Authors: Betty Hicks
Get Real (11 page)
“Yeah, well. I lugged most of my stuff home yesterday,” I lie.
“Oh. Okay.” He seems relieved.
That's when I notice that he's holding a big black trash bag full of something. He lifts it up and explains. “Useless accumulations of eighth grade. On its way to the first Dumpster I find.”
I stifle a desperate urge to grab it and go through every grimy sock and gum wrapper. There's bound to be some good stuff in there somewhere. What if he's throwing away his watch, an unused notebook, or a perfectly good pen?
“Seen Jil?” he attempts to ask casually.
“Yeah. Some.” I shove the neat stack of books on my top shelf into a heap so it'll look less perfect.
“She still going to visit her real family all the time?”
It's all I can do not to yell that the Lewises
are
her real family! Instead, I say, “Beginning tomorrow, she's spending the whole month of June with them.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, see you around, Dez.”
“Yeah. You, too, Graham. Have a fun summer.”
I watch him trudge down the hall, dragging his trash bag behind him. Poor guy. It's been five months since she dumped him. And he's still asking about her. Well, he's got all summer. That ought to do it.
“Good luck,” I whisper as he vanishes around the corner.
I straighten the pushed-over pile of books and slide them into my backpack. Then I pull out a handful of pens that are held together by a rubber band, and zip them into the see-through outside pocket of my backpack.
All that's left for me to do is return a library book and then find Mr. Trimble. I want to thank him for the reading suggestions he gave me.
After I leave the library, I find him in his classroom, all bent over, lowering stacks of books into a big cardboard box.
“Hey, thanks, Mr. Trimble,” I say. “You put me onto some very cool imaginary travel this year.”
He straightens up, arching his back like it hurts, but his face is filled with pure joy. He's flashing me a grin so huge you'd think I'd just informed him that his whole life was worthwhile and now he could die happy.
“So tell me. Where did all that reading take you?”
“Lots of places. Africa. Israel. Italy.”
“No kidding? That's great. What's next?”
“China,” I answer, but I'm making that up. I doubt I'll do any reading this summer, with Denver to look after. Except for maybe a million or two trips to Whoville. Denver loves Dr. Seuss.
“Well. Have a great summer!” I wave and back out the door before he can ask me to name the China book.
Whump.
I plow straight into Mrs. Macon on her way down the hall. The last person in the entire world I want to see.
Look down and keep walking, I tell myself.
“Dez.” Her lips are as pinched and tight as her handwriting. “I do hope you have an interesting summer planned.”
Obviously, she doesn't mean that. Not that I blame her. After all, my dad tried to get her fired.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I'm babysitting my brother. Every day.”
“That's nice.” She turns to leave.
“Uh ⦠Mrs. Macon, I'm sorry about all the trouble my dad caused you.” I figure it's the least I can say.
She swings back around to me. Slowly. “You should be proud of your dad.”
“Excuse me?”
“He has things he's passionate about, Dez. Like poetry.” She pauses, stares out somewhere over my head, and coughs up a nervous little laugh. “
I'm
passionate about the presidents, you know.” Then she heaves a long, deep sigh, and adds, “But I can't fault anyone for doing what he thinks is right.”
“Well, yeah. For sure,” I answer. “And that's, uh, nice of you to say so. Especially, uhâ” I falter. She
is
being nice, right?
“Give him my best.” She dismisses me with one of those cheery bye-bye-for-now hand gestures.
“Yeah. Sure. I will.”
I watch her disappear down the hall.
Go figure.
But then I remember that I have more important things to do than try and understand a teacher who may be even weirder than my dad.
So, good-bye, Mrs. Macon. Good-bye, eighth grade.
Hello, Denver duty.
7:00
A.M.
My alarm goes off.
“Dez-Dez-Dez! Dez-Dez-Dez!” Over and over. “Dez-Dez-Dez!” I cover my head with my pillow. There it goes again. Muted, but relentless. “Dez-Dez-Dez!”
My alarm is a small, very loud three-year-old boy named Denver, wearing dinosaurs on his feet.
