The Encyclopedia of Me (6 page)

Sad, really.

See also
Adventure; Autism.

People who other people idolize due to their appearance or other­wise questionable “accomplishments.”

My brothers, Seb and Lex, are celebrities! OR NOT.

They were in
one commercial
for Gap, not an Oscar-­winning performance in the Most Loved Movie of Our Time! I should also add that there were 150 other kids in the ad and you could only see Lex and Seb if you really looked, which I did, and then instantly wished that I hadn't, as I've seen quite enough of Lex and Seb already, and seeing them grinning maniacally in snowflake-patterned sweaters did nothing to endear them to me at all.

Freddie Blue probably will be a celebrity one day. She's just that kind of a person, the kind of person who was made to be famous. She already
looks
famous. I would rather be famous for being smart than pretty, actually, so maybe there is hope for me still.

See also
Aaron-Martin, Sasha Alexei (Lex); Aaron-­Martin, Sebastian (Seb); Anderson, Freddie Blue.

Technological wonders that allow you to make phone calls, send texts, watch YouTube videos, and play addictive video games from any location in the world!

Fact #1: I do not have a cell phone.

Fact #2: Lex has a cell phone.

Fact #3: Seb has a cell phone.
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Fact #4: Mom has a cell phone.

Fact #5: Dad has a cell phone.

Fact #6: They have a family plan.

Fact #7: I am part of this family too.

Important Conclusion!: IT DOES NOT PAY TO BE THE YOUNGEST.

Hot drink containing caffeine that smells much, much better than it tastes.

Public Service Announcement!: Coffee-flavored ice cream, which tastes like coffee smells, is delicious. Actual coffee, which smells like coffee-flavored ice cream tastes, is not. Do not try it, unless you enjoy the flavor of ashes and burned water searing the top layer of skin from your tongue.

“I'm exhausted,” Mom groaned when she came home from work this morning.
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“Tink, I'll give you ten dollars to make me a pot of coffee and some eggs. Where's your dad? What a crazy night. Seven babies! Why do I do this job? I'm so tired. What time is it?” She yawned so wide I could see her fillings and her tongue. Tongues are the weirdest parts of the body, I think. It's like having a pink slug dwelling permanently in your mouth.

“Um, OK,” I said. “It's eleven thirty.”

“Uh,” she said, and staggered out of the room.

I set about making the coffee, which entailed pouring beans into the top of the machine and turning it on. My parents worship coffee, so the machine is actually plumbed (Dad's specialty!) directly into the water pipes and filtered and whatnot while the beans are programmed to be ground to some specifically perfect consistency. I could hear the shower going in the other room and Mom singing, something she denies that she ever does, like we can't hear her all over the house.

“Nice singing, Mom!” I shouted. The singing stopped.

When it was ready, I poured her coffee into a half cup of steamed milk and dumped the eggs on a plate with some toast. If no other career choices work out for me, I've had good training to be a waitress in a coffee shop. Then I grabbed this laptop, which I finally found under the Itchy Couch, buried under six new layers of dirt,
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so I could get back to work on my MASTERPIECE!

(Which I am still going to finish, even though — in a surprise move that I can't believe I didn't mention sooner — Mom has lifted my life sentence last night by ungrounding me.
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Call the presses! Alert the media! TELL THE INTERNET! I am freeeeeee!

I could not have been more shocked if she'd announced that she was running for president or had recently developed a love for macramé. Even though the ungrounding was actually quite anticlimactic. It should have warranted at least a parade or confetti.

“I hope you learned something from this, Tink,” was all she said.

“Well, I learned that ‘aa' is lava,” I said.

“Everyone knows that,” said Seb.

“Do not,” I said.

“If you start fighting, you're grounded AGAIN,” said Mom.

Now that I was free, there was no way that I'd go back to my former life of imprisonment and hopelessness! But . . . “Eat dirt,” I mumbled to Seb, under my breath.

“Ssssss,” he hissed.

“Seriously,” said Mom. So we stopped.)

Until now. Because when I got back to the kitchen — unbelievably! shockingly! — I found my two pig brothers
eating Mom's eggs
.

