Bounce (2 page)

Labor Day. While everyone else is on the beach, we're doing eighty down the Maine Turnpike. Everything we own is in a U-Move truck behind us, and 225 miles ahead, waiting, is our new life.

I begged Birdie,
begged
him to let me spend the first part of the school year in Maine. “What's the rush?” I said. “Can't we move in January? After Christmas, at least?” But noooooo. He wanted us to feel “settled” in our new “environment.” Besides, rent was going up on our house, and did I have any idea how much heating oil would cost this winter? “You've got to be kidding me,” I said. “You're getting married because of a little heating oil?”

And Birdie said no, no, of course not. That's when he sat me down and told me what a “great adventure” this was going to be for us. Full of “exciting new experiences.” I was okay with it, right? Because if I wasn't, this was the time to tell him. Mackey and I were the most important people in his life. Our happiness was everything to him.

Well, what was I supposed to say?

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.

Stell? It's me.

Buck up,
is what she tells me.
Relax and enjoy the ride. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine.

I want to believe her. I want to believe that my dead mother has the power to predict the future. But it's hard to stay positive when the car smells like dog—when Clam is in the crate at my feet, licking his crotch.

Mackey is in the seat beside me, headphones on, snoring. His zits are as bad as ever, and his hair is sticking up in front. Cowlick. He's wearing his
Star Trek
T-shirt with camouflage pants and brown hobbit sandals. When you look at him, here is what you think: Sci-fi Society, Chess Club, Band.

I reach over and grab his knee. “Hey,” I say.

Mackey opens his eyes to slit level. “Huh,” he says. “What?”

“You're snoring,” I tell him. “It's bugging me.”

I didn't mean to say that. I meant to say, “Mack, are you totally freaking out, too? Good! ‘Cause I don't want to be the only one.”

But I can't say it now because Birdie is in the front seat. You can tell he's in a great mood, too. He's whistling away, one of those hippie folk tunes he busts out for festive occasions. You can ask him nicely to stop, and he'll say okay, but then two seconds later he'll be at it again.

So I close my eyes and think about Jules. Jules Anthony, my best friend since diapers, whose backyard connects—
used to connect
—with ours. Jules, who taught me many important life skills, like how to flip my eyelids inside out, how to bake whoopee pies, how to stuff a bra. Jules, who took me aside at the fifth-grade class picnic to tell me that Mackey's old brown
plaid bell-bottoms were not my best look—who let me wear her favorite Bermudas instead.

Jules cried when I told her the news. Then she swore a bunch of times, which she does when she gets fired up. Me moving was a prime opportunity to try out some new swears I never heard before. Then it was my job to say something optimistic.
Hey, we'll still see each other. There's an Amtrak from Portland to Boston, don'tcha know. You can visit every weekend. Nothing has to change.

But even I didn't believe myself.

“You can't leave, Ev,” she told me the last time I saw her. “I won't let you.”

“Jules—”

“No! You could stay here! Move in with us! We could adopt you!”

I flopped down on her canopy bed. She must have a thousand stuffed rabbits on that bed, even though she is thirteen and should know better. “I have to go,” I told her. “Birdie's waiting.”

“I know,” she said. Then she swore a few more times and got teary. “I'm really gonna miss you.”

I felt a lump in my throat the size of Texas. “Me, too.”

On my way out the door, Jules said to wait. “We have to give each other something. You know, for friendship.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Trade shirts.”

“What? Now?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay,” I said.

And we did it, too. We stripped down to our bras right there on the Anthonys' porch in front of the entire neighborhood.

That is how I have on her cowgirl shirt right now, with the rhinestone buttons and frayed collar, and she has on the pink tie-dye I made at camp, halter style, so it showcases her belly button ring perfectly.

I am not really into the Western look, but I like that part of Jules is still with me. If I get sad, all I have to do is sniff the shirt and I am back on her canopy bed, surrounded by rabbits.

“This is it!” Birdie says.

He slows down and proceeds to wedge our station wagon into the tiniest spot you ever saw, approximately the size of a postage stamp. Then he jumps out to direct the U-Move guys where to unload.

I am sweating all over. My thighs are sticking to the seat like a couple of honey hams. I turn to Mackey and say, “This is a great adventure. Full of exciting new experiences.”

He lets out a burp that smells like Egg McMuffin. Then he blows it in my face.

“You're disgusting,” I say.

But now he is biting his nails down to bloody nubs, which tells me at least we're thinking the same thing.
Noooo!!! This cannot be happening! This sucks!

When we get out of the car there she is, hugging Birdie. This is probably the tenth time I've seen them hug in the past
two weeks, and it still makes me sick to my stomach. On Wednesday, when she drove up to Maine to help us pack, I caught them making out in the garage, and I almost threw up.

The way they're all over each other, you'd think he just got back from a war.

You can let go now. Seriously. You can let go of my dad. Any year now.

Finally, she does. She gives me and Mackey a big wave and starts walking over.

Here is the visual: head full of black curls, and short—even shorter than me. She barely comes up to Birdie's armpit, but she's curvy all over like the old Betty Boop cartoon he has framed in his shop. Therefore you understand right away what he sees in her. It is how all guys see: first, the body. Then, everything else.

