Kissing Brendan Callahan (2 page)

“Hey, Sarah.” Anne Marie Valgetti leans back in her chair and waves me over. “What's doing?”

“Nothing much,” I answer. Anne Marie and I are both going to be in the seventh grade at Hamilton Intermediate School this fall, but we've never been friends. Lynn and I call her Smileyface.

She whirls around in her chair, smiling like the face on a stress ball. She looks older today, dressed in a tailored black suit. Her curly red hair, which is usually gushing all over the place, is neatly coiled in a bun with a pencil sticking out of it. She looks like a real reporter. I cross my arms, hoping to cover Jason's drool on my T-shirt.

“It's so awesome working here as an intern.” She plays with the plastic badge that hangs from a cord around her neck. It says “STAFF” in big letters. “Tonight, there's an opening party at the museum. I'm invited because I'm staff.” She points to the badge and begins to trace the letters with her fingers. “The mayor will be there.”
S.
“And Rose DeLancy, the millionairess.”
T.
“She's goes all over the world buying art.”
A.
“It's going to be great.”
F.
“I can't wait.”
F.

I can't help thinking that it should be me meeting the mayor and Rose DeLancy at that party. I had filled out an application to be an intern, but since Dad had to zip off to Germany to sort out this big merger, Mom thought it would be better if I stayed home to help her with Jason. I actually want to be there to show Jason the fun side of life, but I know I could have juggled being an intern, too.

Cynthia gives Jason back to me. “Gotta run,” she says. “Look after your mother for us. She looks like she's having a rough time. I hope your father will get back soon.”

I nod. I smell Filipe and whirl around, hoping to catch his attention.

“Hi, Filipe,” says Anne Marie, smiling. “Let's talk again real soon. I loved your story about the soccer match. It was so educational.”

Educational, I bet.
“I'd like to hear it too,” I tell him.

“Oh, gross, what is that disgusting smell?” says Anne Marie, sniffing. Filipe looks at me and backs away, fanning the air.

I realize Jason has just let out a big, nasty-smelling poop. I bolt to the bathroom.
Thank you very much, Jason.

I change his diaper. “I know you have to poop,” I say, “but could you not do it around Filipe?” Jason gurgles. I put on extra baby lotion, so he'll smell nice, but when I come out, Filipe is gone. Mom is leaning over Anne Marie's shoulder. I get this icy feeling.

“We can use that,” says my mother. “You're so organized and detail-oriented.”

“I'm learning from the best,” gushes Anne Marie.

Wouldn't they be the perfect fact-filled mother-daughter team?

Jason fidgets. I walk him around, bouncing him a little. He likes that. “I should have that job and not her,” I whisper to Jason. “I would find more than facts. I think newspaper articles should be interesting, as well as factual.”

Anne Marie has a smile pasted to her face while she stares up at my mother. I picture Anne Marie smiling her way through life. Until—a catastrophe! She can't stop smiling. She can't chew. She can't talk. She can't even whistle for her dog. All she can do is smile. “We must operate at once,” the surgeons say.

I stare at what could have been my desk. There's a stack of flyers next to Anne Marie's computer. I grab one. It has information about the Staten Island Preservation Society Fair, which Mom organizes. When I turn it over, I suck in my breath. The back headline announces a new teen writing contest, sponsored by the society.
My mother is president of the society. Why didn't she tell me about this?

The flyer says the contest is open to anyone twelve years of age or older. This is fate—I just turned twelve. Maybe this is my lucky day.

TWO

The window seat in my bedroom is
the
spot on earth where I feel most like a writer. What a view! I can see a panorama of New York Harbor-from the Statue of Liberty to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I can watch the world from this seat.

The flyer says contestants will write a thirty-minute one-act play that takes place on Staten Island during the late 1800s. It will be judged not only on style but, most important, on its authentic sense of Staten Island history.

A play. Hmmmm. A play can't be much harder than a story, can it? After all, Lynn and I love acting out our favorite movies. We know
Gone With the Wind
by heart.

