Kissing Brendan Callahan (13 page)

Mom bites into a cookie. “Mmmm, delicious,” she says. “How's Jason doing?”

“Not too cranky. Georgina's reading him a story.”

“I'm glad she agreed to stay tonight so I can finish reading all the plays.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“I'll let you know.” Things have been different between my mother and me in the last week. It's like we're on our best behavior. She surprised me with tickets to a Broadway show. Just the two of us, and we're going in two weeks—for fun. I surprised her, too, by signing up for music lessons. I got tired of looking at my dulcimer. I want to learn to make beautiful sounds.

“Don't worry about the programs for the fair,” I say. “I'll help Beth.”

She hasn't read my play yet, and I seriously think about snatching it when she's not looking. But I have to admit that I'm curious. Would Mom pick me if she didn't know it was me? In the future, I will work harder on being a stronger, more honest person.

The doorbell rings. It's Beth and Brendan with a box of inserts for the programs. Brendan looks great in a plain denim shirt and khaki pants.

“Hi,” I say.

Beth breezes in, talking about three things at once. Brendan says, “Hello.” Where has he been for the last week? I lead them into the dining room. We're using the table to fold the programs for the fair. Beth shows me the insert, a small slip of paper that reads, “Antonia DeMarco apologizes for not being able to judge the teen writing contest, as she was called away on important business. She wishes all the contestants luck and success with their writing.” It doesn't seem fair that no one will know that she almost ruined this contest, but Mom wants to keep it simple.

“It's a shame that Antonia had to leave so suddenly,” says Beth. She rolls up her sleeves and begins taking programs out of the boxes and arranging them in page order. “I hope we'll still have a high attendance.”

The three of us stand at the table collating the pages. There are three pages, plus the insert, which have to be collated and folded into a booklet. The program lists all the fair's events, like the pie-eating contest, the sack races, the singing contest, the writing contest, the list of vendors, and an invitation to the Preservation Ball, which takes place tomorrow night in the open-air pavilion.

Brendan grabs pages without really looking at what he's doing. “Slow down,” says Beth. “Page two usually precedes page three.” She walks into the kitchen to talk to Mom.

“Hey,” says Brendan. “A man rushes into the doctor's office and shouts, ‘Doctor, I think I'm shrinking!' The doctor says, ‘Now settle down. You'll just have to be a little patient.'”

I laugh.

“Do you think a paying audience will find that funny?”

How could I say no? “Well … sure.”

He moves closer and whispers. “I'm on tonight at the Java Café at nine. I'm so nervous, but I've been practicing all week.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere I could find an audience. Remember the nurses we met that day at the diner? I took their advice and told jokes in the emergency room. The guard asked me to leave after two hours, but he said I was funny. Then I rode all over the island. I found audiences at the mall, the post office, grocery stores, and in the ferry terminal. That was the best testing ground, since the boat is late a lot.”

“That's great.”

“Lots of people laughed at my jokes, but there were a lot who didn't. What if I get the non-laughers tonight? I'll bomb before I even start.”

“You won't bomb.” But I'm nervous for him. His jokes are kind of old. I'm glad to know where he's been all week. “Does your mom know about this evening?”

“Are you kidding? That's why I need your help. She's got a million things for me to do and I have to be out of here by 8:30. Let's hurry and finish.”

I try to hurry, but when I do, the pages stick together. “Look,” I say, grabbing the programs out of his hands. “I can take care of this by myself. I have all night. Why don't you go and get ready.”

“Then how are you going to watch me perform?”

“You want me to come?”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “I thought I'd pay you to laugh. You'd be a plant.”

“What kind of plant?” I say, kidding.

“A laughing one.”

I reach past him for a set of pages. “I can't. I'm still grounded.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Mom and I are trying to work things out, so I don't want to make her mad right now.” Besides, there is something more important that I've been dying to find out.

“Uh, Brendan. I hope you got to meet whoever you were supposed to meet last week.”

“Huh?”

“When we were at the diner, you told me you had to go meet someone. It sounded like a very important meeting.”

“Oh, yeah, I did. It was.”

We continue to collate. Why can't he just tell me if it was Anne Marie?

“So, who was it?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were meeting.”

He looks at me sideways and I'm embarrassed.

“Judith Meyers. She's the manager of the Java Café. She thinks I'm funny.”

“That's great,” I say too loud because I'm so excited it wasn't Anne Marie. I hope he thinks I'm happy that Judith thinks he's funny. Then I start wondering how old Judith is and if she likes Brendan.

Beth comes back into the dining room. “Can you two take care of the programs? I want to help your mother type her critiques.”

“No problem,” I say.

I move the folded programs into an empty box. “Have you invited anyone else?”

“No, just you.”

I try not to show him how happy I am about that, too. To think I've been agonizing all week over Anne Marie being his girlfriend.

“Hey,” I say. “What did Cinderella say when she left the photo store?” He shrugs. “Someday my prints will come.”

He smiles. “Now, that is funny.”

“Really?”

He leans in and kisses me. Wow! It took me three days to find one joke, but now I'm so glad I did.

Beth orders two pizzas and we take a break. Mom continues reading. I try not to stare at Brendan too much, especially his lips. Maybe next time,
I'll
kiss
him.
Thinking about this makes my face flush. I slip away to the kitchen to get lemonade.
Mom's reading my play.
I pivot on the spot and bolt back to the dining room.

Beth and Georgina talk about setting up the booths in the morning. I'm thinking about Mom's red pen, which is probably circling every missing comma, every exclamation point. She hates exclamation points.

“The banner on Forest Avenue looks lovely,” says Georgina.

“It's a new one. Last year's was looking ratty.”

