Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (2 page)

A
FEW DAYS
later, I'm hardly out my front door when MaryBeth Grabowsky comes barreling toward me.

“Guess what?”

I don't even have time to shrug before she answers.

“I'm getting three more Barbies for my birthday. Know how many I'll have then?”

She doesn't wait for a reply.

“Thirteen.” She waves a fist full of dolls in front of me. I can't help notice that they're all dressed in the same blue and green tennis dress, and that MaryBeth Grabowsky's tennis dress is a pretty good match too.

I march past her and head for the sidewalk, walking fast like I have somewhere important to go. But before I can make an escape, MaryBeth races to my side.

“How many do you have, Tamara?” she asks in a voice sweeter than hot fudge.

This time, instead of spewing out the answer, she waits.

I give an empty 7Up can a good kick. It sails across the street and rolls sideways until it stops near the house where Kebsie Grobser used to live.

Kebsie is the kid I like better than all of the other kids on Ramble Street put together. I'll give you a hundred MaryBeth Grabowskys and all of their combined Barbie dolls for just one Kebsie Grobser.

A month and a half ago, Kebsie moved away, leaving me to face MaryBeth Grabowsky alone.

“How many Barbies did you say you have?” she asks again. This time her voice sounds like
double
fudge.

I chase after the 7Up can, but MaryBeth is right behind me, waiting for an answer. I take a deep breath and get it over with. “Two,” I mumble.

Even though it's no big secret, something about having to say it out loud makes me feel lousy. In MaryBeth's eyes, no matter what I do in life, I'll always be a person worthy of only two Barbies, while she is worthy of thirteen.

Before she makes me feel any worse, I give the can another kick. It bangs into the front door of Kebsie's old house and ricochets off into the bushes.

The door opens.

“Nice kick, Tamara,” says the most annoying voice in the world.

I stare down at the can—anything to avoid having to look at Muscle Man McGinty.

“When someone pays you a compliment, Tamara, you're supposed to say ‘Thank you,'” says MaryBeth. “He just told you it was a nice kick.”

I
knew
that. But I couldn't give Muscle Man the satisfaction of a thank you. He didn't deserve it, especially since he's been living in Kebsie Grobser's house for well over a month now.

For forty-two days, he's been going through Kebsie Grobser's front door and sitting on Kebsie Grobser's front steps. I bet he has her old bedroom. His view of Ramble Street from the top window belongs to Kebsie Grobser too.

Muscle Man jumps into the bushes.

“Here.” He holds the can in front of me, but I'm not taking even as much as a piece of garbage from him.

I cross my arms, waiting for him to try to shove it at me.

Muscle Man grins. “I have something better than that for you. I've had it in my pocket for a week. But every time I see you, you're running off.”

Not running off. Running away. That is more the truth. And I'd tell him that, too, except for the fact that MaryBeth Grabowsky would stick in her two cents.

Muscle Man reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a silver chain with a charm dangling from it. He tosses it to me.

Even before I catch it, I know what it is.

“I found it in my closet,” Muscle Man says. “My grandma said that you'd want it.”

I wrap my fist around the necklace so tight that it hurts my hand. But MaryBeth sees it anyway.

“Did that say
BF
?” she asks, and I wonder if she secretly took Miss Evelyn Wood's course in speed-reading.

I don't answer.

“Who is BF?” asks Muscle Man.

“It's not anyone's initials. It stands for ‘Best Friend,'” says MaryBeth. “You only give it to someone very special.”

“It's Kebsie's,” I mumble.

MaryBeth turns to Muscle Man. “Kebsie Grobser lived here before you. She was a foster kid, like you. Mrs. Kutchner was her foster grandmother too.”

“Oh.” Muscle Man seems more interested in straightening out his shoelaces than in learning about Kebsie Grobser.

“Kebsie moved back with her mom,” adds MaryBeth.

“She did?” I ask. “How do you know that?”

“
Everybody
knows that. My mom told me.” She turns to Muscle Man. “I don't remember when Kebsie moved out
exactly
, but it was a few days before you moved in.”

“Forty-two days ago,” I tell her. At least I know that much. But that was all I knew.

