“The weather feels like July, Jack,” I said, suspicious. I held on to his belt straps, not letting go of him even when he was trying to put Beatrice into the car seat.
“I told you, that’s because in the Southern Hemisphere the seasons are the opposite of those in America. You didn’t believe me when I wrote you about that, did you, Annabel?” I let out my first and only laugh of the day right then. Jack, besides Angelina and Bubbe, knows me better than anybody. He knew that I didn’t think it was actually possible to be in a place that felt like summer when I could see Christmas lights twinkling everywhere, even if he had promised it to be so. I needed to experience it to believe it.
Tilted weather for the hemisphere tilt. I took off my down vest and believed. Tilted country, I thought.
They drive on the left side of the road in Australia. How weird is that! I was sitting in what in America would be the driver’s side of the car, and when I looked out the window at the freeway on the way home from the airport, the oncoming stream of traffic was on the right side of my vision. I screamed! For a second I thought all those cars were driving on the wrong side of the road and we were about to hit them. My scream started a chain reaction.
Beatrice, Angus, and Lucy were riding in the backseat. After I screamed, Beatrice woke up from her little snooze and started howling herself. Then Angus started whining about all the noise Beatrice was making, which made Lucy yell at him to shut up.
For a second I felt at home, like I was riding in a cab in Manhattan, only instead of honking horns and screeching brakes and yelling drivers, it was screaming children. It was chaos. That was fine with me.
Only the thing was, Jack didn’t seem annoyed by all the noise—and he used to hate cab rides in Manhattan more than anybody I’ve ever known, said they were wild and scary. No, Jack was smiling to himself, like he was thinking: This is right, this is how it should be.
The view from my window changed as we exited off the freeway, and I was distracted from the backseat noise. All these famous places I’d seen on TV, like the Sydney Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, were suddenly passing right in front of my window. I wondered how Lucy would feel if she ever got to see the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building. I doubted she was cool enough to ever visit Manhattan, though. I was sure of it.
I can’t say I was any more impressed with Penny than I was with the Steps. When we arrived home, Penny was standing on the porch of their cottage. (Cottage! Who ever heard of living in a cottage when you’re in the city? Cities are supposed to have apartment buildings, not little cottage houses.) Penny was biting her fingernails. I looked down at my own gold glitter-painted fingernails, which Angelina had painted before I left for Australia. Angelina never bit her nails.
As Jack helped Beatrice and the Steps out of the car I stayed seated, inspecting Penny from the car window. She was small but muscular, and she wore all black, so at least I could relate to her clothing. She had black hair cut really short, and she wore these—I hated to give her credit—most excellent black leather calf-length riding boots over her black leggings. She was pretty-okay, not pretty-beautiful like Angelina, but sort of spooky and attractive in a plain kind of way. As she walked toward the car she looked more nervous than I felt.
For a second I was scared. What if she hated me as much as I hated her and the Steps for taking Jack away? It had never occurred to me that she could possibly do anything other than adore me, since I had known Jack the longest and of course he loved me best. But when I saw her biting her nails and taking cautious steps toward me, I realized she was just as scared as I was. Maybe she was scared I would take Jack back home with me.
That thought gave me courage. She should be scared, I thought, to even the score. She and her Dad-calling children had taken away my Jack. I needed to remember that so I could not fall under the spell of her thrift-store-chic look.
“Welcome, Annabel,” she said when I got out of the car. I looked down and scrunched my shoulders so she would not try to hug me. Her accent was soft and pretty; she didn’t sound anything like Crocodile Dundee. “I’ve heard so many great things about you. We’re so happy you’re here.” She pronounced “great” like “graayate.”
I thought, I see your bitten-down fingernails. I know you’re not thrilled to have me here. I mumbled, “Thanks,” and to myself I thought, I am not going to like you, but I have to admit those are killer boots you are wearing.
