Water Balloon (6 page)

"What what was going to be like?

"Curtain Call. It's just intense. There is no other way to describe it. It is so intense. The people, they're, like, amazing, so it's great. Jane and I are the youngest ones in the upper division, and there are all these people from Roosevelt High and—"

"You guys have to come over today."

"I'm not sure we—"

"I'm desperate. Please." I lower my voice, but not a lot. "I'm going to kill my father. I'm babysitting for psycho twins, and I need you guys. I just do."

"Trust me, Marley. I want to. It's just that we have all this work we need to get done, and—"

"Leah. I never beg you. Please. Come over this afternoon. Please!"

"I'll talk to Jane," she says. "We'll try."

***

At the twins' house, I start the day with an advantage over yesterday: no surprise element. I know what I'm getting: two. This time, before they can start jumping off swing sets or turning a hose on me, I show them my big container of dandelions.

"Is that weeds?" Grace asks.

I sit down at the rusty old metal table and pull out the dandelions one by one. "You think these are weeds?"

They nod their heads, then look at each other, then nod their heads again. I have a feeling they watch a lot of TV.

"I see jewelry."

"You're a weird bear," Grace says.

"And you're a funny girl," I say. That makes her smile, then look at Faith to see if she's catching the smile.

"Did you ever make a daisy chain?" I ask them. They shake their heads. "We're going to make bracelets out of these jewels."

"I don't like jue-ry," Faith says.

"Oh, so then you wouldn't want a fairy crown either?"

"Oh, I like crowns," Faith says.

"I want one!" Grace says.

"I'll make two, if you guys can help. Go around and gather up all the dandelions you can find. Look for ones like this," I say, picking one up, "with long stems. They make the best chains."

"I'm gonna find more than you," Faith says.

"Nuh-uh," Grace says. "I'm a better looker. Mommy always says."

Their little twin-whine voices bicker as they set off to different corners of the yard. I get two tiaras going, enjoying the relative quiet. I don't think I'm cut out for babysitting, but I know my way around a dandelion.

Using my thumb, I split the stalk just about half an inch, up close near the flower. I thread the stem of the next one through and do the same to its stalk. By the time the girls show up with their last piles of dandelions, my hands are covered in the sticky, milky fluid that leaks out of the stems. Two crowns are almost done. I push the yellow head of a dandelion through the stem and try it on Faith's head. It's a little too big, so I take out one flower and try again. Perfect. I do the same for Grace.

"What do fairy princesses do?" Grace asks.

"Well, they treat each other very nicely," I say. "And they are always very kind to their babysitters."

Faith looks disgusted. "That's so stupid."

"And boring," Grace says.

"And stupid."

"Let's be nasty fairy princesses," Grace says.

"Yeah, the nastiest!" Faith says, and they're off again, nasty-rairy-princessing each other all over the yard. There's something about those crowns that takes the edge off—a tiny bit of magic that makes them a bit more bearable. Each time one runs over to me, about to whine about the way Grace poked her or Faith said something that hurt her feelings, I sprinkle fairy dust on her (tiny bits of yellow dandelion petals that fell on the table). Sometimes, they just run away, twirling like fairies, mostly smiling, and dancing around the yard.

***

"Marley Bear?" Grace says at lunch.

"Yes?"

"Could you catch us a bunny later?"

"Why would you want to catch a bunny?"

"To have it," Faith says. "Duh, Marley."

"Don't 'duh' me. You don't want to anger the Marley Bear."

"That's true," Faith says.

"So could you?" Grace asks.

"I don't think I could," I say, turning to the sink to start washing the dishes that have been there since breakfast (though I'm not sure which day's breakfast). I wonder what my father would think of the chaos that is the Kroll house. I bet even the new-him dad would be disgusted. "Those bunnies live outside. They don't belong to people."

"It could," Faith says. "If you caught one. It could be our pet."

I turn the water off, wondering if Lynne would even want me washing her dishes. Maybe she'd be embarrassed, annoyed that I decided her dishes shouldn't be crookedly stacked on the counter, crusted with food. Where's the manual? I'm never sure what the right thing to do is.

