WHEN I GET TO my brother’s school, he is already waiting for me at the gate with his backpack on, although he is not allowed to leave until I sign him out. His eyes look red and puffy, and he stares straight ahead and I touch him on the shoulder and say, “Are you okay, Des?” but he twists away from me and doesn’t say anything. Hm. My little brother is usually happy to see me when I pick him up on Mondays and burbling over with news like one of those baking soda volcanoes we made in third grade. So this is very unusual.
I figure that I had better sign Des out in a hurry, but I run into Rosario, and she tells me that her son, Felipe, just won a huge scholarship and is going to Hunter College in the fall and she is so proud and I am so happy because Rosario is the nicest person in the world and also kind of broke (because being a nanny to twin six-year-olds doesn’t pay what it should) and so of course I have to hug her and hear all about it. So then I wave good-bye to Max and Jack and David and Simon L. and Simon Y. and the three Sophies and Zephyr and all the rest of the kids in Desmond’s class who are also in the after-school Funzone Program, and I wave good-bye to the teachers and finally we are on our way, holding hands as we walk up Park Avenue.
We are quiet for a few minutes, and I point out some yellow tulips that sprout by a tree near the curb. Des sighs a tiny sigh, so I know the flowers have made him feel a little better. The median is also planted with blooming tulips and the trees are nice and green, and we stand still and look at it for a few minutes as the traffic rushes past, because if flowers can’t make you feel better, then things really are hopeless. Then a man with a pug puppy walks past, but the puppy is interested in Desmond’s shoe, and if there is anything cuter in the world than a pug puppy I would like to see it, and Desmond bends to pet the puppy and the man says, “I’m trying to train him not to be afraid of kids, would you please give him this little treat?” and so Desmond takes the treat and gives it to the puppy and then the pug puppy is his best friend, and Desmond actually laughs, and who says that people in New York City aren’t nice? Here we are, enjoying nature and flowers and puppies and Desmond’s mood lifts like fog that is burning off once the sun comes out, and then we say good-bye to the man and the puppy and start back on our way, and Desmond is lighter, I can feel it in the way he is walking.
We take another ten steps, and Desmond says suddenly, “I hate Simon.”
“He’s one of your best friends! What happened?”
“Not that Simon. The other one.”
“Oh. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a big, dumb bully! And he’s stupid!” He spits the word, which is a word that our mother does not like for him to say. “Stupid Simon!”
I am confused again. “Are we talking about Simon Y.? The little Asian kid?”
“He isn’t small. He’s taller than I am,” Desmond points out.
“True,” I admit. Des is the shortest in the class because he skipped a grade, and being tall is relative. “What did he do?”
Desmond holds up his lunch bag, which now has a hole in it. I gasp. “He tore a hole in Sparkle Pie?” I am horrified. Desmond loves his Rainbow Puppies lunch bag. That show is basically his favorite thing on this planet, and Sparkle Pie is his idol.
“So then I called him a canker blossom, and he called me a loser.”
I groan. “Why did Mom take you to that performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” My brother has been using Shakespearean insults since last July, and I must say that they are shockingly effective, mostly because it’s hard to know exactly what they mean. Like that: “canker blossom.” How do you respond to that?
“Why would Simon even care about your lunch bag?”
“Because he is a stupid bully,” Desmond says. “And now my lunch bag is ruined.”
I smooth my fingers over the hole. It isn’t the kind of thing that can be sewn, or glued. “We’ll tell Mom you need a new one,” I say. And then I stop and give him a hug, right there on Park Avenue. We’re only a block from our house now. “When we get home, I’ll make you some chocolate milk. It’ll be okay.” I know he can make it himself, but it’s a nice feeling when someone takes care of you, instead.
“I love you,” Desmond whispers into my shirt, and I remember suddenly how small a third grader who is supposed to be a second grader really is. I always think of Des as a full-size person, but—like Simon Yee—he isn’t. I hug him tight. “I love you, too.”
So we head home and, uggggh, the minute we get there my mom calls out, “Please go wash your hands!” and I remember that I am mad at her and at my dad, too. But there’s nothing to do about it now. I have to eat dinner.
Desmond and I go and wash up using some of Mom’s artisanal lavender-sage soap, and when we get to the table, Mom has put some weird kale-and-lentil thing on it, but also a loaf of homemade bread-maker bread, so it’s not a total loss.
I love that bread maker. If we ever have a fire, the first thing I am going to grab is the bread maker, that is how good the bread is. And we eat a lot of it ever since my mom became obsessed with kale. Dad just looks at the kale and sighs and I must be predictable because I can see his future clearly and it contains a bacon-egg-and-cheese-on-a-bagel from the deli across the street. Usually, I would ask him to get one for me, too, but I will not do that today because I am still fighting off being mad, which is taking all of my energy. Keep it positive!
“How was your day, sweetheart?” Mom asks Desmond. He gives me this worried look, like he doesn’t want me to say anything about Simon and the lunch bag, so I slather a thick layer of butter onto my bread and pretend that this task is taking all of my concentration.
“It was okay,” Desmond says.
“Rose and Thorn?” my mom asks. This is a “game” we are supposed to play every night. My mother believes in these kinds of games because she has taken a lot of psychology classes and she believes that it is important to foster communication in a family, which is a good idea except when you have something you actually want to talk about and instead have to play this game. Anyway, for Rose and Thorn, we talk about the best thing that happened to us (rose) and the worst (thorn) and it occurs to me that I must be very careful and remember not to let anyone know anything about my day at the Met, and I have a not so very good memory, so I panic and blurt out, “Grandma Hildy has a boyfriend!” even though it is not my turn.
