Authors: Jenny Han
Daddy used to tuck me in at night. He’d get the covers nice and tight and say, “Snug as a bug in a rug?” and then he’d hug me, kiss me on each cheek. It was nice. Now he doesn’t come too close.
I’m reading a book in bed, and he stands in the doorway. “Is that your homework, Shug?”
“Nah, it’s just for fun.” I put the book down, hoping he’ll come in and ask me what it’s all about, the way he used to. “What’s this one all about,” he’d say, thumbing through the pages. I’d screech, “Give it back, you’ll lose my page!” But I didn’t really mind. I liked telling him about my books. My daddy’s not much of a reader.
Daddy just nods. “Don’t stay up too late,” he says, closing the door.
I never felt as safe as I did when he would tuck me in at night.
The first night is always good. There’s good food and good talk; they make each other laugh. They smile at each other, secret little smiles over the dinner table. They’ve forgotten grievances for the time being; they’re just enjoying each other’s company. On the first night, I can relax. Daddy’s remembering all over again how pretty Mama is, how clever. And the only time Mama really seems alive is when he’s looking at her. She tells fantastical stories about whatever happened at the nursing home while Daddy was gone. My mama knows how to tell a good story. Old Mr. Schuman and his trumpet or Mrs. Kirkpatrick and her sparkly red dress. I’ve heard all her stories before, but I still lean forward and listen like it’s
the first time. When I go to bed, I’m full on steak and stories.
And the second night’s okay. I can count on the second night being okay.
It’s the third night that’s the problem.
They sit at opposite sides of the den—Mama on the far end of the couch, reading a book with a glass of red wine, Daddy in his easy chair watching TV with a beer. Each pretending the other doesn’t exist. Maybe not even so much pretending. So what’s the point of sitting in the same room? It’s not to be near each other, I know that much. At no point does Mama look up from her book and wiggle her nose at Daddy, and he certainly doesn’t take his eyes off the TV screen to wink at Mama.
And me, I’m sitting at my perch, the dining room table, with my homework all laid out in front of me. If I’m here, then nothing bad can happen. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I sort of believe it too.
Moments like these, when the air is thick and the night feels like forever, I wish I was Celia. Not because she’s prettier or more popular, but because she’s older. She’s old enough to have places to go to. There’s one place in particular—college. I imagine she whispers it to herself at night, when no one else can hear.
College
. College, the Promised
Land, with no Mama and no Daddy. And no me.
When Celia leaves, I’ll be all alone. With Mama and sometimes Daddy. Celia’s hardly here as it is, but just knowing she’s nearby makes me feel safer.
Still, the big problem isn’t Celia leaving. She’s nearly gone already. It’s me. I’ve got five more years at home, but what happens when I leave home too? When I’m gone, who will keep watch? Mama and Daddy need me here. When Daddy’s gone, it’s my job to take care of Mama, and when he’s here, it’s still my job.
She’s different when he’s home. We all are. When Daddy’s home, Celia and I don’t walk around in our underwear. Mama wears lipstick, and she stays home at night. And poor Meeks isn’t allowed on the couch.
It’s strange to come home from school and see Daddy mowing the lawn or cleaning out the garage. It’s like he’s this extra piece of a puzzle that doesn’t fit, and you have to keep moving the pieces around to readjust your whole way of thinking. So you end up changing the whole puzzle around, just so he’ll fit. We all do it in our own ways.
By the end of the week, Daddy’s itching to leave, and we’re ready for him to go.
When I get home from school, Celia and Mama are having one of their blowout fights. I can hear Celia yelling before I even open the front door. It turns out that Mama forgot to deposit Daddy’s paycheck, and the check for Celia’s SAT prep course bounced.
Celia’s pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and Mama’s sitting at the table holding a wet washcloth to her forehead. I stand in the doorway, ready to jump in, smooth things over.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Mama says. “You still have plenty of time.”
Celia shakes her head so furiously her dangly crystal earrings swing back and forth. I love those earrings. If Celia
ever died, God forbid, they are what I’d want. To remember her by, and all. “It’s gonna be all your fault when I go to Lincoln Community College, Mama,” she rages. “You talk a big talk about Annemarie and me leaving this town, but deep down I think you wanna keep us here. You want us to be miserable just like you.”
