“How could you tell Rosie she was uncultured?” Mom is wearing her furious face. A traffic light blinking chili-pepper red. “Are you ashamed of us? Is that it? Why? Because we live in an old house instead of a . . . a warehouse with cement floors and granite countertops? I’ll have you know this house has an upstanding history. It was built the same year Lincoln freed the slaves. Why, it could be on the historic register . . . if we had the money to restore it.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Mom. I like our house. It’s cool. Not because of that historic stuff. Because it belonged to Grandpa before we moved in.”
Our house is made of limestone blocks. Settlers who came to the Midwest dug quarries in the hillsides and chiseled building stones out of huge chunks of limestone. A lot of the houses they built are still lived in. Like ours.
“Then why?” Mom’s faded blond hair is tied on her neck. Her chambray shirt is dirt-stained. Her jeans are grubby at the knees. “It’s because I do this kind of work, isn’t it?” She holds out her hands, studying fingernails worn to nubs.
Mom’s sore spot is showing. Someone has made her feel like they’re better than she is. When she’s really tired, she talks to herself. Saying things like What’s so important about Bluetooth technology? And When did a secretary become an executive assistant? And So what if I don’t know how to play Mah-jongg? Mom didn’t go past high school, but that didn’t matter until Dad died. She’s determined that Rosie and I go to college. Like Beth.
“Not that, either.” I tell her about the bus ride home, replay the talk about cultures, and watch the traffic light blink from red to normal: suntanned and weathered. “Read the slip, Mom.”
Her face blinks red again, from embarrassment this time. She turns to Rosie and wipes tears off her freckled cheeks. “I didn’t understand, Rosie. You see, everyone has a culture, ours is just mixed up. We have a little bit of a lot of things in us. That’s the way it is for people who’ve been in this country a long time.”
Rosie’s eyes light up. “So I can dress up as anything I want?”
Mom nods.
“Then I want to be an Igloo Mojo. I just know Anise will loan me her costume.”
I groan and tell Mom about Anise’s Igbo Mmwo costume and Yee’s talk about Chinese warrior priestesses.
“Maybe I spoke too soon.” Mom’s eyes blink slowly. “Some things we’re not. Chinese or African, for example. But we are part Scottish. And Indian, too.”
“We’re Indian like Sid?”
I let out a bigger groan and explain that Sid is from the country of India.
“No, not that kind of Indian.” Mom blows out her breath, looking tired. “I don’t have any proof of it, but your grandpa told me once we were part Chippewa. A great-great-grandmother, I think.”
I envision a pink feather headdress, green sequins on fake buckskin, and tell Mom that Bailey wants to design Rosie’s costumes. “But since we can’t prove we’re Indian, maybe Rosie should dress up as someone from Scotland.”
“Oh, Scottish would definitely be best,” Mom says. She’s seen Bailey’s original Barbie doll clothes, too.
“What would that look like?” Rosie looks between Mom and me.
I turn to a statue, knowing when to keep my mouth shut.
“Well, I know the Scots wore kilts. . . .”
“Kilts? They wore dead things?”
“A kilt is a skirt. The Scots wear beautiful plaid skirts and matching shawls over their shoulders. Your grandma could make you one easy.” Mom hesitates, eyes blinking. “But I’m not sure she’s up to it. Her memory’s slipping so fast, worse every day.”
I like the idea of my grandma making Rosie’s costume, but she moves like a snail now and doesn’t remember things the way she used to. It’s like an invisible curtain is closing in front of her, the opening getting narrower and narrower with every tick of the clock.
“Yeah, and I’ll rig up a fake bagpipe for the talent part.” I squeeze a make-believe bagpipe under my arm and spew screeching noises out of my mouth.
Rosie scowls at me, not amused. “I’m going as a Chippy-wa and do an Indian dance. And Bailey will make me an Indian princess dress with sequins all over it.”
Another groan slips out of my mouth. Mom gets the message.
“Slow down, Rosie. I’m not positive we are Chippewa. I mean, we don’t have proof.”
“Grandpa wouldn’t lie.”
Mom’s shoulders droop, a sign she’s giving up. “Who’s to know we can’t prove it?” She sighs, looking at me.
I give up, too. Why should I be the only Smith to look like a fool?
But when Rosie starts stomping in a circle and grunting like a caveman, I start to waffle. Justin’s sister has been taking dance since she was three years old, and her parents can buy her fancy costumes because they’re rich. Rosie will look like a fool if Bailey makes her costume, especially if she dances like Bigfoot. But how can I stop her?
The same way you were stopped, says a voice in my head.
“Wait, Mom—it costs money to enter the contest.”
“Money? How much?”
“Don’t know. There’s a phone number on the slip.”
Mom looks at the yellow slip. “I’ll call right way. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day, and Rosie’s been dreaming about something like this for a long time.” She pauses, looking at me. “Oh, and the sign out front needs touching up, Sammy. First thing tomorrow morning?”
“Mom, summer just started—”
“Which is the busiest time of the year in my business. Plenty of time to rest come winter.”
“I’m in school all winter.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Sammy.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll paint the sign tomorrow morning.”
“Good. And raccoons paid us a visit last night. They broke flowerpots and dug up the compost pile. Looked like four sets of tracks. I figure a mother and three kits.”
That explains the smell of compost everywhere. Dried leaves. Sphagnum moss. Earthworms.
“So you know what that means.” Mom grins at me. “Add another job to your list.”
“Aww, Mom.” I speak up before she can bust my chops again. “Okay, I’ll clean up after the raccoons, too.”
She gives me a quick hug. Turning for the house, she pushes aside a big shaggy lump. “Not now, Max. I need to call the hotel. Hopefully I don’t have to break someone’s heart.”
Oh, sure! Wouldn’t do for someone in our family to have a broken heart.
Max noses my hand, his mouth a leaking faucet. “Go find someone else to pester, Max. I told you, I just want to be alone.”