Full Cicada Moon Page 12

  at home—but no pizza or hot dogs. Then

  you’ll be caught up, except for some quizzes

  that you can take when you go back.”

  Then he picks up the dishcloth and washes a plate.

  “Did you know there’s a system for doing this?”

  he says, and hands me the plate to rinse.

  “No—how does it go?”

  “You wash the glasses first,

  then the silverware, then the plates.

  You do all the pots last.”

  “Did your uncle teach you that?” I ask.

  “I heard Miss Whittaker tell your class.

  It was like discovering a secret new world.”

  “So that’s what I’m missing,” I say. “But

  what if you have a dishwasher?”

  “You mean, like . . . yours?”

  We both look at the cinnamon-colored machine

  that Mama never uses

  and laugh.

  “Mama likes to wash dishes by hand

  so she can think.”

  We finish the dishes without talking.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I put the dishpan under the sink

  and hang the dishcloth on the cupboard door,

  and then ask, “Do you think what Stacey and I did

  was wrong?”

  “Wrong? You’re kidding,

  right? Mimi, it was the coolest thing

  anyone ever did.

  And brave.

  What you did made me feel like I

  can do anything.”

  What he says makes me happy.

  “I’m not sorry I did it,

  but I am sorry that Stacey did.

  It’s my fault she’s been suspended.

  Her mom didn’t raise her like that.”

  “Stacey’s smart

  and she can make up her own mind.

  But . . .”

  Now Timothy’s thinking,

  and I ask “What’s wrong?” with a little push.

  “Nothing. I gotta go.”

  And two seconds later

  he’s gone.

  Fine

  Timothy knocks on the door

  the next night, later than usual.

  “Homework,” he says,

  handing me my books.

  Then he pulls an envelope from his back pocket.

  “And letter.”

  I would recognize that stationery

  and pretty handwriting anywhere.

  “From Stacey?”

  Timothy nods.

  “Where did you see her?”

  “I took her homework to her today.”

  “So, you told her

  what I said yesterday?”

  “Don’t worry—I didn’t have to.

  She told me to wait while she wrote this.”

  I tear open the envelope

  and read:

  Dear Mimi,

  How are you? I am fine,

  and I like having another vacation.

  I miss you,

  but we’ll see each other again soon.

  I’m glad we went to shop

  and I’m glad we didn’t back down

  to Mr. Sperangium

  (oops, did I write that?).

  And I would do it all over again.

  Pinkie promise??

  Love,

  Stacey

  “Thank you, Timothy.

  That was nice of you.”

  “She’s your friend,” he says,

  and I say, “So are you.”

  Bad News

  It’s not a baking day,

  but Timothy is rapping on the back door

  like he’s late for his lesson.

  Papa pulls it open and Timothy tumbles in,

  face flushed—but not because he’s embarrassed or cold

  or happy. His eyes are red, too.

  He falls into Papa

  and hangs on, shuddering.

  “My b-bro-ther.”

  “Wesley?” I ask.

  Timothy nods violently on Papa’s shoulder.

  “What about Wesley, son?” Papa asks,

  eases Timothy away

  gently

  and bends to him to see his face.

  “He’s m-missing. His s-squad was att-k’d.”

  Timothy gulps a breath. “May-be he’s d-dead,”

  he sobs, and plunges his head into Papa’s shoulder.

  I go to him and smooth his hair

  like he’s Baby Cake trying to fall asleep,

  and Papa pats his back

  until Timothy breaks away and runs his hand under his nose.

  I hand him a napkin.

  “How did you hear?” Papa asks.

  “My mom (gulp, gulp) called.

  She’s coming to get me.

  I have to go back with her.”

  “Oh,” I say,

  but my heart feels so much more

  for Timothy,

  for Wesley,

  for their mom,

  and me.

  “For how long?”

  Timothy shakes his head. “I don’t know,”

  and then I feel bad for asking.

  How could he know?

  Now we hear Mr. Dell outside. “Timothy!”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Papa asks.

  Timothy blows his nose again and shakes his head,

  and I open the door.

  Maybe I won’t see him again for a long time

  or forever.

  Papa squeezes his shoulder and says to call us

  for anything he needs—

  and to tell his uncle the same thing.

  I wish Mama was here, because she’d give him food

  for the trip.

  “Timothy!” his uncle calls. The growl

  is gone from his voice, and all I hear is worry.

