Remember Dippy Read online

  Remember Dippy

  Copyright © 2013 by Shirley Reva Vernick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for reviews. For information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901 or call at (915) 838-1625. Printed in the United States.

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vernick, Shirley Reva.

  Remember Dippy / by Shirley Reva Vernick.—First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: While reluctantly agreeing to help out with his autistic older cousin during the last summer before high school, Johnny discovers a new friend in his cousin, as well as an appreciation for what really matters in a person.

  ISBN 978-1-935955-48-1 (Hardback); ISBN 978-1-935955-58-0 (Paper); E-ISBN 978-1-935955-49-8

  [1. Cousins—Fiction. 2. Autism—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.V5974Re 2013

  [Fic]--dc23

  2012043174

  Book and cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio

  Layout by the House Compositor: she’s learning from the best!

  Thanks to Richard Horak for his heroic help with the cover.

  Electronic edition handcrafted at Pajarito Studios.

  For Annie and Zoe

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Hull, Vermont, should be named Dull, Vermont. More cows than houses. No mall, no roller rink, not even a mini-putt. So I knew my thirteenth summer was going to be a boring one like all the others. What I didn’t know was that it was going to be a rotten summer. My mother didn’t drop the bomb until I got home after the last day of school.

  Mom was making her famous black-cherry iced tea when I strolled into the kitchen at quarter past three. “Hi,” I said with my nose already in the ’fridge. I grabbed a pint of fudge ripple, snatched a spoon off the drying rack, and dove in.

  “Hey Johnny, happy summer vacation,” she said. “When you come up for air, I’ve got some good news.”

  “What’s up?” I asked, hopping up on the counter.

  “I got a new client this week. A big one.”

  “Sweet,” I said. Mom is an interior decorator, and since she and Dad split two years ago, she’s really been trying to amp up her business. “Whose house?” “Not a house.” She stirred the iced tea hard, like she was nervous or something. “It’s not a house and, well, it’s not around here. It’s a museum, an entire museum, in Upstate New York. I’ll need to go there. Be there. Most of the summer probably.”

  “New York? We’re going to New York—as in, a real city with real things to do?”

  “Not us, Johnny. Me. It wouldn’t work for you to—”

  My chest clamped. “So you’re shipping me off to Dad’s.” My father lives in Northern Maine now, a nothing place like Hull except that I don’t have any friends there. And ever since my father met his girlfriend Kim, it’s not much fun when I visit—which isn’t very often.

  “No, don’t worry,” Mom said. “Your dad isn’t even available. He’s going on a cruise next month, remember? You’ll stay with my sister.”

  I felt myself start to relax. Aunt Collette is awesome, plus she’s local, not to mention that she manages the 7-11, where slushies are on the house for family. Mom could do her thing all summer, and I could do mine. A perfect plan.

  Or so I thought.

  “There’s more good news, Johnny.” She tried to smile, but she didn’t really mean it, so it came out as a grimace. “I found you a job.”

  I plunged the spoon into the ice cream and raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job?”

  “Helping out with your cousin.”

  “What?” I jumped off the counter.

  “Just while Collette’s at work, that’s all. Then you’re free.”

  “But Mom—”

  “No buts. If you don’t watch him, Collette will have to take in a college student from Burlington to do it, and then she won’t have room for you, and then I won’t be able to go to New York. It’s the only way, Johnny. Now go pack. I’m dropping you off at five.”

  That is how the perfect plan turned into the perfect disaster.

  Now, before you go thinking I’m a selfish brat, you’ve got to understand about my cousin Remember. Yes, that’s right, his name is Remember—straight out of some New Age baby-naming book. He’s two years older than me, and he’s what polite people call different. I call him weird. He doesn’t have friends. He looks the wrong way when you speak to him. He either talks a mile a minute or not at all. He’s stubborn and high-strung. I could go on and on. Not that it’s his fault. Mom says he’s wired differently. Aunt Collette says he’s just who he is. But fault or no fault, he’s hard even to be around, much less look after. This was definitely going to be a disaster.

  I trudged to my room and stuffed my clothes, GameCube, iPod, toothbrush, and the remains of a sack of Hershey’s Kisses into my duffel bag. Then I wedged the bag and my bike into the car and waited for Mom, who was standing in the driveway talking with Mr. Boots, the cranky old man who lives in the other half of our duplex. At least I wouldn’t have him nagging me to pipe down my music these next couple of months.

  We drove in silence to my aunt’s house at the bottom of a little dead end road. Mom parked on the street in front of the mailbox, which used to say THE DIPPY’S in those hardware store adhesive letters. But after last month’s big rainstorm, it said T E DIPP, which inspired some kids to start calling my cousin The Dipp. I’m pretty sure he didn’t notice, though. He doesn’t really have anything to do with the other kids in town. He takes an extra early bus to a special school in Peak Landing, gets back late, and then he’s mostly at home, except when he’s hanging out at our house.

  “All right,” said Mom, turning off the engine. I hopped out and started unloading my stuff. When I finished, she was still sitting there, gripping the steering wheel.

  “You coming in?” I asked through the open door.

