The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (9 page)

—F.


Dear F.:


I admire your spirit. You are independent, but you aren't alone. You are a part of a family. Your brothers depend on you. I think it is good to be needed. Being needed can keep an independent person balanced.


I am independent, too. But other than my naked mole-rats, nobody really needs me, and that makes me feel lonely sometimes. I spend way too much time on the computer.


Yours,


A.


 

 

Why doesn't anybody need you? Don't you have any family?


 

Dear Frankie:


I don't have any brothers or sisters. My parents have both passed away. I have several aunts and uncles and many cousins, but they live in either New York or Kenya. I do enjoy working with my colleagues at the zoo, and I love talking with all the children who visit the naked mole-rat exhibit.


We're having a big party here on Halloween called “The Zoo Boo.” All the people who work at
the zoo hand out treats to the visitors. It's my favorite day of the year.


I think you are lucky to have Skip and Nutter and your dad. From the way your dad has talked about Pepper Blossom, it sounds like the kind of village where everybody looks out for everybody else. I think that sounds nice.


—A.


P.S. Are you looking forward to Halloween? What's your costume?


 

I am too old for Halloween. I have to make Nutter a koala costume. Skip is dressing up as a spy, which is not a costume because he really is one.


—F.


 

I might be too old to dress up, but I'm doing it anyway. I love costumes.


—A.


 

Let me guess. You're going as a naked mole-rat.


—F.


 

Ha! No, I'm not going as a naked mole-rat. I am going as a giraffe this year. I'm making a fun costume—did I mention that I make costumes and masks? I have quite a collection. One of the local children's theater companies often asks me to make things for their productions. Here's a scanned sketch of my giraffe headdress:


Anyway I'm tall and skinny, so I think I'll make a good giraffe. I'll be the only tall mammal in the
small mammal house. Ha-ha. I need to go now. Nice “talking” with you.


—A.


 

What goes on in our house is more dramatic than anything you could possibly see on stage or screen. Although I am hungry enough to gnaw off my own right arm, I'm going to refrain so that I can write down everything that has happened since 3:00
P.M
.

The first thing I did when I got home from school was send an e-mail to Ratlady, informing her that Dad is getting married again. Brilliant, eh? I thought the lie would stop her in her little ratty tracks. But she didn't believe me, and somehow we got off track. She is highly effective at going off track. I need to figure out a way to stay on track and convince her.

I have to admit that there is one good thing about Ratlady: She doesn't talk down to me.

Dad came home late and brought a chicken potpie from Mae's, which I could smell the minute he walked in the door. I did not relish the idea of sitting down to dinner with Skip the Spy, Nutter the Koala-wannabe, and Dad the wild shirt–wearing lover boy, who is carrying on a secret correspondence when he should be working. But I was starved, and I love Mae's chicken potpie: all golden and bubbly under the crisp crust.

Dad also brought home the pieces of a new dulcimer to work on after dinner. He never does that, and it made me wonder. Did he bring it home because he was too busy e-mailing Ratlady to get his work done during the day? Or did he bring it home because it's a special dulcimer that he's making for someone special? On the phone he had been trying to talk Ratlady into playing. And in his note he had said that she should expect a box in the mail. Could he be making a dulcimer for her?

The thought of him giving a dulcimer to her made me really angry. He and Mom played together. He shouldn't be playing with anybody else.

All these thoughts were bubbling under the crisp crust of my brain as we sat down to dinner. Dad dished up big helpings of potpie to everybody, and Nutter's face scrunched up like he was about to vomit. “I hate chicken pie,” he complained.

“Well it's what we're having for dinner. So dig in,” Dad said with a big smile. He clearly didn't care.

“Well I'm not eating.” Nutter crossed his arms.

“Fine.”

Nutter started to cry. “You
want
me to starve?”

Dad ignored him. “Skip, it's your turn to wash the dishes tonight. After dinner I need to spend some time working in the basement. I'm making a masterpiece.”

“So who's the new dulcimer for?” I asked very casually.

He took a swig of water. “Nobody special. I'm just experimenting with a new design idea.”

Liar, I wanted to say. I stuck my fork into a chunk of white meat.

Dad asked Skip how school was. While Skip chattered on about what he saw in his teacher's desk drawer, I stared at the square of chicken on my fork. Normally I would pop it into my mouth, but tonight I couldn't. Every time I looked at the little piece, I kept seeing a live chicken staring back at me. How could somebody chop up a live chicken and bake it in a pie?

I pushed my plate away.

“Frankie—why aren't you eating?”

“I can't eat it,” I said. “I'm a vegetarian.”

Dad dropped his fork. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

He shook his head like he wanted to stick us in a box and ship us to China. “Two out of three not eating. You guys have no idea how annoying you can be.”

“What's wrong with being a vegetarian?” I asked. Your darling Ayanna Bayo is a vegetarian, I wanted to say, and I bet you don't yell at her for it.

Nutter wailed. “I'm not annoying. I'm starving. Nobody cares that I'm starving?”

“You can't starve, Nutter,” Skip said. “You
ate the rest of Frankie's birthday cake right before dinner.”

Instead of getting mad at Nutter for eating the cake, or at Skip for tattling, Dad turned his attention to me. “Frankie, why on earth did you let Nutter have cake before dinner?”

“I didn't give it to him.”

“Aren't you supposed to be watching him after school?”

Nutter sniffled and hugged his koala backpack to his chest. “She's
supposed
to make me a koala costume, and all she did was e-mail.”

“She was e-mailing Ayanna Bayo,” Skip blurted out.

The truth came flying at me like an ice ball in the face. “You skinny little creep!” I shrieked, and threw down my fork. It bounced off the table and almost hit Skip.

My anger shut up everybody for a second. Then Dad's voice became as tight and thin as a wire. “Frankie, that is way out of line.”

“Why don't you tell Skip to mind his own business? Why don't you tell Nutter to stop being such a baby?”

Nutter ran from the table.

I got up, and Dad grabbed my hand.

“Sit down,” he said.

“Forget it.” I pulled away.

“Don't talk to me like that, Frankie.”

“What are you going to do? Nail me to the chair? You don't care about me anyway.” I ran up to my room and locked the door.

He pounded up the stairs and knocked. “Frankie, you can't keep locking yourself in there.”

“Why should I talk when all you do is yell at me?”

“What's this about e-mailing the woman from the zoo?”

“Nothing. I had some questions about her stupid naked mole-rats. That's all. She sent her e-mail address with that book and said if I had any questions, I should e-mail her. Is that a crime?”

He was silent. With any luck, he'd believe me.

Nutter's voice came through. “Is that naked rat lady coming here?”

“Nutter, I'm talking to Frankie now. Okay? Frankie, will you please open the door? This is ridiculous.”

Nutter wailed. “Nobody cares about me.”

I could hear in Dad's voice that he was struggling to be patient. “That's not true. Blow your nose, Nutter.”

There were some sounds of rustling and mumbling outside my door. I looked around my room. The tissue box full of
The Miracle Worker
pages was gone.

I pressed my ear against the door and heard the unmistakable sound of dead pages being pulled from a box. “Frankie.” Dad's voice collapsed. “What in the world . . . Oh Frankie, how could you destroy a book like this?”

From the bottom of the stairs, Skip yelled, “She did it last night.”

I slammed my hand against the door. “Would you stop spying on me!”

Through the door I heard Dad send Skip and Nutter to their room.