If Only Read online

  “Dad, how were your classes?”

  He reaches for a slice of apple.

  “Fine, I guess. Not enough desks for all the students, though.”

  “Well, my first day was totally awkward.”

  Dad sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He sighs.

  This whole day has been so blah, including dinner, and I’m ready for it to end.

  “I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed early.”

  “Good idea. Me, too,” Dad says, with zero energy. “Let’s just put our dishes in the sink.”

  I don’t go right to bed, though. Instead, I sit down at my desk to write the assignment. After about fifty sheets of paper, three boxes of Kleenex, and a supplemental roll of toilet paper when I can’t find any more Kleenex for tear and snot absorption, this is what I write:

  The Day That Led to the Longest

  and Worst Summer of My Life

  My summer began last spring, on April first, right here in Bethesda, Maryland. April Fools’ Day should be a day of rubber puke blobs on your desk or a whoopee cushion on your chair. But this April Fools’ Day was different. My mother had surgery on that day to “make sure nothing was going on inside.” My dad picked me up from school and took me to the hospital to see her. My dad never cries, but on that day, he started sobbing in the car after he told me that the doctor thought Mom had cancer that had spread to lots of parts of her body and that she probably had “three to six months to live, but it’s hard to really know for sure.” I went numb. Numb inside and numb outside. All I could hear or think was, “three to six months, three to six months.” Over and over, that’s what my brain saw and heard, like those news tickers at the bottom of the TV screen that make it impossible to see anything else. We went in to see my mom, in the green hospital room with the ugly speckled linoleum floor. It sounds mean to say, but she looked like an alien, with tubes going in and out and every which way. It was really hard to look at her. I felt kind of nauseous, actually. She cried when she saw me. Two parents crying in one day. That had never happened before. Well, that’s pretty much all I remember from that visit and that awful day. I didn’t sleep much that night. Life as I had known it was over. My mom, Sophie Burdette, had a death sentence, but she hadn’t committed a crime.

  That’s as far as I get. I can’t answer the assignment question. There was no summer highlight. But I will have to turn in my essay anyway, and Miss Beatty will have to read it.

  After all that writing, I take a long bath in my Blue Oasis bubble bath and listen to music quietly, in case Dad is already asleep. My usual choices in girlie music don’t feel very relaxing or fun anymore, but the Blue Oasis is pretty good at getting the lump in my throat to melt. Mom used to take baths to help her relax, too, until she was too tired even for a bath.

  “How many lotions and potions can a thirteen-year-old girl use?” my mom had asked after the last guest left my karaoke birthday party.

  “Tons, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, I’m shocked!”

  That was the last party that took place during my old life, the one before my mom got sick and died. The one before my dad turned into a sad, sad man.

  Pep Talks

  I’ve had a lot of trouble sleeping lately, including tonight. Even though I’m exhausted, I just can’t fall asleep. I keep reviewing all the things from my first day at school, and I can’t shut off my brain, even after writing in my journal. Everyone at school was buzzing with energy. They had happy things to talk about.

  Another reason I can’t sleep is that it’s raining really hard and loud. Sometimes it sounds like footsteps walking, then running for a long time, then walking again. Some people say that the heavens are crying when it rains. I guess they’re really crying tonight, crying with me.

  When I arrive at school for day two, I head straight to my locker and manage to get it open on the first try. Dylan and his posse start clapping. I try to ignore them while I stuff my backpack and flute inside and slam the door shut. Joci calls to me from down the hall.

  “What’s up?” I say, hesitantly turning to face her.

  “Corinna, you didn’t answer your phone last night.” She sounds all huffy.

  “I was tired.”

  “There’s so much to talk about! We have to have a major catch-up session ASAP.”

  She’s so enthusiastic and energetic, I feel like a slug in comparison.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “But . . . we always compare notes on who’s in what class and all the teacher gossip after our first day.”

  “We’re going to be late,” I interrupt.

