Finally, Page 2
Wendy Mass
His eyes widen and he backs up against the closet door.
“Don’t tell him that,” Mom scolds. “You know how sensitive he is.”
I want to remind her that I’m sensitive, too. She knows how hard it’s been for me not to be able to do things every other kid my age can. I try to keep my spirits up, but sometimes it’s hard. Sawyer doesn’t know how easy he’s got it. At three years old, all it takes to make him happy is for my dad to burp. Just one burp, and the boy is filled with glee for hours. And a fart? Forget about it. He’ll laugh till he practically chokes. I’ve got to admit, though, that I do benefit a little from his weirdness. His laughing will make me laugh, even if I’ve had a really bad day at school. Plus, all he’ll eat is pizza so we have pizza pretty much every night for dinner. He gets bonus points for that. Now, with the big T-W-E-L-V-E looming ever closer on my horizon, my spirits have lifted themselves right back up, even without his help. “Sorry, Sawyer,” I tell him, ruffling his hair. “I’m sure you’ll figure out the whole potty training thing one of these days.” He smiles gratefully and edges closer. I wrinkle my nose. “I think he needs a change.”
“Be my guest,” Mom says. “If you’re going to start babysitting soon, you better get used to it.”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I saw enough of that last month looking for the dime.”
“Whose fault was it he swallowed the dime in the first place?”
I pretend not to hear her as I fold up the box top. I had this grand plan of paying Sawyer ten cents to innocently approach my parents and inform them that his sister is the only sixth grader on the planet without a cell phone, but the plan collapsed when Sawyer swallowed the dime, was rushed to the doctor’s office, and then handed over to me to “wait for the dime to pass.” It was a very long forty-eight hours of examining the contents of Sawyer’s diapers, made longer by the fact that I was grounded as punishment for endangering Sawyer’s digestive system. Once I turn twelve and get to babysit, at least I’ll be getting paid for changing diapers. I’m sure I’ll be a great babysitter. I already know Rule #1: Don’t give coins to toddlers unless you enjoy sifting through what used to be pizza when it went in, but no longer looks (or smells!) anything remotely like pizza when it comes back out.
But really, babysitting is a means to an end. In exchange for the privilege of getting a cell phone, I have to pay for my own “replacement insurance.” My parents don’t trust me not to lose the phone, which, frankly, is a little insulting. I haven’t lost anything in at least three weeks, and I didn’t really like those socks anyway, so it’s not like I cried when I realized I’d left them in the locker room at school.
I’ve already snooped around the house to find out what model phone they got me. My mother must have changed all her hiding places, though, because I couldn’t find it. Hopefully, this means I’ll get to pick out my own phone. If so, I know exactly what I want. Hot pink, flip style, qwerty keyboard, touch screen, Internet capable, 12-megapixel camera/video, MP3 player, unlimited pictures and texting. Oh, and you can talk on it, too.
“There’s still time to change your mind,” my mother says, scooping up the smelly, squirming Sawyer. “You can have a party instead.”
Usually I choose having a small party over getting a present (the two options they give me every year), figuring if I have a party, then my friends will get me presents. But it’s not like my friends are going to get me a cell phone. (Although one time Annabelle’s dad got a free phone through his job and they offered it to me, and my mom was like, “Oh, are they going to pay the bill, too?” And then her dad took it back.)
Mom is watching me hopefully, but I shake my head. “No, thanks, I’m good.”
She sighs and slowly closes the door behind her. Poor Mom and Dad. They’re not handling this impending birthday very well. It’s going to be almost as big a change for them as it will be for me. I suspect they are not going to surrender without a fight. But I’m prepared to counter every argument they throw my way.
After pushing the box to the very back of my closet, it’s time to move on to Part Two of my plan for the night. I reach under my bed and feel around for the old red shoe box. I’ve been putting notes in there for years, and after tomorrow I won’t need it anymore. I pat the cover lovingly, then pull off the lid and shake out the contents of the box. Folded-up notebook paper, old napkins, a brochure, and a place mat from the Willow Falls Diner flutter gently to the floor. The last thing out of the box is a puzzle piece, which lands with a satisfying plop. I had been visiting my dad’s jigsaw puzzle factory one day over Christmas break last year when I overheard two of my dad’s coworkers talking about me. “Cute kid. Too bad she has to wear those dorky glasses. They take up half her face!” (Okay, he might not have said dorky, but he may as well have.) The other replied, “Yeah, totally.” In response to this conversation, I reached for the bin labeled IRREGULARLY SHAPED AND BROKEN PIECES, found the largest piece, and scribbled “Get contact lenses” on the opposite side.
Now I turn the piece over in my hand before pulling out the giant chart I made for my list. The word FINALLY (short for When I’m Finally Twelve) is written in big fancy letters across the top in my neatest handwriting. I sketched out the design in art class last week when I should have been drawing the inside of an orange. My chart is divided into two halves: BIG THINGS and SMALL THINGS. The Big Things are the ones that require a certain amount of planning (and/or $$) to achieve. I should be able to do the Small Things whenever they come up over the course of a regular day.
