ON WEDNESDAY, THE DAY I had planned to leave for Florida, and the day before Grandpa was coming, two major things happened. Ma found the plane ticket in my closet, and Celia flipped out.
I woke up that morning feeling miserable, and not remembering why right away. Then everything came back in a flash. Even the thought of seeing my grandfather didn’t cheer me up. This special day had become ordinary. The spring break was over, and I’d have to get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to school. I considered staying home and watching TV. But when everyone else was gone the house seemed spooky, so I grabbed my stuff and walked to the bus stop.
Just before lunch, I went to the pay phone near Dr. Harvey’s office and called Ginny, at the travel agency. I told her who I was, and that something had come up, I couldn’t go to Florida. I said that my uncle in Mineola needed emergency brain surgery and wanted me at his bedside. Ginny said no problem, she’d cancel the reservation for me, and that I could get a refund on my ticket at my own convenience. She said she hoped my uncle got well real soon and to have a nice day. Well, at least I’d get my money back—that was something. I’d have to stick around for the dumb wedding. I’d have to put up with mean, crazy Celia for now, and make plans for a future escape.
I went to the cafeteria and sat down at a table with Mary Ellen, Pete, and a few other kids. The noise level in there was pretty high, like the mess halls in prison movies, and we had to shout at one another to be heard. Like Mary Ellen, I had brought lunch from home. Today I had bologna sandwiches, a couple of apples, and Oreos. Pete got on the food line and came back with a tray. The Plainview High Wednesday Special was listed on the board as Potted Swiss Steak. Pete called it “gorilla meat in bug gravy,” and then mopped up everything on his plate. Barry said that Pete should be elected class garbage pail, because if you stepped on his foot his mouth opened. Pete bonked Barry on the head with his tray.
Mary Ellen told us that when she was in elementary school her mother used to put embarrassing little notes in her lunch box that said, “Hi, I’m your peanut butter sandwich!” or “Greetings from your friendly Twinkie!” I remembered a real quiet kid in third grade named Elliot Fine, whose mother put notes in his lunch box to remind him to wash his hands before eating. Pete ate half of one of my sandwiches and some of Mary Ellen’s oatmeal cookies.
We sat there yelling across the table at one another, complaining about teachers and parents and midterms. Barry told a pretty disgusting joke and one of the girls said, “Yuck, Barry, that’s totally gross!” but we all laughed anyway. I couldn’t help thinking that if it wasn’t for my grandfather I wouldn’t have been there. My chair would have been empty, or some joker would have been sitting next to Mary Ellen and trading insults with Pete and Barry. The bell rang over the uproar. The teacher on duty made us clear the table, and we went off to our classes.
The rest of the day was pretty good, too. There were no big hassles from teachers, and the homework was especially light. By the time last period ended, I was feeling a lot better than I had that morning. Life was bearable—my grandfather was coming.
I was surprised to find my mother home when I got there. Celia was at a rehearsal, and Grace was playing outside. I could see her through the kitchen window, climbing up the ladder of the slide. “What are you doing here so early, Ma?” I asked, with my head inside the refrigerator.
“What are you doing here at all?” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
“I found this in your closet a little while ago,” Ma said.
I closed the refrigerator door and turned around slowly. My plane ticket was on the table.
“Hey,” I said. “How come you were going through my things? I thought we were supposed to have privacy around here!” I didn’t look at her while I said it.
“I came home early today so I could get things ready for your grandfather,” Ma said in a low, even voice. “I set up the cot, and was going to make room in your closet, so he could hang his things in there. It was the usual mess. I dragged everything to the middle of the room, thinking I’d ask you to go through it when you came home from school. Then I saw the ticket. I couldn’t just ignore it, Bernie, could I?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“You were running away from home.”
“I was going to live with Grandpa,” I said. “I was going to leave you a note, explaining.”
“Explaining what?”
I couldn’t answer that.
“Is it the wedding?” Ma asked. “Is it Nat and me?”
How did she know everything? “Sort of,” I said.
“Why don’t you like him, Bernie? He really tries very hard, with all of you.”
“I like him,” I said, realizing it was true.