  “You’re my best friend, Corinna,” she says just outside her classroom. “Best friends share everything!”

  During my first three classes, I can’t stop thinking about Joci. I miss most of what is being said. But in Miss Beatty’s class, I’m totally focused. She’s just asked for volunteers to read the “highlights of our summer” assignments.

  Only four super-perky kids read their summer vacation essays to the class.

  “I went to sleepaway camp in Canada and saw five rainbows. . . .”

  “My family and I spent the summer on Fire Island. . . .”

  “I spent the summer helping my grandparents on their farm in North Carolina. . . .”

  “The Palisades Swim Team came in first in division three. . . .”

  “Great,” I whisper to myself. Even if I were brave enough to read my essay, I doubt anyone would want to hear it. Summer vacations are supposed to be fun. It’s a good thing soccer practice starts today because I need to run, and kick, and get rid of this awful feeling in my stomach and throat and everywhere else. I need to kick the sad out of me, at least for an hour and a half.

  After practice, Coach Montgomery calls us over to the sidelines for a talk. The sky is getting darker and it looks like it’s about to rain again. He better talk fast.

  “You girls are looking good. We’re going to have a great season, and I need you all to work hard, be your best. We need to come together and support one another, and especially to support Corinna. As you may know, her mother passed away this summer. I’m counting on each and every one of you to lend a hand, lend a shoulder, whatever you can do.” There is a long awkward silence. Finally, my coach claps his hands. “Okay, girls, see you on Friday.”

  I think I’m glad he said something, but it feels kind of gross, too. Not gross in the usual smelly, icky way, but in the way that makes you feel nauseous because it’s too intense. A few girls give me hugs, and then we gather our water bottles. As soon as I get into Dad’s car, the tears begin, no longer under my control. Dad puts the car in reverse and gets me out of there. Neither of us says a word. Neither of us has to.

  Later, when we sit down to dinner, my eyes are still burning, and I blurt out, “So, what’s going to happen, Dad?”

  “What do you mean?” He takes a sip of water and looks at me.

  “Now that it’s just you and me.”

  “Well . . .” He swallows before continuing. “We’re going to do the best we can.”

  I use my thin paper napkin to wipe my tears, but what I really need is a roll of paper towels.

  “It’s not going to be easy. But we’ll be okay.” He touches my shoulder. “I know we’ll be okay. It just might take a while.”

  I sit there, nodding because I want to believe him. But he hasn’t answered the part of my question I’ve been too scared to ask. The part about what happens with me if something happens to him. The part I really need him to answer.

  “Come here,” Dad says as he reaches for me and hugs me close. My tears and nose are all running together in one big mess.

  “I promise you, we’re going to be okay.”

  The next day at school, things are definitely not okay. In the middle of my second period class, I get called down to the main office. The secretary at the front desk, who we call Norma the Storma, says to me, “Corinna, did your mother send in the resid
ency form for this year? I can’t find it in your file.”

  The other secretary chimes in, “Norma, there is no mother.”

  “Excuse me?” asks Norma.

  The second one says, “I’ll handle this,” and walks over to where I’m standing. “Corinna, we need you to get this proof of legal residence form in by tomorrow. You’re really not allowed to be in school without it, and for some reason, we don’t have one for you. They’re really tightening up to make sure all the students actually live in our school district. Some overcrowding problem or something.” She hands me the form. “And I’m so sorry about your mother.”

  I’m not sure what to say.

  “Thanks,” is all that comes out as I turn and leave the office.

  After soccer, giving Maki a walk, and taking a long, hot shower, I decide to call Joci. Even though I’ve been kind of avoiding her, I feel like I need my old friend back.

  “Joci? It’s Corinna.”

  “You actually called me!”

  “Yeah . . . How’s it going?” I twirl my hair with my free hand.

  “I just got back from tennis. What’s up?”

  “You won’t believe what happened in the office at school today.”

