The Divorce Express (7 page)

“So much about divorce revolves around money. But then so did marriage.” Mindy takes a sip of my father’s apple cider before she realizes that it’s not her Coke.

Finally we stop talking about divorce and I ask Mindy how her book is going.

She frowns. “It’s rough. I’ve got a writer’s block; nothing’s working. The only writing I’ve done lately is graffiti.”

“Graffiti.” Rosie shakes her head as she puts red pepper on her slice. “My mother writes on walls.”

“You try to bring parents up right, and this is the way they act.” I pretend to sound stern. “Mindy, do you write dirty things on the wall?”

My father says, “I could always do the illustrations to go with the writing.”

I shake my head. “She probably writes them on ladies’ room walls. We’d have to get you into a disguise.”

“A long blond wig,” Rosie suggests.

“What do you write?” my father asks, starting to put salt on his pizza and then remembering he doesn’t use it anymore.

Mindy picks up the salt and puts some on her slice. “My grandfather, who spoke very little English, had a favorite expression for all occasions. Writing it down is a way of keeping his memory alive.”

“I have a feeling that I’ve seen it,” I say.

She fills my father in. “I write ‘Hoo ha—six o’clock.’”

We end up talking about all the stuff that we do that could get us into trouble. I tell the Krazy Glue story. Rosie tells about the time she had to stand in front of the room with gum on her nose as punishment for blowing a bubble in a class where the teacher did not allow gum. That reminds my father of the teacher who said, “Brooks, I want the gum in the garbage can in three minutes or you’ll have detention.” My father said, “But the flavor’s not gone. What if I stand in the can—I can still chew it and the
gum will be in the garbage.” He never expected the teacher to say yes, but she did.

Finally my father says, “I hate to break up one of the best times I’ve had for a while, but there’s homework to be done, and the kids have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

“Hoo ha—six o’clock,” I say as we leave.

J
oyce Kilmer High School—it’s so different from my school in New York. There are some things that are alike, but not many.

It’s so big, from seventh grade up, in one building. That’s like my old school, but here there are about three thousand kids. I’m used to about five hundred, from kindergarten up.

My old school was in a small brownstone building. Kilmer looks like it was once a giant car factory, only here they turn out students instead of cars.

My old school didn’t even have a song. Here they sing one based on a poem by Joyce Kilmer, “Trees.” I hate it.

About the kids—most of them are okay, but a few, who act as if they have a screw loose, should probably be recalled. There are about six towns that the kids come from, so there are eleven different types, like at most schools. There are the jocks, the brains, the skidders (who hang out in Woodstock, kind of hoods—the name comes from Skid Row, and there was once even a sign in some store that said
NO SKIDDERS ALLOWED
), the in crowd, the social outcasts (who don’t have a friend to their names), and the regulars.

I guess I’m a regular, who some people think is a brain. I’m not sure I like being put in any group, but it’s certainly better than being a social outcast.

I’m sitting in a boring math class, trying to figure out what the letters in my name spell when rearranged. Phoebe Anna Brooks. It’s so hard. Finally I get one—Phone breaks a boon. That explains why I like to make telephone calls in between doing different homework assignments.

The bell rings.

Rush to lunch to get in line.

Try to get in front. The few edible things go fast, like cottage cheese and fruit, which they haven’t yet figured out how to ruin.

Today’s lunch is chicken a la king. Yesterday’s was chicken croquettes. The day before that was chicken. I bet tomorrow we’ll have spaghetti with chicken sauce. Puke. I’d bring my lunch, but nobody does, except for Alfie Fitch and he’s a social outcast who totes his in a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.

After paying for a meal that they should pay me to eat, I join Rosie and the other kids.

There’s only one seat left, and it’s at the end of the table next to Dave. He’s in some of my classes—smart, funny, and very cute. Once I asked Rosie about him, and she said he used to go out with her friend, the one who had to move away because of the custody decision. “Now,” she said, “he’s up for grabs. Lots of girls would love to go out with him but he doesn’t seem interested.”

Even though it doesn’t show, I’m a little shy and nervous when I like a guy in the beginning. I just try to act as if I’m not.

