Counting Thyme (8 page)

SURPRISE!

THE NEXT DAY, I HEADED TOWARD MY USUAL TABLE TO MEET
Celia and Delia. Only they weren't there.

“Thyme! Over here!” An arm flailed from the middle of the cafeteria, over by Emily's table. It was Delia. The twins always dressed alike, but if you looked closely, Delia's face was a little rounder than her sister's. Then Celia and Emily stood and waved as well. Which made three people waving and calling my name in front of the entire cafeteria. Suddenly, agreeing to let Emily help me didn't seem like the best idea after all. What was she doing?

I walked over and tried to ignore the fact that Jake was sitting at the very next table, but his attention was on his fries, not my slow march across the cafeteria.

“You lost, California?” Darien called over to me from another table full of boys.

Emily stood up. “Shut it, Darien. You're just jealous of anyone who's ever been on an airplane.”

The girls at Emily's table laughed, and Darien turned red.

“Thanks,” I said to Emily.

She smiled. “No problem. He's a loser, anyway. Move
over for Thyme, ladies.” The other girls shifted so I could squeeze into a narrow opening next to Lizzie. There was barely enough space to fit my arms. I was trapped, only my cage was made of popular kids instead of bars.

On the other side of the table, the twins were grinning like they'd won the lottery.

“Emily invited us to switch,” Celia said. She was sitting next to a redhead who looked less than thrilled.

“Everyone, this is Thyme,” Emily said. “Thyme, this is everyone.” Then she went around the table, pointing out everyone's names. There were two girls from my classes. The rest I didn't know, including the redhead, whose name was Rebeccah. She beamed when Emily introduced her, but she didn't say hello to me. She had a shiny black box in front of her, with colorful bites of food arranged in each pocket. A bento box. I'd seen them before in Japanese restaurants, but never at school.

Rebeccah caught me staring at her, so I put my eyes on my own lunch and found a surprise in the bag: chocolate milk. Mom used to buy it for me sometimes in San Diego, but only the organic, grass-fed, hormone-free kind. I wondered how Mrs. Ravelli knew.

“Thyme,” Emily said loudly. I jumped and almost spilled the milk. “Can you believe Mrs. Harris's crazy cat vests? Everyone says she and Mr. Calhoun are totally together, but I think there's no way. Mr. C's
way
too cool for her. What do you think?”

The other girls paused, as though whatever Emily said was
super important. She gave me the big smile, like she was really interested in my answer, so I played along.

“I, uh . . . I don't know? I mean, Mrs. Harris is kind of strange. But the teachers here are okay. Although I'm still getting used to Mr. Ellison's love of Céline Dion.”

Celia and Delia tittered.

“I mean, I understood the James Brown. And the Michael Jackson. But Céline's taking it too far, right?”

All the girls laughed, except for Rebeccah. “Where did you come from?” she asked, like she wished I would go back there.

“San Diego.”

“I just love California,” Emily said. “My dad took me to L.A. last summer. We went to Grauman's Chinese Theatre, where they have all the celebrity handprints and footprints.” She grinned. “I was a perfect match for Judy Garland.”

“I wish I could go to California,” Lizzie said. “We never go
anywhere
.”

She was about to say something else but Emily cut her off. “That reminds me! Thyme helped us make the flyers for Mr. C. Didn't you guys love the sparkle stars?”

The girls all said
yes
and
ooh
and
I loved them
.

Rebeccah looked at me with suspicion. “Are you going out for the show, too?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, do you sing?” she asked.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Me neither,” Lizzie said quietly, although I think I was the only one who heard her.

“I've taken lessons since I was five,” Emily said. “I've been practicing for the Spring Fling all month. My vocal coach says I'm doing great.”

“Ooh, what song are you practicing?” Rebeccah asked, with way too much excitement. Other girls used to act that way around Shani. She was pretty and talented, and that made people want to be her friend. Only Shani didn't like it when people kissed up to her, not the way Emily seemed to.

Emily went on about the songs she'd been rehearsing. Then her face brightened. “I know! Should I show you my favorite song?”

The other girls said
yes
and
sure
and
wow
.

Then Emily stood up, right there in front of everyone, straightened her sweaterdress, and started singing with a big grin on her face like she was on a stage. It was a song from
The Wizard of Oz
—the one where Dorothy sings with the Lion and the Tin Man about going to see the wizard. Her voice cut right through the chatter in the cafeteria. All around us, kids stopped and stared. Emily waved at us to join her. Lizzie blushed so hard her freckles disappeared, but Rebeccah hopped right up.

“
We're off to see the wizard,
” Emily and Rebeccah sang, “
the wonderful wizard of Ozzz!
” I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They had completely lost their minds.

