I barely cried at Aunt Liz’s house that afternoon—we’re talking one tear, maybe two, max, slipped from my eyes as I sat at her kitchen table spilling my guts—and very little else.
“The principal, Mrs. Warsaw (sniff), hates me,” I told Aunt Liz. “I mean, she really hates me. She hates me so hard and so much that I’m pretty sure even if I jumped in front of bus or something to save her life, she’d still hate me.”
Aunt Liz gave me a sympathetic little smile and said, “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you, Fizzy.”
“She sicced the guidance counselor on me. I think.”
“Oh,” Aunt Liz said. “What did the guidance counselor say?”
“Just that I could talk to her.”
“Doesn’t sound very attack dog–like.”
I shrugged. “She was nice, I guess—nosy, but nice.”
“So you talked to her?”
“Not exactly—mostly I just explained to her about manners.”
“Manners?” Aunt Liz repeated.
“Yeah, you know, how you’re not supposed to talk about private family stuff outside the family, or whine and complain about things, or get all emotional and scream and cry and snot all over yourself—because it’s not polite.”
Aunt Liz laughed.
“I don’t think Mrs. Sloan—the guidance counselor—is from Lush Valley.”
Aunt Liz laughed again, but her face was serious when she said, “Fizzy, sometimes it’s very helpful to discuss family and feelings. Believe me, people do it every day.”
“Yeah . . . in places like California. I watch TV, too.”
Aunt Liz smiled and shook her head.
“And, anyway, I have you to talk to.”
Aunt Liz reached across the table, covered my hand with hers, and said, “You do. Always. Please remember that, Fizzy. But if you ever want to talk things over with your guidance counselor, I think that’s okay, too.”
“Well, I don’t. So I can’t be late to school anymore.”
Aunt Liz took her hand back and thought about this. “You know, you could walk to school in the mornings just like you walk home in the afternoons—it’s the same distance no matter what the time of day.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“I bet that would help your mom, too.”
Right again.
For a minute I just sat there wondering why I hadn’t walked both ways from the beginning. I guessed riding with Mom in the mornings was a habit that had followed us from our old house, our old life. Mom used to drop me off at my old school in the mornings—I rode the bus home with my friends—but she hadn’t worked back then, and my school hadn’t been anywhere close to home. Things had changed.
Then I thought about how walkers are much cooler than car-riders—nobody looks cool being dropped off at school by their parents. I mean, car-riders might as well arrive caged or leashed for all the choice they have in the matter. But walkers? They could leave the house and go anywhere. Walkers decide to come to school. Plus, nobody knows for sure if walkers even have parents—parents are very uncool—and if they do, well, nobody has to see them. Yeah, I definitely wanted to be a walker, I decided. Tick, tick, tick, whispered the old wall clock. I looked at it: four o’clock.
I shot up out of my chair. “Oh! I have to go home and pack! It’s Dad’s weekend!”
“Right—just let me get the recipes,” Aunt Liz said, jumping up and rushing to the island, which was littered with cookbooks and cards and pens and highlighters.
“Recipes?”
“Yes, I’ve been looking through my recipes and I found a few I thought you might be interested in—for the contest.”
The cook-off. I’d almost forgotten! “Thanks,” I said, jamming my hands into my gloves.
“Now, what you should do is try these out and then if you like them, you can play with them,” Aunt Liz said. “Try adding different ingredients—more of this, less of that—you know.”
I nodded. I love playing with recipes.
Aunt Liz handed me three index cards with recipes written on them in her lovely, loopy handwriting.
I hugged her.
She kissed the top of my head and said, “Those are just desserts. I’m still looking for other things to fit the other categories.”
“Thanks, Aunt Liz.”
• • •
I always forget something when I pack for my dad’s house. No matter how long I take doing it or how hard I try to remember everything, I always forget something. Lots of times, I’ve forgotten my toothbrush, but luckily Dad’s a dentist, so he has plenty of those. Once, I forgot my tights. Last time, I’d forgotten my church shoes. Of course, Dad and Suzanne still made me go to church, wearing sneakers with my Sunday dress— humiliating! So I made myself a packing list, and number one on that list read church shoes.
I saw Dad’s car pull to the curb through my bedroom window. I stuffed my list, along with Aunt Liz’s recipe cards, into the front pocket of my suitcase and zipped all the zippers. Then I lugged my suitcase down the stairs, grabbed my coat, and locked the front door on my way out.
The homesick feeling stabbed at me as I walked past the bank of mailboxes, all of which were small and required a key. The mailbox at my old house—Dad’s house—was huge, and I used to shove all kinds of things in it when I was too busy playing with my friends outside to make a trip inside: empty water bottles; books; sidewalk chalk; sweaters; shoes, shoes, and more shoes. (I’m not allowed to go outside without shoes on, but . . . well, my feet like to be free.) It used to be a running joke at our house that one just never knew what they might find in the mailbox: Lost your car keys? Check the mailbox. Out of Scotch tape? Maybe some will turn up in the mailbox later. But my new mailbox only holds mail. And mailboxes aren’t fun or funny to anybody anymore, least of all me.
“Did you remember your church shoes?” Dad asked as soon as I was in the car—he must’ve been as humiliated by my Sunday sneakers as I was.
Note to self: Church shoes are important to Dad, too, I thought. “Yes, sir,” I said, buckling my seat belt and settling in for the half-hour ride.
Dad nodded his approval. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I lied.
The car was pretty quiet after that. I looked out the window, watching skeletal trees whiz by and noticing how dull and gray winter really is, once Christmas is over.
Dad announced, “Suzanne and I have to attend a business dinner tonight—I’m thinking of taking on a partner—but we shouldn’t be gone more than two hours.”
I turned from the window. “Okay.”
“Mrs. Johnson, next door, will be home all night if you need anything, but we won’t be gone long.”
“Okay,” I said again, and went back to my window, watching the houses grow smaller and closer together as we left Lush Valley behind. Windows glowed with warm yellow light. Smoke wafted up out of chimneys. Dogs barked from fenced-in backyards. I could almost smell dinner on the stove in those houses and hear the evening news on TV. Normal neighborhoods with normal people—families, I thought, and just the word families made me sick with longing.