Imaginary Enemy (2 page)

Considering Elliot deMichael’s obsession, it’s no surprise that all four of his children have musical names—Chord, Sharp, Jazz, and Harmony. His wife, Peggy, a lawyer, didn’t mind indulging her husband’s whims, and always teases their children, saying, “Besides, who’d want kids named Habeas Corpus, Sidebar, or Deposition?”

Chord is a year and a half older than Sharp and me and has always been a grade ahead of us in school, a fact he used to flaunt as proof of his superiority. As for Sharp, he and I were best friends until about middle school, when we went our separate ways, mine being predictably mainstream, his being increasingly unconventional.

Sharp and Chord both have blue-green eyes and unruly light brown hair as overgrown as the grass in their backyard, and as randomly curly as the tendrils springing from the vines in the live oaks. That’s why they’re often mistaken for twins. It happened all the time when they were younger. The resemblance is purely physical, though. In personality they’re opposites, Chord being outspoken and abrupt, and Sharp quiet and easygoing.

One Saturday morning, Elliot invited Zander, Carmella, and me into his studio (his children were already there), promising us heavenly delights. My mouth watered in anticipation as I imagined ice cream sundaes and platters heaped with pastries. Elliot closed the blinds and clicked an icon on his PC. Recorded rain dripped from the speakers lining the room.

“Rain sounds different beneath the peach tree than it does when it splashes into the fountain,” he said softly. “And what a racket it makes on banana leaves,” he added, clicking the mouse. “And the kiss of the dew on the grass—sublime!”

At that point I could barely hear anything, but Zander’s eyes were shining. “Do it again!” he said.

“And now,” Elliot announced, beaming with pride, “when I blend them all together…listen.”

“Hey, that’s Beethoven’s Fifth!” exclaimed Sharp.

“In raindrops,” said Chord. “Too cool.”

“Beethoven’s fifth what?” I asked innocently (or ignorantly, maybe).

“You’re really stupid, you know?” said Chord, rolling his eyes. “Dumber than a box of rocks.”

“What are you doing?” Zander asked. I jumped because I’d been unaware of his presence. He was standing in the doorway with Jazz, his best pal. I glared at both of their reflections in the bathroom mirror. Zander and Jazz, the same age, are practically inseparable. They act more like brothers than neighbors—fighting one minute and scheming together the next, taking one another’s belongings without asking, and exploiting each other’s flaws.

“Nothing.” I stepped away from the mirror.

“Why are you making those nasty faces?” asked Jazz.

“I’m practicing, creep.”

“Practicing what?”

“You know my teacher, Mrs. Perkins?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she does this eyebrow thing, and I’m trying to—”

“What eyebrow thing?” interrupted Zander.

“Like this,” I said, and I used my hand to lift one eyebrow halfway up my forehead.

“Yuck. That’s creepy.” Even as Zander spoke, I noticed him and Jazz peering into the glass and contorting their faces.

“It’s great when she does it. Wait till you get to second grade. If she’s your teacher, you’ll see.” I tried again to do the trick, hands free.

“You look like you swallowed something gross,” observed Zander.

“Go away.”

They just stood there. Jazz pushed his left eyebrow, trying to make it do a Mrs. Perkins.

“I said go away, clones.” I shoved them out the door and slammed it.

Turtle Power

M
y second letter to Bubba was inspired by a more serious set of circumstances than simple spilled milk. The incident occurred about three weeks after that soggy mishap. My father was reading an insurance company publication. He had an orange highlighter in his hand and every now and then he marked a passage. “These new depreciation charts could certainly be useful. I need to make a copy of this for Jim,” he said, but no one was listening. I could think of few topics more boring, and I didn’t even know what depreciation charts were.

Zander and I were playing checkers on the floor while Carmella watched cartoons. My mother walked into the room. “Kids, Peggy told me her boys got their report cards today. Where are yours?”

I ignored her, moving a checker to block Zander’s potential double jump.

“In my backpack,” my brother said. He scrambled down the hall to his room.

“Jane, I’d like to see your report card,” said my father. I studied the game board like it was the Rosetta Stone: the key to some universal secret.

Zander returned, digging through his backpack, and finally extracted a crumpled but stellar assessment of his academic and social progress. “What a good kindergartener you are!” Mom said proudly after looking it over. “Did you see what Ms. Golden wrote about you?”

“No,” answered Zander.

“I’ll read it. ‘Zander is a pleasure to teach. He shows great potential.’”

“Oh,” said Zander. “What’s
po…po…
that word mean?”

“That you can achieve anything you attempt,” Mom said.

“Great job, son,” said Dad, slapping Zander’s palm. “Jane, what about yours?”

I ignored him.

“Jane, your report card,” he said louder.

“I think I left it at school,” I muttered.

“Go look. Now,” directed Mom. “It’s probably in your backpack.”

“But I’m playing checkers with Zander,” I protested.

“Now, Jane.”

