Short

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

  I don’t have a favorite word or a favorite letter, but I have a least favorite, which is the letter A. It feels angry. I don’t get many A’s in school. So maybe that caused me to turn against the vowel. Examples of A words are “anthill” and “aloof.” People who are aloof aren’t being nice. Mrs. Vancil told Simone Busching to stop being so aloof to Poppy Ruff, who was the new kid last year.

  At dinner I now ask for seconds on the spaghetti, which we are eating on our blue plates that have dividers. They once belonged to Grandma Mittens, but at a certain point she announced, “I’m not cooking for anyone but me anymore. Take the plates.”

  I thought it was a joke, but she was serious, because we have seven of these things. There were eight in the set, so I guess she kept one.

  Tim asks a lot of flying questions, but never again uses the word “crotch,” which is a good thing.

  I’m wondering if he wishes he wasn’t regular-sized and could have tried out for the play, because he says, “Maybe I’ll come see you as a Munchkin-monkey.”

  Mom looks at him like he’s from outer space. She says, “Of course you’re going to see your sister and your brother. It’s Summer Stock Theater!”

  His eyes rise up in a blank way from his plate. It’s what Grandma Mittens calls “his patented stare,” and by that she means it’s something only he can do.

  I don’t feel jealous, because I have no interest in making my face look like a piece of cardboard.

  Dad then says, “Tim, you’re going to be supportive of your little brother and sister.”

  I add, “You’re also going because it’s a great piece of entertainment directed by Shawn Barr.”

  Tim chews spaghetti for a while, and he finally speaks. He says, “Julia, pass the garlic bread.”

  There is no garlic bread. I think this is funny, so I lift an imaginary breadbasket and hold it out to Tim. I say, “Don’t take the burnt piece. I have my eye on that.”

  This causes Tim to break his stare and laugh. He pretend-lifts the fake breadbasket and uses one hand to hold it, and another hand to pull back an imaginary cloth. He raises the invisible bread to his nose.

  “Very garlicky. Just how I like it.”

  And then we all laugh.

  This goes on for a while until my mom gets to her feet and heads into the kitchen. She says, “You win. I’m taking bread out of the freezer for garlic toast. Consider it dessert.”

  Tim looks over at me and in a low voice says, “Don’t worry. I’m coming to watch you fly, Jelly.”

  That’s what he always used to call me, but doesn’t anymore: Jelly.

  Of course, my name is Julia, but I guess when he was a little kid, “Jelly” was easier. I almost tell him that my stage name is now Baby, but I stop myself.

  I don’t want to suddenly be known as Jelly Baby around the house. And that could happen. I’d be a donut for the rest of my life.

  After dinner is cleaned up, Mom makes the call to Mrs. Chang and sets up a meeting. I don’t listen to what she says because I have a good show to watch on television. But she comes in with the news that Mrs. Chang is interested in getting together.

  I then call Olive, and she says she will tell Gianni. Mom told Mrs. Chang that I was coming over to ask costume questions and that I was bringing other people “associated with the play.”

  I’m a Munchkin and a flying monkey and the lead dancer. Also, right now you could say I’m sort of responsible for part of the costuming. Mrs. Chang is probably getting the idea that I’m kind of important to the whole production.

  This is an example of how when you’re involved in projects, one thing leads to another.

  I want to go over this with Mrs. Vancil, but it’s summer and also she’s not going to be my teacher anymore, so I have to stop thinking about new topics to share with her.

  I could discuss it with Grandma Mittens, but she went on a salmon fishing trip for a week with her best friend, Lois. Besides baseball, Grandma Mittens really loves fishing, which to me is as boring as boring gets. And then when it’s finally not boring and you have a fish on the line it turns into a crime scene with a wooden club and a crazy amount of hitting.

  Suddenly I remember something important: Stephen Boyd was a monkey last year for Halloween.

  I’m not sure how I could have forgotten.

  I guess it really is summer and there are many things to think about, not just missing Ramon, or a person named Stephen Boyd, who brings his lunch to school in a green canvas bag with white straps, which is better for the environment than using a different paper sack every day.

  But now the fact that Stephen Boyd was once a monkey feels like a big deal. It also causes me to ask the question: In the movie of The Wizard of Oz were all of the flying monkeys boy monkeys?

  And if they were, does that matter?

  I decide when you look at a real monkey sitting (for example in a zoo), you can’t tell if it’s a girl or a boy. Or at least I can’t because there’s so much fur. I don’t spend a lot of time looking for animal private parts. Plus, our town doesn’t even have a zoo, unless you count the big fenced-in area up in Hendricks Park where three elk and a moose have a muddy life.

  They don’t look very happy, even when I bring them carrots.

  Remembering about Stephen Boyd leads me to go search for pictures of the flying monkeys.

  What I find is a surprise.

  In my mind these creatures were just scary, evil assistants to the Bad Witch. But now I’m able to see photographs on Mom’s computer, and the flying monkeys have on hats and brightly colored jackets. They have crazy long tails, no pants, and gray leggings that are sort of pajamas with feet. On their backs are big wings with lots of feathers.

