Full Cicada Moon (13 page)

Mr. MacDougall presses his fingertips together

like a daddy longlegs on a mirror.

Stacey and I

and Mrs. LaVoie and Papa

are in the principal's office. My heart is pounding,

and Stacey is breathing fast,

and I'm wondering if it was a good idea

to defy Mr. Sperangio

even though we were always respectful.

But it's too late now—

we can only go forward.

“How could you do such a thing?” Stacey's mother asks.

“Mimi, I thought you were a nice girl.”

“She is a nice girl, Mother,” Stacey says.

Then Papa says, “They were exercising their civil right

to protest.”

“Protest what?” Mr. MacDougall asks.

Then I say in a voice as clear as I can make it,

“We think girls should be allowed to take shop,

and we want to speak up about it.”

Mr. MacDougall's fingers do push-ups faster,

and then he sits forward.

“First of all, that's silly. Secondly,

there are other ways of changing what you don't like.

You take it to the school board.”

“But you have to say it's okay first, don't you,

Mr. MacDougall?” I ask.

“That's right. I do. And third,

what if no other girls want to take shop?”

“No one has to do anything,

sir,” Stacey says. “But the boys could take home ec

if they want.”

“She wasn't raised this way,” her mom says,

and looks at Papa,

who says, “I don't understand what the girls did wrong.”

“They defied a teacher,” Mr. MacDougall says,

“and the rules,” looking down at his desk.

“We can't have students defying authority.

It sets a bad example.”

Then he looks at Stacey and me.

“You two will be suspended from school for two weeks.”

He looks at Mrs. LaVoie, who has gone pale,

and then at Papa,

who says, “Isn't that a bit harsh? Certainly,

there are other ways to handle this.”

“That is my decision,” Mr. MacDougall says.

“It will give the girls time to reflect

on what they've done

and how to behave differently.”

I knew we could be suspended,

but I didn't think we would. And now

Stacey bursts out crying,

but Mr. MacDougall talks over her.

“Besides, what boy wants to take home ec?”

Staying home isn't so bad.

Timothy brings my schoolwork every night,

and Papa takes it back to school the next morning,

all done.

I haven't talked to Stacey in three days,

ever since we got suspended.

I miss her, and I hope she misses me.

I hope she forgives me

for getting her in trouble.

Tonight, Timothy comes when I'm washing the dishes.

He says, “Miss Whittaker said you can make three
balanced
meals

at home—but no pizza or hot dogs. Then

you'll be caught up, except for some quizzes

that you can take when you go back.”

Then he picks up the dishcloth and washes a plate.

“Did you know there's a system for doing this?”

he says, and hands me the plate to rinse.

“No—how does it go?”

“You wash the glasses first,

then the silverware, then the plates.

You do all the pots last.”

“Did your uncle teach you that?” I ask.

“I heard Miss Whittaker tell your class.

It was like discovering a secret new world.”

“So that's what I'm missing,” I say. “But

what if you have a dishwasher?”

“You mean, like . . . yours?”

We both look at the cinnamon-colored machine

that Mama never uses

and laugh.

“Mama likes to wash dishes by hand

so she can think.”

We finish the dishes without talking.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

I put the dishpan under the sink

and hang the dishcloth on the cupboard door,

and then ask, “Do you think what Stacey and I did

was wrong?”

“Wrong? You're kidding,

right? Mimi, it was the coolest thing

anyone ever did.

And brave.

What you did made me feel like I

can do anything.”

What he says makes me happy.

“I'm not sorry I did it,

but I am sorry that Stacey did.

It's my fault she's been suspended.

Her mom didn't raise her like that.”

“Stacey's smart

and she can make up her own mind.

But . . .”

Now Timothy's thinking,

and I ask “What's wrong?” with a little push.

“Nothing. I gotta go.”

And two seconds later

he's gone.

Timothy knocks on the door

the next night, later than usual.

“Homework,” he says,

handing me my books.

Then he pulls an envelope from his back pocket.

“And letter.”

I would recognize that stationery

and pretty handwriting anywhere.

“From Stacey?”

Timothy nods.

“Where did you see her?”

“I took her homework to her today.”

“So, you told her

what I said yesterday?”

“Don't worry—I didn't have to.

She told me to wait while she wrote this.”

I tear open the envelope

and read:

Dear Mimi,

How are you? I am fine,

and I like having another vacation.

I miss you,

but we'll see each other again soon.

I'm glad we went to shop

and I'm glad we didn't back down

to Mr. Sperangium

(oops, did I write that?).

And I would do it all over again.

Pinkie promise??

Love,

Stacey

“Thank you, Timothy.

That was nice of you.”

“She's your friend,” he says,

and I say, “So are you.”

It's not a baking day,

but Timothy is rapping on the back door

like he's late for his lesson.

Papa pulls it open and Timothy tumbles in,

face flushed—but not because he's embarrassed or cold

or happy. His eyes are red, too.

He falls into Papa

and hangs on, shuddering.

“My b-bro-ther.”

“Wesley?” I ask.

Timothy nods violently on Papa's shoulder.

“What about Wesley, son?” Papa asks,

eases Timothy away

gently

and bends to him to see his face.

“He's m-missing. His s-squad was att-k'd.”

