Bounce

  “Well,” she says finally, “love is complicated.”

  Then she tells me about the day her mother died. It was cancer, she says, and it happened fast—only a few months after the diagnosis. They set up a bed in the living room, a real hospital bed, with a morphine drip attached.

  She says that her father never left her mother’s side, not once. He slept in the bed with her. He fed her ice chips. He refused to hire a nurse. “This is my wife,” is what he said. “In sickness and in health.” Eleni tears up a little when she says this and blows her nose on the burger wrapper.

  She describes what her mother looked like in the end—the gray cast of her skin, the sunken eyes, the bald patches—but her father still said, “Good morning, beautiful,” the way he always had. He still kissed her on the lips.

  They were so in love, Eleni says, that she, an only child, sometimes felt excluded. On that day, she ran home to see her mother—she had a poem she’d written in English class, and she wanted to read it; her mom loved poetry—but her father wouldn’t let her come in. He’d said they wanted some time alone—why didn’t she go clean the bathroom and come back later? But there was no later. Her mother died while Eleni was scrubbing the bathtub.

  “The single most defining moment of my life, and I missed it for something ordinary. This mundane task, scrubbing the tub.” Her voice gets soft. “I never got to say good-bye.”

  I’m afraid she might cry again, but her face looks calm.

  “Were you mad?” I ask. “At your dad?”

  She nods. “For a long time. It took me years before I realized he wasn’t being selfish; he was trying to protect me. I had to be a parent myself before I fully understood. Parents will do anything to protect their children.”

  She looks straight at me. “It’s the most powerful form of love there is.”

  I wait for her to make her point, to tie everything together in a neat little bow, but she doesn’t.

  All she says is, “You’ll understand one day. When you become a mom, you’ll see.”

  She goes back to the fries, and that’s when I realize I need to know more. I can’t believe I want her to keep going, but I do.

  “Did your dad get married again?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “He was never the same after that. He just…checked out. It was a very lonely time, for both of us. I think…” She pauses, swallows. “I know that’s why I wanted to have a lot of kids. I never wanted to be that alone again.”

  “You couldn’t be alone in your house if you tried,” I say. “And believe me, I’ve tried.”

  She smiles. “It can be a challenge.”

  Then she asks if having my own room would make any difference. She could move her study into the den—or, if I’d be willing to wait until fall, when Thalia leaves for college, I could have the attic.

  I can’t believe she’s offering this. I can’t believe how nice she’s being.

  Please, I think. Don’t make me like you.

  “I stole money from your purse,” I blurt out, “that night I took off. A lot of money. And I spent it.”

  She nods, as though she already knew. “I’m glad you told me,” she says. “Thank you.”

  No matter what I say, no matter how much of a juvenile delinquent I am, she doesn’t get mad.

  I look at her. “If you want to ground me, you can. I don’t have a job or anything, so I don’t know how I’d pay you back, but—”

  “I’m not worried about the money. You’ll make it up to me.”

  “How?” I say.

  She pats her belly. “Babysitting.” Big smile. “Hours and hours of babysitting.”

  We’re home. Eleni wedges her car into a parking spot, turns off the ignition, and unsnaps her seat belt.

  Just as she’s opening the door, the words fly out of my mouth. “I think I remember her smell.”

  She turns to me. Her eyes say, Go on.

  So I try to describe it—the lemon-lavender-vanilla-wafer combo that is Stella. “It’s like…here’s what it is: walking into a flower store and a bakery at the same time.”

  “Mmm,” she says. “That sounds nice.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “No.” Her face is serious. “No, I don’t.”

  I look at her and see that there are lines around her mouth, but they are nice lines—laugh lines. And her eyes are hazel like mine, which I never realized. I always thought they were plain brown. And there’s a blob of ketchup in her hair.

  This gives me the nerve to keep going. I tell her I used to talk to my mom sometimes, when I was younger. Not anymore, though.

  Eleni raises her eyebrows as if to ask, Why not?

