Amber Brown Is Feeling Blue (8 page)

“I am a Pilgrim father,” Hal says.

I, Amber Brown, think that these two Pilgrims are definitely not “Saints” …… that both of them are “Strangers.”

Pilgrim mothers ……

Pilgrim fathers …….

I start thinking about my own mother and father.

I feel more like a Pilgrim turkey than a Pilgrim child…. And if I can’t decide what I am going to do this Thanksgiving, my goose is cooked.

I think about it…. How can a turkey think about having a goose that is cooked? What does it really mean to have a goose cooked? Max is always saying that when we are watching television and someone gets into trouble. “His goose is cooked” is what he always says. And why do people call other people “turkeys”? I also wonder if someone could goose a turkey. These are a few of the
things that I think about while I should be listening to the report.

I kind of giggle when I think about someone goosing a turkey. Maybe that’s what it’s called when my mother goes into the turkey and pulls out one of those plastic bags filled with turkey parts, like the gizzard and liver and heart and whatever. She says that the first Thanksgiving dinner she cooked, she didn’t know that it was in there, so she cooked the bird with the bag still inside, mixed in with the stuffing.

I wonder what the real first Thanksgiving would have been like if a Pilgrim mother had done something like that. Probably they didn’t have plastic bags then, though.

I wonder what’s going to happen if Mrs. Holt realizes that I’m not paying attention to the report.

Maybe if I paid attention to the report, I would find out more about geese and
turkeys, but I, Amber Brown, have a lot on my mind.

Tonight’s the night that my father gets back to America.

I look over at the clock on the wall to see how many hours until his plane arrives.

Five more hours …. and then he has to go through customs, rent a car, leave the airport, and go to the Donaldsons’ house, where he is going to stay until he finds an apartment.

The Donaldsons used to be friends of my parents, until my parents got a divorce…. But after the divorce they were just friends of my dad’s. Mom says that in the divorce settlement, he got custody of the Donaldsons. She’s kidding, I think.

I look at the clock again. Four hours and fifty-three minutes until he is in America…. And then, as soon as he can, he’ll come over to our house. He and I get to
go out to dinner. Then we’ll come back home, and he and Mom and I will talk.

I can’t wait.

I look at the clock again.

This time, Mrs. Holt is standing under the clock and looking at me.

Quickly, I look back at the Pilgrim father and mother, Hal and Hannah.

I use the Amber Brown technique of looking interested even when I’m not.

I pick out something on their faces that I can stare at.

Hal has a little scar above his left eyebrow.

Hannah has a milk mustache.

I am so glad that Hannah has a milk mustache and that no one told her before her report.

I stare first at the scar and then at the mustache.

That way I look very interested.

Sometimes I make a little nod so that it looks like I’m thinking about what has been said.

I only hope that Mrs. Holt doesn’t give us a quiz on this as soon as the report is over.

She doesn’t.

Hannah hands out a list of the real Thanksgiving Day menu, reminding us that it was cooked by four women.

Hal hands out a list of all the known people at the first Thanksgiving Day dinner.

It’s kind of weird.

Mrs. Holt says that it wasn’t even called Thanksgiving Day when it first happened … and she gives us a lot of the real facts.

This would be very interesting if I didn’t have so much on my mind.

The only fact that I really want to know is which parent I spend Thanksgiving Day with this year.

And no one else in the world has the answer to that but me.

And I, Amber Brown, don’t have that answer yet.

My dad is late.

My dad is very late.

I, Amber Brown, am going nuts because it’s almost eight o’clock and he’s still not here.

My mom and I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for him and doing my “Book Report in a Bag.”

Actually, I’m doing the report and she’s supervising, but I’m having trouble concentrating.

Now it’s eight twenty-two, and my dad’s still not here.

