Imperfect Spiral (12 page)

I squeezed his hand. “L.A. is a city in California, Humphrey. But good try.”

The concert was magical. The theme was “Summer Splash,” and all of the compositions had something to do with water. The songs were about water, and the musicians also showed how they could make their instruments sound like water dripping, flowing, and splashing. Humphrey was mesmerized.

“I loved that,” he said as we walked back to the subway. “Didn't you love that, Danielle?”

“I really did,” I said.

“I loved the one especially by the one—his name is like a hand—”

“Handel,” I said. “Me, too. That was so beautiful.”

“Have you?” Humphrey said. “Have you ever?”

I'd been focused on getting us on the train and on my own thoughts about the music.

“Have I ever what, Humphrey?”

“Written a song.”

“No. Not yet.”

“I don't think it's too hard,” he said.

“I don't know, Humphrey. I think it would be hard.”

“You just said you haven't written a song ‘yet.' That means you're going to write a song someday.”

I laughed. “Oh, is that what it means?”

We were quiet on the ride back to the suburbs.

“We forgot about candy,” Humphrey said. We were off the train now, off the bus from the subway station that brought us to the intersection of Franklin and Quarry Road, and walking in the neighborhood toward the Dankers' house.

I gasped in mock horror. “Oh, no! No Kennedy Center candy!”

“No can-e-dy!” he said.

“Maybe next time,” I said.

“Next time, maybe there will be a concert about—candy music.”

“You never know,” I said.

It was four fifteen. I was scheduled to stay until six o'clock.

“What do you think, Humphrey? An early dinner for you?”

“Yes, please.”

“You wouldn't want chicken tenders, would you?”

He smiled his answer. “And I'll write a song while they're cooking.”

“Okeydokey,” I said.

The Dankers had an old upright piano in the family room off the kitchen. Maybe once or twice I had seen Humphrey sit down at it and tinkle the keys. I'd never heard Mr. or Mrs. Danker play.

He was hesitant at first, and I could barely hear the piano from the kitchen. He struck the keys a little louder—not banging them, but hitting the notes more solidly. It wasn't a song, but it wasn't unpleasant or harsh. Just the sounds of someone noodling around on a piano.

Clang!

Clang-clang! Clang-clang-clang-clang!

Now Humphrey was banging. Now it was unpleasant.

“Humphrey, buddy,” I called from the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

“Hey, I think you might be hurting the piano.” I was standing next to him now. “You shouldn't be doing that.”

“I can't write a song!” Humphrey said.

He seemed so surprised that I had to catch myself not to laugh.

“Maybe not yet,” I said. “It takes practice. No one can just sit down at the piano and write a song.”

“Yes, someone can,” Humphrey said. “My daddy can.”

“What's going on, guys?”

Mrs. Danker entered the family room. She looked wrung out.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't realize you were resting. I mean, I didn't even know you were here.”

“That's okay,” she said. “I wasn't really sleeping. Humphrey, you sound like you're angry at that piano.”

Humphrey just looked down at his hands. They were in his lap, no longer on the keys.

“Sorry.”

The front door opened. Mr. Danker. He was earlier than I had expected. I heard him riffle through the mail on the table in the hall. I felt as though I was about to be caught red-handed. Doing what—not teaching Humphrey how to compose a symphony?

“Hello,” he said. “Why are we all standing around the piano? Humphrey, are you giving a performance?”

“No,” Humphrey said. “I can't write a song. Not even a tiny song. Here—this is all I can do.”

Clang-clang-clang-clang. Clang-clang-clang. Clang-clang-clang-clang
.

Inwardly, I cringed.
No, Humphrey. Don't get in trouble with your father
. Then I immediately felt embarrassed because I knew what I really meant was,
No, Humphrey. Don't get me in trouble with your father
.

Mrs. Danker excused herself and went back upstairs.

“Is that really all you can do?” Mr. Danker asked.

“Yes,” Humphrey said.

“How about those songs we worked on?”

“They're
baby
songs,” Humphrey said.

“Are they?” Mr. Danker said.