Forty-two days ago, I came back from a four-day visit at Aunt Maria's and went to call for Kebsie, like I always did, and Mrs. Kutchner told me that she was gone.

“Well, aren't you glad that I found it on the bottom of my closet?” he asks.

“That was very nice of you,” says MaryBeth.

“I happen to have superior vision,” says Muscle Man. “Dr. Dan, my eye doctor, says he's never seen a human being who could see such a great distance. He said that I should be working as a top secret spy or something.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe you'll be the next James Bond.” I mean it as a joke, just like I mean the name Muscle Man as a joke. He's a pale, skinny kid with dirty hair and a runny nose. There's nothing muscley about him.

But Muscle Man doesn't get it, and as soon as I mention the name James Bond, he smiles.

For a second, no one speaks. MaryBeth and Muscle Man stare at me, as if they're waiting for something.

“What?” I say, finally.

MaryBeth puts her hands on her hips. “Well…he did find the charm. Don't you think
this
deserves a thank-you?”

Thanks? What does she want me to say thanks for? For taking the room of my very best friend? For eating Kebsie Grobser's SpaghettiOs and drinking Kebsie Grobser's Hi-C? For creeping around a house that, as far as I'm concerned, belongs to Kebsie Grobser?

I hold back about a million tears, making sure that not a single one escapes and runs across my face. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Muscle Man and MaryBeth Grabowsky.

My throat feels too lumpy to say anything anyway. I shove the BF charm into my pocket and race toward home.

T
HAT NIGHT,
I have an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that no amount of Oreo cookies can make go away. I am positive about the cookies because as soon as Muscle Man threw me the BF charm, I ran home and ate an entire box.

The emptiness started the day I learned that Kebsie moved from Ramble Street. Nighttime makes it worse, and sleeping is near impossible. Instead of wrestling with my sheet and pillows, I stare out my bedroom window and think of Kebsie.

There's so much to wonder about. I wonder where she lives and if she has her Bobby Sherman poster on the wall and if she has new friends. Mostly I wonder if Kebsie is thinking of me, and if she has an empty feeling too.

I push open the window and climb outside to the roof of the garage. The warm air sticks to my skin. I wait for my eyes to get used to the dark and then find my way along the tar paper. When I reach the edge, I sit down and let my feet swing down toward Ramble Street.

In the entire town of Massapequa Park, there's no place like the garage rooftop. It's above the glare of the streetlights, so I get a clear view of the stars and the moon. When I look down, I can see every house on our block, from Old Mrs. Murphy's house crammed with flowers to Conchetta Marchetta's house crammed with kids.

But the best thing about the roof is that no one knows I'm here. I've been coming out since I was eight and haven't got caught yet.

In the forty-two days since Kebsie left, I've learned that there's only one thing that can help when I'm missing her.

A howl at the moon.

“Argooo!” My first try sounds like a squeaky sneeze.

Kebsie would be disappointed. She was the expert. Full moons. New moons. Crescent moons. Waxing gibbous. Waning gibbous. Quarter moons. Kebsie knew about every phase of the moon and howled at each and every one.

It drove the adults on Ramble Street crazy. You should hear the fuss they all made. MaryBeth Grabowsky said her parents complained about Kebsie every morning. Shirley said that all those TV shows about werewolves and vampires did a job on Kebsie's brain.

At first, I didn't know what to think. A howling girl is not exactly a common thing to find on Ramble Street. But Kebsie didn't care what anyone thought, even me. She was fearless. And I loved her for it.

I never howled when Kebsie was here. I was too afraid to try. She'd climb on top of Mrs. Kutchner's garage roof and make a racket, while I pressed myself flat against my own roof, trying my best to looking invisible, worried my parents would catch me. Nights like tonight, when the moon is full and bright, made me especially nervous.

I take a deep breath and give it another try.

“Argooooo!”

Better, but still not great.

I look across the street to Mrs. Kutchner's empty garage roof and try again.

“Arrooo!” My last one is almost perfect. I can see why this was Kebsie's joy.

I'm about to give it one more try when Marshall calls.

