However, “passed away” sounds as if the dead person just went somewhere. I guess that’s true, but still maybe it would be better to say that a person’s life was over since we don’t know what happens next.
I open my eyes and look at Mrs. Chang. “I’m sorry her life ended.”
Mrs. Chang’s voice is very soft. “Yes, I’m sorry too.”
I’d like details about what happened, like how old was this daughter?
I wait.
We drive for a few more blocks, and Mrs. Chang doesn’t put on the radio. I think that she might because her hand goes to the knob, but she stops and puts it back on the steering wheel.
She then says, “She had cancer. She was forty-nine.”
I tell her, “We don’t know how old Ramon was. He was a rescue dog.”
I feel bad right after the words are out, because maybe it’s not right to compare her daughter to Ramon since he wasn’t a person.
But I can’t take the words back.
That’s the problem with saying something before you think it through.
Mrs. Chang pulls the car over to the curb, and there is a long row of empty spaces, so she doesn’t have to move the car back and forth to fit. She’s not that great of a driver when it comes to parking.
Is she mad?
She turns off the engine and looks over at me. Her face is different: It’s longer than usual, and her cheeks aren’t held up right.
I start to cry when I see her.
I guess she does too. I don’t know for sure, because she unhooks her seat belt and moves closer and puts her arms around me, and it feels okay to let the tears come out of my eyes and run down my face and then fall from my chin onto my peasant blouse.
The only thing she says is, “The ducks belonged to Lee. They were my daughter’s pets.”
I can’t stop thinking of the ducks and then of the words “passed away.”
We are all passing away.
Maybe that’s why I’m crying now. The old us is a new us every day, and we have to accept that we will have a beginning and a middle and an end.
I don’t know how long we’re there parked at the curb, but at some point Mrs. Chang stops hugging me and starts the engine.
We drive home without words, and when she drops me off, all she says is, “I’ll see you tomorrow for dress rehearsal.”
I have been thinking carefully what to say, and I’m ready.
My voice is small. I whisper, “Life is a cabaret.”
I don’t even know what this means, but I heard Shawn Barr say it to Mrs. Chang a few days ago and they both laughed.
It works, because she smiles.
I’m guessing a cabaret is a kind of wine.
I hope she’ll have a tall glass.
TWENTY-FIVE
I’m lying on my bed going over all of this when Mom comes into my room and says that Dr. Brinkman called. She and Dad want to talk to me, so I guess she means I’m supposed to follow her.
She does not look mad.
And she does not look sad.
She looks like she has a secret.
That’s strange. I’m trying to figure out what’s such a big deal that my parents need to be together to tell me something about Dr. Brinkman. She was the one who said I could wait before I got my braces. It was my idea, but she went along with it.
I take a seat at the dining room table because Dad is sitting there. Ramon used to get underneath my chair when we were eating. He wasn’t hiding, but I think he felt safe when he was on the rug at my feet.
Also, it was easier to slip him food without people seeing.
Dad is smiling. He says, “You heard Dr. Brinkman phoned?”
I answer, “I’ve been brushing my teeth just like she said. You can check my toothbrush. It’s wet in the morning and at night.”
Mom says, “That’s great, Julia. But she wasn’t calling about that.”
Dad claps his hands together and holds them. He’s excited. “She did a growth chart. It’s based on the dental X-rays and then the bones in your wrist.”
All I can say is, “Okay . . .”
Mom then just sounds like she’s bursting open. “Julia, you have delayed skeletal growth!”
I say, “Am I dying?”
They both laugh.
It’s really inappropriate. Here they are scaring me to death, and they are just plain giggly.
Mom says, “No! Of course not! What we’re saying is that your bones are growing slower than your chronological age. That happens!”
Dad delivers the real news. “The orthodontist thinks you’re going to end up being five feet four inches!”
I look at them. They are just gushing with happiness.
I feel something that I can’t see rise up from the floor, and it hits me hard. It knocks me over and then pulls me out into an invisible ocean. I burst into tears.
I look out through watery eyes, and I see that my parents are in shock.
Mom says, “Honey, what’s wrong?” She jumps up and puts her arm around me, but I can’t stop crying.
I manage to say, “I want to be short.”
And then I slide out of her embrace and run from the room.
They don’t understand.
I’m little but big inside.
I’m Baby.
I can roll up into a ball and fit in the third seat in the car.
I can get into the house through the dog door.
I’m always up front in the school picture.
I’m a Munchkin and the littlest winged monkey.
In Guatemala, the average woman is four feet ten inches. I was thinking about visiting there someday and fitting in. In the U.S. if you are four feet ten inches or less, you qualify for a blue handicapped license plate. It means you can park anywhere and not feed the meter.
My best friend is Olive, and she’s thirty years old and tiny.
Charlotte Brontë was small and so was Queen Victoria.