Needless to say, my report card wasn’t heavily embellished with As, or even Bs. And my delusional parents thought I was a closet genius. Whatever. I reluctantly went to my room and riffled through my school stuff until I unearthed the manila envelope that contained my passport to doom. I handed it to my father with the nervous delicacy one might use when passing off a live grenade. Dad slipped my report card from the envelope (an act remarkably similar to removing the pin from a grenade), scrutinized it carefully, then read the comments Mrs. Perkins had written on the back. Those were mostly about my behavior, and she had used a significant population of long, menacing words. (I admit to having consulted the dictionary when I’d braved a glance at it earlier.) I stood there holding my breath and crossing my fingers behind my back. Dad, looking displeased, laid his magazine on the coffee table.

“Jane, sit down,” he said, handing the offending document to my mother. I perched myself on the edge of the sofa. Dad shifted in his chair so that he was boring into me with his eyes. “I’m awfully disappointed in you,” he said in his “this is serious business” voice. “I know you can do much better than this. You’re a smart little girl, you just don’t apply yourself. And the bad behavior…there’s no excuse for that.”

I got the usual lecture laced with threats and predictions about my future, which looked bleak. (“Do you want to end up unemployable because you have no regard for the rules? Do you want to spend your life waiting tables at Waffle House?”) The natural follow-up to a good verbal thrashing is “Go to your room,” and I was relieved when Dad finally said exactly that and I was able to escape the onslaught of his words.

I kicked the checkerboard, sending checkers bouncing across the floor. Then I stomped down the hall, slammed the door, and shoved my backpack off my bed. The rest—well, the rest was karma. My blue math folder tumbled out and spilled open, and there I saw my original letter to Bubba. I was inspired.

I snatched my math worksheet (that night’s homework, which I hadn’t been planning to do anyhow) and a pencil (the NASCAR one I stole from Matthew Sellers, who sat next to me) and gave Bubba a piece of my mind. I was careful not to invert my Bs this time, not wanting my letter to inadvertently fall into the wrong hands—those being the hands of the wise and spiritual religious leader Buddha.

Dear Bubba,

You totally suck. I can’t believe you put my name on your sorry report card. You are such a loser.

Go to heaven,
Gabriel

Bubba hates to be told to go to heaven. The very idea scares the tar out of him. He thinks only sissies wear halos and white robes.

I grabbed my green crayon and wrote “Bubba” in big letters on the front of my math folder. Then I crammed that letter into the pocket.

Sharp executed an exaggerated kick and sang out, “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” initiating one of our favorite backyard games, inspired by the deMichaels’ vast collection of turtle DVDs. He tossed a handful of colorful strips of fabric onto the picnic table.

“Heroes on the half shell,” crooned Jazz and Zander together, slashing their hands through the air.

“I’m Donatello,” I called. “He’s the brainy one.”

“No. You’re a girl. You have to be April O’Neil,” said Chord.

I stamped my foot. “I’m not going to be April. She’s boring. I’m going to be a turtle, and Donatello’s my favorite.”

“I’m Splinter,” said Jazz, claiming the role of the rat, “so there’s an extra turtle anyway. Let her be Donatello.”

“Yeah,” agreed Zander, “we need all four turtles.”

“I’m Leonardo.” Sharp was tying a strip of ragged blue fabric around his head.

“Raphael,” called Zander.

“
You
be April, Chord,” I said.

“No way. I’m Michelangelo,” said Chord, jabbing and kicking in an aerial calligraphy. “Although Jane should be the goofy one and I should be the smart one, all things considered.”

“You should be roadkill,” I snarled as I fastened a purple band around my head.

“Good one, Jane,” said Sharp, slapping me a high five.

Chord, in his role as Michelangelo, got a queasy look on his face. “I think I’m gonna hurl, dudes. I ate too much pizza before that last gnarly encounter with Shredder’s gang.”

“A wise man does not overindulge,” commented Jazz in a fairly good imitation of Splinter, the turtles’ mentor. He shook his head and squinted in an attempt to look rat-like. With his shaggy honey-colored hair and large brown eyes, he looked more like a frisky puppy.

“Master Splinter, there is news that Shredder and his gang are planning another assault on the city,” said Zander.

“We will prepare,” said Jazz wisely.

And so we spent the afternoon ninja fighting on and around Elliot’s backyard musical creations. We pretended that one of his waterfalls was the sewer deep in the bowels of New York City in which Splinter and the turtles made their subterranean home. When Harmony and Carmella wanted to play on the swing set, we labeled them the evil Shredder’s minions and chased them screaming through the gate and out of our territory.

I think I was two hours old the first time I heard it: “Life isn’t fair.” Along with breast milk, my mother fed me little snatches of wisdom. I might not have believed her right away, as my experience to that point was somewhat limited, except what she actually said was “Life isn’t fair, Jane Venezuela White.” Once I heard that ridiculous name I knew for sure that life wasn’t fair. Then Mom added, “Life isn’t fair, but it’s good, and you’re going to have a great one. I can see it in your eyes.”

At least she was half right. Life isn’t fair. That’s why everyone needs an imaginary enemy. It’s fabulous having someone to blame.