One for the Murphys

  Rainer speaks up. “Does Mandy know that the sun is the center of the universe? I think she thinks it’s her.”

  Mandy glares while the rest of the class laughs.

  Mr. Ruben sobers up a bit. “Uncalled for, Mr. Tibbs.”

  Rainer smiles. “Hey, I’m not afraid to kick some major… backside.”

  “But to what end?” Mr. Ruben laughs and holds his hands up. “No pun intended.” Then he looks at Rainer. “There’s a big distinction there, now isn’t there? There are different ways to change the world. I’m sure, Mr. Tibbs, that you’ll change it for the better.”

  “By moving back to his native planet,” Mandy snaps.

  “Now, now, children.” He leans against his desk. “We’re going to focus on people that have changed the world for the good. Adolf Hitler certainly changed our world forever, but he left behind a wake of trauma and pain.”

  “Maybe he was mad that his parents named him Adolf,” a voice adds.

  Mild laughter.

  Mr. Ruben continues. “But what about Anne Frank?” His body is still jumpy, but his eyes are sad. “Now, this was a girl hunted simply because she was Jewish. Hid from the Nazis for nearly two years. All the while, she keeps a diary that is published two years after the war—a war she did not survive. Yet she says in her diary that she still believed that man was essentially good. That changed the world.”

  A girl speaks. “I understand it was terrible and everything, but how could she change the world by just writing a diary?”

  “Because she put a face to the atrocities of the Nazi death camps. She taught everyone a very poignant lesson of the dangers and horrors of war and prejudice. And… the importance of standing up for what’s right and good in the world.”

  “Like beef jerky?” Rainer asks. No one laughs.

  We stare at a picture of Anne Frank that Mr. Ruben holds up. A girl who could be in any one of our classes. She looks so happy, and I can’t help but wonder if she had any idea what would happen to her. I feel embarrassed ever feeling sorry for myself when I look at her.

  Mr. Ruben turns and puts the photo down on his desk. He turns back around. Slowly. “So… you’ll choose a person that has changed the world for good. It can be from any period in history.” He takes a deep breath. “Any questions so far?”

  Nothing but silent, hunched-over kids.

  Mr. Ruben claps loudly, and I jump. “Now for the good part.” He takes a deep breath. “William Shakespeare, a man who changed the world with his quill pen, loved to write tragedy. Plays dripping with human conflict and emotion. So, in the spirit of the Bard, prepare thyselves, for I am prepared to hurl an emotional plundering.”

  He rubs his palms together again. “I’ve decided that you shall all”—he makes little quotation marks in the air—“suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” He smiles. “I’ve not only chosen your partners, but I’ve given you partners that I know you do not get along with or people you have little in common with.”

  Everyone wakes up. Including me. I can’t work with Rainer. I can’t.

  “Oh yes! I’ll do this—force you together and invite conflict—because I want you to think about what the world would be like if we all worked to understand people who are different than we are.”

  Rainer calls out, “I’m going to work with me, myself, and I! We don’t get along, but for the good of the project…”

  Mr. Ruben smiles. “Actually, you’re going to work with Mandy Fleming.”

  Total relief!

  Mandy slaps her desk with both hands and fumes. “That will be the day!”

  “Actually, that doesn’t fit your rule, Mr. Ruben,” Rainer says. “There’s no denying that Mandy worships me.”

  She whips her head around. “In your dreams.”

  “More like in my nightmares.” He smirks.

  Mr. Ruben begins. “Now, let’s see. Beginning at the top of the list—Ms. Byars. You’ll work with Carley Connors.”

  Total relief turns to panic. I am afraid to look over at her.

  “It’s not fair!” she says.

  “Ah, yes. It’s not fair—the mantra of teenagers everywhere.” He turns to her. “That’s right, my young maiden. Sometimes life isn’t fair. Another lesson to be learned here.”

  He doles out the rest of the partnerships, and from the reactions he gets, he must really notice things about people.

  CHAPTER 16

  If I Throw a Stick, Will You Go Away?