“What?” My dad looks shocked and repeats, “What?” His eyes blink like crazy behind his thick lenses, and his unibrow waggles up and down like a squiggly black caterpillar while Desmond shouts, “Yay!” and claps his hands and my mom just laughs and says, “Oh, Callie, don’t be silly.”
My dad takes off his glasses and starts to polish them on his shirt. “What makes you think so?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me when he asks this, which makes me happy because now I can tell that he is uncomfortable about his mother maybe potentially having a boyfriend. So I say, “She was talking about spending a lot of time in Mr. Johnson’s apartment,” and then my mother and father exchange uh-oh looks and it’s all I can do to keep myself from saying Ha. Ha.
“I’m sure Callie is mistaken,” my mom says to my dad, and then turns to me to add, “Besides, it was your brother’s turn to speak.”
“Sophie S. taught me how to finger-knit, and there wasn’t any thorn, I had a great day,” Desmond says, pushing lentils around on his plate.
“Except that Simon Yee ripped a hole in your lunch bag,” I remind him, and then Desmond shakes his head at me, and I suddenly remember that I am not supposed to say anything about that, because of Desmond’s earlier look. Sometimes my mouth works faster than my actual thoughts.
“Why did he do that?” my mother wants to know.
“Because he says that Sparkle Pie is stupid.” Desmond stabs a lentil.
“I hope you taught him a lesson,” Dad puts in. He piles some lentils and kale onto a slice of bread and takes a big bite, and a lentil falls off the bread and into the thick hair on my dad’s arm, which is kind of disgusting.
“What kind of lesson?” Desmond asks.
“Desmond isn’t going to fight anyone, Dad,” I say.
“Nothing good comes from fighting,” my mother agrees. “Desmond, you must offer him compassion. You must visualize yourself as Simon’s friend. I’ll get you another Sparkle Pie lunch bag tomorrow.”
“You can’t just get him another Sparkle Pie lunch bag,” Dad says.
“Why not?” Mom demands. “I think we can afford that much, at least. For now.” Mom spears a kale leaf on one tine of her fork and nibbles it, because that is the way she eats now.
Dad turns red, and I’m thinking ooooooooo because that was kind of a low blow, and that comment just sort of sits there for a moment, like it’s munching popcorn and staring at all of us and wondering what is going to happen next.
“If you buy our son another Sparkle Pie lunch bag,” my dad says slowly, “Simon will just rip a hole in that one. I’m not made of Sparkle Pie lunch bags, Helen. Desmond needs to teach that kid a lesson.”
So I’m all like, “Can’t Desmond just, like, take a brown bag?” which I think is a pretty smart solution but Desmond says, “I’ll just take the old one. The hole is no big deal.”
“Then you’re going to have to teach Simon a lesson,” Dad says.
“Why?” Des wants to know.
“Because Simon will just keep teasing you,” I say. “Take a brown bag. Then he’ll pick on someone else!”
“Why don’t you get a different kind of lunch bag?” Mom suggests. “Spider-Man?”
“Spider-Man!” My dad agrees, as if this is a brilliant idea. “That’s the perfect thing for a boy your age. Do they still have Spider-Man, Helen? Is he still around?” Which goes to show that my dad has not participated in the world in about twenty years because he has been working too hard.
“I hate Spider-Man,” Desmond says. “He’s creepy and you can’t see his face.”
Dad frowns and my mother suggests, “What about Iron Man? Or the Incredible Hulk?”
“He’s just the regular Hulk now, Mom,” I tell her, and she purses her lips and takes a long sip of water.
“I don’t want that stuff,” Desmond tells them.
“I know you love Sparkle Pie,” I cut in, “but you don’t want to get teased, do you?” It is very important to fit in, in my opinion, because school is survival of the fittest, so if you don’t fit, you don’t survive.
Before I went to Haverton, Anna told me, “Callie, if they know you don’t belong, they’ll eat you alive,” and if I am going to get eaten, I at least want to be dead. And I want the same for my brother, so I tell him, “If you take a brown bag, you’ll fit in.”
Desmond looks at me for a long time, his mouth in a little O of surprise, like I’ve slapped him, maybe, or stabbed him in the back. “I don’t want to fit in,” he finally says and he stands up from the table and walks away. Fifteen seconds later, I hear his bedroom door slam.
“Why do I even bother trying to make a nice healthy dinner?” Mom demands. “I should just stick to making soap!” She throws down her napkin and storms off into the kitchen for a glass of wine.
Dad pushes away his plate of lentil-kale stuff and stares at it a moment. Then he looks around the room, blinking at the expensive imported wallpaper. He shakes his head. “Maybe he was right,” he says really quietly. Almost like he’s talking to himself.
“Right about what?” I ask.
Dad just looks at me. I think maybe he is going to ask me a question, but he doesn’t. My dad’s not a big talker, really. It’s like they say: silent waters run deep. Finally, he sighs and says, “Do you want to get a bacon-egg-and-cheese with me?”
“Sure,” I say, because even though I am still a little mad at him, I think a bagel will help me stay positive. Also, I can’t stand the thought of my dad going out to get his bagel all by himself, so I guess I’m not as mad as I thought.