“Oh, Celia. Always the drama queen, aren’t you, darlin’? I’m really gettin’ sick of you and your lady-of-the-manor routine.” Mama sips from her tall glass of iced tea. I hope it’s just sweet tea, but I have a feeling it’s Long Island.
“I hate you,” Celia says quietly. I know she means it.
“Of course you do. You’re sixteen.”
Celia runs upstairs, and I follow her. I creep into her room, where she’s sitting on the bed, staring out the window. “Get out,” she says. She doesn’t even look at me.
Sitting down next to her, I say, “Aw, come on, Celia. You can still take the class next month, right?” I pat her on the shoulder awkwardly.
Celia acts like she doesn’t hear me. “When I get out of here, I’m never coming back.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or herself, and I’m a little scared.
“You don’t mean that. You’re just mad right now.”
“You’re such a little baby. You don’t understand anything. Our family sucks. I’m never coming back.”
I recoil. “How can you say that? You’re my sister.”
She finally looks at me then, and her green eyes are sad. “You’ve gotta grow up, Shug. You’ve gotta see people for who they are. I can’t keep on taking care of you forever.”
“Taking care of me?” I repeat. “You’re never even home.
I’m
the one taking care of things around here.”
“I’m so sick of caring about what happens. Nothing ever changes.” She stares out the window some more, then says, “Just get out, Annemarie.”
“Fine.” I stalk out of her room and go to mine.
I’m almost done with my homework when Mama calls us down for supper. She’s gone to the grocery store and gotten pork chops and applesauce and baked potatoes with sour cream. I’m surprised that she’s cooked, but I know why. She cooks when she knows she’s done wrong by us, when she wants to make amends without actually saying sorry. Which she never does—say sorry, I mean.
I know a good thing when I see it. A real dinner is plenty apology enough for me. I lean close to the plate and breathe in the smell of sizzling pork and cinnamon apples.
“Where’s your sister?” Mama’s only got one pork chop on her plate and a dab of apple sauce. I’ll know that I’ll probably be finishing her leftovers because Mama never really eats when she’s been drinking.
Dipping a pork chop in apple sauce, I say, “She went over to Margaret’s house. Not that I blame her.”
“Don’t you start on me too.”
“I’m just sayin’. The SATs are a pretty big deal. I can see why she’s mad. Couldn’t you have been more careful, Mama? I mean, you shoulda known how much was in the checking account. And then you didn’t even say sorry …” She glares at me, and I stuff half a pork chop in my mouth to keep from saying anything else.
“I do the best I can by you girls.” Sighing heavily, Mama cuts into her pork chop and takes a small bite. She doesn’t say anything more, and in this light, the circles under her eyes look dark and bleak. She looks old.
I feel guilty for harping on her, but I’m still able to finish the rest of my supper with gusto. My mother hardly ever cooks, so when she does, it feels like a special occasion. Burping, I reach for one of Celia’s pork chops, but quick as lightning, Mama snatches the plate away.
“I’m saving this for your sister, for when she gets back. She might want a snack. You eat the rest of mine; I’m not hungry.” She gets up from the table and covers Celia’s plate with plastic wrap.
“You sure?” I’m already reaching for her pork chop.
“Yes, greedy. And there’s mint chocolate chip ice cream
in the freezer.” Mint chocolate chip is Celia’s favorite. It tastes like toothpaste to me, but hey, I’ll eat it. Ice cream is ice cream. Mama puts the plate in the refrigerator and says she needs to take a nap. She leaves me alone in the kitchen, and I polish off the rest of the pork chop, taking care to swirl it around in her little mound of apple sauce.
When she makes the effort, she’s not a bad cook. Not great, not like Mrs. Findley, but not bad.
Celia comes back home when I’m doing the dishes. She throws her pink purse on the kitchen table. “Is she around?”
“No, she’s asleep. We saved you some dinner, though. It’s in the fridge.”
“I ate at Margaret’s.”
“But she made pork chops …” My voice trails off when I see Celia’s hard face. I turn back to the dishes and scrub the greasy skillet a little harder. “There’s ice cream, too.”
Grudgingly, she says, “What kind?”
“You know what kind.”
Celia purses her lips and walks over to the freezer. She pulls out the carton and sits down at the table.
Wiping my soapy hands on my jeans, I give her a big spoon and sit down next to her. “She feels really bad, you know.” I pry the lid off the frosty carton and slide it over to Celia.
