Let Me Fix That for You

by Janice Erlbaum

  Mabey turns to me. “What are you going to quit?”

  Good question. What do I do that annoys Dad? I could stop flipping water bottles, since I’ll never get the hang of it anyway. I could stop belching super-loud in public. I could stop leaving dishes in the sink.

  “You could quit snooping,” Mabey says pointedly. “That might be nice for everyone.”

  “You could quit interrupting,” suggests Agnes.

  “You could quit eavesdropping,” adds Mabey.

  All right, I get the point, I have annoying habits. They can stop listing them now. But Agnes has one more: “You could quit trying to fix everything.”

  “Ooh, good one,” says Mabey.

  LOL. Additional LOL. O sandwich on L bread. I know Agnes and Mabey don’t want me to stop fixing things. Who would make a plan to fix up Dad, if it weren’t for me? Who would arrange it so Mabey could sneak out after midnight on Halloween to TP houses with her friends? Who would help Agnes convince Dad she wasn’t using the clothes dryer as a centrifuge?

  “We can talk about that later,” I decide. “But we agree on the principle, right? We quit stuff Dad hates and Dad quits stuff we hate?”

  Agnes and Mabey nod in agreement. We are all in.

  The meeting breaks up, Agnes goes downstairs to her lab, and I go to our room to do some reading for school. I sit on my bed and open a book and look at the words inside. But I’m not reading—I’m thinking about Agnes’s magnets, how she tried pressing the wrong sides together, and how the squishy tension between them always forced them apart. How she kept trying, like if she pushed them hard enough, she could overcome the scientific fact:

  You can’t join polar opposites.

  17

  Saturday

  Dad and I are wandering around the auditorium at Agnes’s elementary school while she sets up for the science fair.

  All around us, third and fourth graders are assembling their hilariously slanted handwritten signs, their lumpy papier-mâché solar systems, and their totally basic, not-even-toilet-based volcanos. Agnes has banished me and Dad to the sidelines while she sets up her own project, a gumball dispenser that demonstrates Newton’s three laws of motion and the six simple machines. It’s one of those wacky contraptions where you put in a quarter, and the quarter hits a lever, and seventy-five other things happen in a domino effect until the gumball comes out the other end.

  My fourth-grade science fair project was a plant I accidentally scorched to death with a lamp.

  I hope that Agnes’s science fair project works better than the experiment we tried to launch on the drive over here: Operation Dress-Up Dad.

  Hypothesis: Dad would be more attractive to Mom if he dressed better.

  Required materials: Dad, some new clothes, a clue.

  Procedure: From the shotgun seat, I announced, “Dad, you need new clothes.”

  Dad didn’t even pause before shutting this down. “No, I don’t.”

  Okay. Here, Dad was demonstrating Newton’s first law of motion: A dad at rest stays at rest until you make him move.

  “Dad, you’d look more handsome if you had new clothes,” said Agnes, applying force from the backseat.

  Dad displayed the principle of resistance. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  I hit him with an equal and opposite reaction. “They’re kind of old-fashioned-looking.”

  “I like them that way,” said Dad, ending the conversation.

  Conclusion: Dad isn’t getting new clothes. Inertia wins again.

  By the time Dad and I have made a full loop of the auditorium, Agnes has assembled her machine and is doing some test runs. A woman with dark hair and glasses is listening as Agnes explains her math. “The quarter weighs 5.7 grams, so that affects the weight of the lever and how far it needs to be from the fulcrum.”

  The woman nods. “Did you know that when you started, or did you discover that through trial and err—?”

  “Trial and error,” interrupts Dad. “Two things I’m great at.” He extends his hand to the woman for a shake.

  Ohhhhhhhh noooooooooo. Everything goes slow-mo for a second as I imagine throwing my body in front of this lady so she doesn’t get hit with the full force of Dad’s corniness. But she’s already reached out and taken his hand. Toooooo laaaaaaate …

  She laughs as they shake. “Dan, right? I’m Tracy Rivera, Agnes’s math and science teacher. We spoke by phone a couple of months ago…”

  Agnes cringes and takes a few sideways steps so she’s out of view.

