Bounce (11 page)

Also according to my program, Cleanser Boy is in charge of lighting and sound, the sweater twins are the decorations committee, Betty Boop cooked (of course), and Birdie made the casket for the deceased.

I look around.
Casket? What casket?

“Clam,” Thalia says to the air, “wherever you are, whatever road you have taken, may it always be paved with dog biscuits.”

Has anything more ridiculous ever been said? No, it has not.

And yet, here comes the applause again.

Birdie leans over and whispers, “How're you holding up?”

I'm about to say something sarcastic, but now Phoebe is grabbing his hand. “Al. Come on. You need to dig the hole.”

“I need to dig the hole,” he tells me, getting up.

Fine. Whatever. Go dig your hole.

This is Eleni's cue to slide into my father's seat and pretend to be my mother. She pats my knee. She pats, she pats, while I grit my teeth, grit my teeth. Finally, she stands up and you can see that she is bigger already. The fabric of her GLUE shirt is stretched tight across her middle.

“I know this isn't on the program,” she says, “but I'd like to read something.”

I can't stop staring at her stomach.

“I wasn't going to do this,” she says.

I think,
So why are you?

“This isn't easy for me because…” Big throat clear. “Well, I haven't read this poem in almost thirty years.”

Yikes. You are wayyy too old to be having a baby.

This is what I'm thinking when she says what she says next.

“The last time I read it was at my mother's funeral.”

The words fly around in my head, even though I don't want them to.
At my mother's funeral. At my mother's funeral.

I feel my stomach flip over. I don't want to think about mothers right now. This is not about mothers; this is about dogs. This is about Clam.

I look around for Birdie and spot him in the corner of the yard, holding a shovel. He's not digging, though, he's leaning on it. His eyes are right on Eleni.

“'Remember.' By Christina Georgina Rossetti.”

The yard is completely silent, except for her. She doesn't look at any paper. She has the whole thing memorized.

“Remember me,” she says, looking around at everyone.

I stare at the grass and think,
Shut up.

“When I am gone away.”

Shut. Up.

“When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.”

Shutupshutupshutupshutup.

Her voice gets lower and lower, but she keeps going. And by the time she gets to telling us we should “forget and smile” instead of “remember and be sad,” something has taken over my good sense and I am crying. Not quiet, pretty tears, either. The big, loud, ugly kind.

And no matter how hard I try, I can't stop. Not even when Linus comes over to hug me.

And when Birdie lowers the wooden box he made into the hole he dug, and they all toss dirt and origami birds and dog treats on top, and Mackey lays down a rock for a grave marker, I let everyone think I'm crying because of Clam.

It's two in the morning, and I can't sleep. I have to know. I have to talk to Birdie right now, but of course he's in bed with Eleni.

I stand outside their room, and I don't hear any disgusting noises, so I open the door.

“Birdie,” I whisper.

But he's not the one who pops up. It's her, hair spiking every which way. “Evyn? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

At least she's wearing a nightgown.

“Are you okay?”

“I need to talk to my dad,” I say.

She leans over and touches his shoulder. “Al? Sweetheart? Wake up. Evyn's here.”

“Huhwhat? What? Huh?”

Birdie is still half asleep, but he rolls out of bed and scuffs along behind me into the peachy bathroom. He scuffs right over to the sink and grabs his toothbrush.

“Birdie.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you
doing
? It's the middle of the night. Who brushes their teeth in the middle of the night?”

He mumbles something about plaque buildup and turns on the water.

I watch him and watch him, and I feel myself get more and more mad. I don't plan to do it, but something takes over, and I rip the toothbrush out of his hand and throw it in the trash.

Then, I ask my question.

“Do you miss her?”

Birdie frowns into the trash can. There are pillow creases on his cheek. Did he even hear me? I'll promise you one thing, if he asks who, I will run out that door and never come back.

I watch as he opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“Just answer,” I say. “It's not complicated. Do you? Do you miss her?”

Finally, he nods. “Every day.”

I take a deep breath. “Do you still love her?”

Instead of responding, he slumps sideways against the peachy tile and closes his eyes.

At first I think he's fallen asleep, and I feel myself get mad, but then his eyes pop open, and there they are. Tears. Not pouring down his cheeks, but still. Real tears, shining there. He opens his mouth, but he can't say anything. And that, to me, says everything.

I put my hand on his arm. “Me, too. I know it sounds dumb, but it's true. I still miss her every day.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn't sound dumb.”

I think about Stella. I wonder what Birdie would think if I told him about our talks.

“Your mother was too good for this world,” he says. “She could light up a room with her smile. She was—”

“I know!” I blurt out. Then, softer, “I
know
. My whole life you've been telling me how great she was. Too good for this world. Lighting up rooms left and right. Bouncing all over the place. And my whole life I've been trying to be like that, but I'm not…” I pause, thinking about how to say it. “That's just not my…
modus operandi.
Okay?”