I lean back against the pillows and think. No, I
visualize!
I visualize winning the contest. As they announce the winner, the crowd will part. I walk, no, I saunter, maybe amble, no, I will saunter like a princess over to the stage and accept my prize. I will share the two hundred dollars with my baby brother. I'm philanthropic. When my manuscript is read, a hush falls over the crowd. “A masterpiece!” someone shouts, and the applause is deafening.

Then, and this is the best part, my story will be published in the society's journal and displayed in their lobby for an entire year. I shall visit it daily.

At the bottom of the flyer is a registration form. I fill in my name—Sarah Olivia Simmons—giving the
S
's big loops so my name looks fancier. I print my address, phone number, and age.

“Hey,” says Mom, popping her head in. “Jason's sleeping. He looks like an absolute angel.”

“He is an angel,” I say. “Dad says he takes after me.”

“That's true.” She comes over and kisses my cheek. “You've been a lifesaver this summer. I would be falling apart without you.” She squeezes my hand. “I just got an e-mail from your father. He hopes to wrap up that merger by next week and come home to us.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“He sends you his love.” Mom picks up the dulcimer I bought at a yard sale. It's a beautiful instrument with romantic curves and heart-shaped cutouts. A best-selling author must have interesting hobbies to share with her readers on a book's back inside flap. I haven't actually done anything interesting yet, so I thought the dulcimer might be a good start.

She plucks one of the strings. “This is very unusual.”

“I know,” I agree.

“I have a great idea,” she says. “With the nanny starting on Monday, I'm hoping to give you a lot more free time. Why don't I treat you to lessons?”

I shrug. “I don't think I'm ready yet.”

“Nonsense,” says Mom. “You have the rest of summer vacation.”

“I'll get around to it,” I say. “Am I the very first to apply?” I add, holding up my application.

“Well, yes, but—” She stares at the contest registration I'm holding.

“What's wrong?” I ask. “Should I give it to someone else?” My mother isn't judging the contest. The flyer says Peter Boswin, a historian at the college, is the judge. “I'll bring it over to the college if Dr. Boswin is there.”

“Sarah,” says Mom. She has a pained expression on her face as she puts down the dulcimer. “I know how much writing means to you.” Her tone is making me nervous. “But you can't enter this contest.”

“Why not?”

“It would be unethical,” she says.

“Unethical! How could it be unethical?”

She takes my hand. “It would be unethical for a member of my family to enter.”

I pull my hand away. “But you're not the judge.”

“It doesn't matter. It would put Peter in a very difficult position. How could he give the other contestants fair consideration when my daughter is an applicant?”

“But, Mom, his job is to pick the best writer, whoever that turns out to be.”

She sighs. “Sarah, be reasonable.”

“I don't want any advantages. I just want a chance like everyone else.” My voice is high and scratchy. “Mom, this contest means a lot to me.”

“There are other contests.”

I shake my head. “Not like this one. The winner gets published in the society's journal and receives two hundred dollars. It gets read at the fair, and the manuscript is displayed in the society's showcase for a whole year. This is a big deal!”

Mom pulls at her hair. “Honey, I realize it's a great contest. I designed it to motivate young writers to improve their writing and research skills.” She begs me with her eyes. “Can't you see how difficult your entering would be for me?”

I shake my head, trying to keep myself from crying.

“Honey, I'll make—” Her cell phone rings and she flips it open. “Joe, just a minute.” She leans in to me. “I'll make this up to you, I promise.” She leaves.

I collapse into the window seat. Mom didn't want me at the newspaper, and now she won't let me enter her contest. Why is she doing this to me?

THREE

I find a word in the thesaurus to describe my mood:
cantankerous.

I begin a new story. A woman invents a time-travel cell phone. Hundreds of kids line up to use it, and one by one, she lets them make a call, and off they zip into the future. Her daughter tries desperately to get a turn but can't get near the phone.

I toss my notebook aside. I'm too cantankerous to write. After being cantankerous for as long as I can stand it, I do what I usually do when I'm upset. I read Antonia DeMarco.

