Izzy Kline Has Butterflies Page 6

  and he himself will wear an apron and we might even

  get a real, live cat in an apron on the stage,

  and won’t that be funny, if a cat is in an apron,

  standing in a row with us,

  Mrs. Johnson says.

  We laugh and gasp at this.

  But oh! When Jackson Allen sings mommies are people

  we are silent.

  Jackson Allen saying mommy

  is all I can think about.

  A bully saying mommy is as funny as a cat in an apron

  except not in a ha-ha way

  but in a silent way.

  Jackson Allen singing the mommies are people part of

  the “Parents Are People” song

  (and he sings it well)

  is all I can think about

  until he throws down his sheet of paper with the

  words on it and Mrs. Johnson says

  Stick with it, buddy.

  Turns the whole thing on its head if a young man sings

  this part.

  Young man.

  Ha.

  Between the real, live cat and this,

  I’ve never been more glad to have a music teacher like

  Mrs. Johnson.

  Mrs. Johnson is a genius.

  Mom makes us eat dinner together because of the

  news about Quinn.

  She brings me home a big bag of Jelly Bellys, which

  are just about my favorite thing in the world, and I see

  that the bag is heavy on the watermelon ones.

  Thank you, I say in a whisper.

  I want to yell thank you out loud at the top of my

  lungs, but that would be like celebrating and

  I am afraid to celebrate something like an abundance of

  watermelon Jelly Bellys when Quinn is in the hospital.

  I decide I will collect all of the watermelon Jelly Bellys

  and save them until she is better,

  until we can eat them together.

  But then James brings up summer camp,

  and the same way I am afraid of school projects,

  I am afraid of sleepaway camp,

  of meeting friends who you only get to have

  for a few weeks.

  The one exciting thing about it is the possibility that

  I might meet my twin,

  like in The Parent Trap,

  and then we could switch lives for a while.

  But now I watch James leaning his chair backward,

  teetering the way he does,

  and he gets a mean look.

  Didn’t I have a friend

  at that awful camp?

  he starts to say.

  And I know what he’s talking about and

  I want him to stop.

  James, my mom says, shaking her head

  in my direction.

  Yeah, I did, he says anyway.

  And he was fine all summer and then we started getting

  those letters from his mom.

  James, my mom says again.

  Stop it, I say now, into my spaghetti and meatballs.

  My hand is holding on tight to the bag of jelly beans,

  like it’s a stress squeezie ball.

  Stop what? he says.

  Mom, what was his name?

  STOP IT! I yell now, the way I’ve wanted to yell

  all week.

  The way I’ve wanted to yell since two years ago,

  or maybe since forever.

  STOP!

  The one who died, he says anyway,

  of cancer.

  I scream and I throw the bag as hard as I can

  at the wall,

  and there are jelly beans everywhere but I don’t

  stay to watch,

  to see where they settle.

  This is not the same, Izzy, my mom calls after me.

  It is not the same.

  I go to my room and I feel sad

  and sorry.

  Sad that James’s camp friend,

  whose name was William,

  whose name I will never forget,

  died.

  I remember the letters and the picture of him with

  no hair.

  I remember that my mom cried when she got the

  final letter and that she was worried about how James

  would feel.

  I remember that James shrugged and walked away.

  I feel sad about that.

  And sorry about a million other things,

  but mostly because I threw the Jelly Bellys.

  I’m really sorry I won’t have the watermelon Jelly Bellys

  to give Quinn

  when she’s all better.

  I have never been mad at James before now,

  not even when I should have been.

  Like when we were much younger and playing airplane

  and I was balancing him on my feet.

  I was supporting him all by myself.

  It was exciting.

  He was flying.

  Until he wasn’t.

  I let go, I guess.

  Wasn’t as strong as I thought,

  I guess.

  And his knee landed in the middle of my stomach.

  In the spot that makes you stop breathing.

  I still remember what it felt like,

  that sucking feeling and how scary it was.

  And I remember that my dad walked in right then,

  unfortunately.

  I wasn’t mad at James,

  but he was.

  Or maybe he was mad at something else,

  like my mom says,

  and not at us.

  And the mad mostly simmers, she says,

  like the meat on the stove

  on taco night.

  But sometimes

  it boils,

  and sometimes it burns.

  He picked up James,

  boiling over,

  I think.

  You want to know how that feels?

  But I didn’t want James to know how it felt.

  I was okay with him not knowing.

