Dear Opl (7 page)

Mom shook her head. “It's not quite the same, Opal. When a doctor suspects someone has this condition, they do a test. Dr. Friedman said your test came back high and it needs to come down.” She stopped while a tear rolled down her cheek.

I sat back down. My brain spun around the conversation I'd had with Dr. Friedman. “I don't understand this test thing. Doesn't higher mean better?” My face grew hot.

Mom wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “No, honey. It's not a test like that. The test measures the amount of sugar in your blood.”

I thought about the extra candy bar I ate before I had gone to bed last night. That's probably what did it. I should have had the bag of potato chips instead. I admitted this to Mom.

“No,” she said, “It's not sugar that shows up from something you've just eaten. Dr. Friedman says it's buildup. Months of sugar show up—not just the day's.”

Whoa. Months of sugar? My eyes went wide. I thought about my daily trip to Diggerman's. The last few months had been pretty bad. I imagined all my purchases in a mound on the floor of my bedroom. Then I piled over that all of the things I'd snuck from the pantry. I topped it off with everything Mom allowed me as part of my “reward” for eating the icky diet food. It wasn't surprising it would show up in my blood. I suppose it had been leaking out of my stomach and had nowhere else to go.

“Okay,” I said, “I'll eat less candy. How much less should I eat?”

Mom shook her head. “It's not just candy. Dr. Friedman sent me to a website that explained everything about diabetes. I'm finding out that sugar is in a lot of the other food we have around here too.”

Mom looked dreadful. Like when the teacher hands back a test and you see their red pen writing with your number grade on the paper, and it says you got a ninety-nine, but then you realize you've read it upside down and it's actually a sixty-six. Sucker punched. “What are we going to do?” I asked.

Mom sighed and wiped at her tears again. “Whatever we have to. Grandpa has already decided to help cook some meals at home. We'll work together on the food. And the other stuff too.”

I felt a zing of worry leap up my spine. “What other stuff?”

“Exercise. You're supposed to start exercising.”

“Wait a second,” I started in. “That doctor told me yoga wasn't exercise.”

Mom shrugged. “I suppose. She did mention that as an option. Most importantly, she emphasized the need for you to get moving.”

I bristled. “I do move!” I could feel heat burning in my cheeks, rushing through my whole face. Of course Mom would say something like this. She's way too busy with work to even look at me to see me moving.

Mom closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She took a breath and went on. “Dr. Friedman also thinks the yoga classes would help out with the stresses you're handling at the moment.” She put her head into her hands and mumbled, “I sure wish I had something to handle all
my
stress. I'm desperate for an extra pair of hands. When is all this bad luck going to turn around?”

• • •

However I made it back to my room, I can't remember. But an hour later, I sprawled on my bed, feeling very sorry for myself. Warm tears slid down the sides of my face and made miniature pools inside my ears. It warped the sounds of my crying. Made my hiccups dull and whale-like. I was a National Geographic special. The Wailing Whale. Sounds of newly discovered marine life in a state of despair.

I thought about homework. Too much of it. I considered the Snicker bar on my shelf, but then glared at it. Why was this happening to me? I acted nicely to people. I made my bed. I vacuumed the living room when asked. I made sure Mr. Muttonchops's water bowl was always clean and his food bowl always full. I let Ollie borrow whatever clothes he wanted, mostly because they didn't fit me anyway, so somebody should use them. And I've only been to the principal's office twice. Once because I sneezed and my big pink wad of watermelon flavored Bubblicious flew into Suzie Sellerman's hair. And the other time because Josh Gruber stole my gym shorts from my backpack and made a flag with them at break. I had to chase him around the outside basketball courts and
accidentally
kneed him in the stomach as I reached up for them. I wasn't a person prediabetes should happen to.

Kids who got diseases were on telethons and had firemen holding out their boots for you to fill with change. I was thirteen-year-old Opl Oppenheimer who had more than enough on my plate—except for the food variety. And now suddenly, my life was roaring down the road in the wrong direction. Devoid of Dad. Dumpy and distended. And now diseased.

I pulled my laptop over and logged on to Alfie Adam's website. There was a picture of Alfie, his wife, and his new son, Bobby Booboo. Five minutes later I could stand it no more. I opened a new blog page.

