If Only Page 5

  “Who else is going?”

  “Just us. Okay?”

  “I think so. I’ll check with my dad. Not a sleepover, right?”

  “That would be great!”

  “But . . . that’s not what I meant. I mean, movie and cupcakes, but then your mom can drop me off, right?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  I don’t tell Joci, but I worry about Dad feeling too lonely.

  A few hours later, Dad picks me up from the car wash.

  “Good news, Corinna,” he says with excitement in his voice.

  “What, what is it?”

  “Aunt Jennifer called and asked if she can come visit us over Veteran’s Day weekend.”

  “How soon is that?”

  “In a few weeks. She’s leaving the kids at home with their dad.”

  “Yahoo! That’s great.”

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  It’s great to have something to look forward to. Something positive to focus on.

  My focus has pretty much gone missing so far this year, and it’s been hard to concentrate in all of my classes. Algebra is the worst. Algebra equals Mrs. Giamatti, and right now, Mrs. Giamatti, who is also known as Hawk Lady because of her sunken eyes and glued-down hair, is walking around the room, looking like she’s ready to pounce. She stops two inches from my desk. “Corinna, you missed two out of four assignments last week.”

  “What?” I stammer.

  “You only turned in two problem sets.”

  Mrs. Giamatti’s gray eyes feel like daggers piercing through my pride.

  “But I know I did all four of them.”

  I start flipping through my papers, desperately hoping to find them. No luck. Then I start digging around in my backpack and pull out some crumpled papers. No luck there, either. By the time I get to my English binder, she has already walked back to her desk and everyone is whispering. Amazingly, I find the problem sets in the poetry section of my English binder. Without looking at her or anyone else, I walk up and put them in her assignment basket and slink back to my desk.

  “Nice save,” says Alex, the cute boy who sits behind me.

  After my complete and total humiliation in math class, I can’t face the cafeteria scene today, so I escape to the school library. The library has its own dramas and noise problems, including the librarians’ never-ending battle to shush everyone. I overhear Beth and her gang passing on the gossip they’ve been reading in the latest People magazine. I could move somewhere else, but I’m stuck. It’s like I have glue between my butt and the chair. Butt glue. What a lovely thought.

  “Wait up, Corinna,” Lena calls as she comes up to me in the hallway before our next class. She’s very petite and looks younger than most people in our grade.

  “What’s up, Lena?”

  “I just want to say, I’m never going to juggle in front of anyone again. Everyone was laughing at the talent show, and that made me mess up even more.”

  “I know the feeling. It’s an awful feeling. But we have to try really, really hard not to let our mistakes get us down.”

  * * *

  Soccer practice helps me relax and forget about Mrs. Giamatti. Dad picks me up, and two minutes later, he goes right through a stop sign. We almost run into a police car. Police lights start flashing and Dad pulls over. The cop looks angry.

  “What is not clear about that stop sign you just ran?”

  “Nothing, officer. I didn’t see it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Got your head in the clouds?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You idiots are going to get yourselves killed.”

  Dad’s spacey-ness makes me feel sick and scared. We really could have been hit or hit the cop, we could have died, or we could have killed someone else. I’m worried that he isn’t paying attention to important stuff, and I need him to get his act together.

  Twists and Turns

  It totally irritates me when I walk through the hallways and I see hundreds of kids acting like their same old immature selves, like nothing has changed. Well, maybe nothing has changed for them. Yeah, yeah, yeah, maybe once upon a time their beloved gerbil or goldfish died. You can always buy a new goldfish. Or maybe one of their grandparents died. I’m sorry, but that just isn’t the same, not unless the grandparent was raising them. I hate that they can just go on like normal and I can’t. My world is upside down and inside out and scrambled like mush and it’s really horrible, and I feel like I have this great, big, giant emptiness inside of me. Not all day, every day, but a lot of the time. And even knowing that Clare is here doesn’t always help, because I still don’t have my mom and I never will. Why did this happen to me, why my mom? Life is so unfair.

  I’m in a terrible mood because we ran out of bread again this morning and Dad got all annoyed when I wasn’t ready.

  “Dad, there’s nothing to make for lunch.”

  “There must be something you like.”

  “We wouldn’t be out of bread if Mom was here.”

  Mom used to make our lunches before Dad and I went off to school. We always had good bread — without a ton of seeds in it — and other sandwich-making supplies in the house. She made sure we had other good stuff in our lunches, too, like apples that weren’t mushy. I hate mushy apples. Now our mornings are hectic and discombobulated (love that word, hate that feeling). Mom was the queen of lists, so we never ran out of milk, either, like we did two days ago.

  Dad promised we’d buy six loaves of bread after school today, but I’m still feeling totally annoyed by everything in my life. I see Franklin walking down the hall, smiling, minding his own business. I don’t even know Franklin; I just remember his name because it’s so unusual.

  “What are you so happy about?” I ask.

  “Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”

  “You want to know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. It sucks to have your parent die.”

  “Yeah, it probably does.”

  “Probably? You don’t know how lucky you are to have two parents alive.”

  I don’t even know if Franklin has two parents, or if he has two dads or two moms or what.

