Split Just Right (2 page)

“You can clean but you can’t hide,” I imagine him saying through his white teeth. “What’s going to happen without the Kahani’s money? What are you and Mom going to do?” I frown at his smile and work my way back to the kitchen, then my room, then Mom’s, where I attempt a search for the carpet, buried under piles of laundry, magazines, and crumpled Kleenexes.

The whole time I’m cleaning, I’m mentally riffling through the week, searching for clues about the Kahani’s contract. Mom has been preoccupied, definitely, but I figured it was mostly due to the
As You like It
last-minute switch. She’d been depressed about being Celia.

“Celia’s so plain pudding,” Mom complained whenever she and I ran lines. “How can Louis do this to me?” Louis adores Mom, though, and so last Friday he switched the Rosalind and Celia roles, and supposedly Laura Drinker, the old Rosalind, pitched a big temper tantrum and threw a stack of light gels right at the back of Louis’s bald head.

The last stop is the bathroom. As I’m scrubbing the sink I look up and catch my reflection in the mirror.

“Oh, terrific.” Little aspirin-sized red blotches are spattered over my chest and neck. Gross-looking but harmless, they appear whenever I’m anxious about something. The first time I got them was in kindergarten. Mom rushed me to the doctor. After three very different but all embarrassing tests, Dr. Gavin finally pulled out the problem I’d been holding inside: that earlier in the day I’d fed our class rabbit, Trouble, some fingerpaints and was scared he was going to die.

The whole apartment is pin straight by the time the eleven o’clock news airs. I’ve even polished every piece of the glass collection we inherited in bulk after Mom played Laura in
The Glass Menagerie.

I sit tiredly in front of the TV, as Hal “Troubleshooter” Drummond explains how he and his news crew have discovered that some local movie theaters are storing popcorn in mouse-infested closets before putting it in those glass display cases. I close my eyes and try to recall any type of mouse taste from the last time Portia and I got popcorn at the movies. It’s hard to remember, and I feel my bones starting to soften in their sockets, promising sleep.

“Danny?”

I jump, knocking my math book off my lap. Mom stands over me. Her overcoat smells like cigarettes and wet leaves. “You must have fallen asleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost one. Hungry?”

“No, but—ugh.” I run my tongue over my pasty teeth. A Clint Eastwood western is on the TV screen, orange-tinted film flickering on mute. “I need to brush my teeth and change.”

“I’ll make tea? And I have some sashimi, half price from Sakuro.”

“Okay to the tea.”

Mom and I don’t usually follow the schedules that most other families have. Ever since I was little, bedtime has been whenever you fall asleep in the middle of whatever you’re doing. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner happen when you’re hungry, and the menu for those meals often gets switched around: half a leftover cheesesteak for breakfast, cereal for dinner, M&Ms and a grapefruit for lunch. Mom and I are also big fans of anything-goes omelettes, filled with whatever we unearth in the fridge or cupboard. One Thanksgiving we made them with chopped-up turkey franks because we’d forgotten about the holiday until it was too late and all the grocery stores had closed.

When I come back out to the kitchen ten minutes later, Mom has two cups of chamomile tea ready. Tuna sashimi is slabbed over some well-toasted bagels.

Mom’s eyes are tired and glowing.

“Good rehearsal?” I ask, although I know the answer.

“So great. You never came, though. I knew you wouldn’t,” Mom adds quickly. “But everyone was asking for you.” She sips her tea and it burns her mouth; she slops the cup back on the place mat. “Hot.”

“Will Ken and Frannie come for opening night?”

Ken and Frannie Massara, Mom’s superreligious foster parents, moved from Philadelphia down to Florida a few years ago. They sometimes come up and see Mom in plays, although they always first make her tell them if there are dirty words or sex parts, so they can be prepared. I don’t know them too well, but personally I think the Massaras are strange.

My lasting image of them is from my sixth grade graduation. They stood together, apart from everyone else in the auditorium; Frannie had cornered my teacher and was hammering her with questions about mandatory school prayer and how would you know if a student was on drugs, while Ken noisily slurped down the peanuts he’d added to the bottom of his cup of fruit punch. I was sharply aware of their loud, out-of-place presence next to the other sets of grandparents, who seemed as quiet and manageable as pet hamsters in comparison. Criticizing them makes me feel guilty though because, as Mom says, “their hearts are in the right place.”

