Get Real (6 page)

Except my parents. You should have heard them when I told them all this. We were all sitting at the kitchen table, eating spaghetti. Denver looked like he'd taken a bath in tomato sauce. Then he knocked over his milk, drenched his shirt, and started shrieking.

“‘Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, uproar the universal peace,'”
Dad recited. Then he winked at me and said, “William Shakespeare,” to let me know that he was the dead poet he'd just quoted.

“Don't say ‘hell' in front of Denver,” said Mom. “You know how he repeats things.” Then to Denver she said, “Shhh, sweetie. Don't cry over spilled milk.”

I sat up straight, stuck my chin out, and leveled Dad with a challenging stare. “
‘I spilled my milk, and I spoiled my clothes, and I got a long icicle hung from my nose!'
Mother Goose.” Then I winked back.

Dad and I have this thing where we have poetry duels. He quotes some old guy whose poetry doesn't even rhyme, and then I hit him with something better. At least I think it's better. Dad claims that my stuff is verse, not poetry, and it may be fun, but it's not serious. And that I should learn the difference.

I
have
learned the difference. Mine's better.

Anyway, while Mom washed Denver with a dish towel that looked older than one of Dad's poets, I told them about Jil.

“Dez,” Mom said. “You need to be a good friend. Jil may be skating on thin ice.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means her relationship with her mother may not turn out as well as you think.”

“‘And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps at wisdom's gate,'”
muttered Dad, shaking his head.

“Look. It's fine. Honest. The Lewises are being supportive. I know. I saw Mrs. Lewis yesterday. She gave me a piano lesson and she wasn't crying or anything. And Jane and Penny are cool.”

“She gave you another piano lesson?” said Mom, tossing the sauce- and milk-stained towel in the same corner as the coffee-stained towel and the berry-stained towel. Right next to the harder-than-a-board slice of American cheese that had been sitting out since yesterday.

“Yeah—she says I can come over as much as I want. I'm learning ‘Moonlight Sonata.' By Beethoven. He's an old dead guy, Dad. You'd love him.”

“I know who Beethoven is,” Dad said, raising one eyebrow at me.

“I don't want you imposing on Mrs. Lewis,” said Mom.

“Okay,” I answered brightly. “Can I have a piano, then? Please? I'll pay for my own lessons.”

“With what?” they both asked at the same time.

“I don't know. I'll earn it. Somehow. I will.”

“Don't bite off more than you can chew,” said Mom.

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” said Dad.

I wasn't sure how either one of those particularly fit what we were talking about, so I just answered, “Red fish, Blue fish,” and went back to eating my spaghetti.

Parents know nothing.

Chapter Eight

I've given up “Moonlight Sonata” until further notice.

I still love to play the opening
tah-dah-dah
s, but it's way too hard a piece for a beginner like me. Mrs. Lewis makes me feel great about it, though.

“Dez,” she says. “I love to see how hard you're working at this.”

“Thanks.”

She sits next to me on the bench, so close I can smell her perfume. She holds my sweaty hands in her manicured ones and says, “You have a pianist's hands—long and slender. It's exciting to see someone your age so interested.”

She stares across the room at an oil painting of a cottage with a beautiful flower garden, but I don't think she sees it. I think she's wishing that Jil liked the piano as much as I do, and that Jil were here instead of at her other mom's. I also think I see tears floating in her eyes.

Has
Mrs. Lewis been supportive? Maybe.

Is she sad? Definitely.

Then she snaps out of it and continues. “But, Dez, I don't think even Mozart began by playing a sonata.”

“Oh. Okay,” I answer. “What then?”

“How about scales and maybe one or two simple melodies?”

*   *   *

So, now I'm practicing scales to figure out how to make my fingers work, and Mrs. Lewis is teaching me “Jingle Bells” in time for Christmas.

The Lewises always have this incredible party two days before Christmas and invite the whole neighborhood. Their entire house is decorated with tapered white candles and deep green garlands of fresh pine branches that make everything smell the way Christmas is supposed to. The tree is gigantic, covered with amazing ornaments of every shape and color. My favorite is a tiny black glass piano that looks so fragile I think my breath could break it if I stood too close.

