Water Balloon (18 page)

He's quiet too. Of course he is. Here I am, speaking Sad Freaked-Out Girl to him. Again. Have I not learned that this part of me is repellant?

And what kind of person is even thinking about her own problems when her grandmother is in the hospital?

"Jack, what's that?" I'm pointing at a collection of ... something. In the corner of the tree house.

"Not telling," he says, half laughing. Half embarrassed, maybe?

"Oh, you're telling," I say, and I start to scoot over to the corner. He tries to grab my ankle, but I yank it free. "Water balloons?"

He looks like he wants to hide. "I ... hmm. Well, I couldn't decide if this was a really good idea or a terrible one, but I thought that if you were walking by one day or something, maybe I'd—"

"Attack me? Blitz me? Seriously?" I'm trying to remember how much I told him about that awful night. Could he really not know what a terrible idea that is? Just holding one brings back the night in full-color detail. High-definition humiliation.

"Like an icebreaker? I thought maybe that was what we needed. You would laugh. Or yell at me. Or throw a few back up."

I just sit there, squeezing the balloon a little.

"Are you going to throw that at my head, or just sit there squeezing it?" he asks.

"Not sure yet."

The feel of that water balloon brings it all back.

I wish I could do the whole thing over. I could not go to that party. That would have probably been the smartest thing.

Except it wouldn't have mattered.

I didn't know it then—and I'm still trying to get it, absorb it,
really
know it now—but it was already over with me and Leah and Jane anyway. All I did with that blitz was let them think it was all my fault.

It's so quiet, but my thoughts feel loud. Before I end up blurting something I'll regret, I say, "I should go home in case my mom calls again."

We climb down the ladder and Rig's tail thumps the ground.

We walk without talking. At the exact spot where our backyards meet, Jack takes my hand again. "Good night," he says. "Can I just..." And then he stops talking. He leans in and down and kisses my cheek quickly. He smells like almond soap. His lips are dry and just touch my skin lightly, gently, deliciously. His fingers briefly glide through my hair, brushing aside every - thing. He turns and walks across his yard and into his house. I catch my breath, make sure my legs still work, and walk slowly home.

The next morning I call my mother's cell phone and, miraculously, she answers. "Did she have the transfusion? Is she better?"

"I don't know, Marley. I'm still at her house. I came back to sleep for a little while. I'm just out the door now."

"I really want to visit. I mean, maybe Grandma would want to see me, right? And I want to see her. I want to be there, and see her and see you, and—"

"Why don't you let me see how she is today, okay? I miss you too. It would help to see you now."

That makes me all weepy.

My life must be officially turned upside down, because instead of dreading work, I'm almost looking forward to seeing Grace and Faith today.

I decide to spring the question on Dad in the truck, on the way to the Krolls'. I know he'll say no, that he has to cut lawns and it's serious business, Marley! But I am determined to fight this battle until I win. I don't know why I need to see Grandma—but I know that I do. I need to visit her and I need to see my mother. It's just about the only thing I've been sure about all summer.

Dad completely zags where I knew he would zig. "Anything you want, Marley."

I'm about to start yelling, to begin my begging, but wait—what?

"When your grandmother's well enough to see you, I'll get you there."

"Really?"

"There are lots of things we have no control over. This is not one of those things. If what you need is to be with your mom and to see your grandmother, I can help you with that. I want to help you with that."

"Thank you," I say, the tears right back at the corners of my eyes.

***

The girls must have some kind of sense, because they're mellower than they've ever been. They spend half the morning playing hairdresser, with me as their client.

"Would you like a twist?"

"Kwee wet your hair?"

I let them do anything they want to my hair as long as it doesn't involve scissors. As I sit there, their chubby little-kid hands all over my head, I worry about Grandma. And occasionally, the memory of that kiss pops in my mind too, demanding attention.

A kiss from Jack
sounds like such a magical combination of four words.

I try like crazy to think only of those four words, but three other words have a weight all their own.
On. The. Cheek.
A kiss from Jack! On the cheek. Like the caboose, pulled inevitably along, impossible to leave behind.

