Plus Kippy has her favorite books here—all nonfiction stuff like The True Story of Dirt. She refuses to read anything that's "fake." I have a TV and an Exer-cycle my mother installed smack in front of it. My mother is subtle, isn't she?
With our rabbits, Mr. and Mrs. Bunn, munching happily on their dinner, Kippy heads for her chair and cracks open The Wonderful World of Worms. I move a chair over to the TV and click it on. Every day my mother takes the chair away. Every day I drag it back. Today I push the Exercycle so hard it nearly tips over.
"You okay, Krypton One?" Kippy asks over the sound of my channel surfing.
"I'm okay, Krypton Two."
Surprise, surprise, my dad is home tonight. I scoot into our breakfast nook, where we always eat dinner. The chairs in the dining room are white silk. Even my mother is afraid to sit on them.
"So," my father says, sawing his chicken very carefully, as if he is being judged on how straight he cuts, "how are my brilliant girls? Studying hard, I trust?"
"Yes, Daddy," Kip says.
"And you, Kirsten? How's the math going? Do you want some help?"
I shake my head fast. I'd rather flunk than make a mistake in front of him. Drowning, smothering, and burning to death would be better, too.
"Tell your father to leave you alone," my mom says.
"Tell your mother I'm just asking," he tells me.
Here we go again. "Hey, guess what?" I say. "I'm going to school Saturday morning for ... extra credit."
"Extra credit?" he asks hopefully.
"Okay, well, it isn't exactly extra credit. More like detention but, hey, that's close enough, isn't it?"
He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Kippy jumps in. "You didn't ask about second grade. We are doing an in-deep study of the letter P. P is very important. How could you spell psoriasis without a p? Jenna W. said everyone knows psoriasis starts with an s. And I said, excuse me but it starts with a p. I can spell all the McKenna diseases: Corns. C-o-r-n-s. Vaginitis. V-a-g—"
"No. Oh please. You didn't say that," my mother interrupts, her neck flushed.
Kippy nods, her little face dead serious.
"What did Mrs. Hamsterhead say?" I ask.
"Mrs. Hamstall." Kippy glares at me. "She said some words you only spell in private, but how's she going to know I can spell them if I only spell in private?"
"All right, Kippy, we get the idea," my mother says.
"Ask your mother how her day was," my father says to me.
My mother's eyes drop to her plate.
"Tell your father who we saw today," my mom says.
"Who did we see today?" I ask her.
"The new boy," my mom says.
"Mom, what was that all about, anyway? It almost seemed like you were trying to chase down his mom's car."
"I'm the new volunteer coordinator," my mom snaps.
"Yeah, so? His mom didn't volunteer for anything and now you have a warrant out for her arrest?"
My father laughs, a weird laugh like maybe he's choking.
"I just want to meet her is all," my mother says. She gets up from the table and grabs the plates. If you want to finish a meal at our house, you have to bolt your plate to the table or my mom will whisk it away.
"What's for dessert, you might be wondering? Anybody wondering?" she asks. "I've got some delicious kiwi for Kirsten and me. And I brought home a boysenberry pie for Kippy and..." My mother sticks two pieces of pie in the microwave.
"Tell your mother I've got my heart set on a bowl of Snickers ice cream," my father says.
All the blood drains out of my face. "You know, I think I'll have the kiwi later, Mom. I'm going to get cracking on my homework." I scooch in my father's direction hoping he'll get the hint and move out of my way.
My mom's eyes waver. A line appears between her eyebrows.
"Excuse me, Dad, could I get by?" I ask as politely as I can.
"Tell your father I got the pie fresh from the bakery. It will taste a lot better today than it will tomorrow." My mom presses at her temple with her thumb.
"Tell your mother I'd rather have my ice cream." My father points his spoon at me.
The microwave chirps. Kippy's lips start moving. She is probably reciting insect subgroups. She does this when they fight. My father stands up, and I get out of there as fast as I can.