At the party, Mr. Lewis always opens his front door looking handsome and saying, “Welcome! Merry Christmas!” over and over, but sounding like he really means it, every single time. Then he asks each guest if he can take his or her coat, which makes me feel exceptional—and older. Not old enough for the adult eggnog though. That is completely off-limits because a fifth of whiskey has been dumped into it.

Two years ago, when we were only eleven, Jil and I sneaked a taste. We totally agreed the kids' drink was better, except for the fact that the adults' version floats in a huge crystal punch bowl. The kiddy eggnog gets served in a pretty pitcher that has tiny candy canes etched all over it. But pouring from it is nowhere near as elegant as picking up a sterling silver ladle and scooping creamy liquid out of a crystal bowl five times bigger than the biggest mixing bowl on earth.

And … Food. Is. Everywhere.

Beautiful, yummy, catered, and completely different every year. Plus, kids under ten get to take home gifts wrapped in shiny white paper with red satin bows. The last year that I got one, before I aged out, it was a box filled with Hershey's Kisses, each one wrapped in red foil. I know it's the same candy that comes in ordinary plastic bags from Eckerd's, but when you nestle a bunch of kisses in a box with crisp white tissue paper, they taste better.

Toward the end of every party, Mrs. Lewis, looking like a movie star, always plays the piano while everyone circles around her and sings Christmas carols.

On December 23, going to the Lewises is as good as it gets.

I don't mean to sound bratty and horrible, because I love Christmas at my house, too. But the differences are staggering. There's no pine smell here because our tree is fake and stays in the attic, decorated all year. When it comes out, it takes me all day to pick away dust balls and pieces of pink attic insulation that get on everything. I have to wear those thick yellow dishwashing gloves to protect my fingers from the tiny strands of insulation that act like invisible splinters of glass.

Our holiday food is the packaged-fruit-cake and pre-cooked-turkey-breast-with-canned-gravy variety, and most of our presents are wrapped in recycled gift bags. We've never had a party, except for the Tater T-shirts kind, and Dad has definitely never asked anyone under twenty if he could take her coat.

Jil says my decorations are better, though, and she's right. They aren't as beautiful as hers, even after I clean them up each year, but every one has its own story, like the baby-food jar lid with my picture pasted inside that I made in first grade. Or the dangling strand of cheap pink-and-purple beads that Mom and Dad bought from a street vendor the year they met. Denver has a purple-and-yellow turtle that he painted himself. I have a needlepoint St. Lucia—it's Swedish—that I made when my Sunday school created a Holidays Around the World tree.

If you ask me, Christmas is one of those times that's special no matter how you do it.

So, imagine my surprise when I call Jil, three days before her party, and she tells me that she won't be there.

“Huh?”

“I'm going to my mom's,” she says, sounding all bubbly.

“Your mom's? Mom-2?”

“Don't call her that.”

“Sorry. You're going to Jane's? For Christmas?” I exclaim.

“No, silly,” she says. “I'll be back by Christmas Eve.”

I decide she's kidding. “Yeah, right,” I say.

“No, really. I am. Mom and Penny are going to have their whole Christmas early. Just for me. It's going to be awesome!”

“Wow.”

It's not much, but honestly, it's all I can think of to say. Ever since Jil found her mom, I've been excited for her. Maybe even a little jealous. But
not going to her own Christmas party?
That takes this two-family deal to a whole new level.

“Kids from divorced families do this all the time,” she explains in the same tone of voice that the TV might say, “Clothes cleaned with Tide are whiter and brighter, every single wash.” It reminds me of her Christopher Columbus voice, the one that's always been reserved for convincing adults. This is the first time it's ever been used on me.

Which bugs me. But then Mom's
friend-in-need
warning goes off inside my head.

“Your mom's letting me play ‘Jingle Bells'!” I chirp with outward enthusiasm. Inside, I'm not only still annoyed, but I'm also feeling pretty majorly sorry for myself because Jil won't be there to hear my official debut as an artist. Or to sneak a sip of gross-tasting adult eggnog and make gagging noises with me.