  “Look, Johnny, you are okay with this, right? I know this is sudden, and a whole summer is a long time…”

  Sudden is right. Sudden and, if you ask me, unfair. But Mom needed—needed and wanted—this project bad, so I didn’t really have a choice, did I, not unless I wanted to ruin her chance for the big time. “I’ll cope,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I meant it.

  Her face softened, and she finally let go of the wheel.

  After I stashed my bike in the garage, we walked into the house without knocking. No one was in sight, but we could hear water running, and in a minute Aunt Collette bounced down the stairs, yanking her 7-11 shirt on over her tie-dye tank top and shaking her long dark hair into place. She’s only a few years younger than Mom, but she looks a generation younger.

  “Hello, sweetness!” Aunt Collette gripped my arms and kissed the top of my head. “That new punk I hired called in sick, so I’ve gotta cover for a while till Pete can get there. Dang, I hate the night shift.” She pulled a tube of cherry-Popsicle colored lipstick out of her jeans and started applying a coat.

  “Maybe you could hire me,” I brightened. “Then you can be at home more.” Working the 7-11 counter sound
ed a lot more fun, and way easier, than dealing with my cousin.

  “Sorry, hon,” she ruffled my hair. “We don’t hire anyone under eighteen. But don’t worry—I’ll be back in time for Reality Island, and I’ll bring a pizza home with me. How’s that sound?”

  Mom didn’t look thrilled, but instead of protesting, she hugged me good-bye and reminded me to floss. “You still need to cut our grass every week,” she added. “The mower’s in the garage. Just ask Mr. Boots to let you in.”

  “I’ll remind him,” Aunt Collette said, walking Mom to the front door. “Johnny, make yourself at home while I walk your mother out. You’ve got the amethyst room.”

  All the rooms in my aunt’s house are actually blue—except for the doorframes, which are painted different colors, and she calls the rooms by that color, so you feel like you’re living in the White House. Aunt Collette is quirky that way, but if it helps her deal with being a single parent to a weird son, I say go for it.

  I carried my bag upstairs, plopped it next to the guest room bed, and considered myself officially settled in. The only thing left to do was say hi to the ferrets, who live on top of the spare dresser. Linguini and Jambalaya clucked at me and stuck their twitching noses through the cage slots. I gave them each a sliver of a Hershey’s Kiss—chocolate is their favorite—and headed back downstairs.

  “Now,” said Aunt Collette when she came back inside, “all we need is Remember. Dang, where is that boy—Remember?”

  Suddenly, the door to the entertainment center opened, and my cousin climbed out. “I’m here, Ma,” he grinned. He’s small for fifteen, but that cupboard must have been a tight squeeze even for him. He was crumpled from the top of his wavy brown hair to the bottom of his plaid shorts, and his skinny knees were pinched pink. “I was in my special place,” he said, pushing his hair away from his forehead and pinning his owlish gray eyes on me. Something about him—the way he held himself, the big round eyes, the lack of cool—made him look younger than he was, as if he’d only borrowed his clothes from a real fifteen-year-old. “That’s my special place.”

  “Well, your cousin doesn’t know about special places, so please try to stay in view while I’m gone, okay?”

  “Yup,” he nodded.

  “All right,” she said slowly, like she wasn’t convinced. “Johnny, you’re in charge now. The store number’s on the ’fridge. Help yourself to anything.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I told her, and I forced myself to smile. But what I was really thinking was that maybe Mom was right: a whole summer is a really long time.

  Chapter 2

  “So, Mem,” I said once we were alone. I always call my cousin that. My aunt says when I was little and couldn’t say my R’s, I used to call him ’Memba, and from there it got shortened to Mem. “You want to help me unpack?”

  “Nope.” He plunked himself on the floor and turned on the TV.

  Okay, no problem, I didn’t really feel like unpacking anyway. Instead, I nabbed a bottle of bubbly water from the kitchen and joined Mem, who was watching Jeopardy. From the second I sprawled on the couch, he didn’t take his eyes off my water bottle, so finally I asked if he wanted a drink.

  “Do you want a drink?” he echoed, which is one of his more annoying habits. I used to think he was mocking me when he parroted my questions until I realized he does it to everyone sooner or later. “Want a drink?” he repeated and ran to the kitchen. He came back a minute later with a can of Dr. Pepper, which must have been his own hidden stash because I sure hadn’t seen any sodas when I was nosing around the ’fridge.

  I learned something about Mem while we watched the contestants butt brains: he can read. I was never sure what they taught him at that special school, but there he was, reading the answers right along with Alex Trebek. He didn’t get any of the questions, but heck, neither did I. Oh, and another thing I learned about my cousin: he can belch like a truck driver.

  There’s not much else to tell about my first night. Aunt Collette got home around eight with a large pizza, as promised. I didn’t recognize the topping—it looked like squashed marshmallows, but Aunt Collette said it was tofu. Tofu, really? You’d think it would be illegal to put something so healthy, so rubbery on top of a pizza. At least the spongy squares were easy to pick off. Soon we were flopping on the couch, chowing slices, watching reality TV and debating what movie to watch On Demand (Mem decided on School of Rock). It was after midnight before we called it quits. I slept in my clothes on top of the made bed that night, looking forward to sleeping in.

