Jake’s place looks like any middle-class house on a middle-class tv show. It’s a split-level with pale yellow siding. The double garage has gray doors. There’s even a basketball hoop fixed to a tree next to the driveway.
Jake presses a button on a remote, and the garage doors slide up. They must be soundproof. And smellproof. Before they are even open halfway, I hear chittering and scrabbling. And am enveloped in the funky animal smell.
I follow him through a warren of cages big and small, some on the floor, others stacked on benches. “Rodents over here.” He waves to his left. “Reptiles on the right. Birds in the back.”
“And Mustaelida?”
He grins at me. “You’ve got a good memory. Bandit’s over here.” Under the window, a wide cage runs the length of the garage. The ferret nudges up against the mesh, nose poking out, eyes blinking. “See? He remembers you,” Jake says.
“I doubt it. Can he come out?”
“Sure.” Jake opens the cage door and hauls the ferret out by the scruff of its neck.
I take Bandit from him and bury my face in the ferret’s fur. “Smells good.”
“I gave him a bath. In case we had visitors.”
I drape Bandit around my neck while Jake gives me a tour. Some animals peek out of their woodchip bedding. Others nudge their noses against Jake’s fingers as he reaches through the mesh to scratch, tickle and fondle them. He’s so patient with them. Ends up with a handful that he juggles as easily as if they were hacky sacks. He reminds me of the parents with little kids I see on the street and in coffee shops, juggling kids, wiping noses. Talking about them fondly.
He shows me the angora rabbits, all white fluff that fill the hutch like huge marshmallows. “Steph’s favorites,” Jake says. The ones all the girls like, I remember him saying.
While I am being peered at and poked and licked and nudged by tiny paws and wet noses, Jake asks, “You have pets?”
“No. My mom…we’ve never been anywhere long enough, I guess.”
“How come?”
“Oh. Long story.” I look around. “All this must be a lot of work.”
“It is.” Jake takes a binder from a shelf. “In case the spca ever comes calling, Dad says. To Mom it’s just another homeschooling project.” He flips the pages.
“You’re homeschooled?” I ask.
“How else could I get to go to the library in the middle of the day to pick up chicks?” He blushes. “Just kidding,” he quickly adds. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“School?”
“We just moved. Haven’t registered yet.” It’s the line I always use.
He nods in a way that looks like he doesn’t believe me. “So. Do you want to come in for that popcorn? Meet Mom and Steph?”
“I should go home. But thanks for showing me this.”
“Why don’t you come back for supper? Dad’s famous spaghetti every Thursday.”
“I don’t know…”
“Go on. And if you don’t want to feel beholden, you can help me clean out a cage or two afterward.” He looks around like the proud housekeeper my mother will never be. Me neither.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to decide right now.” Jake hauls the garage door closed. “Just show up at six. Dad will be cool.”
The invitation nags at me all day as Mom and I wander the streets. We browse through a huge fabric store where Mom spends ages looking through heavy pattern books. She has never picked up a needle and thread as far as I know. I’m the one who sews on buttons.
We visit the park again, then come back to the room to watch endless m*a*s*h* reruns. And contests with frantic chefs making inedible food out of stuff I’ve never heard of.
It is typical day in the life of Grace and Leni Bishop. We won’t be starring in any reality show anytime soon.
I want to go to Jake’s.
But he was probably just being polite.
If I go, I should take something.
He’s not even cute.
I shouldn’t leave Mom alone too long.
I do like the way he blushes, how his eyes flash when he’s talking proudly about his furry and feathered charges.
I stare at Mom spread out on the bed, her eye shadow smudged, crumbs on her shirt.
I look away, disgusted and hating myself for feeling that way.
“What is wrong with you?” Mom asks as the credits roll on yet another episode of The Golden Girls.
I check my watch. It’s twenty to six. “There’s something I need to look up at the library.”
“Go.”
“You fine here?”
“Don’t I look fine?”
She’s hugging her purse like it’s a favorite cat. In the mess on the end table next to her is the tv remote, a box of crackers and a row of pill and vitamin bottles.
She’s got everything she needs. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
The cutlery rattles as Jake deals plates around the table like playing cards. Jake’s sister, Stephanie, grins at me. “You like basketti?”
“Sure. I love it.” If there’s a sale, I can pick it up for a dollar a can.
“Here we go.” Their dad plunks a huge bowl of pasta on the table. “And here’s the sauce.”
“Dad’s secret recipe,” Jake tells me.
This is so like an old tv show. Happy families at suppertime.
We each have a cloth napkin rolled up inside a little woven holder. I don’t want to get mine dirty, so I don’t use it. To avoid flicking sauce everywhere, I coil a single worm of the spaghetti around my fork at a time. But it still splatters.
“Spaghetti must be the most dangerous food on the planet.” I guess Jake’s dad says this to make me feel better. But everyone looks at me. They look away again when they see me blushing.
Dinner takes forever. There’s salad with two kinds of dressing. I eat mine plain. I don’t want to flood my plate and feel like an even bigger fool. Butter from the garlic toast dribbles down my chin. When I wipe it off, I see Jake’s mom watching me.
Everyone talks back and forth. Over and around me.
The food is wonderful. But I can’t wait to get out of there. I’m trying to come up with an excuse to leave when Jake’s mom asks, “So how’s school, Leni?”
I purposely don’t look at Jake.
“What’s your favorite class?” asks Stephanie. “I like recess best.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Math, I guess?” Keeping track of our money must count for something. “But I like English,” I say. Just in case they quiz me on calculus or something.
Jake’s dad pipes up, “Reading anything good these days?”
“Dad owns Miller’s Books. Did I tell you that?” Jake says.
Crap! I try to think of a book, any book. Sometimes I swipe a novel from a library book-sale cart. But I never seem to be able to get through any of them. None of them have anything to do with my life.
“Jake is whipping through To Kill a Mockingbird right now,” his mom chimes in.
“I love this sauce,” I say. Anything to get us off the topic of school and reading lists. I gulp down my last bite of pasta. “I should go.”
“What about dessert?” asks Steph. “It’s chocolate-ripple ice cream.”
“I’m allergic to chocolate.” I stand up. “Thanks for dinner. But I have to get home.”
Jake’s dad looks at his mom, who looks at Jake.
“I’ll see you out,” he says.
“I’m fine.” There’s an uncomfortable silence as I leave the kitchen. I shove my feet into my shoes at the front door.
“Why did she leave before we’re done?” I hear Stephanie say. “Everyone likes chocolate.”
Tears are smarting my eyes. I feel stupid and lonely and jealous. Their house would never make Better Homes and Gardens. But everything looks so comfortable. Jake’s parents are friendly and Stephanie is sweet.
They are such a normal family.
And I am such an outsider.