Even though Rocko lied about feeling bad about my clavicle and told Ms. Washington it was my arm because he doesn’t even know what a clavicle is, I was feeling a little better after reading Ms. Washington’s note. Also, today she gave us chocolate cupcakes that she baked herself. My mom never makes cupcakes anymore.
When I was in second grade, she surprised me by bringing cupcakes to school. Usually she made fruit-juice-sweetened banana nut muffins, but this time she’d promised to behave like a normal mother and bring cupcakes with swirly frosting from the market. She came in, smiling like crazy and wearing bright-colored yoga pants. Her hair was kind of messy, and she was carrying two huge pink boxes. She put the cup-cakes on the table. My teacher at the time, Mrs. Kunkel, told me to hand them out. But when I opened the box, I saw that there were these little toy things on top of the cupcakes. You know, those little plastic things that you get at the dentist’s or doctor’s after they’ve tortured you for a few minutes with sharp instruments? (As if this makes anything better.)
The toys would have been fine, except some had little pink Hey! Bunny Rabbits! like the ones on my sister’s pajamas, and some had blue Timmy the Trains with smiley faces. And all of them were rings that you were supposed to wear on your finger. How would the kids in my class know that I didn’t request pink rabbit heads and baby trains on my cupcakes?
I mean, I hadn’t been into the smiley trains since kindergarten, when I used to squat on the floor and hop about like a frog trying to move the trains around the track. Then someone discovered lead paint on a few of the trains and my mom got rid of all of them.
Angelina said that my mom had wasted all that money on those poison trains because she never could say no to me because I used to be so cute. I’d put my arms up when I wanted to be held and say, “Hum peas,” which meant “Hold me, please.”
“Not so cute anymore, dude,” Angelina said. “But then you had these fat cheeks and tiny teeth instead of those big honkers, and you smelled like strawberries and not like dirt.”
Sometimes I hate my sister more than usual.
In second grade I was still kind of cute, if you ask me, but maybe not cute enough for my mom not to ask me first before she bought cupcakes with stupid girly and babyish plastic rings on them.
I took one look at the cupcakes and started to cry. Mrs. Kunkel was the kind of teacher who believed no one should cry, especially boys. Once she had taken me aside to explain that if boys cried, everyone would make fun of them and label them a crybaby. But I was only seven. I really don’t think it’s so bad for boys to cry, even when they get older. I especially don’t think there’s anything wrong with crying when your mom brings babyish cupcakes to school.
Yeah, that’s my cupcake story. But Ms. Washington’s cupcakes tasted great, and there weren’t any stupid plastic toys on them, and even if there had been, no one would have associated them with me.
But today when Ms. Washington was handing out the cupcakes, Rocko Hoggen jumped up, bowed (yes, bowed), and said, “I’ll help you distribute the cupcakes, Ms. Washington.”
I wanted to help her, but I had been staring at Serena Perl’s part and the little red sparkly things along the neckline of her shirt and hadn’t thought of it. Ms. Washington said, “Thank you, Rocko. You are the cat’s meow.”
Great. Even Ms. Washington was going over to Rocko’s side.
Leif Zuniga’s mom, who is the room parent, came into the classroom to help Ms. Washington collect and grade the tests. A lady walked in with her. She had on a pink T-shirt with a heart that said RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, just like Mrs. Zuniga’s T-shirt.
“Boys and girls, you know our room parent, Mrs. Zuniga,” Ms. Washington said. “And this is our other room parent, Mrs. Hoggen. Thank you so much, ladies.”
My mother would never be a room parent; she was always too busy for some reason. I guess it’s hard being a single mom without a dad to help, but she should have thought of that a long time ago.
My mother didn’t even have time to run for anyone’s life. I was glad she wasn’t a room parent, because she would have embarrassed me. But still, why couldn’t I have a mom who helped Ms. Washington?
Mrs. Zuniga and Mrs. Hoggen seemed like they might hold hands when they left the classroom together; they looked like they really were best friends. Just like their kids.
At recess I ran around the track by myself until I could hardly breathe and felt like throwing up. Maybe I didn’t have any friends; maybe my mom wasn’t room parent material. I wasn’t the cat’s pajamas like Rocko. But at least I was fast.
* * *
When I got home from school, I guess I looked pretty upset, because my mom was all “What’s wrong, Ben? Ben, sweetie? What is it?”
I wouldn’t answer.
“Maybe you’re hungry? Are you hungry? Did you eat your lunch? Why don’t you eat your lunch?” There she went with the question marks again.
“Mom, I hate what you pack me.”
She looked through my lunchbox and found the untouched sandwich and seaweed and carrots and mostly untouched grapes. “How can you go a whole day on three grapes?”
“That’s not what’s bothering me. Everything is not always about food. You don’t know how to parent.”
I learned this line from Angelina. It always makes my mom really mad, probably because it’s kind of true. She always tells us that no one can make you mad if what they say isn’t true, because then it can’t hit a nerve. I guess I hit a nerve.
“How could you say that? After all I do for you every day of your life? Do you ever think about all the things I do for you?” She went on and on while I took off my shoes and picked the lint from between my toes, ignoring her.
Angelina came into the room with her cheerleader friends Twinkle Knoll and Amanda Panda Rodriguez. They were listening to the Nananna song “Na Na Na Na Na Na Na” on Angelina’s phone. “What’s wrong, Ben?” she asked.
I wouldn’t answer her, especially in front of Twinkle and Amanda Panda.
“Remember to go where the love is,” my sister said, before dancing away.
But I didn’t really know where that was anymore.
* * *
Later, I got in bed and my mom came to say good night. “I’m sorry I got so mad,” she said.
I told her I was sorry for saying she didn’t know how to parent.
“I probably got mad because it’s kind of true sometimes. It’s a pretty hard job, and I try to do my best, but it’s not always very good. Do you want to tell me what happened at school today?”
But I didn’t want to tell her. It would have sounded stupid to say, “I’m upset because my teacher called Rocko Hoggen the cat’s meow.” And my mom would have just said, “I think you’re the cat’s meow,” which wasn’t the same thing as Ms. Washington saying it.
Besides, there were so many other things that were wrong, it was kind of overwhelming.
When my mom kissed me and turned off the light, I remembered what Ms. Washington had said about how she wanted me to think of one thing that was okay. I thought for a while. It was September, and not much good stuff happens in September. Summer ends, and you have to go back to school. Then I realized that Halloween was coming in a month. It felt like forever, but at least it was something to look forward to. Sort of.