  The doorbell rings. I can feel my armor strengthening. This meeting with Toni over this dumb project has had my stomach in knots since it was assigned two days ago.

  Toni’s hair looks even blacker in the sunlight. She steps past me.

  Mrs. Murphy comes into the foyer. “Well, hello. You must be Toni.”

  “Must be,” Toni says, looking around.

  Mrs. Murphy clears her throat. “Would you girls like anything to eat before you get started?”

  Toni smirks. “No, thanks.” She turns to me. “Let’s get this over with.” She heads toward the stairs and points. “Your room up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Toni takes three steps and turns back. “What are you waiting for? A train?”

  By the time I get upstairs, I know I’m through taking garbage from Toni Byars.

  I’ve prepared a reason for the room’s decor. “I’m staying here temporarily because…”

  “I don’t care. Can we just get on with this already?” She looks upward. “God, I hate Ruben.”

  “We agree on that, anyway.”

  She sits on the bed with a bounce and opens her backpack.

  “Look,” I say. “Why do we have to be at each others’ throats? We have to work together on this thing, and besides, I haven’t even done anything to you.”

  “I have friends. I don’t need any more.”

  I fold my arms. “I never said I wanted to be friends. Get over yourself.”

  “Can we just start this, please?” she asks.

  I stare at her T-shirt. It’s the one with the bright green letters that read WICKED.

  “So what’s with the shirt? Is this a warning to people about your personality?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Are you some sort of witch or something? I’m through taking your garbage even if you do threaten to turn me into a toad.”

  She laughs at me and wiggles her fingers. “I’ll use my special powers to turn you into a superficial bore. POOF! Hey, it worked!”

  I hate her. “Look, Witchy Poo,” I say. “I don’t care about the grade. I’ll take a zero and not blink an eye. But remember, if I take the hit—if I refuse to work with you—you’ll take the hit too. You seem like you actually care about your grades. And I don’t care what kind of freak you are.” I lean toward her. “You don’t scare me.”

  She takes a deep breath and I’m happy that she knows I have her. She looks down at a page in her notebook. “I’m not a witch, you idiot. Have you been living under a rock?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  She laughs in a way that makes me begin to feel foolish. “Haven’t you heard of Wicked? It’s a Broadway show. The Gershwin in New York, I might add.”

  “I’m sure I care.”

  “It’s the best show on Broadway ever. My God!” She looks at me like I have a catfish coming out of my nose. “You’ve never heard of Elphaba?”

  “What’s an Elphaba?”

  “Elphaba isn’t an it. She’s the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz, and Wicked is the story of how she and Glinda, the Good Witch, were friends when they were younger. How they each became who they are. And Elphaba is just completely amazing.”

  “Figures you’d like the wicked one.”

  “But she’s not wicked. She’s perfect.”

  “Sounds like a rash. Like, I have a severe case of Elphaba. Oozing, pus-laden, maggot-filled…”

  “You… should be struck by lightning.”

  “You… should have a flying house lan
d on you.”

  “You… obviously don’t understand.”

  I laugh. “I mean, call me Captain Obvious here, but do you also think Alice in Wonderland is a real person?”

  “Not the same,” she says, her face turning red.

  “Actually, Witchy Poo, I think it is the same. Can you say fiction?” I lean toward her. “Say it with me, now. Fic…tion.”

  We stare at each other, and she looks away first. That’s one for me.

  “So anyway,” she begins, “who are we going to do for this wretched project? I’m thinking Stephen Sondheim or Stephen Schwartz.”

  “Let’s make someone up that doesn’t exist and convince Ruben that he does. How about… Jim Nasium, who brought sports to the masses… of Antarctica?”

  I can see she wants to laugh but won’t. “Stephen Sondheim and Stephen Schwartz are two Broadway musical geniuses. Stephen Schwartz wrote the music to Wicked, for God’s sake. It’s my dream to meet him.”

  “I’d like to meet Madeleine L’Engle. I guess I’m just an idiot.”

  “You said it, not me,” she says, amused.