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You may not believe this,” Ma said, “but when it’s time, when you’re old enough, I’ll want you to leave home. I mean, I’ll miss you, but I know you have to take your own place in the world someday. That’s a long way off, though—and I want you around in the meantime.”
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are, Bernie, even if you didn’t intend to be. How could I have had the wedding without you?”
I watched Gracie, sitting on one of the swings now, turning and turning until the chains were twisted together, and then spinning out. “Ma,” I said. “Sometimes I miss Daddy a lot.”
“Honey, I do, too,” she said.
It was becoming harder for me to speak. I swallowed. “Sometimes,” I said, “like I don’t miss him enough.”
Ma sat down at the table. “Do you feel disloyal then, as if you’ve deserted him?”
I nodded.
“I know that feeling. But he wouldn’t want us to be unhappy, Bernie. He’d expect us all to go on with our lives.”
“But he wouldn’t want to be forgotten!”
“Some part of us will always remember him,” Ma said.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I answered, but I wasn’t really convinced.
Ma stood up. She handed me the ticket. “So this is why you needed all that money,” she said. “I was beginning to worry—about drugs—and then I decided to trust you.”
The back door opened and Grace came in, her cheeks rosy. She took her jacket off and brought her art supplies to the table.
A few minutes later Celia came in, too, ran upstairs without saying anything to anybody, and locked herself in the bathroom.
“Now what?” Ma said. “Celia?” she called. “Celia?” When there wasn’t any answer, she went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. Grace and I were right behind her. “What’s the matter, dear?” Ma asked. “Are you sick?”
“I wish I was dead,” Celia said in this weird voice. She must have had her face buried in a towel.
“Open the door,” Ma said. “Right this minute!”
Grace and I moved down the hallway a little, and leaned against the wall.
Celia opened the bathroom door and threw herself into Ma’s arms.
“What is it?” Ma said.
“The p-play,” Celia sobbed. “I’m awful!”
“You are not,” Ma told her. “I’ve heard you rehearse. You know your lines perfectly. You—”
“Oh, that,” Celia said. “A moron could memorize lines. I’m just not a good actress, that’s all.” And she started sobbing again. Then she noticed Grace and me. “What are you staring at?” she yelled. “Is this a freak show or something?”
Ma motioned us away with one hand.
Grace and I backed into our rooms, but I was still listening. I figured she was, too.
“What happened?” Ma asked Celia. “Something must have happened.”
“W-we had a cast and crew meeting today, an open discussion. People all had to say how they thought things were shaping up. Y-you know, make suggestions and everything? Well, someone said I was w-wooden.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ma said.
“And other people agreed. Mr. Rooney said it was an exaggeration. Th-that I just hadn’t thrown myself completely into the part. I’d like to throw myself off a b-building!”
“Celia,” Ma said sternly. “You’re not on a stage now, so don’t be so theatrical. I think you’ve been under a lot of tension, and aren’t relaxed enough, that’s all. Why don’t you take a hot bath before supper? You can use my good bath oil, and my velour robe. And we can talk about it some more later. All right?”
When they started to walk down the hallway together toward Ma’s room, Grace and I both closed our doors at the same time. I heard Celia say, “That nerd was listening. He never gives me any peace. I hate him!”
Ma murmured something I couldn’t hear, and then her bedroom door closed, too.
At five o’clock, Celia was still in the bathroom. I was right outside, needing to pee so badly I was jumping from foot to foot. She was taking the longest bath in history. I was all set to complain to Ma when the door flew open and Celia came out in a blast of steamy, perfumed air. At first I thought she was wearing the wig, but I realized the color was wrong. It was her own hair, cut so short her ears poked out like an elf’s and her neck seemed a yard long. I forgot all about our fight at that instant, and wanted to say something to her, but she glared at me and stomped off.
The bathroom was full of hair. There were long strands in the basin and on the floor. Wisps of it floated past me and landed on the bath mat and towels. I started sneezing while I stood at the toilet, and got out of there as soon as I could.
There were sounds from Ma’s bedroom—Celia’s voice rising, Ma’s calm and steady. Then they came out together. Celia’s eyes were red and swollen. She looked like that painting of Joan of Arc in my social-studies book. Ma gave me a silent warning not to speak, and I didn’t.
