Bounce (5 page)

It's Thursday night, and we are having a “family meeting.” This is yet another example of Birdie's new vocabulary—right up there with “quality time” and “sibling bonding.” I call it Al-Speak, and it makes me want to yank out every hair on my head, one by one.

Now, Al is standing in the middle of the living room, holding something orange and folded.

“I have in my hands,” he says, “a symbol of the collective journey we are about to undertake.”

He looks around at us, squashed together on two couches, and his eyes stop on Eleni. “Would you come up here, please? My bride-to-be?”

Bride-to-be.
Blech.

I try to catch Mackey's eye so I can make a face, but he is three Gartoses away, looking straight ahead.

“Al.” Eleni is smiling. “What are you up to?”

It takes her exactly a nanosecond to be by his side—a midget, gazing up at a giant.

I don't know how either of them can stand it. I guarantee they're in for a lifetime of neck pain.

“Honey,” I hear my father saying. “Kids…”

I'm not sure what's coming next, but I know I'm not going to like it.

“I'd like to introduce to you…”

If Linus was here, at least I could focus all my attention on him. But he has class tonight. Economics.
Econ,
he calls it. Which is so cute. Linus is always coming up with—

“The Gartos-Linney Utopian Experiment!”

The Gartos-Linney Utopian Experiment.

“Oh, Al! It's wonderful!”

Oh, God, it's a T-shirt. A construction-cone-orange T-shirt with ten sets of puffy white handprints encircling the planet Earth and puffy white lettering.

“Um, Al? Did you, like, make those?”

Ten
construction-cone-orange, white-puffy-paint T-shirts.

“Yay! Can I bring it for show-and-tell?”

And we're supposed to put them on.

“We don't have to wear those outside, do we?” one of the twins asks.

But Birdie just laughs. He turns to Eleni and says, “Hon? Get the camera. We're making memories here.”

I am in the back “yard”—the only place I could find that's Gartos-free. Clam is out here, too, banished by Eleni. Apparently, Thalia is violently allergic to pet dander. Whatever.

I go over to the doghouse Birdie built for him. In the old
days, Clam got to sleep with one of us, snuggled at the foot of our beds.

Now he gets carpet on top of cement.

“Hey, boy,” I say, scratching his ears the way he likes it.

Usually, he wags his tail like crazy. This time, he just looks at me with weepy eyes.

Clam is so ugly. He is a pug-bulldog mix with a smashed-in face, and his life's ambition is to slobber and fart. As a rule I don't like to get too close to him, but tonight I hug his neck. I breathe in his disgusting wet-fur smell, tinged with dog doo, but it's also the smell of Maine—the ocean, and my old backyard, and Jules and Mackey and Birdie, and everything and everyone the way they used to be and never will be again.

I squeeze him harder, and he lets out a big whimper.

“I know the feeling,” I say.

I never really liked Clam before. Tonight, I love him.

I'm going to talk to Mackey. He is only one step up from a dog, I realize, because he won't talk back. But at least he's human. And at least he knows Birdie as well as I do—maybe even better, since he is two years older. He has to be freaking out a little bit, too.

When I get to Mackey's room, I don't bother knocking. I can hear computer game sounds so I know exactly what he's doing. He's hunched over his keyboard, grinding his teeth, muttering curse words. Maybe I will play with him tonight, the golf game. That one's not bad.

But when I open the door, someone has taken my spot.

It's Cleanser Boy, sitting right there next to my brother, wiggling a joystick and pressing buttons like mad.

Mackey yells out, “Die, vile scum beast of Zelkor! Die!” and Ajax doesn't even blink, so I can tell he is into it, too.

This is sibling bonding at its finest, only I'm the one who should be playing. Even if it's not golf—even if it's dragonrelated and I have zero interest—I am the actual sibling here.

“Mack,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

But he just grunts, rising halfway out of his chair and yanking the joystick so his knight charges ahead.

“Mackey. It's important.”

“Hold on,” says Ajax. “Let me kill him first.”

I want to say,
I wasn't talking to you, Cleanser Boy, I was talking to my brother.
But I don't.

I sit on the beanbag in the corner and wait.

“I can't believe you're still wearing that thing.”

Mackey looks at me, and I can see the dragon-slaying ecstasy in his eyes. “What? It's just a shirt.”

“It's not just a shirt,” I say.

I can't believe he doesn't get it, because it's so obvious, and if I have to spell it out for him, then what's the point.

“Operation Glue,” Ajax says.

“Ex
cuse
me?” I say.