"Tell your father your sister ate his ice cream," I hear my mother tell Kippy as I climb the stairs. "Tell him your sister has gained thirty pounds in the last six months. Tell him maybe he should ask himself why."
"You're going to blame me for that? Why not just blame me for global warming, too?"
"Oh yes, you're totally blameless..."
I shut the door of my room so I can't hear them anymore. Then I take all the clothes out of my dresser. I fold each piece and put it back in the drawer as neatly as I can.
I do this perfectly. Totally and completely perfectly.
Six
Walk
How did it go?" Sylvia asks. She takes the day off just so she can pick up Walk at 3:00 instead of at 5:30 like she usually does. Sylvia tries to pretend it's no big deal, but she never takes a day off for something like this. Never.
"Fine."
"Who did you meet?"
"Kids."
"And their names are?"
Walk frowns at her.
"But it went all right?" she asks.
"It went fine."
Sylvia sighs. She pulls into the 7-Eleven and hands Walk a five. "Get whatever you want."
Sylvia is handing him money for junk food...now that's unusual.
Soon as Walk enters the store, the guy comes out from behind the counter. He follows Walk down the aisle to the chips and stands making a lot of noise straightening the fruit pies while Walk picks out his snack. The guy's an idiot. Somebody could steal the whole cash register while he makes sure Walk doesn't stuff a pastry in his pocket.
He follows Walk to the cooler where he gets his Gatorade and then back to where Walk puts his stuff on the counter. The guy's shoes make a squooshy sound like his socks are wet.
"That everything?" the man asks. That's what clerks always say, Walk reminds himself, but he knows the words are meant differently for him. He's not sure why this bugs him so much. It happens all the time.
Back in the car, Walk slams the door and rips open the pastry with his teeth.
"You in a mood now?" Sylvia asks.
Walk doesn't answer.
When they get home, Sylvia gets out of the car and marches all around it to make sure nobody scratched up her baby. She does this every day.
"Jamal called," Sylvia says as she unlocks the door to their apartment.
Jamal's the cousin everyone figured would go to Harvard and end up some big important guy. Aunt Shandra always used to say: "You watch Jamal, Walk, you do what he does." Shan doesn't have kids but she has a million opinions on how they're supposed to be raised. She used to like Jamal, but now she's all over him about everything. Though he is acting kind of strange lately. He's either all secretive or trying to sell you something. Jamal will sell you your own shoes right off your feet and while he's at it, your socks.
Walk grabs the phone and dials. "Hey, Jamal," Walk says.
"How you doin'? Look man, I'ma come over tonight, got something I want to talk to you about. Somethin' important."
Sylvia's in the bathroom with the shower on. "Can Jamal come over?" Walk shouts through the door.
"When?"
"Now."
"No." She turns the shower off. "I'm goin' out tonight. I don't want him over if I'm not here."
Walk goes back to the phone. "Can't," he tells Jamal.
"Why not?"
"Sylvia."
"This ain't your ordinary thing here. This a chance of a lifetime. You could be rich the end of this month you listen to me."
"You still owe me from the last time," Walk says.
"Oh that? That was nothin'. Don't pay any attention to that. This, this i
s good. This is so good."
"I can't," Walk says.
"Fine, man, fine. But you pass on this one, you be sorry. Everybody at school is doin' it ... and they're all askin' about you, too."
"What you tell 'em?"
"I told 'em you're too good for us now."
"I always been too good," Walk says.
"Yeah, you butthead. Why'd I call, anyway?"
"I don't know, man."
"So hey, what's it like?" Jamal asks.
"Different. Really different. Kids go to Turkey for the summer and, you know, Barcelona and New Zealand."
"B.T. went to Ohio."
"He like it?"
"Said it was so hot it melted his shoes right off his feet. Call me when I can come over, okay?"
"Okay."
"Where you goin', anyway?" Walk asks Sylvia after he hangs up. She has the ironing board out and she's pressing her best red dress.
"Dinner."
"Who with?"
"With whom."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, and I want you to say it correctly," she says.
"With whom."
"No one I'm interested in."