It’s now time to use my notes to fill in the chart. I can tell just by the shape of the paper what they say. I pick up the very first one I ever wrote. I was seven. It was dinnertime. We were eating meat loaf (this was pre-Sawyer). I had asked for — and been denied — one yellow-spotted iguana.
“A pet is a huge responsibility,” Dad had replied, not even bothering to stop chewing. “You can get one when you’re twelve.”
“If you still want one,” Mom had added, clearly hoping I wouldn’t.
“When I’m twelve?” I’d repeated. “That’s a zillion years from now.”
“It’s only five years,” Mom had said. “It’ll go by in a flash.”
I put down my fork, perhaps a bit forcefully since Dad flashed me one of his rare stern looks. “Five years is forever!” I’d protested. “Five years ago I was two!” I’ve always had excellent addition and subtraction skills.
But they didn’t budge. After dinner I had gone directly to my room, ripped a page off my rainbow-colored notepad (receiving a painful paper cut in the process), and wrote, “Get a pet.” Then I folded it into a tiny square and looked around for a place to store it for five long years. It had to be somewhere safe, where the ravages of time couldn’t hurt it. All I could find was the red shoe box that my new sneakers had come in. It seemed sturdy enough. Plus it was red, my favorite color.
In the five long years that followed, the box slowly filled until the lid barely stayed on. But it did the job, and now I’m ready to get to work sorting out my notes. The most recent one is only a few weeks old, and it’s not even a regular note. It’s an invitation to Natalie Karp’s twelfth birthday party. She’s one of the most popular girls in our grade, and I don’t even mind that I only got invited because Annabelle and Natalie are, like, second cousins on their moms’ side. If Natalie’s party had been before I turned twelve, I would have had to hear about it afterward from Annabelle and Sari at lunch. Sari’s parents are normal — which is something no one would ever call my parents — so she can do normal sixth grade stuff. Before, she could only do it with Annabelle. But now the world of boy-girl parties will finally be open to me and I won’t get left out anymore. I can’t wait!
I lovingly place the invitation to the side, and reach for the others. I have to admit, Mom was right when she said I might change my mind about some things. I no longer have any interest in getting a perm after witnessing the poodlelike results on a girl a year ahead of me at school. I no longe
r want to be a cheerleader, take juggling classes, or join the American Idol Fan Club. After crumpling up and disposing of those four, I’m left with twenty-two items. Twenty-two wonderful promises soon to be fulfilled.
I carefully transcribe my list, and then look over the chart with a certain sense of pride. It is truly a work of art. Much better than the inside of an orange would have been.
1. Get a cell phone.
2. Stay home alone.
3. Get my own screen name so I can IM.
4. Shave my legs.
5. Go to the mall with Annabelle and No Parents.
6. Wear makeup.
7. Get a pet.
8. Babysit.
9. Get my ears pierced.
10. Get contact lenses.
11. Attend Natalie Karp’s boy-girl birthday party.
Then on the right side is the list of smaller (but still Very Important and Worthwhile) stuff:
1. Get my own house key.
2. Go to bed at 9:30.
3. Drink coffee.
4. Watch Friday the 13th Part IX (which is a part of family lore because my dad took my mom to see a midnight showing of it on their first date in college, and Mom hid her face on his shoulder during the scary parts and they fell in love right there).
5. Sit in the front seat of the car.
6. Do my homework without anyone checking it.
7. Pick out my own clothes.
8. Use the stove, oven, and electrical appliances without permission or supervision.
9. Walk home from school.
10. Buy lunch in the cafeteria.
11. Ride an upside-down roller coaster (so I don’t have to stand on the sidelines like a dork at the Willow Falls annual spring carnival).
I pick up the chart carefully so I don’t smudge anything, and my eyes land on the brochure I had put aside when I’d emptied the box. The words on the front cover stare up at me: WELCOME TO THE WILLOW FALLS RESERVOIR TOUR. I take a deep breath and pick it up. Over the last few weeks I’d looked at it many times, still not able to decide what to think. On the back of the brochure I had scribbled the words “You won’t get what you want until you see what you need.” Maybe the blood flow to my brain had been cut off by the narrow drainpipe and I had simply imagined the old woman and her cryptic words. Even if I hadn’t imagined her, she was very old and probably wasn’t all “there.” Plus, she didn’t know all the thought and consideration that had gone into my giant to-do list. I definitely need to do all these things.
A knock on the door startles me and the brochure drops to the floor. I hastily flip the chart over and lay it on the bed. I don’t want to unveil it until I’m sure the time is right.
Dad ducks his head in. The first thing I see — the first thing anyone sees when Dad appears — is the blue stripe in his otherwise blond hair. It is a constant source of embarrassment. His best friend, Skip, dared him to do it last year for their fifteen-year high school reunion, which is just the sort of thing you’d expect from someone named Skip. But then he told Dad he’d pay him fifty dollars for every month he keeps it in. Apparently the money is enough to cover our cable bill. When I begged him to cut off the stripe, he just said, “Sure, and then we’ll cut off the cable.” So I’ve learned to love the stripe.