7:01
A.M.
I groan.
7:04
A.M.
I get up.
7:05
A.M.
I start to make my bed, but Denver needs to go to the bathroom and he wants me to accompany him. On the way there, he remembers that his plastic pig won't go oink anymore, so we look for a new battery.
7:14
A.M.
We're still looking for a battery.
7:15
A.M.
Denver wets his
Frog and Toad
pajamas.
7:16
A.M.
I sponge up wee-wee. Change Denver's clothes. Put his pajamas in the washing machine. Look for carpet shampoo.
7:25
A.M.
No carpet shampoo. I decide to cook him breakfast. No eggs. No milk. I mix dry cereal with some blueberries, give Denver a spoon, and place him in front of the TV. I find
Dragon Tales
for him, but he wants to watch the Weather Channel. I stifle a scream.
7:28
A.M.
I try to wipe up blueberry stains, which can't be done, so I search, one more time, for carpet shampoo.
7:34
A.M.
I look for Band-Aids. How can anyone cut his toe on a spoon? Eventually, I find a Big Bird Band-Aid in the drawer with the telephone book, but Denver wants a
Frog and Toad
Band-Aid. He is very into
Frog and Toad.
7:45
A.M.
I decide to
read
him
Frog and Toad,
hoping that will make up for no Band-Aid.
8:32
A.M.
We are still reading, and rereading,
Frog and Toad.
It's a good thing I like these stories.
8:33
A.M.
Denver needs to go to the bathroom. Number two. This time he wants to go by himself. I say, “No. You need help when you wipe.” He screams, “I can do it!” and shuts the bathroom door in my face. It locks.
8:34
A.M.
Mom calls out, “I'm off to work, Dez. Call me if you need me.” I yell back, “I can do it!”
I try not to cry.
8:38
A.M.
I find a knife and pop the lock. The good news is that Denver has not gone number two yet. The bad news is that he flushed his plastic pig down the toilet and stopped it up. Water is running over the commode basin and covering the floor.
8:39
A.M.
Dad knocks on the bathroom door. “I'm leaving now. You guys okay in there?”
8:40
A.M.
“We're fine,” I answer. “Have a good day.” Denver shouts, “We're swimming!” I cover his mouth to shut him up.
8:41 to 11:48
A.M.
I unstop the toilet, help Denver go number two, mop the floor, put his
Frog and Toad
pajamas in the dryer, read him four books, work seven puzzles, take his pajamas out of the dryer, go for a walk, wash the mud out of his hair, fix him a snack, remember that I never ate breakfast, fix myself a snack, play Go Fish, teach him his numbers, let him fill the kitchen sink with bubbles and throw toys into it, make a megaphone out of a cardboard paper-towel tube, answer the phone, tell the telemarketer we don't want any, find Denver, glue the broken picture frame back together, wonder what Jil is doing at Jane's house, wonder if I really want a piano bad enough to do this for an entire summer, wonder if I can even do it for one whole day.
11:49 a.m. to 12:03
P.M.
Lunch.
12:04 to 2:29
P.M.
I make a bet with Denver that he can't sit on a basketball and bounce for thirty minutes. I make a bet with Denver that he can't run up and down the driveway for twenty minutes. I reward Denver for winning both bets by making him slice-n-bake chocolate chip cookies. I wash the cookie sheet. Scrub melted chocolate out of the carpet. Add milk, eggs, and carpet shampoo to the grocery list. Answer the telephone and tell Dad we're fine. Answer the phone and tell Mom we're fine. Find Denver. Make him put all the silverware back in the drawer.
2:30
P.M.
Naptime. Both of us.
4:00
P.M.
Talk Denver into watching a two-hour movie with me.
4:20
P.M.
Turn off the movie. Bet Denver that he can't put all his puzzles together without my help.
4:25
P.M.
Help Denver put all his puzzles back together.
4:45
P.M.
Mom comes home.
“You're early!” I cry out, trying to hide my joy.
