Counting Thyme (3 page)

I pulled a roll of tape from my suitcase and stuck the Calendar of Us to the wall above my bed. On the page for March,
Shani had circled our birthdays in bright red marker, just six days apart. We'd always celebrated them together. Our moms had started the tradition because we lived right next door to each other and went to the same preschool. It made perfect sense.

That night, I lay in my bed, in a room that was dull tan instead of robin's egg blue, staring at the calendar while Cori snored and the radiator hissed like it was possessed. Three months of treatment for Val: December, January, February. I counted the days until March first. Ninety-nine days, including today. Just shy of one hundred. The number was big enough to scare me.

Before I left, Shani had told me she was worried I might not make it back in time for our birthdays. I think she was also worried about what might happen if I was gone too long, about whether we would still be best friends by the time I got back.

I was worried, too. I'd never felt so alone in my life. But I also had a plan, and I hoped that if I worked hard enough, I would be back in San Diego sooner rather than later.

THE THYME JAR

THE NEXT MORNING, I SEARCHED FOR A BOX WITH THE
word
FRAGI
LE
written on the sides in my own handwriting. But there were so many boxes, too many to find anything quickly.

“What if they lost it?” I asked Dad.

“They didn't lose it,” he promised.

Soon, Dad found it, buried behind smaller boxes under the dining table. I dragged the box to my room and peeled off the tape, praying that the jar inside was in one piece. Thankfully, Cori was in the bathroom, claiming most of the medicine cabinet for herself. She thought the Thyme Jar was lame. Another stupid kid thing.

But the Thyme Jar wasn't lame. It was my ticket back to San Diego.

At first, the Thyme Jar was just a paper cup that sat on the dresser next to my bed. I used one of Dad's Sharpies to draw stars all over the outside and write my name around the middle. The cup sat there for months, and every time I finished a chore, or got a good grade, or helped Mom by
being extra super patient, she gave me a little slip of paper to put in the cup.

The slips were like free passes to do whatever I wanted for a certain amount of time. Sometimes the slips were worth an hour. Sometimes thirty minutes. It depended on what I did to earn the time, and how good of a mood Mom was in. This was bonus time. Time to do special things.
Me time.

Me time started after my eleventh birthday, also known as the week we found out that Val was sick. The kind of sick that makes you miss your own birthday party, the one you've shared with your best friend every year of your life. Mom felt bad, so she gave me an IOU on a slip of paper and promised to make it up to me, even though I could have cared less about my birthday with Val so sick. That's when the Thyme Jar was born. Earning time didn't make up for everything I missed, but it was something.

Whenever I could, I cashed in my time and spent thirty minutes or an hour doing something special with Shani, or keeping the iPad all to myself . . . as long as Val didn't have a doctor's appointment, or we didn't have to pick Cori up from one of her clubs after school, or there wasn't something else that absolutely had to be done no matter what. Even though those things happened a lot, I always managed to spend my time. My cup never filled up. But that was before I found out we had to move to New York so Val could go to a special hospital.

Since then, the Thyme Jar has been a for-real jar, a thick
glass one like the kind stuffed with eggs or peppers in restaurants. Dad brought it home from work. He was making posters for a candy company, and they had taken pictures of these big jars full of candy in the ads, but the company didn't want them back. Which was fine by me. The jar was perfect. The glass had a hint of green to it, and a thick cork plug.

I'd wanted to carry the jar with me on the plane, but Dad had said it wasn't safe. “Trust me, T. They won't let you bring a big glass jar on the plane.” At the time, he was sorting through his endless record collection, deciding which to pack and which to store.

“But what if I say it's really important? Like, that I need it for a medical reason?”

He'd paused with a battered Moody Blues album in his hand. “Is that something you'd say? Even if it's not the truth?”

“I guess not.” Although, to be honest, I hadn't thought it was that bad of a lie. Not in those circumstances. Desperate times and all.

In the end, I'd wrapped the Thyme Jar in a ton of blankets, stuffed it in a box, sealed the box with ten loops of tape, and written
FRAGILE
in big black letters all over the sides.

But then the movers had dropped Mom's antique rocking chair on the driveway and scratched the wood. They claimed to have slipped on a toy. Of course Mom sent me and Cori to clean up after Val, who'd left one tiny toy truck in the yard. But I was watching through the window, and saw the whole thing. The movers weren't anywhere near the truck when they dropped Mom's chair. Which meant there was
no guarantee the Thyme Jar would make it safely across the country, either.

Just in case, I'd begged Dad to cut the big brown box open again so I could shake the paper slips out of the Thyme Jar and pack them in my suitcase instead. Then I'd crossed my fingers and my toes that the jar would make it to New York in one piece.

Now, when I finally opened the box in New York, I held my breath and looked inside.

The glass was fine!

I pulled the cork free and dropped the paper time slips inside, counting the time as I went. When I pressed the cork back into place, I felt better. Like my feet were finally on the ground, even if the apartment's creaky wooden floors were a sad substitute for our cool, even tiles back home.

