Don't Make Me Smile (9 page)

Besides, Mrs. Fensel hadn't specifically told me to
give
my mother the note. All she had said to do was to be sure Mom
saw
it. So, if my mother saw the envelope, I wouldn't be doing anything wrong.

Mom was in the kitchen. I grabbed the note and went in to say hello.

We talked for a while about the usual stuff. Then finally, I headed for my room again. Right before I left the kitchen, I dropped the note on the floor.

I picked it right up and kept on going.

“What was that?” asked my mother.

“Nothing,” I called from the hall. “It's just a note that someone wrote at school. No big deal.”

When I got back to my room, I felt much better. Now I wouldn't be lying when I told Mrs. Fensel that my mother saw the note. There's no doubt about it … I am definitely a clever kid.

Now that the matter was settled, there really wasn't any reason why I couldn't open the note and read it. No one would ever know. And I was really dying to see what Mrs. Fensel had written about me.

I tried to tear open the envelope with my hands but the tape was too thick. “Is this what you call trust, Mrs. Fensel?” I growled.

Finally, I managed to slit open the bottom of the envelope with my pen. I pulled the note out and began reading:

Rude?
I couldn't believe it! She actually told my mother that I was
rude.

What's so rude about telling a teacher that you think spelling stinks? Especially when it's
the truth. And especially when Mrs. Fensel started the whole conversation herself.

After I got my last spelling test back, she came over to my desk and asked me what was wrong with my spelling lately.

“Nothing is wrong with my spelling,” I said. “The reason I got a D is because you marked ‘russia' wrong. I spelled ‘russia' right.”

She looked at my paper.

“
Russia
has a capital,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “The capital of Russia is Moscow.”

Mrs. Fensel didn't laugh at my joke. She pretended she didn't even hear it, in fact.

“If you don't spell Russia with a capital, it's wrong,” she said.

That's when I said, “Spelling stinks.”

“Pardon me?” said Mrs. Fensel.

“Stinks. S-T-I-N-K-S,” I spelled.

Mrs. Fensel gave me an angry look. At first, I didn't think she was going to do anything more. But instead of yelling at me, she wrote that note to my mother. What a squealer. A guy makes a couple of amusing comments, and boom … he gets a note sent home.

Anyway, after I read the note, I was very glad I hadn't shown it to my mother. At least I was
glad until about 8:30 that night. At 8:30, I stopped being glad about a lot of things. That's when Mrs. Fensel called.

I was in the shower when the phone rang. But after I got out, I could hear my mother talking. It didn't take a genius to figure out who she was talking to. She kept saying stuff like “Yes, Mrs. Fensel, I know he's having a hard time.” And “No, Mrs. Fensel, I don't know why he didn't show it to me.”

I was doomed.

Wait.

Or
was
I?

An idea popped into my head that just might work.

I threw on my pajamas and ran into my room to get the note. I decided not to put it back in its torn-up envelope. I thought it might look suspicious. So I just folded it up and ran to my mother. She had just hung up the phone.

“Oh, wow, Mom,” I said. “I almost forgot to give you this note. I just thought about it while I was in the shower. It's from Mrs. Fensel.”

My mother grabbed the note out of my hand and read it. She had this look on her face like she was about to explode.

After she finished reading, her expression
changed. She got a funny grin. It wasn't what you'd call a happy grin, though. It was more like the kind of grin that insane people have on TV shows.

She began walking toward me very slowly. It really made me nervous. I started backing up. I backed all the way into the wall. She had me cornered.

My mother leaned real close to me. Then she put her hands on my shoulders and began talking very softly.

“Charles,” she said, “I'm going to give you three weeks. That's three,” she repeated, as she held up her fingers. “One … two … three. And if at the end of three weeks, your grades aren't back up to where they are supposed to be, you are going to be one very unhappy boy.”

I looked at her face. The insane grin was still there.

I gulped. “What do you mean? What will happen to me?” I asked.

“Oh … let's see. Do you want a little
hint?
” Mom said. “I'll give you lots of little hints.”

She started right in.

“Little hint number one,
no TV.
Little hint number two,
no sports.
Little hint number three,
no having friends over.
Little hint number four,
no
telephone.
Little hint number five,
no CD player.
Little hint number six,
no computer games.
Little hint number seven,
no allowance.
Are you getting the picture yet, Charlie?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “At least, mostly I am. It's just that I don't exactly understand little hint number seven. I mean, I get the ones about no TV and stuff, because I'll have to study more. But what does my allowance have to do with my schoolwork?”

I wasn't trying to make her angrier, I swear. I just really wanted to know about the allowance thing.

Mom cleared it up. “Oh, you won't need any money, Charlie,” she explained. “Because you won't be setting foot out of this house for a very … long … time. Get it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Can I go now?”

“Just one more teensy little thing,” said my mother. “If I ever again hear that you've been rude to your teacher, I will personally take you by the hand and lead you to your classroom, where you will apologize to Mrs. Fensel in front of everyone. Do you get that, too?”

I nodded. This was definitely something that my mother would do. Like I mentioned before, she's very big on apologizing.

When I was little, I accidentally called this old lady down the street a dirtbag. I didn't even know what a dirtbag was, really. But I was trying to make some kids laugh. So when we rode by her on my bike, I hollered, “Hi there, dirtbag.”