"Why you going, then?"
"Because," she says, her hand jumping around like it wants to hold a cigarette. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth. Sylvia quit smoking a year and a half ago. She puts a smiley face on the calendar every day she doesn't smoke.
Walk checks to make sure she has enough nicotine gum. "You're not going to smoke, are you?"
She chews hard. "Nope."
"Be home early?"
She laughs. "I ever home late? I left you a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes. All you have to do is warm it up. I don't want you going out and I don't want you inviting anyone in. Understand?"
Walk rolls his eyes. "Who am I going to invite in? I already told Jamal no."
"You know who I'm talking about."
"I play ball with guys from up the hill once and you're still makin' a federal case about it."
"I'm not doing anything of the kind. I'm simply stating the rules. Keep the door locked; stay inside. Any problems, call my cell."
"Okay, sure, I'll keep you posted: 6:05, chewing. 6:06, swallowing. 6:07, burping. 7:00, taking a leak."
She makes a yap, yap, yappin' motion with her hands, then she swings out the door, her skirt rustling all noisy when she walks. Her high heels clickety-clacking as they pop on and off her heels.
Sylvia goes out like dating is a holiday comes once a year. After every date she says: "Not a keeper. Wouldn't hold a candle to your dad." And that's the end of that until the next year.
Walk never met his dad. He was an Air Force casualty, died before Walk was born. It was "friendly fire" got him. Who thought that name up, anyway? Is it supposed to make him feel better that a friend shot his father?
What Walk has from his dad are three pictures. "How come that's all?" Walk asked Sylvia once. "Your husband, the daddy of your child, and all you have is three pictures? What, they didn't invent the camera yet?"
"Mr. Funnyman," Sylvia said.
Not one of them is a wedding picture, either. She married him, though. Sylvia's maiden name is Roodel-man; she was ready to marry at eight months old just to get rid of that name.
Walk's dad was smart and he was slick, too. He could tell a girl she's butt ugly and make it sound like the best news she ever heard. His life was charmed, Sylvia said, and then he died.
One picture is of Climpton in his Cub Scout uniform. He's nine or so and he looks like he just tied your shirttail to the toilet flusher and he's waiting for you to find out. Number two has him with his arm around Sylvia. When Sylvia sees this one, she smiles and says, "He was a handsome devil, wasn't he?" Number three Walk calls Climpton Jones and the Fence; his dad was just leaning in that one. Leaning and thinking.
Walk would give every last CD he owns to know what was inside his dad's head right then.
Seven
Kirsten
My sweater shelf is neat now, too. I'm starting on my dresses when my cell rings. I can't flip it open fast enough. It's got to be Rory.
But it's not Rory, it's Gwyneth Paltrow asking me to support cystic fibrosis. Gwyneth Paltrow has never called me before. It sounds like she's really talking to me, too. I can't wait to tell Rory about this, but when I dial, her line goes right to voice mail. Not again. She's going to be sorry if Gwyneth Paltrow can't get through.
Now Kippy knocks her Kippy code. She says it's Morse code for "Kippy is here." Knowing Kippy it probably is Morse code for "Kippy is here."
I open the door and she comes in with a bag of books and her old tattered baby blanket. She settles in on my bed.
"Do all parents fight this much?" she asks.
"I don't think so."
Kip sighs an old-lady sigh—deep and long. "So why are they like this?"
I shake my head. "I dunno. It's a lot worse than it used to be."
She nods extra big like she's agreeing as much as she can.
Once I tried to tell my mom how much it bothers Kip when they fight. But she said, "Don't be silly, all parents fight. It's natural and all kids have to get used to it."
"Hey," I tell Kip, "you want to color my hand?"
I get out my washable markers and she begins to draw warts, chicken pox, and Band-Aids all up and down my arm.
"I wonder what leprosy looks like?" she asks as she begins work on my other arm.
She's just about done when there's another knock on the door. This will be my mother. She's due in to give me a little talking-to about eating Dad's ice cream.
"Come in," Kippy says before I can stop her.