Then they clasped their hands and bowed, and we clapped, although plenty of other kids laughed, especially the boys. I looked over at Jake's table. He raised his eyebrows, like he was surprised to see me at Emily's table, and I nearly died of
embarrassment. I'd only bargained for a lunch, but I'd ended up smack in the middle of a talent show.

When I got home, Val was in Mom and Dad's room again. I hoped he was doing better, and that the second day of treatment had been easier than the first.

“He's resting,” Mom warned when I turned down the hall.

“Can I just peek at him?”

She rubbed her temples in small circles. “If you're very quiet, Thyme.”

I crept up to my parents' bedroom door and listened. There was a faint sniffling sound from the other side, so I turned the knob at the speed of a snail until the door swung open. Val was on the bed. But he wasn't resting. He was crying.

“Oh, Val.” I hurried to the bed, but he turned away from me. I understood. I'd be mad, too, if I spent all day being tortured by people who were supposed to be helping me.

I tried to touch his back, but he wiggled away from me.

“Val.”

No response. Maybe he had his hearing aids turned down. Or else he was just ignoring me.

I scooted closer, but he sat up and scurried to the end of the bed, where he had a pile of stuffed animals and model subway cars. The toys were all in a jumble. He grabbed one of the subway cars and rammed it into the side of his favorite stuffed triceratops.

“What's going on over here?” I asked loudly, hoping he'd talk to me.

“They had an accident,” he said.

A prickle ran over my scalp. I touched Mom's chenille blanket, which was draped over two of Val's stuffed animals. “What happened to these guys?”

“They died,” he said. Then he crashed the subway car into his dinosaur again.

I didn't know what to say, so for a minute, I didn't say anything at all. Then I realized that Val had stopped playing. He was just staring at the sad pile of lovies, waiting on me.

“I'm sorry, V. I wish this wasn't happening to you.”

He finally made eye contact with me. “The medicine hurts. I don't like it.”

“I thought you said it wasn't that bad?”

His eyes watered up. “I lied.” He leaned into me, and I wrapped my arms around him. His back felt bony under my hands, his skin hot from the rash. It had been so long since he'd looked and felt like the Val I knew. It wasn't fair. He should've been running around like every other five-year-old, riding bikes and getting skinned knees.

I picked up his stuffed triceratops. “How about we fix him up?”

Val sniffled and wiped at his eyes. Then he nodded.

Across the room, the door opened. It was Mom. “Thyme?”

“Do we have some gauze?” I asked.

She rushed to the bedside. “What's wrong? Did something happen?” She cupped Val's face in her hands, felt his forehead and looked in his eyes.

“We're fine,” I said. “We just have a lovie emergency, that's all.”

Mom hugged Val. “Don't do that to me, Thyme. You scared me to death.”

“Sorry.” I hated it when she acted like I was making things harder, when I was just trying to help.

She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “What do you need this gauze for?”

“We're fixing Telly!” Val said, pulling the stuffed triceratops out of my arms.

“Okay, but then you have to rest,” Mom said. “I'll go get the gauze.”

She left, and Val looked up at me, his blue eyes a little brighter than before.

I thought about all of those paper slips in the Thyme Jar, and how I was planning to leave him. That thought didn't feel good. But Val had Mom and Dad and Cori (in her way) and his new friends in the hospital support group. Who did I have? Mrs. Ravelli? She was nice, but we barely knew each other.

“It'll be okay,” I said, more for myself than for him.

He lifted his hand. “Pinkie swear?”

I wrapped my finger around his. “Pinkie swear.”

He sighed with relief, and I was surprised to find that I felt a little better, too.

ALL BARK AND NO BITE

AT THE END OF THE WEEK, MRS. RAVELLI WAS IN A RUSH
to get back to the apartment. It was Val's last day of treatment for December, and she was in the middle of making him a celebratory cake—an Italian cream cake with all natural ingredients including almonds and coconut, which were full of healthy oils. She even used low-fat cream cheese in the frosting despite her dislike of low-fat foods.

When we walked in, there was no one there. Cori wasn't home from school yet, and Mrs. Ravelli said Mom and Dad were still at the hospital with Val. He had a party with his support group. I wondered what a party for cancer patients was like. It had to be kind of sad and happy at the same time.

I didn't have much homework, so I checked the list of chores Mom had left for me so I could earn time while she was gone.

“Ay!
Mio dio,
” Mrs. Ravelli exclaimed. She popped into the room. “We forget the mail. Thyme, you run down for me,
d'accordo
?”

“
Si!
” I left the list next to the phone and grabbed the keys from the counter.

“
Grazie,
” she called as the door slammed shut behind me.

Downstairs, I collected the mail from our box and sat on the bottom step. Credit-card offers. Bills. Two pieces of mail for a Jerry Richards. He must have been the previous tenant in our apartment. But there was nothing from Grandma Kay. She hadn't written me yet, even though she'd promised to send me a letter every week. I was beginning to think she hadn't meant it.