The lady found out who I was and called my mother. The next day, Mom took me down there and made me tell the dirtbag I was sorry for calling her names.

The point is, I could just see my mother leading me into my classroom and making me apologize for being a smart aleck. She'd love it.

“Are you going to tell Dad about this?” I asked. “Because, well, I was just thinking … maybe we could keep this our own little secret. I mean, really, Mom. There's no need bothering Dad with it, is there? After all, he's got his own trouble trying to live in that stinky apartment. What do you say? Is it a deal?”

My mother didn't answer.

She was already in the kitchen dialing my father's number.

Y
ESTERDAY WAS my eleventh birthday. I wish I had a chance to do it over again. I really blew it. In fact, it was the worst birthday I've ever had in my life. It was even worse than the one when I asked for a real bow-and-arrow set and got the kind with the rubber suction cups on the ends.

This time, it wasn't the presents that made my birthday crummy, though. In fact, this time I got exactly what I asked for. I just wish I had asked for something else.

I have to admit, from the very beginning, Mom had tried to talk me out of it. But after I kept on begging, she finally gave in. Sometimes,
I wish my mother was a little bit stronger person.

A week before my birthday, I cornered her in the kitchen.

“My birthday's coming up, you know,” I said. “Isn't it about time you started thinking about it?”

Mom's hand flew over her mouth.

“Oh my gosh. You're right,” she said. Then she sat down in the kitchen chair and put her head down on the table.

After about ten seconds, she raised up.

“Okay, I'm finished thinking about it,” she said. “Can I get up now?”

“That's not funny,” I said. “Aren't you even going to ask me what I want?”

She walked over and put her hands on my shoulders.

“I haven't let you down yet, have I?” she asked.

“What about the time you gave me the arrows with the rubber suction cups on the ends?” I said.

She laughed. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that one,” she said. “Okay. You win. What do you want for your birthday?”

I took a deep breath. I had known what I
wanted ever since my dad left. I had a feeling my mother wasn't going to like the idea much. But there was only one way to find out.

“I want to go on a picnic with you and Dad,” I said. Then I closed my eyes and waited for her to say no.

But Mom surprised me. “I was expecting something like that,” she said.

My face brightened. “Really? So does that mean we can do it?” I asked.

“Of course we can't do it,” she said. “Think of something else.”

“No, Mother.
Please.
I want a picnic,” I begged. “Just one crummy picnic. Can't you and Dad just do me this one little favor and take your poor son on a picnic? I think it's the least you can do. After all, you are ruining my life, you know. I really don't think that one little picnic will kill you.”

Mom thought a second. “We'll compromise,” she said. “I'll invite your father over, and the two of you can eat cake on a blanket in the living room.”

“Not funny,” I said.

“Neither is the thought of going on a picnic with your dad,” she said. “And believe me,
Charlie, he won't like the idea any better than I do.”

“But what if he says yes?” I asked. “If Dad says yes, will you go?”

“He's not going to say yes,” she said.

“But if he
does
, will you go?” I asked again.

My mother finally gave in. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I'll go if your father goes. But the only reason I'm agreeing to it is because I'm positive that he'll never say yes. I know your dad pretty well, Charlie. You can't live with someone for this many years and not know them.”

Maybe that was one of my parents' big problems. Maybe they didn't know each other as well as they thought they did.

My father said yes right away. He even acted happy about it.

“Sure, I'll go on a picnic,” he said. “It'll be fun.”

“Great!” I said happily. “Mom said you wouldn't want to go. She said that she was positive that you'd hate the idea.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Dad. “There is no reason in the world why we can't take you on a picnic for your birthday. Your mother and I are two grown-up people. We don't go around
fighting like a couple of little kids. I'm sure we can still all have a nice time together. Tell her I'll pick you up at noon on Saturday.”

“Perfect,” I told him.

I had a feeling that the real reason my father wanted to go on a picnic was just to get out of his apartment. I was sure that by now, the stink had started to get to him. But it didn't matter to me why he wanted to go. All I knew was that the three of us would be together again.

“Dad's going! He's going on the picnic!” I shouted as I walked in the house that afternoon. “He thought the picnic was a great idea!”

You should have seen Mom's face when she heard the news. Her mouth went all weird, like she had just eaten something that tasted bad.

“Are you sure he knows that I'm going, too?” she asked.

“Positive,” I answered. “He said that you're both adults and you should be able to have a nice time together. He also said that he'd pick us up at noon on Saturday.”

“Hurray,” she said dryly. “I can hardly wait.”

By the time Saturday came, I couldn't wait, either. I kept hoping that if all of us had a good time together, my parents would see what a terrible mistake they were making. I hoped that
the picnic might turn things around for us, so that we could be a family again.

I also hoped that my mother really didn't think I meant it when I said that
all
I wanted for my birthday was a picnic. I definitely wanted presents, too. That may sound kind of greedy, but let's face it, your birthday only comes once a year.

When my father came to pick us up, Mom opened the truck door for me. But instead of getting in, I bent down and pretended to tie my shoe. My mother stood there for a minute and then got in herself. I slid in beside her and closed the door. I thought that maybe if the two of them sat together, they would begin to get that old “married feeling” again.

Unfortunately, they didn't even smile at each other or say hello. All Mom did was keep squeezing over toward my side, making me real uncomfortable. Every time we went over a bump, the picnic basket on her lap poked into my side. Luckily, the park wasn't too far away.