Humphrey nodded.

“You don't like taking baby steps,” his father said.

Humphrey shook his head.

“But what did we say baby steps lead to?” Mr. Danker asked.

Humphrey sighed. “Big steps,” he said.

“So, how about playing one of your songs?” Mr. Danker said.

“I wanted to write a song, not just play one,” Humphrey said.

He was, I thought, coming dangerously close to whining—but not quite. Mostly, he just sounded so disappointed.

“I see,” Mr. Danker said.

“Like you write songs,” Humphrey said.

“Humphrey, I don't write songs,” Mr. Danker said. “I just have fun on the piano. Sometimes I pick out a tune that I know, and then I improvise on it.”

“What's ‘improvise'?”

“It's making things up—making up notes and tunes that go with other music that someone else has already written,” Mr. Danker said. “That's as close as I get to writing music.”

“I want to improvise,” Humphrey said.

“First, you have to take—”

“I know!” Humphrey interrupted. “Baby steps.”

“Like your C-D-E song. The C-B-A song. After that you'll be playing the whole scale, and then the whole keyboard.”

“And then the whole world!” Humphrey said. He seemed to be out of his funk. “And then the whole country!” He laughed and got up from the piano. “We saw the flags from the whole country today at the Kennedy Center,” he said.

“Ah,” Mr. Danker said, “the Hall of States.”

“Plus the five territories,” Humphrey said.

“Do tell,” Mr. Danker said.

“Do you know what they are, Daddy?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” Mr. Danker recited them: the Northern Mariana Islands, Guam, American Samoa, Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands.

Humphrey looked at me. “There are the two you forgot!” he said.

“Forgot, or didn't know in the first place,” I said.

“Sometimes I use tricks to remember things,” Mr. Danker said. “I think of words or pictures in my head that remind me of the things I want to remember. Funny words or pictures work best.”

“Can you teach me?” Humphrey asked.

Mr. Danker thought for a minute. “Try this,” he said. “Aunt Mary Ann chewing gum and eating cookies on her porch in Virginia.”

“My
real
aunt Mary Ann?” Humphrey squealed. “Chewing gum and eating cookies at the same time?”

“That's the idea,” Mr. Danker said.

“But Aunt Mary Ann doesn't live in Virginia,” Humphrey said. “Does she? I thought she lived in New York.”

“But if you pretend she lives in a house with a porch in Virginia, it will help you remember the five territories,” Mr. Danker said.

“How will Aunt Mary Ann eating—I mean,
chewing
gum and … eating cookies on her porch in … Virginia help me remember?” Humphrey asked, giggling.

“
Mary Ann
is for the Northern Mariana Islands.
Gum
is for Guam.
Cookies
is for—”

“I already know it!” Humphrey exclaimed. “Samoa Girl Scout cookies!”

“Try not to interrupt,” Mr. Danker said, but not sternly. I could tell he was pleased that Humphrey got the concept.

“Sorry,” Humphrey said. “I love those cookies. So does Danielle.”

“As do I,” Mr. Danker said. “Those are good cookies.”

I had never heard him so—friendly.
He must have won a case today
, I thought.

“
Cookies
is for American Samoa,” Mr. Danker continued. “
Porch
is for Puerto Rico.
Virginia
is for the U.S. Virgin Islands. So that's the trick. You remember a funny sentence that has clues to what you want to remember.”

Humphrey thought this was the greatest thing. “Aunt Mary Ann chewing gum and eating cookies on her porch in Virginia,” he repeated slowly. “Um …” He closed his eyes to think
better. “Aunt Mary Ann …” He opened his eyes. “The only one I remember is Guam.”

“That's all right,” Mr. Danker said. “They are not easy names to remember. And now you know a memory trick. Next time we'll try it to remember something less complicated.” He lifted his head a little higher and sniffed. “Is something burning?”

“Oh, no, the chicken tenders!” I cried.

They weren't ruined. But they were very well done.

“I like them this way,” Humphrey said, his jaw working away at the leathery nuggets. Mr. Danker had gone to change his clothes and check on Mrs. Danker. I was to leave after Humphrey had his dinner.

