Erica’s married,” Rochelle sings.
“Rocky’s jealous,” I say, mimicking her tone.
Ever since Rocky first met Danny, when I started going around with him a year ago, she’s had this huge crush on him.
I take the phone back to my bedroom. There’s no such thing as privacy around my nosy little sister, but at least we finally got a cordless phone. Before that I had to talk in the kitchen where Sister Big Ears and my mom could hear every word.
“Erica, wait’ll you hear this! It’s so sad.”
My heart sinks. I was sure it would be Danny but instead it’s April. I mean, I want to talk to April and all. But I’ve been waiting for Danny to call for the past two hours.
“What? Hear what?” I ask.
“Remember that girl who thought she was so tough—you know, the spike queen on the Whitman volleyball team?”
“The really tall one?” I ask, trying to figure out who she’s talking about.
“Yeah, with the streaked purple hair.”
“Sandra?”
“Yeah, that’s her name. She’s got AIDS.”
“AIDS?”
“Yeah. For reals.”
“How do you know?” I ask. April finds more sensational stories than that talk show woman, Courtney Case.
“You know Brett? In Peer Counseling? She told me.”
“How does Brett know?”
“They’re cousins. Remember when Ms. Woods was telling us about those AIDS Center people who are coming to talk to our class?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow, right?”
“I think so. Anyway, Brett told me about how her cousin just tested positive for HIV. Brett’s all upset because she was the one who set her cousin up with this guy.”
I remember Sandra from the volleyball play-offs. She was quick and strong and tireless.
“Testing positive doesn’t mean she’s got AIDS,” I say.
“She’s only seventeen and her life is already over,” April says. “You always exaggerate,” I accuse April.
“And you never face things,” April accuses back.
“Always, never,” I say.
We laugh. In Peer Counseling we’ve worked on clear, non-judgmental communication. Among other things, that means avoiding statements like “you never,” or “you always,” and sticking to “I” statements rather than “you” statements.
“So . . .” April says.
“So . . . I feel it’s an exaggeration to assume that Sandra’s life is over, based on the rumor that she’s tested positive for HIV,” I say, trying to come up with an “I” statement.
“And I feel that it is an act of denial to assume that Sandra will have any kind of life with HIV.”
I’ve been friends with April since we were on the volleyball team at Palm Avenue School back in the eighth grade. We argue all the time, but we never really get angry with one another. Maybe a little irritated, but not angry.
“Wouldn’t you think your life was over if you tested HIV positive?” April asks. “Or would you be expecting some Disney happy ending to come from it?”
“I wouldn’t test positive,” I say.
“I know. But just what if?”
April loves to talk about what if kinds of things. I prefer reality.
A quick buzz lets me know there’s a call waiting.
“I’ll call you back, April. Okay?”
“Okay. Make it quick though. My dad’s going to take me out for a driving lesson as soon as he gets home.”
I hang up and the next call comes in. This time it’s Danny.
“Hey, Pups,” he says.
That’s Danny’s nickname for me—Pups. He started calling me that when we worked together at the Humane Society. He claimed he could always find me around the puppy kennels—just look for the pups and Erica will be there, he said.
It sounds stupid to other people, I guess, but I like that Danny cared enough from the very beginning to make up a nickname for me.
Even though it’s lots later than he said he’d call, something in me melts at the sound of Danny’s voice.
“Hi, Dan,” I say, leaning back in my chair, my feet resting on the table next to the experimental protocol for identifying introns in RNA processing. I’m ready for a long talk about anything but biology.
“What’s up?” Danny asks.
“I’m trying to study for a big bio test tomorrow. I desperately need an A on this one.”
“You could lighten up on the school stuff. A B wouldn’t hurt now and then.”
“Tell that to UC Davis,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’ll be going away in August,” Danny says.
“It seems like a long way away.”
“Nine months. That’s not really very long,” Danny says.
Kitty, my big golden retriever, lies heavy on my bare feet, keeping them warm. I reach down to pet her and she turns over on her back, legs spread, inviting me to rub her belly. I’ve had her for five years, since she was a puppy. Her name shows what a weird sense of humor I had in junior high school. I named her Kitty just to confuse people. It really is funny to see the expressions on people’s faces when I call, “Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” and this giant dog comes running to me.
I rub Kitty’s soft underside absentmindedly.
“You might forget me when you get up there with all those college boys,” Danny says.
“Never,” I tell him. “You’re my first and only love.”
“For really truly?” he says.
“For really truly.”
I stroke Kitty’s silky golden hair. There is a lot of noise from Danny’s end of the line.
“Where are you?” I ask, knowing his dad told him to stay home tonight.
“Nowhere,” he says.
“Where’s that?” I say.
He just laughs. “Around the comer from Somewhere.”
“Where are you really?”
“C’mon, Pups,” he says. “I called to talk to you, not be put on the stand.”