  “Oh, right,” Dad remembers. “The potassium nitrate thing. Sorry again about that.”

  For something that could have blown up Agnes’s school, Dad doesn’t sound too sorry. And he certainly is looking at Ms. Rivera intently. This isn’t his “lawyer” look. This is his “I forget sometimes that Dad is a guy until he gets this look” look. The one that makes me want to pluck my eyeballs out of my face and rinse them under cool, running water so they are clean again.

  Agnes could help me out here, but she’s sidled off to stand by the emergency exit. Good instinct, Agnes: When all else fails, set off an alarm and run.

  I join her by the exit, rapidly updating her. “This is a catastrophe. Dad is flirting with your teacher. We have to put a stop to this.”

  Agnes peeks over at them. “They’re just talking.”

  The one time Agnes plays dumb, and it has to be now. “No, they’re not just talking. They’re talking and smiling and looking in each other’s eyes. And look, he touched her elbow! We have to do something!”

  My eyes are locked on Dad and Ms. Rivera, but Agnes is more interested in watching a kid put a quarter in her gumball machine. Even if she doesn’t win an award (which Agnes always does), she’ll make a healthy profit in quarters. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

  This should not take a genius to figure out. “Get back over there! Distract them! Interrupt them!”

  “Dad says I’m not supposed to interrupt,” she contests.

  “Well, he’s not supposed to flirt with other people! He’s a married man!”

  Agnes goes back to stand by her project, while Dad and Ms. Rivera chat away. I give up and move on. There are some empty chairs over by the third graders, so I sit down near a kid whose “rat in a maze” project features gummy rats instead of real ones. (“The real rats escaped into the heating system, and now our whole house smells like grilled rat,” he explains to a teacher.)

  A familiar voice interrupts the rat saga. “Hey,” says Harry Homework, out of nowhere. “Your sister goes here, right?”

  “Hey!” I say. “Yeah. She’s over there with my dad.”

  Harry takes a chair and pulls it up next to mine. I’m happy to see him. I forgot he has a younger brother in the grade below Agnes. He’s probably sitting at one of these tables with a robot clone he built from scratch. “Where’s your brother?”

  “Anderson? He’s over there.” Harry points to a tiny red-haired kid with a dead plant and a desperate look. My heart goes out to young Anderson. I can tell we have a lot in common.

  Harry’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Homework, are taking pictures of Anderson and his display. They’re both short and thin, with wiry gray hair and glasses—one of those salt-and-pepper-shaker couples, where they look like a matched set and you can’t imagine one without the other. Pretty much the opposite of “opposites attract.”

  “So,” says Harry. “Are you going to the spring dance?”

  I laugh out loud. Harry’s hilarious. Why would I go to the spring dance? Dances are for popular people, not for wallflowers, and I’m as wallfloral as it gets. What’s more, there might not even be a spring dance, unless I find a way for Sophie to replace the money.

  “Why is that funny?” Harry looks hurt. “You are on the decorating committee.”

  Oh, right. He saw me in the lunchroom yesterday, sitting with all my besties on the deco com, discussing the scent-scape. “Yeah, but not ’cause I want to be. It’s for business purposes.”r />
  “Oh.”

  Harry sounds disappointed. It occurs to me that he might be trying to ask for a dance-related favor. Maybe there’s someone he likes, and he wants me to find out if they’re interested. Maybe I can play Cupid for Harry. I’m still working on his bullying problem, but in the meantime I could help him with his romantic life.

  “Why?” I ask. “Are you going?”

  He looks down shyly at his shoes. “I might, if the right person says they’ll go with me.”

  The right person. Okay. I don’t know if he has anybody particular in mind, or if he’s looking for help finding that person, but I’m already working on it. Who in our grade would be right for Harry? It would have to be someone who (a) understands calculus and (b) likes younger guys. I’m drawing a blank on this, but I’ll keep it in mind.

  Speaking of romance, a quick glance tells me it might be time to run some more interference with Dad and Ms. Rivera, as she is hovering dangerously close to Agnes’s display again.

  “I gotta go keep my dad from making an ass of himself,” I say, getting up from my seat. “See you Monday.”