He grins. “GLUE. It's an acronym. Gartos-Linney Utopian Experiment? Two families,
stuck together
?”

Mackey smirks.

“Whatever,” I say, and start for the door. I don't want to be in here anymore. It's not helping. It's making everything worse.

I'm halfway down the hall when a hand taps my shoulder.

“Hey. Evyn. Are you okay?”

I whip around. “Yes! For the hundredth time. It's just a broken nose.”

Cleanser Boy shakes his head. “No. I mean, are you okay? You seem bummed.”

I don't say anything.

“Is it the wedding? Because, you know, it's weird for all of us. The thought of having a new dad…I mean, your dad's cool and everything, it's just…you know.”

I stare at him. This is the most he's ever said to me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“I haven't seen my dad in five years. Did Al tell you?”

I shake my head.

“It's true. One day he was here, the next he was gone. Packed up all his clothes and just took off. He said the ‘parenting thing' wasn't for him. Direct quote.”

“Seriously?”

He nods. “He has a new wife now, in Denver.
Tiffany.
Who's, like, nineteen.”

“Oh…sick.”

“Yeah. He used to call sometimes, on our birthdays. Not anymore, though. Now he sends money. Lots of money. Which is good, I guess. But it's not…you know—”

“Not like having a real dad.”

Ajax nods. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

For a minute we don't say anything.

I think about Stella. I think about how things would be different if she didn't die—if they only got divorced.

After a while I say, “At least you got to know him. I mean, you got eight years, right?”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“Well, that's seven more than I got. With my mom.”

Ajax frowns. “Right. I
knew
that. Hey, I'm sorry, Evyn. That was…I shouldn't have said anything.”

“It's okay.”

He shakes his head. “No. I wasn't thinking.”

“It's
okay.
Really.”

“Okay,” he says.

The conversation seems to be over, so I start to walk away. But then I remember something. All week I've been looking for clues. A snippet of phone conversation (
“Andrea is so hot”
). A certain name doodled on the back of a notebook (
Ajax luvs Andrea, S.W.A.K.
). So far, nothing.

Maybe it's time I tried a new tactic. “Hey. Do you like anyone?”

Ajax looks at me. “What. Girls?”

“Yeah.”

“At your school?”

“Yes, girls at my school. Do you like anyone?”

He smiles. “Who wants to know?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Why? Am I annoying you?”

“Are you going to answer the question?”

“Do you want me to?”

I feel like I'm talking to the opposite of Mackey. Instead of no response I'm getting harassed. I don't know which is worse.

“Never mind,” I say. “Forget I asked.”

Ajax laughs. “No, I'll answer the question…
Maybe.
”

“
Maybe
you like someone?”

“Maybe I like someone.”

“Are you planning to tell me who it is?”

“Nope.”

“Are you planning to ask her to that social thing?”

“Nope.”

“Well, are you at least
going
?”

“Maybe.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks a lot. You've been incredibly helpful. Really.”

Cleanser Boy grins. “Hey, if I'm going to be your brother, I have to start acting like it, right?”

“Whatever,” I say, and start walking away. And I don't know why, but I'm smiling.

Even though he is incredibly irritating.

It's Friday morning, and I have Latin. Here are the rules when you're the only kid in class: You can't forget your homework; you can't space out; you can't draw doodles of Mr. Murray's bald head and copious arm hair and pass them around with captions that say
Mr. Furry: Lusus Naturae,
which is Latin for “freak of nature.” All you can do is pay attention.

Mr. Murray is sitting on the radiator when I walk in. “
Salve,
” he says, raising one hand.

This is Latin for “whatsup.” There is excitement in his voice. It's like he can't wait to start teaching me more dead words.

“
Salve,
” I say, politely getting out my notebook.

I don't know why I'm taking this class. I guess because in seventh grade, Latin was cool. At my old school, everyone signed up for it, not just the geeks. The teacher, Mr. Camp, wasn't like most teachers. We played Latin charades, acting out sayings like
In vino veritas
—“
In wine is truth
”—and he didn't even care that we were pretending to be drunk. Plus, he didn't believe in quizzes; he just had us conjugate out loud, as a group.

Now I'm on my own.

When Mr. Murray asks, “
Quo vadis
this weekend?” I have no choice but to respond.

“Um. How do you say
wedding
in Latin?”

“Ah.”

Mr. Murray smiles and uncaps a dry-erase marker. Since there's no chalkboard in the Latin closet, he uses a miniature whiteboard, which he holds in his lap at all times. He calls it his
tabula rasa.

