If Only Read online

  We look through her scrapbook with all its cute paper shapes and borders, and I see some recent photos of Eliana, Joci, Clare, Olivia, Juliette, Lena, and their moms, all dressed up.

  “What are these from?”

  “Oh . . . those are from a tea party thing.”

  “A tea party? Where was I?”

  “Well, um, I think Juliette didn’t want you to feel left out so we were supposed to keep it hush-hush. I told her we should wait or maybe change the theme, but she didn’t want to.”

  “The theme?”

  “Yeah. It was a mother-daughter theme.”

  “Oh. Oh, wow. So everyone went with their moms.”

  “I’m so sorry, Corinna.”

  “I can’t believe Joci and Clare didn’t tell me.”

  “They were probably just trying to protect you, like I was. I’m really sorry.”

  “Alrighty then. This calls for chocolate. Do you have any?”

  “Hershey’s Kisses.”

  “Perfect.”

  I can’t decide if I should confront Joci and Clare about not telling me about Juliette’s mother-daughter tea thing. I ask Aunt Jennifer what she would do. I figure she’ll have better advice than Dad would on this kind of thing. She e-mails back a few hours later.

  That’s a hard one. They probably were trying to protect you, but it was a big risk, since you might find out. I’m glad it wasn’t one of them who hosted the party. Do you think you would feel better if they knew you know and that it hurt you when you found out about their secrecy? With a hard choice like that, it sometimes helps to think about what you would have done if you were in their shoes.

  It doesn’t exactly give me a clear answer, but when I ask myself that question, I understand the problem in a new way. I put off a final decision because either way feels bad.

  In my e-mail, I also asked Aunt Jennifer if she knew if any of Mom’s friends in middle or high school had a parent die.

  Yes, one girl’s mom died in an airplane accident. The whole school freaked out. But it wasn’t a close friend, so I don’t think Sophie was very involved.

  I wish, wish, wish Aunt Jennifer lived closer to us. It would be so great. I’ve thought about asking her to consider moving. Or asking Dad to move there. Maybe I should go to college in California. Then we’d at least be in the same state.

  A week before winter vacation, Miss Boppity Bop asks me to have lunch with her in her classroom.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about you losing your mom, and how hard it must be for you.”

  She starts to get these icky spitballs in the corners of her mouth. Maybe she does that when she’s nervous. She does seem nervous, and I know I am, too. I don’t think my mouth has spitballs, and I certainly hope I’m not close to the age when you start developing them, but I wipe the corners of my mouth just in case. She tells me that her mom died a few years ago, and that even though she’s a grown-up, it was still hard for her to lose her mother.

  “Tell me more about your mom,” she says. “What was she like?”

  “Well, she was a violist. . . . She loved music and Japan . . . and creative cooking.”

  “What do you miss the most?”

  “The projects. We used to do lots of projects together. All kinds of crafts. Oh, and cooking. We both loved baking and cooking.”

  After a while, I ask her, “What was it like for you after your mom died?”

  “Well, it gets easier over time, but there are still things that make me have a big wave of missing my mother. Sometimes, it’s something like Mother’s Day. Other times, it’s seeing a certain flower in the garden or eating homemade chicken soup.”

  That makes me swallow hard, but it feels really good to talk. A few tears drip down my face. Even though I’m crying at school after I vowed not to, it doesn’t feel so bad. She gets a little teary, too. The best part is that she doesn’t tell me to stop crying. I finally get up the nerve to ask her what the two Bs stand for in her name.

  “Beatrice Betty.”

  I can’t believe her parents named her Beatrice Betty Beatty.

  “Did you ever worry that people would think your mom did something that made her deserve to die?”

  Miss Beatty looks startled.

  “Is that something you’ve been worried about?” she asks me.

  “Well . . . kinda . . .”

  “Some people may think that, but it’s not true, and it’s hurtful.”

  I still wake up in the middle of the night with stomachaches a few times a week, which makes me worried that there might be something wrong inside. I remember that phrase Dad used when he explained why Mom was having surgery: “To make sure nothing’s wrong inside.” Yuck. I have a page in my journal where I keep track of my stomachaches.

  Last night was one of those nights when my stomach hurt a lot, but today I feel better after lunch. I drop a note on Joci’s desk when I walk by on my way to the pencil sharpener, asking if she wants to do something after school. She mouths “Yes!” When the bell finally rings, we make a plan to walk to Bruce’s Variety, which is a store with everything you could ever possibly need for any art project or holiday decoration and tons of school supplies. It’s so crowded with junk you can barely fit in the aisles, especially if you’re wearing a backpack like we are. We love to go in there and look around.

  We’re standing in the section with sequins and glue-on jewels when I realize that we have to leave immediately. I tap Joci and say, “Let’s go.”

  “We just got here.” She sounds annoyed.

  “I have to get out of here.”

  “Corinna, what’s up, we just got here!”

  “I have to go.”

  “Can you just wait a minute? I have to get some stuff for my social studies poster.”

  “I’ll wait outside,” I say, walking away, pulling down on my shoulder straps.

  “What is up?”

  I turn around and say in my most serious voice, “Just trust me.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be out in a sec.”