  “I guess I grew up,” I say.

  She nods. Then, apparently, she changes her mind because now she’s shaking her head.

  “What?” I say.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think you ever outgrow needing your parents.”

  In the silence that follows, I think of all the possible questions I could ask. What does she miss about her mom? What happened to her father? And how about her ex-husband—the one who didn’t want to do the “parenting thing” and ran off with Tiffany the nineteen-year-old? Does she still love him? Did she keep the wedding photos or burn them?

  Finally, I decide.

  “Why my dad anyway?” I ask. “Why’d you marry Birdie?”

  And what I’m thinking is, Please don’t tell me it’s just because you were pregnant.

  She smiles, and I see that she’s looking at the weirdo standing by the curb—in his overalls and safety goggles, waving a hammer. There’s sawdust in his hair and a big green paint smudge on his cheek. He’s chewing something and grinning maniacally at the same time. Any sane person would see him and think, Okay, what nuthouse let him out?

  “Come on,” Eleni says, laughing as Birdie pretends to hammer the windshield. “What’s not to love?”

  I think, You got that right.

  But when she gets out of the car to kiss him, I make my eyes roll skyward. I make my mouth say, “Will you guys cool it? God.” The opposite of how I’m really feeling.

  At dinner, I’m choking down a lamb kebab when Phoebe goes ballistic. “Eyelash!” she screams, practically poking me in the eye with her skewer. “Eyelasheyelasheyelash! Make a wish!”

  “I don’t make wishes,” I say. “I don’t believe in them.”

  She gives me a crushed look, like I just told her I stomp puppies for fun.

  There’s a barrette in her hair—a green plastic turtle—that reminds me of how young and clueless she is. Of course she still believes in wishes, and the tooth fairy, and world peace. She’s still innocent. She hasn’t figured out how messy and scary and sad life can be.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine. Where is it?”

  I let her wipe the eyelash off my cheek and transfer it from her pinky to mine.

  “Close your eyes,” she says. “You have to close your eyes.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don’t need some pip-squeak telling me about wishing. I’ve been wishing twice as long as she’s been alive. I’m a professional.

  Close the eyes.

  Breathe in.

  And there it is. The only wish I have ever wished. The wish that’s so familiar, it’s like the security blanket Jules’s sister, Agnes, has slept with for twenty years. It’s a grayish, motheaten scrap that smells like eggs—but she took it with her to Yale anyway.

  I picture myself at twenty, going to sleep in my dorm room with the same ratty old wish curled up next to me. It makes me sad to think about it.

  So I try to think of a new one. I tell myself that the next wish that pops into my head will be it. And when I hear what it is, I’m surprised—shocked, really—but I decide to use it anyway.

  Please let this baby be healthy. Thanks.

  Then I open my eyes and blow that eyelash into oblivion.

  In bed, with the sweater twins snoring away in the background, I try to picture the baby. Like one of those m
ismatch puzzles with the body parts, I pair Eleni’s curly hair with Birdie’s beak nose; his big ears with her cupid’s bow mouth; her hips, his chicken legs. It’s not pretty.

  Then I picture a clear night like tonight, when I will wrap the kid up in a blanket—something yellow and fleecy, with ducks—and we’ll go out into the backyard. The stars won’t be anything great, not like Maine, but maybe we’ll lie down on the ground anyway and look up. I’ll hold its little dumpling hand and say, “Look, there’s the Big Dipper. See? And the North Star.” And it’ll turn to me and smile with its gums, like an old fogy, and I’ll say, “That’s right. Polaris.”

  Probably something annoying will happen after that. Eleni will come out with some baklava, or one of the sweater twins will chuck the other one’s curling iron out the window. But we will have had our moment anyway. Me and my baby sister. Or brother. Or whatever it is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Six A.M. and I’m already up. It’s cold in the backyard. There’s frost on the lawn chairs. I can see my breath.

