Out of the Blue (6 page)

“SO THE QUEEN, THE
mother of Princess Mayonnaise, was taken to the judge.

‘“Have you ever lied to your children?' asked the judge.

“‘No,' said the queen boldly.

“‘Are you sure?' asked the judge again.

“The queen began to tremble.

“‘Have you ever lied by leaving out things?' asked the judge sternly.

“‘Yes,' admitted the prisoner.

“‘Then you are banished to the forest,' said the judge. ‘Woodcutter! Take this woman to the forest and bring me back her heart.'”

Megan blocked everything on the screen and deleted it, sending the words out into the ozone. Princess Mayonnaise and her keyboard of power.

But it wasn't getting her anywhere on daily life in the Stone Age, Mr. Mostyn's latest assignment. The encyclopedia didn't mention what Stone Agers ate for breakfast. Maybe Erin had some better books. Maybe she should go over there. Maybe she should just do nothing. She switched off the computer and turned on the TV.

Megan had taken to spending a lot of time at Erin's. The Hungerford house was just too full of Natalie. Not Natalie the person — she didn't visit very often—but Natalie the wedding. Mum had now met Natalie's mother, “Mummy,” and they had decided to join forces on catering the wedding reception. “Mummy” was going to buy the ingredients and Mum would do the cooking. This plan seemed to involve long daily phone discussions. “Operation Matrimony,” that's what Dad called it.

On TV three men hidden behind a screen were answering questions from a blond woman with large hair. “What is your idea of a romantic evening?”

Bumper wandered into the room. He had a tea towel wrapped around him. Betsy followed.

“Betsy, what are you doing?”

“I have a theory that Bumper is a horse. Do you have anything I could use as stirrups?”

Transformation was not a new experience for Bumper. Over the years Betsy had turned him into a movie star (sunglasses), an Hawaiian princess (a plastic lei), and a coffee table (no props required). Bumper was usually patient about these costumes, although he sometimes got a vagued-out look on his face, as in, “I am not here. This is not happening.”

Bumper gave a sigh and flopped over on the floor.

“Oh, well.” Betsy sat down beside Megan. On the screen Large Hair was about to make her choice. Would it be Brad, Chip, or Dirk for the dream date?

“Hey!” Betsy poked Megan.

“Shhhhhh.”

Large Hair chose Dirk.

“Okay, what?”

“Would you rather spend ten days in jail or give Bumper away?”

“What?”

“If you had to choose.”

Mum came downstairs, saving Megan from the decision. “That was Nat on the phone.”

Nat, gnat. A little buzzing insect that flies around your head. On TV the studio audience roared their approval as Dirk kissed Large Hair.

“She wonders if we're free to go dress shopping next Saturday.”

“For my flower girl dress?” said Betsy.

“Yes, and a new dress for Megan. I think this is a good excuse for us all to get dolled up.”

“Yes!” said Betsy.

Since Mum had started school, she hadn't taken Megan downtown shopping once. Probably wouldn't be doing it now if it weren't for that gnat. But—a new dress. She hadn't expected that. “What about Art Experience?”

“We'll pick you up from the art school, then bus it downtown and hit those shops.”

“Okay.”

Betsy pulled the lace out of one of her shoes and tried to tie it around Bumper's head. He gave a whine and retreated under the chair. Old Paint had had enough.

The bus from the art school to downtown was crowded.

“What are hem-or-rhoids?” said Betsy in a loud voice.

People giggled. Megan clung to her pole and looked elsewhere. Life was more embarrassing since Betsy had learned to sound out.

“A medical condition,” said Mum briskly. “Ring the bell, Betsy, our stop is coming up.”

In the department store they escalatored up to the children's-wear floor.

“This is fun,” said Natalie. “I love shopping, but Franklin is allergic to it.”

“Does he get a rash?” asked Betsy.

“No, he just gets mournful if I make him go into stores. He's just not very interested in clothes or in possessions of any sort, really.”

Betsy spied her dress on a model at the entrance to Rainbow Unicorn. It had green and cream stripes, with roses in the cream part. It had a big lace collar and lace around the cuffs. The fabric was soft and shiny.

“Now that's a party dress,” said Mum.

A salesclerk appeared. “Lovely, isn't it? A dress for a little princess. They're on a rack right over here.”

