Water Balloon (5 page)

I just look at her. She glares right back into my eyes.

"Faith," Grace says. "You're making Marley Bear mad."

"I don't care."

You and me both, Faith.

"Look, Faith. I'm a bunny!" Grace hops over the flat bottom of the hill. She stops, totally still. She pretends to eat a carrot,
chomp chomp,
and then hops again. Faith hops behind Grace, steps up her hopping to catch up with Grace, then knocks her down so she can hop over her. I think I have some kind of idea what Grace meant when she said that Faith cheats at races. The twins chase each other around the house a few dozen times.

When I hear Dad's truck pull up, I take the twins from the backyard into the den. I walk into the back room, where Lynne is sitting at a computer, bouncing the baby's seat with the toes of her right foot. The baby's big head looks heavy, rolling from side to side, ready for sleep. "What's up, Marley?" She keeps typing as she talks, her eyes on the screen.

"My dad's here."

"Already? I feel like I just sat down and got the baby—" She looks up at the clock and then at me. She smiles, like she's holding in a laugh. "Are you okay?"

I know that my hair looks funny when it dries by itself. I look down and see mud streaks over my new Yankees shirt. I look as though I've been tortured. "I think I feel the same way I look," I say. Then I gasp, because that's the kind of thing you should think but probably not say to the mother of the torturing party. I can see my babysitting report card: Needs work on social skills.

Lynne just smiles again. "It'll get easier." She looks at her computer screen, then quickly back at me. I'm standing there, waiting for cash. Does she think I'm doing this for free? She just looks at me until the room's about to explode from awkward. "If it's okay with you, I'll pay you on Fridays," she finally says.

Oh no you won't. I'm not coming back.
But I can't bring myself to say that. "Okay," I say.

***

I'm free!
I can watch TV or read a book or stare into the distance for a few minutes without a crazy five-year-old climbing a tree or threatening to jump off the top of a swing set onto my head. I climb into the truck like a lost person saved from utter exhaustion and complete dehydration by a passerby. I slide down in the seat. Then I remember that this passerby is the reason I feel as burned out as I do.

"Wow," my dad says. "I'm guessing you don't want to play tennis now?"

"Can't move."

"They wore you out?"

"Totally and completely. I don't want to go back, Dad."

"It'll get easier," he says.

"No. I mean it. I really, really don't want to go back." The words are just tumbling out, and as always these days, the tears are threatening. "Like, I can't go back."

"I've had a long day, too," Dad says.

Why can't he just listen? And agree with me for once? "This is ... Ugh, just forget it."

"What?"

"This is...You didn't tell me there'd be twins. You made it sound like there was just one kid."

"People say it's easier when there's more than one kid, because they play with each other."

"People don't know what they're talking about." My head is throbbing. Maybe because my teeth are clenched so tight.

"It'll get easier, Marley. It really will."

He doesn't have a clue.

When we pull up to his place, the sun is tucked behind heavy clouds. There's a small, easy-to-miss patch of grass that is totally dandelion-free—the spot where I picked this morning—but the rest of the lawn is freckled with dandelions low to the ground. This morning, they'd been all perky. Now they look worn out from a day of reaching toward the sun.

I let Dad unlock the door and I walk in ahead of him. Rig comes running over to me, his tail wagging so hard, it's practically going in circles. "Hey, hey," I say. I kneel down to hug him and he licks my cheek hard and looks at my face for a second before he licks it hard again. Those hard licks are something like the kind of hug you give someone when you've missed them—tighter, like you're trying to squeeze the love into them. I hug him again and stand up. Then he turns his attention to Dad.

I take my phone into my room.

Leah doesn't answer her cell. Jane's cell is off. Ugh, house phones. Jane's mother says she'll tell Jane to call me back as soon as she gets home.

I need my friends!

I try Mom but get her voice mail. My parents are both kind of like the Amish or something when it comes to cell phones. Mom's not even that old, but for some reason, she always panics when her cell phone rings—as if someone would only call it if there were a true emergency. She's decades ahead of my dad, though. He refuses to even get a cell. And they hardly ever call mine—it's kind of a miracle that I even have one. They only call the house phone. Who does that? Obvious answer: only my parents and, possibly, the Amish.

