Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle
Read Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle Online
Authors: Nan Marino
To my husband, Sal
and
to my real-life Kebsie Grobsers
The Blizzard of '69
M
USCLE
M
AN
M
C
G
INTY
is a squirrelly runt, a lying snake, and a pitiful excuse for a ten-year-old. The problem is that no one on Ramble Street knows it but me. In the entire town of Massapequa Park, only I see him for what he really is. A phony.
Knowing the truth when others fail to see it is hard on a person. That's because the truth has a way of seeping under your skin and wrapping itself around you, like a coiled-up Slinky.
You know that tinny sound a Slinky makes?
Shink. Shink. Shink.
Sometimes I hear it creeping around inside my brain. The closer I get to Muscle Man, the louder it gets. When he's standing right next to me spewing out his whoppers, that Slinky inside me goes crazy.
SHINK! SHINK! SHINK!
You can only imagine my headaches. I've even named the really big ones “Muscle Men” after the cause of all my problems.
Personally, I think it's funny to name your pain, but the others on Ramble Street never get my humor. Even Big Danny, who can laugh at dead teacher jokes, fails to see the comedy.
“Jeez, Tamara,” he huffs. “The kid only moved here a few weeks ago. Can't you give him a break?” He kicks his foot at the side of the curb.
“Jeez yourself,” is all I think of saying back.
Big Danny turns his back on me, and I turn my back on him. We are both standing at the corner of Ramble Street, each one staring in the opposite direction. Neither one of us will give up our spot on the sidewalk because the ice cream truck is about to come around for the first time this season.
It is an important day. Ice cream trucks mean summer is here. No more having Mrs. Webber, my fifth grade teacher, glaring at me through her spectacles. As far as I'm concerned, ice-cream trucks never come soon enough, and they leave far too early. Their time on Ramble Street is fleeting. And if Big Danny wants to ruin the entire morning by not speaking, that's fine with me. It'll be easier to hear the bells without his blabbering.
We wait in stony silence. Every once in a while, I flip my ponytail in his direction just to annoy him.
It's not until Muscle Man McGinty pulls up on his bicycle that Big Danny starts yapping. All that time, Big Danny had something he was itching to tell. As soon as he sees Muscle Man, he blurts it out.
“I made the swim team!” shouts Big Danny.
“Hey, good for you, Big Guy!” Muscle Man pats him on the back. “Making the swim team is not an easy thing to do.”
“Yeah, congratulations,” I mumble, not sure if Big Danny is talking to me yet.
“I heard there was a lot of competition,” says Muscle Man.
Big Danny grins.
Muscle Man is wormy. He always starts with something nice before he slides into one of his whoppers.
I hold my breath, waiting for what comes next.
“Did I happen to mention I'm training for the Olympics in that same sport?” Muscle Man says.
Sure. And I'm waiting for Captain Kirk to beam me up to the starship
Enterprise
.
“Every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, I go to the pool and practice.” He puffs out his puny chest. “My coach thinks I'll win a gold medal in seven races. It would be a world record, but I'm hopeful.”
“You like to swim?” asks Big Danny, like it's every day someone announces he's training for the Olympics.
“Yep. Coach says I'll be ready for Munich, Germany. That's where the next games will be.” Muscle Man presses his thumb and forefinger so close together they almost touch. “I'm this far away from the world record. All I need to do is work on my flip turn.”
Turn, schmurn. First of all, Muscle Man is barely ten, which means that in 1972, when they have the next Olympics, he'll only be about thirteen. Plus, I've never seen him swim. I doubt the kid even owns a bathing suit. World record, my eye. This kid's got as much chance of going to Munich, Germany, as I have of going to the moon.
“Maybe we could go to the pool together,” Big Danny says.
“Yeah, and you can both practice for that world's record,” I say, with disbelief dripping off my every word.
Big Danny catches my tone and sneers at me. At me! Muscle Man sells him a bag of bull and gets nothing, and I get glared at for pointing out the obvious.
I turn away from both of them, pretending to be interested in a group of ants climbing over a half-eaten Tootsie Roll. Neither boy notices. They're too busy talking about backstrokes and racing dives.
“Of course, no matter how famous I become, I'll always remember my friends on Ramble Street,” says Muscle Man.
The spot above my right temple begins to throb.
Muscle Man puts his arm on Big Danny's shoulder. “I'll never forget you, Danny O. And you too, Tamara.”
I refuse to even look his way. Instead, I watch a tiny dandelion seed float on the breeze. I catch it before it finds its way to the ground.
“They'll probably want to put my picture on the Wheaties box,” he says.
“Jeez. Give me a break.” I throw my hands up in the air. Before I can tell him what I think of his lies, I catch another dandelion seed. Soon, my hands are full of them. A flurry of white surrounds us.
Muscle Man looks around. “Where's it coming from?”
Big Danny points to my house. “Tammy's mom.”
I glance across the street to where Shirley is wrestling with the dandelions that fill our front lawn. With every pull, she sends up another flurry.
“There must be hundreds of them,” says Big Danny.
“Millions,” says Muscle Man, which is another lie. I highly doubt there are a million. A hundred thousand, maybe, but not a million.
Shirley yanks harder, and the flurry turns into a blizzard. Like snowflakes, the seeds twist and tumble before they find their way onto the lawns of Ramble Street.
“Cool.” Muscle Man cups his hand to catch a seed. Then he jabs at me playfully. “Hey, Tammy. Listen.”
I'm about to tell him that he's got nothing to say that I want to listen to when I realize what he's talking about.
Bells ring out in the distance. The Mr. Softee song grows louder.
