The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (6 page)

Fan-atically yours,


Ayanna


Skip thought she was a businesswoman.

Wrong.

I could see it all now. Ratlady didn't care about business. She wanted Dad to move to Washington and sell his instruments at the music shop around the corner from her apartment so that she could be with him. I put the pamphlets back into the envelope and stapled it shut. No need for Dad to see the letter or the business card, so I pocketed those.

When Dad got home I expected him to ask me right away about the audition. But Skip and Nutter showed him the book from Ratlady, and he completely forgot about me.

“How nice.” Dad flipped through the book.

“So, who's the person who sent it to us?” I asked innocently. I wanted to hear it from him.

“She's just a person who works at the zoo. She helped me pick out your souvenirs.” He was trying to make it sound like she was some cashier or something.

“I like her already!” Nutter exclaimed, hugging the furry little head of his koala backpack. Then his eyes lit up. “Hey, I want to send her something.” He ran to the kitchen and back. “See?” He held up his ghost picture.

“That's a stupid idea, Nutter,” I said.

Nutter looked at me as if I'd shot him in the heart with a spear.

“It's a stupid idea because you gave the picture to me,” I explained.

He scowled. “You didn't want it!”

Dad took the picture, ignoring me completely. “I'll send it as a thank-you card.”

All through dinner I kept waiting for somebody to ask me about the audition. Nobody
did. I swear I could be walking around with one leg chopped off and nobody would notice. After dinner Dad played poker with Skip and Nutter. I refused to play, and they all complained about what a bad mood I was in.

“She was in a bad mood when she picked me up at the flagpole,” Nutter added.

“I'd be in a bad mood if I were her,” Skip said.

“Why?” Dad asked.

“Because if I were Frankie, I'd be as ugly as a naked mole-rat!”

They all laughed.

“You think that's funny?” I yelled. “If I said that to Skip, I'd get grounded.”

Dad waved it off. “Skip wasn't serious, Frankie. It was just a joke.”

“I hate this whole family!” I yelled, and locked myself in my room.

Of course they let me go. They just kept playing their happy game. Who cares about Frankie? Who cares if Frankie ever comes out of her room again? The house is better off without her.

Here I sit. Here I will rot.

Things are even worse.

About fifteen minutes ago the phone rang.

I thought about who it could be. Ratlady? The Troll? Mr. Haxer? The volunteer fire department wishing me a happy birthday?

“Frankie,” Dad called, “it's Beth.”

“I don't want to talk. I have to work on a stupid science report.”

He must have hung up because after a few minutes the phone rang again. This time he didn't call for me. I crept out the door. Quietly I picked up the other phone. I recognized the voice immediately. It was a beautiful voice from the past: Ms. Young.

“Do you have a minute to talk about the play, Robert?”

“What play?”

“The junior high school play . . .”

Mr. Horrible Haxer must have told Ms. Young about Dad having a nervous breakdown. I could hear it in her voice; it had that careful sound that people use when they're talking to sick people. What would she
do? Would she tell Dad that she knew about his nervous breakdown? I cupped my hand over the receiver so they couldn't hear me breathing.

“I wanted Frankie to know how proud I was that she got cast,” Ms. Young went on. “Seventh-graders rarely get in.”

“I forgot about the play!” Dad said. “She didn't even tell me she got in. How nice of you to call. It'll mean a lot to her. You were her favorite teacher, you know.”

“Well, I'm a little worried about . . .” She didn't know what to say. Please don't say anything about a nervous breakdown, I prayed. “I was wondering if there was any way to make it work so that Frankie could be in the show. I think it would be very good for her.”

“Of course she can be in the play.”

“She can? You're sure it's not too much trouble for you to arrange? Frankie told Justin Haxer that you needed her to baby-sit every day after school. And if you need some help working that out, I'm sure . . .”

Justin, I thought. Ms. Young should know that his real name is Horrible.

“I know how important these school plays are to Frankie,” Dad was saying. “Of course we'll work things out here.”

“Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. May I speak with Frankie?”

I hung up the phone and ran into my room.

“Frankie!” Dad called up the stairs. “Ms. Young wants to talk to you.”

“I can't talk right now,” I yelled back.

I waited a few seconds; then I crept back out and picked up the phone.

“Sure,” Dad was saying. “We'll talk it over. How many rehearsals a week?”

“Justin will write up a rehearsal schedule. It won't be that many. She has a very small part. I'm glad you don't feel overwhelmed by this.”

“Overwhelmed? Why should I feel overwhelmed?”

“I really didn't want to bother you, but I can't help feeling that it's important for Frankie to participate.”

“No, I'm glad you called. I can arrange baby-sitting.”

“Great! I'll tell Justin.”

As they said their good-byes, I hung up and ran into my room.

A few minutes later I heard Dad's footsteps on the stairs. He knocked and waited. When I didn't say anything, he knocked again.

I put my pillow over my head. “I can't talk right now.”

“That was Ms. Young on the phone. She said you got in—”

“I know.”

“Frankie, you can be in the play. You know that. Why did you tell Mr. Haxer that you couldn't?”

“I don't want to be in the play.”

“What?”

“I already told Mr. Haxer that I'm not doing it. So just stay out of it.”

“I don't understand. Open the door, Frankie.”

I didn't move.

“Can we please talk about his face to face?”

I threw my pillow at the door. “Why? You don't care.”

“Don't snap at me, Frankie. I do care. I'm trying to help.”

“Well you can help by leaving me alone.”