“Hi, Evyn,” she says, reaching out a hand for me to shake. Her nails are short and square. “Good to see you again.”

I shake her hand, nod, try to smile. That is what Stella would do—smile at the woman we barely know, who is about to ruin everything.

“Mackey,” she says to my brother, shaking his hand, too. “I'm so happy you're here.”

He nods, then starts ripping his fingernails to shreds again.

“Okay,” Eleni says, smiling. “Well…welcome!”

I stare at her teeth. There is lipstick on them, red.

One look at her and you do not think college professor. She has on black pants that are the low-rise variety. And high heels with the toes peeping through, red polish to match the lipstick.
Her T-shirt is plain white, the same kind Birdie wears, only on her it is tight in a womanly way, and there are no stains.

I have to admit she looks good for a mother—somebody else's. But not ours. Not now, not ever.

I know. She hasn't tried to hug us yet. Smart woman. She's playing it safe. But wait until they're married, and she starts planting cheek kisses left and right. I give her three weeks before she says,
You can call me Mom now, honey. And while you're at it, scrub the toilet bowl.

That's what happened to Tamara Schacter, this girl I know. The minute her dad got remarried, Kiki the Stepmonster took over her entire life and destroyed it.

If anything like that happens here, I will run away, which would make Jules very happy, I can tell you. I would go back to Maine and live with her. I have no clue how I'd get there, since I have exactly three dollars to my name. But I'd find a way, that much I promise you. I would definitely find a way.

I have to share a room with two Gartos girls who are twins that I will never be able to tell apart—not that it matters because they haven't exactly started talking to me yet. Their names are Clio and Cassandra, they are fifteen, and they are dark and curvy like their mom. Their hair is long, modelworthy, with center parts and no bangs.

I sit in the middle of the room on a cardboard box labeled EVYN CLOTHES, waiting for instructions. Finally, one of the twins turns to me and says, “That's your bed, over there.” She points. “Storage drawers underneath.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Thanks.” Then, “You have a nice room.”

The other twin rolls her eyes and snorts. “Cassi has a
thing
for incense,” she says. “Just to warn you.”

I nod.

The first one says, “Shut up, Clio!” Then she turns to me. “Clio has a
thing
about not shaving any part of her body. She's practically a gorilla.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well.”

I go to my bed by the window and stare out at the backyard, which is not a yard at all. It's a microscopic stone patio, with a few potted plants and lawn chairs scattered around. Birdie told us we were moving to the city, and things would
look different. Uh-huh. At home, our backyard was two acres with trees to climb, a gazebo Birdie built himself, a frog pond, and a vegetable garden. Clam had room to roam. This yard is a joke.

And the house, that's another thing. It is four stories but it's attached on either side to other people's houses so there's no side yard and no driveway. Birdie calls it a brownstone—don't ask me why, since it is red brick.

Our old house had natural wood shingles and a porch swing. And out by the blueberry bushes, a birdhouse made to look exactly like ours. Picture a tiny wooden swing just for birds. That's the kind of detail you miss, once you are gone. You miss your birds' old porch swing.

“Where's my red sweater?” one of the twins is saying now. “Did you take my red sweater?”

And the other one says, all sassy, “What red sweater?”

And the first one says, “The V-neck! You better not have taken it, Clio, I swear to God…”

Sometimes the feeling of missing a place is so big it makes you want to open your window and scream. But obviously I can't do this because the window isn't really mine. Neither is the bed I'm sitting on. Or the air.

Birdie comes to the door with a glass of water in his hand. His face is a million sweat beads to match his grungy shirt. But that doesn't stop me from jumping up and hugging him.

“Birdie,” I say.

He squeezes me, kisses the top of my head. He smells like sweat and sawdust. I can feel his beard scruffing against my scalp. “Birdie,” I say again.

“Ev,” he says, pulling back and smiling. “Settling in?”

I look at him. His face says,
I've never been happier.
I grab his glass and take a sip. Then another.

“How goes it, girls?” Birdie says, turning to the sweater sisters, away from me. “Everything okay?”

One of the twins runs over and throws her arms around Birdie's neck. “Al!”

Al, whoever he is, ruffles her hair. “Clio!” he says.

The other one jumps all over him. “Don't let her touch you, Al! She's a criminal! She'll steal the shirt off your back!”

“Whoaaa,” Birdie says, pulling away. “A criminal? In my very own home?”

All three of them laugh, and you can see the triangle of love blooming right there in the room. In Al's very own home.

“Hey,
Al,
” I say later. “What's up,
Al
?”

And he says, “I'm still the same old Birdie.”

Meanwhile his new family is downstairs, chopping onions and firing up the grill in Al's Diner.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, while Birdie brushes his teeth in the peach-colored sink. He is constantly brushing—and flossing, and picking, and fluoride rinsing. This is what happens when you have dentists for parents, like Birdie did. He knows way too much about gingivitis. On Halloween, the only thing he will hand out is apples: nature's toothbrush.