  And Dad swung him—

  ALMOST SWUNG HIM—

  across the arm of the sofa.

  I breathed finally when he put James back down

  and I was still the only one in the room

  who knew how it felt.

  We were back to a simmer.

  That is why it wasn’t so bad that Dad moved out.

  Why we could all breathe easier

  once he was gone.

  But it was important to me

  to tell the counselor

  that I was not mad at Dad,

  not really mad at James,

  not upset with Mom.

  I was okay.

  I just wanted everyone else

  to be okay too.

  But we’re here because of Quinn, he says—

  this counselor, who Mom thought I should talk to,

  who works for the school, and who is

  free and available,

  and a great resource.

  Because your mom is worried that you are worried, he says.

  Mom is worried because you’ve lost a lot, he says.

  I’m not worried, I say, but he is looking at me hard,

  the way grown-ups do when they want proof.

  I haven’t lost anything, I say.

  The divorce is a loss, he explains.

  The divorce is a change, I say, not a loss.

  He smiles

  the way grown-ups do when you say something that

  makes sense.

  Even if it’s a relapse, I say,

  we’ll get through it.

  I like Quinn’s mom so much I copy her.

  That’s all the guidance I need.

  In the name of science

  we are investigating the way things change.

  My teacher says change is caused by a catalyst.

  Jackson “FINGER SL
AMMER” Allen is my partner.

  Into the test tube, Jackson pours more of the stuff that

  makes things fizz,

  and a little more,

  too much of it.

  I eye the teacher

  because I am a rule follower and Jackson is not and

  she is not looking so I don’t stop him from pouring in

  a little more

  and we watch it bubble up

  before our eyes.

  I’m afraid to touch it but I do.

  I scoot my test tube in the direction of Jackson.

  In the name of science.

  And there it goes!

  Up and up until a little poof.

  A spitting, oozing poof of stuff,

  matter,

  all over Jackson’s face.

  I snort.

  I laugh so hard

  I fall off my chair.

  I get back up and try to record my findings.

  Next to catalyst, I write

  Jackson.

  Miss Hall who is now Mrs. Johnson

  wants us to sing in rounds.

  It is her way of making the show her own.

  Our own.

  It sounds pretty,

  the circular way we are singing,

  looping in and out of each other’s place in the song

  until we sing again

  all at once.

  Looping the way my dad does

  all around the hospital

  when he makes his rounds,

  visiting the patients who do not know that he has ever

  had a temper at all.

  That he grits his teeth sometimes in a way that

  makes me feel

  not afraid

  but sad

  that he is mad.

  But now,

  and maybe because he is away from us

  and closer to Stephanie,

  he is more like he is with his patients.

  Patient.

  This is the place in the round

  where I want to say that Dad,

  just because he has a temper,

  just because he has lost his temper

  once or maybe twice

  in the past,

  is coming around

  more and more.

  Even called me today to say that he stopped in

  to see Quinn,

  that he chatted with her mom,

  that she was doing great,

  that it probably wasn’t a relapse,

  that she has the flu,

  that she will be okay.

  And then

  he asks if I’m okay.

  Me.

  I smile into the phone and say uh-huh.

  This is the part

  where he admits he is a doctor

  and a father

  all at once.

  One of the FOUR ANNOYING BOYS put a note in

  my backpack

  and it had to be unfolded and

  unfolded and

  unfolded,

  otherwise it would have just stayed a tiny little triangle

  forever.

  Instead it was this:

  An acrostic.

  It seems like this could be written by the

  FINGER-SLAMMING,

  MEDUSA-CALLING

  Jackson Allen.

  Someone wanted me to believe that he wrote it.

  Someone who follows after Jackson

  like he is the PRESIDENT OF THE

  FOUR ANNOYING BOYS CLUB

  or something.

  But Jackson Allen did not write this poem.

  If someone wanted me to believe that,

  they would have to do a better job.

  Jackson Allen, who I have known since kindergarten,

  who my mom used to call cute because of his dimples,

  has always been, ever since kindergarten,

  the best speller in the class, which I know for a FACT

  because I am always the second-best speller.

  And when you are the second-best at something,

  you always know who is the first-best.

  So this note, unfolded into the shape of a rectangle,

  was written by someone else

  who is not even in the top ten spellers.

  Mite?

  He should have to write it 100 times on

  the whiteboard.

  Might might might might might might might…

  Until he learns that if you are pretending to be

  someone else, you MIGHT want to

  shape up in the pretending department.

