CHAPTER 13

Does Dad Ever Cry?

All week long, we do the usual stuff at school. Reading. Spelling. Math. Science. No one asks me any questions I have to answer with a lie. When Marianna and I walk to the library, we only discuss normal things, like how many wrong we got on our math quiz (Me: one. Marianna: two), and which instrument in music is the most babyish (Me: wood blocks. Marianna: the triangle), and which boys are the weirdest (Me: Bowtie. Marianna: Bowtie).

Amber is still acting like Marianna is a new toy that she doesn’t want to share with anyone. So Phoebe and Eleanor play with me at recess while Amber pulls Marianna away to teeter-totter, or to play tetherball, or to jump rope. Phoebe and Eleanor don’t ask as many big questions as Marianna, so it’s easy to play with them.

Most nights, Dad calls me when I’m getting ready for bed. If Mom is there, she drops whatever she’s doing and leaves the room. When I go looking for her later, she’s usually sitting with a book on her lap. But she’s almost never reading it. And sometimes her eyes look like she’s been crying.

Sometimes Dad asks me questions and he reads a chapter from one of the books I left at his house. He always says, “Good night, Squirt. See you Friday.” Then I hang up and think about him sitting alone in his little cabin, and wonder if he has an unread book on his lap too. Does Dad ever cry? Does he wish he could come back home?

Now it’s Thursday afternoon, and I’m walking to the library with Marianna. “This is so awkward,” she says, “but I must be Ms. Little’s favorite student! Did you notice she made me line leader twice this week? Everyone else only got to be line leader once.”

“I don’t keep track of who gets to be line leader,” I say, even though I do.

Marianna takes a tube of lip gloss from her pocket. She rubs the gloss on her lips, then holds it out to me. “Have some, Tweety. It’s pink lemonade! Am gave it to me the other day. I think she swiped it from her sister.”

My belly button tightens a little when she says that because Amber used to give me lip gloss and stuff for no special reason. I take the gloss and smooth some on my lips. Then we stop to look at our reflections in Large Marge’s big storefront window.

“My mom won’t let me buy tinted lip gloss yet,” I say, looking at my pink lips. “I’m only allowed to wear clear.”

Marianna looks at me from the corners of her eyes. “Awkward question, but, doesn’t your mother let you decide anything for yourself? She didn’t even let you name your cat.”

“That’s because Shakespeare belonged to her first. See, my dad gave him to my mom for her birthday, when she was pregnant with me. She told him to take the kitten back to the shelter because it was ‘completely impractical’ to get a pet with a baby on the way.

“But my dad set the kitten on her tummy, which was as big as a basketball because I was inside her, and said, ‘Happy impractical birthday.’ The kitten curled up and started purring. Mom couldn’t stop herself from falling in love with him, so she said, ‘Fine, we can keep the kitten. His name is Shakespeare. Now call the hospital because I just had a contraction.’”

“Contraction?” Marianna asks.

“It’s like a big stomach cramp,” I reply. “I looked it up in the dictionary once. Anyway, I was born that night. So my mom got two birthday presents that year—a new kitten and a new baby . . . me.”

“And they lived happily ever after,” Marianna says, admiring her reflection in the window.

“That was the best day of my life so far,” I say, starting down the sidewalk again.

Marianna barks a laugh. “How can it be your best day, Tweety? You can’t even remember it.”

“So? I got born. I got my cat. And I got my favorite story. My parents tell it every year on my birthday.”

“My parents used to tell me stories like that too,” Marianna says.

I glance at her. “Don’t they tell you stories anymore?”

“Of course they do. But now my mom tells them to me. Or my dad does. They don’t tell them together.” She gives me a shrug. “The stories are the same, they just sound different now.”

I give Marianna a sideways glance. Then I dare myself to ask her a question. “UmAwkward question, but did it make you mad when your parents, you know, when they . . . got one?”

“Got what?” Marianna asks. “A divorce?”

I nod.

“No,” she says. “Not really.”

I stop and look at her. “It didn’t? I mean . . . if my parents were . . . getting a divorce, I think I would be really mad.”

Marianna doesn’t answer right away. Then she says, “I was sad. But, also, it was kind of a relief. They loved me and all that, but it was obvi they didn’t love each other. They argued all the time. After they split up, things got better.”

“How?” I ask. “How did it get better?”

Marianna shrugs. “I don’t know, exactly. It just happened, little by little. Why do you want to know?”

I start walking again. “No reason.”

By the time we get to the library, my lips are buzzing with more questions.

I’m thinking so hard I walk right past the library.

“UmHello? Earth to Tweety? We’re here.” Marianna walks up the steps and holds the door open for me.

“It’s us, Mrs. Byrd!” she calls out when we get inside. “Did my book about sea glass come in yet?”

Mom looks up from her desk. I think she’s given up trying to get Marianna to use a quieter voice in here. “Not yet, Marianna,” she replies. “You can be sure I will let you know the moment it does.” She looks at me. At my pink lemonade lips, but she doesn’t say anything about them. “How was your day, Wren?”

“It was fine,” I reply. “Can we build a book nook?”

“May we,” Mom says, correcting me. “Yes, you may.”

