The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (5 page)

As I was walking between the kitchen and the living room, I heard some giggles, and I should have taken the bag off my head right then and there. But I was trying to feel deaf as well as blind, so I ignored the sounds and took another step, and tripped.

“Got ya, Baghead!” Skip yelled and laughed so hard his skinny arms and legs looked like they were going to fall apart.

It is impossible to be a serious actor while living in a zoo. Of course, because weekends are Dad's busiest time right now, I'm stuck at home with The Animals.

Dad came home at 6:30 in the best mood.

“I sold ten instruments today!” he sang as he walked in the door with a box. “And guess what?”

“You brought us presents?” Nutter asked.

“No, Mae brought this to the shop for Frankie.” Dad pulled a devil's food cake out of the box. In blue frosting it read,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRANKIE
.

I thought: Boy, word sure travels fast here in Pepper Blossom, Indiana. But I didn't say anything.

“Mrs. Holmes told everybody it was Frankie's birthday yesterday,” Dad said.

“Hurray!” Nutter exclaimed, and hopped on a stool to get a better look.

Dad looked at Skip and me. “Did one of you guys give her that idea?”

“I didn't!” Skip protested.

I shrugged as if I had no idea; but Dad looked like he really needed an explanation, so I added, “I'm pretty sure I heard that Mrs. Holmes has that disease that makes a person confused about things.”

“Alzheimer's? Really? Where did you hear that?”

I was actually thinking about amnesia. But Alzheimer's, whatever that is, would work, too, so I nodded. “Remember when I went
over to borrow the eggs last week? I heard her talking on the phone to her doctor. And then I saw the pills.”

“Are you sure?”

I had to nod some more.

Dad sat down. “That's terrible. I should call her son in Indy and assure him that we'll keep an eye on her.”

“No, you don't have to do that.”

He shook his head. “It's a serious thing, Frankie. She must have a mild case, now, but it will probably get worse. Sometimes Alzheimer's patients get very confused and wander off.”

“Mrs. Holmes hardly ever leaves her house,” Skip said.

Dad laughed a little. “Well, that's true.”

I jumped in. “I don't think she has the wandering kind of Alzheimer's. I think she has the kind that makes her confused about dates and people. The other day she thought Nutter was a puppy.”

I swear I don't know where these ideas are coming from. I start with a kernel of an
idea—like giving poor Mrs. Holmes a disease—and the next thing you know, she's confusing Nutter with a long lost puppy.

“Hey, Rover.” Skip swatted Nutter on the head. Nutter, perfectly happy to be a puppy, sat on his hind legs and yapped.

Dear Diary:

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when the telephone doth ring!

After church today Beth wanted to come over. I let her be Helen so I could practice Annie.

In the middle of my dramatic miracle-working, Bill Holmes called. He's the grownup son of Mrs. Holmes. Dad must have called him about the Alzheimer's.

“Hi, Frankie. Is your Dad there?”

Thankfully he was not. He always opens Heartstrings right after church. “No, can I take a message?” I asked.

“Your dad left a message for me,” he said. “Do you know why he called?”

“Oh, I think he meant to call
Dr
. Holmes. He's a new dentist. A special one that we have to take Skip to because his teeth are so crooked. . . .” (Skip heard that and punched me.) “My dad's been getting confused lately. Maybe he has Alzheimer's. . . .” Bill Holmes laughed. “I'll tell him you called, Mr. Holmes. If he doesn't call you back, you can assume it was just a mistake.”

Not bad for thinking “on the fly,” as Ms. Young used to say, although it cost me another buck to keep Skip quiet.

Beth wanted to know what was going on, so I explained about the birthday cake and the Alzheimer's. Then she drove me nuts because she acted like I was doomed to eternal flames for lying. “On top of all that, I can't believe you're going to forge a note!”

I said: “Why don't you just wear your choir robe all day long since you're such a goody-goody?”

She left in a huff.

There was one good thing: no messages or phone calls from Ratlady. My latest (and hopefully last) lie about the trailer must have done the trick.

