Chapter 20

I never did get to sleep that night. I just lay awake until it got light, watching my room go from black to blue-black to misty-grey, thinking and thinking, waiting for it to get late enough to call Dad. Just as he said, there was no use trying to stay here with Mom and Gerri. Who could predict what more crazy things Gerri might do to wreck my life? She hadn't stopped the head-banging, so Mr. Parrish would probably be back again with another petition (maybe even the police next time) and the neighbors would keep right on hating us, people would go right on staring at her in the streets wherever we went, kids would probably go on throwing pebbles, maybe even rocks, at her when they saw her in the park, the way they did the one time I took her, and the other mothers would keep their children as far away from Gerri as they could in the playground, as always.

If I moved in with Dad, it might even be easier for Mom. One kid is easier to take care of than two, and Mom could give Gerri my room and turn Gerri's room back into a dining room.

***

At five sharp, I slipped out of bed, got dressed, and went down to the storage room to get my old suitcase. It was dark and spooky down there and for a minute I was tempted to wait until it brightened up, later, but my mind was made up. I didn't want to waste time. Without waking a soul, I brought the suitcase up in the elevator, let myself back into our apartment, and went to my room to get ready.

As early as it was, I wasn't alone long. How could Gerri have heard me creeping around like a mouse in my room? I'll never know. All I know is that she suddenly appeared in my doorway, the wool scarfs still tied around her head, with that clean-slate expression on her face that looked as if she was still in the middle of a dream.

"Go back to sleep, Gerri," I whispered. I didn't want to wake Mom, not now.

Gerri just stood there, mouth open, head to one side, watching me open drawers, take out socks, shirts, and underwear, reminding me of the way she'd watched Dad when he was packing to leave.

"Go back to bed, willya?" I whispered again, but she wasn't leaving. Her eyes were just following me and watching every move like she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"Willya stop staring at me, for pity's sake?" I said, and Gerri said, "Blixen, vixen, Gellybeen," and a little saliva stayed in the corner of her mouth.

I thought if I ignored her, she'd pretty soon get bored watching me and go back to bed, but no luck. She took a step into my room and then another step and then–believe it or not–she started to unpack my open suitcase, take out the socks, the shirts, the underwear, and try to stuff them back into all the wrong drawers!

"Cut it out, Geraldine!" I hissed at her, "Just stop it!" but she wouldn't listen. Out came all the stuff I'd put in, the shirts, the belt, two of my photo albums, and the camera, and all the time she was shuffling around undoing all my work, her nose was getting redder and redder like she'd been out in a snowstorm and was catching a terrible cold and was going to sneeze up the place in about a minute and a half.

It made me good and mad that she wouldn't listen, although I'd told her to get out and leave my things alone about ten times, so I grabbed her by the shoulders and stuffed her into a chair and looked at her with real murder in my eye and ordered her not to dare get up or I'd have to get real tough.

That did it. She just sat there, not daring to move, watching everything I did, too scared to say a word and looking as if I'd already punched her in the nose.

I repacked the suitcase, and closed it. Half my stuff was still lying around my room, but I guessed Dad would come and pick it up for me later. For now, I had enough to see me through a couple of weeks. I was set to go.

I heard my mother stir in her room, heard the bedsprings creak, and held my breath. Had all the commotion waked her? But no, she'd probably just turned over in bed; being up half the night with Gerri usually meant she'd sleep late, especially Saturday mornings.

It was almost six, still probably too early to call Dad, but I'd try anyway. If he knew I wanted to come live with him, he'd pick me up right away, I was sure.

I closed the kitchen door and dialed Dad's number. He didn't answer for the longest time; ten rings, then eleven. What if he wasn't home?

"Hullo?"

Of course, he'd been fast asleep, and his voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel from the center of the earth.

I told him to come and get me, but I had to tell him three times before he understood. Finally he caught on. His voice got a bounce in it. "I'll be right there," he said, and he told me to meet him out front with my suitcase. Then he said, "I'll hurry, Neil. I'll be right there," and he hung up.

I went back to my room. Gerri was still sitting in there where I'd left her, slumped in the same chair, looking like a bunch of old clothes somebody had left in a pile to go to the laundry, staring at my suitcase like any minute snakes were going to pop out of it.

"Cheer up, Gerri," I said. I went over and took the wool scarfs off her head. "I'll visit often, no kidding."

Gerri didn't answer.