  When she comes out, Joci is all irritated.

  “Geez, you’re so impatient.”

  “Sorry,” was all I could manage to say.

  It was like I couldn’t breathe in there. All those times I’d been to that store with my mom came flooding back. I knew I had to leave right away, but Joci didn’t get it and I don’t want to have to explain everything. I probably seem crazy to her. She doesn’t have to worry about freaking out in stores.

  I’m really cold by the time I get home, so I make myself a cup of wild berry zinger tea using Mom’s favorite mug. It’s white with hand-painted dainty blue flowers and green vines, and I gave it to her for her birthday a few years ago. I kiss the rim of the cup and feel the warmth from the tea. Then I do a really dumb thing. I put the tea on the shelf in the basement and I stand on a chair to reach up to the top of the cabinet to lift down my bead collection. Yes, it’s a swivel chair. Yes, it’s an incredibly stupid move. I drop two plastic jars of seed beads, which scatter everywhere, and the next thing I know, I knock over the precious cup. I’m so worried about the cup, I dive for it. Kind of like a soccer goalie move. Lucky for me, I save it, except for a tiny chip on the rim, but I land really hard on the tile floor on my elbow. And it’s not the soft kind of tile. It hurts big-time. I ice it for a while, hoping that will help numb the pain. If that cup broke, it would be like a part of her smashing. Really. I want to have it as long as I live.

  Mom drank tea, too. Green tea. Her host family in Japan used to send her tins of fancy green tea at New Year’s. Whenever she made it, the whole house smelled like green tea, which to me smells kind of like wet decaying grass. I could never imagine wanting to drink that smell. We don’t smell that smell anymore.

  Two days before vacation, my hawk-eyed math teacher gives me a note from the counselor, saying that the grief group will be starting at lunchtime on January fourth, the day after we get back. It’s been so long since Ms. DuBoise told me she might do a group, I’
d forgotten about it. I wonder why she waited so long. The note makes me dread that it will be totally cheesy or uncomfortable, but I’m also a little bit curious about who else will be in it.

  The idea of having a time and place where I am supposed to talk about Mom at school seems strange. I’ve been trying so hard not to think about her at the grocery store and random places like Bruce’s Variety store, but it’s hard to control. It’s kind of like when you’re walking behind someone who’s smoking a cigarette and the smell and smoke keep catching up to you and surrounding you no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

  Just as I’m thinking about coughing and choking on smoke and grief, I see Joci down the hall and rush to catch up with her on the way to lunch. Walking right in front of us is our principal, Mr. Maroni, in his pinstriped suit. He’s always trying to get into conversations with students, the same kids who call him Maroni the Moron behind his back. We slow down so that we don’t have to talk to him, and Joci starts elbowing me.

  “What?”

  She laughs and points to his shoes. A long piece of toilet paper is stuck to the bottom of his left shoe. He stops and talks to some teachers. We’re dying with silent laughter. We pretend to be looking in our lunch bags while we wait to see if the teachers notice. Will they tell him? Will they burst out laughing? It’s almost impossible not to shriek. I practically pee in my pants . . . just like Mom. The suspense is too much, and we end up turning around and using a different hall to get to the lunchroom. There’s nothing like a good laugh with Joci.

  When I get home, I pick up the mail, which is mainly catalogs. Without looking at the mailing labels, I start paging through, looking for pants. Mine are all getting too small. I fold down the corners of pages with some options so that I can present my case to Dad.

  “Dad, I need some shirts and pants and shoes. Can we order them for my Christmas present? It’s okay if they don’t get here in time.”

  “How will you know what size to get? Didn’t you and Mom always go to stores to try stuff on?”

  “Yeah, but you and I haven’t exactly been doing that.”

  “You’re right. But I thought Joci’s mother offered to take you to the mall.”

  “Yeah, Dad, she did. But you’re my parent. Parents take their kids shopping. Why don’t you like shopping?”

  “I’ve always hated shopping.”

  “But I need stuff.”

  “Okay, okay, show me the catalog.” Dad sits back in his chair, waiting for the torture to start.

  “Maybe when Aunt Jennifer comes to visit she can take me. She likes shopping and so did Mom.”

  “I don’t know when Jennifer is coming,” Dad says, sounding vague.

  “She said it would be soon. She promised me she would after she had to cancel.”

  If she doesn’t come here, then I am going to have to go out there. I really need to see her.

  Vacation

  I haven’t been to Joci’s house since the bracelet “incident,” so I’m a little nervous when I accept Joci’s invitation for a sleepover on the first night of winter vacation. She’s invited me lots of times, but I’ve managed to avoid it. Joci’s parents are so sweet and welcoming, and I hug both of them. Her mom asks me what we’re doing for vacation.

  “Nothing much.”

  Her face has that concerned look, so I say, “But that’s okay. We don’t want to travel this year.”

