If Only Read online

  Our table doesn’t really have a leader, although Olivia is always issuing fashion alerts and analyses of everyone else’s clothes, shoes, and accessories. She’s a milder version of Beth. Clare’s mix-and-match style of clothing has shaken things up, in a good way. She likes to combine things that no one else would think of combining, like plaids and stripes, or peach-colored capris and cowboy boots. Then there’s me. My fashion don’ts aren’t on purpose. The fact that a lot of things are getting too small for me doesn’t help.

  Instead of joining in on the daily clothing commentary, Clare and I tend to discuss other important things, like the cute new art teacher or ziti.

  “Got any baked ziti in your lunch?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  We laugh and laugh. In Clare’s case, make that snort and snort. No one else gets it, of course. Their lives are ziti-free.

  Ashes

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” Dad says while we’re driving home from soccer practice. I’m thinking he might be about to bring up the C on my progress report, or maybe the trip to Japan that we were saving up for before Mom got sick. Then I realize he’s about to tell me he’s sick, too, and my stomach goes on high alert.

  “What, Dad?” I ask, trying to prepare myself for what he’s going to say.

  “About growing up. I can’t believe you’re almost fourteen.” He’s looking straight ahead, and so am I.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Where is this going, I wonder.

  Dad starts pulling at his left ear.

  “I know Mom talked to you about some of the body changes girls go through. She was certainly more of an expert on those kinds of things than I am, but if you have questions about that stuff, maybe you can ask Aunt Jennifer, or Deborah, or . . .”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know. Thanks.”

  “Well, I just want to be sure you know I’m here, even if I can’t do it the way Mom would.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, turning to look at the trees along the side of the road.

  “Talking about these things with your parents isn’t exactly easy. I remember my dad trying and failing miserably. Man, oh, man.” He smiles, which helps a little, and we pull into the driveway.

  “Yeah, I can just imagine Pop Pop.” I turn to the backseat and gather my soccer bag. “Okay, Dad, thanks.”

  He keeps talking as we get out of the car.

  “Oh, and one last thing, honey. When you need supplies at the drug store or the grocery store or wherever you buy those things, just go ahead and toss them in the cart, okay? I don’t want you feeling embarrassed.”

  “Okay. Got it. Can I go now?”

  “Okay. Ciao, honey.”

  The talk. We had the talk, or at least part of the talk. I know he tried, and I guess he did all right. Dad rarely calls me honey. I guess the birds and bees were on his mind. He’s doing his best to be a dad and a mom.

  As soon as I’m sure that Dad is safely watching the Orioles-Yankees baseball game in his room (their room) upstairs, I head downstairs to the living room, turning on every light we have, one by one. Mom’s ashes are on the mantel above the fireplace in a jar. Not a glass jar like the kind they use for pickles and jam, but a Chinese ginger jar. Mom had a collection of them, and Dad thought that using one for her ashes would be nicer than the wood box from the funeral home. It’s kind of like a vase with a lid on it, decorated with blue and white flower designs.

  I hate to say it, but at first, Mom’s ashes creeped me out. I tried to imagine what they looked like in the box, and what her body went through to turn into ashes, but then I reminded myself that dead bodies don’t feel anything. That’s what dead is. Dad still hasn’t told me when or where we’re going to spread her ashes. Isn’t there some sort of a deadline for these things?

  I don’t think I’ll be pointing out the ashes to any of my friends, because it might freak them out. But it’s comforting to have a place in the house where I can go to think about Mom and feel closer to her, or talk to her and ask her questions. Tonight, I ask her lots of things about growing up — in my head. It would be way too embarrassing if Dad came downstairs and heard me. When did you get your period? When you said you were a late bloomer, is that what you meant? When am I going to get mine? Almost all of my friends have theirs already. Is there something wrong with me? Does being sad make your period come later? What else do I need to know about growing up that I can’t find out from my friends or Dad?

  I don’t get any answers.

  If only ashes could talk.

  I also want to ask Mom about flute and if she would care that much if I quit. I never practice, and band is boring except for seeing that cute boy, Alex. But if I’m honest, I do know what Mom’s answer would be to the flute question.

  Seeing Orange

  I first noticed Alex Doherty in sixth grade. He has freckles and brownish hair, and he’s one of those boys who wear shorts almost every day, even when it’s freezing. He has an orange shirt that he wears all the time, and it looks really good on him. Maybe he has a few of the same shirt? On top of that he has the most beautiful smile. Maybe you’re not supposed to use the word beautiful for a boy, but his smile is gorgeous. When he smiles, he lights up the whole classroom. I haven’t ever really talked to him, except the very rare times when we are assigned to work together in a small group.

  I’m trying to solve an impossible math problem when I hear, “Alexander Doherty, would you like to share your fascinating conversation with the class?”

  “No, Mrs. Giamatti. Sorry.”

  Everyone turns around and stares at him. I know what that feels like. Mrs. Giamatti makes him move his seat, and I am so mad because now he’s two rows away. He still sits behind me in social studies, but I am too nervous in social studies, with Mr. Spinolli waiting to yell at anyone who gets a question wrong, to let myself relax in there, much less look around and stare at Alex. He’s also in band with me, but he’s always busy with his drums in the back of the room. What is it with boys and drums? I still don’t know if he knows I exist, and if he does, does he just think of me as “the girl whose mother died” or “the pathetic flute player with big ears”?

