The Downside of Being Up (11 page)

“Google wasn't even born yet,” she answered, popping a yellow M&M into her mouth. “Other than that, he drives me to school in the morning, but I walk home by myself because he usually stays late doing teacher things.”

“Where's your mom?”

“She died.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I . . . I didn't know.”

“That's okay. It was a long time ago.” We crossed the street. “I don't really remember her all that much. Just been me and my dad for most of my life.”

I stepped over a piece of broken sidewalk. “Not having a mom, you miss that?” I asked.

“That's kinda personal, isn't it?”

“I, um, yeah . . . I just . . .”

“No, it's okay,” she said, opening up. “I guess so . . .” I offered her another M&M but she waved me off. “I mean I guess I don't really miss it so much'cause I never really had one, ya know?”

We took a couple of steps without speaking. The fact that she'd stopped eating the M&M's made me think I'd upset her.

“I guess I do miss having a mom, now that I think about it,” she suddenly added. “Especially when I hear other kids complain about how their moms nag them about this and that. It makes me sometimes wish I had that, ya know?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I guess I never really thought about the positive side of my mom giving me all the grief she did. But she was always such a pain in my butt that it was sorta hard to look at it that way.

“Of course, kids think they don't want that stuff, but deep down, they do. They all do,” she said. “It let's 'em know they're loved.”

“Wow,” I said. “That's deep.”

“Deep?”

“Yeah. I mean usually I just walk home with Alfred Finkelstein and all he talks about are boogers.”

“Boogers?” she said, scrunching up her face.

“You wouldn't believe some of the things that come out of that kid's mouth,” I said. “Or nose,” I added with a laugh.

She didn't laugh back.

“But sometimes we talk about opera, too.”

She stared. I don't think she bought it.

A minute later, we crossed another street, hustling to make it across while the sign still flashed WALK.

“My turn,” Allison said once we were on the next sidewalk.

“Turn for what?” I said, putting the bag of M&M's back into my pocket.

“My turn for personal questions.”

“Um, I think my chauffeur is gonna be here in a minute,” I said, pretending to look around for a stretch limousine.

“I'll go easy,” she said. “What's your favorite color?”

“Purple.”

“Your favorite food?”

“Grapes and pizza,” I said. “But not at the same time. I mean, like, I don't put grapes on my pizza.”

“Got it. Your favorite musician?”

“Mozart.”

“Really?”

“Beethoven?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not believing me.

“Picasso?”

“You mean Picasso the painter?” she said.

“Yeah, well . . . He played rock guitar, too,” I offered.

“Why's your sister hate you?”

“I dunno.”

“Oh, come on, you gotta know.”

“Really, I don't know.” I paused. “Well . . .”

“Well what?” she asked. We made a left and started walking up a street with a lot of big, tall trees.

“Well, I guess she kind of blames me.”

“Blames you?” she asked. “For what?”

“For being in seventh grade.”

“Huh? How's that your fault?”

“It's not,” I said. “But still, she blames me.”

I hopped over a puddle made by someone's broken lawn sprinkler. Allison just walked around it.

“I don't understand.” She stopped. “This is my house right here.” The house with the broken lawn sprinkler was her neighbor's.

Allison's house looked like most of the other houses in the neighborhood. Nothing too fancy, but not so bad, either. The door was brown and the trim over the front windows was light yellow. A new paint job on the front steps wouldn't have hurt.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I'm listening.”

I thought she might go inside or something, but nope, she didn't budge. She stood right there waiting to hear my story.

“See, my birthday is in January,” I began. “And her birthday is in December, so really, we are less than a year apart. And Hill's smart, one of those good-in-school types, so my parents put us in first grade at the same time, kinda like twins who go to school in the same grade, even though we're not twins.”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“So we've been in the same grade our whole lives,” I continued. “First, second, third, and so on. All the way up to this year. And for the most part, we always got along.”

“Why not this year?”

“Because my sister had a diving accident.”

“Like scuba diving?”

“Exactly,” I said. “My dad won a raffle at work and scored a free week at some hotel in the Bahamas, so we all went two summers ago for a vacation and learned how to scuba dive. My sister and I were partnered up.”

“The buddy system,” Allison said.

“Yeah. You scuba dive?” I asked.

“No, but my dad's taken me snorkeling before. Same principle. Go on.”

“So, like, we're down in the water diving and next thing you know my sister gets a piece of seaweed slightly wrapped around her foot—like not even that much at all—and she freaked out. Like, all she had to do was unwrap one little twist, but she panicked and rushed up to the surface too fast, giving her this thing called the bends. You know what the bends are?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“It's when too much oxygen goes to your brain because you surfaced too fast. Or maybe it's too much nitrogen, I dunno. Either way, it's like this serious brain thing that can happen from coming up too quick from under the water when you're diving.”

“And this happened to your sister?”

“Yeah. So the next year she ended up missing so much time away from class in oxygen tanks and stuff like that trying to get her brain right, they just decided to have her take the entire school year off to recover, get healthy and do seventh grade this year'cause that's kind of her real age group anyway.”

“Is she okay now?” Allison asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “We're lucky, she's fine. But she's really mad because . . .”

“Because all her friends are in eighth grade,” Allison said.

“Yep. And they're going to the Big Dance, and they're eating during a different lunch period, and blah, blah, blah,” I said. “She hates being in seventh grade and blames me for all of it. I just don't get it.”

“You don't get it?” Allison asked.

“No, I don't get it.”

“Jeez.” Allison shook her head. “Boys are so dumb.”

