Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (6 page)

No One Did Anything, So I Did—My New Mantra

In an ideal world, I would have at least a weekend to switch personalities, because let me tell you, it is pretty tough going from someone who thinks about herself exclusively to someone who actually thinks about others. I had to access a side of my brain I've never really used before. By the time I finally made it down for breakfast, it was almost seven thirty.

Mom handed me a glass of juice and a piece of toast. “Baby, you have to go. The bell will ring in twenty minutes.”

I turned. “Thanks.” That's when she took a good look at me. “Uh, what is that thing on your head?”

“A
bindi
.” I shrugged like it was simply the most obvious thing in the world.

Mom's face was a blank slate. She was struggling to understand. “What's a
bindi
?”

“It's like a third eye, Mom.” I recited from the reading I'd done the night before: “It's about opening my consciousness up and creating a new pathway to compassion.”

Dead silence.

I unfolded my scarf and threw it over my shoulders. Sadly I did not have the makings of a sari or even a tunic and Punjabi pants, but I did find leggings, a long white shirt, and a white scarf to wrap over my shoulders.

Dad watched me arrange my scarf. “Did you make that?”

“I did.”

Dad drank the last of his coffee. “It's beautiful.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I got down on the floor, dumped out all my books from my faux snakeskin backpack, and put them in a white cotton bag Mom used for the shopping.

Pen was shaking her head. “Charlie, what's up now?”

I looked up at her. She had on a white man's shirt and a long skirt. Her hair was in a high, loose bun on top of her head, her pimples were uncovered, her brows unplucked. I could even see the shadow of armpit hair through her blouse, and you know what I said? “Man, you look beautiful, Pen.” That's what I said.

Mom was quick to scold. “Charlie!”

But I was quick to correct, in a low, measured voice, of course. And PS, have you ever noticed how holy people are super slow (
but not boring
) talkers? Last night when I was watching Mother Teresa on YouTube, I was like, Wow, she almost seems stupid,
but
it's the opposite. The smarter you are, the more stuff's going on up there, the slower you are to speak. “No, Mom,” I said slowly, “I think she looks beautiful.” I stood. “Pen, last night I had an epiphany.
You
are my new role model.”

Orange juice shot from Pen's nose. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” I lifted her bag up and handed it to her. “Teach me to care about others like you do, Pen.”

“But you hate charity! You take the money
out
of the UNICEF Halloween boxes.” Pen laughed. Mom and Felix thought it was pretty funny too. In fact, all the laughter at my expense went on so long, I had to sit down. “Seriously, I don't know if it can be done, Charlie.”

“Oh, come on, just teach me, for God's sakes,” I implored. “You have so many causes, add me to your list, make me a cause.” And then I got an idea. “I'll pay you.”

“I don't want your money.” Pen shook her head. “I don't even know what you want from me.”

But I knew exactly what I wanted from her. “Like yesterday, when you went into that bathroom and ate with that weird girl, what happened when you came out, what did people say to you? How did they act? Did they run?” My fear. “Did they think you were a total freak?”

Pen shrugged like it was all so easy. “No, Charlie, they just thought I was nice, I guess.” She was clueless about it, like someone who was naturally good. “I don't know. I honestly didn't even think about it.”

“Wow.” I needed facts. Hard-core facts. “Let me ask you this. When you got out of there, do you think people liked you more or less?”

Pen closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall like she was dissecting her day, and then said, “More, people liked me more. I guess.” She opened the door. “Can we go now?”

I jumped in front of her. “Last question, last question, I swear. Was it just the total freaks who liked you more or the cool people too?”

“Not that I see a divide, but I guess everyone. People felt sorry for her.” She had this teary look in her eyes. “No one did anything,” she said, “so I did.”

“Wow,” I repeated, “‘No one did anything,
so I did
.'” Majorly catchy. That was it, my new mantra.