Oh, gack, thought Megan. She stared at the clerk, who wore a lot of makeup and was smiling, but only with her mouth.

“Let's see it on.” The clerk had the dress off the hanger and all of them in the big fitting room before anyone could say a word. “Call me if you need me. That's going to look just charming.”

Natalie looked at Megan and raised her eyebrows. Megan made a yucko face.

But the thing was, the dress did make Betsy look like a princess, a princess in a fairy-tale book.

“Just look at the buttons,” said Mum. A row of rose-shaped buttons down the front of the dress exactly matched the roses in the fabric. “Turn around.”

Betsy extended her arms and twirled around.

“The cream will match my dress,” said Natalie.

Mum nodded. “Dare we look at the price?” She pulled out her glasses from her purse and looked at the ticket. She gulped. “Oh, my goodness.”

Betsy held herself around the waist as though to keep the dress on by force. “It's a flower-girl dress,” she said. “It has flowers.”

“Oh, well,” said Mum, “when you put it that way.”

“Yea!” Betsy raised both arms like a prizefighter.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

While Mum paid for the dress, Megan and Natalie wandered around the racks. The salesclerk descended on them. “Are we looking for something for you as well?” she asked, staring at Megan.

“No,” said Megan.

“Yes,” said Natalie.

The clerk heard the yes. She started whipping dresses up against Megan. Megan just wanted to escape.

“I don't think so. No, thanks.”

“You just can't see the potential until you try it on.”

By the time Mum returned with Betsy and a big shopping bag, the clerk was shepherding Megan and four dresses back into the changing room.

“We'll wait out here,” said Mum.

Megan took her time pulling off her clothes. She looked at the dresses. It didn't matter which she tried on first. She hated them all. Try one and then get out of here. She was just pulling one over her head when the salesclerk burst in. “Need a little hand?”

“No,” said Megan from inside the dress.

The clerk, who had very selective hearing, zipped the dress up the back. “Oh, that's very sweet. Let's show the others.” She pushed Megan out the door.

Megan stood in front of the mirror. The dress made her look absolutely ridiculous, like some too-tall, bony Alice in Wonderland with stupid hair and a zit on her chin. She stood stiffly, trying not to let the dress touch her body. Her arms and legs looked as if they didn't belong to a human being, much less her. But the clerk didn't give her a chance to say anything. She was hovering, giving the dress little tucks, and poking Megan in the process, until Megan could hardly keep from hitting her.

“We'd like to take a little dart here, and of course you don't quite get the effect with runners.” The clerk gave a revolting little laugh.

Megan looked down at the growths at the end of her legs.

“Perhaps you'd like to try one of the other styles.”

The worst thing was that Megan could see how beautiful the dress was, how beautiful it would have looked on her when she was Betsy's age. But now it made her feel like a mutant.

“A size larger?” asked the salesclerk.

“No.” Natalie's voice was clear and definite. “The size is not the problem. That dress is just far too young for Megan. We're in the wrong department.”

“Ah,” said the salesclerk, “thinking of a more sophisticated image, were we?” She gave Natalie that making-fun-of-kids-while-pretending-to-be-nice look.

Natalie didn't play along. “We'll be fine on our own now, thank you.”

Megan fled to the change room and put her normal human being clothes back on again. But even in them she felt misshapen, as though the dress had warped her. She couldn't even imagine something that she could wear to a wedding. And she sure wasn't in the mood for more shopping.

She emerged from the change room. “Can I just wear my blue dress from last summer?”

Mum looked disappointed. “Sure, if you like. Don't you want to look at some other things, though? Nat has some ideas about other shops we could try.”

Megan just shook her head. Mum's disappointed voice made her itchy with irritation. Hadn't she just saved Mum a whole bunch of money? Mum should be grateful, not sad-sounding. Oh, why was everything she did
wrong
? Maybe she really was as mutant as she felt in that dress. Going shopping used to be fun. Now everything was just . . . impossible.

When Megan went to bed that night Betsy's dress was hanging in the window. She went to lift it down.

“Don't.”

Great. Betsy was still awake. “But I can't close the curtains.”

“We don't need to.”

“But people can see in.”

“Not with the dress hanging there. I need to have it there.”

Betsy was becoming a real whiner. “Oh, all right.”

“Megan, I have a theory that Princess Mayonnaise is going to get married.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Betsy, you've already handed in your story. You beat Kevin Blandings. Why are you still making up things about Mayonnaise?”