All weekend, I added more time to the jar—for unpacking boxes, for lugging laundry to the Super Sudz Laundromat, for loading the tiny, apartment-sized dishwasher after meals. In that first weekend in New York, I saved up six hours of me time, which brought my total to twenty-seven hours.

And I didn't spend a minute of it.

Not one.

I hadn't cashed in for a single reward since Mom and Dad had told us we were moving (and that I had to say good-bye to Shani, and start sixth grade over in the middle of the year at a brand-new school, and leave Grandma Kay to tend our garden by herself, and share a bedroom with my sister who hated me, and risk going back to having no best friend at all)
because I had a plan. Mom and Dad always told me to spend my time on what I wanted most, and I hoped that if I saved up enough, there was a chance I could convince them to let me go home early. I could stay with Grandma Kay, or maybe even Shani, just until Val was done with the trial. I knew it was a long shot and they would probably say no. But I had to try.

That meant I wasn't spending any more me time. Not until I'd saved up a week, minimum (although a month would have been better). The hours had to count, not just to me, but to them. If I cashed in enough slips, they would have to give me the thing I wanted most—and even though I wanted my brother to get better, the only thing I wanted to spend my time on anymore was going back home.

NEW

ON MONDAY MORNING, I WENT TO SCHOOL, ONLY MY NEW
school didn't even look like a school. Other than the name over the red double doors—MS 221—and the American flag hanging outside, it could have been any other gray stone building in a block full of gray stone buildings.

Mom said I should have been happy they had an opening for me at the school closest to our apartment, but I thought that asking to get into school was ridiculous. I mean, in San Diego, I just showed up at the school in my neighborhood. And that was my school. A nice, normal-looking stucco building with big green fields all around.

“Do you want us to walk you in?” Mom asked as she parked Val's stroller in front of MS 221. He was feeling too tired that morning to walk all the way on his own, but he'd wanted to come with us, so Mom had him bundled up from head to toe so that only his little blue eyes peeked out.

Part of me really wanted her to walk inside for a minute. But there were four big stone steps leading up to the double doors, and if she had to drag Val's stroller with her, they
would make a scene. And some kid would notice. And then I'd have to explain why my five-year-old brother was still riding in a stroller like a baby.

The questions were always the same:

What's wrong with your brother?

Where are his eyebrows?

What are those things on his ears?

“It's okay,” I said. “I can go in on my own.”

Mom squeezed my arm through my brand-new, puffy winter coat. I'd never owned such a thick jacket before. “Do you know where to go?”

“Principal Williams's office, room 107.”

“That's my girl. Remind me that I owe you a time slip for cleaning up the dishes this morning. We'll see you at three fifteen, okay?” She was already unlocking Val's stroller. He reached his arms out for a quick hug. I leaned in. “We're taking the green line to the hospital,” he said. “The 6 train.”

I'd seen Mom's list that morning, so I knew he was going to meet his new doctors.

“You got this, V,” I said. That was a thing we did. Me, Val, and Cori:
T
,
V
, and
C
. When things were good between us, we called each other by our initials, because they rhymed and because it felt special. At least when Cori wasn't acting like a total jerk.

My eyes were feeling watery, so I gave Val one last squeeze and ran inside.

With the holiday weekend, there hadn't been time for a
tour. Cori and Dad had taken a practice run to the high school because they had to take the subway to get there. After just one trip, Cori wanted to take the train by herself, but Mom said fourteen wasn't old enough to ride the subway alone. Which made me secretly happy (and not just because it was insane to ride the subway alone). So far, Cori and New York were getting along far too well. It was like she didn't miss San Diego at all. But at least at home, she'd been able to ride the bus to school on her own, a fact I'd been sure to remind her of.

Luckily, Principal Williams's office was pretty easy to find. It was on the first floor, just past the main office. Her door was shut when I got there. I knocked and waited as a stream of students wove by. They all looked about a foot taller than me, which was scary, but at least the building smelled nice. Like wood and books. Old, but in a good way. The other kids were all smiling, or laughing, or goofing off. Like it was just a normal day. Which it was—for them. But for me, it was the first day of school. Which meant I felt like barfing.

“Are you lost?”

I turned to find a tall girl with super shiny black hair standing right next me. She was wearing a fuzzy white hat that practically glowed against her olive skin.

“No,” I said. Then a bell rang, and for a split second, panic rippled through my chest. I was in the right place, wasn't I? “I mean, this is Principal Williams's office, right?”

The tall girl nodded her white fluff at me. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” I was starting to sweat. I wished I'd taken off
my jacket. I pulled the zipper down to let in a little fresh air, and the girl's eyes trailed over my hand-knitted sweater from Grandma Kay with a look that said,
Really?
I guess she thought my fashion sense left a lot to be desired.

“I'm Emily,” she said. “What's your name?”

“Thyme.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Time? Like a clock?”

“No. Thyme, like the plant. With an H-Y.”

The smile flashed again. “Oh. That's different!”