Meet Charlie C. Cooper, Selfless Activist

The bell rang just as we made it into the upper parking lot. Cars were pulling out. Horns were honking. Moms were yelling at moms; dads were running for cover; the principal had his loudspeaker—all with coffee mugs in hand, coffee teeth, angry lips. It was like my eyes had opened and I was seeing the world I lived in for the first time. I looked around and announced to Penelope, “So much anger.”

Pen rolled her eyes. “I'm beginning to miss the old Charlie.”

I pressed my little pink
bindi
jewel, making sure it stayed where it was supposed to, and then, as if it was a sign, Marta came walking up the hill wearing the socks and sandals again, her pants so short and tight, her massive calves nearly ripping them in two.

“Poor girl.” Pen shook her head and walked into school. I was just about to walk over to Marta when I heard Trixie shouting from the other direction.

“Charlie!” Trixie came running down the hill, Babs chasing after her. “I'm so late!”

“Hey!” I shouted back. “Hi, Babs.” I waved to her too, because from now on I saw the Little Person.

Trixie's mouth dropped when she caught up with me. “Oh my God, I love your
bindi
!”

What! I stared. How great was this? “You know what a
bindi
is?”

“What's a
bindi
?” Babs pulled Trixie. “And by the way, we're late.”

“I'm totally going Indian in every way,” I announced, catching up with them.

“I love their fashion, their movies, their dances! Those women are so beautiful.” Trix beamed.

“I know, right!” Babs concurred.

“Ever since I was a little kid, Mother Teresa was one of my heroes.” I watched the look on their faces like,
What the heck is wrong with this girl?
But I persevered. “Being kind, doing stuff for the less fortunate, I just think it's cool.”

Trixie shot me this look of horror. “But have you seen what she looked like?”

“Oh yeah, but I've totally updated. I'm going for the Bollywood thing plus the charity”—hand up to be clear—“minus the wart.”

Kids streamed in and shouted across the now empty parking lot, “Hey, it's Marta the Farta!”

We all turned to see Marta, head down, pulling her Cinderella roller suitcase as fast as she could. It was like the gods were shining down on me. “See, that's what I'm talking about. Being mean to Marta; that's just gotta stop.” I tried to sound like this was a sudden decision, not a horrifying task. “You know what?” I said as we ran up to class. “I'm going to stop it.”

Babette shook her head. “Stop what?”

“Being mean to her,” I said. “But why? It's fun,” Babs said. “Plus she doesn't mind at all. If she did, she'd dress better.” Babs pulled open the door. “She'd cut her nails, look a little more human,
n'est-ce pas
?”

I let it go, because you know what? I was so not into having that kind of discussion.

 

 

Mr. Lawson strolled in with his chai tea in a brown, earthy mug. “Good morning. Call me Mr. L, and boy”—he zeroed in on me right away—“that
bindi
is beautiful.”

“And super meaningful.” I pushed on it hard with my finger.

“And it falls in so nicely with what we're doing this morning. All right, everybody.” Mr. L smiled as if he actually liked us, which was pretty unusual for teachers these days. “Time to choose a community buddy.”

“Community buddy?” Babs slapped the desk with her hands.

“Uh, you're kinda freaking us out, Mr. L.” Trix rolled her eyes.

“Community building saves lives.” He walked between our desks. “The buddy you choose will be your community-outreach partner.”

Just the words
community outreach
used to make me feel like I'd been struck down with a deadly disease. But now, now, they validated my whole plan.

 

 

I raised my hand. “Are we talking charity?”

“We are.” He nodded. “But now we call it service. The word
charity
is no longer used.”

“Kinda like
retard
?” Bobby yelled out. “Right. Mr. L?”

“Exactly, Mr. Brown.”

He handed each one of us a list. “We're going to break into groups of two and choose the kind of service we want to do. All right?”

Babs jumped up. “I choose Trix,” Babs announced before anyone else could say a thing. I looked over at Trix; she looked at me. She raised her hand, about to ask what I did not want her to ask.