  “Well, actually, you did say it.”

  She shrugs and again we stare. “Look,” I say. “Some Broadway genius is no different than Rainer’s pitch to do George Lucas and we all saw how thrilled Ruben was with that idea.”

  “He didn’t say no. He just said that Rainer had to argue it well.” She grunts. “Of course, Rainer couldn’t argue his way into a free movie.”

  “Okay. That’s another thing we agree on.”

  “Don’t act like you’re my friend,” she says. “You have the imagination of a doorknob. Wear the right clothes, say the right things.” She looks like she smells something really gross. “You’re nothing. Just a little clone.”

  She thinks this because of the clothes Mrs. Murphy got me? I stand straight. “And you? You’re obsessed with this Elephant Butt or whatever her name is!”

  “Elphaba.”

  I’m on my guard just in case she swings. “I think I prefer Elephant Butt.”

  “The name Elphaba was created from the name L. Frank Baum, the—”

  “Yeah, yeah. The author of The Wizard of Oz. You’re not the only one who knows anything.” I fold my arms. “Look. I couldn’t care less about this. Let’s just do Stephen what’s-his-face. You choose. I just want to get it over with so you can take a long walk off a short roof.”

  “Fine,” she says. “We’ll do Stephen Schwartz. I already have tons of info on him.”

  “I’m sure you do.” I laugh at her. “Elephant Butt.”

  We divvy up our responsibilities and agree to work separately. She leaves with the door slamming behind her, while I wonder if she is always like this. I am reminded how the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz always freaked me out no matter how many times my mother said I was being a baby.

  Anyway, no monkeys. No Toni. I can finally relax.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bad to Worse to Unthinkable

  On Saturday morning, Daniel screams downstairs. Not a regular scream. Something that you feel in your guts when you hear it. “Mom! Come quick! There’s something wrong with Michael Eric! Mom!”

  I hear Mrs. Murphy say, “Oh my God,” like someone’s punched her hard in the stomach. I’m in the kitchen in a breath. Michael Eric is lying on the tile, curling his arms and arching his back. His head is pulled to the side. He shakes. Hard.

  “Oh my God! Michael! Michael Eric! My honey!” Mrs. Murphy drops to her knees and holds his head. “He’s having a seizure. Why is he having a seizure?”

  She looks up at me, but I cannot pull my eyes from him. “Carley,” she says, yanking me from my trance. “Nine-one-one now!”

  I run to the phone and dial.

  “Mommy, what’s wrong with Michael Eric?” Daniel wails. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Adam sucks his thumb, which I’ve never seen him do.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  I have learned to stay calm in the middle of chaos. “A little boy is having a seizure.”

  I answer question after question when I want to scream for them to just come.

  I watch Mrs. Murphy cradling Michael Eric, rocking back and forth. Her forehead touches his. He has stopped shaking but he lies limp. Mrs. Murphy strokes his sweaty blond hair. She’s pleading, “No, no, no…”

  I tap my foot and count. Somehow I am able to count, listen, and pray all at the same time. After millions of questions, I finally hang up.

  “Carley,” Mrs. Murphy says through her crying. “Call Jack. Call him at the station and tell him to meet us at the hospital.”

  I dial the number, but another firefighter answers. “I need to speak with Jack Murphy. It’s an emergency.”

  The man leaves the phone, and it isn’t long before a panicked Mr. Murphy is on the line. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mr. Murphy. It’s Carley. Michael Eric is sick. Mrs. Murphy says he’s having a seizure. We called an ambulance.”

  “Oh my God!” His voice cuts me in half.

  Mrs. Murphy’s forehead touches Michael Eric’s again. “Oh my God. Please… no.” She sobs as they rock back and forth.

  Daniel kneels, rubbing Michael Eric’s leg. Adam stares, terrified, at his mother. Mrs. Murphy looks up at me. Her voice sounds urgent. “Tell Jack to meet us at St. Francis Hospital.”

  I put the phone to my ear and begin to speak. He interrupts. “I heard, Carley. I’m on my way.”

