Calli Be Gold Read online

  “Oh, fine,” she sighs, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “I guess it’s just me and this big mess.”

  I feel bad when I see the pile of dirty dishes stacked by the sink. “Do you want me to help you?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer right away. She looks a little sad. Then her voice comes out kind of dreamy-sounding. “I read somewhere that the average mother washes something like one hundred thousand dishes in her life,” she says. “Or was it three hundred thousand?” Her shoulders sag. “I can’t remember.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Either way, that’s a lot of dishes.… Mom, I’ll help you. I don’t have that much homework.”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” She gives me a weak smile. “Go on. I’m fine.” She looks away from me and turns on the water at the sink.

  I take a last glance at her, drag my backpack up to my room, park it on the floor, and pull out the sheet of math problems due tomorrow. Before I start, I look around my room. You could say that it is in a state of transition right now. I have Becca’s old furniture, because she is redoing her room so it can be a teenage hangout kind of place. Mom is letting her order lots of new things from a Web site. She says I can do that too when I’m thirteen, but for now, it’s fine for me to use Becca’s old dresser and desk. With my old bed and curtains. And a bookshelf that Alex wasn’t using anymore. Claire describes the look of my room as “unique,” but I know that’s just a nice way of saying nothing matches and it doesn’t make any sense.

  I start working on the first math problem when I remember the improv brochure. I pull it out of my pocket and examine the people on the front in their snug black turtlenecks. The background is black too, so it almost looks like their heads are floating in space. Maybe they want it to look that way.

  I go into my closet, remembering that I have a long-sleeved black shirt. I pull it from the hanger, slide it over the shirt I’m wearing, then look at myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door. I hold up the brochure next to my face. Do I look like an improv person? Is this “it,” like Dad said?

  The girl I see in the mirror just looks like the same old me, except in a black shirt. In-between hair—not really curly or straight, but sort of wavy. Brown eyes, a random freckle in the middle of my cheek, and a pretty good smile. Not extraordinarily beautiful, but not ugly either. Average, I guess.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. I rip off the black shirt and toss it, along with the improv brochure, into my closet and quickly shut the door.

  Mom comes in holding a stack of folded laundry and places it on my bed. Her face looks a little droopy and tired but not quite as sad as before. She takes off her glasses, cleans them on the edge of her sweater, then puts them back on. “So how’s the homework going?” she asks.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  She glances at my worksheet. “What are you working on?”

  “Math.”

  “Can’t help you there.” She smiles. “That’s Dad’s department.”

  “I don’t really need help, but thanks anyway.” I worry she’s going to open my closet door and see that I threw the improv brochure and the black shirt on the floor.

  Instead, she sighs and glances out my window at the shadowy sky. She goes to the window, pulls down the blinds, then pauses near the dresser. “It gets dark so early this time of year.” She shakes her head and reaches for my T-shirts, neatly folded on top of the laundry stack. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she tells me. “I want to get these clothes put away. Then you can get back to your homework.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  She opens a dresser drawer and lays the T-shirts inside, then opens another and puts in several pairs of rolled-up socks.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “Mmm?” she replies, closing the sock drawer.

  “How come Dad never talks to Aunt Marjorie or Uncle Joel?”

  “Well,” she says, shrugging, “siblings sometimes don’t stay as close when they get older and have their own lives and families. I try to keep in touch with my brother, but we’re both so busy.”

  I think about that for a minute. “Claire’s mom sees her sister all the time.”

  “She lives right here in Southbrook, though. It’s harder to stay close when you all live in different cities.”

  “Oh,” I say. I want to ask her if Aunt Marjorie’s really a lunatic, like Grandma Gold claims, but she picks up a pair of jeans and says, “These are Becca’s. Bring them to her room for me, would you?”

