“Nightmare,” Gillian said. “Tryouts for lead trumpet are in three weeks, and I’ve been practicing constantly. Or at least a lot. You know I have. But I made one teeny, tiny mistake, and Mr. Marshall accuses me of not practicing. In front of everyone! With that tone of voice he gets: ‘Ms. Thomas, if you think you are too good to practice, you are sorely mistaken.’”
“Ouch,” Julie said. With the phone cradled to her ear, she opened the refrigerator and rooted around for a Coke. She wished she could talk to her mom. She had tried about a zillion times in the past to ask about Dad, but Mom always sidestepped the conversation or gave half answers or promises of “when you’re older.”
“I said I did practice. And he said, ‘Perhaps you should think about practicing harder. Not all of us are naturals.’ I almost died,” Gillian said.
Julie found a soda. Maybe she should try to talk to Mom again. She could just ask her, point-blank, about the Wild, about their family history, about Dad . . . and she could keep asking until Mom answered, instead of letting her mom avoid the questions like usual.
“Trumpet’s supposed to be what I’m good at. I can play that piece perfectly when I’m alone,” Gillian said. “It’s just when there’s an audience, my lips, like, droop.” Julie heard snaps—trumpet case snaps. Sighing to herself, Julie held the phone a few inches from her ear. She knew what was coming next.
After a few practice honks, Gillian began playing her trumpet into the phone. She missed a note and started over. Julie laid the phone on her shoulder as Gillian continued to practice. What could she say to make Mom answer this time? She could start small, like, “What was it like in the tower?” Or she could start big right away: “Why didn’t Dad escape with everyone else?”
On the fifth iteration of the trumpet piece, Julie switched on the TV, volume low. She watched the flicker without paying attention to what she was seeing. Instead, she played through the conversation in her mind.
Two-thirds of the way through a Real World rerun, Julie heard a car in the driveway, and her heart beat faster. I could do it, she thought. I could keep pushing until Mom answers. And then I’d never have to go through another day like today. “Gotta go,” she said into the phone. “Mom’s home.” The trumpet trilled. Louder, Julie said, “Sorry, I gotta go!” The trumpet stopped. “My mom’s home.”
“Call me later, okay?”
“Sure,” Julie said. She hung up the phone and rubbed her ear.
Carrying groceries, Julie’s mother came in the door. “Pumpkin, could you help me with the rest?” Zel called.
After the groceries, I’ll begin the conversation, she promised herself. Julie went out to the car and fetched the other two grocery bags. She peeked in the top. From what she could see, her mother had bought two packages of celery and several dozen eggs. She put the bags on the kitchen table. “Couldn’t we have gone out for pizza?”
“Quiche,” her mom said.
“Gesundheit,” Julie said.
Zel shed her coat. “It’s sort of egg pie.”
“Pizzas are sometimes called pizza pies,” Julie said hopefully.
“I told Snow’s seven to come at 6:30,” Zel said.
Snow’s seven! Julie groaned. She had forgotten all about the dinner party. She couldn’t talk to Mom with Snow’s seven coming. Mom would be busy cooking and cleaning and preparing. She would use that as an excuse to avoid any hard questions, just like every other time Julie wanted to have this conversation.
Her mother turned the oven on to preheat. “We’ll have to cook in two batches. Oven’s too small to hold more than two pie plates. But on the plus side,” Zel said, with a quick grin at Julie, “at least we know it’s never cooked a witch. Or a little German girl.”
Julie plopped into a chair. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to talk until the chance was gone. “Why do you invite them? They’re so . . .” Rude, obnoxious, condescending. “. . . sexist. Honestly, they make the Brothers Grimm look PC.”
“Snow deserves a day off,” her mother said. “Come on, Julie. It won’t be that bad.” Julie snorted. Wheedling, her mom said, “I’ve invited your grandmother.”
“Yeah?” Julie said, feeling a grin spread across her face.
“She promised to behave this time.”
Grandma was coming! At last, something to compensate for the flip-flops and the mirrors and the constant humiliation of it all: Grandma. Julie couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t seen her in weeks. The Wishing Well Motel was too far for an easy bike ride, and Grandma only left the motel on special occasions; she regarded it as an almost-sacred duty to personally guard the well against would-be wishers.