Mother Teresa was five feet tall on her tallest day.
I want to be like them.
But now I won’t be. I’ll be five feet four inches.
The average woman is America is five feet four inches.
So they are saying I won’t be short. I’ll be average.
• • •
I make Mom and Dad promise not to tell anyone.
It’s okay to have secrets, especially if they are about your own life.
Then I remember that I moved when the lady took the X-ray!
I didn’t wiggle, but my arm shifted. It was like a twitch.
I didn’t say anything because her Greek salad had arrived for lunch.
They believe I’m going to grow, but I don’t think so.
My parents don’t understand why I’m upset, but they at least claim they will keep quiet.
I also made them promise not to tell Grandma Mittens.
I think about telling Mrs. Chang that I moved my arm, but I decide not to.
I’m not going to say anything to Olive or Larry or Quincy either.
Or even Ryan the Lion.
I’m definitely not telling Shawn Barr.
I’d stopped worrying about growing. I used to think about it all the time, but then I became a Munchkin and everything changed. Short people are in charge in Munchkinland.
If I was a regular-sized kid I wouldn’t be welcome there.
TWENTY-SIX
Tonight is opening night.
My mom sticks her head in the room and sees me lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling.
“How’re you doing?” she asks.
I say, “Okay.”
She says, “You’ve got a big night tonight.”
“What’s Randy up to?”
“He rode his bike over to Gene’s.”
I nod like that makes sense to me. But I would never ride my bike anywhere on the day of opening night. I need to think about the words to the songs and the steps to the dancing. I have to practice (in my mind) holding my legs right when the winged monkeys cross the sky and land onstage. I have to concentrate and focus and pretty much worry about everything.
Mom says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I say, “I feel kind of weird. That’s why I’m lying down.”
She says, “I’ll bring you some ginger ale.”
We never have soda in the house! Where is the ginger ale coming from? Did Mom know I would feel sick? She has a lot of secret powers. Maybe it was Grandma Mittens’s idea. She still drinks soda. She got home last week from her fishing trip.
Mom then says, “It’s normal to have butterflies in your stomach.”
I hear her walk down the hall to the kitchen, and I think about this. She does not mean I ate butterflies and they are digesting in a regular way.
How did this saying get started? Did it once really happen?
Maybe a person swallowed a handful of very small butterflies that were alive. The person didn’t chew before swallowing, and when the butterflies made it down the throat and landed in the stomach, they opened their wings. In my mind I see a cave filled with black soup where chewed cereal and banana pieces (which is what I had for breakfast) float around like the remains of a shipwreck.
The butterflies want out.
Maybe they organize and decide to fly together in one direction.
Maybe not.
Maybe they all fly in different directions.
But they aren’t mice or birds—they are butterflies.
You can feel them inside, but it’s not like being kicked because they aren’t strong.
At some point, the insects get too tired to fly and then fall into the black, lumpy broth. I picture a pond at night that formed against a gutter in the street after a heavy rain. A lot of stuff is in that water.
I decide a better saying for what I’m feeling would be: I’ve got moths in my stomach.
Most moths are smaller than butterflies, and they would be easier to swallow without chewing. Also, moths (or at least the ones I’ve seen) have thicker wings. But still—who swallows moths?
Luckily my mom comes back with a glass of ginger ale, and I can forget about the trapped insects and concentrate on having a drink. Ginger ale sometimes makes my nose itch. It might be the bubbles.
I try to see how far I can take my mom’s mood of helpfulness, and so I say, “I bet I’d feel better if I had a bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. Heated.”
She says, “Maybe after you’ve had a good lunch.”
She has her limits.
Randy comes home hours later, and I don’t think he has butterflies or moths anywhere near his stomach. I know he’s had a really fun time this summer, and he now has a new best friend. Randy is so great at being the Mayor of Munchkin City, and he’s got that honey voice and he’s such a natural onstage. I’ve heard other people say that.
I turn to him. “Do you think that you want to be an actor when you grow up?”
He shakes his head.
I say, “But you’re so good in the play.”
He answers, “I want to be a chiropractor. That’s what Gene’s dad does. If that doesn’t work out, I might be an astrologer.”
Then he goes to the living room and watches bad TV. I guess he has a lot of different talents, and one of them is being calm. Who knew he was interested in astrology? I’ve never seen him read his daily horoscope.
I take a shower and carefully use the blow dryer.
I then put my hair into two braids. The style that I’m wearing is to cross the braids on top of my head and hold them down with clips. My flowerpot hat covers my hairstyle, but this is good for the red cap I wear when I’m a winged monkey. I guess I could have dirty hair and still do the same thing, but that doesn’t seem professional.
Somehow five p.m. finally arrives. This is when we have to leave for the theater. Mrs. Chang is going separately. Her friend Stan is coming over to do her monkey makeup. The butterflies reassemble and work together after having taken a nap, and while we’re in the car, they are really trying to get out of my stomach.
