If Only Read online

  Everyone starts giggling before I realize he’s glaring at me with those turn-you-to-stone eyes and waiting for me to answer him. I hate him! I want to disappear. Of course, I have no idea what he just asked me. He repeats the question in the voice he uses when he’s annoyed, and I can just imagine him calling my dad again to say I was goofing off in class. Lucky for me, I know the answer, but my face is burning up.

  Finally, it’s lunchtime. Joci, Clare, and I meet up in the cafeteria, plop ourselves at the table with Lena, Eliana, Juliette, and Olivia, and begin to eat our sandwiches and salads. Even though I’m sitting with my friends, I feel trapped. I’m torn between wanting to scream at everyone and everything, and wanting to run out of there and jump on my bike to freedom. Nothing is going right. I feel like Alexander in the book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

  I packed my lunch last night, including a chocolate cupcake Dad bought me at the high school bake sale. I even made a special tent out of tinfoil to protect the frosting. When I open it up, I see that not only the frosting, but the whole cupcake is totally smooshed. No one else’s lunch is smooshed. I want to crawl into a hole, one with soft flannel padding and no sound.

  In the afternoon, I’m spreading out my notebook in biology, minding my own business. Beth turns around in her seat and says in a loud whisper that everyone in the entire room can hear, “Hey, Corinna, you have something in your teeth.”

  She almost sounds happy when she says it. Maybe I should be thankful that she is saving me from something even more embarrassing, but I’m definitely not. I spend the rest of class moving my tongue around, trying to clear the monster — Is it lettuce or one of those seeds from Deborah’s bread? —out of my teeth. I had been hoping that Alex would come over and talk to me, but it’s a good thing that he doesn’t.

  By the time I get to soccer practice, I’m more than ready to run. It’s a tough workout, and I’m starving and thinking about dinner before practice is even half over. When it finally ends, my teammates are getting picked up, one by one or in carpools, but my dad is late.

  Usually, Dad sits in the car reading or stands on the sidelines while we’re finishing up, but sometimes he just pulls up as practice is ending at five o’clock. Even when Mom was alive, he was usually the one to get me because she was always giving viola lessons in the afternoons. He’s never late, unlike Olivia’s parents, who are late all the time. Well, today, he is really late. I’m the last one here, except for the coach, who can’t leave until everyone is picked up. I’m trying not to panic. It’s not working. I’m freaked, which is beyond panic. What if something happened to him? What if he was in a car accident? What if he had a heart attack at work or while he was driving? What if a drunk driver hit him? Who would come tell me? Who would I live with? My mind is going crazy. I have the most horrible, horrible feeling in my entire body. My coach is trying to distract me by talking about our last game, but I can’t really follow what he’s saying. I call Dad on my cell, but he doesn’t answer. I try again, he still doesn’t pick up, and I don’t see any sign of our Toyota.

  Finally, Dad pulls up. It’s 5:25. I am so mad and so relieved at the same time, I can’t decide what to say first.

  “Daaaaaaaad!”

  “Sorry, Corinna, traffic was terrible.”

  “Dad, I thought something happened to you!”

  “No, no, just traffic.”

  He’s eating a bag of barbecue potato chips, crunching away.

  “How could you do that to me?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose; I just got stuck.”

  He puts another chip in his mouth.

  “Dad, do you have any idea what it felt like to have you be twenty-five minutes late?” I say, with my voice going up higher than normal because my throat is so tight. My tears are rolling all over the place, and Dad is acting all chipper.

  “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  “I can’t go through that again.”

  “I’ll do my best to be here on time. I usually am.”

  “I know, I know, but this was awful. You totally freaked me out. I thought you were dead.”

  “I should have called you.”

  “Well, I called you, and you didn’t answer.”

  “I didn’t hear my phone; it was in my briefcase.”

  He finally puts down the chip bag and looks me in the eye.

  “I hear you. I’m really sorry. I don’t ever want to make you feel that way. I’ll do my very best not to.”