On my way upstairs, I stubbed my sneakers against the steps, trying to make the loudest squeak possible. When I got to the third-floor landing, Mr. Lipinsky's door flew open.

He barged into the hall in his tattered purple robe, shouting, “What's all the racket out here?” Which was sudden, but not surprising. The real surprise was the gigantic bird sitting on his shoulder. It was white with a crest of yellow feathers, pebble eyes, and a hooked black beak—the kind of bird I'd only seen in pet stores before.

“I was just getting our mail,” I said. “I live upstairs.”

“Isn't that the unfortunate truth.” His voice was rough as gravel, like he hadn't used it in a long, long time. Either that or he spent his days breathing fire at small children.

But Dad had said Mr. Lipinsky was harmless, and that I should try not to bug him, so I just said, “Bye,” and started to walk past them. Then the bird squawked, and I jumped back.

“Calm down,” Mr. Lipinsky said. “There's nothing to be scared of.”

I wasn't so sure about that. I'd never liked birds much,
especially since our fourth-grade field trip to a bird sanctuary, where fifty songbirds swarmed me all at once. Apparently, you're supposed to drop the feed on the ground, not clutch it in your fists and scream.

Then Mr. Lipinsky murmured something to the bird, and I noticed how it crouched close to him. How its wings trembled. The tail feathers were as long as my arm, but thin and tattered at the ends, just like Mr. Lipinsky's messy white hair.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“
She.
”

“Sorry. How old is she?”

“Forty-six.”

“Forty-six? That's older than my dad!”

“Congratulations. Maybe you can use that brain of yours to calculate a reasonable bedtime so I can get some sleep again.” He went back in his apartment and slammed his door, and I wondered what could make someone so completely rotten that they spent their days being mean to everyone. Then I thought about how he always wore that old robe and how it looked like he could really use some shampoo for his hair. It had to be lonely, being mean all the time. Suddenly Mr. Lipinsky didn't seem so scary after all. He was all bark and no bite, as Grandma would say.

When I got back inside, Mrs. Ravelli was finishing Val's cake. It was impossibly tall, with thick white icing and chopped nuts sprinkled on top. It looked like something out of a magazine. I couldn't remember the last time Mom had made a
cake. She used to bake a lot before Val got sick. Cookies. Muffins. But that hadn't happened in months.

Soon, the front door opened, and Mom and Dad walked in with Val, who looked happier than he had all week. Cori was with them, too, although she looked much less happy. Her eyeliner was all smudged, like she'd been wiping at her eyes. Or maybe even crying.

Val ran up and wrapped his arms around me. “We had ice cream at the hospital! Then I got to ride the 5 train to 125th Street to get Cori, and now I only need the 4 to finish the green line.” He grinned up at me, blue eyes gleaming, and I rubbed his fuzzy head. His skin looked a lot less pink. The hives were fading. And he was certainly less worn out. I hoped that meant things were getting easier for him.

“I'm going to my room,” Cori announced.

“Wait right there.” Dad went over to her and said something quietly, but I could tell she was in trouble by the way her shoulders slumped.

I turned to Mom. “What happened?”

She tucked her scarf onto her hook. “Just a misunderstanding at school. Nothing for you to worry about.” She sounded annoyed, like I was bugging her, which stung a little.

Mrs. Ravelli popped into the room and said good-bye. Mom thanked her for such a beautiful cake, which Mrs. Ravelli insisted was no problem at all. She gave me a wink on her way out. Then Cori came back to the dining table with Dad, and we cut into the cake. It was as delicious as it looked—creamy and rich and fluffy. Val scarfed down his slice and
went straight to his Lego table. It was hard to believe this was the same boy who'd spent the last four days huddled in Mom and Dad's bed every afternoon.

“He looks good,” I said, and Mom smiled. “Does that mean the treatment's working?”

Her smile evaporated. She didn't answer.

“Can I go now? Please?” Cori asked, and Dad nodded a weary yes. She left the table. Our bedroom door slammed. It felt like a bomb had gone off in the room.

“Let's just enjoy today,” Mom finally said. “Finishing this first week of treatment is a big deal for Val.”

I looked at Dad.

“It's complicated, Thyme,” he said.

“But it's working, right?”

He glanced at Mom. “We hope so,” he said carefully.

I could tell there was something they weren't telling me. Was there some reason to think that the medicine wasn't working?

Dad stood up. “Now, how about you help me clean up? You can earn some time, and I can start burning off some of this cake.” He patted his belly, which wasn't round at all.

I got up to clear our plates. When I took Mom's, she wouldn't meet my eyes. But I didn't ask any more questions, and I tried to act like I wasn't worried, even though that's not how I felt at all.