Parrotfish (14 page)

“It was Jason!” Laura said, twirling in a circle. “I’m going to the dance!”

“Who’s Jason? What dance?” I wanted to know.

She gave me the
Duh
look. “The Winter Carnival dance. And Jason Kramer is
the
most popular boy in our entire class. And
I’m
going with him!”

“That’s great,” Sebastian said, grinning. “Grady and I are going too, you know.”

The color drained out of Laura’s face. “What?”

I knew what she was thinking. “He doesn’t mean we’re going together. I mean, we
are
, but only to videotape it for the cable channel.”

She still wasn’t looking too good. “You mean, you’re going to be running around shoving a camera in people’s faces all night?”

“We don’t interrupt anything,” Sebastian
explained. “We just stand on the sidelines and tape whatever’s going on. People hardly know we’re there.”

Laura didn’t look convinced of our invisibility. “
I’ll
know you’re there. And you better not take any pictures of me!”

I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Whatever.”

“So, I suppose you want to get a new dress?” Mom said.

“Please, Mom? I don’t have anything nice enough.”

That might not have been true, but Mom agreed to buy her a dress anyway. She seemed almost as excited about it as Laura. I guess Mom figured it was about time somebody acted like a real girl around here.

“She gets a
dress
and I can’t even have a
pet
?” Charlie said indignantly. “That is just no fair!”

Dad interrupted the potential argument. “Enough with the dog, Charlie. Time to try on costumes. I didn’t bring the hoop skirts down from the attic yet, but these are the rest of the girls’ clothes.” He opened a big box and started pulling out bonnets and aprons and long flowery dresses.

“Laura, this is yours,” he said, handing her a long blue plaid skirt with a matching shawl and
white blouse. “Judy, your red taffeta.”

As Mom reluctantly took her dress and Dad reached back into the box, I think we all realized the problem at the same moment. He pulled out the green flowered dress I’d worn for the last few years, the one with lace at the cuffs and a ruffled apron.

Why didn’t I think of this before now?
There was no way on earth I was flouncing around in that dress again, or any dress, in front of half the town. I’d never liked that flowery thing anyway. It was too fancy for me—too feminine. It had been Mom’s dress first, but as I got taller, she gave it to me and made herself a dressier one, which Dad thought she ought to have.

Dad pulled the dress out of the box, and we all stood there, looking at it.

“Oh,” he said, finally. “I guess . . . Angela wore this.” He said it sadly, as if Angela had died. Which was the way it seemed as we all stood there staring at the green dress that Angela would never wear again. For a minute even
I
missed Angela, the girl with the unruly curls who helped Mrs. Cratchit—or whoever Mom was supposed to be—get the turkey on the table. The good girl who had morphed into the bad boy.
Grady, you ruin everything
.

“Well,” Dad said, cramming the dress back
into the box, “let’s open the boys’ box. There’s probably something in there Grady could wear.”

“You must have an extra pair of pants, Joe,” Mom said. “I can take them in and hem them.”

“Doesn’t he need a frock coat too?” Laura wanted to know.

“He can get by with a vest. We’re inside, after all,” Mom said.

“I only wear a vest,” Charlie said.

And just like that, it was over, with nobody freaking out at all. I let out the breath I’d been holding since the first green flower peeked over the edge of the box. Stunned by my entire family’s miraculous composure, I went into the bathroom to try on a pair of Dad’s pants. They were quite a bit too big, but Mom pinned them in twenty-two places and promised she’d make them fit well enough.

It turned out I could wear Charlie’s old vest, but he’d need new clothes to fit over his expanded chest and stomach.

“See, I told you. I’m way too big to be Tiny Tim this year. Can’t we just skip that part?” Charlie begged.

“Or you could just skip the junk food for a while,” Mom suggested.

“I’m not going to get skinny by next week no matter what I eat,” Charlie said.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Um, if you really need a Tiny Tim, maybe
I
could do it.”

We all looked at him—he was certainly the correct size. “You
want
to be Tiny Tim?” I asked him.

“Sure. I mean, people call me that anyway. And I’ve always wanted to act.”

