Calli Be Gold (15 page)

Becca doesn’t talk to us the whole time in the van except to tell Mom to “watch the turns” because she’s in the middle of putting on her eyeliner.

When she gets out, dragging her skating bag, she says, “I’m completely freezing,” and Mom snaps, “Becca, deal with it.” My sister flicks her hair and stomps toward the door of the rink.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with her these days,” Mom remarks. “Teenagers!”

One pink and one blue Post-it note are on the steering wheel, and a yellow one is stuck to Mom’s purse. I don’t
think she knows that there’s a pink Post-it on the sleeve of her jacket.

As we get closer to winter break, the Calendar is looking a little less crowded, and Mom says it will be nice to have a couple of free days here and there.

In my room, I made my own mini calendar on the polar bear notepad I got from the dentist. I’ve been marking off the days until the Friendship Fair.

As we pull away from the skating rink, I clear my throat a few times before Mom finally asks, “Something on your mind, Calli?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was just wondering how everything’s going to work out the night of the Friendship Fair. It’s almost here. Have you thought about it?”

She digs one hand in her purse while steering with the other and pulls out a tissue. She dabs at her nose, then looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Well, Dad is going to take Becca to her competition, I will take Alex to the game, and I’ve asked Grandma Gold to meet you at the fair. I suppose you can walk over to the school by yourself. Grandma can’t get there before seven. And, depending on how long the game and the competition run, we’ll catch the end of the fair if at all humanly possible.”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” I mutter, staring out the window.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Mom pulls up in front of the community center. “Grandma Gold will be there the entire time.”

Great, I think, other people get their whole families; I get Grandma Gold. I don’t even bother to say goodbye when I let myself out of the van.

As I’m walking down the hallway toward the improv room, all these thoughts about my family are tumbling around, and when I reach room seven, something happens. My feet don’t stop at the doorway. They keep going. They keep going down the hall, past room nine and room eleven and room fifteen. There isn’t a room thirteen, because it’s bad luck. I end up way down the hallway by room nineteen and then I sink onto a bench. This time, blinking doesn’t hold back my tears and they start dropping all over my jacket. There are a lot of them.

I don’t want to go to the improv class.

I don’t want to play silly games where I most certainly will get “out,” or be partners with the hoodie kid or the girl with the little spiral, or learn about CLIC. I don’t want to watch Liza wave around her fake glasses.

I don’t want to be an actress.

So what I do is sit here. For the entire hour, on the bench. And I think about things. All kinds of things.

I think about how I’m going to explain to my parents that I cut the class. I think about Noah and how he came out from under his desk and how he talks to me and shows me things like his stones and a card trick and how
he doesn’t wear his jacket inside anymore. I even think a little bit about Tanya Timley and her white teeth and imagine what it’s like to be a model.

I think about how Noah and I are creating our booth for the fair but no one from my family even cares. Everything else seems more important to them. Even if we have the worst booth at the fair, that shouldn’t matter, right? My family should be there.

But that’s not how they are.

Then I wonder if I really am like Dad’s lunatic sister, Marjorie. An outcast. The different one. Dad will be so mad at me for giving up and not going to the class. Like he’s mad at Marjorie … Am I running away from something just like she did? Exactly why did she leave, anyway? Did her family make her crazy … like mine makes me crazy?

I think about that baby chick, and me hiding in the family photo, and even that old woman in the grocery store who I wanted to help, but Mom told me to “chop-chop.”

I think about so many things all at the same time that I’m sure Noah would say I’m a bunch of mixed-up colors right now.

Noah …

I like you,
he said. I like
you.

Finally, at five o’clock, with no more answers than when I first sat down, I walk out the front door of the community center. Mom is late. I gather some dirty, crusty snow in my hand and try to make a snowball. The
snow breaks apart, and when it does, there’s a small brown stone sitting in my wet hand. I stare at the stone like it magically appeared to help me make sense of everything. But even when I rub it between my fingers, it doesn’t seem to be working. I still feel all jumbled up.

When I see Mom, I slip the stone into the pocket of my jeans, then get into the van like nothing happened. She asks how the class was, and tells me Dad will want a full report. I say it was fine and I’m tired and I have a lot of homework and I’ll tell her about it later.