Chapter 5
So I had barely been in Australia a few hours, and already I was teed off that Lucy and Angus were calling Jack “Dad” (I don’t even call him that, and I’m his real daughter), that Penny wasn’t ugly and horrible, and the fact that I was stranded halfway around the world from Manhattan, U.S. of A., when Jack made it worse that first night.
He prepared chicken cacciatore, my former favorite food, for dinner.
Obviously, Jack had forgotten the E-mail I sent him where I explained about the seventh-grade class elections at the Progress School, which had resulted in my becoming a vegetarian.
The seventh-grade class at the Progress School has twenty-three kids: ten girls and thirteen boys. Of those twenty-three, eight kids are vegetarian, two are totally vegan (Wheaties, of course, is one of those kids—I think he does it just to annoy his dad), three are strictly kosher, five are lactose intolerant, and one eats only macrobiotic foods. I know because I polled the class and created a very superior pie-chart graph showing our food habits for a social studies project.
In order for me to win that election as class president, I needed what Justine, who nominated me, called a “gimmick.” My rival for the election was Brittany Carlson, whose father is, like, the most powerful lawyer in Manhattan. Bubbe used to say she wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him if, God forbid, Angelina ever got a divorce—then Bubbe would mumble, “And God forbid my daughter should get married already in order to have a divorce.” Brittany’s dad—I’m so not kidding—funded her campaign with candy-filled plastic pumpkins that had Brittany’s picture plastered all over them, which Brittany conveniently placed on our cafeteria tables!
Brittany is basically pukefying. She has big blue eyes and long, honey-colored hair, which she is constantly brushing with this fancy wood brush that has a holographic sticker of that Rachel girl from Friends on the handle. Aside from the unfortunate fact that she is a very pretty girl who’s never read a book that wasn’t about some popular cheerleader fighting back from a terrible disease, Brittany is the worst person to have as a study partner or member of your group project because she is totally not school smart and can’t pay attention longer than it takes to brush her hair until it shimmers. What Brittany had going for her in the election was one very important factoid: Brittany was going steady with the most popular boy in the eighth grade, Bradley Duff—or Brad Dufus the Third, as Justine and I and our other best friends, Keisha and Gloria, call him. Brad Dufus the Third, who could intimidate the thirteen boys in our seventh-grade class with one strong-armed throw of a football, and who made the remaining girls in our class (besides me, Justine, Gloria, and Keisha, who know better) just swoon with “OhMyGod’s.” And the very fact that Brittany was the only person in our class to have an acknowledged boyfriend—who sat with her at lunch and played with her hair (when she wasn’t brushing it), who walked her home from school—well, that was a very big obstacle of awe for me to overcome among the voting public, despite my admirable wardrobe and excellent report card.
So then Justine figured out a gimmick. I should become a vegetarian. Justine’s mother is a political-science professor, and they decided I needed to run on an “issue” to combat the Brittany factor. Justine and her mom were right. Standing on a chair in the cafeteria, I proclaimed my new meat-free existence with a ceremonial dumping of spaghetti and meatballs into the garbage can. (It hurt, too. I really love meatballs.) The class liked that I respected their food choices and wanted to work to improve their lunch options in the cafeteria. Brad Dufus the Third was forgotten as b
allots were cast in favor of a meat- and lactose-free cafeteria. So what that the cafeteria cooks told me to “fuggedaboutit” when I strutted into their kitchen as the newly elected seventh-grade president and demanded that our dietary needs be respected? What counted was that I made the effort, that I stayed a vegetarian on principle, and that my efforts at least resulted in lactose-free chocolate milk arriving in our cafeteria as a concession to my new political power.
Maybe it was a little radical to change my whole way of eating, but there is a price to be paid for popularity and being class president, and if that price is being a vegetarian, then I am willing to pay it.
So imagine my surprise and horror when I arrived at the Steps’ house and they had cooked my supposed favorite chicken dinner.
I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. So I sat at the table and sulked.
Lucy said, “Annabel, do you like pizza? Dad says everyone in America loves pizza, and I want us to go together one night and eat pizza.”