Celia went to her room as Gracie came out of hers. The two of us followed Ma downstairs, and she started supper. A couple of minutes later, Nat’s car pulled into the driveway. When Ma heard him, she ran to the front door and went into his arms, the way Celia had gone into hers.
I pulled Gracie into the den with me.
“I want to see Nat,” she said, trying to get by me.
“You’ll see him,” I told her, blocking the way. “He and Ma need to be alone now. Come oh, help me make a fire.” I let her twist the newspapers and pick out the sticks of kindling. I kept thinking of Celia, her skinny swan’s neck, her hair all over the bathroom. Why did I feel sorry for someone I hated, who hated me back?
Celia wouldn’t come down for supper, and Ma said it was all right—she would take a tray up to her later.
I wasn’t very hungry myself, and just moved everything around on my plate, even the food I liked. As soon as I could, I went upstairs. Grace and Nat had gone into the den to continue reading Charlotte’s Web. I passed Celia’s room, and listened, but I didn’t hear anything.
My room was much neater than usual. Ma had left a pile of stuff in the middle, like she said, but my bed was cleared off, and she’d straightened the tops of my bureau and desk. I noticed the pencils I’d glued together when I had that cold. They’d gotten lost under a bunch of junk and I’d never checked them out. Now I tried pulling them apart and couldn’t. I wrote my name across the desk blotter with them, and it came out double. It looked really neat. Maybe I’d invented something great, by accident. Siamese pencils!
I opened my night-table drawer and took out the two pieces of plastic horse, and got the tube of Troo-Gloo. I squeezed some of it onto the jagged edge of the back end of the horse. After I let it dry awhile, I pressed the front part against it, joining them perfectly. There was only a crooked seam between them. “There you go, Jackie old boy,” I said. It was impossible to stand the horse on either end and put a weight on it, so I just sat there holding it together for what seemed like forever. Then I laid it carefully on the blotter and went downstairs.
Grace was sitting next to Nat, and she was crying. I guessed they’d finished Charlotte’s Web. I went into the kitchen, where Ma was putting Celia’s supper on a tray. “Can I bring it up to her?” I asked.
Ma hesitated, but then she said, “All right,” and handed me the tray.
I took it to my room first, and put the mended horse next to Celia’s chicken soup. I knocked on her door with my knee. The soup sloshed over a little. Celia didn’t answer, so I balanced the tray on one hand, like a waiter, and opened the door with the other. She was sitting up in bed, under the covers.
“I brought you your supper,” I said, although she could have figured that out for herself.
“You did?” she said.
I sat on the side of her bed and put the tray on her lap. She didn’t look at it. There were crumpled Kleenex all over the place. Celia tugged at the stubby ends of her hair a few times, as if she could stretch them, and then she let go, dropping her hands to her sides. I wanted to say that her hair wasn’t so bad, that I even liked it that way, but it was too big a lie. Instead, I said, “It’ll grow back again, Silly.” That was my baby name for her, and I hadn’t used it for years.
“Yeah, when I’m about thirty.”
“It’s even better than the wig,” I told her, “for the play.”
“The play,” she said sadly.
“You’ll be okay,” I said. “Try to remember how Frankie feels, that’s all.”
Then she saw the horse.
“Celia? I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything.”
“Me, too,” Celia answered, picking the horse up by its plastic mane.
“Look,” I said. “It’s as good as new. I glued it together with this terrific stuff I won. They tested it on an old, smashed-up Egyptian vase. Even this muscleman couldn’t pull it apart.”
“Poor little Jackie,” Celia said, and the bottom half of the horse broke off and fell with a splash into the soup.
“Oh, no,” I moaned.
There were splatters of soup on the quilt, on Celia’s chin. “You bonehead,” she said. “You idiot!”
“Waiter!” I cried. “What’s this horse doing in my soup?”
“The b-b-backstroke?” Celia said, starting to laugh.
“No, no, the dead-horse float!” I said. Then I was laughing, too.
Every time we tried to say something after that, one of us would point to the horse’s bottom floating in the noodles. And we’d both crack up again, jiggling the tray and spilling more soup.