  As I trudge down the hall toward my sister’s room, I’m prepared for a closed door and her irritated voice when I knock, but instead, her door is open and she’s not in there. I lay the jeans on her bed, then hear a chirp from her computer. A message pops up on her screen from Tay412, who I know is her friend Taylor from the Synchronettes. What happened with Ruthless? the message says.

  About one second after I’ve read the message, Becca storms into her room. “What are you doing in here?” she shrieks. “Get out of my room. Are you spying on me?” She bolts over to her computer and turns off the screen.

  “I wasn’t spying on you,” I answer. “Mom sent me in with your jeans.” I point to the bed.

  “So why were you looking at my computer?” she demands, hands on her hips.

  “I w-wasn’t …,” I stutter.

  Becca flips her hair and flings a hand at me. “You can leave now.”

  When I return to my room, Mom has finished putting away my laundry but she’s sitting on my bed. She looks at me vacantly, like she forgot where she was. Then she puts her hands on either side of her and pushes herself up. “See, this is why I never sit down during the day,” she says, laughing. “Once I do, I can’t get up, and I still have so much more to do tonight.”

  She absentmindedly picks up a photograph from my dresser, then puts it down. “Okay,” she says, clapping her hands. “Enough time-wasting. You get back to your homework, and I’ll get back to my never-ending goal of keeping this house in order.”

  When she leaves, I glance at the photograph she picked up. The picture is of the five of us, last year on Mom’s birthday. I remember that Grandma Gold took it. I’ve heard people say you can tell a lot from a photograph, and I see how true that is.

  We’re all around the kitchen table. Becca had just come from skating, so she is standing right in front, in her bright purple velour practice dress. For some reason, she draped one of her skating medals around her neck. Alex is in his basketball uniform, and my dad is in his tie and white shirt. They’re on either side of Mom, who is showing off her cake. Everyone is smiling. Everyone except me, that is. I’m on the other side of Dad, sort of tucked behind him, and the only parts of me that are visible are half of my face, a shoulder, and an arm. I never realized it before, but it looks like I’m not really part of the picture.

  It looks like I’m hiding.

  I gather up the shirt from my closet floor and try to imagine myself wearing it in the family photo. Would the whole of me be showing if I was a successful improv star, proudly posing along with the rest of them?

  My shoulders drop and I go back to my closet, hang up the shirt, then bury the brochure in my underwear drawer. I pull the big Webster’s dictionary from my bookshelf and look up the word “muse,” which, it turns out, is a Greek goddess and also a source of inspiration.

  I doubt that the improv place is where I will find inspiration, but if I know Dad, he’s not going to let it go until I give it a try.

  I start again on the first math problems, then stop with my pencil in midair and look back at the family photo. What did Dad say before, in the kitchen? To be, or not to be, that is the question.…

  But the real question, I realize, is why must I do something to be somebody in this family?

  he next week, as my class is walking down the hallway toward the second-grade rooms for our first real PHP time, my stomach feels all jumbled and nervous. Picking Noah really was such a dumb move. He’s weird, doesn’t talk much, and obviou
sly has some issues. What was I thinking?

  When we get to Mrs. Bezner’s room, most of the kids wave or shout hi to their peers, who wave excitedly and shout back in return. I spot Noah sitting at his desk. He isn’t covering up his face this time, though; he’s actually looking toward the doorway. He seems a little … hopeful. But when he sees me, he quickly drops his head onto the desk and pulls both of his arms around it. His hair looks the same, like it’s never been combed in his entire life.

  “Today,” Mrs. Bezner announces as the fifth graders line up on one side of the room, “we decided a nice way to start our Peer Helper Program would be to have the peer teams choose a book to read together, and then discuss the story and how it relates to your own life experiences. See if you can discover some things you have in common with each other.” She gestures to a bookcase at the back of the room. “Fifth graders, go ahead and find your peers, and then why don’t we have this side of the room go to the bookcase first.” She points to the side of the classroom that doesn’t include Noah.