“That's nice of you to say,” I said.

“I like Daddy this way, too,” Humphrey said. “Isn't he so, so, so smart?”

“
Yeah
,” I said with enthusiasm. Smart and unpredictable.

“
Yes
,” Humphrey said, correcting me.

“Of course—we say ‘yes,'” I said.

“When we remember,” Humphrey added.

We both burst out laughing.

“Northern Mariana Islands, Guam, American Samoa, Puerto Rico, U.S. Virgin Islands,” I said. “I'll never forget them again.”

“You're smart, too,” Humphrey said.

“Not so, so, so smart?” I teased.

He considered this.

“Not yet,” he said.

School is weird. School is also a relief, because at least I know what I'm supposed to be doing with my days.

The bus is weird: the first day back, the Tuesday after Labor Day, I feel like people are avoiding me—not that I've ever been a people magnet, but what I mean is, now I feel like there's a bubble around me and people are afraid to pop it. Some of the kids give me sympathy looks, some give me what's-wrong-with-her looks, some act like I'm not here, some seem to want to keep their distance because of an ick factor that now attaches to me.

Here are a few whispered tidbits:

“I mean—she chased him in the street.”

“No. She threw the ball and he ran after it.”

“I wouldn't take a stupid babysitting class. But it's not like you need a class to know not to do
that
.”

“Killer essay for her college apps.”

“That's a terrible thing to say.”

Homeroom is more of a relief: Becca and I are in the same homeroom, since we both have
S
last names. We hug.

A guy from the newspaper staff distracts Becca by throwing a ball of paper her way.

“Let's do lunch together tomorrow,” she says to me. “Today I have a newspaper thing.”

I nod, and she turns to the newspaper guy.

We do meet up for lunch the next day. Our school is right in the middle of a busy suburban shopping area, and once you're a sophomore you're allowed to walk off-campus for lunch. We head for the less popular of the two coffee places, which isn't too crowded. It's not our French place, but it'll do.

“So,” Becca says once we've got our food, “we're sophomores.”

“Oh, yes, pinch me,” I say.

We talk about school. We don't have a single class together this semester. Becca's newspaper duties take up not only a big chunk of her after-school time, but also a class period. She's already loving it. Newspaper people came back early to get organized.

“It was us and the football players rattling around here last week,” she says. “So you can expect a lot of football stories in our first issue on Friday.”

“I'll be sure to read every word,” I say.

“I know you're a huge fan.”

“Actually,” I say, but then stop.

“Actually?”

I shake my head. Actually nothing.

“How're things?” Becca asks. “And by things, I mean—your state of mind.”

“It's there, and it's in a state,” I say. “You'll be happy to know I have broken my vow of silence with Dr. Gilbert.”

“C'est merveilleux!”

“Yes. It's
merveilleux
. I'm officially in therapy. Now I'm a walking, talking modern cliché.”

“I would concentrate on the ‘walking, talking' part,” Becca says. “You have to talk about all this, Danielle. If you won't talk to me”—she makes a disappointed pouty face—“for sure you should be talking to a therapist.”

The lunch hour—the lunch forty-three minutes, to be exact—is almost over, and we start walking back.

“I know you're not ready,” Becca says. “But when you're ready to talk, I'm here. I want to help if I can.”

“I know, Becca. I appreciate it. I really do.”

“I have an idea,” Becca says after a few minutes.

“Of course you do.”

“Really,” she says. “Maybe this will be easier for you. Maybe you'll consider talking to me for the paper. It could be an amazing article.”

“An
article
?”

“A human interest article,” Becca says. “About how an experience like this affects a person. How it's changed you.”

“Why would this be easier for me?” I ask.

“I'm just thinking it would be you getting outside of your head to look at what happened. You'd be talking to me as a reporter, not just a friend. Like you talk to the therapist as a professional, not just as a friendly adult. Maybe it helps to have that distance. You'd be stepping outside of yourself to think about it, to let other kids know what you've learned.”