Except that I can’t. Every time I start to form the words that night, I feel guilty and ungrateful. Will she bring up the piano again? Then I’ll end up feeling even worse. The entire night goes by without me saying a word. Fortunately, Dad is working late and doesn’t have a chance to interrogate me. Just before I fall asleep, I promise myself that I’ll think of a way to tell them I didn’t go. I may have no talent, but I don’t want to lie about it.

When I get to Noah’s classroom the next day, he’s absent. Mrs. Bezner tells me I can work on my own today. But I realize I don’t want to work on my own.

Everyone is busy, chatting and coloring and cutting and gluing. The entire room is practically buzzing, but I have no one to talk to. Working on the project without Noah just doesn’t feel right.

So it looks like I’m doing something, I take our display board from the pile on the side of the room and set it on
top of Noah’s desk, but I don’t even bother to open it up. Even though his chair is too small for me, I sit down and start tapping my fingers on the display board.

Besides today, there’s only one more working period before the fair, but Noah and I don’t have that much more to do. I already brought in two old white sheets to hang over our table, and we’re almost done with the display board. Noah brought in an empty plastic Cool Whip container and we cut out a slot on the lid for quarters. Then we made a sign:
SECRET-TELLING—25 CENTS. ALL PROCEEDS WILL BE DONATED TO SOUTHBROOK ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.

Mrs. Bezner appears at Noah’s desk and looks down at me with a kind face. “Everything going well, Calli?”

“I think so.”

“Do you need any last-minute help?”

I shake my head. “We’re okay.”

“I know that Noah’s been a bit of a challenge.…”

I shrug.

“But you seem to work fine with him.” She smiles. “Well, just wanted to check in.” Mrs. Bezner pats my shoulder and moves on.

I start examining the things in Noah’s desk. I see the stones, and all the usual second-grade books—math, reading, social studies—and a few spirals.

I check to see if anyone’s watching; then I flip open the spiral labeled
NOAH ZULLO’S JOURNAL.
His entries are very short, only one or two sentences on each page.
His printing is shaky and there are lots of misspelled words.

One page says
It was sunny today,
and another,
I don’t like school.

I keep reading until I get to one that says
I meeted Calli today.
My heart flutters, because the next line says
She is nice to me.

That’s it. I wish there was more, but he didn’t write anything else.

I close the journal and carefully replace it under the other books.

That night at dinner, Becca is walking around the kitchen, all nice and helpful. When I sit down in my seat, Mom informs me that Becca set the table even though it was my turn. “Becca also chopped all the vegetables for the stir-fry,” Mom says, “and she emptied the dishwasher. What’s gotten into you, Bec?”

“Oh, just wanting to be a good daughter,” she croons. Becca has a smile on her face, halfway sincere and halfway like she suddenly became my wicked stepsister.

“So, Calli,” she says, sitting down across from me and scooping a big spoonful of stir-fry onto her plate. “How are things?”

“Fine,” I say, uneasy. Since when is Becca interested in me?

She bats her eyelashes and even Mom is looking at her funny. “Tell me, how was your improv class yesterday?”

“Oh, yeah, Calli,” Dad says, setting down the newspaper. “I got home too late last night to ask you. I’m anxious to hear. How was the last class? Any tinglings of the theater in your blood? What do you think?”

My heart starts to beat faster and my entire body grows hot and shaky. I wish that Alex was here but he has a late practice. He would make me laugh by knocking over his drink or burping continuously for two whole minutes.

Before I can decide how to respond, Becca announces, “How would she know? She wasn’t there.”

Mom frowns, looking confused. “What do you mean? Of course she was there. I dropped her off and picked her up at the community center.”

“Ask her,” Becca smirks. “Ask her if she was there.” Then she smiles and crosses her arms. “Or ask Nathan.”

“Nathan?” I manage to say. “What are you talking about?”

“His sister skates with me.” When I don’t say anything, she stares at me as if I am an idiot. “The boy who always wears that black sweatshirt.”

I gulp as Dad looks back and forth from Becca to me. “Just exactly what is going on here?” he asks slowly.