Birdie smiles. “Aren't you glad you stuck with Latin?”

I give him a look.

“Ev.” Now his face is serious. “You don't have to be like her. All you have to be—all I ever want you to be—is
you.
”

“Uh-huh.”

His hand is on my hand. “Your mom was a wonderful person—an
extraordinary
person—but she wasn't perfect. She had flaws, just like the rest of us. There were things about her that drove me nuts.”

“Really?”

He nods.

“Tell me,” I say.

“Oh, I don't know. She would clip her toenails in the kitchen and then just leave the clippings on the floor…And she was absentminded. Almost pathologically so.
Constantly
misplacing things. Keys. Wallets. Sunglasses. At least once a day, it
was ‘Honey, have you seen my sunglasses? Where did I put my sunglasses?'”

He leans back against the tile, closing his eyes, letting himself remember. “And she never thought she was dressed right. We'd be on our way out the door and she'd have to run back inside to change her clothes. It didn't matter how many times I told her she looked beautiful. She still had to change.”

I do that, too. Only it's not just in my head, it's a fact: Ninety percent of the time I'm wearing the opposite of cool.

“The thing is,” Birdie says, “when you really love a person, you don't just embrace the good qualities. Those are easy. You have to embrace the flaws as well. That's the beauty of love. That's what makes it real.”

“Toenail clippings?” I say.

He smiles. “Toenail clippings.”

We're quiet for a minute. Then I look right at him. “I'm glad you still love Mom.” It feels good to say it, a big relief.

Birdie nods slowly. “I will always love your mom. But…” He takes a deep breath, and I know exactly what's coming next.
She's gone, and she's not coming back, and Betty Boop is here to stay.

“But you love Eleni,” I say.

“Yes. I love Eleni. And I love her kids. But that doesn't mean I love you and Mackey any less. Can you understand that?”

I give him a tiny nod.

“I know this has been hard for you.”

“It has been,” I say, and my throat gets froggy. “Really hard.”

“I know,” he says, and I can tell from his voice that he means it.

Birdie hugs me, and I let him. I let him do the old chin scruff, the way he's always done, minus the beard.

“Thank you for continuing to try,” he says.

I nod. I'm not exactly agreeing with him, but I'm not fighting it, either.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Maybe the next time we talk I'll tell him about the It Girls, and about Jules trading me in for Jessie Kapler, and how I'm afraid no boy will ever want to kiss me. But for now, I'm tired. It's funny how you can go from not being able to sleep at all to being so exhausted you can't even see straight.

On Monday morning, a small miracle happens. Mrs. Kilgallon changes the desks around. Now, instead of the Chelsea-Jaime death squeeze, I get an empty seat on my left and a girl with black China doll bangs on my right. The minute I sit down, she turns to me. “I'm Kate.”

“I'm Evyn,” I say.

“I know. You have math with C.B.”

“C.B.?”

“Clara Bing. No one calls her Clara Bing.”

Sneezy Dwarf,
I think. Then I feel bad.

“Short?” Kate says. “Brown hair? Blowing her nose all the time? She's one of my best friends.”

“The Four-Foot-Two Crew,” I say.

“Right. She told us about you. We keep looking for you at lunch.”

You do?

“But you're never there.”

Right.

She eyes me suspiciously. “You
do
eat lunch, right? You're not one of those girls who's trying to starve herself down to a toothpick, are you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Good. Because we like to eat.”

“I have the most disgusting lunches in the world,” I blurt out. “My stepmother's Greek, so…”

Kate shrugs. “Mine's macrobiotic. Wait until you taste her brewer's-yeast-and-wheat-germ quiche. Picture a pile of dog doo. Now add a crust of sweat.”

She pantomimes barfing into her backpack.

I laugh.

I think it's the first time I've laughed in this school.

Latin class. Mr. Murray is so excited to act out
Julius Caesar
it's scary. I've decided he has no life outside of teaching. How else do you explain the toga-and-leaf-crown ensemble he sewed himself? I should introduce him to Thalia. I bet they'd really hit it off.

“The advantage of having a small class,” Mr. Murray says, “is we get to play all the plum roles!”

Plum roles.

Plum.

And I'm Evyn Plum.

Argh.

Ever since my mortifying first encounter with Travis Piesch-not-Peach, I have not been able to relax around him. I don't know what it is. It's not like he's cute or anything. Well, maybe the glasses are. And the eyes, which I've
noticed are greenish with gold flecks. But he says “
um
” every other word, which is annoying. And anyway, he takes Latin, so how cool could he be? He's no Linus, I can tell you that.