After dinner the Red Beet Ramblers came over to rehearse. The Red Beet Ramblers is a group of a dozen people on dulcimer, guitar, fiddle, banjo, etc., who squash into our living room to play every Sunday evening. My mom and dad and their friend Ozzie Filmore started it before I was even born. I play certain songs with them on special occasions. We're doing “Give Me Your Hand” at the Fall Festival.

During rehearsal I tried not to think about any of my worries, and I just let the sound of my dulcimer and my voice melt into everybody else's. It was so beautiful I almost started to cry. Whenever the sixth-grade chorus would sing really well, Ms. Young used to always say: “Music has charms to soothe the savage beast.” (It's really “savage breast.” But the boys couldn't handle it when she said that, so she changed it to “beast.”) Anyway, I think that's true about music.

This savage beast is hereby going to bed. I need my beauty sleep, for tomorrow is the big day. I want to look my best when everyone is congratulating me for getting the part of Annie Sullivan.

Dear Diary:

Days like this should be against the law.

First of all, I hate Mr. Justin Haxer. He didn't post the cast list until after school, so I had to wait all day. Ms. Young always posted the cast lists before school so you could see the results right away.

I had to start the day by bringing my forged note to the office. When I handed it to the secretary, my stomach was busy tying itself into a knot. All day I waited for The Troll to call my name over the intercom or to come and put me in handcuffs.

The last bell finally rang, and I thought I'd die before I could get to the drama room. A crowd was already pressing against the door
where the list was posted. Melinda Bixby was squealing like a pig. I squeezed in.

Melinda got the part of Annie. Denise got the part of Helen. I was on the bottom of the list . . . as one of the “blind girls.”

Denise and Melinda—both eighth-graders—were jumping up and down.

“Annie!” Denise cried.

“Helen!” Melinda cried.

They hugged and squealed. “This is going to be so much fun!” Melinda said.

“I knew you'd get the part,” Denise cried.

The knot in my stomach felt like a dead reptile.

Me—a blind girl? The blind girls were only on for a few seconds in the very beginning of the play. They were little kids. They weren't important.

There were a few other seventh-graders standing around. “Congratulations, Frankie,” Beth said. She never made anything but chorus, and this time she didn't make it at all. “You're so lucky.”

I stared at her. Congratulations? For what? For being a blind girl? If she really was best-friend
material she would be shouting at Mr. Horrible Haxer right now, telling him that the part of Annie Sullivan should have gone to me. What was wrong with him? Was
he
blind?

Mr. Haxer opened the door, and everybody started talking at once.

He made a few announcements, which I couldn't listen to because my entire being—including my eardrums—was filling up with hate for him.

He headed to the teachers' lounge, and I stopped him before I knew what I was going to say. And then it just came out: “I can't be in the play.” I realized as soon as I said it that it was true. There was no way I could go to all those rehearsals and watch Melinda Bixby play the miracle worker.

“Why not?”

“My dad won't let me.”

He looked puzzled and pulled me over to an empty part of the hallway where we could have some privacy. “Why? Is there a conflict with rehearsals?”

I nodded.

“What is it? Maybe we can work it out.”

“No, I have to baby-sit my brothers after school every day.”

“I'll talk with your dad. I'm sure—”

“No, don't!” That came out sounding a little panicky. So I added in a mature, perfectly Annie Sullivan voice, “I'm afraid that would be a tragic mistake, Mr. Haxer. He is under a lot of stress, and you shouldn't bother him.” I should have stopped right there, but I'm like a freight train now—once I get started I'm hard to stop. “I'm afraid my dad is having a nervous breakdown.”

Mr. Haxer looked shocked. “Oh Frankie, I'm so sorry to hear that.” He touched my shoulder. Yesterday my heart would have melted under that touch. Now my heart was as cold and stiff as a garbage-can lid.

“How can we help?” he asked.

I stepped away. “He wouldn't want anybody to know. I'm just telling you because . . .”

He stepped closer and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You should talk with Ms. Trolly, the guidance counselor, about all this, Frankie. That's what she's here for. She can—”

I pulled away. “No, I'm fine, thanks. I have to go now and pick up my brother.”