But it's not her, it's him. He's brought his guitar along.
"Yay!" Kippy cheers, leaping off my bed to hug our father. I feel the same way. It's been such a long time since he's sung to us.
He slides the embroidered band around his shoulder. It says WAR IS NOT GOOD FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS. He sits down on my chair, takes out his pick, and slowly tunes each string. Kippy and I snuggle close together on my bed like we always do when he plays. Then he starts in with "Blowin' in the Wind,"
"Come Together," and "Eleanor Rigby." He doesn't know many songs and they are all ancient. But we don't care. The only part we don't like is when he stops.
"I love when he's our dad," Kippy whispers after he's gone.
"Yeah," I say. "Me, too."
Eight
Walk
The bell rings and Ms. Scrushy comes in. Ms. Scrushy is like a ball flying fast down the stairs. She walks fast, talks fast, even takes quick gulps from her water bottle. This is one wired woman—even her hair is wound tight.
Right away she reassigns the seats in alphabetical order. Yesterday they sat by zodiac signs. How's she going to seat them tomorrow? By blood type?
Walk takes his new seat. Brianna Hanna-Hines is right in front of him. She's wearing a SAVE THE SALMON T-shirt. She looks good, her hair all shiny ... smells good, too—like coconuts. She should be in a commercial for something. Walk would buy it, whatever it is.
Ms. Scrushy hands out booklets. "Writers' notebooks," she says. "We will be writing in them the first ten minutes of class every day."
Jamal always tells Walk, in English class you got to write something sad: somebody died, you miss your grandpa, your momma works three jobs, boo-hoo, boo-hoo. Teachers eat that up with a big spoon. Walk wonders if Ms. Scrushy is the big-spoon type.
"Write the quote in your notebooks." She writes on the board. "Then write the first thing that comes to your head. This is warm-up writing. I want two paragraphs, minimum."
Walker Jones
September 1
"If you give a person a fish, he eats for a day. If you teach him to fish, he eats for a lifetime."
I don't know how to fish. I guess I'm going to starve.
I did own a goldfish once. He lived for a week and then I found him floating belly up. Nothing on Google about giving mouth-to-mouth
to a goldfish. Fish are slimy; their mouths are too small. And what if he was dead? Who wants to put your lips on a dead fish's lips? Nobody likes their fish that much.
Sylvia said the Lord's Prayer. Then she flushed my fishy down the toilet. Sylvia taught me something important that day. How to flush. I will know this all my life now.
Walk wonders if Ms. Scrushy has a sense of humor. He thinks she does. People with large red glasses can't take themselves too seriously.
Ms. Scrushy has her glasses in her hand now. She's waving them around as she talks to the librarian. The librarian's name is Mrs. Dora Perkins but Matteo said everyone calls her Dorarian the librarian. Walk tries to follow what she is saying, but he can't because now Brianna has her elbow on his desk.
Nice elbow.
Walk forces himself to concentrate on Dorarian. She's wearing lots of fake blue fur. Blue fur shoes. A blue fur vest.
Think blue fur. Do not think hot girl with elbow on his desk.
"I nominate Walk," Hair Boy says.
Uh-oh. For what?
"Anyone second the nomination?" Dorarian asks.
"I do," Jade says, shaking her two-toned hair.
"Good. Other nominations?" Dorarian looks around. "No other nominations. Walk, do you accept your position?" Dorarian's strange gold eyes bug out at him from behind her blue glasses.
Brianna is turned around staring at him, too. What has he been nominated for? Taking out the trash?
Walk spins off his best smile. "Yes, of course," he says.
"Good. First student council meeting tomorrow after school."
Walk taps Hair Boy's shoulder. "I'm the student council representative?"
Hair Boy laughs. "Yeah, dude, where you been?"
Nine
Kirsten
When my mom drops me off on Saturday, I see Rory's brown straight ponytail. She was late on Tuesday, but she didn't say she'd be here today. "Hey, Rory!" I try to catch up, walking as fast as I can without jiggling.