“I just like to think about her. She's going to have five bridesmaids and one flower girl. The flower girl gets to wear nylons, lipstick, perfume, and nail polish.”

“I didn't even know she had a boyfriend. Who's she marrying?”

“I haven't made up that part yet. A prince.”

“I thought she was going to be a superhero.”

“She still is, but I'm not thinking about that. The flower girl carries a big bunch of tulips and daffodils and those white ones with pink middles.”

“Does she drop them?”

“No, of course not.”

“Does she come first down the aisle?”

Betsy paused. “Does she?”

“Yes, and everybody stares at her. She can't make any mistakes.”

“Well, she doesn't.”

“No? She doesn't have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the wedding? But she can't leave so she pees her pants?”

“No! That's not what happens.”

Megan laughed. “And the whole wedding has to be called off and the prince sent home?”

“Shut up!”

“Okay, okay, just kidding. What really happens?”

Betsy did not reply.

“Come on, tell me the rest of the story.”

“I don't want to.”

“Sheesh, can't even take a joke. Forget it, then.” Megan patted the edge of her bed and Bumper, with a woof of delight, jumped up beside her.

“Hey! You're not allowed to have Bumper on the bed.”

“So tell.” Megan put her cassette headphones over her ears and turned up the volume loud. Streetlight seeped in along the sides of the dress in the window and fell on Betsy's shelf of stuffed animals. Their staring eyes glowed. Megan turned to the wall. This room was too crowded. This house was too crowded. This family was too crowded. In her mind she pushed her canoe off from shore and paddled straight ahead toward the line where the ocean falls off the edge of the world.

“IF SHE'S COMING, I'M NOT COMING.”

Megan sat on an overturned bucket in the garage. Dad was kneeling on the floor, painting an eagle onto the side of a huge box kite.

“But you have to come,” said Dad. “It's Kite Day. I'll need your help. Betsy's too short and Mum doesn't concentrate.”

“But why is Natalie coming?”

Dad squinted as he painted a small yellow dot in the eagle's eye. “Perfect. There's a raptor if I ever saw one.” He blew on the eagle eye. “Don't you think you might get to like Natalie if you knew her a bit better?”

Megan picked at the scab on her knee. “No.”

“She's coming because it's our chance to meet Franklin the fiancé, apparently.”

“I don't care.”

“What I'm hoping,” said Dad, “is that some kind of brave eagle spirit will get into this kite and save it from . . .”

“Crashing?” said Megan.

“Yeah,” said Dad. “There is nothing more depressing than winding up the string of a kite that has committed suicide. Not to mention embarrassing.”

“Well, you should know.”

Dad flicked his paintbrush at Megan. “Brat face. I realize I had a slight problem last year.”

“And the year before that.”

“But that was the year it rained. According to the weather station the percentage possibility of precipitation for Saturday is zero. This is my year for triumph. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You mean this is your year to be dynamic and innovative?” said Megan.

Dad snorted. “You are a wicked, cruel child.” He held up the kite and turned it slowly. “So, what about it? Will you come?”

It was a big park. There would be lots of room to escape. “Okay.”

The percentage possibility of precipitation remained at zero and Kite Day dawned with sunny skies. A gentle but steady wind blew in off the sea. The park was busy with strolling clowns and musicians, a balloon sculptor, joking jugglers, and a huge blue sky full of kites.

Betsy made a friend, and they found a piece of wood and spent their time floating it back and forth across the pond. Franklin was arriving at suppertime, and Mum and Natalie sat on the blanket and talked. Why bother coming? thought Megan. She and Dad took part in the Great Kite Fly-By and then lay on the grass and watched the fighting kites battle it out. Prizes were awarded to the biggest, smallest, and most beautiful kites, and to the oldest and youngest fliers. The eagle didn't win a prize, but it didn't crash either. Dad launched it for a final flight.

“Want a turn?” he said, handing the reel to Megan “I'm going to take a break and see how everyone is doing. It looks like they're in that face-painting lineup.” He pointed toward a long, meandering line of people.

Megan held the reel high and let the kite pull her, gently but definitely, toward the beach. She played out the string until the pressure slackened, but not too much. She stopped in the middle of the field. All around her other kite fliers were standing or slowly walking, all with the same look of concentration. She guided the eagle through a big figure 8.