  I did learn something about him, though. The entire grade had to write haiku poems for English. Everyone’s poems were then hung up in the hallways. So much for privacy. I’m glad I didn’t write mine about anything personal. Clare and I searched until we found Alex’s.

  caught in the middle

  like a print behind the glass

  sharp cuts if broken

  “That sounds serious,” I say to Clare.

  “Yeah. Not much about nature and seasons in that one.”

  As soon as I get to my next class, the fire alarm goes off. After lots of moaning and groaning, everyone marches outside into the rain. I find Joci and Clare with a bunch of our girlfriends, all huddled together. Everyone is complaining about how miserable they are.

  “Can’t they do fire drills on nice days?”

  “This is horrible.”

  Our hair and clothes are getting soaked. At least it’s not that cold today. We’re finally allowed back in the building in time to grab our stuff and go home.

  When I get to my house, there’s a message from Joci asking me to call her as soon as I can because she has an extremely urgent question about the English homework. I’m soaking wet and starving, so I change into my most comfortable flannel pants and sweatshirt and eat a bowl of cereal first.

  “Hi, Joss, I just got home. That fire drill was horrible, huh. I got your message. What’s up?”

  “When is the English essay due?”

  “Next Monday,” I say, sitting down with Maki on my lap.

  “Oh. Phew. It is unbelievably hard. I just don’t get what she’s asking for. Do you? Does your dad help you with your writing since he’s a high school teacher?”

  “Sometimes, but not much.”

  “You’re so lucky. My dad says he was terrible at English, and that’s why he became a banker. My
mom wants to help, but she gets too involved and we always end up fighting.”

  She sounds majorly frustrated, and I don’t know what to say other than, “Really?”

  I can’t imagine her mom fighting with anyone.

  “So, what have you and Clare been up to lately?”

  “What do you mean, up to?”

  “Well, I feel like we don’t hang out together as much as we used to, and I see you with Clare all the time.”

  I pull Maki closer to me.

  “Well, yeah, I mean, I like Clare, and she really understands what it’s like since her dad died.”

  “So you just want to hang around with kids whose parents died?” Joci says in a mocking tone.

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Well, what do you mean?”

  “I only said that because you asked me about Clare.”

  Now I’m feeling like I have to apologize for spending time with Clare.

  “Well, I feel sorry for you,” she continues.

  I can’t tell if her voice sounds sarcastic or concerned.

  “Um, well, I don’t think I want you to feel sorry for me.”

  “Well, if my mom died, I would just kill myself,” she says with her best drama-queen imitation.

  I feel like I got punched in the stomach. What a thing to say to me! I mean, how insensitive could she be? When I catch my breath, I manage to say, “Joci, is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  My anger kicks into high gear and I want to scream at her. Before I can figure out what to do next, she answers, “I’m just saying it must be awful. I don’t know how you go on. I don’t think I could.”

  “Well, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I say with sarcasm oozing through every word. Joci is silent, so I quickly add, “I have to go. I have homework.”

  Now I’m really not so sure our friendship will survive. And that would be sad. We’ve been friends for so many years, and I really love her mom.

  Space

  I feel so alone and scared sometimes, scared that the pain will stay with me forever, that I won’t ever go back to having a normal life. I try to remember the times before Mom got sick, when Dad wasn’t so sad and quiet. He had a funny laugh. Mom used to tease him about sounding like an otter (whatever an otter sounds like). Lately, the only laughter I’ve been hearing at home comes out of the TV.

  Dad used to play all of these jokes on us, like putting a king-size Tootsie Roll on my pillow. “Corinna! Come look at what Maki did in your room! Did you forget to walk him?”

  He also used to be full of stories, like the one when he stayed in the woods for twenty-four hours with only three matches and a bandanna. It was at his camp in Vermont, and he had to do a “solo” hike to get a certain wilderness survival rating that he really wanted. He was only thirteen. I can’t imagine doing that at this age. He built a shelter out of branches and everything. I would be so scared. He used to tell us camp stories all the time, until Mom and I were sick of them. He had school stories, too. He must have told me a million times about the disaster that happened when he wrote a love note to his second-grade crush, and his teacher snatched it and read it aloud to the class.

  I wish Dad would start telling stories again, even the ones about camp. I’d like to hear more stories about my mom, but I feel unsure about bringing her up too much. Stories about Mom still make me feel sad, even if they are happy stories. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like spending time with Deborah, even though she keeps calling and making these sweet offers to have a girls’ lunch together.

  One thing I really like is finding different stashes of Mom’s things around the house. It’s kind of like finding pieces of her, parts of a puzzle or a treasure. I’ve put a few things in a memory box, which I call my Mom Box. It’s a wooden tea box that she brought home from Japan and used for storing hats and gloves. So far, it contains her perfume bottle, her watch, her brown leather gloves, and her special cashmere scarf.