  The fifth graders start making their way to their second-grade partners. As I approach Noah, I try to act confident, and paste a big smile on my face, just in case anyone looks at me. I take a seat at an empty desk next to him. I notice that he’s not wearing his jacket today. He has an itchy-looking green sweater on. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

  “Hi.” I tip my head toward him. “Me again.”

  Noah doesn’t answer, so I continue. “We’ve never officially met. My name’s Calli, and yours is …?”

  Finally, he turns and glances at me distrustfully through his glasses, which look dirty. They’re sitting crookedly on his nose so only one eyebrow is showing.

  “Noah,” I state. “Right? So, Noah … what kinds of books do you like to read?”

  He frowns and scrunches his mouth up. “I’m not good at reading.”

  I’m so surprised he answered me that I stare at him. He turns away and crosses his arms like I made him mad.

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I can read to you.”

  He gives a little shrug.

  Mrs. Bezner tells the rest of us to go to the bookcase.

  “Should we go over and choose a book?” I ask, scooting my chair closer to him.

  Noah shrugs again; then he mumbles, “You know what else? I can’t make stuff.”

  “Like art projects, you mean?”

  He nods in a jerky sort of way.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I’m not good at that.”

  “So.” I rest my chin on my hand and tap my cheek. “You’re not good at reading, and you’re not good at making stuff.”

  “Yeah.” His hands are shaking a bit and he starts wringing them again, like he did the day I asked to be his peer helper.

  “Well.” I try jabbing him lightly with my elbow, like I’m joking. “There must be something you’re good at.”

  “There isn’t,” Noah Zullo says, and in one quick motion, he darts under his desk.

  “Noah?” I peek under the desk. I guess he didn’t think my joke was funny.

  “I don’t need a peer helper,” he croaks, and wraps his arms around his knees. “Leave me alone.”

  I pull myself back up and glance around the room. No one seems to realize that Noah is under his desk and I am now sitting by myself. We never even got a book. Claire has a very serious look on her face while she is listening to her peer, a small boy with a buttoned-up blue shirt like Dad wears to work. Wanda and her peer, a girl with a frizzy ponytail, are whispering to each other. Tanya is turning the pages of a book while Ashley is snuggled next to her. The two of them are wearing matching pink headbands.

  “Is everything all right?”

  I look up to see Mrs. Bezner standing over me. She bends down and spots Noah, who scoots backward so he’s even farther underneath the desk.

  Mrs. Bezner gives me a kind smile. “Noah’s been having some trouble adjusting,” she confides in a low voice. “Do you think you’ll be able to work with him?”

  I feel a small hand wrap itself around my ankle. Not angrily or tightly, just sort of like it’s looking for something to hold on to.

  Mrs. Bezner is waiting for my answer and that little hand is not letting go.

  “Everything’s fine,” I tell her as I duck under the desk too. I poke my head out. “Noah and I decided that it would be more fun and private to work under his desk today.”

  Mrs. Bezner nods. “I don’t have a problem with creative learning,” she says as she walks away.

  Noah lets go of my ankle as another pair of feet approaches. These feet are wearing socks with butterflies on them. Mrs. Lamont. I point to the socks, then pinch my nose together with my thumb and forefinger and wave my hand in front of my face.

  Noah laughs.

  I let go of my nose and turn to him. “Did you just laugh?”

  “No.”

  “I swear I heard you laugh just now.”

  “It’s bad to swear,” Noah says.

  “Swear, swear, swear!”

  As a second laugh erupts from Noah, my heart feels all full and bursting and good.

  I’m about to tell Noah about Mrs. Lamont and her insect socks but he stops laughing and a shadow crosses his face. He turns away from me and pulls at a thread that dangles from the front of his sweater. He gives the thread a fierce tug, rips it off, and winds it tightly around his finger. The tip of his finger starts to turn red.

  The two of us sit in silence as he wraps and unwraps the thread. I glance around in the dim space under the desk and spot a chewed-up pencil on the floor behind Noah. Pairs of shoes scurry past and bits of conversation drift down from above. Then Mrs. Lamont announces, “Five more minutes, everyone.”

