I tiptoe out of the room and go to the hall to use the phone. I have to call Cynthia about the movie tonight, about what time we should meet. When she answers, she sounds mad. “It’s me,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says. And waits.
“I’m calling about the movie.”
“I’ll be there.”
“When?” I ask, and she says, “Whenever you say.”
“The Parent Trap starts at seven,” I say. “Want to see that one?”
Deep sigh. “Okay.”
“What’s wrong? Did you have a fight with your mother?”
“I can’t talk. I’ll see you tonight.” She hangs up.
I’ll bet anything that’s what it is; Cynthia is always fighting with her mother, who ought to live in the head room at Bellevue insane asylum. Anyone who says you should always respect your parents would change their minds if they met Mrs. O’Connell.
I go back into the bedroom and sit in the chair and watch Mrs. Randolph sleep. I try to think about what she looked like when she was my age, but I can’t imagine it. Even if I saw a picture, the way she is now would still be stubborn in my brain, like she has been that way forever. It seems like you always are the way you are right now, unless you are a movie star, when people always see you the way you were best. Sometimes I wonder, If there is a heaven and people are themselves up there in their bodies, what body is it? The one they died in? It doesn’t seem fair if it is, because for one thing, there would be people from car wrecks walking around saying, Well, this isn’t how I really looked. But what would be the time that you would say “This is my real look”? My mother always used to say on her birthday that she was twenty-nine, no matter how old she was. So I guess that might be the age.
When I think of my mother now, she is sort of gauzed over, not as clear as she used to be, but still so shining. Her real age when she died was forty-one. It’s so funny that I didn’t know her age until she died. I look like her around the eyes, and I am so grateful. It is a part of her I will never lose. She had such a nice laugh, like bells. And also she knew how to tap dance a little. One thing I do still remember clearly is that every time she came home from the grocery store with Green Stamps, I was the one who got to put them in the book. We were working on getting the waffle iron. I don’t know what ever happened to those books of stamps. I think they got thrown out when we moved, which is a shame; there was at least enough there for a toaster.
I watch Mrs. Randolph’s chest rise and fall, listen to the tick of her bedside clock. I practice different ways of crossing my legs, while in my head I conjugate the French verb être. One thing I hope they don’t do in high school is ask you to write about what you did on your summer vacation and then read it aloud. I would be Sominex to the entire class.
WELL, I MIGHT AS WELL GO shopping for a crystal ball and a silk scarf to wrap around my head, because once again I have told the future. Cynthia and I are sitting around her bedroom late on this Friday night after having watched the kids in front of us kiss so much it would be a wonder if they saw anything that happened on the screen. Forget the movie; this was the real show: The boy and girl come in together, a little ways apart. The boy has on a clean shirt and is wearing a belt on his pants and you can see the comb marks in his hair. The girl has a necklace on with her dress and nylon stockings, and her hair got washed that afternoon—she has the aura of Prell. Lights dim, and three seconds later, kiss, kiss, kiss. Next, slouch way down in the seat, and then the boy does something that the girl starts giggling and says, “Stop!” You would think they would have the decency to sit in the back, but no, they must put themselves smack in the middle of the theater so all can see. Cynthia and I sat there with popcorn boxes on our lap, and I felt like we were in kindergarten making macaroni necklaces.
Now, just as we are making ourselves comfortable, we have the horror of her mother sticking her head in. “Everything fine up here?” she asks, and her eyeballs seem like they’re sticking out three miles. I look around for broken bones and other catastrophes and then say, Yes, everything is fine.
“Cynthia?” Mrs. O’Connell asks, and Cynthia sighs. “Yes, Mother, everything is fine.”
“A little girl talk, huh?” Mrs. O’Connell says.
Neither of us says anything, and finally she closes the door.
Cynthia turns the radio up loud, so no one can hear us. It’s Fab Freddy, talking about a rocking Friday night on 99.9 FM. I wish I could be doing the show with him. “And now, a record that my good friend Katie picked,” he could say. “All you lovebirds cuddle up, here comes Bobby Vinton.”
“I hate my mother so much,” Cynthia says, and I say, “Me, too,” to give support, even though I don’t hate her; I just think she’s pathetic.
“You know when you called and I was in a bad mood?”
“Yeah,” I say. I kind of want to ask which time, but that would only put her in a worse mood. It used to be that Cynthia was only goofy, but now she is moody.
“Well, it’s because of something my mother is doing.”
“What’s she doing?” I love when you ask a question and you know that no matter what the answer is, it will be delicious.
She lies back on the floor, her autograph hound serving as her pillow. So far I am the only one to sign it. “Write big!” Cynthia said, and I did, but now I regret it, because every time I come in her room, there it is “Best wishes, Luff, Katie Nash!!!!” and that is all that’s on the dog, and the writing is not even good.
Cynthia sighs. “I don’t know if I can say it. It’s so embarrassing.”
Now I am on full alert like the dogs at the dinner table. “Tell me,” I say, and turn the radio up even louder.