What's in a name? The famous question Shakespeare asked us to consider. I ask, What were they thinking? This seems the right question for anyone having finished reading the article in a British newspaper all about Alfie Adam's newest baby, Bobby Booboo Archibald Adam. Now before any of you start writing me comments telling me that having a name like Bobby Booboo is not so horrible a crime, and maybe I ought to keep my big trap shut, let me release the names of his three daughters. The ones born before Bobby Booboo. First there's Maya Papaya Honeypot Adam. Then Daffydill Bluebell Lila Adam. And of course, who could forget Maple Mary Puddin' Pie Adam? I think nobody will. I think saddled with these names, the children will find it impossible to avoid attention. They will also find it impossible to locate a spot at a lunch table. Or be picked for a dodgeball team. Or secure employment. Or look in the mirror.

Alfie Adam has it in for all children. He must hate us. So much so, he will ruin childhood for as many of us as he can put his oven-mitted hands on. This Lunch Grinch, from here on known as the Grunch, should not be in charge. In fact, I don't think he should be allowed to name farm animals.

But maybe he's getting back at his own parents for giving him two first names. And so now the line of punishment continues and he refuses to give any of his children first names. Maybe his head spends too much time inside gas ovens every day. Fumes can overwhelm the senses. I'm guessing his wife must be a cook too, and exposed to the same dangerous vapors. I can't imagine allowing my husband to name our babies something that either belongs on a salad or in an episode of
Sesame Street
.

Or maybe he just cooks super well and his wife loves his food so much she doesn't complain about the goofy names. But she's going to have to face the music soon. Shortly, her children will gang up on her and demand to know why their dad punished them. Why he saddled them for life. They're going to ask why she didn't stop him. And why he won't give them any McDonald's.

My hands launched full speed ahead. They attacked the keyboard like drumsticks on a snare. I stopped typing. If the Grunch had not been born, I would have chocolate and strawberry milk at school. I would be eating a Snickers bar right now. And I would have had pizza tonight.

I thought about the soy sauce. The vegetables in sesame oil. The broccoli and rice we used to toss into the garbage. G-pa's dinner wasn't horrible, but it was different than what I was used to. And I liked what I had before. Every time something changed it was always for a bad reason. Two years ago, someone flicked a giant finger at my carefully constructed domino snake and the sound of clicking tiles refused to stop.

A knock on my door brought me out of my fuming daze. Mom's head poked through the crack. “Can I come in? I have something for you.” She made her way to my bed and sat on the edge of it. From her pocket she pulled a crumpled piece of paper. “Here's the address for the yoga class. Dr. Friedman said she thought it was well taught. And that you don't have to know anything about yoga because it's multilevel.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, taking the address from her.

“Just that people who are brand-new to the course and those who know what they're doing are mixed together. It means the teacher will explain things to any new students as she goes along.”

I sighed. “Will you come with me?”

Mom shook her head. “I have to work.”

I glared at her. “Opening a bookshop takes forever.”

“You could always pitch in and help,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

I thought about all the cleaning and heavy lifting, and that all I'd end up doing was speeding up Mom's wish to spend more time away from us being much happier in her book world rather than her real world. I bet all the books in the kids' section were going to be about skinny, cheerful children.

“No thanks,” I said sourly.

“There's a lot I don't know, and chances are it'll end up a big bust with no one coming. I'm sorry I can't go to yoga, Opal. But Grandpa said he'd go.”

“G-pa?” I snorted. “You're joking.”

“He said he'd try it until you feel okay going on your own. He'll probably be just as uncomfortable as you, so maybe you can focus on helping him if he needs it.”

A picture of G-pa in leotards flashed through my mind. “When do we have to go?”

“The classes are twice a week for an hour. Mondays and Thursdays. You go tomorrow after school.”

I groaned and fell back against my pillows.

Mom tapped my computer. “What are you working on?”

“I'm plotting ways to destroy the life of a chef because he is determined to spoil mine.”

“Who's spoiling yours?”

“Alfie Adam.”

“You mean the nude guy?” she said, stifling a giggle.

I whipped my head around to scowl at her. “He's not naked! He doesn't cook in the nude.”

Mom shrugged. “I know that Opal. I was only kidding. How is he ruining your life?”