  I tell her the whole story and wait to hear what she says. But Joci stays silent on the other end of the phone. I guess she’s waiting for me to continue, but I am expecting her to say something. She doesn’t.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” she says.

  “Well, can you believe it?” I begin to pace around my room. “I got out of there in such a hurry,” I add, expecting her to finally speak.

  “Yeah. That’s terrible.”

  “To hear that lady say ‘there is no mother.’”

  “I know how you feel. Those ladies are creepy. I get the chills every time I go in there.”

  “Wait a second, how can you know how I feel?”

  “I mean she was such a jerk. She shouldn’t have said that in front of you.”

  I don’t bother to tell Joci that my next stop was at the school nurse’s office to ask about my stomachaches.

  After she tells me about her new tennis coach and how cute he is, we get off the phone. I’m so ready for the weekend and for a break from all this drama.

  The next morning, the doorbell rings. I can hear the lawn mower, which means Dad is mowing and I have to answer the door myself. No one is there, but I look down and see a small pink box. I recognize the famous box from Georgetown Cupcake. When I open it, I see that the cupcake has chocolate frosting and a candy heart on it that says, “BFF,” as in, Best Friends Forever. I hold it in my hands, thinking about Joci. It must be from Joci. She knows that I love their red velvet cupcakes, and I don’t think any of my other friends would have done it. I guess she’s trying to get close again, but it feels so awkward, like we can’t figure out how to go back to the way it was before. I place the cupcake back in the box and wonder if things between me and Joci will ever be good again. If I can trust her again.

  Everything is so different now than it was before, and not just with Joci. It’s as if everything in my life can now be divided between BD and AD. Before death and after death. I wish I could do something to change that. I would promise to practice my flute every day the way Mom wanted me to, if only I could roll back the clocks, the calendar pages, the years.

  Mothers

  Unfortunately, Norma the Storma’s stupid comment is not alone in the hall of fame.

  “Okay, whose mother is going to drive us home from the talent show audition on Thursday night?”

  That one was at the lunch table, posed like it was some simple question. No one ever seems to get it, but if they do, then suddenly it gets quiet or someone changes the subject in a totally obvious way. I wish they would just say something to me like, “You must miss your mom a lot.” I think almost everyone knows now that my mom died, but it’s like this forbidden subject. On rare occasions, someone says, “I’m so sorry about your mom,” or “I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry.” Those are both good things to say, but no one ever says anything like, “It must be hard when we’re talking about our mothers.” Maybe that would make me tear up, but at least it would feel like they kind of get it. They never ask me about my dad, if my dad is driving, or whatever. It’s like there’s this big wall between them and me.

  The subject of mothers comes up in other ways, too. Our gym teacher warned us yesterday that she would call our mothers if we didn’t behave. At the lunch table next to ours, some girls were complaining about their moms making lunches they don’t like. In English, we’re reading a book about mothers called They Cage the Animals at Night. It’s a totally sad story in which the mother is sick and the kids go to an orphanage. Oh, and on that school form Norma the Storma wants, it asks for emergency contact information, for my father and my mother.

  Each time the subject of mothers comes up, a red flag goes up, telling my ears to shut down. Then my brain gets a little fuzzy and I can’t concentrate. It’s a good thing we don’t talk about mothers during math, because that’s my hardest subject, and I need to keep my ears open!

  Lunch can be the hardest part of the day even though it’s supposed to be a time to chill, to relax. To chillax, as Joci likes to say. But not these days. These days I get all kinds of attention I’d rather not have.

  “That’s the girl whose mother died last summer,” I overhear.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I say to myself.

  And today, a sixth grader who lives on my block runs up to me and actually says, “You don’t have a mama anymore!”

  That one makes me freeze, but Joci speaks right up.

  “Shut up, you jerk.”