In the background someone says “Hey, Dude, pass it along,” and I know Danny is at Alex’s house—the party house.
“I thought you were staying home tonight.”
“I was, but then my dad started raggin’ on me. I can’t take it there anymore. I’m moving in with Alex for awhile, just ’til I can get my own place.”
“Is it okay with Alex’s mom?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t care one way or the other.”
I’ve only met Alex’s mom once, but I hear she’s the biggest partier of all. That would be so weird, to have a mom like that.
“There are so many people in and out of this place, she’ll hardly notice I’m there. Besides, Alex owes me.”
“Why?”
“He used to always stay at my place, to get away from his nutcase brother. That was before Joey got sent to camp, and before my mom died . . . Listen, why don’t I come see you after awhile?”
“You know how my mom is about you coming over on a school night. It’s like I’m still Rochelle’s age.”
“How about after your mom goes to bed? . . . I miss you,” he says, in that low tone of voice that always gets to me.
“I don’t know. We almost got caught last time.”
There is a long pause. Then D
anny says in a whisper, “I feel so lonely sometimes, Pups. You’re the only one who makes things better.”
No one has ever needed me the way Danny needs me, or loved me the way Danny loves me. I mean, my parents love me and all, but I’m talking about a grown-up, romantic kind of love.
“Erica? I want so much to feel you next to me.”
A familiar warmth spreads through my body.
“I’ll leave my window unlocked.”
“I’ll be so quiet Kitty won’t even hear me.”
“Rochelle’s the one I’m worried about,” I tell him. “I don’t think my spying sister ever sleeps.”
“Be waiting for me. Remember I love you,” Danny says.
I hear a noise on the phone.
“I know you just picked up the phone, Rochelle! Hang up now!” I yell, totally breaking the mood, but what can I do?
“I have to call Jessica about my homework,” she whines. “You’ve been on the phone forever and now it’s my turn!”
“Hey, Rocky,” Danny says, “Just hang up and we’ll be off the phone in a minute.”
“Okay. ’Bye, Danny,” she says, suddenly sounding all sweet and innocent. I hear a click of the receiver and know Rocky hung up.
“So I’ll see you after the lights go out,” Danny says.
He taps the phone receiver three times, meaning “I love you.” I tap back four times, meaning “I love you, too,” and we hang up. I take the phone back to the kitchen and put it in front of my sister, who is still at the table doing fifth grade math. I wish my homework were as easy as hers.
“I know what you were talking about,” she chants.
“What?”
“Love stuff.”
“You watch too much TV,” I tell her.
“No, I don’t. Mom never lets me watch TV.”
“Because you never get your homework done.”
“Because you never help me. Because you’re always busy talking to your husband on the phone.”
I look over her shoulder at her homework and work out a division problem for her. I should go right back to my room, and biology, but instead I reach for Kitty’s leash. Maybe a short run will clear my mind, so I can study better. At least now I can stop worrying about Danny, now that I know he’ll be climbing through my window late tonight.
Kitty runs to the back door, then back to me, toenails clicking on the kitchen floor. She goes into a slide, ending at my feet.
“Wanna go for a run, Kitty?” I say in a voice that I know will excite her even more. “Wanna run?”
Kitty runs again to the door, makes a circle through the house, down the hall, through the living room, then a full slide through the kitchen, and finally back to the door where she zips around in circles, chasing her tail. Rocky and I, as always, laugh hysterically at Kitty’s antics. Mom glances up from the catalog she’s been looking through.
“That dog is going to be the ruin of this house,” she says, but she’s smiling. No one can watch Kitty carry on like that without at least smiling.
My mom never really wanted a dog. She said they were dirty and carried fleas and they were too much trouble. Before, when we’d lived with my dad on army bases, there was always a no pets rule, so there was no way we could have a dog. “If only we had our own place,” Mom would say, “then you could have a dog.” So when we moved to our house in Hamilton Heights, my mom didn’t have any more excuses. We went to the Humane Society the day after we moved in here.
My parents decided I should have a more normal high school experience than the army brat life I’d always lived, and they were worried because Rochelle was turning into some kind of wild child. Also, my grampa had just died, and my gramma was all alone. Plus she had diabetes, so my mom was worried about her. So we had one of those big family conferences in which the parents do all the talking.
“Dad and I always planned to live in Hamilton Heights after his retirement. The three of us will just get settled early.”
“I’ll miss all of my girls,” Dad said, holding Mom’s hand. “But it’s the right thing. Your education is important, and Hamilton School District has much more to offer than you can get from any overseas school.”
“It will help Gramma, too, to have us nearby,” Mom said.
So my mom and Rochelle and I settled down in Hamilton Heights, in Southern California, where my mom grew up. We just see Dad a couple of times a year now, when he comes home on a long leave. That part is hard. But it’s good to get out of that cycle: make new friends—move; make new friends—move. Over and over again. I hated that. By the time I was in the sixth grade, it hardly seemed worth the effort to make new friends, knowing we’d be moving again anytime.