Emily didn't say whether she considered different to be a good thing or not. My parents had, obviously. Grandma Kay had started the tradition when she named my mom Rosemary. Mom had continued the herbal theme with Coriander, Thyme, and Valerian. Not exactly top-ten names. More like weird ones. The kind that get you the wrong kind of attention. That's what happened when I face-planted on my first day of middle school back home. This boy I didn't even know kept saying, “Better luck next
time
,” until Shani pointed out that his nose was shaped like a pig's. That shut him up quick.

Just then, the principal's door popped open. A sharp-looking woman in a navy dress suit appeared. She had her hair pulled back so tightly it shone. “I thought I heard a knock. Hello, Emily. And you must be Thyme.” She smiled briefly. “I'm Principal Williams. Pleased to meet you. I hope you don't mind, but I asked Emily to join us for a quick tour. Then she can take you to Mr. Ellison's homeroom.”

I glanced back at Emily. So, she had already known I was new when she'd asked me.

Principal Williams gave me a schedule, locker assignment, and school manual. Then we left for a tour. The principal talked as she walked, moving at the same brisk pace as the people on the sidewalk. On our street, there were trash bags mixed in with the half-melted snow. Everyone just squeezed by the bags like it was perfectly okay to rub up against a pile of trash on the way to work or school or wherever. Little rivers of yuck ran out of the bags during the day. Then, when the light faded, the yuck froze into slippery brown trails. I tried to avoid anything brown when we were out, but it's impossible to dodge everything when you're practically sprinting everywhere.

“Here we have the computer lab.” Principal Williams waved a hand at an open door and kept right on walking. I caught a glimpse of the room as we hurried by, all gray and quiet and full of sleek flat screens on wide black tables.

“The lab's fun,” Emily said. “But Mr. Sanders will
kill
you if you chew gum in there. You should've seen the old carpet. Barf-o-rama.” She stuck her tongue out, and I smiled, though I wondered if she was really being nice or just acting that way because the principal was there.

As we walked through the halls, Emily said hi to just about everybody, even the older kids. She seemed to love parading around, but I wished I could be anywhere else. Middle school was the worst. Girls went boy-crazy overnight. Friends argued over who sat next to who at the lunch table. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with all of that stuff again, without Shani this time. Then I thought of Val. He would've
loved being in kindergarten for real. He missed his friends at his old preschool. He was always asking Mom when he could go back, but he never complained. I had to be tough, too.

Principal Williams pointed out the art room and the music room. Then the math and science classrooms. Upstairs, she circled through the social studies, English, and language arts halls. I checked my schedule and found Spanish.

Emily saw and made a sad face. “You didn't get Chinese? Too bad. It's fun.”

“I like Spanish,” I said. I'd studied it at home for two years.

“Spanish is totally fine. It's supposed to be really
useful
.”

The way Emily emphasized the word
useful
made me think she was making fun of me. I almost told her that my best friend took Mandarin, and that she was good enough to study at the high school. But then I reminded myself that it didn't matter what this girl thought of me. I was going back to my real school and my real best friend as soon as possible.

On our way back downstairs, a blond girl with thick purple glasses rushed past us, taking the stairs two at a time. “Hey, Emily!” she said, waving at us. Her hair was in pigtails, which was the exact kind of thing Cori would make fun of—not to mention the pins and ribbons decorating her book bag.

Emily flashed the smile. “Hey, Lizzie.”

“They're calling for a polar vortex!” Lizzie called as she disappeared up the stairs.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Oh, just nerd-speak for cold weather,” Emily said,
frowning a little. Maybe she wasn't a big fan of the weather. Val had been seriously obsessed with clouds before his current fascination with trains kicked in. Dad had papered Val's ceiling with different cloud formations: cirrus, stratus, and Val's favorite, cumulonimbus. I missed those clouds.

We breezed past the gymnasium, the cafeteria, and the library. When we finished with that floor, another bell rang. “That's the late bell,” Principal Williams said. “You'd better get to Mr. Ellison's room. Emily, I trust you'll introduce Thyme to your friends. After all, being new can be challenging.”

The principal patted my shoulder like I was completely hopeless, right in front of Emily, who just smiled that big fake smile of hers. I wished I could disappear, or that I'd at least been smart enough to take off my jacket when I'd thought of it earlier. There had to be a gallon of sweat in my armpits from racing through the building so fast.

“If you need anything, come see me,” Principal Williams said as she walked away.

“Thanks,” I said, with zero intentions of ever doing that. She didn't seem like the kind of person who had time for anybody else. With the way she busted through the tour at light speed, she reminded me a lot of Mom these days. Focused on her goals, no matter what.

“So, are you ready?” Emily asked.

Was I ready? To start middle school all over again? To meet a roomful of new kids, who'd probably stare at me like I
was some kind of creature from another planet? To explain a bazillion times over that my name was Thyme with an H-Y? To explain what brought me here in the first place? Not really. But this move was only temporary. Just like this school. Just like New York.