  “Please, Dad,” I plead.

  “I get it. Shall we go home and take Maki for a walk?”

  “No, I don’t feel like a walk.”

  “Well, how about a nice dinner? What do you feel like having?”

  “Spaghetti. I’m starving, and we haven’t had spaghetti in ages.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Dad’s cell rings, and he fishes it out of his briefcase. It’s Aunt Jennifer confirming plans for her trip. I can’t wait for her to get here. Maybe she can give Dad some lessons.

  Jewels

  Clare’s investigative talents are awesome. She found out that Alex Doherty and his brother live with their mom. His parents are divorced, but he sees his dad, who lives somewhere far away, on some vacations. It’s a relief to hear that his life’s not perfect, because it’s hard for me to be around people who seem to have a perfect life. I find myself doodling hearts and practicing my future signature, Corinna Burdette Doherty, on the inside cover of my notebook during the last minutes of class when Mr. Spinolli drones on.

  With my mind on my future with Alex, I go up to my parents’ room after dinner. Dad is busy grading a stack of papers at his desk, so it seems safe to do a little investigation of my own.

  As soon as I walk in, my eyes go to Mom’s oval-shaped jewelry box, which sits on her dresser. When I was little, I loved looking through the wooden box’s two layers of jewels and hearing stories of who gave her what and when. It sounded so romantic. Mom once told me that the delicate chain necklace was from someone named Hugh, but I don’t remember if he was from high school or college. I wonder if eighth graders ever give jewelry to one another. Now, when I run my hands through the chains and earrings, I still feel like I’m touching treasure.

  Mom didn’t wear jewelry very often, but when she dressed up, she looked beautiful. She said she worried that she would scratch her viola if she wore earrings or necklaces. I bring the oval box over to the bed, sit down on the puffy comforter, and begin going through everything. I think about wearing some of it, but what if I lose it? I do have a bit of a track record of losing things . . . like when I lost my brand-new winter coat in fourth grade. That might have been the maddest I’d ever seen my mom.

  “Corinna, I can’t believe you lost your coat! If your head wasn’t attached, you’d lose that, too!”

  I thought she was going to explode.

  Mixed in with the fancy jewelry are the one-of-a-kind Corinna specials. I smile when I look at the big plastic bead necklaces I made for her when I was younger, remembering how happy I was when I presented them to her. She would smile and say, “I love it, sweetie, thank you.” I loved how she called me sweetie and Cori. Even though she didn’t wear my necklaces more than once or twice, she always appreciated them and made me feel like an artist.

  In the middle of my jewelry daydreams, Dad calls me downstairs to say that Aunt Jennifer’s whole family has the stomach flu and she has to cancel her trip to see us this weekend. Arghhhh. I’m so mad at her, even though she can’t help it. At least it’s not because of her work.

  Last week was the start of the second marking period. My new elective is called “survival sewing,” and I’m surviving it with the help of the wonderful and stylish Ms. Carey, whose hair is very spiky and looks like it belongs in a fashion magazine.

  It’s so funny to see kids my age using sewing machines, especially the boys. First, we learn how to make a straight seam connecting two scraps of cloth. You have to be careful not
to let your fingers get in the way, and when you press the foot pedal, you can’t press too hard or the machine will gobble up your fabric and your fingers. I love making mine go really fast, until I can barely control the fabric and the machine starts to vibrate. It’s kind of like bike riding in that way, where you want to see how fast you can go before disaster strikes.

  Ms. Carey told us she sews her own clothes, all of which have zigzaggy uneven hems that she says are on purpose. She’s supercreative and she encourages us to find our “inner artist.” Mom was like that, too, always getting out craft projects for me to do with my friends or by myself in the kitchen while she was making dinner. Ms. Carey also loves to talk about her little kids, which makes me think she is a fun mom. She told us that her son’s preschool class was talking about what they are thankful for, and he said he was “thankful for tortellini!” So cute.

  I, on the other hand, am having trouble thinking of something I am thankful for.