  Joci puts her arm around me and leads me in the other direction. Having her stick up for me makes me feel like we’re a team. Together. Me and Joci. Joci, Joci, Fo Foci. I think about the cupcake. I totally forgot to thank her for it. Maybe I should be giving her more of a chance.

  They should make earplugs for people who are grieving, so we don’t have to hear the stupid things people say, but I’d look like a dork in them. I want to tell Joci my idea, to lighten things up, but I don’t. Joci is already talking to everyone about how many bands are in the talent show and how they’re taking up too much rehearsal time from the other acts, including the jazz dance she and Juliette are choreographing.

  I think it’s cool that they are performing in the talent show, and I know I’m the one who chose not to audition with them, but I still feel left out. To be surrounded by people I know and still feel so alone is pretty weird. Too bad I can’t bring Maki to school with me for company. Dogs are so much less complicated than humans, and he loves me no matter what.

  By the time the last bell rings, I am more than ready to get out on the soccer field. I grab the stuff out of my locker and head to the commons, a big square hallway in the center of the building, which has the only water fountain in the whole building with cold water. Staring at the grimy floor as I walk, I can’t believe the number of pencils and candy wrappers that students have dropped. When I look up, I see a woman looking right at me through the glass in the door of the guidance department. Great. She waves at me and opens it.

  “Hi, Corinna, my name is Cynthia DuBoise. I’m the new school counselor. I’m so sorry about your mother. It must be very hard.” She looks at me with big, concerned eyes. “I want you to know that I’m here anytime you want to talk. Just stop by or sign up with the guidance secretary.”

  I stand there, gulp, and wait for the uncomfortable moment to be over. I need to get out of here. I really don’t want anyone to hear or see us talking.

  “Thank you,” I mumble before turning and walking straight to the door that opens to the parking lot.

  Soccer practice is intense, which is just what I need. I have so much energy that I over-kick most of my shots and the coach tells me to settle down.

  When I finally get through our front door, sweaty and exhausted, Maki greets me
with a tail wag and a lick, and we go straight up to my room. I don’t even take off my muddy cleats. Mom would have freaked about the cleats, but I don’t have to worry about that now, do I? I lie down on my bed and let loose, pounding on my pillow and screaming into it at the same time. I had to work hard all day long to keep it together, to keep my head from bursting. When you don’t know what’s going to come at you, it makes it hard to feel safe. It’s like trying to run across a street before the speeding truck that appears out of nowhere hits you and makes you go splat.

  * * *

  By the time we go grocery shopping on Saturday morning, our fridge is empty. Even the freezer is empty. I push the cart slowly. We haven’t done a major food shopping together since Mom died. I feel a sense of danger, like I’m in a movie and a tiger is hiding in one of the aisles. Will it be in the popcorn aisle or the ice cream aisle? When we pass the Dannon low-fat coffee yogurt, I hold my breath. The next tiger is in the cereal aisle, where I see the Kashi GOLEAN cereal. Passing the Mango Tango Smoothie drinks is no easier. This sounds strange, but it’s like they’re neon gravestones saying MOM’S FAVORITE YOGURT and MOM’S FAVORITE CEREAL. We buy some sausages and lettuce, and a bunch of dried pasta, tomato sauce, cereal, and canned soups.

  “Can we at least get some fruit?” I ask Dad, who doesn’t seem to know what to put in the cart.

  For dinner, we prepare the sausages and green salad we bought this morning. I chop up an apple for the salad the way Mom used to. It’s so quiet and serious while we eat. I used to love it when the three of us got silly and laughed at stupid stuff. We laughed a lot, especially about my mom’s random cooking. She liked combining ingredients and seeing what fabulously delicious thing would result. Most things really were delicious, but some of her inventions didn’t turn out so well. Dry chicken with “mystery” sauce was one of her specialties. Sometimes the sauce curdled like cottage cheese. The texture was totally gross, and it looked like barf. I guess that’s something I don’t miss. She never got discouraged, though, and the inventions kept on coming.