I sat up. “He's taking over school cafeterias. First he plotted against his own country's children, and now he's picking on the youth of America. He's determined to strip the world of burgers and fries.”

“Well, maybe he can help you get into those cute jeans we talked about.”

I glared at her. “
You've
talked about it! I don't need any stupid jeans!”

Mom's eyes went wide. “Whoa, Opal. What's all this about?”

Everything went suddenly blurry and shimmering like when I opened my eyes underwater. “You don't even see me anymore, do you? You don't look at me or listen to me.” All that extra water finally spilled over my lower eyelids. “I'm not Opal to you…I'm OVAL!”

Mom stood up, her cheeks blazing. “How can you say that?”

“It's true! And you know what?” I said, reaching over for the Snickers bar. “I'm going to go right on being Oval. I don't even care about this stupid diabetes thing. Like you don't even care about me!” I ran into my bathroom and slammed the door, sliding down the inside of it and squishing the bar in my fist.

I waited there for five minutes until my heart stopped thudding. I flung open the door to see if Mom was still there, but she'd gone. Probably downstairs to rid our house of anything I liked—just to get back at me.

I slumped back down on my bed and looked at my blog. Mom had typed a message on the screen. It said,
Opal, I love you.

I backspaced each letter. Delete. Delete. Delete. It was like erasing the whole conversation.

Then I looked at my blog post and wished I could erase Alfie Adam. I huffed. “Anyone who gives their children names like Muppets needs a few weeks in shock therapy.” I should have signed it Miss Piggy, but chickened out. Instead I punched the Publish button.

The next day I didn't see Summer for the whole morning. Not even passing in the halls. Where was she? My sour mood from last night required tending to and Summer was the only one who truly understood me. I
needed
her. She always pulled me right out of my basement blues and up to the level where I started making her laugh. We just learned about symbiotic relationships in science class, and that totally explained us. We acted like two fish feeding off of one another.

Finally, at lunchtime, I went to our beech tree and collapsed onto the picnic table's bench. I craned my neck around to view the mass of wandering students. She was always there before I was. She was always super on time. Summer hates to be late.

I ate my sandwich on my own, still waiting to catch a glimpse of a head with light black hair weaving its way through the student body, but after twenty minutes I gave up. I gathered my tray to take back inside, figuring Summer must have called in sick today. Now who did I have to moan to?

I yanked at the sticky door to the cafeteria, wrenching my shoulder and knocking over the rest of my lunch as the door suddenly gave way. The red plastic tray clattered to the ground along with my garbage and that ever-present red apple. Summer came through the door, spotted me fuming on the ground, and strutted past.

“Summer!” I twisted to look after her.

She stopped but didn't turn around. I got up, leaving my tray and garbage where they fell. “Hey! What is the matter with you? I had to sit through lunch all by myself. I've had a horrible day and now you just walked straight by.”

She turned her head to look at me. “You deserve it.”

I wasn't expecting that.

“Huh?”

Summer put a hand on her hip and flipped her light black hair over her shoulder. “How could you write that stuff last night? On your blog?”

“My blog?” My face scrunched like a wrinkled pickle.

She gave me a look that silently screamed,
really?

I scanned through last night. G-pa's dinner, Dr. Friedman's horrible prediabetes news, battle with Mom, and the nasty attack on Alfie Adam's allergy to normal names. “Oh. That blog.” I took a big breath in and looked skyward. “I was pretty mad.”

I got another version of the
really
look.

“Well, you can hardly blame me. I'd just had an awful fight with my mom. The woman is blind. I'm so serious. She only sees what's on the outside. And whatever she sees she doesn't like.”

Summer huffed. “Well, now I understand where you get it from.”

“Get what from?”

Summer's jaw thrust forward. “Opal, you are the most judgmental person I know.”

“Me?” I reeled back.

“Yes. You.”

“I'm not. I'm really not,” I stammered. “It's just that I was attacked last night.”

Summer shook her head. “At least your mother had the decency to attack you in private. Not like you did to Alfie Adam—broadcasting your wretched opinions to the
whole
world
.” With that, Summer turned on her heel and left. I felt deflated and empty. I looked down at the shiny red apple. What food could possibly fill the void of friendship?