  I’m not sure if Ms. Carey knows my mom died or if I should tell her. No one ever told me if our principal told all my teachers or just Miss Beatty. I don’t want Ms. Carey to feel sorry for me, or change the way she treats me, but it seems kind of strange not to say something to her, as if I don’t trust her or don’t really want her to know me. I feel really comfortable with her, and my mom’s death is a big part of me. That’s the thing — I feel private about my mom, but if I don’t tell people, I have the risk every day of them asking or saying something that hurts.

  “Did you show your mom?”

  “What’s your mom’s job?”

  “Don’t you hate it when your mom won’t let you wear what you want to school?”

  “Why don’t you ask your mom?”

  “Get your mom to write you a note.”

  Blah, blah, blah. Even the people who do know sometimes forget and ask me something about my mom, as if she’s still alive.

  You know what I really want? For someone to ask me, “What can I do to help you feel better?” Not that I would necessarily know how to answer them, but it sure would feel good to at least be asked. This part is confusing, because I also don’t really want people to think of me as “the girl whose mother died” or to bring it up when I don’t want to think about it. It’s hard to explain. When people ask: “How are you?” I sometimes don’t know what to say. Do I give an honest answer, or do I say, “Fine,” to shut them up? “Life sucks sometimes” doesn’t go over well with adults, and the sarcastic option, “Well, my mom died, but other than that,” leaves people with their mouths hanging open.

  I’m in the girls’ bathroom between classes, having just checked again to see if I got my first period. I’m paranoid that it’s going to come at school. Joci walks in while I’m washing my hands. After looking under each stall to be sure no one else is in here, she says, “Corinna, we have to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  I start squirming inside and turn off the water.

  “It’s really bothering me that you didn’t want me, your best friend since second grade, to know that your mom was dying.”

  “Uh . . .”

  I want to go back into the stall and avoid this conversation.

  “And now you’re all mad at me for telling other people when all I wanted to do was to help you.”

  She looks really upset and angry.

  “Joss, I . . . I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want her to be sick. I couldn’t believe she was dying.”

  I’m talking to her reflection in the mirror instead of looking straight at her.

  “I wanted life to be normal . . . at least outside of my house,” I continue.

  “But I’m your best friend!”

  “It wasn’t about you. . . . I was scared.”

  Joci leans in and hugs me.

  “Oh, Corinna, it must have been awful.”

  I don’t say anything, but my tears start flowing. The door opens and a big group of girls comes in. They’re talking loudly. We quickly separate and Joci starts washing her hands. I pull a bunch of paper towels out of the dispenser, turning my back to everyone. As soon as they leave, I wash my face and notice that Joci does the same.

  The day before Thanksgiving is a half day. It’s hard to get myself out of bed after another bad night’s sleep. I choose sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and I stuff my hair into a messy ponytail, which is not my best look. Walking in the east wing toward my locker, I become aware of someone walking toward me. I don’t feel like looking up, but when I do, I see it’s that jerk, Jake. I keep on walking. Then his gruff voice barks, “Corinna, you’re a walking disaster today.”

  What a thing to say, and his tone is disgustingly sarcastic. Yeah, I am kind of a mess. But who thinks it’s okay to say things like that?

  “Jump off a bridge, Jake.”

  So what if my hair looks like one of those wacky twig-headed mannequins in the store window? And what’s it to Jake anyway? Why is he picking on me?

  Telling Jake to jump off a bridge feels good, but later on, I start thinking about Joci saying she would kill herself if her mom died. It’s been eating away at me. Even though things are getting a tiny bit better with Joci, I decide I have to tell her how much that comment hurt me. I can’t decide if I should try my relaxation technique before or after the conversation, which I know will be dreadful. Words are zinging around in my head.

  Maki starts scratching on the door, which is his way of signaling for a walk, so I take him out. I start to run, and Maki has to struggle to keep up. It’s not very pleasant for Maki, but I need to run. When we get back, Maki lies panting on the cool tile floor in the kitchen, and I head up to start a bath. After rehearsing possible conversations while submerged in my Blue Oasis, I wrap myself in my terry bathrobe and fluffy slippers and call Joci on my cell. I almost hang up because I’m nervous, and her mom might be in the same room as she is.