At the far end of the field, near the marina, there were a couple of remote-control planes flying tight circles in the air. The snarl of their engines started to bug Megan. She had tried it once and it had been fun for a while, and then boring. The plane just went wherever you made it go. She stared up at the eagle kite. You can make a kite do what you want, but not always. If you're too bossy, it just crashes. But if you get it right, it is as though a little bit of you goes out your fingers and up the string and gets to be where the kite is, high and free.

She turned around and looked back toward the face-painting tent. The line was shorter. Time to go back. She carefully reeled in the kite and strolled back to the others.

“He said he would be here at five,” said Natalie. “There aren't two face-painting tents, are there?”

“I don't think so,” said Mum. “Anyway, if Franklin is a bit late, it's just as well, considering how slowly this line is moving.”

“Yes,” said Natalie, “this hasn't been very well planned. You'd think they would have more face painters at peak times. Or some system whereby you could take a number or book a time in advance. It wouldn't be that hard to organize.”

“I don't know,” said Dad. “I find it a bit of a relief doing something that doesn't involve an appointment. So much of life is scheduled.”

Natalie looked earnestly at Dad. “But poor organization just erodes time and causes frustration.”

Dad shrugged. “You're probably right.”

He turned to Megan. “So, a crash-free day so far, kiddo. What do you think? Shall we quit while we're ahead?”

Megan handed the kite to Dad and then sat on the ground and leaned back against her elbows. A yellow sun kite floated overhead, drawing big slow circles on the blue. Bright fighting kites whipped and snapped and scribbled around it. An airplane trailing a banner that said
KEEP FIT AT ARNIE'S GYM
buzzed behind it all.

Betsy was in a panic of choice. As each painted face emerged she changed her mind.

“I think I'll have a unicorn.”

“No, maybe a rainbow and stars.”

“Oh, look, a dog face.”

“Maybe polka dots are better.”

She was bouncing from foot to foot, with a new idea on each bounce.

“Hope this face painter is the decisive type,” said Dad as Betsy went into the tent.

She must have been, because Betsy came out minutes later with a wide grin and the bottom half of her face painted like a big piece of watermelon. After the first round of admiration Natalie said, “There he is. Franklin! Over here!”

A tall, thin man with a beard loped over the field toward them. When he was introduced he shook everyone's hand, including Megan's and Betsy's. He didn't do it as though he were being cute.

Mum laid claim to a table by the duckpond and started unpacking the picnic. Covered bowls, plastic bags, thermoses, bottles. It was like a pile of presents. By the time everyone was crowded in at the table, with rearrangements of left- and right-handed people to avoid fork collisions, Megan was starving. She purloined a roll to tide her over until the dishes were properly passed.

“Potato salad, Franklin?” said Mum:

“No, thank you,” said Franklin. “I don't,” pause, “eat eggs.”

Franklin was a slow talker; well, not exactly slow, but he left gaps.

“Oh, too bad,” said Mum, passing a thermos. “Mushroom soup?”

“Soup on a picnic?” said Betsy.

“Remember last year?” said Mum. “We were all so cold.”

“Does this have a . . . meat base?” asked Franklin, holding the thermos frozen in the air.

“Yes, chicken stock. Oh, Franklin, I'm sorry. Natalie told us you were a vegetarian, but I forgot about chicken stock. Tell you what, there's lots of salad and stuff. Why don't you just help yourself?”

“That would probably be the . . . best approach,” said Franklin.

That little pause that Franklin put into the middle of sentences, thought Megan, was always the same length. Like three beats in music.

Betsy turned to Franklin, who was sitting beside her. “Are you a picky eater?”

“Betsy!” said Mum.

“No, that's a legitimate question,” said Franklin. “If you mean do I pick my food carefully,” beat, beat, beat, “then you could say that I am.”

“Goody,” said Betsy. “I'm a picky eater, too. But I never met a grown-up who was one.”

Mum looked embarrassed and gave a little laugh, but Franklin just gave Betsy a slow, serious nod and went back to peeling an apple.

“So, Franklin,” said Dad, “where are you from?”

Franklin put down the apple. “Many places, really. Where are we all from?”

Dad looked confused.

“Franklin's family moved a lot,” piped up Natalie.

Dad looked confident again. “Oh yes, military family, were you?”