“She is going to become a Girl Scout leader,” Cynthia says, “and I have to be in her troop.” She looks up at me quickly, then away.
“Oh, no.”
“Yes.”
And I thought I was doomed for having to baby-sit for a summer job. “When?”
“The first meeting is next week. Here.”
Cynthia opens her closet and digs around in the back, then pulls out a green dress and holds it out, which at first I don’t get, and then I realize it’s a Girl Scout uniform. “She’s going to sew patches on it,” Cynthia says, “and then I have to wear it. And that’s not all.” She goes to the closet again, and pulls out a beret.
“Oh, Cynthia,” I say. “We have to talk to her.”
“I did.”
“Why is she doing this?”
“So we can be closer.” Cynthia puts the dress and the beret back in the closet, shuts the door, and lies back down on the floor. Little tears are sprouting out of her eyes, and she brushes them away like she would like to murder them.
“But you’re too old,” I say.
“She doesn’t think so.”
“I’ll help you. We’ll think of something.”
Cynthia sits up. Already she feels better. All it takes sometimes is to know you are not alone.
“Maybe we could . . . ,” I say, but then I fizzle out.
“I don’t know if this would work, but we could—”
“Hold on!” I say, my hand held up in the air. “Listen!”
“Okay, you jet-setters,” Fab Freddy is saying. “Listen up now, because what you just heard is true. We’ve selected a winner for our travel contest!”
I want to hear who wins the contest that I also entered, and whether they spaz out on the phone like winners usually do, start screaming and say I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. But right now a miracle has happened here in Cynthia’s bedroom, because I hear these words: “The winner is . . . Katie Nash. All right! Congratulations, Katie! You’ve got ninety-nine minutes to call in and claim your prize, baaaaaby!”
“Oh, my God,” I say, my hand over my mouth. I am freezing and boiling.
Cynthia’s eyes are wide. “Does he mean you?” she asks. “Is it you?”
I nod, and then get the terrible feeling that there is
another Katie Nash, who is probably seventeen and saying, “Cool! I won!”
“It might be me,” I say, but now doubt is crowding in so bad, my mind is saying, “Now, wait a minute. Did you enter that contest?”
And it’s stereo, because Cynthia is saying, “Did you enter that contest?”
I nod, afraid to speak.
“Well, then, call!” Cynthia says, and hands me her princess phone.
“But what if two Katie Nashes entered?” I ask. “What if it’s another one?”
“It’s not!”
“But it could be!”
“But you have to find out!”
I start to dial, then say, “But wait . . . do you have to wait until ninety-nine minutes?”
“No! You have ninety-nine minutes to call before it’s too late!” Cynthia picks up the receiver. “I’m calling.”
“Okay,” I say. “But if it’s me, I’ll talk.”
“Oh, what’s the number, what’s the number, I forgot!” Cynthia says, and for a minute I almost don’t know either, even though I hear that number every night. But then I remember and I tell her, and she dials. Then she starts laughing, wheezy excited, looking at me with her eyes all wide, and she has to turn her back on me so she can get serious again.
I sit with one hand squeezing the other to death and hear her say. “Yes, I’m calling about the travel contest? You just announced the winner?” Then there is a pause of about three hundred years. She turns to look at me, all lit up, and then says, “No, I’m not Katie Nash, but she’s right here.” She is nodding her head up and down real fast. “Yes,” she says, and then “All right, I will.” She turns down the radio, then hands the phone to me, and all of a sudden it seems like everything in the universe has stopped dead in its tracks. “Hello?” I say.
“Katie?” a woman’s voice says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hi! I’d like to verify that you’re Katie Nash of 1617 Melrose Drive, St. Louis. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I say, in a mouse voice.
“Well, congratulations! Now, hold on for a second for Freddy, and remember to keep your radio down, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll have you on the air in just a minute.”
Oh my God, my insides are saying, but I can’t give in. One minute, kid, the next minute, famous. I knew something big would happen this summer, I knew it. I sit straight up and look only at Cynthia’s walls because if I look at her, forget it.
I hear Freddy doing a commercial in the background plus on the radio, but he is ahead of himself on the phone. I wonder if something is wrong. But then, “Hi, there, Katie!” Fab Freddy says. It’s him, I know his voice, it is the real Fab Freddy on the telephone with me.
“Hello,” I say back and feel like smacking myself on the head for how I sound. Then, “Hi,” I say, like he did—all casual and friendly.
“Congratulations!” he says. “You’re our winner!”
“Yes,” I say, “thank you.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yes, sir.” Then, “Wow!” I add.
“So! Where in the world are we sending you, Katie Nash?”
“Oh! . . . Um, to Texas?”
“Texas, Welllllll, where at in Texas? San Antonio, I’ll bet! Suck down some of those margaritas, down by that ol’ green river!” Then he makes a bunch of high Mexican sounds, with lots of yips and rolling Rs. “Is that where you’re headed, darlin’?”
“No, sir. I’m going to Ford Hood.”
“To what?”
“Fort Hood?”
“Fort Hood! And where is that, Katie?”