“
Nuptiae, nuptiarum.
Feminine. A wedding.”

Then he adds some other useless vocabulary:
mustaceum,
a wedding cake;
fax,
a wedding torch;
hasta,
a ceremonial wedding spear.

Yes. I am so sure that Birdie will be carrying a ceremonial wedding spear tomorrow.

“So,” Mr. Murray says, looking up, “who's getting married?
Consobrina? Consobrinus? Amita? Matertera? Avuncul
—”

“
Pater,
” I say, before he can name every possible relative. “My
pater
's getting married.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Uh-huh.” He puts the cap back on the marker.

Silence.

I guess there's no word for stepmother.

Awkward, awkward silence.

I look down at my notebook and pretend to be studying. Mr. Murray clears his throat a few thousand times.

“Well,” he says finally. “
Omnia vincit amor.
Love conquers all. Yes?”

I don't say anything. I'm trying so hard not to throw up.

I need to transfer to Spanish.

When I get to the cafeteria, the It Girls look happy to see me.

“How's Ajax?” they say.

I put my backpack on the floor. I have to keep my lunch in its bag today, because it's something gourmet and embarrassing and it stinks.

“He's good,” I say.

Andrea leans over and opens my milk. She sticks in a straw. Every time, she does this. I don't know why.

“What's the latest?” she asks as she scoots her chair closer, while everyone at the table looks at me with big mascara eyes. These girls are so different from my friends in Maine. I don't know how to act around them.

“Well,” I say, “my Latin teacher is sort of a pita.” I still don't know what a pita is; I can only hope I used it right.

“OhmyGod, you take
Latin
?” This from Chelsea Ableson, my homeroom buddy.

“Isn't Latin, like,
dead
?” asks a girl with dangly earrings.

“Um,” I say. “Yeah, but I'm thinking of transfer—”

Andrea holds up her hand. “Latin helps with your S.A.T.s. We should all be taking Latin. Shouldn't we, girls? Evelyn here will probably get into Harvard. Won't you, Evelyn?”

Everyone nods in agreement.

It's Evyn,
I want to say.
Not Evelyn.
But I don't dare correct her.

“So,” Andrea says. “Did you find out who Ajax likes yet?”

“Almost,” I tell her. “I should know for sure by Monday.”

She smiles. “Good work.”

Everyone else smiles, too.

Translation: I'm allowed to sit here until the bell rings.

The night before a wedding means you have to rehearse. Which means, in my case, tossing imaginary flower petals on the carpet as I march in time to the organ version of “Love Me Tender” by Elvis.

Phoebe is glued to my side, like we're field-trip buddies on our way to the aquarium. Behind us is Thalia. Followed by the sweater twins. Followed by Eleni, who is holding fake flowers but shedding real tears. The acoustics in this church are faaantastic. Everyone will be able to hear her crying for joy. She is just so head-over-heels in love with my father, she's overflowing.

I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about it.

I will look straight ahead and focus on the groomsmen. On one groomsman in particular, who tomorrow will be wearing a tux and looking beyond gorgeous.

Stella? It's me.

This time she has her head down so I can't see her face.

Stell?

She's never done this to me before—not responded. I give her a minute, but she doesn't look at me, so I start right in,

Can you believe tonight? Eleni and her whole “I never thought I'd love again and then I met Al” speech? I thought I was going to barf right there at the table. Of COURSE she had to cook for the rehearsal dinner instead of us going to a nice restaurant like normal people because it's all about HER. Have I mentioned how much I am beginning to hate hummus? I can't believe Birdie is actually going through with this. I can't believe I have to wake up in the morning and put on an orange dress and pretend to be happy, when—

Stella is looking at me now. Her eyes are red, but she is as beautiful as ever.
Oh, honey,
she says.

For a moment, all we do is look at each other.

You'll be there tomorrow,
I say finally.
Right?

She gives a laugh that is more of a hiccup.
You want me to come to my own husband's wedding?

I nod. My throat is so tight I can't talk.

Stella fishes around in the pocket of her bathrobe. She comes up with a tissue and blows her nose hard. When she's done, she folds it and puts it back in her pocket.

You're not going to make me dance the chicken dance, are you? she says. Because I really hate the chicken dance.

You can sit that one out,
I tell her.

She gives me a tiny smile.
In that case…

She means that she'll be there tomorrow, and I'm so relieved that a million hot tears start pressing against my eyeballs, and there's nothing I can do to stop them.

Luckily, the sweater twins snore so loud, an armored tank could plow through the wall and they wouldn't wake up.

At least they won't hear me cry.