  “Remember when you said you would kill yourself if your mom died?”

  “Oh . . . hi, Corinna, I thought that was you. So . . . um . . . yeah. I remember that.”

  “Well, it’s really been bothering me.”

  “I thought we were over all this.”

  “I’m trying to get over it, but I keep getting stuck because that was such a horrible thing to say.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t say it to be mean. I wanted you to know I understand how hard it must be.”

  “Understand? Are you kidding me? You think you understand what it’s like for me?”

  “Well, I’m trying to, but . . .”

  “Well, I think you’re going to have to try harder. That’s the thing. People think they know what it’s like, but unless you’ve been through this, you have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I . . . I don’t know . . .” she stammers.

  My mind is racing, trying to think of what to say. I keep thinking of things that I probably should not say if I want our friendship to survive. I take a deep breath and blurt out, “So even though I hate it when you say things like that, or broadcast to the entire world about my mom having cancer even after I asked you not to, I just hope we can be real friends again, like before.”

  Joci is quiet for what feels like forever, and then, in a high-pitched voice, says, “I didn’t know we weren’t friends. Best friends, I mean. You’ve always been my best friend, ever since second grade. We’re practically twins, remember?”

  “Well, it didn’t feel like we were best friends when you stopped coming over.”

  “Yeah . . . but . . . well . . . it was really hard. I felt so uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what you wanted me to do.”

  “Uh. Well . . . I didn’t really know what I wanted you to do, either, but I wanted you to show you cared.”

  “Of course I cared.”

  I stay silent.

  “It’s so sad.”

  “You could say that.” The meanness in my voice is shocking even to me.

  “How can I make it up to you? I mean, I can’t h
elp it if my parents didn’t die like yours and Clare’s.”

  “Of course not. Joci, all I want is for things to be normal. Normal with us, normal in my life.”

  “Well, me, too.”

  She’s pleading with me. My best friend, and I don’t want to lose her.

  “Well . . . I guess . . . everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Yeah,” she says, sounding relieved, and I am, too. “Do you think we should try to hang out together the weekend after Thanksgiving? My mom said she could take us to the mall.”

  “Yeah, okay. I guess we could do a spa night or something. Not a sleepover, though. Well . . . I have to take Maki for a walk now,” I tell her, even though I just came back from taking him for a run.

  Poor Maki is still tired and panting, but walking seems like the best thing to do after a conversation like Joci and I just had. I throw on my sweatpants and sweatshirt and grab my cell phone on my way out the door and call Mom. Hearing her voice is heavenly.

  Thanksgiving

  I wake up and remember that I had planned to make cranberry sauce to bring to Gigi and Pop Pop’s house. Dad and I didn’t feel like doing anything for Thanksgiving, but Gigi and Pop Pop insisted. I’m nervous about celebrating a holiday with other people, and without Mom. I can’t imagine eating turkey and pumpkin pie without her.

  I make the cranberry sauce according to Mom’s recipe, and when it cools, I put it in a Tupperware. After showering, I decide to get dressed in some of Mom’s things, to kind of have her with us. I put on her silver chain necklace with a tear drop pendant and a cozy purple sweater that she loved. It’s huge on me, so I roll up the sleeves.

  Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. Mom and I would do lots of baking and decorate the table with flowers and homemade place cards. Usually we had some cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents come to our house or we would go to their houses. A few weeks ago, Dad asked me if I thought we should invite Deborah and her boys, and I said, “Definitely not. Gigi and Pop Pop would not be happy about that.”

  Besides, Gigi is not the world’s best cook. She serves canned cranberry sauce. She even leaves those ridge marks on it, from the inside of the can, like a tube of red goo. Gross. That’s why Mom and I always made fresh cranberry sauce. I have to keep up the tradition.