I set my tray on the table and sit down, acting very calm.

Calm, ha! I’m so calm, I forget that I’ve got my
knapsack on my arm. I’ve just hit Dave in the head with it. I can tell he’s noticed, since he looks like he’s trying to cover up pain.

“I’m so sorry. Would it make it any better if I just died right here and now of embarrassment?” I whisper.

He touches the left side of his head. “You don’t have to do anything that extreme. However, you’ve just knocked out all the stuff I’ve ever learned by hitting me on the left side of the brain.”

That’s what we just studied in science, how the brain works.

“I’ll be glad to tutor it all back into your brain again.” I go along with his kidding. “However, a lot of what we learn in school isn’t worth remembering.”

“When I was little and got hurt, my mother always kissed the part that hurt.” Dave looks at me.

“I’m glad I didn’t drop the knapsack on your feet.” I open up my milk container.

“I think my memory is returning. A miracle. I’m going to remember that you owe me a kiss,” Dave says.

There are worse things, I think, and look down at my tray.

Rosie’s complaining. “This food’s awful.”

“So what’s new?” Pete holds up a piece of wilted lettuce.

“But it’s getting worse,” a girl named Jill says, and shakes her curly head. “Ever since the new company got the contract, it’s to vomit over.”

Sarah, who’s in my English class and is very serious about becoming a ballerina, is getting ready to eat her creamed corn. “Do you mind? I’m trying to eat lunch.”

“It looks like somebody’s already vomited over it.” Alex takes off his glasses and pretends to use them as a magnifying glass.

Sarah puts her fork down and pushes the tray away.

We all look at the food. Nobody’s eating except Milton Myers, and I hear that even his own mother calls him Garbage Gut.

“I think we ought to do something about this.” Dave bangs his fist on the table. “We’ve tried to talk to the administration, but they don’t care.”

Garbage Gut asks Sarah for her creamed corn. She passes it to him. Everyone else at the table gives theirs to him too.

He burps.

“Gross,” Sarah says.

“Thank you.” Garbage Gut takes another spoonful of corn.

Sometimes I don’t understand how people get into groups. Garbage Gut’s a perfect example of someone who should be a social outcast but isn’t, and I bet there are lots of nice people who shouldn’t be social outcasts but are.

I listen to the complaints and debate whether to get involved. After all, when I got here, the Principal called me in and said, “Phoebe Brooks, your record precedes you. I want no trouble. If I so much as see you with a tube of Krazy Glue in your hands, you’ll be suspended.”

Possession with the intent to use. Suspension. It sounds like a drug charge. I promised to be good. But the food is awful and school is so boring.

Finally I decide. “Listen, we had this problem at my old school, and there were certain things we did—and they worked.”

Everyone’s staring at me.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us,” Rosie says.

Dave has his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and he’s staring at me.

I have a feeling that this is one time I should keep my big mouth shut.

“Well, it’s this way . . .” I begin.

I
t’s all set up. There’s a meeting today, and I can go even though it’s Saturday and I’m supposed to be in New York.

It wasn’t easy getting my mother to agree. At first she asked if I didn’t want to come in because of the thing about Katie and Andy. I told her no. Then she wanted to know if I still loved her. I told her yes. She reminded me that if I didn’t go this time, we wouldn’t see each other for a total of three weeks,
since she has to work out of town next weekend. Finally she gave in when I promised that we’d have a really great Thanksgiving together.

It kind of bothered me when she said, as long as I wasn’t coming in, she’d go out to the Hamptons with Duane, to call her there if I needed her. The Hamptons—Duane’s got a beach house out there. It’s all so fashionable and rich, and I can’t stand it because the one time the three of us went, my mother and Duane slept in the same bedroom. After that I told her I didn’t ever want to go again.

Now we have an arrangement. When I stay overnight, Duane doesn’t. What they do when I’m not there I don’t want to know about.

Maybe I’m a prude, but I don’t like to think about my parents having sex with anyone but each other. Even that is more than I want to think about.

I pull on the lavender unicorn-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, leg warmers. It sure is beginning to get cold here. I put a feather barrette in my hair.

