Looking for Me (2 page)

 

But I wish it wasn't.
Now I'll have to go to school all day
instead of swimming
at the Patterson Park pool
and playing stickball
with Daniel and his friends
and taking Melvin to the Roxy
to see the Popeye cartoons.

 

I'll have to get up early,
even before the sun rubs the sleep
out of its eyes.
I'll have to face math tests
and spelling bees and homework,
and the weather will turn dreary and stormy
like in a scary movie.

 

I know it's time to say goodbye to summer,
but I'd much rather be saying hello.

But in my family
we wear
hand-me-down
down
down
down
downs.

My new teacher, Miss Connelly,
is making us write a poem
about our family.
It's not exactly fair
because mine will have to be really, really long.

 

I'll start with Dad,
who only wanted lots of kids
so he could put us all to work
at his diner when we're old enough.

 

Then Mom,
who works hard all day at the diner
and all night at home,
but still finds time to dance with us
and make us caramel apples on a stick,
no matter how tired she is.

 

Then there's Sylvia, my oldest sister,
who never tells on me
if I sneak a slice of pie at the diner
when Dad's not there,

 

and Mildred, the queen of us all,
who likes to wave the candy and flowers
in our faces
that she gets from her dozens
of boyfriends,

 

and Daniel, the favorite son,
who would walk the plank for Mom
if she asked him to,
and whenever he earns a little money,
he buys something special just for her.

 

Then there's Raymond, who I help
with schoolwork,
although he sometimes skips school
and always seems to get spanked
more than the rest of us,

 

and Marian, who is never done playing,
so I have to drag her home for dinner
while she screams so loud the neighbors
think I'm murdering her,

 

and Annette, who follows me around
all the time
and cries waterfall tears
when I try to lose her,

 

and Lenny, Sol, and Jack,
the three musketeers,
who are always looking for adventure,
always finding trouble,

 

and Melvin, my very favorite,
who walks to the bakery with me
to get the Sabbath challah,
holding on to my pinkie finger
with his little hand,
his brown ringlets bouncing
from side to side.

 

And finally, there's Sherry,
who's just a baby in a carriage
and the last child
(I hope!)
of my way-too-big family.

“You left someone important
out of this poem, Edith,”
Miss Connelly tells me after class.

 

“Who?” I ask,
keeping my eyes glued to my shoes.

 

“You,” she says.
“Where are
you
in this family?”

 

“Number four,” I say,
“in between Daniel and Ray.”

 

“Nothing more?” she asks.
“I didn't want to write about me,” I say.

 

“Why not?” she asks.
“Because,” I blurt out, “I don't know
who I am in my big family.”

 

“Maybe you can go home and think about
who you are,” she says.

 

So I walk out the door,
wondering who I am
besides number four.

After school
Mom's looking right at me,
fumbling for my name,
“Marian, Sylvia, Mildred, Annette...
I mean Edith,
can you empty the ice pan?”

 

If my mother
doesn't even know who I am,
how am I supposed to?

While I'm changing Sherry's diaper,
Miss Connelly's question
is rolling around in my head like a marble,
and I start to get an idea
about who I am in this family.

 

It has to do with the nickname
everyone in the neighborhood
calls me—
“the good little mother”—

 

because while Mom's at work,
I'm always pushing a carriage
or changing
or playing with
or feeding
one
or two
or three
of my little sisters and brothers.

 

When I take them to Patterson Park,
I like to pretend they're my own children,
holding them when they cry,
patting their backs,
and saying, “My baby, my baby..."

 

I guess sometimes I'd rather
be jumping double dutch
or playing stickball with my friends,
but except for the stinky diapers,
I sure do like being
“the good little mother.”

Mom's not home yet from Dad's diner,
and here I am,
right in the middle
of changing Sherry's diaper,
trying not to prick myself
with the safety pin,
when Jack starts whimpering
because he wet his pants.

 

Then Sherry starts crying
and Jack's blubbering
and tugging on my shirt.

 

I need some clean pants quick,
so I send Annette to bring me a pair
from the cellar,
where I hung them on the line
this morning.

 

“What's taking so long?
Just bring the pants already!”
I yell to Annette.
Jack and Sherry are both wailing
so loud it sounds like an ambulance siren.

 

When Annette finally comes back,
she tells me there aren't any pants
down there.
I slap her face so hard
my hand leaves a print
on her cheek.

 

She bursts into tears.
“But, Edie, I couldn't go down to the cellar.
It was pitch black
and I heard scary noises
coming from there.”

 

I see the tears dripping down her face,
and suddenly I don't feel very much
like a good little mother
anymore.

I were an only child
like my cousin Sonny,
I'd have the bathtub all to myself,
dipping my toes into water
as piping hot as a cup of tea
and so clean and clear you could drink it.