  Harry extends his fist for me to bump. “See you.”

  Over by Agnes’s project, Dad is busy being the Proud Parent, talking with everyone who comes by as though he built the machine. “There’s a lot of math involved. You know, the quarter weighs a certain amount, so the lever has to weigh less than that…” Meanwhile, Agnes is counting all the quarters she’s collected in a wooden box. She’s made so much money in an hour, I’m thinking Sophie could probably solve her problem in a weekend with the right gumball machine.

  Ms. Rivera is nearby, but fortunately, she’s talking to some other parent. Unfortunately, Dad keeps looking over at her.

  “Dad,” I say. “Dad. Hey, Dad.”

  He’s too busy staring at Agnes’s teacher. I don’t know why. She’s pretty enough, and she seems nice, but she’s nothing special. Not like Mom.

  “DAD. Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD. Can we stop for food on the way home? Dad?” I keep this up until he acknowledges me, his other brilliant-genius daughter.

  “Hmmm,” he says absentmindedly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need new clothes.”

  18

  Sunday

  I’m about to hang out at the mall with Sophie Nelson and my dad.

  Now there’s something I never thought I would say: Just gonna chillax with Sophie and Dad at the mall. But she needs money, and he needs serious help, so he’s buying some of her expertise, like Baxter suggested. Maybe today Dad will purchase his first pair of jeans that aren’t light blue and enormous.

  Sophie is waiting for us by the Froyo place at noon, as we discussed last night. She’s early, like she usually is—one of the things that makes everyone think she’s perfect—and she’s dressed up in her professional clothes (a blazer and skirt).

  She smiles and waves as we approach. “Hiyee!”

  I allow myself to be air-kissed. “Hey, Sophie. This is my dad. Dad, this is Sophie.”

  Fashion expert, meet fashion idiot. They shake hands.

  “Is your mom joining us?” asks Dad. “Glad mentioned she might come along.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes. “She’s already shopping. She couldn’t wait.”

  The three of us sit down at a table to plan the attack. “I was thinking we’d start with the shoes, because they’re the foundation,” says Sophie. “Many dads only have two pairs—one pair of work shoes and one pair of sneakers—and that limits your versatility.”

  Dad is already impressed. “I have to say, Sophie, fashion consulting for parents is a great idea.”

  Aw, shucks. Thanks, Dad, I’m pretty proud of it myself. Though I did get some help from Baxter …

  “Oh, thanks!” Sophie beams. “And thanks for being my first client.”

  Before we start walking around to stores, Sophie asks Dad a bunch of questions and records his answers in a little notebook. First she asks the practical questions, like his sizes and the colors and patterns he likes and dislikes. Then she gets into more abstract stuff. “What do you want your clothes to say?”

  I wait for Dad to answer, I want them to say, “Hello, I’m a shirt! Please wear me on your torso! I will keep you warm!” But he spares us the hilarity this time. “I want them to say, ‘You can trust me to help you with your complicated tax problem.’”

  Sophie nods. “So they should say ‘smart.’”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Responsible.’”

  “That too.”

  “Even ‘a little bit heroic.’”

  “I suppose,” Dad says, looking extremely pleased. “Sure.”

  Sophie finishes her questionnaire, and we head off to our first stop, a shoe store. “I see you’ve been wearing these shoes for a while,” Sophie says tactfully. “What do you like about them? Okay, comfort … How about the style? And how would you feel about a more rounded toe?”

  An hour later, we’re back at the Froyo place, having a snack and people-watching. One of those overdone women with high heels and fake boobs and painted-on eyebrows is wobbling toward us, carrying a million shopping bags, and I am about to elbow my dad and smirk at her when the woman comes over to our table and drops her haul on the empty seat.

  “Hi, baby! How’s it going?”

  Um, wow. This is Sophie’s mom. She is very thin and very tan, and her long blond hair is very fake. She’s wearing tight jeans and a sweater with a low neckline and lots of necklaces hanging down into her cleavage. Her forehead is smooth and shiny. Her swollen lips make her look like she got smacked in the mouth with an iron. I think there may even be eyes under all the mascara she has on.