“I thought you might be climbing the walls,” she says. At the same time, I know she's eyeing me for telltale signs of defeat, exhaustion, or serious blood loss.
“I'm fine,” I say, radiating total success.
“Really?” She seems stunned.
“Yep. We had fun, didn't we, Denver?”
“Uh-huh.” He nods like a bobble-head. “Mom”âhe tugs on her handâ“can Dez day-care me tomorrow?”
Mom looks from cheerful me to happy Denver. “You're really serious about this piano, aren't you?”
Well, duh.
“Yes,” I answer.
Mom tilts her head and studies me. “I just never thought it would last. You know?”
“Yeah, Mom. I know. But it has lasted. It's lasted almost six months, and I can look after Denver for two and a half more. No problem.” I hope I sound more confident than I feel right now.
“Destiny,” she says. “I'm proud of you. You're growing up.”
I grin all the way to my room, where I collapse onto my unmade bed. I can't believe it's five o'clock in the afternoon and I haven't made my bed yet. Even more amazing, I'm not going to make it now, either. I plan to be back in it by seven. Maybe sooner. Even with the nap, I feel like I've just paddled a canoe fifty milesâupstream. How am I going to do this? No wonder daycare people charge a fortune.
But then I remember, they do it every day. It must be a conditioning thing. Like training to run a marathon. The first day you can barely run two miles, but after a month of training, ten miles is nothing.
Heck. By the end of June, I'll be able to start my own day care. With ten kids. Maybe twenty. I punch my fist into the air. Bring 'em on!
But the very best thing is that, finally, Mom is getting it. Dad will, too.
The phone rings and I roll over and check out the Caller ID. It says
Jil Lewis.
That's her cell phone. She must be calling from Mom-2's house.
“Hi,” I say, so excited to hear from her.
“Dez,” she says.
“You've gotta help me.”
She's crying.
“Jil.” I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. “What's wrong?”
“I hate her!” Jil sobs.
“Who?”
“Mom!”
“Mom-2?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“D-Dez.” Jil's voice catches, making the word sound more like a hiccup than a name. “You've got to help me. You've got to come help me.”
“Where are you?”
“Greensboro.”
“Jane's house?”
“Yeah.” More hiccup sounds. More sobs.
“Jil! Get a grip. Tell me what's happened. I can't help you unless you tell me what's happened.”
Then there's a long silence. Except for sobs and hic-cups, I hear nothing.
Finally, Jil says, “I need you to come to Greensboro.” She sounds more like herself, but stretched tight, as if she's pulling everything together just to get these words out.
“Jil. Greensboro is sixty miles from here. How am I supposed to get there?”
“You can take a bus. Tomorrow. I've already checked the schedule. One leaves atâ”
“I can't.” My mind is racing. Zooming ahead of itself. “I've got to look after Denver tomorrow,” I say. That's my autopilot answer, but my brain is still trying to work out why Jil is crying. Why she needs me to take a bus to Greensboro.
“He can go to day care.”
“No,” I say. “He can't. My parents have cancelled day care for the summer. They're counting on me. I can't cancel, Jil. I'm doing this to get a piano.”
“A piano!” Jil shrieks. She starts crying again. I wait.
Finally, she gets herself together again, and says in a controlled voice that sounds like her teeth are clenched, “Dez. This is more important than a piano. You can have my piano.”
“Why? Jil, why is this more important? I can't help you if you don't tell me.”
“I got arrested.”
Suddenly the telephone feels like a brick. I can't believe what I just heard. “You what?”
“Arrested. Put in jail. Cuffed.”
“You did not.”
“Okay. Not cuffed. And not in jail like a cell. But we did get arrested. Me and Penny. We got pushed around and treated like criminals, and hauled into a security room at the shopping center.” Suddenly her voice grows louder. “And I mean hauled, Dez. Not escorted. Not taken.
Hauled.
Like delinquents. Like crooks. Like crud.”
“Who did that?”
“The security guy. Then he called the cops.”
“Jil!” I shout into the phone. “What'd you do? You're not making any sense!”