All I can think is, the hoodie kid told on me? Some kid I don’t even really know? Did he see me on the bench and realize that I skipped out of the class? Then he told his sister, who told my sister? Becca … I never said one
word about what the coach said to her the night of the exhibition, and now she leaps at the chance to tell on me?

The three of them are staring at me, waiting for my answer. “Um …”

Mom sets down her fork. “Did you or did you not go to the improv class yesterday?”

“She didn’t go,” Becca says.

“I’m asking Calli,” Mom says. Dad taps the table.

“Well,” I answer, “here’s the thing. I got there, and …”

“She didn’t go,” Becca says.

I hear Wanda’s voice in my head.
Just tell them you hate it
.

“Calli?” Mom says.

They are all looking at me.
Just tell them.

“She’s right,” I say, looking from Mom to Dad. “I did not go to the class.” I eye my sister, who gives me a self-satisfied smile. “I was trying to think of a way to tell you.”

Mom lets out a big surprised puff. “Where did you go?”

“I sat on a bench,” I say.

“For the whole hour?”

“Yes.”

“Calli, why would you do something like that?”

“Why would I do something like that? I’ll tell you why.” This is my moment. I can feel it. I only wish that Wanda or Claire could be here to witness it. I bolt up and a burst of words leaps from my mouth. From my heart.

“I don’t want to play tennis or be the star goalie on a soccer team or get a black belt in karate! I’m not like the rest of you! I’m not golden! I don’t have a special talent! I’m just plain old
average
Calli Gold. Isn’t it okay to just be a good person and be who you are and not have to be great at something?”

Dad looks like someone punched him, and Mom is breathing loudly through her mouth, as if her nose stopped working.

“I’m sick of being number three with a ‘C,’ ” I yell. “I hate the ABC game because I never have anything to say!”

“You just haven’t found the right thing yet,” Dad says.

“No, Dad, that’s not it. You’re not understanding what I’m saying.”

“She’s telling you she has no talent,” Becca states. “Face the cold, hard facts.”

I whip my head around and want to say many things to Becca, but all I can come up with is “Shut up, okay?”

“Don’t say shut up to your sister,” Mom scolds.

Dad shakes his head like he can’t comprehend this. “Everyone has to be somebody.”

“I am somebody!” I stamp my foot.

“Yeah,” Becca pipes up. “Somebody who ditches a class her parents paid a lot of money for.”

Slowly, Mom says, “Why didn’t you tell us that you didn’t want to take the improv class?”

“I did, but you didn’t hear me. Nobody hears me! You just signed me up, remember?”

Dad clenches a muscle in his jaw. “Calli … is this what you really want? I have to admit, I’m disappointed. There’s so much in this world to experience, so much out there, and you’re choosing to settle for
ordinary
?”

“Ordinary is just fine, Dad, you should give it a try sometime!” I yell.

He slaps his hand on the table. “That’s what I’ve spent my life trying
not
to be!”

I give him a stunned look. So does Becca.

“Larry Gold … who’s he? Just Joel’s little brother. Joel played basketball, got the girls, straight As, everything. My brother, the golden boy.” He sits back in his chair. “Then there was my sister, the free spirit. Did whatever she wanted. Didn’t care what people thought of her.”

I stare at Dad.

“She really could have been someone! Where in the heck is New Zealand, anyway? What kind of a life could she have there?” he shouts.

I dig up the courage to ask something I’ve wondered for a long time. “Dad? How do you know anything about Aunt Marjorie? What if she’s happy? What if she is someone she wanted to be?”

“Impossible!”

“Larry, take it easy,” Mom says gently, and puts a hand on his arm.

He shakes his head. “Don’t you see? I was just the invisible kid with nothing much going for me. I had to be
somebody too! That’s how you make your mark in this world.”

There is a long silence until, finally, I say, “Dad … don’t
you
see? I’m like you. Or you’re like me. We’re the same.”

He looks at me—really looks at me—for a minute; then he looks away. “No. I told you. I wanted to be somebody. And I want my kids to be somebody too.”

Becca smirks. “This family is so messed up.”