What does Mom think of my play? I bet she hates it.

After we finish eating, Georgina helps us collate the programs and we finish by 7:30. Brendan waves good-bye to me. “Good luck,” I mouth so no one else will hear.

Before he leaves, he whispers, “See you later.”

TWENTY-THREE

I iron the Suzanne dress, which I'll be wearing at the fair.

“Hey,” says Georgina, popping into my room. “I'm wearing this. What do you think?” She holds up one of my mother's Victorian dresses. It's a deep shade of blue with a lacy white bodice. I know she will look beautiful in it. Georgina volunteered to help me at the refreshment booth and to teach me how to waltz for the evening dance. I'm really starting to like her a lot. “I'd better go home and get some beauty rest.”

“Um … Is Mom finished reading?”

She nods. “She said it was hard, but she made a decision.”

“Oh, that's nice.” I try to sound like I don't care.

“You're a winner with me,” she says. “Tootles.”

“Tootles.” Does that mean I didn't win? Would Mom have told her? I look around for something to keep my mind off the contest. I sit and stare at Manhattan. It doesn't have the same aura it usually has. I pick up a book and begin reading and put it right down. I might as well get this over with.

I go downstairs, pretending I'm thirsty. Mom's in the kitchen, talking on her cell phone. The plays are in two neat piles on the table in front of her. I slowly pour myself some lemonade. Mom talks about tomorrow's schedule. Not to look like I'm hanging around, waiting to find out the winner, I open the freezer and take a long look. I shuffle things around. Mom asks Beth to oversee the vendors to make sure they've all paid to exhibit. I shuffle things around again. They talk some more. The freezer is making me cold, so I shut it and open the refrigerator door and shuffle things in there. I grab a carrot stick and nibble on it while I inspect Mom's houseplant. It looks dry, so I water it. I wash a glass that's sitting in the sink. Finally, Mom hangs up.

She stands up and stretches while I dry the glass. “Want some lemonade?”

“Sure.”

I pour her a glass and she takes it. “So,” I say. “It looks like you're done.”

She rolls the glass along her forehead and closes her eyes. “Finally.”

“Did you pick a winner?”

“I did, but it was hard.”

“Oh, really.” I sit across from her. “Tell me about it?”

“There's a lot of good writing in here.” She points to the plays. “I had it narrowed down to four for quite a while.”

Which four?

“I thought I'd make a few copies of the first-place manuscript and ask people to play the various parts, instead of reading the entire thing myself.” She sips some lemonade. “Want to play a part?”

Only if it's my play.
“Maybe,” I say.

“The winner is a well-researched play,” she continues. “The dialogue could use some work.” She yawns. “I think Anne Marie has potential for being a fine reporter.”

My hand starts shaking and I have to put down my glass. “Anne Marie won?”

“Yes, but as I said before, it was a hard choice. Linda Gonzales wrote a little gem about an oyster fisherman that was very funny, but it wasn't as historically accurate as Anne Marie's.”

I nod and get up. “I have to do something upstairs.” I walk toward the door, not wanting to cry until I'm alone.

“Oh, sure. By the way, do you know who Victoria Winters Johnson is?”

I stop at the door, but don't turn around. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I know all the contestants except for Victoria.”

“She's probably new.”

“Probably,” says Mom. “If she comes to the fair, I'd like to talk to her. I was quite moved by her play. It hit a chord with me.”

I turn around. “Really?”

“Yes. It's about Suzanne Anderson. The girl who lived in this house. She carved her initial in our bathroom.”

“Oh, the
S,
” I say, pointing upstairs.

“That's the one,” says my mother. “The play is good and very well written, but the dialogue is too modern and, most important, many of the facts aren't accurate. Victoria has Suzanne marrying Richard, but in reality she never got to marry him, because he died in the Battle of Fredericksburg.”

“He did?”

“He did.”

“Oh.” Poor Suzanne!

“I wrote all the inaccuracies down in my critique. I also wrote that I think Victoria is a promising writer, but that a contest whose focus is on historical content is probably not the right contest for her. I suggested that she look into fiction contests because she has quite a talent for writing to the emotional heart of a situation.”

I don't speak because there's something warm rising in my throat. Somehow I make my way out of the kitchen and up to my room.

It's weird, but I'm really not upset. I think there is a slight possibility that Mom has figured out that I'm Victoria, but she's not saying, and I don't think she ever will. I'll enter the
Teen
magazine contest and use it to express the emotional heart of my feelings for Antonia.

It's weird, but even though I thoroughly despise Antonia, I'm glad I got to know her. If we hadn't met, I'd still be idolizing someone who didn't exist. If I'm going to be a writer, then I have to be more flexible about people. And I don't have to spend so much time looking for mysterious strangers, when the people I know have lots of mysterious things going on inside them. They can be just as interesting as royalty or movie stars. I'll write about Antonia and all the ways that she has messed up her life. And Georgina and Brendan—I'll write about how they have to practice their dreams in secret. And Mom and me—I'll write about people who made a mistake because they believed in the wrong person.

I open my bedroom window and stick my head out and gaze at the full moon. Brendan needs me. What if no one else laughs? I grab a notepad and a pen.

Mom,

I'm at the Java Café and will be home by 10. Sorry, but I have to go. A friend needs my support. I will be very careful.

Love you, Sarah

I prop the pad against my bed pillow and walk back to the window. I have fifteen minutes to get there. I'm planning to make it in seven.

Copyright © 2005 by Susan Amessé

A D
EBORAH
B
RODIE
B
OOK

Published by Roaring Brook Press

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Holdings Limited Partnership

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First edition October 2005

eISBN 9781626723962

First eBook edition: March 2015