  I let out a sigh. “We never read a book like we were supposed to today, did we?”

  Noah unwinds the thread, sticks it back on the front of his sweater, and puts his arms around his knees again. “I don’t care,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about reading books, or peer helpers, because they’re dumb and stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  I want to reach out and smooth down his spiky, messy hair, but instead, I ease myself out from under the desk and join the rest of my class.

  As the fifth graders file out of the room, Wanda and Claire turn to me.

  “Mine is just the cutest little girl you ever saw,” Wanda says.

  “I feel so important,” Claire confides. “So … mature.”

  Tanya is taking long strides with her long legs, and I hear her brag that if there is a peer helper award at the end of this program, she and Ashley will surely receive it, because they’re “so connected.”

  I’m even more quiet than usual. I don’t feel mature or connected or anything except worried.

  really do love that I’m a walker. Walking home gives me time to think, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Besides when I’m sleeping, this is just about the only part of the day that I’m by myself. I’m nervous about next year, when I’ll take the bus to junior high. The bus always seems so crowded and noisy and crazy. Kind of like my family. I doubt I’ll be able to get much thinking done on the bus.

  What I think about on my way home is Noah. I wonder why he is the way he is and if this peer helper thing is going to work out. With what happened today, I don’t know how it possibly can. Should I talk to Mrs. Lamont before the next PHP time? Or maybe I should talk to Mrs. Bezner. I have an awful feeling that this is going to turn out like my attempts at gymnastics and ballet and violin.

  My backpack is heavy today, and I shift it to the other shoulder. If I did talk to Mrs. Lamont or Mrs. Bezner, what would I say, anyway? After all, I asked to be paired with Noah. I could have been with a normal second grader. Why did I say I knew Noah?

  I let out a big sigh and kick a rock. The rock tumbles ahead of me and lands on someone’s lawn. Another thing about walking: you notice things you wouldn’t otherwise. As I continue down the sidewalk, I
see that pretty much all the leaves are off the trees now, and there are paper bags stuffed with them in front of almost every house. Somehow this doesn’t seem right. Am I the only person in Southbrook who likes fall leaves better when they’re scattered on the grass? I guess people want their yards to be clean and neat now that it’s November. Everyone has started saying, “Winter’s just around the corner,” as if there’s a big snowstorm lurking on the next block.

  When the wind kicks up, I’m secretly glad Mom insisted I take my warmer jacket this morning. Some houses still have their Halloween decorations up. There are a couple of houses in our neighborhood that have the skeletons and pumpkins out until practically the winter, and Mom calls those houses leavers—people who just leave stuff outside all the time, like they’ve forgotten about it. Mom can’t stand that.

  When I reach my house (our decorations are neatly packed away until next year), I shut the door behind me. “I’m home!” I call out.

  Mom answers cheerfully from the kitchen, where she’s sticking yellow Post-its on the Calendar. Calli-color Post-its. I drop my backpack.

  “How was school?” she says brightly.

  “What are you doing?” The yellow Post-its all say Calli—Improv—4 to 5 p.m.

  She whirls around. “Guess what? I signed you up for the improv class today.”

  “You did?”

  “Dad and I talked it over last night, Calli, and we were concerned that if we let you think about it too long, you’d never do it. We really want you to give this a try.” She grins at me. “Like Dad said, this might be it! You know, your passion! Your talent!”

  “But, Mom, I told Dad I would consider it.… I thought it was my decision.”

  She shrugs. “Look, honey. It’s just four classes. We’d like you to give it a chance and then see what you think. The first one is next week.”

  Wanda always says she can tell my feelings just by looking at my face, and I know right now my face is showing a whole collection of emotions: exasperation and frustration and surprise and worry. Mom must know this about me too, because when she glances over, she suddenly gets angry.