“I just got a strange phone call I thought you’d be interested in,” Dad announces. “It was a recorded message from your school.”
My heart leaps. Maybe school’s cancelled on account of a huge snowstorm heading our way! But no, it’s already April. And tomorrow’s Saturday. Plus, we haven’t gotten more than a few inches of snow in Willow Falls in eighteen years. Maybe they’re calling to wish me a happy birthday? Okay, that one’s pretty unlikely, too.
Dad comes in and sits on the edge of my bed. I casually slide the chart off to the side. “So what did the recording say?”
“Well, it appears that the school could use a bit of an overhaul. New science labs, new computers, that sort of thing.”
I nod in agreement. “Are they asking for donations from parents or something? Because, honestly, for all the library fines I’ve had to pay, they should —”
But Dad shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that. In fact, I think you might be pretty psyched about this.”
Dad always says things like “psyched” and “totally.” He thinks it makes him sound hip. He thinks the word hip is hip. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not. He pauses and looks around the room. “Where’s all your stuff? Your shelves are totally bare.”
“In a box in my closet. So what will I be psyched about?”
“Why is all your stuff in a box? Are you moving out?” He winks as he says that last part.
“Daaaad. Just tell me what the school said.”
“Rooory,” he says, imitating my whine perfectly. “Just tell me why the only thing on your shelves is dust.”
I sigh. My dad doesn’t give up easily. “In a few hours I’m going to be twelve. That’s, like, almost a teenager. I didn’t want all that kid stuff hanging around anymore.”
He looks thoughtful, and then says, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: But when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
“Come again?”
He smiles. “It’s a quote from the Bible. I heard it once and it’s always stuck with me.”
The Bible? If my dad quotes something, it’s usually from The Simpsons or an old comic book in his collection. “ ‘Spake’?” I repeat. “Is that even a word?” I glance anxiously at the clock. I only have a few hours left to go and so much more to do. “Um, Dad, can you just tell me about the phone call?”
He twists around on the bed. “Where’s Throckmorton?”
“Dad!”
He grins. “All right, all right, I’ll get down to it. So apparently your principal had an offer that will bring in enough money to totally modernize the school. For the next six weeks, they’re going to be filming a movie there.”
My eyes widen. A movie? Here in Willow Falls? Nothing exciting like that has ever happened in our sleepy little town.
“They called everyone to assure us the filming won’t disrupt the learning process,” he continues. “I don’t know if I —”
I cut him off. “Who’s in it?”
He pauses to think. “Um, the star is some boy named Jake. Jake Henderson? Hamilton?”
My breath catches in my throat. “Jake Harrison?”
“Yes, that’s it. Harrison.”
“Is this a joke? They really called about some school board election or something, and you’re just trying to kill me?”
He laughs. “Nope. I’m not that clever. Who’s Jake Harrison?”
“Only the coolest, hottest fourteen-year-old boy in this or any other universe!”
“How can someone be hot and cool at the same time? Don’t they cancel each other out?”
“Not when they’re Jake Harrison!” I start clapping my hands in excitement, like I’m Sawyer’s age and watching my first fireworks.
“Since when did you start liking boys anyway?” Dad asks, in a tone both breezy and dead serious.
I stop clapping and instantly redden. If he’d asked me this question a few months ago, I’d have made a face and said that I’d rather eat a centipede than kiss a boy. And I HATE centipedes. It really used to bother me when Annabelle and Sari would go on and on about the cuteness of various sixth grade boys. It was just one more thing they had in common that I didn’t. But over the last few months, I’d started to see what they meant and could finally join in the conversation. And now? If it meant I got to kiss Jake Harrison? I’d eat that centipede in a heartbeat. At least, I’m pretty sure I would.
But talk to my dad about boys? That I know I can’t do. I mumble words like “growing up” and “the facts of life” and bolt for the door.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
From halfway down the stairs I yell, “I’ve got to call Annabelle!”
I nod and snatch the phone.
“Rory?” the voice on the other end is screaming. “Rory? Is that you? Can you believe it?”
“No!” I yell back. “My dad just told me! You think it’s for real?” I follow my mom back to the kitchen and pace in circles around the table.
“It’s totally for real!” Annabelle says. “We’ve all been texting about it. Natalie says they’re going to be hiring extras to be in the movie. Like us kids, but we’d have to pretend to be real schoolkids, and since we ARE real schoolkids we’ll definitely get the job!”
Normally I’d bristle at the fact that, once again, I was left out of the loop. Everyone was texting except for me. But now, with my own phone nearly within my grasp and with Jake Harrison to think about, I let it go. “How can we get picked for it? Do we audition and then —” But my words are interrupted by the call-waiting beep. Mom notices my pause and looks up from the table where she’s been clipping coupons. I don’t think my mom’s ever bought anything in her life without a coupon or one of those store discount cards. She is very thrifty.
“Is that my call?” she asks.
I grit my teeth and tell Annabelle I have to hang up.
“That’s okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sari keeps texting me and I can’t write back while I’m on the phone.”