“There’s not much acting involved,” Charlie told him. “Mostly you ride on Dad’s shoulders, hobble around on a crutch, and then deliver your one line.”

“That would be great!” Dad said happily, pounding Sebastian on the back. “That’s what we need around here, some new blood, somebody with some enthusiasm.”

Laura and Charlie and I exchanged looks.
Great
. Now Dad would expect us all to get infected with Sebastian’s “enthusiasm.”

“In fact,” Dad continued, “I was thinking we need a new script this year. We don’t have any little kids anymore—you could all memorize more lines. I was thinking I might take a look at the original
Christmas Carol
and do a longer adaptation of it, something we could really sink our teeth into!”

No, no
. This was bad.

“Oh, Joe, it’s awfully late to start a big project
like that,” Mom said, trying to mask a look of terror. “I mean, it takes time to memorize something new. Why don’t we just stick to what we know—”

“I’ll write one!” I said, the words forming already in my head. “We won’t have to memorize it. I’ll give everybody a script that night. It’ll be fun.”

Heads swiveled toward me in shock. “
You’re
going to write it?” Laura asked.

“I didn’t know you were interested in playwriting,” Dad said.

“Oh, yeah,” Sebastian said. “Grady is quite a scriptwriter!” His eyes were sparkling, and I knew he thought it was going to be a joint project. We’d see. I had a plan in mind already.

“Well, okay,” Dad said. “That’s terrific. I’m glad our seasonal shenanigans have inspired you.”

Oh, they certainly had. I could hardly wait to get started.

Sebastian was duly impressed with my room. “Jeez, don’t your parents ever make you throw stuff away?”

I guess I hadn’t realized I was as big a pack rat as my Dad. “Sebastian, my parents never
let
me throw anything away. You never know what might be useful someday.”

He’d begun to burrow through the box of old birthday cards on my desk when he suddenly remembered his mission.

“Wait, you still haven’t told me about Kita. What happened? All you said was something about sharing a french fry.”

“Yeah, that was the high point.”

“A french fry was the high point?”

I nodded. “She ate half and fed me the other half.”

Sebastian’s eyes got huge. “That’s amazing. You ate it from her
hand
?”

“Yup.”

“So,
then
what?”

“So, then she started talking about Russ, and why she liked him so much, and why he annoyed her so much, and why she wanted to break up with him, and why she knew she would miss him terribly. Russ, Russ, Russ, for half an hour.”

Sebastian digested the information. “That’s not so good.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Did you give her any advice?”

“Me? What do I know about breaking up with somebody? Plus, I don’t want to give her advice—that’s what a girlfriend gives you. I don’t want to be her girlfriend.”

“You should have fed
her
a french fry,” he suggested.

I shook my head. “It had already been done.”

“So, you just sat there and listened?”

“And ate the rest of the fries.”

“Man, that’s a sad story.”

“You’re telling me.”

He sighed and then perked up again. “Well, next time you’ll be more prepared. And by then she’ll be over Russ, too. This was just the first step.”

Was he kidding? “Sebastian, she’s never going out with me again. It was a fluke, a one-time event, not a first step.”

“You never know,” he said, smiling. “I might have another idea.”

S
ebastian and I worked on the new script all afternoon. I had to fill him in on what Dad’s original scene had been like—he hadn’t actually watched it since he was a kid. Like I said, there wasn’t much dialogue in the original. We mostly mimed our great joy as Dad Cratchit stumbled though the door with Tiny Tim/Chubby Charlie on his shoulders. I guess we were the Cratchits after Scrooge had seen all the ghosts and been frightened into kindness; Bob Cratchit received a living wage now and we could enjoy the season these days. In fact, I’m sure Dickens’s impoverished characters never dreamed of having this much junk decorating their parlor.