  “You shouldn’t go around making assumptions that everyone else’s life is just perfect. Everyone has problems.” Then he practically screams, “Life’s not great for me, either.”

  That shuts me up.

  Thankfully, no one else is in the hall with us, but it’s almost as if the guidance office has antennae and heard about it. I get a note the next day, passed on by Miss Boppity Bop, asking me to go to Ms. DuBoise’s office. I’ve been avoiding the hallway near her office, but I guess she decided she’d waited long enough (or she does have hidden antennae). At least she didn’t call for me over the loudspeaker!

  When I get into her office, she says, “It must be hard sometimes when the kids don’t know what you’re going through.”

  Talk about uncomfortable. What’s she going to do, make me talk? I feel trapped. She doesn’t push me, though. She tells me that there are a few kids who have had a parent die in the last few years and she’s thinking of starting a group for us to meet together. I’m surprised to hear that besides Clare, there are other kids like me. That keeps me listening. But I also feel scared. What would we have to talk about and what if I don’t feel comfortable? What if it’s totally cheesy and fake? She says she has to send home permission slips and she’ll let me know when the group is starting. Then she tells me she really thinks it would be a good idea for me. Seventy-five percent of me wants to say, “No, thanks,” on the spot, but I keep my mouth shut.

  On Tuesday, all outdoor sports practices are canceled because of heavy rain, and my dad has a meeting, so I go home with Joci after school. I give her mom a big hug when she meets us at the door.

  “Corinna, Corinna. So good to have you here, sweetie.”

  I’ve been there so many times since our very first playdate when we were both in Mrs. Medvin’s second-grade class. Whenever Joci wa
s being too bossy or wouldn’t let me have a turn, her mom always seemed to notice. If I fell off their swing set, her mom was there to comfort me. She always made the best snacks, like warm chocolate chip cookies or banana muffins, and she taught us how to make them, too. Sometimes, I even felt more comfortable asking her about awkward things than I did my own mom, like the time I asked her how babies are made. She was good at answering stuff like that, and she never made me feel bad for asking. She never said, “Why don’t you ask your own mom,” which I was glad about because my mom got so uncomfortable with hard questions.

  “Joci is so lucky to have you as her best friend,” her mom practically sings.

  “Me, too,” I reply, but I’m not sure if it’s true anymore.

  We go upstairs to Joci’s room to hang out. Her room is twice as big as mine and has matching beds. We always pretended to be twins whenever I used to spend the night. We were twins in a lot of ways. We liked the same movies, books, singers, colors, and candy bars. We would stay up late making up songs about silly stuff. Another thing we liked to do was spa night, when we did each other’s nails, hair, and makeup. That seems like a long time ago.

  Joci starts complaining to me about her tennis coach and some of the girls on her team, and I’m trying to listen, but then I get distracted when I notice her new jewelry organizer. It’s one of those picture-frame things that has holes for earrings and hooks for necklaces. I walk up to it for a closer look and I can’t believe my eyes.

  “Joci, when did you get that bracelet?”

  “Which bracelet?”

  “The silver one with sayings on the beads.”

  “Uh . . . I don’t remember.”

  “I had one just like that but I lost it last year. My mom gave it to me for my birthday. I’ve looked everywhere for it.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not sure where it’s from. Maybe it’s my sister’s.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Do you want it? You can have it. I never wear it.”

  “Uh, well, yeah, I guess so.”

  I’m not sure what to believe about her story. I can’t imagine Joci stealing anything from me. But it’s hard to imagine it’s not the bracelet I’ve been missing. Joci quickly gets us off the subject.

  “Let’s go eat. You want our favorite?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, yeah, love that PB and B.”

  That’s what we always used to say to each other, “Love that PB and B.” I put the bracelet on and we go downstairs for our peanut butter and bananas. It doesn’t taste so good, though. I call Dad a few minutes later and ask him to pick me up. Joci is a great friend in some ways, but after what happened with my bracelet, on top of blabbing about my mom to who knows how many people last summer, I really don’t know if we can stay friends.

  “You’re leaving already?” Joci asks.

  “Yeah. I have a ton of homework,” I lie.

  I wave bye to Joci’s mom, who is on the phone in the kitchen, and slam their fancy stained-glass door behind me. Dad’s not here yet, so I press Mom on my speed dial. She had known how upset I was when I lost that bracelet.

  “Hello, this is Sophie Burdette, musician and teacher. Please leave me a message, including your phone number, even if you think I already have it. I’ll return your call as soon as my hands are free.”

  “Mom, you won’t believe where I found the silver bracelet you gave me. It was in Joci’s room. This might sound crazy, but I think my own best friend stole it from me. Maybe I left it there one time and she just didn’t get her act together to return it. I guess it’s possible that she didn’t know it was mine, but how could she not at least make an effort to find out who it belonged to? Ugh.”

  When I get home, I go to my room and cry. And cry and cry.

  I spend the next few days in shock about the bracelet before I finally e-mail Aunt Jennifer to tell her the whole story.

  On Wednesday night, I have to get out of my Blue Oasis bath two times to answer the phone. The first call is from Beth, inviting me to her makeup and spa party. I say no to Beth right away because she gives me the creeps.