  • • •

  Fat chance. The Crayola crayon clock on the wall said 7:50 when Aunt Collette flew in the next morning. “Rise ’n’ shine, darling,” she sang. “Sorry I have to wake you, but I’m due at the store. Remember’s been up for a couple hours already.”

  “Doing what?” I yawned.

  “Watching The Weather Channel. It’s his favorite, that and Jeopardy. Listen, I gotta go, but don’t worry, I don’t always have to work this early. See you around three.” She hit the stairs before I even sat up.

  Sure enough, Mem was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor watching Martin the Meteorologist explain the weather map. He didn’t even glance my way when I walked in.

  “You eat yet?” I asked, my voice scratchy from getting up too early.

  “You eat yet?” he said, then whispered, “Eat yet?”

  “Well, do you want something?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “I’ll take that for a yes.”

  No one’s ever going to accuse Aunt Collette of keeping a well-stocked kitchen, that’s for sure—unless you crave things like plain yogurt, soy milk and flaxseed cereal, that is. I was about to give up when I happened to open the vegetable crisper and struck gold: a carton of Twinkies and a six-pack of strawberry milk. I gathered up the booty and brought it into the living room, where I set it between Mem and me on the floor. Mem broke off the tip of a Twinkie and sucked the cream filling out, then threw the spongy shell back in the box and took out another one.

  “Mem, that’s disgusting.”

  “I only like the middles,” he said with a mouthful of white stuff.

  “Yeah, but can you put your rejects somewhere else?”

  He looked at me wide-eyed, like he’d never thought of that, then hurried to deliver the shells to the kitchen. “Done,” he called, wiping a cloud of crumbs into the air as he returned. “Done done dee done.”

  “Good. Hey, let’s watch something else.” I reached for the remote.

  “No!” he yelled. And I mean yelled. His face turned red and mad, and he snatched the remote before I could touch it. “I’m watching this.”

  “Fine—chill, will you?” Talk about touchy. I wondered what would happen if I rearranged his bedroom furniture or something.

  At least I had Niko’s Pizza Palace to look forward to. A couple of my friends were meeting there for lunch. If I stretched out my shower, read some magazines cover to cover, and maybe played with the ferrets, I figured I could survive the morning while Weather Boy mind-melded with Martin the Meteorologist. I guzzled the last slug of pink milk and headed upstairs to dig out my toothbrush.

  • • •

  When the crayon clock finally said noon, I put Linguini back in her cage with Jambalaya and headed downstairs. Mem was still doing the lotus position in front of the tube.

  “Let’s go,” I told him.

  No response.

  “C’mon, let’s get going.”

  Finally he turned my way. “We’re going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, Niko’s, lunch.”

  I was afraid he’d throw another fit about having to leave his beloved show, but he actually smiled and turned off the set himself. “Let’s go. Let’s get going,” he beamed and started toward the door.

  “Wait, Mem, you’ve got Twinkie guts on your face—here.” I handed him a tissue, and he scrubbed his face like he was trying to sand it off.

  “Now?” he said.

 
“Now.” But I wasn’t at all sure how this was going to work. There were way too many things that could go wrong.

  The first thing went wrong before we even made it to the curb. Dirk Dempster, the kid who lives across the street from Mem, happens to be a total jerk. In fourth grade, he blamed me for the class fishbowl he shattered, and he’s made trouble for me ever since—copying off my tests and then accusing me of being the cheater, making sure I get picked last on teams, cutting ahead in line, you name it. He’s the tallest, meanest kid I know. I think the reason he gets out of bed in the morning is to outdo his nastiness from the day before. I always steer clear of him, but now he was shooting hoops in his driveway. When he spotted us he shouted, “Hey, it’s The Dipp.”

  I was going to ignore him, but then he started singing, “Dippity do da, dippity ay, my oh my, what a wonderful day.” To make things worse, Mem thought it was funny and started waving at the idiot and saying what a cool guy he was.

  Obviously, I had to say something, and what came out of my mouth was, “Shut up, Dirk.” Dirk kept singing though, so I added extra loudly, “Come on, Mem, we’ll take care of him later.”

  “Okay, we’ll take care of him later,” Mem said cheerfully and way too loudly. “We’ll take care of him. Later.”

  “Yeah, right,” Dirk scoffed and went back to shooting hoops.

  Yeah, right? That was all? No—no way. Knowing Dirk, it wasn’t going to be over that easy. But I didn’t have time to worry about it because the second thing went wrong a minute later. We weren’t halfway down the street when Mem scrunched up his face and came to a dead standstill in the middle of the road.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “My shoes hurt.”

  “You got a stone in them or something?”

  “A stone or something? No, they just hurt.”

  I eyed his sneakers, the same sneakers he was wearing yesterday and all morning today. “You gotta get rid of them then.”

  “No!” he bellowed so fiercely you’d think I was trying to turn off The Weather Channel.

  “Fine, we’ll keep them. But let’s go back and get you another pair for now.”