I'm going crazy here.

I lie on my bed, wondering what I'd do if I were at Mom's. Duh. "Hey, Dad! Where's your computer?"

"Broken."

"When will it be fixed?"

"As soon as I have some money to pay for it."

Can it get any worse?

"Couldn't you have told me so I could bring mine? How am I supposed to check e-maila nd—"

"Thank you for your concern about my broken computer," he says. "If you get desperate, they have computers at the library."

I'd better get to the library. I'll need some books to help pass this time—all this time.

Talk about an endless summer.

"Marley, could you come out here, please?"

"Whaaaat?" I yell from the bed.

"I need some help."

I stomp out of bed and into the living room. "What?"

He points at some boxes stacked neatly along the living room wall. "I got through most of my boxes the first three days, but I haven't done anything since. I'm scared that if I don't do this now, they'll still be here when you and your children come visit me in a few hundred years."

"My children and I will have other plans," I say.

"Very nice, Marley. Come on. Be a pal. I need to get this done."

"That sounds like a lot of fun," I say, my voice flat. If he didn't want to unpack boxes, then maybe he shouldn't have moved out.

"Why are you being like this?"

"Do you really not know?"

I'd like to tell him how furious I am. How I hate the stupid job he's making me do and acting like I can't quit even though all he'd have to do is say, "Sorry. It's not working out because you have two wild banshee twins and my daughter never agreed to it anyway."

I know it sounds crazy, but I have no idea how to talk to him. Once he makes up his mind about something, that's it. When I was in third grade, he said I couldn't eat peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches anymore because Fluff was junk. When I showed him that jelly, which I was allowed to eat, wasn't any better for me, he wouldn't change his ruling. His reason? "Fluff is unnaturally white." Unnaturally white! That's not the kind of guy you can reason with.

"I just need some time," I say. "To myself. I don't want to unpack boxes. I'd rather sit and stare at the wall until my friends come over."

He goes through all his gestures of disgust, just like I knew he would. First the whole creepy lip-lifting action that used to make my mother laugh behind her hand. Then the air cough. Finally, he shuts his eyes and shakes his head quickly. "You couldn't say that nicely? You couldn't just say, 'I'd like to relax for a little while if that's okay'?"

"I want to be alone," I say.

"As well you should be. First take these boxes of trash to the garage with me. Oh, and this one"—he points at a neater box by itself on the other wall—"is something your mother left for when you were in a grumpy mood and needed something to do. I'd say now seems like a good time to mention it."

He lifts up a few of his boxes, and points with his foot at one he wants to have. I peek inside and see my Monopoly game, the very one Jane and Leah and I have been using forever. The one with money still warped out of shape from being drenched in the first Water Balloon Blitz.

"Hey! Don't throw out my Monopoly," I say as I follow him.

"I got you a new one." He puts the boxes down against the garage wall, next to some others, and stretches his arms up over his head. "I looked inside and there were only three pieces left: the hat, the dog, and, uh—"

"The shoe," I say. Jane is always the shoe. Leah is the hat.

"I thought you'd enjoy a new one."

"Oh. Well, thank you." I see it for what it is—a Robert Baird Gesture. I leave the carton with the old Monopoly game in the garage, then go right in my room and close the door.

The truth is, it's not my room. Not at all. It's boring and foreign and I want to go home. I'm sorry, but it's not in any way normal for one person, one teenage person, to be expected to live in two different homes. Joint custody is a monumentally bad idea.

When I started staying overnight at Dad's first new place, his old new place, by the time I got used to being with him it was time to go to school or home. I was always getting used to being with one parent when I was sent back to the other one. At least at his old new place, I'd known it was temporary. He had rented a small apartment at this complex where a lot of divorced dads live. I knew just from looking at it that he wouldn't be able to stay there. The lawn was pure brown, just dead, as though no one even bothered trying to water it. It was an until-I-find-someplace-else place. Or, as I liked to think, an until-we-work-things-out-and-I-move-back-homep lace.