All I need now is the ride to Rosie’s.

My father calls out, “Phoebe, ready yet? I want to get to the sales early.”

Garage sales. He’s been doing a lot of them lately.
Since he gave up work, he worries a lot about money and is trying to be careful, so that his savings last until he gets accepted into an art gallery. We used to have lots of money. I think my mother still does. My father, though, worries more and more about it lately. So do I.

“Ready, honey?” He picks up the car keys. “You look great.”

I put on my sweat-shirt jacket.

“It’s getting cold.” He sighs. “You’ve grown a lot. We’ll have to buy you a new coat.”

“I’ll get one when I see Mom,” I say, and then, not wanting him to feel bad about the money, I add, “Or I can hold out till the January sales.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. We’re not that poor.”

“You pay for all the day-to-day stuff,” I say, kissing him. “She can pay for the coat. After all, if I were living with her, she’d be paying more. In lots of families people pay child support to the parent who’s got the kid most of the time. So don’t worry.”

As we get into the car he says, “If people had told me a few years ago that we’d be having this discussion, I’d have said they were nuts.”

We drive in silence for a while.

If only I can think of a way to get him out of this mood.

“Guess what, Dad,” I say. “When I went to Rosie’s after school yesterday, she made us grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“That’s nice.” He uses the voice that parents have when they really aren’t interested.

I continue anyway. “She said that she didn’t want to dirty the grill, so she took two slices of bread, some cheese, made a sandwich, and wrapped it in aluminum foil.”

“That’s nice,” he repeats.

I start to giggle. “Then she took out an iron and ironed it.”

He laughs and glances my way. “You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s true and it works.”

He says, “I guess that’s one way to handle a pressing problem.”

I groan and say, “We’ll just have to remember that technique when things get all wrinkled up.”

It makes me feel good when I can get him out of a bad mood.

R
osie’s house is on Meade Mountain Road. Actually it’s a carriage house, part of a much bigger property. The landlord lives in the big house and rents out what was once the place where servants lived.

It’s not big, just cozy and right for two people, a cat, and a dog. Mindy and Rosie furnished most of the house with things from yard, house, garage, and estate sales. In New York City the stuff would probably be called antiques. Here it’s called stuff.

I walk into the house, through the front porch. Mindy’s got her typewriter and paper on the table. It’s a mess, what she calls “creative disorder.”

Rosie’s at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. “Be with you in a minute.”

I stoop down to pet Salamander, the dog.

He licks my face.

If only my father weren’t allergic to animals.

Salamander’s rolling over, wanting to be scratched.

As I scratch his stomach I feel something patting at my face.

It’s Fig Newton, the cat. He’s after my feather barrette.

I don’t know what to do. If I move fast, he may decide to pounce. If I don’t move, he may decide to pounce. What if he claws my hair or face?

“Rosie,” I say, softly.

Rosie turns to me, sizes up the situation, and puts down the plate she is drying.

As she approaches, Fig Newton continues to bat the feather around.

His paw is getting closer and closer to my face.

Rosie comes up behind him, scoops him up, and puts him outside.

“Thanks.” I take a deep breath. “For a minute I thought I was a dead duck.”

“That’ll teach you to wear feathers with Fig Newton around. He probably thought you were a bird.”

“That would have been fowl,” I say.

“That pun is definitely a down.” Rosie throws a dish towel at me. “DUCK.”

Mindy walks in. “Rosie, I’ve got to get to work . . . . Oh, hi, Phoebe. Listen, would you kids be careful and not touch my stuff on the table? I’m in the middle of a chapter and don’t have time to clean up.”

“We can eat lunch on the porch,” Rosie says.

“Or go on a picnic,” I suggest.

“A great idea.” Mindy grabs her coat. “I’d rather do that than have to wait on people . . . but duty calls. See you tonight.”

As she rushes out of the house Rosie says, “Sometimes I think I’m the grown-up in this house. Look at the mess she left.”

My mother would have a fit if I did something like that, left everything lying around. It’s a good thing she’s not Mindy’s mother, although I don’t think she could be, since they’re about the same age.