Out of the Box(33)

“Division of labor,” she snaps. “I mean, this is a family issue, right? So what do you think?”

I think nothing has changed. I think I can try all my life to help them, and they’ll keep running in circles, arguing and crying about the same old stuff. My life would be way better with Jeanette, and I wish I’d fought to stay with her. I yank down the page of chores that I’d posted on the fridge and shake it at them. “This is what I think. Why bother asking if you’re not going to listen anyway?” I crumple it into a ball, hurl it at the floor, grab the box of crackers and slam out the front door.

I walk fast, head down. I don’t look up until the rows of identical houses give way to older ones with yards dotted with flowers or vegetables or trees. I pass a llama and what I think is a chicken coop. I feel my jaw relax. I stop white-knuckling my cracker box.

I don’t stop walking until I reach an empty lot. It’s full of blackberry bushes, and if Jeanette were here, we’d change any plans we had and spend the afternoon picking instead.

The fruit is ripe, the bushes are loaded, and I have an empty cracker box. I’m tempted, but I should be getting back. I’ve been gone less than an hour, but my parents have no idea where I am, I don’t have my cell with me, and Mom is no doubt imagining me snatched up by a serial killer or mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.

I sigh. Sometimes I wonder what she’d do for excitement if she actually lived in reality instead of her head.

I place my box in a bush, propping it up the way Jeanette does, so it won’t fall over no matter how full it gets. Then I reach for a blackberry, avoiding the prickles, and pop that first one into my mouth. It’s warm and sweet and tastes of summer.





TWENTY-FIVE


Mom’s furious at me when I get home. She yells and cries. I hug her but don’t apologize. She begs me to tell her where I’m going next time. I agree and head up to my room, pretending not to hear her sniffling. By lunchtime she’s pulled herself together, and we all act like nothing’s happened.

I abandon my stack of library books and scour the Internet for bandoneóns for sale. I find none I could ever afford, but decide to start earning some money so I’ll be prepared when a cheaper one comes up. Besides, staying out of my parents’ problems will be easier if I’m out of the house as much as possible.

In the next few days, I find lawns to mow, kids to babysit and a newspaper route. I also make an appointment with that counselor, because it can’t hurt, and maybe it’ll inspire my parents to see someone themselves. My summer becomes busy. Mom declares I’m wasting my childhood by working too hard (I bite my tongue), but she doesn’t try to stop me.

I decide that, someday, I will go live with Jeanette. Not right now, but maybe in a few years, when Mom is better, or at least when she’s figured out that I won’t try to solve her problems anymore. That’s when I’ll ask if I can go, and I won’t give up until my parents say yes. None of it should surprise my mother: it will be evidence of the rebellious streak that she’s been waiting for all along. And I know Jeanette wouldn’t mind. She calls every few days now, and she talks to everyone in the house. Other than hers, though, we don’t receive many phone calls. No one comes by, either, until the last Friday of summer, when the doorbell rings.

“What are you doing here?” I shriek, flinging my arms around Jeanette, who is standing on our doorstep with a bandoneón case in one hand.

“Special delivery,” she says. “I figured you might want this before school starts and you get too busy to practice.”

“What? How—?”

“May I come in?” she asks. “Or do you expect me to tell you the whole long story on your front walk?”

I step aside, and she marches into the living room. The place looks a lot better than it did a month ago. Dad and I have been doing the housework together, because Mom’s declared that if things ever fall into complete chaos again, she and I will be checking into a hotel, and Dad can expect divorce papers in the mail. The house is now clean, but messy. Mom leaves stacks of paper wherever she goes, and the entire place is starting to look like her office desk.

Jeanette places the bandoneón gently on the footstool and sits down on one end of the couch. I curl up opposite her. “Do my parents know you’re here?” I ask.

“Not unless they heard me come in,” she says, tucking her feet up beneath her. “Gloria can hardly complain about me dropping by without calling though.”

“How did you wind up with the bandoneón?”