“I don’t know if Ken and Frannie’d be too into the whole Shakespeare thing,” Mom mused. “You know how they are—they like those musicals, stuff like
Guys and Dolls, Carousel.
Sing-along stuff.”

“That’s too bad,” I say, but I’m relieved. Last time Ken and Frannie came up, at Christmas, they brought me an ugly denim purse and a frowning Jesus doll—“to share your sorrows with,” Frannie had said. I hid frowning Jesus in my sweater drawer with my sorrowful Helen Keller reviews.

“Hey, Gary and I—we saw you on TV tonight, in the new five twenty-eight spot. The one with the soap bubbles,” I yawn casually, watching her reaction. There is none, outside of her biting into a mouthful of raw fish and burnt bagel.

“Oh, with Brittany. That nasty dog-breath girl …” Her voice trails off. I wait for her to say something about Kahani’s, but instead she tucks herself up on her knees and twists some of her hair around her fingers, peeling away split ends. “She calls me Susan, you know. Seven years old. And her mom just
lets
her—it’s inexcusable, if you ask me.”

Susan is one of those names that sounds prettier on a good-looking person and plainer on a homely person. Mom’s in the first category. She’s got a white apple slice of smile and pounds of soft brown hair that she hennas to a sundried tomato color, and her body is the soft curvy kind that wiggles even when she’s standing still.

We have the same brown eyes and hair (although mine’s the original color) and so of course people always say we look alike. I’m definitely not as pretty; it looks as though Mom’s tiny, perfect features got overcooked and blurred when they were stuck on me. And I’m unwiggly but I’m tall—five foot ten to Mom’s five foot two-and-three-quarters (although she gives herself an extra couple of inches on her driver’s license). I appreciate my height, especially when Mom’s having a fit about something and I can lift just my eyebrows, cross my arms, and nod down at her, like a sunflower leaning over a ladybug. Now I stretch long and stand, resting my hands on my hips.

“So,” I say, giving it another shot. “Anything else interesting happen at rehearsal, or any other time, or anything?”

“Not really.” Mom frowns. “I’m beat, though. I’m glad tomorrow’s Tuesday and I don’t have to go to Bradshaw.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” I say eyeing her. “I need a new monthly train pass. Got any money? Because if not—”

“In my pocketbook.” She nods absently She stands up and starts to clear away the plate and tea mugs. “Oh, and I wanted to …” She clicks her tongue, like she’s forgotten something. I wait expectantly “Ty Amblin.” She grins. “Did you call him? Did you ask him to the Spring Fling?”

“Oh. That.” I feel my face turning pink. “No, I—see, I think I’m going to wait until later on in the week, like maybe Thursday.”

“Thursday? But you have to ask him, because that gives you—hang on.” Mom starts ticking off the days to the Spring Fling dance on her fingers, muttering, “Now today’s the third tomorrow’s the fourth Wednes—so … so Thursday’s the sixth …” but then she messes up her numbers once she hits the weekend. “Well, you should give him more than two weeks’ notice,” she says, dropping her hands in her lap. “Or he’ll make other plans.”

“Mom, two weeks is plenty, and it’s not like Ty doesn’t know I’m asking him. It’s all pre-set up; Portia’s good friends with a friend of his, and the friend, Jess Bosack, told Portia all I had to do was ask. I mean, Ty wants to go. All the Rye guys want to go to the dance.” I feel like I’m talking to convince myself.

“When I was in high school, there was such a boy shortage that you had to plan quick, or you’d just get scraps.”

“Well, there’s no shortage at Rye, considering it’s an all-guys school.”

“True.” Mom pushes her thumb and finger against the inside corners of her closed eyes and rubs gently “Take extra money and grab a to-go breakfast at the diner for tomorrow. I ate the last granola bar this morning.”

“Are you sure? Will you have enough?”

“Of course.” Mom gives me a curious look, and in the elastic snap of that moment I could pop out a question about Kahani’s, if I were braver. But I chicken out.

“Good night, then.”

“Wake me before you leave for school,” she says. “Just so I know.”

“Okay.”

Mom can be kind of annoying that way, always wanting me to check in with her at different points in my day, making sure I’m rolling down my daily track and not spinning off in any weird, mysterious directions.

Mostly, though, there are plenty of good points to being a family of just two people, just Mom and me.

Like I never have to go on family camping trips. Portia was forced on one last year, and she said she was MBG—Majorly Beyond Grumpy—the whole time.

And a pint of ice cream and a liter of root beer splits just right for exactly two perfect root beer floats.