“I like pizza so long as it doesn’t have sausage or anchovies on it,” I said, thinking maybe they would get the message. And thinking, STOP CALLING HIM DAD!
“Me, too!” Lucy squealed. This girl was really getting on my last nerve.
“Annabel isn’t eating her chicken, and Lucy is playing with her food,” Angus whined. I had noticed very quickly that he was very competitive with Lucy. If Lucy had a game, he wanted to play it. If Lucy had a drink, he wanted a drink. If Lucy made a face at him, he couldn’t wait to tell on her.
Jack was too distracted spoon-feeding Beatrice to notice.
Penny said, “Annabel, Jack cooks chicken cacciatore all the time and tells us how it’s your favorite food. Lucy says it’s her favorite food now too.”
Lucy nodded and grinned at me. I could see that with a good makeover—replacing her corduroys with a funky plaid miniskirt, and taking away her sport top and replacing it with a soft cashmere short-cropped sweater—she could be quite the Miss Thang. With her rosy cheeks and big smile and athletic form, she would look great in my designs. Not like I’d ever let her know that.
My stomach growled. The chicken smelled sooo good, oozing with tomatoes and drowning in pasta. The food seemed to be calling to me, “Eat me, Annabel, sweet girl Annabel. You knooowww how hungry you are. You remember how much you luuuuv chicken cacciatore.” I nibbled at the potatoes on my plate, wanting to cry from how good the chicken smelled. No one at the Progress School will know, I thought. But I knew better. A guilty conscience would be harder to live with than Brittany Carlson herself taking my picture as I ate chicken cacciatore and then parading the photo all over school and saying, “See? I told you all you should have elected me class president, not Annabel. I wouldn’t have said I was a vegetarian and then flown off to Australia and eaten chicken!” Horror!
“More mash, Annabel?” Penny asked.
“Mash?” I said.
“Mashed potatoes,” Jack said, still not looking up from Beatrice’s gooey vegetables dribbling down her sweet little face. Angelina says you should never put pasta and mashed potatoes in the same meal. Too much starch.
“No more,” I said, “too much starch.” I saw Jack’s shoulders slump when I repeated that Angelina rule.
Penny said, “Is there anything special you want to do during your vacation with us?”
I ignored her and said, “Hey, Jack, do you remember how I sent you those E-mails about the class elections at my school?”
Jack finally looked away from Beatrice. “I think Penny asked you a question, young lady.” Young lady? What had they done to Jack?
I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up and not-quite-yelled, “I’M A VEGETARIAN!”
Then I stormed away from the table and ran to Lucy’s room, where they had put in a cot for me. I didn’t care that it was her room. I slammed the door and lay down on the bed and cried. I looked up from my pillow once, and what I saw almost killed me. On Lucy’s nightstand was a framed picture of Jack giving Lucy a piggyback ride in some park. In the picture the sun reflected off her multicolored braces, her grin was that wide and happy. “He’s my dad,” I whispered.
I buried my head back into the pillow. I hated Australia, I hated the Steps, and I wanted to go home.
That was the first day.
Chapter 6
I woke up at about three in the morning, totally confused. I couldn’t figure out where I was. The air from the open window was warm and balmy, and there was no street noise from taxicabs and buses. Moonlight was streaming in through the curtains, which freaked me out because I certainly didn’t have smiley-face curtains hanging in my room in Manhattan! I could also see another bed next to mine. An empty bed, with . . . more smiley-face linens. Blech, I thought. At the Progress School we are so beyond smiley-face thingies everywhere. I realized I was still stranded in Sydney, Australia, and I was still mad about dinner. But where was Lucy?
I got out of bed and stumbled into the living room, where Jack was sitting in a big love-seat chair with a sheet draped over it for upholstery, which was the kind of house decorating Angelina always used to complain about when we lived with Jack. But all the furniture in his new house was homey and kind of tattered and worn in. Obviously, Penny didn’t mind.
Jack was holding Beatrice and feeding her a bottle. “Anna-the-Belle,” he whispered.