When the twins get tired of my hair, Faith goes to a drawer, pulls something out, and drops it in my lap. A bag of balloons. Ugh, balloons. Thanks, Faith. I think briefly of the stash in the tree house and I almost laugh. What if I
had
been walking by and Jack blitzed me? Would I have laughed or burst into tears? How can I not know the answer to that question?

"Kwee do that thing with the two wishes?" Grace asks. "We tried and it didn't work. Kwee do that now and you help us?"

I feel a little too broken to do this, but I stand, and we go outside to hunt dandelions. The twins find a ton, but it turns out that it's no easy feat to shove a dandelion into a balloon without ruining the dandelion. Or tearing the balloon.

But if you blow up the balloon a little, and then stretch out the part you blow into, you can shove them inside.

Not neatly.

After lots of failed attempts, we succeed. Sort of. I blow up the balloon and hand it to Grace. She closes her eyes for a long time, then lets go of the balloon. It drops to the ground.

"It's not flying away, Marley Bear," Grace says.

"I knew that wouldn't work none," Faith says.

"Yeah, but it looks cool, right?" I'm trying. I don't have much, but I'm trying. I knew they wouldn't float away without helium, but I figured, she's five. Maybe just having it in the balloon would be enough.

"We could smash it," Faith says. "That's the best about balloons anyway, smashing them."

"Really?" I've always hated the sound of balloons popping. I thought all kids did.

Grace is trying to get her dandelion balloon to take off—throwing it, going on the swing with it to launch it. Faith stays back, trying to explain. "It's the popping," she says, a big
DUH
in her tone. "The sitting on or smashing or stomping on them? It's good for when you're mad."

"Really?"

She nods. "Yeah. It's good to smash stuff. With balloons, you don't get in trouble." I can see how balloons could be a good smashing alternative to your sister's toys and your mother's fragile china.

"I could use some smashing," I say. "Let's blow all these balloons up and smash them."

"YES!" Faith says. "Come on, Grace, we're gonna pop 'em all."

"Not all. Not mine."

"Okay," I say. "Come pop these other ones with us. It's going to be fun."

We get a big pile ready, and then we jump on them. We sit on them. We scream as they pop, and scream when they squeak out from underneath us without popping, and then we hunt them down and pop them for real. It's loud and it's fantastic.

***

Lynne brings us to the park in the afternoon and then picks the girls up early. Grace and Faith and I make it through the whole day without fighting.

As soon as they pull out of the parking lot, I use my cell phone to check my dad's messages. Mom hasn't called. I can't stand the waiting. I walk over to the baseball fields, sit on a bench, and watch, my fingers picking at the chipping paint on the seat.

There are maybe forty kids here, and most of them seem little. They're all mixed in together, playing games.

They break up to do throwing drills, run the bases, and hit the ball off a tee. Jack doesn't seem to be practicing so much himself as he is helping all the little kids. He walks over when a kid's at bat to push his feet into the right position and lift his bat off his shoulder. He crouches down as a catcher when a kid wants to practice her pitching.

I feel someone sit on the bench next to me. "Hey," she says. "Marley. We meet again."

"Oh, hey, Callie. What's up?" I haven't seen her since the Fourth. I sort of never want to see anyone from that party ever again, but Callie's cool.

"Not much," she says. "You have a little brother or something in the camp?"

"Me? No. I'm just waiting for my friend Jack."

"Oh, Jack."

"You know him?"

"In an
oh, hi
way, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, Marley. Did something happen at Jane's party? I thought I saw you go, and I wanted to call to see if everything was okay, but—"

"It was no big deal," I say. "It was just time to go."

She shrugs. "How's your summer been?"

"Not so great," I say. "I'm babysitting these twins, so I have no free time." I could go on—the list of things that aren't so great is really kind of impressive—but Callie and I don't have enough history for me to just rant on.

"I know what you mean. My mother has me in charge of bringing Brian here and picking him up." She rolls her eyes.

I'm thinking that leaves her whole days free, but she's looking for co-misery, not a pep talk. "Are you doing anything else?"

