Saucy and Bubba Page 11

  Just then, the gym doors pushed open, and a tall, dark-skinned boy entered, followed by his mom in a bright red sari. An Indian family, I guessed. Or Pakistani. Or something. The door almost slammed on the mother, and she reached out to jerk an earplug from the boy’s ear.

  “And keep that off so you can hear me,” she scolded. At the PTA table, she picked up a green T-shirt and held it to the boy’s back. “What size are you wearing now?”

  Mothers. They had a hard time keeping track of things. Like changing shirt sizes. And allowances. I patted the last dollar in my pocket. Mom and Dad–

  –no, Mandy and Ted. I had to remember not to call them Mom and Dad any more.

  Mandy and Ted had given me an allowance from the monthly state support check. But I’d heard stories about some foster parents who kept all the check to themselves. Mr. Porter had just frowned when I’d asked for money tonight. But then Miss Porter had pulled out two dollars, so he hadn’t said anything for sure.

  “Alli Flynn!”

  Mrs. Lopez was motioning to me. Oh, great. So much for looking around on my own. I strolled over. Just as I got to the PTA table, Eliot spun around—

  Hey! Were those arms or long pieces of spaghetti slapping at my face? “Look out!” I yelled.

  He jerked back and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  He was skinny and had brown hair.

  Mrs. Lopez said, “Eliot, this is Alli. She’s new, and she’s sixth grade, like you. She needs someone to show her around. Can she go around with you and Toby?”

  Eliot looked me up and down.

  Mr. Porter had bought me used school uniforms before he even saw me, assuming I’d be the size of an average sixth grader instead of an average fifth grader. Okay, fourth grader, maybe. And then, he made me wear the uniform tonight.

  Eliot said, “You can’t be sixth grade. You’re too little.”

  We were about the same height: he was just an inch taller, so I didn’t see why he wanted to be insulting. But I said nothing. Too much trouble.

  To Mrs. Lopez, Eliot said, “Whatever.”

  “Eliot!” his mother said. “You know better.”

  Mrs. Lopez nodded approval at his mom.

  Eliot didn’t look at me. Just frowned, and said, “Yes, ma’am. She can go with us.”

  Mrs. Lopez led Eliot’s mom toward a group of parents.

  Eliot walked past me and I threw the paper cone–all that was left of the cotton candy–into the blue trash barrel and followed. Ignoring me, he walked on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. His head swiveled back and forth apparently searching for someone.

  No luck on the first aisle.

  Suddenly, he shoved forward down the middle aisle, like he was afraid someone would disappear. He glanced back to see if I was following, dodged two clusters of foreign-looking people, and kept going.

  I kept up: he couldn’t lose me. Not till I wanted to be lost.

  Eliot stopped in front of a group of white-blond kids. “Toby!”

  Five turquoise T-shirts stared at Eliot. No, six. Even the mother wore a turquoise T-shirt and jean shorts. They didn’t need to dress alike, not with that white-blond hair. They looked crazy, like identical Easter Eggs.

  The mother headed straight for Eliot and wrapped him in a turquoise hug. “You poor, precious boy!”

  Well, I felt sorry for him, too. Did every adult think they needed to hug him like that? And why were they doing that? What had happened to make him so–well, so precious?

  He was faster at getting out of the hug this time. The oldest boy just shrugged at Eliot. That must be Toby.

  The mother finally turned loose and stared at me. “And who is this?”

  “New girl, sixth grade,” Eliot said. “Name’s Alli.” To me, he said, “Alli, this is Mrs. Zane. And her kids.”

  I nodded to Mrs. Zane and reached out to shake her hand. But the smallest blond kid, a girl with short, straight hair, dashed away, arms stretched up and yelling, “Ba-Woon!”

  Sure enough, the girl’s red balloon floated upward. There, bumping along the ceiling, were a half dozen other balloons.

  “Veronica!” The mother chased the girl down and grabbed her hand. “We’ll get you a new balloon.”

  The mother saw me watching. I nodded up at the floating balloons and shook my head in sympathy. She smiled back, and then scooped up her daughter.

  Veronica’s red balloon reminded me of another balloon, a big one. Ted, my foster father–my old foster father, I reminded myself–was a hot air balloonist. His balloon was totally huge, tomato red, and totally wonderful. The first time I saw it was my first day at Mandy and Ted’s house. First grade. We drove out to a field somewhere, and Ted laid out the balloon in the grass. As it inflated, I shouted, I ran around it, I patted it, and finally, I stood frozen, awed, as it stretched up, up, up. When it was fully inflated, I begged for a ride.

  That first time five years ago, I couldn’t see over the top of the basket. Ted held me up, tight and safe. We stared at the silent world below us. Cotton fields, rice fields. And he pointed out the school in the distance and explained that was where I would go the next day.

  Now? Mandy was expecting her own daughter, except things weren’t going so good. Mandy was on complete bed rest. I tried to help, bringing up a tray with a snack of cheese and crackers.

  But through the bedroom door, I heard Ted saying, “We agreed. We had a good home and there were kids who needed a safe place.”

  “But you never wanted to adopt.” I could imagine the way Mandy’s hand would flutter toward him, the way it always did when he disagreed with her.

  There was a long silence.

  “We didn’t know it would take so long for me to get pregnant,” Mandy said.

  “Alli has been safe with us,” Ted said, as if reassuring himself. “Happy.”

  “For a long time,” Mandy agreed.

  “How much more would anyone expect us to do?”