Besides running out of reasons why we couldn’t get a dog, I think Mom worried about how much we’d all miss Dad, and hoped a dog would take our minds off our loneliness. I thought it would help if we named our new dog Daddy, but they wouldn’t go for that. I’m glad now. She’s a perfect Kitty.
We got Kitty when she was still a pup. Her mom had an affair with a German shepherd, so she’s not a total golden retriever. Kitty was the runt of the litter. Not only did I fall in love with Kitty that day, back when I was thirteen, I fell in love with the Humane Society. As soon as I was old enough, fourteen, I became a volunteer, and then, last year, they hired me part-time, for money. A job at the Humane Society is perfect for me because I want to be a vet.
When we got Kitty, my mom and dad had wanted us to get one of the other pups instead, saying maybe Kitty wouldn’t be as healthy as her bigger brothers and sisters. But Kitty and I had already bonded the minute she looked up at me with her big, gentle eyes. I knew beyond a doubt that she was the pup for me.
Rocky, who was only six at the time, didn’t care which dog we got, as long as we got a dog. Even though Kitty is supposed to be Rocky’s dog too, she’s more mine because I was the person who chose her and I take care of her.
Kitty stands still long enough for me to attach the leash to her collar, then pulls toward the door.
“I wanna go,” Rochelle says.
“Come on then.”
Rochelle starts jumping around again. Sometimes that’s how she expresses herself, by jumping—sort of like Kitty. She’s as hyper as Kitty, too, running after me whenever I even think about going anywhere. Not only that, but Rochelle’s hair is practically the same color as Kitty’s, a deep, rusty red that shines brown and blond in the sunlight. Come to think of it, Rocky’s about the same height as Kitty. When Kitty stands on her hind legs she’s about shoulder height on me. That’s how tall Rocky is, too, when she stands on her hind legs. My sister the dog. My dog the kitty. Weird.
Mom leans over the round oak table that sits in what the real estate person called a dining area, but what is really just the far end of our kitchen. It’s the table where we have dinner, and where Rochelle does her homework, and where Mom pays the bills. I used to do my homework here, too, but now I prefer my bedroom. It’s quieter. And sometimes I have a lot to think about besides homework, and my bedroom’s a better place to do that than at the big oak table where my mom sometimes pulls up a chair and says, “A penny for your thoughts.” I don’t always want to share my thoughts.
“You haven’t done even half of your math problems, Rochelle,” Mom says.
“I’ll finish when I get back,” Rochelle says. “It’s only nine.”
“I want you in bed, homework finished, by ten at the latest.”
Rochelle jumps up and down again, kisses Mom, and follows me and Kitty out the door. I jog at a slow pace, so Rochelle can keep up. Her legs are so much shorter than mine, she practically has to take two steps to my one.
We run up Primrose to Solano, then to Canyon Crest, where the houses are twice as big as the one we live in.
We stop for a minute while I unhook Kitty’s leash. I’m not supposed to let her off the leash, but she always comes right back when I call her, so I let her run free where it’s safe. I love to watch her run, with her legs fully
stretched out and her silky, bronze hair blown back by the breeze she creates. I wish we lived in the country, with no fences, so she could run like that whenever she feels like it.
Rochelle and I walk for awhile, not talking. It’s strange. At home, in front of our mom, Rochelle is constantly bugging me. But when we’re out like this, with Kitty, she’s more like a friend than a pesty little sister. That’s how she is when I pick her up from her after-school choir practices, too. But at home? She’s a brat.
“Do you think that girl really has AIDS?” she says.
“Rocky! Were you listening in on Mom’s bedroom phone again?”
“No,” she says, all indignant, like she’d never even consider such a thing. “I heard you. You practically yelled it. ‘AIDS?’ you yelled, and you said something about someone named Sandra. I can’t help it if you yell into the phone.”
“Oh, man. I told April I’d call her right back and I totally forgot,” I say. “Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” I call. Kitty slides to a stop, turns, and comes racing back to me.
“Do you?” Rochelle says.
“Do I what?”
“Do you think that girl has AIDS?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think April is making another of her colossal leaps to an unfounded conclusion.”
“Speak English, please,” Rochelle says.
“Develop a vocabulary, please,” I say, laughing.
I attach Kitty’s leash and we jog back to the house. I call April as soon as I get home, but I only reach her machine. April has her own private phone number and her own answering machine, which is what I’m saving my money for—that, and Christmas presents.
The Humane Society pays minimum wage, and I only work twelve hours a week, so saving money is a slow process. I’m hoping that when my dad gets home for his Christmas leave, he’ll match what I already have saved and help me get my phone and answering machine. Sometimes I can work deals with my dad that my mom would never go for. Especially like during the first week or so, when Dad is still outrageously happy to see us.
But What About Me? Page 2