Mom pulls up in front of the theater. I can see she’s so excited. Maybe she didn’t get theater opportunities when she was a kid. Randy and I are on the sidewalk when she shouts, “Break a leg, you guys!”
I know that “break a leg” is what you say before an actor goes on in a play. I have no idea why. But is it right to say “break a leg” to someone who is going to be put in a harness and lifted twenty feet off the ground and then flung around high in the air over a hard wooden stage?
I don’t think so.
The butterflies are making me shaky. I lean into the window on the passenger side of the car. I smile at Mom and tell her something I’ve wanted to say all summer.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks for making me try out for this play.”
I think I might just have made being a mother totally worthwhile for her.
I will try to never forget her face. It’s too bad I don’t have a cell phone, because I could have taken a picture and that would have been great for my scrapbook. Mom’s got tears in her eyes and she’s smiling. It’s an amazing look.
I have to remember how powerful it can be to say thank you.
Especially to the people you live with.
They probably least expect it.
Inside the theater everyone else is now telling Randy and me to break a leg. Randy says “Break a leg” right back to them. I stay silent. I don’t want to be rude, so I smile, but do they remember that we all watched Shawn Barr fall off a ladder and be carried out by paramedics?
I’m still fighting the butterflies.
Randy and I walk into the dressing room, and it’s crazy busy. A whole bunch of friends of the theater students have been brought in to help with the Munchkin makeup. We’ve had it on twice for full dress rehearsal, but because there were so many of us, they ran out of time and half the Munchkins never made it through the process in a complete way.
Now this is all for real and all of us get attention. I take a seat on a stool, and a girl tells me to frown. I do. She then has me hold this expression, and she uses a soft brown eye pencil to draw marks.
I stare at myself in the mirror after she is done.
I don’t think I look old.
I look like a kid who had someone scribble on her face.
I don’t want to rock any boats. Even though we aren’t in a boat, this saying at least makes sense. I’m not going to make waves this late in the game. We’re not playing a game and I’ve never spent any time in a sports locker room. It might be like a dressing room in a summer stock theater before opening night.
After all of us have had bad lines put on our faces, we’re taken to the area with the costumes. This is sort of awkward, because even though they separate us girls from the boys, it’s just by a curtain and I can see that Nicky Oldhauser keeps peeking behind the white sheet.
I would tell on him, but no one has time to yell at Nicky Oldhauser.
For some reason the girls have no trouble getting into the outfits, but a lot of the boys need help.
Backstage, I see that people have been bringing flowers for Gillian, which is nice. She is the star of this show, so she should get most of the attention. I can’t help wanting someone to bring flowers to me.
Then I watch a crazy thing happen. Kevin, the banker who is the Wizard, comes in and gives Gillian a kiss!
It’s not a quick kiss; it’s a real one that looks like they are locked together by magnets in their lips.
What’s going on here?
I look over at Olive, and she has also been watching.
I should be getting into ch
aracter and doing voice exercises, which we have been taught. At the very least I should stay out of the way and be quiet, but I go right to Olive and I say, “Did you see that?”
Olive just shrugs.
I whisper, “What do you think is happening?”
“Gillian says Gianni was just a fling,” she tells me. “She’s been seeing Kevin since last weekend. I guess he was helping her get a car loan.”
I’m shocked.
Not about the car loan, because he’s a banker, but I thought Gillian had fallen in love with Gianni. Also, I’m really surprised that Olive isn’t happy. Instead she looks as if none of it matters.
Then Gianni comes into the room.
He’s carrying a huge bouquet of red roses. I’ve never seen flowers like this. These roses have stems that go from my elbow to the floor. A whole rosebush must have been cut down, which seems sort of wasteful.
I hope that Gianni and Kevin don’t get into a fight.
But Gianni walks right past Kevin and Gillian like they don’t exist, and he hands the big bouquet to Olive. I’m standing right next to her.
I’ve never been part of something so exciting.
Olive says, “For me?”
Gianni says, “Of course for you.”
I feel myself swell up inside as if I just got the roses. It’s a great feeling.
Olive takes the bouquet. “Thanks, Gianni.” She says this in a bland way, like maybe he held open the door for her because she was carrying a bag of trash and didn’t have a free hand.
I think I look about a hundred times more excited than she does.
Gianni then tells her, “I’ve got to go check the rigging and the cue sheets.”
Olive nods.
He leaves.
I grab her arm. “Aren’t you happy? This is the greatest! I bet anything Gianni takes you canoeing again!”
Olive shrugs again. “I’m not as interested as I was before.” She carries the roses to the deep sink that the makeup people use, and there isn’t a vase, but on the shelf above is an empty coffeepot. Olive jams the roses inside and leaves the metal container next to the drain. The roses are so long, they make her look even smaller. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t like them.
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