And we always agree on the same TV shows, like the Monday-night movie about the call girls or serial killers instead of Monday-night football.

I chalk up Mom’s eagle eye to being part of only-child/single-mom territory. And I can live with the eagle eye if it means Monday-night serial killers and no camping.

Mom seems too tired for more talking, so I decide to ask her about Kahani’s sometime tomorrow.

T
UESDAY COMES AND GOES
, though, and I don’t even see Mom, except when I wake her up to say good-bye that morning. Some days are like that, when Mom’s off to rehearsal by the time I’m home from basketball practice, and then she gets home long after I’ve gone to bed.

On Wednesday morning, she looks tired, and I can tell she doesn’t want to go to school when she starts ordering breakfast in a foreign accent. Mom has this habit of melting into another person when she doesn’t want to be where she is.

“Two sah-such, eck, an chez bees-kit, two arronch jooce, two coffee, plez,” she shouts into the fast-food drive-through box.

“Sorry ma’am,” squawks the box. “Can you repeat that?”

“Come on, Mom.” I slouch down in the passenger seat and push my knees up against the glove compartment. “I’ll be late—
later
—for homeroom. I’ll get a tardy slip.” Of course, Mom doesn’t pay me any attention.

“Two sah-such, eck—”

“I’m getting out,” I threaten her. “I’ll run in and order my own breakfast. I have money.” Mom turns and slides her oversize sunglasses down to the tip of her nose.

“You’re a little crabby this morning.”

“I have a math test I need to get studying for.”

Mom sighs and leans out her window. She repeats our order in a slightly more American accent.

“What is that accent, anyhow?” I grumble after we’ve been handed our paper bags and are chomping breakfast biscuits and slurping coffee at the traffic lights. “Sounded like some kind of Spanishy-Frenchish thing.”

“Oh, it’s just for fun.” Mom yawns. “I should have gotten a large coffee. Rehearsal ran so late last night. I’m beat.”

“When’d you get home?”

“Two, two thirty. Patsy and I went to Casa Maga for chicken nachos after.”

“You should have just bagged Casa Maga knowing you have school today.” I mention this for no other reason than sometimes in conversations with Mom I like to hear something logical being said.

“Shoulda woulda coulda.” She yawns again.

“Besides, Mom. Isn’t today the day you’re presenting that Tom Sawyer musical idea?”

“Yep—aw, nuts! That reminds me.” Mom slams on the brakes. I shut my lips tight at the screechy Evel Knievel sound. In the rearview mirror, I can see Lacy Finn perched like a fluffy blond spaniel in the passenger seat of her mother’s white Saab. Mrs. Finn puckers her forehead, giving us an annoyed look. “I left all my notes and the script at home. Shoot shoot shoot.”

“Can you present it tomorrow?”

“Nope. It took me almost two weeks to get Lemmon to agree to this appointment. I’ll have to wing it. Improv. Shoot.” She presses her foot on the gas as if to drive away from her mistake, and we squeal and pitch into the faculty parking lot just as the Finn car cruises past us to the student drop-off zone.

“You shouldn’t go so fast in a fifteen-mile-an-hour zone.”

“I don’t believe you have a driver’s license yet, missy.”

“Don’t yell at me; it was Mrs. Finn who gave you a dirty look.”

“Elizabeth Finn, poster child for liposuction that she is, should butt out of my business.”

I haul my bookbag over my shoulder and slam out of the car, causing the rusty hood of Old Yeller, our ancient Volkswagen Rabbit, to quiver. Whenever Mom doesn’t get enough sleep, she turns stubborn against reason. The best thing to do is just to get away from her.

“Danny!” Portia jumps out of a school bus and bounds right up to my shoulder. “Are you ready for the assembly?” The assembly. I had totally forgotten.

“Don’t tell me you forgot?”

“No, no, I didn’t forget.”

“We’re presenting it right after lunch, in the upper lobby? Twelve forty-five?”

“Twelve forty-five,” I repeat, taking the front stairs two at a time. “I gotta go.”

“Twelve forty-five, and don’t bail.” She leaps away

Portia Paulson’s my best friend, but we’re complete opposites. And even though I think she’s the number one person after Ty Amblin I’d want to be stuck on a desert island with, the best-friendship was definitely Portia’s decision. One day in second grade she kept passing me notes on her American Girls stationery and next thing I knew I was on her slumber party list and her Christmas present list.