“Tamara! Is that you? Are you making that noise?” His voice is muffled so I can tell he's still in his bedroom.

I climb back through the window and slink under my covers. “No, Daddy.”

I hear footsteps, quick ones, heading my way. They stop at the foot of the stairs. “Do you have any idea how early I have to wake up?” Marshall yells, and I'm suddenly grateful that my parents are stair shouters and not face-to-face yellers like Big Danny's mom and dad. For now, my garage roof secret is safe.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Nothing, Daddy.”

“Do you know what time my train comes in the morning?”

“7:11,” I say, because he tells me all the time.

“Do you think it's easy having to take the Long Island Railroad into the city and then work eight long hours and then take the train all the way back to Massapequa Park every day?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Are you trying to make my life difficult? Is that what you're doing up there?” he asks.

Every bone in my body wants to scream, “You betcha!” If Kebsie were here, that's what she'd say. No. If Kebsie were here, she'd say, “You betcha,
Marshall
,” because Kebsie believes you shouldn't take any flack from anyone, and she calls everyone, even grown-ups, by their first names directly to their faces and not just behind their backs, like I do.

You should have seen Mrs. Webber's jaw drop the day Kebsie marched into the classroom and said, “Hi, Agnes.” Even my older brother Tim wouldn't have had the guts to do that, and he's in college.

“Tamara, I'm talking to you. Are you trying to make my life difficult?” my father asks again.

I think of Kebsie, and I mouth the words “You betcha, Marshall.” But my out-loud words are, “No, Daddy.”

“Then for Pete's sake, get to sleep!” His footsteps fade back toward his bedroom.

I grab the BF charm and tuck it under my pillow. I lie in my bed with my head where my feet should be so I can get a good look at the moon. And I wonder if Kebsie is howling, wherever she is.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
as soon as I see my face in the mirror, I notice it. The initials
BF
are indented into my cheek. Stupid pillow. It must have slid away from me in the middle of the night so there was nothing separating me from Kebsie's necklace.

I try scrubbing it with a washcloth, but it's no use. The red
BF
outline stares back at me. The last thing I need is for MaryBeth Grabowsky to see me like this.

Even though morning is slipping away, I'm not leaving my room until the marks are gone. If Kebsie were here, she'd know what to do. She was an expert at stuff like this. I remember how she used some of Shirley's makeup to disguise a bruise I got last year when I fell from the oak tree my parents told me not to climb.

I rummage through the things on my dresser, searching for something to make the redness go away, but all I have is a mess of papers and some colored pencils. Instead of staring at my blotchy face, I decide to write Kebsie a letter.

My nana gave me fancy writing paper for my birthday. I was supposed to write letters to my Great-Aunt Lil, who moved to a nursing home in Holbrook. Since I never have much to say to Aunt Lil, I have a ton of it left over. Kebsie is worth the special paper.

I pull out a pale yellow sheet from the middle of the pile and begin to write.

To tell the truth, I feel silly writing a letter. Kebsie was an in-person friend and not a pen pal friend. Instead of scribbling messages on paper, I should be able to march down the street and talk to her face-to-face.

I read my note again and add a quick P.S.

All those days I spent with Kebsie, she never mentioned her mother, even once.
My
mom, Shirley, was a favorite topic of conversation.

Whenever I complained about Shirley's soap opera obsessions and burned TV dinners, Kebsie would talk about her foster grandmother, Mrs. Kutchner.

Personally, I never thought Kebsie had much to complain about. Mrs. Kutchner makes lemon drop cookies, has a pocketbook full of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, and knows as much about baseball as Mr. Grabowsky.

I stick the letter and the
BF
charm in the envelope. I scribble on the back.

 

I still have mine. This one is yours. No sense in my having two of them.

 

By the time I finish writing the last word, I am so filled up with emptiness that my eyes grow blurry. I push everything inside me. The tears. The empty feeling. I seal up my misery the same way that I seal the envelope. No sense in getting all weepy about a girl who didn't even tell me where she was going.

When I get to where I write the address, I stop.

I don't know where to send it. All I can do is stare at a blank envelope.