“No, not military.” Megan beat three beats on her celery stick. “Just peripatetic.”

Megan stared at Franklin's beard. It was very dark brown but thin. You could see his chin through it. It moved up and down with each chew. She felt her fingers making a pair of scissors to cut it off and make his face tidy. You could also see, under his mustache, that his lips were sort of wet-looking. What would it be like to kiss Franklin? You'd get that mustache in your mouth. Yuck. But Natalie must like it. Funny that somebody as pretty as Natalie . . . Megan caught herself. Oh, all right — she crunched down hard on her celery—Natalie was pretty. Anyway, she didn't seem to match with Franklin, who was sort of odd-looking.

Between rounds of food (what would pasta salad and potato chips be like as a sandwich filling in a bun? A spirit of scientific inquiry demanded that she try it) Megan spied on Natalie to see how a person about to be married looked. Apart from staring at Franklin and reaching over to take a piece of leaf out of his hair, Natalie acted fairly normal. Where was all that running toward each other in slow motion through a field of wildflowers stuff? Maybe that was for private. Or maybe that was for shampoo commercials. Did real older sisters talk about all that with real younger sisters?

Natalie had an evening lecture, so she and Franklin left right after chocolate cake. As they were standing up, Dad gave Franklin a big arm-pumping handshake. “Real good to meet you.”

Megan watched them walk across the field toward the parking lot. They weren't even holding hands. No shampoo ad there.

“Gosh,” said Dad, “Franklin's pretty heavy going.”

“He's a serious young man,” said Mum. “Obviously thinks deeply about things.”

“And what did he say about his family? I couldn't catch it. Epileptic or something?”

“Peripatetic.” Mum was burping Tupperware in an impatient way. “Means moves around a lot.”

“Doesn't he seem like a bit of a stick to you? A bit dull for Natalie?”

“Not at all. I think she's very proud of him. Apparently he's a brilliant young geophysicist.” Mum's face started to get that dried Play-Doh look.

“That's it, then,” said Dad. He grabbed the last piece of cake before Mum could wrap it up. “He spends too much time with rocks. He's slowed down to their pace. Rocks don't exactly live in the fast lane.” He grinned.

Mum did not. “I don't think geophysicists spend that much time with rocks. They examine theoretical questions about the origin of the earth.”

Dad nodded his head, pretending to be serious. “Oh.”

Mum continued. “And she is almost a PhD, after all. You wouldn't expect her to be engaged to some used-car salesman or something.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “Or some hack writer with half a B.A. I guess.”

Mum threw a handful of cutlery into the picnic basket. “Did I say anything about writers?”

“Okay, okay. But come off it, Judy. Didn't you find him a bit pompous?”

“No, I didn't.”

Lying, thought Megan. Lying again.

“All right,” said Dad. “Difference of opinion. I'm going to pack up the kite.”

In the car on the way home there was an extra passenger, an argument. Megan hated that unexploded feeling when two people are fighting and pretending that they aren't. Dad tapped on the steering wheel and Mum stared out the window. Betsy sat hunched in her corner and picked her fingernails. She hadn't done that since the first week of second grade. Megan reached over and covered her hand.

Betsy pulled away and sat up straight. “Rocks do, too, live in the fast lane,” she said.

“What?” said Mum.

“Rocks do live in the fast lane. Remember that rock that fell off that rock truck and bounced down the road and broke the window in our car when we went camping at that lake with the million mosquitoes?”

Dad snorted and Mum's shoulders lost their frozen look.

“Good point,” said Dad.

“Anyway, I like Franklin,” said Betsy.

“Good for you,” said Dad.

“Oh well, you like everyone,'” said Megan.

Betsy bounced on the seat. “Do not.”

“I was a little defensive with that hack writer remark,” said Dad.

Mum turned to him. “Am I sometimes a pain in the neck about Natalie?”

Always, always, thought Megan.

“Sometimes,” said Dad, “a bit obsessed.”

Mum got pretzel mouth. “Sorry.”

“Ditto,” said Dad.

The extra passenger got sucked out the open window.

“I do not like everyone,” said Betsy. “I don't like Kevin Blandings. I don't like the rat in Charlotte's Web. I don't like that mean lady in the school store. I don't like Herod. I don't like . . .”

“Okay, okay, okay. I take it back.” Megan sighed. Sometimes with Betsy you had to lose in order to win.