I’m all ready. I’ve got on my basic black leggings and one of the sweatshirts that he sent me, the one that says “I love Paris” in French. I’m also wearing a scrunchie that my Aunt Pam sent me. Some people might say it’s a little babyish, but I still love it. There are two round globes, and in each of them are all different colored jacks. It’s so “fun,” and I love the way they move when I turn my head.

I hate that he’s late.

It’s not his fault that he’s not here yet.

It’s really not anyone’s fault.

I, Amber Brown, don’t care that it’s not anyone’s fault.

I just want him to be here.

He called the second that he could, once he got off the plane and to a phone.

The plane in Paris didn’t take off on time because of equipment trouble, and then there was a backup at Newark airport.

Mom says that I should just be happy that Dad got back safely. She’s right, but I’m very disappointed that he’s not here and that the plans have changed.

I really wanted to go out to dinner, just me and my dad. We were going to talk about everything and then come back to the house, and then Mom and Dad and I
would talk. Now it’s just going to be THE TALK, and I’m not sure how much fun that’s going to be.

I just wanted my dad to get back safely ….. and on time.

He and Mom and I have to make THE BIG DECISION, because there are only a few days until Thanksgiving and plans have to be made.

I, Amber Brown, still don’t know which parent I’m going to be with for the Thanksgiving vacation.

“Let’s practice your book report,” my mom says. “Amber, I don’t want what’s happening to affect your schoolwork.”

“I got an A on my Middle Ages report,” I remind her.

She smiles. “I know. I’m very proud of you.”

I like it …. I like it a lot …. when Mom says that she’s very proud of me.

I think about all of the times she’s helped me with my homework.

My dad used to help me, too, before the divorce and before he moved to Paris.

I bet he’ll help me now that he’s back.

I hope that he’ll be proud of me, too.

I wonder if they’ll both be proud of me when I make my decision.

I, Amber Brown, am getting so tired of thinking about all of this over and over again.

Starting my report, I turn my head, and the balls with the jacks in them make a clinky sound. I like that sound. My “Book Report in a Bag” is on
The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963
, by Christopher Paul Curtis.

I hold up the brown paper bag that groceries came in. On the front, I’ve drawn a picture from the book. It’s of the Watsons, the mom and dad and the two brothers and the sister, in the car. The two brothers are in the backseat fighting with each other, and
the parents are in the front seat being driven crazy by the brothers while they are driving from Detroit, Michigan, to Birmingham, Alabama.

I pull objects out of the bag to explain the book. Paper dolls of the Watsons ….. I pretend to have the characters talk to each
other. The mother is saying to one of the boys, “I think that it’s time for you to stay with your grandmother for a while, until you learn to be good.”

Then I pull out a copy of a newspaper headline about civil rights from the 1960s, explaining what the country was like, what it might have been like for some black families during that time.

And then I take out the little church that I borrowed from Kelly’s dad’s train set …. and explain how four girls were killed when someone set off a bomb in the Birmingham church. I tell about how they were only a few years older than the people in my class.

I say, “Look around the class and think about what it would be like if, all of a sudden, four of us were killed because of prejudice, because some people didn’t like our color.”

I end the report by saying, “This is a very
funny and sad book, and I love it, and I think that everyone should read it.”

My mother applauds and says, “Good job. May I borrow the book?”

I nod. “It’s from the library. So I’ll renew it, and then you can read it.”

The doorbell rings.

I jump up.

I can’t wait to see him.

I hope that he likes the way I look.

The doorbell rings again.

“We’re coming. Hold on.” My mom does not sound as happy as I feel.

I open the door.

It’s my dad.

I jump up into his arms.

“Ooph,” he says.

Maybe I’m going to have to stop doing that now that I’m in the fourth grade. It’s just that I was always able to do that when I was in the second grade, which was the last time he really lived in this house.

He looks over at my mother and nods. “Sarah.”

“Philip,” she answers.

Their voices are very cold.

But they’re not fighting with each other.

Not yet.

Maybe they won’t fight with each other anymore.