Any second now that truck will turn the corner. Right in the middle of the dandelion blizzard, summer will come to Ramble Street.
Just Plain Wrong
“T
HE ICE CREAM MAN
is coming!” Big Danny and Muscle Man call out to the other kids on the block.
“You don't have to scream that loud,” I whisper, pushing away the dandelion seeds that circle round us.
“We have to tell the others. We do it every year,” says Big Danny, and he shouts again.
“Can't we do it a different way? One that is less noisy?” I worry that their racket will alert my mother. So far, she hasn't noticed me. But if she looks up, my lazy summer day is over. Shirley is not a person who faces dandelions alone.
I shift back and forth between Big Danny and Muscle Man, trying my best to look invisible. Benny Schuster, who's a head taller than any kid in our grade, pulls up on his bike. I slip behind him, ducking out of site of Shirley and her weeds.
Mr. Grabowsky hurries toward us. MaryBeth and her little sister, Janie Lee, skip circles round him. Before they step onto the street, Mr. Grabowsky grabs onto each girl's hand, holding them tight, like they're precious butterflies about to fly away. But trust me, there is nothing precious about MaryBeth Grabowsky.
We nod hello. Muscle Man points to the baseball cap Mr. Grabowsky wears every Saturday. “How about those Mets? Think they'll win today?”
Mr. Grabowsky is too busy watching the latest flurry of dandelion puffs to answer. He glances nervously at his front lawn, where perfect blades of grass stand like soldiers in formation.
Muscle Man shows them his hand filled with seeds. “Isn't it cool? Like snow on Christmas morning!”
All three Grabowskys throw me the exact same look at once, and I doubt that even five-year-old Janie Lee thinks there's anything cool about dandelion seeds. I don't know what they're all so worried about. No self-respecting weed would dare grow on the Grabowsky front lawn.
“Mr. Softee's here! I see it!” shouts Big Danny.
“It's turning down Ramble Street!” says Muscle Man.
“Finally,” says Benny Schuster.
I run my fingers over the quarter and two dimes in my back pocket, grateful that my father remembered to give me my allowance and that I've got enough money for extra sprinkles. My mouth begins to water.
We form a line. Big Danny is first, then Benny Schuster, with me hiding behind him. The Grabowsky girls are next. John Marcos pulls up on his brand-new Sting-Ray. Big Danny, Benny Schuster, and I eye John's new bike while MaryBeth Grabowsky eyes John Marcos.
Muscle Man turns to leave.
“Where are you going?” asks MaryBeth, who can never resist poking her nose into other people's business.
Muscle Man pats his belly. “I had a truckload of Mr. Softee yesterday. I just don't think I could eat any more today.”
“The ice cream truck didn't come yesterday. That's impossible,” I say. I look to the others to back me up, but no one says a word except for Mr. Grabowsky.
He flashes a dollar bill. “I wouldn't want to force you, son, but I was hoping you'd join me and the girls for a cone today.”
Muscle Man beelines back to the Mr. Softee truck. “I suppose I'd have room for one more cone.”
Mr. Grabowsky, who once told me that I was on a slippery slope for lying about denting his car with a baseball, seems perfectly fine with Muscle Man's made-up tale about the ice-cream truck. He musses Muscle Man's hair.
“Tamara!” Shirley's voice slices through the Mr. Softee chimes. “Come help me with these weeds!”
I pretend I don't hear her and order a vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles.
“Your mother's calling,” whispers Big Danny, and I pretend I don't hear him either.
John Marcos looks worried. “Tammy, you'd better go.”
Mr. Grabowsky clears his throat, and MaryBeth lets out a long, obnoxious sigh.
I shrug like I don't care, but my shoulders feel heavy from the weight of all those stares.
“Ta-maaarh-rah!” Shirley is getting louder. “You know the rules about ice cream before lunch.”
The ice-cream man hands me my cone, and I take my first lick.
Mr. Grabowsky gives me a look, and I wonder if I'm going to get the speech about being on a slippery slope. If my mouth wasn't so jammed with ice cream, I'd tell him that the lying runt standing next to his precious girls should hear his speech about sliding down the path to juvenile delinquency. After all, Muscle Man is the liar. All I'm doing is trying to eat my cone.
“Next,” says the Mr. Softee man, but seven pairs of eyes are too busy watching me to answer.
I ignore them and do my best to stuff my face. The ice cream is losing its taste, I'm wolfing it down so fast.
“Anyone want sprinkles?” asks Mr. Softee. “Anyone want some ice cream here?” And seven pairs of eyes turn back to the ice-cream man.
Mr. Grabowsky orders four double cones. One for him. One for each of his girls. And one for Muscle Man McGinty.
“If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd love some colored sprinkles, Mr. Grabowsky.” Muscle Man tugs on Mr. Grabowsky's arm, and something cold does a backflip in my belly.
The simple act of eating an ice-cream cone gets me nothing but dirty looks, and what does Muscle Man get for telling his lies? Invitations to pools. Hair musses. Double cones with extra sprinkles.
I don't get it.
What Muscle Man does is wrong. Just plain wrong.
And everyone on Ramble Street knows it.
And they do nothing.
That's wrong too.
He needs to be stopped.
And I'm the one to do it.
With a flurry of seeds swirling around me, I make a solemn vow. I swear to the Slinky flopping around inside me that I will show the people of Ramble Street the real Muscle Man McGinty. Somehow, some way, they will know what I know. I will not keep the truth locked inside me. I will set my Slinky free.
I shove the last bit of ice cream into my mouth and hurry across the street to Shirley and her dandelions.