  I don’t know why my brother came out here to sit with me, but he did. Probably because no one else is awake yet and he’s bored.

  “So,” I say, “tonight’s the night, huh?”

  Mackey doesn’t say anything. He just yanks up his collar over his ears and nods.

  “Where’s the dreamcoat, Joey? Shouldn’t you be, you know, getting into character right about now?”

  Grunt.

  “Jules is coming. Her train gets in at three-fifty. Linus is picking her up. Can you believe she’s finally coming to Boston? I mean, it’s been—”

  “I can’t do it,” he says, cutting me off.

  I turn to face him. “What?”

  “I can’t get up in front of all those people and sing tonight.”

  “Well,” I say, “you should have thought about that in September. It’s a little late now.”

  But I can see how panicky he is. His eyes are all blinky, and his fingernails are bitten-down stumps, and I feel bad.

  “Hey,” I say. “Nerves are a good thing, right?”

  Mackey doesn’t answer. He stares at Clam’s empty doghouse for a while. Chews on his nails. Stares. Chews.

  Finally, he turns to me. “Want to know something crazy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When Birdie told us we were moving, I was happy.”

  I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I thought, okay, maybe I don’t have to be the class dork anymore. Nobody knows me there. I could reinvent myself. Dress different. Act different. I could be anyone, you know? So when Thalia dragged me to that audition I thought, what the hell? Why not? So I tried out. I just didn’t think I’d…I didn’t expect to get the part.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  It’s not what Mackey’s saying; it’s the fact that he’s talking to me at all that’s mind-boggling. And he’s not even done talking yet. He actually keeps going.

  “Not that I’m not glad I got the part. I mean, I am. Do you know people talk to me at school now? Even the so-called popular kids? They call me Joseph.”

  I snort a little at this. I can’t help it.

  “I know,” Mackey says. “But it’s better than Pizza Face.”

  “True.”

  I squint at my brother, trying to see him through new eyes. His hair is brushed for once. And his face is almost clear—no more pepperoni nose.

  “Hey,” I say. “Your skin looks better. I’m not just saying that, it really does.”

  “Yeah. Clio gave me some kind of cream.”

  “Really? Clio?”

  “Yeah.”

  He goes on to tell me how he finally has a table to sit at for lunch, with the theater crowd. Thalia sits there, too. And this guy Pete. And this girl Sandra, who’s gorgeous. There’s a whole bunch of them. Finally, it seems, he’s beginning to fit in.

  “So…” I say. “Most people would call that a good thing.”

  “Right,” he says.

  “So?”

  “It’s so good I don’t want to screw it up. I can’t afford to screw it up. But what if I do? What if tonight, I suck?”

  I can see how freaked out he is, and I want him to believe me when I say, “You won’t suck. You’ll be great.”

  “Mmf.”

  “What is it people in showbiz say? Break a leg? Well, that seems like bad karma to me. Break a leg. I’m not going to tell you to twist an ankle and fall down on the stage, writhing in pain. That’s just wrong.”

  “It’s supposed to be ironic,” Mackey says. “Reverse psychology. For luck.”

  “I don’t care what it is. I’m not saying it. And me not saying it will bring you luck. Reverse reverse psychology.”

  “You’re weird, you know that?”

  “You think I’m weird,” I say, “you should see what the freak shows in there are wearing tonight.” I flip a thumb toward the house.

  “What? The GLUE shirts?”

  “Oh, no. Worse.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see,” I say. “After your spectacular, awe-inspiring, Tony-caliber performance tonight, you’ll see what those people are wearing. And you’ll run screaming in the other direction.”

  “Ah.” Mackey nods. “Those people.”

  I remind him that I don’t enjoy participating in any rah-rah family-bonding activities. “All we do around here lately is act like idiots,” I say. I cite the most recent offense: Birdie’s birthday, when we all went out to dinner at Spaghetti Freddie’s wearing “I Love Al” buttons that lit up and played the Macarena.