• • •

“Close your eyes. Focus only on your breath. If a thought comes into your mind, acknowledge it, but don't follow it. Go back to your breathing.”

I opened my eyes to peek at G-pa. He sat next to me in baggy gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that read
Ambiguity. What happens in vagueness, stays in vagueness
. His eyes pressed closed and because he couldn't quite sit crisscross applesauce—or “Indian style” as our kindergarten teacher used to call it—his knees flopped over to the sides and his feet stuck out.

Aura, our yoga teacher, said we'd see plenty of ways a person could sit in
sukhasana
. That was a Sanskrit word —from an Indian language. But not
Indian
as in Native American.
Indian
as in the continent. Aura said we needed to grow comfortable, however it felt best.

But comfortable was a two-part problem. I needed something on my bottom half that wasn't going to make my top half spill over it. No matter what clothes I'd tried on before class, everything either squished bits of me into places that didn't have enough room or shoved the extras out openings not meant to be revealing. I needed a giant tarp. In the end, I used Dad's old sweatshirt and my flag-sized gym shorts.

I closed my eyes again and tuned into Aura's words. Her feathery voice snuck into the dark corners of my brain. I wanted to put it into a box to take home with me. I could let it slip around my bedroom as I tried to fall asleep.

“Now come onto all fours and let's do a couple of cat and cow stretches. First push your spine toward the ceiling and pull your tummy up toward your spine. Tuck your chin to your chest. Feel the spaces expand between your vertebrae. Now let your back sink and raise your chin to the sky. Take in a deep breath. And back to cat.”

We did this three times until she finally said, “Sit back on your heels into child's pose.
Balasana
. Have your knees separate and let your tummy sink in between them.”

My stomach went far beyond where it should. It found the floor and liked it there. I'd have a hard time convincing it to move again. And from the sound if it, everyone else liked this place too.

When I first stepped into the yoga studio with G-pa, we thought we might find people leaping about in pink leotards and ballet slippers. We made a pact before going in. “If it's filled with fruitcakes in tutus,” he said, “I'm heading straight to Finnegan's Pub. You can go home. And I'm not staying if I'm greeted with love beads either. No one's putting Christmas garland from the sixties around my neck. Plus, I'm not singing any peace songs, so if there's a guy with a guitar sitting on the floor in there, I'm outta here.”

But there weren't any love beads or tutus. And no one looked at us when we came into the class, or even said hello. They all just went to a mirrored closet and pulled out a yoga mat. So G-pa and I took a gamble and did the same thing. Mine was purple and G-pa's was green with swirls on it. We unrolled them onto the floor next to a woman whose toes grew so crooked I wondered how she could stand on them. They scrunched up onto each other like they all fought for the same space. G-pa leaned over and whispered to me, “That's what comes from pointy high-heeled shoes. Never wear that crap. You might get three inches taller wearing them, but the whole time you end up sitting down because the shoes are too uncomfortable to walk in. Defeats the purpose.”

I looked at my own feet. Stubby toes. Nails that needed cutting. Navy blue fluff wedged between each toe from the socks I wore to school. Mine weren't going to win any prizes either.

The man across the room from us looked a few years younger than G-pa, but his hair was dyed the color of Dad's old brown shoe polish. Well, all except for the silver part on the tippy top of his head. It looked like he'd forgotten that bit. He stretched. And made loud breathing sounds. I gawked at the volume of his breath—as if he were letting the entire room
know
he was breathing. I looked to G-pa and rolled my eyes, but we both went back to watching him breathe. I guess his stretches were the hard kind.

The yoga studio smelled a lot like the locker room on Fridays, when Coach Osgard reminded everyone to go home and wash their gym clothes. Most of the guys never remembered to do theirs, so Mondays, when the boys and girls had PE together, were a sharp reminder of how stink didn't seem to bother them much. The girls complained a lot.

Another woman, with a long, black braid and a pinched up face like a pug lapdog, placed her mat next to the old guy stretching. She unrolled her mat and then another one on top. Double soft, I suppose. She made sure the corners matched perfectly. Then she put a bottle of water at one corner and an eye mask at the other. She sat down and closed her eyes, but then opened them again and looked at her mat. She stood up and realigned the corners.