  “What a fake,” I tell Maki. Thank goodness she hasn’t brought up lunch at her swanky club again. I would rather eat anchovies than have lunch with her.

  The second call is from Olivia, inviting me to her movie star sleepover. I’m supposed to come up with a stage name so she can make us personalized party favors, but I’m torn about whether or not to go. I like parties, and I want to do something besides hang out at home with Dad. Even though Olivia can be a lot of fun, she sometimes gets on my nerves. And honestly, I’ve avoided her since our major conversation in July in the shopping center parking lot. Dad and I had gone to CVS again for more medical stuff for Mom, and Olivia was there buying candy. I called out to her, and when she saw me, she had a strange look on her face.

  “Are you okay, Olivia?”

  “Uh, yeah. What about you?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” she said, looking down at her bright green high-tops, “I kinda sorta found out about your mom.”

  Since my stomach was already doing its “thing,” it was hard to feel worse, but I did.

  “Who told you?”

  “I just heard it somewhere.”

  “But from who? I need to know.”

  “You really want to know?”

  I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together, as I nodded yes.

  “Joci told me. But she only told us so we could understand what you were going through.”

  Olivia looked down at her shoes again. Without saying another word, I turned and walked away as my eyes filled with tears. Olivia didn’t try to stop me.

  All of this flashes through my head before I give Olivia my answer about her party.

  “Well, I’d like to come, but I can only stay until ten. My dad won’t let me sleep over because we have some stuff we need to do in the morning.”

  I lie to Olivia because I feel kind of guilty about abandoning my dad, and I don’t want to do a sleepover yet. I didn’t know you could miss someone even though you’re still living with them and eating breakfast and dinner together almost every day. But I miss the old dad, the one I knew before Mom got sick. The one who laughed and made me laugh. I feel like I should be the parent and make him go out with his friends or play tennis or something. He goes to work and comes home. He watches TV, sort of, and he grades his students’ papers. If I need help with homework, he’s always good about that, even when his neck and back hurt and he’s attached to his heating pad. Sometimes he calls old friends or some people in our family, and he still plays that Beatles CD a lot, the one with the “Julia” song. He also helps at my soccer practices when he doesn’t have teacher meetings.

  Dad is totally into soccer. At least he was before Mom’s whole thing. This fall, Dad hasn’t missed a single game, home or away, but he’s kind of like a scarecrow. He stands there in his khakis and Orioles baseball hat, silent, tall, thin, kind of blowing around in the wind. This might sound paranoid, but I get the feeling that the other parents don’t talk to him the way they used to. Before he became a w-i-d-o-w-e-r. That’s a new vocabulary word I had to learn.

  Starbursts and Ziti

  Now that I’m a teenager, I’m not so sure about going out for Halloween. I’d rather stay home and hand out candy, but Joci really, really wants me to go around with her in her old neighborhood like we always have. She’s practically begging me.

  “It’s our tradition, Corinna. You have to.”

  Lucky for us, her mom had saved the dice and box of popcorn costumes from Joci’s older sister, so we don’t have to throw something together at the last minute. The costumes are actually really cute.

  We’re surrounded by tiny superheroes and princesses. Seeing them holding their moms’ hands is sweet and hard. One enthusiastic mom says to her Superman son, “Look at the box of p
opcorn and the die.”

  I hadn’t realized I was a die. Creepy.

  The day after Halloween is a day of recovery. I’m having a disgusting reminder of why you’re not supposed to go crazy stuffing your face with candy. I think I ate twenty or thirty Starbursts, a few Milky Ways, and some peanut M&M’S. Who knew Starbursts and chemotherapy have something in common? I discover the similarity as I hug the toilet bowl. I stay home sick from school the next day, so I’m home for the dreaded mail delivery.

  It used to be that I would rush to see what I got in the mail — good catalogs or magazines or maybe even a letter or invitation. But after Mom died, getting the mail fills me with dread. There’s always something addressed to my mom. Mrs. Sophie Burdette. Seeing mail addressed to her feels like getting sharp needles stuck into the emptiness inside of me. Don’t they know she’s dead and can’t read their stupid catalogs or contribute to their organizations?

  Then there are the phone calls, which are just as bad. That night, just as I’m beginning to feel better, the phone rings.

  “Hello, this is Eleanor from the Sierra Club calling. Is Sophie Burdette there?”

  “Um, no, she’s not.”

  “Can you tell me when I can reach her?”

  “Um, well, you can’t.”

  “Well, I can call at a more convenient time.”

  “No, you really can’t. Um, I mean, um, she’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  She gets off the phone as fast as she can, and I am stuck with more pain. At least I can write about it in my journal.

  * * *

  If you’d told me back in September that Clare would become a regular member of our lunch table by November, I would never have believed it. No one changes where they sit unless there’s some big fight or something. That happened in seventh grade, when Beth tried to control what everyone at her table was wearing: First it was capris and glittery eyeliner every day, then it was French braids. For a while, they went along and looked like Beth clones. Finally, Sydney told her to “shove her stupid rules up her butt.” Now that was a memorable moment.