  The monkeys are dressed like the kind of old-fashioned toy monkey with cymbals that slap together if you turn a key. Grandma Mittens has one of those!

  I’m going to take these pictures to the costume meeting. It might make Mrs. Chang more interested in working on the outfits. She told me that art is often about the unexpected. I had zero idea what she was talking about at the time, but now I’m thinking a clue might be in the way these flying monkeys are put together. They are sort of monkey-birds.

  I go to my room and get the Munchkin shoes that Mrs. Chang made for me. I take them outside, and it’s still warm, so I sit on a chair—but first I lift the cushion because I know for a fact that there are earwigs living there.

  An earwig has never bitten me, but the pincers look very mean. Now that I think about it, I’ve never heard of anyone being bitten by one of these insects. If we have to do a research paper on bugs next year I might pick earwigs. It’s possible they are getting blamed for stuff they didn’t do.

  I slip on my Munchkin shoes. They fit perfectly.

  I stare up at the stars and think about monkey-birds and other hybrids. I used to come out here with Ramon, especially if he had gas, which happened more often than it should have because I gave him people food under the table at dinner.

  He’s gone and I don’t want to soak in those old memories. I won’t be able to get the sad thoughts out of my mind unless I block the feelings by concentrating on the idea of a new pet.

  We aren’t getting a new dog because it’s not a good time right now.

  At least that’s what my mom and dad say every time I ask.

  I stopped asking because I’m trying a new strategy of silence. The old way wasn’t working. Since a new pet is now only going to be alive in my head, I may as well think big. I would love a hybrid animal.

  A great one would be a raccoon that is also part camel.

  Or maybe a bear that is half pony and doesn’t mind a saddle.

  I curl up in the chair. I can still do that like a cat because of my size.

  When I’m in this position, with my knees tucked up against my chest, I can see my beautiful shoes.

&
nbsp; I’m a Munchkin who is also a flying monkey.

  And with my eyes closed, Ramon is right at my side.

  SEVENTEEN

  Iwill have rehearsal in the afternoon as usual, but in the morning Dad is going to take me to see Dr. Brinkman, the orthodontist.

  I don’t want to do this, but there isn’t a choice: All my adult teeth are now in. I don’t have my wisdom teeth, but they will show up in high school or college. Or so they claim.

  I have large teeth, which is interesting because I’m so small. So while I have a little head, I also have a mouthful of choppers. That’s what Grandma Mittens calls them.

  Her front teeth got knocked out when she was in college playing basketball, and what she has on the top aren’t real. But they look okay to me. She says it’s her bridge. They are attached to her real teeth in the back. If I got to name things, I would not call this her bridge because it’s not going over water (unless you think of spit that way).

  Driving in the car across town to the appointment, I know I should feel lucky that my parents have the money to give me a better smile.

  But I don’t.

  I asked my mom and then my dad to wait until The Wizard of Oz is over before they do this to me. Neither of them listened. They said the orthodontist has a schedule for my mouth.

  He is no friend of the theater.

  Everyone in the world knows that a Munchkin or a flying monkey would never have braces on their teeth.

  How will I tell Shawn Barr? I’m afraid that he might not want me in the play when he sees the metalwork.

  My dad pulls into the parking lot of Dr. Brinkman’s office. I say, “You don’t have to come in with me. I’ve been here twice before.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod, then say, “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “We’re proud of you, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

  I’m not sure what he’s proud of exactly at this moment, but I say, “Thanks, Dad.”

  He looks sort of sad suddenly. “You’re growing up so fast. Braces. Can you believe it?”

  Since growing hasn’t really been something I do in a fast way, I can’t help but give Dad a look. But I don’t want him to think he’s annoying, so I lean over and kiss his cheek. He always smells good. It’s sort of a pumpkin pie smell.

  He says, “Go get ’em, Julia.”

  I’m glad I didn’t try one last time to talk him out of making me get my teeth straightened. We shouldn’t both be miserable.

  This is a very grown-up attitude, and it fades as soon as I’m inside the building.

  The first thing that happens is a woman sitting behind the counter tells me to brush my teeth. I just brushed at home, but I guess they don’t trust me.

  I would say that we are getting off on the wrong foot. That expression didn’t make much sense to me until I had to learn dance steps. Now I know for real that you can get off on the wrong foot. I do it a few times at every rehearsal.

  When I come out of the bathroom holding my new toothbrush, which I guess I’m supposed to take home, I’m told that I will be getting more X-rays today. I follow a different woman into a small room without windows.

  If I were more interested in this kind of thing, I would ask a lot of questions, like, “What exactly are you doing?” But I don’t.

  I just give in to having someone’s thick fingers in my mouth.

  The woman’s hands smell like chemicals. She says only two words to me, but she says them eight times:

  “Bite down.”

  I do. And my teeth crunch a piece of cardboard. Or maybe it’s plastic. I don’t know because I don’t even look when she pulls the thing out. She puts a heavy plastic blanket over me that’s filled with metal, and then she leaves and goes to press her foot on the machine that’s sending magnet-waves through my head.

  Or whatever it’s doing.