"The bunnies do too belong to us. They're on our hill!" Grace says.

I turn the water back on. It has to be better to have someone help you, right? I rinse the dishes under the tap.

"I don't think the rabbit would be happy." I carefully place the clean plates on top of the already overflowing drying rack.

"I'd be happy," Grace says.

"Me too," Faith says. "And the rabbit would too. It would like us."

"I just like watching them," I say. "If you stuck one in a cage, it wouldn't be right. Those bunnies have been free to go wherever they want since they could hop. How would you feel if someone stuck you in a little and told you you couldn't leave?"

"I'm not a bunny!" Faith yells.

"No, you're not. I can tell because bunnies don't wear Little Mermaid shirts."

Faith laughs. "And my ears are smaller."

"But not a lot."

Faith makes a face and starts to touch her ears.

"Are you guys done?"

"I'm still drinking my milk," Grace says.

"Want to bring it outside?"

"Mom doesn't let us," Faith says.

"I think it'll be okay."

"Then
I'm
taking
mine, too.
" Her taunty voice climbs my spine.

I put their plates in the sink, and then we head out foro urq uiet after-lunch bunny-watchingtime.

When you look from a distance, it can take a while to spot a bunny. First all you can see are their twitchy little ears. Then you find the face between the ears. Then, as though they feel you staring, they take off, and there's that bobbing tail. Every time I see it, it just thrills me. I must have read too many Beatrix Potter books when I was little.

"Do you guys know all the great bunny stories, like Peter Rabbit?"

Grace spits her milk out in a spray that ends up largely in Faith's hair. Faith yells "HEY!" and knocks over her milk so it spills onto Grace's lap. Grace stands, and I race between them and hold them apart.

"She spit her milk at me!" Faith yells, furious.

I bend over so I can see Grace's face. "Why did you do that?"

There's white liquid all over her. She's trying to find her voice, but she keeps sucking in air.

"Are you choking?"

She shakes her head. She's practically wheezing.

"Are you laughing?" She nods.

I'm scared that I'll soon be witness to the dreaded milk-out-the-nostrils show, but I'm spared. Finally, she says, "A rabbit named Peter? That's so funny." She looks at Faith, then me. Then back at Faith. And back at me. "Isn't it?"

"I think a computer named Peter is funnier," Faith says.

"No," Grace says. "A duck with the name of that boy from school. Felipe. A duck named Felipe."

"A garbage can named Susan."

"A zebra named Tyler," Grace says. "That's the funniest."

"No, I have a funnier one. A dog named Dog. That's funny. Right?"

"No. A tree named Dog. That's the best."

"You know what's funnier? A cat named Dog. THAT is funny."

This might continue for the rest of the day. How did it even start? Right: Peter Rabbit. I remember that long ago, Peter's name was what I liked best. He had siblings with these totally rabbit names: Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail. Then there was Peter. Hello? Whose idea was that? I always assumed that Peter got himself into all that trouble because he felt like he didn't belong, like he was just outside the world of real rabbits, not quite one of the crowd.

My dad tries to get me to play tennis with him after work. I have less than no interest in spending time with the person who put me in this situation. I'm mad at him. And at my absent, doesn't-check-her-messages mother.

Anyway, I'm hoping Leah and Jane will come over. I sit in the living room, looking out the front window to the street, Rig at my side.

I get bored waiting. I find that bag of balloons and fill up a few. A small, just-the-three-of-us blitz could never win back the title, but it would be fun anyway.

I try the kitchen sink. The faucet's spout is too big, so I work in the bathroom. I attach the balloon and remember to fill it slowly. It flies right off anyway and soaks me. Nice.

I try again, with the water even slower. Good. It starts to come back to me. Water balloons that are filled only a little are easier to handle but take more force to break. It's tempting to fill them just to the point of bursting, because those are the best for a blitz—there's an immediate break and soak upon hitting the target. They're hard to handle, though—they sometimes break just from holding them.

I make a big pile. I take the kitchen garbage and throw it in the outside bin and stash the balloons in the kitchen trash basket.

And I sit and wait for them to show.

When I see Jane's mother's car pull into my dad's driveway, I nearly fall to the ground in full-body relief. Thank God!