  The turkeys gobble in the coop like a laugh track

  but nothing is funny.

  “Coming,” Timothy says,

  and turns to me. “If we don’t leave till tomorrow,

  meet me outside tonight?”

  I feel like crying as I nod yes. It will be the

  Full Hunter’s Moon.

  Timothy closes the door and walks across our yard

  to Mr. Dell, who’s standing on his side of the fence.

  I watch him

  watching Timothy come closer and stop.

  Their bodies tell the story—

  Timothy’s hands answer a phone call,

  Mr. Dell grows still, then folds his arms over his chest

  and shakes his head.

  Timothy drops his arms.

  —I press my nose to the door—

  Mr. Dell looks at our house,

  then at the fence between him and Timothy,

  and steps over it to his nephew.

  He rests his hand on the back of Timothy’s neck

  gently

  and guides him back to their house.

  The Way We Say Good-bye: One

  When Mama and I left Berkeley,

  Auntie Sachi and Uncle Kiyoshi and Shelley and Sharon

  walked us to the taxi parked at the curb

  and helped the driver put our suitcases in the trunk

  and opened the doors for us

  and closed them after we settled in our seats

  and stood nearby.

  The taxi driver checked his map

  and fixed his mirrors

  and called in to say he was taking us to the bus station.

  All that time, our family waited on the sidewalk,

  w
aving and bowing, and Shelley and Sharon and I

  made pig faces at one another.

  They stood at the curb when the taxi pulled away,

  and they were still at the curb when we turned the corner,

  out of sight.

  The Way We Say Good-bye: Two

  Tonight, Timothy and I meet at the fence,

  but he can only stay a few minutes

  because his mom wants to go home right away

  in case someone tries to call her

  with more news about Wesley.

  I don’t know what more to say, except

  Take care,

  Have a safe trip,

  I hope everything’s okay,

  but I don’t say them yet

  because they’re good-bye words,

  and I’m not ready for that.

  Far away, an animal howls in the night,

  sounding hungry or lonely. I shiver.

  “My uncle thinks it’s a coyote,” Timothy says,

  “so be careful.”

  He looks up at the moon

  hanging like a ripe grapefruit,

  and sniffles. “I don’t want to go.

  I’m afraid

  of what we’ll find out.

  But I have to go.”

  What can I say to my friend to make him feel better?

  A ghost of light grows in the fog

  as Mama opens the back door.

  She’s holding a box. “Mimi, come please.”

  “Don’t go away yet,” I say to Timothy,

  and run to Mama.

  The box is cold all over,

  and I smell roast chicken and potato salad

  and chocolate cake.

  “For Timothy and his mother,” she says.

  “I’ll give it to him,” I say.

  “You need a jacket tonight,” Mama says,

  and shuts the door.

  When I give the box to Timothy,

  he sets it on the ground

  and steps over the fence,

  walks to our back door,

  and knocks lightly

  because Mama’s on the other side.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oliver,” he says.

  But thank you wasn’t enough, because then

  he says, “Arigato gozaimasu,” and bows.

  Mama bows back. “No . . . no.

  The person who is kind to our daughter

  is the one we love,” she says.

  Timothy’s hands twitch, like he wants to hug Mama,

  but she takes care of that by hugging him first,

  quickly. “You be a good boy for your mother, okay?”

  He nods, and sneaks me a glance that makes me giggle inside.

  But when we go back to the fence, it’s not as funny.

  “I’ll write to you,” he says.

  “I know,” I say. “I’ll look at the moon,

  and you look at the moon.

  And wherever Wesley is,

  he can look at the moon, too.”

  “Yeah, it will be like

  we’re all looking through the same hole in your moon box.”

  He remembers.

  Then it’s our turn to hug good-bye,

  not too quick—but just long enough

  to say what we don’t have words for

  I’ll miss you,

  I hope Wesley’s okay,

  I hope I can see you again,

  Maybe things will go back

  to the way they are now,

  Or maybe that time is over.

  “You be a good boy, okay?” I say.

  He smiles. “You, too—

  but a girl,”

  and we laugh.

  Then he picks up the box and crosses his yard.

  I wait by the fence and watch him.

  I’m still at the fence when he goes into the house,

  out of sight.

  Reformed

  Maybe

  Mr. MacDougall was right—

  that sitting in shop

  and thinking Stacey and I could change the world

  was silly.