I raised my hand higher. “Mr. Lawson, can I have”—I could barely get the words out, so I stabbed myself in the leg with the pencil and shouted—“Marta?”

Everyone laughed, like it was a joke. Trix looked at me. “Are you nuts?” Babs was smiling. Bobby kicked me under the table and said, “Good one.”

“Nope, I choose her. I want Marta.” I looked over at her, my new class pet. She was kinda snarling at me with her popcorn fangs. I should have brought bones.

It took a while, but Marta and I narrowed it down through an assortment of grunts that we were either going to work at the animal shelter or read to old people at the old people's home.

I dropped my head on the desk. “Come on, Marta, I can't take all those eyes staring at me from the cages.”

“Old people's eyes are worse,” she stated with a weird accent.

“Yeah, but they're supposed to die, time's up, clock's ticking. Those puppies are supposed to be adopted, Marta.”

“Everything dies,” she said with
zero
expression. Marta spoke each word like she wanted to slug you with it. Man, was this gonna be seriously unfun.

Trixie came around my desk, interrupting our heated debate. “Hey, guys, where are you gonna help out?”

“I want old people; Marta wants soon-to-be-gassed puppies.”

“Babs and I are cooking at a boys-and-girls club,” she said, laughing at us.

How come I didn't see that assignment? Babs showed up, leaned into Marta, like all of a sudden she liked her. “Hey, Marta.”

But Marta just got up and slipped away, back to her desk. How could you blame her? If the mean girls at my old school were suddenly nice, I'd slip away too.

 

 

By the end of the day I had to use a glue stick to keep my poor
bindi
on. I saw Pen and Felix on the lower yard. Felix was playing a game of soccer; the older kids were trying to steal the ball, but Felix held on tight. This one kid who had to be twice his size even tried to kick him in the shin, but Felix, he kicked him right back. I was proud.

Pen was sitting with a bunch of girls. Some were playing with her hair; others were sitting by her feet, looking up at her and smiling or laughing at something she said. Marta was sitting on the ground over by the vegetable garden, writing furiously. Why was she trying to get her homework done so quickly? I wondered. What could a girl like that possibly have to do after school?

I decided to use this time to walk around and look for the biggest losers and try to make them feel like they weren't such losers because I, Charlie C. Cooper, was talking to them. Ugly girls and ugly guys were the ones I kept a keen eye out for, or the ones dressed in clothes that were so handed down, they looked like toddler outfits. “Cool Christmas vest,” I'd say. “How was your day?”

“Go away, weirdo” was often the response. The word was out—I was friends with Marta the Farta. But you know what? I'm sure Mother Teresa had her fair share of tough cases too.

The yard had quieted down, and people were just waiting for their parents to come and get them. I was watching Marta, looking at all the knots in her hair, which she had clearly cut herself. She had these thick, uneven chunks of bangs. The back was hacked off like a wedge. Was it mange? Lice?

Trixie and Babs came down the stairs, slowing as they walked past Marta. Trix did a loud sniff like Marta smelled bad, which I had to admit she did.

Babs shook her head. “She smells.”

Marta looked like a dog about to pounce.
“Grrrrrr.”
She snarled her yellow-brown teeth at them.

“What's up, Marta?” Trixie teased.

“Yeah, what's up?” Babs followed suit.

Trix stood over her. “Toothbrush, Marta?”

“A little soap?” Babette shrugged.

“Deodorant maybe?” Trix stopped when she saw me coming.

I envisioned Mama T of Calcutta, took a huge gulp of air, walked over, and cut them off. “You know what, guys? Just leave Marta alone.”

“What?” Trixie looked shocked. “We're just helping her out. See, the gymnastics tryouts are coming up, and poor Marta over here lost out last year because her personal hygiene wasn't what it was supposed to be, right, Marta?”

Marta looked right at Trix and growled.

“See?” Trixie shrugged. “I was just trying to help her along, that's all.”

Marta stormed off without a word, and we all watched her leave.