We would start with Dad and Charlie taking off their hats and mufflers, and then we’d all sit around the Christmas tree while Dad got the fire going. Laura would hand out a wrapped gift to each of us, and we’d open them one at a time—the same presents every year. Dad got a pipe, which
he pretended to light and smoke, drawing in a deep breath of apparently delightful pollution. Mom opened a box to reveal a new bonnet, which she modeled for the crowd before laying it lovingly back in its tissue paper for another year. Laura and I both got gloves, which we pretended were our hearts’ desire, pulling them on immediately and playing a little clapping game. And Tiny Charlie always got two gifts, because, of course, he was beloved
and
sick: a pair of socks and a bag of candy. I thought it was funny that Dad’s script called for Charlie to share his candy with the rest of us; obviously that’s what selfless little Tim would have done, but Chunky Charlie would have scarfed the entire bag down by himself and screamed if anybody else came close to it.

There were a few extra gifts, because sometimes Aunt Gail joined us, and Eve had been a regular participant the past few years too. Gail always got an embroidery hoop and some colorful thread, while Eve rejoiced over an old math textbook that she pretended was
Romeo and Juliet
. You couldn’t tell from outside what the book really was anyway. It was upsetting to remember how much Eve had enjoyed those Christmas spectacles. More than we ever did, I’m sure. Her own father was usually overworked and grumpy; he regularly
lectured everyone in sight about how Christmas was merely a ploy to make retailers rich and him poor. Under normal circumstances Eve thought our dad was a prince; at Christmastime she thought he was a god for his devotion to the kinds of rituals that could never occur at her house.

After the gift opening Mom and Dad had a few lines to say about the joys of being surrounded by one’s family, and how we’d put aside our worldly worries to rejoice in the season. Then we’d all trek happily into the dining room (except Charlie, who limped in), miming great hunger even though five thirty was an hour earlier than our usual dinner. Laura and I would disappear into the kitchen and bring out steaming dishes (from the microwave) of mashed potatoes, green beans, and biscuits. Finally, Mom would come from the kitchen, holding a platter before her on which an enormous turkey stood in for the goose of the Dickens story. Dad always ran to help her set the heavy plate in the middle of the table, and they exchanged a few lines about how this was surely the finest goose ever we’d had.

We’d take our seats around the table and join hands. Dad’s baritone would burst into a prayer of thanks, for the season, for the glorious food laid before him, and for the gathering of his most beloved around him. I have to admit, I sometimes
got a little chill during this part. Oh, I was embarrassed by it too—what teenager wouldn’t be? But Dad meant it; he wasn’t acting. Or, he was acting, but he meant it too. He loved doing this, declaring his devotion to us, and his passion for Christmas, in front of half the town.

By this time it was almost over. I’d get up and wander over to the drapery pull while Dad took up a carving knife and dug into the turkey. Laura and the guests held up their plates for the first slice, and Charlie stood up on his chair, holding onto the back to support his gimpy leg. He had his little cane in his hand and would raise it high over his head and declare, “God bless us, every one!” I’d count to ten so we could appreciate the applause from outside for a minute; then I’d slowly pull the curtains closed. Dad would turn off the inside microphones and get the plastic carolers warbling again. And then we could all eat dinner in peace.

The whole thing took less than twenty minutes, usually, but somehow it had become the most important event of our season, overshadowing everything else. When we were little kids, it was fun to show off for the neighborhood, but the older we got, the more ridiculous it all seemed, and the more humiliating. I guess Mom always disliked it. But whatever our feelings, the event
defined our year, measuring how much we’d grown by both the number of inches our hems had to be let out and by our ability to understand the drama and enact our roles.

This year the roles themselves would grow. They would more perfectly fit their actors, who would, with any luck, be bidding their final farewell to the entire enterprise.

I did most of the writing myself, but Sebastian was surprisingly good with dialogue too. Several times we had to back up and tone things down a bit so Dad wouldn’t end up looking like a fool in front of the neighbors.

“Is this too much?” Sebastian would ask.

“Maybe,” I’d answer.

“You know, your dad isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“Can you think of a better way to get him to stop torturing us?”

“Maybe you could just ask him.”

I shook my head. “My mother is Jewish and she’s been doing this for ten years already. We’re all too gutless.”

When we got to the ending, though, Sebastian stood firm. “You cannot take out the last line. Your dad said I could be Tiny Tim, and I want to say that line!”