After Mr. Murray hands out the scripts, he has to run to his car for something. He doesn't leave the room like a normal teacher, though. He says, “O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome! I shall return anon!”

What are you supposed to say to that?

I think about getting up to go to the bathroom, but then Travis starts talking. He tells me he's read all of Shakespeare's tragedies.

I say I've read all of the Sweet Valley High series.

“Is that, um, chick lit?” he asks.

“I was kidding.”

“Oh.”

Now there's silence, and it's so awkward I start to get up again, but then he says something else. “I'm not a dork, if that's what you're thinking.”

And it's my turn to say
um.

He tells me his parents are Elizabethan scholars. Their idea of a good time is the whole family reading aloud from
The Riverside Shakespeare
over roast leg of lamb.

“Lamb?” I say.

He makes a face. “With mint sauce.”

“You're kidding.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Believe it or not,” I say, “I happen to have a lamb-and-
mint-sauce sandwich in my bag right now…I'm completely serious. You want proof?”

I start rustling through my backpack for the lunch Eleni packed. When I find it, I hold it up like a trophy. “Taa daa!”

Travis smiles, and for a second he looks the tiniest bit like Johnny Depp. Not that I'm a huge Johnny Depp fan or anything, but—

“
Salve,
countrymen!”

Mr. Murray comes charging through the door in his toga, arms full of props, and it's back to
Julius Caesar.

Lunch.

I stand in the middle of the cafeteria, looking around. Then I feel a hand on my arm.

“Evyn?”

It's Clara Bing—correction,
C.B.
—standing there. Her nose is red and raw-looking, and there's crust in her eyelashes.

“You're sitting with us, right?” she says.

I nod.

“Come on,” she says, and I follow her to a table by the windows. I look around and feel relief. There's a girl with short hair like mine, one with a red paisley do-rag and even a tongue ring. Nary a headband to be found.

Why didn't I notice these girls before?

“You know Kate, right?” C.B. says. “From homeroom? And this is Pia. And Grier. And Ally.”

As C.B. makes the intros, everyone looks me in the eye and actually says my name. “Hi, Evyn.”

And, unlike the It Girls, they do not spend the entire lunch period talking about boys and lip gloss. Mostly it is the books they've read, and movies they've seen, and books they've read that they think should be made into movies, and books they've read that have already been made into movies but shouldn't have.

They talk about Harry Potter. They talk about
The Penderwicks and The Catcher in the Rye.

Mostly I just listen, but every so often one of them will stop and say, “What do you think, Evyn?”

And even though we just met, I want to hug them all. Because it has been so long since anyone asked me what I thought about anything.

When the bell rings, C.B. and I walk to math together. On our way through the hall, we have to pass Andrea and her underlings.

As we do, one of them shoots me a dirty look. Another one calls me the B-word, loud. Everyone is staring. I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

C.B. leans in. “Hey,” she says softly. “You okay?”

I try to smile but don't quite make it.

Then, just as we're about to enter the math room, she sneezes about fifteen times in a row, and on the final one, a snot rocket shoots out her nose and lands on my elbow. It just hangs there, like a big yellow slug.

It's probably the most disgusting thing I've ever seen, but somehow, miraculously, I am cracking up. So is C.B. We're
both laughing so hard the math teacher won't let us come in until we've calmed down.

Eleni is in the kitchen when I get home, and she does the same thing she always does when she sees me: smiles like crazy, asks how I am, and tries to make me eat something she made.

“How's school going?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Are you enjoying your classes? Your teachers? Meeting some nice girls?”

She really has no idea how to get me to talk. Adults who ask questions like that don't have a clue about teenagers. Why do they even bother?

But I remember what Birdie said last night, about me continuing to try. So I answer her questions.

They're okay.

They're okay.

Yeah. A few.

“Well,” she says now, arranging pita wedges into the shape of a fan, “I'm really looking forward to the Mother-Daughter Tea. The first time I went, when Thalia was in eighth grade…”

She keeps talking, but I've stopped listening. My head is saying
Mother-Daughter Tea? Whaaaat?
I picture Eleni going through the trash. Hunched over the kitchen table, taping scraps of the invitation back together.

“Since I'm on the baking committee, I thought I'd pick your brain about desserts. Any ideas?”

Um.

Then she says, “I would have asked you sooner, but I haven't felt like being in the same
room
with food for a while, let alone cooking anything. But now that I'm over the hump, so to speak…”

She pats her belly, and all I can think is,
A while? How long is “a while”?

Now she is smiling, eager, and I know I can do one of two things: run out of the room screaming, or continue to try, for Birdie's sake.

So I say, “Chocolate.”

“Chocolate,” she repeats.

“Yeah. Everyone loves chocolate. Even snobs.”