“I know. I'm really sorry I won't be there,” she says, not sounding like a commercial anymore, but sad, as if she truly is sorry. “But you can play it for me when I get back. Okay?”

“Definitely.” I hope I sound convincing. “Have fun. I'll miss you.”

“Me too. See ya!”

*   *   *

Three days later, December 23, I arrive at the Lewises with my parents. I'm super nervous because I want to sound good for them on the piano. I only know how to play the “Jingle Bell” melody—no chords—but it's important that I get it right so they'll know I'm serious about wanting a piano.

When I practice alone, I get so excited about the song that's magically coming out of my very own fingers that I swear I feel icy wind chilling my face. I hear laughing and singing and one-horse-open-sleigh runners gliding across soft snow. I even hear bells on bobtails ring, and I have not one single clue what a bobtail is. But I want my parents to hear it too.

They're still calling my piano playing
a passing phase,
but I know better.

Mr. Lewis flings the front door wide open and greets my family. “Welcome, Denver! Merry Christmas, Dez! Scott! Linda! So glad you could come.” The aromas of warm candles, hot roast beef, and freshly baked bread fill the foyer while Mr. Lewis ushers us in from the cold as though we're royalty. He's wearing a Christmas tie with tiny reindeer on it, and a red handkerchief neatly tucked into the chest pocket of his sport coat. The coat fits him so perfectly, he looks as if he stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Dad doesn't have on a jacket, but he is wearing a white dress shirt with a cool bow tie, and even though the shirt's a little wrinkled, he looks good … for Dad.

Mom is not in her gray sweats. She does own a dress. Maybe two. This one's shiny and the color of a dark ruby. I think it would look a lot better if she hemmed it four inches shorter, but she just hugs me and says, “Dez, I'm happy that you care. Really, I am.” Then she adds, “The true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with fashion.”

I know that. I'm not stupid. But, still … I doubt that God meant for the whole human race to walk around wadded up in swaddling clothes, either. Despite her no-style statement, Mom's dangly earrings match her dress, and from the hemline up, she looks good. Better than good, she looks neat. Who knew she owned earrings?

I'm feeling almost proud of them, which is way better than the usual embarrassment, but I wonder—if they've noticed how to dress for the Lewises, why don't they notice how good a living room looks without mildewed stacks of magazines in the corners? Or Legos and Mr. Potato Head parts covering every inch of the carpet? Or how clean a kitchen counter is when there's no faded shoe box full of old batteries and rusty nails sitting on it? Or how fantastic a real Christmas tree smells?

“May I take your coat?” asks Mr. Lewis, bowing slightly from the waist.

I feel like a princess.

Except that the coat in question is my bulky quilted nylon jacket with a rip in one sleeve—torn while assisting in the attempted-but-unsuccessful theft of a street sign.

That's okay, though. Underneath, I'm wearing a dynamite outfit. Slinky black pants that flare at the bottom, tiny hot pink heels, and a silvery scoop-neck top. For the first time ever, I feel confident that tall looks good.

Mr. Lewis reminds Denver and me that all the kids are in the downstairs rec room. “You know the way,” he says cheerfully, then turns to talk to my parents.

Denver sprints for the basement, and I follow. There's a lady there who snags Denver immediately and herds him off to a corner where all the under-fives are busy coloring candy-cane pictures. Silently, I wish her luck.

Glancing around, I'm not surprised to find food, games, and even a miniature version of the upstairs Christmas tree. I hang out, nibbling chips with dip and tender, juicy chicken chunks skewered on little sticks of bamboo. I play one game of Ping-Pong, sip homemade eggnog from a plastic Santa cup, and miss Jil.

Feeling the jitters of my “Jingle Bells” performance beginning to creep over me, I wander back upstairs to stare at the piano—for calming purposes. And to make sure all the keys are right where I left them.

“Dez!” exclaims Mrs. Lewis. “You look amazing!”

“Thanks,” I say, admiring the simple black silk dress that she's accented with a string of white pearls. A pair of fantastic-looking high heels tells me that her feet are covering a New York designer label with a name I can't pronounce. “You look pretty amazing too.”