  “It’s humiliating, Mack. It’s mortifying being with them in public.”

  “Come on,” he says. “You had fun. Admit it.”

  “No. I hate the Macarena. I only danced for Birdie.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “So, will you be wearing tonight’s mystery outfit?”

  “Please. Like I have a choice. Like anyone has a choice in this family.”

  My brother smiles. He hardly ever smiles. It’s weird.

  “What?” I say.

  “You do realize you just called them your family.”

  “What? No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “So?” He says this in a teasey voice, the way brothers are supposed to, to drive their sisters crazy.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “It was nice of them to have that party for Birdie. I had an okay time. Whatever.”

  Mackey says, “Whatever.”

  He is still grinning, and I am deciding whether I want to hit him right now. I decide not to, but only because tonight is his big night and I feel bad for him.

  “You can shut up now,” I say. “And I’ll make you oatmeal.”

  The auditorium is packed. It’s opening night, a sold-out show, and I’m so nervous for Mackey I can hardly breathe. Thankfully, Jules is here to distract me.

  “Your brothers are so hot. I can’t believe you never told me how hot your brothers are.” She doesn’t even bother keeping her voice down.

  “Stepbrothers,” I whisper. “Please.”

  “Still,” she says. “Hubba hubba.”

  I consider telling her about my Linus crush, then think better of it. That is yesterday’s news. So, apparently, is Pamela, because tonight he showed up with a new girl, Clementine.

  “Like the fruit?” Phoebe asked at dinner.

  “Like the folk song,” Linus said.

  Of course Birdie couldn’t contain himself. He had to bust out “Oh, my darlin’” at the top of his whistle. He kept it up all through dinner, until Clio finally lost it. “Al! You’re driving us nuts!”

  “Okay,” he said, and stopped. But now he’s at it again. I can hear him, four seats over, whistling away.

  “I can’t believe your dad,” Jules says. “He looks completely different. He’s so…dapper.”

  “I know,” I say.

  I look at Birdie, in his white oxford shirt and khakis and mustache.
The mustache is new. It’s supposed to be a compromise between the beard and nothing, but nobody likes it. Well, Phoebe does, but she’s the only one. Right now, she’s on his lap. Normally, she would be sitting on Eleni, but there’s no room anymore. This baby is going to be a bruiser. Already, we are placing bets. My guess is fifteen pounds, three ounces. If I win, it’s no diaper duty for the first month.

  “I can’t believe any of it,” Jules says. “You have, like, this whole new family. It’s so weird.”

  “I know.”

  I look at everyone. The GLUE Crew. We take up an entire row.

  I look at Thalia and Cleanser Boy and Linus and Eleni and Birdie and Phoebe and the sweater twins—who I can finally tell apart; it’s all about the tiny mole on Cassi’s left cheek. The “carcinoma-waiting-to-happen,” as Clio calls it. (“Shut up, Clio! It’s a beauty mark!”)

  When Ajax catches my eye, he grins and rolls his fingers around each other in a circle.

  I make a throttling gesture back at him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jules says. “What are you doing? Sign language?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s stupid.”

  So stupid. Ajax came to my room a few nights ago and said he knew something I didn’t know. He knew someone who liked me—someone who thought I was “sassy.”

  Jules snorts. “Sassy?”

  “Yeah. And when I asked him who, he gave me a hint. Toilet paper.”

  “That was his sign for toilet paper?”

  “I told you it was stupid.”

  “So,” she says. “Who is it?”

  “No one. He’s messing with me. It’s probably some brastuffing joke. Eighth-grade boys are so mature.”

  “Come on. You don’t know anyone with the initials T.P.?”

  I look at her. “What?”

  “Toilet paper. T.P.”

  Oh my God.

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head.

  Travis Piesch likes me.

  “What?” Jules says.

  “Nothing.” Travis Piesch likes me. “Just this kid in my Latin class.”

  “Johnny Depp’s dork-twin?”

  “Uh-huh.”