 

But instead, I get in line
to climb into the tub
after Mildred, Daniel,
Marian, Ray, and sometimes Annette
have all taken their turns.

 

And by then
the water's as murky brown
as a mud puddle
and not
even one bit
still hot.

My brothers and sisters think
that I'm a goody two-shoes,
and most of the time
they're right.

 

But sometimes
I'm not a goody anything.
I mean I don't disappear like Marian,
don't skip school like Raymond;
I'm not out looking for trouble
like Lenny, Sol, and Jack.

 

But sometimes
trouble finds
me.

 

Like today,
when the iceman came in the morning
and shoved the frozen block
into our icebox with tongs that look like tigers' teeth.

 

By afternoon, when it was hotter
than blazes,
I went into the kitchen
to make myself a lettuce and tomato sandwich
and found a puddle on the floor.

 

Mom got back from the diner,
and as soon as she came into the kitchen,
she yelled,
“Whose turn was it to empty the ice pan?”
and because
it wasn't a wait-till-your-
father
-gets-home yell,
and because Mom would never hit me,
I confessed to the crime.

We're in the girls' bedroom,
scooping out globs of oily peanut butter
straight from the jar,
rolling it between our palms
into smooth balls,

 

aiming at our targets
across the room,
girls against boys.
But somebody ducks—
a ball splats against the wallpaper.

 

Now the battle's in full swing—
brown bullets flying
across the room,
our brand-new wallpaper
looking more and more
like a leopard spotted with grease marks.

 

We're laughing so hard
that our bellies are aching
and so loud
that nobody even hears
the footsteps.

 

“Wait till your father gets home!”
Mom screams,
and we all know
that at the very least,
it's the last time
there'll ever be peanut butter
in
our
house.

I wonder if our peanut butter battle
will bring
the sting of the belt today.

 

Dad uses his belt
for more than just holding up
his pants.

 

Dad uses his belt
when he's so bursting with anger
that shouting isn't enough.

 

Dad uses his belt
most often
on Ray.

 

Dad's never used his belt
on me.

 

And I
want to keep it that way.

Even though Mom's face is angry red
and the brand-new wallpaper
is covered with oily battle scars,
Dad keeps his belt
right where it belongs—
in the loops of his pants.

 

Maybe his hand would get too tired
whipping so many bottoms.
Maybe there are just too many of us
to hit.
Maybe this is what
safety in numbers
really means.

Mildred and I
are taking toe-dancing lessons
on Saturdays.
Last week the teacher told Mom
that Mildred
was the dancer in the family.
So Mom bought ballet slippers
for her,
but I still have to stand
on my toes
in saddle oxfords.

 

I don't complain one bit,
but when I see Mildred
pirouetting around the parlor,
I feel like doing something
Marian would do—
like stomping my saddle oxfords
right on Mildred's dainty ballerina toes.

It's housecleaning day,
and Mildred's making me
do all her chores.
Again.

 

I'm sweeping the steps
and wiping the windows for her.
Again.

 

And I'm taking care of baby Sherry
while she's busy painting her toenails.
Again.

 

Mom and Dad say
I always have to do
what my older sisters and brother
tell me to,
but I'm sick of Mildred
making me do all her chores.

 

And if I don't,
she'll tell on me.
I
ought to tell on
her.

 

But Mom has enough to worry about
and Dad wouldn't care.
I'd get in trouble
for bothering him.

 

There's no one to tell,
so I escape
and run next door
to Connie's house.

 

When Mildred starts screeching, “Edie!
Come change Sherry's diaper!”
Connie stuffs me into a giant storage trunk,
where I've hidden before.
I'm meat stuffed into cabbage.
“She'll never find you in here,”
Connie says.

 

A second later
I hear Mildred stomp in,
demanding to know where I am.
“I haven't seen her,” Connie's mom says,
“but you're welcome to look around.”

 

I get comfortable,
take my shoes off in the trunk,
and keep still,
trying hard not to giggle
until Mildred finally leaves.

 

When the coast is clear,
I sneak back over to our house,
but my cold feet remind me
that I left my shoes at Connie's.

 

Before I can even go back to get them,
Mildred spies me
and hands me the crying baby
with her stinky diaper still on,
like she's some kind of present.

 

And I feel like Cinderella
before she ever met
her fairy godmother.

I've been saving the money
I've earned from odd jobs,
like polishing the neighbors' steps,
so I could buy Mom
a birthday present—
a potted geranium,
her favorite flower.

 

I hide the plant
behind my back
and find Mom
in the kitchen.
Sylvia's there, too,
and so are Mildred and Marian.

 

“Happy birthday!” I cry,
and hand her the geranium.
Then she cups my cheek lightly
with her hand,
kisses my forehead,
and thanks me
as she puts the plant
on the long kitchen table