Timothy gulps a breath. “May-be       he's         d-dead,”

he sobs, and plunges his head into Papa's shoulder.

I go to him and smooth his hair

like he's Baby Cake trying to fall asleep,

and Papa pats his back

until Timothy breaks away and runs his hand under his nose.

I hand him a napkin.

“How did you hear?” Papa asks.

“My mom (
gulp, gulp
) called.

She's coming to get me.

I have to go back with her.”

“Oh,” I say,

but my heart feels so much more

for Timothy,

for Wesley,

for their mom,

and me.

“For how long?”

Timothy shakes his head. “I don't know,”

and then I feel bad for asking.

How could he know?

Now we hear Mr. Dell outside. “Timothy!”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Papa asks.

Timothy blows his nose again and shakes his head,

and I open the door.

Maybe I won't see him again for a long time

or forever.

Papa squeezes his shoulder and says to call us

for anything he needs—

and to tell his uncle the same thing.

I wish Mama was here, because she'd give him food

for the trip.

“Timothy!” his uncle calls. The growl

is gone from his voice, and all I hear is worry.

The turkeys gobble in the coop like a laugh track

but nothing is funny.

“Coming,” Timothy says,

and turns to me. “If we don't leave till tomorrow,

meet me outside tonight?”

I feel like crying as I nod yes. It will be the

Full Hunter's Moon.

Timothy closes the door and walks across our yard

to Mr. Dell, who's standing on his side of the fence.

I watch him

watching Timothy come closer and stop.

Their bodies tell the story—

Timothy's hands answer a phone call,

Mr. Dell grows still, then folds his arms over his chest

and shakes his head.

Timothy drops his arms.

—I press my nose to the door—

Mr. Dell looks at our house,

then at the fence between him and Timothy,

and steps over it            to his nephew.

He rests his hand on the back of Timothy's neck

gently

and guides him back to their house.

When Mama and I left Berkeley,

Auntie Sachi and Uncle Kiyoshi and Shelley and Sharon

walked us to the taxi parked at the curb

and helped the driver put our suitcases in the trunk

and opened the doors for us

and closed them after we settled in our seats

and stood nearby.

The taxi driver checked his map

and fixed his mirrors

and called in to say he was taking us to the bus station.

All that time, our family waited on the sidewalk,

waving and bowing, and Shelley and Sharon and I

made pig faces at one another.

They stood at the curb when the taxi pulled away,

and they were still at the curb when we turned the corner,

out of sight.

Tonight, Timothy and I meet at the fence,

but he can only stay a few minutes

because his mom wants to go home right away

in case someone tries to call her

with more news about Wesley.

I don't know what more to say, except

Take care,

Have a safe trip,

I hope everything's okay,

but I don't say them yet

because they're good-bye words,

and I'm not ready for that.

Far away, an animal howls in the night,

sounding hungry or lonely. I shiver.

“My uncle thinks it's a coyote,” Timothy says,

“so be careful.”

He looks up at the moon

hanging like a ripe grapefruit,

and sniffles. “I don't want to go.

I'm afraid

of what we'll find out.

But I have to go.”

What can I say to my friend to make him feel better?

A ghost of light grows in the fog

as Mama opens the back door.

She's holding a box. “Mimi, come please.”

“Don't go away yet,” I say to Timothy,

and run to Mama.

The box is cold all over,

and I smell roast chicken and potato salad

and chocolate cake.

“For Timothy and his mother,” she says.

“I'll give it to him,” I say.

“You need a jacket tonight,” Mama says,

and shuts the door.

When I give the box to Timothy,

he sets it on the ground

and steps over the fence,

walks to our back door,

and knocks lightly

because Mama's on the other side.

“Thank you, Mrs. Oliver,” he says.

But thank you wasn't enough, because then

he says, “
Arigat
o
gozaimasu
,” and bows.

Mama bows back. “No . . . no.

The person who is kind to our daughter

is the one we love,” she says.

Timothy's hands twitch, like he wants to hug Mama,

but she takes care of that by hugging him first,

quickly. “You be a good boy for your mother, okay?”

He nods, and sneaks me a glance that makes me giggle inside.

But when we go back to the fence, it's not as funny.

“I'll write to you,” he says.

“I know,” I say. “I'll look at the moon,

and you look at the moon.

And wherever Wesley is,

he can look at the moon, too.”

“Yeah, it will be like

we're all looking through the same hole in your moon box.”

He remembers.

Then it's our turn to hug good-bye,

not too quick—but just long enough

to say what we don't have words for

I'll miss you,

I hope Wesley's okay,

I hope I can see you again,

Maybe things will go back

to the way they are now,

Or maybe that time is over.

“You be a good boy, okay?” I say.

He smiles. “You, too—

but a
girl
,”

and we laugh.

Then he picks up the box and crosses his yard.

I wait by the fence and watch him.

I'm still at the fence when he goes into the house,

out of sight.

Maybe

Mr. MacDougall was right—

that sitting in shop

and thinking Stacey and I could change the world

was silly.

I miss Timothy

and wanting to take shop

seems silly and small

compared to his sadness.

Maybe

I should forget

all about what I want,

and do

what other people want me to do.

Probably

when I go back to school tomorrow,

I'll tell Mr. MacDougall I've reformed.

It's the thing he wants me to do,

but

Maybe

it's not the right thing.