“Jack,” I said. I crossed my arms over my chest.
“You fell asleep before I could come talk to you,” he said.
I dropped my arms from my chest and sat down on the old sofa next to his chair. I could feel tears streaming down my face.
“I’m sorry, Annabel,” Jack said. “You were right to be angry. I should have remembered you were a vegetarian. There are so many things going on here, sometimes I forget important details like that. I wanted everything to be perfect for you, and I blew it.” He put down Beatrice’s bottle and leaned in with his free hand to wipe away my tears.
“I guess I’m sorta sorry about yelling and running away,” I whispered.
“Sorta?” He laughed softly.
“Sorta,” I said, and laughed a little too. “Not totally.” I caught my breath and added, “When you lived in New York, you never forgot about things like that. You were never that busy.”
Jack said, “When I was in New York, I had a very unsuccessful career as a comedian, which left me with loads of time, and I was blessed with a daughter who remembered everything for me.”
I liked that Jack was talking to me like he knew I wasn’t a little girl anymore and I would understand what he was saying.
“And now?” I asked.
“And now,” he said. He gestured toward the computer table, which was stacked with papers and glossy photos and baby toys and children’s books. “And now I’ve got this moderately successful career as a booking agent, bringing comedians who are much funnier than I ever was over to Australia, and sending some Australian ones over to the States, and there’s Lucy, Angus, and Beatrice . . .”
“Oh yeah—them . . .”
“Annabel, I know it’s hard, but promise me you’ll try. Lucy and Angus want so much for you to like them, they’ve been so excited about your coming here.” He paused and looked into my face, like only he can do. Then he understood. “And you know you’ll always be my best girl, and I’ll always love you—”
“Love me best?” I interrupted.
Jack smiled. “Love you totally as my most wonderful, special, irreplaceable first daughter.”
That was a start.
“So why don’t you put down that baby already and make some room for me?”
Jack chuckled again and put sleeping Beatrice into the bassinet next to his chair. He held his arms out to me and I snuggled right in, resting on his lap and burrowing my head in his neck. It had been so long since Jack had held me in his arms. He still smelled like aftershave and fresh garlic and tomatoes. He patted my head and twirled my hair as I sat in his lap.
“You’re getting so tall!” he said.
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“No I’m not, you’re getting shorter!” I said. Our favorite old joke. After a few minutes of snuggling I asked, “Where’s Lucy?”
“She went to sleep in Angus’s room. But not before yelling at me for forgetting you were a vegetarian. She and Angus stayed up to make you something special.”
“What?” I said it low and quiet so he would think I wasn’t interested.
“Macaroni and cheese to eat tomorrow night. Your second-favorite meal, if memory serves. That was pretty cool of them, no?” I could smell the cheese sauce on Jack’s shirt. I knew it was pretty cool of Jack, not of the Steps.
“I guess,” I allowed. I didn’t want to be mean about it, considering I had Jack all to myself.
Beatrice gurgled in her sleep. “Do you want to hold her?” Jack asked.
She was my half sister, not a step, so I figured why not. I lifted her out of the bassinet, careful to hold the back of her head, and the two of us sat with Jack in the big chair. She was so pretty, with eyes and lips shaped just like Jack’s, and soft black hair just like Penny’s. I could feel the rhythm of her breathing on my arm, which was cradling her back.
“Awesome,” I whispered. I wondered if I could design baby clothes.
Feeling Beatrice’s back rise and fall in my arms, cuddled in Jack’s arms, I decided I felt okay about Beatrice and Jack. About Penny and the Steps, still not cool.
Chapter 7
When I woke up the second time, it was already noon! I have never slept so late in my life. Maybe I slept so late because I dreaded spending time with the Steps.
I was right to dread. The Steps, Jack, Penny, and Beatrice were all sitting around the kitchen table working on a giant puzzle of a panda, and obviously waiting for me to haul my butt out of bed. The first thing Angus said to me when I went into the kitchen was, “Annabel, the Frosties don’t have any meat in them!”