Pen called me from across the yard. “Hey, Charlie, you ready to go home?”

Trixie and Babs turned and totally checked out Pen. She was so clearly in high school, it wasn't even funny. “Whoa, is that your sister?”

“Yep,” I said. “Yo, Felix! We're going home.”

“And that's your baby brother?” Babs put her hands to her face. “Ah, he's so cute!”

“See you tomorrow.” I waved to them, and you know what? For the first time in a long, long time, I felt good going home with Pen and Felix. After I'd hung out with Marta, they seemed like rock stars.

We skipped all the way down the hill and waited at the crosswalk for the light to change. My nose started going crazy. Something was in the air, a smell, a smell I knew and loved. “Mom made cookies!”

Pen rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, how do you know?”

Felix shook his head. “Yeah, how do you know?”

“I'll bet you all your Halloween candy I'm right.” I put my hand out. “And if I'm wrong, you get all mine.”

“Don't do it,” Pen warned.

The light was changing. “So you think I can smell cookies from this far?”

Pen shook her head in defeat. “You're so weird, it just might be possible.”

The light changed, and I ran, my
bindi
flying off into oncoming traffic, my mom's shopping bag falling from my shoulder, but I made it to the front door just in time to see Mom leaning over the oven and pulling out a tray of cookies, a pitcher of cold milk and three glasses already on the table.

Mom's smile said it all. I was being rewarded for my new self, and you know what? Life was pretty dang sweet.

“Hey there, Mama T.” Dad walked in, covered in dust, the blueprints for the house rolled up in his hand. “We broke ground.” He came over and filled his palms with cookies.

Felix and Pen grabbed the rest. “Dad, you are such a pig! No way, you can't take all of them!”

“I'm in the trenches all day. I've been digging holes, looking for secret tunnels. I need cookies!” He reverted to his famous Cookie Monster voice. Dad covered Mom in kisses, and Mom giggled like a girl.

She pushed Dad away. “Calm down—I'm putting in another tray.” She opened the oven, and I was hit with that toe-curling aroma of baking cookie dough.

I went over to Dad and stole one of his cookies. “Hey, any luck on finding Houdini's tunnels?” See, according to the legend, Houdini hid all of his stuff in those tunnels, and people have been trying to get to them ever since—and not for all the right reasons, if you catch my meaning.

Dad drank my entire glass as payback. “Not yet, but at the rate the owner's got us drilling, we should hit them by the end of the week.”

“Really?” I inhaled the kitchen like it was a fine perfume.

“Well, personally, I can't wait for the mansion to be built.” Pen pulled out her books from her backpack and started organizing her work on the kitchen table, directly
in front
of us, all of which I found super annoying. “At least then I'll have my own room.”

“Where's your sense of adventure? Your passion? Your own room, that's all you care about? Those tunnels hold the key to Houdini's magic.” I took one of Pen's cookies, stared her down like a mean dog, and shoved the entire thing in my mouth.

Pen got this grossed-out look on her face and backed away. “Houdini's dead, and his magic is probably so old by now, no one cares.” Pen shrugged like an old lady. “But my own room?” She took a deep breath and looked up. “That's worth all of this.”

Now that made me want to smack her. “You are so—”

Dad changed the subject. “Hey, how was school today?”

“I made two new friends,” Felix announced. “Pete has a band in his garage, and Lucas can swear in Hebrew.”

“Awesome!” Dad gave him a high five.

“And believe it or not, Charlie over here stuck up for that poor girl Marta when her new friends were picking on her,” Pen took insanely tiny bites of her cookie. I wanted to smack her.

Everything stopped. Mom stopped baking; Dad stopped eating. “Wow,” Dad said. “What a turnaround.”

“I can't wait to tell Dr. Scales,” Mom said matter-of-factly, and handed me a plate of my own.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, blame it on the
bindi
.” I ran up the stairs, cookies in hand.

I was not one for the spotlight, you know.