  Dad stands up, because a lady has approached a table where he is sitting, and that’s the kind of thing Dad does—pops out of his seat anytime a woman comes over to his dining table, unless she’s wearing a name tag and taking his order.

  “Hi there,” he says suavely. “I’m Gladys’s father, Dan.”

  Sophie’s mom bats her lashes, giving the mascara a workout. “I’m Gloria. So nice to meet you, Dan.”

  She leans over to shake his hand, and I have to stop putting Froyo in my mouth for a second so I can vomit at the way her cleavage is in Dad’s face. This is so heinous. Also, so mysterious. Why is everyone suddenly flirting with Dad? Is he wearing new cologne? Because I will flush it right down the toilet and replace it with sour milk. I want Dad to be attractive to Mom, not to all these randos.

  But I will say one thing for Sophie’s mom: She loves her daughter. With italics. Sophie is all she talks about as she totters along in her heels next to Dad on our way to the next stop. “Sophie’s an only child,” Gloria explains. “And I raised her alone. So we’re very close. She’s my whole life.”

  “Of course,” agrees Dad, like I’m his whole life, too. Please. We both know that I’m, at best, 33.3 percent of my father’s life.

  “Everything Sophie does, she excels at. I can’t tell you how proud I am. She said she wanted to run for the student council, and I said, ‘But what about the dance squad? They need you, they’re nothing without you!’ And she says, ‘No problem, Mommy, I can do both.’”

  “Mommy” continues blathering on about her amazing daughter. Blah, blah, Sophie’s so special. She’s so talented. She’s so popular at school. She’s the greatest dancer. And a klepto! Don’t forget that.

  I wish there was something about me that Dad could brag about—some award, some grades, some social triumph—but I remain average in every way. “I’m so proud of Glad. She … goes to school!” If Agnes was here, Dad could brag about her, but she’s at the roller rink with her friend Miranda. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Gloria is nowhere near finished raving about Sophie.

  “And now she wants to do this fashion-consulting thing? I think it’s a great idea. She could turn it into a real business. Maybe give her mom a job, ha-ha.”

  Dad takes this seriously and immediately dorks out. “Well, if Sophie wants to incorporate, I’d be
happy to advise her. She could form what’s called a Delaware S corp—of course, you’d have to be the one to sign the paperwork, but…”

  He goes on to offer advice about “DBAs,” “LLCs,” and a bunch of other meaningless letters. Gloria listens as though he is speaking English, and Sophie and I trail behind them.

  Sophie’s been chattering this whole time about her friends and their love lives. “Carolina and Hannah were supposed to hang out with Will and Amir, but both the guys like Carolina, and both the girls like Amir, so it’s like, who’s going to be with who? I feel bad for Hannah; everybody always likes Carolina more. Of course, Carolina’s a total tease—that’s what Amir told me. And I’m like, ‘Then why do you like her?’ And he’s like, ‘She’s hot.’ And I’m like, ‘Then why were you texting with Desiree?’ Because Desiree told me last week…”

  I’m wondering why she’s telling me all this personal stuff about her friends. Then I get it: Sophie is gossiping with me. And Sophie gossiping with me is like Izzy punching me in the arm. It’s how you know you’re her friend.

  So this is what people mean by “girl talk.” I’m kind of enjoying it. I love having information I’m not supposed to have, and I certainly am learning a lot—I had no idea the A+ table was such a fiery hotbed of drama. Student council president Rich Savoy confessed his love for Carolina, who rejected him, and now they’re ignoring each other! Desiree is playing both sides of the unspoken Carolina-Hannah war! What fun!

  We keep shopping for another half hour until Dad’s inner accountant takes over and he becomes physically unable to spend a single dime more. Gloria smooths the front of a sweater over his chest and remarks on its softness—the sweater, not Dad’s chest, ha-ha!—but even that cannot break the curse. So she puts the sweater back and picks up her shopping bags, and we are walking out of the store when the alarm goes off.

  The security guard doesn’t look too concerned as he ambles over. This happens all the time—a cashier forgets to take the magnetic tag off an item—no big deal. Half the time, it’s an item from another store anyway. Dad stops obligingly to show the guard the contents of his shopping bags.