“Birdie,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, then spits in the sink.

“I don't know if I can live here.”

Birdie turns to me. “This is a big transition, Ev. It's going to take some time to get used to.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you willing to give it some time?”

I don't know if I'm willing or not, but one thing I do know is I hate this peachy bathroom—and everything in it.

“Question,” I say. “Why are all the toiletries freakishly large?”

Birdie holds up a ten-gallon bottle of mouthwash and grins.

“Seriously,” I say. “What's up with that?”

Birdie unscrews the top and pours himself a cup. He says that a family as big as this one needs to shop in bulk. “B.J.'s,” he says. “I'll take you sometime.”

Everything there is econo-sized, he tells me. You can even buy clothes.

I picture myself on the first day of school, econo-sized, like Paul Bunyan. XXXXXXL plaid shirt, clown boots, pencil the size of a telephone pole.

“Birdie?” I say.

“Yeah.” He is flossing now.

“How much time?”

“Huh?”

“How much time do I have to give it?” I say. “A week? Two weeks? A month? What?”

Finally, he walks over to me.

“What if this was a big mistake?” I say. “What then?”

Birdie puts his hands on my shoulders. “And what if it wasn't?” he says. “I'm just playing devil's advocate here, but what if this was the best thing that ever happened to us? Can you at least leave yourself open to the possibility that this could be great?”

I make my head nod.
Sure, Al. Well, gotta go throw myself under a train now.

It's dinner, and I am sitting between the oldest Gartos girl, Thalia, and the youngest, Phoebe. Mackey is flanked by the sweater twins, who are still squabbling. Not that he minds. He is like one of those cartoon cats, eyes popping out of his head every time he looks at one of them.
Boooiiinnnggg!

Guys don't look at me like that. Ever. But I'm used to it.

One time when Jules and I went to the mall, a bunch of jocks in letter jackets wolf whistled as we walked by—at both of us, I thought. They came over, but only to talk to Jules. I noticed they never looked directly at her face but at her white tank top, where all the action was.

“Guys love you,” I said later, but Jules just laughed and said, “Guys love anything with mammaries.”

Right now the only person at the table with mammaries smaller than mine is Phoebe, and she's six. The first thing she said when I sat down was, “Are you a boy?” and I said, “It's Evyn with a
Y,
not Evan with an
A
”—my stock answer, which doesn't explain such problems as my hair
(chop cut), my outfit (Mackey's old sweats), or my chest (non-existent).

“I have three sisters,” she tells me. “And two brothers.”

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

The brothers are sitting across from me at this moment. The younger one, Ajax (if you can believe that anyone would name their son after a cleanser), is my age. He is shaped like a brick, and all he talks about so far is sports. Apparently, he is the star forward on the eighth-grade soccer team, and we are all supposed to watch him play in a scrimmage on Saturday. Goody.

The older one is a different story. Ever since he sat down I haven't been able to stop sneaking glances at him. His name is Linus, and I know what you're thinking, but you are wrong. This Linus is no thumb-sucker. He's nineteen years old, first off, with stubble on his chin. Also he is tall, with big shoulders, brown eyes like M&M's, and dark curls flopping on his forehead. I think about those curls all through dinner—how it might feel to grab hold of one of them and pull, then watch it spring back into place.

I have to pinch myself.
No drooling at the table.

Linus eats everything Eleni puts on his plate: olives, stuffed grape leaves, stinky cheese. He has lamb juice on his chin when he says, “Why can't you cook in my dining hall?”

Eleni pats his arm and says, “Move home.”

It kills me that he lives in a dorm, not with us.

Linus laughs. “How can I move home? All the beds are taken.”

You can have my bed,
I think.
I'll sleep in the storage drawers.

Then I open my mouth. “So. Linus. What's your major?” This is the question grown-ups are always asking Jules's sister, Agnes, whenever she comes home from Yale.

Linus looks at me for the first time, and his face says,
Who are you?

I look down at my plate, which has suddenly become fascinating; it's not just a pile of lamb, it is a landscape of pink. Not unlike my face.

“I'm thinking about poli-sci,” Linus says. “Maybe econ. I don't know.”

He tells us he isn't sure what he wants to do when he graduates. “I don't really see myself in politics,” he says. “Or crunching numbers all day. I'll probably move to Vail and be a professional ski bum.”

I went skiing once. With Jules, when her dad got free passes. My first time down the mountain I thought I was doing great—taking my time, making nice wide turns—when some guy in gold snowpants whizzed past me, yelling, “This isn't the giant slalom trail, moron!” When I tried to flip him the bird, I wiped out and broke my arm.

Professional ski bum.
Huh.

I picture Linus at the top of a snowy peak, holding a cup of change and one of those homemade signs. WILL SLALOM FOR FOOD.

Birdie says, “There are worse things to do with a college degree.”

“True,” I say.

Now everyone is looking at me, so I am forced to continue. “You could be a pirate.”

Linus smiles when I say this. His teeth are as white as a box of Chiclets—a dentist's dream. Linus has dream teeth. When he says to me, “Very funny,” my stomach jumps up and does the mambo.