As soon as I open the door, things are better, tolerable.

But different. What's different?

"Jane! When did you get glasses?"

"Last week," she says, smiling, reaching up to touch them.

I cannot believe how different they make her look. Usually the big moment in the makeover scene happens when the plain girl takes off her glasses and the audience realizes she's beautiful. For Jane, apparently, it's the opposite.

"They look so fantastic."

"She knows," Leah says. "That's why she got them."

"Yeah, it had nothing to do with needing to, I don't know, see?" I say.

Jane shoots Leah a
shut up
look, then says, "Let's just say that sometimes, like when you really want glasses, that giant
E
can be
really
hard to read."

Whatever. I'm so glad they're here!

I give them the tour. "This is the bathroom. This is the other bathroom. This is my room," I say. "My room here."

"Why are your bags on the dresser?" Jane asks. "Can't you put your stuff in drawers?" Her eyes are on the mirror above my dresser.

I slide open the top drawer. It's empty. "I could, yeah. I guess I just didn't have a chance yet."

"Will you leave stuff here and have the stuff that's here and the stuff that's at your mom's?" Leah asks. Without giving me a second to answer, she says, "My cousins? The ones who live in Westport? They have two of everything! Like, they have a wardrobe at their mother's house and one at their father's house. They have video games at both places, computers. All that. It's, like, twice as good."

I lead them out of the room. I point at my father's room. "That's my dad's. Here's the kitchen. Isn't it the most depressing house you've ever seen?"

Jane walks in behind me. "What do you have to eat?" God, she looks great.

"Hang on. I missed something. Can't you hurt your eyes wearing glasses if you don't need them?"

"The prescription's not strong," Jane says. "And even if I don't really need them, I kind of really need them. I love them!"

Okay.

We look in the refrigerator while Leah starts opening cabinet doors. "Where's the junk?" she says. "There's nothing to eat here."

My fingers are kind of itching to reach into the trash and pull out those water balloons and slam them. My father would have an insane fit if I did something like that in his kitchen, and my friends know him well enough to award tons of bonus points for bravery. Or stupidity. I want the title. But I know this doesn't even come close to Leah's blitz. I'd need tons more witnesses. It would be so fun, though!

Once we get ourselves Diet Cokes, we're just sort of looking at each other. "My room?" I ask.

Before long, Leah's on my bed and Jane's sitting on the floor, leaning against the dresser. Just like that, my room here seems brighter, happier.

"You won't believe this, Marley. We have so much to tell you," Jane says.

"What won't she believe? About Sage?"

"No. Shut up, Leah. That was nothing."

"Right. Twenty-five minutes of nothing."

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Leah leans forward like she has a great story to tell. "There are, like, twenty of us in our division at Curtain Call, okay? There are all these really cool people from Roosevelt. I mean, it's us and all these high school people."

"So who's Sage?" I ask.

"It's nothing," Jane says, glaring a little at Leah.

"Yeah," I say. "It really sounds like nothing. Okay."

"It's just this guy, this sophomore, who got really into it when we had to do these relaxation exercises together. I mean, he was just really into it." She starts laughing, then watches herself in the mirror, laughing.

"Really into
her,
" Leah says. "And I like the way you didn't even mention that improv you guys did. Like that never happened." She picks up the fringe of the bedspread and starts to braid it. "Marley, I wish you were doing Curtain Call, too. It's amazing."

"Yeah, it sounds just the tiniest bit better than hanging out with five-year-old freaks."

"It sucks?" Jane asks.

"Totally."

"It's only been two
days,
" Leah says with this new, weird bad-actress delivery. "How awful could it
be?
"

"Let's just not even talk about it. Tell me more about this guy," I say to Jane.

"It's no big deal," Jane says.

We always talk about guys, but whatever. "Do you want to just play Monopoly?"

"I guess," Leah says, dramatic enthusiasm gone.

I walk out to the garage to get the old Monopoly game. In the yard I see a ball flying back and forth. I open the door. There's Dad, playing catch with Jack. Yeah, okay. Sure. Dad sees me holding the game and asks, "Why don't you use the new one I got you?"