“Stop it!” I screamed. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“Mmmm,” said Seb. “You're a good cook, Freckle Peckle.”

Lex laughed uproariously, displaying grotesque egg bits lodged between all of his teeth. (I really should have taken a picture for FB because it would cure her for life from her horrible affliction of crushing on Lex.) “Really good,” he said, licking his lips.

“MOM!” I yelled. “MOMMMM!”

“What?” she said, padding into the kitchen in bare feet. The sound she makes when she walks is just like Hortense — which is to say it's a sound that isn't quite a sound.

“The boys ate your eggs,” I shrieked. They looked at each other and then took off out of the room, like they'd suddenly grown rockets on their feet. You could practically hear the whooshing noise.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I was looking forward to those. Oh well, at least there's toast.” She crunched into a piece.

“Do I still get my ten dollars?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Sure. We should get back at them for this, Tink. We should play a trick on them.” She brightened up a bit.

“We could steal their Wii,” I suggested.

“Not bad,” she said. “Maybe not steal it, but just hide it so they can't find it.”

We giggled. We could see the boys out on the lawn randomly rolling around on top of each other, like oversized and particularly ugly puppies. We snuck into their room and took the whole game console, then hid it in the bathroom cupboard. Then I stuck a note on their table where it had been. The note said, “Hope you loved those eggs!”

It was pretty awesome. Sometimes Mom can be a lot of fun. Mostly she isn't. But sometimes, it's almost like she's my friend.

See also
Aa.

Technological wonder that allows you to search Google and know everything in the entire world instantly, without ever having to think about anything!

WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR OWN ACCESS TO THE INTERNET, THAT IS.

Without Internet access, a computer is like a paperless typewriter with a screen. Which I guess is better than just having a typewriter, so I shouldn't complain.

Freddie Blue says it's imperative that I get my own access to the Internet immediately so that I can connect with social media at all times, instead of just for thirty minutes on Sunday afternoon. Without texting (cell phone) or IM (computer), she says I will likely be “stranded in a desert of loneliness” as “everyone else” at Cortez communicates constantly online or on their phones.

I think I'd rather have instant access to Google and a UNIVERSE OF FREE AND INSTANT INFORMATION than to a list of status updates about what my “friends” ate for lunch, but I'm “quirky” like that. Not that it matters, as Mom says I will have unmonitored access to the Internet the day after the sky starts raining pugapoos. In other words, never, or around the same time as I get my own cell phone.

See also
Cell Phones.

The beach at the bottom of the hilly road that leads to my house. Made up of sand and pebbles and rocks the size of eggs and stony outcroppings and logs and way more litter than should be allowed. There are usually too many people there, also. Copwell Beach is situated a block from the best ice cream shop in the universe. And a 7-Eleven.

Making it “the most obvious place to go when you suddenly find yourself with $10 and your BFF doesn't answer the phone and your laptop battery is too dead to type outside in a tree.” So that's what I did.

Or what I planned to do.

But I was only barely out of my own driveway when Kai — yes, the Blue-Haired Boy from Next Door — leaped out of the hedge. It was very startling. My heart shrieked in fear, skittered away, and disappeared behind the fence.

“Hi, Tink,” he said. “Got a rad new board, want to see it?”

“Mmmf,” I said as aloofly as possible, which was hard as my heart was still missing all its beats. Being aloof seemed suddenly really important. Just looking at his bobbing blue head made me think of FB's fake girly-girl laugh, and my stomach dropped like it does on fast fair rides or express elevators. I tried to regain my composure.
Breathe
, I reminded myself.
In, out. Out, in.

“That's not my name,” I said finally.

“No?” he said. “What's your name, then?”

“Isadora,” I said. “My name is Isadora.”

“Huh,” he said. He scratched his giant cotton-candy head. “OK, so hi, Isadora. Does anyone call you ‘Is'? I like ‘Is.' ‘Is' is cute.”

“Hello,” I said frostily. I wish I hadn't told him my name was really Isadora. I hated the name Isadora.