  I miss Timothy

  and wanting to take shop

  seems silly and small

  compared to his sadness.

  Maybe

  I should forget

  all about what I want,

  and do

  what other people want me to do.

  Probably

  when I go back to school tomorrow,

  I’ll tell Mr. MacDougall I’ve reformed.

  It’s the thing he wants me to do,

  but

  Maybe

  it’s not the right thing.

  Switched

  Something’s going on today

  at school,

  like a party or a special visitor—

  the president or maybe an astronaut.

  In the halls

  girls are whispering at their lockers,

  and boys are looking at the floor

  more than usual.

  I put my books in my locker

  because I won’t need any for first period,

  home ec. This might be a good time

  to go to Mr. MacDougall’s office

  and tell him I’ve reformed.

  “Hi, Mimi,” someone says. It’s Victor. “You’re back.”

  Then lots of kids stop and say “Hi”

  and “Wow, you’re back” and “Nice vacation, huh?”

  and even “We missed you.”

  Then they look at one another

  like they know about the party

  or the astronaut.

  The air in homeroom prickles with energy,

  like right before a thunderstorm.

  But Mr. Wall takes attendance as usual

  and as usual Mr. MacDougall makes announcements over the loudspeaker.

  Finally, the bell rings

  and I walk to home ec.

  I’ll need to show Miss Whittaker

  the list of balanced meals I made at home.

  But when I get to the classroom,

  something’s different—

  I’ve gone to the wrong room!

  and step back,

  look down the corridor. No,

  this is the right room.

  But, it’s filled with boys.

  Andrew, sitting closest to the door,

  waves wildly for me to

  go to . . .

  “Shop?” I ask.

  “Yes!” he mouths.

  I walk as fast as the rules allow

  to shop,

  and see a room full of girls.

  And Mr. Sperangio with his hands on his hips.

  “Look here, young ladies,” he’s saying to them. “You can’t be here.

  And what did you do with the boys?”

  When I walk in, and he says,

  “This is all your idea, isn’t it, Miss Oliver?”

  Karen says, “No, it’s not. She was on suspension, remember?

  And that was all your idea.”

  I can’t believe what’s happening,

  but Karen pats the empty stool beside her

  and I sit.

  “You’ll all go to where you belong

  or to the office,” Mr. Sperangio says.

  “Let’s go to the office,” Debbie says. “The boys

  are probably already there.”

  Promises

  In the office, Mr. MacDougall does his finger push-ups

  and stares at us. There are thirty-three kids in the room

  and he opens the windows

  so we can breathe.

&
nbsp; He doesn’t say we’ll be suspended

  for being silly or defiant. But he does say,

  “Do you honestly think you can change the rules,

  change the world,

  by switching classes?”

  Andrew says, “We didn’t think it was fair

  to punish Mimi and Stacey for trying.”

  Mr. MacDougall stares some more

  and lifts some papers on his desk,

  as if a script for his next lines is under them.

  He says, “If you go back to your classes—

  where you’re supposed to be—

  I promise to think about this.

  Agreed?”

  We all look at one another,

  and yesses grow slowly in the room.

  Then the boys go to shop,

  and the girls go to home ec.

  Mr. MacDougall said he would think about it—

  he promised.

  Where’s Pattress?

  Pattress has adopted the turkeys.

  Every day she has sat by the fence, guarding them

  until she’s called into her house.

  But when I go out today to feed the turkeys,

  Pattress isn’t at her post.

  And when I feed the turkeys,

  one is missing. I count them,

  and still one is missing. Rufus,

  the little one, is gone,

  and a clump of feathers lies

  behind the coop.

  I run to the house

  screaming, “Mama, something got the turkeys!”

  Mama runs out with me, pulling on her sweater,

  and I think a horrible thought:

  Did it get Pattress, too?

  “We have to find her . . . them. Quick!” I say,

  and we go in different directions—

  Mama looks around and inside the coop,

  I circle the house

  and then zigzag the backyard,

  checking Mr. Dell’s yard, too.

  But we don’t find Rufus or Pattress.

  “I’m going to the woods,” I call to Mama.

  She catches up with me,

  and we run, calling “Pattress! Pattress!

  Where are you, girl?”

  All I want

  is to see her running and leaping and barking.

  “Pattress,” Mama calls, then puts her finger to her lips