When she sat down and closed her eyes again, I counted to three before she turned around to peer at her water bottle and eye mask. They hadn't moved, but maybe they weren't arranged right the first time because she moved them an inch closer to one another. She did this three times, repositioning her yoga mat or water bottle. I wondered if we would get graded for neatness in this class. Maybe there'd be a prize.

Someone else walked in front of the neat freak. This woman looked exactly how I felt. At least from a clothing perspective. She somehow managed to get herself into a pair of shiny, black stretchy pants, three sizes too small, and it looked like she'd also hid her pets inside too. Her whole body jiggled. I thought something might leap outside and gasp for air. Her feet pounded the squeaky floorboards while she crossed the room with her yoga mat and looked for a space.

She found one.

Right beside me.

Her stringy, iron-gray hair clung to her head with a mess of bobby pins. Wisps of it fell down across her shoulders and into her eyes, but I guess those bits didn't bother her. It seemed the hair couldn't get past the thick, black-framed glasses she wore. They looked like flying goggles and made her eyes all big and googley, like she was staring through a fish tank.

The woman held on to one edge of her mat and threw the whole thing into the air with a sharp snap, tossing it to the floor. It landed with a big puff of air beside me. It also propelled all the dust bunnies around her onto my mat.

I worked at trying to wave them off without her seeing what she'd done. She might be offended, or sorry, and I didn't want to start a conversation with her. I just couldn't look into the fishbowl gaze.

I concentrated on trying to touch my toes without any luck while the Fishbowl lowered herself to the mat. She managed to get down to her hands and knees and then tipped herself backward until she fell onto her bubble butt with a gigantic fart!

My face went hot with embarrassment—even though I hadn't done it. Except people might think I did. I glanced around at Mr. Stretchy, Pricilla Perfect, and Hannah Hammertoes. No one looked over. Wow. Grown-ups were super polite when they exercised.

Smug with the crafty nicknames for my new yoga classmates, the memory of Summer and her disgust of my snobby opinions rushed into my brain. Was she right? I swallowed, pushing the pinpricks in my stomach away, and I looked around the room instead.

Another woman came through the studio doors, but if you didn't see her with your eyes, your ears would have missed her altogether. She was thin and wispy. Her long, blond hair fell like a thin summer bedsheet down her back. She wore black, swishy pants that flared out toward her feet. Her tiny toes made no sound when she floated across the hardwood floor. The same floor that creaked with everyone else's footsteps—and creaked even with Mr. Stretchy's breathing.

She slipped a slim, tubelike bag off her shoulder, unzipped it, and pulled out a thick, chocolate-brown yoga mat. She put it down in the center of the studio floor and gave it a gentle push. It unrolled soundlessly. Perfectly. She drifted to the corner of the room where a big stereo system lived and slid a disc into the CD player. The sounds of a deep flute slithered through the room. She was the Pied Piper of yoga.

“This must be our teacher,” G-pa whispered to me. “She looks like she knows what she's doing.”

My eyes stuck to her every move. I watched her slip a tiny gold band around her hair, gathering the feathery strands. Her face was quiet and looked so comfortable, unlike the Fishbowl beside me, whose face had been a discarded first draft for Mr. Potato Head. My stomach needled me again.
Go
away, Summer
, I thought.

The teacher lowered herself to the mat and moved a sweepy gaze over the whole room. She greeted each person with morning-glory blue eyes and a dainty, pink-lipped smile.

“Thank you for coming. For those of you who are new to our class, my name is Aura. Welcome and make yourself comfortable.”

That was how the class had begun. And it made G-pa and me breathe easier knowing we weren't going to have to sing any peace songs. At least not right away.

While I crouched in my scrunched-up
child's pose
and waited for Aura's next instruction, I heard Mr. Stretchy across from us doing his heavy breathing. I didn't find this a difficult position to breathe in, but maybe he had to try extra hard.

Aura's voice filtered into my little bubble hole. “And now pull yourself gently to your knees and work your way to your feet. Keep your hands on the ground in front of you to steady yourself as you rise. Let your arms sweep out around you and reach up to the sky, falling back down into prayer position in front of your chest.
Namaste
.”

Namaste
? I thought.
Prayer
position
? G-pa wasn't going to like this. He hated praying.