  I saw on TV that when a person says something nice

  to you,

  you should accept.

  You should say

  Why, thank you.

  You should do this so you appear confident

  even if you are not.

  Even if you don’t think you are funny or smart

  or a little bit pretty.

  But she didn’t say what to do if the compliment comes

  in the shape

  of something else.

  I step on the scale and back up.

  When she puts the metal stick on my head I look

  sideways at my mom,

  who is clapping her hands

  for my achievement.

  Two whole inches and one quarter inch since last year.

  Niiiice, Mom says. Way to grow. Get it? Grow?

  I get it.

  I try not to laugh at her because she can be so

  EMBARRASSING with her clapping and

  snorting when things are funny to her

  and only to her.

  I laugh anyway.

  The doctor takes the cold stethoscope to my back first

  and then to my chest.

  I laugh at the cold.

  Laugh again when she pushes on my belly,

  takes a peek under my gown,

  to see what’s what.

  To see if anything is doing yet.

  Mom’s smile is bright and hopeful,

  like she’s wishing for something,

  but I don’t know what.

  The same way I don’t know what I am wishing for.

  Don’t know if I am for the what’s what

  or against it.

  Lilly with two l’s has two of something else

  too.

  I try not to look,

  try not to straighten out her shirt where it bunches

  around her bra.

  A real bra,

  not a tight half tank top,

  like I wear some days

  when my shirt is too loose,

  making me feel too loose

  underneath.

  You are exactly where you should be, kiddo,

  the doctor says.

  Not too fast,

  not too slow.

  Just right.

  My mom gives me a big squeeze before we get in the car.

  Great checkup, baby! she says.

  And I realize

  we were wishing

  for the same thing.

  We watch some more of the Free to Be…You and Me

  video at the end of school today. There are still some

  parts we haven’t seen.

  We’re working on the “Sisters and Brothers” song for

  the show, so Mrs. Soto thought we might like to see

  the part where Marlo Thomas interviews all these

  1970s-looking kids about their sisters

  and brothers.

  They say funny things about their brothers hitting

  them in the face,

  which isn’t so funny in real life but seems funny in

  this video.

  Reminds me of playing the card game

  bloody knuckles with James when I was much younger

  and so was he.

  The loser of the game gets their knuckles rapped with

  the whole deck of cards and it is supposed to hurt,

  if yo
u’re playing for real.

  It’s a rule.

  We’re no pretenders, James and I.

  We are card game rule followers.

  James made it hurt when I lost,

  and I made it hurt back when he lost.

  And it was a by-the-rules game of bloody knuckles.

  No pretending.

  We were so proud of ourselves,

  even if Mom was not proud of us

  at all.

  We mopped up our knuckles with wet paper towels and

  watched the blood spread into the watery paper and we

  creeped each other out for a long while,

  laughing and annoying Mom.

  Something tells me Marlo Thomas would not approve

  either.

  She keeps asking these kids

  over and over

  if they like their sisters and brothers and they all keep

  saying no

  and laughing.

  We’re not supposed to like them is what I think when

  I watch this.

  Or we’re not supposed to say we do.

  It’s a rule.

  After the interview, a whole big group of grown-ups

  get together and sing and clap about brothers and

  sisters and

  ain’t we lucky, which just sounds so funny because

  who says ain’t?

  When we pack up our things to leave for the day

  I ask Lilly

  if she likes her brother or sister

  and she says she doesn’t have one

  and that she wished she did.

  Brother or sister? I ask.

  A big brother, she says.

  They know everything and

  they take care of bullies for you, she says.

  I think of something the little kid in the interview

  says about his brother

  near the end.

  Sometimes you’re good to me and sometimes you’re bad,

  but I love you.

  Something no one would ever say in real life,

  if you’re playing by the rules.

  I walk by James’s room and the door is closed and we

  haven’t done very much talking to each other since he

  brought up William,

  since he couldn’t even remember William’s name.

  He spends most of his time with the other teenagers

  anyway,

  or behind his locked door

  with headphones on.

  Usually I slow down in front of his room and maybe

  I hope he’ll open up,

  unlock, and let me in.

  Usually, but not today.

  I hurry by, to my room.

  Hey, he says, standing at my door,

  where he usually never stands unless I beg him to wait

  until I am ready,

  for him to turn off my light for me

  at bedtime,

  his finger on the light switch plate from my grandmother

  from Pennsylvania,