“Why am I so dumb?” I asked. But I gotta admit, I said it kinda dumbly.

“You really don't know?”

“Nope, I really don't know.”

“Let me ask you,” she said. “Where were you when the seaweed got all tangled up around her foot?”

“It wasn't all tangled up,” I said. “Don't exaggerate. It was slightly wrapped.”

“Answer the question. Where were you?”

“Looking for a clown fish,” I said softly.

“Looking for a clown fish?” she repeated.

And don't think I couldn't tell there was a ton of sarcasm in her voice, either.

“Um, hello? You were supposed to be her buddy,” Allison said. “You were supposed to be there for her, Bobby.”

I guess I'd never really thought of it that way.

“Like I said, boys are so dumb.”

She headed for the house.

“Um,” I called out from the sidewalk.

“Yes?” she answered in a snippy tone.

“Does my dumbness mean I can't walk you home again tomorrow?” I asked. “I'll bring M&M's.”

Allison closed the door without answering. I stood all alone on the sidewalk not knowing what to do.

“Well, does it?” I called out.

No response.

Sheesh, women.

When I walked into my house later that afternoon, my sister was sitting at the table wearing a gray hoodie sweatshirt and doing her homework. She looked up when I entered but didn't say hi.

I was dirt to her. Lower than dirt. I was pond scum, the green, slippery kind.

I turned to close the front door behind me but suddenly felt someone pushing it open from the other side.

“Man, we gotta score chicks for the Big Dance,” Finkelstein said as he barged in. “By the way, how's your eye?”

“Shut up, Finkelstein,” I said. “And hey, why don't you just come right on in?”

“Don't mind if I do.
He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh
.”

Finkelstein leaned his neck out, clearly looking for something. He and my sister made eye contact.

“You couldn't score a chick if one fell out of a truck and hit you on the head,” Hill said with a bite.

“Hey, Hill, I hear they invented a new bra for girls with your figure,” Finkelstein answered. “It's called the Ironing Board.”

“Nice braces, Alfred,” Hill replied. “Or did you swallow a pile of bicycle spokes?”

“Toothpick!”

“Chain-link-fence face!”

“Chalkboard chest!”

“Magnet mouth!”

“Will you two shut up!!” I said. “Holy cow, what is it with you two?”

They glared at each other.

“Jeez,” I added, and headed upstairs. Finkelstein, of course, followed right behind me.

But not without tossing another dart at Hill.

“Skeleton girl.”

“Wire lips.”

“Shut up!” I said. “Give it a rest already.”

In my room, I discovered Gramps sitting at my computer.

“Ya know, you kids today have it easy,” Gramps said. “Back when I was a youngster, if I wanted to see breasts, the best we had was
National Geographic
magazine.”

“Are you looking at naked old ladies?” I asked.

“Ever seen this website, Bobby?” he said. “It's called GargantuanGrandmothers.org. Heck, I ain't never seen gazumbas like these.”

“Where?” said Finkelstein, pushing through. “I wanna see.”

Finkelstein froze in his tracks.

“Oh my God,” Finkelstein shrieked in horror. “Her boobs are wrinkled.”

“Lust-worthy, huh?” Gramps said with his yellow-toothed smile.

Finkelstein looked at the screen, practically hypnotized.

“They look like half-inflated beach balls.”

“Makes ya feel all electric on the inside, doesn't it?” Gramps said.

Finkelstein turned away, a look of nausea on his face. “I think I'm damaged.”

I reached for the computer to turn it off. “My mom checks my site history on this thing, ya know.”

“Stop, I'm lookin' at nakedness,” Gramps said, pushing my hand away. “Hey, check out this one.” He clicked to another webpage. “She's got cantaloupes the size of beanbag chairs.”

I grabbed the mouse and closed the browser. Off!

“I thought Gram was coming back today and you were going home,” I said.

“She decided to stay a few more days.”

Great,
I thought. I stared at Gramps for a moment. His hair was uncombed and he was wearing the same pair of blue pajama pants as he did practically every day. Except with underwear. I knew because I could see his tighty-whities popping up from underneath his drooping waistband.

What a mess
.

“Hey, Gramps,” Finkelstein said, taking a seat on my bed. “How do you score chicks?”

“Don't talk to him, Finkelstein,” I said.

“Why not?” Finkelstein said. “I wanna learn from the master.”

“Make 'em jealous,” Gramps answered. “Ya gotta make 'em jealous.”

“And Gramps,” I said. “Please don't talk to Finkelstein, either. The two of you should not be communicating with each other. Only bad things will come from it.”

“Ah, jealous,” Finkelstein said as if a lightbulb of great understanding had just gone off in his head. “You gotta make 'em jealous.”

“Exactly,” Gramps said. “Girls always want what they cannot have. Make 'em jealous and you'll have hot little tamales lined up by the truckload.” Gramps stood up. “Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go drop the kids off at the pool.”

“Drop the kids off at the pool?” Finkelstein asked.

“You know, take a dump,” Gramps explained.

“Do I really need to hear this?” I interjected.

“Oh, drop the kids off at the pool,” Finkelstein said. “I get it, the toilet.
He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh
.”

“You wanna know my three rules for dropping off the kids at the pool, young fella?”

“No, Gramps,” I said. “We don't.”

“I do,” Finkelstein said. I swear those two must have been related in a past life or something.

“First rule for dropping the kids off at the pool,” said Gramps.

“He means for taking a poop-ola,” Finkelstein said to me as if I was the one who needed it fully explained.

“Shut up, Finkelstein,” I said. “And get your feet off my bed.”