  Today, I’m searching for more “Mom things” when I find a shoe box stuffed with photos in the basement. Mom did make a few albums, and she filled in my baby book, but the albums only go through my first four years. The other day, I found a bunch of pictures of my mom when she was a little girl and a teenager. She was beautiful, with her long wavy hair and soft green eyes. But some of the outfits she wore are unbelievable! I can’t believe yellow corduroys and culottes with vegetable-print fabric were ever in fashion. I like looking at pictures of her and imagining what she was thinking about then. What were her worries? What was her favorite music group? Who was her best friend? Did she ever fight with her parents? Who did she have a crush on? Was her body healthy or did she already have a seed of some cancer back then? I don’t want to forget what she looks like. I mean, what she looked like. I’m also worried I’ll forget the sound of her voice. It’s already fading a little, even though I have her cell phone message. We do have some movies Dad made, but that’s not the same as hearing it in your head.

  I decide to call Aunt Jennifer.

  “Hi, Aunt Jennifer, it’s Corinna.”

  “Hi there. How are you doing, sweetie?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Really?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Tell me the worst thing and the best thing that happened to you this week.”

  “Well, the best thing was having good laughs with my new friend Clare. And the worst . . . was when I raised my hand to ask a question in math and everyone laughed at me.”

  I didn’t mention that Alex witnessed my humiliation.

  “Oh, that’s terrible. How did your teacher handle it?”

  “She said, ‘There’s no such thing as a stupid question,’ but I still felt stupid.”

  “Oh, honey, those moments are so hard. But I’ll bet other kids had the same question and were relieved that you were brave enough to ask.”

  “Yeah, well, it still felt awful. I hate when people stare at you or laugh at you.” I think of Lena and her juggling fiasco.

  “I know, I know.”

  “So you’re still coming next weekend, right?” I ask, needing reassurance that the long wait is almost over.

  “Definitely. I can’t wait to see you and your dad.”

  “Me, too.”

  Now there’s an understatement!

  Panic

  Dad never stays on the phone for very long, so when he does, my ears perk up. It’s like when Maki is quiet and you don’t know what he’s up to, you get suspicious that he’s stolen some food or a dirty sock out of the laundry. The moment I hear Dad on the phone, I can tell he’s talking about our situation, so I make my way closer to the source.

  “What would she want me to do? I don’t know. I don’t know. I wish I knew.” There’s a long silence — I guess the person is talking a lot.

  “What would I want her to do? I don’t know that, either.” Another long silence. “I guess I would want her to take really good care of Corinna, to make sure she was okay. And to continue with her music. Music was so important to her.”

  Then come a lot of “uh-huhs,” before he starts talking about some other friend they both must know, someone I’ve never heard of, but apparently this guy is changing jobs or something. I quickly tiptoe out of the hallway, just in case he opens the door. When I see him later, he tells me that Mike had invited him to go hunting and to get facials.

  “What? That’s totally weird. You don’t even hunt.”

  “How about the facial part?”

  “Even weirder. I’ve never heard of guys getting facials.”

  “Well, his wife works at a spa or salon or something and she’s been getting on his case about needing one.”

  “Are you going to do it, Dad?”

  “Nah, those aren’t really my thing.”

  I guess the conversation about Mom’s music reminded him that I play the flute, because in the morning, he asks me if I’ve been practicing. The silver music stand is still in the living room, next to Mom’s two v
iolas. I haven’t touched it.

  “Not so much,” I admit without looking at him.

  The next day is the second-to-last day of the first marking period, and our teachers are driving us crazy with tests. Clare and I are walking to lunch, quizzing each other on the math formulas. Clare knows how nervous I am about tomorrow’s huge math test and wishes me luck.

  “Thanks. I need all the luck I can get.”

  Just then, my old English teacher walks by, the one who was so critical of everything I wrote last year. She’s got lipstick all over her teeth, which I’m trying not to stare at. When I turn away, I see Alex looking right at me, right into my eyes. He’s only two feet away from me, and he’s wearing his orange shirt. I smile but I can’t think of anything to say. That frozen-but-hotand-sweaty feeling takes over my body. It’s an unforgettable moment, for sure. I finally start breathing again when we get to our table, where I ask Clare, “Did you see what I saw?”

  “He just totally checked you out!”

  “Is he hot or what?”

  “Oh, yeah. Orange boy is totally hot.”

  I signal to Clare to zip it so that the whole table doesn’t get involved in discussing my love life. She’s good at reading my signals and keeping secrets, unlike some people. Just then, Joci looks over at us with a sad expression and then turns to whisper something to Juliette.

  I definitely need Clare to find out more about Alex for me. Amazingly, she IMs me that her younger brother is friends with Alex’s younger brother, and she says she’ll “work her sources.”

  Even though I go to bed early, I wake up late and barely get my stuff together. I forget to bring my science poster project that’s due today. There goes ten points. And when I lean over in social studies to pick up the pencil that rolled off my desk, I notice that my socks are two different colors of blue. In the bright lights of the classroom, they’re an advertisement for what a loser I am. I don’t hear Mr. Spinolli, my scary social studies teacher, call on me, because I’m lost in space . . . again.