I find
Enraptured Thorns in My Heart,
Antonia's best book. Antonia DeMarco is one of my favorite writers. She writes about great, heroic women. Mom dislikes Antonia DeMarco. She calls her a “silly romance queen.” I bring the book downstairs, where it's cooler and where Mom can see what I'm reading. I sit in the living room. It's an old-fashioned room like most of the rest of the house. I sit on our burgundy velvet sofa and begin to read.

He draws near and her heart hammers away inside her chest. This is the moment Amanda has been waiting for all her wretched life. But as he hesitates before her, the question remains, will he kiss her and renounce the beautiful but artificial Celeste?

“Sarah,” says Mom. “Beth and Brendan are coming over.”

I continue reading.
“You look exquisite,” he says.

“Sarah, please don't be angry with me.” I've never stayed angry with Mom for long, but this is different. Very different.

He caresses her hand.

The bell rings and Mom goes to the door.

She tingles at his touch. No one has ever made her feel like this.

“Sarah.”

I look up. Brendan and his mother, Beth, are in the foyer.

“Aren't you going to say hi?” says Mom.

“Hi,” I say, and look down at my book.

“Beth and I need to meet for a while. We have to discuss the fair.” She means the Staten Island Preservation Society Fair, which includes the writing contest that
I'm not allowed to enter!

Brendan carries in a big box and drops it next to the coffee table. I don't want to look, but I do. It's the flyers for the writing contest.

“See ya,” says Brendan.

“Wait a minute,” says Beth. She tucks in the front of Brendan's T-shirt, which he immediately untucks. It's another silly shirt with a drawing of an upside-down cereal bowl running away from a bloody knife. The caption underneath reads, “Cereal Killer!”

“While we have you two,” says Beth, “would you be sports and take the flyers around? You know, put them up on bulletin boards, in mailboxes, on car windows?”

“We'd really appreciate it,” my mother chimes in.

“You want me to hand out
this
flyer?” I'm astounded. How could she ask this of me?

“Sarah,” says Mom, nudging me. “Just deliver them around the neighborhood. Afterward, you and Brendan could take a ride together and have some fun.”

“I'm busy,” says Brendan.

“Me too.” I point to my book. Mom raises her left eyebrow when she sees it's Antonia DeMarco.

“Just do it for half an hour,” says Beth. “It's for a very worthy cause.” Beth hands Brendan a stack of flyers. “It will go quickly if you work together.”

“Don't I have any rights?” he says in a gruff voice.

“Of course you do,” says Beth. “But that doesn't mean you shouldn't help your mother for a measly half hour.”

“That's all we're asking,” says my mother, smiling. I know what my mother is up to. She thinks Brendan and I could be friends. She thinks she is doing something nice. She is misguided.

“Are you coming?” he asks.

I follow him. “A half hour and not a minute longer,” I call back into the living room. I can't believe I'm doing this.

“Here,” Brendan hands me the flyers and walks to his bike.

“Excuse me,” I say. “We're supposed to be doing this together.” I pick off about half the flyers and hand them back to him. By the time I get my bike out of the garage, Brendan is already down the block.

I go from car to car and tuck a flyer under the windshield wipers. I see Brendan flinging flyers wherever he pleases, littering lawns, stuffing them in rosebushes, crumpling them, and throwing them at trees.

I pedal over to him. “It wouldn't kill you to put the flyers in the mailboxes.”

“Really?” he says.

“Yes, really.”

I get off my bike. “See, it only takes a second to do it the right way.” I slip the flyer in the mailbox.

“Wow,” he says, grinning. “That only took a second, princess.”

Great! Now he's making fun of me. How can Lynn think he's cute and sweet? But she also thinks orange is a great color and that Jane Austen is a better writer than Antonia DeMarco.

We, or shall I say
I,
continue to distribute flyers. Brendan flings a few more flyers and then tosses the rest into the corner garbage can. He rides alongside me without holding the handlebars, just leaning back with his arms crossed, watching me work.