I didn't start breathing until I got out the door.

The last part is true. I have to walk over to the elementary school to pick up Nutter. The only problem is that I have collapsed in a heap by my school's backdoor and I cannot get my legs to work. How can I possibly go on living?

Life is cruel. I have locked myself in my room right now, and nobody cares. This whole thing with Ratlady is giving
me
a nervous breakdown. I don't know how I'm supposed to handle it when the rest of my life is falling apart. Not one single member of my so-called family asked me about the audition. Can you believe it?

I hate Ratlady. I hate my family. I hate junior high. I hate my life.

Here's what happened after my last entry.

I dragged myself over to the elementary school. As usual, Nutter was waiting for me by the flagpole, wearing that stupid koala backpack.

Skinny Skip ran past us without saying a word. He never waits for me and Nutter. He just runs as soon as the bell rings because he's now old enough to walk home by himself.

“Guess what I made today?” Nutter showed me a piece of black paper with a small white shape pasted on it. “Guess what it is?”

“I don't want to guess.”

“I'll give you a clue. It mourns like this.” He raised his arms and started moaning.

“It's a ghost. Ghosts don't mourn, Nutter. They moan.”

Nutter had to run to catch up with me. “It's the best thing I've ever done. You can have it, Frankie.”

“No thanks, Nutter.”

“You're in a bad mood.”

“Yep.”

“How come?”

I pulled Nutter across the road, not saying anything.

“Well, I'm in a great mood.” Nutter kept talking. “I figured out what I'm going to be for Halloween. I'm going to be a big daddy koala with lots of fur so I can carry my baby koala on my back.”

“A big koala costume is too hard to make.” I glanced at the picture he was holding. “You have to be something easy. Be a ghost.”

“Dad can make me a koala costume.”

“He's way too busy, Nutter. Stop focusing on that stupid koala backpack.” We cut through the park, marching over the wooden bridge that goes over Dead Man's Creek. Nutter usually begs to stay and act out the Billy Goats Gruff or the Magic Fish story, but today he didn't say a word. I think he was afraid that if he did I'd bite his head off.

When we got home, Skip pounced. “Dad got a package from the zoo and so did you, Frankie.” He held up two large, padded envelopes. “You got a book.”

“Is there one for me?” Nutter asked.

“Nope,” Skip said.

I grabbed both envelopes.

“Who's it from?” Nutter asked.

I looked at the package addressed to me. Sent Express Mail from the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., on Friday, October 17. Inside was a book about naked mole-rats.

Skip and Nutter stared at the picture on the cover. “What is it?” Nutter asked.

“It's the first-prize winner of the Ugliest Animal in the Universe,” Skip said.

“Cool.” Nutter grabbed the book.

“Check out those teeth!” Skip exclaimed. Then he read the small note stuck to the cover.

Dear Frankie:


This book is for you and your brothers. I like reading as much as I like taking care of naked mole-rats. I hope you do, too.


Nonfictionally yours,


Ayanna


“Who's Ayanna?” Nutter asked.

“She's a mean rat lady who Dad met in Washington, D.C.”

“She doesn't sound mean to me,” Nutter said.

“She's a businesswoman or something,” Skip said. “She's helping Dad to sell his stuff in Washington.”

“What?”

Skip shrugged and pointed to the envelope addressed to Dad. “A good spy opens all mail.”

Nutter opened the book to a picture of naked mole-rats rolling around in their own poop. “Look at this!”

While they dived into the book, I took Dad's envelope into my room and closed the door. The staples had already been taken out and new staples put in. Skip was pretty quick.

I took the staples out and opened the envelope. There were a bunch of pamphlets from the National Association of Musical Instrument Makers and a letter.

Dear Robert:


Enclosed are the materials you accidentally left on the feeding-station cart in my office.


After work today I stopped by that great music shop that I told you about (right
around the corner from my apartment). They carry hammered and mountain dulcimers—none of which look as beautiful as the photos of yours that you showed me. I told them about your work, and they'd like you to contact them. I've included their card along with the pamphlets.