“It’s in Killeen.”
“Ah ha! . . . And where is Killeen?” He says Killeen like he’s saying Xmqtriwzxm.
“Well, kind of in the heart. In the heart of Texas.”
“The stars are bright,” Freddy sings.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well now, what in the world made you pick Fort Hood, Katie?”
Now the air hangs so heavy and I realize I could have said New York City. Or Paris, France! But I say, “I used to live there, and I want to see a friend.”
“Okay!” Freddy says. “Well, you’re on your way, kiddo! Have a great time, and what radio station is the best in the world?”
Well, I have no idea.
“Katie?” Freddy says.
“Yes, sir?”
“What radio station is the best in the world?”
“KOOL!” Cynthia is whispering. “KOOL!”
Oh.
“KOOL,” I say.
“You got it!” Freddy says. “And now, in your honor, let’s listen to Travelin’ Man!”
And he is gone. The woman comes back on the phone to tell me she’ll be sending me an airplane ticket as soon as she gets my parents’ permission—they’ll need to call her at the station. I say okay and hang up the phone.
And then I just sit there. I want to replay everything that just happened and never forget it.
“You won!” Cynthia says. “Wow! I didn’t even know you entered!”
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Uh-oh,” Cynthia says. And I know what she means. I see myself saying, “Hey, Dad, I won a free trip to Texas!” And him, a fork on the way to his mouth, stopped in midair, What did you say? His prelude to no.
SATURDAY NIGHT AND I AM at the kitchen table with the Wexler boys, who are finally being quiet because I told them I can do card tricks. Really, I only know two, but so far it is enough to keep them happy. Each one wants to have it done to him only, and the others can’t watch—they have to sit there with their eyes shut. Fine with me. A sip of RC cola, a dip into the chips, and do the trick again—that is my job for the rest of the evening. In half an hour, they have to go to bed. I don’t care whether they sleep on not; my duties are done once they are sent to bed. I can watch TV and read Mrs. Wexler’s magazines, even though they are not really for me; they are mainly about how to cook chicken in marinade or gardening. Sometimes there is a short story that’s good, like about a reporter who thinks she will never fall in love, but does.
Mr. and Mrs. Wexler went out to a movie and he seemed all happy about it, and she seemed like they were going to work on a chain gang. I like Mr. Wexler so much. He’s always in a good mood and he always gives me an extra dollar when he pays me. He has the bluest eyes. He goes bowling every week, and he has his own bag and a bowling shirt with Buddy written on it in turquoise blue embroidery. There’s a picture on the shirt of two bowling pins getting knocked sky high, and the bowling ball is winking.
“How did you do that?” Mark asks, about my four kings trick, and I shrug and say, “It’s magic.”
And now they have to shuffle around because once again it’s David’s turn, and he has announced that this time, he’s going to figure out how I do it. One thing about magic, if you know how to do it, people like you, at least while you’re doing the trick. But naturally David doesn’t figure it out, and then it’s Henry’s turn, while David and Mark play smash the chip into a thousand pieces and then suck it up off the table like a vacuum cleaner. Mrs. Wexler buys cheap potato chips called by the store’s name, which is always the giveaway. I wish she would get Lays or Ripple Chips plus some Dr Pepper. But she has not asked me for my opinion.
“I’ll bet you don’t know one thing, though,” Henry says, after David has once again not figured out the trick and now is pretend-banging his head on the table.
“What’s that?” I say, eating another crummy chip. She could at least get barbecue.
Henry straightens in his seat. “Okay. What is the last number?”
“The last number of what?” I say.
“The last number in the world.”
I stare at him, and David puts his head in his hands like his dog died and says, “Oh, no, Henry, not that again.”
Henry pays no attention to his brother. He stares at me, and says, “Any number you say, I just add one, and it
never stops.” He looks a little sad.
“Well, infinity,” I say.
“What?”
“Infinity.” I say again. “That’s what you say when you mean it goes on and on, there is no end.”
He stares at me. His glasses are so thick.
“There’s a symbol for it,” I say. “Give me a pencil and I’ll show you.”
All three boys rush for one of the kitchen drawers. Everything is a contest. I forgot you have to say for one of them to do things or they fight over it. Amazingly, Henry wins, and he hands me the pencil and I draw the symbol on a napkin.
They all crowd around like it’s the baby with three heads.
“That’s it?” Mark asks, and David says, “Dope, that’s an eight!”
“It is not,” I say.
“It is so, just an eight lying down!”
“But that’s it. That’s the symbol for infinity.”
They all look at me, and I say, once again, “It is! You can look it up!”
“I wouldn’t make that the symbol if I were them,” Henry says. “It is just an eight lying down.”
I look at my watch. “All right. You have ten minutes before bed. Each of you, make a new symbol for infinity.”
And I am baby-sitter of the year, because don’t they hop to it. David makes an arrow with curlicues on it. Mark makes a circle in a circle in a circle, which I must admit is pretty good. And Henry makes an asterisk. “That is already a symbol,” I tell him, “and it does not stand for infinity.”