There was silence again. He didn't know what to do. If I was a dad, and I had forgotten to ask my daughter about an audition, and my daughter was this upset, I wouldn't leave her alone. I'd cut a hole through the door, or I'd get a ladder and climb through the window. I'd think of a million and one ways of finding out what was wrong and cheering her up.

He cleared his throat, something he does when he doesn't know what to say. “I don't get it, Frankie. What's going on?” he finally asked.

I didn't answer.

“Of course you don't have to be in the play if you don't want to be. But I don't understand why you don't want to be. Let's talk about it.” He waited for a response. After a minute he said, “Well, I'm going to tuck Nutter in, and then I'll be downstairs if you want to talk about it.”

His footsteps thudded down the hall.

I picked up the copy of
The Miracle Worker
from the library and threw it at the door. Then I picked it up again, and I watched
myself tear out page after page after page. I'm not really doing this, I thought, but I really was. Why did Ms. Young have to call? I hate her and Mr. Haxer and Dad and Melinda and Denise and everybody. Even Beth.

I have to write again. Here's what just happened. After I desicrated (desecrated? decimated? deseminated?) the stupid book and poured my heart out in these pages (crying all the while), I heard a little scratch at the door. Right away I knew it wasn't Dad.

“Frankie!” It was Nutter's whisper. Then a piece of paper slipped under the door.

“It's a magic word,” Nutter whispered. “You have to open up.”

I opened the door a crack. Nutter slipped in, his eyes drawn to the crime scene on the floor. “This is bad,” he whispered.

I sat on my bed. “I know.”

He climbed up beside me and just sat there, next to me. I felt like I was going to cry again if I looked at him or talked to him, so I stared at the back cover of
The Miracle Worker
. Then something brushed my shoulders, and I turned to see that he was trying to put his koala's furry arms around my back. Nutter's face was so close to mine, all I could see was his big chocolate eyes through my tears.

He whispered, “You can sleep with him tonight.”

My throat closed up and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

“That's okay, Nutter,” I managed to say. “You sleep with him. Come on; it's way past your bedtime. I'll tuck you in.”

I opened the door and Skip tumbled in, his camera and night-vision binoculars flashing.

“Hey,” Nutter yelped. “You were spying on us!”

“Got ya!” Skip yelled, and ran. Nutter chased him, and I chased them both.

How can something make you feel better and make you cry harder at the same time? Nutter's little face up close to mine made me feel better, but it also made me miss Mom more somehow. She died so long ago, I bet Nutter doesn't even remember her. That just isn't right. And it isn't right that Nutter and Skip and I have to cheer each other up. She should be the one cheering us up. If she were here, she would have asked me right away how the audition was. Why can't she just come back?

I'm going to bed now. Dad just knocked on the door again. He made me unlock it because he said it wasn't safe to sleep with a locked door in case of fire. I unlocked it, but I wouldn't open it. I can't talk to him about anything.

Dear Diary:

I'm in the nurse's office with a debilitating headache. Even my eyes hurt. Annie Sullivan's eyes hurt often. I can't remember why. Maybe it was stress. It is yet another reason why I should have gotten the part; I can
relate
. I bet Melinda Bixby's eyes have never hurt.

Even though I am in pain, I will write down the story of my day. Another horrible day, of course. How many horrible days can a person endure? This one started at dawn.

When I woke, what lovely sight greeted me? The rosy glow of the sun? A merry robin chirping outside my window? No. The gruesome murder of an innocent book. The evidence was glaring at me: one hundred twenty-two poor pages. Ripped. Separated. Dead. And I am the murderer. Why did I do it? Why can't I control myself?

I hid the pages in an empty tissue box and hurried down to breakfast. I expected—I don't know—a little sympathy, perhaps, for
not getting the part I wanted? But everybody just jumped on me for waking up so late.

“Hurray! Her Majesty finally woke up,” Dad said, and handed me a cereal box as if it were a box of frankincense and merr (myrr? myrrh?).

I shot him one of my fiercest looks and headed for the fridge.

“It was a joke, Frankie,” Dad said. “I was hoping you'd be in a better mood today than yesterday.”

“Me too,” Skip added, shoveling cereal into his mouth straight from the box. How does he stay so skinny when he eats like a pig?

Nutter hugged me from the back. “Dad said
you'd
make me a big koala costume, Frankie.”

“No way.”

“You said last week you wanted to be a ghost, Nutter,” Skip said.

“I'm done being a ghost,” Nutter said.

“But you haven't even been a ghost yet!” I argued.

“Come on, Frankie.” Dad poured coffee into his Thermos. “He wants to be a koala.
I'm really pressed for time. I got in a big order that I want to do a really good job on.”

“I'm pressed for time, too.”

“You are not,” Skip said. “I heard you say you're not going to do the play.”

“Actually,” Dad said, “I was hoping we could talk some more about that, Frankie. I really think you should be in the play. We'll talk about it tonight, okay?”

I didn't say anything. My eyes had become fixated on a large envelope on the counter with Ratlady's name. “Do you want me to drop this off at the post office?” I asked. The P.O. is right next to my school.

“That would be great, thanks!”

“Is that my ghost for Ayanna?” Nutter asked, grabbing the envelope.

“Just like I promised.” Dad took it back from Nutter and handed it to me.

As I walked the boys to the elementary school, Agent Skip Wallop suggested that we open the envelope and see if Dad wrote a letter.

I pretended to be disgusted by the idea. I feel a need to protect Skip and Nutter. I think if
they were to read a love letter from Dad, they might go into shock. “Correspondence between two people should be private,” I said. I dropped them off and cut across the field toward my school. Of course when I passed the post office, I “forgot” to mail the envelope.