And what's up with Mom? Maybe her Facebook friends have taught her how to use her cell phone. I text her:

Mom. Impt. Call. Need 2 talk 2 U.

Oh! That box!

I go back to the living room and take the box Mom left for me back to the room that's my room only doesn't feel like my room.

Mmm. Books. My mom left me a box of books! The one on top is the latest in my favorite series—I had no idea that was even out! God, I love my mom.

I'm about to start reading when I see a plastic something sticking up in the corner. A bag of balloons. No, bags. Lots of bags of balloons.

Hmm.

I think about when I can get Leah and Jane—a huge surprise attack. Coming out of Curtain Call? A trap at the park? Setting them up to walk under that little bridge near the elementary school? Oh, this is fun! I've actually invented summer fun in the absence of actual summer fun.

I read and then I do what I told my dad I was going to do. I stare at the wall until I fall asleep. I must sleep through dinner, because when I wake up, a strange predawn light is touching the corners of the window.

This morning, I know where I am—there's Rig and the light blue walls. I'm at Dad's. Wow. I must have been really exhausted to sleep so long. There's something nagging, tugging at me. Oh, man. Twins. And Mom didn't call. I have to spend another whole day with insane five-year-olds. I close my eyes and fall back into that not-awake/not-asleep place until Rig lets out one of his pitiful whimpers. He needs to pee. Badly.

It's a beautiful Crayola-sky morning. The air doesn't have the tiniest bit of cool to it, and if it's this warm this early, it's going to be a long, hot day with Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Rig trots off toward the bushes, and I sit down in another patch of dandelions. I have an idea for keeping the twins busy, and I gather a bunch of dandelions together to bring to their house. I seek out the ones with the longest stems and throw them into one of Dad's empty plastic planters.

"Ruh." Rig's greeting.

"Marley, you there?"

Jack! Why does he talk so loud in the morning? I walk around the bush and Rig does it again. He gets that guilty
Busted!
look
(Oh, man! Marley caught me talking to the fun boy!)
and drops his behind right into a propersit.

"Hey, Jack. How's it going?"

"It's going."

"How was camp?"

He seems to literally cringe at the word
camp.
"It was good. So how was that kid?"

"Kids!" I say. Rig walks his front paws out in front of him until he's lying down. He looks at Jack, then rolls onto his back. Without a pause, Jack starts scratching Rig's belly. "Twin girls," I say, "with a freaky amount of energy."

"You have to watch two kids? That's like twice as, uh—"

"Actually, there are three, but the baby just stays with the mom." Rig's rear paw pounds out its happy noise against the ground:
thump, thump, thump.

"You're going back today?"

I nod.

He looks down at his dirty black cleats, then asks, "You around this weekend?"

"Oh, yeah," I make myself say. "All weekend." I wonder why he's asking. I also wonder why this guy with intense light blue eyes is hanging around talking to
me.

"Um, Marley? What's your dog doing?"

Rig is up and on the prowl. He freezes, ears back, his front paws down and his butt high up in the air, then chases something invisible, stops, and tries to bite it. I walk closer and hear the
zzzz
of a fly. Rig runs a few steps and snaps at the air again. Then he runs around a tree and puts his feet up on it, as though he could climb it. He sits, looks patiently around, then lies down in defeat. If you didn't know he was chasing a fly, you'd have to assume that he was going through some kind of canine psychotic break, or performing an interpretive dance.

"He's never caught a fly," I say. "It's his major goal in life."

Jack looks at his watch.

"Well, I'll see ya." Jack bends down to rub Rig's ears, then picks up his bag. I watch him until he rounds the corner toward the park.

***

I call Mom's cell phone again before and after breakfast and get her voice mail. I call Leah early too.

"Marley! I was going to call you!"

I have the phone between my shoulder and ear, and it keeps sliding as I make my bed. "I wish you had!" I say. Why isn't anyone calling me?!

"I know. I feel awful. OH! My God. You have no idea. I didn't know what this was going to be like!"