  I can’t believe this is good for me if she has to go out of the room to make it happen.

  Once she is done with my teeth, she takes an X-ray of my left wrist.

  This is confusing. I would ask why she is doing it, but I’m not in the mood to make conversation, and also she seems like she’s in a big hurry. I heard someone say that her lunch had arrived, so maybe that’s what’s getting her going so fast. She ordered a Greek salad. I want to tell her that it’s not as if her salad is going to get cold, but I’m not rude.

  I’m supposed to stay still during the wrist part, but I move my arm. It’s only a little bit and the lady doesn’t say anything, so I’m not going to bring it up. She would probably get mad if she had to do it again.

  Now I’m sitting by myself in an examination room, waiting and wondering: Do people who work in dentists’ offices like teeth? Are they interested in gum disease? Or is it a job like washing cars only with a ton more training? How do they deal with the people with bad breath?

  My brother Tim said that Ramon had stinky breath, but it wasn’t true. He smelled like a dog, and that’s just different than a person who eats garlic and onions and doesn’t rinse.

  Plus dogs can’t chew gum to freshen up.

  This gets me thinking as I’m sitting here: How many adults really like their jobs?

  I think Mrs. Vancil enjoys teaching, except for when the kids are bad listeners. And that happens at some point every single day.

  I don’t see my dad in his office, so I have no idea if he likes what he does. I’m actually not even sure how he spends his time doing the insurance stuff. I’m going to be more curious and try to remember to ask what an average day is for him.

  I’m pretty sure my mom really likes her work, but I know she’s stressed out with inventory. At least that’s what she complains about. A lot of the time when she comes home her face is all sweaty and her eye makeup is smudged, which isn’t that great of a look. I don’t tell her that she’s like a raccoon on those days, because it could hurt her feelings.

  I think Shawn Barr loves his job.

  I’m now wondering if there are jobs where a person could eat apricots and then take a walk with an old dog and finally in the afternoon lie down in the grass (that was just mowed) and daydream?

  I would be perfect for that.

  My fantasy-career thinking is interrupted when a woman comes in wearing a white coat. Not a ski jacket, but a medical coat. It’s interesting that they haven’t changed the style of these things (from what I can see on TV shows and movies) in years.

  What if every fall they introduced new coats to the world of medicine?

  I would suggest trying ones with zippers instead of buttons. Or adding ribbons on the sleeves and some lace in nice places. Plus every year would be a new color.

  I bet Mrs. Chang could design a great medical outfit that would really liven up the profession. She’d probably use feathers and duct tape.

  I look over and manage a half smile, but without showing teeth. “I’m waiting for Dr. Brinkman.”

  The woman answers, “I’m Dr. Brinkman.”

  I don’t say anything because the other two times I was here, I met a man named Dr. Brinkman. Who knows what happened to him in six months? We live in a rapidly changing world.

  She then says, “There are two Dr. Brinkmans. My brother is also part of this practice.”

  So that explains it. Maybe one day Randy and I will be dentists or orthodontists together. I can’t see this in our future, but I guess it’s possible. I really can’t imagine being a dentist with Tim, so I don’t even try to picture that.

  I say, “When did you know that you would have a business with your brother? Did you two always want to look in people’s mouths?”

  Dr. Brinkman shakes her head. “Our mother was a dentist. I think we were destined to work with teeth.”

  I want to think later about this idea of being destined for something, because I don’t know if she means h
er mom forced her and her brother to be dentists, or if she means they were a family that studied teeth because of some curse. She could be saying this was their fate.

  My parents don’t believe in that.

  I want to sound helpful, so I say, “I’ve already had my X-rays taken. Even my arm, which might have been a mistake.”

  Dr. Brinkman answers, “We took a wrist X-ray because I’d like to more accurately assess your skeletal age. That may be different from your numerical age.”

  I try to look like I’m following her, but words like “accurately assess” close down my mind. So does the word “numerical.”

  I say, “While you’re waiting for those X-rays, do you think we could move the day that you put the bands on my teeth?”

  Dr. Brinkman smiles.

  I think this is a good sign, but then she says, “We read the X-rays right away. But I do need to take time to look at a few charts for your wrist.”

  I say, “It would be great if you took a month.”

  Dr. Brinkman raises her glasses. I guess she needs them for up-close work, like in my mouth, but now she wants to see more of the rest of me. I would smile, but I know only my fake one would show up on my face.

  “You don’t need to be frightened about getting braces.”

  I tell her, “I’m not scared, but it will wreck everything. I’m in a play at the university theater. I’m a Munchkin in The Wizard of Oz. It’s a semi-professional production.”

  I can see that someone finally is listening to me, because Dr. Brinkman smiles (and she does have perfect teeth) and says, “How long do you need?”

  I answer, “Just a little under six weeks.”

  Dr. Brinkman gets up from the chair. “Dental workers are so often underestimated. We’re compassionate people.”

  I say, “So starting in September would be okay?”

  She has already turned the doorknob to get out of the room. Maybe her Greek salad arrived too.

  “Not a problem, Julia. Tell the front desk that I want your next appointment to be after Labor Day.”