"Actually, my family is going to Vermont next Friday for two weeks. It's where my dad grew up. How 'bout you?"

"I'm staying with my dad. Just hanging, I guess." I could impress her with my big hoped-for trip—to visit my grandmother in the hospital—but I wouldn't want to make Callie jealous.

A coach or someone walks toward the main field's pitcher's mound and blows a whistle, and everyone at once starts to gather up equipment. Moms and a few dads are waiting in the parking lot, some in their cars, some talking in small groups. A little kid, maybe nine, walks over to Callie. "You have fun, Brian?" she asks.

He grunts, "Yeh."

"I have to get the runt home," she says, her hand on top of the cap on his head. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Yeah, give me a call when you're back from Vermont," I surprise myself by saying.

"I need your number," she says. We add our numbers to each other's phones before Callie leaves with her brother.

My life was all Leah and Jane for so long. No thinking, no planning—just my go-to girls. It has been so long since I've hung out with anyone else. Just the thought of a new friend has the sort of glow that good ideas have. Maybe it'll be good and fun and new. I could use some good. And fun. And new.

The clump of kids on the field gets smaller until it's Jack and a few little ones. He seems to see me, then moves his head to get a better look. He waves, then holds up his index finger: one minute. He waits until all the kids have left, then trots over to me, his big bag banging the backs of his legs. "You look like Little Bo Peep who lost her sheep."

"Really?"

"Where's your twins?"

"Their mom picked them up a little while ago. I got a tiny bit of freedom."

"And you chose to sit here and watch my camp?"

I think of the
Busted!
look Rig gets when I catch him doing something wrong. "Do you know Callie Larson?" I say. "I was just waiting with her until her brother was done. Brian, I think."

Nice, Marley. Nice.

"Callie! I always forget her name. I keep thinking it's Lassie, and that's not right."

"Not at all."

"Yeah, I'm friends with the guy she goes out with. He goes to Little Valley."

"Ethan?"

"Yeah."

I want to keep talking about Callie, like a kindergartener who made a new friend at school. I'm kind of humming with the excitement of it.

Jack packs up all the equipment and waves to some coach out in the outfield. We start walking towardh ome.

"Oh," Jack says. "I forgot to ask you. Are we good for Sunday?"

"What?"

"The Yankees game. Dean said he'd pick us up from the stadium, take us out to dinner afterward, and drive us home. We could take the train up. It's an afternoon game."

Whoa. Will Dad let me do this? Must answer. Must not allow silence to grow longer. Marley,
TALK.
"Yeah, right. I just have to check with my dad."

I picture myself sitting in a baseball stadium next to Jack for three hours. I wonder if he asked me because he thinks I'm a huge Yankees fan. Or was that kiss on the cheek more than an
I'm sorry your grandmother's sick, friend
thing? Is it a date? My brain feels like it's making that bad sound a hard drive makes when it's working too hard.

***

Dad calls to say he's going to be working late, that he spoke to my mom, and that we can visit on Sunday. Sunday! I tell him about the Yankee game and ask if it's anywhere near the hospital, if it'll work out timing wise and if it would be okay, and he says we can talk about it when he gets home.

I make myself some macaroni and cheese and bring it to the coffee table. I'm about to settle down in front of the TV when I hear Rig's
May I please go outside now?
"Ruh."

"Just a sec," I yell to him.

I bring the food back to the kitchen, grab my sandals, and take him out the back door.

Rig shoots outside and races over to Jack, who's standing next to someone. In fact, the someone is practically on top of him. That someone is Leah, with one hand on her hip. With the other hand she keeps flipping her hair in this really annoying way that she's been doing since fifth grade. It's the patented Leah Stamnick Flirty Hair Flip.

"Marley," she says, and I can feel it coming, the tide of bad luck turned right back on me. "I didn't know you were such a big Yankees fan! You'd think I'd know such a thing, being your friend since second grade."

I know it's illegal, and also just wrong on a lot of levels, to kill another person. Still, I want to kill her. I do.