Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (8 page)

 

The rain starts after lunch

drizzling slowly

down the kitchen windows

making it warmer inside

somehow.

 

Fortunately

making the hanging of

free kitten posters

impractical

for now.

 

We pile on the couch

to watch the play.

 

We're like an ice-cream sundae—

Dad lying on one side

me on the other.

Dad ignoring the

marshmallow

topping.

 

 

Kelli plays a different Wendy

than I did.

Older or louder or something.

 

When Wendy offers Peter a kiss

and Peter holds out his hand . . .

 

Kelli should have paused longer

before handing him the thimble.

 

It would take time to think

how not to shame him—

for not knowing what a kiss was.

 

I watch closely for a while

hoping to see her make other mistakes

even though I know that's mean.

 

I think she got the mothering part down

but I was more graceful in the flying

and I feel like I was more

Peter Pan's Wendy.

 

I watch to see if Garrett gives Kelli

the same sweet mischievous glances

he gave me.

 

The camera is too far away

to tell.

 

 

 

I watch as much as I can stand.

But when Peter hands the thimble kiss

back to Wendy

and they turn away

with tortured looks

 

that is enough.

 

I wanted to share tortured looks

with Peter.

I wanted to fly out my window

and get shot down by the Lost Boys.

I wanted to fight with Tinker Bell

and get captured by Hook

and walk the pirates' plank.

 

I wanted Peter

to fly in my window

 

one

last

time.

 

 

I hit Stop
on the DVD

and throw the remote.

 

Dad just looks at me

then he pats my leg and says,

Well, enough of that, I guess.

He goes into his study

muttering something about test grades.

 

I sigh and slide onto the floor

to collect the batteries

that fell out of the remote.

 

I had a favorite line in the play

when I sprawled leaning like this

on the stage.

 

I say it softly, now.

Don't go, Peter,

I know such lots of stories.

 

But Peter Pan is gone

 

and there's no

getting that chapter back.

 

 

 

I throw myself on the couch.

 

Serendipity bounces up in the air

from the impact and then

gets a crazy look on her face.

 

She races out of the room

slides around in the kitchen.

She can't get traction.

 

She needs sneakers

on her slippery feet.

 

In an instant she's back.

 

She takes a mighty leap

and lands like a Velcro jumper

limbs splayed

against the side of the couch.

 

She's stuck.

 

I can't help laughing,

she looks so ridiculous.

 

I wish I had my camera handy.

I would catch this moment forever

put it on the mantel

 

make it part of our family memory.

 

 

 

Dad leans out of his study door.

Better start making those posters,

don't you think?

 

It's like he can't stand to hear laughter

in this house

 

like he has to squash

any happiness.

 

And now I have to advertise

a free kitten

to whoever is able

to keep her.

 

Anyone not like me.

 

This was a stupid idea.

 

I wonder how I can make Serendipity

seem undesirable.

 

Impossible.

 

But there might be

something I could do. . . .

 

 

 

It comes as a brilliant flash—

I will make the posters

with the right phone number

and show them to Dad.

 

But when I put up the posters

I'll change the number one

to a four

 

so anyone

who dares to call

will get the wrong number.

 

This should foil

anyone who tries to take

my slipper-sized kitten

away.

 

I surprise myself

with my own deception.

I never used to be sneaky.

 

But now there's a cat at stake.

 

A cat who's still stuck

to the side of the couch.

 

I take a pretend picture

and mime placing a tiny print

across the room on the mantel

 

nestled among the rest

of the family pictures.

 

 

 

I suddenly remember

the pictures of family life

I need for school.

I glance back at the mantel

to see if those will do.

 

There is a picture of toddler me in a pumpkin patch

 

seven-year-old me in a redwood grove

 

kindergarten me on Santa's lap

 

baby me propped against a teddy bear

on our same old blue couch.

 

I unlatch Serendipity from the couch

and take her with me to look closer.

 

No pictures of Mom

no pictures of Dad

 

only pictures of me

from before Mom died.

 

In the back of my mind is a memory—

a silver frame set here

that Mom used to change every year

with a new family picture.

 

I wonder when that picture disappeared.

Where did that family go?

 

And why am I

the only one

on this mantel?