As soon as Marianna and I get settled under a table, we empty our school stuff on the floor. The lavender notebook Ms. Little gave to Marianna on the first day of school falls out of her tote bag. It’s covered with Marianna’s drawings now.

“Did you finish writing your autobiography yet?” I ask, pointing to the notebook.

Marianna picks it up. “Oh, that? I finished it in, like, a day. I’m a really good writer. Now I’ve just been using it to keep track of questions I have for my mom. When she calls, I check them off my list.”

“What kind of questions?” I ask.

Marianna opens her notebook and flips through pages of crossed-off questions until she gets to a page of new ones. “Question number one,” she reads. “Where will Dad stay when he comes to visit me?” She looks up, like she wants my opinion.

“Your house is big. Can’t he stay with you?”

“My house is huge,” Marianna says. “But divorced people can’t stay together.”

I think for a moment. “There’s the Starlight Motel. It’s on the lake, just past my mom’s . . . um . . . just past our house.”

Marianna nods, then picks up a pencil and writes Star Light Motel under her first question.

“Starlight is one word,” I say, watching her write.

“I knew that,” Marianna mumbles, erasing the word and rewriting it.

“Question number two . . .” she continues, reading from her notebook. “Why did Tweety lie about her dad going out of town this week?” She blinks at me.

My eyes go wide. I look at her notebook. “That’s not written there!”

“So?” Marianna says, closing the cover. “Answer my question.”

My mouth goes dry. “I . . . I didn’t lie,” I stammer.

Marianna makes a face. “Then how come your dad was at my house last night? He’s going to fix a bunch of stuff for Reuben.”

My heart is hammering against my chest now. “My . . . my dad’s working for your stepdad?”

Marianna nods. “He stopped by the other day too. Why did you say he’s gone?”

“He’s not gone gone . . . he’s just gone some of the time, and then . . . he comes back and goes again.” Quickly, I open my math workbook and turn to our homework page. “What answer did you get for number four?” I ask, like the other conversation is over.

Marianna is still studying me, her eyes as cool as ice. “I don’t believe you,” she says.

I look at my workbook again. “I think the answer is eight.”

Suddenly, Marianna’s phone starts ringing, only it sounds like crashing ocean waves. She scrambles to answer it.

“Mom!” she says excitedly. “Hi . . . ! I miss you too! Yes. No. Just hanging out at the library with that girl I told you about. Wren.”

Mom walks over to our book nook and bends down to look inside. “Marianna,” she says in a hushed voice. “You’ll have to take your phone conversation outside.”

Marianna rolls her eyes at Mom, but she crawls out from under the table, still talking loud, and hurries out the big glass doors.

I slowly let out a breath, relieved. By the time she gets back, she will have forgotten all about me lying earlier. Dad’s new client must be Marianna’s stepdad. Mom said they knew each other in high school. Were they best friends back then? Has Dad told him what’s going on?

Marianna’s notebook is still lying on the floor. I wonder what other questions she wrote in there.

Marianna is still standing on the steps outside, talking on her phone. I pick up her notebook and look inside.

Questions for Mom:

“What are you doing, Tweety?”

I gasp, looking up. Marianna is bending down, frowning at me. “That’s MY diary. It’s private.”

I toss the notebook aside like it’s on fire. “I was just looking at how you decorated the cover. I didn’t read anything.”

Marianna squints. “Liar.” She grabs the notebook. “I forgot my questions for Mom. Don’t go snooping through the rest of my stuff while I’m gone.”

“Look, don’t be mad at me,” I say as she crawls back out. “I didn’t read anything important.”

“Everything I write is important,” Marianna says, standing up. “But I’m not mad at you, so relax. Just ask next time, that’s all.”

*   *   *

Later at home, Mom makes me a grilled cheese sandwich, then she sets her laptop on the kitchen counter and turns it on.

I carry my supper to the living room, take a few bites of my sandwich, then find my diary and work on the cover some more. Shakespeare hops up next to me on the couch and snuggles in. I pet him as he purrs. “Do you miss me when I’m gone, Shakespeare?” I ask.

“Mew,” Shakespeare replies, rubbing his cheek against my leg.

“I miss you too,” I say. “Tomorrow is Friday, so I have to go away again. I wish I didn’t, but it’s the only way I get to see Dad. He misses you. He told me so.”

Shakespeare cuddles closer. Mom is talking on her phone now. I think it’s her lawyer again. “. . . so, are you saying if I agree to his attorney’s latest proposal, we can finalize this by Thanksgiving?” There’s a pause, then Mom adds, “Okay, good. Let’s stick to that plan.”

I sigh and open my diary.

Dear Diary,

Marianna caught me lying about Dad working out of town this week. Then she caught me reading her diary. I thought she would be super-mad at me, just like Amber. But she didn’t get mad at all. She has lots of questions, just like me. One of them doesn’t make sense, though. Something about a big house and a little house. She’s always bragging about her big house, but she’s never mentioned a little one before.

Mom wants the divorce to get done by Thanksgiving. That’s only a couple months away. Then comes Christmas. We always go to G-ma and G-pa’s house for the holidays. Will they let Dad come too? Or is only Mom invited now? And what about my birthday? If it’s during the week, will I celebrate with Mom? If it’s on the weekend, will Dad have my party? They always tell my birthday story together. But Marianna says even my stories will change now.