  Joci’s dad makes us a nice bowl of buttery popcorn, just like when we used to hang out all the time and watch Gilmore Girls, Glee, and reruns of High School Musical. Then her parents head up to their room to watch the news, and we go into the family room with the big TV. There isn’t anything good on live TV, so we look at the movie channel and decide on this old movie, Meet the Parents. There’s a scene when the dorky guy is at his fiancée’s parents’ house. They’re at the dinner table having a totally awkward conversation. It’s hilarious and we’re both laughing. But then, the guy opens a bottle of champagne and the cork flies and hits the dead grandmother’s urn on the mantel. It falls, and her ashes spill everywhere. Joci continues laughing, but not me. I put my hand over my eyes and hold my breath. It’s one of those OMG moments that I will definitely have to write about in my journal. Even though it’s supposed to be funny, it’s horrifying to think about. I can’t imagine my mom’s ashes being knocked over. They feel sacred. As soon as the movie ends, I announce that I need to go home.

  “But I thought you were going to spend the night,” Joci says.

  “I was, but now I’m worried my dad will be too lonely.”

  “Corinna, you’ve got to start doing more things. Everyone’s been talking about how you’re always saying no to things.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “You know, the girls at school.”

  “Well, I am beginning to do more.”

  I pull out my cell phone and start to call my dad.

  “So stay the night,” Joci practically commands.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please? We’ll have so much fun. You can sleep in your twin bed, and we can have chocolate chip pancakes in the morning.”

  “Well, I just have to check on my dad.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about her shaming me into sleeping over.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Corinna, is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I answer with a wobble in my voice.

  “Are you worried about something?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Okay, call me in the morning.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Night, Corinna.”

  In the morning, her mom asks me if I want to go to the mall with them.

  “I know it will be a zoo with everyone doing their holiday shopping, but Jocelyn needs some things before we leave on our trip to Florida.”

  I instantly feel jealous that her mom is paying attention to what Joci needs (and that they’re going to Florida). But I also know this is my chance to get what I desperately need so I try to stuff it back down. And when I call Dad to make sure it’s okay, he sounds relieved.

  After breakfast, we head out to Montgomery Mall. The mall is smothered in Christmas decorations, and crowds are swarming everywhere to the tunes of holiday music that repeat over and over. As soon as we get inside, Joci’s mom says, “Let’s go to Victoria’s Secret. Joci needs some bras, so let’s do that before you start looking at other stuff.”

  We walk past the guard at the front door of the store, who is surrounded by pink underwear, bras, and nightgowns. He’s busting out of his navy security suit and he looks sound asleep. His Santa hat makes him look even more ridiculous. Joci’s mom turns to me.

  “Corinna, what size are you?”

  How does she know that’s what I need? Is it that obvious? At least she uses a quiet voice.

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re probably a 30A. Let’s try one and see.”

  I hope she knows what she’s talking about, because I don’t want the saleslady to get involved.

  I never imagined that my first bra would be bought by someone else’s mom.

  I’m inside one of the tiny dressing rooms filled with other people’s rejects, some of which are gigantic and look like they still have breasts in them, when Joci’s mom whispers, “Corinna? How are they? Can I come in?”

  “Just a sec.”

  I open the door about an inch.

  “That looks great. Is it comfortable?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I guess I’ll get it.”

  “Well, let’s get a few so you can rotate them in the laundry.”

  I’ve been feeling more and more self-conscious about being flat when all my friends are filling out and moving from exercise bras to real bras. My body seems to be stuck. I’ve thought about what I could do to get it going but haven’t been able to come up with any ideas. I even did a Google search on that, hoping
that no one at Google headquarters would be able to see what I was searching. I did find “How to Put on a Bra 101,” which I must confess I watched.

  When I finally come home with three bras, I feel like a grown-up. I just wish my mom had been the one to get them with me. It’s one of those things you’re supposed to do with your own mom. I suppose there are other girls in the world who don’t have moms to do that with them, either because their moms are dead or not around, or they have two dads and no mom, or they don’t feel comfortable with their moms. But in my grade, among my friends, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who hasn’t had the experience. I go to bed wearing one of them under my pajamas. I have some catching up to do, and I’m thrilled to be joining the bra sisterhood.

  I have a dream about my mom. She’s not sick or dead, she’s just normal. It feels so good to see her with hair and looking like herself. Her wavy brown hair is so soft and beautiful. I can even smell her Neutrogena shampoo. I wake up in a happy mood and hope I will have more dreams about her like that, looking healthy and normal. Up until Bra Night, all of my dreams have been with her being sick and looking like she did at the very end. Thin and almost bald and really pale. Two weeks before she died, I told Dad, “She already looks dead.”

  He nodded and said, “I know, I know.”

  It’s been hard to get that scary image out of my mind.

  Holiday Blues

  We don’t get a tree, and the house feels empty. After our painful Thanksgiving, Dad and I decide not to go to someone else’s house for Christmas. I don’t know if it’s the right decision. We rent a bunch of movies and buy a ton of Jiffy Pop. Dad decides we should eat Mom’s favorite holiday meal, which was leg of lamb, but instead of making real leg of lamb, we buy frozen dinners. The lamb is hard to swallow, even though I usually love lamb. It’s not that the meat is so tough. It’s the swallowing part that is so hard. I make some wild berry zinger tea to try to soothe my throat. Later, as I load Mom’s cup into the dishwasher, the whole handle snaps off in two pieces.