  “You’re the one who never wanted to adopt, you said that.” Mandy said. “Alli was only supposed to be here until we had our own baby.”

  And I felt like I had been stabbed. I had to grip the tray hard so it wouldn’t fall. I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. Behind the door, there was just silence. I could imagine Mandy’s hand resting on the bump in her belly, the baby they both wanted.

  “We did agree.” Ted’s voice was cold. Just like his heart.

  I had left the tray outside the bedroom and fled to my room.

  I coughed now, burying the words, blocking the memory.

  A booth across the aisle caught my attention. I stared at yellow duckies floating in a plastic swimming pool, and tried to calm my breathing.

  "Just a nickel!" said the adult working that booth. He wore yellow gloves, I guess to keep his hands dry. "For a nickel you can pick up any duck you want. We'll see if a prize is written on the bottom."

  The prizes–stuffed animals and plastic toys–crowded the shelf above the pool.

  I backed away, whispering, "No. I'll just watch."

  A family strolled over to try their luck. Identical twins, dark-haired boys, each handed over a nickel. Julio and Juan, the parents called them.

  Juan won, but Julio didn’t. ‘Course, that started a fight, so they had to try again. More nickels.

  Calmer now, I leaned on the corner of the booth and listened. Eliot was saying, “Mrs. Zane, could I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure, honey. What do you need?”

  “Could you talk to Marj? About the Bread Project–”

  “She doesn’t know if she wants to do it?” Mrs. Zane said.

  There was that Bread Project thing again, what was it? I glanced back at the yellow duckies. Julio and Juan had both won this time, and they high-fived.

  “Right,” Eliot said, and his voice was tense, like this was something important. “And–”

  But Mrs. Zane wasn’t listening. The three middle brothers were throwing balls at milk bottles, while Toby cheered for th
em. Absently, she said, “The Project is a great idea, isn’t it? Perfect, in fact.”

  “No!” Eliot said. “I don’t think–”

  Then the smallest blond boy knocked over all his milk bottles, and Mrs. Zane put her fingers to her mouth, and boy, did she whistle.

  That whistle, so shrill and piercing. It was so loud the whole gym got quiet.

  Ba-boom, ba-boom, the drumbeat from the loud speaker’s music filled the silence.

  An aisle away, but still easy to hear, someone said, “Just the Zany Zanes again.”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Zane laughed. “The Zany Zanes, that’s us.”

  Smiling, I said, “The Mighty Whistler.”

  “No,” Mrs. Zane said, “just a mom with a lot of hot air.”

  I laughed, making Veronica squirm in her mother’s arms, twisting to see who was laughing.

  Which made me laugh even more.

  Veronica’s face lit up, the balloon finally forgotten, and she was laughing with me.

  By now, the Zane brothers were racing around the corner to start down the next aisle. Quickly, Mrs. Zane followed the trail of three blond tornadoes. Just before she disappeared, she called back, “Don’t worry, Eliot. I’ll talk to Marj, and we’ll get the Bread Project going.”

  Left behind in peace, Toby said, “Thought you didn’t like the Bread Project.”

  “I don’t,” Eliot said. “Marj says it will honor Griff’s memory. But it was his idea and without him–” Eliot tilted his head back and looked at the balloons that still bounced on the ceiling. His voice quivered, “Without Griff, what’s the point? With him gone, well, I just want to be left alone. To make it through this school year by myself, my way. No one poking around, asking me how I’m feeling. It’s private.” He squeezed his eyes tight and whispered, “It feels so private it’s hard to even SAY that it’s private. Don’t want my business out there like this whole Project would make it.” He shook his head and looked at Toby then. “But your Mom won’t listen. Mrs. Lopez won’t listen.”

  “No one really listens till you hit 40 years old.” Toby shrugged. “So, just try Mrs. Lopez again later.”

  Eliot coughed and rubbed his eyes, and I worried that he might cry right there. Instead, he sighed. “Yeah, later.”

  I stepped forward, curious now. “What is the Bread Project?”

  They both jerked around at the sound of my voice.

  “Well.” Eliot pushed his hair off his forehead. “It’s a fund raiser for the school, an idea my dad had.” He stopped and blinked.

  Toby finished it: “But his Dad’s not here; he died this summer. Someone else needs to think of a fund raiser and not use his idea.”

  Eliot looked away. Casually, like he didn’t care about anything, he waved at the booths around us. “It’s the same baby games we get every year.”

  So, he didn’t want to talk about it. I understood that: I had things I didn’t want to talk about either.

  He was right about the games: knock down the milk jars, throw beanbags into a lion’s mouth, and guess which cup had the ball.

  “Like every other school party,” I agreed.

  Toby asked, “You been outside yet?”

  “Nope,” said Eliot.

  “They set up one of those water games, where you throw a baseball at a target and–” Toby’s eyes gleamed, “–if it hits bull’s eye, it dumps someone into a tank of water.”

  Now that made me mad. Mr. Porter dumped me off instead of asking if I wanted to see the most interesting game at the party. He was probably even in charge of that game and didn’t tell me about it, just left me with Mrs. Lopez. And Mrs. Lopez dumped me off on Eliot and Toby. Well, she wasn’t here now, and I didn’t have to pretend to like these boys any more. “Go on,” I said. “I’ll come out later.” As soon as they left, I’d go outside by myself.

  Eliot didn’t have to pretend to like me, either. “Sure. See you later.”

  They walked away.

  And there I was again, alone.

  So what? I could still take care of myself.

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