She sniffs. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Fine, fine.”
Celia scoops herself a big spoonful of ice cream and nibbles on it. “Tell me what’s goin’ on with you and Kyle.”
“Huh? Me and Kyle?”
Celia rolls her eyes. “Yeah … the boy who taught you how to love?”
Oh, yeah. “Um, I don’t know. I hardly ever see him. Junior high’s pretty different.”
“What do you mean, different?” She licks her spoon like a cat.
I take a big bite of mint chocolate chip. “Everybody’s actin’ different, is all. Mark especially. He acts like he’s forgotten all about us being best friends. All he cares about is hanging out with the guys. I went over there the other day, and he was leaving to go play basketball, and then he didn’t even invite me.”
“So?”
“So he always invites me! And it’s more than just that. At school he barely even looks at me.”
“Well, boys are like that, Shug.”
“I know,” I say. “Wait, what do you mean? What are they like?”
“They take you for granted sometimes. They care more
about looking cool than being your friend. But I promise you, Mark hasn’t forgotten you. How could he? You’re like brother and sister.”
Frowning, I say, “Well, I wouldn’t say brother and sister exactly.”
“Pretty close to it. Y’all were raised up together. Shug, just give him time to get used to junior high. He’ll figure out who his real friends are sooner or later.”
Celia inherited Mama’s talent for makin’ you forget and she doesn’t even need ice cream. I forgive her for what she said earlier. No matter what she says, I know she’ll always come back home.
I asked Mark if he wanted to come over and quiz each other on the fifty states and capitals, and when he asked me if anyone was going to be home, I said yes. I told him Celia would probably be there, and I knew it was wrong even as I was saying it. I felt cheap and terrible, and when he said okay, I still felt cheap and terrible but happy, too.
Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking Cokes and eating peanuts, I’m filled with such gladness for this moment. To be here with Mark, just like this. Just us two, just like before.
He tosses a peanut my way, and I catch it with my mouth. This is our trick; we are good at it. He throws, and I catch.
And then Celia comes home and ruins everything.
“What are you doing home?” I blurt out. Guiltily I glance at Mark, but he’s too entranced to even notice.
Celia’s cheeks are pink, and her hair is falling out of her ponytail in tiny damp ringlets. She puts her book bag on the kitchen table and gives me a funny look. “Hello to you too, Shug. Practice finished early today.” Then she smiles at Mark, and she’s like the sun, shining down on a grateful little daisy. He blushes with pleasure. “Hey there. Where’ve you been, Mark? I haven’t seen you around here in forever.”
I’m boiling as he hems and haws and stutters that uh, he’s been, uh, around. I can’t help but glare at them both.
Then Celia sits down with us and goes on about her stupid cheerleading practice. Mark’s eyes are wide and he’s nodding at everything she says, like he even knows what a herkie is. He can’t take his eyes off her in that baby blue angora sweater. Yeah, I know what he can’t take his eyes off of.
It’s like I’ve stopped existing. I’m not even in the room anymore. I’m mad at him, and I’m mad at her, too, and it’s not even her fault. She can’t help the way she looks in baby blue or the way her hair curls around her ears, any more than I can help the way I look. But that doesn’t stop me from being mad at her.
When Celia takes her Coke upstairs, I turn on Mark. “You just made
such
a fool of yourself.” I’m so angry I’m practically biting each word out.
“What are you talking about?” he says uncomfortably. He stuffs a handful of peanuts into his mouth and does not look in my direction.
“You were slobbering all over her. You need to get a grip on reality. Celia’s in
high school
. You think she would ever go for a little kid like you?”
“You’re crazy, you know that?” Mark gets up and starts shoving his notebooks into his book bag. “I’m going home.”
“Fine, go home. But don’t blame me when you flunk the quiz!” I yell.
I hope he flunks the quiz.
Ms. Gillybush hands back our essays, and when I see my grade, I nearly choke. I got a B? I have never gotten a B in English in my entire life. English is what I’m supposed to be good at.
She stands in front of her desk and says, “With the exception of a few students, I’m disappointed in the caliber of these essays. Frankly I expected a higher level of quality from honors students.” Ms. Gillybush stares at us stonily, and Kara Jane preens and twists around in her seat. I bet
she
got an A.