I kept walking. I was super aware of every step, like I was walking strangely, but I wasn't. There was a huge awkward silence, as though a bubble of awkwardness was trapping us in. I'm not sure why he was walking with me, like we were out for a stroll together
on purpose
. Only he wasn't strolling, he was rolling. The skateboard was the biggest that I'd ever seen. It looked like a surfboard. It was almost ridic.

“Isn't this the most awesome board ever?” he said finally. “I designed it myself. And, like, built it.”

“I can tell,” I said. The board was bright Day-Glo orange. It was decorated with a purple skeleton that was holding on to a butterfly. It was both creepy and beautiful, like a piece of art that I didn't understand exactly but still wanted to look at. “It's OK, I guess. If you like that sort of thing. I do. I like it. I mean . . .” I trailed off. What did I mean? I had no idea. “Shut up, Tink,” I said to myself. Not out loud, of course.

“So where are you going?” he said, doing a show-offy spin type thing.
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The butterfly glowed in the sun. It must have been some kind of special paint. “Want to hang out? I'm new here. I mean, you knew that. But you're my neighbor so we should be, like, friends.”

“Beach,” I said. I'd decided that I'd participate in the conversation but only use one-word answers so he didn't think I
liked
him–liked him. Because I was suddenly afraid that I
might
. I don't know where it came from! It was just like a bolt from the blue! I've heard people say things like that before, but I always thought they were making it up! Craziness. I blushed.

Then I didn't want to confuse an already confusing situation by being friendly. Or friendlier. Or unfriendly. I wished FB were there. Don't laugh, but I had never been
alone
with a boy before, just having a conversation, like it was a normal thing for me to do.

“Can I come?” he said. “I like the beach.”

“No!” I said. I didn't mean to be rude, it just kind of leaped out of my mouth. I had been struck by awkward-itis!

“Please?” he said. “I've got to get out of the house for a while. My parents, you know.” He wheeled around, and the wooden deck of his board made a scraping sound on the pavement.

“No?” I said. I kind of wanted to ask what he meant but that would involve more than one word. Dilemma!

“My parents are
fighting
,” he said. He rolled his eyes, like it didn't bother him, but I could tell it did. “Biff, pow.” He threw a couple of air punches in the direction of a hedge. A bee flew out and landed on his hand, and super gently he blew on it and it flew off again. “If you do that, they don't sting you,” he said. “They think you're the wind.”

“Oh, cool,” I said. I thought about his “Biff, pow.” “Um, your parents don't really . . . punch, right?”

“No!” he said. “That was just like a . . . metaphor. I guess. They shout.”

I looked at his face. His nose was interesting, like it had been broken a long time ago. It kind of lay slightly flattened on his face like a bird's wing, but in a good way. He looked like he'd been crying. I quickly went back to looking at sidewalk cracks.

“You know how it is. Sometimes you just gotta get out of sight for a bit,” he added. “They need to be alone. To work out their . . . stuff.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Your parents fight?” he said.

“Um,” I said. “Yes.” I thought about it. My parents fought a lot, actually, when they were together, which was pretty rare because they were both so busy. Luckily. They always said they weren't fighting, but rather “disagreeing.” They disagreed loudly and with lots of slammed doors about 90 percent of Seb-related stuff, like what therapy he should have or if he should have it or whether he should take medication or whether he shouldn't. I didn't want to talk about it. “I mean, no,” I said quickly. I snuck another look at him. He was staring at me in a funny way, cocking his head to the side.

“You're lucky,” he said, getting off his board.

No, I'm not!
I wanted to correct him, but I couldn't explain it all. It was too much. He got off his board and shuffled on the sidewalk for a few steps, and then kicked a stone. We both watched it skitter down the hill. I felt funny, like there was a lump somewhere inside my chest.

Then I took a big breath and really quickly said, “My brother's autistic, so there's always lots of . . . stuff going on. It's complicated. It's not like they're mad at each other, it's more like they are mad at the situation. It's not my fault or anything. Or anyone's. Not even Seb's. He's the autistic one. Anyway, it's not a big deal.” I blushed and right away wished I had a big rewind button so I could take it all back.