  When the EMTs arrive, they take Michael Eric’s blood pressure, temperature, and check his eyes with a light. They listen to his heartbeat. Finally, they put him on a stretcher and wheel him out the door.

  I follow the stretcher and Mrs. Murphy. A lot of the neighbors stand on their porches.

  She turns around. “Carley, honey, I know you’re upset. And I know you want to come, but the boys probably shouldn’t be at the hospital. Would you mind staying with them? Here?”

  I force myself to nod as I look past her while they load Michael Eric into the ambulance. A little bump under a white sheet on a huge stretcher.

  She pats the side of my arm. “Thank you. I promise I’ll call as soon as we can.” She kisses each of the boys. “Don’t worry. Be good. Love you.” She pats the top of my arm. She turns to go.

  “Wait!” I yell. “I have to get something!”

  “Carley, I really have to…”

  “Please!” I yell, already running upstairs. “Please! One second!”

  I jump back down the stairs and hand Mr. Longneck to Mrs. Murphy. “Please give this to Michael Eric. He should have it.”

  Her smile is so sad. “I will.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before running to the ambulance. Her kiss has left some of her tears on my face; I reach up and touch them with my fingertips, and I stop shaking a little.

  CHAPTER 18

  Long Night

  I watch Adam suck his thumb and wonder if he understands. I think of what Mrs. Murphy would do. I kneel. “Adam?”

  He stares into my eyes but doesn’t move.

  “Do you know what just happened? Do you know where Michael Eric has gone?”

  Without removing his thumb from his mouth, he says, “Heaven.”

  “No. No, Adam,” I tell him. “Michael Eric has gone to the hospital, and the doctors are going to take good care of him. You’ll see. He’ll be home before you know it.”

  Daniel’s voice stabs. “How do you know? You don’t know that he’ll be fine. You don’t know anything!”

  I want to smack him. Why does he always scream at me? I am ready to let him have it, but then I remember Adam. And the way he sucks his thumb. Michael Eric has to be fine. He has to be.

  I make macaroni and cheese for dinner, but none of us eat. After a little TV, I get Adam ready for bed. I pull the covers up under his chin and ask, “Do you want me to read you a story?”

  He nods, staring at Michael Eric’s empty bed. I look too. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  I go into the
bathroom, where Daniel is brushing his teeth. Since I know he hates me, I figure I should be careful how I word this. “You know, I know that you’re worried and upset, but since you’re such a big guy, I am wondering if you can do something.”

  He talks with a mouthful of toothpaste. “Don’t call me ‘big guy’ like I’m five. I don’t need a babysitter, least of all you!”

  Pegged me there. “It isn’t for me. It’s for Adam.”

  After a long pause, he looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. “What?”

  “I think he’ll be scared tonight. Maybe you can sleep in Michael Eric’s bed so he has someone with him.”

  He spits into the sink. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Daniel.”

  “I’m not doing it for you,” he answers, rinsing his toothbrush.

  “Yeah, I know,” I mumble. Then I head back to tell Adam that his brother will sleep with him, and it’s the first time that night I see him smile. We read six books, I kiss Adam on the forehead, and I say good night to Daniel.

  I go down to clean the kitchen, because I know Mrs. Murphy would do that. I can’t help turning around, though, to look at the phone, willing it to ring.

  When I am done cleaning, I head upstairs to the fireman room and just stand. I read the sign—the sign that greets me every time I walk in here.

  BE SOMEONE’S HERO.

  I walk over to the bed and I kneel down. Except for asking God to help me pass tests or keep my mother happy, I think this is the first day I’ve ever really prayed. “Dear God, I know that I don’t pray much, and I know that sometimes you probably wonder why you made me at all, but you did your best work with Michael Eric.” I look at the ceiling. “You really did. Please. Please bring him home. Amen.”

  I head into the room where the boys sleep and I lie on the rug next to Adam’s bed. As I try to get comfortable on the floor, I realize that I’ve learned something I didn’t know.

  I love Michael Eric.