I went to my desk and wrote a note to Mom and stuck it on my dresser, where she couldn't miss it and Gerri couldn't reach it. After what happened last night, Mom would understand.

Then I picked up my suitcase and tiptoed out of my room.

I crossed the living room and walked to the foyer practically holding my breath.

I heard a sound and spun around. Gerri had followed me. She was standing right where the piano had been, in the empty corner, not daring to get closer.

"Go back to bed," I whispered.

Gerri's mouth opened wide, it closed, it opened. Then Gerri said, "Neil."

Or was I hearing things?

"Neil." She said it again, clear as anything. "Neil." She'd learned to say my name. "Neil, Neil." No kidding.

Well, so what?

Learning a simple name like Neil was no big deal.

"Good-by, Gerri. Thanks for learning my name, but I'm leaving," I said.

I walked out of the apartment, got in the elevator, and relaxed. I would not be meeting Mr. Rasmussen at this hour of the morning; none of the other petition-signers was likely to be on the elevator either, giving me the evil eye or making remarks. The floors slid by–five–four–three–two. At each floor, I could swear I heard Gerri saying it again, as if her voice were following me all the way from upstairs: Neil, Neil, Neil.

The elevator stopped, the door slid open.

I picked up my suitcase and walked across the lobby, through the glass doors, and outside, onto the sidewalk. It must have rained during the night, because the sidewalk was damp around the cracks and there was a puddle in the gutter. The air smelled like laundry soap and the sky wasn't blue yet, but it looked like it was trying.

I saw the ord coming down the street, slowing down. It pulled to the curb right in front of me. My father, without his moustache, smiled at me.

"Do you need a hand with the suitcase, Neil?" he asked.

Suddenly I could hardly see my father, the damp sidewalk, the sky, or anything; everything blurred up like somebody had turned a sprinkler on behind my eyes. I blinked and my father said, "What's wrong, Neil?" or something like that. I'm not sure what he said because there was interference; it was ricocheting from the sky or my head or from over the rainbow, for all I knew; it was Gerri's voice saying, "Neil," and no kidding, it was putting a firecracker right in my heart.

"Neil, what's the matter?" my father asked.

I couldn't say it; it just jammed up in my throat like old rags, that not everybody can have perfect pitch, that even though Gerri would always be strange/different/funny/weird, she was the way she was, and she was my sister.

The music/drama kids would tear me to shreds because of her Monday, but they're regular kids, so sooner or later even Joe/Jason might forgive me.

Dad curled his fingers around the steering wheel, then he uncurled them. "You've changed your mind, haven't you, Neil?" he said.

I nodded. I wished like anything he hadn't shaved his moustache. Maybe he'd give it another chance, sometime.

"I understand," he said, looking straight out the windshield so he wouldn't have to see me standing there sniffing and looking stupid and not knowing what to say. "Maybe one day I'll change mine," he said.

"You mean you'll come home?"

My father didn't answer for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, "Not now, not right now," and he cleared his throat. "I'll call you soon, Neil," he said, and I picked up my suitcase and watched him pull away from the curb. I stood a while, thinking about it. "Not right now" didn't mean "never," did it?

I turned, went back inside, and pushed the elevator button. Almost immediately the elevator door opened and Mr. Rasmussen stepped out with his Scottie dog on a leash. At this hour!

"Good morning, Mr. Rasmussen," I said, quaking as usual at the very sight of him.

"Good morning," Mr. Rasmussen said, almost cordially, and as he stepped aside, he held the door so it wouldn't slide closed on my suitcase as I was lifting it into the elevator.

"Thank you," I said, but Mr. Rasmussen kept holding the door, as if he was waiting to tell me something but didn't know how to say it. Finally he said, "Your sister is really coming along, isn't she?"

I was so surprised I guess I just stood there, half in the elevator and half out of it.

"She brought some scraps to my dog the other day and I really appreciate it."

"She did?"

"It was very thoughtful, and he loved every last bite. Except–" Mr. Rasmussen then smiled. Smiled. Showed his teeth, at least ten of them. I couldn't believe it. "Except the marshmallows. I'm afraid he's not much for marshmallows," he said.

My sister, now smart enough to push the right elevator buttons, to say my name so anybody could understand it, to bring leftovers to a dog–and getting smarter by the minute. Really coming along. Even Mr. Rasmussen had noticed it.

My own voice came out of nowhere. "She's getting there," I said, proud as anything. She's all right, no kidding, I thought as the door of the elevator slid closed and the elevator began moving up.

The end.